Skip to main content

Full text of "The complete poetical works of Robert Southey"

See other formats 


HAROLD  B.  LEE  LIBRARY 
aniQHAM  YOUNG  UNIVERSITY 

PROVO.  UTAH 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2011  with  funding  from 
Brigham  Young  University 


http://www.archive.org/details/completepoetical1848sout 


TMIS 

IF®IETI€AIL   WBWilKi 

©r 

Collected  by  Him  ^-^^if 


— — ■ • 

/.73f             T  H  K    C  0  M  V  L  E  T  E 

A  r>  •" 

POETICAL   WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY,  LL. 

D. 

(LATE   POET   LAUREATE.) 

COLLECTED   BY    HIMSELF. 

A  NEW  EDITION,  INCLUDING 

"OLIVER  NEWMAN,  AND  OTHER  POEMS/'  NOV/  FIRST  PUBLISHED. 

ILLUSTRATED    WITH   EIGHT    FINE    STEEL    ENGRAVINGS    FROM    DRAWINGS    BV 

KENNY    MEADOWS,    CORBOULD,    WESTALL,    AND    MIDDLETON. 

NEW-YORK: 

D.    APPLETON   6c   COMPANY, '200  BROADWAY 

• 

PHILADELPHIA: 

GEORGE  S.  APPLETON,  148  CHESNUT  STREET. 

MDCCCXLVIII. 

THE  LliiitXi^i 

BlUGHAM  YOUNG  UNIVEKSllV 

PROVO,  UTAH 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 


Preface 


JOAN   OF  arc; 9 

Preface 9 

Orii^iiial  Preface 10 

Dcdicaiion 13 


13 

17 

20 

25 

29 

34 

38 

44 

49 

53 

Notes 59 

THE  VISION  OF  THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.  86 

nook  1 86 

II 89 

III 92 

Notes 94 


Book  I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

/. 

Vl. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 


JUVENILE   AND  3IINOR  POEMS,  Vol.  I.    . 

Preface 

Dedication 

The  Tiul-mph  of  \Vom.\n 

Dedication 

Wat  Tyler 

Poems  concerning  the  Slave  Trade 

Si.<  Sonnets 

To  the  Genius  of  Africa 

The   Sailor   who    liad    served    in  'the    Slave 
Trade 

Verses  spoken  in  the  Theatre  at  Oxford,  upon 

the  Installation  of  Lord  Grcnvllle 

Botany  Bay  Eclogues 

Elinor 

Humphrey  and  William 

John,  Samuel,  and  Richard 

Frederick 

Sonnets 

monodramas 

Sappho 

Zimalpoca 

The  Wife  of  Fergus 

Lucrelia 

La  Caba 

The  Amatory  Poems  of  Abel  Shufflebot- 

tom 

Love  Elegies 


96 
96 
98 
98 
98 
101 
110 

no 
111 

111 

112 
113 
113 
114 
116 
117 
118 
121 
121 
121 
122 
123 
123 

124 
125 


Figr. 

Lyric  Poems 1"7 

To  Horror 127 

To  Contemplation 127 

To  a  Friend 128 

Remembrance 1-9 

The  Soldier's  Wife 129 

The  Widow 129 

The  Chapel  Ikll 130 

To  Hymen 130 

Written  on  the  First  of  December 131 

Written  on  the  First  of  January 131 

Written  on  Sunday  Morning 132 

The  Race  of  Banquo 13- 

Written  in  Alentejo 13- 

To  Recovery 133 

Youth  and  Age 133 

The  Oak  of  our  Fathers 131- 

The  Battle  of  Pultowa 13t 

The  Traveller's  Return 134 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts 135 

Translation  of  a  Greek  Ode  on  Astronomy.  .  .  135 

Gooseberry  Pie 136 

To  a  Bee 1"'"' 

To  a  Spider 137 

The  Destruction  of  Jerusalem 137 

The  Death  of  Wallace 138 

The  Spanish  Armada 138 

St.  Bartholomew's  Day 139 

The  Holly-Tree 139 

The  Ebb  Tide HO 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor 1 10 

To  Mary 1  H 

To  a  Friend,  inquiring  if  I  woula  live  over  my 

Youth  again HI 

The  Dead  Friend 141 

Songs  of  the  American  Indians 142 

The  Huron's  Address  to  the  Dead 142 

The  Peruvian's  Dirge  over  the  Body  of  his 

Father 143 

Song  of  the  Araucans  during  a  Thundcr-Slorm  143 

Song  of  the  Chikkasah  Widow 144 

The  Old  Chikkasah  to  his  Grandson 144 

Occasional  Pieces 145 

The  Pauper's  Funeral 145 

The  Soldior's  Funeral 145 

On  a  Landscape  of  Gaspar  Poussin 146 

Written  on  Christmas  Day,  1795 116 

Written  after  visiting  the  Convent  of  Arrabida.  147 

On  my  own  IMiniature  Picture 147 

On  the  Death  of  a  favorite  old  Spaniel 147 

Recollections  of  a  Day's  Journey  in  Spain.  .  .  113 

To  Margaret  Hill. 119 

Autumn 14J 

The  Victory 150 


CONTENTS, 


Page. 

History 160 

Wrilten  iminedialely  after  reading  the  Speech 

of  Robert  Eininct 150 

Thanksgiving  lor  Victory 151 

Stanzas  written  in  Lady  Lonsdale's  Album.  .  .  151 
Stanzas  adtlrcssod  to  \V.  11.  Turner,  Esq.,  R.  A.  152 

On  a  Picture  by  J.  31.  Wright,  Esq 152 

Stanzas 153 

Imitated  from  tlie  Persian 153 

The  Retuosi'ect 154 

Hymn  to  the  Penates 155 


JUVENILE  AND  MINOR  POEMS,  Vol.  II.  .  158 
Preface 158 

English  Eci.ogijes 159 

The  Old  Mansion  House 160 

The  Grandmother's  Tale 161 

Hannah 162 

The  Sailor's  Mother 163 

The  Witch 1G5 

The  Ruined  Cottage 166 

The  Last  of  the  Family 167 

The  Wedding 169 

The  Alderman's  Funeral 170 

Nondescripts 172 

Written   the  Winter   after   the  Installation  at 

Oxford,  1793 172 

Snufi: 172 

Cool  Reflections  during  a  Midsummer  Walk.  .  173 

The  Pig 173 

The  Dancing  Bear 174 

The  Filbert 174 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore 175 

Robert  the  Rhymer's  true  and  particular  Ac- 
count of  Himself. 176 

The  Devil's  Walk 176 

Inscriptions 180 

For  a  Column  at  Newbury 180 

For  a  Cavern  that  overlooks  the  River  Avon.  .  180 

For  a  Tablet  at  Silbury  Hill 180 

For  a  Monument  in  the  New  Forest 181 

For  a  Tablet  on  the  Banks  of  a  Stream 181 

For  the  Cenotaph  at  Ermenonvillc 181 

For  a  Monument  at  Oxford 181 

For  a  Monument  in  the  Vale  of  Ewias 181 

Epitaph  on  Algernon  Sydney 182 

Epitaph  on  King  John 182 

In  a  Forest 182 

For  a  Monument  at  Tordesillas 182 

For  a  Column  at  Truxillo 182 

For  the  Cell  of  Honorius,  at  the  Cork  Convent, 

near  Cintra 182 

For  a  Monument  at  Taunton 183 

For  a  Tablet  at  Penshurst 183 

Two  Epitaphs 183 

■      For  a  Monument  at  Rolissa 184 

For  a  Monument  at  Vimeiro 184 

At  Coruria 184 

Epitaph 184 

To  the  Memory  of  Paul  Burrard 185 

For  the  Banks  of  the  Douro 185 

Talavera,     For  the  Field  of  Battle 186 

For  the  Deserto  de  Busaco 186 

For  the  Lines  of  Torres  Vedras 186 

At  Santarem 187 

At  Fuentes  d'Onoro 187 

At  Barossa 187 

For  a  Monument  at  Albuhera 188 


Pa^e. 

To  the  Memory  of  Sir  William  Myers 188 

Epitaph 188 

For  the  Walls  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo 189 

To  the  Memory  of  Major-Gcncral  ftlackinnon.  189 

For  the  Affair  at  Arroyo  Molinos 190 

Wrilten  in  an  unpublished  Volume  of  Letters, 

&c.  by  Barre  Charles  Roberts 190 

Two  Epitaphs 190 

Inscriptions   for   the  Caledonian 
Canal 191 

1.  At  Clachnacharry 191 

2.  At  Fort  Augustus 191 

3.  At  Banavie 192 

Epitaph  in  Butlcigh  Church 192 

Epitaph 192 

Dedication  of  the  Author's  Colloquies  on  the 

Progress  and  Prospects  of  Society 193 

Carmen  Triumphale,  for  the  Commence- 
ment OF  THE  Year  1814 194 

Notes 197 

Odes 201 

Written  during   the  Negotiations  with   Bona- 
parte, in  January,  1814 201 

Written  during  the  War  with  America 202 

Carmina  Aulica:  written  in  1814,  on 
the  Arrival  of  the  Allied  Sove- 
reigns IN  England 204 

Ode  to   His   Royal   Highness   the   Prince 

Regent  of  the  United  Kingdom 204 

Ode  to    His   Imperial  Majesty,  Alexander 

the  First,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias.  .  206 
Ode  to  His  Majesty,  Frederick  William  the 

Fourth,  King  of  Prussia 207 

On  the  Battle  of  Algiers 209 

On  the  Death  of  Queen  Charlotte 209 

Ode  for  St.  George's  Day 210 

Ode  written  after  the  King's  Visit  to  Ireland,  .  211 
Ode  written  after  the  King's  Visit  to  Scotland.  213 

The  Warning  Voice 214 

Ode  1 214 

Ode  II 215 

On  the  Portrait  of  Bishop  Heber 217 

Epistle  to  Allan  Cunningham 219. 

Op  eene  Verzameling  van  mijne  Afbeel- 

DINGEN 223 

THALABA  THE   DESTROYER 224 

Preface 224 

Book  1 225 

Notes 231 

Book  II 236 

Notes 240 

■     Book  HI 243 

Notes 248 

Book  IV 255 

Notes 261 

Book  V 265 

Notes 270 

Book  VI 274 

Notes 278 

Book  VII 281 

Notes 285 

Book  VIII 287 

Notes 291 

Book  IX 295 

Notes 300 

Book  X 304 

Notes 308 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Book  XI 313 

Notes 318 

Book  XII 319 

Notes 324 

MADOC 325 

Preface 323 

Pakt  I.  — Madoc  in  Wales 327 

I.  The  Return  to  Wales 327 

II.  The  I\larriage  Feast 329 

III.  Cadwallon 331 

IV.  The  Voyage 333 

V.  Lincoya 335 

VI.  Krillyab 337 

Vn.  The  Battle 339 

VIII.  The  Peace 341 

IX.  Emma 343 

X.  IMalhraval 344 

XI.  The  Gorsedd 346 

XII.  Dincvawr 347 

XIII.  Llewelyn 349 

XIV.  Llaian 351 

XV.  The  Excommunication 333 

XVI.  David 355 

XVII.  The  Departure 356 

XVIII.  Rodri 338 

Notes  to  Part  1 339 

.•art  II.  —  Madoc  in  Aztlan 374 

I.  The  Return  to  Aztlan 374 

II.  The  Tidings 373 

III.  Neolin 378 

IV.  Amalahla 379 

V.  War  denounced 380 

VI.  The  Festival  of  the  Dead 381 

VII.  The  Snake-God 384 

VIII.  The  Conversion  of  the  Hoamen 386 

IX.  Tlalala 387 

X.  The  Arrival  of  the  Gods 389 

XI.  The  Capture 391 

XII.  Iloel 392 

XIII.  Coalcl 394 

XIV.  The  Stone  of  Sacrifice 395 

XV.  The  Battle 398 

XVI.  The  Women 399 

XVII.  The  Deliverance 402 

XVIII.  The  Victory 404 

XIX.  The  Funeral 406 

XX.  The  Death  of  Coate! 407 

XXI.  The  Sports 408 

XXII.  The  Death  of  Lincoya 409 

XXII  I.  Caradoc  and  Sencna 410 

XXIV.  The  Embassy 411 

XXV.  The  Lake  Fight 412 

XXVI.  The  Close  of  the  Century 413 

XXVII.  The  .Migration  of  the  Aztecas 416 

Notes  to  Part  II 420 

BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES,  Vol.  L  434 

Preface 434 

Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn 435 

Donica 436 

Rudigcr 138 

Jaspar t-JO 

Lord  William 442 

St.  Patrick's  Purgatory 443 

The  Cross  Roads 444 

God's  Judgment  on  a  wicked  Bishop 4i7 


Tuff. 

The  Pious  Painter  :    Part  1 448 

Part  II 449 

St.  Michael's  Chair 450 

King  Henry  V.  and  the  Hermit  of  Dreux.  .  .  .451 

Old  Chrislovals  Advice 451 

Cornelius  Agrippa I.!>2 

King  Charlemain '.''J 

St.  Romuald I-W 

The  King  of  the  Crocodiles  :   Parti !.';ii 

Part  II 457 

The  Rose 4.77 

The  Lover's  Roclc 4.58 

459 

'tCO 


Garci  Ferraniioz  ;    Part  I. 
Part  II 


King  Ramiro 461 

The  Inchcape  Rock 464 

The  Well  of  St.  Kcyne 46.5 

Bishop  Bruno 4G6 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim 467 

A  true  Ballad  of  St.  Antidius,  the  Pope,  and 

the  Devil 468 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez 470 

Queen  Orraca,  and  the  Five  Martyrs  of  Mo- 
rocco  470 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley 472 

The  Surgeon's  Warning 475 

Henry  the  Hermit 476 

St.  Gualbcrto 477 

Notes 480 

The  March  to  Moscow 483 

Brough  Bells 484 

Queen  JIary's  Christening 486 

Roprecht  the  Robber  :  Part  1 488 

Part  II 489 

Part  III 489 

Part  IV 490 

The  Young   Dragon  :   Part  1 492 

Part  II 493 

Part  III 494 

Part  IV 495 

Epilogue  to  the  Young  Dragon 497 

BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES,  Vol.  II.  498 
Advertisement 498 

A  Tale  of  Paraguay 498 

Preface 498 

Dedication 500 

Proem. 501 

Canto  1 502 

Canto  II 50C 

Canto  III 611 

Canto  IV 5i6 

Notes 322 

All  for  Love 3,33 

Dedication 333 

Notes 3'" 

The  Pilgrim  to  Compostella 351 

Prelude 351 

Introduction 3.>1 

The  Legend  :  Part  1 355 

Part  II 556 

Part  III 5.57 

Part  IV 5.57 

Notes 5.59 

THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA 565 

Preface 365 

Original  Preface 567 


CONTENTS, 


Page. 


The  Funeral ^^'^ 


I 

II.  Tlic  Curse 
III.  The  Recovery ^"^^ 


5G9 


572 
674 
576 


VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 


Page. 

XXIV.  Roderick  and  Count  Julian 702 

XXV.  Roderick  in  Battle 704 

Notes ^^^ 


IV.  The  Departure 

V.  The  Separation 

VI.  Casyapa 

The  Swerga ^'° 

The  Sacrifice 581 

The  Home  Scene ^^^ 

Mount  Meru 584 

The  Enchantress 587 

XII.  The  Sacrifice  completed 690 

XIII.  The  Retreat 591 

XIV.  Jaga-Naut 593 

XV.  The  City  of  Baly 595 

XVI.  The  Ancient  Sepulchres 598 

XVII.  Baly GOl 

XVIII.  Kehaina's  Descent 602 

XIX.  Mount  Calasay 604 

XX.  The  Embarkation 60G 

The  World's  End G07 

The  Gate  of  Padalon 608 

Padalon 610 

The  Amreeta G13 

616 


747 

747 
747 


XXI. 
XXII. 

XXIII. 
XXIV. 

Notes.  . 


THE  POET'S  PILGRIMAGE  TO  WATER- 
LOO  

Argument 

Proem 

Part  L  —  The  Journey '^■^^ 

I.  Flanders ^"^^ 

II.  Brussels '^52 

III.  The  Field  of  Battle ^53 

IV.  The  Scone  of  War 757 

P.viiT  II.  — The  Vision 769 

I.  The  Tower 759 

II.  The  Evil  Prophet 762 

III.  The  Sacred 


Mountain 764 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


646 

646 


Preface 

Original  Preface 649 

I.  Roderick  and  Romano 649 


Roderick  in  Solitude 

Adosinda 

The  Monastery  of  St.  Felix. 
Roderick  and  Siverian.  .  .  . 
Roderick  in  Times  past. 


n. 

HI. 

IV. 
V. 
VI. 
VII.  Roderick  and  Pclayo 665 


652 
651 
657 
660 
663 


IV.  The  Hopes  of  Man. 
Notes 


767 
771 


CARMEN  NUPTIALE.  —  The  Lay  of  the 
Laureate 

Proem 

The  Dream 

Epilogue 

L'Envoy 

Notes 


VIII.  Alphonso. 


666 


FUNERAL  SONG,  for 

i.otte  of  Wales.  . 


THE  Princess  Char- 


777 
777 
779 
784 
785 
785 


786 


JUDGMENT 788 

788 


IX.  Florinda 668 

X.  Roderick  and  Florinda 669 

XI.  Count  Pedro's  Castle 673 

XII.  The  Vow 674 

XIII.  Count  Eudon 676 

XIV.  The  Rescue 678 

XV.  Roderick  at  Cangas 680 

XVI.  Covadonga 682 

XVII.  Roderick  and  Siverian 685 

XVIII.  The  Acclamation 687 

XIX.  Roderick  and  Rusilla 690 

XX.  The  Moorish  Camp 691 

XXI.  The  Fountain  in  the  Forest 694 

XXII.  The  Moorish  Council 698 

XXIII.  The  Vale  of  Covadonga 700 


■b" 
I. 

II. 

HI. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 


788 


795 
796 


VISION   OF 

Dedication.  . 

New  Preface. 

Original  Preface 2tl 

The  Trance. 

The  Vault. . 

The  Awakening 797 

The  Gate  of  Heaven 798 

The  Accusers '^9 

The  Absolvers ^00 

VII.  The  Beatification ^01 

VIII.  The  Sovereigns ^02 

IX.  The  Elder  Worthies 803 

X.  The  Worthies  of  the  Georgian  Age.    .  .  803 

XI.  The  Young  Spirits 804 

XII.  The  Meeting 805 

806 

Notes 

Specimens,  &c 809 


OLIVER  NEWMAN,  A  NEW  ENCxLAND  TALE. 


Page. 

Preface f\ 

I.  Funeral  at  Sea ^'■^ 

II.  The  Voyage 813 

III.  Cape  Cod 816 

IV.  The  Captives  Ransomed 818 

V.  The  Portrait 821 

VI.  Future  Prospects 822 

VII.  The  Indian  War 825 

VIII.  Parting  Words 829 

IX.  Journey  through  the  Forest 830 

■V-  832 


Page. 

Appendix  to  Oliver  Newman 832 

Miscellaneous  Poetical  Remains  : 
Fragmentary  Thoughts  occasioned  by  his 

Son's  Death 835 

Short  Passages  of  Scripture,  rhythmically 

arranged  or  paraphrased 835 

Little  Book,  in  Green  and  Gold 838 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  Rotha  Q,.  .  .  ■  838 

Imagination  and  Reality 839 

Madrigal,  from  Luis  Martin    839 

Mohammed ;  a  Fragment 839 


HCQ)IfgIERT    ^^©OTIIET  ESQ?  IL.1L.1E), 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


ROBERT      SOUTHEY 


PREFACE. 


At  the  age  of  sixty-three  I  have  undertaken 
to  collect  and  edite  my  Poetical  Works,  with 
the  last  corrections  that  I  can  expect  to  bestow 
upon  them.  They  have  obtained  a  reputation 
equal  to  my  wishes;  and  I  have  this  ground  for 
hoping  it  may  not  be  deemed  horeaflcr  more  than 
commensurate  with  their  deserts,  that  it  has  been 
gained  without  ever  accommodating  myself  to 
the  taste  or  fashion  of  the  times.  Tiius  to  collect 
and  revise  them  is  a  duty  which  I  owe  to  that 
part  of  the  Public  by  whom  they  have  been 
auspiciously  received,  and  to  those  who  will  take 
a  lively  concern  in  my  good  name  when  I  shall 
have  departed. 

The  arrangement  was  the  first  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered. In  this  the  order  wherein  the  respective 
poems  were  written  has  been  observed,  so  far  as 
was  compatible  with  a  convenient  classification. 
Such  order  is  useful  to  tliose  who  read  critically, 
and  desire  to  trace  the  progress  of  an  author's 
mind  in  his  writings ;  and  by  affixing  dates  to 
the  minor  pieces,  under  whatever  head  they  are 
disposed,  the  object  is  sufficiently  attained. 

Next  came  the  question  of  correction.  There 
was  no  difficulty  with  those  poems  which  were 
composed  after  the  author  had  acquired  his  art,  (so 
far  as  he  has  acquired  it,)  and  after  his  opinions 
were  matured.  It  was  only  necessary  to  bear  in 
mind  the  risk  there  must  ever  be  of  injuring  a 
poem  by  verbal  alterations  made  long  after  it  was 
written ;  inasnmch  as  it  must  be  impossible  to 
recall  the  precise  train  of  thought  in  which  any 
passage  was  conceived,  and  the  considerations 
upon  wliich  not  the  single  verse  alone,  but  the 
whole  sentence,  or  paragraph,  had  been  con- 
structed :  but  with  regard  to  more  important 
changes,  there  could  be  no  danger  of  introducing 
any  discrepance  in  style.  With  juvenile  pieces 
the  case  is  different.  From  tiicso  llic  faults  of 
diction  have  been  weeded,  wherever  it  could  be 
done  without  more  trouble  than  the  composition 
originally    cost,    and    than    the    piece    itself    was 


worth.  But  inherent  faults  of  conception  and 
structure  are  incurable ;  'and  it  would  have  been 
mere  waste  of  time  to  recompose  what  it  was  im- 
possible otherwise  to  amend. 

If  these  poems  had  been  now  for  the  first  time 
to  bo  made  public,  there  are  some  among  them 
which,  instead  of  being  committed  to  the  press, 
would  have  been  consigned  to  the  flames ;  not  for 
any  di.sgrace  which  could  be  reflected  upon  me 
by  the  crude  compositions  of  my  youth,  nor  for 
any  harm  which  they  could  possibly  do  the  reader, 
but  merely  that  they  might  not  cumber  the  col- 
lection. But '■''Jicscit  vox  missarcvcrti."  Pirated 
editions  would  hold  out  as  a  recommendation, 
that  they  contained  what  I  had  chosen  to  sup- 
press, and  thus  it  becomes  prudent,  and  therefore 
proper,  that  such  pieces  should  be  retained. 

It  has  ever  been  a  rule  with  me  when  1  have 
imitated  a  passage,  or  borrowed  an  expression,  to 
acknowledge  the  specific  obligation.  Upon  the 
present  occasion  it  behoves  me  to  state  the  more 
general  and  therefore  more  important  obligations 
which  I  am  conscious  of  owing  either  to  my  pred- 
ecessors or  my  contemporaries. 

My  first  attempts  in  verse  were  much  too  earl}' 
to  be  imitative  ;  but  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find 
my  way,  when  very  young,  into  the  rigiit  patli. 
I  read  the  "Jerusalem  Delivered  "  and  the  "Or- 
lando Furioso,  "  again  and  again,  in  Hoole's  trans- 
lations ;  it  was  for  the  sake  of  their  stories  that  I 
perused  and  re-perused  these  poems  with  ever- 
new  delight;  and  by  bringing  them  thus  within 
my  reach  in  boyhood,  the  translator  rendered  me 
a  service  which,  when  I  look  back  upon  my  in- 
tellectual life,  I  cannot  estimate  too  highly.  I 
owe  him  much  also  for  his  notes,  not  only  for  the 
information  concerning  other  Italian  romances 
which  they  imparted,  but  also  for  introducing  me 
to  Spenser;  —  how  early,  an  incident  which  I 
well  remember  may  show.  Going  with  a  relation 
into  Bull's  circulating  library  at  Batli,  (an  excel- 
lent one  for  those  day.s,)  and  asking  wlicthcr  they 


PREFACE. 


had  the  "  Faery  Queen,"  the  person  who  managed 
tlie  shop  said,  "  Yes,  they  liad  it,  but  it  was  in 
obsolete  language,  and  the  young  gentleman 
would  not  understand  it."  But  I,  who  had 
learned  all  I  then  knew  of  the  history  of  England 
from  Shakespear,  and  who  had  moreover  read 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  found  no  difficulty  in 
Spenser's  English,  and  felt  in  the  beauty  of  his 
versification  a  charm  in  poetry  of  which  I  had 
never  been  fully  sensible  before.  From  that  time 
1  took  Spenser  for  my  master.  I  drank  also  be- 
times of  Chaucer's  well.  The  taste  which  had 
been  acquired  in  that  school  was  confirmed  by 
Percy's  "Reliques"  and  Warton's  "History  of 
English  Poetry;"  and  a  little  later  by  Homer 
and  the  Bible.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  corrupted 
afterwards. 

My  school-boy  verses  savored  of  Gray,  Mason, 
and  my  predecessor  Warton ;  and  in  the  best  of 
my  juvenile  pieces  it  may  be  seen  how  much  the 
writer's  mind  had  been  imbued  by  Akenside.  I 
am  conscious  also  of  having  derived  much  benefit 
at  one  time  from  Cowper,  and  more  from  Bowles ; 
for  which,  and  for  the  delight  which  his  poems 
gave  me  at  an  age  when  we  are  most  susceptible 
of  such  delight,  my  good  friend  at  Bremhill,  to 
whom  I  was  then  and  long  afterwards  personally 
unknown,  will  allow  me  to  make  this  grateful  and 
cordial  acknowledgment. 

My  obligation  to  Dr.  Sayers  is  of  a  different 
kind.  Every  one  who  has  an  ear  for  metre  and  a 
lieart  for  poetry,  must  have  felt  how  perfectly  the 
metre  of  Collins's  "Ode  to  Evening"  is  in  accord- 
ance with  the  imagery  and  the  feeling.  None 
of  the  experiments  which  were  made  of  other 
unrhymcd  stanzas  proved  successful.  They  were 
either  in  strongly-marked  and  well-known 
measures,  which  unavoidably  led  the  reader  to 
expect  rhyme,  and  consequently  balked  him 
when  he  looked  for  it ;  or  they  were  in  stanzas 
as  cumbrous  as  they  were  ill  constructed.  Dr. 
Sayers  went  upon  a  different  principle,  and  suc- 
ceeded admirably.  I  read  his  "  Dramatic  Sketches 
of  Northern  Mythology"  when  they  were  first 
published,  and  convinced  myself,  when  1  had 
acquired  some  skill  in  versification,  that  the  kind 
of  verse  in  which  hie  choruses  were  composed  was 
not  less  applicable  to  narration  than  to  lyrical 
poetry.  Soon  after  I  had  begun  the  Arabian 
romance,  for  which  this  measure  seemed  the  most 
appropriate  vehicle,  "  Gebir"  fell  into  my  hands  ; 
and  my  verse  was  greatly  improved  by  it,  both 
in  vividness  and  strength.  Several  years  elapsed 
before  I  knew  that  Walter  Landor  was  the  author, 
and  more  before  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet 
the  person  to  whom  I  felt  myself  thus  beholden. 
The  days  which  I  have  passed  with  him  in  the 
Vale  of  Ewias.  at  Como,  and  lastly  in  the  neigh- 


borhood of  Bristol,  are  some  of  those  which  have 
left  with  me  "a  joy  for  memory." 

1  have  thus  acknowledged  all  the  specific  obli- 
gations to  my  elders  or  contemporaries  in  the  art, 
of  which  1  am  distinctly  conscious.  The  advan- 
tages arising  from  intima,te  intercourse  with  those 
who  were  engaged  in  similar  pursuits  cannot  be  in 
like  manner  specified,  because  in  their  nature  they 
are  imperceptible ;  but  of  such  advantages  no  man 
has  ever  possessed  more  or  greater,  than  at  differ- 
ent times  it  has  been  my  lot  to  enjoy.  Personal 
attachment  first,  and  family  circumstances  after- 
wards, connected  me  long  and  closely  with  Mr. 
Coleridge ;  and  three-and-thirty  years  have  rati- 
fied a  friendship  with  Mr.  Wordsworth,  which  we 
believe  will  not  terminate  with  this  life,  and 
which  it  is  a  pleasure  for  us  to  know  will  be  con- 
tinued and  cherished  as  an  heir-loom  by  those  who 
are  dearest  to  us  both. 

When  I  add,  what  has  been  the  greatest  of  all 
advantages,  that  I  have  passed  more  than  half  my 
life  in  retirement,  conversing  with  books  rather 
than  men,  constantly  and  unweariably  engaged  in 
literary  pursuits,  communing  with  my  own  heart, 
and  taking  that  course  which,  upon  mature  con- 
sideration, seemed  best  to  myself,  I  have  said  every 
thing  necessary  to  account  for  the  characteristics 
of  my  poetry,  whatever  they  may  be. 

It  was  in  a  mood  resembling  in  no  slight  degree 
that  wherewith  a  person  in  sound  health,  botli  of 
body  and  mind,  makes  his  will  and  sets  his 
worldly  affairs  in  order,  that  1  entered  upon  the 
serious  task  of  arranging  and  revising  the  whole 
of  my  poetical  works.  What,  indeed,  was  it  but 
to  bring  in  review  before  me  the  dreams  and  as- 
pirations of  my  youth,  and  the  feelings  whereto  1 
had  given  that  free  utterance  which  by  the  usages 
of  this  world  is  permitted  to  us  in  poetry,  and  in 
poetry  alone .'  Of  the  smaller  pieces  in  this  col- 
lection there  is  scarcely  one  concerning  which  1 
cannot  vividly  call  to  mind  when  and  where  it  was 
composed.  1  have  perfect  recollection  of  the  spots 
where  many,  not  of  the  scenes  only,  but  of  the 
images  which  1  have  described  from  nature,  were 
observed  and  noted.  And  how  would  it  be  possi- 
ble for  me  to  forget  the  interest  taken  in  these 
poems,  especially  the  longer  and  more  ambitious 
works,  by  those  persons  nearest  and  dearest  to  me 
tlien,  who  witnessed  their  growth  and  completion  ' 
Well  may  it  be  called  a  serious  task  thus  to  resus- 
citate the  past!  But,  serious  though  it  be,  it  is  not 
painful  to  one  who  knows  that  the  end  of  his 
journey  cannot  be  far  distant,  and,  by  the  blessing 
of  God,  looks  on  to  its  termination  with  sure  and 
certain  hope. 

Keswick,  10th  May,  1837. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


3onn   of  Ere. 


EIS   OIQNOS    APISTOS    AMTNESeAl    IIEPI   IIATPHr Homer 


Pcrlego,  cognosces  animiim  sine  viribus  alaa 
Ingeiiii  explicuisse  Icves,  nam  vera  fatcbor ; 
Iniplumem  tcpido  prfficcps  me  g.oria  nido 
Expulit,  et  ca'lo  jussil  volitare  remoto. 
Poenitct  inctfpti,  cursum  revocare  juvente 
Si  liccat,  mansiiise  domi  cum  tempore  nervos 
Consolidasse  velim Petrarca 


PREFACE   TO  JOAN   OF   ARC. 

Earlv  in  July,  1793,  1  happened  to  fall  in  con- 
versation, at  Oxford,  with  an  old  schoolfellow  upon 
the  story  of  Joan  of  Arc ;  and  it  then  struck  me  as 
being  singularly  well  adapted  for  a  poem.  The 
long  vacation  commenced  immediately  afterwards. 
As  soon  as  I  reached  home  I  formed  the  outline 
of  a  plan,  and  wTote  about  three  hundred  lines. 
The  remainder  of  the  month  was  passed  in  trav- 
elling ;  and  I  was  too  much  engaged  in  new  scenes 
and  circumstances  to  proceed,  even  in  thought, 
with  what  had  been  broken  off.  In  August  1 
went  to  visit  my  old  schoolfellow,  Mr.  Grosvcnor 
Bedford,  who,  at  that  time,  resided  with  his  pa- 
rents at  Brixton  Causew.ay,  about  four  miles  on 
tlic  Surrey  side  of  the  metropolis.  Tlioro,  the  day 
after  completing  my  nineteenth  year,  1  resumed 
the  undertaking,  and  there,  in  six  weeks  from  that 
day,  finished  what  I  called  an  Epic  Poem  in  twelve 
books. 

My  progress  would  not  have  been  so  rapid  had 
it  not  been  for  the  opportunity  of  retirement  which 
I  enjoyed  there,  and  the  encouragement  that  I 
received.  In  those  days  London  had  not  extended 
in  that  direction  farther  than  Kennington,  beyond 
which  place  the  scene  changed  suddenly,  and 
there  was  an  air  and  appearance  of  country  which 
might  now  be  sought  in  vain  at  a  far  greater  dis- 
tance from  town.  There  was  nothing  indeed  to 
remind  one  that  London  was  so  near,  except  the 
smoke  which  overhung  it.  Mr.  Bedford's  res- 
idence was  situated  upon  the  edge  of  a  common, 
on  which  shady  lanes  opened  leading  to  the  neigh- 
boring villages  (for  such  tliey  were  then)  of  Cam- 
bcrwell,  Dulwich,  and  Clapham,  and  to  Norwood. 
The  view  in  front  was  bounded  by  the  Surrey 
hills.  Its  size  and  structure  showed  it  to  be  one 
of  those  good  houses  built  in  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century  by  persons  who,  having  realized  a 
respectable  fortune  in  trade,  were  wise  enough  to 
be  contented  with  it,  and  retire  to  pass  the  evening 
of  tlieir  lives  in  the  enjoyment  of  leisure  and  tran- 
quillitv.  Tranquil  indeed  the  place  was  ;  for  the 
neighborhood  did  not  extend  l)oyond  half  a  dozen 
families,  and  the  London  style  and  habits  of  vis- 
2 


iting  had  not  obtained  among  them.  Uncle  Toby 
himself  might  have  enjoyed  his  rood  and  a  half  of 
ground  there,  and  not  have  had  it  known.  A  fore- 
court separated  the  house  from  the  foot-path  and 
the  road  in  front;  behind,  there  was  a  large  and 
well-stocked  garden,  with  other  spacious  premises, 
in  which  utility  and  ornament  were  in  some  degree 
combined.  At  the  extremity  of  the  garden,  and 
under  the  shade  of  four  lofty  linden  trees,  was  a 
summer-house  looking  on  an  ornamented  grass- 
plot,  and  fitted  up  as  a  conveniently  habitable 
room.  That  summer-house  was  allotted  to  me, 
nnd  tliere  my  mornings  were  passed  at  the  desk. 
Whether  it  exists  now  or  not,  I  am  ignorant.  The 
property  has  long  since  passed  into  other  hands. 
Tlie  common  is  enclosed  and  divided  by  rectangu- 
lar hedges  and  palings  ;  rows  of  brick  houses  have 
supplanted  the  shade  of  oaks  and  elms  ;  the  brows 
of  the  Surrey  hills  bear  a  parapet  of  modern  villas, 
and  the  face  of  the  whole  district  is  changed. 

I  was  not  a  little  proud  of  my  performance. 
Young  poets  arc,  or  at  least  used  to  be,  as  am- 
bitious of  producing  an  epic  poem,  as  stage-stricken 
youths  of  figuring  in  Romeo  or  Hamlet.  It  had 
been  the  earliest  of  my  day-dreams.  I  had  ben-un 
many  such  ;  but  this  was  the  first  which  had  been 
completed,  and  I  was  too  young  and  too  ardent  to 
perceive  or  suspect  that  the  execution  was  as 
crude  as  the  design.  In  the  course  of  the  autumn 
I  transcribed  it  fairly  from  the  first  draught,  making 
no  other  alterations  or  corrections  of  any  kind  than 
suoli  as  suggested  themselves  in  the  act  of  tran- 
scription. Upon  showing  it  to  the  friend  in  con- 
versation with  whom  the  design  had  originated, 
he  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  written  this;  it  will 
serve  as  a  store  where  you  will  find  good  passages 
for  better  poems."  His  opinion  of  it  was  more 
judicious  than  mine ;  but  what  there  was  good  in 
it  or  promising,  would  not  have  b(>cn  transplantable. 

Toward  the  close  of  1794,  it  was  announced  as 
to  be  publislied  by  subscription  in  a  quarto  volume, 
price  one  guinea.  Shortly  afterwards  I  became 
acquainted  witli  my  fellow-townsman,  Mr.  Joseph 
Cottle,  who  had  recently  commenced  business  as 
a  bookseller  in  our  native  citj'  of  Bristol.  One 
evening  I  read  to  him  part  of  the  poem,  without 


10 


PREFACE    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


any  Uiought  of"  making  a  proposal  concerning  it,  j 
or  expectation  of  receiving  one.  He,  liowever, 
offered  mo  fifty  guineas  for  tlie  copyright,  and  fifty 
copies  for  my  subscribers,  which  was  more  than 
tiie  list  amounted  to  ;  and  the  offer  was  accepted 
;iH  ))ro:nplly  as  it  was  made.  It  can  rarely  happen 
that  a  young  autlior  should  meet  with  a  bookseller 
as  inexperienced  and  as  ardent  as  himself,  and  it 
would  be  still  more  extraordinary  if  such  mutual 
indiscretion  did  not  bring  with  it  cause  for  regret 
to  both.  But  this  transaction  was  the  commence- 
ment of  an  intimacy  which  has  continued,  without 
the  slightest  shade  of  displeasure  at  any  time,  on 
cither  side,  to  the  present  day. 

At  that  time,  few  books  were  printed  in  tlie 
country,  and  it  was  seldom  indeed  that  a  quarto 
volume  issued  from  a  provincial  press.  A  font  of 
new  types  was  ordered  for  what  was  intended  to 
be  tlie  handsomest  book  that  Bristol  had  ever  yet 
sent  forth ;  and  when  the  paper  arrived,  and  the 
printer  was  ready  to  commence  his  operations, 
nothing  had  been  done  toward  preparing  the  poem 
for  the  press,  except  that  a  few  verbal  alterations 
had  been  made.  I  was  not,  however,  without 
misgivings,  and  when  the  first  proof-sheet  was 
brought  me,  the  more  glaring  faults  of  the  com- 
position stared  me  in  the  face.  But  the  sight  of  a 
well-printed  page,  which  was  to  be  set  off"  with  all 
the  advantages  that  fine  wove  paper  and  hot-press- 
ing could  impart,  put  me  in  spirits,  and  I  went  to 
work  with  good-will.  About  half  the  first  book 
was  left  in  its  original  state ;  the  rest  of  the  poem 
was  re-cast  and  re-composed  while  the  printing 
went  on.  This  occupied  six  months.  I  corrected 
tlie  concluding  sheet  of  the  poem,  left  the  Preface 
in  the  publisher's  hands,  and  departed  for  Lisbon 
by  way  of  Coruria  and  Madrid. 

Tlie  Preface  was  written  with  as  little  discretion 
as  had  been  shown  in  publishing  the  work  itself 
It  stated  how  rapidly  the  poem  had  been  produced, 
and  that  it  had  been  almost  re-composed  during 
its  progress  through  the  press.  This  was  not  said 
as  taking  merit  for  haste  and  temerity,  nor  to 
excuse  its  faults,  —  only  to  account  for  them.  But 
here  I  was  liable  to  be  misapprehended,  and 
likely  to  be  misrepresented.  The  public  indeed 
care  neither  for  explanations  nor  excuses ;  and 
such  particulars  might  not  unfitly  be  deemed  un- 
becoming in  a  young  man,  though  they  may  be 
excused,  and  even  expected,  from  an  old  authoi, 
who,  at  the  close  of  a  long  career,  looks  upon  him- 
self as  belonging  to  the  past.  Omitting  these  pas- 
sages, and  the  specification  of  what  Mr.  Coleridge 
had  written  in  the  second  book,  (which  was  with- 
drawn in  the  next  edition,)  the  remainder  of  the 
Preface  is  here  subjoined.  It  states  the  little 
which  I  had  been  able  to  collect  concerning  the 
subject  of  the  poem,  gives  what  was  then  my  own 
view  of  Joan  of  Arc's  character  and  history,  and 
expresses  with  overweening  confidence  the  opin- 
ions which  the  writer  entertained  concerning  those 
poets  whom  it  was  his  ambition  not  to  imitate,  but 
to  follow.  —  It  cannot  bo  necessary  to  say,  that 
some  of  those  opinions  have  been  modified,  and 
others  completely  changed,  as  he  grew  older. 


ORIGINAL   PKEF.\CE. 

The  history  of  Joan  of  Arc  is  as  mysterious  as 
it  is  remarkable.  That  slie  believed  herself  inspired, 
few  will  deny ;  that  she  was  inspired,  no  one  will 
venture  to  assert ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
she  was  herself  imposed  upon  by  Charles  and  Du- 
nois.  That  she  discovered  the  King  when  he  dis- 
guised himself  among  the  courtiers  to  deceive  her, 
and  that,  as  a  proof  of  her  mission,  she  demanded 
a  sword  from  a  tomb  in  the  church  of  St.  Catha- 
rine, are  facts  in  which  all  historians  agree.  If 
this  had  been  done  by  collusion,  the  Maid  must 
have  known  herself  an  impostor,  and  with  that 
knowledge  could  not  have  performed  tlie  enter- 
prise she  undertook.  Enthusiasm,  and  that  of  no 
common  kind,  was  necessary,  to  enable  a  young 
maiden  at  once  to  assume  the  profession  of  arms, 
to  lead  her  troops  to  battle,  to  fight  among  the 
foremost,  and  to  subdue  with  an  inferior  force  an 
enemy  then  believed  invincible.  It  is  not  possible 
that  one  who  felt  herself  the  puppet  of  a  part)', 
could  have  performed  these  things.  The  artifices 
of  a  court  could  not  have  persuaded  her  that  she 
discovered  Charles  in  disguise ;  nor  could  they 
have  prompted  her  to  demand  the  sword  which 
they  might  have  hidden,  without  discovering  the 
deceit.  The  Maid  then  was  not  knowingly  an 
impostor  ;  nor  could  she  have  been  the  instrument 
of  the  court ;  and  to  say  that  she  believed  herself 
inspired,  will  neither  account  for  her  singling  out 
the  King,  or  prophetically  claiming  the  sword. 
After  crowning  Charles,  she  declared  that  her 
mission  was  accomplished,  and  demanded  leave 
to  retire.  Enthusiasm  would  not  have  ceased 
here ;  and  if  they  who  imposed  on  her  could  per- 
suade her  still  to  go  with  their  armies,  they  could 
still  have  continued  her  delusion. 

This  mystcriousness  renders  the  story  of  Joan 
of  Arc  peculiarly  fit  for  poetry.  The  aid  of  angels 
and  devils  is  not  necessary  to  raise  her  above  man- 
kind ;  she  has  no  gods  to  lackey  her,  and  inspire 
her  with  courage,  and  heal  her  wounds :  the  Maid 
of  Orleans  acts  wholly  from  the  workings  of  her 
own  mind,  from  the  deep  feeling  of  inspiration. 
The  palpable  agency  of  superior  powers  would  de- 
stroy the  obscurity  of  her  character,  and  sink  her 
to  the  mere  heroine  of  a  fairy  tale. 

The  alterations  which  I  have  made  in  the  his- 
tory are  few  and  trifling.  The  death  of  Salisbury 
is  placed  later,  and  of  the  Talbots  earlier  than  they 
occurred.  As  the  battle  of  Patay  is  the  concluding 
action  of  the  Poem,  I  have  given  it  all  the  previous 
solemnity  of  a  settled  engagement.  Whatever 
appears  miraculous  is  asserted  in  history,  and  my 
authorities  will  be  found  in  the  notes. 

It  is  the  common  fault  of  Epic  Poems,  that  we 
feel  little  interest  for  the  heroes  they  celebrate. 
Tlie  national  vanity  of  a  Greek  or  a  Roman  might 
have  been  gratified  by  the  renown  of  Achilles  or 
iEneas;  but  to  engage  the  unprejudiced,  there 
must  be  more  of  human  feelings  than  is  generally 
to  be  found  in  the  character  of  a  warrior.  From 
this  objection,  the  Odyssey  alone  may  be  excepted. 


PREFACE   TO   JOAN    OF   ARC. 


Ulysses  appears  as  tlic  fatlicr  and  the  liusband, 
and  the  afl'ections  are  enlisted  on  his  side.  The 
judirinent  must  applaud  the  well-digested  plan 
and  splendid  execution  of  the  Iliad,  but  the  heart 
always  bears  testimony  to  the  merit  of  the 
Odyssey :  it  is  the  poem  of  nature,  and  its  per- 
sonages inspire  love  rather  tlian  coiinnand  admira- 
tion. The  good  herdsman  Eumocus  is  worth  a 
thousand  heroes.  Homer  is,  indeed,  the  best  of 
poets,  for  he  is  at  once  dignified  and  simple  ;  but 
Pope  has  disguised  him  in  fop-finery,  and  Cowper 
has  stri])ped  him  naked. 

Tliere  are  few  readers  who  do  not  prefer  Turnus 
to  iEneas  —  a  fugitive,  suspected  of  treason,  who 
negligently  left  his  wife,  seduced  Dido,  deserted 
her,  and  then  forcibly  took  Lavinia  from  her  be- 
trothed husband.  What  avails  a  man's  piety  to 
the  gods,  if  in  all  his  dealings  with  men  he  prove 
himself  a  villain?  If  we  represent  Deity  as  com- 
manding a  bad  action,  this  is  not  exculpating  the 
man,  but  criminating  the  God. 

The  ill-chosen  subjects  of  Lucan  and  Statius 
have  prevented  them  from  acquiring  the  popularity 
they  would  otherwise  have  merited ;  yet  in  de- 
tached parts,  the  former  of  these  is  perhaps  un- 
equalled, certainly  unexcelled.  I  do  not  scruple 
to  prefer  Statius  to  Virgil ;  with  inferior  taste, 
he  appears  to  me  to  possess  a  richer  and  more 
powerful  imagination ;  his  images  are  strongly 
conceived,  and  clearly  painted,  and  the  force  of 
his  language,  while  it  m.nkes  the  reader  feel, 
proves  that  the  author  felt  himself. 

The  power  of  story  is  strikingly  exemplified  in 
the  Italian  heroic  poets.  They  please  universally, 
even  in  translations,  when  little  but  the  story  re- 
mains. In  proportioning  his  characters,  Tasso 
has  erred ;  Godfrey  is  the  hero  of  the  poCIn,  Ri- 
naldoof  the  poet,  and  Tan-red  of  the  reader.  Sec- 
ondary characters  should  not  be  introduced,  like 
Gyas  and  Cloanthus,  mcnly  to  fill  a  procession  ; 
neither  should  they  be  so  prominent  as  to  throw 
the  principal  into  shade. 

The  lawless  magic  of  Ariosto,  and  the  singular 
theme  as  well  as  the  singular  excellence  of  Milton, 
render  it  impossible  to  deduce  any  rules  of  epic 
poetry  from  these  authors.  So  likewise  with 
Spenser,  the  favorite  of  my  childhood,  from  whose 
frequent  perusal  I  have  always  found  increased 
delight. 

Against  the  machinery  of  Camocns,  a  heavier 
charge  must  be  brought  than  that  of  profaneness 
or  incongruity.  His  floating  island  is  but  a  float- 
ing brothel,  and  no  beauty  can  make  atonement 
for  licentiousness.  From  this  accusation,  none 
but  a  translator  would  attempt  to  justify  him  ;  but 
Camoens  had  the  most  abk;  of  translators.  The 
Lusiad,  though  excellent  in  parts,  is  uninteresting 
as  a  whole  :  it  is  read  with  little  emotion,  and 
remembered  with  little  pleasure.  But  it  was  com- 
posed in  the  anguish  of  disappointed  hopes,  in 
the  fatigues  of  war,  and  in  a  country  far  from  all 
he  loved  ;  and  we  should  not  forget,  that  as  the 
Poet  of  Portugal  was  among  the  most  unfortunate 
of  men,  so  he  should  be  ranked  among  the  most 
respectable.     Neither  his  own  coimfry    or    Spain 


has  yet  produced  his  equal :  his  heart  was  broken 
by  calamity,  but  the  spirit  of  integrity  and  inde- 
pendence never  forsook  Camoens. 

1  have  endeavored  to  avoid  what  appears  to  me 
the  common  fault  of  epic  poems,  and  to  render  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  interesting.  With  tliis  intent  1 
liave  given  her,  not  the  passion  of  love,  but  the 
remembrance  of  subdued  affection,  a  lingering  of 
human  feelings  not  inconsistent  with  the  enthu- 
siasm and  holiness  of  her  character. 

The  multitude  of  obscure  epic  writers  copy  with 
the  most  gross  servility  their  ancient  models.  If 
a  tempest  occurs,  some  envious  spirit  procures  it 
from  the  God  of  the  winds  or  the  God  of  the  sea. 
Is  there  a  town  besieged  ?  the  eyes  of  the  hero 
are  opened,  and  he  beholds  the  powers  of  Heaven 
assisting  in  the  attack  ;  an  angel  is  at  hand  to 
heal  his  wounds,  and  the  leader  of  the  enemy  in 
his  last  combat  is  seized  with  the  sudden  cowardice 
of  Hector.  Even  Tasso  is  too  often  an  imitator. 
But  notwithstanding  the  censure  of  a  satirist,  the 
name  of  Tasso  will  still  be  ranked  among  the  best 
heroic  poets.  Perhaps  Boileau  only  condemned 
him  for  the  sake  of  an  antithesis  ;  it  is  with  such 
writers,  as  with  those  who  afft'ct  point  in  their 
conversation  —  they  will  always  sacrifice  truth  to 
the  gratification  of  their  vanity. 

1  have  avoided  what  seems  useless  and  wearying 
in  other  poems,  and  my  readers  will  find  no  de- 
scriptions of  armor,  no  muster-rolls,  no  geographi- 
cal catalogues,  lion,  tiger,  bull,  bear,  and  boar 
similes,  Phoebuses  or  Auroras.  And  where  in 
battle  1  have  particularized  the  death  of  an  indi- 
vidual, it  is  not,  I  hope,  like  the  common  lists  of 
killed  and  wounded. 

It  has  been  established  as  a  necessary  rule  for 
the  epic,  that  the  subject  should  be  national.  To 
tliis  rule  I  have  acted  in  direct  opposition,  and 
chosen  for  the  subject  of  my  poem  the  defeat  of 
the  English.  If  there  be  any  readers  who  can 
wish  success  to  an  unjust  cause,  because  their 
country  was  engaged  in  it,  1  desire  not  their  ap- 
probation. 

In  Millin's  National  Antiquities  of  France,  1 
find  that  M.  Laverdj-  wa?,  in  1791,  occupied  in 
collecting  whatever  has  been  written  concerning 
the  Maid  of  Orleans.  1  have  anxiously  looked  for 
his  work,  but  it  is  probable,  considering  the  tumults 
of  the  intervening  period,  that  it  has  not  been 
accomplished.  Of  the  various  productions  to  the 
memory  of  Joan  of  Arc,  1  have  only  collected  a 
few  titles,  and,  if  report  may  be  trusted,  need  not 
fear  a  heavier  condemnation  than  to  be  deemed 
equally  bad.  A  regular  canon  of  St.  Euverte  has 
written  what  is  said  to  be  a  very  bad  poem,  en- 
titled the  Modern  Amazon.  There  is  a  prose 
tragedy  called  Im  Pncellc  d' Orleans,  variously 
attributed  to  Benserade,  to  Boyer,  and  to  Me- 
nardiere.  The  abbe  Daubignac  published  a  prose 
tragedy  with  the  same  title  in  1642.  There  is 
one  under  the  name  of  Jean  Barucl  of  1581,  and 
another  printed  anonymously  at  Rouen,  1006. 
Among  the  manuscripts  of  the  queen  of  Sweden 
in  the  Vatican,  is  a  dramatic  piece  in  verse  called 
Le  Mijslerc  (III  Sifge  d' Orleans.     In  these  modern 


12 


PREFACE    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


times,  says  Millin,  all  Paris  has  run  to  the  theatre 
of  Nicolet  to  see  a  pantomime  entitled  Lc  Fanieux 
Siege  de  la  Pucelle  d' Orleans.  I  may  add,  that, 
after  the  publication  of  this  poem,  a  pantomime 
upon  the  same  Kubject  was  brought  forward  at 
Covent-Garden  Theatre,  in  which  the  heroine, 
like  Don  Juan,  was  carried  off  by  devils  and  pre- 
cipitated alive  into  hell.  I  mention  it,  because  the 
feelings  of  the  audience  revolted  at  such  a  catas- 
trophe, and,  after  a  few  nights,  an  angel  was  in- 
troduced to  rescue  her. 

But  among  tlie  number  of  worthless  poems 
upon  this  subject,  there  are  two  which  are  un- 
fortunately notorious,  —  the  Pucelles  of  Chapelain 
and  Voltaire.  I  have  had  patience  to  peruse  the 
first,  and  never  have  been  guilty  of  looking  into 
the  second  ;  it  is  well  said  by  George  Herbert, 

Make  not  thy  sport  abuses,  for  the  fly 
Tliat  feeds  on  dung,  is  colored  thereby. 

On  the  eighth  of  May,  the  anniversary  of  its 
deliverance,  an  annual  fete  is  held  at  Orleans ; 
and  monuments  have  been  erected  there  and  at 
Rouen  to  the  memory  of  the  Maid.  Her  family 
was  ennobled  by  Charles ;  but  it  should  not  be 
forgotten  in  the  history  of  this  monarch,  that  in 
the  hour  of  misfortune  he  abandoned  to  her  iate 
the  woman  who  had  saved  his  kingdom. 

Bristol,  November,  1795. 


The  poem,  thus  crudely  conceived,  rashly 
prefaced,  and  prematurely  hurried  into  the  world, 
was  nevertheless  favorably  received,  owing  chiefly 
to  adventitious  circumstances.  A  work  of  the 
same  class,  with  as  much  power  and  fewer  faults, 
if  it  were  published  now,  would  attract  little  or  no 
attention.  One  thing  which  contributed  to  bring 
it  into  immediate  notice  was,  that  no  poem  of 
equal  pretension  had  appeared  for  many  years, 
except  Glover's  Athenaid,  which,  notwithstanding 
the  reputation  of  his  Leonidas,  had  been  utterly 
neglected.  But  the  chief  cause  of  its  favorable 
reception  was,  that  it  was  written  in  a  republican 
spirit,  such  as  may  easily  be  accounted  for  in  a 
youth  whose  notions  of  liberty  were  taken  from 
the  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  and  who  was  ig- 
norant enough  of  history  and  of  human  nature  to 
believe,  that  a  happier  order  of  things  had  com- 
menced with  the  independence  of  the  United 
States,  and  would  be  accelerated  by  the  French 
Revolution.  Such  opinions  were  then  as  unpopu- 
lar in  England  as  they  deserved  to  be ;  but  they 
were  cherished  by  most  of  the  critical  journals, 
and  conciliated  for  me  the  good-will  of  some  of  the 
most  influential  writers  who  were  at  that  time 
engaged  in  periodical  literature,  though  1  was 
personally  unknown  to  thorn.  Tliey  bestowed 
upon  the  poem  abundant  praise,  passed  over  most 
of  its  manifold  faults,  and  noticed  others  with  in- 
dulgence. Miss  Seward  wrote  some  verses  upon 
it  in  a  strain  of  the  highest  eulogy  and  the  bitter- 
est  invective ;  they   were   sent   to   the   Morning 


Chronicle,  and  the  editor  (Mr.  Perry)  accom- 
panied their  insertion  with  a  vindication  of  the 
opinions  which  she  had  so  vehemently  denounced. 
Miss  Seward  was  then  in  liigh  reputation ;  the 
sincerity  of  her  praise  was  proved  by  the  sever- 
ity of  her  censure ;  and  nothing  could  have  been 
more  serviceable  to  a  young  author  than  her  no- 
tice, thus  indignantly,  but  also  thus  generously, 
bestowed.  The  approbation  of  the  reviewers 
served  as  a  passport  lor  the  poem  to  America,  and 
it  was  reprinted  there  while  I  was  revising  it  for  a 
second  edition. 

A  work,  in  which  the  author  and  the  book- 
seller had  engaged  with  equal  imprudence,  thus 
proved  beneficial  to  both.  It  made  me  so  advan- 
tageously known  as  a  poet,  that  no  subsequent 
hostility  on  the  part  of  the  reviews  could  pull 
down  the  reputation  which  had  been  raised  by 
their  good  offices.  Before  that  hostility  took  its 
determined  character,  the  charge  of  being  a  hasty 
and  careless  writer  was  frequently  brought  against 
me.  Yet  to  have  been  six  months  correcting  what 
was  written  in  six  weeks,  was  some  indication  of 
patient  industry ;  and  of  this  the  second  edition 
gave  further  evidence.  Taking  for  a  second  motto 
the  words  of  Erasmus,  (It  homines  ita  libros,  in- 
dies scipsis  meliores  fieri  oportet,  I  spared  no  pains 
to  render  the  poem  less  faulty  both  in  its  con- 
struction and  composition ;  1  wrote  a  new  begin- 
ning, threw  out  much  of  what  had  remained  of 
the  original  draught,  altered  more,  and  endeavored, 
from  all  the  materials  which  1  had  means  of  con- 
sulting, to  make  myself  better  acquainted  with 
the  manners  and  circumstances  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  Thus  the  second  edition  differed  almost 
as  much  from  the  first,  as  that  from  the  copy 
which  was  originally  intended  for  publication. 
Less  extensive  alterations  were  made  in  two  sub- 
sequent editions ;  the  fifth  was  only  a  reprint  of 
the  fourth ;  by  that  time  1  had  become  fully  sen- 
sible of  its  great  and  numerous  faults,  and  request- 
ed the  reader  to  remember,  as  tlie  only  apology 
which  could  be  offered  for  them,  that  the  poem 
was  written  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and  published 
at  one-and-twenty.  My  intention  then  was,  to 
take  no  further  pains  in  correcting  a  work  of 
which  the  inherent  defects  were  incorrigible  ;  and 
1  did  not  look  into  it  again  for  many  years. 

But  now,  when  about  to  perform  what  at  my 
acre  may  almost  be  called  the  testamentary  task  of 
revising,  in  all  likelihood  for  the  last  time,  those 
works  by  which  it  was  my  youthful  ambition  "  to 
be  forever  known,"  and  part  whereof  1  dare  be- 
lieve has  been  "  so  written  to  after  times  as  they 
should  not  willingly  let  it  die,"  it  appeared  proper 
that  this  poem,  through  which  the  author  had  been 
first  made  known  to  the  public,  two-and-forty 
years  ago,  should  lead  the  way  ;  and  the  thought 
that  it  was  once  more  to  pass  through  the  press 
under  my  own  inspection,  induced  a  feeling  in 
some  respects  resembling  that  with  which  it  had 
been  first  delivered  to  the  printer  —  and  yet  how 
different!  for  not  in  hope  and  ardor,  nor  with 
the  impossible  intention  of  rendering  it  what  it 
might  have  been  had  it  been  planned  and  execu- 


BOOK    I. 


JOAN    OF   ARC, 


13 


UhI  ill  iiiiddlc  liff,  did  I  resolve  to  correct  it  once 
iiioro  tliroughout;  but  lor  tlie  purpose  of  iiiukiiig 
it  more  consistent  with  itself  in  diction,  and  less 
inconsistent  in  other  things  with  the  well-\vei<rhed 
opinions  of  my  maturer  years.  The  faults  of 
effort,  which  may  generally  be  regarded  as  hope- 
ful indications  in  a  juvenile  writer,  have  been 
mostly  lefl  as  they  were.  The  faults  of  language 
which  remained  from  the  first  edition  have  been 
removed,  so  that  in  this  respect  the  whole  is 
sufticiently  in  keeping.  And  for  those  which 
expressed  the  political  prejudices  of  a  young  man 
who  had  too  little  knowledge  to  suspect  his  own 
ignorance,  they  have  either  been  expunged,  or 
altered,  or  such  substitutions  have  been  made  for 
them  as  harmonize  with  the  pervading  spirit  of 
the  poem,  and  are  nevertheless  in  accord  with 
those  opinions  which  the  author  has  maintained 
for  thirty  years,  through  good  and  evil  report,  in 
the  maturity  of  his  judgment  as  well  as  in  tlio 
sincerity  of  his  heart. 

Keswick,  August  30,  1837. 


TO  EDITH   SOUTHEY 

Edith  !  I  brought  thee  late  a  humble  gift. 

The  songs  of  earlier  youth  ;  it  was  a  wreath 

With  many  an  unripe  blossom  garlanded 

And  many  a  weed,  yet  mingled  with  some  flowers 

Which  will  not  wither.     Dearest !  now  I  bring 

A  worthier  offering  ;  thou  wilt  prize  it  well, 

For  well  thou  know'st  amid  what  painful  cares 

My  solace  was  in  this  :  and  though  to  me 

There  is  no  music  in  the  hollowness 

Of  connnon  praise,  yet  well  content  am  I 

Now  to  look  back  upon  my  youth's  green  prime. 

Nor  idly,  nor  unprofitably  past, 

Imping  in  such  adventurous  essay 

The  wing,  and  strengthening  it  for  steadier  flight. 

KuRTON,  near  Christ  Church,  1797. 


THE    FIRST  BOOK. 

There  was  high  feasting  held  at  Vaucouleur, 
For  old  Sir  Robert  had  a  famous  guest. 
The  Bastard  Orleans  ;  and  the  festive  hours, 
Cheer'd  with  the  Trobador's  sweet  minstrelsy, 
Pass'd  gayly  at  his  hospitable  board. 
But  not  to  share  the  hospitable  board 
And  hear  sweet  minstrelsy,  Dunois  had  sought 
Sir  Robert's  hall ;  he  came  to  rouse  Lorraine, 
And  glean  what  force  the  wasting  war  had  left 
For  one  last  effort.     Little  had  the  war 
Left  in  Lorraine,  but  age,  and  youth  unripe 
For  slaughter  yet,  and  widows,  and  young  maids 
Of  widow'd  loves.     And  now  with  his  great  guest 
The  Lord  of  Vaucouleur  sat  communing 
On  what  might  profit  France,  and  found  no  hope, 
Despairing  of  their  country,  when  he  heard 


\n  old  man  and  a  maid  awaited  him 
In  the  castle-hall.     He  knew  the  old  man  well, 
His  vassal  Claude ;  and  at  his  bidding  Claude 
Approach'd,  and  after  meet  obeisance  made, 
Bespake  Sir  Robert. 

"  Good  my  Lord,  I  come 
With  a  strange  tale ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me 
If  it  should  seem  impertinent,  and  like 
An  old  man's  weakness.     But,  in  truth,  this  Maid 
Hath  with  such  boding  thoughts  impress'd  my  heart, 
I  think  1  could  not  longer  sleep  in  peace 
Gainsaying  what  she  sought.     She  saith  that  God 
Bids  her  go  drive  the  Englishmen  from  France  ! 
Her  parents  mock  at  her  and  call  her  crazed, 
And  father  Regnier  says  she  is  possess'd  ;  — 
But  1,  who  know  that  never  thought  of  ill 
Found  entrance  in  her  heart,  —  for,  good  my  Lord, 
From  her  first  birth-day  she  hath  been  to  me 
As  mine  own  child,  —  and  I  am  an  old  man, 
Who  have  seen  many  moon-struck  in  my  time, 
And  some  who  were  by  evil  Spirits  vex'd, — 
I,  Sirs,  do  think  that  there  is  more  in  this. 
And  who  can  tell  but,  in  these  perilous  times. 
It  may  please  God,  —  but  hear  the  Maid  yourselves, 
For  if,  as  1  believe,  this  is  of  Heaven, 
My  silly  speech  doth  wrong  it." 

While  he  spake, 
Curious  they  mark'd  the  Damsel.     She  appear'd 
Of  eighteen  years;  there  was  no  bloom  of  youth 
Upon  her  cheek,  yet  had  the  loveliest  hues 
Of  health  with  lesser  fascination  fi.x'd 
The  gazer's  eye  ;  for  wan  the  Maiden  was. 
Of  saintly  paleness,  and  there  seem'd  to  dwell 
In  the  strong  beauties  of  her  countenance 
Something  that  was  not  earthly. 

"  1  have  heard 
Of  this  your  niece's  malady,"  replied 
The  Lord  of  Vaucouleur,  "  that  she  frequents 
The  loneliest  haunts  and  deepest  solitude. 
Estranged  from  human  kind  and  human  cares 
With  loathing  like  to  madness.     It  were  best 
To  place  her  with  some  pious  sisterhood. 
Who  duly,  moru  and  eve,  for  her  soul's  health 
Soliciting  Heaven,  may  likeliest  remedy 
The 'stricken  mind,  or  frenzied  or  possess'd." 

So  as  Sir  Robert  ceased,  the  Maiden  cried, 

"  I  am  not  mad.     Possess'd  indeed  I  am ! 

The  hand  of  God  is  strong  upon  my  soul. 

And  I  have  wrestled  vainly  with  the  Lord, 

And  stubbornly,  I  fear  me.     I  can  save 

This  country.  Sir !  I  can  deliver  France  I 

Yea —  I  must  save  the  country  !  —  God  is  in  me ; 

I  speak  not,  think  not,  feel  not  of  myself. 

He  knew  and  sanctified  me  ere  my  birth; 

Hk  to  the  nations  hath  ordained  me; 

And  whither  he  shall  send  me,  I  must  go; 

And  whatso  he  commands,  that  I  nmst  speak ; 

And  whatso  is  his  will,  that  I  must  do; 

And  I  must  put  away  all  fear  of  man. 

Lest  HE  in  wrath  confound  me." 

At  the  first 
With  pity  or  with  scorn  Dunois  had  heard 
The  Maid  inspired ;  but  now  he  in  his  heart 
Felt  that  misgiving  which  precedes  belief 


14 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    I. 


In  what  was  disbelieved  and  scoff 'd  at  late 
For  folly.     "  Damsel  !  "  said  the  Chief,  "  methinks 
It  would  be  wisely  done  to  doubt  this  call, 
Haply  of  some  ill  Spirit  prompting  thee 
To  self-destruction."     . 

"  Doubt !  "  the  Maid  exclaim'd  : 
It  were  as  easy  when  I  gaze  around 
On  all  this  fair  variety  of  things, 
Green  fields  and  tufted  woods,  and  the  blue  depth 
Of  heaven,  and  yonder  glorious  sun,  to  doubt 
Creating  wisdom  !  —  When  in  the  evening  gale 
I  breathe  the  mingled  odors  of  the  spring, 
And  hear  the  wildwood  melody,  and  hear 
The  populous  air  vocal  with  insect  life. 
To  doubt  God's  goodness !  There  are  feelings.  Chief, 
Which  cannot  lie ;  and  1  have  oftentimes 
Felt  in  the  midnight  silence  of  my  soul 
The  call  of  God." 

They  listened  to  the  Maid, 
And  they  almost  believed.     Then  spake  Dunois, 
"  Wilt  thou  go  with  me.  Maiden,  to  the  King, 
And  there  announce  thy  mission.'  "  Thus  he  said. 
For  thoughts  of  politic  craftiness  arose 
Within  him,  and  his  faith,  yet  unconfirm'd, 
Determin'd  to  prompt  action.     She  replied, 
"  Therefore  I  sought  the  Lord  of  Vaucouleur, 
That  with  sucli  credence  as  prevents  delay, 
He  to  the  King  might  send  me.     Now  beseech  you 
Speed  our  departure  ! ' ' 

Then  Dunois  address'd 
Sir  Robert,  "  Fare  thee  well,  my  friend  and  host ! 
It  were  ill  done  to  linger  here  when  Heaven 
Vouchsafes  such  strange  assistance.    Let  what  force 
Lorraine  can  raise  to  Chinon  follow  us  ; 
And  with  the  tidings  of  this  holy  Maid, 
Sent  by  the  Lord,  fill  thou  the  country;  soon 
Therewith  shall  France  awake  as  from  the  sleep 
Of  death.     Now,  Maid  !  depart  we  at  thy  will." 

"  God's  blessing  go  with  ye!  "exclaim'd  old  Claude, 
"  Good  Angels  guard  my  girl !  "  and  as  he  spake 
The  tears  stream'd  fast  adown  his  aged  cheeks. 
"  And  if  I  do  not  live  to  see  thee  more. 
As  sure  1  think  I  shall  not,  —  yet  sometimes 
Remember  thine  old  Uncle.     I  have  loved  thee 
Even  from  thy  childhood,  Joan  !  and  I  shall  lose 
The  comfort  of  mine  age  in  losing  thee. 
But  God  be  with  thee.  Child  !  " 

Nor  was  the  Maid, 
Though  all  subdued  of  soul,  untroubled  now 
In  that  sad  parting;  —  but  slie  calm'd  herself. 
Painfully  keeping  down  her  heart,  and  said, 
"  Comfort  thyself,  my  Uncle,  with  the  thought 
Of  what  I  am,  and  for  what  enterprise 
Chosen  from  among  the  people.     Oh  !  be  sure 
I  shall  remember  thee,  in  whom  I  found 
A  parent's  love,  when  parents  were  unkind  ! 
And  when  the  ominous  broodings  of  my  soul 
Were  scoft'd  and  made  a  mock  of  by  all  else. 
Thou  for  thy  love  didst  hear  me  and  believe. 
Shall  I  forget  these  things  ,'  "  —  By  this  Dunois 
Had  arm'd,  the  steeds  stood  ready  at  the  gate. 
But  then  she  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck 
And   cried,    "  Pray   for  me  !  —  I  shall    need    thy 
prayers ' 


Pray  for  me,  that  I  fail  not  in  my  hour !  " 
Thereat  awhile,  as  if  some  awful  thought 
Had  overpower'd  her,  on  his  neck  she  hung ; 
Then  rising  with  flush'd  cheek  and  kindling  eye, 
"  Farewell !  "  quoth  she,  "  and  live  in  hope  !  Anon 
Thou  shalt  hear  tidings  to  rejoice  thy  heart, 
Tidings  of  joy  for  all,  but  most  for  thee  ! 
Be  this  thy  comfort!  "     The  old  man  received 
Her  last  embrace,  and  weeping  like  a  cliild, 
Scarcely  through  tears  could  see  them  on  their  steeds 
Spring  up,  and  go  their  way. 

So  on  they  went. 
And  now  along  the  mountain's  winding  path 
Upward  they  journey'd  slow,  and  now  they  paused 
And  gazed  where  o'er  the  plain  the  stately  towers 
Of  Vaucouleur  arose,  in  distance  seen. 
Dark  and  distinct ;  below  its  castled  height, 
Througli  fair  and  fertile  pastures,  the  deep  Meuse 
Roll'd  glittering  on.     Domremi's  cottages 
Gleam'd  in  the  sun  hard  by,  white  cottages. 
That  in  the  evening  traveller's  weary  mind 
Had  waken'd  thoughts  of  comfort  and  of  home. 
Making  him  yearn  for  rest.     But  on  one  spot. 
One  little  spot,  the  Virgin's  eye  was  fix'd, 
Her  native  Arc  ;  embower'd  the  hamlet  lay 
Upon  the  forest  edge,  whose  ancient  woods, 
With  all  their  infinite  varieties. 
Now  form'd  a  mass  of  shade.     The  distant  plain 
Rose  on  the  horizon  rich  with  pleasant  groves, 
And  vineyards  in  the  greenest  hue  of  spring, 
And  streams  now  hidden  on  their  winding  way, 
Now  issuing  forth  in  light. 

The  Maiden  gazed 
i^Till  all  grew  dim  upon  her  dizzy  eye. 
^'  Oh  what  a  blessed  world  were  this !  "  she  cried, 
"  But  that  the  great  and  honorable  men 
Have  seized  the  earth,  and  of  the  heritage 
Which  God,  the  Sire  of  all,  to  all  had  given. 
Disherited  their  brethren  !     Happy  those 
Who  in  the  after  days  shall  live,  when  Time 
Hath  spoken,  and  the  multitude  of  years 
Taught  wisdom  to  mankind  !  —  Unhappy  France  ! 
Fiercer  than  evening  wolves  thy  bitter  foes 
Rush  o'er  the  land,  and  desolate,  and  kill; 
Long  has  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  groan 
Accused  Heaven's  justice  ;  — but  the  hour  is  come  ! 
God  hath  inclined  his  ear,  hath  heard  the  voice 
Of  mourning,  and  his  anger  is  gone  forth." 

Then  said  the  Son  of  Orleans,  "  Holy  Maid  ! 

Fain  would  I  know,  if  blameless  I  may  seek 

Such  knowledge,  how  the  heavenly  call  was  heard 

First  in  thy  waken'd  soul ;  nor  deem  in  me 

Aught  idly  curious,  if  of  thy  past  life 

I  ask  the  story.     In  the  hour  of  age. 

If  haply  I  survive  to  see  this  realm 

Deliver'd,  precious  then  will  be  the  thought 

That  I  have  known  the  delegated  Maid, 

And  heard  from  her  the  wondrous  ways  of  Heaven. 

"  A  simple  tale,"  the  mission'd  Maid  replied  : 
"  Yet  may  it  well  employ  the  journeying  hour, 
And  pleasant  is  the  memory  of  the  past. 

"  Seest  thou,  Sir  Chief,  where  yonder  forest  skirts 


BOOK    I. 


JOAN    OF   ARC. 


15 


The  Mouse,  that  in  its  winding  mazes  shows, 

As  on  the  fartlier  bank,  the  distant  towers 

Of  Vaucouleur  ?  there  in  the  hanalet  Arc 

My  father's  dwelling  stands;"  a  lowly  hut, 

Yet  nought  of  needful  comfort  did  it  lack. 

For  in  Lorraine  tliere  lived  no  kinder  Lord 

Than  old  Sir  Robert,  and  my  father  Jaques 

In  flocks  and  herds  was  rich ;  a  toiling  man. 

Intent  on  worldly  gains,  one  in  whose  heart 

Affection  had  no  root.     I  never  knew 

A  parent's  love ;  for  harsh  my  mother  was, 

And  deem'd  the  care  which  infancy  demands 

Irksome,  and  ill-repaid.     Severe  they  were, 

And  would  have  made  me  fear  them ;  but  my  soul 

Posscss'd  the  germ  of  inborn  fortitude. 

And  stubbornly  I  bore  unkind  rebuke 

And  angry  chastisement.     Yet  was  the  voice 

That  spake  in  tones  of  tenderness  most  sweet 

To  my  young  heart ;  how  have  1  felt  it  leap 

With    transport,    when    my    Uncle    Claude    ap- 

proach'd ! 
For  he  would  take  me  on  his  knee,  and  tell 
Such  wondrous  tales  as  childhood  loves  to  hear. 
Listening  with  eager  eyes  and  open  lips 
Devoutly  in  attention.     Good  old  man  ! 
Oh,  if  I  ever  pour'd  a  prayer  to  Heaven 
Unhallow'd  by  the  grateful  thought  of  him, 
Methinks  the  righteous  winds  would  scatter  it  I 
He  was  a  parent  to  me,  and  his  home 
Was  mine,  when  in  advancing  years  I  found 
No  peace,  no  comfort  in  my  father's  house. 
With  him  I  pass'd  the  pleasant  evening  hours. 
By  day  I  drove  my  father's  flock  afield,^ 
And  this  was  happiness. 

"  Amid  these  wilds 
Often  to  summer  pasture  have  I  driven 
The  flock  ;  and  well  I  know  these  woodland  wilds, 
And  every  bosom'd  vale,  and  valley  stream 
Is  dear  to  memory.     1  have  laid  me  down 
Beside  yon  valley  stream,  that  up  the  ascent 
Scarce  sends  the  sound  of  waters  now,  and  watch'd 
The  beck  roll  glittering  to  the  noon-tide  sun, 
And  listen'd  to  its  ceaseless  murmuring. 
Till  all  was  hush'd  and  tranquil  in  my  soul, 
Fill'd  with  a  strange  and  undefined  delight 
That  pass'd  across  the  mind  like  summer  clouds 
Over  the  vale  at  eve  ;  their  fleeting  hues 
The  traveller  cannot  trace  with  memory's  eye. 
Yet  he  remembers  well  how  fair  they  were. 
How  beautiful. 

"  In  solitude  and  peace 
Here  1  grew  up,  amid  the  loveliest  scenes 
Of  unpolluted  nature.     Sweet  it  was. 
As  the  white  mists  of  morning  roll'd  away, 
To  see  the  upland's  wooded  heights  appear 
Dark  in  the  early  dawn,  and  mark  the  slope 
With  gorse-flowers  glowing,  as  the  sun  illumed 
Their  golden  glory '"  with  his  deepening  light ; 
Pleasant  at  noon  beside  the  vocal  brook 
To  lay  me  down,  and  watch  the  floating  clouds, 
And  shape  to  fancy's  wild  similitudes 
Their  ever-varying  forms  ;  and  oh  how  sweet  1 
To  drive  my  flock  at  evening  to  the  fold. 
And  hasten  to  our  little  hut,  and  hear 
The  voice  of  kindness  bid  me  welcome  home. 


"  Amid  the  village  playmates  of  my  youth 

Was  one  wliom  riper  years  approved  a  friend. 

A  gentle  maid  was  my  poor  Madelon  ; 

I  loved  her  as  a  sister,  and  long  time 

Her  undivided  tenderness  possess'd. 

Until  a  better  and  a  holier  tie 

Gave  her  one  nearer  friend  ;  and  tlicn  my  heart 

Partook  her  happiness,  for  never  lived 

A  happier  pair  than  Arnaud  and  hfs  wife. 

"  Lorraine  was  call'd  to  arms,  and  with  her  youth 
Went  Arnaud  to  the  war.     The  morn  was  fair. 
Bright  shone  the  sun,  the  birds  sung  cheerfully. 
And  all  the  fields  seem'd  joyous  in  the  spring ; 
But  to  Domremi  wretched  was  that  day. 
For  tJiere  was  lamentation,  and  the  voice 
Of  anguish,  and  tlie  deeper  agony 
Tiiat  spake  not.     Never  can  my  heart  forget 
The  feelings  that  shot  through  me,  when  the  horn 
Gave  its  last  call,  and  through  the  castle-gate 
The  banner  moved,  and  from  the  clinging  arms 
Which  hung  on  them,  as  for  a  last  embrace. 
Sons,  brethren,  husbands,  went. 

"  More  frequent  now 
Sought  I  the  converse  of  poor  Madelon, 
For  now  she  needed  friendship's  soothing  voice. 
All  the  long  summer  did  she  live  in  hope 
Of  tidings  from  the  war  ;  and  as  at  eve 
She  with  her  mother  by  the  cottage  door 
Sat  in  the  sunshine,  if  a  traveller 
Appear'd  at  distance  coming  o'er  the  brow, 
Her  eye  was  on  him,  and  it  might  be  seen 
By  the  flush'd  cheek  what  thoughts  were  in  her 

heart, 
And  by  the  deadly  paleness  which  ensued, 
How  her  heart  died  within  her.     So  the  days 
And  weeks  and  months  pass'd  on  ;  and  when  the 

leaves 
Fell  in  the  autumn,  a  most  painful  hope 
That  reason  own'd  not,  that  with  expectation 
Did  never  cheer  her  .as  she  rose  at  morn. 
Still  linger'd  in  her  heart,  and  still  at  night 
Made  disappointment  dreadful.     Winter  came. 
But  Arnaud  never  from  the  war  return'd  ; 
He  far  away  had  perish'd ;  and  when  late 
The  tidings  of  his  certain  death  arrived, 
Sore  with  long  anguish  underneath  that  blow 
She  sunk.     Then  would  she  sit  and  think  all  day 
Upon  the  past,  and  talk  of  happiness 
That  never  could  return,  as  though  she  found 
Best  solace  in  the  thoughts  which  minister'd 
To  sorrow  :  and  she  loved  to  see  the  sun 
Go  down,  because  another  day  was  gone. 
And  then  she  might  retire  to  solitude 
And  wakeful  recollections,  or  perchance 
To  sleep  more  wearying  far  than  wakefulness. 
Dreams  of  his  safcty  and  return,  and  starts 
Of  agony  ;  so  neither  night  nor  d.iy 
Could  she  find  rest,  but  pined  and  pined  away. 

"  Death  I  to  the  happy  thou  art  terrible ; 
But  how  the  wretched  love  to  think  of  thee, 
Oh  thou  true  comforter,  the  friend  of  all 
Wlin  have  no  friend  beside  I  "     By  the  sick  bed 
Of  Madelon  I  sat,  wlicn  sure  she  felt 


16 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK   I. 


The  hour  of  her  deliverance  drawing  near ; 
I  saw  her  eye  kindle  witli  heavenly  hope, 
1  had  her  latest  look  of  earthly  love, 
I  telt  her  hand's  last  pressure.  —  Son  of  Orleans  ! 
I  would  not  wish  to  live  to  know  that  hour. 
When  1  could  think  upon  a  dear  friend  dead. 
And  weep  not ;  but  they  are  not  bitter  tears,  — 
Not  painful  now  ;  for  Christ  hath  risen,  first  fruits 
Of  them  that  sl^pt ;  and  we  shall  meet  again. 
Meet,  not  again  to  part :  the  grave  hath  lost 
Its  victory. 

"  1  remember,  as  her  bier 
Went  to  the  grave,  a  lark  sprung  up  aloft. 
And  soar'd  amid  the  sunshine,  carolling 
So  full  of  joy,  that  to  the  mourner's  ear 
More  mournfully  than  dirge  or  passing  bell, 
The  joyous  carol  came,  and  made  us  feel 
That  of  the  multitude  of  beings,  none 
But  man  was  wretched. 

"  Then  my  soul  awoke. 
For  it  had  slumber'd  long  in  happiness. 
And  never  feeling  misery,  never  thought 
What  others  suffer.     1,  as  best  I  might. 
Solaced  the  keen  regret  of  Elinor  ; 
And  much  my  cares  avail'd,  and  much  her  son's. 
On  whom,  the  only  comfort  ol'  her  age. 
She  centred  now  her  love.     A  younger  birth, 
Aged  nearly  as  myself  was  Theodore, 
An  ardent  youth,  who  with  the  kindest  care 
Had  sooth'd  his  sister's  sorrow.     We  had  knelt 
By  her  death-bed  together,  and  no  bond 
In  closer  union  knits  two  human  hearts 
Than  fellowship  in  grief. 

"  It  chanced  as  once 
Beside  the  fire  of  Elinor  1  sat, 
The  night  was  comfortless,  the  loud  blast  howl'd. 
And  as  we  drew  around  the  social  hearth. 
We  heard  the  rain  beat  hard.    Driven  by  the  storm 
A  warrior  mark'd  our  distant  taper's  light ; 
We  heapt  the  fire,  and  spread  the  friendly  board. 
'  'T  is  a  rude   night, '    the   stranger   cried  :  '  safe 

housed 
Pleasant  it  is  to  hear  the  pelting  rain. 
I  too  could  be  content  to  dwell  in  peace, 
Resting  my  head  upon  the  lap  of  love. 
But  that  my  country  calls.    When  the  winds  roar. 
Remember  sometimes  what  a  soldier  suffers, 
And  think  on  Conrade.' 

"  Theodore  replied, 
'  Success  go  with  thee  !  Something  we  have  known 
Of  war,  and  tasted  its  calamity  ; 
And  I  am  well  content  to  dwell  in  peace. 
Albeit  inglorious,  thanking  the  good  God 
Who  made  me  to  be  happy.' 

"  '  Did  that  God,' 
Cried  Conrade,  '  form  thy  heart  for  happiness, 
When  Desolation  royally  careers 
Over  thy  wretched  country  .'     Did  that  God 
Form  thee  for  Peace  when  Slaughter  is  abroad. 
When  her  brooks  run  with  blood,  and  Rape,  and 

Murder, 
Stalk  through  her  flaming  towns  .'    Live  thou  in 

peace, 
Young  man !  my  heart  is  human  :  I  must  feel 
For  what  my  brethren  suffer.'     While  he  spake 


Such  mingled  passions  character'd  his  face 

Of  fierce  and  terrible  benevolence. 

That  1  did  tremble  as  I  listen'd  to  him  ; 

And  in  my  heart  tumultuous  thoughts  arose 

Of  high  achievements,  indistinct,  and  wild, 

And  vast,  —  yet  such  they  were  as  made  me  pant 

As  though  by  some  divinity  possess'd. 

"  '  But  is  there  not  some  duty  due  to  those 
We  love  .' '  said  Theodore ;  '  is  tliere  an  employ 
More  righteous  than  to  cheer  declining  age, 
And  thus  with  filial  tenderness  repay 
Parental  care .' ' 

"  '  Hard  is  it,'  Conrade  cried, 
'  Ay,  liard  indeed,  to  part  from  those  we  love ; 
And  I  have  suffer'd  that  severest  pang. 
I  liave  left  an  aged  mother ;  I  have  left 
One  upon  whom  my  heart  has  fasten'd  all 
Its  dearest,  best  affections.     Should  I  live 
Till  France  shall  see  the  blessed  hour  of  peace, 
I  shall  return ;  my  heart  will  be  content. 
My  duties  then  will  have  been  well  discharged, 
And  I  may  then  be  happy.     Tliere  are  those 
Who  deem  such  thoughts  the  fancies  of  a  mind 
Strict  beyond  measure,  and  were  well  content. 
If  I  should  soften  down  my  rigid  nature 
Even  to  inglorious  ease,  to  honor  me. 
But  pure  of  heart  and  higli  in  self-esteem 
1  must  be  honor'd  by  myself:  all  else, 
The  breath  of  Fame,  is  as  the  unsteady  wind 
Worthless.' 

"  So  saying  from  his  belt  he  took 
The  encumbering  sword.  I  held  it,  listening  to  him, 
And  wistless  what  I  did,  half  from  the  sheath 
Drew  forth  its  glittering  blade.     I  gazed  upon  it. 
And  shuddering,  as  I  touch'd  its  edge,  exclaim  d, 
How  horrible  it  is  with  the  keen  sword 
To  gore  the  finely-fibred  human  frame  ! 
I  could  not  strike  a  lamb. 

"  He  answer'd  me, 
'  Maiden,  thou  sayest  well.     I  could  not  strike 
A  lamb  !  —  But  when  the  merciless  invader 
Spares  not  gray  age,  and  mocks  the  infant's  shriek 
As  it  doth  writhe  upon  his  cursed  lance. 
And  forces  to  his  foul  embrace  the  wife 
Even  where  her  slaughter'd   husband   bleeds   to 

death. 
Almighty  God  !  1  should  not  be  a  man 
If  I  did  let  one  weak  and  pitiful  feeling 
Make  mine  arm  impotent  to  cleave  him  down. 
Think  well  ofthis,  young  man  ! ' '^  he  cried,  and  took 
The  hand  of  Theodore  ;  'think  well  ofthis; 
As  you  are  human,  as  you  hope  to  live 
In  peace,  amid  the  dearest  joys  of  home, 
Think  well  of  this  !     You  have  a  tender  mother  ; 
As  you  do  wish  that  she  may  die  in  peace, 
As  you  would  even  to  madness  agonize 
To  hear  this  maiden  call  on  you  in  vain 
For  help,  and  see  her  dragg'd,  and  hear  her  scream 
In  the  blood-reeking  soldier's  lustful  grasp. 
Think  that  there  are  such  horrors  !  '•*  that  even  now, 
Some  city  flames,  and  haply,  as  in  Roan, 
Some  famish'd  babe  on  his  dead  mother's  breast 
Yet  hangs  and  pulls  for  food  !  '^  —  Woe  be  to  those 
By  whom  tlie  evil  comes  I     And  woe  to  him. 


BOOK    IT. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


17 


For  little  loss  his  fjuilt,  —  who  dwells  in  peace, 
When  every  arm  is  needed  for  the  strife  ! ' 

"  When  we  had  all  betaken  us  to  rest, 
Sleepless  I  lay,  and  in  my  mind  revolved 
The  high-soul'd  warrior's  speech.     Then  Madclon 
Rose  in  remembrance ;  over  her  the  grave 
Had  closed  ;  her  sorrows  were  not  register'd 
In  the  rolls  of  fame  ;  but  wlien  the  tears  run  down 
Tlie  widow's  cheek,  shall  not  her  cry  be  heard 
In  Heaven  against  tiie  oppressor?   Will  not  God 
In  sunder  smite  tlic  unmerciful,  and  break 
The  sceptre  of  the  wicked  ?  '^  —  Thoughts  like  these 
Possess'd  my  soul,  till  at  tlie  break  of  day 
I  slept;  nor  did  my  heated  brain  repose 
Even  tlien ;  for  visions,  sent,  as  I  believe. 
From  the  Most  High,  arose.     A  high-towcr'd  town 
Hemm'd  in  and  girt  with  enemies,  I  saw. 
Where  Famine  on  a  heap  of  carc;isses. 
Half  envious  of  the  unutterable  feast, 
Mark'd  the  gorged  raven  clog  his  beak  with  gore. 
I  turn'd  me  then  to  tlie  besieger's  camp, 
And  there  was  revelry  :  a  loud,  lewd  laugh 
Burst  on  mine  ear,  and  I  beheld  the  chiefs 
Sit  at  their  feast,  and  plan  the  work  of  death. 
My  soul  grew  sick  within  me  ;  I  look'd  up. 
Reproaching  Heaven,  —  lo  !  from  the  clouds  an  arm 
As  of  the  avenging  Angel  was  put  forth. 
And  from  his  hand  a  sword,  like  lightning,  fell. 

"  From  that  night  I  could  feel  my  burden'd  soul 
Heaving  beneath  incumbent  Deity. 
I  sate  in  silence,  musing  on  the  days 
To  come,  unheeding  and  unseeing  all 
Around  me,  in  that  dreaminess  of  thought 
When  every  bodily  sense  is  as  it  slept, 
And  the  mind  alone  is  wakeful.     I  have  heard 
Strange  voices  in  the  evening  wind ;  strange  forms 
Dimly  discover'd  Ihrong'd  the  twilight  air. 
The  neighbors  wonder'd  at  the  sudden  change  ; 
They  call'd  me  crazed ;  and  my  dear  Uncle,  too. 
Would  sit  and  gaze  upon  me  wistfully, 
A  heaviness  upon  his  aged  brow, 
And  in  his  eye  such  sorrow,  that  my  heart 
Sometimes  misgave  me.     I  had  told  him  all 
The  mighty  future  laboring  in  my  breast. 
But  that  the  hour,  methought,  not  yet  was  come. 

"  At  length  I  heard  of  Orleans,  by  the  foe 
Wall'd  in  from  human  help  :  thither  all  thoughts. 
All  hopes  were  turn'd  ;  that  bulwark  beaten  down, 
All  were  the  invaders.     Then  my  troubled  soul 
Grew  more  disturb'd,  and  shunning  ever}'  eye, 
I  loved  to  wander  where  the  woodland  shade 
Was  deepest,  tliere  on  mightiest  deeds  to  brood 
Of  shadowy  vastness,  such  as  made  my  heart 
Throb  loud  :  anon  I  paused,  and  in  a  state 
Of  half  expectance,  listen'd  to  the  wind. 

"  Tiirrc  is  a  fountain  in  the  forest  call'd 
The  Fountain  of  the  Fairies  :'"  when  a  child 
With  a  delightful  wonder  I  have  heard 
Tales  of  the  FAfin  tribe  who  on  its  banks 
Hold  midnight  revelry.     An  ancient  oak. 
The  goodliest  of  the  forest,  grows  beside  ; 
3 


Alone  it  stands,  upon  a  green  grass  plat. 
By  the  woods  bounded  like  some  little  isle. 
It  ever  hath  been  deem'd  tiieir  favorite  tree  ; 
Tliey  love  to  lie  and  rock  upon  its  leaves,''' 
And  bask  in  moonshine.   Here  the  Woodman  leads 
His  boy,  and  showing  him  the  green-sward  mark'd 
With  darker  circlets,  says  their  midnight  dance 
Hath  traced  the  rings,  and  bids  him  spare  the  tree. 
Fancy  had  cast  a  spell  upon  the  place 
Which  made  it  holy  ;  and  the  villagers 
Would  say  that  never  evil  thing  aj)proach'd 
Unpunish'd  there.  The  strange  and  fearful  pleasure 
Which  fill'd  me  by  that  solitary  spring, 
Ceased  not  in  riper  years ;  and  now  it  woke 
Deeper  delight,  and  more  mysterious  awe. 

"  A  blessed  spot !     Oh,  how  my  soul  enjoy 'd 
Its  holy  quietness,  with  what  delight 
Escaping  from  mankind  1  hasten'd  there 
To  solitude  and  freedom  !     Thitherward 
On  a  spring  eve  I  had  betaken  me. 
And  there  I  sat,  and  mark'd  the  deep  red  clouds 
Gatlier  before  the  wind  —  the  rising  wind. 
Whose  sudden  gusts,  each  wilder  than  the  last, 
Appear'd  to  rock  my  senses.     Soon  the  night 
Darken'd  around,  and  the  large  rain-drops  fell 
Heavy  ;  anon  tempestuously  the  gale 
Swept  o'er  the  wood.     Methought  the   thunder- 
shower 
Fell  with  refreshing  coolness  on  my  head. 
And  the  hoarse  d;ish  of  waters,  and  the  rush 
Of  winds  that  mingled  with  the  forest  roar. 
Made  a  wild  music.     On  a  rock  I  sat ; 
The  glory  of  the  tempest  fill'd  my  soul ; 
And  when  the  thunders  peal'd,  and  the  long  flash 
Hung  durable  in  heaven,  and  on  my  sight 
Spread  the   gray  forest,  memory,  thought,   were 
All  sense  of  self  annihilate,  I  seem'd  [gone,'" 

Diffused  into  the  scene. 

"  At  length  a  light 
Approach'd  the  spring  ;  I  saw  my  Uncle  Claude  ; 
His  gray  locks  dripping  with  the  midnight  storm. 
He  came,  and  caught  me  in  his  arms,  and  cried, 
'  My  God  !  my  child  is  safe  ! ' 

"  I  felt  his  words 
Pierce  in  my  heart ;  my  soul  was  overcharged  ; 
I  fell  upon  his  neck  and  told  him  all ; 
God  was  within  me ;  as  I  felt,  I  spake, 
And  he  believed. 

"  Ay,  Chieftain  !  and  the  world 
Shall  soon  believe  my  mission  ;  for  the  Lord 
Will  raise  up  indignation  and  pour  on't 
His  wrath,  and  they  shall  perish  who  oppress."  " 


THE   SECOiND  BOOK. 

And  now  beneath  the  horizon  westering  slow 
Had  sinik  the  orb  of  day  :  o'er  all  the  vale 
A  purple  softness  spread,  save  where  some  tree 
Its  lengthen'd  shadow  stretch'd,or  winding  stream 
Mirror'd  the  light  of  Heaven,  still  traced  distinct 
When  twilight  dimly  shrouded  all  beside. 


18 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    II. 


A  grateful  coolness  freshen'd  the  calm  air, 
And  the  hoarse  grasshoppers  their  evening  song 
Sung  shrill  and  ceaseless,-"  as  the  dews  of  night 
Descended.     On  their  way  the  travellers  wend, 
Cheering  the  road  with  converse,  till  at  length 
They  mark  a  cottage  lamp,  whose  steady  light 
Slione  though  the  lattice  ;  thitherward  they  turn. 
Tliere  came  an  old  man  forth  ;  his  thin  gray  locks 
Moved  to  the  breeze,  and  on  his  wither'd  face 
The  characters  of  age  were  written  deep. 
Tliem,  louting  low  with  rustic  courtesy. 
He  welcomed  in  ;  on  the  white-ember'd  hearth 
Heapt  up  fresh  fuel,  then  witli  friendly  care 
Spread  out  his  homely  board,  and  fill'd  the  bowl 
With  the  red  produce  of  the  vine  that  arch'd 
His  evening  scat ;  they  of  the  plain  repast 
Partook,  and  quaff  'd  the  pure  and  pleasant  draught. 

"  Strangers,  your  fare  is  homely,"  said  their  Host, 
"  But  such  it  is  as  we  poor  countrymen 
Earn  with  our  toil :  in  faith  ye  are  welcome  to  it ! 
I  too  have  borne  a  lance  in  younger  days ; 
And  would  that  I  were  young  again  to  meet 
These  haughty  English  in  the  field  of  figlit ; 
Such  as  I  was  when  on  the  fatal  plain 
Of  Agincourt  I  met  them." 

"  Wert  thou  then 
A  sharer  in  that  dreadful  day's  defeat?" 
Exclaim'd  the  Bastard.   "  Didst  thou  know  the  Lord 
Of  Orleans.'" 

"  Know  him  ?  "  cried  the  veteran, 
"  I  saw  him  ere  the  bloody  fight  began 
Riding  from  rank  to  rank,  his  beaver  up, 
The  long  lance  quivering  in  his  mighty  grasp. 
His  eye  was  wratliful  to  an  enemy. 
But  for  his  countrymen  it  had  a  smile 
Would  win  all  hearts.    Looking  at  thee.  Sir  Knight, 
Methinks  I  see  him  now ;  such  was  his  eye. 
Gentle  in  peace,  and  such  his  manly  brow." 

"  No  tongue  but  speaketh  honor  of  that  name  !  " 
Exclaim'd  Dunois.     "  Strangers  and  countrymen 
Alike  revered  the  good  and  gallant  Chief. 
His  vassals  like  a  father  loved  their  Lord ; 
His  gates  stood  open  to  tlie  traveller  ; 
The  pilgrim  when  he  saw  his  towers  rejoiced, 
For  he  had  heard  in  other  lands  the  fame 
Of  Orleans.  — And  he  lives  a  prisoner  still ! 
Losing  all  hope  because  my  arm  so  long 
Hath  fail'd  to  win  his  liberty  ! " 

He  turn'd 
His  head  away,  hiding  the  burning  shame 
Which    flush'd    his   face.     "But    he   shall  live, 

Dunois," 
The  mission'd  Maid  replied  ;  "  but  he  shall  live 
To  hear  good  tidings  ;  hear  of  liberty, 
Of  his  own  liberty,  by  his  brother's  arm 
Achieved  in  well-won  battle.     He  shall  live 
Happy;  the  memory  of  his  prison'd  years  ^' 
Shall  heighten  all  his  joys,  and  his  gray  hairs 
Co  to  the  grave  in  peace." 

"  I  would  fain  live 
To  see  that  day,"  replied  their  aged  liost : 
"  How  would  my  heart  leap  to  behold  again 
The  gallant,  generous  chieftain  !  I  fought  by  him. 


When  all  our  hopes  of  victory  were  lost. 

And  down  his  battcr'd  arms  tlie  blood  stream'd  fast 

From  many  a  wound.     Like  wolves  they  hemm'd 

us  in, 
Fierce  in  unhoped  for  conquest :  all  around 
Our  dead  and  dying  countrymen  lay  heap'd ; 
Yet  still  he  strove  ;  —  I  wondcr'd  at  his  valor  ! 
Tiiere  was  not  one  who  on  that  fatal  day 
Fought  bravelier." 

"  Fatal  was  that  day  to  France," 
Exclaim'd  the  Bastard  ;  "  tliere  Alencjon  fell, 
Valiant  in  vain  ;  there  D'Albcrt,  whose  mad  pride 
Brought  the  whole  ruin  on.     There  fell  Brabant, 
Vaudemont,  and  Marie,  and  Bar,  and  Faquenberg, 
Our  noblest  warriors  ;  the  determin'd  foe 
Fought  for  revenge,  not  hoping  victory. 
Desperately   brave ;   ranks  fell   on    ranks  before 

them ; 
The  prisoners  of  that  shameful  day  out-summ'd 
Their  conquerors  !  "  ^ 

"  Yet  believe  not,"  Bertram  cried, 
"  That  cowardice  disgraced  thy  countrymen  ! 
They,  by  their  leader's  arrogance  led  on 
With  heedless  fury,  found  all  numbers  vain. 
All  effort  fruitless  there  ;  and  hadst  thou  seen, 
Skilful  as  brave,  how  Henry's  ready  eye 
Lost  not  a  thicket,  not  a  hillock's  aid  ; 
From  his  hersed  bowmen  how  the  arrows  flew  ^ 
Thick  as  the  snow-flakes  and  with  lightning  force  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  such  soldiers,  such  a 

chief. 
Could  never  be  subdued. 

"  But  when  the  field 
Was  won,  and  they  who  had  escaped  the  fight 
Had  yielded  up  their  arras,  it  was  foul  work 
To  turn  on  the  defenceless  prisoners 
The  cruel  sword  of  conquest.^''     Girt  around 
I  to  their  mercy  had  surrender'd  me. 
When  lo  !  I  heard  the  dreadful  cry  of  death. 
Not  as  amid  the  fray,  when  man  met  man 
And  in  fair  combat  gave  the  mortal  blow  ; 
Here  the  poor  captives,  weaponless  and  bound, 
Saw  their  stern  victors  draw  again  the  sword, 
And  groan'd  and  strove  in  vain  to  free  their  hands. 
And  bade  them  think  upon  their  plighted  faith, 
And  pray'd  for  mercy  in  the  name  of  God, 
In  vain  :  the  King  had  bade  them  massacre. 
And  in  their  helpless  prisoners'  naked  breasts 
They  drove  the  weapon.     Then  1  look'd  for  death. 
And  at  that  moment  death  was  terrible,  — 
For  the  heat  of  fight  was  over  ;  of  my  home 
I  thouoht,  and  of  my  wife  and  little  ones 
In  bitterness  of  heart.     But  the  brave  man, 
To  whom  the  chance  of  war  had  made  me  thrall, 
Had  pity,  loosed  my  hands,  and  bade  me  fly. 
It  was  the  will  of  Heaven  that  I  should  live 
Childless  and  old  to  think  upon  the  past. 
And  wish  that  I  had  perish'd  !  " 

The  old  man 
Wept  as  he  spake.     "  Ye  may  perhaps  have  heard 
Of  the  hard  siege  that  Roan  so  long  endur'd. 
1  dwelt  there,  strangers ;  I  had  then  a  wife, 
And  I  had  cliildren  tenderly  beloved. 
Who  I  did  hope  should  cheer  me  in  old  age 
And  close  mine  eyes.     The  tale  of  misery 


BOOK   II. 


JOAN    or    ARC, 


19 


M:iyhap  were  t<>dious,  or  I  could  relate 
Much  oflliat  dreadful  time." 

Tlie  Maid  replied, 
Wishing  of  that  devoted  town  to  hear. 
Thus  tlien  tlie  veteran  : 

"  So  by  Heaven  preserved, 
From  the  disastrous  plain  of  Airincourl  ^■' 
1  speeded  homewards,  and  abode  in  peace, 
ilonry,  as  wise  as  brave,  had  back  to  England"'' 
i>i-d  his  victorious  army  ;  well  aware 
That  France  was  mighty,  that  her  warlike  sons, 
impatient  of  a  foreigner's  command. 
Might  rise  impetuous,  and  with  multitudes 
Tread  down  tlie  invaders.     Wisely  he  return'd. 
For  our  proud  barons  in  their  private  broils 
Wasted  tlie  strength  of  France.     I  dwelt  at  Ijome, 
And  with  the  little  I  possess'd  content. 
Lived  happily.     A  pleasant  sight  it  was 
To  see  my  children,  as  at  eve  I  sat 
Beneath  the  vine,  come  clustering  round  my  knee. 
That  tliey  might  hear  again  the  otl-told  talc 
Of  the  dangers  I  had  past :  their  little  eyes 
Would  with  sucli  anxious  eagerness  attend 
The  tale  of  life  preserved,  as  made  me  feel 
Life's  value.     My  poor  children  I  a  hard  fate 
Mad  they  !     But  oft  and  bitterly  I  wish 
That  God  had  to  his  mercy  taken  me 
In  childhood,  for  it  is  a  heavy  lot 
To  linger  out  old  age  in  loneliness  ! 

"  Ah  me  !  when  war  the  masters  of  mankind, 

Woe  to  the  poor  man !  if  he  sow  his  field, 

He  shall  not  reap  the  harvest;  if  he  see 

His  offspring  rise  around,  his  boding  heart 

Aches  at  the  thought  that  they  are  multiplied 

To  the  sword  !    Again  from  Engl  md  the  fierce  foe 

Came  on  our  ravaged  coasts.     In  battle  bold. 

Merciless  in  conquest,  their  victorious  King 

Swept  like  the  desolating  tempest  round. 

Dambleres  submits ;  on  Caen's  subjected  wall 

The  flag  of  England  waved,     lloan  still  remain'd, 

Embattled  Roan,  bulwark  of  Normandy ; 

Nor  unresisted  round  her  massy  walls 

Pltch'd  they  their  camp.   1  need  not  tell.  Sir  Knight, 

How  ofl  and  boldly  on  the  invading  host 

We  burst  with  fierce  assault  impetuous  forth, 

For  many  were  the  warlike  sons  of  Roan.*' 

One  gallant  Citizen  was  famed  o'er  all 

For  daring  hardihood  preeminent, 

Bhnchard.     He,  gathering  round  his  countrymen, 

With  his  own  courage  kindling  every  breast. 

Had  made  them  vow  before  Almighty  God*^ 

Never  to  yield  them  to  the  usurping  foe. 

Before  the  God  of  Hosts  we  made  the  vow ; 

.\nd  we  had  baffled  the  besieging  power, 

Hid  not  tiie  patient  enemy  drawn  round 

His  wide  intrenchments.     From  the  watch-tower's 

top 
In  vain  with  fearful  hearts  along  the  Seine 
We  strain'd  the  eye,  and  every  distant  wave 
Which  in  the  sunbeam  glitter'd,  fondly  thought 
The  white  sail  of  supply.     Alas!  no  more 
The  white  sail  rose  upon  our  aching  sight; 
For  guarded  was  the  Seine,  and  our  stern  foe 
Had  made  aleague  with  Famine.'"  How  my  heart 


Sunk  in  me  when  at  night  1  carried  home 
The  scanty  pittance  of  to-morrow's  meal ! 
You  know  not,  strangers,  what  it  is  to  see 
The  asking  eye  of  hunger  ! 

"  Still  we  strove, 
H\pecting  aid  ;  nor  longer  force  to  force, 
Valor  to  valor,  in  the  fight  opposed. 
But  to  the  exasperate  patience  of  the  foe, 
Desperate  endurance.*^  Though  with  Christian  zeal 
Ursino  would  have  pour'd  the  balm  of  peace 
Into  our  wounds,  Ambition's  ear,  best  pleased 
With  the  war's  clamor  and  the  groan  of  death. 
Was  deaf  to  prayer.     Day  afler  day  pass'd  on ; 
AVe  heard  no  voice  of  comfort.     From  the  walls 
Could  we  behold  their  savage  Irish  Kerns,'^' 
Ruffians  half-clothed,  half-human,  half-baptized,^^ 
Come   with  their   spoil,   mingling   their   hideous 

shouts 
With  moan  of  weary  flocks,  and  piteous  low 
Of  kino  sore-laden,  in  the  mirthful  camp 
Scattering  abundance ;  while  the  loathliest  food 
We  prized  above  all  price ;  while  in  our  streets 
The  dying  groan  of  hunger,  and  the  cries 
Of  famishing  infants  echoed,  —  and  we  heard, 
With  the  strange  selfishness  of  misery, 
We  heard,  and  heeded  not. 

,"  Tliou  wouldst  have  deem'd 
Roan  must  have  fallen  an  easy  sacrifice. 
Young  warrior  !  hadst  thou  seen  our  meagre  limbs. 
And  pale  and  shrunken  cheeks,  and  hollow  eyes  , 
Yet  still  we  struggled  bravely  !     Blanchard  still 
Spake  of  the  obdurate  temper  of  the  foe. 
Of  Harfleur's  wretched  people  driven  out'^ 
Houseless  and  destitute,  while  that  stern  King 
Knelt  at  the  altar,  and  with  impious  prayer^* 
Gave  God  the  glory,  even  while  the  blood 
That  he  had  shed  was  recking  up  to  Heaven. 
He  bade  us  think  what  mercy  they  had  found 
Who  yielded  on  the  plain  of  Agincourt, 
And  what  the  gallant  sons  of  Caen,  by  him 
In  cold  blood  slaughtered :  3'  then  his  scanty  f^iod 
Sharing  with  the  most  wretched,  he  would  bid  us 
Bear  with  our  miseries  manfully. 

"Thus  press'd. 
Lest  all  should  perish  thus,  our  chiefs  decreed 
Women  and  children,  the  infirm  and  old. 
All  who  were  useless  in  the  work  of  war, 
Should  forth   and  take  their  fortune.     Age,  that 

makes 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  distant  years 
Like  a  half-remember'd  dream,  yet  on  my  heart 
Leaves  deep  impress'd  the  horrors  of  that  hour. 
Then  as  our  widow-wives  clung  round  our  necks. 
And  the  deep  sob  of  anguish  interrupted 
The  prayer  of  parting,  even  the  pious  priest 
As  he  implored  his  God  to  strengthen  us. 
And  told  us  we  should  meet  again  in  Heaven, 
He  groan'd  and  curs'd  in  bitterness  of  heart'" 
Thai  merciless  King.    The  wretched  crowd  pass'd 


•  through  the  gates  they 


on; 
My  wife  —  my  children  ■ 

pass'd. 
Then   tlie   gates  closed— Would  I    were  in  my 

grave, 
That  I  might  lose  remembrance  ' 


20 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    III 


"  What  is  man 
That  he  can  hear  the  groan  of  wretchedness 
And  ibel  no  fleshly  pang !     Why  did  tlie  All-Good 
Create  tliese  warrior  scourges  of  mankind, 
These  who  delight  in  slaughter?     I  did  think 
Tliere  was  not  on  this  earth  a  heart  so  hard 
Could  hear  a  famish'd  woman  ask  for  food, 
And  feel  no  pity.     As  the  outcast  train 
Drew  near,  relentless  Henry  bade  liis  troops 
Drive  back  the  miserable  multitude.^' 
They  drove  tliem  to  the  walls ;  —  it  was  the  depth 
Of  winter,  —  we  had  no  relief  to  grant. 
The  aged  ones  groan'd  to  our  foe  in  vain, 
The  mother  pleaded  for  her  dying  child. 
And  they  felt  no  remorse  I  " 

The  mission'd  Maid 
Rose  from  her  seat,  —  "  The  old  and  the  infirm, 
The  mother  and  her  babes  !  —  and  yet  no  lightning 
Blasted  this  man !  " 

"  Aye,  Lady,"  Bertram  cried, 
"  And  when  we  sent  the  herald  to  implore 
His  mercy  ^*  on  tlie  helpless,  his  stern  face 
Assum'd  a  sterner  smile  of  callous  scorn, 
And  he  replied  in  mockery.     On  the  wall 
I  stood  and  watch'd  the  miserable  outcasts. 
And  every  moment  thought  that  Henry's  heart, 
Hard  as  it  was,  would  melt.  .  All  night  I  stood,  — 
Their  deep  groans  came  upon  the  midnight  gale ; 
Fainter  they  grew,  for  the  cold  wintry  wind 
Blew  bleak ;  fainter  they  grew,  and  at  the  last 
All  was  still,  save  that  ever  and  anon 
Some  mother  raised  o'er  her  expiring  child 
\  cry  of  frenzying  anguish.^' 

"  From  that  hour 
On  all  the  busy  turmoil  of  the  world 
I  look'd  with  strange  indifference ;  bearing  want 
With  the  sick  patience  of  a  mind  worn  out. 
Nor  when  the  traitor  yielded  up  our  town""* 
Aught  heeded  I  as  through  our  ruin'd  streets. 
Through  putrid  heaps  of  famish'd  carcasses. 
The  pomp  of  triumph  pass'd.     One  pang  alone 
1  felt,  when  by  that  cruel  King's  command 
The  gallant  Blanchard  died  :  ■*'  calmly  he  died, 
And  as  he  bow'd  beneath  the  axe,  thank'd  God 
That  he  had  done  his  duty. 

"  I  survive , 
A  solitary,  friendless,  wretched  one, 
Knowing  no  joy  save  in  the  certain  hope 
That  I  shall  soon  be  gather'd  to  my  sires. 
And  soon  repose,  there  where  the  wicked  cease  *' 
From  troubling,  and  the  weary  arc  at  rest." 

"  And  happy,"  cried  the  delegated  Maid, 
"  And  happy  they  who  in  that  holy  faith 
Bow  meekly  to  the  rod  !     A  little  while 
yiiall  they  endure  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  injustice  of  the  great :  a  little  while 
Though  shelterless  they  feel  the  wintry  wind, 
The  wind  shall  whistle  o'er  their  turf-grown  grave. 
And  all  be  peace  below.     But  woe  to  those, 
Woe  to  the  Mighty  Ones  who  send  abroad 
Their  ministers  of  death,  and  give  to  Fury 
The  flaming  firebrand ;  these  indeed  shall  live 
The  heroes  of  the  wandering  minstrel's  song; 
But  they  have  their  reward ;  the  innocent  blood 


Steams  up  to  Heaven  against  them:  God  shall  hear 
The  widow's  groan." 

"I  saw  him,"  Bertram  cried, 
"  Henry  of  Agincourt,  this  mighty  King, 
Go  to  his  grave.     The  long  procession  pass'd 
Slowly  from  town  to  town,  and  when  I  heard 
The  deep-toned  dirge,  and  saw  the  banners  wave . 
A  pompous  shade ,''^  and  the  tall  torches  cast 
In  the  mid-day  sun  a  dim  and  gloomy  light,'''' 
I  thouglit  what  he  had  been  on  earth  who  now 
Was  gone  to  his  account,  and  blest  my  God 
I  was  not  such  as  he  !  " 

So  spake  the  old  man, 
And  then  his  guests  betook  them  to  repose. 


I 


THE    THIRD  BOOK. 

Fair  dawn'd  the  morning,  and  the  early  sun 
Pour'd  on  the  latticed  cot  a  cheerful  gleam, 
And  up  the  travellers  rose,  and  on  their  way 
Hasten'd,  their  dangerous    way,''^  through  fertile 

tracts 
Laid  waste  by  war.     They  pass'd  the  Auxerrois ; 
The  autumnal  rains  had  beaten  to  the  earth "« 
The  unreap'd  harvest ;  from  the  village  church 
No  even-song  bell  was  heard ;  the  shepherd's  dog 
Prey'd  on  the  scatter'd  flock,  for  there  was  now 
No  hand  to  feed  him,  and  upon  the  hearth 
Where  he  had  slumber'd  at  his  master's  feet 
Weeds  grew  and  reptiles  crawl'd.     Or  if  they  found 
Sometimes  a  welcome,  those  who  welcomed  them 
Were  old  and  helpless  creatures,  lingering  there 
Where  they  were  born,  and  where  they  wish'd  to 

die, 
The  place  being  all  that  they  had  left  to  love. 
They  pass'd  the  Yonne,  they  pass'd  the  rapid  Loire, 
Still  urging  on  their  way  with  cautious  speed. 
Shunning  Auxerre,  and  Bar's  embattled  wall, 
And  Romorantin's  towers. 

So  journeying  on, 
Fast  by  a  spring,  which  welling  at  his  feet 
With  many  a  winding  crept  along  the  mead, 
A  Knight  they  saw,  who  there  at  his  repast 
Let  tlie  west  wind  play  round  his  ungirt  brow. 
Approaching  near,  the  Bastard  recognized 
That  faithful  friend  of  Orleans,  the  brave  chief 
Du  Chastel ;  and  their  mutual  greeting  pass'd, 
They  on  the  streamlet's  mossy  bank  reclined 
Beside  him,  and  his  frugal  fare  partook, 
And  drank  the  running  waters. 

"  Art  thou  bound 
For    the    Court,    Dunois.'"    exclaim'd    the    aged 

Knight ; 
"  I  thought  thou  hadst  been  far  away,  shut  up 
In  Orleans,  where  her  valiant  sons  the  siege 
Right  loyally  endure  !  " 

"  I  left  the  town," 
Dunois  replied,  "  thinking  that  my  prompt  speed 
Might  seize  tlie  enemy's  stores,  and  with  fresh  force 
Reenter.     FastoWe's  better  fate  prevail'd,"' 
And  from  the  field  of  shame  my  maddening  horse 
Bore  me,  an  arrow  having  pierced  his  flank. 


BOOK    III. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


21 


\\\nn  out  and  tliiiit  with  that  day's  dangerous  toil, 

My  deep  wounds  bleeding,  vainly  with  weak  hand 

I  check'd  the  powerless  rein.     Nor  aught  avail'd 

When  lieal'd  at  length,  defeated  and  alone 

Again  to  enter  Orleans.     In  Lorraine 

I  sought  to  raise  new  powers,  and  now  returned 

With  strangest  and  most  unexpected  aid. 

Sent  by  high  Heaven,  I  seek  the  Court,  and  thence 

']"()  that  beleaguer'd  town  shall  lead  such  force, 

'I'hat  the  proud  English  in  tlieir  fields  of  blood 

Shall  perish." 

"I  too,"  Tanncguy  rcply'd, 
In  the  field  of  battle  once  again  perchance 
May  serve  my  royal  Master;  in  his  cause 
My  youth  adventurd  much,  nor  can  my  age 
Find  better  close  tlian  in  the  clang  of  arms 
To  die  for  him  whom  1  have  lived  to  serve  .■'^ 
Thou  art  for  the  Court.  Son  of  the  Chief  I  loved ! 
Be  wise  by  my  experience.     He  who  seeks 
Court-favor,  ventures  like  a  boy  who  leans 
Over  the  brink  of  some  high  precipice 
To  reach  the  o'erhanging  fruit.''*    Thou  secst  me 

liere 
A  banish'd  man,  Dunois  !  '"^  so  to  appease 
Richemont,  who,  jealous  of  the  royal  ear, 
With  midnight  murder  leagues,  and  down  the  Loire 
Sends  the  black  carcass  of  his  strangled  foe.^' 
Now  confident  of  strength,  at  tiie  Kings  feet 
He  stabs  the  King's  best  friends,  and  then  demands, 
As  with  a  conqueror's  imperious  tone, 
The  post  of  honor.     Son  of  that  good  Duke 
Whose  death  my  arm  avenged,^'  may  all  thy  days 
Be  happy ;  serve  thy  country  in  the  field. 
But  in  the  hour  of  peace  amid  thy  friends 
Dwell  thou  without  ambition.'' 

So  he  spake. 
But  when  the  Bastard  told  his  wondrous  tale. 
How  interposing  Heaven  had  its  high  aid 
Vouchsafed  to  France,  tlie  old  man's  eyes  flash'd 

fire, 
And  rising  from  the  bank,  liis  ready  steed 
That  grazed  beside  he  mounted.  "Farewell, friend. 
And  thou,  the  Delegate  of  Heaven  I  "  lie  cried. 
"  I  go  to  do  my  part,  and  we  shall  meet 
At  Orleans."     Saying  thus,  he  spurr'daway. 
They  journey  on  their  way  till  Chinon's  towers 
Rose  on  the  distant  view ;  the  royal  scat 
Of  Charles,  while  Paris  with  her  servile  sons, 
A  headstrong,  mutable,  ferocious  race, 
Bow'd  to  the  invader's  yoke;  City  even  then 
Above  all  Cities  noted  for  dire  deeds ! 
Yet  doom'd  to  be  the  scene  of  blacker  guilt, 
Opprobry  more  enduring,  crimes  that  call'd 
For  heavier  vengeance,  than  in  tliose  dark  days 
When  the  Burgundian  faction  fill'd  thy  streets 
With  carnage.*^     Twice  hast  thou  since  then  been 

made 
A  horror  and  a  warning  to  all  lands ; 
When  kingly  power  conspired  with  papal  crail 
To  plot  and  perpetrate  that  massacre, 
Wliich  neither  change  of  kalendar,  nor  lapse 
Of  time,  shall  hide  from  memory,  or  efface; 
And  when  in  more  enlighten'd  days,  —  so  deem'd, 
So  vaunted,  —  the  astonisli'd  nations  saw 
A  people,  to  their  own  devices  left, 


Tiierifore  as  by  judicial  frenzy  stricken, 
Lawless  and  godless,  fill  the  whole  wide  realm 
With  terror,  and  with  wickedness  and  woe, — 
A  more  astounding  judgment  than  when  Heaven 
Shower'd  on  the  cities  of  the  accursed  plain 
Its  fire  and  sulphur  down. 

In  Paris  now 
The  Invader  triumph'd.     On  an  infant's  head 
Had  Bedford  placed  the  crown  of  Charlemagne, 
And  factious  nobles  bow'd  the  subject  knee. 
And  own'd  an  English  infant  for  their  King, 
False  to  their  own  liege  Lord. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven," 
Then  said  the  Son  of  Orleans  to  the  Maid, 
"  Lo  tiiese  the  walls  of  Chinon,  this  the  abode 
Of  Charles  our  monarch.     Here  in  revelry 
He  of  his  armies  vanquish'd,  his  fair  towns 
Subdued,  hears  careless  and  prolongs  the  dance. 
And  little  marvel  I  tliat  to  the  cares 
Of  empire  still  ho  turns  the  unwilling  ear. 
For  loss  on  loss,  defeat  upon  defeat. 
His  strong  holds  taken,  and  his  bravest  Chiefs 
Or  slain  or  captured,  and  the  hopes  of  youth 
All  blasted,  have  subdued  the  royal  mind 
Undisciplined  in  Fortitude's  stern  school. 
So  may  thy  voice  arouse  his  sleeping  virtue  !  " 

The  mission'd  Maid  replied,  "  Do  thou,  Dunois, 
Announce  my  mission  to  the  royal  ear. 
1  on  the  river's  winding  bank  the  while 
Will  roain,  collecting  for  the  interview 
My   thoughts,  though   firm,  yet   troubled.     Who 

essays 
Achievements  of  great  import  will  perforce 
Feel  the  heart  heave ;  and  in  my  breast  I  own 
Such  perturbation." 

On  the  banks  of  Vienne 
Devious  the  Damsel  turn'd,  while  through  the  gate 
The  Son  of  Orleans  press'd  with  hasty  step 
To  seek  the  King.     Him  from  the  public  view 
He  found  secluded  with  his  blameless  Queen, 
And  his  partaker  of  the  unlawful  bed, 
The  lofty-minded  Agnes. 

"Son  of  Orleans!  " 
So  as  he  cnter'd  cried  the  haughty  fair, 
"Thou  art  well  come  to  witness  the  disgrace, 
The  weak,  unmanly,  base  despondency 
Of  this  thy  Sovereign  Liege.     He  will  retreat 
To  distant  Dauphiny  and  fly  the  war ! 
Go  then,  unworthy  of  th}-  rank  !  retreat 
To  distant  Dauphiny ,^-'  and  fly  the  war, 
Recreant  from  battle  !    I  will  not  partake 
A  fugitive's  fate;  when  thou  hast  lost  thy  crown 
Thou  losest  Agnes.  —  Do'st  not  blush,  Dunois  ! 
To  bleed  in  combat  for  a  Prince  like  this, 
Fit  only,  like  the  Merovingian  race 
On  a  May  morning  deck'd  with  flowers,**  to  mount 
His  gay-bedizen'd  car,  and  ride  abroad 
And  make  the  multitude  a  holiday. 
Go,  Charles !  and  hide  thee  in  a  woman's  garb. 
And  these  long  locks  will  not  disgrace  thee  then  !  "'*' 

"  Nay,  Agnes!  "  Charles  replied,  "reproach  me 
not! 
1  have  enough  of  sorrow.     Look  around, 


oo 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    III. 


Soc  this  fair  country  ravaged  by  the  foe, 

My  strong  holds  taken,  and  my  bravest  friends 

Fallen  in  the  field,  or  captives  far  away. 

Dead  is  the  Douglas ;  cold  thy  gallant  heart. 

Illustrious  Buchau  !  ye  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Not  mindless  of  your  old  ally  distress'd, 

Came  to  his  succor ;  in  this  cause  ye  fouglit ; 

For  him  ye  perish'd.     Rash,  impetuous  Narbonne  ! 

Thy  mangled  corse  waves  to  the  winds  of  Heaven." 

Cold,  Graville,  is  thy  sinewy  arm  in  death ; 

Fallen  is  Ventadaur ;  silent  in  the  grave 

Rambouillet  sleeps.     Brctagnn's  unfaithful  chief 

Leagues  with  my  foes  ;  and  Richemont,^**  or  in  arms 

Defies  my  weak  control,  or  from  my  side, 

A  friend  more  dreaded  than  the  enemy, 

Scares  my  best  servants  with  the  assassin's  sword. 

Soon  must  beleaguer'd  Orleans  fall.  —  But  now 

A  truce  to  these  sad  thoughts  !     We  arc  not  yet 

So  utterly  despoil'd  but  we  can  spread 

The  friendly  board,  and  giving  thee,  Dunois, 

Such  welcome  as  befits  thy  father's  son. 

Win  from  our  public  cares  a  day  for  joy." 

Dunois  replied,  "  So  may  thy  future  years 
Pass  from  misfortune  free,  as  all  these  ills 
Shall  vanish  like  a  vision  of  the  night ! 
I  como  to  thee  the  joyful  messenger 
Of  aid  from  Heaven  ;  for  Heaven  hath  delegated 
A  humble  Maiden  to  deliver  France. 
That  holy  Maiden  asks  an  audience  now  ; 
And  when  she  promises  miraculous  thino-s, 
I  feel  it  is  not  possible  to  hear 
And  disbelieve." 

Astonish'd  by  his  speech 
Stood  Charles.     "  At  one  of  meaner  estimation 
I  should  have  smiled,  Dunois,"  the  King  replied  ; 
"  But  tliy  known  worth,  and  the  tried  loyalty 
Of  thy  father's  house,  compel  me  even  to  this 
To  lend  a  serious  ear.     A  woman  sent 
To  rescue  us,  when  all  our  strength  hath  fail'd  ! 
A  humble  Maiden  to  deliver  Franco  ! 
One  whom  it  Vi'ere  not  possible  to  hoar, 
And  disbelieve  !  —  Dunois,  ill  now  beseems 
Aught  wild  and  hazardous.     And  yet  our  state 
Being  what  it  is,  by  miracle  alone 
Deliverance  can  be  hoped  for.     Is  my  person 
Known  to  this  woman  .'  " 

"  That  it  cannot  be. 
Unless  it  be  by  miracle  made  known," 
Dunois  replied  ;  "  for  she  hath  never  left 
Her  native  hamlet  in  Lorraine  till  now." 

"  Here  then,"  rejoin'd  the  King,  "  we  have  a  test 
Easy,  and  safe  withal.     Abide  thou  here  ; 
And  hither  by  a  speedy  messenger 
Summon  the  Prophetess.     Upon  the  throne 
Let  some  one  take  his  scat  and  personate 
My  presence,  while  I  mingle  in  the  train. 
If  she  indeed  be  by  the  Spirit  moved. 
That  Spirit,  certes,  will  direct  her  eyes 
To  the  true  Prince  whom  she  is  sent  to  serve  : 
But  if  she  prove,  as  likeliest  we  must  deem. 
One  by  her  own  imaginations  crazed. 
Thus  failing  and  convinced,  she  may  return 
Unblamed  to  her  obscurity,  and  we 


Be  spared  the  shamo  of  farther  loss  incurr'd 

By  credulous  fa'itli.  Well  might  the  English  scofF,^' 

If  on  a  frantic  woman  we  should  rest 

Our  last  reliance."     Thus  the  King  resolved. 

And  with  a  faith  half-faltering  at  the  proof, 

Dunois  despatch'd  a  messenger,  to  seek 

Beside  the  banks  of  Vienne,  the  mission'd  Maid. 

Soon  is  the  court  convened  :  the  jewell'd  crown 
Shines  on  a  courtier's  head.     Amid  the  train 
The  Monarch  undistinguish'd  takes  his  place, 
E.xpectant  of  the  event.     The  Virgin  comes, 
And  as  the  Bastard  led  her  to  the  throne. 
Quick  glancing  o'er  the  mimic  Majesty, 
With  gesture  and  with  look  like  one  inspired, 
She   fix'd  her  eye  on  Charles  :  *'•'   "  Thou  art  the 

King!" 
Then  in  a  tone  that  thrill'd  all  hearts,  pursued  ; 
"  I  come  the  appointed  Minister  of  Heaven, 
To  wield  a  sword  bel'ore  whose  fated  edge, 
Far,  far  from  Orleans  shall  the  English  wolves 
Speed  their  disastrous  flight.  Monarch  of  France  ! 
Send  thou  the  tidings  over  all  the  realm. 
Great  tidings  of  deliverance  and  of  joy  ; 
The  Maid  is  come,  the  mission'd  Maid,  whose  hand 
Shall  in  the  consecrated  walls  of  Rheims 
Crown  thee,  anointed  King."^' 

In  wonder  mute 
The  courtiers  heard.  Astonish'd  Charles  exclaim'd, 
"  This  is  indeed  the  agency  of  Heaven  ! 
Hard,  Maiden,  were  I  of  belief,"  he  said, 
"  Did  1  not  now,  with  full  and  confirm'd  faith. 
Receive  thee  as  a  Prophetess  raised  up 
For  our  deliverance.     Therefore,  not  in  doubt 
Of  Providence  or  thee  do  I  delay 
At  once  to  marshal  our  brave  countrymen 
Beneath  thy  banner  ;  but  to  satisfy 
Those  who  at  distance  from  this  most  clear  proof 
Might  hear  and  disbelieve,  or  yield  at  best 
A  cold  assent.     Those  fully  to  confirm. 
And  more  to  make  thy  calling  manifest, 
Forthwith  with  all  due  speed  I  will  convene 
The  Doctors  of  Theology ,^^  wise  men. 
And  learned  in  the  mysteries  of  Heaven. 
By  them  thy  mission  studied  and  approved. 
As  needs  it  must,  their  sanction  to  all  nfinds 
Will  bring  conviction,  and  the  sure  belief 
Lead  on  thy  favor'd  troops  to  mightiest  deeds. 
Surpassing  human  possibility." 

Well  pleas'd  the  Maiden  heard.     Her  the  King 
leads 
From  the  disbanding  throng,  meantime  to  dwell 
With  Mary.     Watchful  for  her  Lord's  return 
She  sat  with  Agnes  ;  Agnes  proud  of  heart, 
Majestically  fair,  whose  large  full  eye 
Or  flashing  anger,  or  with  scornful  scowl 
Too  oft  deform'd  her  beauty.     Yet  with  her 
The  lawless  idol  of  the  Monarch's  heart. 
The  Queen,  obedient  to  her  husband's  will, 
Dwelt  meekly  in  accord.     With  them  the  Maid 
Was  left  to  sojourn  ;  by  the  gentle  Queen 
With  cordial  affability  received  ; 
By  Agnes  courteously,  whose  outward  show 
Of  graciousness  concealed  an  inward  awe, 


BOOK    III. 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


23 


For  while  she  hoped  and  trusted  through  her  means 
Charh's  should  be  reiislablishd  in  his  reahu, 
She  felt  rebuked  before  her. 

Through  the  land 
Meantime  the  King's  convoking  voice  went  forth, 
And  from  their  palaces  and  monasteries 
The  theologians  came,  men  who  had  grown 
In  midnight  studies  gray  ;  Prelates,  and  Priests, 
And    Doctors:    teachers    grave,  and   with    great 

names, 
Serai)hic,  Subtile,  or  Irrefragable, 
By  their  admiring  scholars  dignified. 

They  met  convened  at  Chinon,  to  the  place 
Of  judgment,  in  St.  Katharine's  tane  ;issignd. 
The  lioor  with  many  a  monumental  stone 
Was  spread,  and  brass-ensculptured  effigies 
Of  holy  abbots  lionor'd  in  their  day. 
Now  to  the  grave  gone  down.   The  branching  arms 
Of  many  a  ponderous  pillar  met  aloft, 
Wreath'd  on  the  roof  emboss'd.     Through  storied 

panes 
Of  high  arch'd  windows  came  the  tinctured  light; 
Pure  water  in  a  font  beneath  reflects 
The  many-color'd  rays  ;  around  tliat  font 
The  fathers  stand,  and  there  with  rites  ordain'd 
And  signs  symbolic  strew  the  hallowing  salt, 
Wherewith  the  limpid  water,  consecrate, 
So  taught  the  Church,  became  a  spell  approved 
Against  the  fiends  of  Satan's  fallen  crew' ; 
A  licit  spell  of  mightier  potency 
Than  e'er  the  hell-hags  taught  in  Thessaly  ; 
Or  they  who  sitting  on  the  rifled  grave. 
By  the  blue  tomb-fire's  lurid  light  dim  seen. 
Share  with  the  Gouls  their  ban(iuet. 

This  perform'd, 
The  Maid  is  summon'd.     Round  the  sacred  font, 
Mark'd  with  the  mystic  tonsure  and  enrobed 
In  sacred  vests,  a  venerable  train. 
They  stand.     The  delegated  Maid  obeys 
Their  summons.     As  she  came,  a  blush  suffused 
Her  pallid  cheek,  such  as  might  well  beseem 
One  mindful  still  of  maiden  modesty, 
Though  to  her  mission  true.     Before  the  train 
In  reverent  silence  waiting  their  sage  will, 
With  half-averted  eye  she  stood  composed. 
So  have  I  seen  a  single  snow'-drop  rise 
Amid  the  russet  leaves  that  hide  tlie  earth 
In  early  spring,  so  seen  it  gently  bend 
In  modest  loveliness  alone  amid 
The  waste  of  winter. 

By  the  IMaidcn's  side 
The  Son  of  Orleans  stood,  prepared  to  vouch 
That  when  on  Charles  the  Maiden's  eye  had  fix'd, 
As  led  by  pow-er  miraculous,  no  fraud, 
Nr)r  juggling  artifice  of  secret  sign 
Dissembled  inspiration.     As  he  stood 
Steadily  viewing  the  mysterious  rites, 
Thus  to  the  attentive  Maid  t)ie  President 
Severely  spake. 

"  If  any  fiend  of  Hell 
Liirk  in  thy  bosom,  so  to  prompt  the  vaunt 
Of  inspiration,  and  to  mock  the  power 
Of  God  and  holy  Church,  thus  by  the  virtue 
Of  water  hallowed  in  the  name  of  God 


Adjure  I  that  foul  spirit  to  depart 
From  his  deluded  prey."' 

Slowly  he  spake, 
And  sprinkled  water  on  the  virgin's  face. 
Indignant  at  the  unworthy  charge,  the  Maid 
Felt  her  cheek  flush  ;  but  soon,  the  transient  glow 
Fading,  she  answcr'd  meek. 

"  Most  holy  Sires, 
Ye  reverend  Fathers  of  the  Christian  church, 
Most  catholic  !  I  stand  before  you  here 
A  poor  weak  woman ;  of  the  grace  vouchsafed. 
How  far  unworthy,  conscious  ;  yet  though  mean, 
Innocent  of  fraud,  and  call'd  by  Heaven  to  be 
Its  minister  of  aid.     Strange  voices  heard, 
The  dark  and  shadowing  visions  of  the  night. 
And  feelings  which  I  may  not  dare  to  doubt. 
These  portents  make  me  certain  of  the  God 
Within  me;  He  who  to  these  eyes  revcal'd 
My  royal  Master,  mingled  W'ith  the  crowd 
And  never  seen  till  then.     Such  evidence 
Given  to  my  mission  thus,  and  thus  confirm'd 
By  public  attestation,  more  to  say, 
Methinks,  would  little  boot,  —  and  less  become 
A  silly  Maid." 

"Thou  speakest,"  said  the  Priest, 
"  Of  dark  and  shadowing  visions  of  the  night. 
Canst  thou  remember.  Maid,  what  vision  first 
Seem'd  more  than  fancy's  shaping .-'    From  such 

tale. 
Minutely  told  with  accurate  circumstance. 
Some  judgment  might  be  form'd." 

The  Maid  replied 
"Amid  the  mountain  valleys  I  had  driven 
My  father's  flock.     The  eve  was  drawing  on, 
When  by  a  sudden  storm  surprised,  I  sought 
A  chapel's  neighboring  shelter;  ruin'd  now. 
But  I  remember  when  its  vesper  bell 
W^as  heard  among  the  hills,  a  pleasant  sound. 
That  made  me  pause  upon  my  homeward  road, 
Awakenino'  in  me  comfortable  thouijhts 
Of  holiness.     The  unsparing  soldiery 
Had  sack'd  the  hamlet  near,  and  none  was  left 
Duly  at  sacred  seasons  to  attend 
St.  Agnes'  chapel.^''    In  the  desolate  pile 
I  drove  my  flock,  with  no  irreverent  thoughts. 
Nor  mindless  that  the  place  on  which  I  trod 
Was  holy  ground.     It  was  a  fearful  night  I 
Devoutly  to  the  virgin  Saint  I  pray'd. 
Then  heap'd  the  wither'd  leaves  which  autumn 

winds 
Had  drifted  in,  and  laid  me  down  upon  them, 
And  sure  I  think  I  slept.     But  so  it  was 
That,  in  the  dead  of  night.  Saint  Agnes  stood 
Before  mine  eyes,  such  and  so  beautiful 
.\s  when,  amid  the  house  of  wickedness, 
The  Power  whom  with  such  fervent  love  she  served 
Veil'd  her  with  glory."     And  I  saw  her  point 
To  the  moss-grown  altar,  and  the  crucifix 
Half  hid  by  weeds  and  grass  ;  —  and  then  I  thought 
I  could  have  wither'd  armies  with  a  look. 
For  from  the  present  Saint  such  divine  power 
I  felt  infused  —  'Twas  but  a  dream  perhaps. 
And  yet  methought  that  when  a  louder  peal 
Burst  o'er  the  roof,  and  all  was  left  again 
Utterly  dark,  the  bodily  sense  was  clear 


24 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK    III 


And  accurate  in  every  circumstance 
Of  time  and  place." 

Attentive  to  her  words 
Thus  the  Priest  answer'd  : 

"  Brethren,  ye  have  heard 
The  woman's  tale.     Behoves  us  now  to  ask 
Whether  of  holy  Church  a  duteous  child 
Before  our  court  appears,  so  not  unlike 
Heaven  might  vouchsafe  its  gracious  miracle; 
Or  misbelieving  heretic,  whose  thoughts. 
Erring  and  vain,  easily  might  stray  beyond 
All  reason,  and  conceit  strange  dreams  and  signs 
Impossible.     Say,  woman,  from  thy  youth 
Hast  thou,  as  rightly  mother  Church  demands, 
Confess'd  at  stated  times  thy  secret  sins, 
And,  from  the  priestly  power  conferr'dby  Heaven, 
Sought  absolution  ? " 

"Father,"  she  replied, 
"  The  forms  of  worship  in  mine  earlier  years 
Waked  my  young  mind  to  artificial  awe, 
And  made  me  fear  my  God.    Warm  with  the  glow 
Of  health  and  exercise,  whene'er  I  pass'd 
The  threshold  of  the  house  of  prayer,  I  felt 
A  cold  damp  chill  me  ;  1  beheld  the  tapers 
That  with  a  pale  and  feeble  glimmering 
Dimm'd  the  noon-light;  1  heard  the  solemn  mass. 
And  with  strange  feelings  and  mysterious  dread 
Telling  my  beads,  gave  to  the  mystic  prayers 
Devoutcst  meaning.     Often  when  I  saw 
The  pictured  flames  writhe  round  a  penanced  soul, 
I  knelt  in  fear  before  the  Crucifix, 
And  wept  and  pray'd,  and  trembled,  and  adored 
A  God  of  Terrors.     But  in  riper  years. 
When  as  my  soul  grew  strong  in  solitude, 
I  saw  the  eternal  energy  pervade 
The  boundless  range  of  nature,  with  the  sun 
Pour  life  and  radiance  from  his  flamy  path. 
And  on  the  lowliest  floweret  of  the  field 
The  kindly  dew-drops  shed.     And  then  I  felt 
That  He  who  form'd  this  goodly  frame  of  things 
Must  needs  be  good,  and  with  a  Father's  name 
I  call'd  on  Him,  and  from  my  burden'd  heart 
Pour'd  out  the  yearnings  of  unmingled  love. 
Methinks  it  is  not  strange  then,  that  I  fled 
The  house  of  prayer,  and  made  the  lonely  grove 
My  temple,  at  the  foot  of  some  old  oak 
Watching  the  little  tribes  that  had  their  world 
Within  its  mossy  bark  ;  or  laid  me  down 
Beside  the  rivulet  whose  murmuring 
Was  silence  to  my  soul,^*  and  mark'd  the  swarm 
Whose  light-edged  shadows  on  the  bedded  sand 
Mirror'd  their  mazy  sports,  —  the  insect  hum, 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  the  song  of  birds 
Making  a  holy  music  to  mine  ear  : 
Oh  !  was  it  strange,  if  for  such  scenes  as  these, 
Such  deep  devoutness,  such  intense  delight 
Of  quiet  adoration,  I  forsook 
The  house  of  worship  .''  strange  that  when  I  felt 
How  God  had  made  my  spirit  quick  to  feel 
And  love  whate'er  was  beautiful  and  good, 
And  from  aught  evil  and  deform'd  to  slirink 
Even  as  with  instmct ;  —  father  !  was  it  strange 
That  in  my  heart  1  had  no  thought  of  sin, 
And  did  not  need  forgiveness  .'  " 

As  she  spake 


The  Doctors  stood  astonish'd,  and  some  while 
Tliey  listen'd  still  in  wonder.     But  at  length 
A  Monk  replied, 

"  Woman,  thou  sccm'st  to  scorn 
The  ordinances  of  our  holy  Church  ; 
And,  if  I  rightly  understand  thy  words. 
Nature,  thou  say'st,  taught  thee  in  solitude 
Thy  feehngs  of  religion,  and  that  now 
Masses  and  absolution  and  the  use 
Of  the  holy  wafer,  are  to  thee  unknown. 
But  how  could  Nature  teach  thee  true  religion. 
Deprived  of  these  ?  Nature  doth  lead  to  sin, 
But  "tis  the  Priest  alone  can  teach  remorse. 
Can  bid  St.  Peter  ope  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
And  from  the  penal  fires  of  purgatory 
Set  the  soul  free.     Could  Nature  teach  thee  this  .■" 
Or  tell  thee  that  St.  Peter  holds  the  keys. 
And  that  his  successor's  unbounded  power 
Extends  o'er  either  world .'     Although  thy  life 
Of  sin  were  free,  if  of  this  holy  truth 
Ignorant,  thy  soul  in  liquid  flames  must  rue 
Its  error." 

Thus  he  spake  ;  applauding  looks 
Went  round.     Nor  dubious  to  reply  the  Maid 
Was  silent. 

"  Fathers  of  the  holy  Church, 
If  on  these  points  abstruse  a  simple  maid 
Like  me  should  err,  impute  not  you  the  crime 
To  self-will'd  reason,  vaunting  its  own  strength 
Above  eternal  wisdom.     True  it  is 
That  for  long  time  I  have  not  heard  the  sound 
Of  mass  high-chanted,  nor  with  trembling  lips 
Partook  the  holy  wafer  :  yet  the  birds 
Who  to  the  matin  ray  prelusive  pour'd 
Their  joyous  song,  methought  did  warble  forth 
Sweeter  thanksgiving  to  Religion's  ear 
In  their  wild  melody  of  happiness. 
Than  ever  rung  along  the  high-arch'd  roofs 
Of  man  :  —  yet  never  from  the  bending  vine 
Pluck'd  I  its  ripen'd  clusters  thanklessly. 
Or  of  that  God  unmindful,  who  bestow'd 
The  bloodless  banquet.     Ye  have  told  me,  Sirs, 
That  Nature  only  teaches  man  to  sin  ! 
If  it  be  sin  to  seek  the   wounded  lamb, 
To  bind  its  wounds,  and  bathe  them  with  my  tears, 
This  is  what  Nature  taught !    No,  Fathers,  no  ! 
It  is  not  Nature  that  doth  lead  to  sin  : 
Nature  is  all  benevolence,  all  love. 
All  beauty  !     In  the  greenwood's  quiet  shade 
There  is  no  vice  that  to  the  indignant  cheek 
Bids  the  red  current  rush  ;  no  misery  there ; 
No  wretched  mother,  who  with  pallid  face 
And  famine-fallen  hangs  o'er  her  hungry  babes, 
With  such  a  look,  so  wan,  so  woe-begone, 
As  shall  one  day,  with  damning  eloquence. 
Against  the  oppressor  plead  !  —  Nature  teach  sin  ! 
Oh  blasphemy  against  the  Holy  One, 
Who  made  us  in  tbe  image  of  Himself, 
Who  made  us  all  for  happiness  and  love, 
Infinite  happiness,  infinite  love. 
Partakers  of  his  own  eternity." 

Solemn  and  slow  the  reverend  Priest  replied, 
"  Much,  woman,  do  I  doubt  that  all-wise  Heaven 
Would  thus  vouchsafe  its  gracious  miracles 


BUUK    IV. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


25 


Oil  one  foreilooiu'd  to  inisory  ;  for  so  dooiii'd 
Is  iJiat  deluded  one,  wlio,  of  the  mass 
Unheeding,  and  the  Church's  saving  power, 
Deems  Nature  sinless.     Therefore,  mark  me  well ! 
Uretiiren,  1  would  propose  this  woman  try 
The  iioly  ordeal.     Let  her,  bound  and  search'd, 
Lest  haply  in  her  clothes  should  be  conceal'd 
Some  holy  relic  so  profaned,  be  cast 
In  some  deep  pond  ;  there  if  she  float,  no  doubt 
The  fiend  upholds;  but  if  at  once  she  sink, 
It  is  a  sign  that  Providence  displays 
1  ler  free  from  witchcrafl.    This  done,  let  her  walk 
Blindfold  and  bare  o'er  ploughshares  heated  red. 
And  o'er  these  past,  her  naked  arm  immerse 
In  scalding  water.     If  from  these  she  come 
Unhurt,  to  holy  father  of  the  church, 
Most  blessed  Pope,  we  then  refer  the  cause 
For  judgment :  and  this  Chief,  the  Son  of  Orleans, 
Who  comes  to  vouch  the  royal  person  known 
By  her  miraculous  power,  shall  pass  witli  her 
The  sacred  trial." 

"  Grace  of  God  !  "  exclaim'd 
The  astonish'd  Bastard  ;  "  plunge  me  in  the  pool, 
Oer  red-hot  ploughshares  make  me  skip  to  please 
Your  dotard  fancies  !     Fathers  of  the  church, 
Where  is  your  gravity .'  what ;  elildr-like 
Would  ye  this  fairer  than  Susannah  eye  ? 
Ye  call  for  ordeals ;  and  I  too  demand 
Tjie  noblest  ordeal,  on  the  English  host 
By  victory  to  approve  her  mission  sent 
From  favoring  Heaven.     To  the  Pope  refer 
For  judgment  I  Know  ye  not  that  France  even  now 
Stands  tottering  on  destruction  I  " 

Starting  then 
With  a  wild  look,  the  mission'd  Maid  e.\claim'd, 
•'  The  sword  of  God  is  here  !  the  grave  shall  speak 
To  manifest  me  !  " 

Even  as  she  spake, 
A  pale  blue  flame  rose  from  the  trophied  tomb 
Beside  her  ;  and  within  that  house  of  death 
A  sound  of  arms  was  heard,  as  if  below 
A  warrior,  buried  in  his  armor,  stirr'd. 

"  Hear  ye  !  "  the  Damsel  cried  ;  "  these  are  the 
arms 
Which  shall  flash  terror  o'er  the  hostile  host. 
These,  in  the  presence  of  our  Lord  the  King, 
And  of  the  assembled  people,  I  will  take 
Here  from  the  sepulchre,  where  many  an  age, 
They,  incorruptible,  have  lain  conceal'd, 
For  me  reserved,  the  Delegate  of  Heaven." 

Recovering  from  amaze,  the  Priest  replied  : 
"  Thou  art  indeed  the  Delegate  of  Heaven  ! 
What  thou  hast  said  surely  thou  shall  perforin. 
We  ratify  thy  mission.     Go  in  peace." 


THE  FOURTH   BOOK. 

The  feast  was  spread,  the  sparkling  bowl  went 

round. 
And  in  the  assembled  court  the  minstrel  harp'd 
4 


A  song  of  otlier  days.     Sudden  they  lieard 
The  horn's  loud  blast.     "  This  is  no  time  I'or  cares  ; 
Feast  ye  the  messenger  without!  "  cried  Charles, 
"  Enough  hath  of  the  wearying  day  been  given 
To  the  public  weal." 

Obedient  to  the  King 
Tiie  guard  invites  the  way-worn  messenger. 
"Nay,  I  will  see  the  monarch,"  he  replied, 
"  And  he  must  hear  my  tidings;  duty-urged, 
I  have  for  many  a  long  league  hasten'd  on. 
Not  thus  to  be  repell'd."     Then  with  strong  arm 
Removing  him  who  barr'd  his  onward  way, 
The  hall  he  cnter'd. 

"  King  of  France  !  I  come 
From  Orleans,  speedy  and  cflectual  aid 
Demanding  for  her  gallant  garrison. 
Faithful  to  thee,  though  thinn'd  in  many  a  fight. 
And  now  sore  pressed  by  want.     Rouse  thou  thy- 
self. 
And  with  the  spirit  that  becomes  a  King 
Responsive  to  his  people's  loyalty, 
Bring  succor  to  the  brave  who  in  thy  cause 
Abide  the  extremity  of  war." 

He  said. 
And  from  the  hall  departing,  in  amaze 
At  his  audacious  bearing  left  the  court. 
The  King  exclaim'd,  "  But  little  need  to  send 
Quick  succor  to  this  gallant  garrison. 
If  to  the  English  half  so  firm  a  front 
They  bear  in  battle  !  " 

"  In  the  field,  my  liege," 
Dunois  replied,  "  yon  Knight  hath  scrv'd  thee  well. 
Him  have  I  seen  the  foremost  of  the  fight, 
Wielding  so  manfully  his  battle-axe, 
That  whcrosoe'er  he  turn'd,  the  aft'righted  foe 
Let  fall  their  palsied  arms  with  powerless  stroke, 
Desperate  of  safety.     I  do  marvel  much 
That  he  is  here  :  Orleans  must  be  hard  press'd 
To  send  the  bravest  of  her  garrison 
On  such  connnission." 

Swift  the  Maid  exclaim'd, 
"  I  tell  thee.  Chief,  that  there  tlie  English  wolves 
Shall  never  raise  their  yells  of  victory  ! 
The  will  of  God  defends  those  fated  walls, 
And  resting  in  full  faith  on  that  high  will, 
I  mock  their  efforts.     But  the  night  draws  on ; 
Retire  we  to  repose.     To-morrow's  sun. 
Breaking  the  darkness  of  the  sepulchre, 
Shall  on  that  armor  gleam,  through  many  an  age 
There  for  this  great  emergency  reserved." 
She  said,  and  rising  from  the  board,  retired. 

Meantime  the  herald's  brazen  voice  proclaim'd 
Coming  solemnity,  and  far  and  wide 
Spread  the  glad   tidings.     Then  all  labor  ceased  ; 
The  ploughman  from  the  unfinish'd  furrow  hastes  ; 
The  armorer's  anvil  beats  no  more  the  din 
Of  future  slaughter.    Through  the  thronging  streets 
The  buzz  of  asking  wonder  hums  along. 

On  to  St.  Katharine's  sacred  fane  they  go; 
The  holy  fathers  with  the  imaged  cross 
Leading  the  long  procession.     Next,  as  one 
Suppliant  for  mercy  to  the  King  of  kings, 
And  grateful  for  the  benefits  of  Heaven, 


26 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK    IV. 


The  Monarch  pass'd,  and  by  his  side  tlie  Maid ; 

Her  lovely  limbs  robed  in  a  snow-white  vest, 

Wistless  that  every  eye  on  her  was  bent, 

With  stately  step  she  moved ;  her  laboring  soul 

To  high  thoughts  elevate  ;  and  gazing  round 

AVitli  a  full  eye,  that  of  the  circling  throng 

And  of  the  visible  world  unseeing,  seem  d 

Fix'd  upon  objects  seen  by  none  beside. 

Near  her  the  Avarlike  Son  of  Orleans  came 

Prccniinent.     lie,  nerving  his  young  frame 

With  exercise  robust,  had  scaled  the  cliiF, 

And  plunging  in  the  river's  full-swollen  stream, 

Stemm'd  with  broad  breast  its  current ;  so  his  form. 

Sinewy  and  firm,  and  fit  for  deeds  of  arms, 

Tower'd  above  the  throng  effeminate. 

No  dainty  bath  had  from  his  hardy  limbs 

Kfl^accd  the  hauberk's  honorable  marks ; ''" 

His  helmet  bore  of  hostile  steel  the  dints 

Many  and  deep ;  upon  his  pictured  shield 

A  Lion  vainly  struggled  in  the  toils, 

Whilst  by  his  side  the  cub  with  pious  rage, 

Assail'd  the  huntsman.    Tremouille  followed  them. 

Proud  of  the  favor  of  a  Prince  who  seem'd 

Given  up  to  vain  delights;  conspicuous  he 

In  arms  with  azure  and  with  gold  anneal'd, 

Gaudily  graceful,  by  no  hostile  blade 

Defaced,  nor  e'er  with  hostile  blood  distain'd  ; 

Trimly  accoutred  court-habilimcnts, 

Gay  lady-dazzling  armor,  fit  to  adorn 

Tourney,  or  tilt,  the  gorgeous  pageantry 

Of  mimic  warfare.     After  him  there  came 

A  train  of  courtiers,  summer  flics  that  sport 

In  the  sunbeam  of  favor,  insects  sprung 

From  the  court  dunghill,  greedy  blood-suckers. 

The  foul  corruption-gender'd  swarm  of  state. 

As  o'er  some  flowery  field  the  busy  bees 
Fill  with  their  happy  hum  the  fragrant  air, 
A  grateful  music  to  the  traveller, 
Who  in  the  shade  of  some  wide-spreading  tree 
Rests  on  his  way  awhile ;  or  like  the  sound 
Of  many  waters  down  some  far-off  steep 
Holding  their  endless  course,  the  murmur  rose 
Of  admiration.     Every  gazing  eye 
Dwelt  on  the  Prophetess ;  of  all  beside. 
The  long  procession  and  the  gorgeous  train, 
Though  glittering  they  with  gold  and  sparkling 

gems. 
And  their  rich  plumes  high  waving  to  the  air, 
Heedless. 

The  consecrated  dome  they  reach, 
Rear'd  to  St.  Katharine's  holy  memory. 
Her  tale  the  altar  told  ;  how  Maximin, 
His  raised  lip  kindled  with  a  savage  smile. 
In  such  deep  fury  bade  the  tenter'd  wheel 
Rend  her  life  piecemeal,  that  the  very  face 
Of  the  hard  executioner  relax'd 
With  pity;  calm  she  heard,  no  drop  of  blood 
Forsook  her  cheek,  her  steady  eye  was  turn'd 
Heaven-ward,  and  hope  and  meekest  piety 
Beam'd  in  that  patient  look.     Nor  vain  her  trust ; 
For  lo  !  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  descends, 
And  crumbles  with  his  fiery  touch  the  wheel ! 
One  glance  of  holy  triumph  Katharine  cast. 
Then  bow'd  her  to  the  sword  of  martyrdom.  ^^ 


Her  eye  averting  from  the  pictured  tale, 
The  delegated  damsel  knelt  and  pour'd 
To  Heaven  her  earnest  prayer. 

A  trophied  tomb 
Stood  near  the  altar  where  some  warrior  slept 
The  sleep  of  death  beneath.     A  massy  stone 
And  rude-ensculptured  effigy  o'erlaid 
The  sepulchre.     In  silent  wonderment 
The  expectant  multitude  with  eager  eye 
Gaze,  listening  as  the  mattock's  heavy  stroke 
Invades  the  tomb's  repose  :  the  heavy  stroke 
Sounds  hollow :  over  the  high-vaulted  roof 
Roll  the  repeated  echoes :  soon  the  day 
Dawns  on  the  grave's  long  night,  the  slant  sunbeam 
Falls  on  the  arms  inshrined,  the  crested  helm. 
The  bauldrick,  and  the  shield,  and  sacred  sword.^^ 
A  sound  of  awe-repress'd  astonishment 
Rose  from  the  crowd.     The  delegated  Maid 
Over  her  robes  the  hallowed  breastplate  threw, 
Self-fitted  to  her  form ;  on  her  helm'd  head 
The  white  plumes  nod,  majestically  slow  ; 
She  lifts  the  buckler  and  the  sacred  sword, 
Gleaming  portentous  light. 

The  wondering  crowd 
Raise    their  loud   shout  of  transport.     "  God  of 

Heaven," 
The  Maid  exclaim'd,  "  Father  all  merciful ! 
Devoted  to  whose  holy  will,  I  wield 
The  sword  of  vengeance ;  go  before  our  host ! 
All-just  avenger  of  the  innocent, 
Be  thou  our  Champion  !  God  of  Peace,  preserve 
Those  whom  no  lust  of  glory  leads  to  arms." 

She  ceased,  and  with  an  eager  hush  the  crowd 
Still  listen'd  ;  a  brief  while  throughout  the  dome 
Deep  silence  dwelt ;  then  with  a  sudden  burst 
Devout  and  full,  they  raised  the  choral  hymn, 
"  Thee  Lord  we  praise,  our  God  ! "  the  tlirong 

without 
Catch  the  strange  tidings,  join  the  hymn  of  joj', 
And  thundering  transport  peals  along  the  heaven. 

As  through  the  parting  crowd  the  Virgin  pass'd, 
He  who  from  Orleans  on  the  yesternight 
Demanded  succor,  clasp'd  with  warmth  her  hand, 
And  with  a  bosom-thrilling  voice  exclaim'd, 
"  Ill-omen'd  Maid  !  victim  of  thine  own  worth, 
Devoted  for  this  king-curst  realm  of  France, 
Ill-omen'd  Maid,  I  pity  thee  !  "  so  saying, 
He  turn'd  into  the  crowd.     At  his  strange  words 
Distufb'd,  the  warlike  Virgin  pass'd  along, 
And  much  revolving  in  her  troubled  mind, 
Retrod  the  court. 

And  now  the  horn  announced 
The  ready  banquet ;  they  partook  the  feast,^'' 
Then  rose  and  in  the  cooling  water  cleansed 
Their  hands,  and  seated  at  the  board  again 
Enjoy'd  the  bowl,  or  scented  high  with  spice. 
Or  flavor'd  with  the  fragrant  summer  fruit. 
Or  luscious  with  metheglin  mingled  rich.™ 
Meantime  the  Trouveur  struck  the  harp;  he  sung 
Of  Lancelot  du  Lake,  the  truest  Knight 
That  ever  loved  fair  Lady ;  and  the  youth 
Of  Cornwall '''  underneath  whose  maiden  sword 
The  strength  of  Ireland  fell ;  and  he  who  struck 


BOOK    IV. 


JOAN    OP    ARC. 


27 


Tlie  dolorous  stroke,'-  the  blaim-less  and  the  brave, 

VVlio  died  beneath  a  brotlier's  errin<r  arm. 

Ye  have  not  perish'd,  Chiefs  of  Carducl ! 

The  songs  of  earlier  years  embalm  your  fame- 

And  haply  yet  some  Poet  shall  arise. 

Like  that  divinest  Tuscan,"  and  enwrcathe 

The  immortal  garland  for  himself  and  you. 

The  harp  still  rung  beneath  the  high-arch'd  roof, 
And  listening  eager  to  the  favorite  lay, 
The  guests  sat  silent,  when  into  the  hall 
The  Messenger  from  that  besieged  town, 
Ilcenter'd.     "  It  is  pleasant,  King  of  France," 
Said  he,  "  to  sit  and  hear  the  harper's  song  : 
Far  other  music  hear  the  men  of  Orleans  ! 
Famine  is  there  ;  and  there  the  imploring  cr}^ 
Of  Hunger  ceases  not." 

"  Insolent  man  !  " 
Exclaim'd  the  Monarch,  "  cease  to  interrupt 
Our  liour  of  festival;  it  is  not  thine 
To  instruct  me  in  my  duty." 

Of  reproof 
Careless,  the  stranger  to  the  minstrel  cried, 
"Why  harpest  thou  of  good  King  Arthur's  fame 
Amid  these  walls .'     Virtue  and  genius  love 
That  lofty  lay.     Hast  thou  no  loose,  lewd  tale 
To  pamper  and  provoke  the  appetite .' 
Such  should  procure  thee  worthy  recompense  ! 
Or  rather  sing  thou  of  that  wealthy  Lord, 
Who  took  the  ewe  lainb  from  the  poor  man's  bosom, 
That  was  to  him  even  as  a  daughter  I  Charles, 
This  parable  would  I  tell,  prophet-like. 
And  look  at  thee  and  say,  '  Thou  art  the  man  I '  " 

He  said,  and  with  a  quick  and  troubled  step 
Withdrew.     Astonish'd  at  his  daring  guise. 
The  guests  sat  heedless  of  the  lay  awhile, 
Pondering  his  words  mysterious,  till  at  length 
The  Court  dispersed.     Retiring  from  the  hall, 
Charles  and  the  delegated  damsel  sought 
The  inner  palace.     There  the  gentle  Queen 
Awaited  them  :  with  her  Joan  lov'd  to  pass 
Her  intervals  of  rest;  lor  she  Iiad  won 
The  Virgin's  heart  by  her  mild  melancholy, 
The  calm  and  duteous  patience  that  deplored 
A  husband's  cold  half-love.     To  her  she  told 
With   what  stranjre  words   the   messenger  from 

Orleans 
Had  roused  uneasy  wonder  in  her  mind ; 
For  on  her  ear  yet  vibrated  his  voice. 
When  lo !  again  he  came,  and  at  the  door 
Stood  scowling  round. 

"  Wh}'  dost  thou  haunt  me  thus," 
The  monarch  cried ;  "  is  there  no  i)lace  secure 
From  thy  rude  insolence .'  unmanner'd  man  ! 
I  know  thee  not !  " 

"  Then  learn  to  knf)w  me,  Charles !  " 
Solemnly  he  replied;  "read  well  my  face, 
That  thou  may'st  know  it  on  that  dreadful  day, 
When  at  the  Throne  of  God  I  shall  demand 
His  justice  on  thee  !  "     Turning  from  the  King, 
To  Agnes  as  she  entered,  in  a  tone 
More  low,  more  mournfully  severe,  he  cried, 
"  Dost  thou  too  know  me  not !  " 

She  glanced  on  him, 


And  pale  and  breathless  hid  her  head  convulsed 
In  the  JNIaid's  bosom. 

"  King  of  France  !  "  he  said, 
"  She  loved  me,  and  by  mutual  word  and  will 
W^o  were  betroth'd,  when,  in  unhappy  hour, 
I  left  her,  as  in  fealty  bound,  to  fight 
Thy  battles.     In  mine  absence  thou  didst  come 
'i'o  tempt  her  then  unspotted  purity  — 
For  pure  she  was.  —  Alas  !  these  courtly  robes 
Hide  not  the  indelible  stain  of  infamy  ! 
Thou  canst  not  with  thy  golden  belt  put  on 
An  honorable  name,'^  O  lost  to  me, 
And  to  thyself,  forever,  ever  lost, 
My  poor  polluted  Agnes !  —  Charles,  that  faith 
Almost  is  shaken,  which  should  be  henceforth 
My  only  hope  :  thou  hast  thy  wicked  will. 
While  I  the  victim  of  her  guilt  and  thine, 
TJiough  meriting  alike  from  her  and  thee 
Far  other  guerdon,  bear  about  with  me 
A  wound  for  which  this  earth  affords  no  balm, 
And  doubt  Heaven's  justice." 

So  he  said,  and  frown'd 
Austere  as  he  who  at  Mahommed's  door 
Knock'd  loud  and  frequent,  at  whose  dreadful  mien 
Stricken  with  terror,  all  beholders  fled. 
Even  the  prophet,  almost  terrified. 
Scarcely  could  bear  his  presence ;  for  he  knew 
That  this  was  the  Death-Angel  Azrael, 
And  that  his  hour  was  come.     Conscious  of  guilt 
The  Monarch  sate,  nor  could  endure  to  face 
Ilis  bosom-probing  frown.     The  Maid  of  Arc 
Meantime  had  read  his  features,  and  she  cried 
"  I  know  thee,  Conrade  !  "     Rising  from  her  seat. 
She  took  his  hand,  for  he  stood  motionless, 
Gazing  on  Agnes  now  with  steady  eye. 
Severe  though  cahn  :  him  from  the  Court  she  drew, 
And  to  the  river  side,  resisting  not. 
Both  sad  and  silent,  led ;  till  at  the  last 
As  from  a  dream  awaking,  Conrade  look'd 
Full  on  the  Maid,  and  falling  on  her  neck. 
He  wept. 

"I  know  thee,  Damsel !  "  he  exclaim'd. 
"  Dost  thou  remember  tliat  tempestuous  night, 
When  I,  a  weather-beaten  traveller,  sought 
Your  hospitable  door .'  Ah  me  !  I  then 
Was  happy  !  You  too  sojourn'd  then  in  peace. 
Fool  that  I  was  !  I  blamed  such  happiness, 
Arraign'd  it  as  a  guilty,  selfish  sloth, 
Unhappil)'  prevailing,  so  1  fear  me. 
Or  why  art  thou  at  Chinon .'  " 

Him  the  Maid 
Answering,  address'd  :  "  I  do  remember  well, 
That  night ;  for  then  the  holy  Spirit  first. 
Waked  by  thy  words,  possess'd  ine." 

Conrade  cried, 
"Poor  JNIaiden,  thou  wert happy  !  thou  hadst  lived 
Blessing  and  blest,  if  I  had  never  stray 'd, 
Needlessl}'  rigid,  from  my  peaceful  path. 
And  thou  hast  left  thine  home  then,  and  obey'd 
Tlie  feverish  fancies  of  an  ardent  brain  ! 
And  hast  thou  left  hiin  too,  the  youth  whose  eye 
Forever  glancing  on  thee,  spake  so  well 
Affection's  eloquent  tale  ?  " 

So  as  he  said, 
Rush'd  the  warm  purple  to  tlie  Virgin's  cheek 


28 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    IV 


"I  atn  alone,"  slie  answered,  "for  tliis  realm 

Devoted."     Nor  to  answer  more  the  Maid 

Endured,  for  many  a  melancholy  thought 

Throng'd  on  her  aching  memory.     Her  mind  scye 

Beheld  Domrcmi  and  the  fields  of  Arc  : 

Her  burden'd  heart  was  full ;  such  grief  she  felt, 

Yet  such  sweet  solacing  of  self-applause, 

As  cheers  a  banish'd  Patriot's  lonely  hours 

When  Fancy  pictures  to  him  all  he  loved, 

Till  the  big  tear-drop  rushes  o'er  its  orb. 

And  drowns  the  soft  enchantment. 

With  a  look 
That  spake  solicitous  wonder,  Conrade  eyed 
The  silent  Maid ;  nor  would  the  Maid  repress 
Tlie  thoughts  that  swell'd  witliin  her,  or  from  him 
Hide  her  soul's  workings.     "  'Twas  on  the  last  day 
Before  I  left  Domremi ;  eve  had  closed  ; 
I  sat  beside  the  brook ;  my  soul  was  full, 
As  if  inebriate  with  Divinity. 
Then,  Conrade  !  I  beheld  a  ruffian  herd 
Circle  a  flaming  pile,  where  at  the  stake 
A  woman  stood  ;  tlie  iron  bruised  her  breast. 
And  round  her  limbs,  half-garmented,  the  fire 
Curl'd  its  fierce  flakes.     I  saw  her  countenance, 
I  knew  Myself."  '^     Then,  in  a  tone  subdued 
Of  calmness,  "  There  are  moments  when  the  soul 
From  her  own  impulse  with  strange  dread  recoils, 
Suspicious  of  herself;  but  with  a  full, 
And  perfect  faith  I  know  this  vision  sent 
From  Heaven,  and  feel  of  its  unerring  truth, 
As  that  God  liveth,  that  I  live  myself. 
The  feeling  that  deceives  not." 

By  the  hand 
Her  Conrade  held  and  cried,  "  Ill-fated  Maid, 
That  I  have  torn  thee  from  aflfection's  breast. 
My  soul  will  groan  in  anguish.     Thou  wilt  serve. 
Like  me,  the  worthless  Court,  and  having  served. 
In  the  hour  of  ill  abandon 'd,  thou  wilt  curse 
The  duty  that  deluded.     Of  the  world 
Fatigued,  and  loathing  at  my  fellow-men, 
I  shall  be  seen  no  more.     There  is  a  path''* — 
The  eagle  hath  not  mark'd  it,  the  young  wolf 
Knows  not  its  hidden  windings  :  I  have  trod 
That  path,  and  found  a  melancholy  den, 
Fit  place  for  penitence  and  hopeless  woe. 
Where  sepulchred,  the  ghost  of  what  he  was, 
Conrade  may  pass  his  few  and  evil  days. 
Waiting  the  wish'd-for  summons  to  lay  down 
His  weary  load  of  life." 

But  then  the  Maid 
Fix'd  on  the  warrior  her  reproving  eye  ; 
"  I  pass'd  the  fertile  Auxerrois,"  she  said  ; 
"  The  vines  had  spread  their  interwoven  shoots 
Over  the  unpruned  vineyards,  and  the  grape 
Rotted  beneath  the  leaves ;  for  there  was  none 
To  tread  the  vintage,  and  the  birds  of  Heaven 
Had  had  their  fill.     I  saw  the  cattle  start 
As  they  did  hear  the  loud  alarum-bell," 
And  with  a  piteous  moaning  vainly  seek 
To  fly  the  coming  slaughterers.     I  look'd  back 
Upon  the  cottage  where  I  had  partaken 
The  peasant's  meal,  —  and  saw  it  wrapt  in  flames. 
And  then  I  thank'd  my  God  that  I  had  burst 
The  ties,  strong  as  they  are,  which  bind  us  down 
To  selfish  happiness,  and  on  this  earth 


Was  as  a  pilgrim™ — Conrade  !  rouse  thyself ! 
Cast  the  weak  nature  oft'!'*    A  time  like  this 
Is  not  for  gentler  feelings,  for  the  glow 
Of  love,  the  overflowings  of  the  heart. 
There  is  oppression  in  thy  country,  Conrade  ! 
There  is  a  cause,  a  holy  cause,  that  needs 
The  brave  man's  aid.     Live  for  it,  and  enjoy 
Earth's  noblest  recompense,  thine  own  esteem; 
Or  die  in  that  good  cause,  and  thy  reward 
Shall  sure  be  found  in  Heaven." 

He  answer'd  not, 
But  pressing  to  his  heart  the  virgin's  hand, 
Hasten'd  across  the  plain.     She  with  dim  eyes  — 
For  gushing  tears  obscured  them  —  follow'd  him 
Till  lost  in  distance.     With  a  weight  of  thought 
Opprest,  along  the  poplar-planted  Vienne 
Awhile  she  wander'd,  then  upon  the  bank 
She  laid  her  down,  and  watch'd  the  tranquil  stream 
Flow  with  a  quiet  murmuring,  by  the  clouds 
Of  evening  purpled.     The  perpetual  flow, 
The  ceaseless  murmuring,  lull'd  her  to  such  dreams 
As  memory  in  her  melancholy  mood 
Loves  best.     The  wonted  scenes  of  Arc  arose  ; 
She  saw  the  forest  brook,  the  weed  that  waved 
Its  long  green  tresses  in  the  stream,  the  crag 
Which  overbrow'd  the  spring,  and  that  old  yew 
Which  through  the  bare  and  rifted  rock  had  forced 
Its  twisted  trunk,  the  berries  cheerful  red 
Starring  its  gloomy  green.     Her  pleasant  home 
She  saw,  and  those  who  made  that  home  so  dear, 
Her  lov'd  lost  friends.     The  mingled  feelings  fill'd 
Her  eyes,  when  from  behind  a  voice  was  heard  — 
'•  O  Lady  I  canst  thou  tell  me  where  to  find 
The   Maid   whom   Heaven   hath   sent   to   rescue 

France  ?  " 
Tlirill'd  by  the  well-known  tones,  she  started  up, 
And  fell  upon  the  neck  of  Theodore. 

"  Have  1  then  found  thee  !  "     cried  the  bnpas- 

sioned  youth ; 
"  Henceforth  we  part  no  more  ;  but  where  thou 

goest 
Thither  go  I.     Beloved  !  in  the  front 
Of  battle  thou  shalt  find  me  at  thy  side  ; 
And  in  the  breach  this  breast  shall  be  thy  shield 
And  rampart.     Oh,  ungenerous  !  Why  from  me 
Conceal  the  inspiration  .'  why  from  me 
Hide  thy  miraculous  purpose.'     Am  I  then 
So  all-unworthy  that  thou  shouldst  set  forth 
Beneath  another's  guidance  .'  " 

Thus  he  cried, 
Mingling  reproach  with  tenderness,  yet  still 
Clasping  in  warm  embrace  the  maid  beloved. 
She  of  her  bidding  and  futurity 
Awhile  forgetful,  patient  of  the  embrace. 
With  silent  tears  of  joy  bedew'd  his  neck. 
At  length,  "  I  hope,"  she  cried,  "  thou  art  not  come 
With  heavier  fault  and  breach  of  nearer  tie  ! 
How  did  thy  mother  spare  thee,  —  thou  alone 
The  stay  and  comfort  of  her  widowed  age .'' 
Did  she  upon  thy  parting  steps  bestow 
Her  free-will  blessing.^  or  hast  thou  set  forth. 
Which  Heaven  forbid,  unlicensed  and  unblest.'  " 

"  Oh,  surely  not  unblest !  "  the  youth  replied  ; 


BOOK    V. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


29 


Yot  conscious  of  his  mirc])(>nto(l  fiiult, 
\\'M\  countenance  llush'd,  anil  lUUiTing  in  reply  : 
"  She  wept  at  my  departure  ;  she  would  fain 
Have  turned  me  from  my  purpose,  and  my  heart 
I'erliaps  had  foil'd  me,  if  it  had  not  glow'd 
Wltli  ardor  like  thine  own;  the  sacred  fire 
With  which  thy  bosom  burns  had  kindled  me; 
High  in  prophetic  hope,  I  bade  her  place 
Her  trust  in  Heaven;  I  bade  her  look  to  hear 
Good  tidings  soon  of  glorious  victory; 
I  told  her  I  should  soon  return,  —  return 
With  thee,  and  thou  wouldst  be  to  her  old  age 
What  Madelon  had  been." 

As  thus  he  spake. 
Warm  with  tlie  imaginary  bliss,  he  clasp'd 
Tlie  dear  one  closer  to  his  yearning  heart. 
But  the  devoted  Virgin  in  his  arms 
Started  and  slmdder'd,  for  the  flaming  pile 
Flashed  on  remembrance  now,  and  on  her  soul 
The  wliole  terrific  vision  rose  again. 
A  death-like  paleness  at  the  dreadful  thought 
Wither'd  her  cheek;  cold  damps  suffused  her  brow, 
And  falling  on  the  neck  of  Theodore, 
Feeble  and  faint  she  hung.     His  eager  eye 
Concentring  all  the  anguish  of  the  soul, 
And  strain'd  in  anxious  love,  gazed  fearfully 
With  wondering  anguish  ;  till  ennobling  thoughts 
Of  her  high  mission  roused  her,  and  her  soul 
Collected,  and  she  spake. 

"  My  Theodore, 
Thou  hast  done  ill  to  quit  thy  mother's  home  ! 
Alone  and  aged  she  will  weep  for  thee. 
Wasting  her  little  that  is  left  of  life 
In  anguish.     Now  go  back  again  to  Arc, 
And  cheer  her  wintry  hours  of  widowhood, 
And  love  my  memory  there.  ' 

Swift  he  exclaim'd, 
"  Nay,  Maid !  the  pang  of  parting  is  o'erpast. 
And  my  dear  mother  looks  for  the  glad  hour 
When  we  shall  both  return.     Amid  the  war 
How  many  an  arm  will  seek  thy  single  life, 
How  many  a  sword  and  spear !  I  will  go  with  thee 
And  spread  the  guardian  shield 

"  Nay,"  she  replied, 
"  I  shall  not  need  thy  succor  in  the  war. 
Me,  Heaven,  if  so  seem  good  to  its  high  will, 
Will  save.     I  shall  be  happier,  Theodore, 
Thinking  that  thou  dost  sojourn  safe  at  home. 
And  make  thy  mother  happy." 

The  youth's  cheek 
A  rapid  blush  disorder'd.     "  Oh  !  the  court 
Is  pleasant  then,  and  thou  wouldst  fain  forget 
A  humble  villager,  who  only  boasts 
The  treasure  of  the  heart  I" 

She  look'd  at  him 
With  a  reproaching  eye  of  tenderness: 
"  Injurious  man  !  devoted  for  this  realm, 
I  go  a  willing  victim.     The  dark  veil 
Hath  been  withdrawn  for  me,  and  I  have  seen 
The  fearful  features  of  Futurity. 
Yes,  Theodore,  I  shall  redeem  my  country, 
Abandoning  for  it  the  joys  of  life. 
Yea,  life  itself. "     Then  on  his  neck  she  fell. 
And  with  a  faltering  voice,  "  Return  to  Arc  ! 
[  do  not  tell  thee  there  are  other  maids 


As  fair;  for  thou  wilt  love  my  memory. 

Hallowing  to  me  the  temple  of  thy  heart. 

Worthy  a  happier,  not  a  better  love,** 

My  Theodore  !  "  —  Then,  pressing  his  pale  lips, 

A  last  and  holy  kiss  the  virgin  fix'd. 

And  fled  across  the  plain. 

She  reach'd  the  court 
Breathless.     The  mingled  movements  of  her  mind 
Sliook  every  fibre.     Sad  and  sick  at  heart. 
Fain  to  her  lonely  chamber's  solitude 
The  Maiden  had  retired ;  but  her  the  King 
Met  on  the  threshold.     He  of  the  late  scene 
Forgetful  and  his  crime,  as  cheerful  sccm'd 
As  though  there  had  not  been  a  God  in  Heaven  ! 
"  Enter  the  hall,"  he  said,  "  the  maskers  there 
Join  in  the  dance.     Why,  Maiden,  art  thou  sad.' 
Has  that  rude  madman  shook  thy  gentle  frame 
With  his  strange  speeches.''" 

Ere  the  Maid  replied, 
The  Son  of  Orleans  came  with  joyful  speed, 
Poising  his  massy  javelin.     "  Thou  hast  roused 
The  sleeping  virtue  of  the  sons  of  France ; 
They  crowd  around  the  standard,"  cried  the  chief. 
"  Our  brethren,  pent  in  Orleans,  every  moment 
Gaze  from  the  watch-tower  with  the  sickening  eye 
Of  expectation." 

Then  the  King  exclaim'd, 
"  O  chosen  by  Heaven  !  defer  one  day  thy  march, 
That  humbled  at  the  altar  we  may  join 
The  general  prayer.     Be  these  our  holy  rites 
To-morrow's  task;  —  to-night  for  merriment!  " 

The   Maid    replied,   "  The   wretched    ones    in 
Orleans, 
In  fear  and  hunger  and  expiring  hope, 
Await  my  succor,  and  my  prayers  would  plead 
In  Heaven  against  me,  did  they  waste  one  hour 
When  active  duty  calls.     For  this  night's  mirth 
Hold  me  excused ;  in  truth  I  am  not  fit 
For  merriment ;  a  heavy  charge  is  on  me. 
And  I  must  put  away  all  mortal  thoughts."^' 
Her  heart  was  full,  and  pausing,  she  rcpress'd 
The  imbiddcn  anguish.     "  Lo !  they  crowd  around 
The  standard !    Thou,  Dunois,  the  chosen  troops 
Marshal  in  speed,  for  early  with  the  dawn 
We  march  to  rescue  Orleans  from  the  foe." 


THE  FIFTH  BOOK. 

Scarce  had  the  early  dawn  from  Chinon's  towers 

Made  visible  the  mist  that  curl'd  along 

The  river's  winding  way,  when  from  her  couch 

The  martial  Maid  arose.     She  mail'd  her  limbs; 

The  white  plumes  nodded  o'er  her  helmed  head  ; 

She  girt  the  sacred  falchion  by  her  side. 

And,  like  a  youth  who  from  his  mother's  arms, 

For  his  first  field  impatient,  breaks  away, 

Poising  the  lance  went  forth. 

Twelve  hundred  men, 
Rearing  in  order'd  ranks  their  glittering  spears, 
Await  her  coming.     Terrible  in  arms 
Before  them  towcr'd  Dunois,  his  manly  face 


30 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    V. 


O'crshadow'd  by  tlie  helmet's  iron  cheeks. 

The  assembled  court  gazed  on  the  marshall'd  train. 

And  at  the  gate  the  aged  prelate  stood 

To  pour  his  blessing  on  the  chosen  host. 

And  now  a  soft  and  solemn  symphony 

Was  heard,  and  chanting  high  the  hallow'd  hymn, 

From  the  near  convent  came  the  vestal  maids. 

A  iioly  banner,  woven  by  virgin  hands. 

Snow-white  they  bore.     A  mingled  sentiment 

Of  awe  and  eager  ardor  for  the  fight, 

Tlirill'd  through  the  army,  as  the  reverend  man 

Took  the  white  standard,  and  with  heaven- ward  eye 

Call'd  on  tlie  God  of  Justice,  blessing  it. 

The  Maid,  her  brows  in  reverence  unlielm'd, 

Her  dark  iiair  floating  on  the  niornino-  gale. 

Knelt  to  his  prayer,  and  stretching  forth  her  hand 

Received  the  mystic  banner.     From  the  host 

A  loud  and  universal  shout  burst  forth, 

As  rising  from  the  ground,  upon  her  brow 

Slie  placed  the  plumed  casque,  and  waved  on  high 

The  banner'd  lilies.     On  their  way  they  march, 

And  dim  in  distance,  soon  the  towers  of  Chinon 

Fade  from  the  eye  reverted. 

The  sixth  sun, 
Purpling  the  sky  with  his  dilated  light, 
Sunk  westering;  when  embosom'd  in  tlie  dcptli 
Of  that  old  forest,  wjiich  for  many  a  league 
Shadow'd  the  hills  and  vales  of  Orleannois, 
Tliey  pitch  their  tents.     The  hum  of  occujjation 
Sounds  ceaseless.     Waving  to  the  evening-  crale 
Tlie  streamers  flutter;  and  ascending  slow 
Beneatli  the  foliage  of  the  forest  trees. 
With  many  a  light  hue  tinged,  the  curling  smoke 
Melts  in  the  impurpled  air.     Leaving  her  tent. 
The  martial  Maiden  wandcr'd  through  the  wood ; 
There,  by  a  streamlet,  on  the  mossy  bank 
Reclined,  she  saw  a  damsel,  her  long  locks 
With  willow  wreathed ;  upon  her  lap  there  lay 
A  dark-hair'd  man,  listening  the  while  she  sung 
Sad  ditties,  and  enwrcathed  to  bind  his  brow 
The  melancholy  garland.     At  the  sound 
Of  one  in  arms  approaching,  she  had  fled  ; 
But  Conrade,  looking  upward,  recognized 
The  Maid  of  Arc.     '•'  Nay,  fear  not,  Isabel," 
Said  he,  "for  this  is  one  of  gentle  kind, 
Whom  even  the  wretched  need  not  fear  to  love." 

So  saying,  he  arose  and  took  her  hand. 
And  press'd  it  to  his  bosom.     "  My  weak  heart 
Though  school'd  by  wrongs  to  loath  at  human  kind, 
Will  beat,  rebellious  to  its  own  resolves. 
Come  hither,  outcast  one  !  and  call  her  friend 
And  s!ie  will  be  thy  friend  more  readily 
Because  thou  art  unhappy." 

Isabel 
Saw  a  tear  starting  in  the  virgin's  eye 
And  glancing  upon  Conrade,  she  too  wept. 
Wailing  his  wilder'd  senses. 

"  Mission'd  Maid  '  " 
Tlie  v/arrior  cried,  "be  happy  !  for  tny  power 
Can  make  this  sufferer  so.     From  Orleans  driven, 
Orphan'd  by  war,  and  of  her  only  friend 
Bereft,  I  found  her  wandering  in  the  wilds. 
Worn  out  with  want  and  wretchedness.     Thou, 
Joan, 


Wilt  his  beloved  to  the  youth  restore ; 
And  trust  me,  Maid  !  the  miserable  feel 
When  they  on  others  bestow  happiness, 
Their  happiest  consolation." 

She  replied, 
Pressing  the  damsel's  hand,  in  the  mild  tone 
Of  equal  friendship,  solacing  her  cares. 
"  Soon  shall  we  enter  Orleans,"  said  the  Maid  ; 
A  few  hours  in  her  dream  of  victory 
England  shall  triuinpli,  then  to  be  awaked 
By  the  loud  thunder  of  Almighty  wrath  ! 
Irksome  meantime  the  busy  camp  to  me 
A  solitary  woman.     Isabel, 
Wert  thou  the  while  companion  of  my  tent, 
Lightlier  tlie  time  would  pass.     Return  with  me  ; 
I  may  not  long  be  absent." 

So  she  spake. 
The  wanderer  in  half-utter'd  words  express'd 
Grateful  assent.     "  Art  thou  astonish'd,  then, 
TJiat  one  though  powerful  is  benevolent  ? 
In    truth    thou   well   mayst   wonder!"    Conrade 

cried. 
"  But  little  cause  to  love  the  mighty  ones 
Hath  the  low  cottager ;  for  with  its  shade 
Too  oft  doth  Power,  a  death-dew-dropping  tree, 
Blast  every  herb  beneath  its  baleful  boughs  ! 
Tell  thou  thy  sufferings,  Isabel  !  Relate 
How  warr'd  tlie  chieftains,  and  the  people  died. 
The  mission'd  Virgin  hath  not  heard  thy  w^oes  ; 
And  pleasant  to  mine  ear  the  twice-told  tale 
Of  sorrow." 

Gazing  on  the  martial  Maid 
She  read  her  wish,  and  spake.     "  A  wanderer  now, 
Friendless  and  hopeless,  still  I  love  to  think 
Upon  my  native  home,  and  call  to  mind 
Each  haunt  of  careless  youth ;  the  woodbined  wall, 
The  jessamine  that  round  the  straw-roof 'd  cot 
Its   fragrant  branches  wreathed,  beneath   whose 

shade 
I  wont  to  sit  and  watch  the  setting  sun, 
And  hear  the  thrush's  song.     Nor  far  remote, 
As  o'er  the  subject  landscape  round  I  gazed. 
The  towers  of  Ycnville  rose  upon  the  view. 
A  foreign  master  holds  my  father's  home  ! 
I,  far  away,  remember  the  past  years. 
And  weep. 

"  Two  brethren  form'd  our  family  ; 
Humble  we  were,  and  happy;  honest  toil 
Procured  our  homely  sustenance  ;  our  herds 
Duly  at  morn  and  evening  to  my  hand 
Gave  their  full  stores  ;  the  vineyard  we  had  rear'd 
Purpled  its  clusters  in  the  southern  sun. 
And,  plenteous  produce  of  my  father's  toil, 
The  yellow  harvest  billow'd  o'er  the  plain. 
How  cheerfully  around  the  blazing  hearth. 
When  all  the  labor  of  the  day  was  done, 
We  past  the  evening  hours ;  for  they  would  sing 
Or  merry  roundelay,  or  ditty  sad 
Of  maid  forsaken  and  the  willow  weed, 
Or  of  the  doughty  Paladins  of  France 
Some  warlike  fit,  the  while  my  spinning-wheel 
A  fitting  music  made. 

"  Thus  long  we  lived. 
And  happy.     To  a  neighboring  youth  my  hand, 
In  holy  wedlock  soon  to  be  consign'd, 


BOOK    V. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


31 


Was  plighted :  my  poor  Francis ! "  Here  she  paused, 
And  liere  she  wept  awhile. 

"  We  did  not  think 
The  desolating  stream  of  war  would  reach 
To  us;  but  soon  as  with  the  whirlwind's  speed 
Iluin  rush'd  round  us.*'-     jVIchun,  Clcry,  fell, 
Tiio  bauner'd  Leopard  waved  on  Gergcau's  wall ; 
JJnugcnci  yielded  ;  soon  the  foe  approach'd 
The  towers  of  Ycnville. 

"  Fatal  was  the  hour 
To  nie  and  mine  :  for  from  the  wall,  alas  ! 
The  rusty  sword  was  taken,  and  the  shield 
Which  long  had  moulder'd  on  the  mouldering  nail. 
To  meet  the  war  repair'd.     No  more  was  heard 
The  ballad,  or  tlie  merry  roundelay ; 
The  clattering  hammer's  clank,  the  grating  file 
Harsh  sounded  through  the  da}'  a  dismal  din  ; 
I  never  shall  forget  their  mournful  sound  ! 

"  My  father  stood  encircling  his  old  limbs 
In  long-forgotten  arms.     '  Come,  boys,'  he  cried  ; 
'  1  did  not  tliink  that  this  gray  head  again 
Should  bear  the  helmet's  weight ;  but  in  the  field 
Better  to  bravely  die  a  soldier's  death. 
Than  here  be  tamely  butclier'd.     Isabel, 
Go  to  the  abbey  !  if  we  should  survive, 
We  soon  shall  meet  again  ;  if  not,  my  child. 
There  is  a  better  world  I ' 

In  broken  words, 
Lifting  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  mj'  father  breathed 
His  blessing  on  me.     As  they  went  away, 
My  brethren  gazed  on  me,  and  wrung  my  hand 
In  silence,  for  they  loved  their  sister  well. 
From  the  near  cottage  Francis  join'd  the  troop. 
Then  did  I  look  on  our  forsaken  home, 
And  almost  sob  my  very  soul  away  ; 
For  all  my  hopes  of  happiness  were  fled. 
Even  like  a  dream  1 " 

"  Perish  these  mighty  ones," 
Cried  Conrade,  "  these  who  let  destruction  loose. 
Who  walk  elated  o'er  their  fields  of  fame. 
And  count  the  thousands  that  lie  slaughter'd  there, 
And  with  the  bodies  of  the  innocent,  rear 
Their  pyramid  of  glory  !  perish  these, 
The  epitome  of  all  the  pestilent  plagues 
That  Egypt  knew  !  who  send  their  locust  swarms 
O'er  ravaged  realms,  and  bid  the  brooks  run  blood. 
Fear  and  Destruction  go  before  their  path. 
And  Famine  dogs  tlieir  footsteps.     God  of  Justice, 
Let  not  the  innocent  blood  cry  out  in  vain  !  " 

Thus  while  he  spake,  the  murnmr  of  the  camp 
Rose  on  their  ear  ;  first  like  the  distant  sound 
When  the  full-foliaged  forest  to  the  storm 
Shakes  its  hoarse  head  ;  anon  with  louder  din  ; 
And  through  the  opening  glade  gleam'd  many  a  fire. 
Tlie  Virgin's  tent  they  enter'd  ;  there  the  board 
^S^as  spread,  the  wanderer  of  the  fare  partook, 
Then  thus  her  tale  renew'd  :  — 

"  Slow  o'er  the  hill 
Whose  rising  head  conceard  our  cot  I  past. 
Yet  on  my  journey  paused  awhile,  and  gazed 
And  wept ;  for  often  had  I  cross'd  the  hill 
With  cheerful  step,  and  seen  the  rising  smoke 
Of  hospitable  fire  ;  alas  !  no  smoke 


Curl'd  o'er  its  melanclioly  chimneys  now  ! 
Orleans  I  reach'd.     There  in  the  suburbs  stood 
The  abbey  ;  and  ere  long  1  learnt  the  fall 
Of  Yenville. 

"  On  a  day,  a  soldier  ask'd 
For  Isabel.     Scarce  could  my  ("altering  feet 
Support  me.     It  was  Francis,  and  alone  — 
The  sole  survivor  of  that  company  ! 

"  And  soon  the  foes  approach'd  :  impending  war 
Soon  sadden'd  Orleans.*^  There  the  bravest  chiefs 
Assembled  :  Thouars,  Coarase,  Ciiabann<'S, 
And  the  Sire  Chapclle,'*''  in  successful  war 
Since  wounded  to  the  death  ;  and  that  good  Knight 
Giresme  of  Rhodes,  who  in  a  better  cause 
Can  never  wield  the  crucifix  that  hilts 
His  hallowed  sword; '^^   and  Xaintraillcs  ransom'd 

now, 
And  Fayette  late  released,  and  that  young  Duke*^ 
Who  at  Verncuil  senseless  with  many  a  wound 
Fell  prisoner,  and  La  Hire,  the  merriest  man "' 
That  ever  yet  did  win  his  soldiers'  love  ; 
And  over  all  for  hardihood  reiiown'd 
The  Bastard  Orleans. 

"  These  within  the  town 
E.xpect  the  foe.     Twelve  hundred  chosen  men, 
Well  tried  in  war,  uproar  the  guardian  shield 
Beneath  their  banners.     Dreadful  was  the  sight 
Of  preparation.     The  wide  suburbs  stretch'd 
Along  the  pleasant  borders  of  the  Loire, 
Late  throng'd  with  luultitudcs,  now  feel  the  hand 
Of  ruin.     'These  preventive  care  destroys, 
Lest  England,  shelter'd  by  the  friendly  walls. 
Securely  should  approach.     The  monasteries 
Fell  in  the  general  waste.     The  holy  monks 
Unwillingly  their  long-accustom'd  haunts 
Abandon,  haunts  where  every  gloomy  nook 
Call'd  to  awaken'd  memory  some  trace 
Of  vision  seen,  or  sound  miraculous. 
Trembling  and  terrified,  their  noiseless  cells. 
For  the  rude  uproar  of  a  world  unknown. 
The  nuns  desert:  their  abbess,  more  composed. 
Collects  her  maids  around,  and  tells  her  beads. 
And  pours  the  timid  prayer  of  piety. 
The  pioneers,  by  day  and  night  employ'd, 
Throw  up  the  violated  earth,  to  impede 
The  foe  :  the  hollow  chambers  of  the  dead 
Echo'd  beneath  their  stroke.     The  brazen  tomb 
Which  late  recorded  death,  in  the  furnace  cast 
Is  made  to  inflict  it  now.     Sad  sight  it  was 
To  see  so  wide  a  waste ;  the  aged  ones 
HangincT  their  heads,  and  weeping  as  they  went 
O'er  the  fallen  dwellinjrs  of  their  happier  years  ; 
The  stern  and  sullen  silence  of  the  men 
Musing  on  vengeance  :  and  but  ill  represt, 
The  mother's  fears  as  to  her  breast  she  clasp'd 
Her  ill-doom'd  infant.     Soon  the  suburbs  lay 
One  ample  ruin  ;  ^  whence  the  stones  were  borne 
Within  the  town  to  serve  in  its  defence. 

"  And  now  without  the  walls  the  desolate  space 
Appear'd,  a  rough  and  melancholy  waste, 
With  uptorn  pavements  and  foundations  deep 
Of  many  a  ruin'd  dwelling.     Nor  within 
Less  dreary  was  the  scene  ;  at  evening  hour 


32 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK    V. 


No  more  the  merry  viol's  note  was  heard ;  '*'' 

No  more  tlic  aged  matron  at  Jut  door 

Miunm'd  cheery  to  her  spinning-wheel,  and  saw 

Her  children  dancing  to  the  roundelay. 

The  chieftains  strengthening  still  the  ancient  walls, 

Survey  tiiein  every  where  with  prying  eye  ; 

The  eager  youth,  in  anxious  preparation, 

Practise  the  arts  of  war ;  silent  and  stern, 

With  the  hurrying  restlessness  of  fear,  they  urge 

Their  gloomy  labors.     In  the  city  dwelt 

An  utter  silence  of  all  pleasant  sounds ; 

But  all  day  long  the  armorer's  beat  was  heard, 

And  all  night  long  it  echoed. 

"  Soon  the  foe 
Led  to  our  walls  the  siege  :  as  on  they  move 
The  clarions  clangor,  and  the  cheerful  fife. 
Accordant  to  the  thundering  drum's  deep  sound, 
Direct  their  measured  march.     Before  the  ranks 
Salisbury  was  seen,  Salisbury,  so  long  the  scourge 
Of  France;  and  Talbot  towered  by  his  side, 
Talbot,  at  whose  dread  name  the  froward  child 
Clings  mute  and  trembling  to  his  nurse's  breast. 
Suffolk  was  there,  and  Hungcrford,  and  Scales, 
And  Fastolffe,  victor  in  the  frequent  fight. 
Dark  as  the  autumnal  storm  they  roU'd  along, 
A  countless  host !  From  the  high  tower  I  mark'd 
The  dreadful  scene ;  I  saw  the  iron  gleam 
Of  javelins  sparkling  to  the  noontide  sun. 
Their  banners  tossing  to  the  troubled  gale, 
And  —  fearful  music  —  heard  upon  the  wind 
The  modulated  step  of  multitudes. 

"  There  in  the  midst,  shuddering  with  fear,  I  saw 
The  dreadful  stores  of  death ;  tremendous  roll'd 
Over  rough  roads  the  harsh  wheels ;  the  brazen  tubes 
Flash'd  in  tlie  sun  their  fearful  splendor  far. 
And,  last,  the  loaded  wagons  creak'd  along. 

"  Nor  were  our  chieftains,  whilst  their  care  pro- 
cured 
Human  defence,  neglectful  to  implore 
That  heavenly  aid,  deprived  of  which  the  strength 
Of  man  is  weakness.     Bearing  through  our  streets 
The  precious  relics  of  the  holy  dead. 
The   monks   and   nuns  pour'd   many  an   earnest 

prayer, 
Devoutly  join'd  by  all.     Saint  Aignan's  shrine 
Was  throng'd  by  supplicants,  the  general  voice 
Call'd  on  Saint  Aignan's  name'"'  again  to  save 
His  people,  as  of  yore,  before  he  past 
Into  the  fulness  of  eternal  rest ; 
When  by  the  Spirit  to  the  lingering  camp 
Of  iEtius  borne,  he  brought  the  timely  aid. 
And  Attila,  with  all  his  multitudes, 
Far  off  retreated  to  their  field  of  shame." 

And  now  Dunois  —  for  he  had  seen  tlie  camp 
Well-order'd  — cnter'd.  "  One  night  more  in  peace 
England  shall  rest,"  he  cried,  "  ere  yet  the  storm 
Burst  on  her  guilty  head  !  then  their  proud  vaunts 
Forgotten,  or  remember'd  to  their  shame. 
Vainly  her  chiefs  shall  curse  the  hour  when  first 
They  pitch'd  their  tents  round  Orleans." 

"  Of  that  siege," 
The  Maid  of  Arc  replied,  "  gladly  I  hear 


The  detail.     Isabel,  proceed  !  for  soon 
Destined  to  rescue  this  devoted  town, 
The  tale  of  all  the  ills  she  hath  endured 
1  listen,  sorrowing  for  the  past,  and  feel 
Joy  and  contentment  in  the  merciful  task 
For  which  1  am  sent  forth." 

Thus  spake  the  maid. 
And  Isabel  pursued.     "  And  now  more  near 
The  hostile  host  advancing  pitch  their  tents. 
Unnumber'd  streamers  wave,  and  clamorous  shouts. 
Anticipating  conquest,  rend  the  air 
Witli  universal  uproar.     From  their  camp 
A  herald  came ;  his  garb  emblazon'd  o'er 
With  leopards  and  the  lilies  of  our  realm  — 
Foul  shame  to  France  !     The  summons  of  the  foe 
He  brought." 

The  Bastard  interrupting  cried, 
"  I  was  with  Gaucour  and  the  assembled  chiefs, 
When  by  his  office  privileged  and  proud 
That  herald  spake,  as  certain  of  success 
As  he  had  made  a  league  with  Victory. 
'  Nobles  of  France  rebellious  !  from  tlie  chief 
Of  yon  victorious  host,  the  mighty  Earl 
Of  Salisbury,  now  there  in  place  of  him 
Your  Regent  John  of  Bedford  :  in  his  name 
I  come,  and  in  our  sovereign  Lord  the  King's, 
Henry.     Ye  know  full  well  our  master's  claim, 
Incontrovertible  to  this  good  realm. 
By  right  descent,  and  solemnly  confirm'd 
By  your  great  monarch  and  our  mighty  king 
Fifth  Henry,  in  the  treaty  ratified 
At  Troyes,^'  wherein  your  monarch  did  disclaim 
All  future  right  and  title  to  this  crown. 
His  own  exempted,  for  his  son  and  heirs 
Down  to  the  end  of  time.     This  sign'd  and  seal'd 
At  the  holy  altar,  and  by  nuptial  knot 
Of  Henry  and  your  princess,  gives  the  realm, 
Charles  dead  and  Henry,  to  his  infant  son 
Henry  of  Windsor.     Who  then  dares  oppose 
My  master's  title,  in  the  face  of  God, 
Of  wilful  perjury,  most  atrocious  crime. 
Stands  guilty,  and  of  flat  rebellion  'gainst 
The  Lord's  anointed.     He,  at  Paris  crown'd 
With  loud  acclaim  of  duteous  mtiltitudes. 
Thus  speaks  by  me.     Deliver  up  your  town 
To  Salisbury,  and  yield  yourselves  and  arms, 
So  shall  your  lives  be  safe  :  and  such  his  grace, 
If  of  your  free  accord  to  him  you  pay 
Due  homage  as  your  sovereign  Lord  and  King, 
Your  rich  estates,  your  houses  sliall  be  safe, 
And  you  in  favor  stand,  as  is  the  Duke, 
Philip"  of  Burgundy.     But  —  mark  me  well ! 
If,  obstinately  wilful,  you  persist 
To  scorn  his  proffer'd  mercy,  not  one  stone 
Upon  another  of  this  wretched  town 
Shall  then  be  left ;  and  when  the  English  host 
Triumphant  in  the  dust  have  trod  the  towers 
Of  Orleans,  who  survive  the  dreadful  war 
Shall  die  like  traitors  by  the  hangman's  hand. 
Ye  men  of  France,  remember  Caen  and  Roan  ! ' 

"  He  ceased  :  nor  Gaucour  for  amoment  paused 
To  form  reply. 

" '  Herald  !  to  all  thy  vaunts 
Of  English  sovereignty  let  this  suffice 


BOOK    V. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


33 


For  answer :  France  will  only  own  as  King 
Her  own  legitimate  Lord.     On  Charles's  brow, 
Traiisnillleii  tliroiiirli  a  louir  and  good  descent, 
The  croun  remains.     We  know  no  homage  due 
To  English  robbers,  and  disclaim  the  peace 
Inglorious  made  at  Troyes  by  factious  men 
Hostile  to  France.     Thy  master's  proti'er'd  grace 
Meets  the  contempt  it  merits.     Herald,  yes, 
Be  sure  we  shall  remember  Caen  and  Roan  ' 
Go  tell  the  miirhty  Earl  of  Salisbury, 
That  as  like  Blanchard,  Gaucour  dares  his  power, 
Like  Blanchard,  he  can  brave  his  cruelty, 
And  triumph  by  enduring.     Speak  1  well, 
Ye  men  of  Orleans  .'  ' 

'■  iSever  did  1  hear 
A  shout  so  universal  as  ensued 
Of  approbation.     The  assembled  host 
As  with  one  voice  pour'd  forth  their  loyalty. 
And  struck  their  sounding  shields  ;  and  walls  and 

towers 
Echoed  the  loud  uproar.     The  herald  went. 
The  work  of  war  began." 

"A  fearful  scene," 
Cried  Isabel.     "  The  iron  storm  of  death 
Clash'd  in  the  sky  ;  the  mighty  engines  hurl'd 
Huge   stones,  which  shook  the  ground  where'er 

they  fell. 
Then  was  there  heard  at  once  the  clang  of  arms, 
The  thundering  cannons,  and  the  soldier's  shout. 
The  female's  shriek,  the  aflfrighted  infant's  cry, 
The  groan  of  death,  —  discord  of  dreadful  sounds 
That  jarr'd  the  soul. 

"  Nor  while  the  encircling  foe 
Leaguer'd  the  walls  of  Orleans,  idly  slept 
Our  friends  :  for  winning  down  the  Loire  its  way 
The  frequent  vessel  with  provision  fraught. 
And  men,  and  all  the  artillery  of  death, 
Cheer'd  us  with  welcome  succor.     At  the  bridge 
These  safely  landed  mock'd  the  foeman's  force. 
This  to  prevent,  Salisbury,  their  watchful  chief,''- 
A  mighty  work  prepares.     Around  our  walls, 
Encircling  walls  he  builds,  surrounding  thus 
The  city.     Firm'd  with  massicst  buttresses, 
At  equal  distance,  sixty  forts  protect 
The  English  lines.     But  chief  where  in  the  town 
The  six  great  avenues  meet  in  the  midst,** 
Six  castles  there  he  rear'd  impregnable, 
With  deep-dug  moats  and  bridges  drawn  aloft, 
Where  over  the  strong  gate  suspended  hung 
The  dread  portcullis.     Thence  the  gunner's  eye 
From  his  safe  shelter  could  with  ease  survey 
Intended  sally,  or  approaching  aid. 
And  point  destruction. 

"  It  were  long  to  tell. 
And  tedious,  how  in  many  a  bold  assault 
The  men  of  Orleans  sallied  on  their  foes  ; 
How  after  difficult  fight  the  enemy 
Possess'd  tlieTournelles,^'  and  the  embattled  tower 
That  shadows  from  the  bridge  the  subject  Loire ; 
Though  numbering  now   three    thousand    daring 

men, 
Frequent  and  fierce  the  garrison  ropell'd 
Their  far  outnumbering  foes.     From  every  aid 
Included,  they  in  Orleans  groan'd  beneath 
All  ills  accumulate.     The  shatter'd  roofs 
5 


AUow'd  the  dews  of  night  free  passage  there  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  the  ponderous  stone. 
Ruining  where'er  it  fell,  with  hideous  crash 
Came  like  an  earthquake,"' startling  from  his  sleep 
The  affrighted  soldier.     From  the  brazen  slings 
The  wild-fire   balls   hiss'd  through  the   midnight 

sky;»« 
And  often  their  huge  engines  cast  among  us 
The  dead  and  loathsome  cattle  of  their  camp. 
As  though  our  enemies,  to  their  deadly  league 
Forcing  the  common  air,  would  make  us  breathe 
Poisonous  pollution.^'     Through  the  streets  were 

seen 
The  frequent  fire,  and  heaps  of  dead,  in  haste 
Piled  up  and  streaming  to  infected  Heaven. 
For  ever  the  incessant  storm  of  death 
Pours  down,  and  crowded  fn  unwholesome  vaults* 
The  wretched  females  hide,  not  idle  there, 
Wasting  the  hours  in  tears,  but  all  employ 'd, 
Or  to  provide  the  hungry  soldier's  meal. 
Or  tear  their  garments  to  bind  up  his  wounds  : 
A  sad  equality  of  wretchedness  I 

"  Now  came  the  worst  of  ills,  for  Famine  came  : 
The  provident  hand  deals  out  its  scanty  dole, 
Yielding  so  little  a  supply  to  life 
As  but  protracted  death.     The  loathliest  food 
Hunted  with  eager  eye  and  dainty  deem'd, 
The  dog  is  slain,  that  at  his  master's  feet 
Howling  with  hunger  lay  ;  with  jealous  fear. 
Hating  a  rival's  look,  the  husband  hides 
His  miserable  meal ;  the  famish'd  babe 
Clings  closely  to  his  dying  mother's  breast; 
And  —  horrible  to  tell !  —  where,  thrown  aside, 
There  lay  unburied  in  the  open  streets 
Huge  heaps  of  carcasses,  the  soldier  stands 
Eager  to  mark  the  carrion  crow  for  food.^ 

"  O    peaceful    scenes   of   childhood !    pleasant 
fields  I 
Haunts  of  mine  infancy,  where  I  have  stray'd 
Tracing  the  brook  along  its  winding  way. 
Or  pluck'd  the  primrose,  or  with  giddy  speed 
Chased  the  gay  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower ! 

0  days  in  vain  remember'd  !  how  my  soul. 
Sick  with  calamity,  and  the  sore  ills 

Of  hunger,  dwelt  on  you  and  on  my  home  ! 
Thinking  of  you  amid  the  waste  of  war, 

1  could  in  bitterness  have  cursed  the  great 
Who  made  me  what  I  was,  a  helpless  one, 
Orphan'd,  and  wanting  bread  !  " 

"  And  be  they  curst !  " 
Conrade  exclaim'd,  his  dark  eye  flashing  rage  ; 
"  And   be   they  curst !    O   groves  and  woodland 

shades, 
How  blest  indeed  were  you,  if  the  iron  rod 
Should  one  day  from  Oppression's  hand  be  wrench'd 
By  everlasting  Justice  !     Come  that  hour, 
When  in  the  Sun  the  Angel  of  the  Lord"* 
Shall  stand  and  cry  to  all  the  fowls  of  Heaven, 
'  Gather  ye  to  the  supper  of  your  God, 
That  ye  may  eat  the  flesh  of  mighty  men. 
Of  captains,  and  of  kings  1 '    Then  shall  be  peace." 

"And  now  lest  all  should  perish,"  she  pursued, 


34 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    VI. 


The  women  and  the  infirm  must  from  the  town 
Go  forth  and  seek  their  fate. 

"  I  will  not  now 
Recall  the  moment,  when  on  niy  poor  Francis 
With  a  long  look  I  hung.     At  dead  of  night, 
Made  mute  by  fear,  we  mount  the  secret  bark, 
And  glide  adown  the  stream  with  silent  oars : 
Thus  thrown  U])on  the  mercy  of  mankind, 
I  wandered  reckless  where,  till  wearied  out, 
And  cold  at  heart,  I  laid  me  down  to  die  ; 
So  by  tiiis  warrior  found.     Plim  I  had  known 
And  loved,  for  all  loved  Conrade   who  had  known 

him ; 
Nor  did  1  feel  so  pressing  the  hard  hand 
Of  want  in  Orleans,  ere  he  parted  thence 
On  perilous  envoy.     For  of  his  small  fare  — " 

"  Of  this  enough,"  said  Conrade.   "  Holy  Maid  ! 
One  duty  yet  awaits  me  to  perform. 
Orleans  her  envoy  sent  me,  to  demand 
Aid  from  her  idle  sovereign.     Willingly 
Did  I  achieve  the  hazardous  enterprise. 
For  rumor  had  already  made  me  fear 
The  ill  that  hath  fallen  on  me.     It  remains, 
Ere  I  do  banish  me  from  human  kind, 
That  1  reiinter  Orleans,  and  announce 
Thy  march.     'Tis  night,  and  hark !  how  dead  a 

silence ' 
Fit  hour  to  tread  so  perilous  a  path  !  " 

So  saying,  Conrade  from  the  tent  went  forth. 


THE   SIXTH  BOOK. 

The  night  was  calm,  and  many  a  moving  cloud 
Shadow'd  the  moon.     Along  the  forest  glade 
With  swift  foot  Conrade  past,  and  now  had  reach'd 
The  plain,  where  whilome  by  the  pleasant  Loire, 
Cheer'd  with  the  song,  the  rustics  had  beheld 
The  day  go  down  upon  their  merriment : 
No  song  of  peace  now  echoed  on  its  banks. 
There  tents  were  pitch'd,  and  there  the  sentinel, 
Slow  pacing  on  his  sullen  rounds,  beheld 
The  frequent  corse  roll  down  the  tainted  stream. 
Conrade  with  wider  sweep  pursued  his  way. 
Shunning  the  camp,  now  hush'd  in  sleep  and  still. 
And  now  no  sound  was  heard  save  of  the  Loire, 
Murmuring  along.     The  noise  of  coming  feet 
Alarm'd  him ;  nearer  drew  the  rapid  steps 
As  of  pursuit ;  anon  —  the  clash  of  arms  ! 
That  instant  breaking  through  a  rifted  cloud 
The   moonlight   show'd,   where    two   with   force 

combined 
Trest  on  a  single  foe,  who,  warding  still 
Their  swords,  retreated  in  unequal  fight. 
As  he  would  make  the  city.     Hastening 
With  timely  help  to  save  him,  Conrade  sped. 
One  with  an  unexpected  stroke  he  slew ; 
The  other  fled  :  "  Now  let  us  speed  our  best, 
Frenchman  !  "  he  cried.     On  to  the  Loire  they  ran. 
And  making  way  with  practised  arms  across, 
Ere  long  in  safety  gain'd  the  opposite  shore. 


"  Whence  art  thou?"  cried  the  warrior;  "and 
on  what 
Commission'd .' " 

"  Is  it  not  the  voice  of  Conrade .' ' 
Francis  replied  ;  "  and  dost  thou  bring  to  us 
Tidings  of  succor  .'  oh  !  that  it  had  come 
A  few  hours  earlier !  Isabel  is  gone  I  " 

"  Nay,  she  is  safe,"  cried  Conrade  ;  "  her  I  found 
Bewilder'd  in  the  forest,  and  consign'd  her 
To  the  protection  of  the  holy  Maid, 
Whom  Heaven  hatli  sent  to  rescue  us.     Now  say 
Wherefore  alone .'     A  fugitive  from  Orleans, 
Or  sent  on  dangerous  service  from  the  town  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  food  in  Orleans,"  he  replied, 
"  Scarce    a  meal    more.     The    assembled   chiefs 

resolve. 
If  tliou  shouldst  bring  no  tidings  of  near  aid. 
To  cut  their  way  to  safety,  or  by  death 
Prevent  the  pang  of  famine.""     One  they  sought. 
Who,  venturing  to  the  English  lines,  should  spy 
Where  best  to  venture  on  this  desperate  chance, 
And  I,  believing  all  I  loved  was  lost, 
Offer'd  myself" 

So  saying,  they  approach'd 
The  gate.     The  sentinel,  soon  as  he  heard 
Thitherward  footsteps,  with  uplifted  lance 
Challenged  the  darkling  travellers.     At  their  voice 
He  drew  the  strong  bolts  back,  and  cautiously 
Open'd  the  wicket.     To  the  careful  chiefs 
Who  sate  in  midnight  council,  they  were  led, 
And  Conrade  thus  address'd  them  : 

"  Sirs,  the  Lord, 
In  this  our  utmost  need,  hath  sent  us  aid. 
A  holy  Maid  hath  been  raised  up  by  Heaven  ; 
Her  mission  is  by  miracles  confirm'd. 
And  hither,  with  twelve  hundred  chosen  men. 
Led  by  Dunois,  she  comes.     I  am  myself 
A  witness  to  the  truth  of  what  I  tell ; 
And  by  to-morrow's  noon,  before  these  walls 
Her  banner  will  be  seen." 

Thereat  the  chiefs 
Were  fiU'd  with  wonder  and  with  joy,  by  doubt 
Little  repress'd.     "  Open  the  granaries  !  " 
Xaintrailles  exclaim'd  ;  "  give  we  to  all  the  host 
With  hand  unsparing  now  a  plenteous  meal ; 
To-morrow  we  are  safe  I  for  Heaven  all-just 
Hath  seen  our  sufferings  and  decreed  their  end. 
Let  the  glad  tidings  echo  through  the  town  ! 
God  is  with  us  !  " 

"  Be  not  too  confident," 
Graville  replied,  "  in  this  miraculous  aid. 
Some  frantic  woman  this,  who  gives  belief 
To  idle  dreams,  and  with  her  madness  then 
Infects  the  simple  !     That  Dunois  is  there. 
Leading  in  arms  twelve  hundred  chosen  men. 
Affords  a  better  hope  ;  yet  lavish  not 
Our  stores,  lest  in  the  enterprise  he  fail. 
And  Orleans  then  be  fain  to  bear  the  yoke 
Of  England!" 

"  Chief!  I  tell  thee,"  Conrade  cried, 
"  I  did  myself  behold  the  sepulchre. 
Fulfilling  what  she  spake,  give  up  those  arms 
Which  surely  for  no  common  end  the  grave 


BOOK    VI. 


JOAN    OF   ARC, 


35 


Through  many  an  age  hath  held  inviolate. 
She  is  tlic  I'rophctess  of  the  Most  High, 
And  will  deliver  Orleans  I  " 

Gaucour  then, 
"  Be  it  as  tliou  hast  said.     For  I  must  tliink, 
That  surely  to  no  vulgar  talc  tliesc  chiefs 
Would  yield  a  light  belief;  and  our  poor  stores 
Must  speedily,  ye  know,  be  clean  consumed. 
Spread  then  the  joyl'ul  tidings  through  tlie  troops 
That  God  hath  to  deliver  the  oppress'd, 
As  in  old  time,  raised  up  a  Prophetess, 
And  the  belief  itself  will  make  them  fight 
With  irresistible  courage." 

Thus  the  chief. 
And  what  he  said  seem'd  good.  The  men  of  Orleans, 
Long  by  tlicir  foemcn  bay'd,  such  transport  felt. 
As  when  the  Mexicans,'"'-  with  eager  eye 
Gazing  to  Huixaclitla's  distant  top. 
On  that  last  night,  doubtful  if  ever  morn 
Again  shall  cheer  thein,  mark  the  mystic  fire 
Flame  on  the  breast  of  some  brave  prisoner, 
A  dreadful  altar.     As  they  see  the  blaze 
Beaming  on  Iztapalapan's  near  towers. 
Or  on  Tezcuco's  calmy  lake  flash'd  far. 
Songs  of  thanksgiving  and  the  shout  of  joy 
Wake  the  loud  echo  ;  the  glad  husband  tears 
The  mantling  aloe  from  his  consort's  face. 
And  children,  now  deliver'd  from  the  dread 
Of  everlasting  darkness,  look  abroad. 
Hail  the  good  omen,  and  expect  the  sun 
Uninjur'd  still  to  run  his  flaming  race. 

While  thus  in  Orleans  hope  had  banished  sleep, 
The  Maiden's  host  perform'd  their  evening  prayer, 
And  in  the  forest  took  their  rest  secure. 
And  now  the  morning  came.     At  earliest  dawn 
Lightly  upstarting-,  and  bcdight  in  arms, 
The  Bastard  moved  along,  with  provident  eye 
Marshalling  the  troops.     All   high   in    hope    they 

march ; 
And  now  the  sun  shot  from  the  southern  sky 
His  noontide  radiance,  when  afar  they  hear 
The  hum  of  men,  and  see  the  distant  towers 
Of  Orleans,  and  the  bulwarks  of  the  foe, 
And  many  a  streamer  wantoning  in  air. 
These  as  they  saw  and  thought  of  all  the  ills 
Their  brethren  had  endured,  closely  pent  there 
For  many  a  month,  such  ardor  for  the  fight 
Burnt  in  each  bosom,  as  young  Ali  felt 
Then  when  Mohammed  of  the  assembled  tribe 
Ask'd  who  would  be  his  Vizir.     Fierce  in  faith, 
Forth  from  the  race  of  Hashem  stept  the  youth, 
"  Prophet  of  God  !  lo  —  I  will  be  tlie  man  !  " 
And  well  did  Ali  merit  that  high  post, 
Victorious  upon  Beder's  fertile  vale. 
And  on  mount  Ohud,  and  before  tlie  walls 
Of  Chaibar,  when  down-cleaving  to  the  chest 
His  giant  foe,  he  grasp'd  the  massy  gate. 
Shook  with  strong  arm  and  tore  it  from  the  fort, 
And  lifted  it  in  air,  portentous  shield  ! 

"Behold  tlie  towers  of  Orleans,"  cried  Dunois, 
"  Lo  !  this  the  vale  where  on  the  banks  of  Loire, 
Of  yore,  at  close  of  day  the  rustic  band 
Danced  to  the  roundelay.     In  younger  years 


As  oft  I  glided  down  the  silver  stream, 
Frequent  upon  the  lifted  oar  I  paused. 
Listening  the  sound  of  far-off  merriment. 
There  wave  tlie  hostile  banners  !  martial  Maid, 
Give  thou  tiie  signal !  — let  us  fall  upon 
These  merciless  invaders,  who  have  sack'd 
Village  and  town,  and  made  the  handet  haunts 
Silent,  or  hearing  but  the  widow's  groan. 
Give  but  the  signal,  Maiden  !  " 

Her  dark  eye 
Fix'd  sadly  on  the  foe,  the  holy  Maid 
Answer'd  liim  ;  "  Ere  the  avenging  sword  be  drawn, 
And  slaughter  be  let  loose,  befits  us  send 
Some  peaceful  messenger,  who  shall  iriake  known 
The  will  of  Heaven :  so  timely  warn'd,  our  foes 
Haply  may  yet  repent,  and  quit  in  peace 
Besieged  Orleans,  for  I  fain  would  spare 
The  bloody  price  of  victory." 

So  she  said  ; 
And  as  she  spake,  a  soldier  from  the  ranks 
Came  forward.     "  I  will  be  thy  messenger, 

0  Proplietess  I  and  to  the  English  camp 
Will  bear  thy  bidding." 

"  Go,"  the  Virgin  cried; 
"  Say  to  the  Lord  of  Salisbury,  and  the  chiefs 
Of  England,  Suffolk,  Fastolfte,  Talbot,  Scales, 
Invaders  of  the  country,  say,  thus  says 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  :  '  With  your  troops  retire 
In  peace.     Of  every  captured  town  the  keys 
Restore  to  Charles  ;  so  bloodless  you  may  seek 
Your  native  island  ;  for  the  God  of  Hosts 
Thus  hath  decreed.     To  Charles  the  rightful  heir. 
By  long  descent  and  by  the  willing  choice 
Of  duteous  subjects,  hath  the  Lord  assign'd 
The  kingdom.     In  His  name  the  Virgin  comes 
Arm'd  with  the  sword,  yet  not  of  mercy  void. 
Depart  in  peace  :  for  ere  the  morrow  dawns, 
Victorious  upon  yonder  wall  shall  wave 
Her  holy  banner.'  "     To  the  English  camp 
Fearless  the  herald  went. 

At  mid-day  meal, 
With  all  the  dissonance  of  boisterous  mirth, 
The  British  chiefs  caroused  and  quafTd  the  bowl. 
When  by  the  sentinel  conducted  there 
The  Maiden's  herald  came. 

'■  Chiefs,"  he  began, 
"  Salisbury,  and  ye  the  representatives 
Of  the  English  King,  usurper  of  this  realm, 
To  ye  the  leaders  of  the  English  host 

1  come,  no  welcome  messenger.     Thus  saith 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  :  'With  your  troops  retire 
In  peace.     Of  every  captured  town  the  keys 
Restore  to  Charles ;  so  bloodless  you  may  seek 
Your  native  island;  for  the  God  of  Hosts 

Thus  hath  decreed.     To  Charles  the  rightful  heir, 
By  long  descent  and  by  the  willing  choice 
Of  duteous  subjects,  hath  the  Lord  assign'd 
The  kingdom.     In  His  name  the  Virgin  comes, 
Arm'd  with  the  sword,  yet  not  of  mercy  void. 
Depart  in  peace  :  for  ere  the  morrow  dawns, 
Victorious  upon  j'onder  wall  shall  wave 
Her  holy  banner.'  " 

Wonder  made  a  pause ; 
Tothisalaugii  succeeds.  "  What !  "  FastolfFe  cried, 
"  A  virgin  warrior  hath  vour  monarch  sent 


3(3 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    VI. 


To  save  devoted  Orleans  ?     By  the  rood, 
1  thank  Ills  grace.     If  she  be  young  and  fair, 
No  worthless  prize,  my  lords  !  Go,  tell  your  Maid, 
Joyful  wo  wait  her  coming." 

There  was  one 
Among  the  English  chiefs  who  had  grown  old 
In  arms,  yet  had  not  age  unnerved  his  limbs, 
But  from  the  flexile  nimbleness  of  youth 
To  unyielding  stiffness  braced  them.    One  who  saw 
Him  seated  at  the  board,  might  well  have  deem'd 
That  Talbot  with  his  whole  collected  might 
Wielded  the  sword  in  war,  for  on  his  neck 
The  veins  were  full,'"-'  and  every  muscle  bore 
Th(!  character  of  strength.     He  his  stern  eye 
Fix'd  on  the  herald,  and  before  he  spake 
His  silence  threaten'd.'"* 

"  Get  thee  gone  !  "  exclaim'd 
The  indignant  chief:  "away  !  nor  think  to  scare 
With  girlish  phantasies  the  English  host 
That  scorns  your  bravest  warriors.  Hie  thee  thence, 
And  tell  this  girl  she  may  expect  to  meet 
The  mockery  of  the  camp  !  " 

"  Nay,  scare  her  not," 
Replied  their  chief:  "  go,  tell  this  Maid  of  Orleans, 
That  Salisbury  longs  to  meet  her  in  the  fight. 
Nor  let  her  fear  that  cords  or  iron  chains 
Shall  gall  her  tender  limbs  ;  for  1  myself 

Will  be  her  prison,  and " 

"  Contemptuous  man ! 
No  more  I  "  the  herald  cried,  as  to  his  cheek 
Rush'd  the  red  anger  :  "  bearing  words  of  peace 
And  timely  warning  came  1  to  your  camp  ; 
And  here  have  been  with  insolent  ribaldry 
Received.      Bear    witness,    chieftains !    that    the 

French, 
Free  from  blood-guiltiness,  shall  meet  the  war." 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  "  cried  Suffolk,  and  his  eye 
Grew  fierce  and  wrath-inflamed  :  "  What  fool  art 

thou, 
Who  at  this  woman's  bidding  comest  to  brave 
The  host  of  England  ?  Thou  shalt  have  thy  meed  !  " 
Then  turning  to  the  sentinel  he  cried, 
"  Prepare  a  stake  !  and  let  the  men  of  Orleans, 
And  let  this  woman  who  believes  her  name 
May  privilege  her  herald,  see  the  fire 
Consume  him.'°^    Plant  a  stake  1  for  by  my  God 
He  shall  be  kalendared  of  this  new  faith 
First  martyr." 

As  he  spake,  a  sudden  flush 
Came  o'er  the  herald's  cheek,  and  his  heart  beat 
With  quicker  action;  but  the  sudden  flush. 
Nature's  instinctive  impulse,  faded  soon 
To  such  a  steady  hue  as  spake  the  soul 
Roused  up  with  all  its  powers,  and  unsubdued, 
And    strengthen'd    for   endurance.    Tlirouo-h   the 

camp. 
Soon  as  the  tidings  spread,  a  shout  arose, 
A  hideous  shout,  more  savage  than  the  howl 
Of  midnight  wolves,  around  him  as  they  throno-'d, 
To  gaze  upon  their  victim.     He  pass'd  on  ; 
/Vnd  as  they  led  him  to  the  appointed  place 
Look'd  round,  as  though  forgetful  of  himself, 
And  cried  aloud,  "  Oh  !  woe  it  is  to  think 
So  many  men  shall  never  see  the  sun 


Go  down  !     Ye  Englisli  mothers,  mourn  ye  now  ! 
Daughters  of  England,  weep  !  for,  hard  of  heart. 
Still  your  mad  leaders  urge  this  impious  war  ; 
And  for  their  folly  and  their  wickedness, 
Your  sons,  your  husbands,  by  the  sword  must  fall. 
Long-sufft-ring  is  the  Lord,  and  slow  to  wrath. 
But  heavy  are  his  judgments  !  " 

He  who  spake 
Was  young  and  comely  ;  had  his  cheek  been  pale 
With  dread,  and  had  his  eye  look'd  fearl'uUy, 
Sure  he  had  won  compassion ;  but  the  blood 
Gave  now  a  livelier  meaning  to  his  cheek. 
As  witli  a  prophet's  look  and  prophet's  voice 
He  raised  his  ominous  warning :  they  who  heard 
Wonder'd,  and  they  who  rear'd  the  stake  perform'd 
With  half-unwilling  liands  their  slacken'd  toil, 
And  doubted  what  might  follow. 

Not  unseen 
Rear'd  they  the  stake,  and  piled  around  the  wood; 
In  sight  of  Orleans  and  the  Maiden's  host,'°^ 
Had  Suff"olk's  arrogant  fierceness  bade  the  work 
Of  death  be  done.     The  Maiden's  host  beheld  ; 
At  once  in  eager  wrath  they  raised  the  loud 
And  general  clamor,  "  Lead  us  to  the  foe  !  " 
"  Not  upon  us,  O  God  !  "  the  Maid  exclaim'd, 
"  Not  upon  us  cry  out  the  innocent  blood  !  " 
And  bade  the  signal  sound.     In  the  English  camp 
The  clarion  and  the  trumpet's  blare  was  heard ; 
In  haste  they  seize  their  arms,  in  haste  they  form. 
Some  by  bold  words  seeking  to  hide  their  fear 
Even  from  themselves,  some  silently  in  prayer. 
For  much  their  hearts  misgave  them. 

But  the  rage 
Of   Suffolk    swell'd   within    him.     "  Speed  your 

work ! ' ' 
Exclaim'd  the  injurious  earl ;  "  kindle  the  pile. 
That  France  may  see  the  fire,  and  in  defeat 
Feel  aggravated  shame  I ' ' 

And  now  they  bound 
The  herald  to  the  stake  :  he  cried  aloud. 
And  fix'd  his  eye  on  Sufl"olk,  "  Let  not  him 
Who  girdeth  on  his  harness  boast  himself 
As  he  that  puts  it  oft'!  ""  They  come;  they  come  ! 
God  and  the  Maid !  " 

The  host  of  France  approach'd. 
And  Suff'olk  eagerly  beheld  the  fire 
Brought  near  the  pile ;  when  suddenly  a  shout 
Toward  Orleans  call'd  his  eye,  and  thence  he  saw 
A  man-at-arms  upon  a  barded  steed 
Come  thundering  on. 

As  when  Chederles  comes  '"* 
To  aid  the  Moslem  on  his  deathless  horse, 
Swaying  the  sword  with  such  resistless  arm, 
Such  mightiest  force,  as  he  had  newly  quaff"d 
The  hidden  waters  of  eternal  youth. 
Till  with  the  copious  draught  of  life  and  strength 
Inebriate  ;  such,  fo  fierce,  so  terrible, 
Came  Conrade  through  the  camp.     Aright,  alefl, 
The  affrighted  foemen  scatter  from  his  spear; 
Onward  he  comes,  and  now  the  circling  throng 
Fly  from  the  stake,  and  now  he  checks  his  course. 
And  cuts  the  herald's  bonds,  and  bids  him  live 
To  arm,  and  fight,  and  conquer. 

"Haste  thee  hence 
To  Orleans,"  cried  the  warrior.     "Tell  the  chiefs 


BOOK    VI. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


37 


riiero  is  confusion  in  the  English  camp. 

Bill  them  come  forth."     On  Conrade's  steed  the 

yotitli 
Leapt  up,  and  hastened  onward,     lie  the  while 
Turu'd  to  the  war. 

Like  two  conflicting  cloud.s, 
Pregnant  with  thunder,  moved  the  hostile  hosts. 
Then  man  met  man,  then  on  the  batter'd  shield 
Rung  the  loud  lance,  and  through  the  darken'd  sky 
Kast  It'll  the  arrowy  storm.     Amid  his  foes 
The  Bastard's  arm  dealt  irresistibly 
The  strokes  of  death;  and  by  his  side  the  Maid 
Led  the  fierce  fight,  the  Maid,  though  all  unused 
To  such  rude  conflict,  now  inspired  by  Heaven, 
Flashing  her  flamy  falchion  through  the  troops, 
That  like  the  thunderbolt,  where'er  it  fell, 
Scatter'd  the  trembling  ranks.     The  Saracen, 
Though  arm'd  from  Cashbin  or  Damascus,  wields 
A  w^eaker  sword ;  nor  might  that  magic  blade 
Compare  with  this,  which  Oriana  saw 
Flame  in  the  ruffian  Ardans  robber  hand, 
Wlien,  sick  and  cold  as  death,  she  turn'd  away 
Her  dizzy  eyes,  lest  they  should  see  the  fall 
Of  her  own  Amadis.     Nor  plated  shield. 
Nor  the  strong  hauberk,  nor  the  crested  casque, 
Stay  that  descending  sword.     Dreadful  she  moved 
Like  as  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  went  forth 
And  smote  his  army,  when  the  As.'iyrlan  king. 
Haughty  of  Hamath  and  Sepharvaim  lallen. 
Blasphemed  the  God  of  Israel. 

Yet  the  fight 
Hung  doubtful,  where  exampling  hardiest  deeds, 
Salisbury  struck  dou  n  the  foe,  and  Fastolffe  strove, 
And  in  the  hottest  doings  of  the  war 
Towered  Talbot.     He,  remembering  the  past  day 
When  from  his  name  the  affrighted  sons  of  France 
Fled  trembling,  all  astonish'd  at  their  force 
And  wontless  valor,  rages  round  the  field 
Dreadful  in  anger ;  yet  in  every  man 
Meeting  a  foe  fearless,  and  in  the  faith 
Of  Heaven's  assistance  firm. 

The  clang  of  arms 
Reaches  the  walls  of  Orleans.    For  the  war 
Prepared,  and  confident  of  victory, 
Forth  speed  the  troops.     Not  when  afar  exhaled 
The  hungry  raven  snuffs  the  steam  of  blood 
That  from  some  carcass-cover' d  field  of  fame 
Taints  the  pure  air,  flies  he  more  eagerly 
To  feed  upon  the  slain,  than  the  Orleanites, 
Impatient  now  for  many  an  ill  endured 
In  the  long  siege,  to  wreak  upon  their  foes 
Due  vengeance.    Then  more  fearful  grew  the  fray  ; 
The  swords  that  late  flash'd  to  the  evening  sun'"* 
Now  quench'd  in  blood  their  radiance. 

O'er  the  host 
Howl'd  a  deep  wind  that  ominous  of  storms 
RoU'd  on  the  lurid  clouds.     The  blacken'd  night 
Frown'd,  and  the  thunder  from  the  troubled  sky 
Roar'd    hollow.      Javelins    clasli'd   and   bucklers 

rang; 
Shield  prest  on  shield ;  loud  on  the  helmet  jarr'd 
The  ponderous  battle-axe ;  the  frequent  groan 
Of  death  commingling  with  the  storm  was  heard, 
And  the  shrill  shriek  of  fear.     Even  such  a  storm 
Before  the  walls  of  Chartres  quell'd  the  pride 


Of  the  third  Edward,  when  the  heavy  hail 
Smote  down  his  soldiers,  and  the  conqueror  heard 
God  in  the  tempest,  and  remembered  then 
With  a  remorseful  sense  of  Christian  fear 
What  misery  he  had  caused,  and  in  the  name 
Of  blessed  Mary  vowed  a  vow  of  peace."" 

Lo  !  where  the  holy  banner  waved  aloft, 
The  lambent  lightnings  play.     Irradiate  round. 
As  vv'ith  a  blaze  of  glory,  o'er  the  field 
It  strcam'd  miraculous  splendor.  Then  their  hearts 
Sunk,  and  the  English  trembled;  with  such  fear 
Possess'd,  as  when  the  Canaanites  beheld 
The  sun  stand  still  on  Gibeon,  at  the  voice 
Of  that  king-conquering  warrior,  he  who  smote 
The  country  of  the  hills,  and  of  the  south, 
From  Baal-gad  to  Halak.  and  their  chiefs. 
Even  as  the  Lord  commanded.     Swift  they  fled 
From  that  portentous  banner,  and  the  sword 
Of  France ;  though  Talbot  witli  vain  valiancy 
Yet  urged  the  war,  and  stcmm'd  alone  the  tide 
Of  battle.     Even  their  leaders  felt  dismay  ; 
Fastolffe  fled  first,  and  Salisbury  in  the  rout 
Mingled,  and  all  impatient  of  defeat. 
Borne  backward  Talbot  turns.     Then  echoed  loud 
The  cry  of  conquest,  deeper  grew  the  storm, 
And  darkness,  hovering  o'er  on  raven  wing. 
Brooded  the  field  of  death. 

Nor  in  the  camp 
Deem  themselves  safe  the  trembling  fugitives ; 
On  to  the  forts  they  haste.     Bewilder'd  there 
Amid  the  moats  by  fear  and  the  thick  gloom 
Of  more  than  midnight  darkness,  plunge  the  troops, 
Crush'd  by  fast-following  numbers,  who  partake 
The  death  they  give.    As  swol'n  with  vernal  snows 
A  mountain  torrent  hurries  on  its  way, 
Till  at  the  brink  of  some  abrupt  descent 
Arrived,  with  deafening  clamor  down  it  falls, 
Thus  borne  along,  tumultuously  the  troops 
Driven  b}'  the  force  behind  them,  plunge  amid 
The  liquid  death.     Then  rose  the  dreadful  cries 
More  dreadful,  and  the  dash  of  breaking  waters 
That  to  the  passing  lightning  as  they  broke 
Open'd  their  depth. 

Nor  of  the  host  so  late 
Exultant  in  the  pride  of  long  success, 
A  remnant  had  escaped,  had  not  their  chief, 
Slow  as  he  moved  unwilling  from  the  field, 
What  most  might  profit  the  defeated  ranks 
Bethought  him.     He,  when  he  had  gain'd  the  fort 
Named  from  St.  John,  there  kindled  up  on  high 
The  guiding  fire.     Not  unobserved  it  rose  ; 
The  watchful  guards  on  Tournelles,  and  the  pile 
Of  that  proud  city  in  remembrance  fond 
Call'd  London,  light  their  beacons.     Soon  the  fires 
Flame  on  the  summit  of  the  circling  forts, 
Which,  with  their  moats  and  crenellated  walls, 
Included  Orleans.     Far  across  the  plain 
They  cast  a  lurid  splendor  ;  to  the  troops 
Grateful,  as  to  the  way-worn  traveller, 
Wandering  with  parch'd  feet  o'er  Arabian  sands, 
The  far-seen  cistern  ;  he  for  many  a  league 
Travelling  the  trackless  desolate,  wliere  heaved 
With  tempest  swell  the  desert  billows  round, 
Pauses,  and  shudders  at  his  perils  past, 


38 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    VII. 


Tlien  wild  with  joy  speeds  on  to  taste  tlie  wave 
So  long  bewa'l'd. 

Swift  as  the  affriirhted  herd 
Scud  o'er  the  plain,  wlion  rattling  thunder-cracks 
Upon  the  bolted  lightning-  follow  close, 
TJio  Enollsh  hasten  to  their  shelterino-  torts. 
Even  there  of  safety  doubtful,  still  apjiall'd 
And  trembling,  as  the  pilgrim  who  by  night 
On  his  way  wilder'd,  to  the  wolf's  deep  howl 
J  tears  the  wood  echo,  when  from  close  pursuit 
Escaped,  the  topmost  branch  of  some  tall  tree 
He  grasps  close  clinging,  still  of  the  wild  beast 
Fearful,  his  teeth  jar,  and  the  cold  sweat  stands 
Upon  his  clajuniy  limbs. 

Nor  now  the  Maid 
Greedy  of  vengeance  presses  the  pursuit. 
She  bids  the  trumpet  of  retreat  resound; 
A  welcome  note  to  the  affrighted  foe 
Ulew  that  loud  blast,  whereat  obediently 
The  French,  though  eager  on  the  invaders'  heads 
To  wreak  their  wrath,  stay  the  victorious  sword. 

Loud  is  the  cry  of  conquest  as  they  turn 
To  Orleans.     There  what  few  to  guard  the  town 
Unwilling  had  remain' d,  haste  forth  to  meet 
The  triumph.     Many  a  blazing  torch  they  held, 
Which  raised  aloft  amid  the  midnight  storm 
Flash'd  far  a  festive  light.     The  Maid  advanced ; 
Deep     through     the    sky    the     hollow    thunders 

roird;>" 
Innocuous  lightnings  round  the  hallowed  banner 
"Wrcath'd  their  red  radiance. 

Through  the  city  gate 
Then,  as  the  laden  convoy  pass'd,  was  heard 
The  shout  of  exultation  ;  and  such  joy 
The  men  of  Orleans  at  that  welcome  sight 
Possess'd,  as  when  from  Bactria  late  subdued. 
The  mighty  Macedonian  led  his  troops 
Amid  the  Sogdian  desert,  where  no  stream 
Wastes  on  the  wild  its  fertilizing  waves, 
Fearful  alike  to  pause,  or  to  proceed ; 
Scorch'd  by  the  sun,  that  o'er  their  morning  march 
Steam'd  his  hot  vapors,  heart-subdued  and  faint; 
Such  joy  as  then  they  felt,  when  from  the  heights 
Burst  the  soul-gladdening  sound,  for  thence    was 

seen 
The  evening  sun  silvering  the  fertile  vale. 
Where  Oxus  roll'd  below. 

Clamors  of  joy 
Echo  along  the  streets  of  Orleans,  wont 
Long  time  to  hear  the  infant's  feeble  cry, 
The  mother's  frantic  shriek,  or  the  dread  sou.'.d. 
When  from  the  cannon  burst  its  stores  of  death. 
Far  flames  the  fire  of  joy  on  ruin'd  piles 
And  high  lieap'd  carcasses,  whence  scared  away 
P\-om  his  abhorred  meal,  on  clatterinjr  wintr 
Rose  the  night-raven  slow. 

Ill  the  English  forts 
Sad  was  the  scene.     There  all  the  livelong  night 
Steal  in  the  straggling  fugitives ;  as  when 
Past  is  the  storm,  and  o'er  the  azure  sky 
Serenely  shines  the  sun,  with  every  breeze 
The  waving  branches  drop  their  gather'd  rain. 
Renewing  the  remembrance  of  the  storm. 


THE   SEVENTH  BOOK. 

Strong  were  the  English  forts, '"'  by  daily  toil 
Of  thousands  rear'd  on  high,  when  to  insure 
His  meditated  conquest  Salisbury 
Resolved  from  Orleans  to  shut  out  all  means 
Of  human  succor.     Round  the  city  stretch'd 
Their  line  continuous,  massy  as  the  wall 
Erst  by  the  fearful  Roman  on  the  bounds 
Of  Caledonia  raised,  when  soul-enslaved 
The  race  degenerate  fear'd  the  car-borne  chiefs 
Who  moved  from  Morven  down. 

Broad  battlements 
Crested  the  bulwark,  and  safe  standing  place 
For  archer  or  for  man-at-arms  was  there. 
The  frequent  buttress  at  just  distance  rose 
Declining  from  its  base,  and  sixty  forts 
Seem'd  in  their  strength  to  render  all  secure. 
But  loftier  and  massier  than  the  rest, 
As  though  of  some  large  castle  each  the  keep, 
Stood  six  square  fortresses  with  turrets  flank'd, 
Piles  of  unequall'd  strength,  though  now  deem'd 

weak 
"Gainst  puissance  more  than  mortal.    Safelj-  thence 
The  skilful  bowman,  entering  with  his  eye  "^ 
The  city,  might,  himself  the  while  unseen. 
Through  the  long  opening  aim  his  winged  deaths. 
Loire's  waves  diverted  fill'd  the  deep-dug  moat 
Circling  the  whole  ;  a  bulwark  vast  it  was 
As  that  which  round  their  camp  and  stranded  ships 
The  Achaians  raised,  a  common  sepulchre 
Of  thousands  slaughter'd,  and  the   doom'd  death- 
place 
Of  many  a  chief,  when  Priam's  virtuous  son 
Assail'd  them,  then  in  hope,  with  favoring  Jove 

But  cowering  now  amid  their  sheltering  forts 
Trembled  the  invading  host.     Their  leader's  care 
In  anxious  vigilance  prepares  to  ward 
I'he  assault  expected.     Rightly  he  ared 
The  Maid's  intent,  but  vamly  did  he  seek 
To  kindle  in  their  breasts  the  wonted  flame 
Of  valor,  for,  by  prodigies  unmann'd. 
They  wait  the    morn.     The   soldiers'    pride    waf 

gone ; 
The  blood  was  on  their  swords,  their  bucklers  lay 
Defiled  and  unrepair'd,"^  they  sharpen'd  not 
Their  blunted  spears,  the  affrighted  archer's  hand 
Relax'd  not  his  bent  bow.     To  them,  confused 
With  fears  of  unknown  danger,  the  long  night 
Was  dreadful,  but  more  dreadful  dawn'd  the  day 

The  morning  came  ;  the  martial  Maid  arose  ; 
Lovely  in  arms  she  moved.     Around  the  gate, 
Eao-er  again  for  conquest,  throng  the  troops. 
High  tower'd  the  Son  of  Orleans,  in  his  strength 
Poising  the  ponderous  spear.     His  batter'd  shield, 
Witnessing  the  fierce  fray  of  yesternight. 
Hung  on  his  sinewy  arm. 

"  Maiden  of  Arc," 
So  as  he  spake  approaching,  cried  the  chief, 
"  Well  hast  thou  proved  thy  mission,  as  by  words 
And  miracles  attested  when  dismay'd 
The  (Trave  theoloo-ists  dismiss'd  their  doubts. 


BOOK    VII. 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


39 


So  in  the  field  of  battle  now  confirni'd. 
You  well-fenced  forts  protect  the  fugitives, 
And  seem  as  in  their  strength  they  niock'd  our  force. 
Yet  must  liiey  fall." 

"  And  fall  they  shall  !  "  replied 
The  Maid  of  Orleans.     "  Ere  the  sun  he  set 
The  lily  on  that  shattered  wall  shall  wave 
Triumphant.  —  Men  of  France  !  ye  have  fought 

well 
On  yon  blood-recking  plain.     Y'our  humbled  foes 
Lurk  trembling  now  behind  their  massy  walls. 
Wolves  that  have  ravaged  the  neglected  flock  ! 
The  Shepherd  —  the  Great  Shepherd  is  arisen  ! 
Y"e  fly  !  yet  shall  not  ye  by  flight  escape 
Ills  vengeance.     Men  of  Orleans  !  it  were  vain 
By  words  to  waken  wrath  within  your  breasts. 
Look    round  !    Your    holy    buildings    and    your 

homes  — 
Ruins  that  choke  the  way  !  your  populous  town  — 
One  open  sepulchre  !  who  is  there  here 
That  does  not  mourn  a  friend,  a  brother  slain, 
A  parent  famished,  —  or  his  dear,  loved  wife 
Torn  from  his  bosom  — outcast  — broken-hearted  — 
Cast  on  the  mercy  of  mankind  .'  " 

She  ceased ; 
A  cry  of  indignation  from  the  host 
Burst  forth,  and  all  impatient  for  the  war 
Demand  the  signal.     These  Dunois  arrays 
In  four  battalions.     Xaintrailles,  tried  in  war, 
Commands  the  first;  Xaintrailles,  who  oftentimes 
Defeated,  oft  a  prisoner,  and  as  oft 
Released  for  ransom,  both  with  friend  and  foe 
Growing  repute  of  active  hardihood. 
And  martial  skill  obtained  ;  so  erst  from  earth 
Antajus  vaunting  in  his  giant  bulk, 
When  graspt  by  force  Herculean,  down  he  fell 
vanquished,  anon  uprose  more  fierce  for  war. 

Gaucour  the  second  battle  led,  true  friend 
And  faithful  servant  of  the  imprison'd  Duke  ; 
In  counsel  provident,  in  action  prompt, 
Collected  always,  always  self-controll'd. 
He  from  the  soldiers'  confidence  and  love 
Prompter  obedience  gain'd,  than  ever  fear 
Forced  from  the  heart  reluctant. 

The  third  band 
Aleni-on  leads.     On  Verneuil's  fatal  field 
The  day  when  Buchan  and  the  Douglas  died, 
Wounded  and  senseless  with  the  loss  of  blood. 
He  fell,  and  tliere  being  found,  was  borne  away 
A  prisoner,  in  the  ills  of  that  defeat 
Participant,  partaking  not  the  shame  : 
But  for  his  rank  and  high  desert,  the  King 
Had  ransomd  him,  doom'd  now  to  meet  the  foe 
With  better  fortune. 

O'er  the  last  presides 
Tiie  bastard  son  of  Orleans,  great  in  arms. 
His  prowess  knew  the  foes,  and  his  fair  fame 
Acknowledged,  since  before  his  stripling  arm 
Fled  Warwick;  Warwick,  he  whose  wide  renown 
Greece  knew,  and  Antioch,  and  the  holy  soil 
Of  Palestine,  since  there  in  arms  he  went 
On  gallant  pilgrimage  ;  yet  by  Dunois 
Baffied,  and  yielding  him  the  conqueror's  praise. 
And  by  his  side  the  martial  Maiden  pass'd, 


Lovely  in  arms,  as  that  Arcadian  boy 
ParthenopoBus,"-'  wlion  the  war  of  beasts 
Disdaining,  lie  to  cope  wilii  men  went  fortli, 
Bearing  the  bow  and  those  Dictajan  shafts 
Diana  gave,  when  she  the  youth's  fair  form 
Saw,  soften'd,  and  forgave  the  mother's  fault. 

Loup's  was  the  nearest  fort.       Here  Gladdis- 

dale  '•« 
Commands  the  English,  who  as  the  enemy 
Moved  to  the  assault,  from  bow  and  arbalist 
Their  shafts  and  quarrels  showered.     Nor  did  they 

use 
Hand-weapons  only  and  hand-engines  here, 
Nor  by  the  arm  alone,  or  bow-string  sped 
The  missile  flew,  but  driven  by  the  strain'd  force 
Of  the  balista,""  in  one  body  spent 
Stay 'd  not ;  through  arms  and  men  it  made  its  way, 
And  leaving  death  behind,  still  held  its  course 
By  many  a  death  unclogg'd.     With  rapid  march 
Onward  the  assailants  came  ;  and  now  they  reach'd 
W'hcre  by  the  bayle's  embattled  wall  "*  in  arms 
The  knights  of  England  stood.     I'here  Poynmgs 

shook 
His  lance,  and  Gladdisdale  his  heavy  mace. 
For  the  death-blow  prepared.     Alenc-on  here, 
And  here  the  Bastard  came,  and  by  the  Maid, 
That  daring  man  who  to  the  English  host, 
Then  insolent  of  many  a  conquest  gain'd. 
Had  borne  her  bidding.     A  rude  coat  of  mail, 
Unhosed,  unhooded,  as  of  lowly  line,"" 
He  wore,  though  here,  amid  the  high-born  chiefs 
Preeminent  for  prowess.     On  his  head 
A  black  plume  shadow'd  the  rude-featured  helm.'*''' 
Then  was  the  war  of  men,  when  front  to  front 
They  rear'd  the  hostile  hand,  for  low  the  wall 
Where  an  assailant's  upvi'ard-driven  spear 
Might  reach  his  enemy. 

As  Alenron  moved. 
On  his  crown-crested  helm'-'  with  ponderous  blow 
Fell  Gladdisdale's  huge  mace.     Back  he  recoil'd 
Astounded ;  soon  recovering,  his  sharp  lance 
Thrust  on  the  warrior's  shield  :  there  fast  infixed, 
Nor  could  Alen(,on  the  deep-driven  spear 
Recover,  nor  the  foeman  from  h\s  grasp 
Wrench  the  contended  weapon.     Fierce  again 
He  lifts  the  mace,  that  on  the  ashen  hilt 
Fell  full ;  it  shiver'd,  and  the  Frenchman  held 
A  pointless  truncheon.     Where  the  Bastard  fought, 
The  spear  of  Poynings,  through  his  plated  mail 
Pierced,  and  against  the  iron  fence  beneath'-' 
Blunted  its  point.     Again  he  thrust  the  spear ; 
At  once  Dunois  on  his  broad  buckler  met 
The  unharming  stroke,  and  aim'd  with  better  hap 
His  javelin.     Through  his  sword-arm  did  it  pierce 
Maugre  the  mail :  hot  from  the  streaming  wound 
He  pluck'd  the  weapon  forth,  and  in  his  breast 
Clean  through  the  hauberk  drove. 

But  there  the  war 
Raged  fiercest  where  the  martial  Maiden  moved 
A  minister  of  wrath  ;  for  thither  throng'd 
The  bravest  champions  of  the  adverse  host. 
And  on  her  either  side  two  warriors  stood 
Protecting  her,  and  aiming  at  her  foes 
Watchful  their  weapons,  of  themselves  the  while 


40 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    VII 


Little  regarding :  on  the  one  side  he 
Who  to  the  English  had  her  bidding  borne ; 
Firmly  he  stood,  untircd  and  undisniay'd, 
Tliougii  many  a  spear  against  his  burgonet 
Was  thrust,  and  on  his  arm  the  buckler  hung 
Heavy,  thick-bristled  with  tlio  hostile  shafts, 
Even  like  a  porcupine,  when  in  his  rage 
Roused,  he  collects  within  him  all  his  force, 
Himself  a  quiver.     On  the  other  hand, 
Competing  witli  him  to  protect  the  Maid, 
Conrade  maintain'd  the  fight ;  at  all  points  arm'd, 
A  jazerent  of  double  mail  he  wore  ; 
Its  weight  in  little  time  had  wearied  one 
Of  common  strength;  but  unencumber'd  he. 
And  unfatigued,  alertly  moved  in  it, 
And  wielded  with  both  hands  a  battle-axe. 
Which  gave  no  second  stroke  ;  for  where  it  fell, 
Not  the  strong  buckler  nor  the  plated  mail 
Might  save,  nor  crested  casque.     On  Molyn's  head. 
As  at  the  Maid  he  aim'd  his  javelin. 
Forceful  it  fell,  and  shiver'd  with  the  blow 
The  iron  helm,  and  to  his  brain-pan  drove 
The  fragments.     At  his  fall  the  enemy. 
Stricken  with  instantaneous  fear,  gave  way. 
That  instant  Conrade,  with  an  active  bound. 
Sprung  on  the  battlements ;  '2-'  and  tiiere  he  stood. 
Keeping  the  ascent.     The  herald  and  the  Maid 
Follow'd,  and  soon  the  exulting  cry  of  France 
Along  the  lists  was  heard,  as  there  they  saw 
Her  banner  planted.     Gladdisdale  beheld, 
And  hastened  from  his  well-defended  post, 
That  where  immediate  danger  more  required 
There  he  might  take  his  stand ;  against  the  Maid 
He  bent  his  way,  and  hoped  one  happy  blow 
Might  end  at  once  the  new-raised  hopes  of  France, 
And  by  her  death,  to  the  English  arms  their  old 
Ascendency  restore.     Nor  did  not  Joan 
Areed  his  purpose,  but  with  lifted  shield 
Prepared  she  stood,  and  poised  her  sparkling  spear. 
The  English  chief  came  on  ;  he  raised  his  mace  ; 
With  circling  force  the  iron  weight  swung  high,'-'' 
And  Gladdisdale  with  his  collected  strength 
Impell'd  the  blow.     The  man  of  lowly  line 
That  instant  rush'd  between,  and  rear'd  his  shield. 
And  met  the  broken  stroke,  and  thrust  his  lance 
Clean  through  the  gorget  of  the  English  knight. 
A  gallant  man,  of  no  ignoble  line. 
Was  Gladdisdale.     His  sires  had  lived  in  peace ; 
They  heap'd  the  hospitable  hearth,  they  spread 
The  feast,  their  vassals  loved  them,  and  afar 
The  traveller  told  their  fame.     In  peace  they  died. 
And  to  their  ancient  burial-place  were  borne 
With  book  and  bell,  torches,  and  funeral  chant; 
And  duly  for  their  souls  the  neighboring  monks 
The  solemn  office  sung.     Now  far  away 
Their  offspring  falls,  the  last  of  all  his  race, 
Slain  in  a  foreign  land,  and  doom'd  to  share 
A  common  grave. 

Then  terror  seized  the  host, 
Their  chieftain  dead.     And  lo  !  where  on  the  wall 
Maintain'd  of  late  by  Gladdisdale  so  well, 
The  Son  of  Orleans  stands,  and  sways  around 
His  falchion,  keeping  thus  at  bay  the  foe, 
Till  on  the  battlements  his  comrades  climb 
And  raise  tJ.e  shout  of  conquest.     Then  appall'd 


The  English  fled :  nor  fled  they  unpursued, 
For  mingling  with  the  foremost  fugitives. 
The  gallant  Conrade  rush'd ;  and  with  the  throng 
The  knights  of  France  together  o'er  the  bridge 
Press'd  forward.     Nor  the  garrison  within 
Durst  let  the  ponderous  portcullis  fall. 
For  in  the  entrance  of  tiie  fort  the  fight 
Raged  fiercely,  and  together  through  the  gate 
The  vancjuish'd  English  and  their  eager  foes 
Pass'd  in  the  flying  conflict. 

Well  I  deem 
And  wisely  did  the  heroic  Spaniard  act 
At  Vera  Cruz,  when  he  his  yet  sound  ships 
Dismantling,  left  no  spot  where  treacherous  fear 
Might  still  with  wild  and  wistful  eye  look  back 
For  knowing  no  retreat,  his  desperate  troops 
In  conquest  sought  their  safety  ;  victors  hence 
At  Tlascala,  and  o'er  the  Cholulans, 
And  by  Otompan,  on  that  bloody  field 
When  Mexico  her  patriot  thousands  pour'd, 
Fierce  in  vain  valor,  on  their  dreadiul  foes. 
There  was  a  portal  in  the  English  fort 
Which  open'd  on  the  wall ;  '^  a  speedier  path 
In  the  hour  of  safety,  whence  the  soldier's  eye 
Might  overlook  the  river's  pleasant  course. 
Fierce  in  the  gate-way  raged  the  deadly  war  ; 
For  there  the  Maiden  strove,  and  Conrade  there, 
And  he  of  lowly  line,  bravelier  than  whom 
Fought  not  in  that  day's  battle.     Of  success 
Desperate,  for  from  above  the  garrison 
(Lest  upon  friend  and  enemy  alike 
The  indiscriminating  blow  should  light) 
Could  give  no  aid,  the  English  of  that  way 
Bethought  them ;  by  that  egress  they  forsook 
St.  Loup's,  and  the  Orleanites  with  shouts  of  joy 
Beheld  the  Virgin's  banner  on  its  height 
In  triumph  planted.     Swift  along  the  wall 
The  English  haste  to  St.  John's  neighboring  fort, 
Flying  with  fearful  speed.     Nor  from  pursuit 
The  victors  ceased,  but  with  the  fugitives 
Mingled  and  waged  the  war ;  and  combatants, 
Lock'd  in  each  other's  grasp,  together  fell 
Precipitate. 

But  foremost  of  the  French, 
Dealing  destruction,  Conrade  made  his  way 
Along  the  wall,  and  to  the  nearest  fort 
Came  in  pursuit ;  nor  did  not  then  the  chief 
What  most  might  serve  bethink  him ;  but  he  took 
His  stand  in  the  portal,  and  first  looking  back, 
Lifted  his  voice  aloud ;  three  times  he  raised, 
Cheering  and  calling  on  his  countrymen, 
That  voice  o'er  all  the  uproar  heard  afar. 
Then  to  the  strife  addrest  himself,  assail' d 
By  numerous  foes,  who  clamorously  now 
Menaced  his  single  person.     He  the  while 
Stood  firm,  not  vainly  confident,  or  rash. 
But  in  his  vantage  more  than  his  own  strength 
Trusting ;  for  narrow  was  the  portal  way. 
To  one  alone  fit  passage,  from  above 
Not  overbrow'd  by  jutting  parapet,'-^ 
Whence  aught  might  crush  him.  He  in  double  mail 
Was  arm'd  ;  a  massy  burgonet,  well  tried 
In  many  a  hard-fought  field,  helming  his  head  • 
And  fenced  with  iron  plates,  a  buckler  broad 
Hung  from  his  neck.     Nor  to  dislodge  the  chief 


BOUK    VII. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


41 


Coulil  tlif  Kiiolisli  briiiirtlieiriuiiiibtTs,  for  tlio  way 

Bv  upward  steps  prosouteil  from  the  fort 

A  narrow  asoent,  wliere  one  alone  could  meet 

Tiie  war.     Yet  were  they  of  their  numbers  proud, 

Tliougli  useless  numbers  were  in  tiiat  strait  path, 

Save  by  assault  unceasing  to  outlast 

A  single  warrior,  who  at  length  must  sink 

Fatigued  with  slaughter,  and  by  toil  foredone 

Succumb. 

There  was  amid  tlie  garrison 
A  gallant  knight  who  at  Verneuil  had  fought, 
And  good  renown  for  feats  of  arms  achieved 
Had  gain'd  in  tliat  day's  victory.     For  him 
His  countrymen  made  way,  and  he  his  lance 
Thrust  upward  against  Conrade,  who  perceived 
The  intent,  and,  as  the  weapon  touch'd  his  shield. 
Smote  with  his  battle-axe  the  ashen  shaft ; 
Then  plucking  from  the  shield  the  severed  head. 
He  threw  it  back.'*^     With  wary  bend  the  foe 
Shrunk  from  the  flying  death ;  yet  not  in  vain 
From  that  strong  hand  the  fato-fraught  weapon  flew  : 
Full  on  the  corselet  of  a  meaner  man  '^ 
It  fell,  and  pierced  him  where  the  heaving  lungs, 
In  vital  play  distended,  to  the  heart 
Roll  back  their    brighten'd   tide :    from   the   deep 

wound 
The  red  blood  gush'd  ;  prone  on  the  steps  he  fell, 
And  in  the  strong,  convulsive  grasp  of  death 
Grasp'd  his  long  pike.     Of  unrecorded  name 
The  soldier  died ;  and  yet  he  left  behind 
One  who  then  never  said  her  daily  prayers 
Of  liim  forgetful ;  who  to  every  tale 
Of  the  distant  war  lending  an  eager  ear. 
Grew  pale  and  trembled.     At  her  cottage  door 
The  wretclied  one  shall  sit,  and  with  fix'd  eye 
Gaze  on  the  patli,  where  on  his  parting  steps 
Her  last  look  hung.     Nor  ever  shall  she  know 
Her  husband  dead,  but  cherishing  a  hope, 
Whose  falsehood  inwardly  she  knows  too  well. 
Feel  life  itself  with  that  false  hope  decay  ; 
And  wake  at  night  from  miserable  dreams 
Of  his  return,  and  weeping  o'er  her  babe, 
Too  surely  think  that  soon  tliat  fatherless  child 
Must  of  its  mother  also  be  bereft. 

Dropping  his  broken  spear,  the  exasperate  knight 
Drew  forth  the  sword,  and  up  the  steps  advanced. 
Like  one  who  disregarded  in  his  strength 
The  enemy's  vantage,  destined  to  abide 
That  rashness  dearly.     Conrade  stood  prepared. 
Held  forth  his  buckler,  and  his  battle-axe 
Uplifted.     Where  the  buckler  was  beneath 
Rounded,  the  falchion  struck,  a  bootless  blow 
To  pierce  its  plated  folds ;  more  forcefully 
Full  on  his  crested  helm  the  battle-axe 
Descended,  driving  in  both  crest  and  crown ; 
f>om  the  knight's  eyes,  at  that  death-stroke,  the 

blood 
Started  ;  with  blood  the  chambers  of  the  brain 
Were  fill'd;  his  breastplate  with  convulsive  throes 
Heaved  as  he  fell.     Victorious,  he  the  prize 
At  many  a  tournament  had  borne  away 
In  mimic  war  ;  happy,  if  so  content 
With  bloodless  glory,  he  had  never  left 
The  mansion  of  his  sires. 
6 


But  terrified 
The  Englisli  stood,  nor  durst  adventure  now 
Near  that  death-doing  foe.     Amid  their  host 
Was  one  who  well  could  from  the  stubborn  yew 
Send  his  sharp  shafts  ;  well  skill'd  in  wood-craft  he, 
Even  as  the  merry  outlaws  who  their  haunts 
In  Sherwood  held,  and  bade  their  bugles  rouse 
The  sleeping  stag,  ere  on  the  web-woven  grass 
The  dew-drops  sparkled  to  the  rising  sun. 
He  safe  in  distance  at  the  warrior  aim'd 
The  feather'd  dart ;  with  force  he  drew  tlie  bow ; 
Loud  on  his  bracer  struck  the  sounding  string, 
And  swift  and  strong  the  well-fledged  arrow  flew, 
it  pierced  the  shield,  and  reach'd,  but  reach'd  in  vain, 
Tlie  breastplate  :  while  he  fitted  to  the  bow 
A  second  arrow,  Conrade  raised  his  voice, 
Shouting  for  timely  succor  to  secure 
The  entrance  he  had  gain'd.     Nor  was  the  call 
Unheard,  nor  unobey'd  ;  responsive  shouts 
Announced  assistance  nigh  ;  the  Orloanites 
From  St.  Loup's  captured  fort  along  tlie  wall 
Sped  to  support  him ;  cheering  was  the  sound 
Of  their  near  footsteps  to  the  chief;  he  drew 
His  falchion  forth,  and  down  the  steps  he  went. 
Then  terror  seized  the  Englisli,  for  their  foes 
Press'd  through  the  open  portal,  and  the  sword 
Of  Conrade  was  among  them  making  way. 
Not  to  the  Trojans  when  their  ships  were  lost 
More  dreadful  the  R,utilian  hero  seern'd. 
Then  hoping  well  to  right  himself  in  arms  ; 
Nor  with  more  fury  through  the  streets  of  Paris 
Rush'd  the  fierce  king  of  Sarza,  Rodomont, 
Clad  in  his  dragon  mail. 

Like  some  tall  rock, 
Around  whose  billow-beaten  foot  the  waves 
Spend  their  vain  force,  unshaken  Conrade  stood, 
When,  drawing  courage  from  despair,  the  foe 
Renew'd  the  contest.  Through  the  throng  he  hew'd 
His  way  unhurt  amid  the  arrowy  shower. 
Though  on  his  shield  and  helm  the  darts  fell  fast, 
As  the  sear'd  leaves  that  from  the  tremblimr  tree 
The  autumnal  whirlwind  shakes.  Nor  did  he  pause 
Till  to  the  gate  he  came,  and  with  strong  hand 
Seized  on  the  massy  bolts.     These  as  he  drew, 
Full  on  his  helm  a  weighty  English  sword 
Descended ;  swift  he  turn'd  to  wreak  his  wrath. 
When  lo  I  the  assailant  gasping  on  the  ground. 
Cleft  by  the  Maiden's  falchion  :  she  herself 
To  the  foe  opposing  with  her  herald's  aid. 
For  they  alone,  following  the  adventurous  steps 
Of  Conrade,  still  kept  pace  as  he  advanced. 
Shielded  him  while  with  eager  hand  he  drew 
The  bolts :  the  gate  turn'd  slow ;  forth  leapt  the  chief. 
And  shiver'd  with  his  battle-axe  the  chains 
That  held  on  high  the  bridge  :  down  fell  the  brido-e 
Rebounding;  the  victorious  troops  rush'd  in; 
And  from  their  walls  the  Orloanites  with  shouts 
And  tears  of  joy  beheld  on  Fort  St.  John 
The  lilies  wave. 

"  On  to  Fort  London  !  on  !  " 
Cried   Conrade  ;    "  Xaintrailles !    while     the    day 

endures 
Once  more  advance  to  certain  victory  ! 
Force  ye  the  lists,  and  fill  the  moat,  and  bring 
The  battering-ram  against  their  gates  and  walls 


42 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK    VII 


Anon  I  shall  be  with  you.     Thus  he  said ; 
Then  to  the  damsel.     "Maid  of  Arc!  awhile 
Let  thou  and  I  withdraw,  and  by  short  rest 
Renew  our  strength."     So  saying  he  his  helm 
Unlaced,  and  in  the  Loire's  near  flowmg  stream 
Cool'd  his  hot  liicc.     The  Maid  her  liead  unhelm'd, 
And  stooping  to  the  stream,  reflected  there 
Saw  her  white  plumage  stain'd  with  human  blood  ! 
Sliuda.^ring  she  saw,  but  soon  her  steady  soul 
Collected  :  on  tlie  banks  she  laid  her  down, 
Freely  awhile  respiring,  for  her  breath 
Still  panted  from  the  fight :  silent  they  lay, 
And  gratefully  the  cooling  breezes  bathed 
Their  throbbing  temples. 

Eve  was  drawing  on  : 
The  sunbeams  on  the  gently-waving  stream 
Danced  sj)arkling.    Lost  in  tlioughtthe  warrior  lay  ; 
Then  as  if  wakening  from  a  dream  he  said, 
"  Maiden  of  Arc  !  at  such  an  hour  as  this. 
Beneath  the  o'erarching  forest's  checker'd  shade. 
With  that  lost  woman  have  I  wander'd  on, 
Talking  of  years  of  happiness  to  come  ! 
Oh  !  hours  forever  fled  !  delightful  hopes 
Of  the  unsuspecting  heart !  I  do  believe 
If  Agnes  on  a  worthier  one  had  fix'd 
Her  love,  that  though  ray  heart  had  nurst  till  death 
Its  sorrows,  I  had  never  on  her  choice 
Cast  one  upbraiding  —  but  to  stoop  to  him  I 
A  harlot !  —  an  adulteress  !  "  ^-^ 

In  his  eye 
Fierce  anger  flash'd ;  anon  of  what  she  was 
Ere  the  contagious  vices  of  tjie  court 
Polluted  her,  he  thought.     "  Oh,  happy  age  I " 
He  cried,  "  when  all  the  family  of  man 
Freely  enjoy'd  their  goodly  heritage, 
And  only  bow'd  the  knee  in  prayer  to  God  I 
Calm  flow'd  the  unruffled  stream  of  years  along. 
Till  o'er  the  peaceful  rustic's  head  the  hair 
Grew  gray  in  full  of  time.     Then  he  would  sit 
Beneath  the  coetaneous  oak,  while  round. 
Sons,  grandsons,  and  their  offspring  join'd  to  form 
The  blameless  merriment;  and  learnt  of  him 
What  time  to  yoke  the  oxen  to  the  plough, 
What  hollow  moanings  of  the  western  wind 
Foretell  the  storm,  and  in  what  lurid  clouds 
The  embryo  lightninglies.  Well  pleased,  he  taught, 
A  heart-smile  glowing  on  his  aged  cheek. 
Mild  as  the  summer  sun's  decaying  light. 
Thus  quietly  the  stream  of  life  flow'd  on. 
Till  in  the  shoreless  ocean  lost  at  length. 
Around  the  bed  of  death  his  numerous  race 
Listen'd,  in  no  unprofitable  grief. 
His  last  advice,  and  caught  his  latest  sigli  : 
And  when  he  died,  as  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
In  his  own  ground,  and  underneath  the  tree 
Which,  planted  at  his  birth,  with  him  had  grown. 
And  flourish'd  in  its  strength  when  he  decay'd, 
They  delved  the  narrow  house  :  where  oft  at  eve 
Their  children's  children  gathered  round  to  hear 
The  example  of  his  life  and  death  impress'd. 
Maiden  I  and  such  the  evening  of  my  days 
Fondly  I  hoped ;  and  would  that  I  had  lived 
In  those  old  times,'*'  or  till  some  better  age 
Slumber'd  unborn  ;  for  this  is  a  hard  race. 
An  evil  generation  ■  nor  by  day 


Nor  in  the  night  have  respite  from  their  cares 
And  wretchedness.     But  1  shall  be  at  rest 
Soon,  in  that  better  world  of  peace  and  love 
Where  evil  is  not :  in  that  better  world, 
Joan !  we  shall  meet,  and  he  too  will  be  there, 
Thy  Theodore." 

Soothed  by  his  words,  the  Maid 
Had  listen'd  sadly,  till  at  that  loved  name 
She  wept.    "  Nay,  Maid  !  "  he  cried, "  I  did  not  think 
To  wake  a  tear;  —  yet  pleasant  is  thy  grief  I 
Thou  know'st  not  what  it  is,  around  thy  heart 
To  have  a  false  one  wreathe  in  viper  folds. 
But  to  the  battle  !  in  the  clang  of  arms. 
We  win  forgetfulness." 

Then  from  the  bank 
He  sprung,  and  helm'd  his  head.     The  Maid  arose, 
Bidding  awhile  adieu  to  gentle  thoughts. 
On  to  the  fort  they  speed,  whose  name  recall'd 
England's  proud  capital  to  the  English  host, 
Now  half  subdued,  anticipating  death, 
And  vainly  wishing  they  from  her  white  cliffs 
Had  never  spread  the  sail.     Cold  terror  creeps 
Through  every  nerve  :  already  they  look  round 
With  haggard  eyes,  as  seeking  where  to  fly. 
Though  Talbot  there  presided,  with  their  chief, 
The  dauntless  Salisbury. 

'•  Soldiers,  tried  in  arms !  " 
Thus,  hoping  to  revive  with  gallant  speech 
Their  courage,  Salisbury  spake ;  "  Brave  country- 
men. 
Victorious  in  so  many  a  hard-fought  fight. 
What  —  shrink  ye  now  dismay 'd  .'     Oh  call  to  mind 
The  plains  of  Agincourt,  where  vanquish'd  France 
Fled  with  her  thousands  from  your  fathers'  arms  .' 
Have  ye  forgotten  how  our  English  swords,  - 
On  that  illustrious  day  before  Verneuil, 
Cut  down  the  flower  of  all  their  chivalry  .' 
Then  was  that  noble  heart  of  Douglas  pierced,'-" 
Bold  Buchan  bit  the  earth,  and  Narbonne  died. 
And  this  Alen(;on,  boaster  as  he  is. 
Cried  mercy  to  his  conqueror.     Shall  I  speak 
Of  our  victorious  banner  on  the  walls 
Of  Yenville  and  Baugenci  triumphing; 
And  of  that  later  hour  of  victory 
When  Clermont  and  the  Bastard  plied  their  spurs .' 
Shame  !  shame  !  that  beaten  boy  is  here  in  arms, 
And  ye  will  fly  before  the  fugitives,  — 
Fly  from  a  woman  !  from  a  frantic  girl ! 
Who  with  her  empty  mummeries  tries  to  blast 
Your  courage  ;  or  if  miracles  she  bring, 
Aid  of  the  Devil  I     Who  is  there  among  you 
False  to  his  country,  —  to  his  former  fame. 
To  your  old  leader  who  so  many  a  time 
Hath  led  ye  on  to  glory .'  " 

From  the  host 
There  came  a  heartless  shout;  then  Talbot's  cheek 
Grew  red  with  indignation.     "  Earl  1  "  said  he, 
Addressing  Salisbury,  "  there  is  no  hope 
From  these  white-liver'd  dastards,  and  this  fort 
Will  fall  an  easy  conquest.     We  must  out 
And  gain  the  Tournelles,  better  fortified. 
Fit  to  endure  a  siege  :  that  hope  in  view, 
Cow'd  as  they  are,  the  men  from  very  fear 
May  gather  what  will  do  for  this  poor  turn 
The  work  of  courage." 


BOOK    VII. 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


43 


Bravely  thus  he  spake, 
Advising  well,  and  Salisbury  replied  : 
"  Rightly  thou  say'st.    But,  Talbot,  could  we  reach 
The  sorceress  in  the  battle,  one  sure  blow 
Might  give  us  back,  this  hour,  the  mastery 
So  marvellously  lost :  nor  difiicult 
To  meet  the  wench,  for  from  the  battlements 
I  have  beheld  lier  foremost  in  attack. 
Playing  right  valiantly  the  soldier's  part. 
In  her  the  enemy  have  their  strength;    with  her 
Their  strength  would  fall.   And  had  we  her  butonce 
Within  arm-stroke,  witch  though  she  be,  methinks 
lier  devilry  could  neither  blunt  the  edge 
Of  thy  good  sword,  or  mine." 

Thus  communed  they. 
And  through  the  host  the  gladdening  tidings  ran, 
Tiiat  they  should  seek  the  Tournelles.     Then  their 

hearts 
Gather'd  new  strength,  placing  on  those  strong 

walls 
Dependence;  oh  vain  hope  !  for  neither  wall, 
Nor  moat,  nor  fort  can  save,  if  fear  within 
Palsy  the  soldier's  arm. 

Them  issuing  forth. 
As  from  the  river's  banks  they  pass'd  along. 
The  Maid  beheld     "  Lo  !  Conrade  !  "  she  exclaim'd, 
"  The  foe  advance  to  meet  us  —  look  !  they  lower 
The  bridge  !  and  now  they  rush  upon  the  troops  :  — 
A  gallant  onset !     Dost  thou  mark  the  man 
Who  all  tliis  day  has  by  our  side  endured 
The  hottest  conflict .'     Often  1  beheld 
His  feats  with  wonder,  but  his  prowess  now 
Makes  all  his  actions  in  the  former  fight 
Seem  as  of  no  account :  knowest  thou  him  .' 
There  is  not  one,  amid  the  liost  of  France, 
Of  fairer  promise." 

"He,"  the  chief  replied, 
"  Wretched  and  prodigal  of  life,  achieves 
The  exploits  of  despair ;  a  gallant  youth, 
Widow'd  like  me  of  hope,  and  but  for  whom 
I  had  been  seen  among  mankind  no  more. 
Maiden  !  with  me  thy  comrade  in  the  war. 
His  arm  is  vow'dto  heaven.    Lo  !  where  he  stands 
Bearing  the  battle's  brunt !  " 

Nor  paused  they  now 
In  further  converse,  to  the  perilous  fray 
Speeding,  not  unobserved  ;  for  Salisbury  saw 
And  call'd  on  Talbot.     Six,  the  bravest  knights. 
And  sworn  with  them,  against  the  Virgin's  life 
Address'd  their  course.     She  by  the  herald's  side 
Now  urged  the  war,  when  on  her  white-plumed  helm 
The  hostile  falchion  fell.     On  high  she  lifts 
That  hallowed  sword,  which  in  the  tomb  for  her 
Age  after  age,  by  miracle  reserved. 
Had  lain,  which  time  itself  could  not  corrode, 
How  then  might  shield,  or  breastplate,  or  close  mail 
Rotund  its  edge  ?     Beneath  that  edge  her  foe 
Fell ;  and  the  knight  who  to  avenge  him  came. 
Smitten  by  Conrade's  battle-axe,  was  fell'd 
L'pon  his  dying  friend.     With  Talbot  here 
The  daring  herald  urged  unequal  fight; 
For,  like  some  oak  that  in  its  rooted  strength 
Defies  the  storm,  the  undaunted  Earl  endured 
His  quick  assault.     The  herald  round  him  wheels 
Rapidlj',  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that. 


With  many  a  feign'd  and  many  a  frustrate  aim 

Flashing  his  falcliion  ;  now,  as  he  perceives 

With  wary  eye  the  Earl's  intended  stroke, 

Bending,  or  leaping,  lithe  of  limb,  aside. 

Then  quick  and  agile  in  assault  again. 

Ill-fated  man  !  one  deed  of  glory  more 

Shall    with    the   short-lived  lightning's   splendor 

grace 
This  thy  death-day  ;  for  Slait.iitf.r  even  now 
Stands  o'er  thy  loom  of  life,  and  lifts  his  sword. 

Upon  her  shield  the  martial  Maid  received 
An  English  warrior's  blow,  and  in  his  side. 
Beneath  the  arm  upraised,  in  prompt  return 
Pierced  him :  that  instant  Salisbury  sped  his  sword. 
Which,  glancing  from  her  helm,  fell  on  the  folds 
That  arm'd  her  neck,  and  making  there  its  way, 
Stain'd  with  her  blood  its  edge.     The  herald  saw, 
And  turn'd  from  Talbot,  heedless  of  himself, 
And  lifting  up  his  falchion,  all  his  force 
Concentred.     On  the  breast  of  Salisbury 
It  fell,  and  cleft  his  mail,  and  through  the  plat<» 
Beneath  it  drove,  and  in  his  heart's  blood  plunged. 
Lo  !  as  he  struck,  the  mighty  Talbot  came. 
And  smote  his  helmet :  slant  the  weapon  fell ; 
The  strings  gave  v/ay,  the  helmet  dropt,  the  Earl 
Repeated  on  that  head  disarm'd  his  blow  : 
Too  late  to  interpose  the  Maiden  saw. 
And  in  that  miserable  moment  knew 
Her  Theodore. 

Him  Conrade  too  had  seen. 
And  from  a  foe  whom  he  had  beaten  down 
Turn'd  terrible  in  vengeance.     Front  to  front 
They  stood,  and  each  for  the  death-blow  prepared 
His  ano-ry  might.     At  once  their  weapons  fell. 
The  Frenchman's  battle-axe  and  the  good  sword 
Of  Talbot.     He,  stunn'd  by  the  weighty  blow. 
Sunk  senseless,  by  his  followers  from  the  field 
Convey'd  with  timely  speed  :  nor  had  his  blade 
Fallen  vainly  on  the  Frenclunan's  crested  lielm. 
Though  weak  to  wound  ;  for  from  his  eyes  the  fire 
Sparkled,  and  back  recoiling  with  the  blow, 
He  in  the  Maiden's  arms  astounded  fell. 

But  now  their  troops,  all  captainless,  confused, 
Fear  seized  the  English.     Not  with  more  dismay. 
When  over  wild  Caft'raria's  wooded  hills 
Echoes  the  lion's  roar,  the  timid  herd 
Fly  the  death-boding  sound.     The  forts  they  seek, 
Now  reckless  which,  so  from  tliat  battle's  rage 
A  present  refuge.     On  their  flying  ranks 
The  victors  press,  and  mark  their  course  with  blood. 

But  loud  the  trumpet  of  retreat  resounds, 
For  now  the  westering  sun  with  many  a  hue 
Streak'd  the  gay  clouds. 

"  Dunois  !  "  the  Maiden  cried, 
"Form  now  around  yon  stronger  pile  the  siege. 
There  for  the  night  encamping."     So  she  said. 
The  chiefs  to  Orleans  for  their  needful  lood, 
And  enginery  to  batter  that  huge  pile, 
Dlsmlss'd  a  troop,  and  round  the  Tournelles  led 
The  host  beleaguering.  There  they  pitch  their  tents, 
And  plant  their  engines  for  the  morrow's  war, 
Then,  to  their  meal,  and  o'er  the  cheerful  bowl 


44 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK    VIII. 


Recount  the  talc  of  danger  ;  soon  to  rest 
Betaking  them ;  for  now  the  night  drew  on. 


THE   EIGHTH  BOOK. 

Now  was  the  noon  of  night,  and  all  was  still, 
Save  where  the  sentinel  paced  on  his  rounds 
Humming  a  broken  song.     Along  the  camp 
High  flames  the  frequent  fire.     The  Frenchmen 

there, 
On  the  bare  earth  extended,  rest  their  limbs 
Fatigued  ;  their  spears  lay  by  them,  and  the  shield 
Pillow'd  the  helmed  head  :  '^^  secure  they  slept, 
And  busy  in  their  dreams  they  fought  again 
The  fight  of  yesterday. 

But  not  to  Joan, 
But  not  to  her,  most  wretched,  came  thy  aid. 
Soother  of  sorrows.  Sleep!  no  more  her  pulse, 
Amid  the  battle's  tumult  throbbing  fast, 
Allow'd  no  pause  for  thought.    With  clasp'd  hands 

now 
And  with  fix'd  eyes  she  sat,  and  in  her  mind 
The  spectres  of  the  days  departed  rose, 
A  melancholy  train  !     Upon  the  gale 
The  raven's  croak  was  heard ;  she  started  then. 
And  passing  through  the  camp  with  hasty  step, 
She  sought  the  field  of  blood. 

The  niglit  was  calm  ; 
Nor  ever  clearer  welkin  canopied 
Chaldea,  while  the  watchful  shepherd's  eye 
Survey 'd  the  host  of  heaven,  and  mark'd  them  rise 
Successive,  and  successively  decay. 
Lost  in  the  stream  of  light,  as  lesser  springs 
Amid  Euphrates'  current.     The  high  wall 
Cast  a  deep  shadow,  and  the  Maiden's  feet 
Stumbled  o'er  carcasses  and  broken  arms  ; 
And  sometimes  did  she  hear  the  heavy  groan 
Of  one  yet  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death. 
She  reach'd  the  spot  where  Theodore  was  slain 
Before  Fort  London's  gate  ;  but  vainly  there 
Sought  she  the  youth,  on  every  clay-cold  face 
Gazing  with  such  a  look  as  though  she  fear'd 
The  thing  she  sought. '^■^  And  much  she  marvell'd 

then. 
For  there  the  victim  of  his  vengeful  arm. 
And  close  beside  where  he  himself  had  fallen, 
Known  by  the  buckler's  blazon'd  heraldry, 
Salisbury  lay  dead.     So  as  the  Virgin  stood 
Looking  around  the  plain,  she  mark'd  a  man 
Pass  slowly  on,  as  burden'd.     Him  to  aid 
She  sped,  and  soon  with  unencumber'd  speed 
O'ertaking,  thus  bespake  him  :  "Dost  thou  bear 
Some  slaughter' d friend.'  oris  itonewhose  wounds 
Leave  yet  a  hope  of  life  .'  oh  !  if  he  lives, 
1  will  with  earnest  prayer  petition  Heaven 
To  shed  its  healing  on  him  !  " 

So  she  said, 
And  as  she  spake  stretch'd  forth  her  careful  hands 
To  ease  the  burden.     "  Warrior  !  "  he  replied, 
"  Thanks  for  thy  proffer'd  aid  :  but  he  hath  ceased 
To  suffer,  and  my  strength  may  well  suffice 
To  bear  him  himce  for  burial.     Fare  thee  well ! 


The  night  is  far  advanced  ;  thou  to  the  camp 
Return  :  it  fits  not  darkling  thus  to  stray." 

"Conrade!"  the  Maid  exclaim'd,  for  well  she 

knew 
His  voice  :  —  With  that  she  fell  upon  his  neck 
And  cried,  "My  Theodore  !  —  But  wherefore  thus 
Through   the   dead   midnight   dost  thou  bear  his 

corse .' " 

"  Peace,  Maiden !  "  Conrade  cried,  "collect  thy 
soul ! 
He  is  but  gone  before  thee  to  that  world 
Whither  thou  soon  must  follow  !     Ycsiermorn, 
Ere  yet  from  Orleans  to  the  war  we  went. 
He  pour'd  his  tale  of  sorrow  on  mine  ear. 
'  Lo,  Conrade,  where  she  moves !  beloved  Maid  ! 
Devoted  for  the  realm  of  France  she  goes. 
Abandoning  for  this  the  joys  of  life, 
Yea — life  itself!     Yet  on  my  heart  her  words 
Vibrate.     If  she  must  perish  in  the  war, 
I  will  not  live  to  bear  tlie  thought  that  I 
Perhaps  might  have  preserved  her.     I  will  go 
In  secret  to  protect  her.     If  I  fall,  — 
And  trust  me  I  have  little  love  of  life, — 
Do  thou  in  secret  bear  me  from  the  field. 
Lest  haply  I  might  meet  her  wandering  eye 
A  mangled  corpse.     She  must  not  know  my  fate. 
Do  this  last  act  of  friendship,  and  in  the  stream 
Cast  me,  —  she  then  may  think  of  Theodore 
Without  a  pang.'     Maiden.  I  vow'd  with  him 
To  take  our  place  in  battle  by  thy  side. 
And  make  thy  safety  our  peculiar  care. 
And  now  I  hoped  thou  hadst  not  seen  him  fall.  " 

Saying  thus,  he  laid  the  body  on  the  ground. 
With  steady  eye  the  wretched  Maiden  view'd 
That  life-left  tenement :  his  batter'd  arms 
Were  with  the  night-dews  damp ;  his  brown  liair 

clung 
Gore-clotted  in  the  wound,  and  one  loose  lock 
Play'd  o'er  his  cheek's  black  paleness."^   "  Gallant 

youth  !  " 
She  cried,  "  1  would  to  God  the  hour  were  come 
When  I  might  meet  thee  in  the  bowers  of  bliss  1 
No,  Theodore  I  the  sport  of  winds  and  waves, 
Thy  body  shall  not  float  adown  the  stream  I 
Bear  him  with  me  to  Orleans,  there  to  rest 
In  holy  ground,  where  priests  may  say  their  prayers 
And  hymn  the  requiem  to  his  parted  soul. 
So  will  not  Elinor  in  bitterness 
Lament  that  no  dear  friend  to  her  dead  child 
Paid  the  last  office." 

From  the  earth  they  lift 
Their  mournful  burden,  and  along  the  plain 
Pass  with  slow  footsteps  to  the  city  gate. 
The  obedient  sentinel,  knowing  Conrade's  voice, 
Admits  them  at  that  hour,  and  on  they  go, 
Till  in  the  neighboring  abbey's  porch  arrived 
They  rest  the  lifeless  load. 

Loud  rings  the  bell , 
The  awaken'd  porter  turns  the  heavy  door. 
To  him  the  Virgin  :  "  Father,  from  the  slain 
On  yonder  field,  a  dear-loved  friend  we  bring 
Hither  for  Christian  sepulture  •  chant  ye 


BOOK    VIII. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


45 


Tlie  requiem  to  his  soul :  to-morrow  eve 
I  will  return,  and  in  tiie  narrow  house 
Will  see  him  laid  to  rest."     The  father  knew 
The  Prophetess,  and  humbly  bow'd  assent. 

.Now  from  the  city,  o'er  the  sh.adowy  plain, 
Backward    they    bend    their    way.     From   silent 

thoughts 
The  Maid  awakening  cried,  "There  was  a  time. 
When  thinking  on  my  closing  hour  of  life, 
Though  with  a  mind  resolved,  some  natural  fears 
Shook  my  weak  frame ;  but  now  the  happy  hour. 
When  this  emancipated  soul  shall  burst 
Tlie  cumbrous  fetters  of  mortality, 
1  look  for  wishfully.     Conrade  !  my  friend, 
This  wounded  heart  would  feel  another  pang 
Shouldst  thou  forsake  me." 

"  Joan  1  "  the  chief  replied, 
"  Along  the  weary  pilgrimage  of  life 
Together  will  we  journey,  and  beguile 
The  painful  way  with  hope,  —  such  hope  as,  fix'd 
On  heavenly  things,  brings  with  it  no  deceit, 
Lays  up  no  food  for  sorrow,  and  endures 
From  disappointment  safe." 

Thus  communing 
They  reach'd  the  camp,  yet  hush'd;  there  separating, 
Each  in  the  post  allotted  restless  waits 
The  day-break. 

Morning  came  :  dim  through  the  shade 
The    twilight    glimmers;    soon    the   brightening 

clouds 
Imbibe  the  rays,  and  o'er  the  landscape  spread 
The  dewy  light.     The  soldiers  from  the  earth 
Arise  invigorate,  and  each  his  food 
Receives,  impatient  to  renew  the  war. 
Dunois  his  javelin  to  the  Tournelles  points  — 
"  Soldiers  of  France  !  behold,  your  foes  are  there  !  " 
As  when  a  band  of  hunters,  round  the  den 
Of  some  wood-monster,  point  their  spears,  elate 
In  hope  of  conquest  and  the  future  feast. 
When  on  the  hospitable  board  their  spoil 
Shall  smoke,  and  they,  as  foaming  bowls  go  round. 
Tell  to  their  guests  their  exploits  in  the  chase. 
They  with  their  shouts  of  exultation  make 
The  forest  ring ;  so  elevate  of  heart. 
With  such  loud  clamors  for  the  fierce  assault 
The  French  prepare.     Nor,  keeping  now  the  lists 
Dare  the  disheartened  English  man  to  man 
Meet  the  close  conflict.     From  the  barbican,'^ 
Or  from  the  embattled  wall  '*^  at  random  they 
Their  arrows  and  their  death-fraught  enginery 
Discharged;    meantime   the   Frenchmen  did    not 

cease 
With  well-directed  shafts  their  loftier  foes 
To  assail :  behind  the  guardian  pavais  fenced,'^" 
They  at  the  battlements  their  arrows  aim'd, 
Showering  an  iron  storm,  whilst  o'er  the  bayle, 
The  bayle  now  levell'd  by  victorious  France, 
The  assailants  pass'd  with  all  their  mangonels  ;  '■'* 
Or  tortoises,'-"  beneath  whose  roofing  safe. 
They,  filling  the  deep  moat,  might  for  the  towers 
Make  fit  foundation  ;  or  with  petraries, 
War- wolves,  and  beugles,  and  that  murderous  sling 
The  matafund,  from  whence  the  ponderous  stone 
Made  but  one  wound  of  him  whom  in  its  way 


It  met ;  no  pious  hand  might  then  compose 
The  crush'd  and  mangled  corpse  to  be  conveyed 
To  where  his  fathers  slept :  a  dreadful  train  ''"* 
Prepared  by  Salisbury  o'er  the  town  besieged 
For  hurling  ruin  ;  but  that  dreadful  train 
Must  hurl  its  ruin  on  the  invader's  head  ; 
Such  retribution  rigliteous  Heaven  decreed. 

Nor  lie  the  English  trembling,  for  the  fort 
Was  ably  garrison'd.     Glacidas,  the  chief, 
A  gallant  man,  sped  on  from  place  to  place 
Cheering  the  brave  ;  or  if  an  archer's  hand. 
Palsied  with  fear,  shot  wide  his  ill-aim'd  shaft, 
Driving  him  from  the  ramparts  witli  reproach 
And  shame.     lie  bore  an  arbalist  himself, 
A  weapon  for  its  sure  destructivencss 
Abominated  once;"'"  wherefore  of  yore 
The  assembled  fathers  of  the  Christian  church 
Pronounced  the  man  accursed  whose  impious  hand 
Should  use  the  murderous  engine.     Such  decrees 
Befitted  them,  as  ministers  of  peace, 
To  promulgate,  and  with  a  warning  voice. 
To  cry  aloud  and  spare  not,  '  Woe  to  them 
Whose  hands  are  full  of  blood  ! ' 

An  English  king. 
The  lion-hearted  Richard,  their  decree 
First  broke,  and  rightly  was  he  doom'd  to  fall 
By  that  forbidden  weapon  ;  since  that  day 
Frequent' in  fields  of  battle,  and  from  far 
To  many  a  good  knight  bearing  his  death  wound 
From  hands  unknown.     With  such  an  instrument 
Arm'd  on  the  ramparts,  Glacidas  his  eye 
Cast  on  the  assailing  host.     A  keener  glance 
Darts  not  the  hawk  when  from  the  feather'd  tribe 
He  marks  his  prey. 

A  Frenchman  for  his  aim 
He  chose,  who  kneeling  by  the  trebuchet. 
Charged  its  long  sling  with  death. '^*  Him  Glacidas, 
Secure  behind  the  battlements,  beheld. 
And  strung  his  bow ;  then  bending  on  one  knee. 
He  in  the  groove  the  feather'd  quarrel  placed,'^^ 
And  levelling  with  sure  eye,  his  victim  mark'd. 
The  bow-string  twang'd,  swift  on  its  way  the  dart 
Whizz'd,  and  it  struck,  there  where  the  helmet's 

clasps 
Defend  the  neck  ;  a  weak  protection  now. 
For  through  the  tube  which  draw's  the  breath  of  life 
Pierced  the  keen  shaft ;  blood  down  the  unwonted 

way 
Gush'd  to  the  lungs  .  prone  fell  the  dying  man 
Grasping,  convulsed,  the  earth  ;  a  hollow  groan 
In  his  throat  struggled,  and  the  dews  of  death 
Stood  on  his  livid  cheek.     The  days  of  youth 
He  had  pass'd  peaceful,  and  had  known  what  joys 
Domestic  love  bestows,  the  father  once 
Of  two  fair  children  ;  in  tlie  city  hemm'd 
During  the  siege,  he  had  beheld  their  cheeks 
Grow  pale  with  famine,  and  had  heard  their  cries 
For  bread.     His  wife,  a  broken-hearted  one. 
Sunk  to  the  cold  grave's  quiet,  and  her  babes 
With  hunger  pined,  and  follow'd ;  he  survived, 
A  miserable  man,  and  heard  the  shouts 
Of  joy  in  Orleans,  when  the  Maid  approach'd. 
As  o'er  the  corpse  of  his  last  little  one 
He  heap'd  the  unhallowed  earth.     To  him  the  foe 


4G 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    VIII 


Perfonn'd  a  friendly  part,  liastcning  the  hour 
Grief  else  had  soon  brought  on. 

The  English  chief, 
Pointing  again  his  arbalist,  let  loose 
The  string  ;  tlie  quarrel,  by  that  impact  driven, 
True  to  its  aim,  fled  fatal  :  one  it  struck 
Dragging  a  tortoise  to  the  moat,  and  fix'd 
Deep  in  his  liver  ;  blood  and  mingled  gall 
Flow'd  from  the  wound,  and  writhing  with  keen 

pangs, 
Headlong  he  fell.     He  for  the  wintry  hour 
Knew  many  a  merry  ballad  and  quaint  tale, 
A  man  in  his  small  circle  well  beloved. 
None  better  knew  with  prudent  hand  to  guide 
The  vine's  young  tendrils,  or  at  vintage  time 
To  j)ress  the  full-swollen  clusters;  he,  heart-glad. 
Taught  his  young  boys  the  little  all  he  knew, 
Enough  for  happiness.     The  English  host 
Laid  waste  his  fertile  fields  :  he,  to  the  war, 
By  want  compelled,  adventured,  in  his  gore 
Now  weltering. 

Nor  the  Gallic  host  remit 
Their  eager  efforts ;  some,  the  watery  fence, 
Beneath  the  tortoise  roofed,  with  engines  apt 
Drain  painful ; '"'■*   part,  laden  with  wood,  throw 

there 
Their  buoyant  burdens,  laboring  so  to  gain 
Firm  footing :  some  the  mangonels  supply, 
Or    charging  with   huge   stones   the    murderous 

sling,'''^ 
Or  petrary,  or  in  the  espringal 
Fix  tlie  brass-winged  arrows :  ''*^  hoarse  around 
The  uproar  and  the  din  of  multitudes 
Arose.     Along  the  ramparts  Gargrave  went, 
Cheering  the  English  troops ;  a  bow  he  bore ; 
The  quiver  rattled  as  he  moved  along. 
He  knew  aright  to  aim  his  feathered  shafts, 
Well  skilled  to  pierce  the  mottled  roebuck's  side, 
O'ertaken  in  his  speed.     Him  passing  on, 
A  ponderous  stone  from  some  huge  martinet,''" 
Struck  :  on  his  breastplate  falling,  the  huge  weight 
Shattered  the  bone,  and  to  his  mangled  lungs 
Drove  in  the  fragments.     On  the  gentle  brow 
Of  a  fair  hill,  wood-circled,  stood  his  home, 
A  stately  mansion,  far  and  wide  from  whence 
The  sight  ranged  unimpeded,  and  surveyed 
Streams,  hills,  and  forests,  fair  variety  ! 
The  traveller  knew  its  hospitable  towers, 
For  open  were  the  gates,  and  blazed  for  all 
The  friendly  fire.     By  glory  lured,  the  youth 
Went  forth ;  and  he  had  bathed  his  falchion's  edge 
In  many  a  Frenchman's  blood;  now  crush'd  beneath 
Tlic  ponderous  fragments'  force,  his  lifeless  limbs 
Lie  quivering. 

Lo  !  towards  the  levelled  moat, 
A  moving  tower,  the  men  of  Orleans  wheel  '"* 
Four  stages  elevate.     Above  was  hung, 
Equalling  the  walls,  a  bridge  ;  in  the  lower  stage 
A  battering-ram :  within  a  chosen  troop 
Of   archers,    through    the    opening,    shot    their 

shafts.'^ 
In  the  loftiest  part  was  Conrade,  so  prepared 
To  mount  the  rampart;  for,  no  hunter  he, 
He  loved  to  see  the  dappled  foresters 
Browze  fearless  on  their  lair,  with  friendly  eye, 


And  happy  in  beholding  happiness, 

Not  meditating  death  :  the  bowman's  irt 

Therefore  he  little  knew,  nor  was  he  wont 

To  aim  the  arrow  at  the  distant  foe, 

But  uprear  in  close  conflict,  front  to  front, 

His  battle-axe,  and  break  the  shield  and  helm, 

First  in  the  war  of  men.     There  too  the  Maid 

Awaits,  impatient  on  the  wall  to  wield 

Her  falchion.     Onward  moves  the  heavy  tower. 

Slow  o'er  the  moat  and  steady,  though  the  foe 

Showered  there  their  javelins,  aimed  their  engines 

there. 
And  from  the  arbalist  the  fire-tipt  dart 
Shot  burning  through  the  sky  .'^''    In  vain  it  flamed 
For  well  with  many  a  reeking  hide  secured. 
Passed  on  the  dreadful  pile,  and  now  it  reached 
The  wall.     Below,  with  forceful  impulse  driven. 
The  iron  headed  engine  swings  its  stroke. 
Then  back  recoils ;  while  they  within  who  guide. 
In  backward  step  collecting  all  their  strength, 
Anon  the  massy  beam  with  stronger  arm 
Drive  full  and  fierce.     So  rolls  the  swelling  sea 
Its  curly  billows  to  the  unmoved  foot 
Of  some  huge  promontory,  whose  broad  base 
Breaks  the  rough  wave  ;   the  shivered  surge  rolls 

back, 
Till,  by  the  coming  billow  borne,  it  bursts 
Again,  and  foams  with  ceaseless  violence  : 
The  wanderer,  on  the  sunny  clift  outstretched, 
Harks  to  the  roaring  surges,  as  they  rock 
His  weary  senses  to  forgetfulness. 

But  nearer  danger  threats  the  invaders  now, 
For  on  the  ramparts,  lowered  from  above 
The  bridge  reclines.'^'     A  universal  shout 
Rose  from  the  hostile  hosts.     The  exultant  French 
Break  out  in  loud  rejoicing,  whilst  the  foe 
Raise  a  responsive  cry,  and  call  aloud 
For  speedy  succor  there,  with  deafening  shout 
Cheering  their  comrades.     Not  with  louder  din 
The  mountain  torrent  flings  precipitate 
Its  bulk  of  waters,  though  amid  the  fall 
Shattered,  and  dashing  silvery  from  the  rock. 

Lo  I  on  the  bridge  forth  comes  the  undaunted  man, 
Conrade  I  the  gathered  foes  along  the  wall 
Throng  opposite,  and  on  him  point  their  pikes. 
Cresting  with  armed  men  the  battlements. 
He  undismayed,  though  on  that  perilous  height, 
Stood  firm,  and  hurled  his  javelin ;  the  keen  point 
Pierced  through  the  destined  victim,  where  his  arm 
Joined  the  broad  breast :  a  wound  which  skilful  care 
Haply  had  healed ;  but,  him  disabled  now 
For  further  service,  the  unpitying  throng 
Of  his  tumultuous  comrades  from  the  Weill 
Thrust  headlong.   Nor  did  Conrade  cease  to  throw 
His  deadly  javelins  fast,  for  well  within 
The  tower  was  stored  with  weapons,  to  his  hand 
Quickly  supplied.     Nor  did  the  missioned  Maid 
Rest  idle  from  the  combat ;  she,  secure. 
Aimed  the  keen  quarrel ;  taught  the  crossbow's  use 
By  the  willing  mind  that  what  it  well  desires 
Gains  aptly  :  nor  amid  the  numerous  throng. 
Though  haply  erring  from  their  destined  mark. 
Sped  her  sharp  arrows  frustrate.     From  the  tower 


BOOK    VIII. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


47 


Ceaseless  the  bow-strings  twang :  the  knights  below, 

Eacli  by  his  pavais  bulwarked,  tlilther  aimed 

TluMr  darts,  and  not  a  dart  lell  woundless  tliere ; 

So  tliickiy  llirongod  they  stood,  and  fell  as  fast 

As  wiien  the  monarch  of  the  East  goes  forth 

Troni  Genina's  banks  and  the  proud  palaces 

Of  Delhi,  the  wild  monsters  of  the  wood 

Die  in  the  blameless  warfare :  closed  within 

The  still-contracting  circle,  their  brute  force 

Wasting  in  mutual  rage,  they  perish  there, 

Or  by  each  other's  fury  lacerate, 

The  archer's  barbed  arrow,  or  the  lance 

Of  some  bold  youth  of  his  first  exploits  vain, 

Rajah  or  Oinrah,  in  the  war  of  beasts 

Venturous,  and  learning  thus  the  love  of  blood. 

Shouts  of  alarm  ring  now  along  the  wall. 
For  now  the  French  tlieir  scaling-ladders  place. 
And  bearing  high  their  bucklers,  to  the  assault 
Mount  fearless :  from  above  the  furious  troops 
Fling  down  such  weapons  as  inventive  care 
Or  frantic  rage  supplies :  huge  stones  and  beams 
Crush  the  assailants  ;  some,  thrust  from  the  height. 
Fall  living  to  their  death  ;  tormented,  some, 
And  writhing  wildly  as  the  liquid  lead 
Consumes  their  flesh,  leap  desperately  down. 
To  end  their  pain  by  death.     Still  others  mount. 
And  by  their  fellows'  fate  untcrrificd, 
Still  dare  the  perilous  way.     Nor  dangerlcss 
To  the  English  was  the  fight,  though  where  they 

stood 
The  vantage-place  was  theirs ;  for  them  amidst 
Fast  fled  the  arrows  there  ;  and  brass- wing'd  darts. 
There  driven  resistless  from  the  espringal. 
Keeping  their  impulse  even  in  the  wound. 
Whirl   as   they   pierce    the    victim.'^'^     Some  fall 

crush'd 
Beneath  the  ponderous  fragment  that  descends 
The  heavier  from  its  height :  some  the  long  lance. 
Whizzing  impetuous  on  its  viewless  way, 
Transfix'd.     The  cannon  ever  and  anon 
With  thunder  rent  the  air;  conflicting  shouts 
And  war-cries  French  and  English  rung  around, 
And  Saints  and  Devils  were  invoked  in  prayers 
And  execrations,  Heaven  and  Hell  adjured. 

Conrade,  meantime,  who  stood  upon  the  brido-e, 
WMi  many  a  well-aim'd  javelin  dealing  death. 
Made  way  upon  the  rampart,  and  advanced 
With  wary  valor  o'er  his  slauffhter'd  foes. 
Two  youths,  the  boldest  of  the  English  host. 
Essay 'd  to  thrust  him  from  that  perilous  height; 
At  once  they  press'd  upon  him  :  he,  his  axe 
Dropping,  the  dagger  drew :  one  through  the  throat 
He  pierced,  and  swinging  his  broad  buckler  round, 
Struck  down  his  comrade.     Even  thus  unmoved. 
Stood  Corineus,'^''  the  sire  of  Guendolen, 
When,  grappling  with  his  monstrous  enemy, 
lie  the  brute  vastness  held  alofl,  and  bore, 
.And  headlong  hurl'd,  all  shatter'd  to  the  sea, 
Down  from  the  rock's  high  summit,  since  that  day 
llim,  hugest  of  the  giants,  chroniclinf^ 
Called  Langoemagog. 

Behold,  the  Maid 
Bounds  o'er  the  bridge,  and  to  the  wind  displays 


Her  hallowed  banner.     At  that  welcome  sight 
A  general  shout  of  acclamation  rose, 
And  loud,  as  when  the  trunipest-tossing  forest 
Roars  to  the  roaring  wind.     Then  terror  seized 
The  garrison;  and  fired  anew  with  hope. 
The  fierce  assailants  to  their  prize  rush  on 
Resistless.     Vainly  do  their  English  foes 
Hurl  there  their  beams,  and  stones,  and  javelins. 
And  firebrands ;  fearless  in  the  escalade, 
The  assailants  mount,  and  now  upon  the  wall 
Wage  equal  battle. 

Burning  at  the  sight 
With  indignation,  Glacidas  beheld 
His  troops  fly  scatter'd ;  fast  on  every  side 
The  foe  up-rushing  eager  to  their  spoil ; 
Tlie  holy  standard  waving ;  and  the  Maid 
Fierce    in    pursuit.      "  Speed    but     this     arrow, 

Heaven! " 
The  chief  exclaim'd,  "and  I  shall  fall  content."' 
So  saying,  he  his  sharpest  quarrel  chose, 
And  fix'd  the  bow-string,  and  against  the  Maid 
Levelling,  let  loose  :  her  arm  was  raised  on  high 
To  smite  a  fugitive  ;  he  glanced  aside. 
Shunning  her  deadly  stroke,  and  thus  received 
The  chieftain's  arrow  :  through  his  ribs  it  pass'd, 
And  cleft  that  vessel  whence  the  purer  blood 
Through  many  a  branching  channel  o'er  the  frame 
Meanders. 

"  Fool !  "  the  exasperate  knight  exclaim'd, 
"  Would  she  had  slain  thee  !  thou  hast  lived  too 

long." 
Again  he  aim'd  his  arbalist :  the  string 
Struck  forceful  :  swift  the  erring  arrow  sped 
Guiltless  of  blood,  for  lightly  o'er  the  court 
Bounded  the  warrior  Virgin.     Glacidas 
Levell'd  his  bow  again ;  the  fated  shaft 
Fled  true,  and  difficultly  through  the  mail 
Pierced  to  her  neck,  and  tinged  its  point  with  blood 
"She   bleeds!    she   bleeds!"   exulting   cried  tlie 

chief; 
"  The  sorceress  bleeds  I  nor  all  her  hellish  arts 
Can  charm  my  arrows  from  their  destin'd  course." 
Ill-fated  man  !  in  vain  with  eager  hand 
Placing  th}'  fcathcr'd  quarrel  in  its  groove, 
Dream'st  thou  of  Joan  subdued  !    She  from  her  neck 
Plucking  the  shaft  unterrified,  exclaim'd, 
"  This  is  a  favor  !  ^■'*  Frenchmen,  let  us  on ! 
Escape  they  cannot  from  the  liand  of  God 

But  Conrade,  rolling  round  his  angry  eyes, 
Beheld  the  English  chieftain  as  he  arm'd 
Again  the  bow  :  with  rapid  step  he  strode  > 
And  Glacidas,  perceiving  his  approach, 
At  him  the  quarrel  turn'd,  which  vainly  sent. 
Fell  blunted  from  his  buckler.     Conrade  came 
And  lifting  high  the  deadly  battle-axe. 
Through  pouldron  and  through  shoulder  deeply 

driven 
Buried  it  in  his  bosom  :  prone  he  fell  ; 
The  cold  air  rush'd  upon  his  heaving  heart. 
One  whose  low  lineage  gave  no  second  name 
Was  Glacidas,'^*  a  gallant  man  ;   and  still 
His  memory  in  the  records  of  the  foe 
Survives. 

And  now,  dishearten'd  at  his  fall, 


48 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    Vlll 


The  vanquish'd  Englisli  fly  towards  the  gate, 
Seeking  the  inner  court,'^''  as  yet  in  hope 
To  abide  a  second  siege,  and  with  their  friends 
Find  present  refuge  there.     Mistaken  men  I 
The  vanquish'd  have  no  friends !  defeated  thus, 
I'ress'd  by  pursuit,  in  vain  with  eager  voice 
They  call  their  comrades  in  tlie  suppliant  tones 
Of  pity  now,  now  with  the  bitter  curse 
Of  fruitless  anger ;  they  indeed  within 
Fast  from  the  ramparts  cast  upon  the  French 
Beams,   stones,   and  javelins,  —  but  the   gate    is 

barr'd, 
The  huge  portcullis  down  ! 

Then  terror  seized 
Their  hopeless  hearts :  some,  furious  in  despair. 
Turn  on  their  foes ;  fear-palsied  some  await 
The  coming  death;  some  drop  the  useless  sword, 
And  cry  for  mercy. 

Then  the  Maid  of  Arc 
Took  pity  on  the  vanquish'd ;  and  she  call'd 
Aloud,  and  cried  unto  the  host  of  France, 
And  bade  them  cease  from  slaughter.  They  obey'd 
The  delegated  Damsel.     Some  there  were 
Apart  who  communed  murmuring,  and  of  those 
Graville  addrcss'd  her  .  "  Prophetess  !  our  troops 
Are  few  in  number ;  ana  to  well  secure 
These  many  prisoners  such  a  force  demands. 
As  should  we  spare  might  shortly  make  us  need 
The  mercy  we  bestow  ;  not  mercy  then, 
Rather  to  these  our  soldiers,  cruelty. 
Justice  to  them,  to  France,  and  to  our  king, 
And  that  regard  vi^isc  nature  hath  in  each 
Implanted  of  self-safety,  all  demand 
Their  deaths." 

"  Foul  fall  such  evil  policy  !  " 
The  indignant  Maid  exclaim'd.  "  I  tell  thee,  chief, 
God  is  with  us !  but  God  shall  hide  his  face 
From  them,  short-sighted  they,  as  hard  of  heart. 
Who,  disregarding  all  that  mitigates, 
All  that  ennobles  dreadful  war,  shed  blood 
Like  water ;  who,  in  the  deceitful  scales 
Of  worldly  wisdom,  dare  to  counterpoise 
The  right  with  the  expedient,  and  resolve 
Without  compunction,  as  the  beam  inclines 
Held  in  a  faltering  or  a  faithless  hand. 
These  men  shall  live  to  see  their  homes  again, 
Some  to  be  welcomed  there  with  tears  of  joy 
By  those  who  to  the  latest  hour  of  life 
Will  in  their  grateful  prayers  remember  us. 
And  when  that  hour  shall  come  to  us,  that  comes 
To  all,  how  gladly  should  we  then  exchange 
Renown,  however  splendid,  for  the  thought 
That  we  have  saved  one  victim  from  the  sword, — 
If  only  one,  —  who  begs  for  us  from  Heaven 
That  mercy  which  to  others  we  have  shown  !  " 

Turning  to  Conrade,  then  she  said,  "  Do  thou 
Appoint  an  escort  for  the  prisoners. 
Thou  need'st  not  be  reminded  they  are  men, 
Rather  by  fortune,  or  by  fate,  than  choice. 
Brought  hither  from  their  homes  to  work  our  bale. 
And  for  their  own  not  less ;  but  yielded  thus 
Whom  we  must  neither  treat  as  enemies 
Nor  trust  as  friends,  but  in  safe-keeping  hold, 
Both  for  their  own  security  and  ours." 


She  said  :  when  Conrade  cast  his  eyes  around, 
And  saw  from  man  to  man  where  Francis  ran, 
Bidding  them  sjjare  the  vanquish'd;  him  he  hail'd. 
"  Tlie  Maid  liatii  bade  me  choose  a  leader  i'ortii 
To  guard  the  prisoners ;  thou  shall  be  the  man ; 
For  thou  wilt  guard  them  with  due  diligence. 
Yet  not  forgetful  of  humanity."' 

Meantime  the  garrison  of  that  stronghold. 
Who,  lest  the  French  should  enter,  had  exposed 
Their  comrades  to  the  sword,  sustain'd  the  siege 
In  desperate  valor.     Fast  against  the  walls 
The  battering-ram  was  driven ;  the  mangonels 
Plied  at  the  ramparts  fast ;  the  catapults 
Drove  there  their  dreadl'ul  darts ;  the  war-wolves 

there 
Hurl'd  their  huge  stones ;  and,  through  the  kindled 

sky, 
Tlie  engines  shower'd  their  sheets  of  liquid  fire.'*'' 

"Feel    ye    not,   comrades,   how   the    rampart? 
shake .' ' ' 
Exclaim'd  a  daring  Englishman.     "  Our  foes, 
In  woman-like  compassion,  have  dismiss'd 
A  powerful  escort,  weakening  thus  themselves, 
And  giving  us  fair  hope,  in  equal  field. 
Of  better  fortune.     Sorely  here  annoy'd. 
And  slaugliter'd  by  their  engines  from  afar, 
We  perish.     Vainly  may  the  soldier  boast 
Undaunted  courage  and  the  arm  of  strensrth, 

o  to        7 

If  thus  pent  up,  like  some  wild  beast  he  falls, 
Mark'd  for  the  hunter's  arrows.     Let  us  out 
And  meet  them  in  the  battle,  man  to  man, 
Either  to  conquer,  or  at  least  to  die 
A  soldier's  death." 

"Nay,  nay  —  not  so,"  replied 
One  of  less  hopeful  courage.     "  Though  they  point 
Their  engines  here,  our  archers  not  in  vain 
Discharge  their  quarrels.     Let  the  walls  and  works 
Still  be  defended ;  it  will  then  be  time 
To  meet  the.n  in  the  battle  man  to  man, 
When  these  shall  fail  us." 

Scarcely  had  he  said, 
When  a  huge  stone,  throwii  from  some  petrary 
Smote  him  upon  the  breast,  and  with  dismay 
Fill'd  all  around ;  for  as  it  shattered  him. 
His  blood  besprinkled  them,  and  they  beheld 
His  mangled  lungs  lie  quivering. 

"  Such  the  fate 
Of  those  who  trust  them  to  their  walls'  defence !  " 
Again  exclaim'd  the  soldier:  '-Thus  they  fall, 
Be'tray'd  by  their  own  fears.     Courage  alone 
Can  save  us." 

Nor  to  draw  them  from  the  fort 
Now  needed  eloquence  ;  with  one  accord 
They  bade  him  lead  the  onset.     Forth  tliey  rush'd 
Impetuous.     With  such  fury  o'er  the  plain. 
Swollen  by  the  autumnal  tempest.  Vega  rolls 
His  rapid  waters,  when  the  gathered  storm. 
On  the  black  heights  of  Hatteril  bursting,  swells 
The  tide  of  desolation. 

Then  the  Maid 
Spake  to  the  Son  of  Orleans,  "  Let  our  troops 
Fall  back,  so  shall  the  English  in  pursuit 
Leave  this  strong  fortress,  thus  an  easy  prey." 


BOOK    IX. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


49 


Time  was  not  for  long  counsel.     From  the  court, 
Obedient  to  Dunois,  the  French  retire 
As  if  at  the  irruption  of  their  foes 
Dishearten'd  ;  tliey,  with  shouts  and  loud  uproar, 
ilaste  to  their  fancied  conquest  :  Joan,  the  while 
I'lacnig  a  small  but  gallant  garrison. 
Bade  them  secure  tlie  gates  ;  then  sallying  forth, 
With  such  fierce  onset  charged  then)  in  the  rear. 
That  terror  smote  the  English,  and  they  wish'd 
Again  that  tliey  might  hide  them  in  their  walls 
Rashly  abandoned,  for  now  wheeling  round 
Dunois  attack'd  their  flank.     All  captainless. 
lU-marshall'd,  ill-directed,  in  vain  rage 
They  waste  tlieir  furious  efforts,  falling  fast 
Before  the  Maid's  good  falcliion  and  the  arm 
Of  Conrade  :  loud  was  heard  the  mingled  sound 
Of  arms  and  men  ;  the  soil,  that,  trampled  late 
By  multitudes,  sent  up  its  stifling  clouds 
Of  dust,  was  miry  now  with  human  blood. 

On  the  fort's  summit  Talbot  raark'd  the  fight, 
And  calling  for  his  arms  impatiently. 
Eager  to  issue  forth,  was  scarce  withheld  ; 
For  now,  dishearten'd  and  discomfited, 
The  troops  took  flight. 

Upon  the  bridge  there  stood 
A  strong-built  tower,  commanding  o'er  the  Loire. 
The  traveller  sometimes  linger'd  on  his  way, 
Marking  the  playful  tenants  of  the  stream. 
Seen  in  its  shadow,  stem  the  sea-ward  tide  ; 
This  had  the  invaders  won  in  hard  assault. 
Before  the  delegate  of  Heaven  came  forth 
And  made  them  fear  who  never  fear'd  till  then. 
Thither  the  English  troops  with  hasty  steps 
Retired,  not  utterly  defeated  yet. 
But  mindful  of  defence  :  the  garrison 
Them  thus  retreating  saw,  and  open  threw 
Their  guarded  gates,  and  on  the  Gallic  host. 
Covering   their  vanquish'd  fellows,    pour'd    their 

shafts. 
Check'd  in  pursuit  tliey  stop.  Then  Graville  cried, 
'■  111,  Maiden,  hast  thou  done  !  those  valiant  troops 
Thy  womanish  pity  has  dismiss'd,  with  us 
Conjoin'd,  might  press  upon  the  vanquish'd  foe, 
Though  aided  thus,  and  plant  the  lilied  flag 
Victorious  on  yon  tower." 

"  Dark-minded  man  !  " 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  answer'd  ;  "  to  act  well 
Brings  with  itself  an  ample  recompense. 
I  have  not  rear'd  the  Oriflamme  of  death  —  '^^ 
Now  God  forbid  I     The  banner  of  the  Lord 
Is  this,  and  come  what  will,  me  it  behoves. 
Mindful  of  Him  whose  minister  I  am, 
To  spare  the  fallen  foe  :  that  gracious  God 
Sends  me  a  messenger  of  mercy  forth. 
Sends  me  to  save  this  ravaged  realm  of  France, 
To  England  friendly  as  to  all  the  world. 
Only  to  those  an  enemy,  whose  lust 
Of  sway  makes  them  the  enemies  of  man." 

She  said,  and  suddenly  threw  off"  her  helm; 
Her  bosom  heaved,  —  her  cheek  grew  red,  —  her 

eyes 
Beam'd  with  a  wilder  lustre.     "  Thou  dost  deem 
That  I  have  illy  spared  so  large  a  band, 
7 


Disabling  from  pursuit  our  weaken'd  troops  ;  — 
God  is  with  us  !  "  she  cried  —  "  God  is  with  us  ! 
Our  Champion  manifest!  " 

Even  as  she  spake. 
The  tower,  the  bridge,  and  all  its  multitudes,  • 
Sunk  with  a  mighty  crash. '^* 

Astonishment 
Seized  on  the  French ;  an  universal  cry 
Of  terror  burst  from  them.     Crush'd  in  the  fall, 
Or  by  their  armor  hopelessly  weigh'd  down, 
Or  while  they  plied  their  unencumber'd  arms. 
Caught  by  some  sinking  wretch,  who  grasp'd  them 

fast, 
Shrieking  they  sunk,  while  frequent  fragments  huge 
Fell  in  the  foaming  current.     From  the  fort 
Talbot  beheld,  and  gnash'd  his  teeth,  and  cursed 
The  more  than  mortal  Virgin  ;  whilst  the  towers 
Of  Orleans  echoed  to  the  loud  uproar. 
And  all    who   heard   trembled,  and   cross'd  theii 

breasts. 
And  as  they  hasten'd  to  the  city  walls, 
Told  fearfully  their  beads. 

'T  was  now  the  hour 
When  o'er  the  plain  the  fading  rays  of  eve 
Their  sober  light  effuse ;  when  the  lowing  herd. 
Slow  as  they  move  to  shelter,  draw  behind 
Their  lengthening  shadows;  and  toward  his  nest. 
As  heavily  he  flaps  the  dewy  air. 
The  hoarse  rook  breathes  his  melancholy  note. 
"  Now  then,  Dunois,  for  Orleans  !  "  cried  the  Maid 
"  And  give  we  to  the  flames  these  monuments 
Of  sorrow  and  disgrace.     The  ascending  flames 
Will  to  the  dwellers  of  yon  rescued  town 
Rise  with  a  joyful  splendor,  while  the  foe 
Behold  and  tremble." 

As  she  spaKe,  they  ran 
To  burn  the  forts  ;  they  shower  their  wild  fire  there, 
And  high  amid  the  gloom  the  ascending  flames 
Blaze  up  ;  '^^  then  joyful  of  their  finish'd  toil 
The  host  retire.     Hush'd  is  the  field  of  fight 
As  the  calm'd  ocean,  when  its  gentle  waves 
Heave  slow  and  silent,  wafting  tranquilly 
The  shatter'd  fragments  of  some  midnight  wreck 


THE   NINTH   BOOK. 

Far  through  the  shadowy  sky  the  ascending  flames 
Stream'd  their  fierce  torrents,  by  the  gales  of  night 
Now  curl'd,  now  flashing  their  long  lightnings  up 
That  made  the  stars  seem  pale  ;  less  frequent  now 
Through  the  red  volumes  briefer  splendors  shot. 
And  blacker  waves  roll'd  o'er  the  darken'd  heaven. 
Dismay 'd  amid  the  forts  whioh  yet  rcmain'd 
The  invaders  saw,  and  clamor 'd  for  retreat, 
Deeming  that  aided  by  invisible  powers 
The  Maid  went  forth  to  conquer.     Not  a  sound 
Moved  on  the  air  but  fill'd  them  with  vague  dread 
Of  unseen  dangers  ;  if  a  sudden  blast 
Arose,  through  every  fibre  a  deep  fear 
Crept  shivering,  and  to  their  expecting  minds 
Silence  itself  w;is  dreadful.'^'     One  there  was 
Who,  learning  wisdom  in  the  hour  of  ill, 


50 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    IX. 


Exclaim'd,  "  I  marvel  not  that  the  Most  High 
Hath  hid  his  face  from  England  !    Wiierefore  thus 
Quitting  the  comforts  of  domestic  life, 
Came  wo  to  desolate  this  goodly  land, 
Making  the  drench'd  earth  rank  witli  human  blood, 
Scatter  pollution  on  the  winds  of  Heaven  ? 
Oh  !  that  the  sepulchre  had  closed  its  jaws 
On  the  proud  prelate,  that  blood-guilty  man, 
Who,  trembling  for  the  church's  ill-got  wealth. 
Bade  our  Fifth  Henry  claim  the  crown  of  France  !  *'>^ 
Oh  !  that  the  grave  had  swallow'd  him,  ere  he 
Stirr'd  up  the  sleeping  claim,  and  sent  him  forth 
To  slaughter !     Sure  that  holy  hermit  spake 
The  Almighty's  bidding,"*^  who  in  his  career 
Of  conquest  met  the  King,  and  bade  him  oease 
The  work  of  death,  before  the  wrath  divine 
Fell  heavy  on  his  head.  —  Full  soon  it  fell. 
And  sunk  him  to  the  grave ;  —  and  soon  that  wrath 
On  us,  alike  in  guilt,  alike  shall  fall ; 
For  thousands  and  ten  thousands,  by  the  sword 
Cut  off,  and  sent  before  the  Eternal  Judge, 
With  all  their  unrepented  crimes  upon  them. 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  ;  for  the  widow's  groan, 
Though  here  she  groan  unpitied  or  unheard, 
Is  heard  in  Heaven  against  us;  o'er  this  land 
For  hills  of  human  slain,  unsepulchred. 
Steam  pestilence,  and  cloud  the  blessed  sun  ! 
The  wrath  of  God  is  on  us,  —  God  hath  raised 
This  Prophetess,  and  goes  before  her  path ;  — 
Our  brethren,  vainly  valiant,  fall  beneath  them. 
Clogging  with  gore  their  weapons,  or  in  the  flood 
Whelm'd  like  the  Egyptian  tyrant's  impious  host, 
Mangled  and  swollen,  their  blacken'd  carcasses 
Float  on  the  tainted  current !     We  remain,  — 
For  yet  our  rulers  will  pursue  the  war, — 
We  still  remain  to  perish  by  the  sword. 
Soon  to  appear  before  the  throne  of  God, 
Conscious,  too  late,  of  folly  and  of  guilt, 
Uninjured,  unprovoked,  who  dared  to  risk 
The  life  His  goodness  gave  us,  on  the  chance 
Of  war,  and  in  obedience  to  our  chiefs 
Durst  disobey  our  God." 

Then  terror  seized 
The  troops  and  late  repentance  ;  and  they  thought 
The  spirits  of  the  mothers  and  their  babes 
Famish'd  at  Roan  sat  on  the  clouds  of  night,'"^ 
Circling  the  forts,  to  hail  with  gloomy  joy 
The  hour  of  vengeance. 

Nor  the  English  chiefs 
Heard  these  loud  murmurs  heedless  ;  counsellino- 
They  met  despondent.     Suffolk,  now  their  chief. 
Since  Salisbury  fell,  began. 

"  It  now  were  vain 
Lightly  of  this  our  more  than  mortal  foe 
To  spealc  contemptuous.     She  hath  vanquish'd  us. 
Aided  by  Hell's  leagued  powers,  nor  aught  avails 
Man  unassisted  'gainst  Infernal  powers 
To  dare  the  conflict."'^     Were  it  best  remain 
Waiting  the  doubtful  aid  of  Burgundy, 
Doubtful  and  still  delay'd  ?  or  from  this  place, 
Scene  of  our  shame,  retreating  as  we  may. 
Yet  struggle  to  preserve  the  guarded  towns 
Of  the  Orleannois  .'  " 

He  ceased,  and  with  a  sigh, 
Struggling  with  pride  that  heaved  his  gloomy  breast, 


Talbot  replied,  "  Our  council  little  boots ; 
For  by  their  numbers  now  made  bold  in  fear  '** 
The  soldiers  will  not  fight;  they  will  not  heed 
Our  vain  resolves,  heart-wither'd  by  tlie  spells 
Of  this  accursed  sorceress.     Soon  will  come 
The  expected  host  from  England ;  even  now 
Perchance  the  tall  bark  scuds  across  the  deep 
That  bears   my   son  :    young  Talbot  comes,  —  he 

comes 
To  find  his  sire  disgraced  !     But  soon  mine  arm, 
By  vengeance  nerved,  and  shame  of  such  defeat. 
Shall  from  the  crest-fallen  courage  of  yon  witch, 
Regain  its  ancient  glory.     Near  the  coast 
Best  is  it  to  retreat,  and  there  expect 
The  coming  succor." 

Thus  the  warrior  spake. 
Joy  ran  through  all  the  troops,'*'  as  though  retreat 
Were  safety.     Silently  in  ordcr'd  ranks 
They  issue  forth,  favor'd  by  the  thick  clouds 
Which  mantled  o'er  the  moon.     With  throbbing 

hearts 
Fearful  they  speeded  on  ;  some  in  sad  thoughts 
Of  distant  England,  and  now  wise  too  late. 
Cursing  in  bitterness  the  evil  hour 
That  led  them  from  her  sliores ;  some  in  faint  hope 
Thinking  to  see  their  native  land  again ; 
Talbot  went  musing  on  his  former  fame. 
Sullen  and  stern,  and  feeding  on  dark  thoughts. 
And  meditating  vengeance. 

In  the  walls 
Of  Orleans,  though  her  habitants  with  joy 
Humbly  acknowledged  the  high  aid  of  Heaven, 
Of  many  a  heavy  ill  and  bitter  loss 
Mindful,  such  mingled  sentiments  they  felt 
As  one  from  shipwreck  saved,  the  first  warm  glow 
Of  transport  past,  who  contemplates  himself 
Preserved  alone,  a  solitary  wretch, 
Possess'd  of  life  indeed,  but  reft  of  all 
That  makes   man   love  to   live.     The   chieftains 

shared 
The  social  bowl,'"^  glad  of  the  town  relieved. 
And  communing  of  that  miraculous  Maid, 
Who  came  the  savior  of  the  realm  of  France, 
When,  vanquish'd  in  the  frequent  field  of  shame. 
Her  bravest  warriors  trembled. 

Joan  the  while 
Fasting  and  silent  to  the  convent  pass'd, 
Conrade  with  her,  and  Isabel ;  both  mute, 
Yet  gazing  on  her  oft  with  anxious  eyes. 
Looking  the  consolation  that  they  fear'd 
To  give  a  voice  to.     Now  they  reach'd  the  dome  : 
The  glaring  torches  o'er  the  house  of  dcatii 
Stream'd  a  sad  splendor.    Flowers  and  funeral  herbs 
Bedeck'd  the  bier  of  Theodore, — the  rue, 
The  dark  green  rosemary,  and  the  violet, 
That  pluck'd  like  him  witlier  d  in  its  first  bloom. 
Dissolved  in  sorrow,  Isabel  her  grief 
Pour'd  copiously,  and  Conrade  also  wept : 
Joan  only  shed  no  tears ;  from  her  fix'd  eye 
Intelligence  was  absent ;  and  she  seem'd. 
Though  listening  to  the  dirge  of  death,  to  hear 
And  comprehend  it  not,  till  in  the  grave, — 
In  his  last  home,  —  now  TJieodore  was  laid. 
And  earth  to  earth  upon  the  coffin  thrown ; 
Then  the  Maid  started  at  that  mortal  sound, 


BOOK    IX. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


51 


And  her  lip  (juiver'd,  and  on  Isabel, 

Trembling-  and  faint,  she  leant,  and  pale  as  death. 

Then  in  the  priest  arose  an  earnest  hope, 
That,  weary  of  the  world  and  sick  witl)  woe. 
The  Maid  might  dwell  with  them  a  virgin  vow'd. 
"Ah,  damsel!"  slow  he   spake,  and  cross'd   his 

breast, 
"  Ah,  damsel  !  favor'd  as  thou  art  of  Heaven, 
Let  not  thy  soul  beneath  its  sorrow  sink 
Despondent ;  Heaven  by  sorrow  disciplines 
The  froward  heart,  and  chastens  whom  it  loves. 
Therefore,  companion  of  thy  way  of  life, 
Shall  sorrow  wean  thee  from  tliis  faithless  world, 
Wliere  happiness  provokes  the  traveller's  chase, 
And  like  the  midnight  meteor  of  the  marsh 
Allures  his  long  and  perilous  pursuit. 
Then  leaves  him  dark  and  comfortless.     O  Maid  ! 
Fix  thou  thine  eyes  upon  that  heavenly  dawn 
Beyond  tlie  night  of  life  !     Thy  race  is  run. 
Thou  hast  deliver'd  Orleans :  now  perfect 
Thyself,  accomplish  all,  and  be  the  child 
Of  God.     Amid  these  sacred  haunts  the  groan 
Of  woe  is  never  heard  ;  these  hallow'd  roofs 
Rei-cho  only  to  the  pealing  quire, 
The  chanted  mass,  and  virgin's  holy  hymn, 
Celestial  sounds  !     Secluded  here,  the  soul 
Receives  a  foretaste  of  her  joys  to  come  ; 
This  is  the  abode  of  piety  and  peace  ; 
Oil !  be  tlieir  inmate,  Maiden  !     Come  to  rest, 
Die  to  the  world,  and  live  espoused  to  Heaven  !  " 

Then  Conrade  answered,  "  Father  !  Heaven  has 

call'd 
This  Maid  to  active  duties." 

"  Active  !  "  cried 
The  astonish'd  Monk  ;  "  thou  dost  not  know  the  toils 
This  holy  warfare  asks  ;  thou  dost  not  knov/ 
How  powerful  the  attacks  that  Satan  makes 
By  sinful  Nature  aided  !     Dost  thou  think 
It  is  an  easy  task  from  the  fond  breast 
To  root  affection  out  ?  to  burst  the  cord.s 
Which  grapple  to  society  tlie  heart 
Of  social  man.'  to  rouse  the  unwilling  spirit, 
That,  rebel  to  devotion,  faintly  pours 
The  cold  lip-worship  of  the  wearying  prayer  .' 
To  fear  and  tremble  at  Him,  yet  to  love 
A  God  of  Terrors.'     Maid  beloved  of  Heaven, 
Come  to  this  sacred  trial !  share  with  us 
The  day  of  penance  and  the  night  of  prayer! 
Humble  thyself;  feel  thine  own  wortlilossncss, 
A  reptile  worm,  before  thy  birth  condemn'd 
To  all  the  horrors  of  thy  Maker's  wrath. 
The  lot  of  fallen  mankind  !     Oil,  hither  come  I 
Humble  thyself  in  ashes.     So  thy  name 
Shall  live  amid  the  blessed  host  of  saints. 
And  unborn  pilgrims  at  thy  hallowed  shrine 
Pour  forth  their  pious  offerings." 

"  Hear  me,  father  !  " 
Exclaiin'd    the   awaken'd    Maid.      "  Amid    these 

tombs, 
Cold  as  their  clayey  tenants,  know,  my  heart 
Must  never  grow  to  stone  I  Chill  thou  thyself, 
And  break  thy  midniglit  rest,  and  tell  thy  be.ads, 
And  Labor  through  thy  still  repeated  prayer ; 


Fear  thou  thy  God  of  Terrors ;  spurn  the  gifts 
lie  gave,  and  sepulchre  thyself  alive  I 
But  far  more  valued  is  the  vine  that  bends 
Bencatli  its  swelling  clusters,  tlian  the  dark 
And  joyless  ivy,  round  tlie  cloister's  wall 
Wreathing  its  barren  arms.     For  me,  I  know 
That  1  have  faithfully  obey'd  my  call. 
Confiding  not  in  mine  own  strength,  but  His 
Who  sent  me  forth  to  suffer  and  to  do 
His  will ;  and  in  tliat  faith  I  shall  appear 
Before  the  just  tribunal  of  that  God 
Whom  grateful  love  has  taught  me  to  adore  !' 

Severe  she  spalte,  for  sorrow  in  her  heart 
Had  wrought  unwonted  sternness.   From  the  dome 
They  pass'd  in  silence,  wlien,  with  hasty  steps, 
Sent  by  the  chiefs,  a  messenger  they  met, 
Who,  in  alarm,  the  mission'd  Virgin  sought, 
A  bearer  of  ill  tidings. 

"  Holy  Maid  !  " 
He  said,  "  they  ask  thy  counsel.     Burgundy 
Comes  in  the  cause  of  England,  and  his  troops 
Scarce  three  leagues  from  the  walls,  afearfnl  power, 
R-est  tented  for  the  night." 

"  Say  to  the  chiefs. 
At  morn  I  will  be  with  them,"   she  replied; 
"  And  to  this  urgency  will  give  meantime 
My  nightly  thoughts." 

So  saying,  on  she  went 
In  thoughtful  silence.     A  brief  while  she  musea, 
Brief,  but  sufficing  to  excite  her  soul, 
As  with  a  power  and  impulse  not  its  own. 
To  some  great  purpose.    "  Conrade  !  "  then  she  said, 
"  I  pray  thee  meet  me  at  the  eastern  gate 
With  a  swift  steed  prepared,  —  for  I  must  hence.  ' 

Her  voice  was  calm,  and   Conrade  through  the 

gloom 
Saw  not  the  flush  that  witness'd  on  her  oheek 
Inward  emotion  at  some  thought  conceived. 
She  to  her  quarters  hastily  repair'd. 
There  with  a  light  and  unplumod  casquetcl  '^ 
She  helin'd   her  head  ;   hung  from  her   neck   the 

shield,''" 
And  forth  she  went.     Her  Conrade  by  the  gate 
Awaited.     "  May  I,  Maiden,  ask  unblamed 
Whither  this  midnight  journey  .'  may  I  share 
The  peril  ?  "  cried  the  warrior.     She  rejoin'd, 
"  This,  Conrade,  must  not  be.     Alone  I  go. 
That  impulse  of  tlie  soul  which  comes  from  God 
Sends  me.     But  thou  of  this  remain  assured, 
If  aught  that  I  must  enterprise  required 
Associate  firmness,  thou  shouldst  be  the  man, 
Best,  —  last,  —  and  only  friend  !  " 

So  up  she  sprung 
And  left  him.     He  beheld  the  warden  close 
The  gate,  and  listcn'd  to  hor  courser's  tramp. 
Till  soon  upon  his  ear  the  far-off  sound 
Fell  faintly,  and  was  lost. 

Swift  o'er  the  vale 
Sped  the  good  courser ;  eagerly  the  Maid 
Gave  the  loose  rein;  and  now  her  speed  attain'd 
The  dark   encampment.     Tlirough    the    sleeping 

ranks 
Onward  s;hc  past.     The  trampling  of  her  steed 


52 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    IX 


Or  mingled  witli  tlic  soldier's  busy  dreams, 
Or  with  vague  terrors  fill'd  his  startled  sense, 
Prompting  a  secret  prayer. 

So  on  she  past 
To  where  in  loftier  shade  arose  the  tent 
Of  Burgundy  :  light  leaping  from  her  seat 
She  enter'd. 

On  the  earth  the  chieftain  slept. 
His  mantle  scarft  around  him  ;  near  him  hung 
His  helmet  and  his  shield,  and  at  his  side 
Within  hand-reach  his  sword.     Profound  he  slept, 
Nor  heard  the  coming  courser's  sounding  hoof, 
Nor  entering  footstep.     "Burgundy!"  she  cried, 
"What,  Burgundy  !  awake  !  "     He  started  up. 
And  saw  the  gleam  of  arms,  and  to  his  sword 
Reach'd  a  quick  hand.     But  what  he  now  beheld 
TliriU'd  him,  for  full  upon  her  face  the  lamp 
Cast  its  deep  glare,  and  in  her  solemn  look 
Was  an  unearthly  meaning.     Pale  she  was ; 
And  in  her  eye  a  saintly  lustre  bcam'd. 
And  that  most  calm  and  holiest  confidence 
That  guilt  knows  never.     "  Burgundy,  thou  seest 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  !" 

As  she  spake,  a  voice 
Exclaim'd,  "  Die,  sorceress  !  "  and  a  knight  rush'd 

in, 
Whose  name  by  her  illustrated  yet  lives, 
Franquet  of  Arras.     With  uplifted  arm 
Furious  he  came ;  her  buckler  broke  the  blow, 
And  forth  she  flash'd  her  sword,  and  with  a  stroke 
Swift  that  no  eye  could  ward  it,  and  of  strength 
No  mail  might  blunt,  smote  on  his  neck,  his  neck 
Unfenced,  for  he  in  haste  aroused  had  cast 
An  armet'"  on;  resistless  there  she  smote, 
And  to  the  earth  prone  fell  the  headless  trunk 
Of  Franquet. 

Then  on  Burgundy  she  fi.x'd 
Her  eye  severe.     "  Go,  chief,  and  thank  thy  God 
That  he  with  lighter  judgments  visits  thee 
Than  fell  on  Sisera,  or  by  Judith's  hand 
He  wrought  upon  the  Assyrian!     Thank  thy  God, 
That  when  his  vengeance  smote  the  invading  sons 
Of  England,  equal  though  thou  wert  in  guilt. 
Thee  he  has  spar'd  to  work  by  penitence 
And  better  deeds  atonement." 

Thus  she  spake. 
Then  issued  forth,  and  bounding  on  her  steed 
Sped  o'er  the  plain.     Dark  on  the  upland  bank 
The  hedge-row  trees  distinct  and  colorless 
Rose  on  the  gray  horizon,  and  the  Loire 
Form'd  in  its  winding  way  islands  of  light 
Amid  the  shadowy  vale,  when  now  she  reach'd 
The  walls  of  Orleans. 

From  the  eastern  clouds 
The  sun  came  forth,  as  to  the  assembled  chiefs 
The  Maiden  pass'd.     Her  bending  thitherwards 
The  Bastard  met.     "  Now  perils  threaten  us," 
He  said,  "new  toils  await  us  ;  Burgundy,  —  " 

"Fear  not  for  Burgundy  ! ''  tlie  Maid  replied, 
"  Hi  in  will  the  Lord  direct.     Our  earliest  scouts 
Shall  tellhis  homeward  inarcli.    What  of  the  troops 
Of  England.?" 

"  They,"  the  Son  of  Orleans  cried, 
"  By  darkness  favor'd,  fled  ;  yet  not  by  flight 


Shall  these  invaders  now  escape  the  arm 
Of  retribution.     Even  now  our  troops. 
By  battle  unfatigued,  unsatisfied 
With  conquest,  clamor  to  pursue  the  foe." 

The  delegated  Damsel  thus  replied  : 
"  So  let  them  fly,  Dunois !  But  other  work 
Than  that  of  battle,  now  must  be  perform'd. 
We  move  not  in  pursuit,  till  we  have  paid 
The  rites  of  burial  to  our  countrymen, 
And  hymn'd  our  gratitude  to  that  All-just 
Who  gave  the  victory.     Thou,  meantime,  despatch 
Tidings  to  Chinon  :  let  the  King  set  forth, 
That  crowning  him  before  assembled  France, 
In  Rheims  delivered  from  the  enemy, 
I  may  accomplish  all." 

So  said  the  Maid, 
Then  to  the  gate  moved  on.    The  assembled  troops 
Belield  her  coming,  and  they  smote  their  shields, 
And  with  one  voice  of  greeting  bless'd  her  name, 
And  pray'd  her  to  pursue  the  flying  foe. 
She  waved  her  hand,  and  silently  they  stood. 
Attentive  while  she  spake ;  —  "  Fellows  in  arms  ! 
We  must  not  speed  to  joyful  victory. 
And  leave  our  gallant  comrades  where  they  lie. 
For  dogs,  and  wolves,  and  carrion-birds  a  prey ; 
Ere  we  advance,  let  us  discharge  to  them 
The  duty  that  is  due." 

So  said  the  Maid  ; 
And  as  she  spake,  the  thirst  of  battles  dies 
In  every  breast,  such  awe  and  love  pervade 
The  listening  troops.     They  o'er  the  corse-strewn 

plain 
Speed  to  their  sad  employment:  some  dig  deep 
The  house  of  death  ;  some  bear  the  lifeless  load  ; 
Others  the  while  search  carefully  around, 
If  haply  they  may  find  surviving  yet 
Some  wounded  viretches.     As  they  labor  thus. 
They  mark  far  off"  the  iron-blaze  of  arms  ; 
See  distant  standards  waving  on  the  air. 
And  hear  the  clarion's  clang.    Then  spake  the  Maid 
To  Conrade,  and  she  bade  him  haste  to  espy 
The  coming  army ;  or  to  meet  their  march 
With  friendly  greeting,  or  if  foes  they  came 
With  such  array  of  battle  as  short  space 
Allow'd  :  the  warrior  sped  across  the  plain. 
And  soon  beheld  the  banner 'd  lilies  wave. 

Their  chief  was  Richemont :  he  when  as  he  heard 
What  rites  employed  the  Virgin,  straightway  bade 
His  troops  assist  in  burial;  they,  though  grieved 
At  late  arrival,  and  the  expected  day 
Of  conquest  past,  yet  give  their  willing  aid  : 
They  dig  the  general  grave,  and  thither  bear 
English  or  French,  alike  commingled  now. 
And  heap  the  mound  of  death. 

Amid  the  plain 
There  was  a  little  eminence,  of  old 
Raised  o'er  some  honored  chieftain's  narrow  house. 
His  praise  the  song  had  ceased  to  celebrate. 
And  many  an  unknown  age  had  the  long  grass 
Waved  o'er  that  nameless  mound,  though  barren 

now 
Beneath  the  frequent  tread  of  multitudes 
There  elevate,  the  martial  Maiden  stood. 


BOOK    X. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


53 


MiT  brow  unlu'lm'd,  and  floatiuif  on  the  wind 
Her  long,  dark  locks.     The  silent  troops  around 
Stood  thickly  thronsr'd,  as  o'er  the  fertile  field 
JJillows  the  ripen'd  corn.     The  passing  breeze 
Bore  not  a  murmur  from  the  numerous  host, 
Such  deep  attention  held  them.     She  began. 

"  Glory  to  those  who  in  their  country's  cause 
Fall  in  the  field  of  battle  !     Countrymen, 
I  stand  not  here  to  mourn  these  gallant  men, 
Our  comrades,  nor,  with  vain  and  idle  phrase 
Of  sorrow  and  compassion,  to  console 
The  friends  who  loved  them.  They  indeed  who  fall 
Beneath  oppression's  banner,  merit  well 
Our  pity  ;  may  the  God  of  Peace  and  Love 
Be  merciful  to  those  blood-guilty  men 
Who  came  to  desolate  the  realm  of  France, 
To  make  us  bow  the  knee,  and  crouch  like  slaves 
Before  a  foreign  master.     Give  to  these, 
And  to  their  wives  and  orphan  little  ones 
That  on  their  distant  father  vainly  cry 
For  bread,  give  these  your  pity  !  —  Wretched  men, 
Forced  or  inveigled  from  their  homes,  or  driven 
By  need  and  hunger  to  the  trade  of  blood ; 
Or,  if  with  free  and  willing  mind  they  came, 
Most  wretched,  —  for  before  the  eternal  throne, 
Guilty  alike  in  act  and  will,  they  stand. 
But  our  dead  comrades  for  their  country  fought ; 
No  arts  they  needed,  nor  the  specious  bribes 
Of  promise,  to  allure  them  to  this  fight, 
This  holy  warfare  !  them  their  parents  sent. 
And  as  they  raised  their  streaming  eyes  to  Heaven, 
Bade  them  go  forth,  and  from  the  ruffian's  sword 
Save  their  gray  hairs  :  them  their  dear  wives  sent 

out, 
Fix'd  their  last  kisses  on  their  armed  hands, '"'- 
And  bade  them  in  the  battle  think  they  fought 
For  them  and  for  their  children.     Thus  inflamed, 
By  every  milder  feeling,  they  went  forth  : 
They  fought,  they  conquer'd.   To  this  holy  ground 
The  men  of  Orleans  in  the  days  to  come 
Shall  bring  their  boys,  and  tell  them  of  the  deeds 
Their  countrymen  achieved,  and  bid  them  learn 
Like  them  to  love  their  country,  and  like  them. 
Should  usurpation  pour  again  its  tide 
Of  desolation,  to  step  forth  and  stem, 
Fearless,  the  furious  torrent.     Men  of  France, 
Mourn  not  for  these  our  comrades  !  boldly  they 
Fought  the  good  fight,  and  that  Eternal  One, 
Who  bade  the  Angels  harbinger  his  Word 
With '  Peace  on  earth,'  rewards  them.    We  survive, 
Honorincr  their  memories  to  avenge  their  fall 
Upon  the  unjust  invaders.     They  may  drain 
Their  kingdom's  wealth  and  lavishly  expend 
Its  blood,  insanely  thinking  to  subdue 
This  wide  and  populous  realm ;  for  easier  were  it 
To  move  the  ancient  mountains  from  their  base. 
Than  on  a  nation  knowing  its  own  strength 
To  force  a  foreign  yoke.     France  then  is  safe. 
My  glorious  mission  soon  will  be  fulfill'd, 
My  work  be  done.     But,  oh  !  remember  ye, 
And  in  their  generation  let  your  sons 
Transmit  to  theirs  the  all-concerning  truth. 
That  a  great  people,  wrongfully  assail'd, 
If  faithful  to  themselves,  and  resolute 


In  duty  to  the  last,  betide  what  may,  — 
Although  no  signs  be  given,  no  miracles 
Vouchsafed,  as  now,  no  Prophetess  ordain'd, 
May  yet  with  hope  invincible  hold  on. 
Relying  on  their  courage,  and  their  cause, 
And  the  sure  course  of  righteous  Providence." 


THE   TENTH   BOOK. 

Thus  to  the  martyrs  in  their  country's  cause 
The  Maiden  gave  their  fame  ;  and  when  she  ceased, 
Such  murmur  from  the  multitude  arose, 
As  when  at  twilight  hour  the  summer  breeze 
Moves  o'er  the  elmy  vale.     There  was  not  one 
Who  mourn'd  with  feeble  sorrow  for  his  friend, 
Slain  in  tlie  fight  of  freedom ;  or  if  chance 
Remembrance  with  a  tear  suft'used  the  eye, 
The  patriot's  joy  shone  through. 

And  now  the  rites 
Of  sepulture  perform'd,  the  hymn  to  Heaven 
They  chanted.     To  the  town  the  Maid  return'd, 
Dunois  with  her,  and  Richemont,  and  the  man 
Conrade,  whose  converse  most  the  Virgin  loved. 
They  of  pursuit  and  of  the  future  war 
Sat  communing ;  when  loud  the  trumpet's  voice 
Proclaim'd  a  herald's  coming. 

"To  the  Maid,"  — 
Such  was  his  errand,  —  "  and  to  thee,  Dunois, 
Son  of  the  chief  he  loved,  Du  Chastel  sends 
Greeting.     Tlic  aged  warrior  hath  not  spared 
All  active  efforts  to  partake  your  toil. 
And  serve  his  country ;  and  though  late  arrived, 
He  share  not  in  the  fame  your  arms  acquire, 
His  heart  is  glad  that  he  is  late  arrived. 
And  France  preserved  thus  early.     He  were  here 
To  join  your  host,  and  follow  the  pursuit, 
But  Richemont  is  his  foe.     To  tiiat  high  Lord 
Thus  says  my  master  :  We,  though  each  to  each 
Be  hostile,  are  alike  the  embattled  sons 
Of  our  dear  country.     Therefore  do  thou  join 
The  conquering  troops,  and  prosecute  success ; 
I  will  the  while  assault  what  guarded  towns 
Bedford  yet  holds  in  Orleannois  :  one  day, 
Perhaps  the  Constable  of  France  may  learn 
He  wrong'd  Du  Chastel." 

As  the  herald  spake, 
Richemont's  cheek  redden'd,  partly  with  a  sense 
Of  shame,  and  partly  anger  half  supprest. 
"  Say  to  thy  master,"  eagerly  he  said, 
"  I  aju  the  foe  of  those  court  parasites 
Who  poison  the  King'sear.     Him  who  shall  serve 
Our  country  in  the  field,  1  hold  my  friend  : 
Such  may  Du  Chastel  prove." 

So  said  the  chief 
And  pausing  as  the  herald  went  his  way, 
Turn'd  to  the  Virgin  :  "  If  1  guess  aright, 
It  is  not  from  a  friendly  tongue's  report, 
That  thou  hast  heard  of  me." 

Dissembling  not 
The    unwelcome    truth,    "  Yes,   chieflain '.  "    shf 

replied, 
"  Report  bespeaks  thee  haughty,  violent, 


54 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    X. 


Suftorino;  no  rival,  hrookinir  no  control, 

And  executing  hy  unrighteous  means 

The  judgments  of  thine  own  unlawful  will." 

"  But  hear  me,  Maid  of  Orleans  !  "  ho  exclaim'd  : 
"  Should  the  wolf  enter  thy  defenceless  flock, 
Vv'cre  it  a  crime  if  t!iy  more  mighty  force 
Destroy'd  the  fell  destroyer?     If  thy  hand 
Had  slain  a  ruHKtu  as  he  burst  thy  door 
I'repared  for  midnight  murder,  sliould'st  thou  feel 
The  weight  of  blood  press  heavy  on  thy  souP 
1  slew  Ihc'  wolves  of  stat",  the  murderers 
Of  thousands.     Joan  !  when  rusted  in  its  sheath 
The  sword  of  justice  hung,  blamest  thou  the  man 
That  lent  his  weapon  for  the  righteous  deed  ?  " 

Conrade  replied,  "  Nay,  Richeniont,  it  were  well 
To  slay  the  ruffian  as  he  burst  thy  doors; 
But  if  he  bear  the  plunder  safely  thence, 
And  thou  should'st  meet  him  on  the  Riture  day, 
V^engeance  must  not  be  thine :  there  is  the  law 
To  punish  ;  and  the  law  alloweth  not, 
That  th(!  accuser  take  upon  himself 
The  judge's  part;  still  less  doth  it  allow 
That  he  should  execute  upon  the  accused 
Untried,  unheard,  a  sentence,  which  so  given 
Becomes,  whate'er  the  case,  itself  a  crime." 

"Thou  hast  said  wisely,"  cried  the  Constable  ; 
"  But  there  are  guilty  ones  above  the  law. 
Men  whose  black  crimes  exceed  the  utmost  bound 
Of  private  guilt ;  court  vermin  that  buzz  round. 
And  fly-blow  the  King's  ear,  and  make  him  waste. 
In  this  most  perilous  time,  his  people's  wealth 
And  blood ;  immersed  one  while  in  sensual  sloth. 
Heedless  though  ruin  threat  the  realm  they  rule  ; 
And  now  projecting  some  mad  enterprise, 
Sending  their  troops  to  sure  defeat  and  shame. 
These  are  the  men  who  make  the  King  suspect 
His  wisest,  faithfulest,  best  counsellors ; 
And  for  themselves  and  their  dependents,  seize 
All  places,  and  all  profits  ;  and  they  wrest 
To  their  own  ends  the  statutes  of  the  land. 
Or  safely  break  them ;  thus,  or  indolent, 
Or  active,  ruinous  alike  to  France. 
Wisely  thou  sayest,  warrior,  that  the  Law 
Should  strike  the  guilty  ;  but  the  voice  of  Justice 
Cries  out,  and  brings  conviction  as  it  cries, 
Whom  the  laws  cannot  reach,  the  dagger  should." 

The  Maid  replied,  "  It  secmeth  then,  O  Chief, 
That  reasoning  to  thine  own  conviction  thus. 
Thou  standest  self-acquitted  of  all  wrong, 
Self-justified,  yea,  self-approved.     I  ask  not 
Whether  this  public  zeal  hath  look'd  askaunt 
To  private  ends ;  men  easily  deceive 
Others,  and  oft  more  easily  themselves. 
But  what  if  one  reasoning  as  thou  hast  done 
Had  in  like  course  proceeded  to  the  act, 
One  of  the  people,  one  of  low  degree. 
In  whom  the  strong  desire  of  public  good 
Had  grown  to  be  his  one  sole  sleepless  thought, 
A  passion,  and  a  madness;  raised  as  high 
Above  all  sordid  motives  as  thyself; 
Beneath  such  impulses  of  rivalry 


And  such  ambitious  projects,  as  perforce 

Men  will  impute  to  thee  r  had  such  a  man 

Stood  forth  the  self-appointed  minister 

To  execute  his  own  decrees  of  death. 

The  law  on  him  had   rightfully  enforced 

That  sentence,  which  the  Almighty  hath  enjoin'd 

Of  life  for  life.     Thou,  chief,  art  by  thy  rank 

And  power  exempted  from  the  penalty  : 

What  then  hast  thou  exampled,  —  right  and  wrong 

Confounding  thus,  and  making  lawless  might 

The  judge  in  its  own  quarrel .'     Trust  me,  chief, 

That  if  a  people  sorely  are  oppress'd. 

The  dreadful  hour  of  overthrow  will  come 

Too  surely  and  too  soon  !     He  best  meanwhile 

Performs  the  sage's  and  the  patriot's  part. 

Who  in  the  ear  of  rage  and  faction  breathes 

The  healing  words  of  love." 

Thus  communed  they. 
Meantime,  all  panic-struck  and  terrified. 
The  English  urge  their  flight;  by  other  thoughts 
Possess'd  than  when,  elate  with  arrogance. 
They  dreamt  oi'c()n(]ucst,nnd  the  crown  of  France 
At  their  disj)osal.     Of  their  hard-fought  fields, 
Of  glory  hardly  earn'd,  and  lost  with  sliame, 
Of  friends  and  brethren  slaughter'd,  and  the  fate 
Threatening  themselves,  they  brooded  sadly,  now 
Repentant  late  and  vainly.     They  whom  fear 
Erst  made  obedient  to  their  conquering  march. 
Rise  on  them  in  defeat,  while  they  retire, 
Marking  their  path  with  ruin,  day  by  day 
Leaving  the  weak  and  wounded  destitute 
To  the  foe's  mercy;  thinking  of  their  home, 
Though  to  that  far-off"  prospect  scarcely  hops 
Could  raise  a  sickly  eye.     Oh  then  what  joy 
Inspired  iinew  their  bosoms,  when,  like  clouds 
Moving  in  shadows  down  the  distant  hill. 
They  saw  their  coming  succors  !      In  each  heart 
Doubt  raised  a  busy  tumult ;  soon  they  knew 
The  English  standard,  and  a  general  shout 
Burst  from  the  joyful  ranks  :  yet  came  no  joy 
To  Talbot :  he,  with  dark  and  downward  brow. 
Mused  sternly,  till  at  length  aroused  to  hope 
Of  vengeance,  welcoming  his  gallant  son, 
He  brake  a  sullen  smile. "^ 

"  Son  of  my  age, 
Welcome  young  Talbot  to  thy  first  of  fields. 
Thy  father  bids  thee  welcome,  though  disgraced, 
Baffled,  and  flying  from  a  woman's  arm  I 
Yes,  by  my  former  glories,  from  a  woman  ! 
The  scourge  of  France,  the  conqueror  of  men, 
Flying  before  a  woman  !     Son  of  Talbot, 
Had  the  winds  wafted  thee  a  few  days  sooner, 
Thou  hadst  seen  me  high  in  honor,  and  thy  name 
Alone  had  scatter'd  armies  ;  yet,  my  son, 
I  bid  thee  welcome  !  here  we  rest  our  flight. 
And  face  again  the  foe." 

So  spake  the  chief; 
And  well  he  counsell'd  :  for  not  yet  the  sun 
Had  reach'd  meridian  height,  when  o'er  the  plain 
Of  Patay,  they  beheld  the  troops  of  France 
Speed  in  pursuit.     Soon  as  the  troops  of  France 
Beheld  the  dark  battalions  of  the  foe 
Shadowing  the  distant  plain,  a  general  shout 
Burst  from  the  expectant  host,  and  on  they  prest, 
Elate  of  heart  and  eager  for  the  fight, 


BOOK    X. 


JOAN    OF   ARC, 


55 


With  clamors  ominous  of  victory. 
Thus  urging  on,  one  t'rtxii  the  adverse  host 
Advanced  to  meet  tiiem  -.  tliey  his  garb  of  peace 
Knew,  and  they  halted  as  tlie  herald  spake 
His  bidding  to  the  chieftains.     "  Sirs  !"  lie  cried, 
'•  1  bear  detlance  to  you  from  tlic  Earl 
William  of  Sutiblk.     Here  on  this  fit  ground, 
He  wills  to  give  you  battle,  power  to  power. 
So  please  you,  on  the  morrow." 

"  On  the  morrow 
We  will  join  battle  then,'  replied  Dunois, 
"And    God  befriend   the  right!"    Then   on  the 

herald 
A  robe  rich-furr'd  and  embroidered  he  bestow'd,"-* 
A  costly  guerdon.     Througli  the  army  spread 
The  unwelcome  tidings  of  delay  ;  posscss'd 
With  agitating  hopes  they  felt  the  liours 
Pass  heavily  ;  but  soon  the  night  waned  on, 
And  the  loud  trumpets'  blare  from  broken  sleep 
Roused  them  ;  a  second  time  tlie  thrilling  blast 
Bade  them  be  arin'd,  and   at  the  third  long  sound 
They  ranged  them  in  their  ranks. '■'^     From  maji  to 

man 
With  pious  haste  hurried  the  confessors 
To  shrive  them,'"^  lest  with  souls  all  unprepared 
They  to  their  death  might  go.     Dunois  meantime 
Rode  through  the  host,  the  shield  of  dignity ''' 
Before  him  borne,  and  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  white  wand  of  command.     The  open  helm 
Disclosed  that  eye  which  temper'd  the  strong  lines 
Of  steady  valor,  to  obedient  awe 
Winning  the  will's  assent.     To  some  he  spake 
Of  late-earn'd  glory  ;  others,  new  to  war. 
He  bade  bethink  them  of  the  feats  achieved 
When  Talbot,  recreant  to  his  former  fame. 
Fled  from  beleaguer'd  Orleans.     Was  there  one 
Whom  he  had  known  in  battle .'  by  the  hand 
Him  did  he  take,  and  bid  him  on  that  day 
Summon  his  wonted  courage,  and  once  more 
Support  his  chief  and  comrade.     Happy  he 
Who  caught  his  e}'e,  or  from  the  chieftain's  lips 
Heard  his  own  name  !  joy  more  inspiriting 
Fills  not  the  Persian's  soul,  when  sure  he  deems 
That  Mitlira  hears  propitiously  his  prayer, 
And  o'er  the  scattered  cloud  of  morning  pours 
A  brighter  ray  responsive. 

Then  the  host 
Partook  due  food,  tliis  tlieir  last  meal  belike 
Receiving  with  such  thoughtful  doubts  as  make 
The  soul,  impatient  of  uncertainty. 
Rush  eager  to  the  event ;  being  thus  prepared, 
Upon  the  grass  the  soldiers  laid  themselves. 
Each  in  his  station,  waiting  there  the  sound 
Of  onset,  that  in  undiininish'd  strength 
Strong,  they  might  meet  the  battle ; '"'  silent  some 
Pondering  the  chances  of  the  coining  day, 
Some  wliiling  with  a  careless  gaycty 
The  fearful  pause  of  action. 

Thus  the  French 
In  such  array  and  high  in  confident  hope 
Await  the  signal ;  whilst  with  other  thoughts. 
And  ominous  awe,  once  more  the  invadino-  liost 
Prepare  them  in  the  field  of  fight  to  meet 
The  Prophetess.     Collected  m  himself 
Appear'd  the  might  of  Talbot.     Through  the  ranks 


He  stalks,  reminds  them  of  their  former  fame. 
Their  native  land,  their   homes,  the  friends  they 

loved, 
All  the  rewards  oi'  this  day's  victory. 
But  awe  had  fill'd  the  English,  and  they  struck 
Faintly  their  shields;  for  they  who  had  beheld 
The  hallowed  banner  with  celestial  light 
Irradiate,  and  the  mission'd  ftlaiden's  deeds, 
Felt  their  hearts  sink  within  them  at  the  thougiit 
Of  her  near  vengeance ;  and  the  tale  they  told 
Roused  such  a  tumult  in  the  new-come  troops. 
As  fitted  them  for  fear.     The  aged  Earl 
Beheld  their  drooping  valor,  and  his  brow, 
Wrinkled     with     thought,    bewray'd   his    inward 

doubts : 
Still  he  was  firm,  though  all  might  fly,  resolved 
That  Talbot  should  retrieve  his  old  renown. 
And  end  liis  life  with  glory.     Yet  some  hope 
Inspired  the  veteran,  as,  across  the  plain 
Casting  his  eye,  he  mark'd  the  embattled  strength 
Of  thousands;  archers  of  unequalled  skill, 
Brigans  and  pikcmen,  from  whose  lifted  points 
A  fearful  radiance  flash'd,  and  young  esquires. 
And  high-born  warriors,  bright  in  blazon'd  arms. 

Nor  few,  nor  faineless  were  the  English  chiefs. 
In  many  a  field  victorious,  he  was  there. 
The  garter'd  Fastolffe;  Huntjerford,  and  Scales, 
Men  who  had  seen  the  hostile  squadrons  fly 
Before  the  arms  of  England;  Suffolk  there, 
The  haughty  chieftain,  tower'd  ;  blest  had  he  fallen 
Ere  yet  a  courtly  minion  he  was  mark'd 
By  public  hatred,  and  the  murderer's  guilt ! 
There  too  the  son  of  Talbot,  young  in  arms. 
Heir  of  a  noble  race  and  mighty  name  : 
At  many  a  tilt  and  tournament  had  he 
Approved  his  skill  and  prowess;  confident 
In  strength,  and  jealous  of  his  future  fame, 
His  heart  beat  higli  for  battle.     Such  array 
Of  marshall'd  numbers  fought  not  on  the  field 
Of  Cressy,  nor  at  Poictiers ;  nor  such  force 
Led  Henry  to  the  fight  of  Agincourt, 
When  thousands  fell  before  him. 

Onward  move 
The  host  of  France.     It  was  a  goodly  sight 
To  see  the  embattled  pomp,  as  with  the  step 
Of  stateliness  the  barded  steeds  came  on, — 
To  see  the  pennons  rolling  their  long  waves 
Before  the  gale,  and  banners  broad  and  bright '"' 
Tossing  their  blazonry,  and  high-plumed  chiefs, 
Vidames,  '""^  and  Seneschalls,  and  Chastellains, 
Gay  with  their  buckler's  gorgeous  heraldry, 
And  silken  surcoats  to  the  mid-day  sun 
Glittering.'*' 

And  now  the  knights  of  France  dismount, 
For  not  to  brutal  strength  they  deem'd  it  right 
To  trust  their  fame  and  their  dear  country's  weal ;  '^^ 
Rather  to  inatily  courage,  and  the  glow 
Of  honorable  thoughts,  such  as  inspire 
Ennobling  energy.     Unhorsed,  unspurr  d, 
Their  javelins  shorten'd  to  a  wieldy  length,"^ 
They  to  the  foe  advanced.     The  Maid  alone. 
Conspicuous  on  a  coal-black  courser,  meets 
The  war.     They  moved  to  battle  with  such  sound 
As  rushes  o'er  the  vaulted  firmament, 


56 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


BOOK    X. 


When  from  his  seat,  on  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven 
That  overhangs  the  void,  tlie  Sire  of  Winds, 
HrcBsvelger  starting,"*"*  rears  his  giant  bulk, 
And  from  his  eagle  pinions  shakes  the  storm. 

High  on  her  stately  steed  the  martial  Maid 
Rode  foremost  of  the  war  ;  her  burnisli'd  arms 
Shone  like  the  brook  that  o'er  its  pebbled  course 
Runs  glittering  gayly  to  the  noon- tide  sun. 
The  foaming  courser,  of  her  guiding  hand 
Impatient,  smote  the  earth,  and  toss'd  his  mane. 
And  rear'd  aloft  with  many  a  froward  bound. 
Then  answered  to  the  rein  witli  such  a  step, 
As,  in  submission,  he  were  proud  to  show 
His  spirit  unsubdued.     Slow  on  the  air 
Waved  the  white  plumes  that  shadow'd  o'er  her 

helm. 
Even  such,  so  fair,  so  terrible  in  arms, 
Pelides  moved  from  Scyros,  where,  conceal'd, 
He  lay  obedient  to  his  mother's  fears 
A  seemly  damsel ;  thus  the  youth  appear'd 
Terribly  graceful,  when  upon  his  ni-ck 
Deidameia  hung,  and  with  a  look 
That  spake  the  tumult  of  her  troubled  soul. 
Fear,  anguish,  and  upbraiding  tenderness, 
Gazed  on  the  father  of  her  unborn  babe. 

An  English  knight,  who,  eager  for  renown. 
Late  left  his  peaceful  mansion,  mark'd  the  Maid. 
Her  power  miraculous  and  portentous  deeds 
He  from  the  troops  had  heard  incredulous. 
And  scofF'd  their  easy  fears,  and  vow'd  that  he. 
Proving  the  magic  of  this  dreaded  girl 
In  equal  battle,  would  dissolve  the  spell, 
Powerless  opposed  to  valor.     Fortli  he  spurr'd 
Before  the  ranks  ;  she  mark'd  the  coming  foej 
And  fi.x'd  her  lance  in  rest,  and  rush'd  along. 
Midway  they  met;  full  on  her  buckler  driven, 
Shiver'd  the  English  spear :  her  better  force 
Drove  the  brave  foeman  senseless  from  his  seat. 
Headlong  he  fell,  nor  ever  to  the  sense 
Of  shame  awoke  ;  for  crowding  multitudes 
Soon  crush'd  the  helpless  warrior. 

Then  the  Maid 
Rode  through  the  thickest  battle;  fast  they  fell. 
Pierced  by  her  forceful  spear.     Amid  the  troops 
Plunged  her  strong  war-horse,  by  the  noise  of  arms 
Elate  and  roused  to  rage,  he  tramples  o'er. 
Or  with  the  lance  protended  from  his  front,"** 
Thrusts  down  the  thronging  squadrons.     Where 

she  turns. 
The  foe  tremble  and  die.     Such  ominous  fear 
Seizes  the  traveller  o'er  the  trackless  sands. 
Who  marks  the  dread  Simoom  across  the  waste 
Sweep  its  svi^ift  pestilence  :  to  earth  he  falls. 
Nor  dares  give  utterance  to  the  inward  prayer. 
Deeming  the  Genius  of  the  desert  breathes 
The  purple  blast  of  death. 

Such  was  the  sound 
As  when  a  tempest,  mingling  air  and  sea, 
Flies  o'er  the  uptorn  ocean  :  dashing  high 
Their  foamy  heads  amid  the  incumbent  clouds. 
The  madden'd  billows  witli  their  deafening  roar 
Drown  the  loud  thunder's  peal.     In  every  form 
Of  horror,  death  was  there.     They  fall,  transfix'd 


By  the  random  arrow's  point,  or  fierce-thrust  lance, 
Or  sink,  all  battered  by  the  ponderous  mace : 
Some  from  their  coursers  thrown,  lie  on  the  earth, 
Helpless  because  of  arms,  that  weak  to  save. 
Lengthened  the  lingering  agonies  of  death. 
But  most  the  English  fell,  by  their  own  fears 
Betray'd,  for  fear  the  evil  that  it  dreads 
Increaseth.     Even  the  chiefs,  who  many  a  day 
Had  met  the  war  and  conquer'd,  trembled  now, 
Appall'd  before  the  Maid  miraculous. 
As  the  blood-nurtur'd  monarch  of  the  wood. 
That  o'er  the  wilds  of  Afric  in  his  strength 
Resistless  ranges,  when  the  mutinous  clouds 
Burst,  and  the  lightnings  through  the  midnightsky 
Dart  their  red  fires,  lies  fearful  in  his  den. 
And  howls  in  terror  to  the  passing  storm. 

But  Talbot,  fearless  where  the  bravest  fear'd, 
Mow'd  down  the  hostile  ranks.  The  chieftain  stood 
Like  a  strong  oak,  amid  the  tempest's  rage. 
That  stands  unharm'd,  and  while  the  forest  falls 
Uprooted  round,  lifts  his  high  head  aloft. 
And  nods  majestic  to  the  warring-  wind. 
He  fought,  resolved  to  snatch  the  shield  of  death  *"^ 
And  shelter  him  from  shame.     The  very  herd 
Who  fought  near  Talbot,  though  the  Virgin's  name 
Made  their  cheeks  pale  and  drove  the  curdling 

blood 
Back  to  their  hearts,  caught  from  his  daring  deeds 
New  force,  and  went  like  eaglets  to  the  prey 
Beneath  their  mother's  wing  :  to  him  they  look'd. 
Their  tower  of  strength,"''  and  follow'd  where  his 

sword 
Made  through  the  foe  a  way.     Nor  did  the  son 
Of  Talbot  shame  his  lineage  ;  by  his  sire 
Emulous  he  strove,  like  the  young  lionet 
When  first  he  bathes  his  murderous  jaws  in  blood. 
They  fought  intrepid,  though  amid  their  ranks 
Fear  and  confusion  triumph'd ;  for  such  dread 
Possess'd  the  English,  as  the  Etruscans  felt, 
When  self-devoted  to  the  infernal  gods 
The  awful  Decius  stood  before  the  troops. 
Robed  in  the  victim  garb  of  sacrifice, 
And  spake  aloud,  and  call'd  the  shadowy  powers 
To  give  to  Rome  the  conquest,  and  receive 
Their  willing  prey  ;  then  rush'd  amid  the  foe. 
And  died  upon  the  hecatombs  he  slew. 

But  hope  inspired  the  assailants.     Xaintrailles 
there 
Spread  fear  and  death,  and  Orleans'  valiant  son 
Fougiit  as  when  Warwick  fled  before  his  arm. 
O'er  all  preeminent  for  hardiest  deeds 
Was  Conrade.     Where  he  drove  his  battle-axe. 
Weak  was  the  buckler  or  the  helm's  defence, 
Hauberk,  or  plated  mail ;  through  all  it  pierced. 
Resistless  as  the  fork'd  flash  of  heaven. 
The  death-doom'd  foe,  who  mark'd   the  coming 

chief. 
Felt  such  a  chill  run  through  his  shivering  frame, 
As  the  night-traveller  of  the  Pyrenees, 
Lone  and  bewilder'd  on  his  wintry  way, 
When  from  the  mountains  round  reverberates 
The  hungry  wolves'  deep  yell :  on  every  side, 
Their  fierce  eyes  gleaming  as  with  meteor  fires, 


BOOK    X. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


57 


T)ie  faiiiish'd    pack  come   round  ;    the  affrighted 

luulu 
Snorts  loud  wiUi  terror,  on  his  shuddering  limbs 
The  big  sweat  starts,  convulsive  pant  his  sides, 
Then  on  he  gallops,  wild  in  desperate  speed. 
Ilim  dealing  death  an  English  knight  beheld, 
And   spurr'd   his  steed    to  crush    him ;    Conrade 

leap'd 
Lightly  aside,  and  through  the  warrior's  greaves 
Fix'd  a  deep  wound  :  nor  longer  could  the  foe, 
Disabled  thus,  command  his  mettled  horse, 
Or  his  rude  plunge  endure  ;  headlong  he  fell. 
And  perisii'd.     In  his  castle  hall  was  hung 
On  high  his  father's  shield,  with  many  a  dint 
Graced  on  the  glorious  field  of  Agincourt. 
His  deeds  the  son  had  heard ;  and  when  a  boy. 
Listening  delighted  to  the  old  man's  tale, 
His  little  hand  would  lift  the  weighty  spear 
In  warlike  pastime :  he  had  left  behind 
An  infant  offspring,  and  had  fondly  deein'd 
He  too  in  age  the  exploits  of  his  youth 
Should  tell,  and  in  the  stripling's  bosom  rouse 
The  fire  of  glory. 

Conrade  the  next  foe 
Smote  where  the  heaving  membrane  separates 
The  chambers  of  the  trunk.     The  dying  man, 
In  his  lord's  castle  dwelt,  for  many  a  year, 
A  well-beloved  servant:  he  could  sing 
Carols  for  Shrove-tide,  or  for  Candlemas, 
Songs  for  the  wassail,  and  when  the  boar's  head, 
Crow'n'd  with  gay  garlands  and  with  rosemary. 
Smoked  on  the  Christmas  board  :  ^*''  he  went  to  war 
Following  the  lord  he  loved,  and  saw  him  fall 
Beneath  the  arm  of  Conrade,  and  expired, 
Slain  on  his  master's  body. 

Nor  the  fight 
Was  doubtful  long.     Fierce  on  the  invading  host 
Press  the  French  troops  impetuous,  as  of  old, 
When  pouring  o'er  his  legion  slaves  on  Greece, 
The  eastern  despot  bridged  the  Hellespont, 
The  rushing  sea  against  the  mighty  pile 
RoU'd  its  full  weight  of  waters;  far  away 
The  fearful  Satrap  mark'd  on  Asia's  coasts 
The  floating  fragments,  and  with  ominous  fear 
Trembled  for  the  great  king. 

Still  Talbot  strove. 
His  foot  firm  planted,  his  uplifted  shield 
Fencing  that  breast  which  never  yet  had  known 
The  throb  of  fear.     But  when  the  warrior's  eye, 
Glancing  around  the  fight,  beheld  the  French 
Pressing  to  conquest,  and  his  heartless  troops 
Striking  with  feebler  force  in  backward  step. 
Then  o'er  his  cheek  he  felt  the  indignant  flush 
Of  shame,  and  loud  he  lifted  up  his  voice, 
.And  cried,  "  Fly,  cravens  !  leave  your  aged  chief 
Here  in  the  front  to  perish  !  his  old  limbs 
Are  not  like  yours,  so  supple  in  the  flight."" 
Go  tell  your  countrymen  how  ye  escaped 
When  Talbot  fell !  " 

In  vain  the  warrior  spake ; 
In  the  uproar  of  the  fight  his  voice  was  lost ; 
And  they,  the  nearest,  who  had  heard,  beheld 
The  Prophetess  approach,  and  every  thought 
Was  overwhelm'd  in  terror.     But  the  son 
Of  Talbot  mark'd  lier  thus  across  the  plain 
8 


Careering  fierce  in  conquest,  and  the  hope 

Of  glory  rose  within  him.     Her  to  meet 

He  spurr'd  his  horse,  by  one  decisive  deed 

Or  to  retrieve  the  battle,  or  to  fall 

With  honor.     Each  beneath  the  other's  blow 

Bow'd  down  ;  their  lances  shiver'd  with  the  shock  : 

To  earth  their  coursers  fell :  at  once  they  rose. 

He  from  the  saddle-bow  his  falchion  caught  '* 

Rushing  to  closer  combat,  and  she  bared 

The  lightning  of  her  sword.'"'     In  vain  the  youth 

Essay 'd  to  pierce  those  arms  which  even  the  power 

Of  time  was  weak  to  injure  :  she  the  while 

Througii    many    a   wound   beheld    her    foeman's 

blood 
Ooze  fast.  "Yet  save  thyself!  "  the  Maiden  cried. 
"  Me  thou  canst  not  destroy  :  be  timely  wise. 
And  live  !  "     He  answer'd  not,  but  lifting  high 
His  weapon,  smote  with  fierce  and  forceful  arm 
Full  on  the  Virgin's  helm  :  fire  from  her  eyes 
Fhish'd  with  the  stroke  :  one  step  she  back  recoil'd, 
Then  in  his  breast  plunged  deep  the  sword  of  death. 

Talbot  beheld  his  fall ;  on  the  next  foe. 
With  rage  and  anguish  wild,  the  warrior  turn'd: 
His  ill-directed  weapon  to  the  earth 
Drove  down  the  unwounded  Frank:    he    strikes 

again, 
And  through  his  all-in-vain  imploring  hands 
Cleaves  the  poor  suppliant.     On  that  dreadful  day 
The  sword  of  Talbot,'"*  clogg'd  with  hostile  gore, 
Made  good  its  vaunt.     Amid  the  heaps  his  arm 
Had  slain,  the  chieftain  stood  and  sway'd  around 
His  furious  strokes:  nor  ceased  he  from  the  fight. 
Though  now,  discomfited,  the  English  troops 
Fled  fast,  all  panic-struck  and  spiritless. 
And  mingling  with  the  routed,  Fastolffe  fled, 
Fastolfl'e,  all  fierce  and  haughty  as  he  was,'"-* 
False  to  his  former  fame  ;  for  he  beheld 
The  Maiden  rushing  onward,  and  such  fear 
Ran  through  his  frame,  as  thrills  the  African, 
When,  grateful  solace  in  the  sultry  hour. 
He  rises  on  the  buoyant  billow's  breast. 
And  then  beholds  the  inevitable  shark 
Close  on  him,  open-mouth'd. 

But  Talbot  now 
A  moment  paused,  for  bending  thitherward 
He  mark'd  a  warrior,  such  as  well  might  ask 
His  utmost  force.     Of  strong  and  stately  port 
The  onward  foeman  moved,  and  bore  on  high 
A  battle-axe,'"''  in  many  a  field  of  blood 
Known  by  the  English  chieftain.     Over  heaps 
Of  slaughter'd,  he  made  way,  and  bade  the  troops 
Retire  from  the  bold  Earl :  then  Conrade  spake. 
"  Vain  is  tliy  valor,  Talbot !  look  around. 
See  where  thy  squadrons  fly  !  but  thou  shalt  lose 
No  honor,  by  their  cowardice  subdued. 
Performing  well  thyself  the  soldier's  part." 

"And  let  them  fly!"  the  indignant  Earl  ex- 
claim'd, 
"  And  let  them  fly  !  and  bear  thou  witness,  chief 
That  guiltless  of  this  day's  disgrace,  I  fall. 
But,  Frenchman  !  Talbot  will  not  tamely  fall, 
Nor  unrevenged." 

So  saying,  for  the  war 


58 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


BOOK    X, 


He  stood  prepared  :  nor  now  with  heedless  rage 
Tlie  chainpiuiis  Ibught,  for  either  knew  lull  well 
His  focman's  prowess  :  now  they  aim  the  blow 
Insidious,  with  quick  change  then  drive  the  steel 
Fierce  on  the  side  exposed.     The  unfaithful  arms 
Yield  to  the  strong-driven  edge ;  the  blood  streams 

down 
Their   batter'd    mail.     With   swift  eye    Conrade 

mark'd 
Tlie  lifted  buckler,  and  beneath  impell'd 
His  battle-axe;  that  instant  on  his  helm 
The  sword  of  Talbot  fell,  and  with  the  blow 
It  broke.  "  Yet  yield  thee,  Englishniaii !  "  exclaim'd 
The  generous  Frank  ;  "  vain  is  this  bloody  strife  : 
Me  should'st  thou  conquer,  little  would  my  death 
Avail  thee,  weak  and  wounded  !  " 

"  Long  enough 
Talbot  has  lived,"  replied  the  sullen  chief: 
"  His  hour  is  come  ;  yet  shalt  not  thou  survive 
To  glory  in  his  fall !  "     So,  as  he  spake, 
He  lifted  from  the  ground  a  massy  spear, 
And  came  again  to  battle. 

Now  more  fierce 
The  conflict  raged,  for  careless  of  liiinself, 
And  desperate,  Talbot  fought.    Collected  still 
Was  Conrade.     Wheresoe'er  his  foeman  aim'd 
The  well-thrust  javelin,  there  he  svifung  around 
His  jruardian  shield  :  the  long  and  vain  assault 

to  O 

Exhausted  Talbot  now;  foredone  with  toil, 
He  bare  his  buckler  low  for  weariness ; 
The  buckler,  now  splintcr'd  with  many  a  stroke,''^ 
Fell  piecemeal;  from  his  riven  arms  the  blood 
Stream'd  fast :  and  now  the  Frenchman's  battle- 
axe 
Came  unresisted  on  the  shieldless  mail. 
But  then  he  held  his  hand.     "  Urge  not  to  death 
This  fruitless  contest !  "  he  exclaim'd  :  "  oh  chief! 
Are  there  not  those  in  England  who  would  feel 
Keen  anguish  at  thy  loss.^  a  wife  perchance 
Who  trembles  for  thy  safety,  or  a  child 
Needing  a  father's  care  !  " 

Then  Talbofs  heart 
Smote  him.     "  Warrior  !  "  he  cried,  "  if  tliou  dost 

til  ink 
That  life  is  worth  preserving,  hie  thee  hence, 
And  save  thyself:  I  loathe  this  useless  talk." 

So  saying,  he  address'd  him  to  the  fight, 
Impatient  of  existence  :  from  their  arms 
Fire  flash'd,  and  quick  they  panted;  but  not  long 
Endured  the  deadly  combat.     With  full  force 
Down  through  his  shoulder  even  to  the  chest, 
Conrade  impell'd  the  ponderous  battle-axe; 
And  at  that  instant  underneath  his  shield 
Received  the  hostile  spear.     Prone  fell  the  Earl, 
Even  in  his  death  rejoicing  that  no  foe 
Should  live  to  boast  his  fall. 

Then  with  faint  hand 
Conrade  unlaced  his  helm,  and  from  his  brow 
Wiping  the  cold  dews  ominous  of  death. 
He  laid  him  on  the  earth,  thence  to  remove, 
While  the  long  lance  hung  heavy  in  his  side, 
Powerless.     As  thus  beside  his  lifeless  foe 
He  lay,  the  herald  of  the  English  Earl 
With  faltering  step  drew  near,  and  when  he  saw 


His  master's  arms,  "  Alas !  and  is  it  you. 

My  lord  .'  "  he  cried.  "  God  pardon  you  your  sins  ! 

1  have  been  forty  years  your  officer, 

And  time  it  is  1  should  surrender  now 

The  ensigns  of  my  office  !  "     So  he  said. 

And  paying  thus  his  rite  of  sepulture. 

Threw  o'er  the  slaughter'd  chief  his  blazon'd  coat.'"* 

Then  Conrade  thus  bespake  him  :  "  Englishman, 
Do  for  a  dying  soldier  one  kind  act! 
Seek  for  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  bid  her  haste 
Hither,  and  thou  shalt  gain  what  recompense 
It  pleaseth  thee  to  ask." 

The  herald  soon. 
Meeting  the  mission'd  Virgin,  told  his  tale. 
Trembling  she  hasten'd  on,  and  when  she  knew 
The  death-pale  face  of  Conrade,  scarce  could  Joan 
Lift  up  the  expiring  warrior's  heavy  hand, 
And  press  it  to  her  heart. 

"  I  sent  for  thee. 
My  friend !  "  with  interrupted  voice  he  cried, 
"  That  I  might  comfort  this  my  dying  hour 
With  one  good  deed.     A  fair  domain  is  mine  ; 
Let  Francis  and  his  Isabel  possess 
That,  mine  inheritance."     He  paused  awhile. 
Struggling   for   utterance ;    then  with   breathless 

speed. 
And  pale  as  him  he  mourn'd  for,  Francis  came. 
And  hung  in  silence  o'er  the  blameless  man. 
Even  with  a  brother's  sorrow :  he  pursued, 
"  This,  Joan,  will  be  thy  care.     I  have  at  home 
An  aged  mother  —  Francis,  do  thou  soothe 
Her  childless  age.     Nay,  weep  not  for  me  thus : 
Sweet  to  the  wretched  is  the  tomb's  repose  !  " 

So  saying,  Conrade  drew  the  javelin  forth, 
And  died  without  a  groan. 

By  this  the  scouts, 
Forerunning  the  king's  march,  upon  the  plain 
Of  Patay  had  arrived,  of  late  so  gay 
With  marshall'd  thousands  in  their  radiant  arms, 
And  streamers  glittering  in  the  noon-tide  sun. 
And  blazon'd  shields  and  gay  accoutrements. 
The  pageantry  of  war ;  but  now  defiled 
With  mingled  dust  and  blood,  and  broken  arms, 
And  mangled  bodies.     Soon  the  monarch  joins 
His  victor  army.     Round  the  royal  flag, 
Uprear'd  in  conquest  now,  the  chieftains  flock, 
Profiering  their  eager  service.     To  his  arms, 
Or  wisely  fearful,  or  by  speedy  force 
Compell'd,  the  embattled  towns  submit  and  own 
Their  rightful  king.     Baugenci  strives  in  vain ; 
Yenville  and  Mehun  yield;  from  Sully's  wall 
Hurl'd  is  the  banner'd  lion :  on  they  pass, 
Auxerre,  and  Troyes,  and  Chalons,  ope  their  gates, 
And  by  the  mission'd  Maiden's  rumor'd  deeds 
Inspirited,  the  citizens  of  Rheims 
Feel  their  own  strength ;  against  the  English  troops 
With  patriot  valor,  irresistible. 
They  rise,  they  conquer,  and  to  their  liege  lord 
Present  the  city  keys. 

The  morn  was  fair 
When  Rheims  reechoed  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  multitudes,  for  high  solemnity 
Assembled.     To  the  holy  fabric  moves 


BOOK    X. 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


59 


The  long  procession,  Ihrougli  tlie  streets  bestrewn 
With  flowers  and   laurel    boujrhs.     The    courtier 

throni"; 
Were  there,  and  they  in  Orleans,  who  endured 
Tlie  siege  right  bravely  ;  Gaucour,  and  La  Hire, 
The  gallant  Xaintrailles,  Boussac,  and  Chabannes, 
Alen^on,  and  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
The  Bastard  Orleans,  now  in  hope  elate, 
Soon  to  release  from  hard  captivity 
J  lis  dear-beloved  brother;  gallant  men. 
And  worthy  of  eternal  memory. 
For  tliey,  in  the  most  perilous  times  of  France, 
Despair'd  not  of  their  country.     By  the  king 
The  delegated  Damsel  pass'd  along 
Clad  in  her  batter"d  arms.     She  bore  on  high 
Ilcr  hallow'd  banner  to  the  sacred  pile. 
And  fi.x'd  it  on  the  altar,  whilst  her  hand 
Pour'd  on  the  monarch's  head  the  mystic  oil,'^^ 
Wafted  of  yore,  by  milk-white  dove  from  heaven, 
(So  legends  sav,)  to  Clovis  when  he  stood 
At  Rhcims  for  baptism  ;  dubious  since  that  day, 
When  Tolbiac  plain  reek'd  with  his  warrior's  blood. 
And  fierce  upon  their  flight  the  Ahnanni  prcst, 
And  rear'd  the  shout  of  triumph:  in  that  hour 
Clovis  invoked  aloud  the  Christian  God 
And  conquer'd :  waked  to  wonder  thus,  the  chief 
Became  love's  convert,  and  Clotilda  led 
Her  husband  to  the  font. 

The  raission'd  Maid 
Then  placed  on  Charles's  brow  the  crown  of  France, 
And  back  retiring,  gazed  upon  the  king 
One  moment,  quickly  scanning  all  the  past. 
Till,  in  a  tumult  of  wild  wonderment. 
She  wept  aloud.     The  assembled  multitude 
In  awful  stillness  witness'd ;  then  at  o-nce. 
As  with  a  tempest-rushing  noise  of  winds, 
Lifted  their  mingled  clamors.     Now  the  Maid 
Stood  as  prepared  to  speak,  and  waved  her  hand, 
And  instant  silence  followed. 

"  King  of  France !  " 
She  cried,  "at  Chinon,  when  my  gifted  eye 
Knew  thee  disguised,  what  inwardly  the  spirit 
Prompted.  I  promised,  with  the  sword  of  God, 
To  drive  from  Orleans  far  the  English  wolves, 
And  crown  thee  in  the  rescued  walls  of  Rheims. 
All  is  accomplish'd.     I  have  here  this  day 
Fulfill'd  my  mission,  and  anointed  tiiee 
King  over  this  great  nation.     Of  this  charge. 
Or  well  ])erform'd  or  carelessly,  that  God 
Of  Whom  tliou  boldest  thine  authority 
W^ill  take  account ;  from  Him  all  power  derives. 
Thy  dutv  is  to  fear  the  Lord,  and  rule. 
According  to  His  word  and  to  the  laws. 
The  people  thus  committed  to  thy  charge  : 
Theirs  is  to  fear  Him  and  to  honor  Thee, 
And  with  that  fear  and  honor  to  obey 
In  all  things  lawful ;  both  being  thus  alike 
By  duty  bound,  alike  restricted  botii 
From  wilful  license.     If  thy  heart  be  set 
To  do  His  will  and  in  His  ways  to  walk, 
I  know  no  limit  to  the  happiness 
Thou  may'st  create.     1  do  beseech  thee.  King !  " 
Tiie  Maid  exclaim'd,  and  fell  upon  the  ground. 
And  clasp'd  his  knees,  '■  I  do  beseech  thee,  King' 
By  all  the  thousands  that  depend  on  thee. 


For  weal  or  woe,  —  consider  what  thou  art. 

By  Wliom  appointed  !     If  thou  dost  oppress 

Thy  people,  if  to  aggrandize  thyself  [them 

Thou  tcar'st  them  from  their  homes,  and  seiidest 

To  slaughter,  prodigal  of  misery  ; 

If  when  the  widow  and  the  orphan  groan 

In  want  and  wretcliedness,  thou  turnest  thee 

To  hear  the  music  of  the  flatterer's  tongue  ; 

If,  when  thouhear'st  of  thousands  who  have  fallen, 

Tliou  say  st,  '  I  am  a  King  !  and  fit  it  is 

That  these  should  perish  for  me;' — if  thy  realm 

Should,  tiirough  the  counsels  of  thy  government, 

Be  find  with  woe,  and  in  thy  streets  be  heard 

The  voice  of  mourning  and  the  feeble  cry 

Of  asking  hunger  ;  if  in  place  of  Law 

Iniquity  prevail ;  if  Avarice  grind 

The  poor;  if  discipline  be  utterly 

Rclax'd,  Vice  charter'd,  Wickedness  let  loose; 

Thougl)  in  the  general  ruin  all  must  share, 

E.ich  answer  for  his  own  peculiar  guilt. 

Yet  at  the  Judgment-day,  from  those  to  whom 

The  power  was  given,  the  Giver  of  all  power 

Will  call  for  rigliteous  and  severe  account. 

Choose  thou  the  better  part,  and  rule  the  land 

In  rigliteousness  ;  in  righteousness  th}'  throne 

Sliall  then  be  stabllsh'd,  not  by  foreign  foes 

Shaken,  nor  by  domestic  enemies, 

But  guarded  then  by  loyalty  and  love. 

True  hearts,  Good  Angels,  and  All-seeing  Heaven. 

Thus  spake  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  solemnly 
Accomplishing  her  marvellous  mission  here. 


NOTES 


Note  1,  p.  13,  col.  I.— The  Bastard  Orleans. 

"  liCwes  duke  of  Orlcance  inurthereil  in  Paris,  by  Jlion 
duke  of  Bur^oyiie,  was  owner  of  tlie  castle  of  Coney,  on  the 
frontiers  of  Fraunce  toward  Artlioys,  whereof  lie  made  con- 
stable the  lord  of  Canny,  a  man  not  so  wise  as  his  wifo  was 
laire,  and  yet  she  was  not  so  faire,  but  she  was  as  well  be- 
loved of  the  duke  of  Orloance,  as  of  her  husband.  Betwenc 
the  duke  and  hrr  husband  (I  cannot  tell  who  was  Otther),  she 
conceived  a  child,  and  brought  furtlie  a  prety  boye  called  Jhon, 
wliicho  child  bryinj;  of  the  age  of  one  yere,  the  duke  deceased, 
and  not  long  after  the  mother  and  the  lord  of  Cawny  bnded 
their  lives.  The  next  of  kynne  to  the  lord  Cawny  chalenged 
the  inheritaunce,  which  was  worth  foure  thousande  crounes  a 
yere,  alledgyng  that  the  boye  was  a  bastard  :  and  the  kynred 
of  the  niother'a  side,  for  to  save  her  honesty,  it  plainly  denied. 
In  conclusion,  this  matter  was  in  contencion  before  the  presi- 
dentes  of  the  parliament  of  Paris,  and  there  hang  in  contro- 
versio  till  the  child  came  to  the  age  of  eight  years  old.  At 
whiclie  tyme  it  was  demanded  of  hym  openly  whose  Sonne  he 
was  ;  his  frendes  of  his  mother's  side  advertised  hym  to  re- 
quire a  day,  to  he  advised  of  so  great  an  answer,  whiche  ho 
asked,  and  to  hym  it  was  granted.  In  the  mean  season,  his 
said  frendes  persuaded  him  to  claiine  his  inheritance  as  sonno 
to  the  lorde  of  Cawny,  wliiche  was  an  honorable  livyng,  and 
an  auncient  patrimony,  aflinning  that  if  he  saiil  contrary,  he 
not  only  slaundered  his  mother,  shamed  hymsclf,  and  stained 
his  bloud,  but  also  should  have  no  livyng,  nor  any  thing  to 
lake  to.  The  scholemaster  Ihinkyng  that  his  disciple  had 
well  learned  his  lesson,  and  would  rehearse  it  according  to 
his  instruccion,  brought  hym  before  the  judges  at  the  daio 
assigned,  and  when  the  question  was  repeted  to  hym  again, 
he    boldly  answered,  "  My  harte    geveth  me,  and    my  tonge 


(JO 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


telleth  mc,  that  I  am  the  sonne  ofthe  noble  duke  of  Orlcaunce, 
more  glad  to  be  his  bastarde,  with  a  meane  livyng,  than  the 
lawful  Sonne  of  that  coward  cuckoldo  Cawny,  with  his  four 
rjiousand  crownes."  The  judges  much  marvelled  at  his  bolde 
answcre,  and  his  mother's  cosyns  detested  hyrn  for  shaniyng 
of  his  mother,  and  his  father's  supposed  kinne  rejoysed  in 
gaining  the  patrimony  and  possessions.  Cliarles  duke  of 
Urieaunce  heryng  of  this  judgment,  took  hym  into  his  family, 
and  gave  hym  greute  ollices  and  fees,  whiche  he  well  deserved, 
for  (during  his  captivitie),  he  defended  his  landos,  expulsed 
the  Englirthmon,  and  in  conclusion,  procured  his  deliverance. 
~IfaU,ff.  104. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Shakespeare  had  this  anecdote 
in  his  mind  when  ho  wrote  the  first  scene  wherein  the  bastard 
Falconbridge  is  introduced. 

When  the  duke  of  Orleans  was  so  villanously  assassinated 
by  order  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  the  murder  was  thought  at 
first  to  have  been  perpetrated  by  sir  Aubert  do  Canny,  says 
Monstrellet,  (Jolmes's  translation,  vol.  i.  p.  198,)  from  the 
groat  hatred  he  bore  the  duke  for  having  carried  off  his  wife  ; 
but  llie  truth  was  soon  known  who  were  the  guilty  persons, 
and  that  sir  Aul)ert  was  perfectly  innocent  ofthe  crime.  Ma- 
rietta d'Enguien  was  the  name  ofthe  adulteress. 

"  On  rapportc  que  la  duchcsse  d^  Orleans,  Valentine  de  Milan, 
priticcssc  celebrc  par  son  esprit  et  par  son  courage,  ayant  d  la 
nouvelle  de  la  morte  sanglante  de  son  cpoui,  rassemllc  toute  sa 
innison  ct  les  principauL  seigneurs  de  son  parti,  Icur  addressa  ces 
paroles :  '  Qiti  de  vous  marehcra  le  premier  pour  vcnger  la  mart 
da  frerc  de  son  Roy  ?  '  Frappe  de  terreur,  chacun  gardait  un 
mnrne  silence.  Indigne  de  voir  que  personne  ne  rcpondit  d  ce 
nohle  appii,  le  petit  Jean  d'  Orleans  {Dunois),  alors  &ge  de  sex 
ans  ct  dcmi,  s'avanga  tout  d  coup  an  milieu  de  Vassemblce,  et 
s^ccria  dhine  coix  animce  :  '  Ce  sera  moy,  madame,  etje  me  mon- 
slreray  digne  d'estre  son  fils.'  DrpuU  ce  moment,  Valentine 
oubliant  la  naissance  illcgitime  de  ce  jeune  prince,  avait  congu 
pour  lui  une  affection  vrainient  maternelle.  On  lui  avait  en- 
tendu  dire  au  lit  de  la  mart,  et  par  une  rspece  de  presentiment 
de  la  grandeur  future  de  ce  herns,  '  Qu'i7  lay  avoit  cstc  emhle, 
et  qu'il  n'y  avoit  nul  do  ses  nifans  qui  fust  si  hien  taille  a  venger 
la  mart  dc  son  pcrc.^  Cette  ardeur  de  vengeance  Ventrahia 
mime  d'abord  trop  loin,  et  c'cst  d  pcu  pres  I'unique  reproche 
qu'on  puisse  faire  a  la  jcunessc  de.  ce  guemer.  11  se  vanta 
quetquefois,  dans  la  premiere  moitic  de  sa  vie  d^aroir  immole  de 
sa  main  dix  mille  Bourguignons  aux  mclnes  dc  son  pcre.^' 

Le  Brun  de  Charmentes,  t.  i.  99. 


Note   2,  p.   13,   col.  1 .  —  Cheir^d  with  the   Trohador's  sweet 
minstrelsy. 

Liorraine,  according  to  Cliaucer,  was  famous  for  its  singers. 
There  mightest  thou  se  these  flutours, 
Minstrallis  and  eke  jogelours. 
That  vvel  to  singin  did  ther  paine  ; 
Some  songin  songis  of  Loraine, 
For  in  Loraine  ther  notis  be 
Full  swetir  than  in  this  centre. 

Romaunt  ofthe  Rose. 
No  mention  is  made  of  the  Lorraine  songs  in  the  corre- 
iponding  lines  ofthe  original. 

Ld  estoicnt  herprurs,  Jlcutcurs, 
Et  de  moult  d'instrumens  jongleurs ; 
Les  xins  disoient  chansons  faictes, 
Les  aulres  nottes  nouvellcttes. 

V.  770—3. 

Note  3,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  Gainsaying  what  she  sought. 

The  following  account  of  Joan  of  Arc  is  extracted  from 
a  history  ofthe  siege  of  Orleans,  prise  de  mot  d  mot,  sans  aucun 
changcment  de  langage,  d'un  vieil  exemplaire  cscrit  a  la  main  en 
parchemin,  et  trouvc  en  la  maison  dc  la  dicte  villc  d'  Orleans. 
Tioyes.  162L 

•^  Or  en  ce  temps  avoit  une  jeune  file  au  pais  de  Lorraine,  aagee 
de  dii-huict  ans  ou  environ,  nommre  Janne,  natifue  d'un  paroisse 
nomine  Dompre,fillc  d'un  Laboureur  nomine  Jacques  Tart ;  qui 
jamais  n'aroit  fait  autre  chose  quegarder  les  bestes  aux  champs,  a 
la  quelle,  ainsi  qu'rlle  disoit,  avoit  esti  reveli  qui  Dieu  vovloit 
qu'elle  allast  dcvers  le  Roi  Charles  septirsme,  pour  luy  aider  ct  le 
conseiller  a  recouvrer  son  royaume  et  ses  villes  et  places  que  les 
Anglois  avoient  conquises  en  ses  pays.     La  quelle  revelation  elle 


n'osa  dire  ses  pere  et  mere,  pource  qu'cUe  sgavoit  bicn  que  jamais 
n'eussent  conscnty  qu'elle  yfusl  allee  ;  et  le  prr.-ruada  tant  qu'il  la 
mena  devers  un  geiitelhoiiune  nomme  Messire  Robert  de  Baudri- 
court,  qui  pour  lors  estoit  Cappitaine  de  la  rille,  on  chasleau  de 
Vaucauleur,  qui  est  assci  proehain  dc  la  :  auquel  elle  pria  Ires 
instanment  qu'il  la  fist  mencr  devers  le  Roy  de  France,  en  leur 
disant  qu'il  estoit  tres  necessairc  qu'elle  partast  a  luy  pour  le  lien 
de  son  royaume,  et  que  elle  luy  feroit  grand  sccimrs  et  aide  a  re- 
eouvrer  son  diet  royaume,  et  que  Dieu  le  vouluit  ainsi,  ct  que  U 
luy  avoit  estc  rcvele  pur  plusirursfuis.  Des  quclles  parollis  U 
ne  faisiiit  que  rire  et  se  mocqatr  et  la  rcpuloit  incensee:  toutes- 
fois  elle  persevera  tant  et  si  longucment  qu'il  luy  bailla  un  gen- 
telhomme,  nomme  Ville  Robert,  itquclquc  nombre  de  gens,  les  quels 
la  menerent  devers  le  Roy  que  pour  lors  estoit  a  Chinon." 


Note  4,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  Of  eighteen  years. 

This  agrees  with  the  account  of  her  age  given  by  Holinshed, 
who  calls  her  "  a  young  wench  of  an  eighteene  years  old  ;  of 
favour  was  she  counted  likesome,  of  person  stronglie  made  and 
manlie,  of  courage  great,  bardic,  and  stout  withall ;  an  undcr- 
stander  of  counsels  though  she  were  not  at  them,  greet  sem- 
blance of  chastitie  both  of  bodie  and  behaviour,  liie  name  of 
Jesus  in  hir  mouth  about  all  her  businesses,  humble,  obedient, 
and  fasting  divers  days  in  the  weeke."  —  Holinshed,  GOO. 

De  Serres  speaks  thus  of  her :  "  A  young  maiden  named 
Joan  of  Arc,  born  in  a  village  upon  the  Marches  of  Barre 
called  Domremy,  neere  to  Vaucouleurs,  ofthe  age  of  eighteene 
or  twenty  years,  issued  from  base  parents,  her  father  was 
named  James  of  Arc,  and  her  mother  Isabel,  poore  country 
folkes,  who  had  brought  her  up  to  keep  their  cattell.  She 
said  with  great  boldnesse  that  she  had  a  revelation  how  to 
succour  the  king,  how  he  might  be  able  to  chase  the  English 
from  Orleance,  and  after  that  to  cause  the  king  to  be  crowned 
at  Rheims,  and  to  put  him  fully  and  wholly  in  possession  of 
his  realme. 

"  After  she  had  delivered  this  to  her  father,  mother,  and 
their  neighbors,  she  presumed  to  go  to  the  lord  of  Baudri- 
court,  provost  of  Vaucouleurs  ;  she  boldly  delivered  unto  him, 
after  an  extraordinary  manner,  all  these  great  mysteries,  as 
much  wished  for  of  all  men  as  not  hoped  for:  especially  com- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  a  poore  country  maide,  whom  they 
might  with  more  reason  beleeve  to  be  possessed  of  some  mel- 
ancholy humour,  than  divinely  inspired  ;  being  the  instriunent 
of  so  many  excellent  remedies,  in  so  desperat  a  season,  after 
the  vaine  striving  of  so  great  and  famous  personages.  At  the 
first  he  mocked  and  reproved  her,  but  having  heard  her  with 
more  patience,  and  judging  by  her  temperate  discourse  and 
modest  countenance  tliat  she  s])oke  not  idely,  in  the  end  he 
resolves  to  present  her  to  the  king  for  his  discharge.  So  she 
arrives  at  Chinon  the  sixt  day  of  May,  attired  like  a  man. 

"She  had  a  modest  countenance,  sweet,  civill,and  resolute  ■ 
her  discourse  was  temperate,  reasonable  and  retired,  her  ac 
tions  cold,  shewing  great  chastity.  Having  spoken  to  the 
king,  or  noblemen  with  whom  she  was  to  negociate,  she 
presently  retired  to  her  lodging  with  an  old  woman  that  guided 
her,  without  vanity,  affectation,  babling  or  courtly  lightnes^^e. 
These  are  the  manners  which  the  Original  attributes  to  her." 

Edward  Grimeston,  the  translator,  calls  her  in  the  margin, 
"  Joane  the  Virgin,  or  rather  Witch." 


^^0TE  5,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  Lest  he  in  wrath  confound  me. 

Then  the  word  ofthe  Lord  came  unto  me,  saying,  "  Before 
I  formed  thee  in  the  belly,  I  knew  thee  :  and  before  thou 
camest  forth  out  ofthe  v\'omb  I  sanctified  thee,  and  I  ordained 
thee  a  prophet  unto  the  nations." 

Then  said  I,  Ah,  Lord  God,  behold  I  cannot  speak,  for  I 
am  a  child. 

But  the  Lord  said  unto  me,  Say  not,  I  am  a  child,  for  thou 
shall  go  to  all  that  I  shall  send  thee,  and  whatsoever  I  com- 
mand thee,  thou  shalt  speak. 

Thou  therefore  gird  up  thy  loins,  and  arise,  and  speak  unto 
them  all  that  I  command  thee  :  be  not  dismayed  at  their  faces, 
lest  I  confound  thee  before  them.  —  Jeremiah,  chap.  i. 


Note  6,  p.  14,  col.  2. —  Tauglit  wisdom  to  mankind! 
But  as  for  the  mighty  man,  he  had  the  e.'>rth,  and  the  honor- 
able man  dwelt  in  it. 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


61 


Days  should  speak,  and  multitude  of  years  should  teach 
wis.lom. — Job.  

Note  7,  p.  14,  col.  2.  —  Rusk  o'er  the  land,  and  desolate,  and  kill. 
'•  While  tha  English  and  French  contend  for  dominion, 
sovereignty  and  life  itself,  men's  goods  in  France  were  vio- 
lently taken  by  the  license  of  war,  churches  spoiled,  men  every 
where  murthercd  or  wounded,  others  put  to  death  or  tortured, 
matrons  ravished,  maids  forcibly  drawn  from  out  their  parents' 
arms  to  bo  dyllowered  ;  towns  daily  taken,  daily  spoyled, 
d:uly  defaced,  the  riches  of  the  inhabitants  carried  whether  the 
conipierors  think  good  ;  houses  and  villa,'es  round  about  set  on 
tire,  no  kind  of  cruelty  is  left  unpractised  ujion  tlie  miserable 
French,  omitting  many  hundred  kind  of  otiier  calamities  which 
all  at  once  oppressed  them.  Add  here  unto  that  the  com- 
monwealth, being  destitute  of  the  help  of  laws  (which  for  the 
mo<t  part  are  mute  in  limes  of  war  and  mutiny),  floateth  up 
and  down  without  any  anchorage  at  right  or  justice.  Neither 
W.1S  England  herself  void  of  these  mischiefs,  who  every  day 
heard  the  news  of  her  valiant  children's  funerals,  slain  in  per- 
petual skirmishes  and  bickerings,  her  general  wealth  con- 
tinually ebbed  and  wained,  so  that  the  evils  seemed  almost 
equal,  and  the  whole  western  world  echoed  the  groans  and 
sighs  of  either  nation's  quarrels,  being  the  common  argument 
of  speech  and  compassion  through  Christendom."  —  Speed. 


Note  8,  p.  15,  col.  1.  — there,  in  Vic  hamlet  Arc, 

.My  father's  dwelling  stands. 

When  Montaigne  saw  it  in  1580,  the  front  of  the  house  was 
covered  with  paintings  representing  the  history  of  the  Maid. 
lie  says,  Ses  descendans  furent  annohlis  par  faveur  dii  Roi,  el 
nous  monstrarent  Us  amies  que  Ic  Roi  leur  donna,  qui  soiit  d'azur 
d  lui'  e-fpde  droite  couronnce  et  poigiiee  d'or,  et  deux  ficurs  de  lis 
d'or  au  cote  de  ladite  espce  ;  de.  quoy  un  rcctveur  de  yaucouleur 
donna  un  escussnn  peint  d  M.  dc  Casclis.  Le  dcvant  de  la 
maisonnette  od  cUe  naquit  est  toutc  pclntc  de  scs  gestrs ;  mais 
I'aage  en  a  fort  corrumpu  la  poiiiture.  II  y  a  ausfi  un  nhre  Id 
long  d'unc  vigne  qu'on  nommp  I' afire  de  la  PacvUe,  qui  n'a  nidle 
autre  chose  d  rcmerquer.  —  Voyages  dc  Montaigne,  i.  p.  17. 

Ce  n'ctait  qu'une  maisunnttle ;  et  cepcndant  elle  a  subsiste 
jusqu'  d  nos  jours,  grace  au  zcle  natinnaldu  maire  ctdcshabitans 
de  Domremy,  qui  pendant  les  dernicres  nnnecs  du  gouvernement 
imperial,  voyant  qu'on  refusait  dc  leur  allouer  la  somme  neccssaire 
pour  son  entretien,  y  suppleirait  par  une  souscription  volontaire ; 
tant  le  respect  et  la  veneration  que  les  vertus  inspiratt,  peuvcnt 
quelquefois  prolonger  la  durce  drs  monumens  les  plus  simples  ct 
les  plus fragiles.  —  Le  Brun  dc  Charmettes,  t.  i.  244. 

It  appears,  however,  that  whatever  might  be  the  respect  and 
veneration  of  the  inhabitants  for  this  illustrious  heroine  and 
martyr,  they  allowed  the  cottage  in  which  she  was  born  to  be 
villanously  desecrated,  very  soon  after  their  national  feeling 
had  been  thus  praised.  The  author,  whose  book  was  published 
only  in  the  second  year  (1817)  after  the  overthrow  of  the  Im- 
perial Government,  adds  the  following  note  to  this  passage  : 
Drpuis  I'epoque  oii  ce  passage  a  etc  ccrit,  il  parait  que  les  choses 
sontfort  changies.  On  lit  ce  qui  suit  dans  le  JVarrateur  de  la 
Meuse :  "  Les  chambres  oii  logerent  cclte  heroine  it  ses  parens 
sont  converties  en  itables ;  dc  vils  animauz  occupcnt  I'nnplace- 
ment  du  lit  de  Jeanne  i'Arc.  son  armoire  vermouluc  revferme  des 
ustensilea  d'ecurie."  

Note  9,  p.  15,  col.  1.  —  By  day  I  drove  my  father' s  jlork  afield. 

"  People  found  out  a  nest  of  miracles  in  her  education,  says 
old  Fuller,  that  so  lion-Iikc  a  spirit  should  be  bred  among 
aheep  like  David."  

Note  10,  p.  15,  col.  1 .  —  With  gorse  flowers  glowing,  as  the  sun 
illumed 
Their  golden  glory. 

It  is  said  that  when  Linnieus  was  in  England,  he  was  more 
(truck  with  the  splendid  appearance  of  the  furze  in  blossom, 
than  with  any  other  of  our  native  plants.  — Mrs.  Bray's  Letters, 
i.  316. 


Note  11,  p.  15,  col.  2. 


-  Death '.  to  the  happnj  thou  art  terrible  ; 
But  how  the  wretched  lore  to  think  of  thee, 
0  thou  true  comforter,  the  friend  of  all 
Who  have  no  friend  beside ! 


O  Death,  how  bitter  is  tho  remembrance  of  thee  to  a  man 
that  liveth  at  rest  in  his  possessions,  unto  the  man  that  hath 
nothing  to  vex  him,  and  that  hath  prosperity  in  all  things  , 
yea  unto  him  that  is  yet  able  to  receive  meat ! 

O  Death,  acceptable  is  thy  sentence  unto  tho  needy,  nn^l 
unto  him  whose  strength  faileth,  that  is  now  in  the  last  age, 
and  is  vexed  with  all  things,  and  to  him  that  despaireth,  and 
hath  lost  patience  '.  —  Kcclesiasticus,  xli.  1,  2. 


Note  12,  p.  10,  col.  2. —  Think  well  of  this,  young,man! 

Dreadful  indeed  must  have  been  the  miseries  of  the  French 
from  vulgar  plunderers,  when  the  manners  of  the  highest 
classes  were  marked  by  hideous  grossness  and  vices  that  may 
not  he  uttered. 

"  Of  acts  so  ill  examples  are  not  good." 

Sir  William  Alexander. 
Yet  it  may  be  right  to  justify  the  saying  in  the  text  by  an 
extract  from  the  notes  to  .Andrews's  History  of  Great  Uritain. 
"Agricola  quilihet,  ."ponsam  juvenem  aequisitus,  ac  in  vicinia 
alicujus  iri  nobilis  et  pr<ppulentis  hahitans,  crudelis.^me  vera- 
tabur.  M'empc  nvnnunquam  in  ejus  domum  irrucns  i.<ite  optimeu", 
magna  comitante  catervct,  pretium  ingeiis  redemptiottis  eiigereti 
ac  si  non  protinus  solveret  colonus,  ustum  miscrum  in  mnfpia  area 
protrudens,  venustm  ac  tenerce  uzori  sua  {super  ipsam  arcam 
proslrata:)  vim  vir  vobilis  adferret ;  voce  exclamans  horrenda, 
'  Aadine  Rustice !  jamjam,  super  hanc  arcam  constirpratur 
dilecta  tua  sponsa  ! '  atque  prracto  hoc  scelere  ncfando  relinque- 
retur  (horrcsco  referens)  suffocationc  erpirans  marilus,  nisi 
magna  prctio  sponsa  nuper  vitiata  liberationem  ejus  rcdimc- 
ret."  —  J.  de  Paris. 

Let  us  add  to  this  the  detestable  history  of  a  great  com- 
mander under  Charles  VII.  of  France,  the  bastard  of  Kourbon, 
who  (after  having  committed  the  most  execrable  crimes  during 
a  series  of  years  with  impunity)  was  drowned  in  114 1,  by  the 
constable  Kichcmont,  (a  treacherous  assassin  himself,  hut  a 
mirror  of  justice  when  compared  to  some  of  his  contenipora 
ries,)  on  its  being  proved  against  him  "  Quod  super  ipsum 
maritum  vi  prostratum,  uiori,  frustrarepugnanti,  vim  adiulerat. 
Ensuite  il  aroit  fait  battre  et  dccouper  le  mari,  tant  que  c'ctoit 
pitic  a  voir."  —  Mem.  de  Richnmont . 


Note  13,  p.  16,  col.  2.  —  Think  that  there  are  such  horrors. 

I  translate  the  following  anecdote  of  the  Black  Prince  from 
Froissart :  — 

The  Prince  of  Wales  was  about  a  month,  and  not  longer, 
before  the  city  of  Lymoges,  and  he  did  not  assault  it,  but 
always  continued  mining.  When  the  miners  of  the  prince 
had  finished  their  work,  they  said  to  him,  "  Sir,  we  will  throw 
down  a  great  part  of  the  wall  into  the  moat  whenever  it  shall 
please  you,  so  that  you  may  enter  into  the  city  at  your  ease, 
without  danger."  These  words  greatly  pleased  the  prince, 
who  said  to  them,  "  I  chuse  that  your  work  should  be  mani- 
fested to  morrow  at  the  hour  of  day-break."  Then  the  miners 
set  fire  to  their  mines  the  next  morning  as  the  prince  had 
commanded,  and  overthrew  a  great  pane  of  the  wall,  which 
filled  the  moat  where  it  had  fallen.  The  English  saw  all  this 
very  willingly,  and  they  were  there  all  armed  and  ready  to 
enter  into  tho  town  ;  those  who  were  on  foot  could  enter  at 
their  ease,  and  they  entered  and  ran  to  the  gate  and  heat  it  to 
the  earth  and  all  the  barriers  also  ;  for  there  was  no  defence, 
and  all  this  was  done  so  suddenly,  that  the  people  of  the  town 
were  not  upon  their  guard.  And  then  you  might  have  seen 
the  prince,  the  duke  of  Lancaster,  the  count  of  Canlerbnrv, 
the  count  of  Pembroke,  Messire  Guischart  Dangle,  and  all  the 
other  chiefs  and  their  people  who  entered  in  ;  and  ruffians  on 
foot  who  were  prepared  to  do  mischief,  and  to  run  through  the 
town,  and  to  kill  men  and  women  and  children,  and  so  they 
had  been  commanded  to  do.  There  was  a  full  pitiful  sight, 
for  men  and  women  and  children  cast  themselves  on  their  knees 
before  the  prince  and  cried  "  mercy  !  "  hut  he  was  so  enflamcd 
with  so  great  rage,  that  he  heard  them  not ;  neither  man  nor 
woman  would  he  hear,  but  they  were  all  put  to  tho  &word 
wherever  they  were  found,  and  these  people  had  not  been 
guilty.  I  know  not  how  they  could  have  no  pity  upon  poor 
people,  who  had  never  been  powerful  enough  to  do  any  trea- 
son. There  was  no  heart  so  hard  in  the  city  of  Lymoges 
which  had  any  remembrance  of  God,  that  did  not  lament  the 


63 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


great  mischief  that  was  there  ;  for  more  than  three  thousand 
men  and  women  and  eliiklren  were  put  to  death  that  day  ; 
God  has  tlieir  souls,  for  indeed  they  were  martyred.  In  en- 
tering' llie  town  a  party  of  the  En^'lifh  went  to  tlie  palace  of 
the  hishop  and  found  him  there,  and  took  him  and  led  liini 
before  the  prince,  wlio  looked  at  him  with  a  murderous  look, 
{fchnnrutirmeiit,)  and  the  best  word  that  he  could  say  to  him 
was  that  his  h^ad  should  be  cut  off,  and  then  he  made  him  be 
taken  fiom  his  presence.  —  I.  235. 

Tlie  crime  which  the  people  of  Lymoges  had  committed 
was  that  of  surrenderin;;  when  they  had  been  besieged  by  the 
duke  of  Herry,  and  in  consequence  turning  French.  And 
this  crime  was  thus  punished  at  a  period  when  no  versatility 
of  conduct  was  thi)u;,'ht  dishonorable.  The  phrases  luurner 
Mn.<;luis  —  lournrr  Vraii^Dis  —  rctotirncr  Anirlois,  occur  repeat, 
edly  in  Froissart.  I  should  add  that  of  all  the  heroes  of  this 
period  the  Black  Prince  was  the  most  generous  and  the  most 
humane. 

After  the  English  had  taken  the  town  of  Monternau,  the 
seigneur  de  finitcry,  who  connnanded  there,  retired  to  the 
castle  ;  and  Henry  V.  threatened,  unless  he  surrendered,  to 
hang  eleven  gentlemen,  taken  in  the  town.  These  poor  men 
entreated  the  governor  to  coni))ly,  for  the  sake  of  saving  their 
lives,  letting  him  at  the  same  lime  know  how  impossible  it 
was  that  his  defence  could  be  of  any  avail.  lie  was  not  to  be 
persuaded  ;  and  when  they  saw  this,  and  knew  that  they  must 
die,  some  of  them  requested  that  they  might  first  see  their 
wives  and  their  friends.  This  wis  allowed  :  la  y  eut  depitenz 
re.nret.y-  auprendrn  conge,  says  Pierre  de  Fanin,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning  tliey  were  executed  as  Henry  had  threatened. 
The  governor  held  out  for  fifteen  days,  and  then  yielded  by 
a  capitulation  which  secured  himself.  —  ( CoU.  dcs  Mcmoires, 
.  V.  p.  4.'>l).) 

In  the  whole  history  of  these  dreadful  times  I  remember 
but  one  man  whom  the  cruelty  of  the  age  had  not  contami- 
nated, and  that  was  the  Portugueze  hero  Nuno  Alvarcs  Pereira, 
a  man  who  appears  to  me  to  have  been  a  perfect  example  of 
patriotism,  heroism,  and  every  noble  and  lovely  quality,  above 
all  others  of  any  age  or  country. 

Atrocious,  however,  as  these  instances  are,  they  seem  as 
nothing  when  compared  to  the  atrocities  which  the  French 
exercised  upon  each  other.  Wlien  Soissons  was  captured  by 
Oharles  VI.  (1411)  in  person,  "  in  regard  to  the  destruction 
committed  by  the  king's  army  (says  Monstrellet),  it  cannot  be 
estimated  ;  for  atli'r  tliey  had  plundered  all  the  inhabitants,  and 
their  dwellings,  they  despoiled  the  cluirchcs  and  monasteries. 
They  even  took  and  robbed  the  moit  part  of  the  sacred  shrines 
of  many  bodies  of  saints,  which  they  stripped  of  all  the  pre- 
cious stones,  gold  and  silver,  together  with  many  other  jewels 
and  holy  things  appprtaiiing  to  the  albresaid  churches.  There 
is  not  a  christian  but  would  have  shuddered  at  the  atrocious 
xcesses  committed  by  the  soldiery  in  Soissons :  married 
women  violated  before  their  husbands  ;  young  damsels  in  the 
presence  of  their  parents  and  relatives  ;  holy  nuns,  gentle- 
women of  all  ranks,  of  whom  there  were  many  in  the  town  ; 
all,  or  the  greater  part,  were  violated  against  their  wills  by 
divers  nobles  and  others,  who  after  having  satiated  their  own 
brutal  passions,  delivered  them  over  without  mercy  to  their 
servants :  and  thore  is  no  remembrance  of  such  disorder  and 
havoc  being  done  by  christians,  considering  the  many  persons 
of  hi  ;h  rank  that  were  present,  and  who  made  no  efforts  to 
check  them.  There  were  also  many  gentlemen  in  the  king's 
armv  who  had  relations  in  the  town,  as  well  secular  as  church- 
men ;  hut  the  disorder  was  not  the  less  on  that  account."  — 
Vol.  iv.  p.  dl. 

What  a  national  contrast  is  there  between  the  manner  in 
which  the  English  and  French  have  co'iducted  their  civil  wars  ! 
Even  in  the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  when  all  parlies  were  alike 
tlioroughlv  unprincipled,  crueltiL-s  were  committed  on  both 
sides  which  it  mi,'lit  have  been  thought  nothing  but  the  strong 
feeli.igs  of  a  perverted  religious  principle  could  have  given 
birth  to.  

Note  14,  p.  Id,  col.  2. —  Yet  hangs  nnd  pulls  fur  food. 

Holinshod  says,  speaking  of  the  siege  of  Roan,  "  If  I  should 
rehearse  how  deerelie  dogs,  rats,  mice,  and  cats  were  sold 
within  the  towne,  and  how  greedilie  they  were  by  the  poore 
people  eaten  and  devoured,  and  how  the  people  dailie  died 
for  fault  of  food,  and  young  infanti  late  sucking  in  Vie  strcds 


on  their  mothers^  breasts,  being  dead  starved  for  hunger,  the 
reader  might  lament  their  extreme  miseries." — p.  566, 


-Vote  1.5,  p.  17,  col.  1.  —  The  sceptre  of  the  wicked"! 

"  Do  not  the  tears  run  down  the  widow's  cheek  .'  and  is  not 
her  cry  against  him  that  causeth  them  to  fall? 

"  The  Lord  will  not  be  slack  till  he  have  smitten  in  sunder 
the  loins  of  the  unmerciful,  till  he  have  taken  away  the  multi- 
tude of  the  proud,  and  broken  the  sceptre  of  the  unrighteous." 

—  Ecclcsiasticus.  

Note  1G,  p.  17,  col.  1. —  The  Fountain  of  the  Faines. 

In  the  Journal  of  Paris  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  VI.  and 
VII.  it  is  asserted  that  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  in  answer  to  an 
interrogatory  of  the  doctors,  whether  she  had  ever  assisted  at 
the  assend)lies  held  at  the  Fountain  of  the  Fairies  near  Dom- 
prein,  round  w  liicli  the  evil  spirits  dance,  confessed  that  she  had 
often  repaired  to  a  beautiful  fountain  in  the  country  of  Iior- 
raine,  which  she  named  the  good  Fountain  of  the  Fairies  of 
our  Lord.  —  From  the  notes  to  the  English  version  of  Lc  Grand's 
Fabliaux.  

Note  17,  p.  17,  col.  2.  —  They  love  to  lie  and  rock  upon  its  leaves. 

Being  asked  whether  she  had  ever  seen  any  fairies,  she 
answered  no  ;  but  that  one  of  her  god-mothers  pretended  to 
have  seen  some  at  the  Fairy-tree,  near  the  village  of  Dompre. 

—  Rapin.  

Note  18,  p.  17,  col.  2.  —  Memory,  thought,  were  gone. 

"  In  this  representation  which  I  made  to  place  myself  near 
to  Christ  (says  St.  Teresa),  there  would  come  suddenly  upon 
me,  without  cither  expectation  or  any  preparation  on  my  i>art, 
such  an  evident  feeling  of  the  presence  of  God,  as  that  1  could 
by  no  means  dcubt,  but  that  either  he  was  within  me,  or  else 
I  all  engulfed  in  him.  This  was  not  in  the  manner  of  a 
vision,  but  I  think  they  call  it  Mistical  Theology  ;  and  it 
suspends  the  sou!  in  such  sort,  that  she  seems  to  be  wholly 
out  of  herself.  The  Will  is  in  act  of  loving,  the  Memory 
seems  to  be  in  a  manner  lost,  the  understanding,  in  my  opinion, 
discourses  not ;  and  although  it  be  not  lost,  yet  it  works  not  as 
I  was  saying,  but  remains  as  it  were  amazed  to  consider  how 
much  it  understands."  —  Life  of  St.  Teresa,  written  by  herself. 

Teresa  was  well  acquainted  with  the  feelings  of  enthusiasm. 
I  had,  however,  described  the  sensations  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans 
before  I  had  met  with  the  life  of  the  saint. 


Note  19,  p.  17,  col.  2.  — ind  they  shall  perish  who  oppress. 

"  Raise  up  indignation,  and  pour  out  wrath,  and  let  them 
perish  who  oppress  the  people  !  "  —  Ecclcsiasticus,  xxxvi. 


Note  20,  p.  18,  col.  1.  —  The  hoarse  grasshoppers  their  evening 
song 
Sung  shrill  and  ceaseless. 

The  epithets  shrill  and  hoarse  will  not  appear  mcongruous 
to  one  who  has  attended  to  the  grasshopper's  chirp.  Gazaius 
has  characterized  the  sound  by  a  word  certainly  accurate,  in 
his  tale  of  a  grasshopper  who  perched  \i\ion  St.  Francis's 
finger,  and  sung  'he  praise  of  God  and  the  wonders  of  his  own 
body  in  his  vernacuM.  tongue,  St.  Francis  and  all  the  grass- 
hoppers listening  with  equal  edification. 

Cicada 

Canebat  (at  sic  efferam)  cicadice. 

Pia  miaria  Angelini  OaKEi. 

Perhaps  he  remembered  two  lines  in  the  Zanitonella  of  the 
Macaronic  poet, 

Scnlis  an  quanta  cicigant  Cigala!, 
Qua:  mi/ii  rumpunt  cicigando  testam. 

The  marginal  note  says,  Cicigare,  vox  cicadas  vel  cigala;. 

St.  Francis  labored  much  in  the  conversion  of  animals 
In  the  fine  series  ofpictures  representing  his  life,  lately  painted 
for  the  new  Franciscan  convent  at  Madrid,  I  recollect  seeing 
him  preach  to  a  congregation  of  birds.  Gazaeus  has  a  poem 
upon  bis  instructing  a  ewe.  His  advice  to  her  is  somewhat 
curious : 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC, 


03 


yide  nr,  arides,  neoe  in  vboios  ruas : 
Cave  devovcndos  Jlosciiliis  aharibus 
Vcl  ore  lacircs,  vcl  bfurcuto  pcde. 
Mule  feriatdi  felts  instur,  jrruttras 

Tlmrc  is  oiiothcr  upon  his  converting  two  lamba,  whose  prayers 
were  more  accciitiiMc  to  Goil,  Marot !  says  lie,  tlian  your 
psalms.  Il'tlie  nun,  who  took  cure  of  tliem  in  his  absence, 
was  incliueil  to  lie  a-bed  — 

Prater  ^^nvs  banc  bcS  bc£  sua 

Deviitu^'  eicitaOat. 

O  a^HCJam  7ton  aa-nc  sed  doctor  bond 


Note  21,  p.  IS,  col.  1.  —  The  memory  of  lui  prison'd  years. 

The  JIaiU  declared  upon  her  trial,  that  God  loved  the  duke 
of  Orleans,  and  that  she  had  received  more  revelations  con- 
cerning him,  than  any  person  living,  except  the  kin?. —  H'ipin. 

Orleans,  during  his  long  captivity,  "  liad  learnt  to  court  the 
fair  ladies  of  England  in  their  native  strains."  Among  the 
Harleian  JISS.  is  a  collection  of"  love  poems,  roundels  and 
songs,"  composed  by  the  French  prince  during  his  confine- 
ment.   

Note  22,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  The  prisoners  of  tltat  shameful  Jay 
out  summ'd 
Their  conquerors  ! 

According  to  Holinshcd,  the  English  army  consisted  of  only 
15,000  men,  harassed  with  a  tedious  march  of  a  month,  in 
very  bad  weather,  through  an  enemy's  country,  and  for  the 
most  part  sick  of  a  flux.  He  states  the  number  of  French  at 
00,000,  of  whom  10,000  were  slain,  and  1500  of  the  higher 
order  taken  prisoners.  Some  historians  make  the  dispropor_ 
tion  in  numbers  still  greater.  Goodwin  says,  that  among  the 
slain  there  were  one  archbisliop,  three  dukes,  six  earls,  ninety 
barons,  fifteen  hundred  knights,  and  seven  thousand  esquires 
or  gentlemen.  

Note  23,   p.   18,   col.   2.  —  Frcm  his  herscd  bowmen  how  the 
arroicsflew. 

This  was  the  usual  method  of  marshalling  the  bowmen.  At 
Cressy  "  tho  archers  stood  in  manner  of  an  herse,  about  two 
hundred  in  front  and  but  forty  in  depth,  which  is  undoubtedly 
the  best  way  of  embattling  archers,  especially  when  the  enemy 
is  very  numerous,  as  at  this  time  :  for  by  the  breadth  of  the 
front  the  extension  of  the  enemies  front  is  matched  ;  and  by 
rea^ion  of  the  thinness  in  flank,  the  arrows  do  more  certain 
execution,  being  more  likely  to  reach  home."  —  Barnes. 

The  victory  at  Poictiers  is  chiefly  attributed  to  the  herse  of 
archers.  After  mentioning  the  conduct  and  courage  of  the 
English  leaders  in  tliat  battle,  Uarnes  says,  "  But  all  this 
courage  had  been  thrown  away  to  no  purpose,  had  it  not  been 
Beconded  by  the  extraordinary  gallantry  of  the  English  archers, 
who  behaved  themselves  that  day  with  wonderful  constancy, 
alacrity,  and  resolution.  So  that  by  their  means,  in  a  manner, 
all  the  French  battails  received  their  first  foil,  being  by  the 
barbed  arrows  so  galled  and  terrified,  that  they  were  easily 
opened  to  the  men  of  arms." 

"  Without  all  question,  the  guns  which  are  used  now-a-<lays 
are  neither  so  terrible  in  battle,  nor  do  such  execution,  nor 
work  such  confusion  as  arrows  can  do  :  for  bullets  being  not 
seen  only  hurt  when  they  hit,  but  arrows  enrage  the  horse, 
and  break  the  array,  and  terrify  all  that  behold  them  in  the 
bodies  of  their  neighbors.  Not  to  say  that  every  archer  can 
shoot  thrice  to  a  gunner's  once,  and  that  whole  squadrons  of 
bows  may  let  fly  at  one  time,  when  only  one  or  two  files  of 
musqnetcers  can  discharge  a*,  once.  Also,  that  whereas 
guns  are  useless  when  your  pikes  join,  because  they  only  do 
ircecution  point  blank,  the  arrows  which  will  kill  at  random, 
may  do  good  service  even  behind  your  men  of  arms.  And  it 
is  notorious,  that  at  the  famous  battle  of  Lepanto,  the  Turkish 
bows  did  more  mischief  than  the  Christian  artillery.  Besides 
It  is  not  the  least  observable,  that  whereas  the  weakest  may 
use  s:uns  as  well  as  the  strongest,  in  those  days  your  lusty  and 
tall  yeomen  were  chosen  for  the  bow;  whose  hose  being  fas- 
tened with  one  point,  and  their  jackets  long  and  easy  to  shoot 
in,  they  had  their  limbs  at  full  liberty,  so  that  tlioy  might 
easily  draw  bows  of  great  strength,  and  shoot  arrows  of  a 
yard  long  beside  the  head."  —  Joshua  Barnes. 


Note  24,  p.  18,  col.  2.  —  To  turn  en  the  defenceless  pruioncrs 
The  cruel  sword  of  conr/uest 

During  the  heat  of  the  combat,  when  the  English  had 
gained  the  u|>per  hand,  and  made  several  prisoners,  news  was 
brought  to  king  Henry  that  the  French  were  attacking  his 
rear,  and  had  already  captured  the  greater  part  of  his  bagg;ige 
and  sumpter-horses.  This  was  indeed  true,  for  Robinet  de 
Bournonville,  Rifllart  de  Clamasse,  Ysambart  d'Azincourt, 
and  some  other  men  at  arms,  with  about  six  hundred  pcusanl-i, 
had  fallen  upon  and  taken  great  part  of  the  king's  baggage, 
and  a  number  of  horses,  while  the  guard  was  occupied  in  the 
battle.  This  distressed  the  king  very  much,  for  he  saw  that 
though  the  French  army  had  been  routed,  they  were  collecting 
on  dilierent  parts  of  the  plain  in  large  bodies,  and  he  was 
afraid  they  would  resume  the  battle :  he  therefore  caused 
instant  proclamation  to  be  made  by  sound  of  trumpet,  that 
every  one  should  put  his  prisoners  to  death,  to  prevent  them 
from  aiding  the  enemy,  should  the  combat  be  renewed.  This 
caused  an  instantaneous  and  general  massacre  of  the  French 
prisoners,  occasioned  by  the  disgraceful  conduct  of  Robinet  de 
Bournonville,  Ysambart  d'Azincourt,  and  the  others,  who 
were  afterwards  jiunished  for  il,  and  imprisoned  a  very  long 
time  by  duke  John  of  Burgundy,  notwithstanding  they  had 
made  a  present  to  the  count  de  Charolois  of  a  most  precious 
sword  ornamented  with  diamonds,  that  had  belong-jd  to  the 
king  of  England.  They  had  taken  this  sword,  with  other 
rich  jewels,  from  king  Henry's  baggage,  und  had  made  this 
present,  that  in  case  they  should  at  any  time  be  called  to  an 
account  for  what  they  had  done,  the  count  might  stand  their 
friend.  —  Monjstrelet,  vol.  iv.  p.  180. 

When  the  king  of  England  had  on  this  Saturday  begun  his 
march  towards  Calais,  many  of  the  French  returned  to  the 
field  of  battle,  v.here  the  bodies  had  been  turned  over  more 
than  once,  some  to  seek  for  their  lords,  and  carry  them  to  their 
own  countries  for  burial,  others  to  pillage  what  the  English 
had  left.  King  Henry's  army  had  only  taken  gold,  silver, 
rich  dresses,  helmets,  and  what  was  of  value,  for  which  reason 
the  greater  part  of  the  armor  was  untouched,  and  on  the  dead 
bodies  ;  but  it  did  not  long  remain  thus,  for  it  was  very  soon 
stripped  olf,  and  even  the  shirts  and  all  other  parts  of  their 
dress  were  carried  away  by  the  peasants  of  the  adjoining 
villages. 

The  bodies  w'ere  left  exposed  as  naked  as  when  they  came 
into  the  world.  On  the  Saturday,  Sunday,  INIonday,  Tuesday, 
and  Wednesday,  the  corpses  of  many  princes  v/ere  well 
washed  and  raised,  namely,  the  dukes  of  Brabant,  Bar,  and 
AleiKjon,  the  counts  de  Nevers,  de  Blaumont,  de  Vaudeniont) 
de  Faulquemberge,  the  lord  de  Dampicrre,  admiral  sir  Charles 
d'Albreth,  constable,  and  buried  in  the  church  of  the  Friars 
Minors  at  Hesdin.  Others  were  carried  by  their  servants, 
some  to  their  own  countries,  and  others  to  difterent  churches. 
All  who  were  recognized  werq  taken  away,  and  !3uiied  in  the 
churches  of  their  manors. 

When  Philippe  count  de  Charolois  heard  of  the  unfor- 
tunate and  melancholy  disaster  of  tlie  French,  ho  was  ir.  great 
grief;  more  especially  for  the  death  of  his  two  uncles,  the 
duke  of  Brabant  and  count  de  Nevers.  Moved  by  compas- 
sion, hi^  caused  all  that  had  remained  exposed  on  the  field  of 
battle  to  be  interred,  and  commissioned  the  abbot  de  Kous- 
sianville  and  the  bailiff  of  Aire  to  have  it  done.  They  meas. 
urcd  out  a  square  of  twenty-five  yards,  wdiercin  were  dug 
three  trenches  twelve  feet  wide,  in  which  were  buried,  by  an 
account  kept,  five  thousand  eight  hundred  men.  It  was  not 
known  how  many  had  been  carried  away  by  their  friends,  nor 
what  number  of  the  wounded  had  died  in  hospitals,  towns, 
villages,  and  even  in  the  adjacent  woods  ;  but,  as  I  have 
before  said,  it  must  have  been  very  great. 

This  square  w'as  consecrated  as  a  buryiug-ground  by  the 
bishop  of  Guines,  at  the  command  and  as  procurator  of  Louis 
de  Luxembourg,  bishop  of  Therounne.  It  was  surrounded 
by  a  strong  hedge  of  thorns,  to  prevent  wolves  or  dogs  from 
entering  it,  and  tearing  up  and  devouring  the  bodies. 

In  consequence  of  this  sad  event,  some  learned  clerk  of  the 
realm  made  the  following  verses : 

A  chief  by  dolorous  iruschance  opprcss'd, 
.\  prince  who  rules  by  arbitrary  will, 

A  royal  house  by  discord  sore  distress'd, 
A  council  prejudiced  and  partial  still, 


64 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Subjects  by  prodigality  brought  low, 

Will  fill  the  land  with  beggars,  well  we  trow. 

Nobles  made  noble  in  dame  Nature's  spite 
A  timorous  clergy  fear,  and  truth  conceal ; 

While  huii]blu  commoners  forego  their  right, 
And  the  harsh  yoke  of  proud  oppression  feel : 

Thus,  while  the  people  mourn,  the  public  woe 

Will  fill  the  land  with  beggars,  well  we  trow. 

Ah  feeble  woe  !  whose  impotent  commands 
The  very  vassals  boldly  dare  despise  : 

Ah  helpless  monarch  !  whose  enervate  hands 
And  wavering  counsels  dare  no  high  emprize, 

Thy  hapless  reign  will  cause  our  tears  to  flow, 

And  fill  the  land  with  beggars,  well  we  trow. 

Johnes's  Monstelet,  vol.  iv.  p.  195. 

According  to  Pierre  de  Fcnin,  the  English  did  not  bury 
their  own  dead  ;  but  their  loss  was  so  small  that  this  is  very 
unlikely.  He  says,  ^pres  cette  doidourcuse  joumce^  ct  que 
touies  les  deux  parties  sefurcnt  retirees,  Louxjs  de  Luxembourg, 
qui  cstoit  Eoesque  de  Teruuane,  fit  faire  en  la  place  uu  la  bataillc 
avoit  estc  domi^c  plusiuers  charniers,  ou  ilfit  assembler  tons  les 
marts  d'un  caste  et  d'autre  ;  et  Id  les  fit  entcrrer,  puis  U  henit  la 
place,  el  la  fit  enclore  de  fortes  kayes  tout  autour,  pour  la 
garantir  du  bestial. 

After  the  battle  of  Agincourt  Henry  lodged  at  Maisoncclle  ; 
le  lendcmain  au  matin  il  en  deslogeu,  el  alia  passer  tout  au  milieu 
des  marts  qui  avoient  estc  tucz  en  cc  combat;  Idil s'arresta  grand 
espace  dc  temps,  et  tirirent  ses  gens  encor  des  prisonniers  hors 
du  nombre  des  marts,  qu'ils  evimenercnt  arec  eux.  —  Coll.  des 
Memoires.  t.  v.  p.  384. 

Note  25,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Fromthe  disastrous  plain  of  Agincourt. 

Perhaps  one  consequence  of  the  victory  at  Agincourt  is  not 
generally  known  Immediately  on  his  return  Henry  sent  his 
legates  to  the  council  of  Constance  :  "  at  this  councell,  by  the 
assent  of  all  nations  there  present,  it  was  authorised  and 
ordained,  that  England  should  obtaine  the  name  of  a  nation, 
and  should  be  said  one  of  the  five  nations  that  owe  their  de- 
votion to  the  church  of  Rome,  which  thing  untill  that  time 
men  of  other  nations,  for  envy,  had  delayed  and  letted."  — 
Stowe,  Klmham.  

Note  26,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Henry,  as  wise  as  brave,  had  back  to 
England. 

Henry  judged,  that  by  fomenting  the  troubles  of  France,  he 
nhould  procure  more  certain  and  lasting  advantages  than  by 
means  of  his  arms.  The  truth  is,  by  pushing  the  French 
vigorously,  he  ran  the  risk  of  uniting  them  all  against  him ; 
ill  which  case,  his  advantages,  probably,  would  have  been  in- 
considerable ;  but  by  granting  them  some  respite,  he  gave 
them  opportunity  to  destroy  one  another :  therefore,  contrary 
to  every  one's  expectation,  he  laid  aside  his  military  aflfairs 
for  near  eighteen  months,  and  betook  himself  entirely  to  ne- 
gotiation, which  aflTorded  him  the  prospect  of  less  doubtful 
advantages.  —  Rapin. 


Note  27,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  For  many  were  the  warrior  so?is  of 
Roan. 

"  Yet  although  the  armie  was  strong  without,  there  lacked 
not  within  both  hardie  capteins  and  manfuU  soldiers,  and  as 
for  people,  they  had  more  than  inough  :  for  as  it  is  written  by 
some  that  had  good  cause  to  know  the  truth,  and  no  occasion 
to  erre  from  the  same,  there  were  in  the  citie  at  the  time  of 
the  siege  210,000  persons.  Dailie  were  issues  made  out  of 
the  citie  at  diverse  gates,  sometime  to  the  losse  of  the  one 
partie  and  sometimes  of  the  other,  as  chances  of  warre  in  such 
adventures  happen."  —  Holinshed,  5G6. 


Note  28,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Haxl  made  them,  vow  before  Almighty 
God. 
"  The  Frenchmen  indeed  preferring  fame  before  worldlie 
riches  and  despisingpleasure  (the  enemy  to  warlike  prowesse), 
Bware  ech  to  other  never  to  render  or  deliver  the  citie,  while 
they  might  either  hold  sword  in  hand  or  speare  in  rest." 
—  Holinshed,  566. 


Note  29,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Had  made  a  league  with  Famine. 

"  The  king  of  England  advertised  of  their  hautie  courages, 
determined  to  conquer  them  by  famine  which  would  not  he 
tamed  by  weapon.  Wherefore  he  slopped  all  the  passages, 
both  by  water  and  land,  that  no  vittels  could  be  conveied  to 
the  citie.  He  cast  trenches  round  about  the  walls,  and  set 
them  full  of  slakes,  and  defended  them  with  archers,  so  that 
there  was  left  neither  waie  for  them  within  to  issue  out,  noi 
for  anie  that  were  abroad  to  enter  in  without  his  license.  — 
The  king's  coosine  germane  and  alie  (the  king  of  Por(ugale) 
sent  a  great  navie  of  well-nppointed  ships  unto  the  mouth  .if 
the  river  Peine,  to  stop  that  no  French  vessel  should  enler 
the  river  and  passe  up  the  same,  to  the  aid  of  them  will. in 
Rouen. 

"Thus  was  the  faire  citie  of  Rouen  compassed  about  wi  b 
enemies,  both  by  water  and  land,  having  neither  comfort  nui 
aid  of  king,  dolphin,  or  duke."  —  Holinshed,  SOti. 

King  Henry  of  England  marched  a  most  powerful  army, 
accompanied  by  a  large  trainof  artillery  and  warlike  stores,  m 
the  month  of  June,  before  the  noble  and  potent  town  of  Rouen, 
to  prevent  the  inhibitants  and  garrison  from  being  supplied 
with  new  corn.  The  van  of  his  army  arrived  there  at  mid- 
night, that  the  garrison  might  not  make  any  sally  against 
them.  The  king  was  lodged  at  the  Carthusian  convent  ;  the 
duke  of  Gloucester  was  quartered  before  the  gate  of  St. 
Hilaire  ;  the  duke  of  Clarence  at  the  gate  of  Caen  ;  the  earl  of 
Warwick  at  that  of  Martinville  ;  the  duke  of  Exeter  and  earl 
of  Dorset  at  that  of  Beauvais  :  in  front  of  the  gate  of  the 
castle  were  the  lord  marshal  and  sir  John  de  Cornwall.  At 
the  gate  leading  to  Normandy  were  posted  the  earls  of  Hunt- 
ingdon, Salisbury,  Kyme,  and  the  lord  Neville,  son  to  the  eail 
of  Westmoreland.  On  the  hill  fronting  St.  Catherine's  were 
others  of  the  English  barons.  Before  the  English  could  forlifv 
their  quarters,  in.iny  sallies  were  made  on  them,  and  several 
severe  skirmishes  passed  on  both  sides.  But  the  English,  so 
soon  as  they  could,  dug  deep  ditches  between  the  town  and 
ihem,  on  the  top  of  which  tliey  planted  a  thick  hedge  of 
thorns,  so  that  they  could  not  otherwise  be  annoyed  than  by 
cannon  .shot  and  arrows.  They  also  built  a  jette  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  about  a  cannon  shot  distant  from  the  town,  to 
which  they  fastened  their  chains,  one  of  tlicm  half  a  foot  under 
the  water,  another  level  with  it,  and  a  third  two  fi'et  above  the 
stream,  so  that  no  boats  could  bring  provision  to  the  town,  nor 
could  any  esc.ipe  from  it  that  way.  They  likewise  dug  deep 
i:alleries  of  communication  fiom  one  quarter  to  another,  which 
completely  sheltered  those  in  them  from  cannon  or  other  war- 
like machines.  —  Monstrelct,  vol.  v.  p.  40. 


Note  30,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Desperate  endurance. 

"  Afler  he  had  prosecuted  the  siege  of  this  place  (or  some 
time,  the  cardinal  Ursino  repaired  to  his  camp,  and  endeavored 
to  persuade  him  to  moderate  his  terms,  and  agree  to  an  equi- 
table peace  ;  but  the  king's  reply  |)lainly  evinced  his  deter- 
mination of  availing  himself  of  the  present  situation  of  public 
affairs  ;  '  Do  you  not  see,'  said  he,  '  that  God  has  brought  me 
hither,  as  it  were  by  the  hand.'  The  throne  of  France  may 
be  said  to  be  vacant  ;  I  have  a  good  title  to  that  crown  ;  the 
whole  kingdom  is  involved  in  the  utmost  disorder  and  confu- 
sion ;  few  are  willing,  and  still  fewer  are  able,  to  resist  me. 
Can  I  have  a  more  convincing  proof  of  the  interposition  of 
heaven  in  my  favor,  and  that  the  .^'uprenie  Ruh't  of  all  things 
has  decreed  that  I  should  ascend  the  throne  of  France.'"  — 
Hist,  of  England,  by  Hugh  Clarendon. 


Note  31,  p.  19,  col.  2. —  Could  we  behold  their  savage  Irish 
Kerns. 

"  With  the  English  sixteen  hundred  Irish  Kernes  were 
enrolled  from  the  prior  of  Kilmainham  ;  able  men,  but  almost 
naked  ;  tlieir  arms  were  targets,  darts,  and  swords  ;  their  horses 
little,  and  bare  no  saddle,  yet  nevertheless  nimble,  on  which 
upon  every  advantage  they  plaied  with  the  French,  in  spoiling 
the  country,  rifeling  the  houses,  and  carrying  away  children 
with  their  baggage  upon  their  cowes  backs." —  Speed,  p.  638. 

The  king  of  England  had  in  his  army  numbers  of  Irish,  the 
greater  part  of  whom  were  on  foot,  having  only  a  stocking  and 
shoe  on  one  leg  and  foot,  with  the  other  quite  naked.  They 
had  targets,  short  javelins,  and  a  strange  sort  of  knives.    Those 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


65 


who  were  on  horseback  had  no  saddl^fi,  but  rode  excellently 
well  on  small  nionntuin  horses,  and  were  mounted  on  such 
panniers  ns  are  used  by  the  carriers  of  corn  in  pans  ol  France, 
riicy  were,  however,  miserably  accoutred  in  comparison  willi 
the  English,  and  without  any  arms  that  could  much  hurt  the 
French  whenever  they  nii^'ht  meet  them. 

Tliesi;  Irish  made  frequent  excursions  during  the  siege  over 
Normandy,  and  did  inlinito  mischiefs,  carrying  back  to  their 
camp  large  booties.  I'hose  on  foot  look  men,  and  even 
cliildren  from  the  cradle,  with  beds  and  furnilure,  and  placing; 
Iheju  on  cows,  drove  all  these  things  before  them,  for  they 
v.-ere  often  met  thus  by  the  French.  —  Monstreiet,  v.  p.  42. 


Note  32,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Ruffians  lialf-dolhed,  half-human,  half 
baptized. 

"  In  some  corners  of  Connaught,  the  people  leave  the  right 
armes  of  their  infants  male  unchristencd  (as  they  teimo  it),  to 
the  end  that  at  any  time  afterwards  they  might  give  a  more 
deadly  and  ungracious  blow  when  they  strike  ;  which  things 
doe  not  only  show  how  palpably  Ihey  are  cariied  away  by  tra- 
ditious  obscurities,  but  doe  also  intimate  how  lull  their  hearts 
be  of  inveterate  revenge." 

The  book  from  which  this  extract  is  taken  wants  the  title. 
The  title  of  the  second  part  is,  ^  Prospect  of  the  mostfamou.^ 
Paris  of  the  Worll.  Printed  for  Wdliam  Humble,  in  Pope's 
Head  Place.  1646.  

Note  33,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Of  Ifnrjleur^s  wretched  people  driven 
out. 

"  Some  writing  of  this  yeelding  up  of  Harfleur,  doo  in  like 
sort  make  mention  of  the  distresse  whereto  the  people,  then 
expelled  out  of  their  habitations,  were  driven  ;  insomuch  as 
parents  with  their  children,  yong  maids,  and  old  folke  went 
out  of  the  towne  gates  with  heavie  harts  (God  wot),  as  put  to 
their  present  shifts  to  seek  them  a  new  abode."  —  Holinshed, 
550. 

This  act  of  barb  irity  was  perpetrated  by  Henry,  that  he 
might  people  the  town  with  English  inhabitants.  "This 
doth  Anglorum  pra'lia  report,  saieng(not  without  good  ground 
1  believe),  as  followeth  : 

Turn  flentes  tenera  cum  prole  parentes 
Virgineusque  chorus  veteres  liquiire  penates  : 
Turn  populus  cunctus  de  portis  Gallicus  exit 
M<BStus,  inarmatus,  vacuus,  miser,  a>ger,  inopsqne, 
Utque  novas  sedes  quadrat  migrare  coactus : 
Oppidulo  belli  potiuntur  jure  Britanni  !  "  —  Holinshed. 

There  is  a  way  of  telling  trutn  so  as  to  convey  falsehood. 
After  the  capture  of  Harfleur,  .Stowe  says,  "  All  the  soldiers 
and  inhabitants,  both  of  the  towne  and  towers,  were  suffered  to 
^oc  freely,  unharmed,  whither  tliey  would."  —  318.  Henry's 
conduct  was  the  same  at  Caen  :  he  "  commanded  all  women 
and  children  to  bee  avoyded  out  of  the  towne,  and  so  the 
towne  was  inhabited  of  new  possessors." —  Stowc. 


which  they  found  closed  and  shut  against  them,  and  so  they 
laie  betwoenc  the  wals  of  the  cilic  and  the  trenches  of  the 
enemies,  still  crieing  for  help  and  releefo,  for  lack  whereof 
great  numbers  of  them  dailie  died."  —  Holinshed. 


Note  34,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Knelt  at  the  altar. 

Before  Henry  took  possession  of  Harfleur,  he  went  bare- 
footed to  the  church  to  give  God  thanks. —  De  Sn-res. 


Note  35,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  In  cold  blood  slaughtered. 

Henry,  not  satisfied  with  the  reduction  of  Caen,  put  several 
of  the  inhabitants  to  death,  who  had  signaliied  their  valor  in 
the  defence  of  their  liberty.  —  H.  Clarendon. 


Note  3fi,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  He  groan'd  and  curs'din  bitterness  of 
heart. 
After  the  capture  of  the  city  "  Luca  Italico,  the  vicar 
generall  of  the  archbishoprike  of  Rouen,  for  denouncing  the 
king  accursed,  was  delivered  to  him  and  deteincd  in  prison  till 
he  died."  —  Holinshed.   Titus  Livius, 


Note  37,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  Drive  back  tjte  miserable  multitude. 

"  A  great  number  of  poore  sillie  creatures  were  put  out  of 

the   gates,   which    were   by   the   Englishmen    that   kept   the 

trenches  beaten  and  driven  back  again   to  the  same  gates, 

9 


Note  38,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  jSnrf  irAra  wc  sntt  the  herald  to  intpUnre 
His  mercy. 

.\t  this  period,  a  priest  of  a  tolerable  age,  and  of  clear  un- 
derstanding, was  deputed,  by  those  besieged  in  Rouen,  to  the 
king  of  France  and  his  council.  On  his  arrival  at  Paris,  he 
caused  to  be  explained,  by  an  Augustin  doctor, named  F.ustace 
de  la  I'aville,  in  presence  of  the  king  and  his  ministers,  the 
miserable  situation  of  the  besieged.  He  took  for  his  text, 
^' Diimine,  quid facirmus'!  "  and  harangueil  upon  it  very  ably 
and  eloquently.  When  he  had  finished,  the  priest  addressed 
the  king,  saying,  "  Most  excellent  prince  and  lord,  I  am  en- 
joined by  the  inhabitants  of  Rouen  to  make  loud  complaints 
against  you,  and  against  you  duko  of  Burgundy,  who  govern 
the  king,  for  the  oppressions  they  suffer  from  the  English. 
They  make  known  to  you  by  me,  that  if,  from  want  of  being 
succored  by  you,  they  are  forced  to  become  subjects  to  the 
king  of  England,  you  will  not  have  in  all  the  world  more  bitter 
enemies  ;  and  if  they  can,  they  will  destroy  you  and  your 
whole  congregation."  With  these  or  with  similar  words  did 
this  priest  address  the  king  and  his  council.  After  he  had 
been  well  received  and  entertained,  and  the  duke  of  Burgundy 
had  promised  to  provide  succors  for  the  town  of  Rouen  as 
speedily  as  possible,  he  returned  the  best  way  he  could  to  carry 
this  news  to  the  besieged.^ Monstrekt,  vol.  v.  p.  54. 

One  of  the  deputed  citizens,  "showing  himself  more  rash 
than  wise,  more  arrogant  than  learned,  took  upon  him  to  show 
wherein  the  glorie  of  victorie  consisted;  advising  the  king  not 
to  show  his  manhood  in  famishing  a  multitude  of  poore  simple 
and  innocent  people,  but  rather  suffer  such  miserable  wretches 
as  laie  betwixt  the  walls  of  the  citie  and  the  trenches  of  his 
siege,  to  passe  through  the  camp,  that  theie  might  get  their 
living  in  other  places  ;  then  if  he  durst  manfullie  assault  the 
place,  and  by  force  subdue  it,  he  should  win  both  worldlie 
fame,  and  merit  great  meed  from  the  hands  of  Almighlie  (7od, 
for  having  compassion  of  the  poore,  needio,  and  indigent 
people.  When  this  orator  had  said,  the  king  with  a  fierce 
countenance  and  bold  spirit,  reproved  them  lor  their  malapert 
presumi)tion,  in  that  they  should  seeme  to  go  aliout  to  teach 
him  what  belonged  to  tlie  dutie  of  a  conqueror,  and  therefore 
since  it  appeared  that  the  same  was  unknown  to  them,  he 
declared  that  the  goddesse  of  bittell  called  Bellona  had  three 
handmaidens,  ever  of  necessitie  attending  upon  her,  as  Blood, 
Fire,  and  Famine,  and  whereas  it  laie  in  his  choice  to  use 
them  all  three,  he  had  appointed  onelie  the  meekest  maid  of 
those  three  damsels  to  punish  them  of  that  citie  till  they  were 
brought  to  reason.  This  answer  put  the  French  ambassador 
in  a  great  studie,  musing  much  at  his  cxedlcKt  irit  and  hawti- 
nesse  of  courage."  —  Holinshed. 

While  the  court  resided  at  Beauvais,  four  gentlemen  and 
four  citizens  of  Rouen  were  sent  to  liy  before  the  king  and 
council  their  miserable  state  :  they  told  them  that  thousands 
of  persons  were  already  dead  with  hunger,  within  their  town  ; 
and  that  from  the  beginning  of  October,  they  had  been  forced 
to  live  on  horses,  dogs,  cats,  mice,  and  rats,  and  other  things 
unfit  for  human  creatures.  They  had  nevertheless  driven  full 
twelve  thousand  poor  people,  men,  women,  and  children,  out 
of  the  place,  the  greater  part  of  whom  hud  perished  wretch- 
edly in  the  ditches  of  the  town.  That  it  hid  been  frequently 
necessary  to  draw  up  in  baskets  now-born  children  from 
mothers  who  had  been  brought  to  bed  in  these  ditches,  to 
have  them  baptized,  and  they  were  afterwards  returned  to 
their  mothers  ;  many,  however,  had  perished  without  christen- 
ing—  all  which  things  were  grievous  and  pitiful  to  be  related. 
They  then  adiled,  "To  you  our  lord  and  king,  and  to  you 
noble  duke  of  Burgundy,  the  loyal  inhabitants  of  Rouen  have 
before  made  known  their  distress  :  they  now  again  inform  you 
how  much  they  are  suffering  for  you,  to  which  you  have  not 
yet  provided  any  remedy  according  to  your  promises.  We 
are  sent  to  you  for  the  last  time,  to  announce  to  you,  on  the 
part  of  the  besieged,  that  if  within  a  few  days  they  are  not 
relieved,  Ihey  shall  surrender  themselves  and  their  town  to 
the  English  king,  and  thenceforward  renounce  all  allegiance, 
faith,  and  service,  which  they  have  sworn  to  you."   The  king. 


66 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


duke,  and  council,  courteously  replied,  that  the  king's  forcea 
were  not  as  yet  adeiiuiite  to  raise  the  siege,  which  tliey  were 
exceediiigly  sorry  for ;  hut,  with  Goil's  pleasure,  they  should 
very  soon  bo  relieved.  The  deputic;s  asked  by  what  time  ; 
the  duke  answered,  before  the  fourth  day  after  Christmas. 
They  then  returned  to  their  town  with  difficulty,  from  the 
great  danger  of  being  taken  by  the  besiegers,  and  related  all 
that  had  passed. 

The  besieged  now  suffered  the  greatest  distress  ;  and  it  is 
impossible  to  recount  the  miseries  of  the  common  people  from 
famine  :  it  was  afterward  known  that  upwards  of  fifty  thou- 
sand had  petislie<l  of  iiunger.  Some,  when  they  snw  meat 
carried  through  the  street,  in  despair,  ran  to  seize  it,  and  so 
doing,  allowed  themselves  to  be  severely  beaten,  and  even 
wounded.  During  the  space  of  three  months  no  provisions 
wore  seen  in  the  markets,  but  every  thing  wa.s  sold  secretly  ; 
and  what  before  the  siege  was  worth  a  farthing,  was  sold  for 
twenty,  thirty,  or  even  forty  ;  but  those  prices  were  too  high 
for  the  common  people,  and  hence  the  great  mortality  1  have 
mentioned.  —  Mo:istnlct,  vol.  v.  p.  Gl. 


Note  .W,  p.  '20,  col.  1.  —  ji  cry  of  fremy'mg  anguish. 

The  names  of  our  Edwards  and  Henries  are  usually  cited 
together,  but  it  is  disgracing  the  Black  Prince  and  his  father 
to  mention  them  with  Henry  of  Monmouth.  He  was  a  hard- 
hearted man.  We  have  seen  what  was  his  conduct  to  the 
famished  fugitives  from  Ro;in.  The  same  circumstance  oc- 
curred at  the  siege  of  Calais,  and  the  dilference  between  the 
monarclis  cannot  be  better  e.vemplided  than  in  the  difference 
of  their  conduct  upon  the  same  occasion.  "  When  sir  John 
de  Vienne  perceived  that  king  Edward  intended  to  lie  long 
there,  he  thought  to  rid  the  town  of  as  many  useless  mouths 
as  he  could  ;  and  so  on  a  Wednesday,  being  the  IJth  of  Sep- 
tember, he  forced  out  of  the  town  more  than  seventeen  hun- 
dred of  the  poorest  and  least  necessary  people,  old  men, 
women,  and  children,  and  shut  the  gates  upon  them  :  who 
bcmg  demanded,  wherefore  they  came  out  of  the  town,  an- 
swered with  great  lamentation,  that  it  was  because  they  had 
nothing  to  live  on.  Then  king  Edward,  who  was  so  fierce  in 
battle,  showed  a  truly  royal  disposition  by  considering  the  sad 
condition  of  these  forlorn  wretches  ;  for  he  not  only  would 
not  force  them  back  again  into  the  town,  whereby  they  might 
help  to  consume  the  victuals,  but  he  gave  them  all  a  dinner 
and  two  pence  a-piece,  and  leave  to  piss  through  the  army 
without  the  least  molestation  :  whereby  he  so  wrought  upon 
the  hearts  of  these  poor  creatures,  that  many  of  them  prayed 
to  God  for  his  prosperity."  —  Joshua  Barnes. 


Note  40,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  JVor  when  Ike  traitor  yielded  up  our 
town. 

Roan  was  betrayed  by  its  Butgundian  governor  Bouthellier. 
During  the  siege  fitly  thousand  men  perished  through  fatigue, 
want,  and  the  use  of  unwholesome  provisions. 


Note  41,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  The  gallant  Blanchard  died. 

Roy  d'.^ngleterre  Jist  coupper  la  teste   a  Mllain  Blancliart 
cappitaine  da  commun.  —  Monstrelet,  ff.  cxcvii. 


Note  42,  p.  20,  col.  I.  —  There  where  the  wicked  cease. 

There  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  ;  and  the  weary  be 
at  rest.  —  Job,  iii.  17. 


Note  43,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  jj  pompous  shade. 

Cent  drapraiix  funebres 
Etaloient  en  pleinjour  de  pinnpcuses  tenebres. 

Le  JHoyne.     St.  Louis.  Liv.  xvi. 


Note  44,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  In  the  mid-day  sun  a  dim  and  gloomy 
light. 

"  When  all  things  necessary  were  prepared  for  the  convey- 
ance of  the  dead  king  into  England,  bis  body  was  laid  in  a 
chariot,  which  was  drawn  by  four  great  horses  :  and  above 
the  dead  corpse,  they  laid  a  figure  made  of  boiled  hides,  or 
leather,  representing  his  person,  as  near  to  the  semblance  of 


him  as  could  be  devised,  painted  curiously  to  the  similitude 
of  a  living  creature  ;  upon  whose  head  was  set  an  imperial 
diadome  of  gold  and  precious  stones,  on  his  body  a  purple 
robe  furred  with  ermine,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a  scep- 
tre royal,  and  in  his  left  hand  a  ball  of  gold,  with  a  cross 
fixed  thereon.  And  in  this  manner  adorned,  was  this  figure 
laid  in  a  bed  in  the  said  chariot,  with  his  visage  uncovered 
towards  the  heaven:  and  the  coverture  of  his  bed  was  red 
silke  beaten  with  gold;  and  besides  that,  when  the  body 
should  passe  through  any  good  towne,  a  canopy  of  marvellous 
great  value  was  borne  over  the  chariot  by  men  of  great  wor- 
ship. In  this  manner,  accompanied  of  the  king  of  Scots  and 
of  all  princes,  lords,  and  knights  of  his  house,  he  was  brought 
from  Koane  to  Abville,  where  the  corpse  was  set  in  the  church 
of  Saint  Ulfrane.  From  Ahville  he  was  brought  to  Hedin, 
and  from  thence  to  .Aionstiuoil,  so  to  Bulloigne,  and  so  to 
Calice.  In  all  this  journey  were  many  men  about  the  chariot 
clothed  all  in  white,  which  bare  in  their  hands  torches  burning: 
after  whome  followed  all  the  household  servants  in  blackc, 
and  after  them  came  the  princes,  lords,  and  estates  of  the 
king's  blood,  adorned  in  vesluies  of  mourning;  and  afler  all 
this,  from  the  said  corpse  the  distance  of  two  English  mylis, 
followed  thequeeneof  England  right  honorably  accompanyed 
In  this  manner  they  entered  Calice." —  Stome. 

At  about  a  league  distant  followed  the  queen,  with  a  numer- 
ous attendance.  From  Calais  they  embaiked  for  Dover,  and 
passing  through  Canterbury  and  Rochester,  arrived  at  London 
on  Martinmas-day. 

When  the  funeral  approached  London,  fifteen  bishops 
dressed  in  jmutificnlibus,  several  mitred  abbots  and  church- 
men, with  a  multitude  of  persons  of  all  ranks,  came  out  to 
meet  it.  The  churchmen  chanted  the  service  for  the  dead 
as  it  passed  over  London-bridge,  through  Lombard-street,  to 
St.  I'aul's  cathedral.  Near  the  car  were  the  relations  of  the 
late  king,  uttering  loud  lamentations.  On  the  collar  of  the 
first  horse  that  drew  the  car  were  emblazoned  the  ancient 
arms  of  England  ;  on  that  of  the  second,  the  arms  of  Franco 
and  England  quartered  the  .same  as  he  bore  during  his  life- 
time ;  on  that  of  the  third,  the  arms  of  France  simply ;  on 
that  of  the  fourth  horse  were  painted  the  arms  of  the  noble 
king  Arthur,  whom  no  one  could  conquer:  they  were  three 
crowns  or,  on  a  shield  azure. 

When  the  funeral  service  had  been  royally  performed  in  the 
cathedral,  the  body  was  carried  to  be  interred  at  Westminster 
abbey  with  his  ancestors.  At  this  funeral,  and  in  regard  to 
every  thing  concerning  it,  greater  pomp  and  expense  were 
made  than  had  been  done  for  two  hundred  years  at  the  inter- 
ment of  any  king  of  England  ;  and  even  now  as  much  honor 
and  reverence  is  daily  paid  to  his  tomb,  as  if  it  were  certain 
he  was  a  saint  in  Paradise. 

Thus  ended  the  life  of  king  Henry  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
for  when  he  died  he  was  but  forty  years  old.  He  was  very 
wise  and  able  in  every  business  he  undertook,  and  of  a  deter- 
mined character.  During  the  seven  or  eight  years  he  iiiled  in 
France,  he  made  greater  conquests  than  any  of  his  predecessors 
had  done:  it  is  (rue  ho  was  so  feared  by  his  princes  and 
captains,  that  none  dared  to  disobey  his  orders,  however  nearly 
related  to  him,  more  especially  his  English  subjects.  In  this 
state  of  obedience  were  his  subjects  of  France  and  England 
in  general  ;  and  the  principal  cause  was,  that  if  any  person 
transgressed  his  ordinances,  he  had  him  instantly  punished 
without  favor  or  mercy.  —  Minstretrt,  vol.  v.  p.  375. 

•A  noble  knight  of  Picardy  used  a  joking  expression  to  his 
herald  respecting  king  Henry,  which  was  allerwards  of>i'n 
repeated.  ?ir  Sarrasin  d'  Arly,  uncle  to  the  Vidame  of  Amiens, 
who  might  be  about  sixty  years  of  age,  resided  in  the  castle 
of  Achere,  which  he  had  with  his  wife,  sister  to  the  lord 
d'Offemonl,  near  to  Pas  in  Artois.  Ho  was  laid  up  with  the 
"out,  but  very  eager  in  his  inquiries  after  news  nf  what  was 
going  on.  One  day  his  poursuivant,  named  Ilaurenas,  of  the 
same  age  as  himself,  and  who  had  long  served  him,  rcturn'd 
from  making  the  usual  inquiries;  and  on  sir  Sarrasin  ques- 
tioning him  and  asking  him  if  he  had  heard  any  particulars  of 
the  death  of  the  king  of  England,  he  said  that  he  had,  and 
had  even  seen  his  corpse  .".t  Ablicville,  in  the  church  of  t't. 
Ulfrun  ,  and  then  related  how  he  was  attired,  nearly  as  has 
been  before  descrilied.  The  knight  then  asked  him  on  his 
faith  if  he  had  diligently  observed  him.'  On  his  answering 
that  he  had,  "  Now,  on  thy  oath,  tell  me,"  added  sir  Sarrasin, 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


67 


"  if  lio  had  h^  boots  on  ?  "  "  No,  my  loril,  by  my  fuith  he 
hud  not."  The  kniijlit  then  cried  out,  "  Ilaureuas,  my  good 
I'liond,  novfir  believo  nio  if  ho  htu  not  left  them  in  Franco  I  " 
This  expression  set  the  company  a  lauijliing,  and  then  they 
talked  of  other  matters.  —  JIuiuitrdct,  vol.  v.  p.  377. 


Note   45,  p.  2),  col.  2.  —  Their  dangerous  way. 

The  governor  of  Vuuroulour  appointed  deuz  <;aililshommrjs  to 
conduct  the  .Maid  lo  Chinoii.  '^  [Is  curcnt  peine  d  se  charger 
de  cette  commission,  a  cause  i/u'U  fallotl  pa-iser  uu  travers  du 
pays  enneiiii ;  mais  die  leur  dit  avccfermetc  qu'ils  ne  craiffnis- 
sent  rien,  el  que  suremcnt  etix  et  cllc  arriveroient  aupris  du  roi, 
sans  qu'il  Icur  arricat  rien  defhcheujc. 

lis  patirent,  passerent  par  I'  .^uzerrois  sans  obstacle  quoifjue 
les  .^nirlois  en  f assent  les  mattrcs,  traversirent  plas-icurs  riviircs 
d  la  nage,  entrerent  dans  les  pays  de  la  diminution  du  roi,  c/ti  les 
parties  ennetnies  couroient  de  tous  cOtes,  sans  en  rencontrer 
aucune :  arririrent  heurcusement  d  Chinon  (;ii  le  Roi  ctoit,  ct 
lui  donncrent  a»is  de  Icur  arrivee  et  du  s-ujct  qui  les  amenoit. 
Tiiutle  mondcfat  extrSinementsurpris  d'un  si  long  voyage  fait 
ai-cc  tant  de  bonhcur."  —  P.  Daniel. 


Note  46,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  The  autumnal  rains  had  beaten  to  the 
earth. 

"JVU  OaUid  perturbatius,  nil  spoliatius,  nil  egentius  esset ; 
sed  neque  cum  milite  melius  agebatur,  qui  tametsi  gaudebat 
pr<eild,  interim  tamcn  trucidebatur  passim,  dam  utirque  rex 
civitales  sua  fuctionis  principes  in  fide  retincre  studerct.  Jgilur 
jam  Ciedium  satictas  utrujnque  popiiluni  erperat,  jaiique  tot  damna 
utrinque  iilata  era.tt,  ut  quisque  generatim  se  opyressum,  lacera- 
tum,  perditum  ingentisceret,  doloreque  summo  angcretiir,  d'ls- 
mniperetur,  cruciarctur,  ac  per  id  animi  quamvis  obstinatissimi 
ad  pacem  inclinarentur.  Sanul  urge.bat  ad  hoc  reram  omnium 
inopia  ;  passim  cnim  agri  deva.itati  inculti  mariebant,  cum  pra:- 
sertim  homines  pro  vit&  tuendd.,  non  arva  colore  sed  bello  serrire 
necessario  cogerentur.  Ita  tot  urgentibus  vialis,  neuter  a  pace 
abhorrebat,  sed  alter  ab  altera  cam  aut  petere,  vel  adniittere  turpe 
putabat."  —  Polijuore  Virgil, 

The  effect  of  this  contest  upon  England  was  scarcely  leas 
ruinous.  "  In  the  last  year  of  the  victorious  Henry  V.  there 
was  not  a  sufficient  number  of  gentlemen  left  in  England  to 
carry  on  the  business  of  civil  government. 

"  But  if  the  victories  of  Henry  were  so  fatal  to  the  popula- 
tion of  his  country,  the  defeats  and  disasters  of  the  succeeding 
reign  were  still  more  destructive.  In  the  25th  year  of  this 
war,  the  instructions  given  to  the  cardinal  of  Winchester  and 
other  plenipotentiaries  appointed  to  treat  aliout  a  peace, 
authorise  them  to  represent  to  those  of  France  "  that  there 
haan  been  moo  men  slayne  in  these  wars  for  the  title  and 
claimc  of  the  coroune  of  France,  of  oon  nacion  and  other, 
than  been  at  this  daye  in  both  landys,  and  so  much  christiene 
blode  shed,  that  it  is  to  grete  a  sotow  and  an  orrour  to  think 
or  here  it."  —  Henry.     Rymcr's  Fitdera. 


Note  47,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  Fastolffe''s  better  fate  prevail'd. 

Dunois  was  wounded  in  the  battle  of  Herrings,  or  Rouvrai 
Sain'-Uenys.  

N   TE  48,  p.  21,  col.  1.  —  To  die  for  him  whom  I  have  lined  to 
serve. 

Tanneguy  du  Chitel  had  Siived  the  life  of  Charles  when 
I  aris  was  seized  by  the  liurgundians.  Lisle  Adam,  a  man 
riOted  for  ferocity  even  in  that  age,  wa.s  admitted  at  midnight 
inio  the  city  with  eight  hundred  horse.  The  partisans  of 
Burgundy  were  under  arms  to  assist  them,  and  a  dreadful 
slaughter  of  the  Armagnacs  ensued.  Du  Cbilol,  then  gov- 
ernor of  the  Bastile,  being  unable  to  restrain  the  tumult,  ran 
to  the  Louvre,  and  carried  away  the  Dauphin  in  his  shirt,  in 
order  to  secure  him  in  his  fortress,  —  Rupin. 


Note  49,  p.  21,  col.  I.  —  To  rcjich  the  o'crhanging  fruit. 

Hifli  favors  like  as  fi;-trecs  are 
That  grow  upon  the  sides  of  rocks,  where  Ihey 
Who  reach  thoir  fruit  adventure  must  so  far 
As  lo  hazard  their  deep  d(jwnfall.  —  Daniel. 


Note  50,  p.  21,  col.  I.  —  j?  banish'd  man.  Damns! 

De  Serres  says,  "  The  king  was  wonderfully  discontented 
for  the  departure  of  Tanneguy  de  Chastel,  whom  he  culled 
lather ;  a  m:in  beloved,  and  of  amiable  conditions.  Hut  there 
was  no  remedy.  Ho  had  given  the  chief  stroke  to  John  Bur- 
gongnc.  So  likewise  he  protested  without  any  (lifllculty,  lo 
retire  himself  wliilhersocvcr  hia  master  should  conimund 
him."  

Note  51,  p.  21,  col.  1.  — ....  Richemont,  who  down  the  Loire 
Sends  the  black  carcass  of  his  strangled  foe. 

Kichemont  caused  De  Giac  to  be  strangled  in  his  bed,  and 
thrown  into  the  Loire,  to  punish  Ibe  negligence  that  had  occa- 
sioned him  to  bo  defeated  by  an  inferior  force  at  Avraiiches. 
The  constable  had  l.iid  siege  to  St.  James  de  Beuvron,  a  place 
strongly  garrisoned  by  the  English.  He  had  been  promised  a 
convoy  of  money,  which  De  Gi-ic,  who  had  the  management 
of  the  treasury,  purposely  detained  to  mortify  the  constable. 
Kichemont  openly  accused  the  treasurer,  and  revenged  him- 
self thus  violently.  After  this,  he  boldly  declared  that  he 
would  serve  in  the  same  manner  any  person  whatsoever  that 
should  endeavor  to  engross  the  king's  favor.  The  Camus  of 
Beaulieu  accepted  De  Giac's  place,  and  was  by  the  consta- 
ble's means  assassinated  in  the  kind's  oresence. 


Note  52,  p.  21,  col.  1.  —  Whose  dcatii  my  arm  avenged. 

"  The  duke  of  Orleans  was,  on  a  Wednesday,  the  feast-day 
of  pope  St.  Clement,  assassinated  in  Paris,  about  sever 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  his  return  from  dinner.  The  mur- 
der was  committed  by  about  eighteen  men,  who  had  lodget^ 
at  an  hotel  having  for  sign  the  image  of  our  Lady,  near  the 
Porte  Barbette,  and  who,  it  was  afterwards  discovered,  had 
for  sevenil  days  intended  this  assassination. 

On  the  Wednesday  before  mentioned,  they  sent  one  named 
Seas  de  Courteheu/.e,  valet  de  chanibre  to  the  king,  and  one 
of  their  accomplices,  to  the  duke  of  Orleans,  who  had  gone  to 
visit  the  queen  of  France  at  an  hotel  which  she  had  lately 
purchased  from  Montagu,  grand  master  of  the  king's  house- 
hold, situated  very  near  the  Porte  Barbette.  She  had  lain  in 
there  of  a  child,  which  had  died  shortly  after  its  birth,  ant 
had  not  then  accomplished  the  days  of  her  purification. 

Seas,  on  his  seeing  the  duke,  said,  by  way  of  deceiving  him, 
"  My  lord,  the  king  sends  for  you,  and  you  must  instantly 
hasten  to  him,  for  he  has  business  of  great  importance  lo  you 
and  him,  which  he  must  communicate  to  you."  The  duke,  on 
hearing  Ibis  message,  was  eager  to  obey  the  king's  orders 
although  the  monarch  knew  nothing  of  the  matter,  and  imme- 
diately mounted  his  mule,  attended  by  two  esquires  on  one 
horse,  and  four  or  five  valetb  on  foot,  who  followed  behind 
bearing  torches  ;  hut  his  other  attendants  made  no  haste  to 
follow  him.  He  had  made  this  visit  in  a  private  manner,  not- 
withstanding at  this  time  he  bad  within  the  city  of  Paris 
six  himdred  knights  i.nd  esquires  of  his  retinue,  and  at  his 
expense. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  Porte  Barbette,  the  eighteen  men,  all 
well  and  secretly  armed,  were  waiting  for  him,  anil  were  lying 
in  ambush  un<ler  shelter  of  a  penthouse.  The  night  was 
pretty  dark,  and  as  they  sallied  out  against  him,  one  cried  out, 
"  Put  him  to  death  '.  "  and  gave  him  such  a  blow  on  the  wrist 
with  his  battle-axe  as  severed  it  from  his  arm. 

The  duke,  astonished  at  this  attack,  cried  out,  "  I  am  the 
duke  of  Orleans  !  "  when  the  a8sa.ssins  continuing  their  blows, 
answered,  "  You  are  the  person  we  were  locking  for."  So 
many  rushed  on  him  that  he  was  struck  off  his  mule,  and  his 
scull  was  split  that  his  brains  were  dashed  on  the  pavement. 
They  turned  him  over  and  over,  and  massacred  him  that  he 
was  very  .»oon  completely  dead.  A  young  esquire,  a  German 
by  birth,  who  had  been  his  page,  was  murdered  with  him  : 
seeing  his  master  struck  to  the  ground,  he  threw  himself  on 
his  body  to  protect  him,  bu*  in  vain,  and  be  suffered  for  his 
generous  courage.  The  horse  which  carried  the  two  es((uires 
that  preceded  the  duke,  seeing  so  many  armed  men  advance, 
began  to  snort,  and  when  he  passed  them  set  out  on  a  gallop, 
so  that  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  checked. 

When  the  esquires  had  slopped  their  horse,  they  saw  their 
lord's  mule  fidlowing  them  full  gallop:  having  caught  him, 
they  fancied  the  duke  must  have  fallen,  and  were  bringing  it 


G8 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


back  by  the  bridle  ;  but  on  tlicir  arrival  wliere  their  lord  liiy, 
llicy  were  men;iced  by  the  assassins,  thut  if  they  did  not  in- 
stantly depart  lliey  should  share  liis  f.ite.  Seeing  their  lord 
had  been  thus  basely  murdired,  they  hastened  to  the  hotel  of 
the  queen,  crying  out.  Murder!  Those  who  had  killed  the 
duke,  in  their  turn,  bawled  out,  Fire  !  and  they  had  arranged 
their  plan  that  while  some  were  assassinating  the  duke, 
others  were  to  set  fire  to  their  lodgings.  Some  mounted  on 
horseback,  and  the  rest  on  foot  made  off  as  they  could,  throw- 
ing behind  them  broken  glass  and  sharp  points  of  iron  to 
prevent  their  being  pursuc^d. 

Report  said  that  many  of  them  went  the  back  way  to  tlie 
hotel  d'Artois,  to  their  master  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  who  had 
eonunanded  them  to  do  this  deed,  as  he  afterwards  publicly 
confessed,  to  inform  him  of  the  success  of  their  murder;  when 
instantly  afterward  they  withdrew  to  places  of  safety. 

'I'he  chief  of  these  assassins,  and  the  condni'tor  of  the  busi- 
ness, was  one  called  llollct  d'.\uctonville,  a  Norman,  whom 
the  duke  of  Orleans  had  a  little  before  deprived  of  his  oflice 
of  commissioner  of  taxes,  which  the  king  had  given  to  him  at 
tlie  request  of  the  late  duke  of  Burgundy  :  from  that  time  the 
said  Kollet  had  been  considering  how  he  could  revenge  him- 
self on  the  duke  of  Orleans.  His  other  accom[plices  were 
William  Courteheuze  and  Seas  Courteheuze,  before  men- 
tioned, from  the  country  of  Guines,  John  de  la  Motte,  and 
others,  to  the  amount  of  eighteen. 

Within  half  an  hour  the  household  of  the  duke  of  Orleans, 
hearing  of  this  horrid  murder,  made  loud  complaints,  and 
with  great  crowds  of  nobles  and  others  hastened  to  the  fatal 
Bjiot,  where  they  found  him  lying  dead  in  the  street.  His 
knights  and  esquires,  and  in  general  all  bis  dependants,  made 
grievous  lamentations,  seeing  him  thus  wounded  and  dis- 
figured. With  many  groans  they  raised  the  body  and  carried 
it  to  the  hotel  of  llie  lord  de  Kie'.ix,  marshal  of  France,  which 
was  hard  by;  and  shortly  afterward  the  body  was  covered 
with  a  white  pall,  and  conveyed  most  honorably  to  the 
Guillemins,  where  it  lay,  as  being  the  nearest  church  to  where 
the  nturder  had  been  committed. 

.Soon  afterward  the  king  of  Sicily,  and  ninny  other  princes, 
knights  and  esquires,  having  heard  of  this  foul  murder  of  the 
only  brother  of  the  king  of  France,  came  with  many  tears  to 
visit  the  body.  It  was  put  into  a  leaden  coffin,  and  the 
monks  of  the  church,  with  all  the  late  duke's  household, 
watched  it  all  night,  saying  prayers,  and  singing  psalms  over 
it.  On  tlie  morrow  his  servants  found  the  hand  which  had 
been  cut  off,  and  collected  much  of  the  brains  that  had  been 
scattered  over  the  street,  all  of  which  were  enclosed  in  a 
leaden  case  and  placed  by  the  coffin. 

The  whole  of  the  princes  who  were  at  Paris,  except  the 
king  and  bin  children,  namely,  the  king  of  Sicily,  the  dukes 
of  Berry,  Burgundy,  and  Bourbon,  the  mar(|uis  di|  Pont,  the 
counts  de  Nevers,  de  Clermont,  de  Vendome,  de  St.  Pol,  de 
Danniiartin,  the  constable  of  France,  and  several  others, 
having  assembled  with  a  large  body  of  the  clergy  and  nobles, 
and  a  multitude  of  the  citizens  of  Paris,  went  in  a  body  to 
the  church  of  the  Guilhmiins.  'J'hen  the  principal  ofHcers  of 
the  late  duke's  household  look  the  body  and  bore  it  out  of  the 
church,  with  a  great  number  of  lighted  torches  carried  by  the 
es<piires  of  the  defunct.  On  each  side  of  the  body  were  in 
due  order,  uttering  groans  and  shedding  tears,  the  king  of 
Sicily,  the  dukes  of  Berry,  Burgundy,  and  Bourbon,  each 
holding  a  corner  of  the  pall.  After  the  body  followed  the 
other  princes,  the  clergy  and  barons,  according  to  their  ranks, 
recommending  his  soul  to  his  Creator;  and  thus  they  pro- 
ceeded with  it  to  the  church  of  the  Cclestines.  When  a  most 
solemn  service  bad  been  i)er(brmed,  the  body  was  interred  in 
a  beautiful  chapel  he  himself  had  founded  and  built.  After 
the  service  all  the  princes,  and  others  who  had  attended  it, 
returned  to  their  homes.  —  Monstrelet,  vol.  i.  p.  192. 


NoTi;  53,  p.  21,  col.  1. —  TVken  the  Burgundian  faction  filled 
thy  streets 
With  carnage. 

About  four  o'clock  on  the  12th  day  of  June,  the  populace 
of  Paris  rose  to  the  amount  of  about  sixty  thousand,  fearing 
(as  they  said)  that  the  prisoners  would  be  set  at  liberty,  al- 
though the  new  provost  of  Paris  and  other  lords  assured  them 
to  tlie  contrary.   They  were  armed  with  old  mallets,  hatchets, 


staves,  and  other  disorilerly  weapons,  and  ))araded  through  the 
streets  shouting,  "  Long  live  the  king  and  the  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy 1  "  toward  the  dift'erent  prisons  in  Paris,  namely,  the 
Palace,  St.  INIagloire,  St.  Martin  des  Champs,  the  Cbatelet, 
the  Temple,  and  to  other  places  wherein  any  prisoners  were 
confined.  They  forced  open  all  their  doors,  and  killed  Chepier 
anil  Chcpiere,  with  the  whole  of  the  prisoners,  to  the  amount 
of  sixteen  hundred  or  thereabouts,  the  principal  of  whom 
were  the  count  de  Armagnac,  constable  of  France,  master 
Henry  de  Marie,  chancellor  to  the  king,  the  bislio{)s  of  Cou- 
tances,  of  Bayeux,  of  Evrcux,  of  Senlis,  of  Salutes,  the  count 
de  Grand-Pre,  Itaymonnet  de  la  Guerre,  the  abbot  de  .St. 
Conille  de  Compiegne,  sir  Hector  do  Cbartres,sir  Enguerrand 
de  Marcoignet,  Chariot  Poupart,  master  of  the  king's  ward- 
robe, the  mendiers  of  the  courts  of  justice  and  of  the  treasury, 
and  in  general  all  they  could  find:  among  the  number  were 
several  even  of  the  Burgundian  |iarty  confined  for  debt. 

In  this  massacre  several  women  were  kill<;d,and  left  on  the 
spot  where  they  had  been  put  to  death.  This  cruel  butchery 
lasted  until  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day. 
Those  confined  in  the  grand  Chatelet,  having  arms,  defended 
themselves  valiantly,  and  slew  many  of  the  populace  ;  but  on 
the  morrow  by  means  of  fire  and  smoke  they  were  con(|uered, 
and  the  mob  made  many  of  them  leap  from  the  battlements  of 
the  towers,  when  they  were  received  on  the  points  of  the 
spears  of  those  in  the  streets,  and  cruelly  mangled.  At  this 
dreadful  business  were  present  the  new  provost  of  Paris,  sir 
John  de  Luxembourg,  the  lord  de  Fosseaux,  the  lord  de 
I'Isle-Adam,  the  vidame  of  Amiens,  the  lord  de  Chevreuse, 
the  lord  do  Cbaslellus,  the  lord  de  Cohen,  sir  James  de  Har- 
court,  sir  Eniond  de  Lombers,  the  lord  d'Auxois,  and  others, 
to  the  amount  of  upward  of  a  thousand  combatants,  armed 
and  on  horseback,  ready  to  defend  the  murderers  should  there 
be  any  necessity.  Many  were  shocked  and  astonished  at  such 
cruel  conduct  ;  but  they  dared  not  say  any  thing  except, 
"  Well,  my  boys  !  "  'J'he  bodies  of  the  constable,  the  chan- 
cellor, and  of  Raymonnet  de  la  Guerre  were  strijjped  naked 
tied  together  with  a  cord,  and  dragged  for  three  days  by  the 
blackguards  of  Paris  through  the  streets ;  the  body  of  the 
constable  had  the  breadth  of  two  fingers  of  his  skin  cut  otT 
crosswise,  like  to  a  bend  in  hi^aldry,  by  way  of  derision  : 
and  they  were  thus  publicly  exposed  quite  naked  to  the  sight 
of  all ;  on  the  fourth  day  they  were  dragged  out  of  Paris 
on  a  hurdle,  and  buried  with  the  others  in  a  ditch  called  la 
Louviere. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  lords  after  this  took  much  pains 
to  pacify  the  populace,  and  remonstrated  with  them,  that  they 
ought  to  allow  the  king's  justice  to  take  its  regular  course 
against  oftenders,  they  would  not  desist,  but  went  in  great 
crowds  to  the  houses  of  such  as  had  favored  the  Armagnacs, 
or  of  those  whom  they  disliked,  and  killed  them  without 
mercy,  carrying  away  all  they  could  find.  In  these  limes  it 
was  enough  if  one  man  hated  another  at  Paris,  of  whatever 
rank  he  might  be,  Burgundian  or  not,  to  say,  "  There  goes  an 
Armagnac,"  and  be  was  instantly  put  to  death  without  further 
inquirv  being  made.  —  Monstrelet^  vol.  v.  p.  20. 

To  add  to  the  tribulations  of  these  times  the  Parisians  again 
assembled  in  great  nund)crs,  as  they  had  before  done,  and  went 
to  all  the  prisons  in  Paris,  broke  into  them,  and  put  to  death 
full  three  hundred  prisoners,  many  of  whom  had  been  con- 
fined there  since  the  last  butchery.  In  the  number  of  those 
murdered  were  sir  James  de  Mommor,  and  sir  Louis  de 
Corail,  chamberlain  to  the  king,  with  many  nobles  and 
churchmen.  They  then  went  to  the  lower  court  of  the  bas- 
tille of  .St.  Anthony,  and  demanded  that  six  prisoners,  whom 
they  named,  should  be  given  up  to  them,  or  they  would  attack 
the  place  :  in  fact,  they  began  to  pull  down  the  wi'll  of  the 
gate,  when  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  who  lodged  near  the  bas- 
tille, vexed  to  the  heart  at  such  proceedings,  to  avoid  worse, 
ordered  the  prisoners  to  be  delivered  to  them,  if  any  of  their 
leaders  would  promise  that  they  should  be  conducted  to  the 
Chatelet  prison,  and  suffered  to  be  punished  according  to  their 
deserts  by  the  king's  court  of  justice.  Upon  this  they  all 
departed,  and  by  way  of  glossing  over  their  promise,  they  led 
the  prisoners  near  to  the  Chatelet,  when  they  put  them  to 
death,  and  stripped  them  naked.  They  then  divided  into 
several  large  companies  and  paraded  the  streets  of  Paris,  en- 
tering the  houses  of  many  who  had  been  Armagnacs,  plun- 
dering and  murdering  all  without  mercy.     In  like  manner  aa 


NOTES   TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


69 


bclbro,  when  they  met  any  person  lliey  disliked  lie  wuti  sliiin 
instantly;  and  their  prineipal  leader  ua8  Ca|i|ieluche,  the 
liangnian  of  the  city  of  I'aris. 

The  duke  ot' Burgundy,  uLirinei!  at  these  insurrections,  sent 
for  some  of  the  chief  citizens,  with  whom  he  lemnnstratcd  on 
the  consequences  these  disturbances  might  liave.  The  citi- 
zens excused  themselves  t'ron>  being  any  way  concerned,  and 
said  they  were  much  grieved  to  witness  them :  they  added, 
they  were  all  of  the  lowest  rank,  and  had  thus  riseii  to  pillage 
the  more  wealthy  ;  and  Ihey  reijuired  the  duke  to  provide  a 
remedy  by  employing  these  men  in  his  wars.  It  was  then 
proclaimed,  in  the  names  of  the  king  and  the  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, under  pain  of  death,  that  no  person  should  tumultu- 
ously  assemble,  nor  any  more  murders  or  pillage  take  place  ; 
but  that  such  as  had  of  late  risen  in  the  insurrection  should 
prepare  themselves  to  march  to  the  sieges  of  Jlontlehery  and 
Marcoussi,  now  held  by  the  king's  enemies.  The  commonalty 
made  reply,  that  they  would  cheerfully  do  so  if  they  hud 
proper  captains  appointed  to  lead  tlicin. 

Within  a  few  days,  to  avoid  similar  tumults  in  Paris,  six 
thousand  of  the  populace  were  sent  to  Monllebery  under  tho 
command  of  the  lord  de  Cohen,  sir  Walter  de  Uuppes  and  sir 
Walter  Kaillart,  with  a  certain  number  of  men  at  arms,  and 
store  of  cannon  and  animunition  sullicient  for  a  siege.  These 
knights  led  them  to  Moiithhery,  where  they  made  a  sharp 
attack  on  the  Dauphiuois  within  the  castle. 

The  duke  of  liurgundy,  after  I  heir  departure,  arrested 
several  of  their  accomplices,  and  the  principal  movers  of  the 
late  insurrection,  some  of  whom  he  caused  to  be  beheaded, 
others  to  be  hanged  or  drowned  in  the  Seine  ;  even  their 
leader  Cappeluche,  the  hangman,  was  beheaded  in  the  mar- 
ket-place. When  news  of  this  was  carried  to  the  Parisians 
who  had  been  sent  to  Montlehery,  they  marched  back  to 
Paris  to  raise  another  rebellion,  but  the  gates  were  closed 
against  them,  so  that  they  were  forced  to  return  to  the  siege. 

Moiistrelet,  vol.  v.  p.  47. 

To  what  is  it  owing  that  four  centuries  should  have  made 
so  little  dilTerence  in  the  character  of  the  Parisians.' 


Note  54,  p.  21,  col.  2.  — He  will  retreat 

To  distant  Daupliiny. 

"Charles,  in  despair  of  collecting  an  army  which  should 
dare  to  approach  the  enemy's  entrenchments,  not  only  gave 
the  city  of  Orleans  for  lost,  but  began  to  entertain  a  very  dis- 
mal prospect  with  regiird  to  the  general  state  of  his  atiairs, 
lie  saw  that  the  country  in  which  he  had  hitherto,  with  great 
ditficulty,  subsisted,  would  he  laid  entirely  open  to  the  inva- 
sion of  a  powerful  and  victorious  enemy,  and  he  already 
entertained  thoughts  of  retiring  with  the  remains  of  his 
forces  into  Languedoc  and  Daupliiny,  and  defending  himself 
as  long  as  possible  in  those  remote  provinces.  Hut  it  was 
fortunate  for  this  good  prince,  that  as  he  lay  under  the  do- 
minion of  the  fair,  the  women  whom  ho  consulted  had  the 
spirit  to  support  his  sinking  resolution  in  this  desperate  ex- 
tremity. Mary  of  Anjou,  his  ([ueen,  a  princess  of  great 
merit  and  prudence,  vehemently  opposed  this  measure,  which 
she  foresaw  would  discourage  all  his  partisans,  and  serve  as  a 
general  signal  for  deserting  a  prince  who  seemed  himself  to 
despair  of  success:  his  mistress  too,  the  fair  Agnes  Porel, 
who  lived  in  entire  amity  with  the  queen,  seconded  all  her 
remonstrances."  —  Hume. 

L'unfail  honnrur  d  la  belle  .Sgnis  Sorel,  Demoiselle  de  Tnu- 
raine,  maitrcsse  de  ce  Prince,  d'avoir  bcaucoup  contrihiii  d 
I'encouraner  en  cetle  occasion.  On  luffifait  eel  konncur  princi- 
paUinent  au  sujet  d'un  quatrain  rapportc  par  Saint  Gelais, 
comne  aiant  elifait  par  le  Roi  Francois  I.  d  I'/iunneur  de  cette 
Demoiselle. 

Plus  de  louange  el  d'hunncur  la  mcrile. 
La  cause  Hunt  de  France  recouvrer. 
Que  ce  que  pent  dedans  un  Cloitre  ouvrer 

Clause  JVonnain,  ou  bicn  devot  Hermite.  —  P.  Daniel. 


Note  55,  p.  21,  col.  2. — On  a  May  morning deck'd  with fiowcrs. 

Here  in  this  first  race  you  shall  sec  our  kings  hut  once  a 
year,  the  first  day  of  May,  in  their  chariots  deckt  with  flowres 
and  greene,  and  drawn  by  four  oxen.  Whoso  hath  occasion 
to  treat  with  them  let  him  secke  them  in  their  chambers. 


amidst  their  delights.     Let  him  talke  of  any  matters  of  state, 
be  sli:ill  be  sent  to  the  Maire.  —  De  Serres. 

I'liller  calls  this  race  "a  chain  of  idle  kings,  well  linked 
togellier,  who  gave  themselves  over  to  pleasure  privately, 
ni;ver  coming  abroad,  but  onely  on  .May-day  tlioy  showed 
themselves  to  tho  people,  riding  in  a  chariot,  adorned  with 
flowers,  and  drawn  with  oxen,  slou)  cattcl,  but  j;uod  enough 
far  so  luzy  luggat;e.'^  —  Holy  }Varre. 

Ccs  Rois  hideuz  en  longut  larbe  cspesse. 

En  lonfTs  cheveuz,  omez,  presse  sur  presse, 

De  ckaisnes  d'or  et  de  canjuans  gravei, 

Hauls  dans  un  char  en  Iriumphe  elecez, 

Vnefais  I'an  scferunt  voir  en  pompe 

Eiijlez  d^  uH  fard  qui  le  vulgaire  Irompe.  —  Ronsard. 


Note  56,  p.  21,  col.  2. — And  these  long  locks  will  not  dis- 
grace thee  then. 

I^ong  hair  was  peculiar  to  the  kings  in  the  first  ages  of  the 
French  monarchy.  When  Fredegonda  li.ad  muithered  Clovis 
and  thrown  him  into  tlie  river,  the  fishermen  w  ho  found  his 
body  knew  it  by  the  long  hair.  —  Mezeruy. 

At  a  later  period  the  custom  seems  to  have  become  general. 
Pasquier  says,  "  lors  de  monjciine  aage  nul  n'cstoil  tondu,fors 
les  moines.  Mvint  par  mesadrenture  que  le  roy  Franfois  pre- 
mier de  cc  nom,  ayant  esle  furtuitcment  blessc  d  la  teste  d'un 
tizon,  par  le  capitainc  Lorges,  sieur  de  Montgoumrry,  Irs  mrdf- 
cinsfarciit  d'adcis  de  la  tondrc,  Dcpuis  U  ne  portu  plus  longs 
chcreiiT,  estant  le  premier  de  nos  roys,  qui  par  un  sinistre  augnre 
degenera  de  ccstc  venerable  ancicnnetc.  Sur  son  ciemplc,  les 
princes  prcmicrcmcnt,  puis  les  gcntilshommcs,  el  finalctncnt  tons 
les  suhjccti  se  voulureni  former,  il  nefnt  pas  que  les  Prestrcs  ne 
sc  mrissent  de  ccsle  parlie.  Sur  la  plus  grande  parlie  du  regne 
de  Fraiigois  premier,  et  deuant,  chacun  porloil  longuc  chcvelurc, 
et  barbe  ras,  oil  maintenani  chacun  est  tondu,  et  portc  longue 
barbc." 


Note  C>7,  p.  22,  col.  1.  —  TTiy  mangled  corse  leaves  to  the  winds 
of  heaven. 

Le  Viscomte  de  A''arbonnc  y  pent  aussi,  et  porta  la  peine  de  sa 
tcmcritc,  qui  avoit  etc  une  dcs  principals  causes  de  la  pcrte  de  la 
buttaille.  Le  due  de  Bctfort  aiant  fait,  chcrcher  smi  corps,  le 
fit  ecarteler  et  pcndre  a  un  gibet,  puree  qu'il  passoit  pour  avoir 
etc  complice  de  la  mart  du  due  de  Bourgogne.  —  P.  Daniel. 


Note  58,  p.  22,  col.  1.  — Bretagne's  unfaithful  chief 

Leagues  with  my  foes,  and  Richcmont,  &.c. 

Richemont  has  left  an  honorable  name,  though  he  tied  a 
prime  minister  up  in  a  sack  and  threw  him  into  the  river. 
For  this  ho  had  a  royal  precedent  in  our  king  John,  but 
Richemont  did  openly  what  the  monarch  did  in  the  dark,  and 
there  is  some  difference  between  a  murderer  and  an  execu- 
tioner, even  though  the  executioner  be  a  volunteer.  " /i 
mcrita  sa  grace  (says  Daniel), par  les  services  qu'il  rendil  au  roi 
contrc  les  Anglois,  malgre  ce  prince  mSme.  Ilful  un  des  prin- 
cipnui  autrurs  de  la  reforme  de  la  milicc  Fran^oisc,  qui  prn- 
duisit  la  Iranquillitc  de  la  France  et  les  grands  victoires  dont  cite 
fust  suirie.  L'autorite  qu'il  avoit  par  sa  charge  de  connctable, 
jointr  d  safiTmeti  naturelle,  lui  donna  moyen  de  tenir  la  main  d 
I'obsrrration  dcs  ordonnances  publiees  par  le  roi  pour  la  disci- 
pline militaire ;  et  les  cramples  de  sevcrile  qu'il  fit  d  eel  cgard, 
hiifirnitdonnerlc  surnom  de  justicier.  F.tant  devenu  due  de 
Breliigne,  qurlques  Seigneurs  de  sa  Cour  lui  conseillerent  de  se 
demrltre  de  sa  charge  dr  connctable,  comme  d'unc  (lignite  qui 
etuit  au  drssnus  de  lui.  II  ne  la  voulut  pas,  et  il  faisoit  porter 
devant  lui  deux  epces,  I'une  la  pointe  en  haul,  en  qualiti  de  due 
de  Bretagite,  el  I'autre  dans  lefourreau  le  poinlr  en  bus,  comme 
connctable  de  France.  Son  motive  pour  conserver  la  charge  lie 
connctalilr,  etoit,  disoit  il  d'honorer  duns  sa  vicillcsse  une  charge 
qui  I'aroit  honore  lui-mcmc  dans  un  ase  mains  avanec.  On  le 
pent  compter  au  nombre  des  plu<!  grands  capilainrs  que  la  France 
ait  nis  d  son  service.  II  avoit  beaucoup  de  religion,  il  etoit 
liberal,  aumonirr,  bicnfaisant,  et  on  ne  pent  guires  lui  reprorhcr 
que  la  hauteur  et  la  violence,  dont  il  usa  envers  les  trois 
ministres," 


70 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Note  59,  p. 22,  col.  2.  —  IVcll  might  the  English  scoff. 

Yet  in  tlie  preceding  ye:ir  1428,  tlie  English  women  liad 
concerned  llicmselves  soniewliut  curiously  in  tlic  alFairs  of 
their  rulers.  "There  was  one  Mistris  Slokes  with  divers 
others  stout  women  of  London,  of  good  reckoning,  wellup- 
parelled,  ciune  openly  to  tlie  upper  parliament,  and  delivered 
letters  to  the  duke  of  Glocester,  and  to  the  archhisliops,  and 
to  the  other  lords  there  present,  containing  matter  of  rehuke 
and  sharp  reprehension  of  the  duke  of  Gloccster,  hecause  he 
would  not  deliver  his  wife  Jaqueline  out  of  her  grievous  im- 
prisonment, heing  then  held  prisoner  hy  the  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, sutfering  her  there  to  remain  so  unkindly,  and  for  his 
public  keeping  hy  him  another  adultresse,  contrary  to  the  law 
of  God,  und  the  honourable  estate  of  matrimony." —  Stowc. 


Note  60,  p.  22,  col.  2.  —  She  fixed  her  eye  on  Charles. 
Of  this  I  may  say  with  Scudery, 

0  merceillc  estomiante,  et  ilifficile  d  craire!  — 
Mais  one  iiuus  rapportotis  sur  lafvij  de  VHistoire. 

Marie,  L.  2. 
Tlic  matter  (says  De  Serres)  was  foiuid  ridiculous  hoth  by  the 
king  and  his  councell,  yet  must  they  make  some  triall.  The 
king  takes  upon  him  the  habit  of  a  countriman  to  be  disguised  : 
this  maid  (being  brought  into  the  chamber)  goes  directly  to 
the  king  in  this  attire,  and  salutes  him  with  so  viodest  a  coun- 
tenance, as  if  she  had  been  bred  up  in  court  all  her  life.  They 
telling  her  that  she  was  mistaken,  she  assured  them  it  was 
the  king,  although  she  had  never  scene  him.  She  begins  to 
deliver  unto  him  this  new  charge,  which,  she  sayes,  she  had 
received  from  the  God  of  Heaven  ;  so  as  she  turned  the  eyes 
and  minds  of  all  men  upon  her." 

Ce  prince  prit  expres  ce  jour-ld  un  habit  fort  simple,  ct  se 
vi£ta  sans  distinction  dans  lafoule  dcs  courtiians.  Lafille  entra 
dans  la  chambre  sans  paroitre  aticnnement  etonnee,  et  qiioiqu,^ 
elle  7i'  eilt  jamais  va  le  roi,  clle  lui  addrcssa  la  parole,  et  Ini  dit 
d'un  tonfernic,  que  Dieu  I'envoyoit  pour  le  secourir,  pourfaire 
lever  le  siege  d' Orleans,  et  le  conduire  d  Reims  pour  y  Stre 
sacre.  Elle  I'assura  que  les  Anglois  scroient  chasses  du  Roy- 
aume,  et  que  sUls  ne  le  quittoient  auplutot,  il  Icur  en  prendroit 
mal.  —  P.  Daniel. 


Note  CI,  p.  22,  col.  2. —  Crown  thee  anointed  king. 

The  anointing  was  a  ceremony  of  much  political  and  mys- 
tical importance.  "  King  Henry  III.  of  England,  being  de- 
sirous to  know  what  was  wrought  in  a  king  by  bis  unction, 
consulted  by  letter  about  it  with  that  great  schoUer  of  the  age 
Robert  Grossetest  bishop  of  Lincoln,  who  answered  him 
thus:  —  'Quod  antem  in  fine  literm  vestrw  nobis  mandas- 
tis,  videlicet  quod  intimaremus  quid,  unctionis  sacramcntum 
videatur  adjicere  regia  dignitali,  cum  multi  sint  reges  qui 
iiullatenus  unctionis  muncra  decorentur,  noii  est  nostrie  modicila- 
tis  complere  hoc.  Tamen  non  ignoramus  quod  regalis  inunctio 
sifTuum  estprerogatirfB  suscepfiunis  septiforniis  doni  Sacratissi- 
mi  Pneumatis,  quod  septiformi  munere  trnetur  rex  inunctus 
prircmineutijis  non  unctis  regihas  oinnes  regias  et  regiminis  sui 
actiones  dirigere  ;  ut  videlicet  non  rommuniter  sed  eminenter  et 
heroici  dono  Timoris  se  prima,  et  drinceps,  quantum  inipso  est, 
suo  regimini  subjectos,  ab  omni  coliiheat  illicito  ;  dono  Pietatis 
defendat  subrenial  et  subveniri  facial  vidua',  pupillo,  et  genera- 
liter  omni  oppresso  ;  duno  Scienti.c  leges  justas  ad  regnum  juste 
rea-endum  ponat,  positas  obscrvet  et  observari  faciat,  erroneas 
destruat;  dono  Fortitudinis  omnia  regno  adversantia  repellat  et 
pro  salute  reipubticie  mortem  von  timeat.  .^d  pnrdicta  antem 
prieccllenter  airenda  dono  Concilii  decorelur,  quo  nrlificialitir  et 
scientific  ordo  hujus  mundi  sensibilis  edocetur  ;  deinde  dono  In- 
tellectus,  quo  cwtus  .^ngelici  ordo  dinoscitur.  Tandem  vera 
dono  Snpientiae,  quo  ad  dilucidam  cognitionem  Dei  pertingitur, 
ut  ad  exemplar  ordinis  mundi  et  ordinis  angclict  secundum  leges 
(ti.ernas  in  O't.ema  Dei  ratione  drscriptas,  qnibus  regit  unnc-si- 
talem  creatune,  rempuhlicam  sibi  subjeclam  ordinabilitcr  regat 
tandem  et  ipse,  .^djicit  igitur  regio!  dignitali  unctionis  sacra- 
mcntum quod  rez  unctus  prre  ccr.teris  in  suo  genere  debet,  ut 
vnetactum  est,  ez  septiformi  Spiritus  munere,  in  omnibus  suis 
regiminis  actibus,  virtutibus  div(nis  et  heroicis  pollerc." 

"And  some  other  have  conceived  this  anointing  of  such 
efficacy,  that,  as  in  baptisme  all  former  sinnes  are  wasbt  awa/, 


so  also  by  this  unction,  us  we  see  in  tliat  of  Polyeuctus  pa- 
triarch of  Constantinople,  who  doubted  not  but  that  tho 
emperor  John  Tzimisces  was  cleerd,  before  Heaven,  of  the 
death  of  I'hocas,  thro'  his  being  anointed  emperor." 

Svlden's  'lilies  of  Honor. 
The  legend  of  the  Ampulla  made  this  ceremony  peculiarly 
important  in  France.     I  ipiote  the  miracle  from   Uesmarcsts. 
Clovis  is  on  his  knees  waiting  to  be  anointed  by  St.  Reraigius. 

Cepcndant  le  prelut  attend  les  huiles  saiiites. 

Un  Diacre  les  parte,  etfuit  un  vain  effort; 

La  foule  impenetrable  empesche  son  abord. 

Du  Pontife  sacre  la  douce  impatience, 

Des  mains  et  dc  la  voix  veut  en  vain  quHl  s'  avance. 

J^ulnepeut  diviser,  par  la  force  des  bras, 

De  tant  de  corps  pressez  I'immobile  ramas. 

Le  prince  humble,  d  genoux,  languissoit  dans  I'attente, 

Mors  qu^uue  clarte  paroisl  plus  eclatanle, 

Esteint  tous  autres  feux  par  su  vive  splendeur, 

Et  repand  dans  le  temple  une  divine  odeur. 

Dans  un  air  lumlneux  une  Colombe  vole. 

En  son  hec  de  coral  tenant  unefiole. 

Elle  apporle  au  prelal  ce  vase  precieux, 

Plein  d'  un  baume  sacre,  rare  present  des  Cieux.  —  Clovis. 

Guillermus  Brito  says  that  the  devil  brake  the  viol  of  oil 
which  Remigius  held  in  his  hand  ready  to  anoint  Clovis,  and 
that  the  oil  being  so  spilt,  he  obtained  by  prayer  a  supply  of  it 
from  heaven.  —  Selden. 


Note  G2,  p.  22,  col.  2.  —  The  doctors  of  theology. 

Ces  paroles  ainsi  par  elle  dicles,lafist  le  roy  remener  kono- 
rablement  en  son  logis,  et  assemble  son  grand  conscil,  au  quel 
furent  plusieurs  prelats,  chevaliers,  escuyers  et  chefs  de  guerre, 
avecques  aucuns  ducteurs  en  theologie  en  loix  el  en  decret,  qui 
tous  ensemble  adviscrent  qu'elle  seroit  iiitcrrogue  pur  les  doc- 
teurs,  pour  essayer  si  en  elle  se  trouveroit  cvidenle  raison  de 
pouvnir  accomplirce  qu'elle  disoit.  Muis  les  docleurs  la  trove- 
rent  de  tant  honneste  contenance,  et  tant  sase  en  ses  paroles,  que 
leur  revelation  faicte,  on  en  tienl  tres  grand  conle. 

Diverses  interrogaliuns  lay  furent  faicles  par  plusieurs  doc- 
teurs  et  autres  gens  de  grand  estal,  a  quay  elle  respondit  moult 
hien,  et  par  especial  a  un  docleur  Jacobin,  qui  lay  dist,  que  si 
Dieu  vouloit  que  les  Anglois  s'en  allassent,  qu'il  ne  falloit  point 
de  armes ;  a  quay  elle  respondit,  qu'elle  ne  vouloit  que  pen  de 
gens  qui  combattroient,  et  Dieu  donneroit  la  victoire. 

History  of  the  Siege  of  Orleans.    Troyes,    1621. 

In  ihe  Qesta  Jnanme.  OalliciB  of  Valerandus  Varanius,  one  of 
the  counsellors  makes   a  speech   of  seventy  lines   uj)on  the 
wickedness  of  women,  mentioning  Helen,  Beersheba,  Semir- 
amis,  Dalilah,  Messalina,  &c.,  as  examples.     The  council  are 
influenced  by  bis  opinion,  and  the  Maid,  to  prove  her  mission, 
challenges  any  one  of  them  to  a  single  combat. 
Qu3  me  stultitid,  quh  me  levitate  notandam 
Creditis  0  patresl  armis  siforsitan,  inquit, 
.ipta  minus  videar,  stricto  procurrereferro 
.Snnuite  ;  hccc  nostri  sint  prima  pericula  martis. 
St  cuique  vis  tanta  animo,  descendat  in  o'quiB 
Planiciem  pugna: ;  mihi  si  victoria  cedat 
Credite  viclrici ;  noster  si  vicerit  hostis 
Compcde  vincta  abeam,  ct  cunctis  simfabula  siBclis. 


Note  63,  p.  23,  col.  2.  —  St.  .Agnes'  Chapel. 

Hanc  virginem   cimtffit  pascendo  pecora  in  sncello  quodam 
vilissimo,  ad  declinandam  phiviam  obdormire  :  quo  in  tempore 
visa  est  se  in  somnis  a  Deo,  qui  se  iUi  oslenderat,  admoneri. 
Jacobus  Philippus  Bergomensis  de  Claris  mulieribus. 

Joanna  Gallica  Puella,  dum  oves  pascit,  tempestate  coocfa  in 
prnximum  sacellum  confugit,  ihi  obdonnicns  liberandte  Gallia: 
mandutum  divinitus  accepit.  —  Bonfinius. 

Ileroino'  nobilissima  .Joanna:  Dare  Lolheringcc  vulgo  Aurelia- 
nensis  Puellir.  historia.  .^uthore  Joanne  Hordal  serenissimi 
ducis  Lotharingce  consiliario.     Ponti-Mussi.     1612. 


Note  64,  p.  23,  col.  2.  —  ....  Saint  .Sgnes  stood 
Before  mine  eijes,  such  and  so  beautiful 
.4.*  irhen,  amid  the  house  of  wickedness, 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


71 


The  Power  whom  with  such  frroent  love  she  served 
yeiVd  htr  with  glory, 

Iiisanus  judex  earn  nudum  ad  lupanar  pertrahi  jussit.  ^f  u6i 
beata  viriro  vestibits  ezula  est,  stutim  criiie  soluto,  lanlam 
capillis  densitatnn  ejus  diviiia  gratia  concessit,  nt  melius  illurum 
fimbriis,  quam  vestibus  tecta  videratur.  lutrogressa  qaidem 
JIgnes  turpiludinis  locum,  Angeiam  Domini  pneparalum 
incenit .-  earn  mot  tanlo  luminc  perfudit,  nt  prtc  magnitudine 
splendoris,  a  ncmine  conspict  possft. 

The  exclamation  of  St.  Agnes  at  the  stako  should  not  bo 
omitted  here.  "  Tlien  Agnes,  in  the  midst  of  the  flames, 
stretching  out  her  liands,  prayed  unto  the  Lord,  saying,  '  I 
bless  thee,  O  Alniiglity  Father !  who  perniiltest  me  to  come 
unto  tliee  fearless  even  in  the  flames.  For  behold!  what  I 
have  believed,  I  see  ;  what  I  liave  hoped,  I  possess  ;  what  I 
have  desired,  I  embrace.  Therefore  I  confess  thee  with 
my  lips,  I  desire  thee  with  my  heart,  with  my  inmost 
entrails ;  I  come  to  thee,  the  living  and  the  true  God ! " 
The  whole  passage,  as  it  stands  in  the  .4ito  Sanctorum,  is  very 
fine.  Tunc  yicurius  Jispasius  nomine,  jussit  in  conspcclu  om- 
nium i<rnem  copiosum  acceitdi,  et  in  medium  cam  pracepit  jnctari 
fiammarum.  Quod  cumfuisset  impltlan>,statim  in  duas  paries 
diviscB  suntJUimmit,  et  hinc  atque  illinc  sedtlwsos  populus  exure- 
bant,  ipsam  aulem  B.  Agnen  pcndus  in  nullo  conlingcbat  incen- 
dium.  Eo  magis  hoc  non  virlutibus  divinis,  sed  maleficiis 
depulanles,  ilabanl /remit us  inter  se  populi,  et  injinitos  clamores 
ad  calum.  Tunc  B,  A_;-nes  expendcns  manus  suas  in  medio 
iirnii  his  verbis  orationcm  fudit  ad  Dominum :  Omnipolnis, 
adorande,  colende,  tremendr.  Pater  Domini  nostri  Jesu  Chrisli, 
benedico  tc  quia  pcrjilium  tuum  unigenitum  evasi  minas  homi- 
nuin  impwrum  et  spurcitias  diaboli  ivipoltuta  transivi.  Kcce  et 
nunc  per  Spiritum  Sanctum  rorc  ca:lesti  pcrfasa  sum  ;  focus 
juxta  me  morUur,  Jlantma  diiiiditur,  et  ardor  incendii  hujus  ad. 
COS  a  qutbus  miiustrulur,  rcfunditur.  Benedico  te  pater  omni- 
potent, qui  etiam  per  flammas,  intropidam  me  ad  te  venire 
permittis.  Ecce  jam  quod  credidi  video,  (juod  speravi  jam 
tenco,  quod  concupivi  complector.  Te  igitur  labiis  confiteor, 
te  corde,  te  totis  visceribus  concupisco.  Ecce  ad  te  venio 
vivum  et  veruni  Deum  ! 

Acta  Sanct,  torn.  ii.  p.  352,  Jan.  21. 
Vita  S.  Agnelis.  Jiuct.  S.  Amltrosio. 

They  have  a  legend  in  Cornwall  that  St.  Agnes  "  e9ca])ed 
out  of  the  prison  at  Rome,  and  taking  shipping,  landed  at  St 
Piran  Arwothall,  from  whence  she  travelled  on  foot  to  what 
is  now  her  own  parish.  But  being  several  times  tempted  by 
the  Devil  on  her  way,  as  often  as  she  turned  about  to  rebuke 
him,  she  turned  him  into  a  stone,  and  indeed  there  are  still 
lo  be  seen  on  the  Downs,  between  St.  Piran  and  St.  Agnes, 
several  large  moor  stones,  pitched  on  end,  in  a  straiglit  line, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  one  from  llie  otlier,  doul)tless 
put  there  on  some  remarkalile  account."  There  lived  then 
in  that  part  of  the  country  a  famous  Wrath  or  Giant,  by  name 
Bolster,  of  that  ilk.  lie  got  hold  oftlie  Suint,  and  obliged  her 
to  gather  up  the  stones  on  his  domain  ;  she  carried  them  in 
three  apron-fulls  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  made  with  them 
three  great  heaps,  from  which  the  hill  is  now  called,  some- 
times Carne  Brcanich,  sometimes  St.  Agnes'  Beacon.  At  last 
this  Giant  or  ffrat/t  attempted  to  seduce  her  ;  she  pretended 
to  yield,  provided  he  would  fill  a  hole  which  she  showed  him 
with  his  blood:  he  agreed  to  this,  not  knowing  that  the  hole 
opened  into  the  sea ;  she  thus  cunningly  bled  him  to  death, 
and  then  tumbled  him  over  the  cliff.  This  they  still  call  the 
fVrath's  Hole.  It  is  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  not  far  from  St. 
Agnes'  chapel  and  well ;  and,  enlarging  as  it  goes  downward, 
opens  into  a  cave  fretted-in  by  the  sea,  and,  from  the  nature 
of  the  stone,  streaked  all  over  with  bright  red  streaks  like 
blood.  After  this  she  lived  some  time  here,  and  then  died, 
having  first  built  her  chapel  and  her  well.  The  water  of  this 
well  is  excellent  ;  and  the  pavement,  they  tell  you,  is  colored 
with  her  own  blood,  and  the  more  you  rub  it,  the  more  it 
shows,  —  such  being,  indeed,  the  nature  of  the  stone.  She 
'ikewise  left  the  mark  of  her  foot  on  a  rock,  not  far  from  it, 
still  called  St.  Agnes'  fool,  which  they  tell  you  will  fit  a  foot 
of  any  size  ;  and  indeed  It  is  large  enough  so  to  do.  These 
monkish  stories  caused  a  great  resort  here  in  former  days,  and 
many  cures  are  pretended  to  have  been  done  by  the  water  of 
this  well,  so  blest  by  her  miraculous  blood."  —  Policliclc^s 
Histonj  of  Cornwall,  i.  176-7.  —  N. 


St.  Agnes,  St.  Catharine,  and  St.  Margaret,  were  thosaiQta 
more  particularly  reverenced  by  the  Maid  of  Orleans. 


Note  65,  p.  24  col.  1.  —  IFas  silence  to  my  sotU 

Through  the  scene  are  faintly  heard 
Sounds  that  are  silence  to  the  mind. 

Charles  Lloyd. 

Note  66,  p.  26,  col.  1.  —  Effaced  the  hauberk''s  honorable  inarks. 

jlfm  d'empccher  Ics  impressions  que  ce  treiUis  de  fcr  devait 
aisser  sur  la  peau,  ou  avail  soin  de  se  matelasser  en  dtssous. 
Malgre  ces  precautions  cepcndant  il  en  laissait  encore  ;  ces  mar- 
ques s^appclldient  camois,  et  on  les  faisait  disparaitre  par  le 
bain.  —  Le  Orand.        .         

Note  67,  p.  26,  col   1.  —  Then,  bow^d  her  to  the  sword  qf  mar- 

tijrdom. 

Such  is  the  legend  of  St.  Katharine,  princess  of  Alexandria, 
wiiose  story  lias  been  pictured  upon  sign-posts  and  in  churches, 
but  whose  memory  has  been  preserved  in  this  country  longer 
by  the  ale-bouse  than  by  the  altar.  The  most  extravagant 
perha|)s  of  Dryden's  plays  is  upon  this  subject.  In  the  hrst 
edition,  I  had,  ignorantly,  represented  Katharine  as  dying 
upon  the  wheel,  and  the  descri|)tion  of  her  sufferings  was  far 
too  minute.  Dryden  has  committed  the  last  fault  in  a  far 
greater  degree  ;  the  old  martyrologies  particularize  no  cruelties 
more  revolting  to  the  reader  than  he  has  detailed  in  the  speech 
of  Maximin  when  he  orders  her  to  execution. 

From  a  passage  in  the  .Jerusalem  Conquistada  it  should  seem 
that  St.  Katharine  was  miraculously  betrothed  to  her  heavenly 
spouse.  As  the  crusaders  approach  Jerusalem,  they  visit  the 
holy  places  on  their  way  ; 

Qual  visila  el  lugar  con  llanto  tierno, 
Donde  la  hermosa  virgen  Cuterina 

Se  desposo  con  el  Esposo  eterno, 
La  Angelica  Rachel  siendo  madrina  ; 

Aquel  Espnso,  que  el  nevado  invierno 
Se  cuhrio  con  escarcha  matutina, 

El  que  tiene  los  ojos  de  palomas 

Y  del  labia  de  lirio  vierte  aromas.  —  Lope  de  Vega. 

The  marginal  note  adds  La  Virgen  fue  Madrina  en  los  despo 
rios  de  Caterina  y  Christo. 

Of  St.  Margaret,  the  otlier  favorite  Saint  of  the  Maid,  I 
find  recorded  liy  Bergoiiicnsis,  that  she  called  the  pagan 
Pra^fect  an  impudent  dog,  that  she  was  thrown  into  a  dungeon, 
wliere  a  horrible  dragon  swallowed  her,  that  she  crossed  her- 
self, upon  wliieb  the  dragon  immediately  burst  and  she  came 
out  safe,  and  that  she  saw  tlie  devil  standing  in  the  corner 
like  a  black  man,  and  seized  him  and  threw  him  down. 

Absurd  as  this  legend  is,  it  once  occasioned  a  very  extra- 
ordinary murder.  A  young  Lombard,  after  hearing  it,  prayed 
so  earnestly  for  an  opiiortunity  of  fighting  with  the  devil  like 
St.  Margaret,  that  he  went  into  the  fields  in  full  expectation 
that  his  desire  would  be  gratified.  A  hideous  old  dumb 
woman  came  by  :  he  mistook  her  for  the  tempter ;  her  in- 
articulate noises  confirmed  him  in  this  opinion,  and  he  knocked 
her  down  and  trampled  upon  her.  The  poor  wretch  died  ol 
her  bruises  ;  but  a  miracle  was  wrought  to  save  her  murderer, 
in  consideration  that  his  madness  was  a  pious  madness,  and 
before  she  died,  she  spoke  to  excuse  the  mistake.  This  tale 
is  told  in  that  strange  collection  of  ludicrous  stories  upon  re- 
ligious sulijects,  the  Pia  Hdaria.  The  authority  referred  to 
is  Pelr.  Rausani  Hist.  lib.  35. 


Note  68,  p.  26,  col.  2.  —  The  sacred  sword, 

Puella  petiit  gladium,  quern  divinitus  uti  aiebat,  erat  facta 
certitir  in  templo  diva:  Catherimr.  in  Turonibus,  inter  antiqun 
donaria  pendcre.  Miratus  Carolus,  gladium  inquiri,  ac  invcn- 
tum  prutmus  Puella;  affirri  ju.^sit.  —  Pohjdnre  Virgil. 

Roland,  or  rather  Orlando,  for  it  is  Ariosto  who  has  im- 
mortalized him,  was  buried  with  Durindana  nt  his  side,  and 
his  horn  Olifant  nt  his  feet.  Cbnrlemain  also  had  his  good 
sword  .loyeusc  buried  with  him.  He  w.as  placed  in  his  sep- 
ulchre on  a  golden  throne,  crowned  and  habited  in   his  im 


Ti 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


perial  robes,  thoujfh  a  ciUcc  was  next  his  skin  ;  one  liand  hold 
a  f;lol)e  of  gold,  the  other  rested  on  the  (lospels,  wliicli  were 
lying  on  his  knees.  His  shield  and  sceptre  were  hung  oii- 
posite  to  him,  on  the  side  of  the  sepulchre,  which  was  filled 
with  perfumes  and  spices,  and  then  closed.  Tizuna  was  buried 
with  the  Cid,  no  living  man  being  worthy  to  wield  that  sword 
with  which  the  Campeador,  even  after  death,  had  triumphed  ; 
and  which  had  been  miraculously  half  drawn  from  the  scabbard 
to  avenge  the  insult  offered  by  a  Jew  to  his  corpse. 


Note  G9,  p.  26,  col.  2.  —  Tliey  partook  the  feast, 

Cette  cirimonie  chei  Us  grands  s'annongait  au  son  du  cor,  ou 
au  son  iViinc  cloche  ;  coutumc  qiii  subsiste  encore  dans  les  ccmvens 
et  les  7naisons  npulcntes,  pour  announcer  le  convert  et  le  dtner. 
,^pres  le  service  des  viandcs,  c'est-d-dirc.  apris  ce  que  nous  up- 
pellons  entrees,  rili  et  entremets,  on  sortait  de  table  pourse  lavrr 
les  mains  une  sccondefiiis,  comme  chci  le  Romains  de  qui  parait 
Stre  venu  cct  usage.  Les  domestiqaes  desservaient  pendant  cc 
terns ;  Us  enlevaient  une  des  nappes  et  apporlaient  les  cuvfitiircs 
{qu'on  nommait  epices)  et  les  vins  composes.  .4  ce  moment,  fail 
pour  la  gaiete,  commengaient  les  decis  plaisans  ctjoijeut  prupiis, 
car  dans  ce  ban  vieux  terns  on  aimait  heaucoup  de  rire.  C'ctait 
alors  que  les  mcnctriers  venoient  reciter  leurs  fabliaux,  lorsqu'on 
admcttait  leur  presence.  —  Le  Orand. 


Note  70,  p.  26,  cnl.  2.  —  Or  luscious  with  metheglin  mingled  rich. 

11  y  avail  plusieurs  sortes  de  ces  vins  prepares  qu'on  servait 
apris  les  viandes.  1.  Les  Vins  cuits,  qui  sont  encore  en  usage 
dans  quelques  provinces,  et  qui  ont  conserve  le  m6me  iiom.  2. 
Cent  aicxquels  on  ajoutait  le  sue  de  quelque  fruit,  tels  que  le 
Moid, /ait  avec  du  jus  de  mure.  3.  Ceuz  qu'on  assaisonnait 
avec  da  miel,  comme  le  Nectar,  le  Medon,  S[c.  4.  Ccui  OTJtl'un 
faisait  infaser  des  ptantes  mcdieinales  ou  aromntiques,  et  qui 
prenaient  leur  nam  de  ces  plantes,  Vins  d'Absinthe,  de  Myrthe, 
d'Alotjs,  &,c.  Lc  Roman  de  Florimmit  les  appclle  Vins  herhez. 
5.  F.nfn  ceuz  dans  Irsquels,  outre  le  miel,  il  entruit  des  epices. 
On  appellait  ces  derniers  du  nom  general  de  Pimens.  Cetoient 
les  plus  estimcs  dc  tous.  JVus  auteu  rs  n'en  parlent  qu'avec  delices. 
II  eilt  manqui  quehpic  chose  d  une  fete  ou  d  un  repas,  si  on  n'lj 
edt  point  servi  da  Piment  ■■  et  I'an  on  donnait  memc  aut  moincs 
dans  les  couvens  d  certains  jours  de  I'annee.  —  Lc  Orand, 


Note  71,  p.  2G,  col.  2.  — the  youth 

Of  Cornwall. 
Sir  Tristram  du  Lyones. 


Note  72,  p.  27,  col.  1.  — and  he  who  struck 

The  dolorous  stroke. 
Sir  Balin  le  Sauvage. 


Note  73,  p.  27.  col.  1 .  —  Like  that  divinest  Tuscan. 
Ariosto. 


Note  74,  p.  27,  col.  2.  —  Thou  canst  not  with  thy  golden  belt 
put  on 
An  honorable  name. 

Du  proverbe  Bonne  renommee  vaut  mieuz  que  ceinture  doree. 

Lisant  un  arrest  avcim  qui  est  encores  pour  lejoiird'huy  inscre 
OALX  registres  du  Chastelet  de  Paris,  j'eslimay  qu'en  ce  proverbe 
il  y  avoit  une  notable  sentence,  et  une  longuc  anciennetc  tout  en- 
semble. Car  par  arrest  qui  est  du28dejuinl4;i0,ilestporl6 
en  tennes  erprcs  que  deffenses  sont  faites  d  toutcs  fcmmes  amou- 
reuses,  files  dc  joye,  ct  paillardes  de  ne  porter  rohbes  d  collets  rcn- 
versei,  queues,  ne  celntures  dorers,  boutonniers  d  leurs  chaperons, 
sur  peine  de  confiscation  et  amende,  et  que  les  huissiers  de  parle- 
ment,  commissaires  et  sergents  du  Chastelet  qui  les  trouveroient, 
eussent  d  les  mener  prisonnieres. 

j9h  surplus  {je  diray  cecy  en  passant)  d  la  mienne  volont6  que 
ceuz  qui  donnerent  eest  arrest  eussent  tournc  la  chance,  et  que  non 
seuXement  ces  ceintures  dorees,  aiiis  en  toutes  autres  dorures,  ct 
affliquets,  ils  eussent  fait  def^ences  d  tnutrs  femmes  d'honncur 
d'emporter,  sur  peine  d'estre  declarees  putains  ;  car  il  n'y  auroit 
point  plus  prompt  moyen  que  cestuy,  pour  bannier  le  superjluite 
et  bombance  des  dames.  —  Pasquier, 


Note  75,  p.  28,  col.  1.  —  J  knew  myself, 

Hmc  igitur  Janna  Pulcella  virgo,  cum  magnani  gloriam  in 
armis  esset  adepta,  et  regnum  Franeorum  magnd,  ex  parte  deper- 
ditum,  e  manilms  Anglorum  pugnando  eripuisset,  in  sua  flurcnle 
(jctate  cunstUuta,  non  snUtiii  se  morituravi,  sed  et  genus  suce  m&r~ 
tis  cunctis  prixdirit.  — Bergomensis. 


Note   70,  p.  28,  col.  ].  —  There  is  a  ] 

There  is  a  path  which  no  fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vul- 
ture's eye  hath  not  seen  :  the  lion's  whelps  have  not  trodden 
it,  nor  the  fierce  lion  passed  by  it.  — ,/ob,  .\xviii.  7,  8. 


Note   77.  p.  28,  col.  1 . is  Ihcy  did  hear  the  loud  alarum  bell. 

"  In  sooth  the  estate  of  France  was  then  most  miserablo. 
There  appeared  nothing  but  a  horrible  face,  confusion,  poverty, 
desolation,  solitarinesse  and  feare.  The  lean  and  bare  la- 
bourers in  the  country  did  terrific  even  theeves  themselves, 
who  had  nothing  lift  them  tospoile  but  the  carkasses  of  these 
poorc  miserable  creatures,  wandi'ring  up  and  down  like  ghostes 
(irawne  out  of  tlieir  graves.  The  least  furmes  and  hamlets 
were  fortified  by  these  robbers,  English,  Bourguegnons  and 
French,  every  one  striving  to  do  his  worst  :  all  men  of  war 
were  well  agreed  to  spoile  the  countryman  and  merchant. 
Even  the  cattell,  accustomed  to  the  larume  bell,  the  signe  of  Vie 
enemy's  approach,  would  run  Jiome  of  tltcnisclves  without  any 
guide  by  this  accustomed  misery." 

This  is  the  perfect  description  of  tliose  times,  taken  out  of 
the  lamentations  of  our  ancestors,  set  down  in  the  original, 
says  De  Scrres.  But  amidst  this  horrible  calamity,  God  did 
comfort  both  the  king  and  realme,  for  about  the  end  of  the 
yeere,  he  gave  Charles  a  goodly  sonne  by  queen  Mary  his 
wife."  

Note  78,  p.  28,  col.  2.  —  JVas  cls  a  pilgrim. 

O  my  people,  hear  my  word  :  make  you  ready  to  the  battle, 
and  in  those  evils,  be  even  as  pilgrims  upon  the  earth. — 
2  Esdras,  xvi.  40. 

Note   79,  p.  28,  col.  2.  —  Cast  the  weak  nature  off! 

Let  go  from  thee  mortal  thoughts,  cast  away  the  burdens  of 
man,  put  oft' now  the  weak  nature, 

And  set  aside  the  thoughts  that  are  most  heavy  unto  thee, 
and  haste  thee  to  flee  from  those  times.  — 2  Esdras,  xiv.  14, 15. 


Note  80,  p.  29,  col.  2.  —  Worthy  a  happier,  not  a  better  love. 
Digna  minus  miscro,  non  meliore  viro.  —  Ovid. 


Note   81,  p.  29,   col.  2. lind  I  must  put  away  all  mortal 

thoughts. 
—  2  Esdras,  xiv.  14. 

Note  82,  p.  31,  col.  1.  —  Ruin  rush'd  round  us. 

"  To  succeed  in  the  siege  of  Orleans,  the  English  first  se- 
cured the  neighboring  places,  which  might  otherwise  have 
annoyed  the  besiegers.  The  months  of  August  and  September 
were  spent  in  this  work.  During  that  S|)ace  they  took  Mehun, 
Baugeiici,  Gergeau,  Clery,  Sully,  Jenville,  and  some  other 
small  towns,  and  at  last  appeared  before  Orleans  on  the  12th 
of  October."  — iJ«pin. 


Note  83,  p.  31,  col.  2.  —  Soon  sadden'd  Orleans. 

"The  French  king  used  every  expedient  to  supply  the  city 
with  a  garrison  and  provisions,  and  enable  it  to  maintain  a 
long  and  obstinate  siege.  The  lord  of  Gaucour,  a  brave  and 
experienced  captain,  was  ajipointed  governor.  Many  officers 
of  distinction  threw  themselves  into  the  place.  The  troops 
which  they  conducted  were  inured  to  war,  and  were  deter- 
mined to  make  t)ie  most  obstinate  resistance:  and  even  the 
inhabitants,  disciplined  by  the  long  continuance  of  hostilities, 
were  well  qualified  in  their  own  defence,  to  second  the  efforts 
of  the  most  veteran  forces.  The  eyes  of  all  Europe  were 
turned  towards  this  scene  ;  where,  it  was  reasoiialily  sup- 
posed, the  F'rench  were  to  make  their  last  stand  for  maintain- 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


73 


ing  the  indopnnJoiicoof  thoir  monarchy,  and  the  rights  of  their 
sovereign."  —  Hume.  

Note  64,  p.  31,  col.  2.  —  The  Sire  ChaptUe. 

This  title  was  not  disoriniinatcly  used  by  tlio  French. 
Chupeile  19  sometimes  styloii  le  sire,  and  sometimes  (rfiitU' 
homiiie  (tc  Beaiuise,  l>y  Daniel.  Tlio  same  title  was  applied  to 
the  Almighty,  and  to  princes ;  and  Selden  observes  from 
Pasquier,  "  Ihoaa  ancient  barons  affected  rather  to  be  stilod 
by  the  name  of  sire  than  baron,  and  the  baron  of  Coucy 
carried  to  that  purpose  this  rithmo  in  his  device  : 

Je  ne  suis  roy  ne  prince  aiissi, 
Je  suis  Ic  sire  ile  Coiicij." 


Note  So,  p.  31,  col.  2.  —  Can  never  wield  Vie  crucifii  that  hilts 
His  hallowed  sword. 

"  At  the  creation  of  a  knight  of  Rhodes  a  sword,  with  a 
cross  for  the  hill,  was  delivered  to  him  in  token  that  his  valor 
must  defend  religion.  No  bastard  could  be  a  knight  hospi- 
taller, from  whose  order  that  of  Khodes  was  formed,  except 
a  bastard  to  a  prince,  there  being  honor  in  that  dishonor, 
as  there  is  light  in  the  very  spots  of  the  moon." 

Fuller's  Ilistvrie  of  the  Holy  Wiirre. 


Note  86,  p.  31,  col.  2. 9nd  that  young  duke. 

Alen^on.  

Note  87,  p.  31 ,  col.  2.  —  La  Hire,  the  inerriest  man. 

"  In  the  late  warres  in  France  between  king  Henry  the  fiflh 
of  England  and  Charles  the  seventh  of  France,  the  French 
armie  being  in  distresse,  one  cajilain  La  Hire,  a  Frenchman, 
was  sent  to  declare  unto  the  said  French  king  the  estate  and 
affaires  of  the  warre,  and  how  for  want  of  victuals,  money, 
and  other  necessaries,  the  French  h:id  lost  divers  townes  and 
hattailes  to  the  English.  The  French  king  being  disposed  to 
use  his  captaiiie  familiarly,  shewed  him  such  thinges  as  him- 
self was  delighted  in,  as  his  buildings,  his  banquets,  fuire 
ladies,  &.C.,  and  then  asked  the  c.iptaine  how  iioc  liked  them  ; 
'  Trust  me,  sir,'  quoth  the  caplaine,  speaking  his  mind  freely, 
'  I  did  never  know  any  prince  that  more  delighted  himself 
with  his  losses,  than  you  doe  with  yours.'  " —  Stowe, 

'  La  Hire  trouva  ung  chapelain  auquel  il  dit  iju'il  luy  donnast 
liastivemerit  Vabsolution  :  et  le  chapelain  luy  dit  qu'cl  confessast 
ses pesches.  La  Hire  luy  respondil  qa'il  n'auruit  pas  loisir,  car 
ilfalloit  proviptement  frapper  sur  I'cnneinij,  et  qu'il  avoitfuict  cc 
que  gens  dc  guerre  out  accoustunic  defairc.  Et  lors  La  Hire  fit 
sa  priire  d  Dieu  en  disant  en  sun  Gascon,  les  mains  joinctcs:  — 
'  Dicu.je  le  prie  que  tu  faces  aujoiird'huy  puur  La  l{ire  autant 
que  tu  vouldrois  que  La  Hire  fst  puur  toy,  se  il  estuit  Dieu,  et 
que  tu  fusses  La  Hire.'  —  £(  il  cuiduil  trcs  lien  pricr  et  dire. 

Chronique  sans  titre.     Li:  Brun  dc  Charmttles,  t.  i.  p.  102. 

There  is  an  English  epitaph,  horrowed  from  those  words 
of  the  French  captain. 


Note  88,  p.  31,  col.  2. —     the  suburbs  lay 

One  ample  ruin. 

"They  pulled  down  all  the  most  considerable  buildings  in 
the  suburbs,  and  among  tho  rest  twelve  churches  and  several 
monasteries  ;  that  the  English  might  not  make  use  of  them  in 
carrying  on  the  siege."  —  Rnpin.    JHunstrelct. 


Note  89,  p.  33,  col.  1.  —  jVk  ^nore  the  merry  viol's  note  iras 
heard, 

Tho  instrument  which  most  frequently  served  for  an  accom- 
paniment to  the  harp,  and  which  disputed  the  preeminence 
with  it  in  the  early  times  of  music  in  France,  was  the  viol ; 
and  indeed,  when  reduced  to  four  strings,  and  stript  of  the 
frets  with  which  viols  of  all  kinds  seem  to  have  been  furnished 
till  the  Ifith  century,  it  still  holds  tho  first  place  among  treble 
instruments,  under  the  denomination  of  violin. 

The  viol  played  with  a  bow,  and  wholly  different  from  the 
viclle,  whose  tones  are  produced  by  the  friction  of  a  wheel, 
which  indeed  performs  the  part  of  a  how,  was  very  early  in 
favor  with  the  inhabitants  of  France. 

Bumey's  History  of  Music. 

10 


Note  90,  p.  32,  col.  I. —  Call'd  on  Saint  .Signan's  name. 

^t.  Aignan  was  the  tutelary  saint  of  Orleans.  Ile  had  mi- 
raculously l)een  chosen  bishop  of  that  city  when  Attila  besieged 
it.  "  Cumme  les  citoycns  effruyez  eurcnt  rccours  a  leur  prclat, 
luy,  sans  sc  soucier,  pour  le  salut  dc  siens,  sortit  de  la  villc  et 
parla  a  Jittila.  Mais  ne  I'ayant  pu  flcrhir,  d  se  mit  en  priercs, 
Jitfairc  dcs  processions,  et  porter  par  les  rues  les  rcliques  des 
saints.  Un  prcstre  s'etant  vwcque,  disant,  que  eela  n'aroit  dc 
rein  profile  aux  autres  villes,  tomba  roidc  mart  sur  la  place,  por- 
tant :  par  ce  moyen  la  peine  de  son  insoiente  temerite.  Jipres 
ttiutcs  ches  ehoses,  il  commamla  aux  habitans  dc  voir  si  le  secours 
n'arriiwit  point ;  ayant  6t6  rcpondu  que  non ,  il  sc  rcmet  en  pricres, 
et  puis  leur  fait  mesnie  commandement :  mais  n'appercevant  point 
encore  de  secours,  pour  la  troisieme  fois  il  se  prostema  a  trrrc, 
Ic.i  yeuz  et  I'esprit  vers  le  del.  Se  sentant  ezaucc,  il  fait  mon- 
ter  a  la  gucrite,  et  luy  rapporte-t-on  que  Von  ne  voyoit  ricn  si  non 
une  grosse  nuce  de  poussiere,  il  assiiere  que  c'etoit  le  secours 
d'.Mtius  et  de  Teudo  Roy  des  Ootlts,  lesquels  tardans  a  sc  mon- 
trer  a  I'armee  d'Mlila,  S.  Jlignan  fat  divincmait  transporte  en 
leur  camp,  et  les  advcrlit  que  tout  estoit  pirdu,  s'ils attendoient  au, 
lendeniain.  lis  parurent  aussi-tost,  et  furccrent  .HttUa  de  lever 
si  hativcnient  le  siege,  que  plusieurs  des  siens  se  noyerent  dans  la 
Loire,  d'autrcs  s'cntretuercnt  avrc  regret  d'acoir  perdu  la  villc. 
Et  non  contcns  de  cctte  victoirc,  le  puursuivirent  si  vivement  avec 
le  Roy  Mcrouec,  qui  sc  vinl  joindre  a  euz,  qu'ils  le  defircnt  en 
battaiUe  ran  gee  prcs  dc  Cli&hns,  jonchant  la  campagne  de  180,000 
eadiwres." 

Le  nouvcau  Parterre  dcs  ficurs  des  vies  des  Saints.  Par  P. 
Ribadeneira,  Andre  du  Val  et  Jean  Baudoin.    Lyons,  1G6G. 


Note  91,  p.  32,  col.  2.  — the  treat,y  ratified 

At  Troyes. 
"  By  the  treaty  of  Troyes,  Charles  was  to  remain  in  quiet 
possession  of  the  royal  dignity  and  revenues.  After  his  death 
the  crown,  with  all  its  rights  and  dominions,  devolved  to  Henry 
and  his  heirs.  The  imbecility  of  Chiirles  was  so  great  that  he 
could  not  appear  in  public,  so  that  the  queen  and  Burgundy 
swore  for  him."  —  Hupin. 


Note  92,  p.  33,  col.  1. —  Salisbury,  their  watchful  chief. 

"  The  besiegers  received  succors  in  the  very  beginning  of 
the  siege  ;  but  the  earl  of  Salisbury,  who  considered  this  en- 
terprise as  a  decisive  action  for  the  king  his  master,  and  his 
own  reputation,  omitted  nothing  to  deprive  the  besieged  of  that 
advantage.  He  run  up  round  the  city  sixty  forts.  How  great 
soever  this  work  might  be,  nothing  could  divert  him  from  it, 
since  the  success  of  the  siege  entirely  depended  upon  it.  In 
vain  would  be  have  pursued  his  attack,  if  the  enemies  could 
continually  introduce  fresh  supplies.  Besides,  the  season,  now 
far  advanced,  suggested  to  him,  that  he  would  be  forced  to  pass 
the  winter  in  the  camp,  and  during  that  time  he  liable  to  many 
insults.  Among  the  sixty  forts,  there  were  six  much  stronger 
than  the  rest,  U|)on  the  six  principal  avenues  of  the  city. 
The  French  could  before  w  ith  ease  introduce  convoys  into  the 
place,  and  had  made  frequent  use  of  that  a(ivantage.  But 
after  these  forts  were  built,  it  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that 
they  could,  now  and  then,  give  some  assistance  to  the  be- 
sieged. Upon  these  six  redoubts  the  general  erected  butteries, 
which  thundered  against  the  walls."  —  Rapin, 


Note  93,  p.  33,  col.  1.  —  7'Ac  six  great  avenues  meet  in  the 
midst. 
Rheims  had  six  principal  streets  meeting  thus  in  one  centre, 
where  the  cathedral  stood. 

Au  ccntri  de  la  ville,  entre  six  aveniles, 
S'cleve  un  saeri  temple  a  la  hauteur  des  nues. 

Chapelain, 

Note  94,  p.  33,  col.  l.  —  Possess'd  the  ToumeUes, 
"  The  bulwark  of  the  Tournellea  being  much  shaken  by  tho 
besiegers'  cannon,  and  the  besieged  thinking  it  proper  to  set 
it  on  fire,  the  English  extinguished  the  flames,  and  lodged 
themselves  in  that  post.  At  the  same  time  they  became 
masters  of  the  tower  on  the  brirlge,  from  whence  the  whole 
city  could  be  viewed."  —  Rapin. 


74 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Note  95,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  The  ponderous  stone  with  hideous  crash 
Came  like  an  edrthquakc. 

Les  bombardes  vomissaient  drs  boulets  de  picrrr,  dont  quel- 
quemins  pesaicnt  jusqu'  d  cent  seize  Utrres.  Ces  7nasses  effray- 
antes,  lancces  d  la  maniirc  dc  vos  boinbes,  produisaicnt  en  tom- 
bant  sur  Ics  edifices,  I'effet  de  la  foudre.  —  Le  Bran  de  Char- 
melies,  i.  p.  122.  

Note  96,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  The  wdd-Jire  balls  hiss'd  through  the 
■midnight  sky. 
Drayton  eniimcratcs  these  among  the  English  preoarations 
for  war : 

"  The  engineer  provided  the  petard 
'J'o  break  the  strong  portcullies,  and  the  balls 
Of  wild-fire  devised  to  tlirow  from  far 
To  burn  to  ground  their  palaces  and  halls." 

And  at  the  siege  of  Harfleur  he  says, 

"  Their  brazen  slings  send  in  the  wild-firo  balls." 

"  Balls  of  consuming  wild-fire 
That  lickt  men  up  like  lightning,  have  I  laughed  at. 
And  tost  'em  back  again  like  children's  trifles." 

B.  and  F.  ;   The  Mad  Lover. 

"  I  do  command  that  particular  care  be  had,  advising  the 
gunners  to  have  half  butts  ivitli  water  and  vinegar,  as  is  ac- 
customed, with  bonnets  and  old  sails,  and  wet  mantels  to  de- 
fend fire,  that  a^  often  is  thrown. 

"  Every  sliip  shall  carry  two  boats  lading  of  stones,  to  throw 
to  profit  in  the  time  of  fight  on  the  deck,  forecastle  or  tops, 
according  to  his  burden. 

"  That  the  wild-fire  be  reparted  to  the  people  most  expert, 
that  we  have  for  the  use  thereof,  at  due  time  j  for  that  if  it  be 
not  overseen,  giving  charge  thereof  to  those  that  do  understand 
it,  and  such  as,  we  know,  can  tell  how  to  use  it ;  otherwise 
it  may  happen  to  great  danger." 

Orders  set  doicn  by  the  duke  of  Medina  to  be 
observed  in  the  voyage  toward  England. 

Hail.  Misc.  vol.  i. 
"  Some  were  preparing  to  toss  balls  of  wild-fire,  as  if  the  sea 
had  been  their  tennis-court." 

Deliverance  of  certain  Christians  from  the  Turks. 

Harl.  Misc.  vol.  i. 


Note  97,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  Poisonous  pollution. 

Thus  at  the  siege  of  Thin  sur  I'Escault.  "  CeuU  de  lost  leur 
gectoiait  par  leur  engins  chevauh  mors  et  autres  bestes  mortes  et 
puantes,  pour  les  empuantir,  dont  ill  estoient  la  dedans  en  moult 
grant  de^stresse.  Car  lair  estoit  fort  et  chault  ainsi  comme  en 
plein  este,  el  de  cefurent  plus  constrains  que  dc  nulle  autre  chose. 
Si  considerent  finablemenl  cntre  euli  que  crlle  messaise  Hz  ne 
pourroient  longucment  endurer  ne  sovffrir,  tant  leur  estoit  la 
punaisie  ubhominable." —  Froissart,  1.  38. 

This  was  an  evil  which  sometimes  annoyed  the  besieging 
army.  At  Dan  '^ pour  la  puautise  des  bestes  que  Ion  tuoit  en 
lost,  et  des  chevault  qui  estoient  inors,  lair  estoit  tout  corrumpu, 
dont  moult  de  chevaliers  et  escuyers  en  estoient  malades  et  mclen- 
colieuz,  et  sey  alloient  les  plusieurs,  refreschir  a  Bruges  et  ail- 
leurspour  eviter  cc  mauvais  air."  —  Froissart,  I.  17.5. 


Note  98,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  Crowded  in  unwholesome  vaults 

At  Thin  sur  1'  Escault,  "  La  fist  le  due  charter  grant  foison 
d'cngins  de  Cambray  et  de  Douay,  et  en  y  cut  sij:  moult  grans,  le 
due  les  fist  lever  devant  la  fortcresse.  Lesqlz  engins  gectuient 
nuyt  et  jour  grosses  pierres  et  mangonneauli  qui  nbatoient  les 
combles  et  le  hault  des  tours  des  r.hambres  et  des  salles.  Et  en 
contraignoient  les  gens  du  Chastel  par  ccst  assault  tresdure- 
ment.  Et  si  no.nent  les  compaignons  qui  le  gar/loirnt  demourer 
en  cliambres  7ien  sales  quilz  eussent,  mais  en  caves  et  en  ccliers." 
—  Froissart,  1.  38. 


Note  99,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  Eager  to  mark  the  carrion  crow 
for  food. 

Scudery  has  a  most  ingenious  idea  of  the  effects  of  famine  : 
during  the  blockade  of  Rome  by  the  Goths,  he  makes  the 
inhabitants  first  eat  one  another,  and  then  eat  themselves. 


La  rage  se  meslant  d  leurs  douleurs  eztrimrs, 

lis  se  mangent  I'un  I'autre,  ils  se  mangent  euz-mesmes. 

Jllaric. 
Fuller  expresses  the  want  of  food  pithily.     "  The  siego 
grew  long,  and  victuals  short." 


Note  100,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  IVhen  in  the  San  Vie  Angel  of  the 
Lord. 

And  I  saw  an  Angel  standing  in  the  sun  ;  and  he  cried  with 
a  loud  voice,  saying  to  all  the  fowls  that  fly  in  the  midst  of 
heaven,  Come  and  gather  yourselves  together  unto  the  supper 
of  the  great  God  : 

That  ye  may  eat  the  flesh  of  kings,  and  the  flesh  of  captains, 
and  the  flesh  of  mighty  men,  and  the  flesh  of  horses,  and  of 
them  that  sit  on  them.  —  Revelation,  xix.  17,  18. 

A  similar  passage  occurs  in  E/.ekiel. 

And  thou,  son  of  man,  thus  saitli  the  Lord  God,  Speak  unto 
every  feathered  fowl,  and  to  every  beast  of  the  field.  As- 
semble yourselves,  and  come  ;  gather  yourselves  on  every  side 
to  my  sacrifice  that  I  do  sacrifice  for  you,  even  a  great  sacri- 
fice upon  the  mountains  of  Israel,  that  ye  may  eat  flesh  and 
drink  blood. 

Ye  shall  cat  the  flesh  of  the  mighty,  and  drink  the  blood  of 
the  princes  of  the  earth,  of  rams,  of  lambs,  and  of  goats,  of 
bullocks,  all  of  them  fatlings  of  Bashan. 

And  ye  shall  eat  fat  till  ye  be  full,  and  drink  blood  till  ye 
be  drunken,  ofmy  sacrifice  which  I  have  sacrificed  for  you. 

Thus  ye  shall  be  filled  at  my  table  with  horses  and  chariots, 
with  mighty  men,  and  with  all  men  of  war,  saith  the  Lord 
God.  —  Eickiel,  xxxix.  17,  &c. 


Note    101,  p.  3*1,  col.  2.  —  Prevent  the  pang  of  famine. 

Fuller  calls  this  "resolving  ratlier  to  lose  their  lives  by 
wholesale  on  the  point  of  the  sword,  than  to  retail  them  out 
by  famine."  

Note  102,  p.  35,  col.  1.  — Jls  when  the  Mexicans. 

"  It  was  the  belief  of  the  Mexicans,  that  at  the  conclusion 
of  one  of  their  centuries  the  sun  and  earth  would  be  destroyed 
On  the  last  night  of  every  century  they  extinguished  all  their 
fires,  covered  the  faces  of  the  women  and  children,  and  ex- 
pected the  end  of  the  world.  The  kindling  of  the  sacred  fire 
on  the  mountain  of  Huixachtla  was  believed  an  omen  of  their 
safety." — Clavigero.  

Note  103,  p.  3G,  col.  1.  —  The  veins  were  full. 

<I>uir)?  K£v  yvioiv  viv  oaov  aOcvos  eWnmcvciv 
A(  J(  01  oidlKavTi  Kar'  avxtva  Travrodep  tves, 
Kai  TToXto)  Trcp  covTf  TO  Se  cdevoi  a^iuv  aSa;. 

Theocritus. 

Note  104,  p.  36,  col.  1.  —  His  silence  threatened. 
Son  silence  menace.  —  Le  Moyne. 


Note   105,  p.  36,  col.  1.  — seetkefire 

Consume  him. 

Reasons  for  burning  a  trumpeter. 

"  The  letter  she  sent  to  Suffolk  was  received  with  scorn, 
and. the  trumpeter  that  brought  it  commanded  to  be  burnt, 
against  the  law  of  nations,  saith  a  French  *  author,  but  erro- 
neously, for  his  coming  was  not  warranted  by  the  authority  of 
any  lawful  prince,  but  from  a  private  maid,  how  highly  soever 
self-pretended,  who  had  neither  estate  to  keep,  nor  commis- 
sion to  send  a  trumpeter."  —  Fuller's  Profane  State. 


Note  106,  p.  36,  col.  2.  —  In  sight  of  Orleans  and  the  Maiden's 

host. 

De  Serres  says,  "  The  trumpeter  was  ready  to  be  burnt  in 
the  sight  of  the  besieged." 


Note  107,  p.  36,  col.  2.  —  As  he  that  puts  it  off. 

Let  not  him  that  girdcth  on  his  harness  boast  himself,  as  he 
that  putteth  it  off.  —  1  Kings,  xx.  11. 

*  De  Serree. 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


75 


Note  lOS,  p.  30,  col.  '2. 4s  lehcii  Chcdcrlis  cuiiics 

".1  riiidfiiimiiiisHiUys  reuimit.i  ad  OuukurUioy  ;  inde.  Chorvii  ; 
post  tit  'I'lic  Kc  Thioi.  Htc  mulla  tUdicimun  a  vwndclii.i  Tiir- 
cicu:,  qttos  Dirvis  vocant,  ijui  co  locu  insigncm  kuhcnt  tcdem,  dc 
hcrue  quodam  Clirderlc  siimiiid  cur/xirii  iitqiic  aiiimi  furliluilinr, 
queiii  cHiidcm  fiiisse  cum  nostra  D.  Geurgio  fabulunlur  ;  cudciii- 
que  illi  ascribuiit  qua:  huic  nostri ;  iiimirum  vasti  ct  hvrrcndi 
dracunis  cicde  servassc  ejpvnituin  virfrinem.  Ad  luce  alia  ad- 
jiciu.nl  multa,  ct  qua:  libitum  est,  comminiscunlur,  ilium  per 
loiiirinquas  oroi  perc^rinari  solitiim,  ad  Jluvium  poslrcmo  pcr- 
venisse,  ci(j«,«  aquin  bibentibiLt  pmsturcut  immortulilatcm.  Qui 
quidcm  ftuciits,  in  qud  parte  lerrarum  sit,  nun  dicunt;  nisi  fur- 
tussis  in  Utopict  cullocari  debet :  tanlum  affirmant  ilium  mairnis 
tenel/ris,  multdque  ciUiffine  ubductum  latere ;  ncque  cuiquam 
mortulium  post  Chederlem,  uti  ilium  wlcret,  coyiti^issc.  Clicder- 
lem  vera  ipsum  mortis  Icifibtis  solutum,  hue  iliac  in  equo  prm- 
stanti^simo,  qui  similiter  cjiuidcm  aqua  luiusta.  mortalUatcm 
exaerit,  dica^ari,  gaudenlem  prwliLi,  adesse  in  belli)  mcliuribus, 
aut  Us  qui  ejus  opem  imploraccrinl,  cujuscunque  tandem  sint 
relii^ionu.^^  —  Busbequius^ 

The  Persians  sny,  that  Alcxan<lcr  coniin?  to  understand, 
that  in  tlic  mountain  of  Kal"  there  was  a  great  cave,  very 
black  and  dark,  wiierein  rin  the  water  of  immortality,  vvoul<l 
needs  take  a  journey  thither.  But  being  afraid  to  lose  his 
way  in  the  cave,  and  considering  with  himself  that  he  had 
comniitti  d  a  great  oversight  in  leaving  the  more  aged  in  cities 
and  fortified  places,  and  keeping  about  his  person  only  young 
people,  such  as  were  not  able  to  advise  him,  he  ordered  to  be 
brought  to  him  some  old  man,  whose  counsel  he  might  follow 
in  the  adventure  ho  was  then  upon.  There  were  in  the  whole 
army  hut  two  brothers,  named  Cliidder  and  Elias,  who  had 
brought  their  father  along  wilh  them,  and  this  good  old  man 
bade  his  sons  go  and  tell  Alexander,  that  to  go  through  with 
the  design  he  had  undertaken,  his  only  way  were  to  take  a 
mare  that  had  a  colt  at  her  heels,  and  to  ride  upon  het  into 
the  cave,  and  leave  the  colt  at  the  entrance  of  il,  and  the 
mare  would  infallibly  bring  him  back  again  to  the  same  place 
without  any  trouble.  Alexander  thought  the  advice  so  good, 
that  he  would  not  take  any  other  person  with  him  in  that 
journey  but  those  two  brothers,  leaving  the  rest  of  his  retinue 
at  the  entrance  of  the  cave.  He  advanced  so  far  that  he 
came  to  a  gite,  so  well  polished,  that  notwithstanding  the 
great  darkness,  it  gave  light  enough  to  let  him  see  there  was 
a  bird  fastened  thereto.  The  bird  asked  Alexander  what  he 
would  have.'  lie  made  answer  that  he  looked  for  the  water 
of  immortality.  The  bird  asked  him,  what  was  done  in  the 
world.'  Mischief  enough,  replies  -Alexander,  since  there  is 
no  vice  or  sin  but  reigns  there.  Whereupon  the  bird  getting 
loose  and  living  away,  the  gale  opened  and  Alexander  saw  an 
Angel  sitting,  wilh  a  trumpet  in  his  hand,  holding  it  as  if  he 
were  going  to  put  it  to  his  mouth.  Alexander  asked  him  his 
name.  The  .\ngel  made  answer  his  n:trne  w;is  Raphael,  and 
that  ho  only  staid  for  a  command  from  fiod  to  blow  the  trum- 
pet and  to  call  the  dead  to  judgment.  Which  hiving  said, 
he  asks  .\lexander  who  he  was.'  [  am  .Vlexander,  replied  he, 
and  I  seek  the  water  of  immorlality.  'J'he  .Angel  gave  him 
a  stone,  and  said  to  him,  go  liiy  wayes,  and  look  for  another 
stone  of  the  same  weight  with  this,  and  then  thou  shalt  find 
immortality.  Whereupon  .Alexander  asked  how  long  he  had 
to  live.  The  angel  said  to  him,  till  such  time  as  the  heaven 
and  the  earth  which  encompass  thee  be  turneil  to  iron.  Alex- 
ander, being  come  out  of  the  cave,  sought  a  long  time,  and  not 
meeting  with  any  stone  just  of  the  same  weight  wilh  the 
other,  he  put  one  into  the  balance  which  he  thought  came 
very  near  it,  and  finding  but  very  liule  difference,  he  added 
thereto  a  little  earth,  which  made  the  scales  even  ;  it  being 
God's  intention  to  shew  Alexander  thereby,  that  he  was  not 
to  ex[)ect  immortality  till  he  himself  were  put  into  the  earth. 
At  last  Alexander  having  one  d.iy  a  fall  oft'  his  horse  in  the 
barren  ground  of  Ghur,  they  laid  him  upon  the  coat  ho  wore 
over  his  armour,  and  covered  him  w  ith  his  buckler  to  keep  off 
the  heat  of  the  sim.  Then  he  began  to  comprehend  the 
prophecy  of  the  Angel,  and  was  satisfied  the  hour  of  his 
death  was  at  hind  ;  accordingly  he  died. 

They  add  to  Ibis  fable,  that  the  two  brothers  Chidder  and 
Elias  drunk  of  the  water  of  immortality,  and  that  they  are 
still  living  but  invisible,  Elias  upon  the  earth,  and  Chidder  in 
'.he  water ;  wherein  the  latter  hath  go  great  power,  that  those 


who  arc  in  danger  of  being  destroyed  by  water,  if  they  ear- 
nestly pray,  vowing  an  olferijig  to  him,  and  firnjiy  believing 
that  ho  can  relieve  them,  shall  escape  the  danger. 

Aiiibassiidvr's  Travels. 
Ktiidir  and  Elias  occupy  a  distinguished  |dacc  in  the  legion 
of  jirophits.  The  name  of  the  first  signifies  verdant,  alluding 
to  the  power  which  he  possessed  of  producing,  wherever  lie 
trod,  the  most  beautiful  and  enchinling  vcnlure.  'J'hcse  two 
are  regarded  as  the  protectors  and  tutelary  gods  of  travel- 
lers ;  the  former  u])un  the  sea,  the  latter  upon  the  land  ;  and 
they  are  thought  to  be  incessantly  employed  in  promoting 
these  s.ilulary  objects.  In  their  rapid  and  uniform  courses, 
they  are  believed  to  meet  once  a  year  at^/(»n,  in  the  environs 
of  Mecca,  the  day  on  which  the  pilgrims  are  assembled. 

£>'  OIissuh's  Jlisturtj  of  die  Otiwmun  Empire. 


Note  109,  p.  37,  col.  1.  —  The  stoords  that  lute  Jiash'd  to  the 
evening  sun. 

Now  does  the  day  grow  blacker  than  before, 
The  swords  that  glistered  late,  in  purjile  gore 
Now  ail  distain'd,  their  former  brightnessc  lose. 

May's  Edward  III. 
And  again.  Book  7. 

The  glittering  swords  that  shone  so  bright  of  late 
Are  quickly  all  distain'd  with  purjde  gore. 


NoTK  110,  J).  37,  col.  2. —  Of  blessed  Mary  vowed  a  vow  of 
peace. 

II  advint  a  luy  rl  a  toute  sa  gent,  estant  devant  Chartres,  qui 
moult  liumilia  el  brise  son  courage ;  car  enlendis  que  ces  truictcurs 
Erangois  alloient  et  presckoient  ledit  roy  et  son  conseil,  et  encores 
niillc  response  agrcable  nen  avoient  cue.  Une  orage  une  tcmpeste 
ct  une  fcnlilre  si  grande  et  si  horrible  descendit  du  del  en  lost  du 
roy  Danglitirre  qud  sembloit  propremeni  que  le  siecle  deust  finer. 
Car  il  rheoit  si  grosses  pierres  que  ellcs  tuoyeut  hoinmcs  et 
chevaulx,  et  en  furenl  les  plus  hardis  tons  esbahis.  Adoncques 
rrgarda  le  roy  Dangletcrre  deve.rs  leglise  de  jVostre  Dame  dc 
Chartres,  et  se  votia  et  rendit  devotement  a  JVostre  Dame,  et 
promist,  et  confessa  sicomme  il  dist  depuis  qiteil  se  accordcroit  a 
la  paix.  —  Froissnrt. 

But  while  he  lodged  there  (before  Chartres),  his  army  mak- 
ing a  horrible  spoilo  of  the  whole  country,  there  chanced  ai\ 
occasion,  as  the  work  of  Heaven,  which  suddenly  quailed  his 
ambitious  design  to  ruin  France  :  for  behold  a  horrible  and 
extraordinary  tempest  of  haile,  thunder,  and  lightning,  fell 
with  such  violence  as  many  horses  and  men  in  the  army 
perished,  as  if  that  God  hud  stretched  forth  his  hand  from 
heaven  to  stay  his  course.  —  De  Sei-res. 


Note    111,  p.  38,  col.  1.  —  Deep  through  the  sky  the  hollow 
tliunders  roll'd. 

The  circumstance  of  the  Maid's  entering  Orleans  nt  miil- 
night  in  a  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  is  liistorically  true. 

"The  Englishmen  perceiving  that  thei  within  could  not 
long  continue  for  faute  of  vitaile  and  pouder,  kepte  not  theii 
watche  so  diligently  as  thei  wer  accustomed,  nor  scoured  not 
the  countrey  environed  as  thei  before  had  ordained.  Whiche 
negligence  the  citezens  shut  in  perceiving,  sent  worde  thereof 
to  the  French  capitaines,  which  with  Pucelle  in  the  dedde 
tyme  of  the  nighte,  and  in  a  greate  rayne  and  Ihunilre,  with  all 
their  vitaile  and  artilery  entered  into  the  citie." 

Hall,fr.  127. 

Phakespear  also  notices  this  storm.  Striking  as  the  circum- 
stance is,  Chapclain  has  omitted  it. 

Note  112,  p.  38,  col.  1.  —  Strong  were  the  English  forts 

The  patience  and  perseverance  of  a  besieging  army  in  those 
ages  appear  almost  incredible  to  us  now.  The  camp  ofFer 
dinand  bid'ore  Granada  swelled  into  a  city.  Edward  III 
made  a  market  town  before  Calais.  Upon  the  captain's 
refusal  to  surrender,  says  Barnes,  "  he  began  to  entrench 
himself  strongly  about  the  city,  setting  his  own  tent  directly 
against  Ihe  ehii^f  gates  at  which  he  intended  to  enter  ;  then  he 
placed  bastions  between  the  town  and  the  river,  and  set  out 
regular   streets,   and   reared   up   decent   buildings  of  strong 


76 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


timber  between  tin)  trencbes,  wbicb  he  covered  with  thatch, 
ree<l,  broom  und  skins.  Thus  he  encompassed  the  whole 
town  of  Calais,  from  Uisban  on  the  northwest  side  to  Cour- 
giiino  on  the  northeast,  nil  along  by  Pangate,  at  Port  and 
Fort  do  Nicoluy,  commonly  by  the  English  called  Ncwland- 
bridge,  down  by  Ilammes,  Cologne  and  Marke  ;  so  that  his 
camp  looked  like  a  spacious  city,  and  was  usually  by  stran- 
gers, that  came  thither  to  market,  called  New  Calais.  For 
this  prince's  reputation  for  justice  was  so  great,  that  to  his 
markets  (which  he  held  in  his  camp  twice  every  week,  viz. 
on  Tuesdays  and  Saturdays  for  flesh,  fish,  bread,  wine  and 
ale,  with  cloth  and  all  other  necessaries,)  there  came  not  only 
his  friends  and  allies  from  England,  Flanders  and  Aquitain, 
but  even  many  of  king  Philip's  subjects  and  confederates 
conveyed  thither  their  cattle  and  other  commodities  to  be 
sold."  

Note  113,  p.  38,  col.  2.  —  Entering  wilJi  his  eye. 

Jfanc  lentus,  celsis  adstans  in  colUbus,  intrat 
Urban  oculis,  discitque  locos  cauxsasque  locorum. 

Sitius  Italicus,  xii.  5G7. 


Note  114,  p.  38,  col.  9.  —  Defiled  and  unrepair'd. 

Jlhjccere  madcntes, 
Sicut  erant,  dypeos  ;  nee  qui-squam  spicula  iersit, 
JVec  laudavU  equum,  nitidis  nee  cassidis  altam 
Coinpsit  adornauitque  jubaw.  Statins. 


Note  115,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  Parthenopmus. 

Ipsam,  Mirnal-d  purrum  cum  vidit  in  mnbrd., 
Dianam,  tcnero  si<piantem- gramina  passu, 
Ignovissc  ferunl  coiiiiti,  Dicticaque  tela 
Ipsain,  et  Jlmycltcas  humcris  uptasse  pharetras. 

ttedct  nemoruniy  titulumque  nocentcin. 

Sanguinis  kumani  pudor  est  nescire  sagittas. 

Statins,  IV.  -256. 


Note  116,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  Oladdisilale. 

Gladdisdale  must  be  the  sir  William  Glansdale  of  Shakes- 
pear.     Stovve  calls  him  William  Gladesdale. 

It  is  proper  to  remark  that  I  have  introduced  no  fictitious 
names  among  the  killed.  They  may  all  be  found  in  the 
various  histories.  

Note  117,  p. 39,  col.  2.— The  bulista. 

J^cque  enim  solis  eicussu  lacertis 
Lancea,  sed  tenso  balista  turbine  rapta, 
Haud  unum  contenta  latus  transire,  quiescit ; 
Srd  pandens  pcrqtte  arma  viam,  pcrque  ossa,  rclicla 
Mvrte  fugit :  supcrest  tclo  post  vulncra  cnrsus. 

Lucan.  III. 
Vegetius  says,  that  the  balista  discharged  darts  with  sucli 
rapidity  and  violence,  that  nothing  could  resist  thoir  force. 
This  engine  was  used  particularly  to  discharge  darts  of  a  sur- 
prising length  and  weight,  and  often  many  small  ones  together. 
Its  form  was  not  unlike  that  of  a  broken  bow  ;  it  had  two 
arms,  but  straight  and  not  curved  like  those  of  a  cross-how,  of 
which  the  whole  acting  force  consists  in  bending  the  bow. 
That  of  the  balista  as  well  as  of  the  catapulta,  lies  in  its 
cords.  —  Rollin.  

Note  118,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  Where  by  the  bayle's  embattled  wall. 

The  bayle  or  lists  was  a  space  on  the  outside  of  the  ditch 
surrounded  by  strong  palisades,  and  sometimes  by  a  low  em- 
battled wall.  In  the  attack  of  fortresses,  as  the  range  of  the 
machines  then  in  use  did  not  exceed  the  distance  of  four  stadia, 
the  besiegers  did  not  carry  on  their  approaches  by  means  of 
trenches,  but  begun  their  operations  abovi!  ground,  with  the 
attack  of  the  bayle  or  lists,  where  many  feats  of  chivalry  were 
performed  by  the  knights  and  men  at  arms,  who  considered 
the  assault  of  that  work  as  particularly  belonging  to  them,  Ihe 
weight  of  their  armor  preventing  them  from  scaling  the  walls. 
As  this  part  was  attacked  by  the  knights  and  men  at  arms,  it 
was  also  defended  by  those  of  the  same  rank  in  the  place, 
whence  many  single  combats  were  f«ught  here.  This  was 
at  the  first  investing  of  the  place.  —  Orose. 


Note  119,  p.  39,  col.  2.  — A  rude  cnat  of  mail, 

Unhosed,  unhooded,  as  of  lowly  line 

In  France,  only  persons  of  a  certain  estate,  called  unfirfdt 
lumber,  were  permitted  to  wear  a  hauberk,  which  was  the  ar- 
mor of  a  knight.  Esquires  might  only  wear  a  simple  coat 
of  mail,  without  the  hood  and  hose.  Had  this  aristocratic  dis- 
tinction consisted  in  the  ornamental  part  of  the  arms  alone, 
it  would  not  have  been  objectionable.  In  the  enlightened 
and  free  states  of  Greece,  every  soldier  was  well  provided  with 
defensive  arms.  In  Rome,  a  civic  wreath  was  the  reward  of 
him  who  should  save  the  life  of  a  citizen.  But  to  use  the 
words  of  Dr.  Gillies,  "the  miserable  peasants  of  modern 
Europe  are  exposed  without  defence  as  without  remorse,  by 
the  ambition  of  men,  whom  the  Greeks  would  have  styled 
tyrants."  

Note  120,  p.  39,  col.  3.  —  The  rude-featured  helm. 

The  burgonet,  which  represented  the  shape  of  the  head  and 
features.  

Note  121,  p.  39,  col.  2. —  On  his  crown-created  helm. 

Earls  and  dukes  frequently  wore  their  coronets  on  the 
crests  of  their  helmets.  At  the  battle  of  Agineourt  Henry 
wore  "a  bright  helmet,  whereupon  was  seta  crowne  of  gold, 
repleate  with  pearle  and  precious  stones,  marvellous  rich."  — ■ 
Stowe.  

Note  122,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  .ind  against  the  iron  fence  beneath. 
A  breastplate  was  sometimes  worn  under  the  hauberk. 


Note  123,  p.  40,  col.  1.  —  ....  Conradc,  with  an  active  bound, 
Sprung  on  tlie  battlements. 

The  nature  of  this  barri(;rhas  been  explained  in  a  previous 
note.  The  possibility  of  leaping  upon  it  is  exemplified  in  the 
following  adventure,  which  is  characteristic  of  the  period  in 
which  it  happened,  (1370.) 

"  At  that  time  there  was  done  an  extraordinary  feat  of  arms 
by  a  Scotch  knight,  named  sir  John  Assueton,  being  one  of 
those  men  of  arms  of  Scotland,  who  had  now  entered  king 
Edward's  pay.  This  man  left  his  rank  with  his  spear  in  his 
hand,  his  page  riding  behind  him,  and  went  towards  the  bar- 
riers of  Noyon,  where  he  alighted,  saying,  '  Here  hold  my 
horse,  and  stir  not  from  hence  ;'  and  so  he  came  to  the  bar- 
riers. There  were  there  at  that  time  sir  John  de  Eoye,  and 
sir  Lancelot  de  Lorris,  with  ten  or  twelve  more,  who  all  won- 
dered what  this  knight  designed  to  do.  He  for  his  part  being 
close  at  the  harriers  said  unto  them,  'Gentlemen,  I  am  come 
hither  to  visit  you,  and  because  I  see  you  will  not  come  forth 
of  your  barriers  to  me,  I  will  come  in  to  you,  if  I  may,  and 
prove  my  knighthood  against  you.  Win  me  if  you  can.' 
And  with  that  ho  leaped  over  the  bars,  and  began  to  lay 
about  him  like  a  lion,  he  at  thcni  and  they  at  him  ;  so  that  he 
alone  fought  thus  against  them  all  for  near  the  space  of  an 
hour,  and  hurt  several  of  them.  And  all  the  while  those  of 
the  town  belield  with  much  delight  from  the  walls  and  their 
garret  windows  his  grca:  activity,  strength  and  courage  ;  but 
they  oft'ered  not  to  do  him  any  hurt,  as  they  might  very  easily 
have  done,  if  they  had  been  minded  to  cast  stones  or  darts  at 
him  ;  but  the  French  knights  charged  thoni  to  the  contrary, 
saying  '  how  they  should  let  them  alone  to  deal  with  him.' 
When  matters  had  continued  thus  about  an  hour,  the  Scotch 
page  came  to  the  harriers  with  his  master's  horse  in  his 
hand,  and  said  in  his  language,  '  Sir,  pray  come  away,  it  is 
high  time  for  you  to  leave  ofi'  now  ;  for  the  army  is  marched 
oft"  out  of  sight.'  The  knight  heard  his  man,  and  then  gave 
two  or  three  terrible  strokes  about  him  to  clear  the  way,  and 
so,  armed  as  he  was,  he  leaped  back  again  over  the  barriers 
and  mounted  his  horse,  having  not  received  any  hurt ;  and 
turning  to  the  Frenchmen,  said,  '  Adieu,  sirs  I  I  thank  you 
for  my  diversion.'  And  with  that  he  rode  after  his  man 
upon  the  spur  towards  the  army."  —  Joshua  Barnes,  p.  801. 


Note  124,  p.  40,  col.  1.  —  The  iron  weight  swung  high. 

Le  massue  est  vn  hciton  gros  comme  le  bras,  ayant  d  Z'un  rZe 
sf,5  bouts  7ine  forte  courruie  pour  tenir  I'anne  ct  I'rmpScher  de 
glisser,  et  d  I'autre  trois  chatnons  defer,  aurqttcls  pcnd  un  boulet 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC, 


77 


pe.ianl  huU  livra.     II  n^ij  a  pof  d'hommc  aujourd'hiii  capnbU 
df  vmnitr  ane  telle  arme.  —  Lr  Grand. 

Tlio  arms  of  tlie  Medici  family  "  are  romnntirally  roforred 
to  Avi'r;ir;lo  do  Modici,  a  comiiiundcr  under  Cliarlcmagnc, 
who  for  liis  valor  in  destroying  llie  gigantic  plunderer  Mu- 
gello,  by  whom  the  surrounding  country  was  laid  waste,  was 
honored  with  the  privilege  of  bearing  for  his  arms  six  paVe 
or  balls,  as  characteristic  of  tho  iron  balls  that  hung  from 
the  mace  of  his  fierce  antagonist,  the  impression  of  which 
remained  on  his  shield."  —  Roscoc. 

Scudery  enumerates  the  mace  among  the  instruments  of 
war,  in  a  passage  whose  concluding  line  may  vie  with  any 
bathos  of  sir  Richaid  Blackmore. 

La  conftuieinentfrappcnt  de  loales  parts 
Picrres,  pii/ucs,  espieui,  masses,  fie clieji  et  dards, 
Lances  etjavclots,  sabres  ct  marleaux  d^armes, 
Dangereuses  instruments  des  gucrriercs  alarmes. — .Slaric. 


Note  125,  p.  40,  col.  2.  —  There  icasaportal  in  Vie  English  fort, 
Which  open'd  on  Vie  wall. 

Vitruvius  observes,  in  treating  upon  fortified  walls,  that 
near  the  towers  the  walls  should  be  cut  within-side  the 
breadth  of  tho  tower,  and  that  the  ways  broke  in  this  manner 
should  only  bo  joined  and  continued  by  beams  laid  upon  tlie 
two  cxlremilics,  without  being  made  fast  with  iron  ;  that  in 
case  the  enemy  slioiiM  make  himself  master  of  any  part  of 
the  wall,  tlie  besieged  might  remove  this  wooden  l)ridge,  and 
thereby  prevent  his  passage  to  the  other  parts  of  the  wall 
and  into  the  towers.  —  Rollin. 

The  precaution  recommended  by  Vitruvius  liad  not  been 
observed  in  the  construction  of  the  Englisli  walls.  On  each 
side  of  every  tower,  a  small  door  opened  upon  the  wall ;  and 
the  garrison  of  one  tower  are  represented  in  the  poem  as  fly- 
ing by  this  way  from  cue  to  shelter  themselves  in  the  other. 
With  the  enterprising  spirit  and  the  defensive  arms  of  chival- 
ry, tile  subsequent  events  will  not  be  found  to  exceed 
probability.  

Note  126,  p.  40,  col.  2.  — JiTot  overbrow'd  by  jutting  parapet. 

The  machicolation  :  a  projection  over  the  gate-way  of  a 
town  or  castle,  contrived  fur  letting  fall  great  weights,  scald- 
ing water,  tc.  on  the  heads  of  any  assailants  who  might  have 
got  close  to  the  gate.  "  MachecolLre,  or  macheeoulare," 
says  Coke,  "  is  to  make  a  warlike  device  over  a  gate  or  otlicr 
passage  like  to  a  grate,  through  which  scalding  water,  or  pon- 
derous or  offensive  things  may  be  cast  upon  the  assaylants." 


Note  127,  p.  41,  col.  1.  —  Plucking  from  t}ie  shield  the  severed 
head, 
}h  threw  it  back. 
I  have  met  with  one  instance  in  Englisli  history,  and  only 
one,  of  throwing  the  spear  after  the  manner  of  the  ancients. 
It  is  in  Stowc's  chronicle.  "  1 143.  Tho  30th  of  January,  a 
challenge  was  done  in  Smithfield  within  lists,  before  tlie  king  ; 
the  one  sir  Philip  de  Beawse  of  Arra^on,  a  kn!:;Iit,  and  the 
other  an  esquire  of  the  king's  house  called  Jolin  Ausley  or 
Astley.  These  comming  to  the  fieldo,  tooke  their  tents,  and 
there  was  the  knight's  sonno  made  knight  by  the  king,  and  so 
brought  again  to  his  father's  tent.  Then  the  heralds  of 
armes  called  them  by  name  to  doe  their  battel,  and  so  they 
came  both  all  armed,  with  their  weapons  ;  tho  knight  came 
with  his  sword  drawn,  and  the  es(|uire  with  his  speare.  The 
esquire  cast  his  speare  against  the  knight,  but  tho  knight 
■ivoiding  it  with  his  sword,  cast  it  to  the  ground.  Then  tlie 
esquire  took  his  axe  and  went  agr.inst  the  knight  suddenly, 
on  whom  he  stroke  many  strokes,  hard  and  sore  upon  bis 
baaenel,  and  on  his  hind,  and  made  him  loose  and  lot  full  his 
axe  to  the  ground,  and  br.ist  up  liis  limbes  three  times,  and 
caught  his  dagger  and  would  have  smitten  him  in  the  face, 
for  to  have  slaine  him  in  the  field  ;  and  then  the  king  cried 
hoo,  and  so  they  were  departed  and  went  to  their  tents,  and 
the  king  dubbed  John  Astley  knight  for  his  valiant  torney, 
and  the  knight  of  Arragon  offered  his  armes  at  Windsor." 


Note  128,  p.  41,  col.  1  —  Full  oi  the  corselet  of  a  meaner  man. 
The  corselet  was  chi rfly  won   by  pikemcn. 


Note  129,  p.  42,  col.  1.  —  Ji  harlot  I  —  an  adulteress ! 

This  woman,  who  is  always  respectably  named  in  French 
history,  had  her  punishment  both  in  herself  and  in  her  child. 

"This  fair  Agnes  had  been  five  years  in  the  service  of  the 
queen,  during  w  hich  she  had  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures  of  life, 
in  wearing  rich  clothes,  furred  robes,  golden  chains,  and  pre- 
cious stones ;  and  it  was  commonly  reported  that  the  king 
often  visited  her,  and  maintained  her  in  a  state  of  concu- 
binage, for  tlie  people  arc  more  inclined  to  speak  ill  than  well 
of  their  superiors. 

"  The  afi'ection  the  king  showed  her  was  as  much  for  her 
gaiety  of  temper,  pleasing  manners,  and  agreeable  conversa- 
tion, as  tor  her  beauty.  .She  was  bo  beautiful  that  she  was 
called  the  Fairest  of  the  Fair,  and  the  Lady  of  Beauty,  as 
well  on  account  of  her  personal  charms,  as  becausit  the  king 
had  given  her  for  life  the  castle  of  l!eaut6  near  Paris.  Slie 
was  very  charitable,  and  most  liberal  in  her  alms,  wiiich  she 
distributed  among  such  churches  as  were  out  of  repair,  and 
to  beggars.  It  is  true  that  Agnes  had  a  daugliter  who  lived 
but  a  short  time,  which  she  said  was  tho  king's,  and  gave  it 
to  him  as  the  proper  father ;  but  the  king  always  excused 
himself  as  not  having  any  claim  to  it.  She  may  indeed  have 
called  in  help,  for  the  matter  was  variously  talked  of. 

"  At  length  she  was  seized  with  a  bowel  complaint,  and 
was  a  long  time  ill,  during  which  she  was  very  contrite,  and 
sincerely  repented  of  her  sins.  Slie  often  remembered  Mary 
Magdalene,  who  had  been  a  great  sinner,  and  devoutly  in- 
voked God  and  the  virgin  Mary  to  her  aid  like  a  true  catliolie  : 
after  she  had  received  the  sacraments,  she  called  for  her  book 
of  prayers,  in  which  she  had  written  with  her  own  hand  the 
verses  of  ^t.  Bernard  to  repeat  them.  Slie  then  made  many 
gifts  (which  were  put  down  in  writing,  that  her  executors 
might  fulfil  them,  with  the  other  articles  of  her  will),  which 
including  alms  and  the  payment  of  her  servants  might  amount 
to  nearly  sixty  thousand  crowns. 

"  Her  executors  were  Jacques  Ccrur,  councellor  and  master 
of  the  wardrobe  to  the  king,  master  Robert  Poictevin  phy- 
sician, and  master  Stephen  Chevalier  treasurer  to  the  king, 
who  was  to  take  the  lead  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  will  should 
it  be  liis  gracious  pleasure. 

"  The  fair  Agnes,  perceiving  that  she  was  daily  growing 
weaker,  said  to  the  lord  de  la  Trimouillc,  the  lady  of  the 
seneschal  of  Poitou,  and  one  of  tiio  king's  equerries  called 
Oouffier,  in  the  presence  of  all  her  damsels,  that  our  fragile 
life  was  but  a  stinking  ordure. 

"  She  then  required  that  her  confessor  would  give  her  abso- 
lution from  all  her  sins  and  wickedness,  confurniable  to  an 
absolution,  which  was,  as  she  said,  at  Loehes,  which  the  con- 
fessor on  her  assurance  complied  with.  After  this  she  uttered 
a  loud  shriek,  and  called  on  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  support 
of  the  blessed  virgin  Mary,  and  gave  up  the  ghost  on  Monday 
the  9th  day  of  February,  in  the  year  1449,  about  six  o'clock 
in  tho  aflernoon.  Her  body  was  opened,  and  her  heart  in- 
terred in  tlie  church  of  the  said  abbey,  to  which  she  had  been 
a  most  liberal  benefactress  ;  and  her  body  was  conveyed  with 
many  honors  to  Loehes,  where  it  was  interred  in  tho  col- 
legiate church  of  our  Lady,  to  which  also  she  had  made  many 
handsome  donations  and  several  foundations.  May  God 
have  mercy  on  her  soul,  and  admit  it  into  Paradise." 

Monstj-eJet,  vol.  ix.  p.  97 

On  the  13th  day  of  June,  the  seneschal  of  Normandy,  count 
of  Maulevrier,  and  son  to  the  late  sir  Pierre  de  Breze,  killed 
at  the  battle  of  Montlebery,  went  to  the  village  of  Roinicrs, 
near  Dourdan,  which  belonged  to  him,  for  the  sake  of  hunt- 
ing. He  took  with  him  his  1  idy,  the  princess  Charlotte  of 
France,  natural  daughter  of  the  lite  king  Charles  the  VII. 
by  Agnes  Sorel.  After  the  chace,  when  they  were  returned 
to  Romiers  to  sup  and  lodge,  the  seneschal  retired  to  a  single- 
bedded  room  for  the  night  ;  his  lady  retired  also  to  another 
chamber,  when  moved  by  bet  disorderly  passions  (as  the  hus 
hand  said)  she  called  to  her  a  gentleman  from  Poitou,  named 
Pierre  de  la  Vegne,  who  was  head  huntsman  to  the  seneschal, 
and  made  him  lie  with  her.  This  was  told  to  the  seneschal 
by  the  master  of  his  household,  called  Pierre  I'Apothicaire  ; 
when  he  instantly  aro-e,  and  taking  his  sword,  broke  open  tho 
door  of  the  chamber  where  his  lady  and  the  huntsman  were 
in  bed.  The  huntsman  started  up  in  his  shirt,  and  the  senes- 
chal gave  him  first  a  severe  blow  with  his  sword  on  the  head. 


78 


WOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


and  tliun  thrust  it  through  his  hody,  and  liillud  him  on  the 
spot.  This  dono,  he  went  into  an  adjoining  room  where  liis 
children  lay,  and  finding  liis  wife  hid  under  the  coverlid  of 
their  bed,  dragged  her  thence  by  the  arm  along  the  ground, 
and  struck  her  between  the  shoulders  with  his  sword.  On 
her  raising  herself  on  her  knees  lie  ran  his  sword  through  her 
breast,  and  she  fell  down  dead.  He  sent  her  hody  for  inter- 
ment to  the  abbey  of  Coulens,  where  her  obsequies  were 
performed,  and  he  caused  the  huntsman  to  he  buried  in  the 
garden  of  the  house  wherein  he  had  been  killed.  —  Monstrclct, 
vol.  ii.  p.  233. 


Note  130,  p.  42,  col.  1.  — and  would  tliat  I liad  lived 

III  those  old  times. 

MriKtT^  tiTCiT   a)0£(Xoi/  cyo)  ircixnTOiai  /itTCivai 
Avipaaiv,  aXX'  >7  rrpuadc  Qavnv  ri  eireiTa  yevcaOat. 
Nvv  yap  ifi  yci'Oi  tori  ati^ripcon'  <jj6ctot  ripap 
HavaovTui  KU^aTQ}  Kat  oi^U"5,  uy^e  n  vVKTcop, 
•Pdcipoiicvoi.  Hesiod 

Note    131,  p.  42,  col.  2. —  Then  was   that  nvble    heart  of 
Douglas  pierced. 

The  heart  of  Bruce  was,  by  his  own  dying  will,  intrusted 
to  Douglas  to  bear  it  to  Jerusalem.  This  is  one  of  the  finest 
stories  in  the  whole  age  of  chivalrous  history.  Douglas 
inshrined  the  heart  in  a  golden  case,  and  wore  it  round  his 
neck  ;  he  landed  in  tfpain  on  his  way,  and  slopped  to  assist  the 
Castillians  against  the  Moors,  —  i)robably  during  the  siege  of 
Algeziras.  There,  in  the  heat  of  notion,  he  took  the  heart  from 
his  neck,  and  cast  it  into  the  thick  of  the  enemy,  exclaiming, 
as  Barbour  has  it, 

"  Now  pass  thou  forth  before 
As  thou  wast  wont  in  fight  to  he, 
And  I  shall  follow  or  else  die." 
In  this  action  he  perished^  and  from  that   time  the  bloody 
heart  has  been  borne  by  the  family. 


Note  132,  p.  44,  col.  1.  — the  shield 

Pillowed  Vie  helmed  head. 

11  n^est  r''n  de  si  dour,  pour  des  ceeurs  pleins  de  gloire, 
Que  la  pautilt  t~uit  nui  suit  une  victoire, 
Durmir  sur  un  tropneo,  wt  m  '•harmant  repos, 
Et  le  champ  de  battaile  est  le  lici  i^\ii  'lerns. 

Scuu.Ci"y.     Alaric. 
The  night  after  a  battle  is  certainly  more  agreeable  tiian  the 
night  before  one.     A  soldier  may  use  his  shield  for  a  pillow, 
but  he  must  be  very  ingenious  to  sleep  upon  a  trophy. 


Note  133,  p.  44,  col.  1.  —  Oazing  with  such  a  look  as  though 
shefear'd 
The  thing  she  sought. 

With  a  dumb  silence  seeming  that  it  fears 
The  thing  it  went  about  to  effectuate. 

Daniel. 

Note  134,  p.  44,  col.  2.  — One  loose  lock 

Play'd  o'er  his  check's  black  paleness. 

"  JVoire  pasleur." 

Le  Moyne.     St,  Louis.  Liv.  xvi. 


Note  135,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  The  barbican. 

Next  the  bayle  was  the  ditch,  fosa,  graff,  or  mote  :  generally 
where  it  couM  bs  a  wot  one,  and  pretty  deej).  The  passage 
over  it  w.is  by  a  draw-bri.lge,  covered  by  an  advance  work 
called  a  barbican.  The  barbican  was  sometimes  beyond  the 
dit'h  that  covered  the  draw-bridge,  and  in  towns  and  large 
fortresses  had  frequently  a  ditch  and  dr  iw-bridge  of  its  own. 
Orosc. 

Note  133,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  TTie  embattled  wall. 
The  outermost  walls  enclosing  towns  or  fortresses  were 
commonly  perpendicular,  or  had  a  very  small  external  talus. 
They  were  H  inked  by  semi-circular,  polygonal,  or  sq\iare 
towers,  commonly  about  forty  or  fifty  yards  distant  from  each 
other.     Within  were  steps  to  mount  the  terrc-pleine  of  the 


walls  or  rampart,  which  wi  re  always  defended  by  an  embat- 
tled or  crenellated  parapet. —  Grose. 

The  fortifications  of  the  middle  ages  difl'ered  in  this  respect 
from  those  of  the  ancients.  When  the  besiegers  had  gained 
the  summit  of  the  wall,  the  descent  on  the  other  side  was  safe 
and  easy.  But  "  the  ancients  did  not  generally  support  their 
walls  on  the  inside  with  earth  in  the  manner  of  the  talus  or 
slope,  which  made  the  attacks  more  dangerous.  For  though 
the  enemy  had  gained  some  footing  upon  them,  he  could  not 
assure  himself  of  taking  the  city.  It  was  necessary  to  get 
down,  and  to  make  use  of  some  of  the  ladders  by  which  he 
had  mounted  ;  and  that  descent  exposed  the  soldier  to  very 
great  danger."  —  Rallin. 

Note  137,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  Behind  the  guardian  pavais  fenced. 

The  p  ivais,  or  pavache,  was  a  large  shield,  or  rather  a  port- 
able mantlet,  capable  of  covering  a  man  from  head  to  foot, 
and  probably  of  sufficient  thickness  to  resist  the  missive 
weapons  then  in  use.  These  were  in  sieges  carried  by  ser- 
vants, whose  business  it  was  to  cover  their  masters  with  them, 
whilst  they,  with  their  bows  and  arrows,  shot  at  the  enemy 
on  the  ramp  irts.  As  this  must  have  been  a  service  of  danger, 
it  was  that  perhaps  which  made  the  office  of  scutifer  honora- 
ble. The  pavais  was  rectangular  at  the  bottom,  but  rounded 
off  above  :  it  was  sometimes  supported  by  props.  —  Orose. 


Note  138,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  fVith  all  Oieir  mangonels. 
Mangonel  is  a  term  comprehending  all  the  smaller  engines. 


Note  139,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  Tortoises 

The  tortoise  was  a  machine  composed  of  very  strong  and 
solid  timber  work.  The  height  of  it  to  its  highest  beam, 
which  sustained  the  roof,  was  twelve  feet.  The  base  was 
square,  and  each  of  its  fronts  twenty-five  feet.  It  was 
covered  with  a  kind  of  quilted  mattress  made  of  raw  hides, 
and  prepared  with  different  drugs  to  prevent  its  being  set  on 
fire  by  combustibles.  This  heavy  machine  was  supported 
upon  four  wheels,  or  perhaps  upon  eight.  It  was  called  tor- 
toise from  its  serving  as  a  very  strong  covering  and  defence 
against  the  enormous  weights  thrown  down  on  it ;  those  under 
it  being  safe  in  the  same  manner  as  a  tortoise  under  his  shell 
It  was  used  both  to  fill  up  the  fosse,  and  for  sapping.  It  may 
not  be  improper  to  add,  that  it  is  believed,  so  enormous  a 
weight  could  not  be  moved  from  place  to  place  on  wheels,  and 
that  it  was  pushed  forward  on  rollers.  Under  these  wheels 
or  rollers,  the  way  was  laid  with  strong  pi  inks  to  facilitate 
its  motion,  and  prevent  its  sinking  into  the  ground,  from 
whence  it  would  have  been  very  difficult  to  have  removed  it. 
The  ancients  have  observed  that  the  roof  had  a  thicker  cover- 
ing, of  hides,  hurdles,  sea-weed,  &c.  than  the  sides,  as  it  was 
exposed  to  much  greater  shocks  from  the  weights  thrown  upon 
it  by  the  besieged.  It  had  a  door  in  front,  which  was  drawn 
up  by  a  chain  as  far  as  was  necessary,  and  covered  the  soldiers 
at  work  in  filling  up  the  fosse  with  fascines.  —  Roilin. 

This  is  the  tortoise  of  the  ancients,  but  that  of  the  middle 
ages  differed  from  it  in  nothing  material. 


Note  140,  p.  45,  col.  2.  —  .^  dreadful  train. 
'_'  The  besiegers  having  carried  the  bayle,  brought  up  their 
machines  and  established  themselves  in  the  counterscarp, 
began  under  cover  of  their  cats,  sows,  or  tortoises,  to  drain 
the  ditch,  if  a  wet  one,  and  also  to  fill  it  up  with  hurdles  and 
fascines,  and  level  it  for  the  passage  of  their  movable  towers 
Whilst  this  was  doing,  the  archers,  attended  by  young  men 
carrying  shields  (pavoises),  attempted  with  their  arrows  to 
drive  the  besieged  from  the  towers  and  ramparts,  being  them- 
selves covered  by  these  portable  mantlets.  The  garrison  on 
their  part  essayed  by  the  discharge  of  machines,  cross  and  long 
bows,  to  keep  the  enemy  at  a  distance."  —  Orose. 


Note  141,  p.  45,  col.  2.  — He  bore  an  arbaUst  himself, 

.4  weapon  for  its  sure  destructiKemss 
Abominated  once. 

The  crosR-bow  was  for  some  time  laid  aside  in  obedience 
to  a  decree  of  the  second  Lateran  council  held  in  1139.    "  jJr- 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


79 


tem  illam  mortifcram  et  D,'0  odibilem  ballistariorum  adversus 
chrijftianos  et  aitftolicos  cxercrre  dt  cwtero  sub  anutJicmale  pro- 
hibcmajt."  This  weapon  Wiis  again  introduced  into  our  armies 
by  Kicliarcl  I.,  who  boin;;  slain  with  a  (luarrcl  shot  from  one 
of  them,  at  the  siege  of  the  cnstio  of  Chnluz  in  Normandy,  it 
was  considered  as  a  judgment  from  heaven  iiitlicled  upon  him 
for  his  impiety.  Guillaume  le  Breton,  relating  the  death  of 
this  king,  puts  the  following  into  the  mouth  of  Atropos  : 

Ildc  voto,  non  alA  Rlchnrdum  morte  perirc, 
Ut  qui  FrancigenU  ballistiB  primitus  usu/n 
Tradidit^  ipse  stti  rem  primitius  erpenatur, 
Qacmjue  alios  docuit  in  se  vim  seiUial  artis. 

Orose. 

Note   14-3,  p.  45,  col.  2.  —  .   .  .  who  kneeling  by  the  trebuehct. 
Charged  its  long  sling  with  death. 

From  the  trcbuchef  thoy  discharged  many  stones  at  once  by 
a  sling.  It  acted  by  means  of  a  great  weight  fastened  to  the 
short  arm  of  a  lever,  which  being  let  fall,  raised  the  end  of  the 
long  arm  with  a  great  velocity  A  man  is  represented  kneel- 
ing to  load  one  of  these  in  an  ivory  carving,  supposed  to  be  of 
the  age  of  Edward  IF.  —  Orosc. 


Note    143,    p.  45,  col.  2.  —  He  in  Vic  groove  the  feather'd 
quarrel  placed. 

Quarrels,  or  carreaux,  were  so  called  from  their  heads, 
which  were  square  pyramids  of  iron. 


Note  144,  p.  46,  col.  1 — some  tlie  icaten/  fence  .  .  .  . 

Drain  painful. 

The  tortoises,  &c.  and  movable  towers  having  reached  the 
Wills,  the  besiegers  under  them  cither  began  to  mine,  or  batter 
them  with  the  r  im.  They  also  established  batteries  of  balis- 
tas  and  mangonels  on  the  counterscarp.  These  were  opposed 
by  those  of  the  enemy. 


Note  145,  p.  46,  col.  1. —  Or  charging  with  huge,  stnnes  the 
murderous  sling. 

The  matafunda. 


NoT£  146,  p.  46,  col.  1.  — or  in  the  espringal 

Fix  Oie  brass-winged  arrows. 

The  espringal  threw  large  darts  called  muchetlji,  sometimes 
winged  with  brass  instead  of  feathers.  Procopius  says  that 
because  feathers  could  not  be  put  to  the  large  dirts  discharged 
from  the  balista,  the  ancients  used  pieces  of  wood  six  inches 
thick,  which  had  the  same  effect. 


Note    147,  p.  46,  col.  1.  —  .^  ponderous  stone  from  sovie  huge 
martinet. 

Le  lendemain  vindrent  dear  m,aistres  engingneurs  au  due  de 
JVormandie,  qui  dtrenl  que,  si  on  leur  vouloit  tivrer  boys  et  oh- 
vriers,  Hz  ferofnt  quntre  eschauffnuh  et  haulz  que  on  men'roit 
aVLC  murs  du  chasteU  et  seroient  si  hauh  q'lz  surmontrroient  les 
murs.  Le  due  commanda  q'lz  Icfcisscnt,  et  ft.it  prendre  tous  les 
c'larpmtiers  du  pays,  et  payer  largement.  Si  furent  faiti  ces 
qualre cicluiiiffaulj:  en  ijualre  grosses  nrfi,  mais  on  y  mi<t  longue- 
menl  et  comterent  grans  deniers.  Si  yjist  on  les  gens  entrer 
q'a  ceulz  du  chastel  devoient  comhatlre.  Quant  ill  eurent  passe 
la  mottte  de  la  riviere,  ceulz  du  chastel  desclinquerent  quatre  mar- 
tiiuti  q'lz  avoient  faitz  nouvellement  pour  rcmedier  conlre  Icsdili 
esehauffaulz.  Ces  quatre  martiiietz  gettolent  si  grosser  pierres  et 
si  sourent  sur  scs  e.ichaiiffault  q'lz  furent  bien  tost  froissez  tant 
qui  les  gensdarmes  et  ceulz  que  les  cnndviwievt  ve  se  peurcnt  de- 
da  IS  garantir.  Si  se  relircrent  arrirre  le  plus  tost  quilz  peurent. 
Et  ainfois  q'Izfussent  oultre  la  riviere  lung  des  esehauffaulz  fut 
enfondre  aufoiis  de  leaue.  —  Froissart,  /.  ff.  82. 


Note  148,  p.  46,  col.  1.  —  Ji  moving  tower  the  men  of  Orleans 
wheel. 

The  following  extract  from  the  History  of  Edward  III.  by 
Joshua  Barnes  contains  a  full  account  of  these  moving  towers. 
''  Now  the  earl  of  Darby  had  layn   before   Reulo  more  than 


nine  weeks,  in  which  time  he  had  made  two  vast  belfroys  or 
bastilles  of  massy  timber,  with  three  stages  or  floors  ;  each  of 
the  belfroys  running  on  four  huge  wheels,  bound  Hl)out  with 
thick  hoops  of  iron  ;  and  the  sides  and  other  parts  that  any 
ways  respected  the  town  were  covered  with  raw  hides,  thick 
laid,  to  defend  the  engines  from  lire  and  shot.  In  every  one  of 
these  stages  were  placeil  an  hundred  archers,  and  between  the 
two  bastilles,  there  were  two  hundred  men  with  pickaxes  and 
mattocks.  From  these  six  stages  six  hundred  archers  shot  so 
fiercely  all  altogether,  that  no  man  could  appear  at  his  defence 
without  a  sufficient  punishment :  so  that  the  belfroys  being 
brought  upon  wheels  by  the  strength  of  men  over  a  pan  of  the 
ditch,  which  was  purposely  made  plain  and  level  by  the  faggots 
and  earth  and  stones  cast  upon  them,  the  two  hundred  pioneers 
plyed  their  work  so  well  under  the  protection  of  these  engines, 
that  they  made  a  considerable  breach  through  the  walls  of  the 
town."  

Note  149,  p.  46,  col.  1. Irchers,  through  the  opening,  shot 

their  shafU. 

The  archers  and  cross-bowmen  from  the  upper  stories  Ln  the 
movable  towers  essayed  to  drive  away  the  garrison  from  the 
parapets,  and  on  a  proper  opportunity  to  let  fall  u  bridge,  by 
that  means  to  enter  the  town.  In  the  bottom  story  was  often 
a  large  ram.  —  Orose. 


Note  150,  p.  46,  col.  2. — in d  from  Vie  arbalist  the  fire-tipt 
dart 
Shot  burning  through  the  skij. 

-Against  the  movable  tower  there  were  many  modes  of 
defence.  The  chief  was  to  break  up  the  ground  over  vvhich  it 
was  to  pass,  or  by  undermining  it  to  overthrow  it.  Attempts 
were  likewise  made  to  set  it  on  fire,  to  prevent  which  it  was 
covered  with  raw  hides,  or  coated  over  with  alum. —  Grose. 


Note   151,  p.  46,  col.  2.  —  Ore    the   ramparts    lowered  from 

above 
The  bridge  reclines. 

These  bridges  are  described  by  Itollin  in  the  account  of  the 
moving  towers  which  lie  gives  from  Vegetius  :  —  "The  moving 
towers  are  made  of  an  assemblage  of  beams  and  strong  planks, 
not  unlike  a  house.  To  secure  them  against  the  fires  thrown 
by  the  besieged,  they  are  covered  with  raw  hides,  or  with 
pieces  of  cloth  made  of  hair.  Their  height  is  in  proportion  to 
their  base.  They  are  sometimes  thirty  feet  square,  and  some- 
times forty  or  fifty.  They  are  higher  thin  the  walls  or  even 
towers  of  the  city.  They  are  supported  upon  several  wheels 
according  lo  mechanic  principles,  by  the  means  of  which  the 
machine  is  easily  made  to  move,  how  great  soever  it  may  be. 
The  town  is  in  great  danger  if  this  tower  can  appro  tch  the 
walls  ;  tor  it  has  stairs  from  one  story  to  another,  and  includes 
different  methods  of  attack.  At  bottom  it  has  a  ram  to  lialter 
the  wall,  and  on  the  middle  story  a  draw-bridge,  made  of  two 
beams  with  rails  of  basket-work,  which  lets  down  easily  upon 
the  wall  of  a  city,  when  within  the  rench  of  it.  The  be-iegeis 
pass  upon  this  bridge,  to  make  themselves  masters  of  llie  W..I1. 
Upon  the  higher  stories  are  soldiers  armed  with  partisans  and 
missive  weapons,  who  keep  a  perpetual  discharge  upci;  the 
works.  When  affairs  are  in  this  posture,  a  place  seldom  held 
out  long.  For  what  can  they  hope  who  have  nothing  to  cim- 
fide  in  but  the  height  of  their  ramjiarts,  when  they  see  others 
suddenly  appear  which  command  them  ?  " 

The  towers  or  belfreys  of  modern  times  rarely  exceeded 
three  or  four  stages  or  stories. 

Note  152,  p.  47,  col.  1.  — the  braxs-wing'd  darts 

HTiirl  as  they  pierce  the  victim. 

These  darts  were  called  viretons,  from  their  whirling  about 
in  the  air.  

Note  153,  p.  47,  col.  1.  —  Curineus. 

"  And  here,  with  leave  bespoken  to  recite  a  grand  fable, 
though  dignified  by  our  best  poot-f,  while  Brutus  on  «  certain 
festival  day,  solemnly  ke|>t  on  thiit  shore  where  ho  first  landed, 
was  with  the  people  in  great  jollity  and  mirth,  a  crew  of  these 
savages  breaking  in  among  them,  began  on  the  sudden  anotlier 


80 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


son  of  gaino  lliaii  at  such  a  meeting  was  expected.  l!ut  at 
length  hy  m.uiy  hands  overcome,  (ioeniagog  the  hngest,  in 
height  tHelve  ciil)its,  is.  reserved  alive,  that  witli  liini  Coriiieus 
who  desired  nolliing  more,  might  try  his  strength ;  whom  in 
a  wrestle  the  giant  catching  aloft,  with  a  terrible  hugg  hroke 
three  of  his  lihs :  nevertheless  Corineus  enraged  heaving  him 
up  hy  m.iiii  force,  and  on  his  shoulders  bearing  him  to  the  next 
high  rock,  threiB  him  headlong  all  shatUred  into  Hit  nea,  and  left 
his  name  on  the  cli/F,  called  ever  since  Langoemagog,  which 
is  ID  say,  the  giant's  leaj)."  —  Milton's  Hist,  of  England. 

The  exjiression  brute  vastness  is  taken  from  the  same  work 
of  Milton,  where  he  relates  the  death  of  Morindus.  "Well 
fitted  to  such  a  heastial  cruelty  was  his  end  ;  for  hearing  of  a 
huge  monster  that  from  the  Irish  sea  infested  the  coast,  and  in 
the  pride  of  his  strength  foolishly  attempting  to  set  manly 
valor  against  a  brute  vastness,  when  his  weapons  were  all 
in  vain,  by  tliut  horrible  mouth  he  was  catched  up  and  de- 
voured."   

Note  154,  p.  47,  col.  9.  —  T/cis  is  a  favor. 

"The  tournelles  adjoining  to  the  bridge  was  kept  by  Gla- 
cidas  (one  of  the  most  resolute  captains  among  the  English,) 
having  well  encouraged  his  men  to  defend  themselves  and  to 
fight  for  their  lives. 

'•  The  skirmish  begins  at  nine  of  the  clock  in  the  morning, 
and  the  ladders  are  planted.  A  storm  of  English  arrows  falls 
upon  our  men  with  such  violence  as  they  recoiled.  '  How 
now  ! '  sailli  the  Virgin,  '  liave  we  begun  so  well  to  end  so  ill .' 
let  us  charge  !  they  are  our  own,  seeing  God  is  on  our  side  ! ' 
so  every  one  recovering  his  forces,  flocks  about  the  Virgin. 
The  English  double  the  storm  upon  the  thickest  of  the  troops. 
The  Virgin  fighting  in  the  foremost  ranks  and  encouraging 
lier  men  to  do  well  was  shot  through  the  arm  with  an  arrow  j 
she,  nothing  amazed,  takes  tlie  arrow  in  one  hand  and  her 
sword  in  the  other,  'This  is  a  favor! '  says  she,  '  let  us  go 
on  1  they  caimot  escape  the  hand  of  GOD  ! '  " 

Chapelain  has  dilated  this  exclamation  of  the  Maiil  into  a 
ridiculous  speech. 

Quay  I  valeiircuz  Oucrricrs,  quay !  dans  vostrc  avantage 

Un  pea  de  sang  perdu,  vousfatt  perdre  courage .' 

Pour  moy,je  le  repute,  a  supreme  bonheur, 

Et  dans  ce  petit  malje  tronnc  un  grand  honncur  ; 

La  siicces,  bicn  qu'lieurcux,  n'eu-tt  en  rien  d'lwnnorable. 

Si  le  del  n'eust  permis  un  coup  si  favorable  ; 

P'ous  n'cn  ivrrn  pas  mains  ros  bras  victorieur, 

J'cn  vcrray  senlcmcnt  mon  nam  plus  gluricux.  —  L.  III. 


Note  155,  p.  47,  col.  2. —  Qlacidas. 

I  can  make  nothing  English  of  this  name.  Monstrellet 
calls  him  Clacedas  and  Clasendas.  Daniel  says  the  principal 
leaders  of  the  English  were  Suffolk,  Talbot,  Scales,  Eastolffe, 
et  un  nomnie  Olacidas  ou  Clacida.'i,  dont  le  merite  suppliant  a 
la  naissanne,  I'avoit  fait  parvenir  aux  premieres  charges  de 
I'armee. 

The  importance  attached  to  a  second  name  is  well  exempli- 
fied by  an  extract  in  Selden,  relating  to  "tlie  creation  of 
Robert  earle  of  Glocester  natural  sonne  to  king  Henry  I.  The 
king  having  speech  with  Mabile  the  sole  daughter  and  heire 
of  Robert  Fitz  llayman  lord  of  Glocester,  told  her  (as  it  is  re- 
ported in  an  old  English  rithmical  story  attributed  to  one 
Robert  of  Glocester,)  that 

—  he  seold  his  sone  to  her  spousing  avonge. 

This  maid  was  ther  agen,  and  vvithsaid  it  long. 

The  king  of  sought  her  suithe  ynou,  so  that  atten  ende 

Mabile  him  answered,  as  gode  maide  and  hende, 

Syre,  heo  sede,  well  ichot,  that  your  hert  op  me  is. 

More  vor  mine  eritage  than  vor  my  sulve  iwis. 

So  vair  eritage  as  ich  abbe,  it  were  me  grete  shame, 

Vor  to  abbe  an  louerd,  bote  he  had  an  tuoname. 

Sir  Roberd  le  Fitz  Haim  my  faders  name  was, 

And  that  ne  might  noght  be  his  that  of  his  kunne  noght 

nas. 
Therefore,  syre,  vor  Codes  love,  ne  let  me  non  mon  owe. 
Bote  he  abbe  an  tuoname  war  thotu  he  he  yknowe. 
Damaysale,  quoth  the  king,  thou  seist  well  in  this  cas, 
Sir  Roberd  le  Fitz  Haim  thy  faders  name  was  ; 
And  as  vayr  name  he  shall  abbe,  gif  nic  him  may  byse 


!Sir  Roberd  le  Fitz  Roy  is  name  shall  be. 

t-'ire,  quoth  this  maid  tho,  thai  is  vayr  name 

As  woo  seilh  all  his  life  and  of  great  fame. 

Ac  wat  shold  his  sone  liote  thanne  and  other  that  of  him  come, 

i^one  might  hii  liote  noght  thereof  nameth  gone. 

The  king  understood  that  the  maid  ne  sede  non  outrage, 

And  that  Glouccstre  was  chief  of  hyre  eritage. 

Damaseile  he  syde  tho,  thi  louerd  shall  abbe  a  name 

Vor  him  and  vor  his  heirs  vayr  without  blame. 

Vor  Roberd  earle  of  Glouccstre  is  name  shall  be  and  yis, 

Vor  he  shall  be  earle  of  Glouccstre  and  his  heirs  ywis. 

Sire,  quoth  this  maid  tho,  well  liketh  mc  tliis, 

In  this  forme  ichole  that  all  my  thyng  be  his. 

Thus  was  e".rle  of  Glouccstre  first  ymade  there 

As  this  Roberd  of  all  thulke  that  long  hyvore  were, 

This  w:is  cnleve  hundn-d  yeare,  and  in  the  ninth  yeer  right 

After  that  ure  louerd  was  in  his  moder  alygt." 

Sclden's  Titles  of  Honor. 


Note  15fi,  p.  48,  col.  I.  —  Seeking  the  inner  court. 

On  entering  the  outer  gate,  the  next  part  that  presented 
itself  was  the  outer  ballium  or  bailey,  separated  from  the  inner 
ballium  by  a  strong  embattled  wall  and  towered  gate. 


Note   157,  p.  48,  col.  2.  —  llie  engines  shower''d  their  sheets  of 
liquid  fre. 

When  the  Black  Prince  attacked  the  castle  of  Romorantin, 
"  there  was  slain  hard  by  him  an  English  esquire  named  Jacob 
Bernard,  whereat  the  prince  was  so  displeaseil,  that  he  took 
his  most  solemn  oath,  and  sware  by  his  father's  soul  not  to 
leave  the  siege,  till  he  had  the  castle  and  all  within  at  his 
mercy.  Then  the  assault  was  renewed  much  hotter  than  ever, 
till  at  last  the  prince  saw  there  was  no  likelihood  of  prevailing 
that  way.  Wherefore  presently  he  gave  order  to  raise  certain 
engines,  wherewith  they  cast  combusti'ile  matter  enflameil 
after  the  manner  of  wild  fire  into  the  base  court  so  fast,  and 
in  such  quantities,  that  at  last  the  whole  court  seemed  to  be 
one  huge  lire.  Whereupon  tho  excessive  heat  prevailed  so, 
that  it  took  hold  of  the  roof  of  a  great  tower,  which  was 
covered  with  ree<l,  and  so  began  to  spread  over  all  the  castle. 
Now  therefore  when  these  vali  uit  captains  within  saw,  that 
of  necessity  they  must  either  submit  entirely  to  the  prince's 
courtesy,  or  perish  by  the  most  merciless  of  elements,  they 
all  together  came  down  and  yielded  themselves  absolutely  to 
his  grace."  —  Joshua  Barnes. 


Note    158,  p.  49,  col.  1.  —  TTie  orijlamme  of  death. 

The  oritlamme  was  a  standard  erected  to  denote  that  no 
quarter  wcmld  be  given.  It  is  said  to  have  been  of  red  silk, 
adorned  and  beaten  with  very  broad  and  fair  lilies  of  gold,  and 
bordered  about  with  gold  and  vermilion.  Le  Moyne  has 
given  it  a  suitable  escort : 

Ensuite  Voriflammc  ardent  et  himinruse, 
Marche  sur  un  grand  char,  dont  la  forme  est  affreuae. 
Quatre  enormrs  dragons  d'un  or  ombre  ecaillei, 
Kt  de  pourpre,  d'azur,  et  de  vert  cmaillez, 
Dans  qutlquc  occasion  que  le  besoin  le  parte. 
Lay  font  unc  pompeuse  et  formidable  escorte 
iJans  leur  terribles  yeux  des  grenas  arrondis, 
De  leur  feu,  de  leur  sang,  font  prur  aux  plus  hardia, 
Et  si  ccfea  paroist  allumir  leur  audace, 
Jlussiparoist  ce  sang  animer  leur  menace. 
Le  char  roulant  sous  eux,  il  semble  au  roulement, 
Qu'i7  /fs/urae  voler  uvecque.  fifflement : 
El  de  lapaudre,  en  Vair,  il  scfuit  desfumees 
A  leur  bouchcs  du  vent  et  du  bruit  animees. 
Philip  is  said  by  some   historians  to  have  erected  the  ori- 
flamme  at  Crcssy,  where  Edward  in  return  raised  up  his  burn- 
ing dragon,  the  Englisli  signal  for  no  quarter.     The  oriflamme 
was  originally  used  only  in  wars  against  the  Infidels,  for  it 
was  a  sacred  banner,  and  believed  to  have  been  sent  from 
Heaven.  

Note  159,  p.  49,  col.  2.  —  The  tower,  the  bridge,  and  all  its 
midtitudes. 
Sunk  with  a  mighty  crash. 
At  this  woman's  voice  amidst  the  sound  of  war,  the  combal 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC, 


81 


t'rows  very  liot.  Our  men,  greatly  encouraged  by  tlio  Virgin, 
run  lieatUonjj  to  the  bastion  ami  loree  a  point  tbereof ;  llien 
lire  and  stones  rain  so  viol  ntly,  aa  the  En^'lish  being  amazed, 
lorsako  their  defences :  some  are  sKiin  upon  the  place,  some 
tlirow  themselves  down  headlong,  and  fly  lo  the  tower  upon 
the  bridge.  In  the  end  this  brave  Cilauidas  abandons  this 
quarter,  and  retires  into  the  base  couit  u|)on  the  bridge,  and 
after  him  a  great  number  ol"  his  soldiers.  The  bridge  gre:itly 
shaken  with  artillery,  tryed  by  fire,  and  overch  irged  with  the 
weight  ot"  this  multitude,  sinks  into  the  water  with  a  fearful 
cry,  carrying  all  this  multitude  with  it.  —  De  Series. 

This  circumstance  lias  been  magnified  into  a  miracle. 
"  The  French,  for  the  most  part,  draw  the  institution  of  the 
order  of  .St.  Michael  principally  from  a  purpose  that  Charles 
had  to  make  it,  after  the  apparition  of  the  archangel  upon  Or- 
leans bridge,  as  the  tuteUiry  angell  of  France  assisting  against 
the  English  in  l-i-2S."  —  Sehlcn's  Tillrs  vf  Honor. 

The  expressions  are  somewhat  curious  in  the  patent  of  this 
ordre  de  .Monsieur  St.  JMichael  Archange.  I.ouis  XI.  insti- 
tuted it  "  d  ta  gloire  ct  loaanire  de  Dicu  nosire  createur  tout 
puissant,  et  reverence  de  la  glorieusc  vierge  Marie,  d  Vlicnneur 
et  reverence  de  St.  Michael,  premier  chevalier,  qui  par  la 
querelle  de  Dieu,  batlaile  contre  I'ancien  enemy  de  I'humain 
lignage,  ct  left  tresbucher  de  Ciel.'' 


Note  ]  60,  p.  49,  col.  2.  — the  ascending  flames 

Blaze  up. 

Les  dictes  bastiles  et  fortresses  farent  prestement  arses  etde- 
molies  jusques  en  terre,  affin  que  nidles  gens  de  guerre  de  quel- 
conque  pays  quilz  soient  ne  si  peussent  plus  loger. 

Monstrelkt,  11.  f.  43. 


Note  161,  p.  49,  col.  2.  —  Silence  itself  loas  dreadful. 

Un  cry,  que  le  bcsoin  ou  la  peur  fait  jetter. 

El  les  airs  agitcs  les  peuvcnt  agiler. 

Une  haleine,  un  sousper  et  mesmc  !e  silence 

Auz  chefs,  comme  aui  soldate  font  perdre  Vassurance. 

Chapelain,  L.  ix. 

Note   162,  p.  50,  col.  1.  — .  .  .  .  the  proud  prelate,  that  blood- 
guilty  man. 
Who,  trembling  for  the  churcli''$  ill- 
got  wealth. 
Bade  our    Fifth   Henry    claim    the 
crown  if  France. 

But  the  first  terrible  bloic  in  England  given  generally  to  all 
Orders,  was  in  the  Lay  Parliament,  as  it  is  called,  which  did 
wholly  Wicclifiie,  kept  in  the  twelfth  year  of  king  Henry  the 
Fourth,  wherein  the  A''obles  and  Commons  assembled,  signified 
to  the  King,  that  the  temporal  possessions  of  Abbots,  Priors,  ic. 
lewdly  spent  within  the  Realm,  would  suffice  to  find  and 
sustain  150  Earls,  1500  Knights,  6200  Esquires,  100  Hospitals, 
more  than  there  were.  But  this  motion  was  raaul'd  with  the 
king's  own  hand,  who  dash'd  it,  personally  interposing  Himself 
contrary  to  that  character,  which  the  jealous  Clergi/  had  con- 
ceived of  Him,  that  coming  to  the  Crown  lie  would  be  a  great 
enemy  to  the  Church.  Cut  though  Henry  Plantagenct  Uuke 
of  Lancaster  was  no  friend  to  the  Clergie,  perchance  to  ingra- 
tiate himself  with  the  people,  yet  the  same //enri/ king  of  jEn^- 
land.  His  interest  being  altered,  to  strengthen  Him  with  the 
considerable  power  of  the  Clergy,  proved  a  Patron  yea  a 
Champion  to  defend  them.  However  we  may  say,  that  now 
the  Am  is  laid  lo  the  root  of  the  tree  of  Abbeys ;  and  this  stroke 
for  the  present,  though  it  was  so  far  from  hurting  the  body,  that 
it  scarce  pierced  the  bark  thereof,  yet  bare  attempts  in  such 
matters  arc  important,  as  putting  into  people's  heads  a  fea- 
sibility of  the  project  formerly  conceived  altogether  impossible. 

Few  years  after,  namely,  in  the  second  year  o{  king  Henry 
the  Fifth,  another  shrewd  thrust  wa»  made  at  English  Abbeys, 
but  it  was  (incly  and  cleverly  put  aside  by  that  skilful  State- 
Fencer  Henry  Chichcsly  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  For  the 
former  Bill  against  Abbeys,  in  full  Parliament  was  revived, 
when  tlie  .\rchbishop  minded  king  Henry  of  his  undoubted 
Title  to  the  fair  and  flourishing  kingdom  of  France.  Hereat, 
that  king  who  was  a  spark  in  Himself,  was  enflamed  to  that 
design  by  this  Prelate's  persuasion  ■•  and  his  native  courage 
11 


ran  fiercely  on  the  project,  especially  when  clapt  on  with 
conscience  and  encouragement  from  a  churchman  in  the  law- 
fulness thereof.  An  undertaking  of  those  vast  dimensions, 
that  the  greatest  covetousness  might  spread,  and  highest  am- 
bition reach  itself  within  the  bounds  thereof.  If  to  promote 
this  project,  the  Abbeys  advanced  not  only  large  and  liberal, 
but  vast  and  incredible  sums  of  money,  it  is  no  wonder  if  they 
were  contented  to  have  their  nails  pared  close  to  the  quick 
thereby  to  save  their  fingers.  Over  goes  king  Henry  intc 
France,  with  many  martial  spirits  attending  him,  so  that  put- 
ting the  king  upon  the  seeking  of  a  new  Ciowii,  kejit  the  Ab- 
bots' old  Mitres  upon  their  heads  ;  and  Monasteries  tottering 
at  this  timr,  were  (thank  a  politic  .\rchbishop)  refixed  on  the 
firm  Ibundations,  though  this  proved  rather  a  reprieve  than  a 
pardon  unto  them.  —  Fuller's  Church  Histonj,  B.  6,  p.  302. 

The  archbishop  of  Bourges  explained  to  the  king,  in  the 
hall  of  the  bishop  of  Winchester,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
dukes  of  Clarence,  Bedford  and  Gloucester,  brothers  to  the 
king,  and  of  the  lords  of  the  council,  clergy,  chivalry  and 
populace,  the  objects  of  his  embassy.  The  archbishop  spoke 
first  in  Latin,  and  then  in  the  Walloon  language,  so  eloquently 
and  wisely,  that  both  F.nglisli  and  French  who  heard  him 
were  greatly  surprised.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  harangue 
he  made  offers  to  the  king  of  a  large  sum  of  ready  money  on 
his  marriage  with  the  princess  Catherine,  but  on  condition 
that  he  would  disband  the  army  he  had  collected  at  Southamp- 
ton, and  at  the  adjacent  seaports,  to  invade  France  ;  and  that 
by  these  means  an  eternal  peace  would  be  established  between 
the  two  kingdoms. 

The  assembly  broke  up  when  the  archbishop  had  ended  his 
speech,  and  the  French  ambassadors  were  kindly  entertained 
at  dinner  by  the  king,  who  then  appointed  a  day  for  them  to 
receive  his  answer  to  their  propositions  by  the  mouth  of  the 
archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

In  the  course  of  the  archbishop's  speech,  in  which  he  replied, 
article  by  article,  to  what  the  archbishop  of  Bourires  had 
offered,  he  added  to  some  and  passed  over  others  of  them,  so 
that  he  was  sharply  interrupted  by  the  archbishop  of  Bourges, 
who  exclaimed,  "  I  did  not  say  so,  but  such  were  my  words." 
The  conclusion,  however,  was,  that  unless  the  king  of  France 
would  give,  as  a  marriage-portion  with  his  daughter,  the 
duchies  of  Acquitaine,  of  Xorniandy,  of  Anjou,  of  Tours,  the 
counties  of  Ponthieu,  Maine  and  Poitou,  and  every  other  part 
that  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  English  monarchs,  the  king 
would  not  desist  from  his  intended  invasion  of  France,  but 
would  despoil  the  whole  of  that  kingdom  which  had  been  un- 
justly detained  from  him  ;  and  that  he  should  depend  on  his 
sword  for  the  accomi)lishment  of  the  above,  and  for  depriving 
king  Cliarles  of  his  crown. 

Tlio  king  avowed  what  the  archbishop  had  said,  and  added 
that  thus,  with  God's  aid,  he  would  act ;  and  promised  it  on 
the  word  of  a  king.  The  archbishop  of  Bourges  then,  accord- 
ing to  tlie  custom  in  France,  demanded  permission  to  speak 
and  said,  "  O  king  !  how  canst  thou,  consistently  with  honor 
and  justice,  thus  wish  to  dethrone  and  iniquitously  destroy 
the  most  Christian  king  of  the  French,  our  very  dear  lord  ana 
most  excellent  of  all  the  kings  in  Christendom  .'  Oking!  with 
all  due  reverence  and  respect,  dost  thou  think  that  he  has 
ofiVred  by  me  such  extent  of  territory,  and  so  large  a  sum  of 
money  with  his  daugliter  in  marriage,  through  any  fear  of  thee, 
thy  subjects  or  allies  .'  By  no  means  ;  but,  moved  by  pity  and 
his  love  of  peace,  he  has  made  these  oft'ers  to  avoid  the  shedding 
of  innocent  blood,  and  that  Christian  people  may  not  be  over- 
whelmed in  the  miseries  of  war ;  for  whenever  thou  shalt 
make  thy  promised  attempt  he  will  call  upon  God,  the  blessed 
Virgin,  and  on  all  the  saints,  making  his  appeal  to  them  for 
the  justice  of  his  cause  ;  and  with  their  aid,  and  the  support 
of  his  loyal  subjects  and  faitliful  allies,  thou  wilt  be  driven 
out  of  his  dominions,  or  thou  wilt  be  made  prisoner,  or  thou 
wilt  there  suffer  death  by  orders  of  that  just  king  whose  am- 
bassadors we  are. 

"  We  have  now  only  to  intreat  of  thee  that  thou  wouldst 
have  us  safely  conducted  out  of  thy  realm  ;  and  that  thou 
wouldst  write  to  our  said  king,  under  thy  hand  and  seal,  the 
answer  which  thou  bast  given  to  us." 

The  king  kindly  granted  their  request ;  and  the  ambassa- 
dors, having  received  handsome  presents,  returned  by  way  of 
Dover  to  Calais  and  thence  to  Paris. 

Monstrclct,  vol.  iv.  p.  129. 


82 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Within  a  few  (lays  after  the  expiration  of  the  truce,  king 
Henry,  whose  prei)aration3  were  now  conijileted,  sent  one  of 
his  heralds,  called  (Jlocestcr,  to  Paris,  to  deliver  letters  to  the 
king,  of  wliich  the  contents  were  as  follows. 

"To  the  very  nolde  prince  Charles,  our  cousin  and  adver- 
sary of  France,  Henry,  by  the  grace  of  God,  king  of  England 
and  of  France.  To  give  to  every  one  what  is  their  due,  is  a 
work  of  inspiration  and  wise  council,  very  nohle  i)rince,  our 
cousin  and  adversaiy.  The  nohli;  kingdoms  of  England  and 
France  were  turniorly  united,  now  they  are  divided.  At  that 
time  it  was  customary  for  each  person  to  exalt  his  name  hy 
glorious  victories,  and  hy  this  single  virtue  to  extol  the  honor 
of  God,  to  whom  holini^ss  liolongs,  and  to  give  [)eaco  to  his 
church,  liy  subjecting  in  battle  the  enemies  of  the  public  weal ; 
but  alas  !  good  faith  among  kindred  and  brotherly  love  have 
been  perverted,  and  Lot  persecutes  Abraham  by  human  im- 
putation, and  Dissention,  the  mother  of  Anger,  has  been 
raised  from  the  dead. 

"  VV'e,  however,  appeal  to  the  sovereign  Judge,  who  is 
neither  swayed  by  prayers  nor  gifts  from  doing  right,  that  we 
have,  from  pure  affection,  done  every  thing  in  our  power  to 
preserve  the  peace  ;  am!  we  must  now  rely  on  the  sword  for 
regaining  what  is  justly  our  heritage,  and  those  rights  which 
have  from  old  time  belonged  to  us  ;  and  we  feel  such  assurance 
in  our  courage,  that  we  will  tight  till  death  in  the  cause  of 
justice. 

"  The  written  law  in  the  book  of  Deuteronomy  ordains, 
that  before  any  person  commences  an  attack  on  a  city  he  shall 
first  ofi'er  terms  of  pe.ace  ;  and  although  violence  has  detained 
from  us  our  rightful  inheritances,  charity,  however,  induces  us 
to  attempt,  by  iiiir  means,  their  recovery;  for  should  justice 
be  denied  us,  we  may  then  resort  to  arms 

"  And  to  avoid  having  our  conscience  affected  by  this  mat- 
ter, we  make  our  personal  request  to  you,  and  exhort  you,  by 
the  bowels  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  follow  the  dictates  of  his  evan- 
gelical doctrine.  Friend,  restore  what  thou  owest,  for  such 
is  the  will  of  (Jod  to  prevent  the  effusion  of  the  blood  of  man, 
who  was  created  in  his  likeness.  Such  restitution  of  rights, 
cruelly  torn  from  us,  and  which  we  have  so  frequently  de- 
manded by  our  ambassadors,  will  be  agreeable  to  the  supreme 
God,  and  secure  peace  on  earth. 

"  From  our  love  of  peace  we  were  inclined  to  refuse  fifty 
thousand  golden  crowns  lately  offered  us  ;  for  being  more 
desirous  of  peace  than  riches,  we  have  preferred  enjoying  the 
patrimony  left  us  by  our  venerable  ancestors,  with  our  very 
dear  cousin  Catherine,  your  noble  daughter,  to  iniquitously 
multiplying  our  treasures,  and  thus  disgracing  the  honor  of 
our  crown,  which  God  forbid  ! 

"  Given  under  our  privy  seil,  in  our  castle  of  Southampton, 
the  5th  day  of  the  month  of  August." 

Mnnslrelet,  vol.  iv.  p.  137. 


Not".  163,  p.  50,  col.  1.  — Sure  that  holy  hermit  spake 

The  Almlfrldifs  bidding. 

While  Henry  V.  lay  at  the  siege  of  Dreux,  an  honest  hermit 
unknown  to  him,  came  and  told  him  the  great  evils  he  brought 
upon  Christendom  by  his  unjust  aml)ilion,  who  usurped  the 
kingdom  of  France,  against  all  manner  of  right,  and  contrary 
to  the  will  of  God  ;  wherefore  in  his  holy  name  he  threatened 
him  with  a  severe  and  sudden  punishment,  if  he  desisted  not 
from  his  enterprise.  Henry  took  this  exhortation  either  as  an 
idly  whimsey,  or  a  suggestion  of  the  Dauphin's,  and  was  but 
the  more  confirmed  in  his  design.  But  the  blow  soon  followed 
the  threatening ;  for  within  some  few  months  after,  he  was 
smitten  in  the  fundament  with  a  strange  and  incurable  disease. 

Meieray. 


Note  164,  p.  50,  col.  1.  —    they  thought 

The  spirits  of  the  mothers  and  their  babes 
Famish'd  at  Roan  sat  on  the  clouds  of 
night. 

Reseraverat  antrum 


Tartareus  Rector  pallens,  ut^iie  anna  nefanda 
Spectarent,  caperentque  sui  solatia  fati, 
Invisas  illuc  Libyes  emiserat  umbras  : 
Undique  consedere  arvis,  nigr&que  corond 
Injecire  diem,  versatilis  umbra  Jugurthce, 


Annibalis  smvi  Manes,  captique  Syphacis, 
Qui  nunc  cversas  seciim  Carthaginis  arces 
Jgnovere  Deis,  poslquam  feralia  campi 
Prarlia  Thapsiaci,  et  Latios  vidn-e furores. 

Supplemcntum  Lucani,  Lib.  III. 
I  am  not  conscious  of  having  imitated  these  lines  ;  but  1 
would  not  lose  the  opportunity  of  (luoting  so  fine  a  passage 
from  Thomas  May,  an  author  to  whom  I  owe  some  obligations, 
and  who  is  not  remembered  as  his  merits  deserve.  May  him- 
self has  imitated  Valerius  Flaccus  in  this  passage,  though  he 
has  greatly  surpassed  him. 

El.  ■patrr  oraides  casorum.  Tartarus  umbras, 
JSTuhe  cava,  tandem  ad  merit<e  svcctncula  pugnu: 
Emittit ;  summi  nigrescunt  culmina  mantis. 


Note  105,  p.  50,  col.  1.  — nor  aught  avails 

Man  unassisted  'gainst  infernal  powers 
To  dare  the  conflict. 

To  some,  says  Speed,  it  may  appear  more  honorable  to  our 
nation,  that  they  were  not  to  be  expelled  by  a  human  power, 
but  by  a  divine,  extraordinarily  revealing  itself. 


Note  166,  p.  50,  col.  3.  —  By  their  numbers  now  made  bold  in 
fear. 
JVec  pavidam  murmur;  consensu  audacia  r.revit, 
Tantaque  turba  metu  panarum  solvit  ab  omni. 

May,  Sup.  Lucani. 


Note  167,  p.  50,  col.  2.  — Joy  ran  through  all  the  troops. 

In  Rymer's  Fcr-dera  are  two  proclamations,  one  "  coittra 
capilantos  et  soldarios  terniversnntes,  incantationibus  PuelUe 
terrijicalos ;"  the  other,  ^^  defugitivis  ab  ezercitu  quos  tcrri- 
culamenta  PuelUe  exunimaverant,  arcstandis." 


Note  1C8,  p.  50,  col.  2.  —  The  social  bowl. 
Ronaard  remarks, 

Rien  n'est  meilleur  pour  I'homme  soul-ager 

.Hpres  le  mat,  que  le  boire  et  manger.  —  Franciado. 


Note  169,  p.  51,  col.  2. 9  casquetel. 

A  lighter  kind  of  helmet. 


Note  170,  p.  51 ,  col.  2.  —  Hung  from  her  neck  the  shield. 

The  shield  was  often  worn  thus.  "  Among  the  Frenchmen 
there  was  a  young  lusty  esquire  of  Gascoigne,  named  William 
Marchant,  who  came  out  among  the  foremost  into  the  field, 
well  mounted,  his  shield  about  his  neck,  and  his  spear  in  his 
hand."  —  Barnes. 

This  is  fre(piently  alluded  to  in  romance.  "  Then  the  knight 
of  the  burning  sword  stept  forward,  and  lifting  up  his  arm  as 
if  he  would  strike  Cynocephal  on  the  top  of  bis  head,  seized 
with  his  left  hand  on  the  shield,  which  he  pulled  to  him  with 
so  much  strength,  that  plucking  it  from  his  neck  he  brought 
him  to  the  ground."  —  Jimadis  dc  Greece. 

Sometimes  the  shield  was  laced  to  the  shoulder. 
The  shield  of  the  middle  ages  must  not  be  confounded  with 
that  of  the  ancients.  The  knight  might  easily  bear  his  small 
shield  around  his  neck  ;  but  the  Grecian  warrior  stood  pro- 
tecting his  thighs  and  his  legs,  his  In-east  also  and  his  shoulders 
witk  the  body  of  his  broad  shield. 

Mr/pot)f  T£  Kvrjpa;  re  xarot  xat  arepva  xai  (opov; 
Ao-rri^of  cvpcirji  yaarpt  KaXvipapcvOf.  —  Tyrta:us. 
But  the  most  convenient  shields  were  used  by  — 
Ccux  qu'on  voit  dcmeurer  dans  les  ties  Alandes, 
Qui  portent  pour  pavois,  dcs  escailles  si  grandes. 
Que  lors  qu'ilfaut  camper,  le  soldat  qui  s'en  sert 
En  fait  comme  une  hutte,  et  s'y  met  d  couvcrt.  —  Alaric. 


Note  171,  p.  52,  col.  1.  —  An  artnet. 
The  armet  or  chapelle  de  fer  was  an  iron  hat,  occasionally 
put  on  by  knights  when  they  retired   from  the  heat  of  the 
battle  to  take  breath,  and  at  times  when  they  could  not  will, 
propriety  go  unarmed. 


JNOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Si 


NoT£   172,  p.  53,  col.  1.  —  FU'd  tutr  last  kisses  on  tltcir  armed 
Itands. 
Sed  contra  (Enotrui  pubes 
JVon  ullas  races  dtuis  aut  praxepta  rcquirit. 
Sat  matrcs  stimulant,  natiquc,  et  cava  supinas 
Tendaitum  palmas  lacrimantiaque  ora  parcntam. 
Ostentant  purros,  vagittujue  incita  pulsunt 
Curda  virUiii,  armatis  injigunt  oscula  dcxtris. 

SUiiis  Itulicus,  xii.  587. 


Note  173,  p.  54,  col.  2.  —  He  brake  a  sullen  smile. 

"  She  sternly  shook  her  dewy  locks,  ami  br:ike 
A  melancholy  smile."  —  Quarks, 


Note  174,  p.  55,  col.  1.  — then  on  the  herald 

A  robe  rich-furr'd  ami  broider'd  he  bcstow'd. 

When  the  armies  of  England  and  France  lay  in  the  plain 
between  Virontbsse  and  Flemenguere,  1339,  Edward  sent  to 
di'mand  a  day  of  battle  of  the  Frcncli  king.  "  An  herald  of 
the  duke  of  Gueldres,  l)eing  well  skilled  in  the  French  tongue, 
was  sent  on  this  errand:  he  rode  forth  till  he  came  to  thf! 
French  host,  where  being  admitted  before  the  king  and  bis 
council,  he  spake  aloud  tliese  words,  'Sir,  the  king  of  England 
is  here  hard  by  in  the  fields,  and  desires  to  fight  you  power 
against  jiower  ;  and  if  you  please  to  appoint  him  a  day  he  will 
not  fiiil  to  meet  yon  upon  the  word  of  a  king.'  This  message 
being  thus  delivered,  king  Philip  yielded  either  to  give  or 
take  battle  two  days  after,  and  in  token  of  his  acceptance  of 
the  news,  richly  rewarded  the  herald  with  furred  gowns,  and 
other  gifts  bestowed  on  him,  as  well  by  himself  as  others,  the 
princes  and  lords  of  his  host,  and  so  disniissod  him  again."  — 
Barnes.  

Note  175,  p.  55,  col.  1.  — and  at  the  third  long  sound 

Tlicy  ranged  them,  in  their  ranlis. 

Every  man  was  warned  to  rise  from  sleep  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  trumpet ;  at  tha  second  to  arm  without  delay,  and  at 
the  third  to  take  horse  in  his  due  place  under  the  colors. — 
Barnes.  

Note  176,  p.  55,  col.  1.  —  To  shrive  them. 

Religious  ceromonies  seem  to  have  preceded  all  settled  en- 
gagements at  this  period.  On  the  night  before  the  battle  of 
Cressy,  "  King  Edward  made  a  supper  in  his  royal  pavilion  for 
all  his  chief  barons,  lords  and  captains :  at  which  be  appeared 
wonderful  chearful  and  pleasant,  to  the  great  encouragement 
of  his  people.  But  when  they  were  all  dismissed  to  tlieir 
several  quarters,  the  king  himself  retired  into  his  private  ora- 
tory, and  came  before  the  altar,  and  there  prostrated  himself 
to  almighty  God  and  devoutly  prayed,  'That  of  his  infinite 
goodness  ho  would  vouchsafe  to  look  down  on  the  justice  of 
his  cause,  and  remember  his  unfeigned  endeavors  for  a  recon- 
cilement, although  they  had  all  been  rendered  frustrate  by  his 
enemies  :  that  if  he  should  be  brought  to  a  battle  the  next  day, 
it  would  please  him  of  bis  great  mercy  to  grant  him  the  vic- 
tory, as  his  trust  was  only  in  him,  and  in  the  right  which  he 
had  given  him.'  Being  thus  armed  with  faith,  about  midnight 
he  laid  himself  upon  a  pallet  or  mattress  to  take  a  little  re- 
pose ;  but  he  arose  again  betimes  and  heard  mass,  with  his 
son  the  young  prince,  and  received  absolution,  and  the  body 
and  blood  of  his  Redeemer,  as  did  the  prince  also,  and  most 
of  the  lords  and  others  who  were  so  disposed."  —  Barnes. 

Thus  .".Iso  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt  "  after  prayers  and 
supplications  of  the  king,  his  priests  and  people,  done  with 
great  devotion,  the  king  of  England  in  the  morning  very  early 
set  forth  his  hosts  in  array."  —  Stoice. 


Note  177,  p.  55,  col.  1.  —  The  shield  vf  dignity. 

The  roundel.     .\  shield  too  weak  for  service,  which  was 
borne  before  the  general  of  an  army. 


.Note  178,  p.  55,  col.  1. 


— that  in  nndiminish'd  strength 

Strong,  theij  might  meet  the  battle. 

The  conduct  of  the  English  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  of 
Cressy  is  followed  in  the  text.  "  All  things  being  thus  order- 
ed  every  lord  and  captain  under  his  own  banner  and  pennon, 


and  the  ranks  duly  settled,  the  valourous  young  king  mounted 
on  a  lusty  white  hobby,  and  with  a  white  wand  in  his  hand, 
rode  between  his  two  niarshalls  from  rank  to  rank,  and  from 
one  battalia  unto  another,  exhorting  and  encouraging  every 
man  that  day  to  defend  and  maintain  his  right  and  honour :  and 
this  bo  did  with  so  chearful  a  countenance,  and  with  such 
sweet  and  obliging  words,  that  even  the  most  faint-hearted 
of  the  army  were  sufficiently  assured  thereby.  By  that  time 
the  English  were  thus  prepared,  it  was  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  then  the  king  commanded  them  all  to  take  their 
refreshment  of  meat  and  drink,  which  being  done,  with  small 
disturbance  they  all  rejiaircd  to  their  colours  again,  and  then 
laid  themselves  in  their  order  upon  the  dry  and  warm  grass, 
with  their  bows  and  helmets  by  their  side,  to  be  more  fresh 
and  vigorous  upon  the  approach  of  the  enemy."  —  Barnes. 

The  English  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt  "  fell  prostrate 
to  the  ground,  and  committed  themselves  to  God,  every  of 
them  tooke  in  his  mouth  a  little  piece  of  earth,  in  remem- 
brance that  they  were  mortall  and  made  of  earth,  as  also  in 
remembrance  of  the  holv  communion."  —  Stoice. 


Note  179,  p.  55,  col.  2  — T^ie  pennons  rolling  their  long  waves 
Before  the  gale,  and  banners  broad  and  bright. 

The  pennon  was  long,  ending  in  two  points,  the  banner 
square.  "  Un  seigneur  n'etoit  banneret  et  ne  pouvoil  porter  la 
banniere  quarrce,  que  lors  qu'ilpouvoit  entrctenir  a  ses  depens 
un  certain  nombre  de  chevaliers  et  d'Ecuyers,  avec  leur  suite  a 
la  guerre:  jusquesla  son  etendard  avoit  deux  queues  oufanons, 
el  quand  il  devenoit  plus  puissant,  so7i  souverain  cuupoit  lui- 
meme  les  fanons  de  son  etendard,  pour  le  rendre  quarrc."  — 
Tressan. 

An  incident  before  the  battle  of  Najara  exemplifies  this. 
"  As  the  two  armies  approached  near  together,  the  prince 
went  over  a  little  hill,  in  the  descending  w  hereof  he  saw- 
plainly  his  enemies  marching  toward  him  :  wherefore  when 
the  whole  army  was  come  over  this  mountain,  he  commanded 
that  there  (hey  should  make  an  halt,  and  so  fit  themselves  for 
fight.  At  that  instant  the  lord  John  Chandos  brought  his 
ensign  folded  uii,  and  offered  it  to  the  prince,  saying,  '  Sir, 
here  is  my  guidon  ;  I  request  your  highness  to  display  it 
abroad,  and  to  give  me  leave  to  raise  it  this  day  as  my  banner  ; 
for  I  thank  God  and  your  highness,  I  have  lands  and  posses- 
sions sufficient  to  maintain  it  withall.'  Then  the  prince  took 
the  pennon,  and  having  cut  oflTthe  tail,  made  it  a  square  ban- 
ner, and  this  done,  both  he  and  king  Don  Pedro  for  the  greater 
honour,  holding  it  between  their  hands  displayed  it  abroad,  it 
being  Or,  a  sharp  i)ile  Gules  :  and  then  the  prince  delivered 
it  unto  the  lord  Chandos  again,  saying,  '  Sir  John,  behold  here 
is  your  banner.  God  send  you  much  joy  and  honour  with  it.' 
And  thus  being  made  a  knight  banneret,  the  lord  Chandos 
returned  to  the  head  of  his  men,  and  said,  '  Here,  gentlemen, 
behold  my  banner  and  yours  !  Take  and  keep  it,  to  your 
honour  and  mine  I '  And  so  they  took  it  with  a  shout,  and 
said  by  the  grace  of  God  and  St.  George  they  would  defend 
it  to  the  best  of  their  powers.  But  the  banner  remained  in 
the  hands  of  a  gallant  English  esquire  named  William  Ailos- 
try,  who  bore  it  all  that  day,  and  acquitted  himself  in  the  ser- 
vice right  honourably."  —  Barnes. 


Note  180,  p.  55,  col.  2.  —  Vidamr^. 

This  title  frequently  occurs  in  the  French  Chronicles  ;  it 
was  peculiar  to  France,  "  the  vidame  or  vicedominus  being  to 
the  bishop  in  his  temporals  as  the  vicecomes  or  vicount  an- 
ciently to  the  carle,  in  bis  judicials." —  Peter  Ileylyn 


Note   181,  p.  55,  coJ.  2.  —  jSnd  silken  sureoats  to  the  mid-day 
sun 
Glittering. 

Joshua  Barnes  seems  to  have  been  greatly  impressed  with 
the  splendor  of  such  a  spectacle.  "  It  was  a  glorious  and 
ravishing  sight,  no  doubt,"  says  he,  "  to  behold  these  two 
armies  standing  thus  regularly  embattled  in  the  field,  their 
banners  and  standards  waving  in  the  wind,  their  proud  horses 
harded,  and  kings,  lords,  knights,  and  esquires  richly  armed, 
and  all  shining  in  their  sureoats  of  satin  and  embroidery." 

Thus  also  at  I'oicticrs,  "  there  you  might  have  beheld  a  most 


84 


NOTI-:S    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


beautiful  si^lit  of  I'.iir  harness,  of  sliiiiin^'  sleel,  feiitliered 
srcata  of  gliUoring  helmets,  ;ind  the  rich  eiiihroiilery  of  silken 
surcoats  of  arms,  together  with  golden  standards,  banners  and 
pennons  gloriously  moving  in  the  air." 

And  at  Najara  "  the  sun  being  now  risen,  it  was  a  ravishing 
sight  to  behold  the  armies,  and  the  sun  relleeting  from  their 
bright  steel  and  shining  armour.  Tor  in  fliose  days  the  cav- 
alry were  generally  armed  in  mail  or  polished  steel  at  all 
points,  and  besides  that,  the  nobility  wore  over  their  armour 
rich  surcoats  of  silk  and  satin  embroidery,  whereon  was  curi- 
ously sticlit  or  beaten,  the  arms  of  their  house,  whether  in 
colour  or  metal." 


Note   182,  p.  .55,  col.  2.  —  For  not  to   brutal  strength   they 

deem'd  it  right 
To  trust  their  country's  weal. 

J^Tos  anccstres,  ct  notamment  du  temps  de  la  guerre  des  Aiiglois, 
en  combats  solr.mncls  etjournees  assignees,  se  metloient  la  jdus- 
part  du  temp  tons  d  pied ;  jiour  ne  se  fier  d  autre  chose  (ju'd 
leur  force  propre  et  vigueur  de  Icur  courage  et  dc  leur  membres, 
de  chose  si  chcrc  que  I'honneur  st  la  vie.  —  Montaigne,  Liv.  i. 
c.  48. 

In  the  battle  of  Patay,  Monstrellet  says,  "  Ics  Frangois 
moult  de  pres  mirdnt  pied  d  terrc,  et  descendirent  la  plus  grand 
partie  de  leur  chcvaulx." 

In  El  Cavallero  Determinado,  an  allegorical  romance  trans- 
lated from  the  French  of  Olivier  de  la  Marche  by  Hernando 
de  Acuna,  Barcelona,  15G5,  this  custom  is  referred  to  by  Un- 
derstanding, when  giving  the  knight  directions  for  his  coml)at 
with  Atropos. 

En  esto  es  vii  parccer  ^ 

Que  en  cacallo  no  tcjies ; 
Por  to  qiial  has  de  entender 

Qkc  de  ninguno  conjics 
Ta  bjmosna  y  bicn  hazcr. 


Note  183,  p.  55,  col.  2.  —  Their  javelins  shortened  to  a  wieldy 
length. 

Thus  at  Poictiers,  "  the  three  battails  being  all  ready  ranged 
in  the  field,  and  every  lord  in  his  duo  place  under  his  own 
banner,  command  was  given  that  all  men  should  put  oft"  their 
spurs,  and  cut  their  spears  to  five  foot  length,  as  most  com- 
modious for  such  who  had  left  their  horses."  —  Barnes. 

Note  184,  p.  56,  col.  1.  —  Ilrasvelger  starting. 

Hrwsvclger  vacatur 

Q,ui  sedet  in  eztremitate  cceli, 

Gigas  eiuvias  amictus  aquihe  : 

Ex  ejus  alls 

Ferunt  venire  ventum 

Omnes  super  homines.  —  Vafthrudnismal. 

Where  the  Heaven's  remotest  bound 
With  darkness  is  encompassed  round. 
There  Hrtcsvelger  sits  and  swings 
The  tempest  from  his  eagle  wings. 
The  Edda  of  Samund,  translated  by  .^mos  Cottle. 

Among  the  idols  of  Aitutaki,  (one  of  the  Hervey  Islands,) 
Sfnt  home  among  other  trophies  of  the  same  kind  to  the  Alis- 
eienary  Museum,  is  the  God  of  Thunder,  Taau.  The  natives 
used  to  believe  that  when  Taau  was  flying  abroad.  Thunder 
was  produced  by  the  flapi)ing  of  his  wings.  —  fVUliams's  Mis- 
sionary Enterprises  in  the  South  Sea  Island.^,  p.  109. 

At  the  promontory  of  .Malea  on  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of 
Ajiollo,  tliero  is  a  chapel  built  to  the  honor  of  Michael  the 
archangel.  Here  we  could  not  but  laugh  at  the  foolish  super- 
stition of  the  sailors,  who  say,  when  the  wind  blows  from  that 
place,  that  it  is  occasioned  by  the  violent  motion  of  Michael's 
wings,  because  forsooth,  be  is  painted  with  wings.  And  for 
that  reason,  when  they  sail  by  Michael  they  pray  to  him  tliat 
ho  may  hold  his  wings  still. —  Bamngarten. 

Note  185,  p.  50,  col.  1.  —Or  with  the  lance  protended  from  his 
front. 

In  a  combat  fought  in  ?mithfield,  14G7,  between  the  lord 
Scales  and  the  bastard  of  Burgoyne,  "  the  lord  Scales'  horse 


had  on  his  chafron  a  long  sharp  pike  of  Steele,  and  as  the  two 
champions  coaped  together,  the  same  horse  thrust  his  pike 
into  the  nostrills  of  the  bastard's  horse,  so  that  for  very  paine, 
he  mounted  so  high  that  be  fell  on  the  one  side  witli  his  mas- 
ter." —  Stowc. 

This  weapon  is  mentioned  by  Lope  de  Vega,  and  by  an  old 
Scotch  poet. 

Uuicornia  el  cavallo  parecia 

Con  elfuerte  pyraniide  delunie. 
Que  en  medio  del  bogul  rrsplundecia 
Coma  sifaera  punta  dc  diamante. 

Jerusalen  Covquistada,  I.  10. 

His  horse  in  fyne  sandel  was  trapped  to  the  hele, 
And,  in  his  cheveron  biforne, 
Stode,  as  an  unicorne, 
Als  sharp  as  a  tborne, 
An  anias  of  stele. 

Sir  Gawan  and  Sir  Galaron. 

Florisel  found  this  part  of  his  horse's  armour  of  good  ser- 
vice, when  in  the  combat  of  eighteen  against  eighteen,  he  en- 
countered the  king  of  the  Scythians,  o-fant  dcmesure  ;  il  che- 
vauchoit  un  grand  animal  de  sonpays,  duqacl  nous  ne  sgavuns 
le  nom  .-  aussi  etoit-il  tant  corpulent  ct  membru,  qu'un  n'cu.'it 
sgeufiiurnir  rous.iin  qui  Peusi  pen  porter.  The  first  encounter 
fat  tris  belle  jouste  d  voir,  et  aujomdre  des  corps  mourut  treiie 
cherauT,  compris  Vanimal  du  Roy  de  Scythie,  qui  fut  si  lourdc- 
ment  recontre  par  le  destrier  de  Florisel,  portant  hardes  de  fer, 
et  1/ne  poinete  aceree  sur  le  chaiifrain  qu'ilfourra  si  avantparmy 
Icsflanrz  de  ceste  grosse  beste,  qn'il  attei-race  avec  les  autres,  et 
lajumbe  de  son  ma'istre  dessaui. Smatlis,  L.  x.  ff.  51,  52. 

The  Abyssinians  use  it  at  this  day  ;  Bruce  says  it  is  a  very 
troublesome  useless  piece  of  their  armor. 


Note  186,  p.  56,  col.  2.  —  To  snatch  the  shield  of  death. 

Thus  did  Juba  catch  up  the  shield  of  death   to  defend  him- 
self from  ignominy.  —  Cleopatra. 


Note  167,  p.  56,  col.  2. —  T%eir  tower  of  strength. 
JluTCp  yap  piv  TTvpycv  cv  O(p0a\poiaiv  opwaiv. —  Tyrtaus. 

Quarles   has  made   this  expression  somewhat  ludicrous  by 
calling  Samson 

Great  army  of  men,  the  wonder  of  whose  power 
Gives  thee  the  title  of  a  walking  tower. 


Note    188,  p.  57,  col.  1.  — and  when  the  boar's  head  . . . 

Smoked  on  the  Christmas  board. 

Two  carols  for  this  occasion  are  preserved  in  Mr.  Ritson's 
valuable  collection  of  Ancient  Songs.  The  first  of  these,  here 
alluded  to,  is  as  follows: 

Caput  apri  defero 
Reddens  laudes  domino. 

The  bore's  heed  in  hand  bring  I 
AVilh  garlands  gay  and  rosemary, 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merely 
Qui  cstis  in  convivio. 

The  bore's  heed  I  undcrstande 
Is  the  cbefe  servyce  in  this  lande, 
Loke  where  ever  it  be  fande 
Sercite  cum  canlico. 

Be  gladde  lordes  bothe  more  and  lasse 
For  this  nath  ordeyned  our  stcwardc, 
To  chere  you  all  this  christmasse 
The  bore's  heed  with  mustarde. 

When  Henry  II.  bad  his  eldest  son  crowned  as  fellow  with 
him  in  the  kingdom,  upon  the  day  of  coronation,  king  Henry, 
the  father,  served  his  son  at  the  table  as  sewer,  bringing  up 
the  bore's  head  with  trumpets  before  it,  according  to  the  man 
ncr ;  whereupon  (according  to  the  old  adage, 

Immutant  mores  homines  cum  dantur  honorcs) 

the  young  man  conceiving  a  pride  in  his  heart,  beheld  the 
atanders-by  with  a  more  stately  countenance  than  be  had  been 
wont.     The  archbishop  of  York  who  sat  by  him,  marking  bis 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


85 


beliiiviour,  luriu'il  unto  him  iiinl  s;iiil,  "  Be  glad,  my  good  son, 
there  is  not  another  prince  in  the  world  that  hath  such  a  sewer 
ut  his  I  ihle."  I'o  this  the  new  king  answered  as  it  were  dis- 
daintiilly  lluis:  "  Wiiy  doest  thou  marvel  at  that?  my  father 
in  doing  it  lliinkoth  it  not  more  than  hecomoth  him,  lie  being 
born  ol"  princely  blood  oiily  on  the  mother's  side,  serveth  me 
that  am  a  king  born,  having  both  a  king  to  my  father  and  a 
queen  to  my  mother."  Thus  the  young  man  of  an  evil  and 
perverse  nature,  was  pulled  ui)in  pride  by  hiii  father's  unseemly 
doings. 

lint  the  king  bis  fitber  hearing  his  talk  was  very  sorrowful 
in  his  mind,  and  said  to  the  urcbbisbop  softly  in  his  ear,  "  It 
rcpenteth  me,  it  repentcth  me,  my  lord,  that  I  have  thus  ad- 
vanced tho  boy."  For  ho  guessed  hereby  what  a  one  he  would 
prove  afterward,  that  shewed  himself  so  disobedient  and  for- 
ward already.  —  Uolinshcd. 


Note  189,  p.  57,  col.  1.  — his  old  limbs 

Arc  nut  like  yours  so  supple  in  Vie  flight. 

Tuuj  it  rraXaiOTcpovs,  lov  ovKcrt  yovvaT'  e\a<ppa, 
Ml)  KaTaXciTTOfTCi  ipcvyCTC  rovi  ycpatovg. 

Ataxpov  yap  iri  tovto  ptra  npopaxotai  ncTovra, 
KciaOat  vpoaOc  vcmv  avipa  TraXaporcpov, 

Hin  XcvKov  txovra  Kaprj,  iroXiov  re  yevtiov, 
Qi'itov  aiTOTTveiovT'  aXKipov  cv  Kovir}.  —  Tyrtteus. 


Note  190,  p.  57,  col.  2.  —  He  from  the  saddle-bow  his  falchion 
caught. 

In  the  combat  between  Franciis  and  Phouere,  Ronsard  says  — 

—  de  la  main  Icurs  coutclas  trouvcrent 
Bien  aiguisez  gut  de  Vargon  pendoyent. 

On  this  passage  the  commentator  observes,  "  I'autheur  arme 
CCS  deux  chevaliers  d  la  mode  de  nos  gendarmes  Fraw^oli,  la 
lance  en  la  main,  la  coutelace  ou  la  mace  d  I'argon,  et  Pespc  can 
coste. 

Thus  Desmarests  says  of  the  troops  of  Clovis  — 

A  tons  pend  de  Vargon,  d  leur  mode  guerrierre, 
Et  la  hache  tranchante,  et  la  inasse  meurtriere. 

And  when  Clovis,  on  foot  and  without  a  weapon,  hears  the 
shrieks  of  a  woman,  he  sees  his  horse, 

Jette  fail  sur  Vargon,  et  void  luire  sa  hache. 

Lope  de  Vega  speaks  of  the  sword  being  carried  in  the  same 
manner,  when  he  describes  Don  Juan  de  Aguila  as  — 

desatando  del  argon  la  espada. 


Note  191,  p.  57,  col.  2.  — she  bared 

The  lightning  of  her  sword. 

Desnudo  el  rayo  de  la  ardiente  espada. 

Jemsalen  Conquistada. 


Note   192,  p.  57,  col.  2.  —  The  sword  of  Talbot. 

Talbot's  sword,  says  Camden,  was  found  in  the  river  of  Dor- 
don,  and  sold  by  a  peasant  to  an  armorer  of  Bouideaux,  witli 
this  incription, 

Sum  Talboti,  M.  UII.  C.  XLTII 

Pro  vinccre  ininiicos  mcos. 

But  pardon  the  Latin,  for  it  was  not  his,  but  his  cami)ing 
chaplain's.  —  A  sword  with  bad  Latin  upon  it,  but  good  steel 
«ithin  it,  says  Fuller. 

It  was  not  uncommon  to  bear  a  motto  upon  the  sword. 
Lope  de  Vega  describes  that  of  Aguilar  as  bearing  inlaid  in 
gold,  a  verse  of  the  psalms.     It  was,  he  says, 

Mas  famo.ia  quefue  de  hombre  ccnida, 
Para  ocasiones  del  honor  guardada, 

Y  en  ultima  drfcnsa  de  la  vida, 
Y  dcsde  cuya  guamicion  dorada 

Hasta  la  punta  la  canal  brunida 


Tenia  escrito  de  David  un  verso. 
J^ietadv  dc  oro  en  el  azcro  terso. 

Jerasalen  Conquistada. 


Note  193,  p.  57,  eol.  2.  —  Fastolffe,  all  fierce  and  haughty  as 
he  was. 

In  ihe  Paston  letters,  published  by  Mr.  Fenn,  Fiistolffe  ap- 
pears in  a  very  unfavorable  light.  Henry  Windsor  writes 
thus  of  him,  "  bit  is  not  unknown  that  cruclle  and  venglblc  he 
huth  hyn  ever,  and  for  the  most  part  witli  oute  pite  and  mercy 
I  can  no  more,  but  rude  et  corripc  eum,  for  truly  he  cannot 
bryng  about  his  maticrs  in  this  word  (world)  for  the  word  is 
not  lor  him.  I  suppose  it  wolnot  chaunge  yett  be  likelencs, 
but  i  beseche  you  sir  help  not  to  amend  hym  onely,  but  every 
other  man  yf  ye  kno  any  mo  mysse  disposed." 

The  order  of  the  garter  was  taken  from  Fastolffe  for  liis 
conduct  at  Patay.  He  suffered  a  more  material  loss  in  the 
money  ho  expended  in  the  service  of  the  state.  In  1455, 
4083/.  15.  7.  were  due  to  him  for  costs  and  charges  durii>g  his 
services  in  France,  "  whereof  the  sayd  Fastolffe  bath  had 
nouther  payement  nor  assignation."     So  be  complains. 


Note  194,  p.  57,  col.  2.  —  Battlc-aze. 

In  a  battle  between  the  Burgundians  and  Dauphinois  near 
Abbeville  (1421)  Monstrellet  especially  notices  the  conduct 
of  John  Villain,  who  had  that  day  been  made  a  knight.  He 
was  a  nobleman  from  Flanders,  very  tall,  and  of  great  bodily 
strength,  and  was  mounted  on  a  good  horse,  holding  a  battk- 
aie  in  both  hands  Thus  he  puslied  into  the  thickest  part  of 
the  battle,  and  throwing  the  bridle  on  his  horse's  neck,  gave 
such  blows  on  all  sides  with  his  battle-axe,  that  whoever  was 
struck  was  instantly  unhorsed  and  wounded  past  recovery. 
In  this  way  he  met  Poton  de  Xaintrailles,  who,  after  Ihe 
battle  was  over,  declared  the  wonders  he  did,  and  that  he  got 
out  of  his  reach  as  fast  as  he  could.  —  Vol.  v.  p.  294 


Note  195,  p.  58,  col.  1. —  The  b uclder,  now  splinter' d  with  many 

a  stroke. 

L'ecu  de^  chevaliers  ctait  ordinairemenl  un  bouclier  de  forme 
d  pcu  pris  triangulaire,  large  par  le  haul  pour  couvrir  le  corps, 
et  se  terminant  en  pointe  par  le  bas,  afin  d'Stre  mains  lourd.  On 
les  faisait  de  bois  qu'on  recouvrait  avec  du  cuir  bouilli,  avcc  dcs 
nerfs  ou  autrcs  viatieres  dares,  mais  jamais  de  fer  ou  d'acier. 
Seulement  il  ctait  pcrmis,  pour  les  empScher  d'etre  coupes  trap 
aiscmcnt  par  les  epics,  d'y  mcltre  un  cercle  d'or,  d'argent,  ou 
defer,  qui  les  entourat.  —  Le  Orand. 


Note  19G,  p.  53,  col.  2.  —  Threw  o'er  the  slaughtered  chief  his 
blazon'd  coat. 

This  fact  is  mentioned  in  Andrews's  History  of  England. 
I  have  merely  ver>iified  the  original  expressions.  "  The  herald 
of  Talbot  sought  out  his  body  among  the  slain.  '  Alas,  my 
lord,  and  is  it  you  !  I  pray  God  pardon  you  all  your  misdoings. 
I  have  been  your  officer  of  arms  forty  years  and  more  :  it  is 
time  that  I  should  surrender  to  you  the  ensigns  of  my  office.' 
Thus  saying,  with  the  tears  gushing  from  his  eyes,  he  threw 
his  coat  of  arms  over  the  corpse,  thus  performing  one  of  the 
ancient  rites  of  sepulture." 


Note  197,  p.  59,  col.  1.  —  Pour'd  on  the  monarch's  head  the 
mystic  oil. 

"  The  Frenchmen  wonderfully  reverence  this  oyle  ;  and  at 
the  coronation  of  their  kings,  fetch  it  from  the  church  where 
it  is  kepi,  witli  great  solemnity.  For  it  is  brought  (saith 
Sleiden  in  his  Conmientarics)  by  the  prior  sitting  on  a  white 
ambling  palfrey,  and  attended  by  bis  monkes  ;  the  archbishop 
of  the  town  (Uheims)  and  such  bishops  as  are  present,  going 
to  the  church  door  to  meet  it,  and  leaving  for  it  with  the 
prior  some  gage,  and  the  king,  when  it  is  by  the  urcbbisbop 
brought  to  the  altar,  bowing  himself  before  it  with  great 
reverence." —  Peter  Heylyn. 


36 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


^TJt  Tiuion  of  tf^t  J^aitr  of  erUans* 


In  the  first  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc  this  Vision 
formed  the  ninth  book,  allegorical  machinery 
having  been  introduced  throughout  tlie  poem 
as  originally  written.  All  that  remained  of 
such  machinery  w.as  expunged  in  the  second 
edition,  and  the  Vision  was  then  struck  out,  as 
no  longer  according  with  the  general  design. 


THE  FIRST  BOOK. 

Orleans  was  hush'd  in  sleep.     Stretch'd  on  her 

couch 
The  delegated  Maiden  lay;  with  toil 
Exhausted,  and  sore  anguish,  soon  she  closed 
Her  heavy  eyelids ;  not  reposing  then, 
For  busy  phantasy  in  other  scenes 
Awaken'd  :  whether  that  superior  powers, 
By  Vv'ise  permission,  prompt  the  midnight  dream. 
Instructing  best  the  passive  faculty ; ' 
Or  that  the  soul,  escaped  its  fleshly  clog, 
Flies  free,  and  soars  amid  the  invisible  world, 
And  all  things  are  that  seem" 

Along  a  moor. 
Barren,  and  wide,  and  drear,  and  desolate. 
She  roam'd,  a  wanderer  through  the  clieerless  night. 
Far  through  the  silence  of  the  unbroken  plain 
The  bittern's  boom  was  heard ;  hoarse,  heavy,  deep. 
It  made  accordant  music  to  the  scene. 
Black  clouds,  driven  fast  before  the  stormy  wind, 
Swept  shadowing;  through  their  broken  folds  the 

moon 
Struggled  at  times  with  transitory  ra}'. 
And  made  the  moving  darkness  visible. 
And  now  arrived  beside  a  fenny  lake 
She  stands,  amid  whose  stagnate  waters,  hoarse 
The  long  reeds  rustled  to  the  gale  of  night. 
A  time-worn  bark  receives  the  Maid,  impell'd 
By  powers  unseen ;  then  did  the  moon  display 
Where  through  the  crazy  vessel's  yawning  side 
The  muddy  waters  oozed.     A  Woman  guides. 
And  spreads  the  sail  before  tlie  wind,  which  moan'd 
As  melancholy  mournful  to  her  ear, 
As  ever  by  a  dungeon'd  wretch  was  heard 
Howling  at  evening  round  his  prison  towers. 
Wan  was  the  pilot's  countenance,  her  eyes 
Hollow,  and  her  sunk  cheeks  were  furrow'd  deep, 
Channell'd  by  tears  ;  a  few  gray  locks  hung  down 
Beneath  her  hood ;  and  through  the  Maiden's  veins 
Chill  crept  the  blood,  when,  as  the  night-breeze 

pass'd. 
Lifting  her  tatter'd  mantle,  coil'd  around 
She  saw  a  serpent  gnawing  at  her  heart. 


The  plumeless  bats  with  short,  shrill  note  flit  by. 
And  the  night-raven's  scream  came  fitfully. 
Borne  on  the  hollow  blast.     Eager  the  Maid 
Look'd  to  the  shore,  and  now  upon  the  bank 
Leapt,  joyful  to  escape,  yet  trembling  still 
In  recollection. 

There,  a  mouldering  pile 
Stretch'd  its  wide  ruins,  o'er  the  plain  below 
Casting  a  gloomy  shade,  save  where  the  moon 
Shone  through  its  fretted  windows  :  the  dark  yew, 
Witliering  with  age,  branch'd  there  its  naked  roots, 
And  there  the  melancholy  cypress  rear'd 
Its  head  ;  the  earth  was  heaved  with  many  a  mound, 
And  here  and  tliere  a  half-demolish'd  tomb. 

And  now,  amid  the  ruin's  darkest  shade. 
The  Virgin's  eye  beheld  where  pale  blue  flames 
Rose  wavering,  now  just  gleaming  from  the  earth, 
And  now  in  darkness  drown'd.     An  aged  man 
Sate  near,  seated  on  what  in  long-past  days 
Had  been  some  sculptured  monument,  now  fallen 
And  half-obscured  by  moss,  and  gather'd  heaps 
Ofwither'd  yew-leaves  and  earth-mouldering  bones. 
His  eye  was  large  and  rayless,  and  fix'd  full 
Upon  the  Maid  ;  the  tomb-fires  on  his  face 
Shed  a  blue  light;  his  face  was  of  the  hue 
Of  death;  his  limbs  were  mantled  in  a  shroud. 
Then  with  a  deep  heart- terrifying  voice, 
Exclaim'dthe  spectre  :  "  Welcome  to  these  realms, 
These  regions  of  Despair,  O  thou  whose  steps 
Sorrow  hath  guided  to  my  sad  abodes  ! 
Welcome  to  my  drear  empire,  to  this  gloom 
Eternal,  to  this  everlasting  night, 
Where  never  morning  darts  the  enlivening  ray. 
Where  never  shines  the  sun,  but  all  is  dark. 
Dark  as  the  bosom  of  their  gloomy  King." 

So  saying,  he  arose,  and  drawing  on, 
Her  to  the  abbey's  inner  ruin  led, 
Resisting  not  liis  guidance.     Through  the  roof 
Qnce  fretted  and  emblazed,  but  broken  now 
In  part,  elsewhere  all  open  to  the  sky. 
The  moon-beams  enter'd,  checker'd  here,  and  here 
With  unimpeded  light.     The  ivy  twined 
R,ound  the  dismantled  columns;  imaged  forms 
Of  saints  and  warlike  chiefs,  moss-canker'd  now 
And  mutilate,  lay  strown  upon  the  ground. 
With  crumbled  fragments,  crucifixes  fallen, 
And  rusted  trophies.     Meantime  overhead 
Roar'd  the  loud  blast,  and  from  the  tower  the  ow 
Scream'd  as  the  tempest  shook  her  secret  nest. 
He,  silent,  led  her  on,  and  often  paused, 
And  pointed,  that  her  eye  might  contemplate 
At  leisure  the  drear  scene. 

He  draoror'd  her  on 


BOOK    I. 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


87 


Tliroujrli  a  low  iron  door,  down  brokon  stairs; 
Tlii'ii  a  cold  horror  through  the  Maiden's  I'ranie 
Crept,  for  she  stood  amid  a  vault,  and  saw, 
By  the  sepulchral  lamp's  dim,  glarinif  lif^ht. 
The  fragments  of  the  dead. 

"  Look  here  !  "  he  cried, 
"  Damsel,  look  here  !  survey  tliis  house  of  death  ; 
O,  soon  to  tenant  it ;  soon  to  increase 
These  trophies  of  mortality  —  for  hence 
Is  no  return.     Gaze  here  ;  behold  this  skull. 
These  eyeless  sockets,  and  these  unflesh'd  jaws. 
That  with  tlieir  ghastly  grinning  seem  to  mock 
Tliy  perishable  cluinns ;  for  thus  thy  check 
Mustmoulder.   Childof  grief !  shrinks  not  thy  soul. 
Viewing  these  horrors.-  trembles  not  thy  heart 
At  the  dread  thought  that  here  its  life's-blood  soon 
Shall  stagnate,  and  the  rinely-fibred  frame. 
Now  warm  in  life  and  feeling,  mingle  soon 
With  the  cold -clod.'  thing  horrible  to  think, — 
Yet  in  thought  only,  for  reality 
Is  none  of  suffering  here;  here  all  is  peace  ; 
No  nerve  will  throb  to  anguish  in  the  grave. 
Dreadful  it  is  to  think  of  losing  life, 
Uut  having  lost,  knowledge  of  loss  is  not. 
Therefore  no  ill.     Oh,  wherefore  then  delay 
To  end  all  ills  at  once  .'  " 

So  spake  Despair. 
The  vaulted  roof  echoed  his  hollow  voice, 
And  all  again  was  silence.     Quick  her  heart 
Panted.     He  placed  a  dagger  in  her  hand. 
And  cried  again,  "  (31i,  wliereforc  then  delay  1 
One  blow,  and  rest  forever  !  "     On  the  fiend 
Dark  scowl'd  the  Virgin  with  indignant  eye, 
And  threw  the  dagger  down.     He  next  his  heart 
Replaced  the  murderous  steel,  and  drew  the  Maid 
Along  the  downward  vault. 

The  damp  earth  gave 
A  dim  sound  as  they  pass'd  :  the  tainted  air 
Was  cold,  and  heavy  with  unwholesome  dews. 
"  Behold  !  "  the  fiend  exclami'd,  "  how  loathsomely 
The  fleshly  remnant  of  mortality 
Moulders  to  clajM  "  then  fixing  his  broad  eye 
Full  on  her  face,  he  pointed  where  a  corpse 
Lay  livid ;  she  beheld  with  horrent  look 
The  spectacle  abhorr'd  by  living  man. 

"  Look  here  !  "  Despair  pursued ; "  this  loathsome 
mass 
Was  once  as  lovely,  and  as  full  of  life 
As,  Damsel,  thou  art  now.     Those  deep-sunk  eyes 
Once  beam'd  the  mild  light  of  intelligence, 
And  where  thou  seest  the  pamper'd  fiesh-worm  trail. 
Once  the  white  bosom  heaved.  She  fondly  thouglit 
That  at  the  hallow 'd  altar,  soon  the  priest 
Should  bless  her  coming  union,  and  the  torch 
Its  joyful  lustre  o'er  the  hall  of  joy. 
Cast  on  her  nuptial  evening  :  earth  to  earth 
That  priest  consign'd  her,  for  her  lover  went 
By  glory  lured  to  war,  and  perish'd  tiiere  ; 
Nor  she  endured  to  live.     Ila  I  fades  thy  cheek  .' 
Dost  tiiou  then,  Maiden,  tremble  at  the  tale  ■' 
Look  here  I  behold  the  youthful  paramour  I 
The  self-devoted  hero  I   " 

Fearfully  [face 

The  Maid  look'd  down,  and  saw  the  well-known 


Of  Theodori'.     In  thoughts  unsi)eakal)le. 
Convulsed  with  liorror,  o'er  her  face  she  clasp'd 
Her  cold,  damp  hands.  "  Shrink  not,"  the  phantom 

cried ; 
"  Gaze  on  !  "  and  unrelentingly  he  grasp'd 
Her  fjuivering  arm  :  "  this  lifeless,  mouldering  clay. 
As  well  lliou  know'st,  was  warm  with  all  the  glow 
Of  youth  and  love  ;  this  is  the  hand  that  clefl 
Proud  Salisbury's  crest,  now  motionless  in  death, 
Unable  to  protect  the  ravaged  frame 
From  the  foul  ofi'spring  of  mortality 
Tiiatfeod  on  heroes.  Though  long  years  were  thine, 
Yet  never  more  would  life  reanimate 
This  slaughter'd  youth ;  slaugliter'd  for  thee  !  for 

thou 
Didst  lead  him  to  the  battle  from  his  home, 
Where  else  he  had  survived  to  good  old  age  : 
In  thy  defence  he  died:  strike  then  I  destroy 
Remorse  with  life." 

The  Maid  stood  motionless. 
And,  wistloss  what  she  did,  with  trembling  hand 
Received  the  dagger.     Starting  then,  she  cried, 
"  Avaunt,  Despair!   Eternal  Wisdom  deals 
Or  peace  to  man,  or  misery,  for  his  good 
Alike  design'd  ;  and  shall  the  creature  cry, 
'Why  hast  thou  done  this  .'' '  and  with  impious  pride 
Destroy  the  life  God  gave.'" 

The  fiend  rejoin'd, 
"  And  thou  dost  deem  it  impious  to  destroy 
The  life  God  gave .'     What,  Maiden,  is  the  lot 
Assign'd  to  mortal  man  ?  born  but  to  drag. 
Through  life's  long  jjilgrimage,  the  wearying  load 
Of  being ;  care-corroded  at  the  heart ; 
Assail'd  by  all  the  numerous  train  of  ills 
That  flesh  inherits  ;  till  at  length  worn  out. 
This  is  his  consummation  !  —  Think  again  I 
What,  Maiden,  canst  thou  hope  from  lengthen'd  life. 
But  lengthen'd  sorrow  .'     If  protracted  long. 
Till  on  the  bed  of  death  thy  feeble  limbs 
Stretch  out  their  languid  length,  oh,  tliink  what 

thoughts, 
What  agonizing  feelings,  in  that  hour. 
Assail  tiie  sinking  heart !  slow  beats  the  pulse. 
Dim  grows  the  eye,  and  clammy  drops  bedew 
The  shuddering  frame  ;  then  in  its  mightiest  force, 
Mightiest  in  impotence,  the  love  of  life 
Seizes  the  throbbing  heart ;  the  faltering  lips 
Pour  out  the  impious  prayer  that  fain  would  change 
Tlie  Unchangeable's  decree  ;  surrounding  friends 
Sob  round  the  sufferer,  wet  his  cheek  with  tears, 
And  all  he  loved  in  life  imbitters  death. 

"  Such,  Maiden,  are   the   pangs  that  wait  the 
hour 
Of  easiest  dissolution  !  yet  weak  man 
Resolves,  in  timid  piety,  to  live; 
And  veiling  Fear  in  Superstition's  garb. 
He  calls  her  Resignation  ! 

"  Coward  wretch ! 
Fond  coward,  thus  to  make  his  reason  war 
Against  liis  reason  !     Insect  as  he  is, 
This  sport  of  chance,  tiiis  being  of  a  day, 
Whose  whole  existence  the  next  cloud  may  blast. 
Believes  himself  the  care  of  heavenly  powers; 
That  God  regards  man,  miserable  man, 


88 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


BOOK   I. 


And  preaching  thus  of  power  and  providence, 
Will  crush  the  reptile  that  may  cross  his  path ! 

"  Fool  that  thou  art  I  the  Being  that  permits 
Existence,  gives  to  man  the  worthless  boon  ; 
A  goodly  gift  to  those  who,  fortune-blest, 
Bask  in  the  sunshine  of  prosperity. 
And  such  do  well  to  keep  it.     But  to  one 
Sick  at  the  heart  with  misery,  and  sore 
With  many  a  hard,  unuierited  affliction, 
It  is  a  hair  that  chains  to  wretchedness 
The  slave  who  dares  not  burst  it ! 

"  Thinkest  thou. 
The  parent,  if  his  child  should  unrecall'd 
Return  and  fall  upon  his  neck,  and  cry, 
'  Oh !  the  wide  world  is  comfortless,  and  full 
Of  fleeting  joys  and  heart-consuming  cares; 
I  can  be  only  happy  in  my  home 
With  thee  —  my  friend! — my  father!'  Thinkest 

thou. 
That  he  would  thrust  him  as  an  outcast  forth .' 
Oh !  he  would  clasp  the  truant  to  his  heart, 
And  love  the  trespass." 

Whilst  he  spake,  his  eye 
Dwelt  on  the  Maiden's  cheek,  and  read  her  soul 
Struo-gling  within.     In  trembling  doubt  she  stood, 
Even  as  a  wretch,  whose  famish'd  entrails  crave 
Supply,  before  him  sees  the  poison'd  food 
In  greedy  horror. 

Yet,  not  silent  long, 
"Eloquent  tempter,  cease!  "  the  Maiden  cried; 
"  What  though  affliction  be  my  portion  here, 
Thinkest  thou  I  do  not  feel  high  thoughts  of  joy, 
Of  heart-ennobling  joy,  when  I  look  back 
Upon  a  life  of  duty  well  perform'd, 
Then  lift  mine  eyes  to  heaven,  and  there  in  faith 
Know  my  reward?  —  I  grant,  were  this  life  all. 
Was  there  no  morning  to  the  tomb's  long  night. 
If  man  did  mingle  with  the  senseless  clod. 
Himself  as  senseless,  then  wert  thou  indeed 
A  wise  and  friendly  comforter  !  —  But,  fiend. 
There  is  a  morning  to  the  tomb's  long  night, 
A  dawn  of  glory,  a  reward  in  heaven. 
He  shall  not  gain  who  never  merited. 
If  thou  didst  know  the  worth  of  one  good  deed 
In  life's  last  hour,  thou  wouldst  not  bid  me  lose 
The  precious  privilege,  while  life  endures 
To  do  my  Father's  will.     A  mighty  task 
Is  mine,  —  a  glorious  call.     France  looks  to  me 
For  her  deliverance. 

"  Maiden,  thou  hast  done 
Thy  mission  here,"  the  unbaffled  fiend  replied  : 
"  The  foes  are  fled  from  Orleans  :  thou,  perchance 
Exulting  in  the  pride  of  victory, 
Forgettest  him  who  perish'd  :  yet  albeit 
Thy  harden'd  heart  forget  the  gallant  youth, 
That  hour  allotted  canst  thou  not  escape, 
That  dreadful  hour,  when  contumely  and  shame 
Shall  sojourn  in  thy  dungeon.     Wretched  Maid  ! 
Destined  to  drain  the  cup  of  bitterness, 
Even  to  its  dregs,  —  England's  inhuman  chiefs 
Shall  scoff"  thy  sorrows,  blacken  thy  pure  fame. 
Wit-wanton  it  with  lewd  barbarity. 
And  force  such  burning  blushes  to  the  cheek 
Of  virgin  modesty,  that  thou  shalt  wish 


The  earth  might  cover  thee.     In  that  last  liour. 
When  thy  bruis'd  breast  shall  lieave  beneath  the 

chains 
That  link  thee  to  the  stake,  a  spectacle 
For  the  brute  multitude,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Mockery  more  painful  than  tlie  circling  flames 
Which  then  consume  thee  ;  wilt  thou  not  in  vain 
Then  wish  my  friendly  aid  .-'  then  wish  thine  ear 
Had  drank  my  words  of  comfort?  that  thy  hand 
Had  grasp' d  the  dagger,  and  in  death  preserved 
Insulted  modesty  ? " 

Her  glowing  cheek 
Blush'd  crimson ;  her  wide  eye  on  vacancy 
Was  fix'd  ;  her  breath  short  panted.  The  cold  fiend 
Grasping  her  hand,  exclaim'd,  "Too  timid  Maid, 
So  long  repugnant  to  the  healing  aid 
My  friendship  proft'ers,  now  shalt  thou  behold 
The  allotted  length  of  life." 

He  stamp'd  the  earth 
And  dracro-ing  a  huge  coflin  as  his  car, 
Two  Gouls  came  on,  of  form  more  fearful-foul 
Than  ever  palsied  in  her  wildest  dream 
Hag-ridden  Superstition.     Then  Despair 
Seized  on  the  Maid  whose  curdling  blood  stood  still 
And  placed  her  in  the  seat,  and  on  they  pass'd 
Adown  the  deep  descent.     A  meteor  light 
Shot  from  the  demons,  as  they  dragged  along 
The  unwelcome  load,  and  mark'd  their  brethren 

feast 
On  carcasses. 

Below,  the  vault  dilates 
Its  ample  bulk.     "  Look  here  !  "  —  Despair  addrest 
The  shuddering  Virgin ;  "  see  the  dome  of  Death !  " 
It  was  a  spacious  cavern,  hewn  amid 
The  entrails  of  the  earth,  as  though  to  form 
A  grave  for  all  mankind  :  no  eye  could  reach 
Its  distant  bounds.     There,  throned  in  darkness, 

dwelt 
The  unseen  power  of  Death. 

Here  stopt  the  Gouls, 
Reaching  the  destined  spot.     The  fiend  stept  out. 
And  from  the  coffin  as  he  led  the  Maid, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Where  mortal  never  stood  before. 
Thou  standest:  look  around  this  boundless  vault; 
Observe  the  dole  that  Nature  deals  to  man, 
And  learn  to  know  thy  friend." 

She  answer'd  not. 
Observing  where  the  Fates  their  several  tasks 
Plied  ceaseless.  "Mark  how  long  the  shortest  web 
Allow'd  to  man  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  observe  how  soon, 
Twined  round  yon  never-resting  wheel,  they  change 
Their  snowy  hue,  darkening  through  many  a  shade, 
Till  Atropos  relentless  shuts  the  shears." 

Too  true  he  spake,  for  of  the  countless  threads. 
Drawn  from  the  heap,  as  white  as  unsunn'd  snow. 
Or  as  the  spotless  lily  of  the  vale. 
Was  never  one  beyond  the  little  span 
Of  infancy  untainted  ;  few  there  were 
But  lightly  tinged  :  more  of  deep  crimson  hue, 
Or  deeper  sable  dyed.^    Two  Genii  stood. 
Still  as  the  web  of  being  was  drawn  forth. 
Sprinkling  their  powerful  drops.     From  ebon  urn. 
The  one  unsparing  dash'd  the  bitter  drops 
Of  woe  ;  and  as  he  dash'd,  his  dark-brown  brow 


BOOK    II. 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS, 


89 


Rolax'd  to  a  hard  smile.     Tlio  milder  form 

Shed  les8  profusely  there  his  lesser  store ; 

Sometimes  with  tears  increasing  the  scant  boon, 

Compassionating  man  ;  and  happy  he 

Who  on  liis  thread  those  precious  tears  receives ; 

If  it  be  happiness  to  have  the  pulse 

That  tiirobs  with  pity,  and  in  such  a  world 

Of  wretchedness,  the  generous  heart  that  aches 

With  anguish  at  the  sight  of  human  woe. 

To  her  the  fiend,  well  hoping  now  success, 
"  This  is  thy  thread  ;  observe  how  short  the  span ; 
And  little  doth  tlie  evil  Genius  spare 
His  bitter  tincture  there."     The  Maiden  saw 
Calinlv.  "Now  gaze  I  "the  tempter  fiend  exclaim'd, 
And  placed  again  the  poniard  in  her  hand, 
For  Superstition,  with  a  burning  torch, 
Approacird  tlie  loom.     "  This,  Damsel,  is  thy  fate  ! 
The  hour  draws  on  —  now  strike  the  dagger  home  ! 
Strike  now,  and  be  at  rest !  " 

The  Maid  replied, 
"  Or  to  prevent  or  change  the  will  of  Heaven, 
Impious  1  strive  not :  let  that  will  be  done  !  " 


THE   SECOND   BOOK. 

She  spake,  and  lo  I  celestial  radiance  beam'd 
Amid  the  air,  such  odors  wafting  now 
As  erst  came  blended  with  tlie  evening  gale. 
From  Eden's  bowers  of  bliss.     An  angel  form 
Stood  by  the  Maid ;  his  wings,  ethereal  white, 
Flash'd  like  the  diamond  in  the  noon-tide  sun. 
Dazzling  her  mortal  eye  :  all  else  appear'd 
Her  Theodore. 

Amazed  she  saw :  the  fiend 
Was  fled,  and  on  her  ear  the  well-known  voice 
Sounded,  tliough  now  more  musically  sweet 
Than  ever  yet  had  tlirill'd  her  soul  attuned. 
When  eloquent  affection  fondly  told 
The  day-dreams  of  delight. 

"  Beloved  Maid ! 
Lo  1   I  am  with  thee,  still  thy  Theodore  ! 
Hearts  in  the  holy  bands  of  love  combined, 
Death  has  no  power  to  sever.     Thou  art  mine  ! 
A  little  while  and  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me. 
In  scenes  where  sorrow  is  not.     Cheerily 
Tread  thou  the  path  that  leads  thee  to  the  grave. 
Rough  though  it  be  and  painful,  for  the  grave 
Is  but  the  threshold  of  eternity. 

"Favor'd  of  Heaven,  to  thee  is  given  to  view 
These  secret  realms.     The  bottom  of  the  abyss 
Thou  treadest,  Maiden.     Here  the  dungeons  are 
Where  bad  men  learn  repentance.     Souls  diseased 
Must  have  their  remedy ;  and  where  disease 
Is  rooted  deep,  the  remedy  is  long 
Perforce,  and  painful." 

Thus  the  spirit  spake. 
And  led  the  Maid  along  a  narrow  path. 
Dark  gleaming  to  the  light  of  far-off  flames, 
More  dread  than  darkness.     Soon  the  distant  sound 
Of  clanking  anvils,  and  the  lengthen'd  breath 
12 


Provoking  fire  are  heard;  and  now  they  reach 
A  wide  e.xpanded  den  where  all  arovind 
Tremendous  furnaces,  with  hellish  blaze. 
Were  burning.     At  the  heaving  bellows  stood 
The  meagre  form  of  Care  ;  and  as  he  blew 
To  augment  the  fire,  the  fire  augmented  scorch'd 
His  wretched  limbs;  sleepless  forever  thus 
He  toil'd  and  loil'd,  of  toil  no  end  to  know 
But  endless  toil  and  never-ending  woe. 

An  aged  man  went  round  the  infernal  vault. 
Urging  his  workmen  to  their  ceaseless  task  ; 
White  were  his  locks,  as  is  the  wintry  snow 
On  hoar  Plinlimmon's  head.     A  golden  staff 
Ilis  stei).s  supported  :  powerful  talisman. 
Which  whoso  feels  shall  never  feel  again 
The  tear  of  pity,  or  the  tiirob  of  love. 
Touch'd  but  by  this,  the  massy  gates  give  way, 
The  buttress  trembles,  and  the  guarded  wall. 
Guarded  in  vain,  submits.     Him  heathens  erst 
Had  deified,  and  bowed  the  suppliant  knee 
To  Plutus.     Nor  are  now  his  votaries  few. 
Even  though  our  blessed  Savior  iiatli  himself 
Told  us,  that  easier  through  the  needle's  eye 
Shall  the  huge  camel  pass,'*  than  the  rich  man 
Enter  the  gates  of  heaven.     "Ye  cannot  serve 
Your  God  and  worship  Mammon." 

"  Mission'd  Maid  !  " 
So  spake  the  spirit,  "  know  that  these,  whose  hands 
Round  each  white  furnace  j)ly  the  unceasing  toil, 
Were  Mammon's  slaves  on  earth.     They  did  not 

spare 
To  wring  from  poverty  the  hard-earn'd  mite  ; 
They  robb'd  the  orphan's  pittance ;  they  could  see 
Want's  asking  eye  unmoved;  and  therefore  these, 
Ranged  round  the  furnace,  still  must  persevere 
In  Mammon's  service,  scorch'd  by  these  fierce  fires, 
Nor  seldom  by  the  overboiling  ore 
Caught;  yet  retaining  still,  to  punishment 
Converted  here,  their  old  besetting  sin. 
Often  impatiently  to  quench  their  thirst 
Unquenchable,  large  draughts  of  molten  gold  * 
They  drink  insatiate,  still  with  pain  renew'd. 
Pain  to  destroy." 

So  saying,  her  he  led 
Forth  from  the  dreadful  cavern  to  a  cell 
Brilliant  with  gem-born  light.     The  rugged  walls 
Part  gleam'd  with  gold,  and  part  with  silver  ore 
In  milder  radiance  shone.     The  carbuncle 
There  its  strong  lustre  like  the  flamy  sun 
Shot  forth  irradiate ;  from  the  earth  beneath. 
And  from  the  roof  there  stream'd  a  diamond  light 
Rubies  and  amethysts  their  glows  commix'd 
With  the  gay  topaz,  and  the  softer  ray- 
Shot  from  the  sapphire,  and  the  emerald's  nue. 
And  bright  pyropus. 

There,  on  golden  seats, 
A  numerous,  sullen,  melancholy  train 
Sat  silent.     "Maiden,  these,"  said  Theodore, 
"Are  they  who  let  the  love  of  wealth  absorb 
All  other  passions  ;  in  their  souls  that  vice 
Struck  deeply-rooted,  like  the  poison-tree 
That  with  its  shade  spreads  barrenness  around. 
These,  Maid  !  were  men  by  no  atrocious  crime 
Blacken'd,  no  fraud,  nor  ruflian  violence  ; 


90 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


BOOK   II. 


Men  of  fair  dealing,  and  respectable 
On  earth,  but  such  as  only  i'or  themselves 
Heap'd  uj)  their  treasures,  deeming  all  their  wealth 
Their  own,  and  given  to  them,  by  partial  Heaven, 
To  bless  them  only  :  therefore  here  they  sit, 
Possessd  of  gold  enough,  and  by  no  pain 
Tormented,  save  the  knowledge  of  the  bliss 
They  lost,  and  vain  repentance.     Here  they  dwell, 
Loathing  these  useless  treasures,  till  the  hour 
Of  general  restitution." 

Thence  they  past, 
And  now  arriv'd  at  such  a  gorgeous  dome, 
As  even  the  pomp  of  Eastern  opulence 
Could  never  equal :  wandered  through  its  halls 
A  numerous  train ;  some  with  the  red-swollen  eye 
Of  riot,  and  intemperance-bloated  cheek ; 
Some  pale  and  nerveless,  and  with  feeble  step. 
And  eyes  lack-lustre. 

"  Maiden  !  "  said  her  guide. 
These  are  the  wretched  slaves  of  Appetite, 
Curst  with  tlieir  wish  cnjoy'd.     The  epicure 
Here  pampers  his  foul  frame,  till  the  pall'd  sense 
Loathes  at  the  banquet ;  the  voluptuous  here 
Plunge  in  the  tempting  torrent  of  delight. 
And  sink  in  misery.     All  they  wish'd  on  earth 
Possessing  here,  whom  have  they  to  accuse 
But  their  own  folly,  for  the  lot  they  chose .' 
Yet,  for  that  these  injured  themselves  alone. 
They  to  the  house  of  Penitence  may  hie. 
And,  by  a  long  and  painful  regimen. 
To  wearied  Nature  her  exhausted  powers 
Restore,  till  they  shall  learn  to  form  the  wish 
Of  wisdom,  and  Almighty  Goodness  grants 
That  prize  to  him  who  seeks  it." 

Whilst  he  spake, 
The  board  is  spread.     With  bloated  paunch,  and 

eyes 
Fat-swollen,  and  legs  whose  monstrous  size  dis- 
graced 
The  human  form  divine,  their  caterer, 
Hight  Gluttony,  set  forth  the  smoking  feast. 
And  by  his  side  came  on  a  brother  form, 
With  fiery  cheek  of  purple  hue,  and  red 
And  scurfy-while,  mix'd  motley ;  his  gross  bulk. 
Like  some  huge  hogshead  shapen'd,  as  applied. 
Him  liad  antiquity  with  mystic  rites 
Adored ;  to  him  the  sons  of  Greece,  and  thine, 
Imperial  Rome,  on  many  an  altar  pour'd 
The  victim  blood,  with  god-like  titles  graced, 
Bacchus,  or  Dionusus ;  son  of  Jove, 
Deem'd  falsely,  for  from  Folly's  idiot  form 
He  sprung,  what  time  Madness,  with  furious  hand, 
Seized  on  the  laughing  female.     At  one  birtli 
She  brought  the  brethren,  menial  here  below, 
Though  sovereigns  upon  earth,  where  oft  they  hold 
High  revels.     'Mid  the  monastery's  gloom. 
Thy  palace.  Gluttony,  and  oft  to  thee 
The  sacrifice  is  spread,  when  the  grave  voice 
Episcopal  proclaims  approaching  day 
Of  visitation ;  or  church- wardens  meet 
To  save  the  wretched  many  from  the  gripe 
Of  poverty ;  or  'mid  thy  ample  halls 
Of  London,  mighty  Mayor  !  rich  Aldermen, 
Of  coming  feast  hold  converse. 

Otherwhere, 


For  though  allied  in  nature  as  in  blood, 

They  hold  divided  sway,  his  brother  lifts 

His  spongy  sceptre.     In  the  noble  domes 

Of  princes,  and  state-wearied  ministers,         [mind 

Maddening  he  reigns;   and  when  the  affrighted 

Casts  o'er  a  long  career  of  guilt  and  blood 

Its  eye  reluctant,  then  his  aid  is  sought 

To  lull  the  worm  of  conscience  to  repose. 

He  too  the  halls  of  country  squires  frequents ; 

But  chiefly  loves  the  learned  gloom  that  shades 

Thy  offspring  Rhedycina,  and  thy  walls, 

Granta  !  nightly  libations  there  to  him 

Profuse  are  pour'd,  till  from  the  dizzy  brain 

Triangles,  circles,  parallelograms. 

Moods,  tenses,  dialects,  and  demigods. 

And  logic  and  theology,  are  swept 

By  the  red  deluge. 

Unmolested  there 
He  revels ;  till  the  general  feast  comes  round, 
The  sacrifice  septennial,  when  the  sons 
Of  England  meet,  with  watchful  care,  to  choose 
Their  delegates,  wise,  independent  men, 
Unbribing  and  unbribed,  and  chosen  to  guard 
Their  rights  and  charters  from  the  encroaching 

grasp 
Of  greedy  power ;  then  all  the  joyful  land 
Join  in  his  sacrifices,  so  inspired 
To  make  the  important  choice. 

The  observing  Maid 
Address'd  her  guide  :  "These,Theodore,thousay'st 
Arc  men,  who,  pampering  their  foul  appetites, 
Injured  themselves  alone.     But  where  are  they, 
The  worst  of  villains,  viper-like,  who  coil 
Around  deluded  woman,  so  to  sting 
The  heart  that  loves  them  ?  " 

"  Them,"  the  spirit  replied, 
"A  long  and  dreadful  punishment  awaits. 
For  when  the  prey  of  want  and  infamy. 
Lower  and  lower  still  the  victim  sinks, 
Even  to  the  depth  of  shame,  not  one  lewd  word, 
One  impious  imprecation  from  her  lips 
Escapes,  nay,  not  a  thought  of  evil  lurks 
In  the  polluted  mind,  that  does  not  plead 
Before  the  throne  of  Justice,  thunder-tongued. 
Against  the  foul  seducer." 

Now  they  reach'd 
The  house  of  Penitence.     Credulity 
Stood  at  the  gate,  stretching  her  eager  head 
As  though  to  listen ;  on  her  vacant  face, 
A  look  that  promised  premature  assent ; 
Tho.ugh  her  Regret  behind,  a  meagre  fiend, 
Disciplined  sorely. 

Here  they  enter'd  in, 
And  now  arrived  where,  as  in  study  tranced. 
They  saw  the  mistress  of  the  dome.     Her  face 
Spake  that  composed  severity,  that  knows 
No  angry  impulse,  no  weak  tenderness, 
Resolved  and  calm.     Before  her  lay  the  Book, 
Which  hath  the  words  of  life ;  and  as  she  read, 
Sometimes  a  tear  would  trickle  down  her  cheek. 
Though  heavenly  joy  beam'd  in  her  eye  the  while. 

Leaving  her  undisturb'd,  to  the  first  ward 
Of  this  great  lazar-house  the  Angel  led 
The  favor'd  Maid  of  Orleans.     Kneeling  down 


( 


BOOK    II. 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


91 


On  tlie  hard  stone  which  their  bare  knees  liad  worn, 

In  sackcloth  robed,  a  imaierous  train  appear'd  : 

Hard-featured  sonic,  and  some  demurely  grave; 

Yet  such  expression  stealing  from  the  eye, 

As  tliougli,  tliat  only  naked,  all  tiie  rest 

Were  one  close-fitting  mask.     A  scoffing  fiend  — 

For  fiend  he  was,  though  wisely  serving  here  — 

Mock'd  at  his  patients,  and  did  often  strow 

Ashes  upon  them,  and  then  bid  tliem  say 

Their  prayers  aloud,  and  then  he  louder  laugh'd : 

For  these  were  hypocrites,  on  eartli  revered 

As  holy  ones,  who  did  in  public  tell 

Their  beads,  and   make   long  prayers,  and  cross 

themselves, 
And  call  themselves  most  miserable  sinners, 
That  so  they  might  be  deem'd  most  pious  saints; 
And  (JO  all  filtli,  and  never  let  a  smile 
Bend  tlieir  stern  muscles ;  gloomy,  sullen  men, 
IJarren  of  all  affection,  and  all  this 
To  please  their  God,  forsooth  !  And  therefore  Scorn 
Grinn'd  at  his  patients,  making  them  repeat 
Their  solemn  farce,  witii  keenest  raillery 
Tormenting ;  but  if  earnest  in  their  pra}-cr. 
They  pour'd  the  silent  sorrows  of  the  soul 
To  lieaven,  then  did  they  not  regard  his  mocks 
Which  then  came  painless,  and  Humility 
Then  rescued  them,  and  led  to  Penitence, 
That  she  might  lead  to  Heaven. 

From  thence  they  came. 
Where,  in  the  next  ward,  a  most  wretched  band 
Groan'd  underneath  the  bitter  tyranny 
Of  a  fierce  demon.     His  coarse  hair  was  red. 
Pale-gray  his  eyes,  and  bloodsliot ;  and  his  face 
Wrinkled  by  such  a  smile  as  Malice  wears 
In  ecstasy.     Well-pleased  he  went  around. 
Plunging  his  dagger  in  the  hearts  of  some, 
Or  probing  with  a  poison'd  lance  their  breasts. 
Or  placing  coals  of  fire  within  their  wounds ; 
Or  seizing  some  within  his  mighty  grasp, 
He  fix'd  them  on  a  stake,  and  tlien  drew  back 
And  laugh'd  to  see  them  writhe. 

"  These,"  said  the  spirit, 
"  Are  taught  by  Cruelty,  to  loathe  the  lives 
They  led  themselves.     Here  are  those  wicked  men 
Who  loved  to  exercise  their  tyrant  power 
On  speechless  brutes ;  bad  husbands  undergo 
A  long  purgation  here  ;  the  traffickers 
In  human  flesh  here,  too,  are  disciplined. 
Till  by  their  suffering  they  have  equall'd  all 
The  miseries  they  inflicted,  all  the  mass 
Of  wretchedness  caused  by  tiie  wars  they  waged, 
The  villages  they  burnt,  the  widows  left 
In  want,  tlie  slave  or  led  to  suicide. 
Or  murder'd  by  the  foul,  infected  air 
Of  his  close  dungeon,  or,  more  sad  than  all, 
His  virtue  lost,  his  very  soul  enslaved, 
And  driven  by  woe  to  wickedness. 

"  These  next, 
Whom  thou  beholdest  in  this  dreary  room. 
With  sullen  eyes  of  hatred  and  of  fear 
Each  on  the  other  scowling,  these  have  been 
False   friends.      Tormented    by    their   own   dark 

thoughts. 
Here  they  dwell :  in  the  hollow  of  their  hearts 
There  is  a  worm  that  feeds,  and  though  thou  scest 


That  skilful  leech  who  willingly  would  heal 
The  ill  they  sulier,  judging  of  all  else 
By  their  own  evil  conscience,  they  suspect 
The  aid  he  vainly  proffers,  lengthening  thus 
By  vice  its  punishment." 

"  But  who  are  these," 
The  Maid  exclaim'd,  "  that  robed  in  flowing  lawn, 
And  mitred,  or  in  scarlet,  and  in  caps 
Like  cardinals,  I  see  in  every  ward, 
Performing  menial  service  at  the  beck 
Of  all  who  bid  them?" 

Theodore  replied, 
"  These  men  are  they  who  in  the  name  of  Christ 
Have  hcap'd  up  wealth,  and  arrogating  power. 
Have  made  kings  kiss  their  feet,  yet  call'd  them- 
selves 
The  servants  of  the  servants  of  the  Lord. 
They  dwelt  in  palaces,  in  purple  clothed. 
And  in  fine  linen;  therefore  are  they  here; 
And  thougii  they  would  not  minister  on  earth, 
Here  penanced  tiiey  perforce  must  minister  : 
Did  not  the  Holy  One  of  Nazareth 
Tell  them,  his  kingdom  is  not  of  the  world.' " 

So  saying,  on  they  past,  and  now  arrived 
Where  such  a  hideous  gliastly  group  abode, 
That  the  Maid  gazed  with  half-averting  eye, 
And  shudder'd  :  each  one  was  a  loiithl}-  corpse; 
The  worm  was  feeding  on  his  putrid  prey; 
Yet  had  they  life  and  feeling  exquisite, 
Though  motionless  and  mute. 

"  Most  wretched  men 
Are  these,"  the  angel  cried.     "  Poets  thou  seest 
Whose  loose,  lascivious  lays  perpetuated 
Their  own  corruption.     Soul-polluted  slaves, 
Who  sate  them  down,  deliberately  l(!wd, 
So  to  awake  and  pamper  lust  in  minds 
Unborn ;  and  therefore  foul  of  body  now 
As  then  they  were  of  soul,  they  here  abide 
Long  as  the  evil  works  the}'  left  on  earth 
Shall  live  to  taint  mankind.     A  dreadful  doom! 
Yet  amply  merited  by  all  who  thus 
Have  to  the  Devil's  service  dedicated 
The  gift  of  song,  the  gift  divine  of  heaven !  " 

And  now  they  reach'd  a  huge  and  massy  pile, 
Massy  it  scein'd,  and  j-ct  with  every  blast 
As  to  its  ruin  shook.     There,  porter  fit. 
Remorse  forever  his  sad  vigils  kept. 
Pale,  hollow-eyed,  emaciate,  sleepless  wretch. 
Inly  he  groan'd,  or,  starting,  wildly  shriek'd. 
Aye  as  the  fabric  tottering  from  its  base, 
Threaten'd  its  fall,  and  so  expectant  still 
Lived  in  tlie  dread  of  danger  still  delay 'd. 
They  enter'd  there  a  large  and  lofty  dome, 
O'er  whose  black  marble  sides  a  dim,  drear  light 
Struggled  with  darkness  from  the  unfrcquent  lamp. 
Fiiithroned  around,  the  murderers  of  mankind, 
Monarchs,  the  great,  the  glorious,  the  august, 
Each  bearing  on  his  brow  a  crown  of  fire, 
Sat  stern  and  silent.     Niinrod,  he  was  tliere, 
First  king,  the  mighty  hunter  ;  and  that  chief 
Who  did  belie  his  mother's  fame,  that  so 
He  might  be  called  young  Ammon.     In  tliis  court 
Ctcsar  was  crown'd,  the  great  liberticide  ; 


92 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


BOOK    III. 


And  he  who  to  the  death  of  Cicero 
Consented,  thoiioh  the  courtly  minion's  lyre 
Ilath  liy  nin'd  liis  praise,  thougli  Maro  sung  to  him, 
And  when  death  levell'd  to  original  clay 
The  royal  body,  impious  Flattery 
Fell  at  his  feet,  and  worshipp'd  the  new  god. 
Titus  was  here,"  the  coniiueror  of  the  Jews, 
He  the  delight  of  human-kind  misnamed ; 
Cajsars  and  Soldans,  Emperors  and  Kings, 
All  who  for  glory  fought,  here  they  were  all, 
Here  in  the  Hall  of  Glory,  reaping  now 
The  meed  they  merited. 

As  gazing  round 
The  Virgin  mark'd  the  miserable  train, 
A  deep  and  hollow  voice  from  one  went  forth  ; 
"  Thou  who  art  come  to  view  our  punishment, 
Maiden  of  Orleans!  hither  turn  thine  eye, 
For  I  am  he  whose  bloody  victories 
Thy  power  hath  rendcr'd  vain.     Lo  !  I  am  here, 
The  hero  conqueror  of  Agincourt, 
Henry  of  England  1  —  Wretched  that  1  am  ! 
I  might  have  reign'd  in  happiness  and  peace. 
My  coffers  full,  my  subjects  undisturb'd, 
And  Plenty  and  Prosperity  had  loved 
To  dwell  amongst  them  ;   but  in  evil  hour 
Seeing  the  realm  of  France,  by  faction  torn, 
I  thought  in  pride  of  heart  that  it  would  fall 
An  easy  prey.     I  persecuted  those 
Who  taught  new  doctrines,  though  they  taught  the 

truth ; 
And  when  1  heard  of  thousands  by  the  sword 
Cut  off,  or  blasted  by  the  pestilence, 
I  calmly  counted  up  my  proper  gains. 
And  sent  new  herds  to  slaughter.     Temperate 
Myseif,  no  blood  that  mutinied,  no  vice 
Tainting  my  private  life,  I  sent  abroad 
Muruer  and  Rape ;  and  therefore  am  I  doom'd, 
Like  these  imperial  sufferers,  crown'd  with  fire, 
Here  to  remain,  till  man's  awaken'd  eye 
Shall  see  the  genuine  blackness  of  our  deeds; 
And  warn'd  by  them,  till  the  whole  human  race, 
Equalling  in  bliss  the  aggregate  we  caused 
Of  wretchedness,  shall  form  one  brotherhood, 
One  universal  family  of  love." 


THE  THIRD  BOOK. 

The  Maiden,  musing  on  the  warrior's  words, 
Turn  d  from  the  Hall  of  Glory.     Now  they  reach'd 
A  cavern,  at  whose  mouth  a  Genius  stood, 
In  front  a  beardless  youth,  whose  smiling  eye 
Bcam'd  promise,  but  behind,  wither'd  and  old, 
And  all  unlovely.     Underneath  his  feet 
Records  obliterate  lay,  and  laurels  sear. 
He  held  an  hour-glass,  and  as  the  sands  fall, 
So  pass  the  lives  of  men.     By  him  they  past 
Along  the  darksome  cave,  and  reach'd  a  stream, 
Still  rolling  onward  its  perpetual  course 
Noiseless  and  undisturb'd.     Here  they  ascend 
A  bark  unpiloted,  that  down  the  stream, 
Borne  by  the  current,  rush'd,  which  circling  still. 
Returning  to  itself,  an  island  form'd ; 


Nor  had  the  Maiden's  footsteps  ever  reach'd 
The  insulated  coast,  eternally 
Rapt  round  in  endless  whirl :  but  Theodore 
Drove  with  a  spirit's  will  the  obedient  bark. 

They  land ;  a  mighty  fabric  meets  their  eyes, 
Seen  by  its  gem-born  light.     Of  adamant 
The  pile  was  framed,  forever  to  abide 
Firm  in  eternal  strength.     Before  the  gate 
Stood  eager  Expectation,  as  to  catch 
The  half-heard  murnmrs  issuing  from  within. 
Her  mouth  half-open'd,  and  her  head  stretch'd  forth. 
On  the  other  side  there  stood  an  aged  crone. 
Listening  to  every  breath  of  air;  she  knew 
Vague  suppositions  and  uncertain  dreams 
Of  what  was  soon  to  come,  for  she  would  mark 
The  little  glow-worm's  self-emitted  light. 
And  argue  thence  of  kingdoms  overthrown. 
And  desolated  nations;  ever  fill'd 
With  undetermined  terror,  as  she  heard 
Or  distant  screech-owl,  or  the  regular  beat 
Of  evening  death-watch. 

"Maid,"  the  spirit  cried, 
"  Here,  robed  in  shadows,  dwells  Futurity. 
There  is  no  eye  hath  seen  her  secret  form. 
For  round  the  Mother  of  Time  eternal  mists 
Hover.     If  thou  would'st  read  the  book  of  fate, 
Go  in !  " 

The  damsel  for  a  moment  paused, 
Then  to  the  angel  spake  :  "  All-gracious  Heaven, 
Benignant  in  withholding,  hath  denied 
To  man  that  knowledge.     1,  in  faith  assured, 
Knowing  my  heavenly  Father  for  the  best 
Ordaineth  all  things,  in  that  faith  remain 
Contented." 

"  Well  and  wisely  hast  thou  said," 
So  Theodore  replied  ;  "  and  now,  O  Maid  I 
Is  there  amid  this  boundless  universe 
One  whom  thy  soul  would  visit?     Is  there  place 
To  memory  dear,  or  vision'd  out  by  hope. 
Where  thou  would'st  now  be  present?  Form  the 

wish. 
And  I  am  with  thee,  there." 

His  closing  speech 
Yet  sounded  on  her  ear,  and  lo  !  they  stood 
Swift  as  the  sudden  thought  that  guided  them. 
Within  the  little  cottage  that  she  loved. 
"He  sleeps!  the  good  man  sleeps  !  "enrapt  she  cried, 
As  bending  o'er  her  uncle's  lowly  bed 
Her  eye  retraced  his  features.     "  See  the  beads 
Which  never  morn  nor  night  he  fails  to  tell, 
Remembering  me,  his  child,  in  every  prayer. 
Oh  !  peaceful  be  thy  sleep,  thou  dear  old  man  ! 
Good  Angels  guard  thy  rest !  and  when  thine  hour 
Is  come,  as  gently  mayst  thou  wake  to  life. 
As  when  through  yonder  lattice  the  next  sun 
Shall  bid  thee  to  thy  morning  orisons  !  " 

"Thy  voice  is  heard,"  the  angel  guide  rejoin  d, 
"  He  sees  thee  in  his  dreams,  he  hears  thee  breathe 
Blessings,  and  happy  is  the  good  man's  rest. 
Thy  fame  has  reach'd  him,  for  who  hath  not  heard 
Thy  wondrous  exploits  ?  and  his  aged  heart 
Hath  felt  the  deepest  joy  that  ever  yet 
Made  his  glad  blood  flow  fast.    Sleep  on,  old  Claude ! 


fiooK  rii. 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS, 


93 


Peaceful,  pure  spirit,  be  thy  sojourn  here. 
And  sliorl  ami  soon  tiiy  passajro  to  that  world 
W'here  friends  shall  part  no  more  ! 

Does  thy  soul  own 
No  other  wish  ?  or  sleeps  poor  Madclon 
Forgotten  in  her  grave?  —  Seest  tliou  yon  star," 
Tlie  spirit  pursued,  regardless  that  her  eye 
Reproach'd  him  ;  "seest  thou  that  evening  star 
W'liose  lovely  light  so  often  we  beheld 
From  yonder  woodbine   porch?      How  have  we 

gazed 
Into  the  dark,  deep  sky,  till  the  baffled  soul. 
Lost  in  the  infinite,  return'd,  and  felt 
The  burden  of  her  bodily  load,  and  yearn'd 
For  freedom  !     Maid,  in  yonder  evening  star 
Lives  thy  departed  friend.     I  read  that  glance, 
And  we  are  there  !  " 

He  said,  and  they  had  past 
The  immeasurable  space. 

Then  on  her  ear 
The  lonely  song  of  adoration  rose. 
Sweet  as  the  cloister'd  virgin's  vesper  hymn, 
Whose  spirit,  happily  dead  to  earthly  hopes, 
Already  lives  in  heaven.     Abrupt  the  song 
Ceased,  tremulous  and  quick  a  cry 
Of  joyful  wonder  roused  the  astonish'd  Maid, 
And  instant  Madelon  was  in  her  arms ; 
No  airy  form,  no  unsubstantial  shape, 
She  felt  her  friend ;  she  prest  her  to  her  heart ; 
Their  tears  of  rapture  mingled. 

She  drew  back, 
And  eagerly  she  gazed  on  Madelon, 
Then  fell  upon  her  neck  and  wept  again. 
No  more  she  saw  the  long-drawn  lines  of  grief, 
The  emaciate  form,  the  hue  of  sickliness. 
The  languid  eye  :  youth's  loveliest  freshness  now 
Mantled  her  cheek,  whose  every  lineament 
Bespake  the  soul  at  rest,  a  holy  calm, 
A  deep  and  full  tranquillity  of  bliss. 

"  Thou   then   art   come,  my   first   and   dearest 
friend!" 
The  well-known  voice  of  Madelon  began, 
"  Thou  then  art  come  !     And  was  thy  pilgrimage 
So  short  on  earth  ?  and  was  it  painful  too. 
Painful  and  short  as  mine  ?  but  blessed  they 
Who  from  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  the  world 
Early  escape !  " 

"Nay,"  Theodore  replied, 
"  She  hath  not  yet  fulfill'd  her  mortal  work. 
Permitted  visitant  from  earth  she  comes 
To  see  the  seat  of  rest ;  and  oftentimes 
In  sorrow  shall  her  soul  remember  this. 
And  patient  of  its  transitory  woe. 
Partake  again  the  anticipated  joy." 

"  Soon  be  that  work  perform'd  !  "  the  Maid  ex- 
claim'd, 
"  O  Madelon  !  O  Theodore  !    My  soul. 
Spurning  the  cold  communion  of  the  world. 
Will  dwell  with  you.     But  I  shall  patiently. 
Yea,  even  with  joy,  endure  the  allotted  ills 
Of  which  the  memory  in  this  better  state 
Shall  heighten  bliss.     That  hour  of  agony. 
When,  Madelon,  1  felt  thy  dying  grasp. 


And  from  thy  forehead  wiped  the  dews  of  death, 
The  very  anguish  of  tliat  hour  becomes 
A  joy  for  memory  now." 

"  O  earliest  friend  ! 
I  too  remember,"  Madelon  replied, 
"  That  hour,  thy  looks  of  watchful  agony, 
The  supprest  grief  that  struggled  in  thine  eye 
Endearing  love's  last  kindness.    Thou  didst  know 
With  what  ii  deep  and  earnest  hope  intense 
I  felt  the  hour  draw  on  :  but  who  can  speak 
The  unutterable  transport,  when  mine  eyes, 
As  from  a  long  and  dreary  dream,  unclosed 
Amid  this  peaceful  vale,  —  unclosed  upon 
My  Arnaud  !     He  had  built  me  up  a  bower, 
A  bower  of  rest.  —  See,  Maiden,  where  he  comes, 
His  manly  lineaments,  his  beaming  eye. 
The  same,  but  now  a  holler  innocence 
Sits  on  his  cheek,  and  loftier  thoughts  illume 
The  enlighten'd  glance." 

They  met ;  what  jo}'  was  theirs 
He  best  can  feel,  who  for  a  dear  friend  dead 
Hath  wet  the  midnight  pillow  with  his  tears. 

Fair  was  the  scene  around  ;  an  ample  vale 
Whose  mountain  circle  at  the  distant  verge 
Lay  soften'd  on  the  sight;  the  near  ascent 
Rose  bolder  up,  in  part  abrupt  and  bare, 
Part  with  the  ancient  majesty  of  woods 
Adorn'd,  or  lifting  high  its  rocks  sublime. 
A  river's  liquid  radiance  roll'd  beneath  : 
Beside  the  bower  of  Madelon  it  wound 
A  broken  stream,  whose  shallows,  though  the  waves 
Roll'd  on  their  way  with  rapid  melody, 
A  child  might  tread.     Behind,  an  orange  grove 
Its  gay,  green  foliage  starr'd  with  golden  fruit. 
But  with  what  odors  did  their  blossoms  load 
The  passing  gale  of  eve  !     Less  thrilling  sweets 
Rose  from  the  marble's  perforated  floor, 
Where  kneeling  at  her  prayers,  the  Moorish  queen 
Inhaled  the  cool  delight,"  and  whilst  she  ask'd 
The  prophet  for  his  promised  paradise, 
Shaped  from  the  present  bliss  its  utmost  joys. 
A  goodly  scene  I  fair  as  that  fairy  land 
Where  Arthur  lives,  by  ministering  spirits  borne 
From  Camelot's  bloody  banks ;  or  as  the  groves 
Of  earliest  Eden,  where,  so  legends  say, 
Enoch  abides  ;  and  he  who,  rapt  away 
By  fiery  steeds  and  charioted  in  fire, 
Past  in  his  mortal  form  the  eternal  ways ; 
And  John,  beloved  of  Christ,  enjoying  there 
The  beatific  vision,  sometimes  seen. 
The  distant  dawning  of  eternal  day, 
Till  all  things  be  fulfilled. 

"  Survey  this  scene  ; 
So  Theodore  address'd  the  Maid  of  Arc  ; 
"There  is  no  evil  here,  no  wretchedness; 
It  is  the  heaven  of  those  who  nurst  on  earth 
Their  nature's  gentlest  feelings.     Yet  not  here 
Centring  their  joys,  but  with  a  patient  hope. 
Waiting  the  allotted  hour  when  capable 
Of  loftier  callings,  to  a  better  state 
They  pass ;  and  hither  from  that  better  state 
Frequent  they  come,  preserving  so  those  ties 
Which  through  the  infinite  progressiveness 
Complete  our  perfi'ct  bliss. 


94 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS. 


BOOK   III. 


Even  such,  so  blest, 
Save  that  the  memory  of  no  sorrows  past 
Heighten'd  tlie  present  joy,  our  world  was  once, 
In  the  first  era  of  its  innocence, 
Ere  man  had  learnt  to  bow  the  knee  to  man. 
Was  there  a  youth  whom  warm  affection  fill'd, 
He  spake  his  honest  heart ;  the  earliest  fruits 
His  toil  produced,  the  sweetest  flowers  that  deck'd 
The  sunny  bank,  he  gather'd  for  the  maid, 
Nor  she  disdain'd  the  gift;  for  Vice  not  yet 
Had  burst  the  dungeons  of  her  Hell,  and  rear'd 
Those  artificial  boundaries  that  divide 
Man  from  his  species.     State  of  blessedness  ! 
Till  tiiat  ill-omen'd  hour  when  Cain's  true  son 
Delved  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  gold, 
Accursed  bane  of  virtue,  —  of  such  force 
As  poets  feign  dwelt  in  the  Gorgon's  locks, 
Which  whoso  saw,  felt  instant  the  life-blood 
Cold  curdle  in  his  veins,  the  creeping  flesh 
Grew  stiff"  with  horror,  and  the  heart  forgot 
To  beat.     Accursed  hour  !  for  man  no  more 
To  Justice  paid  his  homage,  but  forsook 
Her  altars,  and  bow'd  down  before  the  shrine 
Of  Wealth  and  Power,  the  idols  he  had  made. 
Then  Hell  enlarged  herself,  her  gates  flew  wide. 
Her  legion  fiends  rush'd  forth.     Oppression  came. 
Whose  frown  is  desolation,  and  whose  breath 
Blasts  like  tlie  pestilence ;  and  Poverty, 
A  meagre  monster,  who  with  withering  touch 
Makes  barren  all  the  better  part  of  man. 
Mother  of  Miseries.     Then  the  goodly  earth 
Which  God  had  framed  for  happiness,  became 
One  theatre  of  woe,  and  all  that  God 
Had  given  to  bless  free  men,  these  tyrant  fiends 
His  bitterest  curses  made.     Yet  for  the  best 
Have  all  things  been  appointed  by  the  All-wise  I 
For  by  experience  taught  shall  man  at  length 
Dash  down  his  Moloch-idols,  Samson-like, 
And  burst  his  fetters.     Then  in  the  ab3rss 
Oppression  shall  be  chain'd,  and  Poverty 
Die,  and  with  her,  her  brood  of  miseries ; 
And  'Virtue  and  Equality  preserve 
The  reign  of  Love,  and  earth  shall  once  again 
Be  Paradise,  where  Wisdom  shall  secure 
The  state  of  bliss  which  Ignorance  betray 'd." 

"  Oh  age  of  happiness  ! "  the  Maid  exclaim'd, 
"  Roll  fast  thy  current.  Time,  till  that  blest  age 
Arrive  !  and  happy  thou,  my  Theodore, 
Permitted  thus  to  see  the  sacred  depths 
Of  wisdom  !  " 

"  Such,"  the  blessed  spirit  replied, 
"Beloved!  such  our  lot;  allowed  to  range 
The  vast  infinity,  progressive  still 
In  knowledge  and  increasing  blessedness, 
This  our  united  portion.     Thou  hast  yet 
A  little  while  to  sojourn  amongst  men  : 
I  will  be  with  thee ;  there  shall  not  a  breeze 
Wanton  around  thy  temples,  on  whose  wing 
I  will  not  hover  near ;  and  at  that  hour 
When  from  its  fleshly  sepulchre  let  loose. 
Thy  phojni.x  soul  shall  soar,  O  best-beloved  I 
I  will  be  with  thee  in  thine  agonies, 
And  welcome  thee  to  life  and  happiness. 
Eternal,  infinite  beatitude  !  " 


He  spake,  and  led  her  near  a  straw-roofd  cot, 
Love's  palace.     By  the  Virtues  circled  there 
The  Immortal  listen'd  to  such  melodies. 
As  aye,  wlien  one  good  deed  is  register'd 
Above,  reecho  in  the  halls  of  heaven. 
Labor  was  there,  his  crisp  locks  floating  loose; 
Clear  was  his  cheek,  and  beaming  his  full  eye. 
And   strong   his   arm   robust;    ilie    wood-nymph 

Health 
Still  follow'd  on  his  path,  and  where  he  trod 
Fresh   flowers  and  fruits   arose.     And  there  was 

Hope, 
The  general  friend;  and  Pity,  whose  mild  eye 
Wept  o'er  the  Vv'idow'd  dove;  and,  loveliest  form. 
Majestic  Chastity,  whose  sober  smile 
Delights  and  awes  the  soul ;  a  laurel  wreath 
llestrain'd  her  tresses,  and  upon  her  breast 
The  snow-drop  hung  its  head,*  that  seem'd  to  grow 
Spontaneous,  cold  and  fair.     Beside  the  maid 
Love  went  submiss,  with  eye  more  dangerous 
Then  fancied  basilisk  to  wound  whoe'er 
Too  bold  approach'd  ;  yet  anxious  would  he  read 
Her  every  rising  wish,  then  only  pleased 
When   pleasing.     Hymning   him,    the  song   was 

raised. 

"  Glory  to  thee  whose  vivifying  power 
Pervades  all  Nature's  universal  frame  ! 
Glory  to  thee,  Creator  Love  !  to  thee. 
Parent  of  all  the  smiling  Charities, 
That  strow  the  thorny  path  of  life  with  flowers ' 
Glory  to  thee,  Preserver !     To  thy  praise 
The  awakened  woodlands  echo  all  the  day 
Their  living  melody  ;  and  warbling  forth 
To  thee  her  twilight  song,  the  nightingale 
Holds  the  lone  traveller  from  his  way,  or  charms 
The  listening  poet's  ear.     Where  Love  shall  deign 
To  fix  his  seat,  there  blameless  Pleasure  sheds 
Her  roseate  dews ;  Content  will  sojourn  there. 
And  Happiness  behold  Aff'ection's  eye 
Gleam  with  the  mother's  smile.     Thrice  happy  he 
Who  feels  thy  holy  power !  he  shall  not  drag, 
Forlorn  and  friendless,  along  life's  long  path 
To  age's  drear  abode  ;  he  shall  not  waste 
The  bitter  evening  of  his  days  unsooth'd; 
But  Hope  shall  cheer  his  hours  of  solitude. 
And  Vice  shall  vainly  strive  to  wound  his  breast, 
That  bears  that  talisman ;  and  when  he  meets 
The  eloquent  eye  of  Tenderness,  and  hears 
The  bosom-thrilling  music  of  her  voice, 
The  joy  he  feels  shall  purify  his  soul, 
And  imp  it  for  anticipated  heaven." 


NOTES 


Note  1,  p.  Sfi,  col.].  —  Instructing  best  the  passive  faculty. 

May  says  of  Serapis, 

F.rudit  at  placide  humanam  per  somnia  mcntem, 

J\'octurnaquc  (/itictc  docct ;  nulloqui;  labore 

Hie  tavtum  porta  rst  prctiosa  scicntia,  nulla 

Ezcutitur  studio  vcruin,     Mortalia  corda 

Tunc  Dcus  iste  docct,  cum  sunt  minus  apta  doceri, 

Cum  nullum  obsequium  pr<j:stant,  meritisque  fatcntur 


NOTES  TO   THE   VISION    OF   THE   MAID    OF   ORLEANS, 


95 


^i7  sese  ttcbert  suis  ;  tunc  recte  scientcs 

Cum  nil  scire  valent.     .Vun  illo  tempvre  sensus 

Ilamanos  fursan  dignalur  namen  inire, 

Cam  propriis  possmit  per  sc  dUcursibiis  uti 

JVi'/urtc  humanU  ratio  dicina  coircL  —  Sup.  Lucani. 


Note  2,  p.  86,  col.  1. ind  all  things  are  Vial  seem. 

I  have  mot  with  a  singular  talo  to  ilhistrate  tliis  siiiritual 
theory  of  dreams. 

Guntrum,  king  of  the  Franks,  was  lihcral  to  tlie  poor,  and 
he  himSL-lf  experienced  the  wonderful  effects  of  divine  liber- 
a^^ty  For  one  day,  as  lie  was  hunting  in  a  forest,  he  was 
separated  from  his  companions,  and  arrived  at  a  little  stream 
of  water  with  only  one  comrade  of  tried  and  approval  fidelity. 
Hero  he  found  himself  opprest  hy  drowsiness,  and,  reclining 
his  head  upon  the  servant's  liqi,  went  to  sleep.  The  servant 
witnessed  a  wonderful  thing,  for  he  saw  a  little  beast  creep 
out  of  the  mouth  of  his  sleeping  m  istcr,  and  go  immediately 
lo  the  streamlet,  which  it  vuinly  attempted  to  cross.  The 
servant  drew  his  sword,  and  laid  it  across  tlie  water,  over 
which  the  little  beast  eiisily  past,  and  crept  into  a  hole  of  a 
mountain  on  the  opposite  side  ;  from  whence  it  made  its  ap- 
pearance again  in  an  hour,  and  returned  by  the  same  means 
into  the  king's  mouth.  The  king  then  awakened,  and  told 
his  companion  that  he  had  dreamt  that  he  was  arrived  upon 
the  bank  of  an  immense  river,  which  he  had  crossed  by  a 
bridge  of  iron,  and  from  thence  came  tc  a  mountain  in  which 
a  great  quantity  of  gold  was  concealed.  When  the  king  had 
concluded,  the  servant  related  what  he  had  behold,  and  they 
both  went  to  examine  the  mountain,  where,  upon  digging,  they 
discovered  an  immense  weight  of  gold. 

1  stumbled  upon  this  tale  in  a  book  entitled  Sphinx,  TTieo- 
lo^rico-Philosophica.  Authore  Juhanne  Ilddfddio,  Ecdcsiastc 
Ebersbachiano.     1621. 

Tlie  fame  story  is  in  Matthew  of  Westminster ;  it  is  added 
that  Guntrum  applied  tlie  treasures  tlius  found  to  pious  uses. 

For  the  truth  of  the  theory  there  is  the  evidence  of  a  monk- 
ish miracle.  When  Thurcillus  was  about  to  follow  St.  Julian 
and  visit  the  world  of  souls,  his  guide  said  lo  him,  "  Let  thy 
body  rest  in  the  bed,  for  thy  spirit  only  is  about  to  depart  with 
me  ;  and  lost  the  body  should  appear  dead,  I  will  send  into  it 
a  vital  breath." 

The  body,  however, by  a  strange  sympathy,  was  affected  like 
the  spirit  ;  for  when  the  foul  and  fetid  smoke  which  arose 
from  the  tithes  withheld  on  earth  had  nearly  suffocated  Thur- 
cillus, and  made  him  cough  twice,  those  who  were  near  his 
body  said  that  it  coughed  twice  about  the  same  time. 

MatUtew  Paris. 


Note  3,  p.  88,  col.  2.  —  Ur  deeper  gable  dyed. 

These  lines  strongly  resemble  a  passage  in  the  Pharonnida 
of  William  Chamberlayne,  apoet  who  his  told  an  interesting 
story  in  uncouth  rhymes,  and  mingled  sublimity  of  thought  and 
beauty  of  expression,  with  the  quaintest  conceits  and  most 
awkward  inversions. 

On  a  rock  more  high 
Than  Nature's  common  surface,  she  beholds 
The  mansion  house  of  Fate,  which  tlius  unfolds 
Its  sacred  mysteries.     A  trine  within 
A  quadrate  placed,  both  these  encompast  in 
A  perfect  circle  was  its  form  ;  but  what 
Its  matter  was,  for  us  to  wonder  at, 
Is  undiscovered  left.     A  tower  there  stands 
At  every  angle,  where  Time's  fatal  hands 
The  impartial  I'arca;  dwell ;  i'  the  first  she  sees 
Clotho  the  kindest  of  the  Destinies, 
From  immaterial  essences  to  cull 
The  seeds  of  life,  and  of  them  frame  the  wool 
For  Lachesis  to  spin  ;  about  her  flie 
Myriads  of  souls,  that  yet  want  flesh  to  lie 
Warmed  with  their  funrlions  in,  whoso  strength  bestows 
That  power  by  whirh  man  ripe  for  misery  grows. 

Her  ne\t  of  objects  was  thnt  glorious  tower 
Where  that  swift-fingered  nymph  that  spares  no  hour 
From  mortals'  service  draws  the  various  threads 
Of  life  in  several  lengths  ;  to  weary  beds 


Of  age  extending  some,  whilst  others  in 

Their  infancy  are  broke  :  some  blackt  in  sin. 

Others,  titc  fanorilcs  of  Heaven.,  from  whence 

Their  origin,  candid  with  mnocenec  ; 

Some  purpled  in  afflictions,  others  dyed 

In  sanguine  pleasures  :  some  in  glittering  jiride 

Spun  to  adorn  the  earth,  whilst  others  wear 

Rugs  of  deformity,  but  knots  of  care 

No  thread  was  wholly  free  from.     Next  to  this 

Fair  glorious  tower,  was  placed  that  black  abyss 

Of  dreadful  Atropos,  the  baleful  seat 

Of  death  and  horrour,  in  each  room  repleat 

With  lazy  damps,  loud  groans,  and  the  sad  sight 

Of  pale  grim  ghosts,  those  terrours  of  the  night. 

To  this,  the  last  stage  that  the  winding  clew 

Of  life  can  lead  mortality  unto, 

Fear  was  the  dreadful  porter,  which  let  in 

All  guests  sent  thither  by  destructive  sin. 

It  is  possible  that  I  may  have  written  from  the  recollection 
of  this  passage.  The  conceit  is  the  same,  and  I  willingly  at- 
tribute it  to  Chamberlayne,  a  poet  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
many  hours  of  delight. 

Note  4,  p.  89,  col.  2.  —  Shall  Uie  huge  camel  pass. 

I  had  originally  written  cable  instead  of  camel.  The  alter- 
ation would  not  be  worth  noticing  were  it  not  for  the  reason 
which  occasioned  it.  Facilius  elephas  per  foramen  acus,  is 
among  the  Hebrew  adages  collected  by  Drusius  ;  the  same 
metaphor  is  found  in  two  other  Jewish  proverbs,  and  this 
confirms  beyond  all  doubt  the  common  reading  of  Matt.  xix.  24 


Note  5,  p.  89,  col.  2.  —  Large  draughts  of  molten  gold. 

The  same  idea,  and  almost  the  same  words,  are  in  one  of 
Ford's  plays.     The  passage  is  a  very  fine  one  : 

Ay,  you  are  wretched,  miserably  wretched, 
Almost  condemn'd  alive  !     There  is  a  place, 
(List,  daughter !)  in  a  black  and  hollow  vault. 
Where  day  is  never  seen  ;  there  shines  no  sun. 
But  flaming  horror  of  consuming  fires  ; 
A  lightless  sulphur,  choaked  with  smoaky  foggs 
Of  an  infected  darkness.     In  this  place 
Dwell  many  thousand  thousands  sundry  sorts 
Of  never-dying  deaths  ;  there  damned  souls 
Roar  without  pity,  there  are  gluttons  fed 
With  toads  and  adders  :  there  is  burning  oil 
Pour'd  down  the  drunkard's  throat,  the  usurer 
Is  forced  to  sup  whole  draughts  of  molten  gold  : 
There  is  the  murderer  for  ever  stabb'd. 
Yet  he  can  never  die  ;  there  lies  the  wanton 
On  racks  of  burning  steel,  whilst  in  his  soul 
He  feels  the  torment  of  his  raging  lust. 

'7fa  Pity  shr^s  a  Whore. 

I  wrote  this  passage  when  very  young,  and  the  idea,  trite  as 
it  is,  was  new  to  me.  It  occurs  I  believe  in  most  description! 
of  hell,  and  perhaps  owes  its  origin  to  the  fate  of  Crassus. 


Note  0,  p.  92,  col.  1.  —  Titus  was  here. 

During  the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  "  the  Roman  commander, 
with  a  generous  elcmeucy,  that  inseparable  attendant  on  true 
heroism,  labored  incessantly,  and  to  the  very  last  moment,  tc 
preserve  the  place.  With  this  view,  he  again  and  again  en- 
treated the  tyrants  to  surrender  and  save  their  lives.  \Vith 
the  same  view  also,  after  carrying  the  second  wall,  the  siega 
was  intermitted  four  days  :  to  rouse  their  fears,  prisoners,  to 
the  number  office  hundred  or  more,  were  crucified  daily  before 
the  walls  ;  till  space,  Josephus  says,  was  wanlinsfcr  the  crosses, 
and  crosses  for  the  c(7;)fi>&s."  — Churton's  Bnmpton  Lectures 

If  any  of  my  readers  should  inquire  why  Titus  Ves|)asian, 
the  delight  of  mankind,  is  placed  in  such  a  situation,— I 
answer,  for  this  instance  of  "  his  generous  clemency,  that  in- 
separable attendant  on  true  heroism  '.  " 


96 


PREFACE    TO    JUVENILE    AND    MINOR    POEMS. 


Note  7,  p.  93,  col.  2.  —  Inlmled  the  coul  delight. 

In  the  cabinet  of  the  Alhambra,  where  the  queen  used  to 
dress  and  say  her  prayers,  and  which  is  still  an  enchanting  sight, 
there  is  a  slab  of  marble  full  of  small  holes,  through  which 
perfumes  exhaled  that  were  kept  constantly  burning  beneath. 
The  doors  and  windows  are  disposed  so  as  to  afford  the  most 
agreeable  prospects,  and  to  throw  a  soft  yet  lively  light  upon 
the  eyes.     Fresh  currents  of  air,  too,  are  admitted,  so  as  to 


renew  every  instant  the  delicious  coolness  of  this  apartment 
Sketch  of  the  irustorij  nf  the  Spanish  Muors,prrJUed 
to  Florian's  Oonsalvo  of  Cordova. 


Note  8,  p.  94,  col.  2.  —  The  snow-drop  hung  its  head. 

"  The  grave  matron  does  not  perceive  How  time  has  im- 
paired her  charms,  but  decks  her  faded  bosom  with  the  same 
snow-drop  that  seems  to  grow  on  the  breast  of  the  virgin." 

P.  H. 


3Jtttitnilr  an?r  jUtnor  l^t^tmn 


VOL.   I. 


What  r  WAS,  is  passed  by Wither. 


PREFACE. 

The  earliest  pieces  in  these  Juvenile  and  Minor 
Poems  were  written  before  the  writer  had  left 
school ;  between  the  date  of  these  and  of  the  latest 
there  is  an  interval  of  six  and  forty  years:  as  much 
diiFerence,  therefore,  may  be  perceived  in  them,  as 
in  the  different  stages  of  life  from  boyhood  to  old 
age. 

Some  of  the  earliest  appeared  in  a  little  volume 
published  at  Batji  in  the  autumn  of  1794,  with  this 
title  :  —  "  Poems  containing  the  Retrospect,  &c. 
by  Robert  Lovelland  Robert  Southey,  1795;  "  and 
with  this  motto  :  — 

Miauentar  alroe 
Carmine  cam.  —  Hokace. 

At  the  end  of  that  volume,  Joan  of  Arc  was  an- 
nounced as  to  be  published  by  subscription. 

Others  were  published  at  Bristol,  1797,  in  a  sin- 
gle volume,  with  this  motto  from  Akenside  :  — 

Goddess  of  the  Lyre,  — 

with  thee  comes 
Majestic  Truth ;  and  where  Truth  deigns  to  come. 
His  sister  Liberty  will  not  be  far. 

A  second  volume  followed  at  Bristol  in  1799, 
after  the  second  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  com- 
mencing with  the  Vision  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans. 
The  motto  to  this  was  from  the  Epilogue  to  Spen- 
ser's Shepherds'  Calendar :  — 

The  better,  please  ;  the  worse,  displease  :  I  ask  no  more. 

In  the  third  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc,  the  Vision 
was  printed  separately,  at  tlie  end ;  and  its  place 
was  supplied  in  the  second  edition  of  the  Poems  by 
miscellaneous  pieces. 

A  separate  volume,  entitled  "  Metrical  Tales  and 
other  Poems,"  was  published  in  1805,  with  this 
advertisement :  —  '■  These  Poems  were  published 
some  years  ago  in  the  Annual  Anthology.  (Bris- 
tol, 1799,  1800.)     They  have  now  been  revised  and 


printed  in  this  collected  form,  because  they  have 
pleased  those  readers  whom  the  author  was  most 
desirous  of  pleasing.  Let  them  be  considered  as 
the  desultory  productions  of  a  man  sedulously  em- 
ployed upon  better  things." 

These  various  pieces  were  re-arranged  in  three 
volumes,  under  the  title  of  Minor  Poems,  in  1815, 
with  this  motto, 

JSTos  hcec  novimus  esse  nihil ; 

and  they  were  published  a  second  time  in  the  same 
form,  1823. 

The  Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales  contained  in 
those  volumes  belong  to  a  different  part  of  this 
collection ;  their  other  contents  are  comprised  here  ; 
and  the  present  volume  consists,  witJi  very  few 
exceptions,  of  pieces  written  in  youth  or  early 
manhood.  One  of  these,  written  in  my  twentieth 
year,  not  having  been  published  at  the  time,  would 
never  have  been  made  public  by  my  own  act 
and  deed  ;  but  as  Wat  Tyler  obtained  considerable 
notoriety  upon  its  surreptitious  publication,  it 
seemed  proper  that  a  production  which  will  be 
specially  noticed  whenever  the  author  shall  be 
delivered  over  to  the  biographers,  should  be  inclu- 
ded here.  They  who  may  desire  to  know  more 
than  is  stated  in  the  advertisement  now  prefixed 
to  it,  are  referred  to  a  Letter  addressed  to  William 
Smith,  Esq.  M.  P.,  1817,  reprinted  in  the  second 
volume  of  my  Essays  Moral  and  Political,  1832. 

The  second  volume  of  this  part  of  the  Collection 
contains  one  juvenile  piece,  and  many  which  were 
written  in  early  manhood.  The  remainder  were 
composed  in  middle  or  later  life,  and  comprise 
(witli  one  exception  that  will  more  conveniently 
be  arranged  elsewliere)  all  the  odes  which  as  Poet 
Laureate  I  have  written  upon  national  occasions. 
Of  these  the  Carmen  Triumphale,  a.nd  the  Carmina 
Aulica,  were  separately  published  in  quarto  in  1814, 
and  reprinted  together  in  a  little  volume  in  1821. 

The  Juvenile  and  Minor  Poems  in  this  Col- 
lection bear  an  inconsiderable  proportion  to  those 


PREFACE  TO  JUVENILE  AND  MINOR  POEMS. 


97 


of  substantive  length  :  for  a  small  part  only  of  my 
vouthful  effusions  were  spared  from  those  autos- 
da-fe  in  which  from  time  to  time  piles  upon  piles 
have  been  consumed.  In  middle  life  works  of 
greater  extent,  or  of  a  different  kind,  left  me  little 
leisure  for  occasional  poetry ;  tiie  impulse  ceased, 
and  latterly  the  inclination  was  so  seldom  felt,  that 
it  required  an  effort  to  call  it  forth. 

Sir  William  Davenant,  in  the  Preface  to  Gon- 
dibert,  '•  took  occasion  to  accuse  and  condemn  all 
those  hasty  digestions  of  thought  whicli  were  pub- 
lished in  his  youth  ;  a  sentence,  said  he,  not  pro- 
nounced out  of  melancholy  rigour,  but  from  a 
cheerful  obedience  to  tlie  just  authority  of  expe- 
rience. For  that  grave  mistress  of  the  world,  ex- 
perience (in  whose  profitable  school  those  before 
the  Flood  stayed  long,  but  we,  like  wanton  chil- 
dren, come  thither  late,  yet  too  soon  are  called  out 
of  it,  and  fetched  home  by  death)  hath  taught  me 
that  the  cnirendcrings  of  unripe  age  become  abor- 
tive and  deformed  ;  and  that  't  is  a  high  presump- 
tion to  entertain  a  nation  (who  are  a  poet's  stand- 
ing guest,  and  require  monarchical  respect)  with 
liasty  provisions  ;  as  if  a  poet  might  imitate  the 
familiar  despatch  of  faulconers.  mount  his  Pegasus, 
unhood  his  Muse,  and,  with  a  few  flights,  boast  he 
hath  provided  a  feast  for  a  prince.  Such  posting 
upon  Pegasus  I  have  long  since  foreborne."  Yet 
this  eminently  thoughtful  poet  was  so  far  from 
seeking  to  suppress  the  crude  compositions  which 
he  thus  condemned,  that  he  often  expressed  a  great 
desire  to  see  all  his  pieces  collected  in  one  volume; 
and,  conformably  to  his  wish,  they  were  so  collect- 
ed, after  his  decease,  by  his  widow  and  his  friend 
Herringman  the  bookseller. 

Agreeing  with  Davenant  in  condemning  the 
greater  part  of  my  juvenile  pieces,  it  is  only  as  cru- 
dities that  1  condemn  them ;  for  in  all  that  I  have 
written,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  there  has 
never  been  a  line  which,  for  any  compunctious 
reason,  living  or  dying,  I  could  wish  to  blot. 

Davenant  had  not  changed  liis  opinion  of  his 
own  youtliful  productions  so  as  to  overlook  in  his 
age  the  defects  which  he  had  once  clearly  per- 
ceived ;  but  he  knew  that  pieces  which  it  would 
indeed  have  been  presumptuous  to  re-produce  on 
the  score  of  their  merit,  miffht  yet  be  deemed 
worthy  of  preservation  on  other  grounds  ;  that  to 
his  family  and  friends,  and  to  those  who  might 
take  any  interest  in  English  poetry  hereafter,  they 
would  possess  peculiar  value,  as  characteristic 
memorials  of  one  who  had  held  no  inconsiderable 
place  in  the  literature  of  his  own  times ;  feeling, 
too.  that  he  was  not  likely  to  be  forgotten  by  poster- 
ity, he  thouffhtthat  after  the  specimen  which  he  had 
prod\iced  in  his  Gondibertof  a  great  and  elaborate 
poem,  his  early  attempts  would  be  regarded  with 
curiosity  by  such  of  his  successors  as  should,  like 
him,  study  poetry  as  an  art,  — for  as  an  art  it  must 
be  studied  by  those  who  would  excel  in  it,  though 
excellence  in  it  is  not  attainable  by  art  alone. 

The  cases  are  very  few  in  which  any  thing  more 

can  be  inferred  from  juvenile  poetry,  than  that  the 

aspirant  possesses  imitative  talent,  and  the   power 

of  versifying,  for  which,  as  for  music,  there  must 

13 


be  a  certain  natural  aptitude.  It  is  not  merely 
because  "  they  have  lacked  culture  and  the  inspi- 
ring aid  of  books,"  *  that  so  many  poets  who  have 
been  "sown  by  Nature,"  have  "wanted  the  ac- 
complishment of  verse,"  and  brought  forth  no  fruit 
after  their  kind.  Men  of  the  highest  culture,  of 
whose  poetical  temperament  no  doubt  can  be  en- 
tertained, and  who  had  "taken  to  the  height  the 
measure  of  themselves,"  have  yet  failed  in  tlieir 
endeavor  to  become  poets,  for  want  of  that  accom- 
plishment. It  is  frequently  possessed  without  any 
other  qualification,  or  any  capacity  for  imj)rove- 
mcnt;  but  then  the  innate  and  incurable  defect 
that  renders  it  abortive,  is  at  once  apparent. 

The  state  of  literature  in  this  kingdom  during 
the  last  fifty  years  has  produced  the  same  effect 
upon  poetry  that  academies  produce  upon  paint- 
ing ;  in  both  arts  every  possible  assistance  is 
atlbrded  to  imitative  talents,  and  in  both  they  are 
carried  as  far  as  the  talent  of  imitation  can  reach. 
But  there  is  one  respect  in  which  poetry  differs 
widely  from  the  sister  arts.  Its  fairest  promise 
frequently  proves  deceitful,  whereas  both  in  paint- 
ing and  music  the  early  indications  of  genius  are 
unequivocal.  The  children  who  were  called  musi- 
cal prodigies,  have  become  great  musicians ;  and 
great  painters,  as  far  as  their  history  is  known, 
have  displayed  in  childhood  that  accuracy  of  eye, 
and  dexterity  of  hand,  and  shaping  faculty,  which 
are  the  prime  requisites  for  their  calling.  But  it 
is  often  found  that  young  poets,  of  whom  great 
expectations  were  formed,  have  made  no  progress, 
and  have  even  fallen  short  of  their  first  perform- 
ances. It  may  be  said  that  this  is  because  men 
apply  themselves  to  music  and  to  painting  as  theii 
professions,  but  that  no  one  makes  poetry  the 
business  of  his  life.  This,  however,  is  not  the 
only  reason  :  the  indications,  as  has  already  been 
observed,  are  far  less  certain  ;  and  the  circum- 
stances of  society  are  far  less  favorable  for  the  moral 
and  intellectual  culture  which  is  required  for  all 
the  higher  branches  of  poetry,  —  all,  indeed,  that 
deserves  the  name. 

My  advice,  as  to  publishing,  has  often  been  asked 
by  young  poets,  who  suppose  that  experience  has 
qualified  me  to  give  it,  and  who  have  notyetlearnt 
how  seldom  advice  is  taken,  and  how  little  there- 
fore it  is  worth.  As  a  general  rule,  it  may  be  said 
that  one  who  is  not  deceived  in  the  estimate  which 
he  has  formed  of  his  own  powers,  can  neither 
write  too  much  in  his  youth,  nor  publish  too  little. 
It  cannot,  however,  be  needful  to  caution  tlie 
present  race  of  poetical  adventurers  against  hurry- 
ing with  their  productions  to  the  press,  for  there 
are  obstacles  enough  in  the  way  of  publication. 
Looking  back  upon  my  own  career,  and  acknowl- 
edging my  imprudence  in  this  respect,  I  have,  nev- 
ertheless, no  cause  to  wish  that  I  had  pursued  a 
different  course.  In  this,  as  in  other  circum- 
stances of  my  life,  I  have  reason  to  be  thankful  to 
that  merciful  Providence  which  shaped  the  ends 
that  I  had  roughly  hewn  for  myself 

Keswick,  Sept.  30,  1837. 

*  Wordswortli 


98 


THE    TlllUMPII    OF    WOMAN 


TO   EDITH   SOUTMEY. 

With  way-worn  feet,  a  traveller  woe-begone, 
Life's  upward  road  1  jouniey'd  many  a  day, 
And  framing  many  a  sad  yet  soothing  lay, 

Beguiled  the  solitary  hours  with  song. 
Lonely  my  heart  and  rugged  was  the  way, 
Yet  often  pluck'd  I,  as  I  past  along, 

The  wild  and  simple  flowers  of  poesy  ; 

And  sometimes,  unreflecting  as  a  child. 
Entwined  the  weeds  which  pleased  a  random  eye. 
Take  thou  the  wreath,  Beloved  !  it  is  wild 
And  rudely  garlanded  ;  yet  scorn  not  thou 
The  humble  offering,  where  dark  rosemary  weaves 

Amid  gay  flowers  its  melancholy  leaves, 

And  myrtle  gathered  to  adorn  thy  brow. 

Jiristol,  1796. 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF    WOMAN. 


The  Subject  of  this  Poem  is  taken  from  the  third  and  fourth 
Chapters  of  the  First  Book  of  Esdras. 


TO  MARY   WOLLSTONECRAFT. 

The  lily  cheek,  the  "  purple  light  of  love," 
The  liquid  lustre  of  the  melting  eye,  — 
Mary  !  of  these  the  Poet  sung,  for  these 
Did  Woman  triumph; — turn  not  thou  away 
Contemptuous  from  the  theme.     No  Maid  of  Arc 
Had,  in  those  ages,  for  her  country's  cause 
Wielded  the  sword  of  freedom;  no  Roland 
Had  borne  the  palm  of  female  fortitude  ; 
No  Corde,  with  self-sacrificing  zeal. 
Had  glorified  again  the  Avenger's  name, 
As  erst  when  Cassar  perish'd  :  haply  too 
Some  strains  may  hence  be  drawn,  befitting  me 
To  offer,  nor  unworthy  thy  regard. 


Robert  Southev. 


Bristol.  1793. 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF   WOMAN. 

Gi-Ai)  as  the  weary  traveller  tempest  tost 

To  reach  ?ccure  at  length  his  native  coast, 

Who  wandering  long  o'er  distant  lands  hath  sped, 

The  night-blast  wildly  howling  round  his  head. 

Known  all  the  woes  of  want,  and  felt  the  storm 

Of  the  bleak  winter  parch  his  shivering  form; 

The  journey  o'er  and  every  peril  past 

Beholds  his  little  cottage-home  at  last, 

And  as  he  sees  afar  the  smoke  curl  slow, 

Feels  his  full  eyes  with  transport  overflow  ; 

So  from  the  scene  where  Death  and  Misery  reign. 

And  Vice  and  Folly  drench  with  blood  the  plain, 

Joyful  I  turn,  to  sing  how  Woman's  praise 

Avail'd  again  Jerusalem  to  raise. 


Call'd  forth  the  sanction  of  the  Despot's  nod, 
And  freed  the  nation  best  beloved  of  God. 

Darius  gives  the  feast;  to  Persia's  court, 
Awed  by  his  will,  the  obedient  throng  resort: 
Attending  Satraps  swell  their  prince's  pride. 
And  vanquish'd  Monarchs  grace  the  Conqueror's 

side. 
No  more  the  warrior  wears  the  garb  of  war, 
Girds  on  the  sword,  or  mounts  the  scythed  car ; 
No  more  Judma's  sons  dejected  go. 
And  hang  the  head,  and  heave  the  sigh  of  woe. 
From  Persia's  rugged  hills  descend  the  train, 
From  where  Orontes  foams  along  the  plain. 
From  where  Choaspes  rolls  his  royal  waves, 
And  India  sends  her  sons,  submissive  slaves. 
Thy  daughters,  Babylon,  for  this  high  feast 
Weave  the  loose  robe,  and  paint  the  flowery  vest, 
With  roseate  wreaths  they  braid  the  glossy  hair. 
They  tinge  the  cheek  which  nature  form'd  so  fair, 
Learn  the  soft  step,  the  soul-subduing  glance. 
Melt  in  the  song,  and  swim  adown  the  dance. 
Exalted  on  the  Monarch's  golden  throne, 
In  royal  state  the  fair  Apame  shone  ; 
Her  form  of  majesty,  her  eyes  of  fire. 
Chill  with  respect,  or  kindle  with  desire  ; 
The  admiring  multitude  her  charms  adore, 
And  own  her  worthy  of  the  rank  she  bore. 

Now  on  his  couch  reclined  Darius  lay. 
Tired  with  the  toilsome  pleasures  of  the  day; 
Without  Judaea's  watchful  sons  await. 
To  guard  the  sleeping  idol  of  the  state. 
Three  youths  were  these  of  Judah's  royal  race, 
Three  youths  whom  Nature  dower'd  with  every 

grace. 
To  each  the  form  of  symmetry  she  gave. 
And  haughty  genius  cursed  each  favorite  slave; 
These  fill'd  the  cup,  around  the  Monarch  kept, 
Served  when  he  spake,  and  guarded  while  he  slept. 

Yet  oft  for  Salem's  hallow'd  towers  laid  low 
The  sigh  would  heave,  the  unbidden  tear  would 

flow  ; 
And  when  the  dull  and  wearying  round  of  power 
Allow'd  Zorobabel  one  vacant  hour. 
He  loved  on  Babylon's  high  wall  to  roam. 
And  lingering  gaze  toward  his  distant  home  ; 
Or  on  Euphrates'  willowy  banks  reclined 
Hear  the  sad  harp  moan  fitful  to  the  wind. 

[light, 

As  now  the  perfumed  lamps  stream  wide  their 
And  social  converse  cheers  the  livelong  night. 
Thus  spake  Zorobabel :  "  Too  long  in  vain 
For  Zion  desolate  her  sons  complain  ; 
All  hopelessly  our  years  of  sorrow  flow, 
And  these  proud  heathen  mock  their  captives'  woe. 
While  Cyrus  triumph'd  here  in  victor  state 
A  brighter  prospect  cheer'd  our  exiled  fate ; 
Our  sacred  walls  again  he  bade  us  raise, 
And  to  Jehovah  rear  the  pile  of  praise. 
Quickly  these  fond  hopes  faded  from  our  eyes, 
As  the  frail  sun  that  gilds  the  wintry  skies. 
And  spreads  a  moment's  radiance  o'er  the  plain. 
Soon  hid  by  clouds  which  dim  the  scene  again. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OP    WOMAN. 


99 


"  Opprest  by  Artaxerxes'  jealous  reign, 
We  vainly  pleaded  here,  and  wept  in  vain. 
Now  when  Darius,  chief  ot"  mild  command, 
Uids  joy  and  pleasure  fill  the  festive  land. 
Still  shall  we  droop  the  head  in  sullen  grief, 
And  sternly  silent  shun  to  seek  relief? 
What  if  amid  the  Monarch's  mirthful  throng 
Our  harps  should  echo  to  tlie  clieerful  song  ?  " 

"  Fair  is  the  occasion,"  thus  the  one  replied  ; 
'•  Now  then  let  all  our  tuneful  skill  be  tried. 
And  while  the  courtiers  quaff"  the  smiling  bowl, 
And  wine's  strong  fumes  inspire  the  gladden'd  soul, 
Where  all  around  is  merriment,  be  mine 
To  strike  the  lute,  and  praise  the  power  of  Wine.  " 

"  And  while,"  his  friend  rejoin'd,  "  in  state  alone, 
Lord  of  the  earth,  Darius  fills  the  throne. 
Be  yours  the  mighty  power  of  Wine  to  sing. 
My  lute  shall  sound  the  praise  of  Persia's  King." 

To  them  Zorobabel :  "  On  themes  like  these 
Seek  ye  the  Monarch  of  Mankind  to  please  ; 
To  Wine  superior,  or  to  Power's  strong  arms. 
Be  mine  to  sing  resistless  Woman's  charms. 
To  him  victorious  in  the  rival  lays 
Shall  just  Darius  give  the  meed  of  praise  ; 
A  purple  robe  his  honor'd  frame  shall  fold, 
The  beverage  sparkle  in  his  cup  of  gold  ; 
A  golden  couch  support  his  bed  of  rest. 
The  chain  of  honor  grace  his  favor'd  breast; 
His  the  rich  turban,  his  the  car's  array, 
On  Babylon's  higii  wall  to  wheel  its  way  ; 
And  for  his  wisdom  seated  on  the  throne. 
For  the  King's  Cousin  shall  the  Bard  be  knov/n." 

Intent  they  meditate  the  future  lay, 
And  watch  impatient  for  the  dawn  of  day. 
The  morn  rose  clear,  and  slirill  were  heard  the  flute. 
The  cornet,  sackbut,  dulcimer,  and  lute  ; 
To  Babylon's  gay  streets  the  throng  resort. 
Swarm  through  the  gates,  and  fill  the  festive  court. 
High  on  his  throne  Darius  tower'd  in  pride, 
The  fair  Apame  graced  her  Sovereign's  side  : 
And  now  she  smiled,  and  now  with  mimic  frown 
Placed  on  her  brow  the  Monarch's  sacred  crown. 
In  transport  o'er  her  faultless  form  he  bends. 
Loves  every  look,  and  every  act  commends. 

And  now  Darius  bids  the  herald  call 
Judaea's  Bards  to  grace  the  thronging  hall. 
Hush'd  are  all  sounds,  the  attending   crowd  arc 

mute, 
And  then  the  Hebrew  gently  touch 'd  the  lute  : 

When  the  Traveller  on  his  way, 
Who  has  toil'd  the  livelong  day, 
Feels  around  on  every  side 
The  chilly  mists  of  eventide, 
Fatigued  and  faint  his  weary  mind 
Recurs  to  all  he  leaves  behind  ; 
lie  thinks  upon  the  well-trimm'd  hearth, 
The  evening  hour  of  social  mirth, 
And  her  who  at  departing  day 
Weeps  for  her  husband  far  away. 


Oh  give  to  him  the  flowing  bowl  ! 
Bid  it  renovate  his  soul  1 
Then  shall  sorrow  sink  to  sleep, 
And  he  who  wept  no  more  shall  weep; 
For  his  care-clouded  brow  shall  clear, 
And  his  glad  eye  will  sparkle  through  the  tear. 

When  tlie  poor  man  heart-opprest 
Betakes  him  to  his  evening  rest, 
And  worn  with  labor  thinks  in  sorrow 
On  the  labor  of  to-morrow  ; 
Wlien  repining  at  his  lot 
He  hies  him  to  his  joyless  cot. 
And  loathes  to  meet  his  children  there, 
The  rivals  for  his  scanty  fare; 
Oh  give  to  him  tlie  flowing  bowl  ! 
Bid  it  renovate  his  soul ! 
The  generous  juice  with  magic  power 
Shall  cheat  with  happiness  the  hour, 
And  with  each  warm  affection  fill 
The  heart  by  want  and  wretchedness  made  chill 

When,  at  the  dim  close  of  day. 
The  Captive  loves  alone  to  stray 
Along  the  haunts  recluse  and  rude 
Of  sorrow  and  of  solitude  ; 
Wlien  he  sits  with  mournful  eye 
To  mark  the  lingering  radiance  die, 
And  lets  distempered  fancy  roam 
Amid  the  ruins  of  his  home;  — 
Oh  give  to  him  the  flowing  bowl ! 
Bid  it  renovate  his  soul  I 
The  bowl  shall  better  thoughts  bestow, 
And  lull  to  rest  his  wakeful  woe, 
And  joy  shall  gild  the  evening  hour, 
And  make  the  Captive  Fortune's  conqueror. 

When  the  wearying  cares  of  state 
Oppress  the  Monarch  with  their  weight, 
When  from  his  pomp  retired  alone 
He  feels  the  duties  of  the  throne, 
Feels  that  the  multitude  below 
Dei)end  on  him  for  weal  or  woe ; 
When  his  powerful  will  may  bless 
A  realm  with  peace  and  happiness, 
Or  with  desolating  breath 
Breathe  ruin  round,  and  woe,  and  death ; 
Oh  give  to  him  the  flowing  bowl ! 
Bid  it  humanize  his  soul  ! 
He  shall  not  feel  the  empire's  weight ; 
He  shall  not  feel  the  cares  of  state  ; 
The  bowl  shall  each  dark  thought  beguile. 
And  Nations  live  and  prosper  from  his  smile. 

Hush'd  was  the  lute,  the  Hebrew  ceased  the  song, 
Long  peals  of  plaudits  echoed  from  the  throng ; 
All  tongues  the  liberal  words  of  praise  repaid. 
On  every  cheek  a  smile  applauding  play'd  ; 
The  rival  Bard  approach'd,  he  struck  the  string, 
And  pour'd  the  lollier  song  to  Persia's  King. 

Whv  should  llie  wearying  cares  of  state 
Oppress  the  Monarch  with  their  weight? 

Alike  to  him  if  peace  shall  bless 

The  multitude  with  happiness; 


100 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    WOMAN. 


Alike  to  him  if  Irenzied  War 
Career  triuiiiphaiit  on  the  embattled  plain, 
And  rolling  on  o'er  myriads  slain, 
With  gore  and  wounds  shall  clog  his  scythed  car. 

What  though  the  tempest  rage?  no  sound 
Of  the  deep  thunder  shakes  his  distant  throne ; 
And  the  red  flash  that  spreads  destruction  round 
llellects  a  glorious  splendor  on  the  crown. 

Where  is  the  Man  who  with  ennobling  pride 
Regards  not  his  own  nature .'  where  is  he 
Who  without  awe  can  see 
The  mysteries  of  the  human  mind, 
The  miniature  of  Deity.' 
For  Man  the  vernal  clouds  descending 

Shower  down  their  fertilizing  rain  ; 
For  Man  the  ripen'd  harvest  bending 
Waves  with  soft  murmur  o'er  the  plenteous  plain. 
He  spreads  the  sail  to  catch  the  favoring  gale, 
Or  sweeps  with  oars  the  main  ; 
For  him  the  winds  of  heaven  subservient  blow, 
Earth  teems  for  him,  for  him  the  waters  flow. 
He  thinks,  and  wills,  and  acts,  a  Deity  below  ! 

Where  is  the  King  who  with  elating  pride 
Sees  not  this  Man,  this  godlike  Man  his  slave  'I 
Mean  are  the  mighty  by  the  Monarch's  side  ; 
Alike  the  wise,  alike  the  brave 
With  timid  step  and  pale,  advance, 
And  tremble  at  the  royal  glance  ; 
Suspended  millions  watch  his  breath. 
Whose  smile  is  happiness,  whose  frown  is  death. 

Why  goes  the  Peasant  from  that  little  cot, 

Where  Peace  and  Love  have  blest  his  humble  life  .' 

In  vain  his  wretched  wife 

With  tears  bedews  her  husband's  face. 

And  clasps  him  in  a  long  and  last  embrace ; 

In  vain  his  children  round  his  bosom  creep, 

And  weep  to  sec  their  mother  weep, 
Fettering  their  father  with  their  little  arms  ! 
What  are  to  him  the  war's  alarms  r 
What  are  to  him  the  distant  foes  .' 
Ho  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day 
To  daily  labor  went  his  way, 
And  when  he  saw  the  sun  decline. 
He  sat  in  peace  beneath  his  vine. 
The  King  commands,  the  peasant  goes, 
From  all  he  loved  on  earth  he  flies, 
And  for  his  monarch  toils,  and  fights,  and  bleeds, 
and  dies. 

What  though  yon  city's  castled  wall 
Casl  o'er  the  darken'd  plain  its  crested  shade.' 
What  though  her  Priests  in  earnest  terror  call 
On  all  their  host  of  Gods  to  aid .' 
Vain  is  the  bulwark,  vain  the  tower  ! 

In  vain  her  gallant  youth  expose 
Their  breasts,  a  bulwark,  to  the  foes  1 
In  vain  at  that  tremendous  hour, 
Clasp'd  in  the  savage  soldier's  reeking  arms. 
Shrieks  to  deaf  Heaven  the  violated  Maid  I 
By  the  rude  hand  of  Ruin  scatter'd  round. 
Their  moss-grown  towers  shall  spread  the  desert 
ground. 


Low  shall  the  mouldering  palace  lie, 
Amid  the  princely  halls  the  grass  wave  high, 
And  through  the  shattcr'd  roof  descend  the  in 
clement  sky. 

Gay  o'er  the  embattled  plain 
Moves  yonder  warrior  train ; 
Their  banners  wanton  on  the  morning  gale , 
Full  on  their  bucklers  beams  the  rising  ray; 
Their  glittering  helms  give  glory  to  the  day; 
The  shout  of  war  rings  echoing  o'er  the  vale. 
Far  reaches  as  the  aching  eye  can  strain 
The  splendid  horror  of  their  wide  array 

Ah  !  not  in  vain  expectant,  o'er 
Their  glorious  pomp  the  vultures  soar  ! 
Amid  the  Conqueror's  palace  high 
Shall  sound  the  song  of  victory  ; 
Long  after  journeying  o'er  the  plain 
The  traveller  shall  with  startled  eye  [ter  sky 
See  their  white  bones  then  blanched  by  many  a  w  in 

Lord  of  the  earth  !  we  will  not  raise 
The  temple  to  thy  bounded  praise ; 
For  thee  no  victim  need  expire, 
For  thee  no  altar  blaze  with  hallow'd  fire ; 
The  burning  City  flames  for  thee, 
Thine  Altar  is  the  field  of  victory  ! 
Thy  sacred  Majesty  to  bless 
Man  a  self-ofTer'd  victim  freely  flies; 

To  thee  he  sacrifices  happiness. 
And  peace,  and  Love's  endearing  ties ; 
To  thee  a  Slave  he  lives,  for  thee  a  Slave  he  dies. 

liush'd  was  the  lute,  the  Hebrew  ceased  to  sing; 
The  shout  burst  forth,  "  Forever  live  the  King  !  " 
Loud  was  the  uproar,  as  when  Rome's  decree 
Pronounced  Achaia  once  again  was  free  ; 
Assembled  Greece  enrapt  with  fond  belief  [Chief 
Heard  the  false  boon,  and  bless'd  the  treacherous 
Each  breast  with  freedom's  holy  ardor  glows, 
From  every  voice  the  cry  of  rapture  rose  ; 
Their  thundering  clamors  rend  the  astonished  sky. 
And  birds  o'erpassing  hear,  and  drop,  and  die. 
Thus  o'er  the  Persian  dome  their  plaudits  ring. 
And  the  high  hall  rer-choed — "  Live  the  King!  " 
The  mutes  bow'd  reverent  down  before  their  Lord, 
The  assembled  Satraps  envied  and  adored, 
Joy  sparkled  in  the  Monarch's  conscious  eyes. 
And  his  pleased  pride  already  dooni'd  the  prize. 

Silent  they  saw  Zorobabel  advance  : 
He  to  Apame  turn'd  his  timid  glance  ; 
With  downward  eye  he  paused,  a  moment  mute, 
Then  with  light  finger  touch'd  the  softer  lute. 
Apame  knew  the  Hebrew's  grateful  cause, 
And  bent  her  head,  and  sweetly  smiled  applause. 

Why  is  the  warrior's  check  so  red .' 
AVhy  downward  droops  his  musing  head  ? 
Why  that  slow  step,  that  faint  advance, 
That  keen  yet  quick  retreating  glance.' 
That  crested  head  in  war  tower'd  high  ; 
No  backward  glance  disgraced  that  eye, 
No  flushing  fear  that  check  o'erspread. 
When  stern  he  strode  o'er  heaps  of  dead  : 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    WOMAN 


101 


Stranjje  tiumilt  now  liis  bosom  inovos, — 
The  Warrior  li-ars  because  he  loves. 

Why  does  tlie  Youth  deliglit  to  rove 
Airiid  the  dark  and  lonely  grove  ? 
Why  in  the  throng  where  all  are  gay, 
With  absent  eyes  from  gayety  distraught, 
Sits  he  alone  in  silent  thought? 

Silent  he  sits,  for  far  away 
His  passion'd  soul  delights  to  stray  ; 
Recluse  he  roves  as  if  he  fain  vpould  shun 
All  human-kind,  because  he  loves  but  One  I 

Yes,  King  of  Persia,  thou  art  blest! 

But  not  because  the  sparkling  bowl 

To  rapture  elevates  tiiy  waken'd  soul ; 

But  not  because  of  power  possest ; 

Nor  that  the  Nations  dread  thy  nod. 
And  princes  reverence  thee  their  earthly  God  ! 
Even  on  a  monarch's  solitude 
Will  Care,  dark  visitant,  intrude  ; 

The  bowl  brief  pleasure  can  bestow  ; 

The  purple  cannot  shield  from  woe ; 

But,  King  of  Persia,  thou  art  blest, 
For  Heaven  who  raised  thee  thus  the  world  above, 
Hath  made  thee  happy  in  Apame's  love! 

Oh  !  I  have  seen  him  fondly  trace 
Tlie  heavenly  features  of  her  face, 
Rove  o'er  her  form  with  eager  eye, 
And  sigh  and  gaze,  and  gaze  and  sigh. 
See !  from  his  brow  with  mimic  frown 
Apame  takes  the  sacred  crown ; 
Those  sparkling  eyes,  that  radiant  face, 
Give  to  the  diadem  new  grace  : 
And  subject  to  a  Woman's  laws, 
Darius  sees,  and  smiles  applause  I 

He  ceased,  and  silent  still  remain'd  the  throng, 
Wliile  rapt  attention  own'd  the  power  of  song. 
Then,  loud  as  when  the  wintry  whirlwinds  blow, 
From  every  voice  the  thundering  plaudits  flow  ; 
Darius  smiled,  Apame's  sparkling  eyes 
Glanced  on  the  King,  and  Woman  won  the  prize. 

Now  silent  sate  the  expectant  crowd  :  Alone 
The  victor  Hebrew  gazed  not  on  the  throne  ; 
With  deeper  hue  his  cheek  distemper'd  glows, 
With  statelier  stature  loftier  now  he  rose  ; 
Heavenward  he  gazed,  regardless  of  the  throng, 
And  pour'd  with  awful  voice  sublimer  song. 

"Ancient  of  days!  Eternal  Truth  !  one  hymn, 
One  holier  strain  the  Bard  shall  raise  to  Thee, 
Thee  Powerful !  Thee  Benevolent !  Thee  Just ! 
Friend!    Father!    All  in  all!— The   Vine's   rich 
hlood,  [charms, 

The  Monarch's  might,  and  Woman's  conquering 
These  shall  we  praise  alone  .'  —  O  ye  who  sit 
Beneath  your  vine,  and  quaff  at  evening  hour 
The  healthful  bowl,  remember  Him  whose  dews, 
Whose  rains,  whose  sun,  matured  the  growing  fruit. 
Creator  and  Preserver!  —  Reverence  Him, 
O  Thou  who  from  thy  throne  dispensest  life 
And  death,  for  He  hath  delegated  power, 


And  thou  siialt  one  dav  at  the  throne  of  God 

Render  thy  strict  account!  —  And  ye  who  gaze 

Enrapt  on  Beauty's  fascinating  form. 

Gaze  on  with  love  ;  and  loving  beauty,  learn 

'J\)  shun  abhorrent  all  the  menUil  eye 

Beholds  dcform'd  and  foul ;  for  so  shall  Love 

Climb  to  the  source  of  goodness.     God  of  Truth  I 

All  Just!  All  Mighty  !  I  should  ill  deserve 

Thy  noblest  gift,  the  gift  divine  of  song, 

11",  so  content  with  ear-deep  melodies 

To  please  all-profitless,  I  did  not  pour 

Severer  strains,  —  of  Truth  —  eternal  Truth, 

Unchanging  Justice,  universal  Love. 

Such  strains  awake  the  Soul  to  loftiest  thoughts  ; 

Such  strains  the  blessed  Spirits  of  the  Good 

Waft,  grateful  incense,  to  the  Halls  of  Heaven." 

The  dying  notes  still  murmur'd  on  the  string, 
When  from  his  throne  arose  the  raptured  King. 
About  to  speak  he  stood,  and  waved  his  hand. 
And  all  expectant  sate  the  obedient  band. 

Then  just  and  generous,  thus  the  Monarch  cries, 
"Be  thine,  Zorobabcl,  the  well-earn'd  prize. 
The  purple  robe  of  state  thy  form  shall  fold. 
The  beverage  sparkle  in  thy  cup  of  gold, 
The  golden  couch,  the  car,  and  honor'd  chain, 
Requite  the  merits  of  thy  favor'd  strain, 
And  raised  supreme  the  ennobled  race  among. 
Be  call'd  My  Cousin  for  the  victor  song. 
Nor  these  alone  the  victor  song  shall  bless  ; 
Ask  what  tliou  wilt,  and  what  lliou  wilt  possess." 

"Fallen  is  Jerusalem  !  "  the  Hebrew  cries, 
And  patriot  anguish  fills  his  streaming  eyes, 
"  Hurl'd  to  the  earth  by  Rapine's  vengeful  rod, 
Polluted  lies  the  temple  of  our  God  ; 
Far  in  a  foreign  land  her  sons  remain, 
Hear  the  keen  taunt,  and  drag  the  galling  chain  ; 
In  fruitless  woe  they  wear  the  weary  years, 
And  steep  the  bread  of  bitterness  in  tears. 
O  Monarch,  greatest,  mildest,  best  of  men. 
Restore  us  to  those  ruin'd  walls  again  ' 
Allow  us  to  rebuild  that  sacred  dome. 
To  live  in  liberty,  and  die  at  Home." 

So  spake  Zorobabel.  — Thus  Woman's  praise 
Avail'd  again  Jerusalem  to  raise, 
Call'd  forth  the  sanction  of  the  Despot's  nod, 
And  freed  the  Nation  best  beloved  of  God. 

Bri.rton  Caitsewaij,  1793. 


WAT     TYLER; 

A   DRAMA. 


Twenty  years  a^o,  upon  the  surrrptitioiis  ptihlication  of  this 
notahic  Driima,  ami  the  use  which  was  made  of  it,  I  said 
what  it  tli'.ii  lieiame  nie  to  say  in  a  letter  to  one  of  those 
gentlemen  who  thoii:.'lit  proper  to  revile  mc,  not  for  having 
enlertainefl  deniorratien!  opinions,  hut  lor  having  outgrown 
them,  and  learnt  to  appreciate  and  to  defend  the  institutions 
of  my  country. 


102 


WAT    TYLER, 


Had  I  wriitiii  lewilly  in  my  youth,  like  licza, —  like  Ik-za,  I 
would  ask  pardon  of  God  and  iiiuii  ;  and  no  considerations 
should  in<luco  ine  to  reprint  what  I  coulil  never  think  of 
without  sorrow  and  shame.  Had  1  at  any  tin\e,  like  St. 
Augustine,  taught  dot'trines  whieh  I  afterwards  perceived 
to  be  erroneous,  —  and  if,  as  in  his  cuso,  my  position  in 
society, and  the  estimation  in  which  I  was  held,  gave  weight 
to  what  I  had  advanced,  and  made  those  errors  dangerous  to 
others,  —  like  St.  .\ugustine,  I  would  publish  uiy  retrac- 
tations, and  endeavor  to  counteract  t!ie  evil  which,  though 
erringly,  with  no  evil  intention,  I  had  caused. 

Wherefore  then,  it  may  be  asked,  have  I  included  Wat  Tyler 
in  this  authentic  collection  of  my  poetical  works  ?  For 
these  reasons,  —  that  it  may  not  be  supposed  1  think  it  any 
reproach  to  h.ive  written  it,  or  that  I  am  more  ashamed  of 
having  been  a  republican,  than  of  having  been  a  boy.  Qiii- 
ciinqiie  ista  lectitri  s'lnty  jioii  me  imitnitur  erranteni, scd  in  vulitu-< 
j)roficieiitcm.  Ineenut  ciiimfurlasse,  quumodu  ncriheiido  pro- 
ftccrhn,  quisqais  opitscula  mea,  ordiiie  quo  scripla  sunt, 
Irgcrit.* 

1  have  endeavored  to  correct  in  my  other  juvenile  pieces  such 
faults  as  were  corrigible.  Uut  Wat  Tyler  a])pears  just  as 
it  was  written,  in  the  course  of  three  mornings,  in  179-1 ; 
the  stolen  copy,  which  was  committed  to  the  press  twenty- 
three  years  afterwards,  not  having  undergone  the  slightest 
correction  of  any  kind. 


ACT  1. 


Scene.     A     Blacksmith's    shop;     Wat     Tyler     at 
work  within;  a  May-pole  before  the  door. 

Alice,  Piers,  &c. 

SONG. 

Cheerful  on  this  holiday, 
Welcome  we  the  merry  May. 

On  every  sunny  hillock  spread, 
The  pale  primrose  lifts  her  head ; 
llich  with  sweets,  the  western  gale 
Sweeps  along  the  cowslip'd  dale  ; 
Every  bank,  with  violets  gay, 
Smiles  to  welcome  in  the  May. 

The  linnet  from  tlie  budding  grove 
Chirps  her  vernal  song  of  love. 
The  copse  resounds  the  throstle's  notes  ; 
On  each  wild  gale  sweet  music  floats ; 
And  melody  from  every  spray 
Welcomes  in  the  merry  May. 

Cheerful  on  this  holiday. 

Welcome  we  the  merry  May.  [Dance. 

[During  the  thmce,  Tyler  lays  down  his  hammer, 
and  sits  mournfully  down  before  the  door. 

Hob  Carter.    Why  so   sad,  neiglibor  ?  —  do  not 
these  gay  sports, 
This  revelry  of  youth,  recall  the  days 
When  we  too  mingled  in  the  revelry. 
And  lightly  tripping  in  the  morris  dance. 
Welcomed  the  merry  month .' 

Tyler.  Ay,  we  were  young ; 

No  cares  had  quell'd  the  heyday  of  the  blood ; 
We  sported  deftly  in  the  April  morning, 

*  St.  Augustine. 


Nor  mark'd  the  black  clouds  gathering  o'er  our 
Nor  fear'd  the  storm  of  night.  [noon, 

Hob.  Beshrew  me,  Tyler, 

But  my  heart  joys  to  see  the  imps  so  clieerful ! 
Young,  hale,  and  hapj)y,  why  should  they  destroy 
These  blessings  by  reflection  .' 

Tyler.  Look  ye,  neighbor  — 

You  have  known  me  long. 

Hob.  Since  we  were  boys  together, 

And  play'd  at  barley-brake,  and  danced  the  niorr'-**. 
Some  five-and-twunty  years  ! 

Tyler.  Was  not  /  young. 

And  hale,  and  happy  .' 

Hob.   Cheerful  as  the  best.  [man  ? 

Tyler.    Have  not  I  been  a  staid,  hard-working 
Up  with  the  lark  at  labor ;  sober,  honest. 
Of  an  unbleinish'd  character .' 

Hob.  Who  doubts  it .' 

There's  never  a  man  in  Essex  bears  a  better. 

Tyler.   And  shall  not  these,  though  young,  and 
hale,  and  happy, 
Look  on  with  sorrow  to  the  future  hour  ? 
Shall  not  reflection  poison  all  their  pleasures .-' 
When  1  —  the  honest,  staid,  hard-v.forking  Tyler, 
Toil  through  the  long  course  of  the  summer's  day, 
Still  toiling,  yet  still  poor !  when  with  hard  labor 
Scarce  can  1  furnish  out  my  daily  food. 
And  age  comes  on  to  steal  away  my  strength, 
And  leave  me  poor  and  wretched  !     Why  should 

this  be .' 
My  youth  was  regular  —  my  labor  constant  — 
I  married  an  industrious,  virtuous  woman ; 
Nor  while  1  toil'd  and  sweated  at  the  anvil, 
Sat  she  neglectful  of  her  spinning-wheel. 
Hob  !  1  have  only  six  groats  in  the  world, 
And  they  must  soon  by  law  be  taken  from  me. 

Hob.   Curse  on  these  taxes  —  one  succeeds  an 
other  — 
Our  ministers,  panders  of  a  king's  will. 
Drain  all  our  wealth  away,  waste  it  in  revels. 
And  lure,  or  force  away  our  boys,  who  should  be 
The  props  of  our  old  age,  to  fill  their  armies. 
And  feed  the  crows  of  France.    Year  follows  year, 
And  still  we  madly  prosecute  the  war ; 
Draining  our  wealth,  distressing  our  poor  jx-asants. 
Slaughtering  our  youths  —  and  all  to  crown  our 

chiefs 
With  glory  !  —  I  detest  the  hell-sprung  name. 

Tyler.   What  matters  me  who  wears  the  crown 
of  France  ? 
Whether  a  Richard  or  a  Charles  possess  it  ? 
They  reap  the  glory  —  they  enjoy  the  spoil  — 
We  pay  —  we  bleed!     The   sun  would  shine   as 
The  rains  of  heaven  as  seasonably  fall,     [chcerly. 
Though  neither  of  these  royal  pests  existed. 

Hob.    Nay,  as  for  that,  we  poor  men  should  faro 
better ; 
No  legal  robbers  then  should  force  away 
The  hard-earn'd  wages  of  our  honest  toll. 
The  Parliament  forever  cries  more  money ; 
The  service  of  the  state  demands  more  money. 
Just  lieaven !  of  what  service  is  the  state  ? 

Tyler.    Oh,  'tis  of  vast  imi)ortance  !  who  should 
The  luxuries  and  riots  of  the  court?  [pay  for 

Who  should  support  the  flaunting  courtier's  pride, 


WAT    TYLER. 


103 


Pay  for  tlieir  inidni<rlit  revels,  their  ric.li  garments, 
Did  not  the  state  enforce  r  —  Tliink  ye,  my  friend, 
That  I,  a  humble  blacksmith,  here  at  Deptford, 
Would  part  with  these  six  groats  —  earn'd  by  hard 
toii, 

All  that  1  have  !  to  massacre  the  Frenchmen, 

Murder  as  enemies  men  I  never  saw  I 

Did  not  the  state  compel  me  ? 

( T,ix-<Tatlicrcrs  pass  by.)  There  they  go, 

Privileged  ruffians  I   [Piers  ^  .Uicc  advance  to  /tiin. 

Mice.    Did  we  not  dance  it  well  to-day,  my  fa- 
ther ? 
Vou  know  I  always  loved  these  village  sports. 
Even  from  my  infancy,  and  yet  methinks 
I  never  tripp'd  along  the  mead  so  gayly. 
You  know  they  chose  me  queen,  and  your  friend 

Piers 
Wreathed  me  tliis  cowslip  garland  for  my  head  — 
Is  it  not  simple  ?  —  You  are  sad,  my  father  ! 
You  should  have  rested  from  your  work  to-day, 
And  given  a  few  hours  up  to  merriiuent  — 
But  you  are  so  serious  ! 

Tyler.  Serious,  my  good  girl ! 

I  may  well  be  so  :  when  I  look  at  thee. 
It  makes  me  sad !  thou  art  too  fair  a  flower 
To  bear  the  wintry  wind  of  poverty. 

Piers.    Yd   I    have    often   heard  you  speak  of 
riches 
Even  with  contempt ;  they  cannot  purchase  peace. 
Or  innocence,  or  virtue  ;  sounder  sleep 
Waits  on  the  weary  ploughman's  lowly  bed. 
Than  on  the  downy  couch  of  luxury 
Lulls  the  rich  slave  of  pride  and  indolence. 
I  never  wish  for  wealth  ;  my  arm  is  strong. 
And  I  can  purchase  by  it  a  coarse  meal. 
And  hunger  savors  it. 

Tyler.  Y'oung  man,  thy  mind 

Has  yet  to  learn  the  hard  lesson  of  experience. 
Thou  art  yet  young  :  the  blasting  breath  of  want 
Has  not  yet  froze  the  current  of  thy  blood. 

Piers.   Fare  not  the  birds  well,  as  from  spray  to 
spray, 
Blithesome  they  bound,  yet  find  their  simple  food 
Scatter'd  abundantly  .'' 

Tyler.    No  fancied  boundaries  of  mine  and  thine 
Restrain  their  wanderings.     Nature  gives  enougii 
For  all ;  but  Man,  with  arrogant  selfishness. 
Proud  of  liis  heaps,  hoards  up  superfluous  stores 
Hobb'd  from  his  weaker  fellows,  starves  tlie  poor. 
Or  gives  to  pity  what  he  owes  to  justice  ! 

Piers.    So  I   have   heard  our  good  friend   John 
Ball  preach.  [prison'd  .' 

Alice.    My  father,  wherefore  was  John  Ball  im- 
Was  he  not  charitable,  good,  and  pious  ? 
1  have  heard  him  say  that  all  mankind  arc  brethren. 
And  that  like  brethren  they  should  love  each  other  ; 
Was  not  that  doctrine  pious  ? 

Tyler.  Rank  sedition  — 

High  treason,  every  syllable,  my  child  ! 
The  priests  cry  out  on  him  for  heresy, 
The  nobles  all  detest  him  as  a  rebel. 
And  this  good  man,  this  minister  of  Christ, 
This  man,  the  friend  and  brother  of  mankind, 
Lingers  in  the  dark  dungeon  I  —  My  dear  Alice, 
Retire  awhile.  [Exit  Mice. 


Piers,  I  would  speak  to  thee, 
Even  with  a  fiither's  love  !  you  are  much  with  me, 
And  1  believe  do  court  my  conversation  ; 
Thou  could'st  not  choose  thee  forth  a  truer  friend. 
I  would  liiin  see  tliie  haj>py,  but  1  iear 
Thy  very  virtues  will  destroy  thy  peace. 
My  daughter  —  she  is  young  —  not  yet  fifteen  : 
Piers,  thou  art  generous,  and  thy  youthful  heart 
Warm  with  afiection;  this  close  intimacy 
Will  ere  long  grow  to  love. 

Piers.  Suppose  it  so ; 

Were  that  an  evil,  Walter.'     She  is  mild. 
And  clieerful,  and  industrious  :  —  now  methinks 
With  such  a  partner  life  would  be  most  happy  ! 
Why  would  ye  warn  me  then  of  wretchedness ' 
Is  there  an  evil  that  can  harm  our  lot.' 
I  have  been  told  the  virtuous  must  be  happy, 
And  have  believed  it  true :  tell  me,  my  friend. 
What  shall  disturb  the  virtuous  .' 

Tyler.  Poverty, 

A  bitter  foe. 

Piers.  Nay,  you  have  often  told  me 

That  happiness  does  not  consist  in  riches. 

Tyler.    It  is  most  true  ;  but  tell  me,  my  dear  boy, 
Could'st  thou  be  happy  to  behold  thy  wife 
Pining  with  want.'  the  children  of  your  loves 
Clad  in  the  squalid  rags  of  wretchedness.' 
And,  when  thy  hard  and  unremitting  toil 
Had  earn'd  with  pain  a  scanty  recompense, 
Could'st  thou  be  patient  when  the  law  should  rob 

thee. 
And  leave  thee  without  bread,  and  penniless  .' 

Piers.  It  is  a  dreadful  picture. 

Tyler.  'Tis  a  true  one. 

Piers.    But  yet  methinks  our  sober  industry 
Might  drive  away  the  danger  !  'tis  but  little 
That  I  could  wish ;  food  for  our  frugal  meals. 
Raiment,  however  homely,  and  a  bed 
To  shield  us  from  the  night. 

Tyler.  1"hy  honest  reason 

Could  wish  no  more  ;  but  were  it  not  most  wretched 
To  want  the  coarse  food  for  the  frugal  ineal .' 
And  by  the  orders  of  your  merciless  lord. 
If  you  by  chance  were  guilty  of  being  poor, 
To  be  turn'd  out  adrift  to  the  bleak  world. 
Unhoused,  unfriended.'  —  Piers,  I  have  not  been 

idle', 
1  never  ate  tlie  bread  of  indolence  ; 
Could  Alice  be  more  thrifty  than  her  mother.' 
Yet  with  but  one  child,  —  and  that  one  how  good. 
Thou  knowest,  —  I  scarcely  can  provide  the  wants 
Of  nature  :  look  at  these  wolves  of  the  law. 
They  come  to  drain  me  of  my  hard-earn'd  wages. 
I  have  already  paid  the  heavy  tax 
Laid  on  the  wool  that  clothes  me,  on  my  leather. 
On  all  the  needful  articles  of  life  I 
And  now-  three  groats  (and  I  work'd  hard  to  earn 

them) 
The  Parliament  demands  —  and  I  must  pay  them, 
Forsooth,  for  liberty  to  wear  my  head. 

[Enter  Tax-gatherers. 

Collector.   Three   groats    a   head   for    all   your 
family. 

Piers.   Why  is  this  money  gather'd  .'  'tis  a  hard 
tax 


104 


WAT    TYLER. 


On  the  j)r>or  laborer  !     It  can  never  be 
That  Government  should  thus  distress  the  people. 
Go  to  the  rich  for  money  —  honest  labor 
Ought  to  enjoy  its  fruits. 

Collector.  The  state  wants  money  ; 

War  is  expensive  —  'tis  a  glorious  war, 
A  war  of  honor,  and  must  be  supported.  — 
Three  groats  a  head. 

Tyler.  There,  three  for  my  own  head, 

Three  for  my  wife's  ;  what  will  the  state  tax  next.' 
Collector.    You  have  a  daughter. 
Tyler.   She  is  below  the  age  —  not  yet  fifteen. 
Collector.    You  would  evade  the  tax. 
Tyler.  Sir  Officer, 

I  have  j)aid  3'ou  fairly  what  the  law  demands. 
[jIUcc  and  her  motlier  enter  the  shop.     The  Tax- 
gatherers  go  to  her.     One  of  them  lays  hold  of 
her.     She  screams.  —  Tyler  goes  in. 
Collector.    You  say  she's  under  age. 
[Alice  screams  again.     Tyler  knocks  out  the  Tax- 
gatherer  s  brains.     His  companions  fy. 
Piers.   A  just  revenge.  [law 

Tyler.   Most  just  indeed;  but  in  the  eye  of  the 
'Tis  murder :  and  the  murderer's  lot  is  mine. 

[Piers  goes  out  —  Tyler  sits  down  mournfully. 
.Ilice.    Fly,  my  dear  father  !  let  us  leave  this  place 
Before  they  raise  pursuit. 

Tyler.  Nay,  nay,  my  child, 

Flio-lit  would  be  useless  —  I  have  done  my  duty  ; 
1  liave  punish'd  the  brute  insolence  of  lust, 
And  here  will  wait  my  doom. 

Wife.  Oil,  let  us  fly, 

ISly  husband,  my  dear  husband  ! 

Mice.  Quit  but  this  place, 

And  we  may  yet  be  safe,  and  happy  too. 

Tyler.    It  would  be  useless,  Alice ;  't  would  but 
lengthen 
A  wretched  life  in  fear. 

[Cry  7C(</iO?/<,  Liberty,  Liberty!  Enter  Mob,  Hob 
Carter,   c^-c.    crying   Liberty !    Liberty !    No 
Foil-tax  I     No  War  ! 
Hub.    We  have  broke  our  chains ;  we  will  arise 
in  anger ; 
The  mighty  multitude  shall  trample  down 
The  handful  that  oppress  them. 

Tyler.  Have  ye  heard 

So  soon  then  of  my  murder  .' 

Hob.  Of  your  vengeance. 

Piers  ran  throughout  tlie  village  :  told  the  news  — 
Cried  out,  To  arms  !  —  arm,  arm  for  liberty  ; 
For  Liberty  and  Justice  ! 

Tyler.  My  good  friends. 

Heed  well  your  danger,  or  be  resolute  ! 
Learn  to  laugh  menaces  and  force  to  scorn. 
Or  leave  me.     I  dare  answer  the  bold  deed  — 
Death  must  come  once  :  return  ye  to  your  homes. 
Protect  my  wife  and  child,  and  on  my  grave 
Write  why  I  died  ;  perhaps  the  time  may  come. 
When  honest  Justice  shall  applaud  the  deed. 
Hob.    Nay,  nay,  we  are  oppress'd,  and  have  too 
long 
Knelt  at  our  proud  lords'  feet;  we  have  too  long 
Obey'd  their  orders,  bow'd  to  their  caprices. 
Sweated  for  them  the  wearying  summer's  day. 
Wasted  for  them  the  wages  of  our  toil, 


Fought  for  them,  conquer'd  for  them,  bled  for  them, 
Still  to  be  trampled  on,  and  still  despised  ! 
But  we  have  broke  our  chains. 

Tom  Miller.  Piers  is  gone  on 

Through  all  the  neighboring  villages,  to  spread 
The  glorious  tidings. 

Hob.  He  is  hurried  on 

To  Maidstone,  to  deliver  good  John  Ball, 
Our  friend,  our  shepherd.  [Mob  increases- 

Tyler.  Friends  and  countrymen. 

Will  ye  then  rise  to  save  an  honest  man 
From  the  fierce  clutches  of  the  bloody  law  ' 
Oh,  do  not  call  to  mind  my  private  wrongs,     [me. 
That  the  state  drain'd  m}'  hard-earn'd  pittance  from 
Tliat,  of  his  office  proud,  tlie  foul  Collector 
Durst  with  lewd  hand  seize  on  my  darling  child. 
Insult  her  maiden  modesty,  and  force 
.\  fiither's  hand  to  vengeance  ;  heed  not  this ; 
Tliink  not,  my  countrymen,  on  private  wrongs  ; 
Remember  what  yourselves  have  long  endured; 
Think  of"  the  insults,  wrongs,  and  contumelies, 
Ye  bear  from  your  proud  lords  —  that  your  hard  toil 
Manures  their  fertile  fields  —  you  plough  the  eartli. 
You  sow  the  corn,  you  reap  tlie  ripen'd  harvest,  — 
They  riot  on  the  produce  !  —  that,  like  beasts. 
They  sell  you  with  their  land,  claim  all  the  fruits 
Which  the  kindly  earth  produces,  as  their  own. 
The  privilege,  forsooth,  of  noble  birth! 
On,  on  to  freedom  ;  feel  but  your  own  strength. 
Be  but  resolved,  and  these  destructive  tyrants 
Shall  shrink  before  your  vengeance. 

Hob.  On  to  London,  — 

The  tidings  fly  before  us  —  the  court  trembles,  — 
Liberty  —  Vengeance  —  Justice. 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I.     Blackheath. 
Tyler,  Hob,  &c. 

SONG. 

'  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  .' ' 

Wretched  is  the  infant's  lot. 
Born  within  the  straw-roof'd  cot; 
Be  he  generous,  wise,  or  brave, 
He  must  only  be  a  slave. 
Long,  long  labor,  little  rest. 
Still  to  toil  to  be  oppress'd ; 
Drain'd  by  taxes  of  his  store, 
Punish'd  next  for  being  poor  : 
This  is  the  poor  wretch's  lot, 
Born  within  the  straw-roofd  cot. 

While  the  peasant  works,  —  to  sleep, 
What  the  peasant  sows,  —  to  reap. 
On  the  couch  of  ease  to  lie, 
Ptioting  in  revelry ; 
Be  he  villain,  be  he  fool. 
Still  to  hold  despotic  rule, 
Trampling  on  his  slaves  with  scorn ' 
This  is  to  be  nobly  born. 


W^T    TYLER. 


105 


'  WIuMi  Adam  ili^lvcd  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  llii'ii  the  ircntlenian?  ' 

Jack  Straw.    Tlu^  mob  arc  up  in   London  —  tlio 
proud  courtiers 
Bi'ijin  to  tremble. 

Tom  Miller.  A3',  ay,  'tis  time  to  tremble  : 

WhoU  plough  their  fields,  who'll  do  their  drud- 
gery now, 
And  work  like  liorses  to  give  them  the  harvest? 
Jack  Straw,    i  only  wonder  why  we  lay  quiet  so 
long. 
We     had    always    the    same    strength ;    and    wo 

deserved 
The  ills  we  met  with  for  not  using  it. 

II lb.    Why  do  we  fear  those  animals  call'd  lords .' 
What  is  there  in  the  name  to  frighten  us .' 
Is  not  my  arm  as  mighty  as  a  Baron's  ? 

Enter  Piers  and  Joii.n  Ball. 

Piers,    {to  Tyler.)    Have    1     done     well,     my 
father .'  1  remember'd 
This  good  man  lay  in  prison. 

Tyler.  JNIy  dear  child, 

Most  well ;  the  people  rise  for  liberty. 
And  their  first  deed  should  be  to  break  the  chains 
That  binds  the  virtuous  ;  —  Oh,  thou  honest  priest, 
How  much  hast  thou  endured  ! 

John  Ball.  Why,  ay,  my  friend ! 

These  squalid  rags  bespeak  what  I  have  suffered. 
I  was  reviled,  insulted,  left  to  languish 
In  a  damp  dungeon  ;  but  1  bore  it  cliccrily  — 
My  heart  was  glad —  for  I  had  done  my  duty. 
I  pitied  my  oppressors,  and  I  sorrow'd 
For  the  poor  men  of  England. 

Tyler.  They  have  felt 

Their  strength:  look  round  this  heath  ;  'tis  throng'd 

with  men 
Ardent  for  freedom  :  mighty  is  the  event 
That  waits  their  fortune. 

John  Ball.  I  would  fain  address  them. 

Tyler.     Do  so,  my  friend,  and  preach  to  tliem 
their  duty. 
Remind  them  of  their  long-withholden  rights. 
What  ho  !  there  ;  silence  ! 

Piers.  Silence,  tliere,  my  friends  ; 

This  good  man  would  address  you. 

Hob.  Ay,  ay,  hear  him  ;, 

He  is  no  mealy-mouth'd  court-orator. 
To  flatter  vice,  and  pamper  lordly  pride. 

John  Ball.     Friends,  brethren  !  for  ye  are    my 
brethren  all ; 
Englishmen,  met  in  arms  to  advocate 
The  cause  of  freedom,  hear  me  ;  pause  awhile 
In  the  career  of  vengeance!  —  It  is  true 
I  am  a  priest,  but,  as  these  rags  may  speak. 
Not  one  who  riots  in  the  poor  man's  spoil, 
Or  trades  with  his  religion.     I  am  one 
W^lu)  preach  the  law  of  Christ;  and,  in  my  life. 
Would  practise  what  he  taught.     The  Son  of  God 
Came  not  to  you  in  power:  humble  in  mien, 
fiOwly  in  heart,  the  man  of  Nazareth 
Preach'd  mercy,  justice,  love  :  "  Woe  unto  ye, 
Ye  that  are  rich  :  if  that  ye  would  be  saved. 
Sell  that  ye  have,  and  give  unto  the  poor." 
14 


So  taught  the  Savior.    Oh,  my  honest  friends. 

Have  ye  not  felt  the  strong,  indignant  throb 

Of  justice  in  your  bosoms,  to  behold 

The  lordly  Baron  feasting  on  your  spoils  .' 

Have  you  not  in  your  hearts  arraign'd  the  lot 

That  gave  hup  on  the  couch  of  lu.xury 

To  pillow  his  head,  and  pass  the  festive  day 

In  sportive  feasts,  and  ease,  and  revelry.' 

Have  you  not  often  in  3'our  conscience  ask'd. 

Why  istho  ditference  ;  wherefore  should  that  man. 

No  worthier  than  myself,  thus  lord  it  over  me, 

.\nd  bid  me  labor,  and  enjoy  the  fruits? 

Tiie  God  within  your  breasts  has  argued  thus  : 

The  voice  of  truth  has  murmur'd.     Came  ye  not 

As  helpless  to  the  world?     Shines  not  the  sun 

With  equal  ray  on  both  ?     Do  ye  not  feel 

The  self-same  wind.s  of  heaven  as  keenly  parch  ye  ? 

Abundant  is  the  earth  —  the  Sire  of  all 

Saw  and  pronounced  that  it  was  very  good. 

Look   round  :  the    vernal   fields   smile   with  new 

flowers, 
The  budding  orchard  perfumes  the  sweet  breeze. 
And  the  green  corn  waves  to  the  passing  gale. 
There  is  enough  for  all ;  but  your  proud  Baron 
Stands  up,  and,  arrogant  of  strength,  exclaims, 
"  I  am  a  Lord  — by  nature  I  am  noble  : 
These  fields  are  mine,  for  I  was  born  to  them ; 
I  was  born  in  the  castle  —  you,  poor  wretches, 
Whelp'd  in  the  cottage,  are  by  birth  my  slaves." 
Almighty  God !  such  blasphemies  are  utter'd  : 
Almighty  God  !  such  blasphemies  believed  I 

Turn.  Miller.     This  is  something  like  a  sermon. 

Jack  Straic.  Where's  the  bishop 

Would  tell  you  truths  like  these  ?  [apostles 

Hob.     There   never  was  a  bishop  among  all  the 

John  Ball.     My  brethren 

Piers.  Silence  ;  the  good  priest  speaks 

John  Ball.     My  brethren,  these  are   truths,  and 
weighty  ones ; 
Ye  are  all  equal :  nature  made  ye  so. 
Equality  is  j-our  birthright. — When  I  gaze 
On  the  proud  palace,  and  behold  one  man 
In  the  blood-purpled  robes  of  royalt}'. 
Feasting  at  ease,  and  lording  over  millions, 
Then  turn  me  to  the  hut  of  poverty. 
And  see  the  wretched  laborer,  worn  with  toil. 
Divide  his  scanty  morsel  with  his  infants, 
I  sicken,  and,  indignant  at  the  sight, 
"  Blush  for  the  patience  of  humanity." 

Jack  Straic.     We  will  assert  our  rights. 

Tom  Miller.  We'll  trample  down 

These  insolent  oppressors. 

John  Ball.  In  good  truth. 

Ye  have  cause  for  anger :  but,  my  honest  friends. 
Is  it  revenge  or  justice  that  ye  seek  ? 

Mob.  Justice  I  Justice  ' 

John  Ball.     Oh,  then  remember  mercy  ; 
And  though  your  proud  oppressors  spare  not  you. 
Show  you  excel  them  in  humanity. 
They  will  use  every  art  to  disunite  you  ; 
To  conquer  separately,  by  stratagem. 
Whom  in  a  mass  they  fear  ;  —  but  be  ye  firm  ; 
Boldly  demand  your  long-forgotten  rights. 
Your  sacred,  your  inalienable  freedom. 
Be  bold  —  be  resolute  —  be  merciful 


106 


WAT    TYLER, 


And  while  you  spurn  the  hated  name  of  slaves, 
Show  you  are  men. 

Mob.  Long  live  our  honest  priest. 

Jack  Strata.     He  shall  be  made  archbishop. 

John  Ball.     My  brethren,  1  am  plain  John  Ball, 
your  friend,  g 

Your  equal  :  by  the  law  of  Christ  enjoin'd 
To  serve  you,  not  command. 

Jack  Straw.  March  we  for  London. 

Tyicr.  Mark  me,  my  friends  —  we  rise  for  Lib- 
erty— 
Justice  shall  be  our  guide  :  let  no  man  dare 
To  plunder  in  the  tumult. 

Mob.  Lead  us  on.     Liberty  !  Justice  ! 

[Exeunt,  toith  cries  of  Liberty  !  No   Poll-tax  ! 
No  War. 

Scene    IL      The  Toicer. 

King    Richard,    Archbishop    of    Canterbury, 
Sir  John  Tresilian,  Walworth,  Philpot. 

King.     What  must  we  do  ?  the  danger  grows 
more  imminent. 
The  mob  increases. 

Philpot.  Every  moment  brings 

Fresh  tidings  of  our  peril. 

King.  It  were  well 

To  grant  them  what  they  ask. 

.Archbishop.  Ay,  that,  my  liege 

Were  politic.     Go  boldly  forth  to  meet  them, 
Grant  all  they  ask —  however  wild  and  ruinous  — 
Meantime,  the  troops  you  have  already  suinmon'd 
Will  gather  round  them.    Then  my  Christian  power 
Absolves  you  of  your  promise.  [the  rabble 

Walworth.  Were  but  their  ringleaders  cut  off, 
Would  soon  disperse. 

Philpot.  United  in  a  mass. 

There's  nothing  can  resist  them  —  once  divide  them. 
And  they  will  fall  an  easy  sacrifice.  [them  fair. 

Archbishop.  Lull    them  by    promises  —  bespeak 
Go  forth,  my  liege  —  spare  not,  if  need  requires 
A  solemn  oath  to  ratify  the  treaty. 

King.  I  dread  their  fury. 

.Archbishop.  'Tis  a  needless  dread  ; 

There  is  divinity  about  your  person  ; 
It  is  the  sacred  privilege  of  Kings, 
Howe'er  they  act,  to  render  no  accftunt 
To  man.     The  people  have  been  taught  this  lesson, 
Nor  can  they  soon  forget  it. 

King.  1  will  go  — 

I  will  submit  to  every  thing  they  ask  ; 
My  day    of  triumph   will  arrive  at  last.  [Shouts 
without. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.  The  mob  are  at  the  city  gates. 

.Archbishop.  Hasts  !  Haste  ! 

Address  them  ere  too  late.     I'll  remain  here. 
For  they  detest  me  much.  [Shouts  again. 

Enter  another  Messenger 

Mess.  The  Londoners  have  open'd  the  city  gates ; 
The  rebels  are  admitted.  [mayor. 

King.  Fear  then  must  give  me  courage.  My  lord 
Come  you  with  me.  [Exeunt.     Shouts  without. 


Scene  HI.     Smithjicld. 

Wat  Tyler,  John  Ball,  Piers,  ^'C  Mob. 

Piers.  So  far  triumphant  are   we.     How   these 
nobles. 
These  petty  tyrants,  who  so  long  oppress'd  us. 
Shrink  at  the  first  resistance  ! 

Ilob.  They  were  powerful 

Only  because  we  fondly  thought  them  so. 
Where  is  Jack  Straw  .-' 

Tyler.  Jack  Straw  is  gone  to  the  Tower 

To  seize  the  king,  and  so  to  end  resistance. 

John  Ball.  It   was  well  judged  ;  fain    would    I 
spare  the  shedding 
Of  human  blood  :  gain  we  that  royal  puppet, 
And  all  will  follow  fairly  ;  deprived  of  him, 
The  nobles  lose  their  pretext,  nor  will  dare 
Rebel  against  the  people's  majesty. 

Enter  Herald. 

Herald.  Richard  the  Second,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
Of  England,  Ireland,  France,  and  Scotland,  King, 
And  of  the  town  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
Would  parley  with  Wat  Tyler. 

Tyler.  Let  him  know 

Wat  Tyler  is  in  Smithfield.  [Exit  Herald .]  —  I  will 

parley 
With  this  young  monarch  :  as  he  comes  to  me, 
Trusting  my  honor,  on  your  lives  I  charge  you 
Let  none  attempt  to  harm  him. 

John  Ball.  The  faith  of  courts 

Is  but  a  weak  dependence.     You  are  honest  — 
And  better  is  it  even  to  die  the  victim 
Of  credulous  honesty,  than  live  preserved 
By  the  cold  policy  that  still  suspects. 

Enter  King,  Walworth,  Philpot,  <^c. 

King.  I  would  speak  to  thee,  Wat  Tyler  :  bid 
Retire  awhile.  [the  mob 

Piers.  Nay,  do  not  go  alone  — 

Let  me  attend  you. 

Tyler.  Wherefore  should  I  fear.' 

Am  I  not  arm'd  with  a  just  cause  .'     Retire, 
And  I  will  boldly  plead  the  cause  of  Freedom. 

[Jidvances. 

King.  Tyler,  why  l)ave  you  kill'd  my  officer. 
And  led  my  honest  subjects  from  their  homes. 
Thus  to  rebel  against  the  Lord's  anointed .' 

Tyler.  Because  they  were  oppress'd. 

King.  Was  this  the  way 

To  remedy  the  ill .'     You  should  have  tried 
By  milder  means  —  petition'd  at  the  throne  — 
The  throne  will  always  listen  to  petitions. 

Tyler.  King  of  England, 

Petitioning  for  pity  is  most  weak  — 
The  sovereign  people  ought  to  demand  justice. 
I  kill'd  your  officer,  for  his  lewd  hand 
Insulted  a  maid's  modesty.     Your  subjects 
I  lead  to  rebel  against  the  Lord's  anointed. 
Because  his  ministers  have  made  him  odious  ; 
His  yoke  is  heavy,  and  his  burden  grievous. 
Why  do  we  carry  on  this  fatal  war, 
To  force  upon  the  French  a  king  they  hate. 
Tearing  our  young  men  from  their  peaceful  homes, 


WAT    TYLER. 


107 


Forcing   liis    liard-eani'd    fruits   from   the    honest 

peasant, 
Distressing  us  to  desolate  our  neiglibors  ? 
WJiy  is  this  ruinous  poll-tax  imposed, 
liut  to  support  your  court's  extravagance, 
And  your  mad  title  to  the  crown  of  France  ? 
Shall  we  sit  tamely  down  beneath  these  evils 
Petitioning  for  pity  ?     King  of  England, 
Wliy  are  we  sold  like  cattle  in  your  markets  — 
Deprived  of  every  privilege  of  man  ? 
Must  we  lie  tamely  at  our  tyrant's  feet. 
And,  like  your  spaniels,  lick  the  hand  that  beats  us  ? 
You  sit  at  ease  in  your  gay  palaces  ! 
The  costly  banquet  courts  your  appetite  ; 
Sweet  music  soothes  your  slumbers  :  we,  the  while. 
Scarce  by  hard  toil  can  earn  a  little  food,      [wind ; 
And    sleep    scarce  shelter'd  from  the  cold   night 
Whilst  your  wild  projects  wrest  the  little  from  us 
Which  might  have  cheer'd  the  wintry  hour  of  age. 
The  Parliament  forever  asks  more  money  ; 
We  toil  and  sweat  for  money  for  your  taxes  : 
Where  is  the  benefit,  what  good  reap  we 
From  all  the  counsels  of  your  government .' 
Think  you  that  we  should  quarrel  with  tjie  French? 
What  boots  to  us  your  victories,  your  glory  ? 
We  pay,  we  fight,  you  profit  at  your  ease. 
Do  you  not  claim  the  country  as  your  own  ' 
Do  you  not  call  the  venison  of  the  forest. 
The  birds  of  heaven,  your  own  ?  —  prohibiting  us. 
Even  though  in  want  of  food,  to  seize  the  prey 
Whlcli  nature  offers.     King  !  is  all  this  just.^ 
Think  you  we  do  not  feel  the  wrongs  we  suffer.' 
The  hour  of  retribution  is  at  hand, 
And  tyrants  tremble  —  mark  me,  King  of  England  ! 

Walworth,  {comes  behind  him,  and  stabs  kiiu.) 
Insolent  rebel,  threatening  the  King  ! 

Piers.    Vengeance  '.     Vengeance  I 

Hob.    Seize  the  King. 

King.    I  must  be  bold,     (.idrancing.) 

My  friends  and  loving  subjects, 
I  will  grant  you  all  you  ask;  you  shall  be  free  — 
The  tax  shall  be  repeal'd  —  all,  all  you  wish. 
Your  leader  menaced  me  ;  he  deservd  his  fate : 
Quiet  your  angers  :  on  my  royal  word 
Your  grievances  shall  all  be  done  away ; 
Your  vassalage  abolish'd.     A  free  pardon 
Allow'd  to  all :  So  help  me  God,  it  shall  be. 

John  Ball.    Revenge,  my  brethren,  beseems  not 
Christians  : 
Send  us  these  terms,  sign'd  with  your  seal  of  state. 
We  will  await  in  peace.     Deceive  us  not  — 
Act  justly,  so  to  excuse  j'our  late  foul  deed. 

King.   The  charter  shall  be  drawn  out :  on  mine 
honor 
All  shall  be  justly  done. 


ACT    III. 
Scene  I.     Smithjield. 

John  Ball,  Piers,  &c. 

Piers,   (to  John  Ball.)     You  look  disturbed,  my 
father. 


John  Ball.  Piers,  I  am  so.  [bishop. 

Jack  Straw  has  forced  the  tower ;  sciz'd  the  Arch- 
And  beheaded  him. 

Piers.  The  curse  of  insurrection. 

John  Bull.   Ay,    Piers,  our   nobles   level  down 
their  vassals. 
Keep  them  at  endless  labor,  like  their  brutes, 
Degrading  every  faculty  by  servitude. 
Repressing  all  the  energy  of  mind  : 
We  must  not  wonder,  tlien,  that,  like  wild  beasts. 
When  they  have  burst  their  chains,  with  brutal 

rage 
They  revenge  them  on  their  tyrants. 

Piers.  This  Archbishop, 

He  was  oppressive  to  his  humble  vassals  : 
Proud,  haughty,  avaricious  — — 

John  Ball.  A  true  high  priest, 

Preaching  humility  with  his  mitre  on; 
Praising  up  alms  and  Christian  charity. 
Even  whilst  his  unforgiving  hand  distress'd 
flis  honest  tenants. 

Piers.  Ho  deserved  his  fate,  then. 

John  Ball.    Justice  can  never  link  with  cruelty. 
Is  there  among  the  catiilogue  of  crimes 
A  sin  so  black  that  only  Death  can  expiate  ? 
Will  reason  never  rouse  her  from  her  slumbers. 
And  darting  through  the  veil  her  eagle  eye. 
See  in  the  sable  garments  of  the  law 
Revenge  conccal'd  ?     This   high  priest  has  been 

haughty ; 
He  has  oppress'd  his  vassals  :  tell  me,  Piers, 
Does  his  death  remedy  the  ills  he  caused .' 
Were  it  not  better  to  repress  his  power 
Of  doing  wrong,  that  so  his  future  life 
Might  remedy  tlio  evils  of  the  past. 
And  benefit  mankind  ? 

Piers.  But  must  not  vice 

Be  punish'd  .' 

John  Ball.     Is  not  punishment  revenge  ? 
The  momentary  violence  of  anger 
May  be  excused  :  the  indignant  heart  will  tlirob 
Against  oppression,  and  the  outstretch'd  arm 
Resent  its  injured  feelings.     The  Collector 
Insulted  Alice,  and  roused  the  keen  emotions 
Of  a  fond  father.     Tyler  murder'd  him. 

Piers.    Murder'd  I  —  a  most  harsh  word. 

John  Ball.  Yes,  murder'd  him : 

His  mangled  feelings  prompted  the  bad  act. 
And  Nature  will  almost  commend  the  deed    [ings 
That  Justice  blames  :  but  will   the   awaken'd  feel- 
Plead  with  their  heart-emoving  eloquence 
For  the  calm,  deliberate  murder  of  Revenge.' 
Would  you,  Piers,  in  your  calmer  hour  of  reason. 
Condemn  an  erring  brother  to  be  slain  ? 
Cut  him  at  once  from  all  the  joys  of  life. 
All  hopes  of  reformation  —  to  revenge 
The  deed  his  punishment  cannot  recall .' 
My  blood  boil'd  in  me  at  the  fate  of  Tyler, 
Yet  I  reveng'd  not. 

Piers.  Oh,  my  Christian  father, 

They  would  not  argue  thus  humanely  on  us. 
Were  we  within  their  power. 

John  Ball.  I  know  they  would  not; 

But  we  must  pity  them  that  they  are  vicious. 
Not  imitate  their  vice. 


1 08 


WAT    TYLER. 


Piers.  Alas,  poor  Tyler ! 

I  do  repent  me  much  that  1  stood  back, 
When  he  advanced,  fearless  in  rectitude, 
To  meet  these  royal  assassins. 

John  Ball.  Not  for  myself, 

Though  I  have  lost  an  honest,  virtuous  friend. 
Mourn  1  the  death  of  Tyler :  he  was  one 
Gifted  with  the  strong  energy  of  mind. 
Quick  to  perceive  the  right,  and  prompt  to  act 
When  Justice  needed :  he  would  listen  to  me 
With  due  attention,  yet  not  yielding  lightly 
What  had  to  him  seem'd  good :  severe  in  virtue, 
He  awed  the  ruder  people,  whom  he  led, 
By  his  stern  rectitude. 

Piers.  Witness  that  day 

When  they  destroy'd  the  palace  of  the  Gaunt; 
And  hurl'd  the  wealth  his  avarice  had  amassed, 
Ainid  the  fire  :  the  people,  fierce  in  zeal, 
Threw  in  the  flames  a  wretch  whose  selfish  hand 
Purloin'd  amid  the  tumult. 

John  Ball.  1  lament 

The  death  of  Tyler  for  my  country's  sake. 
1  shudder  lest  posterity,  enslaved. 
Should  rue  his  murder.     Who  shall  now  control 
The  giddy  multitude,  blind  to  their  own  good. 
And  listening  with  avidity  to  the  tale 
Of  courtly  falsehood.' 

Piers.  The  King  must  perform 

His  plighted  promise. 

{Cnj  without  —  The  Charter  !  —  the  Charter  !) 

Enter  Mob  and  Herald. 

Tom  Miller.   Read  it  out  —  read  it  out. 

Hob.   Ay,  ay,  let's  hear  the  Charter. 

Herald.  Richard  Plantagenet,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  King  of  England,  Ireland,  France,  Scotland, 
and  the  town  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed,  to  all  whom 
it  may  concern,  —  These  presents  :  Whereas  our 
loving  subjects  have  complained  to  us  of  the  heavy 
burdens  they  endure,  particularly  from  our  late 
enacted  poll-tax ;  and  whereas  they  have  risen  in 
arms  against  our  otScers,  and  demanded  the  aboli- 
tion of  personal  slavery,  vassalage,  and  manorial 
rights ;  we,  ever  ready  in  our  sovereign  mercy  to 
listen  to  the  petitions  of  our  loving  subjects,  do 
annul  all  these  grievances. 

Mob.    Huzza!  long  live  the  King  '. 

Herald,  (continues.)  And  do  of  our  royal  mercy 
grant  a  free  pardon  to  all  who  may  have  been  any- 
ways concerned  in  the  late  insurrections.  All  this 
shall  be  faithfully  performed,  on  our  royal  word  ;  so 
help  us  God  —  God  save  the  King ! 

ILoud  and  repeated  shoiits. 

Herald.    Now  then  depart  in  quiet  to  your  homes. 

John  Ball.   Nay,  my  good  friend,  the  people  will 
remain 
Imbodled  peaceably,  till  Parliament 
Confirm  the  royal  Charter  :  tell  your  King  so: 
We  will  await  the  Charter's  confirmation, 
Meanwhile  comporting  ourselves  orderly. 
As  peaceful  citizens,  not  risen  in  tumult, 
But  to  redress  their  evils.  [Exit  Herald,  ^-c. 

Hob.  'Twas  well  ordered. 

I  place  but  little  trust  in  courtly  faith.  [King 

John  Ball.   We  must  remain  imbodied ;  else  the 


Will  plunge  again  in  royal  luxury. 

And  when  the  storm  of  danger  is  past  over, 

Forget  his  promises. 

Hob.  Ay,  like  an  aguish  sinner, 

He'll  promise  to  repent,  when  the  fit's  on  him; 
When  well  recover'd,  laugh  at  his  own  terrors. 

Piers.    Oh,  1  am  grieved  that  we   nmst  gain  so 
little. 
Why  are  not  all  these  empty  ranks  abolish'd, 
King,  slave,  and  lord,  ennobled  into  MAN  .' 
Are  we  not  equal  all  .■'  —  have  you  not  told  me 
Equality  is  the  sacred  right  of  man, 
Inalienable,  though  by  force  withheld .' 

John  Ball.    Even  so:    but,   Piers,  my  frail  and 
fallible  judgment 
Knows  hardly  to  decide  if  it  be  right 
Peaceably  to  return,  content  with  little, 
With  this  half  restitution  of  our  rights, 
Or  boldly  to  proceed,  through  blood  and  slaughter. 
Till  we  should  all  be  equal  and  all  happy. 
I  chose  the  milder  way:  —  perhaps  I  err'd ! 

Piers.   I  fear  me  I     By  the  mass,  the    unsteady 
people 
Are  flocking  homewards  —  how  the  multitude 
Diminishes  I 

John  Ball.    Go  thou,  my  son,  and  stay  them. 
Carter,  do  you  exert  your  influence  : 
All  depends  upon  their  stay:  my  mind  is  troubled. 
And  I  would  fain  compose  my  thoughts  for  action. 

{Exeunt  Hob  and  Piers. 
Father  of  mercies  !     1  do  fear  me  much 
That  I  have  err'd.     Thou  gavest  my  ardent  mind 
To  pierce  the  mists  of  superstitious  falsehood  ;  — 
Gavest  me   to   knov/  the    truth.     I    should   have 

urged  it 
Through  every  opposition  ;  now,  perhaps. 
The  seemly  voice  of  pity  lias  deceived  me, 
And  all  this  mighty  movement  ends  in  ruin. 
1  fear  me  I  have  been  like  the  weak  leech. 
Who,  sparing  to  cut  deep,  with  cruel  mercy 
Mangles  his  patient  without  curing  him. 

[  Great  tumult. 
What  means  this  tumult.-'  hark  !  the  clang  of  arms. 
God  of  eternal  justice  —  the  false  monarch 
Has  broke  his  plighted  vow. 

[Enter  Piers  wounded. 

Piers.    Fly,  fly,  my  father  —  the  perjured  King, 
-fly,  fly. 

John  Ball.    Nay,  nay,   my  child  ;  I  dare   abide 
•  my  fate. 
Let  me  bind  up  thy  wounds. 

Piers.  'Tis  useless  succor. 

They  seek  thy  life  ;  fly,  fly,  my  honored  father, 
And  let  me  have  the  hope  to  sweeten  death 
That  thou  at  least  hast    scaped.     They  are  mur- 
dering 
Our  unsuspecting  brethren:  half  unarm'd, 
Trusting  too  fondly  to  the  tyrant's  word,      [blood. 
They  were   dispersing;  —  the   streets  swim  with 
Oh,  save  thyself  [Enter  Soldiers. 

1st  Soldier.    This  is  that  old  seditious  heretic. 

2d  Soldier.    And  here  the  young  spawn   of  re- 
bellion : 
My  orders  ar'n't  to  spare  him.  [Stabs  Piers. 

Come,  you  old  stirrer-up  of  insurrection. 


WAT    TYLER. 


109 


You  bell-wether  oftlie  mob  —  jou  ar'n't  to  die 
So  easily.  [Leading  Itiin  off. 

{Mobjiij  across  the  stage  —  the  troops  pursue  them 
—  tumult  increases  —  Loud  cries  and  shouts. 

Scene    II.       Westminster  Hull. 

King,  Walworth,  Piiilpot,  Sir  John 
Tresilian,  &c. 

Walworth.   My  liege,    'twas   wisely  ordered  to 
destroy 
The  duiiohiU  rabble,  but  take  prisoner 
That  old  seditious  priest :  his  strange,  wild  notions 
Ol'this  equality,  when  well  exposed. 
Will  create  ridicule,  and  shame  the  people 
or  their  late  tumults. 

Sir  John.  Ay,  there's  nothing  like 

A  fair,  free,  open  trial,  where  the  King 
Can  choose  his  jury  and  appoint  his  judges. 

King.   Walworth,  I  must  thank  you  for  my  de- 
liverance, 
'Twas  a  bold  deed  to  stab  him  in  the  parley. 
Kneel    down,   and    rise   a   knight,    Sir    William 
Walworth. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.    I  left  them  hotly  at  it.     Smitlifield 
smoked 
With  the  rebels'  blood  !  your  troops  fought  loyally; 
There's  not  a  man  of  them  will  lend  an  ear 
To  pity. 

Walworth.    Is  John  Ball  secured  .' 

Messenger.  They  have  seized  him. 

Enter  Guards,  icith  John  Ball. 

\st   Guard.    We've  brought  the  old  villain. 

2d  Guard.  An  old  mischief-maker  — 

Why,  there's  fifteen  hundred  of  the  mob  are  killed. 
All  through  his  preaching. 

air  John  Tr.    Prisoner,  are  you  the  arch-rebel 
John  Ball .' 

John  Ball.    I  am  John  Ball ;  but  1  am  not  a  rebel. 
Take  ye  the  name,  who,  arrogant  in  strength, 
Rebel  against  the  people's  sovereignty.       [ring  up 

Sir  John  Tr.    John  Ball,  you  are  accused  of  stir- 
The  poor  deluded  people  to  rebellion; 
Not  having  the  fear  of  God  and  of  the  King 
Before  your  eyes ;  of  preaching  up  strange  notions. 
Heretical  and  treasonous ;  such  as  saying 
That  kings  have  not  a  right  from  Heaven  to  govern  ; 
That  all  mankind  are  equal ;  and  that  rank 
And  the  distinctions  of  society, 
Ay,  and  the  sacred  rights  of  property, 
Are  evil  and  oppressive  :  plead  you  guilty 
To  this  most  heavy  charge  .' 

John  Ball.  Ifit  be  guilt 

To  preach  what  you  are  pleased   to  call  strange 

notions. 
That  all  mankind  as  brethren  must  be  equal ; 
That  privileged  orders  of  society 
Are  evil  and  oppressive ;  that  the  right 
Of  property  is  a  juggle  to  deceive 
The  poor  whom  you  oppress  —  I  plead  me  guilty. 

Sir  John  Tr.  It  is  against  the  custom  of  this  court 
That  the  prisoner  should  plead  guilty. 


John  Ball.  Why  then  put  you 

The  needless  question.'     Sir  Judge,  let  me  save 
The  vain  and  empty  insult  of  a  trial. 
What  I  have  done,  that  I  dare  justify. 

Sir  John  Tr.  Did  you  not  tell  the  mob  they  were 
oppress'd. 
And  preach  uj)on  the  equality  of  man. 
With  evil  intent  thereby  to  stir  them  up 
To  tumult  and  rebellion  ? 

John  Bull.  That  1  told  them 

That  all  mankind  are  equal,  is  most  true  : 
Ye  came  as  helpless  infiints  to  the  world ; 
Ye  feel  alike  the  infirmities  of  nature  ; 
And  at  last  moulder  into  common  clay.  [earth 

Why  then  these  vain  distinctions.'  —  bears  not  the 
Food  in  abundance.'  — must  your  granaries 
O'crflov.'  with  plenty,  while  the  poor  man  starves? 
Sir  Judge,  why  sit  you  there,  clad  in  your  furs.' 
Why  are  your  cellars  stored  with  choicest  wines. 
Your  larders  hung  with  dainties,  while  your  vassal. 
As  virtuous,  and  as  able  too  by  nature. 
Though  by  your  selfish  tyranny  deprived 
Of  mind's  improvement,  shivers  in  his  rags, 
And  starves  amid  the  plenty  he  creates .' 
I  have  said  this  is  wrong,  and  I  repeat  it  — 
And  there  will  be  a  time  when  this  great  truth 
Shall  be  confess'd  —  be  felt  by  all  mankind. 
The  electric  truth  shall  run  from  man  to  man, 
And  the  blood-cemented  pyramid  of  greatness 
Shall  fall  before  the  flash. 

Sir  John  Tr.  Audacious  rebel ! 

How  darest  thou  insult  this  sacred  court, 
Blaspheming  all  the  dignities  of  rank.' 
How  could  the  Government  be  carried  on 
Without  the  sacred  orders  of  the  King 
And  the  nobility  .' 

John  Ball.  Tell  mo.  Sir  Judge, 

What  does  the  Government  avail  the  peasant.' 
Would  not  he  plough  his  field,  and  sow  the  corn. 
Ay,  and  in  peace  enjoy  tlie  harvest  too  .' 
Would  not  the  sun  shine  and  the  dews  descend, 
Thouo-h  neither  Kino-  nor  Parliament  existed? 
Do  your  court  politics  ought  matter  him  ? 
Would  he  be  warring  even  unto  death 
With  his  French  neighbors  ?  Charles  and  Richard 

contend, 
The  people  fight  and  suffer :  —  think  ye.  Sirs, 
If  neither  country  had  been  cursed  with  a  chief, 
The  peasants  would  have  quarrell'd? 

King.  This  is  treason  ! 

The  patience  of  the  court  has  been  insulted  — 
Condemn  the  foul-mouth'd,  contumacious  rebel. 

Sir  John  Tr.  John  Ball,  whereas  you  are  accused 
before  us, 
Of  stirring  up  the  people  to  rebellion. 
And   preaching  to  them   strange   and    dangerous 

kdoctrines ; 
And  whereas  your  behavior  to  the  court 
Has  been  most  insolent  and  contumacious  ; 
Insulting  Majesty — and  since  you  have  pleaded 
Guilty  to  all  these  charges  ;  I  condemn  you 
To  death :  you  shall  be  hanged  by  the  neck. 
But  not  till  you  are  dead  — your  bowels  open'd  — 
Your  heart  torn  out,  and  burnt  before  your  face  — 
Your  traitorous  head  be  severed  from  your  body  — 


no 


POEMS    CONCERNING    THE  SLAVE    TRADE. 


Your  body  quarter'd,  and  exposed  upon 

The  city  gates — a  terrible  example  — 

And  the  Lord  God  have  inorcy  on  your  soul. 

John  Ball.    Why,  be  it  so.     I  can  smile  at  your 
vengeance, 
For  I  am  arni'd  with  rectitude  of  soul. 
The  truth,  which  all  my  life  1  have  divulged, 
And  am  now  doom'd  in  torments  to  expire  for. 
Shall  still  survive.     The  destined  hour  mustcome. 
When  it  shall  blaze  with  sun-surpassing  splendor, 
And  the  dark  mists  of  prejudice  and  falsehood 
Fade  in  its  strong  effulgence.     Flattery's  incense 
No  more  shall  shadow  round  the  gore-dyed  throne ; 
That  altar  of  oppression,  fed  with  rites 
More  savage  than  the  priests  of  Moloch  taught, 
Shall  be  consumed  amid  the  fire  of  Justice ; 
The  rays  of  truth  shall  emanate  around, 
And  the  whole  world  be  lighted. 

King.  Drag  him  hence  : 

Away  with  him  to  death ;  order  the  troops 
Now  to  give  quarter,  and  make  prisoners  — 
Let  the  blood-reeking  sword  of  war  be  sheathed, 
That  the  law  may  take  vengeance  on  the  rebels. 


POEMS     CONCERNING     THE 
SLAVE    TRADE. 


SONNET  L 


Hold  your  mad  hands  !  forever  on  your  plain 
Must  the  gorged  vulture  clog  his  beak  with  blood .' 
Forever  must  your  Niger's  tainted  flood 
Roll  to  the  ravenous  shark  his  banquet  slain  ? 
Hold  your  mad  hands !    and   learn  at  length  to 

know, 
And  turn  your  vengeance  on  the  common  foe. 
Yon  treacherous  vessel  and  her  godless  crew  ! 
Let  never  traders  with  false  pretext  fair 
Set  on  your  shores  again  tlieir  wicked  feet : 
With  interdict  and  indignation  meet 
Repel  them,  and  with  fire  and  sword  pursue ! 
Avarice,  the  white,  cadaverous  fiend,  is  there. 
Who  spreads  his  toils  accursed  wide  and  far. 
And  for  his  purveyor  calls  the  demon  War. 


SONNET  IL 


Why  dost  thou  beat  thy  breast  and  rend  thine  hair. 
And  to  the  deaf  sea  pour  thy  frantic  cries?  ^ 
Before  the  gale  the  laden  vessel  flies ; 
The  Heavens  all-favoring  smile,  the  breeze  is  fair; 
Hark  to  the  clamors  of  the  exulting  crew  ! 
Hark,  how  their  cannon  mock  the  patient  skies ! 
Why  dost  thou  shriek,  and  strain  thy  red-swollen 

eyes, 
As  the  white  sail  is  lessening  from  thy  view.' 
Go,  pine  in  want,  and  anguish,  and  despair ; 


There  is  no  mercy  found  in  human-kind  ! 
Go,  Widow,  to  thy  grave,  and  rest  thee  there ! 
But  may  the  God  of  Justice  bid  the  wind 
Whelm  that  curst  bark  beneath  the  mountain  wave, 
And  bless  with  liberty  and  death  the  Slave  ! 


SONNET  HI. 


On,  he  is  worn  with  toil  !  the  big  drops  run 
Down  his  dark  cheek  j  hold — hold  thy  merciless 

hand. 
Pale  tyrant  I  for  beneath  thy  hard  command 
O'erwearicd  nature  sinks.     The  scorching  sun. 
As  pitiless  as  proud  Prosperity, 
Darts  on  him  his  full  beams ;  gasping  he  lies 
Arraigning  with  his  looks  the  patient  skies, 
While  that  inhuman  driver  lifts  on  high 
The  mangling  scourge.     O  ye  who  at  your  ease 
Sip  the  blood-sweeten'd    beverage,  thoughts  like 

these 
Haply  ye  scorn  :  I  thank  thee,  gracious  God, 
That  I  do  feel  upon  my  cheek  the  glow 
Of  indignation,  when  beneath  the  rod 
A  sable  brother  writhes  in  silent  woe. 


SONNET    IV. 


'Tis  night ;  the  unrelenting  owners  sleep 

As  undisturb'd  as  Justice ;  but  no  more 

The  o'erwearicd  slave,  as  on  his  native  shore, 

Rests  on  his  reedy  couch  :  he  wakes  to  weep. 

Though  through  the  toil  and  anguish  of  the  day 

No  tear  escaped  him,  not  one  suffering  groan 

Beneath  the  twisted  thong,  he  weeps  alone 

In  bitterness;  thinking  that  far  away 

While  happy  Negroes  join  tlie  midnight  song. 

And  merriment  resounds  on  Niger's  shore, 

She  whom  he  loves,  far  from  the  cheerful  throng 

Stands  sad,  and  gazes  from  her  lowly  door 

With  dim-grown  eye,  silent  and  woe-begone, 

And  weeps  for  him  who  will  return  no  more. 


SONNET  V. 


Dm  then  the  Negro  rear  at  last  the  sword 

Of  vengeance  .''     Did  he  plunge  its  thirsty  blade 

In  the  hard  heart  of  his  inhuman  lord .' 

Oh,  who  shall  blame  him  .''  in  the  midnight  shade 

There  came  on  him  the  intolerable  thought 

Of  every  past  delight;  his  native  grove. 

Friendship's  best  joys,  and  liberty  and  love. 

Forever  lost.     Such  recollections  wrought 

His  brain  to  madness.     Wherefore  should  he  live 

Longer  with  abject  patience  to  endure 

His  wrongs  and  wretcliedness,  when  hope  can  give 

No  consolation,  time  can  bring  no  cure  .'' 

But  justice  for  himself  he  yet  could  take. 

And  life  is  then  well  given  for  vengeance'  sake. 


POEMS    CONCERNING    THE    SLAVE    TRADE. 


Ill 


SONNET   VI. 

High  in  the  air  exposed  the  shive  is  hung, 
To  all  the  birds  of'licavcn,  their  living  food  ! 
He  groans  not,  though  awaked  by  that  fierce  sun 
New  torturers  live  to  drink  their  parent  blood  : 
Ho  oroans  not,  thouir'i  tlie  <roririnir  vulture  tear 
The  quivering  fibre.     Hither  look,  O  ye 
Who  tore  this  man  from  peace  and  liberty  ! 
Look  hither,  ye  who  weigh  with  politic  care 
Tlie  gain  against  the  guilt !     Beyond  the  grave 
There  is  another  world  !  —  bear  ye  in  mind, 
Ere  your  decree  proclaims  to  all  mankind 
The  gain  is  worth  the  guilt,  that  there  the  Slave, 
Before  the  Eternal,  "  thunder-tongued  shall  plead 
Against  the  deep  damnation  of  your  deed." 

Brislol,  1794.. 


TO  THE   GENIUS   OF  AFRICA. 

O  THOU,  who  from  the  mountain's  height 

Rnllest  thy  clouds  with  all  their  weight 

Of  waters  to  old  Nile's  majestic  tide ; 

Or  o'er  the  dark,  sepulchral  plain 

Recallest  Carthage  in  her  ancient  pride, 

The  mistress  of  the  Main  ; 

Hear,  Genius,  hear  thy  children's  cry  ! 

Not  always  shouldst  thou  love  to  brood 

Stern  o'er  the  desert  solitude 

Where  seas  of  sand  heave  their  hot  surges  high ; 

Nor,  Genius,  should  the  midnight  song 

Detain  thee  in  some  milder  mood 

The  palmy  plains  among, 

Where  Gambia  to  the  torches'  light 

Flows  radiant  through  the  awaken'd  night. 

Ah,  linger  not  to  hear  the  song ! 
Genius,  avenge  thy  children's  wrong! 
The  demon  Avarice  on  your  shore 
Brings  all  the  horrors  of  his  train; 
And  hark  I  where  from  the  field  of  gore 
Howls  the  hyena  o'er  the  slain  ! 
Lo  !  where  the  flaming  village  fires  the  skies, 
Avenging  Power,  awake  I  arise  ! 

Arise,  thy  children's  wrongs  redress  I 
Heed  the  mother's  wretchedness, 
When  in  the  hot,  infectious  air 
O'er  her  sick  babe  she  bows  opprest, — 
Hear  her  when  the  Traders  tear 
The  suflTering  infant  from  her  breast ! 
Sunk  in  the  ocean  he  shall  rest ! 
Hear  thou  the  wretched  mother's  cries, 
Avenging  Power  !  awake!  arise! 

By  the  rank,  infected  air 
That  taints  those  cabins  of  despair; 
By  the  scourges  blacken'd  o'er. 
And  stiff  and  hard  with  human  gore; 
By  every  groan  of  deep  distress, 
By  every  curse  of  wretchedness  ; 
Tlte  vices  and  the  crimes  that  flow 
From  the  hopelessness  of  woe  ; 
By  every  drop  of  blood  bcspilt, 


By  Afric's  wrongs  and  Europe's  guilt, 
Awake  !  arise  !  avenge  I 

[plains 
And  thou  hast  heard  !  and  o'er  their  blood-fed 
Sent  thine  avenging  hurricanes, 
And  bade  thy  storms  with  whirlwind  roar 
Dash  their  proud  navies  on  the  shore  ; 
And  where  their  armies  claim  d  the  fight 
Wither'd  the  warrior's  might ; 
And  o'er  the  unholy  host,  with  baneful  breath, 
There, Genius,  thou  hast  breathed  the  gales  of  Death. 

Brislol,  1795. 


THE   SAILOR, 

WHO    HAD    SERVED    IN    THE    SLAVE    TRADE. 


In  September,  1798,  a  Dissenting  Minister  of  Bristol  discov- 
ered a  sailor  in  tlic  neigliborliood  of  that  City,  groaning  and 
praying  in  a  cow-house.  The  circumstance  which  occa- 
sioned his  agony  of  mind  is  detailed  in  the  annexed  ballad, 
without  the  slightest  addition  or  alteration.  By  presenting 
it  as  a  Poem,  the  story  is  made  more  public  ;  and  such  stories 
ought  to  he  made  as  public  as  possible. 


It  was  a  Christian  minister. 

Who,  in  the  month  of  flowers, 
Walk'd  forth  at  eve  amid  the  fields 

Near  Bristol's  ancient  towers,  — 

When,  from  a  lonely  out-house  breathed. 

He  heard  a  voice  of  woe, 
And  groans  which  less  might  seem  from  pain, 

Than  wretchedness,  to  flow. 

Heart-rending  groans  they  were,  with  words 

Of  bitterest  despair  ; 
Yet  with  the  holy  name  of  Christ 

Pronounced  in  broken  prayer. 

The  Christian  Minister  went  in; 

A  Sailor  there  he  sees. 
Whose  hands  were  lifted  up  to  Heaven, 

And  he  was  on  his  knees. 

Nor  did  the  Sailor,  so  intent. 

His  entering  footsteps  heed. 
But  now  "  Our  Father  "  said,  and  now 

His  half-forgotten  creed  ;  — 

And  often  on  our  Savior  call'd 

With  many  a  bitter  groan, 
But  in  such  anguish  as  may  spring 

From  deepest  guilt  alone. 

The  miserable  man  was  ask'd 

Why  he  was  kneeling  there. 
And  what  had  been  the  crime  that  caused 

The  anguish  of  his  prayer. 

"  I  have  done  a  cursed  thing  !  "  he  cried ; 

"  It  haunts  me  night  and  day  ; 
And  I  have  sought  this  lonely  place 

Here  undisturb'd  to  pray. 


112 


POEMS    CONCERNING    THE    SLAVE    TRADE. 


Aboard  1  liavo  no  place  for  prayer, 

So  I  came  here  alone, 
That  1  might  freely  kneel  and  i)ray, 

And  call  on  Christ,  and  groan. 

If  to  the  main-mast  head  I  go, 

The  Wicked  One  is  there  ; 
From  place  to  place,  from  rope  to  rope. 

He  follows  every  wliere. 

1  shut  my  eyes  —  it  matters  not  — 

Still,  still  the  samc^  I  see, — 
And  when  1  lie  me  down  at  night, 

'Tis  always  day  with  me  ! 

He  follows,  follows  every  where, 
And  every  place  is  Hell  ! 

0  God  —  and  1  must  go  with  Him 
In  endless  fire  to  dwell .-' 

He  follows,  follows  every  wliere  ; 

He's  still  above  — below  ! 
Oh,  tell  me  where  to  fly  from  him ! 

Oh,  tell  me  where  to  go  !  " 

"  But  tell  thou,"  quoth  the  stranger  then, 
'•  What  tliis  thy  crime  hath  been  ; 

So  haply  I  may  comfort  give 
To  one  who  grieves  for  sin." 

"  Oh  cursed,  cursed  is  the  deed  1 " 

The  wretched  man  replies; 
"  And  niglit,  and  day,  and  every  where, 

'Tis  still  before  my  eyes. 

1  sail'd  on  board  a  Guinea-man, 
And  to  the  slave-coast  went ;  — 

Would  that  the  sea  had  swallow'd  me 
When  1  was  innocent ! 

And  we  took  in  our  cargo  there, 

Three  hundred  negro  slaves, 
And  we  sail'd  homeward  merrily 

Over  the  ocean-waves. 

But  some  were  sulky  of  the  slaves, 
And  would  not  touch  their  meat, 

So  therefore  we  were  forced  by  threats 
And  blows  to  make  them  eat. 

One  woman,  sulkier  than  the  rest, 

Would  still  refuse  her  food,  — 
O  Jesus  God  !  I  hear  her  cries  I 

I  see  her  in  her  blood  ! 

The  Captain  made  me  tie  her  up. 

And  flog  while  he  stood  by  ; 
And  then  he  cursed  me  if  I  stayed 

My  hand  to  hear  her  cry. 

She  shriek'd,  she  groan'd, — I  could  not  spare, 

For  the  Captain  he  stood  by ;  — 
Dear  God  !  that  I  might  rest  one  night 

From  that  poor  creature's  cry  ! 

What  woman's  child  a  sight  like  that 

(yould  bear  to  look  upon  ! 
And  still  the  Captain  would  not  spare  — 

But  made  me  still  flog  on. 


She  could  not  be  more  glad  than  1, 

When  she  was  taken  down  : 
A  blessed  minute  !  —  'twas  the  last 

That  I  have  ever  known 

1  did  not  close  my  ej-es  all  night. 

Thinking  what  I  had  done ; 
I  heard  her  groans,  and  they  grew  faint 

Towards  the  rising  sun. 

She  groan'd  and  moan'd,  but  her  voice  grew 

Fainter  at  morning  tide  ; 
Fainter  and  fainter  still  it  came, 

Until  at  noon  she  died. 

They  flung  her  overboard;  —  poor  wretch. 

She  rested  from  her  pain, — 
But  when  — O  Christ!  O  blessed  God!  — 

Shall  I  have  rest  again  .' 

1  saw  the  sea  close  over  her ; 

Yet  she  is  still  in  sight ; 
I  see  her  twisting  every  where ; 

I  hear  her  day  and  night. 

Go  where  1  will,  do  what  I  can. 

The  Wicked  One  I  see  : 
Dear  Christ,  have  mercy  on  my  soul ! 

O  God,  deliver  me  ! 

Oh,  give  me  comfort,  if  you  can  ! 

Oh,  tell  me  where  to  fly  ! 
Oh,  tell  me  if  there  can  be  hope 

For  one  so  lost  as  1 !  " 

What  said  the  Minister  of  Christ .' 

He  bade  him  trust  in  Heaven, 
And  call  on  Him  for  whose  dear  sake 

All  sins  shall  be  forgiven. 

He  told  him  of  that  precious  blood 

Which  should  his  guilt  efface  ; 
Told  him  that  none  are  lost,  but  they 

Who  turn  from  profi'er'd  grace. 

He  bade  him  pra)',  and  knelt  with  him, 
And  join'd  hiin  in  his  prayers  : 

And  some  who  read  t!ie  dreadful  talc 
Perhaps  will  aid  with  theirs. 

Westbury,  1798. 


VERSES 

SPOKEN    IN    THE    TIIE-^TRE    AT    OXIORD,    ITOS     tUK 
INSTALLATION    OF    LORD    GKEXVILLE. 


Grenville,   few  years   have   had    their   course, 

since  last 
Exulting  Oxford  view'd  a  spectacle 
Like    this    day's    pomp ;    and   yet   to    those    who 

throng'd 
These  walls,  which  ccho"d  then  with  Portland's 

praise,  [spring 

What  chanrre  hath    intervened !     The  bloom   of 


POEMS    CONCERNING    THE    SLAVE    TRADE. 


113 


Is  fled  from  many  a  cheek,  wlicre  roseate  joy 

And  beauty  bloom'd ;  the  inexorable  Grave 

Hath  claim'd  its  portion ;  and  the  band  of  youths, 

Wlio  then,  collected  here  as  in  a  port, 

From  whence  to  launch  on  life's  adventurous  sea, 

Stood  on  the  beach,  ere  this  have  found  their  lots 

Of  good  or  evil.     Thus  the  lapse  of  years. 

Evolving  all  things  in  its  quiet  course. 

Hath  wrought  for  them ;  and  thougli  those  years 

have  seen 
Kcarful  vicissitudes,  of  wilder  change 
Than  history  yet  had  learnt,  or  old  romance 
In  wildest  mood  imagined,  yet  these  too. 
Portentous  as  they  seem,  not  less  have  risen, 
Each  of  its  natural  cause  the  sure  effect. 
All  righteously  ordain'd.    Lo  !  kingdoms  wreck'd, 
Thrones  overturn'd,  built  up,  then  swept  away 
Like  fabrics  in  the  summer  clouds,  dispersed 
By  the  same  breath  that  lieap'd  them ;  rightful 

kings, 
Who,  from  a  line  of  long-drawn  ancestry, 
Held  the  transmitted  sceptre,  to  the  axe 
Bowing  the  anointed  head ;  or  dragg'd  away 
To  eat  the  bread  of  bondage ;  or  escaped 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Britannia's  shield,      , 
There  only  safe.     Such  fate  have  vicious  courts, 
Statesmen  corrupt,  and  fear-struck  policy, 
Upon  themselves  drawn  down  ;  till  Europe,  bound 
In  iron  chains,  lies  bleeding  in  tlie  dust. 
Beneath  the  feet  of  upstart  tyranny  : 
Only  the  heroic  Spaniard,  he  alone 
Yet  unsubdued  in  these  degenerate  days, 
With  desperate  virtue,  such  as  in  old  time 
Hallow'd  Saguntum  and  Numantia's  name, 
Stands  up  against  the  oppressor  undismay'd. 
So  may  the  Almighty  bless  the  noble  race. 
And  crown  with  happy  end  their  holiest  cause  ' 

Deem  not  these  dread  events  the  monstrous  birth 
Of  chance  !    And  thou,  O  England,  who  dost  ride 
Serene  amid  the  waters  of  the  flood, 
Preserving,  even  like  the  Ark  of  old. 
Amid  the  general  wreck,  thy  purer  faith, 
Domestic  loves,  and  ancient  liberty. 
Look  to  thyself,  O  England  I  for  be  sure, 
Even  to  the  measure  of  thine  own  desert, 
The  cup  of  retribution  to  thy  lips 
Shall  soon  or  late  be  dealt!  —  a  thought  that  well 
Might  fill  the  stoutest  heart  of  all  thy  sons 
With  awful  apprehension.     Therefore,  they 
Who  fear  the  Eternal's  justice,  bless  thy  name, 
Grenville,  because  the  wrongs  of  Africa 
Cry  out  no  more  to  draw  a  curse  from  Heaven 
On  England  !  —  for  if  still  the  trooping  sliarks 
Track  by  the  scent  of  death  the  accursed  ship 
Freighted  with  human  anguish,  in  her  wake 
Pursue  the  chase,  crowd  round  her  keel,  and  dart 
Toward  the  sound  contending,  when  they  hear 
The  frequent  carcass,  from  her  guilty  deck, 
Dash  in  the  opening  deep,  no  longer  now 
The  guilt  shall  rest  on  England ;  but  if  yet 
Tliere  be  among  her  children,  hard  of  heart 
And  sear'd  of  conscience,  men  who  set  at  nought 
Her  laws  and  God's  own  word,  upon  themselves 
Their  sin  be  visited  !  —  the  red-cross  flag, 
15 


Redeem'd  from  stain  so  foul,  no  longer  now 
Covereth  the  abomination. 

This  thy  praise, 
O  Grenville,  and  while  ages  roll  away 
This  shall  be  thy  remembrance.     Yea,  when  all 
For  which  the  tyrant  of  these  abject  times 
Hath  given  his  honorable  name  on  earth. 
His  nights  of  innocent  sleep,  his  hopes  of  heaven ; 
When  all  his  triumphs  and  his  deeds  of  blood, 
The  fretful  changes  of  his  feverish  pride, 
His  midnight  murders  and  perfidious  plots, 
Are  but  a  tale  of  years  so  long  gone  by. 
That  they  who  read  distrust  the  hideous  truth, 
Willing  to  let  a  charitable  doubt 
Abate  tlieir  horror;  Grenville,  even  then 
Thy  memory  will  be  fresh  among  mankind ; 
Afric  with  all  her  tongues  will  speak  of  thee. 
With  Wilberforce  and  Clarkson,  he  whom  Heaven, 
To  be  the  apostle  of  this  holy  work, 
Raised  up  and  strengthen'd,  and  upheld  tiirougli 

all 
His  arduous  toil.    To  end  the  glorious  task, 
That  blessed,  that  redeeming  deed  was  thine  : 
Be  it  thy  pride  in  life,  thy  thought  in  death. 
Thy  praise  beyond  the  tomb.  The  statesman's  fame 
Will  fade,  the  conqueror's  laurel  crown  grow  sear; 
Fame's  loudest  trump  upon  the  ear  of  Time 
Leaves  but  a  dying  echo ;  they  alone 
Are  held  in  everlasting  memory, 
Whose  deeds  partake  of  heaven.  Long  ages  hence 
Nations  unborn,  in  cities  that  shall  rise 
.\long  the  palmy  coast,  will  bless  thy  name; 
And  Senegal  and  secret  Niger's  shore, 
And  Calabar,  no  longer  startled  then 
With  sounds  of  murder,  will,  like  Isis  now, 
Ring  with  the  songs  that  tell  of  Grenville's  praise. 

Kesivick,  1810. 


BOTANY-BAY    ECLOGUES. 


\Vhere  a  siglit  shall  shuddering  sorrow  find, 
Sad  as  the  ruins  of  the  human  mind Bowles. 


ELINOR. 


Time,  Morning.     Scene,  The  Shore. 

Once  more  to  daily  toil,  once  more  to  wear 
The  livery  of  shame,  once  more  to  search 
With  miserable  task  this  savage  shore! 
O  thou,  who  mountest  so  triumpliantly 
In  yonder  Heaven,  beginning  thy  career 
Of  glory,  O  tiiou  blessed  Sun  !  thy  beams 
Fall  on  me  with  the  same  benignant  light 
Here,  at  the  farthest  limits  of  the  world, 
And  blasted  as  I  am  with  infamy, 
As  when  in  better  years  poor  Elinor 
Gazed  on  thy  glad  uprise  with  eye  undimm'd 
By  guilt  and  sorrow,  and  the  opening  morn 


114 


BOTANY-BAY    ECLOGUES. 


Woke  her  from  quiet  sleep  to  days  of  peace. 
In  otlier  occupation  then  1  trod 
The  beach  at  eve ;  and  tlion,  wlien  I  beheld 
The  billows  as  they  roll'd  before  the  storm 
Burst  on  the  rock  and  rage,  my  timid  soul 
Shrunk  at  the  perils  of  the  boundless  deep, 
And  heaved  a  sigh  for  suffering  mariners ;  — 
Ah  !  little  thinking  I  myself  was  doom'd 
To  tempt  tlie  perils  of  the  boundless  deep, 
An  outcast,  unbeloved  and  unbewail'd. 

Still  wilt  thou  haunt  me,  Memory  !  still  present 
The  fields  of  England  to  my  exiled  eyes, 
The  joys  which  once  were  mine.     Even  now  I  see 
The  lowly,  lovely  dwelling;  even  now 
Behold  the  woodbine  clasping  its  white  walls. 
Where  fearlessly  the  red-breasts  chirp'd  around 
To  ask  their  morning  meal :  and  where  at  eve 
I  loved  to  sit  and  watch  the  rook  sail  by. 
And  hear  his  hollow  tone,  what  time  he  sought 
The  church-yard  elm,  that  witli  its  ancient  boughs 
Full-foliaged,  half-conccal'd  the  house  of  God; 
Tliat  holy  house,  where  I  so  oft  have  heard 
My  father's  voice  explain  the  wondrous  works 
Of  Heaven  to  sinful  man.     Ah!  little  deem'd 
His  virtuous  bosom,  that  his  shameless  child 
So  soon  should  spurn  the  lesson, —  sink,  the  slave 
Of  Vice  and  Infamy,  —  the  hireling  prey 
Of  brutal  appetite  ;  —  at  length  worn  out 
With  famine,  and  the  avenging  scourge  of  guilt. 
Should  share  dislionesty,  — yet  dread  to  die  ! 

Welcome,  ye  savage  lands,  ye  barbarous  climes, 
Where  angry  England  sends  her  outcast  sons ; 
I  hail  your  joyless  shores  !     My  weary  bark, 
Long  tempest-tost  on  Life's  inclement  sea, 
Here  hails  her  haven ;  welcomes  the  drear  scene, 
The  marshy  plain,  the  brier-entangled  wood, 
And  all  the  perils  of  a  world  unknown. 
For  Elinor  has  nothing  new  to  fear 
From  cruel  Fortune;  all  her  rankling  shafts 
Barb'd  with  disgrace,  and  venom'd  with  disease, 
Have  pierced  my  bosom,  and  the  dart  of  death 
Has  lost  its  terrors  to  a  wretch  like  me. 

Welcome,  ye  marshy  heaths,  ye  pathless  woods, 
Where  the  rude  native  rests  his  wearied  frame 
Beneath  the  sheltering  shade ;    where,  when  the 

storm 
Benumbs  his  naked  limbs,  he  flies  to  seek 
The  dripping  shelter.     Welcome,  ye  wild  plains 
Unbroken  by  the  plough,  undelvcd  by  hand 
Of  patient  rustic ;  where  for  lowing  herds, 
And  for  the  music  of  the  bleating  flocks, 
Alone  is  heard  the  kangaroo's  sad  note 
Deepening  in  distance.     Welcome,  wilderness, 
Nature's  domain  !  for  here,  as  yet  unknown 
The  comforts  and  the  crimes  of  polish'd  life, 
Nature  benignly  gives  to  all  enough, 
Denies  to  all  a  superfluity. 
What  though  the  garb  of  infamy  I  wear. 
Though  day  by  day  along  the  echoing  beach 
I  gather  wave-worn  shells ;  yet  day  by  day 
I  earn  in  honesty  my  frugal  food, 
And  lay  me  down  at  night  to  calm  repose ; 


No  more  condemned,  the  mercenary  tool 

Of  brutal  lust,  while  heaves  the  indignant  heart 

Abhorrent,  and  self-loathed,  to  fold  my  arms 

Round  the  rank  felon,  and  for  daily  bread 

To  hug  contagion  to  my  poison'd  IJreast ! 

On  these  wild  shores  the  saving  hand  of  Grace 

Will  probe  my  secret  soul,  and  cleanse  its  wounds. 

And  fit  the  faithful  penitent  for  Heaven. 

Oxford,  1794. 


II 


HUMPHREY    AND    WILLIAM. 
Time,  Noon. 

HUMPHREY. 

See'st  thou  not,  William,  that  the  scorching  sun 
By  this  time  half  his  daily  race  hath  run .' 
The  savage  thrusts  his  light  canoe  to  shore. 
And  hurries  homeward  with  his  fishy  store. 
Suppose  we  leave  awhile  this  stubborn  soil. 
To  e9,t  our  dinner  and  to  rest  from  toil. 

WILLIAM. 

Agreed.     Yon  tree,  whose  purple  gum  bestows 
A  ready  medicine  for  the  sick  man's  woes. 
Forms  with  its  shadowy  boughs  a  cool  retreat 
To  shield  us  from  the  noontide's  sultry  heat. 
Ah,  Humphrey  !  now  upon  old  England's  shore 
The  weary  laborer's  morning  work  is  o'er. 
The  woodman  there  rests  from  his  measured  stroke, 
Flings  down  his  axe,  and  sits  beneath  the  oak ; 
Savor'd  with  hunger  there  he  eats  his  food. 
There  drinks  the  cooling  streamlet  of  the  wood. 
To  us  no  cooling  streamlet  winds  its  way, 
No  joys  domestic  crown  for  us  the  day  ; 
The  felon's  name,  the  outcast's  garb  we  wear, 
Toil  all  the  day,  and  all  the  night  despair. 

HUMPHREY. 

Aye,  William  !  laboring  up  the  furrow'd  ground, 
I  used  to  love  the  village  clock's  old  sound. 
Rejoice  to  hear  my  morning  toil  was  done. 
And  trudge  it  homeward  when  the  clock  went  one. 
Twas  ere  I  turn'd  a  soldier  and  a  sinner ! 
Pshaw  !  curse  this  whining  —  let  us  fall  to  dinner. 

WILLIAM. 

I  too  have  loved  this  hour,  nor  yet  forgot 
The  household  comforts  of  my  little  cot ; 
For  at  this  hour  my  wife  with  watchful  care 
Was  wont  her  humble  dainties  to  prepare ; 
The  keenest  sauce  by  hunger  was  supplied. 
And  my  poor  children  prattled  at  my  side. 
Methinks  I  see  the  old  oak  table  spread,      [bread  • 
The   clean  white  trencher,  and  the  good  brown 
The  cheese,  my  daily  fare,  which  Mary  made. 
For  Mary  knew  full  well  the  housewife's  trade ; 
The  jug  of  cider,  —  cider  I  could  make  ;  — 
And  then  the  knives,  —  I  won  'cm  at  the  wake. 
Another  has  them  now !     I  toiling  here 
Look  backward  like  a  child,  and  drop  a  tear. 


BOTANY    BAY    ECLOGUES. 


115 


HUMPHREV. 

I  love  a  dismal  story  :  tell  me  thine  : 
Meantime,  good  Will,  I'll  listen  as  I  dine  : 
1  too,  my  friend,  can  tell  a  piteous  story 
When  I  turn'd  hero  how  I  purchased  glory. 

WILLIAM. 

But,   Humphrey,  sure   thou  never  canst  have 

known 
The  comforts  of  a  little  home  thine  own ; 
A  home  so  snug,  so  cheerful  too,  as  mine ; 
'Twas  always  clean,  and  we  could  make  it  fine. 
For  there  King  Charles's  Golden  Rules  were  seen. 
And  there  —  God  bless  'em both!  the  King  and 

Queen. 
The  pewter  plates,  our  garnish'd  chimney's  grace. 
So  bright,  that  in  them  you  might  see  your  face  ; 
And  over  all,  to  frighten  thieves,  was  hung. 
Well  clean'd,  although  but  seldom  used,  my  gun. 
Ah!  that  damn'd  gun  !  I  took  it  down  one  morn, — 
A  desperate  deal  of  harm  they  did  my  corn ! 
Our  testy  Squire,  too,  loved  to  save  the  breed. 
So  covey  upon  covey  ate  my  seed. 
I  mark'd  the  mischievous  rogues,  and  took  my  aim ; 
I  fired,  tlicy  fell,  and  —  up  the  keeper  came. 
That  cursed  morning  brought  on  my  undoing; 
I  went  to  prison,  and  my  farm  to  ruin. 
Poor  Mary !  for  her  grave  the  parish  paid  ; 
No  tomb-stone  tells  where  her  remains  are  laid  ! 
My  children  —  my  poor  boys  — 

HUMPHREY'. 

Come  !  —  grief  is  dry  — 
You  to  your  dinner ;  —  to  my  story  I. 
For  you,  my  friend,  who  happier  days  have  known. 
And  each  calm  comfort  of  a  home  your  own. 
This  is  bad  living:  I  have  spent  my  life 
In  hardest  toil  and  unavailing  strife. 
And  here,  (from  forest  ambush  safe  at  least,) 
To  me  this  scanty  pittance  seems  a  feast. 
I  was  a  plough-boy  once,  as  free  from  woes 
And  blithesome  as  the  lark  with  whom  I  rose. 
£ach  evening  at  return  a  meal  I  found ; 
And  though  my  bed  was  hard,  my  sleep  was  sound. 
One  Whitsuntide,  to  go  to  fair  I  drest. 
Like  a  great  bumpkin,  in  my  Sunday's  best ; 
A  primrose  posy  in  my  hat  I  stuck. 
And  to  the  revel  went  to  try  my  luck. 
From  show  to  show,  from  booth  to  booth  I  stray. 
See,  stare,  and  wonder  all  the  live-long  day. 
A  sergeant  to  tlie  fair  recruiting  came, 
Skill'd  in  man-catching,  to  beat  up  for  game  ; 
Our  booth  he  enter'd,  and  sat  down  by  me ;  — 
Methinks  even  now  the  very  scene  I  see ! 
The  canvass  roof,  the  hogshead's  running  store. 
The  old  blind  fiddler  seated  next  the  door. 
The  frothy  tankard  passing  to  and  fro. 
And  the  rude  rabble  round  the  puppet-show. 
The  sergeant  eyed  me  well ;  the  puncli-bowl  comes. 
And   as   we   laugh'd   and  drank,    up   struck   the 

drums. 
And  now  he  gives  a  bumper  to  his  wench ; 
God   save   the    King!  and   then,  God   damn  the 

French ! 


Then  tells  the  story  of  his  last  campaign, 
ilow  many  wounded  and  how  many  slain. 
Flags  flying,  cannons  roaring,  drums  a-beating. 
The  English  marching  on,  the  French  retreating  — 
"  Push  on  —  push  on,  my  lads  !  they  fly  before  ye  ; 
March  on  to  riches,  happiness,  and  glory  ! '' 
At  first  I  wonder'd,  by  degrees  grew  bolder, 
Tlien  cried,  "  'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  soldier  !  " 
"Aye,  Iluinphrey  !"  says  the  sergeant, — "that's 

your  name  ? 
'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  fight  the  French  for  fame  ! 
March   to   tlie   field,  —  knock   out  a  Mounseer's 

brains. 
And  pick  the  scoundrel's  pocket  for  your  pains. 
Come,  Humphrey,  come  !  thou  art  a  lad  of  spirit; 
Rise  to  a  iialbert,  as  I  did,  —  by  merit  ! 
Wouldsl  thou  believe  it .'  even  I  was  once 
As  thou  art  now,  a  plough-boy  and  a  dunce  ; 
But  courage  raised   me   to  my  rank.     How  now, 

boy! 

Sliall  Hero  Humphrey  still  be  Numps  the  plough- 
boy  ? 
A  proper-shaped  young  fellow  !  tall  and  straight ! 
Why,  thou  wert  made  for  glory  !  —  five  feet  eight ! 
The  road  to  riches  is  the  field  of  fight !  — 
Didst  ever  see  a  guinea  look  so  bright.' 
Why,  regimentals,  Numps,  would  give  thee  grace ; 
A  hat  and  feather  would  become  that  face ; 
The  girls  would  crowd  around  thee  to  be  kiss'd  !  — 
Dost  love  a  girl?"  —  "Odd  Zounds!"     I  cried, 

"I'll  list!" 
So  pass'd  the  night ;  anon  the  mornmg  came. 
And  off  I  set  a  volunteer  for  fame. 
'•  Back  shoulders,  turn  oul  your  toes,  hold  up  )'our 

head. 
Stand  easy  !  "  —  so  I  did  —  till  almost  dead. 
O  how  I  long'd  to  tend  the  plough  again. 
Trudge  up  the  field,  and  whistle  o'er  the  plain. 
When  tired  and  sore,  amid  the  piteous  throno-, 
Hungry,  and  cold,  and  wet,  I  linip'd  along. 
And  growing  fainter  as  I  pass'd,  and  colder, 
Cursed  that  ill  hour  when  I  became  a  soldier ! 
In  town  I  found  the  hours  more  gayly  pass. 
And  time  fled  swiftly  with  my  girl  and  glass ; 
The   girls    were   wondrous    kind    and    wondrous 

fair; 
They  soon  transferr'd  me  to  the  Doctor's  care  ; 
The  Doctor  undertook  to  cure  the  evil. 
And  he  almost  transferr'd  me  to  the  Devil. 
'Twere  tedious  to  relate  the  dismal  story 
Of  fighting,  fasting,  wretcliedness,  and  glory. 
At  last  discharged,  to  England's  shores  I  came. 
Paid  for  my  wounds  with  want  instead  of  fame  ; 
Found  my  fair  friends,  and  plunder'd  as  they  bade 

me  ; 
They  kiss'd  me,coax'd  me,robb'd  me,  and  betray 'd 

me. 
Tried  and  condemn'd.  His  Majesty  transports  me  ; 
And  here  in  peace,  I  thank  him,  he  supports  me. 
So  ends  my  dismal  and  heroic  story ; 
And  Humphrey  gets  more  good  from  guilt  than 
glory. 

Oxford,  1794. 


IIG 


BOTANY-BAY  ECLOGUES. 


III. 

JOHN,   SAMUEL,    AND    RICHARD. 

Time,  Evening. 

JOHN. 

'Tisacalm,  pleasant  evening ;  the  light  fades  away, 

And  the  sun  going  down  has  done  watch  for  the 
day. 

To  my  mind  we  live  wondrous  well  when  trans- 
ported ; 

It  is  but  to  work,  and  we  must  be  supported. 

Fill  the  can,  Dick  !    Success  here  to  liotany  Bay  ! 

RICHARD. 

Success,  if  you  will,  —  but  God  send  me  away  ! 

JOHN. 

You  lubberly  landsmen  don't  know  when  you're 
well! 
Hadst  tliou  known  half  the  hardships  of  which  I 

can  tell ! 
The  sailor  has  no  place  of  safety  in  store ; 
From  the  tempest  at  sea,  to  the  press-gang  onshore  ! 
When  Roguery  rules  all  the  rest  of  the  earth, 
God  be  thank'd,  in  this  corner  I've  got  a  good  berth. 

SAMUEL. 

Talk   of  hardships !  what  these  are  the   sailor 
don't  know; 
'Tis  the  soldier,  my  friend,  that's  acquainted  with 

woe; 
Long  journeys,  short  halting,  hard  work,  and  small 

pay, 

To  be  popt  at  like  pigeons  for  sixpence  a  day  !  — 
Thank  God  I'm  safe  quarter'd  at  Botany  Bay. 

JOHN. 

Ah !  you  know  but  little :  I'll  wager  a  pot 
I  have  suffer'd  more  evils  than  fell  to  your  lot. 
Come,  we'll  have  it  all  fairly  and  properly  tried, 
Tell  story  for  story,  and  Dick  shall  decide. 

SAMUEL. 

Done. 

JOHN. 

Done.     'Tis  a  wager,  and  I  shall  be  winner; 
Thou  wilt  go  without  grog,  Sam,  to-morrow  at 
dinner. 

SAMUEL. 

I  was  trapp'd  by  the  Sergeant's  palavering  pre- 
tences. 
He  listed  me  when  I  was  out  of  my  senses ; 
So  I  took  leave  to-day  of  all  care  and  all  sorrow, 
And   was   drill'd   to    repentance   and   reason   to- 
morrow. 

JOHN. 

I  would  be  a  sailor,  and  plough  the  wide  ocean. 
But  was  soon  sick  and  sad  with  the  billows'  com- 
motion ; 
So  the  boatswain  he  sent  me  aloft  on  the  mast, 
And  cursed  me,  and  bade   me  cry  there,  —  and 
hold  fast ! 


SAMUEL. 

After  marching  all  day,  faint  and  hungry  and 

sore,  [nToor, 

I  have  lain  down  at  night  on  the  swamps  of  the 

Unshelter'd  and  forced  by  fatigue  to  remain. 

All  chill'd  by  the  wind  and  benumb'd  by  the  rain. 

JOHN. 

I  have  rode  out  the  storm  when  the  billows  beat 

high, 
And  the  red  gleaming  lightnings  flash'd  through 

the  dark  sky  ; 
When  the  tempest  of  night  the  black  sea  overcast. 
Wet  and  weary  I  labor'd,  yet  sung  to  the  blast. 

SAMUEL. 

I  have  march'd,  trumpets  sounding,  drums  beat- 
ing, flags  flying, 

Where  the  music  of  war  drown'd  the  shrieks  of  the 
dying ; 

When  the  shots  whizz'd  around  me,  all  dangers 
defied  ; 

Push'd  on  when  my  comrades  fell  dead  at  my  side  ; 

Drove  the  foe  from  the  mouth  of  the  cannon  away. 

Fought,  conquer'd,  and  bled,  all  for  sixpence  a-day. 


And  I  too,  friend  Samuel,  have  heard  the  shots 

rattle  ! 
But  we  seamen  rejoice  in  the  play  of  the  battle  ; 
Though  the  chain  and  the  grape-shot  roll  splintering 

around. 
With  the  blood  of  our  messmates  though  slippery 

the  ground. 
The  fiercer  the  fight,  still  the  fiercer  we  grow  ; 
We  heed  not  our  loss,  so  we  conquer  the  foe  ; 
And  the  hard  battle  won,  if  the  prize  be  not  sunk. 
The  Captain  gets  rich,  and  the  Sailors  get  drunk. 

SAMUEL 

God  help  the  poor  soldier  when  backward  he  goes. 
In  disgraceful  retreat,  through  a  country  of  foes  ! 
No  respite  from  danger  by  day  or  by  night. 
He  is  still  forced  to  fly,  still  o'ertaken  to  fight ; 
Every  step  that  he  takes  he  must  battle  his  way, 
He  must  force  his  hard  meal  from  the  peasant  away : 
No  rest,  and  no  hope,  from  all  succor  afar,  — 
God  forgive  the  poor  soldier  for  going  to  the  war ! 

JOHN. 

But  what  are  these  dangers  to  those  1  have  past. 
When  the  dark  billows  roar'd  to  the  roar  of  the 

blast ; 
When  we  work'd  at  the  pumps,  worn  with  labor 

and  weak, 
And  with  dread  still  beheld  the  increase  of  the  leak .' 
Sometimes  as  we  rose  on  the  wave  could  our  sight, 
From  the  rocks  of  the  shore,  catch  the  light-house's 

light ; 
In  vain  to  the  beach  to  assist  us  they  press ; 
We  fire  faster  and  faster  our  guns  of  distress ; 
Still   with  rage   unabating  the   wind   and   waves 

roar  ;  — 
How  the  giddy  wreck  reels,  as  the  billows  burst  o'er' 


liOTANY    BAY    ECLOGUES, 


117 


Leap,  leap  ;  for  slie  yawns,  for  she  sinks  in  llie  wave  ! 
Call  on  God  to  preserve —  for  God  only  can  save  ! 

SAMUF.L 

There's  an  end  of  all  troubles,  however,  at  last ! 
And  when  I  in  the  wagon  of  wounded  was  cast, 
When    my    wounds  with   the   chilly   night-wind 

smarted  sore, 
And  1  thought  of  the  friends  I  should  never  see 

more. 
No  hand  to  relieve,  scarce  a  morsel  of  bread. 
Sick  at  heart  I  have  envied  the  peace  of  the  dead. 
Left  to  rot  in  a  jail,  till  by  treaty  set  free, 
Old  England's  white  cliffs  with  what  joy  did  I  see  ! 
I  had  gain'd  enough  glory,  some  wounds,  but  no 

good. 
And  was  turn'd  on  the  public  to  shift  how  I  could. 
When  1  think  what  Tve  suffer'd,  and  where  I  am 

now, 
I  curse  him  who  snared  me  away  from  the  plough. 


When  1  was  discharged,  I  went  home  to  my  wife, 
There  in  comfort  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  my  life. 
My  wife  was  industrious ;  we  earn'd  what  we  spent, 
And  though  little  we  had,  were  with  little  content ; 
And  whenever  I  listen'd  and  heard  the  wind  roar, 
1  bless'd  God  for  my  little  snug  cabin  on  shore. 
At  midnight  they  seized  me,  they  dragg'd  me  away, 
They  wounded  me  sore  when  I  would  not  obey. 
And  because  for  my  country  I'd  ventured  my  life, 
1  was  dragg'd  like  a  thief  from  my  home  and  my 

wife. 
Then  tlie  fair  wind  of  fortune  chopt  round  in  my  face, 
And  want  at  length  drove  me  to  guilt  and  disgrace. 
Butall's  for  the  best ;  —  on  the  world's  wide  sea  cast, 
1  am  haven'd  in  peace  in  this  corner  at  last. 

SAMUEL. 

Come,  Dick  !  we  have  done  —  and  for  judgment 
we  call. 

RICHAKD. 

And  in  faith  I  can  give  you  no  judgment  at  all. 
But  tliat  as  you're  now  settled,  and  safe  from  foul 

weather, 
You  drink  up  your  grog,  and  be  merry  together. 

Oxford,  1794. 


IV. 


FREDERIC. 

Time,  Night.     Scene,  Tlic  Woods. 

Where  shall  I  turn  me  ?  whither  shall  I  bend 
My  weary  way .''  thus  worn  with  toil  and  faint, 
How  through  the  thorny  mazes  of  this  wood 
Attain  my  distant  dwelling?     That  deep  cry 
That  echoes  through  the  forest,  seems  to  sound 
My  parting  knell :  it  is  the  midnight  howl 
Of  hungry  monsters  prowling  for  their  prey  ! 
Again  I  O  save  me  —  save  me,  gracious  Heaven  ! 
1  am  not  fit  to  die  ! 


Thou  coward  wretch. 
Why  palpitates  thy  heart?  why  shake  thy  limbs 
Beneath  their  palsied  burden  ?     Is  there  aught 
So  lovely  in  existence  ?  wouldst  thou  drain 
Even  to  its  dregs  the  bitter  draught  of  life  ? 
Stamp'd  with  the  brand  of  Vice  and  Infamy, 
Why  should  the  felon  Frederic  shrink  from  Death.'* 

Death  1  Where  the  magic  in  that  empty  name 
That  chills  my  inmost  heart  ?  Why  at  the  thought 
Starts  the  cold  dew  of  fear  on  every  limb  .' 
There  are  no  terrors  to  surround  the  Grave, 
When  the  calm  Mind  collected  in  itself 
Surveys  that  narrow  house  :  the  ghastly  train 
That  haunt  the  midnight  of  delirious  Guilt 
Then  vanish  :  in  that  home  of  endless  rest 
All  sorrows  cease  !  —  Would  I  might  slumber  there ! 

Why  then  this  panting  of  the  fearful  heart  ? 
This  miser  love  of  life,  that  dreads  to  lose 
Its  cherish'd  torment?     Shall  a  man  diseased 
Yield  up  his  members  to  the  surgeon's  knife, 
Doubtful  of  succor,  but  to  rid  his  frame 
Of  fleshly  anguish  ;  and  the  coward  wretch, 
Whose  ulcerated  soul  can  know  no  help. 
Shrink  from  the  best  Physician's  certain  aid  ? 
Oh,  it  were  better  far  to  lie  me  down 
Here  on  this  cold,  damp  earth,  till  some  wild  beast 
Seize  on  his  willing  victim. 

If  to  die 
Were  all,  'twere  sweet  indeed  to  rest  my  head 
On  the  cold  clod,  and  sleep  the  sleep  of  Death 
But  if  the  Archangel's  trump  at  the  last  liour 
Startle  the  ear  of  Death,  and  wake  the  soul 
To  frenzy  ?  —  Dreams  of  infancy ;  fit  tales 
For  garrulous  beldames  to  affrightcn  babes  ! 
What  if  I  warr'd  upon  the  world  ?  the  world 
Had  wrong'd  me  first:  I  had  endured  the  ills 
Of  hard  injustice  ;  all  this  goodly  earth 
Was  but  to  me  one  wide  waste  wilderness  ; 
I  had  no  share  in  Nature's  patrimony  ; 
Blasted  were  all  my  morning  hopes  of  youth. 
Dark  Disappointment  followed  on  my  ways, 
Care  was  my  bosom  inmate,  Penury 
Gnaw'd  at  my  heart.     Eternal  One,  thou  know'st 
How  that  poor  heart,  even  in  the  bitter  hour 
Of  lewdest  revelry  has  inly  yearn'd 
For  peace. 

My  Father !  I  will  call  on  thee, 
Pour  to  thy  mercy-seat  my  earnest  prayer, 
And  wait  thy  righteous  will,  resign'd  of  soul. 
O  thought  of  comfort !  how  the  afflicted  heart. 
Tired  with  the  tempest  of  its  passions,  rests 
On  you  vi'ith  holy  hope  !     The  hollow  howl 
Of  yonder  harmless  tenant  of  the  woods 
Comes  with  no  terror  to  the  sober'd  sense. 
If  I  have  sinned  against  mankind,  on  them 
Be  that  past  sin ;  they  made  me  what  I  was. 
In  these  extremest  climes  Want  can  no  more 
Urge  me  to  deeds  of  darkness,  and  at  length 
Here  I  may  rest.     What  though  my  hut  be  poor — 
The  rains  descend  not  through  its  humble  roof:  — 
Would  I  were  there  again  I     The  night  is  cold  ; 
And  what  if  in  my  wanderings  1  should  rouse 
The  savajre  from  his  thicket ! 


118 


SONNETS. 


Hark  !  the  gun  ! 
And  lo,  the  fire  of  safety  !     I  shall  reach 
My  little  hut  again  !  again  by  toil 
Force  from  the  stubborn  earth  my  sustenance, 
And  quick-ear'd  Guilt  will  never  start  alarm'd 
Amid  the  well-earn'd  meal.     This  felon's  garb  — 
Will  it  not  shield  me  from  the  winds  of  Heaven  ? 
And  what  could  purple  more  ?     O  strengthen  me, 
Eternal  One,  in  this  serener  state  ! 
Cleanse  thou  mine  heart,  so  Penitence  and  Faith 
Shall  heal  my  soul,  and  my  last  days  be  peace. 

Oxford,  1794. 


SONNETS. 


I. 

Go,  Valentine,  and  tell  that  lovely  Maid 
Wliom  fancy  still  will  portray  to  my  sight, 
How  here  I  linger  in  this  sullen  shade. 
This  dreary  gloom  of  dull,  monastic  night; 
Say,  that  from  every  joy  of  life  remote 
At  evening's  closing  hour  I  quit  tlie  throng. 
Listening  in  solitude  the  ring-dove's  note. 
Who  pours  like  me  her  solitary  song ; 
Say,  that  her  absence  calls  the  sorrowing  sigh  ; 
Say,  that  of  all  her  charms  I  love  to  speak. 
In  fancy  feel  the  magic  of  her  eye, 
in  fancy  view  the  smile  illume  her  cheek. 
Court  the  lone  hour  when  silence  stills  the  grove, 
And  heave  the  sigh  of  memory  and  of  love. 
1794. 


H. 
Think,  Valentine,  as  speeding  on  thy  way 
Homeward  thou  hastest  light  of  heart  along. 
If  heavily  creep  on  one  little  day 
The  medley  crew  of  travellers  among. 
Think  on  thine  absent  friend ;  reflect  that  here 
On  life's  sad  journey  comfortless  he  roves, 
Remote  from  every  scene  his  heart  holds  dear. 
From  him  he  values,  and  from  her  he  loves. 
And  when,  disgusted  with  the  vain  and  dull. 
Whom  chance  companions  of  thy  way  may  doom. 
Thy  mind,  of  each  domestic  comfort  full. 
Turns  to  itself  and  meditates  on  home. 
Ah,  think  what  cares  must  ache  within  his  breast. 
Who  loathes  the  road,  yet  sees  no  home  of  rest. 
179k 


HI. 

Not  to  thee,  Bedford,  mournful  is  the  tale 
Of  days  departed.     Time  in  his  career 
Arraigns  not  thee  that  the  neglected  year 
Hath  past  unheeded  onward.     To  the  vale 
Of  years  thou  journeyest ;  may  the  future  road 
Be  pleasant  as  the  past ;  and  on  my  friend 
Friendship  and  Love,  best  blessings,  still  attend. 
Till  full  of  days  he  reach  the  calm  abode 
Where  Nature  slumbers.     Lovely  is  the  age 


Of  virtue  :  with  such  reverence  we  behold 
The  silver  hairs,  as  some  gray  oak  grown  old 
That  whilome  mock'd  the  rushing  tempest's  ragcj 
Now  like  a  monument  of  strength  decay 'd,  [shade. 
With  rarely-sprinkled  leaves  casting  a  trembling 
1794. 


IV.     CoRSTON. 

As  thus  1  stand  beside  the  murmuring  stream, 
And  watch  its  current,  memory  here  portrays 
Scenes  faintly  form'd  of  half- forgotten  days. 
Like  far-off  woodlands  by  the  moon's  bright  beam 
Dimly  descried,  but  lovely.     I  have  worn 
Amid  these  haunts  the  heavy  hours  away. 
When  childhood  idled  through  the  Sabbath-day; 
Risen  to  my  tasks  at  winter's  earliest  morn ; 
And  when  the  summer  twilight  darken'd  here, 
Thinking  of  home,  and  all  of  heart  forlorn. 
Have  sigh'd  and  shed  in  secret  many  a  tear. 
Dream-like  and  indistinct  those  days  appear, 
As  the  faint  sounds  of  this  low  brooklet,  borne 
Upon  the  breeze,  reach  fitfully  the  ear. 
1794. 


V.   The  Evening  Rainbow. 
Mild  arch  of  promise,  on  the  evening  sky 
Thou  shinest  fair  with  many  a  lovely  ray 
Each  in  the  other  melting.     Much  mine  eye 
Delights  to  linger  on  thee ;  for  the  day. 
Changeful  and  many-weather'd,  seemed  to  smile. 
Flashing  brief  splendor  through  the  clouds  awhile, 
Which  deepen'd  dark  anon  and  fell  in  rain ; 
But  pleasant  is  it  now  to  pause,  and  view 
Thy  various  tints  of  frail  and  watery  hue. 
And  think  the  storm  shall  not  return  again. 
Such  is  the  smile  that  Piety  bestows 
On  the  good  man's  pale  cheek,  when  he,  in  peace 
Departing  gently  from  a  world  of  woes, 
Anticipates  the  world  where  sorrows  cease. 
1794. 


VI. 
With  many  a  weary  step,  at  length  I  gain 
Thy  summit,  Lansdown  ;  and  the  cool  breeze  plays 
Gratefully  round  my  brow,  as  hence  I  gaze 
Back  on  the  fair  expanse  of  yonder  plain. 
'Twas  a  long  way  and  tedious  ;  to  the  eye 
Though  fair  the  extended  vale,  and  fair  to  view 
The  autumnal  leaves  of  many  a  faded  hue, 
That  eddy  in  the  wild  gust  moaning  by, 
Even  so  it  fared  with  life :  in  discontent 
Restless  through  Fortune's  mingled  scenes  I  went. 
Yet  wept  to  think  they  would  return  no  more. 
But  cease,  fond  heart,  in  such  sad  thoughts  to  roam  j 
For  surely  thou  ere  long  shalt  reach  thy  home  ; 
And  pleasant  is  the  way  that  lies  before. 
1794. 


vn. 

Fair  is  the  rising  morn  when  o'er  the  sky 
The  orient  sun  expands  his  roseate  ray, 


SONNETS. 


119 


And  lovely  to  the  musing  poet's  eye 
Fades  the  soft  radiance  of  departing  day  ; 
But  fairer  is  the  smile  of  one  we  love, 
Than  all  the  scenes  in  Nature's  ample  sway, 
And  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  grove, 
The  voice  that  bids  us  welcome.     Such  delight, 
Edith  !  is  mine,  escaping  to  thy  siglit 
From  the  cold  converse  of  the  indifferent  throng: 
Too  swiftly  then  toward  the  silent  night. 
Ye  hours  of  happiness,  ye  speed  along, 
Whilst  I,  from  all  the  world's  dull  cares  apart, 
Pour  out  the  feelings  of  my  burden'd  heart. 
1794. 


VIII. 
How  darkly  o  er  yon  far-olF  mountain  frowns 
The  gather'd  tempest .  from  that  lurid  cloud 
The  deep- voiced  thunders  roll,  awful  and  loud, 
Though  distant ;  while  upon  the  misty  downs 
Fast  falls  in  shadowy  streaks  the  pelting  rain. 
I  never  saw  so  terrible  a  storm  ! 
Perhaps  some  way-worn  traveller  in  vain 
Wraps  his  thin  raiment  round  his  shivering  form, 
Cold  even  as  hope  within  him.     I  the  while 
Pause  here  in  sadness,  though  the  sun-beams  smile 
Cheerily  round  me.     Ah  !  that  thus  my  lot 
Might  be  with  Peace  and  Solitude  assign'd, 
Where  I  might  from  some  little  quiet  cot 
Sigh  for  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  mankind. 


IX. 

0  THOU  sweet  Lark,  who,  in  the  heaven  so  high 
Twinkling  thy  wings,  dost  sing  so  joyfully, 

1  watch  thee  soaring  with  a  deep  delight; 
And  when  at  last  I  turn  mine  aching  eye 
That  lags  below  thee  in  the  Infinite, 
Still  in  my  heart  receive  thy  melody. 

O  thou  sweet  Lark,  tjiat  I  had  wings  like  thee  ! 
Not  for  the  joy  it  were  in  yon  blue  light 
Upward  to  mount,  and  from  my  heavenly  height 
Gaze  on  the  creeping  multitude  below  ; 
But  that  I  soon  would  wing  my  eager  flight 
To  that  loved  home  where  Fancy  even  now 
Hath  fled,  and  Hope  looks  onward  through  a  tear. 
Counting  the  weary  hours  tiiat  hold  her  here. 
1798. 


X. 
Thou  llngerest.  Spring  I  still  wintry  is  the  scene; 
The  fields  their  dead  and  sapless  russet  wear  ; 
Scarce  doth  the  glossy  celandine  appear 
Starring  the  sunny  bank,  or  early  green 
The  elder  yet  its  clrchng  tufts  put  fortli. 
The  sparrow  tenants  still  the  eaves-built  nest 
Where  we  should  see  our  martin's  snowy  breast 
Oft  darting  out.     The  blasts  from  the  bleak  north. 
And  from  the  keener  east,  still  frequent  blow. 
Sweet  Spring,  thou  llngerest;  and  it  should  be  so, — 
Late  let  the  fields  and  gardens  blossom  out ! 
Like  man  when  most  with  smiles  thy  face  is  drcst. 


'Tis  to  deceive,  and  he  who  knows  ye  best, 
When  most  ye  promise,  ever  most  must  doubt. 
Westbury,  1799. 


XI. 

Beware  a  speedy  friend,  tlie  Arabian  said, 
And  wisely  was  it  he  advised  distrust : 
The  flower  that  blossoms  earliest  fades  the  first. 
Look  at  yon  Oak  that  lifts  its  stately  head, 
And  dallies  witli  the  autumnal  storm,  whose  rage 
Tempests  the  great  sea-waves ;  slowly  it  rose, 
Slowly  its  strength  increased  through  many  an  age, 
And  timidly  did  its  light  leaves  disclose, 
As  doubtful  of  the  spring,  their  palest  green. 
They  to  the  summer  cautiously  expand, 
And  by  the  warmer  sun  and  season  bland 
Matured,  their  foliage  In  the  grove  is  seen. 
When  the  bare  forest  by  tlie  wintry  blast 
Is  swept,  still  lingering  on  the  boughs  the  last. 
1793. 


XII.  To  A  Goose. 
If  thou  didst  feed  on  western  plains  of  yore  ; 
Or  waddle  wide  with  flat  and  flabby  feet 
Over  some  Cambrian  mountain's  plashy  moor ; 
Or  find  in  farmer's  yard  a  safe  retreat 
From  gypsy  thieves,  and  foxes  sly  and  fleet ; 
If  thy  gray  quills,  by  lawyer  guided,  trace 
Deeds  big  with  ruin  to  some  wretched  race. 
Or  love-sick  poet's  sonnet,  sad  and  sweet. 
Wailing  the  rigor  of  his  lady  fair ; 
Or  if,  the  drudge  of  housemaid's  dally  toil. 
Cobwebs  and  dust  thy  pinions  wliite  besoil, 
Departed  Goose  !  I  neither  know  nor  care. 
But  this  I  know,  that  we  pronounced  thee  fine, 
Season'd  with  sage  and  onions,  and  port  wine. 
London,  1798. 


xin. 

I  MARVEL  not,  O  Sun !  that  unto  thee 
In  adoration  man  should  bow  the  knee, 
And  pour  his  prayers  of  mingled  awe  and  love  ; 
For  like  a  God  thou  art,  and  on  thy  way 
Of  glory  sheddest,  with  benignant  ray. 
Beauty,  and  life,  and  joyance  from  above. 
No  longer  let  these  mists  thy  radiance  shroud, 
These  cold,  raw  mists,  that  chill  the  comfortless  day. 
But  slied  thy  splendor  through  the  opening  cloud. 
And  clieer  the  earth  once  more.    The  languid  flowers 
Lie  scentless,  beaten  down  with  heavy  rain: 
Earth  asks  thy  presence,  saturate  with  showers ; 
O  Lord  of  Llglit!  put  forth  tJiy  beams  again, 
For  damp  and  cheerless  are  the  gloomy  hours. 
Westtiii-y,  1793. 


XIV. 

Fair  be  thy  fortunes  in  tlie  distant  land, 
Companion  of  my  earlier  years  and  friend ! 
Go  to  the  Eastern  world,  and  may  the  hand 
Of  Heaven  its  blessing  on  thy  labor  send. 


120 


SONNETS. 


And  may  I,  if  we  ever  more  should  meet, 
See  thee  with  affluence  to  thy  native  shore 
Return'd ;  — 1  need  not  pray  that  1  may  greet 
The  same  untainted  goodness  as  before. 
Long  years  must  intervene  before  that  day  ; 
And^what  the  changes  Heaven  to  each  may  send, 
It  boots  not  now  to  bode  :  O  early  friend  ! 
Assured,  no  distance  e'er  can  wear  away 
Esteem  long  rooted,  and  no  change  remove 
The  dear  remembrance  of  the  friend  we  love. 

1798. 


XV. 

A  7VRINKLED,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee, 
Old  Winter,  with  a  rugged  beard  as  gray 
As  the  long  moss  upon  the  apple-tree  ; 
Blue-lipt,  an  ice-drop  at  thy  sharp,  blue  nose, 
Close  muffled  up,  and  on  thy  dreary  way. 
Plodding  alone  through  sleet  and  drifting  snows. 
They  should  have  drawn  thee  by  the  high-heapt 

hearth, 
Old  Winter  !  seated  in  thy  great  arm'd  chair, 
Watching  the  children  at  their  Christmas  mirth; 
Or  circled  by  them  as  thy  lips  declare 
Some  merry  jest,  or  tale  of  murder  dire. 
Or  troubled  spirit  that  disturbs  the  night. 
Pausing  at  times  to  rouse  the  mouldering  fire. 
Or  taste  the  old  October  brown  and  bright. 

Westburij,  1799. 


XVI. 

PoRLOCK,  thy  verdant  vale  so  fair  to  sight, 

Thy  lofty  hills  which  fern  and  furze  embrown. 

The  waters  that  roll  musically  down 

Tliy  woody  glens,  the  traveller  with  delight 

Recalls  to  memory,  and  the  channel  gray 

Circling  its  surges  in  thy  level  bay. 

Porlock,  I  also  shall  forget  thee  not, 

Here  by  the  unwelcome  summer  rain  confined ; 

But  often  shall  hereafter  call  to  mind 

How  here,  a  patient  prisoner,  'twas  my  lot 

To  wear  the  lonely,  lingering  close  of  day, 

Making  my  Sonnet  by  the  alehouse  fire. 

Whilst  Idleness  and  Solitude  inspire 

Dull  rhymes  to  pass  the  duller  hours  away. 

August  9,  1799. 


XVII. 

Stately  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide. 
To  some  far  distant  land  adventurous  bound ; 
The  sailors'  busy  cries  from  side  to  side, 
Pealing  among  the  echoing  rocks,  resound : 
A  patient,  thoughtless,  much-enduring  band. 
Joyful  they  enter  on  their  ocean  way. 
With  shouts  exulting  leave  their  native  land, 
And  know  no  care  beyond  the  present  day. 
But  is  there  no  poor  mourner  left  behmd. 


Who  sorrows  for  a  child  or  husband  there  ? 
Who  at  the  howling  of  the  midnight  wind 
Will  wake  and  tremble  in  her  boding  prayer  ? 
So  may  her  voice  be  heard,  and  Heaven  be  kind ! 
Go,  gallant  Ship,  and  be  thy  fortune  fair ! 
Westbury,  1799. 


XVIIl. 
O  God  !  have  mercy  in  this  dreadful  hour 
On  the  poor  mariner  !  in  comfort  here 
Safe  shelter'd  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 
The  blast  that  rages  with  resistless  power. 
What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the  waves. 
The  madden'd  waves,  and  know  no  succor  near, 
The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear. 
And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest  raves ; 
To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night. 
And  only  see  the  billow's  gleaming  light ; 
Then  in  the  dread  of  death  to  think  of  her 
Who,  as  she  listens  sleepless  to  the  gale. 
Puts  up  a  silent  prayer  and  waxes  pale .'  — 
O  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  mariner ! 

Westbury,  1799. 


XIX. 

She  comes  majestic  with  her  swelling  sails, 
The  gallant  Ship ;  along  her  watery  way 
Homeward  she  drives  before  the  favoring  gales ; 
Now  flirting  at  their  length  the  streamers  play, 
And  now  they  ripple  with  the  ruffling  breeze. 
Hark  to  the  sailors'  shouts !  the  rocks  rebound. 
Thundering  in  echoes  to  the  joyful  sound. 
Long  have  they  voyaged  o'er  the  distant  seas  ; 
And  what  a  heart-delight  they  feel  at  last. 
So  many  toils,  so  many  dangers  past. 
To  view  the  port  desired,  he  only  knows 
Who  on  the  stormy  deep  for  many  a  day 
Hath  tost,  aweary  of  his  watery  way, 
And  watch 'd,  all  anxious,  every  wind  that  blows. 

Westbury,  1799. 


XX. 

Farewell  my  home,  my  home  no  longer  now, 
Witness  of  many  a  calm  and  happy  day  ; 
And  thou,  fair  eminence,  upon  whose  brow 
Dwells  the  last  sunshine  of  the  evening  ray, 
Farewell !  These  eyes  no  longer  shall  pursue 
The  western  sun  beyond  the  farthest  height. 
When  slowly  he  forsakes  the  fields  of  light. 
No  more  the  freshness  of  tlie  falling  dew, 
Cool  and  delightful,  here  shall  bathe  my  head. 
As  from  this  western  window  dear,  I  lean. 
Listening,  the  while  I  watch  the  placid  scene. 
The  martins  twittering  underneath  the  shed. 
Farewell,  dear  home!  where  many  a  day  has  past 
In  joys  whose  loved  remembrance  long  shall  last 

Westbury,  1799. 


SA]PIP3Er®o 


Hark!  h.a\v 


p  below 


Roai-s  round  theru^gtu  iJru-,.-,._t^-i  ifitcall'd 
lis  lon^-relucLanl  victinil  1  will  coTne  !- 
One  leap, and  all  is  over! 

Jtt'fwdraniaj-.  i'.121. 


MONODRAMAS. 


123 


To-morrow ;  but  with  honest  pride  I  say, 
That  if  the  truest  and  the  purest  love 
Deserved  requital,  such  was  ever  mine. 
How  often  reeking  from  the  adulterous  bed 
Have  I  received  him  !  and  with  no  complaint. 
Neglect  and  insult,  cruelty  and  scorn, 
Long,  long  did  I  endure,  and  long  curb  down 
The  indignant  nature. 

Tell  your  countrymen, 
Scotchmen,  what  I  have  spoken !     Say  to  them 
Ye  saw  the  Queen  of  Scotland  lift  the  dagger 
Red  from  her  husband's  heart;  that  in  her  own 
She  plunged  it.  Slabs  herself. 

Tell  them  also,  that  she  felt 
No  guilty  fear  in  death. 

Westbury,  1793. 


LUCRETIA. 


Scene.     The  House  of  CoUatine. 

Welcome,  my  father!  good  Valerius, 
Welcome  !  and  thou  too,  Brutus !  ye  were  both 
My  wedding  guests,  and  fitly  ye  are  come. 
My  husband  —  Collatine  —  alas!  no  more 
Lucretia's  husband,  for  thou  shalt  not  clasp 
Pollution  to  thy  bosom,  —  hear  mo  on  ! 
Fc-  '  ivist  *el!  *hee  all. 

I  sat  at  eve 
Spinning  amid  my  maidens  as  I  wont, 
When  from  the  camp  at  Ardea  Sextus  came. 
Curb  down  thy  swelling  feelings,  Collatine  ! 
1  little  liked  the  man  !  yet,  for  he  came 
From  Ardea,  for  he  brought  me  news  of  thee, 
I  gladly  gave  him  welcome  ;  gladly  listen 'd, — 
Thou  canst  not  tell  how  gladly  — to  his  tales 
Of  battles,  and  the  long  and  perilous  siege  ; 
And  when  I  laid  me  down  at  night  to  sleep, 
'Twas  with  a  lighten'd  heart,  —  I  knew  thee  safe  ; 
My  visions  were  of  thee. 

Nay,  hear  me  out  I 
And  be  thou  wise  in  vengeance,  so  thy  wife 
Not  vainly  shall  liave  sufFer'd.     I  have  wrought 
My  soul  up  to  the  business  of  this  hour. 
That  it  may  stir  your  noble  spirits,  and  prompt 
Such  glorious  deeds  that  ages  yet  unborn 
Shall  bless  my  fate.     At  midnight  I  awoke  ; 
The  Tarquin  was  beside  me  !  O  my  husband. 
Where    wert   thou   then !     gone    was    my    rebel 

strength  — 
All  power  of  utterance  gone  !  astonish'd,  stunn'd, 
1  saw  the  coward  ruffian,  heard  him  urge 
His  wicked  suit,  and  bid  me  tamely  yield,  — 
Yield  to  dishonor.     When  he  proffer'd  death, — 
Oh,  I  had  leap'd  to  meet  themerciful  sword  I 
But  that  with  most  accursed  vows  he  vow'd, 
That  he  would  lay  a  dead  slave  by  my  side, 
Murdering  my  spotless  honor.  —  Collatine, 
From  what  an  anguish  have  I  rescued  thee  I 
And  thou,  my  father,  wretched  as  thou  art. 
Thou  miserable,  childless,  poor  old  man, — 
Think,  father,  what  that  agony  had  been  ! 
Now  thou  mayst  sorrow  for  me,  thou  mayst  bless 
The  memory  of  thy  poor,  polluted  child. 


Look  if  it  have  not  kindled  Brutus'  eye  : 
Mysterious  man  !   at  last  I  know  thee  now ; 
I  see  thy  dawning  glories !  —  to  the  grave 
Not  unrevenged  Lucretia  shall  descend  ; 
Not  always  shall  her  wretched  country  wear 
The  Tarquin's  yoke  !     Ye  will  deliver  Rome, 
And  1  have  comfort  in  this  dreadful  hour. 

Thinkest    thou,   my   husband,  that    I   dreaded 
death .'  * 

O  Collatine  !  the  weapon  that  had  gored 
My  bosom  had  been  ease,  been  happiness, — 
Elysium,  to  the  hell  of  his  hot  grasp. 
Judge  if  Lucretia  could  have  fear'd  to  die  I 

Stabs  herself. 
Bristol,  1799. 


LA   CABA. 


This  monodrania  was  written  sovoral  years  before  the  author 
liad  any  intention  of  treating  at  greater  lengtli  the  jjortion 
of  Spanish  history  to  which  it  relates.  It  is  founded  upon 
the  following  passage  in  the  Historia  Vertladcra  del  Rnj  Dun 
Rodrigo,  which  Miguel  de  I^una  translated  from  the  Arahic. 
Avieiidose  despcdido  en  la  Ciudad  de  Cordoba  el  Conde 
Don  Julian  de  aqucllos  Octicrales,  rccogio  toda  su  grate,  dcu- 
dos  y  criados  ;  y  porque  svs  ticrras  cstavun  tan  perdidas  y 
maltratada^,  sefea  d  un  Uigar  pequeno,  que  cstdfabricado  en 
la  ribcra  del  mar  Mediterraneo,  en  la  provinr.ia  que  Human 
Vandalucia,  dla  qual  iiombraron  los  Christiunos en  sulengua 
Vdlaviciosa.  Y  uviendo  llegudo  d  ella,  did  orden  de  ernbiar 
por  su  muger,  y  I'ija,  que  cstacan  detenidns  en  aquellas  partes 
de  .Africa,  en  una  Ciudad  que  estd  en  la  ribcra  del  mar,  la 
qual  se  llama  Taiijer,  para  desde  nlli  nguardar  el  succsso 
de  la  conquitita  de  EspaTia  en  que  aria  de  parar :  las  qualcs 
llegadas  en  aquclla  Villa,  el  Covde  D.  Julian  las  rccibio  con 
mucho  content!},  porque  tenia  bien  scntida  su  larga  auscncia. 
y  aciendo  descansado,  dcsde  alii  el  Conde  dava  orden  con 
mucha  diUgcncia  parapoblar  yrcstaurar  sus  ticrras,  para  ir 
d  vivir  d  ellas.  Su  hija  estaim  muy  triste  y  ofiigida ;  y  por 
mucho  que  sii  padre  y  madre  la  regalaran,  nunca  la  podian 
contcntar,  ni  alcgrar.  Imuginara  la grande perdida  de  Espana, 
y  la  grande  destruicion  de  los  Cliristianos,  con  tautas  mucrtes, 
y  cautiverios,  robadas  sus  liazicndas,  y  que  dla  liuviessc  sido 
causa  principal,  cabcza,  y  ocasiun  de  aquclla pcrdiciun  ;  y  sobre 
todo  cllo  le  crccian  mas  sus  pcsadumbres  en  verse  dcshonrada, 
y  sin  esperanza  de  tener  estado,  segun  clla  dcscava.  Con  esta 
imaginacion,  enganada  del  demonio,  dclirmind  cntrcsi  de 
morir  descspcrada  ;  y  un  dia  sc  siibid  d  una  torre,  cerrando  la 
pucrta  dclla  por  dedcntrn,  porque  nofuesse  estorvada  de  aquel 
hecho  que  qucria  hazcr  ;  y  dizo  d  una  ama  suya,  que  le  llamasse 
d  su  padre  y  madre,  que  les  queria  dciir  un  poco.  Y  sicndo 
vcnidos,  desde  lo  alto  dc  aquclla  torre  les  hizo  un  razonamirniO 
muy  lastimoso,  diziendoles  alfin  del,  qucmvgcr  tan  desdichada 
como  ella  era,  y  tan  desvrnturada,  no  merrcia  vivir  en  ci 
mundo  con  tanla  dishonra,  mayormente  uviendo  sido  causa  de 
tunto  maly  destruicion.  Yluego  les  diio,  Pudrrs,  cnmemoria 
de  mi  desdicha,  de  aqui  adelante  no  se  llame  esta  Ciudad,  Villa, 
viciosa,  sino  Malaca  ;  Oy  se  acaba  en  ella  la  vias  mala  muger 
que  huvo  en  d  mundo.  Y  acahadas  cstas  palabras,  sin  7nas 
Qir  d  sus  padres,  ni  d  nadie  de  los  que  estavan  presentes,  por 
miichos  rucgos  que  la  hizieron,  y  amonestacioncs  que  no  se 
echasse  abaio,  se  dezd  cacr  en  cl  suelo  ;  y  llevada  medio  mucrta, 
vivid  como  Ires  dias,  y  hiego  murio.  —  Fue  causa  cste  desastre 
y  desrspcracion  de  mucho  escandalo,  y  notable  mcmoria,  entrc 
los  Moro.1  y  Cliristianos  ;  y  dcsde  alle  adelante  se  llamo  aquella 
Ciudad  Malaga  corruptamcnte  por  los  Christianas  ;  y  de  los 
Arabesfuc  llamada  Malaca,  en  mcmoria  dc  aquellas  palabras 
que  dizo  quando  se  echd  de  la  torre,  no  se  llame  Villaviciosa, 
.lino  Malaca,  porque  ca,  en  lenguaje  Ktiiaiiol  quiere  deiir  por- 
que ;  y  porque  dizo,  ca,  oy  se  acaba  en  ella  la  mas  mala  muger 
que  huvo  en  el  mundo,  .le  compuso  este  nombre  de  Mala  y  ca.  — 
Cap.  xviii.  pp.  81,  83. 


124 


AMATORY    POEMS    OF    ABEL    SHU FFLEBOTT OM, 


Bleda,  who  has  incorporated  Miguel  de  Luna's  etory  in  his 
Crunica  de  los  Moras  de  Espana,pp  193,  194,  has  the  fol- 
lowing curious  passage  concerning  La  Caba. 

Fae  la  hcrinosxtra  desta  daina  no  menos  dahosa  a  Espana, 
que  la  de  Elena  d  Troija.  IJamaronla  los  Moras  por  mal 
nombrc  La  Caca;  y  nota  el  Padre  Fray  Estavan  de  Salazar, 
Cartuxo,  en  las  duicursos  doctissimos  sabre  cl  Credo,  que  esto 
no  fae  sin  mystcrio :  jmrque  cl  nombre  de  nuestra  primera 
madre  en  el  Hebreo  no  se  pranuncia  E':a,  sino  Cavah  .-  de 
suerte  que  tuvieran  un  mcsmu  nombre  dos  mugercs  que  faeron 
ruyna  de  los  hombrcs,  la  una  en  todo  el  muiulo,  y  la  otra  en 
Espana.  —  Bleda,  p.  14G.  * 

Morales  supposes  that  tlie  Gate  at  Malaga  derived  its  name 
not  from  the  death  of  La  Caba,  but  from  her  having  passed 
through  it  on  her  way  to  Africa. 

En  Malaga  he  vlsto  la  pucrta  en  cl  muro,  que  llaman  de  La 
Cava,  y  diccn  le  qucdd  aquel  nombre,  habicndo  salido  esta  vez 
por  ella  embarcarse.  Y  la  gran  desvcntura  que  luego  sucedid, 
dez6  Iristenicnte  notable  aquel  lugar.  —  BIorales,  1.  xii.  cap. 
Ixvii.  §  4. 

The  very  different  view  which  I  have  taken  of  this  subject 
when  treating  it  upon  a  great  scale,  renders  it  proper  to  sub- 
stitute for  Julian,  in  this  earlier  production,  the  name  of  Ilian, 
for  which  the  Corunica  de  Espana  affords  authority,  and  to 
call  his  daughter  as  she  is  named  in  that  spirited  Ode  by  P. 
Luis  de  Leon,  of  which  a  good  translation  may  be  found  in 
Russell's  poems. 


Father  !  Count  Ulan  !  here  —  what  here  I  say,  — 
Aloft  —  look  up  1  —  ay,  father,  here  I  stand, 
Safe  of  my  purpose  now  !     The  way  is  barr'd ;  — 
Thou   need'st  not   hasten   hither !  —  Ho  !    Count 

Ulan, 
1  tell  thee  I  have  barr'd  the  battlements ! 
I  tell  thee  that  no  human  power  can  curb 
A  desperate  will.     The  poison  and  the  knife  — 
These  thou  couldst  wrest  from  me ;  but  here  I 

stand 
Beyond  thy  thrall  —  free  mistress  of  myself. 
Though  thou  hadst  wings,  thou  couldst  not   over- 
take 
My  purpose.     1  command  my  destiny. 
Would  I  stand  dallying  on  Death's  threshold  here. 
If  it  were  possible  that  hand  of  man 
Could  pluck  me  back  ? 

Why  didst  thou  bring  me  here 
To  set  my  foot,  reluctant  as  I  was, 
On  this  most  injured  and  unhappy  land .' 
Yonder  in  Afric  —  on  a  foreign  shore, 
1  might  have  linger'd  out  my  wretched  life  — 
I  might  have  found  some  distant  lurking  place, 
Where  my  accursed  tale  was  never  known ; 
Where  Gothic  speech  would  never  reach  my  ear,  — 
Where  among  savages  I  might  have  fled 
The  leprous  curse  of  infamy  !  But  here  — 
In  Spain,  —  in  my  own  country ;  —  night  and  morn 
Where  all  good  people  curse  me  in  their  prayers ; 
Where  every  Moorish  accent  that  I  hear 
Doth  tell  me  of  my  country's  overthrow, 
Doth  stab  me  like  a  dagger  to  the  soul ; 

Here here  —  in  desolated  Spain,  whose  fields 

Yet  reek  to  Heaven  with  blood,  —  whose  slaugh- 

ter'd  sons 
Lie  rotting  in  the  open  light  of  day, 
My  victims ;  — said  1,  mine  ?    Nay  —  Nay,  Count 

Ulan, 
They  are  thy  victims !  at  the  throne  of  God 
Their  spirits  call  for  vengeance  on  thy  head ; 
Their  blood  is  on  thy  soul,  —  even  I,  myself. 


I  am  thy  victim  too,  —  and  this  death  more 
Must  yet  be  placed  in  Hell  to  thy  account. 

O  my  dear  country  !  O  my  mother  Spain  ! 
My  cradle  and  my  grave  !  —  for  thou  art  dear; 
And  nursed  to  thy  undoing  as  I  was. 
Still,  still  I  am  thy  child  —  and  love  thee  still; 
I  shall  be  written  in  thy  chronicles 
The  veriest  wretch  that  ever  yet  betray'd 
Her  native  land !  From  sire  to  son  my  name 
Will  be  transmitted  down  for  infamy  I  — 
Never  again  will  mother  call  her  child 
La  Caba,  —  an  Iscariot  curse  will  lie 
Upon  the  name,  and  children  in  their  songs 
Will  teach  the  rocks  and  hills  to  echo  with  it 
Strumpet  and  traitoress ! 

This  is  thy  work,  father 
Nay,  tell  me  not  my  shame  is  wash'd  away  — 
That  all  this  ruin  and  this  misery 
Is  vengeance  for  my  wrongs.     I  ask'd  not  this,  — 
I  call'd  for  open,  manly,  Gothic  vengeance. 
Thou  wert  a  vassal,  and  thy  villain  lord 
Most  falsely  and  most  foully  broke  his  faith ; 
Thou  wert  a  father,  and  the  lustful  king 
By  force  abused  thy  child  !  —  Thou  hadst  a  sword  ; 
Shame  on  thee  to  call  in  the  cimeter 
To  do  thy  work!     Thou  wert  a  Goth  —  a  Chris- 
tian— 
Son  of  an  old  and  honorable  house,  — 
It  was  my  boast,  my  proudest  happiness, 
To  think  I  was  the  daughter  of  Count  Ulan. 
Fool  that  I  am  to  call  this  African 
By  that  good  name  !  O  do  not  spread  thy  hands 
To  me  !  —  and  put  not  on  that  father's  look  ! 
Moor !  turbaned  misbeliever !  renegade  ! 
Circumcised  traitor  !    Thou  Count  Illan,  Thou  !  — 
Thou  my  dear  father?  —  cover  me,  O  Earth.'* 
Hell,  hide  me  from  the  knowledge  ! 

Bristol,  1802. 


THE    AMATORY    POEMS 


ABEL    SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 


SONNET  I. 


DELIA    AT    PLAY. 

She  held  a  Cup  mid  Ball  of  ivory  white. 
Less  white  the  ivory  than  her  snoicy  hand ! 
Enrapt,  I  watch' d  her  from  my  secret  stand, 
As  now,  intent,  in  innocent  delight. 
Her  taper  fingers  twirl'd  the  giddy  ball. 
Now  tost  it,  following  still  with  eagle  sight. 
Now  on  the  pointed  end  infixed  its  fall. 
Marking  her  sport  I  mused,  and  musing  sigh'd. 
Methought  the   ball    she  play'd   with   was   my 

HEART ; 

(Alas  !  that  sport  like  that  should  be  her  pride  !) 
And  the  keen  point  which  steadfast  still  she  eyed 
Wherewith  to  pierce  it, that  was  Cupid's  dart; 
Shall  I  not  then  the  cruel  Fair  condemn 
Who  on  that  dart  impales  my  bosom's  gem  ' 


LOVE    ELEGIES. 


125 


SONNET    II. 

TO    A    PAINTER    ATTEMPTING    DELIA's    PORTRAIT. 

Rash  Painter!  canst  thou  give  the  orb  of  dav 

In  all  its  noontide  glory  ?  or  portray 

Tlie  DIAMOND,  that  athwart  the  tapcr'd  hall 

Flings  the  rich  flashes  of  its  dazzling  light  ? 

Even  if  thine  art  could  boast  such  -magic  viight^ 

Yet  if  it  strove  to  paint  vuj  Angel's  eye, 

Here  it  perforce  must  fail.     Cease  !  lest  I  call 

Heaven'' s  vengeance  on  thy  sin.     Must  thou  be  told 

The  CRIME  it  is  to  paint  divinity.' 

Rash  Painter  !  should  the  world  her  charms  behold, 

Dim  and  defiled,  as  there  they  needs  must  be, 

They  to  their  old  idolatry  would  fall, 

And  bend  before  her  form  the  pagan  knee, 

Fairer  than  Venus,  daughter  of  the  sea. 


SONNET  III. 

HE    PROVES    the    EXISTENCE    OF    A  SOUL    FROM 
ins    LOVE    FOR    DELIA. 

Some  have  denied  a  soul !  they  never  loved. 
Far  from  my  Delia  now  by  fate  removed, 
At  home,  abroad,  I  viewed  her  every  where  ; 
Her  only  in  the  flood  of  noon  I  sec. 
My  Goadess  Maid,  my  omnipresent  fair, 
For  LOVE  annihilates  the  world  to  me! 
And  when  the  weary  Sol  around  his  bed 
Closes  the  sable  curtains  of  the  night, 
Sun  of  my  slumbers,  on  my  dazzled  sight 
She  shines  confest.     When  everij  sound  is  dead. 
The  SPIRIT  OF  HER  VOICE  comes  then  to  roll 
The  surge  of  music  o'er  my  wavy  brain. 
Far,  far  from  her  my  Body  drags  its  chain, 
But  sure  with  Delia  /  exist  a  soul  ' 


SONNET  IV. 


THE     POET    EXPRESSES    HIS     FEELINGS    RESPECTING 
A    PORTRAIT    IN    DELIa's    PARLOR. 

I  WOULD  I  were  that  portly  Gentleman 
With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane. 
Who  hangs  in  Delia's  parlor !  For  whene'er 
From  book  or  needlework  her  looks  arise. 
On  him  converge  the  sun-beams  of  her  eyes, 
And  he  unhlamed  may  gaze  upon  my  fair. 
And  oft  MY  FAIR  h\s  favor d  form  surveys. 

0  HAPPY  PICTURE  !  still  on  her  to  gaze  ; 

1  envy  him !  and  jealous  fear  alarms. 

Lest  the  strong  glance  of  those  divinest  charms 
Warm  him  to  life,  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  marble  melted  in  Pygmalion's  arms. 
I  would  I  were  that  portly  Gentleman 
With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane. 


LOVE    ELEGIES. 


ELEGY   I. 


THE    POET    RELATES     HOW     HE    OBTAINED    DELIA  S 
POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. 

'Tis  mine  !  what  accents  can  my  joy  declare  .' 
Blest  be  the  pressure  of  the  thronging  routl 

Blest  be  the  hand  so  hasty  of  my  fair. 

That  left  the  tempting  corner  hanging  out ! 

I  envy  not  the  joy  the  pilgrim  feels. 
After  long  travel  to  some  distant  shrine, 

When  at  the  relic  of  his  saint  he  kneels. 

For  Delia's  pocket-handkerchief  is  mine. 

When  first  with  filching  fingers  I  drew  near, 
Keen  hope  shot  tremulous  through  every  vem 

And  when  the  finish' d  deed  removed  my  fear. 
Scarce  could  my  bounding  heart  its  joy  contain 

What  though  the  Eighth  Commandment  rose  to 
mind. 

It  only  served  a  moment's  qualm  to  move ; 
For  thefts  like  this  it  could  not  be  design'd ;  [love  ! 

T?ie  Eighth  Commandment  was  not  made  for 

Here  when  she  took  the  macaroons  from  me, 
She  wiped  her  mouth  to  clean  the  crumbs  so  sweet ! 

Dear  napkin  !  yes,  slie  wiped  her  lips  in  thee  ! 
Lips  sweeter  than  the  macaroons  she  eat. 

And  when  she  took  that  pinch  of  Mocabaw, 
That  made  my  Love  so  delicately  sneeze. 

Thee  to  her  Roman  nose  applied  I  saw, 

And  thou  art  doubly  dear  for  things  like  these. 

No  washerwoman's  filthy  hand  shall  e'er. 
Sweet  pocket-handkerchief!  thy  worth  pro- 
fane ; 

For  thou  hast  touch'd  the  rubies  of  my  fair, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  o'er  and  o'er  asain. 


ELEG»Y   II. 

THE  POET  INVOKES  THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  ELEMENTS 
TO  APPROACH  DELIA.  —  HE  DESCRIBES  HER 
SINGING. 

Ye  Sylphs,  who  banquet  on  my  Delia's  blush. 
Who  on  her  locks  of  floating  gold  repose, 

Dip  in  her  check  your  gossamery  brush. 

And  with  its  bloom  of  beauty  tinge  the  rose. 

Hover  around  her  lips  on  rainboic  wing, 

Load  from  her  honey'd  breath  your  ricwZcjs feet. 

Bear  thence  a  richer  fragrance  for  the  Spring, 
And  make  the  lily  and  the  violet  sweet. 


126 


LOVE    ELEGIES, 


Ye  Gnomes,  whose  toil  through  many  a  dateless  year 
Its  nurture  to  the  infant  gem  supplies, 

From  central  caverns  bring  your  diamonds  here, 
To  ripen  in  the  sun  of  Delia's  eves. 

And  ye  who  bathe  in  Etna's  lava  springs, 
Spirits  of  fire  I  to  see  my  love  advance  ; 

Fly,  Salamanders,  on  Asbestos'  wings, 
To  wanton  in  my  DeYm's  fiery  glance. 

She  weeps,  she  weeps  !  her  eye  with  anguish  swells, 
Some  tale  of  sorrow  melts  my  feeling  girl  ! 

Nymphs  !  catch  the  tears,  and  in  your  lucid  shells 
Enclose  them,  embryos  of  the  orient  pearl. 

She  sings  !  the  Nightingale  with  envy  hears. 
The  Cherub  listens  from  his  starry  throne. 

And  motionless  are  stopp'd  the  attentive  Spheres, 
To  hear  more  heavenly  music  than  their  own. 

Cease,  Delia,  cease  !  for  all  the  angel  throng. 
Hearkening  to  thee,  let  sleep  their  golden  wires  ! 

Cease,  Delia,  cease  that  too  surpassing  song. 
Lest,  stung  to  envy,  they  should  break  their  lyres. 

Cease,  ere  my  senses  are  to  madness  driven 
By  the  strong  joy  !  Cease,  Delia,  lest  my  soul, 

Enrapt,  already  think  itself  in  heaven, 
Jlnd  burst  the  feeble  Bodifs  frail  control. 


ELEGY   III. 

the  poet  expatiates  on  the  beauty  of  Delia's 
hair. 

The  comb  between  whose  ivory  teeth  she  strains 
The  straitening  curls  of  gold  so  beamy  bright, 

Not  spotless  merely  from  the  touch  remains. 
But  issues  forth  more  pure,  more  milky  white. 

The  rose-pomatum  that  the  Friseur  spreads 
Sometimes  with  honor'd  fingers  for  my  fair 

No  added  perfume  on  her  tresses  sheds. 

But  borrows  sweetness  from  her  sweeter  hair. 

Happy  the  Friseur  who  in  Delia's  hair 

With  licensed  fingers  uncontroll'd  may  rove  ! 

And  happy  in  his  death  the  dancing  bear. 
Who  died  to  make  pomatum  for  my  love. 

Oh  could  I  hope  that  e'er  my  favor'd  lays 

Might  curl  those  lovely  loc/cs  with  conscious  pride. 

Nor    Hammond,   nor    the    Mantuan    Shepherd's 
praise, 
I'd  envy  then,  nor  wish  reward  beside. 

Cupid  has  strung  from  you,  O  tresses  fine, 
The  bow  that  in  my  breast  impcll'd  his  dart ; 

From  you,  sweet  locks !  he  wove  the  subtile  line 
Wherewith  the  urchin  angled  for  my  heart. 

Fine  are  my  Delia's  tresses  as  the  threads 

That  from  the  silk-worm,  self-interr'd,  proceed  ; 


Fine  as  the  gleamy  Gossamer  that  spreads 
Its  filmy  web-work  o'er  the  tangled  mead. 

Yet  with  these  tresses  Cupid's  power  elate 
My  captive  heart  has  handcuff' d  in  a  chain. 

Strong  as  the  cables  of  some  huge  first-rate. 
That  bears  Britannia's  thunders  o'er  the 
main. 

The  Sylphs  that  round  her  radiant  locks  repair, 
Inflowing  lustre  bathe  their  brightening  wings  ; 

And  Elfin  Minstrels  with  assiduous  care 
The  ringlets  rob  for  faery  fiddle-strings. 


ELEGY  IV. 


the   poet   relates   how  he   stole  a  lock  of 
Delia's  hair,  and  her  anger. 

Oh  !  be  the  day  accurst  that  gave  me  birth ! 

Ye  Seas,  to  swallow  me  in  kindness  rise  ! 
Fall  on  me,  Mountains  I  and  thou  merciful  Earth, 

Open,  and  hide  me  from  my  Delia's  eyes ! 

Let  universal  Chaos  now  return. 

Now  let  the  central  fires  their  prison  burst. 

And  earth,  and   heaven,  and    air,  and    ocean 
burn  — 
For  Delia  FROWNS  —  she  frowns,  and /am  C7ir5f.' 

Oh !  I  could  dare  the  fury  of  the  fight, 

Where  hostile  millions  sought  my  single  life  ; 

Would  storm  volcano  batteries  with  delight, 
And  grapple  with  grim  death  in  glorious  strife. 

Oh  !  1  could  brave  the  bolts  of  angry  Jove, 

When  ceaseless  lightnings  fire  the  midnight  skies  : 

What  is  his  wrath  to  that  of  her  I  love .' 

What  is  his  lightning  to  my  Delia's  eyes.' 

Go,  fatal  lock  I  I  cast  thee  to  the  wind ; 

Ye  serpent  curls,  ye  poison-tendrils,  go  ! 
Would  I  could  tear  thy  memory  from  my  mind, 

Accursed  lock,  —  thou  cause  of  all  niy  woe  ! 

Seize  the  curst  curls,  ye  Furies,  as  they  fly  ! 

Demons  of  Darkness,  guard  the  infernal  roll. 
That  thence  your  cruel  vengeance,  when  I  die. 

May  knit  the  knots  of  torture /or  my  soul. 

Last  night,  —  Oh  hear  me.  Heaven,  and  grant  my 
prayer ! 

The  book  of  fate  before  thy  suppliant  lay, 
And  let  me  from  its  ample  records  tear 

Only  the  single  page  of  yesterday! 

Or  let  me  meet  old  Time  upon  his  flight, 
And  I  will  stop  him  on  his  restless  way ; 

Omnipotent  in  Love's  resistless  might, 

Til  force  him  back  the  road  of  yesterday. 

Last  night,  as  o'er  the  page  of  Love's  despair, 
My  Delia  bent  deliciously  to  grieve, 


LYRIC    POEMS, 


127 


1  stood  a  treacherous  loiterer  by  her  chair, 
And  drew  tlie  fatal  scissous  from  my  sleeve : 

And  would  that  at  that  instant  o'er  my  thread 
The  SHEARS  OK  Atkoi'os  had  opon'd  then; 

And  when  I  reft  the  lock  fi-oni  Delia's  head, 
Had  cut  me  sudden  from  the  sons  of  men ! 

She  heard  the  scissors  that  fair  lock  divide. 

And  whilst  my  heart  with  transport  panted  big, 

She  cast  a  fury  frown  on  me,  and  cried, 
"  You  stupid  Puppy, — you  have  spoil'dmy  Wig !  " 

Westbury,  1799. 


LYRIC    POEMS 


TO  HORROR. 


Tiv  yap  irora  uaojiai 

^Epxoiitidv  vcKVuiii  dvd  t'  ripia,  Kai  jiCXav  alpa. 

Theocritus 


Dark  Horror !  hear  my  call ! 
Stern  Genius,  hear  from  thy  retreat 
On  some  old  sepulchre's  moss-canker'd  seat. 
Beneath  the  Abbey's  ivied  wall 
That  trembles  o'er  its  shade ; 
Where  wrapt  in  midnight  gloom,  alone. 
Thou  lovest  to  lie  and  hear 
The  roar  of  waters  near, 
And  listen  to  the  deep,  dull  groan 
Of  some  perturbed  sprite. 
Borne  fitful  on  the  heavy  gales  of  night. 

Or  whether  o'er  some  wide  waste  hill 
Thou  see'st  the  traveller  stray, 

Bewilder'd  on  his  lonely  way. 
When,  loud,  and  keen,  and  chill. 
The  evening  winds  of  winter  blow, 

Drifting  deep  the  dismal  snow. 

Or  if  thou  followest  now  on  Greenland's  shore. 

With  all  thy  terrors,  on  the  lonely  way 

Of  some  wreck'd  mariner,  where  to  the  roar 

Of  herded  bears,  the  floating  ice-hills  round 

Return  their  echoing  sound, 

And  by  the  dim,  drear  Boreal  light 

Givest  half  his  dangers  to  the  wretch's  sight. 

Or  if  thv  fury  form. 
When  o'er  the  midnight  deep 
The  dark-wing'd  tempests  sweep, 
Beholds  from  some  high  cliff  the  increasing  storm, 
Watching  with  strange  delight, 
As  the  black  billows  to  the  thunder  rave, 
When  by  tlie  lightning's  light 
Thou  see'st  the  tall  ship  sink  beneath  the  wave. 


Bear  me  in  spirit  where  the  held  of  fight 
Scatters  contagion  on  the  tainted  gale, 
When,  to  the  Moon's  faint  beam, 
On  many  a  carcass  shine  the  dews  of  night. 

And  a  dead  silence  stills  the  vale,    [screarn. 
Save  when  at  times  is  heard  the  glutted  Raven's 

Where  some  wreck'd  army  from  the  Conqueror's 
Speed  their  disastrous  flight,  [might 

With  thee,  fierce  Genius !  let  me  trace  their  way, 
And  hear  at  times  the  deep  heart-groan 
Of  some  poor  suff'erer  left  to  die  alone ; 
And  we  will  pause,  where,  on  tlie  wild. 
The  mother  to  her  breast. 
On  the  heap'd  snows  reclining,  clasps  her  child, 
Not  to  be  pitied  now,  for  both  are  now  at  rest. 

Black  Horror  !  speed  we  to  the  bed  of  Death, 
Where  one  who  wide  and  far 
Hath  sent  abroad  the  myriad  plagues  of  war 
Struggles  with  his  last  breath  ; 
Then  to  his  wildly-starting  eyes 
The  spectres  of  the  slaughter'd  rise ; 
Then  on  his  frenzied  ear 
Their  calls  for  vengeance  and  the  Demons'  yell 
In  one  heart-maddening  chorus  swell ; 
Cold  on  his  brow  convulsing  stands  the  dew, 
And  night  eternal  darkens  on  his  view. 

Horror  !  I  call  thee  yet  once  more  ! 

Bear  me  to  that  accursed  shore. 

Where  on  the  stake  the  Negro  writhes. 

Assume  thy  sacred  terrors  then  !  dispense 
The  gales  of  Pestilence  ! 
Arouse  the  oppress'd  ;  teach  them  to  know  their 

power ; 
Lead  them  to  vengeance !  and  in  that  dread  hour 
When  ruin  rages  wide, 
I  will  behold  and  smile  by  Mercy's  side. 

Bristol,  1791. 


TO  CONTEMPLATION. 


Kai  naya;  (j>t\ioini  tov  iyyvOcv  rjxov  aKOveiv, 
"A  TcpiTst  ipoipioiixa  tov  aypiKOv,  oixi  rapdaati. 

SIoscHUs. 


Faint  gleams  the  evening  radiance  through  the  sky. 
The  sober  twilight  dimly  darkens  round ; 
In  short  quick  circles  the  shrill  bat  flits  by, 
And  the  slow  vapor  curls  along  the  ground. 

Now  the  pleased  eye  from  yon  lone  cottage  sees 
On  the  green  mead  the  smoke  long-shadowing  play; 
The  Red-breast  on  the  blossom'd  spray 
Warbles  wild  her  latest  lay  ; 
And  lo !  the  Rooks  to  yon  high-tufled  trees 
Wing  in  long  files  vociferous  their  way. 
Calm  Contemplation,  'tis  thy  favorite  hour' 
Come,  tranquillizing  Power  ! 


128 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


I  view  thee  on  the  cahny  shore 
When  Ocean  stills  his  waves  to  rest ; 
Or  when  slow-moving  on  the  surges  hoar 
Meet  with  deep,  hollow  roar, 
And  whiten  o'er  his  breast ; 
And  when  the  Moon  with  softer  radiance  gleams. 
And  lovelier  heave  tlie  billows  in  her  beams. 

When  the  low  gales  of  evening  moan  along, 
1  love  with  thee  to  feel  the  calm,  cool  breeze. 

And  roam  the  pathless  forest  wilds  among, 
Listening  the  mellow  murmur  of  the  trees 

Full-foliaged,  as  they  wave  their  heads  on  high. 

And  to  the  winds  respond  in  symphony. 

Or  lead  me  where,  amid  the  tranquil  vale. 
The  broken  streamlet  J3ows  in  silver  light ; 
And  I  will  linger  where  the  gale 
O'er  the  bank  of  violets  sighs. 
Listening  to  hear  its  soften'd  sounds  arise, 
And  hearken  the  dull  beetle's  drowsy  flight, 

And  watch  the  tube-eyed  snail 
Creep  o'er  his  long,  moon-glittering  trail, 
And  mark  where  radiant  tlirough  the  night 
Shines  in  the  grass-green  hedge  tlie  glow-vv^orm's 
living  light. 

Thee,  meekest  Power  !  I  love  to  meet. 
As  oft  with  solitary  pace 
The  ruin'd  Abbey's  hallowed  rounds  I  trace, 
And  listen  to  the  echoings  of  my  feet. 
Or  on  some  half-demolish'd  tomb, 
Whose  warning  texts  anticipate  my  doom, 

Mark  the  clear  orb  of  night 
Cast  through  the  ivied  arch  a  broken  light. 

Nor  will  I  not  in  some  more  gloomy  hour 
Invoke  with  fearless  awe  thine  holier  power. 
Wandering  beneath  the  sacred  pile 
When  the  blast  moans  along  the  darksome  aisle, 
And  clattering  patters  all  around 
The  midnight  shower  with  dreary  sound. 

But  sweeter  'tis  to  wander  wild. 
By  melancholy  dreams  beguiled. 
While  the  summer  moon's  pale  ray 
Faintly  guides  me  on  my  way 
To  some  lone,  romantic  glen. 
Far  from  all  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Where  no  noise  of  uproar  rude 
Breaks  the  calm  of  solitude; 
But  soothing  Silence  sleeps  in  all. 
Save  the  neighboring  waterfall. 
Whose  hoarse  waters,  falling  near. 
Load  with  hollow  sounds  the  ear. 
And  with  down-dash'd  torrent  white 
Gleam  hoary  through  the  shades  of  night. 

Thus  wandering  silent  on  and  slow, 
I'll  nurse  Reflection's  sacred  woe. 
And  muse  upon  the  happier  day 
When  Hope  would  weave  her  visions  gay. 
Ere  Fancy,  chill'd  by  adverse  fate, 
Left  sad  Reality  my  mate. 


O  Contemplation  !  when  to  Memory's  eyes 
Tiie  visions  of  the  long-past  days  arise. 
Thy  holy  power  imparts  the  best  relief, 
And  the  calm'd  Spirit  loves  the  joy  of  grief. 

BriUol,  1792. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


Oh  my  faithful  Friend  ! 
Oh  early  chosen,  ever  found  the  same, 
And  trusted  and  beloved  !  once  more  the  verse 
Long  destined,  always  obvious  to  tliine  ear, 
Attend  indulgent.  Akenside. 


And  wouldst  thou  seek  the  low  abode 
Where  Peace  delights  to  dwell .' 
Pause,  Traveller,  on  thy  way  of  life  ! 
With  many  a  snare  and  peril  rife 
Is  that  long  labyrinth  of  road  ! 
Dark  is  the  vale  of  years  before ; 
Pause,  Traveller,  on  thy  way. 
Nor  dare  the  dangerous  path  explore 
Till  old  Experience  comes  to  lend  his  leading  ray. 

Not  he  who  comes  with  lantern  light 
Shall  guide  thy  groping  pace  aright 

With  faltering  feet  and  slow; 
No  !  let  him  rear  the  torch  on  high. 

And  every  maze  shall  meet  thine  eye. 
And  every  snare  and  every  foe  ; 

Then  with  steady  step  and  strong, 

Traveller,  shall  thou  march  along. 

Though  Power  invite  thee  to  her  hall. 
Regard  not  thou  her  tempting  call. 
Her  splendor's  meteor  glare  ; 
Though  courteous  Flattery  there  await. 
And  Wealth  adorn  the  dome  of  State, 
There  stalks  the  midnight  spectre  Care  : 
Peace,  Traveller,  doth  not  sojourn  there. 

If  Fame  allure  thee,  climb  not  thou 
To  that  steep  mountain's  craggy  brow 

Where  stands  her  stately  pile  ; 
For  far  from  thence  doth  Peace  abide. 
And  thou  shalt  find  Fame's  favoring  smile 
Cold  as  the  feeble  Sun  on  Hccla's  snow-clad  side 

And,  Traveller !  as  thou  hopest  to  find 
That  low  and  loved  abode. 
Retire  thee  from  the  thronging  road, 
And  shun  the  mob  of  human-kind. 
Ah  !  hear  how  old  Experience  schools  — 
"  Fly,  fly  the  crowd  of  Knaves  and  Fools, 
"  And  thou  shalt  fly  from  woe  ! 
"  The  one  thy  heedless  heairt  will  greet 
"  With  Judas-smile,  and  thou  wilt  meet 
"  In  every  Fool  a  Foe !  " 

So  safely  mayst  thou  pass  from  these, 
And  reach  secure  the  home  of  Peace, 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


129 


And  Friendship  (Ind  tlice  there ; 
No  happier  state  can  mortal  know, 
No  happier  lot  can  Earth  bestow, 
If  Love  thy  lot  shall  share. 
Yet  still  Content  with  him  may  dwell 
Whom  Hymen  will  not  bless. 
And  Virtue  sojourn  in  the  cell 
Of  hermit  llai)])iiK'ss. 

Bi-istol,  1793. 


REMEMBRANCE. 


The  reiiioiiilirancc  ot' Voutli  is  a  si^li All 


Man  liath  a  weary  pilgrimage 
As  tliroiigh  the  world  he  wends, 
On  every  stage  i'rom  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  days  that  are  no  more. 

To  school  the  little  e.xile  goes, 
Torn  ii-om  his  mother's  arms,  — 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes, 

When  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms .' 
Condemn'd  to  sufier  through  the  day 
Restraints  wiiich  no  rewards  repay, 
And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  slie  counts  tiie  hours 
Before  his  wish'd  return. 
From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules. 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools. 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers  witii  a  sigh 
The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes  ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harass'd  heart 
Its  consolation  find .' 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells. 

Life's  sunnner  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah  no  I  for  hopes  too  long  delay  "d 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betray'd, 

Its  fabled  bliss  destroy  ; 
And  Youth  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives. 

And  other  thoughts  come  on, 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone ; 
Cold,  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed. 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye. 
Remembering  with  an  envious  sigh 

The  happy  dreams  of  Youth. 
17 


So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 

Of  this  our  mortal  pilgimage, 
With  feeble  step  and  slow ; 

New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  E.xperience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 
Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by; 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er  ; 
Yet  Age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 

Westbnnj,  1798. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   WIFE. 

DACTYLICS. 

Weary  way-wanderer,  languid  and  sick  at  heart, 
Travelling  painfully  over  the  rugged  road,  [one  ! 
Wild-visaged  Wanderer  !   God  help  thee,  wretched 

Sorely  thy  little  one  drags  by  thee  barefooted ; 
Cold  is  the  baby  that  hangs  at  thy  bending  back, 
Meagre,  and  livid,  and  screaming  for  misery. 

*  Woe-begone  mother,  half  anger,  half  agony, 
As  over  thy  shoulder  thou  lookest  to  hush  the  babe. 
Bleakly  the  blinding  snow  beats  in  tliy  haggard  face. 

Ne'er  will  thy  husband  return  from  tjic  war  again, 
Cold  is  thy  heart,  and  as  frozen  as  Charity  !  [forter ! 
Cold  are  thy  children.  —  Now  God  be  thy  com- 

Bristol,  1795. 


THE  WIDOW. 

SAl'PHICS. 

Cor.D  was  the  night  wind,  drifting  fast  the  snow  fell, 
Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and  naked. 
When  a  poor  Wanderer  struggled  on  her  journey, 
Weary  and  way-sore. 

Drear  were  the  downs,  more  dreary  her  reflections , 
Cold  was  the  night-wind,  colder  was  her  bosom ; 
She  had  no  home,  the  world  was  all  before  her, 
She  had  no  slielter. 

Fast  o'er  the  heath  a  chariot  rattled  by  her, 
"  I'ity  me  I  "  feebly  cried  the  lonely  wanderer; 
"  I'ity  me,  strangers  !  lest  with  cold  and  hunger 
Here  I  should  perish. 

"  Once  I  had  friends,  —  thougli  now  by  all  forsaken ' 
Once  I  had  parents,  —  they  are  now  in  heaven  1 
I  had  a  home  once  —  I  had  once  a  husband  — 
Pity  ine,  strangers ! 

"  I  had  a  home  once  —  1  had  once  a  husband  •• 
1  am  a  widow,  poor  and  broken-hearted  !  " 
Loud  blew  the  wind;  unheard  was  her  complaining, 
On  drove  the  chariot. 

*  Tliis  stanza  was  wiitlcn  l)y  S.  '1".  Coli:rioue. 


130 


LYRIC    POEMS, 


Then  on  the  snow  she  laid  her  down  to  rest  her ; 
She  heard  a  horseman ;   "Pity  me!"  she  groan'd 

out; 
Loud  was  the  wind ;  unheard  was  her  complaining ; 
On  went  the  horseman. 

Worn  out  with  anguish,  toil,  and  cold,  and  hunger, 
Down  sunk  the  Wanderer;  sleep  had  seized  her 

senses ; 
There  did  the  traveller  find  her  in  the  morning; 
God  had  released  her. 

Bristol,  1795. 


THE   CHAPEL  BELL. 

Lo  1,  the  man  who  from  the  Muse  did  ask 
Her  deepest  notes  to  swell  the  Patriot's  meeds, 

Am  now  enforced,  a  far  unfitter  task. 
For  cap  and  gown  to  leave  my  minstrel  weeds ; 

For  yon  dull  tone,  that  tinkles  on  the  air, 
Bids  me  lay  by  the  lyre  and  go  to  morning  prayer. 

0  how  I  hate  the  sound !  it  is  the  knell 
That  still  a  requiem  tolls  to  Comfort's  hour ; 

And  loath  am  I,  at  Superstition's  bell. 

To  quit  or  Morpheus'  or  the  Muse's  bower : 
Better  to  lie  and  doze,  than  gape  amain, 
Hearing  still  mumbled  o'er  the  same  eternal  strain. 

Thou  tedious  herald  of  more  tedious  prayers, 
Say,  dost  thou  ever  summon  from  his  rest 

One  being  wakening  to  religious  cares  .' 
Or  rouse  one  pious  transport  in  the  breast  ? 

Or  rather,  do  not  all  reluctant  creep 
To  linger  out  the  time  in  listlessness  or  sleep  .' 

1  love  the  bell  that  calls  the  poor  to  pray. 

Chiming  from  village  church  its  cheerful  sound, 
When  the  sun  smiles  on  Labor's  holy-day, 

And  all  the  rustic  train  are  gather'd  round, 
Each  deftly  dizen'd  in  his  Sunday's  best, 
And  pleased  to  hail  the  day  of  piety  and  rest. 

And  when,  dim  shadowing  o'er  the  face  of  day, 
The  mantling  mists  of  even-tide  rise  slow, 

As  through  the  forest  gloom  I  wend  my  way, 
The  minster  curfew's  sullen  voice  1  know, 

And  pause,  and  love  its  solemn  toll  to  hear, 
As  made  by  distance  soft  it  dies  upon  the  ear. 

Nor  with  an  idle  nor  unwilling  car 
Do  I  receive  the  early  passing-bell ; 

For,  sick  at  heart  with  many  a  secret  care, 
When  I  lie  listening  to  the  dead  man's  knell, 

1  think  that  in  the  grave  all  sorrows  cease. 
And  would  full  fain  recline  my  head  and  be  at  peace. 

But  thou,  memorial  of  monastic  gall ! 

What  fancy  sad  or  lightsome  hast  thou  given.' 
Thy  vision-scaring  sounds  alone  recall 

The  prayer  that  trembles  on  a  yawn  to  heaven, 
The  snuffling,  snaffling  Fellow's  nasal  tone, 
id  Romish  rites  retaln'd,  though  Romish  faith  be 
flown. 

Oxford,  1793. 


TO   HYMEN. 

God  of  the  torch,  vi^hose  soul-illuming  flame 
Beams  brightest  radiance  o'er  the  human  heart, 

Of  many  a  woe  the  cure, 

Of  many  a  joy  the  source ; 

To  thee  I  sing,  if  haply  may  the  Muse 

Pour  forth  the  song  unblamcd  from  these  dull  haunts, 

Where  never  beams  thy  torch 

To  cheer  the  sullen  scene. 

I  pour  the  song  to  thee,  though  haply  doom  d 
Alone  and  unbeloved  to  pass  my  days ; 

Though  doom'd  perchance  to  die 

Alone  and  unbewall'd. 

Yet  will  the  lark,  albeit  in  cage  enthrall'd. 
Send  out  her  voice  to  greet  the  morning  sun, 
As  wide  his  cheerful  beams 
Light  up  the  landscape  round  ; 

When  high  in  heaven  she  hears  the  caroling. 
The  prisoner  too  begins  her  morning  hymn, 

And  hails  the  beam  of  joy, 

Of  joy  to  her  denied. 

Friend  to  each  better  feeling  of  the  soul, 
I  sing  to  thee,  for  many  a  joy  is  thine, 

And  many  a  Virtue  comes 

To  join  thy  happy  train. 

Lured  by  the  splendor  of  thy  sacred  torch. 

The  beacon-light  of  bliss,  young  Love  draws  near, 

And  leads  his  willing  slaves 

To  wear  thy  flowery  chain. 

And   chasten'd  Friendship  comes,  whose  mildest 

sway 
Shall  cheer  the  hour  of  age,  when  fainter  burn 

The  fading  flame  of  Love, 

The  fading  flame  of  Life. 

Parent  of  every  bliss,  the  busy  hand 
Of  Fancy  oft  will  paint  in  brightest  hues 

How  calm,  how  clear,  thy  torch 

Illumes  the  wintry  hour ; 

Will  paint  the  wearied  laborer  at  that  hour. 
When  friendly  darkness  yields  a  pause  to  toil, 

Returning  blithely  home 

To  each  domestic  joy  ; 

Will  paint  the  well-trimm'd  fire,  the  frugal  meal 
Prepared  with  fond  solicitude  to  please ; 

The  ruddy  children  round 

Climbing  the  father's  knee. 

And  oft  will  Fancy  rise  above  the  lot 
Of  honest  Poverty,  and  think  how  man 

Nor  rich,  nor  poor,  enjoys 

His  best  and  happiest  state ; 

When  toil  no  longer  irksome  and  constrain  a 
By  hard  necessity,  but  comes  to  please, 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


131 


To  vary  the  still  hour 
Of  tranquil  happiness. 

Why,  Fancy,  wilt  thou,  o'er  the  lovely  scene 
Pouring  thy  vivid  hues,  why,  sorceress  bland, 

Soothe  sad  reality 

With  visionary  bliss  ? 

Turn  thou  thine  eyes  to  where  the  hallowed  light 
Of  Learning  shines  ;  ah,  rather  lead  thy  son 

Along  her  mystic  paths 

To  drink  the  sacred  spring. 

Lead  calmly  on  along  the  unvaried  path 
To  solitary  Age's  drear  abode ;  — 

Is  it  not  happiness 

That  gives  the  sting  to  Death  ? 

Well  then  is  he  wliose  unimbitter'd  years 
Are  waning  on  in  lonely  listlessness ; 
If  Life  hath  little  joy. 
Death  hath  for  him  no  sting. 

Oxford,  1794. 


WRITTEN 

ON   THE    FIRST   OF  DECEMBER. 

Though  now  no  more  the  musing  ear 
Delights  to  listen  to  the  breeze. 
That  lingers  o'er  the  green-wood  shade, 
I  love  thee.  Winter  !  well. 

Sweet  arc  the  harmonies  of  Spring  ; 
Sweet  is  the  Summer's  evening  gale  ; 
And  sweet  the  Autumnal  winds  that  shake 
The  many-color'd  grove. 

And  pleasant  to  the  sober'd  soul 
The  silence  of  the  wintry  scene, 
When  Nature  shrouds  herself,  entranced 
In  deep  tranquillity. 

Not  undelightful  now  to  roam  4t 

The  wild  heath  sparkling  on  the  sight  j 
Not  undelightful  now  to  pace 
The  forest's  ample  rounds ;  — 

And  see  the  spangled  branches  shine ; 
And  mark  the  moss  of  many  a  hue 
That  varies  the  old  tree's  brown  bark. 
Or  o'er  the  gray  stone  spreads;  — 

And  see  the  cluster'd  berries  bright 
Amid  the  holly's  gay  green  leaves ; 
The  ivy  round  the  leafless  oak 
That  clasps  its  foliage  close. 

So  Virtue,  diffident  of  strength, 
Clings  to  Religion's  firmer  aid; 
So,  by  Religion's  aid  upheld, 
Endures  calamity. 


Nor  void  of  beauties  now  the  spring, 
Whose  waters  hid  from  summer-sun 
Have  soothed  the  thirsty  pilgrim's  car 
Witii  more  than  melody. 

Green  moss  shines  there  with  ice  incased  ; 
The  long  grass  bends  its  spear-like  form ; 
And  lovely  is  the  silvery  scene 
When  faint  the  sun-beams  smile. 

Reflection,  too,  may  love  the  hour 
When  Nature,  hid  in  Winter's  grave, 
No  more  expands  the  bursting  bud, 
Or  bids  the  floweret  bloom  ; 

For  Nature  soon  in  Spring's  best  charms. 
Shall  rise  revived  from  Winter's  grave. 
Expand  the  bursting  bud  again. 
And  bid  the  flower  re-bloom. 

Bath,  1793. 


WRITTEN 

ON   THE   FIRST  OF  JANUARY. 

Come,  melancholy  Moralizer,  come  ! 

Gather  with  me  the  dark  and  wintry  wreatn ; 

With  me  engarland  now 

The  Sepulchre  of  Time. 

Come,  Moralizer,  to  the  funeral  song  ! 
I  pour  the  dirge  of  the  Departed  Days; 

For  well  the  funeral  song 

Befits  this  solemn  hour. 

But  hark !  even  now  the  merry  bells  ring  round 
With  clamorous  joy  to  welcome  in  this  day, 

This  consecrated  day 

To  Joy  and  Merriment. 

Mortal !  while  Fortune  with  benignant  hand 
Fills  to  the  brim  thy  cup  of  happiness. 

Whilst  her  unclouded  sun 

Illumes  thy  summer  day, — 

Canst  thou  rejoice,  —  rejoice  that  Time  flies  fast:* 
That  night  shall  shadow  soon  thy  summer  sun.' 

That  swift  the  stream  of  Years 

Rolls  to  Eternity  ^ 

If  thou  hast  wealth  to  gratify  each  wish. 
If  power  be  thine,  remember  what  thou  art ! 

Remember  thou  art  Man, 

And  Death  thine  heritage  ! 

Hast  thou  known  Love  !  Doth  Beauty's  better  sun 
Cheer  thy  fond  heart  with  no  capricious  smile, 

Her  eye  all  eloquence. 

All  harmony  her  voice .' 

Oh  state  of  happiness  !  — Ilark  !  how  the  gale 
Moans  deep  and  hollow  through  the  leafless  grove  I 

Winter  is  dark  and  cold  ; 

Where  now  the  charms  of  Spring ! 


132 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


Say'sl  tliou  that  Fancy  paints  the  future  scene 
In  hues  too  sonibrous  ?  that  the  dark-stoled  Maid 

With  frowning  front  severe 

Aj)palls  tlie  shuddering  soul .' 

And  wouldst  thou  bid  me  court  lit>r  fairy  form, 
When,  as  she  sports  lier  in  some  happier  mood, 

Her  many-colored  robes 

Float  varying  in  the  sun  ? 

Ah  !  vainly  does  the  Pilgrim,  whose  long  road 
Leads  o'er  a  barren  mountiin's  storm-vex'd  height, 

With  wistful  eye  behold 

Some  quiet  vale,  far  off. 

And  tliere  are  those  who  love  the  pensive  song. 
To  whom  all  sounds  of  Mirth  are  dissonant; 

Them  in  accordant  mood 

This  thoughtful  strain  will  find. 

For  liopeless  Sorrow  hails  tlie  lapse  of  Time, 
Rejoicing  when  tlie  fading  orb  of  day 

Is  sunk  again  in  night. 

That  one  day  more  is  gone. 

And  he  who  bears  Affliction's  heavy  load 
With  patient  piety,  well  pleased  he  knows 

The  World  a  pilgrimage. 

The  Grave  his  inn  of  rest. 

Batit,  1794. 


WRITTEN 


ON  SUNDAY  MORNING. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Praver  ! 

I  to  the  woodlands  wend,  and  there 
In  lovely  Nature  see  the  God  of  Love. 

The  swelling  organ's  peal 

Wakes  not  my  soul  to  zeal. 
Like  the  sweet  music  of  the  vernal  grove. 
The  gorgeous  altar  and  the  mystic  vest 
Excite  not  such  devotion  in  my  breast. 

As  where  the  noon-tide  beam, 

Flash'd  from  some  broken  stream, 
V^ibrates  on  the  dazzled  sight; 

Or  where  the  cloud-suspended  rain 

Sweeps  in  shadows  o'er  the  plain ; 
Or  when,  reclining  on  the  cliffs  huge  height, 
1  mark  the  billows  burst  in  silver  light. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer  ! 

1  to  the  Woodlands  shall  repair. 

Feed  with  all  Nature's  charms  mine  eyes. 

And  hear  all  Nature's  melodies. 

The  primrose  bank  will  there  dispense 

Faint  fragrance  to  the  awaken'd  sense  ; 

The  morning  beams  that  life  and  joy  impart. 

Will  with  their  influence  warm  my  heart. 

And  the  full  tear  that  down  my  cheek  will  steal. 

Will  speak  the  prayer  of  praise  I  feel. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer ! 
1  to  the  Woodlands  bend  my  way, 


And  meet  Religion  there  ! 
She  needs  not  haunt  the  high-arch'd  dome  to  pray. 
Where  storied  windows  dim  the  doubtful  day  ; 
At  liberty  she  loves  to  rove, 

Wide  o'er  the  healthy  hill  or  cowslip'd  dale  • 
Or  seek  the  shelter  of  the  embowering  grove. 

Or  with  the  streamlet  wind  along  the  vale. 
Sweet  are  these  scenes  to  her  ;  and  when  the  Night 
Pours  in  the  North  her  silver  streams  of  light, 
She  wooes  reflection  in  the  silent  gloom. 
And  ponders  on  the  world  to  come. 

Bristol.  1795. 


THE  RACE  OF  BANQUO. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

"  Fly,  son  of  Banquo  !  Flcance,  fly  ! 
Leave   thy  guilty  sire  to  die  !  " 
O'er  the  heath  the  stripling  fled. 
The  wild  storm  howling  round  his  head  : 
Fear,  mightier  through  the  shades  of  night. 
Urged  his  feet,  and  wing'd  his  flight; 
And  still  he  heard  his  father's  cry, 
"  Fly,  son  of  Banquo  1  Fleance,  fly  1  " 

"  Fly,  son  of  Banquo  !  Fleance,  fly  ! 

Leave  thy  guilty  sire  to  die  !  " 

On  every  blast  was  heard  the  moan. 

The  anguish'd  shriek,  the  death-fraught  groan ; 

Loathly  night-hags  join  the  3'ell, 

And  lo  I  — the  midnight  rites  of  Hell ! 

"  Forms  of  magic  !  spare  my  life  ! 
Shield  me  from  the  murderer's  knife  ! 
Before  me,  dim  in  lurid  light. 
Float  the  phantoms  of  the  night  — 
Behind  I  hear  my  father  cry, 
Fly,  son  of  Banquo  —  Fleance,  fly  !  " 

"  Parent  of  the  sceptred  race, 
Boldly  tread  the  circled  space. 
Boldly,  Fleance,  venture  near. 
Sire  of  monarchs,  spurn  at  fear. 
Sisters,  with  prophetic  breath. 

Pour  we  now  the  dirge  of  Death  !  " 

^f     *     w     -it     *     « 

Oxford,  1793. 


WRITTEN  IN   ALENTEJO, 
JANUARY  23,  1796. 

1. 

When  at  morn,  the  Muleteer 
With  early  call  announces  day. 
Sorrowing  that  early  call  I  hear, 
Which  scares  the  visions  of  delight  away 
For  dear  to  me  the  silent  hour 
When  sleep  exerts  its  wizard  power. 
And  busy  fancy,  then  let  free. 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  Hope,  my  Edith,  fliea  to  thee. 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


133 


When  the  slant  sunbeams  crest 
The  mountain's  shadowy  breast ; 
When  on  the  upland  slope 
Shines  the  green  myrtle  wet  with  morning  dew, 
And  lovely  as  the  youthful  dreams  of  Hope, 
The  (lim-sccn  landscape  opens  on  the  view, 
I  gaze  around,  with  raptured  eyes. 
On  Nature's  charms,  where  no  illusion  lies. 
And  drop  the  joy  and  memory  mingled  tear, 
And  sigh  to  think  that  Edith  is  not  here. 

3. 

At  the  cool  hour  of  even. 

When  all  is  calm  and  still, 

And  o'er  the  western  hill 
A  richer  radiance  robes  the  mellow'd  heaven, 

Absorb'd  in  darkness  thence. 

When  slowly  fades  in  night 

The  dim,  decaying  light, 
Like  the  fair  day-dreams  of  Benevolence ; 

Fatigued,  and  sad,  and  slow 

Along  my  lonely  way  I  go. 

And  muse  upon  the  distant  day, 
And  sigh,  remembering  Edith  far  away. 


When  late  arriving  at  our  inn  of  rest, 

Whose  roof,  exposed  to  many  a  winter's  sky, 
Half  shelters  from  the  wind  the  shivering  guest; 

By  the  lamp's  melancholy  gloom, 

1  see  the  miserable  room. 

And  musing  on  the  evils  that  arise 

From  disproportion'd  inequalities. 

Pray  that  my  lot  may  be 

Neither  with  Riches,  nor  with  Poverty, 

But  in  tiiat  happy  mean, 

Which  for  the  soul  is  best, 

And  with  contentment  blest, 

In  some  secluded  glen 
To  dwell  with  Peace  and  Edith  far  from  men. 


I  look'd  abroad  at  noon. 
The  shadow  and  the  storm  ivere  on  the  hills , 
The  crags  which  like  a  faery  fabric  shone 

Darkness  had  overcast. 

On  you,  ye  coming  years, 
So  fairly  shone  the  April  gleam  of  hope  ; 
So  darkly  o'er  the  distance,  late  so  bright, 

Now  settle  the  black  clouds. 

Come  thou,  and  chase  away 
Sorrow  and  Pain,  the  persecuting  Powers 
Who  make  the  melancholy  day  so  long, 

So  long  the  restless  night. 

Shall  we  not  find  thee  here, 
Recovery,  on  the  salt  sea's  breezy  strand  .' 
Is  there  no  healing  in  the  gales  that  sweep 

The  thymy  mountain's  brow  ' 

I  look  for  thy  approach, 
O  life-preserving  Power  !  as  one  who  strays 
Alone  in  darkness  o'er  the  pathless  marsh. 

Watches  the  dawn  of  day. 

Minehead,  July,  1799. 


TO  RECOVERY. 

Rf.covkry,  where  art  thou.' 
Daughter  of  Heaven,  vchere  shall  we  seek  thy  help .' 
Upon  what  hallow'd  fountain  hast  thou  laid, 

0  Nymph  adored,  thy  spell  .•■ 

By  the  gray  ocean's  verge, 
Daughter  of  Heaven,  we  seek  thee,  but  in  vain  ; 
We  find  no  healing  in  the  breeze  that  sweeps 

The  thymy  mountain's  brow. 

Where  are  the  happy  hours, 
The  sunshine  where,  that  cheer'd  the  morn  of  life  ? 
For  Health  is  fled,  and  with  her  fled  the  joys 

Which  made  existence  dear. 

1  saw  the  distant  hills 

Smile  in  the  radiance  of  the  orient  beam. 
And  gazed  delighted  that  anon  our  feet 
Should  visit  scenes  so  fair 


YOUTH   AND   AGE. 

With  cheerful  step  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  early  way, 
When  first  the  dimly-dawning  east 

Reveals  the  rising  day. 

He  bounds  along  his  craggy  road, 
He  hastens  up  the  height, 

And  all  he  sees  and  all  he  hears 
Administer  delight. 

And  if  the  mist,  retiring  slow, 
Roll  round  its  wavy  white. 

He  thinks  the  morning  vapors  hide 
Some  beauty  from  his  sight. 

But  when  behind  the  western  cloiid.<: 

Departs  the  fading  day, 
How  wearily  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  evening  way  ! 


Sorely  along  the  craggy  road 
His  painful  footsteps  creep, 

And  slow,  with  many  a  feeble  pause, 
He  labors  up  the  steep. 

And  if  the  mists  of  night  close  round, 
They  fill  his  soul  with  fear ; 

He  dreads  some  unseen  precipice, 
Some  hidden  danger  near. 

So  cheerfully  docs  youth  begm 
Life's  pleasant  morning  stage  ; 

Alas  I  the  evening  traveller  feels 
The  fears  of  wary  age  I 

VVestburij.  1798. 


134 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


THE   OAK   OF   OUR  FATHERS. 

Alas  for  the  Oak  of  our  Fathers,  that  stood 
In  its  beauty,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  wood  ! 

It  grew  and  it  flourish'd  for  many  an  age, 

And  many  a  tempest  wreak'd  on  it  its  rage ; 

But  when  its  strong  brandies  were  bent  with  the 

blast. 
It  struck  its  root  deeper,  and  flourish  d  more  fast. 

Us  head  tower'd  on  high,  and  its  branches  spread 
round:  [sound; 

For  its  roots  had  struck  deep,  and  its  heart  was 
The  bees  o'er  its  honey-dew'd  foliage  play'd. 
And  the  beasts  of  tlie  forest  fed  under  its  shade. 

Tlie  Oak  of  our  Fatliers  to  J>cedom  was  dear  ; 
Its  leaves  were  her  crown,  and  its  wood  was  her  spear. 
Alas  for  the  Oak  of  our  Fathers,  that  stood 
In  its  beauty,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  wood  ! 

Tliere  crept  up  an  ivy  and  clung  round  the  trunk  ; 
It  struck  in  its  mouths  and  the  juices  it  drunk  ; 
The  branches  grew  sickly,  deprived  of  their  food, 
And  the  Oak  was  no  longer  tlie  pride  of  the  wood. 

The  foresters  saw  and  they  gather'd  around  ; 
The  roots  still  were  fast,  and  the  heart  still  was  sound ; 
They  lopp'd  off  the  boughs  that  so  beautiful  spread. 
But  tlie  ivy  they  spared  on  its  vitals  that  fed. 

No  longer  the  l)cos  o'er  its  honey-dews  play'd. 
Nor  the  beasts  of  the  forest  fed  under  its  shade  ; 
Lopp'd  and  mangled  tlie  trunk  in  its  ruin  is  seen, 
A  monument  now  what  its  beauty  has  been. 

The  Oak  has  received  its  incurable  wound; 
They  liave   loosen'd  the  roots,  though   the  heart 
may  be  sound  ;  [see, 

What  the  travellers  at  distance  green-flourishing 
Are  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  that  poison'd  the  tree. 

Alas  for  the  Oak  of  our  Fathers,  that  stood 
In  its  beauty,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  wood  ! 

Westbunj,  1798. 


THE   BATTLE   OF  PULTOWA. 

On  Vorska's  glittering  waves 
The  morning  sunbeams  play  ; 
Pultowa's  walls  are  throng'd 

With  eager  multitudes ; 

Athwart  the  dusty  vale 
They  strain  their  aching  eyes, 
Where  to  the  fight  moves  on 
The  Conqueror  Charles,  the  iron-hearted  Swede. 

nim  Famine  hath  not  tamed, 

The  tamer  of  the  brave; 
Him  Winter  hath  not  quell'd  ; 
When  man  by  man  his  veteran  troops  sunk  down. 
Frozen  to  their  endless  sleep, 
He  held  undaunted  on 


Him  Pain  hath  not  subdued  ; 
What  though  he  mounts  not  now 
The  fiery  steed  of  war .' 
Borne  on  a  litter  to  the  field  he  goes. 

Go,  iron-hearted  King  ! 
Full  of  thy  former  fame  — 
Think  how  the  humbled  Dane 
Crouch'd  underneath  thy  sword  ; 
Think  how  the  wretched  Pole 
Resign'd  his  conquer'd  crown  ; 
Go,  iron-hearted  King  ! 
Let  Narva's  glory  swell  thy  haughty  breast,  — 
The  death-day  of  thy  glory,  Charles,  hath  dawn'd! 
Proud  Swede,  the  Sun  hath  risen 
That  on  thy  shame  shall  set ! 

Now,  Patkul,  may  thine  injured  spirit  rest ! 
For  over  that  relentless  Swede 
Ruin  hath  raised  his  unrelenting  arm  ; 

For  ere  the  night  descends, 

His  veteran  host  destroyed, 
His  laurels  blasted  to  revive  no  more, 

He  flies  before  the  Moscovite. 

Impatiently  that  haughty  heart  must  bear 
Long  years  of  hope  deceived  ; 

Long  years  of  idleness 
That  sleepless  soul  must  brook. 
Now,  Patkul,  may  thine  injured  spirit  rest ' 
To  him  who  suff'ers  in  an  honest  cause 
No  death  is  ignominious  ;  not  on  thee, 
But  upon  Charles,  the  cruel,  tlie  unjust. 
Not  upon  thee,  —  on  him 
The  ineffaceable  reproach  is  fix'd, 
The  infamy  abides. 
Now,  Patkul,  may  thine  injured  spirit  rest. 

Westbui-y,  1798. 


THE   TRAVELLER'S   RETURN. 

Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller 

The  song  amid  the  sky. 
Where,  twinkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  skylark  soars  on  high. 

And  cheering  to  the  traveller 
The  gales  that  round  him  play, 

When  faint  and  heavily  he  drags 
Along  his  noon-tide  way. 

And  when  beneath  the  unclouded  sun 

Full  wearily  toils  he, 
The  flowing  water  makes  to  him 

A  soothing  melody. 

And  when  the  evening  light  decays, 

And  all  is  calm  around. 
There  is  sweet  music  to  his  ear 

In  the  distant  sheep-bell's  sound. 

But  oh  !  of  all  delightful  sounds 
Of  evening  or  of  morn. 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


135 


The  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  Love, 
That  welcomes  his  return. 


Westbury,  1798. 


THE   OLD  MAN'S   COMFORTS, 

AND    HOW    HE    GAINED    THEM. 

5  ou  are  old.  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried  ; 

The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray ; 
Vou  are  hale.  Father  William,  a  hearty  old  man  ; 

Now  tell  me  tlie  reason,  1  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William  replied, 
I  remember'd  that  youth  would  tly  fast. 

And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor  at  first. 
That  1  never  might  need  them  at  last. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried, 
And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone  ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

in  the  days  of  my  youth.  Father  William  replied, 
I  remember'd  that  youth  could  not  last ; 

I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I  did. 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past. 

You  are  old.  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried. 

And  life  must  bo  hastening  away  ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon  death ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I  am  cheerful,  young  man.  Father  William  replied; 

Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage  ; 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember'd  my  God  ! 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 

Wcstbunj,  1799. 


TRANSLATION   OF   A    GREEK   ODE 
ON   ASTRONOMY, 

WRITTEN    BV    S.    T.    COLERIDGE,  FOR  THE   PRIZE    AT 
CAMBRIDGE,  1793. 


Hail,  venerable  Night! 
O  first-created,  hail ! 
Thou  who  art  doom'd  in  thy  dark  breast  to  veil 
The  dying  beam  of  liglit. 
The  eldest  and  tlie  latest  thou, 
Hail,  venerable  Night  ! 
Around  thine  ebon  brow. 
Glittering  plays  with  lightning  rays 
A  wreath  of  flowers  of  fire. 
Tlie  varying  clouds  with  many  a  hue  attire 
Thy  many-tinted  veil. 
Holy  are  the  blue  graces  of  thy  zone  ! 
But  who  is  he  whose  tongue  can  tell 
The  dewy  lustres  which  thine  eyes  adorn .' 
Lovely  to  some  the  blushes  of  the  morn  ; 


To  some  tlic  glories  of  tlie  Day, 
When,  blazing  with  meridian  ray. 

The  gorgeous  Sun  ascends  his  highest  throne ; 
But  I  with  solemn  and  severe  delinht 

Still  watch  thy  constant  car,  immortal  Night' 


For  then  to  the  celestial  Palaces 
Urania  leads,  Urania,  she 

The  Goddess  who  alone 
Stands  by  the  blazing  throne. 
Effulgent  with  the  liglit  of  Deity. 
Wiioin  Wisdom,  the  Creatrix,  by  her  side 
Placed  on  the  heights  of  yonder  sky. 
And  smiling  witli  ambrosial  love,  unlock'd 
Tlie  depths  of  Nature  to  her  piercing  eye. 
Angelic  myriads  struck  their  harps  around, 
And  with  triumphant  song 
The  host  of  Stars,  a  beauteous  throng, 

Around  the  ever-living  Mind 

In  jubilee  their  mystic  dance  begun  ; 

When  at  thy  leaping  forth,  O  Sun  ' 

Tlie  Morning  started  in  affrio-ht, 

Astonish'd  at  thy  birth,  her  Child  of  Light ' 


Hail,  O  Urania,  hail ! 
Queen  of  the  Muses  !  Mistress  of  the  Song! 
For  thou  didst  deign  to  leave  the  heavenly  thromr 
As  earthward  thou  thy  steps  wert  bendimr, 
A  ray  went  forth  and  harbinger'd  thy  way 
All  Ether  laugli'd  with  thy  descendino-. 
Thou  hadst  wreath'd  thy  hair  with  roses. 
The  flower  that  in  the  immortal  bower 
Its  deathless  bloom  discloses. 
Before  thine  awful  mien,  compelled  to  shrink, 
Fled  Ignorance,  abash'd,  with  all  her  brood, 
Dragons,  and  Hags  of  baleful  breath, 
Fierce  Dreams,  that  wont  to  drink 
The  Sepulchre's  black  blood; 
Or  on  the  wings  of  storms 
Riding  in  fury  forms. 
Shriek  to  the  mariner  the  shriek  of  Death. 

4. 

I  boast,  O  Goddess,  to  thy  name 
That  I  have  raised  the  pile  of  fame  ; 

Therefore  to  me  be  given 
To  roam  the  starry  path  of  Heaven, 
To  charioteer  with  wings  on  high. 
And  to  rein-in  the  Tempests  of  the  sky. 


Chariots  of  happy  Gods  !  Fountains  of  Light ! 

Ye  Angel-Temples  briglit ! 
May  I  unblamed  your  flamy  thresholds  tread  .' 
I  leave  Earth's  lowly  scene  ; 
I  leave  the  Moon  serene. 
The  lovely  Queen  of  Night; 
I  leave  the  wide  domains, 
Beyond  where  Mars  his  fiercer  light  can  fling, 
And  Jupiter's  vast  plains, 
(The  many-belted  king ;) 
Even  to  the  solitude  where  Saturn  reigns, 


136 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


Like  some  stern  tyrant  to  just  exile  driven  ; 
Dim-seen  the  sullen  power  appears 
In  that  cold  solitude  of  Heaven, 
And  slow  he  drags  along 
The  mighty  circle  of  long-lingering  years. 


Nor  shalt  thou  escape  my  sight, 
Who  at  the  threshold  of  the  sun-trod  domes 
Art  trembling,  —  youngest  Daughter  of  the  Night ! 
And  you,  ye  fiory-tressed  strangers !  you. 
Comets  who  wander  wide. 
Will  I  along  your  pathless  way  pursue, 
Whence  bending  I  may  view 
The  Worlds  whom  elder  Suns  have  vivified. 


For  Hope  with  loveliest  visions  soothes  my  mind. 
That  even  in  Man,  Life's  winged  power, 
When  comes  again  the  natal  hour. 
Shall  on  heaven-wandering  feet. 
In  undecaying  youth. 
Spring  to  the  blessed  seat; 
Where  round  the  fields  of  Truth 
The  fiery  Essences  forever  feed  ; 
And  o'er  the  ambrosial  mead. 
The  breezes  of  serenity 
Silent  and  soothing  glide  forever  by. 

8. 
There,  Priest  of  Nature  !  dost  thou  shine, 
Newton  !  a  Kino-  amono-  the  Kinn-s  divine. 
Whether  with  harmony's  mild  force, 
He  guides  along  its  course 
The  a.xle  of  some  beauteous  star  on  high. 
Or  gazing,  in  the  spring 
Ebullient  with  creative  energy. 
Feels  his  pure  breast  with  rapturous  joy  possess'd, 
Inebriate  in  the  holy  ecstasy. 

9. 

I  may  not  call  thee  mortal  then,  my  soul ! 
Immortal  longings  lift  thee  to  the  skies  : 
Love  of  thy  native  home  inflames  thee  now. 
With  pious  madness  wise. 
Know  then  thyself!  expand  thy  wings  divine  ! 
Soon,  mingled  with  thy  fathers,  thou  shalt  shine 
A  star  amid  the  starry  throng, 
A  God  the  Gods  among. 

London,  1802. 


GOOSEBERRY-PIE. 


A   PINDARIC    ODE. 


1. 

GoosEBERRY-PiE  is  best. 
Full  of  the  theme,  O  Muse,  begin  the  song  ! 
What  though  the  sunbeams  of  the  West 

Mature  within  the  Turtle's  breast 
Blood  glutinous  and  fat  of  verdant  hue  ? 


What  though  the  Deer  bound  sportively  along 

O'er  springy  turf,  the  Park's  elastic  vest  ? 

Give  them  their  honors  due, — 

But  Gooseberry-Pie  is  best. 


Behind  his  oxen  slow 
The  patient  Ploughman  plods. 
And  as  the  Sower  followed  by  the  clods 
Earth's  genial  womb  received  the  living  seed. 
The  rains  descend,  the  grains  they  grow ; 

Saw  ye  the  vegetable  ocean 
Roll  its  green  ripple  to  the  April  gale  .' 
The  golden  waves  with  multitudinous  motion 
Swell  o'er  the  summer  vale  ? 

3. 

It  flows  tlirough  Alder  banks  along 
Beneath  the  copse  that  hides  the  hill ; 
The  gentle  stream  you  cannot  see. 
You  only  hear  its  melody, 
The  stream  that  turns  the  Mill. 
Pass  on  a  little  way,  pass  on. 
And  you  shall  catch  its  gleam  anon ; 
And  hark  !  tlie  loud  and  agonizing  groan, 
That  makes  its  anguish  known, 
Where  tortured  by  the  Tyrant  Lord  of  Meal 
The  Brook  is  broken  on  the  Wheel  ! 


Blow  fair,  blow  fair,  thou  orient  gale  ! 
On  the  white  bosom  of  the  sail, 
Ye  Winds,  enamor'd,  lingering  lie  I 
Ye  Waves  of  ocean,  spare  the  bark. 
Ye  tempests  of  the  sky  ! 
From  distant  realms  she  comes  to  bring 
The  sugar  for  my  Pie. 
For  this  on  Gambia's  arid  side 
The  Vulture's  feet  are  scaled  with  blood, 
And  Beelzebub  beholds  with  pride 
His  darling  planter  brood. 


First  in  the  spring  thy  leaves  were  seen, 
Thou  beauteous  bush,  so  early  green  ! 
Soon  ceased  thy  blossoms'  little  life  of  love 

O  safer  than  the  gold-fruit-bearing  tree. 
The  glory  of  that  old  Hesperian  grove, — 

No  Dragon  does  there  need  for  thee 

With  quintessential  sting  to  work  alarms. 

Prepotent  guardian  of  thy  fruitage  fine. 

Thou  vegetable  Porcupine  !  — 

And  didst  thou  scratch  thy  tender  arms, 

O  Jane  !  that  I  should  dine  ! 

6. 
The  flour,  the  sugar,  and  the  fruit, 
Commingled  well,  how  well  they  suit ! 

And  they  were  well  bestow'd. 
O  Jane,  with  truth  1  praise  your  Pie, 
And  will  not  you  in  just  reply 
Praise  my  Pindaric  Ode  .' 

Exeter,  1799. 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


137 


TO  A  BEE. 


Tiiou  wert  out  betimes,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee ! 

As  abroad  1  took  my  early  wa}', 

Before  the  Cow  from  her  resting-place 

Had  risen  up  and  left  her  trace 

On  the  meadow,  with  dew  so  gray. 

Saw  I  thee,  tiiou  busy,  busy  Bee. 


Thou  wert  working  late,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 
After  the  fall  of  the  Cistus  flower. 
When  the  Primrose-of-evening  was  ready  to  burst, 
I  heard  thee  last,  as  I  saw  thee  first ; 
In  the  silence  of  the  evening  hour, 
Heard  1  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee. 

3. 
Thou  art  a  miser,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 
Late  and  early  at  employ ; 
Still  on  thy  golden  stores  intent. 
Thy  summer  in  heaping  and  hoarding  is  spent 

What  thy  winter  will  never  enjoy ; 
Wise  lesson  this  for  me,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  I 

4. 
Little  dost  thou  think,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 

What  is  the  end  of  thy  toil. 
When  the  latest  flowers  of  the  ivy  are  gone. 
And  all  thy  work  for  the  year  is  done. 

Thy  master  comes  for  the  spoil. 
Woe  then  for  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 

Westbunj,  1799. 


TO  A  SriDER, 


L 


Spider  !  thou  need'st  not  run  in  fear  about 
To  simn  my  curious  eyes ; 
I  won't  humanely  crush  thy  bowels  out 
Lest  thou  shouldst  eat  the  flies ; 
Nor  will  1  roast  thee  v.'ith  a  damn'd  delight 
Thy  strange  instinctive  fortitude  to  see. 
For  there  is  One  who  might 
One  day  roast  me. 

2. 

Thou  art  welcome  to  a  Rhymer  sore-perplex'd. 
The  subject  of  his  verse  ; 
There's  many  a  one  who,  on  a  better  text, 
Perhaps  might  comment  worse. 
Then  shrink  not,  old  Free-Ma?on,  from  my  view, 
But  quietly  like  me  spin  out  the  line ; 
Do  thou  thy  work  pursue, 
As  1  will  mine. 

3. 
Weaver  of  snares,  thou  emblemest  the  ways 

Of  Satan,  Sire  of  lies ; 
Hell's  huge  black  Spider,  for  mankind  he  lays 
His  toils,  as  thou  for  flies. 
13 


When  Betty's  busy  eye  runs  round  the  room. 
Woe  to  that  nice  geometry,  if  seen ! 
But  where  is  he  whose  broom 
The  earth  shall  clean  ? 


Spider  !  of  old  thy  flimsy  webs  were  thouglit  — 

And  'twas  a  likeness  true  — 
To  emblem  laws  in  which  the  weak  are  caught. 
But  which  the  strong;  break  through  : 
And  if  a  victim  in  thy  toils  is  ta'en, 
Like  some  poor  client  is  that  wretched  fly  , 
I'll  warrant  thee  thou'lt  drain 
His  life-blood  dry. 


And  is  not  thy  weak  work  like  human  schemes 
And  care  on  earth  employ'd  ? 
Such  are  young  hopes  and  Love's  delightful  dreams 

So  easily  dcstroy'd  ! 

So  does  the  Statesman,  whilst  the  Avengers  sleep, 

Sclf-deem'd  secure,  his  wiles  in  secret  lay  ; 

Soon  shall  destruction  sweep 

His  work  away. 


Thou  busy  laborer  !  one  resemblance  more 

May  yet  the  verse  prolong. 

For,  Spider,  thou  art  like  the  Poet  poor, 

Whom  thou  hast  help'd  in  song. 

Both  busily  our  needful  food  to  win. 

We  work,  as  Nature  taught,  with  ceaseless  pains  , 

Thy  bowels  thou  dost  spin, 

I  spin  my  brains. 

Weslbunj,  1798. 


THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   JERUSALEM 

The  rage  of  Babylon  is  roused, 
The  King  puts  forth  his  strength  ; 
And  Judah  bends  the  bow 
And  points  her  arrows  for  the  coming  war. 

Her  walls  are  firm,  her  gates  are  strong, 
Her  youth  gird  on  the  sword  ; 
High  are  her  chiefs  in  hope. 
For  soon  will  Egypt  send  the  promised  aid. 

But  who  is  he  whose  voice  of  woe 
Is  heard  amid  the  streets  .' 
Whose  ominous  voice  proclaims 
Her  strength,  and  arms,  and   promised  succors 
vain  ? 

His  meagre  cheek  is  pale  and  sunk. 
Wild  is  his  hollow  eye, 
Yet  awful  is  its  glance  ; 
And  who  could  bear  the  anger  of  his  frown  .' 

Prophet  of  God  !  in  vain  thy  lips 
Proclaim  the  woe  to  come ; 
In  vain  thy  warning  voice 
Summons  her  rulers  timely  to  repent ! 


]38 


LYRIC    POEMS. 


The  Etluop  changes  not  his  skin. 
Impious  and  reckless  still 
The  rulers  spurn  thy  voice, 
And  now  the  measure  of  their  crimes  is  full. 

For  now  around  Jerusalem 
The  countless  foes  appear  ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
Spreads  the  wide  horror  of  the  circling  siege. 

Why  is  the  warrior's  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Why  droops  the  gallant  youth 
Who  late  in  pride  of  heart 
Sharpen'd  his  javelin  for  the  welcome  war  .' 

'Tis  not  for  terror  that  his  eye 
Swells  with  the  struggling  woe ; 
Oh  !  he  could  bear  his  ills, 
Or  rush  to  death,  and  in  the  grave  have  peace. 

His  parents  do  not  ask  for  food, 
But  they  are  weak  with  want ; 
His  wife  has  given  her  babes 
Her  wretched   pittance, — she  makes  no  com- 
plaint. 

The  consummating  hour  is  come  ! 
Alas  for  Solyma  ! 
How  is  she  desolate, — 
She  that  was  great  among  the  nations,  fallen  ! 

And  thou  —  thou  miserable  King  — 
Where  is  thy  trusted  flock. 
Thy  flock  so  beautiful, 
Thy  Father's  throne,  the  temple  of  thy  God  .' 

Repentance  brings  not  back  the  past ; 
It  will  not  call  again 
Thy  murder'd  sons  to  life. 
Nor  vision  to  those  eyeless  sockets  more. 

Thou  wretched,  childless,  blind,  old  man. 
Heavy  thy  punishment ; 
Dreadful  thy  present  woes, 
Alas,  more  dreadful  thy  remember'd  guilt ! 

Westbury,  1798. 


THE   DEATH   OF  WALLACE. 

Joy,  joy  in  London  now  ! 
He  goes,  the  rebel  Wallace  goes  to  death ; 
At  length  the  traitor  meets  the  traitor's  doom, 

Joy,  joy,  in  London  now  ! 

He  on  a  sledge  is  drawn. 
His  strong  right  arm  unweapon'd  and  in  chains, 
And  garlanded  around  his  helmless  head 

The  laurel  wreath  of  scorn. 

They  throng  to  view  him  now 
Who  in  the  field  had  fled  before  his  sword. 
Who  at  the  name  of  Wallace  once  grew  pale 

And  falter'd  out  a  prayer. 


Yes  !  they  can  meet  his  eye, 
That  only  beams  with  patient  courage  now ; 
Yes !  they  can  look  upon  those  manly  limbs^ 

Defenceless  now  and  bound. 

And  that  eye  did  not  shrink 
As  he  beheld  the  pomp  of  infamy  ; 
Nor  one  ungovern'd  feeling  shook  those  limbs, 

When  the  last  moment  came. 

What  though  suspended  sense 
Was  by  their  legal  cruelty  revived ;  [life 

What  thousrh  iiifrenious  venjjeance  lengthcn'd 

To  feel  protracted  death  .-' 

What  though  the  hangman's  hand 
Grasped  in  his  living  breast  the  heaving  heart .' — 
In  the  last  agony,  the  last,  sick  pang, 

Wallace  had  comfort  still. 

He  call'd  to  mind  his  deeds 
Done  for  his  country  in  the  embattled  field  ; 
He  thought  of  that  good  cause  for  which  he  died, 

And  it  was  joy  in  death. 

Go,  Edward  !    triumph  now  ! 
Cambria   is  fallen,  and    Scotland's  strength  is 

crush'd ; 
On  Wallace,  on  Llewellyn's  mangled  limbs, 

The  fowls  of  Heaven  have  fed. 

Unrivall'd,  unopposed. 
Go,  Edward,  full  of  glory  to  thy  grave  ! 
The  weight  of  patriot  blood  upon  thy  soul, 

Go,  Edward,  to  thy  God  ! 

Westburij,  1793. 


THE   SPANISH   ARMADA. 

Clear  shone  the  morn,  the  gale  was  fair, 
When  from  Coruria's  crowded  port 
With  many  a  cheerful  shout  and  loud  acclaim 
The  huge  Armada  past. 

To  England's  shores  their  streamers  point, 
To  England's  shores  their  sails  are  spread. 
They  go  to  triumph  o'er  the  sea-girt  land. 
And  Rome  hath  blest  their  arms. 

Along  the  ocean's  echoing  verge. 
Along  the  mountain  range  of  rocks. 
The  clustering  multitudes  behold  their  pomp, 
And  raise  the  votive  prayer. 

Commingling  with  the  ocean's  roar 
Ceaseless  and  hoarse  their  murmurs  rise. 
And  soon  they  trust  to  see  the  winged  bark 
That  bears  good  tidings  home. 

The  watch-tower  now  in  distance  sinks, 
And  now  Galicia's  mountain  rocks 
Faint  as  the  far-off"  clouds  of  evening  lie, 
And  now  they  fade  away. 


LYRIC 

P  0  E  M  S .                                                     139 

Each  like  some  moving  citadel, 

Thy  hand  is  on  him,  righteous  God ! 

On  througli  the  waves  they  sail  sublime  ; 

He  hears  the  frantic  shrieks. 

And  now  the  Spaniards  see  the  silvery  clifi's, 

He  hears  tlie  glorying  yells  of  massacre, 

Behold  the  sea-girt  land  ! 

And  he  repents,  —  too  late. 

O  fools !  to  think  that  ever  foe 

He  hears  the  nmrdeirer's  savage  shout. 

Should  triumph  o'er  that  sea-girt  land  ! 

He  hears  the  groan  of  death ; 

0  fools  !   to  think  that  ever  Britain's  sons 

In  vain  they  fly,  —  soldiers  defenceless  now. 

Should  wear  the  stranger's  yoke  1 

Women,  old  men,  and  babes. 

For  not  in  vain  hath  Nature  rcar'd 

Rigliteous  and  just  art  thou,  O  God  ! 

Around  her  coast  those  silvery  cliffs ; 

For  at  his  dying  hour 

For  not  in  vain  old  Ocean  spreads  his  waves 

Those  slirieks  and  groans  reechoed  in  his  ear, 

To  guard  his  favorite  isle  ! 

He  heard  that  murderous  yell ! 

On  come  her  gallant  mariners  ! 

They  throng'd  around  his  midnight  couch, 

What  now  avail  Rome's  boasted  charms  ? 

The  phantoms  of  the  slain  ;  — 

Where  are  the  Spaniard's  vaunts  of  eager  wrath  ? 

It  prey'd  like  poison  on  his  powers  of  life  : 

His  hopes  of  conquest  now? 

Righteous  art  thou,  O  God  ! 

And  hark  !  the  angry  Winds  arise  ; 

Spirits  !  who  suffer'd  at  that  hour 

Old  Ocean  heaves  his  angry  Waves  ; 

For  freedom  and  for  faitli, 

The  Winds  and  Waves  against  the  invaders  fight, 

Ye  saw  your  country  bent  beneath  the  yoke, 

To  guard  the  sea-girt  land. 

Her  faith  and  freedom  crush'd. 

Howling  around  his  palace-towers 

And  like  a  giant  from  his  sleep 

The  Spanish  despot  hears  the  storm  ; 

Ye  saw  when  France  awoke ; 

He  thinks  upon  his  navies  far  away, 

Ye  saw  t!ie  people  burst  tlieir  double  chain, 

And  boding  doubts  arise. 

And  ye  had  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

Weslbunj,  1798. 

Long,  over  Biscay's  boisterous  surge 
The  watchman's  aching  eye  sliall  strain  1 

A 

w 

Long  shall  he  gaze,  but  never  wing'd  bark 

Shall  bear  good  tidings  home. 

THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

Westbury,  1798. 

1. 

O  Reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 
The  Holly-Tree.' 

The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

ST.  BARTHOLOMEW'S  DAY. 

Its  glossy  leaves 

Order'd  by  an  intelligence  so  wise. 

The  night  is  come  ;  no  fears  disturb 

As  might  confound  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

The  dreams  of  innocence ; 

2. 

Tiiey  trust  in  kingly  faith  and  kingly  oaths  ; 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

They  sleep,  —  alas  !  they  sleep  ! 

Wrinkled  and  keen ; 

No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Go  to  the  palace,  wouldst  thou  know 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 

How  hideous  night  can  be  ; 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear. 

Eye  is  not  closed  in  those  accursed  walls, 

Smooth  and  unarm'd  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

Nor  heart  at  quiet  there. 

3. 

I  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

The  Monarch  from  the  window  leans, 

He  listens  to  the  niglit, 

And  moralize ; 

And  with  a  horrible  and  eager  hope 

And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  Holly-Tree 

Awaits  the  midnight  bell. 

Can  emblem  see 

Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, 

Oh,  ho  has  Hell  within  him  now ! 

One  which  may  profit  in  the  after  time. 

God,  always  art  thou  just  1 

For  innocence  can  never  know  such  pangs 

4. 

As  pierce  successful  guilt. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere. 

He  looks  abroad,  and  all  is  still. 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Hark  !  —  now  tlie  midnight  bell 

Reserved  and  rude, 

Sounds  through  the  silence  of  the  night  alone, — 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be 

And  now  the  signal  gun  ! 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-Tree. 

140                                                      L  Y 11 1  C 

POEMS. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  1  know, 

THE   COMPLAINTS  OF  THE   POOR 

Some  harsliness  show, 

All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

And  wherefore  do  the  Poor  complain  .' 

Would  wear  away, 

The  Rich  Man  ask'd  of  me  ;  — 

Till  the  smooth  temper  ot"  my  age  should  be 

Come  walk  abroad  with  me,  1  said. 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-Tree. 

And  1  will  answer  thee. 

6. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

Were  cheerless  to  behold, 

So  bright  and  green, 

And  we  were  wrapp'd  and  coated  well, 

The  Holly  leaves  a  sober  hue  display 

And  yet  we  were  a-cold. 

Less  bright  than  they  ; 

But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 

We  met  an  old,  bare-headed  man; 

What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  Holly-Tree  ? 

His  locks  were  thin  and  white ; 

I  ask'd  him  what  he  did  abroad 

7. 

In  that  cold  winter's  night. 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng ; 

The  cold  was  keen  indeed,  he  said, 

So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

But  at  home  no  fire  had  he. 

More  grave  than  they. 

And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 

To  ask  for  charity. 

As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly-Tree. 

We  met  a  young,  bare-footed  child, 

Westbunj,  1798. 

And  she  begg'd  loud  and  bold ; 

* 

1  ask'd  her  what  she  did  abroad 

^ 

When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold. 

THE  EBB  TIDE. 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

Slowly  thy  flowing  tide 

And  he  lay  sick  a-bed ; 

Came  in,  old  Avon  !  scarcely  did  mine  eyes. 

And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 

As  watchfully  I  roam'd  thy  green-wood  side, 

Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

Perceive  its  gentle  rise. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 

With  many  a  stroke  and  strong 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest ; 

The  laboring  boatmen  upward  plied  their  oars ; 

She  had  a  baby  at  her  back, 

Yet  little  way  they  made,  though  laboring  long 

And  another  at  her  breast. 

Between  thy  winding  shores. 

I  ask'd  her  why  she  loiter'd  there 

Now  down  thine  ebbing  tide 

When  the  night-wind  was  so  chill ; 

The  unlabor'd  boat  falls  rapidly  along ; 

She  turn'd  her  head  and  bade  the  child 

The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide, 

That  scream'd  behind,  be  still;  — 

And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Then  told  us  tliat  her  husband  served, 

Now  o'er  the  rocks  that  lay 

A  soldier,  far  away, 

So  silent  late,  the  shallow  current  roars  ; 

And  therefore  to  her  parish  she 

Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  seaward  way 

Was  begging  back  her  way. 

Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

We  met  a  girl ;  her  dress  was  loose, 

Avon  !  I  gaze  and  know 

And  sunken  was  her  eye. 

The  lesson  emblem'd  in  thy  varying  way  : 

Who  with  a  wanton's  hollow  voice 

It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so  slow, 

Address'd  the  passers-by. 

So  rapidly  decay. 

I  ask'd  her  wliat  there  was  in  guilt 

Kingdoms  which  long  have  stood, 

That  could  her  heart  allure 

And  slow  to  strength  and  power  attain'd  at  last, 

To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse : 

Thus  from  the  summit  of  high  fortune's  flood 

She  answcr'd,  she  was  poor. 

They  ebb  to  ruin  fast. 

I  turn'd  me  to  the  Rich  Man  then. 

Thus  like  tiiy  flow  appears 

For  silently  stood  he, — 

Time's  tardy  course  to  manhood's  envied  stage ; 

You  ask'd  me  why  the  poor  complain. 

Alas!  how  hurryingly  the  ebbing  years 

And  these  have  answer'd  thee  ! 

Then  hasten  to  old  age  ! 

London,  1798. 

Westbunj,  1799 

LYRIC    POEMS. 


141 


TO   MARY. 

Mary  i  ten  chcckcr'd  years  have  past 
Since  we  beheld  each  other  last ; 
Yet,  Mary,  I  remember  thee. 
Nor  canst  thou  liave  forgotten  me. 

The  bloom  was  tlien  upon  thy  face ; 
Thy  form  had  every  youthful  grace ; 
1  too  had  tlicn  the  warmth  of  youth. 
And  in  our  hearts  was  all  its  truth. 

We  conversed,  were  there  others  by, 
With  common  mirth  and  random  eye  ; 
But  when  escaped  the  sight  of  men. 
How  serious  vpas  our  converse  then  ! 

Our  talk  was  then  of  years  to  come, 
Of  hopes  which  ask'd  a  humble  doom. 
Themes  wliicli  to  loving  thoughts  might  move, 
Although  we  never  spake  of  love. 

At  our  last  meeting  sure  thy  heart 
AVas  even  as  loath  as  mine  to  part ; 
And  yet  we  little  thought  that  then 
We  parted  —  not  to  meet  again. 

Long,  Mary  !  after  that  adieu. 
My  dearest  day-dreams  were  of  you ; 
In  sleep  1  saw  you  still,  and  long 
Made  you  the  theme  of  secret  song. 

When  manhood  and  its  cares  came  on, 
The  humble  hopes  of  youth  were  gone ; 
And  other  hopes  and  other  fears 
Effaced  the  thoughts  of  happier  years. 

Meantime  through  many  a  varied  year 
Of  thee  no  tidings  did  I  hear, 
And  thou  hast  never  heard  my  name 
Save  from  the  vague  reports  of  fame. 

But  then,  I  trust,  detraction's  lie 
Hath  kindled  anger  in  thine  eye  ; 
And  thou  my  praise  wert  proud  to  see, — 
My  name  should  still  be  dear  to  thee. 

Ten  years  have  held  their  course  ;  thus  late 
1  learn  the  tidings  of  thy  fate ; 
A  Husband  and  a  Father  now, 
Of  thee,  a  Wife  and  Mother  thou. 

And,  Mary,  as  for  thee  I  frame 

A  prayer  which  hath  no  selfish  aim. 

No  happier  lot  can  1  wish  thee 

Than  such  as  Heaven  hath  granted  me. 

London,  1802. 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

INQUIRING  IF  I  WOULD  LIVE  OVER  MY  YOUTH  AGAIN. 
1. 

Do  I  regret  the  past .' 

Would  I  again  live  o'er 
The  morning  hours  of  life  .' 
Nay,  William  !  nay,  not  so  ! 


In  the  warm  joyance  of  the  summer  sun, 
I  do  not  wish  again 
The  changeful  April  day. 
Nay,  William  !  nay,  not  so  ! 
Safe  haven'd  from  the  sea, 
1  would  not  tempt  again 
The  uncertain  ocean's  wrath. 
Praise  be  to  Him  who  made  me  what  I  am, 
Other  I  would  not  be. 

2. 

Why  is  it  pleasant  then,  to  sit  and  talk 
Of  days  that  are  no  more  ? 
When  in  his  own  dear  home 
The  traveller  rests  at  last, 
And  tells  how  often  in  his  wanderings, 
The  thought  of  those  far  off 
Hath  made  his  eyes  o'erflow 
Witli  no  unmanly  tears ;  ' 
Delighted  he  recalls  [trod ; 

Through  what  fair  scenes  his  lingering  feet  have 
But  ever  when  he  tells  of  perils  past 
And  troubles  now  no  more. 
His  eyes  are  brightest,  and  a  readier  joy 
Flows  thankful  from  his  heart. 


No,  William  !  no,  I  would  not  live  again 
The  morning  hours  of  life ; 

I  would  not  be  again 
The  slave  of  hope  and  fear ; 
I  would  not  learn  again 
The  wisdom  by  Experience  hardly  taught. 

4. 

To  me  the  past  presents 
No  object  for  regret; 
To  me  the  present  gives 
All  cause  for  full  content. 
The  future  .'  —  it  is  now  the  cheerful  noon. 
And  on  tlie  sunny-smiling  fields  I  gaze 
With  eyes  alive  to  joy ; 
When  the  dark  night  descends, 
I  willingly  shall  close  my  weary  lids. 
In  sure  and  certain  hope  to  wake  again. 

Westbimj,  1798. 


THE  DEAD  FRIEND. 


Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul, 
Descend  to  contemplate 
The  form  that  once  was  dear  I 

The  Spirit  is  not  there 
Which  kindled  that  dead  eye. 
Which  throbb'd  in  that  cold  heart, 
Which  in  that  motionless  hand 
Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp. 
The  Spirit  is  not  there  ! 
It  is  but  lifeless,  perishable  flesh 
That  moulders  in  the  grave ; 
Earth,  air,  and  water's  ministering  particles 


142                        SONGS    OF    THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS. 

Now  to  the  elements 

Unhappy  man  was  he 

Resolved,  their  uses  done. 

On  whom  thine  angry  eye  was  fix'd  in  fight  I 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul, 

And  he  who  from  thy  hand 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ; 

Received  the  calumet, 

The  Spirit  is  not  there  ! 

Blest  Heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

2. 
Often  together  have  we  talk'd  of  death ; 

2. 

When  the  Evil  Spirits  seized  thee. 

How  sweet  it  were  to  see 

Brother,  we  were  sad  at  heart : 

All  doubtful  tilings  made  clear; 

We  bade  the  Jongler  come 

How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

And  bring  his  magic  aid; 

Such  as  the  Cherubim, 

We  circled  thee  in  mystic  dance, 

To  view  the  depth  of  Heaven ! 

With  songs  and  shouts  and  cries, 

O  Edmund  !  thou  hast  first 

To  free  thee  from  their  power. 

Begun  the  travel  of  Eternity  I 

Brother,  but  in  vain  we  strove  ; 

I  look  upon  the  stars. 

The  number  of  thy  days  was  full. 

And  think  that  thou  art  there. 

Unfetter'd  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee. 

3. 

Thou  sittest  amongst  us  on  thy  mat ; 

3. 

The  bear-skin  from  thy  shoulder  hangs  , 

And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were 

Thy  feet  are  sandall'd  ready  for  the  way 

With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power. 

Those  are  the  unfatigueable  feet 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

That  traversed  the  forest  track ; 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err ! 

Those  are  the  lips  that  late 

Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence  !     Thou  hast  given 

Thunder'd  the  yell  of  war ; 

A  birth  to  holy  thought. 

And  that  is  the  strong  right  arm 

Hast  kept  me  from  the  world  unstain'd  and  pure. 

Which  never  was  lifted  in  vain. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err  ! 

Those  lips  are  silent  now  ; 

Our  best  aifections  here 

The  limbs  that  were  active  are  stiff; 

They  are  not  like  the  toys  of  infancy  ; 

Loose  hangs  the  strong  right  arm  ! 

The  Soul  outgrows  them  not ; 

We  do  not  cast  them  off; 

4. 

O,  if  it  could  be  so. 

And  where  is  That  which  in  thy  voice 

It  were  indeed  a  dreadful  thing  to  die  ! 

The  language  of  friendship  spake .' 

That  gave  the  strength  of  thine  arm " 

4. 

That  fill'd  thy  limbs  with  life .' 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul, 

It  was  not  Thou,  for  Thou  art  here, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ! 

Thou  art  amongst  us  still, 

But  in  the  lonely  hour, 

But  the  Life  and  the  Feeling  are  gone. 

But  in  the  evening  walk. 

The  Iroquois  will  learn 

Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude ; 

That  thou  hast  ceased  from  war ; 

Think  that  he  holds  with  thee 

'Twill  be  a  joy  like  victory  to  them. 

Mysterious  intercourse  ; 

For  thou  wert  the  scourge  of  their  nation. 

And  though  remembrance  wake  a  tear, 

5. 

There  will  be  joy  in  grief. 

Brother,  we  sing  thee  the  song  of  death ; 

Wesibury,  1799. 

In  thy  coffin  of  bark  we  lay  thee  to  rest ; 

The  bow  shall  be  placed  by  thy  side. 

And  the  shafts  that  are  pointed  and  feather'd  for 
flight. 
To  the  country  of  the  Dead 

SONGS 

Long  and  painful  is  thy  way; 

OF 

Over  rivers  wide  and  deep 

THE    AMERICAN  INDIANS. 

Lies  the  road  that  must  be  past, 

By  bridges  narrow-wall'd, 

Where  scarce  the  Soul  can  force  its  way. 
While  the  loose  fabric  totters  under  it. 

THE  HURON'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEAD. 

6. 

Safely  may  our  brother  pass  ! 

1. 

Brother,  thou  wert  strong  in  youth  ! 

Safely  may  he  reach  the  fields. 

Brother,  thou  wert  brave  in  war  I 

Where  the  sound  of  the  drum  and  the  shell 

Unhappy  man  was  he 

Shall  be  heard  from  the  Country  of  Souls ! 

For  whom  thou  hadst  sharpen 'd  the  tomahawk's 

The  Spirits  of  thy  Sires 

edge! 

Shall  come  to  welcome  thee  : 

SONGS    OF    THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS.                          14J 

Tlie  God  of  the  Dead  in  his  Bower 

4. 

Shall  receive  thee,  and  bid  thee  join 

My  Fatlier,  rest  in  peace  ! 

The  dance  of  eternal  joy. 

Rest  with  the  dust  of  tliy  Sires  ! 

They  placed  tlieir  Cross  in  thy  dying  grasp;  — 

7. 

They  bore  thee  to  their  burinl-place. 

Brother,  we  pay  thee  the  rites  of  death ; 

And  over  thy  breathless  frame 

Rest  in  thy  Bower  of  Delight ! 

Their  bloody  and  merciless  Priest 

Mumbled  his  magic  hastily. 

Westbury,  1799. 

Oh  1  could  tliy  bones  be  at  peace 

In  the  field  where  the  Strangers  are  laid  .'  — 

♦ 

Alone,  in  danger  and  in  pain. 

My  Father,  1  bring  thee  here; 

THE    PERUVIAN'S    DIRGE    OVER    THE 

So  may  our  God,  in  reward. 
Allow  me  one  faithful  friend 

BODY   OF  HIS  FATHER. 

To  lay  me  beside  thee  when  1  am  released  ! 

So  may  he  summon  me  soon. 

1. 

That  my  Spirit  may  join  thee  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  my  Father,  rest ! 

Where  the  strangers  never  shall  come  I 

With  danger  and  toil  liave  1  borne  thy  corpse 

Exeter,  1799. 

From  the  Stranger's  field  of  death. 
I  bless  thee,  O  Wife  of  the  Sun, 

w 

For  veiling  thy  beams  with  a  cloud. 

While  at  the  pious  task 

SONG  OF  THE  ARAUCANS 

Tliy  votary  toil'd  in  fear. 

Thou  badcst  the  clouds  of  night 

DURING    A    THUNDER-STORM. 

Enwrap  thee,  and  hide  thee  from  Man ; 

But  didst  thou  not  see  my  toil. 

The  storm-cloud  grows  deeper  above  , 

And  put  on  the  darkness  to  aid, 

Araucans  !  the  tempest  is  ripe  in  the  sky ; 

O  Wife  of  the  visible  God  .' 

Our  forefathers  come  from  their  Islands  of  Bliss, 

Q 

They  come  to  the  war  of  the  winds 

Wretched,  my  Father,  thy  life  ! 

The  Souls  of  the  Strangers  are  there, 

Wretched  the  life  of  the  Slave  ! 

In  their  garments  of  darkness  they  ride  through  the 

All  day  for  another  he  toils ; 

heaven ; 

Overwearied  at  night  he  lies  down. 

Yon  cloud  that  rolls  luridly  over  tlie  hill 

And  dreams  of  the  freedom  that  once  he  enjoy 'd. 

Is  red  with  their  weapons  of  fire. 

Thou  wert  blest  in  the  days  of  tiiy  youth. 

My  Father !  for  then  thou  wert  free. 

Hark  !  hark  1  in  the  howl  of  the  wind 

in  the  fields  of  the  nation  thy  hand 

The  shout  of  tiie  battle,  the  clang  of  their  drums  ; 

Bore  its  part  of  the  general  task ;. 

The  horsemen  are  met,  and  the  shock  of  the  fight 

And  when,  with  the  song  and  the  dance. 

Is  the  blast  that  disbranches  the  wood. 

Ye  brought  tlie  harvest  home. 

As  all  in  the  labor  had  shared, 

Behold  from  the  clouds  of  their  power 

So  justly  they  shared  in  the  fruits. 

The  lightning,  —  the  lightning  is   lanced  at  our 

3. 

sires  1 
And  the  thunder  that  shakes  the  broad  pavement 

Thou  visible  Lord  of  the  Earth, 

of  Heaven ! 

Thou  God  of  my  Fathers,  thou  God  of  my  heart, 

And  the  darkness  that  quenches  the  day ! 

0  Giver  of  light  and  of  life  ! 

When  the  Strangers  came  to  our  shores, 

Ye  Souls  of  our  Fathers,  be  brave  ! 

Why  didst  thou  not  put  forth  thy  power  .' 

Ye  shrunk  not  before  the  invaders  on  earth, 

Thy  thunders  should  then  have  been  hurl'd, 

Ye  trembled  not  then  at  their  weapons  of  fire  ; 

Thy  fires  should  in  lightnings  have  flash'd  1  — 

Brave  Spirits,  ye  tremble  not  now ! 

Visible  God  of  the  Earth, 

The  Strangers  mock  at  thy  miglit ! 

We  gaze  on  your  warfare  in  hope, 

To  idols  and  beams  of  wood 

We  send  up  our  shouts  to  encourage  your  arms ! 

They  force  us  to  bow  tiie  knee ; 

Lift  the  lance  of  your  vengeance,  O  Fathers,  with 

They  plunge  us  in  caverns  and  dens. 

force. 

Where  never  thy  blessed  light 

For  the  wrongs  of  your  country  strike  home  ' 

Shines  on  our  poisonous  toil  1 

But  not  in  the  caverns  and  dens, 

Remember  the  land  was  your  own 

O  Sun,  are  we  mindless  of  thee  ! 

When  the  Sons  of  Destruction  came  over  the  seas, 

We  pine  for  the  want  of  thy  beams. 

That  the  old  fell  asleep  in  the  fulness  of  days, 

We  adore  thee  with  anguish  and  groans. 

And  their  children  wept  over  their  graves; 

144 


SONGS    OF    THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS. 


Till  the  Strangers  came  into  the  land 
With  tongues  of  deceit  and  with  weapons  of  fire  : 
Then  the  strength  of  the  people  in  youth  was  cutoff, 

And  the  father  wept  over  his  son. 

It  thickens  —  the  tumult  of  fight'. 
Louder  and  louder  the  blast  of  the  battle  is  heard  I  — 
Remember  the  wrongs  tliat  your  country  endures  ! 

Remember  the  fields  of  your  fame  ! 

Joy  !  joy  !  for  the  Strangers  recoil,  — 
rhey  give  way,  —  they  retreat,  —  they  are  routed,  — 

they  fly ; 
Pursue    them !    pursue    them !    remember    your 
wrongs ! 
Let  your  lances  be  drunk  with  their  wounds. 

The  Souls  of  your  wives  shall  rejoice 
As  they  welcome  you  back  to  your  Islands  of  Bliss ; 
And  the  breeze  that  refreshes  the  toil-throbbing  brow 

Waft  thither  the  song  of  your  praise. 

Westburij,  1799. 


SONG  OF  THE   CHIKKASAH   WIDOW. 

TwAS  the  voice  of  my  husband  that  came  on  the 

gale; 
His  unappeased  Spirit  in  anger  complains  ; 

Rest,  rest,  Ollanalita,  be  still ! 

The  day  of  revenge  is  at  hand. 

The  stake  is  made  ready,  tlie  captives  shall  die ; 

To-morrow  the  song  of  their  death  shalt  thou  hear ; 
To-morrow  thy  widow  shall  wield 
The  knife  and  the  fire  ;  —  be  at  rest ! 

The    vengeance    of  anguish   shall   soon   have  its 
course,  — 

The  fountains  of  grief  and  of  fury  shall  flow,  — 
1  will  think,  Ollanahta  !  of  thee, 
Will  remember  the  days  of  our  love. 

Ollanahta,  all  day  by  thy  war-pole  I  sat, 
Where  idly  thy  hatchet  of  battle  is  hung; 
I  gazed  on  the  bow  of  thy  strength 
As  it  waved  on  the  stream  of  the  wind. 

The  scalps  that  we  number'd  in  triumph  were  there. 
And  the  musket  that  never  was  levell'd  in  vain, — 

What  a  leap  has  it  given  to  my  heart 

To  see  thee  suspend  it  in  peace ! 

When  the  black  and  blood-banner  was  spread  to 

the  gale, 
When  thrice  the  deep  voice  of  the  war-drum  was 
heard, 
1  remember  thy  terrible  eyes 
How  they  flash'd  the  dark  glance  of  thy  joy. 

1  remember  the  hope  that  shone  over  thy  cheek, 
As  thy  iiand  from  the  pole  reach'd  its  doers  of  death ; 
Like  the  ominous  gleam  of  the  cloud, 
Ere  the  thunder  and  lightning  are  born 


He  went,  and  ye  came  not  to  warn  him  in  dreams 
Kindred  Spirits  of  Him  who  is  holy  and  great  I 

And  wliere  was  thy  warning,  O  Bird, 

The  timely  announcer  of  ill.' 

Alas  !  when  thy  brethren  in  conquest  return 'd  ; 

When  I  saw  the  white  plumes  bending  over  their 
heads. 
And  the  pine-boughs  of  triumph  before. 
Where  the  scalps  of  their  victory  swung,  — 

The  war-hymn  they  pour'd,  and  thy  voice  was  not 
there  !  [brought : 

I   caird    thee,  —  alas,   the   white    dccr-skin   was 
And  thy  grave  was  prepared  in  the  tent 
Which  I  had  made  ready  for  joy ! 

Ollanahta,  all  day  by  thy  war-pole  I  sit, — 
Ollanahta,  all  night  I  weep  over  thy  grave  ! 

To-morrow  the  victims  shall  die, 

And  I  shall  have  joy  in  revenge. 

Westbunj,  1799. 


THE 

OLD   CHIKKASAH   TO   HIS   GRANDSON 

Now  go  to  the  battle,  my  Boy  I 
.  Dear  child  of  my  son, 
There  is  strength  in  thine  arm. 
There  is  hope  in  thy  heart, 
Thou  art  ripe  for  the  labors  of  war. 

Thy  Sire  was  a  stripling  like  thee 
When  he  went  to  the  first  of  his  fields. 

2. 

He  return'd,  in  the  glory  of  conquest  return'd  : 
Before  him  his  trophies  were  borne. 
These  scalps  that  have  hung  till  the  Sun  and  the 
Have  rusted  their  raven  locks.  [rain 

Here  he  stood  when  the  morn  of  rejoicing  arrived, 
The  day  of  the  warrior's  reward  ; 
When  the  banners  sunbeaming  were  spread, 
And  all  hearts  were  dancing  in  joy 
To  the  sound  of  the  victory-drum. 
The  Heroes  were  met  to  receive  their  reward, 
But  distinguish'd  among  the  young  Heroes  that  day, 
The  pride  of  his  nation,  thy  Fatlier  was  seen  : 
The  swan-feathers  hung  from  his  neck. 
His  face  like  the  rainbow  was  tinged, 
And  his  eye,  —  how  it  sparkled  in  pride  ! 
The  Elders  approach'd,  and  they  placed  on  his  brow 
The  crown  that  his  valor  had  won, 
And  they  gave  him  the  old  honor'd  name. 
They  reported  the  deeds  lie  had  done  in  the  war, 
And  the  youth  of  the  nation  were  told 
To  respect  him  and  tread  in  his  steps. 

3. 
My  Boy  !  I  have  seen,  and  with  hope, 

The  courage  that  rose  in  thine  eye 
When  I  told  thee  the  tale  of  his  death. 
His  war-pole  now  is  gray  with  moss, 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES 


145 


His  tomahawk  red  with  rust; 
His  bowstring,  whose  twang  was  death, 
Now  sings  as  it  cuts  the  wind  ; 
But  his  memory  is  fresh  in  the  land, 
And  his  name  with  the  names  that  we  love. 

4. 
Go  now  and  revenge  him,  my  Boy ! 
That  his  Spirit  no  longer  may  hover  by  day 
O'er  the  Imt  where  his  bones  are  at  rest, 
Nor  trouble  our  dreams  in  the  night. 
My  Boy,  I  shall  watch  for  the  warrior's  return. 
And  my  soul  will  be  sad 
Till  the  steps  of  thy  coming  I  see. 

Westbury,  1799. 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


I. 


THE   PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 

What  I  and  not  one  to  heave  the  pious  sigh .'' 

Not  one  whose  sorrow-swollen  and  aching  eye. 

For  social  scenes,  for  life's  endearments  fled, 

Shall  drop  a  tear,  and  dwell  upon  the  dead  ? 

Poor  wretched  Outcast !  I  will  weep  for  thee, 

And  sorrow  for  forlorn  humanity. 

Yes,  I  will  weep ;  but  not  that  thou  art  come 

To  the  cold  Sabbath  of  the  silent  tomb  : 

For  pining  want,  and  heart-consuming  care. 

Soul-withering  evils,  never  enter  there. 

I  sorrow  for  the  ills  thy  life  has  known. 

As  through  the  world's  long  pilgrimage,  alone. 

Haunted  by  Poverty  and  woe-begone, 

Unloved,  unfriended,  thou  didst  journey  on; 

Thy  youth  in  ignorance  and  labor  past. 

And  thine  old  age  all  barrenness  and  blast  I 

Hard  was  thy  Fate,  which,  while  it  doom'd  to  woe, 

Denied  thee  wisdom  to  support  the  blow ; 

And  robb'd  of  all  its  energy  thy  mind, 

Ere  yet  it  cast  thee  on  thy  fellow-kind, 

Abject  of  thought,  the   victim  of  distress. 

To  wander  in  the  world's  wide  wilderness. 

Poor  Outcast,  sleep  in  peace  !  the  wintry  storm 
Blows  bleak  no  more  on  thine  unshelter'd  form ; 
Thy  woes  are  past ;  thou  restest  in  the  tomb  ;  — 
I  pause,  —  and  ponder  on  the  days  to  come. 

Bristol,  1795. 


H. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  FUNERAL. 

It  is  the  funeral  march.     I  did  not  think 
That  there  had  been  such  magic  in  sweet  sounds  ! 
Hark  !  from  the  blacken'd  cymbal  that  dead  tone  !  — 
It  awes  the  very  rabble  multitude ; 
They  follow  silently,  their  earnest  brows 
19 


Lifted  in  solemn  thought.     'Tis  not  the  pomp 

And  pageantry  of  death  that  with  such  force 

Arrests  the  sense;  —  the  mute  and  mourning  train, 

The  white  plume  nodding  o'er  the  sable  hearse, 

Had  past  unheeded,  or  perchance  awoke 

A  serious  smile  upon  the  poor  man's  cheek 

At  pride's  last  triumph.     Now  these   measured 

sounds, 
This  universal  language,  to  the  heart 
Speak  instant,  and  on  all  these  various  minds 
Compel  one  feeling. 

But  such  better  thoughts 
Will  pass  away,  how  soon  !  and  these  who  here 
Are  following  their  dead  comrade  to  the  grave, 
Ere  the  night  fall  will  in  their  revelry 
Quench  all  remembrance.     From  the  ties  of  life 
Unnaturally  rent,  a  man  who  knew 
No  resting-place,  no  dear  delights  of  home, 
Belike  who  never  saw  his  children's  face. 
Whose  children  knew  no  father,  —  he  is  gone, — 
Dropp'd  from  existence,  like  a  blasted  leaf 
That  from  the  summer  tree  is  swept  away, 
Its  loss  unseen.     She  hears  not  of  his  death 
Who  bore  him,  and  already  for  her  son 
Her  tears  of  bitterness  are  shed  ;  when  first 
He  had  put  on  the  livery  of  blood. 
She  wept  him  dead  to  her. 

We  are  indeed 
Clay  in  the  potter's  hand !     One  favor'd  mind, 
Scarce  lower  than  the  Angels,  shall  explore 
The  ways  of  Nature,  whilst  his  fellow-man, 
Framed  with  like  miracle,  the  work  of  God, 
Must  as  the  unreasonable  beast  drag  on 
A  life  of  labor ;  like  this  soldier  here. 
His  wondrous  faculties  bestow'd  in  vain, 
Be  moulded  by  his  fate  till  he  becomes 
A  mere  machine  of  murder. 

And  there  are 
Who  say  that  this  is  well !  as  God  has  made 
All  things  for  man's  good  pleasure,  so  of  men 
The  many  for  the  few  !     Court-moralists, 
Reverend  lip-comforters,  that  once  a  week 
Proclaim  how  blessed  are  the  poor,  for  they 
Shall  have  their  wealth  hereafter,  and  though  now 
Toiling  and  troubled,  they  may  pick  the  crumbs 
That  from  the  rich  man's  table  fall,  at  length 
In  Abraham's  bosom  rest  with  Lazarus. 
Themselves  meantime  secure  their  good   things 

here. 
And  feast  with  Dives.     These  are  they,  O  Lord ! 
Who  in  thy  plain  and  simple  Gospel  see 
All  mysteries,  but  who  find  no  peace  enjoin'd, 
No  brotherhood,  no  wrath  denounced  on  them 
Who  shed  their  bretliren's  blood,  —  blind  at  noon- 
day 
As  owls,  lynx-eyed  in  darkness  ! 

O  my  God ! 
I  thank  thee,  with  no  Pharisaic  pride 
I  thank  thee,  that  I  am  not  such  as  these ; 
I  thank  thee  for  the  eye  that  sees,  the  heart 
That  feels,  the  voice  that  in  these  evil  days, 
Amid  these  evil  tongues,  exalts  itself, 
And  cries  edoud  against  iniquity. 

Bristol,  1795. 


14G 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


III. 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  CASPAR  POUSSIN. 

Gaspar  !  how  pleasantly  thy  pictured  scenes 
Beguile  the  lonely  hour !    I  sit  and  gaze 
With  lingering  eye,  till  dreaming  Fancy  makes 
The  lovely  landscape  live,  and  the  rapt  soul 
From  the  foul  haunts  of  herded  human-kind 
Flics  far  away  with  spirit  speed,  and  tastes 
The  untainted  air,  that  with  the  lively  hue 
Of  health  and  happiness  illumes  the  cheek 
Of  mountain  Liberty.     My  willing  soul 
All  eager  follows  on  thy  faery  flights. 
Fancy  !  best  friend ;  whose  blessed  witcheries 
With  cheering  prospects  cheat  the  traveller 
0"er  the  long  wearying  desert  of  the  world. 
Nor  dost  thou,  Fancy!  with  such  magic  mock 
My  heart,  as,  demon-born,  old  Merlin  knew, 
Or  Alquif,  or  Zarzafiel's  sister  sage, 
Who  in  her  vengeance  for  so  many  a  year 
Held  in  the  jacinth  sepulchre  entranced 
Lisuart,  the  pride  of  Grecian  chivalry. 
Friend  of  my  lonely  hours  !  thou  leadest  me 
To  such  calm  joys  as  Nature,  wise  and  good, 
Proffers  in  vain  to  all  her  wretched  sons,  — 
Her  wretched  sons  who  pine  with  want  amid 
The  abundant  earth,  and  blindly  bow  them  down 
Before  the  Moloch  shrines  of  Wealth  and  Power, 
Authors  of  Evil.     Well  it  is  sometimes 
That  thy  delusions  should  beguile  the  heart, 
Sick  of  reality.     The  little  pile 
That  tops  the  summit  of  that  craggy  hill 
Shall  be  my  dwelling  :  craggy  is  the  hill 
And  steep ;  yet  through  yon  hazels  upward  leads 
The  easy  path,  along  whose  winding  way 
Now  close  embower'd  I  hear  the  unseen  stream 
Dash  down,  anon  behold  its  sparkling  foam 
Gleam  through  the  thicket;  and  ascending  on, 
Now  pause  me  to  survey  the  goodly  vale 
That  opens  on  my  prospect.     Half  way  up, 
Pleasant  it  were  upon  some  broad,  smooth  rock 
To  sit  and  sun  myself,  and  look  below, 
And  watch  the  goatherd  downyon  high-bank'd  path 
Urging  his  flock  grotesque ;  and  bidding  now 
His  lean,  rough  dog  from  some  near  cliff  go  drive 
The  straggler ;  while  his  barkings,  loud  and  quick. 
Amid  their  tremulous  bleat,  arising  oft, 
Fainter  and  fainter  from  the  hollow  road 
Send  their  far  echoes,  till  the  waterfall. 
Hoarse  bursting  from  the  cjtvern'd  cliff  beneath. 
Their  dying  murmurs  drown.     A  little  yet 
Onward,  and  I  liave  gain'd  the  upmost  height. 
Fair  spreads  the  vale  below  :  I  see  the  stream 
Stream  radiant  on  beneath  the  noontide  sky. 
A  passing  cloud  darkens  the  bordering  steep. 
Where  the  town-spires  behind  the  castle-towers 
Rise  graceful ;  brown  the  mountain  in  its  shade. 
Whose  circling  grandeur,  part  by  mists  conceal'd. 
Part  with  white  rocks  resplendent  in  the  sun. 
Should  bound  mine  eyes,  —  ay,  and  my  wishes  too, 
For  I  would  have  no  hope  or  fear  beyond. 
The  empty  turmoil  of  the  worthless  world, 
Its  vanities  and  vices,  would  not  vex 


My  quiet  heart.     The  traveller,  who  beheld 
The  low  tower  of  the  little  pile,  might  deem 
It  were  the  house  of  God ;  nor  would  he  err 
So  deeming,  for  that  home  would  be  the  home 
Of  peace  and  love,  and  they  would  hallow  it 
To  Him.     Oh,  life  of  blessedness!  to  reap 
The  fruit  of  honorable  toil,  and  bound 
Our  wishes  with  our  wants  !  Delightful  thoughts, 
That  soothe  the  solitude  of  weary  Hope, 
Ye  leave  her  to  reality  awaked. 
Like  the  poor  captive,  from  some  fleeting  dream 
Of  friends,  and  liberty,  and  home  restored, 
Startled,  and  listening  as  the  midnight  storm 
Beats  hard  and  heavy  through  his  dungeon  bars. 

Balh,  1795. 


IV. 


WRITTEN 


ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY,  1795.  ' 

How  many  hearts  are  happy  at  this  hour 
In  England  !     Brightly  o'er  the  cheerful  hall 
Flares  the  heaped  hearth,  and  friends  and  kindred 

meet. 
And  the  glad  mother  round  her  festive  board 
Beholds  her  children,  separated  long 
Amid  the  wide  world's  ways,  assembled  now  — 
A  sight  at  which  affection  lightens  up 
With  smiles  the  eye  that  age  has  long  bedimm'd. 
I  do  remember,  when  I  was  a  child, 
How  my  young  heart,  a  stranger  then  to  care, 
With  transport  leap'd  upon  this  holyday. 
As  o'er  the  house,  all  gay  with  evergreens. 
From  friend  to  friend  with  joyful  speed  I  ran. 
Bidding  a  merry  Christmas  to  them  all. 
Those  years  are  {)ast ;  their  pleasures  and  their  pains 
Are  now  like  yonder  convent-crested  hill 
That  bounds  the  distant  prospect,  indistinct. 
Yet  pictured  upon  memory's  mystic  glass 
In  faint,  fair  hues.     A  weary  traveller  now 
I  journey  o'er  the  desert  mountain  tracks 
Of  Leon,  wilds  all  drear  and  comfortless, 
Where  the  gray  lizards  in  the  noontide  sun 
Sport  on  the  rocks,  and  where  the  goatherd  starts, 
Roused  from  his  sleep  at  midnight  when  he  hears 
The  prowling  wolf,  and  falters  as  he  calls 
On  Saints  to  save.     Here  of  the  friends  I  think 
Who  now,  I  ween,  remember  me,  and  fill 
The  glass  of  votive  friendship.     At  the  name 
Will  not  thy  cheek.  Beloved,  change  its  hue, 
And  in  those  gentle  eyes  uncall'd-for  tears 
Tremble  .'     I  will  not  wish  thee  not  to  weep ; 
Such  tears  are  free  from  bitterness,  and  they 
Who  know  not  what  it  is  sometimes  to  wake 
And  weep  at  midnight,  are  but  instruments 
Of  Nature's  common  work.     Yes,  think  of  me. 
My  Edith,  think  that,  travelling  far  away, 
Thus  I  beguile  the  solitary  hours 
With  many  a  day-dream,  picturing  scenes  as  fair 
Of  peace,  and  comfort,  and  domestic  bliss, 
As  ever  to  the  youthful  poet's  eye 
Creative  Fancy  fashion'd.     Think  of  me. 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


14  V 


Though  absent,  thine  ;  and  if  a  sigh  will  rise, 
And  tears,  unbidden,  at  the  thought  steal  down, 
Sure  hope  will  cheer  thee,  and  the  happy  hour 
Of  meeting  soon  all  sorrow  overpay. 


WRITTEN    AFTER   VISITING 

THE    CONVENT    OF    ARRABIDA, 

NEAR  SETUBAL,  MARCH    22,   1796. 

Happy  the  dwellers  in  this  holy  house; 

For  surely  never  worldly  thoughts  intrude 

On  this   retreat,  this  sacred  solitude. 

Where  Quiet  with  Religion  makes  her  home. 

And  ye  who  tenant  such  a  goodly  scene, 

How  sliould  ye  be  but  good,  where  all  is  fair. 

And  where  the  mirror  of  the  mind  reflects 

Serenest  beauty  ?     O'er  these  mountain  wilds' 

The  insatiate  eye  with  ever-new  delight 

Roams  raptured,  marking  now  where  to  the  wind 

The  tall  tree  bends  its  many-tinted  boughs 

With  soft,  accordant  sound ;  and  now  the  sport 

Of  joyous  sea-birds  o'er  the  tranquil  deep. 

And  now  the  long-extending  stream  of  light 

Where  the  broad  orb  of  day  refulgent  sinks 

Beneath  old  Ocean's  line.     To  have  no  cares 

That  eat  the  heart,  no  wants  that  to  the  earth 

Chain  the  reluctant  spirit,  to  be  freed 

From  forced  communion  with  the  selfish  tribe 

Who  worship  Mammon, — yea,  emancipate 

From  this  world's  bondage,  even  while  the  soul 

Inliabits  still  its  corruptible  clay, — 

Almost,  ye  dwellers  in  this  holy  house. 

Almost  I  envy  you.     You  never  see 

Pale  Misery's  asking  eye,  nor  roam  about 

Those  huge  and  hateful  haunts  of  crowded  men. 

Where  Wealth  and  Power  have  built  their  palaces. 

Fraud  spreads  his  snares  secure,  man  preys  on  man. 

Iniquity  abounds,  and  rampant  Vice, 

With  an  infection  worse  than  mortal,  taints 

The  herd  of  human-kind. 

1  too  could  love, 
Ye  tenants  of  this  sacred  solitude. 
Here  to  abide,  and  when  the  sun  rides  high, 
Seek  some  sequestered  dingle's  coolest  shade  ; 
And  at  the  breezy  hour,  along  tlie  beach 
Stray  with  slow  step,  and  gaze  upon  the  deep. 
And  while  the  breath  of  evening  fann'd  my  brow. 
And  the  wild  waves  with  their  continuous  sound 
Soothed  my  accustom'd  ear,  think  thankfully 
That  I  had  from  the  crowd  withdrawn  in  time. 
And  found  a  harbor  —  Yet  may  yonder  deep 
Suggest  a  less  unprofitable  thought. 
Monastic  brethren.     Would  the  mariner. 
Though  storms  may  sometimes  swell  the  mighty 

waves, 
And  o'er  the  reeling  bark  with  thunderincr  crash 
Impel  the  mountainous  surge,  quit  yonder  deep. 
And  rather  float  upon  some  tranquil  sea. 
Whose  moveless  waters  never  feel  the  gale, 
In  safe  stagnation .'     Rouse  thyself,  my  soul ! 
No  season  this  for  self-deluding  dreams  ; 


It  is  thy  spring-time ;  sow,  if  thou  wouldst  reap  ; 

Then,  after  honest  labor,  welcome  rest, 
Vn  full  contentment  not  to  be  enjoy 'd 
Unless  when  duly  earn'd.     Oh,  happy  then 
To  know  that  we  have  walked  among  mankind 
More  sinn'd  against  than  sinning!  Happy  then 
To  muse  on  many  a  sorrow  overpast. 
And  think  the  business  of  the  day  is  done. 
And  as  the  evening  of  our  lives  shall  close. 
The  peaceful  evening,  with  a  Christian's  hope 
Expect  the  dawn  of  everlasting  day. 

Lisbon,  179G. 


VI. 


ON  MY  OWN  MINIATURE  PICTURE, 

TAKEN    AT    TWO    YEARS    OF    AGE. 

And  I  was  once  like  this  !  that  glowing  cheek 
Was  mine,  those  pleasure-sparkling  eyes  ;  that  brow 
Smootli  as  the  level  lake,  when  not  a  breeze 
Dies  o'er  the  sleeping  surface  ! — twenty  years 
Have  wrought  strange  alteration  !  Of  the  friends 
Who  once  so  dearly  prized  this  miniature, 
And  loved  it  for  its  likeness,  some  are  gone 
To  their  last  home ;  and  some,  estranged  in  heart. 
Beholding  me,  with  quick-averted  glance 
Pass  on  the  other  side.     But  still  these  hues 
Remain  unalter'd,  and  these  features  wear 
The  look  of  Infancy  and  Innocence. 
I  search  myself  in  vain,  and  find  no  trace 
Of  what  I  was :  those  lightly-arching  lines 
Dark  and  o'erchanging  now ;  and  that  sweet  face 
Settled  in  these  strong  lineaments! — There   were 
Who  form'd  high  hopes  and  flattering  ones  of  thee. 
Young  Robert!  for  thine  eye  was  quick  to  speak 
Each  opening  feeling  :  should  they  not  have  known. 
If  the  rich  rainbow  on  a  morning  cloud 
Reflects  its  radiant  dyes,  the  husbandman 
Beholds  the  ominous  glory,  and  foresees 
Impending  storms  !  —  They  argued  happily. 
That  thou  didst  love  each  wild  and  wondrous  tale 
Of  faery  fiction,  and  thine  infant  tongue 
Lisp'd  with  delight  the  godlike  deeds  of  Greece 
And  rising  Rome  ;  therefore  they  deem'd,  forsooth. 
That  thou  shouldst  tread  Preferment's  pleasant  path. 
Ill-judging  ones!  they  let  thy  little  feet 
Stray  in  the  pleasant  paths  of  Poesy,  [crowd. 

And  when  thou  shouldst  have  press'd  amid  the 
There  didst  thou  love  to  linger  out  the  day. 
Loitering  beneath  the  laurel's  barren  shade. 
Spirit  of  Spenser!  was  the  wanderer  wrong.' 

Bristol,  1796. 


VII. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE  OLD 
SPANIEL. 

And  they  have  drown'd  thee,  then,  at  last !  poor 

Phillis ! 
The  burden  of  old  age  was  heavy  on  thee, 


148 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


And  yet  thou  sliouldst  liave  lived  I    What  thougli 

thine  eye 
Was  dim,  and  watch'd  no  more  with  eager  joy 
Tlie  wonted  call  that  on  thy  dull  sense  sunk 
With  fruitless  repetition?     The  warm  Sun 
Might  .still  have  clieer'd  tliy  slumbers  ;  thou  didst 

love 
To  lick  the  hand  that  fed  thee,  and  though  past 
Youth's  active  season,  even  Life  itself 
Was  comfort.     Poor  old  friend,  how  earnestly 
Would  I  have  pleaded  for  thee  !  thou  hadst  been 
Still  the  companion  of  my  boyish  sports  ; 
And  as  I  roamd  o'er  Avon's  woody  cliti's. 
From  many  a  day-dream  has  thy  short,  quick  bark 
Recall'd  my  wandering  soul.     I  have  beguiled 
Often  the  melancholy  hours  at  school, 
Sour'd  by  some  little  tyrant,  with  the  thought 
Of  distant  home,  and  I  remember'd  then 
riiy  faithful  fondness ;  for  not  mean  the  joy, 
Returning  at  the  happy  holidays, 
I  felt  from  thy  dumb  welcome.     Pensively 
Sometimes  have  I  remark'd  thy  slow  decay, 
Feeling  myself  changed  too,  and  musing  much 
On  many  a  sad  vicissitude  of  Life. 
Ah,  poor  companion  !  when  tliou  followedst  last 
Thy  master's  parting  footsteps  to  the  gate 
Which  closed  forever  on  him,  thou  didst  lose 
Thy  truest  friend,  and  none  was  left  to  plead 
For  the  old  age  of  brute  fidelity. 
But  fare  thee  well !     Mine  is  no  narrow  creed ; 
And  He  who  gave  thee  being  did  not  frame 
The  mystery  of  life  to  be  the  sport 
Of  merciless  Man.     There  is  another  world 
For  all  that  live  and  move  — a  better  one  ! 
Where  the  proud  bipeds,  who  would  fain  confine 
Ini-inite  Goodness  to  the  little  bounds 
Of  their  own  charity,  may  envy  thee. 

Brislol,  179G. 


VIII. 

RECOLLECTIONS    OF    A    DAY'S     JOUR- 
NEY  IN   SPAIN. 

Not  less  deliglited  do  I  call  to  mind. 
Land  of  Romance,  thy  wild  and  lovely  scenes. 
Than  I  beheld  them  first.     Pleased  I  retrace 
With  memory's  eye  the  placid  Minho's  course, 
And  catch  its  winding  waters  gleaming  bright 
Amid  the  broken  distance.     1  review 
Leon's  wide  vi^astes,  and  heights  precipitous. 
Seen  with  a  pleasure  not  unmix'd  with  dread, 
As  the  sagacious  mules  along  tlie  brink 
Wound  patiently  and  slow  their  way  secure  ; 
And  rude  Galicia's  hovels,  and  huge  rocks 
And  mountains,  where,  when  all  beside  was  dim. 
Dark  and  broad-headed  the  tall  pines  erect 
Rose  on  the  farthest  emmence  distinct. 
Cresting  the  evening  sky. 

Rain  now  falls  thick, 
And  damp  and  heavy  is  the  unwholesome  air  ; 
I  by  this  friendly  hearth  remember  Spain, 


And  tread  in  fancy  once  again  the  road, 

Where  twelve  months  since  I  held  my  way,  and 

thought 
Of  England,  and  of  all  my  heart  held  dear, 
And  wish'd  this  day  were  come. 

The  morning  mist, 
Well  I  remember,  hovered  o'er  the  heath, 
When  with  the  earliest  dawn  of  day  we  left 
Tlie  solitary  Venta.*     Soon  the  Sun 
Rose  in  his  glory ;  scattcr'd  by  the  breeze 
The  thin  fog  roll'd  away,  and  now  emerged 
We  saw  where  Oropesa's  castled  hiU 
Tower'd  dark,  and  dimly  seen  ;  and  now  we  pass'd 
Torvalva's  quiet  huts,  and  on  our  way 
Paused  frequently,  look'd  back,  and  gazed  around ; 
Then  journcy'd  on,  yet  turn'd  and  gazed  again. 
So  lovely  was  the  scene.     That  ducal  pile 
Of  the  Toledos  now  with  all  its  towers 
Shone  in  the  sunlight.     Halfway  up  the  hill, 
Embower'd  in  olives,  like  the  abode  of  Peace, 
Lay  Lagartina  ;  and  the  cool,  fresh  gale, 
Bending  the  young  corn  on  the  gradual  slope, 
Play'd  o'er  its  varying  verdure.     I  beheld 
A  convent  near,  and  could  almost  have  thought 
The  dwellers  there  must  needs  be  holy  men, 
For  as  they  look'd  around  them,  all  they  saw 
Was  good. 

But  when  the  purple  eve  came  on. 
How  did  the  lovely  landscape  fill  my  heart  ! 
Trees  scatter'd  among  peering  rocks  adorn'd 
The  near  ascent ;  the  vale  was  overspread 
With  ilex  in  its  wintry  foliage  gay, 
Old   cork-trees   through   their   soft  and  swelling 

bark 
Bursting,  and  glaucous  olives,  underneath 
Whose  fertilizing  influence  the  green  herb 
Grows  greener,  and  with  heavier  ears  enrich'd 
The  healthful  harvest  bends.     Pellucid  streams 
Through  many  a  vocal  channel  from  the  hills 
Wound  through  the  valley  their  melodious  way ; 
And  o'er  the  intermediate  woods  descried, 
Naval-Moral's  church  tower  announced  to  us 
Our  resting-place  that  night,  —  a  welcome  mark  ; 
Though  willingly  we  loiter'd  to  behold 
In  long  expanse  Plasencia's  fertile  plain, 
And  the  high  mountain  range  which  bounded  it. 
Now  losing  fast  the  roseate  hue  that  eve 
Shed  o'er  its  summit  and  its  snowy  breast; 
For  eve  was  closing  now.     Faint  and  more  faint 
The  murmurs  of  the  goatherd's  scattered  flock 
Were  borne  upon  the  air,  and  sailing  slow 
The  broad-wing'd  stork  sought  on  the  church  tower 

top 
His  consecrated  nest.     O  lovely  scenes  ! 
I  gazed  upon  you  with  intense  delight. 
And  yet  with  thoughts  that  weigh  the  spirit  down. 
I  was  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land. 
And  knowing  that  these  eyes  should  never  more 
Behold  that  glorious  prospect.  Earth  itself 
Appear'd  the  place  of  pilgrimage  it  is. 

Bristol,  January  15,  1797. 

♦  Venta  de  Pcralbanegas. 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


149 


IX. 

TO  MARGARET  HILL. 

WKITTEN     FROM    LONDON.      1798. 

Margaret  !  my  Cousin,  —  nay,  you  mustnotsmile, 

I  love  the  homely  and  familiar  phrase  : 

And  I  will  call  thee  Cousin  Margaret, 

However  quaint  amid  the  measured  line 

The  good  old  term  appears.     Oh  !  it  looks  ill 

When  delicate  tongues  disclaim  old  terms  of  kin, 

Sir-ing  and  Madam-ing  as  civilly 

As  if  the  road  between  the  heart  and  lips 

Were  such  a  weary  and  Laplandish  way, 

That  the  poor  travellers  came  to  the  red  gates 

Half  frozen.     Trust  me,  Cousin  Margaret, 

For  many  a  day  my  memory  hath  play'd 

The  creditor  with  me  on  your  account, 

And  made  me  shame  to  think  that  I  should  owe 

So  long  the  debt  of  kindness.     But  in  truth, 

liike  Christian  on  his  pilgrimage,  I  bear 

So  heavy  a  pack  of  business,  that  albeit 

I  toil  on  mainly,  in  our  twelve  hours'  race 

Time  leaves  me  distanced.     Loath  indeed  were  I 

That  for  a  moment  you  should  lay  to  me 

Unkind  neglect ;  mine,  Margaret,  is  a  heart 

That  smokes  not;  yet  metliinks  there  should  be  some 

Who  know  its  genuine  warmth.     1  am  not  one 

Who  can  play  otF  my  smiles  and  courtesies 

To  every  Lady  of  her  lap-dog  tired 

Who  wants  a  plaything  ;  I  am  no  sworn  friend 

Of  half-an-hour,  as  apt  to  leave  as  love  ; 

Mine  are  no  mushroom  feelings,  which  spring  up 

At  once  without  a  seed,  and  take  no  root, 

Wiseliest  distrusted.     In  a  narrow  sphere, 

The  little  circle  of  domestic  life, 

I  would  be  known  and  loved  :  the  world  beyond 

Is  not  for  me.     But,  Margaret,  sure  I  think 

That  you  should  know  me  well ;    for  you  and  I 

Grew  up  together,  and  when  we  look  back 

Upon  old  times,  our  recollections  paint 

The  same  familiar  faces.     Did  I  wield 

The  wand  of  Merlin's  magic,  I  would  make 

Brave  witchcraft.     We  would  have  a  faery  ship, 

Ay,  a  now  Ark,  as  in  that  other  flood 

Which  swept  the  sons  of  Anak  from  the  earth  ; 

The  Sylphs  should  waft  us  to  some  goodly  isle 

Like  that  where  whilom  old  Apollidon, 

Retiring  wisely  from  the  troublous  world, 

Built  up  his  blameless  spell  ;  and  I  would  bid 

The  Sea-Nymphs  pile  around  their  coral  bowers, 

Tiiat  we  might  stand  upon  the  beach,  and  mark 

The  far-off  breakers  shower  their  silver  spray, 

And  hear  the  eternal  roar,  whose  pleasant  sound 

Told  us  that  never  mariner  should  reach 

Our  quiet  coast.     In  such  a  blessed  isle 

We  might  renew  the  days  of  infancy, 

And  life,  like  a  long  childhood,  pass  away, 

Without  one  care.     It  may  be,  Margaret, 

That  I  shall  yet  be  gather'd  to  my  friends  ; 

For  I  am  not  of  those  who  live  estranged 

Of  choice,  till  at  the  last  they  join  their  race 

In  the  family  vault.     If  so,  if  I  should  lose, 


Like  my  old  friend  the  Pilgrim,  this  huge  pack 

So  heavy  on  my  shoulders,  I  and  mine 

Right  pleasantly  will  end  our  pilgrimage. 

If  not,  if  I  should  never  get  beyond 

This  Vanity-town,  there  is  another  world 

Where  friends  will  meet.     And  often,  Margaret, 

I  gaze  at  night  into  the  boundless  sky, 

And  think  that  I  shall  there  be  born  agam, 

The  exalted  native  of  some  better  star  ; 

And,  like  the  untaught  American,  I  look 

To  find  in  Heaven  the  things  I  loved  on  earth. 


X. 
AUTUMN. 


Nay,  William,  nay,  not  so !  the  changeful  year, 

In  all  its  due  successions,  to  my  sight 

Presents  but  varied  beauties,  transient  all. 

All  in  their  season  good.     These  fading  leaves, 

That  with  their  rich  variety  of  hues 

Make  yonder  forest  in  the  slanting  sun 

So  beautiful,  in  you  awake  the  thought 

Of  winter,  —  cold,  drear  winter,  v/hen  the  trees 

Each  like  a  fleshless  skeleton  shall  stretch 

Its  bare,  brown  boughs ;  when  not  a  flower  shall 

spread 
Its  colors  to  the  day,  and  not  a  bird 
Carol  its  joyance,  —  but  all  nature  wear 
One  sullen  aspect,  bleak  and  desolate, 
To  eye,  ear,  feeling,  comfortless  alike. 
To  me  their  many-color'd  beauties  speak 
Of  times  of  merriment  and  festival. 
The  year's  best  holiday  :  I  call  to  mind 
The  school-boy  days,  when  in  the  falling  leaves 
I  saw  with  eager  hope  the  pleasant  sign 
Of  coming  Christinas ;  when  at  morn  I  took 
My  wooden  calendar,  and  counting  up 
Once  more  its  often-told  account,  smoothed  off 
Each  day  with  more  delight  the  daily  notch. 
To  you  the  beauties  of  the  autumnal  year 
Make  mournful  emblems,  and  you  think  of  man 
Doom'd  to  the  grave's  long  winter,  spirit-broken, 
Bending  beneath  the  burden  of  his  years, 
Sense-dull'd  and  fretful,  "  full  of  aches  and  pains," 
Yet  clinging  still  to  life.     To  me  they  show 
The  calm  decay  of  nature  when  the  mind 
Retains  its  strength,  and  in  the  languid  eye 
Religion's  holy  hopes  kindle  a  joy 
That  makes  old  age  look  lovely.     All  to  you 
Is  dark  and  cheerless ;  you  in  this  fair  world 
See  some  destroying  principle  abroad, 
Air,  earth,  and  water  full  of  living  things, 
Each  on  the  other  preying  ;  and  the  ways 
Of  man,  a  strange,  perplexing  labyrinth. 
Where  crimes  and  miseries,  each  producing  each, 
Render  life  loathsome,  and  destroy  tiie  hope 
That  should  in  death  bring  comfort.    Oh,  my  friend, 
That  thy  faith  were  as  mine  !  that  thou  couldst  see 
Death  still  j)roducing  life,  and  evil  still 
Working  its  own  destruction  ;  couldst  behold 
The  strifes  and  troubles  of  this  troubled  world 
With  the  strong  eye  that  sees  the  promised  day 


150 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


Dawn  through  this  night  of  tempest !     All  things, 

then, 
Would  minister  to  joy  ;  then  should  thine  heart 
Bo  lioal'd  and  harmonized,  and  thou  wouldst  feel 
God,  always,  every  where,  and  all  in  all. 

Westbiiry,  1798. 


XI. 


THE  VICTORY. 

Hark — how   the   church-bells,   with    redoubling 

peals. 
Stun  the  glad  ear  !     Tidings  of  joy  have  come. 
Good  tidings  of  great  joy  !  two  gallant  ships 
Met  on  the  element,  —  they  met,  they  fought 
A  desperate  fight! — good  tidings  of  great  joy! 
Old  England  triumph'd  !  yet  another  day 
Of  glory  for  the  ruler  of  the  waves  !  [cause,  — 

For   those  who   fell,  —  'twas    in    their   country's 
Tlicy  jiave  their  passing  paragraphs  of  praise, 
And  are  forgotten. 

There  was  one  who  died 
[n  that  day's  glory,  whose  obscurer  name 
No  proud  historian's  page  will  chronicle. 
Peace  to  his  honest  soul  !     I  read  his  name,  — 
'Twas  in  the  list  of  slaughter,  —  and  thank'd  God 
The  sound  was  not  familiar  to  mine  ear. 
But  it  was  told  me  after,  that  this  man 
Was  one  whom  lawful  violence  had  forced 
From  his  own  home,  and  wife,  and  little  ones, 
Who  by  his  labor  lived  ;  that  he  was  one 
Whose  uncorrupted  heart  could  keenly  feel 
A  husband's  love,  a  father's  anxiousness  ; 
That  from  the  wages  of  his  toil  he  fed 
The  distant  dear  ones,  and  would  talk  of  them 
At  midnight  when  he  trod  the  silent  deck 
With  him  he  valued,  —  talk  of  them,  of  joys 
Which  he  had  known, —  oh  God  I  and  of  the  hour 
When  they  should  meet  again,  till  his  full  heart. 
His  manly  heart,  at  times  would  overflow, 
Even  like  a  child's,  with  very  tenderness. 
Peace  to  his  honest  spirit !  suddenly 
It  came,  and  merciful  the  ball  of  death, 
That  it  came  suddenly  and  shattcr'd  liiin. 
Nor  left  a  moment's  agonizing  thought 
On  those  he  loved  so  well. 

He  ocean-deep 
Now  lies  at  rest.     Be  Thou  her  comforter. 
Who  art  the  widow's  friend  !     Man  does  not  know 
What  a  cold  sickness  made  her  blood  run  back 
When  first  she  heard  the  tidings  of  the  fight ! 
Man  does  not  know  with  what  a  dreadful  hope 
She  listened  to  the  names  of  those  who  died ; 
Man  docs  not  know,  or  knowing  will  not  heed, 
With  what  an  agony  of  tenderness 
She  gazed  upon  her  children,  and  beheld 
His  image  who  was  gone.     O  God  !  be  Thou, 
Who  art  the  widow's  friend,  her  comforter  ! 

Wesibury,  1798. 


XII. 

HISTORY. 

Thou  chronicle  of  crimes  !     I  read  no  more; 
For  I  am  one  who  willingly  would  love 
His  fellow-kind.     O  gentle  Poesy, 
Receive  me  from  the  court's  polluted  scenes, 
From  dungeon  horrors,  from  the  fields  of  war. 
Receive  me  to  your  haunts,  —  that  I  may  nurse 
My  nature's  better  feelings  ;  for  my  soul 
Sickens  at  man's  misdeeds  I 

I  spake,  when  lo  ! 
There  stood  before  me,  in  her  majesty, 
Clio,  the  strong-eyed  Muse.     Upon  her  brow 
Sate  a  calm  anger.     Go,  young  man,  she  cried, 
Sigh  among  myrtle  bowers,  and  let  thy  soul 
Effuse  itself  in  strains  so  sorrowful  sweet, 
That  love-sick  Maids  may  weep  upon  thy  page, 
Soothed  with  delicious  sorrow.    Oh  shame!  shame! 
Was  it  for  this  I  waken'd  thy  young  mind.' 
Was  it  for  this  1  made  thy  swelling  heart 
Throb  at  the  deeds  of  Greece,  and  thy  boy's  eye 
So  kindle  when  that  glorious  Spartan  died .' 
Boy  !  boy  !  deceive  me  not !  —  What  if  the  tale 
Of  murder'd  millions  strike  a  chilling  pang; 
What  if  Tiberius  in  his  island  stews, 
And  Philip  at  his  beads,  alike  inspire 
Strong  anger  and  contempt ;  hast  thou  not  risen 
With  nobler  feelings,  —  with  a  deeper  love 
For  freedom .'     Yes  ;  if  righteously  thy  soul 
Loathes  the  black  history  of  human  crimes 
And  human  misery,  let  that  spirit  fill 
Thy  song,  and  it  shall  teach  thee,  boy  !  to  raise 
Strains  such  as  Cato  might  have  deign'd  to  hear, 
As  Sidney  in  his  hall  of  bliss  may  love. 

Westbury,  1798. 


xni. 

WRITTEN     IMMEDIATELY    AFTER    READING 

THE   SPEECH  OF   ROBERT  EMMET, 

ON  HIS  TRIAL  AND  CONVICTION  FOR  HIGH  TRE.iSON, 
SEPTEMBER,    1803. 

"  Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph ;  let  my  grave 
Be  uninscribcd,  and  let  my  memory  rest 
Till  other  times  are  come,  and  other  men. 
Who  then  may  do  me  justice."* 

Emmet,  no ! 
No  withering  curse  hath  dried  my  spirit  up. 
That  I  should  now  be  silent,  —  that  my  soul 
Should  from  the  stirring  inspiration  shrink. 
Now  when  it  shakes  her,  and  withhold  her  voice, 

*  Tlieso  wf  re  the  words  in  liis  speec-li :  "  Let  tliere  lie  no 
inscription  upon  my  tomb.  Let  no  man  wrile  my  epitaph. 
No  m!in  c.in  write  my  epitaph.  I  am  here  ready  to  die.  I 
am  not  allowed  to  vindicate  my  character  ;  and  when  I  am 
prevented  from  vindicatin;;  myself,  let  no  man  d  ire  lo  calum- 
niate me.  Lot  my  character  and  my  motives  repose  in  ob- 
scurity and  peace,  till  other  times  and  other  men  can  do  them 
justice.  Then  shall  my  character  be  vindicated ;  then  may 
my  epitaph  be  written.     I  ii.ive  doxe." 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


15J 


Of  that  divincst  impulse  never  more 

AVorthy,  if  impious  I  withheld  it  now, 

Hardening  my  heart.     Here,  here  in  this  free  Isle, 

To  whicli  in  thy  young  virtue's  erring  zeal 

Thou  wert  so  perilous  an  cncm}'-, 

Here  in  free  England  shall  an  English  hand 

Build  thy  imperishable  monument; 

Oh,  — to  thine  own  misfortune  and  to  ours, 

By  thine  own  deadly  error  so  beguiled, 

Here  in  free  England  shall  an  English  voice 

Raise  up  thy  mourning-song.     For  thou  hast  paid 

The  bitter  penalty  of  that  misdeed ; 

Justice  hath  done  her  unrelenting  part. 

If  she  in  truth  be  Justice  who  drives  on. 

Bloody  and  blind,  the  chariot  wheels  of  death. 

So  young,  so  glowing  for  the  general  good. 

Oh,  what  a  lovely  manhood  had  been  thine, 

When  all  the  violent  workings  of  thy  youth 

Had  passed  away,  hadst  thou  been  wisely  spared, 

Left  to  the  slow  and  certain  influences 

Of  silent  feeling  and  maturing  thought ! 

How  had  that  heart,  —  that  noble  heart  of  thine. 

Which  even  now  hadsnapp'd  one  spell,  which  beat 

With  such  brave  indignation  at  the  shame 

And  guilt  of  France,  and  of  her  miscreant  Lord, — 

How  had  it  clung  to  England  !     With  what  love, 

What  Dure  and  perfect  love,  return'd  to  her. 

Now  worthy  of  thy  love,  the  champion  now 

For  freedom,  —  yea,  the  only  champion  now. 

And  soon  to  be  the  Avenger.     But  the  blow 

Hath  fallen,  the  indiscriminating  blow. 

That  for  its  portion  to  the  Grave  consign'd 

Youth,  Genius,  generous  Virtue.    Oh,  grief,  grief  I 

Oh,  sorrow  and  reproach  !     Have  ye  to  learn, 

Deaf  to  the  past,  and  to  the  future  blind, 

Ye  who  thus  irremissibly  exact 

The  forfeit  life,  how  lightly  life  is  staked. 

When  in  distempered  times  the  feverish  mind 

To  strong  delusion  yields.'     Have  ye  to  learn 

With  what  a  deep  and  spirit-stirring  voice 

Pity  doth  call  Revenge  ?     Have  ye  no  hearts 

To  feel  and  understand  how  Mercy  tames 

The  rebel  nature,  madden'd  bv  old  wrono-s. 

And  binds  it  in  the  gentle  bands  of  love. 

When  steel  and  adamant  were  weak  to  hold 

That  Samson-strength  subdued ! 

Let  no  man  write 
Thy  epitaph  !     Emmet,  nay  ;  thou  shalt  not  go 
Without  thy  funeral  strain  1     Oh,  young,  and  o-ood. 
And  wise,  though  erring  here,  thou  shalt  not  go 
Unhonor'd  nor  unsung.     And  better  thus 
Beneath  that  indiscriminating  stroke, 
Better  to  fall,  than  to  have  lived  to  mourn. 
As  sure  thou  wouldst,  in  misery  and  remorse, 
Thine  own  disastrous  triumph;  to  have  seen, 
If  the  Almighty  at  that  awful  hour 
I  lad  turn'd  away  his  face,  wild  Ignorance 
Let  loose,  and  frantic  Vengeance,  and  dark  Zeal, 
And  all  bad  passions  tyrannous,  and  the  fires 
Of  Persecution  once  again  ablaze. 
How  had  it  sunk  into  thy  soul  to  see, 
Last  curse  of  all,  the  ruffian  slaves  of  France 
In  thy  dear  native  country  lording  it! 
How  happier  thus,  in  that  heroic  mood 


That  takes  away  the  sting  of  death,  to  die, 
By  all  the  good  and  all  the  wise  forgiven  ! 
Yea,  in  all  ages  by  the  wise  and  good 
To  be  remember'd.  mourn'd,  and  honoi  d  still. 

Keswick. 


XIV. 
THANKSGIVING    FOR    VICTORY. 

[Written  for  Music,  and  composed  by  Shield.] 

Glory  to  thee  in  thine  omnipotence, 
O  Lord,  who  art  our  shield  and  our  defence. 
And  dost  dispense. 
As  seemeth  best  to  thine  unerring  will, 
(Which  passeth  mortal  sense,) 
The  lot  of  Victory  still ; 
Edging  sometimes  with  might  the  sword  unjust; 
And  bowing  to  the  dust 
The  rightful  cause,  that  so  such  seeming  ill 
May  thine  appointed  purposes  fulfil ; 
Sometimes,  as  in  this  late  auspicious  hour 
For  which  our  hymns  we  raise. 
Making  the  wicked  feel  thy  present  power; 
Glory  to  thee  and  praise. 
Almighty  God,  by  whom  our  strength  was  given  ! 
Glory  to  thee,  O  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ! 

Keswick,  1815. 


XV. 
STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    LADY    LONSDALe's     ALBUM,    AT    LC"V- 
THER    CASTLE,    OCTOBER    13,   1821. 

1. 

Sometimes,  in  youthful  years. 
When  in  some  ancient  ruin  I  have  stood, 
Alone  and  musing,  till  with  quiet  tears 

I  felt  my  cheeks  bedew'd, 
A  melancholy  thought  hath  made  me  grieve 
For  this  our  age,  and  humbled  me  in  mind. 

That  it  should  pass  away  and  leave 

No  monuments  behind. 


Not  for  themselves  alone 
Our  fathers  lived ;  nor  with  a  niggard  hand 
Raised  they  the  fabrics  of  enduring  stone. 

Which  yet  adorn  the  land  ; 
Their  piles,  memorials  of  the  mighty  dead. 
Survive  them  still,  majestic  in  decay; 

But  ours  are  like  ourselves,  I  said, 

The  creatures  of  a  day. 


With  other  feelings  now, 
Lowther  I  have  I  beheld  thy  stately  walls. 
Thy  pinnacles,  and  broad,  embattled  brow, 

And  hospitable  halls. 


152 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


The  sun  those  wide -spread  battlements  shall  crest, 
And  liilent  years  unharming  shall  go  by, 

Till  centuries  in  their  course  invest 

Thy  towers  with  sanctity. 

4. 

But  thou  the  while  shalt  bear, 
To  after-times,  an  old  and  honored  name, 
And  to  remote  posterity  declare 

Thy  Founder's  virtuous  fame. 
Fair  structure  !  worthy  the  triumphant  age 
Of  glorious  England's  opulence  and  power, 

Peace  be  thy  lasting  heritage, 

And  happiness  thy  dower ! 


XVI. 

STANZAS 


ADDRESSED  TO  W.  R.  TURNER,  ESq.,  R.  A.,  ON  HIS 
VIEW  OF  THE  LAGO  MAGGIORE  FROM  THE  TOWN 
OF    ARONA. 

[Engraved  for  the  Keepsake  of  1829.] 


Turner,  thy  pencil  brings  to  mind  a  day 
When  from  Laveno  and  the  Beuscer  hill 

1  over  Lake  Verbanus  held  my  way. 

In  pleasant  fellowship,  with  wind  at  will ; 

Smooth  were  the  waters  wide,  the  sky  serene. 

And  our  hearts  gladden'd  with  the  joyful  scene ;  — 

2. 

Joyful,  —  for  all  things  minister'd  delight, — 
The  lake  and  land,  the  mountains  and  the  vales; 

The  Alps  their  snowy  summits  rear'd  in  light, 
Tempering  with  gelid  breath  the  summer  gales ; 

And  verdant  shores  and  woods  refresh'd  the  eye 

That  else  had  ached  beneath  that  brilliant  sky. 

3. 

To  that  elaborate  island  were  we  bound, 
Of  yore  the  scene  of  Borromean  pride, — 

Folly's  prodigious  work ;  where  all  around, 
Under  its  coronet  and  self-belied, 

Look  where  you  will,  you  cannot  choose  but  see 

The  obtrusive  motto's  proud  "  Humility  !  " 


Far  off  the  Borromean  saint  was  seen. 

Distinct,  though  distant,  o'er  his  native  town, 

Where  his  Colossus  with  benignant  mien 
Looks  from  its  station  on  Arona  down  : 

To  it  the  inland  sailor  lifts  his  eyes. 

From  the  wide  lake,  when  perilous  storms  arise. 


But  no  storm  threaten'd  on  that  summer-day ; 

The  whole  rich  scene  appoar'd  for  joyance  made ; 
With  many  a  gliding  bark  the  mere  was  gay. 

The  fields  and  groves  in  all  their  wealth  array'd ; 
I  could  have  thought  the  Sun  beheld  with  smiles 
Those  towns,  and  palaces,  and  populous  islos. 


6. 
From  fair  Arona,  even  on  such  a  day, 

When  gladness  was  descending  like  a  shower. 
Great  painter,  did  thy  gifted  eye  survey 

The  splendid  scene  ;  and,  conscious  of  its  power. 
Well  hath  thine  hand  inimitable  given 
The  glories  of  the  lake,  and  land,  and  heaven. 

Keswick,  1828. 


XVII. 


ON  A  PICTURE  BY  J.  M.  WRIGHT,  ESQ. 

[Engraved  for  the  Keepsake  of  1829.] 

1. 

The  sky-lark  hath  perceived  his  prison-door 
Unclosed ;  for  liberty  the  captive  tries  : 

Puss  eagerly  hath  watched  him  from  the  floor. 
And  in  her  grasp  he  flutters,  pants,  and  dies 

2. 

Lucy's  own  Puss,  and  Lucy's  own  dear  Bird, 
Her  foster'd  favorites  both  for  many  a  day. 

That  which  the  tender-hearted  girl  preferr'd. 
She  in  her  fondness  knew  not,  sooth  to  say. 


For  if  the  sky-lark's  pipe  were  shrill  and  strong, 
And  its  rich  tones  the  thrilling  ear  might  please. 

Yet  Pussybel  could  breathe  a  fire-side  song 
As  winning,  when  she  lay  on  Lucy's  knees. 

•      4. 

Both  knew  ner  voice,  and  each  alike  would  seek 
Her  eye,  her  smile,  her  fondling  touch  to  gain  : 

How  faintly,  then,  may  words  her  sorrow  speak. 
When  by  the  one  she  sees  the  other  slain. 

5. 
The  flowers  fall  scatter'd  from  her  lifted  hand ; 

A  cry  of  grief  she  utters  in  affright; 
And  self-condemn'd  for  negligence  she  stands 

Aghast  and  helpless  at  the  cruel  sight. 

6. 
Come,  Lucy,  let  me  dry  those  tearful  eyes; 

Take  thou,  dear  child,  a  lesson  not  unholy, 
From  one  whom  nature  taught  to  moralize, 

Both  in  his  mirth  and  in  his  melancholy. 


I  will  not  warn  thee  not  to  set  thy  heart 
Too  fondly  upon  perishable  things ; 

In  vain  the  earnest  preacher  spends  his  art 
Upon  that  theme  ;  in  vain  the  poet  sings. 


It  is  our  nature's  strong  necessity. 

And  this  the  soul's  unerring  instincts  tell . 

Therefore  I  say,  let  us  love  worthily, 

Dear  child,  and  then  we  cannot  love  too  well. 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


153 


i). 
Better  it  is  all  losses  to  deplore, 

Which  dutiful  affection  can  sustain, 
Than  that  the  heart  should,  in  its  inmost  core. 

Harden  without  it,  and  have  lived  in  vain. 

10. 

TJiis  love  which  thou  hast  lavish'd,  and  the  woe 
Which  makes  thy  lip  now  quiver  with  distress, 

Are  but  a  vent,  an  innocent  overflow. 

From  the  deep  springs  of  female  tenderness. 

11. 

And  somethinc  I  would  teach  thee  from  the  grief 
That  tlius  hath  fill'd  those  gentle  eyes  with  tears, 

The  which  may  be  thy  sober,  sure  relief, 
When  sorrow  visits  thee  in  after  years. 

12. 

I  ask  not  whither  is  the  spirit  flown 

That  lit  the  eye  which  there  in  death  is  seal'd ; 
Our  Fatlier  hath  not  made  that  mystery  known ; 

Needless  the  knowledge,  therefore  not  reveal'd. 

13. 

But  didst  thou  know,  in  sure  and  sacred  truth, 
It  had  a  place  assign'd  in  yonder  skies, 

There,  through  an  endless  life  of  joyous  youtli. 
To  warble  in  the  bowers  of  Paradise, — 

14. 

Lucy,  if  then  the  power  to  thee  were  given 
In  that  cold  form  its  life  to  reengage, 

Wouldst  thou   call    back    the    warbler    from   its 
Heaven 
To  be  again  the  tenant  of  a  cage  ? 

15. 

Only  that  thou  mightst  cherish  it  again, 
Wouldst  thou  the  object  of  thy  love  recall 

To  mortal  life,  and  chance,  and  change,  and  pain, 
And  death,  which  must  be  suffered  once  by  all  ? 

16. 

Oh,  no,  thou  say'st :  oh,  surely  not,  not  so  ! 

I  read  the  answer  which  those  looks  express  ; 
For  pure  and  true  affection,  well  I  know, 

Leaves  in  tlie  heart  no  room  for  selfishness. 

17. 
Such  love  of  all  our  virtues  is  the  gem ; 

We  bring  with  us  the  immortal  seed  at  birth : 
Of  heaven  it  is,  and  heavenly ;  woe  to  them 

Who  make  it  wholly  earthly  and  of  earth  ! 

18. 
What  we  love  perfectly,  for  its  own  sake 

We  love,  and  not  our  own,  being  ready  thus 
Whate'er  self-sacrifice  is  ask'd,  to  make ; 

That  which  is  best  for  it,  is  best  for  us. 

19. 

O  Lucy  !  treasure  up  that  pious  thought ! 
It  hath  a  bal-.  i  for  sorrow's  deadliest  darts; 
?0 


And  with  true  comfort  thou  wilt  find  it  fraught. 
If  grief  should  reach  thee  in  thy  heart  of  hearts. 

Buckland,  1828. 


XVIIl. 


My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I  behold. 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  ; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

2. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bcdew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 


My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead  ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years  ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

4. 
My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead  ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be. 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  Futurity  : 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

Keswick,  1818. 


XIX. 

IMITATED  FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 

Lord  !  who  art  merciful  as  well  as  just. 
Incline  thine  ear  to  me,  a  child  of  dust  I 
Not  what  I  would,  O  Lord  !  I  offer  thee, 
Alas  !  but  what  I  can. 
Father  Almighty,  who  hast  made  me  man, 
And  bade  me  look  to  Heaven,  for  Thou  art  there. 
Accept  my  sacrifice  and  humble  prayer. 
Four  things  which  are  not  in  thy  treasury, 
I  lay  before  thee,  Lord,  with  this  petition  :  — 
My  nothingness,  my  wants. 
My  sins,  and  my  contrition. 

Lowther  Castle,  1828. 


154 


THE    RETROSPECT. 


THE    RETROSPECT. 


Corston  is  a  small  village  about  three  miles  from  Batli,  a  little 
to  the  left  of  the  liristol  road.  The  munor  was  parted  with 
hy  the  monks  of  Bath,  about  the  roigu  of  Ilenry  I.,  to  Sir 
lloger  de  St.  Lo,  in  exchange.  It  continued  in  his  family 
till  the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  when  it  passed  to  the  family 
of  Inge,  who  are  said  to  have  been  domestics  to  the  St. 
Los  for  several  generations.  In  process  of  time,  it  came  to 
the  Harringtons,  and  was  by  them  sold  to  Joseph  Langton, 
whose  daughter  and  heiress  brought  it  in  marriage  to 
William  Gore  Langton,  Esq. 

The  church,  which,  in  1292,  was  valued  at  7  marks,  9s.  4(?., 
was  appropriated  to  the  prior  and  convent  of  Bath  ;  and 
a  vicarage  ordained  here  by  Bishop  John  de  Drokensford, 
Nov.  1,  132J,  decreeing  that  the  vicar  and  his  successors  in 
perpeluiim  should  have  a  hall,  with  chambers,  kitchen,  and 
bakehouse,  with  a  tliird  part  of  the  garden  and  curtilage, 
and  a  pigeon-house,  formerly  belonging  to  the  parsonage ; 
that  he  should  have  one  acre  of  arable  land,  consisting  of 
three  parcels,  late  part  of  the  demesne  of  the  said  parsonage, 
together  wiih  coiiinion  pasturage  for  his  swine  in  such 
places  as  the  rector  of  the  said  church  used  that  privilege  ; 
that  he  should  receive  from  the  prior  and  convent  of 
Balh  one  quarter  of  bread-corn  yearly,  and  have  all  the 
altarage,  and  all  small  tithes  of  beans  and  other  blade 
growing  in  the  cottage  enclosures  and  cultivated  curtilages 
throughout  tlie  parisli ;  that  the  religious  aforesaid  and 
their  successors,  as  rectors  of  the  said  cliurch,  should  have 
all  the  arable  land,  with  a  park  belonging  to  the  land,  (the 
acre  above  mentioned  only  excepted,)  and  receive  all  great 
tithes,  as  well  of  corn  as  of  hay  ;  the  said  religious  to 
sustain  all  burdens,  ordinary  and  extraordinary,  incumbent 
on  the  church  as  rectors  thereof.  The  prior  of  Bath  had 
a  yearly  pension  out  of  the  vicarage  of  4s.  —  CulUnson's 
Hist,  of  SoraerscUhire,  vol.  iii.  pp.  341 — 347. 


On  as  1  journey  through  the  vale  of  years, 
By  hopes  enliven'd,  or  depress'd  by  fears, 
Allow  me,  Memory,  in  thy  treasured  store. 
To  view  the  days  that  will  return  no  more. 
And  yes !  before  thine  intellectual  ray 
The  clouds  of  mental  darkness  melt  away  ! 
As  when,  at  earliest  day's  awakening  dawn, 
The  hovering  mists  obscure  tlie  dewy  lawn. 
O'er  all  the  landscape  spread  their  mfluence  chill, 
Hang  o'er  the  vale  and  wood,  and  hide  the  hill ; 
Anon,  slow-rising,  comes  the  orb  of  day; 
Slow  fade  the  shadowy  mists  and  roll  away  ; 
The  prospect  opens  on  the  traveller's  sight. 
And  hills  and  vales  and  woods  reflect  the  living 
light. 

0  thou,  the  mistress  of  my  future  days. 
Accept  tliy  minstrel's  retrospective  lays; 
To  whom  the  minstrel  and  the  lyre  belong, 
Accept,  my  Edith,  Memory's  pensive  song. 
Of  long-past  days  I  sing,  ere  yet  1  knew 

Or  thought  and  grief,  or  happiness  and  you ; 
Ere  yet  my  infant  heart  had  learnt  to  prove 
The  cares  of  life,  the  hopes  and  fears  of  love. 

Corston,  twelve  years  in  various  fortunes  fled 
Have  past  with  restless  progress  o'er  my  head, 
Since  in  thy  vale,  beneath  the  master's  rule, 

1  dwelt  an  inmate  of  the  village  school. 


Yet  still  will  Memory's  busy  eye  retrace 
Each  little  vestige  of  the  'veil-known  place; 
Each  wonted  haunt  and  scene  of  youthful  joy, 
Where  merriment  has  checr'd  tlie  careless  boy ; 
Well-pleased  will  fancy  still  the  spot  survey 
Where  once  he  triumph'd  in  the  boyish  play. 
Without  one  care  where  every  morn  he  rose, 
Where  every  evening  sunk  to  cahn  repose. 

Large  was  the  house,  though  fallen  in  course, 

of  fate. 
From  its  old  grandeur  and  manorial  state. 
Lord  of  the  manor,  here  the  jovial  Squire 
Once  call'd  his  tenants  round  the  crackling  fire; 
Here  while  the  glow  of  joy  suffused  his  face, 
He  told  his  ancient  exploits  in  the  chase. 
And,  proud  his  rival  sportsmen  to  surpass, 
He  lit  again  the  pipe,  and  fill'd  again  the  glass. 

But  now  no  more  was  heard  at  early  morn 
The  echoing  clangor  of  the  huntsman's  horn; 
No  more  the  eager  hounds  with  deepening  cry 
Leap'd  round  him  as  they  knew  their  pastime 

nigh ; 
The  Squire  no  more  obey'd  the  morning  call, 
Nor  favorite  spaniels  fill'd  the  sportsman's  hall ; 
For  he,  the  last  descendant  of  his  race, 
Slept  with  his  fathers,  and  forgot  the  chase. 
There  now  in  petty  empire  o'er  the  school 
The  mighty  Master  held  despotic  rule  ; 
Trembling  in  silence  all  his  deeds  we  saw, 
His  look  a  mandate,  and  his  word  a  law; 
Severe  his  voice,  severe  and  stern  his  mien. 
And  wondrous  strict  he  was,  and  wondrous  wise 
I  ween. 

Even  now  through  many  a  long,  long  year  I  trace 
The  hour  when  first  with  awe  I  view'd  his  face ; 
Even  now  recall  my  entrance  at  the  dome, — 
'Twas  the  first  day  I  ever  left  my  home  ! 
Years  intervening  have  not  worn  away 
The  deep  remembrance  of  that  wretched  day, 
Nor  taught  me  to  forget  my  earliest  fears, 
A  mother's  fondness,  and  a  mother's  tears ; 
When  close  she  press'd  me  to  her  sorrowing 
As  loath  as  even  I  myself  to  part ;  [heart, 

And  I,  as  1  beheld  her  sorrows  flow, 
With  painful  eff'ort  hid  my  inward  woe. 

But  time  to  youtliful  troubles  brings  relief. 
And  each  new  object  weans  the  child  from  grief. 
Like  April  showers  the  tears  of  youth  descend; 
Sudden  they  fall,  and  suddenly  they  end. 
And  fresher  pleasure  cheers  the  following  hour, 
As  brighter  shines  the  sun  after  the  April  shower. 

Methinks  even  now  the  interview  1  see. 
The  Mistress's  glad  smile,  the  Master's  glee; 
Much  of  my  future  happiness  they  said. 
Much  of  the  easy  life  the  scholars  led. 
Of  spacious  play-ground  and  of  wholesome  air. 
The  best  instruction  and  the  tenderest  care ; 
And  when  I  followed  to  the  garden-door 
My  father,  till  through  tears  I  saw  no  more. 
How  civilly  they  soothed  my  parting  pain  ! 
And  never  did  they  speak  so  civilly  again. 


HYMN    TO    THE    PENATES. 


155 


Why  loves  tlio  soul  on  earlier  years  to  dwell, 
When  Memory  spreads  around  her  saddening 

spell, 
When  discontent,  with  sullen  gloom  o'ercast. 
Turns  from  the  present,  and  prefers  the  past? 
Why  calls  reflection  to  my  pensive  view 
Each  trifling  act  of  infancy  anew, 
Each  trifling  act  with  pleasure  pondering  o'er, 
Even  at  the  time  when  trifles  please  no  more? 
Yet  is  remembrance  sweet,  though  well  I  know 
The  days  of  childhood  are  but  days  of  woe  ; 
Some  rude  restraint,  some  petty  tyrant  sours 
What  else  should  be  our  sweetest,  blithest  hours  ; 
Yet  is  it  sweet  to  call  those  hours  to  mind, — 
Those  easy  hours  forever  left  behind; 
Ere  care  began  the  spirit  to  oppress. 
When  ignorance  itself  was  happiness. 

Sucli  was  my  state  in  those  remember'd  years, 
When  two  small  acres  bounded  all  my  fears ; 
And  therefore  still  with  pleasure,  I  recall     [hall, 
The  tapestried  school,  the  bright,  brown-boarded 
The  murmuring  brook,  that  every  morning  saw 
The  due  observance  of  the  cleanly  law  ; 
The  walnuts,  where,  when  favor  would  allow. 
Full  ofl  I  wont  to  search  each  well-stripp'd  bough  ; 
The  crab-tree,  which  supplied  a  secret  hoard 
With  roasted  crabs  to  deck  the  wintry  board ; 
These  trifling  objects  then  my  heart  possessed. 
These  trifling  objects  still  remain  impress'd ; 
So  when  with  unskill'd  hand  some  idle  hind 
Carves  his  rude  name  within  a  sapling's  rind. 
In  after  years  the  peasant  lives  to  see 
The  expanding  letters  grow  as  grows  the  tree ; 
Though  every  winter's  desolating  sway 
Shake  the  hoarse  grove  and  sweep  the  leaves 

away, 
That  rude  inscription  uneSaced  will  last, 
Unalter'd  by  the  storm  or  wintry  blast. 

Oh,  while  well  pleased  the  letter'd  traveller  roams 
Among  old  temples,  palaces,  and  domes. 
Strays  with  the  Arab  o'er  the  wreck  of  time 
Where  erst  Palmyra's  towers  arose  sublime. 
Or  marks  the  lazy  Turk's  lethargic  pride. 
And  Grecian  slavery  on  Ilyssus'  side. 
Oh,  be  it  mine,  aloof  from  public  strife, 
To  mark  the  changes  of  domestic  life. 
The  alter'd  scenes  where  once  I  bore  a  part. 
Where  every  change  of  fortune  strikes  the  heart. 
As  when  the  merry  bells  with  echoing  sound 
Proclaim  the  news  of  victory  around. 
Rejoicing  patriots  run  the  news  to  spread 
Of  glorious  conquest  and  of  thousands  dead, 
All  join  the  loud  huzza  with  eager  breath. 
And  triumph  in  the  tale  of  blood  and  death ; 
But  if  extended  on  the  battle-jjlain. 
Cut  off  in  conquest  some  dear  friend  be  slain, 
Affection  then  will  fill  the  sorrowing  eye, 
And  suff'cring  Nature  grieve  that  one  should  die. 

Cold  was  the  morn,  and  bleak  the  wintry  blast 
Blew  o'er  the  meadow,  when  1  saw  thee  last. 
My  bosom  bounded  as  1  wandered  round. 
With  silent  stop,  the  long-rcmcrnber'd  ground, 


Where  1  had  loiter'd  out  so  many  an  hour. 
Chased  the  gay  butterfly,  and  cuil'd  the  flower. 
Sought  the  swift  arrow's  erring  course  to  trace. 
Or  with  mine  equals  vied  amid  the  chase. 
I  saw  the  church  where  I  had  slept  away 
The  tedious  service  of  the  summer  day  ; 
Or,  hearing  sadly  all  the  preacher  told. 
In  winter  waked  and  shiver'd  with  the  cold. 
Oft  have  my  footsteps  roam'd  the  sacred  ground 
Where  heroes,  kings,  and  poets  sleep  around ; 
Oft  traced  the  mouldering  castle's  ivied  wall. 
Or  aged  convent  tottering  to  its  fall ; 
Yet  never  had  my  bosom  felt  such  pain. 
As,  Corston,  when  I  saw  thy  scenes  again; 
For  many  a  long-lost  pleasure  came  to  view. 
For  many  a  long-past  sorrow  rose  anew  ; 
Where  whilom  all  were  friends  I  stood  alone. 
Unknowing  all  I  saw,  of  all  I  saw  unknown. 

There,  where  my  little  hands  were  wont  to  rear 
With  pride  the  earliest  salad  of  the  year; 
Where  never  idle  weed  to  spring  was  seen, 
Rank  thorns  and  nettles  rcar'd  their  heads  ob- 
scene. 
Still  all  around  and  sad,  1  saw  no  more 
The  playful  group,  nor  heard  the  playful  roar ; 
There  echoed  round  no  shout  of  mirth  and  glee; 
It  seem'd  as  though  the  world  were  changed  like 
me ! 

Enough  !  it  boots  not  on  the  past  to  dwell, — 
Fair  scene  of  other  years,  a  long  farewell  I 
Rouse  up,  my  soul !  it  boots  not  to  repine  ; 
Rouse  up  !  for  worthier  feelings  should  be  thine  ; 
Thy  path  is  plain  and  straight,  —  that  light  is 

given,  — 
Onward  in  faith,  —  and  leave  tlie  rest  to  Heaven. 

Oxford,  1794. 


HYMN   TO    THE   PENATES. 


Remove  far  from  me  vanity  and  lies ;  g^ive  me  neither  ■povcrti, 
nor  riches  ;  feed  me  with  food  convenient  for  me. 

The  words  of  Ague. 

OIKOI  fJcXrepov  eivai,  cttci.  0Xa8cpon  to  ^vpiKpi. 

Hesiod. 


Yet  one  Song  more  !  one  high  and  solemn  strain 

Ere,  Phoebus  I  on  thy  temple's  ruin'd  wall 

I  hang  the  silent  harp  :  there  may  its  strings, 

When  the  rude  tempest  shakes  the  aged  pile, 

Make  melancholy  music.     One  song  more  ! 

Penates,  hear  me  !  for  to  you  I  hymn 

The  votive  lay ;  whether,  as  sages  deem, 

Ye  dwell  in  inmost*  Heaven,  the  Counsellors t 

Of  Jove  ;  or  if.  Supreme  of  Deities, 

All  things  are  yours,  and  in  your  holy  train 

Jove  proudly  ranks,  and  Juno,  white-arm'd  Qneen, 

*  Hence  one  explanation  of  tlie  name  Penates,  because  they 
were  supposed  to  reign  in  the  inmost  heavens. 

t  Tliis  was  the  belief  of  the  ancient  Hetrusci.  who  called 
them  Concertes  and  Complices. 


15G 


HYMN    TO    THE    PENATES. 


And  wisest  of  Immortals,  the  dread  Maid 
Athenian  Pallas.     Venerable  Powers,  [rites 

Hearken  your  hymn  of  praise  !  Though  from  your 
Estranged,  and  exiled  from  your  altars  long, 
I  have  not  ceased  to  love  you,  Household  Gods ! 
In  many  a  long  and  melancholy  hour 
Of  solitude  and  sorrow,  hath  my  heart 
With  earnest  longings  pray'd  to  rest  at  length 
Beside  your  hallow'd  hearth,  —  for  Peace  is  there  ! 
Yes,  I  have  loved  you  long !  I  call  on  ye 
Yourselves  to  witness  with  what  holy  joy, 
Shunning  the  coiuinon  herd  of  human-kind, 
I  have  retired  to  watch  your  lonely  fires. 
And  commune  with  myself:  —  delightful  hours. 
That  gave  mysterious  pleasure,  made  me  know 
Mine  inmost  heart,  its  weakness  and  its  strength. 
Taught  me  to  cherish  with  dcvoutest  care 
Its  deep,  unworldly  feelings,  taught  me  too 
The  best  of  lessons —  to  rcsjjcct  myself. 

Nor  have  I  ever  ceased  to  reverence  you. 
Domestic  Deities  !  from  the  first  dawn 
Of  reason,  tlirougli  the  adventurous  paths  of  youth. 
Even  to  this  better  day,  when  on  mine  ear 
The  uproar  of  contending  nations  sounds 
But  like  the  passing  wind,  and  wakes  no  pulse 
To  tumult.     When  a  child,  (for  still  I  love 
To  dwell  with  fondness  on  my  childish  years,) 
When  first,  a  little  one,  I  left  my  home, 
I  can  remember  the  first  grief  1  felt, 
And  the  first  painful  smile  that  clothed  my  front 
With  feelings  not  its  own  :  sadly  at  night 
I  sat  me  down  beside  a  stranger's  hearth ; 
And  when  the  lingering  hour  of  rest  was  come. 
First  wet  with  tears  my  pillow.     As  I  grew 
In  years  and  knowledge,  and  the  course  of  time 
Developed  the  young  feelings  of  my  heart. 
When  most  I  loved  in  solitude  to  rove 
Amid  the  woodland  gloom;  or  where  the  rocks 
Darken'd  old  Avon's  stream,  in  the  ivied  cave 
Recluse  to  sit  and  brood  the  future  song,  — 
Yet  not  the  less,  Penates,  loved  I  then 
Your  altars  ;  not  the  less  at  evening  hour 
Loved  I  beside  the  well-trimm'd  fire  to  sit, 
Absorb'd  in  many  a  dear,  deceitful  dream 
Of  visionary  joys,  —  deceitful  dreams,  — 
And  yet  not  vain;  for  painting  purest  bliss, 
They  form'd  to  Fancy's  mould  her  votary's  heart. 

By  Cherwell's  sedgy  side,  and  in  the  meads 
Where  Isis  in  her  calm,  clear  stream  reflects 
The  willow's  bending  boughs,  at  early  dawn, 
In  the  noon-tide  hour,  and  when  the  night-mist  rose, 
I  have  remember'd  you ;  and  when  the  noise 
Of  lewd  Intemperance  on  my  lonely  ear 
Burst  with  loud  tumult,  as  recluse  I  sate. 
Musing  on  days  when  man  should  be  redeem'd 
From  servitude,  and  vice,  and  wretchedness. 
I  blest  you.  Household  Gods  !  because  I  loved 
Your  peaceful  altars  and  serener  rites. 
Nor  did  I  cease  to  reverence  you,  when  driven 
Amid  the  jarring  crowd,  an  unfit  man 
To  mingle  with  the  world ;  still,  still  my  heart 
Sigh'd  for  your  sanctuary,  and  inly  pined  ; 
And  loathing  human  converse,  I  have  stray'd 


Where  o'er  the  sea-beach  chilly  howl'd  the  blast. 
And  gazed  upon  the  world  of  waves,  and  wish'd 
That  1  were  far  beyond  the  Atlantic  deep, 
In  woodland  haunts,  a  sojourner  with  Peace. 

Not  idly  did  the  ancient  poets  dream, 
Who  peopled  earth  with  Deities.     They  trod 
The  wood  with  reverence  where  the  Dryads  dwelt ; 
At  day's  dim  dawn  or  evening's  misty  hour 
They  saw  the  Oreads  on  their  mountain  haunts. 
And  felt  their  holy  influence  ;  nor  impure 
Of  thought,  nor  ever  with  polluted  hands,* 
Touch'd  they  without  a  prayer  the  Naiad's  si)ring, 
Nor  without  reverence  to  the  River  God 
Cross'd  in  unhappy  hour  his  limpid  stream. 
Yet  was  this  influence  transient;  such  brief  awe 
Inspiring  as  the  thunder's  long,  loud  peal 
Strikes  to  the  feeble  spirit.     Household  Gods, 
Not  such  your  empire  I  in  your  votaries'  breasts 
No  momentary  impulse  ye  awake  ; 
Nor  fleeting,  like  their  local  energies, 
The  deep  devotion  that  your  fanes  impart. 
O  ve  whom  Youth  has  wilder'd  on  your  wav, 
Or  Pleasure  with  her  siren  song  hath  lured. 
Or  Fame  with  spirit-stirring  trump  hath  call'd 
To  climb  her  summits, —  to  your  Household  Gods 
Return ;  for  not  in  Pleasure's  gay  abodes. 
Nor  in  the  unquiet,  unsafe  halls  of  Fame 
Doth  Happiness  abide.     O  ye  who  grieve 
Much  for  the  miseries  of  your  fellow-kind, 
More  for  their  vices  ;  ye  whose  honest  eyes 
Scowl  on  Oppression,  —  ye  whose  honest  hearts 
Beat  high  when  Freedom  sounds  her  dread  alarm  ; 
O  ye  who  quit  the  path  of  peaceful  life 
Crusading  for  mankind  —  a  spaniel  race 
That  lick  the  hand  that  beats  them,  or  tear  all 
Alike  in  frenzy  ;  to  your  Household  Gods 
Return  !  for  by  their  altars  Virtue  dwells. 
And  Happiness  with  her  ;  for  by  their  fires 
Tranquillity,  in  no  unsocial  mood. 
Sits  silent,  listening  to  the  pattering  shower; 
For,  so  Suspicion!  sleep  not  at  the  gate 
Of  Wisdom,  Falsehood  shall  not  enter  there. 

As  on  the  height  of  some  huge  eminence, 
Reach'd  with  long  labor,  the  way-faring  man 
Pauses  awhile,  and  gazing  o'er  the  plain 
With  many  a  sore  step  travell'd,  turns  him  then 
Serious  to  contemplate  the  onward  road, 

♦  MrjSe  ttot'  a'.vaiov  itoTa^wv  KaWipponti  viiop 
Tinaoi  Tzcpav,  nctv  j '  C'^n  ii(o)'  ci  Ka\a  ftCcOpa, 
Xtfpaj  vixhiijitvoi  TTo\vr}paT('>  vSari  Xeukm, 
'Of  Trorajiov  iiaSr),  KaKorrjTi  i^c  x^'P"?  ai'iTrroj 
T<i)ic  ^coi  vCfxcmocrt,  xai  a'Syta  itjKav  omaaw. 

Hesiod. 
Whene'er  thy  feet  the  river  ford  essay, 
Whose  flowing  current  winds  its  limpid  way, 
Thy  hand.s  amid  the  pleasant  waters  lave  ; 
And  lowly  gazing  on  the  heautcous  wave, 
Appease  tlie  River  God  :  if  tliou  perverse 
Pass  with  unsprinlvled  hand.-!,  a  heavy  curse 
Shall  rest  upon  thee  from  the  observant  skies, 
And  after-woes  retrihutivc  arise.  Elton. 

t  Oft  though  Wisdom  wake.  Suspicion  sleeps 
At  Wisdom's  gate,  and  to  Simplicity 
Resigns  her  charge,  while  Goodness  thinks  no  ill 
Where  no  ill  seems.  Milton. 


HYMN    TO     THE    PENATES. 


157 


And  calls  to  mind  the  comforts  of  his  home, 
And  sighs  that  he  has  left  them,  and  resolves 
To  stray  no  more :  I  on  my  way  of  life 
Muse  thus,  Penates,  and  with  firmest  faith 
Devote  myself  to  you.     I  will  not  quit, 
To  mingle  with  the  crowd,  your  calm  abodes. 
Where  by  the  evening  hearth  Contentment  sits 
And  hears  the  cricket  chirp ;  where  Love  delights 
To  dwell,  and  on  your  altars  lays  his  torcli. 
That  burns  with  no  cxtinguishable  flame. 

Hear  me,  ye  Powers  benignant !  there  is  one 
Must  be  mine  inmate,  —  for  I  may  not  choose 
But  love  him.     He  is  one  whom  many  wrongs 
Have  sicken'd  of  the  world.     There  was  a  time 
When  he  would  weep  to  hear  of  wickedness. 
And  wonder  at  the  tale ;  when  for  the  oppress'd 
He  felt  a  brother's  pity,  to  the  oppressor 
A  good  man's  honest  anger.     His  quick  eye 
Betray 'd  each  rising  feeling;  every  thought 
Leap'd  to  his  tongue.  When  first  among  mankind 
He  mingled,  by  himself  he  judged  of  them, 
And  loved  and  trusted  them,  to  Wisdom  deaf, 
And  took  them  to  his  bosom.     Falsehood  met 
Her  unsuspecting  victim,  fair  of  front. 
And  lovely  as  Apega's  *  sculptured  form, 
Like  that  false  image  caught  his  warm  embrace, 
And  pierced  his  open  breast.     The  reptile  race 
Clung  round  his  bosom,  and  with  viper  folds 
Encircling,  stung  the  fool  who  fostcr'd  them. 
His  mother  was  Simplicity,  his  sire 
Benevolence  ;  in  earlier  days  he  bore 
His  father's  name  ;  the  world  who  injured  him 
Call  him  Misanthropy.     I  may  not  choose 
But  love  him.  Household  Gods  !  for  we  grew  up 
Together,  and  in  the  same  school  were  bred. 
And  our  poor  fortunes  the  same  course  have  held. 
Up  to  this  hour. 

Penates !  some  there  are 
Who  say,  that  not  in  the  inmost  heaven  ye  dwell. 
Gazing  with  eye  remote  on  all  the  ways 
Of  man,  his  Guardian  Gods;  wiselier  they  deem 
A  dearer  interest  to  the  human  race 
Links  you,  yourselves  the  Spirits  of  the  Dead. 
No  mortal  eye  may  pierce  the  invisible  world. 
No  light  of  human  reason  penetrate 
The  depths  where  Truth  lies  hid.     Yet  to  this  faith 
My  heart  with  instant  sympathy  assents  ; 
And  I  would  judge  all  systems  and  all  fliiths 
By  that  best  touchstone,  from  whose  test  Deceit 
Shrinks  like  the  Arch-Fiend  at  Ithuriel's  spear ; 
And  Sophistry's  gay,  glittering  bubble  bursts, 
As  at  the  spousals  of  the  Nereid's  son. 
When  that  false  Florimel,t  with  her  prototype 
Set  side  by  side,  in  her  unreal  charms, 
Dissolved  away. 

*  One  of  the  ways  and  meuns  of  the  tyrant  Nabis.  If  one 
of  his  9iilij(!cts  refused  to  lend  him  money,  he  commanded  him 
to  embrace  his  Apega  —  the  statue  of  a  beautiful  woman,  so 
formed  as  to  clasp  the  victim  to  her  breast,  in  which  a  pointed 
dagger  was  concealed. 

t  Then  did  he  set  her  by  that  snowy  one. 
Like  the  true  saint  beside  the  image  set, 
Of  both  their  beauties  to  make  paragone 
And  trial  whether  should  the  honor  get; 


Nor  can  the  jialls  of  Heaven 
Give  to  the  human  soul  sucli  kindred  joy. 
As  hovering  o'er  its  earthly  haunts  it  feels. 
When  with  the  breeze  it  dwells  around  the  brow 
Of  one  beloved  on  earth  ;  or  when  at  niglit 
In  dreams  it  comes,  and  brings  with  it  the  Days 
And  Joys  that  are  no  more;  or  when,  perchance 
With  power  permitted  to  alleviate  ill 
And  fit  the  sufferer  for  the  coming  woe, 
Some  strange  presage  the  Spirit  breathes,  and  fills 
The  breast  with  ominous  fear,  preparing  it 
For  sorrow,  pours  into  the  afflicted  heart 
The  balm  of  resignation,  and  inspires 
With  heavenly  hope.     Even  as  a  child  delights 
To  visit  day  by  day  the  favorite  plant 
His  hand  has  sown,  to  mark  its  gradual  growth, 
And  watch  all-anxious  for  the  promised  flower ; 
Thus  to  the  blessed  spirit  in  innocence 
And  pure  affections  like  a  little  child, 
Sweet  will  it  be  to  hover  o'er  the  friends 
Beloved  ;  then  sweetest,  if,  as  duty  prompts, 
With  earthly  care  we  in  their  breasts  have  sown 
The  seeds  of  Truth  and  Virtue,  holy  flowers 
Whose  odor  reacheth  Heaven. 

When  my  sick  Heart 
(Sick*  with  hope  long  delay'd,  tlian  which   no 

care 
Weighs  on  the  spirit  heavier)  from  itself 
Seeks  the  best  comfort,  often  have  I  deem'd 
That  thou  didst  witness  every  inmost  thought, 
Skward  !    my    dear,   dead   friend !      For   not   in 

vain, 
O  early  summon'd  on  thy  heavenly  course, 
Was  thy  brief  sojourn  here  ;  me  didst  thou  leave 
With  strengthen'd  step  to  follow  the  riglit  path, 
Till  we  shall  meet  again.     Meantime  I  soothe 
The  deep  regret  of  nature,  with  belief, 
O  Edmund  !  that  thine  eye's  celestial  ken 
Pervades  me  now,  marking  with  no  mean  joy 
The  movements  of  the  heart  that  loved  thee  well! 

Such  feelings  Nature  prompts,  and  hence  your 
rites. 
Domestic  Gods  !  arose.     When  for  his  son 
With  ceaseless  grief  Syrophanes  bewail'd. 
Mourning  his  age  left  childless,  and  his  wealth 
Heap'd  for  an  alien,  he  with  obstinate  eye 
Still  on  the  imaged  marble  of  the  dead 
Dwelt,  pampering  sorrow.    Thither  from  his  wrath, 
A  safe  asylum,  fled  the  offending  slave. 
And  garlanded  the  statue,  and  implored 
His  young  lost  lord  to  save.     Remembrance  then 
Soflen'd  the  father,  and  he  loved  to  see 
The  votive  wreath  renew'd,  and  the  rich  smoke 
Curl  from  the  costly  censer  slow  and  sweet. 
From  Egypt  soon  the  sorrow-soothing  rites 

Straightway  so  soone  as  both  together  met. 
The  enchaunted  d;imsell  vanish'd  into  nouglit ; 

Ilor snowy  substance  melted  as  with  heat; 
Ne  of  that  goodly  hew  rcmayned  ou^'ht 
But  the  empty  girdle  which  about  her  wast  was  wrought. 

Spenser. 
*  Hope  deferred  makcth  the  heart  sick.  —  Proverbs. 
QuS  non  gravior  mortalibus  addita  cura, 
Spes  ubi  hnaa  venit.  Statios. 


158 


PREFACE    TO    MINOR    POEMS,   VOL.    II. 


Divulging  spread  ;  before  your  idol  forms  * 
By  every  hearth  the  blinded  Pagan  knelt, 
Pouring  his  prayers  to  these,  and  offering  there 
Vain  sacrifice  or  impious,  and  sometimes 
With  human  blood  your  sanctuary  defiled. 
Till  the  first  Brutus,  tyrant-conquering  chief, 
Arose  :  he  first  the  impious  rites  put  down, 
He  fitliest,  who  for  Freedom  lived  and  died. 
The  friend  of  human-kind.     Then  did  your  feasts 
Frequent  recur  and  blameless ;  and  when  came 
The  solemn  festival,!  whose  happiest  rites 
Emblem'd  Equality,  the  holiest  truth, 
Crown'd  with  gay  garlands  were  your  statues  seen; 
To  you  the  fragrant  censer  smoked  ;  to  you 
The  rich  libation  flowed  :  vain  sacrifice  ! 
For  not  the  poppy  wreath,  nor  fruits,  nor  wine 
Ye  ask,  Penates  !  nor  the  altar  cleansed 
With  many  a  mystic  form;  ye  ask  the  heart 
Made  pure,  and  by  domestic  Peace  and  Love 
Hallow'd  to  you. 

Hearken  your  hymn  of  praise, 
Penates  !  to  your  shrines  I  come  for  rest. 
There  only  to  be  found.     Often  at  eve. 
As  in  my  wanderings  I  have  seen  far  off 
Some  lonely  light  that  spake  of  comfort  there. 
It  told  my  heart  of  many  a  joy  of  home. 
When  I  was  homeless.     Often,  as  I  gazed 
From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales. 
And  cots,  and  villages  cmbower'd  below, 
The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 
Amid  the  scene  so  fair,  nor  one  small  spot 
Where  my  tired  mind  might  rest,  and  call  it  Home. 
There  is  a  magic  in  that  little  word  : 
It  is  a  mystic  circle  that  surrounds 

*  It  is  not  certainly  known  under  what  form  the  Penates 
were  worshipped ;  according  to  some,  as  wooden  or  brazen 
rods  shaped  like  trumpets ;  according  to  others,  they  were 
represented  as  young  men. 

t  The  Saturnalia. 


Comforts  and  virtues  never  known  beyond 
The  hallowed  limit.     Often  has  my  heart 
Ached  for  that  quiet  haven !     Haven'd  now, 
I  think  of  those  in  this  world's  wilderness 
Who  wander  on  and  find  no  home  of  rest 
Till  to  tlie  grave  they  go :  them  Poverty, 
Hollow-eyed  fiend,  the  child  of  Wealth  .and  Power, 
Bad  offspring  of  worse  parents,  aye  afflicts. 
Cankering   with    her    foul    mildews    the    chill'd 

heart;  — 
Them  Want  with  scorpion  scourge  drives  to  the  den 
Of  Guilt;  —  them  Slaughter  for  the  price  of  deatli 
Throws  to  her  raven  brood.     Oh,  not  on  them,  — 
God  of  eternal  Justice !  not  on  them 
Let  fall  thy  thunder  ! 

Household  Deities ! 
Then  only  shall  be  Happiness  on  earth 
When  man  shall  feel  your  sacred  power,  and  love 
Your  tranquil  joys ;  then  shall  the  city  stand 
A  huge  void  sepulchre,  and  on  the  site 
Where  fortresses  and  palaces  have  stood, 
The  olive  grow,  there  shall  the  Tree  of  Peace 
Strike  its  roots  deep  and  flourish.     This  the  state 
Shall  bless  the  race  redeem'd  of  Man,  when  Wealth, 
And  Power,  and  all  their  hideous  progeny 
Shall  sink  annihilate,  and  all  mankind 
Live  in  the  equal  brotherhood  of  love. 
Heart-calming  hope,  and  sure  !  for  hitherward 
Tend  all  the  tumults  of  the  troubled  world, 
Its  woes,  its  wisdom,  and  its  wickedness 
Alike  ;  —  so  He  hath  will'd,  whose  will  is  just. 

Meantime,  all  hoping  and  expecting  all 
In  patient  faith,  to  you.  Domestic  Gods ! 
Studious  of  other  lore  than  song,  I  come. 
Yet  shall  my  Heart  remember  the  past  years 
With  honest  pride,  trusting  that  not  in  vain 
Lives  the  pure  song  of  Liberty  and  Truth. 

Bristol,  1796. 


SttUfittU  anir  Mi^^^  lloems 


VOL.   II. 


Que  fol  OH  que  sage  on  nt'cstime, 

Et  que  jc  sois  Porte  ou  non, 
Totitefois  si  j'aime  la  rime, 

J'aime  beaucoup  mievx  la  raison. 

Jean  du  Nesme. 


PREFACE. 

In  a  former  Preface  my  obligations  to  Akenside 
were  acknowledged,  with  especial  reference  to  the 
Hymn  to  the  Penates ;  the  earliest  of  my  Inscrip- 
tions also  originated  in  the  pleasure  with  which 
I  perused  those  of  this  favorite  author.  Others 
of  a  later  date  bear  a  nearer  resemblance  to  the 


general  character  of  Chiabrera's  epitaphs.  Those 
which  relate  to  the  Peninsular  War  are  part  of  a 
series  which  I  once  hoped  to  have  completed.  The 
epitaph  for  Bishop  Butler  was  originally  composed 
in  the  lapidary  style,  to  suit  the  monument  in 
Bristol  Cathedral :  it  has  been  remodelled  here, 
that  I  might  express  myself  more  at  length,  and 
in  a  style  more  accordant  with  my  own  judgment. 


PREFACE  TO  MINOR  POEMS,  VOL.  II. 


lb\) 


Om;  thing  remains  to  be  explained,  and  1  shall 
then  have  said  all  tiiat  it  becomes  me  to  say  con- 
cerning these  Minor  Poems. 

It  was  stated  in  some  of  the  newspapers  that 
Walter  Scott  and  myself  became  competitors  for 
tlie  Poet-Lauroatoship  upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Pye  ; 
that  we  met  accidentally  at  the  Prince  Regent's 
levee,  each  in  pursuit  of  his  pretensions,  and  that 
some  words  which  were  not  over-courteous  on 
either  side  passed  between  us  on  the  occasion  ; 
—  to  such  impudent  fabrications  will  those  persons 
resort  who  make  it  their  business  to  pander  for 
public  curiosity.  The  circumstances  relating  to 
that  appointment  have  been  made  known  in  Mr. 
Lockhart's  Life  of  Sir  Walter.  His  conduct  was, 
as  it  always  was,  characteristically  generous,  and 
in  the  highest  degree  friendly.  Indeed,  it  was 
neither  in  his  nature  nor  in  mine  to  place  ourselves 
in  competition  with  any  one,  or  ever  to  regard  a 
contemporary  as  a  rival.  The  world  was  wide 
enough  for  us  all. 

Upon  his  declining  the  office,  and  using  his 
influence,  without  my  knowledge,  to  obtain  it  for 
me,  his  biographer  says,*  "  Mr.  Southey  was  in- 
vited to  accept  the  vacant  laurel ;  and  to  the  honor 
of  the  Prince  Regent,  when  he  signified  that  his 
acceptance  must  depend  on  the  office  being  thence- 
forth so  modified  as  to  demand  none  of  the  old 
formal  odes,  leaving  it  to  the  Poet-Laureate  to 
choose  his  own  time  for  celebrating  any  great 
public  event  that  miglit  occur,  his  Royal  Highness 
had  the  good  sense  and  good  taste  at  once  to 
acquiesce  in  the  propriety  of  this  alteration.  The 
office  was  thus  relieved  from  the  burden  of  ridicule 
which  had,  in  spite  of  so  many  illustrious  names, 
adhered  to  it."  The  alteration,  however,  was  not 
brought  about  exactly  in  this  manner. 

I  was  on  the  way  to  London  when  the  corre- 
spondence upon  this  subject  between  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  Mr.  Croker  took  place :  a  letter  from 
Scott  followed  me  thither,  and  on  my  arrival  in 
town  I  was  informed  of  what  had  been  done.  No 
wish  for  the  Laureateship  had  passed  across  my 
mind,  nor  had  I  ever  dreamt  that  it  would  be  pro- 
posed to  me.  My  first  impulse  was  to  decline  it; 
not  from  any  fear  of  ridicule,  still  less  of  obloquy, 
but  because  I  had  ceased  for  several  years  to  write 
occasional  verses :  the  inclination  had  departed ; 
and  though  willing  as  a  bee  to  work  from  morn 
till  night  in  collecting  honey,  I  had  a  great  dislike 
to  spinning  like  a  spider.  Other  considerations 
overcame  this  reluctance,  and  made  it  my  duty  to 
accept  the  appointment.  I  then  expressed  a  wish 
to  Mr.  Croker  that  it  might  be  placed  upon  a  foot- 
ing which  would  exact  from  the  holder  nothing 
like  a  school-boy's  task,  but  leave  him  at  liberty  to 
write  when,  and  in  what  manner,  he  thought  best, 
and  thus  render  the  office  as  honorable  as  it  was 
originally  designed  to  be.  Upon  this,  Mr.  Croker, 
whose  friendliness  to  me  upon  every  occasion  I 
gladly  take  this  opportunity  of  acknowledging,  ob- 
served that  it  was  not  for  us  to  make  terms  with 
the  Prince   Regent.     "Go  you,"  said  he,  "and 

*  Vol.  iii.  p.  81. 


write  your  Ode  for  the  New  Year.  You  can  never 
have  a  better  subject  than  the  present  state  of  the 
war  affords  you."  He  added  that  some  fit  time 
might  be  found  for  representing  the  matter  to  the 
Prince  in  its  proper  light. 

My  appointment  had  no  sooner  been  made 
known,  than  I  received  a  note  with  Sir  William 
Parsons's  compliments,  requesting  that  I  would  let 
him  have  the  Ode  as  soon  as  possible,  Mr.  Pye 
having  always  provided  him  with  it  six  weeks 
before  tlie  New  Year's  Day.  I  was  not  wanting 
in  punctuality  ;  nevertheless,  it  was  a  great  trouble 
to  Sir  William  that  the  office  should  have  been 
conferred  upon  a  poet  who  did  not  walk  in  the 
ways  of  his  predecessor,  and  do  according  to  all 
things  that  he  had  done  ;  for  Mr.  Pye  had  written 
his  odes  always  in  regular  stanzas  and  in  rhyme. 
Poor  Sir  William,  though  he  had  not  fallen  upon 
evil  tongues  and  evil  times,  thought  he  had  fallen 
upon  evil  ears  when  he  was  to  set  verses  like  mine 
to  music. 

But  the  labor  which  the  Chief  Musician  be- 
stowed upon  the  verses  of  the  Chief  Poet  was  so 
much  labor  lost.  The  performance  of  the  Annual 
Odes  had  been  suspended  from  the  time  of  the 
King's  illness,  in  1810.  Under  the  circumstances 
of  his  malady,  any  festal  celebration  of  the  birth- 
day would  have  been  a  violation  of  natural  feeling 
and  public  propriety.  On  those  occasions  it  was 
certain  that  nothing  would  be  expected  from  me 
during  the  life  of  George  III.  But  the  New  Year's 
performance  might  perhaps  be  called  for,  and  for 
that,  therefore,  I  always  prepared.  Upon  the 
accession  of  George  IV.  1  made  ready  an  Ode  for 
St.  George's  Day,  which  Mr.  Shield,  who  was 
much  better  satisfied  with  his  yoke-fellow  than  Sir 
William  had  been,  thought  happily  suited  for  his 
purpose.  It  was  indeed  well  suited  for  us  both. 
All  my  other  Odes  related  to  the  circumstances  of 
the  passing  times,  and  could  have  been  appropri- 
ately performed  only  when  they  were  composed ; 
but  this  was  a  standing  subject,  and,  till  this  should 
be  called  for,  it  was  needless  to  provide  any  thing 
else.  The  annual  performance  had,  however,  by 
this  time  fallen  completely  into  disuse ;  and  thus 
terminated  a  custom  which  may  truly  be  said  to 
have  been  more  honored  in  the  breach  than  in  the 
observance. 

Kesicick,  Dec.  12,  1837. 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES 


The  following  Eclogues,  I  believe,  bear  no  resemblance  to 
any  poems  in  our  language.  This  species  of  composition 
liiis  become  popular  in  Germany,  and  1  was  induced  to 
altcnipt  it  by  what  was  told  me  of  the  German  Idyls  by  my 
friend  Mr.  William  Taylor  of  Norwich.  So  far,  therefore, 
these  pieces  may  be  deemed  imitations,  though  1  am  not 
acquainted  with  the  German  language  at  presen*,  and  have 
never  seen  any  translations  or  specimens  in  this  kind. 

With  bad  Eclogues  I  am  sullicicntly  acquainted,  from  Tityrus 
and  Corydon  down  to  our  English  Strephons  and  Thirsisses. 
No  kind  of  poetry  can  boast  of  more  illustrious  names,  or  is 


IGO 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


more  distinguished  Ijy  tlie  servile  dulncss  of  imitated  non- 
sense. Pastoral  writers,  "  more  silly  than  their  sheep," 
have,  like  their  sheep,  (.'one  on  in  the  same  track  one  after 
another.  Cay  struck  into  a  new  path  His  eclogues  were 
the  only  ones  which  interested  nie  when  I  was  a  hoy,  and 
did  not  know  they  were  burlesque.  The  subject  would 
furnish  matter  for  an  essay,  but  this  is  not  the  place  for  it. 
1799. 


THE    OLD    MANSION-HOUSE. 

STRANGER. 

Old  friend  !  why,  you  seem  bent  on  parish  duty, 
Breaking  the  highway  stones,  —  and  'tis  a  task 
Somewhat  too  hard,  methinks,  for  age  like  yours  ! 

OLD    MAN. 

Why,  yes  !  for  one  with  such  a  weight  of  years 
Upon  his  back  !  —  I  've  lived  here,  man  and  boy, 
In  this  same  parish,  well  nigh  the  full  age 
Of  man,  being  hard  upon  threescore  and  ten. 
1  can  remember,  sixty  years  ago. 
The  beautifying  of  this  mansion  here. 
When  my  late  Lady's  father,  the  old  Squire, 
Came  to  the  estate. 

STRANGER. 

Why,  then  you  have  outlasted 
All  his  improvements,  for  you  see  they're  making 
Great  alterations  here. 

OLD     MAN. 

Ay  —  great  indeed  ! 
And  if  my  poor  old  Lady  could  rise  up  — 
God  rest  her  soul !  —  'twould  grieve  her  to  behold 
What  wicked  work  is  here. 

STRANGER. 

They've  set  about  it 
In  right  good  earnest.     All  the  front  is  gone  ; 
Here's  to  be  turf,  they  tell  me,  and  a  road         [too 
Round  to  the  door.     There  were  some  yew  trees 
Stood  in  the  court  — 

OLD     MAN. 

Ay,  Master  !  fine  old  trees ! 
Lord  bless  us !  I  have  heard  my  father  say 
His  grandfather  could  just  remember  back 
When  they  were  planted  there.     It  was  my  task 
To  keep  them  trimm'd,  and  'twas  a  pleasure  to  me ; 
All  straight  and  smooth,  and  like  a  great  green 

wall! 
My  poor  old  lady  many  a  time  would  come 
And  tell  me  where  to  clip,  for  she  had  play'd 
In  childhood  under  them,  and  'twas  her  pride 
To  keep  them  in  their  beauty.     Plague,  I  say. 
On  their  new-fangled  whimseys  !  we  shall  have 
A  modern  shrubbery  here  stuck  full  of  firs 
And  your  pert  poplar-trees ;  —  I  could  as  soon 
Have  plough'd  my  father's  grave  as  cut  them  down ! 

STRANGER. 

But  'twill  be  lighter  and  more  cheerful  now ; 
A  fine  smooth  turf,  and  with  a  carriage  road 


Tliat  sweeps  conveniently  from  gate  to  gate. 
I  like  a  slirubbery  too,  for  it  looks  fresh ; 
And  then  there's  some  variety  about  it. 
In  spring  the  lilac,  and  the  snow-ball  flower. 
And  the  laburnum  with  its  golden  strings 
Waving  in  the  wind ;  and  when  tlie  autumn  comes. 
The  briglit  red  berries  of  the  mountain-ash. 
With  pines  enough  in  winter  to  look  green. 
And  show  that  something  lives.    Sure  tliis  is  better 
Than  a  great  hedge  of  yew,  making  it  look 
All  the  year  round  like  winter,  and  forever 
Dropping    its   poisonous   leaves   from   tlie    under 
Wither'd  and  bare.  [boughs, 

OLD    MAN. 

Ay!  so  the  new  Squire  thinks; 
And  pretty  work  he  makes  of  it !     What  'tis 
To  have  a  stranger  come  to  an  old  house  ' 

STRANGER. 

It  seems  you  know  him  not .' 

OLD    MAN. 

No,  Sir,  not  I. 
They  tell  me  he's  expected  daily  now  ; 
But  in  my  Lady's  time  he  never  came 
But  once,  for  they  were  very  distant  kin. 
If  he  had  play'd  about  here  when  a  child 
In  that  fore  court,  and  eat  the  yew-berries, 
And  sate  in  the  porch,  threading  the  jessamine 

flowers. 
Which  fell  so  thick,  he  had  not  had  the  heart 
To  mar  all  thus ! 

STRANGER. 

Come !  come  !  all  is  not  wrong ; 
Those  old  dark  windows  — 

OLD    MAN. 

They're  demolish'd  too, — 
As  if  he  could  not  see  through  casement  glass  ' 
The  very  red-breasts,  that  so  regular 
Came  to  my  Lady  for  her  morning  crumbs. 
Won't  know  the  windows  now  ! 

STRANGER. 

Nay,  they  were  small, 
And  then  so  darken'd  round  with  jessamine, 
Harboring  the  vermin;  —  yet  I  could  have  wishd 
That  jessamine  had  been  saved,  which  canopied. 
And  bower'd,  and  lined  the  porch. 

OLD    MAN. 

It  did  one  good 
To  pass  within  ten  yards,  when  'twas  in  blossom. 
There  was  a  sweet-brier,  too,  that  grew  beside ; 
My  Lady  loved  at  evening  to  sit  there 
And  knit ;  and  her  old  dog  lay  at  her  feet 
And  slept  in  the  sun;  'twas  an  old  favorite  dog, — 
She  did  not  love  him  less  that  he  was  old 
And  feeble,  and  he  always  had  a  place 
By  the  fire-side  :   and  when  he  died  at  last. 
She  made  me  dig  a  grave  in  the  garden  for  him. 
For  she  was  good  to  all !  a  woful  day 
'Twas  for  the  poor  when  to  her  grave  she  went ! 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


161 


STRANGER. 

They  lost  a  friend  then  ? 

OLD    MAN. 

You're  a  stranger  here, 
Or  you  wouldn't  ask  that  question.     Were  they 

sick .' 
She  had  rare  cordial  waters,  and  for  herbs 
She  could  have  taught  tlie  Doctors.  Then  at  winter, 
When  weekly  she  distributed  the  bread 
In  the  poor  old  porch,  to  see  her  and  to  hear 
The  blessings  on  lier  !  and  I  warrant  them 
They  were  a  blessing  to  her  when  lier  wealtli 
Had  been  no  comfort  else.     At  Christmas,  Sir ! 
It  would  have  warm'd  your  h^art  if  you  had  seen 
Her  Christinas  kitchen,  —  how  the  blazing  fire 
Made  her  fine  pewter  shine,  and  holly  boughs 
So  cheerful  red,  —  and  as  for  mistletoe, — 
The  finest  busli  that  grew  in  the  country  round 
Was  mark'd  for  Madam.     Then  her  old  ale  went 
So  bountiful  about !  a  Christmas  cask. 
And  'twas  a  noble  one  !  —  God  help  me,  Sir  ! 
But  I  shall  never  see  such  days  again. 

STRANGER. 

Things  may  be  better  yet  than  you  suppose, 
And  you  should  hope  the  best. 

OLD    MAN. 

It  don't  look  well, — 
Tliese  alterations.  Sir !  I'm  an  old  man, 
And  love  the  good  old  fashions ;  we  don't  find 
Old  bounty  in  new  houses.     They've  destroy'd 
All  that  my  Lady  loved ;  her  favorite  walk 
Grubb'd  up,  —  and  they  do  say  that  the  great  row 
Of  elms  behind  the  house,  which  meet  a-top. 
They  must  fall  too.     Well  !  well !  I  did  not  think 
To  live  to  see  all  this,  and  'tis  perhaps 
A  comfort  1  shan't  live  to  see  it  long. 

STRANGER. 

But  sure  all  changes  are  not  needs  for  the  worse. 
My  friend  ? 

OLD    MAN. 

Mayhap  they  mayn't.  Sir;  —  for  all  that, 
I  like  what  I've  been  used  to.     I  remember 
All  this  from  a  child  up  ;  and  now  to  lose  it, 
'Tis  losing  an  old  friend.     There's  nothing  left 
As  'twas ;  —  I  go  abroad,  and  only  meet 
With  men  whose  fathers  I  remember  boys  ; 
The  brook  that  used  to  run  before  my  door. 
That's  gone  to  the  great  pond ;  the  trees  I  learnt 
To  climb  are  down ;  and  I  see  nothing  now 
That  tells  me  of  old  times,  —  except  the  stones 
la   the  churchyard.     You  are  young,  Sir,  and  I 

hope 
Have  many  years  in  store,  —  but  pray  to  God 
You  mayn't  be  left  the  last  of  all  your  friends. 

STRANGER. 

Well  1  well !  you've  one  friend  more  than  you're 

aware  of. 
If  the  Squire's  taste  don't  suit  with  yours,  I  warrant 
21 


That's  all  you'll  quarrel  with :  walk  in  and  taste 
His  beer,  old  friend !  and  see  if  your  old  Lady 
E'er  broach'd  a  better  cask.    You  dixi  not  know  me. 
But  we're  acquainted  now.     'Twould  not  be  easy 
To  make  you  like  the  outside ;  but  within, 
That  is  not  changed,  my  friend !  you'll  always  find 
The  same  old  bounty  and  old  welcome  there. 

Westbury,  1798 


II. 


THE   GRANDMOTHER'S  TALE. 

JANE. 

Harry  !  I'm  tired  of  playing.     We'll  draw  round 
The  fire,  and  Grandmamma,  perhaps,  will  tell  us 
One  of  her  stories. 

HARRY. 

Ay  —  dear  Grandmamma  I 
A  pretty  story  !  something  dismal  now ; 
A  bloody  murder. 

JANE. 

Or  about  a  ghost. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Nay,  nay,  1  should  but  frighten  ye.     You  know 
The  other  night,  when  I  was  telling  ye  [bled 

About  the  light  in  the  churchyard,  how  you  trem- 
Because  the  screech-owl  hooted  at  tlie  window. 
And  would  not  go  to  bed. 

JANE. 

Why,  Grandmamma, 
You  said  yourself  you  did  not  like  to  hear  him. 
Pray  now  !  —  we  won't  be  frightened. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Well,  well,  children ! 
But  you've  heard  all  my  stories.  —  Let  me  see, — 
Did  I  never  tell  you  how  the  smuggler  murder'd 
The  woman  down  at  Pill .' 

HARRY. 

No  —  never !  never ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Not  how  he  cut  her  head  off  in  the  stable .'' 

HARRY. 

Oh  —  now  !  —  do  tell  us  that ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

You  must  have  heard 
Your  mother,  children  I  often  tell  of  her. 
She  used  to  weed  in  the  garden  here,  and  worm 
Your  uncle's  dogs,*  and  serve  the  house  with  coal ; 

*  I  know  not  whetlicr  tliis  cruel  and  stupid  custom  is  com- 
mon in  otiicr  parts  of  England.  It  is  supposed  to  prevent  the 
dogs  from  doing  any  mischief,  should  they  afterwards  become 
mad. 


162 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


And  glad  enough  she  was  in  winter  time 

To  drive  her  asses  here  !     It  was  cold  work 

To  follow  the  slow  beasts  tliroiigh  sleet  and  snow ; 

And  here  she  found  a  comfortable  meal, 

And  a  brave  fire  to  thaw  her ;  for  poor  Moll 

Was  always  welcome. 


The  collier  woman,- 
I've  heard  of  her. 


HARRY. 

Oh !  'twas  blear-eyed  Moll, 
-  a  great,  ugly  woman ; 


GRANDMOTHER. 

Ugly  enough,  poor  soul ! 
At  ten  yards'  distance,  you  could  hardly  tell 
If  it  were  man  or  woman,  for  her  voice 
Was  rough  as  our  old  mastiff's,  and  she  wore 
A  man's  old  coat  and  hat :  —  and  then  her  face  ! 
There  was  a  merry  story  told  of  her, 
How, when  the  press-gang  came  to  take  her  husband. 
As  they  were  both  in  bed,  she  heard  them  coming, 
Dress'd  John  up  in  her  night-cap,  and  herself 
Put  on  his  clothes,  and  went  before  the  captain. 

JANE. 

And  so  they  press'd  a  woman  ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

'Twas  a  trick 
She  dearly  loved  to  tell ;  and  all  the  country 
Soon  knew  the  jest,  for  she  was  used  to  travel 
For  miles  around.     All  weathers  and  all  hours 
She  cross'd  the  hill,  as  hardy  as  her  beasts. 
Bearing  the  wind,  and  rain,  and  drifting  snow. 
And  if  she  did  not  reach  her  home  at  night. 
She  laid  her  down  in  the  stable  with  her  asses, 
And  slept  as  sound  as  they  did. 


HARRY. 


With  her  asses ! 


GRANDMOTHER. 

Yes ;  and  she  loved  her  beasts.     For  though,  poor 

wretch. 
She  was  a  terrible  reprobate,  and  swore 
Like  any  trooper,  she  was  always  good 
To  the  dumb  creatures ;  never  loaded  them 
Beyond  their  strength  ;  and  rather,  I  believe, 
Would  stint  herself  than  let  the  poor  beasts  want. 
Because,  she  said,  they  could  not  ask  for  food. 
I  never  saw  her  stick  fall  heavier  on  them 
Than  just  with  its  own  weight.     She  little  thought 
This  tender-heartedness  would  cause  her  death  ! 
There  was  a  fellow  who  had  oftentimes. 
As  if  he  took  delight  in  cruelty, 
111  used  her  beasts.     He  was  a  man  who  lived 
By  smuggling,  and, — for  she  had  often  met  him. 
Crossing  the  down  at  night,  —  she  threaten'd  him, 
If  ever  he  abused  them  more,  to  inform 
Of  his  unlawful  ways.     Well  — so  it  was  — 
'Twas  what  they  both  were  born  to !  he  provoked 

her: 
She  laid  an  information  ;  and  one  morning 
They  found  her  in  the  stable,  her  throat  cut 
From  ear  to  ear,  till  the  head  only  hung 
jUBt  Dy  a  bit  of  skin. 


JANE. 

Oh  dear  !  oh  dear ' 

HARRY. 

I  hope  they  hung  the  man  ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

They  took  him  up ; 
There  was  no  proof;  no  one  had  seen  the  deed ; 
And  he  was  set  at  liberty.     But  God, 
Whose  eye  beholdeth  all  things.  He  had  seen 
The  murder;  and  the  murderer  knew  that  God 
Was  witness  to  his  crime.     He  fled  the  place, — 
But  nowhere  could  he  fly  the  avenging  hand 
Of  Heaven,  — but  nowhere  could  the  murderer 

rest ; — 
A  guilty  conscience  haunted  him  ;  by  day, 
By  night,  in  company,  in  solitude, 
Restless  and  wretched,  did  he  bear  upon  him 
The  weight  of  blood.     Her  cries  were  in  his  ears ; 
Her  stifled  groans,  as  when  he  knelt  upon  her. 
Always  he  heard ;  always  he  saw  her  stand 
Before  his  eyes  ;  even  in  the  dead  of  night. 
Distinctly  seen  as  though  in  the  broad  sun, 
She  stood  beside  the  murderer's  bed,  and  yawn'd 
Her  ghastly  wound;  till  life  itself  became 
A  punishment  at  last  he  could  not  bear, 
And  he  confess'd  it  all,  and  gave  himself 
To  death  ;  so  terrible,  he  said,  it  was 
To  have  a  guilty  conscience  ! 

HARRY. 

Was  he  hung,  then  ? 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Hung  and  anatomized.     Poor  wretched  man ! 
Your  uncles  went  to  see  him  on  his  trial ; 
He  was  so  pale,  so  thin,  so  hollow-eyed. 
And  such  a  horror  in  his  meagre  face. 
They  said  he  look'd  like  one  who  never  slept. 
He  begged  the  prayers  of  all  who  saw  his  end, 
And  met  his  death  with  fears  that  well  might  warn 
From  guilt,  though  not  without  a  hope  in  Christ. 

Westbury,  1798. 


III. 

HANNAH. 

Passing  across  a  green  and  lonely  lane, 
A  funeral  met  our  view.     It  was  not  here 
A  sight  of  every  day,  as  in  the  streets 
Of  some  great  city;  and  we  stopp'd  and  ask'd 
Whom  they  were  bearing  to  the  grave.     A  girl. 
They  answer'd,  of  the  village,  who  had  pined 
Through  the  long  course  of  eighteen  painful  months, 
With  such  slow  wasting,  that  the  hour  of  death 
Came  welcome  to  her.     We  pursued  our  way 
To  the  house  of  mirth,  and  with  that  idle  talk 
Which  passes  o'er  the  mind  and  is  forgot. 
We  wore  away  the  time.     But  it  was  eve 
When  homewardly  I  went,  and  in  the  air 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


163 


Was  that  cool  freshness,  that  discoloring  shade 
Which  makes  the  eye  turn  inward  :  hearing  then 
Over  the  vale  the  heavy  toll  of  deatli 
Sound  slow,  it  made  me  think  upon  the  dead ; 
I  question'd  more,  and  learnt  her  mournful  tale. 

She  bore  unhusbanded  a  mother's  pains, 
And  he  who  should  have  chcrish'd  her,  far  off 
Sail'd  on  the  seas.     Left  thus  a  wretched  one, 
Scorn  made  a  mock  of  her,  and  evil  tongues 
Were  busy  with  her  name.     She  had  to  bear 
The  sharper  sorrow  of  neglect  from  him 
Whom  she  had  loved  too  dearly.     Once  he  wrote  ; 
But  only  once  that  drop  of  comfort  came 
To  mingle  with  her  cup  of  wretchedness ; 
And  when  his  parents  had  some  tidings  from  him. 
There  was  no  mention  of  poor  Hannah  there, 
Or  'twas  the  cold  inquiry,  more  unkind 
Than  silence.     So  she  pined  and  pined  away, 
And  for  herself  and  baby  toil'd  and  toil'd ; 
Nor  did  she,  even  on  her  death-bed,  rest 
From  labor,  knitting  there  with  lifted  arms, 
Till  she  sunk  with  very  weakness.     Her  old  mother 
Omitted  no  kind  office,  working  for  her. 
Albeit  her  hardest  labor  barely  earn'd 
Enough  to  keep  life  struggling,  and  prolong 
The  pains  of  grief  and  sickness.     Thus  she  lay 
On  the  sick  bed  of  poverty,  worn  out 
With  her  long  suffering  and  those  painful  thoughts 
Which  at  her  heart  were  rankling,  and  so  weak. 
That  she  could  make  no  effort  to  express 
Affection  for  her  infant ;  and  the  child. 
Whose  lisping  love  perhaps  had  solaced  her, 
Shunn'd  her  as  one  indifferent.     But  she  too 
Had  grown  indifferent  to  all  things  of  earth, 
Finding  her  only  comfort  in  the  thought 
Of  that  cold  bed  wherein  the  wretched  rest. 
There  had  she  now,  in  that  last  home,  been  laid. 
And  all  was  over  now,  —  sickness  and  grief. 
Her  shame,  her  suffering,  and  her  penitence, — 
Their  work  was  done.     The  school-boys,  as  they 

sport 
In  the  churchyard,  for  awhile  might  turn  away 
From  the  fresh  grave  till  grass  should  cover  it ; 
Nature  would  do  that  office  soon ;  and  none 
Who  trod  upon  the  senseless  turf  would  think 
Of  what  a  world  of  woes  lay  buried  there  ! 

Burton,  near  Christ  Church,  1797. 


IV. 
THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER. 

WOMAN. 

Sir,  for  the  love  of  God,  some  small  relief 
To  a  poor  woman ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Whither  are  you  bound  ^ 
'Tis  a  late  hour  to  travel  o'er  these  downs, 
No  house  for  miles  around  us,  and  the  way 
Dreary  and  wild.     The  evening  wind  already 


Makes  one's  teeth  chatter;  and  the  very  Sun, 
Setting  so  pale  behind  those  thin  white  clouds, 
Looks  cold.     'Twill  be  a  bitter  niglit ! 

WOMAN. 

Ay,  Sir, 
'Tis  cutting  keen  !    I  smart  at  every  breath ; 
Heaven  knows  how  I  shall  reach  my  journey's  end, 
For  the  way  is  long  before  me,  and  my  feet, 
God  help  me!  sore  with  travelling.    I  would  gladly. 
If  it  pleased  God,  at  once  lie  down  and  die. 

TRAVELLER. 

Nay,  nay,  cheer  up  !  a  little  food  and  rest 
Will  comfort  you  ;  and  then  your  journey's  end 
May  make  amends  for  all.     You  shake  your  head, 
And  weep.     Is  it  some  mournful  business  then 
That  leads  you  from  your  home  ? 

WOMAN. 

Sir,  I  am  going 
To  see  my  son  at  Plymouth,  sadly  hurt 
In  the  late  action,  and  in  the  hospital 
Dying,  I  fear  me,  now. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps  your  fears 
Make  evil  worse.     Even  if  a  limb  be  lost. 
There  may  be  still  enough  for  comfort  left ; 
An  arm  or  leg  shot  off,  there's  yet  the  heart 
To  keep  life  warm ;  and  he  may  live  to  talk 
With  pleasure  of  the  glorious  fight  that  maim'd  him, 
Proud  of  his  loss.     Old  England's  gratitude 
Makes  the  maim'd  Sailor  happy. 

WOMAN. 

'Tis  not  that,  — 
An  arm  or  leg — I  could  have  borne  with  that. 
It  was  no  ball.  Sir,  but  some  cursed  thing 
Which  bursts*  and  burns,  that  hurt  him.     Some- 
thing, Sir, 
They  do  not  use  on  board  our  English  ships, 
It  is  so  wicked  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Rascals !  a  mean  art 
Of  cruel  cowardice,  yet  all  in  vain ! 

WOMAN. 

Yes,  Sir !  and  they  should  show  no  mercy  to  them 

For  making  use  of  such  unchristian  arms. 

I  had  a  letter  from  the  hospital ; 

He  got  some  friend  to  write  it ;  and  he  tells  me 

That  my  poor  boy  has  lost  his  precious  eyes. 

Burnt  out.     Alas  !  that  I  should  ever  live 

To  see  this  wretched  day  !  —  They  tell  me.  Sir, 

There  is  no  cure  for  wounds  like  his.     Indeed 


*  The  stink-pots  used  on  liosrd  tlie  Froncli  sliips.  In  the 
engaj-icmrnt  between  the  Mars  and  L'llerculo,  soni(^  of  our 
sailors  were  sliockingly  niangli'd  by  tliem  :  one,  in  particular, 
as  described  in  the  Eclogue,  lost  both  his  eyes.  It  would  be 
right  and  humane  to  employ  means  of  destruction,  could  they 
he  di-'covered,  powerful  enou;,'h  to  destroy  fleets  and  armies, 
but  to  use  any  thing  that  only  inflicts  additional  torture  upon 
the  eiiflercrs  in  war,  is  alto"cthcr  wicked. 


1G4 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


Tis  a  hard  journey  that  I  go  upon 
To  such  a  dismal  end  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

He  yet  may  hve. 
But   if  the  worst  should  chance,  why,  you  must 

bear 
The  will  of  Heaven  with  patience.     Were  it  not 
Some  comfort  to  reflect  your  son  has  fallen 
Fighting  his  country's  cause.'  and  for  yourself. 
You  will  not  in  unpitied  poverty 
Be  left  to  mourn  his  loss.     Your  grateful  country. 
Amid  the  triumph  of  lier  victory, 
Remembers  those  who  paid  its  price  of  blood, 
And  with  a  noble  charity  relieves 
The  widow  and  the  orphan. 

W0M.\N. 

God  reward  them  ! 
God  bless  them  !  It  will  help  me  in  my  age, — 
But,  Sir  !  it  will  not  pay  me  for  my  child ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Was  he  your  only  child  .' 

WOMAN. 

My  only  one, 
The  stay  and  comfort  of  my  widowhood, 
A  dear,  good  boy  !  —  When  first  he  went  to  sea, 
I  felt  what  it  would  come  to,  — something  told  me 
I  should  be  childless  soon.     But  tell  me.  Sir, 
If  it  1  e  true  that  for  a  hurt  like  his 
There  is  no  cure.     Please  God  to  spare  his  life. 
Though  he  be  blind,  yet  I  should  be  so  thankful ! 
1  can  remember  there  was  a  blind  man 
Lived  in  our  village,  one  from  his  youth  up 
Quite  dark,  and  yet  he  was  a  merry  man ; 
And  he  had  none  to  tend  on  him  so  well 
As  I  would  tend  my  boy  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Of  this  be  sure  — 
His  hurts  are  look'd  to  well,  and  the  best  help 
The  land  affords,  as  rightly  is  his  due, 
Ever  at  hand.     How  happen'd  it  he  left  you .' 
Was  a  seafaring  life  his  early  choice .-' 

WOMAN. 

No,  Sir!  poor  fellow,  —  he  was  wise  enough 

To  be  content  at  home,  and  'twas  a  home 

As  comfortable,  Sir  !  even  though  I  say  it. 

As  any  in  the  country.     He  was  left 

A  little  boy  when  his  poor  father  died, 

Just  old  enough  to  totter  by  himself. 

And  call  his  mother's  name.     We  two  were  all. 

And  as  we  were  not  left  quite  destitute. 

We  bore  up  well.     In  the  summer  time  I  work'd 

Sometimes  a-field.     Then  I  was  famed  for  knitting; 

And  in  long  winter  nights  my  spinning-wheel 

Seldom  stood  still.     We  had  kind  neighbors  too, 

And  never  felt  distress.     So  he  grew  up 

A  comely  lad,  and  wondrous  well  disposed. 

I  taught  him  well;  there  was  not  in  the  parish 


A  child  who  said  his  prayers  more  regular, 
Or  answered  readier  through  his  Catechism. 
If  I  had  foreseen  this  !  but  'tis  a  blessing 
We  don't  know  what  we're  born  to  ! 


TRAVELLER. 


But  how  came  it 


He  chose  to  be  a  Sailor  ? 


WOMAN. 

You  shall  hear.  Sir. 
As  he  grew  up,  he  used  to  watch  the  birds 
In  the  corn,  —  child's  work,  you  know,  and  easily 

done. 
'Tis  an  idle  sort  of  task;  so  he  built  up 
A  little  hut  of  wicker-work  and  clay 
Under  the  hedge,  to  shelter  him  in  rain ; 
And  then  he  took,  for  very  idleness. 
To  making  traps  to  catch  the  plunderers ; 
All  sorts  of  cunning  traps  that  boys  can  make,— 
Propping  a  stone  to  fall  and  shut  them  in. 
Or  crush  them  with  its  weight,  or  else  a  springe 
Swung  on  a  bough.     He  made  them  cleverly  — 
And  I,  poor  foolish  woman !  I  was  pleased 
To  see  the  boy  so  handy.     You  may  guess 
What  follow'd,  Sir,  from  this  unlucky  skill. 
He  did  what  he  should  not  when  he  was  older  : 
I  warn'd  him  oft  enough;  but  he  was  caught 
In  wiring  hares  at  last,  and  had  his  choice, 
The  prison  or  the  ship. 

TRAVELLER. 

The  choice  at  least 
Was  kindly  left  him ;  and  for  broken  laws 
This  was,  methinks,  no  heavy  punishment. 

WOMAN. 

So  I  was  told.  Sir.     And  I  tried  to  think  so ; 
But  'twas  a  sad  blow  to  me !  I  was  used 
To  sleep  at  nights  as  sweetly  as  a  child ;  — 
Now,  if  the  wind  blew  rough,  it  made  me  start. 
And  think  of  my  poor  boy  tossing  about 
Upon  the  roaring  seas.     And  then  I  seem'd 
To  feel  that  it  was  hard  to  take  him  from  me 
For  such  a  little  fault.     But  he  was  wrong. 
Oh,  very  wrong,  —  a  murrain  on  his  traps  ! 
See  what  they've  brought  him  to  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Well !  well !  take  comfort 
He  will  be  taken  care  of,  if  he  lives; 
And  should  you  lose  your  child,  this  is  a  country 
Where  the  brave  Sailor  never  leaves  a  parent 
To  weep  for  him  in  want. 

WOMAN. 

Sir,  I  shall  want 
No  succor  long.     In  the  common  course  of  years 
I  soon  must  be  at  rest ;  and  'tis  a  comfort. 
When  grief  is  hard  upon  me,  to  reflect 
It  only  leads  me  to  that  rest  the  sooner. 

Westbury,  1798. 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES, 


165 


V. 
THE  WITCH. 

NATHANIEL. 

Father  !  here,  father  !    I  have  found  a  horse-shoe  ! 
Faith,  it  was  just  in  time  ;  for  t'other  night 
I  laid  two  straws  across  at  Margery's  door; 
And  ever  since  I  fear'd  that  she  might  do  me 
A  mischief  for"t.     Tliere  was  the  Miller's  boy, 
Who  set  his  dog  at  that  black  cat  of  hers,  — 
I  met  him  upon  crutches,  and  he  told  rae 
'Twas  all  her  evil  eye. 

FATHEK. 

'Tis  rare  good  luck ! 
I  would  have  gladly  given  a  crown  for  one,      [it? 
If  'twould  have  done  as  well.  But  where  didst  find 

NATHANIEL. 

Down  on  the  common  ;  I  was  going  a-field, 
And  neighbor  Saunders  pass'd  me  on  his  mare ; 
He  had  hardly  said  "  Good  day,"  before  I  saw 
The  shoe  drop  off.     'Twas  just  upon  my  tongue 
To  call  him  back  ;  —  it  makes  no  difference,  does  it. 
Because  I  know  whose  'twas .-' 

FATHER. 

Why,  no,  it  can't. 
The  shoe's  the   same,  you   know ;    and   you  did 
find  it. 

NATHANIEL. 

That  mare  of  his  has  got  a  plaguy  road 

To  travel,  father ;  —  and  if  he  should  lame  her,  — 

For  she  is  but  tender-footed, —  • 

FATHER. 

Ay,  indeed ! 
I  should  not  like  to  see  her  limping  back. 
Poor  beast !  —  But  charity  begins  at  home ; 
And,  Nat,  there's  our  own  horse  in  such  a  way 
This  morning  ! 

NATHANIEL. 

Why,  he  han't  been  rid  again  . 
Last  night  I  hung  a  pebble  by  the  manger, 
With  a  hole  through,  and  every  body  says 
That  'tis  a  special  charm  against  the  hags. 

FATHER. 

It  could  not  be  a  proper,  natural  hole  then. 
Or  'twas  not  a  right  pebble  ;  — for  I  found  him 
Smoking  with  sweat,  quaking  in  every  limb. 
And  panting  so  !  Lord  knows  where  he  had  been 
When  we  were  all  asleep,  through  bush  and  brake. 
Up-hill  and  down-hill  all  alike,  full  stretch 
At  such  a  deadly  rate  !  — 

NATHANIEL. 

By  land  and  water, 
Over  the  sea,  perhaps !  —  I  have  heard  tell 
'Tis  many  thousand  miles  off  at  the  end 
Of  the  world,  where  witches  go  to  meet  the  Devil. 
They  used  to  ride  on  broomsticks,  and  to  smear 


Some  ointment  over  them,  and  then  away 
Out  at  the  window  !  but  'tis  worse  than  all 
To  worry  the  poor  beast  so.     Shame  upon  it 
That  in  a  Christian  country  they  should  let 
Such  creatures  live  ! 

FATHER. 

And  when  there's  such  plain  proof! 
I  did  but  threaten  her  because  she  robb'd 
Our  hedge,  and  the  next  night  there  came  a  wind 
That  made  me  shake  to  liear  it  in  my  bed. 
How  came  it  that  that  storm  unroof 'd  my  barn. 
And  only  mine  in  the  parish .'  —  Look  at  her. 
And  that's  enough  ;  she  has  it  in  her  face  !  — 
A  pair  of  large,  dead  eyes,  sunk  in  her  head. 
Just  like  a  corpse,  and  pursed  with  wrinkles  round ; 
A  nose  and  chin  that  scarce  leave  room  between 
For  her  lean  fingers  to  squeeze  in  the  snuff; 
And  when  she  speaks  !  I'd  sooner  hear  a  raven 
Croak  at  my  door  !  —  She  sits  there,  nose  and  knees. 
Smoke-dried  and  shrivell'd  over  a  starved  fire. 
With  that  black  cat  beside  her,  whose  great  eyes 
Shine  like  old  Beelzebub's ;  and  to  be  sure 
It  must  be  one  of  his  imps!  —  Ay,  nail  it  hard. 

NATHANIEL. 

I  wish  old  Margery  heard  the  hammer  go  ! 
She'd  curse  the  music ! 

FATHER. 

Here's  the  Curate  coming, 
He  ought  to  rid  the  parish  of  such  vermin  ! 
In  the  old  times  they  used  to  hunt  them  out. 
And  hang  them  without  mercy  ;  but.  Lord  bless  us ' 
The  world  is  grown  so  wicked  ! 

CURATE. 

Good  day.  Farmer 
Nathaniel,  what  art  nailing  to  the  threshold  .' 

NATHANIEL. 

A  horse-shoe.  Sir ;  'tis  good  to  keep  off  witchcraft 
And  we're  afraid  of  Margery. 


CURATE. 


Poor  old  woman 


What  can  you  fear  from  her  i 


FATHER. 

What  can  we  fear  ! 
Who  lamed  the  Miller's  boy  .'  who  raised  the  wind 
That  blew  my  old  barn's  roof  down?  who  d'ye  think 
Rides  my   poor  horse  a'nights?    who   mocks   the 

hounds  ? 
But  let  me  catch  her  at  that  trick  atrain, 
And  I've  a  silver  bullet  ready  for  her. 
One  that  shall  lame  her,  double  how  she  will. 

NATHANIEL. 

What  makes  her  sit  there  moping  by  herself, 
With  no  soul  near  her  but  that  great  black  cat  ? 
And  do  but  look  at  her  ! 

CURATE. 

Poor  wretch  !  half  blind 


16G 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


And  crooked  with  her  years,  without  a  child 
Or  friend  in  her  old  age,  'tis  hard  indeed 
To  have  her  very  miseries  made  her  crimes  ! 
I  met  her  but  last  week  in  that  hard  frost 
Wliich  made  iny  young  limbs  ache,  and  when  I 

ask'd 
What  brought  her  out  in  the  snow,  the  poor  old 

woman 
Told  me  that  she  was  forced  to  crawl  abroad 
And  pick  the  hedges,  just  to  keep  herself 
From  perishing  with  cold, — because  no  neighbor 
Had  pity  on  her  age;  and  then  she  cried, 
Ajid  said  the  children  pelted  her  with  snow-balls. 
And  wish'd  that  she  were  dead. 

FATHER. 

I  wish  she  was ! 
She  has  plagued  the  parish  long  enough  ! 

CCRATE. 

Shame,  Farmer  ! 
Is  that  the  charity  your  Bible  teaches  ? 

FATHER. 

My  Bible  does  not  teach  me  to  love  witches. 
I  know  what's  charity  ;  who  pays  his  tithes 
And  poor-rates  readier .' 

CURATE. 

Who  can  better  do  it  ? 
You've  been  a  prudent  and  industrious  man, 
And  God  has  blest  your  labor. 

FATHER. 

Why,  thank  God,  Sir, 
I've  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  fortune. 

CURATE. 

Complain .'  why,  you  are  wealthy  !  All  the  parish 
Look  up  to  you. 

FATHER. 

Perhaps,  Sir,  I  could  tell 
Guinea  for  guinea  with  the  warmest  of  them. 

CURATE. 

You  can  afford  a  little  to  the  poor ; 

And  then,  what's  better  still,  you  have  the  heart 

To  give  from  your  abundance. 


FATHER. 


God  forbid 


I  should  want  charity  ! 


CURATE. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  comfort 
To  think  at  last  of  riches  well  employ'd  ! 
I  have  been  by  a  death-bed,  and  know  the  worth 
Of  a  good  deed  at  that  most  awful  hour 
When  riches  profit  not. 

Farmer,  I'm  going 
To  visit  Margery.     She  is  sick,  I  hear  ;  — 
Old,  poor,  and  sick  !  a  miserable  lot; 
And  death  will  be  a  blessing.     You  might  send  her 
Some  little  matter,  something  comfortable. 


That  she  may  go  down  easier  to  the  grave. 
And  bless  you  when  she  dies. 

FATHER. 

What !  is  she  going 
Well,  God  forgive  her  then,  if  she  has  dealt 
In  the  black  art !     I'll  tell  my  dame  of  it, 
And  she  shall  send  her  something. 


CURATE. 


And  take  my  thanks  for  hers. 


So  I'll  say  ; 

[Goes. 


FATHER. 

That's  a  good  man, 
That  Curate,  Nat,  of  ours,  to  go  and  visit 
The  poor  in  sickness  ;  but  he  don't  believe 
In  witchcraft,  and  that  is  not  like  a  Christian. 

NATHANIEL. 

And  so  old  Margery's  dying ! 

FATHER. 

But  you  know 
She  may  recover  :  so  drive  t'other  nail  in. 

Westbury,  1798. 


VI. 


THE   RUINED   COTTAGE. 

Ay,   Charles  !  I  knew   that  this  would  fix  thine 

eye;  — 
This  woodbine  wreathing  round  the  broken  porch. 
Its  leaves  just  withering,  yet  one  autumn  flower 
Still  fresh  and  fragrant ;  and  yon  hollyhock 
That  through  the  creeping  weeds  and  nettles  tall 
Peers  taller,  lifting,  column-like,  a  stem 
Bright  with  its  roseate  blossoms.     I  have  seen 
Many  an  old  convent  reverend  in  decay. 
And  many  a  time  have  trod  the  castle  courts 
And  grass-green  halls,  yet  never  did  they  strike 
Home  to  the  heart  such  melancholy  thoughts 
As  this  poor  cottage.     Look  !  its  little  hatch 
Fleeced  with  that  gray  and  wintry  moss ;  the  roof 
Part  moulder'd  in  ;  the  rest  o'ergrown  with  weeds, 
Houge-leek,  and  long  thin  grass,  and  greener  moss ; 
So  Nature  steals  on  all  the  works  of  man ; 
Sure  conqueror  she,  reclaiming  to  herself 
His  perishable  piles. 

I  led  thee  here, 
Charles,  not  without  design  ;  for  this  hath  been 
My  favorite  walk  even  since  I  was  a  boy ; 
And  I  remember,  Charles,  this  ruin  here, 
The  neatest  comfortable  dwelling-place  ! 
That  when  I  read  in  those  dear  books  which  first 
Woke  in  my  heart  the  love  of  poesy. 
How  with  the  villagers  Erminia  dwelt, 
And  Calidore  for  a  fair  shepherdess 
Forsook  his  quest  to  learn  the  shepherd's  lore. 
My  fancy  drew  from  this  the  little  hut 
Where  that  poor  princess  wept  her  hopeless  love, 
Or  where  the  gentle  Calidore  at  eve 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES, 


167 


Led  Pastorella  home.     There  was  not  then 

A  weed  where  all  these  nettles  overtop 

The  garden-wall ;  but  sweet-brier,  scenting  sweet 

The  morning  air  ;  rosemary  and  marjoram, 

All  wiiolesome  herbs ;  and  then,  that  woodbine 

wreathed 
So  lavishly  around  tlie  pillar'd  porch 
Its  fragrant  flowers,  that  when  I  past  this  way, 
After  a  truant  absence  hastening  home, 
I  could  not  choose  but  pass  with  slacken'd  speed 
By  that  delightful  fragrance.     Sadly  changed 
Is  this  poor  cottage  !  and  its  dwellers,  Charles  !  — 
Theirs  is  a  simple,  -melancholy  tale,  — 
There's  scarce  a  village  but  can  fellow  it : 
And  yet,  methinks,  it  will  not  weary  thee, 
And  should  not  be  untold. 

A  widow  here 
Dwelt  with  an  orphan  grandchild  :  just  removed 
Above  the  reach  of  pinching  poverty. 
She  lived  on  some  small  pittance,  which  sufficed, 
In  better  times,  the  needful  calls  of  life, 
Not  without  comfort.     I  remember  her 
Sitting  at  evening  in  that  open  door-way. 
And  spinning  in  the  sun.     Methinks  I  see  her 
Raising  her  ej^es  and  dark-rimm'd  spectacles 
To  see  the  passer-by,  yet  ceasing  not 
To  twirl  her  lengthening  thread  ;  or  in  the  garden, 
On  some  dry  summer  evening,  walking  round 
To  view  her  flowers,  and  pointing,  as  she  lean'd 
Upon  the  ivory  handle  of  her  stick. 
To  some  carnation  whose  o'erheavy  head 
Needed  support ;  while  with  the  watering-pot 
Joanna  follow'd,  and  refresh'd  and  trimm'd 
The  drooping  plant ;  Joanna,  her  dear  child. 
As  lovely  and  as  happy  then  as  youth 
And  innocence  could  make  her. 

Charles,  it  seems 
As  though  I  were  a  boy  again,  and  all 
The  mediate  years,  with  their  vicissitudes, 
A  half-forgotten  dream.     1  see  the  Maid 
So  comely  in  her  Sunday  dress  !  her  hair. 
Her  bright,  brown  hair,  wreathed  in   contracting 

curls ; 
And  then  her  cheek  1  it  was  a  red  and  white 
That  made  the  delicate  hues  of  art  look  loathsome. 
The  countrymen,  who  on  their  way  to  church 
Were  leaning  o'er  the  bridge,  loitering  to  hear 
The  bell's  last  summons,  and  in  idleness 
Watching  the  stream  below,  would  all  look  up 
When   she    passed   by.     And   her  old   Grandam, 

Charles,  — 
When  I  have  heard  some  erring  infidel 
Speak  of  our  faith  as  of  a  gloomy  creed. 
Inspiring  superstitious  wretcliedness. 
Her  figure  has  recurr'd  ;  for  she  did  love 
The  Sabbath-day  ;  and  many  a  time  hath  cross'd 
These  fields  in  rain  and  through  the  winter  snows, 
When  I,  a  graceless  boy,  and  cold  of  foot, 
Wishing  the  weary  service  at  its  end,  [there, 

Have  wonder'd  wherefore  that  good  dame  came 
Who,  if  it  pleased  her,  might  have  staid  beside 
A  comfortable  fire. 

One  only  care 
Hung  on  her  aged  spirit.     For  herself. 
Her  path  was  plain  before  her,  and  the  close 


Of  her  long  journey  near.     But  then  her  child 
Soon  to  be  left  alone  in  this  bad  world,  — 
That  was  a  thought  which  many  a  winter  night 
Had  kept  her  sleepless  ;  and  when  prudent  love 
In  something  better  than  a  servant's  state 
Had  placed  her  well  at  last,  it  was  a  pang 
Like  parting  life  to  part  with  her  dear  girl. 

One  summer,  Charles,  when  at  the  holydays 
Return'd  from  school,  I  visited  again 
My  old,  accustoai'd  walks,  and  found  in  them 
A  joy  almost  like  meeting  an  old  friend, 
I  saw  the  cottage  empty,  and  the  weeds 
Already  crowding  the  neglected  flowers. 
Joanna,  by  a  villain's  wiles  seduced. 
Had  play'd  the  wanton,  and  that  blow  had  reach'd 
Her  grandam's  heart.     She  did  not  suflTer  long ; 
Her  age  was  feeble,  and  this  mortal  grief 
Brought  her  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 

I  pass  this  ruin'd  dwelling  oftentimes. 
And  think  of  other  days.     It  wakes  in  me 
A  transient  sadness ;  but  the  feelings,  Charles, 
Which  ever  with  these  recollections  rise, 
I  trust  in  God  tliey  will  not  pass  away. 

Westbury,  1799. 


VII. 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  FAMILY. 

JAMES. 

What,  Gregory,  you  are  come,  I  see,  to  join  uf 
On  this  sad  business. 

GREGORY. 

Ay,  James,  I  am  coit^<^ 
But  with  a  heavy  heart,  God  knows  it,  man  ! 
Where  shall  we  meet  the  corpse  ? 

JAMES. 

Some  hour  from  hence  , 
By  noon,  and  near  about  the  elms,  I  take  it. 
This  is  not  as  it  should  be,  Gregory, 
Old  men  to  follow  young  ones  to  the  grave  ! 
This  morning,  when  I  heard  the  bell  strike  out, 
I  thought  that  I  had  never  heard  it  toll 
So  dismally  before. 

GREGORY. 

Well,  well  !  my  friend, 
'Tis  what  we  all  must  come  to,  soon  or  late. 
But  when  a  young  man  dies,  in  the  prime  of  life 
One  born  so  well,  who  might  have  blest  us  all 
Many  long  years  I  — 

JAMES. 

And  then  the  family 
Extinguish'd  in  him,  and  the  good  old  name 
Only  to  be  remember'd  on  a  tomb-stone  ! 
A  name  that  has  gone  down  from  sire  to  son 
So  many  generations  I  —  Many  a  time 


168 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


Poor  master  Edward,  wlio  is  now  a  corpse, 

WliLii  but  a  child,  would  come  to  me  and  lead  me 

To  tlie  great  family-tree,  and  beg  of  me 

To  tell  him  stories  of  his  ancestors, 

Of  Eustace,  he  that  went  to  the  Holy  Land 

With  Richard  Lion-heart,  and  that  Sir  Henry 

Who  fought  at  Cressy  in  King  Edward's  wars ; 

And  then  his  little  eyes  would  kindle  so 

To  hear  of  their  brave  deeds  !  I  used  to  think 

The  bravest  of  them  all  would  not  out-do 

My  darling  boy. 

GREGORY. 

This  comes  of  your  great  schools 
And  college-breeding.  Plague  upon  his  guardians. 
That  would  have  made  him  wiser  than  his  fathers  ! 

JAMES. 

If  his  poor  father,  Gregory,  had  but  lived, 
Things  would  not  have  been  so.  He,  poor  good  man. 
Had  little  of  book-learning;  but  there  lived  not  . 
A  kinder,  nobler-hearted  gentleman. 
One  better  to  his  tenants.     When  he  died 
There  was  not  a  dry  eye  for  miles  around. 
Gregory,  I  thought  that  I  could  never  know 
A  sadder  day  than  that ;  but  what  was  that, 
Compared  with  this  day's  sorrow  ? 

GREGORY. 

I  remember, 
Eight  months  ago,  when  the  young  Squire  began 
To  alter  the  old  mansion,  they  destroy'd 
The  martins'  nests,  that  had  stood  undisturb'd 
Under  that  roof,  —  ay  !  long  before  my  memory. 
I  shook  my  liead  at  seeing  it,  and  thought 
No  good  could  follow. 

JAMES. 

Poor  young  man  !  I  loved  him 
Like  my  own  child.     I  loved  the  family  ! 
Come  Candlemas,  and  I  have  been  their  servant 
For  five-and-forty  years.     I  lived  with  them 
When  his  good  father  brought  my  Lady  home ; 
And  when  the  young  Squire  was  born,  itdid  me  good 
To  hear  the  bells  so  merrily  announce 
An  heir.     This  is  indeed  a  heavy  blow  — 
I  feel  it,  Gregory,  heavier  than  the  weight 
Of  threescore  years.     He  was  a  noble  lad  ; 
I  loved  him  dearly. 

GREGORY. 

Every  body  loved  him  ; 
Such  a  fine,  generous,  open-hearted  Youth  ! 
When  he  came  home  from  school  at  holydays. 
How  I  rejoiced  to  see  him !  He  was  sure 
To  come  and  ask  of  me  what  birds  there  were 
About  my  fields ;  and  when  I  found  a  covey. 
There's  not  a  testy  Squire  preserves  his  game 
More  charily,  than  I  have  kept  them  safe 
For  Master  Edward.     And  he  look'd  so  well 
Upon  a  fine,  sharp  morning  after  them. 
His  brown  hair  frosted,  and  his  cheek  so  flush'd 
With  such  a  wholesome  ruddiness,  —  ah,  James, 
But  he  was  sadly  changed  when  he  came  down 
To  keep  his  birth-day. 


JAMES. 

Changed !  why,  Gregory, 
'Twas  like  a  palsy  to  me,  when  he  stepp'd 
Out  of  the  carriage.     He  was  grown  so  thin. 
His  cheek  so  delicate  sallow,  and  his  eyes 
Had  such  a  dim  and  rakish  hollowncss ; 
And  when  he  came  to  shake  me  by  the  hand, 
And  spoke  as  kindly  to  me  as  he  used, 
I  hardly  knew  the  voice. 

GREGORY. 

It  struck  a  damp 
On  all  our  merriment.     'Twas  a  noble  Ox 
Tliat  smoked  before  us,  and  the  old  October 
Went  merrily  in  everflowing  cans ; 
But  'twas  a  skin-deep  merriment.     My  heart 
Seem'd  as  it  took  no  share.    And  when  we  drank 
His  health,  the  thought  came  over  me  what  cause 
We  had  for  wishing  that,  and  spoilt  the  draught. 
Poor  Gentleman !  to  think,  ten  months  ago 
He  came  of  age,  and  now !  — 

JAMES. 

I  fear'd  it  then ! 
He  look'd  to  me  as  one  that  was  not  long 
For  this  world's  business. 

GREGORY. 

When  the  Doctor  sent  him 
Abroad  to  try  the  air,  it  made  me  certain 
That  all  was  over.     There's  but  little  hope, 
Methinks,  that  foreign  parts  can  help  a  man 
When  his  own  mother-country  will  not  do. 
The  last  time  he  came  down,  these  bells  rung  so, 
I  thought  they  would  have  rock'd  the  old  steeple 

down ; 
And  now  that  dismal  toll !     I  would  have  staid 
Beyond  its  reach,  but  this  was  a  last  duty : 
I  am  an  old  tenant  of  the  family, 
Born  on  the  estate ;  and  now  that  I've  outlived  it, 
Why,  'tis  but  right  to  see  it  to  the  grave. 
Have  you  heard  aught  of  the  new  Squire  ? 

JAMES. 

But  little, 
And  that  not  well.     But  be  he  what  he  may, 
Matters  not  much  to  me.     The  love  I  bore 
To  the  old  family  will  not  easily  fix 
Upon  a  stranger.     What's  on  the  opposite  hill .' 
Is  it  not  the  funeral .' 

GREGORY. 

'Tis,  I  think,  some  horsemen. 
Ay  !  there  are  the  black  cloaks ;  and  now  I  see 
The  white  plumes  on  the  hearse. 


JAMES. 


Between  the  trees ;  — 


'Tis  hid  behind  them  now. 


GREGORY. 

Ay  !  now  we  see  it, 
And  there's  the  coaches  following ;  we  shall  meet 
About  the  bridge.  Would  that  this  day  were  over  ' 
I  wonder  whose  turn's  next. 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


169 


JAMES. 

God  above  knows. 
When  youth  is  summon'd,  what  must  age  expect! 
God  make  us  ready,  Gregory,  when  it  comes ! 

Westlmry,  1799. 


VIIL 
THE   WEDDING. 

TRAVELLER. 

[  PRAY  you,  wherefore  are  tlie  village  belfs 
Rino-incr  so  merrily .' 

WOMAN. 

A  wedding.  Sir, — 
Two  of  the  village  folk.     And  they  are  right 
To  make  a  merry  time  on't  while  they  may ! 
Come    twelve-months    hence,    I    warrant    them 

they'd  go 
To  church  again  more  willingly  than  now. 
If  all  might  be  undone. 

TRAVELLER. 

An  ill-match 'd  pair. 
So  I  conceive  you.     Youth  perhaps  and  age .'' 

WOMAN. 

No,  —  both  are  young  enough. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps  the  man,  then, 
A  lazy  idler,  —  one  who  better  likes 
The  alehouse  than  his  work .' 

WOMAN. 

Why,  Sir,  for  that. 
He  always  was  a  well-condition'd  lad. 
One  who'd  work  hard  and  well ;  and  as  for  drink. 
Save  now  and  then,  mayhap,  at  Christmas  time, 
Sober  as  wife  could  wish. 

TRAVELLER. 

Then  is  the  girl 
A  shrew,  or  else  untidy;  —  one  to  welcome 
Her  husband  with  a  rude,  unruly  tongue. 
Or  drive  him  from  a  foul  and  wretched  home 
To  look  elsewhere  for  comfort.     Is  it  so .' 

WOMAN. 

She's  notable  enough ;  and  as  for  temper. 
The  best  good-humor'd  girl !     You  see  yon  house. 
There  by  the  aspen-tree,  whose  gray  leaves  shine 
In  the  wind  ?  she  lived  a  servant  at  the  farm. 
And  often,  as  I  came  to  weeding  here, 
I've  heard  her  singing  as  she  milk'd  her  cows 
So  cheerfully.     I  did  not  like  to  hear  her, 
Because  it  made  mc  think  upon  the  days 
When  I  had  got  as  little  on  my  mind, 
And  was  as  cheerful  too.     But  she  would  marry. 
And  folks  must  reap  as  they  have  sown.     God 
help  her '. 


TRAVELLER. 

Why,  Mistress,  if  they  both  are  well  inclined, 
Why  should  not  both  be  happy .' 


WOMAN. 


They've  no  money. 


TRAVELLER. 

But  both  can  work ;  and  sure  as  cheerfully 
She'd  labor  for  herself  as  at  the  farm. 
And  he  won't  work  the  worse  because  he  knows 
That  she  will  make  his  fire-side  ready  for  him, 
And  watch  for  his  return. 


WOMAN. 


A  little  while. 


All  very  well, 


TRAVELLER. 


And  what  if  they  are  poor  ? 
Riches  can't  always  purchase  happiness ; 
And  much  we  know  will  be  expected  there 
Where  much  was  given.  ^ 

WOMAN. 

All  this  I  have  heard  at  church  ! 
And  when  I  walk   in  the  church-yard,  or  have 

been 
By  a  death-bed,  'tis  mighty  comforting. 
But  when  I  hear  my  children  cry  for  hunger, 
And  see  them  shiver  in  their  rags,  —  God  help  me  I 
I  pity  those  for  whom  these  bells  ring  up 
So  merrily  upon  their  wedding-day, 
Because  I  think  of  mine. 

TRAVELLER. 

You  have  known  trouble ; 
These  haply  may  be  happier. 

WOMAN. 

Why,  for  that, 
I've  had  my  share ;  some  sickness  and  some  sorrow. 
Well  will  it  be  for  them  to  know  no  worse. 
Yet  I  had  rather  hear  a  daughter's  knell 
Than  her  wedding-peal.  Sir,  if  I  thought  her  fate 
Promised  no  better  things. 

TRAVELLER. 

Sure,  sure,  good  woman. 
You  look  upon  the  world  with  jaundiced  eyes  ! 
All  have  their  cares;  those  who  are   poor  want 

wealth ; 
They  who  have  wealth  want  more ;  so  are  we  all 
Dissatisfied;  yet  all  live  on,  and  each 
Has  his  own  comforts. 

WOMAN. 

Sir  !  d'ye  see  that  horse 
Turn'd  out  to  common  here  by  the  way-side  .' 
He's  high  in  bone ;  you  may  tell  every  rib 
Even  at  this  distance.     Mind  him  !  how  he  turns 
His  head,  to  drive  away  the  flics  that  feed 
On  his  gall'd  shoulder  !     There's  just  grass  enough 
To  disappoint  his  whetted  appetite. 
You  see  his  comforts,  Sir  ! 


170 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES, 


TRAVELLER. 

A  wretched  beast ! 
Hard  labor  and  worse  usage  he  endures 
From  some  bad  master.     But  the  lot  of  the  poor 
Is  not  like  his. 

WOMAN. 

In  truth  it  is  not,  Sir  ! 
For  when  the  horse  lies  down  at  night,  no  cares 
About  to-morrow  vex  him  in  his  dreams  : 
He  knows  no  quarter-day ;  and  when  he  gets 
Some  musty  hay  or  patch  of  hedge-row  grass, 
He  has  no  hungry  children  to  claim  part 
Of  his  half-meal ! 

TRAVELLER. 

'Tis  idleness  makes  want, 
And  idle  habits.     If  the  man  will  go 
And  spend  his  evenings  by  the  alehouse  fire. 
Whom  can  he  blame  if  there  be  want  at  home .' 

WOMAN. 

Ay  !  idleness !  the  rich  folks  never  fail 

To  find  some  reason  why  the  poor  deserve 

Their  miseries!  —  Is  it  idleness,  I  pray  you, 

That  brings  the  fever  or  the  ague  fit .' 

That  makes  the  sick  one's  sickly  appetite 

From  dry  bread  and  potatoes  turn  away  ? 

Is  it  idleness  that  makes  small  wages  fail 

For  growing  wants  .'  —  Six  years  agone,  these  bells 

Rung  on  my  wedding-day,  and  I  was  told 

What  I  might  look  for;  but  I  did  not  heed 

Good  counsel.     I  had  lived  in  service.  Sir; 

Knew  never  what  it  was  to  want  a  meal ; 

Lay  down  without  one  thought  to  keep  me  sleepless, 

Or  trouble  me  in  sleep ;  had  for  a  Sunday 

My  linen  gown,  and  when  the  pedler  came, 

Could  buy  me  a  new  ribbon.     And  my  husband,  — 

A  towardly  young  man,  and  well  to  do,  — 

He  had  his  silver  buckles  and  his  watch ; 

There  was  not  in  the  village  one  who  look'd 

Sprucer  on  holydays.     We  married.  Sir,     • 

And  we  had  children ;  but  while  wants  increased, 

Wages  stood  still.     The  silver  buckles  went; 

So  went  the  watch ;  and  when  the  holyday  coat 

Was  worn  to  work,  no  new  *  one  in  its  place. 

For  me  — you  see  my  rags  I  but  I  deserve  them. 

For  wilfully,  like  this  new-married  pair, 

I  went  to  my  undoing. 

TRAVELLER. 

But  the  parish  — 

WOMAN. 

Ay,  it  falls  heavy  there ;  and  yet  their  pittance 

*  A  farmer  once  told  the  author  of  Malvern  Hills,  "  that 
he  almost  constantly  remarked  a  gradation  of  chanjjcs  in 
those  men  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  employing.  Young 
men,  he  said,  were  generally  neat  in  their  appearance,  active 
and  cheerful,  till  they  became  married  and  had  a  family, 
when  he  had  observed  that  their  silver  buttons,  buckles,  and 
watches  gradually  disappeared,  and  their  Sunday  clothes 
became  common,  without  any  other  to  supply  their  place,  — 
Jut,  said  he,  some  good  comes  from  this,  for  they  will  then  work 
for  whatever  they  can  get." 

Note  to  Cottle's  JUalvern  Hills. 


Just  serves  to  keep  life  in.     A  blessed  prospect. 
To  slave  while  tliere  is  strength ;  in  age  the  work- 
house ; 
A  parish  shell  at  last,  and  the  little  bell 
Toll'd  hastily  for  a  pauper's  funeral ! 


TRAVELLER. 


Is  this  your  child  ' 


WOMAN. 

Ay,  Sir ;  and  were  he  dress'd 
And  clean'd,  he'd  be  as  fine  a  boy  to  look  on 
As  the  Squire's  young  master.     These  thin  rags 

of  his 
Let  comfortably  in  the  summer  wind; 
But  when  the  winter  comes,  it  pinches  me 
To  see  the  little  wretch.     I've  three  besides; 
And,  —  God  forgive  me  !    but  I  often  wish 
To  see  them  in  their  coffins  —  God  reward  you ! 
God  bless  you  for  your  charity  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

You  have  taught  me 
To  give  sad  meaning  to  the  village  bells ! 

Bristol,  1300. 


IX. 


THE    ALDERMAN'S  FUNERAL. 

STRANGER. 

Whom  are  they  ushering  from  the  world,  with  jilJ 
This  pageantry  and  long  parade  of  death.' 

TOWNSMAN. 

A  long  parade,  indeed.  Sir,  and  yet  here 

You  see  but  half;  round  yonder  bend  it  reaches 

A  furlong  further,  carriage  behind  carriage. 

STRANGER. 

'Tis  but  a  mournful  sight ;  and  yet  the  pomp 
Tempts  me  to  stand  a  gazer. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Yonder  schoolboy, 
Who  plays  the  truant,  says  the  proclamation 
Of  peace  was  nothing  to  the  show;  and  even 
The  chairing  of  the  members  at  election 
Would  not  have  been  a  finer  sight  than  this ; 
Only  that  red  and  green  are  prettier  colors 
Than  all  this  mourning.     There,  Sir,  you  behold 
One  of  the  red-gown'd  worthies  of  the  city. 
The  envy  and  the  boast  of  our  exchange  ;  — 
Ay,  what  was  worth,  last  week,  a  good  half-million, 
Screw'd  down  in  yonder  hearse  ! 

STRANGER. 

Then  he  was  born 
Under  a  lucky  planet,  who  to-day 
Puts  mourning  on  for  his  inheritance. 

TOWNSMAN. 

When  first  I  heard  his  death,  that  very  wish 
Leap'd  to  my  lips;  but  now  the  closing  scene 


ENGLISH    ECLOGUES. 


171 


Of  the  comedy  hath  waken'd  wiser  thoughts ; 
And  I  bless  God,  that,  when  I  go  to  the  grave, 
There  will  not  be  the  weight  of  wealth  like  his 
To  sink  me  down. 

STRANGER. 

The  camel  and  the  needle, — 
Is  that  then  in  your  mind  ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even  so.     The  text 
Is  Gospel- wisdom.     I  would  ride  the  camel,  — 
Yea,  leap  him,  flying,  through  the  needle's  eye, 
As  easily  as  such  a  pamper'd  soul 
Could  pass  the  narrow  gate. 

STRANGER. 

Your  pardon,  Sir, 
But  sure  this  lack  of  Christian  charity 
Looks  not  like  Christian  truth. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Your  pardon  too.  Sir, 
If,  with  this  text  before  me,  I  should  feel 
In  the  preaching  mood  !    But  for  these  barren  fig- 
trees. 
With  all  their  flourish  and  their  leafiness. 
We  have  been  told  their  destiny  and  use. 
When  the  axe  is  laid  unto  the  root,  and  they 
Cumber  the  earth  no  longer. 

STRANGER. 

Was  his  wealth 
Stored  fraudfuUy, — the  spoil  of  orphans  wrong'd, 
And  widows  who  had  none  to  plead  their  right.' 

TOWNSMAN. 

All  honest,  open,  honorable  gains. 

Fair,  legal  interest,  bonds  and  mortgages. 

Ships  to  the  East  and  West. 

STRANGER. 

Why  judge  you  then 
So  hardly  of  the  dead.' 

TOWNSMAN. 

For  what  he  left 
Undone;  —  for  sins,  not  one  of  which  is  written 
In  the  Ten  Commandments.     He,  I  warrant  him. 
Believed  no  other  Gods  than  those  of  the  Creed ; 
Bow'd  to  no  idols,  but  his  money-bags; 
Swore  no  false  oaths,  except  at  the  custom-house; 
Kept  the  Sabbath  idle ;  built  a  monument 
To  honor  his  dead  father ;  did  no  murder  ; 
Never  sustain'd  an  action  for  crim-con ; 
Never  pick'd  pockets;  never  bore  false  witness; 
And  never,  with  that  all-commanding  wealth, 
(yoveted  his  neighbor's  house,  nor  ox,  nor  ass  ! 

STRANGER. 

You  knew  him,  then,  it  seems.' 

TOWNSMAN. 

As  all  men  know 
The  virtues  of  your  hundred-thousanders ; 
They  never  hide  their  lights  beneath  a  bushel. 


STRANGER. 


Nay,  nay,  uncharitable  Sir !  for  oflen 
Doth  bounty,  like  a  streamlet,  flow  unseen, 
Freshening  and  giving  life  along  its  course. 

TOWNSMAN. 

We  track  the  streamlet  by  the  brighter  green 
And  livelier  growth  it  gives;  —  but  as  for  this  — 
This  was  a  pool  that  stagnated  and  stunk ; 
The  rains  of  heaven  engendered  nothing  in  it 
But  slime  and  foul  corruption. 

STRANGER. 

Yet  even  these 
Are  reservoirs  whence  public  charity 
Still  keeps  her  channels  full. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Now,  Sir,  you  touch 
Upon  the  point.     This  man  of  half  a  million 
Had  all  these  public  virtues  which  you  praise : 
But  the  poor  man  rung  never  at  his  door, 
And  the  old  beggar,  at  the  public  gate, 
Who,  all  the  summer  long,  stands  hat  in  hand. 
He  knew  how  vain  it  was  to  lift  an  eye 
To  that  hard  face.     Yet  he  was  always  found 
Among  your  ten  and  twenty  pound  subscribers, 
Your  benefactors  in  the  newspapers. 
His  alms  were  money  put  to  interest 
In  the  other  world,  —  donations  to  keep  open 
A  running  charity  account  with  Heaven, — 
Retaining  fees  against  the  Last  Assizes, 
When,  for  the  trusted  talents,  strict  account 
Shall  be  required  from  all,  and  the  old  Arch-Lawyer 
Plead  his  own  cause  as  plaintiff. 

STRANGER. 

I  must  needs 
Believe  you,  Sir: — these  are  your  witnesses. 
These  mourners  here,  who  from  their  carriages 
Gape  at  the  gaping  crowd.     A  good  March  wind 
Were  to  be  pray'd  for  now,  to  lend  their  eyes 
Some  decent  rheum ;  the  very  hireling  mute 
Bears  not  a  face  more  blank  of  all  emotion 
Than  the  old  servant  of  the  family  ! 
How  can  this  man  have  lived,  that  thus  his  death 
Costs  not  the  soiling  one  white  handkerchief 

TOWNSMAN. 

Who  should  lament  for  him.  Sir,  in  whose  heart 

Love  had  no  place,  nor  natural  charity  ? 

The  palor  spaniel,  when  she  heard  his  step. 

Rose  slowly  from  the  hearth,  and  stole  aside 

With  creeping  pace  ;  she  never  raised  her  eyes 

To  woo  kind  words  from  him,  nor  laid  her  head 

Upraised  upon  his  knee,  with  fondling  whine. 

How  could  it  be  but  thus .'     Arithmetic 

Was  the  sole  science  he  was  ever  taught; 

The  multiplication-table  was  his  Creed, 

His  Pater-noster,  and  his  Decalogue. 

When  yet  he  was  a  boy,  and  should  have  breathed 

The  open  air  and  sunshine  of  the  fields. 

To  give  his  blood  its  natural  spring  and  play, 

He  in  a  close  and  dusky  counting-house 


172 


NONDESCRIPTS. 


Smoke-dried,  andsear'd,  and  shrivell'd  up  his  heart. 
So  from  the  way  in  which  he  was  train'd  up 
His  feet  departed  not ;  he  toil'd  and  moil'd, 
Poor   muck-worm !  through  his  threescore  years 

and  ten; 
And  when  the  earth  shall  now  be  shovell'd  on  him, 
If  that  which  served  him  for  a  soul  were  still 
Within  its  husk,  'twould  still  be  dirt  to  dirt. 

STRANGER. 

Yet  your  next  newspapers  will  blazon  him 
For  industry  and  honorable  wealth 
A  bright  example. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even  half  a  million 
Gets  him  no  other  praise.     But  come  this  way 
Some  twelve  months  hence,  and  you  will  find  his 

virtues 
Trimly  set  forth  in  lapidary  lines. 
Faith  with  her  torch  beside,  and  little  Cupids 
Dropping  upon  his  urn  their  marble  tears. 

Biistol,  1803. 


NONDESCRIPTS. 


1. 

WRITTEN    THE    WINTER   AFTER   THE 

INSTALLATION  AT  OXFORD.     1793. 

Toll  on,  toll  on,  old  Bell  I     I'll  neither  pass 

The  cold  and  weary  hour  in  heartless  rites. 

Nor  doze  away  the  time.     The  fire  burns  bright; 

And,  bless  the  maker  of  this  Windsor-Chair  ! 

(Of  polish'd  cherry,  elbow'd,  saddle-seated,) 

This  is  the  throne  of  comfort.     I  will  sit 

And  study  here  devoutly  ;  —  not  my  Euclid, — 

For  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  discompose 

That  Spider's  excellent  geometry  ! 

I'll  study  thee.  Puss  !     Not  to  make  a  picture ; 

I  hate  your  canvass  cats,  and  dogs,  and  fools. 

Themes  that  disgrace  the  pencil.     Thou  shaltgive 

A  moral  subject.  Puss.     Come,  look  at  me  ;  — 

Lift  up  thine  emerald  eyes  !  Ay,  purr  away  ! 

For  I  am  praising  thee,  I  tell  thee.  Puss, 

And  Cats  as  well  as  Kings  like  flattery. 

For  three  whole  days  I  heard  an  old  Fur-gown 

Bepraised,  that  made  a  Duke  a  Chancellor ; 

Bepraised  in  prose  it  was,  bepraised  in  verse ; 

Lauded  in  pious  Latin  to  the  skies ; 

Kudos'd  egregiously  in  heathen  Greek ; 

In  Sapphics  sweetly  incensed  ;  glorified 

In  proud  alcaics  ;  in  hexameters 

Applauded  to  the  very  Galleries, 

That  did  applaud  again,  whose  thunder-claps, 

Higher  and  longer,  with  redoubling  peals, 

Rung  when  they  heard  the  illustrious  furbelow'd 

Heroically  in  Popean  rhyme 


Tee-ti-tum'd,  in  Miltonic  blank  bemouth'd  ; 
Prose,  verse,  Greek,  Latin,  English,  rhyme  and 
Apotheosi-chancellor'd  in  all,  [blank, 

Till  Eulogy,  witli  all  her  wealth  of  words, 
Grew  bankrupt,  all-too-prodigal  of  praise. 
And  panting  Panegyric  toil'd  in  vain, 
O'er-task'd  in  keeping  pace  with  such  desert. 

Though  I  can  poetize  right  willingly. 

Puss,  on  thy  well-streak'd  coat,  to  that  Fur-gown 

I  was  not  guilty  of  a  single  line : 

'Twas  an  old  furbelow,  that  would  hang  loose. 

And  wrap  round  any  one,  as  it  were  made 

To  fit  him  only,  so  it  were  but  tied 

With  a  blue  ribbon. 

What  a  power  there  is 
In  beauty  !     Within  these  forbidden  walls 
Thou  hast  thy  range  at  will,  and  when  perchance 
The  Fellows  see  thee.  Puss,  they  overlook 
Inhibitory  laws,  or  haply  think 
The  statute  was  not  made  for  Cats  like  thee ; 
For  thou  art  beautiful  as  ever  Cat 
That  wantoned  in  the  joy  of  kittenhood. 
Ay,  stretch  thy  claws,  thou  democratic  beast,  — 
I  like  thine  independence.     Treat  thee  well, 
Thou  art  as  playful  as  young  Innocence ; 
But  if  we  act  the  governor,  and  break 
The  social  compact.  Nature  gave  those  claws, 
And  taught  thee  how  to  use  them.     Man,  mcthinks, 
Master  and  slave  alike,  might  learn  from  thee 
A  salutary  lesson  :  but  the  one 
Abuses  wickedly  his  power  unjust; 
The  other  crouches,  spaniel-like,  and  licks 
The  hand  that  strikes  him.     Wiser  animal, 
I  look  at  thee,  familiarized,  yet  free  ; 
And,  thinking  that  a  child  with  gentle  hand 
Leads  by  a  string  the  large-limb'd  Elephant, 
With  mingled  indignation  and  contempt 
Behold  his  drivers  goad  the  biped  beast 


II. 

SNUFF. 


A  DELICATE  pinch !  oh,  how  it  tingles  up 

The  titillated  nose,  and  fills  the  eyes 

And  breast,  till  in  one  comfortable  sneeze 

The  full-collected  pleasure  bursts  at  last ! 

Most  rare  Columbus  !  thou  shalt  be  for  this 

The  only  Christopher  in  my  Calendar. 

Why,  but  for  thee  the  uses  of  the  Nose 

Were  half  unknown,  and  its  capacity 

Of  joy.     The  summer  gale  that  from  the  heath, 

At  midnoon  glowing  with  the  golden  gorse. 

Bears  its  balsamic  odor,  but  provokes. 

Not  satisfies  the  sense ;  and  all  the  flowers. 

That  with  their  unsubstantial  fragance  tempt 

And  disappoint,  bloom  for  so  short  a  space. 

That  lialf  the  year  the  Nostrils  would  keep  Lent, 

But  that  the  kind  tobacconist  admits 

No  winter  in  his  work ;  when  Nature  sleeps, 

His  wheels  roll  on,  and  still  administer 

A  plenitude  of  joy,  a  tangible  smell. 


NONDESCRIPTS. 


173 


What  are  Peru  and  those  Golcondan  mines 
To  thee,  Virginia?      Miserable  realms, 
The  produce  of  inhuman  toil,  they  send 
Gold  foi  the  greedy,  jewels  for  the  vain. 
But  thine  are  common  CQjnforts  !  —  To  omit 
Pipe-panegyric  and  tobacco-praise. 
Think  what  the  general  joy  the  snuff-box  gives, 
Europe,  and  far  above  Pizarro's  name 
Write  Raleigh  in  thy  records  of  renown  ! 
Him  let  the  school-boy  bless  if  he  behold 
His  master's  box  produced;  for  when  he  sees 
The  thumb  and  finger  of  Authority 
Stuff d  up  the  nostrils;  when  hat,  head,  and  wig 
Sliake  all ;  when  on  the  waistcoat  black,  brown  dust. 
From  tlie  oft-reiterated  pinch  profuse 
Profusely  scattered,  lodges  in  its  folds, 
And  part  on  the  magistral  table  lights. 
Part  on  the  open  book,  soon  blown  away,  — 
Full  surely  soon  shall  then  the  brow  severe 
Relax  ;  and  from  vituperative  lips 
Words  that  of  birch  remind  not,  sounds  of  praise. 
And  jokes  that  must  be  laugh'd  at  shall  proceed. 

Westbiiry,  1799. 


III. 

COOL  REFLECTIONS 

DURING    A    MIDSUMMER    WALK    FROM    WARMINSTER 
TO    SHAFTESBURY.      1799. 

O  SPARE  me  —  spare  me,  Phoebus!  if  indeed 

Thou  hast  not  let  another  Phaeton 

Drive  earthward  thy  fierce  steeds  and  fiery  car ; 

Mercy  !     I  melt !     I  melt !     No  tree,  no  bush. 

No  shelter,  not  a  breath  of  stirring  air 

East,  West,  or  North,  or  South  1     Dear  God  of  day, 

Put  on  thy  nightcap;  crop  thy  locks  of  light, 

And  be  in  the  fashion ;  turn  thy  back  upon  us. 

And  let  thy  beams  flow  upward ;  make  it  night 

Instead  of  noon ;  — one  little  miracle. 

In  pity,  gentle  Phoebus  ! 

What  a  joy, 
Oh  what  a  joy,  to  be  a  seal  and  flounder 
On  an  ice  island  !  or  to  have  a  den 
With  the  white  bear,  cavern 'd  in  polar  snow  ! 
It  were  a  comfort  to  shake  hands  with  Death,  — 
He  has  a  rare  cold  hand  !  — to  wrap  one's  self 
In  the  gift  shirt  Dejanira  sent. 
Dipt  in  the  blood  of  Ncssus,  just  to  keep 
The  sun  off;  or  toast  cheese  for  Beelzebub,  — 
That  were  a  cool  employment  to  this  journey 
Along  a  road  whose  white  intensity 
Would  now  make  platina  uncongealable 
Like  quicksilver. 

Were  it  midnight,  1  should  walk 
Self-lantern'd,  saturate  with  sunbeams.     Jove  ! 
O  gentle  Jove  !  have  mercy,  and  once  more 
Kick  that  obdurate  Phoebus  out  of  heaven; 
Give  Boreas  the  wind-cholic,  till  he  roar 
For  cardamum,  and  drink  down  peppermint. 
Making  what's  left  as  precious  as  Tokay  ; 
Send  Mercury  to  salivate  the  sky 


Till  it  dissolve  in  rain.     O  gentle  Jove  ! 
But  some  such  little  kindness  to  a  wretch 
Who  feels  his  marrow  spoiling  his  best  coat,  — 
Who  swells  with  calorique  as  if  a  Prester 
Had  Icaven'd  every  limb  with  poison-yeast;  — 
Lend  me  thine  eagle  just  to  flap  his  wings 
And  fan  me,  and  I  will  build  temples  to  thee. 
And  turn  true  Pagan. 

Not  a  cloud  nor  breeze, — 

0  you  most  heathen  Deities  !  if  ever 

My  bones  reach  home  (for,  for  the  flesh  upon  them, 
It  hath  resolved  itself  into  a  dew,) 

1  shall  have  learnt  owl-wisdom.     Thou  vile  Phoebus, 
Set  me  a  Persian  sun-idolater 

Upon  this  turnpike  road,  and  I'll  convert  him 

With  no  inquisitorial  argument 

But  thy  own  fires.     Now  woe  be  to  me,  wretch. 

That  I  was  in  a  heretic  country  born ! 

Else  might  some  mass  for  the  poor  souls  that  bleach. 

And  burn  away  the  calx  of  their  offences 

In  that  great  Purgatory  crucible. 

Help  me.     O  Jupiter  !  my  poor  complexion'. 

I  am  made  a  copper-Indian  of  already  ; 

And  if  no  kindly  cloud  will  parasol  me. 

My  very  cellular  membrane  will  be  changed,  — 

I  shall  be  negrofied. 

A  brook  !  a  brook ! 
O  what  a  sweet,  cool  sound  ! 

'Tis  very  nectar ! 
It  runs  like  life  through  every  strengthen'd  limb ! 
Nymph  of  the  stream,  now  take  a  grateful  prayer. 

1799. 


IV. 
THE   PIG. 

A    C0LL0Q,UIAL    POEM. 

Jacob  !     I  do  not  like  to  see  thy  nose 
Turn'd  up  in  scornful  curve  at  yonder  Pig. 
It  would  be  well,  my  friend,  if  we,  like  him, 
Were  perfect  in  our  kind  !  —  And  why  despise 
The  sow-born  grunter  .'' —  He  is  obstinate. 
Thou  answerest ;  ugly,  and  the  filthiest  beast 
That  banquets  upon  offal.  —  Now,  I  pray  you, 
Hear  the  Pig's  Counsel. 

Is  he  obstinate .' 
We  must  not,  Jacob,  be  deceived  by  words ; 
We  must  not  take  them  as  unheeding  hands 
Receive  base  money  at  the  current  worth, 
But  with  a  just  suspicion  try  their  sound. 
And  in  the  even  balance  weigh  them  well. 
See  now  to  what  this  obstinacy  comes ; 
A  poor,  mistreated,  democratic  beast. 
He  knows  that  his  unmerciful  drivers  seek 
Their  profit,  and  not  his.     He  hath  not  learnt 
That  Pigs  were  made  for  Man,  — born  to  be  brawn'd 
And  baconized  ;  that  he  must  please  to  give 
Just  what  his  gracious  masters  please  to  take; 
Perhaps  his  tusks,  the  weapons  Nature  gave 
For  self-defence,  the  general  privilege ; 
Perhaps,  —  hark,  Jacob  !  dost  thou  hear  that  horn .' 


174 


NONDESCRIPTS, 


Woe  to  the  young  posterity  of  Pork  ! 
Their  enemy  is  at  hand. 

Again.     Thou  say'st 
The  Pig  is  ugly.     Jacob,  look  at  him  ! 
Those  eyes  have  taught  the  Lover  flattery. 
His  face,  —  nay,  Jacob,  Jacob  !  were  it  fair 
To  judge  a  Lady  in  her  dishabille  .'' 
Fancy  it  dress'd,  and  with  saltpetre  rouged. 
Behold  his  tail,  my  friend ;  with  curls  like  that 
The  wanton  hop  marries  her  stately  spouse  : 
So  crisp  in  beauty  Amoretta's  hair 
Rings  round  her  lover's  soul  the  chains  of  love. 
And  what  is  beauty,  but  the  aptitude 
Of  parts  harmonious  ?     Give  thy  fancy  scope, 
And  thou  wilt  find  that  no  imagined  change 
Can  beautify  this  beast.     Place  at  his  end 
The  starry  glories  of  the  Peacock's  pride, 
Give  him  the  Swan's  white  breast ;  for  his  horn- 
hoofs 
Shape  such  a  foot  and  ankle  as  the  waves 
Crowded  m  eager  rivalry  to  kiss 
When  Venus  from  the  enamor'd  sea  arose;  — 
Jacob,  thou  canst  but  make  a  monster  of  him  ! 
All  alteration  man  could  think,  would  mar 
His  Pig-perfection. 

The  last  charge,  —  he  lives 
A  dirty  life.     Here  1  could  shelter  him 
With  noble  and  right-reverend  precedents, 
And  show  by  sanction  of  authority 
That  'tis  a  very  honorable  thing 
To  thrive  by  dirty  ways.     But  let  me  rest 
On  better  ground  the  unanswerable  defence  : 
The  Pig  is  a  philosopher,  who  knows 
No  prejudice.     Dirt.' — Jacob,  what  is  dirt  ? 
If  matter,  —  why  the  delicate  dish  that  tempts 
An  o'ergorged  Epicure  to  the  last  morsel 
That  stuffs  him  to  the  throat-gates,  is  no  more. 
If  matter  be  not,  but,  as  Sages  say, 
Spirit  is  all,  and  all  things  visible 
Are  one,  the  infinitely  modified, 
Think,  Jacob,  what  that  Pig  is,  and  the  mire 
Wherein  he  stands  knee-deep  ! 

And  there !  the  breeze 
Pleads  with  me,  and  has  won  thee  to  a  smile 
That  speaks  conviction.     O'er  yon  blossom'd  field 
Of  beans  it  came,  and  thoughts  of  bacon  rise. 

Westbun/,  1799. 


V. 


THE   DANCING   BEAR. 

RECOMMENDED    TO    THE    ADVOCATES    FOR   THE 
SLAVE-TRADE. 

Rare  music  !  I  would  rather  hear  cat-courtship 

Under  my  bed-room  window  in  the  night, 

Than  this  scraped  catgut's  screak.     Rare  dancing 

too! 
Alas,  poor  Bruin  !     How  he  foots  the  pole, 
And  waddles  round  it  with  unwieldy  steps, 
Swaying  from  side  to  side  !  —  The  dancing-master 


Hath  had  as  profitless  a  pupil  in  him 
As  when  he  would  have  tortured  my  poor  toes 
To  minuet  grace,  and  made  them  move  like  clock- 
In  musical  obedience.     Bruin  !  Bruin  !  [work 
Thou  art  but  a  clumsy  biped  !  —  And  the  mob 
With  noisy  merriment  iftock  his  heavy  pace, 
And  laugh  to  see  him  led  by  the  nose !  —  themselves 
Led  by  the  nose,  embruted,  and  in  the  eye 
Of  Reason  from  their  nature's  purposes 
As  miserably  perverted. 

Bruin-Bear  ! 
Now  could  I  sonnetize  thy  piteous  plight. 
And  prove  how  much  my  sympathetic  heart 
Even  for  the  miseries  of  a  beast  can  feel, 
In  fourteen  lines  of  sensibility. 
But  we  are  told  all  things  were  made  for  man ; 
And  I'll  be  sworn  there's  not  a  fellow  here 
Who  would  not  swear  'twere  hanging  blasphemy 
To  doubt  that  truth.    Therefore,  as  thou  wert  born, 
Bruin  !  for  Man,  and  Man  makes  nothing  of  thee 
In  any  other  way,  —  most  logically 
It  follows,  thou  wert  born  to  make  him  sport ; 
That  that  great   snout   of   thine  was  form'd   on 

purpose 
To  hold  a  ring;  and  that  thy  fat  was  given  thee 
For  an  approved  pomatum  ! 

To  demur 
Were  heresy.     And  politicians  say 
(Wise  men  who  in  the  scale  of  reason  give 
No  foolish  feelings  weight)  that  thou  art  here 
Far  happier  than  thy  brother  Bears  who  roam 
O'er  trackless  snow  for  food  ;  that  being  born 
Inferior  to  thy  leader,  unto  him 
Rightly  belongs  dominion ;  that  the  compact 
Was  made  between  ye,  when  thy  clumsy  feet 
First  fell  into  the  snare,  and  he  gave  up 
His  right  to  kill,  conditioning  thy  life 
Should  thenceforth  be  his  property ;  —  besides, 
'Tis  wholesome  for  thy  morals  to  be  brought 
From  savage  climes  into  a  civilized  state, 
Into  the  decencies  of  Christendom  — 
Bear  !    Bear  !  it  passes  in  the  Parliament 
For  excellent  logic,  this  !     What  if  we  say 
How  barbarously  Man  abuses  power .' 
Talk  of  thy  baiting,  it  will  be  replied, 
Thy  welfare  is  thy  owner's  interest, 
But  were  thou  baited  it  would  injure  thee, 
Therefore  thou  art  not  baited.     For  seven  years 
Hear  it,  O  Heaven,  and  give  ear,  O  Earth ! 
For  seven  long  years  this  precious  syllogism 
Hath  baffled  justice  and  humanity  ! 

Westbury,  1799. 


VI. 

THE   FILBERT. 

Nay,  gather  not  that  Filbert,  Nicholas, 
There  is  a  maggot  there,  —  it  is  his  house, 
His  castle,  —  oh,  commit  not  burglary! 
Strip  him  not  naked, —  'tis  his  clothes,  his  shell, 
His  bones,  the  case  and  armor  of  his  life, 
And  thou  shalt  do  no  murder,  Nicholas ! 


NONDESCRIPTS. 


175 


It  were  an  easy  thing  to  crack  that  nut, 

Or  with  thy  crackers  or  thy  double  teeth ; 

So  easily  may  all  things  be  destroy'd ! 

But  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  mortal  man 

To  mend  the  fracture  of  a  filbert  shell. 

There  were  two  great  men  once  amused  themselves 

Watching  two  maggots  run  their  wriggling  race, 

And  wagering  on  their  speed  ;  but,  Nick,  to  us 

it  were  no  sport,  to  see  the  pamper'd  worm 

Roll  out  and  then  draw  in  his  folds  of  fat. 

Like  to  some  Barber's  leathern  powder-bag 

Wherewith  he  feathers,  frosts,  or  cauliflowers 

Spruce  Beau,  or  Lady  fair,  or  Doctor  grave. 

Enough  of  dangers  and  of  enemies 

Hath  Nature's  wisdom  for  the  worm  ordain'd  ; 

Increase  not  thou  the  number  !     Him  the  Mouse  ; 

Gnawing  with  nibbling  tooth  the  shell's  defence. 

May  from  his  native  tenement  eject ; 

Him  may  the  Nut-hatch,  piercing  with  strong  bill, 

Unwittingly  destroy  ;  or  to  his  hoard 

The  Squirrel  bear,  at  leisure  to  be  crack'd. 

Man  also  hath  his  dangers  and  his  foes. 

As  this  poor  Maggot  hath ;  and  when  I  muse 

Upon  the  aches,  anxieties,  and  fears. 

The  Maggot  knows  not,  Nicholas,  methinks 

It  were  a  happy  metamorphosis 

To  be  enkcrnell'd  thus ;  never  to  hear 

Of  wars,  and  of  invasions,  and  of  plots. 

Kings,  Jacobines,  and  Tax-commissioners ; 

To  feel  no  motion  but  the  wind  that  shook 

The  Filbert  Tree,  and  rock'd  us  to  our  rest; 

And  in  the  middle  of  such  exquisite  food 

To  live  luxurious  !     The  perfection  this 

Of  snugness  !  it  were  to  unite  at  once 

Hermit  retirement,  Aldermanic  bliss, 

And  Stoic  independence  of  mankind. 

IVestbury,  1799. 


vn. 

THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

DESCRIBED    IN    RHYMES    FOR   THE    NURSERY. 

"  How  does  the  Water 

Come  down  at  Lodore  .'  " 

My  little  boy  ask'd  me 

Thus,  once  on  a  time ; 

And  moreover  he  task'd  me 

To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 

Anon  at  the  word. 

There  first  came  one  daughter, 

And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  third 

The  request  of  their  brother, 

And  to  hear  how  the  Water 

Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 

They  had  seen  it  before. 

So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 

For  of  rhymes  I  had  store ; 


And  'twas  in  my  vocation 

For  their  recreation 

That  so  I  should  sing ; 

Because  I  was  Laureate 

To  them  and  tlie  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 

In  the  Tarn  on  the  fell ; 

From  its  fountains 

In  the  mountains, 

Its  rills  and  its  gills ; 

Through  moss  and  through  brake, 

It  runs  and  it  creeps 

For  awhile,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  Lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 

Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  through  the  reeds. 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

Through  meadow  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 

And  through  the  wood-shelter, 

Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 

Helter-skelter, 

Hurry-scurry. 

Here  it  comes  sparkling. 

And  there  it  lies  darkling ; 

Now  smoking  and  frothing 

Its  tumult  and  wrath  in. 

Till  in  this  rapid  race 

On  which  it  is  bent. 

It  reaches  the  place 

Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  Cataract  strong 

Then  plunges  along. 

Striking  and  raging 

As  if  a  war  waging 

Its  caverns  and  rocks  among ; 

Rising  and  leaping. 

Sinking  and  creeping. 

Swelling  and  sweeping. 

Showering  and  springing, 

Flymg  and  flinging. 

Writhing  and  ringing, 

Eddying  and  whisking, 

Spouting  and  frisking, 

Turning  and  twisting, 

Around  and  around 

With  endless  rebound  : 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 

Confounding,  astounding. 

Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound 

Collecting,  projecting. 
Receding  and  speeding, 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting. 
And  shining  and  twining. 
And  rattling  and  battling. 
And  shaking  and  quaking. 


176 


NONDESCRIPTS. 


And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing. 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning. 
And  foaming  and  roaming. 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking. 
And  guggling  and  struggling. 
And  heaving  and  cleaving. 
And  moaning  and  groaning; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering, 
And  whitening  and  brightening. 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying. 
And  thundering  and  floundering ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding. 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving. 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding. 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling. 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling. 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering  ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting. 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying. 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing. 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling. 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and 

beaming. 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing. 
And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping. 
And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and 

jumping. 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clash- 
ing; 
And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 
Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending. 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar, 
And  this  way  the  Water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 

Keswick,  1820. 


VIII. 
ROBERT  THE  RHYMER'S 

TRUE  AND  PARTICULAR  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

Robert  the  Rhymer,  who  lives  at  the  Lakes, 
Describes  himself  thus,  to  prevent  mistakes  ; 
Or  rather,  perhaps,  be  it  said,  to  correct  them. 
There  being  plenty  about  for  those  who  collect  them. 
He  is  lean  of  body,  and  lank  of  limb  ; 
The  man  must  walk  fast  who  would  overtake  him. 
His  eyes  are  not  yet  much  the  worse  for  the  wear. 
And  time  has  not  thinn'd  nor  straighten'd  his  hair. 


Notwithstanding  that  now  he  is  more  than  halfway 

On  the  road  from  Grizzle  to  Gray. 

He  hath  a  long  nose  with  a  bending  ridge  ; 

It  might  be  worthy  of  notice  on  Strasburg  bridge. 

He  sings  like  a  lark  when  at  morn  he  arises. 

And  when  evening  comes  he  nightingalizes. 

Warbling  house-notes  wild  from  throat  and  gizzard. 

Which  reach  from  A  to  G,  and  from  G  to  Izzard. 

His  voice  is  as  good  as  when  he  was  young, 

And  he  has  teeth  enough  left  to  keep-in  his  tongue. 

A  man  he  is  by  nature  merry. 

Somewhat  Tom-foolish,  and  comical,  very  ; 

Who  has  gone  through  the  world,  not  mindful  of 

pelf. 
Upon  easy  terms,  thank  Heaven,  with  himself. 
Along  by-paths  and  in  pleasant  ways. 
Caring  as  little  for  censure  as  praise ; 
Having  some  friends  whom  he  loves  dearly. 
And  no  lack  of  foes,  whom  he  laughs  at  sincerely , 
And  never  for  great,  nor  for  little  things, 
Has  he  fretted  his  guts  to  fiddle-strings. 
He  might  have  made  them  by  such  folly 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy. 

Sic  cecinit  Robertus,  anno  iBtatis  suae  55. 


THE    DEVIL'S    WALK. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

After  the  Devil's  Tlioughts  had  been  publiphed  by  Mr 
Coleridge  in  the  collection  of  his  Poetical  Works,  and  the 
statement  with  which  he  accompanied  it,  it  might  have  been 
supposed  th-jt  the  joint  authorship  of  that  Siamese  production 
had  been  sulficicntly  authenticated,  and  that  no  supposititious 
claim  to  it  would  again  be  advanced.  The  following  extract, 
however,  appeared  in  the  John  Bull  of  Feb.  14,  1830 :  — 

"In  the  Morning  Post  of  Tuesday,  we  find  the  following 
letter : — 

"  '  To  the  Editor  of  the  Morning  Post. 

"  '  Sir,  —  Permit  me  to  correct  a  statement  which  appeared 
in  a  recent  number  of  the  John  Bull,  wherein  it  is  made  to 
appear  that  Dr.  Southey  is  the  author  of  the  Poem  entitled 
T7te  Devil's  Walk.  I  have  the  means  of  settling  this  ques- 
tion, since  I  possess  the  identical  MS.  copy  of  verses,  as  they 
were  written  by  my  uncle,  the  late  Professor  Person,  during 
an  evening  party  at  Dr.  Beloe's. 

'"I  am,  Sir,  your  very  obedient  servant, 

'"R.  C.  PORSON. 

" '  Bayswatcr  Terrace,  Feb.  C,  1830.' 

"  We  are  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Porson,  the  writer  of  the 
above  letter,  is  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  statement  it 
contains  ;  but  although  The  Devil's  Walk  is  perhaps  not  a 
work  of  which  cither  Mr.  Southey  or  Mr.  Porson  need  be 
very  proud,  we  feel  it  due  to  ourselves  to  restate  the  fact  of 
its  being  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Southey.  If  we  are  wrong,  Mr. 
Porson  may  apply  to  Mr.  Southey  ;  for  although  Mr.  Porson'3 
eminent  uncle  is  dead,  the  Poet  Laureate  is  alive  and  merry. 

"The  Lines  —  Poem  they  can  scarcely  be  called  —  were 
written  by  Mr.  Southey  one  morning  before  breakfast,  the 
idea  having  struck  him  while  he  was  shaving ;  they  were 
subsequently  shown  to  Mr.  Coleridm,  who,  we  believe, 
pointed  some  of  the  stanzas,  and  perhaps  added  one  or  two. 

"  Wo  beg  to  assure  Mr.  R.  C.  Porson  that  we  recur  to  this 
matter  out  of  no  disrespect  either  to  the  memory  of  his  uncle, 
which  is  not  likely  to  be  afTcctcd  one  way  or  another,  by  the 
circumstance  ;  or  to  his  own  veracity,  being,  as  we  said,  quite 


Till']    DEVIL'S    WALK. 


177 


assured  that  he  believes  the  statement  he  makrs :  our  only 
ol)jcct  is  ID  set  ourselves  riglit." 

******* 

"  Our  readers,  perhaps,  may  smile  at  the  following,  which 
appears  in  yesterday's  Court  Journal :  — 

" '  We  have  received  a  letter,  signed  "  VV.  Marshall,"  and 
dated  "York;"  claiming  for  its  writer  the  long-contested 
autliorsliip  ot"  tho^e  celebrated  verses,  which  are  known  by 
the  title  of  The  Devil's  Walk  on  Earth,  and  to  which  atten- 
tion has  lately  been  directed  anew,  by  Lord  Byron's  imitation 
of  them.  There  have  been  so  many  mystifications  connected 
with  the  authorship  of  these  clever  verses,  that,  for  any  thing 
w  f  know  to  the  contrary,  this  letter  may  be  only  one  more.' " 
******* 

A  week  iftcrwards  there  was  the  following  notice:  — 
•'  ^Ve  cannot  waste  any  more  time  about  The  DeviVs  Walk. 
We  happen  to  know  that  it  is  Mr.  Southey's ;  but  as  he  is 
alive,  we  refer  any  body,  who  is  not  yet  satisfied,  to  the  emi- 
nent person  himself — we  do  not  mean  the  Devil  —  hut  the 
Doctor." 

The  same  newspaper  contained  the  ensuing  advertisement: 
—  "On  Tuesday  next,  uniform  with  Robert  Cruikshank's 
."Monsieur  Tonson,  price  one  shilling:  The  Devil's  Walk,  a 
Poem,  by  Professor  Porson.  With  additions  and  variations 
liy  Southey  and  Coleridge  :  illustrated  by  seven  engravings 
f.om  R.  Cruikshank.  London,  Marsh  and  Miller,  137,  Oxford 
Street ;  and  Constable  and  Co.,  Edinburgh." 

Professor  Porson  never  had  any  part  in  these  verses  as  a 
writer,  and  it  is  for  the  first  time  that  he  now  appears  in  them 
as  the  subject  of  two  or  three  stanzas  written  some  few  years 
ago,  when  the  fabricated  story  of  his  having  composed  them 
during  an  evening  party  at  Di.  Vincent's  (for  that  was  the 
original  habitat  of  this  falsehood)  was  revived.  A  friend  of 
one  of  the  authors,  more  jealous  for  him  tlian  he  has  ever  been 
for  himself,  urged  him  then  to  put  the  matter  out  of  doubt,  (for 
it  was  before  Mr.  Coleridge  had  done  so  ;)  and  as  much  to 
please  that  friend  as  to  amuse  himself  and  his  domestic 
circle,  in  a  sportive  mood,  the  part  which  relates  the  rise  and 
progress  of  the  Poem  was  thrown  off,  and  that  also  touching 
the  aforesaid  Professor.  The  old  vein  having  thus  been 
opened,  some  other  passages  were  added;  and  so  it  grew  to 
its  present  length. 


THE  DEVIL'S  WALK. 


1. 


From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A  walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 
To  look  at  his  little,  snug  farm  of  the  World, 

And  see  how  his  stock  went  on. 


Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain ; 
And  backward  and  forward  he  swish'd  his  tail, 

As  a  (gentleman  swishes  a  cane. 


How  then  was  the  Devil  dress'd  ? 

Oh,  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best; 
His  coat  was  red,  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 
And  there  was  a  hole  where  his  tail  came  through. 


A  lady  drove  by  in  her  pride. 

In  whose  face  an  expression  he  spied. 

For  which  he  oould  have  kiss'd  her ; 
Such  a  flourishing,  fine,  clever  creature  was  she. 
With  an  eye  as  wicked  as  wicked  can  be  : 
I  should  take  her  for  my  Aunt,  thought  he ; 

If  my  dam  had  had  a  sister. 
23 


He  met  a  lord  of  high  degree, — 
No  matter  what  was  his  name,  — 
Whose  face  with  his  own  when  he  came  to  compare 
The  expression,  the  look,  and  the  air. 
And  the  character  too,  as  it  seem'd  to  a  hair,  — 
Such  a  twin-likeness  there  was  in  the  pair, 
Tliat  it  made  the  Devil  start  and  stare; 
For  he  thought  there  was  surely  alooking-glass  there 
But  he  could  not  see  the  frame. 

6. 

He  saw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dunghill  beside  his  stable  ; 
Ho !  quoth  he,  thou  put'st  me  in  mind 

Of  the  story  of  Cain  and  Abel. 

7. 
An  Apothecary  on  a  white  horse 

Rode  by  on  his  vocation  ; 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death  in  the  Revelation. 


He  pass'd  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility; 
And  he  own'd  with  a  grin 
That  his  favorite  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

9. 
He  saw  a  pig  rapidly 

Down  a  river  float; 
The  pig  swam  well,  but  every  stroke 

Was  cutting  his  own  throat ;  — 

10. 
And  Satan  gave  thereat  his  tail 

A  twirl  of  admiration ; 
For  he  thought  of  his  daughter  War 

And  her  suckling  babe  Taxation. 

11. 

Well  enough,  in  sooth,  he  liked  that  truth, 
And  nothing  the  v.'orse  for  the  jest; 

But  this  was  only  a  first  thought; 
And  in  this  he  did  not  rest : 

Another  came  presently  into  his  head ; 

And  here  it  proved,  as  has  often  been  said, 
That  second  thoughts  are  best 

12. 
For  as  Piggy  plied,  with  wind  and  tide, 

His  way  with  such  celerity, 
And  at  every  stroke  the  water  dyed 
With  his  own  red  blood,  the  Devil  cried 
Behold  a  swinish  nation's  pride 

In  cotton-spun  prosperity ' 

13. 
He  walk'd  into  London  leisurely ; 

The  streets  were  dirty  and  dim ; 
But  there  he  saw  Brothers  the  Prophet, 

And  Brothers  the  Prophet  saw  him.* 

*  "  After  this  I  was  in  a  vision,  having  the  angel  of  God 
near  me,  and  saw  Satan  walking  leisurely  into  London."  — 
Brothers^  Prophecies,  part  i.  p.  41. 


178 


THE    DEVIL'S    WALK, 


14. 

He  entered  a  thriving  bookseller's  sho]) ; 

Quoth  he,  We  are  bolli  of  one  college, 
For  I  myself  sate  like  a  Cormorant  once 

Upon  the  Tree  of  Knowledge. 

15. 

As  lie  passed  through  Cold-Bath  Fields,  he  look'd 

At  a  solitary  cell ; 
And  he  was  well-pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  hint 

For  improving  the  prisons  of  Hell. 

It). 
He  saw  a  turnkey  tie  a  thief's  hands 

With  a  cordial  tug  and  jerk ; 
Nimbly,  quoth  he,  a  man's  fingers  move 

When  his  heart  is  in  his  work. 

17. 
He  saw  the  same  turnkey  unfettering  a  man 

With  little  expedition ; 
And  he  chtickled  to  think  of  his  dear  slave  trade. 
And  the  long  debates  and  delays  that  were  made 

Concerning  its  abolition. 

18. 
He  met  one  of  his  favorite  daughters 

By  an  Evangelical  Meeting ; 
And  forgetting  himself  for  joy  at  her  sight, 

He  would  have  accosted  her  outright. 

And  given  her  a  fatherly  greeting. 

19. 
But  she  tipp'd  him  a  wink,  drew  back,  and  cried, 

A  vaunt!  my  name's  Religion! 
And  then  she  turn'd  to  the  preacher, 

And  leer'd  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 

20. 

A  fine  man  and  a  famous  Professor  was  he. 
As  the  great  Alexander  now  may  be. 
Whose  fame  not  yet  o'erpast  is ; 
Or  that  new  Scotch  performer 
Who  is  fiercer  and  warmer. 
The  great  Sir  Arch-Bombastes ; 

21. 

With  throbs  and  throes,  and  ahs  and  ohs, 
Far  famed  his  flock  for  frightening ; 

And  thundering  with  his  voice,  the  while 
His  eyes  zigzag  like  lightning. 

22. 
This  Scotch  phenomenon,  1  trow. 

Beats  Alexander  hollow ; 
Even  when  most  tame. 
He  breathes  more  flame 

Than  ten  Fire-Kings  could  swallow 

23. 

Another  daughter  he  presently  met: 
With  music  of  fife  and  drum. 
And  a  consecrated  flag. 
And  shout  of  tag  and  rag. 


And  march  of  rank  and  file, 
Which  had  fill'd  the  crowded  aisle 

Of  the  venerable  pile. 
From  church  he  saw  her  come. 

21. 
He  call'd  her  aside,  and  began  to  chide. 
For  what  dost  thou  here  ?  said  he  ; 
My  city  of  Rome  is  thy  proper  home, 
And  there's  work  enough  there  for  thee. 

25. 

Thou  hast  confessions  to  listen, 

And  bells  to  christen. 
And  altars  and  dolls  to  dress ; 

And  fools  to  coax. 

And  sinners  to  hoax, 
And  beads  and  bones  to  bless ; 

And  great  pardons  to  sell 

For  those  who  pay  well. 
And  small  ones  for  those  who  pay  less. 

2G. 
Nay,  Father,  I  boast,  that  this  is  my  post, 
She  answered;  and  thou  wilt  allow. 
That  the  great  Harlot, 
Who  is  clothed  in  scarlet. 
Can  very  well  spare  me  now. 

27. 
Upon  her  business  I  am  come  here. 
That  we  may  extend  her  powers; 
Whatever  lets  down  this  church  that  we  hate, 
Is  something  in  favor  of  ours. 

28. 
You  will  not  think,  great  Cosmocrat ! 

That  I  spend  my  time  in  fooling ; 
Many  irons,  my  Sire,  have  we  in  the  fire, 

And  I  must  leave  none  of  them  cooling; 
For  you  must  know  state-councils  here 
Are  held  which  I  bear  rule  in. 
When  my  liberal  notions 
Produce  mischievous  motions, 
There's  many  a  man  of  good  intent, 
In  either  house  of  Parliament, 
Whom  I  shall  find  a  tool  in ; 
And  I  have  hopeful  pupils  too 
Who  all  this  while  are  schooling. 

29. 

Fine  progress  they  make  in  our  liberal  opinions, 
My  Utilitarians, 
My  all  sorts  of —  inians 
And  all  sorts  of — arians; 
My  all  sorts  of —  ists, 
And  my  Prigs  and  my  Whigs, 
Who  have  all  sorts  of  twists, 
Train'd  in  the  very  way,  I  know. 
Father,  you  would  have  them  go; 
High  and  low. 
Wise  and  foolish,  great  and  small, 
March-of-Intellect-Boys  all. 


THE    DEVIL'S    WALK, 


179 


30. 


Well  pleased  wilt  thou  be  at  no  very  far  day, 
When  the  caldron  of  mischief  boils, 
And  I  bring  them  forth  in  battle  array, 

And  bid  them  suspend  their  broils, 
That  they  may  unite  and  fall  on  the  prey. 
For  which  we  are  spreading  our  toils. 
How  the  nice  boys  all  will  give  mouth  at  the  call, 

Hark  away  !  hark  away  to  the  spoils  ! 
My  Macs  and  my  Quacks  and  my  lawless-Jacks, 
My  Shields  and  O'Connells,  my  pious  Mac-Don- 
nells, 
My  joke-smith  Sidney,  and  all  of  his  kidney, 
My  Humes  and  my  Broughams, 
My  merry  old  Jerry, 
My  Lord  Kings,  and  my  Doctor  Doyles  ! 

3L 

At  this  good  news,  so  great 
The  Devil's  pleasure  grew. 
That  with  a  joyful  swish  he  rent 

The  hole  where  his  tail  came  through. 

32. 

His  countenance  fell  for  a  moment 

When  he  felt  the  stitches  go ; 
Ah  !  thought  he,  there's  a  job  now 

That  I've  made  for  my  tailor  below. 

33. 
Great  news !  bloody  news  !  cried  a  newsman ; 

The  Devil  said,  Stop,  let  me  see  ! 
Great  news  ?  bloody  news  ?  thought  the  Devil, 

The  bloodier  the  better  for  me. 

34. 

So  he  bought  the  newspaper,  and  no  news 

At  all  for  his  money  he  had. 
Lying  varlet,  thought  he,  thus  to  take  in  old  Nick  ! 

But  it's  some  satisfaction,  my  lad. 
To  know  thou  art  paid  beforehand  for  the  trick. 

For  the  sixpence  I  gave  thee  is  bad. 

35. 

And  then  it  came  into  his  head. 

By  oracular  inspiration. 
That  what  he  had  seen  and  what  he  had  said, 

In  the  course  of  this  visitation. 
Would  be  published  in  the  Morning  Post 

For  all  this  reading  nation. 

36. 

Therewith  in  second-sight  he  saw 
The  place,  and  the  manner  and  time. 

In  which  this  mortal  story 

Would  be  put  in  immortal  rhyme. 

37. 

That  it  would  happen  when  two  poets 

Should  on  a  time  be  met 
In  the  town  of  Nether  Stowey, 

In  the  shire  of  Somerset. 

38. 
There,  while  the  one  was  shaving. 
Would  he  the  song  begin ; 


And  the  other,  when  he  heard  it  at  breakfast. 
In  ready  accord  join  in. 


39. 
So  each  would  help  the  other. 
Two  heads  being  better  than  one ; 
And  the  phrase  and  conceit 
Would  in  unison  meet. 
And  so  with  glee  the  verse  flow  free 

In  ding-dong  chime  of  sing-song  rhyme, 
Till  the  whole  were  merrily  done. 

40. 
And  because  it  was  set  to  the  razor, 

Not  to  the  lute  or  harp. 
Therefore  it  was  that  tlie  fancy 
Should  be  bright,  and  the  wit  be  sharp. 

41. 

But  therr,  said  Satan  to  himself. 

As  for  that  said  beginner. 
Against  my  infernal  Majesty 

There  is  no  greater  sinner. 

42. 

He  hath  put  me  in  ugly  ballads 
With  libellous  pictures  for  sale ; 

He  hath  scofTd  at  my  hoofs  and  my  horns, 
And  has  made  very  free  with  my  tail. 

43. 

But  this  Mister  Poet  shall  find 
I  am  not  a  safe  subject  for  whim ; 

For  I'll  set  up  a  School  of  my  own, 
And  my  Poets  shall  set  upon  him. 

44. 
He  went  to  a  coffee-house  to  dine, 

And  there  he  had  soy  in  his  dish ; 
Having  ordered  some  soles  for  his  dinner. 

Because  he  was  fond  of  flat  fish. 

45. 
They  are  much  to  my  palate,  thought  he. 

And  now  guess  the  reason  who  can, 
Why  no  bait  should  be  better  than  place. 

When  I  fish  for  a  Parliament-man. 

46. 
But  the  soles  in  the  bill  were  ten  shilhngs , 

Tell  your  master,  quoth  lie,  what  I  say ; 
If  he  charges  at  this  rate  for  all  things. 

He  must  be  in  a  pretty  good  way. 

47. 
But  mark  ye,  said  he  to  the  waiter, 

I'm  a  dealer  myself  in  this  line. 
And  his  business,  between  you  and  me, 

Nothing  like  so  extensive  as  mine. 

48. 
Now  soles  are  exceedingly  cheap ; 

Which  he  will  not  attempt  to  deny, 
When  I  see  him  at  my  fish-market, 

I  warrant  him,  by  and  by. 


180 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


4'J. 
As  he  went  along  the  Strand 

Between  three  in  the  morning  and  four, 
Me  observed  a  queer-looking  person 

Who  stagger'd  from  Perry's  door. 

50. 
And  he  thought  that  all  the  world  over 

In  vain  for  a  man  you  might  seek, 
Who  could  drink  more  like  a  Trojan, 

Or  talk  more  like  a  Greek. 

51. 
The  Devil  then  he  prophesied 
It  would  one  day  be  matter  of  talk, 
Tliat  with  wine  when  smitten, 
And  with  wit  moreover  being  happily  bitten, 
This  erudite  bibber  was  he  who  had  written 
Tlie  story  of  this  Walk. 

52. 

A  pretty  mistake,  quoth  the  Devil ; 
A  pretty  mistake,  I  opine ! 
I  have  put  many  ill  thoughts  in  his  mouth  ; 
He  will  never  put  good  ones  in  mine. 

53. 

And  whoever  shall  say  that  to  Porson 

These  best  of  all  verses  belong. 
He  is  an  untruth-telling  whoreson, 

And  so  shall  be  call'd  in  the  song. 

54. 

And  if  seeking  an  illicit  connection  with  fame, 
Any  one  else  should  put  in  a  claim 

In  this  comical  competition. 
That  excellent  poem  will  prove 

A  man-trap  for  such  foolish  ambition. 
Where  the  silly  rogue  shall  be  caught  by  the  leg. 
And  exposed  in  a  second  edition. 

55. 

Now  the  morning  air  was  cold  for  him, 

Who  was  used  to  a  warm  abode  ; 
And  yet  lie  did  not  immediately  wish, 

To  set  out  on  his  homeward  road. 

5G. 
For  he  had  some  morning  calls  to  make 

Before  he  went  back  to  Hell ; 
So,  thought  he,  I'll  step  into  a  gaming-house, 

And  that  will  do  as  well ; 
But  just  before  he  could  get  to  the  door 

A  wonderful  chance  befell. 

57. 

For  all  on  a  sudden,  in  a  dark  place. 
He  came  upon  General 's  burning  face  ; 

And  it  struck  him  with  such  consternation, 
Tliat  home  in  a  hurry  his  way  did  he  take. 
Because  he  thought  by  a  slight  mistake 

'Twas  the  general  conflagration. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


The  three  utilities  of  Poetry :  the  praise  of  Virtue  and 
Goodness,  tiie  memory  of  things  remarkable,  and  to  invigorate 
the  Affections.  ff'cUh  Triad. 


1. 


FOR  A  COLUMN  AT  NEWBURY. 

Callest  thou  thyself  a  Patriot.'  —  On  this  field 
Did  Falkland  fall,  the  blameless  and  the  brave. 
Beneath  the  banners  of  that  Charles  whom  thou 
Abhorrest  for  a  Tyrant.     Dost  thou  boast 
Of  loyalty  ?     The  field  is  not  far  off 
Wliere,  in  rebellious  arms  against  his  King, 
Hambden  was  kill'd,  that  Hambden  at  whose  name 
The  heart  of  many  an  honest  Englishman 
Beats  with  congenial  pride.     Botli  uncorrnpt, 
Friends  to  their  common  country  both,  tliey  fouo-ht. 
They  died  in  adverse  armies.     Traveller  1 
If  with  thy  neighbor  thou  shouldst  not  accord. 
Remember  these,  our  famous  countrymen. 
And  quell  all  angry  and  injurious  thoughts. 

Bristol.  1796. 


II. 

FOR  A  CAVERN  THAT  OVERLOOKS 
THE  RIVER  AVON. 

Enter  this  cavern,  Stranger  !     Here,  awhile 

Respiring  from  the  long  and  steep  ascent. 

Thou  niayst  be  glad  of  rest,  and  haply  too 

Of  shade,  if  from  the  summer's  westering  sun 

Slielter'd  beneath  this  beetling  vault  of  rock. 

Round  the  rude  portal  clasping  its  rough  arms 

The  antique  ivy  spreads  a  canopy. 

From  whose  gray  blossoms  the  wild  bees  collect 

In  autumn  their  last  store.     Tlie  Muses  love 

Tliis  spot;  believe  a  Poet  who  hath  felt 

Their  visitation  here.     The  tide  below 

Rising  or  refluent  scarcely  sends  its  sound 

Of  waters  up  ;  and  from  the  heights  beyond, 

Where  the  high-hanging  forest  waves  and  sways. 

Varying  before  the  wind  its  verdant  hues, 

The  voice  is  music  here.     Here  thou  mayst  feel 

How  good,  how  lovely.  Nature  !    And  when  hence 

Returning  to  the  city's  crowded  streets, 

Thy  sickening  eye  at  every  step  revolts 

From  scenes  of  vice  and  wretchedness,  reflect 

That  Man  creates  the  evil  he  endures. 

Bristol.  1196. 


111. 
FOR  A  TABLET  AT   SILBURY-HILL. 

This  mound,  in  some  remote  and  dateless  day 
Rear'd  o'er  a  Chieftain  of  the  Age  of  Flills, 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


181 


May  liere  detain  thee,  Traveller !  from  thy  road 
Not  idly  lingering.     In  his  narrow  house 
Some  Warrior  sleeps  below,  whose  gallant  deeds 
Haply  at  many  a  solemn  festival 
The  Scald  hath  sung;  but  perish'd  is  the  song 
Of  praise,  as  o'er  these  bleak  and  barren  downs 
The  wind  that  passes  and  is  heard  no  more. 
Go,  Traveller,  and  remember,  when  the  pomp 
Of  earthly  Glory  fades,  that  one  good  deed, 
Unseen,  unheard,  unnoted  by  mankind. 
Lives  in  the  eternal  register  of  Heaven. 

Brutol,  1796. 


IV. 


FOR  A  MOiNUMENT  IN   THE   NEW 
FOREST. 

This  is  the  place  where  William's  kingly  power 
Did  from  their  poor  and  peaceful  homes  expel. 
Unfriended,  desolate,  and  shelterless. 
The  habitants  of  all  the  fertile  track 
Far  as  these  wilds  extend.     He  Icvell'd  down 
Their  little  cottages;  he  bade  their  fields 
Lie  waste,  and  forested  the  land,  that  so 
More  royally  might  he  pursue  his  sports. 
If  that  thine  heart  be  human,  Passenger ! 
Sure  it  will  swell  within  thee,  and  thy  lips 
Will  mutter  curses  on  him.     Think  thou  then 
What  cities  flame,  what  hosts  unsepulchred 
Pollute  the  passing  wind,  when  raging  Power 
Drives  on  his  blood-hounds  to  the  chase  of  Man; 
And  as  thy  thoughts  anticipate  that  day 
When  God  shall  judge  aright,  in  charity 

Pray  for  the  wicked  rulers  of  mankind. 
* 
Bnstol,  1796. 


FOR  A  TABLET  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A 
STREAM. 

Stranger  !  awhile  upon  this  mossy  bank 

Recline  thee.     If  the  Sun  rides  high,  the  breeze. 

That  loves  to  ripple  o'er  the  rivulet, 

Will  j)lay  around  thy  brow,  and  the  cool  sound 

Of  running  waters  soothe  thee.     Mark  how  clear 

They  sparkle  o'er  the  shallows,  and  behold 

Where   o'er    their   surface   wheels   with    restless 

Yon  glossy  insect,  on  the  sand  below  [speed 

How  its  swift  shadow  flits.     In  solitude 

The  rivulet  is  pure,  and  trees  and  herbs 

Bend  o'er  its  salutary  course  refresh'd ; 

But  passing  on  amid  the  haunts  of  men, 

[t  finds  pollution  tliere,  and  rolls  from  thence 

A  tainted  stream.     Seek'st  thou  for  Happiness  .= 

Go,  Stranger,  sojourn  in  the  woodland  cot 

Of  Ln.nocence,  and  thou  shall  find  her  there. 

BriitoL  1796. 


VI. 

FOR    THE     CENOT.APH    AT    ERMENON- 
VILLE. 

Stuanger  !  the  Man  of  Nature  lies  not  here: 
Enshrined  far  distant  by  the  Scoffer's  *  side 
His  relics  rest,  there  by  the  giddy  throng 
With  blind  idolatry  alike  revered. 
Wiselier  directed  have  thy  pilgrim  feet 
Explored  the  scenes  of  Ermenonville.     Rousseau 
Loved  these  calm  haunts  of  Solitude  and  Peace ; 
Here  he  has  heard  the  murmurs  of  the  lake, 
And  the  soft  rustling  of  the  poplar  grove. 
When  o'er  its  bending  boughs  the  passing  wind 
Swept  a  gray  shade.     Here,  if  thy  breast  be  full, 
If  in  thine  eye  the  tear  devout  should  gush. 
His  Spirit  shall  behold  thee,  to  thine  home 
From  hence  returning,  purified  of  heart. 

Bristol,  179G. 


VII. 

FOR   A  MONUMENT   AT  OXFORD. 

Here  Latimer  and  Ridley  in  the  flames 
Bore  witness  to  the  truth.     If  thou  hast  walk'd 
Uprightly  through  the  world,  just  thoughts  of  joy 
May  fill  thy  breast  in  contemplating  here 
Congenial  virtue.     But  if  thou  hast  swerved 
From  the  straight  path  of  even  rectitude. 
Fearful  in  trying  seasons  to  assert 
The  better  cause,  or  to  forsake  the  worse 
Reluctant,  when  perchance  therein  enthrall'd 
Slave  to  false  shame,  oh  !  thankfully  receive 
The  sharp,  compunctious  motions  that  this  spot 
May  wake  within  thee,  and  be  wise  in  time, 
And  let  tiie  future  for  the  past  atone. 

Batn,  1797. 


VIII. 

FOR   A  MONUMENT  IN    THE    VALE  OF 
EWIAS. 

Here  was  it.  Stranger,  that  the  patron  Saint 

Of  Cambria  pass'd  his  age  of  penitence, 

A  solitary  man ;  and  here  he  made 

His  hermitage,  the  roots  his  food,  his  drink 

Of  Hodney's   mountain   stream.     Perchance  thy 

youth 
Has  read  with  eager  wonder  how  the  Knight 
Of  Wales  in  Ormandine's  enchanted  bower 
Slept  the  long  sleep  ;  and  if  that  in  thy  veins 
Flow  the  pure  blood  of  Britain,  sure  that  blood 
Hath  flow'd  with  quicker  impulse  at  the  tale 
Of  David's  deeds,  when  through  the  press  of  war 
His  gallant  comrades  follow'd  his  green  crest 
Tovictory.  Stranger  I  HatteriU's  mountain  heights, 
And  this  fair  vale  of  Ewias,  and  the  stream 

*  Volt.-.irn. 


I85i 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


Of  Hodney,  to  thine  after-thoughts  will  rise 
More  grateful,  tiius  associate  with  the  name 
Of  David  and  the  deeds  of  other  days. 

Bath,  1798. 


IX. 


EPITAPH   ON   ALGERNON  SYDNEY. 

Here  Sydney  lies,  he  whom  perverted  law, 
The  pliant  jury,  and  the  bloody  judge, 
Doom'd  to  a  traitor's  death.     A  tyrant  King 
Required,  an  abject  country  saw  and  shared 
Tlie  crime.     The  noble  cause  of  Liberty 
He  loved  in  life,  and  to  tliat  noble  cause 
In  death  bore  witness.     But  his  Country  rose 
Like  Samson  from  her  sleep,  and  broke  her  chains, 
And  proudly  with  her  worthies  she  cnroll'd 
Her  murder'd  Sydney's  name.     The  voice  of  man 
Gives  honor  or  destroys ;  but  earthly  power 
Gives  not,  nor  takes  away,  the  self-applause 
Which  on  the  scaffold  suffering  virtue  feels. 
Nor  that  which  God  appointed  its  reward. 

Westbunj,  1798. 


X. 


EPITAPH   ON   KING   JOHN. 

John  rests  below.     A  man  more  infamous 
Never  hath  held  the  sceptre  of  these  realms, 
And  bruised  beneath  the  iron  rod  of  Power 
The  oppressed  men  of  England.     Englishman  ! 
Curse  not  his  memory.     Murderer  as  he  was, 
Coward  and  slave,  yet  he  it  was  who  sign'd 
Tiiat  Charter  which  should  make  thee  morn  and 

night 
Be  thankful  for  thy  birthplace  :  — Englishman ! 
That  holy  Charter,  which  shouldst  thou  permit 
Force  to  destroy,  or  Fraud  to  undermine. 
Thy  children's  groans  will  persecute  thy  soul. 
For  they  must  bear  the  burden  of  thy  crime. 

Westbunj,  1798. 


XI. 

IN   A    FOREST. 

Stranger  !  whose  steps  have  reach'd  this  solitude, 

Know  that  this  lonely  spot  was  dear  to  one 

Devoted  with  no  unrequited  zeal 

To  Nature.     Here,  delighted,  he  has  heard 

The  rustling  of  these  woods,  that  now  perchance 

Melodious  to  the  gale  of  summer  move; 

And  underneath  their  shade  on  yon  smooth  rock. 

With  gray  and  yellow  lichens  overgrown. 

Often  reclined  ;  watching  the  silent  flow 

Of  this  perspicuous  rivulet,  that  steals 

Alonor  its  verdant  course,  —  till  all  around 


Had  fill'd  his  senses  with  tranquillity. 

And  ever  soothed  in  spirit  he  return'd 

A  happier,  better  man.     Stranger!  perchance. 

Therefore  the  stream  more  lovely  to  thine  eye 

Will  glide  along,  and  to  the  sunmier  gale       [then 

The  woods  wave  more  melodious.     Cleanse  thou 

The  weeds  and  mosses  from  this  letter'd  stone. 

Westbury,  1798. 


XII. 

FOR   A   MONUMENT    AT  TORDESILLAS. 

Spaniard  !  if  thou  art  one  who  bows  the  knee 
Before  a  despot's  footstool,  hie  thee  hence  ! 
This  ground  is  holy  :  here  Padilla  died, 
Martyr  of  Freedom.     But  if  thou  dost  love 
Her  cause,  stand  then  as  at  an  altar  here. 
And  thank  the  Almighty  that  thine  honest  heart, 
Full  of  a  brother's  feelings  for  mankind, 
Revolts  against  oppression.     Not  unheard 
Nor  unavailing  shall  the  grateful  prayer 
Ascend;  for  honest  impulses  will  rise. 
Such  as  may  elevate  and  strengthen  thee 
For  virtuous  action.     Relics  silver-shrined, 
And  chaunted  mass,  would  wake  within  the  soul 
Thoughts  valueless  and  cold  compared  with  these. 

Bristol,  179G. 


XIII. 

FOR  A   COLUMN   AT  TRUXILLO 

PiZARRO  here  was  born;  a  greater  name 

The  list  of  Glory  boasts  not.     Toil  and  Pain, 

Famine  and  hostile  Elements,  and  Hosts 

Embattled,  fail'd  to  check  him  in  his  course, 

Not  to  be  wearied,  not  to  be  deterr'd. 

Not  to  be  overcome.     A  mighty  realm 

He  overran,  and  with  relentless  arm 

Slew  or  enslaved  its  unoffending  sons. 

And  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  were  his  rewards. 

There  is  another  world,  beyond  the  Grave, 

According  to  their  deeds  where  men  are  judged. 

O  Reader  !  if  thy  daily  bread  be  earn'd 

By  daily  labor,  —  yea,  however  low. 

However  painful  be  thy  lot  assign'd. 

Thank  thou,  with  deepest  gratitude,  the  God 

Who  made  thee,  that  thou  art  not  such  as  he. 

Bristol,  179G. 


XIV. 

FOR  THE  CELL  OF  HONORIUS,  AT  THE 
CORK  CONVENT,  NEAR  CINTRA. 

Here,  cavern'd  like  a  beast,  Honorius  pass'd, 
In  self-affliction,  solitude,  and  prayer. 
Long  years  of  penance.     He  had  rooted  out 


INSCRIPTIONS, 


183 


All  human  feelings  from  his  lieart,  and  fled 
With  fear  and  loathing  from  all  human  joys. 
Not  thus  in  making  known  his  will  divine 
Hath  Christ  enjoin'd.     To  aid  the  fatlierlcss, 
Comfort  the  sick,  and  be  the  poor  man's  friend, 
And  in  the  wounded  heart  pour  gospel-balm, — 
These  are  the  injunctions  of  his  holy  law, 
Which  whoso  keeps  shall  have  a  joy  on  earth, 
Calm,  constant,  still  increasing,  preluding 
The  eternal  bliss  of  Heaven.     Yet  mock  not  thou. 
Stranger,  the  Anchorite's  mistaken  zeal ! 
He  painfully  his  painful  duties  kept. 
Sincere,  though  erring.     Stranger,  do  thou  keep 
Thy  better  and  thine  easier  rule  as  well. 

Bristol.  1798. 


XV. 

FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  TAUNTON. 

They  sufFer'd  here  whom  Jcfferies  doom'd  to  death 
In  mockery  of  all  justice,  when  the  Judge 
Unjust,  subservient  to  a  cruel  King, 
Perform'd  his  work  of  blood.     They  sufFer'd  here, 
Tlie  victims  of  that  Judge,  and  of  that  King  ; 
In  mockery  of  all  justice  here  they  bled, 
Unheard.     But  not  unpitied,  nor  of  God 
Unseen,  the  innocent  suffered  ;  not  unheard 
Tlie  innocent  blood  cried  vi'ngeance  ;  for  at  length 
The  indignant  Nation  in  its  power  arose, 
Resistless.     Then  that  wicked  Judge  took  flight, 
Disguised  in  vain  :  — not  always  is  the  Lord 
Slow  to  revenge !  A  mis<^rable  man. 
He  fell  beneath  the  people's  rage,  and  still 
The  children  curse  his  memory.     From  the  throne 
The  obdurate  bigot  who  commission'd  liim, 
Inhuman  James,  was  driven.     He  lived  to  drag 
Long  years  of  frustrate  hope,  he  lived  to  load 
More  blood  upon  his  soul.     liCt  tell  the  Boyne, 
Let  Londonderry  tell  his  guilt  and  shame  ; 
And  that  immortal  day  when  on  thy  shores. 
La  Hogue,  the  purple  ocean  dash'd  the  dead ! 

Westburii,  1798. 


XVI. 

FOR  A  TABLET  AT  PENSHURST. 

Are  days  of  old  familiar  to  thy  mind, 
O  Reader?     Hast  thou  let  the  midnight  hour 
Pass  unperceived,  whilst  thou  in  fancy  lived 
With  high-born  beauties  and  cnamor'd  chiefs, 
Sharing  their  hopes,  and  with  a  breathless  joy 
Whose  expectation  touch'd  the  verge  of  pain. 
Following  their  dangerous  fortunes  .'     If  such  lore 
Hath  ever  thrill'd  thy  bosom,  tlinu  wilt  tread. 
As  with  a  pilgrim's  reverential  thoughts. 
The  groves  of  Pensiiurst.     Sydney  here  was  born, 
Sydney,  than  whom  no  gentler,  braver  man 
His  own  delightful  genius  ever  feign'd, 
Illustrating  the  vales  of  Arcady 


With  courteous  courage  and  with  loyal  loves 
Upon  his  natal  day  an  acorn  here 
Was  planted :  it  grew  up  a  stately  oak, 
And  in  the  beauty  of  its  strength  it  stood 
And  flourish'd,  when  liis  perishable  part 
Had  moulder'd,  dust  to  dust.     That  stately  oak 
Itself  hath  moulder'd  now,  but  Sydney's  fame 
■Endureth  in  his  own  immortal  works. 

Westlmry,  1799. 


XVII. 

EPITAPH. 

Tins  to  a  mother's  sacred  memory 

Her  son  hath  hallow'd.     Absent  many  a  year 

Far  over  sea,  his  sweetest  dreams  were  still 

Of  that  dear  voice  which  soothed  his  infancy ; 

And  after  many  a  fight  against  the  Moor 

And  Malabar,  or  that  fierce  cavalry 

Which  he  had  seen  covering  tlie  boundless  plain, 

Even  to  the  utmost  limits  where  the  eye 

Could  pierce  the  far  horizon,  —  his  first  thought 

In  safety  was  of  her,  who,  when  she  heard 

The  tale  of  that  day's  danger,  would  retire 

And  pour  her  pious  gratitude  to  Heaven 

In  prayers  and  tears  of  joy.     The  lingering  hour 

Of  his  return,  long-look' d-for,  came  at  length. 

And  full  of  hope  he  reach'd  his  native  shore. 

Vain  hope  that  puts  its  trust  in  human  life  ! 

For  ere  he  came,  the  number  of  her  days 

Was  full.     O  Reader,  what  a  world  were  this. 

How  unendurable  its  weight,  if  they 

Whom  Death  hath  sunder'd  did  not  meet  again  ' 

Keswick,  1810. 


XVIII. 
EPITAPH. 

Here,  in  the  fruitful  vales  of  Somerset, 
Was  Emma  born,  and  here  the  Maiden  grew 
To  the  sweet  season  of  her  womanhood. 
Beloved  and  lovely,  like  a  plant  whose  leaf, 
And  bud,  and  blossom,  all  are  beautiful. 
In  peaeefulness  her  virgin  years  were  past; 
And  when  in  prosperous  wedlock  she  was  given, 
Amid  the  Cumbrian  mountains  far  away 
She  had  her  summer  Bower.     'Twas  like  a  dream 
Of  old  Romance  to  see  her  when  she  plied 
Her  little  skiff  on  Derwent's  glassy  lake ; 
The  roseate  evening  resting  on  the  hills. 
The  lake  returning  back  the  hues  of  heaven. 
Mountains,  and  vales,  and  waters,  all  imbued 
With  beauty,  and  in  quietness  ;  and  she, 
Nymph-like,  amid  that  crlorious  solitude 
A  heavenly  presence,  gliding  in  her  joy. 
But  soon  a  wasting  malady  began 
To  prey  upon  her,  frequent  in  attack. 
Yet  with  such  flattering  intervals  as  mock 
The  hopes  of  anxious  love,  and  most  of  all 


i 


184 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


The  sufferer,  self-deceived.     During  those  days 
Oi'  treacherous  respite,  many  a  time  hath  he, 
Who  leaves  this  record  of  his  friend,  drawn  back 
Into  the  shadow  from  her  social  board. 
Because  too  surely  in  her  cheek  he  saw 
The  insidious  bloom  of  death  ;  and  then  her  smiles 
And  innocent  mirth  excited  deeper  grief 
Than  when  long-look'd-for  tidings  came  at  last, 
That,  all  lier  sufferings  ended,  she  was  laid 
Amid  Madeira's  orange  groves  to  rest. 
O  gentle  Emma !  o'er  a  lovelier  form 
Than  thine  Earth  never  closed;  nor  e'er  did  Heaven 
Receive  a  purer  spirit  from  the  world. 

Keswick,  1810. 


XIX. 

FOR  A   MONUMENT   AT    ROLISSA. 

Time  has  been  when  Rolissa  was  a  name 

Ignoble,  by  the  passing  traveller  heard, 

And  then  forthwith  forgotten  ;  now  in  war 

It  is  renown'd.     For  when  to  her  ally, 

In  bondage  by  perfidious  France  oppress'd, 

England  sent  succor,  first  within  this  realm 

The  fated  theatre  of  their  long  strife 

Confronted,  here  the  hostile  nations  met. 

Laborde  took  here  his  stand ;  upon  yon  point 

Of  Mount  Saint  Anna  was  his  Eagle  fix'd ; 

Tlie  veteran  chief,  disposing  well  all  aid 

Of  height  and  glen,  posscss'd  the  mountain  straits, 

A  post  whose  strength  thus  mann'd  and  profited 

Seem'd  to  defy  the  enemy,  and  make 

Tlie  vantage  of  assailing  numbers  vain. 

Here,  too,  before  the  sun  should  bend  his  course 

Adown  the  slope  of  heaven,  so  had  tlieir  plans 

Been  timed,  he  look'd  for  Loison's  army,  rich 

With  spoils  from  Evora  and  Beja  sack'd. 

That  liope  the  British  Knight,  areeding  well, 

With  prompt  attack  prevented;  and  nor  strength 

Of  ground,  nor  leader's  skill,  nor  discipline 

Of  soldiers  practised  in  tlie  ways  of  war, 

Avail'd  that  day  against  the  British  arm. 

Resisting  long,  but  beaten  from  their  stand. 

The  French  fell  back;  thoyjoin'd  their  greater  host 

To  suffer  fresh  defeat,  and  Portugal 

First  for  Sir  Arthur  wreathed  her  laurels  here. 


XX. 

FOR  A   MONUMENT  AT   VIMEIRO. 

This  is  Vimeiro;  yonder  stream,  which  flows 
Westward  through  heathery  lughlands  to  the  sea, 
Is  call'd  Maceira,  till  of  late  a  name, 
Save  to  the  dwellers  of  this  peaceful  vale, 
Known  only  to  the  coasting  mariner; 
Now  in  the  bloody  page  of  war  inscribed. 
When  to  the  aid  of  injured  Portugal 
Struggling  against  the  intolerable  yoke 
Of  treacherous  France,  England,  her  old  ally, 


Long  tried  and  always  faithful  found,  went  forth, 

The  embattled  hosts  in  equal  strength  array 'd 

And  equal  discipline,  encountered  here. 

Junot,  the  mock  Abrantes,  led  the  French, 

And,  confident  of  skill  so  oft  approved, 

And  vaunting  many  a  victory,  advanced 

Against  an  untried  foe.     But  when  the  ranks 

Met  in  the  shock  of  battle,  man  to  man. 

And  bayonet  to  bayonet  opposed, 

The  flower  of  France,  cut  down  along  their  line, 

Fell  like  ripe  grass  before  the  mower's  scythe, 

For  tlie  strong  arm  and  rightful  cause  prevail'd. 

That  day  deliver'd  Lisbon  from  the  yoke, 

And  babes  were  tauglit  to  bless  Sir  Arthur's  name. 


XXI. 

AT   CORUNA. 

When  from  these  shores  the  British  army  first 

Boldly  advanced  into  the  heart  of  Spain, 

The  admiring  people  who  beheld  its  march 

Call'd  it  "  the  Beautiful."     And  surely  well 

Its  proud  array,  its  perfect  discipline, 

Its  ample  furniture  of  war  complete. 

Its  powerful  horse,  its  men  of  British  mould, 

All  high  in  heart  and  hope,  all  of  themselves 

Assured,  and  in  their  leaders  confident, 

Deserved  the  title.     Few  short  weeks  elapsed 

Ere  hither  that  disastrous  host  return'd, 

A  fourth  of  all  its  gallant  force  consumed 

In  hasty  and  precipitate  retreat, 

Stores,  treasure,  and  artillery,  in  the  ^vreck 

Left  to  the  fierce  pursuer,  horse  and  man 

Founder'd,  and  stiffening  on  the  mountain  snows 

But  when  the  exulting  enemy  approach'd, 

Boasting  that  he  would  drive  into  the  sea 

The  remnant  of  the  wretched  fugitives, 

Here,  ere  they  reach'd  their  sliips,  they  turn'd  at  bay, 

Then  was  the  proof  of  British  courage  seen ; 

Against  a  foe  far  overnumbering  them, 

An  insolent  foe,  rejoicing  in  pursuit. 

Sure  of  the  fruit  of  victory,  whatsoe'er 

Might  be  the  fate  of  battle,  here  they  stood. 

And  their  safe  embarkation  —  all  they  sought  — 

Won  manfully.     That  mournful  day  avenged 

Their   sufferings,    and    redeem'd   their    country's 

And  thus  Coruiia,  which  in  this  retreat       [name; 

Had  seen  the  else  indelible  reproach 

Of  England,  saw  the  stain  effaced  in  blood. 


XXII. 

EPITAPH. 

He  who  in  this  unconsecrated  ground 
Obtain'd  a  soldier's  grave,  hath  left  a  name 
Which  will  endure  in  history  :  the  remains 
Of  Moore,  the  British  General,  rest  below. 
His  early  prowess  Corsica  beheld, 
When,  at  Mozello,  bleeding,  through  the  breach 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


185 


lie  passed  victorious;  tlie  Columbian  isles 
Then  saw  him  tried;  upon  the  sandy  downs 
Of  Holland  was  his  riper  worth  ajjproved ; 
And  leaving  on  the  Egyptian  shores  his  blood, 
He  gathered  there  fresh  palms.     High  in  repute 
A  gallant  army  last  he  led  to  Spain, 
In  arduous  times;  for  moving  in  his  strength, 
Witii  all  his  mighty  means  of  war  complete. 
The  Tyrant  Bonaparte  bore  down  all 
Before  him;  and  the  British  Chief  beheld. 
Where'er  he  look'd,  rout,  treason,  and  dismay. 
All  sides  with  all  embarrassments  beset. 
And  danger  pressing  on.     Hither  he  came 
Before  the  far  outnumbering  hosts  of  Franco 
Retreating  to  her  ships,  and  close  pursued  ; 
Nor  were  there  wanting  men  who  counsell'd  him 
To  offer  terms,  and  from  the  enemy 
Purchase  a  respite  to  embark  in  peace, 
At  price  of  such  abasement, — even  to  this, 
Brave  as  they  were,  by  hopelessness  subdued. 
That  shameful  counsel  Moore,  in  happy  hour 
Remembering  what  was  due  to  England's  name. 
Refused :  he  fought,  he  conquer'd,  and  he  fell. 


XXIII. 


MEMORY  OF  PAUL  EURRARD, 

MORT.\LLV  WOUNDED    IN   THE    BATTLE    OF    CORUNA. 

Mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Providence  I  — 

Old   men,  who  have  grown  gray   in  camps,  and 

wish'd. 
And  pray'd,  and  sought  in  battle  to  lay  down 
The  burden  of  their  age,  have  seen  the  young 
Fall  round,  themselves  untouch'd ;  and  balls  beside 
The  graceless  and  the  unblcst  head  have  past, 
Harmless  as  hail,  to  reach  some  precious  life. 
For  which  clasp'd  hands,  and  supplicating  eyes. 
Duly  at  morn  and  eve  were  raised  to  Heaven ; 
And,  in  the  dejith  and  loneness  of  the  soul, 
(Then  boding  all  too  truly,)  midnight  prayers 
Breathed  from  an  anxious  pillow  wet  with  tears. 
But  blessed,  even  amid  their  grief,  are  they 
Who,  in  the  hour  of  visitation,  bow 
Beneath  the  unerring  will,  and  look  toward 
Their  Heavenly  Father,  merciful  as  just! 
They,  while  they  own  his  goodness,  feel  that  whom 
He  chastens,  them  he  loves.     The  cup  he  gives, 
Shall  they  not  drink  it  .■"  Therefore  doth  the  drau<fht 
Resent  of  comfort  in  its  bitterness, 
And  carry  healing  with  it.     What  but  this 
Could  have  sustain'd  the  mourners  who  wore  left, 
With  life-long  yearnings,  to  remember  him 
Whose  early  death  this  monumental  verse 
Records.'     For  never  more  auspicious  hopes 
Were  nipp'd  in  flower,  nor  finer  qualities 
From  goodliest  fabric  of  mortiility 
Divorced,  nor  virtues  worthier  to  adorn  [time 

The   world  transferr'd  to  heaven,  than  when,  ere 
Had  measured  him  the  space  of  nineteen  years, 
24 


Paul  Burrard  on  Coruiia's  fatal  field 

Received  his  mortal  hurt.     Not  unprepared 

The  heroic  youth  was  found  ;  for  in  the  ways 

Of  piety  had  he  been  trained  ;  and  what 

The  dutiful  child  upon  his  mother's  knees 

Had  learnt,  the  soldier  faithl'ully  observed. 

In  chamber  or  in  tent,  the  Book  of  God 

Was  his  beloved  manual ;  and  his  life 

Beseem'd  the  lessons  which  from  thence  he  drew 

For,  gallant  as  he  was,  and  blithe  of  heart, 

E.xpert  of  hand,  and  keen  of  eye,  and  prompt 

In  intellect,  religion  was  the  crown 

Of  all  his  noble  properties.     When  Paul 

Was  by,  the  scoffer,  self-abased,  restrain'd 

Tlie  license  of  his  speech  ;  and  ribaldry 

Before  his  virtuous  presence  sate  rebuked. 

And  yet  so  frank  and  aft'able  a  form 

His  virtue  wore,  that  wheresoe'er  he  moved, 

A  sunshine  of  good-will  and  cheerfulness 

Enliven'd  all  around.     Oh!  marvel  not, 

If,  in  the  morning  of  his  fair  career. 

Which  promised  all  that  honor  could  bestow 

On  high  desert,  the  youth  was  summon'd  hence ! 

His  soul  required  no  further  discipline. 

Pure  as  it  was,  and  capable  of  Heaven. 

Upon -the  spot  from  whence  he  just  had  seen 

His  General  borne  away,  the  appointed  ball 

Reach'd  him.     But  not  on  that  Gallician  ground 

Was  it  his  fate,  like  many  a  British  heart. 

To  mingle  with  the  soil ;  the  sea  received 

His  mortal  relics,  —  to  a  watery  grave 

Consign'd  so  near  his  native  shore,  so  near 

His  father's  house,  that  they  who  loved  him  best, 

Unconscious  of  its  import,  heard  the  gun 

Which  fired  his  knell.  —  Alas  !  if  it  were  known, 

When,  in  the  strife  of  nations,  dreadful  Death 

Mows  down  with  indiscriminating  sweep 

His  thousands  ten  times  told,  —  if  it  were  known 

What  ties  are  sever'd  then,  what  ripening  hopes 

Blasted,  what  virtues  in  their  bloom  cut  off; 

?Iow  far  the  desolating  scourge  extends  ; 

How  wide  the  misery  spreads  ;  what  hearts  beneath 

Their  grief  are  broken,  or  survive  to  feel 

Always  the  irremediable  loss, — 

Oh  !  who  of  woman  born  could  bear  the  thought .' 

Who  but  would  join  with  fervent  piety 

The  prayer  that  asketh  in  our  time  for  peace  .''  — 

Nor  in  our  time  alone  !  —  Enable  us. 

Father  which  art  in  heaven  !  but  to  receive 

And   keep  thy  word :   thy  kingdom  then  shoul-d 

come. 
Thy  will  be  done  on  earth ;  the  victory 
Accomplished  over  Sin  as  well  as  Death, 
And  the  great  scheme  of  Providence  fulfill'd. 


XXIV. 
FOR  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  DOURO. 

Crossing  in  unexampled  enterprise 

This  great  and  perilous  stream,  the  English  host 

Effected  here  their  landing,  on  the  day 

When  Soultfrom  Porto  with  his  troops  was  driven 


186 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


No  siglit  so  joyful  ever  had  been  seen  [sent 

From  Douros  banks, —  not  when  the  mountains 

Their  generous  produce  down,  or  homeward  fleets 

Entered  irom  distant  seas  tlieir  port  desired ; 

Nor  e'er  were  shouts  of  sucli  glad  mariners 

So  gladly  heard,  as  then  the  cannon's  peal, 

And  short,  sharp  strokes  of  frequent  musketry. 

By  the  delivered  habitants  that  hour. 

For  they  who,  beaten  then  and  routed,  fled 

Before  victorious  England,  in  their  day 

Of  triumph,  had,  like  fiends  let  loose  from  hell, 

Fill'd  yon  devoted  city  with  all  forms 

Of  horror,  all  unutterable  crimes ; 

And  vengeance  now  had  reach'dthe  inhuman  race 

Accurs'd.     Oh,  what  a  scene  did  Night  behold 

Within  those  rescued  walls,  when  festal  fires. 

And  torches,  blazing  through  the  bloody  streets, 

Stream'd  their  broad  light   where  horse  and  man 

in  death 
Unheeded  lay  outstretch'd  !  Eyes  wliicli  had  wept 
In  bitterness  so  long,  shed  tears  of  joy, 
And  from  the  broken  heart  thanksgiving,  mix'd 
With  anguish,  rose  to  Heaven.     Sir  Arthur  then 
Might  feel  how  precious  in  a  righteous  cause 
Is  victory,  how  divine  the  soldier's  meed 
When  grateful  nations  bless  the  avenging  sword ! 


XXV. 

TALAVERA. 

FOR   THE    FIELD    OF     BATTLE. 

YoN  wide-extended  town,  whose  roofs,  and  towers. 

And  poplar  avenues  are  seen  far  off, 

In  goodly  prospect  over  scatter'd  woods 

Of  dusky  ilex,  boasts  among  its  sons 

Of  Mariana's  name,  —  he  who  hath  made 

The  splendid  story  of  his  country's  wars 

Through  all  the  European  kingdoms  known. 

Yet  in  his  ample  annals  thou  canst  find 

No  braver  battle  chronicled,  than  here 

Was  waged,  when  Josepji,  of  the  stolen  crown, 

Against  the  hosts  of  England  and  of  Spain 

His  veteran  armies  brought.     By  veteran  chiefs 

Captain'd,  a  formidable  force  they  came. 

Full  fifty  thousand.     Victor  led  them  on, 

A  man  grown  gray  in  arms,  nor  e'er  in  aught 

Dishonored,  till  by  this  opprobrious  cause. 

He,  over  rude  Alverche's  summer  stream 

Winning  his  way,  made  first  upon  the  right 

His  hot  attack,  where  Spain's  raw  levies,  ranged 

In  double  line,  had  taken  their  strong  stand 

In  yonder  broken  ground,  by  olive  groves 

Cover'd  and  flank'd  by  Tagus.     Soon  from  thence, 

As  one  whose  practised  eye  could  apprehend 

All  vantages  in  war,  his  troops  he  drew  ; 

And  on  this  hill,  the  battle's  vital  point, 

Bore  with  collected  power,  outnumbering 

The  British  ranks  twice  told.     Such  fearful  odds 

Were  balanced  by  Sir  Arthur's  master  mind 

And  by  the  British  heart.     Twice  during  night 

The  fatal  spot  thev  storm'd,  and  twice  fell  back, 


Before  the  bayonet  driven.     Again  at  morn 

They  made  their  fiery  onset,  and  again 

Ilepell'd,  again  at  noon  renew'd  the  strife. 

Yet  was  their  desperate  perseverance  vain, 

Where  skill  by  equal  skill  was  countervail'd. 

And  numbers  by  superior  courage  foil'd  ; 

And  when  the  second  night  drew  over  them 

Its  sheltering  cope,  in  darkness  they  retired. 

At  all  points  beaten.     Long  in  the  red  pao-e 

Of  war  shall  Talavera's  famous  name 

Stand  forth  conspicuous.  While  thatname  endures, 

Bear  in  thy  soul,  O  Spain,  the  memory 

Of  all  thou  suffcred'st  from  perfidious  France, 

Of  all  that  England  in  thy  cause  achieved 


XXVI. 

FOR  THE  DESERTO  DE  BUSACO. 

Reader,  thou  standest  upon  holy  ground, 
Which  Penitence  hath  chosen  for  itself. 
And  war,  disturbing  the  deep  solitude, 
Hath  left  it  doubly  sacred.     On  these  heights 
The  host  of  Portugal  and  England  stood. 
Arrayed  against  Massena,  when  the  chief, 
Proud  of  Rodrigoo  and  Almeida  won, 
Press'd  forward,  thinking  the  devoted  realm 
Full  sure  should  fall  a  prey.     He  in  his  pride 
Scorn'd  the  poor  numbers  of  the  English  foe. 
And  thought  the  children  of  the  land  would  fly 
From  his  advance,  like  sheep  before  the  wolf. 
Scattering,  and  lost  in  terror.     Ill  he  knew 
The  Lusitanian  spirit !     Ill  he  knew 
The  arm,  the  heart  of  England  !     Ill  he  knew 
Her  Wellington  !     He  learnt  to  know  them  here. 
That  spirit  and  that  arm,  that  heart,  that  mind. 
Here  on  Busaco  gloriously  display'd. 
When  hence  repulsed  the  beaten  boaster  wound 
Below  his  course  circuitous,  and  left 
His  thousands  for  the  beasts  and  ravenous  fowl. 
The  Carmelite  who  in  his  cell  recluse 
Was  wont  to  sit,  and  from  a  skull  receive 
Death's  silent  lesson,  wheresoe'er  he  walk. 
Henceforth  may  find  his  teachers.     He  shall  find 
The  Frenchmen's  bones  in  glen  and  grove,  on  rock 
And  height,  where'er  the  wolves  and  carrion  birds 
Have  strewn  them,  wash'd  in  torrents,  bare  and 

bleach'd 
By  sun  and  rain,  and  by  the  winds  of  heaven. 


XXVII. 

FOR  THE   LINES  OF  TORRES   VEDRAS, 

Through  all  Iberia,  from  the  Atlantic  shores 

To  far  Pyrene,  Wellington  hath  left 

His  trophies  ;  but  no  monument  records 

To  after-time  a  more  enduring  praise, 

Than  this  which  marks  his  triumph  here  attain'd 

By  intellect,  and  patience  to  the  end 

Holding  through  good  and  ill  its  course  assign'd, 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


187 


The  stamp  and  seal  of  greatness.     Here  the  chief 
Perceived  in  foresight  Lisbon's  sure  defence, 
A  vantage  ground  for  all  reverse  prepared, 
Where  Portugal  and  England  niiglit  defy 
All  strength  of  hostile  numbers.     Not  for  tliis 
Of  hostile  enterprise  did  he  abate, 
Or  gallant  purpose  :  witness  the  proud  day 
Which  saw  Soult's  murderous  host   from    Porto 

driven ; 
Bear  witness,  Talavera,  made  by  him 
Famous  forever  ;  and  that  later  fight 
When  from  Busaco's  solitude  the  birds, 
Then  first  affrighted  in  their  sanctuary. 
Fled  from  the  thunders  and  the  fires  of  war. 
But  when  Spain's  feeble  counsels,  in  delay 
As  erring,  as  in  action  premature, 
Had  left  him  in  the  field  without  support, 
And  Bonaparte  having  trampled  down 
The  strength  and  pride  of  Austria,  this  way  turn'd 
His  single  thought  and  undivided  power. 
Retreating  hither  the  great  General  came  ; 
And  proud  Massena,  when  the  boastful  chief 
Of  plundered  Lisbon  dreamt,  here  found  himself 
Stopp'd  suddenly  in  his  presumptuous  course. 
From  Ericcyra  on  the  western  sea. 
By  JVIafra's  princely  convent,  and  the  heights 
Of  Montichique,  and  Bucellas  famed 
For  generous  vines,  the  formidable  works 
Extending,  rested  on  the  guarded  shores 
Of  Tagus,  tliat  rich  river  who  received 
Into  his  ample  and  rejoicing  port 
The  harvests  and  the  wealth  of  distant  lands, 
Secure,  insulting  with  the  glad  display 
The  robber's  greedy  sight.     Five  months  the  ibe 
Belield  these  lines,  made  inexpugnable 
By  perfect  skill,  and  patriotic  feelings  here 
With  discipline  conjoin'd,  courageous  hands, 
True  spirits,  and  one  comprehensive  mind 
All  overseeing  and  pervading  all. 
Five  months,  tormenting  still  his  heart  with  hope. 
He  saw  his  projects  frustrated ;  the  power 
Of  tlie  blaspheming  tyrant  whom  he  served 
Fail  in  the  proof;  his  thousands  disappear, 
In  silent  and  inglorious  war  consumed  ; 
Till  hence  retreating,  madden'd  with  despite. 
Here  did  the  self-styled  Son  of  Victory  leave. 
Never  to  be  redeem'd,  that  vaunted  name. 


XXVIII. 
AT  SANTAREM. 

Four  months  Massena  had  his  quarters  here, 
When  by  those  lines  deterr'd  where  Wellington 
Defied  the  power  of  France,  but  loath  to  leave 
Ricli  Lisbon  yet  unsack'd,  he  kept  his  ground. 
Till  from  impending  famine,  and  the  force 
Array'd  in  front,  and  that  consuming  war 
Which  still  the  faithful  nation,  day  and  night. 
And  at  all  hours,  was  waging  on  his  rear. 
He  saw  no  safety,  save  in  swift  retreat. 
Then  of  his  purpose  frustrated,  this  child 
Of  Hell  —  so  fitlier  than  of  Victory  call'd  — 


Gave  his  own  devilish  nature  scope,  and  let 
His  devilish  army  loose.     The  mournful  rolls 
That  chronicle  tiie  guilt  of  human-kind, 
Tell  not  of  auglit  more  hideous  than  the  deeds 
With  which  this  monster  and  his  kindred  troops 
Track'd  their  inhuman  way  —  all  cruelties, 
All  forms  of  horror,  all  deliberate  crimes, 
Which  tongue  abhors  to  utter,  ear  to  hear. 
Let  this  memorial  bear  Massena's  name 
For  everlasting  infamy  inscribed. 


XXIX. 
AT  FUENTES   D'ONORO. 

The  fountains  of  Onoro,  which  give  name 

To  this  poor  hamlet,  were  distain'd  with  blood, 

What  time  Massena,  driven  from  Portugal 

By  national  virtue  in  endurance  proved, 

And  England's  faithful  aid,  against  the  land 

Not  long  delivered,  desperately  made 

His  last  fierce  effort  here.     That  day,  bestreak'd 

With  slaughter  Coa  and  Agueda  ran. 

So  deeply  liad  the  open  veins  of  war 

Purpled  their  mountain  feeders.    Strong  in  means. 

With  rest,  and  stores,  and  numbers  reenforced, 

Came  the  ferocious  enemy,  and  ween'd 

Beneath  their  formidable  cavalry 

To  trample  down  resistance.     But  there  fought 

Against  them  here,  with  Britons  side  by  side. 

The  cliildren  of  regenerate  Portugal, 

And  their  own  crimes,  and  all-beholding  Heaven. 

Beaten,  and  hopeless  thenceforth  of  success, 

The  inhuman  Marshal,  never  to  be  named 

By  Lusitanian  lips  without  a  curse 

Of  clinging  infamy,  withdrew  and  left 

These  Fountains  famous  for  his  overthrow. 


XXX. 

AT   BARROSA. 

Though  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  have  seen 

The  British  valor  proved  triumphantly 

Upon  the  French,  in  many  a  field  far-famed. 

Yet  may  the  noble  Island  in  her  rolls 

Of  glory  write  Barrosa's  name.     For  there, 

Not  by  the  issue  of  deliberate  plans 

Consulted  well,  was  the  fierce  conflict  won, 

Nor  by  the  leader's  eye  intuitive, 

Nor  force  of  eitlier  arm  of  war,  nor  art 

Of  skill'd  artillerist,  nor  the  discipline 

Of  troops  to  absolute  obedience  train'd  ; 

But  by  the  spring  and  impulse  of  the  heart. 

Brought  fairly  to  the  trial,  when  all  else 

Seem'd,  like  a  wrestler's  garment,  thrown  aside  ; 

By  individual  courage  and  the  sense 

Of  honor,  their  old  country's,  and  their  own, 

There  to  be  forfeited,  or  there  upheld  ;  — 

This  warm'd  the  soldier's  soul,  and  gave  his  hand 

The  strength  that  carries  with  it  victory. 


188 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


More  to  enhance  their  praise,  the  day  was  fought 
Against  all  circumstance  ;  a  painful  march, 
Through  twenty  hours  of  night  and  day  prolong'd, 
Forespent  the  British  troops ;  and  hope  delay'd 
Had  left  their  spirits  pall'd.     But  when  the  word 
Was   given    to   turn,   and   cliarge,   and   win    the 

heights, 
The  welcome  order  came  to  them,  like  rain 
Upon  a  traveller  in  the  thirsty  sands. 
Rejoicing,  up  the  ascent,  and  in  the  front 
Of  danger,  tliey  with  steady  step  advanced. 
And  with  the  insupportable  bayonet 
Drove  down  the  foe.    The  vanquished  Victor  saw 
And  thought  of  Talavera,  and  deplored 
His  eagle  lost.     But  England  saw,  well-pleased, 
Her  old  ascendency  that  day  sustained  ; 
And  Scotland,  shouting  over  all  her  hills. 
Among  her  worthies  rank'd  another  Graham. 


XXXI. 
FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  ALBUHERA. 

Seven    thousand    men    lay    bleeding    on    these 

heights, 
When  Beresford  in  strenuous  conflict  strove 
Against  a  foe  whom  all  the  accidents 
Of  battle  favored,  and  who  knew  full  well 
To  seize  all  offers  that  occasion  gave. 
Wounded    or   dead,   seven   thousand   here    were 

stretch'd. 
And  on  the  plain  around  a  myriad  more, 
Spaniard,  and  Briton,  and  true  Portuguese, 
Alike  approved  that  day  ;  and  in  the  cause 
Of  France,  with  her  flagitious  sons  compelled, 
Pole  and  Italian,  German,  Hollander, 
Men  of  all  climes  and  countries,  hitlier  brought, 
Doing  and  suffering  for  the  work  of  war. 
This  point,  by  her  superior  cavalry, 
France  from  the  Spaniard  won,  the  elements 
Aiding  her  powerful  efforts;  here  awhile 
She  seemed  to  rule  the  conflict;  and  from  hence 
The  British  and  the  Lusitanian  arm 
Dislodged  with  irresistible  assault 
The  enemy,  even  when  he  deem'd  the  day 
Was  written  for  his  own.     But  not  for  Soult, 
But  not  for  France  was  that  day  in  the  rolls 
Of  war  to  be  inscribed  by  Victory's  hand. 
Not  for  the  inhuman  chief,  and  cause  unjust; 
She  wrote  for  after-times,  in  blood,  the  names 
Cr  Spain  and  England,  Blake  and  Beresford. 


XXXII. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF  SIR  WILLIAM 
MYERS. 

Spaniard  or  Portuguese  !  tread  reverently 
Upon  a  soldier's  grave  ;  no  common  lieart 
Lies  mingled  with  the  clod  beneath  thy  feet. 
To  honors  and  to  ample  wealth  was  Myers 


In  England  born  ;  but  leaving  friends  beloved. 

And  all  allurements  of  that  happy  land. 

His  ardent  spirit  to  the  field  of  war 

Impell'd  him.     Fair  was  his  career.     He  faced 

The  perils  of  that  memorable  day. 

When  through  the  iron  shower  and  fiery  storm 

Of  death,  the  dauntless  host  of  Britain  made 

Their  landing  at  Aboukir ;  then  not  less 

Illustrated,  than  when  great  Nelson's  hand. 

As  if  insulted  Heaven,  with  its  own  wrath. 

Had  arm'd  him,  smote  the  miscreant  Frenchmen's 

fleet, 
And  with  its  wreck  wide-floating  many  a  league, 
Strew'd  the  rejoicing  shores.     What  then  his  youth 
Held  forth  of  promise,  amply  was  confirmed 
When  Wellesley,  upon  Talavera's  plain. 
On  the  mock  monarch  won  his  coronet : 
There,  when  the  trophies  of  the  field  were  reap'd. 
Was  he  for  gallant  bearing  eminent 
When  all  did  bravely.     But  his  valor's  orb 
Shone  brightest  at  its  setting.     On  the  field 
Of  Albuhera  he  the  fusileers 
Led  to  regain  the  heights,  and  promised  them 
A  glorious  day ;  a  glorious  day  was  given  ; 
The  heights  were  gained,  the  victory  was  achieved, 
And    Myers   received   from   death   his   deathless 

crown. 
Here  to  Valverde  was  he  borne,  and  here 
His  faithful  men,  amid  this  olive  grove. 
The  olive  emblem  here  of  endless  peace. 
Laid  him  to  rest.     Spaniard  or  Portuguese, 
In  your  good  cause  the  British  soldier  fell : 
Tread  reverently  upon  his  honor'd  grave. 


XXXIII. 

EPITAPH. 

Steep  is  the  soldier's  path;  nor  are  the  heights 

Of  glory  to  be  won  without  long  toil 

And  arduous  efforts  of  enduring  hope, 

Save  when  Death  takes  the  aspirant  by  the  hand. 

And,  cutting  short  the  work  of  years,  at  once 

Lifts  him  to  that  conspicuous  eminence. 

Such  fate  was  mine.  —  The  standard  of  the  Buffs 

I  bore  at  Albuhera,  on  that  day 

When,  covered  by  a  shower,  and  fatally 

For  ftiends  misdeem'd,  the  Polish  lancers  fell 

Upon  our  rear.     Surrounding  me,  they  claimed 

My  precious  charge.  —  "Not   but  with   life!"  1 

cried, 
And  life  was  given  for  immortality. 
The  flag  which  to  my  heart  I  held,  when  wet 
With  that  heart's  blood,  was  soon  victoriously 
Regain'd  on  that  great  day.     In  former  times, 
Marlborough  beheld  it  borne  at  Ramilies ; 
For  Brunswick  and  for  liberty  it  waved 
Triumphant  at  Cullodcn  ;  and  hath  seen 
The  lilies  on  the  Caribbean  shores 
Abased  before  it.     Then,  too,  in  the  front 
Of  battle  did  it  flap  exultingly, 
When  Douro,  with  its  wide  stream  interposed, 
Saved  not  the  French  invaders  from  attack. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


189 


Discomfiture,  and  ignominious  rout. 
Mv  name  is  Thomas  :  undisgraced  have  1 
Transmitted  it.     He  who  in  days  to  come 
May  bear  the  honor'd  banner  to  the  field, 
Will  think  of  Albuhera,  and  of  me. 


XXXIV. 

FOR  THE  WALLS  OF  CIUDAD  RODRIGO. 

Here  Craufurd  fell,  victorious,  in  the  breach. 

Leading  his  countrymen  in  that  assault 

Which  won  from  haughty  France  these  rescued 

walls ; 
And  here  entomb'd,  far  from  his  native  land 
And  kindred  dust,  his  honor'd  relics  rest. 
Well  was  he  versed  in  war,  in  the  Orient  train'd 
Beneath  Cornwallis  ;  then,  for  many  a  year, 
Following  through  arduous  and  ill-fated  fields 
The  Austrian  banners ;  on  the  sea-like  shores 
Of  Plata  next,  still  by  malignant  stars 
Pursued ;  and  in  that  miserable  retreat. 
For  which  Coruria  witncss'd  on  her  hills 
The  pledge  of  vengeance  given.     At  length  he 

saw, 
Long  woo'd  and  well-deserved,  the  brighter  face 
Of  Fortune,  upon  Coa's  banks  vouchsafed, 
Before  Almeida,  when  Massena  found 
The  fourfold  vantage  of  his  numbers  foil'd, 
Before  the  Briton,  and  the  Portugal, 
There  vindicating  first  his  old  renown. 
And  Craufurd's  mind  that  day  presiding  there. 
Again  was  her  auspicious  countenance 
Upon  Busaco's  holy  heights  reveal'd ; 
And  when  by  Torres  Vedras,  Wellington, 
Wisely  secure,  defied  the  boastful  French, 
With  all  their  power;  and  when  Onoro's  springs 
Beheld  that  execrable  enemy 
Again  chastised  beneath  the  avenging  arm. 
Too  early  here  his  honorable  course 
He  closed,  and  won  his  noble  sepulchre. 
Where  should  the  soldier  rest  so  worthily 
As  where  he  fell  ?     Be  thou  his  monument, 
O  City  of  Rodrigo,  yea,  be  thou, 
To  latest  time,  his  trophy  and  his  tomb  ! 
Sultans,  or  Pharaohs  of  the  elder  world, 
Lie  not  in  Mosque  or  Pyramid  enshrined 
Thus  gloriously,  nor  in  so  proud  a  grave. 


XXXV. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MA.IOR-GENERAL 
MACKINNON. 

Son  of  an  old  and  honorable  house, 
Henry  Mackinnon  from  the  Hcbiides 


Drew  his  descent,  but  upon  English  ground 
An  English  mother  bore  him.     Dauphiny 
Beheld  the  blossom  of  his  opening  years  ; 
For  hoping  in  that  genial  clime  to  save 
A  child  of  feebler  frame,  his  parents  there 
Awhile  their  sojourn  fix'd :  and  thus  it  chanced 
That  in  that  generous  season,  when  the  heart 
Yet  from  the  world  is  pure  and  undefiled. 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  his  friend. 
The  adventurous  Corsican,  like  Henry,  then 
Young,  and  a  stranger  in  the  land  of  France, 
Their  frequent  and  their  favor'd  guest  became, 
Finding  a  cheerful  welcome  at  all  hours. 
Kindness,  esteem,  and  in  the  English  youth 
Quick  sympathy  of  apprehensive  mind 
And  lofty  thought  heroic.     On  the  way 
Of  life  they  parted,  not  to  meet  again. 
Each  follow'd  war,  but,  oh  !  how  differently 
Did  the  two  spirits,  which  till  now  had  grown 
Like  two  fair  plants,  it  seem'd,  of  kindred  seed, 
Develop  in  that  awful  element! 
For  never  had  benignant  nature  shower'd 
More  bounteously  than  on  Mackinnon's  head 
Her  clioicest  gifts.     Form,  features,  intellect, 
Were  such  as  might  at  once  command  and  win 
All  hearts.     In  all  relationships  approved. 
Son,  brother,  husband,  father,  friend,  his  life 
Was  beautiful ;  and  when  in  tented  fields, 
Such  as  the  soldier  should  be,  in  the  sight 
Of  God  and  man,  was  he.     Poor  praise  it  were 
To  speak  his  worth  evinced  upon  the  banks 
Of  Douro,  Talavera's  trophied  plain, 
Busaco's  summit,  and  what  other  days. 
Many  and  glorious  all,  illustrated 
His  bright  career.     Worthier  of  him  to  say 
That  in  the  midst  of  camps  his  manly  breast 
Retain'd  its  youthful  virtue ;  that  he  walk'd 
Through  blood  and  evil  uncontaminate. 
And  that  the  stern  necessity  of  war 
But  nurtured  with  its  painful  discipline 
Thoughtful  compassion  in  that  gentle  soul, 
And  feelings  such  as  man  should  cherish  still 
For  all  of  woman  born.     He  met  his  death 
When  at  Rodrigo  on  the  breach  he  stood 
Triumphant ;  to  a  soldier's  wish  it  came 
Instant,  and  in  the  hour  of  victory. 
Mothers  and  maids  of  Portugal,  oh  bring 
Your   garlands   here,   and   strew   his  grave  with 

flowers ; 
And  lead  the  children  to  his  monument. 
Gray-headed  sires,  for  it  is  holy  ground  ! 
For  tenderness  and  valor  in  his  heart, 
As  in  your  own  Nunalures,  had  made 
Their  habitation  ;  for  a  dearer  life 
Never  in  battle  hath  been  off"ered  up. 
Since  in  like  cause,  and  in  unhappy  day. 
By  Zutphen's  walls  the  peerless  Sydney  fell. 
'Tis  said  that  Bonaparte,  when  he  heard 
How  thus  among  the  multitude,  whose  blood 
Cries  out  to  Heaven  upon  his  guilty  head, 
His  early  friend  had  fallen,  was  touch'd  with  grief. 
If  aught  it  may  avail  him,  be  that  thought, 
That  brief  recurrence  of  humanity 
In  his  hard  heart,  remember'd  in  his  hour 


190 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


XXXVl. 

FOR  THE  AFFAIR   AT    ARROYO    MOLI- 

NOS. 

He  who  may  chronicle  Spain's  arduous  strife 

Against  the  Intruder,  hath  to  speak  of  fields 

Profuselier  fed  with  blood,  and  victories 

Borne  wider  on  the  wings  of  glad  report; 

Yet  shall  this  town ,  which  from  the  mill-stream  takes 

Its  humble  name,  be  storied  as  the  spot 

Where  the  vain  Frenchman,  insolent  too  long 

Of  power  and  of  success,  first  saw  the  strength 

Of  England  in  prompt  enterprise  essayed. 

And  felt  his  fortunes  ebb,  from  that  day  forth 

Swept  back  upon  the  refluent  tide  of  war. 

Girard  lay  here,  who  late  from  Caceres, 

Far  as  his  active  cavalry  could  scour. 

Had  pillaged  and  oppress'd  the  country  round ; 

The  Spaniard  and  the  Portuguese  he  scorn'd. 

And  deem'd  the  British  soldiers  all  too  slow 

To  seize  occasion,  unalcrt  in  war. 

And  therefore  brave  in  vain.     In  such  belief 

Secure  at  night  he  laid  him  down  to  sleep, 

Nor  dreamt  that  these  disparaged  enemies 

With  drum  and  trumpet  should  in  martial  charge 

Sound  his  reveille.     All  day  their  march  severe 

They  held  through  wind  and  drenching  rain ;  all 

The  autumnal  tempest  unabating  raged,        [night 

While  in  their  comfortless  and  open  camp 

They  cheer'd  themselves  with  patient  hope :  the 

storm 
Was  their  ally,  and  moving  in  the  mist, 
When  morning  open'd,  on  the  astonish'd  foe 
They  burst.     Soon  routed  horse  and  foot,   the 

French, 
On  all  sides  scattering,  fled,  on  every  side 
Beset,  and  every  where  pursued,  with  loss 
Of  half  their  numbers  captured,  their  whole  stores, 
And  all  their  gathered  plunder.     'Twas  a  day 
Of  surest  omen,  such  as  fill'd  with  joy 
True  English  hearts.     No  happier  peals  have  e'er 
Been  rolld  abroad  from  town  and  village  tower 
Than  gladden'd  then  with  their  exultant  sound 
Salopian  vales ;  and  flowing  cups  were  brimm'd 
All  round  the  Wrekin  to  Sir  Rowland's  name. 


XXXVII. 

WRITTEN  IN  AN  UNPUBLISHED  VOL- 
UME OF  LETTERS  AND  MISCELLA- 
NEOUS PAPERS,  BY  BARRE  CHARLES 
ROBERTS. 

Not  often  hath  the  cold,  insensate  earth 
Closed  over  such  fair  hopes,  as  when  the  grave 
Received  young  Barry's  perishable  part ; 
Nor  death  destroyed  so  sweet  a  dream  of  life. 
Nature,  who  sometimes  lavisheth  her  gifts 
With  fatal  bounty,  had  conferred  on  him 
Even  such  endowments  as  parental  love 


Miglit  in  its  wisest  prayer  have  ask'd  of  Heaven  , 

An  intellect  that,  choosing  for  itself 

The  better  part,  went  forth  into  the  fields 

Of  knowledge,  and  with  never-sated  thirst 

Drank  of  the  living  springs ;  a  judgment  calm 

And  clear ;  a  heart  affectionate ;  a  soul 

Within  whose  quiet  sphere  no  vanities 

Or  low  desires  had  place.     Nor  were  the  seeds 

Of  excellence  thus  largely  given,  and  left 

To  struggle  with  impediment  of  clime 

Austere,  or  niggard  soil ;  all  circumstance 

Of  happy  fortune  was  to  him  vouchsafed  ; 

His  way  of  life  was  as  through  garden-walks 

Wherein  no  thorns  are  seen,  save  such  as  grow. 

Types  of  our  liuman  state,  with  fruits  and  flowers. 

In  all  things  favored  thus  auspiciously. 

But  in  his  father  most.     An  intercourse 

So  beautiful  no  former  record  shows 

In  such  relationship  displayed,  where  through 

Familiar  friendship's  perfect  confidence. 

The  father's  ever-watchful  tenderness 

Meets  ever  in  the  son's  entire  respect 

Its  due  return  devout,  and  playful  love 

Mingles  with  every  thing,  and  sheds  o'er  all 

A  sunshine  of  its  own.     Should  we  then  say 

The  parents  purchased  at  too  dear  a  cost 

This  deep  delight,  the  deepest,  purest  joy        [saw 

Which  Heaven  hath  here  assign'd  us,  when  they 

Their  child  of  hope,  just  in  the  May  of  life. 

Beneath  a  slow  and  cankering  malady. 

With  irremediable  decay  consumed, 

Sink  to  the  untimely  grave  ?     Oh,  think  not  thus ! 

Nor  deem  that  sucli  long  anguish,  and  the  grief 

Which  in  the  inmost  soul  doth  strike  its  roots 

There  to  abide  through  time,  can  overweigh 

The  blessings  which  have  been,  and  yet  sliall  be  ' 

Think  not  that  He  in  whom  we  live,  doth  mock 

Our  dearest  aspirations  !     Think  not  love, 

Genius,  and  virtue  should  inhere  alone 

In  mere  mortality,  and  Earth  put  out 

The  sparks  which  are  of  Heaven  !    We  are  not  left 

In  darkness,  nor  devoid  of  hope.     The  Light 

Of  Faith  hath  risen  to  us :  the  vanquish'd  Grave 

To  us  the  great  consolatory  truth 

Proclaim'd  that  He  who  wounds  will  heal;  and 

Death 
Opening  the  gates  of  Immortality, 
The  spirits  whom  it  hath  dissevered  here, 
In  everlasting  union  reunite. 

Keswick,  1814. 


xxxvm. 

EPITAPH. 


Time  and  the  world,  whose  magnitude  and  weight 

Bear  on  us  in  this  Now,  and  hold  us  here 

To  earth  enthrall'd,  —  what  are  they  in  the  Past.-" 

And  in  the  prospect  of  the  immortal  Soul 

How  poor  a  speck  !  Not  here  her  resting-place, 

Her  portion  is  not  here  ;  and  happiest  they 

Who,  gathering  early  all  that  Earth  can  give, 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


191 


Shako  off  its  mortal  coil,  and  speed  for  Heaven. 
Such  fate  had  he  whose  relics  moulder  here. 
Few  were  his  years,  but  yet  enough  to  teach 
Love,  duty,  generous  feelings,  high  desires. 
Faith,  liope,  devotion  :  and  what  more  could  length 
Of  days  have  brought  him  ?     What,  but  vanity, 
Joys  frailer  even  than  health  or  human  life ; 
Temptation,  sin  and  sorrow,  both  too  sure, 
Evils  that  wound,  and  cares  that  fret  tlie  heart. 
Repine  not,  therefore,  ye  who  love  the  dead. 


XXXIX. 

EPITAPH. 

Some  there  will  be  to  whom,  as  here  they  read, 
While  yet  those  lines  are  from  the  chisel  sharp, 
The  name  of  Clement  Francis,  will  recall 
His  countenance  benign ;  and  some  who  knew 
What    stores   of   knowledge   and    what    humble 

thoughts, 
What  wise  desires,  what  cheerful  piety. 
In  happy  union  form'd  the  character 
Which  faithfully  imprcss'd  his  aspect  meek. 
And  others  too  there  are,  who  in  their  hearts 
Will  bear  the  memory  of  his  worth  enshrined. 
For  tender  and  for  reverential  thoughts, 
When  grief  hath  had  its  course,  a  life-long  theme. 
A  little  while,  and  these,  who  to  the  truth 
Of  this  poor  tributary  strain  could  bear 
Their  witness,  will  themselves  have  past  away, 
And  this  cold  marble  monument  present 
Words  which  can  then  within  no  living  mind 
Create  the  ideal  form  they  once  evoked ; 
Tliis,  then,  the  sole  memorial  of  the  dead. 
So  be  it.     Only  that  which  was  of  earth 
Hath  perish'd ;  only  that  which  was  infirm, 
Mortal,  corruptible,  and  brought  with  it 
The  seed  connate  of  death.     A  place  in  Time 
Is  given  us,  only  that  we  may  prepare 
Our  portion  for  Eternity  :  the  Soul 
Possesseth  there  what  treasures  for  itself, 
Wise  to  salvation,  it  laid  up  in  Heaven. 
O  Man,  take  thou  this  lesson  from  the  Grave ! 
There  too  all  true  afffcctions  shall  revive. 
To  fade  no  more  ;  all  losses  be  restored, 
All  griefs  be  heal'd,  all  holy  hopes  fulfill'd. 


INSCRIPTIONS    FOR    THE     CALEDO- 
NIAN   CANAL. 


XL. 
I.     AT  CLACHNACHARRY. 

Athwart  the  island  here,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Between  these  mountain  barriers,  the  Great  Glen 
Of  Scotland  offers  to  the  traveller, 


Through  wilds  impervious  else,  an  easy  path, 

Along  the  shore  of  rivers  and  ol' lakes. 

In  line  continuous,  whence  the  waters  flow 

Dividing  east  and  west.     Thus  had  they  held 

For  untold  centuries  their  perpetual  course 

Unprofited,  till  in  the  Georgian  age 

This  mighty  work  was  plann'd,  which  should  unite 

The  lakes,  control  the  innavigable  streams. 

And  through  tlie  bowels  of  the  land  deduce 

A  way,  where  vessels  which  must  else  have  braved 

The  formidable  Cape,  and  liave  essayed 

The  perils  of  the  Hyperborean  Sea, 

Might  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Atlantic  deep 

Pass  and  repass  at  will.     So  when  the  storm 

Careers  abroad,  may  they  securely  here, 

Through  birchen  groves,  green  fields,  and  pastoral 

hills. 
Pursue  their  voyage  home.     Humanity 
May  boast  this  proud  expenditure,  begun 
By  Britain  in  a  time  of  arduous  war ; 
Through  all  the  efforts  and  emergencies 
Of  that  long  strife  continued,  and  achieved 
After  her  triumph,  even  at  the  time 
When  national  burdens  bearing  on  the  state 
Were  felt  with  heaviest  pressure.     Such  expense 
Is  best  economy.     In  growing  wealth. 
Comfort,  and  spreading  industry,  behold 
The  fruits  immediate  !     And,  in  days  to  come, 
Fitly  shall  this  great  British  work  be  named 
With  whatsoe'er  of  most  magnificence 
For  public  use,  Rome  in  her  plenitude 
Of  power  efi'ected,  or  all-glorious  Greece, 
Or  Egypt,  mother-land  of  all  the  arts. 


XLI. 

2.    AT  FORT  AUGUSTUS. 

Thou  who  hast  roacli'd  this  level  where  the  trlede, 
Wheeling  between  the  mountains  in  mild  air. 
Eastward  or  westward,  as  his  gyre  inclines, 
Descries  the  German  or  the  Atlantic  Sea, 
Pause  here;  and,  as  thou  seest  the  ship  pursue 
Her  easy  way  serene,  call  thou  to  mind 
By  what  exertions  of  victorious  art 
The  way  was  open'd.     Fourteen  times  upheaved. 
The  vessel  hath  ascended,  since  she  changed 
The  salt  sea  water  for  the  highland  lymph; 
As  oft  in  imperceptible  descent 
Must,  step  by  step,  be  lower'd,  before  she  wno 
The  ocean  breeze  again.     Thou  hast  beheld 
What  basins,  most  capacious  of  their  kind, 
Enclose  her,  while  the  obedient  element 
Lifts  or  depones  its  burden.     Thou  hast  seen 
The  torrent,  hurrying  from  its  native  hills, 
Pass  underneath  the  broad  canal  inhumed, 
Then  issue  harmless  thence  ;  the  rivulet, 
Admitted  by  its  intake  peaceably, 
Forthwith  by  gentle  overfall  discharged  : 
And  haply  too  thou  hast  observed  the  herds 
Frequent  their  vaulted  path,  unconscious  they 
That  the  wide  waters  on  the  long,  low  arch 
Above  them  lie  sustained.     What  other  works 


192 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


Science,  audacious  in  emprise,  hath  wrouirht, 

Meet  not  the  eye,  but  well  may  fill  the  mind. 

Not  from  the  bowels  of  the  land  alone. 

From  lake  and  stream  hath  their  diluvial  wreck 

Been  scoop'd  to  form  this  navigable  way ; 

Huge  rivers  were  controU'd,  or  from  their  course 

Shoulder'd  aside  ;  and  at  the  eastern  mouth. 

Where  the  salt  ooze  denied  a  resting-place, 

There  were  the  deep  foundations  laid,  by  weight 

On  weight  immersed,  and  pile  on  pile  down-driven. 

Till  steadfast  as  the  everlasting  rocks 

The  massive  outwork  stands.     Contemplate  now 

What  days  and  nights  of  tliought,  whatyearsof  toil, 

What  inexhaustive  springs  of  public  wealth 

The  vast  design  required ;  the  immediate  good. 

The  future  benefit  progressive  still ; 

And  thou  wilt  pay  thy  tribute  of  due  praise 

To  those  whose  counsels,  whose  decrees,  whose 

care. 
For  after  ages  formed  the  generous  work. 


XLII. 

3.   AT  BANAVIE. 

WuERE  these  capacious  basins,  by  the  laws 

Of  the  subjacent  element  receive 

The  ship,  descending  or  upraised,  eight  times, 

From  stage  to  stage  with  unfelt  agency 

Translated  ;  fitliest  may  the  marble  here 

Record  the  Architect's  immortal  name. 

Telford  it  was,  by  whose  presiding  mind 

The  whole  great  work  was  plann'd  and  perfected; 

Telford,  who  o'er  the  vale  of  Cambrian  Dee, 

Aloft  in  air,  at  giddy  height  upborne. 

Carried  his  navigable  road,  and  hung 

High  o'er  Menai's  straits  the  bending  bridge  ; 

Structures  of  more  ambitious  enterprise 

Than  minstrels  in  the  age  of  old  romance 

To  their  own  Merlin's  magic  lore  ascribed. 

Nor  hath  he  for  his  native  land  perform'd 

Less  in  this  proud  design ;  and  where  his  piers 

Around  her  coast  from  many  a  fisher's  creek 

Unshelter'd  else,  and  many  an  ample  port. 

Repel  the  assailing  storm ;  and  where  his  roads 

In  beautiful  and  sinuous  line  far  seen, 

Wind  with  the  vale,  and  win  the  long  ascent. 

Now  o'er  the  deep  morass  sustain'd,  and  now 

Across  ravine,  or  glen,  or  estuary, 

Opening  a  passage  through  the  wilds  subdued. 


XLIII. 

EPITAPH   IN   BUTLEIGH   CHURCH. 

Divided  far  by  death  were  they,  whose  names 
In  honor  here  united,  as  in  birth. 
This  monumental  verse  records.     They  drew 
In  Dorset's  healthy  vales  their  natal  breath. 
And  from  these  shores  beheld  the  ocean  first, 
Whereon,  in  early  youth,  with  one  accord 


They  chose  their  way  of  fortune ;  to  that  course 

By  Hood  and  Bridporfs  bright  example  drawn. 

Their  kinsmen,  children  of  this  place,  and  sons 

Of  one,  who  in  his  faithful  ministry 

Inculcated  within  these  hallowed  walls 

The  truths  in  mercy  to  mankind  reveal'd. 

Worthy  were  these  three  brethren  each  to  add 

New  honors  to  the  already  honor'd  name ; 

But  Arthur,  in  the  morning  of  his  day, 

Perish'd  amid  the  Caribbean  sea, 

When  the  Pomona,  by  a  hurricane 

Whirl'd,  riven  and  overwhelmed,  with  all  her  urevt 

Into  the  deep  went  down.     A  longer  date 

To  Alexander  was  assign'd,  for  hope, 

For  fair  ambition,  and  for  fond  regret, 

Alas,  how  short !  for  duty,  for  desert. 

Sufficing ;  and,  while  Time  preserves  the  roll 

Of  Britain's  naval  feats,  for  good  report. 

A  boy,  with  Cook  he  rounded  the  great  globe; 

A  youth,  in  many  a  celebrated  fight 

With  Rodney  had  his  part ;  and  having  reach'd 

Life's  middle  stage,  engaging  ship  to  ship. 

When  the  Frencli  Hercules,  a  gallant  foe. 

Struck  to  the  British  Mars  his  three-striped  flag. 

He  fell,  in  the  moment  of  his  victory. 

Here  his  remains  in  sure  and  certain  hope 

Are  laid,  until  the  hour  when  Earth  and  Sea 

Shall  render  up  their  dead.     One  brother  yet 

Survived,  with  Keppel  and  with  Rodney  train'd 

In  battles,  with  tlie  Lord  of  Nile  approved. 

Ere  in  command  he  worthily  upheld 

Old  England's  higli  prerogative.     In  the  east. 

The  west,  the  Baltic  and  the  Midland  seas. 

Yea,  wheresoever  hostile  fleets  have  plough'd 

The  ensanguined  deep,  his  thunders  have  been 

heard, 
His  flag  in  brave  defiance  hath  been  seen  ; 
And  bravest  enemies  at  Sir  Samuel's  name 
Felt  fatal  presage,  in  their  inmost  heart. 
Of  unavertible  defeat  foredoom'd. 
Thus  in  the  path  of  glory  he  rode  on, 
Victorious  alway,  adding  praise  to  praise  ; 
Till  full  of  honors,  not  of  years,  beneath 
The  venom  of  the  infected  clime  he  sunk. 
On  Coroinandel's  coast,  completing  there 
His  service,  only  when  his  life  was  spent. 

To  the  three  brethren,  Alexander's  son, 
(Sole  scion  he  in  whom  their  line  survived,) 
With  English  feeling,  and  the  deeper  sense 
Of  filial  duty,  consecrates  this  tomb. 

1827. 


XLIV. 
EPITAPH. 

To  Butler's  venerable  memory. 

By  private  gratitude  for  public  worth. 

This  monument  is  raised,  here  where  twelve  years 

Meekly  the  blameless  Prelate  exercised 

His  pastoral  charge ;  and  whither,  though  removed 

A  little  while  to  Durham's  wider  See, 


_J 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


193 


His  mortal  relics  were  conveyed  to  rest. 

Born  in  dissent,  and  in  the  school  of  scliism 

Bred,  he  withstood  tlie  witliering  influence 

Of  that  unwholesome  nurture.     To  the  Church, 

In  strength  of  mind  mature  and  judgment  clear, 

A  convert,  in  sincerity  of  heart 

Seeking  the  truth,  deliberately  convinced, 

And  finding  there  the  truth  he  sought,  he  came. 

In  honor  must  his  liigh  desert  be  held 

While  tliere  is  any  virtue,  any  praise ; 

For  he  it  was  wliose  gifted  intellect 

First  apprehended,  and  developed  first 

The  analogy  connate,  which  in  its  course 

And  constitution  Nature  manifests 

To  the  Creator's  word  and  will  divine ; 

.\nd  in  the  depth  of  that  great  argument 

Laying  his  firm  foundation,  built  thereon 

Proofs  never  to  be  shaken  of  the  truths 

Reveal'd  from  Heaven  in  mercy  to  mankind ; 

Allying  thus  Philosophy  with  Faith, 

And  finding  in  things  seen  and  known  the  type 

And  evidence  of  those  within  tlie  veil. 


XLV. 

DEDICATION    OF  THE  AUTHOr's  COLLOQUIES 

ON    THE    PROGRESS    AND    PROSPECTS 

OF    SOCIETY. 


TO   THE 


MEMORY  OF  THE  REV.  HERBERT  HILL, 

Formerly  Student  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford ;  successively 
Chaplain  to  the  British  Factories  at  Porto  and  at  Lisbon  ; 
and  late  Rector  of  Strcatliam  ;  who  was  released  from  this 
life,  Sept.  19,  1823,  in  the  80th  year  of  his  age. 

Not  upon  marble  or  sepulchral  brass 
Have  I  the  record  of  thy  worth  inscribed, 
Dear  Uncle  !  nor  from  Chantrey's  chisel  ask'd 
A  monumental  statue,  which  might  wear 
Through  many  an  age  thy  venerable  form. 
Such  tribute,  were  I  rich  in  this  world's  wealth, 
Should  rightfully  be  rendered,  in  discharge 
Of  grateful  duty,  to  the  world  evinced 
When  testifying  so  by  outward  sign 
Its  deep  and  inmost  sense.     But  what  I  can 
Is  rendered  piously,  prefixing  here 
Thy  perfect  lineaments,  two  centuries 
Before  thy  birtit  by  Holbein's  happy  hand 
Prefigured  thus.     It  is  the  portraiture 
Of  More,  the  mild,  the  learned ,  and  the  good  ; 
Traced  in  that  better  stage  of  human  life. 
When  vain  imaginations,  troublous  thouo-hts. 
And  hopes  and  fears  have  had  their  course,  and  left 
The  intellect  composed,  the  heart  at  rest. 
Nor  yet  decay  hath  touch'd  our  mortal  frame. 
Such  was  the  man  whom  Henry,  of  desert 
Appreciant  alway,  chose  for  highest  trust ; 
Whom  England  in  that  eminence  approved  ; 
Whom  Europe  honored,  and  Erasmus  loved. 
25 


Such  was  he  ere  heart-hardening  bigotry 
Obscured  his  spirit,  made  him  with  himself 
Discordant,  and  contracting  tlen  his  brow, 
With  sour  defeature  marr'd  his  countenance. 
What  he  was,  in  his  best  and  happiest  time, 
Even  such  wcrt  thou,  dear  Uncle  I  such  thy  look 
Benign  and  thoughtlul ;  such  thy  placid  mien  ; 
Thine  eye  serene,  significant,  and  strong. 
Bright  in  its  quietness,  yet  brightening  oft 
With  quick  emotion  of  benevolence. 
Or  flash  of  active  fancy,  and  that  mirth 
Which  aye  with  sober  wisdom  well  accords. 
Nor  ever  did  true  Nature,  with  more  nice 
Exactitude,  fit  to  the  inner  man 
The  fleshly  mould,  than  when  she  stamp'd  on  thme 
Her  best  credentials,  and  bestow'd  on  thee 
An  aspect,  to  whose  sure  benignity 
Beasts  with  instinctive  confidence  could  trust, 
Which  at  a  glance  obtain'd  respect  from  men. 
And  won  at  once  good  will  from  all  the  good. 

Such  as  in  semblance,  such  in  word  and  deed 

Lisbon  beheld  him,  when  for  many  a  year 

The  even  tenor  of  his  spotless  life 

Adorn'd  the  English  Churcli,  —  her  minister, 

In  that  stronghold  of  Rome's  Idolatry, 

To  God  and  man  approved.     What  Englishman, 

Who  in  those  peaceful  days  of  Portugal 

Resorted  thither,  curious  to  observe 

Her  cities,  and  the  works  and  ways  of  men. 

But  sought  him,  and  from  his  abundant  stores 

Of  knowledge  profited  .■"     What  stricken  one, 

Sent  thither  to  protract  a  living  death. 

Forlorn  perhaps,  and  friendless  else,  but  found 

A  friend  in  him  ?     What  mourners,  —  who  had  seen 

The  object  of  their  agonizing  hopes 

In  that  sad  cypress  ground  deposited. 

Wherein  so  many  a  flower  of  British  growth, 

Untimely  faded  and  cut  down,  is  laid. 

In  foreign  earth  compress'd,  —  but  bore  away 

A  life-long  sense  of  his  compassionate  care. 

His  Christian  goodness  ?     Faitliful  shepherd  he, 

And  vigilant  against  the  wolves,  who,  there. 

If  entrance  might  be  won,  would  straight  beset 

The  dying  stranger,  and  with  merciless  zeal 

Bay  the  death-bed.     In  every  family 

Throughout  his  fold  was  he  the  welcome  guest, 

Alike  to  every  generation  dear. 

The  children's  favorite,  and  the  grandsire's  friend , 

Tried,  trusted  and  beloved.     So  liberal,  too. 

In  secret  alms,  even  to  his  utmost  means, 

That  they  who  served  him,  and  who  saw  in  part 

The  channels  where  his  constant  bounty  ran, 

Maugre  their  own  uncharitable  faith. 

Believed  him,  for  his  works,  secure  of  Heaven. 

It  would  have  been  a  grief  for  me  to  think 

The  features,  which  so  perfectly  express'd 

That  excellent  mind,  should  irretrievably 

From  earth  have  past  away,  existing  now 

Only  in  some  few  faithful  memories 

Insoul'd,  and  not  by  any  limner's  skill 

To  be  imbodied  thence.     A  blessing  then 

On  him,  in  whose  prophetic  counterfeit 

Preserved,  the  children  now,  who  were  tlie  crown 

Of  his  old  age,  may  see  their  father's  face, 


194 


CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE. 


flere  to  the  very  life  portray'd,  as  when 
Spain's  mountain  jiassos,  and  lier  ilex  woods, 
And  fragant  wildernesses,  side  by  side, 
With  him  1  traversed,  in  my  morn  of  youth. 
And  <Tather'd  knowlediro  from  his  full  discourse. 
Often,  in  former  years,  1  pointed  out, 
Well-pleased,  the  casual  portrait,  which  so  well 
Assorted  in  all  points  ;  and  haply  since. 
While  lingering  o'er  this  meditative  work. 
Sometimes  that  likeness,  not  unconsciously, 
Hath  tinged  the  strain  ;  and  therefore,  for  the  sake 
Of  tliis  resemblance,  are  these  volumes  now 
Thus  to  his  memory  properly  inscribed. 

O  friend  !  O  more  than  father !  whom  I  found 

Forbearing  alway,  alway  kind  ;  to  whom 

No  gratitude  can  speak  the  debt  I  owe  ; 

Far  on  their  earthly  pilgrimage  advanced 

Are  they  who  knew  tliee  when  we  drew  the  breath 

Of  that  delicious  clime  !     The  most  are  gone  ; 

And  whoso  yet  survive  of  those  who  then 

Were  in  their  summer  season,  on  the  tree 

Of  life  hang  here  and  there  like  wintry  leaves. 

Which  the  first  breeze  will  from  the  bough  bring 

down. 
J,  too,  am  in  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf. 
And  yet  (no  wish  is  nearer  to  my  heart) 
One  arduous  labor  more,  as  unto  thee 
In  duty  bound,  full  fain  would  I  complete, 
(So  Heaven  permit,)  recording  faithfully 
The  heroic  rise,  the  glories,  the  decline. 
Of  that  fallen  country,  dear  to  us,  wherein 
The  better  portion  of  thy  days  was  past ; 
And  where,  in  fruitful  intercourse  with  thee, 
My  intellectual  life  received  betimes 
The  bias  it  hath  kept.     Poor  Portugal, 
In  us  thou  harboredst  no  ungrateful  guests  ! 
We  loved  thee  well ;  Mother  magnanimous 
Of  mighty  intellects  and  faithful  hearts,  — 
For  such  in  other  times  thou  wert,  nor  yet 
To  be  despair'd  of,  for  not  yet,  methinks. 
Degenerate  wholly,  —  yes,  we  loved  thee  well ! 
And  in  thy  moving  story,  (so  but  life 
Be  given  me  to  mature  the  gathered  store 
Of  thirty  years,)  poet  and  politic, 
And  Christian  sage,  (only  philosopher 
Who  from  the  Well  of  living  water  drinks 
Never  to  thirst  again,)  shall  find,  I  ween. 
For  fancy,  and  for  profitable  thought, 
Abundant  food. 

Alas  !  should  this  be  given. 
Such  consummation  of  my  work  will  now 
Be  but  a  mournful  close,  the  one  being  gone, 
Whom  to  have  satisfied  was  still  to  me 
A  pure  reward,  outweighing  far  all  breath 
Of  public  praise.     O  friend  revered,  O  guide 
And  fellow-laborer  in  this  ample  field. 
How  large  a  portion  of  myself  hath  past 
With  thee,  from  earth    to  heaven  !  —  Thus  they 

who  reach 
Gray  hairs  die  piecemeal.     But  in  good  old  age 
Thou  hast  departed  ;  not  to  be  bewail'd,  — 
Oh  no !  The  promise  on  the  Mount  vouchsafed. 
Nor  abrogate  by  any  later  law 
Reveal'd  to  man,  —  that  promise,  as  by  thee 


Full  piously  deserved,  was  faithfully 
In  thee  fulfill'd,  and  in  the  land  thy  days 
Were  long.     I  would  not,  as  I  saw  thee  last, 
For  a  king's  ransom,  have  detain'd  thee  here,  — 
Bent,  like  the  antique  sculptor's  limbless  trunk. 
By  chronic  pain,  yet  with  thine  eye  unquench'd, 
The  ear  undimm'd,  the  mind  retentive  still, 
The  heart  unchanged,  the  intellectual  lamp 
Burning  in  its  corporeal  sepulchre. 
No  ;  not  if  human  wishes  had  had  power 
To  have  suspended  Nature's  constant  work, 
Would  they  who  loved  thee  have  detain'd  thee  thus, 
Waiting  for  death. 

That  trance  is  over.     Thou 
Art  enter'd  on  thy  heavenly  heritage  ; 
And  I,  whose  dial  of  mortality 
Points  to  the  eleventh  hour,  shall  follow  soon. 
Meantime,  with  dutiful  and  patient  hope, 
I  labor  that  our  names  conjoin'd  may  long 
Survive,  in  honor  one  day  to  be  held 
Where  old  Lisboa  from  her  hills  o'erlooks 
Expanded  Tagus,  with  its  populous  shores 
And  pine  woods,  to  Palinella's  crested  height : 
Nor  there  alone  ;  but  in  those  rising  realms 
Where  now  the  off'sets  of  the  Lusian  tree 
Push  forth  their  vigorous  shoots,  —  from  central 

plains. 
Whence  rivers  flow  divergent,  to  the  gulf 
Southward,  where  wild  Parana  disembogues 
A  sea-like  stream  ;  and  northward,  in  a  world 
Of  forests,  where  Imge  Orellana  clips 
His  thousand  islands  with  his  thousand  arms. 


CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE, 

FOR    THE    COMMENCEMENT    OF    THE    YEAR    1814 


nil  justittam  confinnavere  triumphi, 
Prasentes  docuere  Deos. 

Claudian. 


I. 

In  happy  hour  doth  he  receive 

The  Laurel,  meed  of  famous  Bards  of  yore, 

Which  Dryden  and  diviner  Spenser  wore, — 

In  happy  hour,  and  well  may  he  rejoice. 

Whose  earliest  task  must  be 

To  raise  the  exultant  hymn  for  victory, 

And  join  a  nation's  joy  with  harp  and  voice. 

Pouring  the  strain  of  triumph  on  the  wind. 

Glory  to  God,  his  song.  Deliverance  for  Mankind  I 

II. 

Wake,  lute  and  harp  !   My  soul,  take  up  the  strain ! 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for  Mankind  ! 

Joy  — for  all  Nations,  joy  !     But  most  for  thee. 

Who  hast  so  nobly  fill'd  thy  part  assign'd, 

O  England  !  O  my  glorious  native  land  ! 

For  thou  in  evil  days  didst  stand 

Against  leagued  Europe  all  in  arms  array'd. 

Single  and  undismay'd. 

Thy  hope  in  Heaven  and  in  thine  own  right  hand. 


CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE. 


195 


Now  are  thy  virtuous  efforts  overpaul ; 
Thy  generous  counsels  now  their  guerdon  find ; 
Glory  to  God  I  Deliverance  for  Mankind  I 

III. 

Dread  was  the  strife ;  for  mighty  was  the  foe 

Who  sought  with  his  whole  strength  thy  overthrow. 

The  Nations  bow'd  before  hiin  ;  some  in  war 

Subdued,  some  yielding  to  superior  art ; 

Submiss,  they  follow 'd  his  victorious  car. 

Their  Kings,  like  Satraps,  waited  round  his  throne, 

For  Britain's  ruin  and  their  own, 

By  force  or  fraud  in  monstrous  league  combined. 

Alone,  in  that  disastrous  hour, 

Britain  stood  firm,  and  braved  his  power ; 

Alone  she  fought  the  battles  of  mankind. 

IV. 

O  virtue  which,  above  all  former  fame. 

Exalts  her  venerable  name  ! 

O  joy  of  joys  for  every  British  breast ! 

That  with  that  mighty  peril  full  in  view, 

The  Queen  of  Ocean  to  herself  was  true  ! 

That  no  weak  heart,  no  abject  mind  possess'd 

Her  counsels,  to  abase  her  lofty  crest, 

(Then  had  she  sunJt  in  everlasting  shame,) 

But  ready  still  to  succor  the  oppress'd. 

Her  Red  Cross  floated  on  the  waves  unfurl'd, 

Offering  Redemption  to  the  groaning  world. 

V. 

First  from  his  trance  the  heroic  Spaniard  woke  ; 

His  chains  he  broke. 

And  casting  off  his  neck  the  treacherous  yoke, 

He  call'd  on  England,  on  his  generous  foe  : 

For  well  he  knew  that  wheresoe'er 

Wise  policy  prevail'd,  or  brave  despair, 

Thither  would  Britain's  liberal  succors  flow. 

Her  arm  be  present  there. 

Then,  too,  regenerate  Portugal  display'd 

Her  ancient  virtue,  dormant  all-too-long. 

Rising  against  intolerable  wrong. 

On  England,  on  her  old  ally,  for  aid 

The  faithful  nation  call'd  in  her  distress  : 

And  well  that  old  ally  the  call  obey'd. 

Well  was  that  faithful  friendship  then  repaid. 

VI. 

Say,  from  thy  trophied  field,  how  well, 

Vimeiro  !  Rocky  Douro,  tell  ! 

And  thou,  Busaco,  on  whose  sacred  height 

The  astonished  Carmelitj, 

While  those  unwonted  thunders  shook  his  cell, 

Join'd  with  his  prayers  the  fervor  of  the  fight. 

Bear  witness  those    Old   Towers,  where  many  a 

day 

Waiting  with  foresight  calm  the  fitting  hour. 

The  Wellesley,  gathering  strength  in  wise  delay. 

Defied  the  Tyrant's  undivided  power. 

Swore  not  the  boastful  Frenchman,  in  his  might. 

Into  the  sea  to  drive  his  Island  foe .' 

Tagus  and  Zezere,  in  secret  night. 

Ye  saw  that  host  of  ruffians  take  their  flight ! 

And  in  the  Sun's  broad  light 

Onoro's  Springs  beheld  their  overthrow. 


VII. 

i'atient  of  loss,  profuse  of  life, 

Meantime  had  Spain  endured  the  strife  ; 

And  though  she  saw  her  cities  yield, 

Her  armies  scatter'd  in  the  field. 

Her  strongest  bulwarks  fall ; 

The  danger  undismay'd  she  view'd, 

Knowing  that  nouglit  could  e'er  appal 

Tlie  Spaniard's  fortitude. 

What  though  the  Tyrant,  drunk  with  power. 

Might  vaunt  himself,  in  impious  hour. 

Lord  and  Disposer  of  this  earthly  ball.' 

Her  cause  is  just,  and  Heaven  is  over  all. 

VIII. 

Therefore  no  thought  of  fear  debased 

Her  judgment,  nor  her  acts  disgraced. 

To  every  ill,  but  not  to  shame  rcsign'd. 

All  sufferings,  all  calamities  she  bore. 

She  bade  the  people  call  to  mind 

Their  heroes  of  the  days  of  yore, 

Pelayo  and  the  Campeador, 

With  all  who,  once  in  battle  strong, 

Lived  still  in  story  and  in  song. 

Against  the  Moor,  age  after  age, 

Their  stubborn  warfare  did  they  wage  ; 

Age  after  age,  from  sire  to  son. 

The  hallowed  sword  was  handed  down ; 

Nor  did  they  from  that  warfare  cease, 

And  sheathe  that  hallowed  sword  in  peaco 

Until  the  work  was  done 

IX. 

Thus,  in  the  famous  days  of  yore. 

Their  fathers  triumph'd  o'er  the  Moor. 

They  gloried  in  his  overthrow. 

But  touch'd  not  with  reproach  his  gallant  name  ; 

For  fairly,  and  with  hostile  aim  profest. 

The  Moor  had  rear'd  his  haughty  crest. 

An  open,  honorable  foe; 

But  as  a  friend  the  treacherous  Frenchman  came. 

And  Spain  received  him  as  a  guest. 

Think  what  your  fathers  were  !  she  cried ; 

Think  what  ye  are,  in  sufferings  tried ; 
And  think  of  what  your  sons  must  be  — 
Even  as  ye  make  them  — slaves  or  free  ! 

X. 

Strains  such  as  these  from  Spain's  thrte  seas, 

And  from  the  farthest  Pyrenees, 

Rung  through  the   region.     Vengeance  was  the 

word ; 

One  impulse  to  all  hearts  at  once  was  givtn; 

From  every  voice  the  sacred  cry  was  heard. 

And  borne  abroad  by  all  the  winds  of  Heaven. 

Heaven,  too,  to  whom  the  Spaniards  look'd  for  aid, 

A  spirit  equal  to  the  hour  bestow'd  ; 

And  gloriously  the  debt  they  paid, 

Which  to  their  valiant  ancestors  they  owed  : 

And  gloriously  against  the  power  of  France 

Maintain'd  their  children's  proud  inheritance. 

Their  steady  purpose  no  defeat  could  move. 

No  horrors  could  abate  their  constant  mind ; 

Hope  had  its  source  and  resting-place  above, 


196 


CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE. 


And  they,  to  loss  of  all  on  earth  resign'd, 

SufFer'd,  to  save  their  country  and  mankind. 

What  strain  heroic  might  suffice  to  tell 

How  Zaragoza  stood,  and  how  siie  fell  ? 

Ne'er  since  yon  sun  began  his  daily  round. 

Was  higher  virtue,  holier  valor,  found. 

Than  on  that  consecrated  ground. 

XI. 

Alone  the  noble  Nation  stood, 
When  from  Coruiia,  in  tlie  main. 
The  star  of  England  set  in  blood. 

Erelong  on  Talavera's  plain, 

That  star  resplendent  rose  again ; 

And  though  that  day  was  doom'd  to  be 

A  day  of  frustrate  victory, 

Not  vainly  bled  the  brave  ; 

For  French  and  Spaniard  there  might  see 

That  England's  arm  was  strong  to  save  ; 

Fair  promise  there  the  Wellesley  gave, 

And  well  in  sight  of  Earth  and  Heaven, 

Did  he  redeem  the  pledge  which  there  v/ag  given. 

XII. 

Lord  of  Conquest,  heir  of  Fame, 

From  rescued  Portugal  he  came. 

Rodrigo's  walls  in  vain  oppose  ; 

In  vain  thy  bulwarks,  Badajoz; 

And  Salamanca's  heights  proclaim 

The  Conqueror's  praise,  the  Wellesley's  name. 

Oh,  had  the  sun  stood  still  that  hour. 

When  Marmont  and  his  broken  power 

Fled  from  their  field  of  shame  ! 

Spain  felt  through  all  her  realms  the  electric  blow ; 

Cadiz  in  peace  expands  her  gates  again ; 

And  Betis,  who,  to  bondage  long  resign'd, 

Flow'd  mournfully  along  the  silent  plain, 

Into  her  joyful  bosom  unconfined. 

Receives  once  more  the  treasures  of  the  main. 

XIII. 

What   now  shall  check  the  Wellesley,  when  at 

length 

Onward  he  goes,  rejoicing  in  his  strength .' 

From  Douro,  from  Castile's  extended  plain, 

The  foe,  a  numerous  band. 

Retire ;  amid  the  heights  which  overhang 

Dark  Ebro's  bed,  they  think  to  make  their  stand. 

He  reads  their  purpose,  and  prevents  their  speed  ; 

And  still,  as  they  recede, 

Impetuously  he  presses  on  their  way ; 

Till  by  Vittoria's  walls  they  stood  at  bay, 

And  drew  their  battle  up  in  fair  array. 

XIV. 

Vain  their  array,  their  valor  vain  : 

There  did  the  practised  Frenchman  find 

A  master  arm,  a  master  mind ! 

Behold  his  veteran  army  driven 

Like  dust  before  the  breath  of  Heaven, 

Like  leaves  before  the  autumnal  wind  ! 

Now,  Britain,  now  thy  brow  with  laurels  blind ; 

Raise  now  the  song  of  joy  for  rescued  Spain  ! 

And,  Europe,  take  thou  up  the  awakening  strain  — 

Glory  to  God  I  Deliverance  for  Mankind  I 


XV. 

From  Spain  the  living  spark  went  forth : 

The  flame  hath  caught,  the  flame  is  spread ! 

It  warms,  —  it  fires  the  farthest  North. 

Behold  !  tlie  awaken'd  Moscovite 

Meets  the  Tyrant  in  his  might; 

The  Brandenburg,  at  Freedom's  call, 

Rises  more  glorious  from  his  fall ; 

And  Frederic,  best  and  greatest  of  the  name, 

Treads  in  the  path  of  duty  and  of  fame. 
See  Austria  from  her  painful  trance  awake  ! 
The  breath  of  God  goes  forth, — the  dry  bones  shake 
Up,  Germany  !  —  with  all  thy  nations,  rise  ! 

Land  of  the  virtuous  and  the  wise. 

No  longer  let  that  free,  that  mighty  mind 

Endure  its  shame  !  She  rose  as  from  the  dead, 

She  broke  her  chains  upon  the  oppressor's  head  — 

Glory  to  God !  Deliverance  for  Mankind  ! 

XVI. 

Open  thy  gates,  O  Hanover  !  display 

Thy  loyal  banners  to  the  day ; 

Receive  thy  old  illustrious  line  once  more  ! 

Beneath  an  Upstart's  yoke  oppress'd, 
Long  hath  it  been  thy  fortune  to  deplore 
That  line,  whose  fostering  and  paternal  sway 

So  many  an  age  thy  grateful  children  blest. 

The  yoke  is  broken  now  :  —  A  mightier  hand 

Hath  dash'd  — in  pieces  dash'd — the  iron  rod. 

To  meet  her  Princes,  the  deliver'd  land 

Pours  her  rejoicing  multitudes  abroad  ; 

The  happy  bells,  from  every  town  and  tower. 

Roll  their  glad  peals  upon  the  joyful  wind ; 

And  from  all  hearts  and  tongues,  with  one  consent. 

The  high  thanksgiving  strain  to  Heaven  is  sent, — 

Glory  to  God !  Deliverance  for  Mankind  ! 

XVII. 

Egmont  and  Horn,  heard  ye  that  holy  cry. 

Martyrs  of  Freedom,  from  your  seats  in  Heaven? 

And  William  the  Deliverer,  doth  thine  eye 

Regard  from  yon  empyreal  realm  the  land 

For  which  thy  blood  was  given  ? 

What  ills  hath  that  poor  Country  sufTer'd  long  ! 

Deceived,  despised,  and  plunder'd,  and  oppress'd. 

Mockery  and  insult  aggravating  wrong  ! 

Severely  she  her  errors  hath  atoned, 

And  long  in  anguish  groan'd, 

■  Wearing  the  patient  semblance  of  despair, 

While  fervent  curses  rose  with  every  prayer ; 

In  mercy  Heaven  at  length  its  car  inclined  ; 

The  avenging  armies  of  the  North  draw  nigh ; 

Joy  for  the  injured  Hollander  !  — the  cry 

Of  Orange  rends  the  sky  ! 

All  hearts  are  now  in  one  good  cause  combined. 

Once  more  that  flag  triumphant  floats  on  high,  — 

Glory  to  God  1  Deliverance  for  Mankind  ! 

XVIII. 

When  shall  the  Dove  go  forth?  Oh,  when 

Shall  Peace  return  among  the  Sons  of  Men  r 

Hasten,  benignant  Heaven,  the  blessed  day  ! 

Justice  must  go  before. 
And  Retribution  must  make  plain  the  way ; 


NOTES    TO    CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE, 


107 


Force  must  be  crushed  by  Force, 

The  power  of  Evil  by  the  power  of  Good, 

Ere  Order  bless  the  sutfering  world  once  more, 

Or  Peace  return  again. 

Hold  then  right  on  in  your  auspicious  course, 

Ye  Princes,  and  ye  People,  hold  right  on  I 

Your  task  not  yet  is  done ; 

Pursue  the  blow,  —  ye  know  your  foe, — 

Complete  the  happy  work  so  well  begun. 

Hold  on,  and  be  your  aim,  with  all  your  strength. 

Loudly  proclam'd  and  steadily  pursued; 

So  shall  this  fatal  Tyranny  at  length 

Before  the  arms  of  Freedom  fall  subdued. 

Then,  when  the  waters  of  the  flood  abate, 

The  Dove  her  resting-place  secure  may  find ; 

And  France  restored,  and  shaking  off  her  chain. 

Shall  join  the  Avengers  in  the  joyful  strain. 

Glory  to  God  !  Deliverance  for  Mankind  ! 


NOTES. 

Thai  no  weak  heart,  no  abject  mind  possessed 
Her  counsels.  —  IV. 

"  Clin  any  man  of  sense,"  said  tlje  Edhiburgli  Review, 
"  does  any  plain,  unaffected  man,  above  tlie  level  of  a  drivel- 
ling courtier,  or  a  feeble  fanatic,  dare  to  say  he  can  look  at 
this  impending  contest,  without  trembling,  every  inch  of  him, 
for  the  result .'  "—  JVo.  XXIV.  p.  441. 

With  all  proper  difference  to  so  eminent  a  critic,  I  would 
venture  to  observe,  that  trembling  has  been  usually  supposed 
to  be  a  symptom  of  feebleness,  and  that  the  case  in  i>oint  has 
certainly  not  belied  tlie  received  opinion. 


Onoro^s  Springs.  —  V. 

Fuentes  d'Onoro.  Tliis  name  has  sometimes  been  ren- 
dered Fountains  of  Honor,  by  an  easy  mistake,  or  a  pardon- 
able license. 


Bear  witness,  Viose  Old  Towers.  —  VI. 

Torres  Vedras.  Turres  Veteres,  —  a  name  so  old  as  to 
have  been  given  when  the  Latin  tongue  was  the  language  of 
Portugal.  This  town  is  said  to  have  been  founded  by  the 
Turduli,  a  short  time  before  the  commencement  of  the 
Christian  era. 

In  remembering  the  lines  of  Torres  Vedras,  the  opinion 
of  the  wise  men  of  the  North  ought  not  to  be  forgotten  —  "  If 
they  (tlie  Frencii)  do  not  make  an  effort  to  drive  us  out  of 
Portugal,  it  is  because  we  are  better  there  than  any  where 
else.  We  fear  tliey  will  not  leave  us  on  the  Tagus  many 
days  longer  than  suits  their  own  purposes."  —  Edinburgh  Rev. 
JVo.  XXVII.  p.  263. 

The  opinion  is  delivered  with  happy  precision  of  language. 
—  Our  troops  were  indeed,  to  use  the  same  neat  and  felici- 
tous expression,  '  belter  tliere  than  any  where  else.' 


And  t}imi,  Susaco,  on  whose  sacred  height 

The  a.'itoni.ihed  Carmelite, 
While  thoseunwunted  thunders  shook  his  cell, 
Join'd  with  his  prayers  the  fervor  of  the  fight. —  VI. 

Of  Busaco,  which  is  now  as  memorable  in  the  military,  lis 
It  has  long  been  in  the  monastic  history  of  Portugal,  I  have 
given  an  account  in  the  second  volume  of  Omniana.  Dona 
Bernarda  Ferreira's  poem  upon  this  venerable  place  contains 
much  interesting  and  some  beautiful  description.  The  fir^-t 
intelljfferce  of  the  battle  which  reached  England  was  in  a 


letter  written  from  this  Convent  by  a  Portuguese  Commissary. 
"  I  have  the  happiness  to  acquaint  you,"  said  the  writer, 
"  that  this  night  the  French  lost  nine  thousand  men  near  the 
Convent  of  Busaco.  —  I  beg  you  not  to  consider  this  news  as 
a  fiction,  —  for  I,  from  where  I  am,  saw  thom  fall.  This 
place  appears  like  the  antechamber  of  Hell."  —  What  a  con- 
trast to  the  images  which  the  following  extracts  present  I 

Es  pequena  aquella  Iglcsia, 

Mas  para  pobres  bastante  ; 

Pobre  de  todo  aderc^o 

Con  que  el  rico  suele  ornarse. 
No  ay  alii  plata,  ni  oro, 

Telas  y  sedas  no  valen 

Donde  reyna  la  pobreza, 

Que  no  para  en  bienes  tales 
Asperando  a  los  del  Cielo 

lios  demas  tiene  por  males, 

Y  rica  de  altos  desseos 
Menosprecia  vanidadiis 

En  el  retablo  se  mira 

El  soberano  estandarte, 

Lecbo  donde  con  la  Iglesia 

Ciuiso  Cbristo  desposarso  j 
La  tabia  donde  se  salva 

El  misero  naufragante 

Del  pielago  de  la  culpa, 

Y  a  puerto  glorioso  sale. 
Con  perfecion  y  concierto 

Se  aderc^an  los  altares 

(por  manos  de  aquellos  santos) 

De  bellas  (lores  suaves. 
En  toscos  vasos  de  corcho 

Lustran  texidos  con  arte 

Los  variados  ramilletes 

Mas  que  en  el  oro  el  esmalto. 
La  florida  rama  verde 

Que  en  aquellos  bosques  nace, 

Da  colgaduras  al  templo, 

Y  los  brocados  abate 
En  dias  de  mayor  fiesta 

Esto  con  excesses  hazen, 

Y  al  suelo  por  alcatifaa 
Diversas  flores  reparten. 

Huele  el  divino  aposento, 

Hurtando  sutil  el  ayre 

A  las  rosas  y  boninas 

Mil  olorcs  que  derrame. 
Humildes  estan  las  celdas 

De  aquellos  humildes  padres, 

Cercando  al  sacro  edificio 

Do  tienen  su  caro  amante 
Cada  celda  muy  pequeiia 

Encierra  pobreza  grande. 

Que  en  competencia  sus  dueuos 

Gustan  de  mortificarse. 
Despues  que  alii  entro  el  silenclo. 

No  quiso  que  mas  sonasse 

Ruydo  que  aquel  que  forma 

Entre  los  ramos  el  ayre  ; 
El  de  las  fuentes  y  arroyos, 

Y  de  las  parleras  aves, 
Porque  si  ellos  por  Dios  Uoran, 
Ellas  sus  lagrimas  canten. 

Dc  corcho  tosco  las  puertas, 

Tambien  de  pobreza  imagen, 

Son  mas  bellas  en  sus  ojos 

Que  los  Toscanos  portales. 
Es  su  cama  estrecha  tabIa 

Do  appnas  tendidos  caben, 

PorquR  hasta  en  ella  durmiendo, 

Crucificados  descansen. 
Una  Cruz,  y  calavara 

Qu»  'ionen  siempre  delante, 

Con  asperas  disciplinas 

Tenidas  de  propria  sangre. 
Son  alhajas  de  su  casa  ; 

Y  en  aquellas  soledades 
Hablando  con  sabios  mudos 


98 


NOTES    rO    CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE. 


Sui^Icn  irtl  vez  aliviarso  ; 

Que  a  los  hijos  tie  Theresa 
Tanto  los  libros  aiilacen, 
Clue  en  los  yerinos  m;is  remotos 
Les  dan  del  dia  una  parte. 

riene  cada  qual  un  linerto 

(porque  en  el  pueda  ocuparse) 
Dc  arljoles  de  espino,  y  florcs 
Siempre  dc  olor  liberales. 

Libres  anai  del  tumulto 

Que  embara^a  los  mortales, 
Ferverosas  oraciones 
Mandan  a  Dios  cada  instante. 

Sus  duvolos  exercicios 

No  su  los  purturba  nadie  ; 
Ni  sus  penitencias  ballan 
Testigos  que  las  cstraiien. 

Qual  con  cadenas  de  puas 

Tan  duras  como  diamantes, 
Agudas  y  rigurosas 
Cine  su  afligida  came  ; 

Qual  con  cilicios  y  sogas 

Asperrimas,  intractables, 
De  que  jamas  se  Ics  quitan 
Las  cavernosas  senates. 


Aquel  divine  dcsierto 

Que  Busaco  denomina, 

Y  es  tambien  denoniinado 
Del  arbol  do  nuestra  vida, 

Se  muestra  sembrado  a  trechos 
De  solitarias  Erinilas, 
Que  en  espacios  desiguales 
Unas  de  las  oUas  distan. 

Parece  tocan  las  nubes, 

Para  servirles  de  sillas, 
Las  que  coron.ando  penas 
Apenas  toca  la  vista. 

Ifazen  otras  por  los  valles 
En  las  entranas  benignas 
De  nuestra  madre  comun 
Que  buiiiildc  se  las  inclin'j. 

Qual  en  las  concavidades 
De  las  rocas  cscondida, 
Que  labro  naturaleza 
Con  perfecion  infinita. 

Qual  entre  las  arboledas 
De  verde  rama  vestida, 
Informandoles  de  gracias 
Sus  formas  vegetativas. 

Qual  del  cristalino  arroyo 

Las  bellas  margenes  pisa, 
Por  lavar  los  pies  descal^us 
Entre  sus  Candidas  guijas, 

Qual  en  el  tronco  del  arbol 

Dentro  en  sus  cortezas  mismas, 
Por  veneer  en  gracia  al  arte 
Naturaleza  fa!)rica. 

Unas  aprieta  con  lazos 
Aquolla  planta  liisciva 
Que  hasta  las  piedras  abra^a 
Con  ser  tan  duras  y  frias. 

Otras  de  amarillos  musgos 
Por  el  techo  se  niatizan, 
Verdes,  obscuros,  y  negros, 

Y  de  color  de  ccniza. 
Toscos  alii  los  portales 

De  yerva  y  inolio  se  pintan, 

Y  de  salitre  se  labran 
Que  en  gotas  al  agua  imita 

Cada  Ermitano  a  la  puerta 

Tiene  una  pequena  esquila, 
En  el  ramo  de  algun  arbol 
Donde  pendicnte  se  arrima 

O  en  el  resquicio  gracioso 
De  alguna  piedra  metida, 

Y  quando  toca  la  Iglesia 
Todas  a  tocar  se  aplican. 


Tagas  and  Zezere,  in  secret  night. 
Ye  saw  the  haffird  ruffian  take  his  flight! —  VI. 

Beacons  of  infamy,  they  light  the  way 
Where  cowardice  and  cruelty  unite, 
To  damn  with  double  shame  their  ignominious  flight. 

O,  triumph  for  the  Fiends  of  lust  and  wrath  ! 

Ne'er  to  be  told,  yet  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
What  wanton  horrors  mark  tlieir  wrackful  path  ! 

The  peasant  butcber'd  in  bis  ruin'd  cot, 
The  hoary  priest  even  at  the  altar  shot, 

Childhood  and  ago  given  o'er  to  sword  and  flame, 
Woman  to  infamy  ;  no  crime  forgot, 

By  which  inventive  demons  might  proclaim 
Immortal  hate  to  Man,  and  scorn  of  God's  great  name. 

The  rudest  sentinel,  in  Britain  born. 
With  horror  paused  to  view  the  havock  done. 

Gave  his  poor  crust  to  feed  some  wretch  forlorn, 
Wiped  his  stern  eye,  then  fiercer  grasp'd  his  gun. 

Scott's   Vision  of  Don  Roderick. 

No  cruelties  recorded  in  history  exceed  those  which  v\cre 
systematically  conmiittcd  by  the  French  during  tlicir  retreat 
from  Portugal.  "  Their  conduct,  (says  Lord  Wellington,  in 
his  despatch  of  the  14th  of  March,  1811,)  throughout  tliis 
retreat,  has  been  marked  by  a  barbarity  seldom  equalled,  and 
never  surpassed. 

"  Even  in  the  towns  of  Torres  Novas,  Tbomar,  and  Penios, 
in  which  the  head-quarters  of  some  of  the  corps  had  been  for 
four  months,  and  in  which  the  inhabitants  had  been  induced, 
by  promises  of  good  treatment,  to  retnain,  they  were  plun- 
dered, and  many  of  their  houses  destroyed  on  the  night  the 
enemy  withdrew  from  their  position;  and  they  have  since 
burnt  every  town  and  village  through  which  they  have  passed. 
The  Convent  of  Alco!>a^a  was  burnt  by  order  from  the  French 
head-quarters.  The  Bishop's  Palace,  and  the  whole  town  of 
Leyria,  in  which  General  Drouet  had  had  his  head-quarters, 
shared  the  same  fate  :  and  there  is  not  an  inhabitant  of  the 
country,  of  any  class  or  description,  who  has  had  any  dealing 
or  communication  with  the  French  army,  who  has  not  had 
reason  to  repent  of  it,  or  to  complain  of  them.  This  is  the 
mode  in  which  the  promises  have  been  jjcrformed,  and  the 
assurances  have  been  fulfilled,  which  were  held  out  in  the 
proclamation  of  the  French  commander-in-chief,  in  which  he 
told  the  inliabitants  of  Portugal,  that  he  was  not  come  to 
make  war  upon  them,  but  with  a  powerful  army  of  orfe 
hundred  and  ten  thousand  men  to  drive  the  English  into  the 
sea.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  example  of  what  has  occurred 
in  this  country  will  teach  the  people  of  this  and  other  nations 
what  value  they  ought  to  place  on  such  promises  and  assur- 
ances, and  that  there  is  no  security  for  life,  or  for  any  thing 
that  renders  life  valuable,  except  in  decided  resistance  to  the 
enemy." 

As  exact  an  account  of  these  atrocities  was  collected  as  it 
was  possible  to  obtain,  —  and  that  record  will  forever  make 
the  French  name  detested  in  Portugal.  In  the  single  diocese 
of  Cuimbra,  2909  persons,  men,  women,  and  children,  were 
murdered,  —  every  one  with  some  shocking  circumstance  of 
aggravated  cruelty.  —  JVcmhumasi  daj  29G9  mortes  commct- 
tidas  pelo  iniinign,  deizoii  de  ser  atroz  e  dolorosissiina.  (Breve 
Memoria  dos  Estrngos  Causados  no  Bispado  de  Coimbra  pelo 
Exercito  Francez,  commandado  i)elo  General  ^lassena.  Ex- 
trahida  das  Enforma^oens  <|uc  deram  os  Reverendos  Parocos, 
e  reniettida  a  Junta  dos  Soeorros  da  Pubscripsam  Brilannica, 
pelo  Reverendo  Provisor  Govcrnador  domesmo  Bispado,  p.  12.) 
Some  details  are  given  in  tliis  brief  Memorial  y?  de  tdforfuiLt, 
says  J.  J.  Rousseau,  celui  qui  diiourne  ses  regards  est  un  Idelie, 
un  desertcur  dc  la  justice  :  laveritable  humanitc  les  envisage  pour 
les  comwitre,  pour  les  juger,  pour  les  detester.  (Le  Levite 
d'Ephraim.)  I  will  not,  however,  in  this  place  repeat  abom- 
inations which  at  once  outrage  humanity  and  disgrace  human 
nature. 

When  the  French,  in  1792,  entered  Spire,  some  of  tliem 
began  to  commit  excesses  which  would  soon  have  led  to  a 
general  sack.  Custine  immediately  ordered  n  captain,  two 
ofTicers,  and  a  whole  company  to  be  shot.  This  dreadful 
example,  he  told  the  National  Convention,  he  considered  as 
the  only  means  of  saving  tlie  honor  of  the  French  nation, — 
and  it  met  with  the  approbation  of  the  whole  army.     But  the 


NOTES    TO    CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE. 


199 


French  armies  had  not  tlien  been  systematically  brutalized. 
It  was  reserved  for  Bonaparte  to  render  them  iiit'umous,  as 
well  as  to  lead  them  to  destruction. 

The  Frencli  soldier,  says  Capmany,  is  executioner  and 
robber  at  the  same  time  :  he  leaves  the  unhappy  wretch,  who 
is  deUvered  over  to  his  merry,  naked  to  the  skin,  —  stripping 
oti"  the  clothes  tliat  they  may  not  be  torn  by  the  musket-shot  1 
-The  pen  lulls  I'rom  my  hand,  and  f  cannot  proceed  ! 

Para  que  sejaiite  a  eMa  crueldad  la  mayor  ntfamia,  el  soldado 
Frances  es  vcrdugo  y  ladron  en  una  pieia  ;  dcza  en  ciieras  vivos 
al  malaventurado  que  entre^an  a  su  discrccion,  quitandule  la  rupa 
antes  que  los  fasilazus  se  la  dfstroien.  La  pluma  se  cue  de  la 
mano,yno  puede  proseguir. — Centinela,  contra  Franceses, 
P.  '_>,  p.  35. 

Yet  the  Edinburgh  Eeview  says,  "  The  hatred  of  the  name 
of  a  Frenchman  in  Spain  has  been  such  as  the  reality  will  by 
no  means  justify  ;  and  the  detestation  of  the  French  govern- 
ment has,  among  the  inferior  orders,  been  carried  to  a  pitch 
wholly  unauthorized  by  its  proceedings  towards  them."  JW. 
XXVII.  p.  2tJ2.  Tliis  passage  might  bo  read  with  astonish- 
ment, if  any  thing  absurd,  any  thing  mischievous,  or  any  thing 
false,  could  excite  surprise  when  it  comes  from  that  (luarter. 


IVhal  though  the  Tyrant,  drunk  wilh  power. 
Might  vaunt  himself,  in  inpiuus  hour, 
Lord  and  Disposer  of  this  earthly  ball  7  —  VII. 

Lo  he  dicho  varias  veces,  y  lo  repito  ahora,  que  las  trcs  cpocas 
terribles  en  los  annales  del  mundo  son,  el  diluvio  universal,  Ma- 
Iwma,  y  Buonaparte.  Aque  pretcndia  convertir  todas  las  religi- 
ones  en  una,  y  esle  todas  las  nuciones,  para  ser  el  su  cabcza. 
Mquel  prcdtcaba  la  unidad  de  Dius  con  la  cimttarra  ;  y  este  no  le 
7tumbrauno  HI  trino,pucs  solo  prcdica,  o  hace  predicar  supro- 
pia  divinidad,  dexandose  dar  de  sus  infamcs  y  sacrilegos  adura- 
dures,  his  periodistas  Franceses,  el  dictado  de  Tudo-poderoso. 
El  misnio  se  ha  Uegado  a  creer  tal,  y  se  ha  heeho  creer  la  cobar- 
dia  y  vdcza  de  las  nacioncs  que  se  han  dcxado  subyugar.  Solo 
la  Espana  le  ha  obligado  a  recomioccrse,  que  no  era  antes,  ni 
es  ahora,  sino  un  hombre,  y  honibre  muy  pcquenu,  a  quien  la 
fovluna  ciega  lia  hecho  grande  a  los  ojos  de  los  pueblos  espanta- 
dos  del  terror  de  su  nonibre,  que  miden  la  grandeia  del  poder 
por  la  de  las  utrocidades.  —  Centinela,  contra  Franceses,  p.  48. 

"  I  have  sometimes  said,  and  I  repeat  it  now,  that  the  three 
terrible  epochs  in  the  annals  of  the  World  are  tlie  General 
Deluge,  Mahommed,  and  Bonaparte.  Slahommed  pretend- 
ed to  convert  all  religions  into  one,  and  this  man  all  nations 
into  one,  in  order  to  make  himself  their  head.  Mahommed 
preached  tl'.e  unity  of  God  with  the  cimeter;  and  this  man 
neither  his  Unity  nor  his  Trinity,  for  he  neither  preaches, 
nor  causes  to  be  preached,  any  tiling  except  his  own  Divinity, 
letting  his  infamous  and  sacrilegious  adorers,  the  French 
journalists,  give  him  the  appellation  of  Almighty.  He  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  believe  liimself  sucli,  and  the  cowardice  and 
baseness  of  the  nations  who  have  sufiered  themselves  to  be 
subdued,  have  made  him  believe  it.  Spain  alone  has  com- 
pelled him  to  know  himself,  that  he  neither  was  formerly  nor 
is  now  any  thing  more  than  a  mere  man,  and  a  very  little  one, 
whom  blind  Fortune  has  made  appear  great  in  the  eyes  of 
people  astonished  at  the  terror  of  his  name,  and  measuring 
the  greatness  of  his  power  by  that  of  his  atrocities." 


Knowing  tliat  nought  could  e'er  appall 
The  Spaniard's  fortitude.  —  VII. 

"  The  fate  of  Spain,  we  think,  is  decided,  and  that  fine  and 
misguided  country  has  probably  yielded,  by  this  time,  to  the 
fate  which  has  fallen  on  the  greater  part  of  continental  Eu- 
rope. Her  European  dominions  have  yielded  already  to  the 
unrelaiinir  grasp  of  the  insatiable  conqueror."  —  Edinburgh 
Rsview,  No.  XXVI.  p.  -298. 

"  The  fundamental  position  which  we  ventured  to  lay  down 
respecting  the  Spanish  question  was  this  : — that  the  spirit 
of  the  peojde,  however  enthusiastic  and  universal,  was  in 
its  nature  more  uncertain  and  short-lived,  more  likely  to  be 
extinguished  by  reverses,  or  to  go  out  of  itself  amidst  the 
delays  of  a  protracted  contest,  than  the  steady,  regular,  mod- 
erate feeling  v/hich  calls  out  disciplined  troops,  and  marshals 


them  under  known  leaders,  and  supplies  them  by  systematic 
arrangements  :  —  a  ])roposition  so  plain  and  ob\i.-us,  that  if  it 
escaped  ridicule  as  a  truism,  it  might  have  been  reasonably 
expected  to  avoid  the  penalties  of  heresy  and  ])aradox  The 
event  has  indeed  wofully  proved  its  truth."  —  Edinburgh  Kev. 
No.  XXVII.  p.  '24(i. 

These  gentlemen  could  see  no  principle  of  permanence  in 
the  character  of  the  Spaniards,  and  no  proof  of  it  in  theit 
history  ;  —  .and  they  could  discover  no  principle  of  dissolution 
in  the  system  of  Bonaparte  ;  —  a  system  founded  upon  force 
and  falsehood,  in  direct  opposition  to  the  interests  of  his  own 
subjects  and  1 1  the  feelings  of  human  nature. 


The  Campeador.  —  VIII. 

The  Cid,  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar.  The  word  has  been 
variously  explained,  but  its  origin  seems  to  be  satisfactorily 
traced  by  Verstegan  in  his  explanation  of  some  of  our  English 
surnames. 

"  Cemp  or  Kemp,  properly  one  that  fighteth  hand  to  hand, 
whereunto  the  name  in  Teutonic  of  Kemp-fight  accordeth, 
and  in  French  of  Combat. 

"  Certain  among  the  ancient  Germans  made  profession  of 
being  Canip-iigliters  or  Kemp-fighters,  for  all  is  one  ;  and 
among  the  Danes  and  Swedes  were  the  like,  as  Scarcater, 
Anigrim,  Arnerod,  llaldan,  and  sundry  others.  They  were 
also  called  Kempanas,  whereof  is  derived  our  name  of  Cam- 
pion, which,  after  the  French  orthography,  some  pronounce 
Champion." 

"  Dene  or  Den  is  the  termination  of  sundry  of  our  sur- 
names, as  for  example  of  Camden,  which  I  take  anciently  to 
have  been  Campden,  and  signifieth  the  Dene  or  Dale  belong- 
ing to  some  Cemp  or  Camp-fighter  (for  both  is  one)  in  our 
now  used  language  called  a  Clijmpion,  hut  in  the  Teutonic  a 
Campion.  A  Campden  may  also  have  been  some  placi;  ap- 
pointed for  Campions,  Combat-fighters,  or  men  of  arms  to 
encounter  each  other.  And  so  the  place  became  afterward  to 
be  the  surname  ofhim  and  his  family  tliat  owned  it,  as  others 
in  like  sort  have  done." 

"  Kemp,  — of  his  profession  of  being  a  Kemper  or  Combat- 
fighter,  as  divers  in  old  times  among  our  ancestors  were." 


Vengeance  was  the  icord.  —  X. 

This  feeling  is  forcibly  expressed  by  Capmany.  0  Vispcras 
Siciiianas  tanfamosas  en  la  historia,  quando  us  podremos  ucom- 
panar  con  cunrplctas,  para  que  los  Angeles  canten  laudcs  en  el 
ci'cZw.^  Centinela,  contra  Franceses,  p.  96. 

O  Sicilian  Vespers  !  so  famous  in  history,  wlien  shall  we 
be  able  to  accompany  you  with  Complines,  that  the  Angels 
may  sing  Lauds  in  Heaven  .' 


Behold  the  awaken'd  Moscovite 

Meets  the  tyrant  in  his  might.  —  XVII. 

Ecce  iteruni  Crispinus  ■'  What  says  the  Edinburgh  Review 
concerning  Russia.''  "  Considering  how  little  that  power  has 
shown  itself  capable  of  effecting  for  the  salvation  of  Europe 
—  how  wretched  the  state  of  its  subjects  is  under  the  present 
government  —  how  trifling  an  acquisition  of  strength  the 
common  enemy  could  expect  to  obtain  from  the  entire  posses- 
sion of  its  resources  —  we  acknowledge  that  we  should  con- 
template with  great  composure  any  change  which  might  lay  the 
foundation  of  future  improvement,  and  scatter  the  forces  of 
France  over  the  dominion  of  the  Czars."  — JVo.  XXVIH. 
p.  460. 

This  is  a  choice  passage.  The  reasoning  is  worthy  of  the 
writer's  judgment,  the  feeling  perfectly  consistent  with  his 
liberality,  and  the  conclusion  as  consistent  with  his  politics. 


Up,  Oermany 

She  rose  as  from  the  dead ; 

She  broke  her  chains  upon  the  oppressor's  head.  —  XV I 
Hear  the  Edinburgh  Reviewer  1     "  It  would  be  as  chimeri- 
cal  to  expect  a  mutiny  among  the  vassal  states  of  France 


2G0 


NOTES    TO    CARMEN    TRIUMPHALE. 


H.'.o  are  tlie  most  impatient  of  her  yoke,  us  amongst  the  in- 
liu  iitants  of  liowrdcuux,  or  the  conscripts  of  the  years  1808 
aiiJ  1809.  In  making  this  com[>urison,  we  are  indeed  putting 
the  case  mucli  more  strongly  against  France  than  tlie  facts 
warrant ;  for,  with  the  exception  of  Holland,  and  the  States 
into  which  the  conscription  lias  been  introduced,  either  im- 
mediately, or  by  means  of  large  requisitions  of  men  made  to 
their  Governments,*  the  changes  effected  by  the  Trench  in- 
vasion have  been  favorable  to  the  individual  happiness  of  the 
inhabitants,!  so  that  the  hatred  of  France  is  liable  to  consid- 
erable diminution,  inasmuch  as  the  national  antipathy  and 
spirit  of  independence  are  gradually  undermined  by  the  solid 
benefits  which  tlie  change  of  masters  has  conferred."  —  JVu. 
XXVIII.  p.  458. 

Great  as  a  statesman,  profound  as  a  philosopher,  amiable  as 
an  optimist  of  the  I'angloss  school,  —  but  not  altogether  fortu- 
nate as  a  Prophet '. 


POSTSCRIPT. 
1821. 

As  a  proper  accompaniment  to  the  preceding  Notes,  upon 
their  republication,  I  subjoin  an  extract  from  a  William-Sniithk 
epistle,  begun  a  few  years  ago  upon  sufficient  provocation, 
but  left  unfinished,  because  better  employments  delayed  its 
completion  till  the  offence,  gross  as  it  was,  seemed  no  longer 
deserving  of  a  thought. 


Jly  fortune  has  been  somewhat  remarkable  in  this  respect, 
thit,  bestowing  less  attention  than  most  men  upon  contempo- 
rary literature,  I  am  supposed  to  concern  myself  with  it  in  a 
decree  which  would  leave  me  no  time  for  any  worthier  occu- 
pation. Half  the  persons  who  are  wounded  in  the  Quarterly 
Review  fix  upon  me  as  the  object  of  tlieir  resentment ;  some, 
because  they  are  conscious  of  having  deserved  chastisement 
at  my  hands  ;  others  because  they  give  credit  to  an  empty  re- 
port, a  lying  assertion,  or  tliiir  own  conceited  sagacity  in  dis- 
covering a  wiiter  by  his  style.  As  for  the  former,  they  flatter 
themselves  egregiously  in  supposing  that  I  should  throw  away 
mv  anger  upon  such  subjects.  But  by  the  latter  I  would  will- 
ingly have  it  understood,  that  I  heartily  disapprove  the  present 
fashion  of  critii-isin,  and  sincerely  wish  that  you.  Sir,  and  your 
friend,  had  taken  out  an  exclusive  patent  for  it,  when  you 
brought  it  into  vogue. 

With  regard  to  literary  assailants,  I  should  as  little  think 
of  resenting  their  attacks  in  anger,  as  of  making  war  upon 
midges  and  mosquitoes.  I  have  therefore  never  noticed  your 
amiable  colleague  in  his  critical  capacity.  Let  him  blunder, 
and  misquote,  and  misrepresent,  and  contradict  himself  in  the 
same  page,  or  in  the  same  sentence,  with  as  much  ingenuity 
as  he  will :  "  'Tis  his  vocation,  Hal !  "  and  some  allowances 
must  be  made  for  habit.  I  remember  what  Lord  Anson's 
iingnist  said  to  him  at  Canton,  upon  the  detection  of  some 
notable  act  of  dishonesty  :  CIniiaman  very  great  rogue  truly  : 
hut  hah  fashion  :  no  can  help.  Concerning  me,  and  any  com- 
position of  mine,  it  is  impossible  that  this  gentleman  can  write 
wisely  unless  his  nature  should  undergo  a  radical  change,  for 
it  is  written  in  the  wisest  book  which  ever  proceeded  from 
mere  humanity,  that  "  into  a  malicious  soul  wisdom  shall 
not  enter." 

You  may  have  seen  a  mastiff  of  the  right  English  breed 
assailed  by  a  little  impertinent,  noisy,  meddling  cur,  who  runs 
behind  him,  snapping  and  barking  at  his  heels,  and  sometimes 
"ets  staggered  by  a  chance-wljisk  of  his  tail.  The  mastiff 
continues  his  way  peaceably;  or,  if  he  condescends  to  notice 
the  yelper,  it  is  only  by  stopping  half  a  minute,  and  lifting  his 
le"  over  him.  Just  such.  Sir,  is  the  notice  which  I  bestow 
upon  your  colleague  in  his  critical  character. 

But  for  F.  J.  Philomath,  and  Prifcs.^or  of  the  Occult  Science.^, 
he  is  a  grave  personage,  whose  political  and  prophetical  pre- 
tensions entitle  liim  to  high  consideration  in  these  days.     He 

•  N.  B.  Th<?se  lilll'?  exceptions  incliule  all  the  countries  wliich  were  an- 
Bexed  to  the  French  Empire,  all  Italy,  and  all  the  Stales  of  the  Confedera- 
tion of  the  Rhine. 

t  Particularly  the  commercial  part  of  them. 


is  as  great  a  man  as  Lilly  in  the  lime  of  the  Commonwealth 
or  as  Partridge  after  him.  It  is  well  known  what  infinite 
pains  he  bestowed  in  casting  the  nativities  of  Lord  Welling- 
ton, Bonaparte,  and  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  —  all  for  the 
good  of  mankind!  and  it  is  also  notorious  that  he  mistook  the 
aspects,  and  made  some  very  unfortunate  errors  in  his  pre- 
dictions. At  a  time  when  he  was  considerably  indisposed  in 
consequence  of  this  mortification,  I  took  the  liberty  of  ad- 
ministering to  him  a  dose  of  liis  own  words,  mixed,  perhaps) 
Sir,  with  a  few  of  yours,  for  you  were  his  fellow-student  in 
astrology,  and  are  known  to  have  assisted  him  in  these  his 
calculations.  The  medicine  was  given  in  the  form  of  extract ; 
but  the  patient  could  not  have  used  more  wry  faces  had  it  been 
extract  of  coloquintida.  And  indeed  it  produced  a  most  un- 
pleasant effect.  Ever  since  that  time  his  paroxysms  have 
been  more  violent,  and  he  has  been  troubled  with  occasional 
ravings,  accompanied  with  periodical  discharges  of  bile  in  its 
most  offensive  state.  IVevertheless,  dreadfully  bilious  as  he 
is,  and  tormented  with  acrid  humors,  it  is  hoped  that  by  a  coo 
diet,  by  the  proper  use  of  refrigerants,  above  all,  by  payingdue 
attention  to  the  state  of  the  prima;  fi'ir,  and  observing  a  strict 
abstinence  from  the  Quarterly  Review,  the  danger  of  a  cholera 
morbus  may  be  averted. 

I  have  not  been  travelling  out  of  the  record  while  thus  inci- 
dentally noticing  a  personage  with  whom  you,  Sir,  are  more 
naturally  and  properly  associated  than  I  have  been  with  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  this  your  colleague  and  you  being  the  Gog  and 
Magog  of  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Had  it  not  been  for  a 
difference  of  opinion  upon  political  points  between  myself  and 
certain  writers  in  that  journal  who  laid  claim  to  the  faculty 
of  the  second  sight,  1  suspect  that  I  should  never  have  in- 
curred your  hostility.  What  those  points  of  difference  were,  I 
must  here  be  permitted  to  set  forth  for  the  satisfaction  of  those 
readers  who  may  not  be  so  well  acquainted  with  them  as  you 
are  :  they  related  to  the  possibility  of  carrying  on  the  late  war 
to  an  honorable  and  successful  termination. 

It  was  in  our  state  of  feeling.  Sir,  as  well  as  in  our  state  of 
knowledge  that  we  differed,  in  our  desires  as  much  as  in  our 
judgment.  They  predicted  for  us  nothing  but  disgrace  and 
defeat:  predicted  is  the  word  ;  for  they  themselves  assured  us 
that  they  were  "  seriously  occupied  icith  the  destinies  of  Europe 
and  of  mankind  .- "  — 

"  As  who  should  say,  I  am  Sir  Oracle  !  " 

They  ridiculed  "  the  romantic  hopes  of  the  English  nation,^''  and 
imputed  the  spirit  by  which  the  glory  of  th.at  nation  has  been 
raised  to  its  highest  point,  and  the  deliverance  of  Europe 
accomplished,  to  "  Ihe  tricks  of  a  paltry  and  interested  party." 
They  said  that  events  had  "  verified  their  predictions,"  had 
"  more  than  justified  their  worst  forebodings."  They  told  us  in 
1810  that  the  fate  of  Spain  was  decided,  and  that  that  "  mis- 
guided" country  (misguided  in  having  ventured  to  resist  the 
most  insolent  usurpation  that  ever  was  attempted)  "  had 
yielded  to  the  Conqueror."  This  manner  of  speaking  of  an 
event  in  the  preter-pluperfect  tense,  before  it  has  come  to 
pass,  may  be  either  a  slight  grammatical  slip,  or  a  projihetical 
figure  of  speech ;  but,  as  old  Dr.  Eachard  says,  "  I  hate  all 
small  ambiguous  surmises,  all  quivering  and  mincing  conjec- 
tures :  give  me  the  lusty  and  bold  thinker,  who,  when  he 
undertakes  to  proidiesy,  does  it  punctually."  '■'■It  would  be 
bluod-ihirsty  and  eruel,"  they  said,  "  to  foment  petty  insurrec- 
tions, (meaning  the  war  in  Spain  and  Portugal,)  aftir  the  only 
contest  is  over  from  irhich  any  good  can  spring  in  the  present 
unfortunate  state  of  affairs."  "  France  has  conquered  Europe. 
This  is  the  melancholy  truth.  Shut  our  eyes  to  it  as  we  "may, 
there  can  he  no  doubt  about  the  mutter.  For  the  present,  peaM 
and  submission  must  be  the  lot  of  the  vanquished."  "  Let  us  hear 
no  more  of  objections  to  a  Bonaparte  ruling  in  Spain." 

"  Harry,  the  wish  was  father  to  that  thought  !  " 

They  told  us  that  if  Lord  Wellington  was  not  driven  out  of 
Portugal,  it  was  because  the  French  government  thought  him 
^' better  there  than  anywhere  else."  They  told  us  they  were 
prepared  to  ^^  enntcmplate  with  great  composure  the  conquest  of 
Russia,  by  Bonaparte,  as  a  "change  wliich  would  lay  the 
foundation  of  future  improvement  in  the  dominions  of  the 
Czars."  — 

"  Si  mens  sit  Itcta  tibi  ercderis  esse  propketa," 


ODES. 


201 


•ays  an  old  Leoiiino  rliymester.  —  And  as  for  expecting  "  a 
MUTINY  (bear  Germany  1  for  so  thoy  qualified  it ! )  amongst  the 
cassal  states  vf  France,  it  would  he  as  cldi'ierical,"  they  said, 
"  as  to  expect  unc  amoiiirst  the  inhabitants  of  liouriUaux."  And 
here  tuusc  lucky  prophets  were  peculiarly  felicitous  ;  the 
inliahitants  of  Bourdeau.v  having  been  the  first  people  in 
Franco  who  thiew  off  the  yoke  of  Bonaparte's  tyranny,  and 
mounted  the  white  cockade. 

"  Omnia  jam  fiunt,  fieri  qiuB  posse  negaham." 

I'oor  Oracle  !  the  face  is  double-bronzed  ;  and  yet  it  is  but 
a  wooden  head  ! 

I  stood  upon  firm  ground,  while  they  were  sticking  in  the 
Slough  of  Despond.  Itinc  iIUb  lacrijma !  I  charged  them  at 
the  time  with  ignorance,  presumption,  and  pusillanimity. 
And  now,  t^ir,  I  ask  of  you,  were  they  or  were  they  not 
ignorant?  Here  are  their  assertions! — Were  they  or  were 
they  not  presumptuous  .'  Here  are  their  predictions  !  —  Were 
tliey  or  were  they  not  pusillanimous.'  Have  they  or  have 
they  not  been  confuted,  and  confiiumled,  and  exposed,  and 
shamed,  and  stultified,  by  the  event.' 

They  who  know  me  will  bear  witness,  that,  before  a  rumor 
of  war  was  heard  from  the  Peninsula,  I  had  looked  toward 
that  quarter  as  the  point  where  we  might  ho|)e  first  to  see 
the  horizon  oi>en  ;  and  that,  from  the  hour  in  which  the  strug- 
gle commenced,  I  never  doubted  of  its  final  success,  provided 
England  should  do  its  duty  :  this  confidence  was  founded  upon 
a  knowledge  of  the  country  and  the  people,  and  upon  the 
principles  which  were  then  and  there  fiist  brought  into  action 
against  the  enemy.  At  the  time  when  every  cfiort  was  made 
(as  you.  Sir,  well  know)  to  vilify  iind  disgust  our  allies,  to 
discourage  the  public,  to  impede  the  measures  of  government, 
to  derange  its  finances,  and  thereby  cut  off  its  means,  to  par- 
alyze the  arm  and  deaden  the  heart  of  England  ;  —  when  we 
were  told  of  the  irresistible  power  and  perfect  policy  of  Bona- 
parte, the  consummate  skill  of  his  generals,  and  the  invinci- 
bility of  his  armies,  my  language  was  this :  "  The  one  business 
of  Eugland  is  to  abate  the  power  of  France  :  that  power  she 
must  beat  down,  or  fall  herself;  that  power  she  will  beat  down, 
ifshedobut  strenuously  put  forth  her  own  mighty  means." 
Aivd  again,  —  "For  our  soldiers  to  equal  our  seamen,  it  is 
only  necessary  for  them  to  be  equally  well  commanded.  Thpy 
have  the  same  heart  and  soul,  as  well  as  the  sanin  flesh  and 
blood.  Too  much,  indeed,  may  be  exacted  from  them  in  a 
retreat ;  but  set  their  face  toward  a  foe,  and  there  is  nothing 
within  the  reach  of  human  achievement  which  they  cannot 
perform."  -And  again,  —  "Carry  on  the  war  with  all  the 
heart,  and  with  all  the  soul,  and  with  all  the  strength,  of  this 
mighty  empire,  and  you  will  beat  down  the  power  of  France." 
Was  I  wrong,  Sir.'  Or  lias  tlie  event  corresponded  to  this 
confidence .' 

Ajiipai  iniXotnoi 
Md/jrvp£j  coifiuiTaroL 

Bear  witness,  Torres  Vedras,  Salamanca,  and  Vittoria ! 
Bear  witness,  Orthics  and  Thoulouse  !  Bear  witness,  Water- 
loo, and  that  miserable  tyrant,  who  was  then  making  and  un- 
making kings  with  a  breath,  and  now  frets  upon  the  rock  of 
St.  Helena,  like  a  tiger  in  his  cage  ! 


ODES 


ODE, 


WRITTEV     DURING     THE     NEGOTIATIONS     WITH 
BONAPARTE,   IN    JANUARY,    1814. 


Who  counsels  peace  at  this  momentous  hour, 
When  God  hath  <rivcn  deliverance  to  the  opprcss'd, 

And  to  the  injured  power.' 
Who  counsels  peace,  when  Vengeance,  like  a  flood, 
26 


Rolls  on,  no  longer  now  to  be  reprcss'd; 

When  innocent  blood 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  world  cries  out 

For  justice  upon  one  accursed  head; 

When  Frcdooiii  hath  her  holy  banners  spread 

Over  all  nations,  now  in  one  just  cause 

United ;  when,  with  one  sublime  accord, 

Europe  throws  off  the  yoke  abhorr'd, 

And  Loyalty,  and  Faith,  and  Ancient  Laws 

Follow  the  avenging  sword ! 

2. 

Woe,  woe  to  England  !  woe  and  endless  shame, 

If  this  heroic  land, 

False  to  her  feelings  and  unspotted  fame. 

Hold  out  the  olive  to  the  Tyrant's  hand  ! 

Woe  to  the  world,  if  Bonaparte's  throne 

Be  suffer'd  still  to  stand  ! 

For  by  what  names  shall  Right  and  Wrong  be 

known,  — 

What  new  and  courtly  phrases  must  we  feign 

For  Falsehood,  Murder,  and  all  monstrous  crimes. 

If  that  perfidious  Corsican  maintain 

Still  his  detested  reign, 

And  France,  who  yearns  even  now   to  break  her 

chain. 

Beneath  his  iron  rule  be  left  to  groan  ? 

No  !  by  tite  innumerable  dead, 

Whose  blood  hath  for  his  lust  of  power  been  shed, 

Death  only  can  for  his  foul  deeds  atone ; 
That  peace  which  Death  and  Judgment  can  bestow, 
That  peace  be  Bonaparte's,  — that  alone  ! 

3. 

For  sooner  shall  the  Ethiop  change  his  skin, 
Or  from  tiie  Leopard  shall  her  spots  depart, 
Than  this  man  change  his  old,  flagitious  heart. 
Have  ye  not  seen  him  in  tlic  balance  weigh'd, 
And  there  found  wanting.'     On  the  stage  of  blood 
Foremost  the  resolute  adventurer  stood; 
And  when,  by  many  a  battle  won. 
He  placed  upon  his  brow  the  crown, 
Curbing  delirious  France  beneath  his  swav. 
Then,  like  Octavius  in  old  time. 
Fair  name  might  he  have  handed  down. 
Effacing  many  a  stain  of  former  crime. 
Fool !  should  he  cast  away  that  bright  renown  ! 
Fool !  the  redemption  proffer'd  should  he  lose  ! 
When  Heaven  such  grace  vouchsafed  him  that  the 
way 
To  Good  and  Evil  lay 
Before  him,  which  to  choose. 

4. 

But  Evil  was  his  Good, 

For  all  too  long  in  blood  had  he  been  nursed. 

And  ne'er  was  earth  with  verier  tyrant  cursed. 

Bold  man  and  bad, 

Remorseless,  godless,  full  of  fraud  and  lies. 

And  black  with  murders  and  witli  perjuries. 

Himself  in  Hell's  whole  panoply  he  clad ; 

No  law  but  his  own  headstrong  will  he  knew. 

No  counsellor  but  his  own  wicked  heart. 
From  evil  thus  portentous  strength  he  drew. 
And  trampled  under  foot  all  human  tics. 
All  Jioly  laws,  all  natural  charities. 


202 


ODES. 


O  France !  beneatli  tliis  fierce  Barbarian's  sway 

Disgraced  thou  art  to  all  succeding  times; 

Rapine,  and  blood,  and  fire  liave  mark'd  thy  way. 

All  loatlisonio,  all  unutterable  crimes. 

A  curse  is  on  thee,  France  !  from  far  and  wide 

It  hath  gone  up  to  Heaven.     All  lands  have  cried 

For  vengeance  upon  thy  detested  head ! 

All  nations  curse  thee,  France!  for  wheresoe'er, 

In  j)eace  or  war,  thy  banner  hath  been  spread, 

All  forms  of  human  woe  have  follow'd  there. 

The  Living  and  the  Dead 

Cry  out  alike  against  thee  !     They  who  bear, 

Crouching  beneath  its  weight,  thine  iron  yoke 

Join  in  the  bitterness  of  secret  prayer 

The  voice  of  that  innumerable  throng. 

Whose  slaughter'd  spirits  day  and  night  invoke 

The  Everlasting  Judge  of  right  and  wrong, 
How  long,  O  Lord !    Holy  and  Just,  how  long  ! 

6. 

A  merciless  oppressor  hast  thou  been. 

Thyself  remorselessly  oppress'd  meantime  ; 

Greedy  of  war,  when  all  that  thou  couldst  gain 

Was  but  to  dye  thy  soul  with  deeper  crime, 

And  rivet  faster  round  thyself  the  chain. 

Oh  I  blind  to  honor,  and  to  interest  blind, 

When  thus  in  abject  servitude  resign'd 

To  this  barbarian  upstart,  thou  couldst  brave 

God's  justice,  and  the  heart  of  human-kind  ! 

Madly  thou  thoughtest  to  enslave  the  world, 

Thyself  the  while  a  miserable  slave. 

Behold,  the  flag  of  vengeance  is  unfurl'd  ! 

The  dreadful  armies  of  the  North  advance ; 

While  England,  Portugal,  and  Spain  combined, 

Give  their  triumphant  banners  to  the  wind, 

And  stand  victorious  in  the  fields  of  France. 


One  man  hath  been  for  ten  long,  wretched  years 
The  cause  of  all  this  blood  and  all  these  tears ; 

One  man  in  this  most  awful  point  of  time 

Draws  on  thy  danger,  as  he  caused  thy  crime. 

Wait  not  too  long  the  event. 

For  now  whole  Europe  comes  against  thee  bent; 

His  wiles  and  their  own  strength  the  nations  know  : 

Wise  from  past  wrongs,  on  future  peace  intent, 

The  People  and  the  Princes,  with  one  mind, 

From  all  parts  move  against  the  general  foe ; 

One  act  of  justice,  one  atoning  blow, 

One  execrable  head  laid  low. 

Even  yet,  O  France  !  averts  thy  punishment. 

Open  thine  eyes  ! —  too  long  hast  thou  been  blind ; 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  ! 


France  !  if  thou  lovest  thine  ancient  fame, 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy  shame  ! 

By  the  bones  which  bleach  on  Jaffa's  beach ; 

By  the  blood  which  on  Domingo's  shore 

Hath  clogg'd  the  carrion-birds  with  gore ; 

By  the  flesh  which  gorged  the  wolves  of  Spain, 

Or  stiffen'd  on  the  snowy  plain 

Of  frozen  Moscovy ; 

By  the  bodies,  which  lie  all  open  to  the  sky, 


Tracking  from  Elbe  to  Rhine  the  Tyrant's  flight" 

By  the  widow's  and  tiie  orphan's  cry; 

By  the  childless  parent's  misery ; 

By  the  lives  which  he  hath  shed ; 

By  the  ruin  he  hath  spread  ; 

By  the  prayers  which  rise  for  curses  on  his  head,  — 

Redeem,  O  France  !  thine  ancient  fame, 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy  shame. 

Open  thine  eyes  I  — too  long  hast  thou  been  blind ; 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  I 

9. 

By  those  horrors  which  the  night 

Witness'd  when  the  torches'  light 

To  the  assembled  murderers  show'd 

Where  the  blood  of  Conde  flow'd ; 

By  thy  murder'd  Pichegru's  fame ; 

By  murder'd  Wright  —  an  English  name; 

By  murder'd  Palm's  atrocious  doom; 

By  murder'd  Hofcr's  martyrdom,  — 

Oh  !  by  the  virtuous  blood  thus  vilely  spilt. 

The  Villain's  own  peculiar,  private  guilt. 

Open  thine  eyes  !  —  too  long  liastthou  been  blind, 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  I 

Kesivic/c 


ODE, 

WRITTEN    DURING    THE    WAR  WITH  AMERICA,  1814 


When  shall  the  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay 

The  thunderbolt  aside. 

And,  twining  olives  with  her  laurel  crown, 

Rest  in  the  Bower  of  Peace  .' 

2. 

Not  long  may  this  unnatural  strife  endure 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  deep ; 

Not  long  may  men,  with  vain  ambition  drunk, 

And  insolent  in  wrong, 

Afflict  with  their  misrule  the  indignant  land 

Where  Washington  hath  left 

His  awful  memory 

A  light  for  after-times  ! 

Vile  instruments  of  fallen  Tyranny 

In  their  own  annals,  by  their  countrymen. 

For  lasting  shame  shall  they  be  written  down. 

Soon  may  the  better  Genius  there  prevail ! 

Then  'will  tiie  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay 

The  thunderbolt  aside, 

And,  twining  olives  with  her  laurel  crown. 

Rest  in  the  Bower  of  Peace. 


But  not  in  ignominious  ease, 

Within  the  Bower  of  Peace  supine. 

The  Ocean  Queen  shall  rest ! 

Her  other  toils  await, — 

A  holier  warfare,  —  nobler  victories; 

And  amaranthine  wreaths, 

Which,  when  the  laurel  crown  grows  sere. 

Will  live  forever  green. 


ODES. 


203 


Hear  1110,  O  England !  rightly  may  I  claim 

Thy  favorable  audience,  Queen  of  Isles, 

My  Mother-land  revered ; 

For  in  the  perilous  hour, 

When  weaker  spirits  stood  aghast. 

And  reptile  tongues,  to  thy  dishonor  bold, 

Spit  their  dull  venom  on  the  public  ear, 

My  voice  was  heard,  —  a  voice  of  hope, 

Of  confidence  and  joy, — 

Yea,  of  such  prophecj' 

As  wisdom  to  her  sous  doth  aye  vouchsafe, 

When  with  pure  heart  and  diligent  desire 

They  seek  the  fountain  springs. 

And  of  the  Ages  past 

Take  counsel  reverently. 

5. 

Nobly  hast  tliou  stood  up 

Against  the  foulest  Tyranny  that  ere, 

In  elder  or  in  later  times. 

Hath  outraged  human-kind. 

O  glorious  England  !  thou  hast  borne  thyself 

Religiously  and  bravely  in  tliat  strife ; 

And  happier  victory  hath  blest  thine  arms 

Than,  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Thine  own  Plantagenets  achieved. 

Or  Marlborough,  wise  in  council  as  in  field, 

Or  Wolfe,  heroic  name. 

Now  gird  thyself  for  other  war  ; 

Look  round  tliee,  and  behold  what  ills, 

Remediable  and  yet  unremedied, 

Afflict  man's  wretched  race  ! 

Put  on  the  panoply  of  faith  ! 

Bestir  thyself  against  thine  inward  foes. 

Ignorance  and  VVant,  with  all  their  brood 

Of  miseries  and  of  crimes. 

G. 

Powerful  thou  art :  imperial  Rome, 

When  in  the  Augustan  age  she  closed 

The  temple  of  the  two-taced  God, 

Could  boast  no  power  like  thine. 

Less  opulent  was  Spain, 

When  Mexico  her  sumless  riches  sent 

To  that  proud  monarchy  ; 

And  Hayti's  ransack'd  caverns  gave  their  gold  ; 

And  from  Potosi's  recent  veins 

The  unabaling  stream  of  treasure  flow'd. 

And  blest  art  thou,  above  all  nations  blest. 

For  thou  art  Freedom's  own  beloved  Isle  '. 

The  light  of  Science  shines 

Conspicuous  like  a  beacon  on  thy  shores; 

Thy  martyrs  purchased  at  the  stake 

Faith  uncorrupt  for  thine  inheritance  ; 

And  by  thine  hearths  Domestic  Purity,' 

Safe  from  tlie  infection  of  a  tainted  age. 

Hath  kept  her  sanctuaries. 

Yet,  O  dear  England !  powerful  as  tliou  art, 

And  rich,  and  wise,  and  blest. 

Yet  would  1  see  thee,  O  my  Mother-land ! 

Mightier  and  wealthier,  wiser,  happier  still ! 

7. 

For  still  dotli  Ignorance 

Maintain  large  empire  here, 


Dark  and  unblest  amid  surrounding  light ; 

Even  as  within  this  favord  spot, 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride. 

The  traveller  on  his  way 

Beholds  with  weary  eye 

Bleak  moorland,  noxious  fen,  and  lonely  heath, 

In  drear  extension  spread. 

Oh  grief!  that  spirits  of  celestial  seed, 

Wliom  ever-teeming  Nature  hath  brought  forth. 

With  all  the  human  faculties  divine 

Of  sense  and  soul  endued, — 

Disherited  of  knowledge  and  of  bliss. 

Mere  creatures  of  brute  life, 

Should  grope  in  darkness  lost ! 

8 

Must  this  reproach  endure  .' 

Honor  and  praise  to  him 

The  universal  friend. 

The  general  benefactor  of  mankiryl ; 

He  who  from  Coromandel's  shores 

His  perfected  discovery  brought ; 

He  by  whose  generous  toils 

This  foul  reproach  ere  long  shall  be  effaced, 

This  root  of  evil  be  eradicate  ! 

Yea,  generations  yet  unborn 

Shall  owe  their  weal  to  him. 

And  future  nations  bless 
The  honor'd  name  of  Bell. 

9. 

Now  may  that  blessed  edifice 

Of  public  good  be  rear'd 
Which  holy  Edward  traced. 
The  spotless  Tudor,  he  whom  Death 
Too  early  summon'd  to  his  heavenly  throne. 
For   Brunswick's   line   was   this  great   work   re- 
served, 
For  Brunswick's  fated  line ; 
They  who  from  papal  darkness,  and  the  thrall 
Of  that  worst  bondage  which  doth  hold 
The  immortal  spirit  chain'd. 
Saved  us  in  happy  hour. 
Fitly  for  them  was  this  great  work  reserved  ; 
So,  Britain,  shall  thine  aged  monarch's  wish 
Receive  its  due  accomplishment  — 
That  wish  which  with  the  good 
(Had  he  no  other  praise) 
Through    all   succeeding   times   would  rank    his 
name. 
That  all  within  his  realms 
Might  learn  the  Book,  which  all 
Who  rightly  learn  shall  live. 

10. 

From  public  fountains  the  perennial  stream 

Of  public  weal  must  flow. 

O  England  !  wliercsoe'er  thy  churches  stand. 

There  on  that  sacred  ground. 

Where  the  rich  harvest  of  mortality 

Is  laid,  as  in  a  garner,  treasured  up. 

There  plant  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  !     Water  it 

With  thy  perpetual  bounty  !     It  shall  spread 

Its  branches  o'er  the  venerable  pile, 

Shield  it  against  the  storm, 

And  brinor  forth  fruits  of  life. 


204 


CARMINA    AULICA. 


11. 

Train  up  thy  children,  England  !  in  the  ways 

Of  righteousness,  and  feed  tliem  with  the  bread 

Of  wholesome   doctrine.     Wlierc   hast  thou  thy 

mines 

But  in  their  industry  .' 

Thy  bulwarks  where,  but  in  their  breasts  ^ 

Tliy  might,  but  in  their  arms  .' 

Shall  not  tlicir  numbers  therefore  be  thy  wealth, 

Tiiy  strength,  thy  power,  thy  safety,  and  thy  pride .' 

O  grief  then,  grief  and  shame. 

If,  in  this  flourishing  land, 

There  should  be  dwellings  where  the  new-born 

babe 

Doth  bring  unto  its  parents'  soul  no  joy  ! 

Where  squalid  Poverty 

Receives  it  at  its  birth, 

And  on  her  wither'd  knees 

Gives  it  the  scanty  food  of  discontent ! 

12. 

Queen  of  the  Seas  !  enlarge  thyself; 

Redundant  as  thou  art  of  life  and  power. 

Be  thou  the  hive  of  nations. 

And  send  thy  swarms  abroad  ! 

Send  them,  like  Greece  of  old, 

With  arts  and  science  to  enrich 

The  uncultivated  earth; 

But  with  more  precious  gifts  than  Greece,  or  Tyre, 

Or  elder  Egypt,  to  the  world  bequeath'd  — 

Just  laws,  and  rightful  polity. 

And,  crowning  all,  the  dearest  boon  of  Heaven, 

Its  word  and  will  reveal'd. 

Queen  of  the  Seas  !  enlarge 

The  place  of  thy  pavilion.     Let  them  stretch 

The  curtains  of  thine  habitations  forth  ; 

Spare  not ;  but  lengthen  thou 

Thy  cords,  make  strong  thy  stakes. 

13. 

Queen  of  the  Seas  !  enlarge  thyself; 

Send  thou  thy  swarms  abroad  ! 

For  in  the  years  to  come. 

Though  centuries  or  millenniums  intervene, 

Where'er  thy  progeny. 

Thy  language,  and  thy  spirit  shall  be  found, — 

If  on  Ontario's  shores. 

Or  late-explored  Missouri's  pastures  wide. 

Or  in  that  Austral  world  long  sought. 

The  many-isled  Pacific,  —  yea,  where  waves, 

Now  breaking  over  coral  reefs,  affright 

The  venturous  mariner. 

When  islands  shall  have  grown,  and  cities  risen 

In  cocoa  groves  embower'd ;  — 

Where'er  thy  language  lives, 

By  whatsoever  name  the  land  be  call'd. 

That  land  is  English  still,  and  there 

Thy  influential  spirit  dwells  and  reigns. 

Thrones  fall,  and  Dynasties  are  changed  ; 

Empires  decay  and  sink 

Beneath  their  own  unwieldy  weight ; 

Dominion  passeth  like  a  cloud  away  : 

The  imperishable  mind 

Survives  all  meaner  things. 


14. 

Train  up  thy  children,  England,  in  the  ways 

Of  righteousness,  and  feed  them  with  the  bread 

Of  wholesome  doctrine.     Send  thy  swarms  abroad  ' 

Send  forth  thy  humanizing  arts, 

Thy  stirring  enterprise. 

Thy  liberal  polity,  thy  Gospel  light ! 

Illume  the  dark  idolater. 

Reclaim  the  savage  !     O  thou  Ocean  Queen  ! 

Be  these  thy  toils  when  thou  hast  laid 

The  thunderbolt  aside  : 

He  who  hath  blest  thine  arms 

Will  bless  thee  in  these  holy  works  of  Peace  ! 

Father!  thy  kingdom  come,  and  as  in  Heaven 

Thy  will  be  done  on  Earth  ! 

Keswick. 


CARMINA    AULICA, 

WRITTEN    IN    1814,    ON    THE    ARRIVAL    OF    THE    AL- 
LIED   SOVEREIGNS    IN    ENGLAND. 


"Ex"  (cnAu  T£  ippdaai,  rd'Sfia  tc  jioi 
Viidciii  yXCiaaav  opuvct  Xiytiv. 

I'iNDAR,    OlVMP.    XIII. 


ODE 

TO  HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE  PRINCE  REGENT 
OF  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM  OK  GREAT  BRITAIN 
AND    IRELAND. 

1. 

Prince  of  the  mighty  Isle  ! 

Proud  day  for  thee  and  for  thy  kingdoms  this, 

When  Britain  round  her  spear 

The  olive  garland  twines,  by  Victory  won. 


Rightly  mayst  thou  rejoice, 

For  in  a  day  of  darkness  and  of  storms. 

An  evil  day,  a  day  of  woe. 

To  thee  the  sceptre  feel. 

The  Continent  was  leagued. 

Its  numbers  wielded  by  one  will. 

Against  the  mighty  Isle  ; 

All  shores  were  hostile  to  the  Red  Cross  flag. 

All  ports  against  it  closed  ; 

Save  where,  behind  their  ramparts  driven. 

The  Spaniard,  and  the  faithful  Portugal, 

Each  on  the  utmost  limits  of  his  land. 

Invincible  of  heart. 

Stood  firm,  and  put  their  trust 

In  their  good  cause  and  thee. 

3. 

Such  perils  menaced  from  abroad  ; 

At  home  worse  dangers  compass'd  thee. 

Where  shallow  counsellors, 

A  weak  but  clamorous  crew, 

Pester'd  the  land,  and  with  tiieir  withering  breath 

Poison'd  the  public  ear 


CAIIMINA    AULICA.                                               205 

For  peace  the  feeble  raised  their  factious  cry  ; 

Enjoy  the  rich  reward,  so  rightly  due, 

Oh,  madness  to  resist 

When    rescued    nations,  with    one    heart    and 

The  Invincible  in  arms  I 

voice, 

Seek  the  peace-garland  from  his  dreadful  hand ! 

Thy  counsels  bless  and  thee. 

And  at  the  Tyrant's  feet 

Thou,  on  thine  own  Firm  Island,  seest  the  while, 

They  would  have  knelt  to  take 

As  if  the  tales  of  old  Romance 

The  wreath  of  aconite  for  Britain's  brow. 

Were  but  to  typify  these  splendid  days, 

Prince  of  the  mighty  Isle  ! 

Princes,  and  Potentates, 

Rightly  mayst  thou  rejoice, 

And  Chiefs  renown'd  in  arms. 

For  in  the  day  of  danger  thou  didst  turn 

From  their  great  enterprise  achieved. 

From  their  vile  counsels  thine  indignant  heart; 

In  friendship  and  in  joy  collected  here. 

Rightly  mayst  thou  rejoice, 

When  Britain  round  her  spear 

7. 

The  olive-garland  twines,  by  Victory  won. 

Rejoice,  thou  mighty  Isle  ! 

Queen  of  the  Seas  !  rejoice  ; 

4. 

For  ne'er  in  elder  nor  in  later  times 

Rejoice,  thou  mighty  Isle, 

Have  such  illustrious  guests 

Queen  of  the  Seas  !  rejoice ; 

Honor'd  thy  silver  shores. 

Ring  round,  ye  merry  bells. 

No  such  assemblage  shone  in  Edward's  hall. 

Till  every  steeple  rock, 

Nor  brighter  triumphs  graced  his  glorious  reign. 

And  the  wide  air  grow  giddy  with  your  joy  ! 

Prince  of  the  mighty  Isle, 

Flow,  streamers,  to  the  breeze  ! 

Proud  day  for  thee  and  for  thy  kingdoms  this  I 

And,  ye  victorious  banners,  to  the  sun 

Rightly  mayst  thou  rejoice. 

Unroll  the  proud  Red  Cross ! 

When  Britain  round  her  spear 

Now  let  the  anvil  rest ; 

The  olive-garland  twines,  by  Victory  won. 

Shut  up  the  loom,  and  open  the  school-doors, 

That  young  and  old  may  with  festivities 

8. 

Hallow  for  memory,  through  all  after  years. 

Yet  in  the  pomp  of  these  festivities 

This  memorable  time ; 

One  mournful  thought  will  rise  within  thy  mind  — 

This  memorable  time. 

The  thought  of  Him  who  sits 

When  Peace,  long  absent,  long  deplored,  returns. 

In  mental  as  in  visual  darkness  lost. 

Not  as  vile  Faction  would  have  brought  her  home, 

How  had  his  heart  been  fill'd 

Her  countenance  for  shame  abased. 

With  deepest  gratitude  to  Heaven, 

In  servile  weeds  array 'd, 

Had  he  beheld  this  day ! 

Submission  leading  her, 

O  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords. 

Fear,  Sorrow,  and  Repentance  following  close  ; 

Thou,  who  hast  visited  thus  heavily 

And  War,  scarce  deigning  to  conceal 

The  anointed  head. 

Beneath  the  mantle's  folds  his  armed  plight, 

Oh  !  for  one  little  interval, 

Dogging  her  steps  with  deadly  eye  intent, 

One  precious  hour, 

Sure  of  his  victim,  and  in  devilish  joy 

Remove  the  blindness  from  his  soul, 

Laughing  behind  the  mask. 

That  he  may  know  it  all. 

5. 

And  bless  thee  ere  he  die. 

Not  thus  doth  Peace  return  !  — 

9. 

A  blessed  visitant  she  comes,  — 

Thou  also  shouldst  have  seen 

Honor  in  his  right  hand 

This  harvest  of  thy  hopes, 

Doth  lead  her  like  a  bride ; 

Thou,  whom  the  guilty  act 

And  Victory  goes  before  ; 

Of  a  proud  spirit  overthrown 

Hope,  Safety,  and  Prosperity,  and  Strength, 

Sent  to  thine  early  grave  in  evil  hour ! 

Come  in  her  joyful  train. 

Forget  not  him,  my  country,  in  thy  joy; 

Now  let  the  churches  ring 

But  let  thy  grateful  hand 

With  high  thanksgiving  songs, 

With  laurel  garlands  hang 

And  the  full  organ  pour 

The  tomb  of  Perceval. 

Its  swelling  peals  to  Heaven, 

Virtuous,  and  firm,  and  wise 

The  while  the  grateful  nation  bless  in  prayer 

The  Ark  of  Britain  in  her  darkest  day 

Their  Warriors,  and   their  Statesmen,  and   their 

He  steer'd  through  stormy  seas ; 

Prince, 

And  long  shall  Britain  hold  his  memory  dear, 

Whose  will,  whose  mind,  whose  arm 

And  faithful  History  give 

Have  thus  with  happy  end  their  efforts  crown'd. 

His  meed  of  lasting  praise. 

Prince  of  the  mighty  Isle, 

Rightly  mayst  thou  rejoice, 

10. 

When  Britain  round  her  spear 

That  earthly  meed  shall  his  compeers  enjoy, 

The  olive-garland  twines,  by  Victory  won. 

Britain's  true  counsellors. 

Who  see  with  just  success  their  counsels  crown'd. 

G. 

They  have  their  triumph  now,  to  him  denied; 

Enjoy  thy  triumph  now, 

Proud  day  for  them  is  this ! 

Prince  of  the  mighty  Isle  ! 

Prince  of  the  miffhty  Isle  ! 

20G 


CARMINA    AULICA 


Proud  day  for  them  and  thee, 

When  Britain  round  her  spear 

The  olive-garland  twines,  by  Victory  won. 


ODE 

TO  HIS  IMPERIAL  MAJESTY,  ALEXANDER  THE  FIRST, 
EMPEROR  OF  ALL  THE  RUSSIAS. 

1. 

Conqueror,  Deliverer,  Friend  of  human-kind  ! 

The  free,  the  happy  Island  welcomes  thee ; 

Thee,  from  thy  wasted  realms, 

So  signally  revenged ; 

From  Prussia's  rescued  plains  ; 

I'Vom  Dresden's  field  of  slaughter,  where  the  ball. 

Which  struck  Moreau's  dear  life. 

Was  turn'd  from  thy  more  precious  head  aside ; 

From  Leipsic's  dreadful  day, 

From  Elbe,  and  Rhine,  and  Seine, 

In  thy  career  of  conquest  overpast ; 

From  the  proud  Capital 

Of  haughty  France  subdued. 

Then  to  her  rightful  line  of  Kings  restored ; 

Thee,  Alexander !  thee,  the  Great,  the  Good, 

The  Glorious,  the  Beneficent,  the  Just, 

Thee  to  her  honor'd  shores 
The  mighty  Island  welcomes  in  her  joy. 

2. 

Sixscore  full  years  have  past. 

Since  to  these  friendly  shores 

Thy  famous  ancestor, 

Illustrious  Peter,  came. 

Wise  traveller  he,  who  over  Europe  went. 

Marking  the -ways  of  men; 

That  so  to  his  dear  country,  which  then  rose 

Among  the  nations  in  uncultured  strength. 

He  might  bear  back  the  stores 

Of  elder  polity, 

Its  sciences  and  arts. 

Little  did  then  the  industrious  German  think, — 

The  soft  Italian,  lapp'd  in  luxury, — 

Helvetia's  mountain  sons,  of  freedom  proud,  — 

The  patient  Hollander, 

Prosperous  and  warlike  then, — 

Little  thought  they  that,  in  that  farthest  North, 

From  Peter's  race  should  the  Deliverer  spring. 

Destined  by  Heaven  to  save 

Art,  Learning,  Industry, 

Beneath  the  bestial  hoof  of  godless  Might 

All  trampled  in  the  dust. 

As  little  did  the  French, 

Vaunting  the  power  of  their  Great  Monarch  then, 

(His  schemes  of  wide  ambition  yet  uncheck'd,) 

As  little  did  they  think, 

That  from  rude  Moscovy  the  stone  should  come. 

To  smite  tlieir  huge  Colossus,  which  bestrode 

The  subject  Continent; 

And  from  its  feet  of  clay. 

Breaking  the  iron  limbs  and  front  of  brass. 

Strew  the  rejoicing  Nations  with  the  wreck. 


Roused  as  thou  wert  with  insult  and  with  wrong, 

Who  should  have  blamed  thee  if,  in  high-wrought 

mood 

Of  vengeance  and  the  sense  of  injured  power. 

Thou  from  the  flames  which  laid 

The  City  of  thy  Fathers  in  the  dust, 

Hadst  bid  a  spark  be  brought. 

And  borne  it  in  thy  tent. 

Religiously  by  night  and  day  preserved. 

Till  on  Montmartre's  height. 

When  open  to  thine  arms. 

Her  last  defence  o'erthrown, 

The  guilty  city  lay. 

Thou  hadst  call'd  every  Russian  of  thine  host 

To  light  his  flambeau  at  the  sacred  flame, 

And  sent  them  through  her  streets, 

And  wrapt  her  roofs  and  towers. 

Temples  and  palaces. 

Her  wealth  and  boasted  spoils. 

In  one  wide  flood  of  fire. 

Making  the  hated  Nation  feel  herself 

The  miseries  she  had  spread  ? 

4. 
Who  should  have  blamed  the  Conqueror  for  that 
deed .' 
Yea,  rather  would  not  one  exulting  cry 
Have  risen  from  Elbe  to  Nile, 
How  is  tlic  Oppressor  fallen  ! 

Moscow's  re-rising  walls 
Had  rung  with  glad  acclaim  ; 
Tiianksgiving  hymns  liad  fill'd 
Tyrol's  rejoicing  vales ; 
How  is  the  Oppressor  fallen  ! 
The  Germans  in  tlieir  grass-grown  marts  had  met 
To  celebrate  the  deed ; 
Holland's  still  waters  had  been  starr'd 
With  festive  lights,  reflected  there 
From  every  liouse  and  hut. 
From  every  town  and  tower ; 
The  Iberian  and  the  Lusian's  injured  realms. 
From  all  their  mountain-holds. 
From  all  their  ravaged  fields, 
From  cities  sack'd,  from  violated  fanes. 
And  from  the  sanctuary  of  every  heart. 
Had  pour'd  that  pious  strain  — 
How  is  the  Oppressor  fallen ! 
Righteous  art  thou,  O  Lord  ! 
Thou,  Zaragoza,  from  thy  sepulchres 
Hadst  joind  the  hymn  ;  and  from  thine  ashes  thou, 

Manresa,  faithful  still  I 

The  blood  that  calls  for  vengeance  in  thy  streets, 

Madrid,  and  Porto  thine. 

And  that  which  i'rom  the  beach 

Of  Tarragona  sent  its  cry  to  Heaven, 

Had  rested  then  apj>eased. 

Orphans  had  clapp'd  their  hands. 

And  widows  would  have  wept  exulting  tears, 

And  childless  parents,  with  a  bitter  joy. 

Have  blest  the  avenging  deed. 


But  thou  hadst  seen  enougli 
Of  horrors,  —  amply  hadst  avenged  mankind. 


CARMINA 

AULICA.                                                  207 

Witness  that  dread  retreat, 

In  adverse  as  in  prosperous  fortunes  tried, 

Wlien  God  and  nature  smote 

Frederick,  the  wcll-bclovcd  ! 

The  Tyrant  in  his  pride  ! 

Greatest  and  best  of  that  illustrious  name, 

No  wider  ruin  overtook 

Welcome  to  these  free  shores  1 

Sennacherib's  impious  host ; 

In  glory  art  thou  come. 

Nor  when  the  frantic  Persian  led 

Thy  victory  perfect,  thy  revenge  complete 

His  veterans  to  the  Lybian  sands  : 

Nor  when  united  Greece 

2. 

O'er  the  barbaric  power  that  victory  won 

Enough  of  sorrow  hast  thou  known. 

Which  Europe  yet  may  bless. 

Enough  of  evil  hath  thy  realm  endured. 

A  fouler  Tyrant  cursed  the  groaning  earth,  — 

Oppress'd,  but  not  debased. 

A  fearfuler  destruction  was  dispensed. 

When  thine  indignant  soul. 

Victorious  armies  followed  on  his  flight ; 

Long  suffering,  bore  its  weight  of  heaviest  woe. 

On  every  side  he  met 

But  still,  through  that  dark  day. 

The  Cossack's  dreadful  spear; 

Unsullied  honor  was  thy  counsellor  ; 

On  every  side  he  saw 

And  Hope,  that  had  its  trust  in  Heaven, 

The  injured  nation  rise. 

And  in  the  heart  of  man 

Invincible  in  arms. 

Its  strength,  forsook  thee  not. 

What  myriads,  victims  of  one  wicked  will, 

Thou  hadst  thy  faithful  people's  love. 

Spent  their  last  breath  in  curses  on  his  head  ! 

The  sympathy  of  noble  minds  ; 

There,  where  the  soldiers'  blood 

And  wistfully,  as  one 

Froze  in  the  festering  wound ; 

Who  through  the  weary  night  has  long'd  for  day, 

And  nightly  the  cold  moon 

Looks  eastvi'ard  for  the  dawn. 

Saw  sinking  thousands  in  the  snow  lie  down. 

So  Germany  to  thee 

Whom  there  the  morning  found 

Turn'd  in  her  bondage  her  imploring  eyes. 

Stiff  as  their  icy  bed. 

3. 

G. 

Oh,  grief  of  griefs,  that  Germany, 

Rear  high  the  monument  I 

The  wise,  the  virtuous  land. 

In  Moscow  and  in  proud  Petropolis, 

The  land  of  mighty  minds. 

The  brazen  trophy  build  ; 

Should  bend  beneath  the  frothy  Frenchman's  yoke  ; 

Cannon  on  cannon  piled. 

Oh,  grief  of  griefs,  to  think 

Till  the  huge  column  overtop  your  towers  ! 

That  she  should  groan  in  bonds. 

From  France  the  Tyrant  brought 

She  who  had  blest  all  nations  with  her  gifts  ! 

These  instruments  of  death 

There  had  the  light  of  Reformation  risen. 

To  work  your  overthrow  ; 

The  light  of  Knowledge  there  was  burning  clear, 

He  left  them  in  his  flight 

Oh,  grief,  that  her  unhappy  sons 

To  form  the  eternal  record  of  his  own. 

Should  toil,  and  bleed,  and  die. 

Raise,  Russia,  with  thy  spoils, 

To  quench  that  sacred  light. 

A  nobler  monument 

The  wretched  agents  of  a  tyrant's  will ! 

Than  e'er  imperial  Rome 

How  often  hath  their  blood 

Built  in  her  plenitude  of  pride  and  power  ! 

In  his  accursed  cause 

Still,  Alexander  !  on  the  banks  of  Seine, 

Reek'd  on  the  Spaniard's  blade  ! 

Thy  noblest  monument 

Their  mangled  bodies  fed 

For  future  ages  stands  — 

The  wolves  and  eagles  of  the  Pyrenees ; 

Paris  subdued  and  spared. 

Or  stiffening  in  the  snows  of  Moscovy, 

Amid  the  ashes  of  the  watch-fire  lay, 

7. 

Where  dragging  painfully  their  frozen  limbs. 

Conqueror,  Deliverer,  Friend  of  human-kind, 

With  life's  last  effort,  in  the  flames  they  fell. 

The  free,  the  happy  Island  welcomes  thee  ! 

Thee,  Alexander  1  thee,  the  Great,  the  Good, 

4. 

The  Glorious,  the  Beneficent,  the  Just ! 

Long,  Frederick,  did'st  thou  bear 

Thee  to  her  honor'd  shores 

Her  sorrows  and  thine  own ; 

The  mighty  Island  welcomes  in  her  joy. 

Seven  miserable  years 

In  patience  didst  thou  feed  thy  heart  with  hope  ; 

Till,  when  the  arm  of  God 
Smote  the  blaspheming  Tyrant  in  his  pride. 

^              

ODE 

And  Alexander,  with  the  voice  of  power, 

Raised  the  glad  cry.  Deliverance  for  Mankind, 

TO     HIS     MAJESTY,    FREDERICK    WILLIAM     THE 

First  of  the  Germans,  Prussia  broke  her  chains. 

FOURTH,     KING    OF    PRUSSIA. 

5. 
Joy,  joy  for  Germany, 

1. 

Welcome  to  England,  to  the  happy  Isle, 

For  Europe,  for  the  World, 

Brave  Prince  of  gallant  people  !     Welcome  Thou, 

When  Prussia  rose  in  arms  ! 

208 


CARMINA    AULICA. 


Oh,  what  a  spectacle 

For  present  and  I'or  future  times  was  there, 

When,  for  the  public  need, 

Wives  gave  their  marriage  rings, 

And  mothers,  when  their  sons 

The  Band  of  Vengeance  join'd, 

Bade  them  return  victorious  from  the  field. 

Or  with  their  country  fall. 


Twice  o'er  the  field  of  death 

The  trembling  scales  of  Fate  hung  equipoised ; 

For  France,  obsequious  to  her  Tyrant  still. 

Mighty  for  evil,  put  forth  all  her  power ; 

And  still,  beneath  his  hateful  banners  driven. 

Against  their  father-land. 

Unwilling  Germans  bore  unnatural  arms. 

What  though  the  Boaster  made  his  temples  ring 

With  vain  thanksgivings  for  each  doubtful  day  — 

What  though,  with  false  pretence  of  peace. 

His  old  insidious  arts  he  tried,  — 

The  spell  was  broken  !  Austria  threw  her  sword 

Into  the  inclining  scale. 

And  Leipsic  saw  the  wrongs 

Of  Germany  avenged. 

7. 

Ne"er  till  that  awful  time  had  Europe  seen 

Such  multitudes  in  arms  ; 

Nor  ever  had  the  rising  Sun  beheld 

Such  mighty  interests  of  mankind  at  stake  ; 

Nor  o'er  so  wide  a  scene 

Of  slaughter  e'er  had  Night  her  curtain  closed. 

There,  on  the  battle-field. 

With  one  accord  the  grateful  monarchs  knelt. 

And  raised  their  voice  to  Heaven: 

"  The  cause  was  thine,  O  Lord  ! 

"  O  Lord  !  thy  hand  was  here  !  " 

What  Conquerors  e'er  deserved 

So  proud,  so  pure  a  joy  ! 

It  was  a  moment  when  the  exalted  soul 

Might  almost  wish  to  burst  its  mortal  bounds. 

Lest  all  of  life  to  come 

'Vapid  and  void  should  seem 

After  that  high- wrought  hour. 

8. 

But  thou  hadst  yet  more  toils. 

More  duties  and  more  triumphs  yet  in  store. 

Elbe  must  not  bound  thine  arms. 

Nor  on  the  banks  of  Rhine 

Thine  eagles  check  their  flight ; 

When  o'er  that  barrier  stream 

Awakened  Germany 

Drove  her  invaders  with  such  rout  and  wreck 

As  overtook  the  impious  Gaul  of  old. 
Laden  with  plunder,  and  from  Delphi  driven. 

9. 

Long  had  insulting  France 

Boasted  her  arms  invincible, 

Her  soil  inviolate ; 


At  length  the  hour  of  retribution  comes  I 

Avenging  nations  on  all  sides  move  on ; 

In  Gascony  the  flag  of  England  flies, 

Triumphant,  as  of  yore, 

When  sable  Edward  led  his  peerless  host. 

Behold  the  Spaniard  and  the  Portugal 

For  cities  burnt,  for  violated  fanes, 

P^r  murders,  massacres. 

All  monstrous,  all  unutterable  crimes. 

Demanding  vengeance  with  victorious  cries. 

Pour  from  the  Pyrenees. 
The  Russian  comes,  his  eye  on  Paris  fix'd, 
The  flames  of  Moscow  present  to  his  heart ; 

The  Austrian  to  eff'ace 

Ulm,  Austerlitz,  and  Wagram's  later  shame ; 

Rejoicing  Germany, 

With  all  her  nations,  swells  the  avenging  train, 

And  in  the  field  and  in  the  triumph  first, 

Thy  banner,  Frederick,  floats. 

10. 

Six  weeks  in  daily  strife 

The  veteran  Blucher  bore  the  brunt  of  war. 

Glorious  old  man. 

The  last  and  greatest  of  his  master's  school. 

Long  may  he  live  to  hear 

The  people  bless  his  name  ! 

Late  be  it  ere  the  wreatli 

That  crowns  his  silver  hair 

Adorn  his  monument ! 

Glorious  old  man, 

How  oft  hath  he  discomfited 

.  The  boasted  chiefs  of  France, 

And  foil'd  her  vaunting  Tyrant's  desperate  rage 

Glorious  old  man, 

Who,  from  Silesia's  fields, 

O'er  Elbe,  and  Rhine,  and  Seine, 

From  victory  to  victory  marching  on, 

Made  his  heroic  way ;  till  at  the  gates 

Of  Paris,  open'd  by  his  arms,  he  saw 

His  King  triumphant  stand. 

11. 

Bear  back  the  sword  of  Frederick  now  1 

The  sword  which  France  amid  her  spoils  display'd, 

Proud  trophy  of  a  day  ignobly  won. 

With  laurels  wreath  the  sword ; 

Bear  it  in  triumph  back. 

Thus  gloriously  regain'd  ; 

And  when  thou  lay'st  it  in  its  honor'd  place, 

O  Frederick,  well-beloved, 

Greatest  and  best  of  that  illustrious  name, 

Lay  by  its  side  thine  own, 

A  holier  relic  there  ! 

12. 

Frederick,  the  well-beloved ! 

Welcome  to  these  free  shores  ; 

To  England  welcome,  to  the  happy  Isle  ! 

In  glory  art  thou  come. 

Thy  victory  perfect,  thy  revenge  complete 


ODES. 


209 


ODES 


ODE. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    ALGIERS 


One  day  of  dreadful  occupation  more, 

Ere  England's  gallant  ships 

Shall,  of  their  beauty,  pomp,  and  power  disrobed, 

Like  sea-birds  on  the  sunny  main. 

Rock  idly  in  the  port. 


One  day  of  dreadful  occupation  more ! 

A  work  of  righteousness, 

Yea,  of  sublimest  mercy,  must  be  done  ; 

England  will  break  the  oppressor's  chain, 

And  set  the  captives  free. 


Red  cross  of  England,  which  all  shores  have  seen 

Triumphantly  displayed. 

Thou  sacred  banner  of  the  glorious  Isle, 

Known  wheresoever  keel  hath  cut 

The  navigable  deep,  — 


Ne'er  didst  thou  float  more  proudly  o'er  the  storm 

Of  havock  and  of  death, 

Than  when,  resisting  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 

Algiers,  her  moony  standard  lowered. 

And  sign'd  the  conqueror's  law. 


.Oh,  if  the  grave  were  sentient,  as  these  Moors 

In  erring  credence  hold ; 

And  if  the  victims  of  captivity 

Could  in  the  silent  tomb  have  heard 

The  thunder  of  the  fight ;  — 

6. 

Sure  their  rejoicing  dust  upon  that  day 

Had  heaved  the  oppressive  soil. 

And  earth  been  shaken  like  the  mosques  and  towers. 

When  England  on  those  guilty  walls 

Her  fiery  vengeance  sent. 


Seldom  hath  victory  given  a  joy  like  this, — 

When  the  delivered  slave 

Revisits  once  again  his  own  dear  home, 

And  tells  of  all  his  sufferings  past. 

And  blesses  Exmouth's  name. 

8. 
Far,  far  and  wide  along  the  Italian  shores, 

That  holy  joy  extends ; 

Sardinian  mothers  pay  their  vows  fulfill'd ; 

And  hymns  are  heard  beside  thy  banks, 

O  Fountain  Arethuse ! 

27 


9. 

Churches  shall  blaze  with  lights,  and  ring  with 

praise, 

And  deeper  strains  shall  rise 

From  many  an  overflowing  heart  to  Heaven ; 

Nor  will  they  in  their  prayers  forget 

The  hand  that  set  them  free. 

Kesivick. 


ODE 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  CHARLOTTE. 
1. 

Death  has  gone  up  into  our  Palaces  1 
The  light  of  day  once  more 
Hath  visited  the  last  abode 

Of  mortal  royalty. 
The  dark  and  silent  vault. 


But  not  as  when  the  silence  of  that  vault 

Was  interrupted  last 

Doth  England  raise  her  loud  lament. 

Like  one  by  sudden  grief 

Surprised  and  overcome. 


Then,  with  a  passionate  sorrow,  we  bewail'd 

Youth  on  the  untimely  bier ; 

And  hopes,  which  seem'd  like  flower-buds  full. 

Just  opening  to  the  sun, 

Forever  swept  away. 


The  heart  then  struggled  with  repining  thoughts, 

With  feelings  that  almost 

Arraign'd  the  inscrutable  decree, 

Imbittered  by  a  sense 
Of  that  which  might  have  been. 


This  grief  hath  no  repining ;  all  is  well, 

What  hath  been,  and  what  is. 

The  Angel  of  Deliverance  came 

To  one  who,  full  of  years. 

Awaited  her  release. 

6. 

All  that  our  fathers  in  their  prayers  desired. 

When  first  their  chosen  Queen 

Set  on  our  shores  her  happy  feet,  — 

All  by  indulgent  Heaven 

Had  largely  been  vouchsafed. 

7. 

At  Court  the  Household  Virtues  had  their  place 

Domestic  Purity 

Maintain'd  her  proper  influence  there  ; 

The  marriage  bed  was  blest. 

And  length  of  days  was  given. 


210 


ODES. 


No  cause  for  sorrow  then,  but  thankfulness; 

Life's  business  well  performed, 

When  weary  age  full  willingly 

Resigns  itself  to  sleep, 

In  sure  and  certain  hope  ! 

9. 

Oh,  end  to  be  desired,  whene'er,  as  now, 

Good  works  have  gone  before. 

The  seasonable  fruit  of  Faith  ; 

And  good  Report  and  good 

Example  have  survived. 

10. 

Her  left  hand  knew  not  of  the  ample  alms 
Which  her  right  hand  had  done ; 
And,  therefore,  in  the  awful  hour, 

The  promises  were  hers 

To  secret  bounty  made. 

11. 

With  more  than  royal  honors  to  the  tomb 

Her  bier  is  borne  ;  with  more 
Than  Pomp  can  claim,  or  Power  bestow ; 
With  blessings  and  with  prayers 
Froiri  many  a  grateful  heart. 

12. 

Long,  long  then  shall  Queen  Charlotte's  name  be 

dear; 

And  future  Queens  to  her 

As  to  their  best  exemplar  look ; 

Who  imitates  her  best 

May  best  deserve  our  love. 

Keswick,  1818, 


ODE 


FOR    ST.    GEORGE  S    DAY. 


1. 

Wild  were  the  tales  which  fabling  monks  of  old 

Devised  to  swell  their  hero's  holy  fame. 

When  in  the  noble  army  they  enroll'd 

St.  George's  doubtful  name. 

Of  arrows  and  of  spears  they  told, 

Which  fell  rebated  from  his  mortal  mould ; 

And  how  the  burning,  fiery  furnace  blast 

To  him  came  tempered  like  a  summer  breeze. 

When  at  the  hour  of  evening  it  hath  past 

O'er  gurgling  tanks,  and  groves  of  lemon-trees  : 

And  how  the  reverential  flame. 

Condensing  like  a  garb  of  honor,  play'd 

In  gorgeous  folds  around  his  glorious  frame ; 

And  how  the  Heathen,  in  their  frantic  strife. 

With  water  then  alike  in  vain  essay'd 

His  inextinguishable  life. 


What  marvel  if  the  Christian  Kniglit 
Thus  for  his  dear  Redeemer's  sake 
Defied  the  purpled  Pagan's  might .' 


Such  boldness  well  might  he  partake, 
For  he,  beside  the  Libyan  lake 
Silene,  with  the  Infernal  King 

Had  coped  in  actual  fight. 

The  old  Dragon  on  terrific  wing 

Assail'd  him  there  with  Stygian  string. 

And  arrowy  tongue,  and  potent  breath, 

Exhaling  pestilence  and  death. 

Dauntless  in  faith  the  Champion  stood, 

Opposed  against  the  rage  of  Hell 

The  Red-Cross  shield,  and  wielding  well 

His  sword,  the  strife  pursued  : 

First  with  a  wide  and  rending  wound 

Brought  the  maim'd  monster  to  the  ground. 

Then,  pressing  with  victorious  heel 

Upon  his  scaly  neck  subdued. 

Plunged  and  replunged  the  searching  steel ; 

Till  from  the  shameful  overthrow. 

Howling,  the  incarnate  Demon  fled. 

And  left  that  form  untenanted. 
And  hid  in  Hell  his  humbled  head, 
Still  trembling  in  the  realm  below. 
At  thought  of  that  tremendous  foe. 


Such  tales  monastic  fablers  taught ; 

Their  kindred  strain  the  minstrels  caught. 

A  web  of  finer  texture  they 

Wrought  in  the  rich,  romantic  lay ; 

Of  magic  caves  and  woods  they  sung, 

Where  Kalyb  nursed  the  boy  divine, 

And  how  those  woods  and  caverns  rung 

With  cries  from  many  a  demon  tongue, 

When,  breaking  from  the  witch's  cell, 

He  bound  her  in  her  own  strong  spell ;  — 

And  of  the  bowers  of  Ormandine, 

Where,  thrall'd  by  art,  St.  David  lay, 

Sleeping  inglorious  years  away, 

Till  our  St.  George,  with  happier  arm 

Released  him,  and  dissolved  the  charm. 

But  most  the  minstrels  loved  to  tell 

Of  that  portentous  day 

When  Sabra  at  the  stake  was  bound, 

Her  brow  with  sweetest  garlands  crown'd. 

The  Egyptian  Dragon's  prey ; 

And  how  for  her  the  English  knight, 

Invincible  at  such  a  sight. 

Engaged  that  fiendish  beast  in  fight, 

And  o'er  the  monster,  triple-scaled, 

The  good  sword  Askalon  prevail'd. 

4. 

Such  legends  monks  and  minstrels  feign'd. 

And  easily  the  wondrous  tales  obtain'd. 

In  those  dark  days,  belief; 

Shrines  to  the  Saint  were  rear'd,  and  temples  rose, 

And  states  and  kingdoms  for  their  patron  chose 

The  Cappadocian  Chief. 

Full  soon  his  sainted  name  hath  won 

In  fields  of  war  a  wide  renown  ; 

Spain  saw  the  Moors  confounded  fly. 

Before  the  well-known  slaughter  cry, 

St.  George  for  Aragon  ! 

And  when  the  Catalans  pursued 

Their  vengeful  way  with  fire  and  blood, 


ODES. 


211 


The  Turk   and   treacherous    Greek    were  dearly 

taught 

That  all-appalling  shout, 

For  tliem  with  rage  and  ruin  fraught 

In  many  a  dolorous  rout. 

'Twas  in  this  heavenly  Guardian's  trusted  strength, 

That  Malta's  old  heroic  knights  defied 

The  Ottoman  in  all  his  power  and  pride. 

Repulsed  from  her  immortal  walls  at  length, 

The  baffled  Misbeliever  turn'd  with  shame ; 

And  when  in  after  years  in  dreams  he  heard 

That  all-too-well  remembered  battle-word. 

Woke  starting  at  St.  George's  dreadful  name. 

And  felt  cold  sweats  of  fear  suffuse  his  trembling 

frame. 


But  thou,  O  England  !  to  tiiat  sainted  name 

Hast  given  its  proudest  praise,  its  loftiest  fame. 

Witness  the  field  of  Cressy,  on  that  day. 

When  volleying  thunders  roll'd  unheard  on  high ; 

For,  in  that  memorable  fray. 

Broken,  confused,  and  scatter'd  in  dismay, 

France  had  ears  only  for  the  Conqueror's  cry, 

St.  George,  St.  George  for  England '.  St.  George 

and  Victory ! 

Bear  witness,  Poictiers !  where  again  the  foe 

From  that  same  hand  received  his  overthrow. 

In  vain  essay'd,  Mont  Joye  St.  Denis  rang 

From  many  a  boastful  tongue. 

And  many  a  hopeful  heart  in  onset  brave  ; 

Their  courage  in  the  shock  of  battle  quail'd, 

His  dread  reponse  when  sable  Edward  gave, 

And  England  and  St.  George  again  prevail'd. 

Bear  witness,  Agincourt,  where  once  again 

The  bannered  lilies  on  the  ensanguin'd  plain 

Were  trampled  by  the  fierce  pursuers'  feet ; 

And  France,  doom'd  ever  to  defeat 

Against  that  foe,  beheld  her  myriads  fly 

Before  the  withering  cry, 

St.  George,  St.  George  for  England  !  St.  George 

and  'Victory ! 

6. 

That  cry,  in  many  a  field  of  Fame, 

Through  glorious  ages  held  its  high  renown  ; 

Nor  less  hath  Britain  proved  the  sacred  name 

Auspicious  to  her  crown. 

Troubled  too  oft  her  course  of  fortune  ran. 

Till,  when  the  Georges  came, 

Her  happiest  age  began. 

Beneath  their  just  and  liberal  sway. 

Old  feuds  and  factions  died  away  ; 

One  feeling  through  her  realms  was  known, 

One  interest  of  the  Nation  and  the  Tlirone. 

Ring,  then,  ye  bells,  upon  St.  George's  D;iy, 

From  every  tovi^er  in  glad  accordance  ring; 

An(}  let  all  instruments,  full,  strong,  or  sweet. 

With  touch  of  modulated  string, 
And  soft  or  swelling  breath,  and  sonorous  beat, 

The  happy  name  repeat. 
While  heart  and  voice  their  joyous  tribute  brine. 
And  speak  the  People's  love  for  George  their  KinT. 

Keswick,  1820. 


ODE 

WRITTEN    AFTER    THE    KINg's    VISIT    TO     IRELAND. 
1. 

How  long,  O  Ireland,  from  thy  guilty  ground 

Shall  innocent  blood 

Arraign  the  inefficient  arm  of  Power  ? 

How  long  sluill  Murder  there. 

Leading  his  banded  ruffians  through  the  land. 

Range  unrepress'd .' 

How  lono-  shall  Nieht 

Bring  to  thy  harmless  dwellers,  in  the  stead 

Of  natural  rest,  the  feverish  sleep  of  fear, 

Midnight  alarms. 

Horrible  dreams,  and  worse  realities  .•" 

How  long  shall  darkness  cover,  and  the  eye 

Of  Morning  open,  upon  deeds  of  death  ? 


In  vain  art  thou,  by  liberal  Nature's  dower, 

Exuberantly  blest ; 

The  Seasons,  in  their  course. 

Shed  o'er  thy  hills  and  vales 

The  bounties  of  a  genial  clime  in  vain: 

Heaven  hath  in  vain  bestowed 

Well-tempered  liberty, 

(Its  last  and  largest  boon  to  social  man,) 

If  the  brute  Multitude,  from  age  to  age, 

Wild  as  their  savage  ancestors. 

Go  irreclaim'd  the  while, 

From  sire  to  son  transmitting  still, 

In  undisturb'd  descent, 

(A  sad  inheritance  I) 

Their  errors  and  their  crimes. 


Green  Island  of  the  West ! 

Thy  Sister  Kingdom  fear'd  not  this. 

When  thine  exultant  shores 

Rung  far  and  wide  of  late, 

And  grateful  Dublin  first  beheld  her  King, 

First  of  tliy  Sovereigns  he 

Who  visited  thy  shores  in  peace  and  joy. 


Oh  what  a  joy  was  there  ! 

In  loud  huzzas  prolong'd. 

Surge  after  surge  the  tide 

Of  popular  welcome  rose; 

And  in  the  intervals  alone 

Of  that  tumultuous  sound  of  glad  acclaim. 

Could  the  deep  cannon's  voice 

Of  duteous  gratulation,  though  it  spake 

In  thunder,  reach  the  ear. 

From  every  tower  the  merry  bells  rung  round, 

Peal  hurrying  upon  peal, 

Till  with  the  still  reverberating  din 

The  walls  and  solid  pavement  secm'd  to  sliake, 

And  every  bosom  with  the  tremulous  air 

Inhaled  a  dizzy  joy. 


Age,  tliat  came  forth  to  gaze, 
That  memorable  day 


212 


ODES. 


Felt  in  its  quickcn'd  veins  a  pulse  like  youth ; 

And  lisping  babes  were  taught  to  bless  their  King ; 

And  grandsires  bade  the  children  treasure  up 

The  precious  sight,  for  it  would  be  a  talc 

The  which  in  tlieir  old  age 

Would  make  tlicir  children's  children  gather  round 

Intent,  all  ears  to  hear. 

6. 

Were  then  the  feelings  of  that  generous  time 

Ephemeral  as  the  joy  ? 

Fass'd  they  away  like  summer  clouds, 

Like  dreams  of  infancy, 

Like  glories  of  the  evening  firmament, 

Which  fade,  and  leave  no  trace  ? 

Merciful  Heaven,  oh,  let  not  thou  the  hope 

Be  frustrate,  that  our  Sister  Isle  may  reap. 

From  the  good  seed  then  sown. 

Full  harvests  of  prosperity  and  peace  ; 

That  perfect  union  may  derive  its  date 

From  that  auspicious  day. 

And  equitable  ages  thence 

Their  lasting  course  begin  ! 


Green  Island  of  the  West, 

While  frantic  violence  delays 

That  happier  order,  still  must  thou  remain 

In  thine  own  baleful  darkness  wrapp'd  ; 

As  if  the  Eye  divine, 

That  which  beholdeth  all,  from  thee  alone 

In  wrath  had  turn'd  away  ! 

8. 

But  not  forever  thus  shalt  thou  endure. 

To  thy  reproach,  and  ours. 

Thy  misery,  and  our  shame  ! 

For  Mercy  shall  go  forth 

To  stablish  Order,  with  an  arm'd  right  hand ; 

And  firm  Authority, 

With  its  all-present  strength,  control  the  bad, 

And,  with  its  all-sufficient  shield, 

Protect  the  innocent : 

The  first  great  duty  this  of  lawful  Power, 

Which  holds  its  delegated  right  from  Heaven. 

9. 

The  first  great  duty  this  ;  but  this  not  all ; 

For  more  than  comes  within  the  scope 

Of  Power,  is  needed  here  ; 

More  than  to  watch  insidious  discontent, 

Curb,  and  keep  curb'd,  the  treasonable  tongue. 

And  quell  the  maddcn'd  multitude  : 

Labors  of  love  remain  ; 

To  weed  out  noxious  customs  rooted  deep 

In  a  rank  soil,  and  long  left  seeding  tliere ; 

Pour  balm  into  old  wounds,  and  bind  them  up ; 

Remove  remediable  ills. 

Improve  the  willing  mind, 

And  win  the  generous  heart. 

Afflicted  Country,  from  thyself 

Must  this  redemption  come  ; 

And  thou  hast  children  able  to  perform 

This  work  of  faith  and  hope. 


10. 

O  for  a  voice  that  might  recall 

To  their  deserted  hearths 

Thy  truant  sons  !  a  voice 

Whose  virtuous  cogency 

Might  with  the  strength  of  duty  reach  their  souls  j 

A  strength  that  should  compel  entire  consent. 

And  to  their  glad  obedience  give 

The  impulse  and  the  force  of  free  good-will ! 

For  who  but  they  can  knit 

The  severed  links  of  that  appointed  chain. 

Which  when  in  just  cohesion  it  unites 

Order  to  order,  rank  to  rank, 

In  mutual  benefit. 

So  binding  heart  to  heart, 

It  then  connecteth  Earth  with  Heaven,  from  whence 

The  golden  links  depend. 

11. 

Nor  when  the  war  is  waged 

With  Error,  and  the  brood 

Of  Darkness,  will  your  aid 

Be  wanting  in  the  cause  of  Light  and  Love, 

Ye  Ministers  of  that  most  holy  Church, 

Whose  firm  foundations  on  the  rock 

Of  Scripture  rest  secure  ! 

What  though  the  Romanist,  in  numbers  strong. 

In  misdirected  zeal 

And  bigotry's  blind  force. 

Assail  your  Fortress  ;  though  the  sons  of  Schism 

Join  in  insane  alliance  with  that  old, 

Inveterate  enemy, 

Weening  thereby  to  wreak 

Their  covenanted  hatred,  and  eflfect 

Your  utter  overthrow ; 

What  though  the  unbelieving  crew, 

For  fouler  purpose,  aid  the  unnatural  league  ; 

And  Faction's  wolfish  pack 

Set  up  their  fiercest  yell,  to  augment 

The  uproar  of  assault ; 

Clad  in  your  panoply  will  ye  be  found, 

Wielding  the  spear  of  Reason,  with  the  sword 

Of  Scripture  girt ;  and  from  your  shield  of  Truth 

Such  radiance  shall  go  forth. 

As  when,  unable  to  sustain  its  beams 

On  Arthur's  arm  unveil'd, 

Eartli-born  Orgoglio  rcel'd,  as  if  with  wine  ; 

And,  from  her  many-headed  beast  cast  down, 

Duessa  fell,  her  cup  of  sorcery  spilt, 

Her  three-crown'd  mitre  in  the  dust  devolved, 

And  all  her  secret  filthiness  exposed. 

12. 

O  thou  fair  Island,  with  thy  Sister  Isle 

Indissolubly  link'd  for  weal  and  woe; 

Partaker  of  her  present  power. 

Her  everlasting  fame ; 

Dear  pledges  hast  thou  render'd  and  received 

Of  that  eternal  union  !     Bedell's  grave 

Is  in  thy  keeping  ;  and  with  thee 

Deposited  doth  Taylor's  holy  dust 

Await  the  Archangel's  call. 

O  land  profuse  of  genius  and  of  worth. 

Largely  hast  thou  received,  and  largely  given  '. 


ODES. 


213 


13. 

Green  Island  of  the  West, 

The  example  of  unspotted  Ormond"s  faith 

To  thee  we  owe  ;  to  thee 

Boyle's  venerable  name  ; 

Berkeley  the  wise,  the  good  ; 

And  that  great  Orator  who  first 

Unmask'd  the  harlot  sorceress  Anarchy, 

What  time,  in  Freedom's  borrowed  form  profaned. 

She  to  the  nations  round 

Her  draught  of  witchcraft  gave  ; 

And  him  who  in  tlie  field 

O'erthrew  her  giant  offspring  in  his  strength. 

And  brake  the  iron  rod. 

Proud  of  such  debt, 

Rich  to  be  thus  indebted,  these, 

Fair  Island,  Sister  Queen 

Of  Ocean,  Ireland,  these  to  thee  we  owe. 

14. 

Shall  I  then  imprecate 

A  curse  on  them  that  would  divide 

Our  union  ?  —  Far  be  this  from  me,  O  Lord  ! 

Far  be  it !     What  is  man, 

That  he  should  scatter  curses.'  —  King  of  Kings, 

Father  of  all,  Almighty,  Governor 

Of  all  things!   unto  Thee 

Humbly  I  offer  up  our  holier  prayer  ! 

I  pray  Thee,  not  in  wrath. 

But  in  thy  mercy,  to  confound 

These  men's  devices.     Lord  ! 

Lighten  their  darkness  with  thy  Gospel  light, 

And  thus  abate  their  pride. 

Assuage  their  malice  thus  ! 

Keswick,  1821. 


ODE 


WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  KING  S  VISIT  TO  SCOTLAND. 


At  length  hath  Scotland  seen 
The  presence  long  desired; 

The  pomp  of  royalty 

Hath  gladden'd  once  again 

Her  ancient  palace,  desolate  how  long  ! 

From  all  parts  far  and  near, 

Highland  and  lowland,  glen  and  fertile  carse. 

The  silent  mountain  lake,  the  busy  port. 

Her  populous  cities,  and  her  pastoral  hills. 

In  generous  joy  convened 

By  the  free  impulse  of  the  loyal  heart 

Her  sons  have  gather'd,  and  beheld  their  King. 

2. 

Land  of  the  loyal,  as  in  happy  hour 

Revisited,  so  was  thy  regal  seat 

In  happy  hour  for  thee 

Forsaken,  under  favoring  stars,  when  James 

His  valediction  gave. 

And  great  Eliza's  throne 

Received  its  rightful  heir, 

The  Peaceful  and  the  Just. 


3. 

A  more  auspicious  union  never  Earth 

From  eldest  days  had  seen, 

Tlian  when,  their  mutual  wrongs  forgiven, 

And  gallant  enmity  renounced 

With  honor,  as  in  honor  fbster'd  long, 

The  ancient  Kingdoms  formed 

Their  everlasting  league. 


Slowly  by  time  matured 

A  happier  order  then  for  Scotland  rose ; 

And  where  inhuman  force, 

And  rapine  unrestrain'd 

Had  lorded  o'er  the  land. 

Peace  came,  and  polity. 

And  quiet  industry,  and  frugal  wealth ; 

And  there  the  household  virtues  fix'd 

Their  sojourn  undlsturb'd. 


Such  blessings  for  her  dowry  Scotland  drew 

From  that  benignant  union  ;  nor  less  large 

The  portion  that  she  brought. 

She  brought  security  and  strength. 

True  hearts,  and  strenuous  hands,  and  noble  minds. 

Say,  Ocean,  from  the  shores  of  Camperdown, 

What  Caledonia  brought !     Say  thou, 

Egypt !     Let  India  tell ! 

And  let  tell  Victory 

From  that  Brabantine  field, 

The  proudest  field  of  fame  ! 

6. 

Speak  ye,  too,  Works  of  peace  ; 

For  ye  too  have  a  voice 

Which  shall  be  heard  by  ages  !    The  proud  Bridge, 

Through    whose  broad    arches,  worthy  of   their 

name 

And  place,  his  rising  and  his  refluent  tide 

Majestic  Thames,  the  royal  river,  rolls; 

And  that  which,  high  in  air, 

A  bending  line  suspended,  shall  o'erhang 

Menai's  straits,  as  if 

By  Merlin's  mighty  magic  there  sustain'd ; 

And  Pont-Cyssylte,  not  less  wondrous  work; 

Where,  on  gigantic  columns  raised 

Aloft,  a  dizzying  height. 

The  laden  barge  pursues  its  even  way. 

While  o'er  his  rocky  channel  the  dark  Dee 

Hurries  below,  a  raging  stream,  scarce  heard. 

And  that  huge  mole,  whose  deep  foundations,  firm 

As  if  by  Nature  laid, 

Repel  tlie  assailing  billows,  and  protect 

Tlie  British  fleet,  securely  riding  there. 

Though  southern  storms  possess  the  sea  and  sky, 

And,  from  its  depths  commoved, 

Infuriate  ocean  raves. 

Ye  stately  monuments  of  Britain's  power. 

Bear  record  ye  what  Scottish  minds 

Have  plann'd  and  perfected  ! 

With  grateful  wonder  shall  posterity 

See  the  stupendous  works,  and  Rennic's  name, 

And  Telford's  shall  survive,  till  time 

Leave  not  a  wreck  of  sublunary  things. 


214                                           THE    WARNING    VOICE. 

7. 
Him  too  may  I  attest  ibr  Scotland's  praise, 

10. 
These,  Scotland,  are  thy  glories ;  and  thy  praise 

Who  seiz(!d  and  wielded  first 

Is  England's,  even  as  her  power 

The  niiirhticst  element 

And  opulence  of  fame  are  thine. 

That  lies  within  the  scope  of  man's  control ; 

So  hath  our  happy  union  made 

Of  evil  and  of  good, 

Each  in  the  other's  weal  participant. 

Prolific  spring,  and  dimly  yet  discern'd 

Enriching,  strengthening,  glorifying  both. 

The  immeasurable  results. 

The  mariner  no  longer  seeks 

11. 

Wings  from  the  wind;  creating  now  the  power 

0  House  of  Stuart,  to  thy  memory  still 

Wherewith  he  wins  his  way. 

For  this  best  benefit 

Right  on  across  the  ocean-flood  he  steers 

Should  British  hearts  in  gratitude  be  bound  I 

Against  opposing  skies ; 

A  deeper  tragedy 

And  reaching  now  the  inmost  continent, 

Than  thine  unhappy  tale  hath  never  fiU'd 

Up  rapid  streams,  innavigable  else, 

The  historic  page,  nor  given 

Ascends  with  steady  progress,  self-propell'd. 

Poet  or  moralist  his  mournful  theme. 

O  House  severely  tried. 

8. 

And  in  prosperity  alone 

Nor  hath  the  Sister  kingdom  borne 

Found  wanting.  Time  hath  closed 

In  science  and  in  arms 

Thy  tragic  story  now  ! 

Alone,  lier  noble  part; 

Errors,  and  virtues  fatally  betrayed. 

There  is  an  empire  which  survives 

Magnanimous  suffering,  vice. 

The  wreck  of  thrones,  the  overthrow  of  realms. 

Weakness,  and  headstrong  zeal,  sincere,  tho'  blind 

The  downfall,  and  decay,  and  death 

Wrongs,  calumnies,  heart-wounds. 

Of  Nations.     Such  an  empire  in  the  mind 

Religious  resignation,  earthly  hopes, 

Of  intellectual  man 

Fears,  and  affections,  these  have  had  their  course, 

Rome  yet  maintains,  and  elder  Greece,  and  such, 

And  over  them  in  peace 

By  indefeasible  right. 

The  all-ingulfing  stream  of  years  hath  closed. 

Hath  Britain  made  her  own. 

But  this  good  work  endures ; 

How  fair  a  part  doth  Caledonia  claim 

'Stablish'd  and  perfected  by  length  of  days. 

In  that  fair  conquest !     Wheresoe'er 

The  indissoluble  union  stands. 

The  Britisli  tongue  may  spread, 

(A  goodly  tree,  whose  leaf 

12. 

No  winter  e'er  shall  nip,) 

Nor  hath  the  sceptre  from  that  line 

Earthly  immortals,  there,  her  sons  of  fame, 

Departed,  though  the  name  hath  lost 

Will  have  their  heritage. 

Its  regal  honors.     Trunji  and  root  have  fail'd : 

In  eastern  and  in  occidental  Ind ; 

A  scion  from  the  stock 

The  new  antarctic  world,  where  sable  swans 

Livetli  and  flourisheth.     It  is  the  Tree 

Glide  upon  waters  call'd  by  British  names, 

Beneath  whose  sacred  shade, 

And  plough'd  by  British  keels  ; 

In  majesty  and  peaceful  power  serene, 

In  vast  America,  through  all  its  length 

The  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  hath  her  seat ; 

And  breadth,  from  Massachusett's  populous  coast 

Whose  branches  far  and  near 

To  western  Orcgan ; 

Extend  their  sure  protection ;  whose  strong  roots 

And  from  the  southern  gulf, 

Are  with  the  Isle's  foundations  interknit; 

Where  the  great  river  with  his  turbid  flood 

Wliose  stately  summit,  when  the  storm  careers 

Stains  the  green  Ocean,  to  the  polar  sea. 

Below,  abides  unmoved. 

9. 

There  nations  yet  unborn  shall  trace 

Safe  in  the  sunshine  and  the  peace  of  Heaven. 

Keswick,  1822. 

In  Hume's  perspicuous  page, 

How  Britain  rose,  and  tlirough  what  storms  attain'd 
Her  eminence  of  power. 

^ 

▼ 

In  other  climates,  youths  and  maidens  there 

Shall  learn  from  Thomson's  verse  in  what  attire 

THE   WARNING    VOICE. 

The  various  seasons,  bringing  in  their  change 

Variety  of  good. 

Revisit  their  beloved  English  ground. 

There,  Beattie  !  in  thy  sweet  and  sootliing  strain 

ODE  I. 

Shall  youtiiful  poets  read 

Their  own  emotions.    There,  too,  old  and  young. 

1. 

Gentle  and  simple,  by  Sir  Walter's  tales 

Take  up  thy  prophecy, 

Spell-bound,  shall  feel 

Thou  dweller  in  the  mountains,  who  hast  nursed 

Imaginary  hopes  and  fears 

Thy  soul  in  solitude, 

Strong  as  realities. 

Holding  communion  with  immortd  minds, 

And,  waking  from  the  dream,  regret  its  close. 

Poets  and  Sages  of  the  days  of  old ; 

THE   WARNING    VOICE.                                         215 

And  with  the  sacred  food 

Think  not  that  Liberty 

Of  meditation  and  of  lore  divine 

From  Order  and  Religion  e'er  will  dwell 

Hast  fed  thy  heavenly  part; 

Apart;  companions  tliey 

Take  up  thy  monitory  strain. 

Of  heavenly  seed  connate. 

O  son  of  song,  a  strain  severe 

Of  warning  and  of  woe  ! 

7. 

Woe,  woe  for  Britain,  woe  ! 

2. 

If  that  society  divine. 

0  Britain,  0  my  Mother  Isle, 

By  lewd  and  impious  uproar  driven. 

Ocean's  imperial  Queen, 

Indignantly  should  leave 

Thou  glory  of  all  lands ! 

The  land  that  in  their  presence  hath  been  blest  1 

Is  there  a  curse  upon  thee,  that  thy  sons 

Woe,  woe  I  for  in  her  streets 

Would  rush  to  ruin,  drunk 

Should  gray-hair'd  Polity 

With  sin,  and  in  infuriate  folly  blind.' 

Be  trampled  under  foot  by  ruffian  force. 

Hath  Hell  enlarged  itself, 

And  Murder  to  the  noon-day  sky 

And  are  the  Fiends  let  loose 

Lift  his  red  hands,  as  if  no  God  were  there. 

To  work  thine  overthrow  ? 

War  would  lay  waste  the  realm ; 

Devouring  fire  consume 

3. 

Temples  and  Palaces ; 

For  who  is  she 

Nor  would  the  lowliest  cot 

That,  on  the  many-headed  Beast 

Escape  that  indiscriminating  storm. 

Triumphantly  enthroned, 

When  Heaven  upon  the  guilty  nation  pour'd 

Doth  ride  abroad  in  state, 

The  vials  of  its  wrath. 

The  Book  of  her  Enchantments  in  her  hand  r 

Her  robes  are  stain'd  with  blood, 

8. 

And  on  her  brazen  front 

These  are  no  doubtful  ills  I 

Is  written  Blasphe.my. 

The  unerring  voice  of  Time 

Warns  us  that  what  hath  been  again  shall  be  ; 

4. 

And  the  broad  beacon-Hame 

Know  ye  not  then  the  Harlot .'  know  ye  not 

Of  History  casts  its  light 

Her  shameless  foreliead,  lier  obdurate  eye, 

Upon  Futurity. 

Her  meretricious  mien, 

Her  loose,  immodest  garb,  with  slaughter  foul ! 

9. 

Your  Fathers  knew  her;  when  delirious  France, 

Turn  not  thy  face  away, 

Drunk  with  her  witcheries. 

Almighty  !  from  the  realm 

Upon  the  desecrated  altar  set 

By  tlice  so  highly  favored,  and  so  long. 

The  Sorceress,  and,  with  rites 

Thou  who  in  war  iiast  been  our  siiield  and  strength^ 

Inhuman  and  accurst. 

From  famine  who  hast  saved  us,  and  hast  bade 

O'er  all  the  groaning  land 

The  Earthquake  and  the  Pestilence  go  by, 

Perform'd  her  sacrifice. 

Spare  us,  O  Father  !  save  us  from  ourselves  ! 

From  insane  Faction,  who  prepares  the  pit 

5. 

In  whicli  itself  would  fall ; 

Your  Fathers  knew  her  !  when  the  nations  round 

From  rabid  Treason's  rage,  —  * 

Received  her  maddening  spell. 

The  poor  priest-ridden  Papist's  erring  zeal,  — 

And  call'd  her  Liberty, 

The  lurking  Atheist's  wiles, — 

And  in  that  name  proclaim'd 

The  mad  Blasphemer's  venom,  —  from  our  foes, 

A  jubilee  for  guilt ; 

Our  follies  and  our  errors,  and  our  sins. 

When  their  blaspheming  hosts  defied  high  ^eaven, 

Save  us,  O  Father !  for  thy  mercy's  sake. 

And  wheresoe'er  they  went  let  havock  loose; 

Thou  who  ALONE  canst  save  ! 

Your  Fathers  knew  the  Sorceress  !   They  stood  firm, 

And,  in  that  hour  of  trial  faithful  found. 

Keswick,  1819. 

They  raised  the  Red  Cross  flag. 

6. 

ODE  II. 

They  knew  her ;  and  they  knew 

That  not  in  scenes  of  rapine  and  of  blood. 

1. 

In  lawless  riotry. 

In  a  vision  I  was  seized. 

And  wallowing  with  the  multitude  obscene. 

When  the  elements  were  hush'd 

Would  Liberty  be  found  ! 

In  the  stillness  that  is  felt 

Her  in  her  form  divine. 

Ere  the  Storm  goes  abroad ; 

Her  genuine  form,  they  knew ; 

Through  the  air  I  was  borne  away; 

For  Britain  was  her  liome  ; 

And  in  spirit  I  beheld 

With  Order  and  Religion  there  she  dwelt ; 

Where  a  City  lay  beneath, 

It  was  her  chosen  seat. 

Like  a  valley  mapp'd  below, 

Her  own  beloved  Isle. 

When  seen  from  a  mountain  top 

21 G 


THE    WARNING    VOICE. 


2. 

The  night  had  closed  around, 

And  o'er  the  sullen  sky 

Were  the  wide  wings  of  darkness  spread  ; 

The  City's  myriad  lamps 

Shone  mistily  below, 

Like  stars  in  the  bosom  of  a  lake ; 

And  its  murmurs  arose 

Incessant  and  deep, 

Like  the  sound  of  the  sea 

Where  it  rakes  on  a  stony  shore. 

3. 

A  voice  from  the  darkness  went  forth, 

"  Son  of  Man,  look  below ! 

This  is  the  City  to  be  visited; 

For  as  a  fountain 

Casteth  its  waters, 

So  casteth  she  her  wickedness  abroad  !  " 

Mine  eyes  were  opened  then, 

And  the  veil  which  conceals 

The  Invisible  World  was  withdrawn. 

4. 

1  look'd,  and,  behold  ! 

As  the  Patriarch,  in  his  dream, 

Saw  the  Angels  to  and  fro 

Pass  from  Heaven  to  Earth, 

On  their  ministry  of  love. 

So  saw  I  where  a  way 

From  that  great  City  led 

To  the  black  abyss  of  bale. 

To  the  dolorous  region  of  Death. 


Wide  and  beaten  was  the  way, 

And  deep  the  descent 

To  the  Adamantine  Gates, 

Which  were  thrown  on  their  hinges  back. 

Wailing  and  Woe  were  within. 

And  the  gleam  of  sulphurous  fires. 

In  darkness  and  smoke  involved. 

6. 

And  through  those  open  gates 

The  Fiends  were  swarming  forth ; 

Hastily,  joyfully. 

As  to  a  jubilee. 

The  Spirits  accurst  were  trooping  up ; 

They  fill'd  the  streets, 

And  they  bore  with  them  curses  and  plagues  ; 

And  they  scattered  lies  abroad. 

Horrors,  obscenities. 

Blasphemies,  treasons. 

And  the  seeds  of  strife  and  death. 

7. 

"  Son  of  Man,  look  up  !  "  said  the  Voice  : 

I  look'd  and  beheld 

The  way  which  angels  tread, 

Seen  like  a  pillar  of  light 

That  slants  from  a  broken  sky. 

That  heavenly  way  by  clouds  was  closed. 

Heavy,  and  thick,  and  dark,  with  thunder  charged ; 

And  there  a  Spirit  stood. 


Who  raised,  in  menacing  act,  his  awful  arm ; 

He  spake  aloud,  and  thrill'd 

My  inmost  soul  with  fear. 

8. 

"  Woe  !  Woe  ! 

Woe  to  the  city  where  Faction  reigns  ! 

Woe  to  the  land  where  Sedition  prevails  ! 

Woe  to  the  nation  whom  Hell  deceives  ! 

Woe!    Woe! 

They  have  eyes,  and  they  will  not  see ! 

They  have  ears,  and  they  will  not  hear  ! 

They  have  liearts,  and  they  will  not  feel  ! 

Woe  to  the  People  who  fasten  their  eyes  ! 

Woe  to  the  People  who  deafen  their  ears ! 

Woe  to  the  People  who  harden  their  hearts ! 

Woe  !    Woe  ! 

The  vials  are  charged  ; 

The  measure  is  full ; 

The  wrath  is  ripe  ;  — 

Woe  I    Woe  !  " 

9. 

But  from  that  City  then,  behold, 

A  gracious  form  arose  I 

Her  snow-white  wings,  upon  the  dusky  air. 

Shone  like  the  waves  that  glow 

Around  a  midnight  keel  in  liquid  light. 

Upward  her  supplicating  arms  were  spread, 

And,  as  her  face  to  heaven 

In  eloquent  grief  she  raised. 

Loose,  like  a  Comet's  refluent  tresses,  hung 

Her  heavenly  hair  dispersed 

]0. 

"  Not  yet,  O  Lord  !  not  yet. 

Oh,  merciful  as  just ! 

Not  yet !  "  —  the  Tutelary  Angel  cried  ; 

"  For  I  must  plead  with  thee  for  this  poor  land. 

Guilty — but  still  the  seat 

Of  genuine  piety, — 

The  mother,  still,  of  noble  mmds, — 

The  nurse  of  high  desires  ! 

Not  yet,  O  Lord,  not  yet. 

Give  thou  thine  anger  way ! 

Thou,  who  hast  set  thy  Bow 

Of  Mercy  in  the  clouds, 

Not  yet,  O  Lord,  pour  out 

The  vials  of  thy  wrath  ! 

11. 

"  Oh,  for  the  sake 

Of  that  religion,  pure  and  undefiled. 

Here  purchased  by  thy  Martyrs'  precious  blood, — 

Mercy,  O  mercy.  Lord  ! 

For  that  well-order'd  frame  of  equal  laws, 

Time's  goodliest  monument. 

O'er  which  thy  guardian  shield 

So  oft  hath  been  extended  heretofore,  — 

Mercy,  O  mercy,  Lord  ! 

For  the  dear  charities. 

The  household  virtues,  that  in  secret  there, 

Like  sweetest  violets,  send  their  fragrance  forth, 

Mercy,  O  mercy,  Lord  ! 


ODE    ON    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    BISHOP    HEBER.              217 

12. 

And  thou,  America,  who  owest 

"  Oh,  wilt  thou  quench  the  light 

The  large  and  inextinguishable  debt 

That  should  illuminate 

Of  filial  love  !  — And  ye. 

The  nations  who  in  darkness  sit, 

Remote  Antarctic  Isles  and  Continent, 

•               And  in  the  shadow  of  death  ?  — 

Where  the  glad  tidings  of  the  Gospel  truth. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  stop  the  heart 

Her  children  are  proclaiming  faithfully;  — 

Of  intellectual  life?  — 

Join  with  me  now  to  wrest 

Wilt  thou  seal  the  eye  of  the  world  ?  — 

The  thunderbolt  from  that  relenting  arm  !  — 

Mercy,  O  mercy,  Lord  ! 

Plead  with  me,  Earth  and  "Ocean,  at  this  hour. 

Thou,  Ocean,  for  thy  Queen, 

13. 

And  for  thy  benefactress,  thou,  0  Earth  !  " 

"  Not  for  the  guilty  few  ; 

Nor  for  the  erring  multitude, 

IG. 

The  ignorant  many,  wickedly  misled,  — 

The  Angel  ceased ; 

Send  thou  thy  vengeance  down 

The  vision  fled ; 

Upon  a  land  so  long  the  dear  abode 

The  wind  arose. 

Of  Freedom,  Knowledge,  Virtue,  Faith,  approved. 

The  clouds  were  rent. 

Thine  own  beloved  land  ! 

They  were  drifted  and  scatter'd  abroad  ; 

Oh,  let  not  hell  prevail 

And  as  I  look'd,  and  saw 

Against  her  past  deserts,  — 

Where,  through  the  clear  blue  sky,  the  silver  Moon 

Against  her  actual  worth,  — 

Moved  in  her  light  serene, 

Against  her  living  hopes,  — 

A  healing  influence  reach'd  my  heart. 

Against  the  prayers  that  rise 

And  I  felt  in  my  soul 

From  righteous  hearts  this  hour  ! 

That  the  voice  of  the  Angel  was  heard. 

14. 

Keswic/c,  1820. 

"  Plead  with  me,  O  ye  dead  !  whose  sacred  dust 
Is  laid  in  hope  within  her  hallow'd  soil, — 

Plead  with  me  for  your  country,  suffering  now 

Beneath  such  loathsome  plagues 

ODE 

As  ancient  Egypt  in  her  slime 

And  hot  corruption  bred. 

ON 

Plead  with  me  at  this  hour. 
All  wise  and  uj)right  minds. 

THE    PORTRAIT    OF  BISHOP   HEBER, 

All  honorable  hearts,  — 
For  ye  abhor  the  sins 

Which  o'er  the  guilty  land 

1. 

Have  drawn  this  gather'd  storm  ! 

Yes,  —  such  as  these  were  Heber's  lineaments; 

Plead  with  me,  Souls  unborn, 

Such  his  capacious  front, 

Ye  who  are  doomed  upon  this  fateful  spot 

His  comprehensive  eye, 

To  pass  your  pilgrimage. 

His  open  brow  serene. 

Earth's  noblest  heritors, 

Such  was  the  gentle  countenance  which  bore 

Or  children  of  a  ruin'd  realm,  to  shame 

Of  generous  feeling,  and  of  golden  truth. 

And  degradation  born, — 

Sure  Nature's  sterling  impress  ;  never  there 

(For  this  is  on  the  issue  of  the  hour  !) 

Unruly  passion  left 

Plead  with  me,  unborn  Spirits  !  that  the  wrath 

Its  ominous  marks  infix'd, 

Deserved  may  pass  away  ! 

Nor  the  worse  die  of  evil  habit  set 

^ 

An  inward  stain  ingrain'd. 

15. 

Such  were  the  lips  whose  salient  playfulness 

"Join  in  my  supplication.  Seas  and  Lands, — 

Enliven'd  peaceful  hours  of  private  life ; 

I  call  upon  you  all ! 

Whose  eloquence 

Thou,  Europe,  in  whose  cause, 

Held  congregations  open  ear'd. 

Alone  and  undismay'd. 

As  from  the  heart  it  flow'd,  a  living  stream 

The  generous  nation  strove ; 

Of  Christian  wisdom,  pure  and  undefiled. 

For  whose  deliverance,  in  the  Spanish  fields, 

Her  noblest  blood  was  pour'd 

2. 

Profusely ;  and  on  that  Brabantine  plain, 

And  what  if  there  be  those 

(The  proudest  fight  that  e'er 

Who  in  the  cabinet 

By  virtuous  victory 

Of  memory  hold  enshrined 

Was  hallowed  to  all  time.) 

A  livelier  portraiture. 

Join  with  me,  Africa  ! 

And  see  in  thought,  as  in  their  dreams. 

For  here  hath  thy  redemption  had  its  birth  ;  — 

His  actual  image,  verily  produced  ? 

Tiiou,  India,  who  art  blest 

Yet  shall  this  counterfeit  convey 

With  peace  and  equity 

To  strangers,  and  preserve  for  after-time. 

Beneath  her  easy  sway  ;  — 
28 

All  that  could  perish  of  him,  —  all  that  else 

218 


ODE    ON    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    BISHOP    HEBER. 


Even  now  had  past  away  ; 

For  he  hath  taken  with  the  Living  Dead 

His  honorable  place, — 

Yea,  with  the  Saints  of"  God 

His  holy  liabitation.     Hearts,  to  which 

Through  ages  he  shall  speak. 

Will  yearn  towards  him ;  and  they,  too,  (for  such 

Will  be,)  who  gird  their  loins 

With  truth  to  follow  him, 

Having  the  breastplate  on  of  righteousness. 

The  helmet  of  salvation,  and  the  shield 

Of  faith,  —  they  too  will  gaze 

Upon  his  effigy 

With  reverential  love, 

Till  they  shall  grow  familiar  with  its  lines. 

And  know  him  when  they  see  his  face  in  Heaven. 

3. 

Ten  years  have  held  their  course 

Since  last  I  look'd  upon 

That  living  countenance, 

When  on  Llangedwin's  terraces  we  paced 

Together,  to  and  fro. 

Partaking  there  its  hospitality. 

We  with  its  honored  master  spent. 

Well-pleased,  the  social  hours  ; 

His  friend  and  mine,  —  my  earliest  friend,  whom  I 

Have  ever,  through  all  changes,  found  the  same 

From  boyhood  to  gray  hairs. 

In  goodness,  and  in  worth  and  warmth  of  heart. 

Together  then  we  traced 

The   grass-grown    site,   where    armed   feet   once 

trod 

The  threshold  of  Glendowcr's  embattled  hall ; 

Together  sought  Melangel's  lonely  Church, 

Saw  the  dark  yews,  majestic  in  decay. 

Which  in  their  flourishing  strength 

Cy veilioc  might  have  seen ; 

Letter  by  letter  traced  the  lines 

On  Yorwerth's  fabled  tomb ; 

And  curiously  observed  what  vestiges, 

Mouldering  and  mutilate, 

Of  Monacella's  legend  there  are  left, 

A  tale  humane,  itself 

Well-nigh  forgotten  now  : 

Together  visited  the  ancient  house 

Which  from  the  hill-slope  takes 

Its  Cymric  name  euphonious  ;  there  to  view, 

Though  drawn  by  some  rude  limner  inexpert. 

The  faded  portrait  of  that  lady  fair. 

Beside  whose  corpse  her  husband  watch'd, 

And  with  perverted  faith, 

Preposterously  placed. 

Thought,  obstinate  in  hopeless  hope,  to  see 

The  beautiful  dead,  by  miracle,  revive. 


The  sunny  recollections  of  those  days 

Full  soon  were  overcast,  when  Heber  went 

Where  half  this  wide  world's  circle  lay 

Between  us  interposed. 

A  messenger  of  love  he  went, 

A  true  Evangelist; 

Not  for  ambition,  nor  for  gain, 

Nor  of  constraint,  save  such  as  duty  lays 


Upon  the  disciplined  heart. 

Took  he  the  overseeing  on  himself 

Of  that  wide  flock  dispersed, 

Which,  till  these  latter  times. 

Had  there  been  left  to  stray 

Neglected  all  too  long. 

For  this  great  end,  devotedly  he  went. 

Forsaking  friends  and  kin. 

His  own  loved  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace, 

Books,  leisure,  privacy. 

Prospects  (and  not  remote)  of  all  wherewith 

Authority  could  dignify  desert; 

And,  dearer  far  to  him, 

Pursuits  that  with  the  learned  and  the  wise 

Should  have  assured  his  name  its  lasting  place. 


Large,  England,  is  the  debt 

Thou  owest  to  Heathendom ; 

To  India  most  of  all,  where  Providence, 

Giving  thee  thy  dominion  there  in  trust. 

Upholds  its  baseless  strength. 

All  seas  have  seen  thy  red-cross  flag 

In  war  triumphantly  display'd ; 

Late  only  hast  thou  set  that  standard  up 

On  pagan  shores  in  peace  ! 

Yea,  at  this  hour  the  cry  of  blood 

Piiseth  against  thee  from  beneath  the  wheels 

Of  that  seven-headed  Idol's  car  accursed  ; 

Against  thee,  from  the  widow's  funeral  pile, 

The  smoke  of  human  sacrifice 

Ascends,  even  now,  to  Heaven. 


The  debt  shall  be  discharged  ;  the  crying  sin 

Silenced  ;  the  foul  offence 

Forever  done  away. 

Thither  our  saintly  Heber  went. 

In  promise  and  in  pledge 

That  England,  from  her  guilty  torpor  roused, 

Should  zealously  and  wisely  undertake 

Her  awful  task  assign'd  : 

Thither,  devoted  to  the  work,  he  went. 

There  spent  his  precious  life. 

There  left  his  holy  dust. 


How  beautiful  are  the  feet  of  him 

That  bringeth  good  tidings. 

That  publisheth  peace. 

That  bringeth  good  tidings  of  good. 

That  proclaimeth  salvation  for  men. 

Where'er  the  Christian  Patriarch  went, 

Honor  and  reverence  heralded  his  way, 

And  blessings  followed  him. 

The  Malabar,  the  Moor,  the  Cingalese, 

Though  unillumed  by  faith, 

Yet  not  the  less  admired 

The  virtue  that  they  saw. 

The  European  soldier,  there  so  long 

Of  needful  and  consolatory  rites 

Injuriously  deprived. 

Felt,  at  his  presence,  the  neglected  seed 

Of  early  piety 

Refresh'd,  as  with  a  quickening  dew  from  Heaven, 


EPISTLE    TO    ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM.                         219 

Native  believers  wept  for  thankfulness, 

11. 

When  on  their  heads  he  laid  his  hallowing  hands; 

Yes,  to  the  Christian,  to  the  Heathen  world, 

And,  if  the  Saints  in  bliss 

Heber,  thou  art  not  dead,  —  thou  canst  not  die 

Be  cognizant  of  aught  that  passeth  here, 

Nor  can  I  think  of  thee  as  lost. 

It  was  a  joy  for  Schwartz 

A  little  portion  of  tiiis  little  isle 

To  look  from  Paradise  that  hour 

At  first  divided  us  ;  then  half  the  globe  ; 

Upon  his  eartlily  flock. 

The  same  earth  held  us  still ;  but  when, 

O  Reginald,  wert  thou  so  near  as  now  ? 

8. 

'Tis  but  the  falling  of  a  withered  leaf,  — 

Ram  boweth  down, 

The  breaking  of  a  shell, — 

Creeshna  and  Sceva  stoop; 

The  rending  of  a  veil ! 

The  Arabian  Moon  must  wane  to  wax  no  more; 

Oh,  when  that  leaf  shall  fall, — 

And  Ishmael's  seed  redeem'd, 

That  shell  be  burst,  —  that  veil  be  rent,  —  may  then 

And  Esau's  —  to  their  brotherhood. 

My  spirit  be  with  thine  ! 

And  to  their  better  birthright  then  restored, 

Shall  within  Israel's  covenant  be  brought. 

Keswick,  1820. 

Drop  down,  ye  Heavens,  from  above ! 
Ye  skies,  pour  righteousness  ! 

Open,  thou  Eartli,  and  let 

Salvation  be  brought  forth  ! 
And  sing  ye,  O  ye  Heavens,  and  shout,  0  Earth, 

EPISTLE 

With  all  thy  hills  and  vales. 

TO 

Thy  mountains  and  thy  woods; 
Break  forth  into  a  song,  a  jubilant  song  ; 

ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 

For  by  Himself  the  Lord  hath  sworn 
That  every  tongue  to  Him  shall  swear. 

To  Him  that  every  knee  shall  bow. 

Well,  Heaven  be  thank'd  !  friend  Allan,  here  I  am, 

Once  more  to  that  dear  dwelling-place  return'd. 

9. 

Where  I  have  past  the  whole  mid  stage  of  life. 

Take  comfort,  then,  my  soul ! 

Not  idly,  certes ;  not  unworthily,  — 

Thy  latter  days  on  earth. 

So  let  mc  hope ;  where  Time  upon  my  head 

Though  few,  shall  not  be  evil,  by  this  hope 

Hath  laid  his  frore  and  monitory  hand ; 

Supported,  and  enlighten'd  on  the  way. 

And  when  this  poor,  frail,  earthly  tabernacle 

0  Reginald,  one  course 

Shall  be  dissolved,  —  it  matters  not  how  soon 

Our  studies,  and  our  thoughts. 

Or  late,  in  God's  good  time,  —  where  I  would  fain 

Our  aspirations  held. 

Be  gathered  to  my  children,  earth  to  earth. 

Wherein,  but  mostly  in  this  blessed  hope, 

We  had  a  bond  of  union,  closely  knit 

Needless  it  were  to  say  how  willingly 

In  spirit,  though,  in  this  world's  wilderness, 

I  bade  the  huge  metropolis  farewell. 

Apart  our  lots  were  cast. 

Its  din,  and  dust,  and  dirt,  and  smoke,  and  smut. 

Seldom  we  met ;  but  I  knew  well 

I'hames'  water,  paviors'  ground,  and  London  sky  ; 

That  whatsoe'er  this  never-idle  hand 

Weary  of  hurried  days  and  restless  nights. 

Sent  forth  would  find  with  tiiee 

Watchmen,  whose  office  is  to  murder  sleep 

Benign  acceptance,  to  its  full  desert. 

When  sleep  might  else  have  weigh'd  one's  eyelids 

For  thou  wert  of  that  audience,  —  fit,  though  few. 

down. 

For  whom  I  am  content 

Rattle  of  carriages,  and  roll  of  carts. 

To  live  laborious  days. 

And  tramp  of  iron  hoofs;  and  worse  than  all,  — 

Assured  that  after-years  will  ratify 

Confusion  being  worse  confounded  then, 

Their  honorable  award. 

With    coachmen's   quarrels   and    with    footmen's 

shouts, — 

10. 

My  next-door  neighbors,  in  a  street  not  yet 

Hadst  thou  revisited  thy  native  land. 

Macadamized,  (me  miserable  !)  at  home; 

Mortality,  and  Time, 

For  then  had  we,  from  midnight  until  morn. 

And  Change,  must  needs  have  made 

House-quakes,  street-thunders,  and  door-batteries. 

Our  meeting  mournful.     Happy  he 

O  Government !  in  thy  wisdom  and  thy  want, 

Who  to  his  rest  is  borne, 

Tax  knockers  ;  —  in  compassion  to  the  sick. 

In  sure  and  certain  hope. 

And  those  whose  sober  habits  are  not  yet 

Before  the  hand  of  age 

Inverted,  topsy-turvying  night  and  day. 

Hath  chill'd  his  faculties. 

Tax  them  more  heavily  than  thou  hast  charged 

Or  sorrow  reach'd  him  in  his  heart  of  hearts! 

Armorial  bearings  and  bepowder'd  pates. 

Most  happy  if  he  leave  in  his  good  name 

And  thou,  O  Michael,  ever  to  be  praised. 

A  light  for  those  who  follow  him, 

Angelic  among  Taylors  !  for  thy  laws 

And  in  his  works  a  living  seed 

Antifuliginous,  extend  those  laws 

Of  good,  prolific  still. 

Till  every  chimney  its  own  smoke  consume, 

220 


EPISTLE    TO    ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM, 


And  give  thenceforth  thy  dinners  unlampoon'd. 
Escaping  from  all  this,  the  very  whirl 
Of  mail-coach  wheels  bound  outward  from  Lad- 
lane, 
Was  peace  and  quietness.     Three  hundred  miles 
Of  homeward  way  seem'd  to  the  body  rest. 
And  to  the  mind  repose. 

Donne*  did  not  hate 
More  perfectly  that  city.     Not  for  all 
Its  social,  all  its  intellectual  joys, — 
Which  having  touch'd,  I  may  not  condescend 
To  name  aught  else  the  Demon  of  the  place 
Might  for  his  lure  hold  forth;  —  not  even  for  these 
Would  I  forego  gardens  and  green-field  walks, 
And  hedge-row  trees,  and  stiles,  and  shady  lanes, 
And  orchards,  were  such  ordinary  scenes 
Alone  to  me  accessible  as  those 
Wherein  I  learnt  in  infancy  to  love 
The  sights  and  sounds  of  Nature ;  —  wholesome 

sights, 
Gladdening  the  eye  that  they  refresh ;  and  sounds 
Which,  when  from  life  and  happiness  they  spring. 
Bear  with  them  to  the  yet  unharden'd  heart 
A  sense  that  thrills  its  cords  of  sympathy ; 
Or,  when  proceeding  from  insensate  tilings, 
Give  to  tranquillity  a  voice  wherewith 
To  woo  the  ear  and  win  the  soul  attuned;  — 
Oh,  not  for  all  that  London  might  bestow. 
Would  I  renounce  the  genial  influences, 
And  thoughts,  and  feelings  to  be  found  where'er 
We  breathe  beneath  the  open  sky,  and  see 
Earth's  liberal  bosom.     Judge  then  by  thyself, 
Allan,  true  child  of  Scotland,  —  thou  who  art 
So  oft  in  spirit  on  thy  native  hills,     • 
And  yonder  Solway  shores,  —  a  poet  thou, 
Judge  by  thyself  how  strong  the  ties  which  bind 
A  poet  to  his  home ;  when  —  making  thus 
Large  recompense  for  all  that  haply  else 
Might  seem  perversely  or  unkindly  done  — 
Fortune  hath  set  his  happy  habitacle 
Among  the  ancient  hills,  near  mountain  streams 
And  lakes  pellucid,  in  a  land  sublime 
And  lovely  as  those  regions  of  Romance 
Where  his  young  fancy  in  its  day-dreams  roam'd. 
Expatiating  in  forests  wild  and  wide, 
Lotjgrian,  or  of  dearest  Faery-land. 

Yet,  Allan,  of  the  cup  of  social  joy 
No  man  drinks  freelier,  nor  with  heartier  thirst, 
Nor  keener  relish,  where  I  see  around 
Faces  which  I  have  known  and  loved  so  long, 
That,  when  he  prints  a  dream  upon  my  brain, 
Dan  Morpheus  takes  them  for  his  readiest  types. 
And  therefore,  in  that  loathed  metropolis. 
Time  measured  out  to  me  some  golden  hours. 
They  were  not  leaden-footed  while  the  clay 
Beneath  the  patient  touch  of  Chantrey's  hand 
Grew  to  the  semblance  of  my  lineaments. 
Lit  up  in  memory's  landscape,  like  green  spots 


*  This  poet  begins  his  second  Satire  thus :  — 

"  Sir,  though  (I  thank  God  for  it)  I  do  liate 
Perfectly  all  this  town,  yet  there  's  one  state 
In  all  ill  things  so  excellently  best, 
That  hate  towards  them  breeds  pity  towards  the  rest." 


Of  sunshine,  are  the  mornings,  when,  in  talk 
With  him,  and  thee,  and  Bedford,  (my  true  friend 
Of  forty  years,)  I  saw  the  work  proceed, 
Subject  the  while  myself  to  no  restraint. 
But  pleasurably  in  frank  discourse  engaged  ; 
Pleased  too,  and  with  no  unbecoming  pride. 
To  think  this  countenance,  such  as  it  is. 
So  oft  by  rascally  mislikeness  wrong'd, 
Should  faithfully  to  those  who  in  his  works 
Have  seen  the  inner  man  portray'd,  be  shown, 
And  in  enduring  marble  should  partake 
Of  our  great  sculptor's  immortality. 

I  have  been  libell'd,  Allan,  as  thou  knowest, 
Through  all  degrees  of  calumny  ;  but  they 
Who  fix  one's  name  for  public  sale  beneath 
A  set  of  features  slanderously  unlike, 
Are  the  worst  libellers.     Against  the  wrong 
Which  tliey  inflict  Time  hath  no  remedy. 
Lijuries  there  are  which  Time  redresseth  best. 
Being  more  sure  in  judgment,  though  perhaps 
Slower  in  process  even  than  the  court 
Where  justice,  tortoise-footed  and  mole-eyed, 
Sleeps  undisturb'd,  fann'd  by  the  lulling  wings 
Of  harpies  at  their  prey.     We  soon  live  down 
Evil  or  good  report,  if  undeserved. 
Let  then  the  dogs  of  Faction  bark  and  bay  — 
Its  bloodhounds,  savaged  by  a  cross  of  wolf; 
Its  full-bred  kennel,  from  the  Blatant-beast ; 
And  from  my  lady's  gay  veranda,  let 
Her  pamper'd  lap-dog,  with  his  fetid  breath, 
In  bold  bravado  join,  and  snap  and  growl. 
With  petulant  consequentialness  elate, 
TJiere  in  his  imbecility  at  once 
Ridiculous  and  safe :  though  all  give  cry, 
Whiggery's  sleek  spaniels,  and  its  lurchers  lean, 
Its  poodles,  by  unlucky  training  marr'd. 
Mongrel,  and  cur,  and  bob-tail,  let  them  yelp 
Till  weariness  and  hoarseness  shall  at  length 
Silence  the  noisy  pack :  meantime  be  sure 
I  will  not  stoop  for  stones  to  cast  among  them. 
The  foumarts  and  the  skunks  may  be  secure 
In  their  own  scent ;  and  for  that  viler  swarm, 
The  vermin  of  the  press,  both  those  that  skip. 
And  those  that  creep  and  crawl,  I  do  not  catch 
And  pin  them  for  exposure  on  the  page  : 
Their  filth  is  their  defence. 

But  I  appeal 
Against  the  limner's  and  the  graver's  wrong ; 
Their  evil  works  survive  them.     Bilderdijk, 
Whom  I  am  privileged  to  call  my  friend, 
Suff'ering  by  graphic  libels  in  like  wise. 
Gave  his  wrath  vent  in  verse.    Would  I  could  give 
The  life  and  spirit  of  his  vigorous  Dutch, 
As  his  dear  consort  hath  transfused  my  .strains 
Into  her  native  speecii,  and  made  them  known 
On  Rhine  and  Yssel,  and  rich  Amstel's  banks ; 
And  whcresoe'cr  tlie  voice  of  Vondel  still 
Is  heard,  and  still  Antonides  and  Hooft 
Are  living  agencies  ;  and  Father  Cats, 
The  household  poet,  teacheth  in  his  songs 
The  love  of  all  things  lovely,  all  things  pure; 
Best  poet,  who  deliglits  the  cheerful  mind 
Of  childhood,   stores    with    moral    strength    the 
heart 


EPISTLE    TO    ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


221 


Of  youth,  with  wisdom  inakoth  mid-life  rich, 
And  fills  with  quiet  tears  the  eyes  of  age. 

Hear  then  in  English  rhyme  how  Bilderdijk 
Describes  his  wicked  portraits,  one  by  one. 

"  A  madman  who  from  Bedlam  hath  broke  loose  ; 

An  honest  fellow  of  the  numskull  race  ; 
And  pappyer-headcd  still,  a  very  goose 

Staring  with  eyes  aghast  and  vacant  face  ; 
A  Frenchman  who  would  mirthfully  display 

On  some  poor  idiot  his  malicious  wit ; 
And  lastly,  one  who,  train'd  up  in  the  way 

Of  worldly  craft,  hath  not  forsaken  it. 
But  hath  served  Mammon  with  his  whole  intent, 

A  thing  of  Nature's  worst  materials  made, 
Low-minded,  stupid,  base  and  insolent. 

I  —  1  —  a  Poet  —  have  been  thus  portray'd. 
Can  ye  believe  that  my  true  effigy 

Among  these  vile  varieties  is  found  .' 
What  thought,  or  line,  or  word,  hath  fallen  from  me 

In  all  my  numerous  works  whereon  to  ground 
The  opprobrious  notion  .'     Safely  I  may  smile 

At  these,  acknowledging  no  likeness  here. 
But  worse  is  yet  to  come  ;  so,  soft  awhile  ! 

For  now  in  potter's  earth  must  I  appear, 
And  in  such  workmanship,  that,  sooth  to  say, 

Humanity  disowns  the  imitation. 
And  the  dolt  image  is  not  worth  its  clay. 

Then  comes  there  one  who  will  to  admiration 
In  plastic  wax  my  perfect  face  present ; 

And  what  of  his  performance  comes  at  last .' 
Folly  itself  in  every  lineament ! 

Its  consequential  features  overcast 
With  the  coxcomical  and  shallow  laugh 

Of  one  who  would,  for  condescension,  hide, 
Yet  in  his  best  behavior,  can  but  half 

Suppress  the  scornfulness  of  empty  pride." 

"  And  who  is  Bilderdijk  .' "  methinks  thou  sayest ; 
A  ready  question  ;  yet  which,  trust  me,  Allan, 
Would  not  be  ask'd,  had  not  the  curse  that  came 
From  Babel  dipt  the  wings  of  Poetry. 
Napoleon  ask'd  him  once,  with  cold,  fix'd  look, 
"  Art  thou,  then,  in  the  world  of  letters  known  .'  " 
"  I  have  deserved  to  be,"  the  Hollander 
Replied,  meeting  that  proud,  imperial  look 
With  calm  and  proper  confidence,  and  eye 
As  little  wont  to  turn  away  abash'd 
Before  a  mortal  presence.     He  is  one 
Who  hath  received  upon  his  constant  breast 
The  sharpest  arrows  of  adversity  ; 
Whom  not  the  clamors  of  the  multitude, 
Demanding,  in  their  madness  and  their  might. 
Iniquitous  things,  could  shake  in  his  firm  mind  ; 
Nor  the  strong  hand  of  instant  tyranny 
From  the  straight  path  of  duty  turn  aside; 
But  who,  in  public  troubles,  in  the  wreck 
Of  his  own  fortunes,  in  proscription,  exile, 
Want,  obloquy,  ingratitude,  neglect, 
And  what  severer  trials  Providence 
Sometimes  inflicteth,  chastening  whom  it  loves, 
In  all,  through  all,  and  over  all,  hath  borne 
An  equal  heart,  as  resolute  toward 


The  world,  as  humbly  and  religiously 

Beneath  his  heavenly  Father's  rod  resign'd. 

Right-minded,  happy-minded,  righteous  man, 

True  lover  of  his  country  and  his  kind; 

In  knowledge  and  in  inexliaustive  stores 

Of  native  genius  rich;  philosopher. 

Poet,  and  sage.     The  language  of  a  State 

Inferior  in  illustrious  deeds  to  none, 

But  circumscribed  by  narrow  bounds,  and  now 

Sinking  in  irrecoverable  decline, 

Hath  pent  within  its  sphere  a  name  wherewith 

Europe  should  else  have  rung  from  side  to  side. 

Such,  Allan,  is  the  Hollander  to  whom 
Esteem  and  admiration  have  attach'd 
My  soul,  not  less  than  pre-conscnt  of  mind, 
And  gratitude  for  benefits,  when,  being 
A  stranger,  sick,  and  in  a  foreign  land. 
He  took  me  like  a  brother  to  his  house, 
And  ministered  to  me,  and  made  a  time, 
Which  had  been  wearisome  and  careful  else, 
So  pleasurable,  that  in  my  calendar 
There  are  no  whiter  days.     'Twill  be  a  joy 
For  us  to  meet  in  Heaven,  though  we  should  look 
Upon  each  other's  earthly  face  no  more. 
—  This   is   this   world's  complexion !    "  Cheerful 

thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind  ;  "  and  these  again 
Give  place  to  calm  content,  and  steadfast  hope. 
And  happy  faith  assured.  —  Return  we  now. 
With  such  transition  as  our  daily  life 
Imposes  in  its  wholesome  discipline, 
To  a  lighter  strain ;  and  from  the  gallery 
Of  the  Dutch  Poet's  mis-resemblances 
Pass  into  mine ;  where  I  shall  show  thee,  Allan, 
Such  an  array  of  villanous  visages, 
That  if,  among  them  all,  there  were  but  one 
Which  as  a  likeness  could  be  proved  upon  me, 
It  were  enough  to  make  me,  in  mere  shame. 
Take  up  an  alias,  and  forswear  myself. 

Whom  have  we  first?     A  dainty  gentleman, 
His  sleepy  eyes  half-closed,  and  countenance 
To  no  expression  stronger  than  might  suit 
A  simper,  capable  of  being  moved  : 
Sawney  and  sentimental ;  with  an  air 
So  lack-thought  and  so  lackadaysical. 
You  might  suppose  the  volume  in  his  hand 
Must  needs  be  Zimmermarm  on  Solitude. 

Then  comes  a  jovial  landlord,  who  hath  made  it 
Part  of  his  trade  to  be  the  shoeing  horn 
For  his  commercial  customers.     God  Bacchus 
Hath  not  a  thirstier  votary.     Many  a  pipe 
Of  Porto's  vintage  hath  contributed 
To  give  his  cheeks  that  deep  carmine  ingrain'd, 
And  many  a  runlet  of  right  Nantes,  I  ween, 
Hath  suffered  percolation  through  that  trunk, 
Leaving  behind  it,  in  the  boozey  eyes, 
A  swollen  and  red  suffusion,  glazed  and  dim. 

Our  next  is  in  the  evangelical  line, 
A  leaden-visaged  specimen ;  demure, 
Because  he  hath  put  on  his  Sunday's  face  , 


222 


EPISTLE    TO    ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


Dull  by  formation,  by  complexion  sad, 

By  bile,  opinions,  and  dyspepsy  sour. 

One  of  the  sons  of  Jack,  —  I  know  not  wliich, 

For  Jack  hath  a  most  numerous  progeny,  — 

Made  up  for  Mr.  Colburn's  Magazine, 

This  pleasant  composite  ;  a  bust  supplied 

The  features ;  look,  expression,  character 

Are  of  the  Artist's  fancy  and  free  grace. 

Such  was  that  fellow's  birth  and  parentage. 

Tlie  rascal  proved  prolific ;  one  of  his  breed. 

By  Docteur  Pichot  introduced  in  France, 

Passes  for  Monsieur  Soote. ;  and  another,  — 

An  uglier  miscreant  too,  —  the  brothers  Schumann, 

And  their  most  cruel  copper-scratcher  Zschoch, 

From  Zwickau  sent  abroad  through  Germany. 

I  wish  the  Schumen  and  the  copper-scratclier 

No  worse  misfortune,  for  their  recompense. 

Than  to  encounter  such  a  cut-throat  face 

In  the  Black  Forest  or  the  Odenwald. 

And  now  is  there  a  third  derivative 
From  Mr.  Colburn's  composite,  which  late 
The  Arch-Pirate  Galignani  hath  prefix'd, 
A  spurious  portrait  to  a  faithless  life. 
And  bearing  lyingly  the  libell'd  name 
Of  Lawrence,  impudently  there  insculp'd. 

The  bust  that  was  the  innocent  forefather 
To  all  this  base,  abominable  brood, 
I  blame  not,  Allan.     'Twas  the  work  of  Smith, 
A  modest,  mild,  ingenious  man,  and  errs, 
Where  erring,  only  because  over-true. 
Too  close  a  likeness  for  similitude ; 
Fixing  to  every  part  and  lineament 
Its  separate  character,  and  missing  thus 
That  which  results  from  all. 

Sir  Smug  comes  next; 
Allan,  1  own  Sir  Sm\ig  I     I  recognize 
That  visage,  with  its  dull  sobriety  ; 
I  see  it  duly  as  the  day  returns. 
When  at  the  looking-glass,  with  lather'd  chin 
And  razor- weapon' d  hand,  I  sit,  the  face 
Composed  and  apprehensively  intent 
Upon  the  necessary  operation 
About  to  be  perform'd,  with  touch,  alas, 
Not  always  confident  of  hair-breadth  skill. 
Even  in  such  sober  sadness  and  constrain'd 
Composure  cold,  the  faithful  Painter's  eye 
Had  fix'd  me  like  a  spell,  and  I  could  feel 
My  features  stiffen  as  he  glanced  upon  them. 
And  yet  he  was  a  man  whom  I  loved  dearly. 
My  fellow-traveller,  my  familiar  friend, 
My  household  guest.     But  when  he  look'd  upon 

me. 
Anxious  to  exercise  his  excellent  art. 
The  countenance  he  knew  so  thoroughly 
Was  gone,  and  in  its  stead  there  sate  Sir  Smug. 

Under  the  graver's  hand,  Sir  Smug  became 
Sir  Smouch — a  son  of  Abraham.     Now,  albeit 
Far  rather  would  I  trace  my  lineage  thence 
Than  with  the  oldest  line  of  Peers  or  Kings 
Claim  consanguinity,  that  cast  of  features 
Would  ill  accord  with  me,  who,  in  all  forms 


Of  pork  —  baked,  roasted,  toasted,  boil'd,  or  broil'd ; 
Fresh,  salted,  pickled,  seasoned,  moist,  or  dry  ; 
Whether  ham,  bacon,  sausage,  souse,  or  brawn ; 
Log,  bladebone,  baldrib,  griskin,  chine,  or  chop  — 
Profess  myself  a  genuine  Philopig. 

It  was,  however,  as  a  Jew  whose  portion 
Had  fallen  unto  him  in  a  goodly  land 
Of  loans,  of  omnium,  and  of  three  per  cents. 
That  Messrs.  Percy,  of  the  Anecdote-firm, 
Presented  me  unto  their  customers. 
Poor  Smoucli  endured  a  worse  Judaization 
Under  another  hand.     In  this  next  stage 
He  is  on  trial  at  the  Old  Bailey,  charged 
With  dealing  in  base  coin.     That  he  is  guilty 
No  Judge  or  Jury  could  have  half  a  doubt 
When  they  saw  the  culprit's  face  ;  and  he  himself, 
As  you  may  plainly  see,  is  comforted 
By  thinking  he  has  just  contrived  to  keep 
Out  of  rope's  reach,  and  will  come  off  this  time 
For  transportation. 

Stand  thou  forth  for  trial, 
Now,  William  Darton,  of  the  Society 
Of  Friends  called  Quakers  ;  thou  who  in  4th  month 
Of  the  year  24,  on  Holborn  Hill, 
At  No.  58,  didst  wilfully. 
Falsely,  and  knowing  it  was  falsely  done. 
Publish  upon  a  card,  as  Robert  Southey's, 
A  face  which  might  be  just  as  like  Tom  Fool's, 
Or  John,  or  Richard  Any-body-clse's  ! 
What  had  I  done  to  thee,  thou  William  Darton, 
That  thou  shouldst,  for  the  lucre  of  base  gain. 
Yea,  for  the  sake  of  filthy  fourpences. 
Palm  on  my  countrymen  that  face  for  mine  ! 

0  William  Darton,  let  the  Yearly  Meeting 
Deal  with  thee  for  that  falseness !     All  the  rest 
Are  traceable  ;  Smug's  Hebrew  family  ; 

The  German  who  might  properly  adorn 
A  gibbet  or  a  wheel,  and  Monsieur  Soot6, 
Sons  of  Fitzbust  the  Evangelical ;  — 

1  recognize  all  these  unlikenesses. 
Spurious  abominations  though  they  be. 
Each  filiated  on  some  original ; 

But  thou.  Friend  Darton,  and  —  observe  me,  man, 

Only  in  courtesy,  and  quasi  Quaker, 

I  call  thee  Friend  !  —  hadst  no  original ; 

No  likeness,  or  unlikencss,  silhouette. 

Outline,  or  plaster,  representing  me. 

Whereon  to  form  thy  misrepresentation. 

If  I  guess  rightly  at  the  pedigree 

Of  thy  bad  groatsworth,  thou  didst  get  a  barber 

To  personate  my  injured  Laureateship  ; 

An  advertising  barber,  —  one  who  keeps 

A  bear,  and,  when  he  puts  to  death  poor  Bruin, 

Sells  his  grease,  fresh  as  from  the  carcass  cut. 

Pro  hono  publico,  the  price  per  pound 

Twelve  shillings  and  no  more.   From  such  a  barber, 

0  unfriend  Darton  !  was  that  portrait  made, 

1  think,  or  peradvcnture  from  his  block. 

Next  comes  a  minion  worthy  to  be  set 
In  a  wooden  frame  ;  and  here  I  might  invoke 
Avenging  Nemesis,  if  I  did  not  feel, 
Just  now,  God  Cynthius  pluck  me  by  the  ear. 


OP    EENE    VERZAMELING    VAN    MIJNE    AFBEELDIN  G  EN .    223 


Hut,  Allan,  in  what  shape  God  Cynthius  comes, 
And  whorelbre  he  adinonislieth  me  thus, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  will  tell  the  world  ;  hereafter 
Tlie  commentators,  my  Malones  and  Reids, 
May,  if  they  can.     For  in  my  gallery 
Though  there  remaineth  undescribed  good  store. 
Yet  "  of  enough  enough,  and  now  no  more," 
(As  honest  old  George  Gascoigne  said  of  yore,) 
Save  only  a  last  couplet  to  express 
Tnat  I  am  always  truly  yours, 

Keswick,  August,  1828. 


OP    EENE   VERZAMELING  VAN 
MIJNE   AFBEELDINGEN. 


In  pejus  vultu  proponi  ccreas  rtsquain Hor.vt. 


Een  Wildeman,  hat  dolhuis  uitgevlogen  ;  " 

Een  goede  Hals,  maar  zonder  ziel  of  kracht :  '' 
Een  Sukkelaar,  die  met  verwonderde  oogen 

Om  alles  met  verbeten  weorzin  lacht :  '^ 
Een  Franschmans  iach  op  halfverwrongen  kakcn. 

Die  geest  beduidt  op  't  aanzicht  van  een  bloed  :  '^ 
En,  om  't  getal  dier  fraaiheen  vol  te  niakcn, 

Eens  Financiers  verwaande  domme  snoet. ' 
En  dat  meet  ik,  dat  moet  een  Dichter  wezen  ! 

Geloofl  gy  't  ooit,  die  deze  monsters  ziet? 
Geeft,  wat  ik  schreef,  een  trek  daar  van  te  lezen 

Zoo  zeg  gerust:  "Hy  kent  zich  zelven  niet." 

Maar  zacht  een  poos  !  —  Hoe  langer  hoe  verkeerder ! 

Men  vormt  my  na  uit  Pottebakkers  aard ;  / 
Doch   de   Adamskop   beschaamt   den   kunstboot- 
seerder. 

En  't  zielloos  ding  is  zclfs  den  klei  niet  waard. — 
Nu  komt  er  een,  die  zal  u  't  echte  leven 
In  lenig  wasch  met  voile  lijk'nis  geven ; 

*  Tlic  main  subject  of  this  epistle  having  been  suggested 
by  a  poem  of  Bil:ierdijk'.«,  part  only  of  which  I  have  incorpo- 
rated in  a  compressed  and  very  inadequate  translation,  I 
annex  here  the  original,  injustice  to  my  deceased  friend  —  a 
man  of  most  extraordinary  attainments,  and  genius  not  less 
remarkable. 

•  17S4.      *  1788      «  1806.      d  I813.      '  1820.     /  1820. 


En  doze  held,  wat  sprcidt  hy  ons  ten  toon .' 
De  knorrigheid  in  eigen  hoofdpersoon  ; 
Met  zulk  een  Iach  van  meelij'  op  de  lippon, 
AIs  't  zelfgevoel  eens  Trotzaarts  af  laat  glippcn 
Verachting  spreidt  op  al  wat  hem  omringt. 
En  half  in  spijt,  zich  tot  verneedring  dwingt." 

Y-  ^  i^  *  #  * 

Min  God  !  is  't  waar,  zijn  dit  miju  wezcnstrekken, 
En  is  't  7ni.jn  hart,  dajt  zc  aan  my-zelf  onbdekken  r 
Of  maaldet  gy,  wier  kunst  my  dus  hertoelt, 
Uw  eigen  aart  onwetend  in  mijn  beeld  ? 
Het  moog  zoo  zijn.     De  Rubens  en  Van  Dijken 
Zijn  lang  voorby,  die  zielen  deen  gelijkcn  : 
Wier  oog  liun  ziel  een  heldre  spiegel  was, 
En  geest  en  hart  in  elken  vezel  las, 
Niet,  dagen  lang,  op  't  uiterlijk  bleef  staren, 
Maar  d'cersten  blik  in  't  harte  kon  bewarcn, 
Dien  blik  getrouw  in  klei  of  verven  bracht. 
En  spreken  deed  tot  Tijd-en-Nageslacht. 

Die  troffen,  ja !  die  wisten  af  te  malen 

Wat  oog  en  mond,  wat  elke  zenuw  sprak  ; 
Wier  borst,  doorstroonid  van  hooger  idealcn, 

Een  hand  bewoog  die  't  voorwerp  noort,  ontbrak. 
Doch,  wat  maalt  gy.'  —  't  Misnoegen  van  't  vcr- 
velen 

Voor  Rust  der  ziel  in  zalig  zelfgenot; 
Met  Ongeduld  om  't  haatlijk  tijdontstelen; 

En-Bittcrhcid,  die  met  uw  wanklap  spot 
Wenge,om  den  mond  ietsvriendlijks  af  te  prachen. 

Of  slaaprigheid  of  mijmrende  ernst  vcrstoort. 
En  door  uw  boert  het  aanzicht  tergt  tot  lachen 

Met  zotterny,  slechts  wreevlig  aangehoord. 

Maar  Hodges  !  gy,  die  uit  vervlogen  eeuwen 

De  Schilderkunst  te  rug  riept  op  't  paneel, 
Geen     mond    mismaakt    door    't    zielverteerend 
geeuwen, 

Maar  kunstgesprek  vereenigt  aan  't  penccel  I 
Zoo  't  Noodlot  wil  dat  zich  in  later  dagen 

Mijn  naam  bewaar  in  't  onwijs  Vaderland, 
En  eenig  beeld  mijn  leest  moet  overdragcn, 

Het  zij  geschetst  door  uw  begaafde  hand. 
In  uw  tafreel,  bevredigd  met  my-zelven, 

Ontdek  ik  't  hart  dat  lof  nocli  laster  acht ; 
En,  die  daaruit  mijn  ziel  weet  op  te  delven 

Miskent  in  my  noch  inborst  noch  geslacht.* 


1822. 


»  18D2. 
*  Rots-Galmen,  d.  ii.  p.  103. 


224 


PREFACE    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


^i^alatid  tfje  Dtsttoger* 


UoirinaTCOV  axparri;  rj  cXcvdcpia,  Kai  vojios  cii,  to  Jofai/  toi  rroirjrri. 

LuciAN,  Quomodo  Hist   Scribenda. 


PREFACE. 

It  was  said,  in  the  original  Preface  to  Joan  of 
Arc,  that  the  Author  would  not  be  in  England  to 
witness  its  reception,  but  that  he  would  attend  to 
liberal  criticism,  and  hoped  to  profit  by  it  in  the 
aomposition  of  a  poem  upon  the  discovery  of 
America  by  the  Welsh  prince  Madoc. 

That  subject  I  had  fixed  upon  when  a  school-boy, 
and  had  often  conversed  upon  the  probabilities  of 
the  story  with  the  school-fellow  to  whom,  sixteen 
years  afterwards,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  inscrib- 
ing the  poem.  It  was  commenced  at  Batli  in  the 
autumn  of  1794;  but,  upon  putting  Joan  of  Arc  to 
the  press,  its  progress  was  necessarily  suspended, 
and  it  was  not  resumed  till  the  second  edition  of 
that  work  had  been  completed.  Then  it  became 
my  chief  occupation  during  twelve  months  that  1 
resided  in  the  village  of  Westbury,  near  Bristol. 
This  was  one  of  the  happiest  portions  of  my  life. 
1  never  before  or  since  produced  so  much  poetry 
in  the  same  space  of  time.  The  smaller  pieces 
were  communicated  by  letter  to  Charles  Lamb,  and 
had  the  advantage  of  his  animadversions.  I  was 
then  also  in  habits  of  the  most  frequent  and  inti- 
mate intercourse  with  Davy,  then  in  the  flov/er 
and  freshness  of  his  youth.  We  were  within  an 
easy  walk  of  each  other,  over  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  ground  in  that  beautiful  part  of  England. 
When  1  went  to  the  Pneumatic  Institution,  lie  had 
to  tell  me  of  some  new  experiment  or  discovery, 
and  of  the  views  which  it  opened  for  him ;  and 
when  he  came  to  Westbury  there  was  a  fresh  por- 
tion of  Madoc  for  his  hearing.  Davy  encouraged 
me  with  his  hearty  approbation  during  its  progress; 
and  the  bag  of  nitrous  oxyde,  with  which  he  gen- 
erally regaled  me  upon  my  visits  to  him,  was  not 
required  for  raising  my  spirits  to  the  degree  of 
settled  fair,  and  keeping  them  at  that  elevation. 

In  November,  1836, 1  walked  to  that  village  with 
my  son,  wishing  to  show  him  a  house  endeared  to 
me  by  so  many  recollections ;  but  not  a  vestige  of 
it  remained,  and  local  alterations  rendered  it  im- 
possible even  to  ascertain  its  site  —  which  is  now 
included  within  the  grounds  of  a  Nunnery  !  The 
bosom  friends  with  whom  I  associated  there  have 
all  departed  before  me ;  and  of  the  domestic  circle 
in  which  my  happiness  was  then  centred,  I  am  the 
sole  survivor. 

When  we  removed  from  Westbury  at  Midsum- 
mer, 1799,  I  had  reached  the  penultimate  book  of 


Madoc.  That  poem  was  finished  on  the  12th  ot 
July  following,  at  Kingsdown,  Bristol,  in  the  house 
of  an  old  lady,  whose  portrait  hangs,  with  that  of 
my  own  mother,  in  the  room  wherein  I  am  now 
writing.  The  son  who  lived  with  her  was  one  of 
my  dearest  friends,  and  one  of  the  best  men  I  ever 
knew  or  heard  of.  In  those  days  I  was  an  early 
riser :  the  time  so  gained  was  usually  employed  in 
carrying  on  the  poem  which  I  had  in  hand  ;  and 
when  Charles  Danvers  came  down  to  breakfast  on 
the  morning  after  Madoc  was  completed,  I  had  the 
first  hundred  lines  of  Thalaba  to  show  him,  fresh 
from  the  mint. 

But  this  poem  was  neither  crudely  conceived  nor 
hastily  undertaken.  I  had  fixed  upon  the  ground, 
four  years  before,  for  a  Mahommedan  tale  ;  and  in 
the  course  of  that  time  the  plan  had  been  formed, 
and  the  materials  collected.  It  was  pursued  with 
unabating  ardor  at  Exeter,  in  the  village  of  Bur- 
ton, near  Christ  Church,  and  afterwards  at  Kings- 
down,  till  the  ensuing  spring,  when  Dr.  Bcddoes 
advised  me  to  go  to  the  soutli  of  Europe,  on  account 
of  my  health.  For  Lisbon,  therefore,  we  set  off; 
and,  hastening  to  Falmouth,  found  the  packet  in 
which  we  wished  to  sail  detained  in  harbor  by 
westerly  winds.  "  Six  days  we  watched  the 
weathercock,  and  sighed  for  north-easters.  I 
walked  on  the  beach,  caught  soldier-crabs,  ad- 
mired the  sea-anemones  in  their  ever-varying 
shapes  of  oeauty,  read  Gebir,  and  wrote  half  a 
book  of  Thalaba."  This  sentence  is  from  a  letter 
written  on  our  arrival  at  Lisbon ;  and  it  is  here 
inserted  because  the  sea-anemones  (which  I  have 
never  had  any  other  opportunity  of  observing) 
were  introduced  in  Thalaba  soon  afterwards  ;  and 
because,  as  already  stated,  I  am  sensible  of  having 
derived  great  improvement  from  the  frequent  pe- 
rusal of  Gebir  at  that  time. 

Change  of  circumstances  and  of  climate  effected 
an  immediate  cure  of  what  proved  to  be  not  an  or- 
ganic disease.  A  week  after  our  landing  at  Lisbon 
I  resumed  my  favorite  work,  and  I  completed  it  at 
Cintra,  a  year  and  six  days  after  the  day  of  its 
commencement. 

A  fair  transcript  was  sent  to  England.  Mr. 
Rickman,  with  wtiom  I  had  fallen  in  at  Christ 
Church  in  1797,  and  whose  friendship  from  that 
time  I  have  ever  accounted  among  the  singular 
advantages  and  happinesses  of  my  life,  negotiated 
for  its  publication  with  Messrs.  Longman  and  Rees. 
It  was  printed  at  Bristol  by  Biggs  and  Cottle,  and 


BOOK   r. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


225 


the  task  of  correcting  the  press  was  undertaken 
for  ine  by  Davy  and  our  conunon  friend  Danvers, 
under  whose  roof  it  liad  been  begun. 

Tlio  copy  whicli  was  made  from  the  original 
draught,  regularly  as  the  poem  proceeded,  is  still 
in  my  possession.  The  first  corrections  were  made 
as  they  occurred  in  the  process  of  transcribing,  at 
which  time  the  verses  were  tried  upon  my  own  ear, 
and  iiad  the  advantage  of  being  seen  in  a  fair  and 
remarkably  legible  hand-writing.  In  this  transcript 
the  dates  of  time  and  place  were  noted,  and  things 
whicli  would  otherwise  have  been  forgotten  have 
thus  been  brought  to  my  recollection.  Herein  also 
the  alterations  were  inserted  which  tlie  poem 
underwent  before  it  was  printed.  They  were  very 
numerous.  Much  was  pruned  off,  and  more  was 
ingrafted.  I  was  not  satisfied  with  the  first  part  of 
the  concluding  book  ;  it  was  tlierefore  crossed  out, 
and  something  substituted  altogether  different  in 
design  ;  but  this  substitution  was  so  far  from  being 
fortunate,  tliat  it  neither  pleased  my  friends  in 
England  nor  myself.  I  tlien  made  a  third  attempt, 
which  succeeded  to  my  own  satisfaction  and  to 
theirs. 

I  was  in  Portugal  when  Thalaba  was  published. 
Its  reception  was  ver\'  different  from  that  with 
which  Joan  of  Arc  had  been  welcomed :  in  pro- 
portion as  the  poem  deserved  better,  it  was  treated 
worse.  Upon  this  occasion  my  name  was  first 
coupled  with  Mr.  Wordsworth's.  We  were  then, 
and  for  some  time  afterwards,  all  but  strangers  to 
each  other  ;  and  certainly  there  were  no  two  poets 
in  wliose  productions,  the  difference  not  being  that 
between  good  and  bad,  less  resemblance  could  be 
found.  But  I  happened  to  be  residing  at  Keswick 
when  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  began  to  be  ac- 
quainted ;  Mr.  Coleridge  also  had  resided  there ; 
and  this  was  reason  enough  for  classing  us  together 
as  a  school  of  poets.  Accordingly,  for  more  than 
twenty  years  from  that  time,  every  tyro  in  criti- 
cism who  could  smatter  and  sneer,  tried  his  "pren- 
tice hand  "  upon  the  Lake  Poets ;  and  every  young 
sportsman,  who  carried  a  popgun  in  the  field  of 
satire,  considered  them  as  fan-  game. 

Keswick,  Noo.  8,  1337. 


PREFACE 

TO 

THE    FOURTH    EDITION. 

I.v  the  continuation  of  the  Arabian  Tales,  the 
Domdaniel  is  mentioned  —  a  seminary  for  evil  ma- 
gicians, under  the  roots  of  the  sea.  From  this 
seed  the  present  romance  has  grown.  Let  me  not 
be  supposed  to  prefer  the  rhythm  in  which  it  is 
written,  abstractedly  considered,  to  the  regular 
blank  verse  —  the  noblest  measure,  in  my  judgment, 
of  which  our  admirable  language  is  capable.  For 
the  following  Poem  I  have  preferred  it,  because  it 
suits  the  varied  subject :  it  is  the  Arabesque  orna- 
ment of  an  Arabian  tale. 
29 


The  dramatic  sketches  of  Dr.  Sayers,  a  volume 
which  no  lover  of  poetry  will  recollect  without 
pleasure,  induced  me,  when  a  young  versifier,  to 
practise  in  this  rhythm.  I  felt  that  while  it  gave 
the  poet  a  wider  range  of  expression,  it  satisfied 
the  ear  of  the  reader.  It  were  easy  to  make  a 
parade  of  learning,  by  enumerating  the  various 
feet  which  it  admits :  it  is  only  needful  to  observe 
that  no  two  lines  are  employed  in  sequence  which 
can  be  read  into  one.  Two  six-syllable  lines,  it 
will  perhaps  be  answered,  compose  an  Alexan- 
drine :  the  truth  is,  that  the  Alexandrine,  when 
harmonious,  is  composed  of  two  six-syllable  lines. 

One  advantage  this  metre  assuredly  possesses 
—  the  dullest  reader  cannot  distort  it  into  discord  : 
he  may  read  it  prosaically,  but  its  liow  and  fall 
will  still  be  perceptible.  Verse  is  not  enough 
favored  by  the  English  reader :  perhaps  this  is 
owing  to  the  obtrusivencss,  the  regular  Jew's- 
harp  tioing-twanir,  of  what  has  been  foolishly 
called  heroic  measure.  I  do  not  wish  the  inipro- 
■pisutorc  tune; — but  something  that  denotes  the 
sense  of  harmony,  sometliing  like  the  accent  of 
feeling,  —  like  the  tone  which  every  poet  neces- 
sarily gives  to  poetry. 

Cintra,  October,  1800. 


THE   FIRST  BOOK. 


—  Worse  and  worse,  young  Orphtino,  be  thy  payne, 
If'tliou  due  vengeance  doe  forbeare, 
Till  guiltie  blood  lier  guerdon  do  obtayne. 

Faery  Queen,  B.  2,  Can.  1 


1. 

How  beautiful  is  night  I 

A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain, 

Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven  : 

In  full-orb'd  glory  yonder  Moon  divine 

Rolls  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 

Beneath  her  steady  ray 

The  desert-circle  spreads, 

Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  beautiful  is  nieht ! 


Who,  at  this  untimely  hour. 

Wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands  ? 

No  station  is  in  view. 

Nor  palm-grove,  islanded  amid  the  waste. 

The  mother  and  her  child, 

The  widow'd  mother  and  the  fatherless  boy. 

They,  at  this  untimely  hour. 

Wander  o'er  the  desert  sands 


Alas  !  the  setting  sun 
Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss, 
Hodcirah's  wife  beloved. 
Alas  !  the  wife  beloved, 


i>26 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK   I. 


The  fruitful  mother  late, 

Whom  when  the  daughters  of  Arabia  named, 

They  wisli'd  their  lot  like  hers, 

She  wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands 

A  wretched  widow  now ; 

The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a  race, 

Witli  only  one  preserved. 

She  wanders  o'er  the  wilderness. 


No  tear  relieved  the  burden  of  her  heart ; 

Stunn'd  with  the  heavy  woe,  she  felt  like  one 

Half-waken'd  from  a  midnight  dream  of  blood. 

But  sometimes,  when  the  boy 

Would  wet  her  hand  with  tears. 

And,  looking  up  to  her  fix'd  countenance. 

Sob  out  the  name  of  Mother !  then  she  groan'd. 

At  length  collecting,  Zeinab  turn'd  her  eyes 

To  heaven,  and  praised  the  Lord ; 

"  He  gave,  he  takes  away  I  " 

The  pious  sufferer  cried, 

"  The  Lord  our  God  is  good  ! ' ' 


"  Good  is  he  I  "  quoth  the  boy ; 

"  Why  are  my  brethren  and  my  sisters  slain  .-■ 

Why  is  my  father  kill'd  ? 

Did  ever  we  neglect  our  prayers. 

Or  ever  lift  a  hand  unclean  to  Heaven .-' 

Did  ever  stranger  from  our  tent 

Unwclcomed  turn  away .'' 

Mother,  He  is  not  good  !  " 

6. 

Then  Zeinab  beat  her  breast  in  agony,  — 

"  O  God,  forgive  the  child  ! 

He  knows  not  what  he  says ; 

Thou  know'st  1  did  not  teach  him  thoughts  like 

these ; 

O  Prophet,  pardon  him  !  " 


She  had  not  wept  till  that  assuaging  prayer } 

The  fountains  of  her  grief  were  open'd  then. 

And  tears  relieved  her  heart. 

She  raised  her  swimming  eyes  to  Heaven, 

"  Allah,  thy  will  be  done  ! 

Beneath  the  dispensations  of  that  will 

I  groan,  but  murmur  not. 

A  day  will  come,  when  all  things  that  are  dark 

Will  be  made  clear ;  —  then  shall  I  know,  O  Lord  ! 

Why  in  thy  mercy  thou  hast  stricken  me ; 

Then  see  and  understand  what  now 

My  heart  believes  and  feels." 

8. 
Young  Thalaba  in  silence  heard  reproof; 

His  brow  in  manly  frowns  was  knit. 

With  manly  thoughts  his  heart  was  full. 

"Tell  me,  who  slew  my  father.'  "  cried  the  boy. 

Zeinab  replied  and  said, 

"  I  knew  not  that  there  lived  thy  father's  foe. 

The  blessings  of  the  poor  for  him 

Went  daily  up  to  Heaven ; 


In  distant  lands  the  traveller  told  his  praise  ;  — 

I  did  not  think  there  lived 

Hodeirah's  enemy." 

9. 

"  But  I  will  hunt  him  through  the  world !  " 

Young  Thalaba  exclaim'd. 

"  Already  I  can  bend  my  father's  bow  ; 

Soon  will  my  arm  have  strength 

To  drive  the  arrow-feathers  to  his  heart." 

10. 

Zeinab  replied,  "  O  Thalaba,  my  child, 

Thou  lookcst  on  to  distant  days. 

And  we  are  in  the  desert,  far  from  men ! " 

11. 

Not  till  that  moment  her  afflicted  heart 

Had  leisure  for  the  thought. 

She  cast  her  eyes  around ; 

Alas  !  no  tents  were  there 

Beside  the  bending  sands  ; 

No  palm-tree  rose  to  spot  the  wilderness ; 

The  dark-blue  sky  closed  round. 

And  rested  like  a  dome 

Upon  the  circling  waste. 

She  cast  her  eyes  around ; 

Famine  and  Thirst  were  there  ; 

And  then  the  wretched  Mother  bowed  her  head, 

And  wept  upon  her  child. 

12. 

A  sudden  cry  of  wonder 

From  Thalaba  aroused  her ; 

She  raised  her  head,  and  saw 

Where,  high  in  air,  a  stately  palace  rose. 

Amid  a  grove  embower'd 

Stood  the  prodigious  pile  ; 

Trees  of  such  ancient  majesty 

Tower'd  not  on  Yemen's  happy  hills. 

Nor  crown'd  the  lofty  brow  of  Lebanon  : 

Fabric  so  vast,  so  lavishly  enrich'd. 

For  Idol,  or  for  Tyrant,  never  yet 

Raised  the  slave  race  of  man. 

In  Rome,  nor  in  the  elder  Babylon, 

Nor  old  Persepolis, 

Nor  where  the  family  of  Greece 

Hymn'd  Eleutherian  Jove. 

13. 

Here,  studding  azure  tablatures, 

And  ray'd  with  feeble  light, 

Star-like  the  ruby  and  the  diamond  shone ; 

Here  on  the  golden  towers 

The  yellow  moon-beam  lay  ; 

Here  with  white  splendor  floods  the  silver  wall 

Less  wondrous  pile,  and  less  magnificent, 

Scnnamar  built  at  Hirali,  though  his  art 

Seal'd  with  one  stone  the  ample  edifice. 

And  made  its  colors,  like  the  serpent's  skin, 

Play  with  a  changeful  beauty  :  him,  its  Lord, 

Jealous  lest  after-effort  might  surpass 

The  then  unequall'd  palace,  from  its  height 

Dash'd  on  the  pavement  down. 


BOOK  I.                            THALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                                   227 

14. 

Repeat  the  warning  tale. 

They  enter'd,  and  through  aromatic  paths 

Why  have  the  fathers  sufier'd,  but  to  make 

Wondering  tlioy  wont  along. 

Tlie  children  wisely  safe .' 

At  length,  upon  a  mossy  bank, 

Beneatli  a  tall  mimosa's  shade, 

1!). 

Which  o'er  him  bent  its  living  canopy. 

"Tlie  Paradise  of  Irem  this. 

They  saw  a  man  reclined. 

And  this  that  wonder  of  the  world. 

Young  he  appear'd,  for  on  his  cheek  there  shone 

The  Palace  built  by  Shedad  in  his  pride. 

The  morning  glow  of  health, 

Alas  !  in  the  days  of  my  youth. 

And  the  brown  beard  curl'd  close  around  his  chin. 

The  hum  of  mankind 

He  slept,  but,  at  the  sound 

Was  heard  in  yon  wilderness  waste ; 

Of  coming  feet  awaking,  fixed  his  eyes 

O'er  all  the  winding  sands 

In  wonder  on  the  wanderer  and  her  cliild. 

The  tents  of  Ad  were  pitch 'd ; 

"  Forgive  us,"  Zeinab  cried  ; 

Happy  Al-Ahkaf  tiien. 

"  Distress  hath  made  us  bold. 

For  many  and  brave  were  her  sons. 

Relieve  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  I 

Her  daughters  were  many  and  fair. 

Blessed  are  they  who  succor  the  distress'd ; 

For  them  hath  God  appointed  Paradise." 

20. 

"  My  name  was  Aswad  then  — 

15. 

Alas  !  alas  !  how  strange 

He  heard,  and  he  look'd  up  to  heaven, 

The  sound  so  long  unheard  I 

And  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks ; 

Of  noble  race  I  came. 

"  It  is  a  human  voice  1 

One  of  the  wealthy  of  the  earth  my  sire. 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  God  !  — 

A  hundred  horses  in  my  father's  stall 

How  many  an  age  hath  past 

Stood  ready  for  his  will ; 

Since  the  sweet  sounds  have  visited  my  ear  ! 

Numerous  his  robes  of  silk ; 

I  thank  thee,  0  my  God  ! 

The  number  of  his  camels  was  not  known. 

It  is  a  human  voice  !  " 

These  were  my  heritage. 

0  God  !  thy  gifts  were  these ; 

16. 

But  better  had  it  been  for  Aswad's  soul, 

To  Zeinab  turning  then,  he  said. 

Had  he  ask'd  alms  on  earth. 

"  O  mortal,  who  art  thou. 

And  begg'd  the  crumbs  which  from  his  table  fell, 

Whose  gifted  eyes  have  pierced 

So  he  had  known  thy  Word. 

The  shadow  of  concealment  that  hath  wrapt 

These  bowers,  so  many  an  age. 

21. 

From  eye  of  mortal  man .' 

"Boy,  who  hast  reach'd  my  solitude. 

For  countless  years  have  past. 

Fear  the  Lord  in  the  days  of  thy  youth  ! 

And  never  foot  of  man 

My  knee  was  never  taught 

The  bowers  of  Ircm  trod, — 

To  bend  before  my  God ; 

Save  only  I,  a  miserable  wretch 

My  voice  was  never  taught 

From  Heaven  and  Earth  shut  out !  " 

To  shape  one  holy  prayer. 

We  worshipp'd  Idols,  wood  and  stone ; 

17. 

The  work  of  our  own  foolish  hands 

Fearless,  and  scarce  surprised, 

We  worshipp'd  in  our  foolishness. 

For  grief  in  Zeinab's  soul 

Vainly  the  Prophet's  voice 

All  other  feebler  feelings  overpower'd. 

Its  frequent  warning  raised. 

She  answer'd,  "  Yesterday 

' Repent  and  be  forgiven ! ' — 

I  was  a  wife  beloved, 

We  mock'd  the  messenger  of  God  ; 

The  fruitful  mother  of  a  numerous  race. 

We  mock'd  the  Lord,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath. 

I  am  a  widow  now  ; 

Of  all  my  offspring  this  alone  is  left. 

22. 

Praise  to  the  Lord  our  God, 

"  A  mighty  work  the  pride  of  Shedad  plann'd  — 

He  gave.  He  takes  away  !" 

Here  in  the  wilderness  to  form 

A  Garden  more  surpassing  lair 

18. 

Than  that  before  whose  gate 

Then  said  the  stranger,  "  Not  by  Heaven  unseen, 

The  lightning  of  the  Cherub's  fiery  sword 

Nor  in  unguided  wanderings,  hast  thou  reach'd 

Waves  wide  to  bar  access, 

This  secret  place,  be  sure  ! 

Since  Adam,  the  transgressor,  thence  was  driven. 

Nor  for  light  purpose  is  the  veil. 

Here,  too,  would  Shedad  build 

That  from  the  Universe  hath  long  shut  out 

A  kingly  pile  sublime, 

These  ancient  bowers,  withdrawn. 

The  Palace  of  his  pride. 

Hear  thou  my  words,  O  mortal ;  in  thine  heart 

For  this  exhausted  mines 

Treasure  what  I  shall  tell ; 

Supplied  their  golden  store ; 

And  when  amid  the  world 

For  this  the  central  caverns  gave  their  gems ; 

Thou  shalt  emerge  again. 

For  this  the  woodman's  axe 

228 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    I. 


Open'd  the  cedar  forest  to  the  sun , 

The  silkworm  of  the  East 

Spun  her  sepulchral  egg  ; 

The  hunter  Afri 

Provoked  the  danger  of  the  Elephant's  rage ; 

T)>c  Ethiop,  keen  of  scent, 

Detects  the  ebony, 

That,  deep-inearth'd,  and  hating  light, 

A  leafless  tree  and  barren  of  all  fruit. 

With  darkness  feeds  its  boughs  of  raven  grain. 

Such  were  the  treasures  lavish'd  in  yon  pile ; 

Ages  have  past  away, 

And  never  mortal  eye 

Gazed  on  their  vanity. 

23. 

"The  Garden, —  copious  springs 

Blest  that  delightful  spot. 

And  every  flower  was  planted  there 

That  makes  the  gale  of  evening  sweet. 

He  spake,  and  bade  the  full-grown  forest  rise, 

His  own  creation ;  should  the  King 

Wait  for  slow  Nature's  work  ? 

All  trees  that  bend  with  luscious  fruit, 

Or  wave  with  feathery  boughs. 

Or  point  their  spiring  heads  to  heaven, 

Or  spreading  wide  their  shadowy  arms. 

Invite  the  traveller  to  repose  at  noon,  — 

Hither,  uprooted  with  their  native  soil, 

The  labor  and  the  pain  of  multitudes,  — 

Mature  in  beauty,  bore  them. 

Here  i'requent  in  the  walks 

The  marble  statue  stood 

Of  heroes  and  of  chiefs. 

The  trees  and  flowers  remain. 

By  Nature's  care  perpetuate  and  self-sown. 

The  marble  statues  long  have  lost  all  trace 

Of  heroes  and  of  chiefs ; 

Huge,  shapeless  stones  they  lie, 

O'ergrown  with  many  a  flower. 

24. 

"  The  work  of  pride  went  on ; 

Often  the  Prophet's  voice 

Denounced  impending  woe; 

We  mock'd  at  the  words  of  the  Seer, 

We  mock'd  at  tlie  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

A  long-continued  drought  first  troubled  us ; 

Three  years  no  cloud  liad  form'd. 

Three  years  no  rain  had  fallen ; 

The  wholesome  herb  was  dry, 

The  corn  matured  not  for  the  food  of  man, 

Tlie  wells  and  fountains  fail'd. 

O  hard  of  heart,  in  whom  the  punishment 

Awoke  no  sense  of  guilt! 

Headstrong  to  ruin,  obstinately  blind. 

We  to  our  Idols  still  applied  for  aid ; 

Sakia  we  invoked  for  rain. 

We  called  on  Razeka  for  food ; 

They  did  not  hear  our  prayers,  they  could  not  hear ! 

No  cloud  appear'd  in  Heaven, 

No  nightly  dews  came  down. 

25. 
"  Then  to  the  Place  of  Concourse  messengers 
Were  sent,  to  Mecca,  where  the  nations  came, 


Round  the  Red  Hillock  kneeling,  to  implore 

God  in  his  favor'd  place. 

We  sent  to  call  on  God ; 

Ah  fools  '  unthinking  tiiat  from  all  the  earth 

The  soul  ascends  to  him. 

We  sent  to  call  on  God ; 

All  fools  !  to  til  ink  the  Lord 

Would  hear  their  prayers  abroad. 

Who  made  no  prayers  at  home  ! 

2G. 

"  Meantime  the  work  of  pride  went  on, 

And  still  before  our  Idols,  wood  and  stone, 

We  bow'd  the  impious  knee. 

'Turn,  men  of  Ad,  and  call  upon  the  Lord,' 

The  Prophet  Houd  exclaim'd  ; 

'  Turn,  men  of  Ad,  and  look  to  Heaven, 

And  fly  the  wrath  to  come.'  — 

We  mock'd  the  Prophet's  words;  — 

'  Now  dost  thou  dream,  old  man, 

Or  art  thou  drunk  with  wine'' 

Future  woe  and  wrath  to  come 

Still  thy  prudent  voice  forebodes , 

When  it  comes,  will  we  believe; 

Till  it  comes,  will  we  go  on 

In  the  way  our  fathers  went. 

Now  are  thy  words  from  God  ? 

Or  dost  thou  dream,  old  man. 

Or  art  thou  drunk  with  wine  ? ' 

27. 

"  So  spake  the  stubborn  race. 

The  unbelieving  ones. 

I,  too,  of  stubborn,  unbelieving  heart, 

Heard  him,  and  heeded  not. 

It  chanced  my  father  went  the  way  of  man. 

He  perish'd  in  his  sins. 

The  funeral  rites  were  duly  paid  ; 

We  bound  a  Camel  to  his  grave, 

And  left  it  there  to  die. 

So,  if  the  resurrection  came. 

Together  they  might  rise. 

I  past  my  father's  grave  ; 

I  heard  the  Camel  moan. 

She  was  his  favorite  beast. 

One  who  had  carried  me  in  infancy. 

The  first  that  by  myself  I  learn'd  to  mount. 

Her  liVnbs  were  lean  with  famine,  and  her  eyes 

Ghastly,  and  sunk,  and  dim. 

She  knew  me  as  I  past ; 

She  stared  me  in  the  face  ; 

My  heart  was  touch'd,  —  had  it  been  human  else  ' 

I  thouo-ht  that  none  was  near,  and  cut  her  bonds. 

And  drove  her  forth  to  liberty  and  life. 

The  Prophet  Houd  had  seen  ; 

He  lifted  up  his  voice  — 

'  Blessed  art  thou,  young  man. 

Blessed  art  thou,  O  Aswad,  for  the  deed  ! 

In  the  day  of  Visitation, 

In  the  fearful  hour  of  Judgment, 

God  will  remember  thee  ! ' 

28. 

"  The  Day  of  Visitation  was  at  hand  ; 

The  fearful  Hour  of  Judgment  hastened  on. 

Lo  !  Shedad's  mighty  pile  complete, 


BOOK 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


229 


The  Palace  of  his  pride. 

Would  ye  behold  its  wonders,  enter  in  ! 

I  have  no  licart  to  visit  it. 

Time  hath  not  harni'd  the  eternal  monument ; 

Time  is  not  here,  nor  days,  nor  months,  nor  years, 

An  everlasting  now  of  solitude  !  — 

29. 

"  Ye  must  have  heard  their  fame ; 

Or  likely  ye  have  seen 

The  mighty  Pyramids, — 

For  sure  those  awful  piles  have  overlived 

The  feeble  generations  of  mankind. 

What  though  unmoved  they  bore  tiie  deluge  weight. 

Survivors  of  the  ruined  world.' 

What  though  their  founder  fiU'd  with  miracles 

And  wealth  miraculous  their  spacious  vaults.' 

Compared  with  yonder  fabric,  and  they  shrink 

The  baby  wonders  of  a  woman's  work. 

30. 

"  Here  emerald  columns  o'er  the  marble  courts 

Shed  their  green  rays,  as  when  amid  a  shower 

The  sun  shines  loveliest  on  the  vernal  corn. 

Here  Shedad  bade  the  sapphire  floor  be  laid, 

As  though  with  feet  divine 

To  tread  on  azure  light, 

Like  the  blue  pavement  of  the  firmament. 

Hero,  self-suspended,  hangs  in  air, 

As  its  pure  substance  loathed  material  touch, 

Tlie  living  carbuncle ; 

Sun  of  the  lofty  dome, 

Darkness  hath  no  dominion  o'er  its  beams ; 

Intense  it  glows,  an  ever-flowing  spring 
Of  radiance,  like  the  day-flood  in  its  source. 

31. 

"Impious!  the  Trees  of  vegetable  gold, 

Such  as  in  Eden's  groves 

Yet  innocent  it  grew  ; 

Impious !  he  made  his  boast,  though  Heaven  had 

hid 

So  deep  the  baneful  ore. 

That  they  should  branch  and  bud  for  him, 

That  art  should  force  their  blossoms  and  their  fruit. 

And  re-create  for  him  whate'er 

Was  lost  in  Paradise. 

Therefore  at  Shedad's  voice 

Here  tower'd  the  palm,  a  silver  trunk. 

The  fine  gold  net-work  growing  out 

Loose  from  its  rugged  boughs. 

Tall  as  the  cedar  of  the  mountain,  here 

Rose  the  gold  branches,  hung  with  emerald  leaves, 

Blossom'd  with  pearls,  and  rich  with  ruby  fruit. 

32. 

"  O  Ad !  my  country  !  evil  was  the  day 

That  thy  unhappy  sons 

Crouch'd  at  this  Nimrod's  throne. 

And  placed  him  on  the  pedestal  of  power. 

And  laid  their  liberties  beneath  his  feet. 

Robbing  their  cliildren  of  the  heritance 

Their  fathers  handed  down. 

What  was  to  him  the  squander'd  wealth  ? 

What  was  to  him  tlie  burden  of  the  land. 


The  lavish'd  misery .' 

He  did  but  speak  his  will, 

And,  like  the  blasting  Siroc  of  the  sands. 

The  ruin  of  tlie  royal  voice 

Found  its  way  every  where. 

I  marvel  not  that  he,  whose  power 

No  eartiily  law,  no  human  feeling  curb'd, 

Mock'd  at  the  living  God  ! 

33. 

"And  now  the  King';;  command  went  forth 

Among  the  people,  bidding  old  and  young. 

Husband  and  wife,  the  master  and  the  slave, 

All  the  collected  uuiltitudcs  of  Ad, 

Here  to  repair,  and  hold  high  festival. 

That  he  might  see  his  people,  they  behold 

Their  King's  magnificence  and  power. 

The  day  of  festival  arrived  ; 

Hither  they  came,  the  old  man  and  the  boy, 

Husband  and  wife,  the  master  and  the  slave. 

Hither  they  came.     From  yonder  high  tower  top, 

The  loftiest  of  the  Palace,  Shedad  look'd 

Down  on  his  tribe  :  their  tents  on  yonder  sands 

Rose  like  the  countless  billows  of  the  sea; 

Their  tread  and  voices  like  the  ocean  roar, 

One  deep  confusion  of  tumultuous  sounds. 

They  saw  their  King's  magnificence,  beheld 

His  palace  sparkling  like  the  Angel  domes 

Of  Paradise,  his  Garden  like  the  bowers 

Of  early  Eden,  and  they  shouted  out, 

'  Great  is  the  King !  a  God  upon  the  Earth  ! ' 

34. 

"  Intoxicate  with  joy  and  pride, 

He  heard  their  blasphemies  ; 

And,  in  his  wantonness  of  heart,  he  bade 

The  Prophet  Houd  be  brought ; 

And  o'er  the  marble  courts. 

And  o'er  the  gorgeous  rooms. 

Glittering  with  gems  and  gold. 

He  led  the  Man  of  God. 

'  Is  not  this  a  stately  pile  .' ' 

Cried  the  monarch  in  his  joy. 

'  Hath  ever  eye  beheld, 

Hath  ever  thought  conceived, 

Place  more  magnificent .' 

Houd,  they  say  that  Heaven  imparteth 

Words  of  wisdom  to  thy  lips ; 

Look  at  tlie  riches  round, 

And  value  them  aright, 

If  so  thy  wisdom  can.' 

35. 

"  The  Prophet  heard  his  vaunt. 

And,  with  an  awful  smile,  he  answer'd  him  — 

'  O  Shedad  !  only  in  the  hour  of  death 

We  learn  to  value  things  like  these  aright.' 

3G. 

« 

"  '  Hast  thou  a  fault  to  find 

In  all  tliine  eyes  have  seen .' ' 

With  unadmonish'd  pride,  the  King  exclann'd. 

'  Yea  ! '  said  the  Man  of  God  ; 

'The  walls  are  weak,  the  building  ill  secure 

Azrael  can  enter  in  ! 


230 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    I. 


The  Sarsar  can  p'mrcc  through 
The  Icy  Wind  of  Death/ 

37. 

"  1  was  beside  the  Monarch  when  he  spake ; 

Gentle  the  Prophet  spake, 

But  in  his  eye  there  dwelt 

A  sorrow  that  disturb'd  me  while  I  gazed. 

The  countenance  of  Shedad  fell, 

And  anger  sat  upon  his  paler  lips. 

He  to  the  high  tower-top  the  Prophet  led, 

And  pointed  to  the  multitude, 

And  as  again  they  shouted  out, 

'  Great  is  the  King  I  a  God  upon  the  Earth  ! ' 

With  dark  and  threatful  smile  to  Houd  he  turn'd, 

'Say  they  aright,  O  Prophet.-'  is  the  King 

Great  upon  earth,  a  God  among  mankind .' ' 

The  Prophet  answer'd  not; 

Over  that  infinite  multitude 

He  roll'd  his  ominous  eyes. 

And  tears  which  could  not  be  suppress'd  gush'd 

forth. 

38. 
"  Sudden  an  uproar  rose, 

A  cry  of  joy  below  ; 

'  The  messenger  is  come  ! 

Kail  from  Mecca  comes  ; 

He  brings  the  boon  obtain'd  ! ' 

30. 

"  Forth  as  we  went,  we  saw  where  overhead 

There  hung  a  deep-black  cloud. 

To  which  the  multitude 

With  joyful  eyes  look'd  up. 

And  blest  the  coming  rain. 

The  Messenger  address'd  the  King, 

And  told  his  tale  of  joy. 

40. 

" '  To  Mecca  I  repair'd, 

By  the  Red  Hillock  knelt. 

And  call'd  on  God  for  rain. 

My  prayer  ascended,  and  was  heard ; 

Three  clouds  appear'd  in  Heaven, 

One  white,  and  like  the  flying  cloud  of  noon. 

One  red,  as  it  had  drunk  the  evening  beams, 

One  black  and  heavy  with  its  load  of  rain. 

A  voice  went  forth  from  Heaven, — 

'  Choose,  Kail,  of  the  three  !  ' 

1  thank'd  the  gracious  Power, 

And  chose  the  black  cloud,  heavy  with  its  wealth. 

'  Rio-ht !  right ! '  a  thousand  tongues  exclaim'd  ; 

And  all  was  merriment  and  joy. 

41. 

"Then  stood  the  Prophet  up,  and  cried  aloud, 

'  Woe,  woe  to  Irem  !  woe  to  Ad  ! 

Death  is  gone  up  intp  her  palaces ! 

Woe  I  woe  !  a  day  of  guilt  and  punishment; 

A  day  of  desolation  I '  —  As  he  spake. 

His  large  eye  roll'd  in  horror,  and  so  deep 

His  tone,  it  seem'd  some  Spirit  from  within 

Breathed  through  his  moveless  lips  the  unearthly 

voice. 


42. 

"  All  looks  were  turn'd  to  him.    '  O  Ad  ! '  he  cried, 

'  Dear  native  land,  by  all  remembrances 

Of  childhood,  by  all  joys  of  manhood  dear ; 

O  Vale  of  many  Waters;  morn  and  night 

My  age  must  groan  for  you,  and  to  the  grave 

Go  down  in  sorrow.     Thou  wilt  give  thy  fruits, 

But  who  shall  gather  them .'  thy  grapes  will  ripen. 

But  who  shall  tread  the  wine-press  ?  Fly  the  wrath. 

Ye  who  would  live  and  save  your  souls  alive  ! 

For  strong  is  his  right  hand  that  bends  the  Bow, 

The  Arrows  that  he  shoots  are  sharp, 

And  err  not  from  their  aim  ! ' 

43. 

"  With  that  a  faithful  few 
Press'd  through  the  throng  to  join  him.    Then  arose 
Mockery  and  mirth ; '  Go,  bald  head ! '  and  they  mix'd 

Curses  with  laugliter.     He  set  forth,  yet  once 

Look'd  back  :  —  his  eye  fell  on  me,  and  he  call'd, 

'  Aswad  ! '  —  it  startled  me  —  it  terrified ;  — 

'  Aswad  ! '  again  he  call'd  — and  I  almost 

Had  follow'd  him.  — O  momefit  fled  too  soon ! 

O  moment  irrecoverably  lost  I 

The  shouts  of  mockery  made  a  coward  of  rne  ; 

He  went,  and  I  remain'd  in  fear  of  Man  ! 

44. 

"  He  went,  and  darker  grew 

The  deepening  cloud  above. 

At  length  it  open'd,  and  — O  God  I  O  God  !  — 

There  were  no  waters  there  ! 

There  fell  no  kindly  rain  ! 

The  Sarsar  from  its  womb  went  forth, 

The  ley  Wind  of  Death.— 

45. 

"  They  fell  around  me  ;  thousands  fell  around  ; 

The  King  and  all  his  people  fell ; 

All !  all !  they  perish'd  all  ! 

I  —  only  I  —  was  left. 

There  came  a  Voice  to  me,  and  said, 

'  In  the  Day  of  Visitation, 

In  the  fearful  Hour  of  Judgment, 

God  hath  remember'd  thee.' 

4C. 

"  When  from  an  agony  of  prayer  I  rose, 

And  from  the  scene  of  death 

Attempted  to  go  forth. 

The  way  was  open ;  I  could  see 

No  barrier  to  my  steps. 

But  round  these  bowers  the  arm  of  God 

Had  drawn  a  mighty  chain, 

A  barrier  that  no  human  force  might  break. 

Twice  I  essay'd  to  pass ; 

With  that  a  Voice  was  heard, — 

'  O  Aswad,  be  content,  and  bless  the  Lord  ! 

One  charitable  deed  hath  saved 

Thy  soul  from  utter  death. 

O  Aswad,  sinful  man  ! 

When  by  long  penitence 

Thou  feel'st  thy  soul  prepared, 

Breathe  up  the  wish  to  die, 

And  Azrael  comes  in  answer  to  thy  prayer.' 


BOOK    I. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


5i31 


47. 

"A  miserable  man, 

From  Earth  and  Heaven  shut  out, 

I  heard  the  dreadful  Voice. 

I  look'd  aroujid  my  prison  place  ; 

The  bodies  of  the  dead  were  there  ; 

Where'er  I  look'd  they  lay, 

They  moulder'd,  moulder'd  here,  — 

Their  very  bones  have  crumbled  into  dust. 

So  many  j'cars  have  past ! 

So  many  weary  ages  have  gone  by  ! 

And  still  I  linger  here, 

Still  groaning  with  the  burden  of  my  sins. 

Not  yet  have  dared  to  breathe 

The  prayer  to  be  released. 

48. 

"  Oh  1  who  can  tell  the  unspeakable  misery 

Of  solitude  like  this  ! 

No  sound  hath  ever  reach'd  my  ear, 

Save  of  the  passing  wind, 

The  fountain's  everlasting  flow. 

The  forest  in  the  gale. 

The  pattering  of  the  shower  — 

Sounds  dead  and  mournful  all. 

No  bird  hath  ever  closed  her  wing 

Upon  these  solitary  bowers, 

No  insect  sweetly  buzz'd  amid  these  groves, 

From  all  things  tliat  have  life. 

Save  only  me,  conceal'd. 

This  Tree  alone,  that  o'er  rny  head 

Hansjs  down  its  hospitable  boughs. 

And  bends  its  whispering  leaves 

As  though  to  v.'clcome  me. 

Seems  to  partake  of  life  : 

I  love  it  as  my  friend,  my  only  friend ! 

49. 

"  I  know  not  for  what  ages  1  have  dragg'd 

This  miserable  life  : 

How  often  I  have  seen 

These  ancient  trees  renew'd  ! 

Wh^it  countless  generations  of  mankind 

Have  risen  and  fallen  asleep, 

And  1  remain  the  same  ! 

My  garment  liatli  not  waxen  old, 

And  the  sole  of  my  shoe  is  not  worn. 

50. 

"  Sinner  that  I  have  been, 

I  dare  not  offer  up  a  prayer  to  die. 

O  merciful  Lord  God  !  — 

But  when  it  is  thy  will. 

But  when  I  have  atoned 

For  mine  iniquities. 

And  sufferings  have  made  pure 

My  soul  with  sin  defiled, 

Release  me  in  thine  own  good  time ;  — 

I  will  not  cease  to  praise  thee,  O  my  God  !  " 

51. 

Silence  ensued  awhile  ; 

Then  Zeinab  answer'd  him ; 

"  Blessed  art  thou,  O  Aswad  !  for  the  Lord, 

Who  saved  thy  soul  from  Hell, 


Will  call  thee  to  him  in  his  own  good  time. 

And  would  that  when  my  soul 

Breathed  up  the  wisli  to  die, 

Azrael  might  visit  me  ! 

Then  would  I  follow  where  my  babes  are  gone, 

And  join  Hodeirah  now  !  " 

52. 

She  ceased;  and  the  rushing  of  wings 

Was  heard  in  the  stillness  of  night. 

And  Azrael,  the  Death-Angel,  stood  before  them 

His  countenance  was  dark. 

Solemn,  but  not  severe ; 

It  awed,  but  struck  no  terror  to  the  heart. 

"  Zeinab,  thy  wish  is  heard  ! 

Aswad,  thine  hour  is  come  !  " 

They  fell  upon  the  ground,  and  blest  the  voice  ; 

And  Azrael  from  his  sword 

Let  fall  the  drops  of  bitterness  and  death. 

53. 

•''  Me  too  I  me  too  !  "  young  Thalaba  exclaim'd. 

As,  wild  with  grief,  he  kiss'd 

His  Mother's  livid  hand. 

His  Mother's  livid  lips; 

"  O  Angel  !  take  me  too  ! " 

54. 

"  Son  of  Hodeirah!  "  the  Deatii-Angel  said, 

"  It  is  not  yet  the  hour. 

Son  of  Hodeirah,  thou  art  ciiosen  forth 

To  do  the  will  of  Heaven  ; 

To  avenge  thy  father's  death. 

The  murder  of  thy  race  ; 

To  work  the  mightiest  enterprise 

That  mortal  man  hath  wrought. 

Live  !  and  remembkr  destiny 

Hath  mark'd  thee  from  mankind!  " 


He  ceased,  and  he  was  gone. 

Young  Thalaba  look'd  round; 

The  Palace  and  the  Groves  were  seen  no  more  ; 

He  stood  amid  the  Wilderness,  alone. 


NOTES  TO   BOOK   I. 

Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  willi  the  sky.  —  1,  p.  225. 

Henry  More  had  a  sitiiilar  picture  in  liis  mind  when  he 
wrote  of 

Vast  plains  with  lowly  cottages  forlorn. 
Rounded  about  with  the  low-wavering  sky. 


Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss.  —  3,  p.  22.5. 

It  may  be  worth  mentioning,  that,  according  to  Pietro 
dclla  Valle,  this  is  the  name  of  wliicli  the  Latins  have  made 
Zenobia. 


He  gave,  he  takes  airay !  —  4,  p.  22G. 

The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away;  blessed  he  the 
name  of  the  Lord.  —  Joti,  i.  21. 

I  have  plareii  a  Scripture  phraee  in  the  mouth  of  a  Ma- 
honimcdan  ;  hut  it  is  a  saying  of  Job,  and  tliore  can  be  no 
impropriety  in  making  u  modern  .Arab  speak  like  an  ancient 


;52 


NOTES    TO    TIIxYLABA    THE    DESTROYER 


BOOK    1. 


o:ie.  Resignation  is  particularly  inculcated  by  Maliommed  ; 
i. nil  of  nil  his  precepts  it  is  that  wliicli  his  followers  have  best 
observed  :  it  is  even  the  vice  of  the  East.  It  liad  been  easy 
to  have  made  Zeinib  speak  from  the  Koran,  if  the  tame  lan- 
guage of  the  Koran  could  be  remembered  by  the  few  who 
have  toiled  through  its  dull  tautology.  I  tliought  it  better 
to  express  a  feeling  of  religion  in  that  language  with  which 
our  religious  ideas  are  connected. 


And  rented  like  a  dome.  —  1 1,  p.  92fi. 

La  mer  n'estplun  qa'un  eercle  aiu  yeuz  des  Jilateluts, 
OH  le  Ciel  forme  un  dOriie  uppiiycsur  lesfluts. 

Le  JVouveau  Monde,  par  M.  Le  Saire. 


Here  studding  azure  tablatures 13,  p.  226. 

The  magnificent  Mosque  at  Taiiris  is  faced  with  varnished 
bricks,  of  various  colors,  like  most  fine  buddings  in  Persia, 
says  Tavernier.  One  of  its  domes  is  covered  with  white 
flower-work  upon  a  green  ground ;  the  other  has  a  black 
ground,  spotted  with  white  stars.  Gilding  is  also  common 
upon  Oriental  buildings.  At  Boghar  in  Bactria  our  old  trav- 
eller Jenkinson*  saw  "many  houses,  temples,  and  monu- 
ments of  stone,  sumptuously  builded  and  gilt." 

In  Pegu  "they  consume  about  their  Varely  or  idol  houses 
great  store  of  leafe-gold,  for  that  they  overlay  all  the  tops  of 
the  houses  with  gold,  and  some  of  them  are  covered  with 
gold  from  the  top  to  the  foote  ;  in  covering  whereof  there  is  a 
great  store  of  gold  spent,  for  that  every  ten  years  they  new- 
overlay  them  w  ith  gold,  from  the  top  to  the  foote,  so  that 
with  this  vanilie  they  spend  great  aboundance  of  golde.  For 
every  ten  years  the  rain  doth  consume  the  gold  from  these 
houses."  —  CiBsar  Frederick,  in  Hukluyt. 

A  waste  of  ornament  and  labor  characterizes  all  the  works 
of  the  Orientalists.  I  have  seen  illuminated  Persian  man- 
uscripts that  must  each  have  been  the  toil  of  many  years, 
every  page  painted,  not  with  representations  of  life  and 
manners,  but  usually  like  the  curves  and  lines  of  a  Turkey 
carpet,  conveying  no  idea  whatever,  as  absurd  to  the  eye  as 
nonsense-verses  to  the  ear.  The  little  of  their  literature  that 
has  reached  us  is  equally  worthless.  Our  barbarian  scholars 
have  called  Ferdusi  the  Oriental  Homer.  Mr.  Champion  has 
published  a  sjjecimen  of  his  poem  ;  the  translation  is  said  to  be 
bad,  and  certainly  must  be  unfaithful,  for  it  is  in  rhyme  ;  but 
the  vilest  copy  of  a  picture  at  least  represents  the  subject  and 
the  composition.  To  make  this  Iliad  of  the  East,  as  they  have 
sacrilegiously  styled  it,  a  good  poem,  would  be  realizing  the 
dreams  of  alchemy,  and  transmuting  lead  into  gold. 

The  Arabian  Tales  certainly  abound  with  genius  ;  they 
have  lost  their  metaphorical  rubbish  in  passing  through  the 
filter  of  a  French  translation. 


Sennamar  built  at  Hirah,  &.C.  — 13,  p.  226. 

The  Arabians  call  this  palace  one  of  the  wonders  of  the 
world.  It  was  built  for  N6man-al-A6uar,  one  of  those  Ara- 
bian Kings  who  reigned  at  llirah.  A  single  stone  fastened 
the  whole  structure  ;  the  color  of  the  walls  varied  frequently 
in  a  day.  Neman  richly  rewarded  the  architect  Sennamar  ; 
but,  recollecting  afterwards  that  he  might  build  palaces  equal 
or  superior  in  beauty  for  his  rival  kings,  ordered  that  he 
should  be  thrown  from  the  highest  tower  of  the  edifice.  — 
D'llerhelot. 

An  African  colony  had  been  settled  in  the  north  of  Ireland 
long  before  the  arrival  of  the  Neimhedians.  It  is  recorded, 
that  Neimheidh  had  employed  four  of  their  artisans  to  erect 
for  him  two  sumptuous  palaces,  which  were  so  highly  finished, 
that,  jealous  lest  they  might  construct  others  on  the  same,  or 
perhaps  a  grander  plan,  he  had  them  privately  made  away 
with,  the  day  after  they  had  completed  their  work. 

O'Halloraii's  History  of  Ireland. 


The  Paradise  of  Irem,  &c.  —  19,  p.  227. 
The  tribe  of  Ad  were  descended  from  Ad,  the  son  of  .Aus 

•  Haklmjt. 


or  Uz,  the  son  of  Irem,  the  son  of  Sliem,  the  son  <-f  Nor.h, 
who,  after  the  confusion  of  tongues,  settled  in  .M-Alikaf,  or 
the  Winding  Sands,  in  the  jjrovince  of  Iladram,.ut,  where  his 
posterity  greatly  multiplied.  Their  first  King  was  t^hed.ul, 
the  son  of  Ad,  of  whom  the  Eastern  writers  deliver  many 
fabulous  things,  particularly  that  he  finished  the  magnificent 
city  his  father  had  begun  ;  wherein  he  built  a  fine  palace, 
adorned  with  delicious  gardens,  to  embellish  which  he  spared 
neither  cost  nor  labor,  proposing  thereby  to  create  in  his 
subjects  a  superstitious  veneration  of  himself  as  a  God.  This 
garden  or  paradise  was  called  the  garden  of  Irem,  and  is  men 
tioned  in  the  Koran,  and  often  alluded  to  by  the  Oriental 
writers.  The  city,  they  tell  us,  is  still  standing  in  the  deserts 
of  Aden,  being  jireserved  by  Providence  as  a  monument  ot 
divine  justice,  though  it  be  invisible,  unless  very  rarely,  when 
God  permits  it  to  be  seen — a  favor  one  Colabah  jjretended 
to  have  received  in  the  reign  of  the  Khalif  Moawiyah,  who 
sending  for  him  to  know  the  truth  of  the  matter,  C'olabah 
related  his  whole  adventure  ;  that,  as  he  was  seeking  a  camel 
he  had  lost,  he  found  himself  on  a  sudden  at  the  gates  of  this 
city,  and  entering  it,  saw  not  one  inhabitant ;  at  which  being 
terrified,  he  staid  no  longer  than  to  take  with  him  some  fine 
stones,  which  he  showed  the  Khalif. —  Sale. 

The  descendants  of  Ad,  in  process  of  time,  falling  from  the 
worship  of  the  true  God  into  idolatry,  God  sent  the  prophet 
Houd  (who  is  generally  agreed  to  be  Ileber)  to  preach  the 
unity  of  his  essence,  and  reclaim  them.  Houd  preached  for 
many  years  to  this  people  without  efiect,  till  God  at  last  was 
weary  of  waiting  for  their  repentance.  The  first  punishment 
which  he  inflicted  was  a  famine  of  three  years'  continuance, 
during  all  which  time  the  heavens  were  closed  upon  them. 
This,  with  the  evils  which  it  caused,  destroyed  a  great  part 
of  this  people,  who  were  then  the  richest  and  most  powerful 
of  all  in  Arabia. 

The  Adites,  seeing  themselves  reduced  to  this  extremity, 
and  receiving  no  succor  from  their  false  gods,  resolved  to 
make  a  pilgrimage  to  a  place  in  the  province  of  Ilegiaz,  w  here 
at  present  Mecca  is  situated.  There  was  then  a  hillock  of 
red  sand  there,  around  which  a  great  concourse  of  diflerent 
people  might  always  be  seen  ;  and  all  these  nations,  the 
faithful  as  well  as  the  unfaithful,  believed  that  by  visiting 
this  spot  with  devotion,  they  should  obtain  from  God  what- 
ever they  petitioned  for,  respecting  the  wants  and  necessities 
of  life. 

The  Adites,  having  then  resolved  to  undertake  this  religious 
journey,  chose  seventy  men,  at  whose  head  they  appointed 
Mortadh  and  Kail,  the  two  most  considerable  per  onages  of 
the  country,  to  perform  this  duty  in  the  name  of  the  whole 
nation,  and  by  this  means  procure  rain  from  Heaven,  without 
which  their  country  must  be  ruined.  The  deputies  departed, 
and  were  hospitably  received  by  Moawiyah,  who  at  that  time 
reigned  in  the  province  of  Hegiaz.  They  explained  to  him 
the  occasion  of  their  journey,  and  demanded  leave  to  proceed 
and  perform  their  devotions  at  the  Red  Hillock,  that  they 
might  procure  rain. 

Mortadh,  who  was  the  wisest  of  this  company,  and  who 
had  been  converted  by  the  Prophet  Houd,  often  remonstrated 
with  his  associates,  that  it  was  useless  to  take  this  journey  for 
the  purpose  of  praying  at  this  chosen  spot,  unless  they  had 
previously  adopted  the  truths  which  the  Prophet  preached, 
and  seriously  repented  of  their  unlielicf.  For  how,  said  he, 
can  you  hope  that  God  will  shed  upon  us  the  abundant 
showers  of  his  mercy,  if  we  refuse  to  hear  the  voice  of  him 
whom  he  hath  sent  to  instruct  us  .' 

Kail,  who  was  one  of  the  most  obstinate  in  error,  and  con- 
sequently of  the  Prophet's  worst  enemies,  hearing  the  dis- 
courses of  his  colleague,  requisted  king  Moawiyah  to  detain 
Mortadh  prisoner,  whilst  he  and  the  remainder  of  his  com- 
panions proceeded  to  make  their  prayers  upon  the  Hillock. 
Moawiyah  consented,  and,  detaining  Mortadh  captive,  per- 
mitted the  others  to  pursue  their  journey,  and  accomplish 
their  vow. 

Kail,  now  the  sole  chief  of  the  deputation,  having  arrived 
at  the  place,  prayed  thus  :  I^ord,  give  to  the  people  of  Ad  such 
rains  as  it  shall  please  thee.  And  he  had  scarcely  finished 
when  there  appeared  three  clouds  in  the  sky,  one  white,  one 
red,  the  third  black.  At  the  same  time,  these  words  were 
heard  to  proceed  from  Heaven  —  Choose  which  of  the  three 
thou  wilt.     Kail   chose  the   black,  which  he  imagined  the 


BOOK  I. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


233 


fullest,  and  most  abundant  in  water,  of  which  they  were  in 
extreme  want.  Afler  having  chosen,  lie  iininediiitcly  quitted 
iho  pi  ice,  and  took  the  roail  to  his  own  country,  congratulating 
himself  on  the  hiippy  success  of  his  pilgrimage. 

As  soon  as  Kail  arrived  in  the  vwlley  of  Jfagaith,  a  part  of 
the  territory  of  the  Adites,  he  informed  his  countrymen  of 
the  f.ivora!)le  answer  he  had  received,  and  of  the  cloud  which 
was  soon  to  water  all  their  lan<ls.  The  senseless  people  all 
came  out  of  their  houses  to  receive  it ;  but  this  cloud,  which 
was  big  with  the  divine  vengeance,  produced  only  a  wind, 
most  cold  and  most  violent,  which  the  Arabs  call  Sarsar  ;  it 
continued  to  blow  for  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  and  exter- 
minated all  the  unbelievers  of  the  country,  leaving  only  the 
Prophet  Houd  alive,  and  those  who  had  heard  him  and  turned 
to  the  faith.  —  Vllerbelot. 


O'er  all  the  winding  sands.  — 19,  p.  227 
Al-Ahkaf  signifies  the  Winding  Sands. 


Delects  the  ebony.— 22,  p.  22S. 

I  have  heard  from  a  certain  Cyprian  botanist,  that  the 
ebony  does  not  produce  eitlier  leaves  or  fruit,  and  that  it  is 
never  seen  exposed  to  the  sun  ;  that  its  roots  are  indeed  under 
the  earth,  which  the  ^Ethiopians  dig  out ;  and  that  there  are 
men  among  them  skilled  in  finding  the  place  of  its  conceal- 
ment. —  Pausanias,  translated  by  Taylor. 


We  to  our  Idols  still  applied  for  aid.  —  94,  p.  223. 

The  Aditns  worshipped  four  idols,  Sakiali,  the  dispenser  of 
rain,  Hafedah,  the  protector  of  travellers,  Razekab,  the  giver 
of  food,  and  Salemah,  the  preserver  in  sickness.  —  D'Hcrbdot. 
Sale. 


TTim  to  the  place  of  concourse,  &.c.  — 25,  p.  298. 

Mecca  was  thus  called.  Mahonimed  destroyed  the  other 
superstitions  of  the  Aral)s,  Imt  In;  was  obliged  to  adopt  their 
old  and  rooted  veneration  for  the  Well  and  the  Black  Stone, 
and  transfer  to  Mecca  the  respect  and  reverence  which  he  had 
designed  for  Jerusalem. 

"  Mecca  is  situated  in  a  barren  place  (about  one  day's  jour- 
ney from  the  Red  Sea)  in  a  valley,  or  rather  in  the  midst  of 
many  little  hills.  The  town  is  surroimded  for  several  miles 
with  many  thousands  of  little  hills,  which  are  very  near  one 
to  the  other.  I  have  been  on  the  top  of  some  of  them,  near 
Jlecca,  where  I  could  sec  some  miles  about,  but  yet  was  not 
able  to  see  the  farthest  of  the  hills.  They  are  all  stony-rock, 
and  blackish,  and  pretty  near  of  a  bigness,  appearing  at  a  dis- 
tance like  cocks  of  hay,  but  all  pointingtowards  Mecca.  Some 
of  them  are  half  a  mile  in  circumference,  &.C.,  but  all  near  of 
one  heiglit.  The  people  liere  have  an  odd  and  foolish  sort  of 
tradition  concerning  them,  viz.  That  when  Abraham  went 
about  building  the  Beat-Allah,  God  by  his  wonderful  prov- 
idence did  so  order  it,  that  every  muuntain  in  the  world 
should  contribute  something  to  the  building  thereof;  and 
accordingly  every  one  did  send  its  proportion.  Tliough  there 
is  a  mountain  near  Algiers,  which  is  called  Curra  Hog,  i.  c. 
Black  Mountain  ;  and  the  reason  of  its  blackness,  they  say,  is, 
because  it  did  not  send  any  part  of  itself  towards  building  the 
Temple  at  Mecca.  Betweeji  these  hills  is  good  and  plain 
travelling,  though  they  stand  near  one  to  another." 

A  faithful  Account  of  the  Religion  and  Manners  of  the 
Mahomedans,  S;c.  by  .Joseph  Pills  of  Exon. 

Adam,  afler  his  fall,  was  placed  upon  the  mountain  of  Vassfm 
in  the  eastern  region  of  the  globe.  Eve  was  banished  to  a 
place,  since  called  Djidda,  which  signifies  the  first  of  mothers, 
(the  celebrated  port  of  Gedda,  on  the  coast  of  Arabia.)  The 
Serpent  was  cast  into  the  most  horrid  desert  of  the  East,  and 
the  spiritual  tempter,  who  seduced  him,  was  exiled  to  the 
coasts  of  £i?(7i/(.  This  fall  of  our  first  parent  was  followed 
by  the  infidelity  and  sedition  of  all  the  spirits,  Djinn,  who 
were  spread  over  the  surface  oi  the  earth.  Then  God  sent 
against  them  the  great  Azazil,  who,  with  a  legion  of  angels, 
chased  them  from  the  continent,  and  dispersed  them  among 

30 


the  isles,  and  along  the  different  coasts  of  the  sea.  Some 
time  after,  jJi/am,  conducted  by  the  spirit  of  God,  travelled 
into  Arabia,  and  advanced  as  far  as  Mecca.  His  footsteps 
diffused  on  ail  sides  abundance  and  fertility.  His  figure  was 
enchanting,  his  stature  lofty,  his  complexion  brown,  his  hair 
thick,  long,  and  curled;  and  he  then  wore  a  beard  and  mus- 
tachios.  After  a  separation  of  a  hundred  years,  he  rejoined 
Eve  on  Mount  Arafaitit,  near  Mecca  —  an  event  which  gave 
that  mount  the  name  of  Arafaith,  or  Arefe,  that  is,  the  Place 
of  llcmembrance.  This  favor  of  the  Eternal  Deity  was 
accompanied  by  another  not  less  striking.  By  his  orders  the 
angels  took  a  tent,  Kliayme,  from  Paradise,  and  pitched  it  on 
the  very  spot  where  afterwards  the  Keube  was  erected.  This 
is  the  most  sacred  of  the  tabernacles,  and  the  first  temple 
which  was  consecrated  to  the  worship  of  the  Eternal  Deity 
by  the  first  of  men,  and  by  all  his  posterity.  Sr.th  was  the 
founder  of  the  Sacred  Kcabe;  in  the  same  place  where  the 
angels  had  pitched  the  celestial  tent,  he  erected  a  stone  edifice, 
which  he  consecrated  to  the  worship  of  the  Eternal  Deity. — 
D'  Ohsson. 

Bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  years,  Adam  had  reached  the 
limit  of  his  earthly  existence.  At  that  moment  he  longed 
eagerly  for  the  fruits  of  Paradise.  A  legion  of  angels  attended 
upon  his  latest  sigh,  and,  by  the  command  of  the  Eternal 
Being,  received  his  soul.  He  died  on  Friday,  the  7th  of 
April,  JVissan,  at  the  age  of  nine  hundred  and  thirty  years. 
The  angels  washed  and  purified  his  body  ;  which  was  the 
origin  of  funeral  ablutions.  The  archangel  Michael  wrapped 
it  in  a  sheet,  with  perfumes  and  aromatics  ;  and  the  archangel 
Gabriel,  discharging  the  duties  of  the  Imameth,  performed,  at 
the  head  of  the  whole  legion  of  angels,  and  of  the  whole 
family  of  this  first  of  the  patriarchs,  the  Salath'ul-Djenaze ; 
which  gave  birth  lo  funeral  prayers.  The  body  of  Adam  was 
deposited  at  Ohar'ul-Kenz,  (the  grotto  of  treasure,)  upon  the 
mountain  Djebel-Eb' y  Coubeijss,  which  overlooks  Mecca.  His 
descendants,  at  his  death,  amounted   to  forty  thousand  souls. 

—  D'0/isson. 

When  Noah  entered  the  ark,  he  took  with  him,  by  the 
command  of  the  Eternal,  the  body  of  Adam,  enclosed  in  a 
box-coffin.  After  the  waters  had  abated,  his  first  care  was  to 
deposit  it  in  tlie  same  grotto  from  whence  it  had  been  removed. 

—  D'  Olisson. 


So  if  the  resurrection  came.  — 27,  p.  228. 

Some  of  the  Pagan  Arabs,  when  they  died,  had  their  Camel 
tied  by  their  Sepulchre,  and  so  left  without  meat  or  drink  to 
perish,  and  accompany  them  to  the  other  world,  lest  they 
should  be  obliged  at  the  Resurrection  to  go  on  foot,  which 
was  accounted  very  scandalous. 

All  affirmed  that  the  pious,  when  they  come  forth  from 
their  s<pulclires,  shall  find  ready  prepared  for  them  white- 
winged  Camels  with  saddles  of  gold.  Here  are  some  footsteps 
of  the  doctrine  of  the  ancient  Arabians.  —  Sale. 


She  stared  me  in  the  face.  — 27,  p.  ^8. 

This  lino  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  of  our  old 
ballads,  so  full  of  beauty.  I  have  never  seen  the  ballad  in 
print,  and  with  some  trouble  have  procured  only  an  impeifect 
copy  from  memory.  It  is  necessary  to  insert  some  of  the 
preceding  stanzas.     The  title  is. 

Old  Boulter's  Mabe. 

At  length  old  age  came  on  her, 

And  she  grew  faint  and  poor ; 
Her  master  he  fell  out  with  her, 

And  turn'd  her  out  of  door, 
Saying,  If  thou  wilt  not  labor, 

I  prithee  go  thy  way,  — 
And  never  let  me  see  thy  face 

Until  thy  dying  day. 

These  words  she  took  unkind, 

And  on  her  way  she  went. 
For  to  fulfil  her  master's  will 

Always  was  her  intent ; 
The  hills  were  very  high. 

The  valleys  very  bare, 


234 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK   1. 


Tlie  summer  it  was  liot  and  dry,  — 
It  starved  Old  I'oulter's  Marc. 

Old  Poulter  lie  grew  sorrowful, 

And  SLiid  to  his  kinsman  Will, 
I'd  have  thee  go  and  seek  the  Mare 

O'er  valley  and  o'er  hill  ; 
Go,  go,  go,  go,  says  Poulter, 

And  make  haste  hack  iigain, 
For  until  thou  hast  found  the  Mare, 

In  grief  I  shall  remain. 

Away  went  Will  so  willingly, 

And  all  day  long  he  sought ; 
Till  when  it  grew  towards  the  night. 

He  in  his  uiind  hethought. 
He  would  go  home  and  rest  him, 

And  come  again  to-morrow  ; 
For  if  he  could  not  find  the  Mare, 

His  heart  would  hreak  with  sorrow. 

He  went  a  little  farther. 

And  turn'd  his  head  aside, 
And  just  by  goodman  Wliitlield's  gale, 

Oh,  there  the  Mare  he  spied. 
He  ask'd  her  how  she  did  ; 

She  stared  him  in  the  face. 
Then  down  she  laid  her  head  again  — 

She  was  in  wretched  case. 


JVhat  though  unmoved  they  bore  the  deluge  weight.  —  29,  p.  229. 

Concerning  the  Pyramids,"  I  shall  put  down,"  says  Greaves, 
"  that  which  is  confessed  hy  the  Arabian  writers  to  he  the 
most  probable  relation,  as  is  reported  by  Ibii  Abd  Albokm, 
whose  words,  out  of  the  Arabic,  are  these  :  — '  The  greatest 
part  of  chronologers  agree,  that  he  wliich  built  the  Pyra- 
mids was  Saurid  Ibn  Salliouk,  King  of  Egypt,  who  lived 
three  hundred  years  I)ef(>re  the  flood.  The  occasion  of  this 
was,  because  be  saw,  in  his  sleej),  that  the  whole  earth  was 
turned  over  with  the  iidiabitants  of  it,  the  men  lying  upon 
their  faces,  and  the  stars  falling  down  and  striking  one 
another,  with  a  terrible  noise  ;  and  being  troubled,  he  con- 
cealed it.  After  this,  he  saw  the  fi.xed  stars  falling  to  the 
earth,  in  the  similitude  of  white  fowl,  and  they  snatched 
up  men,  carrying  them  between  two  great  mountains  ;  and 
these  mountains  closed  upon  them,  and  the  shining  stars 
were  made  dark.  Awaking  with  great  fear,  he  assembles 
the  chief  priests  of  all  the  provinces  of  Egypt,  an  hundred 
and  thirty  priests;  the  chief  of  them  was  called  Aclimum. 
Relating  the  whole  matter  to  tliem,  they  took  the  altitude  of 
the  stars,  ami,  making  their  prognostication,  foretold  of  a 
deluge.  The  King  said.  Will  it  come  to  our  country ! 
they  answered,  Yea,  and  will  destroy  it.  And  there  re- 
mained a  certain  number  of  years  for  to  come,  and  he 
commanded,  in  the  mean  space,  to  build  the  Pyramids,  and  a 
vault  to  be  made,  into  which  the  river  Nilus  entering,  should 
run  into  the  countries  of  the  west,  and  into  the  land  Al-Said. 
And  he  filled  them  with  telesinrs,*  and  with  strange  things, 
and  with  riches  and  treasures,  and  the  like.  He  engraved  in 
them  all  things  that  were  told  him  by  wise  men,  as  also  all 
profound  sciences,  the  names  of  u'aAafo'r.<,f  the  uses  and  hurts 
of  them  i  the  science  of  astrology,  and  of  arithmetic,  and  of 
geometry,  and  of  physic.  All  this  may  be  interi)reted  by  him 
that  knows  their  characters  and  language.  After  he  had 
given  order  for  this  building,  they  cut  out  vast  columns  and 
wonderful  stones.  They  fctcht  massy  stones  from  the  Ethi- 
opians, and  made  with  these  the  foundation  of  the  three 
Pyramids,  fastening  them  together  with  lead  and  iron.  They 
built  the  gates  of  them  forty  cubits  under  ground,  and  they 
made  the  height  of  the  Pyramids  one  hundred  royal  cubits, 


•  That  which  the  Arabians  commonly  mean  by  telesmes  are  certain 
sigilia  or  amuleta,  made  nnder  such  and  such  an  aspect,  or  configuration 
of  llie  St  irs  and  planets,  with  several  characters  accordingly  inscribed. 

t  Alakakir,  amongst  other  significations,  is  the  name  of  a  precious  stone  ; 
and,  therefore,  in  Abulfeda,  it  is  joined  with  yacut,  a  ruby.  I  imagine  it 
here  Ic  si^nily  some  magical  spell  which,  it  may  be,  was  engraveii  on  this 
stone. 


which  are  fifty  of  ours,  in  these  limes  ;  he  also  made  each  side 
of  them  an  hundred  royal  cubits.  The  beginning  of  this 
building  was  in  a  fortunate  horoscope.  After  that  he  had 
finished  it,  he  covered  it  with  colored  satin  lirom  Ihe  top  to 
the  bottom;  and  he  appointed  a  solenm  festival,  at  which 
were  present  all  the  inhabitants  of  bis  kingdom.  'J'hcn  he 
built,  in  the  western  pyramid,  Ibirly  treasures,  filled  with  store 
of  riches  and  utensils,  and  with  signatures  madi>  of  precious 
stones,  and  with  instruments  of  iron,  and  vessels  ofiarlh,and 
with  arms  that  rust  not,  and  with  glass  which  might  be  bended 
and  yet  not  broken,  and  with  si;veral  kinds  of  uZaA-u/./r<, single 
and  double,  and  with  deadly  poisons,  and  with  other  things 
besides.  He  made  also  in  the  east  Pyramid  divers  celestial 
spheres  and  stars,  and  what  they  severally  operate  in  their 
aspects,  and  the  perfumes  which  are  to  be  used  to  them,  and 
the  books  which  treat  of  these  matters.  He  also  j)ut  in  the 
colored  Pyramid  the  commentaries  of  the  Priests  in  chests  of 
black  marble,  and  with  every  Priest  a  book,  in  which  were 
the  wonders  of  his  profession,  and  of  his  actions,  and  of  his 
nature,  and  w  htit  was  done  in  his  time,  and  what  is,  and  what 
shall  be,  from  the  beginning  of  time  to  the  end  of  it.  Ho 
placed  in  every  Pyramid  a  treasurer.  The  treasurer  of  the 
westerly  Pyramid  was  a  statue  of  marble  stone,  standing 
upright  with  a  lance,  and  upon  his  bead  a  serpent,  wreathed. 
He  that  came  near  it,  and  stood  still,  the  serpent  bit  him  of 
one  side,  and  wreathing  round  about  his  throat  and  killing 
him,  returned  to  his  place.  He  made  the  treasurer  of  the 
east  Pyramid,  an  idol  of  black  agate,  his  eyes  open  and 
shining,  sitting  upon  a  throne  with  a  lance  :  when  any  looked 
upon  him,  he  heard  of  one  side  of  him  a  voice,  which  took 
away  his  sense,  so  that  he  fell  prostrate  upon  his  face,  and 
ceased  not  till  he  died.  He  made  the  treasurer  of  Ihe  colored 
Pyramid  a  statue  of  stone,  called  Mlbut,  sitting:  ho  which 
looked  towtinls  it  was  drawn  by  the  statue,  till  he  stuck  to  it, 
and  could  not  be  separated  from  it,  till  such  time  as  he  died. 
The  Coptites  write  in  their  books,  that  there  is  an  inscription 
engraven  upon  them,  the  exposition  of  which,  in  Arabic,  is 
this,  /  King  SitRio  built  the  Pyramids  in  such  and  such  a 
time,  and  finished  them  in  six  years  ;  he  that  comes  after  me, 
and  says  that  he  is  equal  to  me,  let  him  destroy  them  in  sic 
hundred  years ;  and  yet  it  is  known,  that  it  is  easier  to  pluck 
doicn,  than  to  huUd  up  :  I  also  covered  them,  ■when  I  had  finished 
them,  with  sattin ;  and  let  him  cover  them  with  malts.  After 
that  Almaibon  the  Calif  entered  jEgypt,  and  saw  the  Pyra- 
iniils,  he  desired  to  know  what  was  within,  and  therefore 
would  have  them  opened.  They  told  him  it  could  not  possi- 
bly be  done.  He  rei)lied,  I  will  have  it  certainly  done. 
Ami  that  hole  was  opened  for  him,  which  stands  open  to  this 
day,  with  fire  and  vinegar.  Two  smiths  prepared  and  sharp- 
ened the  iron  and  engines,  which  they  forced  in,  and  there 
was  a  great  expense  in  the  opening  of  it.  The  thickness  of 
the  walls  was  found  to  be  twenty  cul>its  ;  and  when  they  came 
to  the  end  of  the  wall,  behind  the  place  they  htid  digged, 
there  was  an  ewer  of  green  emerald  :  in  it  were  a  thousand 
dinars  very  weighty,  every  dinar  was  an  ounce  of  our  ounces; 
they  wondered  at  it,  but  knew  not  the  meaning  of  it.  Then 
Almamon.  saiil.  Cast  up  the  accottnt  how  much  bath  been 
s))ent  in  making  the  entrance  ;  they  cast  it  up,  and  lo  it  was 
the  same  sum  which  Ibey  fiuind  ;  it  neither  exceeded  nor  was 
defective.  Within  they  found  a  square  well,  in  the  square 
of  it  there  were  doors,  every  door  opened  into  a  house,  (or 
vault,)  in  which  there  were  dead  bodies  wrapped  up  in  linen. 
They  found  towards  the  top  of  the  Pyramid,  a  chamber,  in 
which  there  was  a  hollow  stone  :  in  it  was  a  statue  of  stone 
like  a  mtin,  and  within  it  a  man,  upon  whom  was  a  breast- 
plate of  gold  set  with  jewels  ;  upon  his  breast  was  a  sword  of 
invaluable;  price,  and  at  his  bead  a  carbuncle  of  the  bigness  of 
an  egg,  shining  like  the  light  of  the  day  ;  and  upon  him 
were  characters  written  with  a  pen,  no  man  knows  what  they 
signify.  After  Almamon  had  opened  it,  men  entered  into  it 
for  many  years,  and  descended  by  the  slipi)ery  passage  which 
is  in  it ;  and  some  of  them  came  out  safe,  and  others  died.'  "  — 
Oreavcs's  Pyramidographia. 


The  living  carbuncle.  —  30,  p.  229. 

The  Carbuncle  is  to  be  found  in  most  of  the  subterranean 
palaces  of  Romance.     I  have  nowhere  seen  so  circumstantial 


BOOK    I. 


NOTES    TO    TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


235 


an  account  of  its  wonderful  properties  as  in  a  passage  of 
'J'huanus,  quoted  by  l?tupliiinius  in  his  Notes  to  Saxo-Gram- 
niaticus. 

"  Whilst  the  Kin?  was  at  Bologna,  a  stone,  wonderful  in 
its  species  and  nature,  was  brought  to  him  from  the  East 
Indies,  by  a  man  unknown,  who  appeared  by  liis  manners  to 
bo  a  Barl)arian.  It  sparkh;d  as  though  all  burning  willj  an 
incredibh?  splendor :  Hashing  radiance,  and  shooting  on  every 
side  its  beams,  it  filled  the  surrounding  air  to  a  great  distance 
with  a  light  scarcely  by  any  eyes  endurable.  In  this  also  it 
was  wonderful,  that  liiing  most  impatient  of  the  earth,  if  it 
was  conliiic'd,  it  would  force  its  way,  and  immediately  fly 
aloft;  neither  could  it  be  contained  by  any  art  of  man  in  a 
narrow  place,  but  appeared  only  to  love  those  of  ample  extent. 
It  was  of  the  utmost  purity,  stained  by  no  soil  nor  spot. 
Certain  shape  it  had  none,  for  its  figure  was  inconstant  and 
momentarily  changing,  and  though  at  a  distance  it  was  beau- 
tiful to  the  eye,  it  would  not  suffer  itself  to  be  handled  with 
impunity,  but  hurt  those  who  obstinately  struggled  with  it,  as 
many  persons  before  many  spectators  experienced.  If  by 
chance  any  part  of  it  was  broken  off',  for  it  was  not  very  hard, 
it  become  nothing  less.  "* —  Tlinarms,  lib.  8. 

In  the  Mirror  of  Stones,  Carbuncles  are  said  to  be  male 
and  female.  The  females  throw  out  their  brightness  :  the 
stars  appear  burning  within  the  males. 

Like  many  other  jewels,  the  Carbuncle  was  supposed  to  be 
an  animal  substance,  formed  in  the  serpent.  The  serpent's 
ingenious  nu-thod  of  preserving  it  from  the  song  of  the  charmer, 
is  related  in  an  after-note.     Book  9. 


Yet  innocent  it  grew.  —  31,  p.  229. 

Adam,  says  a  Moorish  author,  after  having  eaten  the  for- 
bidden fruit,  sought  to  hide  himself  under  the  shade  of  the 
trees  thiit  form  the  bowers  of  Paradise  :  the  Gold  and  Silver 
trees  refused  their  shade  to  the  father  of  the  human  race. 
God  asked  them  why  they  did  so.'  Because,  replied  the  Trees, 
Adam  has  transgressed  against  your  counnandment.  Ye  have 
done  well,  answered  the  Creator  ;  and  that  your  fidelity  may 
be  rewarded,  'tis  my  decree  that  men  shall  hereafter  become 
your  slaves,  and  that  in  search  of  you  they  shall  dig  into  the 
very  bowels  of  the  earth.  —  Chniicr. 

The  black-lead  of  Borrodale  is  described  as  lying  in  the 
mine  in  the  form  of  a  tree  ;  it  hath  a  body  or  root,  and  veins 
or  branches  fly  from  it  in  diff'erent  directions  :  the  root  or 
body  is  the  finest  black-lead,  and  the  branches  at  the  extremi- 
ties the  worst  the  farther  they  fly.  The  veins  or  branches 
sometimes  shoot  out  to  the  surface  of  the  ground Hutchin- 
son's Hist,  of  Cumberland. 

They  have  founde  by  experience,  that  the  vein  of  golde  is  a 
living  tree,  and  that  the  same  by  all  waies  that  it  spreadeth 
and  springrlh  from  the  roote  by  the  softe  pores  and  passages 
of  tlie  earth,  puttelh  forth  branches,  even  unto  the  uppermost 
parts  of  the  earth,  and  ceaseth  not  until  it  discover  itself  unto 
the  open  aire  ;  at  which  time  it  sheweth  fortlie  certaine  beau- 
tiful colours  in  the  steede  of  floures,  round  stones  of  golden 
earth  in  the  steede  of  fruitcs  ;  and  thinne  plates  insteede  of 
leaves.  They  say  that  the  roote  of  the  golden  tree  extendeth 
to  the  center  of  the  earth,  and  there  taketh  noiishmeut  of 
increase  :  for  the  deeper  that  they  dig,  they  finde  the  trnnkes 
thereof  to  be  so  much  the  greater,  as  farre  as  they  may  foUowe 
it,  for  abundance  of  water  springing  in  the  mountains.  Of 
the  branches  of  this  tree,  they  finde  some  as  small  as  a  thread, 
and  others  as  bigge  as  a  man's  finger,  according  to  the  large- 
ness or  straightnesse  of  the  riftes  and  cliftes.  They  have 
sometimes  chanced  upon  whole  caves,  sustained  and  borne  up 
as  it  were  with  golden  pillers,  and  this  in  the  waiea  by  the 
which  the  branches  ascende :  the  which  being  filled  with  the 
substance  of  the  trunke  creeping  from  beneath,  the  branche 
maketh  itself  waie  by  wliiche  it  male  pass  out.     It  is  often- 

"  Since  this  note  was  written,  I  have  fbiiT.d  in  Feyjf^o  the  history  of  this 
fable.  It  was  invented  as  a  riddle  or  allegory  of  fire,  by  a  French  phy- 
sician, called  Fernelio  by  the  Spanish  aulhor,  and  published  by  him  in  a 
Dialogue,  Oe  nMitia  rerum  causis.  From  hence  it  was  exlncfed,  and 
sent  as  a  trick  to  Mizaldo,  another  physician,  who  had  wrillen  a  credulous 
work,  De  Arcnnis  T^ATVRA-Z  ;  and  a  copy  of  this  letter  came  into  the  hands 
ofTltuanus.  He  (lihcoverod  Ih?  deception  too  late,  for  a  second  edition  of 
nis  hislcry  lad  been  previously  published  at  Frankfort. 


times  divided,  by  encountring  with  some  kinde  of  hardc 
stone  ;  yet  is  it  in  other  cliftes  nourished  by  the  exhalations 
and  virtue  of  the  roote.  —  Pietro  Martirc. 

Metals,  says  Ilerrera,  (5,  3,  15,)  are  like  plants  hidden  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  with  their  trunk  and  boughs,  which 
arc  the  veins ;  for  it  appears  in  a  certain  manner,  that  like 
plants  they  go  on  growing,  not  because  they  have  any  inward 
life,  but  because  they  are  proiluced  in  the  entrails  of  the  earth 
by  the  virtue  of  the  smi  and  of  the  planets  ;  and  so  they  go  on 
increasing.  And  as  metals  are  thus,  as  it  were,  jjlants  hidden 
in  the  earth  ;  so  plants  are  animals  fixed  to  one  place,  sus- 
tained by  the  aliment  which  Nature  has  provided  for  them  at 
their  birth:  Atid  to  animals,  as  they  have  a  more  perfect  be- 
ing, a  sense  and  ktiowledgo  hath  been  given,  to  go  about  and 
seek  tlicir  aliment.  So  that  barren  earth  is  the  support  of 
metal,  and  fertile  earth  of  plants,  and  plants  of  animals :  the 
h^ss  perfect  serving  the  more  perfect. 


Tltrfine  gold  nct-icork,  &.C.  —  31,  p.  229. 

A  great  number  of  stringy  fibres  seem  to  stretch  out  from 
the  boughs  of  the  Piilm,  on  each  side,  which  cross  one  another 
in  such  a  manner,  that  they  take  out  from  between  the  boughs 
a  sort  of  btirk  like  close  net-work,  and  this  they  spin  out  with 
the  hand,  and  with  it  make  cords  of  all  sizes,  which  are  mostly 
used  in  Egypt.  They  also  make  of  it  a  sort  of  brush  for 
clothes.  —  Pocockc. 


Cruuch'd  at  this  JVimrod's  throne.  —  32,  p.  229. 

Sliedad  was  the  first  King  of  the  Adites.  I  have  orna- 
mented his  jialace  less  profusely  than  the  Oriental  writers  who 
describe  it.  In  the  notes  to  the  Bahar-Danush  is  the  follow- 
ing account  of  its  magnificence  from  the  Tafnt  al  Mujalis. 

A  pleasant  and  elevated  spot  being  fixed  upon,  Shuddaud 
dispatclied  an  hundred  chiefs  to  collect  skilful  artists  and 
workmen  from  all  countries.  He  also  commanded  the  ition- 
archs  of  Syria  and  Ormus  to  send  him  till  their  jewels  and 
precious  stones.  Forty  camel-loads  of  gold,  silver,  and  jewels, 
were  daily  used  in  the  building,  which  contained  a  thousand 
spacious  quadrangles  of  many  thousand  rooms.  In  the  areas 
were  artificial  trees  of  gold  and  silver,  whose  leaves  were 
emeralds,  and  fruit  clusters  of  pearls  and  jewels.  The  ground 
was  strowed  with  ambergris,  musk,  and  stifTron,  Between 
every  two  of  the  artificial  trees  was  planted  one  of  delicious 
fruit.  This  romantic  abode  took  up  five  hundred  years  in  the 
completion.  When  finished,  Shuddaud  marched  to  view  it ; 
and,  when  arrived  near,  divided  two  hundred  thousand  youth- 
ful slaves,  whom  he  had  brought  with  him  from  Damascus, 
into  four  detachments,  which  were  stationed  in  cantonments 
prepared  for  their  reci;ption  on  each  side  of  the  garden, 
towards  which  he  proceeded  with  his  favorite  courtiers.  Sud- 
denly was  heard  in  the  air  a  voice  like  thunder,  and  Shud- 
daud, looking  up,  beheld  a  personage  of  majestic  figure  and 
stern  aspect,  who  said,  "  I  am  the  .'\ngel  of  Death,  commis- 
sioned to  seize  thy  impure  soul."  Shuddaud  exclaimed, 
"  Give  me  leisure  to  enter  the  garden,"  and  was  descend- 
ing from  his  horse,  when  the  seizer  of  life  snatched  away  his 
impure  spirit,  and  he  fell  dead  upon  the  ground.  At  the  same 
time  lightnitigs  flashed,  and  destroyed  the  whole  army  of  the 
infidel;  and  the  rose-garden  of  Irim  became  concealed  from 
the  sigiit  of  man. 


0  Shedad!  only  in  the  hour  of  death. —  3."),  p.  929. 

liamai  relates,  that  a  great  Monarch,  whom  he  does  not 
name,  having  erected  a  superb  Palace,  wished  to  show  it  to 
every  man  of  talents  and  taste  in  the  city  ;  he  therefore  invited 
them  to  a  banquet,  and  after  the  repast  was  tiuislied,  asked 
them  if  they  knew  any  building  more  magnificent,  and  more 
perfect,  in  the  architecture,  in  the  ornaments,  and  in  the  fur- 
niture. All  the  guests  contented  themselves  with  expressing 
their  admiration,  and  lavishing  praise,  except  one,  who  led  a 
retired  and  austere  lif  s  and  was  one  of  those  persons  whom 
the  Arabians  call  Zalicd. 

This  man  spoke  very  freely  to  the  Prince,  and  said  to  him, 
I  find  a  great  defect  in  this  building  ;  it  is,  that  the  foundation 
is  not  good,  nor  the  walls  sufliciently  strong,  so  that  Azrael 


236 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER. 


BOOK   II. 


can  enter  on  every  side,  iind  the  Sarsar  can  easily  jmss  tlirough. 
And  vvlien  they  showed  him  the  walls  of  the  Palace  orna- 
mented with  azure  and  gold,  of  which  the  marvellous  work- 
manship surpassed  in  costliness  the  ricluK^ss  of  the  materials, 
he  replied.  There  is  still  a  great  inconvenience  here  ;  it  is,  that 
we  can  never  estimate  these  works  well,  till  we  are  laid  back- 
wards. Signifying  hy  these  words,  that  we  never  understand 
these  things  rightly,  till  we  are  upon  our  dcath-hed,  when  we 
discover  their  vanity.  —  D'Jierbelot. 


Breath'd  through  his  moveless  lips,  &c.  —  41,  p.  230. 

Las  horreiidas  palabras  parecian 
salir  par  una  trompa  r&soiiante, 
y  que  los  ycrtvs  labios  nu  mocian. 

LuPERCio  Leonardo. 


And  err  not  from  their  aim!  — 42,  p.  230. 

Death  is  come  up  into  our  windows,  and  entered  into  our 
palaces^  to  cat  off  the  children  from  without,  and  the  young 
men  from  the  streets.  — Juremiah,  ix.  21. 

The  Trees  shall  give  fruit,  and  who  shall  gather  them? 
The  Grapes  shall  ripen,  and  who  shall  tread  them.'  for  all 
places  shall  be  desolate  of  men.  — 2  Esdras,  xvi.  25. 

For  strong  is  his  right  hand  that  bendeth  the  bow,  his 
arrows  that  he  shooteth  are  sliarp,  and  shall  not  miss  when 
they  begin  to  be  sliot  into  the  ends  of  the  world. 

2  Esdras,  xvi.  13. 


Seems  to  partake  of  life.  —  48,  ji.  231. 

There  are  several  trees  or  shrubs  of  the  genus  Mimosa. 
One  of  these  trees  drops  its  branches  whenever  any  person 
approaches  it,  seeming  as  if  it  saluted  those  who  retire  under 
■*s  shade.  This  mute  hospitality  has  so  endeared  this  tree  to 
the  Arabians,  tliatthe  injuring  or  cutting  of  it  down  13  strictly 
prohibited.  — Jftebuhr. 


Let  fall  the  drops  of  bitterness  and  death.  —  52,  p.  231. 

The  Angel  of  Death,  say  the  Rabbis,  holdeth  his  sword  in 
his  hand  at  the  bed's  head,  having  on  the  end  thereof  three 
drops  of  gall ;  the  sick  man  spying  this  deadly  Angel,  openeth 
his  mouth  with  fear,  and  then  those  drops  fall  in,  of  which 
one  killeth  him,  the  second  maketh  him  pale,  the  third  rotteth 
and  purifieth.  —  Purehas. 

Possibly  the  expression  —  to  taste  the  bitterness  of  death  — 
may  refer  to  this. 


THE   SECOND   BOOK. 


Sint  licet  expertcs  vita:  sensusque,  capessunt 
Jussa  tamen  supcrum  venti. 

MlMBRUNI    CONSTANTINUS. 


1. 

Not  in  the  desert, 

Son  of  Hodeirah, 

Thou  art  abandon 'd  ! 

The  co-existent  fire, 

Which  in  the  Dens  of  Darkness  burnt  for  thee, 

Burns  yet,  and  yet  shall  burn. 


In  the  Domdaniel  caverns, 

Under  the  Roots  of  the  Ocean, 

Met  the  Masters  of  the  Spell. 

Before  them  in  the  vault, 

Blazing  unfuell'd  from  its  floor  of  rock, 


Ten  magic  flames  arose. 

"Burn,  mystic  fires,"  Abdaldar  cried; 

"  Burn  while  Hodeirah's  dreaded  race  exist. 

This  is  the  appointed  hour. 

The  hour  that  shall  secure  these  dens  of  night. 


"  Dim  they  burn  !  "  exclaim'd  Lobaba ; 

"  Dim  they  burn,  and  now  they  waver ! 

Okba  lifts  the  arm  of  death ; 

They  waver,  —  they  go  out !  " 

4. 

"  Curse  on  his  hasty  hand  ! '' 

Khawla  exclaim'd  in  wrath, 

The  woman-fiend  exclaim'd  ; 

"  Curse  on  his  hasty  hand,  the  fool  hath  fail'd  ; 

Eight  only  are  gone  out." 


A  Teraph  stood  against  the  cavern  side, 

A  new-born  infant's  head, 

Which  Khawla  at  its  hour  of  birth  had  seized. 

And  from  the  shoulders  wrung. 

It  stood  upon  a  plate  of  gold. 

An  unclean  Spirit's  name  inscribed  beneath. 

The  cheeks  were  deathy  dark, 

Dark  the  dead  skin  upon  the  liairless  skull ; 

The  lips  were  blucy  pale  ; 

Onl}'  the  eyes  had  life ; 

They  gleam'd  with  demon  light. 

6. 

"  Tell  me  !  "  quoth  Khawla,  "  is  the  Fire  gone  out 

That  threats  the  Masters  of  the  Spell .'  " 

The  dead  lips  moved  and  spake, 

"  The  Fire  still  burns  that  threats 

The  Masters  of  tlie  Spell." 


"  Curse  on  thee,  Okba  1  "  Khawla  cried. 

As  to  the  den  the  Sorcerer  came  ; 

He  bore  the  dagger  in  his  hand. 

Red  from  the  murder  of  Hodeirah's  race. 

"  Behold  those  nnextinguisli'd  flames  ! 

The  Fire  still  burns  that  threats 

The  Masters  of  the  Spell ! 

Okba,  wert  thou  weak  of  heart  ? 

Okba,  wert  thou  blind  of  eye  ? 

Thy  fate  and  ours  were  on  the  lot. 

And  we  believ'd  the  lying  Stars, 

That  said   thy  hand  might   seize   the   auspicious 

hour ! 

Thou  hast  let  slip  the  reins  of  Destiny, 

Curse  thee,  curse  thee,  Okba!  " 

8. 

The  Murderer,  answering,  said, 

"  O  versed  in  all  enchanted  lore. 

Thou  better  knowest  Okba's  soul ! 

Eight  blows  I  struck,  eight  home-driven  blows ; 

Needed  no  second  stroke 

From  this  cnvenom'd  blade. 

Ye  frown  at  me  as  if  the  will  had  fail'd ; 

As  if  ye  did  not  know 


BOOK    II. 


Til AL ABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


237 


My  double  danger  from  Hodeirah's  race, 

The  deeper  hate  1  feel, 

The  stronger  motive  that  inspired  my  arm ! 

Ye  frown  as  if  iny  hasty  fault. 

My  ill-directed  blow, 

Had  spared  the  enemy  ; 

And  not  the  Stars,  that  would  not  give, 

And  not  your  feeble  spells, 

That  could  not  force,  the  sign 

Which  of  the  wliole  was  he. 

Did  ye  not  bid  me  strike  tliem  all  ? 

Said  ye  not  root  and  branch  should  be  destroy 'd  ? 

I  heard  Hodeirah's  dying  groan, 

I  heard  his  Children's  sliriek  of  death, 

And  sought  to  consummate  the  work ; 

But  o'er  the  two  remaining  lives 

A  cloud  unpierceable  had  risen, 

A  cloud  tliat  mock'd  my  searching  eyes. 

I  would  have  probed  it  with  a  dagger-point ; 

The  dagger  was  repell'd  : 

A  Voice  came  forth,  and  said, 

'  Son  of  Perdition,  cease  !  Thou  canst  not  change 

■What  in  the  Book  of  Destiny  is  written.'  " 


Khawla  to  the  Teraph  turn'd  — 

"  Tell  me  where  the  Prophet's  hand 

Hides  our  destined  enemy." 

The  dead  lips  spake  again  — 

"  I  view  the  seas,  I  view  the  land, 

I  search  the  Ocean  and  the  Earth ! 

Not  on  Ocean  is  the  Boy, 
Not  on  Earth  his  steps  are  seen." 

10. 

"A  mightier  power  than  we,"  Lobaba  cried, 

"  Protects  our  destined  foe. 

Look  !  look  !  one  Fire  burns  dim ! 

It  quivers',  it  goes  out!  " 

11. 

Itquiver'd;  it  was  quench'd. 

One  Flame  alone  was  left, 

A  pale  blue  Flame  that  trembled  on  the  floor, 

A  hovering  light,  upon  whose  shrinking  edge 

The  darkness  seem'd  to  press. 

Stronger  it  grew,  and  spread 

Its  lucid  swell  around. 

Extending  now  where  all  the  ten  had  stood, 

■With  lustre  more  than  all. 

12. 

At  that  portentous  sight, 

The  Children  of  Evil  trembled, 

And  terror  smote  their  souls. 

Over  the  den  the  Fire 

Its  fearful  splendor  cast, 

The  broad  base  rolling  up  in  wavy  streams, 

Bright  as  the  summer  lightning  when  it  spreads 

Its  glory  o'er  the  midnight  heaven. 

The  Teraph's  eyes  were  dimm'd. 

Which,  like  two  twinkling  stars, 

Shone  in  the  darkness  late. 
The  Sorcerers  on  each  other  gazed. 
And  every  face,  all  pa'e  with  fear, 


And  ghastly,  in  that  light  was  seen. 
Like  a  dead  man's,  by  the  sepulchral  lamp. 

13. 
Even  Khawla,  fiercest  of  the  enchanter  brood, 

Not  without  effort  drew 
Her  fear-suspended  breath. 

Anon  a  deeper  rage 

Inflamed  her  reddening  eye. 

"  Mighty  is  thy  power,  Mahommed  ! '' 

Loud  in  blasphemy  she  cried  ; 

"  But  Eblis  would  not  stoop  to  Man, 

When  Man,  fair-statured  as  the   stately  palm. 

From  his  Creator's  hand 

Was  undefiled  and  pure. 

Thou  art  mighty,  O  Son  of  Abdallah  I 

But  who  is  he  of  woman  born 

That  shall  vie  with  the  might  of  Eblis  ? 

That  shall  rival  the  Prince  of  the  Morning?  " 

14. 

She  said,  and  raised  her  skinny  liand 

As  in  defiance  to  high  Heaven, 

And  stretcli'd  her  long,  lean  finger  forth. 

And  spake  aloud  the  words  of  power. 

The  Spirits  heard  her  call. 

And  lo  !  before  her  stands 

Her  Demon  Minister. 

"  Spirit !  "  the  Enchantress  cried, 

"  Where  lives  the  Boy,  coeval  with  whose  lift 

Yon  magic  Fire  must  burn  ?  " 

15. 

DEMON. 

Mistress  of  the  mighty  Spell, 

Not  on  Ocean,  not  on  Earth  ; 

Only  eyes  that  view 

Allah's  glory-throne. 

See  his  hiding-place. 

From  some  believing  Spirit,  ask  and  learn. 

16. 

"  Bring  the  dead  Hodeirah  here," 

Khawla  cried,  "  and  he  shall  tell !  " 

The  Demon  heard  her  bidding,  and  was  gone 

A  moment  pass'd,  and  at  her  feet 

Hodeirah's  corpse  was  laid ; 

His  hand  still  held  the  sword  he  grasp'd  m  death, 

The  blood  not  yet  had  clotted  on  his  wound. 

17. 

The  Sorceress  look'd,  and,  with  a  smile 

That  kindled  to  more  fiendishness 

Her  hideous  features,  cried, 

"  Where  art  thou,  Hodeirah,  now .' 

Is  thy  soul  in  Zemzem-well  ? 

Is  it  in  tlie  Eden  groves.' 
Waits  it  for  the  judgment-blast 

In  the  trump  of  Israfil .' 

Is  it,  plumed  with  silver  wmgs, 

Underneath  the  throne  of  God.' 

Even  thougli  beneath  His  throne, 

Hodeirah,  tiiou  shalt  hear, 

Thou  shalt  obey  my  voice  !  " 


238                                   TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                           book  n 

18. 

The  lot  of  Abdaldar  is  drawn. 

She  said,  and  muttcr'd  charms  which  Hell  in  fear 

Thirteen  moons  must  wax  and  wane 

And  Heaven  in  horror  heard. 

Ere  the  Sorcerer  quit  his  quest. 

Soon  the  stili"  eye-balls  roll'd, 

He  must  visit  every  tribe 

The  muscles  with  convulsive  motion  shook, 

That  roam  the  desert  wilderness, 

The  white  lips  quiver'd.     Khawla  saw;  her  soul 

Or  dwell  beside  perennial  streams  ; 

Exulted,  and  she  cried. 

Nor  leave  a  solitary  tent  unsearch'd, 

"  Prophet !  behold  my  power  ! 

Till  he  hath  found  the  Boy,— 

Not  even  death  secures 

Tlie  dreaded  Boy,  whose  blood  alone 

Thy  slaves  from  Khawla's  spell ! 

Can  quench  that  fated  Fire. 

Where,  Hodeirah,  is  thy  child  ?  " 

25. 

19. 

A  crystal  ring  Abdaldar  wore ; 

Hodeirah  groan'd  and  closed  his  eyes. 

The  powerful  gem  condensed 

As  if  in  the  niglit  and  the  blindness  of  death 

Primeval  dews,  that  upon  Caucasus 

He  would  have  hid  himself. 

Felt  the  first  winter's  frost. 

Ripening  there  it  lay  beneath 

20. 

Rock  above  rock,  and  mountain  ice  up-piled 

"  Speak  to  my  question  '  "  she  exclaim'd, 

On  mountain,  till  the  incumbent  mass  assumed, 

"  Or  in  that  mangled  body  tliou  shalt  live 

So  huge  its  bulk,  the  Ocean's  azure  hue. 

Ages  of  torture  !  answer  me  ! 

Where  can  we  find  the  boy  ?  " 

2G. 

With  this  he  sought  the  inner  den. 

21. 

Where  burnt  the  Eternal  Fire. 

"  God  !   God  !  "  Hodeirah  cried, 

Like  waters  gushing  from  some  channell'd  rock. 

"  Release  me  from  this  life. 

Full  through  a  narrow  opening,  from  a  chasm 

From  this  intolerable  agony  !  " 

The  Eternal  Fire  stream'd  up. 

No  eye  beheld  the  spring 

22. 

Of  that  up-flowing  Flame, 

"  Speak  !  "  cried  the  Sorceress,  and  she  snatch'd 

Which  blazed  self-nurtured,  and  forever,  there. 

A  Viper  from  the  floor. 

It  was  no  mortal  element;  the  Abyss 

And  with  the  living  reptile  lash'd  his  neck. 

Supplied  it,  from  the  fountains  at  the  first 

Wreathed  round  him  with  the  blow, 

Prepared.     In  the  heart  of  earth  it  lives  and  glows 

The  reptile  tighter  drew  her  folds. 

Her  vital  heat,  till,  at  the  day  decreed. 

And  raised  her  wrathful  head, 

The  voice  of  God  shall  let  its  billows  loose. 

And  fix'd  into  his  face 

To  deluge  o'er  with  no  abating  flood 

Her  deadly  teeth,  and  shed 

Our  consummated  World ; 

Poison  in  every  wound. 

Which  must  from  that  day  in  infinity 

In  vain !  for  Allah  heard  Hodeirah's  prayer. 

Through  endless  ages  roll, 

And  Khawla  on  a  corpse 

A  penal  orb  of  Fire. 

Had  wreak'd  her  baffled  rage. 

The  lilted  Fire  moved  on, 

27. 

And  round  the  Body  wrapt  its  funeral  flames, 

Unturban'd  and  unsandal'd  there. 

The  flesh  and  bones  in  that  portentous  pile 

Abdaldar  stood  before  the  Flame, 

Consumed ;  the  Sword  alone. 

And  held  the  Ring  beside,  and  spake 

Circled  with  fire,  was  left. 

The  language  that  the  Elements  obey. 

The.  obedient  Flame  detach'd  a  portion  forth. 

23. 

Which,  in  the  crystal  entering,  was  condensed, 

Where  is  the  Boy  for  whose  hand  it  is  destined .' 

Gem  of  the  gem,  its  living  Eye  of  fire. 

Where  the  Destroyer  who  one  day  shall  wield 

When  the  hand  tliat  wears  the  spell 

The  Sword  that  is  circled  with  fire .-' 

Sliall  touch  the  destined  Boy, 

Race  accursed,  try  your  charms  ! 

Then  shall  that  Eye  be  quench'd, 

Masters  of  the  mighty  Spell, 

And  the  freed  Element 

Mutter  o'er  your  words  of  power  I 

Fly  to  its  sacred  and  remember'd  Spring. 

Ye  can  shatter  the  dwellings  of  man ; 

Ye  can  open  the  womb  of  the  rock  ; 

2S. 

Ye  can  shake  the  foundations  of  earth, 

Now  go  thy  way,  Abdaldar  ! 

But  not  the  Word  of  God  : 

Servant  of  Eblis, 

But  not  one  letter  can  ye  change 

Over  Arabia 

Of  what  his  Will  hath  written  ! 

.  Seek  the  Destroyer  ! 

Over  the  sands  of  tlie  scorching  Tehama, 

24. 

Over  the  waterless  mountains  of  Nayd; 

Who  shall  seek  through  Araby 

In  Arud  pursue  him,  and  Yemen  the  happy, 

Hodeirah's  dreaded  son .' 

And  Hejaz,  the  country  beloved  by  believers. 

They  mingle  the  Arrows  of  Chance, 

Over  Arabia, 

BOOK    II. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


^39 


Servant  of  Eblis, 
Seek  the  Destroyer ! 

29. 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  from  town  to  town, 

From  tent  to  tent,  Abduldar  pass'd. 

Him  every  inorn  the  all-beholding  Eye 

Saw  from  his  coucii,  unhallow'd  by  a  prayer. 

Rise  to  the  scent  of  blood  ; 

And  every  night  lie  down, 

That  rankling  hope  within  him,  that  by  day 

Goaded  his  steps,  still  stinging  him  in  sleep. 

And  startling  liim  with  vain  accomplishment 

From  visions  still  the  same. 

Many  a  time  his  wary  hand 

To  many  a  youth  applied  the  Ring ; 

And  still  the  iinprison'd  Fire 

Within  its  crystal  socket  lay  compress'd. 

Impatient  to  be  free. 

30. 

At  length  to  the  cords  of  a  tent. 

That  were  stretch'd  by  an  Island  of  Palms, 

In  the  desolate  sea  of  the  sands. 

The  seemly  traveller  came. 

Under  a  shapely  palm, 

Herself  as  shapely,  there  a  Damsel  stood; 

She  held  her  ready  robe, 

'  And  look'd  towards  a  Boy, 

Who  from  the  tree  above, 

With  one  hand  clinging  to  its  trunk. 

Cast  with  the  other  down  the  cluster'd  dates. 

31. 

The  Magician  approach'd  the  Tree ; 

He  Ican'd  on  his  staff,  like  a  way-faring  man, 

And  the  sweat  of  his  travel  was  seen  on  his  brow. 

He  ask'd  for  food,  and  lo  ! 

The  Damsel  proifers  him  her  lap  of  dates; 

And   the   Stripling  descends,  and   runs   to   the 

tent. 
And  brings  him  forth  water,  the  draught  of  delight. 

32. 

Anon  the  Master  of  the  tent, 

The  Father  of  the  family, 

Came  forth,  a  man  in  years,  of  aspect  mild. 

To  the  stranger  approaching  he  gave 

The  friendly  saluting  of  peace. 

And  bade  the  skin  be  spread. 

Before  the  tent  they  spread  the  skin. 

Under  a  Tamarind's  shade. 

That,  bending  forward,  stretch'd 

Its  boughs  of  beauty  far. 

33. 

They  brought  the  Traveller  rice. 

With  no  false  colors  tinged  to  tempt  the  eye. 

But  white  as  the  new-fallen  snow. 

When  never  yet  the  sullying  Sun 

Ilath  seen  its  purity, 

Nor  the  warm  zephyr  touch'd  and  tainted  it. 

The  dates  of  the  grove  before  their  guest 

The}'  laid,  and  the  luscious  fig. 

And  water  from  the  well. 


34. 

The  Damsel  from  the  Tamarind-tree 

Had  pluck'd  its  acid  fruit. 

And  sleep'd  it  in  water  long; 

And  whoso  drank  of  the  cooling  draught, 

He  would  not  wish  for  wine. 

This  to  their  guest  the  Damsel  brought. 

And  a  modest  pk-asurc  kindled  her  check, 

When,  raising  from  the  cup  his  moistcn'd  lips. 

The  stranger  smiled,  and  praised,  and  drank  again 

35. 

Whither  is  gone  the  Boy .' 

He  had  pierced  the  Melon's  pulp. 

And  closed  with  wax  the  wound  ; 

And  he  had  duly  gone  at  morn, 

And  watch'd  its  ripening  rind. 

And  now  all  joyfully  he  brings 

The  treasure  now  matured ; 

His  dark  eyes  sparkling  with  a  boy's  delight. 

As  out  he  pours  its  liquid  lusciousness. 

And  proffers  to  the  guest. 

36. 

Abdaldar  ate,  and  he  was  satisfied : 

And  now  his  tongue  discoursed 

Of  regions  far  remote, 

As  one  whose  busy  feet  had  travell'd  long 

The  Father  of  the  family. 

With  a  calm  eye  and  quiet  smile. 

Sate  pleased  to  hearken  him. 

The  Damsel  who  removed  the  meal, 

She  loiter'd  on  the  way. 

And  listen'd,  with  full  hands, 

A  moment  motionless. 

37. 

All  eagerly  the  Boy 

Watches  the  Traveller's  lips ; 

And  still  the  wily  man, 

With  seemly  kindness,  to  the  eager  Boy 

Directs  his  winning  tale. 

Ah,  cursed  one  !  if  this  be  he, 

If  thou  hast  found  the  object  of  thy  search, 

Tiiy  hate,  thy  bloody  aim,  — 

Into  what  deep  damnation  wilt  thou  plunge 

Thy  miserable  soul !  — 

38. 

Look  !  how  his  eye  delighted  watches  thine  !  — 

Look  !  how  his  open  lips 

Gape  at  the  winning  tale !  — 

And  nearer  now  he  comes, 

To  lose  no  word  of  that  delightful  talk. 

Then,  as  in  familiar  mood. 

Upon  the  stripling's  arm 

The  Sorcerer  laid  his  hand. 

And  the  Fire  of  the  Crystal  fled. 

39. 

While  the  sudden  shoot  of  joy 

Made  pale  Abdaldar's  cheek. 

The  Master's  voice  was  heard  — 

"  It  is  the  hour  of  prayer  : 

My  children,  let  us  purify  ourselves, 


240 


NOTES    TO   THALABA    THE    DESTROYER 


BOOK    II. 


And  praise  the  Lord  our  God !  " 

The  Boy  the  water  brought : 

After  the  law  they  purified  themselves, 

And  bent  their  faces  to  the  earth  in  prayer ; 

40. 

All,  save  Abdaldar ;  over  Thalaba 

He  stands,  and  lifts  the  dagger  to  destroy. 

Before  his  lifted  arm  received 

Its  impulse  to  descend. 

The  Blast  of  the  Desert  came. 

Prostrate  in  prayer,  the  pious  family 

Felt  not  the  Simoom  pass. 

They  rose,  and  lo  !  the  Sorcerer  lying  dead. 

Holding  the  dagger  in  his  blasted  hand. 


NOTES   TO  BOOK   II. 

j9  Teraph  stood  against  the  cavern  side.  —  5,  p.  23C. 

The  manner  how  the  Teiaphim  were  made  is  fondly  con- 
ceited thus  amon^  the  Rabhic?!.  They  killed  a  ni;ui  tliat  was 
a  first-born  son,  ami  wrung  off  liis  head,  and  seasoned  it  with 
salt  and  spices,  and  wrote  upon  a  plate  of  gold  the  name  of 
an  unclean  spirit,  and  put  it  under  the  head  upon  a  wall,  and 
lighted  candles  before  it,  and  worshipped  it. —  Oodwiin''s 
Moses  and  ^aroii. 

By  Rabbi  Eleuzar,  it  is  said  to  be  the  head  of  a  child. 


Eblis.  —  13,  p.  237. 

The  Devil,  whom  Mahommed  names  Eblis,  from  his  de- 
spair, was  once  one  of  those  angels  who  are  nearest  to  God's 
presence,  called  Azazil ;  and  fell  (according  to  the  doctrine 
of  the  Koran)  for  refusing  to  pay  homage  to  Adam  at  the 
command  of  God.  —  Sale. 

God  created  the  body  of  Adam  of  Sahal,  that  is,  of  dry  but 
unbaked  clay  ;  and  left  it  forty  nights,  or,  according  to  others, 
forty  years,  lying  without  a  soul  ;  and  the  Devil  came  to  it, 
and  kicked  it,  and  it  sounded.  And  God  breathed  into  it  a 
soul  with  his  breath,  sending  it  in  at  the  eyes  ;  and  be  himself 
saw  his  nose  still  dead  clay,  and  the  soul  running  through  him, 
till  it  reached  his  feet,  when  he  stood  upright.  —  jMaruiri. 

In  the  Nuremburg  Chronicle  is  a  print  of  the  creation  of 
Adam  ;  the  body  is  half  made,  growing  out  of  a  heap  of  clay 
under  the  Creator's  hands.  A  still  more  absurd  print  repre- 
sents Eve  halfway  out  of  his  side. 

The  fullest  JIahommedan  Genesis  is  to  be  found  in  Rabadan 
the  Morisco's  Poem. 

God,  designing  to  make  known  to  his  whole  choir  of  Angels, 
high  and  low,  his  scheme  concerning  the  Creation,  called  the 
Archangel  Oiibriel,  and  delivering  to  him  a  pen  and  paper, 
commanded  him  to  draw  out  an  instrument  of  fealty  and 
homage  ;  in  which,  as  God  had  dictated  to  his  Secretary 
Oabriel,  were  specified  the  pleasures  and  delights  he  ordiiined 
to  his  creatures  in  this  world  ;  the  term  of  years  he  would 
allot  them  ;  and  how,  and  in  what  exercises,  their  time  in  this 
life  was  to  be  employed.  This  being  done,  Gnhrirl.  said.  Lord, 
what  more  must  I  write.'  The  pen  resistetb,  and  refuseth  to 
be  guided  forwards  !  God  then  took  the  deed,  and,  before  be 
folded  it,  signed  it  with  his  sacred  hand,  and  affix<Ml  thereunto 
his  royal  signet,  as  an  Indication  of  his  incontestable  and  irrev- 
ocable promise  and  covenant.  Then  Gabriel  was  commanded 
to  convey  what  be  had  written  throughout  the  hosts  of  Angels  ; 
with  orders  that  they  all,  without  exception,  should  fall  down 
and  worship  the  same  :  and  it  was  so  abundantly  replenished 
with  glory,  that  the  angelical  potentates  universally  reverenced 
and  paid  homage  thereunto.  Gnhricl,  returning,  saiil,  O  Lord  ! 
I  have  obeyed  thy  commands  ;  what  else  am  I  to  do .-'  God 
replied.  Close  up  the  writing  in  tliis  crystal ;  for  this  is  the 
inviolable  covenant  of  tlie  fealty  the  mortals  I  will  hereafter 
create  shall  pay  unto  me,  and  by  the  which  they  shall  ac- 


knowledge me.  El  Hassan  tells  us,  that  no  sooner  had  the 
blessed  Angel  closed  the  said  crystal,  but  no  terrible  and  aston- 
ishing a  voice  issued  out  thereof,  and  it  cast  so  unusual  and 
glorious  a  light,  that,  with  the  surprise  of  so  great  and  unex- 
pected a  mystery,  the  Angel  remained  fixed  and  immovable; 
and  although  he  had  a  most  ardent  desire  to  be  let  into  the 
secret  arcana  of  that  wonderful  prodigy,  yet  all  his  innate 
courage  and  heavenly  magnanimity  were  not  sufficient  lo 
furnish  him  with  assurance,  or  power,  to  make  the  inquiry. 

All  being  now  completed,  and  put  in  order,  God  said  to  his 
Ang'ls,  "  Which  of  you  will  descend  to  the  Eirth,  and  bring 
me  up  a  li  ludful  thereof.'"  When  immediately  such  infinite 
nund)ers  of  celestial  spirits  departed,  that  the  universal  surface 
was  covered  with  them  ;  where,  consultinganiong  themselves, 
they  unanimously  confirmed  their  loathing  and  abhorrence  to 
touch  it,  saying,  How  dare  we  be  so  presumptuous  as  to 
expose,  before  the  throne  of  the  Lord,  so  glorious  and  sovereign 
as  ours  is,  a  thing  so  filthy,  and  of  a  form  and  composition  so 
vile  and  despicable  !  and  in  effect,  they  all  returned,  fully 
detetmined  not  to  meddle  with  it.  After  these  went  others, 
and  then  more  ;  but  not  one  of  them,  either  first  or  last,  dared 
to  defile  the  purity  of  their  hands  with  it.  Upon  which 
Aznracl,  an  Angel  of  an  extraordinary  stature,  flew  down, 
and,  from  the  four  corners  of  the  Earth,  brought  up  a  handful 
of  it  which  God  had  commanded.  From  the  south  and  the 
north,  from  the  west  and  from  the  east,  took  he  it ;  of  all 
which  four  different  qualities,  human  bodies  are  composed. 

The  Almighty,  perceiving  in  what  manner  .^zarael  had  sig- 
nalized himself  in  this  affair,  beyond  the  rest  of  the  Angels, 
and  taking  particular  notice  of  his  goodly  form  and  stature, 
said  to  him,  "  O  Jizaruel,  it  is  my  pleasure  to  constitute  thee 
to  he  Death  itself;  tboushalt  be  him  who  soparateth  the  souls 
from  the  bodies  of  those  creatures  I  am  about  to  make  ;  thou 
henceforth  shall  be  called  Azarael  Malec  el  Muut,  or  Auiracl, 
the  Angel  of  Death." 

Then  God  caused  the  Earth,  which  Azararl  had  brought, 
to  be  washed  and  purified  in  the  fountains  iif  Heaven  ;  and 
El  Hassan  tells  us,  that  it  became  so  resplendently  clear,  that 
it  cast  a  more  shining  and  beautiful  light  than  the  Sun  in  its 
utmost  glory.  Gabriel  was  then  commanded  to  convey  this 
lovely,  though  as  yet  inanimate,  lump  of  clay,  throughout  the 
Heavens,  the  Earth,  the  Centres,  and  the  Seas  ;  to  the  intent, 
and  with  a  positive  injunction,  that  whatsoever  had  life  might 
behold  it,  and  pay  honor  and  reverence  thereunto. 

When  the  Angela  saw  all  these  incomprehensible  mysteries, 
and  that  so  beautiful  an  image,  they  said,  "  Lord  !  if  it  will 
he  pleasing  in  thy  sight,  we  will,  in  thy  most  high  and  mighty 
name,  prostrate  ourselves  before  it :  "  To  which  voluntary  pro- 
poal,  God  r('])lied  ;  I  am  content  you  pay  adoration  to  it; 
and  I  comtnand  you  so  to  do:  —  when  instantly  they  all 
bowed,  inclining  their  shining  celestial  countenances  at  his 
feet ;  only  -E/;/(s detained  himself,  obstinately  refusing  ;  proudly 
and  arrogantly  valuing  himself  upon  his  heavenly  compo- 
sition. To  whom  God  sternly  said,  "  I'rostrate  thyself  to 
Adam."  He  made  a  show  of  so  doing,  but  remained  only 
upon  his  knees,  and  then  rose  up,  before  he  had  performed 
what  God.  had  commanded  him.  When  the  .Angels  beheld 
his  insolence  and  disobedience,  they  a  second  time  prostrated 
themselves,  to  complete  what  the  haughty  and  presumptuous 
Angel  had  left  undone.  From  hence  it  is,  that  in  all  our 
prayers,  at  each  inclination  of  the  body,  we  make  two  pros- 
trations, one  immcdiati'ly  after  the  other.  God  being  highly 
incensed  against  the  rebellious  Eblis,  said  unto  him,  "  Why 
didst  thou  not  reverence  this  statue  which  I  have  made,  as  the 
other  Angels  all  have  done?"  To  which  Eblis  replied,  "  I 
will  never  lessen  or  disparage  my  grandeur  so  much,  as  to 
humble  myself  to  a  piece  of  clay  ;  I,  who  am  an  immortal 
Seraphim,  of  so  apparently  a  greater  excellency  than  that;  I, 
whom  thou  didst  create  out  of  the  celestial  fire,  what  an  in- 
dignity would  it  be  to  my  splendor,  lo  pay  homage  to  a  thing 
composed  of  so  vile  a  metal !"  The  irritated  iMonnrch,  with  a 
voice  of  tlumder,  then  pronounced  against  him  this  direful 
anathema  ami  malediction  :  Begone,  enemy  ;  depart,  Rebel^ 
from  my  abode!  Thou  no  longer  shall  continue  in  my  ce- 
lestial dominions.  —  Go,  thou  accursed  flaming  Ihnnderboll 
of  fire  !  My  curse  pursue  thee  !  My  condemnation  overtake 
thee!  My  torments  afllict  thee!  And  my  chastisement 
accompany  thee!  —  Thus  fi-11  this  enemy  ol'  God  and  man- 
kind, both  he,  and  all  his  followers  and  abettors,  who  sided  or 


BOOK    II. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


241 


were  partakers  with  him  in  his  piide  ami  prcsumjituons  dis- 
obctlience. 

GoJ  now  WHS  pleased  to  puhlish  and  make  manifest  his 
desiiiTi  ofaninmlin^  Man,  ont  ofthatheantirnl  and  resplendent 
crystal ;  and  accordingly  commanded  Gahriel  to  breathe  into 
the  body  of  clay,  that  it  mi^'ht  become  tlesh  and  blood:  But 
at  the  instant,  as  the  innnaculate  Spirit  was  going  to  enter 
therein,  it  returned,  and  humblin;,'  itself  before  the  Lord, 
said,  O  Merciful  King  !  for  what  reason  is  it  that  thou  in- 
tendest  to  enclose  me  in  this  loathsome  prison  ?  I,  who  am 
thy  servant,  thou  shuttest  up  within  mine  enemy,  where  my 
purity  will  be  defiled,  and  where,  against  my  will,  I  shall  dis- 
obey thee,  without  being  able  to  resist  the  instigation  and 
power  of  this  rebellious  flesh;  whereby  I  shall  become  liable 
to  softer  thy  rigorous  punishment,  insupportable  and  une(iual 
to  my  strength,  for  having  perjietrated  the  enormities  ob- 
noxious to  the  frailty  of  human  flesh  :  Spare  nie,  O  Lord  : 
spare  me  !  suffer  me  not  to  taste  of  this  hitter  draught !  To 
thee  it  belongs  to  command,  and  to  me  to  supplicate  thee. 

Thus  spoke  the  pure  and  unspotted  Spirit,  when  God,  to 
give  it  some  satisfaction  to  these  complaints,  anil  that  it  might 
contfutcdly  resign  itself  to  obey  his  commands,  ordered  it 
should  be  conducteil  near  his  throne,  where,  in  innumerable 
and  infinite  parts  thereof,  it  beheld  certain  letters  deciphered 
up  and  down,  importing,  Mahomet  the  triumphant  leader! 
And  over  all  the  seven  lieavcns,  on  their  gates,  and  in  all  their 
books,  he  saw  those  words  stamped,  exceedingly  bright  and 
resplendent.  This  was  the  blazon  which  all  the  Angels  and 
other  celestial  beings  carried  between  their  beautiful  eyes,  and 
for  their  devices  on  their  apparel. 

The  Spirit,  having  seen  all  this,  returned  to  the  throne 
of  glory,  and  being  very  desirous  to  understand  the  significa- 
tion of  those  ciphers  and  characters,  he  asked.  What  name 
was  that  which  shined  so  in  every  place  .'  To  which  question 
God  answered,  Know,  that  from  thee,  and  from  that  flesh, 
shall  proceed  a  cliieflain,  a  leader,  who  shall  bear  that  name, 
and  use  that  language  ;  by  whom,  and  for  whose  sake,  I  the 
Lord,  the  heavens,  the  earths,  and  the  seas,  shall  be  honored, 
as  sliall  likewise  all  who  believe  in  that  name. 

The  Spirit,  liearing  these  wonders,  immediately  conceived 
BO  mighty  a  love  to  the  body,  a  love  not  to  be  expressed,  nor 
even  imagined,  that  it  longed  with  impatience  to  enter  into  it  ; 
which  it  had  no  sooner  done,  but  it  miraculously  and  arti- 
ficially was  influenced  and  distilled  into  every  individual  part 
and  member  thereof,  whereby  the  body  became  animated.  — 
Rabadayi. 

It  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  original  of  this  very  curious 
poem  has  not  been  published,  and  that  it  did  not  meet  with  a 
more  respectable  translator.  How  well  would  the  erudition 
of  Sale  have  been  employed  in  elucidating  it ! 


Where  art  thou,  Huddrah,  now  7  —  17,  p.  237. 

These  lines  contain  the  various  opinions  of  the  Mahom- 
medans  respecting  the  intermediate  state  of  the  Blessed,  till 
the  Day  of  Judgment. 


h  thy  soul  in  Zemzem-well  7  —  Z7,  p.  237. 

Hagar,  being  near  her  time,  and  not  able  any  longer  to 
endure  the  ill-treatment  she  received  from  Sara,  resolved  to 
run  away.  Abraham,  coming  to  hear  of  her  discontent,  anil 
fearing  she  might  make  away  with  the  child,  especially  if  she 
came  to  be  delivered  without  the  assistance  of  some  other 
women,  followed  her,  and  found  her  already  delivered  of  a  son  ; 
who,  dancing  with  his  little  feet  upon  the  ground,  had  made  way 
for  a  spring  to  break  forth.  But  the  water  of  the  spring  came 
forth  in  such  abundance,  as  also  with  such  violence,  that 
Hagar  could  make  no  use  of  it  to  quench  her  thirst,  which 
was  then  very  great.  Abraham,  coming  to  the  place,  com- 
manded the  spring  to  glide  more  gently,  and  to  suffer  that 
water  might  be  drawn  out  of  it  to  drink  ;  and  having  there- 
upon stayed  the  course  of  it  with  a  little  bank  of  sand,  he 
took  of  it,  to  make  Hagar  and  her  child  drink.  The  said 
spring  is  to  this  day  called  Semscm,  from  Abraham  making 
use  of  that  word  to  stay  it.  —  Olearius. 

31 


And  with  the  living  reptile  lash'd  his  neck.  — 22,  p.  238. 

Excepting  in  this  line,  1  have  avoided  all  resemblance  to 
the  powerful  jioetry  of  Lucan.  , 

Aspicit  astantem  projecti  corporis  umbram, 
Exanimes  artas,  invisaijue  clavstra  timcntem 
Carceris  antiqui ;  pavcl  ire  in  pectus  apertum, 
Visccraque,  et  ruptiis  Ictali  viilncrejibrns. 
Ah  miser,  eitremnm  cui  martis  munvs  iniqiue 
Kripitur,  non  posse  mori !  miratur  Erichtho 
Ilusfalis  licaisse  moras  irataque  morti 
Verberat  immotum  vivo  serpente  cadaver. 
******* 
Protinus  astrictus  caluit  cruor,  atraque  fovit 
Valuero,  et  in  venns  eilremaquc  membra  cucurril. 
Percussos  gelido  trepidant  sab  pcctore  fibrce  ; 
Et  nova  desuetis  suhrepens  vita  mcduUis, 
Mscttur  morti :  tunc  omnis  palpitai  artus  ; 
Tendunlur  nervi ;  ncc  se  tellurc  cadaver 
Paulalim  per  membra  lecat,  terraque  rcpulsum  est, 
Erectmnque  simul.     Distento  lamina  rictu 
A'udantur.     JVondum  fades  viventis  in  illo. 
Jam  7noricntis  crat ;  remanet  pallorque  rigorque, 
Et  stupct  Hiatus  mundo.  Luca."«  . 

A  curious  instance  of  French  taste  occurs  in  this  part  of 
Brebeuf 's  translation.  The  re-animated  corjise  is  made  the 
corpse  of  Burrhus,  of  whose  wife,  Octavia,  Sextus  is  enam- 
ored. Octavia  hears  that  her  husband  has  fallen  in  battle; 
she  seeks  his  body,  but  in  vain.  A  light  at  length  leads  her  to 
the  scene  of  Erichtho's  incantations,  and  she  beholds  Burrhus, 
to  all  appearance,  living.  The  witch  humanely  allows  theni 
time  for  a  long  conversation,  which  is  very  complimentary  on 
the  part  of  the  husband. 

Brebeuf  was  a  man  of  genius.  The  Pharsalia  is  as  wel' 
told  in  liis  version  as  it  can  be  in  the  detestable  French  heroic 
couplet,  which  epigrammatizes  every  thing.  He  had  courage 
enough,  though  a  Frenchman,  to  admire  Lucan, —  and  yel 
could  not  translate  him  without  introducing  a  love-story. 


TUcy  mingle  the  Arrows  of  Chance.  —  24,  p.  238. 

This  was  one  of  the  superstitions  of  the  Pagan  Arabs  for 
bidden  by  Mahommed. 

The  mode  of  divining  by  arrows  was  seen  by  Pietro  DelU 
Valle  at  Aleppo.  The  Mahommedan  conjurer  made  two 
persons  sit  down,  one  facing  the  other,  and  gave  each  of  them 
four  arrows,  which  they  were  to  hold  perpendicularly,  the 
point  toward  the  ground.  After  questioning  them  concerning 
the  business  of  whicli  they  wished  to  be  informed,  he  mut 
tered  his  invocations  ;  and  the  eight  arrows,  by  virtue  of  these 
charms,  altered  their  posture,  and  placed  themselves  point  to 
point.  Whether  those  on  the  left,  or  those  on  the  right,  were 
above  the  others,  decided  the  question. 


Tlie  powerful  gem,  &c.  —  25,  p.  238. 

Some  imagine  that  the  crystal  is  snow  turned  to  ice,  which 
has  been  hardening  thirty  years,  and  is  turned  to  a  rock  by 
age.  — Mirror  of  Stones,  by  Camillas  Teonardus,  physician  of 
Pisaro,  dedicated  to  Cmsar  Borgia. 

In  the  cabinet  of  the  Prince  of  Monaco,  among  other 
rarities,  are  two  pieces  of  crystal,  each  larger  than  both  hands 
clinched  together.  In  the  middle  of  one  is  about  a  glass-full 
of  water,  and  in  the  other  is  some  moss,  naturally  enclosed 
there  when  the  crystals  congealed.  These  pieces  are  very 
curious.  —  Tavcrnier. 

Crystal,  precious  stones,  every  stone  that  has  a  regular 
figure,  and  even  flints  in  small  masses,  and  consisting  of  con- 
centric coats,  whether  found  in  the  perpendicular  fissures  of 
rocks,  or  elsewhere,  are  only  exudations,  or  the  concreting 
juices  of  flint  in  large  masses  ;  they  are,  therefore,  new  and 
spurious  productions,  the  genuine  stalactites  of  flint  or  of 
granite.  — Buffun. 

Gem  of  the  gem,  &c.  —  27,  p.  238. 
Burguillos,  or  Lope  de  Vega,  makes  an  odd  metaphor  from 
such  an  illustration  : 


242 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


BOOK   II. 


Es  Verba  dc  Dios  (liumaiite 

En  el  anillo  de  cubre 

Dc  nucslro  circalo  pobre. 


Before  the  tent  they  spread  the  skin.  —  3-2,  )>.  239. 

With  the  Arabs  either  a  round  skin  is  laid  on  the  ground 
for  a  small  company,  or  large,  coarse  woollen  cloths  for  a  groat 
number,  spread  all  over  the  room,  and  about  ten  dishes  re- 
peated six  or  seven  times  over,  laid  round  at  a  great  feast,  and 
ivliole  sheep  and  lambs  boiled  and  roasted  in  the  middle. 
When  one  company  has  done,  another  sits  round,  even  to  the 
meanest,  till  all  is  consumed.  And  an  ."Vrab  I'rince  will  often 
dine  in  the  street  before  his  door,  and  call  to  all  that  pass, 
even  beggars,  in  the  usual  expression,  Bisiniillah,  that  is,  in 
the  name  of  God  ;  who  come  and  sit  down,  and  when  they 
have  done,  give  their  Jlaintlcllilah,  tliat  is,  God  be  i)raised  ; 
for  the  Arabs,  who  are  great  levellers,  put  every  body  on  a 
footing  with  them,  and  it  is  by  such  generosity  and  hospitality 
that  they  maintain  their  interest.  —  Pocockc. 


With  no  false  cr^lors,  &c.  —  33,  p.  239. 

'Tis  the  custom  of  Persia  to  begin  their  feasts  with  fruits 
and  preserves.  We  spent  two  hours  in  eating  only  those  and 
Irinkiug  beer,  hydromel,  and  aquavita;.  Then  was  brought 
up  the  meat  in  great  silver  dishes  ;  they  were  full  of  rice  of 
divers  colors,  and  upon  that,  several  sorts  of  meat,  boiled  and 
roasted,  as  beef,  mutton,  tame  fowl,  wild  ducks,  fish,  and 
other  things,  all  very  well  ordered,  and  very  delicate. 

The  Tersians  use  no  knives  at  table,  but  the  cooks  send  up 
ihe  meat  ready  cut  up  into  little  hits,  so  that  it  was  no  trouble 
to  us  to  accustom  ourselves  to  their  manner  of  eating.  Rice 
serves  them  instead  of  bread.  They  lake  a  mouthful  of  it, 
with  the  two  fore-fingers  and  the  thumb,  and  so  put  it  into 
tlieir  mouths.  Every  tai)le  had  a  carver,  whom  they  call 
Suffret-zi,  who  takes  the  meat  brought  up  in  the  great  dishes, 
to  put  it  into  lesser  ones,  which  he  fills  with  three  or  four 
;iorts  of  meat,  so  as  that  every  dish  may  serve  two,  or  at  most 
three  persons.  There  was  but  little  drunk  till  towards  the 
end  of  the  repast,  and  then  the  cups  went  about  roundly,  and 
the  dinner  was  concluded  with  a  vessel  of  porcelane,  full  of  a 
hot,  blackish  kind  of  drink,  which  they  call  Kahawa,  (Coffee.) 
—  .Embassador's  Tracels. 

They  laid  upon  the  floor  of  the  Ambassador's  room  a  fine 
silk  cloth,  on  which  there  were  set  one  and  thirty  dishes  of 
silver,  filled  with  several  sorts  of  conserves,  dry  and  liquid, 
and  raw  fruits,  as  Slelons,  Citrons,  Ciuinces,  Pears,  and  .some 
others  not  known  in  Europe,  fc'ome  time  after,  that  cloth 
was  taken  away,  that  another  might  be  laid  in  the  room  of  it, 
and  upon  this  was  set  rice  of  all  sorts  of  colors,  and  all  sorts 
of  meat,  boiled  and  roasted,  in  above  fifty  dishes  of  the  same 
metal. Embassador's  Travels. 

There  is  not  any  thing  more  ordinary  in  Persia  than  rice 
soaked  in  water ;  they  call  it  Plau,  and  eat  of  it  at  all  their 
meals,  and  serve  it  up  in  all  tlieir  dishes.  They  sometimes 
put  thereto  a  little  of  the  juice  of  ])omegranales,  or  cherries 
and  saffron,  insomuch  that  commonly  you  have  rice  of  several 
colors  in  the  same  dish. —  .Embassador's  Travels. 


Jlnd  whoso  drank  of  the  cooling  draught.  —  31,  p.  239. 

The  Tamarind  is  equally  useful  and  agreeable  ;  it  has  a 
pulp  of  a  vinous  taste,  of  which  a  wholesome,  refreshing  liquor 
is  prepared  ;  its  shade  shelters  houses  from  the  torrid  heat  of 
the  sun,  and  its  fine  figure  greatly  adorns  the  scenery  of  the 
country.  —  JViebuhr. 


He  had  pierced  the  Melon's  pulp.  —  35,  p.  239. 

Of  pumpkins  and  melons,  several  sorts  grow  naturally  in  the 
woods,  and  serve  for  feeding  camels.  But  the  proper  melons 
are  plmted  in  the  fields,  where  a  great  variety  of  them  is  to 
be  found,  and  in  such  abundance,  that  the  Arabians  of  all 
ranks  use  them,  for  some  part  of  the  year,  as  their  principal 
article  of  food.  They  allbrd  a  very  agreeable  liquor.  When 
its  fruit  is  nearly  ripe,  a  hole  is  pierced  into  the  pulp  ;  this 


hole  is  then  stoiii>ed  with  wax,  and  tlie  melon  left  upon  the 
stalk.  Within  a  few  days  the  pulj)  is,  in  consequence  of  this 
process,  converted  into  a  delicious  liquor.  —  J^iebulir, 


And  listened,  with  full  hands.  —  3G,  p.  239. 

L'aspect  imprevu  de  tant  de  CastUlans, 
D'ctonncinent,  d'cffroi^  peint  ses  regards  britlans  ; 
Scs  mains  do,  choir  desfi-uits  sefonnant  une  etude, 
Deineurent  un  moment  dans  le  mime  attitude. 

Miulame  Boccage.     La  Columbiade 


It  is  the  hour  of  prayer.  —  39,  p.  239. 

The  Arabians  divide  their  day  into  twenty-four  hou's,  and 
reckon  them  from  one  setting  sun  to  another.  As  very  few 
among  them  know  what  a  watch  is,  and  as  they  conce've  but 
imperfectly  the  duration  of  an  hour,  they  usually  detemi'.ne 
time  almost  as  when  we  say,  it  happened  about  noon,  about 
evening,  &c.  The  moment  when  the  sun  disappears  is  called 
Maggrib  ;  about  two  hours  afterwards  they  call  it  Kl  a.scha; 
two  hours  later.  El  Mdrfa  ;  midnight,  JVus  el  lejl ;  the  dawn 
of  morning,  El  fcdsjer  j  sunrise,  Es  subhh.  They  eat  about 
nine  in  the  morning,  and  that  meal  is  called  El  ghadda  ;  noon, 
Ed  duhhr ;  three  hours  after  noon.  El  asr.  Of  all  these  di- 
visions of  time,  only  noon  and  midnight  are  well  ascertained  ; 
they  both  full  upon  the  twelfth  hour.  The  others  are  earlier 
or  later  as  the  days  are  short  or  long.  The  five  hours  ap- 
pointed for  prayer  are  Maggrib,  JVh.s'  el  Irjl,  Elfedsjer,  Duhhr, 
and  El  asr. IVtebuhr,  Dcsc.  de  V Arabic. 

The  Turks  say,  in  allusion  to  their  canonical  hours,  that 
prayer  is  a  tree  which  produces  five  sorts  of  fruit,  two  of  which 
the  sun  sees,  and  three  of  which  he  never  sees.  —  Piclro 
dclla  Valle. 


After  the  law  they  purified  themselves.  —  39,  p.  240. 

The  use  of  the  bath  was  forbidden  the  Moriscoes  in  Spain, 
as  being  an  anti-Christian  custom  !  I  recollect  no  superstition 
but  the  Romish  in  which  nastiness  is  accounted  a  virtue  ;  "  as 
if,"  says  Jortin,  "  piety  and  filth  were  synonymous,  and  re- 
ligion, like  the  itch,  could  be  caught  by  wearing  foul  clothes." 


Felt  not  the  Simoom  pass.  —  40,  p.  240. 

The  efibcts  of  the  Simoom  are  instant  suffocation  to  every 
living  creature  that  happens  to  be  within  the  sphere  of  its 
activity,  and  immediate  putrefaction  of  the  carcasses  of  the 
dead.  The  Arabians  discern  its  approach  by  an  unusual 
redness  in  the  air,  and  they  say  that  they  feel  a  smell  of 
sulphur  as  it  passes.  The  only  means  by  which  any  person 
can  preserve  himself  from  suffering  by  these  noxious  blasts,  is 
by  throwing  himself  down  with  his  face  upon  the  earth,  till 
this  whirlwind  of  poisonous  exhalations  has  blown  over, 
which  always  moves  at  a  certain  height  in  the  atmosphere. 
Instinct  even  teaches  the  brutes  to  incline  their  heads  to  the 
ground  on  these  occasions.  — Jifiebvhr. 

The  Arabs  of  the  desert  call  these  winds  Scmoum,  or  poison, 
and  the  Turks  Shamyela,  or  wind  of  Syria,  from  which  is 
formed  the  Saniiel. 

Their  heat  is  sometimes  so  excessive,  that  it  is  difiicult  to 
form  any  idea  of  its  violence  without  having  experienced  it  ; 
but  it  may  be  compared  to  the  heat  of  a  large  oven  at  the 
moment  of  drawing  out  the  bread.  When  these  winds  begin 
to  blow,  the  atmosphere  assumes  an  alarming  aspect.  The 
sky,  at  other  times  so  clear  in  this  climate,  becomes  dark  and 
heavy  ;  the  sun  loses  his  splendor,  and  appears  of  a  violet 
color.  The  air  is  not  cloudy,  but  gray  and  thick,  and  is  in 
fact  filled  with  an  extremely  subtile  dust,  Avhich  penetrates 
every  where.  This  wind,  always  light  and  rapid,  is  not  at 
first  remarkably  hot,  but  it  increases  in  heat  in  proportion  as 
it  continues.  All  animated  bodies  soon  discover  it,  by  the 
change  it  produces  in  them.  The  lungs,  which  a  too  rarefied 
air  no  longer  expands,  are  contracted,  and  become  painful. 
Respiration  is  short  and  diflBcult,  the  skin  parched  and  dry, 
and  the  body  consumed  by  an  internal  heat.  In  vain  is 
recourse  had  to  large  draughts  of  water  ;  nothing  can  restore 


BOOK    III. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


a4y 


perspiration.  In  vain  is  coolness  sought  for ;  all  boilies  in 
which  it  is  usual  to  (ind  it,  deceive  the  hand  that  touches 
them.  Marble,  iron,  water,  notwithstanding  the  sun  no 
longer  appears,  are  hot.  The  streets  are  deserted,  and  the 
dead  silence  of  night  reigns  every  where.  The  inhabitants 
of  houses  and  villages  shut  themselves  up  in  their  houses,  and 
those  of  the  desert  in  their  tents,  or  in  pits  they  dig  in  the 
earth,  where  tlioy  wait  the  termination  of  this  destructive 
heat.  It  usually  lasts  three  days  ;  hut  if  it  exceeds  that  time, 
it  becomes  insupportalde.  Woe  to  th  !  traveller  whom  this 
wind  surprises  remote  from  shelter!  he  must  suffer  all  its 
dreadful  consequences,  which  sometimes  are  mortal.  Tlie 
danger  is  most  imminent  when  it  blows  in  squalls,  for  then 
the  rapidity  of  the  wind  increases  the  heat  to  such  a  degree 
as  to  cause  sudden  death.  This  death  is  a  real  suffocation  ; 
the  lungs,  being  empty,  are  convulsed,  the  circulation  dis- 
ordered, and  the  whole  mass  of  blood  driven  by  the  heart 
towards  the  head  and  breast ;  whence  that  hx'morrhage  at  the 
nose  and  mouth  which  happens  after  death.  This  wind  is 
especially  fatal  to  persons  of  a  plethoric  habit,  and  those  in 
whom  fatigue  has  destroyed  the  tone  of  the  muscles  and  the 
vessels.  The  corpse  remains  a  longtime  warm,  swells,  turns 
blue,  and  is  easily  separated  ;  all  which  are  signs  of  that  putrid 
fermentation  which  lakes  place  in  animal  bodies  when  the 
humors  become  stagnant.  These  accidents  are  to  be  avoided 
by  stopping  the  nose  and  mouth  with  handkerchiefs ;  an 
etficacious  method  likewise  is  that  practised  by  the  camels, 
who  bury  their  noses  in  the  sand,  and  keep  them  there  till 
the  squall  is  over. 

Another  quality  of  this  wind  is  its  extreme  aridity;  which 
is  such,  that  water  sprinkled  on  the  floor  evaporates  in  a  few 
minutes.  By  this  extreme  dryness,  it  withers  and  strips  all 
the  plants  ;  and  by  exhaling  too  suddenly  the  emanations  from 
animal  bodies,  crisps  the  skin,  closes  the  pores,  and  causes  that 
feverish  heat  which  is  the  invariable  effect  of  suppressed 
perspiration.  —  Volney. 


THE  THIRD   BOOK. 


Time  will  produce  events  of  which  thou  canst  have  no 
idea;  and  he  to  whom  thou  gavcst  no  commission,  will  bring 
thee  unexpected  news. 

MoALLAKAT.     Pociii  cf  Tarafa. 


1. 

THALABA. 

Oneiza,  look  !  the  dead  man  has  a  ring,  — 
Should  it  be  buried  with  him  ? 

ONEIZA. 

O  yes  —  yes  ! 
A  wicked  man!  whate'er  is  his  must  needs 
Be  wicked  too ! 

THALABA. 

But  see,  —  the  sparkling  stone  ! 
How  it  hath  caught  the  glory  of"  the  Sun, 
And  shoots  it  back  again  in  lines  of  light ! 

OiNEIZA. 

Why  do  you  take  it  from  him,  Thalaba.'  — 
And  look  at  it  so  close  .'  —  it  may  have  charms 
To  blind,  or  poison  ;  —  tlirow  it  in  the  gra\  ^ ! 
I  would  not  touch  it ! 

THALABA. 

And  around  its  rim 
Strange  letters  — 


ONEIZA. 

Bury  it  —  oh  !  bury  it  I 

THALABA. 

It  is  not  written  as  the  Koran  is  : 

Some  other  tongue  perchance  ;  —  the  accursed 

man 

Said  he  had  been  a  traveller. 

MOATii,     (coming  from  the  tent.) 
Thalaba, 
What  hast  thou  there  ? 

THALABA. 

A  ring  the  dead  man  wore ; 
Perhaps,  my  father,  you  can  read  its  meaning. 

MOATH. 

No,  Boy  ;  —  the  letters  are  not  such  as  ours. 
Heap  the  sand  over  it !  a  wicked  man 
Wears  nothing  holy. 

THALABA. 

Nay  !  not  bury  it ! 
It  may  be  that  some  traveller,  who  shall  enter 

Our  tent,  may  read  it ;  or  if  we  approach 
Cities  where  strangers  dwell  and  learned  men. 
They  may  interpret. 

MOATH. 

It  were  better  hid 

Under  the  desert  sands.     This  wretched  man, 

Wliom  God  hath  smitten  in  the  very  purpose 

And  impulse  of  his  unpermitted  crime, 

Belike  was  some  magician,  and  these  lines 

Are  of  the  language  that  the  Demons  use. 

ONEIZA. 

Bury  it !  bury  it,  dear  Thalaba  ! 

MOATH. 

Such  cursed  men  there  are  upon  the  earth. 

In  league  and  treaty  with  the  Evil  powers, 

The  covenanted  enemies  of  God 

And  of  all  good ;  dear  purchase  have  they  made 

Of  rule  and  riches,  and  their  life-long  sway, 

Masters,  yet  slaves  of  Hell.     Bcncatli  the  roots 

Of  Ocean,  the  Domdaniel  caverns  lie. 

Their  impious  meeting ;  there  they  learn  the  words 

Unutterable  by  man  who  holds  his  hope 

Of  heaven ;  there  brood  the  pestilence,  and  let 

The  earthquake  loose. 

THALABA. 

And  he  who  would  have  kill'd  me 
Was  one  of  these  .' 

MOATH. 

I  know  not ;  —  but  it  may  be 

That  on  the  Table  of  Destiny,  thy  name 

Is  written  their  Destroyer,  and  for  this 

Thy  life  by  yonder  miserable  man 

So  sought;  so  saved  by  interfering  Heaven. 


244 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER. 


BOOK    III, 


THALABA. 

His  ring  has  some  strange  power  thien  ? 

MOATH. 

Every  gem, 

So  sages  say,  liatli  virtue  ;  but  the  science, 

Of  difficult  attainment;  some  grow  pale. 

Conscious  of  poison,  or  with  sudden  change 

Of  darkness,  warn  the  wearer ;  some  preserve 

From  spells,  or  blunt  the  hostile  weapon's  edge ; 

Some  open  rocks  and  mountains,  and  lay  bare 

Their  buried  treasures  :  others  make  the  sight 

Strong  to  perceive  the  presence  of  those  Beings 

Through  whose  pure  essence,  as  through  empty  air, 

The  unaided  eye  would  pass  ; 

And  in  yon  stone  I  deem 

Some  such  mysterious  quality  resides. 

THALABA. 

My  father,  I  will  wear  it. 

MOATH. 

Thalaba  ! 

THALABA. 

In  God's  name,  and  the  Prophets !  be  its  power 
Good,  let  it  serve  the  righteous  ;  if  for  evil, 
God,  and  my  trust  in  Him,  shall  hallow  it. 


So  Thalaba  drew  on 

The  written  ring  of  gold. 

Then  in  the  hollow  grave 

They  laid  Abdaldar's  corpse, 

And  levell'd  over  him  the  desert  dust. 


The  Sun  arose,  ascending  from  beneath 

The  horizon's  circling  line. 

As  Thalaba  to  his  ablutions  went, 

Lo  !  the  grave  open,  and  the  corpse  exposed  ! 

It  was  not  that  the  winds  of  night 
Had  swept  away  the  sands  which  cover'd  it ; 

For  heavy  with  the  undried  dew 

The  desert  dust  lay  dark  and  close  around ; 

And  the  night  air  had  been  so  calm  and  still, 

It  had  not  from  the  grove 

Shaken  a  ripe  date  down. 


Amazed  to  hear  the  tale, 

Forth  from  the  tent  came  Moath  and  his  child. 

Awhile  he  stood  contemplating  the  corpse 

Silent  and  thoughtfully ; 

Then  turning,  spake  to  Thalaba,  and  said. 

"  I  have  heard  that  there  are  places  by  the  abode 

Of  holy  men,  so  holily  possess'd, 

That  should  a  corpse  be  laid  irreverently 

Within  their  precincts,  the  insulted  ground. 

Impatient  of  pollution,  heaves  and  shakes 

The  abomination  out. 

Have  then  in  elder  times  the  happy  feet 

Of  Patriarch,  or  of  Prophet  bless'd  the  place. 


Ishmael,  or  Houd,  or  Saleah,or,  than  all, 

Mahommed,  holier  name  ?     Or  is  the  man 

So  foul  with  magic  and  all  blasphemy. 

That  Earth,  like  Heaven,  rejects  him .'     It  is  best 

Forsake  the  station.     Let  us  strike  our  tent. 

The  place  is  tainted  —  and  behold 

The  Vulture  hovers  yonder,  and  his  scream 

Chides  us  that  still  we  scare  him  from  the  prey. 

So  let  the  accursed  one, 

Torn  by  that  beak  obscene, 

Find  fitting  sepulchre." 


Then  from  the  pollution  of  death 

With  water  they  made  themselves  pure  ; 

And  Thalaba  drew  up 

The  fastening  of  the  cords ; 

And  Moath  furl'd  the  tent ; 

And  from  the  grove  of  palms  Oneiza  led 

The  Camels,  ready  to  receive  their  load. 


The  dews  had  ceased  to  steam 

Toward  the  climbing  sun. 

When  from  the  Isle  of  Palms  they  went  their  way, 

And  when  the    Sun  had  rcach'd  his  southern 

height. 

As  back  they  turn'd  their  eyes, 

The  distant  Palms  arose 

Like  to  the  top-sails  of  some  fleet  far-off 

Distinctly  seen,  where  else 

The  Ocean  bounds  had  blended  with  the  sky  ! 

And  when  the  eve  came  on, 

The  sight  returning  reach'd  the  grove  no  more. 

They  planted  the  pole  of  their  tent. 

And  they  laid  them  down  to  repose. 


At  midnight  Thalaba  started  up. 

For  he  felt  that  the  ring  on  his  finger  was  moved  ; 

He  call'd  on  Allah  aloud. 

And  he  call'd  on  the  Prophet's  name. 

Moath  arose  in  alarm  ; 

"  What  ails  thee,  Thalaba.'"  he  cried; 

"  Is  the  robber  of  night  at  hand  .'  " 

"  Dost  thou  not  see,"  the  youth  cxclaim'd, 

"  A  Spirit  in  the  tent  ?  " 

Moath  look'd  round  and  said, 

"  The  moon-beam  shines  in  the  tent; 

I  see  thee  stand  in  the  light. 

And  thy  shadow  is  black  on  the  ground." 

8. 

Thalaba  answer'd  not. 

"  Spirit !  "  he  cried,  "  what  brings  thee  here  ? 

In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  speak  ; 

In  the  name  of  Allah,  obey  ! " 

9. 

He  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  in  the  tent, 

"  Dost  thou  not  hear  ?  "  quoth  Thalaba ; 

The  listening  man  replied, 

"  I  hear  the  wind,  that  flaps 

The  curtain  of  the  tent." 


BOOK  III.                          THALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                                  245 

10. 

Did  rebel  Spirit  on  the  tent  intrude  ; 

"The  Ring!  tlie  Ring!  "  the  youth  exclaini'd. 

Such  virtue  had  the  Spell. 

"For  that  the  Spirit  of  Evil  comes; 

By  that  1  see,  by  that  1  licar. 

14. 

Ill  tlie  name  of  God,  I  ask  thee. 

Thus  peacefully  the  vernal  years 

Who  was  he  that  slew  my  Father?  " 

Of  Thalaba  past  on, 

Till  now,  without  an  effort,  he  could  bend 

DEMON. 

Hodeira-i's  stubborn  bow. 

Master  of  the  powerful  Ring  ! 

Black  were  his  eyes,  and  bright; 

Okba,  the  dread  Magician,  did  the  deed. 

The  sunny  hue  oi' health 

Glow'd  on  his  tawny  cheek  ; 

THALABA. 

His  lip  was  darkcn'd  by  maturing  life ; 

Where  does  the  Murderer  dwell  .- 

Strong  were  his  shapely  limbs,  his  stature  tall; 

Peerless  among  Arabian  youths  was  he. 

DEMON. 

In  the  Domdaniel  caverns, 

15. 

Under  the  Roots  of  the  Ocean. 

Compassion  for  the  child 

Had  first  old  Moath's  kindly  heart  posscss'd. 

THALABA. 

An  orphan,  wailing  in  the  wilderness; 

Why  were  my  Fatlier  and  my  Brethren  slain  ? 

But  when  he  heard  his  tale,  his  wondrous  tale. 

Told  by  the  Boy,  with  such  eye-speaking  truth. 

DEMON. 

Now  with  sudden  bursts  of  anger. 

We  knew  from  the  race  of  Hodeirah 

Now  in  the  agony  of  tears, 

The  destined  Destroyer  would  come. 

And  now  with  flashes  of  prophetic  joy. 

What  had  been  pity  became  reverence  then, 

THALABA. 

And,  like  a  sacred  trust  from  Heaven, 

Bring  me  my  Father's  sword  ! 

The  Old  Man  clierish'd  him. 

Now,  with  a  father's  love, 

DEMON. 

Child  of  his  choice,  he  loved  the  Boy, 

A  Fire  surrounds  the  fatal  sword  ; 

And,  like  a  father,  to  the  Boy  was  dear. 

No  Spirit  or  Magician's  hand 

Oneiza  call'd  him  brother ;  and  the  youth 

Can  pierce  that  fated  Flame. 

More  fondly  than  a  brother  loved  the  maid  ; 

The  loveliest  of  Arabian  maidens  she. 

THALABA. 

How  happily  the  years 

Bring  me  his  bow  and  his  arrows  1 

Of  Thalaba  went  by ! 

11. 

IG.       * 

Distinctly  Moath  heard  the  youth,  and  She 

It  was  the  wisdom  and  the  will  of  Heaven, 

Wlio,  through  the  Veil  of  Separation,  watch'd 

That  in  a  lonely  tent  had  cast 

The  while  in  listening  terror,  and  suspense 

The  lot  of  Thalaba ; 

All  too  intent  for  prayer. 

There  might  his  soul  develop  best 

They  heard  the  voice  of  Thalaba ; 

Its  strengthening  energies  > 

But  when  the  Spirit  spake,  the  motionless  air 

There  might  he  from  the  world 

Felt  not  the  subtile  sounds. 

Keep  his  heart  pure  and  uncontarninate. 

Too  fine  for  mortal  sense. 

Till  at  the  written  hour  he  should  be  found 

12. 

Fit  servant  of  the  Lord,  without  a  spot. 

On  a  sudden  the  rattle  of  arrows  was  heard, 

17. 

And  a  quiver  was  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  youth. 

Years  of  his  youth,  how  rapidly  ye  fled 

And  in  his  hand  they  saw  Hodeirah's  bow. 

In  that  beloved  solitude  ! 

He  eyed  the  bow,  he  twang'd  the  string. 

Is  the  morn  fair,  and  doth  the  freshening  breeze 

And  his  heart  bounded  to  the  joyous  tone. 

Flow  with  cool  current  o'er  his  cheek .' 

Anon  he  raised  his  voice  and  cried. 

Lo  !  underneath  the  broad-leaved  sycamore 

"  Go  thy  way,  and  never  more, 

With  lids  half-closed  he  lies. 

Evil  Spirit,  haunt  our  tent! 

Dreaming  of  da3's  to  come. 

By  the  virtue  of  the  Ring, 

His  dog  beside  him,  in  mute  blandishment. 

By  Mahommed's  holier  might, 

Now  licks  his  listless  hand. 

By  the  holiest  name  of  God, 

Now  lifts  an  anxious  and  expectant  eye. 

Thee,  and  all  tlie  Powers  of  Hell, 

Courting  the  wonted  caress. 

1  adjure  and  I  command 

Never  more  to  trouble  us !  " 

18. 

Or  comes  the  Father  of  tl;c  Rains 

13. 

From  his  caves  in  the  uttermost  West.' 

Nor  ever  from  that  hour 

Comes  he  in  darkness  and  storms ' 

246 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


BOOK    III. 


When  the  blast  is  loud  ; 

When  tlic  waters  fill 

The  traveller's  tread  in  the  sands ; 

When  the  pouring  shower 

Streams  adown  the  roof; 

When  the  door-curtain  hangs  in  heavier  folds  : 

When  the  out-strain 'd  tent  flags  loosely  : 

Within  there  is  the  embers'  cheerful  glow, 

The  sound  of  the  familiar  voice, 

The  song  tliat  lightens  toil, — 

Domestic  Feace  and  Comfort  are  within. 

Under  the  common  shelter,  on  dry  sand. 

The  quiet  Camels  ruminate  their  food  ; 

The  lengthening  cord  from  Moath  falls. 

As  patiently  the  Old  Man 

Entwines  the  strong  palni-fibres ;  by  the  hearth 

The  Damsel  shakes  the  coffee-grains. 

That  with  warm  liragrance  fill  the  tent ; 

And  while,  witli  dexterous  fingers,  Thalaba 

Shapes  the  green  basket,  haply  at  his  feet 

Her  favorite  kidling  gnaws  the  twig. 

Forgiven  plunderer,  for  Oneiza's  sake. 

19. 

Or  when  the  winter  torrent  rolls 

Down  the  deep-channel'd  rain-course,  foamingly, 

Dark  with  its  mountain  spoils. 

With  bare  feet  pressing  the  wet  sand, 

There  wanders  Thalaba ; 
The  rushing  flow,  tlie  flowing  roar, 

Filling  his  yielded  faculties, 
A  vague,  a  dizzy,  a  tumultuous  joy. 

20. 

Or  lingers  it  a  vernal  brook 

Gleaming  o'er  yellow  sands.' 

Beneath  the  lofty  bank  reclined. 

With  idle  eye  he  views  its  little  waves, 

Quietly  listening  to  the  quiet  flow  ; 

While  in  the  breathings  of  the  stirring  gale, 

The  tall  canes  bend  above, 

Floating  like  streamers  on  the  wind 

Their  lank,  uplifted  leaves. 

21. 

Nor  rich,  nor  poor,  was  Moath ;  God  hath  given 

Enough,  and  blest  him  with  a  mind  content. 

No  hoarded  gold  disquieted  his  dreams  ; 

But  ever  round  his  station  he  beheld 

Camels  that  knew  his  voice, 

And  home-birds,  grouping  at  Oneiza's  call. 

And  goals  tliat,  morn  and  eve. 

Came  with  full  udders  to  the  Damsel's  liand. 

Dear  child!  the  tent  beneath  whose  shade  they  dwelt. 

It  was  her  work ;  and  she  had  twined 

His  girdle's  many  hues; 

And  he  had  seen  his  robe 

Grow  in  Oneiza's  loom. 

How  often,  with  a  memory-mingled  joy 

Which  made  her  Motlier  live  before  his  sight, 

He  watch'd  her  nimble  fingers  thread  the  woof! 

Or  at  the  hand-mill,  when  she  knelt  and  toil'd, 

Toss'd  the  thin  cake  on  spreading  palm, 

Or  fix'd  it  on  the  glowing  oven's  side, 

With  bare,  wet  arm,  and  safe  dexterity. 


22. 

'Tis  the  cool  evening  hour  : 

The  Tamarind  from  the  dew 

Sheathes  its  young  fruit,  yet  green. 

Before  their  tent  the  mat  is  spread  ; 

The  Old  Man's  solemn  voice 

Intones  the  holy  Book. 

What  if  beneath  no  lamp-illumined  dome, 

Its  marble  walls  bedeck'd  with  flourish'd  truth. 

Azure  and  gold  adornment .'     Sinks  the  word 

With  deeper  influence  from  the  Imam's  voice, 

Where,  in  the  day  of  congregation,  crowds 

Perform  the  duty-task  .' 

Their  Father  is  their  Priest, 

The  Stars  of  Heaven  their  point  of  prayer, 

And  the  blue  Firmament 

The  glorious  Temple,  where  they  feel 

The  present  Deity. 

23. 

Yet  through  tlie  purple  glow  of  eve 

Shines  dimly  the  white  moon. 

The  slacken'd  bow,  the  quiver,  the  long  lance, 

Rest  on  the  pillar  of  the  Tent. 

Knitting  light  palm-leaves  for  her  brother's  brow, 

The  dark-eyed  damsel  sits ; 

The  Old  Man  tranquilly 

Up  his  curl'd  pipe  ijihales 

The  tranquillizing  herb. 

So  listen  they  the  reed  of  Thalaba, 

While  his  skill'd  fingers  modulate 

The  low,  sweet,  soothing,  melancholy  tones. 

24. 

Or  if  he  strung  the  pearls  of  Pocs}', 

Singing  with  agitated  face, 

And  eloquent  arms,  and  sobs  that  reach  the  heart, 

A  tale  of  love  and  woe ; 

Then,  if  tlie  brightening  Moon  that  lit  his  face, 

In  darkness  favor'd  hers, 

Oh  !  even  with  such  a  look  as  fables  say 

The  Mother  Ostrich  fixes  on  her  egg. 

Till  that  intense  aflfection 

Kindle  its  light  of  life. 

Even  in  such  deep  and  breatJiless  tenderness 

Oneiza's  soul  is  centred  on  tlie  youth, 

So  motionless,  with  such  an  ardent  gaze, — 

Save  when  from  her  full  eyes 

She  wipes  away  the  swelling  tears 

That  dim  his  image  there. 

25. 

She  call'd  him  Brother;  was  it  sister-love 

For  which  the  silver  rings 

Round  her  smooth  ankles  and  her  tawny  arms 

■    Shone  daily  brigliten'd .'  for  a  brother's  eye   . 

Were  her  long  fingers  tinged, 

As  when  she  trimm'd  the  lamp. 

And  through  the  veins  and  delicate  skin 

Tlie  liffht  shone  rosy  .'  that  the  darken'd  lids 

Gave  yet  a  softer  lustre  to  her  e3'e  ? 

That  with  such  pride  she  trick'd 

Her  glossy  tresses,  and  on  holyday 

Wreathed  the  red  flower-crown  round 

Their  waves  of  glossy  jet  r 


llow  happily  the  days 
Of  Thai  aba  werutby! 


BOOK    III. 


NOTES    TO    TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


249 


the  vertuc  of  the  sayd  stones,  doe  practise  against  them : 
namely,  they  iirovide  themselves  armour  of  yron  or  Steele 
a^'aiiist  their  urrowes,  and  weapons  also  poisoned  with  the 
jiovsun  <jf  trees  ;  and  they  carry  in  their  hands  wooden  stakes 
most  sharp  and  hard-pointed,  as  if  they  were  yron  :  likewise 
they  slioot  arrowes  w  itliout  yron  hcades,  and  so  they  confound 
and  slay  some  of  their  unarmed  foes,  trusting  loo  securely 
unto  the  vorlue  of  their  stones." —  Vdvrkiis  in  Jhikliiijl. 

We  are  obliged  to  jmvcUers  fur  our  best  accounts  of  the 
East.  In  Tavernier  there  is  a  passage  curiously  characteristic 
of  his  profession.  A  Kuropeaii  at  Delhi  comiihiincd  to  him 
that  he  had  polished  and  set  a  large  diamond  for  Oreng-zebe, 
who  liad  never  paid  him  for  his  work.  But  he  did  not  un- 
derstand his  trade,  says  Tavernier  ;  for  if  he  had  been  a  skilful 
jeweller,  he  would  have  known  how  to  take  two  or  three 
pieces  out  of  the  stone,  and  pay  himself  better  than  the  Mogul 
would  have  done. 


places  by  the  abode 

Of  holy  men  —  holibj  possessed.  —  4,  p.  214. 

And  Elisha  died,  and  they  buried  him.  And  the  bands  of 
the  Moabites  invaded  the  land  at  the  coming  in  of  the  year. 

And  it  came  to  pass  as  they  were  burying  a  man,  that 
behold  they  spied  a  hand  of  men ;  and  they  cast  the  man  into 
the  sepulchre  of  Klisha  :  and  when  the  man  was  let  down, and 
touched  the  hones  of  Elisha,  he  revived  and  stood  up  on  his 
feet.  — 2  Kings,  xiii.  20,  21. 

"  It  happened  the  dead  corpse  of  a  man  was  cast  ashore  at 
ChatJiam,  and,  being  taken  up,  was  buried  decently  in  the 
church-yard.  Now  there  was  an  image  or  rood  in  the  church, 
called  our  Lady  of  Chatham.  This  Lady,  say  the  Monks, 
went  the  next  night  and  roused  up  the  clerk,  telling  him  that 
a  sinful  person  was  buried  near  the  jdace  where  she  was  wor- 
shipped, who  oftended  her  eyes  with  his  ghastly  grimiing  ; 
and  unless  he  were  removed,  to  the  great  grief  of  good  people 
siie  nmst  remove  from  thence,  and  could  work  no  more 
miracles.  Therefore  she  desired  him  to  go  with  her  to  take 
him  uj),  and  throw  him  into  the  river  again:  wliich  being 
done,  soon  after  the  Ixxly  floated  again,  and  was  taken  up  and 
buried  in  the  church-yard  ;  but  from  tliat  time  all  miracles 
ceased,  and  the  place  wliere  he  was  buried  did  continually 
sink  downwards.  This  tale  is  still  remembered  by  some 
aged  people,  receiving  it  hy  tradition  from  the  Popish  times 
of  darkness  and  idolatry."  —  Admirable  Cariosities,  Rarities, 
and  Wonders  in  England. 

When  Alboquerquc  wintered  at  the  isle  of  Caniaram,  in 
the  Red  sea,  a  man  at  arms,  who  died  suddenly,  was  thrown 
overboard.  In  the  night  the  watch  felt  several  shocks,  as 
though  the  ship  were  striking  on  a  sand-bank.  They  put  out 
the  boat,  and  found  the  dead  body  clinging  to  the  keel  by  the 
rudder.  It  was  taken  up  and  buried  on  shore  ;  and  in  the 
morning,  it  was  seen  lying  on  the  grave.  Frey  Francisco 
was  then  consulted.  He  conjectured,  that  the  deceased  had 
died  under  excommunication,  and  therefore  absolved  him. 
They  interred  him  again,  and  then  he  rested  in  the  grave.  — 
Joam  de  Barros.    Dec.  2.  8.  3. 


So  foul,  that  Earth  rejects  him.  —  4,  p.  244. 

Matthew  of  Westminster  says,  the  story  of  the  Old 
Woman  of  Berkeley  will  not  appear  incredible,  if  we  read  the 
dialogue  of  t?t.  Gregory,  in  which  he  relates  how  the  body  of 
a  man  buried  in  the  church  was  thrown  out  by  the  Devils. 
Charles  Martel  also,  because  he  had  appropriated  great  part 
of  the  tithes  to  pay  his  soldiers,  w.as  most  miserably,  by  the 
wicked  Spirits,  taken  bodily  out  of  his  grave. 

The  Turks  report,  as  a  certain  truth,  that  the  corpse  of 
Heyradin  Barbarossa  was  found,  four  or  five  times,  out  of  the 
ground,  lying  by  his  sepulchre,  after  he  had  been  there  in- 
humed :  nor  could  they  possibly  make  him  lie  quiet  in  his 
grave,  till  a  Greek  wizard  counselled  tliem  to  bury  a  black 
dog  together  with  the  body  ;  which  done,  he  lay  still  and 
gave  them  no  farther  trouble. — Morgan's  History  of  Algiers. 

In  supernatural  affairs,  seals  and  dog*  seem  to  possess  a 
"cdative  virtue.  When  peace  was  made,  about  the  year 
/I70,  between  the  Earls  of  Holland  and  Flanders,  "it  was 

32 


concluded,  that  Count  Floris  should  send  unto  Count  I'hilip, 
a  thousand  men,  expert  in  making  of  ditches,  to  stop  the  hole 
which  had  beene  made  neere  unto  Dam,  or  the  Sluce, 
whereby  the  countrey  was  drowned  round  about  at  cverie 
high  sea ;  the  which  the  Flemings  could  by  no  means  fill  up, 
neither  with  wood,  nor  any  other  matter,  for  that  all  sunke  as 
ill  a  gulfe  without  any  bottome  ;  whereby,  in  succession  of 
lime,  Bruges,  and  all  that  jurisdiction,  had  been  in  daunger  to 
have  bin  lost  hy  iimndation,  and  to  become  all  sea,  if  it  were 
not  speedily  repaired.  Count  Floris  having  taken  possession 
of  the  isle  of  Walcharen,  returned  into  Holland,  from  whence 
hee  siMitlhe  best  workmen  he  could  lind  in  all  his  countries 
into  Flanders,  to  make  dikes  and  causeics,  and  to  stop  the 
hole  neere  unto  this  Dam,  or  Sluce,  and  to  recover  the 
drowned  land.  These  diggers  being  come  to  the  place,  they 
found  at  the  enlrie  of  this  bottomless  hole,  a  Sea-dog,  the 
which  for  six  dayes  together,  did  nothing  but  crie  out  and 
howle  very  fearfully.  They,  not  knowing  what  it  might 
signifie,  having  consulted  of  this  accident,  they  resolved  to 
cast  this  dog  into  the  hole.  There  was  a  mad-headed  Hol- 
lander among  the  rest,  who  going  into  the  bottome  of  the 
dike,  tooke  the  dogge  by  the  taile,  and  cast  him  into  the 
middest  of  the  gulfe  ;  then  speedily  they  cast  earth  and  torfe 
into  it,  so  as  they  found  a  bottome,  and  by  little  and  little 
filled  it  up.  And  for  that  many  workmen  came  to  the  re- 
pairing of  tliis  dike,  who,  for  that  they  would  not  be  far  from 
their  worke,  coueht  in  Cabines,  which  seemed  to  be  a  pretie 
towne.  Count  Philip  gave  unto  all  these  Hollanders,  Zee- 
landers,  and  others,  that  would  inhabit  there,  as  much  land 
as  they  could  recover  from  Dam  to  Ardenl)0urg,  for  them  and 
their  successors,  forever,  with  many  other  immunities  and 
freedoms.  By  reason  whereof  many  planted  themselves 
there,  and  in  succession  of  time,  made  a  good  towne  there, 
the  which  by  reason  of  this  dog,  which  they  cast  into  the 
hole,  they  named  Hundtsdam,  that  is  to  say,  a  dog's  slucc ; 
Dam  in  Flemish  signifying  a  since,  and  Hondt  dog ;  and 
therefore  at  this  day,  the  said  towne  (which  is  simply  called 
Dam)  carrieth  a  dog  in  their  amies  and  blason."  —  Grime- 
stone's  Historie  of  the  JVctherlands,  1608. 


The  Vulture  hovers  yonder,  &c.  —  4,  p.  244. 

The  Vulture  is  very  serviceable  in  Arabia,  clearing  the 
earth  of  all  carcasses,  which  corrupt  very  rapidly  in  hot 
countries.  He  also  destroys  the  field  mice,  wliich  multiply 
so  prodigiously  in  some  provinces,  that,  were  it  not  for  this 
assistance,  the  peasant  might  cease  from  the  culture  of  the 
fields  as  absolutely  vain.  Their  performance  of  these  im- 
portant services  induced  the  ancient  Egyptians  to  pay  tho.se 
birds  divine  honors,  and  even  at  present  it  is  held  unlawful 
to  kill  them  in  all  the  countries  which  they  frequent. — 
JVtcbuhr, 


His  dog  beside  him,  &c.  —  17,  p.  245. 

The  Bedouins,  who  at  all  points,  are  less  superstitious  than 
the  Turks,  have  a  breed  of  very  tall  greyhounds,  which  like- 
wise mount  guard  around  their  tents  ;  but  they  take  great 
care  of  these  useful  servants,  and  have  such  an  affection  for 
them,  that  to  kill  the  dog  of  a  Bedouin  would  be  to  endanger 
your  own  life.  —  Sonnini. 


Or  comes  the  Father  of  the  Rains.  —  18,  p.  245. 

The  Arabs  call  the  West  and  South-West  winds,  which 
prevail  from  November  to  February,  the  fathers  of  the  rains. 
—  Volney. 


Entwines  the  strong  palm-fbres,  &c.  — 18,  p.  246. 

Of  the  Palm  leaves  they  make  mattresses,  baskets,  and 
brooms  ;  and  of  the  branches,  all  sorts  of  cage-work,  square 
baskets  for  packing,  that  serve  for  many  uses  instead  of  boxes  ; 
and  the  ends  of  the  boughs  that  grow  next  to  the  trunk  being 
beaten  like  flax,  the  fibres  separate,  and  being  tied  together  at 
the  narrow  end,  they  serve  for  brooms.  —  Pocuckc. 


250 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK  in. 


S/iapes  the  green  basket,  &c.  —  18,  i>.  246. 

The  Doum,  or  wild  palm-tree,  grows  in  abundance,  from 
which  these  jicople,  when  necessity  renders  them  in<lustrious, 
find  great  advantage.  The  sheplierds,  rnule-drivers,  camel- 
drivers,  and  travellers,  gather  the  leaves,  of  which  they  make 
mats,  I'ringes,  baskets,  hats,  .s7iooaW,v,  or  large  wallets  to  carry 
corn,  twine,  ropes,  girths,  and  covers  for  their  pack-saddles. 
This  pl.int,  with  wliich  also  they  heat  their  ovens,  produces  a 
mild  and  resinous  fruit,  that  ripens  in  September  and  October. 
It  is  in  form  like  the  raisin,  contains  a  kernel,  and  is  astringent, 
and  very  proper  to  temper  and  counteract  the  elfects  of  the 
watery  and  laxative  fruits,  of  which  these  people  in  summer 
make  an  immoderate  use.  That  Power  which  is  ever  provi- 
dent to  all,  has  spread  this  wild  plant  over  their  deserts  to 
supply  an  infinity  of  wants  that  would  otherwise  heavily 
burden  a  people  so  poor.  —  Chciiicr. 


Or  lingers  it  a  vernal  brook.  —  20,  p.  246. 

We  passed  two  of  those  valleys  so  common  in  Arabia,  which, 
when  heavy  rains  fall,  are  filled  with  water,  and  are  then 
called  wadi,  or  rivers,  although  perfectly  dry  at  other  times  of 
the  year.  —  We  now  drew  nearer  to  tiie  river,  of  which  a. 
branch  was  dry,  and  having  its  channel  filled  with  reeds 
growing  to  the  heiglit  of  20  feet,  served  as  a  line  of  road,  which 
was  agreeably  shaded  by  the  reeds.  —  Mcbuhr. 

My  brethren  have  dealt  deceitfully  as  a  brook,  and  as  the 
stream  of  brooks  tliey  pass  away. 

Which  are  blackish  by  reason  of  the  ice,  and  wherein  the 
snow  is  hid  : 

What  time  they  wax  warm  they  vanish;  when  it  is  hot, 
they  are  consumed  out  of  their  place. 

The  paths  of  their  way  are  turned  aside  ;  they  go  to  nothing, 
and  perish.  —  Job  vi.  15. 


JVur  rich,  nor  poor,  was  Moalh.  — 21,  p.  246. 

The  simplicity,  or,  perhaps,  more  properly,  the  poverty,  of 
the  lower  class  of  the  Bedouins,  is  proportionate  to  that  of 
their  chiefs.  —  All  the  wealth  of  a  family  consists  of  movables, 
of  which  tlie  following  is  a  pretty  exact  inventory  :  —  A  few 
male  and  female  camels,  some  goats  and  poultry,  a  mare  and 
lier  bridle  and  saddle,  a  tent,  a  lance  sixteen  feet  long,  a 
crooked  sabre,  a  rusty  musket,  with  a  flint  or  matchlock  ;  a 
pipe,  a  portable  mill,  a  pot  for  cooking,  a  leathern  bucket,  a 
small  coftee-roaster ;  a  mat,  some  clothes,  a  mantle  of  black 
woollen,  and  a  few  glass  or  silver  rings,  which  the  women 
wear  upon  their  legs  ami  arjns  ;  if  none  of  these  are  wanting, 
their  furniture  is  com|dete.  But  what  the  poor  man  stands 
most  in  need  of,  and  what  he  takes  most  pleasure  in,  is  his 
mare  ;  for  this  animal  is  his  principal  support.  With  his 
mare  the  Bedouin  makes  his  excursions  against  hostile  tribes, 
or  seeks  plunder  in  the  country,  and  on  the  highways.  The 
mare  is  preferred  to  the  horse,  because  she  does  not  neigh,  is 
more  docile,  and  yields  milk,  which,  on  occasion,  satisfies  the 
thirst  and  even  the  hunger  of  her  master. —  Vohirij. 

The  Slieik,  says  Volney,  with  whom  I  resided  in  the 
country  of  Gaza,  about  the  end  of  1784,  passed  for  one  of 
the  most  powerful  of  those  districts  ;  yet  it  did  not  appear  to 
me  that  his  expenditure  was  greater  than  that  of  an  opulent 
farmer.  His  personal  effects,  consisting  in  a  few  pelisses, 
carpets,  arms,  horses,  and  camels,  could  not  be  estimated  at 
more  than  fifty  thousand  livres,  (a  little  above  two  thousand 
pounds  ;)  and  it  must  bo  observed,  that  in  this  calculation, 
four  mares  of  the  breed  of  racers  are  valued  at  six  thousand 
livres,  (two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,)  and  each  camel  at  ten 
pounds  sterling.  We  must  not  therefore,  when  we  speak  of 
the  Bedouins,  aflix  to  the  words  Prince  and  Lord  the  ideas 
they  usually  convey  ;  wo  should  come  nearer  the  truth,  by 
comparing  them  to  substantial  farmers,  in  mountainous  coun- 
tries, whose  simplicity  they  resemble  in  their  dress,  as  well  as 
in  their  domestic  life  and  manners.  A  Sheik,  who  has  the 
command  of  five  hundred  horse,  does  not  disdain  to  saddle  and 
bridle  his  own,  nor  to  give  him  his  barley  and  chopped  straw. 
In  his  tent,  his  wife  makes  the  coffee,  kneads  the  dough,  and 


superintends  the  dressing  of  the  victuals.  His  daughters  and 
kinswomen  wa.rh  the  linen,  and  go  vvith  pitchers  on  their  heads, 
and  veils  over  tlieir  faces,  to  draw  water  from  the  fountain. 
'J'hese  manners  agree  precisely  with  the  descrijitions  in  Homer, 
and  the  history  of  Abraliam,  in  Genesis.  But  it  must  be 
owned,  that  it  is  dilficnlt  to  form  a  just  idea  of  them  without 
having  ourselves  been  eyc-wilncsses. —  Volney. 


JVo  hoarded  gold  disquieted  his  dreams.  —  21,  p.  246. 

Thus  confined  to  the  most  absolute  necessaries  of  life,  the 
Arabs  have  as  little  industry  as  their  wants  are  few  ;  all  their 
arts  consist  in  weaving  their  clumsy  tents,  and  in  making  mats 
and  butter.  Their  whole  commerce  only  extends  to  the 
exchanging  camels,  kids,  stallions,  and  milk,  for  arms,  clothing, 
a  little  rice  or  corn,  and  money,  which  tiny  bury. —  Volney. 


Jind  he  had  seen  his  robe 

Orow  in  Onciza's  loom.  — 21,  p.  246. 

The  chief  manufacture  among  the  Arabs  is  the  making  of 
Ilijkcj,  as  they  call  woollen  blankets,  and  webs  of  goat's  hair 
for  their  tents.  The  women  alone  are  employed  in  this  work, 
as  Andromache  and  Penelope  were  of  old ;  who  make  no  use 
of  a  shuttle,  but  conduct  every  thread  of  the  woof  with  their 
fingers.  —  S/iaw. 


Or  at  the  hand-mill  when  she  knelt.  —  21,  p.  246. 

If  mine  heart  have  been  deceived  by  a  woman,  or  if  1  have 
laid  wait  at  my  neighbor's  door, 
Then  let  my  wife  grind  unto  another. lob  xxxi.  9,  10. 


WiUi  bare,  wet  arm,  &c.  —  21,  p.  246. 

I  was  much  amused  by  observing  the  dexterity  of  the  Arab 
women  in  baking  their  bread.  They  have  a  small  place  built 
with  clay,  between  two  and  three  feet  high,  having  a  hole  at 
the  bottom,  for  the  convenience  of  drawing  out  the  ashes, 
something  similar  to  that  of  a  lime-kiln.  The  oven  (which  I 
think  is  the  most  proper  name  for  this  place)  is  usually  about 
fifteen  inches  wide  at  the  top,  and  gradually  grows  wider  to 
the  bottom.  It  is  heated  with  wood,  and  when  sufficiently 
hot,  and  perfectly  clear  from  smoke,  having  nothing  but  clear 
embers  at  bottom,  (which  continue  to  reflect  great  heat,)  they 
jirepare  the  dough  in  a  large  bowl,  and  mould  the  cakes,  to  the 
desired  size,  on  a  board  or  stone  placed  near  the  oven.  After 
they  have  kneaded  the  cake  to  a  proper  consistence,  they  pat 
it  a  little,  then  toss  it  about  with  great  dexterity  in  one  hand, 
till  it  is  as  thin  as  they  choose  to  make  it.  They  then  wet 
one  side  of  it  with  water,  at  the  same  time  wetting  the  hand 
and  arm,  with  which  they  put  it  into  the  oven.  The  wet  side 
^>f  the  cake  adheres  fast  to  the  side  of  the  oven  till  it  is 
sufficiently  baked,  when,  if  not  [laid  sufficient  attention  to,  it 
would  fall  down  among  the  embers.  If  they  were  not  ex- 
ceedingly quick  at  this  work,  the  heat  of  the  oven  would  burn 
the  skin  from  off  their  hands  and  arms ;  but  with  such 
amazing  dexterity  do  they  perform  it,  that  one  woman  will 
continue  keeping  three  or  four  cakes  at  a  time  in  the  oven  till 
she  has  done  baking.  This  mode,  let  me  add,  does  not  require 
half  the  fuel  that  is  made  use  of  in  Europe. — Jaclcson. 


The  Tamarind  sheathes  its  young  fruit,  yet  green.  —  Zi,  p.  246. 

Tamarinds  grow  on  great  trees,  full  of  branches,  whereof 
the  leaves  are  not  bigger  than,  nor  unlike  to,  the  leaves  of  pim- 
pernel, only  something  longer.  The  flower  nt  first  is  like 
the  peaches,  but  at  last  turns  white,  and  puts  forth  its  fruit  at 
the  end  of  certain  strings  ;  as  soon  as  the  sun  is  :;et,  the  leaves 
close  up  the  fruit,  to  preserve  it  from  the  dew,  and  open  as 
soon  as  that  luminary  appears  agnin.  The  fruit  at  first  is 
green,  but  ripening  it  becomes  of  a  dark-gray,  drawing  towards 
a  red,  enclosed  in  husks,  brown  or  tawny,  of  taste  a  little 
bitter,  like  our  prunelloes.  The  tree  is  as  big  as  a  walnut 
tree,  full  of  leaves,  bearing  its  fruit,  at  the  branches,  like  the 


BOOK    III. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


251 


3hojlli  of  a  knife,  but  not  so  straight,  rather  bent  like  a  bow. 
—  J\IandcUlo. 


Iiitonei  the  huhj  Book.  —  22,  p.  24G. 

I  have  often,  says  Niebuhr,  Iieard  llie  Sheiks  sing  passages 
from  the  Koran.  They  never  strain  tlie  voice  by  attempting 
to  raise  it  too  liigh  ;  ami  this  natural  music  pleased  mo  very 
much. 

The  airs  of  the  (Jrientals  are  all  grave  and  simple.  Tlicy 
choose  tlieir  singers  to  sing  so  distinctly,  that  every  word  may 
be  comprehended.  When  several  instruments  are  played  at 
once,  and  accompanied  by  the  voice,  you  hear  them  all  render 
the  same  melody,  unless  some  one  mingles  a  running  base, 
either  singing  or  playing,  always  in  the  same  key.  If  this 
music  is  not  greatly  to  our  taste,  ours  is  as  little  to  the  taste  of 
the  Orientals J^iebuhr. 


lis  marble  walls,  &c.  —  22,  p.  24G. 

The  Mosques,  which  they  pronounce  Mesg-jid,  are  built 
exactly  in  the  fashion  of  our  churches,  where,  instead  of  such 
seats  and  benches  as  we  make  use  of,  they  only  strew  the  floor 
with  mats,  upon  which  they  perform  the  several  sittings  and 
prostrations  that  are  enjoined  in  their  religion.  Near  the 
middle,  particularly  of  the  principal  Alosque  of  each  city,  there 
is  a  large  pulpit  erected,  which  is  balustradcd  round,  with 
aliout  half-a-dozen  steps  leading  up  to  it.  Upon  these  (fur  I 
am  told  none  are  permitted  to  enter  the  pulpit)  the  Mufty, 
or  one  of  the  Im-ams,  placcth  himself  every  Friday,  the  day 
of  the  congregation,  as  they  call  it,  and  from  tlience  either 
explaineth  some  part  or  other  of  the  Koran,  or  else  exhorteth 
tlie  people  to  piety  and  good  work":.  That  end  of  those 
Mosques,  which  regards  Mecca,  whither  they  direct  them- 
selves throughout  the  whole  course  of  their  devotions,  is  called 
the  Kil)lah,  in  which  there  is  commonly  a  niche,  representing, 
as  a  judicious  writer  conjectures,  the  presence,  and  at  the  same 
tiine  the  invisibility  of  the  Deity.  There  is  usually  asijuaru 
tow'.T  erected  at  the  other  end,  witli  a  flag-stafl'  upon  the  top 
of  it.  Hither  the  crier  ascends  at  the  appointed  times,  and, 
dis|)l  lying  a  small  tlag,  advertiseth  the  people,  with  a  loud 
voice  from  each  side  of  the  battlements,  of  the  hour  of 
prayer.  These  places  of  the  Mahometan  worship,  together 
with  the  Mufty,  Im-ams,  and  other  persons  belonging  to 
tlicni,  are  maintained  cut  of  certain  revenues  arising  from  the 
rents  of  lands  and  houses,  either  left  by  will  or  set  apart  by 
the  public  for  that  use. —  Shaw. 

,M1  the  Mosques  are  built  nearly  in  the  same  style.  They 
are  of  an  oblong  square  form,  and  covered  in  the  middle  with 
a  lirge  dome,  on  the  top  of  which  is  fixed  a  gilt  crescent.  In 
front  there  is  a  handsome  portico  covered  with  several  small 
cupolas,  and  raised  one  step  above  the  pavement  of  the  court. 
The  Turks  sometimes,  in  the  hot  season,  perform  their  de- 
votions there  ;  and  between  the  columns,  upon  cross  iron 
bars,  are  suspended  a  number  of  lamps,  for  illuminations  on 
the  Thursday  nights,  and  on  all  festivals.  The  entrance 
into  the  .Mosque  is  by  one  large  door.  All  these  edifices  are 
solidly  built  of  freestone,  and  in  several  the  domes  are  covered 
with  lead.  The  minarets  stand  on  one  side,  adjoining  to  the 
body  of  the  Mosque.  They  are  sometimes  square,  but  more 
commonly  round  and  taper.  The  gallery  for  tiie  muazecn,  or 
criers,  projecting  a  little  from  the  column  near  the  top,  has 
some  resemblance  to  a  rude  capital ;  and  from  this  the  spire, 
tapering  more  in  proportion  than  before,  soon  terminates  in  a 
point  crowned  with  a  crescent.  —  Russell's  .Aleppo. 


The  Stars  of  Heaven  their  point  uf  prayer. — 22,  p.  24G. 

The  KeabS  is  the  point  of  direction,  and  the  centre  of  union 
for  the  prayers  of  the  whole  human  race, as  the  Beith-mamour*' 
is  for  those  of  all  the  celestial  beings  ;  the  Kursyf  for  those 


•  B:ilh-immour,  which  means  the  house  of  prosperity  .ind  fclicity,  is 
the  .incicnt  Keahe  of  Mecca  ;  which,  accorilin»  to  tradition,  was  taken  np 
Into  Ileavi  n  bv  the  Angels  at  the  deluge,  where  it  was  placed  perpentlicu- 
.arly  over  the  present  sanctuary. 

t  Kursy,  which  signifies  ^  seat,  is  the  eighth  firmament. 


of  the  four  Arch-angels,  and  the  Arsch  *  for  those  of  the 
cherubims  and  serapliims  who  guard  the  throne  of  the  Al- 
mighty. The  inliabitants  of  Mecca,  who  enjoy  the  happiness 
of  contemplating  tlin  Keabe,  are  obliged,  when  they  Jiray,  to 
fix  their  eyes  u|)on  tlio  sanctuary  ;  but  they  who  are  at  a 
distance  from  this  valuable  privilege,  are  required  only,  during 
prayer,  to  direct  their  attention  towards  that  hi^llowed  edifice. 
The  believer  who  is  ignorant  of  the  ]iosition  of  the  Keabc  must 
use  every  endeavor  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  it ;  and  after  ho 
has  shown  great  solicitude,  whatever  be  his  success,  his 
l)rayer  is  valid.  —  D'Ohsson. 


Rest  on  the  pillar  of  the  Tent.  —  23,  p.  246. 

The  Bedoweens  live  in  tents,  called  Hijmas,  from  the  shade 
they  afford  the  inliabitants,  and  Beet  el  Shur,  Houses  of  Hair, 
from  the  matter  they  are  made  of.  'J'hey  are  the  same  with 
what  the  antients  called  Mapalia,  which  being  then,  as  they 
are  to  this  day,  secured  from  the  heat  and  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  by  a  covering  only  of  such  hair-cloth  as  our  coal 
sacks  are  made  of,  might  very  justly  be  described  by  Virgil 
to  have  thin  roofs.  When  wo  find  any  number  of  them 
together,  (and  I  have  seen  from  three  to  three  luindred,)  llien 
they  are  usually  placed  in  a  circle,  and  constitute  a  Don-war. 
The  fashion  of  each  tent  is  the  same,  being  of  an  oblong 
figure,  not  unlike  the  bottom  of  a  ship  turned  upside  down, 
as  Sallusl  hath  long  ago  described  them.  However,  they 
difl^er  in  bigness,  according  to  the  number  of  people  who  live 
in  them  ;  and  are  accordingly  supported,  some  with  one 
pillar,  others  with  two  or  three;  whilst  a  curtain  or  carpel 
placed,  upon  occasion,  at  each  of  these  divisions,  separatelh 
the  whole  into  so  many  apartments.  The  iiiUar,  which 
I  have  mentioned,  is  a  straight  pole,  8  or  10  feet  high,  and  5 
or  4  inches  in  thickness,  serving  not  only  to  support  the  tent, 
but  bvingfuU  of  hooks  fixed  theie  for  the  purpose,  the  Arabs 
hang  ujion  it  their  clothes,  baskets,  saddles,  and  accoutre- 
ments of  war.  Ilolofernes,  as  we  read  in  Judith,  xiii.  6, 
maile  the  like  use  of  the  pillar  of  his  tent,  by  bangiiis  his 
fanchion  upon  it :  it  is  there  called  the  pillar  of  the  bed,  from 
the  custom,  perhajis,  that  hath  always  prevailed,  of  having  the 
upper  end  of  the  carpet,  mattrass,  or  whatever  else  they  lie 
uijon,  turned  from  the  skirts  of  the  tent  that  way.  But  the 
Kawomciov,  Canopy,  as  we  render  it,  (ver.  9,)  should,  I 
presume,  be  rather  called  the  gnat  or  muskccla  net,  which  is 
a  close  curtain  of  gauze  or  fine  linen,  used  all  over  the  Le- 
vant, by  ])eople  of  better  fashion,  to  keep  out  the  flies.  The 
Arabs  have  nothing  of  this  kind  ;  who,  in  taking  their  rest, 
lie  horizontally  upon  the  ground,  without  bed,  mattrass,  or 
pillow,  wra[)iiing  themselves  up  only  in  their  Jlijkcs,  and 
lying,  as  they  find  room,  upon  a  mat  or  carpet,  in  the  midille 
or  corner  of  the  tent.  Those  who  are  married,  have  each  of 
them  a  corner  of  the  tent,  cantoned  oft"  with  a  curtain. — 
Shaw. 

The  tents  of  the  Moors  are  somewhat  of  a  conic  form,  are 
seldom  more  than  8  or  10  feet  high  in  the  centre,  and  from 
20  to  25  in  length.  Like  those  of  the  remotest  antiquity, 
their  figure  is  that  of  a  ship  overset,  the  keel  of  which  is 
only  seen.  These  tents  are  made  of  twine,  composed  of 
goat's  hair,  camel's  wool,  and  the  leaves  of  the  wild  palm, 
so  that  they  keep  out  water;  but,  being  black,  they  produce 
a  disagreeable  efl'ect  at  a  distant  view. —  Chciiicr. 


Knitting  light  palm-le.ares  for  her  brotlier's  brow.  —  23,  p.  246. 

In  the  kingdom  of  Imam,  the  men  of  all  ranks  shave  their 
heads.  In  some  other  countries  of  Yemen,  all  the  Arabs, 
even  the  Sheiks  theinselves,  let  their  hair  grow,  and  wear 
neither  bonnet  nor  Sasrh,  but  a  handkerchief  instead,  in 
which  they  tie  their  hair  behind.  Some  let  it  fall  upon  their 
shoulders,  and  bind  a  small  cord  round  their  heads  instead 
of  a  turban.  The  Bedouins,  upon  the  frontiers  of  Hedsjas 
and  of  Yemen,  wear  a  bonnet  of  palm-leaves,  neatly  platted. 
—  A'itbuhr. 


'  Arsch  is  the  throne  of  the  Almighty,  which  is  thought  10  be  placed 
on  the  ninth,  wliich  is  the  higliesl  of  the  firmaments. 


252 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    III 


So  luitcn  they  the  reed,  &c.  — 23,  p.  246. 

The  music  of  tlie  Bedoweens  rarely  consists  of  more  than 
one  strain,  suitalile  to  their  homely  instruments,  nnd  to  their 
simple  invention.  The  Anihehbah,  as  they  call  the  bladder 
and  string,  is  in  tiie  highest  vogue,  and  doubtless  of  great 
antiquity;  as  is  also  the  Gasapb,  which  is  only  a  common 
reed,  oi)en  at  each  end,  having  the  side  of  it  bored,  with  three 
or  more  holes,  according  to  the  ability  of  the  person  who  is  to 
touch  it  ;  though  the  compass  of  their  tunes  rarely  or  never 
exceeds  an  octave.  Yet  sometimes,  even  in  this  simplicity  of 
harmony,  they  observe  something  of  method  and  ceremony; 
for  in  their  historical  Cantatas  especially,  they  have  their 
preludes  and  symphonies  ;  each  stanza  being  introduced  with 
a  flourish  from  the  Arabebbah,  while  the  narration  itself  is 
accompanied  with  the  softest  touches  they  are  able  to  make, 
upon  the  Gasaph.  The  Tarr,  another  of  their  instruments,  is 
made  like  a  Sive,  consisting  (as  Isidore  describeth  the  Tym- 
panum) of  a  thin  rim,  or  hoop  of  wood,  with  a  skin  of  parch- 
ment stretched  over  the  top  of  it.  This  serves  for  the  bass  in 
all  their  concerts,  which  they  accordingly  touch  very  artfully 
with  tlieir  fingers,  and  the  knuckles  or  palms  of  their  hands, 
as  the  time  and  measure  require,  or  as  force  and  softness  are  to 
be  communicated  to  the  several  parts  of  the  performance. 
The  Tarr  is  undoubtedly  the  Tympanum  of  the  Antients, 
which  appears  as  well  from  the  general  use  of  it  all  over 
Barbary,  Egypt,  and  the  Levant,  as  from  the  method  of 
playing  upon  it,  and  the  figure  of  the  instrument  itself,  being 
exactly  of  the  same  fashion  with  what  we  find  in  the  hands  of 
Cybele  and  the  Bacchanals  among  the  Basso  Relievos  and 
Statues  of  the  Antients.  —  Sliaw. 

The  Arabs  have  the  Cussuba,  or  cane,  which  is  only  a  piece 
of  large  cane  or  reed,  with  stops  or  holes,  like  a  flute,  and 
somewhat  longer,  which  they  adorn  with  tossels  of  black  silk, 
and  play  upon  like  the  German  flute.  —  Morgan's  Ifist.  of 
Mgiers. 

The  young  fellows,  in  several  towns,  play  prettily  enough 
on  pipes  made,  and  sounding  very  much  like  our  flagelet,  of 
the  tbigh-liones  of  cranes,  storks,  or  such  large  fowl.  —  lb. 

How  great  soever  may  have  been  the  reputation  the  Libyans 
once  had  of  being  famous  musicians,  and  of  having  invented 
the  pipe  or  flute,  called  by  Greek  authors  llippopUorbos,  I 
fancy  few  of  them  would  be  now  much  liked  at  our  Opera. 
As  for  this  tibicen,  flute  or  pipe,  it  is  certainly  lost,  except  it 
be  the  gaijtii,  somewhat  like  the  bautbois,  called  lurna,  in 
Turkish,  a  martial  instrument.  Julius  Pollux,  in  a  chapter 
entitled  De  tibiarum  specie,  says  IUppophorbos,  quam  quidrm 
Libijes  Scenetes  invcnerunt;  and  again,  showing  tlje  use  and 
quality  thereof,  litre  vcro  apad  cquorum  pascua  utuntur,  ejusque 
materia  decorticata  laurus  est,  cor  enim  ligni  eilractum  acu- 
tissimam  dat  sonum.  The  sound  of  the  gaijta  agrees  well  with 
this  description,  though  not  the  make.  Several  poets  mention 
the  tibicen  Libycus  and  Arahicus;  and  Athenasus  quotes  Duris, 
and  says,  Libycas  tibia  Poette  appellant,  vt  inquit  Duris,  libro 
secundo  de  rebus  gestis  Sgathoclis,  quod  Scirites,  primus,  ut 
credunt,  tibicinum  artis  inventor,  e  gente  JiTomadum  Libycorum 
ficerit,  primusque  tibia  Cerealium  hymnorum  cantor.  —  lb. 


Or  if  he  strung  the  pearls  of  Poesy.  —  24,  p.  246. 

Persie  "  pulcherrimi  usi  translatione,  pro  verstisfacere  dicunt 
margaritas  nectere ;  quemadmodum  in  illo  Ferdusii  versiculo 
'  S'ujuidem  calami  acuminc  adamantino  margaritas  nexi,  in  scien- 
tim  marc  penittis  me  iminersi.'  "  —  Poeseos  JisialiciB  Commen- 
tarii. 

This  is  a  favorite  Oriental  figure.  "  After  a  little  time, 
lifting  his  head  from  the  collar  of  reflection,  he  removed  the 
talisman  of  science  from  the  treasure  of  speech,  and  scatteri'd 
skirts-full  of  brilliant  gems  and  princely  pearls  before  the 
company  in  his  mirth-exciting  deliveries."  —  Baliar  Danush. 

Again,  in  the  same  work  —  "  he  began  to  weigh  his  stored 
pearls  in  the  scales  of  delivery." 

Abu  Temam,  who  was  a  celebrated  poet  himself,  used  to 
say,  that  "  fine  sentiments,  delivered  in  prose,  were  like  gems 
scattered  at  random  ;  but  that  when  they  were  confined  in  a 
poetical  measure,  they  resembled  bracelets  and  strings  of 
pearls." —  Sir  iV.  Jones,  Essay  on  the  Poetry  of  the  Eastern 
A'ations. 


In  Mr.  Carlyle's  translations  from  the  Arabic,  a  Poet  saya 
of  his  friends  and  himself. 

They  are  a  row  of  Pearls,  and  I 
The  silken  thread  on  which  they  lie 

I  quote  from  memory,  and  recollect  not  the  Author's  name. 
It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  the  same  metaphor  is  among 
the  quaintnesscs  of  Fuller.  "  Benevolence  is  the  silken  thread, 
that  should  run  through  the  pearl  chain  of  our  virtues."  — 
Iluly  State. 

It  seems  the  Arabs  are  still  great  rhymers,  and  their  verses 
are  sometimes  rewarded  ;  but  I  should  not  venture  to  say, 
that  there  are  great  Poets  among  them.  Yet  I  was  assured  in 
Yemen  that  it  is  not  unconnnon  to  find  them  among  the 
wandering  Arabs  in  the  country  of  Dsjaf.  It  is  some  few 
years  since  a  Sheik  of  these  Arabs  was  in  prison  at  Sf  ana  : 
seeing  by  chance  a  bird  upon  a  roof  opposite  to  him,  he  rec- 
ollected that  the  devout  Mahommedans  believe  they  perform 
an  action  agreeable  to  God  in  giving  liberty  to  a  bird  encaged. 
He  thought  therefore  he  had  as  much  right  to  liberty  as  a 
bird,  and  made  a  poem  upon  the  subject,  which  was  first 
learnt  by  his  guards,  and  then  became  so  popular,  that  at  last 
it  reached  the  Imam.  He  was  so  pleased  with  it,  that  he 
liberated  the  Sheik,  whom  he  had  arrested  for  his  robberies.  — 
Jfiebuhr,  Dcsc.  de  V Arabic. 


A  tale  of  love  and  woe.  —  24,  p.  246. 

They  are  fond  of  singing  with  a  forced  voice  in  the  high 
tones,  and  one  must  have  lungs  like  theirs  to  supjiort  the  cfiort 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Their  airs,  in  point  of  character 
and  execution,  resemble  nothing  we  have  heard  in  Europe, 
except  the  Seguidilhisof  the  Spaniards.  They  have  divisions 
more  labored  even  than  those  of  the  Italians,  and  cadences 
and  inflections  of  tone  impossible  to  be  imitated  by  European 
throats.  Their  performance  is  accompanied  with  sighs  and 
gestures,  which  paint  the  passions  in  a  more  lively  manner 
than  wo  should  venture  to  allow.  They  may  be  said  to  excel 
most  in  the  melancholy  strain.  To  behold  an  Arab  with  his 
head  inclined,  his  hand  applied  to  his  ear,  his  eyebrows  knit, 
his  eyes  languishing;  to  hear  his  plaintive  tones,  his  lenglh- 
ened  notes,  his  sighs  and  sobs,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  refrain 
from  tears,  which,  as  their  exi)ression  is,  are  far  from  bitter: 
and  indeed  they  must  certainly  find  a  pleasure  in  shedding 
them,  since,  among  all  their  songs,  they  constantly  prefer  that 
which  excites  them  most,  as,  among  all  accomplishments, 
singing  is  that  they  most  admire. —  Volncy. 

All  their  literature  consists  in  reciting  tales  and  histories  in 
the  manner  of  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments.  They 
have  a  peculiar  passion  for  such  stories  ;  and  employ  in  them 
almost  all  their  leisure,  of  which  they  have  a  great  deal.  In 
the  evening  they  seat  themselves  on  the  ground  at  the  door  of 
their  tents,  or  under  cover  if  it  be  cold,  and  there,  ranged  in  a 
circle  round  a  little  fire  of  dung,  their  pijies  in  their  mouths, 
and  their  legs  crossed,  they  sit  awhile  in  silent  meditation, 
till,  on  a  sudden,  one  of  them  breaks  fortli  with,  Once  upon  a 
time,  —  and  continues  to  recite  the  adventures  of  some  young 
Shaik  and  female  Bedouin  :  he  relates  in  what  manner  the 
youth  first  got  a  secret  glimpse  of  his  mistress,  nnd  how  he 
became  desperately  enamored  of  her :  he  minutely  describes 
the  lovely  fair,  extols  her  black  eyes,  as  large  and  soft  as  those 
of  the  gazelle  ;  her  languid  and  impassioned  looks  ;  her  arched 
eyebrows,  resembling  two  bows  of  ebony  ;  her  waist,  straight 
and  supple  as  a  lance  ;  he  forgets  not  her  steps,  light  as  those 
of  the  young  filley,  nor  her  eyelashes  blackened  with  kohl,  nor 
her  lips  painted  blue,  nor  her  nails  tinged  with  the  golden- 
colored  henna,  nor  her  breasts,  resembling  two  pomegranates, 
nor  her  words,  sweet  as  honey.  He  recounts  the  sufierings 
of  the  young  lover,  so  wasted  with  desire  and  passion,  that  his 
body  no  longer  yirldx  any  shadow.  At  length,  alter  detailing 
his  various  attempts  to  see  his  mistress,  the  obstacles  on  the 
part  of  the  parents,  the  invasions  of  the  enemy,  the  captivity 
of  the  two  lovers,  &c.,  he  terminates,  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  audience,  by  restoring  them,  united  and  happy,  to  the  pa- 
ternal tent,  and  by  receiving  tlie  tribute  paid  to  his  elocpicnce, 
in  the  masha  allah*  he  has  merited.  The  Bedouins  have 
likewise  their   love-songs,  which  have  more  sentiment   and 

*  An  excla  nation  of  praise,  equivalent  to  admirabtv  "4U! 


BOOK    III. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER 


253 


natiirp  in  tliem  tliun  those  of  the  Turks  and  iiih;ihitant3  of 
the  towns  ;  doiihtluss  because  tlie  former,  whose  manners  are 
chaste,  knjw  wliat  love  is  ;  while  tlie  hitter,  alianiloned  to 
debauclicry,  are  acquainted  only  with  enjojiatnt. —  y'ulney. 


Tlie  Mother  Ostrich  Jixcs  on  her  egg.  —  ^i,  p.  246. 

We  read  in  an  Old  Arabian  Manuscript,  that  when  the 
ostrich  would  hatch  her  eir^s,  she  does  not  cover  them,  as 
other  fosvls  do,  but  botli  the  male  and  female  contribute  to 
hatch  them  by  the  efficacy  of  their  looks  only;  and  therefore 
when  one  has  occasion  to  go  to  look  for  food,  it  advertises  its 
companion  by  its  cry,  and  the  other  never  stirs  during  its 
absence,  but  remains  with  its  eyes  fixed  ui)on  the  eggs,  till 
the  return  of  its  mate,  and  then  goes  in  its  turn  to  look  for 
food  ;  and  this  care  of  theirs  is  so  necessary,  that  it  cannot 
be  suspended  for  a  moment ;  for,  if  it  should,  their  eggs  would 
immediately  become  addle. —  VansUbe. 

This  is  said  to  emblem  the  perpetual  attention  of  the 
Creator  to  the  Universe. 


Round  her  smooth  ankles  and  her  taianij  ai-rn^i.  —  25,  p.  246. 

"  She  had  laid  aside  the  rings  which  used  to  grace  her 
ankles,  lest  the  sound  of  them  should  expose  her  to  calamity." 
—  A.fiatic  Researches. 

Most  of  the  Indian  women  have  on  each  arm,  and  also  above 
the  ankle,  ten  or  twelve  rings  of  gold,  silver,  ivory,  or  coral. 
They  spring  on  the  leg,  and,  when  they  walk,  make  a  noise, 
with  which  they  arc  much  pleased.  Their  hands  and  toes  are 
generally  adorned  with  large  rings.  —  Sonneral. 

"  In  that  day  the  Lord  will  take  away  the  bravery  of  their 
tinkling  ornaments  about  their  feet,  a.nd  their  cauls,  and  their 
round  tires  like  the  moon." 

"  The  chains,  and  the  bracelets,  and  the  mufflers, 

"  The  bonnets,  and  the  ornaments  ofthelegs,"  &.C.  —  Isaiah, 
lii.  18. 


fVere  her  long  fingers  tinged.  — 25,  p.  246. 

His  fingers,  in  beauty  and  slenderness  appearing  as  the 
Yed  Birza,*  or  the  rays  of  the  sun,  being  tinged  with  Hinna, 
seemed  branches  of  transparent  red  coral.  — Bahar  Damtsh. 

She  dispenses  gifts  with  small,  delicate  fingers,  sweetly 
glowing  at  their  tips,  like  the  white  and  crimson  worm  of 
Dibia,  or  dentifrices  made  of  Esel  wood.  — Moallakat.  Poem 
of  Amriulkais. 

The  Hinna,  says  the  translator  of  the  Bahar-Danush,  is 
esteemed  not  merely  ornamental,  but  medicinal  ;  and  I  have 
myself  often  experienced  in  India  a  most  refreshing  coolness 
through  the  whole  habit,  from  an  embrocation,  or  rather 
plaster  of  Hinna,  applied  to  the  soles  of  my  feet,  by  pre- 
scription of  a  native  physician.  The  effect  lasted  for  some 
days.  Bruce  says  it  is  used  not  only  for  ornament,  but  as  an 
astringent  to  keep  the  hands  and  feet  dry. 

This  unnatural  fashion  is  extended  to  animals. 

Departing  from  the  town  of  Anna,  we  met,  about  five 
hundred  paces  from  the  gate,  a  young  man  of  good  family 
followed  by  two  servants,  and  mounted,  in  the  fashion  of  the 
country,  upon  an  ass,  whose  rump  was  painted  red.  —  Ta- 
vernier. 

In  Persia,  "  they  dye  the  tails  of  those  horses  which  are  of 
a  light  color  with  red  or  orange."  —  Ilanway. 

Ali,  the  Moor,  to  whose  capricious  cruelty  Mungo  Park 
was  so  long  exposed,  "  always  rode  upon  a  milk-white  horse, 
with  its  tail  dyed  red." 

When  Pietro  della  Valle  went  to  Jerusalem,  all  his  camels 
were  made  orange-color  with  henna.  He  says  he  had  seen 
in  Rome  the  manes  and  tails  of  certain  horses  which  came 
from  Poland  and  Hungary  colored  in  like  manner.  He 
conceived  it  to  bo  the  same  plant,  which  was  sold,  in  a  dry  or 
pulverized  state,  at  Naples,  to  old  women,  to  dye  their  gray 
hairs  flaxen. 

Mfemado,  a  word  derived  from  Alfena,  the  Portuguese  or 
Moorish  name  of  this  plant,  is  still  used  in  Portugal  as  a 
phrase  of  contempt  for  a  fop. 

*  The  miraculously  ahininj  hand  of  Moies. 


The  light  shone  rosy  ?  that  tin:  darkened  lids,  &.c.  —  25,  p.  246. 

The  blackened  eyelids  and  the  reddened  fingers  were 
Eastern  customs,  in  use  among  the  Greeks.  They  are  still 
among  the  tricks  of  the  Grecian  toilet.  The  females  of 
the  rest  of  Europe  have  never  added  them  to  their  list  of 
ornaments. 


Wreathed  the  red  flower-crown  round,  &c.  — 25,  p.  246. 

The  Mimosa  Pelam  produces  splendid  flowers  of  a  beautiful 
red  color,  with  which  the  Arabians  crown  their  heads  on  their 
days  of  festival.  —  J^iebuhr. 


Their  work  was  done,  their  path  of  ruin  past.  —  30,  p.  247. 

The  large  locusts,  which  are  near  three  inches  long,  are  not 
the  most  destructive  ;  as  they  fly,  they  yield  to  the  current  of 
tlie  wind,  which  hurries  them  into  the  sea,  or  into  sandy 
deserts,  where  they  perish  with  hunger  or  fatigue.  The 
young  locusts,  that  cannot  fly,  are  the  most  ruinous  ;  they  are 
about  fifteen  lines  in  length,  and  the  thickness  of  a  goose 
quill.  They  creep  over  the  country  in  such  multitudes  that 
they  leave  not  a  blade  of  grass  behind  ;  and  the  noise  of  their 
feeding  announces  their  approach  at  some  distance.  The  de- 
vastations of  locusts  increase  the  price  of  jjrovisions,  and 
often  occasion  famines;  but  the  Moors  find  a  kind  of  compen- 
sation in  making  food  of  these  insects  ;  prodigious  (|uantities 
are  brought  to  market,  salted  and  dried,  like  red  herrings. 
They  have  an  oily  and  rancid  taste,  which  habit  only  can 
render  agreeable  :  they  are  eat  here,  however,  with  pleasure. 
—  Chcnier. 

In  1778,  the  empire  of  Morocco  was  ravaged  by  these 
insects.  In  the  summer  of  that  year,  such  clouds  of  locusts 
came  from  the  south,  that  they  darkened  the  air,  and  devoured 
a  part  of  thi;  harvest.  Their  offspring,  which  they  left  on  the 
ground,  committed  still  much  greater  mischief.  Locusts  ap- 
peared, and  bred  anew  in  the  following  year,  so  that  in  the 
spring  the  country  was  wholly  covered,  and  they  crawled  one 
over  the  other  in  search  of  their  subsistence. 

It  has  been  remarked,  in  speaking  of  the  climate  of  Mo- 
rocco, that  the  young  locusts  arc  those  which  are  the  most 
mischievous  ;  and  that  it  seems  almost  impossible  to  rid  the 
land  of  these  insects  and  their  ravages,  when  the  country  once 
becomes  thus  afllicted.  In  order  to  preserve  the  houses  and 
gardens  in  the  neighborhood  of  cities,  they  dig  a  ditch  two 
feet  in  depth,  and  as  much  in  width.  This  they  palisade 
with  reeds  clo.se  to  each  other,  and  inclined  inward  toward 
the  ditch  ;  so  that  the  insects,  unable  to  climb  up  the  slippery 
reed,  fall  back  into  the  ditch,  where  they  devour  one  another. 

This  was  the  means  by  which  the  gardens  and  vineyards  of 
Rabat,  and  the  city  itself,  were  delivered  from  this  scourge,  in 
1779.  The  intrenchment,  which  was,  at  least,  a  league  in 
extent,  formed  a  semicircle  from  the  sea  to  the  river,  which 
separates  Rabat  from  Sallee.  The  quantity  of  young  locusts 
here  assembled  was  so  prodigious,  that,  on  the  third  day,  the 
ditch  could  not  be  approached,  because  of  the  stench.  The 
whole  country  was  eaten  up,  the  very  bark  of  the  fig,  pome- 
granate, and  orange  tree, — bitter,  hard,  and  corrosive  as  it 
was,  —  could  not  escape  the  voracity  of  these  insects. 

The  lands,  ravaged  throughout  all  the  western  provinces, 
produced  no  harvest ;  and  the  Moors,  being  obliged  to  live  on 
their  stores,  which  the  exportation  of  corn  (permitted  till 
1774)  had  drained,  began  to  feel  a  dearth.  Their  cattle,  for 
which  they  make  no  provision,  and  which,  in  these  climates, 
have  no  other  subsistence  than  that  of  daily  grazing,  died  with 
hunger  ;  nor  could  any  be  preserved  hut  those  which  were  in 
the  neighborhood  of  mountains,  or  in  maishy  grounds,  where 
the  re-growth  of  pasturage  is  more  rapid. 

In  1780,  the  distress  was  still  further  increased.  The  dry 
winter  had  checked  the  products  of  the  earth,  and  given  birth 
to  a  new  generation  of  locusts,  who  devoured  whatever  had 
escaped  from  the  inclemency  of  the  season.  The  husbandman 
did  not  reap  even  what  he  had  sowed,  and  found  himself  des- 
titute of  food,  cattle,  or  seed  corn.  In  this  time  of  extreme 
wretchedness,  the  poor  felt  all  the  horrors  of  famine.  They 
were  seen  wandering  over  the  country  to  devour  roots,  and, 
perhaps,  abridged  their  days,  by  digging  into  the  entrails  of 


254 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK   III 


ihe  e;irlh  in  search  of  the  crude  meeins  by  wliich  tliey  ini^'hl 
be  i)rc3erved. 

Vast  nuniliers  perished  of  iiidij,'estiblo  food  and  want.  I 
have  hcdicld  country  people  in  the  roads,  and  in  the  streets, 
who  had  died  of  hunger,  and  who  were  tlirown  across  asses  to 
be  taken  and  buried.  Fathers  sold  their  children.  The  hus- 
band, with  the  consent  of  his  wife,  would  take  her  into  another 
province,  there  to  bestow  her  in  marriage,  as  if  she  were  his 
sister,  and  afterwards  come  and  reclaim  licr  when  his  wants 
were  no  longer  so  great.  I  have  seen  women  and  children  run 
after  camels  and  rake  in  their  dung,  to  seek  for  some  indi- 
gested grain  of  barley,  which,  if  they  found,  they  devoured 
with  avidity.  —  Chenier. 


From  far  KItorassan  ?  —  31,  p.  247. 

The  Abmelcc,  or  eater  of  locusts,  or  grasshoppers,  is  a  bird 
which  better  deserves  to  be  described,  perhaps,  than  most 
others  of  which  travellers  have  given  us  an  account,  because 
the  facts  relating  to  it  arc  not  only  strange  in  themselves,  but 
so  well  and  distinctly  attested,  that  however  surprising  tliey 
may  seem,  we  cannot  but  alford  them  our  belief.  The  food  of 
this  creature  is  the  locust,  or  the  grasshopper  ;  it  is  of  the  size 
of  an  ordinary  hen,  its  feathers  black,  its  wings  large,  and  its 
flesh  of  a  grayish  color.  They  fly  generally  in  great  flocks, 
as  the  starlings  are  wont  to  do  with  us.  But  the  thing  which 
renders  these  birds  wonderful  is,  that  they  are  so  fond  of  the 
water  of  a  certain  fountain  in  Corasson,  or  Bactria,  that  where- 
ever  that  water  is  carried,  they  follow  ;  on  which  account  it  is 
carefully  preserved  ;  for  wherever  the  locusts  fall,  the  Arme- 
nian priests,  who  are  provided  with  this  water,  bring  a  quanti- 
ty of  it  and  place  in  j  irs,  or  pour  it  into  little  channels  in  the 
fields:  the  next  day  whole  troops  of  these  birds  arrive,  and 
quickly  deliver  the  people  from  the  locusts.  —  Universal  His- 
tory. 

Sir  John  Chardin  has  given  us  the  following  passage  from  an 
ancient  traveller,  in  relation  to  this  bird.  In  Cyprus,  about 
the  time  that  the  corn  was  ripe  for  the  sickle,  the  earth  pro- 
duced such  a  quantity  of  cavalettes,  or  locusts,  that  they  ob- 
scured sometimes  the  splendor  of  the  sun.  Wherever  these 
came,  they  burnt  and  eat  up  all.  For  this  there  was  no  remedy, 
since,  as  fast  as  they  were  destroyed,  the  earth  produced  more  : 
God,  however,  raised  them  up  a  means  for  their  deliverance, 
which  happened  thus.  In  Persia,  near  the  city  of  Cuerch, 
there  is  a  fountain  of  water,  which  has  a  wonderful  property 
of  destroying  these  insects  ;  for  a  pitcher  full  of  this  being 
carried  in  the  open  air,  without  passing  through  house  or  vault, 
and  being  set  on  an  high  place,  certain  birds  which  follow  it, 
and  fly  and  cry  after  th(!  men  who  carry  it  from  the  fountain, 
come  to  the  place  where  it  is  fixed.  These  birds  are  red  and 
black,  and  fly  in  great  flocks  together,  like  starlings  ;  the 
Turks  and  Persians  call  them  Mussulmans.  These  birds  no 
sooner  came  to  Cyprus,  but  they  destroyed  the  locusts  with 
which  the  island  was  infested:  but  if  the  water  be  spilt  or 
lost,  these  creatures  immediately  disappear ;  which  accident 
fell  out  when  the  Turks  took  this  island :  for  one  of  them 
going  up  into  the  steeple  of  Famagusta,  and  finding  there  a 
jjitcher  of  this  water,  he,  fancying  that  it  contained  gold  or 
silver,  or  some  precious  thing,  broke  it,  and  spilt  what  was 
therein  :  since  which  the  Cypriots  have  been  as  much  tor- 
mented as  ever  by  the  locusts. 

On  the  confines  of  the  Medes  and  of  Armenia,  at  certain 
times,  a  great  quantity  of  birds  are  seen  who  resemble  our 
blackl)irds,  and  they  have  a  property  suflScienlly  curious  to 
make  me  mention  it.  When  the  corn  in  these  parts  begins  to 
grow,  it  is  astonishing  to  see  the  number  of  locusts  with  which 
all  the  fields  are  covered.  The  Armenians  have  no  other 
method  of  delivering  themselves  from  these  insects,  than  by 
going  in  procession  round  the  fields,  and  sprinkling  them  with 
a  particular  water,  which  they  take  care  to  preserve  in  their 
houses,  for  this  water  comes  from  a  great  distance.  They 
fetch  it  from  a  well  belonging  to  one  of  their  convents  near 
the  frontiers,  and  they  say  that  the  bodies  of  many  Christian 
martyrs  were  formerly  thrown  into  this  well.  These  proces- 
eions,  and  the  sprinkling,  continue  three  or  four  days  ;  after 
which,  the  birds  that  I  have  mentioned  come  in  great  flights  ; 
and  whether  it  be  that  they  cat  the  locusts,  or  drive  them 

away,  in  two  or  three  days  the  country  is  cleared  of  them 

Tavrriiier. 


At  Mosul  and  at  Haled,  says  Niebuhr,  I  heard  much  of  the 
locust  bird,  without  seeing  it.  They  there  call  it  Sam'armar, 
or,  us  others  i>ronounce  it,  Saviarmotr.  It  is  said  to  be  black, 
larger  than  a  sparrow,  and  no  ways  pleasant  to  the  palate.  I 
am  assured  that  it  everyday  destroys  an  incredible  nundjerof 
locusts  ;  they  pretend,  nevertheless,  that  the  locusts  some- 
times doiend  themselves,  and  devour  Ihe  bird  with  its  feathers, 
when  they  have  overpowered  it  by  numbers.  When  the  chil- 
dren in  the  frontier  towns  of  Arabia  catch  a  live  locust,  they 
place  it  before  them  and  cry  Sumarmog!  And  because  it 
stoops  down  terrified  at  the  noise,  or  at  the  motion  of  the  child, 
or  clings  more  closely  to  its  place,  the  children  believe  that  it 
fears  the  name  of  its  enemy,  that  it  hides  itself,  and  attempts 
to  throw  stones.  The  Samarmog  is  not  a  native  of  Mosul  or 
Haleb,  but  they  go  to  seek  it  in  Khorasan  with  much  cere- 
mony. When  the  locusts  multiply  very  greatly,  the  govern- 
ment sends  persons  worthy  of  trust  to  a  spring  near  the  vil- 
lage of  Samarun,  situated  in  a  plain  between  four  mountains, 
by  Mcschcd,  or  Miisa  er  ridda,  in  that  province  of  Persia. 
The  deputies,  with  the  ceremonies  prescribed,  fill  a  chest 
with  this  water,  and  pitch  the  chest  so  that  the  water  may 
neither  evaporate  nor  be  spilt  before  their  return.  From  the 
spring  to  the  town  whence  they  were  sent,  the  chest  must 
always  \ye  bi^tween  heaven  and  earth;  they  must  neither 
place  it  on  the  ground,  nor  under  any  roof,  lest  it  should  lose 
all  its  virtue.  Mosul  being  surrounded  with  a  wall,  the  water 
must  not  pass  under  the  gateway,  but  it  is  received  over  the 
wall,  an<l  the  chest  placed  upon  the  Mosque  JVibbi  Gurgis,  a 
building  which  was  formerly  a  church,  and  which,  in  prefer- 
ence to  all  the  other  buildings,  has  had  from  time  immemorial 
the  honor  to  possess  this  chest  upon  its  roof.  When  this 
l)rccions  water  has  been  brought  from  Khorasan  with  the 
requisite  precautions,  the  common  .Mahonmiedans,  Christians, 
and  Jews  of  Mosul,  believe  that  the  Samarmog  follows  the 
water,  and  remains  in  the  country  as  long  as  there  is  a  single 
drop  left  in  the  chest  of  M'ebbi  Qurgis.  Seeing  one  day  a 
large  stork's  nest  upon  this  vessel,  1  told  a  Christian  of  some 
eminence  in  the  town,  how  much  I  admired  the  quick  smell 
of  the  Samarmog,  who  perceived  the  smell  of  the  water 
through  such  a  quantity  of  ordure  ;  he  did  not  answer  me,  but 
was  very  much  scandalized  that  the  government  should  have 
permitted  the  stork  to  make  her  nest  upon  so  rare  a  treasure, 
and  still  more  angr}',  that  for  more  than  nine  years,  the 
government  had  not  sent  to  procure  fresh  water.  —  Mcbuhr, 
Desc.  de  VArabie. 

Dr.  Russel  descril)es  this  bird  as  about  the  size  of  a  starling  ; 
the  body  of  a  flesh  color,  the  rest  of  its  plumage  black,  the 
hill  and  legs  black  also. 


For  Ihrse  mysterious  lines  were  legible.  —  34,  p.  247. 

The  locusts  are  remarkable  for  the  hieroglyphic  that  they 
bear  upon  the  forehead ;  their  color  is  green  throughout  the 
whole  body,  excepting  a  little  yellow  rim  that  surrounds  their 
head,  which  is  lost  at  their  eyes.  This  insect  has  two  upper 
wings,  pretty  solid  ;  they  are  green,  like  the  rest  of  the  body, 
except  that  there  is  in  each  a  little  white  spot.  The  locust 
keeps  them  extended  like  great  sails  of  a  ship  going  before 
the  wind ;  it  has  besides  two  other  wings  underneath  the 
former,  and  which  resemble  a  light  transparent  stuff  pretty 
nmch  like  a  cobweb,  and  which  it  makes  use  of  in  the  man- 
ner of  smack  sails  that  are  along  a  vessel  ;  but  when  the 
locust  reposes  herself,  she  does  like  a  vessel  that  lies  at 
anchor,  for  she  keeps  the  second  sails  furled  under  the  first.  — 
JVordcn. 

The  Mahommedans  believe  some  mysterious  meaning  is 
contained  in  the  lines  upon  the  locust's  forehead. 

I  compared  the  description  in  the  poem  with  a  locust  which 
was  caught  in  Leicestershire.  It  is  remarkable  that  a  single 
insect  should  have  found  its  way  so  far  inland. 


Flies  the  large-headed  Screamer  of  the  night.  —  39,  p.  248 

An  Arabian  expression  from  the  Moallakat :  —  "  She  turns 
her  right  side,  as  if  she  were  in  fear  of  some  large-headed 
Screamer  of  the  night."  —  Poem  ofAntara. 


BOOK    IV. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


255 


Oiarc  in  the  darkness  of  that  dreadful  noon.  —  39,  p.  248. 

£ii  the  ninth  volume  of  the  Spectator  ij  an  iiccount  of  the 
total  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  FriJay,  April  22,  1715.  It  is  in  a 
strain  of  vile  bombast  ;  yet  some  circumstances  are  so  fine, 
that  even  such  a  writer  could  not  spoil  them :  "  The  different 
modifications  of  the  lijrht  formed  colors  the  eye  of  man  has 
been  five  hundred  years  unacquainted  with,  and  for  which  I 
can  find  no  name,  tmlcss  I  may  be  allowed  to  call  it  a  dark, 
gloomy  sort  of  light,  that  scattered  about  a  more  sensible  and 
genuine  horror,  than  the  most  consummate  darkness.  All  the 
birds  were  struck  dumb,  and  hung  their  wings  in  moody  sor- 
row ;  some  few  pigeons,  tliat  were  on  the  wing,  were  afraid 
of  being  benighted  even  in  the  morn,  alighted,  and  took  shel- 
ter in  the  liouses.  The  heat  went  away  by  degrees  with  the 
light.  But  when  the  rays  of  the  sun  broke  out  afresh,  the  joy 
and  the  thanks  that  were  in  me,  that  God  made  to  us  these 
signs  and  marks  of  his  power  before  he  exercised  it,  were  ex- 
quisite, and  such  as  never  worked  upon  ine  so  sensibly  before. 
With  my  own  ears  I  heard  a  cock  crow  as  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
and  he  welcomed  with  a  strange  gladness,  which  was  j)lairdy 
discoverable  by  the  cheerful  notes  of  his  voice,  the  sun  at  its 
second  rising,  and  the  returning  light." 

The  Paper  is  signed  B.,  and  is  perha-ps  by  Sir  Richard 
Dlackmore. 


THE  FOURTH   BOOK. 


Fas  est  quoque  bruUB 
Telluri,  docilem  monitis  calestibus  esse. 

MaMBRUNI   CoNSTANTIIfUS, 


Whose  is  yon  dawning  form, 

That  in  the  darkness  meets 

The  delegated  youth  ? 

Dim  as  the  shadow  of  a  fire  at  noon, 

Or  pale  reflection,  on  the  evening  brook, 

Of  glow-worm  on  the  bank, 
Kindled  to  guide  her  winged  paramour. 


A  moment,  and  the  brightening  image  shaped 

His  Mother's  form  and  features.    "  Go,"  she  cried, 

"To  Babylon,  and  from  the  Angels  learn 

What  talisman  thy  task  requires." 

3. 

Tlie  Spirit  hung  toward  him  when  she  ceased, 

As  though  with  actual  lips  she  would  have  given 

A  mother's  kiss.     His  arms  outstretch'd, 

His  body  bending  on, 

His  mouth  unclosed  and  trembling  into  speech, 

He  press'd  to  meet  the  blessing:  but  the  wind 

Play'd  on  his  cheek :  he  look'd,  and  he  beheld 

The  darkness  close.     "Again!  again '."  he  cried, 

'•  Let  me  again  behold  thee  !  "  from  the  darkness 

His  Mother's  voice  went  forth  — 

"Thou  shalt  behold  me  in  the  hour  of  death." 

4. 

Day  dawns,  the  twilight  gleam  dilates, 

The  Sun  comes  forth,  and  like  a  god 

Rides  tlirough  rejoicing  heaven. 

Old  Moath  and  his  daughter,  from  their  tent, 


Beheld  the  adventurous  youth, 

Dark-moving  o'er  tlie  sands, 

A  lessening  image,  trembling  tlirougii  their  tears 

Visions  of  liigii  emprise 

Beguiled  his  lonely  road  ; 

And  if  sometimes  to  Moath's  tent 

The  involuntary  mind  recurr'd. 

Fancy,  impatient  of  all  painful  thoughts, 

Pictured  the  bliss  siiould  welcome  his  return. 

In  dreams  like  these  he  went ; 

And  still  of  every  dream 

Oneiza  form'd  a  part, 

And  hope  and  memory  made  a  mingled  joy. 

5. 

In  the  eve  he  arrived  at  a  Well ; 

An  Acacia  bent  over  its  side, 

Under  whose  long  light-hanging  boughs 

He  chose  his  night's  abode. 

Tliere,  due  ablutions  made,  and  prayers  perform'd, 

The  youth  his  mantle  spread, 

And  silently  produced 

His  solitary  meal. 

The  silence  and  the  solitude  recall 'd 

Dear  recollections ;  and  with  folded  arms, 

Tliinking  of  other  days,  he  sate,  till  thought 

Had  left  him,  and  the  Acacia's  moving  shade 

Upon  the  sunny  sand 

Had  caught  his  idle  eye  ; 

And  his  awaken'd  ear 

Heard  the  gray  Lizard's  chirp, 

The  only  sound  of  life. 


As  thus  in  vacant  quietness  he  sate, 

A  Traveller  on  a  Camel  reach'd  the  Well, 

And  courteous  greeting  gave. 

The  nmtual  salutation  past. 

He  by  the  cistern,  too,  his  garment  spread, 

And  friendly  converse  cheer'd  the  social  meal. 

7. 

The  Stranger  was  an  ancient  man, 

Yet  one  whose  green  old  age 

Bore  the  fair  characters  of  temperate  youth: 

So  much  of  manhood's  strength  his  limbs  retain'd, 

It  seem'd  he  needed  not  the  staff  he  bore. 

His  beard  was  long,  and  gray,  and  crisp ; 

Lively  his  eyes,  and  quick, 

And  reaching  over  them 

The  large  broad  eyebrow  curl'd. 

His  speech  was  copious,  and  liis  winning  words 

Enrich'd  with  knowledge,  that  the  attentive  youth 

Sate  listening  with  a  thirsty  joy. 


So,  in  the  course  of  talk, 

The  adventurer  youth  inquir'd 

Whither  his  course  was  bent. 

The  Old  Man  answered,  "To  Bagdad  I  go 

At  that  so  welcome  sound,  a  flash  of  joy 

Kindled  the  eye  of  Thalaba; 

"And  I  too,"  he  replied, 

"  Am  journeying  thitli(>rward  ; 

Let  me  become  companion  of  thy  way  !  " 


256                                    T  HAL  ABA    THE    DESTROYER.                          book  iv. 

Courteous  the  Old  Man  smiled, 

Of  these  untemptcd  Spirits  should  descend, 

And  willing  in  assent. 

Judges  on  Earth.     Haruth  and  Maruth  went, 

9. 

The  chosen  Sentencers;  they  fairly  heard 

The  appeals  of  men  to  their  tribunal  brought. 

OLD    MAN. 

And  rightfully  decided.     At  the  length 

Son,  thou  art  young  for  travel. 

A  Woman  came  before  them ;  beautiful 

Zohara  was,  as  yonder  Evening  Star, 

THALABA. 

In  the  mild  lustre  of  whose  lovely  light 

Until  now 

Even  now  her  beauty  shines.     They  gazed  on  her 

I  never  past  the  desert  boundary. 

With  fleshly  eyes;  they  tempted  her  to  sin. 

The  wily  woman  listen'd,  and  required 

OLD    MAN. 

A  previous  price,  the  knowledge  of  the  name 

It  is  a  noble  city  that  we  seek. 

Of  God.     She  learnt  the  wonder-working  name, 

Thou  wilt  behold  magnificent  Palaces, 

And  gave  it  utterance,  and  its  virtue  bore  her 

And  lofty  Minarets,  and  high-domed  Mosques, 

Up  to  the  glorious  Presence,  and  she  told 

And  rich  Bazars,  whither  from  all  the  world 

Before  the  awful  Judgment-Seat  her  tale. 

Industrious  merchants  meet,  and  market  there 

The  world's  collected  wealth. 

OLD    MAN. 

I  know  the  rest.    The  accused  Spirits  were  call'd 

THALABA. 

Unable  of  defence,  and  penitent, 

Stands  not  Bagdad 

They  own'd  their  crime,  and  heard  the  doom 

Near  to  the  site  of  ancient  Babylon, 

deserved. 

And  Nimrod's  impious  temple  ? 

Tlien  they  besought  the  Lord  that  not  forever 

His  wrath  might  be  upon  them,  and  implored 

OLD    MAN. 

That  penal  ages  might  at  length  restore  them 

From  the  walls 

Clean  from  offence :  since  then  by  Babylon, 

'Tis  but  a  long  day's  distance. 

In  the  cavern  of  their  punishment,  they  dwell. 

Runs  the  conclusion  so  .' 

THALABA. 

And  the  ruins  ? 

THALABA. 

So  I  am  taught. 

OLD    MAN. 

A  mighty  mass  remains  ;  enough  to  tell  us 

OLD    MAN. 

How  great  our  fathers  were,  how  little  we. 

The  common  tale !  And  likely  thou  hast  heard 

Men  are  not  what  they  were  ;  their  crimes  and 

How  that  the  bold  and  bad,  with  impious  rites, 

follies 

Intrude  upon  their  penitence,  and  force. 

Have  dwarf'd  them  down  from  the  old  hero  race 

Albeit  from  loathing  and  reluctant  lips. 

To  such  poor  things  as  we  ! 

The  sorcery-secret .' 

THALABA. 

THALABA. 

At  Babylon 

Is  it  not  the  truth  ^ 

I  have  heard  the  Angels  expiate  their  guilt. 

Haruth  and  Maruth. 

OLD    MAN. 

Son,  thou  hast  seen  the  Traveller  in  the  sands 

OLD    MAN. 

Move  through  the  dizzy  light  of  hot  noon-day. 

'Tis  a  history 

Huge  as  the  giant  race  of  elder  times  ; 

Handed  from  ages  down;  a  nurse's  tale. 

And  his  Camel,  than  the  monstrous  Elephant 

Which  children,  open-eyed  and  mouth'd,  devour ; 

Seem  of  a  vaster  bulk. 

And  thus,  as  garrulous  Ignorance  relates. 

We  learn  it  and  believe.     But  all  things  feel 

THALABA. 

The  power  of  Time  and  Change;  thistles  and  grass 

A  frequent  sight. 

Usurp  the  desolate  palace,  and  the  weeds 

Of  Falsehood  root  in  the  aged  pile  of  Truth. 

OLD    MAN. 

How  have  you  heard  the  tale  ? 

And  hast  thou  never,  in  the  twilight,  fancied 

Familiar  object  into  some  strange  shape 

THALABA 

And  form  uncouth  ? 

Thus :  —  on  a  time 

The  Angels  at  the  wickedness  of  man 

THALABA. 

Express'd  indignant  wonder ;  that  in  vain 

Ay  I  many  a  time. 

Tokens    and    signs    were    given,    and    Prophets 

sent. 

OLD    MAN. 

Strange  obstinacy  this  !  a  stubbornness 

Even  so 

Of  siri,  they  said,  that  should  forever  bar 

Things  vie  w'd  at  distance,  through  the  mist  of  fear, 

The  gates  of  mercy  on  them.     Allah  heard 

By  their  distortion  terrify  and  shock 

Their  unforgiving  pride,  and  bade  that  two 

The  abused  sight. 

BOOK    IV, 


TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


257 


THALABA. 

But  of  these  Angels'  fate 
Thus  in  tlie  uncreated  book  is  written. 

OLD    MAN. 

Wisely  from  legendary  fables  Heaven 
Inculcates  wisdom. 

THALABA. 

How  then  is  the  truth.' 

Is  not  the  dungeon  of  their  punishment 

By  ruin'd  Babylon  .' 

OLD    MAN. 

By  Babylon 
Harutli  and  Maruth  may  be  found. 

THALABA. 

And  there 
Magicians  learn  their  impious  sorcery  ? 

OLD    MAN. 

Son,  what  thou  say'st  is  true,  and  it  is  false. 
But  night  approaches  fast ;  I  have  travell'd  far, 

And  my  old  lids  are  heavy  ;  —  on  our  way 

We  shall  have  hours  for  converse  ;  —  let  us  now 

Turn  to  our  due  repose.     Son,  peace  be  with  thee  ! 

10. 

So  in  his  loosen'd  cloak 

The  Old  Man  wrapt  himself, 

And  laid  his  limbs  at  length ; 

And  Thalaba  in  silence  laid  him  down. 

Awhile  he  lay,  and  watch'd  the  lovely  Moon, 

O'er  whose  broad  orb  the  boughs 

A  mazy  fretting  framed. 

Or  with  a  pale,  transparent  green 

Lighting  the  restless  leaves. 

The  thin  Acacia  leaves  that  play'd  above. 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  moving  leaves. 

Soothed  him  at  length  to  sleep, 
With  mingled  lullabies  of  sight  and  sound. 

11. 

Not  so  the  dark  Magician  by  his  side, 

Lobaba,  who  from  the  Domdaniel  caves 

Had  sought  the  dreaded  youth. 

Silent  he  lay,  and  simulating  sleep, 

Till,  by  the  long  and  regular  breath  he  knew, 

The  youth  beside  him  slept. 

Carefully  then  he  rose. 

And  bending  over  him,  survey 'd  him  near  ; 

And  secretly  he  cursed 

The  dead  Abdaldar's  ring, 

Arm'd  by  whose  amulet 

He  slept  from  danger  safe. 

12. 

Wrapt  in  his  mantle  Thalaba  reposed. 

His  loose  right  arm  pillowing  his  easy  head. 

The  Moon  was  on  the  Ring, 

Whose  crystal  gem  return'd 

A  quiet,  moveless  light. 

Vainly  the  Wizard  vile  put  forth  his  hand, 

33 


And  strove  to  reach  the  gem ; 

Charms,  strong  as  hell  could  make  them,  kept  it 

safe. 

He  call'd  liis  servant-fiends, 

He  bade  the  Genii  rob  the  sleeping  youth 

By  the  virtue  of  the  Ring, 

By  Mahommed's  holier  power, 

By  the  holiest  name  of  God, 

Had  Thalaba  disarm'd  the  evil  race. 

13. 

BafBod  and  weary,  and  convinced  at  length. 

Anger,  and  fear,  and  rancor  gnawing  him. 

The  accursed  Sorcerer  ceased  his  vain  attempts, 

Content  perforce  to  wait 

Temptation's  likelier  aid. 

Restless  he  lay,  and  brooding  many  a  wile. 

And  tortured  with  impatient  hope, 

And  envying  with  the  bitterness  of  hate 

The  innocent  youth,  who  slept  so  sweetly  by 

14. 

The  ray  of  morning  on  his  eyelids  fell, 

And  Thalaba  awoke, 

And  folded  his  mantle  around  him. 

And  girded  his  loins  for  the  day  ; 

Then  the  due  rites  of  holiness  observed. 

His  comrade  too  arose. 

And  with  the  outward  forms 

Of  righteousness  and  prayer  insulted  God. 

They  fill'd  their  water  skin,  they  gave 

The  Camel  his  full  draught. 

Then  on  the  road,  while  yet  the  morn  was  young. 

And  the  air  was  fresh  with  dew. 

Forward  the  travellers  went. 

With  various  talk  beguiling  the  long  way. 

But  soon  the  youth,  whose  busy  mind 

Dwelt  on  Lobaba's  wonder-stirring  words, 

Renew'd  the  unfinish'd  converse  of  the  night 

15. 

THALABA. 

Thou  said'st  that  it  is  true,  and  yet  is  false. 

That  men  accurst  attain  at  Babylon 

Forbidden  knowledge  from  the  Angel  pair :  — 

How  mean  you .' 

LOBABA. 

All  things  have  a  double  power, 

Alike  for  good  and  evil.     The  same  fire 

That  on  the  comfortable  hearth  at  eve 

Warm'd  the  good  man,  flames  o'er  tlie  house  at 

night; 

Should  we  for  this  forego 

The  needful  element.'' 

Because  the  scorching  summer  Sun 

Darts  fever,  wouldst  thou  quench  the  orb  of  day  .' 

Or  deemest  thou  that  Heaven  in  anger  form'd 

Iron  to  till  *he  field,  because  when  man 

Had  tipt  his  arrows  for  the  chase,  he  rush'd 

A  murderer  to  the  war  .•" 

THALABA. 

What  follows  hence .'' 


258 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IV 


LOBABA. 

That  nothing  in  itself  is  good  or  evil, 

But  only  in  its  use.     Think  you  the  man 

Praisewortliy,  who  by  j)ainful  study  learns 

The  knowledge  of  all  simples,  and  their  power, 

Healing  or  harmful  ? 

THAI.ABA. 

All  men  hold  in  honor 

The  skilful  Leech.     From  land  to  land  he  goes 

Safe  in  his  privilege  ;  the  sword  of  war 

Sptreshimj  Kings  welcome  him  with  costly  gifts; 

And  he  who  late  had  from  the  couch  of  pain 

Lifted  a  languid  look  to  him  for  aid, 

Beholds  him  witli  glad  eyes,  and  blesses  him 

In  his  first  thankful  prayer 

LOBABA. 

Yet  some  there  are 

Who  to  the  purposes  of  wickedness 

Apply  this  knowledge,  and  from  herbs  distil 

Poison,  to  mix  it  in  the  trusted  draught. 

THALABA. 

Allah  shall  cast  them  in  tlie  eternal  fire 
Whose  fuel  is  the  cursed  !  there  shall  they 

Endure  the  cver-burn'mg  agony, 
Consuming  still  in  flames,  and  still  renew'd. 

LOBABA. 

But  is  their  knowledge  therefore  in  itself 
Unlawful .'' 

THALABA. 

That  were  foolishness  to  think. 

LOBABA. 

Oh,  what  a  glorious  animal  were  Man, 
Knew  he  but  his  own  powers,  and,  knowing,  gave 

them 

Room  for  their  growth  and  spread  !     The  Horse 

obeys 

His  guiding  will;  the  patient  Camel  bears  him 

Over  these  wastes  of  sand ;  the  Pigeon  wafts 

His   bidding  through   the  sky;  —  and  with   these 

triumphs 

He  rests  contented  !  —  with  these  ministers, — 

When  he  might  awe  the  Elements,  and  make 

Myriads  of  Spirits  serve  him  ! 

THALABA. 

But  as  how .'' 

By  a  le.igue  with  Hell,  a  covenant  that  binds 

The  soul  to  utter  death  ' 

LOBABA. 

Was  Solomon 

Accurst  of  God  ?     Yet  to  his  talismans 

Obedient,  o'er  his  thro   e  the  birds  of  Heaven, 

Their  waving  wings  his  .  in-shield,  fann'd  around 

hiiti 
The  motionless  air  of  noon;  from  place  to  place. 

As  his  will  rein'd  the  viewless  Element, 

He  rode  the  Wind ;  the  Genii  rear'd  his  temple. 

And  ceaselessly  in  fear  while  his  dread  eye 


O'erlook'd  them,  day  and  niglit  pursued  their  toil 
So  dreadful  was  his  power. 

THALABA. 

But  'twas  from  Heaven 

His  wisdom  came ;  God's  special  gift,  —  the  guerdon 

Of  early  virtue 

LOBABA. 

Learn  thou,  O  young  man . 

God  hath  appointed  wisdom  the  reward 

Of  study  !     'Tis  a  well  of  living  waters. 

Whose  ine.xhaustible  bounties  all  might  drink  , 

But  few  dig  deep  enough.  Son  !  thou  art  silent, — 

Perhaps  I  say  too  much,  —  perhaps  offend  thee. 

THALABA. 

Nay,  ]  am  young,  and  willingly,  as  becomes  me. 
Hear  the  wise  words  of  age. 

LOBABA 

Is  it  a  crime 

To  mount  the  Horse,  because,  forsooth,  thy  feet 

Can  serve  thee  for  the  journey.'  —  Is  it  sin, 

Because  the  Hern  soars  upward  in  the  sky 

Above  the  arrow's  flight,  to  train  the  Falcon 

Whose  beak  shall  pierce  him  there  ?     The  powers 

which  Allah 

Granted  to  man,  v/ere  granted  for  his  use  ; 

All  knowledge  that  befits  not  human  weakness 

Is  placed  bej'ond  its  reach.  — They  who  repair 

To  Babylon,  and  from  the  Angels  learn 

Mysterious  wisdom,  sin  not  in  the  deed. 

THALABA. 

Know  you  these  secrets  ? 

LOBABA. 

1 .'  alas  !  my  Son, 

My  age  just  knows  enough  to  understand 

How  little  all  its  knowledge  !     Later  years, 

Sacred  to  study,  teach  me  to  regret 

Youth's  unforeseeing  indolence,  and  hours 

That  cannot  be  recall'd  !     Something  I  know 

The  properties  of  herbs,  and  have  sometimes 

Brought  to  the  afflicted  comfort  and  relief 

By  the  secrets  of  my  art ;  under  His  blessing 

Without  whom  all  had  fail'd  !     Also  of  (Jems 

I  have  some  knowledge,  and  the  characters 

That  tell  beneath  what  aspect  they  were  set. 

THALABA. 

Belike  you  can  interpret  then  the  graving 
Around  this  Ring ! 

LOBABA. 

My  sight  is  feeble,  Son, 
And  1  must  view  it  closer;  let  me  try ! 

16. 

The  unsuspecting  Youth 

Held  forth  his  finger  to  draw  off"  the  spell. 

Even  whilst  he  held  it  forth, 

There  settled  there  a  Wasp, 

And  just  above  the  Gem  infi.x'd  its  dart; 


BOOK    IV. 


TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


2.19 


All  purple-swollen,  the  hot  and  painful  flesh 

Rose  round  the  tighten'd  Ring. 

The  baffled  Sorcerer  knew  the  hand  of  Heaven, 

And  inwardly  blasphemed. 

17. 

Ere  long,  Lobaba's  heart, 

Fruitful  in  wiles,  devised  new  stratagem. 

A  mist  arose  at  noon, 

Like  the  loose,  hanging  skirts 

Of  some  low  cloud,  that,  by  the  breeze  impell'd. 

Sweeps  o'er  the  mountain  side. 

With  joy  the  thoughtless  youth 

That  grateful  shadowing  hail'd  ; 

For  grateful  was  the  shade. 

While  through  the  silver-lighted  haze, 

Guiding  their  way,  appear'd  the  beamless  Sun. 

But  soon  that  beacon  fail'd ; 

A  heavier  mass  of  cloud. 

Impenetrably  deep. 

Hung  o'er  the  wilderness. 

"  Knowest  thou  the  track.'  "  quoth  Thalaba, 

"  Or  should  we  pause,  and  wait  the  wind 

To  scatter  this  bewildering  fog.'  " 

The  Sorcerer  ansvver'd  him  — 

"  Now  let  us  hold  right  on ;  for  if  we  stray. 

The  Sun  to-morrow  will  direct  our  course." 

So  saying,  he  toward  the  desert  depths 

Misleads  the  youth  deceived. 

18. 

Earlier  the  night  came  on. 

Nor  moon,  nor  stars,  were  visible  in  heaven ; 

And  when  at  morn  the  youth  unclosed  his  eyes, 

He  knew  not  where  to  turn  his  face  in  prayer. 

"  What  shall  we  do.'  "  Lobaba  cried  ; 

"The  lights  of  heaven  have  ceased 

To  guide  us  on  our  way. 

Should  we  remain  and  wait 

More  favorable  skies. 

Soon  would  our  food  and  water  fail  us  here ; 

And  if  we  venture  on, 
There  are  the  dangers  of  the  wilderness  !  " 

19. 

"  Sure  it  were  best  proceed  !  " 

The  chosen  youth  replies ; 

"  So  haply  we  may  reach  some  tent,  or  grove 

Of  dates,  or  station'd  tribe. 

But  idly  to  remain. 

Were  yielding  effortless,  and  waiting  death." 

The  wily  sorcerer  willingly  assents, 

And  farther  in  the  sands, 

Elate  of  heart,  he  leads  the  credulous  youth. 

20. 

Still  o'er  the  wilderness 

Settled  the  moveless  mist. 

The  timid  Antelope,  that  heard  their  steps. 

Stood  doubtful  where  to  turn  in  that  dim  light ; 

The  Ostrich,  blindly  liastening,  met  them  full. 

At  night,  again  in  hope, 

Young  Thalaba  lay  down ; 

The  morning  came,  and  not  one  guiding  ray 


Through  the  thick  mist  was  visible. 
The  same  deep  moveless  mist  that  mantled  all. 

21. 

Oh  for  the  Vulture's  scream, 

Who  haunts  for  prey  the  abode  of  human-kind 

Oh  for  the  Plover's  pleasant  cry 

To  tell  of  water  near  ! 

Oh  for  the  Camel-driver's  song ! 

For  now  the  water-skin  grows  light. 

Though  of  the  draught,  more  eagerly  desired. 

Imperious  prudence  took  with  sparing  thirst. 

Oft  from  the  third  nigiit's  broken  sleep, 

As  in  his  dreams  he  licard 

The  sound  of  rushing  winds, 

Started  the  anxious  youth,  and  look'd  abroad 

In  vain  !  for  still  the  deadly  calm  endured. 

Another  day  pass'd  on ; 

The  water-skin  was  drain'd ; 

But  then  one  hope  arrived. 

For  there  was  motion  in  the  air  I 

The  sound  of  the  wind  arose  anon, 

That  scatter'd  the  thick  mist, 

And  lo  !  at  length  the  lovely  face  of  Heaven ! 

22. 

Alas  !  a  wretched  scene 

Was  open'd  on  their  view. 

They  look'd  around;  no  wells  were  near, 

No  tent,  no  human  aid  ! 

Flat  on  the  Camel  lay  the  water-skin. 

And  their  dumb  servant  difficultly  now, 

Over  hot  sands  and  under  the  hot  sun, 

Dragg'd  on  with  patient  pain 

23. 

But,  oh,  the  joy  !  the  blessed  sight  I 

When  in  that  burning  waste  the  Travellers 

Saw  a  green  meadow,  fair  with  flowers  besprent, 

Azure  and  yellow,  like  the  beautiful  fields 

Of  England,  when  amid  the  growing  grass 

The  blue-bell  bends,  the  golden  king-cup  shines. 

And  the  sweet  cowslip  scents  the  genial  air, 

In  the  merry  montli  of  May  I 

Oh,  joy  !  the  Travellers 

Gaze  on  each  other  with  hope-brighten'd  eyes, 

For  sure  through  that  green  meadow  flows 

The  living  stream  !     And  lo  I  their  famish'd  beast 

Sees  the  restoring  sight ! 

Hope  gives  his  feeble  limbs  a  sudden  strength  ; 

He  hurries  on  !  — 

24 

The  herbs  so  fair  to  eye 

Were  Senna,  and  the  Gentian's  blossom  blue. 

And  kindred  plants,  that  with  unwater'd  root 

Fed  in  the  burning  sand,  whose  bitter  leaves 

Even  frantic  Famine  loathed. 

25. 

In  uncommunicating  misery 

Silent  they  stood.     At  length  Lobaba  said, 

"  Son,  we  must  slay  the  Camel,  or  we  die 

For  lack  of  water  1  thy  young  hand  is  firm, — 


2C0 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IV. 


Draw  forth  the  knife  and  pierce  him!"  Wretch 

accurst ! 

Who  tliat  beheld  tliy  venerable  face, 

Thy  features  stiff  with  suffering,  the  dry  lips. 

The  feverish  eyes,  could  deem  that  all  within 

Was  magic  ease,  and  fearlessness  secure, 

And  wiles  of  hellish  import  r     The  young  man 

Paused  with  reluctant  pity  ;  but  he  saw 

His  comrade's  red  and  painful  countenance. 

And   his  own  burning  breath   came  short  and 

quick. 

And  at  his  feet  the  grasping  beast 

Lies,  over-worn  with  want. 

26.  j 

Then  froin  his  girdle  Thalaba  took  the  knife       j 
With  stern  compassion,  and  from  side  to  side 
Across  the  Camel's  throat 
Drew  deep  the  crooked  blade. 
Servant  of  man,  that  merciful  deed 
Forever  ends  thy  suffering;  but  what  doom 
Waits  thy  deliverer .'     "  Little  will  thy  death 
Avail  us!"  thought  the  youth. 
As  in  the  water-skin  he  pour'd 
The  Camel's  hoarded  draught ; 
It  gave  a  scant  supply, 
The  poor  allowance  of  one  prudent  day. 


27. 

Son  of  Hodeirah,  though  thy  steady  soul 

Despair'd  not,  firm  in  faith,  * 

Yet  not  the  less  did  suffering  nature  feel 

Its  pangs  and  trials.     Long  their  craving  thirst 

Struggled  with  fear,  by  fear  itself  inflamed  ; 

But  drop  by  drop,  tliat  poor, 

That  last  supply  is  drain'd. 

Still  the  same  burning  sun  !  no  cloud  in  heaven ! 

The  hot  air  quivers,  and  the  sultry  mist 

Floats  o'er  the  desert,  with  a  show 
Of  distant  waters,  mocking  their  distress. 

28. 

The  youth's  parch'd  lips  were  black, 

His  tongue  was  dry  and  rough, 

His  eyeballs  red  with  heat. 

Lobaba  gazed  on  him  with  looks 

That  eeem'd  to  speak  of  pity,  and  he  said, 

"  Let  me  behold  thy  Ring ; 

It  may  have  virtue  that  can  save  us  yet !  " 

With  that  he  took  his  hand. 

And  view'd  the  writing  close, 

Then  cried  with  sudden  joy, 

"  It  is  a  stone  that  whoso  bears, 

The  Genii  must  obey  ! 

Now  raise  thy  voice,  my  Son, 

And  bid  them  in  His  name  that  here  is  written 

Preserve  us  in  our  need." 

29. 

"  Nay  !  "  answer'd  Thalaba ; 

"  Shall  I  distrust  the  providence  of  God  .' 

Is  it  not  He  must  save  ? 

If  Allah  wills  it  not, 

Vain  were  the  Genii's  aid." 


30. 

Whilst  he  spake,  Lobaba's  eye, 

Upon  the  distance  fix'd. 

Attended  not  his  speecli. 

Its  fearful  meaning  drew 

The  looks  of  Thalaba; 

Columns  of  sand  came  moving  on  ; 

Red  in  the  burning  ray, 

Like  obelisks  of  fire, 

They  rush'd  before  the  driving  wind. 

Vain  were  all  thoughts  of  flijrht  I 

They  had  not  hoped  escape. 

Could  they  have  back'd  the  Dromedary  tnen. 

Who,  in  his  rapid  race. 

Gives  to  the  tranquil  air  a  drowning  force. 

31. 

High  —  high  in  heaven  upcurl'd 

The  dreadful  sand-spouts  moved  ; 

Swift  as  the  whirlwind  that  impell'd  their  way 

They  came  toward  the  travellers ! 

The  old  Magician  shriek'd. 

And  lo  I  the  foremost  bursts, 

Before  the  whirlwind's  force, 

Scattering  afar  a  burning  shower  of  sand. 

"  Now  by  the  virtue  of  the  Ring, 

Save  us  !  "     Lobaba  cried, 

"  While  yet  tiiou  hast  the  power, 

Save  us  !  O  save  us  !  now !  " 

The  youth  made  no  repl}'. 

Gazing  in  awful  wonder  on  the  scene. 

32. 

"  Why  dost  thou  wait  ?  "  the  Old  Man  e.xclaiin'd  ; 

"If  Allah  and  the  Prophet  will  not  save, 

Call  on  the  Powers  that  will !  " 

33. 

"Ha!  do  1  know  thee.  Infidel  accurst.-"' 

Exclaim'd  the  awaken'd  youth. 

"  And  thou  hast  led  me  hither.  Child  of  Sin  ! 

That  fear  might  make  me  sell 

My  soul  to  endless  death  I  " 

34. 

"  Fool  that  thou  art !  "     Lobaba  cried, 

"  Call  upon  Him  whose  name 

Thy  charmed  signet  bears. 

Or  die  the  death  thy  foolishness  deserves  !  " 

3.5. 

"  Servant  of  Hell !  die  thou  !  "  quoth  Thalaba. 

And  leaning  on  his  bow. 

He  fitted  the  loose  string. 

And  laid  the  arrow  in  its  resting-place. 

"  Bow  of  my  Father,  do  thy  duty  now  !  " 

He  drew  the  arrow  to  its  point ; 

True  to  his  eye  it  fled, 

And  full  upon  the  breast 

It  smote  the  Sorcerer. 
Astonish'd  Thalaba  beheld 
The  blunted  point  recoil. 

30. 

A  prf'ud  and  bitter  smile 

Wrinkled  Lobaba's  cheek. 


BOOK    IV. 


NOTES   TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


261 


"Try  once  again  tliino  earthly  arms!  "  he  cried. 

"  Rash  Boy  !  tlie  Power  I  serve 

Abandons  not  his  votaries. 

It  is  for  AUali's  wretched  slaves,  like  thou, 

To  serve  a  master,  who  in  the  hour  of  need 

Forsakes  them  to  their  fate  ! 

I  leave  thee  ! '"  —  and  ho  shook  his  staff,  and  call'd 

The  Chariot  of  his  charms. 

37. 

Swift  as  the  viewless  wind. 

Self- moved,  the  Chariot  came  ; 

The  Sorcerer  mounts  the  seat. 

"  Yet  once  more  weigh  thy  danger !  "  he  resumed ; 

"  Ascend  the  car  with  me, 

And  with  the  speed  of  thought 

We  pass  the  desert  bounds." 

The  indignant  youth  vouchsafed  not  to  reply  ; 

And  lo  !  the  magic  car  begins  its  course  ! 

38. 

Hark  !  hark  !  —  he  shrieks  —  Lobaba  shrieks  ! 

What,  wretch,  and  hast  thou  raised 

The  rushing  terrors  of  the  Wilderness 

To  fall  on  thine  own  head  .' 

Death  !  death  !  inevitable  death  I 

Driven  by  the  breath  of  God, 

A  column  of  the  Desert  met  his  way. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK   IV. 

How  great  our  fathers  were,  how  little  we.  —  9,  p.  25G. 

The  Mussulmans  are  iinmut:ibly  prepossessed,  that  as  the 
Earth  approaches  its  dissolution,  its  sons  and  daughters  grad- 
ually decrease  in  their  dimensions.  As  for  Dagjial,  they 
say  he  will  find  the  race  of  mankind  dwindled  into  such 
diminutive  pigmies,  that  their  habitations  in  cities,  and  all  the 
best  towns,  will  be  of  no  other  fabric  than  the  shoes  and 
slippers  made  in  these  present  ages,  placed  in  rank  and  file, 
in  seemly  and  regular  order  ;  allowing  one  pair  for  two  round 
families.  —  Morgan's  Hist,  of  Alrricrs. 

The  Cady  then  asked  me,  "If  I  knew  when  Ilagiuge  was 
to  come : "  "  I  have  no  wish  to  know  any  thing  about  him," 
said  I ;  "  I  hope  those  days  are  far  off,  and  will  not  happen  in 
my  time."  "What  do  your  books  say  concerning  him?" 
says  he,  affecting  a  look  of  great  wisdom.  "  Uo  they  agree 
with  ours  .'  "  "  I  don't  know  that,"  said  I,  "  till  I  hear  what 
IS  written  in  your  books."  "  Hagiuge  Magiuge,"  says  he, 
"are  little  people  not  so  big  as  bees,  or  like  the  zimb,  or  fly 
of  f^ennaar,  that  came  in  great  swarms  out  of  the  earth,  ay, 
in  multitudes  that  cannot  be  counted  ;  two  of  their  chiefs  are 
to  ride  upon  an  ass,  and  every  h:iir  of  that  ass  is  to  be  a  pipe, 
and  every  pipe  is  to  play  a  ditlbrent  kind  of  music,  and  all 
that  hear  and  follow  them  are  to  he  carried  to  Ik^II."  "  I 
know  them  not,"  said  1  ;  "  and  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  I 
feur  them  not,  were  they  twice  as  little  as  you  say  they  are, 
and  twice  as  numerous.  I  trust  in  God  I  shall  never  be  so 
fond  of  music  as  to  go  to  hell  after  an  ass,  for  all  the  tunes 
that  he  or  they  can  play."  —  Bruce. 

These  very  little  people,  according  to  Thevenot,  are  to  be 
great  drinkers,  and  will  drink  the  sea  dry. 


lit  the  mild  lustre,  Sec.  —  9,  p.  258. 

The  story  of  Haruth  and  Maruth,  as  in  the  I'o<^m,  may  be 
found  in  D'llerbelot,  and  in  Sale's  notes  to  the  Koran.  Of 
the  different  accounts,  I  have  preferred  that  which  makes 
Zohara  originally  a  woman,  and  metamorphoses  her  into  the 


planet  Venus,  to  that  which  says  the  planet  Venus  descended 
as  Zohara  to  tempt  the  Angels. 

The  Arabians  have  so  childish  a  love  of  rhyme,  that  when 
two  names  are  usually  coupled,  they  make  them  jingle,  as  in 
the  case  of  Ilaruth  and  Maruth.  Thus  they  call  Cain  and 
-Vbel,  Abel  and  Kahel.  I  am  informed  that  the  Koran  is 
crowded  with  rhymes,  more  particularly  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  chapters. 


./?  previous  price,  the  knowledge  of  the  r.ame 
Of  Ood. 9,  p.  256. 

The  Ism-.\bhih  —  The  Science  of  the  Name  of  God. 

They  pretend  that  God  is  the  lock  of  this  science,  and  Ma- 
hommed  the  key  ;  that  consequently  none  but  Muhommedans 
can  attain  it ;  that  it  discovers  what  passes  in  distant  coun- 
tries ;  that  it  familiarizes  the  possessors  with  the  Genii,  who 
are  at  the  command  of  the  initiated,  and  «  ho  instruct  them ; 
that  it  places  the  winds  and  the  seasons  at  their  disposal; 
that  it  heals  the  bite  of  serpents,  the  lame,  the  maimed,  and 
the  blind.  They  say,  that  some  of  their  greatest  Saints,  such 
as  Abdulkadir,  Cheilani  of  ISagdad,  and  Ihn  Mican,  who  resided 
in  the  south  of  Yemen,  were  so  far  advanced  in  this  science 
by  their  devotion,  that  they  said  their  prayers  every  noon  in 
the  Kaba  of  Mecca,  and  were  not  absent  from  their  own 
houses  any  other  part  of  the  day.  A  merchant  of  Mecca,  who 
had  learnt  it  in  all  its  forms  from  Mahonimed  el  Dsjanidsenji, 
(at  present  so  famous  in  that  city,)  pretended  that  lie  himself, 
being  in  danger  of  perishing  at  sea,  had  fastened  a  billet  to 
the  mast,  with  the  usual  ceremonies,  and  that  immediately 
the  tempest  ceased.  He  showed  me,  at  Bombay,  but  at  a  dis- 
tance, a  book  which  contained  all  sorts  of  figures  and  mathe- 
matical tables,  with  instructions  how  to  arrange  the  billets, 
and  the  appropriate  prayers  for  every  circumstance.  But  he 
would  neither  sufi^er  me  to  touch  the  book,  nor  copy  the 
title. 

There  are  some  Mahommedans  who  shut  themselves  up  in 
a  dark  place  without  eating  and  drinking  for  a  long  time,  and 
there  with  a  loud  voice  repeat  certain  short  jjrayers  till  they 
faint.  When  they  recover,  they  pretend  to  have  seen  not 
only  a  crowd  of  spirits,  but  God  himself,  and  even  the  Devil. 
But  the  true  initiated  in  the  Ism-Allah  do  not  seek  these 
visions.  The  secret  of  discovering  hidden  treasures  belongs 
also,  if  I  mistake  not,  to  the  Ism-Allah.  —  JViebuhr. 


Huge  as  the  giant  race  of  elder  times.  —  9,  p.  256. 

One  of  the  Aralis,  whom  we  saw  from  afar,  and  who  was 
mounted  upon  a  camel,  seemed  higher  than  a  tower,  and  to  be 
moving  in  the  air  ;  at  first  this  was  to  me  a  strange  appear- 
ance! ;  however,  it  was  only  the  effect  of  refraction  ;  the 
Camel,  whicli  the  Arab  was  upon,  touching  the  ground  like  all 
others.  There  was  nothing  then  extraordinary  in  this  jihe- 
nomenon,  and  I  afterwards  saw  many  appearances  exactly 
similar  in  the  dry  countries. — JViebuhr. 

"  They  surpriseil  you,  not  indeed  by  a  sudden  assault ;  but 
they  advanced,  and  the  sultry  vapor  of  noon,  through  which 
you  saw  them,  increased  their  magnitude." — Moallakat. 
Poem  of  Hnrtth. 

So  in  his  loosened  cloak 

The  Old  Man  wrapt  himself.  —  10,  p.  2.57. 

One  of  these  Hijkes  is  usually  six  yards  long  and  five  or 
six  feet  broad,  serving  the  Arab  for  a  complete  dress  in  the 
day,  and  for  his  bed  and  covering  in  the  night.  It  is  a 
loose  but  troublesome  kiml  of  garment,  being  frequently  dis- 
concerted and  falling  upon  the  ground,  so  that  the  person  who 
wears  it  is  every  moment  obliged  to  tuck  it  up,  and  fold  it 
anew  about  his  body.  This  shows  the  great  use  there  is  for 
a  girdle  in  attending  any  active  employment,  and,  in  conse- 
quence thereof,  the  force  of  the  Scripture  injunction  alluding 
thereunto,  of  haeinir  our  loins  girded.  The  method  of  wear- 
ing these  garments,  with  the  use  they  are  at  other  times  put 
to,  in  serving  for  coverlets  to  their  beds,  should  induce  us  to 
take  the  finer  sort  of  them,  at  least,  such  as  are  worn  by  the 
ladies  and  persons  of  distinction,  to  be  the  pcplus  of  the 
ancients.     It  is  very  probable  likewise,  that  the    oose  folding 


2Cy2 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IV. 


garment  (the  Toga  I  take  it  to  be)  of  the  Romans  was  of 
this  kind  ;  for  if  tlie  drapery  of  tlieir  statues  is  to  instruct  us, 
tliis  is  actually  no  other  than  what  the  Arabs  appe:ir  in,  wlien 
they  are  folded  up  in  their  llijkr.s.  Instead  of  the  fibula, 
thoy  join  together,  with  thread  or  a  wooden  bodkin,  the  two 
upper  corners  of  this  garment,  which  being  first  placed  over 
one  of  their  shoulders,  they  fold  the  rest  of  it  afleiwards 
round  their  bodies.  —  Shaw. 

The  employment  of  the  women  is  to  prepare  their  wool, 
spin,  and  weave  in  looms  hung  lengthways  in  their  tents. 
Those  looms  are  formed  by  a  list  of  an  ell  and  a  half  long,  to 
which  the  threads  of  the  warp  are  fixed  at  one  end,  and  at  the 
other  on  a  roller  of  e(|ual  length  ;  the  weight  of  which,  being 
sui|)ended,  keeps  them  stretched.  The  threads  of  the  warp 
are  so  hung  as  to  be  readily  intersected.  Instead  of  shuttles, 
the  women  pass  the  thread  of  the  woof  tlirough  the  warp 
with  their  fingers,  and  with  an  iron  comb,  having  a  handle, 
press  the  woof  to  give  a  body  to  their  cloth.  Each  piece,  of 
about  five  ells  long,  and  an  ell  and  a  half  wide,  is  called  a 
haick  ;  it  receives  neither  dressing,  milling,  nor  dyeing,  but  is 
immediately  fit  for  use.  It  is  the  constant  diess  of  the  Moors 
of  the  country,  is  without  seam,  and  incapable  of  varying, 
according  to  the  caprices  of  fashion  :  when  dirty,  it  is  washed. 
The  Moor  is  wrapjied  up  in  it  day  and  night  ;  and  this  hairk 
is  the  living  model  of  the  drapery  of  the  ancients. —  Clienirr. 

If  thou  at  all  take  thy  ntighl'or's  raiment  to  pledge,  thou 
shall  deliver  it  unto  him  by  that  the  Suu  goeth  down. 

For  that  is  his  covering  only  ;  it  is  his  raiment  for  his  skin  : 
wherein  shall  he  sleep?  —  Exodus,  xxii.  2fi,  27. 


Coiisuiniiig  still  inflames,  and  still  rencio'd. —  15,  p.  258. 

Fear  the  fire,  whose  fuel  is  men  and  stones  prepared  for  the 
unbelievers.  —  Koran,  Chap.  2. 

Verily,  those  who  disbelieve  our  signs,  we  will  surely  cast 
to  be  broiled  in  hell-fire  ;  so  often  as  their  skins  shall  be  well 
burned,  we  will  give  them  other  skins  in  exchange,  that  they 
may  take  the  sharper  torment.  — Koran,  Chap.  4. 


Their  waving  zoings  his  san-shicld.  — 15,  p.  258. 

The  Arabians  attribute  to  Solomon  a  perpetual  enmity  and 
warfare  against  wicked  Genii  and  Giants  ;  on  the  subject  of 
his  wonder-working  Ring,  their  tales  are  innumerable.  They 
have  even  invented  a  whole  race  of  Pre-Adamite  Solomons, 
who,  according  to  them,  governed  the  world  successively,  to 
the  number  of  40,  or,  as  others  affirm,  as  many  as  72.  All 
these  made  the  evil  Genii  their  unwilling  drudges.  —  D'Har- 
belot. 

Anchieta  was  going  in  a  canoe  to  the  mouth  of  the  river 
.Mdea,  a  delightful  spot,  surrounded  with  mango-trees,  and 
usually  abounding  with  birds  called  goarazes,  that  breed  there. 
These  birds  are  aliout  tlie  size  of  a  hen,  tlieir  color  a  rich 
purple  inclining  to  red.  They  are  white  when  hatched,  and 
soon  become  black ;  but  as  they  grow  larger,  lose  that  color, 
and  t  ikc  this  rich  anil  beautiful  purple.  Our  navigators  had 
reached  the  place,  but  when  they  should  have  enjoyed  the  fine 
prospect  which  delights  all  who  pass  it,  the  sun  was  excessively 
hot ;  and  this  eye-pleasure  was  purchased  dearly,  when  the 
whole  body  was  in  a  profuse  perspiration,  and  the  rowers  were 
in  a  fever.  Their  distress  called  upon  Joseph,  and  the  remedy 
was  no  new  one  to  him.  He  saw  three  or  four  of  these  birds 
perched  upon  a  mango,  and  calling  to  them  in  the  Brazilian 
language,  which  the  rowers  understood,  said.  Go  you,  call 
your  companions,  and  come  to  shade  these  hot  servants  of  the 
Lord.  The  birds  stretched  out  their  necks  as  if  in  obedience, 
und  away  they  went  to  seek  for  others,  and  in  a  short  time 
they  came  flying  in  the  shape  of  an  elegant  cloud,  and  they 
shadowed  the  canoe  a  good  league  out  to  sea,  till  the  fresh 
sea-breeze  sprung  up.  Then  he  told  them  they  might  go 
about  their  business;  and  they  separated  with  a  clamor  of 
rude,  but  joyful  sounds,  which  were  only  understood  by  the 
Author  of  Nature,  who  created  them.  This  was  a  greater 
miracle  than  that  of  the  cloud  with  which  God  defended  his 
chosen  people  in  the  wilderness  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  in- 
asmuch as  it  was  a  more  elegant  and  fanciful  parasol,  .^cho 
quefoy  maior  portcnto  cstc  que  o  da  uuvcm,  com  que  Dcos  dfftndeo 


no  deserto  a  scu  Povo  mimoso  do  color  do  so!,  lanto  quanta  mais 
teui  dc  gracwso  et  aprasivcl  este  chapeo  de  sol,  que  aquelle. 

This  was  one  of  .-Vnchieta's  common  miracles.  Jacob 
Biderman  has  an  epigram  ujron  the  subject,  quoted  in  the 
Jesuit's  Life. 

Ilespcrii  pctercnt  cum  larbara  littora  mysta^, 

Et  sociii  a:gcr  pluribus  unus  erat, 
Ille  siium  cztincto,  Phnbi  quia  laiiipailis  tcslu 

Occulloque  uri,  qucstus  ab  igne  caput ; 
Quaisiit  inprora,  si  quam  daret  angulus  umbram, 

J\rulla  sed  in  prorm  purtibus  vmhrafuit. 
Quasiit  in  puppi,  nihil  umbne  puppis  habcbat, 

Summa  sed  urebant  soils,  et  ima  faces. 
His  cupiens  Anchieta  mails  surxurrcre,  solam 

Aera  per  mediinn  tendere  vidit  avem. 
Vidit,  ei  sodas,  ail,  i,  quitre  cohorles, 

Aliger  atque  reduz  cum  Icgione  veni. 
Dicta  probavit  avis,  celcrique  citalior  Euro, 

Coa-natiim  properat,  quairerc  jussa  gregem, 
Millequr.  max  sociis  cnmttata  rerertitur  alts, 

MMc  sequi  visa',  mille  pr.eire  ducem. 
Mille  supra,  ct  totidcm,  juxtaquc ,  infraque  volabant, 

Omnis  ad  AiichieiiB  turba  vocata  prcces. 
Et  simul  expansis  facta  testudine  pcnnis, 

Dcsuper  in  tostas  incubucre  rates. 
Etprocul  indc  diim,  ct  lucum prpulere  diet, 

Debilc  dum  mollis  coiident  umbra  caput. 
Scilicet  hu:c  fierent,  ut  canopra  repcrite 

Anchieta  artifices  esse  cocgit  aves. 

Villa  do  Veneravcl  Padre  .Toseph  de  Anchieta,  da  Companhia 
deJesu,  Tuumalurgo  do  JVoro  Mundo,  na  Proeincia  do  Brasil. 
compostapello  P.  Simam  de  Vasconcellos,  da  mcsma  Companhia. 
—  Lisboa.     1G72. 

'J'he  Jesuits  probably  stole  this  miracle  from  the  Arabian 
story  of  Solomon  ;  not  that  they  are  by  any  means  deficient  in 
invention  ;  but  they  cannot  be  suspected  of  ignorance. 

In  that  rare  book,  the  Margarita  Phdosuphira  Basilia,  1535, 
is  an  account  of  a  parasol  more  convenient,  though  not  in  so 
elegant  a  taste,  as  that  of  the  wonder-working  Anchieta.  There 
is  said  to  be  a  nation  of  one-legged  men  ;  and  one  of  these 
unipeds  is  represented  in  a  print,  lying  on  his  back,  under  the 
shade  of  his  own  great  foot. 

The  most  curious  account  of  Solomon's  wisdom  is  in  Du 
Bartas. 

Hee  knowes  — 

Whether  the  Heaven's  sweet-sweating  kissc  appear 

To  be  Pearls  parent,  and  the  Oysters  pheer. 

And  whether,  dusk,  it  makes  them  dim  withall, 

Cleer  breeds  the  deer,  and  stormy  brings  the  pale  } 

Whether  from  sea  the  ambcr-greece  be  sent, 

Or  be  some  fishes  pleasant  excrement ; 

He  knowes  why  the  Earth's  immoveable  and  round. 

The  lees  of  Nature,  centre  of  the  mound  ; 

Hee  knows  her  measure  ;  and  hee  knows  beside 

How  Coloquintida  (duely  apply'd) 

Within  the  darknesse  of  the  Conduit-pipes, 

Amid  the  winding  of  our  inward  tripes, 

Can  so  discreetly  the  xchitc  humour  take. 

Sylvester's  Du  Bartas. 


lie  rode  the  wind,  &lc.  —  15,  p.  258. 

"  And  we  made  the  wind  *  subject  imto  Solomon  ;  it  blew 
in  the  morning  for  a  month,  and  in  the  evening  for  a  month. 
And  we  made  a  fountain  of  molten  brass  to  flow  f  for  him. 
And  some  of  the  Genii  were  obliged  to  work  in  his  presence, 
by  the  w  ill  of  his  Lord  ;  und  whoever  of  them  turned  aside 
from  our  command,  we  will  cause   him  to  taste  the  pain  of 


•  Tlioy  s;iy  that  he  b:\d  a  carpet  of  ^reeii  silk,  on  whidi  his  tlirone  was 
placed,  bein?  ot  a  prodigious  length  and  brcadtli,  and  sufficient  for  all  hia 
forces  to  stand  on,  the  men  placing  themselves  on  Iiis  right  hand,  and  the 
spirits  on  liis  left ;  and  tlial  wlien  all  were  in  order,  the  « inti,  at  his  com- 
mand, took  up  the  carpet  and  transported  it,  with  all  that  were  upon  it, 
wheresoever  he  pleased  ;  tiic  army  of  birds  at  the  same  time  flying  over 
their  heads,  and  fcrntinj^  a  kind  of  c.inopy  to  sliaile  tliein  from  the  sun. 

t  A  fountain  of  molten  brass.  This  fountain,  they  say,  was  in  Yeman, 
and  flowed  three  days  in  a  month. 


BOOK    IV. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA  THE    DESTROYER. 


263 


liell-fire.*  Tlioy  made  for  him  whatever  he  pleased,  of 
palaces  and  st;\tiics,t  mid  large  dishes  like  fish-ponds, ;[  and 
caldrons  standing  firm  on  tlieir  trevets.^  And  we  said, 
Work  righteousness,  O  family  of  David,  with  thanksgiving : 
for  f(\vv  of  my  servants  are  thankful.  And  when  we  had  de- 
creed that  Solomon  should  di<!,  nothing  discovered  his  death 
unto  them,  except  the  creeping  tiling  of  the  earth,  which 
gnawed  his  staff.  || 

And  when  his  hody  fell  down,  the  Genii  plainly  perceived, 
that  if  they  had  known  that  whicli  is  secret,  they  had  not 
continued  in  a  vile  punishment."  —  Koran,  Chap.  34. 


Ok  for  the  Plover^  s  pleasant  cry.  — 21,  p.  259. 

In  places  where   there  was  water,   we   found  a  beautiful 
variety  of  the  plover.  —  JViebulir. 


Oh  for  the  Camel-driver'' s  song.  —  21,  p.  259. 

The  camels  of  the  hot  countries  aie  not  fastened  one  to 
the  tail  of  the  other,  as  in  cold  climates,  but  suffered  to  go 
at  their  will,  like  herds  of  cows.  The  camel-driver  follows 
singing,  and  from  time  to  time,  giving  a  sudden  whistle.  The 
louder  he  sings  and  whistles,  the  faster  the  camels  go  ;  and 
they  stop  as  soon  as  he  ceases  to  sing.  The  camel-drivers,  to 
relieve  each  other,  sing  alternately ;  and  when  they  wish  their 
beasts  to  browse  for  half  an  hour  on  what  they  can  find,  they 
amuse  themselves  by  smoking  a  pijie  ;  after  which,  beginning 
again  to  sing,  the  camels  immediately  proceed.  —  Tui-ernier. 


Even.frmttic  Famine  loathed.  —  24,  p.  259. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon,  we  had  an  unexpected  entertain- 
ment, which  filled  our  hearts  with  a  very  short-lived  joy.  The 
whole  plain  before  us  seemed  thick  covered  with  green  grass 
and  yellow  daisies.  We  advanced  to  the  phice  with  as  much 
speed  as  our  lame  condition  would  suffer  us  ;  b>it  how  ter- 
rible was  our  disappointment,  when  we  found  the  whole  of 
that  verdure  to  consist  in  senna  and  coloijuintida,  the  most 
nauseous  of  plants,  and  the  most  incapable  of  being  substi- 
tuted as  food  for  man  or  beast !  —  Bruce. 


Then  from  his  girdle  Thalaba  took  the  knife.  — 20,  p.  260. 

The  girdles  of  these  people  are  usually  of  worsted,  very 
artfully  woven  into  a  variety  of  figures,  and  made  to  wrap 

"  We  will  cause  him  to  taste  the  pain  of  heil-fire ;  or,  as  some  expound 
the  words,  we  caused  liim  to  tavle  llie  pain  of  burning;  liy  which  they 
miilersuand  the  correction  the  disobedient  Genii  received  at  ihe  liiiuds  of 
tlie  Angi-1  set  over  ihein,  wlio  wliippcd  them  with  a  whip  of  fire. 

t  Statues.  Some  suppose  llicse  were  images  of  the  Angels  and  Prophets, 
and  diatthe  mailing  of  lliern  was  not  forbidden,  or  else  tiiat  they  were  not 
such  images  as  were  forbidden  by  the  law.  Some  say  these  Spirits  made 
bim  two  Jions,  which  were  placed  at  the  foot  of  his  throne,  and  two  easles, 
whicli  were  set  above  it ;  and  that  when  he  mounted  it,  llie  lions  slretcheil 
out  their  paws,  and  when  he  sat  down,  tlie  eagles  shaded  him  iviih  their 
wings. 

t  Dishes  like  fish-ponds ;  being  so  monstrously  large,  that  a  tliousand 
men  niight  eat  out  of  each  of  them  at  ouce. 

§  And  caldrons  standing  firm  on  their  trevets. — Tliese  caldrons,  they 
say,  were  cut  out  of  the  mountains  of  ycm.in,  and  were  so  vaetly  bi^,  that 
they  could  not  be  moved  ;  an, I  piople  went  up  to  them  by  steps. 

II  Nothing  discovered  his  death  but  the  crcepiu;;  thing  of  the  earth 
wliich  gnawed  hrs  stall'.  — The  conimen  alors,  to  explain  this  passage,  tell 
us,  that  David,  having  laid  the  foundations  of  the  temple  of  Jerusalem, 
which  was  to  be  in  lieu  of  the  tabernacle  of  Moses,  when  he  died,  left  it 
to  be  finished  by  his  son  Solomon,  who  employetl  the  Genii  in  Ihe  work: 
that  Solomon,  before  ih:  edifice  was  complc'tcd,  perceiving  his  end  drew 
uigh,  begged  of  God  that  his  dealh  might  be  concealed  from  the  Genii, 
till  they  had  entirely  finished  it ;  that  God  therefore  so  ordered  it,  that 
Solomon  died  ,is  he  sti.od  at  his  prayers,  leaning  on  his  staff,  which  sup- 
porled  the  boily  in  that  posture  a  full  year  ;  and  tli.-;  Genii,  supposing  him 
to  be  alive,  continued  their  work  during  that  lerui  ;  at  the  expiration 
whereof,  the  temple  being  perfectly  completed,  a  worm,  which  had  gotten 
into  the  Btafl',  ate  it  through,  and  the  corpse  fell  to  the  ground,  and  dis- 
covered the  king's  death. 

Possibly  this  fable  of  the  temple  being  built  by  Genii,  and  not  by  men 
might  take  its  rise  fro;ii  what  is  mentioned  in  Scripture,  that  the  house 
was  built  of  stone,  made  ready  before  it  was  brought  thither;  so  that  there 
was  m-iiher  hammer  nor  axe,  nor  tool  of  iron  heard  in  the  house  while  it 
was  building. 


several  times  about  their  bodies  ;  one  end  of  them,  by  being 
lioubled  and  sewn  along  the  edges,  serves  th.  m  for  a  purse, 
agreeable  to  the  acceptation  of  the  word  Zt'i/r/  in  the  Holy 
Scriptures  :  the  Turks  and  Arabs  make  a  furllier  use  of  tlieir 
girdles,  by  fi.\ing  their  knives  and  poniards  in  them;  whilst 
the  Uojias,  i.  e.  the  writers  and  secretaries,  are  distinguished 
by  having  an  inkhorn,  the  badge  of  their  office,  suspended  in 
the  like  situation Shaw. 


.Across  the  Cumcl'^  throol.  —  20,  p.  260. 

On  the  road  we  passed  the  skeleton  of  a  camel,  which  now 
and  then  happens  in  the  desert.  These  are  poor  creatures 
that  have  perished  with  fatigue  ;  for  those  which  are  killed 
fertile  sustenance  of  the  Arabs,  are  carried  away,  bones  and 
all  together.  Of  the  hides  are  made  the  soles  of  the  slippers 
which  are  worn  in  Egypt,  without  any  dressing  but  what  the 
sun  can  give  them.  The  circumstances  of  this  animal's 
death,  when  his  strength  fails  liiin  on  the  road,  have  some- 
thing in  them  affecting  to  humanity.  Such  are  his  patience 
and  perseverance,  that  he  pursues  his  journey  without  flag- 
ging, as  long  as  he  has  power  to  support  its  weight ;  and  such 
are  his  fortitude  and  spirit,  that  he  will  never  give  out,  until 
nature  sinks  beneath  the  complicated  ills  which  press  upon 
him.  Then,  and  then  only,  will  he  resign  his  burden  and 
body  to  the  ground.  A'or  stripes,  nor  caresses,  nor  food,  nor 
rest,  will  make  him  rise  again  !  His  vigor  is  exhausted,  and 
life  ebbs  out  apace.  This  the  Arabs  are  very  sensible  of,  and 
kindly  plunge  a  sword  into  the  breast  of  the  dying  beast,  to 
shorten  his  pangs.  Even  the  Arab  feels  remorse  when  ho 
commits  this  deed ;  his  hardened  heart  is  moved  at  the  loss 
of  a  faithful  servant.  —  Kyles  Irwin. 

In  the  Monthly  Magazine  for  January,  1800,  is  a  letter  from 
Professor  Heering  recommending  the  introduction  of  these 
animals  at  the  Cape  ;  but  the  camel  is  made  only  for  level 
countries.  "  The  animal  is  very  ill  qualified  to  travel  upon 
the  snow  or  wet  ground  :  the  breadth  in  which  they  carry 
their  legs,  when  they  slip,  often  occasions  their  splitting 
themselves  ;  so  that  when  they  fall  with  great  burdens,  they 
seldom  rise  again." — Jonas  Hanway. 

The  African  Arabs  say,  if  one  should  put  the  question. 
Which  is  best  for  you,  0  Camel,  to  go  up  hill  or  down  1  he  wil. 
make  answer,  God's  curse  light  on  'em,  both,  whatsoever  they 
are  to  be  met  with.  —  Morgan's  Hist,  of  Algiers. 

No  creature  seems  so  peculiarly  fitted  to  the  climate  in 
which  it  exists.  We  cannot  doubt  the  nature  of  the  one  has 
been  adapted  to  that  of  the  other  by  some  disposing  intelli- 
gence. Designing  the  camel  to  dwell  in  a  country  where  he 
can  find  little  nourishment,  nature  has  been  sparing  of  her 
materials  in  the  whole  of  bis  formation.  She  has  not  be- 
stowed upon  him  the  plumji  fleshiness  of  the  o.\,  horse,  or 
elephant ;  but  limiting  herself  to  what  is  strictly  necessary, 
she  has  given  him  a  small  head  without  ears,  at  the  end  of  a 
long  neck  without  flesh.  She  has  taken  from  his  legs  and 
thighs  every  muscle  not  immediately  requisite  for  motion  ; 
and,  in  short,  has  bestowed  on  his  withered  body  only  the 
vessels  and  tendons  necessary  to  connect  his  frame  together. 
.She  has  furnished  him  with  a  strong  jaw,  that  he  may  grind 
the  hardest  aliments  ;  but  lest  he  should  consume  too  much, 
she  has  contracted  his  stomach,  and  obliged  him  to  chew  the 
cud.  She  has  lined  his  foot  with  a  lump  of  flesh,  which, 
sliding  in  the  mud,  and  being  no  way  adapted  for  climbing, 
fits  him  only  for  a  dry,  level,  and  sandy  soil,  like  that  of 
Arabia.  She  has  evidently  destined  him  likewise  to  sla- 
very by  refusing  him  every  sort  of  defence  against  his 
enemies.  Destitute  of  the  horns  of  the  bull,  the  hoofs 
of  the  horse,  the  tooth  of  the  elephant,  and  the  swiftness 
of  the  stag,  how  can  the  camel  resist  or  avoid  the  attacks 
of  the  lion,  the  tiger,  or  even  the  wolf?  To  preserve  the 
species,  therefore,  nature  has  concealed  him  in  the  depths  of 
the  vast  deserts,  where  the  want  of  vegetables  can  attract 
no  game,  and  whence  the  want  of  game  repels  every  vora- 
cious animal.  Tyranny  must  have  ex|ielled  man  from  the 
habitable  parts  of  the  earth,  before  the  camel  could  have  lost 
his  liberty.  Become  domeslic,  he  has  rendered  haldtable  the 
most  barren  soil  the  world  contains.  He  alone  supplies  all 
his  master's  wants.     The   milk  of  the   camel  nourishes  the 


2(;4 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IV. 


f  ,  ily  of  the  Arab,  under  the  various  forms  of  curds,  cheese, 
an  .  liutter ;  and  they  ot^en  feed  upon  his  Hcsh.  Slijjpers  and 
huiiiess  are  niado  of  his  skin,  and  touts  and  clotliing  of  his 
l)air.  Iloavy  burdens  are  transported  by  liis  means,  and  wlien 
tlie  eirtli  denies  forage  to  the  horse,  so  valuable  to  the  Bed- 
ouin, tlie  slie-camel  supplies  that  deliciency  by  lirr  milk,  at 
no  other  cost,  for  so  many  advantages,  than  a  few  stalks  of 
brambles  or  wormwood,  and  pounded  date-kernels.  So  great 
is  the  importance  of  tlie  cauiel  to  the  desert,  that  were  it  de- 
prived of  that  useful  animal,  it  must  infallibly  lose  every 
inhabitant. —  Volnetj. 


Of  distant  waters,  &c.  —  27,  p.  260. 

Where  any  parts  of  these  deserts  is  sandy  and  level,  the 
horizon  is  as  fit  for  astronomical  observations  as  the  sea,  and 
appears,  at  a  small  distance,  to  be  no  less  a  collection  of  water. 
It  was  likewise  equally  surprising  to  observe,  in  what  an  ex- 
traordinary manner  every  object  appeared  to  be  magnified 
within  it ;  insomuch  that  a  shrub  seemed  as  big  as  a  tree,  and 
a  flock  of  .\chbobbas  might  be  mistaken  for  a  caravan  of 
camels.  This  seeming  collection  of  water  always  advances 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  before  us,  wliilst  tlie  intermediate 
space  appears  to  be  in  one  continued  glow^,  occasioned  by  the 
quivering,  undulating  motion  of  that  quick  succession  of 
vapors  and  exhalations,  which  are  extracted  Ijy  the  powerful 
influence  of  the  sun. —  Shaw. 

In  the  Bahar  Diinush  is  a  metaphor  drawn  from  this  optical 
deception.  "  It  is  the  ancient  custom  of  fortune,  and  time 
has  long  established  the  habit,  that  she  at  first  bewilders  the 
thirsty  travellers  in  the  path  of  desire,  by  the  misty  vapors  of 
disappointment;  but  when  their  distress  and  misery  has  reached 
extremity,  suddenly  relieving  them  from  the  dark  windings  of 
confusion  and  error,  she  conducts  them  to  the  fountains  of 
enjoyment." 

"  The  burning  heat  of  the  sun  was  reflected  with  double 
violence  from  the  hot  sand,  and  the  distant  ridges  of  the  hills, 
seen  through  the  ascending  vapors,  seemed  to  wave  and  fluc- 
tuate like  the  unsettled  sea."  —  Mungo  Park. 

"  I  shake  the  lash  over  my  camel,  and  she  quickens  her 
pace,  while  the  sultry  vapor  rolls  in  waves  over  the  burning 
clifl's."  —  Muallukat.     PuciH  uf  Tarufa. 


His  tongue  teas  dry  and  rough.  —  28,  p.  2C0. 

Perhaps  no  traveller  but  Mr.  Park  ever  survived  to  relate 
similar  snil'erings. 

"I  pushed  on  as  fast  as  possible,  in  hopes  of  reaching 
some  watering-place  in  the  course  of  the  night.  My  thirst 
was,  by  this  time,  become  insufferable ;  my  mouth  was 
parched  and  inflamed;  a  sudden  dimness  would  frequently 
come  over  my  eyes,  with  other  symptoms  of  fainting ;  and 
my  horse  being  very  much  fatigued,  I  began  seriously  to 
apprehend  that  I  should  perish  of  thirst.  To  relieve  the 
burning  pain  in  my  mouth  and  throat,  I  chewed  the  leaves 
ot  difi'erent  shrubs,  but  Ibiiiul  them  all  bitter,  and  of  no  service 
to  me. 

"  A  little  before  sunset,  having  reached  the  toji  of  a  gentle 
rising,  I  climbed  a  high  tree,  from  the  topmost  branches  of 
which  I  cast  a  melancholy  look  over  the  barren  wilderness, 
but  without  discovering  the  most  distant  trace  of  a  human 
dwelling.  The  same  dismal  unifurmity  of  shrulis  and  sand 
every  where  presented  itself,  and  the  horizon  was  as  level  and 
uninterrupted  as  that  of  the  sea. 

"  Descending  from  the  tree,  I  found  my  horse  devouring 
the  stubble  and  lirushwood  with  great  avidity  ;  and  as  I  was 
now  too  faint  to  attempt  walking,  and  my  horse  too  much 
fatigued  to  carry  me,  I  thought  it  but  an  act  of  humanity,  and 
perhaps  the  last  I  should  ever  have  it  in  myjiower  to  perform, 
to  take  off"  his  bridle,  and  let  him  shit\  for  himself :  in  doing 
which  I  was  suddenly  affected  with  sickness  and  giddiness, 
and  falling  upon  the  sand,  felt  as  if  the  hour  of  death  was  fast 
approaching.  Here  then,  thought  I,  after  a  short,  but  in- 
eftectual  struggle,  terminate  all  my  hopes  of  being  useful  in 
my  day  and  generation  ;  here  must  the  short  span  of  my  life 
come  to  an  end.  —  I  cast  (as  I  believed)  a  last  look  on  the 
surrounding  scene,  and  whilst  I  reflected  on  the  awful  change 
■.hat  was  about  to  take  place,  this  world,  with  its  enjoyments. 


seemed  to  vanish  from  my  recollection.  Nature,  however, 
at  length,  resumed  its  functions  ;  and  on  recovering  my  senses, 
1  found  myself  stretched  ujion  the  siiiul,  with  the  bridle  still 
in  my  Iiand,  and  tlie  sun  just  sinking  behind  the  trees.  I  now 
summoned  all  my  resolution, and  determined  to  make  another 
effort  to  prolong  my  existence.  And  as  the  evening  was 
somewhat  cool,  I  resolved  to  travel  as  far  as  my  limbs  would 
carry  me,  in  hopes  of  reaching  (my  only  resource)  a  watering- 
place.  With  this  view  I  put  the  bridle  on  my  horse,  and 
driving  him  before  me,  went  slowly  along  for  about  an  hour, 
when  1  perceived  some  lightning  from  the  north-east  —  a  most 
dcliglilful  sight,  for  it  promised  rain.  The  darkness  and  light- 
ning increased  very  rapidly  ;  and  in  less  than  an  hour  I  heard 
the  wind  roaring  among  the  bushes.  I  had  already  opened 
my  mouth  to  receive  the  refreshing  drops  which  I  expected, 
but  I  was  instantly  covered  with  a  cloud  of  sand,  driven  with 
such  force  by  the  wind,  as  to  give  a  very  disagreeable  sensa- 
tion to  my  face  and  arms,  and  I  was  obliged  to  mount  my  horse 
and  stop  under  a  bush  to  prevent  being  suffocated.  —  The 
sand  continued  to  fly  in  amazing  ((uantities,  for  near  an  hour, 
after  which  I  again  set  forward,  and  travelled  with  difficulty 
until  ten  o'clock.  About  this  time,  I  was  agreeably  surprised 
by  some  very  vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  followed  by  a  few 
heavy  drops  of  rain.  In  a  little  time,  the  sand  ceased  to  fly, 
and  I  alighted,  and  spread  out  all  my  clean  clothes  to  collect 
the  rain,  which  at  length  I  saw  would  certainly  fall.  —  For 
more  than  an  hour  it  rained  jilentifnlly,  and  I  quenched  my 
thirst  by  wringing  and  sucking  my  clothes."  —  Park's  Trav- 
els in  the  Interior  of  .Africa. 


Could  they  have  back'd  the  Dromedary,  &.C.  —  30,  p.  260. 

All  the  time  I  was  in  Barbary,  I  could  never  get  sight  of 
above  three  or  four  Dromedaries.  These  the  Arabs  call  Me- 
hera  ;  the  singular  is  Meheri.  They  are  of  several  sorts  and 
degrees  of  value,  some  worth  many  common  Camels,  others 
scarce  worth  two  or  three.  To  look  on,  they  seem  little  dif- 
ferent from  the  rest  of  that  species,  only  I  think  the  excres- 
cence on  a  Dromedary's  back  is  somewhat  less  than  that 
of  a  Camel.  What  is  reported  of  their  sleeping,  or  rather 
seeming  scarce  alive,  for  some  time  after  coming  into  this 
world,  is  no  fable.  The  longer  they  lie  so,  the  more  excellent 
they  prove  in  their  kind,  and  consequently  of  higher  price  and 
esteem.  None  lie  in  that  trance  more  than  ten  days  and 
nights.  Those  that  do  are  pretty  rare,  and  arc  called  Aashari, 
from  Aashara,  which  signifies  ten,  in  Arabic.  I  saw  one  such, 
lierfectly  white  all  over,  belonging  to  Leila  Oumane,  Princess 
of  that  noble  Arab  Neja,  named  Heyl  ben  Ali,  I  spoke  of, 
and  upon  which  she  put  a  very  great  value,  never  sending  it 
abroad  but  upon  some  extraordinary  occasion,  when  the 
greatest  expedition  was  required  ;  having  others,  inferior  in 
switbiess,  for  more  ordinary  messages.  They  say  that  one  of 
these  Aasharies  will,  in  one  night,  and  through  a  level  coun- 
try, traverse  as  much  ground  as  any  single  horse  can  perform 
in  ten,  which  is  no  exaggeration  of  the  matter,  since  many 
have  atfirined  to  me,  that  it  makes  nothingof  holding  its  rapid 
pace,  which  is  a  most  violent  hard  trot,  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  upon  a  stretch,  without  showing  the  least  sign  of  wea- 
riness, or  inclination  to  bait,  and  that  having  then  swallowed 
a  ball  or  two  of  a  sort  of  paste,  made  up  of  barley-meal,  and 
may  be  a  little  powder  of  dates  among  it,  with  a  bowl  of 
water,  or  Camel's  milk,  if  to  be  liad,  and  which  the  courier 
seldom  forgets  to  he  provided  with,  in  skins,  as  well  for  the 
sustenance  of  himself  as  of  his  Pegasus,  the  indefitigable  ani- 
mal will  seem  as  fresh  as  at  first  setting  out,  and  ready  to 
continue  running  at  the  same  scarce  credible  rate,  for  as  many 
hours  longer,  and  so  on  from  one  extremity  of  the  .Vfrican 
Deserts  to  the  other,  provided  its  rider  could  hold  out  without 
sleep  or  other  refreshment.  This  has  been  averred  to  me,  by, 
I  believe,  more  than  a  thousand  Arabs  and  Moors,  all  agree- 
ing in  every  particular. 

I  happened  to  be,  once  in  particular,  at  the  tent  of  that 
Princess,  with  .Mi  ben  Mahamoud,  the  Bey,  or  Vice-Roy  of 
the  Algcrine  Eastern  Province,  when  he  went  thither  to  cele- 
brate his  nuptials  with  Ambarca,  her  only  daughter,  if  I  mis- 
take not.  Among  other  entertainments  she  gave  her  guests, 
the  favorite  white  Dromedary  was  brought  forth,  ready  sad- 
dled and  bridled.     I  say  bridled,  because  the  thong,    which 


BOOK    V. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


265 


serves  insteail  ol'a  bridle,  was  put  through  tlie  hole  purposely 
made  in  the  gristle  of  the  creature's  nose.  The  Arab  ap- 
pointed to  mount,  was  straitly  laced,  from  the  very  loins  quite 
to  his  throat,  in  a  strong  leathern  jacket,  they  never  riding 
these  aniniiils  any  otherwise  accoutred  ;  so  impetuously  violent 
are  the  concussions  the  rider  undergoes,  during  that  rapid 
motion,  that  were  ho  to  bo  loose,  I  much  question  whether  a 
few  hours  such  uninterniitting  agitation  would  not  endanger 
the  bursting  of  some  of  his  entrails  ;  anil  this  the  Arabs  scru- 
ple not  to  acknowledge.  We  were  to  be  diverted  with  seeing 
this  fine  Aashari  run  against  some  of  the  swiftest  baibs  in  the 
whole  Neja,  which  is  famed  for  having  good  ones,  of  the 
true  Libyan  breed,  shaped  like  greyhounds,  and  which  will 
sometimes  run  down  an  ostrich  ;  which  few  of  the  very  best 
can  pretend  to  do,  especially  upon  a  hard  ground,  perfectly 
level.  We  all  started  like  racers,  and  for  the  first  spirt,  most 
of  the  best  mounted  among  us  kept  up  prclty  well,  but  our 
grass-fed  horses  soon  flagged  :  several  of  the  Libyan  and 
>iumidian  runners  held  p:ice  till  we,  who  still  followed  upon 
a  good  round  hand-gallop,  could  no  longer  discern  them,  and 
then  gave  out ;  as  we  were  told  after  their  return.  When  the 
Dromedary  had  been  out  of  our  sight  about  an  half  an  hour,  we 
again  espied  it  flying  towards  us  with  an  amazing  velocity,  and 
in  a  very  few  moments  was  among  us,  and  seemingly  nothing 
concerned  ;  while  the  horses  and  mares  were  all  in  a  foam,  and 
"carce  able  to  breathe,  as  was,  likewise,  a  fleet,  tall  greyhound 
bitch,  of  the  young  Princes,  who  had  followed  and  kept  pace 
the  whole  time,  and  was  no  sooner  got  back  to  us,  but  lay 
down  panting  us  if  ready  to  expire.  I  cannot  tell  how  many 
miles  we  went,  but  we  were  near  three  hours  in  coming  lei- 
surely back  to  the  tents,  yet  m  ide  no  stop  in  the  way.  The 
young  Prince  Hamet  ben  al  Guydom  ben  Sakhari,  and  his 
younger  brother  .Messoud,  told  their  new  brother-in  law,  that 
they  defied  all  the  potentates  of  Africa  to  show  him  such  an 
Aashari;  and  the  Arab  who  rode  it,  challenged  the  Dey  to  lay 
his  lady  a  wager  of  1030  ducats,  that  he  did  not  bring  him  an 
answer  to  a  letter  from  the  Prince  of  Wargala,  in  less  than 
four  days,  though  Leo  Africanus,  Marmol,  and  several  others, 
assure  us,  that  it  is  no  loss  than  forty  Spanish  leagues,  of  four 
miles  eicli,  south  of  Tuggart,  to  which  place,  upon  another 
occasion,  as  I  shall  observe,  we  made  six  tedious  days  march 
from  the  neighborhood  of  Biscara,  north  of  which  we  were 
then,  at  least  thirty  hours  riding,  if  I  remember  rightly.  How- 
ever, the  Bey,  who  was  a  native  of  Biscara,  and  consequently 
well  acquainted  with  the  Sahara,  durst  not  take  him  up.  By 
all  circumstances,  and  the  description  given  us,  besides  what 
I  know  of  the  matter  myself,  it  could  not  bo  much  less  th:in 
400  miles,  and  as  many  back  again,  the  follow  ottered  to  ride, 
in  so  short  a  time  ;  nay,  many  other  Arabs  boldly  proffered  to 
venture  all  they  were  worth  in  the  world,  th:it  he  would  jit-r- 
form  it  with  all  the  ease  imaginable.  —  Jlornan's  Ilistonj  of 
Algiers. 

Chenier  says,  "The  Dromedary  can  travel  60  leagues  in  a 
day  ;  his  motion  is  so  ra|  id,  that  the  rider  is  obliged  to  be 
girthed  to  the  saddle,  and  to  have  a  handkerchief  before  his 
mouth,  to  break  tlie  current  of  the  wind.'"  These  accounts 
are  probably  much  exaggerated. 

"  The  royal  couriers  in  Peisia  wear  a  white  sash  girded 
from  the  shoulders  to  their  waist  many  times  round  their 
bodies,  by  which  means  they  are  enabled  to  ride  for  many  days 
without  great  fatigue."  —  Hanwaij. 


The  dreadful  sand-spouts  moved.  —  31,  p.  260. 

We  were  here  at  once  surprised  and  terrified  by  a  sight 
surely  the  most  magnificent  in  the  world.  In  that  vast  ex- 
panse of  desert,  from  W.  and  toN.  W.  of  us,  we  saw  anundier 
of  prodigious  pillars  of  sand  at  dilTerent  distances,  at  times 
moving  with  great  celerity,  at  others  stalking  with  a  majestic 
slowness  ;  at  intervals  we  thought  they  were  coming  in  a  very 
f'w  moments  to  overwhelm  us,  and  small  quantities  of  sand 
did  actually,  more  than  once,  reach  us.  Again  they  would 
retreat  so  as  to  be  almost  out  of  sight,  their  tops  reaching  to 
the  very  clouds.  There  the  tops  often  separated  from  the 
bodies,  and  these,  once  disjointed,  dis|>ersed  in  the  air,  and 
did  not  appear  more.  Sometimes  they  were  broken  near  the 
middle,  as  if  struck  with  a  large  cannon-shot.  About  noon, 
■.hey  began  to  advance  with  considerable  swiftness  upon  us, 
34 


the  wind  being  very  strong  at  north.  Kleven  of  them  ranged 
alongside  of  us,  about  the  distance  of  three  miles.  The 
greatest  diami;ter  of  the  largest  appeared  to  me,  at  that  dis- 
tance, as  if  it  would  measure  ten  feet.  They  retired  from  us 
with  a  wind  at  S.  E.,  leaving  an  impression  upon  my  mind  to 
which  I  can  give  no  name  ;  though  surely  one  ingredient  in  it 
was  fear,  with  a  considerable  deal  of  wonder  and  astonish- 
ment. It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  flying  ;  the  swiftest  horse,  or 
the  fastest-sailing  ship,  could  be  of  no  use  to  carry  us  out  of 
this  danger ;  and  the  full  persuasion  of  this  rivet  ted  me  as  if 
to  the  spot  where  I  stood. 

On  the  15th,  the  same  appearance  of  moving  pillars  of  sand 
presented  themselves  to  us,  only  they  seemed  to  be  more  in 
number,  and  less  in  size.  They  came  several  times  in  a  di- 
rection close  upon  us  ;  that  is,  I  believe,  within  less  than  two 
miles.  They  began  immediately  after  sunrise,  like  a  thick 
wood,  and  almost  darkened  the  sun.  His  rays  shining  through 
them  for  near  an  hour,  gave  them  an  appearance  of  pillars  of 
fire.  Our  people  now  became  desperate  ;  the  Greeks  shrieked 
out,  and  said  it  was  the  day  of  judgment.  Ismael  pronounced 
it  to  be  hell,  and  tin;  Tucorories  that  tlu^  world  was  on  fire. — 
Bruce. 


THE  FIFTH   BOOK. 


Thou  hast  girded  me  w  ith  strength   unto  the  battle 
hast  subdued  under  me  those  that  rose  up  against  me. 

Psalm  xviii.  39. 


thou 


When  Thalaba  from  adoration  rose, 

The  air  was  cool,  the  sky 

With  welcome  clouds  o'ercast, 

Which  soon  catne  down  in  rain. 

He  lifted  up  his  fever'd  face  to  heaven, 

And  bared  his  head,  and  stretch'd  his  hands 

To  that  delightful  shower, 

And  felt  the  coolness  permeate  every  limb, 

Freshening  his  powers  of  life. 

2. 

A  loud,  quick  panting  !     Thalaba  looks  up ; 

He  starts,  and  his  instinctive  hand 

Grasps  the  knife  hilt ;  for  close  beside 

A  Tiger  passes  him. 

An  indolent  and  languid  eye 

The  passing  Tiger  turn'd ; 

His  head  was  hanging  down, 

His  dry  tongue  lolling  low. 

And  the  short  panting  of  his  breath 

Came  through  his  hot,  parcli'd  nostrils  painfully 

The  young  Arabian  knew 

The  purport  of  his  hurried  pace, 

And  following  him  in  hope. 

Saw  joyful  from  afar 
The  Tiger  stoop  and  drink. 

3. 

A  desert  Pelican  had  built  her  nest 

In  that  deep  solitude  ; 

And  now,  return'd  from  distant  flight, 

Fraught  with  the  river-stream. 

Her  load  of  water  had  disburden'd  there 

Her  young  in  the  refreshing  bath 

Dipp'd  down  their  callow  heads. 


2G6                                   THALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                            book  v. 

Fill'd  tlie  swollen  moinbrane  from  their  pluineless 

Met  in  her  arch'd  Bazars ; 

throat 

All  day  the  active  poor 

Pendent,  and  bills  yet  soft; 

Showcr'd  a  cool  comfort  o'er  her  thronging  streets; 

And  buoyant  with  arch'd  breast, 

Labor  was  busy  in  her  looms  ; 

Plied  in  unpractised  stroke 

Through  all  her  open  gates 

The  oars  of  their  broad  feet. 

Long  troops  of  laden  Camels  lined  the  roads, 

Tliey,  as  the  spotted  prowler  of  the  wild 

And  Tigris  bore  upon  his  tameless  stream 

Laps  the  cool  wave,  around  their  mother  crowd, 

Armenian  harvests  to  her  nmltitudes. 

And  nestle  underneath  her  outspread  wings. 

The  spotted  prowler  of  the  wild 

8. 

Lapp'd  the  cool  wave,  and  satiate,  from  the  nest, 

But  not  in  sumptuous  Caravansary 

Guiltless  of  blood,  withdrew. 

The  adventurer  idles  there, 

Nor  satiates  wonder  with  her  pomp  and  wealth ; 

4. 

A  long  day's  distance  from  the  walls 

The  mother-bird  had  moved  not, 

Stands  ruined  Babylon ; 

But,  cowering  o'er  her  nestlings, 

The  time  of  action  is  at  hand ; 

Sate  confident  and  fearless, 

The  hope  that  for  so  many  a  year 

And  watch'd  the  wonted  "uest. 

Hath  been  his  daily  thought,  his  nightly  dream, 

But,  when  the  human  visitant  approach'd, 

Stings  to  more  restlessness. 

The  alarmed  Pelican, 

He  loathes  all  lingering  that  delays  the  hour 

Retiring  from  that  hostile  shape, 

When,  full  of  glory,  from  his  quest  return'd, 

Gathers  her  young,  and  menaces  with  wings. 

He  on  the  pillar  of  the  Tent  beloved 

And  forward  thrusts  her  threatening  neck, 

Shall  hang  Hodeirah's  sword. 

Its  feathers  ruffling  in  her  wratli. 

Bold  with  maternal  fear. 

9. 

Thalaba  drank,  and  in  the  water-skin 

The  many-colored  domes 

Hoarded  the  precious  element. 

Yet  wore  one  dusky  hue ; 

Not  all  he  took,  but  in  the  large  nest  left 

The  Cranes  upon  the  Mosque 

Store  that  sufficed  for  life ; 

Kept  their  night-clatter  still; 

And  journeying  onward,  blest  the  Carrier  Bird, 

When  through  the  gate  the  early  Traveller  past. 

And  blest,  in  thankfulness, 

And  when  at  evening  o'er  the  swampy  plain 

Their  common  Father,  provident  for  all. 

The  Bittern's  boom  came  far. 

Distinct  in  darkness  seen 

5. 

Above  the  low  horizon's  lingering  light. 

With  strength  renew 'd,  and  confident  in  faith. 

Rose  the  near  ruins  of  old  Babylon. 

The  son  of  Hodcirah  proceeds; 

Till,  after  the  long  toil  of  many  a  day, 

10. 

At  length  Bagdad  appcar'd. 

Once  from  her  lofty  walls  the  Charioteer 

The  City  of  his  search. 

Look'd    down   on   swarming   myriads;    once  she 

He,  hastening  to  the  gate, 

flung 

Roams  o'er  the  city  with  insatiate  eyes ; 

Her  arches  o'er  Euphrates'  conquer'd  tide. 

Its  thousand  dwellings,  o'er  whose  level  roofs 

And  through  her  brazen  portals  when  she  pour'd 

Fair  cupolas  appear'd,  and  high-domed  mosques. 

Her  armies  forth,  the  distant  nations  look'd 

And  pointed  minarets,  and  cypress  groves. 

As  men  who  watch  the  thunder-cloud  in  fear. 

Every  where  scatter'd  in  iinwithering  green. 

Lest  it  should  burst  above  them.     She  was  fallen, 

The  Queen  of  cities,  Babylon,  was  fallen ! 

6. 

Low  lay.  her  bulwarks  ;  the  black  Scorpion  bask'd 

Thou  too  art  fallen,  Bagdad  !     City  of  Peace, 

In  the  palace  courts;  within  the  sanctuary 

Thou  too  hast  had  thy  day  ; 

The  She- Wolf  hid  her  whelps. 

And  loathsome  Ignorance  and  brute  Servitude 

Is  yonder  huge  and  shapeless  heap,  what  once 

Pollute  thy  dwellings  now, 

Hath  been  the  aerial  Gardens,  height  on  height 

Erst  for  the  Mighty  and  the  Wise  renown'd. 

Rising  like  Media's  mountains  crown'd  with  wood, 

O  yet  illustrious  for  remember'd  fame, — 

Work  of  imperial  dotage  ^     Where  the  fame 

Thy  founder  the  Victorious, —  and  tlie  pomp 

Of  Belus .'     Where  the  Golden  Image  now, 

Of  Haroun,  for  whose  name,  by  blood  defiled. 

Which,  at  the  sound  of  dulcimer  and  lute, 

Yahia's,  and  the  blameless  Barmecides', 

Cornet  and  sacbut,  harp  and  psaltery. 

Genius  hath  wrought  salvation,  —  and  the  years 

The  As.syrian  slaves  adored.' 

When  Science  with  the  good  Al-Maimon  dwelt : 

A  labyrinth  of  ruins,  Babylon 

So  one  day  may  the  Crescent  from  thy  Mosques 

Spreads  o'er  the  blasted  plain  : 

Be  pluck'd  by  Wisdom,  when  the  enlighten'd  arm 

The  wandering  Arab  never  sets  his  tent 

Of  Europe  conquers  to  redeem  the  East  I 

Within  her  walls ;  the  Shepherd  eyes  afar 

Her  evil  towers,  and  devious  drives  his  flock. 

7. 

Alone  unchanged,  a  free  and  bridgeless  tide, 

Then  Pomp  and  Pleasure  dwelt  within  her  walls; 

Euphrates  rolls  along, 

The  Merchants  of  the  East  and  of  the  West 

Eternal  Nature's  work. 

BOOK    V. 


THALAUA    THE    DESTROYER. 


2G7 


11. 

Tiirougli  the  broken  portal, 

Over  weedy  fragments, 

Tlialaba  went  his  way. 

Cautious  he  trod,  and  felt 

The  dangerous  ground  before  him  with  his  bow. 

The  Jiickal  started  at  his  steps ; 

The  Stork,  alarni'd  at  sound  of  man, 

From  her  broad  nest  upon  the  old  pillar  top, 

Affrighted  fled  on  flapping  wings ; 

The  Adder,  in  her  haunts  disturb'd, 

Lanced  at  the  intruding  staff  her  arrowy  tongue. 

12. 

Twilight  and  moonshine  dimly  mingling  gave 

An  awful  light  obscure. 

Evening  not  wholly  closed. 

The  Moon  still  pale  and  faint ; 

An  awful  light  obscure, 

Broken  by  many  a  mass  of  blackest  shade  ; 

Long  column  stretching  dark  through  weeds  and 

moss. 

Broad  length  of  lofty  wall, 

Whose  windows  lay  in  light. 

And  of  their  former  shape,  low  arch'd  or  square, 

Rude  outline  on  the  earth 

Figured,  with  long  grass  fringed. 

13. 

Reclined  against  a  column's  broken  shaft, 

Unknowing  whitherward  to  bend  his  way, 

He  stood,  and  gazed  around. 

The  Ruins  closed  him  in ; 
It  seem'd  as  if  no  foot  of  man 
For  ages  had  intruded  there. 

14. 

Soon  at  approaching  step 

Startling,  he  turn'd  and  saw 

A  Warrior  in  the  moon-beam  drawing  near. 

Forward  the  Stranger  came, 

And  with  a  curious  eye 

Perused  the  Arab  youth. 

15. 

"And  who  art  thou,"  tlie  Stranger  cried, 

"That,  at  an  hour  like  this, 

Wanderest  in  Babylon.' 

A  way-bewilder'd  traveller,  seekest  thou 

The  ruinous  shelter  here  ? 

Or  comest  thou  to  hide 

The  plunder  of  the  night  ? 

Or  hast  thou  spells  to  make 

These  ruins,  yawning  from  their  rooted  base, 

Disclose  their  secret  wealth  .' ' 

IG. 

The  youth  replied,  "Nor  wandering  traveller, 

Nor  robber  of  the  night, 

Nor  skill'd  in  spells  am  1. 

1  seek  the  Angels  here, 

Haruth  and  Maruth.     Stranger,  in  thy  turn, 

Why  wanderest  thou  in  Babylon, 

And  who  art  thou,  the  questioner.'  " 


17. 

The  man  was  fearless,  and  the  temper'd  pride 

Which  toned  the  voice  of  Thalaba 

Displeased  not  him,  himself  of  haughty  heart. 

Heedless  he  answered,  "  Knowest  thou 

Their  cave  of  punishment?  " 

18. 

THALABA. 

Vainly  I  seek  it. 

STRANGER. 

Art  thou  firm  of  foot 
To  tread  the  ways  of  danger  .•" 

THALABA. 

Point  the  path ! 

STRANGER. 

Young  Arab  !  if  thou  hast  a  h(>art  can  beat 

Evenly  in  danger ;  if  thy  bowels  yearn  not 

With  human  fears  at  scenes  where,  undisgraced, 

The  soldier,  tried  in  battle,  might  look  back 

And  tremble,  follow  me  !  — for  I  am  bound 

Into  that  cave  of  horrors. 

19. 

Thalaba 

Gazed  on  his  comrade  :  he  was  young,  of  port 

Stately  and  strong;  belike  his  face  had  pleased 

A  woman's  eye ;  but  the  youth  read  in  it 

Unrestrain'd  passions,  the  obdurate  soul 

Bold  in  all  evil  daring;  and  it  taught, 

By  Nature's  irresistible  instinct,  doubt 

Well-timed  and  wary.     Of  himself  assured. 

Fearless  of  man,  and  firm  in  faith, 

"  Lead  on  ! "'  cried  Thalaba. 

Mohareb  led  the  way  ; 

And  through  the  ruin'd  streets, 

And  through  the  farther  gate, 

They  pass'd  in  silence  on. 

20. 
What  sound  is  borne  on  the  wind  ? 

Is  it  the  storm  that  shakes 

The  thousand  oaks  of  the  forest.' 

But  Thalaba's  long  locks 

Flow  down  his  shoulders  moveless,  and  the  wind 

In  his  loose  mantle  raises  not  a  fold. 

Is  it  the  river's  roar 

Dash'd  down  some  rocky  descent .' 

Along  the  level  plain 

Euphrates  glides  unheard. 

What  sound  disturbs  the  night. 

Loud  as  the  summer  forest  in  the  storm, 

As  the  river  that  roars  among  rocks .-' 

21. 

And  what  the  heavy  cloud 

That  hangs  upon  the  vale. 

Thick  as  the  mist  o'er  a  well-watcr'd  plain, 

Settling  at  evening  when  the  cooler  air 

Lets  its  day-vapors  fall ; 

Black  as  the  sulphur-cloud. 

That  through  Vesuvius,  or  from  Ilccla's  mouth, 

Rolls  up,  ascending  from  the  infernal  fires  .' 


2G8                                  THALABA    THE 

DESTROYER.                            book  v 

22. 

27. 

From  Ait's  bitumen-lake 

So  saying,  from  beneath 

That  heavy  cloud  ascends ; 

His  cloak  a  bag  he  drew  : 

That  everlasting  roar 

"  Young  Arab  !  thou  art  brave,"  he  cried; 

From  where  its  gusliing  springs 

"  But  thus  to  rush  on  danger  unprepared. 

Boil  their  black  billows  up. 

As  lions  spring  upon  the  hunter's  spear. 

Silent  the  Arabian  youth, 

Is  blind,  brute  courage.     Zohak  keeps  the  cave 

Along  the  verge  of  that  wide  lake, 

Against  that  Giant  of  primeval  days : 

Follow'd  Mohareb's  way, 

No  force  can  win  the  passage."     Thus  he  said, 

Toward  a  ridge  of  rocks  that  bank'd  its  side, 

And  from  his  wallet  drew  a  human  liand. 

There,  from  a  cave,  with  torrent  force, 

Shrivell'd,  and  dry,  and  black  ; 

And  everlasting  roar. 

And  fitting,  as  he  spake. 

The  black  bitumen  roll'd. 

A  taper  in  its  hold. 

The  moonlight  lay  upon  the  rocks  ; 

Pursued  :  "  A  murderer  on  the  stake  had  died  ; 

Their  crags  were  visible. 

I  drove  the  Vulture  from  his  limbs,  and  lopp'd 

The  shade  of  jutting  cliffs. 

The  hand  that  did  the  murder,  and  drew  up 

And  wherebroad  lichens  vvhiten'd  some  smooth  spot, 

The  tendon-strings  to  close  its  grasp, 

And  where  the  ivy  hung 

And  in  the  sun  and  wind 

Its  flowing  tresses  down. 

Parch'd  it,  nine  weeks  exposed. 

A  little  way  within  the  cave 

The  Taper,  —  but  not  here  the  place  to  impart, 

The  moonliglit  fell,  glossing  the  sable  tide 

Nor  hast  thou  undergone  the  rites 

That  gush'd  tumultuous  out. 

That  fit  thee  to  partake  tlie  mystery. 

A  little  way  it  entered  then  the  rock 

Look  !  it  burns  clear,  but  with  the  air  around 

Arching  its  entrance,  and  the  winding  way. 

Its  dead  ingredients  mingle  deathiness. 

Darken'd  the  unseen  depths. 

This  when  the  Keeper  of  the  Cave  shall  feel,  — 

Maugre  the  doom  of  Heaven ,  — 

23. 

The  salutary  spell 

No  eye  of  mortal  man. 

Shall  lull  his  penal  agony  to  sleep. 

If  unenabled  by  enchanted  spell. 

And  leave  the  passage  free." 

Had  pierced  those  fearful  depths  ; 

For  mingling  with  the  roar 

28. 

Of  the  portentous  torrent,  oft  were  heard 

Thalaba  answer' d  not. 

Shrieks,  and  wild  yells  that  scared 

Nor  was  there  time  for  answer  now. 

The  brooding  Eagle  from  her  midnight  nest. 

For  lo  !  Mohareb  leads, 

The  affrighted  countrymen 

And  o'er  the  vaulted  cave. 

Call  it  the  Mouth  of  Hell ; 

Trembles  the  accursed  taper's  feeble  light. 

And  ever,  when  their  way  leads  near. 

There,  where  the  narrowing  chasm 

They  hurry  with  averted  eyes. 

Rose  loftier  in  the  hill. 

And  dropping  their  beads  fast. 

Stood  Zohak,  wretched  man,  condemn'd  to  keep 

Pronounce  the  Holy  Name. 

His  Cave  of  punishment. 

His  was  the  frequent  scream 

24. 

Which  when,  far  off,  tlie  prowling  Jackal  heard, 

There  pausing  at  the  cavern-mouth. 

He  howl'd  in  terror  back  : 

Mohareb  turn'd  to  Thalaba : 

For  from  his  shoulders  grew 

"  Now  darest  thou  enter  in  .'  " 

Two  snakes  of  monster  size, 

"  Behold  !  "  the  youth  replied. 

Which  ever  at  his  head 

And  leading  in  his  turn  the  dangerous  way. 

Aim'd  their  rapacious  teeth. 

Set  foot  within  the  cave. 

To  satiate  raving  hunger  with  his  brain. 

He,  in  the  eternal  conflict,  oft  would  seize 

25. 

Their  swelling  necks,  and  in  his  giant  grasp 

"  Stay,  Madman  !  "  cried  his  comrade  :  "  wouldst 

Bruise   them,  and    rend  their  flesh   with  bloody 

thou  rush 

nails. 

Headlong  to  certain  death .' 

And  howl  for  agony. 

Where  are  thine  arms  to  meet 

Feeling  the  pangs  he  gave  ;  for  of  himself 

The  Keeper  of  the  Passage? "  A  loud  shriek, 

Co-sentient  and  inseparable  parts. 

That  shook  along  the  windings  of  the  cave. 

The  snaky  torturers  grew. 

Scatter'd  the  youth's  reply. 

29. 

26. 

To  him  approaching  now. 

Mohareb,  when  the  long  reOchoing  ceased, 

Mohareb  held  the  withcr'd  arm. 

Exclaim'd,  "Fate  favor'd  thee. 

The  taper  of  enchanted  power. 

Young  Arab  !  when  she  wrote  upon  thy  brow 

The  unhallow'd  spell,  in  hand  unholy  held, 

The  meeting  of  to-night ; 

Then  minister'd  to*  mercy  ;  heavily 

Else  surely  had  thy  name 

The  wretch's  eyelids  closed; 

This  hour  been  blotted  from  the  Book  of  liife  !  " 

And  welcome  and  unfelt. 

BOOK  V.                           THALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                                   269 

Like  the  release  of  death, 

Their  chosen  servant  I ; 

A  sudden  sleep  surprised  his  vital  powers. 

Tell  me  the  Talisman  "  — 

30. 

35. 

Yet  though  along  the  cave  relax'd 

"And  dost  thou  think," 

Lay  Zohak's  giant  limbs, 

Mohareb  cried,  as  with  a  smile  of  scorn 

The  twin-born  serpents  kept  the  narrow  pass. 

He  glanced  upon  his  comrade,  "  dost  thou  think 

Kindled  their  fiery  eyes, 

To  trick  them  of  their  secret.'     For  tlie  dupes 

Darted  their  tongues  of  terror,  and  roll'd  out 

Of  human-kind  keep  this  lip-righteousness  ! 

Their  undulating  length. 

'Twill  serve  thee  in  the  Mosque 

Like  the  long  streamers  of  some  gallant  ship 

And  in  the  Market-place  ; 

Buoy'd  on  the  wavy  air, 

But  Spirits  view  the  heart. 

Still  struggling  to  flow  on,  and  still  withheld. 

Only  by  strong  and  torturing  spells  enforced, 

The  scent  of  living  flesh 

Those  stubborn  Angels  teach  the  charm 

Inflamed  their  appetite. 

By  which  we  must  descend  " 

3L 

36. 

Prepared  for  all  the  perils  of  the  cave, 

"Descend.'"  said  Thalaba. 

Mohareb  came.     He  from  his  wallet  drew 

But  then  the  wrinkling  smile 

Two  human  heads,  yet  warm. 

Forsook  Mohareb's  check, 

O  hard  of  heart !  whom  not  the  visible  power 

And  darker  feelings  settled  on  his  brow. 

Of  retributive  Justice,  and  the  doom 

"  Now,  by  my  soul,"  quoth  he,  "  and  I  believe, 

Of  Zohak  in  his  sight. 

Idiot!  that  I  have  led 

Deterr'd  from  equal  crime  ! 

Some   camel-kneed   prayer-monger   through    the 

Two  human  heads,  yet  warm,  he  laid 

cave ! 

Before  the  scaly  guardians  of  the  pass ; 

What  brings  thee  hither .'     Thou  shouldst  have  a 

They  to  their  wonted  banquet  of  old  years 

hut 

Turn'd  eager,  and  the  narrow  pass  was  free. 

By  some  Saint's  grave  beside  the  public  way, 

There  to  less-knowing  fools 

32. 

Retail  thy  Koran-scraps, 

And  now  before  their  path 

And,  in  thy  turn,  die  civet-like,  at  last. 

The  opening  cave  dilates ; 

In  the  dung-perfume  of  thy  sanctity  !  — 

They  reach  a  spacious  vault, 

Ye  whom  I  seek  !  that,  led  by  me, 

Where  the  black  river-fountains  burst  their  way. 

Feet  uninitiatc  tread 

Now  as  a  whirlwind's  force 

Your  threshold,  this  atones  !  — 

Had  centred  on  the  spring, 

Fit  sacrifice  he  falls  !  " 

The  gushing  flood  roll'd  up ; 

And  forth  he  flash'd  his  cimeter, 

And  now  the  deaden'd  roar 

And  raised  the  murderous  blow. 

Echoed  beneath,  collapsing  as  it  sunk 

■Within  a  dark  abyss. 

37. 

Adown  whose  fathomless  gulfs  the  eye  was  lost 

There  ceased  his  power;  his  lifted  arm, 

Suspended  by  the  spell. 

33. 

Hung  impotent  to  strike. 

Blue  flames  that  hover'd  o'er  the  springs 

"  Poor  hypocrite  !  "  cried  he. 

Flung  tlirough  the  cavern  their  uncertain  light; 

"  And  this  then  is  thy  faith 

Now  waving  on  the  waves  they  lay, 

In  Allah  and  the  Prophet !     They  had  fail'd 

And  now  their  fiery  curls 

To  save  thee,  but  for  Magic's  stolen  aid  ; 

Flow'd  in  long  tresses  up, 

Yea,  they  had  left  thee  yonder  Serpent's  meal, 

And  now  contracting,  glow'd  with  whiter  heat: 

But  that,  in  prudent  cowardice. 

Then  up  they  shot  again. 

The  chosen  Servant  of  the  Lord  came  in, 

Darting  pale  flashes  through  the  tremulous  air; 

Safe  follower  of  my  path  !  " 

The  flames,  the  red  and  j'ellow  sulphur-smoke, 

And  the  black  darkness  of  the  vault, 

38. 

Commingling  indivisibly. 

"  Blasphemer  !  dost  thou  boast  of  guiding  me .' ' 

Quoth  Thalaba,  with  virtuous  pride  inflamed. 

34. 

"  Blindly  the  wicked  work 

"  Here,"  quoth  Mohareb,  "  do  the  Angels  dwell. 

The  righteous  will  of  Heaven  ! 

The  Teachers  of  Enchantment."     Thalaba 

Sayest  thou  that,  diffident  of  God, 

Then  raised  his  voice,  and  cried. 

In  Magic  spells  I  trust .' 

'  Haruth  and  Maruth,  hear  me  !     Not  with  rites 

Liar  !  let  witness  this  !  " 

Accursed,  to  disturb  your  penitence, 

And  he  drew  off"  Abdaldar's  Ring, 

And  learn  forbidden  lore. 

And  cast  it  in  the  gulf 

Repentant  Angels,  seek  I  your  abode ; 

A  skinny  hand  came  up. 

But  sent  by  Allah  and  the  Prophet  here, 

And  caught  it  as  it  fell, 

Obediently  I  come ; 

And  peals  of  devilish  laughter  shook  the  Cave. 

270 


NOTES    TO   TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER 


BOOK    V 


39. 

Then  joy  suffused  Mohareb's  cheek, 

And  Thalaba  beheld 

The  blue  blade  gleam,  descending  to  destroy. 

40. 

The  undefended  youth 

Sprung  forward,  and  he  seized 

Mohareb  in  his  grasp, 

And  grappled  with  him  breast  to  breast. 

Sinewy  and  large  of  limb  Mohareb  was, 

Broad-shoulder' d,  and  his  joints 

Knit  firm,  and  in  the  strife 

Of  danger  practised  well. 

Time  had  not  thus  matured  young  Thalaba ; 

But  high-wrought  feeling  now, 

The  inspiration  and  the  mood  divine. 

Infused  a  force  portentous,  like  the  strength 

Of  madness  through  his  frame. 

Mohareb  reels  before  him  ;  he  right  on. 

With  knee,  with  breast,  with  arm. 

Presses  the  staggering  foe  ; 

And  now  upon  the  brink 

Of  that  tremendous  spring, — 

There  with  fresh  impulse  and  a  rush  of  force, 

He  thrust  him  from  his  hold. 

The  upwhirling  flood  received 

Mohareb,  then,  absorb'd, 

Engulfd  him  in  the  abyss. 

41. 

Thalaba's  breath  came  fast ; 

And,  panting,  he  breathed  out 

A  broken  prayer  of  thankfulness. 

At  length  he  spake  and  said, 

'•  Haruth  and  Maruth  I  are  ye  here  ? 

Or  hath  that  evil  guide  misled  my  search .' 

I,  Thalaba,  the  Servant  of  the  Lord, 

Invoke  you.     Hear  me.  Angels  !  so  may  Heaven 

Accept  and  mitigate  your  penitence  ! 

I  go  to  root  from  earth  the  Sorcerer  brood ; 

Tell  me  the  needful  Talisman  !  " 

42. 

Thus,  as  he  spake,  recumbent  on  the  rock 

Beyond  the  black  abyss. 

Their  forms  grew  visible. 

A  settled  sorrow  sate  upon  their  brows  — 

Sorrow  alone,  for  trace  of  guilt  and  shame 

None  now  remain'd ;  and  gradual,  as  by  prayer 

The  sin  was  purged  away, 

Their  robe  of  glory,  purified  of  stain, 

Resumed  the  lustre  of  its  native  light. 

43. 

In  awe  the  youth  received  the  answering  voice  — 

"  Son  of  Hodeirah  !  thou  hast  proved  it  here  ; 

The  Talisman  is  Faith." 


NOTES  TO   BOOK   V. 

Laps  the  cool  wave,  &c.  —  3,  p.  266. 

The  Pelican  makes  choicfi  of  dry  and  desert  places  to  lay 
ner  eggs ;   when  her  young  are  hatched,  slio  is  obliged  to 


bring  water  to  them  from  great  distances.  To  enable  hoi 
to  perform  this  necessary  office,  rv'iiture  lias  provided  her  with 
a  largi^  sack,  whicli  extends  from  the  tip  of  the  uniicr  man 
dilile  of  her  bill  to  the  throat,  and  holds  as  nmtli  water  as 
will  snjjply  her  brood  for  several  days.  Tliis  water  she  pours 
into  the  nest,  to  cool  her  young,  to  allay  their  thirst,  and  to 
teach  tliem  to  swim.  Lions,  Tygers,  and  other  raiiacious 
animals  resort  to  these  nosts,  iind  drink  tiie  water,  and  are 
said  not  to  injure  the  young.  —  SmelUe^d  Philnsophij  of  JVutural 
History. 

It  is  perhaps  from  this  power  of  carrying  a  sujiply  of  water 
that  the  Pelican  is  called  Jimmel  d  Bahar,  the  Camel  of  the 
River.  Bruce  notices  a  curious  blunder  upon  this  subject  in 
tlie  translation  of  Norden's  travels.  "  On  looking  into  Mr. 
Norden's  Voyage,"  says  he,  "  I  was  struck  at  first  sight  with 
this  paragraph  :  '  We  saw,  this  day,  abundance  of  camels  ;  but 
they  did  not  come  near  enough  for  us  to  shoot  them.'  I 
thought  with  myself,  to  shoot  camels  in  Egypt  would  he  very 
little  better  than  to  shoot  men,  and  that  it  was  very  lucky  for 
him  the  camels  did  not  come  near,  if  that  was  the  only  thing 
that  prevented  him.  U()on  looking  at  the  note,  I  see  it  is  a 
small  mistake  of  the  translator,  wlio  says,  that  in  the  original 
it  is  Chameaiiz  d'caii.  Water  Camels  ;  but  whether  they  are  a 
particular  siiecics  of  camels,  or  a  difl'erent  kind  of  animal,  he 
does  not  kiiow." 


Every  where  scattered,  &;c.  —  .5,  p.  266. 

These  prominent  features  of  an  Oriental  city  will  be  found 
in  all  the  views  of  Sir  John  Chardin. 

The  mosques,  the  minarets,  and  numerous  cupolas,  form  a 
splendid  spectacle  ;  and  the  flat  roofs  of  the  houses,  which  are 
situated  on  the  hills,  rising  one  behind  another,  present  a 
succession  of  hanging  terraces,  interspersed  with  cypress  and 
poplar  trees.  —  Russcl's  JVat.  Hist,  of  Aleppo. 

The  circuit  of  Ispahan,  taking  in  the  suburbs,  is  not  less 
than  tliat  of  Paris  ;  liut  Paris  contains  ten  times  the  number 
of  its  inhabitants.  It  is  not,  however,  astonishing  that  this 
city  is  so  extensive  and  so  thinly  peopled,  because  every  fimily 
has  its  own  house,  and  almost  every  bou>e  its  garden  ;  so  that 
there  is  much  void  ground.  From  whatever  side  you  arrive, 
you  first  discover  the  towers  of  the  mosques,  and  then  the 
trees  which  surround  the  houses ;  at  a  distance,  Ispahan 
resembles  a  forest  more  than  a  town.  —  Tavemier. 

Of  Alexandria,  Volney  says,  "  The  spreading  palm-trees,  the 
terraced  houses,  which  seem  to  have  no  roof,  the  lofty,  slender 
minarets,  all  announce  to  the  traveller  that  he  is  in  another 
world." 


Thou  loo  art  fallen,  Bagdad!  City  of  Peace.  —  6,  p.  266. 

Alinanzor,  riding  one  day  with  his  courtiers  along  the  banks 
of  the  Tigris,  where  Seleucia  formerly  stood,  was  so  delighted 
with  the  beauty  of  the  country,  that  he  resolved  there  to  build 
his  new  capital.  Whilst  he  was  conversing  with  hi-!  attendants 
upon  this  project,  one  of  them,  separating  from  the  rest,  met  a 
Hermit,  who?e  cell  was  near,  and  entered  info  talk  with  him, 
and  coiTimunicated  the  design  of  the  Caliph,  'i'ho  Hermit 
replied,  he  well  knew,  by  a  tradition  of  th'.'  country,  that  a 
city  would  one  day  be  built  in  that  ]dain,  but  that  its  founder 
would  be  a  man  called  Moclas,  a  name  very  difl'erent  from 
both  those  of  the  C  iliph,  Giall'ar  and  Almanzor. 

The  Officer  rejoined  Alinanzor,  and  repealed  his  conver 
sation  with  the  Hermit.  As  soon  as  the  Caliph  heard  the 
name  of  Moclas,  he  descended  from  his  horse,  prostrated 
himself,  and  returned  thanks  to  God,  for  that  he  was  chosen 
to  execute  his  orders.  His  courtiers  waited  for  an  expla- 
nation of  this  conduct  with  eagerness,  and  the  Caliph  told 
them  thus:  —  During  the  Caliphate  of  the  Ommiades,  my 
brothers  and  mysrlf  being  very  young,  and  possessing  very 
little,  were  obliged  to  live  in  the  country,  where  each  in  rota- 
tion was  to  provide  sustenance  for  the  whole.  On  one  of 
my  days,  as  I  was  without  money,  and  had  no  means  of  pro- 
curing food,  I  took  a  bracelet  belonging  to  my  nurse,  and 
pawned  it.  This  woman  made  a  great  outcry,  and,  after 
much  search,  discovered  thnt  I  had  been  the  thief.  In  her 
anger  she  abused  me  plentifully,  and,  among  other  terms  of 
reproach,  she  called  me  iMoelas,  the  name  of  a  famous  robber 
in  those  days  ;  and,  during  the  rest  of  her  life,  she  never  called 


BOOK  V. 


NOTES  TO  T HAL ABA  THE  DESTROYER. 


27] 


me  by  any  other  name.     Therefore   I   know  that  God   lias 
destinud    mo    to  perform  this  work, — Marigmj. 

Ahnaiizor  numed  his  new  city  Dar-al-!?ulam,  the  City  of 
Peace  ;  but  it  obtained  the  name  of  Bagdad,  from  that  of 
this  Hermit,  wlio  dwelt  upon  its  site 


Thy  founder  the   Victorious,  &.C.  —  6,  p.  200. 

'  Ahnanzor  signifies  the  Victorious. 

Bagdad  was  founded  in  consequence  of  a  singular  super- 
stition. A  sect  called  Kavendiens  conceived,  that  they  ought 
ta  render  those  honors  to  the  Caliphs  which  the  Moslem  hold 
should  only  be  paid  to  the  Deity.  They  therefore  came  in 
great  numbers  to  Haschemia,  where  the  Caliph  Almanzor 
usually  resided,  and  made  around  his  palace  the  same  pro- 
cessions and  ceremoniog  which  the  Moslem  make  around  the 
Temple  at  Mecca.  The  Caliph  prohibited  this,  commanding 
them  not  to  profane  a  religious  ceremony  which  ought  to  be 
reserved  solely  to  the  Temple  at  Mecca.  The  Ravendiens 
did  not  regard  the  prohibition,  and  continued  to  act  as  before. 

Almanzor,  seeing  their  obstinacy,  resolved  to  conquer  it, 
and  began  by  arresting  a  hundred  of  these  fanatics.  This 
astonished  them  ;  but  they  soon  recovered  their  courage,  took 
arms,  marched  to  the  prison,  forced  the  doors,  delivered  their 
friends,  and  then  returned  to  make  their  procession  round  the 
palace  in  reverence  of  the  Caliph. 

Enraged  at  this  insolence,  the  Calipli  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  his  guards,  and  advanced  against  the  Ravendiens, 
expecting  that  his  appearance  would  immediately  disperse 
them.  Instead  of  this,  they  resisted,  and  repulsed  him  so 
vigorously,  that  he  had  nearly  fallen  a  victim.  But  timely 
succors  arrived,  and  after  a  great  slaughter,  these  fanatics 
were  expelled  thi;  town.  This  singular  rebellion,  arising 
fiom  excess  of  loyalty,  so  disgusted  Almanzor,  that  he  deter- 
mined to  forsake  the  town  which  had  witnessed  it,  and  accord- 
ingly laid  the  foundation  of  Bagdad.  —  Murigny. 


Met  in  her  arched  Bazars.  —  7,  p.  266. 

The  houses  in  Persia  are  not  in  the  same  place  with  their 
shops,  which  stand  for  the  most  part  in  long  and  large  arched 
streets,  forty  or  fifty  feet  high,  which  streets  are  called  Basar, 
or  the  Market,  and  make  the  heart  of  the  city,  the  houses 
being  in  the  out-parts,  and  having  almost  all  gardens  belong- 
ing to  them. —  Chardin. 

At  Tauris,  he  says,  "  there  are  the  fairest  Basars  that  are 
in  any  place  of  Asia  ;  and  it  is  a  lovely  sight  to  see  their  vast 
extent,  their  largeness,  their  beautiful  Duomos,  and  the 
arches  over  them." 

At  Bagdad  the  Bazars  are  all  vaulted,  otherwise  the  mer- 
chants could  not  remain  in  them  on  account  of  the  heat. 
They  are  also  watered  two  or  three  times  a  day,  and  a  number 
of  the  poor  are  paid  for  rendering  this  service  to  the  public. — 
Taverrder. 


And  Tigris  bore  upon  his  tameless  stream.  —  7,  p.  266. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  river,  towards  Arabia,  over  against 
the  city,  there  is  a  faire  place  or  towne,  and  in  it  a  fair  Ba- 
zarr  for  merchants,  with  very  many  lodgings,  where  the 
greatest  jiart  of  the  merchants  strangers  which  come  to  Baby- 
lon do  lie  with  their  merchandize.  The  passing  over  Tygris 
from  Babylon  to  this  Borough  is  by  a  long  bridge,  made  of 
boatea,  chained  together  with  great  chainos,  provided,  that 
when  the  river  waxeth  great  with  the  abundance  of  raine  that 
f.ilh;th,  then  they  open  ihe  bridge  in  tlie  middle,  where  the 
one-lialfe  of  the  bridge  fallelh  to  the  walles  of  Babylon,  and 
the  other  to  the  brinks  of  this  Borough,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river ;  and  as  long  as  the  bridge  is  open,  they  passe  the 
river  in  small  boats,  with  great  danger,  because  of  the  small- 
nes9  of  the  bo  Us,  and  the  overlading  of  them,  that  with  the 
fiercenesse  of  the  stream  they  be  overthrowen,  or  els  the 
strcame  doth  carry  them  away  ;  so  that  by  this  meanes  many 
people  are  lost  and  drowned.  —  Casar  Frederick  in  Hakluijt. 

Here  are  great  store  of  victuals,  which  come  from  Armenia 
down  the  river  of  Tygris.  They  are  brought  upon  raftes 
made  of  goatc's  skinncs  blown  full  of  wind,  and  hordes  layde 


upon  them  ;  which  being  discharged,  they  open  their  skinnes 
and  carry  them  backe  by  Camels.  —  Ralph  Filch  in  Ilakluit. 


The  many-colored  domes.  —  9,  p.  266. 

In  Tavernier's  time,  there  were  five  Mosques  at  Bagdad, 
two  of  them  fme,  their  large  domes  covered  with  varnished 
tiles  of  dift'erent  colors. 


Kept  their  night-clatter  still.  —  9,  p.  266. 

At  Bagdad  are  many  cranes,  who  build  their  nests  ujton  the 
tops  of  the  minarets,  and  the  loftiest  houses. 

At  Adanaqui,  cranes  are  so  abundant,  that  there  is  scarcely 
a  house  which  has  not  several  nests  upon  it.  They  are  very 
tame,  and  the  inhabitants  never  molest  them.  When  any 
thing  disturbs  these  birds,  they  make  a  violent  clatter  with 
their  long  beaks,  which  is  some  time  repeated  by  the  others 
all  over  the  town  ;  and  this  noise  will  sometimes  continue  for 
several  minutes.  It  is  as  loud  as  a  watchman's  rattle,  and  not 
much  unlike  it  in  sound.  —  Jackson. 

The  cranes  were  now  arrived  at  their  respective  quarters, 
and  a  couple  had  made  their  nest,  which  is  bigger  in  circum- 
ference than  a  bushel,  on  a  dome  close  by  our  chfimber.  This 
pair  stood,  side  by  side,  with  great  gravity,  showing  no  con- 
cern at  what  was  transacting  beneath  them,  but  at  intervals 
twisting  about  their  long  necks,  and  clattering  with  their 
beaks,  turned  behind  them  upon  their  backs,  as  it  were  in 
concert.  This  was  continued  the  whole  night.  An  owl,  a 
bird  also  unmolested,  was  perched  hard  by,  and  ns  frequently 
hooted.  The  crane  is  tall,  like  a  heron,  but  much  larger ; 
the  body  white,  with  black  pinions,  the  neck  and  legs  very 
long,  the  head  small,  and  the  bill  thick.  The  Turks  call  it 
friend  and  brother,  believing  it  has  an  affection  for  their  na- 
tion, and  will  accompany  them  into  the  countries  they  shall 
conquer.  In  the  course  of  our  journey  we  saw  one  hopping 
on  a  wall  with  a  single  leg,  the  maimed  stump  wrapped  in 
linen.  —  Chandler's  Travels  in  Asia  Minor, 


The  Bittern's  boom  came  far.  —  9,  p.  266. 

I  will  rise  up  against  them,  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  and  cut 
off  from  Babylon  the  name  and  remnant,  and  son  and  nephew, 
saith  the  Lord.  I  will  also  make  it  a  possession  for  the  bit- 
tern, and  pools  of  water.  —  Isaiah,  xiv.  iS,  23. 


Once  from  her  lofty  walls  the  Charioteer.  —  10,  p.  2GC. 
Walls  within 


Whose  large  enclosure  the  rude  hind,  or  guides 

His  i)lough,  or  binds  his  sheaves,  while  shepherds  guard 

Their  flocks,  secure  of  ill:  on  the  broad  top 

Six  chariots  rattle  in  extended  front. 

Each  side  in  length,  in  height,  in  solid  bulk. 

Reflects  its  opposite  a  perfect  square  ; 

Scarce  sixty  thousand  paces  can  mete  out 

The  vast  circumference.     An  hundred  gates 

Of  polished  brass  lead  to  that  central  point, 

Where,  through  the  midst,  bridged  o'er  with  wondrous  art, 

Euphrates  leads  a  navigable  stream, 

Branch'd  from  the  current  of  his  roaring  flood. 

Roberts's  Judah  Restored, 


JIalh  been  the  aJSrial  Gardens,  &c.  —  10,  p.  266. 

Within  the  walls 
Of  Babylon  was  rais'd  a  lofty  mound. 
Where  flowers  and  aromatic  shrubs  adorn'd 
The  pensile  garden.     For  Nebassar's  queen. 
Fatigued  with  Babylonia's  level  plains, 
Sigh'd  for  her  Median  home,  where  nature's  hand 
Had  scoop'd  the  vale,  and  clothed  the  mountain's  side 
With  many  a  verdant  wood  ;  nor  long  she  pined. 
Till  that  uxorious  monarch  call'd  on  art 
To  rival  nature's  sweet  variety. 


272 


NOTES  TO  THALABA  THE  DESTROYER, 


BOOK    V. 


Fortliwitli  twu  liumired  tliousand  slavos  uprcar'd 
This  hill,  egregious  work  ;  ricli  fruits  o'erhang 
The  sloping  walks,  and  odorous  shrubs  entwine 
Their  undulating  branches. 

Roberts's  Judah  Restored. 


Of  Beliui  ?  &c.  —  10,  p.  26G. 

Our  early  travellers  have  given  us  strange  and  circum- 
stantial accounts  of  what  they  conceive  to  liave  l)een  the 
Templu  of  Bulus. 

Tlie  Tower  of  Nimrod,  or  Babel,  is  situate  on  that  side  of 
Tygris  that  Arabia  is,  and  in  a  very  great  plaino  distant  from 
Babylon  seven  or  eight  miles  :  wliich  tower  is  ruinated  on 
every  side  ;  and  with  tlie  fulling  of  it  there  is  made  a  great 
mountaine,  so  that  it  hath  no  forme  at  all ;  yet  there  is  a 
great  part  of  it  standing,  which  is  compassed,  and  almost 
covered,  with  the  aforesayd  fallings.  Tliis  'I'ower  was  builded 
and  made  of  foure-square  brickes  ;  which  brickes  were  made 
of  earth,  and  dried  in  the  Sunne  in  maner  and  forme  fol- 
lowing :  First  they  layed  a  lay  of  brickes,  then  a  mat  made  of 
canes,  square  as  the  brickes,  and,  instead  of  lime,  they  daubed 
it  with  earth.  These  mats  of  canes  are  at  this  time  so  strong, 
that  it  is  a  thing  wonderful  to  beholde,  being  of  such  great 
antiquity.  I  have  gone  round  about  it,  and  have  not  found 
any  place  where  there  hath  bene  any  door  or  entrance.  It 
may  be,  in  my  judgment,  in  circuit  about  a  mile,  and  rather 
lesse  than  more. 

This  Tower,  in  effect,  is  contrary  to  all  other  things  which 
are  scene  afar  off;  for  they  seenie  small,  and  the  more  nere 
a  man  commeth  to  them,  the  bigger  they  be  :  but  this  tower, 
afar  off,  seemeth  a  very  great  thing,  and  the  nerer  you  come 
to  it  the  lesser.  My  judgement  and  reason  of  tliis  is,  that 
because  the  Tower  is  set  in  a  very  great  plaine,  and  hath 
nothing  more  about  to  make  any  shew  saving  the  mines  of  it, 
which  it  hath  made  round  about ;  and  for  this  respect,  de- 
scrying it  afarre  off",  that  piece  of  the  Towel  which  yet  stand- 
eth  with  the  mountaine  that  is  made  of  the  substance  that  hath 
fallen  from  it,  maketh  a  greater  shew  than  you  shall  finde 
coming  neere  to  it.  —  Ctesar  Frederick. 

John  Eldred  notices  the  same  deception  :  "  Being  upon 
a  pliiine  grounde,  it  seemeth  afarre  off"  very  great ;  but  the 
nerer  you  come  to  it,  the  lesser  and  lesser  it  ajjpeareth. 
Sundry  times  I  have  gone  thither  to  see  it,  and  found  the 
remnants  yet  standing,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  compasse, 
and  almost  as  high  as  the  stone-worke  of  St.  Paul's  steeple 
in  London,  but  it  sheweth  much  bigger." — Hakluyt, 

In  the  middle  of  a  vast  and  level  plain,  about  a  qunrter  of  a 
league  from  the  Euphrates,  which  in  that  [ilace  runs  westward, 
appears  a  heap  of  ruined  buildings,  like  a  huge  mountain,  the 
materials  of  which  are  so  confounded  together,  that  one  knows 
not  what  to  make  of  it.  Its  figure  is  square,  and  rises  in 
form  of  a  tower  or  pyramid,  with  four  fronts,  which  answer 
to  the  four  quarters  of  the  compass ;  but  it  seems  longer  from 
north  to  south  than  from  east  to  west,  and  is,  as  far  as  I  could 
judge  by  my  pacing  it,  a  large  quarter  of  a  league.  Its  situ- 
ation and  form  correspond  with  that  pyramid  which  Strabo 
calls  the  tower  of  Belus  ;  and  is,  in  all  likelihood,  the  tower 
of  Nimrod  in  Babylon,  or  Babel,  as  that  place  is  still  called. 
In  that  author's  time  it  had  nothing  remaining  of  the  stairs, 
and  otjier  ornaments  mentioned  by  Herodotus,  the  greatest 
part  of  it  having  been  ruined  by  Xerxes  ;  and  Alexander,  who 
designed  to  have  restored  it  to  its  former  lustre,  was  pre- 
vented by  death.  There  appear  no  marks  of  ruins  without 
the  compass  of  that  huge  mass,  to  convince  one  that  so  great  a 
city  as  Babylon  had  ever  stood  there  ;  all  one  discovers  within 
fifty  or  sixty  paces  of  it,  being  only  the  remains,  here  and 
there,  of  some  foundations  of  buildings  ;  and  the  country 
round  about  it  is  so  flat  and  level,  that  one  can  hardly  believe 
it  should  be  chosen  for  the  situation  of  so  great  and  noble  a 
city  as  Babylon,  or  that  there  were  ever  any  reniarkat)le 
buildings  on  it.  But,  for  my  jiart,  I  am  astonished  there 
appears  so  much  as  there  do(!s,  considering  it  is  at  least 
4000  years  since  that  city  was  built ;  and  that  Diodorus 
Siculus  tells  us,  it  was  reduced  almost  to  nothing  in  his  time. 
The  height  of  this  mountain  of  ruins  is  not  in  every  part  equal, 
but  exceeds  the  highest  palace  in  Naples.  It  is  a  misshapen 
mass,  wherein  there  is  no  appearance  of  regularity  ;  in  some 


places  it  rises  in  [loints,  is  craggy  and  inaccessible  ;  in  others 
it  is  smoother,  and  is  of  easier  ascent ;  there  are  also  tracks 
of  torrents  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  caused  by  the  rains ; 
and  l>oth  witbinside,  and  upon  it,  one  sees  parts  some  higher 
and  some  lower.  It  is  not  to  be  discovered  whether  ever 
there  were  any  steps  to  ascend  it,  or  any  doors  to  enter  into 
it ;  whence  one  may  easily  judge  that  the  stairs  ran  winding 
about  on  the  outside  ;  and  that  being  the  less  solid  parts,  they 
were  soonest  demolished,  so  that  not  the  least  sign  of  any 
ajipears  at  present. 

Withinside  one  finds  some  grottos,  but  so  ruined  that  one 
can  make  nothing  of  them,  whether  they  were  built  at  the 
same  time  with  that  work,  or  made  since  by  the  peasants  for 
shelter;  which  last  seems  to  be  the  most  likely.  The  Ma- 
hommedans  believe  that  these  caverns  werc^  appointed  by  God 
as  places  of  punishment  for  Harut  and  Marut,  two  angels,  w  ho 
they  suppose  were  sent  from  Heaven  to  judge  the  crimes 
of  men,  but  did  not  execute  their  commissions  as  they  ought. 
It  is  evident  from  these  ruins,  that  the  tower  of  Nimrod  was 
built  with  great  and  thick  bricks,  as  I  carefully  observed, 
causing  holes  to  bo  dug  in  several  places  for  the  purpose  ;  but 
they  do  not  appear  to  have  been  burnt,  but  dried  in  the  sun, 
which  is  extreme  hot  in  those  parts.  In  laying  these  bricks, 
neither  lime  nor  sand  was  employed,  but  only  earth  tempered 
and  petrified  ;  and  in  those  parts  which  made  tlie  floors,  there 
had  been  mingled  with  that  earth,  which  served  instead  of 
lime,  bruised  reeds,  or  hard  straw,  such  as  large  mats  are 
made  of,  to  strengthen  the  work.  Afterwards  one  perceives 
at  certain  distances,  in  diverse  places,  esj)ecially  where  the 
strongest  buttresses  were  to  be,  several  other  bricks  of  the 
same  size,  but  more  solid,  and  burnt  in  a  kiln,  and  set  in  good 
lime,  or  bitumen  ;  nevertheless,  the  greatest  number  consists 
of  those  which  are  only  dried  in  the  sun. 

I  make  no  doubt  but  this  ruin  was  the  ancient  Babel,  and 
the  tower  of  Nimrod;  for,  besides  the  evidence  of  its  situa- 
tion,  it  is  ackiiowledged  to  be  such   by   the  people   of  the 

country,  being  vulgarly  called  Babil  by  tlie  Arabs Pietro 

delle  Voile.     Universal  Hist. 

Eight  towers  arise. 
Each  above  each,  immeasurable  height, 
A  monument,  at  once,  of  Eastern  pride 
.'\nd  slavish  superstition.     Round,  a  scale 
Of  circling  steps  entwines  the  conic  pile  ; 
And  at  the  bottom,  on  vast  hinges  grate 
Four  brazen  gates,  toward  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 
Placed  in  the  solid  square. 

Roberts's  Jiidah  Restored. 


The  wandering  Arab  never  sets  his  tent 
Within  her  walls,  &.c.  —  10,  p.  266. 

And  Babylon,  the  glory  of  kingdoms,  the  beauty  of  the 
Chaldees'  excellency,  shall  be  as  when  God  overthrew 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah. 

It  shall  never  be  inhabited,  neither  shall  it  be  dwell  in  from 
generation  to  generation  ;  neither  shall  the  Arabian  pitch  tent 
there,  neither  shall  the  sbeiiberds  make  their  fold  there. — 
Isaiali,  xiii.  19,  20. 

"  Disclose  their  secret  wealth  ?  "  — 17,  p.  267. 

The  stupid  superstition  of  the  Turks,  with  regard  to  hidden 
treasures,  is  well  known  ;  it  is  difficult,  or  even  dangerous,  for 
a  traveller  to  copy  an  inscription  in  sight  of  those  barbarians. 

On  a  rising  ground,  at  a  league's  distance  from  the  river 
Sbellifl",  is  Memoun-turrDij,  as  they  call  an  old  square  tower, 
formerly  a  sepulchral  monument  of  the  Romans.  This,  like 
many  more  ancient  edifices,  is  supposed  by  the  Arabs  to  have 
been  built  over  a  treasure  ;  agreeably  to  which  account,  they 
tell  us,  these  mystical  lines  were  inscribed  upon  it.  Prince 
Maimoun  Tiiai  wrote  this  upon  his  tower  :  — 

My  Treasure  is  in  my  Shade, 

And  my  Shade  is  in  my  Treasure. 

Search  for  it ;  despair  not : 

Nay,  despair ;  do  not  search.  SAaic. 

So  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Tubuna. 


BOOK    V. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


273 


The  Treasure  of  Tubnah  lyeth  under  the  shade  of  what  is 
shaded.     Dig  for  it :  alis  !  it  is  not  tlierc.  —  Shaw. 


From  .^it's  bilumen-lakc,  &c.  — 22,  p.  268. 

The  springs  of  hitumen  called  Oyun  Hit,  the  fvuiitains  of 
Hit,  are  much  celebrated  by  the  ^»o4«  and  Persians;  the 
alter  call  it  Chesmch  Uir,  the  fountain  of  pitch.  This  liquid 
bitumen  tliey  call  J^iifla;  and  the  Tiirkx,  to  distinguish  it 
fiom  pitch,  give  it  the  name  of  hara  sakiz,  or  black  maslich. 
A  Persian  geographer  says,  that  JVafta  issues  out  of  the 
springs  of  the  eiirth,  as  ambergrise  issues  out  of  those  of  tlie 
sea.  All  the  modern  travellers,  except  Ruuwolf,  who  went  to 
Persia  and  the  Indies  by  the  way  of  the  Euphrates,  before  the 
discovery  of  the  Cajie  of  Gaoil  Hope,  nicnticm  this  fountain  of 
liquid  bitumen  as  a  strange  thing.  Some  of  them  take  notice 
of  the  river  m>Mitioned  by  Ilcrottotus,  and  assure  us,  that  the 
people  of  the  country  have  a  tradition,  that,  when  the  tower 
of  Babel  was  building,  they  brought  the  bitumen  from  hence  ; 
which  is  confirmed  by  the  Jirab  and  Persian  historians. 

Hit,  Heit,  Eit,  J}il,  or  Idt,  as  it  is  variously  written  by  trav- 
ellers, is  a  great  Turkish  town,  situate  upon  the  right  or  west 
side  of  the  Euphrates,  and  has  a  castle  ;  to  the  south- west  of 
which,  and  three  miles  from  the  town,  in  a  valley,  are  many 
spiings  of  this  blacli  substance  ;  each  of  which  makes  a  noise 
like  a  smith's  forge,  incessantly  putling  and  blowing  out  the 
matter  so  loud,  that  it  may  be  heard  a  mile  off;  wherefore  the 
Moors  and  .irahs  call  it  Bab  al  Jchennam,  that  is,  hell  gate. 
It  swallows  up  all  heavy  things  ;  ancU  many  camels,  from  time 
to  time,  fall  into  the  pits,  and  arc  irrecoverably  lost.  It  issues 
from  a  certain  lake,  semling  forth  a  filthy  smoke,  and  contin- 
ually boiling  over  with  the  pitch,  which  spreads  itself  over  a 
great  field,  that  is  always  full  of  it.  It  is  free  for  every  one 
to  take  :  they  use  it  to  calk  or  pitch  their  boats,  laying  it  on 
two  or  three  inches  thick,  which  keeps  out  the  water:  with 
it  also  they  pitch  their  houses,  made  of  palm-tree  branches. 
If  it  WHS  not  that  the  inundations  of  the  Euphrates  carry  away 
the  pitch,  which  covers  all  the  sands  from  the  place  where  it 
rises  to  the  river,  there  would  have  been  mountains  of  it  long 
since.  The  very  ground  and  stones  thereabouts  afford  bitu- 
men ;  and  the  fields  abundance  of  saltpetre.  —  Universal 
History. 

And  dropping  their  beads  fast,  &c.  —  23,  p.  2G8. 

The  Mussulmauns  use,  like  the  Roman  Catholics,  a  rosary 
of  beads,  called  Tusbah,  or  implement  of  praise.  It  consists, 
if  I  recollect  aright,  of  ninety-nine  beads  ;  in  dropping  which 
through  the  fingers,  they  repeat  the  attributes  of  God,  as, 
"  O  Creator,  O  Merciful,  O  Forgiving,  O  Omnipotent,  O  Om- 
niscient," &c.  &c.  This  act  of  devotion  is  called  Taleel,  from 
the  repetition  of  the  letter  L,  or  Laum,  which  occurs  in  the 
word  Allah,  (Ood,)  always  joined  to  the  epithet  or  attribute, 
as  Ya  Allah  Khalick,  O  God,  the  Creator;  Ya  Allah  Ker- 
reem,  O  God,  the  Merciful,  &c.  &.c.  The  devotees  may  be 
seen  muttering  their  beads  as  they  walk  the  streets,  anil  in  the 
intervals  of  conversation  in  company.  The  rosaries  of  persons 
of  fortune  and  rank  have  the  beads  of  diamonds,  pearls,  rubies, 
and  emeralds.  Those  of  the  humble  are  strung  with  berries, 
coral,  or  glass-beads.  —  A'ote  to  the  Bahar-Daniish. 

The  ninety-nine  beads  of  the  Maliommcilan  rosary  are 
divided  into  tliree  equal  lengths,  by  a  little  string,  at  the  end 
of  which  hangs  a  long  piece  of  coral,  and  a  large  bead  of  the 
came.  The  more  devout  or  hypocriticnl  Turks,  like  the 
Catholics,  have  usually  their  bead-string  in  their  hands. — 
Tavemier. 


"  Young  Arab!  whenshewroteuponthybrow,^'  Sec. — 26,  p.  268. 

"  The  Mahummedans  believe,  that  the  decreed  events  of 
every  man's  life  are  impressed  in  divine  characters  on  his 
forehead,  though  not  to  be  seen  by  mortal  eye.  Hence  they 
use  the  word  Nusseeb,  anglicc,  stamped,  for  destiny.  Most 
probably  the  idea  was  taken  up  by  Mahummcd  from  the  seal- 
ins  of  the  elect,  mentioned  in  the  Revelations."  —  JVoteto  the 
Bahar-Danush, 

"  The  scribe  of  decree  chose  to  ornament  the  edicts  on  my 
forehead  with  these  flourishes  of  disgrace."  —  Baliar- Danush. 

35 


The  Spanish  physiognomical  phrase,  tradrlo  escrito  en  la 
frentr,  to  have  it  written  on  the  forehead,  is  perhaps  of  Ara- 
bian origin. 

Rujah  Chunder,  of  Cashnieer,  was  blessed  with  a  Vi/.ier, 
endowed  with  wisdom  and  fidelity  ;  but  the  wicked,  envying 
his  virtues,  ]iropagated  unfavorable  reports  regarding  him. 
On  these  occasions,  the  great  are  generally  staggered  in  their 
opinions,  and  make  no  use  of  their  reason  ;  forgetting  every 
thing  which  they  have  read  in  history  on  the  direful  effects  of 
envy.  Thus  Rajah  Burgin  gave  ear  to  the  stories  fabricated 
against  his  Vizier,  and  dismissed  him  from  his  ofiice.  The 
faithful  Vizier  bore  his  disgrace  with  the  utmost  submission  ; 
but  his  enemies,  not  satisfied  with  what  they  compassed 
against  him,  represented  to  the  Rajah  that  he  was  plotting  to 
raise  himself  to  the  throne  ;  and  the  deluded  prince  ordered 
him  to  be  crucified.  A  short  time  after  the  execution,  the 
Vizier's  peer  (his  s|)iritual  guide)  passed  the  corpse,  and  read 
it  decreed  in  his  forehead,  as  follows  :  "That  he  should  be 
dismissed  from  his  office,  be  sent  to  prison,  ami  then  crucified  ; 
but  that,  after  all,  he  should  be  restored  to  life,  and  olitain 
the  kingdom."  Astonished  at  what  he  beheld,  he  took  down 
the  body  from  the  cross,  and  carried  it  to  a  secret  place 
Here  he  was  incessantly  offering  up  jirayers  to  heaven  for  the 
restoration  of  his  life,  till  one  night  the  aerial  s|)irits  assem- 
bled together,  and  restored  the  body  to  life  by  repeating  incan- 
tations. He  sliortly  after  mounted  the  throne,  but,  despising 
worldly  pomp,  soon  abdicated  it.  — Aijecn  Akbery. 


■  Zohak  keeps  the  cave,"  &c.  —  27,  p.  268. 


Zohak  was  the  fifth  king  of  the  Pischdadian  dynasty,  line- 
ally descended  from  Shedad,  who  perished  with  the  tribe  of 
Ad.  Zohak  murdered  his  predecessor,  and  invented  the 
punishments  of  the  cross,  and  of  flaying  alive.  The  devil, 
who  had  long  served  him,  requested,  at  last,  as  a  recompense, 
permission  to  kiss  his  shoulders  ;  immediately  two  serpents 
grew  there,  who  fed  u|)on  his  fiesh,  and  endeavored  to  get  at 
his  brain.  The  devil  now  suggested  a  remedy,  which  was  to 
quiet  them,  by  giving  them  every  day  the  brains  of  two  men, 
killed  for  that  purpose  :  this  tyranny  lasted  long;  till  a  black- 
smith of  Ispahan,  whose  children  had  been  nearly  all  slain  to 
feed  the  king's  serpents,  raised  his  leathern  ajiron  as  the 
standard  of  revolt,  and  deposed  Zohak.  Zohak,  say  the  Per- 
sians, is  still  living  in  the  cave  of  his  punishment ;  a  sulphure- 
ous vapor  issues  from  the  place  ;  and,  if  a  stone  be  flung  in, 
there  comes  out  a  voice  and  cries.  Why  dost  thim  fling  stones 
at  me.'  This  cavern  is  in  the  mountain  of  Demawend,  which 
reaches  from  thatof  lilwend,  towards  Teheran.  —  D'Hcrbelot. 
Olearis. 


"  The  salutary  spelt,"  &c.  —27,  p.  268. 

I  shall  transcribe,  says  Grose,  a  foreign  piece  of  superstition, 
firmly  believed  in  many  parts  of  France,  Germany,  and  Spain. 
The  account  of  it,  and  the  mode  of  preparation,  appears  to 
have  been  given  by  a  judge  :  in  the  latter  there  is  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  charm  in  Macbeth  :  — 

Of  the  Hand  of  Qlory,  which  is  made  use  of  by  house-breakers, 
to  enter  into  houses  at  night,  withovtfear  of  opposition. 

I  acknowledge  that  I  never  tried  the  secret  of  the  Hand  of 
Glory,  but  I  have  thrice  assisted  at  the  definitive  judgment  of 
certain  criminals,  who,  under  the  torture,  confessed  having 
used  it.  Being  asked  what  it  was,  how  they  procured  it,  and 
what  were  its  uses  and  properties,  they  answered,  first, 
that  the  use  of  the  Hand  of  Glory  was  to  stupefy  those  to 
whom  it  was  presented,  and  to  render  them  motionless,  inso- 
much that  they  could  not  stir,  any  more  than  if  they  were 
dead  ;  secondly,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  a  hanged  man  ;  and, 
thirdly,  that  it  must  be  prepared  in  the  manner  following:  — 

Take  the  hand,  left  or  right,  of  a  person  hanged,  and  ex- 
posed on  the  highway ;  wrap  it  up  in  a  piece  of  a  shroud  or 
winding-sheet,  in  which  let  it  be  well-squeezed,  to  get  out 
any  small  quantity  of  blood  that  may  have  remained  in  it; 
then  put  it  into  an  earthen  vessel  with  Zimat  saltpetre,  sah, 
and  long  pepper,  the  whole  well  powdered  ;  leave  it  fifteen 
days  in  that  vessel ;  afterwards  take  it  out,  and  expose  it  to 
the  noon-tide   sun   in  the  dog-<iays,  till  it  is  thoroughly  dry ; 


274 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


BOOK    VI 


and  if  tho  sun  is  not  sullicient,  put  it  into  an  oven  licated 
witli  turn  and  vervain.  Tlicn  compose  a  kijul  of  candle  witli 
tlic  fat  of  a  hanj;ed  man,  virgin  wax,  and  sisame  of  Jiapland. 
Tlie  II  and  of  Glory  is  used  as  a  candlestick  to  hold  this  candle 
wlieu  lighted.  lis  properties  are,  that  wheresoever  any  one 
goes  with  this  dreadful  instrument,  the  persons  to  whom  it  is 
presented  will  be  deprived  of  all  power  of  motion.  On  being 
asked  if  there  was  no  remedy  or  antidote,  to  counteract  this 
charm,  they  said  the  Hand  of  Glory  would  cease  to  take 
effect,  and  thieves  could  not  make  use  of  it,  if  the  threshold 
of  the  door  of  the  house,  and  other  places  by  whicdi  they  might 
enter,  were  anointed  with  an  unguent  composed  of  the  gall  of 
a  black  cat,  the  fat  of  a  white  hen,  and  the  blooil  of  a  screech- 
owl  ;  which  mixture  must  necessarily  be  prepared  during  the 
dog-days.  —  Qrone,  Procncial  Olossarij  and  Popular  Super- 
stitions. 

Something  similar  is  recorded  by  Torquemada  of  tlie  Atexi- 
can  thieves.  They  carried  with  them  the  left  hand  and  arm 
of  a  woman  who  had  died  in  her  first  childbed  ;  with  this  tliey 
twice  struck  the  ground  before  the  house  which  they  designed 
to  rob,  and  the  door  twice,  and  the  threshold  twice  ;  and  the 
inhabitants,  if  asleep,  were  hindered  from  waking  by  this 
charm  ;  and,  if  awake,  stupefied  and  deprived  of  speech  and 
motion  while  the  fatal  arm  was  in  tlie  house.  —  Lib.  xiv.  c.  22. 


"  Some  camel-kneed  prayer-monger  through  the  cave!  "  — 
36,  p.  209. 

I  knew  not,  when  t  used  this  epithet  in  derision,  that  the 
likeness  had  been  seriously  applied  to  St.  James.  His  knees 
were,  after  the  guise  of  a  camel's  knee,  benumbed  and  bereft 
of  the  sense  of  feeling,  by  reason  of  his  continual  kneeling  in 
supplication  to  God,  and  petition  for  tlic  people.  —  Ilcgesippus, 
as  quoted  by  Euncbius. 

William  of  Mahnsbury  says  of  one  of  the  Conqueror's 
daughters,  who  was  atliaiiced  to  Alphonsus,  king  of  Galicia, 
but  obtained  from  God  a  virgin  death,  that  a  hard  substance, 
which  proved  the  frequency  of  her  prayers,  was  found  upon 
her  knees  after  her  decease. 


"  By  some  Saint's  grave  beside  the  public  way,"  &c.  — 
36,  p.  269 

The  haliitations  of  the  Saints  are  always  beside  the  sanc- 
tuary or  tomb  of  their  ancestors,  which  they  take  care  to 
adorn.  Some  of  them  possess,  close  to  their  houses,  gardens, 
trees,  or  cultivated  grounds,  and  particularly  some  spring  or 
well  of  water.  I  was  once  travelling  in  the  south  in  the 
beginning  of  October,  when  the  season  happened  to  be  exceed- 
ingly hot,  and  the  wells  and  rivulets  of  the  country  were  all 
dried  up.  We  had  neither  water  for  ourselves  nor  for  our 
horses  ;  and,  after  having  taken  much  fruitless  trouble  to 
obtain  some,  we  went  and  paid  homage  to  a  Saint,  who  at 
first  pretended  a  variety  of  scruples  before  he  would  suffer 
infidels  to  approach  ;  but,  on  promising  to  give  him  ten  or 
twelve  shillings,  ho  became  exceedingly  humane,  and  supplied 
us  with  as  much  water  .as  we  wanted  ;  still,  however,  vaunt- 
ing highly  of  his  charity,  and  particularly  of  his  disinterest- 
edness. —  Chenier. 


"  Retail  thy  Koran-scraps.'"  —  3G,  p.  269. 

No  nation  in  the  world  is  so  much  given  to  superstition  as 
the  Arabs,  or  even  as  the  Mahometans  in  general.  They 
hang  about  their  children's  necks  the  figure  of  an  open  hand, 
which  the  Turks  and  Moors  paint  upon  their  ships  and  houses, 
as  an  antidote  and  counter-charm  to  an  evil  eye ;  for  five  is 
with  them  an  unlucky  number ;  and  five  (fingers  perhaps)  in 
your  eyes,  is  their  proverb  of  cursing  and  defiance.  Those 
who  arc  grown  up,  carry  always  about  with  them  some  para- 
graph or  other  of  their  Koran,  which,  like  as  the  Jews  did 
their  phylacteries,  they  place  upon  their  breast,  or  sew  under 
their  caps,  to  prevent  fascination  and  witchcraft,  and  to  secure 
themselves  from  sickness  and  misfortunes.  The  virtue  of 
these  charms  and  scrolls  is  supposed  likewise  to  be  so  far 
universal,  that  they  suspend  them  upon  the  necks  of  their 
cattle,  horses,  and  other  beasts  of  burden.  —  Shaw. 


The  hand-sp'll  is  still  common  in  Portugal  ;  it  is  called  the 
figa  ;  and  thus  probably  our  vulgar  phrase  —  "  a  Jig  for  him," 
is  derived  from  a  Moorish  amulet. 


Their  robe  of  glory,  purified  of  slain,  &c.  —  42,  p.  270. 

In  the  Vision  of  Thurcillus,  Adam  is  described  as  beholding 
the  events  of  the  world  with  mingled  grief  and  joy ;  his 
original  garment  of  glory  gradually  recovering  its  lustre,  as 
the  number  of  the  elect  increases,  till  it  be  fulfilled.  — Jl/ut(Acw 
Pari-!. 

This  is  more  beautifully  conceived  than  what  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo  describes  in  his  account  of  Mahommed's 
journey  to  Heaven  :  "  Also  in  the  first  heaven  I  found  a  ven- 
erable man  sitting  upon  a  seat,  and  to  him  were  shown  the 
souls  of  the  dead;  and  when  he  beheld  souls  that  did  not 
please  him,  he  turned  away  his  eyes,  saying.  Ah  !  sinful  soui, 
thou  hast  departed  from  an  unhapi)y  body  ;  and  when  a  soul 
appeared  which  pleased  him,  then  he  said  with  applause, 
O  happy  Spirit,  thou  art  come  from  a  good  body.  I  asked 
the  Angel  concerning  a  man  so  excellent,  and  of  such  reve- 
rence, who  he  should  bo;  and  he  said  it  was  Adam,  who 
rejoiced  in  the  good  of  his  generation,  but  turned  away  his 
face  from  the  evil."  —  Roder.  Ximcnes. 


THE   SIXTH  BOOK. 


Then  did  I  see  a  pleasant  Paradise, 

Full  of  sweet  flowers  and  daintiest  delights. 

Such  as  on  earth  man  could  not  more  devise 

With  pleasures  choice  to  feed  his  cheerful  sprights  ; 
Not  that  which  Merlin  by  his  magic  slights 

Made  for  the  gentle  squire  to  entertain 

His  fair  Belphosbe,  could  this  garden  stain. 

SpEprsEii.     Ruins  of  Time. 


1. 

So  from  the  inmost  cave 

Did  Thalaba  retrace 

The  windings  of  tlie  rock. 

Still  on  the  ground  the  giant  limbs 

Of  Zohak  lay  dispread  ; 

The  spell  of  sleep  had  ceased, 

And  his  broad  eyes  were  glaring  on  the  youth ; 

Yet  raised  he  not  his  arm  to  bar  the  way, 

Fearful  to  rouse  the  snakes 

Now  lingering  o'er  their  meal. 

2. 

Oh,  then,  emerging  from  that  dreadful  cave, 

How  grateful  did  the  gale  of  night 

Salute  his  freshen'd  sense  ! 

How  full  of  lightsome  joy, 

Thankful  to  Heaven,  he  hastens  by  the  verge 

Of  that  bitumen-lake, 

Whose  black  and  heavy  ftimes, 

Surge  heaving  after  surge, 

RoH'd  like  the  billowy  and  tumultuous  sea. 

3. 
The  song  of  many  a  bird  at  morn 

Aroused  him  from  his  rest. 

Lo !  at  his  side  a  courser  stood ; 

More  animate  of  eye, 


BOOK   VI. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


275 


Of  form  more  faultless  never  had  he  seen, 

More  light  of  limbs  and  beautiful  in  strength, 

Among  the  race  whose  blood. 

Pure  and  unmingled,  from  the  royal  steeds 

Of  Solomon  came  down. 


The  chosen  Arab's  eye 

Glanced  o'er  his  graceful  shape. 

His  rich  caparisons. 

His  crimson  trappings  gay. 

But  when  he  saw  the  mouth 

Uncurb'd,  the  unbridled  neck. 

Then  his   heart   leap'd,  and  then  his  cheek  was 

flush'd; 

For  sure  he  deem'd  that  Heaven  had  sent 

A  courser,  whom  no  erring  hand  might  guide. 

And  lo  !  the  eager  Steed 

Throws  his  head  and  paws  the  ground. 

Impatient  of  delay  ! 

Then  up  leap'd  Thalaba, 

And  away  went  the  self-govern'd  courser. 


Over  the  plain 

Away  went  the  steed  ; 

With  the  dew  of  the  morning  his  fetlocks  were  wet; 

The  foam  froth'd  his  limbs  in  the  journey  of  noon; 

Nor  stay'd  he  till  over  the  westerly  heaven 

The  shadows  of  evening  had  spread. 

Then  on  a  shelter'd  bank 

The  appointed  Youth  reposed, 

And  by  him  laid  the  docile  courser  down. 

Again  in  the  gray  of  tlie  morning 

Thalaba  bounded  up ; 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Away  goes  the  steed. 

Again  at  eve  he  stops, 

Again  the  Youth  alights  ; 

His  load  discharged,  his  errand  done, 

The  courser  then  bounded  away. 

6. 

Heavy  and  dark  the  eve  ; 

The  Moon  was  hid  on  high ; 

A  dim  light  tinged  the  mist 

That  cross'd  her  in  the  path  of  Heaven. 

All  living  sounds  had  ceased; 

Only  the  flow  of  waters  near  was  heard, 

A  low  and  lulling  melody. 

7. 

Fasting,  yet  not  of  want 

Percipient,  he  on  that  mysterious  steed 

Had  reach'd  his  resting-place, 

For  expectation  kept  his  nature  up. 

Now,  as  the  flow  of  waters  near 

Awoke  a  feverish  thirst, 

Led  by  the  sound  he  moved 

To  seek  the  grateful  wave. 

8. 
A  meteor  in  the  hazy  air 
Play'd  before  his  path  : 
Before  him  now  it  roll'd 


A  globe  of  living  fire  ; 

And  now  contracted  to  a  steady  light, 

As  when  the  solitary  heniiit  prunes 

His  lamp's  long  undulating  flame  ; 

And  now  its  wavy  point 

Up-blazing  rose,  like  a  young  cypress-tree 

Sway'd  by  the  heavy  wind  ; 

Anon  to  Thalaba  it  moved. 

And  wrapt  him  in  its  pale,  innocuous  fire; 

Now,  in  the  darkness  drown'd. 

Left  him  with  eyes  bedimm'd. 

And  now,  emerging,  spread  the  scene  to  sight. 

9. 
Led  by  the  sound  and  meteor-flarne, 

The  Arabian  youth  advanced. 

Now  to  the  nearest  of  the  many  rills 

He  stoops  ;  ascending  steam 

Timely  repels  his  hand, 

For  from  its  source  it  sprung,  a  boiling  tide. 

A  second  course  with  better  hap  he  tries : 

The  wave,  intensely  cold. 

Tempts  to  a  copious  draught. 

There  was  a  virtue  in  the  wave : 

His  limbs,  that,  stiff  with  toil, 

Dragg'd  heavy,  from  the  copious  draught  received 

Lightness  and  supple  strength. 

O'erjoyed,  and  weening  the  benignant  Power, 

Who  sent  the  reinless  steed, 

Had  blest  these  healing  waters  to  his  use, 

He  laid  him  down  to  sleep, 

Lull'd  by  the  soothing  and  incessant  sound. 

The  flow  of  many  waters,  blending  oft 

With  shriller  tones,  and  deep,  low  murmurings, 

Which,  from  the  fountain  caves, 

In  mingled  melody, 

Like  faery  music,  heard  at  midnight,  came. 

10. 
The  sounds  which  last  he  heard  at  night 

Awoke  his  recollection  first  at  morn. 

A  scene  of  wonders  lay  before  his  eyes. 

In  mazy  windings  o'er  the  vale 

A  thousand  streamlets  stray'd, 

And  in  their  endless  course 

Had  intersected  deep  the  stony  soil. 

With  labyrinthine  channels  islanding 

A  thousand  rocks,  which  seem'd, 

Amid  the  multitudinous  waters  there, 

Like  clouds  that  freckle  o'er  the  summer  sky. 

The  blue  ethereal  ocean  circling  each 

And  insulating  all. 

11. 

Those  islets  of  the  living  rock 

Were  of  a  thousand  shapes. 

And  Nature  with  her  various  tints 

Diversified  anew  their  thousand  forms ; 

For  some  were  green  with  moss ; 

Some  ruddier  tinged,  or  gray,  or  silver  white  ; 

And  some  with  yellow  lichens  glow'd  like  gold; 

Some  sparkled  sparry  radiance  to  the  sun. 

Here  gush'd  the  fountains  up, 
Alternate  light  and  blackness,  like  the  play 
Of  sunbeams  on  a  warrior's  bnrnish'd  arms. 


27G 


T HAL ABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    VI. 


Yonder  the  river  roll'd,  whose  ample  bed, 

Their  sportive  lingerings  o'er, 
Received  and  bore  away  the  confluent  rills. 

12. 

This  was  a  wild  and  wondrous  scene, 

Strange  and  beautiful,  as  where 

Uy  Oton-tala,  like  a  sea  of  stars, 

The  hundred  sources  of  lloanglio  burst. 

High  mountains  closed  tlie  vale. 

Bare  rocky  mountains,  to  all  living  things 

Inhospitable  ;  on  whose  sides  no  herb 

Rooted,  no  insect  fed,  no  bird  awoke 

Their  echoes,  save  the  Eagle,  strong  of  wing, 

A  lonely  plunderer,  that  afar 

Sought  in  the  vales  his  prey. 

13. 

Thither  toward  those  mountains  Thalaba 

Following,  as  he  believed,  the  path  prescribed 

By  Destiny,  advanced. 

Up  a  wide  vale  that  led  into  their  depths, 

A  stony  vale  between  receding  heights 

Of  stone,  he  wound  his  way. 

A  cheerless  place  !  the  solitary  Bee, 

Whose  buzzing  was  the  only  sound  of  life. 

Flew  there  on  restless  wing, 
Seeking  in  vain  one  flower,  whereon  to  fi.x. 

14. 

Still  Thalaba  holds  on  ; 

The  winding  vale  now  narrows  on  his  view. 

And  steeper  of  ascent, 

Rightward  and  leftward  rise  the  rocks ; 

And  now  they  meet  across  the  vale. 

Was  it  the  toil  of  human  hands 

Had  hewn  a  passage  in  the  rock. 

Through  whose  rude  portal-way 

The  light  of  heaven  was  seen  ? 

Rude  and  low  the  portal- way ; 

Beyond,  the  same  ascending  straits 

Went  winding  up  the  wilds. 

15. 

Still  a  bare,  silent,  solitary  glen, 

A  fearful  silence,  and  a  solitude 

That  made  itself  be  felt ; 

And  steeper  now  the  ascent, 

A  rugged  path,  that  tired 

The  straining  muscles,  toiling  slowly  up. 

At  length,  again  a  rock 

Stretch'd  o'er  the  narrow  vale  ; 

There  also  had  a  portal-way  been  hewn. 

But  gates  of  massy  iron  barr'd  the  pass. 

Huge,  solid,  heavy-hinged. 

16. 

There  hung  a  horn  beside  the  gate, 

Ivory-tipp'd  and  brazen-mouth'd. 

He  took  the  ivory  tip. 

And  through  the  brazen  mouth  he  breathed  ; 

Like  a  long  thunder-peal. 

From  rock  to  rock  rebounding  rung  the  blast ; 

The  gates  of  iron,  by  no  human  arm 

Unfolded,  turning  on  their  hinges  slow, 


Disclosed  the  passage  of  the  rock. 

He  enter'd,  and  the  iron  gates  fell  to. 

And  with  a  clap  like  thunder  closed  him  in. 

17, 

It  was  a  narrow,  winding  way  ; 

Dim  lamps,  suspended  from  the  vault. 

Lent  to  the  gloom  an  agitated  light. 

Winding  it  pierced  the  rock, 

A  long,  descending  path. 

By  gates  of  iron  closed; 

There  also  hung  a  horn  beside, 

Of  ivory  tip  and  brazen  mouth ; 

Again  he  took  the  ivory  tip. 

And  gave  the  brazen  mouth  its  voice  again. 

Not  now  in  thunder  spake  the  horn, 

But  breathed  a  sweet  and  thrilling  melody  : 

The  gates  flew  open,  and  a  flood  of  light 

Rush'd  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

18. 

Was  it  to  earthly  Eden,  lost  so  long. 

The  fated  Youth  had  found  his  wondrous  way  ? 

But  earthly  Eden  boasts 

No  terraced  palaces, 

No  rich  pavilions  bright  with  woven  gold. 

Like  these,  that,  in  the  vale. 

Rise  amid  odorous  groves. 

The  astonish'd  Thalaba, 

Doubting  as  though  an  unsubstantial  dream 

Beguiled  him,  closed  his  eyes. 

And  open'd  them  again  ; 

And  yet  uncertified. 

He  press'd  them  close,  and,  as  he  look'd  around, 

Question'd  the  strange  reality  again. 

He  did  not  dream ; 

They  still  were  there  — 

The  glittering  tents. 

The  odorous  groves, 

The  gorgeous  palaces. 

19. 

And  lo  !  a  man,  reverend  in  comely  age. 

Advancing  greets  the  youth. 

"Favor'd  of  Fortune,"  thus  he  said,  "  go  taste 

The  joys  of  Paradise  I 

.The  reinless  steed,  tliat  ranges  o'er  the  world. 

Brings  hither  those  alone  for  lofty  deeds 

Mark'd  by  their  horoscope ;  permitted  thus 

A  foretaste  of  the  full  beatitude, 

That  in  heroic  acts  they  may  go  on 

More  ardent,  eager  to  return  and  reap 

Endless  enjoyment  here,  their  destined  meed. 

Favor'd  of  Fortune  thou,  go  taste 

The  joys  of  Paradise  !  " 

20. 

This  said,  he  turn'd  away,  and  left 

The  Youth  in  wonder  mute  ; 

For  Thalaba  stood  mute. 

And  passively  received 

The  mingled  joy  which  flow'd  on  every  sense. 

Where'er  his  eye  could  reach, 

Fair  structures,  rainbow-hued,  arose  ; 

And  rich  pavilions,  through  the  opening  woods, 


BOOK    VI. 


TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


277 


Gloaiii'il  from  tlieir  waving  curUiius  sunny  gold; 

And,  winding  tlirough  tlio  verdant  vale, 

Went  streams  of  liquid  light ; 

And  fluted  cypresses  rear'd  up 

Their  living  obelisks; 

And  broad-leav'd  plane-trees,  in  long  colonnades, 

O'er-arch'd  delightful  walks. 
Where  round  their  trunks  the  thousand  tendrill'd 

vine 

Wound  up   and  hung  the   boughs   with   greener 

wreaths, 

And  clusters  not  their  own. 

Wearied  with  endless  beauty,  did  his  eyes 

Return  for  rest?  beside  him  teems  the  earth 

With  tulips,  like  the  ruddy  evening  streak'd ; 

And  here  the  lily  hangs  her  head  of  snow  ; 

And  here,  amid  her  sable  cup. 

Shines  the    red    eye-spot,    like    one   brightest 

star. 

The  solitary  twinkler  of  the  night ; 

And  here  the  rose  expands 

Her  paradise  of  leaves. 

21. 

Then  on  his  ear  what  sounds 

Of  harmony  arose  ! 

Far  music  and  the  distance-mellow'd  song 

From  bowers  of  merriment; 

The  waterfall  remote ; 

The  murmuring  of  the  leafy  groves; 

The  single  nightingale 

Perch'd  in  the  rosier  by,  so  richly  toned. 

That  never  from  that  most  melodious  bird, 

Singing  a  love-song  to  his  brooding  mate. 

Did  Thracian  shepherd  by  the  grave 

Of  Orpheus  hear  a  sweeter  melody. 

Though  tliere  the  Spirit  of  the  Sepulchre 

All  his  own  power  infuse,  to  swell 

The  incense  that  he  loves. 

22. 

And  oh !  what  odors  the  voluptuous  vale 

Scatters  from  jasmine  bowers. 

From  yon  rose  wilderness. 

From  clustcr'd  henna  and  from  orange  groves, 

That  with  such  perfumes  fill  the  breeze, 

As  Peris  to  their  Sister  bear. 

When  from  the  summit  of  some  lofty  tree 

She  hangs  encaged,  the  captive  of  the  Dives. 

They  from  their  pinions  shake 

The  sweetness  of  celestial  flowers, 

And,  as  her  enemies  impure 

From  that  impervious  poison  far  away 

Fly  groaning  with  the  torment,  she  the  while 

Inhales  her  fragrant  food. 

23. 

Such  odors  flow'd  upon  the  world, 

When  at  Mohammed's  nuptials,  word 

Went  forth  in  Heaven,  to  roll 

The  everlasting  gates  of  Paradise 

Back  on  their  living  hinges,  that  its  gales 

Might  visit  all  below ;  the  general  bliss 

Thrill'd  every  bosom,  and  the  family 

Of  man,  for  once,  partook  one  common  joy. 


24. 

Full  of  the  bliss,  yet  still  awake 

To  wonder,  on  went  Tlialaba; 

On  every  side  the  song  of  mirth, 

The  music  of  festivity, 

Invite  the  passing  youth. 

Wearied  at  length  with  hunger  and  with  heat, 

He  enters  in  a  banquet  room, 

Where,  round  a  fountain  brink, 

On  silken  carpets  sate  the  festive  train. 

Instant  through  all  his  frame 

Delightful  coolness  spread  ; 

The  playing  fount  refresh'd 

The  agitated  air ; 

The  very  light  came  coord  through  silvering  panes 

Of  pearly  shell,  like  the  pale  moon-beam  tinged; 

Or  where  the  wine-vase  fill'd  the  aperture, 

Rosy  as  rising  morn,  or  softer  gleam 

Of  saffron,  like  the  sunny  evening  mist: 

Through  every  hue,  and  streak'd  by  all, 

The  flowing  fountain  play'd. 

Around  the  water-edge 

V'essels  of  wine,  alternate  placed. 

Ruby  and  amber,  tinged  its  little  waves. 

From  golden  goblets  there 

The  guests  sate  quaffing  the  delicious  juice 

Of  Sliiraz'  golden  grape. 

2.3. 

But  Thalaba  took  not  the  draught ; 

For  rightly,  he  knew,  had  the  Prophet  forbidden 

That  beverage,  the  mother  of  sins  ; 

Nor  did  the  urgent  guests 

Proffbr  a  second  time  the  liquid  fire. 

When  in  the  youth's  strong  eye  they  saw 

No  movable  resolve. 

Yet  not  uncourteous,  Thalaba 

Drank  the  cool  draught  of  innocence, 

That  fragrant  from  its  dewy  vase 

Came  purer  than  it  left  its  native  bed  ; 

And  he  partook  the  odorous  fruits, 

For  all  rich  fruits  were  there ; 

Water-melons  rough  of  rind, 

Whose  pulp  the  thirsty  lip 

Dissolved  into  a  draught; 

Pistachios  from  the  heavy-cluster'd  trees 

Of  Malavcrt,  or  Haleb's  fertile  soil ; 

And  Casbin's  luscious  grapes  of  amber  hue, 

That  many  a  week  endure 

The  summer  sun  intense. 

Till,  by  its  powerful  heat. 

All  watery  particles  exhaled,  alone 

The  strong  essential  sweetness  ripens  there. 

Here,  cased  in  ice,  the  apricot 

A  topaz,  crystal-set; 

Here  on  a  plate  of  snow, 

The  sunny  orange  rests  ; 

And  still  the  aloes  and  the  sandal-wood. 

From  golden  censers,  o'er  the  banquet-room 

Difiiise  their  dying  sweets. 

26. 

Anon  a  troop  of  females  form'd  the  dance, 

Their  ankles  bound  with  bracelet-bells. 

That  made  the  modulating  harmony. 


278 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    VI. 


Transparent  garments  to  the  greedy  eye 

Exposed  tlieir  liarlot  lirnbs, 

Which  moved,  in  every  wanton  gesture  skill'd. 

27. 

With  earnest  eyes  the  banqueters 

Fed  on  the  sight  impure  • 

And  Thalaba,  he  gazed, 

But  in  his  heart  he  bore  a  talisman, 

Whose  blessed  alchemy 

To  virtuous  thouglits  refined 

The  loose  suggestions  of  the  scene  impure. 

Oneiza's  image  swam  before  his  sight, 

His  own  Arabian  Maid. 

He  rose,  and  from  tlie  banquet-room  he  rush'd ; 

Tears  coursed  his  burning  cheek ; 

And  nature  for  a  moment  woke  the  thought, 

And  murmur'd,  that,  from  all  domestic  joys 

Estranged,  he  wander'd  o'er  the  world, 

A  lonely  being,  far  from  all  he  loved. 

Son  of  Hodeirah,  not  among  thy  crimes 

That  mouientary  murmur  shall  be  written  I 

28. 

From  tents  of  revelry. 

From  festal  bowers,  to  solitude  he  ran ; 

And  now  he  came  where  all  the  rills 

Of  that  well-water'd  garden  in  one  tide 

Roll'd  their  collected  waves. 

A  straight  and  stately  bridge 

Stretch'd  its  long  arches  o'er  the  ample  stream. 

Stronof  in  the  evening  and  distinct  its  shade 

Lay  on  the  watery  mirror,  and  his  eye 

Saw  it  united  with  its  parent  pile, 

One  hucre,  fantastic  fabric.     Drawinor  near. 

Loud  from  the  chambers  of  the  bridge  below, 

Sounds  of  carousal  came  and  song. 

And  unveil'd  women  bade  the  advancing  youth 

Come  merry-make  witli  them  ! 

Unhearing,  or  unheeding,  he 

Past  o'er  with  hurried  pace. 

And  sousht  the  shade  and  silence  of  the  grove. 

29. 

Deserts  of  Araby  ! 

His  soul  return'd  to  you. 

He  cast  himself  upon  the  earth, 

And  closed  his  eyes,  and  call'd 

Tlie  voluntary  vision  up. 

A  cry,  as  of  distress. 

Aroused  him ;  loud  it  came,  and  near  ! 

He  started  up,  he  strung  his  bow. 

He  pluck'd  an  arrow  forth. 

Again  a  shriek  —  a  woman's  shriek  ! 

And  lo  !  she  rushes  through  the  trees ; 

Her  veil  is  rent,  her  garments  torn ! 

The  ravisher  follows  close. 

"  Prophet,  save  me  !  save  me,  God  ! 

Help !  help  me,  man  !  "  to  Thalaba  she  cried  : 

Thalaba  drew  tlie  bow. 

The  unerring  arrow  did  its  work  of  death. 

Then,  turning  to  the  woman,  he  beheld 

His  own  Oneiza,  his  Arabian  Maid. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK   VL 

Of  Solomon  came  down.  — 3,  p.  275. 

Tlie  Arabian  liorsea  are  divided  into  two  great  branches  ; 
the  Kadischi,  whoso  descent  is  unknown,  and  the  Kozhlani,  of 
wliom  a  written  genealogy  has  been  kept  for  ilOOO  years. 
These  last  are  reserved  for  riding  solely ;  they  are  highly 
esteemed,  and  consequently  very  dear ;  they  arc  said  to  derive 
their  origin  from  King  Solomon's  studs  ;  however  this  may 
be,  they  are  fit  to  bear  the  greatest  fatigues,  and  can  pass 
whole  days  without  food ;  they  are  also  said  to  show  uncommon 
courage  against  an  enemy;  it  is  even  asserted,  that  when  a 
horse  of  this  race  finds  himself  wounded,  and  unable  lo 
bear  his  rider  much  longer,  he  retires  from  the  fray,  and  con- 
veys him  to  a  place  of  security.  If  the  rider  falls  upon  the 
ground,  his  horse  remains  beside  him,  and  neighs  till  assistance 
is  brought.  The  KoMani  are  neither  large  nor  handsome, 
but  amazingly  swift  ;  the  whole  race  is  divided  into  several 
families,  each  of  which  has  its  proper  name.  .Some  of  these 
have  a  higher  reputation  than  others,  on  account  of  thcit 
more  ancient  and  uncontaminated  nobility.  —  J^iebuhr. 


And  now,  emerging,  &.c.  —  8,  p.  275. 

In  travelling  by  night  through  the  valleys  of  Mount 
Ephraim,  we  were  attended,  for  above  the  space  of  an  hour, 
with  an  Ignis  Fatuus,  that  displayed  itself  in  a  variety  of 
extraordinary  appearances.  For  it  was  sometimes  globular, 
or  like  the  flame  of  a  candle  ;  immediately  after  it  would 
spread  itself,  and  involve  our  whole  company  in  its  pale,  in- 
offensive light ;  then  at  once  contract  itself  and  disappear. 
But,  in  less  than  a  minute,  it  would  again  exert  itself  as  at 
other  times  ;  or  else,  running  along  from  one  place  to  another 
with  a  swift  progressive  motion,  would  expand  itself,  at  certain 
intervals,  over  more  than  two  or  three  acres  of  the  adjacent 
mountains.  The  atmosphere,  from  the  beginning  of  the 
evening,  had  been  remarkably  thick  and  hazy  ;  and  the  dew, 
as  we  felt  it  upon  our  bridles,  was  unusually  clammy  and 
unctuous.  In  the  like  disposition  of  the  weather,  I  have  ob- 
served those  luminous  bodies,  which  at  sea  skip  about  the 
masts  and  yards  of  ships,  and  are  called  Corpusanse*  by  the 
mariners.  —  Shuro. 


J}nd  in  their  endless  course,  &c.  —  10,  p.  275. 

The  Hammam  MesJcouteen,  the  Silent  or  Inchanted  Baths, 
are  situated  on  a  low  ground,  surroumied  with  mountains. 
There  are  several  fountains  that  furnish  the  water,  which  is  of 
an  intense  heat,  and  falls  afterwards  into  the  Zenati.  .'Vt  a 
small  distance  from  these  hot  fountains,  we  have  others,  which, 
upon  comparison,  are  of  as  intense  a  coldness  ;  and  a  little 
below  them,  somewhat  nearer  the  banks  of  the  Zenati,  there 
are  the  ruins  of  a  few  houses,  built  perhaps  for  the  conveniency 
of  persons  who  came  hither  for  the  benefit  of  the  waters. 

Besides  the  strong,  sulphureous  streams  of  the  Ilammam  f 
Meskouteen,  we  are  to  observe  further  of  them,  that  their 
water  is  of  so  intense  a  heat,  that  the  rocky  ground  it  runs 
over,  to  the  distance  sometimes  of  a  hundred  feet,  is  dissolved, 
or  rather  calcined  by  it.  When  the  substance  of  these  rocks 
is  soft  and  uniform,  then  the  water,  by  making  every  way 
equal  impressions,  leaveth  them  in  the  shape  of  cones  or 
heml-^pberes  ;  which  being  six  feet  high,  and  a  little  more  or 
less  of  the  same  diameter,  the  Arabs  maintain  to  be  so  many 
tents  of  their  predecessors  turned  into  stone.  But  when  these 
rocks,  besides  their  usual  soft,  chalky  substance,  contain  like- 
wise some  layers  of  harder  matter,  not  so  easy  to  be  dissolved 
then,  in  proportion  to  the  resistance  the  water  is  thereby  to 
meet  with,  we  are  entertained  with  a  confusion  of  traces  and 
channels,  distinguished  by  the  Arabs  into  sheep,  camels, 
horses,  nay,  into  men,  women,  and  children,  whom  they  sup- 
pose to  have  undergone  the  like   fate  with  their  habitations. 

•  A  corruption  of  Cuerpo  Santo,  as  this  meteor  is  called  by  th« 
Spaniards. 

t  They  call  the  Tlierma  of  this  country  ir,imniam3,  from  whence  oui 
Hunimunis. 


BOOK    VI. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


279 


I  observed  that  tlio  fountains  wliiili  allortled  this  water,  had 
been  freciuently  stopped  up  ;  or  rather  ceasing  to  run  at  one 
place,  broke  out  immediately  in  anotlier  ;  which  circumstance 
seems  not  only  to  account  for  the  number  of  cones,  but  for 
that  variety  likewise  of  traces,  that  are  continued  from  <me 
or  otlier  of  these  cones  or  fountains,  (|uitc  down  to  tlio  river 
Zenati. 

This  place,  in  riding  over  it,  givcth  back  such  a  liollow 
sound,  that  we  were  afraid  every  moment  of  sinking  tlirough 
it.  It  is  probable,  therefore,  that  the  ground  below  us  was 
hollow  ;  and  may  not  the  air,  then,  which  is  pent  up  within 
these  caverns,  afibrd,  as  we  may  suppose,  in  escaping  con- 
tinually through  these  fountains,  that  mixture  of  shrill,  mur- 
muring, and  deep  sounds,  which,  according  to  the  direction  of 
the  winds  and  the  motion  of  the  external  air,  issue  out  along 
with  tlie  water .'  The  Arabs,  to  quote  tlieir  strength  of  imagi- 
nation once  more,  affirm  these  sounds  to  be  the  music  of  the 
Jenoune,  Fairies,  who  are  supposed,  in  a  particular  manner, 
to  make  their  abodes  at  this  jdace,  and  to  be  the  grand  agents 
in  all  these  extraordinary  appearances. 

There  are  other  natural  curiosities  likewise  at  this  place. 
For  the  chalky  stone  being  dissolved  into  a  fine  impalpable 
powder,  and  carried  down  afterwards  with  the  stream,  lodgeth 
itsi'lf  upon  the  sides  of  the  channel,  nay,  sometinies  uj>on  the 
lips  of  the  fountains  themselves  ;  or  else  embracing  twigs, 
straws,  and  other  bodies  in  its  way,  immediately  hardeneth, 
and  shoots  into  a  bright  fibrous  substance,  like  the  Asbestos, 
forming  itself  at  the  same  time  into  a  variety  of  glittering 
figures  and  beautiful  crystallizations.  —  Shau). 


By  Oten-tala,  like  a  sea  of  stars.  — 12,  p.  2?C. 

In  the  place  where  the  Whang-lio  rises,  there  are  more  than 
an  hundred  springs  which  sparkle  like  stars,  whence  it  is 
called  Hotun  Nor,  the  Sea  of  Stars.  These  sources  form  two 
great  lakes,  called  Hala  Nor,  the  black  sea  or  I  ike.  After- 
wards there  appear  three  or  four  little  rivers,  which  joined, 
form  the  Whang-ho,  which  has  eight  or  nine  branches.  These 
sources  of  tlie  river  are  called  also  Oton-tala.  It  is  in  Thibet. 
—  Oaubil.     Astley's  Collect,  of  Voy.  and  Travels. 

The  Whang-ho,  or,  as  the  Portuguese  call  it,  Hoamho, 
i.  c.  the  Yellow  River,  rises  not  far  from  the  source  of  the 
Gauges,  in  the  Tartarian  mountains  west  of  China,  and  hav- 
ing run  through  it  with  a  course  of  more  than  six  hundred 
I. 'agues,  discharges  itself  into  the  eastern  sea.  It  hath  its 
name  from  a  yellow  mud  which  always  stains  its  water,  and 
which,  after  rains,  composes  a  third  part  of  its  quantity.  The 
watermen  clear  it  for  use  by  throwing  in  alum.  The  Chinese 
say  its  waters  cannot  become  clear  in  a  thousand  years ; 
whence  it  is  a  conuiion  i)roverb  among  them  for  any  thing 
which  is  never  likely  to  ha|)pen,  "  When  the  Yellow  Itiver 
shall  run  clear."  —  JVute  to  the  Cliiuesc  Tale,  IIou  Kioii  Clivan. 


Beyond,  the  same  ascending  straits,  &.C.  —  14,  p.  27G. 

Among  the  mountains  of  the  Bini  Mbcss,  four  leagues  to 
the  S.  E.  of  the  fi'elled  J^Iansoiire,  we  jiass  through  a  narrow, 
winding  defile,  which,  for  the  space  of  near  half  a  mile,  licth 
on  each  side  under  an  exceeding  high  precipice.  At  every 
winding,  the  rock  or  stratum  tliat  originally  went  across  it, 
and  thereby  separated  one  valley  from  another,  is  cut  into  the 
fishion  of  a  door-case  six  or  seven  feet  wide,  giving  thereby 
the  Arabs  an  occasion  to  call  them  Beeban,  the  Gates  ;  wliilst 
the  Turks,  in  consideration  of  their  strength  and  ruggodness, 
know  them  by  the  additional  appellation  of  Dammer  Cuppy, 
the  Gates  of  Iron.  Few  persons  pass  them  without  horror,  a 
handful  of  men  being  able  to  dispute  the  jiassage  with  a  whole 
army.  The  rivulet  of  salt  water  which  glides  through  this 
valley,  might  possibly  first  point  out  the  way  which  art  and 
necessity  would  afterwards  improve.  —  Sliato. 


JVo  rich  pavilions  bright  tcith  woven  gold.  —  18,  p.  276. 

In  }^8,  the  Persian  Sultan  gave  the  Grand  Seigneur  two 
most  stately  pavilions  made  of  one  piece,  the  curtains  being 
interlaced  with  gold,  and  the  supporters  embroidered  with  the 


same  ;  also  nine  fiir  canopies  to  hang  over  the   ports  of  their 
pavilions,  things  not  used  among  tlic  Christian-.  —  Knolles. 


And  broad-leav'd  plane-trees,  iit  long  colonnades.  —  20,  p.  277. 

The  expenses  the  Persians  arc  at  in  their  gardens  is  that 
wherein  they  make  greatest  ostentation  of  their  weal'.h.  Not 
that  they  much  mind  furnishing  of  them  with  delightful 
flowers,  as  we  do  in  Europe  ;  but  these  tliey  slight  as  an  ex- 
cessive liberality  of  nature,  by  whom  their  common  fields  are 
strewed  with  an  infinite  number  of  tulips  and  other  flowers  ; 
but  they  are  rather  desirous  to  have  their  gardens  full  of  all 
sorts  of  fruit-trees,  and  especially  to  disi)Ose  them  into  pleasant 
walks  of  a  kind  of  plane  or  poplar,  a  tree  not  known  in  Eu- 
rope, which  the  Persians  call  Tzinnar.  These  trees  grow  up  to 
the  height  of  the  pine,  and  have  very  broad  leaves,  not  much 
unlike  those  of  the  vine,  'i'heir  fruit  has  some  resemblance 
to  the  chestnut,  while  the  outer  coat  is  about  it,  but  there  is  no 
kernel  within  it,  so  that  it  is  not  to  he  eaten.  The  wood 
thereof  is  very  brown,  and  full  of  veins  ;  and  the  Persians  use 
it  in  doors  and  shutters  for  windows,  which,  being  rulibed 
with  oil,  look  incomjiarably  better  than  any  thing  made  of 
walnut-tree,  nay,  indeed,  tlian  the  root  of  it,  which  is  now* 
so  very  much  esteemed. 9mb.  Travels. 


With  tulips,  like  the  ruddy  evening  streaked.  —  20,  p.  277. 

Major  Scott  informs  us,  that  scars  and  wounds,  by  Persian 
writers,  are  compared  to  the  streaky  tints  of  the  tulip.  The 
simile  here  enijiloyed  is  equally  obvious,  and  more  suited  to 
its  place. 


And  here  amid  her  sable  cup.  —  20,  p.  277. 

"  \A'e  pitched  our  t<'nts  among  some  little  hills  whore  there 
was  a  prodigious  number  of  lilies  of  many  colors,  with  which 
the  ground  was  quite  covered.  None  were  white  ;  they  were 
mostly  either  of  a  rich  violet,  with  a  red  spot  in  the  midst  of 
each  leaf,  or  of  a  fine  black,  and  these  were  the  most  es- 
teemed. In  form,  they  were  like  our  lilies ;  but  much  larger." 
—  Tavcmier. 


Her  paradise  of  leaves.  —  20,  p.  277. 

This  exi)ression  is  borrowed  from  one  of  Ariosto's  smaller 
poems. 

Tul  e  prnprio  a  vcder  queW  amorosa 
Fiamma,  che  nel  bel  visa 
Si  sparge,  ond'  ella  con  soave  riso 
Si  va  di  sue  bellezze  innumorando  ; 

Qual'  c  a  vcdcre,  rjual'  hor  vcrmiglia  rosa 
Scuopra  il  bel  Parud'iso 
De  Ic  svefoglie  alhor  chc  7  sol  diviso 
De  VOnente  sorge  il  giorno  ahando. 


Of  Orpheus  hear  a  sweeter  melody.  —  21,  p.  277. 

The  Thracians  say,  that  the  nightingales  wliich  build  their 
nests  about  the  .sepulchre  of  Orpheus,  sing  sweeter  and  louder 
than  other  nightingales.  —  Pansanias. 

Gongora  has  addressed  this  bird  with  somewhat  more  than 
his  usual  extravagance  of  absurdity  :  — 

Con  diferencia  tal,  eon  gracia  tanta 
Ai/uel  Ruisrnor  llora,  que  sospccho, 
Que  tiene  otros  cien  mil  dentro  del  pccho. 

Que  alternan  su  dolor  por  su  garganta. 

With  such  a  grace  that  nightingale  bewails, 

That  I  suspect,  so  exquisite  his  note, 
An  hundred  thousand  other  nightingales. 

Within  him,  warble  sorrow  through  his  throat. 
Marini  has  the  same  conceit,  but  has  expressed  it  Icis  ex- 
travagantly :  — 

Sovra  Carlo  d'un  rio  lucido  e  netto, 
II  canto  soavissimo  sciogliea 

•  1S37. 


280 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER 


BOOK    VI, 


Musico  rossignuol,  ch'  averparea 
E  mille  voci  e  mille  augelli  in  petto. 


Inhales  her  fragrant  food.  — 29,  p.  277. 

In  the  Caherman  JVamch,  tlie  Dives,  liaving  taken  in  war 
sume  of  the  Peris,  ijnprisuned  them  in  iron  cages,  uliich  tliey 
hung  from  the  hiyhost  trees  they  conUi  find.  Tliere,  from 
time  to  time,  tlieir  companions  visited  them  with  the  most 
precious  odors.  These  odors  were  the  usual  food  of  the 
Peris,  and  procured  them  also  anotlier  advantage,  for  they 
prevented  the  Uives  from  approacliing  or  molesting  them. 
The  Dives  could  not  hear  the  perfumes,  which  rendered  them 
gloomy  and  melancholy  whenever  thoy  drew  near  the  cage  in 
which  a  Peri  was  suspended.  —  D'llcrbelot. 


Of  man,' for  once,  partook  one  common  joy.  —  23,  p.  277. 

Dum  autcm  ad  nuptias  celebrandas  solemnissimmn  convivinm 
pararetur,  roncvssus  est,  AngeVts  admirantibus,  thronus  Dei ; 
atque  ipse  Dens  majestate  pleniis  pr<ecepit  Custodi  Paradisi,  ut 
pucllas,  et  pueros  rjus  cum  festivis  ornamentis  educerct,  et  calices 
ad  bibendum  ordinatim.  disponcret :  grandiores  item  paellas,  rt 
jam  sororiantibus  mammis  prtcdlt-as,  etjuvencs  illis  coavos,  prc- 
tiosis  vcstibus  inducret.  Jussit  prmterea  Oabrieleni  vrrillum 
laudis  supra  Meccauum  Tcmplum  explicare.  Tunc  ve.ro  vallcs 
omncs  et  monies  prm  laititiam  gestirc  ca'perunt,  et  tuta  Mecca 
nocte  ilia  velut  olla  super  ignem  imposita  effcrbuit.  Evdcm 
tempore  prcecipil  Deus  Oabrieli,  ut  super  o/nues  mortales  lui- 
gaenta  prcliosissima  dispergeret,  admirantibus  omnibus  subitum 
ilium  atque  insolitum  odorcm,  quein  in  gratiam  novorum  conja- 
gum  divinitus  ezhalasse  unircrsi  cognocere.  —  Maracci. 


On  silken  carpets  sate  the  festive  train.  — 24,  p.  277. 

Solymus  II.  received  the  ambassadors  sitting  upon  a  pallet 
which  the  Turks  call  Mast(J>e,  used  by  them  in  their  chambers 
to  sleep  and  to  feed  upon,  covered  with  carpets  of  silk,  as  was 
the  whole  floor  of  the  chamber  also.  — Knolles. 

Among  the  presents  tliat  were  exclianged  between  the  Per- 
sian and  Ottomun  sovereigns  in  15C8,  were  carpets  of  silk,  of 
camel's  hair,  lesser  ones  of  silk  and  gold,  and  some  culled 
Teftieh,  made  of  the  finest  hiwn,  and  so  large  that  seven  men 
could  scarcely  carry  one  of  them.  —  Knolles. 

In  the  beautiful  story  of  Ali  Beg,  it  is  said,  Cha  Sefi,  when 
he  e-xamined  the  house  of  his  father's  favorite,  was  much 
surprised  at  seeing  it  so  badly  furnished  with  plain  skins  and 
coarse  carpets,  whereas  the  other  nobles  in  their  houses  trod 
only  upon  carpets  of  silk  and  gold. —  Tavanier. 


Of  pearly  shell,  Sec.  —  24,  p.  277. 

On  the  way  from  Macao  to  Canton,  in  the  rivers  and 
channels,  there  is  taken  a  vast  quantity  of  oysters,  of  whose 
shells  they  make  glass  for  the  window.'.  —  Oemelli  Careri. 

In  the  Chinese  Novel  Ilaa  Kiou  Choann,  we  read,  that 
Shuey-ping-sin  ordered  her  servants  to  hang  uj)  a  curtain  of 
mother-of-pearl  across  the  hall.  She  commandeil  the  first 
table  to  be  set  for  her  guest  without  the  curtain,  and  two 
lighted  tapers  to  be  placed  upon  it.  Afterwards  she  ordered 
a  second  table,  but  without  any  light,  to  be  set  for  herself 
within  the  curtain,  so  that  she  could  sec  ecenj  thing  through 
it,  unseen  herself. 

Master  George  Tubervile,  in  his  letters  from  Muscovy, 
15G8,  describes  the  Russian  windows  :  — 

They  have  no  English  glasse  ;  of  slices  of  a  rocke 

Hl-'bt  Slnda  they  their  windows  make,  that  English  glasse 

doth  mocke. 
They  cut  it  very  thinne,  and  sow  it  with  a  thrcd 
In  pretie  order  like  to  panes,  to  serve  tlieir  present  need. 
No  other  glasse,  good  faith,  doth  give  a  better  light. 
And  sure  the  rock  is  nothing  rich,  the  cost  is  very  slight. 

Hukluyt. 

The  Indians  of  Malabar  use  mother-of  pearl  for  window 
paoeg. Fra  Paolino  da  San  Bartolomeo. 


Or  where  the  wine-vase,  &,c.  —  24,  p.  277. 

The  King  and  the  great  Lords  liave  a  sort  of  cellar  for 
magnificence,  where  they  sometimes  drink  with  persons  whom 
they  wish  to  regale.  These  cellars  are  square  rooms,  to 
which  you  descend  by  only  two  or  three  steps.  In  the 
middle  is  a  small  cistern  of  water,  and  a  rich  carpet  covers  the 
ground  from  the  walls  to  the  cistern.  At  the  four  corners  of 
the  cistern  are  four  large  glass  bottles,  each  containing  about 
twenty  quarts  of  wine,  one  white,  another  red.  From  one  to 
the  other  of  these,  smaller  bottles  arc  ranged  of  the  same 
material  and  form,  that  is,  round,  with  a  long  neck,  holding 
about  four  or  five  quarts,  white  and  red  alternately.  Round 
the  cellar  are  several  rows  of  niclies  in  the  wall,  and  in  each 
niche  is  a  bottle,  also  of  red  and  white  alternately.  Some 
niches  are  made  to  hold  two.  Some  windows  give  light  to  the 
apartment,  and  all  these  bottles,  so  well  ranged  with  their 
various  colors,  have  a  very  fine  effect  to  the  eye.  They  are 
always  kept  full,  the  wine  preserving  better,  and  therefore  are 
replenished  as  fast  as  they  are  emptied.  —  Tavernier. 


From  golden  goblets  there,  &c.  —  24,  p.  277. 

The  Cuptzi,  or  king  of  Persia's  merchant,  treated  us  with  a 
collation,  wdiich  was  served  in,  in  plate,  vermilion  gilt. 

The  Persians  having  left  us,  the  ambassadors  sent  to  the 
Chief  Weywode  a  present,  which  was  a  large  drinking-cup, 
vermilion  gilt. — Jlmbassador''s  Travels. 

At  Ispahan,  the  king's  horses  were  watered  with  silver 
pails,  thus  colored. 

The  Turks  and  Persians  seem  wonderfully  fond  of  gilding  ; 
we  read  of  their  gilt  stirrups,  gilt  bridles,  gilt  maces,  gilt  cim- 
eters,  &c.  &.c. 


Tliat  beverage,  the  mother  of  sins.  — 25,  p.  277. 

Mohammedes  vinum  appellabat  Matrem  pcccatorum  ;  cui  sen- 
tential Hafez,  jlnacrcon  ille  Persarum,  minime  ascribit  suam ; 
dicit  autem. 

"  .dcre  illud  {vinum)  quod  vir  religiosus  matrem  peccatorum 
vocilat, 

Opt/ibilius  nobis  ac  dulcius  videtur,  quam  virginis  suavium." 
—  Poeseos  Asiat.  Com. 

niide  ignem  ilium  nobis  liquidum. 

Hoc  est,  ignem  ilium  aqmr.  similcm  offer.  —  Hafez. 


That  fragrant  from  its  dewy  vase,  &c.  —  25,  p.  277. 

They  export  from  Com  earthen  ware  both  white  and  var- 
nished ;  and  this  is  peculiar  to  the  white  ware  which  is  thence 
transported,  that  in  the  summer  it  cools  the  water  wonderfully 
and  very  suddenly,  by  reason  of  continual  transpiration.  So 
that  they  who  desire  to  drink  cool  and  deliciously,  never  drink 
in  the  same  pot  above  five  or  six  days  at  most.  They  wash  it 
with  rose-water  the  first  time,  to  take  away  the  ill  smell  of  the 
earth,  and  they  hang  it  in  the  air,  full  of  water,  wrapped  up  in 
a  moist  linen  cloth.  A  fourth  part  of  the  water  transpires  in 
six  hours  the  first  time  ;  after  that,  still  less  from  day  to  day, 
till  at  last  the  pores  are  closed  up  by  the  thick  matter  con- 
tained in  the  water  which  stops  in  the  pores.  But  so  soon  as 
the  pores  are  stopped,  the  water  stinks  in  the  pots,  and  you 
must  take  new  ones.  —  Chardin. 

In  Egypt  people  of  fortune  burn  Scio  mastic  in  their  cups  ; 
the  penetrating  oilor  of  wliich  pervadi's  the  porous  substance, 
which  remains  impicgnated  with  it  a  long  time,  and  imparts  to 
the  water  a  perfume  which  requires  the  aid  of  habit  to  render 
it  pleasing.  —  Sonnini. 


And  Casbin^s  luscious  grapes  of  amber  hue.  —  25,  p.  277. 

Casbin  produces  the  fairest  grape  in  Persia,  which  they  call 
Shahoni,  or  the  royal  grape,  being  of  a  gold  color,  transparent, 
and  as  big  as  a  small  olive.  These  grapes  are  dried  and  trans- 
ported all  over  the  kingdom.  They  also  make  the  strongest 
wine  in  the  world,  and  the  most  luscious,  but  very  thick,  as  all 


BOOK    VII. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


ysi 


strong  iinil  swoet  wines  usually  are.  This  incomparable  grape 
grows  only  upon  the  youn;^  branches,  which  they  never  water. 
!?o  that,  for  tivo  nioiilhs  to^jetlior,  thiy  grow  in  the  heat  of 
summer,  and  under  a  scorcliin;;  sun,  without  receiving  a  drop 
of  water,  cither  from  the  sky  or  otherwise.  When  the  vintage 
is  over,  they  let  in  their  cattle  to  hrowso  in  the  vineyards  ;  af- 
terwards they  cut  oti'  all  the  great  wood,  and  leave  only  the 
y)ung  stocks  about  three  feet  high,  which  need  no  propping 
up  with  poles  as  in  other  [)laces,  and  therefore  tliey  never  make 
use  of  any  such  supporters.  —  Chardin. 


Here,  cased  in  ice,  the  apricot,  &.c.  — 2,"),  p.  277. 

Dr.  Fryer  received  a  present  from  the  Caun  of  Bunder- 
.\b:isss,  of  apples  candied  in  snow. 

\Vlien  'J'avernier  made  liis  first  visit  to  the  Kan  at  Erivan, 
lie  found  him  with  several  of  his  oflicers  regaling  in  the  Clia:ii- 
bers  of  the  Bridge.  They  had  wine  which  tliey  cooled  with  ice, 
and  all  ki[ids  of  frnit  and  melons  in  large  plates,  under  each  of 
which  was  a  plate  of  ice. 

.\  great  number  of  camels  were  laden  with  snow  to  cool  the 
liciuors  and  fruits  of  the  Caliph  Jlahaili,  when  he  made  the  pil- 
grimage to  Mecca. 


Their  ankles  bound  with  braceltt-beUs,  &.c.  — 2 !,  p.  277. 

Of  the  Indian  dancing  women  who  danced  before  the  Am- 
bassadors at  Ispahan,  "  some  were  shod  after  a  very  strange 
manner.  They  had  above  the  instep  of  the  foot  a  string  lied, 
with  little  bells  fastened  thereto,  whereby  they  discovered  the 
exactness  of  their  cadence,  and  sometimes  corrected  the  music 
itself;  as  they  diil  also  by  the  Tzarpanes  or  Castagnets,  which 
they  had  in  tlieir  hands,  in  the  managing  whereof  they  were 
very  expert." 

.■\t  Koojar,  Mungo  Park  saw  a  danci^  "  in  which  many  per- 
formers assisted,  all  of  whom  were  provided  with  little  bells, 
which  were  fastened  to  their  legs  and  arms." 


Transparent  garments  to  the  trrccdij  eye,  &c.  —  2j,  p.  278. 

.\t  Seronge,  a  sort  of  cloth  is  made  so  fine,  that  the  skin 
may  he  seen  through  it,  as  though  it  were  naked.  Jlerchants 
are  not  permitted  toexpoit  this,  the  governor  sending  all  that 
is  made  to  the  S'eraglio  of  the  Great  Mogul,  and  the  chief  lords 
of  his  court.  Cesl  de  quoy  les  Sidtanes  et  les  femmcs  des 
Orands  Seigneurs,  sefunt  des  chemises,  et  dcs  robes  pour  la  cha- 
leur,  el  le  Roy  et  les  Orands  sc  plaisent  a  les  voir  an  tracers  de 
ces  chemises  Jines,  et  d  Icsfaire  danser.  —  Tuvernier. 


Loud  from  the  chambers  of  the  bridge  below.  —  28,  p.  278. 

I  came  to  a  village  called  Cupri-Kent,  or  the  Vilhige  of  the 
Bridge,  because  there  is  a  very  fair  bridge  that  stands  not  far 
from  it,  built  upon  a  river  called  Tahadi.  'J'his  bridge  is 
placed  l)etween  two  mountains,  separated  only  by  the  river, 
and  supported  by  four  arches,  une(|ual  both  in  their  height 
and  breadth.  They  are  built  after  an  irregular  form,  in  regard 
of  tw)  great  heaps  of  a  rock  that  stand  in  the  river,  ui)on  which 
they  laid  so  many  arches.  Those  at  the  two  ends  are  hollowed 
on  both  sides,  and  serve  to  lodge  passengers,  wherein  they  have 
made  to  that  purpose  little  chambers  and  porticoes,  with  every 
one  a  chimney.  The  arch  in  the  middle  of  the  river  is  hol- 
lowed (juite  through,  from  one  part  to  the  other,  with  two 
chambers  at  the  ends,  and  two  large  balconies  covered,  where 
they  take  the  I'ool  air  in  the  summer  with  great  delight,  and 
to  which  there  is  a  descent  of  two  pair  of  stairs  hewn  out 
of  the  rock.  There  is  not  a  fairer  bridge  in  all  Georgia.  — 
Chardin. 

Over  the  river  Isperuth  "  there  is  a  very  fair  bridge,  built 
on  six  arches,  each  whereof  hath  a  spacious  room,  a  kitchen, 
anil  several  other  conveniences,  lying  even  with  the  water. 
The  going  down  into  it  is  by  a  stone  pair  of  stairs,  so  that  this 
bridge  is  able  to  find  entertainment  for  a  whole  caravanne."  — 
jjmft.  TV. 

The  most  magnificent  of  these  bridges  is  the  bridge  of  Zul- 
pha  at  Ispahan. 

36 


THE   SEVENTH   BOOK. 


JVoiB  all  is  done ;  bring  home  the  Bride  again, 
Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory! 

Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gain, 
It'ithjotjancc  bring  her,  and  with  jollity. 

JVever  had  man  more  joyful  day  than  this. 

Whom  Heancn  would  heap  with  bliss. 

Si'enseh's  Epithalaminm. 


1. 

From  fear,  and  from  amazement,  and  from  joy, 

At  length  the  Arabian  Maid,  recovering  speech. 

Threw  around  Thalaba  her  arms,  and  cried, 

"  My  father  !  O  my  father  !  "  —  Thalaba, 

In  wonder  lost,  yet  fearing  to  inquire, 

Bent  down  his  cheek  on  hers. 

And  their  tears  met,  and  mingled  as  they  fell. 


ONEIZA. 

.\t  night  they  seized  me,  Thalaba !  in  my  sleep ;  — 

Thou  wert  not  near,  —  and  yet,  when  in  their  grasp 

I  woke,  my  shriek  of  terror  called  on  thee. 

My  father  could  not  save  me,  —  an  old  man ! 

And  they  were  strong  and  many  ;  —  O  my  God, 

The  hearts  they  must  have  had  to  hear  his  prayers, 

And  yet  to  leave  him  childless  ! 

THALABA. 

We  will  seek  him ; 
We  will  return  to  Araby. 

ONEIZA. 

Alas ! 

We  should  not  find  him,  Thalaba !  Our  tent 

Is  desolate  I  the  wind  hath  lieap'd  the  sands 

Within  its  door  ;  the  lizard's  track  is  left 

Fresh  on  the  untrodden  dust ;  prowling  by  night. 

The  tiger,  as  he  passes,  hears  no  breath 

Of  man,  and  turns  to  search  the  vacancy. 

Alas  !  he  strays  a  wretched  wanderer, 

Seeking  his  child  !  old  man,  he  will  not  rest, — 

He  cannot  rest,  —  his  sleep  is  misery,  — 

His  dreams  arc  of  my  wretchedness,  my  wrongs. 

O  Thalaba  !  this  is  a  wicked  place  ! 

Let  us  be  gone  ! 

THALABA. 

But  how  to  pass  again 

The  iron  doors,  that,  opening  at  a  breath, 

Gave  easy  entrance  ?     Armies  in  their  might 

Would  fail  to  move  those  hinges  for  return. 

ONEIZA. 

But  we  can  climb  the  mountains  that  shut  in 
This  dreadful  garden. 

THALABA. 

Are  Oneiza's  limbs 
Equal  to  that  long  toil  ? 


282                                    THALABA    THE 

DESTROYER.                          book  vii. 

ONEIZA. 

7. 

Oh,  I  am  strong, 

"Allah  save  us  !  " 

Dear  Thalaba !  for  this  —  fear  gives  me  strength, 

Oneiza  cried ;  "  there  is  no  path  for  man 

And  you  are  with  me  ! 

From  this  accursed  place  !  " 

And  as  she  spake,  her  joints 

3. 

Were  loosen'd,  and  her  knees  sunk  under  her. 

So  she  took  his  hand, 

"  Cheer  up,  Oneiza  !  "  Thalaba  replied  ; 

And  gently  drew  liim  forward,  and  they  went 

"  Be  of  good  heart.     We  cannot  fly 

Toward  the  mountain  chain. 

The  dangers  of  the  place. 

4. 

But  we  can  conquer  them  !  " 

It  was  broad  moonlight,  and  obscure  or  lost 

8. 

The  garden  beauties  lay. 

And  the  young  Arab's  soul 

But  the  great  boundary  rose,  distinctly  mark'd. 

Arose  within  him.    "  What  is  he,"  he  cried. 

These  were  no  little  hills. 

"  Who  hath  prepared  this  garden  of  delight. 

No  sloping  uplands  lifting  to  the  sun 

And  wherefore  are  its  snares  ?  " 

Their  lineyards,   with  fresh   verdure,  and   the 

shade 

9. 

Of  ancient  woods,  courting  the  loiterer 

The  Arabian  Maid  replied. 

To  win  the  easy  ascent :  stone  mountains  these, 

"The  Women,  when  I  enter'd,  welcomed  me 

Desolate  rock  on  rock. 

To  Paradise,  by  Aloadin's  will 

The  burdens  of  the  earth. 

Chosen,  like  themselves,  a  Houri  of  the  Earth. 

Whose  snowy  summits  met  the  morning  beam 

7'hey  told  mc,  credulous  of  his  blasphemies. 

When  night  was  in  the  vale,  whose  feet  were  fix'd 

That  Aloadin  placed  them  to  reward 

In  the  world's  foundations.     Thalaba  beheld 

His  faithful  servants  with  the  joys  of  Heaven. 

The  heights  precipitous, 

O  Tiialaba,  and  all  are  ready  here 

Impending  crags,  rocks  unascendible, 

To  wreak  his  wicked  will,  and  work  all  crimes ! 

And  summits  that  had  tired  the  eagle's  wing; 

How  then  shall  we  escape  .'  " 

"There  is  no  way  !  "  he  said  ; 

Paler  Oneiza  grew. 

10. 

And  hung  upon  his  arm  a  feebler  weight. 

"Woe   to    him!"  cried   the    Appointed,  a   stern 

5. 

smile 
Darkening  with  stronger  shades  his  countenance  ; 

But  soon  again  to  hope 

"  Woe  to  him !  he  hath  laid  his  toils 

Revives  the  Arabian  maid. 

To  take  the  Antelope  ; 

As  Thalaba  imparts  the  sudden  thought. 

The  Lion  is  come  inl  " 

"  I  past  a  river,"  cried  the  youth. 

"A  full  and  copious  stream. 

11. 

The  flowing  waters  cannot  bo  restrain'd, 

She  shook  her  head  —  "A  Sorcerer  he, 

And  where  they  find  or  force  their  way. 

And  guarded  by  so  many  !     Thalaba, — 

There  we  perchance  may  follow ;  thitherward 

And  thou  but  one  !  " 

The  current  roll'd  along." 

So  saying,  yet  again  in  hope 

12. 

Quickening  their  eager  steps. 

He  raised  his  hand  to  Heaven  — 

They  turn'd  them  thitherward. 

"Is  there  not  God,  Oneiza.' 

I  have  a  Talisman,  that,  whoso  bears. 

6. 

Him;  nor  the  Earthly,  nor  the  Infernal  Powers 

Silent  and  calm  the  river  roll'd  along, 

Of  Evil,  can  cast  down. 

And  at  the  verge  arrived 

Remember,  Destiny 

Of  that  fair  garden,  o'er  a  rocky  bed. 

Hath  mark'd  mc  from  mankind  ! 

Toward  the  mountain-base. 

Now  rest  in  faith,  and  I  will  guard  thy  sleep  1 

Still  full  and  silent,  held  its  even  way. 

But  farther  as  tlicy  wont,  its  deepening  sound 

13. 

Louder  and  louder  in  the  distance  rose. 

So  on  a  violet  bank 

As  if  it  forced  its  stream 

The  Arabian  Maid  laid  down. 

Struggling  through  crags  along  a  narrow  pass. 

Her  soft  check  pillow'd  upon  moss  and  flowers. 

And  lo  !  where  raving  o'er  a  hollow  course 

She  lay  in  silent  prayer. 

The  ever-flowing  flood 

Till  prayer  had  tranquillized  her  fears, 

Foams  in  a  thousand  whirlpools  !    There,  adown 

And  sleep  fell  on  her.     By  her  side 

The  perforated   rock. 

Silent  sate  Thalaba, 

Plunge  the  whole  waters  ;  so  precipitous. 

And  gazed  upon  the  Maid, 

So  fathomless  a  fall. 

And,  as  he  gazed,  drew  in 

That  their  earth-shaking  roar  came  deaden'd  up 

New  courage  and  intenser  faith. 

Like  subterranean  thunders. 

And  waited  calmly  for  the  eventful  day. 

BOOK  vii.                         THALABA    THE 

DESTROYER.                                    ^83 

14. 

Some  savage  lion-tamer  ;  she  forsooth 

Loud  sung  the  Lark  ;  the  awaken'd  Maid 

Must  play  the  heroine  of  the  years  of  old  !  " 

Beheld  liiui  twinkling  in  the  morning  light, 

And  wish'd  for  wings  and  liberty  like  his. 

18. 

The  flush  of  fear  inflamed  her  clieek ; 

Radiant  with  gems  upon  his  throne  of  gold 

But  Thalaba  was  calm  of  soul, 

Sat  Aloadin ;  o'er  the  Sorcerer's  head 

Collected  for  the  work. 

Hover'd  a  Bird,  and  in  the  fragrant  air 

He  ponder'd  in  liis  mind 

Waved  his  wide,  winnowing  wings, 

How  from  Lobaba's  breast 

A  living  canopy. 

His  blunted  arrow  fell. 

Large  as  the  hairy  Cassowar 

Aloadin,  too,  might  wear 

Was  that  o'ershadowing  Bird  ; 

Spell  perchance  of  equal  power 

So  huge  his  talons,  in  their  grasp 

To  blunt  the  weapon's  edge. 

The  Eagle  would  have  hung  a  helpless  prey. 

His  beak  was  iron,  and  his  plumes 

15. 

Glilter'd  like  burnish'd  gold, 

Beside  the  river-brink 

And  his  eyes  glow'd,  as  though  an  inward  fire 

Grew  a  young  poplar,  whose  unsteady  leaves 

Shone  though  a  diamond  orb. 

Varying  their  verdure  to  the  gale, 

With  silver  glitter  caught 

19. 

His  meditating  eye. 

The  blinded  multitude 

Then  to  Oneiza  turn'd  the  youth, 

Adored  the  Sorcerer, 

And  gave  his  father's  bow. 

And  bent  the  knee  before  him, 

And  o'er  her  shoulders  slung 

And  shouted  forth  his  praise; 

The  quiver  arrow-stored. 

"Mighty  art  thou,  the  bestower  of  joy, 

"Me  other  weapon  suits,"  said  he; 

The  Lord  of  Paradise  !  " 

"  Bear  thou  the  Bow  :  dear  Maid, 

Then  Aloadin  rose,  and  waved  his  hand, 

The  days  return  upon  nie,  when  these  shafts. 

And  they  stood  mute  and  moveless. 

True  to  thy  guidance  from  the  lofty  palm 

In  idolizing  awe. 

Brought  down  its  cluster,  and  thy  gladden'd  eye. 

Exulting,  turn'd  to  seek  the  voice  of  praise. 

20. 

Oh !  yet  again,  Oneiza,  we  shall  share 

"Children  of  Earth,"  he  said, 

Our  desert-joys!  "   So  saying,  to  the  bank 

"  Whom  I  have  guided  here 

He  moved,  and,  stooping  low, 

By  easier  passage  then  the  gate  of  Death, 

With  double  grasp,  hand  below  hand,  he  clinch'd, 

The  infidel  Sultan,  to  whose  lands 

And  from  its  watery  soil 

My  mountains  stretch  their  roots. 

Uptore  the  poplar  trunk. 

Blasphemes  and  threatens  me. 

Strong  are  his  armies ;    many  are  his  guards  ; 

IG. 

Yet  may  a  dagger  find  him. 

Then  off"  he  shook  the  clotted  earth, 

Children  of  Earth,  I  tempt  ye  not 

And  broke  away  the  head. 

With  the  vain  promise  of  a  bliss  unseen, 

And  boughs,  and  lesser  roots ; 

With  tales  of  a  hereafter  Heaven, 

And  lifting  it  aloft. 

Whence  never  Traveller  hath  return 'd  ! 

Wielded  with  able  sway  the  massy  club. 

Have  ye  not  tasted  of  the  cup  of  joy 

"  Now  for  this  child  of  Hell !  "  quoth  Thalaba; 

That  in  these  groves  of  happiness 

"  Belike  he  shall  exchange  to-day 

Forever  over-mantling  tempts 

His  dainty  Paradise 

The  ever-thirsty  lip  ? 

For  other  dwelling,  and  its  cups  of  joy 

Who  is  there  here  that  by  a  deed 

For  the  unallayable  bitterness 

Of  danger  will  deserve 

Of  Zaccoum's  fruit  accurs'd." 

The  eternal  joys  of  actual  Paradise  .-  " 

17 

21. 

With  that  the  Arabian  youth  and  maid 

"I!"  Thalaba  exclaim'd; 

Toward  the  centre  of  the  garden  went. 

And  springing  forward,  on  the  Sorcerer's  head 

It  chanced  that  Aloadin  had  convoked 

He  dash'd  his  knotty  club. 

The  garden-habitants. 

And  with  the  assembled  throng 

22. 

Oneiza  mingled,  and  the  Appointed  Youth. 

Aloadin  fell  not,  though  his  skull 

Unniark'd  they  mingled  ;  or  if  one 

W^as  shattered  by  the  blow. 

With  busier  finger  to  his  neighbor  notes 

For  by  some  talisman 

The  quiver'd  Maid,  "  Haply,"  he  says. 

His  miserable  life  imprison'd  still 

"  Some  daughter  of  the  Homerites, 

Dwelt  in  the  body.     Tiie  astonish'd  crowd 

Or  one  who  yet  remembers  with  delight 

Stand  motionless  with  fear. 

Her  native  tents  of  Himiar."     "Nay!  "  rejoins 

Expecting  to  behold 

His  comrade,  "a  love-pageant!  for  the  man 

Immediate  vengeance  from  the  wrath  of  Heaven 

Mimics  with  that  fierce  eye  and  knotty  club 

And  lo!  the  Bird  —  the  monster  Bird, — 

284 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER, 


BOOK    VII. 


Soars  up  —  then  pounces  down 

To  seize  on  Thalaba ! 

Now,  Onciza,  bend  the  bow, 

Now  draw  the  arrow  home  !  — 

True  fled  the  arrow  from  Onciza's  hand ; 

It  pierced  the  monster  Bird, 

It  broke  the  Talisman, — 

Then  darkness  cover'd  all,  — 

Earth  shook,  Heaven  thunder'd,  and  amid  the  yells 

Of  evil  Spirits  perished 

The  Paradise  of  Sin. 

23. 

At  last  the  earth  was  still ; 

The  yelling  of  the  Demons  ceased  ; 

Opening  the  wreck  and  ruin  to  their  sight. 

The  darkness  roll'd  away.     Alone  in  life. 

Amid  the  desolation  and  the  dead, 

Stood  the  Destroyer  and  the  Arabian  Maid. 

They  look'd  around ;  the  rocks  were  rent. 

The  path  was  ojjen,  late  by  magic  closed : 

Awe-struck  and  silent,  down  the  stony  glen 

They  wound  their  thoughtful  way. 

24. 

Amid  the  vale  below 

Tents  rose,  and  streamers  play'd. 

And  javelins  sparkled  to  the  sun  ; 

And  multitudes  encamp'd 

Swarm'd,  far  as  eye  could  travel  o'er  the  plain. 

There  in  his  war-pavilion  sat 

In  council  with  his  Chiefs 

The  Sultan  of  the  Land. 

Before  his  presence  there  a  Captain  led 

Oneiza  and  the  Appointed  Youth. 

25. 

"Obedient  to  our  Lord's  command,"  said  he, 

"  We  past  toward  the  mountains,  and  began 

The  ascending  strait ;  when  suddenly  Earth  shook, 

And  darkness,  like  the  midnight,  fell  around, 

And  fire  and  thunder  came  from  Heaven, 

As  though  the  Retribution-day  were  come. 

After  the  terror  ceased,  and  when,  with  hearts 

Somewhat  assured,  again  we  ventured  on, 

This  youth  and  woman  met  us  on  the  way. 

They  told  us,  that  from  Aloadin's  hold 

They  came,  on  whom  the  judgment  stroke  hath 

fallen, 

He,  and  his  sinful  Paradise,  at  once 

Destroy'd  by  them,  the  agents  they  of  Heaven. 

Therefore  I  brought  them  hither,  to  repeat 

The  tale  before  thy  presence  ;  that  as  searcli 

Shall  prove  it  false  or  faithful,  to  their  merit 

Thou  mayst  reward  them." 

"  Be  it  done  to  us," 

Thalaba  answer'd,  "as  the  truth  shall  prove  !  " 

26. 

The  Sultan,  while  he  spake, 

Fix'd  on  him  the  proud  eye  of  sovereignty; 

"  If  thou  hast  play'd  with  us. 

By  Allah  and  by  All,  Death  shall  seal 

The  lying  lips  forever  !     But  if  the  thing 

Be  as  thou  say'st,  Arabian,  thou  shalt  stand 


Next  to  ourself!  "  — 

Hark  !  while  he  speaks,  the  cry. 

The  lengthening  cry,  the  increasing  shout 

Of  joyful  multitudes  ! 

Breathless  and  panting  to  the  tent 

The  bearer  of  good  tidings  comes, — 

"O  Sultan,  live  forever  I  be  thy  foes 

Like  Aloadin  all ! 

Tlie  wrath  of  God  hath  smitten  him '  " 

27. 

Joy  at  the  welcome  tale 

Shone  in  the  Sultan's  cheek ; 

"  Array  the  Arabian  in  the  robe 

Of  honor,"  he  exclaini'd, 

"And  place  a  chain  of  gold  around  his  neck. 

And  bind  around  his  brow  the  diadem. 

And  mount  him  on  my  steed  of  state, 

And  lead  him  through  the  camp, 

And  let  the  Heralds  go  before  and  cry. 

Thus  shall  the  Sultan  reward 

The  man  who  serves  him  well !  " 

28. 

Then  in  the  purple  robe 

They  vested  Thalaba, 

And  hung  around  his  neck  the  golden  chain. 

And  bound  his  forehead  with  tlie  diadem. 

And  on  the  royal  steed 

They  led  him  through  the  camp, 

And  Heralds  went  before  and  cried, 

"  Thus  shall  the  Sultan  reward 

The  man  who  serves  him  well  !  " 

29. 

When,  from  the  pomp  of  triumph. 

And  presence  of  the  King, 

Thalaba  sought  the  tent  allotted  him. 

Thoughtful  the  Arabian  Maid  beheld 

His  animated  eye, 

His  cheek  inflamed  with  pride. 

"  Oneiza  !  "  cried  the  youth, 

"  The  King  hath  done  according  to  his  word. 

And  made  me  in  the  land 

Next  to  liimself  be  named  !  — 

But  why  that  serious,  melancholy  smile  .'  — 

Oneiza,  when  I  heard  the  voice  that  gave  me 

Honor,  and  wealth,  and  fame,  the  instant  thought 

Arose  to  fill  my  joy,  that  thou  wouldst  hear 

The  tidings,  and  be  happy." 

ONEIZA. 

Thalaba, 

Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  mirthful  !     Am  I  not 

An  orphan,  —  among  strangers .'' 

THALABA. 

But  with  me  1 

ONEIZA. 

My  Father  !  — 

THALABA. 

Nay,  be  comforted  !     Last  night 
To  what  wert  thou  exposed  !  in  what  a  peril 


BOOK    VII. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


285 


The  morning  found  us  !  — safety,  honor,  wealth, 

These  now  are  ours.     This  instant  wlio  thou  wert 

The  Sultan  ask'd.     1  told  him  from  our  childhood 

We  had  been  plighted;  —  was  I  wrong,  Oneiza.' 

And  wlien  he  said  with  bounties  he  would  heap 

Our  nuptials,  —  wilt  thou  blame  me  if  I  blest 

His  will,  that  bade  mc  fix  the  marriage  day  I  — 

In  tears,  my  love  .''  — 

ONEIZA. 

Remember,  Destiny 
Hath  mark'd  thee  from  mankind  ! 

THALABA. 

Perhaps  when  Aloadin  was  destroy'd 

The  mission  ceased;  and  therefore  Providence 

With  its  rewards  and  blessings  strews  my  path 

Thus  for  the  accomplish'd  service. 

ONEIZA. 

Thalaba ! 

THALABA. 

Or  if  haply  not,  yet  whither  should  1  go.' 

Is  it  not  prudent  to  abide  in  peace 

Till  I  am  summon'd.' 

ONEIZA. 

Take  me  to  the  Deserts ! 

THALABA. 

But  Moath  is  not  there ;  and  wouldst  thou  dwell 

In  a  stranger's  tent  ?  thy  father  then  might  seek 

In  long  and  fruitless  wandering  for  his  child. 

ONEIZA. 

Take  me  then  to  Mecca  ! 

There  let  me  dwell  a  servant  of  the  Temple. 

Bind  thou  thyself  my  veil, — to  human  eye 

It  never  shall  be  lifted.     There,  whilst  thou 

Shalt  go  upon  thine  enterprise,  my  prayers, 

Dear  Thalaba !  shall  rise  to  succor  thee. 

And  I  shall  live,  —  if  not  in  happiness, 

Surely  in  hope. 

THALABA. 

Oh,  think  of  better  things  ! 
The  will  of  Heaven  is  plain  :  by  wondrous  ways 

It  led  us  here,  and  soon  the  common  voice 

Will  tell  what  we  have  done,  and  how  we  dwell 

Under  the  shadow  of  the  Sultan's  wing; 

So  shall  thy  father  hear  the  fame,  and  find  us 

What  he  hath  wish'd  us  ever.  —  Still  in  tears  ! 

Still  that  unwilling  eye  I  nay  —  nay  —  Oneiza  — 

I  dare  not  leave  thee  other  than  my  own, — 

My  wedded  wife.     Honor  and  gratitude 

As  yet  preserve  the  Sultan  from  all  thoughts 

That  sin  against  thee  ;  but  so  sure  as  Heaven 

Hath  gifted  thee  above  all  other  maids 

With  loveliness,  so  surely  would  those  thoughts 

Of  wrong  arise  within  the  heart  of  Power. 

If  thou  art  mine,  Oneiza,  we  are  safe  ; 
But  else,  there  is  no  sanctuary  could  save. 


ONEIZA. 

Thalaba !     Thalaba  ! 

30. 

With  song,  with  music,  and  with  dance, 

The  bridal  pomp  proceeds. 

Following  the  deep-veil 'd  Bride 

Fifty  female  slaves  attend 

In  costly  robes  tiiat  gleam 

With  interwoven  gold, 

And  sparkle  far  with  gems. 

A  hundred  slaves  behind  them  bear 

Vessels  of  silver  and  vessels  of  gold, 

And  many  a  gorgeous  garment  gay, 

The  presents  that  the  Sultan  gave. 

On  either  hand  the  pages  go 

With  torches  flaring  through  the  gloom, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  merriment 

Accompanies  their  way  ; 

And  multitudes  with  loud  acclaim 

Shout  blessings  on  the  Bride. 

And  now  they  reach  the  palace  pile. 

The  palace  home  of  Thalaba, 

And  now  the  marriage  feast  is  spread. 

And  from  the  finish'd  banquet  now 

The  wedding  guests  are  gone. 

31. 

Who  comes  from  the  bridal  chamber  ?  — 
It  is  Azrael,  the  Angel  of  Death. 


NOTES    TO   BOOK   Vll. 

ffithiii  its  door ;  the  lizard's  track  is  left,  ice.  —  2,  p.  281. 

The  dust  which  overspreads  these  beds  of  sand  is  so  fine, 
that  the  liglitest  animal,  the  sniLiIlest  insect,  leaves  there,  as 
on  snow,  the  vestiges  of  its  track.  The  varieties  of  these 
impressions  produce  a  picasinj;  effect,  in  spots  where  the  sad- 
dened soul  expects  to  meet  with  nothing  but  symptoms  of  the 
proscriptions  of  nature.  —  It  is  impossible  to  sec  any  thing  more 
heantiful  than  the  traces  of  the  passage  of  a  species  of  very 
small  lizards,  extremely  common  in  these  deserts.  The  ex- 
tremity of  their  tail  forms  regular  sinuosities,  in  the  middle 
of  two  rows  of  delineations,  also  regularly  imprinted  by  their 
four  feet,  with  their  five  slender  toes.  These  traces  are  mul- 
tiplied and  interwoven  near  the  subterranean  retreats  of  thoso 
little  animals,  and  present  a  singular  assemblage,  which  is  ^o: 
void  of  beauty.  —  Sonnini. 


In  the  morld's  foundations,  &c.  —  4,  p.  282. 

These  lines  are  feebly  adapted  from  a  passage  in  Burnet's 
Theory  of  the  Earth. 

//(EC  autcm  dicta  vdlem  de  genuinis  et  mnjoribus  terra;  nion- 
tibus  )■  71011  gratos  Bacchi  colics  hie  intelUgimns,  aut  amdnos  illos 
monliculos,  qui  riridi  herba  et  ricino  fonte  et  arh(irihus,vim  (fsti- 
vi  soils  repcllunt :  hisce  non  drrst  sua  qualiscunquc  clegantia  ct 
jucunditas.  Srd  longe  aliud  hie  rrspicimus,  nrmpc  longirva  ilia 
tristia  et  squalentia  corpora,  tclluris  pondera,  qua  dure  capite  ri- 
gent  inter  nubes,  injijisque  in  terram  sazeis  pedibus,  ab  innutne- 
ris  scculi.i  sleterunt  immubilia,  atquc  undo  pcctore  pertulcrunt  tot 
annorum  ardentes  soles,  fulmina  et  procellas.  ITi  sunt  primarri 
ct  innnortnles  illi  monies,  qui  non  aliunde,  quam  ezfracta  mundi 
compage  ortum  suum  ducere  poluerunt,  nee  nisi  cum  cadem  pcri- 
turi  sunt. 

The  whole  chapter  demontibus  is  written  with  the  eloquence 
of  a  poet.     Indeed,  Gibbon  bestowed  no  exaggerated  praise  «n 


286 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER.  book  vii. 


Burnet  in  saying,  that  he  hail  "  blondod  Scripture,  history,  and 
tradition,  into  one  magnificent  system,  with  a  suhlimity  of 
imagination  sc;ircely  inferior  1o  Mihon  himself."  Tliis  work 
should  be  read  in  Liitin  ;  the  author's  own  translation  is  mis- 
erably inferior.     lie  lived  in  the  worst  age  of  English  prose. 


Zaccoum's fruit  accurs'd.  —  16,  p.  283. 

The  Zaccoum  is  a  tree  which  issueth  from  the  bottom  of 
Hell;  the  fruit  thereof  rcsembleth  the  heads  of  devils;  and 
the  damned  shall  eat  of  the  same,  and  shall  fill  tlieir  bellies 
therewith  ;  and  there  shall  be  given  them  thereon  a  mixture 
of  boiling  water  to  drink  ;  afterwards  shall  they  return  to 
Hell.  —  Koran,  chap.  37. 

This  hellish  Zaccoum  has  its  name  from  a  thorny  tree  in 
Tehama,  which  bears  fruit  like  an  almond,  but  extremely 
bitter ;  therefore  the  same  name  is  given  to  the  infernal  tree. 
—  Sale. 

Some  daughter  of  the  Homcritcs.  —  17,  p.  283. 

When  the  sister  of  the  famous  Derar  was  made  prisoner  be- 
fore Damascus  wilh  many  otlier  Arabian  women,  she  excited 
them  to  mutiny,  they  seized  the  poles  of  the  tents,  and  attacked 
their  captors.  This  bold  resolution,  says  Marigny,  was  not  in- 
spired by  impotent  anger.  Most  of  these  women  had  military 
inchnations  already  ;  particularly  those  who  were  of  the  tribe 
of  Himiar,  or  of  the  Homcrites,  where  they  are  early  exer- 
cised in  riding  tlie  horse,  and  in  using  the  bow,  the  lance,  and 
the  javelin.  The  revolt  was  successful,  for,  during  the  en- 
gagement, Derar  came  up  to  their  assistance.  —  Marigny. 


The  Paradise  of  Si/i.  —  22,  p.  284. 

In  the  N.  E.  parts  of  Persia  there  was  an  old  man  named 
Aloadin,  a  Mahumetan,  which  had  inclosed  a  goodly  valley, 
situate  between  two  liilles,  and  furnished  it  with  all  variety 
which  nature  and  art  could  yield ;  as  fruits,  pictures,  rillsof  inilk, 
wine,  honey,  water,  pall  aces  and  beautiful  damosells,  richly 
attired,  and  called  it  Paradise.  To  this  was  no  passage  but  by 
an  impregnable  castle  ;  and  daily  preaching  the  jileasures  of 
this  Paradise  to  the  youth  which  he  kept  in  his  court,  some- 
times he  would  minister  a  sleepy  drinke  to  some  of  them,  and 
then  conveigh  them  tliither,  where,  being  entertained  with 
these  pleasures  four  or  five  days,  they  supjiosed  themselves 
rapt  into  Paradise,  and  then  being  again  cast  into  a  trance  by 
the  said  drink,  ho  caused  them  to  he  carried  fcirth,  and  then 
would  examine  them  of  what  they  Iiad  seene,  and  by  this  de- 
lusion would  make  them  resolute  for  any  enterprise  which  he 
should  appoint  them  ;  as  to  murthcr  any  prince  his  enemy,  for 
they  feared  not  death  in  hope  of  their  Mahumetical  Paradise. 
But  Haslor  or  Ulan,  after  three  years'  siege,  destroyed  him, 
and  this  his  fool's  Paradise.  —  Purchas. 

In  another  place,  Purchas  tells  the  same  talc,  but  calls  the 
impostor  Aladenles,  and  says  UiatSelim  the  Ottoman  Emperor 
destroyed  his  Paradise. 

The  story  is  told  by  many  writers,  but  with  such  difference 
of  time  and  place,  as  wholly  to  invalidate  its  truth,  even  were 
the  circumstances  more  probable. 

Travelling  on  further  towards  the  south,  I  arrived  at  a  cer- 
taine  conntrey  called  .Alelistorte,  wliich  is  a  very  pleasant  and 
fertile  place.  And  in  this  countrcy  there  was  a  certaine  aged 
man  called  Penex  de  Monte,  who,  round  about  two  mountaines, 
had  built  a  wall  to  enclose  the  sayd  mountaines.  Within  this 
wall  there  were  the  fairest  and  most  ehrystall  fountaines  in  the 
whole  world  ;  and  about  the  sayd  fountaines  there  wore 
most  beautiful  virgins  in  great  number,  and  goodly  horses  also  ; 
anil,  in  a  word,  every  thing  that  could  be  devised  for  bodily 
solace  and  delight,  and  therefore  the  inhabitants  of  the  coun- 
troy  call  the  same  place  by  the  name  of  Paradise. 

The  sayd  olde  Senex,  when  he  saw  any  proper  and  valiant 
young  man,  he  would  admit  him  into  his  paradise.  Moreover 
by  certaine  conducts,  he  makes  wine  and  inilk  to  flow  alnin- 
dantly.  This  Senex,  when  lie  hath  a  minde  to  revenge  him- 
selfe,  or  to  slay  any  king  or  baron,  commandeth  him  that  is 
governor  of  the  sayd  Paradise  to  bring  thereunto  some  of  the 
acquaintance  of  the  sayd   king  or  baron,  permitting  him  a 


while  to  take  hie  pleasure  therein,  and  then  to  give  him  a 
corteinc  potion,  being  of  force  to  cast  him  into  such  a  slumber 
as  should  make  him  quite  void  of  all  sense,  and  so  being  in  a 
profounde  sleepe,  to  convey  him  out  of  his  paradise  ;  who 
being  awaked,  and  seeing  himsellis  thrust  out  of  the  paradise, 
would  become  so  sorrowfull,  that  he  could  not  in  the  world 
devise  what  to  do,  or  whither  to  turne  him.  Then  would  he 
go  unto  tlie  forsaide  old  man,  beseeching  him  that  he  might 
be  admitted  againe  into  his  paradise  ;  who  saith  unto  him, 
you  cannot  be  admitted  thither,  unlesse  you  will  slay  such  or 
such  a  man  for  my  sake,  and  if  you  will  give  the  attempt 
onely,  whether  you  kill  him  or  no,  I  will  place  you  againe  in 
paradise,  that  there  you  may  remaine  alwayes.  Then  would 
the  party,  witliout  faile,  put  the  same  in  execution,  indeav- 
oring  to  rnurther  all  those  against  whom  the  sayd  olde  man 
had  conceived  any  hatred.  And  therefore  all  the  kings  of  the 
East  stood  in  awe  of  the  sayd  olde  man,  and  gave  unto  him 
great  tribute. 

And  when  the  Tartars  had  subdued  a  great  part  of  the 
world,  they  came  unto  the  sayd  olde  man,  and  tooke  from  him 
the  custody  of  his  paradise  ;  who,  being  incensed  thereat,  sent 
abroad  divers  desperate  and  resolute  persons  out  of  his  fore- 
named  paradise,  and  caused  many  of  the  Tartarian  nobles  to 
be  slain.  The  Tartars,  seeing  this,  went  and  besieged  the 
city  wherein  the  sayd  olde  man  was,  tooke  him,  and  put  him 
to  a  most  cruell  and  ignominious  death. —  Odoricus. 

The  most  particular  account  is  given  by  that  undaunted 
liar,  Sir  John  Maundeville. 

"  Beside  the  YIe  of  Pentexoire,  that  is,  the  Lond  of  Prestro 
John,  is  a  gret  Yle,  long  and  brodc,  that  men  clepcn  Milste- 
rak  ;  and  it  is  in  the  Lordschipe  of  Prestre  John.  In  that  Yle 
is  gret  plcntee  of  godes.  There  was  dwellinge  somotyme  a 
ryclie  man ;  and  it  is  not  long  sithen,  and  men  clept  him  Ca- 
tholonabes ;  and  he  was  full  of  cauteles,  and  of  sotylle  dis- 
ceytes ;  and  had  a  fulle  fair  castelle,  and  a  strong,  in  a  moun- 
tayne,  so  strong  and  so  noble,  that  no  man  cowde  devise  a 
fairere,  ne  a  strengere.  And  he  had  let  muren  all  the  moun- 
tayne  aboute  with  a  stronge  walle  and  a  fair.  And  withinne 
the  walles  he  had  the  fiirest  gardyn  that  ony  man  might  be- 
hold ;  and  therein  were  trees  berynge  all  manner  of  frntes 
that  ony  man  cowde  devyse,  and  therein  were  also  alle  manor 
vertuous  herbes  of  gode  smelle,  and  all  other  herbes  also  that 
beren  fair  floures,  and  he  had  also  in  that  gardyn  many  faire 
Welles,  and  beside  the  welles  he  had  lete  make  faire  hal.'es 
and  faire  chamhres,  depeynted  alle  with  gold  and  azure.  And 
there  weren  in  that  place  many  dyverse  thinges,  and  many  dy- 
verse  stories  ;  andofbestes  and  of  bryddes  that  songcn  fulle  de- 
lectabely,  and  moveden  be  craft  that  it  semede  that  thei  weren 
quyke.  And  he  had  also  in  his  gardyn  all  manor  of  fowles  and 
of  bestes,  that  ony  man  might  thinke  on,  for  to  have  pley  or  de- 
sport  to  beholde  hem.  And  he  had  also  in  that  place,  the  f  lircste 
damyseles  that  mighte  ben  founde  under  the  age  of  15  zero, 
and  the  fairest  zonge  strijilynges  that  men  myghte  goto  of  that 
same  age  ;  and  all  thei  weren  clotlied  in  clothes  of  gold  fully 
rychely,  and  he  seyde  that  tho  weren  angeles.  And  he  had 
also  let  make  three  welles  faire  and  noble  and  all  envyround 
with  ston  of  jaspre,  of  cristalle,  dyapred  with  gold,  and  sett 
with  previous  stones,  and  grete  orient  perles.  And  he  had 
made  a  conduyt  under  erthe,  so  that  the  three  welles,  at  his 
list,  on  scholde  renne  milk,  another  wyn,  and  another  bony, 
and  that  place  he  clept  paradys.  And  whan  that  ony  gode 
knyght,  that  was  hardy  and  noble,  came  to  see  this  Rialtee, 
he  would  lede  him  into  his  paradys,  and  schewen  him  tlieise 
wondirfulle  thinges  to  his  desport,  and  tho  marveyllous  and 
delicious  song  of  dyverse  bryddes,  and  the  faire  damyseles  and 
the  faire  welles  of  iiiylk,  wyn,  and  honey  plenteyons  rennynge. 
And  he  woulde  let  make  dyverse  instruments  of  musick  to 
sownen  in  an  high  tour,  so  merily,  that  it  was  joye  for  to  here, 
and  no  man  scholde  see  the  craft  thereof;  and  tho,  he  sayde, 
weren  Aungeles  of  fJod,  and  that  place  was  paradys,  that 
Goil  had  bchyghte  to  his  friendes,  saying,  Daho  vobis  terram 
fluciitem  lacte  ct  mcllc.  And  thanne  wolde  he  makcn  hem  to 
drynken  of  certoyn  drynk,  whereof  anon  thei  sholden  be 
dronken,  and  thanne  wolde  hem  thinken  gretter  delyt  than 
thei  hadden  before.  And  then  wolde  ho  seye  to  hem, 
that  zif  thei  wolde  dyen  for  him  and  for  his  love,  that 
after  hire  dethe  thei  scholde  come  to  his  paradys,  and 
thei  scholde  ben  of  the  ago  of  the  damyseles,  and  thei 
scholde  pleyen  with  hem  and  zit  ben  maydcnes.     And  after 


BOOK  VIU. 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER, 


287 


Ihat  zit  scliolcic  ho  pulluu  lifiu  in  a  fuyrere  paradys,  where  that 
thoi  scholde  see  God  ot'iiiUure  visilurly  in  his  mnjjestee  and  in 
his  hiissu.  And  than  wolilo  ho  schewe  hem  his  cntent  and 
seye  hem,  that  zif  thei  wolde  go  sin  such  a  lord,  or  such  a  man, 
that  wa*  Ills  eneinyi>,  or  coiitr;uious  to  his  list,  tluit  thei  scholde 
not  dred«  to  don  it,  and  lor  to  be  sliyn  therefore  hemselle  ;  lor 
afiir  hire  detlio  he  wolde  putten  hem  into  another  paradys, 
that  was  an  liundrcd  fold  faircre  than  ony  of  the  tothere  ;  and 
th^re  scholde  thei  dwoUen  with  the  most  fairest  damyseles 
that  mvijlite  be,  and  pley  with  horn  ever  more.  And  thus 
wonten  many  dyvcrse  lusty  bacheleres  fortosle  grete  lords,  in 
dyverse  countrees,  ".hat  weren  his  enemyes,  and  niaden  himself 
*.c  hen  slayn  in  hope  to  have  that  paradys.  And  thus  often 
tyme  ho  w;is  rcven^'ed  of  his  enemyes  by  his  sotylle  discoytes 
and  false  cauteles.  .\nd  whan  the  wortho  men  of  the  contree 
hadden  pcrceyvcd  thi-  sotylle  falshod  of  this  Gatholonabes, 
thei  assend)led  hem  with  Ibrce,  and  assayleden  his  castelle 
and  slowen  him,  and  destroyden  all  the  faire  places,  and  alio 
the  nobletees  of  that  paradys.  The  place  of  the  welles,  and 
of  the  walles,  and  of  many  other  thinjcs,  bene  zitapertly  sene  ; 
but  the  richesse  is  voyded  clcne.  And  it  is  not  long  gon  sitlicn 
that  place  was  destroyed."  —  Sir  John  Maundeeillc. 


"  The  man  who  serves  him  well !  "  —  27,  p.  284. 

Let  the  royal  apparel  bo  brought  which  the  king  useth  to 
wear,  and  the  horse  that  the  king  ridcth  upon,  and  the  crown- 
royal  which  is  set  upon  his  head. 

And  let  this  apparel  and  horse  bK  delivered  to  the  hand  of 
one  of  the  king's  most  noble  princes,  that  they  may  array  the 
man  withal  whom  the  king  deliglitoth  to  honor,  and  bring 
him  on  horseback  through  the  street  of  the  city,  and  proclaim 
before  him.  Thus  shall  it  bo  done  to  the  man  whom  the  king 
delighteth  to  honor.  — Esther,  vi.  8,  9. 


TaJce  me  then  to  Mecca  .'  —  29,  p.  285. 

The  Sheik  Kotbeddin  discusses  the  question,  whether  it  be, 
upon  the  whole,  an  advantage  or  disadvantage  to  live  at 
Mecca  ;  for  all  doctors  agree,  that  good  works  performed  there 
have  double  the  merit  which  they  would  have  any  where  else. 
He  therefore  inquires,  whether  the  guilt  of  sins  must  not  be 
augmented  in  a  like  proportion.  —  J\i'oticcs  des  MSS.  de  la 
Bibl.  J^at.  t.  4.  541. 


THE  EIGHTH  BOOK 


Quas  potiiis  decuit  nostra  te  inferre  sepulchre 

Petronilla,  tibi  spargirmis  has  lacrimas. 
Spar^imus  has  lacrimas  mmsti  monumciita  parentis,  — 

Kt  tibi  pro  thalamo  stcrnimiis  hnnr,  lumulum. 
Sperabam  trenitnr  t^das  prwfe-rre  jii gales, 

Kt  titulo  patris  jungere  numcn  avi ; 
Heu !  gener  est  Orcus ;  quiqiie,  0  dulcissima  ■  per  te 

Se  sperabat  avum,  desinit  esse  pater. 

JOACH.  BeLLAICS. 


WOMAN. 

Go  not  among  the  Tombs,  Old  Man  ! 
There  is  a  madman  there. 

OLD    MAN. 

Will  he  harm  me  if  1  go .' 

■WOMAN. 

Not  he,  poor  miserable  man  ! 
But  'tis  a  wretched  sight  to  see 


His  utter  wretchedness. 

For  all  day  long  he  lies  on  a  grave, 

And  never  is  he  seen  to  weep, 

And  never  is  he  heard  to  groan. 

Nor  even  at  the  hour  of  prayer 

Bends  his  knee  nor  moves  his  lips. 

I  have  taken  him  food  for  charity, 

And  never  a  word  he  spake ; 

But  yet  so  ghastly  he  look'd, 

Tliat  I  have  awaken'd  at  night 

With  the  dream  of  his  ghastly  eyes. 

Now,  go  not  among  the  Tombs,  Old  Man  '. 

OLD    MAN. 

Wherefore  has  the  wrath  of  God 
So  sorely  stricken  him  ? 

WOMAN. 

He  came  a  stranger  to  the  land. 

And  did  good  service  to  the  Sultan, 

And  well  his  service  was  rewarded. 

The  Sultan  named  him  next  himself. 

And  gave  a  palace  for  his  dwelling. 

And  dower'd  his  bride  with  rich  domains. 

But  on  his  wedding  night 

There  came  the  Angel  of  Death. 

Since  that  hour,  a  man  distracted 

Among  the  scpulclircs  he  wanders. 

The  Sultan,  when  he  heard  the  tale. 

Said  that  for  some  untold  crime, 

.Judgment  thus  had  stricken  him. 

And  asking  Heaven  forgiveness 

That  he  had  shown  him  favor, 

Abandon'd  him  to  want. 

OLD    MAN. 

A  Stranger  did  you  say  ! 

WOMAN. 

An  Arab  born,  like  you. 

But  go  not  among  the  Tombs, 

For  the  sight  of  his  wretchedness 

Might  make  a  hard  heart  ache  ! 

OLD    MAN. 

Nay,  nay,  I  never  yet  have  shunn  d 

A  countryman  in  distress ; 

And  the  sound  of  his  dear  native  tongue 

May  be  like  the  voice  of  a  friend. 


Then  to  the  Sepulchre 

Whereto  she  pointed  him, 

Old  Moath  bent  his  way. 

By  the  tomb  lay  Thalaba, 

In  the  light  of  the  settinjr  eve  ; 

The  sun,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain. 

Had  rusted  his  raven  locks ; 

His  cheeks  were  fallen  in. 

His  face-bones  prominent; 

Reclined  against  the  tomb  he  lay, 

And  his  lean  fingers  play'd. 

Unwitting,  with  the  grass  that  grew  beside. 


28S 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    VIII. 


TJie  Old  Man  know  him  not, 

But  drawing  near  him,  said, 

"  Countryman,  peace  be  with  thee  !  " 

The  sound  of  liis  d<nir  native  tongue 

Awaken'd  Tiialaba; 

He  raised  his  countenance, 

And  saw  the  good  Old  Man, 

And  he  arose  and  fMl  ujjon  his  neck. 

And  groan'd  in  bitterness. 

Then  Moath  knew  tlie  youth. 

And  fear'd  that  he  was  childless;  and  he  turn'd 

His  asking  eyes,  and  pointed  to  the  tomb. 

"  Old  Man  I  "  cried  Thalaba, 

"  Thy  search  is  ended  here  !  " 


The  father's  cheek  grew  white, 

And  his  lip  quivcr'd  with  the  misery ; 

Howbeit,  collectedly,  with  painful  voice 

He  answer'd,  "  God  is  good  I    His  will  be  done  !  " 

5. 

The  woe  in  which  he  spake, 

The  resignation  that  inspired  his  speech, 

They  soften'd  Thalaba. 

"Thou  hast  a  solace  in  thy  grief,"  he  cried, 

"  A  comforter  within ! 

Moath  !  thou  seest  me  here, 

Deliver'd  to  the  Evil  Powers, 

A  God-abandon'd  wretch." 


The  Old  Man  look'd  at  him  incredulous. 

"  Nightly,"  the  youth  pursued, 

"  Thy  daughter  comes  to  drive  me  to  despair. 

Moath,  thou  thinkest  me  mad  ; 

But  when  the  Crier  from  the  Minaret 

Proclaims  the  midnight  hour. 

Hast  thou  a  heart  to  see  her .' ' ' 


In  the  Meidan  now 

The  clang  of  clarions  and  of  drums 

Accompanied  the  Sun's  descent. 

"  Dost  thou  not  pray,  my  son  ? ' ' 

Said  Moath,  as  ho  saw 

The  white  flag  waving  on  the  neighboring  Mosque  : 

Then  Thalaba's  eye  grew  wild 

"  Pray  !  "  echoed  he,  "  I  must  not  pray  !  " 

And  the  hollow  groan  he  gave 

Went  to  the  Old  Man's  heart. 

And  bowing  down  his  face  to  earth, 

In  fervent  agony  he  call'd  on  God. 


A  night  of  darkness  and  of  storms  ! 

Into  the  Chamber  of  the  Tomb, 

Thalaba  led  the  Old  Man, 

To  roof  him  from  the  rain. 

A  night  of  storms  !  the  wind 

Swept  through  the  moonless  sky, 

And  moan'd  among  the  pillar'd  sepulchres ; 

And  in  the  pauses  of  its  sweep 

They  heard  the  heavy  rain 


Beat  OH' the  monument  above. 

In  silence  on  Oneiza's  grave 

Her  Father  and  her  husband  sat. 

9. 

The  Crier  from  the  Minaret 

Proclaim'd  the  midnight  hour. 

"  Now,  now  !  "  cried  Thalaba; 

And  o'er  the  chamber  of  the  tomb 

There  spread  a  lurid  gleam. 

Like  the  reflection  of  a  sulphur  fire ; 

And  in  that  hideous  light 

Oneiza  stood  before  them.     It  was  She,  — 

Her  very  lineaments,  —  and  such  as  death 

Had  changed  them,  livid  cheeks,  and  lips  of  blue; 

But  in  her  eyes  there  dwelt 

Brightness  more  terrible 

Than  all  the  loathsomeness  of  death. 

"  Still  art  thou  living,  wretch  ?  " 

In  hollow  tones  she  cried  to  Thalaba ; 

"  And  must  I  nightly  leave  my  grave 

To  tell  thee,  still  in  vain, 

God  hath  abandon'd  thee .'  " 

10. 

"  This  is  not  she  !  "  the  Old  Man  exclaim'd  ; 

"  A  Fiend  ;  a  manifest  Fiend  !  " 

And  to  the  youth  he  held  his  lance ; 

"  Strike  and  deliver  thyself!  " 

"  Strike  her!  "  cried  Thalaba, 

And,  palsied  of  all  power, 

Gazed  fixedly  upon  the  dreadful  form. 

"  Yea,  strike  her  I  "  cried  a  voice,  whose  tones 

Flow'd  with   such    sudden   healing   through   his 

soul, 

As  when  the  desert  shower 

From  death  deliver'd  him  ; 

But,  unobedicnt  to  that  well-known  voice, 

His  eye  was  socking  it, 

When  Moath,  firm  of  heart, 

Ferform'd  the  bidding  :  through  the  vampire  corpse 

He  thrust  his  lance  ;  it  fell, 

And,  howling  with  the  wound. 

Its  fiendish  tenant  fled. 

A  sapphire  light  fell  on  them. 

And  garmented  with  glory,  in  their  sight 

Oneiza's  Spirit  stood. 

11. 

"O  Thalaba!"  she  cried, 

"  Abandon  not  thyself! 

Wouldst  thou  forever  lose  me  .'  —  O  my  husband. 

Go  and  fulfil  thy  quest. 

That  in  the  Bowers  of  Paradise 

I  may  not  look  for  thee 

In  vain,  nor  wait  thee  long." 

12. 

To  Moath  then  the  Spirit 

Turn'd  the  dark  lustre  of  her  heavenly  eyes  • 

"  Short  is  thy  destined  path, 

O  my  dear  Father  !  to  the  abode  of  bliss. 

Return  to  Araby ; 

There  with  the  thought  of  death 

Comfort  thy  lonelv  age, 


BOOK  VIII.                        TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                                   289 

And  Azrael,  the  Deliverer,  soon 

Compassion  ;  and  his  words 

Will  visit  thee  in  peace." 

Of  pity  and  of  piety 

Open'd  the  young  man's  heart. 

13. 

And  he  told  all  his  tale. 

They  stood  with  earnest  eyes, 

And  arms  outreaching,  when  again 

17. 

The  darkness  closed  around  them. 

•'  Repine  not,  0  my  Son  !  "  the  Old  Man  replied. 

The  soul  of  Thalaba  revived  ; 

"That  Heaven  hath  chasten' d  thee.     Behold  this 

He  from  the  floor  his  quiver  took, 

vine: 

And  as  he  bent  the  bow,  exclaim'd. 

I  found  it  a  wild  tree,  whose  wanton  strength 

"  Was  it  the  overruling  Providence 

Had  swollen  into  irregular  twigs 

That  in  the  hour  of  frenzy  led  my  hands 

And  bold  excrescences. 

Instinctively  to  this .' 

And  spent  itself  in  leaves  and  little  rings. 

To-morrow,  and  the  sun  shall  brace  anew 

So,  in  the  flourish  of  its  outwardness, 

The  slacken'd  cord,  that  now  sounds  loose  and 

Wasting  the  sap  and  strength 

damp  ; 

That  should  have  given  forth  fruit. 

To-morrow,  and  its  livelier  tone  will  sing 

But  when  I  pruned  the  plant. 

In  tort  vibration  to  the  arrow's  flight. 

Then  it  grew  temperate  in  its  vain  expense 

1  —  but  I  also,  with  recovered  health 

Of  useless  leaves,  and  knotted,  as  thou  seest, 

Of  heart,  shall  do  my  duty. 

Into  these  full,  clear  clusters,  to  repay 

My  Father!  here  I  leave  thee  then  !  "  he  cried. 

The  hand  that  wisely  wounded  it. 

"  And  not  to  meet  again. 

Repine  not,  O  my  Son  ! 

Till,  at  the  gate  of  Paradise, 

In  wisdom  and  in  mercy  Heaven  inflicts 

The  eternal  union  of  our  joys  commence. 

Its  painful  remedies." 

We  parted  last  in  darkness  !  "  —  and  the  youth 

Thought  with  what  other  hopes; 

18. 

But  now  his  heart  was  calm, 

Then  pausing,  —  "  Whither  goest  thou  now .'  "  he 

For  on  his  soul  a  heavenly  hope  had  dawn'd. 

ask'd. 

"  I  know  not,"  answered  Thalaba- 

14. 

"  My  purpose  is  to  hold 

The  Old  Man  answered  nothing,  but  he  held 

Straight  on,  secure  of  this, 

His  garment,  and  to  the  door 

That,  travel  where  I  will,  I  cannot  stray, 

Of  the  Tomb  Chamber  followed  him. 

For  Destiny  will  lead  my  course  aright." 

The  rain  had  ceased ;  the  sky  was  wild, 

# 

Its  black  clouds  broken  by  the  storm. 

19. 

And,  lo  !  it  chanced,  that  in  the  chasm 

"  Far  be  from  me,"  the  Old  Man  replied. 

Of  Heaven  between,  a  star. 

"  To  shake  that  pious  confidence ; 

Leaving  along  its  path  continuous  light. 

And  yet,  if  knowledge  may  be  gain'd,  methinks 

Shot  eastward.    "  See  my  guide  !  "  quoth  Thalaba  ; 

Thy  course  should  be  to  seek  it  painfully. 

And  turning,  he  received 

In  Kaf  the  Simorg  liath  his  dwelling-place. 

Old  Moath's  last  embrace, 

The  all-knowing  Bird  of  Ages,  who  hath  seen 

And  the  last  blessing  of  the  good  Old  Man. 

The  World,  with  all  its  children,  thrice  destroy 'd. 

Long  is  the  path. 

15. 

And  difficult  the  way,  of  danger  full ; 

Evening  was  drawing  nigh. 

But  that  unerring  Bird 

When  an  old  Dervise,  sitting  in  the  sun 

Could  to  a  certain  end 

At  the  cell  door,  invited  for  the  night 

Direct  thy  weary  search." 

The  traveller  ;    in  the  sun 

He  spread  the  plain  repast. 

20. 

Rice  and  fresh  grapes ;  and  at  their  feet  there  flow'd 

Easy  assent  the  youth 

The  brook  of  which  they  drank. 

Gave  to  the  words  of  wisdom;  and  behold. 

At  dawn,  the  adventurer  on  his  way  to  Kaf 

16. 

And  he  hath  travelled  many  a  day 

So  as  they  sat  at  meal. 

And  many  a  river  swum  over. 

With  song,  with  music,  and  with  dance, 

And  many  a  mountain  ridge  hath  cross'd, 

A  wedding  train  went  by  ; 

And  many  a  measureless  plain ; 

The  deep-veil'd  bride,  the  female  slaves, 

And  now,  amid  the  wilds  advanced, 

The  torches  of  festivity. 

Long  is  it  since  his  eyes 

And  trump  and  timbrel  merriment 

Have  seen  the  trace  of  man. 

Accompanied  their  way. 

The  good  old  Dervise  gave 

21. 

A  blessing  as  they  past ; 

Cold  !  cold  !  'tis  a  chilly  clime 

But  Thalaba  look'd  on. 

That  the  youth  in  his  journey  hath  reach'd, 

And  breathed  a  low,  deep  groan,  and  hid  his  face. 

And  he  is  aweary  now. 

The  Dervise  had  known  sorrow,  and  he  felt 
37 

And  faint  for  lack  of  food. 

2'JO                                  TliALABA    THE 

DESTROYER.                        book  viii 

Cold  !  cold  !  there  is  no  Sun  in  heaven  ; 

In  low,  sweet  tones  to  sing. 

A  heavy  and  uniform  cloud 

The  unintelligible  song. 

Overspreads  the  face  of  the  sky, 

And  tlie  snows  are  beginning  to  fall. 

2G. 

Dost  thou  wisli  for  thy  deserts,  O  Son  of  Hodeirah  ? 

The  thread  she  spun  it  gleam'd  like  gold 

Dost  thou  long  for  the  gales  of  Arabia  ? 

In  the  light  of  the  odorous  fire  ; 

Cold  !  cold  !  his  blood  flovs's  languidly, 

Yet  was  it  so  wondrously  thin. 

His  hands  are  red,  his  lips  are  blue, 

That,  save  when  it  shone  in  the  light, 

His  feet  are  sore  with  the  frost. 

You  might  look  for  it  closely  in  vain. 

Cheer  thee  !  cheer  thee  !  Thalaba  ! 

The  youth  sat  watching  it, 

A  little  yet  bear  up  ! 

And  she  observed  his  wonder. 

And  then  again  she  spake, 

22. 

And  still  her  speech  was  song : 

All  waste  !  no  sign  of  life 

"  Now  twine  it  round  thy  hands,  I  say, 

But  the  track  of  the  wolf  and  the  bear  ! 

Now  twine  it  round  thy  hands,  I  pray  ; 

No  sound  but  the  wild,  wild  vt'ind. 

My  thread  is  small,  my  thread  is  fine, 

And  the  snow  crunching  under  his  feet ! 

But  he  must  be 

Night  is  come  ;  neither  moon,  nor  stars. 

A  stronger  than  thee. 

Only  the  light  of  the  snow  ! 

Who  can  break  this  thread  of  mine  !  " 

But  behold  a  fire  in  a  cave  of  the  hill, 

A  heart-reviving  fire ; 

27. 

And  thither,  with  strength  renew'd, 

And  up  she  raised  her  bright  blue  eyes, 

Thalaba  presses  on. 

And  sweetly  she  smiled  on  him, 

And  he  conceived  no  ill  ; 

23. 

And  round  and  round  his  right  hand, 

He  found  a  Woman  in  the  cave, 

And  round  and  round  his  left, 

A  solitary  Woman, 

He  wound  the  thread  so  fine. 

Who  by  the  fire  was  spinning, 

And  then  again  the  Woman  spake, 

And  singing  as  she  spun. 

And  still  her  speech  was  song : 

The  pine  boughs  were  cheerfully  blazing. 

"  Now  thy  strength,  0  Stranger,  strain  ' 

And  her  face  was  bright  with  the  flame  ; 

Now  then  break  the  slender  chain." 

Her  face  was  as  a  Damsel's  face. 

And  yet  her  hair  was  gray. 

28. 

She  bade  him  welcome  with  a  smile, 

Thalaba  strove  ;  but  the  thread 

And  still  continued  spinning. 

By  magic  hands  was  spun. 

And  singing  as  she  spun. 

And  in  his  cheek  the  flush  of  shame 

The  thread  the  woman  drew 

Arose,  coifflnix'd  with  fear. 

Was  finer  than  the  silkworm's, 

She  beheld,  and  laugh'd  at  him, 

Was  finer  than  the  gossamer ; 

And  then  again  she  sung  : 

The  song  she  sung  was  low  and  sweet, 

"  My  thread  is  small,  my  thread  is  fine. 

But  Thalaba  knew  not  the  words. 

But  he  must  be 

A  stronger  than  thee. 

24. 

Who  can  break  this  thread  of  mine !  " 

He  laid  his  bow  before  the  hearth, 

For  the  string  was  frozen  stiff; 

29. 

He  took  the  quiver  from  his  neck. 

And  up  she  raised  her  bright  blue  eyes, 

For  the  arrow-plumes  were  iced. 

And  fiercely  she  smiled  on  him : 

Then,  as  the  cheerful  fire 

"  I  thank  thee,  I  thank  llicc,  Hodeirah's  son  ! 

Revived  his  languid  limbs, 

I  thank  thee  for  doing  what  can't  be  undone. 

The  adventurer  ask'd  for  food. 

For  binding  thyself  in  the  chain  I  have  spun. 

The  Woman  answer'd  him, 

Then  from  his  head  she  wrench'd 

And  still  her  speech  was  song : 

A  lock  of  his  raven  hair. 

"  The  She  Bear  she  dwells  near  to  me, 

And  cast  it  in  the  fire, 

And  she  hath  cubs,  one,  two,  and  three  ; 

And  cried  aloud  as  it  burnt. 

She  hunts  the  deer,  and  brings  him  here, 

"  Sister !    Sister  !    hear  my  voice  ! 

And  then  with  her  I  make  good  cheer ; 

Sister !    Sister  !  come  and  rejoice  ! 

And  now  to  the  chase  the  She  Bear  is  gone. 

The  thread  is  spun. 

And  she  with  her  prey  will  be  here  anon." 

The  prize  is  won. 

The  work  is  done. 

25. 

For  1  have  made  captive  Hodeirah's  Son.' 

She  ceased  her  spinning  while  she  spake ; 

And  when  she  had  answer'd  him. 

30. 

Again  her  fingers  twirl'd  the  thread, 

Borne  in  her  magic  car 

And  again  the  Woman  began, 

The  Sister  Sorceress  came, 

BOOK    VIII. 


NOTES    TO    TIIALABA    THE    DCSTROYER, 


21}J 


Khawla,  the  fiercest  of  the  Sorcerer  brood 

She  gazed  upon  the  youth ; 

She  bade  him  break  the  slender  thread ; 

She  laugh'd  aloud  for  scorn; 

She  clapp'd  her  hands  for  joy. 

31. 

The  She  Bear  from  the  chase  came  in  ; 

She  bore  the  prey  in  her  bloody  mouth ; 

She  laid  it  at  Mainiuna's  feet; 

And  then  look'd  up  with  wistl'ul  eyes, 

As  if  to  ask  her  share. 

"  There  !    There  !  "  quoth  Maimuna, 

And  pointing  to  the  prisoner-youth, 

She  spurn'd  him  witii  her  foot, 

And  bade  her  make  her  meal. 

But  then  their  mockery  fail'd  them, 

And  anger  and  shame  arose  ; 

For  the  She  Bear  fiiwn'd  on  Thalaba, 

And  quietly  lick'd  his  hand. 

32. 

The  gray-hair'd  Sorceress  stamp'd  the  ground, 

And  call'd  a  Spirit  up; 

"  Shall  we  bear  tlie  Enemy 

To  the  dungeon  dens  below  ?  " 

SPIRIT. 

Woe  !  woe  !  to  our  Empire  woe  I 
If  ever  he  tread  the  caverns  below. 

MAIMUNA. 

Shall  we  leave  him  fetter'd  here 
With  hunger  and  cold  to  die  ? 

SPIRIT. 

Away  from  thy  lonely  dwelling  fly  ! 

Here  I  see  a  danger  nigh, 

That  he  should  live,  and  thou  shouldst  die. 

MAIMUNA. 

Whither  then  must  we  bear  the  foe  ? 

SPIRIT. 

To  Mohareb's  island  go; 

There  shalt  thou  secure  the  foe, 

There  prevent  thy  future  woe. 

33. 
Then  in  the  Car  they  threw 

The  fetter'd  Thalaba, 

And  took  their  seats,  and  set 

Their  feet  upon  his  neck ; 

Maimuna  held  the  reins, 

And  Khawla  shook  the  scourcre, 

And  away  !  away  !  away  ! 

34. 

They  were  no  steeds  of  mortal  race 

That  drew  tiie  magic  car 

With  the  swiftness  of  feet  and  of  wings. 

The  snow-dust  rises  behind  them  ; 

The  ice-rock's  splinters  fly  ; 

And  hark,  in  the  valley  below 

The  sound  of  their  chariot  wheels, — 

And  they  are  far  over  the  mountains ! 


Away  !  away  !  away  ! 

The  Demons  of  the  air 

Shout  their  joy  as  the  Sisters  pass  ; 

The  Ghosts  of  the  Wicked  that  wander  by  night 

Flit  over  the  magic  car. 

35. 

Away  !  away  !  away  ! 

Over  the  hills  and  the  plains. 

Over  the  rivers  and  rocks. 

Over  the  sands  of  the  shore 

The  waves  of  ocean  heave 

Under  the  magic  steeds  ; 

With  uuwet  hoofs  they  trample  the  deep, 

And  now  they  reach  the  Island  coast, 

And  away  to  the  city  the  Monarch's  abode. 

Open  fly  the  city  gates. 

Open  fly  the  iron  doors. 

The  doors  of  the  palace-court. 

Tiien  stopp'd  the  charmed  car. 

3fi. 

The  Monarch  heard  the  chariot  wheels. 

And  forth  he  came  to  greet 

The  mistress  whom  he  served. 

He  knew  the  captive  youth, 

And  Thalaba  beheld 

Mohareb  in  the  robes  of  royalty, 

Whom  erst  his  arm  had  thrust 

Down  the  bitumen  pit. 


NOTES  TO   BOOK   VIII. 

"  But  when  the  Crier  from  the  Minaret,"  &c.  —  G,  p.  288. 

As  the  celestial  Apostle,  at  his  retreat  from  Medina,  did  not 
perform  always  the  five  canonic  il  prayers  at  tlie  precise  time, 
his  disciples,  who  often  neglected  to  join  with  liim  in  the  JVu- 
maz,  assembled  one  day  to  lix  upon  some  method  of  announ- 
cing to  the  public  those  moments  of  the  day  and  night  when 
their  master  discharged  tliis  tirst  of  religious  duties.  Flags, 
bulls,  trumpets,  and  fire,  were  successively  proposed  as  sig- 
nals. None  of  these,  however,  were  admitted.  The  flags 
were  rejected  as  unsuited  to  the  sanctity  of  the  object ;  the 
bells,  on  account  of  their  being  used  by  Christians  ;  the  trum- 
pets, as  appropriated  to  the  Hebrew  worship  ;  the  fires,  as 
having  too  near  an  nnnlogy  to  the  religion  of  the  pyrolators. 
From  this  contrariety  of  opinions,  the  disciples  separated 
without  any  determination.  But  one  of  them,  MhiUah  ihn 
Zeid  Abderye,  saw,  tlie  night  fullowing,  in  a  dream,  a  celestial 
being,  clothed  in  green :  he  immediately  requested  his  advice, 
with  the  most  zealous  earnestness,  respecting  the  object  in 
dispute.  I  am  come  to  inform  you,  rejilied  the  heavenly  vis- 
itor, how  to  discharge  this  important  duty  of  your  religion. 
He  then  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  declared  the 
Ezann  with  a  loud  voice,  and  in  the  same  words  which  have 
been  ever  since  used  to  declare  the  canonical  periods.  When 
he  awoke,  AhduUaii  ran  to  declare  his  vision  to  the  iirophet, 
who  loaded  him  with  blessings,  and  authorized  that  moment 
BHal  llabeschij,  another  of  his  disciples,  to  discharge,  on  the 
top  of  his  house,  that  august  odice,  by  the  title  ofMiiezzinii. 

These  are  the  words  of  the  Ezann:  Mo<t  hi^h  God!  viont 
hiirk  God.'  iriost  hi^h  Ood!  I  acknowledge  that  there  is  no  other 
except  God;  I  acknowledrre  thai  there  is  no  other  eicrjil  God! 
f  acl;nou>!edne  l/iat  Mohammed  )'.•;  tlie  Prophet  nf  God!  eome  to 
prayer!  come  to  prayer !  come  to  the  temple  of  salvation.  Great 
God !  Great  God!  there  is  no  God  ercepl  God. 

This  declaration  must  be  the  same  for  each  of  the  five 
canonical   periods,   except   that  of  the   morning,  when  tho 


29y 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


BOOK    VIII 


Mu.ci-.inn  ought  to  add,  after  tlie  words,  come  to  the  temple  vf 
salvation,  the  Ibllowing:  prayer  is  to  be  preferred  to  sleep, 
prayer  is  to  be  preferred  to  sleep. 

Tills  addition  was  produced  by  the  zeal  and  piety  of  Bilal 
Haheschy :  as  he  announced,  one  day,  the  Kzann  of  the  dawn 
in  the  prophet's  antechamber,  Aische,  in  a  whippcr,  informed 
liiin,  tliat  the  ceh'stial  envoy  was  still  asleep  ;  this  first  of 
Mueziimis  tlicn  added  these  viords,  prayer  is  tu  be  preferred  to 
sleep  ;  when  he  awoke,  the  prophet  apiilaiidcd  him,  and  com- 
manded Bilal  to  insert  tliern  in  all  the  morning  Eznnns. 

The  words  must  be  chanted,  but  with  deliberation  and 
gravity,  those  particularly  which  constitute  the  profession  of 
the  faith.  The  Miiciziiiii  must  pronounce  them  distinctly  ; 
he  must  pay  more  attention  to  the  articul.ition  of  the  wor<ls 
than  to  the  melody  of  his  voice  ;  he  must  make  jiroper  inter- 
vals and  pauses,  and  not  precipitate  his  words,  hut  let  them  be 
clearly  understood  by  the  peojile.  He  must  be  interrupted 
by  no  other  object  whatever.  During  the  whole  Eiann,  he 
must  stand  with  a  finger  in  each  ear,  and  his  face  turned,  as 
in  prayer,  towards  the  Keabe  of  Mecca.  As  he  utters  these 
words,  come  to  prayer,  come  to  the  temple  of  salvation,  he  must 
turn  liis  face  to  the  right  and  left,  because  he  is  supposed  to 
address  all  the  nations  of  the  world,  the  whole  expanded  uni- 
verse. At  this  time,  the  auditors  must  recite,  with  a  low 
voice,  the  Tehhlil,  —  There  is  no  strength,  there  is  no  power, 
but  what  is  in  God,  in  that  Supreme  lieing,  in  that  powerful 
Being.  —  Z)'  Ohsson . 


Ill  the  Meidan  now,  &c.  —  7,  p.  288. 

In  the  Meidan,  or  great  place  of  the  city  of  Tauris,  there 
are  people  appointed  every  evening  when  the  sun  sets,  and 
every  morning  when  he  rises,  to  make  during  half  an  hour  a 
terrible  concert  of  trumpets  and  drums.  They  are  pliiccd  on 
one  side  of  the  square,  in  a  gallery  somewhat  elevated  ;  and 
the  .same  practice  is  established  in  every  city  in  I'trsia. — 
Tavernier. 


Into  the  Chamber  of  the  Tomb,  &c.  —8,  p.  288. 

If  we  except  a  few  persons,  wlio  are  buried  williin  the  pre- 
cincts of  some  sanctuary,  the  rest  are  carried  out  at  a  distance 
from  their  cities  and  villages,  where  a  great  extent  of  ground 
is  allotted  for  that  purpose.  Each  family  hath  a  particular 
portion  of  it,  walled  in  like  a  garden,  where  the  bones  of  their 
ancestors  have  remained  undisturbed  for  many  generations. 
For  in  these  enclosures  *  the  graves  are  all  distinct  and  sep- 
arate ;  having  each  of  them  a  stone,  ])laced  upright,  both  at 
the  head  and  feet,  inscribed  with  the  name  of  the  person  who 
lieth  there  interred  ;  whilst  the  intermediate  space  i.s  either 
planted  with  flowers,  bordered  round  with  stone,  or  paved  all 
over  with  tiles.  The  graves  of  the  principal  citizens  are 
further  distinguished  by  some  square  chambers  or  cupolas  f 
that  are  built  over  them. 

Now,  as  all  these  different  sorts  of  tombs  and  sepulchres, 
with  the  very  walls  likewise  of  the  enclosures,  are  constantly 
kept  clean,  whitewashed,  and  beautified,  they  continue,  to 
this  day,  to  be  an  excellent  comment  upon  that  expression  of 
our  Savior's,  where  he  mentions  the  garnishing  of  the  sepul- 
chres, and  again,  where  he  compares  the  scribes,  pharisecs, 
and  hypocrites,  to  whited  sqyukhres,  which  indeed  appear  beau- 
tful  outward,  hut  are  within  fall  of  dead  men's  bones  and  all 
unrleanness.  For  the  space  of  two  or  three  months  after  any 
person  is  interred,  the  female  relations  go  once  a  week  to 
weep  over  the  grave,  and  perform  their  parentalia  upon  it.  — 
Shaw. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  town  of  Mylasa  is  a 
sepulchre  of  the  species  called,  by  the  ancients,  Distega,  or 
Double-roofed.  It  consisted  of  two  square  rooms.  In  the 
lower,  which  has  a  door-way,  were  deposited  the  urns,  with 
the  ashes  of  the  deceased.  In  the  ujiper,  the  relations  and 
triends  solemnized  the  anniversary  of  the  funeral,  and  pcr- 

•  They  seem  to  be  tlie  same  with  the  YiepiSoXol  of  the  AnciODts. 
Thus  Euripides,  Troad.  1131 : 

AXA'  avTi  Kc6pov  7rcpiSo\('>v  re  XiiiVwi' 
El/  rrjSc  Satpai  ttjk'o. 
f  Such  places  probably  as  these  are  to  be  understoot!,  when  the  Demo- 
Diack  ii  said  to  have  his  dtcelling  among  the  tombs. 


formed  stated  rites.  A  hole  made  through  tlie  floor  was  de 
signed  for  pouring  libations  of  honey,  milk,  or  wine,  with 
which  it  was  usuti!  to  gratify  the  manes  or  sjiirits. —  Chan 
dier's  Travels  in  jJsi«  Minor. 

St.  Anthony  the  Great  once  retired  to  the  sepulchres  ;  a 
hrotlier  shut  him  in,  in  one  of  the  tombs,  and  regularly 
brought  him  food.  One  day  he  found  the  doors  of  the  tomb 
broken,  and  Anthony  lying  upon  the  ground  as  dead,  the 
devil  had  so  mauled  him.  Once  a  whole  army  of  devils  at- 
tacked him  ;  the  place  was  shaken  from  its  foundation,  the 
walls  were  thrown  down,  and  the  crowd  of  multiform  fiends 
rushed  in.  They  filled  the  place  with  the  shapes  of  lions, 
and  bulls,  and  wolves,  asps,  serpents,  scorpions,  pards,  and 
bears,  yelling  and  howling,  and  threatening,  and  flogging  and 
wounding  him.  The  brave  saint  defied  them,  and  upbraided 
them  for  their  cowardice  in  not  attacking  him  one  to  one,  and 
defended  himself  with  the  sign  of  the  cross.  And  lo,  a  light 
fell  from  above,  which  at  once  put  the  hellish  rabble  to  flight, 
and  healed  his  wounds,  and  strengthened  him  ;  and  the  walls 
of  the  sepulchre  rose  from  their  ruins.  Then  knew  An- 
thony the  presence  of  the  Lord,  and  the  voice  of  Christ  pro- 
ceeded from  the  light  to  comfort  and  applaud  him. 

.^cta  Sanctorum,  torn.  2.  Jan.  17.     P.  123. 
Vita  S.  .^nl.  avctore  S.  Athanasio. 

The  Egyptian  saints  frequently  inhabited  sepulchres.  St. 
James  the  hermit  found  an  old  sepulchre,  made  in  the  form  of 
a  cave,  wherein  many  bones  of  the  dead  had  been  deposited, 
which,  by  length  of  time,  were  now  become  as  dust.  Enter- 
ing there,  he  collected  the  bones  into  a  heap,  and  laid  them  in 
a  corner  of  the  monument,  and  closed  upon  himself  the  old 
door  of  the  cave. 

Acta  Sanct.  torn.  2.  Jaji.  28.     P.  872. 
Vita  S.  Jacobi  EremiUe,  apud  Metaphraslen. 


the  vampire  corpse,  k.c.  —  10,  p.  288. 

In  the  Lcttres  Jnivcs  is  the  following  extract  from  the  Mer- 
cure  Hiiftoriqiie  et  Politique.     Octob.  1736. 

We  have  had  in  this  country  a  new  scene  of  Vampirism, 
which  is  duly  attested  by  two  officers  of  the  Tribunal  of 
Belgrade,  who  look  cognizance  of  the  aflfair  on  the  spot,  and 
by  an  ofiicer  in  his  Imperial  Majesty's  troops  at  Oradisch,  {in 
Sclavonia,)  who  was  an  eye-witness  of  the  proceedings. 

In  the  beginning  of  Septemt)er,  there  died  at  the  village  of 
Ki.silova,  three  leagues  from  Oradisch,  an  old  man  of  above 
threescore  and  two  :  three  days  aflcrhe  was  buried,  he  appeared 
in  the  night  to  his  son,  and  desired  he  would  give  him  some- 
vvhiit  to  eat,  and  then  disappeared.  The  next  day  the  sou  told 
his  neighbors  these  particulars.  That  night  the  father  did 
not  come,  but  the  next  evening  he  made  him  another  visit,  and 
desired  something  to  eat.  It  is  not  known  whether  his  son 
gave  him  any  thing  or  not,  but  the  next  morning  the  young 
man  was  found  deail  in  his  bed.  The  magistrate  or  hailifl^  of 
the  place  had  notice  of  this  ;  as  also  that  the  same  day  five  or 
six  persons  fell  sick  in  the  village,  and  died  one  after  the  other. 
He  sent  an  exact  account  of  this  to  the  tribunal  of  Belgrade, 
and  thereupon  two  commissioners  were  despatched  to  the 
village,  attended  by  an  executioner,  with  instructions  to  ex- 
amine closely  into  the  aflfair.  An  officer  in  the  Imperial  ser- 
vice, from  whom  we  have  this  relation,  went  also  from  Ora- 
di.-<ch,  in  order  to  examine  ))ersonally  an  aflair  of  which  he  had 
heard  so  much.  They  opened,  in  the  first  place,  the  graves  of 
all  who  had  been  buried  in  six  weeks.  When  they  came  to 
that  of  the  old  man,  they  found  his  eyes  open,  his  color 
fresh,  his  respiration  quick  and  strong;  yet  he  appeared  to  be 
stiff  and  insensible.  From  these  signs,  they  concluded  him 
to  be  a  notorious  Vampire.  The  executioner  thereupon,  by 
the  command  of  the  commissioners,  struck  a  stake  Ihrougli 
his  heart ;  and  when  he  had  so  done,  they  made  a  bonfire,  and 
therein  consumed  the  carcass  to  ashes.  There  were  no  marks 
of  Vampirism  foimd  on  his  son,  or  on  the  bodies  of  the  other 
persons  who  died  so  suddenly. 

Thanks  be  to  God,  we  are  as  far  as  any  people  can  bo  from 
giving  into  credulity  ;  we  acknowledge  that  all  the  lights  of 
physic  do  not  enable  us  to  give  any  account  of  this  fact,  nor 
do  we  pretend  to  enter  into  its  causes.  However,  we  cannot 
avoid  giving  credit  to  a  matter  of  fact  juridically  attested  by 
competent  and  unsuspected  witnesses,  especially  since  it  is  far 


BOOK  vin. 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


293 


from  bciii^'  the  only  one  of  the  kind.  We  shall  here  annex 
an  instance  of  the  same  sort  in  1732,  alreaily  inserted  in  the 
Gleaner,  No.  18. 

In  a  certain  town  of  //aii','arij,\vhich  is  called,  in  Latin,  Op- 
■pida  Ucidonum,  on  the  other  side  Tibiscus,  vul^'arly  called  tne 
Ti-ijsse,  that  is  to  say,  the  river  which  waslies  the  celebrated 
territory  of  ToUai/,  as  also  a  part  of  Transylvania,  the  people 
known  hy  the  name  of  JJcijdukcs  believe  that  certain  dead 
persons,  whom  they  call  Vampires,  suck  the  blood  of  the  living, 
insomuch  that  these  people  appear  like  skeletons,  while  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  suckers  are  so  full  of  blood,  that  it  runs 
out  at  all  the  passages  of  their  bodies,  and  even  at  their  very 
pores.  This  old  ojiinion  of  theirs  they  support  by  a  multitude 
of  facts,  attested  in  such  a  manner,  that  they  leave  no  room 
for  doubt.  We  shall  here  mention  some  of  the  most  con- 
siderable. 

It  is  now  about  live  years  ago,  that  a  certain  Ilcijduhe,  an 
inhabitant  of  the  village  of  Medrtiifa,  whose  name  was  Arnold 
I'aul,  was  bruised  to  death  by  a  hay-cart,  which  ran  over  him. 
Thirty  days  after  his  death,  no  less  than  four  persons  died 
suddenly  in  that  manner,  wlierein,  according  to  the  tradition 
of  the  country,  those  jieople  generally  die  who  are  sucked  by 
Vani|)ires.  Upon  this,  a  story  was  called  to  mind  that  this 
Arnold  Paul  had  told  in  his  lifetime,  viz.  that  at  Oissova,  on 
the  frontiers  of  the  Turkish  Servia,  he  had  been  tormented  by 
a  Vampire  ;  (now  the  established  opinion  is,  that  a  person 
sucked  by  a  Vampire  becomes  a  Vampire  himself,  and  sucks 
in  his  turn  ;)  but  that  he  had  found  a  way  to  ridliimself  of  this 
evil  by  eating  some  of  the  earth  out  of  the  Vampire's  grave, 
and  rubl)ing  Iiiniself  with  his  blood.  This  precaution,  how- 
ever, did  not  hinder  his  becoming  a  Vampire  ;  insomuch,  that 
his  body  being  taken  up  forty  days  after  his  death,  all  the 
marks  of  a  notorious  Vampire  were  found  thereon.  His  com- 
plexion was  fresh,  his  hair,  nails,  and  beard  were  grown  ;  he 
was  full  of  fluid  blood,  which  ran  from  all  parts  of  his  body 
upon  his  shroud.  The  Hadnagy  or  Bailiff  of  the  place,  who 
was  a  person  well  acquainted  with  Vampirism,  caused  a  sharp 
stake  to  be  thrust,  as  the  custom  is,  tlirough  the  heart  of 
Arnold  Paul,  and  also  quite  through  his  body  ;  whereupon  he 
cried  out  dreadfully,  as  if  he  had  been  alive.  This  done,  they 
cut  off  Ills  head,  burnt  his  body,  and  threw  the  ashes  thereof 
into  the  Saave.  They  took  the  same  measures  with  the  bodies 
of  those  persons  who  had  died  of  Vam|)irisni,  for  fear  that  tliey 
should  fall  to  sucking  in  their  turns. 

All  these  prudent  steps  did  not  hinder  the  same  mischief 
from  breaking  out  again  about  five  years  afterwards,  when 
several  people  in  the  same  village  died  in  a  very  odd  manner. 
In  the  space  of  three  months,  seventeen  persons  of  all  ages 
and  sexes  died  of  Vampirism,  some  suddenly,  and  some  after 
two  or  three  days'  suffering.  Amongst  others,  there  was  one 
Stxinoska,  the  daughter  of  a  Ilnjdiikc,  whose  name  v/asjovitio, 
who,  going  to  bed  in  perfect  health,  waked  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  and  making  a  terrible  outcry  affirmed,  that  the  son 
of  a  certain  HeijdukF.,  whose  name  was  Millo,  and  who  had 
been  dead  about  three  weeks,  had  attempted  to  strangle  her  in 
her  sleep.  She  continued  from  that  time  in  a  languishing 
condition,  and  in  the  space  of  three  days  died.  What  this 
girl  had  said,  discovered  the  son  of  JUillo  to  be  a  Vampire. 
They  took  up  the  body,  and  found  him  so  in  effect.  The 
principal  persons  of  the  place,  particularly  the  physician  and 
surgeons,  began  to  examine  very  narrowly,  how,  in  spite  of  all 
their  precautions.  Vampirism  had  again  broke  out  in  so  terri- 
ble a  manner.  After  a  strict  inquisition,  they  found  that  the 
deceased  Arnold  Paul  had  not  only  sucked  tlie  four  persons 
before  mentioned,  but  likewise  several  beasts,  of  whom  the 
new  Vampires  had  eaten,  particularly  tlie  son  of  Milln.  In- 
duc''d  by  these  circumstances,  they  took  a  resolution  of  dig- 
ging up  the  bodies  of  all  persons  who  had  died  within  a  certain 
time.  They  did  so,  and  amongst  forty  bodies,  there  were 
found  seventeen  evidently  Vampires.  Through  the  hearts  of 
these  they  drove  stakes,  cut  off  their  heads,  liurnt  their  bodies, 
and  threw  the  ashes  into  the  river.  All  the  informations  we 
have  been  speaking  of  were  taken  in  a  legal  way,  and  all  the 
executions  were  so  performed,  as  appears  by  certificates  drawn 
up  in  full  form,  attested  by  several  officers  in  the  neighboring 
garrisons,  by  the  surgeons  of  several  regiments,  and  the  prin- 
cipal inhabitants  of  the  place.  The  verbal  process  was  sent 
towards  the  latter  end  of  last  January,  to  the  council  of  war 
at  Vienna,  who  thereupon  established  u  special  commission  to 


examine  into  these  facts.  Those  just  now  mentioned  were 
attested  by  the  Iladnagi  Barriarer,  the  principal  Jleijduki  of 
the  village,  as  also  by  Buttiicr,  first  lieutenant  of  prince  Alex- 
ander of  Wirlembcrg,  Ii'licksieiiger,  surgeon-major  of  the  regi- 
ment of  Furstemherg,  three  other  surgeons  of  the  same  re- 
giment, and  several  other  persons. 

This  superstition  extends  to  Greece. 

The  man,  whose  story  we  are  going  to  relate,  was  a  peasant 
of  Wycone,  naturally  ill-natured  and  quarrelsome  ;  this  is  a 
circu]nstance  to  be  taken  notice  of  in  such  cases.  He  was 
murdered  in  the  fields,  nobody  knew  how,  or  by  whom.  Two 
days  after  his  being  buried  in  a  chapel  in  the  town,  it  was 
noised  about  that  he  was  seen  to  walk  in  the  night  with  great 
haste,  that  he  tumbled  about  people's  goods,  put  out  their 
lamps,  grijjcd  them  behind,  and  a  thousand  other  monkey 
tricks.  At  first  the  story  was  received  with  laughter ;  but  the 
thing  was  looked  upon  to  be  serious  when  the  better  sort  of 
people  began  to  complain  of  it ;  the  Pajias  themselves  gave 
credit  to  the  fact,  and  no  doubt  had  their  reasons  for  so  doing  ; 
masses  nuist  be  said,  to  be  sure  :  but  for  all  this,  the  peasant 
drove  bis  old  trade,  and  heeded  nothing  they  could  do.  Af\er 
divers  meetings  of  the  chief  people  of  the  city,  of  priests,  and 
monks,  it  was  gravely  concluded,  that  it  was  necessary,  in 
consequence  of  some  musty  ceremonial,  to  wait  till  nine  days 
after  the  interment  should  he  expired. 

On  the  tenth  day,  they  said  one  mass  in  tlie  chapel  where 
the  body  was  laid,  in  order  to  drive  out  the  Demon  which 
they  imagined  was  got  into  it.  After  mass,  they  took  up  the 
body,  and  got  every  thing  ready  for  pulling  out  its  heart. 
The  butcher  of  the  town,  an  old  clumsy  fellow,  firstopens  the 
belly  instead  of  the  breast ;  he  groped  a  long  while  among  the 
entrails,  but  could  not  find  what  he  looked  for;  at  last, some- 
body told  him  he  should  cut  up  the  diaphragm.  The  heart 
was  then  pulled  out,  to  the  admiration  of  all  the  spectators. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  corjjse  stunk  so  abominably,  that  they 
were  oblig<>d  to  burn  frankincense  ;  but  the  smoke  mixing 
with  the  exhalations  from  the  carcass,  increased  the  stink, 
and  began  to  muddle  the  poor  people's  jiericranies.  Their 
imagination,  struck  with  the  spectacle  before  them,  grew  full 
of  visions.  It  came  into  tlieir  noddles  that  a  tliick  smoke  came 
out  of  the  body  ;  we  durst  not  say  it  was  the  smoke  of  the 
incense.  They  were  incessantly  bawling  out  Vroucolacas,  in 
the  chapel,  and  place  before  it ;  this  is  the  name  they  give  to 
these  pretended  Kedivivi.  The  noise  bellowed  through  the 
streets,  and  it  seemed  to  be  a  name  invented  on  purpose  to 
rend  the  roof  of  the  chapel.  Several  there  present  averred, 
that  the  wretch's  blood  was  extremely  red  ;  the  butcher  swore 
the  body  was  still  warm  ;  whence  they  concluded  that  the 
deceased  was  a  very  ill  man  for  not  being  thoroughly  dead, 
or,  in  plain  terms,  for  sufl'ering  himself  to  be  reanimated  by 
Old  Nick  ;  which  is  the  notion  they  have  of  Vroucolacas. 
They  then  roared  out  that  name  in  a  stupendous  manner. 
Just  at  this  time  came  in  a  flock  of  people,  loudly  protesting, 
they  plainly  perceived  the  body  was  not  grown  stiff,  when  it 
was  carried  from  the  fields  to  church  to  be  buried,  and  that 
consequently  it  was  a  true  Vroucolacas  ;  which  word  was 
still  the  burden  of  the  song. 

I  don't  doubt  they  would  have  sworn  it  did  not  stink,  had 
not  we  been  there  ;  so  mazed  were  the  poor  people  with  this 
disaster,  and  so  infiituated  with  their  notion  of  the  dead  being 
reanimated.  As  for  us,  who  were  got  as  close  to  the  corpse 
as  we  could,  that  we  might  be  more  exact  in  our  observations, 
we  were  almost  poisoned  with  the  intolerable  stink  that  issued 
from  it.  When  they  asked  us  what  we  thought  of  this  body, 
we  told  them  we  believed  it  to  be  very  thoroughly  dead.  Hut 
as  we  were  willing  to  cure,  or  lit  least  not  to  exasperate  their 
prejudiced  imaginations,  we  represented  to  them,  that  it  was 
no  wonder  the  butcher  should  feel  a  little  warmth  when  he 
groped  among  entrails  that  were  then  rotting,  that  it  was  no 
extraordinary  thing  for  it  to  emit  fumes,  since  dung  turned  up 
will  do  the  same  ;  that  as  for  the  pretended  redness  of  the 
blood,  it  still  appeared  l)y  the  butcher's  hands  to  be  nothing 
but  a  very  stinking,  nasty  smear. 

Af^er  all  our  reasons,  they  were  of  opinion  it  would  be  their 
wisest  course  to  burn  the  dead  man's  heart  on  the  sea  shore  , 
but  this  execution  did  not  make  him  a  bit  more  tractable  ;  he 
went  on  with  his  racket  more  furiously  than  ever ;  he  was 
accused  of  beating  folks  in  the  night,  breaking  down  doors, 
and  even  roofs  of  houses,  clattorin;*  windows,  lc:Tin^  '•lotliKi, 


294 


NOTES  TO  THALABA  THE  DESTROYER. 


BOOK    Vlll 


emptying  bottles  nnd  vessels.  It  was  the  most  thirsty  devil ! 
I  believe  he  diil  not  spare  any  body  but  the  Consul,  in  whose 
house  wc  lodyed.  Nothin;;  could  bo  more  miscrtible  than 
the  condition  of  this  island;  all  the  inhubitanti  seemed 
frighted  out  of  their  senses  ;  the  wisest  among  them  were 
stricken  like  the  rest ;  it  was  an  epidemical  disease  of  the 
brair),  as  dangerous  and  infectious  as  the  madness  of  dogs. 
Whole  liiniilies  quitted  their  houses,  and  brought  their  tent 
leds  from  the  farthest  parts  of  the  town  into  the  public  place, 
there  to  spend  the  night.  They  were  every  instant  com- 
plaining of  some  new  insult  ;  nothing  was  to  be  heard  but 
sighs  and  groans  at  the  ajiproacli  of  night ;  the  better  sort  of 
people  retired  into  the  country. 

When  ihe  preiiossession  was  so  general,  we  thought  it  our 
best  way  to  hold  our  tongues.  Had  we  oj)posed  it,  we  had 
not  only  been  ac(;ounted  ridiculous  blockheads,  but  Atheists 
and  InKdels  ;  how  was  it  possible  to  stand  against  the  madness 
of  a  whole  people  .'  Those  that  believed  we  doubted  the  truth 
of  the  fact,  came  and  upbraided  us  with  our  incredulity,  and 
strove  to  prove  that  there  were  such  things  as  Vroucolacasses, 
by  citations  out  of  the  Buckler  of  Faitli,  written  hy  F.  Richard, 
a  Jesuit  Missionary.  lie  was  a  Latin,  say  they,  and  conse- 
quently you  ought  to  give  him  credit.  We  should  have  got 
nothing  by  denying  the  justness  of  the  consequence  :  it  was  as 
good  as  a  comedy  to  us  every  morning  to  hear  the  new  follies 
committed  by  this  niglit  bird  ;  they  charged  him  with  being 
guilty  of  the  most  abominable  sins. 

Some  citizens,  that  were  most  zealous  for  the  good  of  the 
public,  fancied  they  had  been  deficient  in  the  most  material 
part  of  the  ceremony.  They  were  of  opinion  that  they  had 
been  wrong  in  saying  mass  before  they  had  pulled  out  the 
wretch's  heart :  had  we  taken  this  precaution,  quoth  they,  we 
bad  bit  the  devil  as  sure  as  a  gim  :  he  would  have  been  hanged 
before  he  would  ever  have  come  there  again  ;  whereas,  saying 
mass  first,  the  running  dog  tied  for  it  awhile,  and  came  back 
again  when  the  danger  was  over. 

Notwithstanding  these  wise  reflections,  they  remained  in  as 
much  perplexity  as  they  were  the  first  day  :  they  meet  night 
and  morning,  they  debate,  they  make  jirocessions  three  days 
and  three  nights;  they  oblige  the  Papas  to  fast;  you  might 
see  them  running  from  bouse  to  house,  holy-water-brush  in 
hand,  sprinkling  it  all  about,  and  washing  the  doors  with  it ; 
nay,  they  poured  it  into  the  mouth  of  the  jjoor  Vroucolacas. 

We  so  often  repeated  it  to  the  magistrates  of  the  town,  that 
in  Christendom  we  should  keep  the  strictest  watch  a-nights 
upon  such  an  occasion,  to  observe  what  was  done,  that  at  last 
they  caught  a  few  vagabonds,  who  undoubtedly  had  a  hand  in 
these  disorders  ;  but  either  they  were  not  the  chief  ringleaders, 
or  else  they  were  released  too  soon.  For  two  days  afterwards, 
to  make  themselves  amends  for  the  Lent  they  had  kept  in 
prison,  they  fell  foul  again  upon  the  wine-tubs  of  those  who 
were  such  fools  as  to  leave  their  houses  empty  in  the  night: 
so  that  the  i)eople  were  forced  to  betake  themselves  again  to 
their  prayers. 

One  day,  as  they  weri3  hard  at  this  work,  after  having  stuck 
I  know  not  how  many  naked  swords  over  the  grave  of  this 
corpse,  which  they  took  up  three  or  four  times  a-day,  for  any 
man's  wliim,  an  Albaneze  that  happened  to  be  at  Mycone 
took  upon  him  to  say,  with  a  voice  of  authority,  that  it  was  in 
the  last  degree  ridiculous  to  make  use  of  the  swords  of  Chris- 
tians in  a  case  like  this.  Can  you  not  conceive,  blind  as  ye 
are,  says  he,  that  the  bandies  of  these  swords,  being  made  like 
a  cross,  hinders  the  devil  from  cotnijig  out  of  tlie  body  .'  Why 
do  you  not  rather  take  the  Turkish  sabres  ?  The  advice  oftliis 
learned  man  had  no  etVect :  the  Vroucolacas  was  incorrigible, 
and  all  the  inhal)itant3  were  in  a  strange  consternation;  they 
knew  not  now  what  saint  to  call  upon,  when,  of  a  sudden,  with 
one  voice,  as  if  they  had  given  each  other  the  hint,  they  fell 
to  bawling  out  all  through  the  city,  that  it  was  intolerable  to 
wait  any  longer  ;  that  the  only  way  left  was  to  burn  the 
Vroucolacas  entire  ;  but  after  so  doing,  let  the  devil  lurk  in  it 
if  he  could  ;  that  it  was  better  to  have  recourse  to  this  e.\- 
treinitv  tlian  to  have  the  island  totally  deserted  ;  and,  indeed, 
whole  families  began  to  pack  up,  in  order  to  retire  to  Syre  or 
Tinos.  'I'ho  magistrates  therefore  ordered  the  Vroucolacas 
10  be  carried  to  the  point  of  the  island  St.  George,  where  they 


prepared  a  great  pile  with  pitch  and  tar,  for  fear  the  wood,  ai 
dry  as  it  was,  should  not  burn  fast  enough  of  itself.  What 
they  had  before  left  of  this  tniscrable  carcass  was  thrown  into 
this  fire  and  consumed  presently.  —  It  was  on  the  1st  of 
January,  1701.  We  saw  the  flame  as  wc  returned  from  Delos  ; 
it  might  justly  be  called  a  bonfire  of  joy,  since  after  this  no 
more  eomjdaints  were  heard  against  the  Vroucolacas  ;  they 
said  that  the  devil  had  now  met  with  his  match,  and  some 
ballads  were  made  to  turn  him  into  ridicule. —  Tournrfurt. 

In  Dalrnatia,  the  Morlachians,  before  a  funeral,  cut  the 
hamstrings  of  the  corpse,  and  mark  certain  characters  upon 
the  body  with  a  hot  iron  ;  they  then  drive  nails  or  pins  into 
different  parts  of  it,  and  the  sorcerers  finish  the  ceremony  by 
repeating  certain  mysterious  words  ;  after  which  they  rest 
confident  that  the  deceased  cannot  return  to  the  earth  to  shed 
the  blood  of  the  living.  —  Cassas. 

The  Turks  have  an  opinion,  that  men  that  are  buried  have 
a  sort  of  life  in  their  graves.  If  any  man  makes  aflidavit  be- 
fore a  judge,  that  he  heard  a  noise  in  a  man's  grave,  he  is,  by 
order,  dug  up,  and  chopi)ed  all  to  pieces.  The  merchants,  at 
Constantinople,  once  airing  on  horseback,  had,  as  usual,  for 
protection,  a  Janizary  with  them.  Passing  by  the  burying 
place  of  the  Jews,  it  happened  that  an  old  Jew  sat  by  a  sepul- 
chre. The  Janizary  rode  up  to  him,  and  rated  him  for 
stinking  the  world  a  second  time,  and  commanded  him  to  get 
into  his  grave  again.  —  Roger  JVorlk's  Life  of  Sir  Dudley 
JVorth. 


'■'■That   Heaven  has  ckastm'd  thee.     Behold  tins  rine."  — 
17,  p.  289. 

In  these  lines,  I  have  versified  a  passage  in  Bishop  Taylor's 
Sermons,  altering  as  little  as  possible  his  unimprovable  lan- 
guage. 

"  For  so  have  I  known  a  luxuriant  vine  swell  into  irregular 
twigs  and  bold  excrescences,  and  spend  itself  in  leaves  and 
little  rings,  and  aflbrd  but  trifling  clusters  to  the  wine-jiress, 
and  a  faint  return  to  his  heart  whicli  longed  to  be  refreshed 
with  a  full  vintage  ;  hut  when  the  Lord  of  the  vine  had  caused 
the  dressers  to  cut  the  wilder  plant,  and  made  it  bleed,  it  grew 
temperate  in  its  vain  ex])ense  of  useless  leaves,  and  knotted 
into  fair  and  juicy  branches,  and  made  accounts  of  that  loss 
of  blood,  by  the  return  of  fruit." 


"  j?n(/  difficult  the  way,  of  danger  full."  —  19,  p.  289. 

It  ajipears  from  Hafiz,  that  the  way  is  not  easily  found  out. 
He  says,  "  Do  not  expect  faith  from  any  one  ;  if  you  do,  de- 
ceive yourself  in  searching  for  the  Simorg  and  the  philosopher's 
stone." 


Jlndawofij:  aieay!  away!  —  33,  p.  291. 

My  readers  will  recollect  the  Lenora.  The  unwilling  re- 
semblance has  been  forced  upon  me  by  the  subject.  I  could 
not  turn  aside  from  the  road,  because  Rurger  had  travelled  it 
before.  'J"be  "  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  "  has  been  foolishly 
called  an  'mitation  of  that  inimitable  ballad  :  tljc  likeness  is 
of  the  same  kind  as  between  llacedon  and  Monmouth.  Both 
are  ballads,  and  there  is  a  hoise  in  both. 


M/hareb  in  the  robes  of  royally,  &c 36,  p.  291. 

How  came  Mohareb  to  be  Sultan  of  this  island  .'  Every  one 
who  has  read  Don  Quixote,  knows  that  there  are  always 
islands  to  be  had  by  adventurers.  He  killed  Ihe  former 
Sultan,  and  reigned  in  his  stead.  What  could  not  a  Dom- 
danielite  perform  .'  The  narration  would  have  interrupted  the 
flow  of  the  main  story. 


BOOK    IX. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


295 


THE  NINTH  BOOK. 


Conscience  I  — 
Poor  plodding  priests,  and  preaching  friars,  may  make 
Their  liollow  pulpits  anj  the  empty  aisles 
Of  churches  ring  with  that  round  word  ;  hut  we, 
That  draw  the  suhtile  anil  more  piercing  air 
In  that  sublimed  region  of  a  court. 
Know  all  is  good  we  make  so,  and  go  on 
Secured  by  the  prosperity  of  our  crimes. 

B.  JoNsoN.     Mortimer's  Fall. 


"  Go  up,  my  Sister  Maimuna, 
Go  up,  and  read  the  stars !  " 

2. 

Lo  !  on  the  terrace  of  the  topmost  tower 

She  stands  ;  her  darkening  eyes, 

Her  fine  lace  raised  to  Heaven ; 

Her  white  hair  flowing  like  the  silver  streams 

That  streak  tlie  northern  night. 


They  hear  her  coming  tread, 

They  lift  tlieir  asking  eyes ; 

Her  face  is  serious,  her  unwilling  lips 

Slow  to  the  tale  of  ill. 

"  What  hast  thou  read  .'  what  hast  thou  read .' " 

Quoth  Khawla  in  alarm. 

"  Danger  —  death  — judgment !  "  Maimuna  replied. 

4. 

■•'  Is  that  the  language  of  the  lights  of  Heaven  ?  " 

Exclairu'd  the  sterner  Witch; 

"  Creatures  of  Allah,  they  perform  his  will, 

And  with  their  lying  menaces  would  daunt 

Our  credulous  folly.     Maimuna, 

I  never  liked  this  uncongenial  lore  ! 

Better  befits  to  make  the  Sacrifice 

Of  Divination  ;  so  shall  1 

Be  mine  own  Oracle. 

Command  the  victims  thou,  O  King ! 

Male  and  female  they  must  be  ; 

Thou  knowest  the  needful  rites. 

Meanwhile  1  purify  the  place." 


The  Sultan  went ;  the  Sorceress  rose. 

And  North,  and  South,  and  East,  and  West, 

She  faced  the  points  of  Heaven ; 

And  ever  where  she  turn'd 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  wall ; 

And  up  she  look'd,  and  smote  the  air; 

And  down  she  stoop'd,  and  smote  the  floor. 

"To  Eblis  and  his  servants 

I  consecrate  the  place  ; 

Let  enter  none  but  they  ! 

Whatever  hath  the  breath  of  life. 

Whatever  hath  the  sap  of  life. 

Let  it  be  blasted  and  die  !  " 


Now  all  is  prepared; 

Mohareb  returns. 

The  Circle  is  drawn. 

The  Victims  have  bled, 

The  Youth  and  the  Maid. 

She  in  the  circle  holds  in  either  hand, 

Clinch'd  by  tlie  hair,  a  head. 

The  heads  of  the  Youth  and  the  Maid. 

"  Go  out,  ye  lights  !  "  quoth  Khawla; 

And  in  darkness  began  the  spell. 


With  spreading  arms  she  whirls  around 

Rapidly,  rapidly, 

Ever  around  and  around ; 

And  loudly  she  calls  the  while, 

"Eblis!  Eblis!" 

Loudly,  incessantly. 

Still  she  calls,  "  Eblis  !  Eblis  !  " 

Giddily,  giddily,  still  she  whirls, 

Loudly,  incessantly,  still  she  calls ; 

The  motion  is  ever  the  same. 

Ever  around  and  around; 

The  calling  is  still  the  same. 

Still  it  is,  "  Eblis  !  Eblis !  " 

Till  her  voice  is  a  shapeless  yell, 

And  dizzily  rolls  her  brain ; 

And  now  she  is  full  of  the  Fiend. 

She  stops,  she  rocks,  she  reels ! 

Look  !    look  !    she  appears  in  the  darkness  I 

Her  flamy  hairs  curl  up. 

All  living,  like  the  Meteor's  locks  of  light ' 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  sickly  Moon  ! 

S. 

It  is  her  lips  that  move. 

Her  tongue  that  shapes  the  sound; 

But  whose  is  the  Voice  that  proceeds .' 

"  Ye  may  hope,  and  ye  may  fear ; 

The  danger  of  his  stars  is  near. 

Sultan  !  if  he  perish,  woe  ! 

Fate  hath  written  one  death-blow 

For  Mohareb  and  the  Foe  ! 

Triumph  .  triumph  !  only  she 

That  knit  his  bonds  can  set  him  free." 

9. 

She  spake  the  Oracle, 

And  senselessly  she  fell. 

They  knelt  in  care  beside  her,  — 

Her  Sister  and  the  King; 

They  sprinkled  her  palms  with  water ; 

They  wetted  her  nostrils  with  blood. 

10. 

She  wakes  as  from  a  dream. 

She  asks  the  utter'd  voice  ; 

But  when  she  heard,  an  anger  and  a  grief 

Darken'd  her  wrinkling  brow. 

"Then  let  him  live  in  long  captivity  !  " 

She  answer'd  :  but  Mohareb's  quicken'd  eye 

Perused  her  sullen  countenance, 

That  lied  not  with  the  lips. 

A  mi.scrable  man '. 


a9c 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IX 


What  boots  it  that,  in  central  caves, 

The  Powers  of  Evil  at  his  Baptism  pledged 

The  Sacrament  of  Hell ! 

His  death  secures  tlieni  now. 

What  boots  it  that  they  gave 

Abdaldar's  guardian  ring, 
When,  through  another's  life, 
The  blow  may  reach  his  own  ? 

11. 

He  sought  the  dungeon  cell 

Where  Thalaba  was  laid. 

'Twas  the  gray  morning  twilight,  and  the  voice 

Of  Thalaba,  in  prayer, 

With  words  of  hailow'd  import,  smote  his  ear. 

The  grating  of  the  heavy  hinge 

Roused  not  the  Arabian  youth ; 

Nor  lifted  he  his  earthward  face, 

At  sound  of  coming  feet. 

Nor  did  Mohareb  with  unholy  speecli 

Disturb  the  duty  :  silent,  spirit-awed, 

Envious,  heart-humbled,  he  beheld 

The  peace  which  piety  alone  can  give. 

12. 

When  Thalaba,  the  perfect  rite  perform'd. 

Raised  his  calm  eye,  then  spake  tlie  Island-Chief: 

"  Arab  !  my  guidance  tlirougli  tlie  dangerous  Cave 

Thy  service  overpaid, 

An  unintended  friend  in  enmity. 

The  Hand  that  cauglit  thy  ring 

Received  and  bore  me  to  the  scene  I  sought. 

Now  know  me  grateful.     I  return 

That  amulet,  thy  only  safety  here." 

13. 

Artful  he  spake,  with  show  of  gratitude 

Veiling  the  selfish  deed. 

Lock'd  in  his  magic  chain, 

Thalaba  on  his  passive  powerless  hand 

Receive*!  again  the  Spell. 

Remembering  tlien  with  what  an  ominous  faith 

First  he  drew  on  the  ring. 

The  youth  repeats  his  words  of  augury ; 

"In  God's  name  and  the  Prophet's!  be  its  power 

Good,  let  it  serve  the  righteous  !  if  for  evil, 

God  and  my  trust  in  Him  shall  hallow  it. 

Blindly  the  wicked  work 

The  righteous  will  of  Heaven  !  " 

So  Thalaba  received  again 

The  written  ring  of  gold. 

14. 

Thoughtful  awhile  Mohareb  stood, 

And  eyed  the  captive  youth. 

Then,  building  skilfully  sophistic  speech. 

Thus  he  began  :  "  Brave  art  thou,  Thalaba; 

And  wherefore  are  we  foes .-'  —  for  I  would  buy 

Thy  friendship  at  a  princely  price,  and  make  thee 

To  thine  own  welfare  wise. 

Hear  me !  in  Nature  are  two  hostile  Gods, 

Makers  and  Masters  of  existing  things. 

Equal  in  power :  —  nay,  hear  me  patiently  !  — 

Equal  —  for  look  around  thee  !   The  same  Earth 

Bears  fruit  and  poison  ;  where  the  Camel  finds 


His  fragant  food,  the  horned  Viper  there 

Sucks  in  the  juice  of  death  ;  the  Elements 

Now  serve  the  use  of  man,  and  now  assert 

Dominion  o'er  his  weakness  :  dost  thou  hear 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  nuptial  song  ? 

From  the  next  house  proceeds  the  mourner's  cry, 

Lamenting  o'er  the  dead.     Say'st  thou  that  Sin 

Enter'd  the  world  of  Allah.'  that  the  Fiend, 

Permitied  for  a  season,  prowls  for  prey  ? 

When  to  thy  tent  the  venomous  serpent  creeps. 

Dost  thou  not  crush  the  reptile  ?     Even  so, 

Be  sure,  had  Allah  crush'd  his  Enemy, 

But  that  the  power  was  wanting.     From  the  first, 

Eternal  as  themselves  their  warfare  is ; 

To  the  end  it  must  endure.     Evil  and  Good, 

What  are  they,  Thalaba,  but  words .'  in  the  strife 

Of  Angels,  as  of  Men,  the  weak  are  guilty ; 

Power  must  decide.     The  Spirits  of  tlie  Dead, 

Quitting  their  mortal  mansion,  enter  not, 

As  falsely  ye  are  preach'd,  their  final  seat 

Of  bliss,  or  bale  ;  nor  in  the  sepulchre 

Sleep  they  the  long,  long  sleep  :  each  joins  the  host 

Of  his  great  leader,  aiding  in  the  war 

Whose  fate  involves  his  own. 

Woe  to  the  vanquish'd  then  ! 

Woe  to  the  sons  of  man  who  follow'd  him! 

They,  with  their  Leader,  through  eternity. 

Must  howl  in  central  fires. 

Thou,  Thalaba,  hast  chosen  ill  thy  part, 

If  choice  it  may  be  call'd,  where  will  was  not. 

Nor  searching  doubt,  nor  judgment  wise  to  weigh. 

Hard  is  the  service  of  the  Power  beneath 

Whose  banners  thou  wert  born  ;  bis  discipline 

Severe,  yea,  cruel ;  and  his  wages,  rich 

Only  in  promise ;  who  hath  seen  the  pay .' 

For  us,  the  pleasures  of  the  world  are  ours, 

Riches  and  rule,  the  kingdoms  of  the  Earth. 

We  met  in  Babylon  adventurers  both. 

Each  zealous  for  the  hostile  Power  he  serv'd ; 

We  meet  again  ;  thou  feelest  what  thou  art. 

Thou  seest  what  I  am,  the  Sultan  here, 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 

Abandon  him  who  has  abandon'd  thee, 

And  be,  as  I  am,  great  among  mankind  !  " 

15. 

The  Captive  did  not,  hasty  to  confute, 

Break  off  that  subtle  speech ; 

But  when  the  expectant  silence  of  the  King 

Look'd  for  his  answer,  then  spake  Thalaba. 

"  And  this  then  is  thy  faith  !  this  monstrous  creed  ! 

This  lie  against  tlie  Sun,  and  Moon,  and  Stars, 
And  Earth,  and  Heaven  !      Blind  man,  who  canst 

not  see 

How  all  things  work  the  best !  who  wilt  not  know 

That  in  the  Maniiood  of  the  World,  whate'er 

Of  folly  mark'd  its  Infancy,  of  vice 

Sullied  its  Youth,  ripe  Wisdom  shall  cast  off, 

Stablished  in  good,  and,  knowing  evil,  safe. 

Sultan  Mohareb,  yes,  ye  have  me  here 

In  chains ;  but  not  forsaken,  though  oppress'd ; 

Cast  down,  but  not  destroy 'd.    Shall  danger  daunt, 

Shall  death  dismay  his  soul,  whose  life  is  given 

For  God,  and  for  liis  brethren  of  mankind .' 

Alike  rewarded,  in  that  holy  cause. 


BOOK    IX. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


297 


Tlie  CoiKiiUTor's  and  the  Martyr's  palm  above 

Beam  witli  one  glory.     Hope  ye  tliat  my  blood 

Can  quencli  the  dreaded  flame  ?  and  know  ye  not, 

That  leagued  against  ye  are  the  Just  and  Wise, 

And  all  Good  Actions  of  all  ages  past, 

Yea    vour  own    crimes,  and  Truth,  and  God  in 

Heaven? " 

16. 

"  Slave  !  "  quoth  Mohareb,  and  his  lip 

Quiver'd  with  eager  wrath, 

"  I  have  thee  !  thou  shalt  feel  my  power. 

And  in  thy  dungeon  loathsomeness 

Rot  piecemeal,  limb  from  limb  !  " 

And  out  the  Tyrant  rushes. 

And  all-impatient  of  the  thoughts 

That  canker'd  in  his  heart, 

Seeks,  in  the  giddiness  of  boisterous  sport, 

Short  respite  from  the  avenging  power  within. 

17. 

What  Woman  is  she 

So  wrinkled  and  old, 

Tliat  goes  to  the  wood  ? 

She  leans  on  her  staff 

With  a  tottering  step, 

She  tells  lier  bead-string  slow 

Through  fingers  dull'd  by  age. 

The  wanton  boys  bemock  her ; 

The  babe  in  arms  that  meets  her 

Turns  round  with  quick  affright. 

And  clings  to  his  nurse's  neck. 

13. 

Hark  I  hark  !  the  hunter's  cry  ; 

Mohareb  has  gone  to  the  chase. 

The  dogs,  with  eager  yelp. 

Are  struggling  to  be  free  ; 

The  hawks,  in  frequent  stoop, 

Token  their  liaste  for  flight ; 

And  couchant  on  the  saddle-bow, 

With  tranquil  eyes  and  talons  sheathed. 

The  ounce  expects  his  liberty. 

19. 

Propp'd  on  the  staff  that  shakes 

Beneath  her  trembling  weight, 

The  Old  Woman  sees  them  pass. 

Halloa!  halloa! 

The  game  is  up  ! 

The  dogs  are  loosed, 

The  deer  bounds  over  the  plain  : 

The  dogs  pursue 

Far,  far  behind, 

Though  at  full  stretch, 

With  eager  speed. 

Far,  far  behind. 

But  lo  I  the  Falcon  o'er  his  head 

Hovers  with  hostile  wings. 

And  buffets  him  with  blinding  strokes ! 

Dizz}'  with  the  deafening  strokes. 

In  blind  and  interrupted  course, 

Poor  beast,  he  struggles  on ; 

And  now  the  dogs  are  nigh  ! 

How  his  heart  pants  !  you  see 

38 


The  panting  of  his  heart; 

And  tears  like  human  tears 

Roll  down,  along  the  big  veins  fever-swollen  ; 

And  now  the  death-sweat  darkens  his  dun  hide; 

His  fear,  his  groans,  his  agony,  his  death, 

Are  the  sport,  and  the  joy,  and  the  triumph  ! 

20. 

Halloa !  another  prey. 

The  nimble  Antelope  ! 

The  ounce  is  freed ;  one  spring. 

And  his  talons  arc  sheathed  in  her  shoulders. 

And  his  teeth  are  red  in  her  gore. 

There  came  a  sound  from  the  wood, 

Like  the  howl  of  the  winter  wind  at  night, 

Around  a  lonely  dwelling; 

The  ounce,  whose  gums  were  warm  in  his  prey, 

He  hears  the  summoning  sound. 

In  vain  his  master's  voice. 

No  longer  dreaded  now, 

Calls  and  recalls  with  threatful  tone  ; 

Away  to  the  forest  he  goes ; 

For  that  Old  Woman  had  laid 

Her  shrivell'd  finger  on  her  shrivell'd  lips. 

And  whistled  with  a  long,  long  breath  ; 

And  that  long  breath  was  the  sound 

Like  the  howl  of  the  winter  wind,  at  night. 

Around  a  lonely  dwelling. 

21. 

Mohareb  knew  her  not, 

As  to  the  chase  he  went. 

The  glance  of  his  proud  eye 

Passing  in  scorn  o'er  age  and  wretchedness. 

She  stands  in  the  depth  of  the  wood, 

And  panting  to  her  feet. 

Fawning  and  fearful,  creeps 

The  ounce  by  charms  constrain 'd. 

Well  mayst  thou  fear,  and  vainly  dost  thou  fawn 

Her  form  is  changed,  her  visage  new, 

Her  power,  her  art  the  same  ! 
It  is  Khawla  that  stands  in  the  wood. 

22. 

She  knew  the  place  where  the  Mandrake  grew. 

And  round  the  neck  of  the  ounce, 

And  round  the  Mandrake's  head. 

She  tightens  the  ends  of  her  cord. 

Her  ears  are  closed  with  wax, 

And  her  press'd  finger  fastens  them. 

Deaf  as  the  Adder,  when,  with  grounded  head, 

And  circled  form,  both  avenues  of  sound 

Barr'd  safely,  one  slant  eye 

Watches  the  charmer's  lips 

Waste  on  the  wind  his  baffled  witchery. 

The  spotted  ounce,  so  beautiful, 

Springs  forceful  from  the  scourge  : 

With  that  the  dying  plant,  all  agony. 

Feeling  its  life-strings  crack, 

Utter'd  the  unimaginable  groan 

That  none  can  hear  and  live. 

2-3. 

Then  from  lier  victim  servant  Khawla  loosed 

The  precious  poison.     Next,  witii  naked  hand, 


JOS 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IX 


She  pluok'd  the  bouglis  oi'  the  inanchineel ; 

And  of  the  wormy  wax  she  took, 

That,  from  the  perforated  tree  forced  out, 

Bewray'd  its  insect-parent's  work  within 

24. 

In  a  cavern  of  the  wood  she  sits, 
And  moulds  the  wax  to  human  form ; 

And,  as  her  fingers  kneaded  it, 

By  magic  accents,  to  the  mystic  shape 

Imparted  with  the  life  of  Thalaba, 

In  all  its  passive  powers. 

Mysterious  sympathy. 

With  the  mandrake  and  tlie  manchineel 

She  builds  her  pile  accursed. 

She  lays  her  finger  to  the  pile, 

And  blue  and  green  the  flesh 

Glows  with  emitted  fire, 

A  fire  to  kindle  that  strange  fuel  meet. 

2.5. 

Before  the  fire  she  placed  the  imaged  wax  ; 

"There  waste  away  !  "  the  Enchantress  cried, 

"  And  with  thee  waste  Hodeirah's  Son  !  " 

2G. 

Fool !  fool !  go  thaw  the  everlasting  ice. 

Whose  polar  mountains  bound  the  human  reign. 

Blindly  the  wicked  work 

The  righteous  will  of  Heaven  ! 

The  doom'd  Destroyer  wears  Abdaldar's  ring; 

Against  the  danger  of  his  horoscope 

Yourselves  have  shielded  him  ; 

And  on  the  sympathizing  wax, 

The  unadmitted  flames  play  powerlessly 

As  the  cold  moon-beam  on  a  plain  of  snow. 

27. 

"  Curse  thee  !  curse  thee  !  "  cried  the  fiendly  woman, 

"  Hast  thou  yet  a  spell  of  safety  .'  " 

And  in  the  raging  flames 

She  threw  the  imaged  wax 

It  lay  amid  the  flames, 

Like  Polycarp  of  old. 

When,  by  the  glories  of  the  burning  stake 

O'er-vaulted,  his  gray  hairs 

Curl'd,  life-like,  to  the  fire 

That  haloed  round  his  saintly  brow. 

28. 

•'Wherefore  is  this!"  cried  Khavvla,   and  she 

stamp'd 

Thrice  on  the  cavern  floor : 

"  Maimuna  !  Maimuna  !  " 

Thrice  on  the  floor  she  stamp'd, 

Then  to  the  rocky  gateway  glanced 

Her  eager  eyes,  and  Maimuna  was  there. 

"  Nay,  Sister,  nay  !  "  quoth  she  ;  "  Mohareb's  life 

Is  link'd  with  Thalaba's  ! 

Nay,  Sister,  nay  !  the  plighted  oath  ! 

The  common  sacrament !  " 

29. 

"  Idiot !  "  said  Khawla,  "  one  must  die,  or  all  ! 

Faith  kept  with  him  were  treason  to  the  rest. 

Why  lies  the  wax  like  marble  in  the  fire  .' 


What  powerful  amulet 
Protects  Hodeirah's  Son  .'  " 

30. 

Cold,  marble-cold,  the  wax 

Lay  on  the  raging  pile, 

Cold  in  that  white  intensity  of  fire. 

The  Bat,  that  witli  her  hook'd  and  leathery  wings 

Clung  to  the  cave-roof,  loosed  her  hold, 

Death-sickening  with  the  heat; 

The  Toad,  which  to  the  darkest  nook  had  crawl'd. 

Panted  fast,  with  fever  pain; 

The  Viper  from  her  nest  came  forth, 

Leading  her  quicken'd  brood. 

That,  sportive  with  tlie  warm  delight,  roll'd  out 

Their  thin  curls,  tender  as  the  tendril  rings. 

Ere  the  green  beauty  of  their  brittle  youth 

Grows  brown,  and  toughens  in  the  sununer  sun. 

Cold,  marble-cold,  the  wax 

Lay  on  the  raging  pile. 

The  silver  quivering  of  the  element 

O'er  its  pale  surface  shedding  a  dim  gloss. 

31. 

Amid  the  red  and  fiery  srnoke. 

Watching  the  portent  strange. 

The  blue-eyed  Sorceress  and  her  Sister  stood. 

Seeming  a  ruined  Angel  by  the  side 

Of  Spirit  born  in  hell. 

Maimuna  raised  at  length  her  thoughtful  eyes : 

"  Whence,  Sister,  was  the  wax .' 

The  work  of  the  worm,  or  the  bee .' 

Nay,  then,  1  marvel  not ! 

ft  were  as  wise  to  bring  from  Ararat 

The  fore-world's  wood  to  build  the  magic  pile, 

And  feed  it  from  the  balm  bower,  through  whose 

veins 

The  Martyr's  blood  sends  such  a  virtue  out 

That  the  fond  mother  from  beneath  its  shade 

Wreathes  the  horn'd  viper  round  her  playful  child. 

This  is  the  eternal,  universal  strife  ! 

There  is  a  Grave- wax, —  I  have  seen  the  Gouls 

Fight  for  the  dainty  at  their  banqueting."  — 

32. 

"  Excellent  Witch  !  "  quoth  Khawla  ;  and  she  went 

To  the  cave-arch  of  entrance,  and  scowl'd  up. 

Mocking  the  blessed  Sun  : 

"  Shine  thou  in  Heaven,  but  I  will  shadovv'  Earth  I 

Thou  wilt  not  shorten  day, 

But  I  will  hasten  darkness  !  "     Then  the  Witch 

Began  a  magic  song, 

One  long,  low  tone,  through  teeth  half-closed, 

Through  lips  slow-moving,  muttered  slow  ; 

One  long-continued  breath. 

Till  to  her  eyes  a  darker  yellowness 

Was  driven,  and,  fuller  swollen,  the  prominent  veins 

On  her  loose  throat  grew  black. 

Then,  looking  upward,  thrice  she  breathed 

Into  the  face  of  Heaven. 

The  baneful  breath  infected  Heaven  ; 

A  mildewing  fog  it  spread 

Darker  and  darker;  so  the  evening  sun 

Pour'd  his  unentering  glory  on  the  mist, 

And  it  was  night  below 


BOOK    IX. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


2yy 


33. 

** Bring  now  the  wax,"  quoth  Kliawla,  "for  tliou 

know'st 

^lie  mine  that  yields  it.     Forth  went  Maimuna; 

/n  mist  and  darkness  went  tlie  Sorceress  forth ; 

And  she  hath  reach'd  tlie  Place  of  Tombs, 

And  in  their  sepulclires  tlie  Dead 

Feel  feet  unholy  trampling  over  them. 

34. 

Thou  startest,  Maimuna, 

Because  the  breeze  is  in  thy  lifted  locks ! 

Is  Khawla's  spell  so  weak  ? 

Sudden  came  the  breeze  and  strong  ; 

The  heavy  mist,  wherewith  the  lungs,  oppress'd. 

Were  laboring  late,  flies  now  before  the  gale, 

Thin  as  an  infant's  breath, 

Seen  in  tlie  sunshine  of  an  autumn  frost. 

Sudden  it  came,  and  soon  its  work  was  done, 

And  suddenly  it  ceased; 

Cloudless  and  calm  it  left  the  firmament, 

And  beautiful  in  the  blue  sky 

Arose  the  summer  Moon. 

35. 

She  heard  the  quicken'd  action  of  her  blood ; 

She  felt  the  fever  in  her  cheeks. 

Daunted,  yet  desperate,  in  a  tomb 

Entering,  with  impious  hand  she  traced 

Circles,  and  squares,  and  trines. 

And  magic  characters. 

Till,  riven  by  her  charms,  the  tomb 

Yawn'd,  and  disclosed  its  dead ; 

Maimuna's  eyes  were  opcn'd,  and  she  saw 

The  secrets  of  the  Grave. 

36. 

There  sat  a  Spirit  in  the  vault, 

In  shape,  in  hue,  in  lineaments,  like  life ; 

And  by  him  couch'd,  as  if  intranced. 

The  hundred-headed  Worm  that  never  dies. 

37. 

"  Na)',  Sorceress  !  not  to-night !  "  the  Spirit  cried ; 

"  The  flesh  in  which  I  sinn'd  may  rest  to-night 

From  suffering;  all  things,  even  I,  to-night, 

Even  the  Damn'd,  repose  !  " 

38. 

The  flesh  of  Maimuna 

Crept  on  her  bones  with  terror,  and  her  knees 

Trembled  with  their  trembling  weight. 

"  Only  this  Sabbath  1  and  at  dawn  the  Worm 

Will  wake,  and  this  poor  flesh  must  grow  to  meet 

The  gnawing  of  his  hundred  poison-mouths! 

God  1  God  I  is  there  no  mercy  after  death  I  " 

39. 

Soul-struck,  she  rush'd  away ; 

Slie  fled  the  Place  of  Tombs; 

She  cast  herself  upon  the  earth. 

All  agony,  and  tumult,  and  despair. 

And  in  that  wild  and  desperate  agony 

Sure  Maimuna  had  died  the  utter  death. 

If  aught  of  evil  had  been  possible 

On  tliis  mysterious  night ; 


For  this  was  that  most  holy  night 

Wiit-n  all  Created  Things  adore 

The  Power  that  made  them ;  Insects,  Beasts,  and 

Birds, 

The  Water-Dwellers,  Herbs,  and  Trees,  and  Stones, 

Yea,  Earth  and  Ocean,  and  the  infinite  Hf  aven, 

With  all  its  Worlds.     Man  only  doth  nr    know 

The  universal  Sabbatii,  doth  not  jom 

With  Nature  in  hor  homage.     Yet  the  prayer 

Flows  from  the  righteous  with  intenser  love  ; 

A  holier  calm  succeeds,  and  sweeter  dreams 

Visit  the  slumbers  of  the  penitent. 

40. 

Therefore  on  Maimuna  the  Elements 

Shed  healing;  every  breath  she  drew  was  balm. 

For  every  flower  sent  then  in  incense  up 

Its  richest  odors;  and  the  song  of  birds 

Now,  like  the  music  of  the  Seraphim, 

Eiiter'd  her  soul,  and  now 

Made  silence  awl'ul  by  their  sudden  pause. 

It  seem'd  as  if  the  quiet  Moon 

Pour'd  quietness;  its  lovely  light 

Was  like  the  smile  of  reconciling  Heaven. 

41. 

Is  it  the  dew  of  night 

That  on  her  glowing  cheek 

Shines  in  the  moon-beam.''     Oh!  she  weeps  —  she 

weeps ! 

And  the  Good  Angel  that  abandon'd  her 

At  her  hell-baptism,  by  her  tears  drawn  down, 

Resumes  his  charge.     Then  Maimuna 

Recaird  to  mind  the  double  oracle ; 

Quick  as  the  lightning  flash 

Its  import  glanced  upon  her,  and  the  hope 

Of  pardon  and  salvation  rose. 

As  now  she  understood 

The  lying  prophecy  of  truth. 

She  pauses  not,  she  ponders  not; 

The  driven  air  before  her  faun'd  the  face 

Of  Thalaba,  and  he  awoke  and  saw 

The  Sorceress  of  the  Silver  Locks. 

42. 

One  more  permitted  spell ! 

She  takes  the  magic  thread. 

With  the  wide  eye  of  wonder,  Thalaba 

Watches  her  snowy  fingers,  round  and  round, 

Unwind  the  loosening  chain. 

Again  he  hears  the  low,  sweet  voice. 

The  low,  sweet  voice,  so  nmsical, 

That  sure  it  was  not  strange, 

If  in  those  unintelligible  tones 

Was  more  than  human  potency, 

That  witli  such  deep  and  undefined  delight 

Fill'd  the  surrender'd  soul. 

The  work  is  done  ;  the  song  hath  ceased ; 

He  wakes  as  from  a  dream  of  Paradise, 

And  feels  his  fetters  gone,  and  with  the  burst 

Of  wondering  adoration,  praises  God. 

43. 

Her  charm  hath  loosed  tlio  chain  it  bound  , 
But  massy  walls  and  iron  gates 


300 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


BOOK    IX. 


Confine  Hodeirah's  Son. 

Heard  ye  not,  Genii  of  the  Air,  her  spell, 

That  o'er  her  face  there  flits 

The  sudden  flush  of  fear? 

Again  her  louder  lips  repeat  the  charm ; 

Her  eye  is  anxious,  her  cheek  pale, 

Her  pulse  plays  fast  and  feeble. 

Nay,  Maimuna !   thy  power  hath  ceased, 

And  the  wind  scatters  now 

The  voice  whicii  ruled  it  late. 

44. 

"  Be  comforted,  my  soul !  "  she  cried,  her  eye 

Brightening  with  sudden  joy,  "be  comforted  ! 

We  have  burst  through  the  bonds  which  bound  us 

down 

To  utter  death ;  our  covenant  with  Hell 

Is  blotted  out !  The  Lord  hath  given  me  strength  ! 

Great  is  the  Lord,  and  merciful ! 

Hear  me,  ye  rebel  Spirits  !  in  the  name 

Of  Allah  and  the  Prophet,  hear  the  spell !  " 

45. 

Groans  then  were  heard,  the  prison  walls  were  rent. 

The  whirlwind  wrapt  them  round,  and  forth  they 

flew. 

Borne  in  the  chariot  of  the  Winds  abroad. 


NOTES   TO  BOOK   IX. 


"  Ifts  fragrant  food,  the  horned  Vlprr  there"  &.C.  —  14,  p.  296. 

In  this  valley  we  found  plenty  of  provender  for  our  cattle  ; 
rosemary  bushes,  and  other  shrubs  of  uncommon  fragrance, 
which,  being  natives  of  the  desert,  are  still  perhaps  without  a 
name.  Tbougli  these  scented  plants  are  the  usual  food  of  the 
camel,  it  is  remarkable  that  his  breath  is  insufferably  nau- 
seous. But,  when  be  is  pushed  by  hunger,  he  devours  thistles 
and  prickles  indiscriminately,  without  the  least  damage  to  his 
mouth,  which  seems  proof  to  the  sharpest  thorns.  —  Eyles 
Irwin. 


iiovers  with  hostile  wings,  &c.  —  19,  p.  997. 

The  hawk  is  used  at  Aleppo  in  taking  the  hare.  "  As  soon 
as  the  hare  is  putup,  one,  or  a  brace  of  the  nearest  greyhounds 
are  slipped,  and  the  falconer,  galloping  after  them,  throws  off 
his  hawk.  The  hare  cannot  run  long,  where  the  hawk  be- 
haves properly  ;  but  sometime?  getting  the  start  of  the  dogs, 
she  gains  the  next  hill,  and  escapes.  It  now  and  then  hap- 
pens when  the  hawk  is  fierce  and  voracious  in  an  unusual  de- 
gree, that  the  hare  is  struck  dead  at  the  first  stroke,  but  that 
is  very  uncommon  ;  for  the  hawks  preferred  for  hare-hunting 
are  taught  to  pounce  and  buffet  the  game,  not  to  seize  it ;  and 
they  rise  a  little  between  each  attack,  to  descend  again  with 
fresh  force.  In  this  manner  the  game  is  confused  and  retarded, 
till  the  greyhounds  come  in." —  Russell. 

The  Shaheen,  or  Falcon  Gentle,  flics  at  a  more  dangerous 
"ame.  Were  there  not,  says  tlio  elder  Russell,  several  gentle- 
men now  in  England  to  bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  what  I 
am  going  to  relate,  I  should  hardly  venture  to  assert  that,  with 
this  bird,  which  is  about  the  size  of  a  pigeon,  they  sometimes 
take  large  eagles.  The  hawk,  in  former  times,  was  taught  to 
seize  the  eagle  under  his  pinion,  and  thus,  depriving  him  of  the 
use  of  one  wing,  both  birds  fell  to  the  ground  together.  But 
1  am  informed,  the  present  mode  is  to  teach  the  hawk  to  fix 
on  the  back  between  the  wings,  which  has  the  same  effect, 
only  that,  the  bird  tumbling  down  more  slowly,  the  falconer 
has  more  time  to  oome  in  to  his  hawk's  assistance  :  hut,  in 


either  case,  if  he  be  not  very  expeditious,  the  falcon  is  inev- 
italily  destroyed. 

Dr.  Patrick  Russell  says,  this  sport  was  disused  in  his  time, 
probably  from  its  ending  more  frecjuently  in  the  death  of  the 
falcon  than  of  the  eagle.  But  ho  had  often  seen  the  sbaheen 
take  herons  and  storks.  "The  hawk,  when  thrown  off',  flies 
for  some  time  in  a  horizontal  line,  not  six  feet  from  the  ground, 
then  mounting  perpendicularly  with  astonishing  sw.'flness,  he 
seizes  his  prey  uiidcr  the  wing,  and  both  together  come  tum- 
bling to  the  ground.  If  the  falconer  is  not  expeditious,  the 
game  soon  disengages  itself." 

We  saw  about  twenty  antelopes,  which,  however,  were  so 
very  shy,  that  we  could  not  get  near  enough  to  have  a  shot, 
nor  do  I  think  it  possible  to  take  them  without  hawks,  the 
mode  usually  practised  in  those  countries.  The  swiftest 
greyhounds  would  be  of  no  use,  for  the  antelopes  are  much 
swifter  of  foot  than  any  animal  I  ever  saw  before.  — Jackjuii's 
Journey  over  Land. 

The  Persians  train  their  hawks  thus  :  — They  take  the  whole 
skin  of  a  stag,  of  the  head,  body,  and  legs,  and  stuff  it  with 
straw  to  the  shajie  of  the  animal.  After  fixing  it  in  the  place 
where  they  usually  train  the  bird,  they  place  bis  food  upon  the 
head  of  the  stuffed  stag,  and  chiefly  in  the  two  cavities  of  the 
eyes,  that  the  bird  may  strike  there.  Having  accustomed  him 
for  several  days  to  cat  in  this  manner,  they  fasten  the  feet  of 
the  stag  to  a  plank  which  runs  upon  wlieels,  which  is  drawn 
hy  cords  from  a  distance  ;  and  from  day  to  day  they  draw  it 
faster,  insensibly  to  accustom  the  bird  not  to  quit  bis  prey  ; 
and  at  last  they  draw  the  stag  by  a  horse  at  full  speed.  Tiicy 
do  the  same  with  the  wild  boar,  the  ass,  the  fox,  the  hare,  and 
other  beasts  of  chase.  They  are  even  taught  to  stop  a  horse- 
man at  full  speed,  nor  will  they  quit  him  till  the  falconer  re- 
calls them,  and  shows  them  their  food.  —  Tavemtier. 

As  the  Persians  are  very  patient,  and  not  deterred  by  diffi- 
culty, they  delight  in  training  the  crow  in  the  same  manner  as 
the  haw  k.  —  Taremicr. 

I  do  not  recollect  in  what  history  or  romance  there  is  a  tale 
of  two  dogs  trained  in  this  manner  to  destroy  a  tyrant ;  but  I 
believe  it  is  an  historical  fiction.  The  sann^  stratagem  is 
found  in  Chao-shi-cn-el,  the  Orphan  of  the  House  of  Chao. 

The  farmers  in  Norway  believe  that  the  eagle  will  some- 
times attack  a  deer.  In  this  enterprise,  he  makes  use  of  this 
stratagem  ;  he  soaks  his  wings  in  water,  and  then  covers  them 
with  sand  and  gravel,  with  which  be  flies  against  the  deer's 
face,  and  blinds  him  for  a  time  ;  the  pain  of  this  sets  him 
running  about  like  a  distracted  creature,  and  frequently  ho 
tumbles  down  a  rock  or  some  steep  place,  and  breaks  his 
neck  ;  thus  he  becomes  a  prey  to  the  eagle. —  Pontcppiilun. 

In  the  arms  of  Garibay,  the  historian,  a  stag,  with  an  eagle 
or  hawk  on  his  back,  is  thus  represented.  This  species  of 
falconry  has  therefore  probably  been  jiractised  in  Europe. 


jjnd  now  the  death-sweat  darkens  Ms  dun  hide !  — 19,  p.  297. 

I  saw  this  appearance  of  death  at  a  bull-fight,  the  detestable 
amusement  of  the  Sjianiards  and  Portuguese.  To  the  honor 
of  our  country,  few  Englishmen  visit  these  spectacles  a 
second  time. 


The  ounce  is  freed  ;  one  sprintr,  &c.  — 20,  p.  297. 

They  have  a  beast  called  an  Ounce,  spotted  like  a  tiger, 
but  very  gentle  and  tame.  A  horseman  carries  it ;  and  on 
perceiving  the  gazelle,  lets  it  loose  ;  and  though  the  ga/elle 
is  incredibly  swift,  it  is  so  niml)le,  that  in  three  bounds  it 
leaps  upon  the  neck  of  its  prey.  The  gazelle  is  a  sort  of  small 
antelope,  of  which  the  country  is  full.  The  ounce  immedi- 
ately strangles  it  with  its  sharp  talons  ;  but  if  unluckily  it 
misses  its  blow,  and  the  gazelle  escapes,  it  remains  upon  the 
spot  ashamed  and  confused,  and  at  that  moment  a  child  might 
take  or  kill  it  witliont  its  attempting  to  defend  itself. —  V'u- 
vernirr. 

The  kings  of  Persia  are  very  fond  of  the  chase,  and  it  is 
principally  in  this  that  they  display  their  magnifieence.  It 
happened  one  day  that  Sha-?efi  wished  to  entertain  all  the 
ambassadors  who  were  at  his  court,  and  there  were  then  min- 
isters there  from  Tartary,  Muscovy,  and  India.  He  led  them 
to  the  chase  ;  and  having  taken  in  their  presence  a  great 
number  of  large  animals,  stags,  does,  hinds,  and  wild  boars, 


BOOK    IX. 


WOTES    TO    TI1ALA13A  T]IH    DESTROYER, 


301 


lie  hail  tlipiii  all  dressed  and  caluii  the  same  day  ;  and  whiltJ 
they  were  eating,  an  nrrhitect  was  ordered  to  erect  a  tower  in 
the  middle  of  Ispahan,  only  with  the  heads  of  these  animals  : 
thi'  remains  of  it  are  yet  to  be  seen.  When  the  tower  was 
raised  to  its  proper  height,  the  architect  came  exultingly  to 
the  king,  who  was  then  at  the  hamiuet  with  the  ambassadors, 
and  informed  him  that  nothing  was  wanting  to  finish  the  work 
well,  but  the  head  of  some  large  beast  for  the  point.  The 
Prince,  in  his  drunkenness,  and  with  a  design  of  showing  the 
ambassadors  how  absolute  he  was  over  his  subjects,  turned 
sternly  to  the  architect —  You  nrc  right,  said  he,  and  I  do  not 
know  ichcre  to  find  a  better  head  than  your  oion.  T)ie  unhappy 
man  was  obliged  to  lose  his  head,  and  the  royal  order  was 
immediately  executed. —  Tacernier, 


H'aste  on  the  wind  his  baffled  witchery.  —  22,  p.  297. 
A  Serpent  which  that  aspidis 
Is  cleped,  of  his  kinde  hath  this. 
That  he  the  stone,  noblest  of  all, 
The  wbiche  that  men  carbuncle  call, 
liereth  in  his  head  above  on  liight. 
For  whiche,  whan  that  a  man  by  slight 
The  stone  to  wynne,  and  him  to  dante. 
With  his  carecto  him  wolde  enchante, 
Anone  as  lie  perceiveth  that 
He  leyth  downe  his  one  ear  all  plat 
Unto  the  ground,  and  halt  it  fast. 
And  eke  that  other  eare  als  faste 
He  stoppetli  with  his  taille  so  sore, 
That  he  the  wordes,  lasse  or  more 
Of  his  enchantenient  ne  hereth. 
And  in  tliis  wise  himself  he  skiereth, 
So  that  he  hath  the  wordes  wayved, 
And  thus  his  eare  is  nought  deceived.  —  Oower. 

E  't  tir  ch'  uvea  lo  'ncantutore  scorto, 

Accio  che  le  parole  sue  non  oda, 

Aveva  Vuno  orecckio  in  terra  porta, 

E  '/  altro  s'  ha  turato  con  la  coda.  —  Pulci. 

Does  not  "  the  deaf  adder,  that  heareth  not  the  voice  of  the 
charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely,"  allude  to  some  snake  that 
cannot  be  enticed  by  music,  as  they  catch  them  in  Egypt .' 


That,  from  the  perforated  tree  forced  out.  —  23,  p.  298. 

As  for  the  wax,  it  is  the  finest  and  whitest  that  may  be  had, 
though  of  bees;  and  there  is  such  plenty  as  serves  the  whole 
empire.  Several  provinces  produce  it,  but  that  of  Huiiuam 
exceeds  all  the  others,  as  well  in  (piantity  as  whiteness.  It  is 
gathered  in  the  province  of  Xantung,  upon  little  trees  ;  but  in 
that  of  Ilucpiam,  upon  large  ones,  as  big  as  those  of  the  Indian 
p  igods,  or  chestnut-trees  in  Europe.  The  way  nature  has 
founil  to  produce  it,  lo  us  appears  strange  enough.  There  is 
in  this  province  a  creature  or  insect,  of  the  bigness  of  a  flea, 
so  sharp  at  stinging,  that  it  not  only  pierces  the  skins  of  men 
and  beasts,  but  the  boughs  and  bodies  of  the  trees.  Those  of 
the  province  of  Xantung  are  much  valued,  where  the  inhab- 
itants gather  their  eggs  from  the  trees,  and  carry  them  to  sell 
in  the  province  of  Iluquam.  In  the  spring,  there  come  from 
thesi'  eggs  certain  worms,  which,  about  the  beginning  of  the 
summer,  they  place  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  whence  they  creep 
up,  spreading  themselves  wonderfully  over  all  the  branches. 
Having  placed  themselves  there,  they  gnaw,  pierce,  and  bore 
to  the  very  pith,  and  their  nourishment  they  convert  into  wax, 
as  white  as  snow,  which  they  drive  out  of  the  mouth  of  the 
hole  they  have  made,  where  it  remains  congealed  in  drops  by 
the  wind  and  cold.  Then  the  owners  of  the  trees  gather  it, 
and  make  it  into  cakes  as  we  do,  which  are  sold  about  China. 

Oemelli  Careri. 

Du  Halde's  account  is  somewhat  different  from  this  ;  the 
worms,  he  says,  fasten  on  the  leaves  of  the  tree  and  in  a 
short  time  form  combs  of  wax,  much  smaller  than  the  honey- 
combs. 


devil,  because  he  breathes  smoke  and  flames,  there  is  an 
obvious  propriety  in  supposing  every  witch  her  own  tinder- 
box,  as  they  approximate  to  diabolic  nature.  I  am  sorry  that 
I  have  not  the  Hierarchic  of  the  Blessed  Angels  to  refer  to; 
otherwise,  by  the  best  authorities,  I  could  show  that  it  is  the 
trick  of  Beelzebub  to  parody  the  costume  of  religion.  The 
inllammability  of  fiaints  may  be  abundantly  exampled. 

It  happened  upon  a  tyme,  before  St.  Ellled  was  chosen 
Abbesse,  that  being  in  the  church  at  mattins,  before  day,  VN-itli 
tlie  rest  of  her  sisters,  and  going  into  the  niiddest,  according 
to  the  costume,  to  read  a  lesson,  the  candle  wherewith  she 
saw  to  read,  chanced  to  be  put  out ;  and  thereupon  wanting 
light,  there  came  from  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand  such  an 
exceeding  brightnesse  upon  the  suddaine,  that  not  only  her- 
selfe,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  quire  also,  might  read  by  it. — 
English  Martyrologe,  1608. 

Dead  saints  have  frequently  possessed  this  phosphoric 
quality,  like  rotten  wood  or  dead  fish.  "  St.  Bridget  was  in- 
terred at  the  towne  of  Dunne,  in  the  province  of  Ulster,  in 
the  tombe  togeather  with  tiie  venerable  bodyes  of  St.  Patricke 
and  St.  Colurabe,  which  was  afterwards  miraculously  reveyled 
to  the  bishop  of  that  place,  as  he  was  praying  one  night  late 
in  the  church,  about  the  yeare  of  Christ  1176,  over  which 
there  shined  a  great  light."  —  English  Martyrologe. 

So,  when  the  nurse  of  Mohammed  first  entered  the  chamber 
of  Amena,  his  mother,  she  saw  a  coruscating  splendor,  which 
was  the  light  of  the  infant  prophet,  so  that  Amena  never 
kindled  her  lamp  at  night.  —  Maracci. 

Another  Mohammedan  miracle,  of  the  same  genus,  is  no 
ways  improbable.  When  the  head  of  Hosein  was  brought  to 
Couffah,  the  governor's  gates  were  closed,  and  Haula,  the 
bearer,  took  it  to  his  own  house.  He  awoke  his  wife,  and 
told  her  what  had  so  speedily  brought  him  home.  I  bring 
with  me,  said  he,  the  most  valuable  present  that  could  possibly 
be  made  to  the  Caliph.  And  the  woman  asking  eagerly  what 
it  could  be  .'  The  head  of  Hosein,  he  answered  ;  here  it  is  ;  I 
am  sent  with  it  to  the  governor.  Immediately  she  sprung 
from  the  bed,  not  that  she  was  shocked  or  teriified  at  the  sight, 
for  the  Arabian  women  were  accustomed  to  follow  the  army, 
and  habituated  to  the  sight  of  blood  and  massacre  ;  but  Hosein, 
by  Fatima,  his  mother,  was  grandson  of  the  prophet,  and  this 
produced  an  astonishing  effect  upon  the  mind  of  the  woman. 
By  the  apostle  of  God  !  she  exclaimed,  I  will  never  again  lie 
down  with  a  man  who  has  brought  me  the  head  of  his 
grandson.  The  Moslem,  who,  according  to  the  custom  of  his 
nation,  had  many  vvives,  sent  for  another,  who  was  not  so 
conscientious.  Yet  the  presence  of  the  head,  which  was 
placed  upon  a  table,  prevented  her  from  sleeping,  because,  she 
said,  she  saw  a  great  glory  playing  around  it  all  night.  —  Jlla- 
rigny. 

After  Affonso  de  Castro  had  been  martyred  in  one  of  the 
Molucca  islands,  his  body  was  thrown  into  the  sea.  But  it 
was  in  a  few  days  brought  back  by  Providence  to  the  spot 
where  he  had  suffered,  the  wounds  fresh  as  if  just  opened,  and 
so  strange  and  beautiful  a  splendor  flowing  from  them,  that 
it  was  evident  the  fountain  of  such  a  light  must  be  that  body 
whose  spirit  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  eternal  happiness. 

The  Moors  interpreted  one  of  those  phosphoric  miracles, 
with  equal  ingenuity,  to  favor  their  own  creed.  A  light  was 
seen  every  night  over  the  tomb  of  a  Maronite  whom  they  had 
martyred  ;  and  they  said  the  priest  was  not  only  tortured 
with  fire  in  hell,  but  his  very  body  burnt  in  the  grave. — 
Vascmicellos. 


"  There,  waste  away!  "  the  Enchantress  cried.  —  25,  p.  298. 

A  well-known  ceremony  of  witchcraft,  old  as  classical  super- 
stition, and  probably  not  yet  wholly  disbelieved. 


Afire  to  kindle  that  strange  fuel  meet.  — 24,  p.  298. 
It  being  notorious  that  fire  enters  into  the  composition  of  a 


h  lay  amid  Hu  flames,  &.c.  — 27,  p.  298. 

Beautifully  hath  Milton  painted  this  legend.  "The  fire, 
when  it  came  to  proof,  would  not  do  his  work  ;  hut  starting 
off  lUie  a  full  sail  from  the  mast,  did  but  reflect  a  golden  light 
upon  his  uiiviolateil  limbs,  exhaling  such  a  sweet  odor,  as  if 
all  the  incense  of  Arabia  had  been  burning." —  Of  Pre.laHcal 
Episcopacy. 


302 


NOTES    TO    TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    IX. 


"  T/ie  fore-world's  wovd  to  build  the,  magic  pile."  —  SI,]).  298. 

On  Mount  Ararat,  which  is  called  Ltibar,  or  the  (lescendini^ 
place,  is  an  ahliey  of  St.  Gro;,'orie's  Monks.  These  Itlnnks,  if 
any  list  to  hcliove  tlieni,  say  that  there  remaineth  yet  some 
p;irt  of  the  arke,  kept  hy  angels  ;  which  if  any  seeke  to  ascend, 
Carrie  them  hucke  as  farre  in  the  night,  as  they  have  climhed 
in  the  day.  —  Purchas. 


"  IVreathcs  the  horned  viper  roiiiil  her  playful  child."  —  31, 
p.  298. 

A  thicket  of  halm-treos  is  said  to  have  sprung  up  from  the 
blooil  of  the  Moslem  slain  at  Beder. 

^lianus  avouclieth,  that  those  vipers  which  breed  in  the 
provinces  of  Arabia,  although  they  do  bite,  yet  their  biting  is 
not  venomous,  because  they  doe  feede  on  the  baulme-tree,and 
sleopo  under  the  shadow  thereof.  —  Treasurij  of  Jiiicicnt  ami 
Modern  T'imes. 

The  balsam-tree  is  nearly  of  the  same  size  as  a  sprig  of 
myrtle,  and  its  leaves  are  like  those  of  the  lierb  sweet  mar- 
joram. Vipers  take  up  their  residence  about  these  plants,  and 
are  in  some  jdaces  more  nniiierous  than  in  others  ;  for  the  juice 
of  the  balsam-tree  is  their  sweetest  food,  and  they  are  delighted 
with  the  shade  produced  by  its  leaves.  When  the  time 
therefore  arrives  forgathering  the  juice  of  this  tree,  the  Ara- 
bians come  into  the  sacred  grove,  each  of  them  holding  two 
twigs.  By  shaking  these,  they  put  to  flight  the  vipers;  for 
they  are  unwilling  to  kill  them,  because  they  consider  them  as 
the  sacred  inhabitants  of  the  balsam.  An<l  if  it  happens  that 
any  one  is  wounded  by  a  viper,  the  wound  resembles  that 
which  is  made  by  iron,  hut  is  not  attended  with  any  dangerous 
consequences;  for  these  animals  being  fed  with  the  juice  of 
the  balsam-tree,  which  is  the  most  odoriferous  of  all  trees^ 
their  poison  becomes  changed  from  a  deadly  quality  into  one 
which  produces  a  milder  eftect.  —  Pausanias. 

The  inhabitants  of  Helicon  say,  that  none  of  the  herbs  or 
roots  which  are  produced  in  this  mountain,  are  destructive  to 
mankind.  They  add,  that  the  pastures  here  even  debilitate 
the  venom  of  serpents  ;  so  that  those  who  are  frequently  bit 
by  serpents  in  this  part,  escape  the  danger  with  greater  ease 
than  if  they  were  of  the  nation  of  the  Psylli,  or  had  discovered 
an  antidote  against  poison.  —  Pausanias. 


"  There  is  a  Qrave-waz,  —  /  have  seen  the  Oouls,"  &c.  —  31, 
p.  298. 

The  common  people  of  England  have  long  been  acquainted 
with  this  change  which  muscular  fibre  undergoes.  Before  the 
circumstance  was  known  to  philosophers,  I  have  heard  tliem 
express  a  dislike  and  loathing  to  spermaceti,  because  it  was 
dead  men's  fat. 


Feel  feet  unholy  trampling  over  them.  — 33,  p.  299. 

The  Persians  are  strangely  superstitious  about  the  burial  of 
their  kings.  For,  fearing  lest,  by  some  magical  art,  any  en- 
cliantments  should  be  practised  ujjon  their  bodies  to  the 
prejudice  of  their  children,  they  conceal,  as  much  as  in  them 
lies,  the  real  place  of  interment. 

To  this  end,  tliey  send  to  several  places  several  coffins  of 
lead,  with  others  of  wood,  which  they  call  Taboat,  and  bury 
all  alike  with  the  same  magnificence.  In  this  manner  they 
delude  the  curiosity  of  the  people,  who  cannot  discern,  by  the 
outside,  in  which  of  the  coffins  the  real  body  should  be.  Not 
but  it  might  be  discovered  by  such  as  would  put  themselves  to 
the  expense  and  trouble  of  doing  it.  Anil  thus  it  shall  he 
related  in  the  life  of  llabas  the  Great,  that  twelve  of  these 
coffins  were  conveyed  to  twelve  of  the  principal  Mosques,  not 
for  the  sake  of  their  riches,  but  of  the  person  which  they 
enclosed;  and  yet  nobody  knew  in  which  of  the  twelve  the 
kind's  body  was  lairl,  though  the  common  belief  is,  that  it  was 
deposited  at  Ardevil. 

It  13  also  said  in  the  life  of  Sefie  I.,  that  there  were  three 
coffins  carried  to  three  several  places,  as  if  there  had  been  a 
triple  production  from  one  body,  though  it  were  a  thing 
almost  certainly  known,  that  the  cofiin  where  the  body  was 


laiil,  was  carried  to  the  same  city  of  Kom,  and  to  the  same 
|)laeu  where  the  deceased  king  commanded  the  body  of  his 
deceased  father  to  be  carried.  —  Chardin. 

They  imagine  the  dead  are  capable  of  pain.  A  Portuguese 
gentleman  had  one  day  ignorantly  strayed  among  the  tombs, 
and  a  Moor,  after  much  wranglijig,  obliged  him  to  go  before 
the  Cadi,  'i'he  gentleman  comjilained  of  violence  and  asserted 
he  had  committed  no  crime  ;  but  the  judge  uilormed  him  he 
was  mistaken,  fur  that  the  poor  dead  suft'ered  when  trodden  on 
by  Christian  feet.  Muley  Ishmael  once  had  occasion  to  bring 
one  of  his  wives  through  a  burial-ground,  and  the  people  re- 
moved the  bones  of  their  relations,  and  murmuiing,  said,  he 
would  neither  sutler  the  living  nor  the  dead  to  rest  in  jjeace. 
—  Chenier.  .Additional  Chap,  hy  the  Translator. 

Were  the  Moorish  superstition  true,  there  would  have  been 
some  monkish  merit  in  the  last  request  of  St.  Swithiu  —  "  when 
he  was  ready  to  depart  out  of  this  world,  he  commanded  (for 
humilityes  sake)  his  body  to  be  buried  in  the  church-yard, 
whereon  every  one  might  tread  with  their  feet."  —  English 
Martyrvloge. 

There  is  a  story  recorded,  how  that  St.  Frithstane  was  wont 
every  day  to  say  masse  and  office  for  the  dead  ;  and  one 
evening,  as  he  walked  in  the  church-yard,  reciting  the  said 
office,  when  he  came  to  requiescant  in  pace,  the  voyces  in  the 
graves  round  about  made  auswere  aloud,  and  said,  .^men. — 
English  Martijrologe. 

I  observed  at  Damascus,  says  Thevenot,  that  the  Turks 
leave  a  hole,  of  three  fingers'  breadth  in  diameter,  on  the  top  ol 
their  tombs,  (where  there  is  a  channel  of  earth  over  the  dead 
body,)  that  serves  to  cool  the  dead  ;  for  the  women,  going 
thither  on  Thursday  to  pray,  which  they  never  fail  to  do  every 
week,  they  pour  in  water  by  that  hole  to  refresh  them,  and 
quench  their  thirst ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  grave,  they  slick  in 
a  large  branch  of  box,  and  leave  it  there,  to  keep  the  dead 
cool.  They  have  another  no  less  pleasant  custom,  and  that  is, 
when  a  woman  hath  lost  her  husband,  she  still  asks  his  counsel 
about  her  affairs.  For  instance,  she  will  go  to  his  grave,  and 
tell  him  that  such  a  person  hath  wronged  her,  or  that  such  a 
man  would  marry  her,  and  thereujion  asks  his  counsel  what 
she  should  do  ;  having  done  so,  she  returns  home,  expecting 
the  answer,  which  her  late  husband  fails  not  to  come  and 
give  her  the  night  following. 


"  The  gnawing  of  his  hundred  poison-monVis .' "    &c.  —  38, 
p.  299. 

The  Mohammedan  tradition  is  even  more  horrible  than 
this.  The  corpse  of  the  wicked  is  gnawed  ami  stung  till  the 
resurrection  by  ninety-nine  dragons,  with  seven  heads  each  : 
or,  as  others  say,  their  sins  will  become  venomous  beasts,  the 
grievous  ones  stinging  like  dragons,  the  smaller  like  scorpions, 
and  the  others  like  serpents;  circumstances  which  some  un- 
derstand in  a  figurative  sense. —  Sale's  Preliminary  Discourse. 

This  Mohammedan  tale  maybe  traced  to  the  Scripture  — 
"  whose  worm  dieth  not." 

They  also  believe,  that  after  a  man  is  buried,  the  soul  re- 
turns (o  the  body;  and  that  two  very  terrible  angels  come 
into  the  grave,  the  one  called  Munhir,  and  the  other  Onanciinir, 
who  take  him  by  the  head,  and  make  him  kneel,  and  that,  for 
that  reason,  they  leave  a  tuft  of  hair  on  the  crown  of  their 
head,  that  the  angels  who  make  them  kneel  may  take  hold 
of  it.  After  that,  the  angels  examine  him  in  this  manner: 
IVho  is  thy  Qad,  thy  religion,  and  prophrtl  and  he  answers 
thus  :  My  God  is  the  true  God ;  my  religion  is  the  true  re- 
liirion ;  and  my  prophet  is  Mahomet.  But  if  that  man  find 
himself  to  be  guilty,  and,  being  afraid  of  their  tortures,  shall 
say.  You  are  my  God  and  my  prophet,  and  it  ii  in  you  that  J 
believe,  —  at  such  an  answer,  these  angels  smite  him  with  a 
mace  of  fire,  and  depart ;  and  the  earth  squeezes  the  poor 
wretch  so  hard,  that  hi?  mother's  milk  comes  running  out  of 
his  nose.  After  that  come  two  other  angels,  bringing  an  ugly 
creature  with  them,  that  represents  his  sins  and  bad  deeds, 
changed  into  that  form  ;  then,  opening  a  window,  they  depart 
into  hell,  and  the  man  remains  there  with  that  ugly  creature, 
being  continually  tormented  with  the  sight  of  it,  and  the 
common  miseries  of  the  damned,  until  the  day  of  judgment, 
when  both  go  to  hell  together.  But  if  he  hath  lived  well,  and 
made  the  first  answer  above  mentioned,  they  bring  him  a 


BOOK   IX. 


NOTES    'I'O    TllALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


•Mi 


lovely  creature,  wliicli  represents  liis  good  actions,  changed 
iiili)  tliat  form  ;  tlieii  the  angels,  openiiig  a  window,  go  away 
to  p.irailise,  and  the  lovely  creature  remains,  which  gives  him 
a  gnat  dial  of  content,  and  stays  with  him  until  the  day  of 
jnil^'ment,  when  both  are  received  into  paradise. —  'J'/ievenot. 

Monkish  ingenuity  has  invented  something  not  unlike  this 
.Mohammedan  article  of  faith. 

St.  Elphege,  saith  William  of  Mulmesbury,  in  his  tender 
years  took  tlio  monistic  habitat  Dirherst,  then  a  small  monas- 
tery, and  now  only  an  empty  monument  of  antiquity.  There, 
after  he  had  continued  awhile,  aspiring  to  greater  jierlection, 
he  went  to  Hath,  whi're,  enclosing  himself  in  a  secret  cell,  he 
employed  his  mind  in  contemplation  of  celestial  things.  To 
him  there, after  a  short  time,  were  congregated  agreat  nund)er 
of  religious  persons,  desiring  his  instructions  and  directions  : 
and  among  them,  being  many,  there  were  some  who  gave  them- 
selves to  licentious  feasting  and  drinking  in  the  night  time, 
their  spiritual  father,  St.  Elphege,  not  knowing  of  it.  But  .'VI- 
mighty  God  did  not  a  long  time  suft'or  this  their  license  ;  but, 
at  midnight,  struck  with  a  sudden  death  one  who  was  the  ring- 
leader in  this  licentiousness, in  the  chamber  where  they  prac- 
tised such  excesses.  In  the  mean  time,  the  holy  man,  being  at 
his  prayers,  was  interrupted  by  agreat  noise,  proceeding  out  of 
the  same  chambei ,  and  wondering  at  a  thing  so  unaccustomed, 
he  went  softly  to  thfJ  door,  looking  in  through  certain  clefts,  be 
saw  two  devils  of  a  vast  stature,  which,  with  fref|uent  strokes 
as  of  hammers,  tormented  the  liveless  carkeys  ;  from  whence, 
notwithstanding,  proceeded  loud  clamors,  as  desiring  belji. 
But  his  tormentors  answered,  'J'hou  didst  not  obey  God,  nei- 
ther will  we  thee.  This,  the  next  morniiig,  the  holy  man  re- 
lated to  the  rest ;  and  no  wonder  if  his  companions  became 
afterward  more  abstemious.  —  Crcusy. 

There  is  another  ceremony  to  be  undergone  at  the  time  of 
deain,  which  is  described  in  a  most  barbarous  mixture  of  Ara- 
bic and  Spanish.     The  original  is  given  for  its  singularity. 

Srpa  todo  Moslim  gite  qunndo  viciie  a  la  mucrte,  que  lenvia 
Allah  cinco  .'\lmala<iues.  El  j)iri:nero  vicnr,  qiiandu  lurruh  (la 
alma)  csta  en  la  garganla,  y  di:e  Ir,  ye  fjo  dc  Jldam  qur.  es  dr.  tu 
cutrpo  dforgudn,  que,  tan  falaco  cs  oyl  y  que  es  de  tu  lengua  la 
fublante,  cumo  se  enmudcreido  el  dia  de  oyl  y  que  es  de  tu  con- 
pania  y  paricntes?  oy  te  desaran  solo.  Y  inene  lalmalac  sc- 
ffondo,  quando  le  mct.en  la  mortnja,  y  diie  Ic,  ye  fjo  deMam,  que 
es  de  lo  que  tenias  de  la  reqneia  para  la  povreza  ?  y  que  es  de  lo 
que  a'^nste  del  pobladi)  para  el  ycriiio  ?  y  que  es  de  lo  que  algaste 
del  solaQo  para  la  solcdad  ?  Y  viene  lalmalac  tercero  quando  lo 
ponen  en  lanaas  (las  andas),  y  dizc  le,  Ye  fjo  de  Mam,  oy  rum- 
inara^^  cainino  que  nunca  lo  canjines  mas  lucitte  qu^el;  el  dia  de 
oy  veras  jenle  que  nunca  la  vryerte  nunea  jamas;  el  dia  de  oy 
enUiraras  en  casa  que  nunca  enlarasU  en  mas  esierecha.  qu'  clla 
■jamas  ni  mas  escura.  Y  viene  lalmalac  quarto,  quando  lo  meten 
en  lafucssa  y  quirida,  y  dize,  Ye  fjo  de  Jldam,  oyer  eras  sohre 
la  earra  de  la  tierra  alarre  y  goyoso,  oy  seras  en  su  vientrc ;  y 
buen  dia  te  vino  si  tu  errs  en  la  garaeia  de  Allah,  y  mal  dia  te 
vino  si  Uteres  en  la  ira  de  Allah,  y^-ic;)/;  lalmalac  cinqueno 
quando  esta  soterrado  y  quirida,  y  dize,  \efjo  de  .^dam  oyque- 
daras  salo  y  aunqur  quedaremos  con  tu.  no  aporovejariamos  nin- 
guna  eosa  ;  a  spelegado  ellalgo  y  desas  lo  para  otri ;  el  dia  de 
oy  seras  en  laljenna  (parayso)  vieyuso,  o  en  el  fuego  penoso. 
Aquentos  eineo  .\lmalaques  vienen  por  mandamiento  de  Allah  a 
tod')  peresona  en  el  paso  de  la  mucrte.  Rogcmon  de  Allah  nos 
ponga  por  la  rognrye  y  alfadbila  (mereeindento)  de  nuestoro 
ainabi  (profete)  Mohammad  (salla  allaho  alayhi  vasallam)  nos 
ponga  de  los  sicrvos  oHdientes,  que  merescamos  ser  seguros  del 
espanto  de  la  fuessa  y  de$tos  cincos  almalaques  por  .su  santo 
alrahma  (^miserecordiu)  y  peadad.     Jimen. 

Notices  des  Manuscrits  de  la  Bibl. 
Naiionale,  t.  4.  KiG. 

IiCt  every  Moslem  know,  that  when  he  comes  to  die,  Allah 
•ends  five  Almalaques  to  him.*  The  first  comes  when  the 
loul  is  in  the  throat,  and  says  to  him,  Now,  son  of  Adam, 
what  is  become  of  thy  body,  the  strong,  which  is  to-day  so 
feeble  .'  And  whit  is  become  of  thy  tongue,  the  talker,  that 
is  thus  made  dumb  to-day  .'  And  where  are  thy  companions 
and  thy  kin  .'  To-day  they  have  left  then  alone.  And  the 
becond  Almalac  comes  when  they  put  on  the  winding-sheet, 
and  cays.  Now,  son  of  Adam,  what  is  become  of  the  riches 
wbicn   thou    liadst,    in   this   poverty .'     And    where   are   the 

•  I  suppose  this  means  angels,  from  llic  Hebrew  word  fur  king. 


peopled  lands  which  were  thine,  in  this  desolation.'  .\nd 
where  are  the  pleasures  which  were  thine,  in  this  solitari 
ness  .•'  And  the  third  Almalac  comes  when  they  place  hiri\ 
upon  the  bier,  and  says.  Now,  son  of  Adam,  to-day  thou  shalt 
travel  a  journey,  than  which,  tliou  hast  never  travelled 
long<'r ;  to-day  thou  shall  sec  a  people,  such  as  thou  hast 
never  seen  before  ;  to-day  thou  shall  enter  a  house,  than 
which,  thou  hast  never  entered  a  narrower  nor  a  darker. 
And  the  fourth  Almalac  conies  when  they  put  him  in  the 
grave,  and  s:iys,  Now,  son  of  Adam,  yesterday  thou  wert 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  blithe  and  joyous,  to-day  thou  art 
in  its  bowels  ;  a  good  day  is  to  betide  thee,  if  thou  ait  in  the 
grace  of  .'\llali,and  an  ill  day  will  betide  thee  if  thou  art  in  the 
wrath  of  .\lhih.  And  the  fifth  .'\lmalac  conies  when  he  is  in- 
terred, and  says,  Now,  son  of  Adam,  to-day  thou  wilt  be  left, 
alone,  and  though  we  were  to  remain  with  thee,  we  should 
profit  thee  nothing,  as  to  the  wealth  which  thou  hast  gathered 
together,  and  must  now  leave  to  another.  To-day  thou  wilt 
be  rejoicing  in  paradise,  or  tormented  in  the  fire.  These  five 
Almalaques  coine  by  the  command  of  Allah,  to  every  person 
in  the  pass  of  death.  Let  us  [)ray  to  Allah,  that,  through  the 
mediation  and  lucrits  of  our  prophet  .Mahommed,  he  may  place 
us  among  his  obedient  servants,  that  we  may  be  worthy  to  be 
safe  from  the  terror  of  the  grave,  and  of  these  five  Aliuala- 
ques,  through  his  holy  compassion  and  mercy.     Amen. 


For  this  teas  that  most  holy  night,  tc.  —  39,  p.  299. 

The  night,  Leileth-ul-cadr,  is  considered  as  being  particu- 
larly consecrated  to  inefl^able  mysteries.  There  is  a  prevailing 
opinion,  that  a  thousand  secret  and  invisible  prodigies  are  per- 
formed on  this  night ;  that  all  the  inanimate  beings  then  |)ay 
their  adoration  to  God;  that  all  the  waters  of  the  sea  lose 
their  saltness,  and  become  fresh  at  these  mysterious  moments  ; 
that  such,  in  fine,  is  its  sanctity,  that  prayers  said  during  this 
night  are  equal  in  value  to  all  those  which  can  be  said  in  a 
thousand  successive  months.  It  has  not,  however,  pleased 
God,  says  the  author  of  the  celebrated  theological  work  enti- 
tled Fcrkann,  to  reveal  it  to  the  faithful :  no  prophet,  no  saint 
has  been  able  to  discover  it ;  hence,  this  night,  so  august,  so 
mysterious,  so  favored  by  Heaven,  has  hitherto  remained  un- 
discovered. —  D'Ohsson, 

They  all  hold,  that  soinotime  on  this  night,  the  firmainent 
opens  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  the  glory  of  God  ajipears  vis- 
ible to  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  so  happy  as  to  behold  it ; 
at  which  juncture,  whatever  is  asked  of  God  by  the  fortunate 
beholder  of  the  mysteries  of  that  critical  minute,  is  infallibly 
granted.  This  sets  many  credulous  and  su|)crstitious  people 
upon  the  watch  all  night  long,  till  the  morning  begins  to  dawn. 
It  is  my  ojiinion,  that  they  go  on  full  as  wise  as  they  come  ofi': 
I  mean,  from  standing  sentinel  for  so  many  hours.  Though 
many  stories  are  told  of  people  who  have  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  seeing  that  miraculous  opening  of  the  Heavens  ;  of  all  which 
few  have  had  power  to  speak  their  mind,  till  it  was  too  late, 
so  great  was  their  ecstasy.  But  one  passage,  pleasant  enough, 
was  once  toM  me  hy  a  grave,  elderly  gentlewoman,  at  Cou- 
stantinn,  in  Barbary.  There  was,  not  many  years  before  my 
time,  said  she,  in  this  town,  a  Mulatta  wench,  belonging  to 
such  a  great  family,  (naming  one  of  the  best  in  the  town,)  who 
being  quite  out  of  love  with  her  woolly  locks,  and  imagining 
that  she  wanted  nothing  to  make  her  thought  a  jn'ettygirl,  but 
a  good  head  of  hair,  took  her  supper  in  her  hand  presently  after 
sunset,  and,  without  letting  any  body  into  her  secret,  stole 
away,  and  shut  herself  up  in  the  uppermost  apartinent  in  the 
house,  and  went  upon  the  watch.  She  had  the  good  fortune 
to  direct  her  optics  towards  the  right  quarter,  the  patience  to 
look  so  long  and  so  steadfastly,  till  she  plainly  beheld  the 
beams  of  celestial  glory  darting  through  the  amazing  chasm  in 
the  divided  firmament,  and  the  resolution  to  cry  out,  with  all 
her  might,  la  Habbi  Kubhnr  Rassi;  i.e.  O  Lord,  inuke  my  head 
big!  This  expression  is,  figuratively,  not  improper  to  pray 
for  a  good  head  of  hair.  But,  unhappily  for  the  poor  girl,  it 
seems  God  was  pleased  to  take  her  words  in  the  literal  sense; 
for,  early  in  the  morning,  the  neighbors  were  disturbed  by  the 
terrible  noise  and  bawling  she  made  ;  and  they  were  forced  to 
hasten  to  her  assistance  with  tools  proper  to  break  down  the 
walls  about  her  cars,  in  order  to  get  her  bead  in  at  the  window, 
it  being  grown  to  a  monstrous  magnitude,  bigger  in  circum- 


304 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER. 


BOOK    X. 


IVrcncc  thiin  sevcriil  bushels  ;  F  don't  rcniomber  exactly  liow 
many  ;  nor  am  1  certain  whotlier  slju  survived  lu-r  niislbrtune 
or  not.  —  Jiliirgan.     JVute  to  liabadan. 

According  to  Francklin,  it  is  believed,  that  whatever  Mos- 
lem die  during  the  month  of  Ramadan,  will  most  assuredly 
enter  into  paradise,  because  the  gates  of  Heaven  then  stand 
ojjen,  by  command  of  God.  —  Tuur  from  Bengal  to  Persia, 
p.  13(i. 

During  the  j3sciur,  the  ten  days  of  festive  ceremony  for  IIo- 
Bein,  the  Persians  believe  that  the  gates  of  paradise  are 
thrown  open,  and  that  all  the  Moslem  who  die  find  immediate 
admittance.  —  Pictro  delle  Valle. 


And  the  Oood  Angel  tluit  abandon'd  her,  &c.  — 41,  p.  299. 

The  Turks  also  acknowledge  guardian  angels,  but  in  far 
greater  number  than  we  do;  for  they  say,  that  God  hath  ap- 
pointed threescore  and  ten  angels,  though  they  be  invisible,  for 
the  guard  of  every  Mussulman,  and  notiiing  befalls  any  body 
but  what  they  attribute  to  them.  They  have  all  their  several 
otRces,  one  to  guard  one  member,  and  another  another  ;  one  to 
serve  him  in  such  an  affair,  and  another  in  another.  There 
are,an)ong  all  these  angels,  two  who  are  the  dictators  over  the 
rest ;  they  sit  one  on  the  right  side,  and  the  other  on  the  left ; 
these  they  call  Kerim  Kinlih,  that  is  to  say,  the  merciful 
scribes.  He  on  the  right  side  writes  down  the  good  actions 
of  the  man  whom  he  has  in  tuition,  and  the  other  on  the  left 
hand,  the  bad.  They  are  so  merciful  tliat  they  spare  him  if 
he  commit  a  sin  before  ho  goes  to  sleep,  hoping  he'll  repent; 
and  if  he  does  not  repent,  they  mark  it  down  ;  if  he  does  re- 
pent, they  write  dow'n,  Eslig  foiiriUah,  that  is  to  say,  God 
pardons.  They  wait  upon  him  in  all  ]>lace9,  except  when  he 
does  his  needs,  where  they  let  him  go  alone,  staying  for  him 
at  tije  door  till  he  come  out,  and  then  tliey  take  him  into  pos- 
session again  ;  wherefore,  when  the  Turks  go  to  the  house-of- 
office,  they  put  the  lefl  foot  foremost,  to  the  end  the  angel 
who  registers  their  sins,  may  leave  them  first ;  and  when  they 
come  out,  they  set  the  right  foot  before,  that  the  angel  who 
writes  down  their  good  works,  may  have  them  first  under  his 
protection.  —  Thevenot. 


THE  TENTH   BOOK. 


And  the  Angel  that  was  sent  unto  me  said,  Thinkest  thou 
to  comprehend  the  way  of  the  Most  High?  —  Then  said  I, 
Yea,  my  Lord.  And  he  answered  me,  and  said,  I  am  sent  to 
shew  thee  three  ways,  and  to  set  forth  three  similitudes  be- 
fore thee  ;  whereof  if  thou  canst  declare  me  one,  I  will  shew 
theo  alio  the  way  that  thou  dcsirest  to  see,  and  I  shall  shew 
thee  from  whence  the  wicked  heart  cometh.  And  I  said,  Tell 
on,  my  Lord.  Then  said  he  unto  me,  Go  thy  way,  weigh  me 
tho  weight  of  the  fire,  or  measure  me  the  blast  of  the  wind, 
or  call  me  again  the  day  that  is  past. 

£sDR.ts,  ii.  4. 


Ere  there  was  time  for  wonder  or  for  fear, 

The  way  was  past ;  and  lo  !  again, 

Amid  surrounding  snows, 

Within  the  cavern  of  the  Witch  they  stand. 

2. 

Then  came  the  weakness  of  lier  natural  age 

At  once  on  Maimuna ; 

The  burden  of  her  years 

Fell  on  her,  and  she  knew 

That  her  repentance  in  the  sight  of  God 

Had  now  found  favor,  and  her  hour  was  come. 

Her  death  was  like  the  righteous  :  "  Turn  my  face 


To  Mecca!  "  in  her  languid  eyes 

The  joy  of  certain  hope 

Lit  a  last  lustre,  and  in  death 

A  smile  was  on  her  cheek. 


No  faithful  crowded  round  iter  bier ; 

No  tongue  reported  her  good  deeds  ; 

For  her  no  mourners  wail'd  and  wept; 

No  Iman  o'er  her  perfumed  corpse 

For  her  soul's  health  intoned  the  prayer  ; 

Nor  column,  raised  by  the  way-side, 

Implored  the  passing  traveller 

To  say  a  requiem  for  the  dead. 

Thalaba  laid  her  in  the  snow. 

And  took  his  weapons  from  the  hearth ; 

And  then  once  more  the  youth  began 

His  weary  way  of  solitude. 


The  breath  of  the  East  is  in  his  face, 

And  it  drives  the  sleet  and  the  snow  ; 

The  air  is  keen,  the  wind  is  keen ; 

His  limbs  are  aching  with  the  cold; 

His  eyes  are  aching  with  the  snow; 

His  very  heart  is  cold. 

His  spirit  chill'd  within  him.     He  looks  on 

If  aught  of  life  be  near ; 

But  all  is  sky,  and  the  white  wilderness. 

And  here  and  there  a  solitary  pine. 

Its  branches  broken  by  the  weight  of  snow. 

His  pains  abate  ;  his  senses,  dull 

With  suffering,  cease  to  suffer. 

Languidly,  languidly, 

Thalaba  drags  along ; 

A  heavy  weight  is  on  his  lids  ; 

His  limbs  move  slow  for  heaviness. 

And  he  full  fain  would  sleep. 

Not  yet,  not  yet,  O  Thalaba  ! 

Thy  hour  of  rest  is  come  I 

Not  yet  may  the  Destroyer  sleep 

The  comfortable  sleep : 

His  journey  is  not  over  yet, 

His  course  not  yet  fulfill'd  !  — 

Run  thou  thy  race,  O  Thalaba  I 

The  prize  is  at  the  goal. 

5. 

It  was  a  cedar-tree 

Which  woke  him  from  that  deadly  drowsiness ; 

Its  broad,  round-spreading  branches,  when  they  fell 

The  snow,  rose  upward  in  a  point  to  heaven. 

And  standing  in  their  strcngtli  erect. 

Defied  the  baffled  storm. 

He  knew  the  lesson  Nature  gave, 

And  he  shook  off  his  heaviness, 

And  hope  revived  within  him. 


Now  sunk  the  evening  sun, 

A  broad  and  bcamless  orb, 

Adown  the  glowing  sky; 

Through  the  red  light  the  snow-flakes  fell  like  fire 

Louder  grows  the  biting  wind. 

And  it  drifts  the  dust  of  the  snow. 


BOOK    X. 


TIIALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


305 


The  snow  is  clotted  in  his  hair ; 

The  breatli  of  Thalaba 

Is  iced  upon  his  lips. 

He  looks  around  ;  the  darkness, 

The  dizzy  floating  of  tiie  feathery  sky, 

Clnse  in  his  narrow  view. 


At  length,  through  the  thick  atmosphere,  a  light 

Not  distant  far  appears. 

He,  doubting  other  wiles  of  sorcery, 

With  mingled  joy  and  fear,  yet  quicken'd  step. 

Bends  thitherward  his  way. 


It  was  a  little,  lowly  dwelling-place 

Amid  a  garden  whose  delightful  air 

Was  mild  and  fragrant  as  the  evening  wind 

Passing  in  summer  o'er  the  cofFee-groves 

Of  Yemen  and  its  blessed  bowers  of  balm. 

A  fount  of  Fire,  that  iu  the  centre  play'd, 

Roll'd  all  around  its  wondrous  rivulets. 

And  fed  the  garden  with  the  heat  of  life. 

Every  where  magic  !  the  Arabian's  heart 

Yearn'd  after  human  intercourse. 

A  light  I  — the  door  unclosed  !  — 

All  silent  —  he  goes  in. 

9. 

There  lay  a  Damsel,  sleeping  on  a  couch  ; 

His  step  awoke  her,  and  she  gazed  at  him 

With  pleased  and  wondering  look, 

Fearlessly,  like  a  happy  child, 

Too  innocent  to  fear. 

With  words  of  courtesy 

The  young  intruder  spake. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  a  joy 

Kindled  her  bright  black  eyes ; 

She  rose  and  took  his  hand ; 

But  at  the  touch  the  joy  forsook  her  cheek  . 

"  Oh  1  it  is  cold  !  "  she  cried ; 

"I    thought   I    should    have   felt    it   warm,   like 

mine ; 

But  thou  art  like  the  rest !  " 

10. 

Thalaba  stood  mute  awhile, 

And  wondering  at  her  words : 

"Cold.?  Lady!"  then  he  said;  "I  have  travell'd 

long 

In  this  cold  wilderness. 

Till  life  is  well-nigh  spent !  " 

11. 

I.AIl.A. 

Art  thou  a  Man,  then  .' 

THALABA. 

Nay  —  I  did  not  think 

Sorrow  and  toil  could  so  have  alter'd  me, 

As  to  seem  otherwise. 

LAILA. 

And  thou  canst  be  warm 

Sometiuies .'  life-warm  as  I  am  .' 

39 


THALABA. 

Surely,  Lady, 

As  others  are,  I  am,  to  heat  and  cold 

Subject  like  all.     You  see  a  Traveller, 

Bound  upon  hard  adventure,  who  requests 

Only  to  rest  him  here  to-night,  — to-morrow 

He  will  pursue  his  way. 

LAILA. 

Oh  —  not  to-morrow  ! 

Not  like  a  dream  of  joy,  depart  so  soon  ! 

And  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ?  for  all  around 

Is  everlasting  winter,  ice  and  snow. 

Deserts  unpassable  of  endless  frost. 

THALABA. 

He  who  has  led  me  here,  will  still  sustain  me 
Through  cold  and  hunger. 

12. 

"  Hunger  ?  "  Laila  cried  : 

She  clapp'd  her  lily  hands. 

And  whether  from  above,  or  from  below, 

It  came,  sight  could  not  see. 

So  suddenly  the  floor  was  spread  with  food. 

13. 

LAILA. 

Why  dost  thou  watch  with  hesitating  eyes 
The  banquet.'  'tis  for  thee  !     I  bade  it  come. 

THALABA. 

Whence  came  it? 

LAILA. 

Matters  it  from  whence  it  came  .■■ 

My  Father  sent  it :  when  I  call,  he  hears. 

Nay,  —  thou  hast  fabled  with  me  !  and  art  like 

The  forms  that  wait  upon  my  solitude, 

Human  to  eye  alone  ;  —  thy  hunger  would  not 

Question  so  idly  else. 

THALABA. 

I  will  not  eat ! 

It  came  by  magic  !  fool,  to  think  that  aught 

But  fraud  and  danger  could  await  me  here. 

Let  loose  my  cloak  !  — 

LAILA. 

Begone  then,  insolent ! 

Why  dost  thou  stand  and  gaze  upon  me  thus.' 

Ay  !  eye  the  features  well  that  threaten  thee 

With  fraud  and  danger  !  in  the  wilderness 

They  shall  avenge  me,  —  in  the  hour  of  want, 

Rise  on  thy  view,  and  make  thee  feel 

How  innocent  I  am  : 

And  this  remember'd  cowardice  and  insult. 

With  a  more  painful  shame,  will  burn  thy  cheek. 

Than  now  heats  mine  in  anger  I 

IHALABA. 

Mark  me.  Lady ! 

Many  and  restless  are  my  enemies : 

My  daily  paths  have  been  beset  with  snares 

Till  I  have  learnt  suspicion,  bitter  suflerings 


30G 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    X. 


Teaching  the  needful  vice.  Ifl  have  wrong'd  you, — 

For  yours  should  be  the  face  of  innocence, — 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  !     In  tlie  name  of  God 

And  of  his  Propliet,  I  partake  your  food. 

LAILA. 

Lo,  now  !  thou  wert  afraid  of  sorcery, 
And  yet  hast  said  a  charm  ! 

THALABA. 

A  cliarm .' 

LAILA. 

And  wherefore  ?  — 

Is  it  not  delicate  food  .'  —  What  mean  thy  words .' 

1  have  heard  many  spells,  and  many  names, 

That  rule  the  Genii  and  the  Elements, 

But  never  these. 

THALABA. 

How  !  never  heard  the  names 
Of  God  and  of  the  Prophet.' 

LAILA. 

Never — nay,  now  ! 

Again  that  troubled  eye  ?  —  thou  art  a  strange  man. 

And  wondrous  fearful  —  but  I  must  not  twice 

Be  charged  with  fraud  I  If  thou  suspectest  still, 

Depart  and  leave  me  ! 

THALABA. 

And  you  do  not  know 
The  God  that  made  you  ? 

LAILA. 

Made  me,  man  !  —  my  Father 

Made  me.     He  made  this  dwelling,  and  the  grove, 

And  yonder  fountain-fire ;  and  every  morn 

He  visits  me,  and  takes  the  snow,  and  moulds 

Women  and  men,  like  thee ;  and  breathes  into  them 

Motion,  and  life,  and  sense,  —  but  to  the  touch 

They  are  chilling  cold  ;  and  ever  when  night  closes 

They  melt  away  again,  and  leave  me  here 

Alone  and  sad.     Oh,  then  how  I  rejoice 

When  it  is  day,  and  my  dear  Father  comes, 

And  cheers  me  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks  ! 

My  dear,  dear  Father  !  —  Were  it  not  for  him, 

I  am  so  weary  of  this  loneliness, 

That  I  should  wish  I  also  were  of  snow. 

That  I  might  melt  away,  and  cease  to  be. 

THALABA. 

And  have  you  always  had  your  dwelling  here 
Amid  this  solitude  of  snow .' 

LAILA. 

I  think  so. 

1  can  remember,  with  unsteady  feet 

Tottering  from  room  to  room,  and  finding  pleasure 

In  flowers,  and  toys,  and  sweetmeats,  things  which 

long 

Have  lost  their  power  to  please ;  which,  when  I 

see  them, 

Raise  only  now  a  melancholy  wish, 

I  were  the  little  trifler  once  again. 

Who  could  be  pleased  so  lightly  ! 


THALABA. 

Then  you  know  not 
Your  Father's  art .' 

LAILA. 

No.     I  besought  him  once 

To  give  me  power  like  his,  that  where  he  went 

I  might  go  with  him ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 

And  said,  it  was  a  power  too  dearly  bought, 

Andkiss'd  me  with  the  tenderness  of  tears. 

THALABA. 

And  wherefore  hath  he  hidden  you  thus  far 
From  all  the  ways  of  human-kind  .' 

LAILA. 

'Twas  fear. 

Fatherly  fear  and  love.     He  read  the  stars, 

And  saw  a  danger  in  my  destiny. 

And  therefore  placed  me  here  amid  the  snows. 

And  laid  a  spell  that  never  human  eye. 

If  foot  of  man  by  chance  should  reach  the  depth 

Of  this  wide  waste,  shall  see  one  trace  of  grove. 

Garden  or  dwelling-place,  or  yonder  fire 

That  thaws  and  mitigates  the  frozen  sky. 

And,  more  than  this,  even  if  the  Enemy 

Should  come,  I  have  a  Guardian  here. 

THALABA. 

A  Guardian .' 

LAILA. 

'Twas  well  that  when  my  sight  unclosed  upon  thee, 

There  was  no  dark  suspicion  in  thy  face, 

Else  I  had  called  his  succor  !    Wilt  thou  see  him  .' 

But,  if  a  woman  can  have  terrified  thee, 

How  wilt  thou  bear  his  unrelaxing  brow, 

And  lifted  lightnings .' 

THALABA. 

Lead  me  to  him.  Lady  1 

14. 

She  took  him  by  the  hand, 

And  through  the  porch  they  past. 

Over  the  garden  and  the  grove 

The  fountain-streams  of  fire 

Four'd  a  broad  light,  like  noon ; 

A  broad,  unnatural  light, 

Which  made  the  rose's  blush  of  beauty  pale, 

And  dimm'd  the  rich  geranium's  scarlet  blaze. 

The  various  verdure  of  the  grove 

Wore  here  one  undistinguishable  gray, 

Checker'd  with  blacker  shade. 

Suddenly  Laila  stopp'd. 

"  I  do  not  think  thou  art  the  enemy,'" 

She  said,  "  but  He  will  know  ! 

If  thou  hast  meditated  wrong. 

Stranger,  depart  in  time  — 

I  would  not  lead  thee  to  thy  death." 

15. 

She  turn'd  her  gentle  eyes 

Toward  him  then  with  an.xious  tenderness. 

"  So  let  him  pierce  my  breast,"  cried  Thalaba, 

"  If  it  hide  thought  to  harm  you  !  " 


BOOK    X. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


307 


LAII.A. 

'Tis  a  figure 

Almost  1  fear  to  look  at !  — yet  come  on. 

'Twill  ease  me  of  a  heaviness  that  seems 

To  sink  my  heart ;  and  thou  mayst  dwell  here  then 

In  safety  ;  ibr  thou  shalt  not  go  to-morrow, 

Nor  on  the  after,  nor  the  after  day, 

,JJor  ever  !     It  was  only  solitude 

Which  made  my  misery  here ; 

And  now.  that  I  can  see  a  human  face, 

And  hear  a  human  voice  — 

Oh  no !  thou  wilt  not  leave  me  ! 

THALABA. 

Alas,  I  must  not  rest ! 

The  star  that  ruled  at  my  nativity 

Shone  with  a  strange  and  blasting  influence. 

O  gentle  Lady  !  I  should  draw  upon  you 

A  killing  curse  ! 


But  I  will  ask  my  Father 

To  save  you  from  all  danger ;  and  you  know  not 

The  wonders  he  can  work;  and  when  I  ask, 

It  is  not  in  his  power  to  say  me  nay. 

Perhaps  thou  knowest  the  hai)piness  it  is 

To  have  a  tender  Father .' 

THALABA. 

He  was  one, 

Whom,  like  a  loathsome  leper,  I  have  tainted 

With  my  contagious  destiny.     One  evening 

He  kiss'd  me,  as  he  wont,  and  laid  liis  hands 

Upon  my  head,  and  blest  me  ere  I  slept. 

His  dying  groan  awoke  me,  for  the  Murderer 

Had  stolen  upon  our  sleep  !  —  For  me  was  meant 

The  midnight  blow  of  death ;  my  Father  died ; 

The  brother  playmates  of  my  infancy. 

The  baby  at  the  breast,  they  perish'd  all,  — 

All  in  that  dreadful  hour  !  — but  I  was  saved 

To  remember,  and  revenge. 

16. 

She  answcr'd  not ;  for  now, 

Emerging  from  the  o'er-arch'd  avenue. 

The  finger  of  her  upraised  hand 

Mark'd  where  the  Guardian  of  the  garden  stood. 

It  was  a  brazen  Image,  every  limb. 

And  swelling  vein,  and  muscle  true  to  life  ; 

The  left  knee  bending  on. 

The  other  straight,  firm  planted,  and  his  hand 

Lifted  on  high  to  hurl 

The  lightning  that  it  grasp'd. 

17. 

When  Thalaba  approach'd, 

The  enchanted  Image  knew  Hodeirah's  son. 

And  hurl'd  the  lightning  at  the  dreaded  foe. 

But  from  Mohareb's  hand 

Had  Thalaba  received  Abdaldar's  Ring. 

Blindly  the  wicked  work 

Tlie  righteous  will  of  Heaven. 

Full  in  liis  face  the  lightning-bolt  was  driven ; 

The  scattered  fire  recoil 'd  ; 

Like  the  flowing  of  a  summer  gale  he  felt 


Its  ineffectual  force ; 
His  countenance  was  not  changed, 
Nor  a  hair  of  his  head  was  singed. 

18. 

He  started,  and  his  glance 

Turn'd  angrily  upon  the  Maid. 

The  sight  disarm'd  suspicion  ;  —  breathless,  pale. 

Against  a  tree  she  stood  ; 

Her  wan  lijjs  quivering,  and  her  eyes 

Upraised,  in  silent,  supplicating  fear. 

19. 

Anon  slie  started  with  a  scream  of  joy. 

Seeing  her  Father  there, 

And  ran  and  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  Save  me  !  "  she  cried,  "  the  Enemy  is  come  ! 

Save  me  !  save  me  !  Okba  ! "' 

"  Okba  I  "  repeats  the  youth  ; 

For  never  since  that  hour, 

When  in  the  tent  the  Spirit  told  his  name. 

Had  Thalaba  let  slip 

The  memory  of  his  leather's  murderer; 

"  Okba  !  "  —  and  in  his  hand. 

He  grasp'd  an  arrow-shaft, 

And  he  rush'd  on  to  strike  him. 

21. 

"  Son  of  Hodeirah  !  "  the  Old  Man  replied, 

"  My  hour  is  not  yet  come  ;  " 

And  putting  forth  his  hand. 

Gently  he  repell'd  the  Youth. 

"  My  hour  is  not  yet  come  ! 

But  thou  mayst  shed  this  innocentMaiden's  blood, 

That  vetigeance  God  allows  thee  !  " 

^2. 

Around  her  Father's  neck 

Still  Laila's  hands  were  clasp'd , 

Her  face  was  turn'd  to  Thalaba : 

A  broad  light  floated  o'er  its  marble  paleness. 

As  the  wind  waves  the  fountain  fire. 

Her  large,  dilated  eye,  in  horror  raised, 

Watch'd  every  look  and  movement  of  the  Youtii 

"  Not  upon  her,"  said  he, 

"  Not  upon  her,  Hodeirah's  blood  cries  out 

For  vengeance  !  "  and  again  his  lifted  arm 

Threaten'd  the  Sorcerer ; 

Again  withheld,  it  felt 

A  barrier  that  no  human  strength  could  burst. 

23. 

"  Thou  dost  not  aim  the  blow  more  eagerly," 

Okba  replied,  "  than  I  would  rush  to  meet  it  ! 

But  that  were  poor  revenge. 

O  Thalaba,  thy  God 

Wreaks  on  the  innocent  head 

His  vengeance  ;  —  1  must  suffer  in  my  child  ! 

Why  dost  thou  pause  to  strike  thy  victim  ?    Allali 

Permits,  —  commands  the  deed." 

'24. 

"  Liar  !  "  quoth  Thalaba. 

And  Laila's  wondering  eye 


308 


THALA15A    THE    DESTR05fER, 


BOOK    X. 


Look'd  up,  all  anguish,  to  her  father's  face. 

"  By  Allah  and  the  Prophet,"  he  replied, 

"  I  speak  the  words  of  truth. 

Misery  !  misery ! 

That  I  must  beg  mine  enemy  to  speed 

The  inevitable  vengeance  now  so  near ! 

I  read  it  in  her  horoscope  ; 

Her  birth-star  warn'd  me  of  Hodeirah's  race. 

I  laid  a  spell,  and  call'd  a  Spirit  up ; 

He  answered,  one  must  die, 

Laila  or  Tlialaba  — 

Accursed  Spirit !  even  in  truth 

Giving  a  lying  hope  ! 

Last,  I  ascended  the  seventh  Heaven, 

And  on  the  Everlasting  Table  there, 

In  characters  of  light, 

I  read  her  written  doom. 

The  years  that  it  has  gnawn  me  !  and  the  load 

Of  sin  that  it  has  laid  upon  my  soul  ! 

Curse  on  this  hand,  that,  in  the  only  hour 

The  favoring  Stars  allow'd, 

Reek'd  witli  other  blood  than  tliine. 

•     Still  dost  thou  stand  and  gaze  incredulous  ? 

Young  man,  be  merciful,  and  keep  her  not 

Longer  in  agony." 

25. 

Thalaba's  unbelieving  frown 

Scowl'd  on  the  Sorcerer, 

When  in  the  air  the  rush  of  wings  was  heard, 

And  Azrael  stood  before  them. 

In  equal  terror,  at  the  sight, 

The  Enchanter,  the  Destroyer  stood, 

And  Laila,  the  victim  Maid. 

26.  , 

"  Son  of  Hodeirah !  "  said  the  Angel  of  Death, 

"  The  accursed  fables  not. 

When  from  the  Eternal  Hand  I  took 

The  yearly  Scroll  of  Fate, 

Her  name  was  written  there  ;  — 

Her  leaf  hath  wither'd  on  the  Tree  of  Life. 

This  is  the  hour,  and  from  thy  hands 
Commission'd  to  receive  the  Maid  I  come." 

27. 

"  Hear  me,  O  Angel  !  "  Thalaba  replied  ; 

"  To  avenge  my  father's  death. 

To  work  the  will  of  Heaven, 

To  root  from  earth  the  accursed  sorcerer  race, 

I  have  dared  danger  undismay'd  ; 

I  have  lost  all  my  soul  held  dear  ; 

I  am  cut  off  from  all  the  ties  of  life, 

Unmurmuring.     For  whate'er  awaits  me  still. 

Pursuing  to  the  end  the  enterprise, 

Peril  or  pain,  I  bear  a  ready  heart. 

But  strike  this  Maid  !  this  innocent !  — 

Angel,  I  dare  not  do  it." 

28. 

"Remember,"  answer'd  Azrael,  "all  thou  say'st 

Is  written  down  for  judgment !  every  word 

In  the  balance  of  thy  trial  must  be  weigh'd  !  " 


29. 

"So  be  it!"  said  the  Youth: 

"  He  who  can  read  the  secrets  of  the  heart, 

Will  judge  with  righteousness  ! 

This  is  no  doubtful  path  ; 

The  voice  of  God  within  me  cannot  lie. — 

1  will  not  harm  the  innocent." 

30. 
He  said,  and  from  above, 

As  though  it  were  the  Voice  of  Night, 

The  startling  answer  came. 

"  Son  of  Hodeirah,  think  again  ! 

One  must  depart  from  hence, 

Laila,  or  Thalaba ; 

She  dies  for  thee,  or  thou  for  her ; 

It  must  be  life  for  life  ! 
Son  of  Hodeirah,  weigh  it  well, 
While  yet  the  choice  is  thine  !  " 

31. 

He  hesitated  not. 

But,  looking  upward,  spread  his  hands  to  Heaven. 

"  Oneiza,  in  thy  bower  of  Paradise, 

Receive  me,  still  unstain'd  !  " 

32. 

"  What!  "  exclaim'd  Okba,  "darest  thou  disobey, 

Abandoning  all  claim 

To  Allah's  longer  aid  r  " 

33. 

The  eager  exultation  of  his  speech 

Earthward  recall'd  the  thoughts  of  Thalaba. 

"  And  dost  thou  triumph.  Murderer .'  dost  thou 

deem. 

Because  I  perish,  that  the  unsleeping  lids 

Of  Justice  shall  be  closed  upon  thy  crime .' 

Poor,  miserable  man  !  that  thou  canst  live 

With  such  beast-blindness  in  the  present  joj', 

When  o'er  thy  head  the  sword  of  God 

Hangs  for  the  certain  stroke  !  " 

34. 

"  Servant  of  Allah,  thou  hast  disobey'd  : 

God  hath  abandon 'd  thee  ; 

This  hour  is  mine  !  "  cried  Okba, 

And  shook  his  daughter  off, 
And  drew  the  dagger  from  his  vest, 
And  aim'd  the  deadly  blow. 

35. 

All  was  accomplish'd.     Laila  rush'd  between 

To  save  the  savior  Youth. 

She  met  the  blow,  and  sunk  into  his  arms  ; 

And  Azrael,  from  the  hands  of  Thalaba, 

Received  her  parting  soul. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK   X. 

JVo  faUhfvl  crowded  round  her  bier.  —  3,  p.  304. 

When  any  person  is  to  be  buried,  it  is  usual  to  bring  the 
corpse  at  mid-day,  or  afternoon  prayers,  to  one  or  other  of 


BOOK    X. 


iNOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


309 


tlicse  Mosiiues,  from  whence  it  is  accompanied  by  the  greatest 
part  of  the  congregation  to  the  grave.  Their  processions,  at 
these  times,  arc  not  so  slow  and  solemn  as  in  most  parts  of 
Christendom  ;  for  tlie  wliole  company  make  what  haste  they 
can,  singing,  as  they  go  along,  some  select  verses  of  their 
Koran.  That  absolute  submission  which  they  pay  to  the  will 
of  God,  allows  them  not  to  use  any  consolatory  words  upon 
these  occasions  ;  no  loss  or  misfortnne  is  to  be  hereupon  re- 
gretted or  complained  of:  instead  likewise  of  such  expressions 
of  sorrow  and  corulolence,  as  may  regard  tlie  deceased,  the 
comjiliments  turn  upon  the  person  who  is  the  nearest  con- 
cerned, a  blessing  (say  his  friends)  be  upon  your  head.  — 
Shaic. 

All  Mahometans  inter  the  dead  at  the  hour  set  ai>art  for 
prayer;  the  defunct  is  not  kept  in  the  house,  except  he  ex- 
pires after  sunset ;  but  the  body  is  transpoited  to  the  Mosque, 
whither  it  is  carried  by  those  who  are  going  to  i)rayer ;  each, 
from  a  spirit  of  devotion,  is  desirous  to  carry  in  his  turn. 
Women  regularly  go  on  Friday  to  weej)  over,  and  pray  at  the 
sepulchres  of  the  dead,  whose  memory  they  hold  dear.  — 
Clienier. 

This  custom  of  crowding  about  a  funeral  contributes  to 
spread  the  phigue  in  Turkey.  It  is  not  many  years  since,  in 
some  parts  of  Worcestershire,  the  mourners  were  accustomed 
to  kneel  with  their  heads  upon  the  coffin  during  the  burial 
service. 

The  fullest  account  of  a  Mohammedan  funeral  is  in  the 
Lpltrt^  snr  la  Oricc,  of  M.  Guys.  Chance  made  him  the 
spectator  of  a  ceremony  which  the  Moslem  will  not  suffer  an 
infidel  to  profane  by  his  presence. 

"  .\bont  ten  in  the  morning  I  saw  the  grave-digger  at  work  ; 
the  slaves  and  the  women  of  the  family  were  seated  in  the 
burial-ground,  many  other  women  arrived,  and  then  they  all 
began  to  lament.  After  this  prelude,  they,  one  after  the 
other,  embraced  one  of  the  little  pillars  which  are  jilaccd  upon 
the  graves,  crying  out,  Oi/louni,  ogloum,  gana  MtLiaaphir  guddi, 
My  son,  my  soji,  a  guest  is  coming  to  see  thee.  At  these 
words  their  tears  and  sobs  began  anew  ;  but  the  storm  did 
not  continue  long  ;  they  all  seated  themselves,  and  entered  into 
conversation. 

At  noon  I  heard  a  confused  noise,  and  cries  of  lamen- 
tation ;  it  was  the  funeral  which  arrived.  A  Turk  pre- 
ceded it,  bearing  upon  his  head  a  small  chest ;  four  other 
Turks  carried  the  bier  upon  their  shoulders  ;  then  came  the 
father,  the  relations,  and  the  friends  of  the  dead,  in  great 
numbers.  Their  cries  ceased  at  the  entrance  of  the  burial- 
ground,  but  then  they  quarrelled  —  and  for  this  :  The  man  who 
bore  the  chest  opened  it;  it  was  filled  with  copies  of  the 
Koran  ;  a  crowd  of  Turks,  young  and  old,  threw  themselves 
upon  the  books,  and  scrambled  for  them.  Those  who  suc- 
ceeded ranged  themselves  around  the  Iman,  and  all  at  once 
began  to  recite  the  Koran,  almost  as  boys  say  their  lesson. 
Each  of  the  readers  received  ten  parats,  about  fifteen  sols, 
wrapt  in  paper.  It  was  then  for  these  fifteen  pence,  that 
these  pious  assistants  had  quarrelleil,  and  in  our  own  country 
you  might  have  seen  them  fight  for  less. 

The  bier  was  placed  by  the  grave,  in  which  the  grave-dig- 
ger was  still  working,  and  perfumes  were  burnt  by  it.  After 
the  reading  of  the  Koran,  the  iMiiin  chanted  some  Arabic 
prayers,  and  his  full  chant  would,  no  iloulit,  have  appeared  to 
you,  as  it  did  to  me,  very  ridiculous.  All  the  Turks  were 
standing;  they  held  their  hands  open  over  the  grave,  and 
answered  ^nien  to  all  the  prayers  which  the  Iman  addressed 
to  God  for  the  deceased. 

The  prayers  finished,  a  large  chest  was  brought,  about  six 
feet  long,  and  three  broad  ;  its  boards  were  very  thick.  The 
coffin  is  usually  made  of  cypress  ;  thus,  literally,  is  verified 
the  i)hrase  of  Horace,  that  the  cypress  is  our  last  possession : 

J^Tequc  harum,  quas  colis,  arbonim, 
Tr,  pruter  iiicisas  cuprcssiis, 
Uita  brcvem  dominum  seijiictiir. 

The  cemeteries  of  the  Turks  are  usually  planted  with  these 
trees,  to  which  they  have  a  religious  attachment.  The  chest, 
which  was  in  loose  piece.s,  having  been  placed  in  the  grave, 
the  coflfin  was  laid  in  it,  and  above,  planks,  with  other  pieces 
of  wood.  Then  all  the  Turks,  taking  spailes,  east  earth  upon 
•he  grave  to  cover  it.  This  is  a  part  of  the  ceremony  at 
which  all  the  bystanders  assisted  in  their  turn. 


Before  the  corpse  is  buried,  it  is  carried  to  the  Mosque. 
Then,  after  having  recited  the  Fatka  (a  prayer  very  similar  to 
our  Lord's  prayer,  which  is  repeated  '>y  all  present)  the  Iman 
asks  the  congregation  what  they  have  to  testify  concerning  the 
life  and  morals  of  the  deceased  .'  Each  then,  in  his  turn,  re- 
lates those  good  actions  with  which  he  was  acquainted.  The 
body  is  then  washed,  and  wrapped  up  like  a  nmmmy,  so 
that  it  cannot  be  seen.  Drugs  and  spices  are  placed  in  the 
bier  with  it,  and  it  is  carried  to  interment.  Before  it  is 
lowered  into  the  grave,  the  Iman  commands  silence,  saying, 
"  Cease  your  lamentations  for  a  moment,  and  let  me  instruct 
this  Moslem  how  to  act,  when  he  arrives  in  the  other  world." 
Then,  in  the  ear  of  the  corpse,  he  directs  him  how  to  answer 
the  Evil  Spirit,  who  will  not  fail  to  (juestion  him,  respecting 
his  religion,  &c.  Tliis  lesson  finished,  he  repeats  the  f\itka, 
with  all  the  assistants,  and  the  body  is  let  down  into  the  grave. 
After  they  have  thrown  earth  three  times  upon  the  grave,  as 
the  Romans  used,  they  retire.  The  Iman  only  remains  ;  he 
approaches  the  grave,  stoops  down,  inclines  his  ear,  and  listens 
to  hear  if  the  dead  man  disputes  when  the  Angel  of  Death 
comes  to  take  him  :  then  he  bids  him  farewell  ;  and  in  order 
to  be  well  paid,  never  fails  to  report  to  the  family  the  best 
news  of  the  deceased. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  of  interment  is  concluded,  the 
Imaum,  seated  with  his  legs  bent  under  his  thighs,  repeats  a 
short  prayer ;  ho  then  calls  the  deceased  three  times  by  his 
name,  mentioning  also  that  of  his  mother,  but  without  the 
smallest  allusion  to  that  of  his  father.  What  will  be  con- 
sidered as  infinitely  more  extraorilinary  is,  that  should  the 
Imaum  be  ignorant  of  the  name  of  the  mother,  it  is  usual  for 
him  to  substitute  that  of  Mary,  in  honor  of  the  Virgin,  pro- 
vided the  deceased  be  a  male,  and  that  of  Eve,  in  case  the 
deceased  be  a  female,  ill  honor  of  the  common  mother  of 
mankind.  This  custom  is  so  invariable,  that  even  at  the  in- 
terment of  the  Sultans,  it  is  not  neglected  ;  tlie  Imaum  call- 
ing out,  Oh  Mustapha  !  Son  of  Mary  I  or.  Oh  Fatimali  ! 
Daughter  of  Eve  I 

Immediately  afterwards,  he  repeats  a  prayer,  called  Telkeen, 
which  consists  of  the  following  words :  —  "  Remember  the  mo- 
ment of  thy  leaving  the  world,  in  making  this  profession  of 
faith.  Certainly  there  is  no  God  but  God.  He  is  one,  and 
there  is  no  association  in  Him.  Certainly  Mohammed  is  the 
prophet  of  God.  Certainly  Paradise  is  real.  Certainly  the 
resurrection  is  real ;  it  is  indisputable.  Certainly  God  will 
bring  to  life  the  dead,  and  make  them  leave  their  graves. 
Certainly  thou  hast  acknowledged  God  for  thy  God  ,  Islamism 
for  thy  religion  ;  Mohammed  for  thy  prophet ;  the  Koran  for 
thy  priest ;  the  sanctuary  of  Mecca  for  thy  Kibla  ;  and  the 
faithful  for  thy  brethren.  God  is  my  God  ;  there  is  no  other 
God  but  he.  He  is  the  master  of  the  august  and  sacred 
throne  of  Heaven.  Oh  Mustaphah  1  (or  any  other  name,) 
say  that  God  is  thy  God,  (which  the  Imaum  repeats  thriee.) 
Say  there  is  no  other  God  but  God,  (also  repeated  thrice.) 
Say  that  Mohammed  is  the  prophet  of  God  ;  that  thy  religion 
is  Islam,  and  that  thy  prophet  is  Mohammed,  upon  whom  be 
the  blessing  of  salvation,  and  the  mercy  of  the  Lord.  O  God, 
do  not  abandon  us."  After  this  ejaculation,  the  ceremony  is 
concluded  by  a  chapter  of  the  Koran,  and  the  party  returns 
home. 

As  soon  as  the  grave  was  filled  up,  each  friend  planted  a 
sprig  of  cypress  on  the  right,  and  another  on  the  left  hand  of 
the  deceased,  and  then  took  his  leave.  This  was  to  ascertain 
by  their  growth  whether  the  deceased  would  enjoy  the 
happiness  promised  by  Mohammed  to  all  true  believers,  or 
whether  he  would  forever  be  denied  the  bliss  of  the  Houris 
The  former  would  occur  should  the  sprigs  on  the  right  hand 
take  root,  and  the  latter  would  be  ascertained  if  the  left  onlv 
should  flourish.  If  both  succeeded,  he  would  be  greatly 
favored  in  the  next  world  ;  or  if  both  failed,  he  would  be. 
tormented  by  black  angels,  until,  tliro\igh  the  mediation  of 
the  prophet,  he  should  be  rescued  from  their  persecutions. 

The  graves  are  imt  dug  deep,  l)ut  separated  from  each  other 
carefully,  that  two  Inxlies  may  not  be  jilnced  together.  The 
earth  is  raised,  to  prevent  an  unhallowed  foot  from  treading 
upon  it ;  and,  instead  of  a  plain,  flat  stone  being  placed  over 
it,  one  which  is  perforated  in  the  centre  is  most  commonly 
used,  to  allow  of  cypress-trees,  or  odoriferous  herbs,  being 
planted  immediately  over  the  corpse.  Occasionally  a  square 
stone,  hollowed  out,  and  without  a  cover,  is  preferrc<l  ;  which 


•jio 


JNOTES    TO   THALABA    THK    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    X 


buing  filled  with  mould,  the  trees  or  herbs  are  cultivated  in  it." 

—  Griffiths. 


JVor  column  raised  by  the  way-side,  &c.  —  3,  p.  304. 

Tlie  Turks  bury  not  at  all  within  the  walls  of  the  city,  but 
the  i^reat  Turkisli  Enipc'rors  themselves,  with  their  wives  and 
children  about  them,  and  some  few  other  of  their  £;reat  Bas- 
saos,  and  those  only  in  chapels  by  themselves,  built  for  that 
purpose.  All  the  rest  of  the  'J'urks  are  buried  in  the  fields; 
some  of  the  better  sort,  in  tombs  of  marble  ;  but  the  rest, 
with  tomb-stones  laid  upon  them,  or  with  two  great  stones, 
one  set  up  at  the  head,  and  the  other  at  the  feet  of  every 
^rave  ;  the  greatest  part  of  them  being  of  white  marble, 
brought  from  the  Isle  of  Marmora. 

They  will  not  bury  any  man  where  another  hath  been 
buried,  accounting  it  impiety  to  dig  up  another  man's  bones; 
by  reason  whereof,  they  cover  all  the  best  ground  about  the 
city  with  such  great  white  stones  ;  which,  for  the  infinite 
number  of  them,  are  thought  sufficient  to  make  another  wall 
about  the  city.  —  KnoUcs. 

Tlie  Turks  bury  by  the  way-side,  believing  that  the  pas- 
sengeis  will  pray  for  the  souls  of  the  dead. —  Tavemier. 


His  eyes  are  aching  with  the  snow,  —  4,  p.  304. 

All  that  day  we  travelled  over  plains  all  covered  with  snow, 
as  the  day  before  ;  and  indeed  it  is  not  only  troublesome,  but 
very  dangerous,  to  travel  through  these  deep  snows.  The 
mischief  is,  that  the  beams  of  the  sun,  which  lie  all  day  long 
upon  it,  molest  the  eyes  and  face  with  such  a  scorching  he:it, 
as  very  much  weakens  the  sight,  whatever  remedy  a  man  can 
apply,  by  wearing,  as  the  people  of  the  country  do,  a  thin 
lian<lkerc!iiflf  of  green  or  black  silk,  which  no  way  abates  the 
annoyance.  —  Chardin. 

Wlien  they  have  to  travel  many  days  through  a  country 
covered  with  snow,  travellers,  to  preserve  their  sight,  cover 
the  face  with  a  silk  kerchief,  made  on  |>urpose,  like  a  sort  of 
black  crape.  Others  have  large  furred  bonnets,  bordered  with 
goat-skin,  and  the  long  goat-hair,  hanging  over  the  face,  is  as 
serviceable  as  the  crape.  —  Tavernicr. 

An  Abyssinian  historian  says,  that  the  village  called  Zinze- 
nam,  rain  upon  rain,  has  its  nune  from  an  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstance that  once  happened  in  lliese  parts  ;  for  a  shower  of 
ruin  fell,  which  was  not  proi)erly  of  tlie  niiture  of  rain,  as  it  did 
not  run  upon  the  ground,  but  remained  very  light,  having 
scarce  the  weight  of  feathers,  of  a  beautiful  white  color,  like 
flour  ;  it  fell  in  showers,  and  occasioned  a  darkness  in  the  air 
more  than  rain,  and  liker  to  mist.  It  covered  the  face  of  the 
whole  country  for  several  days,  retaining  its  whiteness  the 
whole  time,  then  went  away  like  dew,  without  leaving  any 
smell,  or  unwholesome  effect  behind  it.  —  Bruce. 

The  Dutch  were  formerly  expelled  from  an  East  Indian 
settlement,  because  their  consul,  in  narrating  to  the  Prince  of 
the  country  the  wonders  of  Europe,  chanced  to  say,  that  in 
his  own  country,  water  became  a  solid  body  once  a-year,  for 
some  time;  when  men,  or  even  horses,  might  pass  over  it 
without  sinking.  The  Prince,  in  a  rage,  said,  that  he  had 
hitherto  listened  to  his  tales  with  patience,  but  this  was  so 
palpable  a  lie,  that  he  would  never  more  be  connected  with 
Europeans,  who  only  could  assert  such  monstrous  falsehoods. 


Its  broad,  rnund-spreadingbranches,when  they  felt,  &.c.  5,  p.  304. 

A  strange  account  of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  is  given  by  De 
la  Rociue.      Voyage  di;  Syrie  et  da  Mont  Liban.     1772. 

"  This  little  forest  is  composed  of  twenty  cedars,  of  a  pro- 
digious size  ;  so  large,  indeed,  thiitthe  finest  planes,  sycamores, 
and  other  large  trees  whicli  we  had  seen,  could  not  be  com- 
pared with  them.  Besides  these  principal  cedars,  there  were 
a  great  number  of  lesser  ones,  anil  some  very  small,  mingled 
with  the  large  trees,  or  in  little  clumps  near  them.  Thf  y 
differed  not  in  their  foliage,  which  resembles  the  juniper,  and 
is  green  throughout  the  year ;  but  the  great  cedars  spread  at 
their  summit,  and  form  a  perfect  round,  whereas  the  small 
ones  rise  in  a  pyramidal  form  like  the  cypress.  Both  diffuse 
the  same  pleasant  odor;  the  large  ones  only  yield  fruil,  a 


large  cone,  in  shape  almost  like  that  of  the  pine,  but  of  a 
browner  color,  and  compacter  shell.  It  gives  a  very  pleasant 
odor,  and  contains  a  sort  of  thick  and  transparent  balm, 
which  oozes  out  through  small  apertures,  and  falls  dro|)  by 
drop.  This  fruit,  which  it  is  difficult  to  separate  from  the 
stalk,  contains  a  nut  like  that  of  the  cypress  ;  it  grows  at  the 
end  of  the  boughs,  and  turns  its  point  upwards. 

'I'lie  nature  of  this  tree  is  not  to  elevate  its  trunk,  or  the 
part  between  the  root  and  the  first  branches  ;  for  the  largest 
cedars  which  we  saw  did  not,  in  the  height  of  their  trunks, 
exceed  six  or  seven  feet.  From  this  low  but  enormously 
thick  body,  prodigious  branches  rise,  spreading  as  they  rise, 
and  forming,  by  the  disposition  of  their  boughs  and  leaves, 
which  point  upward,  a  sort  of  wheel,  which  appears  to  be  the 
work  of  art.  The  bark  of  the  cedar,  except  at  the  trunk,  is 
smooth  and  shining,  of  a  brown  color;  its  wood  white  and 
soft,  immediately  under  the  bark,  but  hard  and  red  within, 
and  very  bitter,  which  renders  it  incorruptible,  and  almost 
immortal.     A  fragrant  gum  issues  from  the  tree. 

The  largest  cedar  which  we  measured  was  seven  feet  in 
circumference,  wanting  two  inches  ;  and  the  whole  extent  of 
its  branches,  which  it  was  easy  to  measure,  from  their  perfect 
roundness,  formed  a  ciicumference  of  about  120  feet. 

The  Patriarch  of  the  Maronites,  fully  jiersuaded  of  the 
rarity  of  these  trees,  and  wishing,  by  the  preservation  of  those 
that  remain,  to  show  his  respect  for  a  forest  so  celebrated  in 
Scripture,  has  pronounced  canonical  pains,  and  even  excom- 
munication, against  any  Christians  who  shall  dare  to  cut 
them  ;  scarcely  will  he  permit  a  litlle  to  be  sometimes  taken 
for  crucifixes  and  little  tabernacles  in  the  chapels  of  our 
missionaries. 

The  Maronites  fhemsclves  have  such  a  veneration  for  these 
cedars,  that  on  the  day  of  transfiguration,  they  cehdiratc  the 
festival  under  them  with  great  solemnity  ;  the  Patriarch  offi- 
ciates, and  says  mass  pontifically  ;  and,  amongother  exercises 
of  devotion,  they  particularly  honor  the  Virgin  Mary  there, 
and  sing  her  praises,  because  she  is  compared  to  the  cedars 
of  Lebanon,  and  Lebanon  itself  used  as  a  metaphor  for  the 
mother  of  Christ. 

******** 

The  Maronites  say,  that  the  snows  have  no  sooner  begun  to 
fall,  than  these  cedars,  whose  boughs,  in  their  infinite  numlier, 
are  all  so  equal  in  height,  that  Ihey  appear  to  have  been  shorn, 
and  form,  as  we  have  said,  a  sort  of  wheel  or  parasol  ;  tlian 
these  cedars,  I  say,  never  fail  at  that  time  to  change  their 
figure.  The  branches,  which  before  s])read  themselves,  rise 
insensibly,  gathering  together,  it  may  be  said,  and  turn  their 
points  upward  towards  Heaven,  forming  altogether  a  pyramid. 
It  is  Nature,  they  say,  who  inspires  this  movement,  and  mnkcs 
them  assume  a  new  shape,  without  which  these  trees  never 
could  sustain  the  immense  weight  of  snow  remaining  for  so 
long  a  time. 

I  have  procured  more  particular  inforniati(m  of  Ibis  fact, 
and  it  has  been  confirmed  by  the  testimony  of  many  persons, 
who  have  often  witnessed  it.  This  is  what  the  secretary  of 
the  Miironito  Patriarch  wrote  to  me  in  one  of  his  letters, 
which  I  lliink  it  right  to  give  in  his  own  words.  Cedri  Liha- 
ni  (]nos  plantnvit  Dens,  ut  Psalmista  loijvitnr,  sitce  snnt  in  pla- 
nitie  qu&dain,  aliquant nhtm  infra  altissi:num  Movti.i  Libani  ca- 
cumen,  uhi  tempore  Iiyemnli  maxima  nieium  quantitns  descendit, 
tribusque  ct  ultra  mensibiis  inordaciter  riominatur.  Cedri  in 
altum  ascendunt  eitensis  taincn  ramis  in  (ryrum  .^(do  parallelis, 
covficientibus  sua  gym  fere  umbellam  solarem.  Sed  supn-veiii- 
ente  nine,  quia  concert- aretur  in  magnh  quantitnte  eos  dcsuper, 
ncque  posscnt  pati  tantum  pnndns  tanto  tempore  prrmens,  sine 
ccrto  fractionis  discriniine,  JVatura,  rerum  ovmiuin  provida  via- 
ter,  ipsis  concessit,  ut  adveniente  hyeme  ct  descendentenivp,  statim 
rami  in  altum  assurgant,  et  secum  invicem  uniti  covslituant 
quasi  cnmim,  ut  melius  sese  ah  adveniente  hoste  turantur.  J\''n- 
tura  evim  ipsci  rerum  est,  rirtutcm  qnamlibet  unitam  simul  reddi 
fortiorem. 

The  cedars  of  Lebanon,  which,  as  the  Psalmist  says,  God 
hiinself  planted,  are  situated  in  a  little  plain  somewhat  lielow 
the  loftiest  summit  of  Mount  Lebanon,  where,  in  tiie  winter,  a 
great  quantity  of  snow  falls,  and  continues  for  three  months, 
or  longer.  The  cedars  are  high,  but  their  boughs  spread  out 
parallel  with  the  ground  into  a  circle,  forming  almr)st  a  shield 
against  tlie  sun.  But  when  the  snow  falls,  whicli  would  be 
heaped  upon  them  in  so  great  a  quantity,  that  they  could  not 


BOOK    X. 


NOTES    TO    TIIALAEA    THE    DESTROYER. 


yii 


endure  such  a  weight  so  long  a  time,  without  tlie  certain 
dungcr  of  bre iking  i  Nature,  the  provident  mother  of  all,  has 
endued  them  willi  power,  tliut  when  the  winter  comes,  and 
the  snow  descends,  their  boughs  inunediately  rise,  and,  uniting 
together,  form  a  cone,  that  they  may  be  the  better  defended 
from  the  coming  enemy.  For  in  nature  itself,  it  is  true,  tliat 
virtue,  as  it  is  united,  becomes  stronger." 


Passing  in  summer  o'er  the  coffee  groves,  &c.  —  8,  p.  305. 

The  coffee  plant  is  about  the  size  of  the  orange-tree.  The 
flower,  in  color,  size,  and  smell,  resembles  the  white  jessa- 
mine. The  berry  is  tirst  green,  then  red,  in  which  ripe  state 
it  is  gathered. 

Olearius's  description  of  coffee  is  amusing.  "  They  drink  a 
certain  black  water,  which  they  call  cahwa,  made  of  a  fruit 
lirought  out  of  Egypt,  and  which  is  in  color  like  ordinary 
wheat,  and  in  taste  like  Turkish  wheat,  and  is  of  the  bigness 
of  a  little  bean.  They  fry,  or  rather  burn  it  in  an  iron  pan, 
without  any  liquor,  beat  it  to  powder,  and  boiling  it  with  fair 
water,  they  make  this  drink  thereof,  wliich  hath  as  it  were  the 
taste  of  a  burnt  crust,  and  is  not  pleasant  to  the  palate."  — 
jlinh.  Travels. 

I'ietro  della  Valle  liked  it  better,  and  says  he  should  mtro- 
duce  it  into  Italy.  If,  said  he,  it  were  drank  with  wine  instead 
of  water,  1  should  think  it  is  the  Nepenthe,  which,  according 
to  Homer,  Helen  brought  from  Egypt,  for  it  is  certain  that 
cofl'ee  comes  from  that  country  ;  and  as  Nepenthe  was  said  to 
assuage  trouble  and  disquietude,  so  does  tliis  serve  the  Turks 
as  an  ordinary  pastime,  making  them  pass  their  hours  in  con- 
versation, and  occasioning  pleasant  discourse,  wliich  induces 
forgetfulncss  of  care. 


He  read  the  stars,  &c.  — 13,  p.  306. 

It  is  well  known  how  much  the  Orientalists  are  addicted  to 
this  pretended  science.  There  is  a  curious  instance  of  public 
IjIIv  in  Sir  John  C'hardin's  Travels. 

"  Sephie-.Miiza  was  born  in  the  year  of  the  Egire  10.')7. 
For  the  superstition  of  the  Persians  will  not  let  us  know  the 
month  or  the  day.  Their  addiction  to  astrology  is  such,  that 
they  carefully  conceal  the  moments  of  their  princes'  birth,  to 
prevent  the  casting  their  nativities,  where  they  might  meet 
perhaps  with  something  which  they  should  be  unwilling  to 
know," 

At  the  coronation  of  this  prince  two  astrologers  were  to  be 
present,  with  an  astrolabe  in  their  hands,  to  take  the  fortunate 
hour,  as  they  term  it,  and  observe  the  lucky  moments  that  a 
happy  constellation  should  point  out  for  proceedings  of  that 
importance. 

Sephie-.Mirza  having  by  debauchery  materially  injured  his 
health,  the  chief  physician  was  greatly  alarmed,  "  in  regard 
his  life  di'pended  upon  the  kins's  ;  or  if  his  life  were  spared, 
yet  he  was  sure  to  lose  his  estate  and  his  liberty,  as  happens 
to  all  those  who  attend  tiie  Asiatic  Sovereigns,  when  they  die 
under  their  care.  The  queen-mother  too  accused  him  of 
treason  or  ignorance,  believing  that  since  he  was  her  son's 
pliysiciun,  he  was  obliged  to  cure  him.  U'his  made  the  phy- 
sician at  his  wit's  end,  so  that,  all  his  recoijils  failing  him,  he 
bethought  hin'self  of  one  that  was  peculiarly  his  own  inven- 
tion, and  which  few  physicians  would  ever  have  found  out,:is 
not  being  to  be  met  with  neither  in  Galen  nor  Hippocrates. 
What  does  he  then  do,  but  out  of  an  extraordinary  f'tchof  his 
wit,  he  begins  to  lay  the  fault  upon  the  stars  and  the  king's 
astrologers,  crying  out,  that  they  were  altogether  in  the  wrong. 
That  if  the  king  lay  in  a  languishing  condition,  anil  could  not 
recover  his  health,  it  was  because  they  had  failed  to  observe 
the  happy  hour,  or  the  aspect  of  a  fortunate  constellation  at 
the  lime  of  his  coronation."  The  stratagem  succeeded,  the 
king  was  re-crowned,  and  by  the  new  name  of  Solyman  !  — 
CItardin. 

[t  teas  a  brazen  linage,  every  limb,  &.c.  — 16,  p.  307. 

We  have  now  to  refute  their  error,  who  are  persuaded  that 
brazen  heads,  made  under  certain  constellations,  may  give 
answers,  and  be  as  it  were  guides  and  counsellers,  upon  all 
occasions,  'o  tni»e  that  had  them  in  their  possession.  Among 


these  is  one  Yepos,  who  affirms  that  Henry  de  Villena  made 
such  a  one  at  Madrid,  broken  to  pieces  afterward -i  by  order  of 
John  II.,  king  of  Castile.  The  same  thing  is  affirmed  by 
liartholomew  Sibillus,  and  the  author  of  the  linage  of  the 
tt',}rld,oi'\'irgi\;  by  William  of  Malmsbury,  of  Sylvester ;  by 
John  Oowcr,  of  Robert  of  Lincoln  ;  by  the  common  people  of 
Kngland,  of  Roger  Bacon  ;  and  by  Tostatus,  bishop  of  Avila, 
George  of  Venice,  Delrio,  Sibillus,  Raguscus,  Dclancrc,  and 
others,  too  many  to  mention,  of  Albertus  Magnus  ;  who,  as 
the  most  expert,  had  made  an  entire  man  of  the  same  metal, 
and  had  spent  thirty  years  without  any  interruption  in  forming 
him  under  several  aspects  and  constellations.  For  example, 
he  formed  the  eyes,  according  to  the  said  Tostatus,  in  his 
Commentaries  ui>on  Exodus,  when  the  sun  was  in  a  sign  of 
the  Zodiac  correspondent  to  that  part,  casting  them  out  of 
divers  metals  mixed  together,  and  marked  with  the  characters 
of  the  same  signs  and  planets,  and  their  several  and  necessary 
aspects.  The  same  method  he  observed  in  the  head,  neck, 
shoulders,  thighs,  and  legs,  all  wliich  were  f  ishioned  at  several 
times,  and  being  put  and  fastened  together  in  the  form  of  a 
man,  had  the  faculty  to  reveal  to  the  said  Albertus  the  solu- 
tions of  all  his  principal  difficulties.  To  which  they  add, 
flhat  nothing  be  lost  of  the  story  of  the  Statue,)  that  it  was 
battered  to  pieces  by  St.  Thomas,  merely  because  he  could 
not  endure  its  exci^ss  of  prating. 

But,  to  give  a  more  rational  account  of  this  Androides  of 
Albertus,  as  also  of  all  these  miraculous  heads,  I  conceive  the 
original  of  this  faole  may  well  be  deduced  from  the  Teraph  of 
the  Hebrews,  by  which,  as  Mr.  Selden  affirms,  many  are  of 
opinion,  that  we  must  understand  what  is  said  in  Genesis 
concerning  Lalian's  gods,  and  in  the  first  book  of  Kings,  con- 
cerning the  image  which  Michal  put  into  the  bed  in  David's 
place.  For  R.  Eleazer  holds,  that  it  was  made  of  the  head  of 
a  male  child,  tlio  first-born,  and  that  dead-born,  under  whoso 
tongue  they  applied  a  himen  of  gold,  whereon  were  engraved 
the  characters  and  inscriptions  of  certain  planets,  which  the 
Jews  superstitiously  wandered  up  and  down  with,  instead  of 
the  Urim  and  Thunmiim,  or  the  Ephod  of  the  high-priest. 
And  that  this  original  is  true  and  well  deduced,  there  is  a 
manifest  indicium,  in  tliat  Henry  D'Assia,  and  Barlholomaus 
Siliillus  affirm,  that  the  Androides  of  Albertus,  and  the  head 
made  by  Virgil,  were  composed  of  flesh  and  bone,  yet  not  by 
nature,  but  by  art.  But  this  being  judged  impossible  by 
modern  authors,  and  the  virtue  of  images,  annulets,  and  plan- 
etary Sigills,  being  in  great  reputation,  men  have  thought 
ever  since,  (taking  their  opinion  from  Trismegistus,  affirming 
in  his  Asclepion,  that  of  the  gods,  some  were  mtule  by  the 
Sovereign  God,  and  others  by  men,  who,  by  some  art,  had  the 
power  to  unite  the  invisible  spirits  to  things  visible  and  corpo- 
real, as  is  explained  at  large  by  St.  Augustine,)  that  such 
figures  were  made  of  copper  or  some  other  metal,  whereon 
men  had  wrought  under  some  favorable  aspects  of  Heaven 
and  the  planets. 

My  design  is  not  absolutely  to  deny  that  he  might  compose 
some  head  or  statue  of  man,  like  that  of  Memnon,  from  which 
proceeded  a  small  sound  and  pleasant  noise,  when  the  rising 
sun  came,  by  his  heat,  to  rarify  and  force  out,  by  certain  small 
conduits,  the  air  which,  in  the  cold  of  the  night,  was  con- 
densed within  it.  Or,  haply,  tliey  might  be  like  those  statues 
of  Boetius,  whereof  Cassiodorus,  speaking,  said,  Mclella 
mugiunt  Diomedis  in  cere  grucs  burcinant,  irneiis  unguis  insihi- 
hd,  avrs simufat(S  fritinniuiit,  tt  quai  propriam  vuccnt  nesciunt,  ab 
(Crc  duhedincm  prohantur  emittcre  cantilmo! ;  for  such,  I  doubt 
not,  but  may  be  made  by  the  help  of  that  part  of  natural  magic 
which  depends  on  the  mathematics.  —  Davies's  History  of 
JIarric. 


And  on  the  Everlasting  Tabic  thcrr,  &c.  — 21,  p.  308. 

This  table  is  suspended  in  the  Seventh  Heaven,  and  guarded 
from  the  demons,  lest  they  should  change  or  corrupt  any  thing 
thereon.  Its  length  is  sogreat  as  isihe  space  betweenheaven 
and  earth,  its  breadth  equal  to  the  distance  from  the  cast  to 
the  west,  and  it  is  made  of  one  pe.irl.  The  divine  pen  was 
created  by  the  finger  of  God  ;  that  also  is  of  pearl,  and  of  such 
length  and  briadth,  that  a  swift  horse  could  scarcely  gallop 
round  it  in  five  humlred  years.  It  is  so  ei::;owed,  that,  selt- 
moved,  it  writes  all  things,  past,  present,  and  to  come.     Light 


:U2 


NOTES  TO  THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


BOOK    X. 


is  its  ink,  nnd  the  language  which  it  uses,  only  the  angel 
Seraphael  understands.  — Maracci. 


Tlie  yearly  Scroll  of  Fate,  &c.  —  2G,  p.  308. 

They  celebrate  the  night  Leileth-iil-beraelli,  on  the  15th  of 
the  month  of  Schabann,  with  great  apprehension  and  terror, 
because  tlicy  consider  it  as  the  tremendous  night  on  wliich 
the  angels  Kiramenn-keatibinn,  phiced  on  each  side  of  man- 
kind, to  write  down  their  good  and  bad  actions,  deliver  up 
their  books,  and  receive  fresh  ones  for  the  continuance  of  the 
same  employment.  It  is  believed,  also,  that  on  that  night,  the 
archangel  Azrail,the  angel  of  deatli,  gives  up  also  his  records, 
and  receives  another  book,  in  which  are  written  the  names  of 
all  those  destined  to  die  in  the  following  year.  —  D'Olisson. 


Her  leaf  halh  witlier'd  on  the  Tree  of  Life.  —  26,  p.  308. 

Here,  in  the  Fourth  Heaven,  I  beheld  a  most  prodigious 
angel,  of  an  admirable  presence  and  aiJjiect,  in  whose  awful 
countenance  there  appeared  neither  mirth  nor  sorrow,  but  an 
undescribalile  mixture  of  l)oth.  He  neither  smiled  in  my 
face,  nor  did  he,  indeed,  scarce  turn  his  eyes  towards  me  to 
look  upon  me,  as  all  the  rest  did,  yet  he  returned  my  salu- 
tation after  a  very  courteous,  obliging  manner,  and  said, 
"  Welcome  to  these  mansions,  O  Mahomet ;  thou  art  the 
person  whom  the  Almighty  hath  endowed  with  all  the  united 
perfections  of  nature  ;  and  upon  whom  he,  of  his  immense 
goodness,  hath  been  pleased  to  bestow  the  utmost  of  his 
divine  graces." 

There  stood  before  him  a  most  beautiful  table,  of  a  vast 
m  igiiitude  and  extent,  written  all  over,  almost  from  the  top 
to  the  bottom,  in  a  very  close,  and  scarce  distinguishalile 
character,  upon  which  written  table  his  eyes  were  continually 
fixed;  and  so  exceedingly  intent  h('  was  upon  that  his  occu- 
pation, that,  though  I  stood  steadfastly  observing  his  coun- 
teEiance,  I  could  not  perceive  Ins  eyelids  once  to  move  Cast- 
ing my  eyes  towards  the  left  side  of  him,  I  beheld  a  prodigious 
large  shady  tree,  the  leaves  wlicreof  were  as  innumerable  as 
the  sands  of  the  ocean,  and  upon  every  one  of  wliich  were 
certain  characters  inscribed.  Being  extremely  desirous  of 
knowing  fhe  secret  of  this  wonderful  mystery,  I  inquired  of 
Gabriel  the  meaning  of  what  I  was  examining  with  my  eyes 
with  so  anxious  a  curiosity.  The  obliging  angel,  to  satisfy 
my  longing,  said.  That  person,  concerning  whom  thou  art  so 
very  inquisitive,  is  the  redoubtable  ^zaracl,  the  Angel  of 
Death,  who  was  never  yet  known  either  to  laugh,  smile,  or  be 
merry;  for,  depend  upon  it,  my  beloved  Mahomet,  had  he 
been  capable  of  smiling,  or  looking  pleasant  upon  any  creature 
in  nature,  it  would  assuredly  have  been  u|)on  thee  alone.  This 
table,  upon  which  thou  bcholdest  him  so  attentively  fixing  his 
looks,  is  called  Et  Lovgh  El  Miihnfuud,  and  is  the  register 
upon  which  are  engraven  the  names  of  every  individual  soul 
breathing;  and,  notwithstanding  the  inspection  of  that  register 
taketh  up  the  greatest  jiart  of  his  time,  yet  he  morepaiticular- 
ly  looketh  it  all  over  five  timas  a-day,  which  are  at  those  very 
same  instants  wherein  the  true  believers  are  obliged  to  offer 
up  their  adorations  to  our  Omnipotent  Lord.  The  means 
whereby  he  understandeth  when  the  thread  of  each  individual 
life  is  run  out  and  expired,  is  to  look  u|ion  the  branches  of 
that  vast  tree  thou  there  beliolilest,  upon  the  leaves  whereof 
are  written  the  names  of  all  mortals,  every  one  having  his 
peculiar  leaf;  there,  forty  days  before  the  time  of  any  person's 
life  is  expired,  his  respective  leaf  beginning  to  fade,  wither, 
and  grow  dry,  and  the  letters  of  his  name  to  disappear;  at  the 
end  of  the  fortieth  day  they  are  quite  blotted  out,  and  the 
leaf  falli'th  to  the  ground,  by  which  ^zampZ  certainly  knoweth 
that  the  breath  of  its  owner  is  ready  to  leave  the  body,  and 
hasteneth  away  to  take  possession  of  the  departing  soul. 

The  size  or  stature  of  this  formidable  angel  was  so  incom- 
prehensibly stupendous,  so  umneasurably  great,  that  if  this 
earthly  globe  of  ours,  with  all  that  is  thereon  contained,  were 
to  he  placed  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  it  would  seem  no  more 
than  one  single  grain  of  mustard-seed  (though  the  smallest  of 
all  seeds)  would  do  if  laid  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth. — 
Rabadan. 


fa  the  balance  of  thy  trial  must  be  iveigh^d .'  —  23,  p.  308 

The  balance  of  the  dead  is  an  article  in  almost  every  creed 
Mahommed  borrowed  it  from  the  Persians.  I  know  not  from 
whence  the  Monks  introduced  it ;  probably  they  were  ignorant 
enough  to  have  invented  the  obvious  fiction. 

In  the  Vision  of  Thurcillus,  the  ceremony  is  accurately 
described.  "  At  the  end  of  the  north  wall,  within  the  church, 
sate  St.  Paul,  and  opposite  him,  without,  was  the  devil  and 
his  angels.  At  the  feet  of  the  devil,  a  burning  pit  flamed  up, 
which  was  the  mouth  of  the  pit  of  hell.  A  balance,  equally 
poised,  was  fixed  upon  the  wall,  between  the  devil  and  the 
apostle,  one  scale  hanging  before  each.  The  apostle  had  two 
weights,  a  greater  and  a  less,  all  shining,  and  like  gold,  and 
the  devil  also  had  two  smoky  and  black  ones.  Therefore,  the 
souls  that  were  all  black,  came  one  after  another,  w^ith  great 
tear  and  trembling,  to  behold  the  weighing  of  their  good  and 
evil  works  ;  for  these  weights  weighed  the  works  of  all  the 
souls,  according  to  the  good  or  evil  which  they  had  done. 
When  the  scale  inclined  to  the  apostle,  he  took  the  soul,  and 
introduced  it,  through  the  eastern  gate,  into  the  fire  of  Pur- 
gatory, that  there  it  might  expiate  its  crimes.  But  when  the 
scale  inclined  and  sunk  towards  the  devil,  then  he  and  his 
angels  snatched  tlie  soul,  miserably  howling  and  cursing  the 
father  and  mother  that  begot  it,  to  eternal  torments,  and  cast 
it,  with  laughter  and  grinning,  into  the  deep  and  fiery  pit 
which  was  at  the  feet  of  the  devil.  Of  this  balance  of  good 
and  evil,  much  may  be  found  in  the  writings  of  the  Holy 
Fathers."  —  Matthew  Paris. 

Concerning  the  salvation  of  Charlemagne,  Archbishop 
Turpin,  a  man  of  holy  life,  wrote  thus:  "I,  Turpin,  Arch- 
bishop of  Rheims,  being  in  my  chamber,  in  the  city  of  Vienna, 
saying  my  prayers,  saw  a  legion  of  devils  in  the  air,  who  were 
making  a  great  noise.  I  adjured  one  of  them  to  tell  me  from 
whence  they  came,  and  wherefore  they  made  so  great  an 
uproar.  And  he  replied  that  they  came  from  Aix  la  Clia- 
pelle,  where  a  great  lord  had  died,  and  that  they  were  re- 
turning in  anger,  because  they  had  .not  been  able  to  carry 
away  his  soul.  I  asked  him  who  the  great  lord  was,  and  why 
they  had  not  been  able  to  carry  away  his  soul.  He  replied. 
That  it  was  Charlemagne,  and  that  Santiago  had  been  greatly 
against  them.  And  I  asked  him  how  Santiago  had  been 
against  them;  and  he  replied.  We  were  weighing  the  good 
and  the  evil  which  he  had  done  in  this  world,  and  Santiago 
brought  so  much  timber,  and  so  many  stones  from  the  churches 
which  he  had  founded  in  his  name,  that  they  greatly  over- 
balanced all  his  evil  works  ;  and  so  we  had  no  power  over  his 
soul.     And  having  said  this,  the  devil  disappeared." 

We  must  understand  from  this  vision  of  Archbishop  Turpin, 
that  they  who  build  or  repair  churches  in  this  world,  erect 
resting-places  and  inns  for  their  salvation.  —  TUsloria  do  Im- 
perador  Carlos  Magna,  et  ilus  Doze  Pares  de  Franga. 

Two  other  corollaries  follow  from  the  vision.  The  devil's 
way  home  from  Aix  la  Chapelle  lay  through  Vienna  ;  and  as 
churches  go  by  weight,  an  architect  of  Sir  John  Vanbrugh's 
school  should  always  be  employed. 

This  balance  of  the  dead  was  an  easy  and  apt  metaphor, 
but  clumsily  imagined  as  an  actual  mode  of  trial. 

"  For  take  thy  hallaunce,  if  thou  be  so  wise. 

And  weigh  the  wiiide  that  under  heaven  doth  blow  ; 

Or  weigh  the  light  that  in  the  east  doth  rise  ; 

Or  weigh  the  thought  that  from  man's  mind  doth  flow  , 
But  if  the  weiglit  of  these  thou  canst  not  sliow. 

Weigh  hut  one  word  which  from  thy  lips  doth  fall." 

Spmser 


And  Azrael,  from  the  hands  of  Thaluha,  &c.  —  35,  p.  308. 

This  double  meaning  is  in  the  s|>irit  of  oracular  prediction. 
The  classical  reader  will  remember  the  equivocations  of 
Apollo.  The  fable  of  the  Young  -Man  and  the  Lion  in  the 
Tapestry  will  be  more  generally  recollected.  We  have  many 
buildings  in  England  to  which  this  story  has  been  applied. 
Cooke's  Folly,  near  Bristol,  derives  its  name  from  a  similar 
tradition. 

Th-:  History  of  the  Buccaneers  affords  a  remarkable  instance 
of  prophecy  occasioning  its  own  accomplishment. 


BOOK    XI. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


313 


"  B'jibrc  my  first  going  over  into  tlii>  Stinlh  Seas  with  Captain 
Sharp  (:ind  inileeil  bclbro  any  privateers,  at  least  since  Vrukr 
and  Oimghum)  liad  f;one  tliat  way  wliich  we  afterwards  went, 
except  La  Suunil,  a  Frtnch  captain,  wlio,  by  Captain  H'rig/it'n 
instructions,  hail  ventured  as  fir  as  Cltiapo  town  with  a  body 
of  men,  but  was  driven  bacli  again  ;  I  being  then  on  board 
Captain  Coiou,  in  company  with  three  or  four  more  privateers, 
about  four  leagues  to  the  east  oi  Portobd,  we  took  the  packets 
bound  thitlier  from  Carthagena.  We  opened  a  great  quantity 
of  the  merchants'  letters,  and  found  tlie  contents  of  many  of 
them  to  be  very  surprising;  the  morcliants  of  several  parts  of 
out  Spain  thereby  informing  their  correspondents  of  Panama 
and  elsewhere,  of  a  certain  prophecy  that  went  about  Spain 
tiiat  year,  the  tenor  of  which  was,  lUat  there,  icuidd  be  English 
priratecrs  that  year  in  the  West  Indies,  who  wauld  make  such 
great  discareries,  as  to  open  a  door  into  the  South  Seas,  which 
they  supposed  was  fastest  shut ;  and  the  letters  were  accord- 
ingly full  of  cautions  to  their  friends  to  be  very  watchful  and 
careful  of  their  coasts. 

This  door  they  spake  of,  we  all  concluded  must  be  the 
passage  over-land  through  the  country  of  the  Indians  oi  Darien, 
who  were  a  little  before  this  become  our  friends,  and  had 
lately  fallen  out  with  the  Spaniards,  breaking  offtlie  intercourse 
which  for  some  time  they  had  with  lliem.  And  upon  calling 
also  to  mind  the  frequent  invitations  we  had  from  those 
Indians  a  little  before  this  time,  to  pass  through  their  country 
and  fall  upon  the  Spaniards  in  the  South  Sras,  we  from  hence- 
forward began  to  CEitertain  such  thoughts  in  earnest,  and  soon 
came  to  a  resolution  to  make  those  attempts  which  we  afler- 
WHrds  did  with  ("ajjtains  Sharp,  Cozon,  Sec.  So  that  the 
taking  those  letters  gave  the  first  life  to  those  bold  under- 
takings ;  and  we  took  the  advantage  of  the  fears  the  Spaniards 
were  in  from  that  prophecy,  or  probable  conjecture,  or  what- 
ever it  were  ;  for  we  sealed  up  most  of  the  letters  again,  and 
sent  them  ashore  to  Portohel."  —  Dampicr. 


THE   ELEVENTH   BOOK. 


Those,  Sir,  that  traffic  in  these  seas, 
Fraught  not  their  bark  with  fears. 

Sir  Robert  Howard. 


O  FOOL,  to  think  thy  human  hand 

Could  check  the  chariot-wheels  of  Destiny  ! 

To  dream  of  weakness  in  the  all-knowing  Mind, 

That  its  decrees  should  change  ! 

To  hope  that  the  united  Powers 

Of  Earth,  and  Air,  and  Hell, 

Might  blot  one  letter  from  the  Book  of  Fate, 

Might  break  one  link  of  the  eternal  chain  ! 

Thou  miserable,  wicked,  poor  old  man  I 

Fall  now  upon  the  body  of  thy  child  ; 

Beat  now  thy  breast,  and  j)luck  the  bleeding  hairs 

From  thy  gray  beard,  and  lay 

Thine  ineftectual  hand  to  close  her  wound. 

And  call  on  Hell  to  aid, 

And  call  on  Heaven  to  send 

Its  merciful  thunderbolt ! 


The  young  Arabian  silently 

Beheld  his  frantic  grief. 

The  presence  of  the  hated  youth 

To  raging  anguish  stung 

The  wretched  Sorcerer. 

"Ay!  look  and  triumph  '  "  he  exclaim'd, 

40 


"  This  is  the  justice  of  thy  God  ! 
A  righteous  God  is  he,  to  let 
His  vengeance  fall  upon  the  innocent  head  !  • 
Curse  thee,  curse  thee,  Thalaba!  " 

3. 

All  feelings  of  revenge 

Had  left  Hodeirah's  son. 

Pitying  and  silently  he  heard 

The  victim  of  his  own  iniquities  j 

Not  with  the  officious  hand 

Of  consolation,  fretting  tlie  sore  wound 

He  could  not  hope  to  heal. 

4. 

So  as  the  Servant  of  the  Prophet  stood, 

With  sudden  motion  the  night-air 

Gently  fann'd  his  cheek. 

'Twas  a  Green  Bird,  whose  wings 

Had  waved  tlie  quiet  air. 

On  the  hand  of  Thalaba 

The  Green  Bird  perch'd,  and  turn'd 

A  mild  eye  up,  as  if  to  win 

The  Adventurer's  confidence  ; 

Then,  springing  on,  flew  forward  ; 

And  now  again  returns 

To  court  him  to  the  way ; 

And  now  his  hand  perceives 

Her  rosy  feet  press  firmer,  as  she  leaps 

Upon  the  wing  again. 


Obedient  to  the  call, 
By  the  pale  moonlight  Thalaba  pursued. 

O'er  trackless  snows,  his  way; 
Unknowing  he  what  blessed  messenger 

Had  come  to  guide  his  steps,  — 

That  Laila's  spirit  went  before  his  path. 

Brought  up  in  darkness,  and  the  child  of  sin, 

Yet,  as  the  meed  of  spotless  innocence. 

Just  Heaven  permitted  her  by  one  good  deed 

To  work  her  own  redemption  after  death; 

So,  till  the  judgment  day, 

She  might  abide  in  bliss, 

Green  warbler  of  the  Bowers  of  Paradise. 

6. 

The  mornmg  sun  came  forth, 

Wakening  no  eye  to  life 

In  this  wide  solitude  ; 

His  radiance,  with  a  saffron  hue,  like  heat. 

Suffused  the  desert  snow. 

The  Green  Bird  guided  Thalaba; 

Now  oaring  with  slow  wing  her  upward  way, 

Descending  now  in  slant  descent 

On  outspread  pinions  motionless  ; 

Floating  now,  witii  rise  and  fall  alternate, 

As  if  the  billows  of  the  air 

Heaved  her  with  their  sink  and  swell. 

And  when  beneath  the  noon 

The  icy  glitter  of  the  snow 

Dazzled  his  aching  sight. 

Then  on  his  arm  alighted  the  Grc-n  Bird, 

And  spread  before  his  eyes 

Her  plumage  of  refreshing  hue. 


314                                  THALABA    THE    DESTROYER.                           book  xi. 

7. 

Even-ng  came  on ;  tlie  glowing  clouds 

Tinged  with  a  purple  ray  the  mountain  ridge 

That  lay  before  the  Traveller. 

12. 

Reverently  the  Youth  approach 'd 

That  old  and  only  Bird  ; 

And  cross'd  liis  arms  upon  his  breast. 

Ah  I  whither  art  thou  gone, 

And  bow'd  his  head,  and  spake  — 

Guide  and  companion  of  the  youth,  whose  eye 
Has  lost  thee  in  the  depth  of  Heaven? 

"  Earliest  of  existing  tilings. 
Earliest  thou,  and  wisest  thou. 

Why  hast  tliou  left  alone 
The  weary  wanderer  in  the  wilderness  ? 

Guide  me,  guide  me,  on  my  way  ! 
I  am  bound  to  seek  the  Caverns 

And  now  the  western  clouds  grow  pale, 

Underneath  the  roots  of  Ocean, 

And  night  descends  upon  his  solitude. 

Where  the  Sorcerers  have  their  seat ; 
Thou  the  eldest,  thou  the  wisest, 

8. 
The  Arabian  youth  knell  down, 

Guide  me,  guide  me,  on  my  way  !  " 

And  bow'd  his  forehead  to  the  ground. 

13. 

And  made  his  evening  prayer. 

The  Ancient  Simorg  on  the  youth 

When  he  arose,  the  stars  were  bright  in  heaven, 

Unclosed  his  thoughtful  eyes. 

The  sky  was  blue,  and  the  cold  Moon 

And  answer'd  to  his  prayer  — 

Shone  over  the  cold  snow. 

"  Northward  by  the  stream  proceed ; 

A  speck  in  the  air  ! 

In  the  Fountain  of  the  Rock 

Is  it  his  guide  that  approaches .' 
For  it  moves  with  the  motion  of  life  ! 

Wash  away  thy  worldly  stains ; 
Kneel  thou  tliere,  and  seek  the  Lord, 

Lo !  she  returns,  and  scatters  from  her  pinions 

And  fortify  thy  soul  with  prayer. 

Odors  diviner  than  the  gales  of  morning 

Tlius  prepared,  ascend  the  Sledge  ; 

Waft  from  Sabea. 

Be  bold,  be  wary ;  seek  and  find. 
God  hath  appointed  all." 

0. 

The  Ancient  Simorg  then  let  fall  his  lids, 

Hovering  before  tlie  youth  she  hung. 

Relapsing  to  repose. 

Till  from  her  rosy  feet,  that  at  his  touch 

Uncurl'd  their  grasp,  he  took 

14. 

The  fruitful  bough  they  bore. 

Northward,  along  the  rivulet, 

He  took  and  tasted:  a  new  life 

The  adventurer  went  his  way ; 

Flow'd  through  his  renovated  frame; 

Tracing  its  waters  upward  to  their  source. 

His  limbs,  that  late  were  sore  and  stiff. 

Green  Bird  of  Paradise, 

Felt  all  the  freshness  of  repose ; 

Thou  hast  not  left  the  youth  !  — 

His  dizzy  brain  was  calm'd. 

With  slow  associate  flight. 

The  heavy  aching  of  his  lids  was  gone ; 
For  Laila,  from  the  Bowers  of  Paradise, 

She  companies  his  way  ; 
And  now  they  reach  the  Fountain  of  the  Rock. 

Had  borne  the  healing  fruit. 

15 

10. 

There,  in  the  cold,  clear  well, 

So  up  the  mountain  steep, 
With  untired  foot  he  past. 

Thalaba  wash'd  away  his  earthly  stains. 
And  bow'd  liis  face  before  the  Lord, 

The  Green  Bird  guiding  l;im. 

And  fortified  his  soul  with  prayer. 

Mid  crags,  and  ice,  and  rocks, 

The  while,  upon  the  rock. 

A  difficult  way,  winding  the  long  ascent. 

Stood  the  celestial  Bird, 

How  then  the  heart  of  Thalaba  rejoiced. 

And  pondering  all  the  perils  he  must  pass, 

When,  bosom'd  in  the  mountain  depths. 

With  a  mild,  melancholy  eye. 

A  shelter'd  Valley  open'd  on  his  view  I 

Beheld  the  youth  beloved. 

It  was  the  Simorg's  vale. 

The  dwelling  of  the  Ancient  Bird. 

16. 

11. 

And  lo  1  beneath  yon  lonely  pine,  the  sledge  :  — 
There  stand  the  harness'd  Dogs, 

On  a  green  and  mossy  bank, 
Beside  a  rivulet. 

Their  wide  eyes  watching  for  the  youth. 
Their  ears  erect,  and  turn'd  toward  his  way. 

The  Bird  of  Ages  stood. 

They  were  lean  as  lean  might  be  ; 

No  sound  intruded  on  his  solitude  ; 

Their  furrow'd  ribs  rose  prominent ; 

Only  the  rivulet  was  heard, 

And  they  were  black  from  head  to  foot, 

Wliosc  everlasting  flow. 

Save  a  white  line  on  every  breast. 

From  the  birth-day  of  the  World,  had  made 
The  same  unvaried  murmuring. 

Curved  like  the  crescent  moon. 
Thalaba  takes  his  seat  in  the  sledge  ; 

Here  dwelt  the  all-knowing  Bird 

His  arms  are  folded  on  his  breast; 

In  deep  tranquillity. 
His  eyelids  ever  closed 

The  Bird  is  on  his  knees; 
There  is  fear  in  the  eyes  of  the  Dogs, 

In  full  enjoyment  of  profound  repose. 

There  is  fear  in  their  pitiful  moan ; 

BOOK    XI. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


315 


And  now  they  turn  their  heads, 
And  seeing  him  seated,  away  I 

17. 

The  youth,  with  the  start  of  their  speed, 

Falls  back  to  the  bar  of  the  sledge; 

His  hair  floats  straight  in  the  stream  of  the  wind, 

Like  the  weeds  in  the  running  brook. 

They  wind  with  speed  tiieir  upward  way. 

An  icy  path  througli  rocks  of  ice  : 

His  eye  is  at  the  summit  now, 

And  thus  far  all  is  dangerless  ; 

And  now  upon  the  height 

The  black  Dogs  pause  and  pant ; 

They  turn  their  eyes  to  Thalaba, 

As  if  to  plead  for  pity  ; 
They  moan  and  whine  with  fear 

18. 
Once  more  away  !  and  now 

The  long  descent  is  seen, 

A  long,  long,  narrow  path ; 

Ice-rocks  aright,  and  hills  of  snow 

Aleft  the  precipice. 

Be  firm,  be  firm,  O  Thalaba  ! 

One  motion  now,  one  bend. 

And  on  the  crags  below 

Thy  shatter'd  flesh  will  harden  in  the  frost. 

Why  howl  the  Dogs  so  mournfully  ? 

And  wherefore  does  the  blood  flow  fast 

All  purple  o'er  their  sable  skin.' 

His  arms  are  folded  on  his  breast; 

Nor  scourge  nor  goad  hath  he ; 

No  hand  appears  to  strike ; 

No  sounding  lash  is  heard ; 

But  piteously  they  moan  and  whine. 

And  track  their  way  with  blood. 

19. 

Behold  !  on  yonder  height 

A  giant  Fiend  aloft 

Waits  to  thrust  down  the  tottering  avalanche  ! 

If  Thalaba  looks  back,  he  dies; 

The  motion  of  fear  is  death. 

On  —  on  —  with  swift  and  steady  pace, 

Adown  that  dreadful  way  ! 

The  Youth  is  firm,  the  Dogs  are  fleet, 

The  sledge  goes  rapidly ; 

The  thunder  of  the  avalanche 

Re-echoes  far  behind. 

On  — on —  with  swift  and  steady  pace, 

Adown  that  dreadful  way  ! 

The  Dogs  are  fleet,  the  way  is  steep. 

The  Sledge  goes  rapidly  ; 

They  reach  the  plain  below. 

20. 
A  wide,  blank  plain,  all  desolate; 

Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  herb  ! 

On  go  the  Dogs  with  rapid  course ; 

The  Sledge  slides  after  rapidly  ; 

And  now  the  sun  went  down. 

They  stopp'd  and  look'd  at  Tlialaba; 

The  Youth  pcrform'd  his  prayer; 

They  knelt  beside  him  while  he  pray'd; 


They  turn'd  tlieir  heads  to  Mecca, 

And  tears  ran  down  their  cheeks. 

Then  down  they  laid  them  in  the  snow, 

As  close  as  they  could  lie, 

They  laid  them  down  and  slept. 

And  backward  in  the  sledge, 

The  Adventurer  laid  himself; 

There  peacefully  slept  Thalaba, 

And  the  Green  Bird  of  Paradise 

Lay  nestling  in  his  breast. 

21. 

The  Dogs  awoke  him  at  the  dawn ; 

They  knelt  and  wept  again  ; 

Then  rapidly  they  journey'd  on; 

And  still  the  plain  was  desolate, 

Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  herb  i 

And  ever,  at  the  hour  of  prayer, 

They  stopp'd,  and  knelt,  and  wept ; 

And  still  that  green  and  graceful  Bird 

Was  as  a  friend  to  him  by  day, 

And,  ever  when  at  night  he  slept, 

Lay  nestling  in  his  breast. 

22. 

In  that  most  utter  solitude, 

It  cheer'd  his  heart  to  hear 

Her  soft  and  soothing  voice. 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet ; 

It  rose  not  with  the  blackbird's  thrill. 

Nor  warbled  like  that  dearest  bird  that  holds 

The  solitary  man 

A  loiterer  in  his  thoughtful  walk  at  eve 

But  if  it  swell'd  with  no  exuberant  joy, 

It  had  a  tone  that  touch'd  a  finer  string, 

A  music  that  the  soul  received  and  own'd. 

Her  bill  was  not  the  beak  of  blood ; 

There  was  a  human  meaning  in  her  eye 

When  fi.x'd  on  Thalaba; 

He  wonder'd  while  he  gazed, 

And  with  mysterious  love 

Felt  his  heart  drawn  in  powerful  sympathy. 

23. 

Oh  joy  !  the  signs  of  life  appear  — 

Hie  first  and  single  Fir 

That  on  tlie  limits  of  the  livino-  world 

Strikes  in  the  ice  its  roots. 

Another,  and  another  now  ; 

And  now  the  Larch,  that  flings  its  arms 

Down-curving  like  the  falling  wave  ; 

And  now  the  Aspin's  scatter'd  leaves 

Gray-glittering  on  the  moveless  twig ; 

The  Poplar's  varying  verdure  now. 

And  now  the  Birch  so  beautiful. 

Light  as  a  lady's  plumes. 

Oh  joy  !  the  signs  of  life  !  the  Deer 

Hath  left  his  slot  beside  the  way ; 

The  little  Ermine  now  is  seen. 

White  wanderer  of  the  snow; 

And  now  from  yonder  pines  they  hear 

The  clatter  of  the  Grouse's  wings' 

And  now  the  snowy  Owl  pursues 

The  Traveller's  sledge,  in  hope  of  food; 

And  hark  1  the  rosy -breasted  bird. 


316 


THALABA  THE  DESTROYER 


BOOK    XI. 


The  Throstle  of  sweet  song  ! 

Joy  !  joy  !  the  winter-wilds  are  left  ! 

Green  bushes  now,  and  greener  grass, 

Red  thickets  here,  all  berry-bright, 

And  here  the  lovely  flowers ! 

24. 

When  the  last  morning  of  their  way  was  come, 

After  the  early  prayer, 

The  Green  Bird  fix'd  on  Thalaba 

A  sad  and  supplicating  eye, 

And  speech  was  given  her  then  : 

"  Servant  of  God,  I  leave  thee  now  ; 

If  rightly  I  have  guided  thee, 

Give  me  the  boon  I  beg  I  " 

25. 

"  O  gentle  Bird  !  "  quoth  Thalaba, 

"  Guide  and  companion  of  my  dangerous  way, 

Friend  and  sole  solace  of  my  solitude, 

How  can  I  pay  thee  benefits  like  these.'' 

Ask  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can  give, 

O  gentle  Bird,  the  poor  return 

Will  leave  me  debtor  still !  " 

26. 

"  Son  of  Hodeirah  !  "  she  replied, 

"  When  thou  shalt  see  an  Old  Man  bent  beneath 

The  burden  of  his  earthly  punishment. 

Forgive  him,  Thalaba ! 

Yea,  send  a  prayer  to  God  in  his  behalf!  " 

27. 

A  flush  o'erspread  the  young  Destroyer's  cheek ; 

He  turn'd  his  eye  towards  the  Bird 

As  if  in  half  repentance  ;  for  he  thought 

Of  Okba;  and  his  Father's  dying  groan 

Came  on  his  memory.     The  celestial  Bird 

Saw  and  renew'd  her  speech; 

"  O  Thalaba,  if  she  who  in  thine  arms 

Received  the  dagger-blow,  and  died  for  thee. 

Deserve  one  kind  remembrance,  —  save,  O  save 

The  Father  that  she  loves  from  endless  death  I  " 

28. 
"  Laila!  and  is  it  thou.'  "  the  youth  replied. 
"  What  is  there  that  I  durst  refuse  to  thee .'' 

This  is  no  time  to  harbor  in  my  heart 

One  evil  thought ;  —  here  I  put  off"  revenge, 

The  last  rebellious  feeling  —  Be  it  so  ! 

God  grant  to  me  the  pardon  that  1  need, 

As  I  do  pardon  him  !  — 

But  who  am  I,  that  I  should  save 

The  sinful  soul  alive  .'  " 

29. 

•' Enough  !"  said  Laila.     "When  the  hour  shall 

come. 

Remember  me  !     My  task  is  done. 

We  meet  again  in  Paradise  !  " 

She  said,  and  shook  her  wings,  and  up  she  soar'd 

With   arrowy   swiftness  through  the    heights   of 

Heaven. 


30. 

His  aching  eye  pursued  her  path. 

When  starting  onward  went  the  Dogs; 

More  rapidly  they  hurried  now. 

In  hope  of  near  repose. 

It  was  the  early  morning  yet. 

When  by  the  well-head  of  a  brook 

They  stopp'd,  their  journey  done. 

The  spring  was  clear,  the  water  deep ; 

A  venturous  man  were  he,  and  rash. 

That  should  have  probed  its  depths ; 

For  all  its  loosen'd  bed  below 

Heaved  strangely  up  and  down  ; 

And  to  and  fro,  from  side  to  side. 

It  heaved,  and  waved,  and  toss'd ; 

And  yet  the  depths  were  clear. 

And  yet  no  ripple  wrinkled  o'er 

The  face  of  that  fair  Well. 

31. 

And  on  that  Well,  so  strange  and  fair, 

A  little  boat  there  lay. 

Without  an  oar,  without  a  sail ; 

One  only  seat  it  had,  one  seat. 

As  if  for  only  Thalaba. 

And  at  the  helm  a  Damsel  stood, 

A  Damsel  bright  and  bold  of  eye  ; 

Yet  did  a  maiden  modesty 

Adorn  her  fearless  brow ; 

Her  face  was  sorrowful,  but  sure 

More  beautiful  for  sorrow. 

To  her  the  Dogs  look'd  wistful  up ; 

And  then  their  tongues  were  loosed  — 

"  Have  we  done  well,  O  Mistress  dear ! 

And  shall  our  sufferings  end .''  " 

32. 

The  gentle  Damsel  made  reply  — 
"Poor  servants  of  the  God  I  serve, 
When  all  this  witchery  is  destroy'd, 

Your  woes  will  end  with  mine 
A  hope,  alas  !  how  long  unknown  ! 

This  new  adventurer  gives; 
Now  God  forbid,  that  he,  like  you. 

Should  perish  for  his  fears ! 

Poor  servants  of  the  God  I  serve. 

Wait  ye  the  event  in  peace." 

A  deep  and  total  slumber,  as  she  spake. 

Seized  them.     Sleep  on,  poor  suffc-rers  !  be  at  rest ! 

Ye  wake  no  more  to  anguish  ;  —  ye  have  borne 

The  Chosen,  the  Destroyer!  —  soon  his  hand 

Shall  strike  the  efficient  blow ; 

And  shaking  off"  your  penal  forms,  shall  ye. 

With  songs  of  joy,  amid  the  Eden  groves. 

Hymn  the  Deliverer's  praise. 


Then  did  the  Damsel  say  to  Thalaba, 

"  The  morn  is  young,  the  Sun  is  fair. 

And  pleasantly  through  pleasant  banks 

Yon  quiet  stream  flows  on  — 

Wilt  thou  embark  with  me  ? 

Thou  knowest  not  the  water's  way ; 

Think,  Stranger,  well !  and  night  must  come,- 


BOOK    XI. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


317 


Darcst  thou  embark  with  me  ? 

Througli  fearful  perils  thou  must  pass,  — 

Stranger,  the  wretched  ask  thine  aid  ! 

Thou  wilt  embark  with  me  !  " 

She  smiled  in  tears  upon  the  youth ;  — 

What  heart  were  his,  who  could  gainsay 

That  melancholy  smile  ? 

"I  will,"  quoth  Thalaba, 

"I  will,  in  Allah's  name  !  " 

34. 

He  sat  him  on  the  single  seat ; 

The  little  boat  moved  on. 

Through  pleasant  banks  the  quiet  stream 

Went  winding  pleasantly ; 

By  fragrant  fir-groves  now  it  past. 

And  now,  through  alder-shores. 

Through  green  and  fertile  meadows  now 

It  silently  ran  by. 

The  flag-flower  blossom'd  on  its  side, 

The  willow  tresses  waved, 

The  flowing  current  furrow'd  round 

The  water-lily's  floating  leaf, 

Tlie  fly  of  green  and  gauzy  wing, 

Fell  sporting  down  its  course ; 

And  grateful  to  the  voyager 

The  freshness  that  it  breathed, 

And  soothing  to  his  ear 

Its  murmur  round  the  prow. 

The  little  boat  falls  rapidly 

Adown  the  rapid  stream. 

35. 

But  many  a  silent  spring,  meantime. 

And  many  a  rivulet  and  rill. 

Had  swollen  the  growing  stream ; 

And  when  the  southern  Sun  began 

To  wind  the  downward  way  of  heaven, 

It  ran  a  river  deep  and  wide. 

Through  banks  that  widen'd  still. 

Then  once  again  the   Damsel  spake  — 

"  The  stream  is  strong,  the  river  broad ; 

Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me.-' 

The  day  is  fair,  but  night  must  come  — 

Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me  ? 

Far,  far  away,  the  sufferer's  eye 

For  thee  hath  long  been  looking, — 

Thou  wilt  go  on  with  me  !  " 

"  Sail  on,  sail  on,"  quoth  Thalaba, 

"  Sail  on,  in  Allah's  name  !  " 

The  little  boat  falls  rapidly 

Adown  the  river-stream. 

36. 

A  broader  and  yet  broader  stream. 

That  rock'd  the  little  boat ! 

The  Cormorant  stands  upon  its  shoals, 

His  black  and  dripping  wings 

Half  open'd  to  the  wind. 

The  Sun  goes  down,  the  crescent  Moon 

Is  brightening  in  the  firmament; 

And  what  is  yonder  roar. 

That  sinking  now,  and  swelling  now, 

But  evermore  increasing, 

Still  louder,  louder,  grows .' 


The  little  boat  falls  rapidly 

Adown  the  rapid  tide; 

The  Moon  is  bright  above, 

And  the  great  Ocean  opens  on  their  way. 

37. 
Then  did  the  Damsel  speak  again  — 

"  Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me .-' 
The  Moon  is  bright,  the  sea  is  calm, 
I  know  the  ocean-paths ; 

Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me  ?  — 
Deliverer!  yes!  thou  dost  not  fear! 

Thou  wilt  go  on  with  me  !  " 
"  Sail  on,  sail  on  !  "  quoth  Thalaba, 

"Sail  on,  in  Allah's  name  !  " 

The  Moon  is  bright,  the  sea  is  calm, 

The  little  boat  rides  rapidly 

Across  the  ocean  waves; 

The  line  of  moonlight  on  the  deep 

Still  follows  as  they  voyage  on ; 

The  winds  are  motionless; 

The  gentle  waters  gently  part 

In  dimples  round  the  prow. 

He  looks  above,  he  looks  around, 

The  boundless  heaven,  the  boundless  sea, 

The  crescent  moon,  the  little  boat, 

Nought  else  above,  below. 

39. 
The  Moon  is  sunk  ;  a  dusky  gray 

Spreads  o'er  the  Eastern  sky  ; 

The  stars  grow  pale  and  paler ;  — 

Oh,  beautiful !  the  godlike  Sun 

Is  rising  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Without  an  oar,  without  a  sail. 

The  little  boat  rides  rapidly  ;  — 

Is  that  a  cloud  that  skirts  the  sea.'' 

There  is  no  cloud  in  heaven ! 

And  nearer  now,  and  darker  now  — 

It  is  —  it  is  —  the  Land  ! 

For  yonder  are  the  rocks  that  rise 

Dark  in  the  reddening  morn ; 

For  loud  around  their  hollow  base 

The  surges  rage  and  foam. 

40. 

The  little  boat  rides  rapidly. 

And  pitches  now  with  shorter  toss 

Upon  the  narrow  swell ; 

And  now  so  near,  they  see 

The  shelves  and  shadows  of  the  clifF, 

And  the  low-lurking  rocks. 

O'er  whose  black  summits,  hidden  half, 

The  shivering  billows  burst;  — 

And  nearer  now  they  feel  the  breaker's  spray. 

Then  said  the  Damsel — "Yonder  is  our  path 

Beneath  the  cavern  arch. 

Now  is  the  ebb ;  and  till  the  ocean  flow 

We  cannot  override  the  rocks. 

Go  thou,  and  on  the  shore 

Perform  thy  last  ablutions,  and  with  prayer 

Strengthen   thy   heart  —  I    too   have   need   to 

pray.  ' 


318 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


BOOK    XI. 


41. 
She  held  the  helm  with  steady  hand 

Amid  the  stronger  waves  ; 

Through  surge  and  surf  she  drove ; 

The  adventurer  leap'd  to  land. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK   XI. 

Orecn  warbler  of  the  Bowers  of  Paradise.  —  5,  p.  313. 

The  souls  of  the  blessed  are  supposed  by  some  of  the  Ma- 
hommedans  to  animate  green  birds  in  the  groves  of  paradise. 
Was  this  opinion  invented  to  conciliate  the  Pagan  Arabs, 
who  believed,  that  of  the  blood  near  the  dead  person's  brain 
was  formed  a  bird  named  Ilamah,  which  once  in  a  hundred 
years  visited  the  sepulclire.' 

To  this  there  is  an  allusion  in  the  Moallakat.  "  Then  I 
knew  with  certainty,  that  in  so  fierce  a  contest  with  them, 
many  a  heavy  blow  would  make  the  perched  birds  of  the  brain 
fly  quickly  from  every  skull." —  Poan  ofJiutara. 

In  the  Bahar-Danush,  parrots  are  called  the  green-vested 
resemblers  of  Heaven's  dwellers.  The  following  passages  in 
the  same  work  may,  perhaps,  allude  to  the  same  superstition, 
or  perhaps  are  merely  metaphorical,  in  the  ususl  style  of  its 
true  Oriental  bombast.  "The  l)ird  of  understanding  fled 
from  the  nest  of  my  brain."  "  My  joints  and  members 
seemed  as  if  they  would  separate  from  each  other,  and  the 
bird  of  life  would  quit  the  nest  of  my  body."  "  The  bird  of 
my  soul  became  a  captive  in  tlie  net  of  her  glossy  ringlets." 

I  remember  in  a  European  Magazine  two  similar  lines  by 
the  author  of  the  Lives  of  the  Admirals  : 

"  My  beating  bosom  is  a  well-wrought  cage, 
Whence  that  sweet  goldfinch  Hope  shall  ne'er  elope  !  " 

The  grave  of  Francisco  Jorge,  the  Maronite  martyr,  was 
visited  by  two  strange  birds  of  unusual  size.  No  one  knew 
whence  they  came.  They  emblemed,  says  Vasconcellos,  the 
purity  and  the  indefatigable  activity  of  his  soul. 

The  inhabitants  of  Otaheite  have  assigned  a  less  respecta- 
ble part  of  the  body  as  the  seat  of  the  soul. 

The  disembowelling  of  the  body  there,  is  always  performed 
in  great  secrecy,  and  with  much  religious  superstition.  The 
bowels  are,  by  these  people,  considered  as  the  immediate 
organs  of  sensation,  where  the  first  impressions  are  received, 
and  by  which  all  the  operations  of  the  mind  are  carried  on  ; 
it  is  therefore  natural  to  conclude,  that  they  may  esteem  and 
venerate  the  intestines,  as  hearing  the  greatest  afl^nity  to  the 
immortal  part.  I  have  frequently  held  conversations  on  this 
sulyect,  with  a  view  to  convince  them  that  all  intellectual 
operations  were  carried  on  in  the  head  ;  at  which  they  would 
generally  smile,  and  intimate  that  they  had  frequently  seen 
men  recover  whose  skulls  had  been  fractured,  and  whose 
heads  had  otherwise  been  much  injured  ;  hut  that,  in  all  cases 
in  wliich  the  intestines  bad  been  wounded,  the  persons  on  a 
certainty  died.  Other  arguments  they  would  also  advance  in 
favor  of  their  belief;  such  as  the  effect  of  fear,  and  other 
passions,  which  caused  great  agitation  and  uneasiness,  and 
would  sometimes  produce  sickness  at  the  stomach,  which  they 
attributed  entirely  to  the  action  of  the  bowels Vancouver. 


Had  borne  the  healing  fruit.  —  9,  p.  314. 

When  Hosein,  the  son  of  Ali,  was  sick  of  a  grievous  dis- 
order, he  longed  for  a  pomegranate,  though  that  fruit  was  not 
then  in  season.  Ali  went  out,  and  diligently  inquiring,  foimd 
a  single  one  in  the  possession  of  a  Jew.  As  he  returned 
with  it,  a  sick  man  met  him  and  begged  half  the  pomegranate, 
BMying  it  would  restore  his  healtli.  Ali  gave  him  half,  and 
when  he  had  eaten  it,  the  man  requested  he  would  give  him 
the  other  half,  the  sooner  to  complete  his  recovery.  Ali  be- 
nignantly  complied,  returned  to  his  son,  and  told  him  what 
had  happened,  and  Hosein  approved  what  his  father  had 
done. 


Immediately  behold  a  miracle  !  as  they  were  talking  to- 
gether, the  door  was  gently  knocked  at.  He  oidered  the 
woman  servant  to  go  there,  and  she  found  a  man,  of  all  men 
the  most  beautiful,  who  had  a  plate  in  liis  hand,  covered  with 
green  silk,  in  which  were  ten  pomegranates.  The  woman 
was  astonished  at  the  beauty  of  the  man  and  of  the  pome- 
granates, and  she  took  one  of  them  and  hid  it,  and  carried  the 
other  nine  to  Ali,  who  kissed  the  present.  When  he  had 
counted  them  he  found  that  one  was  wanting,  and  said  so  to 
the  servant ;  she  confessed  that  she  had  taken  it  on  account 
of  its  excellence,  and  Ali  gave  her  her  liberty.  The  pome- 
granates were  from  paradise  ;  Hosein  was  cured  of  his  disease 
only  by  their  odor,  and  ro«e  up  immediately,  recovered,  and 
in  full  strength.  — Maracci. 

I  suspect,  says  Maracci,  that  this  is  a  true  miracle  wrought 
by  some  Christian  saint,  and  falsely  attributed  to  Ali.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  it  does  not  appear  absurd  that  God  should, 
by  some  es])ecial  favor,  reward  an  act  of  remarkable  charity, 
even  in  an  infidel,  as  he  has  sometimes,  by  a  striking  chas- 
tisement, punished  enormous  crimes.  But  the  assertion,  that 
the  pomegranates  were  sent  from  paradise,  exposes  the  fable. 

Maracci,  after  detailing  and  ridiculing  the  Mahommedan 
miracles,  contrasts  with  them,  in  an  appendix,  a  few  of  the 
real  and  permanent  miracles  of  Christianity,  which  are  proved 
by  the  testimony  of  the  whole  world.  He  selects  five  as 
examples.  1.  The  chapel  of  Loretto,  brought  by  angels  from 
Nazareth  to  Illyricum,  and  from  Illyricum  to  Italy;  faithful 
messengers  having  been  sent  to  both  places,  and  finding  in 
both  its  old  foundations,  in  dimensions  and  materials  exactly 
corresponding. 

2.  The  cross  of  St.  Tliomas  at  Meliapor.  A  Bramin,  as  the 
saint  was  extended  upon  his  cross  in  prayer,  slew  him.  On 
the  anniversary  of  his  martyrdom,  during  the  celebration  of 
mass,  the  cross  gradually  becomes  luminous,  till  it  shines  one 
white  glory.  At  elevating  the  host,  it  resumes  its  natural 
color,  and  sweats  blood  profusely  ;  in  which  the  faithful  dip 
their  clothes,  by  which  many  miracles  are  wrought. 

3.  Certissim!t?n  quia  evidentissimum.  —  At  Bari,  on  the 
Adriatic,  a  liquor  flows  from  the  hones  of  St.  Nicholas  ;  they 
call  it  St.  Nicliolas's  manna,  which,  being  preserved  in  bottles, 
never  corrupts  or  breeds  worms,  except  the  possessor  be  cor- 
rupt himself,  and  daily  it  works  miracles. 

4.  At  Tolentino  in  the  March  of  Anconia,  the  arms  of 
St.  Nicholas  swell  with  blood,  and  pour  out  copious  streams, 
when  any  great  calamity  impends  over  Christendom. 

5.  The  blood  of  St.  Januarius  at  Naples. 

These,  says  Maracci,  are  mirocula  pcrsererantia,  permanent 
miracles  ;  and  it  cannot  be  said,  as  of  the  Mahommedan  ones, 
that  they  are  tricks  of  the  devil. 


From  the  birth-day  of  the  world,  &.c.  —  11.  p.  314. 

Tlie  birth-day  of  the  world  was  logically  ascertained  in  a 
provincial  council  held  at  Jerusalem,  against  the  (iuarto- 
decimans  by  command  of  Pope  Victor,  about  the  year  200. 
Venerable  Bede  (Comm.  de  JEqtdnoc.t.  Vern.)  supplies  the 
mode  of  proof.  "  When  the  multitude  of  priests  were  as- 
sembled together,  then  Theophylus,  the  bishop,  jiroduced  the 
authority  sent  unto  him  by  Pope  Victor,  and  explained  what 
had  been  enjoined  him.  Then  all  the  bishops  made  answer, 
Unless  it  be  first  examined  how  the  world  was  at  the  be- 
ginning, nothing  salutary  can  be  ordained  respecting  the 
observations  of  Easter.  And  they  said.  What  day  can  we  be- 
lieve to  have  been  the  first,  except  Sunday  .'  And  Theophylus 
said,  Prove  this  which  ye  say.  Then  the  bishops  said.  Ac- 
cording to  the  authority  of  the  Scriptures,  the  evening  and 
the  morning  were  the  first  day  ;  and,  in  like  manner,  they 
were  the  second,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth,  and  the  fifth, 
and  the  sixth,  and  the  seventh  ;  and  on  the  seventh  day,  which 
was  called  the  Sabbath,  the  Lord  rested  from  all  his  works  ; 
therefore,  since  Saturday,  which  is  the  Sabbath,  was  the  last 
dav,  which  but  Sunday  can  have  been  the  first.'  Then  said 
Theopliylus,  Lo,  ye  have  proved  that  Sun<loy  was  the  first 
day  ;  what  say  ye  now  concerning  the  seasons  —  for  there  are 
four  times  or  seasons  in  the  year.  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn, 
and  Winter  ;  which  of  these  was  the  first  .■'  The  bishops  an- 
swered, Spring.  And  Theophylus  said,  Prove  this  which  ye 
say.     Then  the  bishops  said.  It  is  written,  the  earth  brought 


BOOK   XII. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


319 


forth  grass,  and  herb  yiehling  seed  after  his  kiru!,;in(l  thi^  I  no 
yiehlin;;  fruit,  whoso  seed  was  in  itself,  aller  his  kind;  hnt 
lliis  is  in  the  spring.  Then  said  Tlioophyhis,  When  do  you 
believe  tlie  beginning  of  the  world  to  have  been,  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  season,  or  in  the  mi(hlk',  or  in  the  end?  And 
the  bishops  answered,  at  the  Kijuinox,  on  the  eiglilli  of  llie 
kalends  of  April.  Ami  Thiophylus  said.  Prove  lliis  which  ye 
say.  'I'hen  thoy  answered.  It  is  written,  God  made  the  light, 
and  called  the  light  day,  and  he  made  the  darkness,  and  culled 
the  darkness  night,  and  he  divided  the  light  and  the  darkness 
into  equal  parts.  Then  siiid  Theojdiylus,  Lo,  ye  have  proved 
the  day  and  the  season.  What  think  ye  now  concerning  the 
Moon  ;  was  it  created  when  increasing,  or  when  full,  or  on 
the  wane.'  And  the  bishops  answered.  At  the  full.  And  he 
said.  Prove  this  which  ye  say.  Then  they  answered,  God 
made  two  great  luminaries,  and  placed  them  in  the  firmament 
of  the  Heavens,  that  they  might  give  light  upon  the  earth  ; 
the  greater  luminary  in  the  beginning  of  the  day,  the  lesser 
one  in  the  beginning  of  the  night.  It  could  not  have  been 
thus  unless  the  moon  were  at  the  full.  Now,  therefore,  let 
us  see  when  the  world  was  created :  it  was  made  upon  a 
Sunday  in  the  spring,  at  the  Equinox,  which  is  on  the  eighth 
of  the  kalends  of  April,  and  at  the  full  of  the  moon." 

According  to  the  form  of  a  border-oath,  the  work  of  creation 
began  by  night.  "You  shall  .?wcar  by  Heaven  above  yon, 
Hell  beneath  you,  by  your  part  of  Paradise,  by  all  that  Qod 
vmde  in  six  days  and  seven  nights,  and  by  God  himself,  you 
are  whatt  out  sackless  of  art,  part,  way,  witting,  ridd,  ken- 
ning, having  or  recetting  of  any  of  tlie  goods  and  chattells 
named  in  this  bill.  So  help  you  God."  (JVicholson  and  Burn, 
1.  XXV.)  This,  however,  is  assertion  without  proof,  and  would 
not  have  been  admitted  by  Theophylus  and  his  bishops. 


That  old  and  only  Bird.  —  19,  p.  314. 

Simorg  Anka,  says  my  friend  Mr.  Fo.t,  in  a  note  to  his 
Achmed  Ardebeili,  is  a  bird  or  griffon  of  cxtr;iordinary 
strength  and  size,  (as  its  name  imports,  signifying  as  large  as 
thirty  eagles,)  which,  according  to  the  Eastern  writers,  was 
sent  by  the  Supreme  Being  to  subdue  and  chastise  the  rebel- 
lious Dives.  It  was  supposed  to  possess  rational  faculties,  and 
the  gill  of  speech.  The  Cahennan  JVameh  relates,  that  Simorg 
Anka,  being  asked  his  age,  replied,  this  world  is  very  ancient, 
for  it  lias  already  been  seven  times  replenished  with  beings 
different  from  man,  and  as  often  depopulated.  That  the  age 
of  Adam,  in  which  we  now  are,  is  to  endure  seven  thousand 
years,  making  a  great  cycle  ;  that  himself  had  seen  twelve 
of  these  revolutions,  and  knew  not  how  many  more  he  had 
to  see. 

I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Fox  and  myself  have  fallen  into  a 
grievous  heresy,  both  respecting  the  unity  and  the  sex  of  the 
Simorg.  For  this  great  bird  is  a  hen ;  there  is  indeed  a 
cock  also,  but  he  seems  lo  be  of  some  inferior  species,  a  sort 
of  Prince  George  of  Denmark,  the  Simorg's  consort,  not  the 
cock  Simorg. 

In  that  portion  of  the  ShnJi-JVamch  which  has  been  put  into 
English  rhyme  by  Mr.  Champion,  some  anecdotes  may  be 
found  concerning  this  all-knowing  bird,  who  is  there  repre- 
sented as  possessing  one  species  of  knowledge,  of  which  she 
would  not  be  readily  suspected.  Zal/.er,  the  fither  of  Rus- 
tani,  is  exposed  in  his  infmcy  by  his  own  father,  Saum,  who 
takes  him  for  a  young  devilling,  liecause  his  body  is  black,  and 
his  hair  white.  The  iuf.int  is  laid  at  the  foot  of  Jlount 
Elburs,  where  the  Simorg  has  iier  nest,  and  she  takes  him  up, 
and  breeds  him  with  her  young,  who  are  very  desirous  of 
eating  him,  but  she  preserves  him.  When  Zalzer  is  grown 
lip,  and  leaves  the  nest,  the  Simorg  gives  him  one  of  her  feath- 
ers, telling  him,  whenever  he  is  in  great  distress,  to  burn  it, 
and  she  w  ill  immediately  come  to  his  assistance.  Zalzer  mar- 
ries Uodahver,  wlio  is  likely  to  die  in  childing  ;  he  then  burns 
the  feather,  and  the  Simorg  appears  and  orders  the  Cresarean 
operation  to  be  performed.  As  these  stories  are  not  Ferdusi's 
invention,  but  the  old  traditions  of  the  Persians,  collected  and 
arranged  by  him,  this  is,  perhaps,  the  earliest  fact  concerning 
that  op 'ration  which  is  to  be  met  with,  earlier  probably  than 
the  fable  of  Semele.  Zalzer  was  ordered  first  to  give  her 
wine,  which  acts  as  a  powerful  opiate,  and  aller  sewing  up  the 
incision,  to  anoint  it  with  a  mixture  of  milk,  musk,  and  grass. 


pounded  together,  and  dried  in  the  shade,  and  then  to  rub  it 
with  a  Simorg's  feather. 

In  Mr.  Fox's  collection  of  Persic  books,  is  an  illuminated 
copy  of  Ferdusi,  containing  a  picture  of  the  Simorg,  who  is 
there  represented  as  an  ugly  dragon-looking  sort  of  bird.  I 
should  be  loath  to  believe  that  she  has  so  bad  a  physiognomy  j 
and  as,  in  the  same  volume,  there  are  blue  and  yellow  horses, 
there  is  good  reason  to  conclude  that  this  is  not  a  genuine 
portrait. 

When  the  Genius  of  the  Lamp  is  ordered  by  Aladin  to 
bring  a  roc's  egg,  and  hang  it  up  in  the  hall,  he  is  violently 
enraginl,  and  exclaims.  Wretch,  wouldst  thou  have  me  hang 
up  my  master.'  From  the  manner  in  which  rocs  are  usually 
mentioned  in  the  Arabian  Tales,  the  reader  feels  as  much 
surprised  at  this  indignation  as  Aladin  was  himself.  Perhaps 
the  original  may  have  Simorg  instead  of  roc.  To  think,  in- 
deed, of  robbing  the  Simorg's  nest,  either  for  the  sake  of 
drilling  the  eggs,  or  of  poaching  them,  would,  in  a  believer, 
whether  Sliiah  or  Sunni,  be  the  height  of  human  impiety. 

Since  this  note  was  written,  the  eighth  volume  of  the 
Asiatic  Researches  has  appeared,  in  which  Captain  Wilford 
identifies  the  roc  with  the  Simorg.  "  Sinbad,"  he  says,  "  was 
exposed  to  many  dangers  from  the  birds  called  Rocs  or 
Simorgs,  the  Garudas  of  the  Panranics,  whom  Persian  Ro- 
mancers represent  as  living  in  Madagascar,  according  to  Marco 
Polo."  But  the  Roc  of  the  Arabian  Tales  has  none  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  Simorg  ;  and  it  is  only  in  the  instance 
which  I  have  noticed,  that  any  mistake  of  one  for  the  otiier 
can  be  suspected. 


The  spring  was  clear,  the  water  deep.  —  30,  p.  31  fi. 

Some  travellers  may  perhaps  be  glad  to  know,  that  the 
spring  from  which  this  description  was  taken,  is  near  I'ristol, 
about  a  mile  from  Stokes-Croft  turnpike,  and  known  by  the 
name  of  the  Boiling- W^ell.  Other,  and  larger  springs,  of 
the  same  kind,  called  the  Lady  Pools,  are  near  Shobdon,  in 
Herefordshire. 


It  ran  a  river  deep  and  wide.  —  35,  p.  317. 

A  similar  picture  occurs  in  Miss  Baillie's  Comedy,  "  The 
Second  Marriage."  "  By  Heaven,  there  is  nothing  so  in- 
teresting to  me  as  to  trace  the  course  of  a  prosperous  man 
through  this  varied  world.  First,  he  is  seen  like  a  little 
stream,  wearing  its  shallow  bed  through  the  grass,  circling  and 
winding,  and  gleaning  up  its  treasures  from  every  twinkling 
rill,  as  it  passes  ;  further  on,  the  brown  sand  fences  its  margin, 
the  dark  rushes  thicken  on  its  side  ;  further  on  still,  the  broad 
flags  shake  their  green  ranks,  the  willows  bend  their  wide 
boughs  o'er  its  course;  and  yonder,  at  last,  the  fair  river 
appears,  spreading  his  bright  waves  to  the  light." 


THE  TWELFTH   BOOK. 


Why  should  he  that  loves  me,  sorry  be 
For  my  deliverance,  or  at  all  complain 
My  good  to  hear,  and  toward  joys  to  see? 
I  go,  and  long  desired  have  to  go ; 
I  go  with  gladness  to  my  wished  rest. 

Spenseb's  Daphnaiila. 


1. 

Then  Thalaba  drew  off  Abdaldar's  rinjr, 

And  cast  it  in  the  sea,  and  cried  aloud, 

"Thou  art  my  shield,  my  trust,  my  hope,  O  God  ! 

Behold  and  guard  me  now. 

Thou  who  alone  canst  save. 

If,  from  my  childhood  up,  I  hav(!  look'd  on 

With  exultation  to  my  destiny ; 


320                                    T II A  L  A  B  A    T  H  E    D  E  S  T  R  0  Y  E  R .                         book  xii. 

If,  in  the  hour  of  anguish,  I  have  own'd 

A  second  and  a  dearer  voice  repeats, 

The  justice  of  the  liand  tliat  cliastcn'd  me; 

"  Go  in  the  favor  of  the  Lord, 

If,  of  all  selfish  passions  purified, 

My  Thalaba,  go  on  ! 

I  go  to  work  thy  will,  and  from  the  world 

My  husband,  I  have  dress'd  our  bower  of  bliss. 

Root  up  the  ill-doing  race, 

Go,  and  perform  the  work ; 

Lord !  let  not  thou  the  weakness  of  my  arm 

Let  me  not  longer  sufier  hope  in  Heaven !  " 

Make  vain  the  enterprise  !  " 

6. 

He  turn'd  an  eager  glance  toward  the  sea. 

2. 

The  Sun  was  rising  all  magnificent. 

"  Come  !  "  quoth  the  Damsel,  and  she  drove 

Ocean  and  Heaven  rejoicing  in  his  beams. 

Her  little  boat  to  land. 

And  now  had  Thalaba 

Impatient  through  the  rising  wave. 

Ferform'd  his  last  ablutions,  and  he  stood 

He  rush'd  to  meet  its  way : 

And  gazed  upon  the  little  boat 

His  eye  was  bright,  his  cheek  was  flush'd  with  joy. 

Riding  the  billows  near. 

"Hast  thou  had  comfort  in  thy  prayers.'"  she 

Where,  like  a  sea-bird  breasting  the  broad  waves. 

ask'd. 

It  rose  and  fell  upon  the  surge. 

"  Yea,"  Thalaba  replied. 

Till  from  the  glitterance  of  the  sunny  main 

"  A  heavenly  visitation."     "  God  be  praised !  " 

He  turn'd  his  aching  eyes ; 

She  answer'd  ;   "  then  I  do  not  hope  in  vain !  " 

And  then  upon  the  beach  he  laid  him  down, 

And  her  voice  trembled,  and  her  lip 

And  watch'd  the  rising  tide. 

Quiver'd,  and  tears  ran  down. 

He  did  not  pray  ;  he  was  not  calm  for  prayer ; 

His  spirit,  troubled  with  tumultuous  hope, 

7. 

Toil'd  with  futurity; 

"  Stranger,"  said  she,  "  in  years  long  past 

His  brain,  with  busier  workings,  felt 

Was  one  who  vow'd  himself 

The  roar  and  raving  of  the  restless  sea, 

The  Champion  of  the  Lord,  like  thee, 

The  boundless  waves   that  rose,  and  roll'd,  and 

Against  the  race  of  Hell. 

rock'd : 

Young  was  he,  as  thyself, 

The  everlasting  sound 

Gentle,  and  yet  so  brave  I 

Oppress'd  him,  and  the  heaving  infinite  : 

A  lion-hearted  man. 

He  closed  his  lids  for  rest. 

Shame  on  me,  Stranger !  in  the  arms  of  love 

I  held  him  from  his  calling,  till  the  hour 

3. 

Was  past ;  and  then  the  Angel  who  should  else 

Meantime,  with  fuller  reach  and  stronger  swell, 

Have  crown'd  him  with  his  glory-wreath. 

Wave  after  wave  advanced  ; 

Smote  him  in  anger.  —  Years  and  years  are  gone, 

Each  following  billow  lifted  the  last  foam 

And  in  his  place  of  penance  he  awaits 

That  trembled  on  the  sand  with  rainbow  hues ; 

Thee,  the  Deliverer :  surely  thou  art  he  1 

The  living  flower  that,  rooted  to  the  rock. 

It  was  my  righteous  punishment, 

Late  from  the  thinner  element 

In  the  same  youth  unchanged, 

Shrunk  down  within  its  purple  stem  to  sleep, 

And  love  unchangeable. 

Now  feels  the  water,  and  again 

Sorrow  forever  fresh. 

Awakening,  blossoms  out 

And  bitter  penitence, 

All  its  green  anther-necks. 

That  gives  no  respite  night  nor  day  from  grief, 

To  abide  the  written  hour,  when  I  should  waft 

4. 

The  Doom'd  Destroyer  and  Deliverer  here. 

Was  there  a  Spirit  in  the  gale 

Remember  thou,  that  thy  success  affects 

That  fluttered  o'er  his  cheek  ? 

No  single  fate,  no  ordinary  woes." 

For  it  came  on  him  like  the  new-risen  sun, 

Which  plays  and  dallies  o'er  the  night-closed  flower, 

8. 

And  wooes  it  to  unfold  anew  to  joy ; 

As  thus  she  spake,  the  entrance  of  the  cave 

For  it  came  on  him  as  the  dews  of  eve 

Darken'd  the  boat  below. 

Descend  with  healing  and  with  life 

Around  them,  from  their  nests, 

Upon  the  summer  mead  ; 

The  screaming  sea-birds  fled, 

Or  like  the  first  sound  of  seraph  song 

Wondering  at  that  strange  shape, 

And  Angel  greeting,  to  the  soul 

Yet  unalarm'd  at  sight  of  living  man, 

Whose  latest  sense  had  shuddered  at  the  groan 

Unknowing  of  his  sway  and  power  misused . 

Of  anguish,  kneeling  by  a  death-bed  side. 

The  clamors  of  their  young 

Echoed  in  shriller  cries. 

5. 

Which  rung  in  wild  discordance  round  the  rock. 

He  starts,  and  gazes  round  to  seek 

And  farther  as  they  now  advanced, 

The  certain  presence.     "  Thalaba  I  "  exclaim'd 

The  dim  reflection  of  the  darken'd  day 

The  Voice  of  the  Unseen  ; 

Grew  fainter,  and  the  dash 

"  Father  of  my  Oneiza  !  "  he  replied, 

Of  the  out-breakers  deaden'd ;  farther  yet. 

•'  And  have  thy  years  been  number'd  .-  art  thou,  too, 

And  yet  more  faint  the  gleam; 

Among  the  Angels .'  "  —  "  Thalaba  !  " 

And  there  the  waters,  at  their  utmost  bound, 

BOOK    XII. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER. 


321 


Silently  rippled  on  the  rising  rock. 

They  landed  and  advanced,  and  deeper  in, 

Two  adainiiutine  doors 

Closed  up  the  cavern  pass. 

9. 
Reclining  on  the  rock  beside, 

Sat  a  gray-headed  man. 

Watching  an  hour-glass  bj-. 

To  him  tlie  Damsel  spake  — 

"  Is  it  the  hour  appointed  .'  "     The  Old  Man 

Nor  answer'd  her  awhile, 

Nor  lifted  he  his  downward  eye  ; 

For  now  the  glass  ran  low. 

And,  like  the  days  of  age, 

With  speed  perceivable, 

The  latter  sands  descend  ; 

And  now  the  last  are  gone. 

Then   lie    look'd    up,  and   raised   his    hand,  and 

smote 

The  adamantine  gates. 

10. 

The  gates  of  adamant. 

Unfolding  at  the  stroke. 

Open  d,  and  gave  the  entrance.     Then  she  turn'd 

To  Thalaba,  and  said, 

"  Go,  in  the  name  of  God  ! 

I  cannot  enter,  —  1  must  wait  the  end 

In  hope  and  agony. 

God  and  Mahommed  prosper  thee. 

For  thy  sake  and  for  ours  I  " 

11. 

He  tarried  not,  —  he  past 

The  tiireshold,  over  wliicli  was  no  return. 

All  cartlily  thoughts,  all  human  hopes 

And  passions  now  put  off, 

He  cast  no  backward  glance 

Toward  the  gleam  of  day. 

There  was  a  light  within, 

A  yellow  light,  as  when  the  autumnal  Sun, 

Througli  travelling  rain  and  mist, 

Shines  on  the  evening  hills  : 

Whether  from  central  fires  effused. 

Or  that  the  sunbeams,  day  by  day. 

From  earliest  generations,  there  absorb'd, 

Were  gathering  for  the  wrath-flaine.     Shade  was 

none 

In  those  portentous  vaults  ; 

Crag  overhanging,  nor  columnal  rock 

Cast  its  dark  outline  there ; 

For  with  the  hot  and  heavy  atmosphere 

The  light  incorporate,  permeating  all. 

Spread  over  all  its  equal  yellowness. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  lifeless  air ; 

He  felt  no  stirring  as  he  past 

Adown  the  long  descent ; 

He  heard  not  his  own  footsteps  on  the  rock. 

That  through  the  thick  stagnation  sent  no  sound. 

How  sweet  it  were,  he  thought, 

To  feel  the  flowing  wind  I 

With  what  a  thirst  of  joy 

He  should  breathe  in  the  open  gales  of  heaven  ! 

41 


12. 

Downward,  and  downward  still,  and  still  the  way, 

The  lengthening  way  is  safe. 

Is  there  no  secret  wile. 

No  lurking  enemy .' 

His  watchful  eye  is  on  the  wall  of  rock, — 

And  warily  he  marks  the  roof, 

And  warily  surveys 

The  path  that  lies  before. 

Downward,  and  downward  still,  and  still  the  way. 

The  long,  long  way  is  safe ; 

Rock  only,  the  same  light, 

The  same  dead  atmosphere. 

And  solitude  and  silence  like  the  grave. 

13. 

At  length  the  long  descent 

Ends  on  a  precipice  ; 

No  feeble  ray  enter'd  its  dreadful  gulf; 

For  in  the  pit  profound, 

Black  Darkness,  utter  Night, 

Repell'd  the  hostile  gleam. 

And  o'er  the  surface  the  light  atmosphere 

Floated,  and  mingled  not. 

Above  the  depth,  four  over-awning  wings, 

Unplumed,  and  huge,  and  strong, 

Bore  up  a  little  car ; 

Four  living  pinions,  headless,  bodiless, 

Sprung  from  one  stem  that  branched  below 

In  four  down-arching  limbs. 

And  clinch'd  the  car-rings  endlong  and  athwart 

W^ith  claws  of  grifHn  grasp. 

14. 

But  not  on  these,  the  depth  so  terrible, 

Tiie  wondrous  wings,  fix'd  Thalaba  his  eye  ; 

For  there,  upon  the  brink. 

With  fiery  fetters  fasten'd  to  the  rock, 

A  man,  a  living  man,  tormented  lay. 

The  young  Othatha:  in  the  arms  of  love 

He  who  had  linger'd  out  the  auspicious  hour, 

Forgetful  of  his  call. 

In  sliuddering  pity,  Thalaba  exclaimed, 

"  Servant  of  God,  can  I  not  succor  thee  .'  " 

He  groan'd,  and  answered,  "  Son  of  Man, 

I  sinn'd,  and  am  tormented;  I  endure 

In  patience  and  in  hope. 

The  hour  that  shall  destroy  the  Race  of  Hell, 

That  hour  shall  set  me  free." 

15. 

"  Is  it  not  come  ?  "   quoth  Thalaba  . 

"  Yea  !  by  this  omen  !  "  — and  with  fearless  hand 

He  grasp'd  tiie  burning  fetters,  —  "  in  the  name 

Of  God  !  "  —  and  from  the  rock 

Rooted  the  rivets,  and  adown  the  gulf 

Dropp'd  them.     The  rusli  of  flames  roar'd  up. 

For  they  had  kindled  in  their  fall 

The  deadly  vapors  of  the  pit  profound  ; 

And  Thalaba  bent  on  and  look'd  below 

But  vainly  he  explored 

The  deep  abyss  of  flame. 

That  sunk  beyond  the  plunge  of  mortal  eye, 

Now  all  ablaze,  as  if  infernal  fires 


'i-22 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


BOOK    XII. 


Illumed  the  world  beneath. 

Soon  was  the  poison-fuel  spent ; 

Tlie  flame  grew  pale  and  dim ; 

And  dimmer  now  it  fades,  and  now  is  quench'd  ; 

And  all  again  is  dark, 

Save  where  the  yellow  air 

Enters  a  little  in,  and  mingles  slow. 

IG. 

Meantime,  the  freed  Othatha  clasp'd  his  knees. 

And  cried,  "  Deliverer  !  "    Struggling  then 

With  joyful  hope,  "And  where  is  she,"  he  cried, 

■'  Whose  promised  coming  for  so  many  a  year  —  " 

"Go!"  answer'd  Thalaba, 

"  She  waits  thee   at  the  gates." 

"And  in  thy  triumph,"  he  replied. 

There  thou  wilt  join  us .'  "  —  The  Deliverer's  eye 

Glanced  on  the  abyss ;  way  else  was  none  — 

The  depth  was  unascendable. 

"  Await  not  me,"  he  cried; 

'  My  path  hath  been  appointed  !  go  —  embark  ! 

Return  to  life,  — live  happy  !  " 

OTHATHA. 

But  thy  name  ?  — 

That  through  the  nations  we  may  blazon  it,  — 

That  we  may  bless  thee  ! 

THALABA. 

Bless  the  Merciful ! 

17. 

Then  Thalaba  pronounced  the  name  of  God, 

And  leap'd  into  the  car. 

Down,  down  it  sunk, —  down,  down,  — 

He  neither  breathes  nor  sees  ; 

His  eyes  are  closed  for  giddiness. 

His  breath  is  sinking  with  the  fall. 

The  air  that  yields  beneath  the  car 

Inflates  the  wings  above. 

Down  — down  —  a  measureless  deptli !  —  down  — 

down. 

Was  then  the  Simorg  with  the  Powers  of  ill 

Associate  to  destroy .' 

And  was  that  lovely  Mariner 

A  fiend  as  false  as  fair  ? 

For  still  the  car  sinks  down ; 

But  ever  the  uprushing  wind 

Inflates  the  wings  above, 

And  still  the  struggling  wings 

Repel  the  rushing  wind. 

Down  —  down  —  and  now  it  strikes. 

18. 

He  stands  and  totters  giddily  ; 

All  objects  round  awhile 

Float  dizzy  on  his  sight; 

Collected  soon,  he  gazes  for  the  way. 

There  was  a  distant  light  that  led  his  search  ; 

The  torch  a  broader  blaze, 

The  unpruned  taper  flares  a  longer  flame. 

But  this  was  strong,  as  is  the  noontide  sun. 

So,  in  the  glory  of  its  rays  intense. 

It  quiver'd  with  green  glow. 

Beyond  was  all  unseen ; 


No  eye  could  penetrate 
That  unendurable  excess  of  light. 

19. 

It  veil'd  no  friendly  form,  thought  Thalaba  : 

And  wisely  did  he  deem. 

For  at  the  threshold  of  the  rocky  door, 

Hugest  and  fiercest  of  his  kind  accurs'd, 

Fit  warden  of  the  sorcery-gate, 

A  rebel  Afreet  lay ; 

He  scented  the  approach  of  human  food, 

And  hungry  hope  kindled  his  eye  of  fire. 

Raising  his  hand  to  screen  the  dazzled  sense. 

Onward  held  Thalaba, 

And  lifted  still  at  times  a  rapid  glance  ; 

Till  the  due  distance  gain'd. 

With  head  abased,  he  laid 

An  arrow  in  its  rest. 

With  steady  effort  and  knit  forehead  then, 

Full  on  the  painful  light 

He  fix'd  his  aching  eye,  and  loosed  the  bow. 

20. 

A  hideous  yell  ensued; 

And  sure  no  human  voice  had  scope  or  power 

For  that  prodigious  shriek 

Whose  pealing  echoes  thundered  up  the  rock. 

Dim  grew  the  dying  light; 

But  Thalaba  leap'd  onward  to  tlie  doors. 

Now  visible  beyond, 

And  while  the  Afreet  warden  of  the  way 

Was  writhing  with  his  death-pangs,  over  him 

Sprung  and  smote  the  stony  doors, 

And  bade  them,  in  the  name  of  God,  give  way  ! 

21. 

The  dying  Fiend  beneath  him,  at  that  name, 

Toss'd  in  worse  agony, 

And  the  rocks  shudder'd,  and  the  rocky  doors 

Rent  at  the  voice  asunder.     Lo  !  within  — 

The  Teraph  and  the  Fire, 

And  Khawla,  and,  in  mail  complete, 

Mohareb  for  the  strife. 

But  Thalaba,  with  numbing  force. 

Smites  his  raised  arm,  and  rushes  by ; 

For  now  he  sees  the  fire,  amid  whose  flames, 

On  the  white  ashes  of  Hodeirah,  lies 

Hodeirah's  holy  Sword. 

22. 

He  rushes  to  the  Fire  : 

Then  Khawla  met  the  youth, 

And  leap'd  upon  him,  and  with  clinging  arms 

Clasps  him,  and  calls  Mohareb  now  to  aim 

The  effectual  vengeance.     O  fool  !  fool !  he  sees 

His  Father's  Sword,  and  who  shall  bar  his  way .' 

Who  stand  against  the  fury  of  that  arm 

That  spurns  her  to  the  ground  ?  — 

She  rises  half,  she  twists  around  his  knees,  — 

A  moment—  and  he  vainly  strives 

To  shake  her  from  her  hold  ; 

Impatient  then  he  seized  her  leathery  neck 

With  tiirottling  grasp,  and  as  she  loosed  her  hold. 

Thrust  her  aside,  and  unimpeded  now 

Springs  forward  to  the  Sword. 


BOOK    XII. 


THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


323 


23. 

The  co-existent  Flame 

Knew  the  Destroyer;  it  encircled  him, 

RoU'd  up  his  robe,  and  gather'd  round  his  head  : 

Condensing  to  inti'user  splendor  there, 

His  Crown  of  Glory  and  his  Light  of  Life, 

Hover'd  the  irradiate  wreath. 

24. 

The  instant  Tiialaba  had  laid  his  hand 

Upon  his  Father's  Sword, 

Tlie  Living  Image  in  the  iiiiier  cave 

Smote  the   Round  Altar.     The  Domdaniel  rockd 

Through  all  its  thundering  vaults ; 

Over  the  surface  of  the  reeling  Earth, 

The  alarum  shock  was  felt; 

The  Sorcerer  brood,  all,  all,  where'er  dispersed, 

Perforce  obey'd  the  summons  ;  all,  —  they  came 

Compell'd  by  Hell  and  Heaven; 

By  Hell  compell'd  to  keep 

Their  baptism-covenant. 

And  with  the  union  of  their  strength 

Oppose  the  connnon  danger ;  forced  by  Heaven 

To  share  the  common  doom. 

25. 

Vain  are  all  spells  !  the  Destroyer 

Treads  the  Domdaniel  floor. 

They  crowd  with  human  arms  and  human  force 

To  crush  the  single  foe. 

Vain  is  all  human  force  ! 

He  wields  his  Father's  Svi'ord, 

The  vengeance  of  awaken'd  Deity. 

But  chief  on  Thalaba  Mohareb  press'd: 

The  Witch,  in  her  oracular  speech, 

Announced  one  fatal  blow  for  both  ; 

And,  desperate  of  self  safety,  yet  he  hoped 

To  serve  the  cause  of  Eblis,  and  uphold 

His  empire,  true  in  death. 

26. 

Who  shall  withstand  the  Destroyer  ? 

Scatter'd  before  the  sword  of  Thalaba 

The  Sorcerer  throng  recede. 

And    leave    him    space   for    combat.     Wretched 

man,  — 

WJiat  shall  the  helmet  or  the  shield  avail 

Against  Almighty  anger  ?  —  Wretched  man, 

Too  late  Mohareb  finds  that  he  hath  chosen 

The  evil  part !  —  He  rears  his  shield 

To  meet  the  Arabian's  sword ; 

Under  the  edge  of  that  fire-hardened  steel, 

Tlie  shield  falls  sever'd ;  his  cold  arm 

Rings  with  the  jarring  blow  :  — 

He  lifts  his  ci  meter ; 

A  second  stroke,  and  lo !  the  broken  hilt 

Hangs  from  his  palsied  hand: 

.\nd  now  he  bleeds,  and  now  he  Hies, 

And  fain  would- hide  himself  amid  the  troop; 

But  they  feel  the  sword  of  Hodeirah  ; 

But  they  also  fly  from  the  ruin. 

And  hasten  to  the  inner  cave, 

And  fall  all  fearfully 

Around  the  Giant  Idol's  feet. 

Seeking  protection  from  the  Power  they  served. 


27. 

It  was  a  Living  Image,  by  the  art 

Of  magic  hands,  of  flesh  and  bones  composed. 

And  human  blood,  through  veins  and  arteries 

That  rtow'd  with  vital  action.     In  the  shape 

Of  Eblis  it  was  made ; 

Its  stature  such,  and  such  its  strength, 

As  when  among  the  sons  of  God 

Preeminent  he  raised  his  radiant  head, 

Prince  of  the  Morning.     On  his  brow 

A  coronet  of  meteor  flames, 

Flowing  in  points  of  light. 

Self-poised  in  air  before  him 

Hung  the  Round  Altar,  rolling  like  the  World 

On  its  diurnal  axis,  like  the  World 

Checker'd  with  sea  and  shore, 

The  work  of  Demon  art. 

For  where  the  sceptre  in  the  Idol's  hand 

Touch'd  the  Round  Altar,  in  its  answering  realm, 

Earth  felt  the  stroke,  and  Ocean  rose  in  storms, 

And  shatter'd  Cities,  shaken  from  their  seat, 

Crush'd  all  their  habitants. 

His  other  arm  was  raised,  and  its  spread  palm 

Snstain'd  the  ocean-weight, 

Whose  naked  waters  arch'd  the  sanctuary ; 

Sole  prop  and  pillar  he. 

28. 

Fallen  on  the  ground,  around  his  feet. 

The  Sorcerers  lay.     Mohareb's  quivering  arms 

Clung  to  the  Idol's  knees ; 

The  Idol's  face  was  pale  ; 

And  calm  in  terror  he  beheld 

The  approach  of  the  Destroyer. 

29. 

Sure  of  his  stroke,  and  therefore  in  pursuit 

Following,  nor  blind,  nor  hasty,  on  his  foe 

Moved  the  Destroyer.     Okba  met  his  way, 

Of  all  that  brotherhood 

He  only  fearless,  miserable  man. 

The  one  that  had  no  hope. 

"On  me,  on  me,"  the  childless  Sorcerer  cried. 

Let  fall  the  weapon !     I  am  he  who  stole 

Upon  the  midnight  of  thy  Father's  tent ; 

This  is  the  hand  that  pierced  Hodeirah's  heart. 

That  felt  thy  brethren's  and  thy  sisters'  blood 

Gush  round  the  dagger-hilt.     Let  fall  on  me 

The  fated  sword  !  the  vengeance-hour  is  come  ! 

Destroyer,  do  thy  work  !  " 

30. 

Nor  wile,  nor  weapon,  had  the  desperate  wretch , 

He  spread  his  bosom  to  the  stroke. 

"  Old  Man,  I  strike  thee  not !  "  said  Thalaba ; 

"  The  evil  thou  hast  done  to  me  and  mine 

Brought  its  own  bitter  punishment. 

For  thy  dear  Daughter's  sake  I  pardon  thee. 

As  I  do  hope  Heaven's  pardon.  —  For  her  sake 

Repent  wiiile  time  is  yet !  —  Thou  hast  my  prayers 

To  aid  thee  ;  thou  poor  sinner,  cast  thyself 

Upon  the  goodness  of  offl-nded  God! 

I  speak  in  Laila's  name  ;  and  what  if  now 

Thou  canst  not  think  to  join  in  Paradise 

Her  spotless  Spirit,  —  hath  not  Allah  made 


324 


NOTES    TO    THALABA    THE    DESTROYER, 


BOOK    XII. 


Al-Araf",  in  his  wisdom?  where  the  siglit 
Of  Heaven  may  kindle  in  the  penitent 
The  strong  and  purifying  fire  of  hope, 

Till,  at  the  Day  of  Judgment,  he  shall  see 
The  Mercy-Gates  unfold." 

31. 

Tlie  astonish'd  man  stood  gazing  as  he  spake ; 

At  length  his  heart  was  soften'd,  and  the  tears 

Gush'd,  and  he  sobb"d  aloud. 

Then  suddenly  was  heard 

The  all-beholding  Prophets  voice  divine  — 

"  Thou  hast  done  well,  my  Servant ! 

Ask  and  receive  thy  reward  !  " 

32. 

A  deep  and  awful  joy 

Seem'd  to  dilate  the  heart  of  Thalaba; 

With  arms  in  reverence  cross'd  upon  his  breast, 

Upseeking  eyes  suffused  with  tears  devout, 

He  answered  to  the  Voice  —  "  Prophet  of  God, 

Holy,  and  good,  and  bountiful ! 

One  only  eartlily  wish  have  I,  to  work 

Thy  will ;  and  thy   protection  grants  me  that. 

Look  on  this  Sorcerer  !  Heavy  are  his  crimes ; 

But  infinite  is  mercy  !     If  thy  servant 

Have  now  found  favor  in  the  sight  of  God, 

Let  him  be  touch'd  with  penitence,  and  save 

His  soul  from  utter  death." 

33. 

"  The  groans  of  penitence,"  replied  the  Voice, 

"  Never  arise  unheard  1 

But,  for  thyself,  prefer  the  prayer ; 

The  treasure-house  of  Heaven 

Is  open  to  thy  will." 

34. 
"  Prophet  of  God  !  "  then  answered  Thalaba, 

"  I  am  alone  on  earth  ; 
Thou  knowest  the  secret  wishes  of  my  heart ! 
Do  with  me  as  tliou  wilt !     Thy  will  is  best." 

35. 
There  issued  forth  no  Voice  to  answer  him ; 

But  lo  !  Hodeirah's  Spirit  comes  to  see 

His  vengeance,  and  beside  him,  a  pure  form 

Of  roseate  light,  his  Angel  mother  hung. 

"  My  Child,  my  dear,  my  glorious,  blessed  Child, 

My  promise  is  perform'd  —  fulfil  thy  work  !  " 


3(j. 

Thalaba  knew  that  his  death-hour  was  come ; 

And  on  he  leap'd,  and  springino-  up, 

Into  the  Idol's  heart 

Hilt-dccp  he  plunged  the  Sword. 

The  Ocean-vault  fell  in,  and  all  were  crush'd. 

In  the  same  moment,  at  the  gate 

Of  Paradise,  Oneiza's  Houri  form 

Welcomed  her  Husband  to  eternal  bliss. 


NOTES   TO   BOOK  XII. 

A  rchcl  Afreet  lay.  —  1 9,  p.  322. 

One  of  these  evil  Genii  is  thus  described  in  the  Baliar  Da- 
nush  :  —  On  his  entrance,  he  beheld  a  bhick  demon  licaped  on 
the  ground  like  a  mountain,  with  two  large  horns  u])on  his  headj 
and  a  long  proboscis,  fast  asleep.  In  his  head  the  Divine  Cre- 
ator had  joined  the  likenesses  of  the  elephant  and  the  wild  bull. 
His  teeth  grew  out  as  the  tusks  of  a  boar,  and  all  over  his  mon- 
strous carcass  hung  shaggy  hairs,  like  those  of  the  hear,  'i'ho 
eye  of  mortal-born  was  dimmed  at  his  appearance,  and  the 
mind,  at  his  horrible  form  and  frightful  figure,  was  confounded. 

He  iras  an  Afreet,  created  from  mouth  to  foot  by  the  wralk 
of  God. 

His  hair  like  a  bear's,  his  teeth  like  a  boar's.  JV'o  one  ever 
beheld  such  a  monster. 

Crook-backeil ,  and  crahbcd-fated ;  he  might  he  scented  at  the 
distance  of  a  thousand  fersungs. 

His  nostrils  were  like  the  ovens  of  brick-bvrncrs,  and  his  mouth 
resembled  the  vat  of  the  dyer. 

When  his  breath  came  forth,  from  its  vehemence  the  dust 
rose  up  as  in  a  whirlwind,  so  as  to  leave  a  chasm  in  the  earth  ; 
and  when  he  drew  it  in,  chaff,  sand,  and  pebbles,  from  the  dis 
tance  of  some  yards,  were  attracted  to  his  nostrils. 

Bahar  Danush. 


Al-Araf,  in  his  wisdom  1  &r..  30,  p.  324. 

Araf  is  a  place  between  the  Paradise  and  the  Hell  of  the 
Mahommedans  ;  some  deem  it  a  veil  of  separation,  some  a 
strong  wall.  Others  hold  it  to  be  a  Purgatory,  in  which  those 
believers  will  remain,  whose  good  and  evil  works  have  been 
so  equal,  that  they  were  neither  virtuous  enough  to  enter  Par- 
adise, nor  guilty  enough  to  be  condemned  to  the  fire  of  Hell. 
From  whence  they  see  the  glory  of  the  blessed,  and  are  near 
enough  to  congratulate  them  ;  but  their  ardent  desire  to  par- 
take the  same  happiness  becomes  a  great  pain.  At  length,  a*, 
the  day  of  judgment,  when  all  men,  before  they  are  judged, 
shall  be  cited  to  render  homage  to  their  Creator,  those  who 
are  here  confined  shill  prostrate  themselves  before  the  face 
of  the  Lord,  in  adoration  ;  and  by  this  act  of  religion,  which 
shall  be  accounted  a  merit,  the  number  of  their  good  works 
will  exceed  their  evil  ones,  and  they  will  enter  into  glory. 

Saadi  says,  that  Araf  appears  a  Hell  tc  the  happy,  and  a 
Paradise  to  the  damned.  —  D'Herbelot. 


PREFACE    TO    MADOC. 


325 


JWatroc. 


OMM-E  SOLUM  FORTI  PJlTRM." 


TO  CHARLES  WATKIN   WILLIAMS  WYNN, 
THIS    POEM 

WAS    ORIGINALLY    INSCRIBED,    IN    1805, 

AS     A      TOKEN     OK      SIXTEEN     YEARS     OF     UNINTERRUPTED     FRIENDSHIP*, 

AND    IS    NOW    RE-INSCRIBED,    WITH    THE    SAME    FEELING, 

AFTER    AN    INTERVAL    OF    THIRTY-TWO. 


PREFACE. 

When  Madoc  was  brought  to  a  close,  in  tlie 
summer  of  179!),  Mr.  Coleridge  advised  me  to 
publish  it  at  once,  and  to  defer  making  any  mate- 
rial alterations,  if  any  should  suggest  themselves, 
till  a  second  edition.  But  four  years  had  passed 
over  my  head  since  Joan  of  Arc  was  sent  to  the 
press,  and  I  was  not  disposed  to  commit  a  second 
imprudence.  If  the  reputation  obtained  by  that 
poem  had  confirmed  the  confidence  which  I  felt 
in  myself,  it  had  also  the  effect  of  making  me  per- 
ceive my  own  deficiencies,  and  endeavor,  with  all 
diliirence.  to  supply  them  I  pleased  myself  with 
the  hope  that  it  would  one  day  be  likened  toTasso's 
Rinaldo,  and  that,  as  the  Jerusalem  had  fulfilled 
the  promise  of  better  things,  whereof  that  poem 
was  the  pledge,  so  might  Madoc  be  regarded  in 
relation  to  the  juvenile  work  which  had  preceded 
it.  Tliinking  that  this  would  probably  be  the 
greatest  poem  I  should  ever  produce,  my  intention 
was  to  bestow  upon  it  all  possible  care,  as  indeed 
I  had  determined  never  again  to  undertake  any 
subject  without  due  preparation.  With  this  view 
it  was  my  wish,  before  Madoc  could  be  considered 
as  completed,  to  see  more  of  Wales  than  I  had 
yet  seen.  This  I  had  some  opportunity  of  doing 
in  the  autumn  of  1801,  with  my  old  friends  and 
schoolfellows,  Charles  Wynn  and  I'eter  Elmsley. 
And  so  much  was  1  bent  upon  making  myself  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  Welsh  scenery,  manners,  and 
traditions,  than  could  be  done  by  books  alone,  that 
if  1  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  liouse  in  the  Vale 
of  Neath,  for  which  1  was  in  treaty  the  year  fol- 
lowing, it  would  never  have  been  my  fortune  to 
be  chissed  among  the  Lake  Poets. 

Little  had  been  done  in  revising  the  poem  till 
the  first  year  of  my  abode  at  Keswick  :  there,  in 
the  latter  end  of  1803,  it  was  resumed,  and  twelve 
months  were  diligently  employed  in  reconstructing 
It      The  alterations  were  more  material  than  tliose 


which  had  been  made  in  Joan  of  Arc,  and  much 
more  extensive.  In  its  original  form,  the  poem 
consisted  of  fifteen  books,  containing  about  six 
thousand  lines.  It  was  now  divided  into  two  parts, 
and  enlarged  in  the  proportion  of  a  full  third. 
Shorter  divisions  than  the  usual  one  of  books,  or 
cantos,  were  found  more  convenient ;  the  six  books, 
therefore,  which  the  first  part  comprised,  were  dis- 
tributed in  seventeen  sections,  and  the  other  nine 
in  twenty-seven.  These  changes  in  the  form  of 
the  work  were  neither  capriciously  made,  nor  for 
the  sake  of  novelty.  The  story  consisted  of  two 
parts,  almost  as  distinct  as  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  ; 
and  the  subdivisions  were  in  like  manner  indicated 
by  the  subject.  The  alterations  in  the  conduct  of 
the  piece  occasioned  its  increase  of  length. 

When  Matthew  Lewis  published  the  Castle 
Spectre,  he  gave  as  his  reason  for  introducing 
negro  guards  in  a  drama  which  was  laid  in  feudal 
times,  that  he  thought  their  appearance  would  pro- 
<iuce  a  good  effect;  and  if  the  effect  would  have 
been  better  by  making  them  blue  instead  of  black, 
blue,  said  he,  they  should  have  been.  He  was 
not  more  bent  upon  pleasing  the  public  by  stage 
effect,  (which  no  dramatist  ever  studied  more  suc- 
cessfully,) than  I  was  upon  following  my  own 
sense  of  propriety,  and  thereby  obtaining  the  ap- 
probation of  that  fit  audience,  which,  being  con- 
tented that  it  should  be  few,  I  was  sure  to  find. 
Mr.  Sotheby,  whose  Saul  was  published  about  the 
same  time  as  Madoc,  said  to  me  a  year  or  two 
afterwards,  "  You  and  I,  Sir,  find  that  blank  verse 
will  not  do  in  these  days;  we  must  stand  upon 
another  tack."  Mr.  Sotheby  considered  the  de- 
cision of  the  Pie-Poudre  Court  as  final.  But  my 
suit  was  in  that  Court  of  Record,  which,  sooner 
or  later,  pronounces  unerringly  upon  the  merits  of 
the  case. 

Madoc  was  immediately  reprinted  in  America 
in  numbers,  making  two  octavo  volumes.  About 
nine  years  afterwards,  there  aj)peared  a  paper  in 


326 


PREFACE    TO    MADOC. 


the  Quarterly  Review,  which  gave  great  offence  to 
the  Americans ;  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  my  rec- 
ollections, it  was  the  first  in  that  journal  which 
had  any  such  tendency.  An  American  author, 
whose  name  1  heard,  but  had  no  wish  to  remem- 
ber, supposed  it  to  have  been  written  by  me;  and 
upon  this  gratuitous  supposition,  (in  wliicli,  more- 
over, lie  happened  to  be  totally  mistaken,)  he  at- 
tacked me  in  a  pamphlet,  which  he  had  the  cour- 
tesy to  send  mc,  and  which  I  have  preserved 
among  my  Curiosities  of  Literature.  It  is  noticed 
in  this  place,  because,  among  other  vituperative 
accusations,  the  pamphleteer  denounced  the  author 
of  Madoc  as  having  '■  meditated  a  most  serious 
injury  against  the  reputation  of  the  New  World, 
by  attributing  its  discovery  and  colonization  to  a 
little  vagabond  Welsh  Prince."'  This,  he  said, 
"  being  a  most  insidious  attempt  against  the  honor 
of  America  and  the  reputation  of  Columbus."* 

This  poem  was  the  means  of  making  me  person- 
ally acquainted  with  Miss  Seward.  Her  encomias- 
tic opinion  of  it  was  communicated  to  me  through 
Charles  Lloyd,  in  away  which  required  some  cour- 
teous acknowledgment;  this  led  to  an  interchange 
of  letters,  and  an  invitation  to  Lichfield,  where, 
accordingly,  I  paid  her  a  visit,  when  next  on  my 
way  to  London,  in  1807.  She  resided  in  the 
Bishops  palace.  I  was  ushered  up  the  broad 
brown  staircase  by  her  cousin,  the  Reverend 
Henry  White,  then  one  of  the  minor  canons  of 
that  cathedral,  a  remarkable  person,  who  intro- 
duced me  into  the  presence  with  jubilant  but 
appalling  solemnity.  Miss  Seward  was  seated  at 
her  desk.  She  had  just  finished  some  verses,  to 
be  "  Inscribed  on  the  blank  leaves  of  the  Poem 
Madoc,"  and  the  first  greeting  was  no  sooner  past, 
than  she  requested  that  I  would  permit  her  to  read 
them  to  me.  It  was  a  mercy  that  she  did  not  ask 
me  to  read  them  aloud.  But  she  read  admirably 
herself.  The  situation,  however,  in  which  I  found 
myself,  was  so  ridiculous,  and  I  was  so  apprehen- 
sive of  catching  the  eye  of  one  person  in  the 
room,  who  was  equally  afraid  of  meeting  mine, 
that  I  never  felt  it  more  difficult  to  control  my 
emotions,  than  while  listening,  or  seeming  to 
listen,  to  my  own  praise  and  glory.  But,  bending 
my  head,  as  if  in  a  posture  of  attentivcness,  and 
screening  my  face  with  my  hand,  and  occasionally 
usinff  some  force  to  compress  the  risible  muscles, 
I  got  through  the  scene  without  any  misbehavior, 
and  expressed  my  thanks,  if  not  in  terms  of  such 
glowing  admiration  as  she  was  accustomed  to 
receive  from  others,  and  had  bestowed  upon  my 
unworthy  self,  yet  as  well  as  I  could.  I  passed 
two  days  under  her  roof,  and  corresponded  with 
her  from  that  time  till  her  death. 

Miss  Seward  had  been  crippled  by  having  re- 
peatedly injured  one  of  her  knee-pans.  Time  had 
taken  away  her  bloom  and  her  beauty  ;  but  her  fine 

*  The  title  of  this  notable  pamphlet  is,  "  The  United  States 
and  Enahind  ;  bciii<;  a  Reply  to  the  Criticism  on  Inehiquin's 
I.otters,  contained  in  the  Gluarterly  Review  for  January,  I8I4. 
New  York  :  published  by  A.  H.  Inskecp;  anil  Bradford  and 
Inskeep,  Philadelphia.  Van  Winkle  and  Wiley,  Printers, 
1815." 


countenance  retained  its  animation,  and  her  eyes 
could  not  have  been  brighter  nor  more  expressive 
in  her  youth.  Sir  Walter  Scott  says  of  them, 
"  they  were  auburn,  of  tlie  precise  shade  and  hue  of 
her  hair.  In  reciting,  or  in  speaking  with  anima- 
tion, they  appeared  to  become  darker,  and  as  it 
were  to  flash  fire.  I  should  have  hesitated,"  he 
adds,  "  to  state  the  impression  which  this  peculiarity 
made  upon  me  at  the  time,  had  not  my  observation 
been  confirmed  by  that  of  the  first  actress  on  this 
or  any  other  stage,  with  whom  1  lately  happened 
to  converse  on  our  deceased  friend's  expressive 
powers  of  countenance."  *  Sir  Walter  has  not 
observed  that  this  peculiarity  was  hereditary. 
Describing,  in  one  of  her  earlier  letters,  a  scene 
with  her  mother,  she  says,  "  1  grew  so  saucy  to 
her,  that  she  looked  grave,  and  took  her  pinch  of 
snuff,  first  at  one  nostril,  and  then  at  the  other, 
with  swift  and  angry  energy,  and  her  eyes  began 
to  grow  dark  and  to  flash.  'Tis  an  odd  peculiarity  ; 
but  the  balls  of  my  mother's  eyes  change  from 
brown  into  black,  when  she  feels  either  indignation 
or  bodily  pain."t 

Miss  Seward  was  not  so  much  overrated  at  one 
time,  as  she  has  since  been  unduly  depreciated. 
She  was  so  considerable  a  person  when  her  repu- 
tation was  at  its  height,  that  Washington  said  no 
circumstance  in  his  life  had  been  so  mortifying  to 
him  as  that  of  having  been  made  the  subject  of  her 
invective  in  her  Monody  on  Major  Andre.  After 
peace  had  been  concluded  between  Great  Britain 
and  the  United  States,  he  commissioned  an  Amer- 
ican officer,  who  was  about  to  sail  for  England,  to 
call  upon  her  at  Lichfield,  and  explain  to  her,  that, 
instead  of  having  caused  Andre's  death,  he  had 
endeavored  to  save  him  ;  and  she  was  reqticsted  to 
peruse  the  papers  in  proof  of  this,  which  he  sent 
for  her  perusal.  "  They  filled  me  with  contrition," 
says  Miss  Seward,  "for  the  rash  injustice  of  my 
censure. "  + 

An  officer  of  her  name  served  as  lieutenant  in 
the  garrison  at  Gibraltar  during  the  siege.  To  his 
great  surprise,  —  for  he  had  no  introduction  which 
could  lead  him  to  expect  the  honor  of  such  notice, 
—  he  received  an  invitation  to  dine  with  General 
Elliot.  The  General  asked  him  if  he  were  related  to 
the  author  of  the  Monody  on  Major  Andre.  The 
Lieutenant  replied  that  he  had  the  honor  of  being 
very  distantly  related  to  her,  but  he  had  not  the 
happiness  of  her  acquaintance.  •'  It  is  sufficient, 
Mr.  Seward,"  said  the  General,  "that  you  bear 
her  name,  and  a  fair  reputation,  to  entitle  you  to 
the  notice  of  every  soldier  who  has  it  in  his  power 
to  serve  and  oblige  a  military  brother.  You  will 
always  find  a  cover  for  you  at  my  table,  and  a 
sincere  welcome  ;  and  whenever  it  may  be  in  my 
power  to  serve  you  essentially,  I  shall  not  want  the 
inclination."  § 

These  anecdotes  show  the  estimation  in  which 

*  Biographical  Preface  to  the   Poetical   Works  of  Anna 
Seward,  p.  xxiii. 
t  Literary  Correspondence.     lb.  p.  cxxi. 
I  Letters  of  Anna  Seward,  vol.  v.  p.  143. 
^  Ibid,  vol.  i.  p.  298. 


MADOC, 


327 


she  was,  not  undeservedly,  held.  Her  epistolary 
style  was  distorted  and  distigured  by  her  admira- 
tion of  Johnson  ;  and  in  her  poetry  she  set,  rather 
than  followed,  the  brocade  fashion  of  Dr.  Darwin. 
Still  tliere  are  unquestionable  proofs  of  extra- 
ordinary talents  and  great  ability,  both  in  her 
letters  and  her  poems.  She  was  an  exemplary 
daughter,  a  most  affectionate  and  faithful  friend. 
Sir  Walter  has  estimated,  with  characteristic  skill, 
her  powers  of  criticism,  and  her  strong  preposses- 
sions upon  literary  points.  And  believing  that 
the  more  she  was  known,  the  more  she  would 
iiave  been  esteemed  and  admired,  I  bear  a  willing 
testimony  to  her  accomplishments  and  her  genius, 
to  her  generous  disposition,  her  frankness,  and 
her  sincerity  and  warmth  of  heart. 

Keswick,  Feb.  19,  1838. 


PREFACE 


THE    FIRST    EDITION. 

The  historical  facts  on  which  this  Poem  is 
founded  may  be  related  in  a  few  words.  On  the 
death  of  Owen  Gwyneth,  king  of  North  Wales, 
A.  D.  11G9,  his  children  disputed  the  succession. 
Yorwerth,  the  elder,  was  set  aside  without  a  strug- 
gle, as  being  incapacitated  by  a  blemish  in  his 
face.  Hoel,  though  illegitimate,  and  born  of  an 
Irish  mother,  obtained  possession  of  the  throne  for 
a  while,  till  he  was  defeated  and  slain  by  David, 
the  eldest  son  of  the  late  king  by  a  second  wife. 
The  conqueror,  who  then  succeeded  without  op- 
position, slew  Yorwerth,  imprisoned  Rodri,  and 
hunted  others  of  his  brethren  into  exile.  But 
Madoc,  meantime,  abandoned  his  barbarous  coun- 
try, and  sailed  away  to  the  West  in  search  of  some 
better  resting-place.  The  land  which  he  discov- 
ered pleased  him  :  he  left  there  part  of  his  people, 
and  went  back  to  Wales  for  a  fresh  supply  of  ad- 
venturers, with  whom  he  again  set  sail,  and  was 
heard  of  no  more.  Strong  evidence  has  been  ad- 
duced that  he  reached  America,  and  that  his  pos- 
terity exist  there  to  this  day,  on  the  southern 
branches  of  the  Missouri,*  retaining  their  com- 
plexion, their  language,  and,  in  some  degree,  their 
arts. 

About  the  same  time,  the  Aztecas,  an  American 
tribe,  in  consequence  of  certain  calamities,  and  of  a 
particular  omen,  forsook  Aztlan,  their  own  country, 
under  the  guidance  of  Yuhidthiton.  They  became 
a  mighty  people,  and  founded  the  Mexican  empire, 
taking  the  name  of  Mexicans,  in  honor  of  Mexitli, 
their  tutelary  god.  Their  emigration  is  here  con- 
nected with  the  adventures  of  Madoc,  and  their 
superstition  is  represented  as  the  same  which  their 
descendants   practised,   when   discovered  by   the 

*  That  connlry  h.is  now  hfion  fully  pxplorrd,  and  wlipr- 
ever  Madoc  may  Ijavo  settled,  it  is  now  certain  tliat  no  Welsh 
Indiins  are  to  be  found  upon  any  branches  of  the  Missouri. 
— 1815. 


Spaniards.  The  manners  of  the  Poem,  in  both  ita 
parts,  will  be  found  historically  true,  [t  assumes 
not  the  degraded  title  of  Epic  :  and  the  question, 
therefore,  is  not  whether  the  story  is  formed  upon 
the  rules  of  Aristotle,  but  whether  it  be  adapted  to 
the  purposes  of  poetry. 

Kkswick,  1805. 


Three  tninirs  must  be  avoided  in  Poetry  ;   the  frivoloiis,  the 
obscure,  and  the  superfluous. 

The  three  excellencies  of  Poetry  ;  simplicity  of  language^  sim- 
plicity of  subject,  and  sivipliclty  (f  invention. 

JVic  three  indispensable  purities  of  Poetry;  pure  truth,  pure 
luniruage,  and  pure  manners. 

Three  things  should  all  Poetry  be ;  thoroughly  erudite,  thor- 
oughly animated,  and  thoroughly  natural. 

Triads. 


COME,    LISTEN    TO    A    TALE    OF    TIMES    OF    OLD  ! 

COME,    FOR    YE    KNOW    ME.       I    AM    HE    WHO    SANG 

THE    MAID    OF    ARC,    AND     I    AM    HE    WHO    FRAMED 

OF    THiLABA    THE    WILD    AND    WONDROUS    SONG. 

COME,    LISTEN    TO    MY    LAY,    AND    YE    SHALL    HEAR 

HOW    MADOC    FROM    THE    SHORES    OF    BRITAIN    SPREAD 

THE    ADVENTUROUS    SAIL,    EXPLORED    THE    OCEAN    PATHS, 

AND    QUELLED    BARBARIAN    POWER,    AND    OVERTHREW 

THE    BLOODY    ALTARS    OF    IDOLATRY, 

AND    PLANTED    IN    ITS    FANES    TRIUMPHANTLY 

THE    CROSS    OF    CHRIST.        COME,    LISTEN    TO    MY    LAy! 


PART    I 


MADOC    IN    WALES 


THE   RETURN  TO   WALES. 

Fair  blows  the  wind,  —  the  vessel  drives  along 
Her  streamers  fluttering  at  their  length,  her  sails 
All  full,  —  she  drives  along,  and  round  her  prow 
Scatters  the  ocean  spray.     What  feelings  then 
Fill'd  every  bosom,  when  the  mariners. 
After  the  peril  of  that  weary  way, 
Beheld  their  own  dear  country  !     Here  stands  one 
Stretching  his  sight  toward  the  distant  shore; 
And  as  to  well-known  forms  his  busy  joy 
Shapes  the  dim  outline,  eagerly  he  points 
The  fancied  headland,  and  the  cape  and  bay, 
Till  his  eyes  ache  o'erstraining.     This  man  shakes 
His  comrade's  hand,  and  bids  him  welcome  home, 
And  blesses  God,  and  then  he  weeps  aloud  : 
Here  stands  another,  who,  in  secret  prayer. 
Calls  on  the  Virgin,  and  his  patron  Saint, 
Renewing  his  old  vows  of  gifts,  and  alms. 
And  pilgrimage,  so  he  may  find  all  well. 
Silent  and  thoughtful,  and  apart  from  all, 
Stood  Madoc ;  now  his  noble  enterprise 
Proudly  remembering,  now  in  dreams  of  hope, 


328 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


Anon  of  bodings  full,  and  doubt,  and  fear. 
Fair  smiled  the  evening,  and  the  favoring  gale 
Sung  in  tiie  shrouds,  and  swift  the  steady  bark 
Rush'd  roaring  through  the  waves. 

The  sun  goes  down  : 
Far  off  his  light  is  on  the  naked  crags 
Of  Penmanmawr,  and  Arvon's  ancient  hills  ; 
And  the  last  glory  lingers  yet  awhile, 
Crowning  old  Snowdon's  venerable  head, 
That  rose  amid  his  mountains.     Now  the  ship 
Drew  nigh  where  Mona,  the  dark  island,  .stretch'd 
Her  shore  along  the  ocean's  lighter  line. 
There,  through  the  mist  and  twilight,  many  a  fire. 
Up-flaming,  stroam'd  upon  the  level  sea 
Red  lines  of  lengthening  light,  which,  far  away. 
Rising  and  falling,  flash'd  athwart  the  waves. 
Thereat,  full  many  a  thought  of  ill  disturb'd 
Prince  Madoc's  mind  ;  —  did  some  new  conqueror 

seize 
The  throne  of  David  ?  had  the  tyrant's  guilt 
Awaken'd  vengeance  to  the  deed  of  death  .' 
Or  blazed  they  for  a  brother's  obsequies, 
The  sport  and  mirth  of  murder  ?  —  Like  the  lights 
Which  there  upon  Aberfraw's  royal  walls 
Are  waving  with  the  wind,  the  painful  doubt 
Fluctuates  within  him. —  Onward  drives  the  gale, — 
On  flies  the  bark  ;  —  and  she  hath  reach'd  at  length 
Her  haven,  safe  from  her  unoquall'd  way  ! 
And  now,  in  louder  and  yet  louder  joy 
Clamorous,  the  happy  mariners  all-hail 
Their  native  shore,  and  now  they  leap  to  land. 

There  stood  an  old  man  on  the  beach,  to  wait 
The  comers  from  the  ocean  ;  and  he  ask'd. 
Is  it  the  Prince  r     And  Madoc  knew  his  voice. 
And  turn'd  to  him,  and  fell  upon  his  neck ; 
For  it  was  Urien,  who  had  foster'd  him. 
Had  loved  him  like  a  child ;  and  Madoc  loved. 
Even  as  a  father,  loved  he  that  old  man. 
My  sister  ?  quoth  the  Prince.  —  Oh,  she  and  I 
Have  vpept  together,  Madoc,  for  thy  loss,  — 
That  long  and  cruel  absence  !  — she  and  I, 
Hour  after  hour,  and  day  by  day,  have  look'd 
Toward  the  waters,  and  with  aching  eyes. 
And  aching  heart,  sat  watching  every  sail. 

And  David  and  our  brethren  ?  cried  the  Prince, 
As  they  moved  on.  —  But  then  old  Urien's  lips 
Were  slow  at  answer ;  and  he  spake,  and  paused 
In  the  first  breath  of  utterance,  as  to  choose 
Fit  words  for  uttering  some  unhappy  t.ile. 
More  blood,  quoth  Madoc,  yet  .■"     Hath  David's  fear 
Forced  him  to  still  more  cruelty  .''     Alas  — 
Woe  for  the  house  of  Owen  ! 

Evil  stars, 
Replied  the  old  man,  ruled  o'er  tl>y  brethren's  birth, 
From  Dolwyddelan  driven,  his  peaceful  home, 
Poor  Yorwerth  sought  the  church's  sanctuary  ; 
The  murderer  follow'd  ;  —  Madoc,  need  I  say 
Who  sent  the  sword  .'  —  Llewelyn,  his  brave  boy. 
Where  wanders  he  .-'  in  this  his  rightful  realm, 
Houseless  and  hunted  ;  richly  would  the  king 
Gift  the  red  hand  that  rid  him  of  that  fear ! 
Ririd,  an  outlaw'd  fugitive,  as  yet 
Eludes  his  deadly  purpose  ;  Rodri  lives, 


A  prisoner  he,  —  I  know  not  in  what  fit 

Of  natural  mercy  from  the  slaughter  spared. 

Oh,  if  my  dear  old  master  saw  the  wreck 

And  scattering  of  his  house  !  —  that  princely  race  ! 

Tlie  beautiful  band  of  brethren  that  they  were  ! 

Madoc  made  no  reply,  — he  closed  his  eyes, 
Groaning.     But  Urien,  for  his  heart  was  full. 
Loving  to  linger  on  the  woe,  pursued  : 
I  did  not  think  to  live  to  such  an  Irour 
Of  joy  as  this  !  and  often,  when  my  sight 
Turn'd  dizzy  from  the  ocean,  overcome 
With  heavy  anguish,  Madoc,  I  liave  prayed 
That  God  would  please  to  take  me  to  his  rest. 

So  as  he  ceased  his  speech,  a  sudden  shout 
Of  popular  joy  awakened  Madoc's  ear  ; 
And  calling  tlien  to  mind  the  festal  fires, 
He  ask'd  their  import.     The  old  man  replied, 
It  is  the  giddy  people  merry-making, 
To  welcome  their  new  Queen  ;  unheeding  they 
The  shame  and  the  reproach  to  the  long  line 
Of  our  old  royalty  !  —  Thy  brother  weds 
The  Saxon's  sister. 

What !  —  in  loud  reply 
Madoc  exclaim'd,  hath  he  forgotten  all .' 
David  !  King  Owen's  son,  —  my  father's  son, — 
He  wed  the  Saxon,  —  the  Plantagenet ! 

Quoth  Urien,  He  so  dotes,  as  she  had  dropp'd 
Some  philtre  in  his  cup,  to  lethargize 
The  British  blood  that  came  from  Owen's  veins. 
Three  days  his  halls  have  echoed  to  the  song 
Of  joyance. 

Shame  I  foul  shame  !  that  they  should  hear 
Songs  of  such  joyance  !  cried  the  indignant  Prince  : 
Oh,  that  my  Father's  hall,  where  I  have  heard 
The  songs  of  Corwcn,  and  of  Keiriog's  day, 
Should  echo  this  i)ollution  !     Will  the  chiefs 
Brook  this  alliance,  this  unnatural  tie  .'' 

There  is  no  face  but  wears  a  courtly  smile, 
Urien  replied  :  Aberfraw's  ancient  towers 
Beheld  no  pride  of  festival  like  this, 
No  like  solemnities,  when  Owen  came 
In  conquest,  and  Gowalchmai  struck  the  harp. 
Only  Goervyl,  careless  of  the  pomp, 
Sits  in  her  solitude,  lamenting  thee. 

Saw  ye  not  then  my  banner  ?  quoth  the  Lord 
Of  Ocean  ;  on  the  topmast-head  it  stood 
To  tell  the  tale  of  triumph  ;  —  or  did  night 
Hide  the  glad  signal,  and  the  joy  hath  yet 
To  reach  her  ? 

Now  had  they  almost  attain'd 
The  palace  portal.     Urien  stopped,  and  said, 
The  child  should  know  your  coming  ;  it  is  long 
Since  she  luith  heard  a  voice  that  to  her  heart 
Spake  gladness  ;  —  none  but  I  must  tell  her  this. 
So  Urien  sought  Goervyl,  whom  he  found 
Alone,  and  gazing  on  the  moonlight  sea. 

Oh,  you  are  welcome,  Urien  !  cried  the  maid. 
There  was  a  ship  came  sailing  hitherward  — 
I  could  not  see  his  banner,  for  the  night 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


329 


Closed  in  so  fast  around  lior  ;  but  my  heart 
Indulged  ii  foolish  hope  I 

The  old  man  replied, 
With  ditBcull  effort  keeping  his  heart  down, 
God,  in  his  goodness,  may  reserve  for  us 
Tliat  blessing  yet  !  I  have  yet  life  enow 
To  trust  tliat  1  shall  live  to  see  the  day, 
Albeit  the  number  of  m^  years  well  nigh 
Be  full. 

Ill-judging  kindness!  said  the  maid. 
Have  I  not  nursed,  for  two  long,  wretched  years. 
That  miserable  hope,  which  every  day 
Grew  weaker,  like  a  baby  sick  to  death, 
Yet  dearer  for  its  weakness  day  by  day  ? 
No,  never  shall  we  see  his  daring  bark ! 
I  knew  and  felt  it  in  the  evil  hour 
When  forth  she  fared  !  I  felt  it  then  !  that  kiss 
Was  our  death-parting  !  — And  she  paused  to  curb 
The  agony  :  anon,  —  But  thou  hast  been 
To  learn  their  tidings,  Urien  .'  —  He  replied, 
In  half-articulate  words,  —  They  said,  my  child. 
That  Madoc  lived,  —  that  soon  he  would  be  here. 

She  had  received  the  shock  of  happiness  : 
Urien  !  she  cried  —  thou  art  not  mocking  me  ! 
Nothing  the  old  man  spake,  but  spread  his  arms, 
Sobbing  aloud.     Goervyl  from  their  hold 
Started,  and  sunk  upon  her  brother's  breast. 

Recovering  first,  the  aged  Urien  said  — 
"Enough  of  this, — there  will  be  time  for  this. 
My  children  !  better  it  behoves  ye  now 
To  seek  the  King.     And,  Madoc,  I  beseech  thee. 
Bear  with  thy  brother !  gently  bear  with  him. 
My  gentle  Prince  I  he  is  the  headstrong  slave 
Of  passions  unsubdued  ;  he  feels  no  tie 
Of  kindly  love  or  blood  ;  —  provoke  him  not, 
Madoc  !  —  It  is  his  nature's  malady. 

Thou  good  old  man  '  replied  the  Prince,  be  sure 
I  shall  remember  what  to  him  is  due, 
Wliat  to  myself;  for  I  was  in  my  youth 
Wisely  and  well  train'd  up ;  nor  yet  hath  time 
Effaced  the  lore  my  foster-father  taught. 

[heart 

Haste,    haste !    exclaim'd    Goervyl ;  —  for   her 
Smote  her  in  sudden  terror  at  the  thought 
Of  Yorwerth,  and  of  Owen's  broken  house  ;  — 
I  dread  his  dark  suspicions  I 

Not  for  me 
Suffer  that  fear,  my  sister  !  quoth  the  Prince ; 
Safe  is  the  straight  and  open  way  I  tread ; 
Nor  hath  God  made  the  human  heart  so  bad 
That  thou  or  I  should  have  a  danger  there. 
So  saying,  they  toward  the  palace  gate 
Went  on,  ere  yet  Aberfraw  had  received 
The  tidings  of  her  wanderer's  glad  return. 


II. 

THE   MARRIAGE   FEAST. 

The  guests  were  seated  at  the  festal  board  ; 
Green  rushes  strowed  the  floor;  high  in  the  hall 
42 


Was  David  ;  Emma,  in  her  bridal  robe. 
In  youth,  in  beauty,  by  her  husband's  side 
Sat  at  the  marriage  feast.     The  monarch  raised 
His  eyes;  he  saw  the  mariner  approach; 
Madoc  !  he  cried;  strong  nature's  impulses 
Prevail'd,  and  with  a  holy  joy  he  met 
His  brother's  warm  embrace. 

With  that,  what  peals 
Of  exTiltation  shook  Aberfraw's  tower  ! 
How  then  reechoing  rang  the  home  of  Kings, 
When  from  subdued  Ocean,  from  the  World 
That  he  had  first  foreseen,  he  first  had  found. 
Came  her  triumphant  child  !     The  mariners, 
A  happy  band,  enter  the  clamorous  hall; 
Friend  greets  with  friend,  and  all  are  friends  ;  one 

joy 
Fills  with  one  common  feeling  every  heart. 
And  strangers  give  and  take  the  welcoming 
Of  hand,  and  voice,  and  eye.     That  boisterous  joy 
At  length  allay'd,  the  board  was  spread  anew ; 
Anew  the  horn  was  brimm'd,  the  central  hearth 
Built  up  anew  for  later  revelries. 
Now  to  the  ready  feast !  the  seneschal 
Duly  below  the  pillars  ranged  the  crew ; 
Toward  the  guest's  most  honorable  seat 
The  King  himself  led  his  brave  brother;  —  then, 
Eyeing  the  lovely  Saxon  as  he  spake, 
Here,  Madoc,  see  thy  sister !  thou  hast  been 
Long  absent,  and  our  house  hath  felt  the  while 
Sad  diminution ;  but  my  arm  at  last 
Hath  rooted  out  rebellion  from  the  land ; 
And  I  have  stablished  now  our  ancient  house. 
Grafting  a  scion  from  the  royal  tree 
Of  England  on  the  sceptre ;  so  shall  peace 
Bless  our  dear  country. 

Long  and  happy  years 
Await  my  sovereigns  !  — thus  the  Prince  replied, — 
And  long  may  our  dear  country  rest  in  peace  ! 
Enovigh  of  sorrow  hath  our  royal  house 
Known  in  tlie  field  of  battles,  —  yet  we  reap'd 
The  harvest  of  renown. 

Ay,  —  many  a  day, 
David  replied,  together  have  we  led 
The  onset.  —  Dost  thou  not  remember,  brother. 
How  in  that  hot  and  unexpected  charge 
On  Keiriog's  bank,  we  gave  the  enemy 
Their  welcoming .' 

And  Berwyn's  after-strife  ! 
Quoth  Madoc,  as  the  memory  kindled  him : 
The  fool  that  day,  who  in  his  mask  attire 
Sported  before  King  Henry,  wished  in  vain 
Fitlier  habiliments  of  javelin  proof! 
And  yet  not  more  precipitate  that  fool 
Dropp'd  his  mock  weapons,  than  the  archers  cast 
Desperate  their  bows  and  quivers-full  away. 
When  we  leap'd  on,  and  in  the  mire  and  blood 
Trampled  their  banner ! 

That,  exclaimed  the  king, 
That  was  a  day  indeed,  which  I  may  still 
Proudly  remember,  proved  .as  I  have  been 
In  conflicts  of  such  perilous  assay, 
That  Saxon  combat  seem'd  like  woman's  war. 
When  with  the  traitor  Hoel  I  did  wage 
The  deadly  battle,  then  was  I  in  truth 
Put  to  the  proof;  no  vantage-ground  was  there, 


330 


MA  DOC    IN    WALES. 


Nor  famine,  nor  disease,  nor  storms  to  aid. 
But  equal,  hard,  close  battle,  man  to  man, 
Briton  to  Briton.     By  my  soul,  pursued 
The  tyrant,  heedless  liow  from  Madoc's  eye 
Flasli'd  the  quick  wrath  like   lightning, — though 

1  knew 
The  rebel's  worth,  his  prowess  then  excited 
Unwelcome  wonder ;  even  at  the  last. 
When  stiff  with  toil  and  faint  with  wounds,  he 

raised 
Feebly  his  broken  sword,  — 

Then  Madoc's  grief 
Found  utterance;    Wherefore,  David,  dost  thou 

rouse 
The  memory  now  of  that  unhappy  day. 
That  thou  shouldst  wish  to  hide  from  earth  and 

heaven  ? 
Not  in  Aberfraw,  —  not  to  me  this  tale  ! 
Tell  it  the  Saxon  !  —  he  will  join  thy  triumph,  — 
He  hates  the  race  of  Owen!  —  but  I  loved 
My  brother  Hoel,  —  loved  him?  —  that  ye  knew  ! 
I  was  to  him  the  dearest  of  his  kin. 
And  he  my  own  heart's  brother. 

David's  cheek 
Grew  pale  and  dark  ;  he  bent  his  broad,  black  brow 
Full  upon  Madoc's  glowing  countenance; 
Art  thou  rcturn'd  to  brave  me  .''  to  my  teeth 
To  praise  the  rebel  bastard  ?  to  insult 
The  royal  Saxon,  my  affianced  friend  ? 
I  hate  the  Saxon  !  Madoc  cried ;  not  yet 
Have  I  forgotten,  how  from  Keiriog's  shame 
Flying,  the  coward  wreak'd  his  cruelty 
On  our  poor  brethren  !  —  David,  seest  thou  nfvcr 
Those  eyeless  spectres  by  thy  bridal  bed  ? 
Forget  that  horror  ?  — may  the  fire  of  God 
Blast  my  right  hand,  or  ever  it  be  link'd 
With  that  accursed  Plantagenet's  ' 

The  while. 
Impatience  struggled  in  the  heaving  breast 
Of  David  ;  every  agitated  limb 
Shook  with  ungovernable  wrath ;  the  page. 
Who  chafed  his  feet,  in  fear  suspends  his  task ; 
In  fear  the  guests  gaze  on  him  silently ; 
His  eyeballs  flash'd ;  strong  anger  choked  his  voice ; 
He  started  up  —  Him  Emma,  by  the  hand 
Gently  retaining,  held,  with  gentle  words 
Calming  his  rage.     Goervyl,  too,  in  tears 
Besouffht  her  generous  brother :  he  had  met 
Emma's  reproaching  glance,  and,  self-reproved. 
While  the  warm  blood  flush'd  deeper  o'er  his  cheek. 
Thus  he  replied ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me. 
My  Sister-Queen  !  nay,  you  will  learn  to  love 
This  high  affection  for  the  race  of  Owen, 
Yourself  the  daughter  of  his  royal  house 
By  better  tics  tlian  blood. 

Grateful  the  Queen 
Replied,  by  winning  smile  and  eloquent  eye, 
Thankinof  the  gentle  Prince  :  a  moment's  pause 
Ensued  ;   Goervyl  then  with  timely  speech 
Thus  to  the  wanderer  of  the  waters  spake  : 
Madoc,  thou  hast  not  told  us  of  the  world 
Beyond  the  ocean  and  tlie  paths  of  man. 
A  lovely  land  it  needs  must  be,  my  brother, 
Or  sure  you  had  not  sojourn'd  there  so  long. 
Of  me  forgetful,  and  my  heavy  hours 


Of  grief,  and  solitude,  and  wretched  hope. 
Where  is  Cadwallon .'  for  one  bark  alone 
1  saw  come  sailing  here. 

The  tale  you  ask 
Is  long,  Goervyl,  said  the  mariner. 
And  1  in  truth  am  weary.     Many  moons 
Have  wax'd  and  waned,  since  from  that  distant 

world, 
Tiie  country  of  my  dreams,  and  hope,  and  faith. 
We  spread  the  homeward  sail ;  a  goodly  world. 
My  Sister  !  thou  wilt  see  its  goodliness. 
And  greet  Cadwallon  there. —  But  this  shall  be 
To-morrow's  tale  ;  — indulge  we  now  the  feast ! 
You  know  not  with  what  joy  we  mariners 
Behold  a  sight  like  this. 

Smiling  he  spake. 
And  turning,  from  the  sewer's  hand  he  took 
The  flowing  mead.     David,  the  while,  relieved 
From  rising  jealousies,  with  better  eye 
Regards  his  venturous  brother.     Let  the  Bard, 
Exclaim'd  the  king,  give  his  accustom'd  lay; 
For  sweet,  I  know,  to  Madoc  is  the  song 
He  loved  in  earlier  years. 

Then,  strong  of  voice, 
The  officer  proclaim'd  the  sovereign  will. 
Bidding  the  hall  be  silent;  loud  he  spake, 
And  smote  the  sounding  pillar  with  his  wand, 
And  hush'd  the  banqueters.     The  chief  of  Bards 
Then  raised  the  ancient  lay. 

Thee,  Lord  I  he  sung, 
O   Father !     Thee,  whose   wisdom,  Thee,  whose 

power. 
Whose  love  —  all  love,  all  power,  all  wisdom,  Thou ! 
Tongue  cannot  utter,  nor  can  heart  conceive. 
He  in  the  lowest  depth  of  Being  framed 
The  imperishable  mind :  in  every  change, 
Through  the  groat  circle  of  progressive  life, 
He  guides  and  guards,  till  evil  shall  be  known, 
And  being  known  as  evil,  cease  to  be ; 
And  the  pure  soul,  emancipate  by  Death, 
The  Enlarger,  shall  attain  its  end  predoom'd. 
The  eternal  newness  of  eternal  joy. 

He  left  this  lofty  theme  ;  he  struck  the  harp 
To  Owen's  praise,  swift  in  the  course  of  wrath. 
Father  of  Heroes.     That  j)roud  day  he  sung, 
When  from  green  Erin  came  the  insulting  host, 
Loch-lin's  long  burdens  of  the  flood,  and  they 
Who  left  their  distant  homes  in  evil  hour, 
The  death-doom'd  Normen.     There  was  heaviest 

toil. 
There  deeper  tumult,  where  the  dragon  race 
Of  Mona  trampled  down  the  humbled  head 
Of  haughty  power  ;  the  sword  of  slaughter  carved 
Food  for  the  yellow-footed  fowl  of  heaven. 
And  Menai's  waters,  burst  with  plunge  on  plunge, 
Curling  above  their  banks  with  tempest-swell. 
Their  bloody  billows  heaved. 

The  long-past  days 
Came  on  the  mind  of  Madoc,  as  he  heard 
That  song  of  triumph ;  on  his  sun-burnt  brow 
Sat  exultation  :  —  oilier  thoiiglits  arose. 
As  on  the  fate  of  all  his  gallant  house 
Mournful  he  mused ;  oppressive  memory  swell'd 
His  bosom ;  over  his  fix'd  eye-ball<=  swam 


MADOC    IN    WALES, 


331 


The  tear's  dim  lustre,  and  the  loud-toned  harp 
Rung  on  his  ear  in  vain  ;  —  its  silence  first 
Roused  him  from  dreams  of  days  that  were  no  more. 


111. 

CADWALLON. 

Thkx  on  the  morrow,  at  the  festal  board. 
The  Lord  of  Ocean  thus  began  his  tale  :  — 

[wind, 
My  heart  beat  high,  when,  with  the  favoring 
We  sail'd  away ;  Aberfraw  !  when  thy  towers, 
And  the  huge  headland  of  my  mother  isle, 
Shrunk  and  were  gone. 

But,  Madoc,  1  would  learn. 
Quoth  David,  how  this  enterprise  arose. 
And  the  wild  hope  of  worlds  beyond  the  sea; 
For  at  thine  outset  being  in  the  war, 
I  did  not  hear  from  vague  and  common  fame 
The  moving  cause.     Sprung  it  from  bardic  lore, 
Tlie  hidden  wisdom  of  the  years  of  old, 
Forgotten  long.'  or  did  it  visit  thee 
In  dreams  that  come  from  Heaven .' 

The  Prince  replied. 
Thou  shall  hear  all ;  — but  if,  amid  the  tale. 
Strictly  sincere,  I  haply  should  rehearse 
Aught  to  the  King  ungrateful,  let  my  brother 
Be  patient  with  the  involuntary  fault. 

I  was  the  guest  of  Rhys  at  Dinevawr, 
And  there  the  tidings  found  mc,  that  our  sire 
Was  gather'd  to  his  fathers :  —  not  alone 
The  sorrow  came  ;  the  same  ill  messenger 
Told  of  the  strife  that  shook  our  royal  house, 
Wlien  Hoel,  proud  of  prowess,  seized  the  throne 
Which  you,  for  elder  claim  and  lawful  birth. 
Challenged  in  arms.     With  all  a  brother's  love, 
I  on  the  instant  hurried  to  prevent 
The  impious  battle  :  —  all  the  day  I  sped  ; 
Night  did  not  stay  me  on  my  eager  way  — 
Where'er  I  pass'd,  new  rumor  raised  new  fear  — 
Midnight,  and  morn,  and  noon,  I  hurried  on, 
And  the  late  eve  was  darkening  when  I  reach'd 
Arvon,  the  fatal  field.  —  Tlic  sight,  the  sounds, 
Live  in  my  memory  now,  —  for  all  was  done  ! 
For  horse  and  horseman,  side  by  side  in  death. 
Lay  on  the  bloody  plain  ;  — a  host  of  men. 
And  not  one  living  soul,  —  and  not  one  sound, 
One  human  sound  ;  — only  the  raven's  wing, 
Which  rose  before  my  coming,  and  the  neigh 
Of  wounded  horses,  wandering  o'er  the  plain. 

Night  now  was  coming  on  ;  a  man  approach'd 
And  bade  me  to  his  dwelling  nigh  at  hand. 
Tliither  1  turn'd,  too  weak  to  travel  more ; 
For  I  was  overspent  with  weariness, 
And,  having  now  no  hope  to  bear  me  up, 
Trouble  and  bodily  labor  master'd  mo. 
I  ask'd  him  of  the  battle  :  — who  had  fallen 
He  knew  not,  nor  to  whom  the  lot  of  war 
Had  given  my  father's  sceptre.     Here,  said  he, 
I  came  to  seek  if  haply  I  might  find 


Some  wounded  wretch,  abandon'd  else  to  death. 
My  search  was  vain  ;  the  sword  of  civil  war 
Had  bit  too  deeply. 

Soon  we  reach'd  his  home, 
A  lone  and  lowly  dwelling  in  the  hills. 
By  a  gray  mountain  stream.     Beside  the  hearth 
There  sat  an  old  blind  man ;  his  head  was  raised 
As  he  were  listening  to  the  coming  sounds. 
And  in  the  fire-light  shone  his  silver  locks. 
Father,  said  he  who  guided  me,  I  bring 
A  guest  to  our  poor  hospitality ; 
And  then  he  brought  me  water  from  the  brook, 
And  homely  fare,  and  I  was  satisfied  : 
That  done,  he  piled  the  hearth,  and  spread  around 
The  rushes  of  repose.     I  laid  me  down; 
But  worn  with  toil,  and  full  of  many  fears. 
Sleep  did  not  visit  me  :  the  quiet  sounds 
Of  nature  troubled  my  distemper'd  sense; 
My  ear  was  busy  with  the  stirring  gale. 
The  moving  leaves,  the  brook's  perpetual  flow. 

So  on  the  morrow  languidly  I  rose, 
And  faint  with  fever  ;  but  a  restless  wish 
Was  working  in  me,  and  I  said,  My  host, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to  the  battle-field. 
That  I  may  search  the  slain  .■■  for  in  the  fray 
My  brethren  fought ;  and  though  with  all  my  speed 
I  strove  to  reach  them  ere  the  strife  began, 
Alas,  1  sped  too  slow  I 

Grievest  thou  for  that .' 
He  answer'd ;  grievest  thou  that  thou  art  spared 
The  shame  and  guilt  of  that  unhappy  strife, 
Briton  with  Briton  in  unnatural  war  .•' 
Nay,  I  replied,  mistake  me  not !     1  came 
To  reconcile  the  chiefs ;  they  might  have  heard 
Their  brother's  voice. 

Their  brother's  voice  .'  said  he  ; 
Was  it  not  so .'  —  And  thou,  too,  art  the  son 
Of  Owen  ! — Yesternight  I  did  not  know 
The  cause  there  is  to  pity  thee.     Alas, 
Two  brethren  thou  wilt  lose  when  one  shall  fall !  — 
Lament  not  him  whom  death  may  save  from  guilt; 
For  all  too  surely  in  the  conqueror 
Thou  wilt  find  one  whom  liis  own  fears  henceforth 
Must  make  to  all  his  kin  a  perilous  foe. 

I  felt  as  though  he  wrong'd  my  father's  sons, 
And  raised  an  angry  eye,  and  answer'd  him  — 
My  brethren  love  me. 

Then  the  old  man  cried. 
Oh,  what  is  Princes'  love  ?  what  are  the  ties 
Of  blood,  the  affections  growing  as  we  grow, 
If  but  ambition  come  ?  —  Thou  decmest  sure 
Thy  brethren  love  thee  ;  —  ye  have  play'd  together 
In  childhood,  shared  your  riper  hopes  and  fears. 
Fought  side  by  side  in  battle  :  —  they  may  be 
Brave,  generous,  all  that  once  their  father  was. 
Whom  ye,  I  ween,  call  virtuous. 

At  tlie  name. 
With  pious  warmth  1  cried.  Yes,  he  was  good, 
And  great,  and  glorious  !  Gwyneth's  ancient  annals 
Boast  not  a  name  more  noble.     In  the  war 
Fearless  he  was, —  the  Saxon  found  him  so. 
Wise  was  his  counsel ;  and  no  supplicant 
For  justice  ever  from  his  palace-gate 


33^ 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


Unrighted  turned  away.     King  Owen's  name 
Shall  live  to  after-times  without  a  blot ! 

There  were  two  brethren  once  of  kingly  line, 
The  old  man  replied  ;  tliey  loved  each  otiicr  well ; 
And  when  the  one  was  at  his  dying  hour, 
It  then  was  comfort  to  him  that  lie  left 
So  dear  a  brother,  who  would  duly  pay 
A  father's  duties  to  his  orphan  boy. 
And  sure  he  loved  the  orphan,  and  the  boy 
With  all  a  child's  sincerity  loved  him, 
And  learnt  to  call  him  father:  so  the  years 
Went  on,  till  when  the  orphan  gain'd  the  age 
Of  manhood,  to  the  throne  his  uncle  came. 
The  young  man  claim'd  a  fair  inheritance, 
His    father's    lands;    and — mark    what    follows, 

Prince !  — 
At  midniglit  he  was  seized,  and  to  his  eyes 
The  brazen  plate  was  held  —  He  cried  aloud; 
He  look'd  around  for  help ;  —  he  only  saw 
His  Uncle's  ministers,  prepared  to  do 
Their  wicked  work,  who  to  the  red-hot  brass 
Forced  his  poor  eyes,  and  held  the  open  lids, 
Till  the  long  agony  consumed  the  sense  ; 
And  when  their  hold  relax'd,  it  had  been  worth 
The  wealth  of  worlds  if  he  could  then  have  seen. 
Dreadful  to  him  and  hideous  as  they  were. 
Their  ruffian  faces  !  —  I  am  blind,  young  Prince, 
4nd  I  can  tell  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is 
To  see  the  blessed  light  ! 

Must  more  be  told  ? 
What  further  agonies  he  yet  endured.'' 
Or  hast  thou  known  the  consummated  crime. 
And  heard  Cynetha's  fate  ? 

A  painful  glow 
Inflamed  my  cheek,  and  for  my  father's  crime 
I  felt  the  shame  of  guilt.     The  dark-brow'd  man 
Beheld  the  burning  flush,  the  uneasy  eye. 
That  knew  not   wliere   to  rest.     Come  !  we  will 

search 
The  slain,  arising  from  his  seat,  he  said  ; 
I  follow'd ;  to  the  field  of  figlit  we  went. 
And  over  steeds,  and  arms,  and  men,  we  held 
Our  way  in  silence.     Here  it  was,  quoth  he, 
The  fiercest  war  was  waged ;  lo  !  in  what  heaps 
Man  upon  man  fell  slaughter'd  !     Then  my  heart 
Smote  me,  and  my  knees  shook;  for  I  beheld 
Where,  on  his  conquer'd  foemen,  Hoel  lay. 

He  paused  ;  his  heart  was  full ;  and  on  his  tongue 
The  imperfect  utterance  died;  a  general  gloom 
Sadden'd  the  hall,  and  David's  cheek  grew  pale. 
Commanding  first  his  feelings,  Madoc  broke 
The  oppressive  silence. 

Then  Cadwallon  took 
My  hand,  and,  pointing  to  his  dwelling,  cried, 
Prince,  go  and  rest  thee  there,  for  thou  hast  need 
Of  rest; — the  care  of  sepulture  be  mine. 
Nor  did  I  then  comply,  refusing  rest. 
Till  1  had  seen  in  holy  ground  inearth'd 
My  poor,  lost  brother.     Wherefore,  he  exclaim'd, 
(And  1  was  awed  by  his  severer  eye,) 
Wouldst  thou  be  pampering  thy  distempered  mind  ? 
Affliction  is  not  sent  in  vain,  young  man, 
From  that  good  God,  who  chastens  wliom  he  loves. 


Oh  !  there  is  healing  in  the  bitter  cup  ! 
Go  yonder,  and  before  the  unerring  will 
Bow,  and  have  comfort !     To  the  hut  I  went. 
And  tliere,  beside  the  lonely  mountain-stream, 
I  veil'd  my  head,  and  brooded  on  the  past. 

He  tarried  long ;  1  felt  the  hours  pass  by, 
As  in  a  dream  of  morning,  when  the  mind, 
Half  to  reality  awaken'd,  blends 
With  airy  visions  and  vague  phantasies 
Her  dim  perception ;  till  at  length  his  step 
Aroused  me,  and  he  came.     I  question'd  him  — 
Where  is  the  body  ?  hast  thou  bade  the  priests 
Perform  due  masses  for  his  soul's  repose.' 

He  answer'd  me  —  The  rain  and  dew  of  heaven 
Will  fall  upon  the  turf  that  covers  him. 
And  greener  grass  will  flourish  on  his  grave. 
But  rouse  thee,  Prince  !  there  will  be  hours  enough 
For  mournful  memory  ;  —  it  befits  thee  now 
Take  counsel  for  tliyself;  —  the  son  of  Owen 
Lives  not  in  safety  here. 

I  bow'd  my  head, 
Oppress'd  by  heavy  thoughts ;  all  wretchedness 
The  present ;  darkness  on  the  future  lay  ; 
Fearful  and  gloomy  both.     I  answer'd  not. 

Hath  power  seduced  thy  wishes  ?  he  pursued, 
And  wouldst  thou  seize  upon  thy  father's  throne .' 
Now  God  forbid  !  quoth  I.     Now  God  forbid  ! 
Quoth  he;  —  but  thou  art  dangerous.  Prince  !  and 

what 
Shall  shield  thee  from  the  jealous  arm  of  power.' 
Think  of  Cynetha  !  —  the  unsleeping  eye 
Of  justice  hath  not  closed  upon  his  wrongs; 
At  length  the  avenging  arm  is  gone  abroad,  — 
One  woe  is  past,  —  woe  after  woe  comes  on, — 
There  is  no  safety  here,  —  here  thou  must  be 
The  victim  of  the  murderer !      Does  thy  heart 
Shrink    from   the   alternative .'  —  look    round  !  — 

behold 
What  shelter,  —  whither  wouldst  thou  fly  for  peace  ? 
What  if  the  asylum  of  the  Church  were  safe,  — 
Were  there  no  better  purposes  ordain'd 
For  that  young  arm,  that  heart  of  noble  hopes .' 
Son  of  our  kings,  —  of  old  Cassihelan, 
Great  Caratach,  immortal  Arthur's  line, — 
Oh,  shall  the  blood  of  that  heroic  race 
Stao-nate  in  cloister-sloth  ?  —  Or  wouldst  tliou  leave 
Thy  native  isle,  and  beg,  in  awkward  phrase, 
Some  foreign  sovereign's  charitable  grace, — 
The  Saxon  or  the  Frank,  —  and  earn  his  gold, 
The  hireling  in  a  war  whose  cause  thou  know'st  not, 
Whose  end  concerns  not  thee .' 

1  sat  and  gazed, 
Following  his  eye  with  wonder,  as  he  paced 
Before  me  to  and  fro,  and  listening  still. 
Though  now  he  paced  in  silence.     But  anon, 
The  old  man's  voice  and  step  awakened  us. 
Each  from  his  thought;  I  will  come  out,  said  he, 
That  I  may  sit  beside  the  brook,  and  feel 
The  comfortable  sun.     As  forth  he  came, 
I  could  not  choose  but  look  upon  his  face  : 
Gently  on  him  had  gentle  nature  laid 
The  weight  of  years;  all  passions  that  disturb 


MADOC    IN    WALES, 


a33 


Were  past  away ;  the  stronger  linos  of  grief 
Softened  and  settled,  till  they  told  of  grief 
By  patient  hope  and  piety  subdued  : 
His  eyes,  which  had  their  hue  and  brightness  left, 
Fix'd  lifelessly,  or  objectless  they  roU'd, 
Nor  moved  by  sense,  nor  animate  with  thought. 
On  a  smooth  stone  beside  the  stream  ho  took 
His  wonted  seat  in  the  sunshine.     Thou  hast  lost 
A  brother.  Prince,  he  said  —  or  the  dull  ear 
Of  age  deceived  me.     Peace  be  with  his  soul  ! 
And  may  the  curse  that  lies  upon  the  house 
Of  Owen  turn  away  !     Wilt  thou  come  hither. 
And  let  me  feel  thy  face.'  —  I  wondered  at  him: 
Yet  while  his  hand  perused  my  lineaments, 
Deep  awe  and  reverence  fill'd  me.     O  my  God, 
Bless  this  young  man  !  he  cried ;  a  perilous  state 
Is  his;  —  but  let  not  thou  his  father's  sins 
Be  visited  on  him  ! 

I  raised  my  eyes, 
Inquiring,  to  Cadwallon  ;  Nay,  young  Prince, 
Despise  not  thou  the  blind  man's  prayer  !  he  cried  ; 
It  might  have  given  thy  father's  dying  hour 
A  hope,  that  sure  he  needed  —  for,  know  thou. 
It  is  the  victim  of  thy  father's  crime, 
Who  asks  a  blessing  on  thee  ! 

At  his  feet 
I  fell,  and  clasp'd  his  knees  :  he  raised  me  up ;  — 
Blind  a3  I  was,  a  mutilated  wretch, 
A  thing  that  nature  owits  not,  I  survived. 
Loathing  existence,  and  with  impious  voice 
Accused  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  groan'd  for  death. 
Years  pass'd  away  ;  this  universal  blank 
Became  familiar,  and  my  soul  reposed 
On  God,  and  I  had  comfort  in  my  prayers. 
But  there  were  blessings  for  me  yet  in  store 
Thy  father  knew  not,  when  his  bloody  fear 
All  hope  of  an  avenger  had  cut  off, 
How  there  existed  then  an  unborn  babe, 
Child  of  my  lawless  love.     Year  after  year 
I  lived  a  lonely  and  forgotten  wretch, 
Before  Cadwallon  knew  his  father's  fate, 
Long  years  and  years  before  I  knew  my  son ; 
For  never,  till  his  mother's  dying  hour, 
Learnt    he   his  dangerous  birth.     He  sought  me 

then ; 
He  woke  my  soul  once  more  to  human  ties ;  — 
I  hope  he  hath  not  wean'd  my  lieart  from  Heaven, 
Life  is  so  precious  now  !  — 

Dear,  good  old  man  ! 
And  lives  he  still .'  Goervyl  ask'd,  in  tears  ; 
Madoc  replied,  I  scarce  can  hope  to  find 
A  fathers  welcome  at  my  distant  home. 
I  left  him  full  of  days,  and  ripe  for  death ; 
And  the  last  prayer  Cynetha  breathed  upon  me 
Went  like  a  death-bed  blessing  to  my  heart ! 

When  evening  came,  toward  the  echoing  shore 
1  and  Cadwallon  walk'd  together  forth : 
Bright  with  dilated  glory  shone  the  west; 
But  brighter  lay  the  ocean-flood  below. 
The  burnish'd  silver  sea,  that  heaved  and  flash'd 
Its  restless  rays,  intolerably  bright. 
Prince,  quoth  Cadwallon,  thou  hast  rode  the  waves 
In  triumph,  when  the  invaders  felt  thine  arm. 
Oh,  what  a  nobler  conquest  might  be  won. 


There,  —  upon  that  wide  field!  —  What  meanest 

thou  > 
I  cried.  —  That  yonder  waters  are  not  spread 
A  boundless  waste,  a  bourne  impassable  !  — 
That  man  should  rule  the  Elements!  —  that  there 
Might  manly  courage,  manly  wisdom  find 
Some  happy  isle,  some  undiscovered  shore, 
Some  resting-place  for  peace.  —  Oh  that  my  soul 
Could  seize  the  wings  of  Morning  I  soon  would   1 
Behold  that  other  world,  where  yonder  sun 
Speeds  now,  to  dawn  in  glory  I 

As  he  spake. 
Conviction  came  upon  my  startled  mind. 
Like  lightning  on  the  midnight  traveller. 
I  caught  his  hand;  —  Kinsman,  and  guide,    ana 

friend. 
Yea,  let  us  go  together  !  —  Down  we  sat. 
Full  of  the  vision,  on  the  echoing  shore ; 
One  only  object  fiU'd  ear,  eye,  and  thought : 
We  gazed  upon  the  awful  world  of  waves, 
And  talk'd  and  dreamt  of  years  that  were  to  come 


IV. 


THE  VOYAGE. 

Not  with  a  heart  unmoved  I  left  thy  shores, 
Dear  native  isle  !  oh  —  not  without  a  pang, 
As  thy  fair  uplands  lessened  on  the  view, 
Cast  back  the  long,  involuntary  look  1 
The  morning  cheer'd  our  outset;  gentle  airs 
Curl'd  the  blue  deep,  and  bright  the  summer  sun 
Play'd  o'er  the  summer  ocean,  when  our  barks 
Began  their  \va.y. 

And  they  were  gallant  barks, 
As  ever  through  the  raging  billows  rode ; 
And  many  a  tempest's  buffeting  they  bore. 
Their  sails  all  swelling  with  the  eastern  breeze, 
Their  tighten'd  cordage  clattering  to  the  mast, 
Steady  thoy  rode  the  main ;  the  gale  aloft 
Sung  in  the  shrouds,  the  sparkling  waters  hiss'd 
Before,  and  froth'd,  and  whiten'd  far  behind. 
Day  after  day,  with  one  auspicious  wind. 
Right  to  the  sotting  sun  wo  held  our  course. 
My  hope  had  kindled  every  heart ;  they  blest 
The  unvarying  breeze,  whose  unabating  strength 
Still  sped  us  onward ;  and  they  said  that  Heaven 
Favor'd  the  bold  emprise. 

Hov,-  many  a  time, 
Mounting  the  mast-tower-top,  with  eager  ken 
They  gazed,  and  fancied  in  the  distant  sky 
Their  promised  shore,  beneath  the  evening  cloud, 
Or  seen,  low  lying,  through  the  haze  of  morn. 
I,  too,  with  eyes  as  anxious  watch'd  the  waves, 
Though  patient,  and  prepared  for  long  delay  ; 
For  not  on  wild  adventure  had  I  rush'd 
With  giddy  speed,  in  some  delirious  fit 
Of  fancy  ;  but  in  inany  a  tranquil  hour 
Weigh'd  well  th(>  attempt,  till  hope  matured  to  faith 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day  the  same, — 
A  weary  waste  of  waters !  still  the  breeze 
Hung  heavy  in  our  sails,  and  we  held  on 
One  even  course  :  a  second  week  was  gone, 


a34 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


And  now  another  past,  and  still  the  same, 
Waves  beyond  waves,  tlie  interminable  sea ! 
What  marvel,  if  at  length  the  mariners 
Grew  sick  with  long  expectance  ?     I  beheld 
Dark  looks  of" growing  restlessness;   I  heard 
Distrust's  low  murnmrings;  nor  avail'd  it  long 
To  see  and  not  perceive.     Shame  had  awhile 
Kcpress'd  their  fear,  till,  like  a  smothcr'd  fire, 
it  burst,  and  spread  with  quick  contagion  round. 
And  strengtiien'd  as  it  spread.     They  spake  in  tones 
Which  might  not  be  mistaken ;  —  They  had  done 
What  men  dared  do,  ventured  where  never  keel 
Had  cut  the  deep  before  ;  still  all  was  sea. 
The  same  unbounded  ocean  !  —  to  proceed 
Were  tempting  Heaven. 

I  heard  with  feign'd  surprise. 
And,  pointing  then  to  where  our  fellow  bark, 
Gay  with  her  fluttering  streamers  and  full  sails. 
Rode,  as  in  triumph,  o'er  the  element, 
I  askd  Ihein  what  their  comrades  there  would  deem 
Of  those  so  bold  ashore,  who,  when  a  day. 
Perchance  an  hour,  might  crown  their  glorious  toil, 
Shrunk  then,  and  coward-like  return'd  to  meet 
Mockery  and  shame  .'     True,  they  had  ventured  on 
In  seas  unknown,  beyond  where  ever  man 
Had  plough'd  the  billows  yet :  more  reason  so 
Why  they  sliould  now,  like  him  whose  happy  speed 
Well  nigh  hath  run  the  race,  with  liiglier  hope 
Press  onward  to  the  prize.     But  late  they  said, 
Marking  the  favor  of  the  steady  gale, 
That  Heaven  was  with  us;  Heaven  vouchsafed  us 

still 
Fair  seas  and  favoring  skies ;  nor  need  we  pray 
For  other  aid ;  the  rest  was  in  ourselves ; 
Nature  had  given  it,  when  she  gave  to  man 
Courage  and  constancy. 

They  answer'd  not, 
Awhile  obedient ;  but  I  saw  with  dread 
The  silent  sullenness  of  cold  assent. 
Then,  with  what  fearful  eagerness  I  gazed. 
At  earliest  daybreak,  o'er  the  distant  deep  ! 
How  sick  at  heart  with  hope,  when  evening  closed. 
Gazed  through  the  gathering  shadows ! — but  I  saw 
The  sun  still  sink  below  the  endless  waves, 
And  still  at  morn,  beneath  the  farthest  sky, 
Unbounded  ocean  heaved.     Day  after  day 
Before  the  steady  gale  we  drove  along,  — 
Day  after  day  !     The  fourth  week  now  had  past ; 
Still  all  around  was  sea,  —  the  eternal  sea  ! 
So  long  that  we  had  voyaged  on  so  fast, 
And  still  at  morning  where  we  were  at  night. 
And  where  we  were  at  morn,  at  nightfall  still. 
The  centre  of  that  drear  circumference. 
Progressive,  yet  no  change  !  — almost  it  seem'd 
That  we  had  pass'd  the  mortal  bounds  of  space. 
And  speed  was  toiling  in  infinity. 
My  days  were  days  of  fear  ;  my  hours  of  rest 
Were  like  a  tyrant's  slumber.     Sullen  looks. 
Eyes  turn'd  on  me,  and  whispers  meant  to  meet 
My  ear,  and  loud  despondency,  and  talk 
Of  home,  now  never  to  be  seen  again, — 
I  sufFer'd  these,  dissembling  as  I  could, 
Till  that  avail'd  no  longer.     Resolute 
The  men  came  round  me.    They  had  shown  enough 
Of  courage  now,  enough  of  constancy; 


Still  to  pursue  the  desperate  enterprise 

Were  impious  madness!  they  had  deem'd,  indeed, 

That  Heaven  in  favor  gave  the  unchanging  gale  ;  — 

More  reason  now  to  think  offended  God, 

When  man's  presumptuous  folly  strove  to  pass 

The  fated  limits  of  the  world,  had  sent 

His  winds,  to  waft  us  to  the  death  we  sought. 

Their  lives  were  dear,  they  bade  me  know,  and  they 

Many,  and  I,  the  obstinate,  but  one. 

With  that,  attending  no  reply,  they  hailed 

Our  fellow  bark,  and  told  their  fix'd  resolve. 

A  shout  of  joy  approved.     Thus,  desperate  now, 

I  sought  my  solitary  cabin ;  there 

Confused  with  vague,  tumultuous  feelings  lay. 

And  to  remembrance  and  reflection  lost. 

Knew  only  I  was  wretched. 

Thus  entranced 
Cadwallon  found  me ;  shame,  and  grief,  and  pride. 
And  baffled  hope,  and  fruitless  anger  swell'd 
Within  me.     All  is  over  !  lexclaim'd; 
Yet  not  in  me,  my  friend,  hath  time  produced 
These  tardy  doubts  and  shameful  fickleness ; 
1  have  not  fail'd,  Cadwallon  !  Nay,  he  said. 
The  coward  fears  which  persecuted  me 
Have  shown  what  tliou  hast  suffer'd.    We  have  yet 
One  hope  —  I  pray'd  them  to  proceed  a  day, — 
But  one  day  more;  —  this  little  have  I  gain'd. 
And  here  will  wait  the  issue  ;  in  yon  bark 
I  am  not  needed,  —  they  are  masters  there. 

One  only  day  !  —  The  gale  blew  strong,  the  bark 
Sped  through  the  waters ;  but  the  silent  hours. 
Who  make  no  pause,  went  by;  and  centred  still. 
We  saw  the  dreary  vacancy  of  heaven 
Close  round  our  narrow  view,  when  that  brief  term. 
The  last,  poor  respite  of  our  hopes,  expired. 
They  shorten'd  sail,  and  call'd  with  coward  prayer 
For  homeward  winds.     Why,  what  poor  slaves  are 

we  ! 
In  bitterness  I  cried  ;  the  sport  of  chance  ; 
Left  to  the  mercy  of  the  elements, 
Or  the  more  wayward  will  of  such  as  these, 
Blind  tools  and  victims  of  their  destiny  ! 
Yea,  Madoc  !  he  replied,  the  Elements 
Master  indeed  the  feeble  powers  of  man  ! 
Not  to  the  shores  of  Cambria  will  thy  ships 
Win  back  their  shameful  way  !  —  or  He,  whose  will 
Unchains  the  winds,  hath  bade  them  minister 
To  aid  us,  when  all  human  hope  was  gone. 
Or  we  shall  soon  eternally  repose 
From  life's  long  voyage. 

As  he  spake,  I  saw 
The  clouds  hang  thick  and  heavy  o'er  the  deep. 
And  heavily,  upon  tlie  long,  slow  swell. 
The  vessel  labor'd  on  the  laboring  sea. 
The  reef-points  rattled  on  the  shivering  sail ; 
At  fits  the  sudden  gust  howl'd  ominous, 
Anon  with  unremitting  fury  raged  ; 
High  roll'd  the  mighty  billows,  and  the  blast 
Swept  from  their  sheeted  sides  the  showery  foam. 
Vain  now  were  all  the  seamen's  homeward  hopes, 
Vain  all  their  skill !  —  we  drove  before  the  storm. 

Tis  pleasant,  by  the  cheerful  hearth,  to  hear 
Of  tempests  and  the  dangers  of  the  deep, 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


335 


And  pause  at  times,  and  led  that  we  are  safe; 
Then  listen  to  the  perilous  tale  again, 
And  with  an  eager  and  suspended  soul, 
Woo  terror  to  delight  us.  —  But  to  hear 
The  roaring  of  the  raging  elements, — 
To  know  all  human  skill,  all  human  strength, 
Avail  not,  —  to  look  round,  and  only  see 
The  mountain  wave  incumbent  with  its  weight 
Of  bursting  waters  o'er  the  reeling  bark,  — 
Oh  God,  this  is  indeed  a  dreadful  tiling  ! 
And  he  who  hath  endured  the  horror  once 
Of  such  an  hour,  doth  never  hear  the  storm 
Howl  round  his  home,  but  he  remembers  it, 
And  thinks  upon  the  suffering  mariner. 

Onward  we  drove  :  with  unabating  force 
The  tempest  raged;  night  added  to  the  storm 
New  horrors,  and  the  morn  arose  o'erspread 
With  heavier  clouds.     The  weary  mariners 
Call'd  on  Saint  Cyric's  aid ;  and  I,  too,  placed 
My  hope  on  Heaven,  relaxing  not  tlic  while 
Our  human  efforts.     Ye  who  dwell  at  home, 
Ye  do  not  know  the  terrors  of  the  main  ! 
When  the  winds  blow,  ye  walk  along  the  shore, 
And  as  the  curling  billows  leap  and  toss, 
Fable  that  Ocean's  mermaid  Shepherdess 
Drives  her  white  flocks  afield,  and  warns  in  time 
The  wary  fisherman.     Gwenhidwy  warned 
When  we  had  no  retreat!     My  secret  heart 
Almost  had  fail'd  me.  —  Were  the  Elements 
Confounded  in  perpetual  conflict  here, 
Sea,  Air,  and  Heaven.'     Or  were  we  perishing 
Where  at  their  source  the  Floods,  forever  thus, 
Beneath  the  nearer  influence  of  the  Moon, 
Labor'd  in  these  mad  workings  ?     Did  the  Waters 
Here  on  their  outmost  circle  meet  the  Void, 
The  verge  and  brink  of  Chaos  ?     Or  this  Earth,  — 
W^as  it  indeed  a  living  thing,  —  its  breath 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  Ocean .'  and  had  we 
Reached  the  storm  rampart  of  its  Sanctuary, 
The  insuperable  boundary,  raised  to  guard 
Its  mysteries  from  the  eye  of  man  profane .' 

Three  dreadful  nights  and  days  we  drove  along; 
The  fourth,  the  welcome  rain  came  rattling  down  ; 
The  wind  had  fallen,  and  through  the  broken  cloud 
Appeared  the  bright,  dilating  blue  of  heaven. 
Iinbolden'd  now,  I  call'd  tlie  mariners:  — 
Vain  were  it  should  we  bend  a  homeward  course, 
Driven  by  the  storm  so  far  :  they  saw  our  barks, 
For  service  of  that  long  and  perilous  way, 
Disabled,  and  our  food  belike  to  fail. 
Silent  they  heard,  reluctant  in  assent; 
Anon,  they  shouted  joyfully. —  I  look'd 
And  saw  a  bird  slow  sailing  overhead. 
His  long,  white  pinions  by  the  sunbeam  edged, 
As  though  with  burnish'd  silver ;  —  never  yet 
Heard  1  so  sweet  a  music  as  his  cry  ! 

Yet  three  days  more,  and  hope  more  eager  now. 
Sure  of  the  signs  of  land,  —  weed-shoals,  and  birds 
Who    flock'd   the   main,   and   gentle   airs   which 

breathed, 
Or  seemed  to  breathe  fresh  fragrance  from  the  shore. 
On  the  last  evening,  a  long,  shadowy  line 


Skirted  the  sea ;  —  how  fast  the  night  closed  in  ! 
I  stood  upon  the  deck,  and  watch'd  till  dawn. 
But  who  can  tell  what  feeling.s  fill'd  my  heart, 
When,  like  a  cloud,  the  distant  land  arose 
Gray  from  the  ocean,  —  when  we  left  the  ship, 
And  cleft,  with  rapid  oars,  the  shallow  wave. 
And  stood  triumphant  on  another  world  ! 


LINCOYA. 


Madoc  had  paused  awhile ;  but  every  eye 

Still  watch'd  his  lips,  and  every  voice  was  hush'd. 

Soon  as  I  leap'd  ashore,  pursues  the  Lord 

Of  Ocean,  prostrate  on  my  face  1  fell, 

Kiss"d  the   dear  earth,  and   pray'd  with  thankful 

tears. 
Hard  by  a  brook  was  flowing ;  —  never  yet. 
Even  from  the  gold-tipp'd  horn  of  victory. 
With  harp  and  song,  amid  my  father's  hall, 
Pledged  I  so  sweet  a  draught,  as  lying  there. 
Beside  that  streamlet's  brink  !  —  to  feel  the  ground, 
To  quaft'  the  cool,  clear  water,  to  inhale 
The  breeze  of  land,  while  fears  and  dangers  past 
Recurr'd  and  heightcii'd  joy,  as  summer  storms 
Make  the  fresh  evening  lovelier  ! 

To  the  shore 
The  natives  throng'd  ;  astonish'd,  they  beheld 
Our  winged  barks,  and  gazed  with  wonderment 
On  the  strange  garb,  the  bearded  countenance, 
And  the  white  skin,  in  all  unlike  themselves. 
1  see  with  what  inquiring  eyes  you  ask. 
What  men  were  they  ?    Of  dark-brown  color,  tingea 
With  sunny  redness;  wild  of  eye;  their  brows 
So  smooth,  as  never  yet  anxiety 
Nor  busy  thought  had  made  a  furrow  there ; 
Beardless,  and  each  to  each  of  lineaments 
So  like,  they  seem'd  but  one  great  family. 
Their  loins  were  loosely  cinctured,  all  beside 
Bare  to  the  sun  and  wind ;  and  thus  their  limbs, 
Unmanacled,  display'd  the  truest  forms 
Of  strength  and  beauty.     Fearless  sure  they  were, 
And,  while  they  eyed  us,  grasp'd  their  spears,  as  if, 
Like  Britain's  injured  but  unconquer'd  sons, 
They  too  had  known  how  perilous  it  was 
To  let  a  stranger,  if  he  came  in  arms. 
Set  foot  upon  their  land. 

But  soon  the  guise 
Of  men  nor  purporting  nor  fearing  ill 
Gain'd  confidence  ;  their  wild,  distrustful  'ooks 
Assumed  a  milder  meaning ;  over  one 
I  cast  my  mantle,  on  another's  head 
The  velvet  bonnet  placed,  and  all  was  joy. 
We  now  besought  for  food ;  at  once  they  read 
Our  gestures ;  but  I  cast  a  hopeless  eye 
On  hills  and  thickets,  woods,  and  marshy  plains, 
A  waste  of  rank  luxuriance  all  around. 
Thus  musing,  to  a  lake  1  follow'd  them. 
Left  when  the  rivers  to  their  summer  course 
Withdrew ;  they  scatter'd  on  its  water  drugs 
Of  sucli  strange  potency,  that  soon  the  shoals, 
Coop'd  there  by  Nature  prodigally  kind. 


336 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


P'loatcd  inebriate.     As  I  gazed,  a  deer 

Sprung  from  the  bordering  thicket ;  the  true  sliaft 

Scarce  with  tlic  distant  victim's  blood  had  stain'd 

Its  point,  wlien  instantly  he  dropp'd  and  died, 

Such  deadly  juite  imbued  it;  yet  on  this 

We  made  our  meal  unharm'd ;  and  1  perceived 

The  wisest  leech  that  ever  in  our  world 

Cull'd  herbs  of"  hidden  virtue,  was  to  these 

A  child  in  knowledge. 

Sorrowing  we  beheld 
The  night  come  on;  but  soon  did  night  display 
More  wonders  than  it  veil'd :  innumerous  tribes 
From  the  wood-cover  swarm'd,  and  darkness  made 
Their  beauties  visible  ;  one  while  they  stream'd 
A  bright  blue  radiance  upon  flowers  which  closed 
Their  gorgeous  colors  from  the  eye  of  day  ; 
Now,  motionless  and  dark,  eluded  search, 
Self-shrouded ;  and  anoa,  starring  the  sky. 
Rose  like  a  shower  of  lire. 

Our  friendly  hosts 
Now  led  us  to  the  hut,  our  that  night's  home, 
A  rude  and  spacious  dwelling :  twisted  boughs. 
And  canes,  and  withies  formed  the  walls  and  roof; 
And  from  the  unhewn  trunks  which  pillar'd  it, 
Low  nets  of  interwoven  reeds  were  hung. 
With  shouts  of  honor  here  tliey  gather'd  round  me, 
Ungarmented  my  limbs,  and  in  a  net 
With  softest  feathers  lined,  a  pleasant  couch. 
They  laid  and  left  me. 

To  our  ships  return'd. 
After  soft  sojourn  here,  we  coasted  on. 
Insatiate  of  the  wonders  and  the  charms 
Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea.     Thy  summer  woods 
Are  lovely,  O  my  mother  isle  I  the  birch 
Light  bending  on  thy  banks,  thy  clmy  vales. 
Thy  venerable  oaks  !  — But  there,  what  forms 
Of  beauty  clothed  the  inlands  and  the  shore  ! 
All  these  in  stateliest  growth,  and  mixt  with  these 
Dark  spreading  cedar,  and  the  cypress  tall. 
Its  pointed  summit  waving  to  the  wind 
Like  a  long  beacon  flame  ;  and  loveliest 
Amid  a  thousand  strange  and  lovely  shapes, 
The  lofty  palm,  that  with  its  nuts  supplied 
Beverage  and  food ;    they  edged  the  shore,  and 

crown'd 
The  far-off  highland  sumiuits,  their  straight  stems 
Bare,  without  leaf  or  bough,  erect  and  smooth, 
Their  tresses  nodding  like  a  crested  helm, 
The  plumage  of  the  grove. 

Will  ye  believe 
The  wonders  of  the  ocean .'  how  its  shoals 
Sprang  from  the  wave,  like  flashing  light, — took 

wing, 
And,  twinkling  with  a  silver  glitterance, 
Flew  through  the  air  and  sunshine  ?  yet  were  these 
To  sight  less  wondrous  than  the  tribe  who  swam. 
Following  like  fowlers  with  uplifted  eye 

Their  falling  quarry language  cannot  paint 

Their  splendid  tints ;  though  in  blue  ocean  seen, 
Blue,  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue. 
In  all  its  rich  variety  of  shades. 
Suffused  with  glowing  gold. 

Heaven,  too,  had  there 
[ts  wonders:  —  from  a  deep,  black,  heavy  cloud, 
What  shall  I  say  1  —  a  shoot,  —  a  trunk,  —  an  arm 


Came  down  :  —  yea!  like  a  Demon's  arm,  it  seized 

Tlie  waters ;  Ocean  smoked  beneath  its  touch, 

And  rose  like  dust  before  the  whirlwind's  force. 

But  we  sail'd  onward  over  tranquil  seas. 

Wafted  by  airs  so  exquisitely  nnid, 

That  even  to  breathe  became  an  act  of  will, 

And  sense,  and  pleasure.     Not  a  cloud,  by  day, 

With  purple  islanded  the  dark-blue  deep ; 

By  night  the  quiet  billows  heaved  and  glanced 

Under  the  moon,  —  that  heavenly  moon  !  so  bright, 

That  many  a  midnight  have  I  paced  the  deck. 

Forgetful  of  the  hours  of  due  repose  ; 

Yea,  till  the  Sun,  in  his  full  majesty, 

Went  forth,  like  God  beholding  his  own  works. 

Once,  when  a  chief  was  feasting  us  on  shore, 
A  captive  served  the  food :  I  mark'd  the  youth. 
For  he  had  features  of  a  gentler  race ; 
And  oftentimes  his  eye  was  fix'd  on  me, 
With  looks  of  more  than  wonder.     We  return'd 
At  evening  to  our  ships;  at  night  a  voice 
Came  from  the  sea,  the  intelligible  voice 
Of  earnest  supplication  :  he  had  swum 
To  trust  our  mercy ;  up  the  side  lie  sprang. 
And  look'd  among  the  crew,  and  singling  me. 
Fell  at  my  feet.     Such  friendly  token ings 
As  our  short  counnerce  with  the  native  tribes 
Had  taught,  I  profier'd,  and  sincerity 
Gave  force  and  meaning  to  the  half-learnt  forms. 
For  one  we  needed  who  might  speak  for  us ; 
And  well  I  liked  the  youth,  —  the  open  lines 
Which  character'd  his  face,  the  fearless  heart, 
Which  gave  at  once  and  won  full  confidence. 
So  that  night  at  my  feet  Lincoya  slept. 

When  I  display'd  whate'er  might  gratify, 
Whate'er  surprise,  with  most  delight  he  view'd 
Our  arms,  the  iron  helm,  the  pliant  mail. 
The  buckler  strong  to  save  ;  and  then  he  shook 
The  lance,  and  grasp'd  the  sword,  and  turn'd  to  m€ 
With  vehement  words  and  gestures,  every  limb 
Working  with  one  strong  passion  ;  and  he  placed 
The  falchion  in  my  hand,  and  gave  the  shield. 
And  pointed  south  and  west,  that  I  should  go 
To  conquer  and  protect ;  anon  he  wept 
Aloud,  and  clasp'd  my  knees,  and  falling,  fain 
He  would  have  kiss'd  my  feet.    Went  we  to  shore  .' 
Then  would  he  labor  restlessly  to  show 
A  better  place  lay  onward  ;  and  in  the  sand 
To  south  and  west  he  drew  the  line  of  coast, 
And  figured  how  a  migiity  river  there 
Ran  to  the  sea.     The  land  bent  westward  soon, 
And,  thus  confirm'd,  we  voyaged  on  to  seek 
The  river  inlet,  following  at  the  will 
Of  our  new  friend  :  and  we  learnt  after  him, 
Well  pleased  and  proud  to  teach,  what  this  was 

call'd, 
What  that,  with  no  unprofitable  pains. 
Nor  light  the  joy  I  felt  at  hearing  first 
The  pleasant  accents  of  my  native  tongue, 
Albeit  in  broken  words  and  tones  uncouth. 
Come  from  these  foreign  lips. 

At  length  we  came 
Where  the  great  river,  amid  shoals,  and  banks. 
And  islands,  growth  of  its  own  gathering  spoils, 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


337 


Tiuiugh  many  a  branching  channel,  wide  and  full, 
llush'd  to  the  main.  The  gale  was  strong;  and  safe, 
Amid  the  uproar  of  conflicting  tides. 
Our  gallant  vessels  rode.     A  stream  as  broad 
And  turbid,  when  it  leaves  the  Land  of  Hills, 
Old  Severn  rolls;  but  banks  so  fair  as  these 
Old  Severn  views  not  in  his  Land  of  Hills, 
Nor  even  where  his  turbid  waters  swell, 
And  sully  tlie  salt  sea. 

So  we  sail'd  on 
By  shores  now  cover'd  with  impervious  woods. 
Now  stretching  wide  and  low,  a  reedy  waste. 
And    now  through   vales  where   earth    profusely 

pour'd 
Her  treasures,  gather'd  from  the  first  of  days. 
Sometimes  a  savage  tribe  would  welcome  us, 
By  wonder  from  their  lethargy  of  life 
Awaken'd;  then  again  we  voyaged  on 
Througli  tracts  all  desolate,  for  days  and  days. 
League  after  league,  one  green  and  fertile  mead, 
That  fed  a  thousand  herds. 

A  different  scene 
Rose  on  our  view,  of  mount  on  mountain  piled, 
Which  when  I  see  again  in  memory, 
Star-gazing  Idris's  stupendous  seat  [haunts. 

Seems    dwarf'd,   and    Snowdon,   with    its    eagle 
Shrinks,  and  is  dwindled  like  a  Saxon  hill. 

Here,  with  Cadwallon  and  a  chosen  band, 
1  left  the  ships.     Lincoya  guided  us 
A  toilsome  way  among  the  heights  ;  at  dusk 
We  reach'd  the  village  skirts ;  he  bade  us  halt. 
And  raised  his  voice  ;  the  elders  of  tlie  land 
Came  forth,  and  led  us  to  an  ample  hut, 
Which  in  the  centre  of  their  dwellings  stood. 
The  Stranger's  House.    They  eyed  us  wondering  ; 
Yet  not  for  wonder  ceased  they  to  observe 
Their  hospitable  rites ;   from  hut  to  hut 
The  tidings  ran  that  strangers  were  arrived. 
Fatigued,  and  hungry,  and  athirst ;  anon, 
Each  from  his  means  supplying  us,  came  food 
And  beverage,  such  as  cheers  the  weary  man. 


VI. 


ERILLYAB. 

At  morning  their  high-priest,  Ayayaca, 
Came  with  our  guide :  the  venerable  man 
With  reverential  awe  accosted  us. 
For  we,  he  ween'd,  were  children  of  a  race 
Mightier  than  they,  and  wiser,  and  by  Heaven 
Beloved  and  favor'd  more :  he  came  to  give 
Fit  welcome,  and  he  led  us  to  the  Queen. 
The  fate  of  war  had  reft  her  of  her  realm  ; 
Yet  with  affection,  and  habitual  awe. 
And  old  remembrances,  which  gave  their  love 
A  deeper  and  religious  character. 
Fallen  as  she  was,  and  humbled  as  they  were. 
Her  faithful  people  still,  in  all  they  could, 
Obey'd  Erillyab.     She,  too,  in  her  mind 
Those  recollections  cherish'd,  and  such  thoughts 
As,  though  no  hope  allay'd  their  bitterness, 
43 


Gave  to  her  eye  a  spirit  and  a  strength. 
And  pride  to  features  which  belike  had  borne, 
Had  they  been  fashion'd  by  a  happier  fate, 
Meaning  more  gentle  and  more  womanly. 
Yet  not  more  worthy  of  esteem  and  love. 
She  sat  upon  the  threshold  of  her  hut ; 
For  in  the  palace  where  her  sires  had  reign'd 
The  conqueror  dwelt.     Her  son  was  at  her  side, 
A  boy  now  near  to  manhood ;  by  the  door, 
Bare  of  its  bark,  the  head  and  branches  shorn, 
Stood  a  young  tree  with  many  a  weapon  hung. 
Her  husband's  war-pole,  and  his  monument 
There  had  his  quiver  moulder'd,  his  stone-axe 
Had  there  grown  green  with  moss,  his  bow-string 
Sung  as  it  cut  the  wind.  [tliere 

She  welcom'd  us 
With  a  proud  sorrow  in  her  mien;  fresh  fruits 
Were  spread  before  us,  and  her  gestures  said 
That  when  he  lived  whose  hand  was  wont  to  wield 
Those  weapons,  —  that  in  better  days,  —  that  ere 
She  let  the  tresses  of  her  widowhood  [us 

Grow  wild, —  she  could  have  given  to  guests  like 
A  worthier  welcome.     Soon  a  man  approach'd. 
Hooded  with  sable,  his  half-naked  limbs 
Smcar'd  black  :  the  people  at  his  sight  drew  round. 
The  women  wail'd  and  wept,  the  children   turn'd 
And  hid  their  faces  on  their  mothers'  knees. 
He  to  the  Queen  address'd  his  speech,  then  look'd 
Around  the  children,  and  laid  hands  on  two, 
Of  different  sexes,  but  of  age  alike, 
Some  six  years  each,  who  athis  touch  shriek'd  out. 
But  then  Lincoya  rose,  and  to  my  feet 
Led  them,  and  told  me  that  the  conquerors  claim'd 
These  innocents  for  tribute ;  that  the  Priest 
Would  lay  them  on  the  altar  of  his  god. 
Pluck  out  their  little  hearts  in  sacrifice, 
And  with  his  brotherhood,  in  impious  rites. 
Feast  on  their  flesh  !  —  I  shudder'd,  and  my  hand 
Instinctively  unsheathed  the  avenging  sword. 
As  he  with  passionate  and  eloquent  signs. 
Eye-speaking  earnestness,  and  quivering  lips. 
Besought  me  to  preserve  himself,  and  those 
Who  now  fell  suppliant  round  me,  —  youths  and 

maids. 
Gray-headed  men,  and  mothers  with  their  babes. 

I  caught  the  little  victims  up,  I  kiss'd 
Their  innocent  cheeks,  I  raised  my  eyes  to  neaven, 
I  call'd  upon  Almighty  God  to  hear 
And  bless  the  vow  I  made ;  in  our  own  tongue 
Was  that  sworn  promise  of  protection  pledged  — 
Impetuous  feeling  made  no  pause  for  thought. 
Heaven  heard  the  vow ;  the  suppliant  multitude 
Saw  what  was  stirring  in  my  heart ;  the  Priest, 
With  eye  inflamed  and  rapid  answer,  raised 
His  menacing  hand;  the  tone,  the  bitter  smile, 
Interpreting  his  threat. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen, 
With  watchful  eye  and  steady  countenance. 
Had  listen'd ;  now  she  rose,  and  to  the  Priest 
Address'd  her  speech.     Low  was  her  voice   and 
As  one  who  spake  with  effort  to  subdue         [calm, 
Sorrow  that  struggled  still ;  but  while  she  spake, 
Her  features  kindled  to  more  majesty. 
Her  eye  became  more  animate,  her  voice 


338 


MAUOC    IN    WALES, 


Rose  to  the  lioight  of  feeling  ;  on  her  son 
She  call'd,  and  from  her  liusband's  monument 
His  battle-axe  she  took ;  and  1  could  see, 
That  wiien  she  gave  the  boy  his  father's  arms, 
She  call'd  his  father's  spirit  to  look  on 
And  bless  them  to  his  vengeance. 

Silently 
The  tribe  stood  listening  as  Erillyab  spake ; 
The  very  Priest  was  awed  :  once  he  essayed 
To  answer  ;  his  tongue  fail'd  him,  and  his  lip 
Grew  pale  and  fell.     He  to  his  countrymen, 
Of  rage,  and  shame,  and  wonder  full,  return'd, 
Bearing  no  victims,  for  their  shrines  accurs'd, 
But  tidings  that  the  Hoamen  had  cast  off 
Their  vassalage,  roused  to  desjx'rate  revolt 
By  men  in  hue,  and  speech,  and  garment  strange, 
■Who,  in  their  folly,  dared  defy  the  power 
Of  Aztlan. 

When  the  King  of  Aztlan  heard 
The  unlook'd-for  tale,  ere  yet  he  roused  his  strength. 
Or  pitying  our  rash  valor,  or  perliaps 
Curious  to  see  the  man  so  bravely  rash. 
He  sent  to  bid  me  to  his  court.     Surprised, 
1  should  have  given  to  him  no  credulous  faith. 
But  fearlessly  Erillyab  bade  me  trust 
Her  honorable  foe.     Unarm'd  I  went, 
Lincoya  with  me  to  exchange  our  speech 
So  as  he  could,  of  safety  first  assured  ; 
For  to  their  devilish  idols  he  had  been 
A  victim  doomed,  and,  from  the  bloody  rites 
Flying,  been  carried  captive  i'ar  away. 

From  early  morning  till  the  midnoon  hour 
We  travell'd  in  the  mountains ;  then  a  plain 
Open'd  below,  and  rose  upon  the  sight. 
Like  boundless  ocean  from  a  hill-top  seen. 
A  beautiful  and  populous  plain  it  was ; 
Fair  woods  were  there,  and  fertilizing  streams. 
And  pastures  spreading  wide,  and  villages 
In  fruitful  groves  embower'd,  and  stately  towns, 
And  many  a  single  dwelling  specking  it. 
As  though  for  many  a  year  the  land  had  been 
The  land  of  peace.     Below  us,  where  the  base 
Of  the  great  mountain  to  the  level  sloped, 
A  broad,  blue  lake  extended  far  and  wide 
Its  waters,  dark  beneath  tlie  light  of  noon. 
There  Aztlan  stood  upon  the  farther  sliore  ; 
Amid  the  shade  of  trees  its  dwellings  rose. 
Their  level  roofs  with  turrets  set  around, 
And  battlements  all  burnish'd  white,  which  shone 
Like  silver  in  the  sunshine.     1  beheld 
The  imperial  city,  her  far-circling  walls. 
Her  garden  groves  and  stately  palaces, 
Her  temple's  mountain-size,  her  thousand  roofs  ; 
And  when  I  saw  her  might  and  majesty. 
My  mind  misgave  me  then. 

We  reach'd  the  shore  ; 
A  floating  islet  waited  for  me  there. 
The  beautiful  work  of  man.     I  set  my  feet 
Upon  green-growing  herbs  and  flovv"ers,  and  sat 
Einbower'd  in  odorous  shrubs  ;  four  long,  lightboats, 
Yoked  to  the  garden,  with  accordant  song. 
And  dip  and  dash  of  oar  in  harmony. 
Bore  me  across  the  lake. 

Then  in  a  car 


Aloft  by  human  bearers  was  I  borne ; 
And  through  the  city  gate,  and  through  long  lines 
Of  marshall'd  multitudes  who  throng'd  the  way. 
We  reach'd  the  palace  court.     Four  priests  were 

there ; 
Each  held  a  burning  censer  in  his  hand. 
And  strew'd  the  precious  gum  as  I  drew  nigh. 
And  held  the  steaming  fragrance  i'orth  to  me, 
Honoring  mo  like  a  god.     They  led  me  in, 
'Where,  on  liis  throne,  the  royal  Azteca 
Coanocotzin  sat.     Stranger,  said  he, 
Welcome ;  and  be  this  coming  to  thy  weal  ! 
A  desperate  warfare  doth  tliy  courage  court ; 
But  thou  slialt  see  the  people  and  the  power 
Whom  thy  deluded  zeal  would  call  to  arms ; 
So  may  the  knowledge  make  thee  timely  wise. 
The  valiant  love  the  valiant.  —  Come  with  me  ! 
So  saying,  he  rose  ;  we  went  together  forth 
To  the  Great  Temple.     'Twas  a  huge,  square  hill, 
Or  rather  like  a  rock  it  seemed,  hewn  out 
And  squared  by  patient  labor.     Never  yet 
Did  our  forefathers,  o'er  beloved  chief 
Fallen  in  his  glory,  heap  a  monument 
Of  that  prodigious  bulk,  though  every  shield 
Was  laden  for  his  grave,  and  every  hand 
Toil'd  imremitting  at  the  willing  work 
From  morn  till  eve,  all  the  long  summer  day. 

The  ascent  was  lengthen'd  with  provoking  art, 
By  steps  which  led  but  to  a  wearying  path 
Round  the  whole  structure ;  then  another  flight. 
Another  road  around,  and  thus  a  third. 
And  yet  a  fourth,  before  we  reach'd  the  height. 
Lo,  now,  Coanocotzin  cried,  thou  scest 
The  cities  of  this  widely-peopled  plain ; 
And  wert  thou  on  yon  farthest  temple-top. 
Yet  as  far  onward  wouldst  thou  see  the  land 
Well  husbanded  like  this,  and  full  of  men. 
They  tell  me  that  two  floating  palaces 
Brought  thee  and  all  thy  people  ;  —  when  I  sound 
The  Tambour  of  the  God,  ten  Cities  hear 
Its  voice,  and  answer  to  the  call  in  arms. 

In  truth,  I  felt  my  weakness,  and  the  view 
Had  wakened  no  unreasonable  fear. 
But  that  a  nearer  sight  had  stirr'd  my  blood ; 
For  on  the  summit  where  we  stood,  four  Towers 
Were  piled  with  human  skulls,  and  all  around. 
Long  files  of  human  heads  were  strung  to  parch 
And  whiten  in  the  sun.     What  then  I  felt 
Was  more  than  natural  courage  —  'twas  a  trust 
In  more  than  mortal  strength  —  a  faith  in  God  — 
Yea,  inspiration  from  him  !  —  I  exclaimed, 
Not  though  ten  Cities  ten  times  told  nbey'd 
The  King  of  Aztlau's  bidding,  should  I  fear 
The  power  of  man  ! 

Art  thou  then  more  than  man? 
He  answered  ;  and  I  saw  his  tawny  cheek 
Lose  its  life-color  as  the  fear  arose  ; 
Nor  did  I  undeceive  him  from  that  fear, 
For  sooth  I  knew  not  how  to  answer  him. 
And  therefore  let  it  work.     So  not  a  word 
Spake  he,  till  we  again  had  reach'd  the  court, 
And  I,  too,  went  in  silent  thoughtfulness  : 
But  then  when,  save  Lincoya,  there  was  none 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


331; 


To  hear  our  speech,  again  did  he  renew 

Tlic  query,  —  Stranger  I  art  thou  more  than  man, 

That  thou  shouldst  set  the  power  of  man  at  nought  ? 

Then  I  replied,  Two  floating  Palaces 
Bore  me  and  all  my  people  o"er  the  seas. 
When  we  departed  from  our  mother-land, 
The  Moon  was  newly  born  ;  we  saw  her  wax 
And  wane,  and  witnessed  her  new  birth  again  ; 
And  all  that  while,  alike  by  day  and  night. 
We  travell'd  through  the  sea,  and  caught  the  winds. 
And  made  them  bear  us  forward.     We  must  meet 
In  battle,  if  the  Hoamen  are  not  freed 
From  your  accursed  tribute,  —  thou  and  I, 
My  people  and  thy  countless  multitudes. 
Your  arrows  shall  fall  from  us  as  the  hail 
Leaps  on  a  rock, —  and  when  ye  smite  with  swords. 
Not  blood,  but  fire,  shall  follow  from  the  stroke. 
Yet  think  not  thou  that  we  are  more  than  men  ! 
Our  knowledge  is  our  power,  and  God  our  strength, 
God,  whose  almighty  will  created  thee. 
And  me,  and  all  that  hath  the  breath  of  life. 
He  is  our  strength  ; —  for  in  His  name  I  speak,  — 
And  when  1  tell  thee  that  thou  shalt  not  shed 
The  life  of  man  in  bloody  sacrifice. 
It  is  His  holy  bidding  which  I  speak  : 
And  if  thou  wilt  not  listen  and  obey. 
When  I  shall  meet  thee  in  the  battle-field. 
It  is  His  holy  cause  for  which  I  fight, 
And  1  shall  have  His  power  to  vanquish  thee  ! 

And  thinkest  thou  our  Gods  are  feeble  .'  cried 
The  King  of  Aztlan  ;  thinkest  thou  they  lack 
Power  to  defend  their  altars,  and  to  keep 
The  kingdom  which  they  gave  us  strength  to  win  ? 
The  Gods  of  thirty  nations  have  opposed 
Tlieir  irresistible  might,  and  they  lie  now 
Conquer'd,  and  caged,  and  fetter'd  at  their  feet. 
That  we  who  serve  them  are  no  coward  race. 
Let  prove  the  ample  realm  we  won  in  arms  :  — 
And  I  their  leader  am  not  of  the  sons 
Of  the  feeble  !     As  he  spake,  he  reached  a  mace, 
The  trunk  aad  knotted  root  of  some  young  tree 
Such  as  old  Albion  and  his  monster-brood 
From  the  oak-forest  for  their  weapons  pluck'd. 
When  father  Brute  and  Corineus  set  foot 
On  the  White  Island  first.     Lo  this,  quoth  he, 
My  club  !  and  he  threw  back  his  robe  ;  and  this 
The  arm  that  wields  it !  —  'Twas  m}'  father's  once  : 
Erillyab"s  husband.  King  Tepollomi, 
He  felt  its  weight. —  Did  I  not  show  thee  him  ? 
He  lights  me  at  my  evening  banquet.     There, 
In  very  deed,  the  dead  Tepollomi 
Stood  up  against  the  wall,  by  devilish  art 
Preserv'd  ;  and  from  his  black  and  shrivell'd  hand 
The  steady  lamp  hung  down. 

My  spirit  rose 
At  that  abomination  ;  I  exclaim'd, 
Thou  art  of  noble  nature,  and  full  fain 
Would  I  in  friendship  plight  my  hand  with  thine; 
But  till  that  body  in  the  grave  be  laid, 
Till  thy  polluted  altars  be  made  pure, 
There  is  no  peace  between  us.     May  my  God, 
Whn,  though  thou  Im'^w'st  him  not,  is  also  thine, 
And  after  death  will  be  thy  dreadful  Judnre, 


May  it  please  Him  to  visit  thee,  and  shed 

His  mercy  on  thy  soul  I  —  But  if  thy  lieart 

Be  harden'd  to  the  proof,  come  when  thou  wilt ! 

I  know  thy  power,  and  thou  shalt  then  know  mine. 


VII. 

THE  BATTLE. 

Now,  then,  to  meet  the  war  !     Erillyab's  call 
Roused  all  her  people  to  revenge  their  wrongs ; 
And  at  Lincoya's  voice,  the  mountain  tribes 
Arose  and  broke  their  bondage.    I,  meantime. 
Took  counsel  with  Cadwallon  and  his  sire. 
And  told  them  of  the  numbers  we  must  meet. 
And  what  advantage  from  the  mountain-straits 
I  thought,  as  in  the  Saxon  wars,  to  win. 
Thou  saw  st  their  weapons  then,  Cadwallon  said ; 
Are  they  like  these  rude  works  of  ignorance. 
Bone-headed    shafts,    and    spears   of  wood,   and 

shields 
Strong  only  for  such  strife  .' 

We  had  to  cope 
With  wiser  enemies,  and  abler  arm'd. 
What  for  the  sword  they  wielded  was  a  staff" 
Set  thick  with  stones  athwart ;  you  would  have 

deem'd 
The  uncouth  shape  was  cumbrous  ;  but  a  hand 
Expert,  and  practised  to  its  use,  could  drive 
The  sharpen'd  flints  with  deadly  impulse  down. 
Their  mail,  if  mail  it  may  be  call'd,  was  woven 
Of  vegetable  down,  like  finest  flax, 
Bleach'd  to  the  whiteness  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 
To  every  bend  and  motion  flexible. 
Light  as  a  warrior's  summer-garb  in  peace ; 
Yet  in  that  lightest,  softest  habergeon. 
Harmless  the  sharp  stone  arrow-head  would  hang. 
Others,  of  higher  office,  were  array 'd 
In  iftathery  breastplates  of  more  gorgeous  hue 
Tlian  the  gay  plumage  of  the  mountain  cock. 
Or    pheasant's  glittering   pride.     But   what  were 

these. 
Or  what  the  thin  gold  hauberk,  when  opposed 
To  arms  like  ours  in  battle  .-'     What  the  mail 
Of  wood  fire-harden'd,  or  the  wooden  helm. 
Against  the  iron  arrows  of  the  South, 
Against  our   northern  spears,  or  battle-axe, 
Or  good  sword,  wielded  by  a  British  hand  .•" 

Then,  quoth  Cadwallon,  at  the  wooden  helm. 
Of  these  weak  arms  the  weakest,  let  the  sword 
Hew,  and  the  spear  be  thrust.     The  mountaineers. 
So  long  inured  to  crouch  beneath  their  3'oke, 
We  will  not  trust  in  battle  ;  from  the  heights 
They  with  their  arrows  may  annoy  the  foe ; 
And  when  our  closer  strife  has  won  the  fray. 
Then  let  them  loose  for  havock. 

O  my  son. 
Exclaimed  the  blind  old  man,  thou  counsellest  ill '. 
Blood  will  have  blood,  revenge  beget  revenge. 
Evil  must  come  of  evil.     We  shall  win, 
Ccrtes,  a  cheap  and  easy  victory 
In  the  first  field ;  their  arrows  from  our  arms 


340 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


Will  fall,  and  on  the  hauberk  and  the  helm 

The  flint-edge  blunt  and  break  ;  while  through 

their  limbs, 
Naked,  or  vainly  fenced,  the  griding  steel 
Shall  shear  its  mortal  way.     But  what  arc  we 
Against  a  nation  ?     Other  hosts  will  rise 
In  endless  warfare,  with  perpetual  fights 
Dwindling  our  all-too-few  ;  or  multitudes 
Will  wear  and  weary  us,  till  we  sink  subdued 
By  the  very  toil  of  conquest.     Ye  are  strong  ; 
But  he  who  puts  his  trust  in  mortal  strength. 
Leans  on  a  broken  reed.     First  prove  your  power ; 
Be  in  the  battle  terrible,  but  spare 
The  fallen,  and  follow  not  the  flying  foe : 
Then  may  ye  win  a  nobler  victory. 
So  dealing  with  the  captives  as  to  fill 
Their  hearts  with  wonder,  gratitude,  and  awe. 
That  love  shall  mingle  with  their  fear,  and  fear 
'Stablish  the  love,  else  wavering.     Let  them  see. 
That  as  more  pure  and  gentle  is  your  faith. 
Yourselves  are  gentler,  purer.     Ye  shall  be 
As  gods  among  them,  if  ye  thus  obey 
God's  precepts. 

Soon  the  mountain  tribes,  in  arms. 
Rose  at  Lincoya's  call ;  a  numerous  host. 
More  than  in  numbers,  in  the  memory 
Of  long  oppression,  and  revengeful  hope, 
A  formidable  foe.     I  station'd  them 
Where,  at  the  entrance  of  the  rocky  straits. 
Secure  themselves,  their  arrows  might  command 
The  coming  army.     On  the  plain  below 
We  took  our  stand,  between  the  mountain-base 
And  the  green  margin  of  the  waters.     Soon 
Their  long  array  came  on.     Oh,  what  a  pomp, 
And  pride,  and  pageantry  of  war  was  there  ! 
Not  half  so  gaudied,  for  their  May-day  mirth. 
All  wreathed  and  ribanded,  our  youths  and  maids. 
As  these  stern  Aztecas  in  war  attire  I 
The  golden  glitterance,  and  the  feather  mail, 
More  gay  than  glittering  gold  ;    and  round   the 

helm 
A  coronal  of  high,  upstanding  plumes. 
Green  as  the  spring  grass  in  a  sunny  shower  ; 
Or  scarlet  bright,  as  in  the  wintry  wood 
The  cluster'd  holly  ;  or  of  purple  tint,  — 
Whereto  shall  that  be  liken'd  .''  to  what  gem 
Indiadem'd,  —  what  flower,  —  what  in.sect's  wing  ? 
With  war-songs  and  wild  music  they  came  on; 
We,  the  while  kneeling,  raised  with  one  accord 
The  hymn  of  supplication. 

Front  to  front, 
And  now  the  embattled  armies  stood  ;  a  band 
Of  priests,  all  sable-garmented,  advanced  ; 
They  piled  a  heap  of  sedge  before  our  host, 
And  warn'd  us,  —  Sons  of  Ocean  !  from  the  land 
Of  Aztlan,  while  ye  may,  depart  in  peace  ! 
Before  the  fire  shall  be  extinguish'd,  hence  '. 
Or,  even  as  yon  dry  sedge  amid  the  flame, 
So  ye  shall  be  consumed.  —  The  arid  heap 
They  kindled,  and  the  rapid  flame  ran  up. 
And  blazed,  and  died  away.     Then  from  his  how, 
With  steady  hand,  their  chosen  archer  loosed 
The  Arrow  of  the  Omen.     To  its  mark 
The  shaft  of  divination  fled;  it  smote 
Cadwallon"s  plated  breast ;  the  brittle  point 


Rebounded.     He,  contemptuous  of  their  faith, 
Stoop'd  for  the  shaft,  and  while  with  zealous  speed 
To  the  rescue  they  rushed  onward,  snapping  it 
Asunder,  toss'd  the  fragments  back  in  scorn. 

Fierce  was  their  onset ;  never  in  the  field 
Encounter'd  I  with  braver  enemies. 
Nor  marvel  ye,  nor  think  it  to  their  shame, 
If  soon  they  stagger'd,  and  gave  way,  and  fled, 
So  many  from  so  few  ;  they  saw  their  darts 
Recoil,  their  lances  shiver,  and  their  swords 
Fall  ineffectual,  blunted  with  the  blow. 
Think  ye  no  shame  of  Aztlan  that  they  fled. 
When  the  bowmen  of  Deheubarth  plied  so  well 
Their  shafts  with  fatal  aim  ;  through  the  thin  gold. 
Or   feather-mail,   while    Gwyneth's    deep-driven 

spears 
Pierced  to  the  bone  and  vitals ;  when  they  saw 
The  falchion,  flashing  late  so  lightning-like, 
Quench'd  in   their  own  life-blood.      Our  moun- 
taineers 
Shower'd  from  the  heights,  meantime,  an  arrowy 

storm, 
Themselves  secure  ;  and  we  who  bore  the  brunt 
Of  battle,  iron  men,  impassable. 
Stood  in  our  strength  unbroken.     Marvel  not 
If  then  the  brave  felt  fear,  already  impress'd 
That  day  by  ominous  thoughts  to  fear  akin ; 
For  so  it  chanced,  high  Heaven  ordaining  so, 
The  King,  who  should  have  led  his  people  forth. 
At  the  army-head,  as  they  began  their  march. 
Was  with  sore  sickness  stricken  ;  and  the  stroke 
Came  like  the  act  and  arm  of  very  God, 
So  suddenly,  and  in  that  point  of  time. 

A  gallant  man  was  he,  who,  in  his  stead, 
That  day  commanded  Aztlan  ;  his  long  hair, 
Tufted  with  many  a  cotton  lock,  proclaim'd 
Of  princely  prowess  many  a  feat  achieved 
In  many  a  field  of  fame.     Oft  had  he  led 
The  Aztecas,  with  happy  fortune,  forth  ; 
Yet  could  not  now  Yuhidthiton  inspire 
His  host  with  hope  :  he,  not  the  less,  that  day. 
True  to  his  old  renown,  and  in  the  hour 
Of  rout  and  ruin,  with  collected  mind, 
Sounded  his  signals  shrill,  and  in  the  voice 
Of  loud  reproach,  and  anger,  and  brave  shame, 
Call'd  on  the  people.  —  But  when  nought  avail'd 
Seizing  the  standard  from  the  timid  hand 
Which  held  it  in  dismay,  alone  he  turn'd, 
For  honorable  death  resolved,  and  praise 
That  would  not  die.     Thereat  the  brtaver  chiefs 
Rallied  ;  anew  their  signals  rung  around  ; 
And  Aztlan,  seeing  how  we  spared  her  flight. 
Took  heart,  and  roll'd  the  tide  of  battle  back. 
But  when  Cadwallon  from  the  chieftain's  grasp 
Had  cut  the  standard-staff  away,  and  stunn'd 
And  stretch'd  him  at  his  mercy  on  the  field  ; 
Then  fled  the  enemy  in  utter  rout, 
Broken  and  quell'd  at  heart.     One  chief  alone 
Bestrode  the  body  of  Yuhidthiton  ; 
Bareheaded  did  young  Malinal  bestride 
His  brother's  body,  wiping  from  his  brow. 
With  the  shield-hand,  the  blinding  blood  away, 
And  dealing  franticly,  with  broken  sword, 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


34. 


Obstinate  wrath,  tlie  last  resisting-  foe. 

Him,  in  liis  own  despite,  we  seized  and  saved. 

Tlien,  in  tlie  moniont  of  our  victory, 
We  purified  our  hands  from  blood,  and  knelt, 
And  pour'd  to  Heaven  the  grateful  prayer  of  praise, 
And  raised  the  choral  psalni.     Triumphant  thus 
To  the  hills  we  went  our  way  ;  the  mountaineers 
Willi  joy,  and  dissonant  song,  and  antic  dance ; 
The  captives  sullenly,  deeming  that  they  went 
To  meet  the  certain  death  of  sacrifice. 
Yet  stern  and  undismay'd.     We  bade  them  know 
Ours  was  a  law  of  mercy  and  of  love  ; 
We  heal'd  their  wounds,  and  set  the  prisoners  free. 
Bear  ye,  quoth  I,  my  bidding  to  your  King ; 
Say  to  him.  Did  the  Stranger  speak  to  tliee 
Tlie  words  of  truth,  and  hath  he  proved  his  power .' 
Thus  saith  the  Lord  of  Ocean,  in  the  name 
Of  God,  Almighty,  Universal  God, 
Thy  Judge  and  mine,  whose  battles  I  have  fought. 
Whose  bidding  I  obey,  whose  will  I  speak; 
Shed  thou  no  more  in  impious  sacrifice 
The  life  of  man;  restore  unto  the  grave 
The  dead  Tepollomi ;  set  this  people  free. 
And  peace  shall  be  between  us. 

On  the  morrow 
Came  messengers  from  Aztlan,  in  reply. 
Coanocotzin  with  sore  malady 
Hath,  by  the  Gods,  been  stricken  :  will  the  Lord 
Of  Ocean  visit  his  sick  bed  ?  —  He  told 
Of  wrath,  and  as  he  said,  the  vengeance  came  : 
Let  liim  bring  healing  now,  and  'stablish  peace. 


VHL 

THE  PEACE. 

Agai.v,  and  now  with  better  hope,  I  sought 
The  city  of  the  King:  there  went  with  me 
lolo,  old  lolo,  he  who  knows 
The  virtue  of  all  herbs  of  mount,  or  vale. 
Or  greenwood  shade,  or  quiet  brooklet's  bed  ; 
Whatever  lore  of  science,  or  of  song, 
Sages  and  Bards  of  old  have  handed  down. 
Aztlan  that  day  pour'd  forth  her  swarming  sons. 
To  wait  my  coming.     Will  he  ask  his  God 
To  stay  the  hand  of  anger.'  was  the  cry. 
The  general  cry,  —  and  will  he  save  the  King.' 
Coanocotzin  too  had  nursed  that  thought, 
And  the  strong  hope  upheld  him :  he  put  forth 
His  hand,  and  raised  a  quick  and  anxious  eye, — 
Is  it  not  peace  and  mercy .'  —  thou  art  come 
To  pardon  and  to  save  ! 

1  answer'd  him  — 
That  power,  O  King  of  Aztlan,  is  not  mine  ! 
Such  help  as  human  cunning  can  bestow, 
Such  human  help  I  bring;  but  health  and  life 
Are  in  the  hand  of  God,  who  at  his  will 
Gives  or  withdraws ;  and  what  he  wills  is  best. 
Then  old  lolo  took  his  arm,  and  felt 
The  symptom,  and  he  bade  him  have  good  hope, 
For  life  was  strong  within  him.     So  it  proved ; 
The  drugs  of  subtle  virtue  did  their  work  ; 


They  (juell'd  the  venom  of  the  malady. 
And  from  the  frame  expell'd  it,  — that  a  sleep 
Fell  on  the  King,  a  sweet  and  natural  sleep. 
And  from  its  healing  he  awoke  rcfresh'd. 
Though  weak,  and  joyful  as  a  man  who  felt 
The  peril  past  away. 

Ere  long  we  spake 
Of  concord,  and  how  best  to  knit  the  bonds 
Of  lasting  friendship.     When  we  won  this  land, 
Coanocotzin  said,  these  fertile  vales 
Were  not,  as  now,  with  fruitful  groves  embower'd, 
Nor  rich  with  towns  and  populous  villages. 
Abounding,  as  thou  seest,  with  life  and  joy  : 
Our  fathers  found  bleak  heath,  and  desert  moor, 
Wild  woodland,  and  savannahs  wide  and  waste. 
Rude  country  of  rude  dwellers.     From  our  arms 
They  to  the  mountain  fastnesses  retired, 
And  long  with  obstinate  and  harassing  war 
Provoked  us,  hoping  not  for  victory. 
Yet  mad  for  vengeance  :  till  Tepollomi 
Fell  by  my  father's  hand  ;  and  with  their  King, 
The  strength  and  flower  of  all  their  youth  cut  off, 
All  in  one  desolating  day,  they  took 
The  yoke  upon  their  necks.     What  wouldest  thou 
That  to  these  Hoamen  I  should  now  concede  .' 
Lord  of  the  Ocean,  speak  ! 

Let  them  be  free  ! 
Quoth  I.     I  come  not  from  my  native  isle 
To  wage  the  war  of  conquest,  and  cast  out 
Your  people  from  the  land  which  time  and  toil 
Have  rightly  made  their  own.     The  land  is  wide  ; 
There  is  enough  for  all.     So  they  be  freed 
From  that  accursed  tribute,  and  ye  shed 
The  life  of  man  no  more  in  sacrifice, 
In  tlie  most  holy  name  of  God  I  say. 
Let  there  be  peace  between  us  ! 

Thou  hast  won 
Their  liberty,  the  King  replied  ;  henceforth, 
Free  as  they  are,  if  they  provoke  the  war. 
Reluctantly  will  Aztlan  raise  her  arm. 
Be  thou  the  peace-preserver.     To  what  else 
Thou  say'st,  instructed  by  calamity, 
I  lend  a  humble  ear ;  but  to  destroy 
The  worship  of  my  fathers,  or  abate 
Or  change  one  point,  lies  not  within  reach 
And  scope  of  kingly  power.     Speak  thou  hereon 
With  those  whom  we  hold  holy,  with  the  sons 
Of  the  Temple,  they  who  commune  with  the  Gods  ; 
Awe  them,  fiir  tiiey  awe  me.     So  wc  resolved 
That  when  the  bones  of  King  Tepollomi 
Had  had  their  funeral  honors,  they  and  I 
Should  by  the  grccn-lake  side,  before  the  King, 
And  in  the  presence  of  the  people,  hold 
A  solemn  talk. 

Then  to  the  mountain-huts, 
The  bearer  of  good  tidings,  I  return'd, 
Leading  the  honorable  train  who  bore 
The  relics  of  the  King;  not  parch'd  and  black, 
As  I  had  seen  the  unnatural  corpse  stand  up, 
In  ghastly  mockery  of  the  attitude 
And  act  of  life  ;  —  his  bones  had  now  been  blanch'd 
With  decent  reverence.     Soon  the  mountaineers 
Saw    the    white    doer-skin    shroud ;    the    rumor 

spread  ; 
They  gather'd  round,  and  followed  in  our  train. 


342 


MA  DOC    IN    WALES. 


Before  Erillyab's  hut  the  bearers  laid 

Tlicir  burden  down.     She,  calm  of  nountenance, 

And  with  dry  eye,  albeit  lier  hand  the  while 

Shook  like  an  aguish  limb,  unrolled  the  shroud. 

The  multitude  stood  gazing  silently, 

The  young  and  old  alike  all  awed  and  hush'd 

Under  the  holy  feeling,  —  and  the  hush 

Was  awful ;  that  huge  multitude  so  still. 

That  we  could  hear  distinct  the  mountain-stream 

Roll  down  its  rocky  channel  far  away  ; 

And  this  was  all ;  sole  ceremony  this, 

The  sight  of  death  and  silence, —  till  at  length, 

In  the  ready  grave  his  bones  were  laid  to  rest. 

"Twas  in  her  hut  and  homo,  yea,  underneath 

The  marriage  bed,  the  bed  of  widowhood, 

Her  husband's  grave  was  dug ;  on  softest  fur 

The  bones  wore  laid,  with  fur  were  covered  o'er, 

Then  heap'd  with  bark  and  boughs,  and,  last  of  all, 

Earth  was  to  earth  trod  down. 

And  now  the  day 
Apjiointed  for  our  talk  of  peace  was  come. 
On  the  green  margin  of  the  lake  we  met, 
Elders,  and  Priests,  and  Chiefs  ;  the  multitude 
Around  the  Circle  of  the  Council  stood. 
Then,  in  the  midst,  Coanocotzin  rose. 
And  thus  the  King  began :  Pabas,  and  Chiefs 
Of  Aztlan,  hither  ye  are  come  to  learn 
The  law  of  peace.     The  Lord  of  Ocean  saith, 
The  Tribes  whom  he  hath  gathered  underneath 
The  wings  of  his  protection,  shall  be  free  ; 
And  in  the  name  of  his  great  God  he  saith, 
That  ye  shall  never  shed  in  sacrifice 
The  blood  of  man.     Are  ye  content  ?  that  so 
We  may  together  here,  in  happy  hour. 
Bury  the  sword. 

Hereat  a  Paba  rose, 
And  answer'd  for  his  brethren  :  —  He  hath  won 
The  Hoamen's  freedom,  that  their  blood  no  more 
Shall  on  our  altars  flow  ;  for  this  the  Lord 
Of  Ocean  fought,  and  Aztlan  yielded  it 
In  battle.     But  if  we  forego  the  rites 
Of  our  forefathers,  if  we  wrong  the  Gods, 
Who  give  us  timely  sun  and  timely  showers. 
Their  wrath  will  be  upon  us ;  they  will  shut 
Their  ears  to  prayer,  and  turn  away  the  eyes 
Which  watch  for  our  well-doing,  and  withhold 
The  hands  dispensing  our  prosperity. 

Cynetha  then  arose,  between  his  son 
And  me  supported,  rose  the  blind  old  man. 
Ye  wrong  us,  men  of  Aztlan,  if  ye  deem 
We  bid  ye  wrong  the  Gods  ;  accurs'd  were  he 
Who  would  obey  such  bidding,  —  more  accurs'd 
The  wretch  who  should  enjoin  impiety. 
It  is  the  will  of  God  which  we  make  known, 
Your  God  and  ours.     Know  ye  not  Him  who  laid 
The  deep  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  built 
The  arch  of  heaven,  and  kindled  yonder  sun. 
And  breathed  into  the  woods,  and  waves,  and  sky. 
The  power  of  life  .' 

We  know  Him,  they  replied. 
The  great  For-Ever  One,  the  God  of  Gods, 
Ipalnemoani,  He  by  whom  we  live  ! 
And  we  too,  qvioth  Ayayaca,  we  know 
And  worship  the  Great  Spirit,  who  in  clouds 


And  storms,  in  mountain  caves,  and  by  the  fall 
Of  waters,  in  the  woodland  solitude. 
And  in  the  night  and  silence  of  the  sky, 
Doth  make  his  being  felt.     We  also  know, 
And  fear,  and  worship  the  Beloved  One. 

Our  God,  replied  Cynetha,  is  the  same, 
The  Universal  Father.     He  to  the  first 
Made  his  will  known ;  but  when  men  multiplied, 
The  Evil  Spirits  darken 'd  them,  and  sin 
And  misery  came  into  the  world,  and  men 
Forsook  the  way  of  truth,  and  gave  to  stocks 
And  stones  the  incommunicable  name. 
Yet  with  one  chosen,  one  peculiar  Race, 
The  knowledge  of  their  Father  and  their  God 
Remain'd,  from  sire  to  son  transmitted  down. 
While  the  bewildered  Nations  of  the  earth 
Wander'd  in  fogs,  and  were  in  darkness  lost, 
The  light  abode  with  them  ;  and  when  at  times 
They  sinn'd,  and  went  astray,  the  Lord  hath  put 
A  voice  into  the  mouths  of  holy  men. 
Raising  up  witnesses  unto  himself. 
That  so  the  saving  knowledge  of  his  name 
Might  never  fail ;  nor  the  glad  proniiso,  given 
To  our  first  parent,  that  at  lengtli  his  sons, 
From  error,  sin,  and  wretchedness  redeem'd, 
Should  form  one  happy  family  of  love. 
Nor  ever  hath  that  light,  howe"er  bedimm'd. 
Wholly  been  quenched ;  still  in  the  heart  of  man 
A  feeling  and  an  instinct  it  exists, 
His  very  nature's  stamp  and  privilege, 
Yea,  of  his  life  the  life.     I  tell  ye  not, 

0  Aztecas '  of  things  unknown  before  ; 

1  do  but  waken  up  a  living  sense 

That  sleeps  within  ye  !     Do  ye  love  the  Gods 

Who  call  for  blood .'     Doth  the  poor  sacrifice 

Go  with  a  willing  step,  to  lay  his  life 

Upon  their  altars.'  —  Good  must  come  of  good, 

Evil  of  evil ;  if  the  fruit  be  death, 

The  poison  springeth  from  the  sap  and  root, 

And  the  whole  tree  is  deadly  ;  if  the  rites 

Be  evil,  they  who  claim  them  are  not  good, 

Not  to  be  worshipp'd  then  ;  for  to  obey 

The  evil  will  is  evil.     Aztecas  ! 

From  the  For-Ever,  the  Beloved  One, 

The  Universal,  Only  God,  1  speak, 

Your  God  and  mine,  our  Father  and  our  Judge. 

Hear  ye  his  law,  —  hear  ye  the  perfect  law 

Of  love,  "  Do  ye  to  others,  as  ye  would 

That  they  should  do  to  you  !  "  He  bids  us  meet 

To  praise  his  name,  in  thankiuliiess  and  joy; 

He  bids  us,  in  our  sorrow,  pray  to  him, 

The  Comforter;  love  him,  for  he  is  good; 

Fear  him,  for  he  is  just;  obey  his  will, 

For  who  can  bear  his  anger  ? 

While  lie  spake. 
They  stood  with  open  mouth,  and  motionless  sight, 
Watching  his  countenance,  as  though  the  voice 
Were  of  a  God ;  for  sure  it  seem'd  that  less 
Than  inspiration  could  not  have  infused 
That  eloquent  passion  in  a  blind  man's  face. 
And  when  he  ceased,  all  eyes  at  once  were  turn'd 
Upon  the  Pabas,  waiting  their  reply. 
If  that  to  that  acknowledged  argument 
Reply  could  be  devised.     But  they  themselves, 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


34r» 


Stricken  by  the  truth,  were  silent;  and  they  look'd 
Toward   their  chief  and    mouth-piece,    the    High 

Priest 
Tezozoinoc ;  he,  too,  was  pale  and  mute, 
And  when  he  galher'd  up  his  strength  to  speak, 
Speech  fail'd  him,  his  lip  fulterd,  and  his  eye 
Fell  utterly  abash'd,  and  put  to  shame. 
But  in  the  Chiefs,  and  in  the  multitude. 
And  in  tlie  King  of  Aztlan,  better  thouglits 
Were  working ;  for  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
That  day  was  moving  in  the  heart  of  man. 
Coanocotzin  rose  :  Pabas,  and  Chiefs, 
And  men  of  Aztlan,  ye  have  heard  a  talk 
Of  peace  and  love,  and  there  is  no  reply. 
Are  ye  content  with  what  the  Wise  Man  saith.' 
And  will  ye  worship  God  in  that  good  way 
Which  God  himself  ordains  ?     If  it  be  so. 
Together  here  will  we  in  happy  hour 
Bury  the  sword. 

Tezozomoc  replied. 
This  thing  is  new,  and  in  the  land  till  now 
Unheard :  —  what  marvel,  therefore,  if  we  find 
No  ready  answer?     Let  our  Lord  the  King 
Do  that  which  seemeth  best. 

Yuhidthiton, 
Chief  of  the  Chiefs  of  Aztlan,  ne.xt  arose. 
Of  all  her  numerous  sons,  could  Aztlan  boast 
No  mightier  arm  in  battle,  nor  whose  voice 
To  more  attentive  silence  hush'd  the  hall 
Of  council.     When  the  Wise  Man  spake,  quoth  he, 
I  ask'd  of  mine  own  heart  if  it  were  so, 
And,  as  he  said,  the  living  instinct  there 
Answer'd,  and  own'd  the  truth.     In  happy  hour, 
O  King  of  Aztlan,  did  the  Ocean  Lord 
Through  the  great  waters  hither  wend  his  way ; 
For  sure  he  is  the  friend  of  God  and  man. 

With  that  an  uproar  of  assent  arose 
From  the  whole  people,  a  tumultuous  shout 
Of  universal  joy  and  glad  acclaim. 
But  when  Coanocotzin  raised  his  hand. 
That  he  might  s])eak,  the  clamor  and  the  buzz 
Ceased,  and  the  multitude,  in  tiptoe  hope, 
Attent  and  still,  await  the  final  voice. 
Then  said  the  Sovereign,  Hear,  O  Aztecas, 
Your  own  united  will !     From  this  day  forth 
No  life  upon  the  altar  shall  be  shed. 
No  blood  shall  flow  in  sacrifice ;  the  rites 
Shall  all  be  pure,  such  as  tiic  blind  Old  Man, 
Whom  God  hath  taught,  will  teach.     This  ye  have 

will'd ; 
And  therefore  it  shall  be  I 

The  King  hath  said  ! 
Like  thunder  the  collected  voice  replied  : 
Let  it  be  so ! 

Lord  of  the  Ocean,  then 
Pursued  the  King  of  Aztlan,  we  will  now 
Lay  the  war-weapim  in  the  grave,  and  join 
\n  right-hand  friendship.     By  our  custom,  blood 
Should  sanctify  and  bind  the  solemn  act ; 
But  by  what  oath  and  ceremony  thou 
Shalt  proffer,  by  the  same  will  Aztlan  swear. 
Nor  oath,  nor  ceremony,  I  replied, 
O  King,  is  needful.     To  his  own  good  word 
The  good  and  honorable  man  will  act; 


Oaths  will  not  curb  the  wicked.     Here  we  stand 
In  the  broad  day-light;  the  For-Ever  one. 
The  Every- Where  beholds  us.     In  his  sight 
We  join  our  hands  in  peace  :  if  e'er  again 
Should  these  right  hands  be  raised  in  enmity. 
Upon  the  offender  will  his  judgment  fall. 

The  grave  was  dug ;  Coanocotzin  laid 
His  weapon  in  the  earth;  Erillyab's  son. 
Young  Amalahta,  for  the  Hoamen,  laid 
His  hatchet  there  ;  and  there  I  laid  the  sword. 

Here  let  me  end.     What  follow'd  was  the  work 
Of  peace,  no  theme  for  story;  how  we  fix'd 
Our  sojourn  in  the  hills,  and  sow'd  our  fields. 
And,  day  by  day,  saw  all  things  j)r()spering. 
Thence  have  I  come,  Goervyl,  to  announce 
The  tidings  of  my  happy  enterprise; 
There  I  return,  to  take  thee  to  our  home. 
I  love  my  native  land ;  with  as  true  love 
As  ever  yet  did  warm  a  British  heart. 
Love  I  the  green  fields  of  the  beautiful  Isle, 
My  father's  heritage  I     But  far  away. 
Where  nature's  booner  hand  has  bless'd  the  earth, 
My  lot  hath  been  assigu'd ;  beyond  the  seas 
Madoc  hath  found  his  home ;  beyond  the  seas 
A  country  for  his  children  hath  he  chosen, 
A  land  wherein  their  portion  may  be  peace. 


IX. 


EMMA. 

But  while  Aberfraw  echoed  to  the  sounds 

Of  merriment  and  music,  Madoc's  heart 

Mourn'd  for  his  brethren.     Therefore,  when  no  eai 

Was  nigh,  he  sought  the  King,  and  said  to  him, 

To-morrow,  for  Mathraval  I  set  forth ; 

Longer  I  must  not  linger  here,  to  pass 

The  easy  hours  in  feast  and  revelry, 

Forgetful  of  my  people  far  away. 

I  go  to  tell  the  tidings  of  success. 

And  seek  new  comrades.     What  if  it  should  chance 

That,  for  this  enterprise,  our  brethren, 

Foregoing  all  their  hopes  and  fortunes  here, 

Would  join  my  banner  f  —  Let  me  send  abroad 

Their  sununons,  O  my  brother !  so,  secure. 

You  may  forgive  the  past,  and  once  again 

Will  peace  and  concord  bless  our  father's  house. 

Hereafter  will  be  time  enow  for  this, 
The  King  replied;  thy  easy  nature  sees  not. 
How,  if  the  traitors  for  thy  banner  send 
Their  bidding  round,  in  open  war  against  me 
Their  own  would  soon  be  spread.     I  charge  thee, 

Madoc, 
Neither  to  see  nor  aid  these  fugitives, 
The  shame  of  Owen's  blood. 

Sullen  he  spake, 
And  turn'd  away  ;  nor  further  commune  now 
Did  Madoc  seek,  nor  had  he  more  endured; 
For  bitter  thoughts  were  rising  in  his  heart. 
And  anguish,  kindling  anger.     In  such  mood 


14 


MA  DOC    IN    WALES, 


1 .0  to  his  sister's  chamber  took  liis  way. 

S.ie  sat  witli  Emma,  with  tlie  jrentle  Queen, 

i''ur  Emma  liad  already  learnt  to  love 

The  gentle  maid.     Goervyl  saw  what  thoughts 

Troubled  her  brother's  brow.     Madoc,  she  cried. 

Thou  liast  been  with  the  King,  been  rashly  plead- 

For  Ririd,  and  for  Rodri  !  —  He  replied,  [ing 

I  did  but  ask  him  little,  —  did  but  say, 

Belike  our  brethren  would  go  forth  with  me, 

To  voluntary  exile  ;  then,  methought. 

His  fear  and  jealousy  might  well  have  ceased, 

And  all  be  safe. 

And  did  the  King  refuse  ? 
Quoth  Emma;  I  will  plead  f'^r  them,  quoth  she. 
With  dutiful  warmth  and  zeal,  will  plead  for  them ; 
And  surely  David  will  not  say  me  nay. 

O  sister  !  cried  Goervyl,  tempt  him  not ! 
Sister,  you  know  him  not !  Alas,  to  touch 
That  perilous  theme  is,  even  in  Madoc  here, 
A  perilous  folly.     Sister,  tempt  him  not ! 
You  do  not  know  the  King ! 

But  then  a  fea 
Fled  to  the  cheek  of  Emma,  and  her  eye. 
Quickening  witJi  wonder,  turn'd  toward  the  Prince, 
As  if  expecting  that  his  manly  mind 
Would  mould  Goervyl's  meaning  to  a  shape 
Less  fearful,  would  interpret  and  amend 
TJie  words  she  hoped  she  did  not  hear  aright. 
Ennna  was  young  ;  she  was  a  sacrifice 
To  that  cold  king-craft,  which,  in  marriage-vows 
Linking  two  hearts,  unknowing  each  of  each, 
Perverts  the  ordinance  of  God,  and  makes 
The  holiest  tie  a  mockery  and  a  curse. 
Her  eye  was  patient,  and  she  spake  in  tones 
So  sweet,  and  of  so  pensive  gentleness, 
That  the  heart  felt  them.     Madoc  !  she  exclaimed. 
Why  dost  thou  hate  the  Saxons  ?     O  my  brother. 
If  I  have  heard  ariglit,  the  hour  will  come 
Wlien  the  Plantagenet  shall  wish  herself 
Among  jier  nobler,  happier  countrymen. 
From  these  unnatural  enmities  escaped,  [ven  ! 

And  from  the  vengeance  they  must  call  from  Hoa- 

Shame  then  suffused  the  Prince's  countenance. 
Mindful  how,  drunk  in  anger,  he  had  given 
His  hatred  loose.     My  sister  Queen,  quoth  he, 
Marvel  not  you  that  with  my  mother's  milk 
I  suck'd  that  hatred  in.     Have  they  not  been 
The  scourge  and  the  devouring  sword  of  God, 
The  curse  and  pestilence  which  he  hath  sent 
To  root  us  from  the  land  ?     Alas,  our  crimes 
Have  drawn  this  dolorous  visitation  down ! 
Our  sun  hath  long  been  westering;  and  the  night. 
And  darkness,  and  extinction  are  at  hand. 
We  are  a  fallen  people  !  —  From  ourselves 
The  desolation  and  the  ruin  come  ; 
In  our  own  vitals  doth  the  poison  work  — 
The  House  that  is  divided  in  itself, 
How  should  it  stand  ?  —  A  blessing  on  you,  Lady  I 
But  in  this  wretched  family  the  strife 
Is  rooted  all  too  deep  ;  it  is  an  old 
And  cankered  wound,  —  an  eating,  killing  sore, 
For  which  there  is  no  healing.  —  If  the  King 
Sliould  ever  speak  his  fears,  (and  sure  to  you 


All  his  most  inward  thoughts  he  will  make  known,) 

Counsel  him  then  to  let  his  brethren  share 

My  enterprise,  to  send  them  forth  with  me 

To  everlasting  exile.  —  She  hath  told  you 

Too  hardly  of  the  King;  I  know  him  well; 

He  hath  a  stormy  nature  ;  and  what  germs 

Of  virtue  would  have  budded  in  his  heart. 

Cold  winds  have  check'd,  and  bligliting  seasons 

nipp'd. 
Yet  in  his  heart  they  live.  —  A  blessing  on  you, 
That  you  may  see  their  blossom  and  their  fruit ! 


X. 

MATHRAVAL. 

Now  for  Mathraval  went  Prince  Madoc  forth ; 

O'er  Menai's  ebbing  tide,  up  mountain-paths, 

Beside  gray  mountain-stream,  and  lonely  lake, 

And  through  old  Snowdon's  forest-solitude, 

He  held  right  on  his  solitary  way. 

Nor  paused  he  in  that  rocky  vale,  where  oft 

Up  the  familiar  path,  with  gladder  pace, 

His  steed  had  hastened  to  the  well-known  door,  — 

That  valley,  o'er  whose  crags,  and  sprinkled  trees, 

And  winding  stream,  so  oft  his  eye  had  loved 

To  linger,  gazing,  as  the  eve  grew  dim, 

From  Dolwyddelans  Tower; — alas  I  from  thence, 

As  from  his  brother's  monument,  he  turn'd 

A  loathing  eye,  and  through  the  rocky  vale 

Sped  on.    From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  till  eve. 

He  travelled  on  his  way  ;  and  when  at  morn 

Again  the  Ocean  Chief  bestrode  his  steed. 

The  heights  of  Snowdon  on  his  backward  glance 

Hung  like  a  cloud  in  heaven.  O'er  heath,  and  hill, 

And  barren  height  he  rode  ;  and  darker  now, 

In  loftier  majesty,  thy  mountain-seat. 

Star-loving  Idris,  rose.     Nor  turn'd  he  now 

Beside  Kregennan,  where  his  infant  feet 

Had  trod  Ednywain's  hall ;  nor  loitered  he 

In  the  green  vales  of  Powys,  till  he  came 

Where  Warnway  rolls  its  waters  underneath 

Ancient  Mathraval's  venerable  walls, 

Cyveilioc's  princely  and  paternal  seat. 

But  Madoc  sprung  not  forward  now  to  greet 
The  chief  he  loved,  for  from  Cyveilioc's  hall 
The  voice  of  harp  and  song  conmiingled  came ; 
It  was  that  day  tlie  feast  of  victory  there  ; 
Around  the  Chieftain's  board  the  warriors  sat; 
The  sword,  and  shield,  and  helmet,  on  the  wall 
And  round  the  pillars,  were  in  peace  hung  up ; 
And,  as  the  flashes  of  the  central  fire 
At  fits  arose,  a  dance  of  wavy  ligjit  [late 

Play'd  o'er  tlie  reddening  steel.     The  Chiefs,  who 
So  well  had  wielded  in  the  work  of  war 
Those  weapons,  sat  around  the  board,  to  quaff 
The  beverage  of  the  brave,  and  hear  their  fame. 
Mathraval's  Lord,  the  Poet  and  the  Prince, 
Cyveilioc,  stood  before  them,  —  in  his  pride  ; 
His  hands  were  on  the  harp,  his  eyes  were  closed, 
His  head,  as  if  in  reverence  to  receive 
The  inspiration,  bent;  anon,  he  raised 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


34y 


His  o-lowing  countenance  and  brighter  eye, 
And  swept  with  passionate  hand  the  ringing  harp. 

Fill  high  the  Hirlas  Horn !  to  Grufydd  bear 
Its  frothy  beverage, — from  his  crimson  lance 
The  invader  lied;  —  fill  high  the  gold-tipp'd  Horn! 
Heard  ye  in  Maelor  the  step  of  war  — 
The  hastening  shout  —  the  onset?  —  Did  ye  hear 
Tlie  clash  and  clang  of  arms  —  the  battle-din, 
Loud  as  the  roar  of  Ocean,  when  the  winds 
At  midnight  are  abroad? — the  yell  of  wounds  — 
The  rage  —  the  agony?  —  Give  to  him  the  Horn 
Whose  spear  was  broken,  and  whose  buckler  pierced 
With  many  a  shaft,  yet  not  the  less  he  fought 
And  conquered;  —  therefore  let  Ednyved  share 
The  generous  draught;   give  him  the  long,  blue 

Horn  ! 
Pour  out  again,  and  fill  again  the  spoil 
Of  the  wild  bull,  with  silver  wrought  of  yore; 
And  bear  the  golden  lip  to  Tudyr's  hand, 
Eagle  of  battle  !  For  Moreiddig  fill 
The  honorable  Hirlas  I  —  Where  are  They? 
Where  are  the  noble  Brethren?     Wolves  of  war, 
They  kept  their  border  well,  they  did  their  part, 
Their  fame  is  full,  their  lot  is  praise  and  song  — 
A  mournful  song  to  me,  a  song  of  woe  !  — 
Brave  Brethren  !  for  their  honor  brim  the  cup. 
Which  they  shall  quaff"  no  more. 

We  drove  away 
The  strangers  from  our  land;  profuse  of  life, 
Our  warriors  rush'd  to  battle,  and  the  Sun 
Saw  from  his  noontide  fields  their  manly  strife. 
Pour  thou  the  flowing  mead  !     Cup-bearer,  fill 
The  Hirlas  I  for  hadst  tliou  beheld  the  day 
Of  Llidom,  thou  hadst  known  how  well  the  Chiefs 
Deserve  this  honor  now.     Cyveilioc's  shield 
Were  they  in  danger,  when  the  Invader  came ; 
Be  praise  and  liberty  their  lot  on  earth, 
And  joy  be  theirs  in  heaven  ! 

Plere  ceased  the  song ; 
Then  from  the  threshold  on  the  rush-strown  floor 
Madoc  advanced.     Cyveilioc's  eye  was  now 
To  present  forms  awake,  but  even  as  still 
He  felt  his  harp-chords  throb  with  dying  sounds ; 
The  heat,  and  stir,  and  passion  had  not  yet 
Subsided  in  his  soul.     Again  he  struck 
Tlie  loud-toned  harp  —  Pour  from  the  silver  vase, 
And  brim  the  honorable  Horn,  and  bear 
The  draught  of  joy  to  Madoc,  —  he  who  first 
E-xplored  the  desert  ways  of  Ocean,  first 
Tiirough  the  wide  waste  of  sea  and  sky  held  on 
Undaunted,  till  upon  another  World 
The  Lord  and  Conqueror  of  the  Elements, 
He  set  his  foot  triumphant!     Fill  for  him 
The  Hirlas  !  fill  the  honorable  Horn  ! 
This  for  Mathraval  is  a  happy  hour, 
When  Madoc,  her  hereditary  guest. 
Appears  within  her  honor'd  walls  again, 
Madoc,  the  British  Prince,  the  Ocean  Lord, 
Who  never  for  injustice  rear'd  his  arm; 
Whose  presence  fills  the  heart  of  every  foe 
With  fear,  the  heart  of  every  friend  with  joy; 
Give  him  the  Hirlas  Horn  ;   fill,  till  the  draught 
Of  joy  shall  quiver  o'er  the  golden  brim  ! 
In  happy  hour  the  hero  hath  return 'd  ! 
44 


In  happy  hour  the  friend,  the  brother  treads 
Cyveilioc's  floor  ! 

He  sprung  to  greet  his  guest ; 
The  cordial  grasp  of  fellowship  was  given  ; 
So  in  Mathraval  there  was  double  joy 
On  that  illustrious  day  ;  they  gave  their  guest 
The  seat  of  honor,  and  they  fiU'd  for  him 
The  Hirlas  Horn.     Cyveilioc  and  his  Chiefs, 
All  eagerly,  with  wonder-waiting  eyes. 
Look  to  the  Wanderer  of  the  Water's  tale. 
Nor  mean  the  joy  which  kindled  Madoc's  brow, 
When  as  he  told  of  daring  enterprise 
Cro'wn'd  v^'ith  deserved  success.     Intent  they  heard 
Of  all  the  blessings  of  that  happier  clime  ; 
And  when  the  adventurer  spake  of  soon  return. 
Each  on  the  other  gazed,  as  if  to  say, 
Methinks  it  were  a  goodly  lot  to  dwell 
In  that  lair  land  in  peace. 

Then  said  the  Prince 
Of  Powys,  Madoc,  at  a  happy  time 
Thou  hast  toward  Mathraval  bent  thy  way  ; 
For  on  the  morrow,  in  the  eye  of  light. 
Our  bards  will  hold  their  congress.     Seekest  thou 
Comrades  to  share  success?  proclaim  abroad 
Thine  invitation  there,  and  it  will  spread 
Far  as  our  fathers'  ancient  tongue  is  known. 

Thus  at  Mathraval  went  the  Hirlas  round  ; 
A  happy  day  was  that !  Of  other  years     , 
They  talk'd,  of  common  toils,  and  fields  of  war, 
Where  they  fought  side  by  side  ;  of  Corwen's  scene 
Of  glory,  and  of  comrades  now  no  more  — 
Themes  of  delight,  and  grief  which  brought  its  joy. 
Thus  they  beguiled  the  pleasant  hours,  while  night 
Waned  fast  away  ;  then  late  they  laid  them  down. 
Each  on  his  bed  of  rushes,  stretch'd  around 
The  central  fire. 

The  Sun  was  newly  risen 
When  Madoc  join'd  his  host,  no  longer  now 
Clad,  as  the  conquering  chief  of  Maelor, 
In  princely  arms,  but  in  his  nobler  robe. 
The  sky-blue  mantle  of  the  Bard,  arrayed. 
So  for  tiie  place  of  meeting  they  set  forth ; 
And  now  they  reached  Melangell's  lonely  church 
Amid  a  grove  of  evergreens  it  stood, 
A  garden  and  a  grove,  where  every  grave 
Was  deck'd  with  flowers,  or  with  unfading  plants 
O'ergrown,  sad  rue,  and  funeral  rosemary. 
Here  Madoc  paused.    The  morn  is  young,  quoth  he  ; 
A  little  while  to  old  remembrance  given 
Will  not  belate  us.  —  Many  a  year  hath  fled, 
Cyveilioc,  since  you  led  me  here,  and  told 
The  legend  of  the  Saint.     Come  !  — be  not  loath  ' 
We  will  not  loiter  long.  —  So  soon  to  mount 
The  bark,  which  will  forever  bear  me  hence, 
I  would  not  willingly  pass  by  one  spot 
Which  thus  recalls  the  thought  of  other  times. 
Without  a  pilgrim's  visit. 

Thus  he  spake. 
And  drew  Cyveilioc  through  the  church-yard  porch, 
To  the  rude  image  of  Saint  Monacel. 
Dost  thou  remember,  Owen,  said  the  Prince, 
When  first  I  was  thy  guest  in  early  youth, 
Tliat  once,  as  we  had  wandered  here  at  eve, 
You  told,  how  here  a  poet  and  hunted  hare 


34G 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


Ran  to  the  Virgin's  feet,  and  look'd  to  her 

For  life?  —  1  Ihouglit,  when  listening  to  the  tale, 

She  had  a  merciful  heart,  and  tliat  her  face 

Must  with  a  saintly  gentleness  liave  beam'd, 

Wlien  beasts  could  read  its  virtue.     Here  we  sat 

Upon  the  jutting  root  of  this  old  yeugh  — 

Dear  friend  !    so  pleasant   didst  thou  make  those 

days. 
That  in  my  heart,  long  as  my  heart  shall  beat. 
Minutest  recollections  still  will  live, 
Still  be  the  source  of  joy. 

As  Madoc  spake, 
His  glancing  eye  fell  on  a  monument, 
Around  whose  base  the  rosemary  droop'd  down, 
As  yet  not  rooted  well.     Sculptured  above, 
A  warrior  lay ;  the  shield  was  on  his  arm ; 
Madoc  approach'd,  and  saw  the  blazonry,  — 
A  sudden  chill  ran  through  hiin,  as  he  read. 
Here  Yorwertli  lies  —  it  was  his  brother's  grave. 

Cyveilioc  took  him  by  the  hand :  For  this, 
Madoc,  was  1  so  loath  to  enter  here  ! 
He  sought  the  sanctuary,  but  close  upon  him 
The  murderers  follovvd,  and  by  yonder  copse 
The  stroke  of  death  was  given.     All  I  could 
Was  done  ;  —  1  saw  him  here  consign'd  to  rest ; 
Daily  due  masses  for  his  soul  are  sung, 
And  duly  hath  his  grave  been  deck'd  with  flowers. 

So  M^ing,  from  the  place  of  death  he  led 
The  silent  Prince.     But  lately,  he  pursued, 
Llewelyn  was  my  guest,  thy  favorite  boy. 
For  thy  sake  and  his  own,  it  was  my  hope 
That  at  Mathraval  he  would  make  his  home  ; 
He  had  not  needed  then  a  father's  love. 
But  he,  1  know  not  on  what  enterprise, 
Was  brooding  ever ;  and  those  secret  thoughts 
Drew  him  away.     God  prosper  the  brave  boy  ! 
It  were  a  happy  day  for  this  poor  land 
If  e'er  Llewelyn  mount  his  rightful  throne. 


XL 


THE    GORSEDD. 

The  place  of  meeting  was  a  high  hill-top. 

Nor  bower'd  with  trees  nor  broken  by  the  plough, 

Remote  from  human  dwellings  and  the  stir 

Of  human  life,  and  open  to  tlie  breath 

And  to  the  eye  of  Heaven.     In  days  of  old. 

There  had  the  circling  stones  been  planted;  there, 

From  earliest  ages,  the  primeval  lore,  [down. 

Through    Bard  to   Bard   with  reverence   handed 

They  whom  to  wonder,  or  the  love  of  song, 

Or  reverence  of  their  fathers'  ancient  rites. 

Drew  thither,  stood  without  the  ring  of  stones. 

Cyveilioc  entered  to  the  initiate  Bards, 

Himself,  albeit  his  hands  were  stained  with  war, 

Initiate  ;  for  the  Order,  in  the  lapse 

Of  years  and  in  their  nation's  long  decline 

From  the  first  rigor  of  their  purity 

Somewhat  had  fallen.     The  Masters  of  the  Song 


Were  clad  in  azure  robes,  for  in  that  hue 
Deduced  from  Heaven,  which  o'er  a  sinful  v.'orld 
Spread  its  eternal  canopy  serene. 
Meet  emblem  did  the  ancient  Sages  see 
Ol' unity,  and  peace,  and  spotless  truth. 

Within  the  stones  of  Federation  there, 
On  the  green  turf,  and  under  the  blue  sky, 
A  noble  band,  the  Bards  of  Britain  stood, 
Tlieir  heads  in  reverence  bare,  and  bare  of  foot. 
A  deathless  brotherhood !  Cyveilioc  there. 
Lord  of  the  Hirlas;  Llywarc  there  was  seen. 
And  old  Cynddelow,  to  whose  lofty  song. 
So  many  a  time  amid  his  father's  court 
Resigning  up  his  soul,  had  Madoc  given 
The  How  of  i'eeling  loose.     ButMadoc's  heart 
Was  full  ;  old  feelings  and  remembrances, 
And  thoughts  from  which  was  no  escape,  arose : 
He  was  not  tliere  to  whose  sweet  lay,  so  oft, 
With  all  a  brother's  fond  delight,  he  loved 
To  listen,  —  Hoel  was  not  there  !  —  the  hand 
That  once  so  well,  amid  the  triple  chords. 
Moved  in  the  rapid  maze  of  harmony. 
It  liad  no  motion  now  ;  the  lips  were  dumb 
Which  knew  all  tones  of  passion  ;  and  that  heart, 
That  warm,  ebullient  heart,  was  cold  and  still. 
Upon  its  bed  of  clay.     He  look'd  around, 
And  there  was  no  familiar  countenance. 
None  but  Cynddelow's  face,  whicli  he  had  learnt 
In  childhood;  and  old  age  hath  set  its  mark. 
Making  unsightly  alteration  there. 
Another  generation  had  sprung  up. 
And  made  him  feel  how  fast  the  days  of  man 
Flow  by,  how  soon  their  number  is  told  out. 
He  knew  not  then,  that  Llywarc's  lay  should  give 
His  future  fame ;  his  spirit,  on  the  past 
Brooding,  beheld  with  no  forefeeling  joy 
The  rising  sons  of  song,  who  there  essay'd 
Their  eaglet  flight.     But  there,  among  the  youth 
In  the  green  vesture  of  their  earliest  rank, 
Or  witli  tlie  aspirants  clad  in  motley  garb, 
Young  Benvras  stood  ;  and,  one  whose  favored  race 
Heaven  with  the  hereditary  power  had  blest. 
The  old  Gowalchmai's  not  degenerate  child; 
And  there  another  Einion;  gifted  youths, 
And  heirs  of  immortality  on  earth. 
Whose  after-strains,  through  many  a  distant  age, 
Cambria  shall  boast,  and  love  the  songs  that  tell 
The  fame  of  Owen's  house. 

There,  in  the  eye 
Of  light,  and  in  the  face  of  day,  the  rites 
Began.     Upon  the  Stone  of  Covenant 
First,  the  sheathed  sword  was  laid;  the  Master  then 
Upraised  his  voice,  and  cried.  Let  them  who  seek 
The  high  degree  and  sacred  privilege 
Of  Bardic  science,  and  of  Cimbric  lore. 
Here  to  the  Bards  of  Britain  make  their  claim ! 
Thus  having  said,  the  Master  bade  the  youths 
Approach  the  place  of  peace,  and  merit  there 
The  Bard's  most  honorable  name.    With  that. 
Heirs  and  transmittors  of  the  ancient  light. 
The  youths  advanced  ;  they  heard  the  Cimbric  lore, 
From  earliest  days  preserved;  they  struck  their 

harps. 
And  each  in  due  succession  raised  the  song. 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


•SiV 


Last  of  the  aspirants,  as  of  greener  years, 
Young  Caradoc  advanced ;  his  lip  as  yet 
Scarce  darken'd  with  its  down,  his  flaxen  locks 
Wreathed  in  contracting  ringlets  waving  low ; 
Bright  were  his  large  blue  eyes,  and  kindled  now 
With  that  same  passion  that  inflamed  his  cheek; 
Vet  in  his  cheek  tJiere  was  the  sickliness 
Whicii  thouglit  and  feeling  leave,  wearing  away 
The  liue  of  youth.     Inclining  on  his  harp, 
He,  while  his  comrades  in  probation  song 
Approved    their   claim,    stood    hearkening,    as    it 
And  yet  like  unintelligible  sounds  [scem'd. 

He  heard  the  symphony  and  voice  attuned ; 
Even  in  such  feelings  as,  all  undefined. 
Come  witli  the  flow  of  waters  to  the  soul. 
Or  with  the  motions  of  the  moonlight  sky. 
But  when  his  bidding  came,  he,  at  the  call 
Arising  from  that  dreamy  mood,  advanced. 
Threw  back  his  mantle,  and  began  the  lay. 

Where  are  the  sons  of  Gavran  ?  where  his  tribe 
The  faithful  ?     Following  their  beloved  Chief, 
They  the  Green  Islands  of  the  Ocean  sought ; 
Nor  human  tongue  hath  told,  nor  human  ear, 
Since  from  the  silver  shores  they  went  their  way, 
Hath  heard  their  fortunes.     In  his  crystal  Ark, 
Whither  sail'd  Merlin  with  his  band  of  Bards, 
Old  Merlin,  master  of  the  mystic  lore  ? 
Belike  his  crystal  Ark,  instinct  with  life, 
Obedient  to  the  mighty  Master,  reach'd 
The  land  of  the  Departed;  there,  belike. 
They  in  the  clime  of  immortality, 
Tliemselves  immortal,  drink  the  gales  of  bliss. 
Which  o'er  Flathinnis  breathe  eternal  spring. 
Blending  whatever  odors  make  the  gale 
Of  evening  sweet,  whatever  melody  [halls, 

Charms  the  wood-traveller.     In  their  high-roof 'd 
There,  witli  tlie  Chiefs  of  other  days,  feel  they 
The  mingled  joy  pervade  them.' — Or  beneath 
The  mid-sea  waters,  did  that  crystal  Ark 
Down  to  the  secret  depths  of  Ocean  plunge 
Its  fated  crew.'     Dwell  they  in  coral  bowers 
With  Mermaid  loves,  teaching  their  paramours 
The  songs  that  stir  the  sea,  or  make  the  winds 
Hush,  and  tlie  waves  be  still.'     In  fields  of  joy 
Have  they  their  home,  wliere  central  fires  maintain 
Perpetual  summer,  and  an  emerald  light 
Pervades  the  green  translucent  element.' 

Twice  have  the  sons  of  Britain  left  her  shores. 
As  the  fledged  eaglets  (juit  their  native  nest; 
Twice  over  ocean  have  her  fearless  sons 
Forever  sail'd  away.     Again  they  launch 
Their  vessels  to  the  deep.  —  Who  mounts  the  bark .' 
The  son  of  Owen,  the  beloved  Prince, 
Who  never  for  injustice  rear'd  his  arm. 
Respect  his  enterprise,  ye  Ocean  Waves  ! 
Ye  Winds  of  Heaven,  waft  Madoc  on  his  way  ! 
The  Waves  of  Ocean,  and  the  Winds  of  Heaven, 
Became  his  ministers,  and  Madoc  found 
The  World  he  sought. 

Who  seeks  the  better  land  .' 
Who  mounts  tlio  vessel  for  a  world  of  peace .' 
He  who  hath  fell  the  throb  of  pride,  to  hear 
Our  old  illustrious  annals;  who  was  taught 


To  lisp  the  fame  of  Arthur,  to  revere 
Great  Caratach's  unconquer'd  soul,  and  call 
That  gallant  chief  his  countryman,  who  led 
The  wratli  of  Britain  from  her  chalky  shores 
To  drive  the  Roman  robber.     He  who  loves 
His  country,  and  who  feels  his  country's  shame; 
Whose  bones  amid  a  land  of  servitude 
Could  never  rest  in  peace ;  who,  if  he  saw 
His  children  slaves,  would  feel  a  pang  in  heaven,  — 
He  mounts  the  bark,  to  seek  for  liberty. 

Who  seeks  the  better  land  .'     The  wretched  one, 
Whose  joys  are  blasted  all,  whose  heart  is  sick, 
Who  hath  no  lioj)e,  to  whom  all  change  is  gain. 
To  whom  remember'd  pleasures  strike  a  pang 
That  only  guilt  should  know,  —  he  mounts  the  bark 
The  Bard  will  mount  the  bark  of  banishment; 
The  harp  of  Cambria  shall  in  other  lands 
Remind  the  Cambrian  of  his  fathers'  fame  :  — 
The  Bard  will  seek  the  land  of  liberty. 
The  World  of  peace  —  O  Prince,  receive  the  Bard  I 

He  ceased  the    song.     His   cheek,  now   fever 
flush'd, 
Was  turn'd  to  Madoc,  and  his  asking  eye 
Linger'd  on  him  in  iiope ;  nor  linger'd  long 
The  look  expectant;  forward  sprung  the  Prince, 
And  gave  to  Caradoc  the  right-hand  pledge, 
And  ibr  the  comrade  of  his  enterprise. 
With  joyful  welcome,  hail'd  the  joyful  Bard. 

Nor  needed  now  the  Searcher  of  tiie  Sea 
Announce  his  enterprise,  by  Caradoc 
In  song  announced  so  well ;  from  man  to  man 
The  busy  murmur  spread,  while  from  tlie  Stone 
Of  Covenant  the  sword  was  taken  up, 
And  from  the  Circle  of  the  Ceremony 
The  bards  went  forth,  their  meeting  now  fulfiU'd. 
Tlie  multitude,  unheeding  all  beside, 
Of  Madoc  and  his  noble  enterprise 
Held  stirring  converse  on  their  homeward  way, 
And  spread  abroad  the  tidings  of  a  Land, 
Where  Plenty  dwelt  with  Liberty  and  Peace. 


XII. 
DINEVAWR. 

So  in  the  court  of  Powys  pleasantly. 

With  hawk  and  hound  afield,  and  Jiarp  in  hall. 

The  days  went  by;  till  Madoc,  for  his  heart 

Was  with  Cadwallon,  and  in  early  spring 

Must  he  set  forth  to  join  him  over-sea, 

Took  his  constrained  farewell.     To  Dinevawr 

He  bent  his  way,  whence  many  a  time  with  Rhys 

Had  he  gone  forth  to  smite  Ihe  Saxon  foe. 

The  Son  of  Owen  greets  his  fallier's  friend 

With  reverential  joy  ;  nor  did  the  Lord 

Of  Dinevawr  with  cold  or  deaden'd  heart 

Welcome  the  Prince  he  loved  ;  tliough  not  with  joj 

Unmingled  now,  nor  the  proud  consciousness 

Whicii  in  the  man  of  tried  and  approved  worth 

Could  bid  an  equal  hail.     Henry  had  seen 


348 


MADOC    IN    WALES, 


The  Lord  of  Dinevavvr  between  his  knees 
Vow  homage  ;  yea,  the  Lord  of  Dinevawr 
Had  knelt  in  homage  to  that  Saxon  king, 
Who  set  a  price  upon  liis  father's  head. 
That  Saxon,  on  wliose  soul  his  mother's  blood 
Cried  out  for  vengeance.     Madoc  saw  the  shame 
Which  Rhys  would  fain  have  hidden,  and,  in  grief 
For  the  degenerate  land,  rejoiced  at  heart 
That  now  another  country  was  his  home. 

Musing  on  thoughts  like  these,  did  Madoc  roam 
Alone  along  the  Towy's  winding  shore. 
The  beavers  in  its  bank  had  hollow'd  out 
Their  social  place  of  dwelling,  and  had  damm'd 
The  summer-current,  with  their  perfect  art 
Of  instinct,  erring  not  in  means  nor  end. 
But  as  the  floods  of  spring  had  broken  down 
Their  barrier,  so  its  breaches  unrepair'd 
Were  left;    and  round  the  piles,  which,  deeper 

driven. 
Still  held  their  place,  the  eddying  waters  whirl'd. 
Now  in  those  habitations  desolate 
One  sole  survivor  dwelt:  him  Madoc  saw. 
Laboring  alone,  beside  his  hermit  house  ; 
And  in  that  mood  of  melancholy  thought,  — 
For  in  his  boyhood  he  had  loved  to  watch 
Their  social  work,  and  for  he  knew  that  man 
In  bloody  sport  had  well-nigh  rooted  out 
The  poor  community,  —  the  ominous  sight 
Became  a  grief  and  burden.     Eve  came  on; 
The  dry  leaves  rustled  to  the  wind,  and  fell 
And  floated  on  the  stream ;  there  was  no  voice 
Save  of  the  mournful  rooks,  who  overhead 
Wing'd  their  long  line ;  for  fragrance   of  sweet 

flowers. 
Only  the  odor  of  the  autumnal  leaves ;  — 
All  sights  and  sounds  of  sadness  —  And  the  place 
To  that  despondent  mood  was  ministrant;  — 
Among  the  hills  of  Gwyneth,  and  its  wilds, 
And  mountain  glens,  perforce  he  cherish'd  still 
The  hope  of  mountain  liberty;  they  braced 
And  knit  the  heart  and  arm  of  hardihood ;  — 
But  here,  in  these  green  meads,  by  these  low  slopes 
And  hanging  groves,  attemper'd  to  the  scene. 
His  spirit  yielded.     As  he  loiter'd  on. 
There  came  toward  him  one  in  peasant  garb, 
And  call'd  his  name  ;  — he  started  at  the  sound. 
For  he  had  heeded  not  the  man's  approach ; 
And  now  that  sudden  and  familiar  voice 
Came  on  him,  like  a  vision.     So  he  stood 
Gazing,  and  knew  him  not  in  the  dim  light. 
Till  he  again  cried,  Madoc  !  —  then  he  woke, 
And  knew  the  voice  of  Ririd,  and  sprang  on. 
And  fell  upon  his  neck,  and  wept  for  joy 
And  sorrow. 

O  my  brother  !  Ririd  cried. 
Long,  very  long  it  is  since  I  have  heard 
The  voice  of  kindness  !  —  Let  me  go  with  thee  I 
I  am  a  wanderer  in  my  father's  land, — 
Hoel  he  kill'd,  and  Yorwerth  hath  he  slain  ; 
Llewelyn  hath  not  where  to  hide  his  head 
In  his  own  kingdom;  Rodri  is  in  chains;  — 
Let  me  go  with  thee,  Madoc,  to  some  land 
Where  I  may  look  upon  the  sun,  nor  dread 
The  light  that  may  betray  me ;  where  at  night 


1  may  not,  like  a  hunted  beast,  rouse  up, 
If  the  leaves  rustle  over  me. 

The  Lord 
Of  Ocean  struggled  with  his  swelling  heart. 
Let  me  go  with  thee  ?  — but  thou  didst  not  doubt 
Thy  brother  ?  —  Let  thee  go  ?  —  with  what  a  joy, 
Ririd,  would  I  collect  the  remnant  left,  — 
The  wretched  remnant  now  of  Owen's  house, 
And  mount  the  bark  of  willing  banishment. 
And  leave  the  tyrant  to  his  Saxon  friends. 
And  to  his  Saxon  yoke  !  —  I  urged  him  thus, 
Curb'd  down  my  angry  spirit,  and  besought 
Only  that  I  might  bid  our  brethren  come. 
And  share  my  exile ;  —  and  he  spurn'd  my  prayer  ! 
Thou  hast  a  gentle  pleader  at  his  court ; 
She  may  prevail ;  till  then  abide  thou  here  ;  — 
But  not  in  this,  the  garb  of  fear  and  guilt. 
Come  thou  to  Dinevawr,  —  assume  thyself;  — 
The  good  old  Rhys  will  bid  thee  welcome  there. 
And  the  great  Palace,  like  a  sanctuary. 
Is  safe.     If  then  Queen  Emma's  plea  should  fail. 
My  timely  bidding  hence  shall  summon  thee, 
When  I  shall  spread   the  sail.  —  Nay,  hast  thou 

learnt 
Suspicion .''  —  Rhys  is  noble,  and  no  deed 
Of  treachery  ever  sullied  his  fair  fame  ! 

Madoc  then  led  his  brother  to  the  hall 
Of  Rhys.     I  bring  to  thee  a  supplicant, 

0  King,  he  cried  ;  thou  wert  my  father's  friend  ! 
And  till  our  barks  be  ready  in  the  spring, 

1  know  that  here  the  persecuted  son 
Of  Owen  will  be  sale. 

A  welcome  guest ! 
The  old  warrior  cried ;  by  his  good  father's  soul. 
He  is  a  welcome  guest  at  Dinevawr  I 
And  rising  as  he  spake,  he  pledged  his  hand 
In  hospitality.  —  How  now  !  quoth  he  ; 
This  raiment  ill  beseems  the  princely  son 
Of  Owen  I  —  Ririd  at  his  words  was  led 
Apart ;  they  wash'd  his  feet ;  they  gave  to  him 
Fine  linen,  as  beseem'd  his  royal  race, 
The  tunic  of  soft  texture  woven  well, 
The  broider'd  girdle,  tlie  broad  mantle  edged 
With  fur  and  flowing  low,  the  bonnet  last, 
Form'd  of  some  forest  martin's  costly  spoils. 
The  Lord  of  Dinevawr  sat  at  the  dice 
With  Madoc,  when  he  saw  him,  tlms  array'd, 
Returning  to  the  hall.     Ay  !  this  is  well ! 
The  noble  Chief  exclaim'd  ;  'tis  as  of  yore. 
When  in  Aberfraw,  at  his  father's  board. 
We  sat  together,  after  we  had  won 
Peace  and  rejoicing  with  our  own  right  hands, 
By  Corwen,  where,  commix'd  with  Saxon  blood, 
Along  its  rocky  cliannel  the  dark  Dee 
Roll'd  darker  waters.  —  Would  that  all  his  house 
Had,  in  their  day  of  trouble,  thought  of  me, 
And  honor'd  me  like  this  !     David  respects 
Dehcubarth's  strength,  nor  would  respect  it  less. 
When   such   protection   leagued   its    cause    with 
Heaven. 

I  had  forgot  liis  messenger  !  quolli  he. 
Arising  from  the  dice.     Go,  bid  him  here  ! 
He  came  this  mornintj  at  an  ill-starr'd  hour. 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


349 


To  Madoc  he  pursued ;  my  lazy  grooms 
Had  let  the  hounds  play  havock  in  my  flock, 
And  my  old  blood  was  chafed.     1'  faith,  the  King 
Hath  chosen  well  his  messenger:  —  he  saw 
That,  in  such  mood,  I  might  have  render'd  him 
A  hot  and  hasty  answer,  and  hath  waited. 
Perhaps  to  David's  service  and  to  mine. 
My  better  leisure. 

Now  the  Messenger 
Enter'd  the  hall ;  Goagan  of  Powys-land, 
He  of  Caer-Einion  was  it,  who  was  charged 
From  Gwyneth  to  Ueheubarth  —  a  brave  man. 
Of  copious  speech.     He  told  the  royal  son 
Of  Gryffidd,  the  descendant  of  the  line 
Of  Rhys-ab-Tudyr  mawr,  that  he  came  there 
From  David,  son  of  Owen,  of  the  stock 
Of  kingly  Cynan.     I  am  sent,  said  he. 
With  friendly  greeting ;  and  as  I  receive 
Welcome  and  honor,  so,  in  David's  name, 
Am  I  to  thank  the  Lord  of  Dinevawr. 

Tell  on  !  quoth  Rhys,  the  purport  and  the  cause 
Of  this  appeal. 

Of  late,  some  fugitives 
Came  from  the  South  to  Mona,  whom  the  King 
Received  with  generous  welcome.      Some  there 

were 
Who  blamed  his  royal  goodness  ;  for  they  said, 
These  were  the  subjects  of  a  rival  Prince, 
Who,  perad  venture,  would  with  no  such  bounty 
Cherish  a  northern  suppliant.     This  they  urged, 
I  know  not  if  from  memory  of  old  feuds, 
Better  forgotten,  or  in  envy.     Moved 
Hereby,  King  David  swore  he  would  not  rest 
Till  he  had  put  the  question  to  the  proof. 
Whether  with  liberal  honor  the  lord  Rhys 
Would  greet  his  messenger;  but  none  was  found 
Of  all  who  had  instill'd  that  evil  doubt, 
Ready  to  bear  the  embassy  :  I  heard  it. 
And  did  my  person  tender,  —  for  I  knew 
The  nature  of  Lord  Rhys  of  Dinevawr. 

Well !    quoth   the   Chief,    Goagan    of   Powys- 
land, 
This  honorable  welcome  that  thou  seekest, 
Wherein  may  it  consist .-' 

In  giving  me, 
Goagan  of  Powys-land  replied,  a  horse 
Better  than  mine,  to  bear  me  home  ;  a  suit 
Of  seemly  raiment,  and  ten  marks  in  coin, 
With  raiment  and  two  marks  for  him  who  leads 
My  horse's  bridle. 

For  his  sake,  said  Rhys, 
Who    sent    thee,  thou    shalt    have    the    noblest 

steed 
In  all  my  studs.  —  I  double  thee  the  marks, 
And   give   the   raiment    threefold.       More   than 

this,  — 
Say  thou  to  David,  that  the  guests  who  sit 
At  board  with  me,  and  drink  of  my  own  cup, 
Are  Madoc  and  Lord  Ririd.     Tell  the  King, 
That  thus  it  is  Lord  Rhys  of  Dinevawr 
Delighteth  to  do  honor  to  the  sons 
Of  Owen,  of  his  old  and  honor'd  friend. 


XIII. 

LLEWELYN. 

Farewell,  my  brother,  cried  the  Ocean  Chief; 
A  little  while  farewell !  as  through  the  gate 
Of  Dinevawr  he  pass'd,  to  pass  again 
That  hospitable  threshold  never  more. 
And  thou  too,  O  thou  good  old  man,  true  friend 
Of  Owen,  and  of  Owen's  house,  farewell  ! 
'Twill  not  be  told  me,  Rhys,  when  thy  gray  hairs 
Are  to  the  grave  gone  down ;  but  oftentimes 
In  the  distant  world  I  shall  remember  thee, 
And  think  that,  come  thy  summons  when  it  may. 
Thou  wilt  not  leave  a  braver  man  behind. 
Now  God  be  with  thee,  Rhys  ! 

The  old  Chief  paused 
A  moment  ere  he  answer'd,  as  for  pain  ; 
Then  shaking  his  hoar  head,  I  never  yet 
Gave  thee  this  liand  unwillingly  before  ! 
When  for  a  guest  I  spread  the  board,  my  heart 
Will  think  on  him,  whom  ever  with  most  joy 
It  leap'd  to  welcome  :  should  I  lift  again 
The  spear  against  the  Saxon,  —  for  old  Rhys 
Hath  that  within  him  yet,  that  could  uplift 
The  Cimbric  spear,  —  I  then  shall  wish  his  aid, 
Who  oft  has  conquer'd  with  me  :  when  I  kneel 
In  prayer  to  Heaven,  an  old  man's  prayer  shall  beg 
A  blessing  on  thee  ! 

Madoc  answer'd  not. 
But  press'd  his  hand  in  silence,  then  sprang  up 
And  spurr'd  his  courser  on.     A  weary  way. 
Through  forest  and  o'er  fell.  Prince  Madoc  rode ; 
And  now  he  skirts  the  bay  whose  reckless  waves 
Roll  o'er  the  plain  of  Gwaelod  :  fair  fields, 
And  busy  towns,  and  happy  villages. 
They  overwhelm'd  in  one  disastrous  day ; 
For  they  by  their  eternal  siege  had  sapp'd 
The  bulwark  of  the  land,  while  Seithenyn 
Took  of  his  charge  no  thought,  till,  in  his  sloth 
And  riotous  cups  surprised,  he  saw  the  waves 
Roll  like  an  army  o'er  the  levell'd  mound. 
A  supplicant  in  other  courts,  he  mourn'd 
His  crime  and  ruin;  in  another's  court 
The  kingly  harp  of  Garanhir  was  heard, 
Wailing  his  kingdom  wreck'd  ;  and  many  a  Prince, 
Warn'd  by  the  visitation,  sought  and  gain'd 
A  saintly  crown  —  Tyneio,  Merini, 
Boda,  and  Brenda,  and  Adlgyvarch, 
Gwynon,  and  Celynin,  and  Gwynodyl. 

To  Bardsey  was  the  Lord  of  Ocean  bound  — 
Bardsey,  the  holy  Islet,  in  whose  soil 
Did  many  a  Chief  and  many  a  Saint  repose, 
His  great  progenitors.     He  mounts  the  skiff; 
Her  canvass  swells  before  the  breeze  ;  the  sea 
Sings  round  her  sparkling  keel ;  and  soon  the  Lore 
Of  Ocean  treads  the  venerable  shore. 

There  was  not,  on  that  day,  a  speck  to  stain 
The  azure  heaven ;  the  blessed  Sun  alone, 
In  unapproachable  divinity, 
Career'd,  rejoicing  in  his  fields  of  light. 
How  beautiful,  beneath  the  bright  blue  sky, 


350 


MADOC    IN    WALES, 


The  billows  heave !  one  glowing  green  expanse, 
Save  where  along  the  bending  line  of  shore 
Such  hue  is  thrown,  as  when  the  peacock's  neck 
Assumes  its  proudest  tint  of"  amethyst, 
Enibathed  in  emerald  glory.     All  the  flocks 
Of  Ocean  are  abroad;  like  floating  foam, 
The  sea-gulls  rise  and  fall  upon  the  waves  ; 
With  long,  protruded  neck,  the  cormorants 
Wing  their  far  flight  aloft,  and  round  and  round 
The  plovers  wheel,  and  give  their  note  of  joy. 
It  was  a  day  that  sent  into  the  heart 
A  summer  feeling :  even  the  insect  swarms 
From  their  dark  nooks  and  coverts  issued  forth, 
To  sport  through  one  day  of  existence  more ; 
The  solitary  primrose  on  the  bank 
Seem'd  now  as  though  it  had  no  cause  to  mourn 
Its  bleak  autumnal  birth ;  the  Rocks,  and  Shores, 
The  Forest,  and  the  everlasting  Hills, 
Smiled  in  that  joyful  sunshine,  —  they  partook 
The  universal  blessing. 

To  this  Isle, 
Where  his  forefathers  were  to  dust  consign'd. 
Did  Madoc  come  for  natural  piety. 
Ordering  a  solemn  service  for  their  souls. 
Therefore  for  this  the  Church  that  day  was  dress'd  : 
For  this  the  Abbot,  in  his  alb  arrayed, 
At  the  high  altar  stood ;  for  this  infused. 
Sweet  incense  from  the  waving  thuribule 
Rose  like  a  mist,  and  the  gray  brotherhood 
Chanted  the  solemn  mass.     And  now  on  high 
The  mighty  Mystery  had  been  elevate, 
And  now  around  the  graves  the  brethren 
In  long  arrfiy  proceed  :  each  in  his  hand. 
Tall  as  the  staflTof  some  wayfaring  man. 
Bears  the  brown  taper,  with  their  daylight  flames 
Dimming  the  cheerful  day.     Before  the  train 
The  Cross  is  borne,  where,  fashion'd  to  the  life 
In  shape,  and  size,  and  ghastly  coloring. 
The  awful  Image  hangs.     Next,  in  its  shrine 
Of  gold  and  crystal,  by  the  Abbot  held, 
The  mighty  Mystery  came ;  on  either  hand 
Three  Monks  uphold  above,  on  silver  wands, 
The  purple  pall.     With  holy  water  next 
A  father  went,  therewith  from  hyssop  branch 
Sprinkling  the  graves  :  the  while,  with  one  accord. 
The  solemn  psalm  of  mercy  all  entoned. 

Pure  was  the  faith  of  Madoc,  though  his  mind 
To  all  this  pomp  and  solemn  circumstance 
Yielded  a  willing  homage.     But  the  place 
Was  holy  ;  —  the  dead  air,  which  underneath 
Those  arches  never  felt  the  healthy  sun. 
Nor  the  free  motion  of  the  elements. 
Chilly  and  damp,  infused  associate  awe  : 
The  sacred  odors  of  the  incense  still 
Floated  ;  the  daylight  and  the  taper-flames 
Cojiuninglcd,  dimming  each,  and  each  bedimm'd; 
And  as  the  slow  procession  paced  along. 
Still  to  their  hymn,  as  if  in  symphony. 
The  regular  foot-fall  sounded  :  swelling  now, 
Their  voices,  in  one  chorus,  loud  and  deep. 
Rung  through  the  echoing  aisles;   and  when   it 

ceased. 
The  silence  of  that  huge  and  sacred  pile 
Came  on  the  heart.     What  wonder  if  the  Prince 


Yielded  his  homage  there  ?     The  influences 

Of  tiiat  sweet  autumn  day  made  every  sense 

Alive  to  every  impulse,  —  and  beneath 

Tlie  stones  whereon  he  stood,  his  ancestors 

Were  mouldering,  dust  to  dust.     Father  !  quoth  he, 

When  now  the  rites  were  ended,  —  far  away 

It  hath  been  Madoc's  lot  to  pitch  his  tent 

On  other  shores  ;  there,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Far  from  my  father's  burial-place,  must  I 

Be  laid  to  rest;  yet  would  I  have  my  name 

Be  held  with  theirs  in  memory.     I  beseech  you, 

Have  this  a  yearly  rite  for  evermore. 

As  I  will  leave  endowment  for  the  same. 

And  let  me  be  reniember'd  in  the  prayer. 

The  day  shall  be  a  holy  day  with  me. 

While  I  do  live ;  they  who  come  after  me. 

Will  hold  it  holy ;  it  will  be  a  bond 

Of  love  and  brotherhood,  when  all  beside 

Hath  been  dissolved  ;  and  though  wide  ocean  rolls 

Between  my  peoj)le  and  their  mother  Isle, 

This  shall  be  their  communion  ;  They  shall  send, 

Link'd  in  one  sacred  feeling  at  one  hour. 

In  the  same  language,  the  same  prayer  to  Heaven, 

And,  each  remembering  each  in  piety, 

Pray  for  the  other's  welfare. 

The  old  man 
Partook  that  feeling,  and  some  j)ious  tears 
Fell  down  his  aged  cheek.     Kinsman  and  son. 
It  shall  be  so  !   said  he  ;  and  thou  shalt  be 
Remember'd  in  the  prayer  :  nor  then  alone  ; 
But  till  my  sinking  sands  be  quite  run  out. 
This  feeble  voice  shall,  from  its  solitude, 
Go  up  for  thee  to  Heaven ! 

And  now  the  bell 
Rung  out  its  cheerful  summons ;  to  the  hall. 
In  seemly  order,  pass  the  brotherhood  : 
The  serving-men  wait  with  the  ready  ewer; 
The  place  of  honor  to  the  Prince  is  given. 
The  Abbot's  right-hand  guest ;  the  viands  smoke, 
The  horn  of  ale  goes  round :  and  now,  the  cates 
Removed,  for  days  of  festival  reserved 
Comes  choicer  beverage,  clary,  hippocras. 
And  mead  mature,  that  to  the  goblet's  brim 
Sparkles,  and  sings,  and  smiles.     It  was  a  day 
Of  that  allowable  and  temperate  mirth 
Which  leaves  a  joy  for  memory.     Madoc  told 
His  tale  ;  and  thus,  with  question  and  reply. 
And  cheerful  intercourse,  from  noon  till  nones 
The  brethren  sat ;  and  when  the  quire  was  done, 
Renew'd  their  converse  till  the  vesper  bell. 

But  then  the  Porter  called  Prince  Madoc  out. 
To  speak  with  one,  he  said,  who  from  the  land 
Had  sought  him  and  required  his  private  ear. 
Madoc  in  the  moonlight  met  him:  in  his  hand 
The  stripling  held  an  oar,  and  on  his  back. 
Like  a  broad  shield,  the  coracle  was  hung. 
Uncle  !  he  cried,  and  with  a  gush  of  tears. 
Sprung  to  the  glad  embrace. 

O  my  brave  boy  ! 
Llewelyn !  my  dear  boy  !  with  stifled  voice, 
And  interrupted  utterance,  Madoc  cried ; 
And  many  times  he  clasp'd  him  to  his  breast. 
And  many  times  drew  back  and  gazed  upon  him. 
Wiping  the  tears  away  which  dimm'd  the  sight. 


MADOC    IN    WALES, 


351 


And  told  him  how  liis  heart  liad  yearn'd  for  him, 
As  with  a  father's  love,  and  bade  him  now 
Forsake  his  lonely  haunts,  and  come  with  him, 
And  sail  beyond  the  seas,  and  share  his  fate. 

No  I  by  my  God  !  the  high-hearted  youth  replied, 
It  never  shall  be  said  Llewelyn  left 
His  fatlier's  murderer  on  his  father's  throne  ! 
[  ain  the  riglitful  king  of  this  poor  land. 
Go  thou,  and  wisely  go ;  but  I  must  stay, 
That  I  may  save  my  people.     Tell  me.  Uncle, 
The  story  of  thy  fortunes  ;  I  can  hear  it 
Here  in  this  lonely  Isle,  and  at  this  hour. 
Securely. 

Nay,  quoth  Madoc,  tell  me  first 
Where  are  thy  haunts  and  coverts,  and  what  hope 
Thou  hast  to  bear  thee  up  ?     Why  goest  thou  not 
To  thy  dear  father's  friend  in  Powys-land  ? 
There  at  Mathraval  would  Cyveilioc  give 
A  kinsman's  welcome;  or  at  Dinevawr, 
The  guest  of  honor  shouldst  thou  be  with  Rhys  ; 
And  he  belike  from  David  might  obtain 
Some  recompense,  though  poor. 

What  recompense .' 
Exclaim'd  Llewelyn ;  what  hath  he  to  give. 
But  life  for  life .'  and  what  have  I  to  claim 
But  vengeance,  and  my  father  Yorwerth's  throne  ? 
If  with  aught  short  of  this  my  soul  could  rest, 
Would  I  not  through  the  wide  world  follow  thee. 
Dear  Uncle  !  and  fare  with  thee,  well  or  ill, 
And  show  to  thine  old  age  the  tenderness 
My  childhood  found  from  thee  !  —  What  hopes  I 

have 
Let  time  display.     Have  tliou  no  fear  for  me  ! 
My  bed  is  made  within  the  ocean  caves. 
Of  sea- weeds,  bleach'd  by  many  a  sun  and  shower ; 
I  know  the  mountain  dens,  and  every  hold 
And  fastness  of  the  forest;  and  I  know, — 
What  troubles  him  by  day  and  in  his  dreams,  — 
There's  many  an  honest  heart  in  Gwyneth  yet ! 
But  tell  me  thine  adventure;  that  will  be 
A  joy  to  think  of  in  long  winter  nights, 
When  stormy  billows  make  my  lullaby. 

So  as  they  walk'd  along  the  moonlight  shore. 
Did  Madoc  tell  him  all;  and  still  he  strove. 
By  dwelling  on  that  noble  end  and  aim. 
That  of  his  actions  was  the  heart  and  life. 
To  win  him  to  his  wish.     It  touch'd  the  youth ; 
And  when  the  Prince  had  ceased,  he  heaved  a  sigh, 
Long-drawn  and  deep,  as  if  regret  were  there. 
No,  no  !  he  cried,  it  must  not  be  !  lo,  yonder 
My  native  mountains,  and  how  beautiful 
They  rest  in  the  moonlight !  I  was  nurs'd  among 

them ; 
They  saw  my  sports  in  childhood,  they  have  seen 
My  sorrows,  they  have  saved  me  in  the  hour 
Of  danger ;  —  I  have  vowed,  that  as  they  were 
My  cradle,  they  shall  be  my  monument  I  — 
But  we  shall  meet  again,  and  thou  wilt  find  me, 
When  next  thou  visitest  thy  native  Isle, 
King  in  Aberfraw  ' 

Never  more,  Llewelyn, 
Madoc  replied,  shall  I  behold  the  shores 
Of  Britain,  nor  will  ever  tale  of  me 


Reach  the  Green  Isle  again.     With  fearful  care 
1  choose  my  little  company,  and  leave 
No  traces  of  our  path,  where  Violence, 
And  bloody  Zeal,  and  bloodier  Avarice, 
Might  find  their  blasting  way. 

If  it  be  so,  — 
And  wise  is  thy  resolve  —  the  youth  replied, 
Thou  wilt  not  know  my  fate  ;  — but  this  be  sure, 
It  shall  not  be  inglorious.     I  have  in  me 
A  hope  from   Heaven.     Give    me    thy    blessing, 
Uncle ! 

Llewelyn,  kneeling  on  the  sand,  embraced 
His  knees,  with  lifted  head  and  streaming  eyes 
Listening.     He  rose,  and  fell  on  Madoc's  neck, 
And  clasp'd  him,  with  a  silent  agony, — 
Then  launch'd  his  coracle,  and  took  his  way 
A  lonely  traveller  on  the  moonlight  sea 


XIV. 


LLAIAN. 


Now  hath  Prmce  Madoc  left  the  holy  Isle, 
And  homeward  to  Aberfraw,  through  the  wilds 
Of  Arvon,  bent  his  course.     A  little  way 
He  turn'd  aside,  by  natural  impulses 
Moved,  to  behold  Cadwallon's  lonely  hut. 
That  lonely  dwelling  stood  among  the  hills. 
By  a  gray  mountain-stream ;  just  elevate 
Above  the  winter  torrents  did  it  stand. 
Upon  a  craggy  bank  ;  an  orchard  slope 
Arose  behind,  and  joyous  was  the  scene 
In  early  summer,  when  those  antic  trees 
Shone  with  their  blushing  blossoms,  and  the  flax 
Twinkled  beneath  the  breeze  its  liveliest  green. 
But  save  the  flax-field  and  that  orchard  slope, 
All  else  was  desolate  ;  and  now  it  wore 
One  sober  hue  ;  the  narrow  vale,  which  wound 
Among  the  hills,  was  gray  with  rocks,  that  peer'd 
Above  its  shallow  soil ;  the  mountain  side 
Was  loose  with  stones  bestrown,  which  oftentimes 
Clattered  adown  the  steep,  beneath  the  foot 
Ofstraggling  goat  dislodged  ;  or  tower'd  with  crags. 
One  day  when  winter's  work  hath  loosen'd  them, 
To  thunder  down.     All  things  assorted  well 
With  that  gray  mountain  hue ;  the  low  stone  lines, 
Which  scarcely  seem'd  to  be  the  work  of  man. 
The  dwelling  rudely  rear'd  with  stones  unhewn, 
The  stubble  flax,  the  crooked  apple-trees 
Gray  with  their  fleecy  moss  and  mistletoe, 
The  white-bark'd  birch,  now  leafless,  and  the  ash. 
Whose  knotted  roots  were  like  the  rifted  rock, 
Through  which  they  forced  their  way.     Adown  the 

vale. 
Broken  by  stones,  and  o'er  a  stony  bed, 
Roll'd  the  loud  mountain-stream. 

When  Madoc  came, 
A  little  child  was  sporting  by  the  brook. 
Floating  the  fallen  leaves,  that  ho  might  see  them 
Whirl  in  the  eddy  now,  and  now  be  driven 
Down  the  descent,  now  on  the  smoother  stream 
Sail  onward  far  away.     But  when  he  heard 


352 


MADOC    IN    WALES, 


The  horse's  tramp,  lie  raised  his  liead  and  watch'd 
The  Prince,  who  now  dismounted  and  drew  nigh. 
The  little  boy  still  fix'd  his  eyes  on  him, 
His  bright  blue  eyes  ;  the  wind  just  inaved  the  curls 
That  cluster'd  round  his  brow  ;  and  so  he  stood, 
His  rosy  cheeks  still  lifted  up  to  gaze 
In  innocent  wonder.     Madoc  took  liis  hand, 
And  now  had  ask'd  his  name,  and  if  he  dwelt 
There  in  the  hut,  when  from  that  cottage-door 
A  woman  came,  who,  seeing  Madoc,  stopp'd 
With  such  a  fear,  — for  she  had  cause  for  fear,  — 
As  when  a  bird,  returning  to  hef  nest. 
Turns  to  a  tree  beside,  if  she  behold 
Some  prying  boy  too  near  the  dear  retreat. 
Howbeit,  advancing  soon,  she  now  approach'd 
The  approaching  Prince,  and  timidly  inquired, 
If  on  his  wayfare  he  had  lost  the  track. 
That  thither  he  had  strayed.     Not  so,  replied 
The  gentle  Prince  ;  but  having  known  this  place, 
And  its  old  habitants,  I  came  once  more 
To  see  the  lonely  hut  among  the  hills. 
Hath  it  been  long  your  dwelling  ? 

Some  few  years, 
Here  we  have  dwelt,  quoth  she,  my  child  and  I. 
Will  it  please  you  enter,  and  partake  such  fare 
As  we  can  give .'     Still  timidly  she  spake. 
But  gathering  courage  from  tlie  gentle  mien 
Of  him  with  whom  she  conversed.     Madoc  thank'd 
Her  friendly  proffer,  and  toward  the  hut 
They  went,  and  in  his  arms  lie  took  the  boy. 
Who  is  his  father.''  said  the  Prince,  but  wish'd 
The  word  unutter'd ;  for  thereat  her  cheek 
Was  flush'd  with  sudden  heat  and  manifest  pain  ; 
And  she  replied.  He  perish'd  in  the  war. 

They  enter'd  now  her  home  ;  she  spread  the  board, 
And  set  before  her  guest  soft  curds,  and  cheese 
Of  curd-like  whiteness,  with  no  foreign  dye 
Adulterate,  and  what  fruits  the  orchard  gave, 
And  that  old  British  beverage  which  the  bees 
Had  toil'd  to  purvey  all  the  summer  long. 
Three  years,  said  Madoc,  have  gone  by,  since  here 
I  found  a  timely  welcome,  overworn  [years  ! 

With  toil,  and  sorrow,  and  sickness  —  three  long 
'Twas  when  the  battle  had  been  waged  hard  by. 
Upon  the  plain  of  Arvon. 

She  grew  pale, 
Suddenly  pale  ;  and  seeing  that  he  mark'd 
The  change,  she  told  him,  with  a  feeble  voice. 
That  was  the  fatal  fight  which  widow'd  her. 

O  Christ,  cried  Madoc,  'tis  a  grief  to  think 
How  many  a  gallant  Briton  died  that  day, 
In  that  accursed  strife  !  I  trod  the  field 
When  all  was  over,  —  I  beheld  them  heap'd  — 
Ay,  like  ripe  corn  within  the  reaper's  reach, 
Strown  round  the  bloody  spot  where  Hoel  lay  ; 
Brave  as  he  was,  himself  cut  down  at  last, 
Oppress'd  by  numbers,  gash'd  with  wounds,  yet 

still 
Clinching  in  his  dead  hand  the  broken  sword  !  — 
But  you  are  moved,  —  you  weep  at  what  I  tell. 
Forgive  me,  that,  renewing  my  own  grief, 
I  should  have  waken'd  yours  !  Did  you  then  know 
Prince  Hoel  ? 


She  replied.  Oh,  no !  my  lot 
Was  humble,  and  my  loss  a  humble  one  ; 
Yet  was  it  all  to  me  !     They  say,  quoth  she, — 
And,  as  she  spake,  she  struggled  to  bring  forth 
With  painful  voice  the  interrupted  words,  — 
They  say,  Prince  Hoel's  body  was  not  found  ; 
But  you,  who  saw  him  dead,  perchance  can  tell 
Where  he  was  laid,  and  by  what  friendly  hand. 

Even  where  he  fell,  said  Madoc,  is  his  grave ; 
For  he  who  buried  him  was  one  whose  faith 
Reck'd  not  of  boughten  prayers,  nor  passing  bell 
There  is  a  hawthorn  grows  beside  the  place, 
A  solitary  tree,  nipp'd  by  the  winds, 
That  it  doth  seem  a  fitting  monument 
For  one  untimely  slain. —  But  wherefore  dwell  we 
On  this  ungratei'ul  theme  .' 

He  took  a  harp 
Which  stood  beside,  and  passing  o'er  its  chords. 
Made  music.     At  the  touch  the  child  drew  nigh. 
Pleased   by  the   sound,  and   lean'd   on    Madoc's 

knee. 
And  hade  him  play  again.    So  Madoc  play'd. 
For  he  had  skill  in  minstrelsy,  and  raised 
His  voice,  and  sung  Prince  Hoel's  lay  of  love. 

I  have  harness'd  thee,  my  Steed  of  shining  gray. 
And  thou  shalt  bear  me  to  the  dear  white  walls. 
I  love  the  white  walls  by  the  verdant  bank. 
That  glitter  in  the  sun,  where  Bashfulncss 
Watches  the  silver  sea-mew  sail  along. 
I  love  that  glittering  dwelling,  where  we  hear 
The  ever-sounding  billows;  for  there  dwells 
The  shapely  Maiden,  fair  as  the  sea-spray. 
Her  cheek  as  lovely  as  the  apple  flower, 
Or  summer  evening's  glow.     I  pine  for  her  : 
In  crowded  halls  my  spirit  is  with  her; 
Through  the  long,  sleepless  night  I  think  on  her  ; 
And  happiness  is  gone,  and  health  is  lost. 
And  fled  the  flush  of  youth,  and  I  am  pale 
As  the  pale  ocean  on  a  sunless  morn. 
I  pine  away  for  her,  yet  pity  her, 
That  she  should  spurn  so  true  a  love  as  mine. 

He  ceased,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  child,  — 
And  didst  thou  like  the  song .'  The  child  replied,  — 
Oh,  yes  !  it  is  a  song  my  mother  loves, 
And  so  I  love  it  too.     He  stoop'd  and  kiss'd 
The  boy,  who  still  was  leaning  on  his  knee, 
Already  grown  familiar.     I  should  like 
To  take  thee  with  me,  quoth  the  Ocean  Lord, 
Over  the  seas. 

Thou  art  Prince  Madoc,  then  !  — 
The  mother  cried,  thou  art  indeed  the  Prince  ! 
That  song  —  that  look  —  and  at  his  feet  she  fell, 
Crying  —  Oh  take  him,  Madoc  !  save  the  child  ! 
Thy  brother  Hoel's  orphan  ! 

Long  it  was 
Ere  that  in  either  agitated  heart 
The  tumult  could  subside.     One  while  the  Prince 
Gazed  on  the  child,  tracing  intently  there 
His  brother's  lines;  and  now  he  caught  him  up, 
And  kiss'd  his  cheek,  and  gazed  again  till  all 
Was  dim  and  dizzy,  —  then  blest  God,  and  vow'd 
That  he  should  never  need  a  father's  love. 


MADOC    IN     WALES. 


353 


At  length,  when  copious  tears  luid  now  relieved 
Her  burden'd  heart,  and  many  a  broken  speech 
In  tears  had  died  away,  O  Prince,  she  cried, 
Long  hath  it  been  my  dearest  prayer  to  Heaven, 
That  1  niiglit  sec  thee  once,  and  to  thy  love 
Commit  this  friendless  boy  !     For  many  a  time, 
In  piirase  so  fond  did  Iloel  toll  thy  worth, 
'I'liat  it  hath  waken'd  misery  in  me 
To  think  I  could  not  as  a  sister  claim 
Thy  love  !  and  therefore  was  it  that  till  now 
Thou  knew'st  me  not;  for  1  entreated  him 
That  he  would  never  let  thy  virtuous  eye 
Look  on  my  guilt,  and  make  me  feel  my  shame. 
Madoc,  I  did  not  dare  to  see  thee  then, 
Tliou  wilt  not  scorn  me  now,  —  for  1  have  now 
Forgiven  myself;  and,  while  I  here  perform'd 
A  mother's  duty  in  this  solitude, 
Have  felt  myself  forgiven. 

With  that  she  clasp 'd 
His  hand,  and  bent  her  face  on  it,  and  wept. 
Anon  collecting,  she  pursued,  —  My  name 
Is  Llaian  :  by  tlie  chance  of  war  I  lell 
Into  his  power,  when  all  my  family 
Had  been  cut  off,  all  in  one  hour  of  blood. 
He  saved  me  from  the  ruffian's  hand,  he  sooth'd. 
With  tcnderest  care,  my  sorrow.  —  You  can  tell 
How  gentle  he  could  be,  and  how  his  eyes, 
So  full  of  life  and  kindliness,  could  win 
All  hearts  to  love  him.     Madoc,  I  was  young  ; 
I  had  no  living  friend  ;  —  and  wjien  I  gave 
This  infant  to  his  arms,  when  with  such  joy 
He  view'd  it  o'er  and  o'er  again,  and  press'd 
A  father's  kiss  upon  its  cheek,  and  turn'd 
To  me,  and  made  me  feel  more  deeply  yet 
A  mother's  deep  delight,  —  oh  I  I  was  proud 
To  think  my  child  in  after  years  should  say. 
Prince  Hoel  was  his  father  ! 

Thus  I  dwelt 
In  the  white  dwelling  by  the  verdant  bank, — 
Thougli  not  without  my  melancholy  hours, — 
Happy.     The  joy  it  was  when  1  beheld 
His  steed  of  shining  gray  come  hastening  on. 
Across  the  yellow  sand  !  —  Alas  !  ere  long, 
King  Owen  died.     I  need  not  tell  thee,  Madoc, 
With  what  a  deadly  and  forefecling  fear 
1  heard  how  Hoel  seized  his  father's  throne, 
Nor  with  what  ominous  woe  I  welcomed  him, 
In  that  last,  little,  miserable  hour 
Ambition  gave  to  love.     I  think  his  heart, 
Brave  as  it  was,  misgave  him.     When  I  spake 
Of  David  and  my  fears,  he  smiled  upon  me ; 
But  'twas  a  smile  that  came  not  from  the  heart, — 
A  most  ill-boding  smile  1  —  O  Madoc  !  Madoc  ! 
You  know  not  with  what  misery  I  saw. 
His  parting  steps,  —  with  what  a  dreadful  hope 
I  watch'd  for  tidings  !  —  And  at  length  it  came, — 
Came  like  a  tliunderbolt !  —  I  sought  the  field  ! 

0  Madoc,  there  were  many  widows  there, 

But  none  with  grief  like  mine  I  I  look'd  around  ; 

1  dragg'd  aside  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 

To  search  for  him,  in  vain ;  — and  then  a  hope 
Seized  me,  which  it  was  agony  to  lose  ! 

Night  came.     I  did  not  heed  the  storm  of  night; 
But  for  the  sake  of  this  dear  babe,  I  sought 
45 


Shelter  in  this  lone  hut :   'twas  desolate  ; 

And  when  my  reason  had  return'd,  I  thought 

Tliat  here  the  child  of  Hoel  might  be  safe, 

Till  we  could  claim  thy  care.    But  thou,  meantime, 

Didst  go  to  roam  the  Ocean  ;  so  I  learn'd 

To  bound  my  wishes  here.     The  carkanet, 

The  embroider'd  girdle,  and  what  other  gauds 

Were  once  my  vain  adornments,  soon  were  changed 

For  things  of  profit,  goats  and  bees,  and  this, 

The  tuneful  solace  of  my  solitude. 

Madoc,  the  harp  is  as  a  friend  to  me ; 

I  sing  to  it  the  songs  which  Hoel  loved, 

And  Hoel's  own  sweet  lays  ;  it  comforts  me, 

And  gives  me  joy  in  grief. 

Often  1  grieved. 
To  think  the  son  of  Hoel  should  grow  up 
In  this  unworthy  state  of  poverty  ; 
Till  Time,  who  softens  all  regrets,  had  worn 
That  vain  regret  away,  and  I  became 
Humbly  resign'd  to  Cod's  unerring  will. 
To  him  I  look'd  for  healing,  and  he  pour'd 
His  balm  into  my  wounds.     I  never  form'd 
A  prayer  for  more,  —  and  lo  !  the  happiness 
Which  he  hath,  of  his  mercy,  sent  me  now  ! 


XV. 

THE   EXCOMMUNICATION. 

On  Madoc's  docile  courser  Llaian  sits, 
Holding  her  joyful  boy  ;  the  Prince  beside 
Paces  afoot,  and,  like  a  gentle  Squire, 
Leads  her  loose  bridle ;  from  tiie  saddle-bow 
His  shield  and  helmet  hang,  and  with  the  lance, 
Staff-like,  he  stay'd  his  steps.     Before  tiie  sun 
Had  climb'd  liis  southern  eminence,  they  left 
The  mountain-feet;  and  hard  by  Bangor  now, 
Travelling  the  ])lain  before  them  they  espy 
A  lordly  cavalcade,  for  so  it  seem'd, 
Of  knights,  with  liawk  in  hand,  and   hounds   in 

leash, 
Squires,  pages,  serving-men,  and  armed  grooms, 
And  many  a  sumpter-beast  and  laden  wain, 
Far  following  in  their  rear.     The  bravery 
Of  glittering  bauldricks  and  of  high-plumed  crests, 
Embroider'd  surcoats  and  emblazon'd  shields. 
And  lances  whose  long  streamers  play'd  aloft, 
Made  a  rare  pageant,  as  with  sound  of  trump, 
Tambour  and  cittern,  proudly  they  went  on ; 
And  ever,  at  the  foot-fall  of  their  steeds, 
The  tinkling  horse-bells,  in  rude  symphony, 
Accorded  with  the  joy. 

What  have  we  here  .' 
Quoth  Madoc  then  to  one  wlio  stood  beside 
The  threshold  of  his  osier- woven  hut. 
'Tis  the  great  Saxon  Prelate,  he  return'd. 
Come  hither  for  some  end,  I  wis  not  what. 
Only  be  sure  no  good  !  —  How  stands  the  tide  .•' 
Said  Madoc ;  can  we  pass  ?  —  'Tis  even  at  flood, 
The  man  made  answer,  and  the  Monastery 
Will  have  no  hospitality  to  spare 
For  one  of  Wales  to-day.     Be  ye  content 
To  guest  with  us. 


354 


MA  DOC    IN    WALES. 


He  took  the  Prince's  sword  : 
The  daughter  of  the  house  brought  water  tlien, 
And  wasli'd  the  stranger's  feet;  the  board  was 

spread, 
And  o'er  the  bowl  they  cominun'd  of  the  days 
Ere  ever  Saxon  set  his  liateful  foot 
Upon  the  beautiful  Isle. 

As  so  they  sat, 
The  bells  of  the  Cathedral  rung  abroad 
Unusual  summons.     What  is  this .'  exclaim'd 
Prince  Madoc  ;  let  us  see  !  —  Forthwith  they  went, 
He  and  his  host,  their  way.     They  found  the  rites 
Begun  ;  the  mitred  Baldwin,  in  his  hand 
Holding  a  taper,  at  the  altar  stood. 
Let  him  be  cursed  !  —  were  the  words  which  first 
Assail'd  their  ears, —  living  and  dead,  in  limb 
And  life,  in  soul  and  body,  be  he  curs' d 
Here  and  hereafter  !     Let  him  feel  the  curse 
At  every  moment,  and  in  every  act. 
By  night  and  day,  in  waking  and  in  sleep  ! 
We  cut  him  off  from  Christian  fellowship; 
Of  Christian  sacraments  we  deprive  liis  soul ; 
Of  Christian  burial  we  deprive  his  corpse  ; 
And  when  that  carrion  to  the  Fiends  is  left 
In  unprotected  earth,  thus  let  his  soul 
Be  quench'd  in  hell ! 

He  dash'd  upon  the  floor 
His  taper  down,  and  all  the  ministering  Priests 
Extinguish'd  each  his  light,  to  consummate 
rii3  imprecation. 

Whom  is  it  ye  curse, 
Cried  Madoc,  with  these  horrors  ?     They  replied, 
The  contumacious  Prince  of  Powys-land, 
Cyveilioc. 

What !  quoth  Madoc,  —  and  his  eye 
Grew  terrible,  —  who  is  he  that  sets  his  foot 
In  Gwyneth,  and  with  hellish  forms  like  these 
Dare  outrage  here  Mathraval's  noble  Lord.' 
We  wage  no  war  with  women  nor  with  Priests ; 
But  if  there  be  a  knight  amid  your  train, 
Who  will  stand  forth,  and  speak  before  my  face 
Dishonor  of  the  Prince  of  Powys-land, 
Lo  !   here  stand  I,  Prince  Madoc,  who  will  make 
That  slanderous  wretch  cry  craven  in  the  dust, 
.\nd  eat  his  lying  words  ! 

Be  temperate  I 
Quoth  one  of  Baldwin's  Priests,  who,  Briton  born, 
Mad  known  Prince  Madoc  in  his  father's  court ; 
It  is  our  charge,  throughout  this  Christian  land. 
To  call  upon  all  Christian  men  to  join 
The  armies  of  the  Lord,  and  take  the  cross  ; 
That  so,  in  battle  with  the  Infidels, 
The  palm  of  victory  or  of  martyrdom. 
Glorious  alike,  may  be  their  recompense. 
Tliis  holy  badge,  whether  in  godless  scorn. 
Or  for  the  natural  blindness  of  his  heart, 
Cyveilioc  hath  refused ;  thereby  incurring 
The  pain,  which,  not  of  our  own  impulse,  we 
Inflict  upon  his  soul,  but  at  the  will 
Of  our  most  holy  Father,  from  whose  word 
Lies  no  appeal  on  earth. 

'Tis  well  for  thee. 
Intemperate  Prince  !  said  Baldwin,  that  our  blood 
Flows  with  a  calmer  action  than  thine  own  ! 
Thy  brother  David  hath  put  on  the  cross, 


To  our  most  pious  warfare  piously 

Pledging  his  kingly  sword.     Do  thou  the  like, 

And  for  this  better  object  lay  aside 

Thine  other  enterprise,  which,  lest  it  rob 

Judea  of  one  single  Christian  arm, 

We  do  condemn  as  sinful.     Follow  thou 

The  banner  of  the  church  to  Palestine ; 

So  shalt  thou  expiate  this  rash  offence. 

Against  the  which  we  else  should  fulminate 

Our  ire,  did  we  not  see  in  charity, 

And  therefore  rather  pity  than  resent. 

The  rudeness  of  this  barbarous  land. 

At  that. 
Scorn    tempering    wrath,    yet    anger    sharpening 

scorn, 
Madoc  replied  — Barbarians  as  we  are, 
Lord  Prelate,  we  received  the  law  of  Christ 
Many  a  long  age  before  your  pirate  sires 
Had  left  tlieir  forest  dens :  nor  are  we  now 
To  learn  that  law  from  Norman  or  from  Dane, 
Saxon,  Jute,  Angle,  or  whatever  name 
Suit  best  your  mongrel  race  !  Ye  think,  perchance 
That  like  your  own  poor,  woman-hearted  King, 
We,  too,  in  Gwyneth  are  to  take  the  yoke 
Of  Rome  upon  our  necks;  —  but  you  may  tell 
Your  Pope,  that  when  I  sail  upon  the  seas, 
I  shall  not  strike  a  topsail  for  the  breath 
Of  all  his  maledictions  ! 

Saying  thus. 
He  turn'd  away,  lest  further  speech  niight  call 
Further  reply,  and  kindle  further  wrath, 
More  easy  to  avoid  than  to  allay. 
Tlierefore  he  left  the  church  ;  and  soon  his  mind 
To  gentler  mood  was  won,  by  social  talk 
And  the  sweet  prattle  of  that  blue-eyed  boy, 
Whom  in  his  arms  he  fondled. 

But  when  now 
Evening  had  settled,  to  the  door  there  came 
One  of  the  brethren  of  the  Monastery, 
Who  called  Prince  Madoc  forth.     Apart  they  went, 
And  in  the  low,  suspicious  voice  of  fear, 
Though  none  was  nigh,  the  Monk  began.    Be  calm, 
Prince  Madoc,  while  I  speak,  and  patiently 
Hear  to  the  end  !     Thou  know'st  that,  in  his  life, 
Becket  did  excommunicate  thy  sire 
For  his  unlawful  marriage  ;  but  the  King, 
Feeling  no  sin  in  conscience,  heeded  not 
The  inefficient  censure.     Now,  when  Baldwin 
Beheld  his  monument  to-day,  impell'd, 
As  we  do  think,  by  anger  against  thee. 
He  swore  that,  even  as  Owen  in  his  deeds 
Disovvn'd  the  Church  when  living,  even  so 
The  Church  disown'd  him  dead,  and  that  his  corpse 
No  longer  should  be  sufifcr'd  to  pollute 
The  Sanctuary.  —  Be  patient,  I  beseech, 
And  hear  me  out.     Gerald,  at  this,  who  felt 
A  natural  horror,  sought —  as  best  he  knew 
The  haughty  Primate's  temper  —  to  dissuade 
By  politic  argument,  and  chiefly  urged 
The  quick  iind  fiery  nature  of  our  nation, — 
How,  at  the  sight  of  such  indignity. 
They  would  arise  in  arms,  and  limb  from  limb 
Tear  piecemeal  him  and  all  his  company. 
So  far  did  this  prevail,  that  he  will  now 
Commit  the  deed  in  secret ;  and,  this  night, 


MADOC    IN    WAJ.ES. 


355 


Thy  father's  body  from  its  resting-place, 

0  Madoc  !  sliall  be  torn,  and  cast  aside 

In  some  unliallow'd  pit,  with  foul  disgrace 
And  contumelious  wrong. 

Sayest  thou  to-night  ? 
Quoth  Madoc.     Ay,  at  midniglit,  he  replied. 
Shall  tliis  impiety  be  perpetrated. 
Therefore  hatli  Gerald,  for  the  reverence 
He  bears  to  Owen's  royal  memory. 
Sent  thee  the  tidings.     Now,  be  temperate 
In  thy  just  anger,  i'rince  !  and  shed  no  blood. 
Thou  know'st  how  dearly  the  Plantagenet 
Atones  for  Becket's  death  ;  and  be  thou  sure. 
Though  thou  thyself  shouldst  sail  beyond  tlie  storm, 
That  it  would  fall  on  Britain. 

While  ho  spake, 
Madoc  was  still  ;  tiie  feeling  work'd  too  deep 
For  speech  or  visible  sign.     At  length  he  said. 
What  if  amid  their  midnight  sacrilege 

1  should  appear  among  them .'' 

It  were  well ; 
The  Monk  replied,  if,  at  a  sight  like  that, 
Thou  canst  withhold  thy  hand. 

Oh,  fear  me  not ! 
Good  and  true  friend,  said  Madoc.     I  am  calm. 
And  calm  as  thou  beholdest  me  will  prove 
in  word  and  action.     Quick  I  am  to  feel 
Light  ills,  —  perhaps  o'cr-hasty  :  summer  gnats. 
Finding  my  check  unguarded,  may  infix 
Their  skin-deep  stings,  to  vex  and  irritate; 
But  if  the  wolf  or  forest  boar  be  nigh, 
I  am  awake  to  danger.     Even  so 
Bear  I  a  mind  of  steel  and  adamant 
Against  all  greater  wrongs.     My  heart  hath  now 
Received  its  impulse  ;  and  thou  shalt  behold 
How  in  this  strange  and  hideous  circumstance 
I  shall  find  profit —  Only,  my  true  friend. 
Let  me  have  entrance. 

At  the  western  porch. 
Between  the  complines  and  the  tnatin-bell, — 
The  Monk  made  answer  :  thou  shalt  find  the  door 
Ready.     Thy  single  person  will  suffice  ; 
For  Baldwin  knows  his  danger,  and  the  hour 
Of  guilt  or  fear  convicts  him,  both  alike 
Opprobrious.     Now,  farewell ! 

Then  Madoc  took 
His  host  aside,  and  in  his  private  ear 
Told  him  the  purport,  and  wherein  his  help 
Was   needed.     Night   came   on  ;  the  hearth  was 

heap'd; 
The  women  went  to  rest.     They  twain,  the  while, 
Sat  at  the  board,  and  while  the  untasted  bowl 
Stood  by  them,  watch'd  the  glass  whose  falling 

sands 
Told  out  the  weary  hours.     The  hour  is  come  ; 
Prince  Madoc  holm'd  his  head,  and  from  his  neck 
He  slung  the  bugle-horn;  they  took  their  shields, 
And  lance  in  hand  went  forth.     And  now  arrived. 
The  bolts  give  back  before  them,  and  the  door 
Rolls  on  its  heavy  hinge. 

Beside  the  grave 
Stood  Baldwin  and  the  Prior,  who,  albeit 
Cambrian  himself,  in  fear  and  awe  obey'd 
T\\e  lordly  Primate's  will.    Tliey  stood  and  watch'd 
Their  ministers  perform  the  irreverent  work. 


And  now  with  spade  and  mattock  have  they  broken 

Into  the  house  of  death,  and  now  have  they 

From  the  stone  colfin  wrencli'd  the  iron  cramps. 

When  sudden  interruption  startled  them, 

And  clad  in  complete  mail  from  head  to  foot, 

They   saw    tiie    Prince   come    in.     Their    tapers 

Upon  his  visage,  as  he  wore  his  helm         [gleam'd 

Open  ;  and  when  in  that  pale  countenance,  — 

For  the  strong  feeling  blanch'd  his  cheek, — they 

His  father's  living  lineaments,  a  fear  [saw 

Like  ague  siiook  them.     But  anon  that  fit 

Of  scared  imagination  to  the  sense 

Of  other  peril  yielded,  when  they  heard 

Prince    Madoc's    dreadful    voice.      Stay !    he   ex- 

claim'd, 
As  now  they  would  have  fled  ;  —  stir  not  a  man,  — 
Or  if  I  once  put  breath  into  this  horn, 
All  Wales  will  hear,  as  if  dead  Owen  call'd 
For  vengeance  from  that  grave.     Stir  not  a  man. 
Or  not  a  man  shall  live  I     The  doors  are  watch'd, 
And  ye  are  at  my  mercy  ! 

But  at  that, 
Baldwin  from  the  altar  seized  the  crucifix, 
.And  held  it  forth  to  Madoc,  and  cried  out, 
He  who  strikes  me,  strikes  Him  ;  forbear,  on  pain 

Of  endless 

Peace  !  quoth  Madoc,  and  profane  not 
The  holy  Cross,  with  those  polluted  hands 
Of  midnight    sacrilege  !  —  Peace  I     I    harm    thee 

not,  — 
Be  wise,  and  thou  art  safe .  —  For  thee,  thou  kno w  'st. 
Prior,  that  if  thy  treason  were  divulged, 
David  would  hang  thee  on  thy  steeple  top. 
To  feed  the  steeple  daws.     Obey  and  live  ! 
Go,  bring  fine  linen  and  a  coffer  meet 
To  bear  these  relics  ;  and  do  ye,  meanwhile, 
Proceed  upon  your  work. 

They  at  his  word 
Raised  the  stone  cover,  and  display'd  the  dead, 
In  royal  grave-clothes  habited,  his  arms 
Cross'd  on  the  breast,  with  precious  gums  and  spice 
Fragrant,  and  incorruptibly  preserved. 
At  Madoc's  bidding,  round  the  corpse  they  wrap 
The  linen  web,  fold  within  fold  involved ; 
They  laid  it  in  the  coffer,  and  with  cloth 
At  head  and  foot  filled  every  interval, 
And  press'd  it  down  compact ;  they  closed  the  lid, 
And  Madoc  with  his  signet  seal'd  it  thrice. 
Then  said  he  to  his  host.  Bear  thou  at  dawn 
This  treasure  to  the  ships.     My  father's  bones 
Shall  have  their  resting-place,  where  mine  one  day 
May  moulder  by  their  side.     He  shall  be  free 
In  death,  who  living  did  so  well  maintain 
His  and  his  country's  freedom.     As  for  ye. 
For  j'our  ovvn  safety,  ye,  I  ween,  will  keep 
My  secret  safe.     So  saying,  he  went  his  way. 


XVI. 

DAVID. 

Now  hath  the  Lord  of  Ocean  once  again 
Set  foot  in  Mona.     Llaian  there  receives 


356 


MA  DOC    I'S    WALES, 


Sisterly  greeting  from  the  royal  maid, 
Who,  while  she  tempers  to  tlie  public  eye 
Her  welcome,  safely  to  the  boy  indulged 
In  fond  endearments  of  instinctive  love. 
When  the  first  flow  of  joy  was  overpast, 
How  went  the  equipment  on,  the  Prince  incjuired. 
Nay,  brother,  quoth  Goervyl,  ask  thou  that 
Of  Urien  ;  —  it  hath  been  his  sole  employ 
Daily  from  cock-crow  until  even-song. 
That  he  hath  laid  aside  all  other  thoughts. 
Forgetful  even  of  me  !     She  said  and  smiled 
Playful  reproach  upon  the  good  old  man, 
Who  in  such  chiding  as  affection  loves, 
Dallying  with  terms  of  wrong,  return'd  rebuke. 
There,  Madoc,  pointing  to  the  shore,  he  cried. 
There  are  they  moor'd ;  six  gallant  barks,  as  trim 
And  worthy  of  the  sea  as  ever  yet 
Gave  canvass  to  the  gale.     The  mariners 
Flock  to  thy  banner,  and  the  call  hath  roused 
Many  a  brave  spirit.     Soon  as  Spring  shall  serve, 
There  need  be  no  delay.     1  should  depart 
Without  one  wish  that  lingers,  could  we  bear 
Ririd  from  hence,  and  break  poor  Rodri's  chains. 
Thy  lion-hearted  brother;  —  and  that  boy. 
If  he  were  with  us,  Madoc  !  that  dear  boy, 
Llewelyn  i 

Sister,  said  the  Prince  at  that. 
How  sped  the  Queen  .' 

Oh,  Madoc  I  she  replied, 
A  hard  and  unrelenting  heart  hath  he. 
The  gentle  Enmia  told  me  she  had  fail'd, 
And  that  was  all  she  told  ;  but  in  her  eye 
1  could  see  sorrow^  struggling.     She  complains  not, 
And  yet,  I  know,  in  bitterness  laments 
The  hour  which  brought  her  as  a  victim  here. 

Then  I  will  seek  the  Monarch,  Madoc  cried; 
And  forth  he  went.     Cold  welcome  David  gave, 
Such  as  might  chill  a  suppliant ;  but  the  Prince 
Fearless  began.     I  found  at  Dinevawr 
Our  brother  Ririd,  and  he  made  his  suit 
That  he  might  follow  me,  a  banish'd  man. 
He  waits  thine  answer  at  the  court  of  Rhys. 
Now  I  beseech  thee,  David,  say  to  him, 
His  father's  hall  is  open  ! 

Then  the  King 
Replied,  1  told  thee,  Madoc,  thy  request 
Displeased  me  heretofore  ;  1  warn'd  thee,  too, 
To  shun  the  rebel ;  yet  my  messenger 
Tells  me,  the  guests  at  Dinevawr  who  sat 
At  board  with  Rhys,  and  drank  of  his  own  cup, 
Were  Madoc  and  Lord  Ririd.  —  Was  this  well, 
This  open  disobedience  to  my  will. 
And  my  express  command .' 

Madoc  subdued 
His  rising  wrath.     If  I  should  tell  thee.  Sire, 
He  answered,  by  what  chance  it  so  fell  out, 
I  should  of  disobedience  stand  excused, 
Even  were  it  here  a  crime.     Yet  think  again, 
David,  and  let  thy  better  mind  prevail. 
1  am  his  surety  here  ;  he  comes  alone  ; 
The  strength  of  3'onder  armament  is  mine  ; 
And  when  did  I  deceive  thee  .'  —  I  did  hope, 
For  natural  love  and  public  decency. 
That  ye  would  part  in  friendship  —  let  that  pass  ! 


He  may  remain,  and  join  me  in  the  hour 
Of  embarkation.     But  for  thine  own  sake, 
Cast  off"  these  vile  suspicions,  and  the  fear 
That  makes  its  danger  1     Call  to  mind,  my  brother, 
The  rampart  that  we  were  to  Owen's  throne  ! 
Arc  there  no  moments  when  the  thoughts  and  loves 
Of  other  days  return.'  —  Let  Rodri  loose; 
Restore  him  to  his  birth-right  I  —  W' hy  wouldst  thou 
Hold  him  in  chains,  when  benefits  would  bind 
His  noble  spirit.' 

Leave  me  !  cried  the  King; 
Thou  know'st  the  theme  is  hateful  to  my  ear. 
I  have  the  mastery  now,  and  idle  words, 
Madoc,  shall  never  thrust  me  from  the  throne, 
Which  this  right  arm  in  battle  hardly  won. 
There  must  he  lie  till  nature  set  him  free, 
And  so  deliver  both.     Trespass  no  more  ! 

A  little  yet  bear  with  me,  Madoc  cried. 
1  leave  this  land  forever  :  let  me  first 
Behold  my  brother  Rodri,  lest  he  think 
My  sunmier  love  be  withered,  and  in  wrath 
Remember  me  hereafter. 

Leave  me,  Madoc ! 
Speedily,  ere  indulgence  grow  a  fault, 
Exclaim'd  the  Monarch.    Do  not  teinpt  my  wrath  I 
Thou  know'st  me ! 

Ay  !  the  Ocean  Prince  replied, 
1  know  thee,  David,  and  I  pity  thee, 
Thou  poor,  suspicious,  miserable  man ! 
Friend  hast  thou  none  except  thy  country's  foe. 
That  hateful  Saxon,  he  whose  bloody  hand 
Pluck'd  out  thy  brethren's  eyes;  and  for  thy  kin, 
Them  hast  thou  made  thy  perilous  enemies. 
What  if  the  Lion  Rodri  were  abroad .' 
What  if  Llewelyn's  banner  were  display'd  .' 
The  sword  of  England  could  not  save  thee  then. 
Frown  not,  and  menace  not !  for  what  am  I, 
That  I  should  fear  thine  anger.'  —  And  with  that 
He  turn'd  indignant  from  the  wrathful  king. 


XVII. 

THE   DEPARTURE. 

Winter  hath  pass'd  away ;  the  vernal  storms 
Have  spent  their  rage,  the  ships  are  stored,  and  now 
To-morrow  they  depart.     That  day  a  Boy, 
Weary  and  foot-sore,  to  Aberfraw  came, 
Who  to  Goervyl's  chamber  made  his  way. 
And   caught  the  hem  of  her    garment,   and  ex- 
claim'd, 
A  boon,  — a  boon, —  dear  Lady!     Nor  did  he 
Wait  more  reply  than  that  encouragement. 
Which  her  sweet  eye  and  lovely  smile  bestow'd ; 
I  am  a  poor,  unhappy,  orphan  boy. 
Born  to  fair  promises  and  better  hopes. 
But  now  forlorn.     Take  me  to  be  your  page  I  — 
For  blessed  Mary's  sake,  refuse  me  not! 
1  have  no  friend  on  earth  nor  hope  but  this. 

The  boy  was  fair;   and  though  his  eyes  were 
swollen. 


MADOC    IN    WALES 


357 


And  cheek  defiled  with  tears,  and  though  his  voice 

Came  chok'd  by  grief,  yet  to  that  earnest  eye 

And  supplicating  voice  so  musical. 

It  had  not  sure  been  easy  to  refuse 

Tlie  boon  he  begg'd.     I  cannot  grant  thy  suit, 

Goervyl  cried,  but  1  can  aid  it,  boy !  — 

Go  ask  of  Madoc  !  —  And  herself  arose, 

And  led  him  where  her  brother  on  the  shore 

That  day  the  last  embarkment  oversaw. 

Mervyn  then  took  his  mantle  by  tlie  skirt. 

And  knelt  and  made  his  suit;  she  too  began 

To  sue ;  but  Madoc  smiling  on  the  Maid, 

Won  by  tlie  virtue  of  the  countenance 

Which  look'd  for  favor,  lightly  gave  the  yes. 

Where  wert  thou,  Caradoc,  when  that  fair  boy 
Told  his  false  tale  .'  for  hadst  thou  heard  the  voice, 
The  gentle  voice,  so  musically  sweet, 
And  seen  that  earnest  eye,  it  would  have  heal'd 
Thy  wounded  heart,  and  thou  hadst  voyaged  on. 
The  happiest  man  that  ever  yet  forsook 
His  native  country !     He,  on  board  the  bark, 
Lean'd  o'er  the  vessel-side,  and  there  he  stood 
And  gazed,  almost  unconscious  that  he  gazed. 
Toward  yon  distant  mountains  where  she  dwelt, 
Senena,  his  beloved.     Caradoc, 
Senena,  thy  beloved,  is  at  hand  ! 
Her  golden  locks  are  clipp'd,  and  her  blue  eye 
Is  wanderinsr  throutjh  the  throng  in  search  of  thee. 
For  whose  dear  sake  she  hath  forsaken  all. 
You  deem  her  false,  that  her  frail  constancy 
Sin-unk  from  her  father's  anger,  that  she  lives 
Another's  victim  bride  ;  but  she  hath  fled 
From  that  unnatural  anger  ;  hath  escaped 
The  unnatural  union  ;  she  is  on  the  shore, 
Senena,  blue-eyed  Maid,  a  seemly  boy, 
To  share  thy  fortunes,  to  reward  tiiy  love. 
And  to  the  land  of  peace  to  follow  thee, 
Over  the  ocean  waves. 

Now  all  is  done. 
Stores,  beeves,  and  flocks,  and  water  all  aboard  ; 
The  dry  East  blows,  and  not  a  sign  of  change 
Stains  the  clear  firmament.     The  Sea  Lord  sat 
At  the  last  banquet  in  his  brother's  court. 
And  heard  the  song.    It  told  of  Owen's  fame, 
When,  with  his  Normen  and  assembled  force 
Of  Guienne  and  Gascony,  and  Anjou's  strength. 
The  Fleming's  aid,  and  England's  chosen  troops. 
Along  the  ascent  of  Berwyn,  many  a  day 
The  Saxon  vainly  on  his  mountain  foes 
Di'nounced  his  wrath  ;  for  Mona's  dragon  sons. 
By  wary  patience  baffled  long  his  force. 
Winning  slow  Famine  to  their  aid,  and  help'd 
By  the  angry  Elements,  and  Sickness  sent 
From  Heaven,  and  Fear  that  of  its  vigor  robb'd 
The  healthy  arm  ;  —  tiien  in  quick  enterprise 
Fell  on  his  weary  and  dishearten'd  host. 
Till,  with  defeat,  and  loss,  and  obloquy. 
He  fled  with  all  his  nations.     Madoc  gave 
His  spirit  to  the  song  ;  he  felt  the  theme 
In  every  pulse  ;  the  recollection  came 
Revived  and  heightcn'd  to  intenser  pain. 
That  in  Aberfraw,  in  his  father's  hall, 
He  never  more  should  share  the  feast,  nor  hear 
The  echoing  harp  again  !     His  heart  was  full ; 


And,  yielding  to  its  yearnings,  in  that  mood 

Of  awful  feeling,  he  call'd  forth  the  King, 

And  led  him  from  the  palace-porch,  and  stretcn'd 

His  hand  toward  the  ocean,  and  exclaim'd. 

To-morrow  over  yon  wide  waves  I  go  ; 

To-morrow,  never  to  return,  I  leave 

My  native  land !    O  David,  O  my  brother, 

Turn  not  impatiently  a  reckless  ear 

To  that  affectionate  and  natural  voice 

Which  thou  wilt  hear   no   more  !      Release    our 

brethren  ; 
Recall  the  wanderers  home  ;  and  link  them  to  thee 
By  cordial  confidence,  by  benefits 
Which  bless  the  benefactor.     Be  not  thou 
As  is  the  black  and  melancholy  yew 
That  strikes  into  the  grave  its  baleful  roots, 
And  prospers  on  the  dead  !  —  The  Saxon  King, — 
Think  not  I  wrong  him  now;  —  an  hour  like  this 
Hatli  soften'd  all  my  harsher  feelings  down ; 
Nor  will  I  hate  him  for  his  sister's  sake, 
Thy  gentle  Queen,  —  whom,  that  great  God  may 

bless, 
And,  blessing  her,  bless  thee  and  our  dear  country, 
Shall  never  be  forgotten  in  my  prayers ; 
But  he  is  far  away  ;  and  should  there  come 
The  evil  hour  upon  thee,  —  if  thy  kin, 
Wearied  by  suffering,  and  driven  desperate. 
Should  lift  the  sword,  or  young  Llewelyn  raise 
His  banner,  and  demand  his  father's  throne, — 
Were  it  not  trusting  to  a  broken  reed. 
To  lean  on  England's  aid  ?  —  I  urge  thee  not 
For  answer  now  ;  but  sometimes,  O  my  brother  ! 
Sometimes  recall  to  mind  my  parting  words, 
As  'twere  the  death-bed  counsel  of  the  friend 
Who  loved  thee  best  I 

Tlie  aff'ection  of  his  voice, 
So  mild  and  solemn,  soften'd  David's  heart; 
He  saw  his  brother's  eyes,  suffused  with  tears, 
Shine  in  the  moonbeam  as  he  spake  ;  the  King 
Remembered  his  departure,  and  he  felt 
Feelings  which  long  from  his  disnatured  breast 
Ambition  had  expell'd:  he  could  almost 
Have   follow'd   their  strong  impulse.      From  the 

shore, 
Madoc  with  quick  and  agitated  step 
Had  sought  his  home  ;  the  monarch  went  his  way, 
Serious  and  slow,  and  laid  him  down  that  night 
With  painful  recollections,  and  such  thoughts. 
As  might,  if  Heaven  had  will'd  it,  have  matured 
To  penitence  and  peace. 

The  day  is  come  ; 
The  adventurers  in  Saint  Cybi's  holy  fane 
Hear  the  last  mass,  and,  all  assoil'd  of  sin, 
Partake  the  bread  of  Christian  fellowship. 
Tiien,  as  the  Priest  his  benediction  gave. 
They  knelt,  in  such  an  awful  stillness  hush'd, 
.■\s  with  yet  more  oppression  seem'd  to  load 
The  burden'd   heart.      At  times,    and   half  sup- 

press'd. 
Womanly  sobs  were  heard,  and  manly  cheeks 
Were  wet  with  silent  tears.     Now  forth  they  go, 
And  at  the  portal  of  the  Church  unfurl 
Prince  Madoc's  banner;  at  that  sight,  a  shout 
Burst  from  his  followers,  and  the  hills  and  rocks 
Thrice  echoed  their  acclaim. 


358 


MADOC    IN    WALES. 


There  lie  the  ships, 
Tlieir  sails  all  loose,  their  streamers  rolling  out 
With  sinuous  flow  and  swell,  like  water-snakes. 
Curling  aloft;  the  waves  are  gay  with  boats, 
Pinnace,  and  barge,  and  coracle,  —  the  sea 
Swarms  like  tlie  shore  with  life.     Oh,  what  a  sight 
or  beauty  for  the  spirit  unconcern'd. 
If  heart  there  be  which  unconcern'd  could  view 
A  sight  like  this  !  —  how  yet  more  beautiful 
For  him  whose  soul  can  feel  and  understand 
The  solemn  import  I     Yonder  they  embark  — 
Youth,  beauty,  valor,  virtue,  reverend  age  ; 
Some  led  by  love  of  noble  enterprise. 
Others,  who,  desperate  of  their  country's  weal. 
Fly  from  the  impending  yoke  ;  all  warm  alike 
With  confidence  and  high  heroic  hope, 
And  all  in  one  fraternal  bond  conjoin'd 
By  reverence  to  their  Chief,  the  best  beloved 
That  ever  yet  on  hopeful  enterprise 
Led  gallant  army  forth.     He,  even  now 
Lord  of  himself,  by  faith  in  God  and  love 
To  man,  subdues  the  feeling  of  this  hour, 
The  bitterest  of  his  being. 

At  this  time, 
Pale,  and  with  feverish  eye,  the  King  came  up. 
And  led  him  somewhat  from  the  throng  apart, 
Saying,  I  sent  at  day-break  to  release 
Rodri  from  prison,  meaning  that  with  thee 
He  should  depart  in  peace  ;  but  he  was  gone. 
This  very  night  he  had  escaped  !  —  Perchance  — 
As  I  do  hope  —  it  was  thy  doing,  Madoc  ? 
Is  he  aboard  the  fleet.' 

1  would  he  were  ! 
Madoc  replied;  with  what  a  lighten'd  heart 
Then  should  I  sail  away  !     Ririd  is  there 
Alone  —  alas  !  that  this  was  done  so  late  ! 

Reproach  me  not!  half  sullenly  the  King, 
Answering,  exclaim'd;  Madoc,  reproach  me  not! 
Thou  know'st  how  hardly  I  attain'd  the  throne; 
And  is  it  strange  that  I  should  guard  with  fear 
The  precious  prize  ? — Now  —  when  I  would  have 

taken 
Thy  counsel  —  be  the  evil  on  his  head  ! 
Blame  me  not  now,  my  brother,  lest  sometimes 
I  call  again  to  mind  thy  parting  words 
In  sorrow  ! 

God  be  with  thee  !     Madoc  cried ; 
And  if  at  times  the  harshness  of  a  heart. 
Too  prone  to  wrath,  have  wrong'd  thee,  let  these 

tears 
Efface  all  faults.     I  leave  thee,  O  my  brother, 
With  all  a  brother's  feelings  ! 

So  he  said, 
And  grasp'd,  with  trembling  tenderness,  his  hand, 
Then  calm'd  himself,  and  moved  toward  the  boat. 
Emma,  though  tears  would  have  their  way  and  sighs 
Would  swell,  suppressing  still  all  words  of  woe, 
Follow'd  Goervyl  to  the  e.xtremost  shore. 
But  then  as  on  the  plank  the  maid  set  foot, 
Did  Emma,  staying  her  by  the  hand,  ])luck  out 
The  crucifix,  which  next  her  heart  she  wore 
In  reverence  to  its  relic,  and  she  cried. 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  change  with  me,  dear  Goervyl, — 
Dear  sister,  loved  too  well,  or  lost  too  soon  !  — 


I  shall  betake  me  often  to  my  prayers, 
Never  in  them,  Goervyl,  of  thy  name 
Unmindful;  —  thou  too  wilt  remember  me 
Still  in  thine  orisons;  —  but  God  forefend 
That  ever  misery  should  make  thee  find 
This  Cross  thy  only  comforter ! 

She  said, 
And  kiss'd  the  holy  pledge,  as  each  to  each 
Transferr'd  the  mutual  gift      Nor  could  the  Maid 
Answer,  for  agony,  to  that  farewell ; 
She  held  Queen  Emma  to  her  breast,  and  close 
She  clasp'd  her  with  a  strong,  convulsive  sob, 
Silently.     Madoc  too  in  silence  went. 
But  press'd  a  kiss  on  Emma's  lips,  and  left 
His  tears  upon  her  cheek.     With  dizzy  eyes 
Gazing  she  stood,  nor  saw  the  boat  push  off,  — 
The  dashing  of  the  oars  awaken'd  her; 
She  wipes  her  tears  away,  to  view  once  more 
Those  dear,  familiar  faces;  —  they  are  dim 
In  the  distance  :  never  shall  her  waking  eye 
Behold  them,  till  the  hour  of  happiness. 
When  death  hath  made  her  pure  for  perfect  bliss ! 

Two  hearts  alone  of  all  that  company. 
Of  all  the  thousands  who  beheld  the  scene. 
Partook  unmingled  joy.     Dumb  with  delight. 
Young  Hoel  views  the  ships,  and  feels  the  boat 
Rock  on  the  heaving  waves  ;  and  Llaian  felt 
Comfort,  —  though  sad,  yet  comfort, —  that  for  her 
No  eye  was  left  to  weep,  nor  heart  to  mourn. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  mariners,  with  voice  attuned, 
Timing  their  toil !  and  now,  with  gentle  gales. 
Slow  from  the  holy  haven  they  depart. 


XVIII. 


RODRI. 


Now  hath  the  evening  settled;  the  broad  Moon 
Rolls  through  the  rifted  clouds.     With  gentle  gales 
Slowly  they  glide  along,  when  they  behold 
A  boat  with  press  of  sail  and  stress  of  oar 
Speed  forward  to  the  fleet;  and  now,  arrived 
Beside  the  Chieftain's  vessel,  one  inquires 
If  Madoc  be  aboard.    The  answer  given. 
Swift  he  ascended  up  the  lofty  side. 
With  joyful  wonder  did  the  Ocean  Lord 
Again  behold  Llewelyn  ;  but  he  gazed 
Doubtfully  on  his  comrade's  countenance, — 
A  meagre  man,  severe  of  brow,  his  eye 
Stern.     Thou  dost  view  me,  Madoc,  he  exclaim'd. 
As  'twere  a  stranger's  face.     I  marvel  not! 
The  long  afilictions  of  my  prison-house 
Have  changed  me. 

Rodri !  cried  the  Prince,  and  fell 
Upon  his  neck  ;  —  last  night,  subdued  at  length 
By  my  solicitations,  did  the  King 
Send  to  deliver  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  share 
My  happy  enterprise;  —  and  thou  art  come, 
Even  to  my  wish  ! 

Nay,  Madoc,  nay,  not  so ' 
He  answered,  with  a  stern  and  bitter  smile  ; 


NOTES    TO    MAIOC    IN    WALES 


355 


This  <rallant  boy  hath  given  me  liberty, 
And  1  will  j)ay  him  with  liis  father's  throne  ; 
Ay,  by  my  father's  soul !  —  Last  night  we  fled 
The  house  of  bondage,  and  in  the  sea-caves 
By  day  we  lurk'd  securely.     Here  I  come, 
Only  to  see  thee  once  before  I  die, 
And  say  farewell,  —  dear  brother! 

Would  to  God 
This  purpose   could   be  changed !    the  Sea  Lord 

cried ; 
But  thou  art  roused  by  wrongs,  and  who  shall  tame 
That  lion  heart?  —  This  only,  if  your  lot 
Fall  favorable,  will  I  beseech  of  ye. 
That  to  his  Queen,  the  fair  Plantagenet, 
All  honorable  humanity  ye  show. 
For  her  own  virtue,  and  in  gratitude, 
As  she  hath  pleaded  for  you,  and  hath  urged 
Her  husband  on  your  part,  till  it  hath  turn'd 
His  wrath  upon  herself     Oh  !  deal  ye  by  her 
As  by  your  dearest  sister  in  distress, 
For  even  so  dear  is  she  to  Madoc's  heart : 
And  now  I  know  she  from  Aberfraw's  tower 
Watcheth  these  specks  upon  the  moonlight  sea. 
And  weeps  for  my  departure,  and  for  me 
Sends  up  her  prayers  to  Heaven,  nor  thinks  that 

now 
1  must  make  mine  to  man  in  her  behalf! 

Quoth  Rodri,  Rest  assured  for  her.     I  swear. 
By  our  dead  mother,  so  to  deal  v/ith  her 
As  thou  thyself  wouldst  dictate,  as  herself 
Shall  wish. 

The  tears  fell  fast  from  Madoc's  eyes; 
O  Britain  I  O  ray  country  !  he  exclaim'd. 
For  ever  thus  by  civil  strife  convulsed. 
Thy  children's  blood  flowing  to  satisfy 
Thy  children's  rage,  how  wilt  thou  still  support 
The  struggle  with  the  Saxon  ? 

Rodri  cried, 
Our  strife  shall  not  be  long.     Mona  will  rise 
With  joy,  to  welcome  me,  her  rightful  Lord; 
And  woe  be  to  the  King  who  rules  by  fear, 
When  danger  comes  against  him  ! 

Fear  not  thou 
For  Britain  I  quoth  Llewelyn  ;  for  not  yet 
The  country  of  our  fathers  sliall  resign 
Her  name  among  the  nations.     Though  her  Sun 
Slope  from  his  eminence,  the  voice  of  man 
May  yet  arrest  him  on  his  downward  wa3^ 
My  dreams  by  day,  my  visions  in  the  night, 
Are  of  her  welfare.     I  shall  mount  the  throne, — 
Yes,  Madoc !  and  the  Bard  of  years  to  come, 
Who  harps  of  Arthur's  and  of  Owen's  deeds. 
Shall  with  the  Worthies  of  his  country  rank 
Llewelyn's  name.     Dear  Uncle, fare  thee  well!  — 
And  I  almost  could  wish  I  had  been  born 
Of  humbler  lot,  that  I  might  follow  thee, 
Companion  of  this  noble  enterprise. 
Think  of  Llewelyn  often,  who  will  oft 
Remember  thee  in  love  ! 

For  the  last  time 
He  press'd  his  Uncle's  hand,  and  Rodri  gave 
The  last  farewell ;  then  went  the  twain  their  way. 

So  over  ocean  through  the  moonlight  waves, 


Prince  Madoc  sail'd  witii  all  his  compan}'. 
No  nobler  crew  filled  that  heroic  bark. 
Which  bore  the  first  adventurers  of  the  deep 
To  seek  the  Golden  Fleece  on  barbarous  shores : 
Nor  richlier  fraught  did  that  illustrious  fleet 
Home  to  the  Happy  Island  hold  its  way. 
When  Amadis,  with  his  prime  chivalry. 
He  of  all  chivalry  himself  the  flower. 
Came  from  the  rescue,  proud  of  Roman  spoils, 
And  Oriana,  freed  from  Roman  thrall. 


NOTES  TO  MADOC  IN   WALES. 

Silent  and  thoughtful,  and  apart  from  aV, 
Stood  Madoc  — 1.  p.  327,  col.  2. 

Long  aft«r  these  lines  had  heen  written,  I  was  pleased  at 
finding  the  same  feeling  e.xprcssed  in  a  very  singular  specimen 
of  metrical  autobiography : 

^  JVuo,  despregando  a,i  velas 

Ja  se  aprovcita  do  venlo  ; 
E  de  emdente  alegria 

Os  Portugarzes  ja  chcios 

Sohrc  0  conre.<!  estam  todos ; 

JV'iz  terra  se  vam  revcndo 
IgrejaSj  Pulacios,  (^uhitas, 

De  que  tern  conhecimeiito, 

Daijvi,  dalli  apontando 

Vam  ledamente  co  dedo. 
Todos  fallando  demostram 

Seus  jubilos  manifestos ; 

Mas  0  Vieira  occupado 

Vai  de  hum  notavel  silencio 
Sea  ezcessivo  alvorogo 

Tumultuante,  que  dentro 

J^o  peito  scnte,  Ihe  causa 

De  sobresalto  os  effcitos. 
Quanta  viais  elle  chegando 

Vai  ao  suspirodo  termo, 

Mais  se  Ihe  augmrnta  o  gostoso 

Suslo  no  doce  projecto. 

Vieira  Lusitano. 


Mona,  the  dark  island.  —  I.  p.  328,  col.  I. 
Ynys  Dow7jU,  the  dark  island. 


Aberfraw.  —  I.  p.  328,  col.  1. 

The  palace  of  Gwyncdd,  or  North  Wales.  Rhodri  Mawr, 
about  the  year  873,  fixed  the  scat  of  government  herCj  which 
had  formerly  been  at  Dyganwy,  but  laltorly  at  Caer  Seiont 
in  Arvon,  near  the  present  town  of  Caernarvon.  "  It  is 
strange,"  says  Warrington,  "  that  he  should  desert  a  country 
where  every  mountain  was  a  natural  fortress,  and  in  times  of 
such  difficulty  and  danger,  should  make  choice  of  a  residence 
so  exposed  and  defenceless."  But  this  very  danger  may  have 
been  his  motive.  The  Danes,  who  could  make  no  impression 
upon  England  against  the  great  Alfred,  had  turned  their  arms 
upon  Wales  ;  Mona  was  the  part  most  open  to  their  ravages. 
and  it  may  have  I)cen  an  act  as  well  of  policy  as  of  courage  in 
the  king  to  fix  his  abode  there.  lie  fell  there,  at  length,  in 
battle  against  the  Saxons.  A  barn  now  stands  upon  the  site 
of  the  palace,  in  which  tliere  are  stones  that,  by  their  better 
workmanship,  appear  to  have  belonged  to  the  original  building. 


Richly  irould  the  kinn 


niciinj  iroiiia  me  lung 
Gift  tlie  red  hand  that  rid  him  of  thatfiar!  —  I.  p.  328,  col.  1. 

"  It  was  the  manner  of  those  days,  that  the  murtberer  only, 
and  he  that  gave  the  death's  wound,  should  fly,  which  was 


3G0 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


cal  -il  in  Welsh  Llawrudd,  which  is  a  red  hiind,  because  he 
lia/,  'iloiiduil  his  hands.  'J'he  acccbsories  and  aljottors  to  tho 
mu.lierers  were  never  hearkened  after."  —  Gwydir  History. 


David  '.  King  Omen's  son  —  my  failures  son  — 

He  irted  the  Sazon —  tlie  Plantagcnet !  —  \.  p.  328,  col.  2. 

This  marriage  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  means  whereby  Henry 
succeeded  for  a  time  in  breaking  tlie  independent  spirit  of  the 
Welsh.  David  immediately  sent  a  thousand  men  to  serve 
under  his  brother-in-law  and  liege  lord  in  Normandy,  and 
sliortly  after  attended  the  parliament  at  Oxford  upon  his 
summons. 


He  is  the  headstrong  slave 
Of  passions  unsubdued. —  I.  p.  329,  col.  1. 

Caradoc  represents  Davydd  as  a  prince  greatly  disliked  on 
account  of  his  cruelty  and  untractablc  spirit,  killing  and 
[lutting  out  the  eyes  of  those  who  were  not  subservient  to  his 
will;  after  the  manner  of  the  English !  —  Cambrian  Biography. 


T7te  guests  were  seated  at  the  festal  board.  —  II.  p.  329,  col.  1. 

The  order  of  the  royal  hall  was  established  by  law. 

"  The  men  to  whom  the  right  of  a  seat  in  the  hall  belongs 
are  fourteen,  of  whom  four  shall  sit  in  the  lower,  and  ten  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  hall.  The  king  is  the  tirst ;  he  shall  sit 
at  the  pillar,  and  next  him  the  chancellor ;  and  after  him  the 
guest,  and  then  the  heir  apparent,  and  then  the  master  of  the 
hawks.  The  foot-bearer  shall  sit  by  the  dish  opposite  the 
king,  and  tlie  mead-maker  at  the  pillar  behind  him.  The 
priest  of  the  houseliold  shall  be  at  another  pillar,  who  shall 
bless  the  meat,  and  chant  the  pater  noster.  The  crier  shall 
strike  the  pillar  above  tho  king's  head.  Next  him  shiill  be 
the  judge  of  the  palace,  and  next  to  him  tho  musician,  to 
whom  tho  right  of  the  seat  belongs  The  smith  of  the  palace 
sli;ill  be  at  the  bottom,  before  the  knees  of  the  priest.  The 
master  of  the  palace  shall  sit  in  the  lower  hall,  with  his  left 
hand  towanis  the  door,  with  tho  serving-men  whom  he  sliall 
choose,  and  the  rest  shall  be  at  the  other  side  of  the  door,  and 
at  his  other  hand  the  musician  of  the  houseliold.  The  master 
of  the  horse  shall  sit  at  the  pillar  opposite  the  king,  and  the 
master  of  the  hounds  at  the  pillar  opposite  the  priest  of  the 
household."  —  Laws  of  Hoel  Dhu'. 


Keiriog  —  and  Berioyn''s  after-strife.  —  II.  p.  329,  col.  2. 

"  llGd.  The  king  gathered  another  armie  of  chosen  men, 
through  all  his  dominions,  as  England,  Normandy,  Anjow, 
Gascoine,  and  Gwyen,  sending  for  succours  from  Flanders 
and  Brytain,  and  then  returned  towards  North  Wales,  minding 
utterlie  to  destroy  all  that  had  life  in  the  land  ;  and  coming  to 
Croes  Oswalt,  called  Oswald's  Tree,  incamped  there.  On  the 
contrarie  side.  Prince  Owen  and  his  brother  Cadwallader,  with 
all  the  power  of  North  Wales  ;  and  the  Lord  Recs,  with  the 
power  of  South  Wales;  and  Owen  Cyveilioc  and  the  sonnes 
of  Madoc  ap  Meredyth,  with  the  power  of  Powyss,  and  the 
two  sonnes  of  Madoc  ap  Ednerth,  with  the  people  betwixt 
AVye  and  Seavern,  gathered  themselves  togither  and  came  to 
Corwen  in  Edeyrneon,  proposing  to  defend  their  country. 
But  the  king  understanding  that  they  were  nigh,  being  won- 
derful desirous  of  battell,  came  to  the  river  Ceireoc,  and 
caused  the  woods  to  be  hewn  down.  Whereupon  a  number 
of  the  Welshmen  understanding  the  passage,  unknown  to 
their  captains,  met  with  the  king's  ward,  where  were  placed 
the  picked  men  of  all  the  armie,  and  there  began  a  bote 
skirmish,  where  diverse  worthio  men  were  slainc  on  cither 
side  ;  but  in  the  end  the  king  wanno  the  passage,  and  came  to 
the  mountain  of  Berwyn,  where  he  laid  in  campe  certaine 
days,  and  so  both  the  armies  stood  in  awe  of  each  other ;  for 
the  king  kept  the  open  plains,  and  was  afraid  to  be  intrapped 
in  straits  ;  but  the  Welshmen  watched  for  the  advantage  of 
the  place,  and  keiit  the  king  so  straitlic,  that  neither  forage 
nor  victuall  might  come  to  his  camp,  neither  durst  anie  s<il- 
diour  stir  abroad.     .\nd  to  augment  their  miseries  there  fell 


such  raine,  that  the  king's  men  could  scant  stand  upon  then 
feete  upon  those  slipperie  hilles.  In  the  end,  the  king  vvas 
compelled  to  return  home  without  bis  purpose,  and  that  with 
great  loss  of  men  and  munition,  besides  his  charges.  There- 
fore in  a  great  rlioler  he  caused  the  pledges  eies,  whom  he 
had  received  long  before  that,  to  be  put  out ;  which  were 
Rees  and  Cawdwalhon  the  sonnes  of  Owen,  and  Cynwric  and 
Meredith  tho  sonnes  of  Recs,  and  other."  —  Powell. 

During  the  military  expedition  which  King  Henry  II.  made 
in  our  days  against  South  Wales,  an  old  Welshman  at  Pen- 
caduir,  who  had  faithfully  adhered  to  him,  being  desired  to 
give  an  opinion  about  the  royal  army,  and  whether  he  thonibt 
that  of  the  rebels  would  make  resistance,  and  what  would  be 
the  final  event  of  this  war,  replied  :  —  "  This  Nation,  O  king, 
may  now,  as  in  former  time,  be  harassed,  and  in  a  great  meas- 
ure weakened  and  destroyed  by  you  and  other  powers,  and 
it  will  often  prevail  by  its  laudable  exertions  ;  hut  it  can  never 
be  totally  subdued  through  wrath  of  man,  unless  the  wrath  of 
God  shall  concur.  Nor  do  I  think,  that  any  other  nation 
than  this  of  Wales,  or  any  other  language  whatever,  may 
hereafter  come  to  pass,  shall  in  the  day  of  severe  examination 
before  the  Supreme  Judge  answer  for  this  corner  of  the 
earth." —  Hoare's  Giraldus. 


The  font  that  day,  who,  in  his  masque  attire. 
Sported  before  King  Henry.  — II.  p.  329,  col.  2. 

"  Brienston  in  Dorsetshire  was  held  in  grand  sergeantry  by 
a  pretty  odd  jocular  tenure ;  viz.  by  finding  a  man  to  go 
before  the  king's  army  for  forty  days,  when  he  should  make 
war  in  Scotland,  (some  records  say  in  Wales,)  bareheaded  and 
barefooted,  in  his  shirt  and  linen  drawers,  holding  in  one 
hand  a  bow  without  a  string,  in  another  an  arrow  without 
feathers."  —  Gibson's   Camden. 


Though  I  knew 
The  rebel's  worth.  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  1. 

There  is  a  good  testimony  to  Hoel's  military  talents  in  the 
old  history  of  Cambria,  by  Powell.  "  At  this  time  Cadel, 
Meredytb,  and  Rees,  the  sons  of  Gruflyth  apRees,  apTheodor, 
did  lead  their  powers  against  the  castle  of  Gwys  ;  which,  after 
they  saw  they  could  not  win,  they  sent  for  Howel  the  Sonne  of 
Owen,  prince  of  \ortli  Wales  to  their  succour,  who  for  his 
prowcsse  in  the  field,  and  his  discretion  in  consultation,  was 
counted  the  flowre  of  chivalrie  ;  whose  presence  also  was 
thought  only  sufficient  to  overthrow  anie  hold." 


IlMte  the  Saron  .'  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  1. 

Of  this  name,  Saxon,  which  the  Welsh  still  use,  Higden 
gives  an  odd  etymology.  "  Men  of  that  cowntree  ben  more 
lyghter  and  stronger  on  the  see  than  other  scommers  or  theeves 
of  the  see,  and  pursue  tbeyr  enemyes  full  liatde,  both  by 
water  and  by  londo,  and  ben  called  Saxones,  of  Saxum,  that 
is,  a  stone,  for  they  ben  as  hard  as  stones,  and  uneasy  to  fare 
with."  —  Polycronycon ,  l  26. 


Seest  thou  never 
Those  eyeless  spectres  by  thy  bridal  bed  1  — 11.  p.  330,  col.  1. 

Henry,  in  his  attempt  upon  Wales,  ll(i,5,  "did  justice  on 
the  sons  of  Rhys,  and  also  on  the  sons  and  daughters  of  other 
noblemen  that  were  his  accomjilices,  very  rigorously  ;  causing 
tho  eyes  of  the  young  striplings  to  he  peeked  out  of  their 
heads,  and  their  noses  to  be  cut  off  or  slit ;  and  the  earrs  of 
the  young  gentlewomen  to  be  stuffed.  But  yet  I  find  in 
other  authors  that  in  this  journey  King  Henry  did  not  greatly 
prevail  against  his  enemies,  but  rather  lost  many  of  bis  men  of 
war,  both  horsemen  and  footmen  ;  for  by  his  severe  proceeding 
against  them  he  rather  made  them  more  eager  to  seek  revenge, 
than  quieted  them  in  any  tumult."  —  Holi>shed.  Among 
these  unhappy  hostages  were  some  sons  of  Owen  Gwynedh. 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN   WALES, 


3G1 


Tlie  page, 
IVIio  chafed  khfiel.  — 11.  p  330,  col.  1. 

"  The  foot-bearer  sliull  hold  llie  foet  of  the  king  in  his  lap 
from  till!  time  when  he  reclines  *  iit  the  board  till  he  goes  to 
rest,  anil  he  shall  chafe  them  with  a  towel;  and  during  all 
th  It  time  he  shall  watch  that  no  hurt  happen  to  the  king. 
lie  shall  eat  of  the  same  dish  from  which  the  king  takes  his 
meat,  having  his  hack  turned  toward  the  fire.  He  shall  light 
the  first  cand.a  before  the  king  at  his  meal."  —  Laics  of  Hod 
Dka\ 


The  officer  procluitn'd  the  sovereign  mill.  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  2. 

The  crier  to  command  silence  was  one  of  the  royal  house- 
hold ;  first  he  performed  this  service  hy  his  voice,  then  by 
striking  with  the  rod  of  his  office  the  pillars  above  the  king's 
head.  A  fine  was  due  to  him  for  every  disturbance  in  the 
nourt. 


The  clurf  of  Barils 
Then  raised  the  ancient  lay.  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  2. 

The  lines  which  follow  represent  the  Bardic  system,  as 
laid  down  in  the  following  Triads  of  Bardism. 

"  12.  There  are  three  Circles  of  Existence:  the  Circle  of 
Infinity,  where  there  is  nothing  but  God,  of  living  or  dead, 
and  none  but  God  can  traverse  it ;  the  Circle  of  Incboation, 
where  all  things  are  hy  Nature  derived  from  Death,  —  this 
Circle  hath  been  traversed  by  man  ;  and  the  Circle  of  Hap- 
piness, where  all  things  spring  from  Life,  —  this  man  shall 
traverse  in  Heaven. 

"  13.  Animated  Beings  have  three  States  of  Existence  :  that 
of  Inclination  in  the  Great  Deep,  or  I^owest  point  of  Ex- 
istence ;  that  of  Liberty  in  the  state  of  Humanily  ;  and  that 
of  Love,  which  is  Happiness  in  Heaven. 

"  14.  .'Vll  animated  Beings  are  subject  to  three  Necessities  ; 
beginning  in  the  Great  Deep  ;  I'rogression  in  the  Circle  of  In- 
cboation ;  and  Plenitude  in  the  Circle  of  Happiness.  Without 
these  things  nothing  can  possibly  exist  but  God. 

"  15.  Three  things  are  necessary  in  the  Circle  of  Incbo- 
ation ;  the  least  of  all  animation,  and  thence  Beginning;  the 
materials  of  all  things,  and  thence  Increase,  which  cannot  take 
place  in  any  other  state  ;  the  formation  of  all  things  out  of 
the  dead  mass,  and  thence  Discriminate  Individuality. 

"  16.  Three  things  cannot  but  exist  towards  all  animated 
Beings  from  the  nature  of  Divine  Justice  :  Co-sufferance  in 
the  Circle  of  Incboation,  because  without  that  none  could 
attani  to  the  perfect  knowledge  of  any  thing  ;  Co-partici])ation 
iji  the  Divine  love  ;  and  (^o-ultimity  from  the  nature  of  God's 
Power,  and  its  altril)utes  of  Justice  and  Mercy. 

"  17.  There  are  three  necessary  occasions  of  Incboation  :  to 
collect  the  materials  and  properties  of  every  nature  ;  to  collect 
the  knowledge  of  every  thing;  and  to  collect  power  towards 
subduing  the  Adverse  and  the  Devastative,  and  for  the  di- 
vestation  of  Evil.  Without  this  traversing  every  mode  of 
animated  existence,  no  state  of  animation,  or  of  any  thing  in 
nature,  can  attain  to  Plenitude." 


Tdl  evil  shall  be  knoxcn, 
Jlnd,  being  known  as  evil,  cease  to  be.  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  2. 

"  By  the  knowledge  of  three  things  will  all  Evil  and  Death 
be  diminished  and  subdued:  their  nature,  their  cause,  and 
their  operation.  This  knowledge  will  be  obtained  in  the  Cir- 
cle of  Happiness." —  Triads  of  Bardism,  Tr.  35. 


Death, 
The  Enlarger. —11.  p.  330,  col.  2. 

Angau,  the  Welsh  word  for  Death,  signifies  Enlargement. 


TTie  eternal  newness  of  eternal  joy.  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  2. 
JVefoedil,  the  Welsh  word  for  Heaven,  signifies  Renovation. 

'  Accubu-erit  is  llic  word  in  Wotton's  vereioQ.  It  is  evident  that  the 
tiiiie:  must  liavc  lain  nt  hia  meal,  after  the  Roman  fashion,  or  this  petlifer 
could  not  have  chafed  his  feet. 

46 


"  The  three  Excellencies  of  changing  the  mode  of  Existence 
in  the  ('ircle  of  Happiness  :  Ac(|uisition  of  K[iowle<lge  ;  beau- 
tiful Variety  ;  and  Repose,  from  not  being  able  to  endure 
uniform  Infinity  and  uninterrupted  Eternity. 

"  Three  things  none  but  God  can  do  :  endure  the  Eternities 
of  the  Circle  of  Infinity  ;  participate  of  every  state  of  Ex- 
istence without  changing;  and  reform  and  renovate  every 
thing  without  the  loss  of  it. 

"The  three  Plenitudes  of  Happiness:  Participation  of 
every  nature,  with  a  plenitude  of  One  predominant ;  con- 
formity to  every  cast  of  genius  and  character,  possessing  su- 
perior fxcollence  in  One;  the  Love  ofall  Beings  and  Existences, 
but  chiefly  concentred  in  one  object,  which  is  God  :  and  in 
the  predominant  One  of  each  of  these  will  the  Plenitude  of 
Happiness  consist."  —  Triads  of  Bardism,  40,  38,  45 


....     he  struck  the  harp 
To  Owen^s praise.  —  II.  p.  330,  col.  2. 

"  I  will  extol  the  generous  Hero,  descended  from  the  race 
of  Roderic,  the  bulwark  of  his  country,  a  Prince  eminent  for 
his  good  qualities,  the  glory  of  Britain  :  Owen,  the  bravo  and 
expert  in  arms,  that  neither  hoardeth  nor  coveteth  riches. 

"Three  fleets  arrived,  vessels  of  the  main,  three  powerful 
fleets  of  the  first  rile,  furiously  to  attack  hini  on  the  sudden  : 
one  from  Iwerddon,*  the  other  full  of  well-armed  Loch- 
lynians,  making  a  grand  appearance  on  the  Hooils,  the  third 
from  the  transmarine  Normans,  which  was  attended  with  an 
immense  tliongb  successless  toil. 

"  The  dragons  of  Mona's  sons  were  so  brave  in  action,  that 
there  was  a  great  tumult  on  their  furious  attack  ;  and  before 
the  prince  himself  there  was  vast  confusion,  havoc,  conHiet, 
honorable  death,  bloody  battle,  horrible  consternation,  and 
upon  'i"al  Mavra,  a  thousand  banners :  there  was  an  out- 
rageous carnage,  and  the  rage  of  spears  a[id  hasty  signs  of 
violent  indignation.  Blood  raised  the  tide  of  the  Menai,  and 
the  crimson  of  human  goi^  stained  the  brine.  There  were 
glittering  cuirasses,  and  the  agony  of  gashing  wounds,  and 
the  mangled  warriors  prostrate  before  the  chief,  distinguished 
by  his  crimson  lance.  Loegria  was  put  into  confusion  ;  the 
contest  and  confusion  was  gieat,  and  the  glory  of  our  Prince's 
wide-wasting  sword  shall  be  celebrated  in  an  hundrerl  lan- 
guages to  give  him  his  merited  praise." — Panegyric  vpon 
Owen  Gwynedd,  Prince  cfJVorth  Wales,  by  Gwalchmai  llie  son 
of  Melir,  in  tlte  year  1157.  —  Eva.ns's  Specimens  of  Welsh 
Poetry. 


Dinevawr.  —  III.  p.  331,  col.  ]. 

Dinas  Vawr,  the  Great  Palace,  the  residence  of  the  Princes 
of  Debeuharlh,  or  South  Wales.  This  also  was  erected  by 
Rhoiiri  Mawr. 


Iloel  —  seized  the  throne.  —  III.  p.  331,  col.  I. 

I  have  taken  some  liberties  here  with  the  history.  Hoel 
kept  possession  of  the  throne  nearly  two  years  ;  he  then  went 
to  Ireland  to  claim  the  property  of  his  mother  Pyvog,  the 
daughter  of  an  Irish  chieftain  ;  in  the  mean  time  David 
seized  the  government.  Hoel  raised  all  the  force  he  could 
to  recover  the  crown,  but  after  a  severe  conflict  was  wounded 
and  defeated,  lie  returned  to  Ireland  with  the  remains  of  his 
army,  which  probably  consisted  chiefly  of  Irishmen,  and  there 
died  of  his  wounds. —  Cambrian  Biography. 


.  .  .  hast  thou  known  the  consummated  crime, 
And  heard  Cynetha'sfate?  —  III.  p.  332,  col.  1. 

The  history  of  Cynetha  and  his  brothers  is  very  honestly 
related  in  the  Pentarchia. 

CadiroUonis  e.rat  prima'vus  jure  Cynetha  ; 
Proh  pudor !  hnnc  ocnlis  patruus  privuvit  Genus 
Testiculisquc  si>nul,fundum  dum  raptat  avitum  ; 
Houel  ab  irato  suspensus  rege  .foliamie, 
Et  Leolinus,  cum  privarunl  lumine  fratres. 

•  Ireland. 


362 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


This  curious  summary  of  Welsli  history  still  remains  un- 
printed. 


Yunder  waters  are  not  spread 
A  boundless  waste,  a  bourn  impassable.  —  HI.  p.  333,  col.  2. 

Finitam  caique  rei  magnitudincm  natura  dederat,  drdil  el 
modum  :  nihil  infinitum  est  nisi  Oceanus.  Fertiles  in  Oceano 
jacere  terras,  ullraque  Oceanuni  rursus  alia  littora,  alium  nusci 
orhcm,  nee  usquam  naturam  reriim  desinerr,  sed  semper  inde  ubi 
deaiisse  videal.ur,  nuvam  cxsurgere  ;  facile  ista  finguntur,  quia 
Oceanus  navigari  non potest.  —  Ann.  Seneca.  Suasoria,  1. 


As  thy  fair  uplands  lessened  on  the  view.  —  I V.  p  333,  col.  2. 

"  Two  of  the  niiines  of  Britain  were  derived  from  its  hills. 
Clas  Mcrddin,  the  high  lands  in  the  sea,  and  Ctas  Meiddin, 
the  hilly  lands  or  fields."  —  E.  Williams's  Poems. 


Seen,  low  lying,  through  the  haze  of  morn.  —  TV.  J).  333,  col.  2. 
What  sailors  call  cape  Fly-away. 


And  speed  was  toiling  in  infinity.  —  IV.  p.  33 1,  col.  1. 

When  Makea,  the  King  of  Rarotonga,  who  had  never  before 
been  from  his  own  island,  made  a  voyage  with  Mr.  Williams 
the  Missionary,  in  a  vessel  named  the  Messenger  of  Peace, 
which  iMr.  Williams  had  built,  they  were  three  days  and 
nights  in  returning,  the  wind  being  unfavorable  and  very 
boisterous.  "  On  the  second  evening  the  King  began  to  get 
anxious  and  restless,  fearing  (says  Mr.  Williams)  that  we  had 
missed  the  island,  and  wore  sailing  '  i  te  tureva  kaua,^  into 
wide  gaping  space."  —  Missionary  Enterprises  in  the  South  Sea 
Islands,  153. 


Saint  Cijric.  —  I\^.  p.  33.5,  col.  I. 

The  saint  to  whom  sailors  addressed  themselves  ;  the  St. 
Elmo  of  the  Welsh. 

"  It  was  usual  for  all,  even  females,  who  went  from  North 
Wales  in  pilgrimage  to  St.  David's,  to  pass  the  dangerous 
strands  and  sail  over  the  rough  bays  in  slight  coracles,  without 
any  one  to  guide  or  assist  them  ;  so  firmly  were  they  con- 
vinced that  that  Saint  and  St.  Cyrie,  the  ruler  of  the  waves, 
would  protect  them."  —  E.  Williams's  Poems. 


Owenhidwy.  —  IV.  p.  335,  col.  1. 

"  A  Mermaid.  The  white  foamy  waves  are  called  her 
sheep  ;  the  ninth  wave  her  ram.  The  Welsh  have  two  prov- 
erbs concerning  her :  Take  the  Mermaid's  advice  and  save 
thyself;  Take  shelter  when  you  see  the  Mermaid  driving  her 
flocks  ashore."  —  E.  Williams. 


iVliere  at  their  source  the  Floods  forever  thus. 

Beneath  the  nearer  influence  of  the  Moon, 

Labored  in  these  mad  workings.  —  IV.  p.  335,  col.  1. 

"  Everyche  flood  aryseth  more  in  Oecean  than  in  the  grete  see, 
that  is  for  the  hole  togyder  is  myghtyer  and  stronger  than 
one  partye  by  hymself.  Or  for  the  hole  Oecean  is  grete  and 
large,  and  receyved  more  workynge  of  the  mone  than  ony 
partye  by  hymselfe  that  is  smaller  and  lasse." —  Pobjcronicon, 
L.  1,  c.  9. 


Did  the  fVaters 
Here  on  their  utmost  circle  meet  the  Void.  ■ 


■IV.  p.  335,  col.  1. 


"  The  see  of  Oecean  beclyppeth  all  the  erthe  abowte  as  a 
garlonde,  and  by  times  cometli  and  goth,  ebbying  and  flow- 
ynge,  and  flodetli  in  sees  and  casteth  them  uji,  and  wyndes 
blowen  therein."  —  Polycronicon,  L.  1,  c.  9. 


Or  this  F.artk, 
Was  it  indeed  a  lining  thing.  —  IV.  p.  335,  col.  ]. 

"  Physici  autumant  mundum  animal  esse,  tumque  cz  variis 
elementorum  corporibus  conglobatum,  viovcri  spiritu,  rcgi  mente  ; 
qua;  utraque  diffusa  per  membra  omnia,  atcrnce  molts  vigorcm 
ezerceant.  Sicul  ergo  in  curporibus  nuslris  cummercia  sunt  spi- 
ritalia,  ita  in  profundis  Oceani  nares  qunsdam  mundi  con- 
stilutus,  per  quas  emUsi  anheHtus,velrcducti,  modo  efilent  maria 
modo  reeucent."  —  Solinus,  cap.  30. 

M.  Gregoire  enumerates  among  the  heresies  of  the  I8th  cen- 
tury one  which  represented  our  globe  as  an  animal ;  the  tides 
as  occasioned  by  its  respiration,  and  volcanic  eruptions  as  the 
paroxysms  of  the  diseases  to  which  it  was  liable.  —  Ilistoire 
dcs  Secies,  T.  1,  xvii. 

"  I  suppose  the  waters,"  says  Pietro  Martire,  "  to  be  driven 
about  the  globe  of  the  earth  by  the  incessant  moving  and 
imi>ulsion  of  the  heavens,  and  not  to  be  swallowed  up  and 
cast  out  again  by  the  breathing  of  Deinogorgon,  as  some  have 
imagined,  because  they  see  the  seas,  by  increase  and  decrease, 
to  flow  and  reflow."  —  Dec.  3,  c.  6. 


The  storm-rampart  of  its  sanctuary.  —  IV.  p.  335,  col.  1. 

"Jv'  b  TTOvToni&oiv  7r.opij)vpcas  \ipi/as 
NuOriKf  oiiK  id'  oijiii'  veptt, 

'Ecu^ui^  rifl^nva  vai(t}i/ 
Oipavov,  rov    ArAuj  £,\£ 
Kptjrai  t'  dijlipoaiai  xtojra. 
Zanug  iieXaOpuv  napa  Koiraii, 

"Iv'  a  BiO(!w/)u?  aiiffi 
Zudca  xDlov  lii^iiipoviap  SfoTf. 

EuKipiDEs.     Ilippulijtus,  V.  741 — 748. 

Stat  immotum  mare,  rt  quasi  deficientis  in  suo  fine  naturte 
pigra  moles ;  norui  ac  terribiles  figuru!  ,■  magna  etiu7n  Oceano 
purtenta,  quui  profunda  ista  vustitas  nutrit  j  confusa  lux  altci 
caligine,  ct  iutcrciptus lene'rris  dies  ;  ipsum  vero  grave  et  devium 
mare,  rt  aut  nulla,  nut  ignuta  sidcra. — An.  Seneca,  Sua- 
soria,  I. 


gentle  airs  which  breathed, 

Or  seemed  to  breathe,  fresh  fragrance  from  the  shore. 

IV.  p.  335,  col.  1. 

"  Our  first  notice  of  the  approach  of  land  was  the  fragrant 
and  atomalic  smell  of  the  continent  of  South  America,  or  of 
the  islands  in  its  vicinity,  which  we  sensibly  perceived  as  a 
stpMll  c;!me  from  that  quarter."  —  M'Kinnen's  Tour  through 
the  British  IVcst  Indies. 

Dogs  always  are  sensible  when  land  is  near,  before  it  can 
be  seen. 


Low  nets  of  interwoven  reeds.  —  V.  p.  336,  col.  1. 

"  And  for  as  much  as  I  have  made  mention  of  their  houses, 
it  shall  not  be  greally  from  my  purpose  to  describe  in  what 
manner  they  are  builded  :  they  are  made  round,  like  bells  or 
round  pavilions.  Their  frame  is  raysed  of  exceeding  high 
trees,  set  close  together,  and  fast  rampaired  in  the  ground,  so 
standing  aslope,  and  bending  inward,  that  the  toppes  of  the 
trees  joyne  together,  and  bear  one  against  another,  having  also 
within  the  house  certain  strong  and  short  proppes  or  posts, 
which  susteyne  the  trees  fiom  falling.  They  cover  them  w  ilh 
the  leaves  of  date  trees  and  other  trees  strongly  conipaet  and 
hardened,  wherewith  they  make  them  close  from  winde  and 
weather.  At  the  short  jiosts  or  proppes,  within  the  house, 
they  tie  ropes  of  the  cotton  of  gossampme  trees,  or  other  ropes 
made  of  certain  long  and  rough  roots,  much  like  unto  the 
shrubbe  called  Spurtu7n,  whereof  in  old  time  they  used  to 
make  bands  for  vines,  and  gables  and  ropes  for  shippes.  These 
they  tie  overthwart  the  house  from  post  to  post ;  on  these 
they  lay  as  it  were  ceitain  mattresses  made  of  the  cotton  of 
gossampine  trees,  which  grow  plentifully  in  these  islandes. 
This  cotton  the  Spanyards  call  Algndun,  and  the  Italians 
Bombasine,  and  thus  they  slecpe  in  hanging  beddes."  — 
Pietro  Martike. 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


363 


Will  ye  believe 
Tke  aonders  of  the  ocean  ?  how  its  shoals 
Syrang  from  the  icavc.  —  V.  p.  iiiifi,  col.  1. 

I  have  somewhere  seen  ail  unecJote  of  a  sailor's  mother, 
who  believed  all  the  strange  lies  which  he  told  her  lor  his 
amusement,  but  never  could  be  persuaded  to  believe  there 
could  he  in  existence  such  a  thing  as  a  flying  tish.  A  Spanish 
author,  who  wrote  before  the  voyage  of  Columbus,  describes 
these  tish  as  having  been  seen  on  the  coast  of  Flanders.  "  Hay 
alii  unos  pescados  que  vuelan  subre  el  agiia  ;  algiuws  dellos  atra- 
vesabaii  volando  por  encima  dc  las  galeran,  c  aun  algunos  dellos 
caian  dentro.^'  —  Coronica  de  D.  Pero  Nino. 

A  still  earlier  author  mentions  such  a  sight  in  the  Straits  as 
a  miracle.  "  As  they  sailed  from  Algezitas,  a  lish  came  flying 
through  the  air,  and  fell  ujion  the  deck  of  the  Infante's  Galley, 
with  which  they  had  some  fresh  food  that  day  ;  and  because 
I,  who  write  this  history,  have  never  heard  or  seen  of  any  like 
thing,  I  here  recount  it,  because  it  appears  to  me  a  thing  mar- 
vellous, and  in  my  judgment  out  of  the  course  of  nature."  — 
Gomes  Eannes. 

"  At  Barbadoes  the  negroes,  after  the  example  of  the  Cha- 
raibs,  take  the  flying  fish  very  successfull  m  tlie  dark  ;  they 
spread  their  nets  before  a  light,  and  disi  b  the  water  at  a 
small  distance  ;  the  fish,  risiiig  eagerly,  fl  owarils  the  light, 
and  are  intercepted  by  the  nets."  —  IN  vinnen.  —  These 
flying  fishes,  says  the  writer  of  Sir  Thomas  Itoe's  Voyage,  are 
like  men  professing  two  trades,  and  thrive  at  neither. 


Language  cannot  paint 
Their  splendid  tmts ! —  V.  p.  33C,  col.  I. 

Atkins,  with  some  feeling,  describes  the  Dolphin  as  a  glori- 
ous-colored fisli.  A  labored  description  of  its  beauty  would  not 
have  conveyed  so  lively  a  sense  of  admiration.  He  adil^,  quite 
as  naturally,  that  it  is  of  dry  taste,  but  makes  good  broth. — 
Voyage  to  Oainea  in  his  Majesty's  Ships  the  Sicallow  and 
Weymouth, 

Herbert  has  given  this  fish  a  very  extraordinary  character, 
upon  the  authority  of  the  ancients. 

"  The  dolphin  is  no  bigger  than  a  salmon,  it  glitters  in  the 
ocean  with  a  variety  of  beautiful  colors  ;  has  few  scales  ;  from 
its  swiftness  and  spirit  metonyniically  sirnamcd  the  Prince 
and  Arrow  of  the  sea;  celebrated  by  many  learned  Pens  in 
sundry  Epithets  ;  PhUanthropoi,  for  affecting  men,  and  Jilono- 
gamui,  for  their  turtle  constancy  ;  generated  they  be  of  sperme, 
nourisht  like  men,  imbrace,  jom,  and  go  10  months  great.  In 
faciem  versi  dulces  celebrant  hymcuwos  Dilphines,  similes  homi- 
nis  complerihus  hairent -.  A  careful  husband  over  his  gravid 
associate,  detesting  incest,  abhorring  bigamy,  tenderly  aft'ect- 
ing  Parents,  whom,  when  300  years  old,  they  feed  and  defend 
against  hungry  fishes  ;  and  when  dead  (to  avoid  the  shark  and 
like  marine  tyrants)  carry  them  ashore,  and  there  (\{  Aristotle, 
^hian,  and  Pliny  erro  not)  inhume  and  bedew  their  Sep- 
ulchres ;  they  were  glad  of  our  company,  as  it  were  alfectiiig 
the  sight  and  society  of  men,  many  hundred  miles  in  an  eager 
and  unwearied  pursuit,  frisking  about  us  ;  and  as  a  Poet 
observed, 

"  Undique  dant  saltus,  mvJtaque  a^pergine  rorant 
Emerguntque  itcrum  ,redrnntque  sub  aquora  rursus, 
Inque  chori  ludunt  speciem  lascivaque  jiictant 
Corpora,  et  acceptum  patalis  mare  naribus  ejjlant." 

Herbert's  Travels. 


TVie  Stranger''s  House.  —  V.  p.  337,  col.  1. 

"  There  is  in  every  village  of  the  Susquehannah  Indians  a 
vacant  dwelling  called  the  Stranger's  House.  When  a  trav- 
eller arrives  within  bearing  of  a  village,  he  stops  and  balloos, 
for  it  is  deemed  uncivil  to  enter  abruptly.  Two  old  men  lead 
him  to  the  house,  and  then  go  round  to  the  inliabitants,  telling 
tbein  a  stranger  is  ariived  fatigued  and  hungry.  They  send 
them  all  they  can  spare,  bring  tobacco  after  they  are  refreshed, 
and  then  ask  questions  whence  they  come  and  whither  they 
go."  —  Franklin. 


a  race 

Mightier  than  they,  and  wiser,  and  by  Heaven 
Beloved  and  favored  more.  —  VI.  p.  337,  col.  1. 

"  They  arc  easily  jiersuadeil  that  the  God  that  made  Eiig- 
lisbmen  is  a  greater  God  than  theirs,  because  he  hath  so  richly 
endowed  the  English  above  themselves.  But  when  they  hear 
that  about  IGOO  years  ago,  England  and  the  inhabitants  there- 
of were  like  unto  themselves,  and  since  have  received  from 
God  clothes,  books,  &c.,  they  are  greatly  affected  with  a  secret 
hope  concerning  themselves."  —  A  Key  into  tlie  Language  of 
America,  by  Uuger  Williams,  1043. 


Her  husband's  war-pole.  —  VI.  p.  337,  col.  2. 

"The  war-pole  is  a  small  peeled  tree  jiainled  red,  the  top 
and  houghs  cut  off  short.  It  is  fixed  in  the  ground  opposite 
the  door  of  the  dead  warrior,  and  all  his  implements  of  wa. 
arc  bung  on  the  sliort  boughs  of  it  till  they  rot." —  Adair. 

This  author,  who  knew  the  manners  of  the  North  Ameri- 
can Indians  well,  though  he  formed  a  most  wild  theory  to 
account  for  them,  describes  the  rites  of  mourning.  "  The 
widow,  through  the  long  term  of  her  weeds,  is  compelled  to 
refrain  fiom  all  public  company  and  diversions,  at  the  penalty 
of  an  adulteress,  and  likewise  to  go  with  flowing  hair,  without 
tlie  privilege  of  oil  to  anoint  it.  The  nearest  kinsmen  of  the 
deccasird  husband  keep  a  very  watchful  eye  over  her  conduct 
in  this  respect.  The  place  of  interment  is  also  calculated  to 
wake  tile  widow's  grief,  for  he  is  entombed  in  the  house  under 
Ifer  bed ;  and  if  he  was  a  war-leader,  she  is  obliged,  for  the 
first  moon,  to  sit  in  the  day-time  under  bis  mourning  war-pole, 
which  is  decked  with  all  his  martial  trophies,  and  must  bo 
heard  to  cry  with  bewailing  notes.  15ut  none  of  them  are  fond 
of  tliat  month's  supiiosed  religious  duty,  it  chills,  or  sweats 
and  wastes  them  so  exceedingly,  for  they  are  allowed  no  shade 
or  shelter." 


battlements  —  that  shone 

Lihe  silver  in  the  sunshine.  —  VI.  p.  338,  col.  1. 

So  dazzlingly  white  were  the  houses  at  Zcmpoalla,  that  one 
of  the  Spaniards  gallopped  back  to  Cortes  to  tell  him  the  walls 
were  of  silver.  —  ISernal  Diaz,  30. 

Torquemada  also  says,  "  that  the  temple  and  palace  courts 
at  Mexico  were  so  highly  polished,  that  they  actually  shone 
like  burnished  gold  or  silver  in  the  sun."  —  T.  1,  p.  251. 

I  have  described  Aztlan  like  the  cities  which  the  Spaniards 
found  in  New  Spain.  How  large  and  how  magnificent  they 
were  may  be  learned  from  the  True  History  of  the  Conquest 
of  Mexico,  by  Pernal  Diaz.  This  delightful  work  has  been 
ahviilged  into  English  by  Mr.  Keating,  and  if  the  reader  has 
not  seen  it,  he  may  thank  me  for  recommending  it  to  his 
notice. 

Gomara's  description  of  Zempoallan  will  sliow  that  cities, 
as  splendid  in  their  appearance  as  Aztlan,  did  exist  among  the 
native  Americans. 

"  They  descried  Zempoallan,  w  hich  stoode  a  myle  distant 
from  them,  all  beset  with  fayre  Orrhardes  and  Gardens,  verye 
pleasaunte  to  bebolde  :  they  used  alwaycs  to  water  them  w  ith 
sluices  when  they  pleased.  There  proceeded  out  of  the 
Towne  many  persons  to  beho'd  and  receyve  so  strange  a  peo- 
ple unto  tbein.  'i'liey  came  with  smiling  countenance,  and 
presented  unto  tluni  divers  kinde  of  flourcs  and  sundry  fruites 
which  none  of  our  mcnne  bad  heretofore  scene.  These  people 
camo  without  feare  among  the  ordinance  ;  with  this  pompe, 
triumpbe,  and  joy,  they  were  received  into  the  Citie,  which 
seemed  a  beautifull  Garden  :  for  the  trees  were  so  greene  and 
high  that  scarcely  the  houses  appeared. 

"  Sixe  horsemen,  which  hadde  gone  before  the  army  to  dis- 
cover, returned  backe  as  Cortcz  wns  entering  into  the  Citie, 
saying  that  they  had  scene  a  great  house  and  court,  and  that 
the  walles  were  garnished  with  silver.  Cortez  commanded 
them  to  proceed  on,  willing  them  not  to  show  any  token  of 
wonder  of  any  thing  that  they  should  see.  All  the  streetes 
were  replenished  with  people,  wbiche  stoode  gaping  and  won- 
dering at  the  horses  and  straungers.  And  passing  through  a 
great  market-place,  they  saw,  on  their  right  hand,  a  great 
walled  house  made  of  lyme  and  stone,  with  loupe  holes  and 


364 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


towers,  wliited  with  playster  that  shiiied  lyke  silver,  heing  so 
well  buriiislied  iirid  tlio  suniie  glistering  upon  it,  nnd  that  was 
the  thing  that  the  Spaniards  thought  had  becne  walles  of  silver. 
I  doe  holicve  that  with  the  im.igination  and  great  desire  which 
they  had  ol'goldc  and  silver,  all  that  sliined  they  deemed  to  be 
of  the  same  metall." —  Conquest  of  the  IVcast  India. 

Cortes  hiinsull'says  of  Cholula,  that  he  counted  above  four 
hundred  temple  towers  in  that  city  ;  and  the  city  of  Iztapala- 
pa,  he  says,  contained  from  12,000  to  15,000  inhabitants. — 
Carta  de  Relacion,  l(j,  20. 


A  floating  islet.  —  VI.  p.  338,  col.  1. 

Islets  of  this  kind,  with  dwelling  huts  upon  them,  were 
common  upon  the  Lake  of  Mexico.  They  were  moved  at 
pleasure  from  bay  to  bay,  as  the  inhabitants  wanted  sunshine 
or  shelter.  —  Clavigero. 


Each  held  a  burning  censer  in  Aw  hand.  —  VI.  p.  338,  col.  1. 

Tendilli,  says  the  old  translator  of  Gomara,  according  to 
their  usance,  did  his  reverence  to  the  Captaine,  burning  frank- 
incense, and  little  strawes  touched  in  bloud  of  his  own  bodie. 
And  at  Chiauiztlan,  the  Lord  toke  a  litlle  chafyngdishe  in 
his  liande,  and  cast  into  it  a  certuine  gum,  whyche  savoured 
in  sweetfi  smel  much  like  unto  frankincense  ;  and  with  a  cen- 
ser he  smoked  Corlez,  with  the  ceremonye  they  use  in  theyr 
salulations  to  theyr  Gods  and  nobilitie.  So  also  the  Tlascal- 
lan  Embassadors  burnt  copal  before  Cortes,  having  thrice 
made  obeisance,  and  they  touched  the  ground  with  their 
hands  and  kissed  the  earth. 

The  nexte  day  in  the  morning,  the  Spaniards  came  to  Cho- 
lolla,  and  there  came  out  near  ten  thousand  Indians  to  re- 
ceyve  him  with  their  Captaynes  in  good  order,  fliany  of  them 
presented  unto  him  bread,  foules  and  roses  ;  and  every  Cap- 
tayne  as  he  approached,  welcomed  Cortes,  and  then  stood 
aside,  that  the  rest,  in  order,  niighte  come  unto  him  ;  and  when 
he  came  entering  into  the  citie,  all  tiie  other  citizens  receyved 
him,  marvelling  to  see  such  men  and  horses. 

After  all  this  came  out,  all  the  religious  menne,  as  Priests 
and  Ministers  to  the  idols,  who  were  many  and  straunge  to  be- 
hold, and  all  were  clothed  in  white,  lyke  unto  surplices,  and 
hemmed  with  common  threede  ;  some  brought  instruments 
of  musicke  like  unto  Cornettes,  others  brought  instruments 
made  of  bones  ;  others  an  instrument  like  a  ketel  covered  with 
skin;  some  brought  chafing-dishes  of  coals,  with  perfumes; 
others  brought  idols  covered  ;  and,  finally,  they  al  came  sing- 
ing in  their  language,  which  was  a  terrible  noyse,  and  drew 
neere  Cortes  and  his  company,  sensing  them  with  sweete 
smelles  in  their  sensers.  With  this  pomp  of  solemnitic,  which 
truely  was  great,  they  brought  him  unto  the  cittie.  —  Conquest 
of  the  ffeast  India. 

Gage's  account  of  Mexico  is  copied  verbatim  from  this  old 
translation,  even,  in  some  places,  to  the  literal  error  of  using 
the  hard  c  instead  of  i,  which  the  f  with  the  cedilla  represents. 


The  Oreat  Temple. 


'Twos  a  huge,  square  hill.  - 
col.  2. 


■VI.  p.  338, 


The  great  Cu  of  Mexico,  for  thus  these  mounds  were  called, 
had  114  steps  to  the  summit  ;  that  of  Tezcuco,  115;  of  Cho- 
lula, 120.  Gold  and  jewels,  and  the  different  seeds  of  the 
country,  and  human  blood,  were  thrown  in  the  foundations. 
The  Spaniards  found  great  treasures  when  they  levelled  the 
Cu  at  Mexico,  to  make  room  for  a  church  to  Santiago.  —  Ber- 
NAL  Diaz. 

The  lines  which  follow  describe  its  structure,  as  related  by 
Clavi"ero  and  by  the  Spanish  Conquerors.  The  Tower  of 
Babel  is  usually  painted  with  the  same  kind  of  circuitous 
ascent. 


The  Tambour  of  the  God.  —  VI.  p.  338,  col.  2. 

Gumilla  (c.  36)  describes  a  prodigious  drum  used  as  a  signal 
to  assemble  the  people  in  time  of  danger,  by  some  of  the 
Orinoco  tribes,  especially  by  the  Caverres,  to  whom  the  in- 


vention is  ascribed.  It  is  a  hollowed  piece  of  wood,  in  thick- 
ness about  an  inch,  in  girth  as  much  as  two  men  can  clasp,  in 
length  about  eleven  or  twelve  feet.  This  is  suspended  by  a 
withe  at  each  end  from  a  sort  of  gallows.  On  the  upper  sur- 
face are  three  apertures  like  those  in  a  fiddle,  and  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  instrument,  immediately  under  the  middle  of  the 
middle  aperture,  which  is  shaped  like  a  half-moon,  a  flint 
about  two  pounds  in  weight  is  fastened  with  gum.  This  is 
said  to  be  necessary  to  the  sound.  Both  ends  of  this  long 
tube  are  carefully  closed,  and  it  is  beaten  on  the  middle  aper- 
ture with  a  pellet  which  is  covered  with  a  sort  of  gum  called 
Currucay.  Gumilla  positively  affirms,  and  on  his  own  knowl- 
edge, that  its  sound  may  be  heard  four  leagues  round.  This 
is  scarcely  possible.  I  doubt  whether  the  loudest  gong  can 
be  heard  four  miles,  and  it  is  not  possible  that  wood  can  be 
made  as  sonorous  as  metal. 


Ten  Cities  hear 
Its  voice.  —  VI.  p.  338,  col.  2. 

"There,  in  (he  great  Cu,  they  had  an  exceeding  large 
drum;  and  when  they  beat  it,  the  sound  was  such  and  so  dis- 
mal, that  it  was  like  an  instrument  of  hell,  and  was  heard  for 
more  tlian  two  leagues  round.  They  said  that  the  cover  of 
that  drum  was  made  of  the  skin  of  huge  serpents."  —  Bernal 
Diaz. 

After  Cortes  had  been  defeated,  he  always  heard  (his  drum 
wnen  they  were  offeiing  up  the  reeking  heiirts  of  his  men. 
The  account  in  Bernal  Diaz,  of  their  midnight  sacrifice,  per- 
formed by  torch-light,  and  in  the  sight  of  the  Spanish  army,  is 
truly  terrific. 


Four   Toirrrs 
Were  piled  with  human  slaills.  —  VI.  p.  338,  col.  2. 

These  skull-lmilt  temples  are  delineated  in  Picart's  great 
work  ;  I  su)iposc  he  copied  them  from  De  Bry.  They  are  de- 
scribed by  all  the  historians  of  Mexico.  Human  heads  have 
often  been  thus  employed.  Tavernier  and  Hanway  had  seen 
pyramids  of  them  in  Persia  erected  as  trophies.  The  Casa 
dos  Ossiis  at  Evora  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  these  Mexican 
temples  must  have  been.  It  is  built  of  skulls  and  thigh-bones 
in  alternate  layers,  and  two  whole  bodies,  dried  and  shrivelled, 
are  hung  up  against  the  walls,  like  armor  in  an  old  baron's 
hall. 


He  lights  me  al  vuj  evening  banquet.  —  VI.  p.  3.39,  col.  1. 

The  King  of  Chaico  having  Ireacherously  taken  and  slain 
two  sons  of  the  King  of  Tetzcuco,  had  their  bodies  dried,  and 
placed  as  candelabras  in  his  palace,  to  hold  the  lights.  —  ToR- 
quemaua,  i.  l.")!. 

This  same  king  wore  round  his  neck  a  chain  of  human  hearts 
set  in  golii  —  the  hearts  of  the  bravest  men  whom  he  had  slain, 
or  taken,  and  sncriticed.  —  lb.  152. 

The  more  usual  custom  was  to  stuff  the  skin  of  the  royal,  or 
noble  prisoner,  and  suspend  it  as  a  trophy  in  the  palace,  or  the 
house  of  the  priest.  Gomara's  account  of  this  custom  is  a 
dreadful  picture  of  the  most  barbarous  superstition  which 
ever  yet  disgraced  mankind.  "  On  the  last  day  of  the  first 
month,  a  hundred  slaves  were  sacrificed  :  this  done,  they 
pluckt  off  the  skinnes  of  a  certainc  number  of  lliem,  the  which 
skinnes  so  many  ancient  persons  put,  incontinent,  upon  their 
naked  bodies,  all  fresh  and  blondy  as  they  were  Heane  from  the 
dead  carcases.  And  being  open  in  the  b;icke  parte  and  shoul- 
ders, they  used  to  lace  them,  in  such  sort  that  they  came  fitte 
uponn  the  bodies  of  those  that  ware  them  :  an<l  being  in  this 
order  attired,  they  came  to  dnunce  among  many  others.  In 
Mexico  the  King  himself  did  put  on  one  of  these  skinnes,  being 
of  a  jirincipall  captive,  and  daunced  among  the  other  disguised 
persons,  to  cxhalte  and  honour  the  feast ;  and  an  infinite  num- 
ber fiillowcd  him,  to  behold  his  terrible  gesture  ;  although 
some  hold  opinion,  that  they  followed  him  to  contemplate  his 
greate  devotion.  After  the  sncrilicc  ended,  the  owner  of  the 
slaves  did  carry  their  bodies  home  to  their  houses,  to  make 
of  their  fleshe  a  solemne  feaste  to  all  their  friendes,  leaving 
their  heads  and  heartes  to  the  Priests,  as  theii  dutie  and  offer- 
ing: and  the  skinnes  were  filled  with  cotton  wool,  or  slrawe, 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


365 


to  be  hung  in  the  temple  and  kyng's  palayce  for  a  memorie.'' 
—  Conquest  o   the  Weust  India. 

After  the  Inga  Yupangiii  hail  succpssfully  defended  Ciizco 
aj;aiii<t  the  Chancas,  ho  had  all  of  llicni  who  were  slum 
skinned,  and  their  skins  stuti'ed  anil  placed  in  various  attitudes, 
sonic  1)1  ating  tambours,  otiu'rs  blowing  flutes,  &,c.,  in  a  large 
building  which  he  erected  as  a  monument  for  those  who  had 
fallen  in  defending  the  city.  —  Herrera,  5,  3,  12. 


Oh,  what  a  pomp, 
.Hndpride,  and -pageantry  of  icar.  —  VII.  p.  340,  col.  I. 

Gomara  thus  describes  the  Tlascallan  army  :  "  They  were 
trimnic  fellowes,  and  wel  armed,  according  to  their  use, 
allhougli  they  were  paynted  so,  that  their  faces  shewed  like 
divels,  with  great  tuffes  of  feathers  and  triumphed  gallantry. 
They  bad  also  slinges,  staves,  spoares,  swordes,  bowos,  and 
arrowes,  skniles,  splintes,  gantlettes,  all  of  wood,  gilte,  or  else 
covered  with  feathers,  or  leather ;  their  corslets  were  made  of 
cotton  woole,  their  largcttes  and  bucklers,  gallant  and  strong, 
made  of  woode  covered  with  leather,  and  trimmed  with  laton 
and  feathers  ;  tbeyr  swordes  were  staves,  with  an  edge  of 
flint  stone  cunningly  joyiied  into  the  staffe,  which  would  cutte 
very  well,  and  make  a  sore  wounile.  Their  instruments  of 
warre  were  hunters'  homes,  and  drummes,  called  attabals, 
made  like  a  caldron,  and  covered  with  vellum." —  Conquest  oj 
the  Weast  India. 

In  the  inventory  of  the  treasure  which  Grijalva  brought 
from  liis  expedition  are.  a  whole  harness  of  furniture  for  an 
armed  man,  of  gold,  thin  beaten;  another  whole  armor  of 
wood,  with  leaves  of  gold,  garnished  with  little  black  stones  ; 
four  pieces  of  armor  of  wood,  made  for  the  knees,  and  cov- 
ered with  golden  leaf.  And  among  the  presents  designed  for 
the  king,  were  five  targets  of  feathers  and  silver,  and  24  of 
feathers  and  gold,  set  with  pearls,  both  curious  and  gallant  to 
behold. 


They  piled  a  heap  of  sedge  before  our  host.  —  VII.  p.  340,  col.  1 . 

When  the  Spaniards  discovered  Campeche,  the  Indians 
heaped  up  a  pile  of  dry  sedge,  and  ranged  themselves  in  troops. 
Ten  Priests  then  came  from  a  temple  with  censers  and  copal, 
wherewith  they  incensed  the  strangers  ;  and  then  told  them 
by  signs  to  depart,  before  that  pile,  which  they  were  about 
to  kindle,  should  be  burnt  out.  The  pile  was  immediately 
lighted  ;  the  Priest  withdrew  without  another  word  or  motion, 
and  the  people  began  to  whistle  and  sound  their  shells.  The 
Spaniards  were  weak,  and  many  of  them  wounded,  and  Ihey 
prudently  retired  in  peace.—  Bernal  Diaz,  3. 

At  the  sacring  of  the  Popes,  when  the  new-elected  Pope 
pasaeth  (as  the  manner  is)  before  St.  Gregory's  chapel,  the 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies  goeth  before  him,  hearing  two  dry 
reeds,  at  the  end  of  the  one  a  burning  wax  candle  tied,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  other  a  handfuU  of  flax,  the  which  he  settetb 
on  fire,  saying,  with  a  loud  voice,  Pater  Sancte,sic  transit 
gloria  mundi.  —  Caherarius. 


The  Arrow  of  the  Omen.  —  VII.  p.  340,  col.  1. 

The  TIaxcaltecas  had  two  arrows,  which  they  regarded  with 
great  reverence,  and  used  lo  augur  the  event  of  a  battle. 
Two  of  their  bravest  Chiefs  were  to  shoot  them  at  the  enemy, 
and  recover  tbem  or  die.  If  the  arrow  struck  and  wounded, 
it  was  held  an  omen  that  the  fight  would  he  prosperous  :  but 
if  they  neither  struck,  nor  drew  blood,  the  army  retired. — 
Torqucmada,  i.  34. 

This  is  more  particularly  noticed  by  Gomara.  "  In  the 
warres  the  Tlascallans  use  their  standerde  to  be  carried  be- 
hynde  the  army  ;  but  when  the  battyle  is  to  be  fouglit,  they 
place  the  standerde  where  nil  the  hostc  may  see  it ;  and  he 
that  commeth  not  incontinent  to  hys  ancient, pnyetli  a  penaltie. 
Their  standerde  hath  two  crossebow  arrowes  set  thereon, 
whichft  they  esteeme  as  the  relikes  of  their  ancestors.  Thys 
standerde  two  olde  soldiers,  and  valiant  menne,  being  of  the 
chiefest  Caplaynes,  have  the  charge  to  carric  ;  in  the  which 
standerde,  an  abusion  of  southsaying,  eyiher  of  losse  or  vic- 
tory, is  noted.     In  this  order  they  shote  one  of  these  arrowes 


against  the  first  enemies  that  they  me'te  ;  and  if  with  that 
nrrowe  they  do  eyther  kill  or  hurte,  it  is  a  token  that  they 
shall  have  the  victorie  ;  and  if  it  neyther  kill  nor  liurte,  then 
they  assuredly  believe  that  they  shall  lose  the  field." —  Coiv- 
quest  of  the  Weast  India. 


The  bowmen  of  Dehcuharth  . 
Gwrjncth's  spears.  —  VII.  p.  340,  col.  2. 

"  Sunt  autem  his  in  partibus  (Ardudwy)  lanca  longissinitB : 
sicjit  enim  arcu  prevalet  Sudwallia,  sic  lanccis  pravalet  Venc- 
dotia,  adeo  vt  ictum  hie  lancea  comirius  datum  ferrea  loricm 
tricatura  miiiime  sustineat."  —  Giraldus  Cambrexsis 

Thus  also  Trevisa,  in  his  lame  rhymes  : 

The  south  hete  Demecia, 

And  the  other  Venedocia 

The  first  slioteth  and  arowes  beres. 

That  other  dealeth  all  with  sjiere. 

Pobjcronicon. 


The  white  deer-skin  shroud.  —  VIII.  p.  341,  col.  2. 

"  The  Indians  use  the  same  ceremonies  to  the  bones  of  their 
dead,  as  if  they  were  covered  with  their  former  skin,  flesh, 
and  ligaments.  It  is  but  a  few  days  since  I  saw  some  return 
with  the  bones  of  nine  of  their  people,  who  had  been  two 
months  before  killed  by  the  enemy.  They  were  tied  in  white 
deer-skins  separately,  and  when  carried  by  the  door  of  one  of 
the  houses  of  their  family,  they  were  laid  down  opposite  to  it, 
till  the  female  relations  convened,  with  flowing  hair,  and  wept 
over  them  about  half  an  hour.  Then  they  carried  them  homo 
to  their  friendly  magazines  of  mortality,  wept  over  them 
again,  and  then  buried  them  with  the  usual  solemnities.  The 
chieftains  carried  twelve  short  sticks  tied  together  in  the  form 
of  a  quadrangle,  so  that  each  square  consisted  of  three.  The 
sticks  were  only  peeled,  without  any  painting ;  but  there 
were  swan  feathers  tied  to  each  corner.  They  called  that 
frame  the  White  Circle,  and  placed  it  over  the  door  while  the 
women  were  weeping  over  the  bones."  —  Adair. 


On  softest  fur 
The  bones  were  laid.  —  VIII.  p.  342,  col.  1. 

When  the  body  is  in  the  grave,  they  take  care  to  cover  it  in 
such  a  manner,  that  the  earth  docs  not  touch  it.  It  lies  as  in 
a  little  cave,  lined  with  skins,  much  neater,  and  better  adorned, 
than  their  cabins.  —  Charlevoix. 

Adair  was  present  at  one  of  their  funerals.  "They  laid 
the  corpse  in  his  tomb  in  a  silting  posture,  with  his  feet 
towards  the  east,  his  head  anointed  with  bear's  oil,  and  his 
face  painted  red  ;  but  not  streaked  with  black,  because  that  is 
a  constant  emblem  of  war  and  death,  lie  was  drest  in  his 
finest  apparel,  having  his  gun  and  pouch,  and  trusty  biccory 
bow,  with  a  young  panther's  skin  full  of  arrows,  alongside  of 
him,  and  every  other  useful  thing  he  had  been  possessed  of, 
that  when  he  rises  again  they  may  serve  him  in  that  track  of 
land  which  pleased  him  best  before  he  went  to  take  his  long 
sleep.  His  tomb  was  firm  and  clean  inside  ;  they  covered  it 
with  thick  logs  so  as  to  bear  several  tiers  of  cypress  bark,  and 
such  a  quantity  of  clay,  as  would  confine  the  putrid  smell,  and 
be  on  a  level  with  the  rest  of  the  floor.  Tlieyoflen  sleep  over 
these  tombs  ;  which,  with  the  loud  wailing  of  the  women  at 
the  dusk  of  the  evening,  and  dawn  of  the  day,  on  benches 
close  by  the  tombs,  must  awake  the  memory  of  their  relations 
very  often  ;  and  if  they  were  killed  by  an  enemy,  it  heli)s  to 
irritate,  and  set  on  such  revengeful  tempers  to  retaliate  blood 
for  blood." 


'Twas  in  her  hut  and  home,  yea,  undemralh 

The  marriage  bed,  the  bed  of  widowhood, 

Her  husband's  grave  was  dug.  —  VIII.  p.  342,  col.  I. 

"The  Mosqueto  Indians,  when  they  die,  are  buried  in  their 
houses,  and  the  very  spot  they  lay  over  when  alive,  and  have 
their  hatchet,  harpoon  lances,  with  mushtlaw,  and  other  neces- 


3G6 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES, 


saries,  Imried  with  thcin  ;  but  if  tlie  defunct  leavea  bi^liind  him 
a  gun,  some  friend  preserves  tliat  from  the  earth,  that  wouhl 
soon  damnify  the  powder,  and  so  render  it  unserviceable  in  that 
stran^'o  journey.  His  hoit,  or  dorca,  tliey  cut  in  pieces,  and 
lay  over  his  grave,  with  all  the  rest  of  his  household  goods,  if 
he  hath  any  more.  If  the  deceased  leave  behind  him  no  chil- 
dren, brothers,  or  parents,  the  cousins,  or  other  his  relations, 
cut  up,  or  destroy  his  plantations,  lest  any  living  should,  as 
they  esteem  it,  rob  the  dead." —  TVie  Musqueto  Indian  and  his 
Ooldeii  River,  by  M.  W.  Lintot  and  Osborn's  Collection. 


Pahas.  —  VIII.  p.  342,  col.  1. 

Papa  is  the  word  which  Bernal  Diaz  uses  when  he  speaks  of 
the  Mexican  priests  ;  and  in  this  ho  is  followed  by  Purchas. 
The  appellation  in  Torqueniada  is  Quuquil.  I  am  not  certain 
that  liernal  Diaz  did  not  mean  to  call  them  Puprs,  and  that 
Purchas  bus  not  mistaken  his  meaning.  An  easy  alteration 
made  it  more  suitable  for  English  verse,  than  the  more  accu- 
rate word  would  have  been. 

I  perceive  by  Herrera  (3,2,  15)  that  the  word  is  Mexican, 
and  that  the  Devil  was  the  author  of  it,  in  imitation  of  tlie 
Church. 


fpalnemonni,  hij  whom  wc  live.  — VIII.  p.  442,  col.  1. 

The  Mexicans  had  some  idea,  though  a  very  imperfect  one, 
of  a  supreme,  absolute,  and  independent  being.  They  repre- 
sented him  in  no  external  form,  because  they  believed  him  to 
be  invisible  ;  and  they  named  him  only  by  the  common  appel- 
lation of  God,  or  in  their  language  Teotl ;  a  word  resembling 
still  more  in  its  meaning  than  its  pronunciation,  the  6£os  of 
the  Greeks.  But  they  applied  to  him  certain  epithets,  which 
were  highly  expressive  of  the  grandeur  and  power  which  they 
conceived  him  to  possess  ;  Ipalncmoani,  "  He  by  whom  wc 
live  :  "  and  Tloqiie  JVahuaque,  "  He  who  has  all  in  himself." 
—  Clavioero. 

Torquemada  has  a  very  characteristic  remark  upon  these 
appellations:  —  "Although,"  says  he,  "these  blinded  men 
went  astray  in  the  knowledge  of  God,  and  adored  the  Devil 
m  his  stead,  they  did  not  err  in  the  names  which  they  gave 
him,  those  being  truly  and  properly  his  own  ;  the  Devil  using 
this  cunning  with  them,  that  they  should  apply  to  him  these, 
which,  by  nature  and  divine  right,  are  God's  ;  his  most  holy 
Majesty  permitting  this  on  account  of  the  enormity  and  shame- 
fulness  of  their  depraved  customs,  and  the  multitude  of  their 
iniquities."  —  L.  vi.  c.  8. 


The  Oreat  Spirit,  who  in  clouas 
Jind  storms,  in  mountain  caves,  and  by  the  falls 
Of  waters,  in  the  woodland  solitude, 
Doth  make  his  being  felt.  —  VIII.  p.  442,  col.  2. 

"  About  thirty  miles  below  the  falls  of  St.  Anthony,  is  a 
remarkable  cave,  of  an  amazing  depth.  The  Indians  term  it 
VVaUon-teebe  ;  that  is,  the  dwelling  of  the  Great  Ppirit.  The 
entrance  into  it  is  about  ten  feet  wide  ;  the  arch  within  is  near 
fifteen  feet  high,  and  about  thirty  feet  broad.  The  bottom  of 
it  consists  of  fine  clean  sand.  About  twenty  feet  from  the 
entrance  begins  a  lake,  the  water  of  which  is  transparent,  and 
extends  to  an  unsearch  ihle  distance  ;  for  the  darkness  of  the 
cave  prevents  all  attempts  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  it.  I 
threw  a  small  pebble  towards  the  interior  parts  of  it,  with  my 
utmost  strength  ;  I  could  hear  that  it  fell  into  the  water,  and, 
notwitlistanding  it  was  of  so  small  a  size,  it  caused  an  aston- 
ishing and  horrible  noise,  that  reverberated  through  all  those 
gloomy  regions.  I  found  in  this  cave  many  Indian  hiero- 
"lyphics,  which  appeared  very  ancient,  for  time  had  nearly 
covered  them  with  moss.  They  were  cut  in  a  rude  manner 
upon  the  inside  of  the  walls,  which  were  composed  of  a  stone 
so  extremely  soft,  that  it  might  easily  be  penetrated  with  a 
knife  :  a  stone  every  where  to  be  found  near  the  Mississi|)pi. 
The  c  ive  is  only  accessible  by  ascending  a  narrow,  steep  pas- 
sage, that  lies  near  the  brink  of  the  river."  —  Carvef. 

"The  Prince  had  no  sooner  gained  the  point  that  over- 
looks this  wonderful  cascade  (the  falls  of  Pt.  Anthony)  than 
he  began  with  an  audible  voice   to  address   the  (jrcat  Spirit, 


one  of  whose  places  of  residence  he  supposed  this  to  be.  He 
tolil  him  he  had  come  a  long  way  to  pay  his  adorations  to 
him,  and  now  would  make  him  the  best  ofl'erings  in  his  power. 
He  accordingly  first  throw  his  pipe  into  the  stream  ;  then  the 
roll  that  contained  his  tobacco  ;  after  these,  the  bracelets  he 
wore  on  his  arms  and  wrists  ;  next,  an  ornament  that  encircled 
his  neck,  composed  of  beads  and  wires  ;  and  at  last,  the  ear- 
rings from  his  ears  :  in  short,  he  presented  to  his  God  every 
part  of  his  dress  that  was  valuable ;  during  this  he  frequently 
smote  his  breast  with  great  violence,  threw  his  arms  about, 
and  appeared  to  be  much  agitated. 

"  All  this  while  he  continued  his  adorations,  and  at  length 
concluded  them  with  fervent  petitions  that  the  Great  Spirit 
would  constantly  afl^ord  us  his  protection  on  our  travels,  giving 
us  a  lirigbt  sun,  a  blue  sky,  and  clear,  untroubled  waters  ;  nor 
would  he  leave  the  place  till  we  had  smoked  together  with  my 
pipe  in  honor  of  the  Great  Sjjirit."  —  Carver. 


The  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
That  day  was  inoving  in  the  heart  of  man.  — VIII.  p.  343,  col.  1. 

There  is  a  passage  in  Bede  which  well  illustrates  the  dif- 
ferent feelings  whereby  barbarians  are  induced  to  accept  a  new 
religion. 

"Edwin  of  Nortbumbria  had  summoned  his  chiefs  and 
counsellors  to  advise  with  him  concerning  his  intended  con- 
version. The  first  person  who  delivered  his  opinion  was 
Coifi,  the  Chief  Priest  of  the  Idols.  '  For  this  which  is 
preached  to  us,'  said  he,  '  do  you,  O  King,  see  to  it,  what  it 
may  be.  I  will  freely  confess  to  you  what  I  have  learnt,  that 
the  religion  which  wc  have  held  till  now  has  no  virtue  in  it. 
No  one  of  your  subjects  has  devoted  himsehf  to  the  worship  of 
our  Gods  more  earnestly  than  I,  and  yet  many  there  are  who 
have  received  greatrr  bounties  and  greater  favors  from  your 
band,  and  have  prospered  better  in  all  their  undertakings  and 
desires.  Now,  if  our  Gods  could  have  done  any  thing,  they 
would  rather  have  assisted  me  tlian  them.'  To  this  another 
of  the  nobles  added,  '  The  present  life  of  man  upon  earth, 
when  compared  with  tlie  future,  has  appeared  to  me,  O  King, 
like  as  when  you  and  your  Chiefs  and  servants  have  been 
seated  at  your  supper,  in  winter  time,  the  hearth  blazing  in 
the  centre,  and  the  viands  smoking,  while  without  it  is  storm, 
or  rain,  or  snow,  and  a  sparrow  flies  through  the  hall,  entering 
at  one  door  and  passing  out  at  another ;  while  he  is  within, 
in  that  little  minute  he  does  not  feel  the  weather,  but  after 
that  instant  of  calm,  he  returns  again  to  winter  as  from  winter 
he  came,  and  is  gone.  Such  and  so  transitory  is  the  life  of 
man,  and  of  what  follows  it  or  what  preceded  it  we  are  alto- 
gether ignorant.  Wherefore,  if  this  new  doctrine  should  bring 
any  thing  more  certain,  it  well  deserves  to  be  followed.'  "  — 
Lib.  2,  c.  13. 

John  Wesley  has  preserved  a  very  interesting  dialogue  be- 
tween himself  and  the  Cliicasaws. 

"  Q.  Do  you  believe  there  is  One  above,  who  is  over  all 
things  ?-:- Pa ustoobce  answered.  We  believe  there  are  four 
Beloved  Things  above,  the  Clouds,  the  Sun,  the  Clear  Sky, 
and  He  that  lives  in  the  Clear  Sky 

"  Q.  Do  you  believe  there  is  hut  one  that  lives  in  the 
Clear  Sky  .' 

"  J?.   Wc  believe  there  arc  Two  with  him  ;  three  in  all. 

"  Q.  Do  you  think  He  made  the  Sun  and  the  other  Be- 
loved Things .' 

"  j}.   We  cannot  tell.     Who  hath  seen  .' 

"  Q.   Do  you  think  lie  made  you.' 

"./?.   We  think  He  made  all  men  at  first. 

"  Q.   How  did  He  make  them  at  first .' 

"  .^.    Out  of  the  ground. 

"  Q.   Do  you  believe  He  loves  you.' 

"^.   T  do  not  know.     I  cannot  see  him. 

"  Q.   But  has  He  not  often  saved  your  life .' 

"  A.  He  has.  Many  bullets  have  gone  on  this  side,  and 
many  on  that  side,  hut  he  would  never  let  them  hurt  me. 
And  many  bullets  have  gone  into  these  young  men,  and  yet 
they  are  alive. 

"  Q.   Then  cannot  He  save  you  from  your  enemies  now.' 

"  .9.  Yes,  but  we  know  not  if  he  will.  We  have  now  so 
many  enemies  round  about  us,  that  I  think  of  nothing  but 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


3G7 


ddiitli ;  and  if  I  am  to  die,  I  sliull  die,  and  I  will  dii'  like  a 
man.  Bui  if  He  will  have  me  to  live,  I  slmll  live.  Tliou^'li  I 
had  ever  so  many  enemies.  He  can  destroy  them  all. 

"  Q.    How  do  yon  know  that .' 

".4.  From  what  I  have  seen.  When  our  enemies  came 
iigainst  us  hefore,  then  the  Beloved  Clouds  came  for  us  ;  and 
often  much  rain  and  sometimes  hail  has  come  upon  them,  and 
that  in  a  very  hot  day.  And  I  saw  when  many  French  and 
Choctaws,  and  other  nations  came  against  one  of  our  towns, 
and  the  ground  made  a  noise  under  them,  and  the  Beloved 
Ones  in  the  air  behind  them,  and  they  weie  afraid,  and  went 
iway,  and  left  their  meat  and  their  drink,  and  their  guns.  I 
tell  no  lie,  all  these  saw  it,  too. 

"  Q.   Have  you  heard  such  noises  at  other  times? 

"  A.   Yes,  often  ;  before  and  after  almost  every  battle. 

"  Q.   What  sort  of  noises  were  they  .' 

"  A.   Like  the  noise  of  drums,  and  guns,  and  shouting. 

"  Q.    Have  you  heard  any  such  lately.' 

"  A.   Yes  ;  four  days  after  our  last  battle  with  the  French. 

"  Q.   Then  you  heard  nothing  before  it .' 

"  A.  The  night  before,  I  dreamed  I  heard  many  drums  up 
there,  and  many  trumpets  there,  and  much  stamping  of  feet 
and  shouting.  Till  then,  I  thought  we  should  all  die  ;  but 
then  I  thought  the  Beloved  Ones  were  come  to  help  us.  And 
the  next  day  I  heard  above  a  hundred  guns  go  olT  before  the 
fight  began,  and  I  said.  When  the  Sun  is  there,  tlie  Beloved 
Ones  will  helj)  us,  and  we  shall  conquer  our  enemies  ;  and  we 
did  so. 

"  Q.   Do  you  often  think  and  talk  of  the  Beloved  Ones .' 

'■'■A.  We  think  of  them  always,  wherever  we  are.  We 
talk  of  them  and  to  them,  at  home  and  abroad,  in  peace  and 
in  war,  before  and  after  we  fight,  and  indeed  whenever  and 
wherever  we  meet  together. 

"  Q.   Where  do  you  think  your  souls  go,  after  death  .' 

"  A.  We  believe  the  souls  of  red  men  walk  up  and  down 
near  the  place  where  they  died,  or  where  their  bodies  lie,  for 
we  have  often  heard  cries  and  noises  near  tlie  place  where  any 
prisoners  had  been  burnt. 

"  Q.   Where  do  the  souls  of  white  men  go  after  death  .' 

'■'■A.  We  cannot  tell ;    we  have  not  seen. 

"  Q.  Our  belief  is,  that  the  souls  of  bad  men  only  walk  up 
and  down  ;  hut  the  souls  of  good  men  go  up. 

'■'■A.  I  believe  so,  too;  but  I  told  you  the  talk  of  the 
nation. 

'^  Mr.  Andretns.  They  said,  at  the  burying,  they  knew 
what  you  was  doing.  You  was  speaking  to  the  Beloved  Ones 
above  to  take  up  tlie  soul  of  the  young  woman. 

"  Q.  We  have  a  book  that  tells  us  many  things  of  the 
Beloved  Ones  above  ;  would  you  be  glad  to  know  them  ? 

"  A.  We  have  no  time  now,  but  to  fight.  If  we  should 
ever  be  at  peace,  we  should  be  glad  to  know. 

"  Q.  Do  you  expect  ever  to  know  what  the  white  men 
know  ? 

"  Mr.  Andrews.  They  told  Mr.  O.,  they  believe  the  time 
will  come  when  the  red  and  wiiite  men  will  be  one. 

"  Q.   What  do  the  French  teach  you  .' 

"  A.  The  French  Black  Kings  (the  Priests)  never  go  out. 
We  see  you  go  about :  we  like  that ;  that  is  good. 

"  Q.    How  came  your  nation  by  the  knowledge  they  have  .' 

"  A.  As  soon  as  ever  the  ground  was  sound  and  fit  to  stand 
upon,  it  came  to  us,  and  has  been  with  us  ever  since.  But 
we  are  young  men,  our  old  men  know  more  ;  but  all  of  them 
do  not  know.  There  are  but  a  few  whom  the  Beloved  One 
chooses  from  a  child,  and  is  in  them,  and  takes  care  of  them, 
and  teaches  them.  They  know  these  things,  and  our  old  men 
practise,  therefore  they  know  :  lint  I  do  not  practise,  therefore 
I  know  little."  —  Wesley's  .Journal,  No.  I.  39. 


Dolviyddelan.  —  X.  p.  344,  col.  2. 

"  Dolwyddelan  is  situated  in  a  rocky  valley  which  is 
sprinkled  with  stunted  trees,  and  watered  by  the  Lleder. 
The  boundaries  are  rude  and  barren  mountains,  and  among 
others,  the  great  bending  mountain,  Seabed,  often  conspicuous 
from  most  distant  places.  The  castle  is  placed  on  a  high  rock, 
precipitous  on  one  side,  and  insulated  :  it  consists  of  two 
square  towers,  one  40  feet  by  2.i,  the  other,  ?fl  by  20  ;  each 
had  formerly  three  floors.     The  materials  of  this  fortress  are 


the  shattery  stone  of  the  country  ;  yet  well  s(]UMied,  the 
masonry  good,  and  the  mortar  hard  ;  the  ciistle  yard  hiy  be- 
tween the  towers."  —  Pennant's  Siiomdun. 

The  rudeness  and  barrenness  of  the  surrounding  mountains 
I  can  well  testify,  having  been  bewildered  and  benighted  upon 
them. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  Edward  the  Fourth  his  reign,  Dol- 
wyddelan  was  inhabited  liy  Howell  ap  Evan  ap  Rhys  Oelljiii, 
a  base  son,  captain  of  the  country,  and  an  outlaw.  Against 
this  man,  David  ap  Jenkin  rose  and  conteniied  with  him  fur  the 
sovereignty  of  the  country,  and  being  superior  to  him  in  the 
end,  he  drew  a  draught  for  him,  and  took  him  in  his  bed  at 
Penanoneii  with  his  concubine,  performing  by  craft  what  he 
could  not  by  fiirce  ;  for  after  many  bickerings  between  Ilowill 
and  David,  David  being  too  weak  was  fayne  to  fly  the  countiy 
and  to  goe  to  Ireland,  where  he  was  a  year  or  thereabouts  ;  in 
the  end  he  returned,  in  a  summer  time,  having  himself  and 
all  his  followers  clad  in  greene  ;  which,  being  come  into  the 
country,  he  dispersed  here  and  there  among  his  friends,  lurk- 
ing by  day  and  walking  by  night,  for  fear  of  his  adversaries  ; 
and  such  of  the  country  as  happened  to  have  a  sight  of  him 
and  of  his  followers,  said  they  were  fayries,  and  so  ran  away." 
—  GvvvDiR  History. 

JiTor  tarn'd  he  nnw 
Beside  Kregennan,  where  Ins  infant,  feet 
Had  trod  Ednywain's  hall.  —  X.  p.  344,  col.  2. 

At  some  distance  beyond,  the  two  pools,  called  Llynian 
Cragenan,  in  tlie  neighborhood  of  Cader  Idris,  near  tlie  river 
Kregennan,  I  saw  the  remains  of  Llys  Bradwen,  the  Court  or 
Palace  of  Ednowain,  chief  of  one  ofthe  fifteen  tribes  of  North 
Wales,  either  in  the  reign  of  Gruffydd  ap  Cynan,  or  soon  after. 
The  relics  are  about  thirty  yards  square:  the  entrance  about 
seven  feet  wide,  with  a  large,  upriglit  stone  on  each  side,  by  way 
of  door-case  ;  the  walls,  with  large  stones,  uncemented  by  any 
mortar  ;  in  short,  the  structure  of  this  palace  shows  the  very 
low  state  of  architecture  in  those  times;  it  maybe  paralleled 
only  by  the  artless  fabric  o(  a  cattle-house."  —  Pennant's 
Snowdnn. 


The  Hirlas.  —  X.  p.  345,  col.  1. 

Mr.  Owen,  to  whose  indefatigable  industry  Cymbric  liter- 
ature is  so  much  indebted,  has  favored  me  with  a  literal  ver- 
sion of  this  remarkable  poem. 

When  the  dawn  uprose,  a  shout  was  given  ; 
Foes  were  sending  a  luckless  dc.'Stiny. 
Mangled  with  ruddy  wounds,  our  men,  after  heavy  toil, 
were  seen  scattered  about  the  wall  of  the  Vale  of  Maelor. 
I  chased  away  the  strangers  inured  to  contention, 
dauntless  in  the  conflict,  with  red  stained  weapons. 
Who  insults  the  brave,  let  him  beware  his  presence  I 
the  result  of  molesting  him  is  a  source  of  affliction. 

Pour  out,  thou  cup-bearer,  thus  yielding  pleasure, 
the  horn  in  the  hand  of  Rhys,  in  the  hall  of  the  director  of 

bounty, 
the  hall  of  Owen,  that  has  ever  been  maintained  on  spoil, 
the  feasting  of  a  thousand,  thou  mayest  hear ;  open  are  the 

gates. 
Cup-bearer!  X  am  sad  and  silent :  has  he  not  left  mo  i' 
Reach  thou  the  horn  for  mutual  drinking  ; 
Full  of  sorrow  am   I  for  the  leader  of  the  hue  of  the  ninth 

wave  ;  * 
long  and  blue  its  characteristic,  gold  its  cover : 
so  bring  it  forth  with  Bragod,  a  liquor  of  exalted  pledge, 
into  the  hand  of  the  frowaid  Gwgan,  to  requite  his  deed. 
The  whelps  of  Goronwy  are  mighty  in  the  patli  of  wrath, 
aptly  springing  whelps,  confident  their  feet, 
men  who  claim  a  reward  in  every  difficulty; 
men  in  the  shout  greatly  valued,  of  mighty  deliverance. 


■  The  ninth  wave  is  an  expression  much  used  by  the  Welsh  Poets.  It 
occurs  in  the  Hoienan  of  Myrddin.  "  I  will  prophesy  before  the  ninth 
w.ive." — Arch.  p.  li'5.  So  in  thr  nilofrv  on  Evi.  "  Kva,  of  tlie  hue  of 
Uic  spraying  foam  before  the  ninth  wave."  — /IrcA.  p.  217. 


3G8 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


The  Shepherd  of  Havern  (Severn)  it  eUitea  the  soul  to  liear 

them 
soiindiiig  the  Horns  of  meail  that  greatly  rouse  desire. 

Pour  out  thou  the  Horn  covered  witli  a  yellow  top, 
honorably  drunk  u  ilh  over-frothing  mead  ; 
and  if  thou  seekcst  lifu  to  one  year's  close, 
diminish  not  ils  respect,  since  it  is  not  meet; 
And  bear  to  Grufydd,  the  crimson-lanced  foe, 
wine  with  pellucid  glass  around  it ; 
the  dragon  of  Arwslli,  safeguard  of  the  borders, 
the  dragon  of  Owen,  tlie  generous,  of  the  race  of  Cynvyn, 
a  dragon  from  his  beginning,  and  never  scared  by  a  contlict 
of  triumphant  slaughter,  or  afflicting  chase. 
Men  of  combat  departed  for  the  acquirement  of  fame, 
arM)ed  sons  of  the  banipiet  with  gleaming  weapons  ; 
they  requited  well  their  mead,  like  Belyn's  men  of  yore  ; 
fairly  did  they  toil  while  a  single  man  was  left. 

Pour  out  thou  the  Horn,  for  it  is  my  purpose 
that  its  [lotent  sway  may  incite  a  sprightly  conversation, 
in  the  right  hand  of  our  leader  of  devastation, 
gleaming  beneath  the  broad,  light  shield  ; 
in  the  hand  of  Ednyved,  the  lion  of  his  lami  irreproachable  ; 
all  dexterous  in  the  push  of  spears,  shivered  away  his  shield. 
The  tumult  hurries  on  the  two  fearless  of  nature  ; 
they  would  break  as  a  whirlwind  over  a  fair  retreat, 
with  ojiposing  fronts  in  the  combat  of  battle, 
where   the   face    of  the   gold-bespangled   shield    they  would 

quickly  break. 
Thoroughly  stained,  their  shafts,  after  head-cleaving  blows. 
Thoroughly  active  in  defending  the  glory-bounded  Garthran, 
and  there  was  heard  in  Maelor  a  great  and  sudden  outcry, 
with  horrid  scream  of  men  in  agony  of  wounds, 
and  thronging  round  the  carnage  they  interwove  their  paths. 
As  it  was  in  Bangor  round  I  he  fire  of  spears, 
when  two  sovereigns  over  horns  made  discord, 
when  there  was  the  banquet  of  Morac  Morvran. 

Pour  thou  out  the  Horn,  for  I  am  contemplating 
where  they  defend  both  their  mead  and  their  country. 
Selyc  the  undaunted,  of  the  station  of  Gwygyr, 
look  to  it,  who  insults  him  of  eagle  heart ! 
And  iMadoc's  only  son,  the  geneious  Tudyr  of  high  renown, 
and  the  claim  of  the  wolf,  a  slayer  with  gleaming  shafts. 
Two  heroic  ones,  two  lions  in  their  onset, 
two  of  cruel  energy,  the  two  sons  of  Ynyr  ; 
two,  unrestrained  in  the  day  of  battle  their  onward  course, 
of  irresistible  progress  and  of  matchless  feat. 
The  stroke  of  the  fierce  lions  liercely  cut  through  warriors 
of  battle-leading  forms,  red  their  ashen  thrusters 
of  violence,  bending  in  pursuit  with  ruthless  glory. 
The  shivering  of  their  two  shields  may  be  likened 
to  the  loud-voiced  wind,  over  the  green-sea  brink 
checking  the  incessant  waves ;  so  seemed  the  scene  of  Tal- 
garth. 

Pour  out,  thou  Cup-bearer,  seek  not  death, 
the  Horn  with  honor  in  festivals. 

The  long  blue  bugle  of  high  privilege,  with  ancient  silver 
that  covers  it,  with  opposite  lips, 
and  bear  to  Tudyr,  eagle  of  conflicts, 
a  prime  beverage  of  the  blushing  wine. 
If  there  come  not  in  of  mead  the  best  of  all 
the  liquor  from  the  bowl,  thy  head  is  forfeit 
to  the  hand  of  Moreiddig  the  encourager  of  songs  ; 
may  they  become  old  in  fame  before  their  cold  depositure  I 
Brothers  blameless!  of  highly  soaring  minds, 
of  dauntless  vigor  earning  your  deserts, 
warriors  who  for  me  have  achieved  services, 
not  old  with  unsightliness,  but  old  in  dexterity, 
toilers,  impellers,  leaders  that  are  wolves 
of  the  cruel  foremost  rank,  with  gory  limbs. 
Brave  captains  of  the  men  of  Mocnant,  a  Powysian  land, 
both  possess  the  prowess  of  the  brave  ; 
the  deliverers  in  every  need,  ruddy  are  their  weapons, 
securely  they  would  keep  their  bounds  from  tumult, 
praise  is  their  meed,  they  who  are  so  blest. — 
Cry  of  death  was  it .'  be  the  two  to  me  then  changed ! 


Oh  my  Christ !  how  sad  am  I  from  these  wounds  1 
By  the  loss  of  Moreiddig  greatly  is  his  absence  felt. 

Pour  thou  out  the  Horn,  for  they  (io  not  sigh  for  mel 
the  [lirla>,  clieeringly  in  the  hand  of  Morgant, 
a  man  who  deserves  the  homage  of  |)eculiar  praise. 
Like  poison  to  the  hap|)y  is  the  track  of  his  spear, 
a  matter  accursed  is  the  abiding  his  blade, 
smooth  its  two  sides,  keen  its  edges. 

Pour  out,  thou  Cup-bearer,  from  a  silver  vessel 
the  solemn  festive  boon  with  due  respect. 
On  the  plain  of  Great  Gwestun  I  saw  the  raw  throbbing. 
To  baffle  Goronwy  were  a  task  for  a  hundred  men  ; 
the  warriors  a  mutual  purpose  did  accomplish  there, 
supporters  of  the  battle,  heedless  of  life. 
The  exalted  chief  did  meet  the  dispersed  ones  of  slaughter, 
a  governor  was  slain,  burnt  was  a  fort  on  the  flood  mark  o( 

the  sea ; 
a  magnanimous  prisoner  they  fetched  away, 
Mairyc  son  of  Grufydd,  the  theme  of  jjrophetic  song: 
Were  they  not  all  bathed  in  sweat  when  they  returned, 
for  full  of  sunshine  were  the  extended  hill  and  dale  .' 

Pour  thou  out  the  Horn  to  the  mutually  toiling  ones, 
the  whelps  of  Owen  with  connected  spears  in  united  leap; 
they  would  pour  abroad  in  a  noted  sjiot 
a  store  where  the  glittering  irons  go  rebounding  ; 
Madoc  and  Meilcr,  men  nurtured  in  depredation, 
for  iniquity  the  stemming  opponents, 
the  instructors  for  tumult  of  a  shield-bearing  host, 
and  froward  conductors  of  subjects  trained  for  conflicts. 
U  is  heard  how  from  the  feast  of  mead  went  the  chief  of  Ca- 

traeth  ; 
upright  their  purpose  with  keen-edged  weapons  ; 
the  train  of  Mynyddoc,  lor  their  being  consigned  to  sleep, 
obtained  their  recording,  leaders  of  a  wretched  fray  I 
None   achieved    what   my    warriors  did  in  the  hard   toil  of 

Maelor,  — 
the  release  of  a  prisoner  belongs  to  the  harmonious  eulog}-. 

Pour  out,  thou  Cup-bearer,  sweet  mead  distilled 

of  spear-impelling  spirit  in  the  sweating  toil, 

from  bugle  horns  proudly  overlaid  with  gold 

to  requite  the  pledge  of  their  lives. 

Of  the  various  distresses  that  chieftains  endure 

no  one  knows  but  God  and  he  who  speaks. 

A  man  who  will  not  pay,  will  not  pledge,  will  abide  no  laxv, 

Daniel  the  auxiliary  chief,  so  fair  of  loyalty. 

Cup-bearer,  great  the  deed  that  claims  to  be  honored, 

of  men  refraining  not  from  death  if  they  find  not  hospitality. 

Cup-bearer,  a  choicest  treat  of  mead  must  be  served  us  to- 
gether, 

an  ardent  fire  bright,  a  light  of  ardently  bright  tapers. 

Cup-bearer,  thou  mightest  have  seen  a  house  of  wrath  in 
Lledwn  land, 

a  sullenly  subjected  prey  that  shall  be  highly  praised. 

Cup-beafrer,  I  cannot  be  continued  here  :  nor  avoid  a  separa- 
tion ; 

Be  it  in  Paradise  that  we  be  received  ; 

with  the  Supreme  of  Kings  long  be  our  abode, 

where  there  is  to  be  seen  the  secure  course  of  truth. 

The  passage  in  the  poem  would  have  stood  very  difTerent!/ 
had  I  seen  this  literal  version  before  it  was  printed.  I  had 
written  from  the  faithless  paraphrase  of  Evans,  in  which  every 
thing  characteristic  or  beautiful  is  lost. 

Few  |)ersons  who  read  this  song  can  possibly  doubt  its  au- 
thenticity. They  who  chose  to  consider  the  Welsh  poems  as 
spurious  had  never  examined  them.  Their  groundless  and 
impudent  incredulity,  however,  has  been  of  service  to  litera- 
ture, as  it  occasioned  Mr.  Turner  to  write  his  Vindication, 
which  has  settled  the  question  forever. 


Saint  Movacel.  —  X.  p.  345,  col.  2. 
"  In  Pennant-Melangle  church  was  the  tomb  of  St.  Mona- 
cella,  who,  protecting  a  hare  from  the  pursuit  of  Brocwell 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALP]S. 


3G9 


Yscyllibro!(,  I'rinco  of  I'owis,  lie  guve  her  land  to  found  a 
religious  house,  of  wliich  she  becuiiie  first  Abbess.  Her  liard 
bed  is  shown  in  the  cleft  of  n  in  i^hborin^'  rock,  her  tomb  was 
in  a  little  chapel,  now  the  vestry,  and  her  image  is  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  churchyard,  where  is  also  that  of  Edward,  eldest 
son  of  Owen  Gwyiiedh,  who  was  set  aside  from  the  succession 
on  account  of  a  broken  nose,  and  flying  here  for  safety,  was 
slain  not  far  oil",  at  a  place  called  Binlcli  Crocs  luricerth.  On 
liis  sliielil  is  inscribed,  llicjacet  Eticard."  —  Gough's  Camden. 
Mr.  Gough  has  certainly  been  mistaken  concerning  one  of 
these  monuments,  if  not  both.  What  he  supposed  to  be  the 
Image  of  St.  Monacel  is  the  monumental  stone  of  some  female 
of  ilistinction,  the  figure  being  recumbent,  with  the  hands 
joined,  and  the  feet  resting  upon  some  animal.  And  tlie  letters 
which  he  read  for  Etward,  are  plainly  Et  Mado. 


The  place  of  meeting  was  a  liigh  hill-top.  — XI.  p.  34C,  col.  1. 

The  B.irdic  meetings,  or  Gorscddau,  were  held  in  the  open 
air,  on  u  conspicuous  place,  while  the  sun  was  above  the 
horizon  ;  for  they  were  to  perform  every  thing  in  the  eye  of 
liahl,  and  in  the  face  of  the  sun.  The  place  was  set  apart  by 
forming  a  Circle  of  Stones,  with  a  large  stone  in  the  middle, 
beside  which  the  presiding  Bard  stood.  This  was  termed 
Cijig  Cyngrair,  or  the  Circle  of  Federation,  and  the  middle 
stone  Matn  Hog,  the  Stone  of  Covenant. 

Mr.  Owen's  very  curious  introduction  to  his  translation  of 
Llywarc  Hen  has  supplied  me  with  materials  for  the  account 
of  the  Oorscdd,  introduced  in  the  poom.  That  it  might  be  as 
accurate  as  possible,  he  himself  and  Edward  Williams  the 
Bard  did  me  the  favor  of  examining  it.  To  their  knowleilge, 
and  to  that  of  Mr.  Turner,  the  historian  of  the  Anglo-Saxons, 
and  to  the  liberality  and  friendliness  with  which  they  liave 
ever  been  willing  to  assist  me  therewith,  I  am  greatly  and 
variously  indebted. 

The  Bard  at  these  meetings  wore  the  distinguishing  dress 
of  bis  order  —  a  robe  of  sky  blue,  as  an  emblem  of  truth,  being 
unicolored,  and  also  as  a  type,  th.af,  amid  the  storms  of  the 
moral  world,  he  must  assume  the  serenity  of  the  unclouded 
sky.  The  dress  of  the  Ovijdd,  the  third  order,  or  first  into 
which  the  candidate  could  be  admitted,  was  green.  The 
Awenyddion,  the  Disciples,  wore  a  variegated  dress  of  blue, 
green,  and  white,  the  three  Bardic  colors,  white  being  the 
dress  of  the  Druids,  who  were  the  second  order.  The  bards 
stood  within  the  circle,  bareheaded  and  barefooted,  and  the 
ceremony  opened  by  sheathing  a  sword  and  laying  it  on  the 
Stone  of  Covenant.     The  Bardic  traditions  were  then  recited. 


Himself,  albeit  his  hands  were  stain'd  with  -mar. 
Initiate  ;  for  the  Order,  in  the  lapse 
Of  years,  and  in  their  nation's  long  decline. 
Prom  tlie  first  rigor  of  their  purity 
Somewhat  had  fallen.  —  XI.  p.  340,  col.  I. 

"  By  the  principles  of  the  Order  a  Bard  was  never  to  bear 
arms,  nor  in  any  other  manner  to  become  a  parly  in  any  dis- 
pute, either  political  or  religious  ;  nor  was  a  naked  weapon 
ever  to  he  held  in  bis  presence,  for  niidcr  the  title  of  Bardd 
Ynys  Prydain,  Bar<i  of  the  Isle  of  Britain,  he  was  recognized 
as  the  sacred  Herald  of  Peace.  He  could  pass  unmolested 
from  one  country  to  another,  where  his  character  was  known  ; 
and  whenever  he  appeared  in  his  unicolored  robe,  attention 
wa9  given  to  him  on  all  occasions  ;  if  it  was  even  between 
armies  in  the  heat  of  action,  both  parties  would  instantly 
desist." — Owen's  Llywarc  Hen. 

Six  of  the  elder  Bards  are  enumerated  in  the  Triads  as 
having  borne  arms  in  violation  of  their  Order ;  but  in  these 
latter  days  the  perversion  bad  become  more  frequent.  Meiler, 
the  Bard  of  Grufydd  ah  Cynan,  distinguished  himself  in  war; 
Cynddelw,  Brydydd  Mawr,  the  Great  Bard,  was  eminent  for 
his  valor,  and  Gwalchmai  boasts  in  one  of  his  poems  that  lie 
had  defended  the  Marches  against  the  Saxons. — Warrington. 


"  The  three  primary  recpiisites  of  poetical  Genius  ;  an  eye 
that  can  see  Nature,  a  heart  that  can  feel  Nature,  and  a  reso- 
lution that  dares  follow  Nature. 

"  The  three  foundations  of  Genius  ;  the  gift  of  God,  man's 
exertion,  and  the  events  of  life. 

"  The  three  indispensables  of  Genius  ;  understanding,  feel- 
ing, and  perseverance. 

"  The  three  things  which  constitute  a  poet ;  genius,  know  1- 
edge,  and  impulse. 

"The  three  things  that  enrich  Genius;  contentment  of 
mind,  the  cherishing  of  good  thoughts,  and  exercising  the 
memory."  —  E.  Wii-liams's  Poems.     Owen's  Llywarc  Hen. 


Cimbric  lore.  —  XI.  p.  34G,  col.  2. 

"  The  Welsh  have  always  called  themselves  Cijmry,  of 
which  the  strictly  literal  meaning  is  Aborigines.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  it  is  the  same  word  as  the  Cimbri  of  the 
ancients;  they  call  their  language  Cymraeg,  the  Primitive 
Tongue."  —  E.  Williams's  Poems. 


Tht  Bard's  most  konorabU  name XI.  p.  3 IG,  col.  2. 

No  people  seem  to  have  understood  the  poetical  character 
so  well  as  the  Welsh  ;  witness  their  Triads. 
47 


Where  are  the  sons  of  Oavran  ?  where  his  tribe. 
The  faithful  1  —  XI.  p.  347,  col.  1. 

"  Gavran,  the  son  of  Aeddan  Vradog  ab  Dyvnwal  Hen,  a 
chieftain  of  distinguished  celebrity  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
filth  century.  Gavran,  Cadwallon,  and  Gwenddolau  were  the 
heads  of  the  three  faithful  tribes  of  Britain.  The  family  of 
Gavran  obtained  that  title  by  accom])anying  him  to  sea  to  dis- 
cover some  islands,  which,  by  a  traditionary  memorial,  were 
known  by  the  name  of  Owcrdonnuu  Llioii,  or  the  green  Islands 
of  the  Ocean.  This  expedition  was  not  heard  of  afterwards, 
and  the  situation  of  those  islands  became  lost  to  the  Britons. 
This  event,  the  voyage  of  Mcrddin  Emrys  with  the  twelve 
Bards,  and  the  expedition  of  Madoc,  were  called  the  three 
losses  by  disappearance." —  Cambrian  Biography. 

Of  these  Islands,  or  Green  Spots  of  the  Floods,  there  are 
some  singular  superstitions.  They  are  the  abode  of  the 
Tijlwylh  Teg,  or  the  Fair  Family,  the  souls  of  the  virtuous 
Druids,  who,  not  having  been  Christians,  cannot  enter  the 
Christian  heaven,  but  enjoy  this  heaven  of  their  own.  They, 
however,  discover  a  love  of  mischief,  neither  becoming  happy 
spirits,  nor  consistent  with  their  original  character  ;  for  they 
love  to  visit  the  earth,  and,  seizing  a  man,  inquire  whether  ho 
will  travel  above  wind,  mid  wind,  or  below  wind  ;  above  wind 
is  a  giddy  and  terrible  passage  ;  below  wind  is  through  bush 
and  brake;  the  middle  is  a  safe  course.  But  the  spell  of  se- 
curity is,  to  catch  hold  of  the  grass,  for  these  beings  have  not 
power  to  destroy  a  blade  of  grass.  In  their  hettir  moods  they 
come  over  and  carry  the  Welsh  in  their  boats.  He  who  visits 
these  islands  imagines  on  his  return  that  he  has  been  absent 
only  a  few  hours,  when,  in  truth,  whole  centuries  have  passed 
away. 

If  you  take  a  turf  from  St.  David's  church-yard,  and  stand 
upon  it  on  the  sea-sliore,  you  behold  these  islands.  A  man 
once,  who  had  thus  obtained  sight  of  them,  immediately  put  to 
sea  to  find  them  ;  but  they  disappeared,  and  his  search  was  in 
vain.  He  returned,  looked  at  them  again  from  the  enclianted 
turf,  again  set  sail,  and  failed  again.  'J'he  third  time  he  took 
the  turf  into  his  vessel,  and  stood  upon  it  till  he  reached  them. 

"  The  inhabitants  of  Arran  More,  the  largest  of  the  south 
isles  of  Arran,  on  the  coast  of  Galway,  are  persuaded  that  in 
a  cleat  day  they  can  see  Hy  Brasiiil,  the  Enchanted  Island, 
from  the  coast,  the  Paradise  of  the  Pagan  Irish." —  Collectanea 
de  Rebus  Ifibernicis.  Beaukohd's  Ancient  Topography  of 
Ireland. 

General  Vallancey  relates  adifferent  history  of  this  supersti- 
tion. "The  old  Irish,"  he  says,  "say,  that  great  part  of  Ire- 
land was  swallowed  up  hy  the  sea,  and  that  the  sunken  part 
often  rises,  and  is  frequently  to  be  seen  on  the  horizon  from 
the  Northern  coast.  On  the  North-west  of  the  island  they  call 
this  enchanted  country  Tir  Hiidi,  or  the  city  of  Iliid,  believ- 
ing that  the  city  stands  there  wliich  once  possessed  all  the 
riches  of  the  world,  and  that  its  key  lies  buried  under  some 
druidical  monument.  When  Mr.  Burton,  in  1765,  went  in 
search  of  the  Ogham  monument,  called  Conane's  Tomb,  on 
Callan  mountain,  the  people  could  not  be  convinced  that  the 
search  was  made  after  an  inscription,  but  insisted  that  he  was 


370 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


seeking  after  nn  Knchanteil  Key  that  lay  buried  with  the 
Hero,  and  which,  ivhen  found,  would  restore  the  Enchanted 
City  to  its  former  splendor,  and  convert  the  moory  heights  of 
Callan  mountain  into  rich  and  fruitful  plains.  They  expect 
great  riclie;  whenever  this  city  is  discovered." 

This  enchanted  country  is  called  O  Brensil,  or  O  Brazil, 
which,  according  to  General  Vallancey's  interpretation,  signi- 
fies the  Royal  Island.  He  says  it  is  evidently  the  lost  city  of 
Arabian  Story,  visited  by  their  fabulous  prophet  Houd,  —  the 
City  and  Paradise  of  Irem  !  He  compares  this  tradition  with 
the  remarks  of  Whitehurst  on  the  Giant's  Causeway,  and  sus- 
pects that  it  refers  to  the  lost  Atlantis,  which  Whitehurst 
thinks  perhaps  existed  there. 

Is  that  remarkable  phenomenon,  known  in  Sicily  by  the 
name  of  Morgaine  le  Fay's  works,  ever  witnessed  on  the  coast 
of  Ireland  .'  If  so,  the  superstition  is  explained  by  an  actual 
apparition.  I  had  not,  when  this  note  was  written,  seen 
Mr.  Latham's  account  of  a  similar  phenomenon  at  Hastings, 
(Phil.  Trans.  1798,)  which  completely  establishes  what  I  had 
here  conjectured.  Mr.  Nicholson,  in  his  remarks  on  it,  says 
the  same  thing  has  been  seen  from  Broadstairs,  and  that  these 
appearances  are  much  more  frequent  anil  general  than  has 
usually  been  supposed. 

In  his  crystal  Ark, 
Whither  sail'd  JUn-hn  with  his  band  of  Bards, 
Old  Merlin,  master  of  the  mystic  lore  ?  —  XI,  p.  347,  col.  1. 

The  name  of  Merlin  has  been  so  canonized  by  Ariosto  and 
our  diviner  Spenser,  that  it  would  have  been  a  heresy  in 
poetry  to  have  altered  it  to  its  genuine  orthography. 

Merddin  was  the  bard  of  Emrys  Wledig,  the  Ambrosius  of 
Saxon  history,  by  whose  command  he  erected  Stonehenge, 
in  memory  of  the  Plot  of  the  Long  Knives,  when,  by  the 
treachery  of  Gwrytheyrn,  or  Vortigern,  and  the  Saxons,  three 
hundred  British  chiefs  were  massacred.  He  built  it  on  the 
site  of  a  former  Circle.  The  structure  itself  affords  proof 
that  it  cannot  have  been  raised  much  earlier,  inasmuch  as  it 
deviates  from  the  original  principle  of  Bardic  circles,  where 
no  appearance  of  art  was  to  be  admitted.  Those  of  Avebury, 
Stanton-Drew,  Keswick,  &c.  exemplify  this.  It  is  called  by 
the  Welsh  Owaith  Emrys,  the  work  of  Ambrosius.  Drayton's 
reproach,  therefore,  is  ill  founded. 

Jll  did  those  mighty  men  to  trust  thee  with  their  story. 

Thou  hast  forgot  their  names,  who  reared  thee  for  their  glory. 

The  Welsh  traditions  say  that  Merddin  made  a  House  of 
Glass,  in  which  he  went  to  sea,  accompanied  by  the  Nine 
Cylveirdd  Bards,  and  was  never  heard  of  more.  This  was  one 
of  the  Three  disappearances  from  the  isle  of  Britain.  Merd- 
din is  also  one  of  the  Three  principal  Christian  Bards  of 
Britain;  Merddin  Wyllt  and  Taliesin  are  the  other  two. — 
Cambrian  Biography. 

A  diving  House  of  Glass  is  also  introduced  in  the  Spanish 
Romance  of  Alexander,  written  about  the  middle  of  the  13th 
century,  by  Joan  Lorenzo  Segura  de  Astotga. 

Unasfacianas  suelen  les  genies  retraer, 
JVon  yai  en  escrito,  i  es  grave  de  creer ; 
Si  es  verdat  o  non,  yo  non  he  y  que  veer, 
Pero  no  to  quiero  en  olvido  poner. 

Dicen  que  por  saber  guefacen  los  pescados, 
Como  viven  los  chicos  entre  los  mas  granados, 
Fizo  Cuba  de  vidrio  con  pantos  bien  cerrados, 
Metios  en  ella  dentro  con  dos  de  sus  criados. 

Estos  furon  catados  de  todos  los  meiores, 
Por  tal  que  non  oviessen  dona  los  traedores, 
Ca  que  el  o  que  ellos  avrien  aguardadores, 
M'onfarien  d  sus  guisas  los  maJos  revoltores. 

Fu  de  bona  betume  la  cuba  aguisada, 
Ji\i  con  bonas  cadenas  bien  presa  i  caliada, 
Fu  con  priegos  firmes  d  las  Jiavcs  pregada. 
Que  fonder  non  scpodiesse  e  estodiesse  colgada. 

Mando  que  quime  dias  lo  dexassen  hy  darar, 
Las  naves  con  todesto  pcnsassen  de  tost  andar, 
Assai  podrie  en  eslo  saber  e  mesurar. 
Metric  en  escrito  los  secretos  del  mar. 


La  cubafaefccha  en  quel  Rry  acia, 

A  los  unos  pcsaba,  a  los  otros  placia  : 

Bien  cuidaban  algunos  que  nunca  ende  saldria. 

Mas  destaiado  era  que  en  mar  non  moriria. 

Andabal  hon  Rey  en  su  casa  cerrada, 
Seia  grant  coraion  en  anirosta  posada; 
Veia  toda  la  mar  de  pescados  poblada, 
JVo  es  bestia  nel  sieglo  que  nonfus  y  trobada. 

J\ron  vive  en  el  mundo  nciiguna  creatura 
Que  non  cria  la  tmir  semcjante  Jigura ; 
Traen  enemizades  entre  si  por  natura, 
Los  fuertes  a  losflacos  danles  mala  Ventura. 

Estonce  vio  el  Rey  en  aqucllas  andadas 
Como  echan  los  unos  a  los  otros  ct'ladas 
Dicen  que  ende  furon  presas  i  sossacadas, 
Furon  desenl  aca  por  el  sieglo  usadas. 

Tanto  se  acogien  al  Rey  los  pescados 
Como  si  los  ovies  el  Rey  por  subiugados, 
Venicn  fasta  la  cuha  todos  cabezciilgados, 
TVemian  todos  antel  como  mozos  moiades. 

.fiiraba  Mezandre  per  lo  su  dieslro  llado. 
Que  nunca  fura  domes  meior  accompannado  ; 
De  los  pueblos  del  mar  tovose  pur  pagado, 
Cont-aba  que  avie  grant  emperio  ganado. 

Otra  fuciana  vio  en  essos  pobJadores, 
Vio  que  los  maiores  comicn  d  los  menores, 
Los  chicos  d  los  grandes  tenienos  por  sennores, 
Maltraen  los  mas  fuertes  d  los  que  son  menores. 

Dii  el  Rey,  soberbia  es  en  todolos  lugares, 
Forcia  es  enna  tierra  i  dentro  eiinos  mares  : 
Las  aves  essso  mismo  non  se  calan  por  pares, 
Dios  confunda  tal  vicio  que  tien  tantos  lugares. 

JVacio  entre  los  angelos  ifizo  muchos  cacr, 
Arramdlos  Dios  per  la  tierra,  e  dioles  grant  podcr. 
La  mesnada  non  puede  su  derecho  aver 
Ascondio  la  cabeza,  non  osaba  parecer. 

Quien  mas  puede  mas  face,  non  de  bien,  mas  de  Tnal, 
Quien  mas  d  aver  mas  quier,  i  morre  por  ganal ; 
JVon  veeria  de  su  grado  nenguno  so  iguaX : 
Mai  peccado,  nenguno  no  es  d  Dios  leal. 

Las  aves  e  las  bestias,  los  omes,  los  pescados, 
Todos  son  entre  si  a  bandos  derramados ; 
De  vicio  e  de  soberbia  son  todos  entregados, 
Losflacos  de  los  fuertes  andan  desajiados. 

Se  como  sabel  Rey  bien  todesto  osmar, 

Quisiesse  assimismo  d  derechas  iulgar, 

Bien  debie  un  poco  su  lengua  refrenar. 

Que  en  tantfieras  grandias  non  quisiesse  andar. 

De  su  gradol  Rey  mas  oviera  estado 
Mas  a  sus  criaiones  faciesles  pesado  ; 
Temiendo  la  ocasion  que  suel  venir  privado, 
Sacaronlo  bien  ante  dd  termino  passado. 

The  sweet  flow  of  language  and  metre  in  so  early  a  poem  is 
very  remarkable  ;  but  no  modern  language  can  boast  of  monu- 
ments so  early  and  so  valuable  as  the  Spanish.  To  attempt  to 
versify  this  passage  would  be  laborious  and  unprofitable.  Its 
import  is,  that  Alexander  being  desirous  to  see  how  the  Fish 
lived,  and  in  what  manner  the  great  Fish  behaved  to  the  little 
ones,  ordered  a  vessel  of  glass  to  be  made,  and  fastened  with 
long  chains  to  his  ships,  that  it  might  not  sink  too  deep.  He 
entered  it  with  two  chosen  servants,  leaving  orders  that  the 
ships  should  continue  their  course,  and  draw  him  up  at  the  end 
of  fifteen  days.  The  vessel  had  been  made  perfectly  water- 
tight. He  descended,  and  found  the  fish  as  curious  to  see  him 
as  he  had  been  to  see  the  fish.  They  crowded  round  his 
machine,  and  trembled  before  him  as  if  he  had  been  their  con 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


371 


qiieror,  so  that  lie  thought  he  hiui  acquired  another  empire. 
But  Ah^vaIl(lor  perceived  the  same  system  of  tyranny  in  the 
water  as  on  the  land,  the  great  eat  the  little,  and  the  little 
eat  the  less  ;  upon  which  tyranny  he  m;ule  sundry  moral  uli- 
servations,  which  would  have  come  with  more  propriety  from 
any  other  person  than  from  himsulf.  However,  he  olisorved 
the  various  devices  whith  were  used  for  catching  fish,  and 
which,  ill  consequence  of  this  discovery,  have  been  used  in 
the  world  ever  since.  His  people  were  afraid  some  accident 
might  happen,  and  drew  him  up  long  before  the  fifteen  days 
were  expired. 

The  Poet  himself  docs  not  believe  this  story.  "  People  say 
so,"  he  says,  "  but  it  is  not  in  writing,  and  it  is  a  thing  diffi- 
cult to  believe.  It  is  not  my  business  to  examine  whether  it 
be  true  or  not,  but  I  do  not  choose  to  pass  it  over  unnoticed." 
The  same  story  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  Mr.  Coleridge  in 
one  of  the  oldest  German  poems  ;  and  what  is  more  remarka- 
ble, it  is  mentioned  by  one  of  the  old  Welsh  Bards.  — Da- 
viEs's  Celtic  Researches,  p.  196.  Jests,  and  the  fictions  of 
romance  and  superstition,  seem  to  have  travelled  every  where. 


Flathinnis.  —  XI.  p.  347,  col.  ). 

Flath-innis,  the  Noble  Island,  lies  surrounded  with  tempests 
in  the  Western  Ocean.  I  fear  the  account  of  this  Paradise  is 
but  apocryphal,  as  it  rests  upon  the  evidence  of  Macpherson, 
and  has  every  internal  mark  of  a  modern  fiction. 

In  former  days  there  lived  in  Skerr  *  a  magician  f  of  high 
renown.  The  blast  of  wind  waited  for  his  commands  at  the 
gate  ;  he  rode  the  tempest,  and  the  troubled  wave  ofiered 
itself  as  a  pillow  for  his  repose.  His  eye  followed  the  sun 
by  day  ;  his  thoughts  travelled  from  star  to  star  in  the  season 
of  night ;  he  thirsted  after  things  unseen  ;  he  sighed  over  the 
narrow  circle  which  surrounded  his  days  ;  he  often  sat  in 
silence  beneath  the  sound  of  his  groves  :  and  he  blamed  the 
careless  billows  that  rolled  between  him  and  the  Green  Isle 
of  the  West. 

One  day  as  the  Magician  of  Skerr  sat  thoughtful  upon  a 
rock,  a  storm  arose  on  the  sea :  a  cloud  under  whose  sijually 
skirts  the  foaming  waters  complained,  rushed  suddenly  into 
the  hay,  and  from  its  dark  womb  at  once  issued  forth  a  boat, 
with  its  white  sails  bent  to  the  wind,  and  hung  around  with  a 
hundred  moving  oars.  But  it  was  destitute  of  mariners,  itself 
seeming  to  live  and  move.  An  unusual  terror  seized  the  aged 
magician  ;  he  heard  a  voice,  though  he  saw  no  human  form. 
"Arise!  behold  the  boat  of  the  heroes!  arise,  and  see  the 
Green  Isle  of  those  who  have  passed  away  !  " 

He  felt  a  strange  force  on  his  limbs  ;  he  saw  no  person  ;  but 
he  moved  to  the  boat ;  immediately  the  wind  changed  ;  in  the 
bosom  of  the  cloud  he  sailed  away.  Seven  days  gleamed 
faintly  round  him,  seven  nights  added  their  gloom  to  his  dark- 
ness :  his  ears  were  stunned  with  shrill  voices ;  the  dull  mur- 
murs of  winds  passed  him  on  cither  side  ;  he  slept  not,  but  his 
eyes  were  not  heavy ;  he  ate  not,  but  he  was  not  hungry  :  on 
the  eighth  day  the  waves  swelled  into  mountains  ;  the  boat 
was  rocked  violently  from  side  to  side;  the  daikness  thick- 
ened around  him,  when  a  thousand  voices  at  once  cried  aloud, 
The  I-le  !  the  Isle  !  The  billows  opened  wide  before  him  ; 
the  calm  land  of  the  departed  rushed  in  light  on  his  eyes. 

It  was  not  a  light  that  da/.zled,  but  a  pure,  distinguishing, 
and  placid  light,  which  called  forth  every  object  to  view  in 
their  most  perfect  form.  The  isle  spread  large  before  him, 
like  a  pleasing  dream  of  the  soul,  where  distance  fades  not  on 
the  sight,  where  nearness  fatigues  not  the  eye.  It  had  its 
gently-sloping  hills  of  green,  nor  did  they  wholly  want  their 
clouds  ;  but  the  clouds  were  bright  and  transparent,  and  each 
involved  in  its  bosom  the  source  of  a  stream, — a  beauteous 
stream,  which,  wandering  down  the  steep,  was  like  the  faint 
notes  of  the  half-touched  harp  to  the  distant  ear.  The  valleys 
were  open  and  free  to  the  ocean  ;  trees  loaded  with  leaves, 
which  scarcely  waved  to  the  light  breeze,  were  scattered  on 
the  green  declivities  and  rising  ground  :  the  rude  winds  walked 
not  on  the  mountain  ;  no  storm  took  its  course  through  the 
sky.  All  was  calm  anil  bright  ;  the  pure  sun  of  Autumn 
shone  from  his  blue  sky  on  the  fields ;  he  hastened  not  to  the 

*  Skerr  Bignifies,  in  ^neral,  a  rock  hi  the  ocean, 
t  A  magician  ie  called  Druidh  in  vhe  Gaelic. 


west  for  repose,  nor  was  he  seen  to  rise  from  the  East :  he 
sits  in  his  midday  height,  and  looks  obliquely  on  the  Noble 
Isle. 

In  each  valley  is  its  slow-moving  stream  ;  the  pure  waters 
swell  over  the  bank,  yet  abstain  from  the  fields  ;  the  showers 
disturb  them  not,  nor  are  they  lessened  by  the  heat  of  the 
sun.  On  the  rising  hill  are  the  halls  of  the  departed — the 
high-roofed  dwelling  of  the  heroes  of  old. 

The  departed,  according  to  the  Tale,  retained,  in  the  midst 
of  their  happiness,  a  warm  afi'ection  for  their  country  and 
living  friends.  They  sometimes  visited  the  first ;  and  by  the 
latter,  as  the  Bard  expresses  it,  they  were  transiently  seen  in 
the  hour  of  |)eril,  and  especially  on  the  near  approach  of  death  ; 
it  was  then  that  at  midnight  the  death  devoted,  to  use  the 
words  of  the  Tale,  were  suddenly  awakened  by  a  strange 
knocking  at  their  gates  ;  it  was  then  that  they  heard  the  indis- 
tinct voice  of  their  departed  friends  calling  them  away  to  the 
Noble  Isle  ;  "a  sudden  joy  rushed  in  upon  their  minds,  and 
that  pleasing  melancholy  which  looks  forward  to  happiness  in 
a  distant  land.  —  Macpherson's  Introduction  to  the  History  of 
Orcat  Britain. 

"  The  softer  sex,  among  the  Celtse,"  he  adds,  "  passed  with 
their  friends  to  the  fortunate  isles  ;  their  beauty  increased  with 
the  change,  and,  to  use  the  words  of  the  Bard,  they  were 
ruddy  lights  in  the  Island  of  Joy." 


9nd  an  emerald  light 
Pervades  the  green   translucent  element,  —  XI.  p.  347,  col.  1. 

I  have  supplied  Merlin  with  light  when  he  arrived  at  his 
world  of  Mermankind,  but  not  for  his  submarine  voyage  ;  let 
Paracelsus  do  this. 

"  Urim  and  Thummim  were  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  and  it 
was  this  which  gave  light  in  the  Ark. 

"  For  God  commanded  Noah  to  make  a  clear  light  in  the 
Ark,  which  some  take  for  a  window.  But  since  the  Text 
saith.  Day  and  night  shall  no  more  cease  ;  it  seems  it  did  then 
cease,  and  therefore  there  could  be  no  exterior  light. 

"  'I'he  Rabbis  say,  that  the  Hebrew  word  Zohar,  which  the 
Chaldees  translate  Neher,  is  only  to  be  found  in  this  place. 
Other  Hebrew  doctors  believe  it  to  have  been  a  precious 
stone  hung  up  in  the  Ark,  which  gave  light  to  all  living 
creatures  therein.  This  the  greatest  carbuncle  could  not  do, 
nor  any  precious  stone  which  is  only  natural.  But  the  Uni- 
versal Spirit,  fixed  in  a  transparent  body,  shines  like  the  sun 
in  glory,  and  this  was  the  light  which  God  commanded  Noah 
to  make."  —  Paracelsus'  Urim  and  Thummim. 


Rhys  ab  Grufydd  ab  Rhys.  —  XU.  p.  347,  col.  2. 

Was  one  of  the  bravest,  wisest,  most  liberal,  and  most  cele- 
brated of  the  princes  of  South  Wales  He  is  thus  praised  in 
the  Pentarchia :  — 

Quis  queat  heroem  calamn  describere  tantum, 
(luantus  nt  ipse  fait,  modo  civibus  Hectoris  instar, 
Fortis  in  hostiles  modo  tunnas  instar  Achillls. 
Vitus  avos  palriwfere  sexaginta  per  annos, 
Quotfusas  acies,  quot  castra  reccpta,  quot  urbes, 
Spes  patrice,  columcn  pacu,  lux  urbis  et  orbis, 
Gentis  honos,  decus  armorum,fulmenque  duelli, 
Qho  neque  pace  prior,  neque  fortior  alter  in  ormis. 

In  Hearne's  Collection  of  Curious  Discourses,  are  these  fu- 
neral verses  upon  Lord  Rhys,  as  preserved  by  Camden  :  — 

JVobile  Cambrensis  eecidit  diadema  decoris. 

Hoc  est  Rhesus  obiit,  Cambria  tota  gemit. 
Subtrahitur,  sed  non  moritur,  quia  semper  habetur 

Ipsius  egregium  nomen  in  orbe  novum. 
Hie  tegitur,  sed  detegitur,  quiafamaperennis 

JVoH  sinil  illustrem  voce  latere  ducem- 
Excessit  probitate  modum,  sensu  probitatem, 

Eloquio  sensum,  moribus  eloquium. 

Rhys  ap  GryfTith,  say  the  Chronicles,  was  no  less  remark- 
able in  courage,  than  in  the  stature  and  lineaments  of  his  body, 
wherein  he  exceeded  most  men.  —  Rmjal  Tribes. 


372 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES, 


Beavrrs.  —  Xll.  p.  348,  col.  I. 

When  Giial(lu3  Cambrensis  wrote,  that  is,  at  the  time 
whereof  the  poem  treats,  the  only  Beavers  remaining  in 
Wales  or  England  were  in  the  Towy.  Inter  universos  Cam- 
britc,  sru  ettam  Locaria: JlnvioSf  solus  hie-  [Tcioi)  castores  hahct. 

The  Beaver  is  mentioned  also  in  the  laws  of  Iloel  Dlia,  and 
one  of  those  dark,  deep  resting-jilaces  or  pits  of  the  river  Con- 
way, which  the  Spaniards  call  the  remansos  del  rio,  is  called 
'he  Beavers'  pool. 


The  Great  Palace,  like  a  sanctuary, 
[s  safe.  —  Xn.  p.  348,  col.  2. 

Dlnas  Vawr,  the   Great  Palace.     It  was   regarded  as  an 
asylum. 


Ooacran  of  Powys-land.  —  XII.  p.  349,  col.  1. 

Properly  Gwgan  ;  but  I  have  adapted  the  orthography  to  an 
English  eye.  This  very  characteristic  story  is  to  be  found,  as 
narrated  in  the  poem,  in  Mr.  Yorke's  curious  work  upon  the 
Royal  Tribes  of  Wales.  Gwgan's  demand  was  for  five  pounds, 
instead  often  marks  ;  this  is  the  only  libi-rty  I  have  taken  with 
the  fact,  except  tli;it  of  fitting  it  to  the  business  of  the  poem, 
by  the  last  part  of  Rhys's  reply.  The  ill  humor  in  which  the 
Lord  of  Dinvawr  confesses  the  messenger  had  surprised  him, 
is  mentioned  more  bluntly  by  the  historian.  "  Gwgan  found 
him  in  a  furious  temper,  beating  his  servants  and  hanging  his 
dogs."  I  have  not  lost  the  character  of  the  anecdote,  by  re- 
lating the  cause  of  his  anger,  instead  of  the  effects. 


TTie  bay  whose  reckless  waves 
Roll  o''er  the  plain  of  Owaelod.  —  XIII.  p.  349,  col.  2. 

A  large  tract  of  fenny  country,  called  Cantrev  y  Gwaelod, 
the  Lowland  Canton,  was,  about  the  year  500,  inundated  by 
the  sea  ;  fjr  Peithenyn,  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness,  let  the  sea 
through  the  dams  which  secured  it.  He  is  therefore  distin- 
guished, with  Geraint  and  Gwrtheyrn,  under  the  appellation  of 
the  Three  arrant  Drunkards.  This  district,  which  forms  the 
present  Cardigan  Bay,  contained  sixteen  principal  towns  of  the 
Cymry,  the  inhabitants  of  which,  who  survived  the  inunda- 
tion, fled  into  the  mountainous  parts  of  Mcirion  and  Arvon, 
which  were  till  then  nearly  uncultivated.  Gwyddno  Garan- 
hir,  one  of  the  petty  Princes,  whose  territories  were  thus  de- 
.stroyed,  was  a  poet.  There  were  lately  (and  I  believe,  says 
Edmund  Williams,  are  still)  to  be  seen  in  the  sands  of  this 
bay  large  stones  with  inscriptions  on  them,  the  characters 
Roman,  but  the  language  unknown.  E.  Williams's  Poems,  — 
Cambrian  Biography. 

The  two  other  arrant  Drunkards  were  both  Princes  ;  the 
one  set  fire  to  the  standing  corn  in  his  country,  and  so  oc- 
casioned a  famine  ;  Gwrtheyrn,  the  other,  is  the  Vortigern  of 
Saxon  history,  thus  distinguished  for  ceding  the  Isle  of  Thanct, 
in  his  drunkenness,  as  the  price  of  Rowena.  This  worthless 
King  is  also  recorded  as  one  of  the  Three  disgraceful  men  of 
the  Island,  and  one  of  the  Three  treacherous  conspirators, 
whose  families  were  forever  divested  of  privilege — Cam- 
irian  Biography. 


Bardsey.  —  XlU.  p.  349,  col.  2. 

"This  little  island,"  says  Giraldus,  "is  inhabited  by  cer- 
tain monks  of  exceeding  piety,  whom  they  call  Culdces,  (Ca- 
lihes  vcl  Colideos.)  This  wonderful  property  it  hath,  either 
fiom  the  salubrity  of  its  air,  which  it  partakes  with  the  shores 
of  Ireland,  or  rather  from  some  miracle  by  reason  of  the  merits 
of  the  Saints,  that  diseases  are  rarely  known  there,  and  seldom 
or  never  does  any  one  die  till  worn  out  by  old  age.  Infinite 
numbers  of  Saints  are  buried  there.' 


On  his  back. 
Like  a  broad  shield,  the  coracle  was  hung.  —  XIII.  p.  3.50,  col.  2. 

"  The  coracles  are  generally  five  feet  and  a  half  long  and 
four  broad,  their  bottom  is  a  little  rounded,  and  their  shape 


nearly  oval.  These  boats  are  riblied  with  light  laths,  or  spli 
twigs,  in  the  manner  of  basket-work,  and  are  covered  with  a 
raw  hide  or  strong  canvass,  pitched  in  such  a  mode  as  to 
prevent  their  leaking  ;  a  seat  crosses  just  above  the  centre, 
towards  the  broader  end ;  they  seldom  weigh  more  than 
between  20  and  30  pounds.  The  men  paddle  them  with  one 
hand  while  they  fish  with  the  other,  and  when  their  work  is 
completed,  they  throw  the  coracles  over  their  shouldej's,  and 
without  difficulty  return  with  them  home. 

"  Riding  through  Abergwilly  we  saw  several  of  these  phe- 
nomena resting  with  their  bottoms  upwards  against  the  bouses, 
and  ri'sembling  the  shells  of  so  many  enormous  turtles  ;  and 
indeed  a  tiaveller,  at  the  first  view  of  a  coracle  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  a  fisherman,  might  fancy  he  saw  a  tortoise  walking  on 
his  hinder  legs."  —  Windham. 

Andrew  Marvell,  in  his  poem  called  "  Appleton  House," 
describes  the  coracle  as  then  used  in  Yorkshire  :  — 

And  now  the  salmon-fishers  moist 
Their  leathern  boats  begin  to  hoist ; 
And,  like  Antipodes  in  shoes, 
Have  shod  their  heads  in  their  canoes. 

How  Tortoise-like,  but  not  so  slow, 
These  rational  ampliibii  go  ! 
Let's  in  ;  for  the  dark  hemisphere 
Does  now  like  one  of  them  a{>pear. 

The  Saxon  pirates  ventured  to  sea  in  vessels  of  basket-work 
covered  with  skins  :  they  were  used  also  by  the  ancient  Span- 
iards ;  perhaps  the  coracle  succeeded  the  canoe,  implying  more 
skill  than  is  necessary  to  scoop  out  a  tree,  or  hollow  it  with 
fire,  and  less  than  is  required  to  build  a  boat.  The  boats  of 
bark,  which  the  savages  of  Canada  use,  are  equally  ingenious, 
and  possess  the  same  advantages. 


Prince  IToel's  lay  of  love.  —  XIV.  p.  352,  col.  2. 

Eight  poems  by  Prince  Hoel  are  preserved  :  they  are  here 
given  in  Mr.  Owen's  translation. 

]. 

My  choice  is  a  lady,  elegant,  slender,  and  fair,  whose  length- 
ened white  form  is  seen  through  the  thin  blue  veil ;  and  my 
choicest  faculty  is  to  muse  on  superior  female  excellence, 
when  she  with  diffidence  utters  the  becoming  sentiment ;  and 
my  choicest  participation  is  to  become  united  with  the  maid, 
and  to  share  mutual  confidence  as  to  thoughts  and  fortune.  I 
choose  the  bright  hue  of  the  spreading  wave,  thou  who  art  the 
most  discreet  in  thy  country,  with  thy  pure  Welsh  speech, 
chosen  by  me  art  thou  ;  what  am  I  with  thee .'  how  !  dost 
thou  refrain  from  speaking.'  ah  !  thy  silence  even  is  fair!  1 
have  chosen  a  maid,  so  that  with  me  there  should  be  no  hes- 
itation ;  it  is  right  to  choose  the  choicest  fair  one;  choose, 
fair  maid  ! 

2. 

1  love  the  white  glittering  walls  on  the  side  of  the  bank, 
clothed  in  fresh  verdancy,  where  bashfulness  loves  to  observe 
the  modest  sea-mew's  course  ;  it  would  be  my  delight,  though 
I  have  met  with  no  great  return  of  love  in  my  much-desired 
visit  on  the  sleek  white  steed,  to  behold  my  sister  of  flippant 
smile  ;  to  talk  of  love  since  it  has  come  to  my  lot ;  to  restore 
my  case  of  mind,  and  to  renew  her  slighted  troth  with  the 
nymph  as  fair  as  the  hue  of  the  shore-beating  wave. 

From  her  country,  who  is  bright  as  the  coldly-drifted  snow 
upon  the  lofty  hill,  a  censure  has  come  to  us,  that  I  should  be 
so  treated  with  disdain  in  the  Hall  of  Ogyrvan. 

Playful,  from  her  promise  was  new-born  expectation;  — 
she  is  gone  with  my  soul  away  :  I  am  made  wretched  !  —  Am 
I  not  become  for  love  like  Garwy  Hir  to  the  fair  one  of  whom 
I  am  debarred  in  the  Hall  of  Ogyrvan  ! 

3. 

I  love  the  castle  of  proud  workmanship  in  the  Cyvyici, 
where  my  own  assuming  form  is  wont  to  intrude :  the  high 
of  renown,  in  full  bustle,  seek  admittance  there,  and  by  it 
speaks  the  mad  resounding  wave. 

It  is  the  chosen  place  of  a  luminary  of  splendid  qualities 
and  fair ;  glorious  her  rising  from  the  verge  of  the  torrent, 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    WALES. 


373 


and  the  fuir  one  Rliities  upon  the  now  progressive  year,  in  the 
wilJ  of  Arvon,  in  tlie  Snowdoiiian  hills. 

The  tent  does  not  attract ;  the  glossy  silk  is  not  looked  on 
by  her  I  love,  with  passing  tenderness  :  if  her  conquest  could 
be  wrought  by  the  muse's  aid,  ere  the  night  that  comes,  I 
should  next  to  her  be  found. 


r  have  harnessed  thee  to-day,  my  steed  of  shining  gray  ;  I 
will  traverse  on  thee  the  fair  region  of  Cynlas  ;  and  I  will 
hold  a  hard  dispute  before  death  shall  cut  me  oft"in  obstructing 
sleep,  and  thus  o!>structing  health ;  and  on  me  it  has  been  a 
sign,  no  longer  being  the  honored  youth,  the  complexion  is 
like  the  pale  blue  waves. 

Oppressed  with  longing  is  my  memory  in  society  ;  regret 
for  her  by  whom  I  am  hated  ;  whilst  I  roiifcr  ou  the  maid  the 
honored  eulogy  ;  she,  to  prosper  pain,  deigns  not  to  return 
the  consolation  of  the  slightest  grace. 

Broken  is  my  heart!  my  portion  is  regret,  caused  by  the 
form  of  a  slender  lady,  with  a  girdle  of  ruddy  gold ;  my 
treatment  is  not  deserved,  she  is  not  this  day  where  my  ap- 
pointed place  was  fixed.  Son  of  the  God  of  Heaven !  if  be- 
fore a  promise  of  forbearance  she  goes  away,  woe  to  me  that 
I  am  not  slain 

5. 

When  the  ravens  rejoice,  when  blood  is  hastening,  when 
the  gore  runs  bubbling,  when  the  war  doth  rage,  when  the 
houses  redden  in  Ruzlan,  when  the  red  hall  is  burniiig,  when 
we  glow  with  wrath  ;  the  ruddy  flame  it  blazes  up  to  heaven ; 
our  abode  affords  no  shelter ;  and  plainly  is  the  briglit  con- 
flagration seen  from  the  white  walls  upon  the  shore  of  Monai 

They  perished  on  the  third  day  of  May,  three  hundred  ships 
of  a  fleet  roving  the  ocean  ;  and  ten  hundred  times  the  number 
the  sword  would  put  to  flight,  leaving  not  a  single  beard  on 
Menai. 

6. 

Five  evening  tides  were  celebrated  when  France  was  saved, 
when  barbarian  chiefs  were  made  to  fly,  when  there  was 
pressure  round  the  9leel-c!ad  bodies  ;  should  a  weapon  yet  be 
brandished  round  the  beard,  a  public  triumph  would  my 
wrath  procure,  scouring  the  bounds  of  Loegyr,  and  on  her 
hal)itation  hurling  ruin ;  there  should  be  the  hand  of  the 
hastening  host  upon  the  cross,  the  keen  edge  slaughtering,  the 
blade  reeking  with  blood,  the  blood  hue  over  the  abject  throng, 
a  blood  veil  hiding  its  place  of  falling,  and  a  plain  of  blood, 
and  a  cheek  Buff"used  with  gore. 


I  love  the  time  of  summer ;  then  the  gladly-exulting  steed 
of  the  warrior  prances  before  a  gallant  chief;  the  wave  is 
crowned  with  foam;  the  limb  of  the  active  more  quickly 
moves  ;  the  apple-tree  has  arrayed  itself  in  another  livery  ; 
bordered  with  white  is  my  shield  on  my  shoulder,  prepared 
for  violence.  I  have  loved,  with  ardency  of  desire,  the  object 
which  r  have  not  obtained. 

Ceridwen,  fair  and  tall,  of  slowly  languid  gait,  her  com 
plexion  vies  with  the  warm  dawn  in  the  evening  hour,  of  a 
splendid  delicate  form,  beautifully  mild  and  whilit  hued  pres- 
ence ;  in  stepping  over  a  rush  nearly  falling  seems  the  little 
tiny  fair  one  ;  gentle  in  her  air,  she  appears  but  scarcely  older 
than  a  tenth  year  infant.  Young,  shapely,  and  full  of  grace- 
fulness, it  were  a  congenial  virtue  that  she  should  freely  give  ; 
but  the  youthful  female  does  more  embarrass  good  fortune  by 
a  smile,  than  an  expression  from  her  lips  checks  impertinence. 

A  worshipping  pilgrim,  she  will  send  me  to  the  celestial 
presence  ;  how  long  shall  [  worship  thee  .'  stop  and  think  of 
thine  ofliice  !  Tf  I  am  unskilful  through  the  dotage  of  love, 
Jesus,  the  well-informed,  will  not  rebuke  me. 

8. 

Fair  foam-crowned  wave,  spraying  over  the  sacred  tomb  of 
Ruvon  the  brave,  the  chief  of  princes,  behold  this  day  I  love 
the  utmost  hate  of  England,  a  flat  and  unergetic  land,  with  a 
race  involved  m  e\'ery  wile.  I  love  the  spot  that  gave  me  the 
much-desired  gift  of  mead,  where  the  seas  extend  a  tedious 
conflict.  I  love  the  society  and  thick  inhabitants  therein,  and 
which,  obedient  to  its  lord,  directs  its  view  to  peace.  I  love 
.ts  sea-coast  and  its  mountains,  its  citv  bordering  on  its  forest. 


its  fair  landscape,  its  dales,  its  water,  and  its  vales,  its  white 
sea-mews,  and  its  beauteous  women.  I  love  its  warriors  and 
its  well-trained  steeds,  its  woods,  its  stiong-bolds,  and  its 
social  domicil.  I  love  its  fields  clothed  with  tender  trefoil, 
where  [  had  the  glory  of  a  mighty  triumph.  I  love  its  cul- 
tivated regions,  the  prerogative  of  heroism,  and  its  far-ex- 
teniled  wild,  and  its  sports  of  the  chase,  which.  Son  of  (iod  . 
have  been  great  and  wonderful :  how  sleek  the  melodious  deer, 
and  in  what  plenty  found  !  I  achieved  by  the  push  of  a  spear 
an  excellent  deed  between  the  chief  of  I'owys  and  happy 
fJwynez,  and  u))on  the  pale-hued  element  of  ever-struggling 
motion  may  I  accomplish  a  liberation  from  exile.  I  will  not 
take  breath  until  my  i)arty  comes ;  a  dream  declares  it,  and 
God  wills  it  to  be  so,  fair  foam-crowned  wave  si)raying  over 
the  grave. 

Fair  foam-crowned  wave,  impetuous  in  thy  course,  like  in 
color  to  the  boar  when  it  accumulates  ;  I  love  the  sea-coast 
in  Meirionyz,  where  I  have  had  a  while  arm  for  a  pillow.  1 
love  the  nightingale  upon  the  privet-brake  in  Cymmer  Den- 
zur,  a  celebrated  vale.  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth,  the  glory 
of  the  blest,  though  so  far  it  is  from  Ceri  to  Caeiliwelyz,  I 
mounted  tlie  yellow  steed,  and  from  Maclienyz  reached  the 
land  of  Reged  between  the  night  and  day.  Before  I  am  in 
the  grave,  may  I  enjoy  a  new  blessing  from  the  land  of  Te- 
gyngyl  of  fairest  aspect !  Since  I  am  a  love-wight,  one  inured 
to  wander,  may  God  direct  my  fate,  fair  foam-crowned  wave 
of  imi)ctuous  course  I 

I  will  implore  the  Divine  Supreme,  the  wonderful  in  sub- 
jugating to  his  will,  as  king,  to  create  an  excelling  muse  for  a 
song  of  praise  to  the  women,  such  as  Jlerzin  sung,  who  have 
claimed  my  bardic  lore  so  long,  who  are  so  tardy  in  disjjensing 
grace.  The  most  eminent  in  all  the  west  I  name,  from  the 
gates  of  Chester  to  the  port  of  Ysgewin  :  The  first  is  the 
nymph  who  will  be  the  subject  of  universal  praise,  Gwenliant, 
whose  comjdexion  is  like  the  summer's  day.  The  second  is 
another  of  high  state,  far  from  my  embrace,  adorned  with 
golden  necklace,  fair  Gweirvyl,  from  whom  nor  token  nor 
confidence  have  I  obtained,  nor  has  any  of  my  race  ;  though  I 
might  be  slain  by  two-edged  blades,  she  whose  foster  brother 
was  a  king,  should  be  my  theme.  And  next  for  the  handsome 
Gwladys,  the  young  and  modest  virgin,  the  idol  of  the  multi- 
tude, I  utter  the  secret  sigh  ;  I  will  worship  her  with  the 
yellow  blossoms  of  the  furze.  Soon  may  I  see  my  vigor 
rouse  to  combat,  and  in  my  hand  my  blade,  bright  Leucu,  my 
companion,  laughing,  and  whose  husband  laughs  not  from 
anxiety.  Great  anxiety  oppresses  me,  makes  me  sad  ;  and 
longing,  alas  !  is  habitual  for  fair  Nest,  for  her  w  ho  is  like  the 
apple-tree  blossom;  and  for  Perwewr,  the  centre  of  my  de- 
sire ;  for  Gcnerys  the  chaste,  who  grants  not  a  smile  for  me  ; 
may  continence  not  overcome  her  I  for  Hunyz,  whoso  fame 
will  last  till  the  day  of  doom  ;  for  Haw  is,  who  claims  my 
choicest  eulogy.  On  a  memorable  day  I  had  a  nymph  ;  I 
had  a  second,  more  be  their  praise  ;  I  had  a  third  and  a  fourth 
with  prosperity  ;  I  had  a  fifth  of  those  with  a  skin  w  bite  and 
delicate  ;  I  had  a  sixth  bright  and  fair,  avoiding  not  the 
temptation,  above  the  white  walls  did  she  arrest  me  ;  I  had  a 
seventh,  and  this  was  satiety  of  love  ;  I  had  eight  in  recom- 
pense for  a  little  of  the  praise  which  I  sung:  but  the  teeth 
most  opiiortunely  bar  the  tongue. 


Ere  ever  Saion  set  his  hateful  foot 

Upon  t/ie  beautiful  hie.  —  XV.  p.  354,  col.  ] . 

The  three  names  of  this  Island  ;  the  first,  before  it  was 
inhabited,  it  was  called  the  Water-guarded  Green  Spot ;  after 
it  was  inhabited,  it  was  called  the  Honey  Island  ;  and  after  its 
subjection  to  I'rydain,  the  son  of  Aedd  Mawr,  he  gave  it  the 
name  of  the  Isle  of  Prydain. —  Cambrian  Register. 

This  name  was  appropriately  given  to  it,  for  Ynys  Pry- 
dain signifies  the  Beautiful  Isle.  —  Cambrian  Biography,  E. 
Williams. 


The  contmtiacious  Prince  of  Poirys-land.  —  XV.  p.  354,  col.  1. 

Oenum  de  Ccvetioc,  quia  solus  inter  Walliie  principes  .^rchi- 
priFsuU  cum  populo  sua  non  occurrerat,  ezcuvimunicavimus, 
Oeinis  iste  pr<e  aliis  Camliricf  principihua,  ct  tivgua;  dicacis  ei- 
tilerat,  el  in  terra  suw  modcramine  iiigenii  perspieacis. — Gi 

RALDt;8  CaMBRENSIS. 


374 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


Eorn  as  Owen  in  liis  deeds 
Disowned  Hie  Church  when  living,  even  so 
The  Church  disowned  him  dead.  —  XV.  p.  354,  col.  2. 

Owen  Gvvynelh  was  buried  at  Bangor.  When  Baldwin, 
Arclibisliop  of  Canterl)ury,  coining  to  preach  the  crusade 
against  the  Saracens,  saw  his  tomb,  he  charged  the  Bishop  to 
remove  the  body  out  of  the  Cathedral,  when  he  could  find  a 
fit  opjiortunity  .so  to  do  ;  in  regard  that  Archbishop  Beckct 
had  excommunicated  liim  heretofore,  because  he  had  married 
his  first  cousin,  the  daughter  of  Grono  ah  Edwyn,  and  that 
notwithstanding  he  had  continued  to  live  with  her  till  she  died. 
The  Bishop,  in  obedience  to  the  charge,  made  a  passage  from 
the  vault  through  tlie  south  wall  of  the  church,  under  ground, 
and  so  secretly  shoved  the  body  into  the  churchyard.  — 
Royal  Tribes.    From  the  Hengwrt  MS. 

One  of  the  first  tilings  we  asked  to  see  was  the  tomb  of 
Potemkin.  All  Europe  has  heard  that  he  was  buried  in 
Chcrson  ;  and  a  magnificent  sepulchre  might  naturally  be  ex- 
pected for  a  person  so  renowned.  The  reader  will  imagine 
our  surprise,  wlien,  in  answer  to  our  inquiries  concerning  his 
remains,  we  were  told  that  no  one  knew  what  was  become  of 
lliem. 

Potemkin,  the  illustrious,  the  powerful,  of  all  the  princes 
that  ever  lived  the  most  princely,  of  all  imperial  favorites  the 
most  favored,  had  not  a  spot  which  might  be  called  bis  grave. 
He,  who  not  only  governed  all  Russia,  but  even  made  the 
haughty  Catherine  his  suppliant,  had  not  the  distinction  pos- 
sessed by  the  humblest  of  the  human  race.  The  particulars 
respecting  the  ultimate  disposal  of  his  body,  as  they  were 
communicated  to  me  upon  the  sjiot,  on  the  most  credible  testi- 
mony, merit  cursory  detail. 

The  corpse,  soon  after  his  death,  was  brought  to  Cherson, 
and  placed  beneath  a  dome  of  the  small  church  belonging  to 
the  fortress  opposite  to  the  altar.  After  the  usual  ceremony 
of  interment,  the  vault  was  covered,  merely  by  restoring  to 
their  former  situation  the  planks  of  wood  belonging  to  the 
floor  of  the  building.  Many  inhabitants  of  Cherson,  as  well 
as  English  officers  in  the  Russian  service,  who  resided  in  the 
neigliborhood,  had  seen  the  coffin  :  this  was  extremely  ordi- 
nary ;  but  the  practice  of  showing  it  to  strangers  prevailed  for 
some  years  after  Potemkin's  decease.  The  Empress  Cathe- 
rine either  had,  or  pretended  to  have,  an  intention  of  erecting 
a  superb  monument  to  his  memory  ;  whether  at  Cherson  or 
elsewhere,  is  unknown.  Her  sudden  death  is  believed  to 
have  prevented  the  completion  of  this  design. 

The  most  extraordinary  part  of  the  story  remains  now  to  be 
related  :  the  coffin  itself  has  disappeared  :  instead  of  any 
answer  to  the  various  inquiries  we  made  concerning  it,  we 
were  cautioned  to  be  silent.  No  one,  said  a  countryman  of 
ours,  living  in  the  place,  dares  to  mention  the  name  of  Potem- 
kin. At  length  we  received  intelligence  that  the  verger  could 
satisfy  our  curiosity,  if  we  would  venture  to  ask  him. 

We  soon  found  the  means  of  encouraging  a  little  communi- 
cation on  bis  part ;  and  were  then  told,  that  the  body,  by  the 
Emperor  Paul's  command,  had  been  taken  up,  and  thrown 
into  the  ditch  of  the  fortress.  These  orders  were  implicitly 
obeyed.  A  hole  was  dug  in  the  fosse,  into  which  his  remains 
were  thrown  with  as  little  ceremony  as  if  they  were  those  of 
a  dead  dog  ;  but  this  procedure  taking  place  during  the  night, 
very  few  were  informed  of  the  disposal  of  the  body.  An  eye- 
witness of  the  fact  assured  me  that  the  coffin  no  longer  ex- 
isted in  the  vault  where  it  was  originally  placed  ;  and  the 
Verger  was  actually  proceeding  to  point  out  the  place  where 
the  body  was  abandoned,  when  the  Bishop  himself,  happening 
to  arrive,  took  away  my  guide,  and  with  menaces  but  too 
likely  to  be  fulfilled,  prevented  our  being  more  fully  informed 
concerning  the  obloquy  at  present  involving  Potemkin.  — 
Clarke's  Travels,  vol.  i.  p.  602. 


Winning  slow  Famine  to  their  aid.  —  XVIT.  p.  357,  col.  1. 

"  I  am  much  affected,"  says  old  Fuller,  "  with  the  ingenui- 
ty of  an  English  nobleman,  who,  following  the  camp  of  King 
Henry  III.  in  these  parts,  (Caernarvonshire,')  wrote  home  to 
his  friends,  about  the  end  of  September,  1243,  the  naked  truth 
indeed  as  followeth  :  '  We  lie  in  our  tents,  watching,  fasting, 
praying,  and  freezing ;  we  watch  for  fear  of  the  Welshmen, 


who  are  wont  to  invade  us  in  the  night  ;  we  fast  for  want  of 
meat,  for  the  halfpenny  loaf  is  worth  five  pence  ;  we  pray  to 
God  to  send  us  home  speedily  ;  we  freeze  for  want  of  winter 
gaiments,  having  nothing  but  thin  linen  betwixt  us  and  the 
wind.'  " 


Be  not  thou 

.4s  is  the  black  and  melancholy  yew. 

That  strikes  into  the  grave  its  baleful  roots, 

.^nd  prospers  on  the  dead.  —  XVII.  p.  337,  col.  2. 

Like  the  black  and  melancholic  yew-tree, 
Dost  think  to  root  thyself  in  dead  men's  graves, 
And  yet  to  prosper  .' 

Webster's  White  Devil,  or  Viltoria  Corombona. 


J^eoer  shall  her  waking  eye 
Behold  them,  till  the  hour  of  hairpiness. 
When  Death  hath  made  her  pure  for  perfect  bliss. 

XVII.  p.  358,  col.  2. 

The  three  Restorations  in  the  Circle  of  Happiness ;  Resto- 
ration of  original  genius  and  character ;  Restoration  of  all  that 
was  beloved ;  and  the  Restoration  of  Remembrance  from  the 
origin  of  all  things  ;  without  these  perfect  happiness  cannot 
exist.  —  Triads  of  Bardism,  32. 

I  have  thought  it  unnecessary  to  give  a  connected  account 
of  the  Bardic  system  in  these  Notes,  as  it  has  been  so  well 
done  by  my  friend,  Mr.  Turner,  in  his  Vindication  of  the  An- 
cient British  Poems. 


PART    II. 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


THE  RETURN   TO  AZTLAN. 

Now  go  your  way,  ye  gallant  company  ; 

God  and  good  Angels  guard  ye  as  ye  go ! 

Blow  fairly,  Winds  of  Heaven  !     Ye  Ocean  Waves, 

Swell  not  in  anger  to  that  fated  fleet ! 

For  not  of  conquest  greedy  nor  of  gold, 

Seek  they  the  distant  world.  —  Blow  fairly.  Winds  I 

Waft,  Waves  of  Ocean,  well  your  blessed  load  ! 

Fair  blew  the  Winds,  and  safely  did  the  Waves 
Bear  that  beloved  charge.     It  were  a  tale 
Would  rouse  adventurous  courage  in  a  boy, 
Making  him  long  to  be  a  mariner, 
That  he  might  rove  the  main,  if  I  should  tell 
How  pleasantly,  for  many  a  summer  day, 
Over  the  sunny  sea,  with  wind  at  will, 
Prince  Madoc  sail'd  ;  and  of  those  happy  Isles, 
Which,  had  he  seen  ere  that  appointed  storm 
Drove  southward  his  slope  course,  there  he  had 

pitchd 
His  tent,  and  blest  his  lot  that  it  had  fallen 
In  land  so  fair ;  and  human  blood  had  reek'd 
Daily  on  Aztlan's  devilish  altars  still. 
But  other  doom  was  his,  rMore  arduous  toil 


MA DOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


375 


Vet  to  achieve,  worse  danger  to  endure, 
Worse  evil  to  be  quell'd,  and  higher  good 
Wliicli  passeth  not  away  educed  from  ill ; 
Wliereof  all  unforeseeing,  yet  for  all 
Prepared  at  heart,  he  over  ocean  sails, 
Wafted  by  gentle  winds  o'er  gentle  waves, 
As  if  the  elements  combined  to  serve 
The  perfect  Prince,  by  God  and  man  beloved. 
And  now  how  joyfully  he  views  the  land, 
Skirting  like  morning  clouds  tlie  dusky  sea  ' 
With  what  a  searching  eye  recalls  to  mind 
Foreland,  and  creek,  and  cape  !  how  happy  now 
Up  the  great  river  bends  at  last  his  way  I 

No  watchman  had  been  station'd  on  the  height 
To  seek  his  sails,  —  for  with  Cadwallon's  hope 
Too  much  of  doubt  was  blended  and  of  fear  : 
Yet  thitherward,  whene'er  he  walk'd  abroad. 
His  face,  as  if  instinctively,  was  turn'd  ; 
And  duly,  morn  and  eve,  Lincoya  there. 
As  though  religion  led  his  duteous  feet, 
Went  up  to  gaze.     He  on  a  staff  had  scored 
The  promised  moons  and  days;  and  many  a  time 
Counting  again  its  often-told  account. 
So  to  beguile  impatience,  day  by  day 
Smooth'd  off  with  more  delight  the  daily  notch. 
But  now  that  the  appointed  time  was  nigh, 
Did  that  perpetual  presence  of  his  hope 
Haunt  him,  and  mingle  with  his  sleep,  and  mar 
The  natural  rest,  and  trouble  him  by  day. 
That  all  his  pleasure  was  at  earliest  light 
To  take  his  station,  and  at  latest  eve. 
If  he  might  see  the  sails  where,  far  away. 
Through  wide  savannahs  roU'd  the  silver  stream. 
Oh,  then  with  what  a  sudden  start  his  blood 
Flow'd  from  its  quicken'd  spring,  when  far  away 
He  spied  the  glittering  topsails  !     For  a  while 
Distrustful  of  that  happy  sight,  till  now 
Slowly  he  sees  them  rise,  and  wind  along 
Through  wide  savannahs  up  the  silver  stream. 
Then  with  a  breathless  speed  he  flics  to  spread 
The  joy ;  and  with  Cadwallon  now  descends. 
And  drives  adown  the  tide  the  light  canoe, 
And  moxints  the  vessel-side,  and  once  again 
Falls  at  the  Ocean  Lord's  beloved  feet. 

First  of  the  general  weal  did  Madoc  ask  ; 
Cadwallon  answer'd.  All  as  yet  is  well. 
And  by  this  seasonable  aid  secured. 
Will  well  remain,  —  Thy  father  .'  quoth  the  Prince. 
Even  so,  replied  Cadwallon,  as  that  eye 
Of  hesitation  augurs,  —  fallen  asleep. 
The  good  old  man  remember'd  thee  in  death, 
And  blest  thee  ere  he  died. 

By  this  the  shores 
And  heights  were  throng'd  ;  from  hill  to  hill,  from 

rock 
To  rock,  the  shouts  of  welcome  rung  around. 
Forward  they  press  to  view  the  man  beloved, 
Britons  and  Hoamen  with  one  common  joy 
Hailing  their  common  friend.     Happy  that  day 
Was  he  who  heard  his  name  from  Madoc's  voice  ; 
Happy  who  met  the  greeting  of  his  eye  ; 
Yea,  happy  he  who  shared  his  general  smile, 
Amid  the  unacknowledged  multitude. 


Caermadoc  —  by  that  name  Cadwallon's  love 
Call'd  it  in  memory  of  the  absent  Prince  — 
Stood  in  a  mountain  vale,  by  rocks  and  heights, 
A  natural  bulwark,  girt.     A  rocky  stream, 
Which  from  the  fells  came  down,  there  spread  itself 
Into  a  quiet  lake,  to  compass  which 
Had  been  a  two  hours'  pleasurable  toil ; 
And  he,  who  from  a  well-strung  bow  could  send 
His  shaft  across,  had  needs  a  sinewy  arm. 
And  might  from  many  an  archer,  far  and  near 
Have  borne  away  the  bell.     Here  had  the  Chief 
Chosen  his  abiding-place,  for  strength  preferr'd, 
Where  vainly  might  a  host  in  equal  arms 
Attempt  the  difficult  entrance  ;  and  for  all 
That  could  delight  the  eye  and  heart  of  man  ; 
Whate'cr  of  beauty  or  of  usefulness 
Heart  could  desire,  or  eye  behold,  being  here. 
What  he  had  found  an  idle  wilderness 
Now  gave  rich  increase  to  the  husbandmen. 
For  Heaven  had  blest  their  labor.     Flourishing 
He  left  the  happy  vale  ;  and  now  he  saw 
More  fields  reclaim'd,  more  habitations  rear'd. 
More  harvests  rising  round.     The  reptile  race. 
And  every  beast  of  rapine,  had  retired 
From  man's  asserted  empire  ;  and  the  sound 
Of  axe,  and  dashing  oar,  and  fisher's  net. 
And  song-beguiling  toil,  and  pastoral  pipe. 
Were  heard,  where  late  the  solitary  hills 
Gave  only  to  the  mountain-cataract 
Tlieir  wild  response. 

Here,  Urien,  cried  the  Prince, 
These  craggy  heights  and  overhanging  groves 
Will  make  thee  think  of  Gwyneth.     And  this  hut, 
Rejoin'd  Cadwallon,  with  its  roof  of  reeds, 
Goervyl,  is  our  palace  :  it  was  built 
With  lighter  labor  than  Aberfraw's  towers; 
Yet,  Lady,  safer  are  its  wattled  sides 
Than    Mona's    kingly    walls.  —  Like    Gwyneth, 

said  he .' 
Oh  no !  we  neighbor  nearer  to  the  Sun, 
And  with  a  more  benignant  eye  the  Lord 
Of  Light  beholds  us  here. 

So  thus  did  they 
Cheerfully  welcome  to  their  new  abode 
These,  who,  albeit  aweary  of  their  way. 
And  glad  to  reach  at  length  the  place  of  rest. 
Felt  their  hearts  overburden'd,  and  their  eyes 
Ready  to  overflow.     Yet  not  the  less 
The  buzz  of  busy  joy  was  heard  around. 
Where  every  dwelling  had  its  guest,  and  all 
Gave  the  long  eve  to  hospitable  mirth. 


II. 

THE   TIDINGS. 

But  when  the  Lord  of  Ocean  from  the  stir 
And  tumult  was  retired,  Cadwallon  then 
Thus  rcnder'd  his  account. 

When  we  had  quell'd 
The  strength  of  Aztlan,  we  should  have   thrown 

down 
Her  Altars,  cast  hir  Idols  to  the  fire, 


37(;; 


MADOC   IN    AZTLAN, 


A.i.l  on  the  ruins  of  her  fanes  accurs'd 
Pi-i.ited  the  Cross  triumphant.     Vain  it  is 
To  sow  the  seed  where  noxious  weeds  and  briers 
Must  choke  it  in  the  growtli. 

Yet  I  liad  hope 
The  purer  influence  of  exampled  good 
Might  to  the  saving  knowledge  of  the  truth 
Lead  tiiis  bedarken'd  race  ;  and  when  tiiy  ship 
Fell  down  the  stream  to  distant  Britain  bound, 
All    promised   well.      The   stranger's    God    had 

proved 
Mightier  in  war ;  and  Aztlan  could  not  choose 
But  see,  nor  seeing  could  she  fail  to  love, 
The  freedom  of  his  service.     Few  were  now 
The  offerings  at  her  altars,  few  the  youths 
And  virgins  to  the  temple-toils  devote. 
Therefore    the    Priests    combined   to   save    their 

craft ; 
And  soon  the  rumor  ran  of  evil  signs 
And  tokens ;  in  the  temple  had  been  heard 
Wailings  and  loud  lament;  the  eternal  fire 
Gave  dismally  a  dim  and  doubtful  flame ; 
And  from  the  censer,  which  at  morn  should  steam 
Sweet  odors  to  the  sun,  a  fetid  cloud, 
Black  and  portentous,  rose.     And  now  no  Priest 
Approach'd   our   dwelling.      Even    the    friendly 

Prince 
Yuhidthiton  was  at  Caermadoc  now 
Rarely  a  guest ;  and  if  that  tried  good-will 
Which  once  he  bore  us  did  at  times  appear, 
A  sullen  gloom  and  silence,  like  remorse. 
Followed  the  imagined  crime. 

But  I  the  while 
Ileck'd  not  the  brooding  of  the  storm;  for  then 
My  father  to  the  grave  was  hastening  down. 
Patiently  did  the  pious  man  endure. 
In  faith  anticipating  blessedness. 
Already  more  than  man  in  those  sad  hours 
Wlicn  man  is  meanest.     I  sat  by  his  side. 
And  pray'd  with   him,  and   talk'd    with  him   of 

death 
And  life  to  come.     O  Madoc  !  those  were  hours 
Which  even  in  anguish  gave  my  soul  a  joy : 
T  think  of  them  in  solitude,  and  feel 
The  comfort  of  my  faith. 

But  when  that  time 
Of  bitterness  was  past,  and  I  return'd 
To  daily  duties,  no  suspicious  sign 
Betoken'd  ill ;  the  Priests  among  us  came 
As  heretofore,  and  I  their  intercourse 
Encouraged  as  I  could,  suspecting  nought. 
Nor  conscious  of  the  subtle-minded  men 
I  dealt  with,  how  inveterate  in  revenge, 
How  patient  in  deceit.     Lincoya  first 
Forewarn'd  me  of  the  danger.     He,  thou  know'st, 
Had  from  the  death  of  sacrifice  escaped, 
And  lived  a  slave  among  a  distant  tribe, 
When,  seeing  us,  he  felt  a  hope,  that  we, 
Lords,  as  he  deem'd  us,  of  the  Elements, 
Might  pity  his  poor  countrymen  oppress'd. 
And  free  them  from  their  bondage.     Didst  thou 

hear 
How  from  yon  bloody  altars  he  was  saved .' 
For  in  the  eternal  chain  his  fate  and  ours 
Were  link'd  together  then. 


The  Prince  replied, 
I  did  but  liear  a  broken  tale.     Tell  on  ! 

Among  the  Gods  of  yon  unhappy  race, 
Tezcalipoca  as  the  chief  they  rank. 
Or  with  the  Chief  co-equal;  Maker  he. 
And  Master  of  created  things  esteem'd. 
He  sits  upon  a  throne  of  trophied  skulls. 
Hideous  and  huge;  a  shield  is  on  his  arm. 
And  with  his  black  right  hand  he  lifts,  as  though 
In  wrath,  the  menacing  spear.     His  festival, 
Of  all  this  wicked  nation's  wicked  rites, 
With  most  solemnity,  and  circumstance, 
And  pomp  of  hellish  piety,  is  held. 
From  all  whom  evil  fortune  hath  subdued 
To  their  inhuman  thraldom,  they  select 
Him  whom  they  judge,  for  comely  countenance, 
And  shapely  form,  and  all  good  natural  gifts, 
Worthiest  to  be  the  victim  ;  and  for  this 
Was  young  Lincoya  chosen,  being  in  truth 
The  flower  of  all  his  nation.     For  twelve  montlis, 
Their  custom  is,  that  this  appointed  youth 
Be  as  the  Idol's  living  image  held. 
Garb'd  therefore  like  the  Demon  Deity, 
Whene'er  he  goes  abroad,  an  antic  train 
With  music  and  with  dance  attend  his  way ; 
The  crowd  before  him  fall  and  worship  him ; 
And  those  infernal  Priests  who  guard  him  then, 
To  be  their  victim  and  tJieir  feast  at  last, 
At  morning  and  at  evening  incense  him, 
And   mock   him  with   knee-reverence.     Twenty 

days 
Before  the  bloody  festival  arrive, 
As  'twere  to  make  the  wretch  in  love  with  life. 
Four  maids,  the  loveliest  of  the  land,  are  given 
In  spousals.     With  Lincoya  all  these  rites 
Duly  were  kept ;  and  at  the  stated  time. 
Four  maids,  the  loveliest  of  the  land,  were  his. 
Of  these  was  one,  whom  even  at  that  hour 
He  learnt  to  love,  so  excellently  good 
Was  she  ;  and  she  loved  him  and  pitied  him. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  an  aged  Priest ; 
I  oftentimes  have  seen  her ;  and  in  truth, 
Compared  with  Britain's  maids,  so  beautiful. 
Or  with  the  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  South, 
She  would  be  lovely  still.     Her  cotton  vest 
Falls  to  the  knee,  and  leaves  her  olive  arms 
Bare  in  their  beauty ;  loose,  luxuriant,  long, 
Flow  the  black  tresses  of  her  glossy  hair ; 
Mild  is  her  eye's  jet  lustre  ;  and  her  voice  !  — 
A  soul  which  harbor'd  evil  never  breathed 
Sucli  winning  tones. 

Thou  know'st  how  manfully 
These  tribes,  as  if  insensible  to  pain. 
Welcome  their  death  in  battle,  or  in  bonds 
Defy  their  torturers.     To  Lincoj'a's  mind 
Long  preparation  now  had  made  his  fate 
Familiar;  and,  he  says,  the  thought  of  death 
Broke  not  his  sleep,  nor  mingled  with  his  dreams, 
Till  Coiltel  was  his.     But  then  it  woke ;  — 
It  hung,  —  it  press'd  upon  him  like  a  weight 
On  one  who  scarce  can  struggle  with  the  waves ; 
And  when  her  soul  was  full  of  tenderness. 
That  thought  recurring  to  her,  she  would  rest 
Her  cheek  on  his,  and  weep. 


MA DOC    IN    AZTLAN 


377 


The  day  drew  mgh } 
And  now  the  eve  of  sacrifice  was  come. — 
Wliat  will  not  woman,  gentle  woman,  dare. 
When  strong  affection  stirs  her  spirit  up  ?  — 
She  gather'd  herbs,  which,  like  our  poppy,  bear 
The  seed  of  sleep,  and  with  the  temple-food 
Mingled  their  power;  herself  partook  the  food, 
So  best  to  lull  suspicion ;  and  the  youth, 
Instructed  well,  when  all  were  laid  asleep. 
Fled  far  away. 

After  our  conquering  arms 
Had  freed  the  Hoamcn  from  their  wretched  yoke, 
Lincoya  needed  but  his  Coatel 
To  fill  his  sum  of  earthly  happiness. 
Her  to  the  temple  had  her  father's  vow 
Awhile  devoted,  and  some  moons  were  still 
To  pass  away,  ere  yet  she  might  become 
A  sojourner  with  us,  Lincoya's  wife, 
When  from  the  Paba's  wiles  his  watchful  mind 
Foreboded  ill.     He  bade  me  take  good  heed. 
And  fear  the  sudden  kindness  of  a  foe. 
I  started  at  his  words ;  —  these  artful  men, 
Hostile  at  heart,  as  well  we  knew  they  were, 
These  were  lip-lavish  of  their  friendship  now. 
And  courted  confidence,  while  our  tried  friend 
Yuhidthiton,  estranged,  a  seldom  guest. 
Sullen  and  joyless,  seem'd  to  bear  at  heart 
Something  that  rankled  there.     These  things  were 

strange ; 
The  omens  too  had  ceased  ;  —  we  heard  no  more 
Of  twilight  voices,  nor  the  unholy  cloud 
Steam'd   from  the   morning  Incense.     Why  was 

this  ? 

Young  Malinal  had  from  the  hour  of  peace 
Been  our  in-dweller,  studious  to  attain 
Our  language  and  our  arts.     To  him  I  told 
ISIv  doubts,  assured  of  his  true  love  and  truth; 
For  he  had  learnt  to  understand  and  feel 
Our  holy  faith,  and  tended  like  a  son 
Cynetha"s  drooping  age,  and  shared  with  me 
His  dying  benediction.     He,  thus  long 
Intent  on  better  things,  had  been  estranged 
From  Aztlan  and  her  councils  ;  but  at  this 
He  judged  it  for  her  welfare  and  for  ours, 
Now  to  resume  his  rank;  —  belike  his  voice 
Might  yet  be  heard,  or,  if  the  worst  befell. 
His  timely  warning  save  us  from  the  snare. 

But  in  their  secret  councils  Malinal 
No  longer  bore  a  part ;  the  Chiefs  and  King 
Yielding  blind  reverence  to  the  Pabas  now, 
Deluded  or  dlsniay'd.     He  sent  to  say. 
Some  treachery  was  design'd,  and  bade  me  charge 
His  brother  with  the  crime.     On  that  same  day, 
Lincoya  came  from  Aztlan ;  he  had  found 
Coatol  laboring  with  a  wretchedness 
She  did  not  seek  to  hide ;  and  when  the  youth 
Reveal'd  his  fear,  he  saw  her  tawny  cheek 
Whiten,  and  round  his  neck  she  clung  and  wept. 
She  told  him  something  dreadful  was  at  hand, 
She  knew  not  what :  That,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
Coanocotzin  at  Mexitli's  shrine 
Had  stood  with  all  his  nobles ;  human  blood 
48 


Had  then  been  offer'd  up,  and  secret  vows 
Vow'd  with  mysterious  horror:  That  but  late, 
When  to  her  father  of  the  days  to  come 
She  spake,  and  of  Lincoya  and  her  lot 
Among  the  strangers,  he  had  frown'd,  and  strove. 
Beneath  dissembled  anger,  to  conceal 
Visible  grief.     She  knew  not  what  to  fear ; 
But  something  dreadful  surely  was  at  hand, 
And  she  was  wretched. 

When  I  heard  these  things, 
Yuhidthiton  and  the  Priest  Helhua 
Were  in  our  dwellings.     Them  I  call'd  apart  — 
There  should  be  peace  between  us,  1  began ; 
Why  is  it  otherwise  .' 

The  Priest  replied. 
Is  there  not  peace,  Cadwallon  ?     Seek  we  not 
More  frequent  and  more  friendly  intercourse. 
Even  we,  the  servants  of  our  Country-Gods, 
Whose  worship  ye  have  changed,  and  for  whose 

sake 
We  were,  and  would  have  been,  your  enemies  ^ 
But  as  those  Gods  have  otherwise  ordain'd, 
Do  we  obey.     Why,  therefore,  is  this  doubt? 

The  Power  who  led  us  hither,  I  replied, 
Over  the  world  of  waters,  who  hath  saved, 
And  who  will  save  his  people,  warns  me  now. 
Then  on  Yuhidthiton  I  fix'd  my  eye. 
Danger  is  near  !  I  cried  ;  I  know  it  near  ! 
It  comes  from  Aztlan. 

His  disordcr'd  cheek, 
And  the  forced  and  steady  boldness  of  his  eye. 
Which  in  defiance  met  the  look  it  fear'd, 
Confess'd  the  crime.     I  saw  his  inward  shame; 
Yet  with  a  pride  like  angry  innocence 
Did  he  make  answer,  I  am  in  your  hands, 
And  you  believe  me  treacherous  !  —  Kill  me  now  ' 

Not  so,  Yuhidthiton  !   not  so  !  quoth  1 ; 
You  were  tlie  Strangers'  friend,  and  yet  again 
That  wisdom  may  return.    We  are  not  changed  ;  — 
Lovers  of  peace,  we  know,  when  danger  comes. 
To  make  the  evil  on  the  guilty  head 
Fall  heavily  and  sure  I     With  our  good  arms. 
And  our  good  cause,  and  that  Almighty  One, 
We  are  enough,  had  we  no  other  aid, 
We  of  Caermadoc  here,  to  put  to  shame 
Aztlan,  with  all  her  strength  and  all  her  wiles. 
But  even  now  is  Madoc  on  the  seas ; 
He  leads  our  brethren  here ;  and  should  he  find 
That  Aztlan  hath  been  false,  —  oh  !  hope  not  then. 
By  force  or  fraud,  to  baffle  or  elude 
Inevitable  vengeance  !     While  ye  may. 
Look  to  your  choice ;  for  we  are  friends  or  foes. 
Even  to  your  own  desert. 

So  saying,  I  left 
The  astonish'd  men,  whose  unprovided  minds 
Fail'd  them  ;  nor  did  they  aim  at  answer  more. 
But   homeward   went   their   way.     Nor   knew  1 

then  — 
For  this  was  but  a  thing  of  yesterday  — 
How  near  the  help  I  boasted.     Now  1  trust 
Thy  coming  shall  discomfit  all  their  wiles. 


378 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


III. 


NEOLIN. 

Not  yet  at  rest,  my  Sister !  quoth  the  Prince, 
As  at  her  dwelling-door  he  saw  the  Maid 
Sit  gazing  on  that  lovely  moonlight  scene  :  — 
To  bed,  Goervyl.     Dearest,  what  hast  thou 
To  keep  thee  wakeful  here  at  this  late  hour, 
When  even  I  shall  bid  a  truce  to  thought. 
And   lay    me    down    in    peace  ?  —  Good    night, 

Goervyl ! 
Dear  sister  mine,  — my  own  dear  mother's  child  I 

She  rose,  and  bending  on  with  lifted  arms, 
Met  the  fond  kiss,  obedient  then  withdrew. 
Yet  could  not  he  so  lightly  as  he  ween'd 
Lay  wakeful  thoughts  aside ;  for  he  foresaw 
Long  strife  and  hard  adventure  to  achieve, 
And  forms  of  danger  vague  disturb'd  his  dreams. 

Early  at  morn  the  colonists  arose  ; 
Some  pitch  the  tent-pole,  and  pin  down  the  lines 
That  stretch  the  o'er-awning  canvass ;  to  the  wood 
Others,  with  saw,  and  axe,  and  bill,  for  stakes 
And  undergrowth  to  weave  the  wicker  walls  ; 
These  to  the  ships,  with  whom  Cadwallon  sends 
The  Elk  and  Bison,  broken  to  the  yoke. 

Ere  noon  Erillyab  and  her  son  arrived. 
To  greet  the  Chief.     She  wore  no  longer  now 
The  lank,  loose  locks  of  careless  widowhood; 
Her  braided  tresses  round  her  brow  were  bound, 
Bedeck'd  with  tufts  of  gray  and  silvery  plumes, 
Pluck'd  from  the  eagle's  pennons.     She,  with  eye 
And  countenance  which  spake  no  feign'd  delight. 
Welcomed  her  great  deliverer.     But  her  son 
Had  Nature  character'd  so  legibly. 
That,  when  his  tongue  told  fair,  his  face  bewray'd 
The  lurking  falsehood ;  sullen,  slow  of  speech. 
Savage,  down-looking,  dark,  that  at  his  words 
Of  welcome,  Madoc  in  his  heart  conceived 
Instinctive  enmity. 

In  a  happy  hour 
Did  the  Great  Spirit,  said  Erillyab, 
Give  bidding  to  the  Winds  to  speed  thee  here  ! 
For  this  I  made  my  prayer ;  and  when  He  sent 
For  the  Beloved  Teacher,  to  restore  him 
Eyesight  and  youth,  of  him  I  then  besought, 
As  he  had  been  thy  friend  and  ours  on  earth, 
That  he  would  intercede.  —  Brother,  we  know 
That  the  Great  Spirit  loves  thee  ;  He  hath  blest 
Thy  going  and  thy  coming,  and  thy  friends 
Have  prospered  for  thy  sake ;  and  now,  when  first 
The  Powers  of  Evil  do  begin  to  work, 
Lo  I  thou  art  here  !  —  Brother,  we  have  obeyed 
Thy  will,  and  the  Beloved  Teacher's  words 
Have  been  our  law ;  but  now  the  Evil  Ones 
Cry  out  for  blood,  and  say  they  are  athirst. 
And  threaten  vengeance.  I  have  brought  the  Priest 
To  whom  they  spake  in  darkness  —  Thou  art  wise. 
And  the  great  Spirit  will  enlighten  thee  ;  — 
We  know  not  what  to  answer  —  Tell  thy  tale, 
Neolin ! 


Hereat  did  Madoc  fix  upon  him 
A  searching  eye  ;  but  he,  no  whit  abash'd. 
Began  with  firm  etiVontery  his  sj)eech. 
The  Feast  of  the  Departed  is  at  hand, 
And  I,  in  preparation,  on  the  Field 
Of  the  Spirit  past  the  night.     It  came  to  me 
In  darkness,  after  midnight,  when  the  moon 
Was  gone,  and  all  the  stars  were  blotted  out; 
It  gatlier'd  round  me,  with  a  noise  of  storms, 
And  enter'd  into  me,  and  I  could  feel 
It  was  the  Snake-God  roll'd  and  writhed  within; 
And  I,  too,  with  the  inward  agony, 
RoU'd  like  a  snake,  and  writhed.    Give  !  give  !  he 

cried : 
I  thirst !  —  His  voice  was  in  me,  and  it  burnt 
Like  fire,  and  all  my  flesh  and  bones  were  shaken  ; 
Till,  with  a  throe  which  seem'd  to  rend  my  joints 
Asunder,  he  past  forth,  and  I  was  left. 
Speechless  and  motionless,  gasping  for  breath. 

Then  Madoc,  turning  to  Ayayaca, 
Inquired,  Who  is  the  man .'  —  The  good  old  Priest 
Replied,  He  hath  attended  from  his  youth 
The  Snake-God's  temple,  and  received  for  him 
His  offerings,  and  pcrform'd  his  sacrifice. 
Till  the  Belov'd  Teacher  made  us  leave 
The  wicked  way. 

Hear  me  i  quoth  Neolin, 
With  antic  gesture  and  loud  vehemence ; 
Before  this  generation,  and  before 
These  ancient  forests,  —  yea,  before  yon  lake 
Was  hollow'd  out,  or  one  snow-feather  fell 
On  yonder  mountain-top,  now  never  bare,  — 
Before    these    things    I    was, — where,   or   from 

whence, 
I  know  not,  —  who  can  tell .-'     But  then  I  was, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  Spirit  stood ; 
And  I  beheld  the  Spirit,  and  in  him 
Saw  all  things,  even  as  they  were  to  be ; 
And  I  held  commune  with  him,  not  of  words. 
But  thought  with  thought.     Then  was  it  given  me 
That  I  should  choose  my  station  when  my  hour 
Of  mortal  birth  was  come,  —  hunter,  or  chief. 
Or  to  be  mightiest  in  the  work  of  war, 
Or  in  the  shadow  of  the  Spirit  live, 
And  He  in  me.     According  to  my  choice. 
Forever,  overshadow'd  by  his  power, 
I  walk  among  mankind.     At  times  I  feel  not 
The  burden  of  his  presence  ;  then  am  I 
Like  other  men  :  but  when  the  season  comes, 
Or  if  I  seek  the  visitation,  then 
He  fills  me,  and  my  soul  is  carried  on. 
And  then  do  I  forelive  the  race  of  men. 
So  that  the  things  that  will  be,  are  to  me 
Past. 

Amalahta  lifted  then  his  eyes 
A  moment ;  —  It  is  true,  he  cried ;  we  know 
He  is  a  gifted  man,  and  wise  beyond 
The  reach  of  mortal  powers.     Ayayaca 
Hath  also  heard  the  warning. 

As  I  slept. 
Replied  the  aged  Priest,  upon  the  Field 
Of  the  Spirit,  a  loud  voice  awaken'd  me. 
Crying,  I  thirst !     Give,  —  give  !  or  I  will  take  ! 
And  then  I  heard  a  hiss,  as  if  a  snake 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


371) 


Were 


side.  —  But   saw    vou 


threatening    at    my 

nothing  ? 
Quotli  Madoc.  —  Nothing ;  for  the  night  was  dark. 
And  felt  you  nothing?  said  the  Ocean  Prince. 
He  answered,  Nothing  ;  only  sudden  fear.  — 
No  inward  struggle,  like  possession .'  —  None. 
I  thought  of  the  Beloved  Teacher's  words. 
And  cross'd  myself,  and  then  he  had  no  power. 

Thou  hast  slept  heretofore  upon  the  Field, 
Said  Madoc ;  didst  thou  never  witness  voice. 
Or  ominous  sound .'     Ayayaca  replied, 
Certes  the  Field  is  holy  !  it  receives, 
All  the  year  long,  the  operative  power 
Which  falleth  from  the  sky,  or  from  below 
Pervades  the  earth  ;  no  harvest  groweth  there. 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  herb,  is  left  to  spring ; 
But  there,  the  virtue  of  the  elements 
Is  gathered,  till  the  circle  of  the  months 
Be  full ;  then,  when  the  Priest,  by  mystic  rites, 
Long  vigils,  and  long  abstinence  j)repared, 
Goeth  there  to  pass  the  appointed  night  alone. 
The  whole  collected  influence  enters  him. 
Doubt  not  but  I  have  felt  strange  impulses 
On  that  mysterious  Field,  and  in  my  dreams 
Been  visited ;  and  have  heard  sounds  in  the  air, 
I  knew  not  what;  —  but  words  articulate 
Never  till  now.     It  was  the  Wicked  One  ! 
He  wanted  blood. 

Who  says  the  Wicked  One .' 
It  was  our  fathers'  God  !  cried  Neolin. 
Sons  of  the  Ocean,  why  should  we  forsake 
The  worship  of  our  fathers  .■'     Ye  obey 
The  White  Man's  Maker;  but  to  us  was  given 
A  different  skin,  and  speech,  and  land,  and  law. 
The  Snake-God  understands  the  Red  Man's  prayer, 
And  knows  his  wants,  and  loves  him.     Shame  be 

to  us. 
That  since  the  Stranger  here  set  foot  among  us. 
We  have  let  his  lips  be  dry  ! 

Enough !  replied 
Madoc,  who,  at  Cadwallon's  look,  repress'd 
His  answering  anger.     We  will  hold  a  talk 
Of  this  hereafter.     Be  ye  sure,  meantime, 
That  the  Great  Spirit  will  from  Evil  Powers 
Protect  his  people.     This,  too,  be  ye  sure. 
That  every  deed  of  darkness  shall  be  brought 
To  light,  —  and  woe  be  to  the  lying  lips  ! 


IV. 


AMALAHTA. 

Soon  as  the  coming  of  the  fleet  was  known. 
Had  Queen  Erillyab  sent  her  hunters  forth. 
They  from  the  forest  now  arrive,  with  store 
Of  venison;  fires  are  built  before  the  tents. 
Where  Llaian  and  Goervyl  for  their  guests 
Direct  the  feast ;  and  now  the  ready  board 
With  grateful  odor  steams.     But  while  they  sat 
At  meat,  did  Amalahta  many  a  time 
Lift  his  slow  eye  askance,  and  eagerly 
Gaze  on  Goervyl's  beauty  ;  for  whate'er 


In  man  he  might  have  thought  deformed  or  strange 
Seemed  beautiful  in  her,  —  her  golden  curls, 
Bright  eyes  of  heavenly  blue,  and  that  clear  skin, 
Blooming  with  health,  and  youth,  and  happiness. 
He,  lightly  yielding  to  the  impulse,  bent 
His  head  aside,  and  to  Erillyab  spake  ; 
Mother,  said  he,  tell  them  to  give  to  me 
That  woman  for  my  wife,  that  we  may  be 
Brethren  and  friends.    She,  in  the  same  low  tone. 
Rebuked  him,  in  her  heart  too  well  aware 
How  far  unworthy  he.     Abash'd  thereby, 
As  he  not  yet  had  wholly  shaken  otF 
Habitual  reverence,  he  sat  sullenly, 
Brooding  in  silence  his  imagined  wiles. 
By  sight  of  beauty  made  more  apt  for  ill ; 
For  he  himself  being  evil,  good  in  him 
Work'd  evil. 

And  now  Madoc,  pouring  forth 
The  ripe  metheglin,  to  Erillyab  gave 
The  horn  of  silver  brim.     Taste,  Queen  and  friend, 
Said  he,  what  from  our  father-land  we  bring, 
The  old  beloved  beverage.     Sparingly 
Drink,  for  it  hath  a  strength  to  stir  the  brain. 
And  trouble  reason,  if  intemperate  lips 
Abuse  its  potency.     She  took  the  horn, 
And    sipp'd    with    wary    wisdom.  —  Canst    thou 

teach  us 
The  art  of  this  rare  beverage .'  quoth  the  Queen, 
Or  is  the  gift  reserved  for  ye  alone. 
By  the  Great  Spirit,  who  hath  favor'd  ye 
In  all  things  above  us.'  —  The  Chief  replied. 
All  that  we  know  of  useful  and  of  good 
Ye  also  shall  be  taught,  that  we  may  be 
One  people.     While  he  spake,  Erillyab  past 
The  horn  to  Amalahta.     Sparingly  ! 
Madoc  exclaim'd ;  but  when  the  savage  felt 
The  luscious  flavor,  and  the  poignant  life, 
He  heeded  nought  beyond  the  immediate  joy. 
Deep  did  he  drink,  and  still  with  clinching  hands 
Struggled,  when  from  his  lips,  unsatisfied, 
Erillyab  pluck'd  the  horn  with  sharp  reproof. 
Chiding  his  stubborn  wilfulness.     Erelong 
The  generous  liquor  flush'd  him :  he  could  feel 
His  blood  play  faster,  and  the  joyful  dance 
Of  animal  life  within  him.     Bolder  grown, 
He  at  Goervyl  lifts  no  longer  now 
The  secret  glance,  but  gloats  with  greedy  eye ; 
Till,  at  the  long  and  loathsome  look  abash'd. 
She  rose,  and  nearer  to  her  brother  drew, 
On  light  pretence  of  speech,  being  half  in  fear. 
But  he,  regardless  of  Erillyab  now. 
To  Madoc  cried  aloud.  Thou  art  a  King, 
And  I  a  King  I  —  Give  me  thy  sister  there. 
To  be  my  wife,  and  then  we  will  be  friends. 
And  reign  together. 

Let  me  answer  him, 
Madoc  !  Cadwallon  cried.     I  better  know 
Their  language,  and  will  set  aside  all  hope, 
Yet  not  incense  the  savage.  —  A  great  thing. 
Prince  Amalahta,  hast  thou  ask'd  !  said  he. 
Nor  is  it  in  Lord  Madoc's  power  to  give, 
Or  to  withhold  ;  for  marriage  is  with  us 
The  holiest  ordinance  of  God,  whereon 
The  bliss  or  bane  of  human  life  depends. 
Love  must  be  won  by  love,  and  heart  to  heart 


380 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


Link'd  in  mysterious  sympathy,  before 

We  pledge  the  marriage- vow  ;  and  some  there  are, 

Who  hold,  that,  e'er  we  enter  into  life, 

Soul  hath  with  soul  been  mated,  each  for  each 

Especially  ordain'd.     Prince  Madoc's  will 

Avails  not,  therefore,  where  this  secret  bond 

Hath  not  been  framed  in  Heaven. 

The  skilful  speech 
Which,  with  wild  faith  and  reason,  thus  confirm'd. 
Yet  temper'd  the  denial,  for  a  while 
Silenced  him,  and  he  sat  in  moody  dreams 
Of  snares  and  violence.     Soon  a  drunken  thirst. 
And  longing  for  the  luscious  beverage. 
Drove  tliose  dark  thoughts  aside.     More   drink ! 

quoth  he. 
Give  me  the  drink  !  —  Madoc  again  repeats 
His  warning,  and  again  with  look  and  voice 
Erillyab  chides ;  but  he  of  all  restraint 
Impatient,  cries  aloud,  Am  I  a  child.'' 
Give  I  give  !  or  I  will  take  !  —  Perchance  ye  think 
I  and  my  God  alike  cry  out  in  vain  I 
But  ye  shall  find  us  true  I 

Give  him  the  horn  ! 
Cadwallon  answer'd ;  there  will  come  upon  him 
Folly  and  sleep,  and  then  an  after-pain. 
Which  may  bring  wisdom  with  it,  if  he  learn 
Therefrom  to  heed  our  warning.  —  As  thou  say'st. 
No  child  art  thou  !  —  the  choice  is  in  thy  hand;  — 
Drink,  if  thou  wilt,  and  suffer,  and  in  pain 
Remember  us. 

He  clinch'd  the  horn,  and  swill'd 
The  sweet  intoxication  copious  down. 
So  bad  grew  worse.     The  potent  draught  provoked 
Fierce  pride  and  savage  insolence.     Ay  !  now 
It  seems  that  I  have  taught  ye  who  I  am  ! 
The  inebriate  wretch  exclaim'd.    This  land  is  mine. 
Not  hers;  the  kingdom  and  the  power  are  mine ; 
I  am  the  master  ! 

Hath  it  made  thee  mad .' 
Erillyab  cried.  —  Ask  thou  the  Snake-God  that ! 
Quoth  he;  ask  Neolin  and  Aztlan  that!  [me 

Hear  me,  thou  Son  of  the  Waters  !  wilt  thou  have 
For  friend  or  foe .''  —  Give  me  that  woman  there. 
And  store  me  with  this  blessed  beverage. 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  in  my  domains,  —  or  else. 
Blood  !  blood  !  The  Snake- God  calls  for  blood ;  the 

Gods 
Of  Aztlan  and  the  people  call  for  blood  ; 
They  call  on  me,  and  I  will  give  them  blood, 
Till  they  have  had  their  fill. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen 
In  wonder  and  amazement  heard,  and  grief; 
Watching  the  fiendish  workings  of  his  face, 
And  turning  to  the  Prince  at  times,  as  if 
She  look'd  to  him  for  comfort.     Give  him  drink. 
To  be  at  peace  !  quoth  Madoc.     The  good  mead 
Did  its  good  office  soon ;  his  dizzy  eyes 
RoU'd  with  a  sleepy  swim  ;  the  joyous  thrill 
Died  away ;  and  as  every  limb  relax'd, 
Down  sunk  his  heavy  head,  and  down  he  fell. 
Then  said  the  Prince,  We  must  rejoice  in  this, 
O  Queen  and  friend,  that,  evil  though  it  be. 
Evil  is  brought  to  light ;  he  hath  divulged, 
In  this  mad  mood,  what  else  hath  been  conceal'd 
By  guilty  cunning.     Set  a  watch  upon  him. 


And  on  Priest  Neolin;  they  plot  against  us; 
Your  fall  and  mine  do  they  alike  conspire, 
Being  leagued  with  Aztlan  to  destroy  us  both. 
Thy  son  will  not  remember  that  his  lips 
Have  let  the  treason  pass.     Be  wary  then, 
And  we  shall  catch  the  crafty  in  the  pit 
Which  they  have  dug  for  us. 

Erillyab  cast 
A  look  of  anger,  made  intense  by  grief, 
On  Amalahta.  —  Cursed  be  the  hour 
Wherein  I  gave  thee  birth  I  she  cried ;  that  pain 
Was  light  to  what  thy  base  and  brutal  nature 
Hath  sent  into  my  soul.  —  But  take  thou  heed  ! 
I  have  borne  many  a  woe  and  many  a  loss. 
My  father's  realm,  the  husband  of  my  youth. 
My  hope  in  thee  !  — All  motherly  love  is  gone, 
Sufferance  wellnigh  worn  out. 

When  she  had  ceased, 
Still  the  deep  feeling  fill'd  her,  and  her  eye 
Dwelt  on  him,  still  in  thought.    Brother  !  she  cried. 
As  Madoc  would  have  soothed  her,  doubt  not  me  I 
Mine  is  no  feeble  heart.     Abundantly 
Did  the  Great  Spirit  overpay  all  woes, 
And  this  the  heaviest,  when  he  sent  thee  here, 
The  friend  and  the  deliverer.     Evil  tongues 
May  scatter  lies ;  bad  spirits  and  bad  men 
May  league  against  thy  life  ;  but  go  thou  on. 
Brother  I  He  loves  thee,  and  will  be  thy  shield. 


WAR   DENOUNCED. 

This  is  the  day,  when,  in  a  foreign  grave. 
King  Owen's  relics  shall  be  laid  to  rest. 
No  bright  emblazonries  bedeck'd  his  bier. 
No  tapers  blazed,  no  prelate  sung  the  mass, 
No  choristers  the  funeral  dirge  intoned. 
No  mitred  abbots,  and  no  tonsured  train, 
Lengthen'd  the  pomp  of  ceremonious  woe. 
His  decent  bier  was  with  white  linen  spread 
And  canopied ;  two  elks  and  bisons  yoked 
Drew  on  the  car ;  foremost  Cadwallon  bore 
The  Crucifix ;  with  single  voice  distinct. 
The  good  priest  Llorien  chanted  loud  and  deep 
The  solemn  sevice  ;  Madoc  next  the  bier 
Follow'd  his  father's  corpse  ;  bareheaded  then 
Came  all  the  people,  silentl}'  and  slow. 

The  burial-place  was  in  a  grassy  plat, 
A  little  level  glade  of  sunny  green. 
Between  the  river  and  a  rocky  bank, 
Which,  like  a  buttress,  from  the  precipice 
Of  naked  rock  sloped  out.     On  either  side 
'Twas  skirted  by  the  woodlands.     A  stone  cross 
Stood  on  Cynetha's  grave,  sole  monument, 
Beneath  a  single  cocoa,  whose  straight  trunk 
Rose  like  an  obelisk,  and  waved  on  high 
Its  palmy  plumage,  green  and  never  sere. 
Here  by  Cynetha's  side,  with  Christian  prayers, 
All  wrongs  forgotten  now,  was  Owen  laid. 
Rest,  King  of  Gvvynetli,  in  a  foreign  grave  I 
From  foul  indignity  of  Romish  pride 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


381 


And  bigot  priesthood,  from  a  falling  land 

riius  timely   siiatch'd,  and   from  the   impending 

yoke,  — 
Rest  in  the  kingdom  of  thy  noble  son  ! 

Ambassadors  from  Aztlan  in  the  vale 
Awaited  their  return,  — Yuhidthiton, 
Chief  of  the  Chiefs,  and  Helhua  the  Priest; 
With  these  came  Malinal.     They  met  the  Prince, 
And  with  a  sullen  stateliness  return'd 
His  salutation;  then  the  Chief  began  : 
Lord  of  the  Strangers,  hear  me  !  by  my  voice 
The  People,  and  the  Pabas,  and  the  King 
Of  Aztlan  speak.     Our  injured  Gods  have  claim'd 
Their  wonted  worship,  and  made  manifest 
Their  wrath  ;  we  dare  not  impiouly  provoke 
The  Dreadful.     Worship  ye  in  your  own  way  ; 
But  we  must  keep  the  path  our  fathers  kept. 

We  parted,  O  Yuhidthiton  !  as  friends 
And  brethren,  said  the  Christian  Prince;  —  alas. 
That   this   should   be    our  meeting!    When    we 

pledged. 
In  the  broad  daylight  and  the  eye  of  Heaven, 
Our  hands  in  peace,  ye  heard  the  will  of  God, 
And  felt,  and  understood.     This  calm  assent 
Ye  would  belie,  by  midnight  miracles 
Scared,  and  such  signs  of  darkness  as  beseem 
The  Demons  whom  ye  dread  ;  or,  likelier, 
Duped  by  the  craft  of  those  accursed  men, 
Whose  trade  is  blood.    Ask  thou  of  thine  own  heart, 
Yuhidthiton,  — 

But  Helhua  broke  his  speech  : 
Our  bidding  is  to  tell  thee,  quotli  the  Priest, 
That  Aztlan  hath  restored,  and  will  maintain, 
Her  ancient  faith.     If  it  offendcth  thee, 
Move  thou  thy  dwelling-place  I 

Madoc  replied. 
This  day  have  I  deposited  in  earth 
My  father's  bones  ;  and  where  his  bones  are  laid. 
There  mine  shall  moulder. 

Malinal  at  that 
Advanced ; — Prince  Madoc,  said  the  youth,  I  come. 
True  to  thy  faith  and  thee,  and  to  the  weal 
Of  Aztlan  true,  and  bearing,  for  that  truth, 
Reproach  and  shame,  and  scorn  and  obloquy. 
In  sorrow  come  I  here,  a  banish'd  man  ; 
Here  take,  in  sorrow,  my  abiding-place, 
Cut  off  from  all  my  kin,  from  all  old  ties 
Divorced;  all  dear  familiar  countenances 
No  longer  to  be  present  to  my  siglit ; 
The  very  mother-language  which  I  learn'd, 
A  lispinor  baby  on  my  mother's  knees. 
No  more  with  its  sweet  sounds  to  comfort  me. 
So  be  it !  —  To  his  brother  then  he  turn'd  ; 
Yuhidthiton,  said  he,  when  thou  shalt  find  — 
As  find  thou  wilt  —  that  those  accursed  men 
Have  played  the  juggler  with  thee,  and  deceived 
Thine    honest   heart,  —  when    Aztlan    groans   in 

blood, — 
Bid  her  remember  then,  that  Malinal 
Is  in  the  dwellings  of  her  enemy  ; 
Where  all  his  hope  in  banishment  hath  been 
To  intercede  for  her,  and  heal  her  wounds, 
And  mitigate  her  righteous  punishment. 


Sternly  and  sullenly  his  brother  heard  ; 
Yet  hearken'd  he  as  one  whose  heart  perforce 
Suppress'd  its  instinct ;    and  there  might  be  seeii 
A  sorrow  in  his  silent  stubbornness. 
And  now  his  ministers  on  either  hand 
A  water-vessel  fill,  and  heap  dry  sedge 
And  straw  before  his  face,  and  fire  the  pile. 
He,  looking  upward,  spread  his  arms  and  cried, 
Hear  me,  ye  Gods  of  Aztlan,  as  we  were, 
And  are,  and  will  be  yours  !     Behold  your  foes  ! 
He  stoop'd,  and  lifted  up  one  ample  urn, — 
Thus  let  their  blood  be  shed  1  —  and  far  away 
He  whirl'd  the  scattering  water.     Then  again 
Raised  the   full   vase,  —  Thus   let   their  lives  be 

quench'd  ! 
And  out  he  pour'd  it  on  the  flaming  pile. 
The  steam-cloud,   hissing  from   the  extinguishV 

heap. 
Spread  like  a  mist,  and  ere  it  melted  off, 
Homeward  the  heralds  of  the  war  had  turn'd. 


VI. 


THE   FESTIVAL  OF  THE   DEAD. 

The  Hoamen  in  their  Council-hall  are  met 
To  hold  the  Feast  of  Souls ;  seat  above  seat, 
Ranged  round  the  circling  theatre  they  sit. 
No  light  but  from  the  central  fire,  whose  smoke. 
Slow  passing  through  the  over  aperture, 
Excludes  the  day,  and  fills  the  conic  roof. 
And  hangs  above  them  like  a  cloud.     Around, 
The  ghastly  bodies  of  their  chiefs  are  hung, 
Shrivell'd  and  parcli'd  by  heat;  the  humbler  dead 
Lie  on  the  floor,  —  white  bones,  exposed  to  vicv.', 
On  deer,  or  elk-skin  laid,  or  softer  fur. 
Or  web,  the  work  of  many  a  mournful  hour ; 
The  loathlier  forms  of  fresh  mortality 
Swathed,  and  in  decent  tenderness  conceal'd. 
Beside  each  body  pious  gifts  are  laid. 
Mantle,  and  belt,  and  feathery  coronal. 
The  bow  he  used  in  war,  his  drinking  shell, 
His  arrows  for  the  chase,  the  sarbacan. 
Through  whose  long  tube  the  slender  shaft,  breath 
driven,  [wives, 

Might  pierce  the  winged  game.     Husbands  and 
Parents  and  children,  there  in  death  they  lie  ; 
The  widow'd,  and  the  parent,  and  the  child, 
Look  on  in  silence.     Not  a  sound  is  heard 
But  of  the  crackling  brand,  or  mouldering  fire. 
Or  when,  amid  yon  pendent  string  of  shells. 
The  slow  wind  wakes  a  shrill  and  feeble  sound,  — 
A  sound  of  sorrow  to  the  mind  attuned 
By  sights  of  woe. 

Ayayaca  at  length 
Came  forward  :  — Spirits,  is  it  well  with  ye  .■" 
Is  it  well.  Brethren .'  said  the  aged  Priest ; 
Have  ye  received  your  mourning,  and  the  rites 
Of  righteous  grief?  or  round  your  dwelling-place 
Still  do  your  shadows  roam  dissatisfied. 
And  to  the  cries  of  wailing  woe  return 
A  voice  of  lamentation  .'     Teach  us  now. 
If  we  in  aught  have  faild,  that  1,  your  Priesi., 


382 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


When  I  shall  join  ye  soon,  —  as  soon  I  must, — 
May  unimpeded  pass  the  perilous  floods. 
And  in  the  Country  of  the  Dead,  be  hail'd 
By  you  with  song,  and  dance,  and  grateful  joy. 

So  saying,  to  the  Oracle  he  turn'd. 
Awaiting  there  the  silence  which  implied 
Peaceful  assent.     Against  the  eastern  wall. 
Fronting  the  narrow  portal's  winding  way, 
An  Image  stood  .  a  cloak  of  fur  disguised 
The  rude  proportion  of  its  uncouth  limbs; 
The  skull  of  some  old  seer  of  days  of  old 
Topp'd  it,  and  with  a  visor  this  was  mask'd, 
Honoring  the  oracular  Spirit,  who  at  times 
There  took  his  resting-place.     Ayiiyaca 
Repeated,  Brethren,  is  it  well  with  ye  .•' 
And  raised  the  visor.     But  he  started  back, 
Appall'd  and  shuddering;  for  a  moony  light 
Lay  in  its  eyeless  sockets,  and  there  came 
From  its  immovable  and  bony  jaws 
A  long,  deep  groan,  thrice  utter'd,  and  thrice  felt 
In  every  heart  of  all  the  hearers  round. 
The  good  old  Priest  stood  tottering,  like  a  man 
Stricken  with  palsy ;  and  he  gazed  with  eyes 
Of  asking  horror  round,  as  if  he  look'd 
For  counsel  in  that  fear.     But  Neolin 
Sprung  boldly  to  the  Oracle,  and  cried. 
Speak,  Spirit  I  tell  us  of  our  sin,  and  teach 
The  atonement!     A  sepulchral  voice  replied. 
Ye  have  for  other  Gods  forsaken  us. 
And  we  abandon  you  !  —  and  crash  with  that, 
The  Image  fell. 

A  loud  and  hideous  shriek, 
As  of  a  demon,  Neolin  set  up  ; 
So  wild  a  yell,  that,  even  in  that  hour, 
It  brought  fresh  terror  to  the  startled  ear. 
While  yet  they  sat,  pale  and  irresolute, 
Helhua  the  Azteca  came  in.     He  bore 
A  shield  and  arrow, — symbols  these  of  war, 
Yet  now  beheld  with  hope,  so  great  relief 
They  felt  his  human  presence. 

Hoamen,  hear  me ! 
The  messenger  began  ;  Erillyab,  hear. 
Priests,  Elders,  People  !  but  hear  chiefly  thou, 
Prince  Amalahta,  as  of  these  by  birth, 
So  now  of  years  mature,  the  rightful  Lord  !  — 
Shall  it  be  peace  or  war .''  —  thus  Aztlan  saith ; 
She,  in  her  anger,  from  the  land  will  root 
The  Children  of  the  Sea;  but  viewing  you 
In  mercy,  to  your  former  vassalage 
Invites  ye,  and  remits  the  tribute  lives. 
And  for  rebellion  claimeth  no  revenge. 

Oh,  praise  your  Gods !  cried  Neolin,  and  hail 
This  day-spring  of  new  hope  !     Aztlan  remits 
The  tribute  lives,  —  what  more  could  Madoc  give  .' 
She  claimeth  no  revenge,  and  if  she  claimed, 
He   could   not   save.       O    Hoamen,    bless    your 

Gods; 
Appease  them  !     Thou,  Prince  Amalahta,  speak, 
And  seize  the  mercy. 

Amalahta  stood 
In  act  of  speech;  but  then  Erillyab  rose, — 
Who  gives  thee,  Boy,  this  Elder's  privilege.' 
The  Queen  exclaim'd  ;  —  and  thou.  Priest  Neolin, 


Curb  thou  thy  traitorous  tongue !     The  reign  is 

mine ; 
I  hold  it  from  my  father,  he  from  his ; 
Age  before  age,  beyond  the  memory 
Of  man  it  hath  been  thus.     My  father  fell 
In  battle  for  his  people,  and  his  sons 
Fell  by  his  side;  they  perish'd,  but  their  names 
Are  with  the  names  we  love, —  their  happy  souls 
Pursue  in  fields  of  bliss  the  shadowy  deer; 
The  spirit  of  that  noble  blood  which  ran 
From  their  death-wounds,  is  in  the  ruddy  clouds 
Which  go  before  the  Sun,  when  he  comes  forth 
In  glory.     Last  of  that  illustrious  race 
Was  I,  Erillyab.     Ye  remember  well. 
Elders,  that  day  when  I  assembled  here 
The  people,  and  demanded  at  their  choice 
The  worthiest,  to  perpetuate  our  old  line 
Of  Kings  and  Warriors.  —  To  the  wind  he  spread 
His  black  and  blood-red  banner.     Even  now, 
I  hear  his  war-drum's  tripled  sound,  that  call'd 
The  youth  to  battle  ;  even  now  behold 
The  hope  which  lit  his  dark  and  fiery  eye. 
And  kindled  with  a  sunnier  glow  his  cheek. 
As  he  from  yonder  war-pole,  in  his  pride, 
Took  the  death-doers  down.  —  Lo,  here  the  bones 
Of  King  Tepollomi !  —  my  husband's  bones  !  — 
There  should  be  some  among  ye  who  beheld, 
When,  all  with  arrows  quill'd,  and  clothed  with 

blood 
As  witli  a  purple  garment,  he  sustain'd 
The  unequal  conflict,  till  the  Aztecas 
Took  him  at  vantage,  and  their  monarch's  club 
Let   loose   his   struggling  soul.     Look,  Hoamen, 

here. 
See  through  how  wide  a  wound  his  spirit  fled  ! 
Twenty  long  years  of  mournful  widowhood 
Have  past  away  ;  so  long  have  I  maintain'd 
The  little  empire  left  us,  loving  well 
My  people,  and  by  them  as  well  beloved. 
Say,  Hoamen,  am  I  still  your  Queen .' 

At  once 
The  whole  assembly  rose  with  one  acclaim, — 
Still,  O  Erillyab,  O  Beloved,  rule 
Thy  own  beloved  people  ! 

But  the  Gods ! 
Cried  Amalahta,  —  but  the  Oracle  ! 
The  Oracle  !  quoth  she  ;  what  hath  it  said 
That  forty  years  of  suffering  hath  not  taught 
This  wretched  people  .'  —  They  abandon  us?  — 
So  let  them  go  !     Where  were  they  at  that  hour, 
When,  like  a  blasting  night-wind  in  the  spring. 
The  multitudes  of  Aztlan  came  upon  us.' 
Where  were  they  when  my  father  went  to  war.' 
Where  were  they  when  thy  fatlier's  stiffen'd  corpse, 
Even  after  death  a  slave,  held  up  the  lamp 
To  light  his  conqueror's  revels .'  —  Think  not,  Boy, 
To  palter  with  me  thus !     A  fire  may  tremble 
Witliin  the  sockets  of  a  skull,  and  groans 
May  issue  from  a  dead  man's  fleshless  jaws. 
And  images  may  fall,  and  yet  no  God 
Be  there  !  —  If  it  had  walk'd  abroad  with  life, 
That  had  indeed  been  something  ! 

Then  she  turn'd 
Her  voice  toward  the  people.  —  Ye  have  heard 
This  Priest  of  Aztlan,  whose  insidious  tongue 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


:583 


Bids  ye  desert  the  Children  of  the  Sea, 

And  vow  again  your  former  vassalage. 

Speaks  Aztlan  of  the  former  ?     O  my  people, 

I,  too,  could  tell  ye  of  the  former  days. 

When  yonder  plain  was  ours,  with  all  its  woods. 

And  waters,  and  savannahs! — of  those  days, 

When,   following  where  her  husband's  stronger 

arm 
Had  open'd  the  light  glebe,  the  willing  wife 
Dropp'd  in  the  yellow  maize ;  erelong  to  bear 
Its  increase  to  the  general  store,  and  toss 
Her  flowing  tresses  in  the  dance  of  joy. 
And  I  could  tell  ye  how  those  summer  stores 
Were  hoarded  for  the  invader's  winter  feasts ; 
And  how  the  widows  clipp'd  those  flowing  locks 
To    strew    them,  —  not    upon    their     husband's 

grave, — 
Their  husbands  had  no  graves  !  —  but  on  the  rocks 
And  mountains  in  their  flight.     And  even  these 

rocks 
And  mountains  could  not  save  us  !     Year  by  year 
Our  babes,  like  firstlings  of  the  flock,  were  cull'd 
To  be  the  banquet  of  these  Aztecas  ! 
This  very  wretch,  who  tells  us  of  the  past. 
Hath  chosen  them  for  the  butchery  !  —  Oh,  I  thank 

you 
For  this  brave  anger !  — In  your  name  I  take 
The  war-gift ! 

Gods  of  Aztlan,  Helhua  cried. 
As  to  Erillyab's  ready  hand  he  gave 
The  deadly  symbol,  in  your  name  I  give 
The  war-gift !     Ye  have  thirsted  over-long ; 
Take  now  your  fill  of  blood  I  —  He  turn'd  away, 
And  Queen  Erillyab  bade  the  tribe  fulfil 
Their  customary  rites. 

Each  family 
Bore  its  own  dead,  and  to  the  general  grave. 
With  melancholy  song  and  sob  of  woe. 
The  slow  procession  moves.     The  general  grave 
Was  delved  within  a  deep  and  shady  dell, 
Fronting  a  cavern  in  the  rock,  —  the  scene 
Of  many  a  bloody  rite,  ere  Madoc  came,  — 
A  temple,  as  they  deem'd,  by  Nature  made. 
Where  the  Snake-Idol  stood.     On  fur  and  cloth 
Of  woven  grass,  they  lay  their  burdens  down. 
Within  the  ample  pit ;  their  offerings  range 
Beside,  and  piously  a  portion  take 
Of  that  cold  earth,  to  which  forever  now 
Consign'd,  they  leave  their  fathers,  dust  to  dust ; 
Sad  relic  that,  and  wise  remembrancer. 

But  as  with  bark  and  resinous  boughs  they  pile 
The  sepulchre,  suddenly  Neolin 
Sprung  up  aloft,  and  shriek'd,  as  one  who  treads 
Upon  a  viper  in  his  heedless  path. 
The  God!   the  very  God  !  he  cried,  and  howl'd 
One  long,  shrill,  piercing,  modulated  cry; 
Whereat  from  that  dark  temple  issued  forth 
A  Serpent,  huge  and  Iiideous.     On  he  came. 
Straight  to  the  sound,  and  curl'd  around  the  Priest 
His  mighty  folds  innocuous,  overtoppino- 
His  human  height,  and  arching  down  his  head 
Sought  in  the  hands  of  Neolin  for  food; 
Then  questing,  rear'd,  and  stretch'd,  and  waved 
his  neck, 


And  glanced  his  forky  tongue.     Who  then  had 

seen 
The  man,  with  what  triumphant  fearlessness. 
Arms,  tliighs,  and  neck,  and  body,  wreathed  and 

ring'd 
In  those  tremendous  folds,  he  stood  secure, 
Flay'd  with  the  reptile's  jaws,  and  call'd  for  food. 
Food  for  the  present  God  !  —  who  then  had  seen 
The  fiendish  joy  which  fired  his  countenance. 
Might  well  have  ween'd  that  he  had  summoned  up 
The  dreadful  monster  from  its  native  Hell, 
By  devilish  power,  himself  a  Fiend  inflesli'd. 

Blood  for  the  God  !  he  cried ;  Lincoya's  blood  ! 
Friend  of  the  Serpent's  foe.  —  Lincoya's  blood  1 
Cried  Amalahta,  and  the  people  turn'd 
Their  eyes  to  seek  the  victim,  as  if  each 
Souglit  his  own  safety  in  that  sacrifice. 
Alone  Erillyab  raised  her  voice,  confused, 
But  not  confounded  ;  she  alone  exclaim'd, 
Madoc  shall  answer  this  !  Unheard  her  voice 
By  the  bewilder'd  people,  by  the  Priest 
Unheeded  ;  and  Lincoya  sure  had  fallen 
The  victim  of  their  fear,  had  he  been  found 
In  that  wild  hour ;  but  when  his  watchful  eye 
Beheld  the  Serpent  from  his  den  come  forth, 
He  fled  to  bear  the  tidings.  —  Neolin 
Repeats  the  accursed  call,  Food  for  the  God ! 
Ayayaca,  his  unbelieving  Priest ! 
At  once  all  eager  eyes  were  fix'd  on  him. 
But  he  came  forward  calmly  at  the  call ; 
Lo  !  here  am  I !  quoth  he  ;  and  from  his  head 
Plucking  the  thin  gray  hairs,  he  dealt  them  round  — 
Countrymen,  kinsmen,  brethren,  children,  take 
These  in  remembrance  of  me  !  there  will  be 
No  relic  of  your  aged  Priest  but  this. 
From  manhood  to  old  age,  full  threescore  years, 
Have  I  been  your  true  servant :  fit  it  is 
That  I,  who  witness'd  Aztlan's  first  assault. 
Should  perish  her  last  victim  !  —  and  he  moved 
Towards  the  death.     But  then  Erillyab 
Seized  him,  and  by  the  garment  drew  him  back  !  — 
By  the  Great  Spirit,  but  he  shall  not  die  ! 
The  Queen  exclaim'd ;  nor  shalt  thou  triumph  thus. 
Liar  and  traitor  !     Hoamen,  to  your  homes  ! 
Madoc  shall  answer  this  I 

Irresolute 
They  heard,  and  inobedient;  to  obey 
Fearing,  yet  fearful  to  remain.     Anon, 
The  Queen  repeats  her  bidding.  To  your  homes, 
My  people  I  —  But  when  Neolin  perceived 
The  growing  stir  and  motion  of  the  crowd. 
As  from  the  outward  ring  they  moved  away. 
He  utter'd  a  new  cry,  and  disentangling 
The  passive  reptile's  folds,  rush'd  out  among  them, 
With  outstretch'd  hands,  like  one  possess'd,  to  seize 
His  victim.     Then  they  fled  ;  for  who  could  tell 
On  whom  the  madman,  in  that  hellish  fit. 
Might  cast  the  lot  ?     An  eight-years'  boy  he  seized, 
And  held  him  by  the  leg,  and,  whirling  him 
In  ritual  dance,  till  breath  and  sense  were  gone, 
Set  up  the  death-song  of  the  sacrifice. 
Amalahta,  and  what  others  rooted  love 
Of  evil  leagued  with  him,  accomplices 
In  treason,  join'd  the  death-song  and  the  dance 


384 


MA  DOC    IN    AZTLAiN 


Some,  too,  there  were,  believing  what  they  fear'd. 

Who  yielded  to  their  old  idolatry, 

And  mingled  in  the  worship.     Round  and  round 

The  accursed  minister  of  murder  whirl'd 

His  senseless  victim ;  they,  too,  round  and  round 

In  maddening  motion,  and  with  maddening  cries 

Revolving,  whirl'd  and  wheel'd.     At  length,  when 

now. 
According  to  old  rites,  he  should  have  dash'd 
On  the  stone  Idol's  head  the  wretch's  brains, 
Ncolin  stopp'd,  and  once  again  began 
The  long,  shrill,  piercing,  modulated  cry. 
The  Serpent  knew  the  call,  and,  rolling  on. 
Wave  above  wave,  his  rising  length,  advanced 
His  open  jaws  :  then,  with  the  expected  prey. 
Glides  to  the  dark  recesses  of  his  den. 


VII. 
THE   SNAKE-GOD. 

Meantime  Erillyab's  messenger  had  girt 
His  loins,  and,  like  a  roebuck,  o'er  the  hills 
He  sped.     He  met  Cadwallon  and  the  Prince 
In  arms,  so  quickly  Madoc  had  obey'd 
Lincoya's  call ;  at  noon  he  heard  the  call ; 
And  still  the  sun  was  riding  high  in  heaven, 
When  up  the  valley  where  the  Hoamcn  dwelt 
He  led  his  twenty  spears.     O  welcome,  friend 
And   brother!  cried   the   Queen.     Even  as  thou 

saidst, 
So  hath  it  proved  ;  and  those  accursed  schemes 
Of  treachery,  which  that  wretched  boy  reveal'd 
Under  the  influence  of  thy  potent  drink, 
Have  ripen'd  to  effect.     From  what  a  snare 
The  timely  warning  saved  me  1  for,  be  sure. 
What  I  had  seen  I  else  should  have  believed, 
In  utter  fear  confounded.     The  Great  Spirit, 
Who  taucht  thee  to  fore.«ee  the  evil  thinn-. 
Will  give  thee  power  to  quell  it. 

On  they  went 
Toward  the  dell,  where  now  the  Idolaters 
Had  built  their  dedicated  fire,  and  still 
With  feast,  and  fits  of  song,  and  violent  dance, 
Pursued  their  rites.     When  Neolin  perceived 
The  Prince  approach,  fearlessly  he  came  forth. 
And  raised  his  arm,  and  cried.  Strangers,  away ! 
Away,  profane  !  hence  to  your  mother-land  ! 
Hence  to  your  waters ;  for  the  God  is  here  ;  — 
He  came  for  blood,  and  he  shall  have  his  fill  I 
Impious,  away  ! 

Seize  him  I  exclaim'd  the  Prince  ; 
Nor  had  he  time  for  motion  nor  for  flight, 
So  instantly  was  that  command  obey'd. 
Hoamen,  said  Madoc,  hear  me  !  —  I  came  here 
Stranger  alike  to  Aztlan  tand  to  you ; 
I  found  ye  an  oppress'd  and  wretched  race. 
Groaning  beneath  your  chains  ;  at  your  request. 
For  your  deliverance,  I  unsheathed  the  sword, 
Redeem'd  ye  from  your  bondage,  and  preserved 
Your  children  from  the  slaughter.     With  those  foes 
Whose  burden  ye  for  forty  years  endured, 
This  traitor  hath  conspired,  against  yourselves, 


Your  Queen,  and  me,  your  friend ;  the  solemn  faith 
Which  in  the  face  of  yonder  sun  we  pledged. 
Each  to  the  other,  this  perfidious  man 
Hath  broken,  and  hath  stain'd  his  hands  this  day 
With  innocent  blood.     Life  must  atone  for  life  ; 
Ere  I  destroy  the  Serpent,  whom  his  wiles 
Have  train'd  so  well,  last  victim,  he  shall  glut 
The  monster's  maw. 

Strike,  man  I  quoth  Neolin. 
This  is  my  consummation  '  the  reward 
Of  my  true  faith  !  the  best  that  I  could  ask. 
The  best  the  God  could  give  :  —  to  rest  in  him, 
Body  with  body  be  incorporate, 
Soul  into  soul  absorb'd,  and  I  and  He 
One  life,  inseparable,  for  evermore. 
Strike  ;  I  am  weary  of  this  mortal  part ; 
Unite  me  to  the  God  ! 

Triumphantly 
He  spake ;  the  assembled  people,  at  his  words. 
With  rising  awe  gazed  on  the  miscreant; 
Madoc  himself,  when  now  he  would  have  given 
The  sign  for  death,  in  admiration  paused ; 
Such  power  hath  fortitude.     And  he  perceived 
The  auspicious  moment,  and  set  up  his  cry. 
Forth,  from  the  dark  recesses  of  the  cave. 
The  Serpent  came  :   the  Hoamen  at  the  sight 
Shouted,  and  they  who  held  the  Priest,  appall'd. 
Relax'd  their  hold.     On  came  the  mighty  Snake, 
And  twined,  in  many  a  wreath,  round  Neolin, 
Darting  aright,  aleft,  his  sinuous  neck, 
With  searching  eye,  and  lifted  jaw,  and  tongue 
Quivering,  and  hiss  as  of  a  heavy  shower 
Upon  the  summer  woods.     The  Britons  stood 
Astounded  at  the  powerful  reptile's  bulk, 
And  that  strange  sight.     His  girth  was  as  of  man, 
But  easily  could  he  have  overtopp'd 
Goliath's  helmed  head,  or  that  huge  King 
Of  Basan,  hugest  of  the  Anakim  • 
What  then  was  human  strength,  if  once  involved 
Within  those  dreadful  coils  .'' — The  multitude 
Fell  prone,  and  worshipp'd  ;  pale  Erillyab  grew, 
And  turn'd  upon  the  Prince  a  doubtful  eye  ; 
The  Britons  too  were  pale,  jilbeit  they  held 
Their  spears  protended  ;  and  they  also  look'd 
On  Madoc,  who  the  while  stood  silently 
Contemplating  how  wiseliest  he  might  cope 
With  that  surpassing  strength. 

But  Neolin, 
Well  hoping  now  success,  when  he  had  awed 
The  general  feeling  thus,  exclaim'd  aloud  — 
Blood  for  the  God  !  give  him  the  Stranger's  blood  ! 
Avenge  him  on  his  foes !     And  then,  perchance. 
Terror  had  urged  them  to  some  desperate  deed. 
Had  Madoc  ponder'd  more,  or  paused  in  act 
One  moment.     From  the  sacrificial  flames 
He  snatch'd  a  firebrand,  and  with  fire  and  sword, 
Rush'd  at  the  monster;  back  the  monster  drew 
His  head  upraised  recoiling,  and  the  Prince 
Smote  Neolin  ;  all  circled  as  he  was. 
And  clipp'd  in  his  false  Deity's  embrace, 
Smote  he  the  accursed  Priest ;  the  avenging  sword 
Fell  on  his  neck  ;  through  flesh  and  bone  it  drove 
Deep  in  the  chest :  the  wretched  criminal 
Totter'd,  and  those  huge  rings  a  moment  held 
His  bloody  corpse  upright,  while  Madoc  struck 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


385 


Tlie  Serpent:  twice  he  struck  him,  and  the  sword 
Glanced  from  the  impenetrable  scales;  nor  more 
Avail'd  its  thrust,  though  driven  by  that  strong  arm  ; 
F''or  on  the  unyielditig  skin  the  temper'd  blade 
Bent.     He  sprung  upward  then,  and  in  the  eyes 
Of  the  huge  monster  flashed  the  fiery  brand. 
Impatient  of  the  smoke  and  burning,  back 
The  reptile  wreathed,  and  from  his  loosening  clasp 
Dropp'd  the  dead  Neolin,  and  turn'd,  and  fled 
To  his  dark  den. 

The  Iloamen,  at  that  sight, 
Raised  a  loud  wonder-cry,  with  one  accord, 
Great  is  the  Son  of  Ocean,  and  his  God 
Is  mightiest  I     But  Erillyab  silently 
Approach'd  the  great  Deliverer;  her  whole  frame 
Trembled  with  strong  emotion,  and  she  took 
His  hand,  and  gazed  a  moment  earnestly, 
Having  no  power  of  speech,  till  with  a  gush 
Of  tears  her  utterance  came,  and  she  exclaim'd, 
Blessed  art  thou,  my  brother  1  for  the  power 
Of  God  is  in  thee  I  —  and  she  would  have  kissed 
His  hand  in  adoration  ;  but  he  cried, 
God  is  indeed  with  us,  and  in  his  name 
Will  we  complete  the  work  1  — then  to  the  cave 
Advanced,  and  call'd  for  fire.    Bring  fire  !  quoth  he  ; 
By  his  own  element  this  spawn  of  hell 
Shall  perish  !  and  lie  enter'd,  to  explore 
The  cavern  depths.     Cadwallon  follow'd  him. 
Bearing  in  either  hand  a  flaming  brand  ; 
For  sword  or  spear  avail'd  not. 

Far  in  the  hill, 
Cave  within  cave,  the  ample  grotto  pierced, 
Three  chambers  in  the  rock.     Fit  vestibule 
Tlio  first  to  that  wild  temple,  long  and  low, 
Shut  out  the  outward  day.     The  second  vault 
Had  its  own  daylight  from  a  central  chasm 
High  in  the  hollow;  here  the  Image  stood. 
Their  rude  idolatry,  —  a  sculptured  snake. 
If  term  of  art  may  such  misshapen  form 
Beseem, —  around  a  human  figure  coil'd, 
And  all  begrimed  with  blood.     The  inmost  cell 
Dark ;  and  far  up  within  its  blackest  depth 
They  saw  the  Serpent's  still  small  eye  of  fire. 
Not  if  they  thinn'd  the  forest  for  their  pile, 
Could  they,  with  flame  or  suft'ocating  smoke, 
Destroy  him  there ;  for  through  the  open  roof 
The  clouds  would  pass  away.     They  paused  not 

long  ; 
Drive  him  beneath  the  chasm,  Cadwallon  cried. 
And  hem  him  in  with  fire,  and  from  above 
We  crush  him. 

Forth  they  went,  and  climb'd  the  hill 
With  all  their  people.     Their  united  strength 
Loosen'd  the  rocks,  and  ranged  them  round  the 

brink, 
Impending.     With  Cadwallon  on  the  height 
Ten  Britons  wait;  ten  with  the  Prince  descend. 
And  with  a  firebrand  each  in  either  hand, 
Enter  the  outer  cave.     Madoc  advanced. 
And  at  the  entrance  of  the  inner  den, 
He  took  his  stand  alone.     A  bow  he  bore, 
And  arrows  round  whose  heads  dry  tow  was  twined, 
(n  pine-gum  dipp'd  ;  he  kindled  these,  and  shot 
The  fiery  shafts.     Upon  the  scaly  skin. 
As  on  a  rock,  the  bone-tipp'd  arrows  fell , 
49 


But  at  their  bright  and  blazing  light  effray'd. 
Out  rush'd  the  reptile.     Madoc  from  his  path 
Retired  against  the  side,  and  call'd  his  men, 
And  in  they  came,  and  circled  round  the  Snake  ; 
And  shaking  all  their  flames,  as  with  a  wheel 
Of  fire,  they  ring'd  him  in.     From  side  to  side 
The  monster  turns  !  —  where'er  he  turns,  the  flame 
Flares  in  his  nostrils  and  his  blinking  eyes; 
Nor  aught  against  the  dreaded  element 
Did  that  brute  force  avail,  which  could  have  crush'd 
Milo's  young  limbs,  or  Theban  Hercules, 
Or  old  Manoah's  mightier  son,  ere  yet 
Shorn  of  his  strength.     They  press  him  now,  and 

now 
Give  back,  here  urging,  and  here  yielding  way, 
Till  right  beneath  the  chasm  they  centre  him. 
At  once  the  crags  are  loosed,  and  down  they  fall 
Thundering.     They  fell  like  thunder,  but  the  crash 
Of  scale  and  bone  was  heard.     In  agony 
The  Serpent  writhed  beneath  the  blow ;  in  vain. 
From  under  the  incumbent  load  essay'd 
To  drag  his  mangled  folds.     One  heavier  stone 
Fasten'd  and  flatten'd  him  ;  yet  still,  with  tail 
Ten  cubits  long,  he  lash'd  the  air,  and  foined 
From  side  to  side,  and  raised  his  raging  head 
Above  tl)e  height  of  man,  though  half  his  length 
Lay  mutilate.     Who  then  had  felt  the  force 
Of  that  wild  fury,  little  had  to  him 
Buckler  or  corselet  profited,  or  mail, 
Or  might  of  human  arm.     The  Britons  shrunk 
Beyond  its  arc  of  motion;  but  the  Prince 
Took  a  long  spear,  and  springing  on  the  stone 
Which  fix'd  the  monster  down,  provoked  his  rage. 
Uplifts  the  Snake  his  head  retorted,  high 
He  lifts  it  over  Madoc,  then  darts  down 
To  seize  his  prey.    The  Prince,  with  foot  advanced. 
Inclines  his  body  back,  and  points  the  spear 
With  sure  and  certain  aim,  then  drives  it  up, 
Into  his  open  jaws  :  two  cubits  deep 
It  pierced,  the  monster  forcing  on  the  vi'ound. 
He  closed  his  teeth  for  anguish,  and  hit  short 
The  ashen  hilt.     But  not  the  rage  which  now 
Clangs  all  his  scales,  can  from  its  seat  dislodge 
The  barbed  shaft ;  nor  those  contortions  wild. 
Nor  those  convulsive  shudderings,  nor  the  throes 
Whicli  shake  his  inmost  entrails,  as  vi'ith  the  air 
In  suft'ocating  gulps  the  monster  now 
Inhales  his  own  life-blood.     The  Prince  descends; 
He  lifts  another  lance  ;  and  now  the  Snake, 
Gasping,  as  if  exhausted,  on  the  ground 
Reclines  his  head  one  moment.     Madoc  seized 
That  moment,  planted  in  his  eye  the  spear, 
Then  setting  foot  upon  his  neck,  drove  down 
Through  bone,  and  brain,  and  throat,  and  to  the 

earth 
Infixed  the  mortal  weapon.     Yet  once  more 
The  Snake  essay'd  to  rise;  his  dying  strengtli 
Fail'd  him,  nor  longer  did  those  mighty  folds 
Obey  the  moving  impulse,  crush'd  and  scotch'd ; 
In  every  ring,  through  all  his  mangled  length. 
The  shrinking  muscles  quiver'd,  then  collapsed 
In  death. 

Cadwallon  and  his  comrades  now 
Enter  the  den;  they  roll  away  the  crag 
Which  held  him  down,  pluck  out  the  mortal  spear, 


38f> 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


Then  drag  him  forth  to  day  ;  the  force  conjoin'd 

Of  all  the  Britons  difficultly  drag 

His  lifeless  bulk.     But  when  the  Hoamen  saw 

That  form  portentous  trailing  in  its  gore, 

The  jaws,  which,  in  the  morning,  th(>y  had  seen 

Purpled  with  human  blood,  now  in  their  own 

Blackening,  —  aknce  they  fell  before  the  Prince, 

And  in  adoring  admiration  raised 

Their  hands  with  one  accord,  and  all  in  fear 

Worshipped  the  mighty  Deicide.     But  he. 

Recoiling  from  those  sinful  honors,  cried, 

Drag  out  the  Idol  now,  and  heap  the  fire, 

That  all  may  be  consumed  ! 

Forthwith  they  heap'd 
The  sacrificial  fire,  and  on  the  pile 
The  Serpent,  and  the  Image,  and  the  corpse 
Of  Neolin  were  laid ;  with  prompt  supply 
The}'  feed  the  raging  flames,  hour  after  hour. 
Till  now  the  black  and  nauseous  smoke  is  spent. 
And  mingled  with  the  ruins  of  the  pile. 
The  undistinguishable  ashes  lay. 
Go !  cried  Prince  Madoc,  cast  them  in  the  stream. 
And  scatter  them  upon  the  winds,  that  so 
No  relic  of  this  foul  idolatry 
Pollute  the  land.     To-morrow  meet  me  here, 
Hoamen,  and  I  will  purify  yon  den 
Of  your  abominations.     Come  ye  here 
With  humble  hearts ;  for  ye,  too,  in  the  sight 
Of  the  Great  Spirit,  the  Beloved  One, 
Must  be    made    pure,   and   cleansed   from    your 

offence, 
And  take  upon  yourselves  his  holy  law. 


VIII. 
THE  CONVERSION  OF  THE  HOAMEN. 

How  beautiful,  O  Sun,  is  thine  uprise, 

And  on  how  fair  a  scene  !     Before  the  Cave 

The  Elders  of  the  Hoamen  wait  the  will 

Of  their  Deliverer;  ranged  without  their  ring 

The  tribe  look  on,  thronging  the  narrow  vale, 

And  what  of  gradual  rise  the  shelving  combe 

Displayed,  or  steeper  eminence  of  wood. 

Broken  with  crags  and  sunny  slope  of  green, 

And  grassy  platform.     With  the  Elders  sat 

The  Queen  and  Prince,  their  rank's  prerogative. 

Excluded  else  for  sex  unfit,  and  youth 

For  counsel  immature.     Before  the  arch. 

To  that  rude  fane,  rude  portal,  stands  the  Cross, 

By  Madoc's  hand  victorious  planted  there. 

And  lo,  Prince  Madoc  comes!  no  longer  mail'd 

In  arms  of  mortal  might;  the  spear  and  sword. 

The  hauberk  and  the  helmet  laid  aside. 

Gorget  and   gauntlet,  greaves   and    shield,  —  he 

comes 
In  peaceful  tunic  clad,  and  mantle  long ; 
His  hyacinthine  locks  now  shadowing 
That  face,  which  late,  with  iron  overbrow'd, 
Struck  from  within  the  aventayle  such  awe 
And  terror  to  the  heart.     Bareheaded  he, 
Following  the  servant  of  the  altar,  leads 


The  reverential  train.     Before  them,  raised 

On  high,  the  sacred  images  are  borne ; 

There,  in  faint  semblance,  holiest  Mary  bends 

In  virgin  beauty  o'er  her  babe  divine,  — 

A  sight  which  almost  to  idolatry 

Might  win  the  soul  by  love.     But  who  can  gaze 

Upon  that  other  form,  which  on  the  rood 

In  agony  is  stretch'd  ?  —  his  hands  transfix'd, 

And  lacerate  with  the  body's  pendent  weight; 

The  black  and  deadly  paleness  of  his  face. 

Streak 'd  with  the  blood  which  from  that  crown  of 

scorn 
Hath  ceased  to  flow ;  the  side-wound  streaming 

still ; 
And  open  still  those  eyes,  from  which  the  look 
Not  yet  hath  pass'd  away,  that  went  to  Heaven, 
When,  in  that  hour,  the  Son  of  Man  exclaim'd, 
Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do ! 
And  now  arrived  before  the  cave,  the  train 
Halt :   to  the  assembled  elders,  where  they  sat 
Ranged  in  half  circle,  Madoc  then  advanced. 
And  raised,  as  if  in  act  to  speak,  his  hand. 
Thereat  was  every  human  sound  suppress'd  ; 
And  every  quicken'd  ear  and  eager  eye 
Were  centred  on  his  lips. 

The  Prince  began,  — 
Hoamen,  friends,  brethren,  —  friends  we  have  been 

long. 
And  brethren  shall  be,  ere  the  day  go  down,  — 
I  come  not  here  propounding  doubtful  things 
For  counsel,  and  deliberate  resolve 
Of  searching  thought;  but  with  authority 
From  Heaven,  to  give  the  law,  and  to  enforce 
Obedience.     Ye  shall  worship  God  alone, 
The  One  Eternal.     That  Beloved  One 
Ye  shall  not  serve  with  offier'd  fruits,  or  smoke 
Of  sacrificial  fire,  or  blood,  or  life  ; 
Far  other  sacrifice  he  claims,  —  a  soul 
Resign'd,  a  will  subdued,  a  heart  made  clean 
From  all  oifence.     Not  for  your  lots  on  earth. 
Menial  or  mighty,  slave  or  highly-born. 
For  cunning  in  the  chase,  or  strength  in  war. 
Shall  ye  be  judged  hereafter ;  —  as  ye  keep 
The  law  of  love,  as  ye  shall  tame  your  wrath. 
Forego  revenge,  forgive  your  enemies. 
Do  good  to  them  that  wrong  ye,  ye  will  find 
Your   bliss  or  bale.     This  law  ca:ne  down  from 

Heaven. 
Lo,  ye  behold  Him  there  by  whom  it  came  ; 
The  Spirit  was  in  Him,  and  for  the  sins 
Of  man  He  suffered  thus,  and  by  His  death 
Must  all  mankind  be  blest.     Not  knowing  Him, 
Ye  wander'd  on  in  error  ;  knowing  now. 
And  not  obeying,  what  was  error  once 
Is  guilt  and  wilful  wrong.     If  ever  more 
Ye  bow  to  your  false  deities  the  knee  ; 
If  ever  more  ye  worship  them  with  feast, 
Or  sacrifice,  or  dance ;  whoso  offends 
Shall  from  among  the  people  be  cut  off". 
Like  a  corrupted  member,  lest  he  taint 
The  whole  with  death.       With  what  appointed 

rites 
Your  homage  must  be  paid,  ye  shall  be  taught ; 
Your  children  in  the  way  that  they  shall  go 


MA DOC    IN    AZTLAN 


387 


Be  train'd  from  childliood  up.     Make  ye,  mean- 
time, 
Your  prayer  to  that  Beloved  One,  who  sees 
The  secrets  of  all  hearts  ;  and  set  ye  up 
This  the  memorial  of  his  chosen  Son, 
And  Her,  who,  blessed  among  women,  fed 
The  Appointed  at  Her  breast,  and  by  His  cross 
Endured  intenser  anguish ;  therefore  sharing 
His  glory  now,  with  sunbeams  robed,  the  Moon 
Her  footstool,  and  a  wreath  of  stars  her  crown. 

Hoamen,  ye  deem  us  children  of  a  race 
Mightier  than  ye,  and  wiser,  and  by  Heaven 
Beloved  and  favor'd  more.     From  this  pure  law 
Hath  all  proceeded,  —  wisdom,  power,  whate'er 
Here  elevates  the  soul,  and  makes  it  ripe 
For  higher  powers  and  more  exalted  bliss. 
Share  then  our  law,  and  be  with  us,  on  earth. 
Partakers  of  these  blessings,  and  in  Heaven, 
Co-lieritors  with  us  of  endless  joy. 

Ere  yet  one  breath  or  motion  had  disturb'd 
The  reverential  hush,  Erillyab  rose. 
My  people,  said  the  Queen,  their  God  is  best 
And  mightiest.     Him  to  whom  we  offered  up 
Blood  of  our  blood  and  of  our  flesh  the  flesh, 
Vainly  we  deem'd  divine  ;  no  spirit  he 
Of  good  or  evil,  by  the  conquering  arm 
Of  Madoc  mortal  proved.     What  then  remains 
But  that  the  blessing  proffer'd  thus  in  love. 
In  love  we  take.-"  —  Deliverer,  Teacher,  Friend, 
First  in  the  fellowship  of  faith  I  claim 
The  initiatory  rite. 

I  also,  cried 
The  venerable  Priest  Ayayaca, 
Old  as  I  am,  I  also,  like  a  child. 
Would  learn  this  wisdom  yet  before  I  die. 
The  Elders  rose  and  answer'd,  We  and  all  1 
And  from  the  congregated  tribe  burst  forth 
One  universal  shout,  —  Great  is  the  God 
Of  Madoc,  —  worthy  to  be  served  is  He  I 

Then  to  the  mountain  rivulet,  which  roll'd 
Like  amber  over  its  dark  bed  of  rock, 
Did  Madoc  lead  Erillyab,  in  the  name 
Of  Jksi's,  to  his  Christian  family 
Accepted  now.     On  her  and  on  her  son, 
The  Elders  and  the  People,  Llorien 
Sprinkled  the  sanctifying  waters.     Day 
Was  scarcely  two  hours  old  when  he  began 
His  work,  and  when  he  ceased,  the  sun  had  past 
The  heights  of  noon.     Ye  saw  that  blessed  work. 
Sons  of  the  Cymry,  Cadog,  Deiniol, 
Padarn,  and  Teilo !  ye  whose  sainted  names 
Your  monumental  temples  still  record  ; 
Thou,  David,  still  revered,  who  in  the  vale. 
Where,  by  old  Hatteril's  wintry  torrents  swollen, 
Rude  Hodney  rolls  his  raging  stream,  didst  choose 
Thy  hermit  home ;  and  ye  who  by  the  sword 
Of  the  fierce  Saxon,  when  the  bloodier  Monk 
Urged  on  the  work  of  murder,  for  your  faith 
And  freedom  fell,  —  Martyrs  and  Saints,  ye  saw 
This  triumph  of  the  Cymry  and  the  Cross, 
And  struck  your  golden  harps  to  hymns  of  joy. 


IX. 


TLALALA. 

As  now  the  rites  were  ended,  Caradoc 

Came  from  the  ships,  leading  an  Azteca 

Guarded  and  bound.    Prince  Madoc,  said  the  Bard, 

Lo  !  the  first  captive  of  our  arms  I  bring. 

Alone,  beside  the  river  I  had  stray 'd. 

When,  from  his  lurking-place,  the  savage  hurl'd 

A  javelin.     At  the  rustle  of  the  reeds. 

From  whence  the  blow  was  aim'd,  I  turn'd  in  time, 

And  heard  it  whizz  beside  me.     Well  it  was, 

That  from  the  ships  they  saw  and  succor'd  me ; 

For,  subtle  as  a  serpent  in  my  grasp. 

He  seemed  all  joint  and  flexure  ;  nor  had  I 

Armor  to  ward,  nor  weapon  to  offend. 

To  battle  all  unused  and  unprepared ; 

But  I,  too,  here  upon  this  barbarous  land, 

Like  Elinur  and  like  Aronan  of  old. 

Must  lift  the  ruddy  spear. 

This  is  no  day 
For  vengeance,  answered  Madoc,  else  his  deed 
Had  met  no  mercy.     Freely  let  him  go ! 
Perchance  the  tidings  of  our  triumph  here 
May  yet  reclaim  his  country.  —  Azteca, 
Go,  let  your  Pabas  know  that  we  have  crush'd 
Their  complots  here ;  beneath  our  righteous  sword 
The  Priest  and  his  false  Deity  have  fallen  ; 
The  idols  are  consumed,  and,  in  their  stead, 
The  emblems  of  our  holy  faith  set  up, 
Whereof  the  Hoamen  have  this  day  been  made 
Partakers.     Say  to  Aztlan,  when  she,  too, 
Will  make  her  temples  clean,  and  put  away 
Her  foul  abominations,  and  accept 
The  Christian  Cross,  that  Madoc  then  accords 
Forgiveness  for  the  past,  and  peace  to  come. 
This  better  part  let  her,  of  her  free-will 
And  wisdom,  choose  in  time. 

Till  Madoc  spake, 
The  captive  reckless  of  his  peril  stood. 
Gazing  with  resolute  and  careless  eye. 
As  one  in  whom  the  lot  of  life  or  death 
Moved  neither  fear  nor  feeling ;  but  that  eye 
Now  sparkling  with  defiance,  —  Seek  ye  peace  .'' 
He  cried  :  O  weak  and  woinan-hearted  man  ! 
Already  wouldst  thou  lay  the  sword  to  rest  r 
Not  with  the  burial  of  the  sword  this  strife 
Must  end,  for  never  doth  the  Tree  of  Peace 
Strike  root  and  flourish,  till  the  strong  man's  hand 
Upon  his  enemy's  grave  hath  planted  it. 
Come  ye  to  Aztlan  then  in  quest  of  peace  ? 
Ye  feeble  souls,  if  that  be  what  ye  seek. 
Fly  hence  !  our  Aztlan  suffers  on  her  soil 
No  living  stranger. 

Do  thy  bidding.  Chief! 
Calmly  Cadwallon  answered.     To  her  choice 
Let  Aztlan  look,  lest  what  she  now  reject 
In  insolence  of  strength,  she  take  upon  her. 
In  sorrow,  and  in  suflTering,  and  in  shame, 
By  strong  compulsion,  penitent  too  late. 
Thou  hast  beheld  our  ships  with  g.allant  men 
Freighted,  a  numerous  force,  —  and  for  our  arms,  — 


338 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


Surely  thy  nation  liath  acquired  of  them 
Disastrous  knowledge. 

Curse  upon  your  arms  ! 
Exclaiin'd  the  savage  :  —  Is  there  one  among  you 
Dare  lay  that  cowardly  advantage  by, 
And  meet  me,  man  to  man,  in  honest  strife  ? 
That  I  might  grapple  with  him,  weaponless. 
On  yonder  rock,  breast  against  breast,  fair  force 
Of  limb,  and  breath,  and  blood, — till  one,  or  both, 
Dash'd  down  the  shattering  precipice,  should  feed 
The  mountain  eagle  I  —  Give  me,  I  beseech  you. 
That  joy  ! 

As  wisely,  said  Cynetha's  son. 
Thy  foe  might  challenge  thee,  and  bid  thee  let 
Thy  strong  right  hand  hang  idle  in  the  fray. 
That  so  his  weakness  with  thy  strength  might  cope 
In  equal  battle  !  —  Not  in  wrongful  war, 
Tlie  tyrants  of  our  weaker  brethren, 
Wield  we  these  dreadful  arms,  —  but  when  assail'd 
By  fraud  and  force,  when  cajl'd  upon  to  aid 
Tiie  feeble  and  oppressed,  shall  we  not 
Then  put  our  terrors  forth,  and  thunder-strike 
The  guilty  ? 

Silently  the  Savage  heard  ; 
Joy  brighten'd  in  his  eyes,  as  they  unloosed 
Ilis  bonds  ;  he  stretched  his  arms  at  length,  to  feel 
His  liberty,  and  like  a  greyhound  then 
Slipp'd  from  the  leash,  he  bounded  o'er  the  hills. 
What  was  from  early  morning  till  noon  day 
The  steady  travel  of  a  well-girt  man. 
He  with  fleet  feet  and  unfatiguable, 
(n  three  short  hours  hath  traversed  ;  in  the  lake 
lie  plunged,  now  shooting  forth  his  pointed  arms, 
\rrow-like  darting  on  ;  recumbent  now, 
Forces  with  springing  feet  his  easier  way  ; 
Then  with  new  speed,  as  freshen'd  by  repose. 
Again  he  breasts  the  water.     On  the  shore 
Of  Aztlan  now  he  stands,  and  breathes  at  will. 
And  wrings  his  dripping  locks;  then  through  the 

gate 
Pursued  his  way. 

Green  garlands  deck  the  gate  ; 
Gay  are  the  temples  with  green  boughs  affix'd  ; 
The  door-posts  and  the  lintels  hung  with  wreaths  ; 
The  fire  of  sacrifice,  with  flames  bedimm'd. 
Burns  in  the  sun-light,  pale  ;  the  victims  wait 
Around,  impatient  of  their  death  delay'd. 
The  Priest,  before  Tezcalipoca's  shrine. 
Watches  the  maize-strown  threshold,  to  announce 
The  footsteps  of  the  God  ;  for  this  the  day, 
When  to  his  favor'd  city  he  vouchsafes 
His  annual  presence,  and,  with  unseen  feet. 
Imprints  the  maize-strown  threshold ;  follow'd  soon 
By  all  whose  altars  with  eternal  fires 
Aztlan  illumed,  and  fed  with  human  blood  ;  — 
Mexitli,  woman-born,  who  from  the  womb, 
Child  of  no  mortal  sire,  leap'd  terrible. 
The  arm'd  avenger  of  his  mother's  fame  ; 
And  he  whose  will  the  subject  winds  obey, 
Quetzalcoal ;  and  Tlaloc,  Water-God, 
And  all  the  host  of  Deities,  whose  power 
Requites  with  bounty  Aztlan's  pious  zeal, 
Health  and  rich  increase  giving  to  her  sons. 
And  withering  in  the  war  her  enemies. 
So  taught  the  Priests;  and  therefore  were  the  gates 


Green-garlanded,  the  temples  green  with  boughs, 
The  door-posts  and  the  lintels  hung  with  wreaths ; 
And  yonder  victims,  ranged  around  the  fire, 
Are  destin'd,  with  the  sleani  of  sacrifice. 
To  greet  their  dreadful  coming. 

With  the  train 
Of  warrior  Chiefs  Coanacotzin  stood, 
Tliat  when  the  Priest  proclaim'd  the  enter'd  God, 
His  lips  before  the  present  Deity 
Might  pour  effectual  prayer.  The  assembled  Chiefs 
Saw  Tlalala  approach,  more  welcome  now. 
As  one  whose  absence  from  the  appointed  rites 
Had  waken'd  fear  and  wonder.  —  Think  not  ye, 
The  youth  exclaim'd,  careless  impiety 
Could  this  day  lead  me  wandering.     I  went  forth 
To  dip  my  javelin  in  the  Strangers'  blood  — 
A  sacrifice,  methought,  our  Gods  had  Joved 
To  scent,  and  sooner  hasten'd  to  enjoy. 
I  fail'd,  and  fell  a  prisoner ;  but  their  fear 
Released  me  —  coward  fear,  or  childish  hope, 
That,  like  Yuhidthiton,  I  might  become 
Their  friend,  and  merit  chastisement  from  Heaven, 
Pleading  the  Strangers'  cause.     Tliey  bade  me  go 
And  proffer  peace.  —  Chiefs,  were  it  possible 
Tliat  tongue  of  mine  could  win  you  to  that  shame. 
Out  would  I  pluck  the  member,  though  my  soul 
Followed  its  bloody  roots.     The  Stranger  finds 
No  peace  in  Aztlan,  but  the  peace  of  death  ! 

'Tis  bravely  said  !  Yuhidthiton  replied. 
And  fairly  mayst  thou  boast,  young  Tlalala, 
For  thou  art  brave  in  battle.     Yet  'twere  well 
If  that  same  fearless  tongue  were  taught  to  check 
Its  boyish  license  now.     No  law  forbade 
Our  friendship  with  the  Stranger,  when  my  voice 
Pleaded  for  proflfered  peace ;  that  fault  I  shared 
In  common  with  the  King,  and  with  the  Chiefs, 
The  Pabas,  and  the  People,  none  foreseeing 
Danger  or  guilt;  but  when  at  length  the  Gods 
Made  evident  their  wrath  ni  prodigies, 
I  yielded  to  their  manifested  will 
My  prompt  obedience.  —  Bravely  hast  thou  said. 
And  brave  thou  art,  young  Tiger  of  the  War  ! 
But  thou  hast  dealt  with  other  enemies 
Than  these  impenetrable  men,  —  with  foes, 
Whose  conquered  Gods  lie  idle  in  their  chains. 
And  with  tame  weakness  brook  captivity. 
When  tliou  hast  met  the  Strangers  in  the  fight, 
And  in  the  doings  of  that  fight  outdone 
Yuhidthiton,  revile  him  then  for  one 
Slow  to  defend  his  country  and  his  faith  ; 
Till  then,  with  reverence,  as  beseems  thy  youth, 
Respect  thou  his  full  fame  ! 

[  wrong  it  not ! 
I  wrong  it  not !  cried  the  young  Azteca  ; 
But  truly,  as  I  hope  to  equal  it, 
Honor  thy  well-earn'd  glory. —  But  this  peace  1  — 
Renounce  it !  —  say  that  it  shall  never  be  !  — 
Never,  —  as  long  as  there  are  Gods  in  Heaven, 
Or  men  in  Aztlan  ! 

That,  the  King  replied. 
The  Gods  themselves  have  answer'd.     Never  yet 
By  holier  ardor  were  our  countrymen 
Possess'd  ;  poace-ofFerings  of  repentance  fill 
The  temple  courts ;  from  every  voice  ascends 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


389 


The  contrite  prayer  ;  daily  the  victim's  heart 

Sends  its  propitiatory  steam  to  Heaven ; 

And  if  the  aid  divine  may  be  procured 

By  the  most  dread  solenmities  of  faith, 

And  rigor  of  severest  penitence, 

Soon  shall  the  present  influence  strengthen  us, 

And  Aztlan  be  triumphant. 

While  they  spake, 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  song  and  instrument 
Rung  through  the  air,  now  rising  like  the  voice 
Of  angry  ocean,  now  subsiding  soft, 
As  when  the  breeze  of  evening  dies  away. 
The  horn,  and  shrill-toned   pipe,  and  drum,  that 

gave 
Its  music  to  the  hand,  and  hollow'd  wood. 
Drum-like,  whose  thunders,  ever  and  anon. 
Commingling  with  the  sea-shell's  spiral  roar. 
Closed  the  full  liarmony.     And  now  the  eve 
Past  on,  and,  through  the  twilight  visible. 
The  frequent  fire-flies'  brightening  beauties  shone. 
Anxious  and  often  now  the  Priest  inspects 
The  maize-strown  threshold ;  for  the  wonted  hour 
Was  come,  and  yet  no  footstep  of  the  God  ! 
More  radiant  now  the  fire  of  sacrifice. 
Fed  to  full  fury,  blazed ;  and  its  red  smoke 
Imparted  to  the  darker  atmosphere 
Such  obscure  liglit,  as,  o'er  Vesuvio  seen. 
Or  pillared  upon  Etna's  mountain-head, 
Makes  darkness  dreadful.     In  the  captives' cheeks 
Then  might  a  livid  paleness  have  been  seen. 
And  wilder  terror  in  their  ghastly  eyes. 
Expecting  momently  the  pang  of  death. 
Soon  in  the  multitude  a  doubt  arose. 
Which  none  durst  mention,  lest  his  neighbor's  fears. 
Divulged,  should  strengthen  his;  —  the  hour  was 

past, 
And  yet  no  foot  had  mark'd  the  sprinkled  maize  ! 


THE   ARRIVAL   OF   THE    GODS. 

Now  every  moment  gave  their  doubts  new  force. 

And  every  wondering  eye  disclosed  the  fear 

Which  on  the  tongue  was  trembling,  when  to  the 

Emaciate  like  some  bare  anatomy,  [King, 

And  deadly  pale,  Tezozomoc  was  led, 

By  two  supporting  Priests.     Ten  painful  months. 

Immured  amid  the  forest  had  he  dwelt, 

in  abstinence  and  solitary  prayer 

Passing  his  nights  and  days :  thus  did  the  Gods 

From  their  High  Priest  exact,  when  they  enforced. 

By  danger  or  distress,  the  penance  due 

For  public  sins ;  and  he  had  dwelt  ten  months. 

Praying  and  fasting,  and  in  solitude. 

Till  now  might  every  bone  of  his  lean  limbs 

Be  told,  and  in  his  starved  and  bony  face 

The  living  eye  appeared  unnatural, — 

A  ghostly  sight. 

In  breathless  eagerness 
The  multitude  drew  round  as  he  began, — 
O  King,  the  Gods  of  Aztlan  are  not  come  ;, 
They  will  not  come  before  the  Strangers'  blood 


Smoke  on  their  altars ;  but  they  have  beheld 
My  days  of  prayer,  and  nights  of  watchfulness. 
And  fasts  austere,  and  bloody  disciplines. 
And  have  reveal'd  their  pleasure.     Who  is  here, 
Wlio  to  the  White  King's  dwelling-place  dare  go, 
And  execute  their  will .' 

Scarce  had  he  said, 
When  Tlalala  exclaim'd,  I  am  the  man. 

Hear  then  !    Tezozomoc  replied.  —  Ye  know 
That  self-denial  and  long  penance  purge 
The  film  and  foulness  of  mortality. 
For  more  immediate  intercourse  with  Heaven 
Preparing  the  pure  spirit;  and  all  eyes 
May  witness  that  with  no  relaxing  zeal 
I  liave  performed  my  duty.     Mucli  1  fear'd 
For  Aztlan's  sins,  and  oft,  in  bitterness, 
Plave  groan'd  and  bled  for  her  iniquity  ; 
But  chiefly  for  this  solemn  day  the  fear 
Was  strong  upon  me,  lest  her  Deities, 
Estranged,  should  turn  away,  and  we  be  left 
A  spiritless  and  God-abandoned  race, 
A  warning  to  the  earth.     Ten  weary  months 
Have  the  raw  maize  and  running  water  been 
My  only  food  ;  but  not  a  grain  of  maize 
Hath  stay'd  the  gnawing  appetite,  nor  drop 
Of  water  cool'd  my  parch'd  and  painful  tongue. 
Since  yester-morn  arose.     Fasting  1  pray'd, 
And,  praying,  gash'd  myself;  and  all  night  long, 
I  watch'd,  and  wept,  and  supplicated  Heaven, 
Till  the  weak  flesh,  its  life-blood  almost  drain'd, 
Sunk  with  the  long  austerity  :  a  dread 
Of  death  came  over  me  ;  a  deathy  chill 
Ran  through  my  veins,  and  loosen'd  every  limb ; 
Dim  grew  mine  eyes ;  and  I  could  feel  my  heart, 
Dying  away  within  me,  intermit 
Its  slow  and  feeble  throbs,  then  suddenly 
Start,  as  it  seem'd  exerting  all  its  force 
In  one  last  effort.     On  the  ground  I  fell, 
I  know  not  if  entranced,  or  dead  indeed, 
But  without  motion,  hearing,  sight,  or  sense, 
Feeling,  or  breath,  or  life.     From  that  strange  state, 
Even  in  such  blessed  freedom  from  all  pain 
That  sure  I  thought  myself  in  very  Heaven, 
I  woke,  and  raised  my  eyelids,  and  beheld 
A  light  which  seemed  to  penetrate  my  bones 
With  life  and  health.     Before  me,  visible, 
Stood  Coatlantona  ;  a  wreath  of  flowers 
Circled  her  hair,  and  from  their  odorous  leaves 
Arose  a  lambent  flame ;  not  fitfully. 
Nor  with  faint  flash  or  spark  of  earthly  flowers  ; 
From  these,  forever  flowing  forth,  there  play'd. 
In  one  perpetual  dance  of  pointed  light, 
The  azure  radiance  of  innocuous  fire. 
She  spake  —  Hear,  Aztlan  !  and  give  ear,  O  King 
She  said.     Not  yet  the  offended  Gods  relax 
Their  anger ;  they  require  the  Strangers'  blood, 
Tlie  foretaste  of  their  banquet.     Let  their  will 
Be  known  to  Aztlan,  and  the  brave  perform 
Their  bidding;  I,  meantime,  will  seek  to  soothe. 
With  all  a  mother's  power,  Mexitli's  wrath. 
So  let  the  maidens  daily  with  fresh  flowers 
Garland  my  temple  !  —  Daily  with  fresh  flowers 
Garland  her  temple,  Aztlan  !  and  revere 
The  gentle  mgther  of  thv  guardian  God  ! 


390 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


And  let  the  brave,  cxclaim'd  young  Tlalala, 
Perform  her  bidding  !     Servant  of  the  Gods, 
Declare  their  will !  — Is  it,  that  I  should  seek 
The  strangers,  in  the  first  who  meets  my  way 
To  plunge  the  holy  weapon  ?     Say  Uiou  to  me. 
Do  this  !  —  and  I  depart  to  do  the  deed, 
Though  my  life-blood  should  mingle  with  the  foe's. 

O  brave  young  Chief!  Tezozomoc  replied, 
With  better  fortune  may  the  grateful  Gods 
Reward  thy  valor  !  deed  so  hazardous 
They  ask  not.     Couldst  thou  from  the  mountain 

holds 
Tempt  one  of  these  rash  foemen  to  pursue 
Thine  artful  flight,  an  ambush'd  band  might  rise 
Upon  the  unsuspcting  enemy, 
And  intercept  his  way  ;  then  hitherward 
The  captive  should  be  led,  and  Aztlan's  Gods 
On  their  own  altars  see  the  sacrifice, 
Well  pleased,  and  Aztlan's  sons,  inspirited, 
Behold  the  omen  of  assured  success. 
Thou  know'st  that  Tialoc's  annual  festival 
Is  close  at  hand.     A  stranger's  child  would  prove 
A  victim,  whose  rare  value  would  deserve 
His  certain  favor.     More  I  need  not  say. 
Choose  thou  the  force  for  ambush ;  and  thyself 
Alone,  or  with  a  chosen  comrade,  seek 
The  mountain  dwellers. 

Instant  as  he  ceased, 
Ocellopan  began :  I  go  with  thee, 
O  Tlalala  !  My  friend !  —  If  one  alone 
Could  have  the  honor  of  this  enterprise. 
My  love  might  yield  it  thee  ;  —  but  thou  wilt  need 
A  comrade.  —  Tlalala,  I  go  with  thee  ! 
Whom,   the    Chief   answer'd,  should    my    heart 

select. 
Its  tried  companion  else,  but  thee,  so  oft 
My  brother  in  the  battle .'     We  will  go, 
Shedder  of  blood  !  together  will  we  go, 
Now,  ere  the  midnight ! 

Nay  !  the  Priest  replied, 
A  little  while  delay;  and  ere  ye  go. 
Devote  yourselves  to  Heaven  !    Feebly  he  spake. 
Like  one  exhausted ;  gathering  then  new  force. 
As  with  laborious  effort,  he  pursued,  — 
Bedew  Mexitli's  altar  with  your  blood. 
And  go  beneath  his  guidage.     I  have  yet 
Strength  to  officiate,  and  to  bless  your  zeal. 

So  saying,  to  the  Temple  of  the  God 
He  led  the  way.     The  warriors  follow'd  him  ; 
And  with  his  chiefs,  Coanocotzin  went. 
To  grace  with  all  solemnity  the  rite. 
They  pass  the  Wall  of  Serpents,  and  ascend 
The  massive  fabric  ;  four  times  they  surround 
Its  ample  square  ;  the  fifth,  they  reach  the  heiglit. 
There,  on  the  level  top,  two  temple-towers 
Were  rear'd ;  the  one  Tezcalipoca's  fane. 
Supreme  of  Heaven,  where  now  the  wily  Priest 
Stood,  watchful  for  his  presence,  and  observed 
The  maize-strown  threshold.     His  the  other  pile. 
By  whose  peculiar  power  and  patronage 
Aztlan  was  blest,  Mexitli,  woman-born. 
Before  the  entrance,  the  eternal  fire 
Was  burning;  bare  of  foot  they  enter'd  there. 


On  a  blue  tjirone,  with  four  huge  silver  snakes. 
As  if  the  keepers  of  l^ie  sanctuary, 
Circled,  with  stretching  neck  and  fangs  display'd, 
Mexitli  sat;  another  graven  snake 
Belted  with  scales  of  gold  his  monster  bulk. 
Around  the  neck  a  loathsome  collar  hung. 
Of  human  hearts;  the  face  was  mask'd  with  gold; 
His  specular  eyes  seem'd  fire;  one  hand  uprear'd 
A  club  ;  the  other,  as  in  battle,  held 
The  shield ;  and  over  all  suspended  hung 
The  banner  of  tlie  nation.     They  beheld 
In  awe,  and  knelt  before  the  Terrible  God. 

Guardian  of  Aztlan  !  cried  Tezozomoc, 
Wlio  to  thy  mortal  mother  hast  assign'd 
The  kingdom  o'er  all  trees,  and  arborets. 
And  herbs,  and  flowers,  giving  her  endless  life, 
A  Deity  among  the  Deities ; 
While  Coatlantona  implores  thy  love 
To  thine  own  people,  they  in  fear  approach 
Thy  awful  fane,  who  know  no  fear  beside. 
And  offer  up  the  worthiest  sacrifice. 
The  blood  of  heroes  ! 

To  the  ready  Chiefs 
He  turn'd,  and  said.  Now  stretch  your  arms,  and 

make 
The  offering  to  the  God.     They  their  bare  arms 
Stretched  forth,  and  stabbed  them  with  the  aloe- 
Then  in  a  golden  vase  Tezozomoc  [point. 
Received  the  mingled  streams,  and  held  it  up 
Toward  the  giant  Idol,  and  exclaim'd, 
Terrible  God  !  Protector  of  our  realm  ! 
Receive  thine  incense  !   Let  the  steam  of  blood 
Ascend  to  thee,  delightful  !     So  mayst  thou 
Still  to  thy  chosen  people  lend  thine  aid ; 
And  these  blaspheming  strangers  from  the  earth 
Be  swept  away  ;  as  erst  the  monster  race 
Of  Mammuth,  Heaven's  fierce  ministers  of  wrath, 
Who  drain'd  the  lakes  in  thirst,  and  for  their  food 
Exterminated  nations.     And  as  when, 
Their  dreadful  ministry  of  death  fulfill'd, 
Ipalnemoani,  by  whom  we  live, 
Bade  thee  go  forth,  and  with  thy  lightnings  fill 
The  vault  of  Heaven,  and  with  thy  thunders  rock 
The  rooted  earth,  till  of  the  monster  race 
Only  their  monumental  bones  remain'd,  — 
So  anil  thy  favor'd  people  with  thy  might, 
Terrible  God  !  and  purify  the  land 
From  these  blaspheming  foes  ! 

He  said,  and  gave 
Ocellopan  the  vase.  —  Chiefs,  ye  have  pour'd 
Your  strength  and  courage  to  the  Terrible  God, 
Devoted  to  his  service ;  take  ye  now 
The  beverage  he  hath  hallow'd.     In  your  youth 
Ye  have  quaflT'd  manly  blood,  that  manly  thoughts 
Might  ripen  in  your  hearts ;  so  now  with  this. 
Which  mingling  from  such  noble  veins  hath  ffowed. 
Increase  of  valor  drink,  and  added  force. 
Ocellopan  received  the  bloody  vase. 
And  drank,  and  gave  in  silence  to  his  friend 
The  consecrated  draught ;  then  Tlalala 
Drain'd  off"  the  off'ering.     Braver  blood  than  this 
My  lips  can  never  taste  !  quoth  he  ;  but  soon 
Grant  me,  Mexitli,  a  more  grateful  cup, — 
The  Stranger's  life  ! 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


391 


Are  all  the  rites  perform'd  ? 
Ocellopan  inquired.     Yea,  all  is  done, 
Answcr'd  the  Priest.     Go !  and  the  guardian  God 
Of  Aztlan  be  your  guide ! 

They  left  the  fane. 
Lo  !  as  Tezozomoc  was  passing  by 
The  eternal  fire,  the  eternal  fire  shot  up 
A  long  blue  flame.     He  started  ;  he  exclaiin'd, 
The  God  !  the  God  1  Tezcalipoca's  Priest 
Echoed  the  welcome  cry,  The  God  !  the  God  ! 
For  lo  !  his  footsteps  mark  the  maize-strown  floor. 
A  mighty  shout  from  all  the  multitudes 
Of  Aztlan  rose;  they  cast  into  the  fire 
The  victims,  whose  last  shrieks  of  agony 
Mingled  unheeded  with  the  cries  of  joy. 
Then  louder  from  the  spiral  sea-shell's  depth 
Swell'd  the  full  roar,  and  from  the  hollow  wood 
Pcal'd  deeper  thunders.     Round  the  choral  band. 
The  circling  nobles,  gay  with  gorgeous  plumes. 
And  gems  which  sparkled  to  the  midnight  fire, 
Moved  in  the  solemn  dance ;  each  in  his  hand. 
In  measured  movements  lifts  the  feathery  shield, 
And  shakes  a  rattling  ball  to  measured  sounds. 
With  quicker  steps,  the  inferior  chiefs  without, 
Equal  in  number,  but  in  just  array. 
The  spreading  radii  of  the  mystic  wheel. 
Revolve  ;  and,  outermost,  the  youths  roll  round. 
In  motions  rapid  as  their  quicken'd  blood. 
So  thus  with  song  and  harmony  the  night 
Past  on  in  Aztlan,  and  all  hearts  rejoiced. 


XI. 


THE   CAPTURE. 


Meantime  from  Aztlan,  on  their  enterprise, 
Shedder  of  Blood  and  Tiger  of  the  War, 
Ocellopan  and  Tlalala  set  forth. 
With  chosen  followers,  through  the  silent  night, 
Silent  they  travell'd  on.     After  a  way 
Circuitous  and  far  through  lonely  tracks. 
They  reach'd  the  mountains,  and  amid  the  shade 
Of  thickets  covering  the  uncultured  slope, 
Their  patient  ambush  placed.     The  chiefs  alone 
Held  on,  till,  winding  in  ascent,  tliey  reach'd 
The  heights  which  o'er  the  Briton's  mountain  hold 
Injpended;  there  they  stood,  and  by  the  moon, 
Who  yet,  with  undiminished  lustre,  hung 
High  in  the  dark  blue  firmament,  from  thence 
E.xplored  the  steep  descent.     Precipitous 
The  rock  beneath  them  lay,  a  sudden  cliff", 
Bare  and  unbroken  ;  in  its  midway  holes. 
Where  never  hand  could  reach,  nor  eye  intrude. 
The  eagle  built  her  eyrie.     Farther  on, 
Us  interrupted  crags  and  ancient  woods 
Offered  a  difficult  way.     From  crag  to  crag. 
By  rocky  shelf,  by  trunk,  or  root,  or  bough, 
A  painful  toil  and  perilous,  they  past; 
And  now,  stretch'd  out  amid  the  matted  shrubs, 
^^  hich,  at  the  entrance  of  the  valley,  clothed 
The  rugged  bank,  they  crouch'd. 

By  this  the  stars 
Grew  dim ;  the  glow-worm  hath  put  out  her  lamp ; 


The  owls  have  ceased  their  night-song.     On  the  top 
Of  yon  magnolia  the  loud  turkey's  voice 
Is  heralding  the  dawn ;  from  tree  to  tree 
Extends  the  wakening  watch-note,  far  and  wide, 
Till  the  whole  woodlands  echo  with  the  cry. 
Now  breaks  the  morning ;  but  as  yet  no  foot 
Hath  mark'd  the  dews,  nor  sound  of  man  is  heard. 
Then  first  Ocellopan  beheld,  where,  near. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  a  half-roof 'd  hut, 
A  sleeping  stranger  lay.     He  pointed  him 
To  Tlalala.     The  Tiger  look'd  around  : 
None  else  was  nigh.  —  Shall  I  descend,  he  said, 
And  strike  him.'     Here  is  none  to  sec  the  deed. 
We  oft'ered  to  tlie  Gods  our  mingled  blood 
Last  night ;  and  now,  I  deem  it,  they  present 
An  offering  which  shall  more  propitiate  them, 
And  omen  sure  success.     I  will  go  down 
And  kill ! 

He  said,  and,  gliding  like  a  snake, 
Where  Caradoc  lay  sleeping,  made  his  way. 
Sweetly  slept  he,  and  pleasant  were  his  dreams 
Of  Britain,  and  the  blue-eyed  maid  he  loved. 
The  Azteca  stood  over  him;  he  knew 
His  victim,  and  the  power  of  vengeance  gave 
Malignant  joy.     Once  hast  thou  'scaped  my  arm  : 
But  what  shall  save  thee  now .-'  the  Tiger  thought. 
Exulting;  and  he  raised  his  spear  to  strike. 
That  instant,  o'er  the  Briton's  unseen  harp 
The  gale  of  morning  past,  and  swept  its  strings 
Into  so  sweet  a  harmony,  that  sure 
It  seem'd  no  earthly  tone.     The  savage  man 
Suspends  his  stroke;  he  looks  astonish'd  round: 
No  human  hand  is  near:  —  and  hark  I  again 
The  aerial  music  swells  and  dies  away. 
Then  first  the  heart  of  Tlalala  felt  fear : 
He  thouglit  that  some  protecting  spirit  watch 'd 
Beside  the  Stranger,  and,  abash'd,  withdrew. 

A  God  protects  him  !  to  Ocellopan, 
Whispering,  he  said.      Didst  thou   not  hear  the 

sound 
Which  enter'd  into  me,  and  fix'd  my  arm 
Powerless  above  him  .■" 

Was  it  not  a  voice 
From  thine  own  Gods  to  strengthen  thee,  replied 
His  sterner  comrade,  and  make  evident 
Their  pleasure  in  the  deed  ? 

Nay!  Tlalala 
Rejoin'd ;  they  speak  in  darkness  and  in  storms  . 
The  thunder  is  their  voice,  that  peals    through 

heaven. 
Or,  rolling  underneath  us,  makes  earth  rock 
In  tempest,  and  destroys  the  sons  of  men. 
It  was  no  sound  of  theirs,  Ocellopan ! 
No  voice  to  hearten,  —  for  I  felt  it  pass 
Unmanning  every  limb ;  yea,  it  relax'd 
The  sinews  of  my  soul.     Shedder  of  Blood, 
I  cannot  lift  my  hand  against  the  man. 
Go,  if  thy  heart  be  stronger  ! 

But  meantime 
Young  Caradoc  arose,  of  his  escape 
Unconscious ;  and  by  this  the  stirring  sounds 
Of  day  began,  increasing  now,  as  all 
Now  to  their  toil  betake  tiiem.     Some  go  fell 
The  stately  tree ;  some  from  the  trunk  low-laid 


3;*: 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


Ht  w  the  huge  boujrlis ;  here  round  the  fire  they  char 

Ti.  '  stake-points;  here  they  level  with  a  line 

The  ground-plot,  and  infix  the  ready  piles, 

Or,  interknitting  them  with  osiers,  weave 

The  wicker  wall ;  others  along  the  lake, 

From  its  shoal  waters,  gather  reeds  and  canes, — 

Light  roofing,  suited  to  the  genial  sky. 

The  woodman's  measured  stroke,  tlie  regular  saw. 

The  wain  slow-creaking,  and  the  voice  of  man 

Answering  his  fellow,  or  in  single  toil. 

Cheering  his  labor  with  a  cheerful  song. 

Strange  concert  made  to  those  fierce  Aztecas, 

Who,  beast-like,  in  their  silent  lurking-place 

Couch'd  close  and  still,  observant  for  their  prey. 

All  overseeing,  and  directing  all. 
From  place  to  place  moved  Madoc,  and  beneld 
The  dwellings  rise.     Young  Hoel  at  his  side 
Ran  on,  best  pleased  when  at  his  Uncle's  side 
Courting  indulgent  love.     And  now  they  came 
Beside  the  half-roof 'd  hut  of  Caradoc; 
Of  all  the  mountain-dwellings  that  the  last. 
The  little  boy,  in  boyisii  wantonness. 
Would  quit  his  Uncle's  hold,  and  haste  away. 
With  childhood's  frolic  speed,  then  laugh  aloud, 
To  tempt  pursuit;  now  running  to  the  huts, 
Now  toward  the  entrance  of  the  valley  straits. 
But  wheresoe'er  he  turned,  Ocellopan, 
With  hunter's  eye,  pursued  his  heedless  course, 
In  breath-suspending  vigilance.     Ah  me  ! 
The  little  wretch  toward  his  lurking-place 
Draws  near,  and  calls  on  Madoc ;  and  the  Prince 
Thinks  of  no  danger  nigh,  and  follows  not 
The  childish  lure  !  nearer  the  covert  now 
Young  Hoel  runs,  and  stops,  and  calls  again; 
Then  like  a  lion,  from  his  couching-place, 
Ocellopan  leap'd  forth,  and  seized  his  prey. 

Loud  shriek'd  the  atfrighted  child,  as  in  his  arms 
The  savage  grasp'd  him;  startled  at  the  cry, 
Madoc  belield  him  hastening  through  the  pass. 
Quick  as  instinctive  love  can  urge  his  feet 
He  follows,  and  he  now  almost  hath  reach'd 
The  encumber'd  ravisher,  and  hope  inspires 
New  speed,  —  yet  nearer  now,  and  nearer  still. 
And  lo  !  the  child  holds  out  his  little  arms  ! 
That  instant,  as  the  Prince  almost  had  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  boy,  young  Tlalala 
Leap'd  on   his  neck,  and   soon,  though  Madoc's 

strength. 
With  frantic  fury,  shook  him  from  his  hold. 
Far  down  the  steep  Ocellopan  had  fled. 
Ah  !  what  avails  it  now,  that  they,  by  whom 
Madoc  was  standing  to  survey  their  toil. 
Have   miss'd   their  Chief,  and  spread  the  quick 

alarm .' 
What  now  avails  it,  that,  with  distant  aid. 
His  o-allant  men  come  down .'     Regarding  nought 
But  Hoel,  but  the  wretched  Llaian's  grief. 
He  rushes  on ;  and  ever  as  he  draws 
Near  to  the  child,  the  Tiger  Tlalala 
Impedes  his  way ;  and  now  they  reach  the  place 
Of  ambush,  and  the  ambush'd  band  arise. 
And  Madoc  is  their  prisoner. 

Caradoc, 


In  vain  thou  leadest  on  the  late  pursuit ! 
In  vain,  Cadwallon,  hath  thy  love  alarm'd 
Caught  the  first  sound  of  evil !     They  pour  out 
Tunmltuous  from  the  vale,  a  half-arm'd  troop ; 
Each  witli  such  weapons  as  his  hasty  hand 
Can  seize,  they  rush  to  battle.     Gallant  men, 
Your  valor  boots  not !     It  avails  not  now, 
With  such  fierce  onset  that  ye  charge  the  foe, 
And  drive  with  such  full  force  the  weapon  home  ! 
They,  while  ye  slaughter  them,  impede  pursuit ; 
And  far  away,  meantime,  their  comrades  bear 
The  captive  Prince.     In  vain  his  noble  heart 
Swells  now  with  wild  and  suffocating  rage  ; 
In  vain  he  struggles  :  —  they  have  bound  his  limbs 
With  the  tough  osier,  and  his  struggles  now 
But  bind  more  close  and  cuttingly  the  band. 
They  hasten  on ;  and  while  they  bear  the  prize. 
Leaving  their  ill-doomed  fellows  in  the  fight 
To  check  pursuit,  foremost  afar  of  all. 
With  unabating  strength,  by  joy  inspired, 
Ocellopan  to  Aztlan  bears  the  child. 


XII. 
HOEL. 

Good  tidings  travel  fast.  —  The  chief  is  seen ; 

He  hastens  on ;  he  holds  the  child  on  high ; 

He   shouts  aloud.     Through   Aztlan   spreads  the 

news; 
Each  to  his  neighbor  tells  the  happy  talc,  — 
Joy, — joy  to  Aztlan  !  the  Blood-shedder  comes  ! 
Tlaloc  has  given  his  victim. 

Ah,  poor  child  I 
They  from  the  gate  swarm  out  to  v/elcome  thee  : 
Warriors,  and  men  grown  gray,  and  youths,  and 

maids. 
Exulting,  forth  they  crowd.     The  mothers  throng 
To  view  thee,  and,  while  thinking  of  thy  doom. 
They  clasp  their  own  dear  infants  to  the  breast 
With  deeper  love,  delighted  think  that  thou 
Shalt  sufli'er  for  them.     He,  poor  child,  admires 
The  strange  array  !   with  wonder  he  beholds 
Their  olive  limbs,  half  bare,  their  plumy  crowns, 
And  gazes  round  and  round,  where  all  was  new, 
Forgetful  of  his  fears.     But  when  the  Priest 
Approach'd  to  take  him  from  the  Warrior's  arms. 
Then  Hoel  scream'd,  and  from  that  hideous  man 
Averting,  to  Ocellopan  he  turn'd. 
And  would  have  clung  to  him,  so  dreadful  late. 
Stern  as  he  was,  and  terrible  of  eye. 
Less  dreadful  than  the  Priest,  whose  dark  aspect 
Which  nature  with  her  harshest  characters 
Had   featured,  art   made  worse.     His   cowl  was 

white ; 
His  untrimm'd  hair,  a  long  and  loathsome  mass. 
With  cotton  cords  intwisted,  chmg  with  gum, 
And  matted  with  the  blood,  which,  every  morn. 
He  from  his  temples  drew  before  the  God, 
In  sacrifice  ;  bare  were  his  arms,  and  smear'd 
Black.     But  his  countenance  a  stronger  dread 
Than  all  the  horrors  of  that  outward  garb. 
Struck  with  quick  instinct  to  young  Hoel's  heart . 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


393 


It  was  a  face  whose  settled  suUenness 
No  jrentle  feeling  ever  liad  disturb'd  ; 
Which,  when  lie  [jrobed  a  victim's  living  breast, 
Retained  its  hard  composure. 

Such  was  he 
Who  took  the  son  of  Llaian,  heeding  not 
His  cries,  and  screams,  and  arms  in  suppliant  guise 
ytretch'd  out  to  all  around,  and  stragglings  vain. 
He  to  the  Temple  of  the  Water-God 
Convey'd  his  victim.     By  the  threshold,  there 
The  ministering  Virgins  stood,  a  comely  band 
Of  high-born  damsels,  to  the  temple  rites 
By  pious  parents  vow'd.     Gladly  to  them 
The  little  Hoel  leap'd  ;  their  gentle  looks 
No  fear  excited  ;  and  he  gazed  around, 
Pleased  and  surprised,  unconscious  to  what  end 
These  things  were  tending.     O'er  the  rush-strown 

floor 
They  to  the  azure  Idol  led  the  boy. 
Now  not  reluctant,  and  they  raised  the  hymn. 

God  of  the  Waters  !  at  whose  will  the  streams 
Flow  in  their  wonted  channel,  and  diffuse 
Their  plenty  round,  the  blood  and  life  of  earth; 
At   whose   command  tliey  swell,    and  o'er  their 

banks 
Burst  with  resistless  ruin,  making  vain 
Tiie  toils  and  hopes  of  man,  —  beiiold  this  child  1 
O  strong  to  bless,  and  mighty  to  destroy, 
Tlaloc  !  behold  thy  victim  !  so  mayst  thou 
Restrain  the  peaceful  streams  within  their  banks. 
And  bless  the  labors  of  the  husbandman. 

God  of  the  Mountains  !  at  whose  will  the  clouds 
Cluster  around  the  heights;  who  sendest  them 
To  shed  their  fertilizing  showers,  and  raise 
The  drooping  herb,  and  o'er  the  thirsty  vale 
Spread  their  green  freshness;  at  whose  voice  the 

hills 
Grow  black  with  storms ;  whose  wrath  the  thunder 

speaks ; 
Whose  bow  of  anger  shoots  the  lightning  shafts. 
To  blast  the  works  of  man  ;  —  behold  this  child  ! 
O  strong  to  bless,  and  mighty  to  destroy, 
Tlaloc  !  behold  thy  victim  !  so  mayst  thou 
Lay  by  the  fiery  arrows  of  thy  rage, 
And  bid  the  genial  rains  and  dews  descend. 

O  thou.  Companion  of  the  powerful  God, 
Companion  and  Beloved  !  —  when  he  treads 
The  mountain-top,  whose  breath  diifuses  round 
The  sweets  of  summer  ;  when  he  rides  the  waves. 
Whose  presence  is  the  sunshine  and  the  calm, — 
Aiauh,  O  green-robed  Goddess,  see  this  child  ! 
Behold  tliy  victim  I  so  mayst  thou  appease 
The  sterner  mind  of  Tlaloc  when  he  frowns. 
And  Aztlan  flourish  in  thy  fostering  smile. 
Young  Spirits !  ye  whom  Aztlan's  piety 
Hath  given  to  Tlaloc,  to  enjoy  with  him, 
For  aye,  the  cool  delights  of  Tlalocan,  — 
Young  Spirits  of  the  happy  ;  who  have  left 
Your  Heaven  to-daj',  unseen  assistants  here, — 
Behold  your  comrade  !  see  the  chosen  child, 
Who  through  the  lonely  cave  of  death  must  pass, 
Like  you,  to  join  you  in  eternal  joy. 
50 


Now  from  the  rush-strown  temple  they  depart. 
They  place  their  smiling  victim  in  a  car. 
Upon  who.se  sides  of  pearly  shell  there  play'd, 
Shading  and  shifting  still,  the  rainbow  light. 
On  virgin  shoulders  is  he  borne  aloft, 
With  dance  before,  and  song  and  music  round  ; 
And  thus  they  seek,  in  i'estival  array. 
The  water-side.     There  lies  the  sacred  bark. 
All  gay  with  gold,  and  garlanded  with  flowers  : 
Tlie  virgins  with  the  joyous  boy  embark  ; 
Ten  boatmen  urge  them  on ;  the  Priests  behind 
Follow,  and  all  the  long  solemnity. 
The  lake  is  overspread  with  boats ;  the  sun 
Shines  on  the  gilded  prows,  the  feathery  crowns. 
The  sparkling  waves.     Green  islets  float  along. 
Where  high-born  damsels,  under  jasmine  bowers, 
Raise  the  sweet  voice,  to  which  the  echoing  oars, 
In  modidated  motion,  rise  and  fall. 
The  moving  multitude  along  the  shore 
Flows  like  a  stream ;  bright  shines  the  unclouded 

sky; 
Heaven,  earth,  and  waters  wear  one  face  of  joy. 
Young  Hoel  with  delight  beholds  the  pomp ; 
His  heart  throbs  joyfully ;  and  if  he  thinks 
Upon  his  mother  now,  'tis  but  to  think 
How  beautiful  a  tale  for  her  glad  ear 
He  hath  when  he  returns.     Meantime  the  maids 
Weave  garlands  for  his  head,  and  raise  the  song. 

Oh  I  happy  thou,  whom  early  from  the  world 
The  Gods  require  !  not  by  the  wasting  worm 
Of  sorrow  canker'd,  nor  condemn'd  to  feel 
The  pang  of  sickness,  nor  the  wound  of  war, 
Nor  the  long  miseries  of  protracted  age ; 
But  thus  in  childhood  chosen  of  the  God, 
To  share  his  joys.     Soon  shall  thy  rescued  soul, 
Child  of  the  Stranger  !  in  liis  blissful  world. 
Mix  with  the  blessed  spirits  ;  for  not  thine, 
Amid  the  central  darkness  of  the  earth, 
To  endure  the  eternal  void  ;  —  not  thine  to  live. 
Dead  to  all  objects  of  eye,  ear,  or  sense. 
In  the  long  horrors  of  one  endless  night, 
With  endless  being  curs'd.     For  thee  the  bowers 
Of  Tlalocan  have  blossom'd  with  new  sweets; 
For  thee  have  its  immortal  trees  matured 
The  fruits  of  Heaven  ;  thy  comrades  even  now 
Wait  thee,  impatient,  in  their  fields  of  bliss; 
The  God  will  welcome  thee,  his  chosen  child, 
And  Aiauh  love  thee  with  a  mother's  love. 
Child  of  the  Stranger,  dreary  is  thy  way  ! 
Darkness  and  Famine  through  the  cave  of  Death 
Must  guide  thee.     Happy  thou,  when  on  that  night 
The  morning  of  the  eternal  day  shall  dawn. 

So  as  they  sung  young  Hoel's  song  of  death, 
With  rapid  strength  the  boatmen  plied  their  oars. 
And  through  the  water  swift  they  glid(>d  on ; 
And  now  to  shore  they  drew.     The  stately  bank 
Rose  with  the  majesty  of  woods  o'erhung. 
And  rocks,  or  peering  through  the  forest  shade, 
Or  rising  from  the  lake,  and  with  their  bulk 
Glassing  its  dark,  deep  waters.     Half  way  up, 
A  cavern  pierced  the  rock;  no  human  foot 
Had  trod  its  depths,  nor  ever  sunbeam  reach'd 
Its  long  recesses  and  mysterious  gloom ; 


394 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


To  Tlaloc  it  was  hallowed  ;  and  the  stone, 
Which  closed  its  entrance,  never  was  removed. 
Save  when  the  yearly  festival  return'd. 
And  in  its  womb  a  child  was  sepulchred, 
The  living  victim.     Up  the  winding  path. 
That  to  the  entrance  of  the  cavern  led. 
With  many  a  painful  step  the  train  ascend  : 
But  many  a  time,  upon  that  long  ascent. 
Young  Hoel  would  have  paused,  with  weariness* 
Exhausted  now.     They  urge  him  on,  —  poor  child  ! 
T  'jy  urge  him  on  !  —  Where  is  Cadwallon's  aid .' 
Where  is  the  sword  of  Ririd  .''  where  the  arm 
Of  Madoc  now .'  —  Oh  !  better  had  he  lived. 
Unknowing  and  unknown,  on  Arvon's  plain. 
And  trod  upon  his  noble  father's  grave. 
With    peasant    feet,    unconscious  !  —  They    have 

reach'd 
The  cavern  now,  and  from  its  mouth  the  Priests 
Roll  the  huge  portal.     Thitherward  they  force 
The  son  of  Llaian.     A  cold  air  comes  out ;  — 
It  chills  him,  and  liis  feet  recoil;  — in  vain 
His  feet  recoil ;  —  in  vain  he  turns  to  fly. 
Affrighted  at  the  sudden  gloom  that  spreads 
Around; — the  den  is  closed,  and  he  is  left 
In  solitude  and  darkness,  —  left  to  die  ! 


XIII. 
COATEL. 

That  morn  from  Aztlan  Coatcl  had  gone. 

In  search  of  flowers,  amid  the  woods  and  crags. 

To  deck  the  shrine  of  Coatlantona; 

Such  flowers  as  in  the  solitary  wilds 

Hiding  their  modest  beauty,  made  their  worth 

More  valued  for  its  rareness.     'Twas  to  her 

A  grateful  task ;  not  only  for  she  fled 

Those  cruel  rites,  to  which  nor  reverent  use 

Nor  frequent  custom  could  familiarize 

Her  gentle  heart,  and  teach  it  to  put  off 

All  womanly  feeling ;  —  but  that  from  all  eyes 

Escaped,  and  all  obtrusive  fellowship. 

She  in  that  solitude  might  send  her  soul 

To  where  Lincoya  with  the  Strangers  dwelt. 

She  from  the  summit  of  the  woodland  heights 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below.     The  sound  of  song 

And  instrument,  in  soften'd  harmony. 

Had  reach'd  her  where  she  stray'd  ;  and  she  beheld 

The  pomp,  and  listen'd  to  the  floating  sounds, 

A  moment,  with  delight :  but  then  a  fear 

Came  on  her,  for  she  knew  with  what  design 

The  Tiger  and  Ocellopan  had  sought 

The  dwellings  of  the  Cymry.  —  Now  the  boats 

Drew  nearer,  and  she  knew  the  Stranger's  child. 

She  watch'd  them  land  below;  she  saw  them  wind 

The  ascent ;  —  and  now  from  that  abhorred  cave 

The  stone  is  roll'd  away,  —  and  now  the  child 

From  light  and  life  is  cavern'd.     Coatel 

Thought  of  his  mother  then,  of  all  the  ills 

Her  fear  would  augur,  and  how  worse  than  all 

Which  even  a  mother's  maddening  fear  could  feign. 

His  actual  fate.     She  thought  of  this,  and  bow'd 

Her  face  upon  her  knees,  and  closed  her  eyes. 


Shuddering.  Suddenly  in  the  brake  beside, 
A  rustling  startled  her,  and  from  the  shrubs, 
A  Vulture  rose. 

She  moved  toward  the  spot. 
Led  by  an  idle  impulse,  as  it  seem'd, 
To  see  from  whence  the  carrion  bird  had  fled. 
The  bushes  overhung  a  narrow  chasm 
Which  pierced  the  hill :   upon  its  mossy  sides 
Shade-loving  herbs  and  flowers  luxuriant  grew, 
And  jutting  crags  naade  easy  the  descent. 
A  little  way  descending,  Coatel  [heard, 

Stoop'd  for  the  flowers,  and  heard,  or  thought  she 
A  feeble  sound  below.     She  raised  her  head. 
And  anxiously  she  listen'd  for  the  sound, 
Not  without  fear.  —  Feebly  again,  and  like 
A  distant  cry,  it  came ;  and  then  she  thought, 
Perhaps  it  was  the  voice  of  that  poor  child. 
By  the  slow  pain  of  hunger  doom'd  to  die. 
She  shudder'd  at  the  thought,  and  breathed  a  groan 
Of  unavailing  pity  ;  —  but  the  sound 
Came  nearer,  and  her  trembling  heart  conceived 
A  dangerous  hope.     The  Vulture  from  that  chasm 
Had  fled,  perchance  accustomed  in  the  cave 
To  seek  his  banquet,  and  by  living  feet 
Alarm'd  :  —  there  was  an  entrance  then  below  ; 
And  were  it  possible  that  she  could  save 
The  Stranger's  child,  —  Oh,  what  a  joy  it  were 
To  tell  Lincoya  that ! 

It  was  a  thought 
Which  made  her  heart  with  terror  and  delight 
Throb  audibly.     From  crag  to  crag  she  past, 
Descending,  and  beheld  a  narrow  cave 
Enter  the  hill.     A  little  way  the  light 
Fell ;  but  its  feeble  glimmering  she  herself 
Obstructed  half,  as  stooping  in  she  went. 
The  arch  grew  loftier,  and  the  increasing  gloom 
Fill'd  her  with  more  affright ;  and  now  she  paused ; 
For  at  a  sudden  and  abrupt  descent 
She  stood,  and  fear'd  its  unseen  depth ;  her  heart 
Fail'd,  and  she  back  had  hasten'd ;  but  the  cry 
Reach'd  her  again,  the  near  and  certain  cry 
Of  that  most  pitiable  innocent. 
Again  adown  the  dark  descent  she  look'd. 
Straining  her  eyes ;  by  this  the  strengthen'd  sight 
Had  grown  adapted  to  the  gloom  around. 
And  her  dilated  pupils  now  received 
Dim  sense  of  objects  near.     Something  below. 
White  in  the  darkness,  lay  ;  it  mark'd  the  depth  ; 
Still  Coatel  stood  dubious ;  but  she  heard 
The  wailing  of  the  child,  and  his  loud  sobs;  — 
Then,  clinging  to  the  rock  with  fearful  hands. 
Her  feet  explored  below,  and  twice  she  felt 
Firm  footing,  ere  her  fearful  hold  relax'd. 
The  sound  she  made,  along  the  hollow  rock 
Ran  echoing.     Hoel  heard  it,  and  he  came 
Groping  along  the  side.     A  dim,  dim  light 
Broke  on  the  darkness  of  his  sepulchre  ; 
A  human  form  drew  near  him  ;  — he  sprang  on, 
Screaming  with  joy,  and  clung  to  Coatel, 
And  cried.  Oh,  take  me  from  this  dismal  place ! 
She  answer'd  not ;  she  understood  him  not; 
But  clasp'd  the  little  victim  to  her  breast. 
And  shed  delightful  tears. 

But  from  that  den 
Of  darkness  and  of  horror,  Coatel 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


395 


Durst  not  convey  tlie  child,  tliougli  in  her  lieart 
There  was  a  female  tenderness  which  yearn 'd, 
As  with  maternal  love,  to  cherish  him. 
She  hush'd  his  clamors,  fearful  lost  the  sound 
Might  reach  some  other  ear;  she  kiss'd  away 
The  tears  that  stream'd  adown  his  little  cheeks  ; 
She  gave  him  food,  which  in  the  morn  she  brought, 
For  herown  wants,  from  Aztlan.     Some  few  words 
Of  Britain's  ancient  language  she  had  learn'd 
From  her  Lincoya,  in  those  happy  days 
Of  peace,  when  Aztlan  was  the  Stranger's  friend  : 
Aptly  she  learnt,  what  willingly  he  taught. 
Terms  of  endearment,  and  the  parting  words 
Which  promised  quick  return.     Slie  to  the  child 
These  precious  words  address'd  ;  and  if  itchanced 
Imperfect  knowledge,  or  some  difficult  sound, 
Check'd  her  heart's  utterance,  then  the  gentle  tone, 
The  fond  caress,  intelligibly  spake 
Affection's  language. 

But  when  she  arose. 
And  would  have  climb'd  the  ascent,  the  affrighted 

boy 
Fast  held  her,  and  his  tears  interpreted 
The  prayer  to  leave  him  not.     Again  she  kiss'd 
His  tears  away ;  again  of  soon  return 
Assured  and  soothed  him ;  till  reluctantly 
And  weeping,  but  in  silence,  he  unloosed 
His  grasp;  and  up  the  difficult  ascent 
Coate!  climb'd,  and  to  the  light  of  day 
Returning,  with  her  flowers  slie  hasten'd  home. 


XIV. 

THE    STONE    OF    SACRIFICE. 

Who  comes  to  Aztlan,  bounding  like  a  doer 
Along  the  plain.'  —  The  herald  of  success; 
For,  lo !  his  locks  are  braided,  and  his  loins 
Cinctured  with  white  ;  and  see,  he  lifts  the  shield. 
And  brandishes  tlie  sword.     The  populace 
Flock  round,  impatient  for  the  tale  of  joy. 
And  follow  to  the  palace  in  his  path. 
Joy  !  joy  !  the  Tiger  hath  achieved  his  quest  1 
They  bring  a  captive  home  I — Triumphantly 
Coanocotzin  and  his  Chiefs  go  forth 
To  greet  the  youth  triumphant,  and  receive 
The  victim,  whom  the  gracious  gods  have  given. 
Sure  omen  and  first  fruits  of  victory. 
A  woman  leads  the  train,  young,  beautiful,  — 
More  beautiful  for  that  translucent  joy 
Flushing  her  cheek,  and  sparkling  in  her  eye ;  — 
Her  hair  is  twined  with  festal  flowers,  her  robe 
With  flowing  wreaths  adorn'd ;  she  holds  a  child. 
He,  too,  bedeck'd  and  garlanded  with  flowers. 
And,  lifting  him,  with  agile  force  of  arm, 
In  graceful  iiction,  to  harmonious  step 
Accordant,  leads  the  dance.     It  is  the  wife 
Of  Tlalala,  who,  with  his  child,  goes  forth 
To  meet  her  hero  husband. 

And  behold, 
The  Tiger  conies  I  and  ere  the  shouts  and  sounds 
Of  gratulation  cease,  his  followers  bear 
The  captive  Prince.     At  that  so  welcome  sight. 


Loud  rose  the  glad  acclaim ;  nor  knew  they  yet 

That  he  who  there  lay  patient  in  his  bonds, 

Expecting  the  inevitable  lot, 

Was  Madoc.     Patient  in  his  bonds  he  lay, 

Exhausted  with  vain  eft'orts,  hopeless  now, 

And  silently  resign'd.     But  when  the  King 

Aj)proach'd  the  prisoner,  and  beheld  his  face, 

And  know  the  Chief  of  Strangers,  at  that  sound 

Electric  joy  shot  through  the  multitude, 

And,  like  the  raging  of  the  hurricane, 

Their  thundering  transports  poal'd.    A  deeper  joy, 

A  nobler  triumph,  kindled  Tlalala, 

As,  limb  by  limb,  his  eye  survey 'd  the  Prince, 

With  a  calm  fierceness.     And,  by  this,  the  Priests 

Approach'd  their  victim,  clad  in  vestments  white 

Of  sacrifice,  which  from  the  shoulders  fell, 

As  from  the  breast,  unbending,  broad,  and  straight, 

Leaving  their  black   arms  bare.     The   blood-red 

robe, 
The  turquoise  pendent  from  his  down-drawn  lip, 
Tlie  crown  of  glossy  plumage,  whose  green  hue 
Vied    with   his   emerald   ear-drops,  mark'd   their 

Chief, 
Tezozomoc  :  his  thin  and  ghastly  clieek. 
Which  —  save   the    temple    serpents,    when    he 

brought 
Their  human  banquet,  —  never  living  eye 
Rejoiced  to  see,  became  more  ghastly  now. 
As  in  Mexitli's  name,  upon  the  Prince 
He  laid  his  murthorous  hand.     But,  as  ho  spake. 
Up  darted  Tlalala  his  eagle  glance. — 
Away  !  away  I  he  shall  not  perish  so  ! 
The  warrior  cried.  —  Not  tamely,  by  the  knife. 
Nor  on  the  jasper  stone,  his  blood  shall  flow  ! 
The  Gods  of  Aztlan  love  a  Warrior  Priest  1 
I  am  their  Priest  to-day  ! 

A  murmuring 
Ran  through  tlie  train ;  nor  waited  he  to  hear 
Denial  thence  ;  but  on  the  multitude 
Aloud  he  call'd  :  —  When  first  our  fathers  seized 
TJiis  land,  there  was  a  savage  chief  who  stopp'd 
Their  progress.     He  had  gained  the  rank  he  bore. 
By  long  probation  :  stripes,  which  laid  his  flesh 
All  bleeding  bare,  had  forced  not  one  complaint ; 
Not  when  the  working  bowels  might  be  seen. 
One  movement;  hand-bound,  he  had  been  con- 
fined 
Where  myriad  insects  on  Ills  nakedness 
Infix'd  their  venomous  anger,  and  no  start. 
No  shudder,  shook  his  frame  ;  last  in  a  net 
Suspended,  he  had  felt  the  agony 
Of  fire,  which  to  his  bones  and  marrow  pie*:td. 
And  breathed  the  suffocating  smoke  which  i  Vd 
His  lungs  with  fire,  without  a  groan,  a  breath, 
A  look  betokening  sense ;  so  gallantly 
Had  he  subdued  his  nature.     This  brave  man 
Met  Aztlan  in  the  war,  and  put  her  Chiefs 
To  shame.     Our  Elders  have  not  yet  forgot 
How  fromthe  slaughtered  brother  of  their  King 
He  stripp'd  the  skin,  and  formed  of  it  a  drum. 
Whose  sound  affrighted  armies.     With  this  man 
My  father  coped  in  battle ;  here  he  led  him, 
An  offering  to  the  God  ;  and  man  to  man, 
He  slew  him  here  in  fight.     I  was  a  child, 
Just  old  enough  to  lift  my  father's  shield ; 


396 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


But  I  remember,  on  that  glorious  day, 
When  from  the  sacred  combat  he  return'd. 
His  red  hands  reeking  with  the  hot  heart's  blood, 
How  in  his  arms  he  took  me,  and  besought 
The  God  whom  lie  had  served,  to  bless  his  boy. 
And  make  me  like  my  father.     Men  of  Aztlau, 
Mexilli  heard  his  prayer; — here  I  have  brought 
The  Stranger-Chief,  the  noblest  sacrifice 
That  ever  graced  the  altar  of  the  God ; 
Let  tlien  his  death  be  noble !  so  my  boy 
Shall,  in  the  day  of  battle,  think  of  me ; 
And  as  1  follow'd  my  brave  father's  steps. 
Pursue  my  path  of  glory. 

Ere  the  Priest 
Could  frame  denial,  liad  the  Monarch's  look 
Given  his  assent.  —  Refuse  not  this,  he  said, 
O  servant  of  the  Gods  !     He  hath  not  here 
His  arms  to  save  him ;  and  the  Tiger's  strength 
Yields  to  no  mortal  might.     Then  for  his  sword 
He  call'd,  and  bade  Yuliidtiiiton  address 
The  Stranger-Chief. 

Yuhidthiton  began,  — 
The  Gods  of  Aztlan  triumph,  and  thy  blood 
Must  wet  their  altais.     Prince,  thou  shalt  not  die 
Tlie  coward's  death;  but,  sworded,  and  in  fight, 
Fall  as  becomes  the  valiant.     Should  thine  arm 
Subdue  in  battle  six  successive  foes. 
Life,  libert}',  and  glory,  will  repay 
The  noble  conquest.     Madoc,  hope  not  this  ! 
Strong  are  the  brave  of  Aztlan  ! 

Then  they  loosed 
The  Ocean  Chieftain's  bonds ;  they  rent  away 
His  garments;  and  with  songs  and  shouts  of  joy. 
They  led  him  to  the  Stone  of  Sacrifice. 
Round  wastliat  Stone  of  blood  ;  the  half-raised  arm 
Of  one  of  manly  growth,  who  stood  below, 
Might  rest  upon  its  height;  the  circle  small. 
An  active  boy  might  almost  bound  across. 
Nor  needed  for  tlie  combat  ampler  space  ; 
For  in  the  centre  was  the  prisoner's  loot 
Fast  fetter'd  down.     Thus  fetter'd,  Madoc  stood. 
He  held  a  buckler,  light  and  small,  of  cane 
O'erlaid  with  beaten  gold;  his  sword,  the  King, 
Honoring  a  noble  enemy,  had  given, 
A  weapon  tried  in  war,  —  to  Madoc 's  grasp 
Strange  and  unwieldy  :   'twas  a  broad,  strong  staff, 
Set  thick  with  transverse  stones,  on  either  side 
Keen-edged  as  Syrian  steel.     But  when  he  felt 
The  weapon,  Madoc  call'd  to  mind  his  deeds 
Done  on  the  Saxon  in  his  father's  land. 
And  hope  arose  within  him.     Nor,  though  now 
Naked  he  stood,  did  fear  for  that  assail 
His  steady  heart;  for  often  had  he  seen 
His  gallant  countrymen,  with  naked  breasts. 
Rush  on  their  iron-coated  enemy. 
And  win  the  conquest. 

Now  hath  Tlalala 
Array'd  himself  for  battle.     First  he  donn'd 
A  gipion,  quilled  close  of  gossampine  ;  _ 
O'er  that  a  jointed  mail  of  plates  of  gold, 
Bespotted  like  the  tiger's  speckled  pride, 
To  speak  his  rank ;  it  clad  his  arms  half-way. 
Half-way  his  thighs;  but  cuishes  had  he  none. 
Nor  gauntlets,  nor  feet-armor.     On  his  helm 
There  yawn'd  the  semblance  of  a  tiger's  head. 


The  long,  white  teeth  extended,  as  for  prey ; 

Proud  crest,  to  blazon  his  proud  title  forth. 

And  now  toward  the  fatal  stage  equipp'd 

For  fight  he  went ;  when,  from  the  press  behind, 

A  warrior's  voice  was  heard,  and  clad  in  arms. 

And  shaking  in  his  angry  grasp  the  sword, 

Ocellopan  rush'd  on,  and  cried  aloud. 

And  for  himself  the  holy  combat  claim'd. 

The  Tiger,  heedless  of  his  clamor,  sprung 

Upon  the  stone,  and  turn'd  him  to  the  war. 

Fierce  leaping  forward  came  Ocellopan, 

And  bounded  up  the  ascent,  and  seized  his  arm  :  — 

Why  wouldst  thou  rob  me  of  a  deed  like  this  ? 

Equal  our  peril  in  the  enterprise. 

Equal  our  merit;  — thou  wouldst  reap  alone 

The  guerdon !  Never  shall  my  children  lift 

Their  little  hands  at  thee,  and  say,  Lo  !  there 

The  Chief  who  slew  the  White  King  !  — Tlalala, 

Trust  to  the  lot,  or  turn  on  me,  and  prove, 

By  the  best  chance  to  which  the  brave  appeal, 

Who  best  deserves  this  glory  ! 

Stung  to  wrath. 
The  Tiger  answer'd  not;  he  raised  his  sword, 
And  they  had  rushed  to  battle  ;  but  the  Priests 
Came  hastening  up,  and  by  their  common  Gods, 
And  by  their  connnon  country,  bade  them  cease 
Their  impious  strife,  and  let  the  lot  decide 
From  whom  Mexitli  should  that  day  receive 
His  noble  victim.     Bntli  vmsatisfied. 
But  both  obedient,  Jieard.     Two  equal  shafts, 
As  outwardly  they  seem'd,  tlie  Paba  brought ; 
His  mantle  hid  their  points ;  and  Tlalala 
Drew  forth  the  broken  stave.     A  bitter  smile 
Darken 'd  his  cheek,  as  angrily  he  cast 
To  earth  the  hostile  lot.  —  Shcdder  of  Blood, 
Thine  is  the  first  adventure  !  he  exclalm'd ; 
But  thou  mayst  perish  here  I  —  and  in  his  heart 
The  Tiger  hoped  Ocellopan  might  fall. 
As  sullenly  retiring  from  the  stage, 
He  mingled  with  the  crowd. 

And  now  opposed 
In  battle,  on  the  Stone  of  Sacrifice, 
Prince  Madoc  and  the  Life-Destroyer  stood. 
This  clad  in  arms  complete,  fr«e  to  advance 
In  quick  assault,  or  shun  the  thrcatcn'd  blow. 
Wielding  his  wonted  sword ;  the  other,  stripp'd. 
Save 'of  that  fragile  shield,  of  all  defence  ; 
His  weapon  strange  and  cumbrous  ;  and   pinn'd 

down. 
Disabled  from  all  onset,  all  retreat. 

With  looks  of  greedy  joy,  Ocellopan 
Survej-'d  his  foe,  and  wondcr'd  to  behold 
The  breast  so  broad,  the  bare  and  hrawnj'  limbs, 
Of  matchless  strength.     The  eye  of  Madoc,  toe, 
Dwelt  on  his  foe  ;  his  countenance  was  calm. 
Something  more  ])ale  than  wonted ;  like  a  man 
Prepared  to  meet  his  death.     The  Azteca 
Fiercely  began  the  fight ;  now  here,  now  there, 
Aright,  aleft,  above,  below,  he  wheel'd 
The  rapid  sw^ord  :  still  Madoc's  rapid  eye 
Pursued  the  motion,  and  his  ready  shield. 
In  prompt  interposition,  caught  the  blow. 
Or  turn'd  its  edge  aside.     Nor  did  the  Prince 
Yet  aim  the  sword  to  wound,  but  held  it  forth. 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


397 


Another  shield,  to  save  him,  till  his  hand. 
Familiar  witli  its  weight  and  sliape  uncouth, 
Might  wield  it  well  to  vengeance.     Tims  he  stood, 
Baffling  the  impatient  enemy,  who  now 
Wax'd  wrathful,  thus  to  waste,  in  idle  strokes. 
Reiterate  so  oft,  his  bootless  strength. 
And  now  yet  more  exasperate  he  grew; 
For  from  the  eager  multitude  was  heard, 
Amid  the  din  of  undistinguish'd  sounds, 
The    Tiger's    murmur'd    name,    as    though    they 

thought, 
Had  he  been  on  the  Stone,  ere  this,  besure, 
The  Gods  had  tasted  of  their  sacrifice, 
Now  all  too  long  delayed.     Then  fiercclier, 
And  yet  more  rapidly,  he  drove  the  sword; 
But  still  the  wary  Prince  or  met  its  fall. 
And  broke  the  force,  or  bent  him  from  the  blow ; 
And  now  retiring,  and  advancing  now. 
As  one  free  foot  permitted,  still  provoked, 
And  baffled  still  the  savage ;  and  sometimes 
With  cautious  strength  did  Madoc  aim  attack, 
Mastering  each  moment  now  with  abler  sway 
The    acquainted    sword.       But,    though    as    yet 

unharm'd 
In  life  or  limb,  more  perilous  the  strife 
Grew  momently ;  for  with  repeated  strokes. 
Battered  and  broken  now,  the  shield  hung  loose  ; 
And  shouts  of  triumph  from  the  multitude 
Arose,  as  piecemeal  they  beheld  it  fall, 
And  saw  the  Prince  exposed. 

That  welcome  sight. 
Those  welcome  sounds,  inspired  Ocellopan ; 
He  felt  each  limb  new-strung.     Impatient  now 
Of  conquest  long  delay'd.  with  wilder  rage 
He  drives  the  weapon  ;  Madoc's  lifted  sword 
Received  its  edge,  and  shiver'd  with  the  blow. 
A  shriek  of  transport  burst  from  all  around ; 
For  lo !  the  White  King,  shieldless,  weaponless. 
Naked  before  his  foe  !     That  savage  foe, 
Dallying  with  the  delight  of  victory, 
Drew  back  a  moment  to  enjoy  the  sight. 
Then  yell'd  in  triumph,  and  sprang  on  to  give 
The  consummating  blow.     Madoc  beheld 
The  coming  death ;  he  darted  up  his  hand 
Instinctively  to  save,  and  caught  the  wrist 
In  its  mid  fall,  and  drove  with  desperate  force 
The  splintered  truncheon  of  his  broken  sword 
Full  in  the  enemy's  face.     Beneath  his  eye 
It  broke  its  way,  and  where  the  nasal  nerves 
Branch  in  fine  fibrils  o'er  their  mazy  seat, 
Burst  through,  and,  slanting  upward,  in  the  biain 
Buried  its  jagged  point. 

Madoc  himself 
Stood  at  his  fall  astonished,  at  escape 
Unhoped,  and  strange  success.     The  multitude 
Beheld,  and  they  were  silent,  and  they  stood 
Gazing  in  terror.     But  far  other  thoughts 
Rose  in  the  Tiger's  heart ;  it  was  a  joy 
To  Tlalala;  and  forth  he  sprung,  and  up 
The  Stone  of  Sacrifice,  and  call'd  aloud 
To  bring  the  Prince  another  sword  and  shield, 
For  his  last  strife.     Then,  in  that  interval. 
Upon  Ocellopan  he  fixed  his  eyes. 
Contemplating  the  dead,  as  though  thereby 


To  kindle  in  his  heart  a  fiercer  thirst 

For  vengeance.     Nor  to  Madoc  was  the  sting 

Of  anger  wanting,  when  in  Tlalala 

He  knew  the  captive  whom  his  mercy  freed, 

Tlie  man  whose  ambush  had  that  day  destroyed 

Young  Hocl  and  himself;  —  for  sure  he  deem'd 

Young  Hoel  was  witii  God,  and  he  himself 

At  his  death  day  arrived.     And  now  he  grasp'd 

A  second  sword,  and  held  another  shield  ; 

And  from  the  Stone  of  Blood  Ocellopan 

Was  borne  away  ;  and,  fresh  in  arms,  and  fierce 

W^ith  all  that  makes  a  savage  thirst  for  war,  — 

Hope,  vengeance,  courage,  superstitious  hate,  — 

A  second  foe  came  on.     By  this  the  Prince 

Could  wield  his  weapon  well;  and  dreading  now 

Lest,  in  protracted  combat,  he  might  stand 

Again  defenceless,  he  put  forth  his  strength. 

As  oft  assailing  as  assailed,  and  watch'd 

So  well  the  Tiger's  motions,  and  received 

The  Tiger's  blows  so  warily,  and  aimed 

His  own  so  fierce  and  fast,  that  in  the  crowd 

Doubt  and  alarm  prevailed.     Ilanquel  grew 

Pale  at  her  husband's  danger  ;  and  she  clasp'd 

The  infant  to  her  breast,  whom  late  she  held 

On  high,  to  see  his  victory.     The  throng 

Of  the  beholders  silently  look'd  on  ; 

And  in  their  silence  might  at  times  be  heard 

An  indrawn  breath  of  terror ;  and  the  Priests 

Angrily  murmured,  that  in  evil  hour, 

Coanocotzin  had  indulged  the  pride 

Of  vaunting  valor,  and  from  certain  death 

Reprieved  the  foe. 

But  now  a  murmur  rose 
Amid  the  multitude  ;  and  they  who  stood 
So  thickly  throng'd,  and  with  such  eager  eyes 
Late  watch'd  the  fight,  hastily  now  broke  up. 
And  with  disorder'd  speed  and  sudden  arms, 
Ran  to  the  city  gates.     More  eager  now, 
Conscious  of  what  had  chanced,  fought  Tlalala  • 
And  hope  invigorated  Madoc's  heart ; 
For  well  he  wcen'd  Cadwallon  was  at  hand, 
Leading  his  gallant  friends.     Aright  he  ween'd ; 
At  hand  Cadwallon  was  !   His  gallant  friends 
Came  from  the  mountains  with  impetuous  speed. 
To  save  or  to  revenge.     Nor  long  endured 
The  combat  now  :  the  Priests  ascend  the  stone. 
And  bid  the  Tiger  hasten  to  defend 
His  country  and  his  Gods;  and,  hand  and  foot. 
Binding  the  captive  Prince,  they  bear  him  thence, 
And  lay  him  in  the  temple.     Then  his  heart 
Resign'd  itself  to  death,  and  Madoc  thought 
Of  Llaian  and  Gocrvyl ;  and  he  felt 
That  death  was  dreadful.     But  not  so  the  King 
Permitted  ;  but  not  so  had  Heaven  decreed  ; 
For  noble  was  the  King  of  Aztlan's  heart. 
And  pure  his  tongue  from  falsehood  :  he  had  said. 
That  by  the  warrior's  death  should  Madoc  die  ; 
Nor  dared  the  Pabas  violently  break 
The  irrevocable  word.     There  Madoc  lay 
In  solitude ;  the  distant  battle  reach'd 
His  ear ;  inactive  and  in  bonds  he  lay, 
Expecting  the  dread  issue,  and  almost 
Wish'd  for  the  perils  of  the  fight  again. 


398 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


XV. 


THE   BATTLE. 


Not  unprepared  Cadwallon  found  the  sons 

Of  Aztlan,  nor  defenceless  were  her  walls; 

But  when  the  Britons'  distant  march  was  seen, 

A  ready  army  issued  from  her  gates, 

And  dight  themselves  to  battle  :  these  the  King 

Coanocotzin  had,  with  timely  care, 

And  provident  for  danger,  thus  arrayed. 

Forth  issuing  I'rom  the  gates,  they  met  the  foe, 

And  with  the  sound  of  sonorous  instruments. 

And  with  their  sliouts,   and  screams,  and  yells, 

drove  back 
The  Britons'  fainter  war-c   ,-,  as  the  swell 
Of  ocean,  flowing  onward,  up  its  course 
Repels  the  river-stream.     Their  darts  and  stones 
Fell  like  the  rain  drops  of  the  summer-shower, 
So  fast,  and  on  the  helmet  and  the  shield, 
On  the  strong  corselet  and  the  netted  mail. 
So  innocent  they  fell.     But  not  in  vain 
The  bowmen  of  Deheubarth  sent,  that  day. 
Their  iron  bolts  abroad  ;  those  volant  deatlis 
Descended  on  the  naked  multitude, 
And  through  the  chieftain's  quilted  gossampine, 
Through  feathery  breastplate  and  effulgent  gold. 
They  reach'd  the  life. 

But  soon  no  interval 
For  archers'  art  was  left,  nor  scope  for  flight 
Of  stone  from  whirling  sling :  both  hosts,  alike 
Impatient  for  the  proof  of  war,  press  on ; 
The  Aztecas,  to  shun  the  arrowy  storm, 
The  Cymry,  to  release  their  Lord,  or  heap 
Aztlan  in  ruins,  for  his  monument. 
Spear  against  spear,  and  shield  to  shield,  and  breast 
To  breast,  they  met ;  equal  in  force  of  limb. 
And  strength  of  heart,  in  resolute  resolve 
And  stubborn  effort  of  determined  wrath  ; 
The  few,  advantaged  by  their  iron  mail ; 
The  weaklier  arm'd,  of  near  retreat  assured 
And  succor  close  at  hand,  in  tenfold  troops 
Their  foemen  overnumbering.     And  of  all 
Tliat  mighty  multitude,  did  every  man 
Of  either  host,  alike  inspired  by  all 
That  stings  to  will  and  strengthens  to  perform. 
Then  put  forth  all  his  power ;  for  well  they  knew 
Aztlan  tliat  day  must  triumph  or  must  fall. 
Then  sword  and  mace  on  helm  and  buckler  rang, 
And  hurtlmg  javelins  whirr'd  along  the  sky. 
Nor  when  they  hurled  the  javelin,  did  the  sons 
Of  Aztlan,  prodigal  of  weapons,  loose 
The  lance,  to  serve  them  for  no  second  stroke ; 
A  line  of  ample  measure  still  retain'd 
The  missile  shaft;  and  when  its  blow  was  spent. 
Swiftly  the  dexterous  spearman  coiled  the  string, 
And  sped  again  the  artificer  of  death. 
Rattling,  like  summer  hailstones,  they  descend. 
But  from  the  Britons'  iron  panoply, 
Baffled  and  blunted,  fell ;  nor  more  avail'd 
The  stony  falchion  there,  whose  broken  edge 
Inflicts  no  second  wound  ;  nor  profited. 
On  the  strong  buckler  or  tlie  crested  helm, 
The  knotty  club;  though  fast,  in  blinding  showers. 


Those  javelins  fly,  those  heavy  weapons  fall 
With  stunning  weight.     Meantime,  with  wonted 

strength. 
The  men  of  Gwyneth  through  their  fenceless  foea 
Those  lances  thrust,  whose  terrors  had  so  oft 
Affrayed    the    Saxons,   and    whose    home-driven 

points 
So  oft  had  pierced  the  Normen's  knightly  arms. 
Little  did  then  his  pomp  of  plumes  bestead 
The  Azteca,  or  glittering  pride  of  gold, 
Again-it  the  tempered  sword;  little  his  casque, 
Gay  with  its  feathery  coronal,  or  dress'd 
In  graven  terrors,  when  the  Britons'  hand 
Drove  in  through  helm  and  head  the  short-piked 

mace ; 
Or  swung  its  iron  weights  with  shattering  sway. 
Which,  where  they  struck,  destroyed.     Beneath 

those  arms 
The  men  of  Aztlan  fell ;  and  whoso  droj)p'd 
Dead  or  disabled,  him  his  comrades  bore 
Away  with  instant  caution,  lest  the  sight 
Of  those  whom  they  had  slaughtered  might  inspire 
Tlie  foe  with  hope  and  courage.     Fast  they  fell. 
And  fast  were  resupplied,  man  after  man 
Succeeding  to  the  death.     Nor  in  the  town 
Did  now  the  sight  of  their  slain  countrymen, 
Momentarily  carried  in  and  piled  in  heaps, 
Awake  one  thought  of  fear.     Hark  !  through  the 

streets 
Of  Aztlan,  how  from  house  to  house,  and  tower 
To  tower,  reiterate,  Paynalton's  name 
Calls  all  her  sons  to  battle  !  at  whose  name 
All  must  go  forth,  and  follow  to  the  field 
The  Leader  of  the  Armies  of  the  Gods, 
Whom,  in  his  unseen  power,  Mexitli  now 
Sends  out  to  lead  his  people.     They,  in  crowds, 
Throng  for  their  weapons  to  the  House  of  Arms, 
Beneath  their  guardian  Deity  preserved, 
Through  years  of  peace;  and  there  the  I'abas  stood 
Within  the  temple-court,  and  dealt  around 
The  ablution  of  the  Stone  of  Sacrifice, 
Bidding  them,  with  the  holy  beverage, 
Imbibe  diviner  valor,  strength  of  arm 
Not  to  be  wearied,  hope  of  victory. 
And  certain  faith  of  endless  joy  in  Heaven, 
Their  sure  reward.  —  Oh,  happy,  cried  the  Priests, 
Your  brethren  who  have  fallen  !  already  they 
Have  joined  the  company  of  blessed  souls ; 
Already  they,  with  song  and  harmony. 
And  in  the  dance  of  beaut}',  arc  gone  forth. 
To  follow  down  his  western  path  of  light 
Yon  Sun,  the  Prince  of  Glory,  from  the  world 
Retiring  to  the  Palace  of  his  rest. 
Oh,  liappy  they,  who,  for  their  country's  cause, 
And    for   their    Gods,  shall  die  the  brave  man's 

death  ! 
Them  will  their  country  consecrate  with  praise  ! 
Them  will  the  Gods  reward!  —  They  heard  the 

Priests 
Intoxicate,  and  from  the  gate  swarmed  out. 
Tumultuous,  to  the  fight  of  martyrdom. 

But  when  Cadwallon  every  moment  saw 
The  enemies  increase,  and  with  what  rage 
Of  drunken  valor  to  the  fight  they  rush'd, 


MA DOC    IN    AZTLAN 


399 


He,  against  that  impetuous  attack, 

As  best  he  could,  providing,  forni'd  the  troops 

Of  Britain  into  one  collected  mass: 

Three  equal  sides  it  offered  to  the  foe, 

Close  and  compact ;  no  multitude  could  break 

The     condensed    strength  ;      its    narrow    point 

prcss'd  on. 
Entering  the  throng's  resistance,  like  a  wedge. 
Still  from  behind  impell'd.     So,  thoughtthe  Chief, 
Likeliest  the  gates  of  Aztlan  might  be  gain'd. 
And  Iloel  and  the  Prince  preserved,  if  yet 
They  were  among  mankind.     Nor  could  the  force 
Of   hostile    thousands    break   that   strength    con- 
densed. 
Against  whose  iron  sides  the  stream  of  war 
Roird  unavailing,  as  the  ocean  waves 
Which  idl}'  round  some  insulated  rock 
Foam  furious,  warning  with  their  silvery  smoke 
The  mariner  far  off.     Nor  could  the  point 
Of  that  compacted  body,  though  it  bore 
Right  on  the  foe,  and  with  united  force 
Press'd  on  to  enter,  through  the  multitude 
Win  now  its  difficult  way  ;  as  where  the  sea 
Fours  through  some  strait  its  violent  waters,  swoln 
By  inland  fresh,  vainly  the  oarmen  there 
With  all  their  weight  and  strength  essay  to  drive 
Their  galley  through  the  lass,  the  stress  and  strain 
Availing  scarce  to  stem  the  impetuous  stream. 

And  hark  !  above  the  deafening  din  of  fight 
Another  shout,  heard  like  the  thunder-peal. 
Amid  the  war  of  winds  !     Lincoya  comes, 
Leading  the  mountain-dwellers.     From  the  shock 
Aztlan  recoil'd.     And  now  a  second  troop 
Of  Britons  to  the  town  advanced,  for  war 
Impatient  and  revenge.     Cadwallon  these. 
With  tidings  of  their  gallant  Prince  enthrall'd, 
Had  summoned  from  the  ships.     That  dreadful  tale 
Roused  them  to  fury.     Not  a  man  was  left 
To  guard  the  fleet ;  for  who  could  have  endured 
That  idle  duty .'  who  could  have  endured 
The  long,  inactive,  miserable  hours, 
And  hope,  and  expectation,  and  the  rage 
Of  maddening  anguish.'     Ririd  led  them  on  ; 
In  whom  a  brother's  love  had  call'd  not  up 
More  spirit-stirring  pain,  than  trembled  now 
In  every  British  heart;  so  dear  to  all 
Was  Madoc.     On  they  came  ;  and  Aztlan  then 
Had  fled  appall'd ;  but  in  that  dangerous  hour 
Her  faith  preserved  her.     From  the  gate  her  Priests 
Rush'd  desperate  out,  and  to  the  foremost  rank 
Forced  their  wild  way,  and  fought  with  martyr  zeal. 
Through  all  the  host  contagious  fury  spread  ; 
Nor  had  the  sight  that  hour  enabled  theui 
To  mightier  efforts,  had  Mexitli,  clad 
In  all  his  imaged  terrors,  gone  before 
Their  way,  and  driven  upon  his  enemies 
His  giant  club  destroying.     Then  more  fierce 
The  conflict  grew;  the  din  of  arms,  the  yell 
Of  savage  rage,  the  shriek  of  agony. 
The  groan  of  death,  commingled  in  one  sound 
Of  undistinguished  horrors :  while  the  Sun, 
Retiring  slow  beneath  the  plain's  far  verge. 
Shed  o'er  the  quiet  hills  his  fading  light. 


XVI. 

THE   WOMEN. 

Silent  and  solitary  is  thy  vale, 

Caermadoc,  and  how  melancholy  now 

That  solitude  and  sileijce  !  —  Broad  noon-day, 

And  not  a  sound  of  human  life  is  there  ! 

The  fisher's  net,  abandoned  in  his  haste. 

Sways  idly  in  the  waters  ;  in  tlie  tree, 

Where  its   last  stroke    had    pierced,  the    hatchet 

hangs : 
The  birds,  beside  the  mattock  and  the  spade, 
Hunt  in  the  new-turn'd  mould,  and  fearlessly 
Fly  through  the  cage-work  of  the  imperfect  wall ; 
Or  through  the  vacant  dwelling's  open  door. 
Pass  and  repass  secure. 

In  Madoc's  house, 
And  on  his  bed  of  reeds,  Gocrvyl  lies, 
Her  face  toward  the  ground.     She  neither  weeps, 
Nor  sighs,  nor  groans ;  too  strong  her  agony 
For  outward  sign  of  anguish,  and  for  prayer 
Too  hopeless  was  the  ill;  and  though,  at  times, 
The  pious  exclamation  past  her  lips. 
Thy  will  be  done  !  yet  was  that  utterance 
Rather  the  breathing  of  a  broken  heart. 
Than  of  a  soul  resigned.     Mervyn,  beside. 
Hangs  over  his  dear  mistress  silently. 
Having  no  hope  or  comfort  to  bestow. 
Nor  aught  but  sobs  and  unavailing  tears. 
The  women  of  Caermadoc,  like  a  flock 
Collected  in  their  panic,  stand  around 
The  house  of  their  lost  leader;  and  they  too 
Are  mute  in  their  despair.     Llaian  alone 
Is  absent ;  wildly  hath  she  wander'd  forth 
To  seek  her  child ;  and  such  the  general  woe, 
That  none  hath   mark'd  her  absence.     Yet  have 

they. 
Though  unprotected  thus,  no  selfish  fear  ; 
The  sudden  evil  had  destroyed  all  thought. 
All  sense,  of  present  danger  to  themselves, 
All  foresight. 

Yet  new  terrors  !     Malinal, 
Panting  with  speed,  bursts  in,  and  takes  the  arms 
Of  Madoc  down.     Goervyl,  at  that  sound. 
Started  in  sudden  hope ;  but  when  she  saw 
The  Azteca,  she  Tittered  a  faint  scream 
Of  wrongful  fear,  remembering  not  the  proofs 
Of  his  tried  truth,  nor  recognizing  aught 
In  those  known  filatures,  save  their  hostile  hue. 
But  he,  by  worser  fear  abating  soon 
Her  vain  alarm,  exclaim'd,  I  saw  a  band 
Of  Hoamen  coming  up  the  straits,  for  ill, 
Bosure,  for  Amalahta  leads  them  on. 
Buckle  this  harness  on,  that,  being  arm'd, 
I  may  defend  the  entrance. 

Scarce  had  she 
Fastened  the  breastplate  with  her  trembling  hands, 
When,  flying  from  the  sight  of  men  in  arms. 
The  women  crowded  in.     Hastily  he  seized 
The  shield  and  spear,  and  on  the  threshold  took 
His  stand;  but,  waken'd  now  to  provident  thought, 
Goervyl,  following,  helm'd  him.     There  was  now 


400 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


No  time  to  gird  the  baulclric  on;  she  held 
Her  brother's  sword,  and  bade  liiiu  look  to  her 
For  prompt  supply  of  weapons  ;  in  herself 
Being  resolved  not  idly  to  abide, 
Nor  unprepared  of  hand  or  heart  to  meet 
The  issue  of  the  danger,  nor  to  die 
Reluctant  now. 

Rightly  had  they  divined 
The  Hoatnan's  felon  purpose.     When  he  heard 
The  fate  of  Madoc,  from  his  mother's  eye 
He  inask'd  his  secret  joy,  and  took  his  arms, 
And  to  the  rescue,  with  the  foremost  band. 
Set  forth.     But  soon  upon  the  way,  he  told 
The  associates  of  his  crime,  that  now  their  hour 
Of  triumph  was  arrived;  Caermadoc,  left 
Defenceless,  would  become,  with  all  its  wealth. 
The  spoiler's  easy  prey  — raiment,  and  arms. 
And  iron ;  skins  of  that  sweet  beverage, 
Which  to  a  sense  of  its  own  life  could  stir 
Tlie  joyful  blood ;  the  women,  above  all, 
Whom  to  the  forest  they  might  bear  away, 
To  be  their  slaves,  if  so  their  pleasure  was  : 
Or,  yielding  them  to  Aztlan,  for  such  prize 
Receive  a  royal  guerdon.     Twelve  there  were, 
Long  leagued  with  him  in  guilt,  who  turn'd  aside  : 
And  they  have  reach'd  Caermadoc  now,  and  now 
Rush  onward  where  they  see  the  women  fly  ; 
When,  on  the  threshold,  clad  in  Cimbric  arms, 
And  with  long  lance  protended,  Malinal 
Rebuffs  them  from  the  entrance.     At  that  siglit 
Suddenly  quail'd,  they  stood,  as  midnight  thieves 
Who  find  the  master  waking;  but  erelong, 
Gathering  a  boastful  courage,  as  they  saw 
No  other  guard,  press'd  forward,  and  essay'd 
To  turn  his  spear  aside.     Its  steady  point, 
True  to  the  impelling  strength,  lieldon,  and  thrust 
The  foremost  through  the  breast,  and  breath  and 

blood 
Followed  the  re-drawn  shaft.    Nor  seem'd  the  strife 
Unequal  now,  though,  with  their  numbers,  they 
Beleaguer'd  in  half-ring  tiie  door,  where  he, 
The  sole  defender,  stood.     From  side  to  side 
So  well  and  swiftly  did  he  veer  the  lance, 
That  every  enemy  beheld  its  point 
Aim'd  at  himself  direct.     But  chief  on  one 
Had  Malinal  his  deadly  purpose  fix'd, 
On  Amalahta  ;  by  his  death  to  quell 
The  present  danger,  and  cut  off  the  root 
Of  many  an  evil,  certain  else  to  spring 
From  that  accursed  stock.     On  him  his  eye 
Turn'd  with  more  eager  wilfulness,  and  dwelt 
With  keener  ken;  and  now,  with  sudden  step 
Bendino-  his  body  on,  at  him  he  drives 
The  meditated  blow  ;  but  that  ill  Prince, 
As  chiefly  sought,  so  chiefly  fearing,  swerved 
Timely  aside  ;  and  ere  the  Azteca 
Recovered  from  the  frustrate  aim,  the  spear 
Was  seized,  and  from  his  hold  by  stress  and  weight 
Of  numbers  wrench'd.     He,  facing  still  the  foe, 
And  holding  at  arm's  length  the  targe,  put  back 
His  hand,  and  called  Goervyl,  and  from  her 
Received  the  sword ;  —  in  time,  for  the  enemy 
Press'd  on  so  near,  that,  having  now  no  scope 
To  raise  his  arm,  he  drove  the  blade  straight  on. 
It  entered  at  the  mouth  of  one  who  stood 


With  face  aslant,  and  glanced  along  the  teeth 

Through  to  the  ear,  then,  slivering  downward,  left 

T'iie  cheek-flap  dangling.     He,  in  that  same  point 

Of  time,  as  if  a  single  impulse  gave 

Birth  to  the  double  action,  dash'd  his  shield 

Against  another's  head,  witli  so  fierce  swing 

And  sway  of  strength,  that  his  third  enemy 

Fell  at  his  feet.     Astounded  by  such  proof 

Of  prowess,  and  by  unexpected  loss 

Dismayed,  the  foe  gave  back,  beyond  the  reach 

Of  liis  strong  arm ;  and  there  awhile  they  stood. 

Beholding  him  at  bay,  and  counselling 

How  best  to  work  their  vengeance  upon  him. 

Their  sole  opponent.     Soon  did  they  behold 

The  vantage,  overlook'd  by  hasty  hope, 

How  vulnerable  he  stood,  his  arms  and  thiglis 

Bare  for  their  butt.     At  once  they  bent  their  bows ; 

At  once  ten  arrows  fled;  seven,  shot  in  vain. 

Rung  on  his  shield  ;  but,  with  unhappier  mark, 

Two  shafts  hung  quivering  in  liis  leg;  a  third 

Below  the  shoulder  pierced.     Then  Malinal 

Groan'd,  not  for  anguish  of  his  wounds,  but  grief 

And  agony  of  spirit ;  yet  resolved 

To  his  last  gasp  to  guard  that  precious  post, 

Nor  longer  able  to  endure  afoot. 

He,  falling  on  his  knees,  received  unharm'd 

Upon  tlic  shield,  now  ample  for  defence, 

Their  second  shower,  and  still  defied  the  foe. 

But  they,  now  sure  of  conquest,  hasten'd  on 

To  tlirust  him  down ;  and  he  too  felt  his  strength 

Ebbing  away.     Goervyl,  in  that  hour 

Of  horror  and  despair,  collected  still. 

Caught  him,  and  by  the  shoulders  drew  him  in ; 

And,  calling  on  her  comrades,  with  their  help 

Shut  to  the  door  in  time,  and  with  their  weight 

Secured  it,  not  their  strength;  for  she  alone, 

Found  worthy  of  her  noble  ancestry. 

In  tliis  emergence  felt  her  faculties 

All  present,  and  heroic  strength  of  heart, 

To  cope  with  danger  and  contempt  of  death. 

Shame  on  ye,  British  women  !  shame  !  exclaim'd 

The  daughter  of  King  Owen,  as  she  saw 

The  trembling  hands  and  bloodless  countenance 

Pale  as  sepulchral  marble  ;  silent  some  ; 

Others  witli  womanish  cries  lamenting  now 

That  ever,  in  unhappy  hour,  thoy  left 

Their  native  land ;  —  a  pardonable  fear ; 

For   hark,   the    war-whoop !  sound,   whereto  the 

Of  tigers  or  hyenas,  heard  at  night  [howl 

By  captive  from  barbarian  foes  escaped. 

And  wandering  in  the  pathless  wilderness. 

Were  music.     Shame  on  ye  !   Goervyl  cried  ; 

Think  what  your  fathers  were,  your  husbands  wliat 

And  what  your  sons  should  be  !     These  savages 

Seek  not  to  wreak  on  ye  inmiediate  death ; 

So  are  ye  safe,  if  safety  such  as  this 

Be  worth  a  thought ;  and  in  the  interval 

We  yet  may  gain,  by  keeping  to  the  !dst 

This  entrance,  easily  to  be  maintain'd 

By  us,  though  women,  against  foes  so  few ;  — 

Who    knows    what    succor    chance,    or    timely 

thought 
Of  our  own  friends  may  send,  or  Providence, 
Who  slumbereth  not.'  —  While  thus  she  spake,  a 

hand 


_J 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


401 


In  at  the  window  came,  o.'  oi.e  who  souglit 

That  way  to  win  the  entrance.     She  drew  out 

The  arrow  through  the  aria  of  Malinal, 

Willi  gentle  care,  —  the  readiest  weapon  that, — 

And  held  it  short  above  the  bony  barb. 

And,  adding  deeds  to  words,  with  all  her  might 

She    stabbed  it   through  the  hand.     The  sudden 

pain 
Provoked  a  cry,  and  back  the  savage  fell. 
Loosening  his  hold,  and  maiin'd  for  further  war. 
Nay  !  leave  that  entrance  open  I  she  c.xclaim'd 
To  one  who  would  have  closed  it,  —  who  comes 

next 
Shall  not  go  thence  so  cheaply  !  — for  she  now 
Had  taken  up  a  spear  to  guard  that  way, 
Easily  guarded,  even  by  female  might. 
O  heart  of  proof!  what  now  avails  thy  worth 
And  excellent  courage  .'  for  the  savage  foe. 
With  mattock  and  with  spade,  for  other  use 
Design'd,  hew  now  upon  the  door,  and  rend 
The  wattled  sides ;  and  they  within  shrink  back, 
For  now  it  splinters  through,  —  and  lo,  the  way 
Is  open  to  the  spoiler  ! 

Then  once  more. 
Collecting  his  last  strength,  did  Malinal 
Rise  on  his  knees,  and  over  him  the  maid 
Stands  with  the  ready  spear,  she  guarding  him 
Who  guarded  her  so  well.     Roused  to  new  force 
By  that  e.xampled  valor,  and  with  will 
To  achieve  one  service  yet  before  he  died, — 
If  death  indeed,  assure  he  thought,  were  nigh, — 
Malinal  gathered  up  his  fainting  powers; 
And  reaching  forward,  with  a  blow  that  threw 
His  body  on,  upon  the  knee  he  smote 
One  Hoaman  more,  and  brought  him  to  the  ground. 
The  foe  fell  over  him;  but  he,  prepared. 
Threw  him  with  sudden  jerk  aside,  and  rose 
Upon  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  plunged 
Between  his  ribs  the  mortal  blade.     Meantime 
Amalahta,  rushing  in  blind  eagerness 
To  seize  Goervyl,  set  at  nought  the  power 
Of  female  hands,  and  stooping  as  he  came, 
Beneath  her  spear-point,  thought  with  lifted  arm 
To  turn  the  thrust  aside.     But  she  drew  back. 
And  lowered  at  once  the  spear,  with  aim  so  sure. 
That  on  the  front  it  met  him,  and  ploughed  up 
The  whole  scalp-length.     He,  blinded  by  the  blood, 
Staggered  aside,  escaping  by  that  chance 
A  second  push,  else  mortal.     And  by  this, 
The  women,  learning  courage  from  despair, 
And  by  Goervyl's  bold  example  fired. 
Took  heart,  and  rushing  on  with  one  accord. 
Drove  out  the  foe.     Then  took  they  hope ;  for  then 
They  saw  but  seven  remain  in  plight  for  war ; 
And,  knowing  their  own  number,  in  the  pride 
Of  strength,  caught  up  stones,  staves,  or  axe,  or 

spear. 
To  hostile  use  converting  whatsoe'er 
The  hasty  hand  could  seize.     Such  fierce  attack 
Confused  the  ruffian  band  ;  nor  had  they  room 
To  aim  the  arrow,  nor  to  speed  the  spear. 
Each  now  beset  by  many.     But  their  Prince, 
Still  mindful  of  his  purport,  call'd  to  them  — 
Secure  my  passage  while  I  bear  away 
The  White  King's  Sister;  liaving  her,  the  law 
51 


Of  peace  is  in  our  power. —  And  on  he  went 

Toward  Goervyl,  and,  with  sudden  turn. 

While  on  another  foe  her  eye  was  fix'd. 

Ran  in  upon  her,  and  stoop'd  down,  and  clasp'd 

The  maid  above  the  knees,  and  throwing  her 

Over  his  shoulder,  to  the  valley  straits 

Set  off;  —  ill  seconded  in  ill  attempt ; 

For  now  his  comrades  are  too  close  beset 

To  aid  their  Chief,  and  Mervyn  hath  beheld 

His  lady's  peril.     At  the  sight,  inspired 

With  force,  as  if  indeed  that  manly  garb 

Had  clothed  a  manly  heart,  the  Page  ran  on, 

And  with  a  bill-hook  striking  at  his  ham. 

Cut  the  back  sinews.     Amalahta  fell ; 

The  jVIaid  fell  with  him  :  and  she  first  hath  risen, 

While,  grovelling  on  the  earth,  he  gnash'd  his  teeth 

For  agony.     Yet,  even  in  those  pangs. 

Remembering  still  revenge,  he  turn'd  and  seized 

Goervyl's  skirt,  and  pluck'd  her  to  the  ground. 

And  roll'd  himself  upon  her,  and  essayed 

To  kneel  upon  her  breast ;  but  she  clinch'd  fast 

His  bloody  locks,  and  drew  him  down  aside. 

Faint  now  with  anguish,  and  with  loss  of  blood  ; 

And  Mervyn,  coming  to  her  help  again. 

As  once  again  he  rose,  around  the  neck 

Seized  him,  with  throttling  grasp,  and  held  him 

down,  — 
Strange  strife  and  horrible, — till  Malinal 
Crawl'd  to  the  spot,  and  thrust  into  his  groiri 
The  mortal  sword  of  Madoc  ;  he  himself, 
At  the  same  moment,  fainting,  now  no  more 
By  his  strong  will  upheld,  the  service  done. 
The  few  surviving  traitors,  at  the  sight 
Of  their  fallen  Prince  and  Leader,  now  too  late 
Believed  that  some  diviner  power  had  given 
These  female  arms  strength  for  their  overthrow. 
Themselves  proved  weak  before  them,  as,  of  late. 
Their  God,  by  Madoc  crush'd. 

Away  they  fled 
Toward  the  valley  straits ;  but  in  the  gorge 
Erillyab  met  their  flight:  and  then  her  heart. 
Boding  the  evil,  smote  her,  and  she  bade 
Her  people  seize,  and  bring  them  on  in  bonds. 
For  judgment.     She  lierself,  with  quicken'd  pace, 
Advanced,  to  know  the  worst;  and  o'er  the  dead 
Casting  a  rapid  glance,  she  knew  her  son. 
She  knew  him  by  his  garments,  by  the  work 
Of  her  own  hands  ;   for  now  his  face,  besmeared 
And  black  with  gore,  and  stiffened  in  its  pangs. 
Bore  of  the  life  no  semblance.  —  God  is  good! 
She  cried,  and  closed  her  eyelids,  and  her  lips 
Shook,  and  her  countenance  changed.     But  in  her 

heart 
She  quell'd  the  natural  feeling.  —  Bear  away 
These  wretches  !  to  her  followers  she  exclaim'd  ; 
And  root  them  from   the   earth.     Then   she   ap- 

proach'd 
Goervyl,  who  was  pale  and  trembling  now. 
Exhausted  with  past  eff"ort ;  and  she  took 
Gently  the  maiden's  tremulous  hand,  and  said, 
God  comfort  thee,  my  Sister  !     At  that  voice 
Of  consolation,  from  her  dreamy  state, 
Goervyl  to  a  sense  of  all  her  wod 
Awoke,  and  burst  into  a  gush  of  tears 
God  comfort  thee,  my  Sister !  cried  the  Queen, 


402 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


Even  as  He  strengthens  me.     I  would  not  raise 
Deceitful  hope, —  but  in  His  Hand,  even  yet, 
Tlie  issue  hangs  ,  and  He  is  merciful. 

Yea,  daughter  of  Aberfraw,  take  thou  hope  ! 
For  Madoc  lives  !  —  he  lives  to  wield  the  sword 
Of  righteous  vengeance,  and  accomplish  all. 


XVH. 

THE   DELIVERANCE. 

Madoc,  meantime,  in  bonds  and  solitude, 

Lay  listening  to  the  tumult.     How  his  heart 

Panted  !  how  then,  with  fruitless  strength,  he  strove 

And  struggled  for  enlargement,  as  the  sound 

Of  battle  from  without  the  city  came  ; 

While  all  things  near  were  still,  nor  foot  of  man. 

Nor  voice,  in  that  deserted  part,  were  heard. 

At  length  one  light  and  solitary  step 

Approach'd  the  place;  a  woman  cross'd  the  door; 

From  Madoc's  busy  mind  her  image  pass'd 

Quick  as  the  form  that  caused  it ;  but  not  so 

Did  the  remembrance  fly  from  Coatcl, 

That  Madoc  lay  in  bonds.     That  thought  possess'd 

Her  soul,  and  made  her,  as  she  garlanded 

The  fane  of  Coatlantona  with  flowers. 

Tremble  in  strong  emotion. 

It  was  now 
The  hour  of  dusk ;  the  Pabas  all  were  gone. 
Gone  to  the  battle  ;  —  none  could  see  her  steps ; 
The  gate  was  nigh.     A  momentary  thought 
Shot  through  her  ;  she  delay'd  not  to  reflect. 
But  hastened  to  the  Prince,  and  took  the  knife 
Of  sacrifice,  which  by  the  altar  hung. 
And  cut  his  bonds,  and  with  an  eager  eye, 
Motioning  haste  and  silence,  to  the  gate 
She  led  him.     Fast  along  the  forest  way. 
And  fearfully,  he  followed  to  the  chasm. 
She  beckon'd,  and  descended,  and  drew  out 
From  underneath  her  vest,  a  cage,  or  net 
It  rather  might  be  called,  so  fine  the  twigs 
Which  knit  it,  where,  confined,  two  fire-flies  gave 
Their  lustre.     By  that  light  did  Madoc  first 
Behold  the  features  of  his  lovely  guide ; 
And  through  the  entrance  of  the  cavern  gloom, 
He  followed  in  full  trust. 

Now  have  they  reach'd 
The  abrupt  descent ;  there  Coatel  held  forth 
Her  living  lamp,  and  turning,  with  a  smile 
Sweet  as  good  Angels  wear  when  they  present 
Their  mortal  charge  before  the  throne  of  Heaven, 
She  show'd  where  little  Hoel  slept  below. 
Poor  child  !  he  lay  upon  that  very  spot, 
The  last  whereto  his  feet  had  follow'd  her ; 
And,  as  he  slept,  his  hand  was  on  tlie  bones 
Of  one  who  years  agone  had  perish'd  there, 
There,  on  the  place  where  last  his  wretched  eyes 
Could  catch  the  gleam  of  day.     But   wlien   the 

voice, 
The  well-known  voice  of  Madoc  wakened  him, — 
His  Uncle's  voice,  —  he  started,  with  a  scream 
Which  echoed  thro'  the  cavern's  winding  length. 


And   stretch'd   his   arms   to   reach   him.     Madoc 

hush'd 
The  dangerous  transport,  raised  him  up  the  ascent, 
And  followed  Coatel  again,  whose  face. 
Though  tears  of  pleasure  still  were  coursing  down, 
Betokened  fear  and  haste.     Adown  the  wood 
They  went ;  and,  coasting  now  the  lake,  her  eye 
First  what  they  sought  beheld,  a  light  canoe, 
Moor'd  to  the  bank.     Then  in  her  arms  she  took 
Tlie  child,  and  kiss'd  him  with  maternal  love, 
And  placed  him  in  the  boat;  but  when  the  Prince, 
With  looks,  and  gestures,  and  imperfec'  words, 
Sucli  as  the  look,  tlie  gesture,  v/ell  explain'd. 
Urged  her  to  follow,  doubtfully  she  stood  : 
A  dread  of  danger,  for  tlie  thing  she  had  done, 
Came  on  her,  and  Lincoya  rose  to  mind. 
Almost  she  had  resolved ;  but  then  she  thought 
Of  her  dear  father,  whom  that  flight  would  leave 
Alone  in  age ;  how  he  would  weep  for  her. 
As  one  among  tlie  dead,  and  to  the  grave 
Go  sorrowing  ;  or,  if  ever  it  were  known 
Wliat  she  liad  dared,  that  on  his  head  the  weight 
Of  punishment  would  fall.     That  dreadful  fear 
Resolved  her,  and  she  waved  her  head,  and  raised 
Her  hand,  to  bid  the  Prince  depart  in  haste. 
With  looks  whose  painful  seriousness  forbade 
All  further  cfliirt.     Yet  unwillingly. 
And  boding  evil,  Madoc  from  the  shore 
Push'd  off" his  little  boat.     She  on  its  way 
Stood  gazing  for  a  moment,  lost  in  thought. 
Then  struck  into  the  woods. 

Swift  through  the  lake 
Madoc's  strong  arm  impell'd  the  light  canoe. 
Fainter  and  fainter  to  his  distant  ear 
The  sound  of  battle  came;  and  now  the  Moon 
Arose  in  heaven,  and  poured  o'er  lake  and  land 
A  soft  and  mellowing  ray.     Along  the  shore 
Llaian  was  wandering  with  distracted  steps. 
And  groaning  for  her  child.     She  saw  the  boat 
Approach ;  and  as  on  Madoc's  naked  limbs. 
And  on  his  countenance,  the  moonbeam  fell, 
And  as  she  saw  the  boy  in  that  dim  light, 
It  seemed  as  though  the  Spirits  of  the  dead 
Were  moving  on  the  waters ;  and  she  stood 
With  open  lips  that  breathed  not,  and  fix'd  eyes, 
Watching  the  unreal  shapes :  but  when  the  boat 
Drew  nigh,  and  Madoc  landed,  and  she  saw 
His  step  substantial,  and  the  child  came  near, 
Unable  then  to  move,  or  speak,  or  breathe, 
Down  on  the  sand  she  sank. 

But  who  can  tell. 
Who  comprehend,  her  agony  of  joy. 
When,  by  the  Prince's  care  restored  to  sense, 
She  recognized  her  child,  she  heard  the  name 
Of  mother   from    that    voice,    which,   sure,   she 

thought 
Had  pourd  upon  some  Priest's  remorseless  ear 
Its  last  vain  prayer  for  life  ?     No  tear  relieved 
The  insupportable  feeling  that  convulsed 
Her  swelling  breast.     She  look'd,  and  look'd,  and 

felt 
The  child,  lest  some  delusion  should  have  mock'd 
Her  soul  to  madness;  then  the  gushing  joy 
Burst  forth,  and  with  caresses  and  with  tears 
She  mingled  broken  prayers  of  thanks  to  Heaven 


xMADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


403 


And   now   the    Prince,  when  joy  had  had   its 
course, 
Said  to  her,  Knowest  thou  the  mountain  path  ? 
For  I  would  to  tlie  battle.     But  at  that, 
A  sudden  damp  of  dread  came  over  her. 
O  leave  us  not  1  she  cried  ;  lest  haply  ill 
Should  have  befallen;  for  1  remember,  now, 
How  in  the  woods  I  spied  a  savage  band 
Making  towards  Caermadoc.     God  forefend 
The  evil  that  1  fear  !  —  What !  Madoc  cried, 
Were  ye  then  left  defenceless.'  —  She  replied, 
All  ran  to  arms ;  there  was  no  time  for  thought, 
Nor  counsel,  in  that  sudden  ill ;  nor  one 
Of  all  thy  people,  who  could,  in  that  hour, 
Have  brook'd  home-duty,  when  thy  life  or  death 
Hung  on  the  chance. 

Now  God  be  merciful ! 
Said  he;  for  of  Goervyl  then  he  thouglit. 
And  the  cold  sweat  started  at  every  pore. 
Give  me  the  boy  !  —  he  travels  all  too  slow. 
Then  in  his  arms  he  took  him,  and  sped  on. 
Suffering  more  painful  terrors  than  of  late 
His  own  near  death  provoked.     Tliey  held  their 

way 
In  silence  up  the  heights ;  and,  when  at  length 
They  reached  the  entrance  of  the  vale,  the  Prince 
Bade  her  remain,  while  he  went  on,  to  spy 
The  footsteps  of  the  spoiler.     Soon  he  saw 
Men,  in  the  moonlight,  stretch'd  upon  the  ground  ; 
And  quickening  then  his  pace,  in  worst  alarm, 
Along  the  shade,  with  cautious  step,  he  moved 
Toward  one,  to  seize  his  weapons  :  'twas  a  corpse ; 
Nor  whether,  at  the  sight,  to  hope  or  fear 
Yet  knew  he.     But  anon,  a  steady  light, 
As  of  a  taper,  seen  in  his  own  home. 
Comforted  him ;  and,  drawing  nearer  now, 
He  saw  his  sister  on  her  knees,  beside 
The  rushes,  ministering  to  a  wounded  man. 
Safe  that  the  dear  one  lived,  then  back  he  sped 
With  joyful  haste,  and  sunimon'd  Llaian  on, 
And  in  loud  talk  advanced.     Erillyab  first 
Came  forward  at  the  sound;  for  she  had  faith 
To  trust  the  voice.  —  They  live!   they  live!   she 

cried  ; 
God  hatli  redeem'd  them  !  —  Nor  the  Maiden  yet 
Believed  the  actual  joy ;  like  one  astound, 
Or  as  if  struggling  with  a  dream,  she  stood. 
Till  he  came  close,  and  spread  his  arms,  and  call'd, 
Goervyl !  — and  she  fell  in  his  embrace. 

But  Madoc  lingered  not ;  his  easrer  soul 
Was  in  the  war  :  in  haste  he  donn'd  his  arms ; 
And  as  he  felt  his  own  good  sword  again, 
E.xulting  played  his  heart.  —  Boy,  he  exclaim'd 
To  Mervyn,  arm  thyself,  and  follow  me  ! 
For  in  this  battle  we  shall  break  the  power 
Of  our  blood-thirsty  foe  :  and,  in  thine  age, 
Wouldst  thou  not  wish,  when  young  men  crowd 

arouna. 
To  hear  thee  chronicle  their  fathers'  deeds, 
Wouldst  thou  not  wish  to  add,  —  And  I,  too,  fought 
In  that  day's  conflict.' 

Mervyn's  cheek  turn'd  pale 
A  moment,  then,  with  terror  all  suffused, 
Grew  fever-red.     Nay,  nay,  Goervyl  cried. 


He  is  too  young  for  battles  !  —  But  the  Prince, 
With  erring  judgment,  in  that  foar-flusli'd  check 
Beheld  the  glow  of  enterprising  hope. 
And  youthful  courage.     1  was  such  a  boy, 
Sister  !  he  cried,  at  Counsyllt;  and  that  day, 
In  my  first  field,  with  stripling  arm,  smote  down 
Many  a  tall  Saxon.     Saidst  thou  not  but  now. 
How  bravely,  in  the  fight  of  yesterday. 
He  flesh'd  his  sword,  —  and  wouldst  thou  keep 

him  here. 
And  rob  him  of  his  glory .'     See  his  check  ! 
How  it  hath  crimson'd  at  the  unworthy  thought ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  and  to  the  battle  1 

How  her  heart 
Then  panted  !  how,  with  late  regret,  and  vain, 
Senena  wished  Goervyl  then  had  heard 
The  secret,  trembling  on  her  lips  so  oft. 
So  oft  by  shame  withheld.     She  thought  that  now 
She  could  have  fallen  upon  her  Lady's  neck, 
And  told  her  all ;  but  when  she  saw  the  Prince, 
Imperious  .shame  forbade  her,  and  she  felt 
It  were  an  easier  thing  to  die  than  speak. 
Avail 'd  not  now  regret  or  female  fear! 
She  inail'd  her  delicate  limbs;  beneath  the  plate 
Compress'd  her  bosom ;  on  her  golden  locks 
The  helmet's  overheavy  load  she  placed ; 
Hung  from  her  neck  the  shield ;  and,  though  the 

sword. 
Which  swung  beside  her,  lightest  she  had  chosen, 
Though  in  her  hand  she  held  the  slenderest  spear, 
Alike  unwieldy  for  the  maiden's  grasp. 
The  sword  and  ashen  lance.     But  as  she  touch'd 
The  murderous  point,  an  icy  shudder  ran 
Through  every  fibre  of  her  trembling  frame ; 
And,  overcome  by  womanly  terror,  then. 
The  damsel  to  Goervyl  turn'd,  and  let 
The  breastplate  fall,  and  on  her  bosom  placed 
The  Lady's  hand,  and  hid  her  face,  and  cried, 
Save  me  !     The  warrior,  who  beheld  the  act. 
And  heard  not  the  low  voice,  with  angry  eye 
Glow'd  on  the  seemly  boy  of  feeble  heart. 
But,  in  Goervyl,  joy  had  overpower'd 
The  wonder ;  joy,  to  find  the  boy  she  loved 
Was  one  to  whom  her  heart  with  closer  love 
Might  cling;  and  to  her  brother  she  exclaim'd. 
She  must  not  go !     We  women  in  the  war 
Have  done  our  parts. 

A  moment  Madoc  dv:elt 
On  the  false  Mervyn,  with  an  eye  from  whence 
Displeasure  did  not  wholly  pass  away. 
Nor  loitering  to  resolve  Love's  riddle  now. 
To  Malinal  he  turn'd,  where  on  his  couch 
The  wounded  youth  was  laid  —  True  friend,  said  he. 
And  brother  mine,  —  for  truly  by  that  name 
I  trust  to  greet  thee,  —  if  in  this  near  fight. 
My  hour  should  overtake  me,  —  as  who  knows 
The  lot  of  war  ?  —  Goervyl  hath  my  charge 
To  quite  thee  for  thy  service  with  herself; 
That  so  thou  mayest  raise  up  seed  to  me 
Of  mine  own  blood,  who  may  inherit  here 
The  obedience  of  thy  people  and  of  mine  — 
Malinal  took  his  hand,  and  to  his  lips 
Feebly  he  press'd  it,  saying,  One  boon  more, 
Father  and  friend,  I  ask  !  —  if  thou  shouldst  meet 
Yuhidthiton  in  battle,  think  of  me 


404 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


XVIII. 

THE   VICTORY. 

Mkrciful  God!  how  horrible  is  night 

Upon  the  plain  of  Aztlan !  there  the  shout 

Of  battle,  the  barbarian  yell,  the  bray 

Of  dissonant  instruments,  the  clang  of  arms, 

The  shriek  of  agony,  the  groan  of  death, 

In  one  wild  uproar  and  continuous  din, 

Shake  the  still  air ;  while,  overhead,  the  Moon, 

Regardless  of  the  stir  of  this  low  world. 

Holds  on  her  heavenly  way.     Still  unallay'd 

By  slaughter  raged  the  battle,  unrelax'd 

By  lengthened  toil ;  anger  supplying  still 

Strength  undiminish'd  for  the  desperate  strife. 

And  lo  !  where,  yonder,  on  the  temple  top, 

Blazing  aloft,  the  sacrificial  fire, 

Scene  more  accurst  and  hideous  than  the  war, 

Displays  to  all  the  vale ;  for  whosoe'er 

That  night  the  Aztecas  could  bear  away, 

Hoaman  or  Briton,  thither  was  he  borne ; 

And  as  they  stretch'd  him  on  the  stone  of  blood. 

Did  the  huge  tambour  of  the  God,  with  voice 

Loud  as  the  thunder-peal,  and  heard  as  far. 

Proclaim  the  act  of  death,  more  visible 

Than  in  broad  day-light,  by  those  midnight  fires 

Distinctlier  seen.     Sight  that  with  horror  fill'd 

The  Cymry,  and  to  mightier  efforts  roused. 

Howbeit,  this  abhorred  idolatry 

Work'd  for  their  safety ;  the  deluded  foes. 

Obstinate  in  their  faith,  forbearing  still 

The  mortal  stroke,  that  they  might  to  the  God 

Present  the  living  victim,  and  to  him 

Let  the  life  flow. 

And  now  the  orient  sky 
Glow'd  with  the  ruddy  morning,  when  the  Prince 
Came  to  the  field.     He  lifted  up  his  voice, 
And  shouted,  Madoc  !    Madoc  !     They  who  heard 
The  cry,  astonish'd,  turn'd ;  and  when  they  saw 
The  countenance  his  open  helm  disclosed, 
Tliey  echoed,  Madoc  !    Madoc  !    Through  the  host 
Spread  the  miraculous  joy  —  He  lives  !  he  lives  ! 
He  comes  himself  in  anus  I  —  Lincoya  heard. 
As  he  had  raised  his  arm  to  strike  a  foe, 
And  stay'd  the  stroke,  and  thrust  him  off,  and  cried. 
Go  tell  the  tidings  to  thy  countrymen, 
Madoc  is  in  the  war !     Tell  them  his  God 
Hath  set  the  White  King  free  !     Astonishment 
Seized  on  the  Azteca ;  on  all  who  heard. 
Amazement  and  dismay  ;  and  Madoc  now 
Stood  in  the  foremost  battle,  and  his  sword  — 
His  own  good    sword  —  flash'd   like   the  sudden 

deatli 
Of  lightning  in  their  eyes. 

The  King  of  Aztlan 
Heard  and  beheld,  and  in  his  noble  heart 
Heroic  hope  arose.     Forward  he  moved, 
And  in  the  shock  of  battle,  front  to  front. 
Encountered  Madoc.     A  strong-statured  man 
Coanocotzin  stood,  one  well  who  knew 
The  ways  of  war,  and  never  yet  in  fight 
Had  found  an  equal  foe.     Adown  his  back 
Hung  the  long  robe  of  feathered  royalty ; 


Gold  fenced  his  arms  and  legs  ;  upon  his  helm 
A  sculptured  snake  protends  the  arrowy  tongue ; 
Around  a  coronal  of  plumes  arose, 
Brighter  than  beam  the  rainbow  hues  of  light, 
Or  than  the  evening  glories  which  the  sun 
Slants  o'er  the  moving,  many-color'd  sea  — 
Such  their  surpassing  beauty  ;  bells  of  gold 
Emboss'd  his  glittering  helmet,  and  where'er 
Their  sound  was  heard,  there  lay  the  press  of  war, 
And  Death  was  busiest  there.     Over  the  breast 
And  o'er  the  golden  breastplate  of  the  King, 
A  feathery  cuirass,  beautiful  to  eye. 
Light  as  the  robe  of  peace,  yet  strong  to  save ; 
For  the  sharp  falchion's  baffled  edge  would  glide 
From  its  smooth  softness.     On  his  arm  he  held 
A  buckler  overlaid  with  beaten  gold ; 
And  so  he  stood,  guarding  his  thighs  and  legs. 
His  breast  and  shoulders  also,  with  the  length 
Of  his  broad  shield. 

Opposed,  in  mail  complete, 
Stood  Madoc  m  his  strength.     The  flexile  chains 
Gave  play  to  his  full  muscles,  and  displayed 
How  broad  his  shoulders,  and  liis  ample  breast. 
Small  was  liis  shield,  there  broadest  where  it  fenced 
The  well  of  life,  and  gradual  to  a  point 
Lessening,  steel-strong,  and  wieldy  in  his  grasp. 
It  bore  those  blazoned  eaglets,  at  whose  sight, 
Along  the  Marches,  or  where  holy  Dee 
Through  Cestrian  pastures  rolls  his  tamer  stream, 
So  oft  the  yeoman  had,  in  days  of  yore. 
Cursing  liis  perilous  tenure,  wound  the  horn. 
And  warden  from  the  castle-tower  rung  out 
The  loud  alarum-bell,  heard  far  and  wide. 
Upon  his  helm  no  sculptured  dragon  sat. 
Sat  no  fantastic  terrors  ;  a  white  plume 
Nodded  above,  far-seen,  floating  like  foam 
Upon  the  stream  of  battle,  always  where 
The  tide  ran  strongest.     Man  to  man  opposed, 
The  Sea  Lord  and  the  King  of  Aztlan  stood. 

Fast  on  the  intervening  buckler  fell 
The  Azteca's  stone  falchion.     Who  hath  watch 'd 
The  midnight  lightnings  of  the  summer  storm. 
That  with  their  awful  blaze  irradiate  heaven, 
Then  leave  a  blacker  night.''     So  quick,  so  fierce, 
Flash'd  Madoc's  sword,  which,  like  the  serpent's 

tongue. 
Seemed  double,  in  its  rapid  whirl  of  light. 
Unequal  arms  !  for  on  the  British  shield 
Avail'd  not  the  stone  falchion's  brittle  edge, 
And  in  the  golden  buckler,  Madoc's  sword 
Bit  deep.     Coanocotzin  saw,  and  dropp'd 
The  unprofitable  weapon,  and  received         [force, 
His  ponderous  club,  —  that  club,  beneath  whose 
Driven  by  his  father's  arm,  Tepollomi 
Had  fallen  subdued,  —  and  fast  and  fierce  he  drove 
The  massy  weight  on  Madoc.     From  his  shield, 
The  deadening  force  communicated  ran 
Up  his  stunn'd  arm;  anon,  upon  his  helm, 
Crashing,  it  came  ;  —  his  eyes  shot  fire,  his  brain 
Swam  dizzy,  —  he  recoils,  —  he  reels, — again 
The  club  descends. 

That  danger  to  himself 
Recall'd  the  Lord  of  Ocean.  On  he  sprung, 
Within  the  falling  weapon's  curve  of  death, 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


405 


Shunning  its  frustrate  aim,  and  breast  to  breast 
lie  grappled  with  the  King.     The  pUaut  mail 
Bent  to  his  straining  limbs,  while  plates  of  gold, 
The  feathery  robe,  the  buckler's  amplitude. 
Cumbered  the  Aztcca,  and  from  his  arm, 
Clinch'd  in  the  Briton's  mighty  grasp,  at  once 
He  dropp'd  the  impeding  buckler,  and  let  fall 
The  unfastened   club;  which    when   the    Prince 

beheld, 
He  thrust  him  off,  and  drawing  back,  resumed 
The  sword  that  from  his  wrist  suspended  hung, 
And  twice  he  smote  the  King;  twice  from  the  quilt 
Of  plumes  the  iron  glides;  and  lo  !  the  King  — 
So  well  his  soldiers  watch  their  monarch's  need  — 
Shakes  in  his  hand  a  spear. 

But  now  a  cry 
Burst  on  the  ear  of  Madoc,  and  he  saw 
Through  opening  ranks,  where  Urien  was  convey  "d, 
A  captive,  to  his  death.     Grief,  then,  and  shame, 
And  rage,  inspired  him.     With  a  mighty  blow 
He  cleft  Coanocotzin's  helm  ;  exposed 
The  monarch  stood ;  —  again  the  thunder-stroke 
Came  on  him,  and  he  fell.  —  The  multitude, 
Forgetful  of  their  country  and  themselves. 
Crowd  round  their  dying  King.     Madoc,  whose  eye 
Still  follow'd  Urien,  call'd  upon  his  men. 
And  through  the  broken  army  of  the  foe, 
Press'd  to  his  rescue. 

But  far  off  the  old  man 
Was  borne  with  fur'ious  speed.     Ririd  alone 
Pursued  his  path,  and  through  the  thick  of  war 
Close  on  the  captors,  with  avenging  sword, 
Follow'd  right  on,  and  through  the  multitude. 
And  through  the  gate  of  Aztlan,  made  his  way. 
And  through  the  streets,  till  from  the  temple-monnd, 
The  press  of  Pabas  and  the  populace 
Repell'd  him,  while  the  old  man  was  hurried  up. 
Hark  !  that  infernal  tambour  !  o'er  the  lake 
Its  long,  loud  thunders  roll,  and  through  the  hills. 
Awakening  all  their  echoes.     Ye  accurs'd. 
Ye  blow  the  fall  too  soon  !     Ye  Dogs  of  Hell, 
The  Hart  is  yet  at  bay  !  — Thus  long  the  old  man. 
As  one  exhausted  or  resign'd,  had  lain, 
Resisting  not ;  but  at  that  knell  of  death, 
Springing  with  unexpected  force,  he  freed 
His  feet,  and  shook  the  Pabas  from  their  hold, 
And,  with  his  armed  hand,  between  the  eyes 
Smote  one  so  sternly,  that  to  earth  he  fell. 
Bleeding,  and  all  astound.     A  man  of  proof 
Was  Urien  in  his  day,  thought  worthiest. 
In  martial  thewes  and  manly  discipline. 
To  train  the  sons  of  Owen.     He  had  lost 
Youth's  supple  sleight ;  yetstlll  the  skill  remain'd. 
And  in  his  stiffen'd  limbs  a  strength,  which  yet 
Might  put  the  young  to  shame.     And  now  he  set 
His  back  against  the  altar,  resolute 
Not  as  a  victim  by  the  knife  to  die, 
But  in  the  act  of  battle,  as  became 
A  man  grown  gray  in  arms ;  and  in  his  heart 
There  was  a  living  hope  ;  for  now  he  knew 
That  Madoc  lived,  nor  could  the  struggle  long 
Endure  against  that  arm. 

Soon  was  the  way 
Laid  open  by  the  sword ;  for  side  bj'  side 
The  brethren  of  Aberfraw  mow'd  their  path  ; 


And,  following  close,  the  Cymry  drive  alonw. 

Till  on  the  summit  of  the  mound  their  cry 

Of  victory  rings  aloud.     The  temple  floor. 

So  often  which  had  rcek'd  with,  innocent  blooJ, 

Reeks  now  with  righteous  slaughter.     Franticly, 

In  the  wild  fury  of  their  desperate  zeal. 

The  Priests  crowd  round  the  God,  and  with  their 

knives 
Hack  at  tiie  foe,  and  call  on  him  to  save ;  — 
At  the  Altar,  at  the  Idol's  feet  they  fall. 
Nor  with  less  frenzy  did  the  multitude 
Flock  to  defend  their  God.     Fast  as  they  fell, 
New  victims  rush'd  upon  the  British  sword ; 
And  sure  that  day  had  rooted  from  the  earth 
Tlie  Aztecas,  and  on  their  conquerors  drawn 
Promiscuous  ruin,  had  not  Madoc  now 
Beheld  from  whence  the  fearless  ardor  sprang ;  — 
They  saw  Mexitli ;  momently  they  hoped 
That  he  would  rise  in  vengeance.     Madoc  seized 
A  massy  club,  and  from  his  azure  throne 
Shattered  the  giant  idol. 

At  that  sight 
The  men  of  Aztlan  pause  ;  so  was  their  pause 
Dreadi'ul,  as  when  a  multitude  expect  [saw 

The  Earthquake's  second  shock.     But  when  they 
Earth  did  not  open,  nor  the  temple  fall, 
To  crush  their  impious  enemies,  dismay 'd. 
They  felt  themselves  forsaken  by  their  Gods  ; 
Then  from  their  temples  and  their  homes  they  fled, 
And,  leaving  Aztlan  to  the  conqueror. 
Sought  the  near  city,  whither  they  had  sent 
Their  women,  timely  saved. 

But  Tlalala, 
With  growing  fury  as  the  danger  grew, 
Raged  in  the  battle  ;  but  Yuhidthiton 
Still  with  calm  courage,  till  no  hope  remain'd. 
Fronted  the  rushing  foe.     When  all  was  vain. 
When  back  vi'ithin  the  gate  Cadwallon's  force 
Resistless  had  compell'd  them,  then  the  Chief 
Call'd  on  the  Tiger  —  Let  us  bear  from  hence 
The  dead  Ocellopan,  the  slaughter'd  King  ; 
Not  to  the  Strangers  should  their  bones  be  left, 
O  Tlalala  !  —  The  Tiger  wept  with  rage. 
With  generous  anger.     To  the  place  of  death. 
Where,  side  by  side,  the  noble  dead  were  stretch'd, 
They  fought  their  way.  Eight  warriors  join'd  their 

shields ; 
On  these  —  a  bier  which  well  beseem'd  the  dead  — 
The  lifeless  Chiefs  were  laid.     Yuhidthiton 
Call'd  on  the  people  —  Men  of  Aztlan  !  yet 
One  effort  more  !     Bear  hence  Ocellopan ; 
Bear  hence  the  body  of  your  noble  Kino- ! 
Not  to  the  Strangers  should  their  bones  be  lefl ! 
That  whoso  heard,  with  wailing  and  loud  cries, 
Press'd  round  the  body-bearers ;  few  indeed, 
For  few  were  tliey  who  in  that  fearful  hour 
Had  ears  to  hear,  —  but  with  a  holy  zeal. 
Careless  of  death,  around  the  bier  they  ranged 
Their  bulwark  breasts.     So  toward  the  farther  gate 
They  held  their  steady  way,  while  outermost. 
In  unabated  valor,  Tlalala 
Faced,  with  Yuhidthiton,  the  foe's  pursuit. 
Vain  valor  then,  and  fatal  piety. 
As  the  fierce  conquerors  bore  on  their  retreat. 
If  Madoc  had  not  seen  their  perilous  strife  : 


406 


MAUOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


Roniembcring  Malinal,  and  in  his  heart 
Honoring  a  gallant  foe,  lie  oall'd  aloud, 
And  bade  his  people  cease  the  hot  pursuit. 
So,  through  the  city  gate,  they  bore  away 
The  dead;  and,  last  of  all  their  countrymen, 
Leaving  their  homes  and  temples  to  the  foe, 
Yuhidthiton  and  Tlalala  retired. 


XIX. 
THE  FUNERAL. 

Southward  of  Aztlan  stood,  beside  the  Lake, 
A  city  of  the  Aztecas,  by  name 
Patamba.     Thither,  from  the  first  alarm, 
The  women  and  infirm  old  men  were  sent, 
And  children:  thither  they  who  from  the  fight, 
And  from  the  fall  of  Aztlan,  had  escaped, 
In  scattered  bands,  repair'd.     Their  City  lost, 
Their  Monarch  slain,  their  Idols  overthrown, — 
These  tidings  spread  dismay  ;  but  to  dismay 
Succeeded  horror  soon,  and  kindling  rage  ; 
Horror,  by  each  new  circumstance  increased. 
By  numbers,  rage  imbolden'd.     Lo  1  to  the  town. 
Lamenting  loud,  a  numerous  train  approach, 
Like  mountain  torrents,  swelling  as  they  go. 
Borne  in  the  midst,  upon  the  bier  of  shields, 
The  noble  dead  were  seen.     To  tenfold  grief 
That  spectacle  provoked,  to  tenfold  wrath 
That  anguish  stung  them.     With  their  yells  and 

groans 
Curses  are  mix'd,  and  threats,  and  bitter  vows 
Of  vengeance  full  and  speedy.     From  the  wreck 
Of  Aztlan  who  is  saved.'     Tezozomoc, 
Chief  servant  of  the  Gods,  their  favored  Priest, 
The  voice  by  whom  they  speak ;  young  Tlalala, 
Whom  even  defeat  with  fresher  glory  crowns; 
And  full  of  fame,  their  country's  rock  of  strength, 
Yuhidthiton  :  him  to  their  sovereign  slain 
Allied  in  blood,  mature  in  wisdom  him, 
Of  valor  unsurpassable,  by  all 
Beloved  and  honor'd,  him  the  general  voice 
Acclaims  their  King ;  him  they  demand,  to  lead 
Their  gathered  force  to  battle,  to  revenge 
Their  Lord,  their  Gods,  their  kinsmen,  to  redeem 
Their  altars  and  their  country. 

But  the  dead 
First  from  the  nation's  gratitude  require 
The  rites  of  death.     On  mats  of  mountain  palm, 
Wrought  of  rare  texture  and  of  richest  hues, 
Tiie  slaughter'd  warriors,  side  by  side,  were  laid ; 
Their  bodies  wrapp'd  in  many-color"d  robes 
Of  gossampine,  bcdeck'd  with  gems  and  gold. 
The  livid  paleness  of  the  countenance, 
A  mask  conccal'd,  and  hid  their  ghastly  wounds. 
The  Pabas  stood  around,  and  one  by  one, 
Placed  in  their  hands  the  sacred  aloe  leaves, 
With  mystic  forms  and  characters  inscribed  ; 
And  as  each  leaf  was  given,  Tezozomoc 
Address'd  the  dead  —  So  may  ye  safely  pass 
Between  the  mountains,  which  in  endless  war 
Hurtle,  with  horrible  uproar,  and  frush 
Of  rocks  that  meet  in  battle.     Arm'd  with  this, 


In  safety  shall  ye  walk  along  the  road, 
Where  the  Great  Serpent  from  his  lurid  eyes 
Shoots  lightning,  and  across  the  guarded  way 
Vibrates  his  tongue  of  fire.     Receive  the  third, 
And  cross  the  waters  where  the  Crocodile 
In  vain  expects  his  prey.     Your  passport  this 
Through  the    Eight   Deserts;  through  the  Eight 

Hills  this ; 
And  this  be  your  defence  against  the  Wind, 
Whose  fury  sweeps  like  dust  the  uprooted  rocks, 
Whose  keenness  cuts  the  soul.     Ye  noble  Dead, 
Protected  with  these  potent  amulets. 
Soon  shall  your  Spirits  reach  triumphantly 
The  Palace  of  the  Sun  I 

The  funeral  train 
Moved  to  Mexitli's  temple.     First  on  high 
The  noble  dead  were  borne ;  in  loud  lament 
Then  follow'd  all  by  blood  allied  to  them, 
Or  by  affection's  voluntary  ties 
Attach'd  more  closely,  brethren,  kinsmen,  wives. 
The  Peers  of  Aztlan,  all  who  from  the  sword 
Of  Britain  had  escaped,  honoring  the  rites, 
Came  clad  in  rich  array,  and  bore  the  arms 
And  ensigns  ot  the  dead.     The  slaves  went  last, 
And  dwarfs,  the  pastime  of  the  living  chiefs. 
In  lile  their  sport  and  mockery,  and  in  death 
Their  victims.     Wailing  and  with  funeral  hymns, 
The  long  procession  moved.     Mexitli's  Priest, 
With  all  his  servants,  from  the  temple-gate 
Advanced  to  meet  the  train.     Two  piles  were  built 
Within  the  sacred  court,  of  odorous  wood. 
And  rich  with  gums;  on  these,  with  all  their  robes, 
Their  ensigns,  and  tiieir  arms,  they  laid  the  dead, 
Then  lit  the  pile.     The  rapid  light  ran  up  ; 
Up  flamed  the  fire  ;  and  o'er  the  darken'd  sky 
Sweet  clouds  of  incense  curl'd. 

The  Pabas  then 
Perform'd  their  bloody  oflice.     First  they  slew 
The  women  whom  the  slaughter'd  most  had  loved. 
Who  most  had  loved  the  dead.     Silent  they  went 
Toward  the  fatal  stone,  resisting  not. 
Nor  sorrowing,  nor  dismay'd,  but,  as  it  seem'd, 
Stunn'd,  senseless.     One  alone  there  was,  whose 

cheek 
Was  flush'd,  whose  eye  was  animate  with  fire  : 
Her  most  in  life  Coanocotzln  prized. 
By  ten  years'  love  endear'd,  his  counsellor, 
His  friend,  the  partner  of  his  secret  thoughts ; 
Such  had  she  been,  such  merited  to  bo. 
She,  as  she  bared  her  bosom  to  the  knife, 
Call'd  on  Yuhidthiton  —  Take  heed,  O  King! 
Aloud  she  cried,  and  pointed  to  the  Priests; 
Beware  these  wicked  men  !  they  to  the  war 
Forced  my  dead  Lord  — Thou  knowest,  and  I  know, 
He  loved  the  Strangers ;  that  his  noble  mind, 
Enlighten'd  by  their  lore,  had  willingly 
Put  down  these  cursed  altars  !  —  As  she  spake. 
They  dragg'd  her  to  the  stone.  —  Nay  !  nay  !  she 

cried. 
There  needs  not  force  !     1  go  to  join  my  Lord  ! 
His  blood  and  mine  be  on  you  !  —  Ere  she  ceased, 
The  knife  was  in  her  breast.     Tezozomoc, 
Trembling  with  rage,  held  up  toward  the  Sun 
Her  reeking  heart. 

The  dvvarfs  and  slaves  died  last 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


407 


That  bloody  olKce  done,  they  gathered  up 

The  ashes  of  the  dead,  and  cotier'd  them 

Apart;  the  teeth  with  them,  which  unconsumed 

Among  the  ashes  lay,  a  single  lock 

Sliorn  from  the  corpse,  and  his  lip-emerald, 

Now  held  to  be  the  Spirit's  flawless  heart. 

In  better  worlds.     The  Priest  then  held  on  high 

The  little  ark  which  shrined  his  last  remains. 

And  call'd  upon  the  people  ;  —  Aztecas, 

This  was  your  King,  the  bountiful,  the  brave, 

Coanocotzin  !  Men  of  Aztlan,  liold 

His  memory  holy  .'  learn  from  him  to  love 

Your  country  and  your  Gods ;  for  them  to  live 

Like  him,  like  him  to  die.     So  from  yon  Heaven, 

Where  in  the  Spring  of  Light  his  Spirit  bathes. 

Often  shall  he  descend  ;  hover  above 

On  evening  clouds,  or  plumed  witli  rainbow  wings. 

Sip  honey  from  the  flowers,  and  warble  joy. 

Honor  his  memory  !  emulate  his  worth ! 

So  saying,  in  the  temple-tower  he  laid 

The  relics  of  the  King. 

These  duties  done. 
The  living  claim  their  care.     His  birth,  his  deeds, 
Tlie  general  love,  the  general  voice,  have  mark'd 
Yuhidthiton  for  King.     Bareheaded,  bare 
Of  foot,  of  limb,  scarfed  only  round  the  loins. 
The  Chieftain  to  Mexitli's  temple  moved, 
And  knelt  before  the  God.     Tezozomoc 
King  over  Aztlan  there  anointed  him, 
And  over  him,  from  hallowed  cedar-branch, 
Sprinkled  the  holy  water.     Then  the  Priest 
In  a  black  garment  robed  him,  figured  white 
With  skulls  and  bones,  a  garb  to  emblem  war, 
Slaughter,  and  ruin,  his  imperial  tasks. 
Next  in  his  hand  the  Priest  a  censer  placed ; 
And  while  he  knelt,  directing  to  the  God 
Tiie  steaming  incense,  thus  address'd  the  King: 
Chosen  by  the  people,  by  the  Gods  approved. 
Swear  to  protect  thy  subjects,  to  maintain 
The  worship  of  thy  fathers,  to  observe 
Their  laws,  to  make  the  Sun  pursue  his  course. 
The  clouds  descend  in  rain,  the  rivers  hold 
Their  wonted  cliannels,  and  the  fruits  of  earth 
To  ripen  in  their  season  ;  Swear,  O  King  I 
And  prosper,  as  thou  boldest  good  thine  oath. 
He  raised  his  voice,  and  swore.     Then  on  his  brow 
Tezozomoc  the  crown  of  Aztlan  placed  ; 
And  in  the  robe  of  emblemd  royalty. 
Preceded  by  the  golden  wands  of  state, 
Yuhidthiton  went  forth,  anointed  King. 


XX. 

THE   DEATH   OB^   COATEL. 

When  now  the  multitude  beheld  their  King, 
In  gratulations  of  reiterate  joy 
They  shout  his  name,  and  bid  him  lead  them  on 
To  vengeance.     But  to  answer  that  appeal 
Tezozomoc  advanced.  —  Oh  I  go  not  forth. 
Cried  the  Chief  Paba,  till  the  land  be  purged 
From  her  offence  !   No  God  will  lead  ye  on, 
While  there  is  guilt  in  Aztlan.     Let  the  Priests 


Who  from  the  ruined  city  have  escaped, 
And  all  who  in  her  temples  have  perfbrm'd 
The  ennobling  service  of  her  injured  Gods, 
Gather  together  now. 

He  spake  ;  the  train 
Assembled,  priests  and  matrons,  youths  and  maids. 
Servants  of  Heaven  !  aloud  the  Arch-Priest  began, 
The  Gods  had  favor'd  Aztlan ;  bound  for  death 
The  White  King  lay  :  our  countrymen  were  strong 
In  battle,  and  the  conquest  had  been  ours,  — 
I  speak  not  from  myself,  but  as  the  Powers, 
Whose  voice  on  earth  I  am,  impel  the  truth, — 
The  conquest  had  been  ours;  but  treason  lurk'd 
In  Aztlan,  treason  and  foul  sacrilege  ; 
And  therefore  were  her  children  in  the  hour 
Of  need  abandon'd ;  therefore  were  her  youth 
Cut  down,  her  altars  therefore  overthrown. 
The  White  King,  whom  ye  saw  upon  the  Stone 
Of  Sacrifice,  and  whom  ye  held  in  bonds, 
Stood  in  the  foremost  fight  and  slew  your  Lord. 
Not  by  a  God,  O  Aztecas,  enlarged 
Broke  he  his  bondage  !  by  a  mortal  hand, 
An  impious,  sacrilegious,  traitorous  hand, 
Your  city  v/as  betray'd,  your  King  was  slain, 
Your  shrines  polluted.     The  insulted  Power, 
He  who  is  terrible,  beheld  the  deed ; 
And  now  he  calls  for  vengeance. 

Stern  he  spake, 
And  from  Mexitli's  altar  bade  the  Priest 
Bring  forth  the  sacred  water.     In  his  hand 
He  took  the  vase,  and  held  it  up,  and  cried, 
Accurs'd  be  he  who  did  this  deed!     Accurs'd 
The  father  who  begat  him,  and  the  breast 
At  which  he  fed  I     Death  be  his  portion  now. 
Eternal  infamy  his  lot  on  earth. 
His  doom  eternal  horrors  !     Let  his  name, 
From  sire  to  son,  be  in  the  people's  mouth, 
Through  every  generation  !     Let  a  curse 
Of  deep,  and  pious,  and  effectual  hate, 
Forever  follow  tiie  detested  name; 
And  every  curse  inflict  upon  his  soul 
A  stab  of  mortal  anguish. 

Then  he  gave 
Tlie  vase.  —  Drink  one  by  one  !  the  innocent 
Boldly ;  on  them  the  water  hath  no  power ; 
But  let  the  guilty  tremble  !  it  shall  flow 
A  draught  of  agony  and  deatli  to  him, 
A  stream  of  fiery  poison. 

Coatel ! 
What  wore  thy  horrors  when  tlie  fatal  vase 
Pass'd  to  thy  trial,  —  when  Tezozomoc 
Fixed  his  keen  eye  on  thee  !    A  deathiness 
Came  over  her,  —  her  blood  ran  back,  —  her  joints 
Shook  like  the  palsy,  and  the  dreadful  cup 
Dropp'd  from  her  conscious  hold.     The  Priest  ex- 

claim'd, 
The  hand  of  God  I  the  avenger  manifest  I 
Drag  her  to  the  altar  !  —  At  that  sound  of  death, 
The  life  forsook  her  limbs,  and  down  she  fell, 
Senseless.    They  dragg'd  her  to  the  Stone  of  Blood, 
All  senseless  as  she  lay ;  —  in  that  dread  hour 
Nature  was  kind. 

Tezozomoc  tlien  cried, 
Bring  forth  the  kindred  of  this  wretch  accursea, 
That  none  pollute  the  earth  I     An  aged  Priest 


406 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


Cai.ie  forth,  and  answered,  There  is  none  but  I, 
Th<   father  of  the  dead. 

To  deatli  with  him  ! 
Exclaim'd  Tezozonioc ;  to  death  with  him; 
And  purify  tiie  nation  !  — But  the  King 
Permitted  not  that  crime. —  Chief  of  the  Priests, 
If  he  be  guilty,  let  the  guilty  bleed, 
Said  he  ;  but  never,  while  I  live  and  reign, 
The  innocent  shall  suffer.     Hear  him  speak  ! 

Hear  me  !  the  old  man  replied.     That  fatal  day 
I  never  saw  my  child.     At  morn  she  left 
The  city,  seeking  flowers  to  dress  the  shrine 
Of  Coatlantona ;  and  that  at  eve 
I  stood  among  the  Pabas  in  the  gate, 
Blessing  our  soldiers,  as  they  issued  out, 
Let  them  who  saw  bear  witness.  —  Two  came  forth. 
And  testified  Aculhua  spake  the  words 
Of  truth. 

Full  well  I  know,  the  old  man  pursued. 
My  daughter  loved  the  Strangers,  —  that  her  heart 
Was  not  with  Aztlan  ;  but  not  I  the  cause  ! 
Ye  all  remember  how  the  Maid  was  given,  — 
She  being,  in  truth,  of  all  our  Maids  the  flower, — 
In  spousals  to  Lincoya,  him  who  fled 
From  sacrifice.     It  was  a  misery 
For  me  to  see  my  only  child  condemn'd 
In  early  widowhood  to  waste  her  youth, — 
My  only,  and  my  beautifulest  girl ! 
Chief  of  tlie  Priests,  you  order'd  ;  I  obey'd. 
Not  mine  the  fault,  if,  when  Lincoya  fled, 
And  fought  among  the  enemies,  lier  heart 
Was  with  her  husband. 

He  is  innocent  I 
He  shall  not  die  I  Yuhidthiton  exclaim'd. 
Nay,  King  Yuhidthiton  I  Aculhua  cried, 
I  merit  death.     My  country  overthrown. 
My  daughter  slain,  alike  demand  on  me 
That  justice.     When  her  years  of  ministry, 
Vow'd  to  tlie  temple,  had  expired,  my  love. 
My  selfish  love,  still  suffer'd  her  to  give 
Her  youth  to  me,  by  filial  piety 
In  widowhood  detain'd.     That  selfish  crime 
Heavily,  —  heavily, —  do  I  expiate  ! 
But  1  am  old ;  and  she  was  all  to  me. 
O  King  Yuhidthiton,  I  ask  for  death  ; 
In  mercy,  let  me  die  !  cruel  it  were 
To  bid  me  waste  away  alone  in  age. 
By  the  slow  pain  of  grief.  —  Give  me  the  knife 
Which  pierced  my  daughter's  bosom  ! 

The  old  man 
Moved  to  the  altar;  none  opposed  his  way ; 
With  a  firm  hand  he  buried  in  his  heart 
The  reeking  flint,  and  fell  upon  his  child. 


XXI. 
THE   SPORTS. 


A  TRANSITORY  gloom  that  sight  of  death 
Impress'd  upon  the  assembled  multitude  ; 
But  soon  the  brute  and  unreflecting  crew 
Turn'd  to  their  sports.     Some  bare  their  olive  limbs, 


And  in  the  race  contend ;  with  hopes  and  fears 
Which  rouse  to  rage,  some  urge  tlie  mimic  war. 
Here  one  upon  his  ample  shoulders  bears 
A  comrade's  weight,  upon  whose  head  a  third 
Stands  poised,  like  Mercury  in  act  to  fly. 
Two  others  balance  here  on  their  shoulders 
A  bifork'd  beam,  while  on  its  height  a  third 
To  nimble  cadence  shifts  his  glancing  feet. 
And  shakes  a  plume  aloft,  and  wheels  around 
A  wreath  of  bells  with  modulating  sway. 
Here  round  a  lofty  mast  the  dancers  move 
Quick,  to  quick  music ;  from  its  top  afHx'd, 
Each  holds  a  colored  cord,  and  as  they  weave 
The  complex  crossings  of  the  mazy  dance, 
The  checker'd  network  twists  around  the  tree 
Its  intertexture  of  harmonious  hues. 

But  now  a  shout  went  forth ;  the  Fliers  mount. 
And  from  all  meaner  sports  the  multitude 
Flock  to  their  favorite  pastime.     In  the  ground, 
Branch.'ess  and  bark'd,  the  trunk  of  some  tall  oine 
Is  planted ;  near  its  summit  a  square  frame  ; 
Four  cords  pass  through  the  perforated  square. 
And  fifty  times  and  twice  around  the  tree, 
A  mystic  number,  are  entwined  above. 
Four  Aztecas,  equipp'd  with  wings,  ascend. 
And  round  them  bind  the  ropes ;  anon  they  wave 
Their  pinions,  and  upborne  on  spreading  plumes, 
Launch  on  the  air,  and  wheel  in  circling  flight. 
The  lengthening  cords  untwisting  as  they  fly. 
A  fifth  above,  upon  the  perilous  point 
Dances,  and  shakes  a  flag ;  and  on  the  frame. 
Others  the  while  maintain  their  giddy  stand, 
Till  now,  with  many  a  round,  the  wheeling  cords 
Draw  near  their   utmost  length,  and  toward  the 

ground 
The  aerial  circlers  speed ;  then  down  the  ropes 
They  spring,  and  on  their  way  from  line  to  line 
Pass,  while  the  shouting  multitude  endure 
A  shuddering  admiration. 

On  such  sports. 
Their  feelings  centred  in  the  joy  of  sight. 
The  multitude  stood  gazing,  when  a  man, 
Breathless,  and  with  broad  eyes,  came  running  on, 
His  pale  lips  trembling,  and  his  bloodless  cheek 
Like  one  who  meets  a  lion  in  his  path. 
The  fire  !  the  fire  !  the  temple  !  he  exclaim'd ; 
Mexitli-!  — They,  astonish'd  at  his  words. 
Hasten  toward  the  wonder,  —  and  behold  ! 
The  inner  fane  is  sheeted  white  with  fire. 
Dumb  with  affright  they  stood  ;  the  inquiring  King 
Look'd  to  Tezozonioc;  the  Priest  replied, 
I  go  !  the  Gods  protect  me  ;  —  and  therewith 
He  entered  boldly  in  the  house  of  flame. 
But  instant  bounding  with  inebriate  joy. 
He  issues  forth  —  The  God  I  the  God  !  he  cries, 
Joy! — joy!  —  the    God! — the   visible  hand    of 

Heaven ! 
Repressing  then  his  transport  —  Ye  all  know 
How  that  in  Aztlan  Madoc's  impious  hand 
Destroyed  Mexitli's  image  ;  —  it  is  here, 
Unbroken,  and  the  same  !  —  Toward  the  gate 
They  press;  they  see  the  Giant  Idol  there, 
The  serpent  girding  him,  his  neck  with  hearts 
Beaded,  and  in  his  hand  the  club,  —  even  such 


MA DOC    IN    AZTLAN 


409 


As  ofl  in  Azllan,  on  his  azure  throne, 

They  had  adored  the  God,  they  see  him  now. 

Unbroken  and  the  same  !  —  Again  the  Priest 

Enter'd  ;  again  a  second  joy  inspired 

To  frenzy  all  around  ;  —  for  forth  lie  came. 

Shouting  with  new  delight, —  for  in  his  hand 

The  banner  of  the  nation  he  upheld, 

That  banner  to  their  fathers  sent  from  Heaven, 

By  them  abandoned  to  the  conqueror. 

He  motion'd  silence,  and  the  crowd  were  still. 
People  of  Aztlan  !  he  began,  when  first 
Your  fathers  from  tlieir  native  land  went  forth, 
In  search  of  better  seats,  this  banner  came 
From  Heaven.     The  Famine  and  the  Pestilence 
Had  been  among  them ;  in  their  hearts  the  spring 
Of  courage  was  dried  up:   witli  midnight  fires 
Radiate,  b}-  midnight  thunders  heralded, 
This  banner  came  from  Heaven  ;  and  with  it  came 
Health,  valor,  victory.     Aztecas  !  again 
The  God  restores  the  blessing.     To  the  God 
Move  now  in  solemn  dance  of  grateful  joy; 
E.\alt  for  him  the  song. 

They  form'd  the  dance, 
They  raised  the  hymn,  and  sung  Mexitli's  praise. 
Glory  to  thee,  the  Great,  the  Terrible, 
Mexitli,  guardian  God  !  —  From  whence  art  thou, 
O  Son  of  Mystery  .''     From  whence  art  thou. 
Whose  sire  thy  Mother  knew  not.'     She  at  eve 
Walk'd  in  the  temple  court,  and  saw  from  heaven 
A  plume  descend,  as  bright  and  beautiful. 
As  if  some  spirit  had  imbodied  there 
The  rainbow  hues,  or  dipp'd  it  in  the  light 
Of  setting  suns.     To  her  it  floated  down  ; 
She  placed  it  in  her  bosom,  to  bedeck 
The  altar  of  the  God;  she  sought  it  tjiere ; 
Amazed  she  found  it  not ;  amazed  she  felt 
Another  life  infused.  —  From  whence  art  thou, 
O  Son  of  Mystery  .'     From  whence  art  thou. 
Whose  sire  thy  Mother  knew  not.' 

Grief  was  hers, 
Wonder  and  grief,  for  life  was  in  her  womb. 
And  her  stern  children  with  revengeful  eyes 
Beheld    their   mother's    shame.     She   saw    their 

frowns. 
She  knew  their  plots  of  blood.     Where  shall  she 

look 
For  succor,  when  her  sons  conspire  her  death  .' 
Where  hope  for  comfort,  when  her  daughter  whets 
The  impious  knife  of  murder.'  —  From  her  womb 
The  voice  of  comfort  came,  the  timely  aid  : 
Already  at  her  breast  the  blow  was  aim'd. 
When  forth  Mexitli  leap'd,  and  in  his  hand 
The  angry  spear,  to  punish  and  to  save. 
Glory  to  thee,  the  Great,  the  Terrible, 
Mexitli,  guardian  God ! 

Arise  and  save, 
Mexitli,  save  thy  people  !  Dreadful  one, 
Arise,  redeem  thy  city,  and  revenge ! 
An  impious,  an  impenetrable  foe. 
Hath  blacken'd  thine  own  altars  with  the  blood 
Of  thine   own  priests ;  hath  dash'd   thine   Image 

down. 
In  vain  did  valor's  naked  breast  oppose 
Their  mighty  arms ;  in  vain  the  feeble  sword 
52 


On  their  impenetrable  mail  was  driven. 
Not  against  thee.  Avenger,  shall  tliose  arms 
Avail,  nor  that  impenetrable  mail 
Resist  the  fiery  arrows  of  thy  wrath. 
Arise,  go  fortli  in  anger,  and  destroy  ! 


XXII. 
THE   DEATH   OF  LINCOYA. 

Aztlan,  meantime,  presents  a  hideous  scene 
Of  slaughter.     The  hot  sunbeam,  in  her  streets, 
Parch'd  the  blood  pools  ;  the  slain  were  heap'd  in 

hills ; 
The  victors,  strctch'd  in  every  little  shade. 
With  unhelm'd  heads,  reclining  on  their  shields, 
Slept  the  deep  sleep  of  weariness.     Erelong, 
To  needful  labor  rising,  from  the  gates 
They  drag  the  dead  ;  and  with  united  toil. 
They  dig  upon  the  plain  the  general  grave, 
The  grave  of  thousands,  deep,  and  wide,  and  long. 
Ten  such  they  delved,  and  o'er  the  multitudes 
Who  levell'd  with  the  plain  the  deep-dug  pits, 
Ten  monumental  hills  they  heap'd  on  high. 
Next,  horror  heightening  joy,  they  overthrew 
The  skull-built  towers,  tiie  files  of  human  heads, 
And  earth  to  earth  consign 'd  them.    To  the  flames 
They  cast  the  idols,  and  upon  the  wind 
Scatter'd  their  ashes;  then  the  temples  fell, 
Whose  black  and  putrid  walls  were  scaled  with 

blood. 
And  not  one  stone  of  those  accursed  piles 
Was  on  another  left. 

Victorious  thus 
In  Aztlan,  it  behoved  the  Cymry  now 
There  to  collect  their  strength,  and  there  await, 
Or  thence  with  centred  numbers  urge,  the  war. 
For  this  was  Ririd  missioned  to  the  ships ; 
For  this  Lincoya  from  the  hills  invites 
Erillyab  and  her  tribe.     There  did  not  breathe. 
On  this  wide  world  a  happier  man  that  day 
Than  young  Lincoya,  when  from  their  retreat 
He  bade  his  countrymen  come  repossess 
The  land  of  their  forefathers  ;  proud  at  heart 
To  think  how  great  a  part  himself  had  borne 
In  their  revenge,  and  that  beloved  one. 
The  gentle  savior  of  the  Prince,  whom  well 
He  knew  his  own  dear  love,  and  for  the  deed 
Still  dearer  loved  the  dearest.     Round  the  youtli, 
Women  and  children,  the  infirm  and  old, 
Gather  to  hear  his  tale ;  and  as  they  stood 
With  eyes  of  steady  wonder,  outstretch'd  necks, 
And  open  lips  of  listening  eagerness, 
Fast  play'd  the  tide  of  triumph  in  his  veins, 
Flush'dhis  brown  cheek,  and  kindled  his  dark  eye. 

And  now,  reposing  from  his  toil  awhile, 
Lincoya,  on  a  crag  above  the  straits. 
Sat  underneath  a  tree,  whose  twinkling  leaves 
Sung  to  the  gale  at  noon.     Ayayaca 
Sat  by  him  in  the  shade ;  the  old  man  had  loved 
Tlie  yonlh  beside  him  from  his  boyhood  up. 
And  still  would  call  him  bov.  Thev  sat  and  watch'd 


410 


MADOC    IM    AZTLAN. 


The  ladoii  bisons  winding  down  the  way, 
The  multitude  wlio  now  with  joy  forsook 
Tlieir  desolated  dwellings ;  and  their  talk 
Was  of  the  days  of  sorrow,  when  they  groan'd 
Beneath  the  intolerable  yoke,  till  sent 
By  the  Great  Spirit  o'er  the  pathless  deep 
Prince  Madoc  the  Deliverer  came  to  save. 
As  thus  they  communed,  came  a  woman  up. 
Seeking  Lincoya ;   'twas  Aculhua's  slave, 
The  nurse  of  Coatel.     Her  wretched  eye, 
Her  pale  and  livid  countenance,  foretold 
Some  tale  of  misery,  and  his  life-blood  ebb'd 
In  ominous  fear.     But  when  he  heard  her  words 
Of  death,  he  seized  the  lance,  and  raised  his  arm 
To  strike  the  blow  of  comfort. 

The  old  man 
Caught  his  uplifted  hand  —  O'erhasty  boy, 
Quoth  he,  regain  her  yet,  if  she  was  dear  ! 
Seek  thy  beloved  in  the  Land  of  Souls, 
And  beg  her  from  the  Gods.     The  Gods  will  hear. 
And,  in  just  recompense  of  love  so  true, 
Restore  their  charge. 

The  miserable  youth 
Turned  at  his  words  a  hesitating  eye. 
I  knew  a  prisoner,  —  so  the  old  man  pursued. 
Or  hoping  to  beguile  the  youth's  despair 
With  tales  that  suited  the  despair  of  youth. 
Or  credulous  himself  of  what  he  told,  — 
I  knew  a  prisoner  once  who  welcomed  death 
With  merriment,  and  songs,  and  joy  of  heart. 
Because,  he  said,  the  friends  whom  he  loved  best 
Were  gone  before  him  to  the  Land  of  Souls ; 
Nor  would  they,  to  resume  their  mortal  state, 
Even  when  the  Keeper  of  the  Land  allowed, 
Forsake  its  pleasures ;  therefore  he  rejoiced 
To  die  and  join  them  there.     I  question'd  him 
How  of  these  hidden  things  unknowable 
So  certainly  he  spake.     The  man  replied. 
One  of  our  nation  lost  the  maid  he  loved. 
Nor  would  he  bear  his  sorrow,  —  being  one 
Into  whose  heart  fear  never  found  a  way, — 
But  to  the  Country  of  the  Dead  pursued 
Her  spirit.     Many  toils  he  underwent. 
And  many  dangers  gallantly  surpass'd, 
Till  to  the  Country  of  the  Dead  he  came. 
Gently  the  Guardian  of  the  Land  received 
The  living  suppliant;  listen'd  to  his  prayer. 
And  gave  him  back  the  Spirit  of  the  Maid. 
But  from  that  happy  country,  from  the  songs 
Of  joyance,  from  the  splendor-sparkling  dance, 
Unwillingly  compell'd,  the  Maiden's  Soul 
Loathed  to  return  ;  and  he  was  warn'd  to  guard 
'    The  subtle  captive  well  and  warily. 
Till,  in  her  mortal  tenement  relodged. 
Earthly  delights  might  win  her  to  remain 
A  sojourner  on  earth.     Such  lessoning 
The  Ruler  of  the  Souls  departed  gave  ; 
And  mindful  of  his  charge,  the  adventurer  brought 
His  subtle  captive  home.     There  underneath 
The  shelder  of  a  hut,  his  friends  had  watch'd 
The  Maiden's  corpse,  secured  it  from  the  sun, 
And  fann'd  away  the  insect  swarms  of  heaven. 
A  busy  hand  marr'd  all  the  enterprise  ; 
Curious  to  see  the  Spirit,  he  unloosed 
The  knotted  bag  which  held  her,  and  she  fled. 


Lincoya,  thou  art  brave ;  where  man  has  gone 
Thou  wouldst  not  fear  to  follow  ! 

Silently 
Lincoya  listen'd,  and  with  unmoved  eyes; 
At  length  he  answered.  Is  the  journey  long.' 
The  old  man  replied,  A  way  of  many  moons. 
I  know  a  shorter  path  !  exclaimed  the  youth ; 
And  up  he  sprung,  and  from  the  precipice 
Darted :  a  moment,  —  and  Ayayaca  heard 
His  body  fall  upon  the  rocks  below. 


XXIII. 


CARADOC    AND    SENENA. 

Maid  of  the  golden  locks,  far  other  lot 

May  gentle  Heaven  assign  thy  happier  love, 

Blue-eyed  Senena !  —  She,  though  not  as  yet 

Had  she  put  oft"  her  boy-habiliments, 

Had  told  Goervyl  all  the  history 

Of  her  sad  flight,  and  easy  pardon  gain'd 

From  that  sweet   heart,   for   guile  which   meant 

no  ill. 
And  secrecy,  in  shame  too  long  maintain'd. 
With  her  dear  Lady  now,  at  this  still  hour 
Of  evening  is  the  seeming  page  gone  forth. 
Beside  Caermadoc  mere.     They  loitered  on. 
Along  tlie  windings  of  its  grassy  shore. 
In  such  free  interchange  of  inward  thought 
As  the  calm  hour  invited ;  or  at  times, 
Willingly  silent,  listening  to  the  bird 
Whose  one  repeated  melancholy  note, 
By  oft  repeating  melancholy  made. 
Solicited  the  ear ;  or  gladlier  now 
Hearkening  that  cheerful  one,  who  knoweth  all 
The  songs  of  all  the  winged  choristers. 
And  in  one  sequence  of  melodious  sounds 
Pours  all  their  music.     But  a  wilder  strain 
At  fits  came  o'er  the  water ;  rising  now, 
Now  with  a  dying  fall,  in  sink  and  swell 
More  exquisitely  sweet  than  ever  art 
Of  man  evoked  from  instrument  of  touch. 
Or  beat,  or  breath.     It  was  the  evening  gale, 
Which,  passing  o'er  the  harp  of  Caradoc, 
Swept  all  its  chords  at  once,  and  blended  all 
Their  music  into  one  continuous  flow. 
The  solitary  Bard,  beside  his  harp, 
Lean'd  underneath  a  tree,  whose  spreading  boughs, 
With  broken  shade  that  shifted  to  the  breeze, 
Play'd  on  tlie  waving  waters.     Overhead 
There  was  the  leafy  murmur,  at  his  foot 
The  lake's  perpetual  ripple  ;  and  from  far. 
Borne  on  the  modulating  gale,  was  heard 
The  roaring  of  the  mountain  cataract  — 
A  blind  man  would  have  loved  the  lovely  spot. 

Here  was  Senena  by  her  Lady  led. 
Trembling,  but  not  reluctant.     They  drew  nigh, 
Their  steps  unheard  upon  the  elastic  moss. 
Till  playfully  Goervyl,  with  quick  touch, 
Ran  o'er  the  harp-strings.     At  the  sudden  sound 
He  rose.  —  Hath,  then,  thy  hand,  quoth  she,  O 
Bard, 


MidrUeton 


iSIESfTlWA. 


"  But  she  die  while  did  off 

Her  bi-idal  robes,  and  clipp'd  her  golden  locks  . 
And  put  on  boy's  attire,  through  wood  and  \wiLd 
To  si^rk  hpr  own  true  love  ." 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


413 


Or  aim  the  arrow  ;  from  the  growing  boy, 
Ambitious  of  the  battle,  to  the  old  man, 
Who  to  revenge  his  country  and  his  Gods 
Hastens,  and  then  to  die.     By  land  they  come ; 
And  years  must  pass  away  ere  on  their  path 
The  grass  again  will  grow :  they  come  by  lake  ; 
And  ye  shall  see  the  shoals  of  their  canoes 
Darken  the  waters.     Strangers  !  when  our  Gods 
Have  conquered,  when  ye  lie  upon  the  Stone 
Of  Sacrifice,  extended  one  by  one. 
Half  of  our  armies  cannot  taste  your  flesh. 
Though  given  in  equal  shares,  and  every  share 
Minced  like  a  nestling's  food  ! 

Madoc  replied, 
Azteca,  we  are  few ;  but  through  the  woods 
The  Lion  walks  alone.     The  lesser  fowls 
Flock  multitudinous  in  heaven,  and  fly 
Before  the  Eagle's  coming.     We  are  few ; 
And  yet  thy  nation  hath  experienced  us 
Enough  for  conquest.     Tell  thy  countrymen. 
We  can  maintain  the  city  which  we  won. 

So  saying,  he  turn'd  away,  rejoiced  at  heart 
To  know  himself  alike  by  lake  or  land 
Prepared  to  meet  their  power. 

The  fateful  day 
Draws  on  ;  by  night  the  Aztecas  embark. 
At  day-break  from  Patamba  they  set  forth, 
From  every  creek  and  inlet  of  the  lake, 
All  moving  towards  Aztlan ;  safely  thus 
Weening  to  reach  the  plain  before  her  walls. 
And  fresh  for  battle.     Shine  thou  forth,  O  Sun  ! 
Shine  fairly  forth  upon  a  scene  so  fair ! 
Their  thousand  boats,  and  the  ten  thousand  oars 
From  whose  broad  bowls  the  waters  fall  and  flash. 
And   twice    ten   thousand    feathered  helms,    and 

shields. 
Glittering  with  gold  and  scarlet  plumery. 
Onward  they  come  with  song  and  swelling  horn ; 
While,  louder  than  all  voice  and  instrument, 
The  dash  of  their  ten  thousand  oars,  from  shore 
To  shore,  and  hill  to  hill,  reechoing  rolls, 
In  undistinguishable  peals  of  sound 
And  endless  echo.     On  the  other  side 
Advance  the  British  barks ;  the  freshening  breeze 
Fills  the  broad  sail  ;  around  the  rushing  keel 
The  waters  sing  ;  while  proudly  they  sail  on. 
Lords  of  the  water.     Shine  thou  forth,  O  Sun  I 
Shine  forth  upon  their  hour  of  victory  I 

Onward  the  Cymry  speed.     The  Aztecas, 
Though  wondering  at  that  unexpected  sight, 
Bravely  made  on  to  meet  them,  seized  their  bows. 
And  showered,  like  rain,  upon  the  pavaised  barks 
The  rattling  shafts.     Strong  blows  the  auspicious 

gale ; 
Madoc,  the  Lord  of  Ocean,  leads  the  way ; 
He  holds  the  helm;  the  galley  where  he  guides 
Flies  on,  and  full  upon  the  first  canoe 
Drives  shattering ;  midway  its  long  length  it  struck, 
And  o'er  the  wreck  with  unimpeded  force 
Dashes  among  the  fleet.     The  astonished  men 
Gaze  in  inactive  terror.     They  behold 
Their  splinter'd  vessels  floating  all  around, 
Their  warriors  struggling  in  the  lake,  with  arms 


Experienced  in  the  battle  vainly  now. 

Dismay 'd  they  drop  their  bows,  and  cast  away 

Their  unavailing  spears,  and  take  to  flight, 

Before  the  Masters  of  the  Elements, 

Who  rode  the  waters,  and  who  made  the  winds 

Wing  them  to  vengeance  !  Forward  now  they  bend, 

And  backward  then,  with  strenuous  strain  of  arm, 

Press  the  broad  paddle.  —  Hope  of  victory 

Was  none,  nor  of  defence,  nor  of  revenge, 

To  sweeten  death.     Toward  the  shore  they  speed  ; 

Toward  the  shore  they  lift  their  longing  eyes :  — 

O  fools,  to  meet  on  their  own  element 

The  Sons  of  Ocean  !  —  Could  they  but  aland 

Set  foot,  the  strife  were  equal,  or  to  die 

Less  dreadful.     But,  as  if  with  wings  of  wind. 

On  fly  the  British  barks  ! — the  favoring  breeze 

Blows  strong  ;  —  far,  far,  behind  their  roaring  keels 

Lies  the  long  line  of  foam ;  the  helm  directs 

Their  force;  they  move  as  with  the  limbs  of  life, 

Obedient  to  the  will  that  governs  them. 

Where'er  they  pass,  the  crashing  shock  is  heard, 

The  dash  of  broken  waters,  and  the  cry 

Of  sinking  multitudes.     Here  one  plies  fast 

The  practised  limbs  of  youth,  but  o'er  his  head 

The  galley  drives ;  one  follows  a  canoe 

With  skill  availing  only  to  prolong 

Suffering ;  another,  as  with  wiser  aim 

He  swims  across,  to  meet  his  coming  friends, 

Stunn'd  by  the  hasty  and  unheeding  oar. 

Sinks  senseless  to  the  depths.     Lo !  yonder  boat 

Grasp'd    by  the    thronging   strugglers ;    its  light 

length 
Yields  to  the  overbearing  weight,  and  all 
Share  the  same  ruin.     Here  another  shows 
Crueler  contest,  where  the  crew  hack  off" 
The  hands  that  hang  for  life  upon  its  side. 
Lest  all  together  perish  ;  then  in  vain 
The  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  prays  for  mercy : 
Imperious  self  controls  all  other  thoughts  : 
And  still  they  deal  around  unnatural  wounds, 
When  the  strong  bark  of  Britain  over  all 
Sails  in  the  path  of  death.  —  God  of  the  Lake, 
Tlaloc  !  and  thou,  O  Aiauh,  green-robed  Queen! 
How  many  a  wretch,  in  dying  agonies. 
Invoked  ye  in  the  misery  of  that  day  ! 
Long  after,  on  the  tainted  lake,  the  dead 
Weltered;  there,  perch'd  upon  his  floating  prey, 
The  vulture  fed  in  daylight ;  and  the  wolves, 
Assembled  at  their  banquet  round  its  banks, 
Disturb'd  the  midnight  with  their  howl  of  joy. 


XXVI. 

THE  CLOSE   OF  THE   CENTURY. 

There  was  mourning  in  Patamba;  the  north  wind 
Blew  o'er  the  lake,  and  drifted  to  the  shore 
The  floating  wreck  and  bodies  of  the  dead. 
Then  on  the  shore  the  mother  might  be  seen 
Seeking  her  child  ;  the  father  to  the  tomb. 
With  limbs  too  weak  for  that  unhappy  weight, 
Bearing  the  bloated  body  of  his  son ; 


414 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


The  wife,  who,  in  expectant  agony, 

Watch'd  the  black  carcass  on  the  coming  wave. 

On  every  brow  terror  was  legible, 
Anguish  in  every  eye.     There  was  not  one 
Who,  in  the  general  ruin,  did  not  share 
Peculiar  grief",  and  in  his  country's  loss 
Lament  some  dear  one  dead.     Along  the  lake 
The  frequent  funeral-piles,  for  many  a  day. 
With  the  noon-light  their  melancholy  flames 
Dimly  conuningled ;  while  the  mourners  stood 
Watching  the  pile,  to  feed  the  lingering  fire, 
As  slowly  it  consumed  the  watery  corpse. 

Thou  didst  not  fear,  young  Tlalala !  thy  soul, 
Unconquered  and  unconquerable,  rose 
Superior  to  its  fortune.     When  the  Chiefs 
Hung  their  dejected  heads,  as  men  subdued 
In  spirit,  then  didst  thou,  Yuhidthiton, 
Calm  in  the  hour  of  evil,  still  maintain 
Thy  even  courage.     They  from  man  to  man 
Go,  with  the  mourners  mourning,  and  by  grief 
Exciting  rage,  till,  at  the  promised  fight. 
The  hope  of  vengeance,  a  ferocious  joy 
Flash'd  in  the  eyes  which  glisten'd  still  with  tears 
Of  tender  memory.     To  the  brave  they  spake 
Of    Aztlan's    strength,  —  for    Aztlan    still    was 

strong  :  — 
The  late  defeat,  —  not  there  by  manly  might, 
By  honorable  valor,  by  the  force 
Of  arms  subdued,  shame  aggravated  loss; 
The  White  Men  from  tlie  waters  came,  perchance 
Sons  of  the  Ocean,  by  their  parent  Gods 
Aided,  and  conquerors  not  by  human  skill. 
When  man  met  man,  when  in  the  field  of  fight 
The  soldier  on  firm  earth  should  plant  his  foot. 
Then  would  the  trial  be,  the  struggle  then. 
The  glory,  the  revenge. 

Tezozomoc, 
Alike  unbroken  by  defeat,  endured 
The  evil  day  ;  but  in  his  sullen  mind  [King 

Work'd   thoughts   of  other  vengeance.     He  the 
Surnmon'd  apart  from  all,  with  Tlalala, 
And  thus  advised  them  :  We  have  vainly  tried 
The  war  ;  these  mighty  Strangers  will  not  yield 
To  mortal  strength  ;  yet  shall  they  be  cut  off. 
So  ye  will  heed  my  counsel,  and  to  force 
Add  wisdom's  aid.     Put  on  a  friendly  front ; 
Send  to  their  Prince  the  messenger  of  peace; 
He  will  believe  our  words ;  he  will  forgive 
The   past  ;  —  the   offender   may.      So   days   and 

months. 
Yea,  years,  if  needful,  will  we  wear  a  face 
Of  friendliness,  till  some  some  fit  hour  arrive, 
When  we  may  fire  their  dwellings  in  the  night. 
Or  mingle  poison  in  their  cups  of  mirth. 
The  warrior,  from  whose  force  the  Lion  flies, 
Falls  by  the  Serpent's  tooth. 

Thou  speakestwell, 
Tlalala  answer'd  ;  but  my  spirit  ill 
Can  brook  revenge  delay 'd. 

The  Priest  then  turn'd 
His  small  and  glittering  eye  toward  the  King; 
But  on  the  Monarch's  mild  and  manly  brow 
A  meaning  sat,  which  made  that  crafty  eye 


Bend,  quickly  abash'd.     While  yet  I  was  a  child, 

Replied  the  King  of  Aztlan,  on  my  heart 
My  father  laid  two  precepts.     Boy,  be  brave  ! 
So,  in  the  midnight  battle,  shalt  thou  meet. 
Fearless,  the  sudden  foe.     Boy,  let  thy  lips 
Be  clean  from  falsehood  I  In  the  mid-day  sun, 
So  never  shalt  thou  need  from  mortal  man 
To  turn  tiiy  guilty  face.     Tezozomoc, 
Holy  I  keep  the  lessons  of  my  sire. 

But  if  the  enemy,  with  their  dreadful  arms. 
Again,  said  Tlalala,  —  If  again  the  Gods 
Will  our  defeat,  Yuhidthiton  replied. 
Vain  is  it  for  the  feeble  power  of  man 
To  strive  against  their  will.     I  augur  not 
Of  ill,  young  Tiger  !  but  if  ill  betide. 
The  land  is  all  before  us.     Let  me  hear 
Of  perfidy  and  serpent-wiles  no  more  I 
In  tlie  noon-day  war,  and  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 
I  meet  my  foes.     Let  Aitlan  follow  me  ; 
And  if  one  man  of  all  her  multitudes 
Shall  better  play  the  warrior  in  that  hour. 
Be  his  the  sceptre  !     But  if  the  people  fear 
The  perilous  strife,  and  own  themselves  subdued, 
Let  us  depart !     The  universal  Sun 
Confines  not  to  one  land  his  partial  beams ; 
Nor  is  man  rooted,  like  a  tree,  whose  seed 
The  winds  on  some  ungenial  soil  have  cast. 
There  where  he  cannot  prosper. 

The  dark  Priest 
Conceal'd  revengeful  anger,  and  replied. 
Let  the  King's  will  be  done  !     An  awful  day 
Draws  on  5  the  Circle  of  the  Years  is  full; 
We  tremble  for  the  event.     The  times  are  strange ; 
There  are  portentous  changes  in  the  world  ; 
Perchance  its  end  is  come. 

Be  it  thy  care, 
Priest  of  the  Gods,  to  see  the  needful  rites 
Duly  pcrform'd,  Yuhidthiton  replied. 
On  the  third  day,  if  yonder  Lord  of  Light 
Begin  the  Circle  of  the  Years  anew, 
Again  we  march  to  war. 

One  day  is  past ; 
Another  day  comes  on.     At  earliest  dawn 
Then  was  there  heard  through  all  Patamba's  streets 
The  warning  voice,  —  Woe  !  woe  !  the  Sun  hath 

reach'd 
The  limits  of  his  course;  he  hath  fulfill' d 
The  appointed  cycle  !  —  Fast,  and  weep,  and  pray  ; 
Four    Suns   have    perish'd,  —  fast,  and  weep,  and 
Lest  the  fifth  perish  also.     On  the  first         [pray, — 
The  floods  arose  ;  the  waters  of  the  heavens, 
Bursting  their  everlasting  boundaries, 
Whelin'd  in  one  deluge  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky. 
And  quench'd  its  orb  of  fire.     The  second  Sun 
Then  had  its  birth,  and  ran  its  round  of  years  ; 
Till,  having  reach'd  its  date,  it  fell  from  heaven, 
And  crush'd  the  race  of  men.     Another  life 
The  Gods  assign'd  to  Nature  ;  the  third  Sun 
Form'd  the  celestial  circle  ;  then  its  flames 
Burst  forth,  and  overspread  earth,  sea,  and  sky, 
Deluging  the  wide  universe  with  fire. 
Till  all  things  were  consumed,  and  its  own  flames 
Fed  on  itself,  and  spent  themselves,  and  all 
Was  vacancy  and  darkness.     Yet  again 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


415 


The  World  liad  being,  aiid  another  Sun 

Roll'd  round  tlie  patli  of  Heaven.     Tliat  perish'd 

too  : 
The  mighty  Whirlwinds  rose,  and  far  away 
Scattered  its  dying  flames.     The  fifth  was  born  ; 
The  fifth  to-day  completes  its  destined  course, 
Perchance  to  rise  no  more.     O  Aztlan,  fast 
And  pray  !  the  Cycle  of  the  Years  is  full! 

Thus  through  Patamba  did  the  ominous  voice 
Exhort  the  people.     Fervent  vows  all  day 
Were  made,  with  loud  lament ;  in  every  fane, 
In  every  dwelling-place  of  man,  were  prayers. 
The  supplications  of  the  affrighted  heart. 
Earnestly  offered  up  with  tears  and  groans. 
So  past  the  forenoon ;  and  when  now  the  Sun 
Sloped  from  his  southern  height  the  downward  way 
Of  Heaven,  again  the  ominous  warner  cried. 
Woe !  woe  !  the  Cycle  of  the  Years  is  full ! 
Quench  every  fire  !    Extinguish  every  light ! 
And  every  fire  was  quench'd,  and  every  light 
Extinguish'd  at  the  voice. 

Meantime  the  Priests 
Began  the  rites.     They   gash'd   themselves,   and 

plunged 
Into  the  sacred  pond  of  Ezapan, 
Till  the  clear  water,  on  whose  bed  of  sand 
The  sunbeams  sparkled  late,  opaque  with  blood, 
On  its  black  surface  mirror'd  all  things  round. 
The  children  of  the  temple,  in  long  search, 
Had  gather'd,  for  the  service  of  this  day, 
All  venomous  things  that  fly,  or  wind  their  path 
With  sinuous  trail,  or  crawl  on  reptile  feet. 
These,  in  one  caldron,  o'er  the  sacred  fire 
They  scorch,  till  of  the  loathsome  living  tribes, 
Who,  writhing  in  their  burning  agonies, 
Fix  on  each  other  ill-directed  wounds, 
Ashes  alone  are  left.     In  infants'  blood 
They  mix  the  infernal  unction,  and  the  Priests 
Anoint  themselves  therewith. 

Lo  !  from  the  South 
The  Orb  of  Glory  his  regardless  way 
Holds  on.     Again  Patamba's  streets  receive 
The  ominous  voice,  — Woe  !  woe  !  the  Sun  pursues 
His  journey  to  the  limits  of  his  course  ! 
Let  every  man  in  darkness  veil  his  wife ; 
Veil  every  maiden's  face  ;   let  every  child 
Be  hid  in  darkness,  there  to  weep  and  pray. 
That  they  may  see  again  the  birth  of  light! 
They  heard,  and  every  husband  veil'd  his  wife 
In  darkness ;  every  maiden's  face  was  veil'd  ; 
The  children  were  in  darkness  led  to  pray. 
That  they  might  see  the  birth  of  light  once  more. 

Westward  the  Sun  proceeds  ;  the  tall  tree  casts 
A  longer  shade  ;  the  night-eyed  insect  tribes 
Wake  to  their  portion  of  the  circling  hours ; 
The  water-fowl,  retiring  to  the  shore. 
Sweep  in  long  files  the  surface  of  the  lake. 
Then  from  Patamba  to  the  sacred  mount 
The  Priests  go  forth  ;  but  not  with  songs  of  joy. 
Nor  cheerful  instruments  they  go,  nor  train 
Of  festive  followers  ;  silent  and  alone, 
Leading  one  victim  to  his  dreadful  death, 
Til' y  to  the  mountain-summit  wend  their  way. 


On  the  south  shore,  and  level  with  the  lake, 
Patamba  stood ;  westward  were  seen  the  walls 
Of  Aztlan  rising  on  a  gentle  slope; 
Southward  the  plain  extended  far  and  wide ; 
To  the  east  the  mountain-boundary  began. 
And  there  the  sacred  mountain  rear'd  its  head; 
Above  the  neighboring  heights,  its  lofty  peak 
Was  visible  far  ott'.     In  the  vale  below. 
Along  the  level  borders  of  the  lake, 
The  assembled  Aztecas,  witli  wistful  eye. 
Gaze  on  the  sacred  summit,  hoping  there 
Soon  to  behold  the  fire  of  sacrifice 
Arise,  sure  omen  of  continued  light. 
The  Pabas  to  the  sacred  peak  begin 
Their  way,  and,  as  they  go,  with  ancient  songs 
Hymn  the  departed  Sun. 

O  Light  of  Life, 
Yet  once  again  arise  !  yet  once  again 
Commence  thy  course  of  glory  !     Time  hath  seen 
Four  generations  of  mankind  destroy'd. 
When  the  four  Suns  expired  ;  oh,  let  not  thou, 
Human  thyself  of  yore,  the  human  race 
Languish,  and  die  in  darkness  ! 

The  fourth  Sun 
Had  perish'd  ;  for  the  mighty  Whirlwinds  rose, 
And  swept  it,  with  the  dust  of  the  shattcr'd  world, 
Into  the  great  abyss.     The  eternal  Gods 
Built  a  new  World,  and  to  a  Hero  race 
Assign'd  it  for  their  goodly  dwelling-place; 
And  shedding  on  the  bones  of  the  destroy'd 
A  quickening  dew,  from  them,  as  from  a  seed, 
Made  a  new  race  of  human-kind  spring  up. 
The  menials  of  the  Heroes  born  of  Heaven. 
But  in  the  firmament  no  orb  of  day 
Perforin'd  its  course  ;  Nature  was  blind  ;  the  fount 
Of  light  had  ceased  to  flow  ;  the  eye  of  Heaven 
Was  quench'd  in  darkness.     In  the  sad  obscure, 
The  earth-possessors  to  their  parent  Gods 
Pray'd  for  another  Sun,  their  bidding  heard. 
And  in  obedience  raised  a  flaming  pile. 
Hopeful  they  circled  it,  when  from  above 
The  voice  of  the  Invisible  proclaim'd. 
That  he  who  bravely  plunged  amid  the  fire 
Should  live  again  in  Heaven,  and  there  shine  forth 
The  Sun  of  the  young  AVorld.     The  Hero  race 
Grew  pale,  and  from  the  fiery  trial  shrunk. 
Thou,  Nahuaztin,  thou,  O  mortal  born, 
Heardest !    thy    heart    was     strong,    the    flames 

received 
Their  victim,  and  the  humbled  Heroes  saw 
The  orient  sky,  with  smiles  of  rosy  joy, 
Welcome  the  coming  of  the  new-born  God. 
O  human  once,  now  let  not  human-kind 
Languish,  and  die  in  darkness ! 

In  the  East 
Then  didst  thou  pause  to  see  the  Hero  race 
Perish.     In  vain,  with  impious  arms,  they  strove 
Against  thy  will ;  in  vain  against  thine  orb 
They  shot  their  shafts ;  the  arrows  of  their  pride 
Fell  on  themselves ;  they  perish'd,  to  thy  praise. 
So  perish  still  thine  impious  enemies, 
O  Lord  of  Day  !     But  to  the  race  devout, 
Who  offer  up  their  morning  sacrifice, 
Honoring  thy  godhead,  and  with  morning  hymns, 
And  with  the  joy  of  music  and  of  dance. 


416 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


Welcome  thy  glad  uprise, — to  them,  O  Sun, 
Still  let  the  fountain-streams  of"  splendor  flow, 
Still  sinile  on  tlicm  propitious,  thou  whose  smile 
Is  light,  and  life,  and  joyance  !     Once  again. 
Parent  of  Being,  Prince  of  Glory,  rise. 
Begin  thy  course  of  beauty  once  again ! 

Such  was  their  ancient  song,  as  up  the  height 
Slowly  they  wound  their  way.     The  multitude 
Beneath  repeat  the  strain ;  with  fearful  eyes 
They  watch  the  spreading  glories  of  the  west! 
And  when  at  length  the  hastening  orb  hath  sunk 
Below  the  plain,  such  sinking  at  the  heart 
They  feel,  as  he  who,  hopeless  of  return. 
From  his  dear  home  departs.     Still  on  the  light. 
The  last  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west, 
Their  looks  are  fasten'd,  till  the  clouds  of  night 
Roll  on,  and  close  in  darkness  the  whole  heaven. 
Then  ceased  their  songs;  then  o'er  the  crowded 

vale 
No  voice  of  man  was  heard.     Silent  and  still 
They  stood,  all  turn'd  toward  the  east,  in  hope 
There  on  the  holy  mountain  to  behold 
The  sacred  fire,  and  know  that  once  again 
The  Sun  begins  his  stated  round  of  years. 

The  Moon  arose;  she  shone  upon  the  lake. 
Which  lay  one  smooth  expanse  of  silver  light ; 
She  shone  upon  the  hills  and  rocks,  and  cast 
Upon  their  hollows  and  their  hidden  glens 
A  blacker  depth  of  shade.    Who  then  look'd  round. 
Beholding  all  that  mighty  multitude. 
Felt  yet  severer  awe,  — so  solemnly  still 
The  thronging  thousands  stood.     The  breeze  was 

heard 
That  rustled  in  the  reeds ;  the  little  wave. 
That  rippled  to  the  shore  and  left  no  foam, 
Sent  its  low  murmurs  far. 

Meantime  the  Priests 
Have  stretch'd  their  victim  on  the  mountain-top ; 
A  miserable  man,  his  breast  is  bare, 
Bare  for  the  death  that  waits  him ;  but  no  hand 
May  there  inflict  the  blow  of  mercy.     Piled 
On  his  bare  breast,  the  cedar  boughs  are  laid ; 
On  his  bare  breast,  dry  sedge  and  odorous  gums 
Laid  ready  to  receive  the  sacred  spark. 
And  blaze,  to  herald  the  ascending  Sun, 
Upon  his  living  altar.     Round  the  wretch 
The  inhuman  ministers  of  rites  accurs'd 
Stand,  and  expect  the  signal  when  to  strike 
The  seed  of  fire.     Their  Chief,  Tezozomoc, 
Apart  from  all,  upon  the  pinnacle 
Of  that  high  mountain,  eastward  turns  his  eyes ; 
For  now  the  hour  draws  nigh,  and  speedily 
He  looks  to  see  the  first  faint  dawn  of  day 
Break  through  the  orient  sky. 

Impatiently 
The  multitude  await  the  happy  sign^ 
Long  hath  the  midnight  pass'd,  and  every  hour. 
Yea,  every  moment,  to  their  torturing  fears 
Seem'd  lengthen'd  out,  insufferably  long. 
Silent  they  stood,  and  breathless  in  suspense. 
The  breeze  had  fallen ;  no  stirring  breath  of  wind 
Rustled  the  reeds.     Oppressive,  motionless, 
It  was  a  labor  and  a  pain  to  breathe 


The  close,  hot,  heavy  air.  —  Hark  !  from  the  woods 
The  howl  of  their  wild  tenants  !  and  the  birds,  — 
The  day-birds,  in  blind  darkness  fluttering, 
Fearful  to  rest,  uttering  portentous  cries  ! 
Anon,  the  sound  of  distant  thunders  came  ; 
They  peal  beneath  their  feet.     Earth  shakes  and 

yawns,  — 
And  lo  !  upon  the  sacred  mountain's  top. 
The  light — the  mighty  flame!     A  cataract 
Of  fire  bursts  upward  from  the  mountain-head, — 
High,  — high, —  it  shoots  !  the  liquid  fire  boils  out, 
It  streams  in  torrents  down  I     Tezozomoc 
Beholds  the  judgment :  wretched,  —  wretched  man. 
On  the  upmost  pinnacle  he  stands,  and  sees 
The  lava  floods  beneath  him  :  and  his  hour 
Is  come.     The  fiery  shower,  descending,  heaps 
Red  ashes  round ;  they  fall  like  drifted  snows, 
And  bury  and  consume  the  accursed  Priest. 

The  Tempest  is  abroad.     Fierce  from  the  North 
A  wind  uptears  the  lake,  whose  lowest  depths 
Rock,  while  convulsions  shake  the  solid  earth. 
Where  is  Patamba.'  where  the  multitudes 
Who  throng'd  her  level  shores .'    The  mighty  Lake 
Hath  burst  its  bounds,  and  yon  wide  valley  roars, 
A  troubled  sea,  before  the  rolling  storm. 


XXVII. 
THE  MIGRATION  OF  THE  AZTECAS. 

The  storm  hath  ceased  ;  but  still  the  lava-tides 
Roll  down  the  mountain-side  in  streams  of  fire; 
Down  to  the  lake  they  roll,  and  yet  roll  on. 
All  burning,  through  the  waters.     Heaven  above 
Glows  round  the  burning  mount,  and  fiery  clouds 
Scour  through  the  black  and  starless  firmament. 
Far  off,  the  Eagle,  in  her  mountain-nest. 
Lies  watching  in  alarm,  with  steady  eye, 
The  midnight  radiance. 

But  the  storm  hath  ceased  ; 
The  earth  is  still ;  —  and  lo  !   while  yet  the  dawn 
Is  struggling  through  the  eastern  cloud,  the  barks 
Of  Madoc  on  the  lake  ! 

What  man  is  he 
On  yonder  crag,  all  dripping  from  the  flood. 
Who  hath  escaped  its  force  .''     He  lies  along. 
Now  near  exhaust  with  self-preserving  toil. 
And  still  his  eye  dwells  on  the  spreading  waves. 
Where  late  the  multitudes  of  Aztlan  stood, 
Collected  in  their  strength.     It  is  the  King 
Of  Aztlan,  who,  extended  on  the  rock, 
Looks  vainly  for  his  people.     He  beholds 
The  barks  of  Madoc  plying  to  preserve 
The  strugglers ;  —  but  how  few  I  upon  the  crags 
Which  verge  the  northern  shore,  upon  the  heights 
Eastward,  how  few  have  refuged  !     Then  the  King 
Almost  repented  him  of  life  preserved, 
And  wished  the  waves  had  whelmed  him,  or  the 

sword 
Fallen  on  him,  ere  this  ill,  this  wretchedness, 
This  desolation.     Spirit-troubled  thus. 
He  call'd  to  mind  how,  from  the  first,  his  heart 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


417 


Inclined  to  peace,  and  how  reluctantly, 
Obedient  to  the  Pabas  and  their  Gods, 
Had  he  to  this  unhappy  war  been  driven. 
All  now  was  ended  :  it  remain'd  to  yield. 
To  obey  the  inevitable  will  of  Heaven, 
From  Aztlan  to  depart.     As  thus  he  mused, 
A  Bird,  upon  a  bough  which  overhung 
The  rock,  as  though  in  echo  to  his  thouglit. 
Cried  out,  —  Depart  I  depart !  —  for  so  the  note. 
Articulately  in  liis  native  tongue. 
Spake  to  the  Azteca.     The  King  look'd  up ; 
The  hour,  the  horrors  round  him,  had  imprcss'd 
Feelings  and  fears  well  fitted  to  receive 
All  superstition  ;  and  the  voice  which  cried. 
Depart!  depart!  seem'd  like  the  voice  of  fate. 
He  thought,  perhaps  Coanocotzin's  soul, 
Descending  from  his  blissful  halls  in  tlie  hour 
Of  evil,  thus  to  comfort  and  advise, 
Hover'd  above  him. 

Lo !  toward  the  rock. 
Oaring  with  feeble  arms  his  difficult  way, 
A  warrior  struggles  :  he  hath  reacliM  the  rock, 
Hath  grasp'd  it,  but  his  strength,  exhausted,  fails 
To  lift  him  from  the  depth.     The  King  descends 
Timely  in  aid ;  he  holds  the  feeble  one 
By  his  long  locks,  and  on  the  safety-place 
Lands  him.     He,  panting,  from  his  clotted  hair 
Shook  the  thick  waters,  from  his  forehead  wiped 
Tlie  blinding  drops;  on  his  preserver's  face 
Tlien  look'd,  and  knew  the  King.     Then  Tlalala 
Fell  on  his  neck,  and  groan'd.    They  laid  them  down 
In  silence,  for  their  hearts  were  full  of  woe. 

The  sun  came  forth ;  it  shone  upon  the  rock ; 
They  felt  the  kindly  beams;  their  strengthen'd 

blood 
Flow'd  with  a  freer  action.     They  arose. 
And  look'd  around,  if  aught  of  hope  might  meet 
Their  prospect.     On  the  lake  the  gallej's  plied 
Their  toil  successfully,  ever  to  the  shore 
Bearing  their  rescued  charge  :  the  eastern  heights, 
Rightward  and  leftward  of  the  fiery  mount, 
Were    throng'd   with   fugitives,    whose    growing 

crowds 
Speckled  the  ascent.     Then  Tlalala  took  hope, 
And  his  young  heart,  reviving,  reassumed 
Its  wonted  vigor.     Let  us  to  tlie  heights, 
He  cried;  —  all  is  not  lost,  Yuhidlhiton! 
When  they  behold  thy  countenance,  the  sight 
Will  cheer  them  in  their  woe,  and  they  will  bless 
The  Gods  of  Aztlan. 

To  the  heights  tlioy  went ; 
And  when  the  remnant  of  the  people  saw 
Yuhidthiton  preserved,  such  comfort  then 
They  felt,  as  utter  wretchedness  can  feel, 
That  only  gives  grief  utterance,  only  speaks 
In  groans  and  recollections  of  the  past. 
He  look'd  around;  a  multitude  was  there, — 
But   where    the    strenglli  of  Aztlan ,'    where  her 

hosts  .' 
Her  marsliall'd  myriads  where,  whom  yester  Sun 
Had  seen  in  arms  array'd,  in  spirit  higii, 
Mighty  in  youth  and  courage  .'  —  What  were  these. 
This  remnant  of  tlie  people  ?     Women  most, 
Who  from  Pataniba,  when  the  shock  began, 
5:1 


Ran  with  their  infants;  widow'd  now,  yet  each 
Among  the  few  who  from  the  lake  escaped. 
Wandering,  with  eager  eyes  and  wretched  hope. 
The  King  beheld  and  groan'd  ;  against  a  tree 
He  lean'd,  and  bow'd  his  head,  subdued  of  soul. 

Meantime,  amid  the  crowd,  doth  Tlalala 
Seek  for  his  wife  and  boy.     In  vain  he  seeks 
Ilanquel  there;  in  vain  for  her  he  asks; 
A  troubled  look,  a  melancholy  eye, 
A  silent  motion  of  the  hopeless  head, — 
These  answer  him.     But  Tlalala  repress'd 
His  anguisli,  and  he  call'd  upon  the  King;  — 
Yuhidthiton  !  thou  seest  thy  people  left; 
Their  fate  must  be  determined ;  they  are  here 
Houseless,  and  wanting  food. 

Tlie  King  look'd  up, — 
It  is  determined,  Tlalala!  the  Gods 
Have   crush'd  us.     Who  can  stand  against  their 
wratli  ? 

Have  we  not  life  and  strength  ?  the  Tiger  cried. 
Disperse  these  women  to  the  towns  which  stand 
Beyond  the  ruinous  waters;  against  them 
The  White  Men  will  not  war.     Ourselves  are  few, 
Too  few  to  root  the  invaders  from  our  land. 
Or  meet  them  with  the  hope  of  equal  fight ; 
Yet  may  we  shelter  in  the  woods,  and  share 
The  Lion's  liberty;  and  man  by  man 
Destroy  them,  till  they  shall  not  dare  to  walk 
Beyond  their  city  walls,  to  sow  their  fields, 
Or  bring  the  harvest  in.     We  may  steal  forth 
In  the  dnrk  midnight,  go  and  burn  and  kill. 
Till  all  their  dreams  shall  be  of  fire  and  death. 
Their  sleep  be  fear  and  misery. 

Then  the  King 
Stretch'd  forth  his  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  lake 
Were  Madoc's  galleys  still  to  those  who  clung 
To  the  tree-tops  for  life,  or  faintly  still 
Were  floating  on  the  waters,  gave  their  aid. — 

0  think  not,  Tlalala,  that  evermore 
Will  I  against  those  noble  enemies 

Raise  my  right  hand  in  war,  lest  righteous  Heaven 
Should  blast  the  impious  hand  and  thankless  heart ! 
The  Gods  are  leagued  with  them  ;  the  Elements 
Banded  against  us  !     For  our  overthrow 
Were  yonder  mountain-springs  of  fire  ordain'd ; 
For  our  destruction  the  eartli-thunders  loosed, 
And  the  everlasting  boundaries  of  the  lake 
Gave  way,  that  these  destroying  floods  might  roll 
Over  tlie  brave  of  Aztlan  I  —  We  must  leave 
The  country  which  our  fathers  won  in  arms ; 
We  must  depart. 

The  word  yet  vibrated 
Fresh  on  their  hearing,  when  the  Bird  above, 
Flapping  his  heavy  wings,  repeats  the  sound. 
Depart!  depart!  —  Ye  hear!  the  King  exclaim'd; 
It  is  a'\  omen  sent  to  me  from  Heaven  ; 

1  heard  it  late  in  solitude,  the  voice 
Of  fate  !  —  It  is  Coanocotzin's  soul 

Who  counsels  our  departure.  —  And  the  Bira 
Still  flew  around,  and  in  his  wheeling  flight 
Pronounced  the  articulate  note.     The  people  heard 
In  faith,  and  Tlalala  made  no  reply  ; 
But  dark  his  brow,  and  gloomv  was  his  frown. 


418 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


Then  si)akL'  the  Kiii^,  ;uid  calkui  a  messenger, 
And  bade  liini  speed  to  Aztlan.  —  Seek  tlie  Lord 
Of  Ocean;  tell  him  that  Yuhidlliiton 
Yields  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  leaves  the  land 
His  fatliers  won  in  war.     Only  one  boon, 
In  memory  of  our  former  friendship,  ask  — 
The  Ashes  of  my  Fathers, —  if  indeed 
'J'he  conqueror  have  not  cast  them  to  the  winds. 

The  herald  went  his  way  circuitous, 
Along  the  mountains,  —  for  tlie  flooded  vale 
Barr'd  the  near  passage ;  but  before  his  feet 
Could  traverse  half  their  track,  the  fugitives 
Beheld  canoes  from  Aztlan,  to  the  foot 
Of  that  protecting  eminence,  whereon 
They  had  tlieir  stand,  draw  nigh.     The  doubtful 

sight 
Disturb'd  them,  lest  perchance  with  hostile  strength 
They    came    upon    their    weakness.      Wrongful 

fear,  — 
For  now  Cadwallon,  from  his  bark  unarm'd, 
Set  foot  ashore,  and  for  Yuhidthiton 
Inquired,  if  yet  he  lived.     The  King  receives 
His  former  friend.  —  From  Madoc  come  I  here, 
The  Briton  said  :  Raiment  and  food  he  sends, 
And  peace  ;  so  shall  this  visitation  prove 
A  blessing,  if  it  knit  the  bonds  of  peace. 
And  make  us  as  one  people  ! 

Tlalala  ! 
Hearest  thou  him.'  Yuhidthiton  exclaim'd. 
Do  thou  thy  pleasure,  King!  the  Tiger  cried  : 
My  path  is  plain.  —  Thereat  Yuhidthiton, 
Answering,  replied,  Thus  humbled,  as  thou  seest. 
Beneath  the  visitation  of  the  Gods, 
We  bow  before  their  will  I  To  them  we  yield  ; 
To  you,  their  favorites,  we  resign  the  land 
Our  fathers  conquer'd.     Never  more  may  Fate 
In  your  days  or  your  children's,  to  the  end 
Of  time,  afflict  it  thus  ! 

He  said,  and  call'd 
The  Heralds  of  his  pleasure. —  Go  ye  forth 
Throughout  the  land  :    north,  south,  and  east,  and 

west. 
Proclaim  the  ruin.     Say  to  all  who  bear 
The  name  of  Azteca,  Heaven  hath  destroy'd 
Our  nation  :  say,  the  voice  of  Heaven  was  heard,  — 
Heard  ye  it  not? —  bidding  us  leave  the  land. 
Who  shakes  us  from  her  bosom.     Ye  will  find 
Women,  old  men,  and  babes;  the  many,  weak 
Of  body,  and  of  spirit  ill  prepared, 
Witli  painful  toil,  through  long  and  dangerous  ways 
To  seek  another  country.     Say  to  them. 
The  White  Men  will  not  lift  the  arm  of  power 
Against  the  feeble  ;  here  they  may  remain 
In  peace,  and  to  the  grave  in  peace  go  down. 
But  they  who  would  not  have  their  children  lose 
The  name  their  fathers  bore,  will  join  our  march. 
Ere  ye  set  forth,  behold  the  destined  way. 

He  bade  a  pile  be  raised  upon  the  top 
Of  that  high  eminence,  to  all  the  winds 
Exposed.     They  raised  the  pile,  and  left  it  free 
To  all  the  winds  of  Heaven ;  Yuhidthiton 
Alone  approach'd  it,  ;md  applied  the  torch. 
The  day  was  calm,  and  o'er  the  flaming  pile 


The  wavy  smoke  hung  lingering,  like  a  mist 
That  in  the  morning  tracks  tlie  valley-stream. 
Swell  over  swell  it  rose,  erent  above. 
On  all  sides  spreading  like  a  stately  palm. 
So  moveless  were  the  winds.     Upward  it  roll'd, 
Still  upward,  wlien  a  stream  of  upper  air 
Cross'd  it,  and  bent  its  top,  and  drove  it  on. 
Straight  over  Aztlan.     An  acclaiming  shout 
Welcomed  the  will  of  Heaven ;  for  lo,  the  smoke 
Fast  travelling  on,  while  not  a  breath  of  air 
Is  felt  below.     Ye  see  the  appointed  course, 
Exclaim'd  the  King.     Proclaim  it  where  ye  go  ! 
On  the  third  morning  we  begin  our  march. 

Soon  o'er  the  lake  a  winged  galley  sped, 
Wafting  the  Ocean  Prince.     He  bore,  preserved 
When  Aztlan's  bloody  temples  were  cast  down, 
The  Ashes  of  the  Dead.     The  King  received 
The  relics,  and  his  heart  was  full ;  his  eye 
Dwelt  on  his  father's  urn.     At  length  he  said, 
One  more  request,  O  Madoc  !  —  If  the  lake 
Should  ever  to  its  ancient  bounds  return. 
Shrined  in  the  highest  of  Patamba's  towers 
Coanocotzin  rests.  —  But  wherefore  this.'' 
Thou  wilt  respect  the  ashes  of  the  King. 

Then  Madoc  said.  Abide  not  here,  O  King, 
Thus  open  to  the  changeful  elements  ; 
But  till  the  day  of  your  departure  come, 
Sojourn  with  me.  —  Madoc,  that  must  not  be-' 
Yuhidtiiiton  replied.     Shall  I  behold 
A  stranger  dwelling  in  my  father's  house .'' 
Shall  I  become  a  guest,  where  1  v/as  wont 
To  give  the  guest  his  welcome  ?  — He  pursued. 
After  short  pause  of  speech, —  For  our  old  men. 
And  helpless  babes,  and  women ;  for  all  those 
Whom  wisely  fear  and  feebleness  deter 
To  tempt  strange  paths,  through  swamp,  and  wil- 

dcrness. 
And  hostile  tribes,  for  these  Yuhidthiton 
Entreats  thy  favor.     Underneath  thy  sway, 
They  may  remember  me  without  regret, 
Yet  not  without  affection.  —  They  shall  be 
My  people,  Madoc  answer'd.  —  And  the  rites 
Of  holiness  transmitted  from  tlieir  sires, — 
Pursued  the  King,  —  will  these  be  suifered  them .-  — 
Blood  must  not  flow,  the  Christian  Prince  replied ; 
No  Priest  must  dwell  among  us ;  that  hath  been 
The  cause  of  all  this  misery  !  —  Enough, 
Yuhidthiton  replied :  I  ask  no  more. 
It  is  not  for  the  conquered  to  impose 
Their  law  upon  the  conqueror. 

Then  he  turn  d. 
And  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  call'd  upon 
The  people  :  —  All  whom  fear  or  feebleness 
Withhold  from  following  my  adventurous  path, 
Prince  Madoc  will  receive.     No  blood  must  floAV, 
No  Paba  dwell  among  them.     Take  upon  ye. 
Ye  who  are  weak  of  body  or  of  heart. 
The  Strangers'  easy  yoke  :  beneath  their  sway 
Ye  may  remember  me  without  regret. 
Soon  ta'.;e  your  choice,  and  speedily  depart. 
Lest  ye  impede  the  adventurers.  —  As  he  spake. 
Tears  flow'd,  and  groans  were  heard.   The  line  was 
drawn, 


MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


419 


Which  whoso  would  accept  tlic  Strangers'  yoke 
Should  pass.     A  multitude  o'erpast  the  line  ; 
But  all  the  youth  of  Aztlan  crowded  round 
Yuhidthiton,  their  own  beloved  King. 

So  two  days  long,  with  unremitting  toil, 
The  barks  of  Britain  to  the  adventurers 
Bore  due  supply;  and  to  new  habitants 
The  city  of  the  Cyniry  spread  her  gates  ; 
And  in  the  vale  around,  and  on  the  heights. 
Their   numerous   tents  were  pitcli'd.     Meantime 

the  tale 
Of  ruin  went  abroad,  and  how  the  Gods 
Had  driven  her  sons  from  Aztlan.     To  the  King, 
Companions  of  his  venturous  enterprise. 
The  bold  repair'd ;  the  timid  and  the  weak, 
All  whom,  averse  from  perilous  wanderings, 
A  gentler  nature  had  disposed  to  peace, 
Beneath  the  Strangers'  easy  rule  remain'd. 
Now  the  third  morning  came.     At  break  of  day 
The  mountain  echoes  to  the  busy  sound 
Of  multitudes.     Before  the  moving  tribe 
The  Pabas  bear,  enclosed  from  public  sight, 
Mexitli;  and  the  ashes  of  the  Kings 
Follow  the  Chair  of  God.     Yuhidthiton 
Then  leads  the  marshall'd  ranks,  and  by  his  side, 
Silent  and  thoughtfully,  went  Tlalala. 

At  the  north  gate  of  Aztlan,  Malinal, 
Borne  in  a  litter,  waited  their  approach ; 
And  now  alighting,  as  the  train  drew  nigh, 
Fropp'd  by  a  friendly  arm,  with  feeble  step 
Advanced  to  meet  the  King.     Yuhidthiton, 
With  eye  severe  and  darkening  countenance. 
Met  his  advance.     I  did  not  think,  quoth  he, 
Thou  wouldst  have  ventured  this !  and  liefer  far 
Should  1  have  borne  away  with  me  tlie  thought 
That  Malinal  had  shunn'd  his  brother's  sight. 
Because  their  common  blood  yet  raised  in  him 
A  sense  of  his  own  shame  I  —  Comest  thou  to  show 
Those  wounds,  the  marks  of  thine  unnatural  war 
Against  thy  country  1     Or  to  boast  the  meed 
Of  thy  dishonor,  that  thou  tarriest  here, 
Siiaring  the  bounty  of  the  Conqueror, 
Wiiile,  with  the  remnant  of  his  countrymen, 
Saving  the  Gods  of  Aztlan  and  the  name, 
Thy  brother  and  thy  King  goes  forth  to  seek 
His  fortune  I 

Calm  and  low  the  youth  replied, 
111  dost  thou  judge  of  me,  Yuhidthiton  ! 
And  rashly  doth  my  brother  wrong  the  heart 
He  better  should  have  known  !      Howbeit,  I  come 
Prepared  for  grief.     These  honorable  wo\mds 
Were  gain'd  when,  singly,  at  Caermadoc,  I 
Opposed  the  ruffian  Hoamen  ;  and  even  now. 
Thus  feeble  as  thou  seest  me,  come  I  thence, 
For  this  farewell.     Brother,  —  Yuhidthiton,  — 
Hj  \.\\Q  true  love  which  thou  didst  bear  my  youth, 
Which  ever,  with  a  love  as  true  my  he  .rt 
Hath  answer'd, — by  the  memory  of  that  hour 
When  at  our  mother's  funeral  pile  we  sto  id. 
Go  not  away  in  wrath,  but  call  to  mind 
What  thou  hast  ever  known  mc  !     Side  by  side 
We  fought  against  the  Strangers,  side  by  side 
We  fell ;  together  in  the  council-hall 


We  counsell'd  peace,  together  in  the  field 

Of  the  assembly  pledged  the  word  of  peace. 

When  plots  of  secret  slaughter  were  devised, 

I  raised  my  voice  alone ;  alone  I  kept 

My  plighted  faith  ;  alone  1  prophesied 

The  judgment  of  just  Heaven  :  for  this  I  bore 

Reproach,  and  shame,  and  wrongful  banishment, 

In  the  action  self-approved,  and  justified 

By  this  unhappy  issue. 

As  he  spake, 
Did  natural  feeling  strive  within  the  King, 
And  thoughts  of  other  days,  and  brotherly  love, 
And  inward  consciousness  that  had  he  too 
Stood  forth,  obedient  to  his  better  mind. 
Nor  weakly  yielded  to  the  wily  priests. 
Wilfully  blind,  perchance  even  now  in  peace 
The  kingdom  of  his  fathers  had  preserved 
Her  name  and  empire.  —  Malinal,  he  cried, 
Thy  brother's  heart  is  sore  ;  in  better  times 
I  may  with  kindlier  thoughts  remember  thee, 
And  honor  thy  true  virtue.     Now  farewell ! 

So  saying,  to  his  heart  he  held  the  youth. 
Then  turn'd  away.     But  then  cried  Tlalala, 
Farewell,  Yuhidthiton  !  the  Tiger  cried; 
For  I  too  will  not  leave  my  native  land,  — 
Thou  who  wert  King  of  Aztlan  !     Go  thy  way; 
And  be  it  prosperous.     Through  the  gate  thou  seest 
Yon  tree  that  overhangs  my  father's  house ; 
My  father  lies  beneath  it.     Call  to  mind 
Sometimes  that  tree  ;  for  at  its  foot  in  peace 
Shall  Tlalala  be  laid,  who  will  not  live 
Survivor  of  his  country. 

Thus  he  said. 
And  through  the  gate,  regardless  of  the  King, 
Turn'd  to  his  native  door.     Yuhidthiton 
Follow'd,  and  Madoc  ;  but  in  vain  their  words 
Essay  d  to  move  the  Tiofer's  steady  heart; 
When  from  the  door  a  tottering  boy  came  forth. 
And  clung  around  his  knees  with  joyful  cries. 
And  called  him  father.     At  the  joyful  sound 
Out  ran  Ilanquel ;  and  the  astonish'd  man 
Beheld  his  wife  and  boy,  whom  sure  he  deem'd 
Whelm'd  in  the  flood  ;  but  them  the  British  barks, 
Returning  homeward  from  their  merciful  quest. 
Found  floating  on  the  waters.  —  For  a  while. 
Abandoned  by  all  desperate  thoughts,  he  stood . 
Soon  he  collected,  and  to  Madoc  turn'd. 
And  said,  O  Prince,  this  woman  and  her  boy 
I  leave  to  thee.     As  thou  hast  ever  found 
In  me  a  fearless,  unrelenting  foe. 
Fighting  with  ceaseless  zeal  his  coimtry's  cause. 
Respect  them  !  —  Nay,  Ilanquel !  hast  thou  yet 
To  learn  with  what  unshakable  resolve 
My  soul  maintains  its  purposes.'     1  leave  thee 
To  a  brave  foe's  protection. —  Lay  me,  Madoc, 
Here  in  my  father's  grave. 

With  that  he  took 
His  mantle  off,  and  veil'd  Ilanquel's  face;  — 
W'oman,  thou  mayst  not  look  upon  the  Sun, 
Who  sets  to  rise  no  more  !  — That  done,  he  placed 
His  javelin-hilt  against  the  ground  ;  the  point 
He  fitted  to  his  heart;  and,  holding  firm 
The  shaft,  fell  forward,  still  with  steady  hand 
GuidinjT  the  death-blow  on. 


420 


NOTES    TO    MAUOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


So  in  the  land 
Madoc  was  left  sole  Lord  ;  and  far  away 
Yuhidthiton  led  forth  the  Aztecas, 
To  spread  in  other  lands  Mexitli's  name, 
And  rear  a  mightier  empire,  and  set  up 
Again  their  foul  idolatry  ;  till  Heaven, 
Making  blind  Zeal  and  bloody  Avarice 
Its  ministers  of  vengeance,  sent  among  them 
The  heroic  Spaniard's  unrelenting  sword. 


NOTES  TO  MADOC  IN   AZTLAN. 

We  neighbor  nearer  to  the  Sun !  —  I.  p.  375,  col.  2. 

Columbus  inferred  this  from  the  elfivation  of  the  Pole  at 
Paria.  "  How  it  cometh  to  pass,"  says  Pietro  Martlre,  "  that 
at  the  beginning  of  the  evening  twilight  it  is  elpvnte  in  that 
region  only  five  dugrtes  in  the  month  of  June,  and  in  the 
morning  twilight  to  be  elevate  fifteen  degrees  by  the  same 
quadrant,  I  do  not  understand,  nor  yet  do  the  reasons  which 
he  bringeth  in  any  point  satisfy  me.  For  he  saith  that  he 
hereby  conjectured  that  the  Earth  is  not  perfectly  round,  but 
that,  when  it  was  created,  there  was  a  certain  heap  raised 
thereon,  much  higher  than  the  other  parts  of  the  same.  So 
that,  as  he  sayth,  it  is  not  round  after  the  form  of  an  apple  or 
a  ball,  as  others  think,  but  rather  like  a  pear  as  it  hangeth  on 
the  tree,  and  that  Paria  is  the  region  which  possesseth  the  su- 
pereminent  or  highest  part  thereof,  nearest  unto  heaven.  In 
so  much,  that  he  earnestly  contendeth  the  earthly  Paradise  to 
be  situate  in  the  tops  of  those  three  hills  which  the  Watch- 
men saw  out  of  the  top  castle  of  the  ship  ;  and  that  the  outra- 
geous streams  of  the  fresh  waters  which  so  violently  issue  out 
of  the  said  gulf^,  and  strive  so  with  the  salt  water,  fall  head- 
long from  the  tops  of  the  sjid  mountains."  —  Pietro  Mabtire, 
Dec.  1,  Book  G. 


Tezcalipoca.  —  II.  p.  37(),  col.  2. 

A  devont  worshipper  of  this  Deity  once  set  out  to  see  if  he 
could  find  him;  he  reached  the  sea-coast,  and  there  the  God 
appeared  to  him,  and  bade  him  cull  the  Whale,  and  the  Mer- 
maid, and  the  Tortoise,  to  make  a  bridge  for  him,  over  which 
he  might  pass  to  the  house  of  the  Sun,  and  bring  b:ick  from 
thence  instruments  of  music  and  singers  to  celebrate  his  festi- 
vals. The  Whale,  the  Mermaid,  and  the  Tortoise  accord- 
ingly made  the  bridge,  and  the  man  went  over  it,  singing,  as 
he  went,  a  song  which  the  God  taught  him.  As  soon  as  the 
Sun  heard  him,  he  cautioned  all  his  -ervants  and  people  not 
to  answer  to  the  song,  for  they  who  answered  would  he  oI)ligcd 
to  abandon  his  House  and  follow  the  Singer.  Some  there 
were,  however,  who  could  not  resist  the  voice  of  the  charmer, 
and  these  he  brought  back  with  him  to  earth,  together  with 
the  drum  called  Hualiumih  and  the  Tqiiinaztli.  —  Tok<iue- 
M.iDA,  1.  G,  c.  43. 

The  particular  sacrifice  related  in  the  poem  is  described  by 
this  author,  I.  10,  c.  14.  It  is  sufiicient  merely  to  refer  to 
my  authorities  in  such  instances  as  these,  where  no  other 
liberty  has  been  taken  than  that  of  omission. 


She  gathered  herbs,  which,  like  our  poppy,  bear 
The  seed  of  sleep.  — 11.  p.  377,  col.  1. 

The  expression  is  Gower's  : 

Poppy,  which  beareth  the  sede  ofsleepe 
The  Spanish  name  for  the  poppy  is  adormidcra. 


with  the  drums  beating  all  the  while.  After  this  they  take 
care  to  call  it  the  Desert,  or  the  Field  of  the  Spirit.  And  thither 
they  go  in  good  earnest  when  they  are  in  their  enthusiastic  fits, 
and  there  wait  for  inspiration  from  their  pretended  Deity.  In 
the  mean  while,  as  they  do  this  every  year,  it  proves  of  no 
small  advantage  to  them,  for  by  this  means  they  turn  up  all 
their  land  insensibly,  and  it  becomes  abu'iiir*  j  tnvtt  fruitful 

TONTI. 


The  Field  of  the  Spirit.  — lU.  p.  378,  col.  2. 

Every  Spring  the  Akanceas  go  in  a  body  to  some  retired 
place,  and  there  turn  up  a  large  space  of  land,  which  they  do 


Before  these  things  J  was.  —  III.  p.  378,  col.  2. 

"  The  manner  in  which,  he  says,  he  obtained  the  spirit  of 
divination  was  this  :  He  was  admitted  into  the  presence  of  a 
Great  Man,  who  informed  him  that  he  loved,  pitied,  and  de- 
sired to  do  him  good.  It  was  not  in  this  world  that  he  saw  the 
Great  Man,  but  in  a  world  above,  at  a  vast  distance  from  this. 
The  Great  Man,  he  says,  was  clothed  with  the  Day,  yea  with 
the  brightest  Day,  he  ever  saw  ;  a  Day  of  many  years,  yea  of 
everlasting  continuance  !  This  whole  world,  he  says,  was 
drawn  upon  him,  so  that  in  him  the  Eiirth  and  all  things  in  it 
might  be  seen.  I  asked  him  if  rocks,  mountains,  and  seas  were 
drawn  vpon  or  appeared  in  him.'  he  replied,  that  every  thing 
that  was  beautiful  and  lovely  in  the  earth  was  upon  him,  and 
might  be  seen  by  looking  on  him,  as  well  as  if  one  was  on  the 
earth  to  take  a  view  of  them  there.  By  the  side  of  the  Great 
Man,  he  says,  stood  his  Shadow  or  S])irit,  for  he  used  chicUiwg, 
the  word  they  commonly  make  use  of  to  express  that  of  the 
man  which  survives  the  body,  which  word  properly  signifies  a 
shadow.  This  shadow,  he  says,  was  as  lovely  as  the  Man 
himself,  and  filled  all  places,  and  was  most  agreeable  as  well  as 
wonderful  to  him.  Here,  he  says,  he  tarried  some  lime,  and 
was  unspeakably  entertained  and  delighted  with  a  view  of  the 
Great  Man,  of  his  Shadow,  and  of  all  tilings  in  him.  And  what 
is  most  of  all  astonishing,  he  imagines  all  this  to  have  passed 
before  he  was  born  ;  be  never  had  been,  lie  siiys,  in  this  world 
at  that  time,  and  what  confirms  him  in  the  belief  of  tliis  is, 
that  the  Great  Man  told  him,  that  he  must  come  down  to  earth, 
he  born  of  such  a  woman,  meet  with  such  and  such  things,  and 
in  particular  that  he  shouhl  once  in  his  life  \>e  guilty  of  mur- 
der;  at  this  he  was  displeased,  and  told  the  Great  Man  ho 
would  never  murder.  But  the  Great  Man  replied,  I  have  said 
it,  and  it  shall  be  so  ;  which  has  accordingly  happened.  At 
this  time,  he  says,  the  Great  Man  asked  him  what  he  would 
choose  in  life  ;  he  replied,  first  to  he  a  Hunter,  and  afterwards 
to  be  a  Powwoic,  or  Divine  ;  whereupon  the  Great  Man  told 
him,  he  should  have  what  he  desired,  and  that  his  Shadow 
should  go  along  with  him  down  to  earth,  and  be  with  him  for 
ever.  There  was,  he  says,  all  this  time  no  word  spoken 
between  them  ;  the  conference  was  not  carried  on  by  any 
human  language,  but  they  had  a  kind  of  mental  intelligence 
of  each  other's  thoughts,  dispositions,  and  proposals.  After 
this,  he  says,  he  saw  the  Great  Man  no  more,  but  supposes 
he  now  came  down  to  earth  to  be  born  ;  but  the  Shadow 
of  the  Great  Man  still  attended  him,  and  ever  after  con- 
tinued to  appear  to  him  in  dreaius  and  other  ways.  This 
Shadow  used  sometimes  to  direct  him  in  dreams  to  go  to  sncli 
a  place  and  hunt,  assuring  him  he  should  there  meet  with 
success,  which  accordingly  proved  so  ;  and  when  he  had  been 
there  some  time,  the  Sjiirit  would  order  him  to  another  place, 
so  that  he  had  success  in  hunting,  according  to  the  Great 
•Man's  promise,  made  to  him  at  the  lime  of  his  choosing  this 
em[il(iyment. 

"There  were  some  times  when  this  Spirit  came  upon  him 
in  a  special  manner,  and  he  was  full  of  what  he  saw  in  the 
Great  .Man,  and  then,  he  says,  he  was  all  light,  and  not  only 
light  liim.irif,  but  it  was  light  all  around  him,  so  that  he  could 
see  through  men,  and  knew  the  thoughts  of  their  hearts. 
These  depths  of  Satan  I  leave  to  others  to  fathom  or  to  dive 
into  as  they  please,  and  do  not  pretend,  for  my  ovvn  part,  to 
know  what  ideas  to  affix  to  such  teims,  and  cannot  well  guess 
what  conceptions  of  things  these  creatures  have  at  these  times 
when  they  call  themselves  all  light.^'  —  David  Brainefd's 
,/onntal. 

Had  Brainerd  been  a  Jesuit,  his  superiors  would  certainly 
have  thought  him  a  fit  candidate  for  the  crown  of  martyrdom, 
and  worthy  to  be  made  a  Saint. 

He  found  one  of  the  Indian  conjurers  who  seemed  to  have 
something  like  grace  in  him,  only  he  would  not  believe  in  the 
Devil.      "  Of  all  the  sights,"  says  he,  "  I  ever  saw  among 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


421 


tliem,  or  indeed  any  where  else,  none  appeared  so  fiiyliirnl,  or  so 
near  akin  to  what  is  usually  imugined  of  iiitlrnul  powers  !  none 
ever  excited  such  images  otterror  in  my  mind  as  the  appraranee 
of  one,  who  was  a  devout  and  zealous  reforuKr,  or  rather  re- 
storer, of  what  he  supposed  was  the  ancient  religion  of  the 
Indians.  He  made  his  appearance  in  his  ponlitical  garh, 
which  was  a  coat  of  hears'  skins,  dressed  witli  the  hair  on, 
and  hangiiig  down  to  his  toes,  a  pair  of  hear-skin  stockings, 
and  a  great  wooden  face,  painted  the  one  half  black,  and  the 
other  tawny,  about  the  color  of  an  Indian's  skin,  with  an  ex- 
travagant nioutli,  cut  very  much  awry ;  the  face  fastened  to  a 
liear-skin  cap,  which  was  drawn  over  his  liead.  He  advanced 
towards  me  with  the  instrument  in  his  hand  that  he  used  for 
musio  in  his  idolatrous  worship,  which  was  a  dry  tortoise- 
shell,  with  some  corn  in  it,  and  the  neck  of  it  drawn  on  to  a 
piece  of  wood,  Aviiich  made  a  very  convenient  handle.  As 
lie  came  forward,  he  beat  his  tune  with  the  rattle,  and  danced 
with  all  his  might,  but  did  not  suffer  any  part  of  his  body, 
not  so  much  as  his  fingers,  to  he  seen  ;  and  no  man  would 
have  guessed,  by  his  appearance  and  actions,  that  he  could 
have  been  a  human  creature,  if  they  had  not  had  some  inli- 
niation  of  it  otherw  ise.  When  he  came  near  me,  I  could 
iK>t  but  shrink  away  from  him,  although  it  was  then  noon- 
day, and  I  knew  who  it  was,  bis  appearance  and  gestures 
were  so  prodigiously  frightful.  He  had  a  house  consecrated 
to  religious  uses,  with  divers  images  cut  out  upon  the  several 
parts  of  it ;  I  went  in,  and  found  the  ground  beat  almost  as 
hard  as  a  rock,  with  their  frequent  dancing  on  it.  I  discoursed 
with  him  about  Christianity,  and  some  of  my  discourse  he 
seemed  to  like,  but  some  of  it  he  disliked  entirely.  He  told  me 
that  God  had  taught  him  his  religion,  and  that  he  never  would 
turn  from  it,  but  wanted  to  find  some  that  would  join  heartily 
with  bim  in  it;  for  the  Indians,  he  said,  were  grown  very 
degenerate  and  corrupt.  He  had  thought,  he  said,  of  having 
all  his  friends,  and  travelling  abroad,  in  order  to  find  some 
that  would  join  with  him  ;  for  he  believed  God  had  some 
good  people  somewhere,  that  felt  as  he  did.  He  bad  not 
always,  he  said,  felt  as  he  now  did,  but  hail  formerly  been  like 
the  rest  of  the  Indians,  until  about  four  or  five  years  before  that 
time  ;  then,  he  said,  his  heart  was  very  much  distressed,  so  tliat 
he  could  not  live  among  the  Indians,  hut  got  away  into  the 
woods,  and  lived  alone  for  some  months.  At  length,  he  said, 
God  comforted  his  heart,  and  showed  him  what  he  should  do, 
and  since  that  time  he  had  known  God,  and  tried  to  serve 
him  ;  and  loved  all  men,  be  they  who  they  would,  so  as  he 
never  did  before.  He  treated  me  with  uncommon  courtesy, 
and  seemed  to  be  hearty  in  it ;  and  I  was  told  by  the  Indians, 
that  he  opposed  their  drinking  strong  liquor  with  all  his 
power  ;  and  if,  at  any  time,  he  could  not  dissuade  them  from 
it  by  nil  he  could  say,  he  would  leave  them,  and  go  crying 
into  the  woods.  It  was  manifest  he  had  a  set  of  religious 
notions  that  he  had  looked  into  for  himself,  and  not  taken  for 
granted  upon  bare  tradition  ;  and  he  relished  or  disrelished 
whatever  was  spoken  of  a  religious  nature,  according  as  it 
either  agreed  cr  disagreed  with  his  standard.  And  while  I 
was  discoursing,  he  would  sometimes  say,  "  Now,  lliat  T  like  ; 
so  God  has  taught  me  ;  "  and  some  of  his  sentiments  seemed 
very  just.  Yet  he  utterly  denied  the  being  of  a  Devil,  and 
declared  there  was  no  such  creature  known  among  the  Indians 
of  old  times,  whose  religion,  he  sujiposes,  he  was  attempting 
to  revive.  He  likewise  told  me,  that  departed  souls  all  went 
southward,  and  that  the  dift'erenre  between  the  good  and  had 
was  this,  that  the  former  were  admitted  into  a  beautiful  town 
with  spiritual  walls,  or  walls  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  souls  ; 
and  that  the  latter  would  for  ever  hover  round  those  walls,  and 
in  vain  attempt  to  get  in.  He  seemed  to  be  sincere,  honest, 
and  -onscientious  in  his  own  way,  and  according  to  his  own 
religious  notions,  which  was  more  than  I  ever  saw  in  any 
other  Pagan  ;  and  I  perceived  he  was  looked  upon  and  derideil 
by  most  of  the  Indians  as  a  precise  zealot,  who  made  a  need- 
less noise  about  religious  matters.  But  I  must  say,  there  was 
something  in  his  temper  and  disposition,  that  looked  more 
like  true  religion  than  any  thing  I  ever  observed  amongst 
other  heathens."  —  Bbiinerd. 


hatred  of  innovation  wliich  is  to  be  found  in  all  ignorant  per- 
sons, and  in  some  wise  ones. 

"  An  old  country  fellow  in  Livonia  being  condemned,  for 
faults  enormous  enough,  to  lie  along  upon  the  ground  to 
receive  his  punishment,  and  Madam  do  la  Barre,  pitying  his 
almost  decrepit  age,  having  so  far  interceded  for  him,  as  that 
his  corporal  punishment  should  be  changed  into  a  pecuniary 
mulct  of  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  pence  ;  he  thanked  her  for 
her  kindness,  and  said,  that,  for  his  part,  being  an  old  man,  be 
would  not  introduce  any  novelty,  nor  suffer  the  customs  of  Ibe 
country  to  be  altered,  but  was  ready  to  receive  the  chastise- 
ment which  bis  predecessors  had  not  thought  much  to 
undergo;  put  oft"  his  clothes,  laid  himself  upon  the  ground, 
and  received  the  blows  according  to  his  condemnation."  — 
Ambassador's  Travels. 


her  golden  curls, 

Bright  eyes  of  heavenly  blue,  and  thai  clear  slcin, 

IV.  p.  379,  col.  2. 

A  good  description  of  Welsh  beauty  is  given  by  Mr.  Yorke, 
from  one  of  their  original  chronicles,  in  the  account  of  Gru- 
fydd  ah  Cynan  and  his  Queen. 

"Gnifydd,  in  his  jierson,  was  of  moderate  stature,  having 
yellow  hair,  a  round  face,  and  a  fair  and  agreeable  comjdex- 
ion  ;  eyes  rather  large,  light  eyebrows,  a  comely  beard,  a 
round  neck,  white  skin,  strong  liinbs,  long  fingers,  straight 
legs,  and  handsome  feet.  He  was,  moreover,  skilful  in  divers 
languages,  courteous  and  civil  to  his  friends,  fierce  to  liis 
enemies,  and  resolute  in  battle  ;  of  a  passionate  temper,  and 
fertile  imagination.  —  Angharad,  his  wife,  was  an  accom- 
plished person  :  her  hair  was  long,  and  of  a  flaxen  color ; 
her  eyes  large  and  rolling  ;  and  her  features  brilliant  and 
lieantiful.  She  was  tall  and  well  proportioned  ;  her  leg  and 
foot  handsome  ;  her  fingers  long,  and  her  nails  thin  and  trans- 
jiarent.  She  was  good-tempered,  cheerful,  discreet,  witty, 
and  gave  good  advice  as  well  as  alms  to  her  needy  dependents, 
and  never  transgressed  the  laws  of  duty." 


IVius  let  their  blood  be  shed.  —  V.  p.  381,  col.  2. 

This  ceremony  of  declaring  war  with  fire  and  water  is  rep- 
resented by  De  Bry,  in  the  eleventh  print  of  the  description 
of  Florida,  by  Le  Moyne  de  Morgues. 


77*e  Council  Hall.  — \l.  p.  381,  col.  2. 

"  The  town-house,  in  which  are  transacted  all  public  busi- 
ness and  diversions,  is  raised  w  ith  wood  and  covered  over  with 
eailh,  and  has  all  the  appearance  of  a  small  mount,  at  a  littlf 
distance.  It  is  built  in  the  form  of  a  sugar-loaf,  and  large 
enough  to  contain  500  persons,  but  extremely  dark,  haviiij, 
(besides  the  door  which  is  so  narrow  that  but  one  at  a  time  can 
pass,  and  that,  after  much  winding  and  turning)  but  one  small 
aperture  to  let  the  smoke  out,  which  is  so  ill-contrived,  that 
most  of  it  settles  in  the  roof  of  the  house.  Within,  it  has  the 
appearance  of  an  ancient  amphitheatre,  the  seats  being  raised 
one  above  another,  leaving  an  area  in  the  middle,  in  the  centre 
of  which  stands  the  fire  :  the  seats  of  the  head  warriors  are 
nearest  it." — J\remoirs  of  Lieutenant  Henry  Timberlake, 
who  accompanied  the  Cherokee  Indians  to  England,  in  17G2. 


77/c  Feast  of  Souls.  —  VI.  p.  361,  col.  2. 

Lafitau.  Charlevoix.  It  is  a  custom  among  the  Greeks  at 
this  time,  some  twelve  months  or  more,  after  the  death  of  a 
friend,  to  open  the  grave,  collect  the  bones,  have  prayers  read 
over  them,  and  then  re-inter  them. 


Why  should  we  forsake 
The  worship  of  our  fatliers  1  —  III.  p.  379,  col.  1. 

Olearius  mentions  a  very  disinterested   instance   of   that 


Tlie  S,irbncan.  —  VI.  p.  381,  col.  2. 

"  The  children,  at  eight  or  ten  years  old,  arc  very  expert  at 
killing  birds  and  smaller  game  with  a  sarliacan,  or  hollow  cane, 
tbroiigb  which  Ibey  blow  a  small  dart,  whose  weakness  obliges 
them  to  shoot  at  the  eye  of  the  larger  sort  of  prey,  which  they 
seldom  miss."  —  Timberlake. 


422 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


The  pendent  string  of  shells.  —  VI.  p.  381,  col.  2. 

"  The  doors  of  thoir  houses  anil  chamhors  were  full  of  di- 
verse kiiidt'S  ot  shells,  liansin?  loose  by  small  cor<lcs,  that 
being  shaken  by  the  wind  they  make  a  cnrtaine  ratteliii?,  and 
also  a  whisteling  noise,  by  giilheririj,'  their  wind  in  their  hol- 
lowe  places  ;  for  herein  they  have  great  delii,'ht,  and  impute 
this  for  a  goodly  ornament."  —  Pietro  Martire. 


Still  dn  your  shadows  roam  dissati^ed, 
And  to  the.  cries  of  wailing  woe  return 
A  voice  of  lamentation.  —  VI.  p.  ^81,  col.  2. 

"  They  firmly  believe  that  the  Spirits  of  those  who  are 
killed  by  the  enemy,  without  equal  revenge  of  blood,  find  no 
rest,  and  at  night  haunt  the  houses  of  the  tribe  to  which  they 
belonged  ;  but  when  that  kindred  duty  of  retaliation  is  justly 
executed,  they  immediately  get  ease  and  power  to  fly  away." 
—  Adair. 

"  The  answering  voices  heard  from  caves  and  hollow  holes, 
which  the  Latines  call  Eclio,  they  suppose  to  be  the  Soules 
wandering  through  those  places."  —  I'ietro  Martire.  This 
superstition  prevailed  in  Cumana,  where  they  believed  the 
Echo  to  be  the  voice  of  the  Soul,  thus  answering  when  it  was 
called.  —  Herrera,  3,  4,  11. 

The  word  by  which  they  express  the  funeral  wailing  in  one 
of  the  Indian  languages  is  very  characteristic  —  Mdiio  :  which 
bewailing,  says  Roger  Williams,  is  very  solenui  amo[)gst  tliem 
morning  and  evening,  and  sometimes  in  the  night,  they  be- 
wail their  lost  husbands,  wives,  children,  iLC.  ;  sometimes  a 
quarter,  half,  yea,  a  whole  year  and  longer,  if  it  be  for  a  great 
Prince. 


TVie  sltuU  of  some  old  Seer VI.  p.  380,  col.  1. 

On  the  coast  of  Paria  oracles  were  thus  delivered.  —  Tor- 
4UEMADA,  1.  6,  c.  26. 


Their  happy  souls 
Pursue,  in  fields  of  bliss,  the  shadowy  deer,  —  VI.  p.  382,  col.  2. 

This  opinion  of  the  American  Indians  may  be  illustrated  by 
a  very  beautiful  story  from  Carver's  Travels  :  — 

"  Whilst  I  remained  among  them,  a  couple,  whose  tent  was 
adjacent  to  mine,  lost  a  son  of  about  four  years  of  age.  The 
parents  were  so  much  affected  at  the  death  of  their  favorite 
child,  thut  they  pursued  the  usual  testimonies  of  grief  with 
such  uncommon  rigor,  as  through  the  weight  of  sorrow  and 
loss  of  blood  to  occasion  the  death  of  the  f.ilher.  The  wo- 
man, who  had  hitherto  been  inconsolable,  no  sooner  saw  her 
husband  expire,  than  she  dried  up  her  tears,  and  ajipeared 
cheerful  and  resigned.  As  I  knew  not  how  to  account  for 
so  extraordinary  a  transition,  I  took  an  opportunity  to  ask  her 
the  reason  of  it  ;  telling  her,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  should 
have  imagined  the  loss  of  her  husband  would  rather  have 
occasioned  an  increase  of  grief  than  such  a  sudden  diminution 
of  it. 

"  She  informed  me,  that  as  the  child  was  so  young  when  it 
died,  and  unable  to  support  itself  in  the  country  of  spirits, 
both  she  and  her  husband  had  been  apprehensive  that  its  situ- 
ation wo\ild  be  far  from  being  hapj)y  ;  but  no  sooner  did  she 
behold  its  father  depart  for  the  same  place,  who  not  only  loved 
the  chilli  with  the  tenderest  affection,  but  was  a  good  hunter, 
and  would  be  able  to  provide  plentifully  for  its  support,  than 
she  ceased  to  mourn.  She  added,  that  she  now  saw  no  reason 
to  continue  her  tears,  as  the  child,  on  whom  she  doted,  was 
imder  the  care  and  protection  of  a  fond  father,  and  she  had 
only  one  wish  that  remained  ungratified,  which  was  that  of 
being  herself  with  them. 

"  Expression  so  replete  with  tinafTected  tenderness,  and 
sentiments  that  would  have  done  honor  to  a  Roman  matron 
made  an  impression  on  my  mind  greatly  in  favor  of  the  peo- 
ple to  whom  she  belonged,  and  tended  not  a  little  to  counter- 
act the  prejudices  I  had  hitherto  entertained,  in  common  with 
every  other  traveller,  of  Indian  insensibility  anil  want  of 
parental  temlerness.  Her  subsequent  conduct  confirmed  the 
favorable  opinion  I  had  just  imbibed,  and  convinced  me  that, 
notwithstanding  the  apparent  suspension  of  her  grief,  some 


particles  of  that  reluctance  to  be  separated  from  a  beloved 
relation,  which  is  implanted  by  nature  or  custom  in  every 
human  heart,  still  lurked  in  hers.  I  observed  that  she  went 
almost  every  evening  to  the  foot  of  the  tree,  on  a  branch  of 
which  the  bodies  of  her  husband  anil  child  were  laid,  and 
after  cutting  off  a  lock  of  lier  hair,  and  throwing  it  on  the 
ground,  in  a  plaintive  melancholy  song  bemoaned  its  fate.  A 
recapitulation  of  the  actions  he  might  have  performed,  had 
bis  life  been  spared,  appeared  to  be  her  fiivorite  theme  ;  ami 
whilst  she  foretold  the  fame  that  would  have  attended  an  im- 
itation of  his  father's  virtues,  her  grief  seemed  to  besuspemlid. 
'  If  thou  liadst  continued  witli  us,  my  dear  Son,' would  she 
cry,  '  how  well  would  the  bow  have  become  thy  hand,  and 
how  fatal  would  thy  arrows  have  proved  to  the  enemies  of 
our  bands  !  thou  would-it  often  have  drunk  their  blood  ami 
eaten  their  flesh,  and  numerous  slaves  would  have  rewarded 
thy  toils.  With  a  nervous  arm  wouldst  thou  have  seized  the 
wounded  buffalo,  or  have  combated  the  fury  of  the  enraged 
bear.  Thou  wouldst  have  overtaken  the  flying  elk,  anl 
have  kept  pace  on  the  mountain's  brow  with  the  fleetest  deer. 
What  feats  mightst  thou  not  have  |)erformed,hadst  thou  staid 
among  us  till  age  had  given  thee  strength,  and  thy  father  had 
inslrueted  thee  in  every  Indian  accomplishment!'  In  terms 
like  these  did  this  untutored  savage  bewail  the  loss  of  her  son, 
and  frequently  would  she  pass  the  greatest  part  of  the  iiight  in 
the  affectionate  employ." 


TTie  spirit  of  that  noble  blood  which  ran 
From  their  death-wounds,  is  in  the  ruddy  clouds 
Which  go  before  the  Sun,  when  he  comes  forth 
In  glory.  —  VI.  p.  382,  col.  2. 

Among  the  last  comers,  one  Avila,  a  caciqne,  had  great 
authority,  who  understanding  that  Valdivia  affirmed  the  God 
of  the  Christians  was  the  only  Creator  of  all  things,  in  a  great 
rage  cried  out,  he  would  never  allow  Pillan,  the  God  of  the 
Chilenians,  to  be  denied  the  power  of  creatiiig.  Valdivia  in- 
quired of  him  concerning  this  imaginary  deity.  Avila  told 
him  that  his  God  did,  after  death,  tr.inslate  the  chief  men  of 
the  nation  and  soldiers  of  known  bravery  to  places  where  there 
was  dancing  and  drinking,  there  to  live  happy  forever ;  that 
the  blood  of  noble  men  slain  in  battle  was  placed  about  the 
Sun,  and  changed  into  red  clouds,  which  sometimes  adorn  his 
rising.  —  Hist,  of  Paraguay,  &,c.  by  F.  A.  del  Techo. 


0  my  people, 
I,  too,  cculdtell  ye  of  the  former  duT/s.  —  VI.  p.  383,  col.  1. 

The  mode  of  sowing  is  from  the  21st  plate  of  De  Bry  to 
J.  Le  Moyne  de  Moigues ;  the  common  store-houses  are 
mentioned  by  the  same  author;  and  the  ceremony  of  the 
widows  strowing  their  hair  upon  their  husbands'  graves  is 
represented  in  the  19tli  plate. 


TVie  Snake  Idol.  —  VI.  p.  383,  col.  1. 

Snake-worship  was  common  in  Ainerica.  Brrnnl  /)/«:,  p. 3, 
7,  12,5.  The  idol  described  VII.  p.  24(),  somewhat  resenil>le3 
what  the  Spaniards  found  at  Campeche,  which  is  thus  de- 
scribed by  the  oldest  historian  of  the  Discoveries.  "  Our  men 
were  conducted  to  a  broade  crosse-way,  standing  on  the  side  of 
the  towne.  Here  they  shew  them  a  square  stage  or  pulpit 
foure  steppes  high,  partly  of  dummy  bitumen,  and  partly  of 
small  stones,  whereto  the  image  of  a  man  cut  in  marble  was 
joyned  two  foure-fiioted  unknown  beastes  fisteningupon  him, 
which,  like  madde  dogges,  seemed  they  would  tear  the  marlite 
man's  guts  out  of  his  belly.  And  by  the  Imago  stood  a  Ser- 
pent, besmeared  all  with  goare  blond,  devouring  a  niarl)le  lion, 
which  Serpent,  compacted  of  bitumen  and  small  stones  in- 
corporated together,  was  seven  and  fortie  feet  in  length,  and 
as  thicke  as  a  great  oxe.  Next  unto  it  were  three  rafters  or 
stakes  fiistened  to  the  grounde,  which  three  others  crossed 
underpropped  with  stones  ;  in  which  place  they  punish  male- 
factors condemned,  for  proof  whereof  they  saw  innumcrnlile 
broken  arrows,  all  bloudie,  scattered  on  the  grounde,  and  the 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


423 


bones  of  the  dead  cast  iiilu  an  inclosed  vuurtc  neere  unto  it." 
—  PlETEO  Martibe. 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say,  tliat  I  have  attributed 
to  tbe  lloanien  such  nianni'rs  and  superstitions  as,  really  ex- 
is'in^'  uniunj;  the  savage  tribes  ot°  America,  wore  best  suited 
to  the  plan  of  the  poem. 


....  pioushj  a  pirrtion  take 
Of  that  cold  earth,  to  which  forepcr  note 
ConsigH'd,  they  leave  Vieir  fathers,  dust  to  dust. 

VI.  p.  383,  col.  1. 

Charlevoix  assigns  an  unworthy  motive  for  this  remarkable 
custom,  which  may  surely  be  more  naturally  exj>laine<l ;  he 
fays  they  fancy  it  procures  luck  at  play. 


....  from  his  head 
Plucking  tlie  thin  gray  hairs,  he  dealt  them  round. 

VI.  p.  3;i8,  col.  2. 

Some  passages  in  Mr.  Mackenzie's  Travels  suggested  this 
to  me. 

"  Our  guide  called  aloud  to  the  fugitives,  and  entreated 
them  to  stay,  but  without  effect  ;  the  old  man,  however,  did 
not  hesitate  to  approach  us,  and  represented  himself  as  too 
far  advanced  in  life,  and  too  indifferent  about  the  short  time 
he  had  to  remain  in  the  world,  to  be  very  anxious  about 
escaping  from  any  danger  that  threatened  him;  at  the  same 
time  be  pulled  the  gray  hairs  from  his  head  by  handl'ulls  to 
distribute  among  us,  and  implored  our  favor  for  himself  and 
his  relations. 

"  As  we  were  ready  to  embark,  our  new  recruit  was  de- 
sired to  prepare  himself  for  bis  departure,  which  he  would 
have  declined  ;  hut  as  none  of  his  friends  would  take  his  place, 
we  may  be  said,  after  the  delay  of  an  hour,  to  have  compelled 
him  to  embark.  Previous  to  his  departure,  a  ceremony  took 
place,  of  which  I  could  not  learn  the  meaning;  he  cut  off  a 
lock  of  his  hair,  and  having  divided  it  into  three  parts,  he  fas- 
tened one  of  them  to  the  hair  on  the  upper  ))arts  of  his  wile's 
head,  blowing  on  it  three  times  with  all  the  violence  in  his 
power,  and  uttering  certain  words.  The  other  two  he  fas- 
tened with  the  same  formalities  on  the  heads  of  his  two 
children."  —  Mackenzie. 


Forth,  from  the  dark  recesses  of  the  cave. 
The  Serpent  came.  —  VII.  p.  384,  col.  2. 

Of  the  wonderful  docility  of  the  Snake  one  instance  may 
suflice. 

"  An  Indian  belonging  to  the  Menomonie,  having  taken  a 
rattle-snake,  found  means  to  tame  it :  und  when  be  had  done 
this,  treated  it  as  a  Deity ;  calling  it  his  great  Father,  and 
carrying  it  with  him  in  a  box  wherever  he  went.  This  be  bad 
done  for  several  summers,  when  Monsieur  Pinnisance  acci- 
dentally met  with  him  at  this  carryiug-jilace,  just  as  he  was 
setting  offfor  a  winter's  hunt.  The  French  gentleman  was  sur- 
prised one  day  to  see  the  Indian  place  the  box  w  hieh  contained 
bis  God  on  the  ground,  and  opening  the  door,  give  him  his 
liberty  ;  telling  him,  whilst  he  did  it,  to  be  sure  and  return  by 
the  time  he  himself  should  come  back,  which  svas  to  lie  in  the 
month  of  May  following.  As  this  was  but  October,  Jlonsieur 
told  the  Indian,  whose  simplicity  astonislicd  him,  that  he 
fancied  be  might  wait  long  enough,  when  May  arrived,  tor 
the  arrival  of  his  great  Father.  The  Indian  was  so  confident 
of  his  creature's  obedience,  that  he  offered  to  liy  the  French- 
man a  wager  of  two  gallons  of  rum,  that  at  the  time  appointed 
he  would  come  and  crawl  into  his  box.  This  was  a"reed  on 
and  the  second  week  in  May  following  fixed  for  the  determina- 
tion of  the  wager.  At  that  period  they  both  met  there  again  ; 
when  the  Indian  set  down  his  box,  anil  called  for  his  great 
Father.  The  Snake  heard  him  not ;  and  the  lime  beitjg  now 
expired,  he  acknowledged  that  be  had  lost.  However,  with- 
out seeming  to  be  discouraged,  he  offeri'd  tod(iul)le  the  bet  if 
tiis  father  came  not  within  two  days  more.  This  was  fnither 
agreed  on  ;  when,  behold,  on  the  seconil  day,  about  one  o'clock, 
the  snakc!  arrived,  and  of  his  own  accord  crawled  into  the 
box,  which  was  placed  ready  for  him.  'J"he  Fremh  gentle- 
man vouched  for  the  truth  of  this  story,  and,  from  the  accounts 


I  have  often  received  of  the  docility  of  those  creatures,  I  see 
no  reason  to  doubt  its  veracity."  —  Carveii's  TraviL-t. 

We  have  not  taken  animals  enough  into  alliance  with  us. 
In  one  of  the  most  interesting  families  which  it  was  ever  my 
good  fortune  to  visit,  I  saw  a  child  suckled  by  a  goat.  The 
gull  should  be  taught  to  catch  fish  for  us  in  the  sea,  the  otter 
in  fresli  water.  The  more  spiders  there  were  in  the  stable, 
the  less  would  the  horses  sorter  from  the  flies.  The  great 
American  fire-Hy  should  be  imported  into  Spain  to  catch  mus- 
quitoes.  Snakes  would  make  good  mousers  ;  but  one  favorite 
mouse  should  be  kcjil  to  rid  the  house  of  cockroaches.  The 
toad  is  an  excellent  flycatcher,  and  in  hot  countries  a  reward 
should  be  offered  to  the  man  who  could  discover  what  insect 
feeds  upon  fleas  ;  for,  say  the  Spaniards,  no  ay  criatura  tan  U 
bre,  a  quicn  falta  su  Alguacil. 


that  huge  King 

Of  Basan,  hugest  of  the  Anakim.  —  VII.  p.  38-1,  col.  2. 

Og,  the  King  of  Basan,  was  the  largest  man  that  ever 
lived:  all  Giants,  Titans,  and  Ogers  are  but  dwarfs  to  him; 
Garagantua  himself  is  no  more  compared  to  Og,  than  T<mi 
ThumI)  is  to  Garagantua.  For  thus  say  the  Rabbis  ;  Moses 
chose  out  twelve  Chiefs,  and  advanced  with  them  till  they 
approached  the  land  of  Canaan,  where  Jericho  was,  and  there 
he  sent  those  chiefs  that  they  might  spy  out  the  land  for  him. 
One  of  the  Giants  met  them  ;  he  was  called  Og  the  son  of 
Anak,  and  the  height  of  his  stature  was  twenty-three  thou- 
sand and  thirty-three  cubits.  Now  Og  used  to  catch  tlio 
clouds  and  draw  them  towards  him  and  drink  their  waters  ; 
arid  he  used  to  take  the  fishes  out  of  the  depths  of  the  sen, 
and  toast  them  against  the  orb  of  the  Sun  and  cat  them.  It  is 
related  of  him  by  tradition,  that  in  the  time  of  the  deluge  ho 
went  to  Noah  and  said  to  him.  Take  me  with  thee  in  the 
Ark  ;  but  Noah  made  answer.  Depart  from  me,  O  thou  enemy 
of  God  !  And  when  the  water  covered  the  highest  mountains 
of  the  earth,  it  did  not  reach  to  Og's  knees.  Og  lived  three 
thousand  years,  and  then  God  destroyed  him  by  the  hand  of 
Moses.  For  when  the  army  of  Moses  covered  a  space  of  nine 
miles,  Og  came  and  looked  at  it,  and  reached  out  his  band  to 
a  mountain,  and  cut  from  it  a  stone  so  wide,  that  it  could 
have  covered  the  whole  army,  and  he  put  it  upon  his  head, 
that  he  might  throw  it  upon  them.  But  God  sent  a  lapwing, 
who  made  a  hole  through  the  stone  with  his  bill  so  that  it 
slipt  over  his  head,  and  hung  round  his  neck  like  a  necklace, 
and  he  was  borne  down  to  the  ground  by  its  weight.  Then 
Moses  ran  to  him  ;  Moses  was  himself  ten  cubits  in  stature, 
and  he  took  a  spear  ten  cubits  long,  and  threw  it  up  ten  cu- 
bits high,  and  yet  it  only  reached  the  heel  of  Og,  who  was 
lying  prostrate,  and  thus  be  slew  him.  And  then  came  a 
great  multitude  with  scythes,  and  cut  off  his  head,  and  when 
he  was  dead  his  body  lay  for  a  whole  year,  reaching  as  far  as 
the  river  Nile  in  Egypt.  His  mother's  name  was  Enac,  one 
of  the  daughters  of  Adam,  and  she  was  the  first  harlot  ;  her 
fingers  were  two  cubits  long,  and  upon  every  finger  she  had 
two  sharp  nails,  like  two  sickles.  But  because  she  was  a 
harlot,  God  sent  against  her  lions  as  big  as  elephants,  and 
wolves  as  big  as  camels,  and  eagles  as  big  as  asses,  and  they 
killed  her  and  eat  her. 

V\'hen  Og  met  the  spies  who  were  sent  by  Moses,  he  took 
them  all  twelve  in  his  hand  and  pqt  them  in  his  wallet  ;  and 
carried  them  to  his  wife  and  said  to  her.  Look,  I  beseech  yon, 
at  these  men  who  want  to  fight  with  us  !  and  he  emptied 
them  out  before  her,  and  asked  her  if  he  should  tread  upon 
tliem  ;  but  she  said.  Let  them  go  and  tell  their  people  what 
they  have  seen.  When  they  were  got  out  they  said  to  each 
other.  If  we  should  tell  these  things  to  the  children  of  Israel 
they  would  forsake  Moses  ;  let  us  therefore  relate  w  hat  we 
have  seen  only  to  Moses  and  Aaron.  And  they  took  with 
them  one  grape  stone  from  the  grapes  of  that  country,  and  it 
was  as  much  as  a  camel  could  carry.  And  they  began  to  ad- 
vise the  people  that  they  should  not  go  to  war,  saying  what 
they  had  seen  ;  but  two  of  them,  namely,  Caleb  the  son  of 
Jepbunneh,  and  Joshua  the  son  of  Nun,  concealed  it Ma- 

RACCI. 

Even  if  the  grapes  had  not  been  proportioned  to  Og's  capa- 
cious mouth,  the  Rabbis  would  not  have  let  him  starve 
There  were  Behemoths  for  him  to  roast  whole ;  ai'.d  Bar-Cha 


424 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


n-d  g;iw  a  fish  to  wliich  VVliaks  are  but  Bprals,  and  Leviatliaii 
liul  u  licrrin^'.  "  Wo  sinv  a  (isli,"  suys  lie,  "into  whose  nos- 
trils the  worm  called  Tinna  had  got  and  killed  it ;  and  it  was 
east  upon  the  shore  with  such  force  by  the  sea,  that  it  over- 
threw sixty  maritime  cities  :  sixty  other  cities  fed  upon  its 
flesh,  and  what  they  left  was  salted  for  the  tbod  of  sixty  cities 
more." 

From  one  of  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  they  filled  thirty  barrels 
of  oil.  A  year  or  two  afterwards,  as  we  past  by  the  same 
pfiee,  wo  saw  men  cutting  up  his  bones,  with  which  the  same 
cities  were  built  up  again.  —  Maracci. 


Arrows,  round  witose  heads  dry  tinu  was  twined, 
IVitk  pine-gum  dipped.  —  VII.  p.  385,  col.  1 . 

This  mode  of  offence  has  been  adopted  wherever  bows  and 
arrows  were  in  use.  Do  Bry  represents  it  in  the  31st  plate  to 
Le  Jloyne  de  Morgues. 

"  The  Mcdes  poisoned  their  arrows  with  a  bituminous 
liquor  called  naphta,  whereof  there  was  great  plenty  in  Media, 
Persia,  and  Assyria.  The  arrow,  being  steeped  in  it,  and 
shot  from  a  slack  bow,  (for  swift  and  violent  motion  took  ofl' 
from  its  virtue,)  burnt  the  flesh  wilh  such  violence,  that  water 
rather  increased  than  e.\tiuguished  the  malignant  flame:  dust 
alone  could  put  a  stop  to  it,  and,  in  some  degree,  allay  the 
unspeakable  pain  it  occasioned." —  Unicersal  History. 


His  hands  transfix' d, 
And  lacerate  with  the  body's  pendent  weight. 

VIII.  p.3SG,  col.  2. 

Laccras  toto  memI)rorum  pondere  palmas. 

Wambkum  Constantinus,  sivc  Idolulatria  Dcbellata. 


J^otfor  your  lots  on  earth, 
Menial  or  mighty,  slave  or  highly-born. 
Shall  ye  be  judged  hereafter.  —  VIII.  p.  386,  col.  2. 

They  are  informed  in  some  places  that  the  Kings  and 
Noblemen  have  immortal  souls,  and  believe  that  the  souls  of 
the  rest  jicrish  together  with  their  bodies,  except  the  familiar 
friends  of  the  Princes  themselves,  and  those  only  who  sufler 
themselves  to  be  buried  alive  together  with  their  masters' 
funerals  :  for  their  ancestors  have  left  them  so  persuaded, 
that  the  souls  of  Kings,  deprived  of  their  corporeal  clothing, 
joyfully  walk  to  perpetual  delights  through  iileasant  places 
always  green,  eating,  drinking,  and  giving  themselves  to 
sports,  and  dancing  with  women  after  their  old  manner  while 
they  were  living,  and  this  they  hold  for  a  certain  truth. 
Thereupon  many,  striving  with  a  kind  of  emulation,  cast 
themselves  headlong  into  the  sepulchres  of  their  Lords, 
which,  if  his  familiar  friends  defer  to  do,  they  think  their  souls 
become  temporary  instead  of  eternal.  —  Pietro  Kartire. 

When  I  was  upon  the  Sierras  of  Guaturo,  says  Oviedo,  and 
had  taken  prisoner  the  Cacique  of  the  Province  who  hail 
rebelled,  I  asked  him  whose  graves  were  those  which  wore  in 
a  house  of  his  ;  and  ho  told  me,  of  some  Indians  who  had 
killed  themselves  when  the  Caci<iuo  his  father  died.  But 
because  they  often  used  to  bury  a  quantily  of  wrought  gold 
with  them,  I  had  two  of  the  graves  opened,  and  found  in  Ihem 
a  small  ciuantity  of  maize,  and  a  small  instrument.  AVIien  I 
inquired  the  reason  of  this,  the  Cacique  and  his  Indians  r  ;- 
plied,  that  they  who  were  buried  there  were  laborers,  who 
had  been  well  skilled  in  sowing  corn  and  in  gathering  it  in, 
and  were  his  and  his  father's  servants,  who,  that  their  souls 
might  not  die  with  their  bodies,  had  slain  themselves  njion  his 
father's  death,  and  that  maize  with  the  tools  was  laid  there 
with  them  that  they  might  sow  it  in  heaven.  In  reply  to  this, 
I  bade  them  see  how  the  Tuyra  had  deceived  them,  and  that 
nil  he  had  told  them  was  a  lie  :  for  though  they  had  long  been 
dead,  they  had  never  fetched  the  maize,  which  was  now  rotten 
and  good  for  nothing,  so  that  they  had  sown  nothing  in  heaven. 
But  the  Cacicpie  answered,  that  was  because  they  found  plenty 
there,  and  did  not  want  it.  —  Rrlarion  sumaria  de  la  Ilisioria 
J\ratural  de  las  Indias,  par  cl  Cfl;«£areGo.\ZALO  Fer.nandez  de 

UVIEDO 


The  Tlascallaus   believed  that  the  souls   of  Chiefs   and 
Princes  became  clouds,  or  beautiful  birds,  or  precious  stones 
whereas  those  of  the  common  jicople  would  pass  into  beetles, 
rats,  mice,  weasels,  and   all   vile   and  stinking  animals.— 
ToEliUEMADA,  L.  6,  c.  47. 


Cttdog,  Deiniol, 
Padam,  and  Teilo.  —  VIII.  p.  387,  col.  1. 

The  two  first  of  these  Saints  with  Madog  Morvyn,  are 
called  the  three  holy  bachelors  of  the  Isle  of  Britain.  Cadog 
the  Wise  was  a  Bard  who  flourished  in  the  sixth  century. 
He  is  one  of  the  three  jirotectors  of  innocence  ;  his  jiroteclion 
was  through  the  church  law  :  Bias's  by  the  conwnon  law  ;  and 
Pedrogyl's  by  the  law  of  arms  ;  these  three  were  also  called 
the  just  Knights  of  the  Court  of  Arthur.  Cadog  was  the  first 
of  whom  there  is  any  account,  who  collected  the  British 
Proverbs.  There  is  a  church  dedicated  to  him  in  Caerniar- 
thenshire,  and  two  in  Monmouthshire.  Deiniol  has  chuiches 
dedicated  to  him  in  Monmouth,  Cardigan,  and  Peud)roke- 
shires.  In  the  year  525  he  founded  a  coll.ge  at  Bangor, 
where  ho  was  Abbot,  and  when  it  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of 
Bishopric  he  was  the  first  Bishop.  Padarn  and  Teilo  rank 
with  Dewi  or  David,  as  the  three  blessed  Visitors,  lor  they 
went  about  preaching  the  faith  to  all  degrees  of  peoiile,  not 
only  without  reward,  hut  themselves  alleviating  the  distresses 
of  the  poor  as  far  as  their  means  extended.  Padarn  found  a 
congregation  at  a  ]dace  called  from  him  Llanbadarn  A'a:.r, 
where  he  had  the  title  of  Archbishop.  Teilo  established  the 
college  at  Llandafl';  the  many  places  called  I.landeilo  were  .-o 
named  in  honor  of  him.  He  and  Cadog  and  David  were  the 
three  canonical  Saints  of  Britain.  —  Cambrian  Biogropfuj. 

Teilo,  or  Teliau,  as  he  is  called  by  David  Williams,  look  an 
active  part  against  the  heresy  of  Pelagius,  the  great  Welsh- 
man. "Such  was  the  lustre  of  his  zeal,  that  by  soiiietiiiag 
like  a  pun  on  his  name,  he  was  compared  to  the  sun  and  called 
HA(ot)  ;  and  when  slain  at  the  altar, devotees  contended  with 
so  much  virulence  for  the  reputation  of  possessing  his  body, 
that  the  Priests,  to  avoid  scandalous  divisions,  found  three 
miraculous  bodies  of  the  Saint,  as  similar,  according  to  the 
phrase  used  on  the  occasion,  as  one  egg  to  another:  and 
miracles  were  equally  performed  at  the  tombs  of  all  the  three." 
D.  Williams's  Htst.  of  Monmouthshire. 

This  miracle  is  claimed  by  some  Agiologists  for  St.  Bal- 
dred,  Confessour  ;  "  whose  memory  in  ancient  tyines  hath  byn 
very  famous  in  the  kingdome  of  Scotland.  For  that  he  hav- 
ing sometymes  preached  to  the  people  of  three  viUages 
ncere  adjoyning  one  to  the  other  in  Scotland,  called  AMliam, 
Tininghain,  and  Preston,  was  so  holy  a  man  of  life,  that  when 
he  was  dead,  the  people  of  ech  vill.agc  contended  one  wilh 
another  which  of  thrin  should  have  his  body  ;  in  so  much, 
that  at  last,  thoy  not  agreeing  thereabout,  took  amies,  and 
each  of  tlicni  sought  by  force  to  enjoy  the  same.  And  whin 
the  matter  came  to  issue,  the  said  sacred  body  was  found  i.ll 
whole  in  three  ilistinct  places  of  the  house  where  he  dird  ;  so 
as  the  people  of  each  village  coming  thither,  and  carrying  (lie 
same  away,  placed  it  in  their  churches,  and  kept  it  wilh  great 
honor  and  veneration  for  the  miracles  that  at  each  place  it 
[ilcasnd  God  to  worke."  —  English  MartyroUigy. 

The  story  may  be  as  true  of  the  one  Saint  as  of  the  other,  a 
solution  in  which  Romanists  and  Protestants  will  agree. 
Godwin  (in  Catal.  Ep.  Landar.)  says  that  the  Churches  \\  hich 
contended  for  the  Welsh  Saint,  were  Pennalum,  the  burial- 
place  of  his  (ainily,  Llandeilo  Vawr,  where  he  died,  and  Llan- 
dafl^, where  he  had  been  Bishop  ;  and  he  adds,  in  honor  of  Ms 
own  church,  that  by  frequent  miracles  at  his  tomb  it  was  cer- 
tain Llandaff  possessed  the  true  body.  Yet  in  such  a  case  an 
this  the  fac  simile  might  have  been  not  unreasonably  deemed 
more  curious  than  the  original. 

The  polypus's  power  of  producing  as  many  heads,  legs,  and 
arms  as  were  wanted,  has  been  possessed  by  all  the  great 
Saints.' 

St.  Teilo  left  his  ow^n  country  for  a  time  because  it  was  in- 
fested by  an  infectious  disorder,  called  the  Yellow  Plagui, 
which  attacked  both  men  and  beasts.  —  Capgrave,quot(d  ih 
Cressifs  Church  History  of  Brittany. 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


425 


David.  — yill.  p.  387,  col.  1. 

'Mougst  Ilatterill'3  lofty  hills,  that  with  the  clouds  are  ciown'd, 

The  valliy  Ewias  lies,  iininuroil  so  deep  find  round, 

As  they  helow  who  see  the  mountains  rise  so  hi;^h, 

Rli^'ht  tliink  the  strag^'ling  lierds  were  grazing  in  the  sky  : 

Whicli  in  it  sucli  a  sliape  of  solitude  dotli  bear. 

As  Nature  at  tlie  first  appointed  it  for  prayer. 

Wliere  in  an  aged  cell,  with  moss  and  ivy  grown. 

In  which  not  to  this  day  tlie  Sun  hath  ever  shone, 

Tliat  reverend  British  Saint,  in  zealous  ages  past. 

To  contemplation  lived  ;  and  did  so  truly  fast. 

As  he  did  only  drink  what  crystal  Hodney  yields. 

And  fed  upon  the  leeks  he  gathered  in  the  fields  ; 

In  memory  of  whom,  in  each  revolving  year. 

The  Welshmen  on  his  day  that  sacred  herb  do  wear. 


Of  all  the  holy  men  whose  fame  so  fresh  remains, 
To  whom  the  Britons  built  so  many  sumptuous  fanes, 
This  saint  before  the  rest  their  patron  still  they  hcdd. 
Whose  birth  their  ancient  bards  to  Cambria  long  foretold  ; 
And  seated  here  a  see,  his  bishopric  of  yore. 
Upon  the  farthest  point  of  this  unfruitful  shore. 
Selected  by  himself,  that  far  from  all  resort 
With  contemplation  seemed  most  fitly  to  comport, 
That  void  of  all  delight,  cold,  barren,  bleak,  and  dry. 
No  pleasure  might  allure,  nor  steal  the  wandering  eye. 

Drayton. 

"  A.  D.  462.  It  happened  on  a  day,  as  Gildas  was  in  a 
sermon,  (Reader,  whether  smiling  or  frowning,  forgive  the 
digression,)  a  Nunno  big  with  child  came  into  the  congregation, 
wliereat  the  preacher  presently  was  struck  dumb,  (would  not  a 
maid's  cliild  amaze  any  man.')  and  could  [iroceed  no  farther. 
Afterwards  be  gave  this  reason  for  his  silence,  because  that 
Virgin  bare  in  her  body  an  infant  of  such  signal  sanctity  as  far 
transcended  him.  Tlius,  as  lesser  load  stones  are  reported  to 
lose  their  virtue  in  the  presence  of  those  that  are  bigger,  so 
(iihlas  was  silenced  at  the  approach  of  the  Welsli  St.  David, 
(being  then  but  Hans  in  Kelder,)  tbongli  afterwards,  like 
Zachary,  he  recovered  his  speech  again."  —  Fuller's  Church 
Ifi.-itnnj  of  Qrr.at  Britain. 

"  David  one  day  was  preaching  in  an  open  field  to  the  mul- 
titude, and  could  not  be  well  seen  because  of  the  concourse, 
(tliougl)  they  make  him  four  cubits  high,  a  man  and  a  half  in 
stature,)  when  beliold  tlie  Earth  whereon  he  stood,  officiously 
heaving  itself  up,  mounted  him  up  to  a  competent  visibility 
atiove  all  his  audience.  Whereas  our  Savior  himself,  when 
he  taught  the  people,  was  pleased  to  choose  a  mountain,  mak- 
ing use  of  the  advantage  of  Nature  without  improving  his 
miraculous  power."  —  Fuller 

David  is  indebted  to  the  Romancers  for  his  fame  as  a 
Champion  of  Christendom  :  how  he  came  by  his  leek  is  a 
question  which  the  Antiquarians  have  not  determined.  I  am 
bound  to  make  grateful  mention  of  St.  David,  having  in  my 
yonnger  days  been  benefited  by  his  merits  at  Westminster, 
where  the  first  of  March  is  an  early  play. 


But  I,  too,  here  upon  this  barbarous  land. 

Like  Elmur  and  tike  .^ronan  of  old. 

Must  lift  the  ruddy  spear.  —  IX.  p.  387,  col.  2. 

Elmur,  Cynliaval,  and  Avaon  the  son  of  Taliosin,  all  de- 
serted the  Bardic  prini-iples  to  bear  arms,  and  were  called  the 
three  Chiefs  like  Bulls  in  conflict.  Avaon,  Aronan,  and  Dy- 
gynnclw  are  the  three  Bards  of  the  ruddy  spear. 


for  this  the  day. 

When  to  hisfaror'il  city  he  vourhaafrs 
His  annual  presence.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  I 

Ksta  festa,  d  espera  de  rst.os  diabolicos  Dioses,  era  miiy 
snlcmne,  y  muy  creitla  de  estas  barharns  nncionrs ;  porque  el 
Drmonio  las  tenia  prrsumlidos  d  scr  vrrdail  que  entonces  venian  de 
otras  pari'^s,  y  ijuerian  descansar  ulli  en  aqurl  dia  de  sn  trran 
fiesta.     La  causa  de  tcnerlu  tan  creido  estos  cicgos  y  desatinados 

54 


hambres,  era  purque  Ics  duba  sehal  de  su  llrirada,  en  forma  visible, 
aunqae  por  invisible  mudo,  en  esta  manera.  A(pie.lla  noctie,  que 
era  la  viirilia  de  el  festival  dia,  en  la  qnal  el  Denionio  les  tcnta 
pcrsuadido  que  llegaba  el  Dios  mancebo  'J'ezcatlipuca,  puniau  una 
eslira  que  llaniabau  pitate,  en  el  suelo  y  entrada  de  la  Copilla 
Mayor  dr.  su  abominable  Teniplo ;  sobre  la  qual  cernian  y  pol- 
vureuhan  una  poca  de  harina  de,  maiz,  que  es  su  Irigo  ;  y  csto  era 
al  principio  dc  la  noche,  la  qual  pasaba  el  Suuw  Sacerdole  en  vela, 
iendo,  y  viniendo  muy  d  vienudo  d  vcr  la  cstrra,  si  por  ventura 
hallaba  impresa,  en  la  harina  alguna  huella  da  cl  Dios  que  nguar- 
dabun.  Ya  las  mas  horas  pasadas  de  la  noche,  {que  urdinaria- 
mente  era  de  media  noche  abajo,)  veia  la  sehal  de  su  llegada,  que 
era  una  pisada,  d  huella  de  pie  humano  estampada,  y  seholada  en 
la  harina.  Luegn  que  el  Satrupa  y  Sacerdote  la  veia  comeniuba  d 
decir  d  voces,  "  la  llego  nuestro  Dios !  Ya  llego  nucstro  Dios ! 
nnestro  Oran  Dios  es  venido !  "  A  esta  vol  ucudia  todo  el 
Pueblo,  que  yd  la  estuhan  aguardando,  unos  en  los  Tnnplos,  y 
otros en sus  casus,  velando  ;  y  luego  sonaban  todos  los  instrunientos 
musicos,  y  conienzaban  grandes  regocijos,  y  bailaban,  y  cantaban, 
muy  concertadamente,  con  mucha  solemnidad  y  conlcnto,  crlebrun 
do  la  venida  y  llrgada  de  sufalso  y  mentiroso  Dios.  Y procedian 
en  su  bade  hasta  el  dia,  en  todo  el  qual  crcian  que  llcjahan  todos 
los  demds. — Porque  fingian  ser  unos  mas  moios  que  otros,  y 
trner  unos  mas  vigor  yfuerzas  que  otros,  ypor  esta  razon  no  ser 
d  una  su  llegada,  sino  en  diferentes  tiempos. 

TOR^UEMADA,  L.  X.   C.  24. 

Tezcalipoca  was  believed  to  arrive  first,  because  he  was  the 
youngest  of  the  Gods,  and  never  waxed  old:  Telpuctli,  the 
Youth,  was  one  of  his  titles.  On  the  night  of  his  arrival  a 
general  carousal  took  place,  in  which  it  was  the  custom,  par- 
ticularly for  old  people,  men  and  women  alike,  to  drink  im- 
moderately ;  for  they  said  the  liquor  wliich  they  drank  would 
go  to  wash  the  feet  of  the  God,  after  his  journey.  And  I, 
says  the  Franciscan  provincial,  —  who,  if  he  had  been  a  phi- 
losopher, would  perhaps  have  not  written  a  book  at  all,  or 
certainly  not  so  interesting  a  one,  —  I  say,  that  this  is  a  great 
mistake,  and  the  truth  is,  that  they  washed  their  own  stripes 
and  filled  them  with  liquor,  which  made  them  merry,  and  the 
fumes  got  up  into  their  heads  and  overset  them  ;  with  which 
fall  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  they  fell  into  such  errors 
and  foolishness. 

In  the  reign  of  Rajah  Chundrunund,  a  Brahmin  woman 
came  to  sue  for  justice,  against  the  unknown  murderer  of  her 
husband.  The  Rajah  demanded,  whether  she  had  reason  to 
suspect  any  one  of  the  deed.  She  replied,  that  her  husband 
was  a  man  of  a  very  fair  character,  and  that  she  had  never 
known  any  one  bear  him  ill-will,  excepting  one  man,  with 
whom  he  was  continually  disputing  upon  points  of  philosophy. 
This  person  being  brought  before  the  Rajah,  denied  the  charge  ; 
and  the  wife  was  not  satisfied  with  the  cause  being  determined 
by  the  ordeal  trial,  from  the  dread  that  he  might  escape  by 
means  of  witchcraft.  The  Rajah  was  so  much  perplexid  how 
to  decide  upon  the  case,  that  he  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep. 
.\t  length  he  saw  in  a  dream  a  sage,  who  taught  him  an  in- 
cantation, which  he  should  utter  over  a  heap  of  rice  flour,  and 
then  scatter  the  meal  upon  the  ground,  and  direct  the  sus- 
pected person  to  walk  over  it;  if  there  appeared  upon  the 
ineal  the  impression  of  the  feet  of  two  persons,  then  tlie  ac- 
cused was  certainly  the  murderer.  When  the  Rajah  awoke, 
lie  did  as  the  vision  had  commanded  him,  and  the  Bralimin 
was  proved  guilty.  — Ayeen-Akbery. 

It  was  thought  that  Tezca  often  visited  the  Mexicans,  but 
except  on  this  occasion,  he  always  came  incognito.  A  stone 
seat  wa.s  placed  at  every  crossing,  or  division,  of  a  street, 
called  Mnmoztli  or  hhialoca,  wherehe  is  expected;  and  this  was 
continually  hung  with  fresh  garlands  and  green  boughs,  that 
he  might  rest  there.  —  Torquemada,  1.  6,  c.  20. 


MexitU,  woman-born  — IX.  p.  388,  col.  1. 

The  history  of  Mexitli's  birth  is  related  in  the  Poem,  Part 
IT.  Sect.  XXr.  Though  the  Mexicans  took  their  name  from 
him,  be  is  more  usually  called  Huitzilupuchtli,  or  corruptly 
Vilzliputzli.  In  conse(|uence  of  the  vengeance,  which  he  ex- 
ercised as  soon  as  born,  ho  was  styled  Tetzahuitl  Terror,  and 
Tetzauhteotl,  the  Terrible  God.  —  Clavigero.  Tohciuema 
DA,  1.  C,  c.  21. 


426 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN, 


Qaetialcoal.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  1. 

God  of  the  Winds  :  his  temple  was  circular,  "  for  even  as 
the  ayro  goeth  rounde  about  the  heavens,  even  for  that  con- 
sidcratioii  llioy  made  his  temple  round.  The  entrance  of  that 
temple  liad  a  dori'  made  lyke  unto  the  mouth  of  a  serpent,  and 
was  paynted  with  foule  anddivilish  gestures,  with  groat  teeth 
and  guiniiu's  wrought,  which  was  a  thing  to  feare  tliose  that 
should  enter  thereat,  and  especially  the  Christians,  unto 
whom  it  represented  very  Hell  with  tliat  ougly  face  and  mon- 
sterous  teetli."  —  Gomara. 

Pome  history  is  blended  with  fable  in  the  legend  of  Quet- 
zalcohnatl,  for  such  is  the  vglyugraphy  of  his  name,  lie  was 
chief  of  a  band  of  strangers  who  landed  at  Panuco,  coming 
from  the  North  :  their  dress  was  black,  long,  and  loose,  like 
the  Turkish  dress,  or  the  Cassack,  says  Tor(iuem;i(la,  open 
before,  without  hood  or  capo,  the  sleeves  full,  but  not  reach- 
ing quite  to  the  elbow  ;  such  dresses  were,  even  in  liis  time, 
used  by  the  natives  in  some  of  their  dances,  in  memory  of 
this  event.  Their  leader  was  a  white  man,  florid,  an  !  having 
a  large  beard.  At  first  he  settled  in  Tullan,  but  I  ft  that 
province  in  consequence  of  the  vices  of  its  Lords  llnrmacand 
Tezcalipoca,  and  removed  to  Cholullan.  He  tauglit  the  na- 
tives to  cut  the  green  stones,  called  chalchihuites,  which  were 
so  highly  valued,  and  to  work  silver  and  gold.  Every  thing 
flourished  in  his  reign  ;  the  head  of  maize  was  a  mini's  load, 
and  the  cotton  grew  of  all  colors  ;  ho  had  one  palace  of  em- 
eralds, another  of  silver,  another  of  shells,  one  of  all  I.  inds  of 
wood,  one  of  turquoises,  and  one  of  feathers  ;  his  commands 
were  proclaimed  by  a  cryer  from  the  Sierra  of  Tzal/itepec, 
near  the  city  of  Tulla,  and  were  heard  as  far  as  the  se  i  coast, 
and  for  more  than  a  hundred  leagues  round.  Fr.  Bernardino 
de  Sahagun  heard  such  a  voice  once  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
far  exceeding  the  power  of  any  human  voice  :  lie  was  told  that 
it  was  to  summon  the  laborer  to  the  maizes  fields  ;  but  both 
he  and  Torquemada  believed  it  was  the  Devil's  doing.  Not- 
withstanding his  power,  Cluetzalcoal  was  driven  out  by  Tez- 
calipoca and  Huemac  :  before  he  departed  he  burnt  or  buried 
all  his  treasures,  converted  the  cocoa-trees  into  otbi^rs  of  less 
worth,  and  sent  otf  all  the  sweet  singing  birds,  who  had  before 
abounded,  to  go  before  him  to  Tlapallan,  the  land  of  the  Sun, 
whither  he  himself  had  been  summoned.  The  Indians  always 
thought  he  would  return,  and  when  first  they  saw  the  Span- 
ish ships,  thought  he  was  come  in  these  moving  temides. 
They  worshipped  him,  for  the  useful  arts  which  he  had  taught, 
fur  the  tranquillity  they  had  enjoyed  under  his  government, 
and  because  he  never  suffered  blood  to  be  shed  in  sacrifice, 
but  ordered  bread  and  flowers,  and  incense  to  be  offered  up 
instead.  —  Tohciuemada,  I.  3,  c.  7  ;  1.  6,  c.  24. 

Some  authors  liave  supjiosed  that  these  strangers  came  from 
Ireland,  because  they  scarred  their  faces  and  eat  human  flesh  : 
this  is  no  compliment  to  the  Irish,  and  certainly  does  not  ac- 
cord witli  the  legend.  Others  that  they  were  Carthaginians, 
because  New  Spain  was  called  Anahuace,  and  the  Phoeni- 
cians were  children  of  Anak.  That  the  Carthaginians  peopled 
America,  is  the  more  likely,  say  they,  because  they  bored 
their  ears,  and  so  did  the  Incas  of  Peru.  One  of  these  princes, 
in  process  of  time,  says  Garcilasso,  being  willing  to  enlarge 
the  privileges  of  his  people,  gave  tliem  permission  to  bore 
their  ears  also, —  but  not  so  wide  as  the  Incas. 

This  much  may  legitimately  be  deduced  from  the  legend, 
that  New  Spain,  as  well  as  Peru,  was  civilized  by  a  foreign 
adventurer,  who,  it  seems,  attempted  to  destroy  the  sangui- 
nary superstition  of  the  country,  but  was  himself  driven  out 
by  the  priests. 


TValoc.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  1. 

God  of  the  Waters  :  he  is  mrnlioned  more  particularly  in 
Section  XII.  Tlalocatecuhtli,  the  Lord  of  Piiradisc,  as  he  is 
also  called,  was  the  oldest  of  the  country  Gods.  His  Image 
was  that  of  a  man  sitting  on  a  square  scat,  with  a  vessel  be- 
fore him,  in  which  a  specimen  of  all  the  different  grains  and 
fruit  seeds  in  the  country  was  to  be  offered  ;  it  was  a  sort  of 
pumice  stone,  and,  according  to  tradition,  had  been  found 
upon  the  mountains.  One  of  the  Kings  of  Tetzcuco  ordered 
a  better  Iilol  to  be  made,  which  was  destroyed  by  lightning, 
and  the  original  one  in  consequence  replaced  with  fear  and 
trembling.     As  one  of  the  arms  had  been  broken  in  removing, 


it  was  fistened  with  three  large  golden  nails  ;  but  in  the  time 
of  the  first  Bishop  Znmarraga,  the  golden  nails  were  taken 
away  and  the  idol  destroyed. 

Tlaloc  rlwelt  among  the  mountains,  where  he  collected  the 
vapors  and  dispensed  them  in  rain  and  dew.  A  number  of 
inferior  Deities  were  under  his  command. 


TIalala.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  2. 

Some  of  my  readers  will  stumble  at  this  name  ;  but  to  those 
who  wouhl  accuse  me  of  designing  to  HutletiUitifij  the  lan- 
guage by  introducing  one  of  the  barbarous  clacks,  1  must  re- 
ply, that  the  sound  is  Grecian.  The  writers  who  have  sup- 
posed that  America  was  peopled  from  Plato's  Ishind,  oliserve 
that  the  (/,  a  combination  so  remarkably  freipient  in  the  Mex- 
ican tongue,  has  probably  a  reference  to  Ar/antis  and  the 
At^intic,  All  being  the  Mexican  word  for  water,  and  V'/aloc 
the  God  of  the  waters  —  an  argument  quite  worthy  of  the 
hypothesis.  —  Fa.  Gbegorio  Gakcia.  Origeii  de  Ivs  Iiidius, 
Lib.  4,  c.  8,  $  2. 

The  (luarntest  opinion  ever  started  upon  this  obscure  sub- 
ject is  that  of  Fr.  Pedro  Simon,  who  argued  that  the  Indians 
were  of  the  tribe  of  Issachar,  because  he  was  "  a  strong  ass  in 
a  pleasant  land,  who  bowed  his  shoulder  to  bear,  and  became  a 
servant  unto  tribute."  If  the  Hebrew  word,  which  is  rendered 
tribute,  may  mean  taxes  as  well,  I  humbly  submit  it  to 
consideration,  whether  Issachar  doth  not  typify  Jolin  Dull. 


Tiger  of  the  War.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  2. 

This  was  one  of  the  four  most  honorable  titles  among  the 
Mexicans;  the  others  were  Shedder  of  Blood,  Destroyer  of 
Men,  and  Lord  of  the  Dark  House.  Great  Slayer  of  Men 
was  also  a  title  among  the  Natchez  ;  but  to  obtain  this  it  was 
necessary  that  the  warrior  should  have  made  ten  prisoners, 
or  brought  home  twenty  scalps. 

The  Chinese  have  certain  soldiers  whom  they  call  Tigers 
of  War.  On  their  large  round  shields  of  basket-work  are 
painted  monstrous  faces  of  some  imaginary  animal,  intended  to 
frighten  the  enemy. —  Barrow's  Travels  in  China. 


Whose  conquered  Gods  lie  idle  in  their  chains. 

And  with  tame  wealcness  brook  captivity.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  2 

The  Gods  of  the  conquered  nations  were  kept  fastened  and 
caged  in  the  Mexican  temples.  They  who  argued  for  the 
Piicenician  origin  of  the  Indians,  might  have  compared  this 
with  the  triumph  of  the  Philistines  over  the  Ark,  when  they 
placed  it  in  the  temple  of  Dagon. 


peace-offerings  of  repentance  fill 

The  temple  courts.  —  IX.  p.  388,  col.  2. 

Before  the  Mexican  temples  were  large  courts,  kept  wjlj 
cleansed,  and  planted  with  the  trees  which  they  call  Ahu- 
cliuetl,  which  are  green  throughout  the  year,  and  give  a 
pleasant  shade,  wherefore  they  are  much  esteemed  by  the 
Indians  ;  they  are  our  savin,  {sabines  de  E^paua.)  In  the  com 
fort  of  their  shade  the  priests  sit,  and  await  those  who  come 
to  make  oflierings  or  sacrifice  to  the  idol.  —  Ilistvria  de  la 
Fnndacion  y  Discurso  de  la  Provincia  de  Santiago  de  Mriico  di 
la  orden  de  Prcdicadores  ;  por  elMaestro  Fray  Al'GiiiiN  Da- 
viLA  Padilla.     Brusseles,  1625. 


Ten  painful  months, 
Immvred  amid  the  forest,  had  he  dwelt, 
In  abstinence  and  solitary  prayer 
Passing  his  nights  and  days.  —  X.  p.  389,  col.  1. 

Torciuemada,  L.  9,  c.  25.     Clavigero. 

The  most  painful  penance  to  which  any  of  these  Priests 
were  subjected,  was  that  which  the  Chololteras  performed 
every  lour  years,  in  honor  of  Qnctzalcoal.  All  the  Priests  sat 
round  the  walls  in  the  temple,  holding  a  censor  in  their  hands  : 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


427 


from  tliii  posture  they  were  not  permitted  to  move,  except 
wlii'ii  they  went  out  for  the  necessary  calls  of  nature  ;  two 
lumrs  Ihey  Might  sleep  at  the  l)ef;i[inins  of  the  night,  and  one 
after  sunrise;  at  midnight,  they  hathed,  smeared  themselves 
with  a  hiack  unction,  and  pricked  their  ears  to  oti'er  the  blood  : 
the  twenty -one  remaining  hours  they  sate  in  the  same  posture 
lncen^<ing  the  iilol,  and  in  that  same  posture  took  the  little 
sleep  pi  rinitted  them  ;  this  continued  sixty  days;  if  any  one 
slept  out  of  his  time,  liis  companions  pricked  him:  the  cere- 
mony continued  twenty  days  longer,  but  they  were  then  per- 
mitted more  rest.  — 'I'oriiuemada,  I.  10,  c.  32. 

Folly  and  madness  have  hail  as  much  to  do  as  knavery  in 
priestcraft.  The  knaves,  in  general,  have  made  the  fools  their 
instruments,  but  they  not  unfrequently  have  suifercd  in  their 
turn. 


Coatlantona X.  p.  389,  col.  2. 

The  mother  of  Mexitli,  who,  being  a  mortal  woman,  was 
made  innnortal  for  her  son's  sake,  and  apjioiiited  Goddess  of 
ail  herbs,  flowers,  and  trees.  —  Clavigero. 


Mammuth.  —  X.  p.  390,  col.  2. 

Mr.  Jefferson  informs  us,  that  a  late  governor  of  Virginia, 
having  asked  some  delegates  of  the  De  la  wares  what  they  knew 
or  had  heard  respecting  this  animal,  the  chief  speaker  imme- 
diately put  himself  into  an  oratorical  attitude,  and,  with  a 
pomp  suiteil  to  the  elevation  of  his  subject,  informed  him,  that 
it  was  a  tradition  handed  down  from  their  fathers,  that  in 
ancient  times,  a  herd  of  them  came  to  the  Big-bone-licks,  and 
began  a  universal  destruction  of  the  bears,  deer,  elks,  buffa- 
loes, and  other  animals  which  had  been  created  for  the  use  of 
the  Indians;  that  the  Great  Man  above,  looking  down,  and 
seeing  this,  was  so  enraged,  that  he  scizeil  his  lightning,  de- 
scended to  the  earth,  and  seated  himself  upon  a  neigliboring 
mountain  on  a  rock,  on  which  his  seat  and  the  print  of  his 
feet  are  still  to  be  seen,  and  hurled  his  bolts  among  them,  till 
the  whole  were  slaughtered,  except  the  big  bull,  who, present- 
ing his  forehead  to  the  shafts,  shook  them  off  as  they  fell ;  but 
at  length  missing  one,  it  wounded  him  on  the  side,  whereon, 
springing  around,  he  bounded  over  the  Ohio,  the  \Va!iash,the 
Illinois,  and,  finally,  over  the  great  lakes,  where  he  is  living 
at  this  day. 

Colonel  G.  Morgan,  in  a  note  to  Mr.  Morse,  says,  "  These 
bone?  are  found  only  at  the  Salt  Licks,  on  the  Ohio  ;  some  few 
scatli'red  grinders  have,  indeed,  been  found  in  other  places  ; 
but  it  has  been  supposed  these  have  been  brought  from  the 
above  mentioned  deposit  by  Indian  warriors  and  others,  who 
have  passed  it,  as  we  know  many  have  been  spread  in  this 
manner.  When  I  first  visited  the  Salt  Licks,"  says  the 
Colonel,  "  in  HfiC,  I  met  here  a  large  party  of  the  Iroc|uois 
and  Wyandot  Indians,  who  were  then  on  a  war  expedition 
against  the  Chicasaw  tribe.  The  head  chief  was  a  very  old 
man  to  he  engaged  in  war  ;  he  told  me  ho  was  eighty-four 
years  old  ;  he  was  probably  as  much  as  eighty.  I  fixed  on 
this  venerable  chief,  as  a  person  from  whom  some  knowledge 
niisht  be  obtained.  After  making  him  some  acceptable  pres- 
ents of  tobacco,  paint,  ammunition,  &.C.,  and  complimenting 
him  upon  the  wisdom  of  bis  nation,  their  prowess  in  war,  and 
rudcnce  in  peace,  I  intimated  my  ignorance  respecting  tlie 
great  bones  before  us,which  nothing  but  bis  superior  knowledge 
could  remove,  and  acconlingly  requesteil  him  to  inform  me 
what  he  knesv  concerning  them.  Agreeably  to  the  customs 
of  bis  nation,  he  informed  me  in  substance  as  follows  : 

"  Whilst  I  was  yet  a  boy,  I  passed  this  road  several  times 
to  war  against  the  Ciitawhas;  and  the  wise  old  chiefs,  among 
whom  v/as  my  grandfather,  then  gave  me  the  tradition,  handed 
down  to  us,  respecting  these  bones,  the  like  to  which  are  found 
in  no  other  part  of  the  country  ;  it  is  as  follows  :  After  the 
Great  S|)irit  first  formed  the  world,  he  m.ade  the  various  birds 
and  beasts  which  now  inhabit  it.  He  also  made  man  ;  but 
having  formed  him  white,  and  very  imperfect  and  ill-tempered, 
he  placed  him  on  one  side  of  it  where  he  now  irdiabits,  and 
from  whence  he  has  lately  found  a  passage  across  the  great 
water,  to  be  a  plague  to  us.     As  the  Great  Spirit  was  not 


pleased  with  this  his  work,  he  took  of  black  clay,  and  inado 
what  you  call  a  negro,  with  a  woolly  head.  This  black  man 
was  much  better  than  the  white  man  :  but  still  he  did  not 
answer  the  «  ish  of  the  Great  i^pirit ;  that  is,  he  was  iminrfect. 
At  last  the  Great  Spirit,  having  procured  a  piece  of  pure,  fine 
red  cliy,  formed  from  it  the  red  man,  perfectly  to  his  mind  ; 
and  he  was  so  well  pleased  with  him  that  he  placcil  him  on 
this  great  island,  separate  from  the  white  and  black  men,  and 
gave  him  rules  for  his  conduct,  promising  happiness  in  propor- 
tion as  they  should  be  observed.  He  increased  exceedingly, 
and  was  perfectly  happy  for  ages;  but  the  foolish  young 
people,  at  length  forgetting  his  rules,  became  exceedingly 
ill-tempered  and  wicked.  In  consecjuence  of  this  the  (ireat 
Spirit  created  the  Great  Buffalo,  the  hones  of  which  you  now 
see  before  us  ;  these  made  war  upon  the  human  species  alone, 
and  destroyed  all  but  a  few,  who  repented  and  promised  the 
Great  Spirit  to  live  according  to  his  laws,  if  he  would  r<s(rain 
the  devouring  enemy:  whereupon  he  sent  lightning  and 
thunder,  and  destroyed  the  whole  race,  in  this  spot,  two 
excepted,  a  male  and  a  female,  which  he  shut  uj)  in  yonder 
mountain,  ready  to  let  loose  again,  should  occasion  reijuin"." 
The  following  tradition,  existing  among  the  natives,  we  give 
in  the  very  terms  of  a  Shawanee  Indian,  to  show  that  the 
impression  made  on  their  minds  by  it  must  have  been  forcible. 
"  Ten  thousand  moons  ago,  when  nought  but  gloomy  forests 
covered  this  land  of  the  sleeping  sun,  long  before  the  pale  men, 
with  thunder  and  fire  at  their  command,  rushed  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind  to  ruin  this  garden  of  nature  ;  when  nought  but 
the  untamed  wanderers  of  the  woods,  and  men  as  unrestrained 
as  they  were  the  lords  of  the  soil ;  a  race  of  animals  were  in 
being,  huge  as  the  frowning  precipice,  cruel  as  the  bloody 
panther,  swift  as  the  descending  eagle,  and  terrible  as  the 
angel  of  night.  The  pines  crashed  beneath  their  feet,  and  the 
lake  shrunk  when  they  slaked  their  thirst;  the  forceful  jav- 
elin in  vain  was  hurled,  and  the  barbed  arrow  fell  harmless 
from  their  side.  Forests  were  laid  waste  at  a  meal ;  the 
groans  of  expiring  animals  were  every  where  heard  ;  and 
whole  villages  inhabited  by  men  were  destroyed  in  a  moment. 
The  cry  of  universal  distress  extended  even  to  the  region  of 
peace  in  the  west,  and  the  Good  Spirit  interposed  to  save  the 
unhappy.  The  forked  lightnings  gleamed  all  around,  and 
loudest  thunder  rocked  the  globe.  The  bolts  of  heaven  were 
hurled  upon  the  cruel  destroyers  alone,  anil  the  mountains 
echoed  with  the  bellowings  of  death.  All  were  killed  excejit 
one  male,  the  fiercest  of  the  race,  and  him  even  the  artillery 
of  the  skies  assailed  in  vain.  He  ascended  the  bluest  sununit 
which  shades  the  source  of  the  Monongahela,  and,  roaring 
aloud,  bid  defiance  to  every  vengeance.  The  red  lightning 
scorched  the  lofty  firs,  and  rived  the  knotty  oaks,  but  only 
glanced  upon  the  enraged  monster.  At  length,  maddened 
with  fury,  he  leaped  over  the  waves  of  the  west  at  a  bound, 
and  this  moment  reigns  the  uncontrolled  monarch  of  the  wil- 
derness, in  despite  of  even  Omnipotence  itself." — Winter- 
BOTHAM.  The  tradition  probably  is  Indian,  but  certainly  not 
the  bombast. 


In  your  youth 
Ye  have  quaff'd  manly  blood,  that  manly  thoughts 
Might  ripen  in  your  hearts.  —  X.  p.  390,  col.  2. 

In  Florida,  when  a  sick  man  was  bled,  women  who  were 
suckling  a  man-child  drank  the  blood,  if  the  patient  were  a 
brave  or  strong  man,  that  it  might  strengthen  their  milk  and 
make  the  boys  braver.  Pregnant  women  also  drank  it.  —  Le 
.MoYNE  DE  Morgues. 

There  is  a  more  remarkable  tale  of  kindred  barl)arily  in 
Irish  history.  The  royal  family  had  been  all  cut  oft'  except 
one  girl,  and  the  wise  men  of  the  country  fed  her  upon  chil- 
dren's flesh  to  make  her  the  sooner  marriageable.  I  have  not 
the  book  to  refer  to,  and  cannot  therefore  ive  the  names  ;  bul 
the  story  is  in  Keating's  history. 


'Hie  spreading  radii  of  the  mystic  wheeh  —  X.  p.  391,  col.  I. 

This  dance  is  described  from  Clavigero  ;  from  whom  also 
the  account  of  their  musical  instruments  is  taken. 


428 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


On  Ihe  top 
Of  yon  magnolia  the  loud  turkei/s  voice 
Is  heralding  the  duicn.  —  XI.  j).  31)1,  col.  2. 

"I  was  awakened  in  llifi  morning  early,  by  the  clieering 
converse  of  llie  wilil  turkey-cock  {Milengiis  occidcntului)  salu- 
ting eacli  other,  from  the  sun-hriyhtened  tops  of  the  lofty 
Cupressus  dtsticha  and  Magnolia  granilijluru.  They  be^'in  at 
early  dawn,  and  continue  till  sunrise,  from  March  to  the  last 
of  April.  The  hiyh  forests  ring  with  the  noise,  like  the 
crowing  of  the  domestic  cock,  of  tlii^sc  social  sentinels,  the 
watcli-word  being  caught  and  rei)eated,  from  one  to  another, 
for  hundreds  of  miks  around;  insumuch,  tliit  the  whole 
country  is,  for  an  hour  or  mote,  in  an  universal  shout.  A  little 
after  sunrise,  their  crowing  gradually  ceases,  they  quit  their 
high  lodging  places,  and  alight  on  the  earth,  where,  expanding 
llieir  silver-bordeied  train,  they  strut  and  dance  round  about 
the  coy  female,  while  the  deep  forests  seem  to  tremble  with 
their  shrill  noise."  —  Bartram. 


His  cold  was  white.  —  XII.  p.  392,  col.  2. 

•'They  wore  large  garments  like  surplices,  which  were 
white,  and  had  hoods  such  as  the  Canons  wear ;  their  hair 
long  and  matted,  so  that  it  could  not  bo  i>arted,  and  now  full 
of  fresh  blood  from  their  ears,  which  they  had  that  day  sa- 
crificed j  and  their  nails  very  long."  —  B.  Diaz.  Such  is  the 
description  of  the  Mexican  priests  by  one  who  had  seen  taem. 


Tlalocan.  —  XU.  p.  393,  col.  1. 

The  Paradise  of  Tlaloc. 

"  They  distinguished  three  places  for  the  souls  when  sepa- 
rated from  the  body  :  Those  of  soldiers  who  died  in  battle  or 
in  captivity  among  their  enemies,  and  those  of  women  who 
died  in  labor,  went  to  the  House  of  the  Sun,  whom  they 
considered  as  the  Prince  of  Glory,  where  they  led  a  life  of 
endless  delight ;  where,  every  day,  at  the  first  appearance  of 
the  sun's  rays,  they  hailed  his  birth  with  rejoicings  ;  and  with 
dancing,  and  the  music  of  instruments  and  of  voices,  attended 
him  to  his  meridian  ;  there  they  mot  the  souls  of  the  viomen, 
and  with  the  same  festivity  accompanied  him  to  his  setting: 
they  next  supposed,  that  these  spirits,  after  four  years  of  that 
glorious  life,  went  to  animate  clouds,  and  birds  of  beautiful 
feathers  and  of  sweet  song,  but  always  at  liberty  to  rise  again 
to  heaven,  or  to  descend  upon  the  earth,  to  warble  and  suck 
the  flowers.  —  The  souls  of  those  that  were  drowned  or 
struck  by  lightning,  of  those  who  died  of  dropsy,  tumors, 
wounds,  and  otlier  such  diseases,  went  along  with  the  souls 
of  children,  at  least  of  those  which  were  sacrificed  to  Tlaloc, 
the  God  of  Water,  to  a  cool  and  delightful  place  called 
Tlalocan,  where  that  God  resided,  and  where  they  were  to 
enjoy  the  most  delicious  repasts,  with  every  other  kind  of 
pleasure.  —  Lastly,  the  third  place  allotted  to  the  souls  of 
those  who  suffered  any  other  kind  of  death  was  Mictlan,  or 
Hell,  which  they  conceived  to  be  a  place  of  utter  darkness,  in 
which  reigned  a  God,  called  Mictlanteuctli,  Lord  of  Hell,  and 
a  Goddess,  named  Miclancihuatl.  I  am  of  opinion  that  they 
believed  Hell  to  be  a  place  in  the  centre  of  the  earth,  but 
they  did  not  imagine  that  the  souls  underwent  any  other 
punishment  there  than  what  they  sufTered  by  the  darkness  of 
their  abode.  Siguenza  thought  the  Mexicans  placed  Hell  in 
the  northern  part  of  the  earth,  as  the  word  Micllampa  signified 
towards  both."  —  Clavigeko. 

When  any  person  whose  manner  of  death  entitled  him  to  a 
place  in  TIalocan  was  buried,  (for  they  were  never  burnt,)  a 
rod  or  bough  was  laid  in  the  grave  with  him,  that  it  might 
bud  out  again  and  flourish  in  that  Paradise.  —  Torciuemada 
1.  13,  c.  48. 

The  souls  of  all  the  children  who  had  been  offered  to 
Tlaloc,  were  believed  to  be  present  at  all  after  s  lerifices, 
under  the  care  of  a  large  and  beautiful  serpent,  called  Xiuh- 
COatl.  —  TORCIUEMADA,  1.  8,  c.  14. 


Oreen  islets  float  along.  —  XII.  p.  393,  col.  2. 

Artificial  islands   are   common    in    China   as   well   as   in 
Mexico. 


"  The  Chinese  fishermen,  having  no  houses  on  shore,  nor 
stationary  abode,  but  moving  about  in  their  vessels  upon  the 
extensive  lakes  and  rivers,  have  no  inducement  to  cultivate 
patches  of  ground,  which  tho  pursuits  of  their  profession  might 
require  them  to  leave  for  the  profit  of  another ;  they  prefer, 
therefore,  to  plant  their  onions  on  rafts  of  bamboo,  well  inter- 
woven with  reeds  and  long  grass,  and  covered  with  earth  ;  and 
these  floating  gardens  are  towed  after  their  boats."  —  Bar- 
row's China. 


To  Tlaloc  it  was  hallowed ;  and  ihe  stone, 
Which  closed  its  entrance,  never  was  removed, 
Save  when  the  yearly  festival  returned. 
And  in  its  womb  a  child  was  sepulchred. 
The  living  victim.  —  XII.  p.  394,  col.  1. 

There  were  three  yearly  sacrifices  to  Tlaloc.  At  Ihe  first, 
two  children  were  drowned  in  the  Lake  of  Mexico  j  but  in  all 
the  provinces  they  were  sacrificed  on  the  mountains  ;  they 
were  a  boy  and  girl,  from  three  to  four  years  old  :  in  this  last 
case  the  bodies  were  preserved  in  a  stone  chest,  as  relics,  I 
suppose,  says  Torquemada,  of  persons  whose  hands  were 
clean  from  actual  sin  ;  though  their  souls  were  foul  with  the 
original  stain,  of  which  they  were  neither  cleansed  nor  purged, 
and  therefore  they  went  to  the  place  appointed  for  all  like 
them  who  perish  unbaptized.  —  At  the  second,  four  children, 
from  six  to  seven  years  of  age,  who  were  brought  for  the  jiur- 
pose,  the  price  being  contributed  by  the  chiefs,  were  shut  up 
in  a  cavern,  and  left  to  die  with  hunger  :  the  cavern  was  not 
opened  again  till  the  next  year's  sacrifice The  third  con- 
tinued during  the  three  rainy  months,  during  all  which  time 
children  were  offered  up  on  the  mountains  ;  these  also  were 
bought ;  the  heart  and  blood  were  given  in  Sifcrifice,  the  bodies 
were  feasted  on  by  the  chiefs  and  priests. —  Torquemada, 
1.  7,  c.  21. 

"  In  the  country  of  the  Mistecas  was  a  cave  sacred  to  the 
Water  God.  Its  entrance  was  concealed,  for  though  this 
Idol  was  generally  reverenced,  this  his  temple  was  known  to 
few  ;  it  was  necessary  to  crawl  the  length  of  a  musket-shot, 
and  then  the  way,  sometimes  open  and  sometimes  narrow, 
extended  for  a  mile,  before  it  reached  the  great  dome,  a  place 
70  feet  long,  and  40  wide,  where  were  the  idol  and  the  altar ; 
the  Idol  was  a  rude  column  of  stalactites,  or  incrustations, 
formed  by  a  spring  of  petrifying  water,  and  other  fantastic 
figures  had  thus  grown  aroimd  it.  The  ways  of  the  cave  were 
so  intricate,  that  sometimes  those  who  had  unwarily  bewil- 
dered themselves  there  perished.  The  Friar  who  discovered 
this  Idol  destroyed  it,  and  filled  up  the  entrance."  —  Padilla, 
p.  643. 

The  Temple  Serpents.  — XIV.  p.  395,  col.  2. 

"  The  head  of  a  sacrificed  person  was  strung  up ;  the  limbs 
eaten  at  the  feast ;  the  body  given  to  the  wild  beasts  w  hich 
were  kept  within  the  temple  circuits  ;  moreover,  in  that  ac- 
cursed house  they  kept  vipers  and  venomous  snakes,  who  had 
something  at  their  tails  which  sounded  like  morris-hells,  and 
they  are  the  worst  of  all  vipers  ;  these  were  kei)t  in  cradles, 
and  barrels,  and  earthen  vessels,  upon  feathers,  and  there  they 
laid  their  eggs,  and  nursed  up  their  snakelings,  and  they  were 
fed  with  the  bodies  of  the  sacrificed  and  with  dog's  flesh.  We 
learnt  for  certain,  that,  after  they  had  driven  us  from  Mexico, 
and  slain  above  850  of  our  soldiers  and  of  the  men  of  A^arvaez, 
these  beasts  and  snakes,  who  had  been  ofl^ered  to  their  cruel 
idol  to  be  in  his  company,  were  supported  upon  their  flesh  for 
many  days.  When  these  lions  and  tigers  roared,  and  the 
jackals  and  foxes  howled,  and  the  snakes  hissed,  it  was  a 
grim  thing  to  hear  them,  and  it  seemed  like  hell."  —  iSeun'al 
Diaz. 


He  had  been  confined 
Where  myriad  insects  on  his  nakedness 
Infixed  their  veiiomovs  anger,  and  no  start, 
AV)  shudder,  shook  his  frame.  —  XIV.  p.  395,  col.  3. 
Some  of  the  Orinoco  tribes  required  these  severe  proba- 
tions, which  are  described  by  Gumilla,  c.  35;   the  principle 
upon  which  they  acted  is  strikingly  stated  by  the  Abbe  Ma- 
rigny  in  an  Arabian  anecdote. 


NOTES  TO  MADOC  IN  AZTLAN, 


4-20 


"  Ali  having  been  chosen  by  Nasser  for  Einir,  or  ^rcnernl 
of  bis  army,  against  Mukan,  being  one  day  before  this  prince, 
wliose  orilers  lie  was  receiving,  made  a  convulsive  motion  » ilb 
bis  whole  body  on  feeling  an  acute  bite  :  Nasser  perceived  it 
not.  Alter  receiving  bis  orders,  the  Emir  returned  bonn',  and 
taking  off  liis  cUithea  to  examine  tbo  bite,  found  the  scorpion 
that  l>!id  bitten  bim.  Nasser,  learning  this  adventure,  when 
next  be  saw  the  Emir,  reproved  bim  for  having  sustained  the 
evil,  without  complaining  at  the  moment,  that  it  might  have 
been  remedied.  "How,  sir,"  replied  the  Emir,  "should  I 
be  capable  of  braving  the  arrow's  point,  and  the  sabre's  edge, 
at  the  bead  of  your  armies,  and  far  from  you,  if  in  your  pres- 
ence 1  could  not  hear  the  bite  of  a  scorpion  !  " 

Kank  in  war  among  savages  can  only  be  procured  by  superior 
skill  or  strength. 

1'  desilc  la  viiiez  al  egcrcicio 
los  aprcmian  purfiicrza  y  los  iiicilaii, 

y  en  el  belicu  cstudio  y  darn  nficio 
entrando  en  mas  ednd  los  egcrcitan  ; 

si  aliruno  deflaqiieza  da  nn  indicia 
del  uso  miliUir  lo  inhulditan, 

y  el  que  sale  en  las  armas  senaladu 

conforme  a  su  vulor  le  dan  el  grado. 

Los  cargos  de  la  guerra  y  preemineitcia 
no  son  por  jlacos  medios  proveidos, 

ni  van  jior  calidady  ni  por  hercncia 
nipor  hacienda,  y  ser  mejor  nacidos  ; 

mas  la  virtud  del  brain  y  la  exerlmcia, 
esta  luicc  los  hnmbres  preferidos, 

esta  ilustra,  kabilita,  pcrficiinia, 

y  qnilata  cl  valor  de  la  persona. 

Jlraurana,  I.  p.  5. 


. . .  .from  the  slaughtered  brother  of  their  king 
He  stripp'd  the  skin,  ajid formed  of  it  a  drum, 
JVIiose  sound  affrighted  armies,  —  XIV.  p.  395,  col.  2. 

In  some  provinces  they  flead  the  captives  taken  in  war,  and 
with  their  skins  covered  their  drums,  thinking  with  the  sound 
of  them  to  affright  their  enemies  ;  for  their  opinion  was,  that 
when  the  kindred  of  the  slain  beard  the  sound  of  these  drums, 
they  would  immediately  be  seized  with  fear  and  put  to  flight. 
—  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega. 

"  In  the  Palazzo  Caprca  at  Bologna  are  several  Turkish 
bucklers  lined  with  human  skin,  dressed  like  leather  ;  they 
told  us  it  was  that  of  the  backs  of  Christian  prisoners  taken  in 
battle  ;  and  the  Turks  esteem  a  buckler  lined  with  it  to  be  a 
particular  security  against  the  impression  of  an  arrow,  or  the 
stroke  of  a  sabre." —  Lady  Miller's  Letters  from  Italy. 


Should  thine  arm 
Subdue  in  battle  six  successive  foes, 
Life,  liberty,  and  glory  will  repay 
The  noble  conquest.  —  XIV.  p.  30fi,  col.  1. 

Clavigero.  One  instance  occurred,  in  which,  after  the  cap- 
tive had  been  victorious  in  all  the  actions,  he  was  put  to  death, 
because  they  durst  not  venture  to  set  at  liberty  so  brave  an 
enemy.  But  this  is  mentioned  as  a  very  dishonorable  thing. 
I  cannot  turn  to  the  authority,  but  can  trust  my  memory  for 
the  fact 


Often  had  he  seen 
IHs  gallant  countrymen,  with  naked  brensti. 
Rush  on  their  iron-coated  enemy.  —  XIV.  p.  39S,  col.  1. 

Scbyr  Mawrice  alsua  the  Berclay 
Fra  the  grct  battaiU  held  hys  way. 
With  a  great  rout  off  VValis  men  ; 
(iuabareuir  yeid  men  mycht  them  ken, 
For  thai  wele  ner  all  uakyt  war, 
Or  lynnyn  claytbs  bad  hut  mar. 

The  Bruce,  h.  13,  p.  147. 


.^nd  with  the  sound  of  sonorous  instniinei.ts, 

.find  with  tkrir  shouts,  and  screams,  and  yells,  drove  back 

The  Britons''  fainter  war-cry.  —  XV.  p.  398,  col.  1. 

Music  seems  to  have  been  as  soon  applied  to  military  as  to 
religious  uses. 

Conflautas,  cuernos,  roncos  instrumentos, 
alto  estrurndo,  alaridos  desdenosos, 

salen  losjieros  barbaros  sangrientos 
contra  los  Kspanules  valerosos, 

Araucana,  1.  p.  73. 

"James  Reid,  who  had  acted  as  piper  to  a  rebel  regiment 
in  the  Rebellion,  suffered  death  at  York,  on  Nov.  15,  174(),  ai 
a  rebel.  On  bis  trial  it  was  alleged  in  liis  defence,  tliat  bo 
had  not  carried  arms.  But  the  court  observed  that  a  Highland 
regiment  never  marched  without  a  piper,  and  therefore  his 
bagpipe,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  was  an  instrument  of  war." - 
Walker's  Irish  Bards. 

The  construction  was  too  much  in  the  spirit  of  military  law. 
jEsop's  trumpeter  should  not  have  served  as  a  precedent. 
Croxall's  fables  have  been  made  of  much  practical  conse- 
quence :  this  poor  piper  was  liung  for  not  remembering  one, 
and  Gilbert  Wakefield  imprisoned  for  quoting  another 


A  line  of  ample  measure  still  retnin'd 
The  missile  shaft.  —  XV.  p.  398,  col.  I. 

The  Romans  had  a  weapon  of  this  kind  which  they  called 
Aclidcs,  having  a  thong  fixed  to  it  by  which  it  might  be  drawn 
back  :  it  was  full  of  spikes,  so  as  to  injure  both  when  it  struck 
and  when  it  was  withdrawn. — Rees's  Cijcl. 

A  retractile  weajion  of  tremendous  effect  was  used  by  tlic 
Ootbic  tribes.  Its  use  is  thus  described  in  a  very  interesling 
poem  of  the  sixth  century. 

At  nnmts  pugnee  Ilrlnwod  snccessit,  et  ipse 
Incrrtum  Irlplici  gestabat  func  tridentem, 
Qiieni  post  terga  quidem  stantes  sccli  triiuerunt; 
Consiliu mque fait,  dum  cuspes  missa  srdrrct 
In  eh/peo,  cuneti  pariter  Irarisse  stnderent, 
Ut  vel  sic  hominem  dejerissent  furihundum , 
Atquc  sub  hac  certum  sibi  spe  posuere  triumphinn 
JVec  mora  ;  Dux,  tolas  fundnts  in  brarhia  vires, 
Misit  in  adversum  magna  cum  voce  tridentem, 
Kt  dicens,  finis  fti-ro  tibi,  calve,  sub  isto. 
Qui,  vetttns  penetrans,  jaculorum  more  coruscat; 
Quod  genus  aspidis,  ex  alta  sese  arbore,  tanto 
Turbine  demittit,  quo  cunrta  obstantia  vincat. 
Quid  mornr  ?  umlmnem  scindit,  prltuque  rcsultat. 
Clamorcm  Franci  tollunt,  saltusque  resultant ; 
Obnixique  trahunt  restim  simul  atque  vicissim  ; 
JWc  duhitat  prineeps  tali  se  aptare  labori ; 
Manarunt  cunctis  sudoris  fiumina  membris : 
Srd  tamen  hie  intra  velut  esculus  astitit  hrros. 
Qui  non  plus  petit  astra  comis,  quam  tartara  fibris, 
Conter>'^ens  omnrs  rentoruin,  immiita,  fragvrcs. 

«t  prima  Expcditione  Altilw,  Regis  Ilnvnorum. 
''I  Gallias,  ac  de  Rebus  Oestis  IVahharii  Aqtii- 
Unorum  Principis.     Carmen  Epicum. 

This  weapon,  '  lich  is  described  by  Puidas,  Eustalius,  and 
Agathias,  was  called  Ango,  and  was  a  barbed  trident;  if  it 
entered  the  body,  it  could  not  be  extracted  without  certain 
death,  and  if  it  only  pierced  the  shield,  the  shield  became  un- 
manageable, and  the  enemy  was  left  exposed. 

The  Cataia,  which  Virgil  mentions  as  a  Teutonic  weapon, 
was  also  retractile.  This  was  a  club  of  about  a  yard  long, 
with  a  heavy  end  worked  into  four  sharp  points ;  to  the  thin 
end,  or  handle,  a  cord  was  fixed,  which  enabled  a  person,  well 
trained,  to  throw  it  with  great  force  and  exactness,  nn<l  then 
by  a  jerk  to  bring  it  back  to  his  hand,  either  lo  renew  his 
throw,  or  to  use  it  in  close  combat.  This  weapon  was  called 
Cat  and  Catai.  —  Cambrian  Register. 

The  Irish  horsemen  were  attended  by  servants  on  foot,  com- 
monly called  I)(  Itini,  armed  only  with  darts  or  javelins,  to 
which   thongs  of  leather  were   fastened  Hberewith  to  draw 


430 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


tlicm   back  ufter  lliey  were  cast.  —  Sir  James  Wake's  ^n- 
tiquitUs  of  Ireland, 


Paynalton.  —  XV.  p.  398,  col.  2. 

When   this  name  was  pronounced,  it  was  equivalent  to  a 
proclamation  for  rising  in  mass.  —  Tobquemada,  I.  6,  c.  22. 


The  House  of  Arms.  —  XV.  p.  398,  col.  2. 

Tlio  name  of  this  arsenal  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  Mexi- 
can s(,'S(iuipe(lulianisni ;  TIacochcalcoatlyacapan.  —  Torwe- 
IIADA,  I.  8,  c.  13. 

Cortes  consumed  all  the  weapons  of  tills  arsenal  in  the 
infiunous  execution  of  Qualpopoca,  and  his  companions. — 
Hehrera,  2.  8.  9. 


The  ablution  of  the  Stone  of  Sacrifice.  —  XV.  p.  398,  col.  2. 

An  old  priest  of  the  TIatelucas,  when  they  were  at  war 
witli  the  Mexicans,  advised  them  to  drink  the  holy  beverage 
before  they  went  to  battle:  this  was  made  by  washing  the 
Stone  of  Sacrifice  ;  the  king  drank  first,  and  then  all  his  chiefs 
ami  soldiers  in  order ;  it  made  them  eager  and  impatient  for 
the  light.  —  ToBquEMADA,  1.  2,  c.  58. 

To  physic  soldiers  before  a  campaign  seems  an  odd  way  of 
raising  their  courage,  yet  this  was  done  by  one  of  the  fiercest 
American  tribes. 

"  When  the  warriors  among  the  Natchez  had  assembled  in 
sufficient  numl)ers  fiir  their  expedition,  the  Medicine  of  War 
WIS  prepared  in  the  chief's  cabin,  'i'his  was  an  emetic,  com- 
posed of  a  root  boiled  in  water.  The  warriors,  sometimes  to 
the  number  of  three  hundred,  seated  thcnrselves  round  the 
kettles  or  caldrons  ;  about  a  gallon  was  served  to  each  ;  the 
ceremony  was  to  swallow  it  at  one  draught,  and  then  dis- 
charge it  again  with  such  loud  eructatioirs  and  eflbrls  as  might 
be  beard  at  a  great  distance."  —  HERrox's  History  of  Onuida. 

Odd  as  this  method  of  administering  medicine  may  rrppcar, 
some  tribes  have  a  still  more  extraordinary  mode  of  dis- 
pensing it. 

"  As  I  was  informed  there  was  to  be  a  physic  dance  at 
night,  curiosity  led  Uie  to  the  town-house  to  see  the  prepara- 
tion. A  vessel  of  their  own  make,  that  might  contain  twen- 
ty gallons,  (there  being  a  great  many  to  take  the  medicine,) 
was  set  on  the  fire,  rouird  which  stood  several  gourds  filled 
with  river  water,  which  was  poured  into  the  pot.  This  done, 
there  arose  one  of  the  beloved  women,  who,  opening  a  deer- 
skin filled  with  various  toots  and  herbs,  took  out  a  small 
handful  of  something  like  fine  salt,  jiart  of  which  she  threw 
on  the  head  man's  seat,  and  part  on  the  fire  close  to  tlie  pot ; 
she  then  took  out  the  wing  of  a  swan,  and,  after  flourishing  it 
over  the  pot,  stood  fixed  for  near  a  minute,  muttering  some- 
thing to  herself;  then  taking  a  shrub  like  laurel,  which  I  sup- 
posed was  the  physic,  she  threw  it  into  the  irot,  and  returned 
to  her  seat.  As  no  more  ceremorry  seemed  to  he  goirrg  on,  I 
took  a  walk  till  the  Indians  assembled  to  take  it.  At  my  re- 
turn I  fuuiril  the  house  quite  full ;  they  danced  near  an  hour 
round  tlie  pot,  till  one  of  them,  with  a  small  gourd  that  might 
hold  about  a  gill,  took  some  of  the  physic,  and  drank  it,  after 
which  all  the  rest  took  in  turn.  One  of  their  head  men  pre- 
sented me  with  some,  and  in  a  manner  compelled  me  to  drirrk, 
thoirgh  I  would  willingly  have  declined.  It  was,  however, 
much  more  palatiible  than  I  expected,  having  a  strong  laste 
of  sassafras  ;  the  Indian  who  presented  it  told  me  it  was  taken 
to  v.asli  away  their  sins,  so  that  this  is  a  spiritrral  medicine, 
arrd  might  be  ranked  among  their  religious  ceremonies.  They 
are  very  solicitous  about  its  success  ;  the  conjurer,  for  several 
mornings  before  it  is  drank,  makes  a  dreadftrl  howling,  yelling, 
anil  hollowing  from  the  top  of  the  towrr-house,  to  frighten 
away  apparitions  and  evil  spirits."  —  Timberlake. 


two  fire-flies  gave 

Their  lustre.  —XWll.  p.  402,  col.  1. 

It  is  well  known  that  Madame  Merian  painted  one  of  these 
insects  Iry  its  own  light. 
"  In  Hispaniola  and  the  rest  of  the  Ocean  Islandes,  there 


are  jrlishy  and  marshy  places,  very  fitt  for  the  feeding  of 
heardesof  cattel.  Gnattesof  divers  kindes,  ingendered  of  that 
moyste  heate,  grievously  afflict  the  colonies  seated  on  the 
brinke  thereof,  and  that  not  only  in  the  night,  as  in  other 
countries;  therefore  the  inhabitants  build  low  houses,  and 
make  liltlu  doores  therein,  scarce  able  to  receive  the  master, 
aird  without  holes,  that  lire  gnatts  may  have  no  entrance. 
And  for  that  cause  also,  they  forbeare  to  light  torches  or  can- 
dels,  lor  that  the  gnatts  by  natural  instinct  follow  the  light; 
yet  rreverthelesse  they  often  finde  a  way  in.  Nature  hath 
given  that  pestilent  mischiefe,  and  huth  also  given  a  renredy  ; 
as  she  hath  given  us  cattes  to  destroy  the  filthy  progerry  of 
mise,  so  hath  she  given  them  pretty  and  conuriodious  hurriers, 
which  they  call  Cucuij.  These  be  harmless  winged  worrrrs, 
somewhat  less  than  battes  or  reere  mise,  I  shoulrl  rather  call 
them  a  kind  of  beetles,  because  they  have  other  wings  after 
the  same  order  under  their  hard-winged  sheath,  which  they 
close  withirr  the  sheath  when  they  leave  flying.  To  this  little 
creature  (as  we  see  flyes  shine  by  night,  and  certaine  slug- 
gish worms  lying  in  thick  hedges)  provident  nature  hath  given 
some  very  cleere  looking-glasses  ;  two  in  the  seate  of  the 
eyes,  and  two  lying  hid  In  the  flank,  under  the  sheath,  which 
he  then  shewetb,  when,  irfter  the  manner  of  the  beetle,  un- 
sheathing his  thin  wings,  he  taketlr  his  flight  into  the  ayre  ; 
whereupon  every  Cucuius  bringeth  four  lights  or  candels  with 
him.  But  how  they  are  a  remedy  for  so  great  a  mischiefe,  as 
is  (be  stinging  of  these  gnatts,  which  in  some  places  are  little 
less  than  bees,  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear.  Hee  who  un- 
derstandcth  he  hath  those  troublesome  guestes  (the  gnattes)  at 
home,  orfearetb  lest  they  may  get  in,  diligently  hunteth  after 
the  Cucuij,  which  he  deceiveth  by  this  means  and  inrlustry, 
which  necessity  (eftecting  wonders)  hath  sought  nut  :  whoso 
wantetb  Cucuij,  goeth  out  of  the  house  in  the  first  twilight 
of  the  night,  carrying  a  burning  fire-brande  in  his  hande,  and 
ascendeth  the  next  hillock,  that  the  Cucuij  may  see  it,  and 
bee  swingeth  the  fire  brande  about  calling  Cucuius  aloud,  and 
beatetir  the  ayre  withal,  often  calling  and  crying  out,  Cucuie, 
Cucuie.  Many  simple  people  suppose  that  the  Cucuij,  de- 
lighted with  that  noise,  come  flying  and  flocking  together  to 
the  bellowing  sound  of  him  that  calleth  them,  for  they  come 
with  a  speedy  and  headlong  course:  but  I  rather  thinke  the 
Cucuij  make  haste  to  the  brightness  of  the  firc-brande,  because 
swarmes  of  gnatts  fly  unto  every  light,  which  the  Cucuij  cate 
in  the  very  ayre,  as  the  martlets  and  swallowes  doe.  Behold 
the  desired  number  of  Cucuij,  at  what  time  the  hunter  casteth 
the  fire  brande  out  of  his  hand.  Some  Cucuius  sometimes 
followeth  the  fire-brande,  and  llghteth  on  the  grounde  ;  then 
is  he  easily  taken,  as  travellers  may  take  a  beetle  if  they  have 
need  thereof,  walking  with  his  wings  shutt.  Others  denie 
that  the  Cucuij  are  woont  to  he  taken  after  this  manner,  but 
say,  that  the  hunters  especially  have  boughs  full  of  leaves 
ready  prepared,  or  broad  linnen  cloaths,  wherewith  they  smite 
the  Cucuius  flying  about  on  high,  and  strike  him  to  the  ground, 
where  be  lyeth  as  it  were  astonished,  and  suflcrelh  himself 
to  bee  taken  ;  or,  as  they  say,  following  the  fall  of  the  fly, 
they  take  the  prcye,  by  casting  the  same  bushie  bough  or 
linen  cloath  upon  him  :  howsoever  it  bee,  the  hunter  havingo 
the  hunting  Cucuij,  relurneth  home,  and  shutting  the  dooro 
of  the  house,  letteth  the  preye  goe.  The  Cucuij  loosed, 
swiftly  flyctlr  about  the  whole  house  seeking  gnatts,  under 
their  hanging  bedds,  and  about  the  faces  of  tbenr  that  sleepc, 
wblche  the  gnatts  used  to  assayle  :  they  seem  to  execute  the 
ofiicc  of  watchmen,  that  such  as  are  shut  in  may  (piietly  rest. 
Another  pleasant  and  ]irofitable  commodity  proceedeth  from 
the  Cucuij.  As  many  eyes  as  every  Cucuius  openeth,  the 
ho«te  enjoyeth  the  light  of  so  many  candels  ;  so  that  the  in- 
habitants spinne,  sewe,  weave,  and  dance  by  the  light  ot  the 
flying  Cucuij.  The  inhabitants  thinke  that  the  Cucuius  is  de- 
lighted with  the  harmony  and  melody  of  their  singing,  and 
that  hee  also  exerciseth  bis  motion  in  the  ayre  according  to  the 
action  of  their  dancing  ;  but  hee,  by  reason  of  the  divers  circuit 
of  the  gnatts,  of  necessity  swiftly  flyeth  about  divers  ways  to 
seek  Ills  food.  Our  men  also  reade  and  write  by  that  light, 
whicli  always  continueth  until  be  have  gotten  enough  whereby 
he  may  be  well  fedd.  The  gnatts  being  cleansed,  or  driven 
out  of  doors,  the  Cucuius  beginning  to  famish,  the  light  begin- 
nellr  to  failc  ;  therefore  when  they  see  his  light  to  wave  dim, 
opening  the  little  doore,  they  set  him  at  libcrtie,  that  he  may 
seeke  his  foodc. 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN 


431 


"  \n  sport  and  inorrinient,  or  to  the  intent  to  terrific  such  as 
are  afrayil  of  every  sliiulow,  they  siiy,  tliat  many  wanton  wild 
fellowes  sometimes  riihheil  their  fuees  hy  ni^hl  with  the  flesh 
of  a  Ciicuiiis,  heiiig  kilh'd,  with  purpose  to  meet  their  neigh- 
hors  with  a  llaniing  countenance,  us  witli  U9  sometimes  wanton 
young  men,  putting  a  gaping  toothed  vizard  over  their  face, 
enileavor  to  territie  children,  or  women,  who  are  easily 
friglited  ;  for  the  face  being  anointed  with  the  lump  or  fleshy 
patt  of  the  Cucuius,  shinetli  like  a  flame  of  fire  ;  yet  in  short 
upace  that  fiery  virtue  waxetli  feehle  and  is  extinguished,  see- 
ing it  is  a  certain  hright  liurnour  received  in  a  thin  substance. 
Tljere  is  also  another  wonderful  commodity  proceeding  from 
Iho  Cu'uiiis  :  the  islanders  appointed  hy  our  inenn,  goe  with 
their  good  will  hy  night,  wilh  two  Cuciiij  tied  to  the  great 
toes  of  their  feet ;  for  the  traveller  goeth  better  by  the  direc- 
tion of  these  lights,  tlian  if  he  brought  so  many  candels  with 
him  as  their  open  eyes  ;  he  also  carryeth  another  in  liis  hand 
!o  seek  the  Utl(B  by  "ight,  a  certain  kind  of  cony,  a  little 
exceeding  a  mouse  in  bignesse  and  bulke  of  bodie  :  which 
four-footed  beast  they  onely  knewe  before  onr  coming  thitlier, 
and  did  eate  the  same.  They  also  go  a  fishing  by  the  light 
of  tlie  Cucuij." — PlETRO  Mahtire. 


Bells  of  gold 
Emboss'd  Ma  glittering  helmet.  —  XVIII.  p.  404,  col.  2. 

Among  the  presents  which  Cortes  sent  to  Spain  were  "  two 
helmets  covered  with  blue  jirocious  stones  ;  one  edged  with 
golden  belles  and  many  plates  of  gold,  two  golden  knobbes 
sustaining  the  belles.  The  other  covered  with  the  same 
stones,  but  edged  with  25  golden  belles,  crested  with  a  greene 
foule  sitting  on  the  lop  of  the  helmet,  whose  feet,  bill,  and 
eyes  were  all  of  gold,  and  several  golden  knobbes  sustained 
every  bell."  —  Pietbo  Martike. 


So  oft  the  yeoman  had,  in  days  of  yore, 
Cursing  his  perilous  tenure,  wound  the  horn. 

XVIII.  p.  404,  col. 


Cornage  Tenure 


A  white  plume 
JVodded  above,  fur  seen,  floating  like  foam 
Upon  the  stream  of  battle.  —  XVIII.  p.  404,  col.  2. 

'  His  tall  white  plume,  which,  like  a  high-wrought  foam, 
Floated  on  the  tempestuous  stream  of  fight, 
Shewed  where  he  swept  the  field." 

Young's  Biisiris. 


Rucks  that  meet  in  battle.  —  XIX.  p.  40G,  col.  1. 

Clavigero.     Torquemada,  I.  13,  c.  47. 

The  fighting  mountains  of  the  Mexicans  arc  less  absurd  than 
the  moving  rocks  of  the  Greeks,  as  they  are  placed  not  in  this 
world,  but  in  the  road  to  the  next. 

"  L.  Miirlio  ct  Sex.  Julio  consulibus,  in  agro  Mulincnsi  duo 
viontrs  inter  se  roncurreruut,  crrpittc  7n(ixinio  ussuhantes  et  rece- 
dentes,  ct  inter  eos  flamma  funwque  ejeuute.  Q^uo  eovcursu  rillcc 
omnrs  elisa;  sunt;  animalia  pcrmu'tu  ijuit  intra  fuerant,  czani- 
vitt'a  sunt."  —  J.  Ravish  Textoris  Officina,  f.  210. 

.\  fiery  mountain  is  a  bad  neighbor,  but  a  quarrelsome  one 
must  ba  infinitely  worse,  and  a  dancing  one  would  not  be 
much  better.  It  is  a  happy  thing  for  us,  who  live  among  the 
moiinlains,  that  they  are  now-a-days  very  peaceable,  and  have 
left  off"  skipping  like  rams." 


Funeral  and  Coronation.  —  XIX.  pp.  40R,  col.  2,  fc  407,  col.  I. 

Clavigero.     Torquemada. 

This  coronation  oath  resembles  in  absurdity  the  language  of 
the  Chinese,  who,  in  speaking  of  a  propitious  event  occurring, 
cither  in  their  own  or  any  other  country,  geneially  attribute 
■t  to  the  joint  will  of  Heaven  and  the  Emperor  of  China. — 
Barrow. 

I  once  heard  a  streot-preacher  exhort  his  auditors  to  praise 


God  as  the  first  cause  of  all  good  things,  and  the  King  ai 
the  second. 


Let  the  guilty  tremble !  it  shall  flow 

A  draught  of  agony  and  death  to  him, 

A  stream  of  Jierij  poison.  —  XX.  i).  407,  c<  I.  2. 

I  have  no  other  authority  for  attributing  this  artifice  to  Tc- 
zozomoc,  than  that  it  has  been  practised  very  often  and  very 
successfully. 

"  A  Chief  of  Dsjedda,"  says  Niebnhr,  "  informed  me  that 
two  hundred  ducats  had  been  stolen  from  him,  and  wanted  me 
to  discover  the  thief.  I  excused  myself,  saying,  that  I  left 
that  sublime  science  to  the  Mahommedan  sages  ;  and  very  soon 
afterwards  a  celebrated  Schech  sIiohmmI,  indeed,  that  he  knew 
more  than  I  did.  He  placed  all  the  servants  in  a  row,  made  a 
hmg  prayer,  then  put  into  the  mouth  of  each  a  bit  of  paper, 
and  ordered  them  all  to  swallow  it,  after  having  assured  them 
that  it  would  not  harm  the  innocent,  but  that  the  punishment 
of  Heaven  would  fill  on  the  guilty  ;  after  which  he  examined 
the  mouth  of  every  one,  and  one  of  them,  who  had  not  swal- 
lowed the  paper,  confessed  that  he  had  stolen  the  money." 

A  similar  anecdote  occurs  in  the  old  Legend  of  Pierre 
Faifeu. 

Comment  la  Dame  de  vne  grosse  Mai.ton  ou  il  hantuit,  perdit 
ung  Dyamant  en  sa  ■mai.fon,  qu'il  luij  fi>l  subidlcnient  re- 
coucrer.  —  Chap.  22,  p.  58. 

Ung  certain  jour,  la  Dame  de  Vhostel 
Kut  ung  ennuy,  lequcl  pour  vrayfut  tcl. 
Car  elle  avoit  en  sa  main  gauche  on  deitre 
Ung  Dyamant,  que  I'on  rcnommoit  de  estre 
De  la  raleur  de  bien  cinq  cens  dueati ; 
Or,  pour  soubdain  vous  advertir  du  cas, 
Ou  en  dormant,  ou  en  fa'isanl  la  veiUe, 
Du  doy  luy  cheat,  dont  tres  fort  s'esmerveiVc, 
Qu'  el'  ne  le  treuee  est  son  cueur  tres  marry, 
St  n'ose  aussi  le  dire  a  son  mary  ,■ 
Mais  a  Faifeu  allcc  est  s'en  comjdaindre. 
Qui  rexpondit,  sans  grandcment  la  plaiiidre, 
Que  bien  failloit  que  le  Seigneur  le  sgeust, 
Et  qu'elle  luy  dist  ains  qu'il  s'en  appergeust. 
En  cefuisant  le  vaillant  Pierre  Maislre 
La  recouvrer  luy  est  alii  promellre, 
Ce  moyennant  qu'il  eust  einquantc  escut, 
Qu'elle  luy  promist,  sans  enfuire  refut, 
Pareillemcnt  qu'auchun  de  la  maison 
L'eust  point  trouvc,  il  en  rcndroil  raison. 
Leurs  propos  tins,  s'en  alia  scare  et  fernie 
La  djcte  Dame,  et  an  Seigneur  affcrme 
Du  Dyamant  le  susdict  interest, 
Dont  il  ne  fist  pas  grant  conte  ou  arrest, 
Ce  nonobstant  que  fast  le  don  de  nnpces, 
Qw'avoit  donne  'par  sur  autres  negoces ," 
Car  courrouceur  safemme  assez  en  veoit 
I 'avoir  perdu,  vtais  grand  ducil  en  avoit  ; 
Or  toutesfois  a  Faifeu  U  ordonne 
Fairc  son  vueil,  et  puissance  il  luy  donne 
A  .ton  plaisir  faire  ainsi  qu'il  entend. 
Incontinent  Faifeu  fist  tout  content 
Tost  assembler  serviteurs  et  servantes, 
Orans  et  petitz,  et  les  partes  fennantes, 
Lesfist  renger  en  une  chambre  a  part. 
Ou  de  grant  pear  chascnn  d'euiz  avoit  part. 
Quant  il  eust  fait,  appella  Sieur  ct  Dame, 
Desquelz  ami  cstoit  de  corps  et  de  amr, 
Et  devant  eulz  au  servans  fist  sermon 
Du  Dyamant,  leur  disant ;  nous  chcrmon, 
Et  scavons  bien  par  I'art  de  nicromance 
Celuy  qui  le  a ;  et  tout  en  evidance 
Feignoit  chermer  la  chambre  en  tons  endroitz, 
Se  pourmenant  decant  boxjttcuz  ou  droitz. 
II  appergcut  parmy  une  verriere, 
Emmy  la  court,  ung  garsonnet  arriere. 
Qui  n'Rstoil  point  o  les  autres  venu, 
Dont  vnaz  orrei  qu'il  en  est  advrnu. 
Ce  nonobstant  qu'il  y  en  eust  grant  nombre, 
Cinquante  on  plus,  soubdain  faignit  soubz  umhri 
De  diviner,  que  tout  n'y  estoit  point. 


432 


NOTES    TO    MADOC    IN    AZTLAN. 


Les  sPTv'deurs  ne  confrrtoissans  le  point 
Dirent  que  mil  ne.  ratoit  dc  la  hendc 
Fors  le  bergcr  ;  done,  dist-it,  qu'on  le  viande, 
Bien  le  sgacoys  et  autres  ckoses  scay, 
Qu'il  vienne  tost,  et  vous  verrei  I'essuy. 
Quant  fut  Venn,  demande  une  arballeste 
Que  bender  fist  o  grant  peine  et  molesle. 
Car  forte  estoil  des  meilleures  qui  soient. 
Les  assistens  tresfort  s'esbahyssoient 
Quefuire  il  veult,  car  dessus  ilfuit  mettre 
Ung  font  raillon,  puis  ainsi  la  remeUre 
Dessus  la  table,  et  couchee  a  trovers 
Tout  droit  tendu^,  et  alonrnie  enoers, 
Par  ou  passer  on  doit  decant  la  table. 
Tout  ce  casfait,  comme  resolu  el  stable, 
Disl  d  la  Dame,  et  aussi  an  Seignmr, 
Que  nul  d'eulx  ne  heut  tant  fiance  en  salt  heur, 
De  dejnander  la  bague  dessus  dicte, 
Par  mil  baral  ou  cautelle  maudicte  ; 
Car  il  convient,  sansfaire  nul  destour. 
Que  chascun  d'eulx  passe  etface  son  tour 
Devant  le  trect,  arc,  arballeste,  ouficsche. 
Sans  que  le  cueur  d'aucun  se  plye  ou  flesche  ; 
Et  puis  apres  les  servans  passeront, 
Mais  bien  croyci  que  ne  repasseront, 
Cculx  oil  celuy  qui  la  hague  rctiennent, 
Mais  cstre  mortz  tons  asseurezse  tiennent. 
Son  dilfiny,  chascun  y  a  passe 
Sans  que  nul  fust  ne  bleed  ne  cass6  ,' 
Mais  quant  cefut  a  cil  qui  a  la  bague, 
Ji  ce  ne  veult  user  de  mine  on  braqne, 
Car  pour  certain  se  trouva  si  vain  cueur. 
Que  s'ei.cuser  ne  sceut  est  vaincquer  ; 
Mais  tout  soubdain  son  esprit  se  tendit 
Cnjer  mercy,  et  la  bague  reiidit. 
En  ajfcrmant  qu'il  ne  Vavoit  robee, 
Mais  sans  Faifeu  eust  este  absorbee. 
Jiuquel  on  qnist  s'il  estoit.  bien  eertain 
Du  laronneau,  mais  jura  que  incerlain 
II  en  estoit,  et  sans  science  telle 
Qu'on  estimoit,  anoit  quis  la  cautelle 
Espoventer  par  subtille  Legon 
Ceulx  qui  la  bague  uvoient,  en  la  fagon 
Vous  pouvei  voir  que,  par  subtille  prouve, 
Tel  se  dit  ion,  qui  mechant  on  approune. 

Thft  trial  by  ordeal  more  probably  originated  in  wisdom 
tlian  in  superstition.  The  Water  of  Jealousy  is  the  oldest 
example.  This  seems  to  have  been  enjoined  for  enabliiijj 
women,  when  unjustly  suspected,  fully  to  exculpate  them- 
selves ;  for  no  one  who  was  guilty  would  have  ventured  upon 
the  trial. 

I  have  heard  an  anecdote  of  John  Henderson,  wliicli  is  cliar- 
ncteristie  of  that  remarkable  man.  The  maid  servant,  one 
evening,  at  a  house  where  he  was  visiting,  begged  that  she 
might  be  excused  from  bringing  in  the  tea,  for  lie  was  a  con- 
jurer, she  said.  When  this  was  told  him,  he  desired  the  mis- 
tress would  insist  upon  her  coming  in  ;  this  was  done  :  he  fixed 
his  eye  upon  her,  and  after  she  had  left  the  room  said.  Take 
care  of  her ;  she  is  not  honest.  It  was  soon  found  that  he 
bad  rightly  understood  the  cause  of  her  alarm. 


Their  sports.  — XXl.  p.  408,  col.  1. 

These  are  described  from  Clavigero,  who  gives  a  print 
of  the  Flyers  ;  the  tradition  of  the  banner  is  from  the  same 
author;  the  legend  of  Mexitli  from  Torijuemada,  1.  C,  c.  21. 


One  of  ournution  lost  the  maid  he  loved.  —  XXII.  p.  410,  col.  1. 

There  was  n  young  man  in  despair  for  the  death  of  his  sis- 
tiir,  wliom  he  loved  with  extreme  affection.  The  idea  of  the 
departed  recurred  to  him  incessantly.  lie  resolved  to  seek 
her  in  the  Land  of  Souls,  and  flattered  himself  with  the  hope 
of  bringing  her  back  with  him.  His  voyage  was  long  and  la- 
borious, liut  he  surmounted  all  the  obstacles,  and  overcame 
every  ditt'iculty.  At  length  he  found  a  solitary  old  man,  or 
rather  genius,  who,  having  ([uestioned  him  concerning  his  en- 
terprise, encouraged  him  to  pursue  it,  and  taught  him  the 
means  of  success.  He  gave  him  a  little  empty  calabiish  to 
contain  the  soul  of  his  sister,  and  promised  on  his  return  to 
give  liim  the  brain,  which  he  had  in  his  possession,  being 
placed  there,  by  virtue  of  his  office,  to  keep  the  br;iins  of  the 
dead.  The  young  man  profited  by  his  instructions,  finished 
his  course  successfully,  and  arrived  in  the  Land  of  Souls,  the 
inhabitants  of  which  were  much  astonished  to  see  him,  and 
fled  at  his  presence.  Tharonhiaouagon  received  him  well,  iind 
protected  him  by  his  counsel  from  the  old  woman  his  gratid- 
mother,  who,  under  the  appearance  of  a  feigned  regard,  wished 
to  destroy  him  by  making  liim  eat  the  flesh  of  serpents  and 
vipers,  which  were  to  her  delicacies.  The  souls  being  assem- 
bled to  dance,  as  was  their  custom,  he  recognized  that  of  h\i 
sister  ;  Tharonhiaouagon  assisted  him  to  take  it  by  surj)risc, 
without  which  help  he  never  would  have  succeeded,  for  when 
he  advanced  to  seize  it,  it  vanished  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 
and  left  him  as  confounded  as  was  TEneas  when  he  attempted 
to  embrace  the  shade  of  his  father  Anchises.  Nevertheless 
he  took  it,  confined  it,  and  in  spite  of  tlie  attempts  and  strata- 
gems of  this  captive  soul,  which  sought  but  to  deliver  itself 
from  its  prison,  be  brought  it  back  the  same  road  by  which  ho 
came  to  his  own  village.  I  know  not  if  he  recollected  to  take 
the  brain,  or  judged  it  unnecessary  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  arrived, 
he  dug  up  the  body,  and  prepared  it  according  to  the  instruc- 
tions he  had  received,  to  render  it  fit  for  the  reception  of  the 
soul,  which  was  to  reanimate  it.  Every  thing  was  ready  for 
tins  resurrection,  when  the  impertinent  curiosity  of  one  of 
those  who  were  present  prevented  its  success.  The  captive 
soul,  finding  itself  free,  fled  away,  and  the  whole  journey  was 
rendered  useless.  The  young  man  derived  no  other  ndvantace 
than  that  of  having  been  at  the  Land  of  Souls,  and  the  power 
of  giving  certain  tidings  of  it,  which  were  transmitted  to  pos- 
terity.—  Lafitau  5ur  les  Monirs  de  Sauvages  .^meriquains. 
Tom.  I.  p.  401. 

"  One,  I  remember,  aflirmed  to  me  that  himself  had  been 
dead  four  days  ;  that  most  of  his  friends  in  that  time  were 
gathered  together  to  his  funeral ;  and  that  he  should  have  been 
buried,  liut  that  some  of  his  relations  at  a  great  distance,  who 
were  sent  for  upon  that  occasion,  were  not  arrived,  before 
whose  coming  he  came  to  life  again.  In  this  time  he  savs  he 
went  to  the  place  where  the  sun  rises,  (imagining  the  earth  to 
be  a  plain,)  and  directly  over  that  place,  at  a  great  height  in 
the  air,  he  was  admitted,  he  says,  into  a  great  house,  which 
he  supposes  was  several  miles  in  length,  and  saw  many  won- 
derful things,  too  tedious  as  well  as  ridiculous  to  mention. 
Another  person,  a  woman,  whom  I  have  not  seen,  but  been 
credibly  informed  of  by  the  Indians,  declares  she  was  dead  sev- 
eral days  ;  that  her  soul  went  southward,  and  feasted  and 
danced  with  the  happy  si)irits  ;  and  that  she  found  all  things 
exactly  agreeable  to  the  Indian  notions  of  a  future  state."  — 
Brainerd. 


TVien  the  temples  fell. 
Whose  blacJi  and  putrid  walls  were  scaled  with  blood. 

XXII.  p.  409,  col.  2 

I  have  not  exaggerated.  Bernal  Diaz  was  an  eye-\vitnes«, 
and  he  expressly  says,  that  the  walls  and  the  floor  of  iMexitli's 
temple  were  blackened  and  flaked  with  blood,  and  filled  with 
a  putrid  stench.  —  Ilisloria  Verdadera.  [>.  71. 


that  cheerful  one,  who  knowcth  all 

The  songs  of  all  the  winged  choristers.  —  XXIII.  p.  410,  col.  2. 

The  Mocking  Bird  is  often  mentioned,  and  with  much  feel- 
ing, in  Mr.  Davis's  Travels  in  America,  a  very  singular  and 
interesting  volume.  He  describes  himself  in  one  place  as 
listening  by  moonlight  to  one  that  usually  perched  within  a 
few  yards  of  his  log  hut.  A  negress  was  sitting  on  the 
threshold  of  the  next  door,  smoking  the  stump  of  an  old  pipe. 
Please  Ood  Mmighty,  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  huw  street 
that  Jtiocking  Bird  sing!  he  never  tire.  By  day  and  by  night 
it  sings  alike  ;  when  weary  of  mocking  others,  the  bird  takes 
up  its  own  natural  strain,  and  so  joyous  a  creature  is  it,  that 
it  will  jump  and  dance  to  its  own  music.  The  bird  is  perfect- 
ly domestic,  for  the  Americans  hold  it  sacred.  Would  that 
we  had  more  of  these  humane  prejudices  in  England  I  —  if  that 


NOTES    TO    MA DOC    IN     AZTLAN 


433 


word  may  be  applied  to  a  feeling  so  good  in  itaelf  and  In  its 
tendency. 

A  good  old  Protestant  missionary  mentions  anotlier  of  tlic 
American  singing-birds  very  teclmically. 

"  Of  black  birds  there  be  millions,  which  are  groat  de- 
vourers  of  the  Indian  corn  as  soon  as  it  appears  out  of  the 
ground:  unto  this  sort  of  birds,  espociully,  may  the  mystical 
fowls,  the  Divells,  be  well  resembled,  (and  so  it  pleasclh  the 
Lord  Jesus  himself  to  observe.  Matt.  13,)  wliich  mystical 
fowl  fnllow  the  sowing  of  the  word,  pick  it  up  from  loose  and 
careless  hearers,  as  these  black  birds  follow  the  material  seed  : 
against  these  they  are  very  careful,  both  to  set  their  corn 
deep  enough,  that  it  may  have  a  strong  root,  not  so  apt  to  be 
pluckt  up,  as  also  they  put  up  little  watch-houses  in  the  middle 
of  their  fields,  in  which  they  or  their  biggest  children  lodge." 
-ROOER  W1LI.IAMS. 

The  caryon  Crowe,  that  lothsome  beast, 
Which  cries  against  the  rayiie. 

Both  for  her  hewe  and  for  the  rest 
The  Devill  resembleth  playne  : 

And  as  with  gonnes  we  kill  the  crowe 
For  spoyling  our  releefe, 

The  Devill  so  must  we  overthrowe 
With  gunshot  of  beleefe. 

Gascoigne's  Good-morrow. 
But  of  all  the  songsters  in  America  who  warble  their  wood- 
notes  wild,  the  frogs  are  the  most  extraordinary. 

"  Prepared  as  I  was,"  says  a  traveller,  "  to  bear  something 
extraordinary  from  these  animals,  I  confess  the  first  frog  con- 
cert I  heard  in  America  was  so  much  beyond  any  thing  I 
could  conceive  of  the  powers  of  these  musicians,  that  I  was 
truly  astonished.  This  performance  was  alfresco,  and  took 
place  on  the  18th,  (April  instant,)  in  a  large  swamp,  where 
there  were  at  least  ten  thousand  performers,  and,  I  really 
believe,  not  two  exactly  in  the  same  pitch,  if  the  octave  can 
possildy  admit  of  so  many  divisions,  or  shakes  of  semitones. 
An  Hibernian  musician,  who,  like  myself,  was  iircscnt  for  the 
first  time  at  this  concert  of  antiimisic,  exclaimed,  'By  Jasus, 
but  they  stop  out  of  tune  to  a  nicety  !  ' 

"  I  have  been  since  informed  by  an  amateur  who  resided 
many  years  in  this  country,  and  made  this  species  of  music  his 
peculi.ir  study,  that  on  these  occasions  the  treble  is  performed 
by  the  Tree  Frogs,  the  smallest  and  most  beautiful  speciis  ; 
they  are  always  of  the  same  color  as  the  bark  of  the  tree  they 
inhabit,  and  their  note  is  not  unlike  the  chirp  of  a  cricket : 
the  next  in  size  are  our  counter-tenors  ;  they  have  a  note  re- 
sembling the  setting  of  a  saw.  A  still  larger  s|)ecips  sing 
tenor,  and  the  under  part  is  supported  by  the  Bull  I'rogs, 
which  are  as  large  as  a  man's  foot,  and  bellow  out  the  bass  in 
a  tone  as  loud  and  sonorous  as  that  of  the  animal  from  which 
they  take  their  name."—  Travels  in  .America  by  W.  Pkiest, 
Musician. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  says  this  lively  traveller,  "  if  an  en- 
thusiastic cockney  of  weak  nerves,  who  had  never  been  out  of 
the  sound  of  Bow-bell,  could  suddenly  he  conveyed  from  his 
bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  laid  fast  asleep  in  an 
American  swamp,  he  would,  on  waking,  fancy  himself  in  the 
infernal  regions  :  his  first  sensations  would  be  from  the  slings 
of  a  myriad  of  musiiuitoes  ;  waking  with  the  smart,  his  ears 
would  be  assailed  with  the  horrid  noises  of  the  frojs  ;  on  lift- 
ing up  his  eyes,  he  would  have  a  faint  view  of  the  night  hawks, 
flapping  their  ominous  wings  over  his  devoted  head,  visible 
only  from  the  glimmering  light  of  the  fire-flies,  which  he 
would  naturally  conclude  were  sparks  from  the  hollomless  pit. 
Nothing  would  be  wanting  at  this  moment  to  complite  the 
illusion,  but  one  of  those  dreadful  explosions  of  tbimder  and 
lightning,  so  extravagantly  described  by  Lee  in  CE'lipus. 
'  Call  you  these  peals  of  thunder  but  the  yawn  of  bellowing 
clouds  .'  By  Jove,  they  seem  to  me  the  worlrl's  last  groans, 
and  those  large  sheets  of  flame  its  last  blaze  ! ' " 


In  sink  and  swell 
Mare  exquvntehj  sweet  th/in  ever  art 
Of  man  evoked  from  instrument  of  touch. 
Or  beat,  or  breath.  — XXUI.  p.  410^  col  2. 

The  expression  is  from  an  old  Spanish  writer:   "  Tanian 
tnstrumentos  de  diversas  mancras  de  lu  musica,  de  pulso,  c  Jlato, 
e  tato,  e  voi." —  Cronica  de  Pero  Nino. 
55 


the  old,  in  talk 

Of  other  days,  which  mingled  with  their  joy 

Memory  of  many  a  hard  calamity.  —  XXIV.  p.  411,  col.  2. 

"  And  when  the  builders  laid  the  foundation  of  the  Temple 
of  the  Lord,  they  set  the  Priests  in  their  apparel  with  trumpets, 
and  the  Levites  the  sons  of  Asaph  with  cymbals,  to  praise  the 
Lord,  after  thi^  ordinance  of  David,  King  of  Israel. 

"  And  they  sang  together  by  course  in  praising  and  giving 
thanks  unto  the  Lord,  because  he  is  good,  for  his  mercy 
endureth  forever  toward  Israel.  And  all  tlie  people  shouted 
with  a  great  shout  when  they  praised  the  Lord,  because  the 
foundation  of  the  house  of  the  Lord  was  laid. 

"Hut  many  of  the  Priests  and  Levites  and  chief  of 
the  fathers,  who  were  ancient  men,  that  had  seen  the  first 
house,  when  the  foundation  of  this  house  was  laid  before 
their  eyes,  wept  with  a  loud  voice ;  and  many  shouted  aloud 
with  joy  : 

"  .*o  that  the  people  could  not  discern  the  noise  of  the  shout 
of  joy  from  the  noise  of  the  weeping  of  the  people  ;  for  the 
people  shouted  with  a  loud  shout,  and  the  noise  was  heard 
afar  off."  — Ezra,  iii.  10—13. 


For  Aithin  comes  in  anger,  and  her  Oods 
Spare  none.  —  XXIV.  p.  412,  col.  1. 
Kill  all  that  you  can,  said  the  Tlascallans  to  Cortes;  the 

young  that  they  may  not  bear  arms,  the  old  that  they  may  not 

give  counsel.  —  Bernal  Diaz,  p.  56. 


The  Circle  of  the  Ycarsis  full.  — XXVI.  p.  414,  col.  2. 

Torquemada,  1.  10,  c.  33.  The  tradition  of  the  Five  Puns 
is  related  by  Clavigero:  the  origin  of  the  present  by  the  same 
author  and  by  Torquemada,  1.  6,  c.  42  ;  tlie  whole  of  the  cure- 
monies  is  accurately  stated. 


Depart !  depart !  for  so  the  note, 
.Articulately  in  his  native  tongue. 
Spake  to  the  Mzteca.  —  XXW.  p.  417,  col.  1. 

My  excuse  for  this  insignificant  agency,  as  I  fear  it  will  be 
thought,  must  be,  that  the  fact  itself  is  historically  true  ;  by 
means  of  this  omen  the  Aztecas  were  induced  to  (piit  their 
country,  after  a  series  of  calamities.  The  leader  who  had 
address  enough  to  influence  them  was  Huitziton,  a  name 
which  I  have  altered  to  Yuhidthiton  for  the  sake  of  euphony  ; 
the  note  of  the  bird  is  expressed  in  Spanish  and  Italian  thus, 
tihui;  the  cry  of  the  peewhit  cannot  be  better  expressed. — 
Torquemada,  I.  2,  c.  1.     Clavigero. 


r/ie  Chair  ofOod.  —  XXVll.  p.  419,  col.  1. 

Mexitli,  they  said,  appeared  to  them  during  their  emigra- 
tion, and  ordered  them  to  carry  him  before  them  in  a  chair; 
Teoycpalli  it  was  called.  —  ToRqtrEMADA,  1.  2,  c.  1. 

The  hideous  figures  of  their  idols  are  easily  accounted  for 
by  the  Historian  of  the  Dominicans  in  Mexico. 

"  As  often  as  the  Devil  appeared  to  the  Mexicans,  they 
made  immediately  an  idol  of  the  figure  in  which  they  had 
seen  him  ;  sometimes  as  a  lion,  other  times  as  a  dog,  other 
times  as  a  serpent ;  and  as  the  ambitious  Devil  took  a<lvan- 
tage  of  this  weakness,  he  assumed  a  new  form  every  time  to 
gain  a  new  image  in  which  he  might  be  worshipped.  The 
natural  timidity  of  the  Indians  aided  the  design  of  the  Devil, 
and  he  appeared  to  them  in  horrible  and  affrighting  figurr-s, 
that  he  might  have  them  the  more  submissive  to  his  will  ;  for 
this  reason  it  is  that  the  idols  which  we  still  see  in  Mexico, 
placed  in  the  corners  of  the  streets  as  spoils  of  the  Gospel, 
are  so  deformed  and  ugly.  —  Fr.  AtroDSTin  Davila  Padilla. 


To  spread  in  other  lands  MeiitH^s  name. — XXVII.  p.  420,  col.  1. 
It  will  scarcely  be  believed  that  the  respml)lance  l)i'tween 
Mexico  and  Messiah  should  have  been  adduced  as  a  proof  that 
.America  was  peopled  by  the  ten  tribes.  Fr.  Estevan  de  Sala- 
zar  discovered  this  wise  argument,  which  is  noticed  in  Gre- 
gorio  Garcia's  very  credulous  and  very  learned  work  on  the 
Origin  of  the  Indians,  I.  3,  c.  7,  §  2. 


4;34 


PREFACE    TO    BALLADS,   &c.   VOL.    1, 


Baller^fii  antr  JUrttrical  E^ltu. 


VOL.   I 


PREFACE. 

Most  of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  were  written 
in  early  life,  a  few  are  comparatively  of  recent  date, 
and  there  are  some  of  them  whicii  lay  unfinished 
for  nearly  thirty  years. 

Ujjon  reading,  on  their  first  appearance,  certain 
of  tliese  Ballads,  and  of  the  lighter  pieces  now 
comprised  in  the  third  volume  of  this  collective 
edition,*  Mr.  Edge  worth  said  to  me,  "  Take  my 
word  for  it,  Sir,  the  bent  of  your  genius  is  for  com- 
edy." I  was  as  little  displeased  with  the  intended 
compliment  as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  poets 
of  this  age  was  with  Mr.  Slieridan,  who,  upon  re- 
turning a  play  which  he  had  offered  for  acceptance 
at  Drury  Lane,  told  him  it  was  a  comical  tragedy. 

My  late  friend,  Mr.  William  Taylor  of  Norwicli, 
whom  none  who  knew  him  intimately  can  ever 
call  to  mind  without  affection  and  regret,  has  this 
passage  in  his  Life  of  Dr.  Saj^ers  :  —  "  Net  long 
after  this,  (the  year  1800,)  Mr.  Robert  Soutliey  vis°- 
ited  Norwich,  was  introduced  to  Dr.  Sayers,  and 
partook  those  feelings  of  complacent  admiration 
whicli  his  presence  was  adapted  to  inspire. —  Dr. 
Sayers  pointed  out  to  us  in  conversation,  as  adapted 
for  the  theme  of  a  ballad,  a  story  related  by  Olaus 
Magnus  of  a  witch,  whose  coffin  was  confined  by 
three  cliains,  sprinkled  with  holy  water;  but  who 
was,  nevertheless,  carried  offby  demons.  Already, 
I  believe.  Dr.  Sayers  had  made  a  ballad  on  the  sub- 
ject; so  did  1,  and  so  did  Mr.  Southey ;  but  after 
seeing  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley,  we  agreed  in 
awarding  to  it  the  preference.  Still,  the  very  dif- 
ferent manner  in  which  each  had  employed  tlie 
same  basis  of  narration  might  render  welcome  the 
opportunity  of  comparison  ;  but  I  have  not  found 
among  the  papers  of  Dr.  Sayers  a  copy  of  his  poem." 

There  is  a  mistake  here  as  to  the  date.  This, 
my  first  visit  to  Norwich,  was  in  tlie  spring  of 
1798 ;  and  I  Lad  so  much  to  interest  me  there  in 
the  society  of  my  kind  host  and  friend  Mr.  William 
Taylor,  that  the  mention  at  Dr.  Sayers's  table  of  the 
story  in  Olaus  Magnus  made  no  impression  on  me 
at  the  time,  and  was  presently  forgotten.  Indeed, 
if  I  had  known  tliat  either  he  or  his  friend  had 
written  or  intended  to  write  a  ballad  upon  tlie  sub- 
ject, that  knowledge,  however  nmch  the  story 
might  have  pleased  me,  would  have  withheld  me 
from  all  thought  of  versifying  it.  In  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year,  I  passed  some  days  at  Hereford 
with  Mr.    William  Bowyer  Thomas,  one  of  the 

*  Juvenile  and  Minor  Poems,  Vol.  II.,  pp.  158 — 223  of  this 
edition. 


friends  with  whom,  in  1796,  I  had  visited  the 
Arrabida  Convent  near  Setubal.  By  his  means  I 
obtained  permission  to  make  use  of  the  books  in  tlie 
Cathedral  Library ;  and  accordingly  I  was  locked 
up  for  several  mornings  in  that  part  of  the  Cathe- 
dral where  the  books  were  kept  in  chains.  So 
little  were  these  books  used  at  that  time,  that,  in 
placing  them  upon  the  shelves,  no  regard  had  been 
had  to  the  length  of  the  chains ;  and  when  the 
volume  which  I  wished  to  consult  was  fastened  to 
one  of  the  upper  shelves  by  a  short  chain,  the  only 
means  by  which  it  was  possible  to  make  use  of  it 
was,  by  piling  upon  the  reading  desk  as  many  vol- 
umes with  longer  chains  as  would  reach  up  to  the 
length  of  its  tether  ;  then,  by  standing  on  a  chair, 
I  was  able  to  effect  my  purpose.  There,  and  thus, 
I  firstreadthestory  of  theOld  Woman  of  Berkeley, 
in  Matthew  of  Westminster,  and  transcribed  it 
into  a  pocket-book.  I  had  no  recollection  of  what 
had  passed  at  Dr.  Sayers's  ;  but  the  circumstantial 
details  in  the  monkish  Chronicle  impressed  me  so 
strongly,  tliat  I  began  to  versify  them  that  very 
evening.  It  was  the  last  day  of  our  pleasant  visit 
at  Hereford  ;  and  on  the  following  morning  the 
remainder  of  the  Ballad  was  pencilled  in  a  post- 
chaise  on  our  way  to  Abberley. 

Mr.  Watlien,  a  singular  and  obliging  person,  who 
afterwards  made  a  voyage  to  the  East  Indies,  and 
published  an  account  of  what  he  saw  there,  traced 
for  me  a  fac  simile  of  a  wooden  cut  in  the  Nurem- 
berg Chronicle,  (which  was  among  the  prisoners  in 
file  Cathedral.)  It  represents  tlie  Old  Woman's 
forcible  abduction  from  her  intended  place  of  burial. 
This  was  put  into  the  hands  of  a  Bristol  artist ; 
and  the  engraving  in  wood  which  he  made  from  it 
was  prefi,\ed  to  the  Ballad  when  first  published,  in 
the  second  volume  of  my  poems,  1799.  The  Devil 
alludes  to  it  in  his  Walk,  when  he  complains  of  a 
certain  poet  as  having  "  put  him  in  ugly  ballads, 
with  libellous  pictures,  for  sale." 

The  passage  from  Matthew  of  Westminster  was 
prefixed  to  the  Ballad  when  first  published,  and  it 
has  continued  to  be  so  in  every  subsequent  edition 
of  my  minor  poems  from  that  time  to  the  present ; 
for  whenever  I  have  foimded  either  a  poem,  or  part 
of  one,  upon  any  legend,  or  portion  of  historv,  I 
liave  either  extracted  the  passage  to  which  I  was 
indebted,  if  its  length  allowed,  or  have  referred  to 
it.  Mr.  Payne  Collier,  however,  after  the  Ballad, 
with  its  parentage  afiixed,  had  been  twenty  years 
before  the  public,  discovered  that  I  had  copied  the 
story  from  Hey  wood's  Nine  Books  of  various  His- 
tory concerning  Women,  and  that  I  had  not 
thought   proper  to   acknowledge   the    obligation. 


MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN 


435 


The  discovery  is  thus  stated  in  tliat  gentleiiiairs 
Poetical  Docaineron,  (vol.  i.  p.  323.)  Speakiiijr  of 
the  book,  one  of  his  Interlocutors  says,  "  It  is  not 
of  such  rarity  or  singularity  as  to  deserve  particular 
notice  now  ;  only,  if  you  n^fer  t')  p.  4-13,  yoti  will 
find  the  story  on  which  Mr.  Soutliey  founded  his 
mock-ballad  of  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley.  You 
will  see,  too,  that  the  mode  in  which  it  is  told  is 
extremely  similar. 

"  Morton.  Had  Mr.  Southey  seen  Heywood's 
book .' 

"  Bourne.  It  is  not  improbable  ;  or  some  quota- 
tion from  it,  the  resemblance  is  so  exact;  you  may 
judge  from  the  few  following  sentences." 

Part  of  Heywood's  narration  is  then  given  ;  upon 
which  one  of  the  speakers  observes,  "  '  The  resem- 
blance is  exact,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Heywood 
and  Southey  copied  from  the  same  original.' 

"  Bof  R.NE.  Perhaps  so  ;  Heywood  quotes  Guille- 
rimus  in  Special.  Histor.  lib.  xxvi.  c.  2G.  lie  after- 
wards relates,  as  Southey,  that  the  Devil  placed  the 
Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  before  him  on  a  black 
horse,  and  that  her  screams  were  lieard  four  miles 
off." 

It  cannot,  however,  be  disputed,  that  Mr.  Payne 
Collier  has  made  one  discovery  relating  to  this  sub- 
ject ;  for  he  has  discovered  that  the  Old  Woiimn 
of  Berkeley  is  a  mock-ballad.  Certainly  this  was 
never  suspected  by  the  Author  or  any  of  his  friends. 
It  obtained  a  very  different  character  in  Russia, 
where,  having  been  translated  and  published,  it  was 
prohibited  for  this  singular  reason,  that  children 
were  said  to  be  frightened  by  it.  This  I  was  told 
by  a  Russian  traveller  who  called  upon  me  at  Kes- 
wick. 

Keswick,  8//i  March,  1838. 


MARY,   THE    MAID    OF    THE 

INN. 


The  circumstances  related  in  tlie  following  Ballad  were  tolil 
me,  when  a  school-boy,  as  having  happened  in  the  north  of 
England.  Either  Furncs  or  Kirkstall  .'\hbey  (I  forget 
which)  was  numed  as  Die  scene.  The  original  story,  how- 
ever, is  in  Dr.  Plot's  History  of  Staftbrdsliire. 

"Amongst  the  unusual  accident?,"  says  this  amusing  author, 
"  that  have  attended  tlie  female  sex  in  the  course  of  their 
lives,  I  think  I  may  also  reckon  the  narrow  escapes  tiiey 
have  made  from  death.  Whereof  I  met  with  one  men- 
tioned with  admiration  hy  every  body  at  l.eck,  that  hap- 
pened not  far  olV  at  the  Black  Mecr  of  Morridge,  which, 
though  fimous  for  nothing  for  which  it  is  commonly  reputed 
so,  (as  that  it  is  bottomless,  no  cattle  will  drink  of  it,  or 
birds  (ly  over  or  settle  upon  it,  all  wliifh  I  found  false,) 
yet  is  so,  iorthe  signal  deliverance  of  a  poor  woman  enticed 
thither  in  a  dismal,  stormy  night,  by  a  bloody  rulFiiin,  who 
had  first  gotten  her  witli  child,  and  intended,  in  this  remote 
inlio>ipitable  place,  to  have  desjiatehed  her  by  drowning. 
The  same  niglit  (Providence  so  ordering  it)  there  were 
several  persons  of  inferior  rank  drinking  in  an  aI"hou=e 
at  Leek,  whereof  one  having  been  out,  and  observing  the 
darkness  and  other  ill  circumstances  of  the  weather,  coming 
in  again,  said  to  the  rest  of  his  companion's,  that  he  wen-  a 
stout  man  indeed  that  would  venture  to  go  to  the  Black 


Meer  of  Morridge  in  such  a  night  as  that ;  to  which  one 
of  them  replying,  that,  for  a  crown,  or  some  such  sum,  he 
vonid  undertake  it,  the  rest,  joining  their  purses,  said  he 
should  have  his  demand.  The  bargain  being  struck,  away 
be  went  on  his  journey  with  a  stick  in  his  hand,  which  he 
was  to  leave  there  as  a  testimony  of  his  performance.  .\t 
length,  coming  near  the  Meer,  he  heard  the  lamentable  cries 
of  this  distressed  woman,  begging  for  mercy,  w  hich  at  first 
put  him  to  a  stand  ;  but  being  a  man  of  great  resolution 
and  some  policy,  he  went  hcddly  on,  however,  counti'rfciting 
the  presence  of  divers  other  persons,  calling  Jack,  Dick, 
and  Tom,  and  crying,  Here  are.  the  roj^ues  ice  look'd  for. 
&.C. ;  w  hich  being  heard  by  the  murderer,  he  left  the  woman 
and  fled  ;  whom  the  other  man  found  by  the  iMeer  side 
abnost  stripped  of  her  clothes,  and  brought  her  with  him  to 
Leek  as  an  ample  testinmny  of  his  having  been  at  the 
Aleer,  and  of  God's  providence  too."  —  P.  291. 
The  metre  is  Mr.  Lewis's  invention  ;  and  metre  is  one  of  the 
few  things  concerning  which  popularity  may  bo  admitted 
as  a  proof  of  merit.  The  ballad  has  become  popular  owing 
to  the  metre  and  the  story  ;  and  it  has  been  made  the  sub- 
ject of  a  fine  picture  by  Mr.  Barker. 


1. 

Who  is  yonder  poor  Maniac,  whose   wildly-fix'd 
eyes 

Seem  a  heart  overcharged  to  express .' 
She  weeps  not,  yet  often  and  deeply  she  sighs ; 
Siie  never  complains,  but  her  silence  implies 

The  composure  of  settled  distress. 


No  pity  she  looks  for,  no  alms  doth  she  seek ; 

Nor  for  raiiiioiit  nor  food  doth  she  care  : 
Through  lier  tatters  the  winds  of  the  winter  blow 

bleak 
On  that   wither'd  breast,  and  her   weather-worn 
cheek 
Hath  the  hue  of  a  mortal  despair 


Yet  cheerful  and  happy,  nor  distant  the  day, 

Poor  Mary  the  Maniac  hath  been ; 
The  Traveller  remembers  who  journey'd  this  way 
No  damsel  so  lovely,  no  damsel  so  gay. 

As  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 


Her  cheerful  address  fill'd  the  guests  with  delight 

As  she  welcomed  them  in  with  a  smile ; 
Her  heart  was  a  stranger  to  childish  affright. 
And  Mary  would  walk  by  the  Abbey  at  night 
When  the  wind  whistled  down  the  dark  aisle. 


She  loved,  and  young  Richard  had  settled  tlie  day, 

And  she  hoped  to  be  happy  for  life  ; 
But  Richard  was  idle  and  worthless,  and  they 
Who  luiGw  him  would  pity  poor  Mary,  and  say 
That  she  was  too  good  for  his  wife. 


'Twas  in  autumn,  and  stormy  and  dark  was   the 
night, 

And  fast  were  the  windows  and  door; 
Two  guests  sat  enjoying  the  fire  that  burnt  bright, 
And  smoking,  in  silence,  witli  tranquil  delight, 

Tliey  lisfvn'd  to  hear  tlie  wind  roar. 


436 


MARY,    THE    MAID    OF    THE    INN 


7. 
"  'Tis  pleasant,"  cried  one,"  seated  by  the  fireside, 

To  hear  the  wind  whistle  without." 
"What   a   night   for  the   Abbey!"    his   comrade 

replied ; 
"  Methinks  a  man's  courage  would  now  be  well 
tried 
Who  should  wander  the  ruins  about. 

8. 
"  I  myself,  like  a  school-boy,  should  tremble  to  hear 

The  hoarse  ivy  shake  over  my  head ; 
And  could  fancy  I  saw,  half  persuaded  by  fear. 
Some  ugly  old  Abbot's  grim  spirit  appear  ; 

For  this  wind  might  awaken  the  dead  !  " 


"I'll  wager  a  dinner,"  the  other  one  cried, 
"That  Mary  would  venture  there  now." 

"  Then  wager  and  lose  !  with  a  sneer  he  replied  ; 

"  I'll  warrant  she'd  fancy  a  ghost  by  her  side, 
And  faint  if  she  saw  a  white  cow." 

10. 
"Will  Mary  this  charge  on  her  courage  allow.-'  " 

His  companion  exclaim'd,  with  a  smile  ; 
"I  shall  win,  —  for  I  know  she  will  venture  there 

now. 
And  earn  a  new  bonnet  by  bringing  a  bough 
From  the  elder  that  grows  in  the  aisle." 

11. 

With  fearless  good-humor  did  Mary  comply, 

And  her  way  to  the  Abbey  she  bent; 
The  night  was  dark,  and  the  wind  was  high. 
And  as  hollowly  howling  it  swept  through  the  sky, 
She  shiver'd  with  cold  as  she  went. 

12. 
O'er  the  path  so  well  known  still  proceeded  the 
Maid 
Where  the  Abbey  rose  dim  on  the  siglit ; 
Through  the  gateway  she   enter'd;  she  felt  not 

afraid. 
Yet  the  ruins  were  lonely  and  wild,  and  their  shade 
Seem'd  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  the  night. 

13. 
All  around  her  was  silent,  save  when  the  rude  blast 

Howl'd  dismally  round  the  old  pile ; 
Over  weed-cover' d  fragments  she  feailessly  pass'd, 
And  arrived  at  the  innermost  ruin  at  last. 

Where  the  elder-tree  grew  in  the  aisle. 

14. 

Well  pleased  did  she  reach  it,  and  quickly  drew 
near, 

And  hastily  gather'd  the  bough  ; 
When  the  sound  of  a  voice  seem'd  to  rise  on  her  ear. 
She  paused,  and  she  listen'd  intently,  in  fear, 

And  her  heart  panted  painfully  now. 

15. 
The  wind  blew;  the  hoarse  ivy  shook  over  her  head; 
She  listen'd — nought  else  could  she  hear; 


The  wind  fell ;  her  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom  with 

dread. 
For  she  heard  in  the  ruins  distinctly  the  tread 
Of  footsteps  approaching  her  near. 

16. 
Behind  a  wide  column,  half  breathless  with  fear, 

She  crept  to  conceal  herself  there  : 
That  instant  the  moon  o'er  a  dark  cloud  shone  clear^ 
And  she  saw  in  the  moonlight  two  ruffians  appear, 

And  between  them  a  corpse  did  they  bear. 

17. 

Then  Mary  could  feel  her  heart-blood  curdle  cold; 

Again  the  rough  wind  hurried  by ; 
It  blew  off  the  hat  of  the  one,  and,  behold. 
Even  close  to  the  feet  of  poor  Mary  it  roll'd; 

She  felt,  and  expected  to  die. 

18. 
"  Curse  the  hat !  "  he  exclaims.     "  Nay,  come  on 
till  we  hide 
The  dead  body,"  his  comrade  replies. 
She  beholds  them  in  safety  pass  on  by  her  side ; 
She  seizes  the  hat,  —  fear  her  courage  supplied, — 
And  fast  through  tlie  Abbey  she  flies. 

19. 
She  ran  with  wild  speed  ;  she  rush'd  in  at  the  door; 

She  gaz'd  in  her  terror  around  ; 
Then  her  limbs  could  support  their  faint  burden 

no  more, 
And  exhausted  and  breathless  she  sank  on  the 
Unable  to  utter  a  sound.  [floor, 

20. 
Ere  yet  her  pale  lips  could  the  story  impart, 

For  a  moment  the  hat  met  her  view ;  — 
Her  eyes  from  that  object  convulsively  start, 
For  —  what  a  cold  horror   then  thrilled   through 
her  heart 
When  the  name  of  her  Richard  she  knew  I 

21. 

Where   the   old  Abbey  stands,  on   the   common 
hard  by. 

His  gibbet  is  now  to  be  seen ; 
His  irons  you  still  from  the  road  may  espy ; 
The  traveller  beholds  thorn,  and  thinks  with  a  sigh 

Of  poor  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 

Bristol,  1796. 


DONICA 


"  In  Finland  there  is  a  Castlo  which  is  railed  the  New  Rock 
nioated  about  witli  a  river  of  unsounded  depth,  the  water 
hlack,  and  the  fish  therein  very  distasteful  to  the  palate 
In  this  are  spectres  oitcn  seen,  wliich  foreshow  either  the 
death  of  the  Governor,  or  of  some  prinie  otficer  holongiiig  to 
the  place  ;  and  most  commonly  it  appeareth  in  the  shape 


DONICA, 


437 


of  a  harpor,  sweetly  linglDg  and  dallving  and  playing  under 
tlie  water." 

"  It  is  reported  of  one  Donica,  tliat  after  slie  was  dead,  the 
Devil  walked  in  lior  body  for  the  space  of  two  years,  so  that 
none  suspected  but  she  was  still  alive  j  for  she  did  both 
s|)eak  and  eat,  though  very  sparingly  ;  only  she  had  a  deep 
paleness  on  her  countenance,  which  was  the  only  sign  of 
death.  At  length,  a  Magician  coming  by  where  she  was 
then  in  the  company  of  many  other  virgins,  as  soon  as  he 
beheld  her,  he  said,  '  Fair  Maids,  why  keep  you  comP''"y 
with  this  dead  Virgin,  whom  you  suppose  to  be  alive." 
when,  taking  away  the  magic  charm  which  was  tied  under 
her  arm,  the  body  fell  down  lifeless  and  without  motion." 

TUe  following  Hallad  is  founded  on  these  stories.  They  are 
to  bo  found  in  the  notes  to  the  Hierarchies  of  the  Blessed 
Angels;  a  Poem  by  Thomas  Hey  wood,  printed  in  folio  by 
Adam  Islip,  1635. 


High  on  a  rock  whose  castled  shade 

Darken' d  the  lake  below, 
In  ancient  strength  majestic  stood 

The  towers  of  Arlinkow. 

The  fisher  in  the  lake  below 

Durst  never  cast  his  net, 
Nor  ever  swallow  in  its  waves 

Her  passing  wing  would  wet. 

The  cattle  from  its  ominous  banks 

In  wild  alarm  would  run, 
Though  parch'd  with  thirst,  and  faint  beneath 

The  summer's  scorching  sun  ;  — 

For  sometimes,  when  no  passing  breeze 

The  long,  lank  sedges  waved, 
All  white  with  foam,  and  heaving  high, 

Its  deafening  billows  raved ;  — 

And  when  the  tempest  from  its  base 

The  rooted  pine  would  shake, 
The  powerless  storm  unruffling  swept 

Across  the  calm  dead  lake  ;  — 

And  ever,  then,  when  death  drew  near 

The  house  of  Arlinkow, 
Its  dark,  unfathom'd  waters  sent 

Strange  music  from  below. 

The  Lord  of  Arlinkow  was  old; 

One  only  child  had  he  ; 
Donica  was  the  Maiden's  name, 

As  fair  as  air  might  be. 

A  bloom  as  bright  as  opening  morn 
Suffused  her  clear,  white  cheek  ; 

The  music  of  her  voice  was  mild ; 
Her  full,  dark  eyes  were  meek. 

Far  was  her  beauty  known,  for  none 

So  fair  could  Finland  boast; 
Her  parents  loved  the  Maiden  much  , 

Young  Eberhard  loved  her  most. 

Together  did  they  hope  to  tread 

The  pleasant  path  of  life  ; 
For  now  the  day  drew  near  to  make 

Donica  Eberhard's  wife. 


The  eve  was  fair,  and  mild  the  air ; 

Along  the  lake  they  stray  ; 
The  eastern  hill  reflected  bright 

The  tints  of  fading  day. 

And  brightly  o'er  the  water  stream'd 

The  liquid  radiance  wide ; 
Donica's  little  dog  ran  on, 

And  gamboU'd  at  her  side. 

Youth,  health,  and  love  bloom'd  on  her  cheek, 

Her  full,  dark  eyes  express. 
In  many  a  glance,  to  Eberhard 

Her  soul's  meek  tenderness. 

Nor  sound  was  heard,  nor  passing  gale 
Sigh'd  through  the  long,  lank  sedge ; 

The  air  was  hush'd  ;    no  little  wave 
Dimpled  the  water's  edge ;  — 

When  suddenly  the  lake  sent  forth 

Its  music  from  beneath, 
And  slowly  o'er  the  waters  sail'd 

The  solemn  sounds  of  death. 

As  those  deep  sounds  of  death  arose, 

Donica's  cheek  grew  pale. 
And  in  the  arms  of  Eberhard 

The  lifeless  Maiden  fell. 

Loudly  the  Youth  in  terror  shriek'd. 

And  loud  he  call'd  for  aid. 
And  with  a  wild  and  eager  look 

Gazed  on  the  lifeless  Maid. 

But  soon  again  did  better  thoughts 

In  Eberhard  arise ; 
And  he  with  trembling  hope  beheld 

The  Maiden  raise  her  eyes. 

And,  on  his  arm  reclined,  she  moved 

With  feeble  pace  and  slow. 
And  soon,  with  strength  recover'd,  reach'd 

The  towers  of  Arlinkow. 

Yet  never  to  Donica's  cheeks 

Return'd  their  lively  hue  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  deathy  white  and  wan, 

Her  lips  a  livid  blue. 

Her  eyes,  so  bright  and  black  of  yore, 
Were  now  more  black  and  bright. 

And  beam'd  strange  lustre  in  her  face. 
So  deadly  wan  and  white. 

The  dog  that  gamboll'd  by  her  side. 

And  loved  with  her  to  stray, 
Now  at  his  alter'd  mistress  howl'd. 

And  fled  in  fear  away. 

Yet  did  the  faithful  Eberhard 

Not  love  the  Maid  the  less; 
He  gazed  with  sorrow,  but  he  gazed 

With  deeper  tenderness. 


438 


R  U  D I G  E  R , 


And  when  he  found  her  health  unharm'd, 

He  would  not  brook  delay, 
But  press'd  the  not  unwilling  Maid 

To  fix  the  bridal  day. 

And  when  at  length  it  came,  with  joy 

He  hail'd  the  bridal  day, 
And  onward  to  the  house  of  God 

They  went  their  willing  way. 

But  when  they  at  the  altar  stood, 

And  heard  the  sacred  rite, 
The  hallow'd  tapers  dimly  stream'd 

A  pale,  sulphureous  light. 

And  when  the  Youth,  with  holy  warmth. 

Her  hand  in  his  did  hold, 
Sudden  he  felt  Donica's  hand 

Grow  deadly  damp  and  cold. 

But  loudly  then  he  shriok'd,  for  lo  ' 

A  spirit  met  his  view, 
And  Eberhard  in  the  angel  form 

His  own  Donica  knew 

That  instant  from  her  earthly  frame 

A  Demon  howling  fled, 
And  at  the  side  of  Eberhard 

The  livid  corpse  fell  dead. 

Bristol,  1796. 


RUDIGER. 


"Dlvera  Princes  and  Noblemen  being  assembled  in  a  beauti- 
ful and  fair  Palace,  wbicb  was  situate  upon  tlie  river  Rliine, 
they  bebeld  a  boat  or  small  barge  make  toward  the  sbore, 
drawn  by  a  Swan  in  a  silver  chain,  the  one  end  fastened 
about  her  neck,  the  other  to  the  vessel ;  and  in  it  an  un- 
known soldier,  a  man  of  a  comely  pcrsoiia^je  and  c^raceful 
presence,  who  stepped  upon  the  shore  ;  which  done,  the  boat 
guided  by  the  Swan,  left  him,  and  floiited  down  the  river. 
This  man  fell  afterward  in  league  with  a  fair  gentlewoman, 
married  her,  and  by  her  had  many  children.  After  some 
years,  the  same  Swan  came  with  the  same  barge  unto  the 
same  place  ;  the  soldier,  entering  into  it,  wag  carried  thence 
the  way  he  came,  left  wife,  children,  and  family,  and  was 
never  seen  amongst  them  after." 

'  Now  who  can  judge  this  to  be  other  than  one  of  those  spirits 
that  are  named  Incubi .'  "  says  Thomas  Heywood.  I  have 
adopted  his  story,  but  not  his  solution,  making  the  un- 
known soldier  not  an  evil  spirit,  but  one  who  bad  purchased 
prosperity  from  a  malevolent  being,  by  the  promised  sacri- 
fice of  his  first-born  child. 


Bright  on  the  mountain's  heathy  slope 
The  day's  last  splendors  shine, 

And  rich,  with  many  a  radiant  hue, 
Gleam  gayly  on  the  Rhine. 

And  many  a  one  from  Waldhurst's  walls 

Along  the  river  stroll'd, 
As  ruffling  o'er  the  pleasant  strcani 

The  evening  gales  came  cold. 


So  as  they  stray'd,  a  swan  they  saw 

Sail  stately  up  and  strong. 
And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 

A  little  boat  along,  — 

Wliose  strea.ner,  to  the  gentle  breeze, 

Long  floating,  flutter'd  light 
Beneath  whose  crimson  canopj 

There  lay  reclined  a  knight. 

With  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast, 

On  sail'd  the  stately  swan, 
And  lightly  up  the  parting  tide 

The  little  boat  came  on. 

And  onward  to  the  shore  they  drew, 
Where,  having  left  the  knight, 

The  little  boat  adown  the  stream 
Fell  soon  beyond  the  sight. 

Was  never  a  knight  in  Waldhurst's  walls 
Could  with  this  stranger  vie  ; 

Was  never  a  youth  at  aught  esteem'd 
When  Rudiger  was  by. 

Was  never  a  maid  in  Waldhurst's  walla 
Might  match  with  Margaret; 

Her  cheek  was  fair,  her  eyes  were  dark, 
Her  silken  locks  like  jet. 

And  many  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Had  sought  to  win  the  fair; 
But  never  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Could  rival  Rudiger. 

At  every  tilt  and  tourney  he 

Still  bore  away  the  prize  ; 
For  knightly  feats  superior  still, 

And  knightly  courtesies. 

His  gallant  feats,  his  looks,  his  love. 

Soon  won  the  willing  fair  ; 
And  soon  did  Margaret  become 

The  wife  of  Rudiger. 

Like  morning  dreams  of  happiness, 
.    Fast  roll'd  the  months  away  ; 
For  he  was  kind,  and  she  was  kind  ; 
And  who  so  bless'd  as  they  .' 

Yet  Rudiger  would  sometimes  sit 

Absorb'd  in  silent  thought, 
And  his  dark,  downward  eye  would  seem 

With  anxious  meaning  fraught;  — 

But  soon  he  raised  his  looks  again, 

And  smiled  his  cares  away; 
And  mid  the  hall  of  gayety 

Was  none  like  him  so  gay. 

And  onward  roll'd  the  waning  months. 

The  hour  appointed  came, 
And  Margaret  her  Rudiger 

Hail'd  with  a  father's  name. 


RUDIGER. 


m) 


Rut  silently  did  lludigcr 

The  little  infant  see  ; 
And  darkly  on  the  babe  he  gazed,  — 

A  gloomy  man  was  lie. 

And  when  to  bless  the  little  babe 

The  holy  Father  came, 
To  cleanse  the  stains  of  sin  away 

In  Christ's  redeeming  name,  — 

Then  did  the  cheek  of  Iludiger 

Assume  a  death-pale  hue, 
And  on  his  clammy  forehead  stood 

The  cold,  convulsive  dew;  — 

And  faltering  in  his  speech,  he  bade 

The  Priest  the  rites  delay, 
Till  he  could,  to  right  health  restored, 

Enjoy  the  festive  day. 

When  o'er  the  many-tinted  sky 

He  saw  the  day  decline. 
He  called  upon  his  Margaret 

To  walk  beside  the  Rhine  ;  — 

"And  we  will  take  the  little  babe; 

For  soft  the  breeze  that  blows. 
And  the  mild  murmurs  of  the  stream 

Will  lull  him  to  repose." 

And  so  together  forth  they  went ; 

The  evening  breeze  was  mild  ; 
And  Rudiger  upon  his  arm 

Pillow 'd  the  little  child. 

Many  gay  companies  that  eve 

Along  the  river  roam  ; 
But  when  the  mist  began  to  rise, 

They  all  betook  them  home. 

Yet  Rudiger  continued  still 

Along  the  banks  to  roam  ; 
Nor  aught  could  Margaret  prevail 

To  turn  his  footsteps  home. 

"Oh,  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger; 

The  rising  mists  behold  ; 
The  evening  wind  is  damp  and  chill; 

The  little  babe  is  cold  I  " 

"  Now  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  Margaret , 
The  mists  will  do  no  harm  ; 

And  from  the  wind  the  little  babe 
Is  shelter'd  on  my  arm." 

"  Oh,  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger; 

Why  onward  wilt  thou  roam  .' 
The  moon  is  up ;  the  night  is  cold  ; 

And  we  are  far  from  home." 

He  answer'd  not ;  for  now  he  saw 
A  Swan  come  sailing  strong; 

And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 
\  little  boat  alonff. 


To  shore  they  came,  and  to  the  boat 

Fast  leap'd  he  with  the  child; 
And  in  leap'd  Margaret,  breathless  now, 

And  pale  with  fear,  and  wild. 

With  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast 

On  sail'd  the  stately  Swan, 
And  lightl}'  down  the  rapid  tide 

The  little  boat  went  on. 

The  full-orb'd  moon,  that  beam'd  around 
Pale  splendor  tlirough  the  night, 

Cast  through  the  crimson  canopy 
A  dim,  discolor'd  light. 

And  swiftly  down  the  hurrying  stream 

In  silence  still  they  sail. 
And  the  long  streamer,  fluttering  fast, 

Flapp'd  to  the  heavy  gale. 

And  he  was  mute  in  sullen  thought, 

And  she  was  mute  with  fear; 
Nor  sound  but  of  the  parting  tide 

Broke  on  the  listening  ear. 

The  little  babe  began  to  cry  ; 

Then  Margaret  raised  her  head, 
And  with  a  quick  and  hollow  voice, 

"  Give  me  the  child  !  "  she  said. 

"Now  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  Margaret, 

Nor  my  poor  heart  distress  ; 
I  do  but  pay  perforce  the  price 

Of  former  happiness. 

"  And  hush  thee  too,  my  little  babe  , 

Thy  cries  so  feeble  cease ; 
Lie  still,  lie  still;  —  a  little  while, 

And  thou  shall  be  at  peace." 

So,  as  he  spake,  to  land  they  drew, 
And  swift  he  stepp'd  on  shore  ; 

And  him  behind  did  Margaret 
Close  follow  evermore. 

It  was  a  place  all  desolate  ; 

Nor  house  nor  tree  was  there , 
But  there  a  rocky  mountain  rose. 

Barren,  and  bleak,  and  bare  ;  — 

And  at  its  base  a  cavern  yawn'd ; 

No  eye  its  depth  might  view  ; 
For  in  the  moonbeam  shining  round 

That  darkness  darker  grew. 

Cold  horror  crept  through  Margaret's  bioni 

Her  heart  it  paused  with  fear. 
When  Rudiger  approaeh'd  the  cave, 

And  cried,  "  Lo,  I  am  here  !  " 

A  deep,  sepulchral  sound  the  cave 
Returned  —  "  Lo,  I  am  here  !  " 

And  black  from  out  the  cavern  gloom 
Two  giant  arms  appear. 


440 


J  ASPAR. 


And  Rudiirer  approaoh'd,  and  held 

TJie  little  infant  nigh  ; 
Then  Margaret  shriek'd,  and  gather'd  then 

New  powers  from  agony. 

And  round  the  baby  fast  and  close 

Her  trembling  arms  she  folds, 
And  with  a  strong,  convulsive  grasp 

The  little  infant  holds. 

"  Now  help  me,  Jesus  !  "  loud  she  cries, 

And  loud  on  God  she  calls ; 
Then  from  the  grasp  of  Rudiger 

The  little  infant  falls. 

The  mother  holds  her  precious  babe  ; 

But  the  black  arms  clasp'd  him  round, 
And  dragg'd  the  wretched  Rudiger 

Adown  the  dark  profound. 

Bristol,  1796. 


J  ASP  AR 


Jaspar  was  poor,  and  vice  and  want 
Had  made  his  heart  like  stone ; 

And  Jaspar  look'd  with  envious  eyes 
On  riches  not  his  own. 

On  plunder  bent,  abroad  he  went 

Toward  the  close  of  day, 
And  loiter'd  on  the  lonely  road 

Impatient  for  his  prey. 

No  traveller  came  —  he  loiter'd  long. 

And  often  look'd  around, 
And  paused  and  listen'd  eagerly 

To  catch  some  coming  sound. 

He  sat  him  down  beside  the  stream 
That  cross'd  the  lonely  way  ; 

So  fair  a  scene  might  well  have  charm'd 
All  evil  thoughts  away. 

He  sat  beneath  a  willow-tree, 
Which  cast  a  trembling  shade ; 

The  gentle  river,  full  in  front, 
A  little  island  made,  — 

Where  pleasantly  the  moonbeam  shone 

Upon  the  poplar-trees. 
Whose  shadow  on  the  stream  below 

Play'd  slowly  to  the  breeze. 

He  listen'd  —  and  he  heard  the  wind 
That  waved  the  willow-tree  ; 

He  hoard  the  waters  flow  along, 
And  murmur  quietly. 

He  listen'd  for  the  traveller's  tread ; 
The  nightingale  sung  sweet;  — 


He  started  up,  for  now  he  heard 
The  sound  of  coming  feet;  — 

He  started  up,  and  grasp'd  a  stake, 

And  waited  for  his  prey  ; 
There  came  a  lonely  traveller, 

And  Jaspar  cross'd  his  way. 

But  Jaspar's  threats  and  curses  fail'd 

The  traveller  to  appall ; 
He  would  not  lightly  yield  the  purse 

Which  held  his  little  all. 

Awhile  he  struggled  ;  but  he  strove 
With  Jaspar's  strength  in  vain  ; 

Beneath  his  blows  he  fell,  and  groan'd, 
And  never  spake  again. 

Jaspar  raised  up  the  murder'd  man, 
And  plunged  him  in  the  flood. 

And  in  the  running  water  then 
He  cleansed  his  hands  from  blood. 

The  waters  closed  around  the  corpse, 
And  cleansed  his  hands  from  gore  ; 

The  willow  waved,  the  stream  flow'd  on, 
And  murmured  as  before. 

There  was  no  human  eye  had  seen 
The  blood  the  murderer  spilt. 

And  Jaspar's  conscience  never  felt 
The  avenging  goad  of  guilt. 

And  soon  the  ruffian  had  consumed 

The  gold  he  gain'd  so  ill ; 
And  years  of  secret  guilt  pass'd  on. 

And  he  was  needy  stili. 

One  eve,  beside  the  alehouse  fire 

He  sat,  as  it  befell, 
When  in  there  came  a  laboring  man 

Whom  Jaspar  knew  full  well. 

He  sat  him  down  by  Jaspar's  side, 

A  melancholy  man ; 
For,  spite  of  honest  toil,  the  world 

Went  hard  with  Jonatlian. 

His  toil  a  little  earn'd,  and  he 

With  little  was  content ; 
But  sickness  on  his  wife  had  fallen. 

And  all  was  wellnigh  spent. 

Long  with  his  wife  and  little  ones 

He  shared  the  scanty  meal, 
And  saw  their  looks  of  wretchedness, 

And  felt  what  wretches  feel. 

Their  Landlord,  a  hard  man,  that  day 

Had  seized  the  little  left : 
And  now  the  sufferer  found  himself 

Of  every  thing  bereft. 

He  lean'd  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
His  elbow  on  his  knee  ; 


JASPAR.                                                                 441 

And  so  by  Jaspar's  side  he  sat, 

"  Tis  weary  waiting  here,"  he  cried. 

And  not  a  word  said  he. 

"  And  now  the  hour  is  late  ; 

Methinks  he  will  not  come  to-night; 

"Nay,  —  why  so  downcast?  "  Jaspar  cried. 

No  longer  let  us  wait." 

"  Come  —  cheer  up,  Jonathan  ! 

Drink,  neighbor,  drink  !  'twill  warm  thy  heart ; 

"  Have  patience,  man  !  "  the  ruffian  said  ; 

Come  !  come  !  take  courage,  man  !  " 

"  A  little  we  may  wait; 

But  longer  shall  his  wife  expect 

He  took  the  cup  that  Jaspar  gave. 

Her  husband  at  the  gate  " 

And  down  he  drain'd  it  quick ; 

"I  have  a  wife,"  said  Jonathan, 

Then  Jonathan  grew  sick  at  heart; 

"  And  she  is  deadly  sick. 

"My  conscience  yet  is  clear; 

Jaspar  —  it  is  not  yet  too  late  — 

"  She  has  no  bed  to  lie  upon ; 

I  will  not  linger  here." 

1  saw  them  take  her  bed  — 

And  I  have  children  —  would  to  God 

"  How  now  !  "  cried  Jaspar ;  "  why,  I  thought 

That  they  and  I  were  dead  ! 

Thy  conscience  was  asleep ; 

No  more  such  qualms ;  the  night  is  dark  ; 

"  Our  Landlord  he  goes  home  to-night, 

The  river  here  is  deep." 

And  he  will  sleep  in  peace  — 

I  would  that  I  were  in  my  grave, 

"  What  matters  that,"  said  Jonathan, 

For  there  all  troubles  cease. 

Whose  blood  began  to  freeze, 

"  When  there  is  One  above,  whose  eye 

"In  vain  I  pray'd  him  to  forbear, 

The  deeds  of  darkness  sees  ?  " 

Though  wealth  enough  has  he  ' 

God  be  to  him  as  merciless 

"We  are  safe  enough,"  said  Jaspar  then, 

As  he  has  been  to  me  !  " 

"If  that  be  all  thy  fear; 

Nor  eye  above,  nor  eye  below, 

When  Jaspar  saw  the  poor  man's  soul 

Can  pierce  the  darkness  here." 

On  all  his  ills  intent, 

He  plied  him  with  the  heartening  cup. 

That  instant,  as  the  murderer  spake. 

And  with  him  forth  he  went. 

There  came  a  sudden  light; 

Strong  as  the  mid-day  sun  it  shone. 

"  This  Landlord  on  his  homeward  road 

Though  all  around  was  night. 

'Twere  easy  now  to  meet. 

The  road  is  lonesome,  Jonathan  !  — 

It  hung  upon  the  willow-tree  ; 

And  vengeance,  man !  is  sweet." 

It  hung  upon  the  flood  ; 

It  gave  to  view  the  poplar  isle. 

He  listen'd  to  tlie  tempter's  voice; 

And  all  the  scene  of  blood. 

The  thought  it  made  him  start ;  — 

His  head  was  hot,  and  wretchedness 

The  traveller  who  journeys  there. 

Had  harden'd  now  his  heart. 

He  surely  hath  espied 

A  madman  who  has  made  his  home 

Along  the  lonely  road  they  went, 

Upon  the  river's  side. 

And  waited  for  their  prey ; 

They  sat  them  down  beside  the  stream 

His  cheek  is  pale ;  his  eye  is  wild ; 

That  cross'd  the  lonely  way. 

His  looks  bespeak  despair  ; 

For  Jaspar,  since  that  hour,  has  made 

They  sat  them  down  beside  the  stream, 

His  home,  unshelter'd,  there. 

And  never  a  word  they  said  ; 

They  sat  and  listen'd  silently 

And  fearful  are  his  dreams  at  night, 

To  hear  the  traveller's  tread. 

And  dread  to  him  the  day ; 

He  thinks  upon  his  untold  crime. 

The  night  was  calm ;  the  night  was  dark ; 

And  never  dares  to  pray. 

No  star  was  in  the  sky ; 

The  wind  it  waved  the  willow  boughs  ; 

The  summer  suns,  the  winter  storms, 

The  stream  flow'd  quietly. 

O'er  him  unheeded  roll ; 

For  heavy  is  the  weight  of  blood 

The  night  was  calm ;  the  air  was  still ; 

Upon  the  maniac's  soul. 

Sweet  sung  the  nightingale  ; 

The  soul  of  Jonathan  was  soothed ; 

Bath,  1798. 

His  heart  began  to  fail. 
56 

442 


LORD    WILLIAM. 


LORD    WILLIAM 


An  imitation  of  this  Ballad,  in  French  verse,  by  J.  F.  Chute- 
lain,  was  printed  at  Tournay,  about  ]820. 


No  eye  beheld  when  William  plunged 
Young  Edmund  in  the  stream  ; 

No  human  ear  but  William's  heard 
Young  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

Submissive  all  the  vassals  own'd 
The  murderer  for  their  Lord  ; 

And  he  as  rightful  heir  possess'd 
The  house  of  Erlingford. 

The  ancient  house  of  Erlingford 

Stood  in  a  fair  domain, 
And  Severn's  ample  viraters  near 

Roll'd  through  the  fertile  plain. 

And  often  the  wayfaring  man 
Would  love  to  linger  there, 

Forgetful  of  his  onward  road, 
To  gaze  on  scenes  so  fair. 

But  never  could  Lord  William  dare 
To  gaze  on  Severn's  stream ; 

In  every  wind  that  swept  its  waves 
He  heard  young  Edmund's  scream. 

In  vain,  at  midnight's  silent  hour. 
Sleep  closed  the  murderer's  eyes  ; 

In  every  dream  the  murderer  saw 
Young  Edmund's  form  arise. 

In  vain,  by  restless  conscience  driven, 
Lord  William  left  his  home, 

Far  from  the  scenes  that  saw  his  guilt, 
In  pilgrimage  to  roam ;,  — 

To  other  climes  the  pilgrim  fled. 

But  could  not  fly  despair ; 
He  sought  his  home  again,  but  peace 

Was  still  a  stranger  there. 

Slow  were  the  passing  hours,  yet  swift 
Tlie  months  appeared  to  roll ; 

And  now  the  day  return'd  that  shook 
With  terror  William's  soul ;  — 

A  day  that  William  never  felt 

Return  without  dismay  ; 
For  well  had  conscience  calendar'd 

Young  Edmund's  dying  day. 

A  fearful  day  was  that;  the  rains 
Fell  fast,  with  tempest  roar. 

And  the  swollen  tide  of  Severn  spread 
Far  on  the  level  shore. 


In  vain  Lord  William  sought  the  feast; 

In  vain  he  quaft"d  the  bowl. 
And  strove  with  noisy  mirth  to  drown 

The  anguish  of  his  soul. 

The  tempest,  as  its  sudden  swell 

In  gusty  bowlings  came, 
With  cold  and  deatlililie  feeling  secm'd 

To  thrill  his  shuddering  frame. 

Reluctant  now,  as  night  came  on, 

His  lonely  couch  he  press'd; 
And,  wearied  out,  he  sunk  to  sleep, — 

To  sleep,  —  but  not  to  rest. 

Beside  that  couch  his  brother's  form. 
Lord  Edmund,  seem'd  to  stand. 

Such  and  so  pale  as  when  in  deatli 
He  grasp'd  his  brother's  hand; 

Such  and  so  pale  his  face  as  when, 
With  faint  and  faltering  tongue. 

To  William's  care,  a  dying  charge, 
He  left  his  orphan  son. 

"  I  bade  thee  with  a  father's  love 

My  orphan  Edmund  guard  ;  — 
Well,  William,  hast  thou  kept  thy  charge  ' 

Take  now  thy  due  reward." 

He  started  up,  each  limb  convulsed 

With  agonizing  fear ; 
He  only  heard  the  storm  of  night, — 

'Twas  music  to  his  ear 

When  lo  1  the  voice  of  loud  alarm 

His  inmost  soul  appalls; 
"  What  ho  !  Lord  William,  rise  in  haste  ' 

The  water  saps  thy  walls  !  " 

He  rose  in  haste ;  beneath  the  walls 

He  saw  the  flood  appear ; 
It  hemm'd  him  round;  'twas  midnight  now; 

No  human  aid  was  near. 

He  heard  a  shout  of  joy  ;   for  now 

A  boat  approach'd  the  wall ; 
And  eager  to  the  welcome  aid 

They  crowd  for  safety  all. 

"  My  boat  is  small,"  the  boatman  cried  ; 

"  'Twill  bear  but  one  away ; 
Come  in.  Lord  William,  and  do  ye 

In  God's  protection  stay." 

Strange  feeling  filled  them  at  his  voice, 

Even  in  that  hour  of  woe, 
That,  save  their  Lord,  there  was  not  one 

Who  wish'd  with  him  to  go. 

But  William  leap'd  into  the  boat, 

His  terror  was  so  sore  ; 
"  Thou  shalt  have  half  my  gold,"  he  cried; 

Haste — haste  to  yonder  shore." 


ST.    PATRICK'S    PURGATORY.                                  44.'j 

The  boatman  plied  the  oar  ;  the  boat 

Went  light  along  the  stream ; 

Sudden  Lord  William  heard  a  cry 

ST.   PATRICK'S   PURGATORY. 

Like  Edmund's  drovvninif  scream. 
The  boatman  paused  —  "  Methouffht  I  heard 

This  Ballad  was   published  (1801)  in  the  Taks  of  Wonder, 

A  child's  distressful  cry  !  " 

by  Mr.  Lewis,  who  found  it  among  tlie  wefts  and  striiys  of 
the  Press.     He  never  knew  that  it  was  mine  ;  hut  after  his 

■  'Twas  but  the  howling  wind  of  night," 

death,  I  bestowed  some  pains  in  recomposing  il,  because  he 

Lord  William  made  reply. 

had  thought  it  worth  preserving. 

It  is  founded  upon  the  abridged  extract  which  M.  Le  Grand 

has  given  in  hia  Fabliaiu  of  a  Metrical  legend,  by  Marie  do 

"  Haste  —  haste  —  ply  swift  and  strong  the  oar ; 

France. 

Haste  —  haste  across  the  stream  !  " 

Again  Lord  William  heard  a  cry 

Like  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

1. 

"Enter,  Sir  Knight,"  the  Warden  cried, 

"  I  heard  a  child's  distressful  voice," 

"  And  trust  in  Heaven,  whate'er  betide, 

The  boatman  cried  again. 

Since  you  have  reach'd  this  bourn; 

"  Nay,  hasten  on  — the  night  is  dark  — 
And  we  should  search  in  vain." 

But  first  receive  refreshment  due  ; 

'Twill  then  be  time  to  welcome  you 

If  ever  you  return." 

"0  God!    Lord  William,  dost  thou  know 

2. 

How  dreadful  'tis  to  die  ? 

Three  sops  were  brought  of  bread  .-ind  wine : 

And  canst  thou  without  pity  hear 

1                                              o                                                                               ' 

Well  might  Sir  Owen  then  divine 

A  child's  expiring  cry  ? 

The  mystic  warning  given. 

That  he  against  our  ghostly  Foe 

"  How  horrible  it  is  to  sink 

Must  soon  to  mortal  combat  go, 

Beneath  the  closing  stream, 

And  put  his  trust  in  Heaven. 

To  stretch  the  powerless  arms  in  vain. 

In  vain  for  help  to  scream  !" 

3. 

Sir  Owen  pass'd  the  convent  gate  ; 

The  shriek  again  was  heard  ;  it  came 

The  warden  him  conducted  straight 

More  deep,  more  piercing  loud ; 

To  where  a  coffin  lay  ; 

That  instant  o'er  the  flood  the  moon 

The  Monks  around  in  silence  stand. 

Shone  through  a  broken  cloud  ;  — 

Each  with  a  funeral  torch  in  hand, 

Whose  light  bedimm'd  the  day. 

And  near  them  they  beheld  a  child , 

4. 

Upon  a  crag  he  stood, 
A  little  crag,  and  all  around 

"  Few  Pilgrims  ever  reach  this  bourn," 

Was  spread  the  rising  flood. 

They  said,  "  but  fewer  still  return ; 
Yet,  let  what  will  ensue. 

Our  duties  are  prescribed  and  clear ; 

The  boatman  plied  the  oar ;  the  boat 

Put  off"  all  mortal  weakness  here  ; 

Approach'd  his  resting-place  ; 

This  coffin  is  for  you. 

The  moonbeam  shone  upon  the  child. 

And  show'd  how  pale  his  face. 

5. 

"  Lie  there,  while  we,  with  pious  breath, 

"Now  reach  thine  hand  !  "  the  boatman  cried, 

Raise  over  you  the  dirge  of  death ; 

"Lord  William,  reach  and  save  !  " 

This  coinfort  we  can  give  ; 

The  child  strelch'd  forth  his  little  hands 

Belike  no  living  hands  may  pay 

To  grasp  the  hand  he  gave. 

This  office  to  your  lifeless  clay  ; 

Receive  it  while  you  live  !  " 

Then  William  shriek'd ;  the  hands  he  felt 

6. 

Were  cold,  and  damp,  and  dead  ! 

He  held  young  Edmund  in  his  arms. 

Sir  Owen  in  a  shroud  was  dress'd, 

A  heavier  weigiit  than  lead. 

They  placed  a  cross  upon  his  breast, 

O 

And  down  he  laid  his  head  ; 

Around  him  stood  the  funeral  train. 

The  boat  sunk  down ;  the  murderer  sunk 

And  sung,  with  slow  and  solemn  strain. 
The  Service  of  the  Dead. 

Beneath  the  avenging  stream  : 

He  rose ;  he  shriek'd ;  no  human  ear 

Heard  William's  drowning  scream. 

7. 

Westburij,  1793. 

Then  to  the  entrance  of  the  Cave 
They  led  the  Cliristian  warrior  brave ; 

444 


ST.    PATRICK'S    PURGATORY. 


Some  fear  he  well  might  feel, 
For  none  of  all  the  Monks  could  tell 
The  terrors  of  that  mystic  cell, 

Its  secrets  none  reveal. 

8. 
"  Now  enter  here,"  the  Warden  cried, 
"  And  God,  Sir  Owen,  be  your  guide  ! 

Your  name  shall  live  in  story  : 
For  of  the  few  who  reach  tliis  shore. 
Still  fewer  venture  to  explore 

St.  Patrick's  Purgatory." 

9. 

Adown  the  Cavern's  long  descent, 
Feeling  his  way.  Sir  Owen  went, 

With  cautious  feet  and  slow ; 
Unarm'd,  for  neither  sword  nor  spear. 
Nor  shield  of  proof,  avail'd  him  here 

Against  our  ghostly  Foe. 

10. 

The  ground  was  moist  beneath  his  tread  ; 
Large  drops  fell  heavy  on  his  head  ; 

The  air  was  damp  and  chill ; 
And  sudden  shudderings  o'er  him  came, 
And  he  could  feel  through  all  his  frame 

An  icy  sharpness  thrill. 

11. 

Now  steeper  grew  the  dark  descent; 
In  fervent  prayer  the  Pilgrim  went ; 

'Twas  silence  all  around. 
Save  his  own  echo  from  the  cell. 
And  the  large  drops  that  frequent  fell 

With  dull  and  heavy  sound. 

12. 

But  colder  now  he  felt  the  cell ; 
Those  heavy  drops  no  longer  fell ; 

Thin  grew  the  piercing  air; 
And  now  upon  his  aching  sight 
There  dawn'd,  far  off,  a  feeble  light ; 

In  hope  he  hasten'd  there. 

13. 
Emerging  now  once  more  to  day, 
A  frozen  waste  before  him  lay, 

A  desert  wild  and  wide, 
Where  ice-rocks,  in  a  sunless  sky. 
On  ice-rocks  piled,  and  mountains  high, 

Were  heap'd  on  every  side. 

14. 
Impending  as  about  to  fall 
They  seem'd  ;  and,  had  tliat  sight  been  all, 

Enough  that  sight  had  been 
To  make  the  stoutest  courage  quail ; 
For  what  could  courage  there  avail 

Against  what  then  was  seen  ? 

15. 

He  saw,  as  on  in  faith  he  past. 
Where  many  a  frozen  wretch  was  fast 


Within  the  ice-clefts  pent. 
Yet  living  still,  and  doom'd  to  bear, 
In  absolute  and  dumb  despair, 

Their  endless  punishment. 

16. 

A  voice  then  spake  within  his  ear, 
And  filled  his  inmost  soul  with  fear,  — 

"  O  mortal  Man,"  it  said, 
"  Adventurers  like  thyself  were  these  ! 
He  seem'd  to  feel  his  life-blood  freeze, 

And  yet  subdued  his  dread. 

17. 
"  O  mortal  Man,"  the  Voice  pursued, 
"  Be  wise  in  time  !  for  thine  own  good 

Alone  I  counsel  thee  ; 
Take  pity  on  thyself ;  retrace 
Thy  steps,  and  fly  this  dolorous  place, 

While  yet  thy  feet  are  free. 

18. 
"  I  warn  thee  once !  I  warn  thee  twi:e 
Behold!  that  mass  of  mountain- ice 

Is  trembling  o'er  thy  head  ! 
One  warning  is  allow'd  thee  more  ; 
O  mortal  Man,  that  warning  o'er. 

And  tliou  art  worse  than  dead  !  " 

19. 
Not  without  fear.  Sir  Owen  still 
Held  on  with  strength  of  righteous  will, 

In  faith  and  fervent  prayer ; 
When  at  the  word,  "  I  warn  thee  thrice  '  " 
Down  came  the  mass  of  mountain  ice. 

And  overwhelm'd  him  there 

20. 
Crush'd  though,  it  seem'd,  in  every  bone, 
And  sense  for  suffering  left  alone, 

A  living  hope  remain'd  ; 
In  whom  he  had  believed  he  knew, 
And  thence  the  holy  courage  grew 

That  still  his  soul  sustain'd. 

21. 
For  he,  as  he  beheld  it  fall, 
■Fail'd  not  in  faith  on  Christ  to  call  — 

"Lord,  Thou  canst  save  I  "  he  cried  ; 
Oh,  heavenly  help  vouchsafed  in  need, 
When  perfect  faith  is  found  indeed  ! 

The  rocks  of  ice  divide. 

22. 
Like  dust  before  the  storm-wind's  sway 
The  shivered  fragments  roU'd  away, 

And  left  the  passage  free ; 
New  strength  he  feels ;  all  pain  is  gone  ; 
New  life  Sir  Owen  breathes;  and  on 

He  goes  rejoicingly. 

23. 

Yet  other  trials  he  must  meet ; 
For  soon  a  close  and  piercing  heat 


THE    CROSS    ROADS. 


445 


Relax'd  eacli  loosen'd  limb; 
The  sweat  streain'd  out  from  every  pait ; 
In  short,  quick  beatings  toil'd  his  heart; 

His  tlirobbing  eyes  grew  dim. 

24. 

Along  the  wide  and  wasted  land 

A  stream  of  fire,  through  banks  of  sand. 

Its  molten  billows  spread  ; 
Thin  vapors,  tremulously  light. 
Hung  quivering  o'er  the  glowing  white  ; 

The  air  he  breathed  was  red. 

25. 
A  Paradise  beyond  was  seen, 
Of  shady  groves  and  gardens  green, 

Fair  flowers  and  fruitful  trees. 
And  flowing  fountains  cool  and  clear, 
Whose  gurgling  music  reach'd  his  ear, 

Borne  on  the  burning  breeze. 

26. 
How  should  he  pass  that  molten  flood  ' 
While  gazing  wistfully  he  stood, 

A  Fiend,  as  in  a  dream, 
"Thus  !  "  answer'd  the  unutter'd  thought, 
Stretch'd  forth  a  mighty  arm,  and  caught 

And  cast  him  in  the  stream. 

27. 
Sir  Owen  groan'd ;  for  then  he  felt 
His  eyeballs  burn,  his  marrow  melt, 

His  brain  like  liquid  lead  ; 
And  from  his  heart  the  boiling  blood 
Its  agonizing  course  pursued 

Through  limbs  like  iron  red. 

28. 
Yet,  giving  way  to  no  despair. 
But  mindful  of  the  aid  of  prayer, 

"  Lord,  Thou  canst  save  !  "  he  said ; 
And  then  a  breath  from  Eden  came  ; 
With  life  and  healing  through  his  frame 

The  blissful  influence  spread. 

29. 
No  Fiends  may  now  his  way  oppose ; 
The  gates  of  Paradise  unclose  ; 

Free  entrance  there  is  given  ; 
And  songs  of  triumph  meet  his  ear , 
Enrapt,  Sir  Owen  seems  to  hear 

The  harmonies  of  Heaven. 

30. 
"  Come,  Pilgrim  !  take  thy  foretaste  meet, 
Thou  who  hast  trod  with  fearless  feet 

St.  Patrick's  Purgatory ; 
For  after  death  these  seats  divine, 
Reward  eternal,  shall  be  thine, 

And  thine  eternal  glory." 

31. 
Inebriate  with  the  deep  delight. 
Dim  grew  the  Pilgrim's  swimming  sight; 


His  senses  died  away ; 
And  when  to  life  he  woke,  before 
The  Cavern-mouth  he  saw  once  more 

The  light  of  earthly  day. 

Westbury,  1793. 


THE    CROSS    ROADS, 


Tho  tragedy  related  in  tliis  Eallad  happened  about  the  year 
1760,  in  the  parish  of  Beihniiister,  near  Bristol.  One  who 
was  present  at  tlie  funeral  tnid  nie  the  story  and  the  circum- 
stances of  the  interment,  as  I  have  versified  tliem. 


1. 

Thkre  was  an  old  man  breaking  stones 

To  mend  the  turnpike  way  ; 
He  sat  him  down  beside  a  brook. 
And  out  his  bread  and  cheese  he  took  ; 
For  now  it  was  mid-day. 

2. 

He  lean'd  his  back  against  a  post ; 

His  feet  the  brook  ran  by  ; 
And  there  were  water-cresses  growing, 
And  pleasant  was  the  water's  flowing, 

For  he  was  hot  and  dry. 


A  soldier,  with  his  knapsack  on. 
Came  travelling  o'er  the  down  ; 

The  sun  was  strong,  and  he  was  tired ; 

And  he  of  the  old  man  inquired 
"  How  far  to  Bristol  town  .'  " 

4. 

"  Half  an  hour's  walk  for  a  young  man, 
By  lanes,  and  fields,  and  stiles ; 

But  you  the  foot-path  do  not  know ; 

And  if  along  the  road  you  go. 
Why,  then  'tis  three  good  miles." 


The  soldier  took  his  knapsack  off, 

For  he  was  hot  and  dry ; 
And  out  his  bread  and  cheese  he  took, 
And  he  sat  down  beside  the  brook 

To  dine  in  company. 


"  Old  friend  !  in  faith,"  the  soldier  says, 

"  I  envy  you,  almost; 
My  shoulders  have  been  sorely  press'd, 
And  I  should  like  to  sit,  and  rest 

My  back  against  that  post. 


"  In  such  a  sweltering  day  as  this, 

A  knapsack  is  the  devil ; 
And  if  on  t'other  side  I  sat. 
It  would  not  only  spoil  our  chat, 
But  make  me  seem  uncivil." 


4-16 


THE    CROSS    ROADS. 


8. 
The  old  man  laugh'd  and  moved.  —  "  I  wish 

It  were  a  great-arm'd  chair  ! 
But  this  may  help  a  man  at  need ;  — 
And  yet  it  was  a  cursed  deed 

That  ever  brought  it  there. 


"  There's  a  poor  girl  lies  buried  here, 

Beneath  this  very  place  ; 
The  earth  upon  her  corpse  is  press'd, 
Tliis  post  was  driven  into  her  breast, 

And  a  stone  is  on  her  face." 

10. 

The  soldier  had  but  just  lean'd  back, 

And  now  he  half  rose  up. 
"There's  sure  no  harm  in  dining  here, 
My  friend  .-'  and  yet,  to  be  sincere, 

1  should  not  like  to  sup." 

11. 

"  God  rest  her !  she  is  still  enough 

Who  sleeps  beneath  my  feet !  " 
The  old  man  cried.     "  No  harm  I  trow, 
She  ever  did  herself,  though  now 
She  lies  where  four  roads  meet. 

12. 

"I  iiave  past  by  about  that  hour 

When  men  are  not  most  brave ; 
It  did  not  make  my  courage  fail. 
And  I  have  heard  the  nightingale 
Sing  sweetly  on  her  grave. 

13. 

"  I  have  past  by  about  that  hour 
When  ghosts  their  freedom  have  ■ 

But  here  I  saw  no  ghastly  sight ; 

And  quietly  the  glow-worm's  light 
Was  shining  on  her  grave. 

14. 

•'  There's  one  who,  like  a  Christian,  lies 

Beneath  the  church-tree's  shade  ; 
I'd  rather  go  a  long  mile  round. 
Than  pass  at  evening  through  the  ground 
Wherein  that  man  is  laid. 

15. 

"  A  decent  burial  that  man  had , 

The  bell  was  heard  to  toll, 
Wnen  he  was  laid  in  holy  ground  ; 
But  for  all  the  wealth  in  Bristol  town 

I  would  not  be  with  his  soul ! 

]6. 
"  Didst  see  a  house  below  tlie  hill 

Which  the  winds  and  the  rains  destroy  ? 
In  that  farm-house  did  that  man  dwell. 
And  1  remember  it  full  well 

When  -  was  a  growing  boy. 


17 
"  But  she  was  a  poor  parish  girl, 

Who  came  up  from  the  west : 
From  service  hard  she  ran  away, 
And  at  that  house,  in  evil  day, 

Was  taken  into  rest. 

18. 
"  A  man  oi'  a  bad  name  was  he ; 

An  evil  life  he  led  ; 
Passion  made  his  dark  face  turn  white. 
And  his  gray  eyes  were  large  and  light. 

And  in  anger  they  grew  red. 

19. 
"The  man  was  bad,  the  mother  worse, 

Bad  fruit  of  evil  stem  ; 
'Twould  make  your  hair  to  stand  on  end 
If  I  should  tell  to  you,  my  friend. 

The  things  that  were  told  of  them ' 

20. 
"  Didst  see  an  out-house  standing  by  ' 

The  walls  alone  remain ; 
It  was  a  stable  then,  but  now 
Its  mossy  roof  has  fallen  through. 

All  rotted  by  the  rain. 

21. 

"This  poor  girl  she  had  served  with  them 

Some  half-a-year  or  more. 
When  she  was  found  hung  up  one  day. 
Stiff  as  a  corpse,  and  cold  as  clay, 

Behind  that  stable  door. 

22. 
"  It  is  a  wild  and  lonesome  place; 

No  hut  or  house  is  near; 
Should  one  meet  a  murderer  there  alone, 
'Twere  vain  to  scream,  and  the  dying  groan 

Would  never  reach  mortal  ear. 

23. 

"  And  there  were  strange  reports  about ; 

But  still  the  coroner  found 
That  she  by  her  own  hand  had  died, 
■  And  should  buried  be  by  the  way-side. 

And  not  in  Christian  ground. 

24. 
"This  was  the  very  place  he  chose, 

Just  where  these  four  roads  meet , 
And  I  was  one  among  the  throng 
That  hither  follow'd  them  along  ; 

I  shall  never  the  sight  forget ! 

25. 
"  They  carried  her  upon  a  board 

In  the  clothes  in  which  she  died, 
I  saw  the  cap  blown  off  her  head ; 
Her  face  was  of  a  dark,  dark  red  ; 

Her  eyes  were  starting  wide  : 


GOD'S    JUDGMENT    ON    A    WICKED    BISHOP, 


447 


2(i. 
"I  think  they  could  not  have  been  closed, 

So  widely  did  tliey  strain. 
O  Lord,  it  was  a  ghastly  sight, 
And  it  often  made  nie  wake  at  night, 

Wlien  I  saw  it  iu  dreams  again. 

27. 
"  Tliey  laid  her  where  these  four  roads  meet, 

Here  in  this  very  place. 
The  earth  upon  her  corpse  was  prcss'd, 
This  post  was  driven  into  her  breast, 

And  a  stone  is  on  her  face.' 

Westbury,  1798. 


GOD'S    JUDGMENT    ON 
WICKED    BISHOP. 


Here  followetli  the  History  of  IIATTO,  Archbishop  of  Mentz. 

It  hapned  in  the  year  91 4,  that  lliere  was  an  exceeding  great 
famine  in  Germany,  at  wliat  time  Otho  surnamed  the  Great 
was  Emperor,  anil  one  Hatto,  once  Ahhot  of  Fnlda,  was 
Archbishop  of  Jlentz,  of  the  Bishops  after  Cresccns  and 
Crescentius  the  two  and  thirtieth,  of  the  Archbishops  after 
St.  Bonifacius  the  thirteenth.  This  Hatto  in  the  time  of 
this  great  finiinc  aforenienlioneil,  when  he  saw  the  poor 
people  of  the  country  exceedingly  oi)pressed  with  famine, 
assembled  a  great  company  of  them  together  into  a  Barne, 
and,  like  a  most  accursed  and  mcrcilesse  caililFe,  burnt  up 
those  poor  innocent  souls,  that  were  so  far  from  doubling 
any  such  matter,  that  they  rather  hoped  to  receive  some 
comfort  anil  relief  at  his  bands.  The  reason  that  moved  the 
prelat  to  commit  that  execrable  impiety  was,  because  he 
thought  the  famine  would  the  sooner  cease,  if  those  un- 
profitable beggars  that  consumed  more  bread  than  they  were 
worthy  to  eat,  were  dispatched  out  of  the  world.  For  lie 
said  that  those  jioor  folks  were  like  to  Mice,  that  were  good 
for  nothing  but  to  devour  cornc.  But  God  Almighty,  the 
just  avenger  of  the  poor  folks'  cpiarrel,  did  not  long  sutler 
this  hainous  tyranny,  this  most  detestable  fact,  unpunished. 
For  he  mustered  up  an  army  of  Mice  against  the  Arch- 
bisho|i,  and  sent  them  to  persecute  him  as  his  furious  Alas- 
tors,  so  that  they  afflicted  him  both  day  and  night,  and 
would  not  suffer  him  to  take  his  rest  in  any  place.  Where- 
upon the  Prelate,  thinking  that  he  should  bo  secure  from 
the  injury  of  Mice  if  he  were  in  a  certain  tower,  that 
standeth  in  the  Ubine  near  to  the  towne,  betook  himself 
unto  the  said  tower  as  to  a  safe  refuge  and  sanctuary  from 
his  eneiuies,  and  locked  himself  in.  But  the  innumerable 
troupes  of  Mice  chased  him  continually  very  eagerly,  and 
swunune  unto  him  upon  the  top  of  the  water  to  execute  the 
just  judgment  of  (lod,  and  so  at  last  he  was  most  miserably 
devoured  by  those  sillie  creatures  :  who  pursued  him  with 
such  bitter  hostility,  that  it  is  recorded  they  serajied  and 
knawed  out  his  very  name  from  the  walls  and  tapislry 
wherein  it  was  written,  after  they  had  so  cruelly  devoured 
his  body.  Wherefore  the  tower  wherein  he  was  eaten  up 
by  the  Mice  is  shewn  to  this  day,  for  a  perpetual  moniunent 
to  all  succeeding  agesof  the  barbarous  and  inhuman  tyranny 
of  this  impious  I'relate,  being  situate  in  a  little  green  Island 
in  tho  midst  of  the  Rhine  near  to  the  towne  of  Bingen,  and  is 
commonly  called  in  the  German  Tongue  the  Mowse-turn. 
Corvat's  Crudities,  pp.  571,  572. 

Other  authors  who  record  this  tale  say  that  the  Bishop  was 
eaten  by  Uats. 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet ; 


'Twas  a  piteous  sight,  to  see,  all  around, 

The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bi.sliop  Hatto's  door. 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last-year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnish'd  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  ajjpointed  a  day 

To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay ; 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  Barn  repair, 

And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  theio 

Rejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folk  flock'd  from  far  and  near; 
The  great  Barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 

Then  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door; 
And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  Barn  and  burnt  them  all. 

"!'  faith,  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire  !  "  quoth  he, 
"And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me, 
For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn 
Of  Rats  that  only  consume  the  corn.  ' 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily. 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man; 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  enter'd  the  hall 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came. 
For  the  Rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  look'd,  there  came  a  man  from  his  farm  ; 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm; 
"My  Lord,  I  open'd  your  graniirics  this  morn. 
And  the  Rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be,  — 
"Fly  !  my  Lord  Bishop,  fly,"  quoth  he, 
"Ten  thousand  Rats  are  coming  this  way, — 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !  " 

"  ril  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine,"  replied  he, 
"  'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany  ; 
The  walls  are  high,  and  the  sliores  arc  steep. 
And  the  stream  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hasten'd  away, 
And  he  cross'd  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reach'd  his  tower,  and  barr'd  with  care 
All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loop-holes  there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes ;  — 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise  ; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  he  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming  came. 


43 


THE    PIOUS    PAINTER, 


He  listcn'd  and  look'd;  —  it  was  only  the  Cat, 
But  the  Bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that ; 
For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear 
At  tlie  Army  of  Rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swam  over  the  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  climb'd  the  shores  so  steep, 
And  up  the  Tower  their  way  is  bent, 
To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were  sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told  by  the  dozen  or  score  ; 
By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads  and  more. 
Such  numbers  had  never  been  heard  of  before  ; 
Sucha  judgment  had  never  been  witness'd  of  yore. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  liis  beads  did  he  tell. 

As  louder  and  louder  drawing  near 

The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls,  helter-skellcr  they  pour, 
And  down  from  the  ceiling,  and  up  through  the  floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below. 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones ; 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones; 
They  gnaw'd  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him  ! 

Westbunj,  1799. 


THE    PIOUS    PAINTER, 


The  legend  of  the  Pious  Painter  is  reli\ted  in  tlio  Pia  HiLiria 
of  Gaz9eu9  ;  but  the  Pious  Poet  has  omitted  the  second  part 
of  the  story,  though  it  rests  upon  quite  as  good  autliorlty  as 
the  first.    It  is  to  be  found  in  the  Fabliaux  of  Lo  Grand. 


THE  FIRST  PART. 


There  once  was  a  painter,  in  Catholic  days. 

Like  Job,  who  eschevi^ed  all  evil ; 
Still  on  his  Madonnas  the  curious  may  gaze 
With  applause  and  with  pleasure;  but  chiefly  his 
praise 

And  delight  was  in  painting  the  Devil. 


They  were  Angels,  compared  to  the  Devils  he  drew. 
Who  besieged  poor  St.  Anthony's  cell; 

Such  burning  hot  eyes,  such  a  furnace-like  hue  ! 

And  round  them  a  sulphurous  coloring  he  threw. 
That  their  breath  seem'd  of  brimstone  to  smell. 

3. 

And  now  had  the  artist  a  picture  begun  ; 
'Twas  over  the  Virgin's  church-door  ; 


I  She  stood  on  the  Dragon,  embracing  her  Son ; 
Many  Devils  already  the  artist  had  done, 
But  this  must  outdo  all  before. 

4. 

The  Old  Dragon's  imps,  as  they  fled  through  the  air. 

At  seeing  it,  paused  on  the  wing ; 
For  he  had  the  likeness  so  just  to  a  hair. 
That  they  came  as  Apollyon  himself  had  been  there. 

To  pay  their  respects  to  their  King. 


Every  child,  at  beholding  it,  trembled  with  dread. 

And  scream'd  as  he  turn'd  away  quick. 
Not  an  old  woman  saw  it,  but,  raising  her  head, 
Dropp'd  a  bead,  made  a  cross  on  her  wrinkles,  and 
said. 
Lord,  keep  me  from  ugly  Old  Nick  ! 

6. 
What  the  Painter  so  earnestly  thought  on  by  day, 

He  sometimes  would  dream  of  by  night ; 
But  once  he  was  startled  as  sleeping  he  lay  ; 
'Twas  no  fancy,  no  dream  ;  he  could  plainly  survey 

Tliat  the  Devil  himself  was  in  sijrht. 


"  You  rascally  dauber  I  "  old  Beelzebub  cries, 

"  Take  heed  how  you  wrong  me  again  ! 
Though  your  caricatures  for  myself  I  despise. 
Make  me  handsomer  now  in  the  multitude's  eyes. 
Or  see  if  I  threaten  in  vain  !  " 


Now  the  Painter  was  bold,  and  religious  beside, 

And  on  faith  he  had  certain  reliance  ; 
So  carefully  he  the  grim  countenance  eyed, 
And  thank 'd  him  for  sitting,  with  Catholic  pride, 
And  sturdily  bade  him  defiance. 

9. 
Betimes  in  the  morning  the  Painter  arose  ; 

He  is  ready  as  soon  as  'tis  light. 
Every  look,  every  line,  every  feature  he  knows  ; 
'Tis  fresh  in  his  eye  ;  to  his  labor  he  goes. 

And  he  has  the  old  Wicked  One  quite. 

10. 
Happy  man  !  he  is  sure  the  resemblance  can't  fail ; 

The  tip  of  the  nose  is  like  fire;  [mail. 

There's  his  grin  and  his  fangs,  and  his  dragon-like 
And  the  very  identical  curl  of  his  tail, — 

So  that  nothing  is  left  to  desire. 

1. 

He  looks  and  retouches  again  with  delight , 

'Tis  a  portrait  complete  to  his  mind ; 
And  exulting  again  and  again  at  the  sight. 
He   looks   round   for  applause,  and  he  sees  with 
aff"right 
The  Original  standing  behind. 

12. 

"Fool!  Idiot!"  old  Beelzebub  grinn'd  as  he  spoke. 
And  stamp'd  on  the  scaff'old  in  ire  ; 


THE    PIOUS    PAINTER. 


449 


The  Fainter  grew  pale,  for  he  knew  it  no  joke  ; 
'Twas  a  terrible  height,  and  the  scaffolding  broke. 
The  Devil  could  wish  it  no  higher. 

13. 

"  He'p  —  help  I  Blessed  Mary  !  "  he  cried  in  alarm, 

As  the  scaffold  sunk  under  his  feet. 
From  the  canvass  the  Virgin  extended  her  arm; 
She  caught  the  good  Painter ;  she  saved  him  from 
harm ; 

There  were  hundreds  who  saw  in  the  street. 

14. 
The  Old  Dragon  fled  when  the  wonder  he  spied, 

And  cursed  his  own  fruitless  endeavor  ; 
While  the  Painter  call'd  after  his  rage  to  deride, 
Shook  his  pallet  and  brushes  in  triumph,  and  cried, 

"  I'll  paint  thee  more  ugly  than  ever  !  " 


THE   SECOND   PART. 

1. 

The  Painter  so  pious  all  praise  had  acquired 

For  defying  the  malice  of  Hell ; 
The  Monks  the  unerring  resemblance  admired  ; 
Not  a  Lady  lived  near  but  her  portrait  desired 

From  a  hand  that  succeeded  so  well. 

2. 

One  there  was  to  be  painted  the  number  among 

Of  features  most  fair  to  behold  ; 
The  country  around  of  fair  Marguerite  rung; 
Marguerite  she  was  lovely,  and  lively,  and  young  ; 

Her  husband  was  ugly  and  old. 

3. 
O  Painter,  avoid  her  !    O  Painter,  take  care. 

For  Satan  is  watchful  for  you  ! 
Take  heed  lest  you  fall  in  the  Wicked  One's  snare ; 
The  net  is  made  ready  ;   O  Painter,  beware 

Of  Satan  and  Marguerite  too. 


She  seats  herself  now ;  now  she  lifts  up  her  head ; 

On  the  artist  she  fixes  her  eyes ; 
The  colors  are  ready,  the  canvass  is  spread  ; 
He  lays  on  the  white,  and  he  lays  on  the  red. 

And  the  features  of  beauty  arise. 


He  is  come  to  her  eyes,  eyes  so  bright  and  so  blue  ! 

There's  a  look  which  he  cannot  express;  — 
His  colors  are  dull  to  their  quick-sparkling  hue ; 
More  and  more  on  the  lady  he  fixes  his  view  ; 

On  the  canvass  he  looks  less  and  less. 

6. 

In  vain  he  retouches ;  her  eyes  sparkle  more, 
And  that  look  which  fair  Marguerite  gave  ! 
57 


Many  Devils  the  Artist  had  painted  of  yore, 
But  he  never  had  tried  a  live  Angel  before,  — 
St.  Anthony,  help  him  and  save  ! 

7. 
He  yielded,  alas  !  —  for  the  truth  must  be  told,  — 

To  the  Woman,  the  Tempter,  and  Fate. 
It  was  settled  the  Lady,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Should  elope  from  her  Husband,  so  ugly  and  old, 

With  the  Painter,  so  pious  of  late. 


Now  Satan  exults  in  his  vengeance  complete  ; 

To  the  Husband  he  makes  the  scheme  known  ; 
Night  comes,  and  the  lovers  impatiently  meet ; 
Together  they  fly  ;  they  are  seized  in  the  street. 

And  in  prison  the  Painter  is  thrown. 

9. 
With  Repentance,  his  only  companion,  he  lies, 

And  a  dismal  companion  is  she  ! 
On  a  sudden,  he  saw  the  Old  Enemy  rise, 
"Now,youvillanous dauber!  "  Sir  Beelzebub  cries, 

"  You  are  paid  for  your  insults  to  me  I 

10. 
'■•  But  my  tender  heart  you  may  easily  move 

If  to  what  I  propose  you  agree  ; 
That  picture,  —  be  just !  the  resemblance  improve ; 
Make  a  handsomer  portrait ;  your  chains  I'll  remove, 

And  you  shall  this  instant  be  free." 

11. 

Overjoy'd,  the  conditions  so  easy  he  hears ; 

"I'll  make  you  quite  handsome  !  "  he  said. 
He  said,  and  his  chain  on  the  Devil  appears ; 
Released  from  his  prison,  released  from  his  fears, 

The  Painter  is  snug  in  his  bed. 

12. 

At  morn  he  arises,  composes  his  look, 
And  proceeds  to  his  work  as  before ; 

The  people  beheld  him,  the  culprit  they  took ; 

They  thought  that  the  Painter  his  prison  had  broke, 
And  to  prison  they  led  him  once  more. 

13. 
They  open  the  dungeon; — behold,  in  his  place 

In  the  corner  old  Beelzebub  lay ; 
He  smirks,  and  he  smiles,  and  he  leers  with  a  grace, 
That  the  Painter  might  catch  all  the  charms  of 
his  face, 
Then  vanish'd  in  lightning  away. 

14. 

Quoth  the  Painter,  "  I  trust  you'll  suspect  me  no 
more, 

Since  you  find  my  assertions  were  true. 
But  I'll  alter  the  picture  above  the  Church-door, 
For  he  never  vouchsafed  me  a  sitting  before, 

And  I  must  give  the  Devil  his  due." 

Westbury,  1798. 


450 


ST.    MICHAEL'S    CHAIR. 


ST.    MICHAEL'S    CHAIR. 


'  Know  all  men  that  the  most  Holy  Father  Gregory,  in  the  year 
from  the  incarnation  of  our  Lord  1070,  bearing  an  affection 
of  extraordinary  devoutness  to  the  Church  of  St.  Michacrs 
Mount,  has  piously  granted  to  all  the  faithful  who  shall  reach 
or  visit  it,  with  their  oblations  and  alms,  a  remission  of  a 
third  part  of  their  penances."  —  At  the  beginning  of  the  I5th 
century,  "  Because,  it  was  said,  this  privilege  is  still  un- 
known to  many,  therefore  we  ihe  servants  of  God,  and  the 
ministers  of  this  church  in  Christ,  do  require  and  request 
of  all  of  you  who  possess  the  care  of  souls,  for  the  sake  of 
mutual  accommodation,  to  publish  these  words  in  your  re- 
spective churches;  that  your  parishioners  and  subjects  may 
bo  more  carefully  animated  to  a  greater  exhortation  of  de- 
voutness, and  may  more  gloriously  in  jiil grimaircs  frequent 
thisplace,  for  the  gracious  attainment  of  the  gifts  and  indul- 
gencies  aforesaid."  From  this  publication  of  the  privilege 
did  undoubtedly  commence  that  numerous  resort  of  pilgrims 
to  the  church  which  Carew  intimates  ;  and  of  which  Nor- 
den,  who  generally  is  the  mere  copier  of  Carew,  yet  is  here 
the  enlarger  of  him,  says,  "The  Mount  hath  been  much  re- 
sorted unto  by  pilgrims  in  devotion  to  St.  Michael."  Then 
too  was  framed  assuredly  that  seat  on  the  tower,  which  is 
so  ridiculously  described  by  Carew,  as  "  a  little  without  the 
castle,  —  a  bad  scat  in  a  craggy  place,  —  somewhat  danger- 
ous for  access  ;  "  when  it  is  a  chair  composed  of  stones  pro- 
jecting from  the  two  sides  of  the  tower  battlements,  and 
uniting  into  a  kind  of  basin  for  a  seat  just  at  the  south- 
western angle,  but  elevated  above  the  battlements  on  each 
side,  having  its  back  just  within,  and  hanging  high  over  the 
rocky  precipice  below.  It  thus  "  appears  somewhat  dan- 
gerous "  indeed,  but  not  merely  "  for  access,"  though  the 
climber  to  it  must  actually  turn  his  whole  body  at  that  alti- 
tude to  take  his  seat  in  it,  but  from  the  altitude  itself,  and 
from  its  projection  over  the  precipice.  It  also  appears  an 
evident  addition  to  the  building.  And  it  was  assuredly  made 
at  this  period,  not  for  the  ridiculous  purpose  to  uhicb  alone 
it  professedly  ministers  at  present,  —  that  of  enabling  women 
who  sit  in  it  to  govern  their  husbands  afterwards  ;  but  for 
such  of  the  pilgrims  as  had  stronger  heads,  and  bolder 
spirits,  to  complete  their  devotions  at  the  Mount,  by  sitting 
in  this  St.  Michael's  Chair,  as  denominated,  and  these  show- 
ing themselves  as  pilgrims,  to  the  country  round.  Hence,  in 
an  author  who  lends  us  information  without  knowing  it,  as 
he  alludes  to  customs  without  feeling  the  force  of  them,  we 
read  this  transient  information  : 

Who  knows  not  Mighel's  Mount  and  Chair, 
The  pilgrim's  holy  vaunt  7 

Norden  also  reechoes  Carew,  in  saying,  "  St.  Michael's 
chair  is  fabled  to  be  in  the  Mount."  We  thus  find  a  reason 
for  the  construction  of  the  chair,  that  comports  with  all  the 
uses  of  the  church  on  which  it  is  constructed,  and  that  min- 
istered equally  with  this  to  the  purposes  of  religion  then 
predominant ;  a  religion,  dealing  more  in  exteriors  than  our 
own,  operating  more  than  our  own,  through  the  body,  upon 
the  soul  ;  and  so  leaving,  perhaps,  a  more  sensible  impres- 
sion upon  the  spirits.  To  sit  in  the  chair  then,  was  not 
merely,  as  Carew  represents  the  act,  "somewhat  dan- 
gerous "  in  the  attempt,  "  and  therefore  holy  in  the  adventure," 
but  also  holy  in  itself,  as  on  the  church  tower ;  more  holy 
in  its  purposes,  as  the  seat  of  the  pilgrims  ;  and  most  holy 
as  the  seat  of  a  few  in  accomplishment  of  all  their  vow.s  ; 
as  the  chair  of  a  few,  in  invitation  of  all  the  country. — 
Whitaker's  Supplement  to  the  First  and  Second  Book  of 
Polwhele's  History  of  Cornwall,  pp.  6,  7. 


Merrily,  merrily  rung  the  bells, 
The  bells  of  St.  Michael's  tower, 

When  Richard  Penlake  and  Rebecca  his  wife 
Arrived  at  St.  Michael's  door. 


Richard  Penlake  was  a  cheerful  man, 

Cheerful,  and  frank,  and  free  ; 
But  he  led  a  sad  life  with  Rebecca  his  wife, 

For  a  terrible  shrew  was  she. 

Richard  Penlake  a  scolding  would  take. 

Till  patience  avail'd  no  longer  ; 
Then  Richard  Penlake  his  crab-stick  would  take, 

And  show  her  that  he  was  the  stronger. 

Rebecca  his  wife  had  often  wish'd 

To  sit  in  St.  Michael's  chair; 
For  she  should  be  the  mistress  then, 

If  she  had  once  sat  there. 

It  chanced  that  Richard  Penlake  fell  sick  ; 

They  thought  he  would  have  died ; 
Rebecca  his  wife  made  a  vow  for  his  life, 

As  she  knelt  by  his  bed-side. 

"  Now  hear  my  prayer,  St.  Michael !  and  spare 

My  husband's  life,"  quoth  she  ; 
"  And  to  thine  altar  we  will  go 

Six  marks  to  give  to  thee." 

Richard  Penlake  repeated  the  vow, 

For  woundily  sick  was  he ; 
"  Save  me,  St.  Michael,  and  we   will  go 

Six  marks  to  give  to  thee." 

When  Richard  grew  well,  Rebecca  his  wife 

Teased  him  by  night  and  by  day  : 
"  O  mine  own  dear !  for  you  I  fear, 

If  we  the  vow  delay.' 

Merrily,  merrily  rung  the  bells. 

The  bells  of  St.  Michael's  tower. 
When  Richard  Penlake  and  Rebecca  his  wife 

Arrived  at  St.  Michael's  door. 

Six  marks  they  on  the  altar  laid. 

And  Richard  knelt  in  prayer  : 
She  left  him  to  pray,  and  stole  away 

To  sit  in  St.  Michael's  chair. 

Up  the  tower  Rebecca  ran, 

Round,  and  round,  and  round; 
'Twas  a  giddy  sight  to  stand  a-top, 

And  look  upon  the  ground. 

"  A  curse  on  the  ringers  for  rocking 

The  tower !  "  Rebecca  cried. 
As  over  the  church  battlements 

She  strode  with  a  long  stride. 

"  A  blessing  on  St.  Michael's  chair !  " 

She  said,  as  she  sat  down  : 
Merrily,  merrily  rung  the  bells. 

And  out  Rebecca  was  thrown. 

Tidings  to  Richard  Penlake  were  brought 

That  his  good  wife  was  dead  : 
"  Now  shall  we  toll  for  her  poor  soul 

The  great  church  bell .'  "  they  said. 


KING    HENRY    V.    AIND    THE    HERMIT    OF    DREUX 


45] 


"Toll  at  her  burying,"  quoth  Richard  Penlake, 
"Toll  at  her  burying,"  quoth  he; 

"But  don't  disturb  the  ringers  now 
In  compliment  to  me." 


Weslbuiy,  1798. 


KING  HENRY  V.  AND  THE 
HERMIT  OF  DREUX. 


While  Henry  V.  hiyat  tlie  a'wge  of  Dreux,  an  honest  Hermit, 
unknown  to  him,  came  and  toid  him  the  great  evils  he 
brought  on  Christendom  by  his  unjust  ambition,  who 
usurped  the  kingdom  of  France,  against  all  manner  of  right, 
and  contrary  to  the  will  of  God;  \vherefore,  in  his  holy 
name,  he  threatened  him  with  a  severe  and  sudden  punish- 
ment if  he  desisted  not  from  his  enterprise.  Henry  took 
this  exhortation  either  as  an  idle  whimsey,  or  a  suggestion 
of  the  dauphin's,  and  wag  but  the  more  confirmed  in  his 
design.  But  the  blow  soon  followed  the  threatening;  for, 
within  some  few  months  aaer,  he  was  smitten  witb  a  strange 
and  incurable  disease.  —  Mezerat. 


He  pass'd  unquestion'd  through  the  camp ; 

Their  heads  the  soldiers  bent 
In  silent  reverence,  or  bego-'d 

A  blessing  as  he  went ; 
And  so  the  Hermit  pass'd  along, 

And  reached  the  royal  tent. 

King  Henry  sat  in  his  tent  alone; 

The  map  before  him  lay ; 
Fresh  conquests  he  was  planning  there 

To  grace  the  future  day. 

King  Henry  lifted  up  his  eyes 

The  intruder  to  behold ; 
With  reverence  he  the  hermit  saw  ; 

For  the  holy  man  was  old ; 
His  look  was  gentle  as  a  Saint's, 

And  yet  his  eye  was  bold. 

"  Repent  thee,  Henry,  of  the  wrongs 

Which  thou  hast  done  this  land  ! 
O  King,  repent  in  time,  for  know 
The  judgment  is  at  hand. 

"  I  have  pass'd  forty  years  of  peace 

Beside  the  river  Blaise ; 
But  what  a  weight  of  woe  hast  thou 

Laid  on  my  latter  days  ! 

"  I  used  to  see  along  the  stream 

The  white  sail  gliding  down, 
That  wafted  food,  in  better  times, 

To  yonder  peaceful  town. 

"  Henry  !  I  never  now  behold 

The  white  sail  gliding  down  ; 
Famine,  Disease,  and  Death,  and  Thou 

Destroy  that  wretched  town. 


"I  used  to  hear  the  traveller's  voice 

As  here  he  pass'd  along. 
Or  maiden,  as  she  loiter'd  home 

Singing  her  even-song. 

"  No  traveller's  voice  may  now  be  heard ; 

In  fear  he  hastens  by  ; 
But  I  have  heard  the  village  maid 

In  vain  for  succor  cry. 

"  I  used  to  see  the  youths  row  down, 

And  watch  the  dripping  oar, 
As  pleasantly  their  viol's  tones 

Came  soften'd  to  the  shore. 

"  King  Henry,  many  a  blacken'd  corpse 

I  now  see  floating  down  ! 
Thou  man  of  blood  !  repent  in  time, 

And  leave  this  leaguer'd  town." 

"  I  shall  go  on,"  King  Henry  cried, 
"  And  conquer  this  good  land  ; 

Seest  thou  not.  Hermit,  that  the  Lord 
Hath  given  it  to  my  hand .'  " 

The  Hermit  heard  King  Henry  speak. 
And  angrily  look'd  down;  — 

His  face  was  gentle,  and  for  that 
More  solemn  was  his  frown. 

"  What  if  no  miracle  from  Heaven 

The  murderer's  arm  control ; 
Think  you  for  that  the  weight  of  blood 

Lies  lighter  on  his  soul .' 

"Thou  conqueror  King,  repent  in  time, 

Or  dread  the  coming  woe  ! 
For,  Henry,  thou  hast  heard  the  threat, 

And  soon  shall  feel  the  blow!  " 

King  Henry  forced  a  careless  smile, 

As  the  hermit  went  his  way ; 
But  Henry  soon  remember'd  him 

Upon  his  dying  day. 

Westbury,  1798. 


OLD  CHRISTOVAL'S   ADVICE, 

AND    THE    REASON    WHY    HE    GAVE    IT. 


Rccibio  un  Cavallcro,  paraque  cultivasse  sits  ticrras,  a  un  Quin- 
tero,  y  para  pagarle  algo  addaniadn  h  pidi6  fiadur ;  y  no 
teniendo  quien  lefasse,  le  prometid  delante  del  sepulcro  de  San 
Isidro  que  cumpliria  su  palabra,  y  si  no,  que  el  Santa  le  castl- 
gasse.  Con  lo  qual,  el  CavalUro  le  pag6  tofia  su  soldiida,  y  le 
fid.  Mar  desagradecido  aquel  hombre,  no  hncicndo  caso  de  su 
promessa,  se  Iwy6,  sin  acabnrde  sirvir  el  tienipa  conccrlado. 
Passd  de  noche  sin  reparar  en  cllo,  pur  la  Iglesia  de  San  jindrds, 
donde  estaba  el  ciierpo  del  siervo  de  Dios.  Fiii  cosa  maravil- 
losa,  que  andando  corriendo  toda  la  noclie,  no  se  apartd  de  la 
Iglesia,  sino  que  toda  se  lefiie  en  dar  ncil  buellasal  redcdor  de 
elUi,  hasta  que  par  la  mahana,  yendo  el  amod  qiiexarse  de  San 


452 


OLD    CHRISTOVAL'S    ADVICE, 


Isidro,  y  pedirU  cumpliessc  sufiaina,  hallo  a  su  Quiiitcro  alii, 
daudo  mas  y  mas  budtas,  sin  poderse  haver  apartado  dc  aqurl 
sitio.  Pidid  pcrdon  al  Santo,  y  d  sa  amo,  al  quul  satisfizo 
despues  cnleramcnte  porsu  Irabajo.  —  Villeoas.  Flos  Snnc- 
torum. 


"If  thy  debtor  be  poor,"  old  Christoval  said, 

"  Exact  not  too  hardly  thy  due ; 
For  he  who  preserves  a  poor  man  from  want 

May  preserve  him  from  wickedness  too. 

"  If  thy  neighbor  should  sin,"  old  Christoval  said, 

"  O  never  unmerciful  be  ; 
But  remember  it  is  through  the  mercy  of  God 

That  thou  art  not  as  sinful  as  he. 

"  At  sixty-and-seven,  the  hope  of  Heaven 
Is  my  comfort,  through  God's  good  grace ; 

My  summons,  in  truth,  had  I  perish'd  in  youth, 
Must  have  been  to  a  different  place." 

"You  shall  have  the  farm,  young  Christoval," 

My  master  Henrique  said  ; 
"  But  a  surety  provide,  in  wliom  I  can  confide. 

That  duly  the  rent  shall  be  paid." 

I  was  poor,  and  I  had  not  a  friend  upon  earth. 

And  I  knew  not  what  to  say ; 
We  stood  in  the  porch  of  St.  Andrew's  Church, 

And  it  was  St.  Isidro's  day. 

"Take  St.  Isidro  for  my  pledge," 

I  ventured  to  make  reply  ; 
'•  The  Saint  in  Heaven  may  be  my  friend, 

But  friendless  on  earth  am  I." 

We  enter'd  the  Church,  and  went  to  his  shrine, 

And  I  fell  on  my  bended  knee  — 
"  I  am  friendless,  holy  Isidro, 

And  therefore  I  call  upon  thee  ! 

"  1  call  upon  thee  my  surety  to  be  ; 

My  purpose  is  honest  and  true; 
And  if  ever  I  break  my  plighted  word, 

O  Saint,  mayst  thou  make  me  rue!  " 

I  was  idle,  and  quarter-day  came  on, 

And  I  had  not  the  rent  in  store  ; 
I  fear'd  St.  Isidro's  anger, 

But  I  dreaded  my  landlord  more. 

So,  on  a  dark  night,  I  took  my  flight. 

And  stole  like  a  thief  away  ; 
It  happen'd  that  by  St.  Andrew's  Church 

The  road  I  had  chosen  lay. 

As  I  past  the  Church  door,  I  thought  how  I  swore 

Upon  St.  Isidro's  day  ; 
That  the  Saint  was  so  near  increased  my  fear, 

And  faster  I  hasten'd  away. 

So  all  night  long  I  hurried  on, 

Pacing  full  many  a  mile, 
And  knew  not  his  avenging  hand 

Was  on  me  all  the  while. 


Weary  I  was,  yet  safe,  I  thought ; 

But  when  it  was  day-light, 
I  had,  I  found,  been  running  round 

And  round  the  Church  all  night. 

I  shook  like  a  palsy,  and  fell  on  my  knees. 

And  for  pardon  devoutly  I  pray'd  ; 
When  my  master  came  up  —  "  What,  Christoval ! 

You  are  here  betimes  !  "  he  said. 

"  I  have  been  idle,  good  Master,"  said  I, 
"  Good  Master,  and  I  have  done  wrong ; 

And  I  have  been  running  round  the  Church 
In  penance  all  night  long." 

"If  thou  hast  been  idle,"  Henrique  replied, 

"  Henceforth  thy  fault  amend  ! 
I  will  not  oppress  thee,  Christoval, 

And  the  Saint  may  thy  labor  befriend." 

Homeward  I  went  a  penitent. 

And  from  that  day  I  idled  no  more ; 

St.  Isidro  bless'd  my  industry. 
As  he  punish'd  my  sloth  before. 

"  When  my  debtor  was  poor,"  old  Christoval  said 

"  I  have  never  exacted  my  due ;. 
But  remembering  my  master  was  good  to  me, 

I  copied  his  goodness  too. 

"  When  my  neighbor  hath  sinn'd,"  old  Christoval 
said. 

"  I  judged  not  too  hardly  his  sin. 
But  thought  of  the  night  by  St.  Andrew's  Church, 

And  consider'd  what  I  might  have  been." 

Westhury,  1798. 


CORNELIUS    AGRIPPA; 

A    BALLAD, 

OF    A     YOUNG     MAN     THAT     WOULD     READ     UN- 
LAWFUL   BOOKS,    AND    HOW    HE    WAS 
PUNISHED. 


VERY    PITHY    AND    PROFITABLE. 


Cornelius  Agrippa  went  out  one  day; 
His  Study  he  lock'd  ere  he  went  away. 
And  he  gave  the  key  of  the  door  to  his  wife, 
And  charged  her  to  keep  it  lock'd  on  her  life. 

"  And  if  any  one  ask  my  Study  to  see, 
I  charge  you  to  trust  them  not  with  the  key  ; 
Whoever  may  beg,  and  entreat,  and  implore, 
On  your  life  let  nobody  enter  that  door." 

Tiiere  lived  a  young  man  in  the  house,  who  in  vam 
Access  to  that  Study  had  sought  to  obtain ; 


CORNELIUS    AGRIPPA.  — KING    CHARLEMAIN, 


453 


And  he  begg'd  and  pray'd  the  books  to  see, 
Till  the  foolish  woman  gave  him  the  key. 

On  tiie  Study-table  a  book  there  lay, 
Which  Agrippa  himself  had  been  reading  that  day  ; 
The  letters  were  written  with  blood  therein, 
And  the  leaves  were  made  of  dead  men's  skin ;  — 

And  these  horrible  leaves  of  magic  between 
Were  the  ugliest  pictures  that  ever  were  seen, 
The  likeness  of  things  so  foul  to  behold. 
That  what  they  were  is  not  fit  to  be  told. 

The  young  man  he  began  to  read 
He  knew  not  what ;  but  he  would  proceed. 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound  at  the  door 
Which,  as  he  read  on,  grew  more  and  more. 

And  more  and  more  the  knocking  grew ; 

The  young  man  knew  not  what  to  do ; 

But,  trembling,  in  fear  he  sat  within. 

Till  the  door  was  broke,  and  the  Devil  came  in. 

Two  hideous  horns  on  his  head  he  had  got. 
Like  iron  heated  nine  times  red-hot; 
The  breath  of  his  nostrils  was  brimstone  blue. 
And  his  tail  like  a  fiery  serpent  grew. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  .-'  "  the  Wicked  One 

cried, 
But  not  a  word  the  young  man  replied ; 
Every  hair  on  his  head  was  standing  upright, 
And  his  limbs  like  a  palsy  shook  with  affright. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ?  "  cried  the  Author 

of  ill; 
But  the  wretched  young  man  was  silent  still ; 
Not  a  word  had  his  lips  the  power  to  say, 
And  his  marrow  seem'd  to  be  melting  away. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  with  me .' "'  the  third  time  he 

cries. 
And  a  flash  of  lightning  came  from  his  eyes, 
And  he  lifted  his  griffin  claw  in  the  air, 
And  the  young  man  had  not  strength  for  a  prayer. 

His  eyes  red  fire  and  fury  dart 
As  out  he  tore  the  young  man's  heart; 
He  grinn'd  a  horrible  grin  at  his  prey  ; 
And  in  a  clap  of  thunder  vanish'd  away. 

THE   MORAL 
Henceforth  let  all  young  men  take  heed 
How  in  a  Conjurer's  books  they  read. 

Westbtiry,  1798. 


KING    CHARLEMAIN 


Frangois  Pctrarqur,  fort  rcnomme,  entrc  Irs  Po'&Irs  Itullnts,  dis- 
courant  en  vn  epislre  son  voyage  ile  France  et  de  V^llcmaigne, 
nous  raconte  que  passant  par  la  vUle  d'^ii,  il  apprit  de  quelqucs 


I'reslres  unc  liistuire  prodigcuse  qii'iU  Icnoient  de  main  en 
main  pour  tre.i  veritable.  Qui  c.<(uit  (/uc  Cliarles  le  Grand, 
apres  avoir  conqacstc  plusienrs  pays,  s'esperdit  de  telle  fafon 
en  I'amoar  dWne  simple  fnnme,  que  mcttaut  tout  honneur  et 
reputation  en  arricre,  il  oublia  non  sculenicnt  Ics  affaires  de 
son  royauvie,  mals  aussi  le  soing  de  sa  propre  personne,  au, 
grand  dcsplaisir  de  cliacun  ;  eslant  seulemrnt  ailrntifd  cour- 
tiser  ce^te  dame:  laquclle  par  bonUcur  covmienca  d  s^aliter 
d'une grosse  maladie,  qui  lui  appurta  la  mort.  Dont  les  Princes 
et  grands  Seigneurs  fureut  fort  rrjoui,i,  cspcrans  que  par  ccsle 
mort,  Charles  reprendroit  contmr  dirant  el  ses  csprits  et  les 
affaires  du  royaumc  en  wain  :  totitesfuis  il  se  trouvu  lellement 
infatui  de  ccste  amour,  qu'  encores  cherissoit-il  ce  cadaver, 
V embrassant ,  baisant,  acculavl  dc  la  mcnir  fagon  que  devant,  et 
au  lieu  de  prrstcr  I'urcille  aui  legations  qui  luy  survenoient,  il 
Ventrelenoit  dc  millc  bayrs,  comuie  s'elle  eust  e^te  plcine  de  vie. 
Ce  corps  eummengoil  deja  non  seulcment  a  mal  sentir,  niais  aussi 
se  touruoit  en  putrefaction,  ft  ncantmoius  n'y  avoit  aucun  de  ses 
fuvoris  qui  luy  en  osasl  purler  ,•  dunt  advint  que  VJirchevaq-iie 
Turpin  mieux  advise  que  les  aulrrs,  pourpcnsa  que  telle  cliosc 
lie  pouvoit  eslrc  advenue  sans  qtielque  sorccllerie.  Ail  moycn 
deqiwy  cspiani  unjour  I'heure  que  le  Roy  s'estoit  abscntc  de  la 
chauibre,  comminga  de  fuvillcr  le  corps  de  toutes  parts,  Jinatc- 
inent  troura  duns  sa  bouclie  au  dessous  de  sa  langue  un  anncau 
qu'il  luy  osta.  Le  jour  mesme  Churlemaigne  rctoumant  sur 
ses  premieres  brisces,  se  trouva  fort  cstonnc  de  voir  unc  car- 
casse  ainsi  puante.  Parquoy,  comme  s'il  sefust  rcsvcille  d'un 
profond  sommeil,  commanda  que  Von  I'ensevelist  promptemcnt. 
Ce  qui  fut  fait ;  mais  en  conl.r'  eschange  de  cesle  folic,  il  lour- 
na  tous  ses  pensemens  vers  I'Jirchcvesquc  porteur  de  cest  an- 
ncau, ne  pouvant  estrc  de  Id  en  avant  sans  luy,  et  le  suivant 
en  tous  le^  endroits.  Quay  voyant  ce  sage  Prelat,  et  craignant 
que  cest  annrau  ne  tombust  en  mains  de  quelque  autre,  le  jelta 
dans  un  lac  prochain  de  la  ville.  Depuis  lequel  temps  on  dit 
que  ce  Roij  se  trouve  si  rspris  de  I'amour  du  lieu,  qvHl  ne  se 
desnnpara  dc  la  rille  d'Jlir,  ou  il  haslit  un  Palais,  et  un  Mo- 
nasterc,  en  Pun  dcsqucls  il  parfit  le  restc  de  ses  jours,  et  en 
Vaulre  rvulut  estre  ensrrely,  ordunnant  par  son  testament  que 
tous  Ics  Eniperrurs  de  Rome  ensscnt  d  scfuirc  sacrcr  premiere- 
menl  en  ce  lieu.  —  Pasquier.  Rechcrchcs  de  la  France. 
L.  6,  C.  33. 
Tliis  very  learned  autlior  has  strangely  mistaken  Aix  in  Sa- 
voy, tlie  real  scene  oftlie  legend,  for  Aix-laChapclle.  The 
ruins  of  a  building  said  to  have  been  ('harlemain's  palace 
are  still  to  be  seen  on  the  Lake  of  Bourget. 


1. 

It  was  strange  that  he  loved  her,  for  youth  was  gone 

And  the  bloom  of  her  beauty  was  fled  :  [by, 

'Twas  the  glance  of  the  harlot  that  gleam'd  in  her 

eye, 
And  all  but  the  Monarch  could  plainly  descry 
From  whence  came  her  white  and  her  red. 

2. 

Yet  he  thought  with  Agatha  none  might  compare, 
And  he  gloried  in  wearing  her  chain ; 

The  court  was  a  desert  if  she  were  not  there ; 

To  him  she  alone  among  women  seem'd  fair, 
Such  dotage  possess'd  Charlemain. 


The  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  courtier,  the  maid. 

Alike  the  proud  leman  detest; 
And  the  good  old  Archbishop,  who  ceased  to  up- 
braid. 
Shook  his  gray  head  in  sorrow,  and  silently  prav'd 

That  he  soon  might  consign  her  to  rest. 


A  joy  ill-dissembled  soon  gladdens  them  all, 
For  Aoratha  sickens  and  dies. 


454 


KING    CHARLEMAIN. 


And  now  they  are  ready  with  bier  and  with  pall ; 
The  tapers  gleam  gloomy  amid  the  high  hall, 
And  the  strains  of  the  requiem  arise. 

5. 

But  Charlemain  sent  them  in  anger  away, 

For  slie  should  not  be  buried,  he  said ; 
And  despite  of  all  counsel,  for  many  a  day, 
Where  array'd  in  her  costly  apparel  she  lay. 
The  Monarch  would  sit  by  the  dead. 


The  cares  of  the  kingdom  demand  him  in  vain, 

And  the  army  cry  out  for  their  lord ; 
The  Lombards,  the  fierce  misbelievers  of  Spain, 
Now  ravage  the  realms  of  the  proud  Charlemain, 
And  still  he  unsheaths  not  the  sword. 


The  soldiersthey  clamor,  the  Monks  bend  in  prayer 

In  the  quiet  retreats  of  the  cell  ; 
The  physicians  to  counsel  together  repair. 
And  with  common  consent,  one  and  all  they  declare 

That  his  senses  are  bound  by  a  spell. 

8. 
Then,  with  relics  protected,  and  confident  grown. 

And  telling  devoutly  his  beads, 
The  good  old  Archbishop,  when  this  was  made 

known. 
Steals  in  when  he  hears  that  the  corpse  is  alone. 
And  to  look  for  the  spell  he  proceeds. 

9. 
He  searches  with  care,  though  with    tremulous 
haste, 
For  the  spell  that  bewitches  the  king ; 
And  under  her  tongue,  for  security  placed, 
Its  margin  with  mystical  characters  traced. 
At  length  he  discovers  a  ring. 

10. 
Rejoicing  he  seized  it,  and  hasten'd  away  ; 

The  Monarch  reenter'd  the  room; 
The  enchantment  was  ended,  and,  suddenly  gay, 
He  bade  the  attendants  no  longer  delay, 

But  bear  her  with  speed  to  the  tomb. 

U. 

Now  merriment,  joyance,  and  feasting  again 

Enliven'd  the  palace  of  Aix  ; 
And  now  by  his  heralds  did  King  Charlemain 
Invite  to  his  palace  the  courtier  train 

To  hold  a  high  festival  day. 

12. 

And  anxiously  now  for  the  festival  day 

Tlio  highly-born  Maidens  prepare : 
And  now,  all  apparel'd  in  costly  array. 
Exulting  they  come  to  the  palace  of  Aix, 

Young  and  aged,  the  brave  and  the  fair. 

13. 

Oh  !  happy  the  Damsel  who,  'mid  her  compeers, 
For  a  moment  engaged  the  King's  eye  ! 


Now  glowing  with  hopes,  and  now  fever'd  with 

fears. 
Each  maid  or  triumphant  or  jealous  appears, 
As  noticed  by  him,  or  pass'd  by. 

14. 

And  now,  as  the  evening  approach'd,  to  the  ball 

In  anxious  suspense  they  advance. 
Hoping  each  on  herself  that  the   King's  choice 

might  fall. 
When,  lo !  to  the  utter  confusion  of  all, 

He  ask'd  the  Archbishop  to  dance. 

15. 
The  damsels  they  laugh,  and  the  barons  they  stare ; 

'Twas  mirth  and  astonishment  all ; 
And  the  Archbishop  started,  and  mutter'd  a  prayer. 
And,  wroth  at  receiving  such  mockery  there, 

In  haste  he  withdrew  from  the  hall. 

16. 

The  moon  dimpled  over  the  water  with  light 
As  he  wander'd  along  the  lake  side  ; 

But  the  King  had  pursued,  and,  o'erjoyed  at  his 
sight, 

"  Oh  turn  thee.  Archbishop,  my  joy  and  delight. 
Oh  turn  thee,  my  charmer,"  he  cried. 

17. 

"  Oh  come  where  the  feast,  and  the  dance,  and  the 
song, 

Invite  thee  to  mirth  and  to  love  ; 
Or  at  this  happy  moment,  away  from  the  throng. 
To  the  shade  of  yon  wood  let  us  hasten  along, — 

The  moon  never  pierces  that  grove." 

18. 

As  thus  by  new  madness  the  King  seem'd  pos- 
sess'd, 
In  new  wonder  the  Archbishop  heard; 
Then  Charlemain  warmly  and  eagerly  press'd 
The  good  old  man's  poor,  wither'd  hand   to    his 
breast. 
And  kiss'd  his  long,  gray,  grizzle  beard. 

19. 

"Let .us  well,  then,  these  fortunate  moments  em- 
ploy !  " 
Cried  the  Monarch  with  passionate  tone; 
"  Come  away  then,  dear  charmer,  —  my  angel, — 

my  joy.— 

Nay,  struggle  not  now,  — 'tis  in  vain  lo  be  coy,  — 
And  remember  that  we  are  alone." 

20. 
"  Blessed   Mary,  protect   me  !  "    the   Archbishop 
cried ; 
"  Wliat  madness  has  come  to  the  King  !  " 
In  vain  to  escape  from  tiie  monarch  he  tried. 
When  luckily  he  on  his  finger  espied 
The  glitter  of  Agatha's  ring. 

21. 

Overjoy 'd,  the  good  prelate  remember'd  the  spell, 
And  far  in  the  lake  flung  the  ring ; 


ST.    ROMUALD. 


455 


The  waters  closed  round  it,  and  wondrous  to  tell, 
Released  from  the  cursed  enchantment  of  hell, 
His  reason  return'd  to  the  King. 

22. 

But  he  built  him  a  palace  there  close  by  the  bay. 

And  there  did  he  love  to  remain ; 
And  the  traveller  who  will,  may  behold  at  this  day 
A  monument  still  in  the  ruins  at  Aix 

Of  the  spell  that  possess'd  Charlemain. 

BaiJi,  n^i. 


ST.    ROMUALD. 


Les  Catalans  ayant  appris  que  S.  Romuald  vouloit  quitter  leurs 
payn,  en  furent  tris-affliges ;  ils  delibererent  sur  les  rnuynns  dr. 
Veil  empichcr,  el  le  seul  qu'ils  imagiiierent  comme  le  plus  sfir, 
fat  de  le  tuer,  afin  de  profiler  du  muins  de  scs  rdiques  el  des 
guerisons  el  axUres  miracles  qu'elles  vpercruieiit  apris  sii  mort. 
La  devoliun  que  les  Catalans  avuient  pour  lui,  ne  plut  point  du 
tout  d  S.  Romuald;  il  usa  de  stratagem e  el  Imr  ecluippa. — 
St.  Foix,  Essais  Iliitoriques  sur  Paris.  —  T.  5,  p.  163. 
St.  Foix,  who  is  often  more  amusing'  than  trustwortliy,  hns 
fathered  this  story  upon  the  Spaniards,  though  it  belongs  to 
his  own  countrymen,  tlie  circumstanees  having  Inppened 
when  Romuald  was  a  monk  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Michael's, 
in  Aquitaine.  It  is  thus  related  by  Yej)es.  En  esta  ocasion 
sucedio  una  cosa  bien  eitraurdinuria,  porquc  los  naturalrs  de 
la  ticrra  donde  estara  el  monasterio  de  San  Miguel,  cslimavan 
en.  tanto  a  San  Romoaldo,  que  fultnndulcs  la  paciencia  de  que 
se  qui.iiesse  yr,  dierun  en  uu  terrible  disparate,  a  quien  llama 
inuy  bien  San  Pedro  Damiano  Impia  I'ietas,  piedad  cruel: 
porque  queriendvse  yr  San  Romoaldo,  determinaron  de  matarle, 
para  que  ya  que  no  le  podiau  tcner  en  su  tierra  viro,  alomenos 
goiusscn  de  sus  reliquias  y  cuerpo  sauto.  Supo  San  Romoaldo 
la  detrrminacion  bestial  y  indiscrcta  de  aquella  genie  :  y  tomo 
una  prudente  resolucion,  porque  imitxindo  a  David,  que  fingio 
que  estava  loco,  par  no  cacr  en  mamis  de  sus  enemigos,  assi  San 
Romoaldo  se  hizo  rner  la  cubcca,  y  con  algunus  ademanes,  y 
palabra.^  vial  concertadiis  que  dezia,  Ic  turieron  por  homlrre  que 
le  avia  fullado  el  juyzio,  con  que  se  asscguraron  los  uaturales 
de  la  tierra  que  ya  perpctuamnitr  le  Irudrian  en  ella:  y  con 
semejante  cstratngema  y  tra^a  tuvo  lugar  San  Romoaldo  de 
hurtarse,  y  a  cencerros  topados  (como  dizen)  hnyr  de  aquella 
tierra,  y  llegar  a  Italia  a  la  ciudad  de  Rarena. 

Curonica  General  de  la  Orden  de  Sun 
Benito.— T.  5,  «".  274. 
Villegas  in  his  Flos  Sanctorum,  (February  7th,)  records  some 
of  St.  Roniuald's  achievements  against  the  Devil  and  his 
imps.  lie  records  also  the  other  virtues  of  the  Saint,  as 
specified  in  the  poem.  They  are  more  fnily  stated  by  Yepes. 
Tenia  Ires  cilicios,  los  qualcs  inuduva  de  treynta  en  treyntn 
dias :  no  los  labava,  sino  ponialos  al  ayre,  y  d  la  agua  que 
llovia,  con  que  se  matavun  algunns  immundiciaa,  que  se  criavun 
en  ellos.  —  ff.  298.  Qnando  alguna  vez  era  tcntado  de  la  gula, 
y  desseava  comer  de  nlgun  manjar,  lomorale  en  lasmanos,  vii- 
ravale,  oliale,  y  despues  que  estava  despierto  el  apctilo,  dezia, 
0  gula,  gula,  quan  dulce  y  suave  le  parcce  este  manjar!  pcro 
no  le  ha  de  entrar  en  provechn  .'  y  entonccs  se  mortifirara,  y  le 
dexava,  y  le  embiava  entero,  o  al  silleri^o,  o  a  los  pohres. 
There  is  a  free  translation  of  this  poem,  by  IJilderdijk,  in  the 
second  volume  of  his  Krekclzangen,  p.  113. 


One  day,  it  matters  not  to  know 

How  many  hundred  years  ago, 

A  Frenchman  stopp'd  at  an  inn  door : 

The  Landlord  came  to  welcome  him,  and  chat 

Of  this  and  that, 

For  he  had  seen  the  Traveller  there  before. 


"  Doth  holy  Romuald  dwell 

Still  in  his  cell.'" 

The  Traveller  ask'd,  "  or  is  the  old  man  dead  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  has  left  his  loving  flock,  and  we 

So  great  a  Christian  never  more  shall  see," 

The  Landlord  answer'd,  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah,  sir,  we  knew  his  worth  I 

If  ever  there  did  live  a  Saint  on  earth  !  — 

Why,  Sir,  he  always  used  to  wear  a  shirt 

For  thirty  days,  all  seasons,  day  and  night: 

Good  man,  he  knew  it  was  not  right 

For  Dust  and  Ashes  to  fall  out  with  Dirt; 

And  then  he  only  hung  it  out  in  the  rain, 

And  put  it  on  again. 

"  There  has  been  perilous  work 

With  him  and  the  Devil  there  in  yonder  cell; 

For  Satan  used  to  maul  him  like  a  Turk. 

There  they  would  sometimes  fio-ht 

All  through  a  winter's  night. 

From  sunset  until  morn. 

He  with  a  cross,  the  Devil  with  his  horn ; 

The  Devil  spitting  fire,  with  might  and  main. 

Enough  to  make  St.  Michael  half  afraid ; 

He  splashing  holy  water  till  he  made 

His  red  hide  hiss  aoain. 

And  the  hot  vapor  filFd  the  smoking  cell. 

This  was  so  common  that  his  face  became 

All  black  and  yellow  with  the  brimstone  flame. 

And  then  he  smelt,  —  O  Lord  I  how  he  did  smell ' 

"Then,  Sir!  to  see  how  he  would  mortify 

The  flesh  !     If  any  one  had  dainty  fare. 

Good  man,  he  would  come  there. 

And  look  at  all  the  delicate  things,  and  cry 

'  O  Belly,  Belly, 
You  would  be  gormandizing  now,  I  know ; 
But  it  shall  not  be  so  !  — 
Home  to  your  bread  and  water  —  home,  I  tell  ye  I  " 

"  But,"  quoth  the  Traveller,  "  wherefore  did  he 

leave 

A  flock  that  knew  his  saintly  worth  so  well .'  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  Landlord,  "  Sir,  it  so  befell 

He  heard  unluckily  of  oui  intent 

To  do  him  a  great  honor ;  and,  you  know. 

He  was  not  covetous  of  fame  below. 

And  so  by  stealth  one  night  away  he  went." 

"What  might  this  honor  be .' "  the  Traveller  cried. 

"  Why,  Sir,"  the  host  replied, 

"  We  thought  perhaps  that   he    might   one   day 

leave  us ; 

And  then  should  strangers  have 

The  good  man's  grave, 

A  loss  like  that  would  naturally  grieve  ue  , 

For  he'll  be  made  a  Saint  of,  to  be  sure. 

Therefore  we  thought  it  prudent  to  secure 

His  relics  while  we  might; 

And  so  we  meant  to  strangle  him  one  nio-ht ' 

Westbunj.  1798. 


45G 


THE    KING    OF    THE    CROCODILES. 


THE 


KING   OF   THE   CROCODILES. 


The  people  at  Fsna,  in  Upper  Egypt,  have  a  superstition  con- 
cerning Crocodiles  similar  to  that  enteitiiined  in  the  West 
Indies  ;  they  say  there  is  a  King  of  them  who  resides  near 
Isn:i,  and  who  has  cars,  but  no  tail  ;  and  he  possesses  an 
uncommon  regal  quality,  that  of  doing  no  harm.  Some 
are  bold  enough  to  assert  that  they  have  seen  him. — 
Brown's  Travels. 

If  the  Crocodile  Dynasty  in  Egypt  had  been  described  as 
distinguished  by  a  long  neck,  as  well  as  the  want  of  a  tail, 
it  might  be  supposed  that  some  tradition  of  the  Ichthyosau- 
rus, or  other  variety  of  the  Pra;adamite  Crocodile,  was  pre- 
served in  those  countries. 

No  one  who  has  perused  filr.  Wateiton's  Wanderings  will 
think  tliere  is  any  thing  more  extraordinary  in  the  woman's 
attack  upon  her  intended  devourcr,  than  in  what  that  enter- 
prising and  most  observant  naturalist  has  himself  performed. 
He  has  ridden  a  Crocodile,  twisting  the  huge  reptile's  fore 
legs  on  his  back  by  main  force,  and  using  them  as  a  bridle, 
"  Should  it  be  asked,"  he  says,  "  how  I  managed  to  keep 
my  seat,  I  would  answer,  I  hunted  some  years  with  Lord 
Darlington's  fox-hounds." 

There  is  a  translation  of  this  ballad  hy  Bilderdijk,  published 
in  his  Krekeliimgcn,  1822,  vol.  ii.  p.  109,  before  the  second 
part  was  written. 


PART    I. 


"  Now,  Woman,  why  without  your  veil  ? 
And  wherefore  do  you  look  so  pale .' 
And,  Woman,  why  do  you  groan  so  sadly. 
And  wherefore  beat  your  bosom  madly.'  " 

"  Oh  !  I  have  lost  my  darling  boy. 

In  whom  my  soul  had  all  its  joy  ; 

And  I  for  sorrow  have  torn  my  veil, 

And  sorrow  hath  made  my  very  heart  pale. 

"  Oh,  I  have  lost  my  darling  child. 
And  that's  the  loss  that  makes  me  wild  ; 
He  stoop'd  to  the  river  down  to  drink. 
And  there  was  a  Crocodile  by  the  brink. 

"  He  did  not  venture  in  to  swim  ; 

He  only  stoop'd  to  drink  at  the  brim ; 

But  under  the  reeds  the  Crocodile  lay. 

And  struck  with  his  tail,  and  swept  him  away. 

"  Now  take  me  in  your  boat,  I  pray. 
For  down  the  river  lies  my  way, 
And  me  to  the  Reed  Island  bring, 
For  I  will  go  to  the  Crocodile  King. 

"  He  reigns  not  now  in  Crocodilople, 
Proud  as  the  Turk  at  Constantinople  ; 
No  ruins  of  his  great  City  remain. 
The  Island  of  Reeds  is  his  whole  domain. 

"  Like  a  Dervise  there  he  passes  his  days. 
Turns  up  his  eyes,  and  fasts  and  prays  ; 
And  being  grown  pious,  and  meek,  and  mild. 
He  now  never  eats  man,  woman,  or  child. 


"  The  King  of  the  Crocodiles  never  does  wrong 
He  has  no  tail,  so  stiff  and  strong; 
He  has  no  tail  to  strike  and  slay. 
But  he  has  ears  to  hear  what  I  say. 

"  And  to  the  King  I  will  complain 
How  my  poor  child  was  wickedly  slain  ; 
The  King  of  the  Crocodiles  he  is  good, 
And  I  shall  liave  the  murderer's  blood." 

The  man  replied,  "  No,  Woman,  no, 
To  the  Island  of  Reeds  I  will  not  go  ; 
I  would  not  for  any  worldly  thing 
See  the  face  of  the  Crocodile  King." 

"  Then  lend  me  now  your  little  boat, 
And  I  will  down  the  river  float. 
I  tell  thee  that  no  worldly  thing 
Shall  keep  me  from  the  Crocodile  King. 

"The  King  of  the  Crocodiles  he  is  good. 
And  therefore  will  give  me  blood  for  blood  ; 
Being  so  mighty  and  so  just. 
He  can  revenge  me ;  he  will,  and  he  must."' 

The  Woman  she  leap'd  into  the  boat. 
And  down  the  river  alone  did  she  float; 
And  fast  with  the  stream  the  boat  proceeds  ; 
And  now  she  is  come  to  the  Island  of  Reeds. 

The  King  of  the  Crocodiles  there  was  seen  ; 
He  sat  upon  the  eggs  of  the  Queen; 
And  all  around,  a  numerous  rout. 
The  young  Prince  Crocodiles  crawl'd  about. 

The  Woman  shook  every  limb  with  fear, 
As  she  to  the  Crocodile  King  came  near ; 
For  never  man  without  fear  and  awe 
The  face  of  his  Crocodile  Majesty  saw. 

She  fell  upon  her  bended  knee. 

And  said,  "  O  King,  have  pity  on  me, 

For  I  have  lost  my  darling  child. 

And  that's  the  loss  that  makes  me  wild. 

"  A  Crocodile  ate  him  for  his  food  ; 
Now  let  me  have  the  murderer's  blood  ; 
Let  me  have  vengeance  for  my  boy. 
The  only  thing  that  can  give  me  joy. 

"  I  know  that  you.  Sire  !  never  do  wrong ; 
You  have  no  tail,  so  stiff"  and  strong, 
You  have  no  tail  to  strike  and  slay, 
But  you  have  ears  to  hear  what  I  say." 

"  You  have  dene  well,"  the  King  replies, 
And  fixed  on  her  his  little  eyes  ; 
"  Good  Woman,  yes,  you  have  done  right, 
But  j'ou  have  not  described  me  quite. 

"  I  have  no  tall  to  strike  and  slay. 
And  I  have  ears  to  hear  what  you  say ; 
I  have  teeth,  moreover,  as  you  may  see, 
And  I  will  make  a  meal  of  thee." 

Bristol,  1799. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  CROCODILES.  — THE  ROSE, 


457 


PART    II. 

Wicked  the  word,  and  bootless  the  boast, 
As  cruel  King  Crocodile  found  to  his  cost; 
And  proper  reward  of  tyrannical  might. 
He  show'd  his  teeth,  but  he  niiss'd  his  bite. 

"  A  meal  of  me  !  "  the  Woman  cried, 
Taking  wit  in  her  anger,  and  courage  beside ; 
She  took  him  his  forelegs  and  hind  between, 
And  trundled  him  off  the  eggs  of  the  Queen. 

To  revenge  herself  then  she  did  not  fail ; 
He  was  slow  in  his  motions  for  want  of  a  tail ; 
But  well  for  the  Woman  was  it,  the  while, 
That  the  Queen  was  gadding  abroad  in  the  Nile. 

Two  Crocodile  Princes,  as  they  play'd  on  tiie  sand, 
She  caught,  and  grasping  them  one  in  each  hand. 
Thrust  the  head  of  one  intotlie  throat  of  the  other, 
And  made  each  Prince  Crocodile  choke  his  brother. 

And  when  she  had  truss'd  three  coitple  this  way. 
She  carried  them  off,  and  hastened  away, 
And  plying  her  oars  with  might  and  main, 
Cross'd  the  river,  and  got  to  the  shore  again. 

When  the  Crocodile  Queen  came  home,  she  found 
That  Jier  eggs  were  broken  and  scattered  around. 
And  that  six  young  Princes,  darlings  all. 
Were  missing,  for  none  of  them  answer'd  her  call. 

Then  many  a  not  very  pleasant  thing 
Pass'd  between  her  and  the  Crocodile  King: 
"  Is  this  your  care  of  the  nest?  "  cried  she. 
"It  comes  of  your  gadding  abroad,"  said  he. 

The  queen  had  the  better  in  this  dispute, 

And  the  Crocodile  King  found  it  best  to  be  mute. 

While  a  terrible  peal  in  his  cars  she  rung. 

For  the  Queen  had  a  tail  as  well  as  a  tongue. 

In  woful  patience  he  let  her  rail. 
Standing  less  in  fear  of  her  tongue  than  her  tail. 
And  knowing  that  all  tlie  words  which  were  spoken 
Could  not  mend  one  of  the  eggs  that  were  broken. 

The  Woman,  meantime,  was  very  well  pleased ; 
She  had  saved  her  life,  and  her  heart  was  eased  ; 
The  justice  she  ask'd  in  vain  for  her  son, 
She  had  taken  herself,  and  six  for  one. 

"  Mash-Allah  !  "  her   neighbors  exclaim'd  in  de- 
light. 
She  gave  them  a  funeral  supper  that  night. 
Where  they  all  agreed  that  revenge  was  sweet. 
And  young  Prince  Crocodiles  delicate  meat. 


THE    ROSE 


inoche  as  a  fayre  Maydon  was  blamed  with  wrong  and 
scluundred,  that  sclie  liadd  dun  fornicacioun,  fur  whiche 
cause  sche  was  domed  to  the  dethe,  nnd  to  be  brent  in  that 
place,  to  the  whiclie  she  was  hidd.  And  as  the  fyre  began 
to  brenne  about  hire,  she  made  her  preyeres  to  cure  Lord, 
that  als  wi.ssely  as  echo  was  not  gylty  of  that  synne,  tliat  he 
wold  help  hire,  and  make  it  to  be  knowen  to  alle  men  of  his 
mercyfulle  grace  :  and  whannc  sclie  had  thus  seyd,  sclie  en- 
tered into  the  fuyer,  and  anon  was  the  fuyer  quenched  and 
oute,  and  the  brondes  that  weren  brcnnyngo  bccomen  white 
Iloscres,  fulle  of  roses,  and  theise  werein  the  fir.^t  Roseres 
and  rose.s,  botli  w  hite  and  rede,  that  every  ony  man  saughe. 
And  thus  was  this  Maiden  saved  by  tlie  grace  of  God. — 
The  Vviage  and  7'iaicaile  of  Sir  John  Maundeville, 


Betnene  the  Cytee  and  the  Chirche  of  Betlilohcm,  ia   the 
fclde  Floridus,  that  is  to  seyne,  the  feldc  florsched.     For  als 

58 


Nav,  Edith  !  spare  the  Rose ;  —  perhaps  it  lives. 

And  feels  the  noontide  sun,  and  drinks  refresh 'd 

The  dews  of  night;  let  not  thy  gentle  hand 

Tear  its  life-strings  asunder,  and  destroy 

The  sense  of  being  !  —  Why  that  infidel  smile  ? 

Come,  I  will  bribe  thee  to  be  merciful; 

And  thou  shalt  have  a  tale  of  other  days, — 

For  I  am  skill'd  in  legendary  lore,  — 

So  thou  wilt  let  it  live.     There  was  a  time 

Ere  this,  the  freshest,  sweetest  flower  that  blooms, 

Bedeck'd  the  bowers  of  earth.    Thou  hast  not  heard 

How  first  by  miracle  its  fragrant  leaves 

Spread  to  the  sun  their  blushing  loveliness. 

There  dwelt  in  Bethlehem  a  Jewish  maid. 
And  Zillah  was  her  name,  so  passing  fair 
That  all  Judea  spake  the  virgin's  praise. 
He  who  had  seen  her  eye's  dark  radiance 
How  it  reveal'd  her  soul,  and  what  a  soul 
Beam'd  in  the  mild  effulgence,  woe  to  him ! 
For  not  in  solitude,  for  not  in  crowds. 
Might  he  escape  remembrance,  nor  avoid 
Her  imaged  form,  which  followed  every  where, 
And  filled  the  heart,  and  fix'd  the  absent  eye. 
Alas  for  him  !  lier  bosom  own'd  no  love 
Save  the  strong  ardor  of  religious  zeal, 
For  Zillah  on  her  God  had  centred  all 
Her  spirit's  deep  aftections.     So  for  her 
Her  tribes-men  sigli'd  in  vain,  yet  reverenced 
The  obdurate  virtue  that  destroy 'd  their  hopes. 

One  man  there  was,  a  vain  and  wretched  man. 
Who  saw,  desired,  despaired,  and  hated  her. 
His  sensual  eye  had  gloated  on  her  cheek 
Even  till  the  flush  of  angry  modesty 
Gave  it  new  charms,  and  made  him  gloat  the  more. 
She  loathed  the  man  ;  for  Hamuel's  eye  was  bold, 
And  the  strong  workings  of  brute  selfishness 
Had  moulded  his  broad  features ;  and  she  fear'd 
The  bitterness  of  wounded  vanity 
That  with  a  fiendish  hue  would  overcast 
His  faint  and  lying  smile.     Nor  vain  her  fear ; 
For  Hamucl  vow'd  revenge,  and  laid  a  plot 
Against  her  virgin  fame.     He  spread  abroad 
Whispers  that  travel  fast,  and  ill  reports 
That  soon  obtain  belief;  how  Zillali's  eye, 
When  in  the  temple  heaven-ward  it  was  raised. 
Did  swim  with  rapturous  zeal,  but  there  were  those 
Who  had  beheld  the  enthusiast's  melting  glance 
With  other  feelings  fill'd  ;  —  that  'twas  a  task 
Of  easy  sort  to  play  the  saint  by  day 
Before  the  public  eye,  but  that  all  eyes 


458 


THE    LOVER'S    ROCK. 


Were  closed  at  night;  —  that  Zillah's  life  was  foul, 
Yea,  forfeit  to  the  law. 

Shame  —  shame  to  man, 
That  he  should  trust  so  easily  the  tongue 
Which  stabs  another's  fame  !     The  ill  report 
Was  heard,  repeated,  and  believed,  and  soon,  — 
For  Hamuel,  by  his  well-schemed  villany, 
Produced  such  semblances  of  guilt,  —  the  Maid 
Was  to  the  fire  condemn'd. 

Without  the  walls, 
There  was  a  barren  field ;  a  place  abhorr'd, 
For  it  was  there  where  wretched  criminals 
Receiv'd  their  death ;  and  there  they  fix'd  the  stake. 
And  piled  the  fuel  round,  which  should  consume 
The  injured  Maid,  abandon'd,  as  it  seem'd. 
By  God  and  Man.     The  assembled  Bethlemites 
Beheld  the  scene,  and  when  they  saw  the  Maid 
Bound  to  the  stake,  with  what  calm  holiness 
She  lifted  up  her  patient  looks  to  Heaven, 
They  doubted  of  her  guilt.     With  other  thoughts 
Stood  Hamuel  near  the  pile  ;  him  savage  joy 
Led  thitherward,  but  now  within  his  heart 
Unwonted  feelings  stirr'd,  and  the  first  pangs 
Of  wakening  guilt,  anticipant  of  Hell. 
The  eye  of  Zillah,  as  it  glanced  around. 
Fell  on  the  slanderer  once,  and  rested  there 
A  moment;  like  a  dagger  did  it  pierce, 
And  struck  into  his  soul  a  cureless  wound. 
Conscience  !  thou  God  witliin  us !  not  in  the  hour 
Of  triumph  dost  thou  spare  the  guilty  wretch ; 
Not  in  the  hour  of  infamy  and  death 
Forsake  the  virtuous  !    They  draw  near  the  stake,  — 
They  bring  the  torch  I — liold,  hold  your  erring 

hands ! 
Yet  quench  the  rising  flames  !  —  they  rise  !  they 

spread ! 
They  reach  the  suffering  Maid !  oh  God  protect 
The  innocent  one ! 

They  rose,  they  spread,  they  raged;  — 
The  breath  of  God  went  forth ;  the  ascending  fire 
Beneath  its  influence  bent,  and  all  its  flames 
In  one  long  lightning-flash  concentrating, 
Darted  and  blasted  Hamuel,  —  him  alone. 
Hark  !  —  what  a  fearful  scream  the  multitude 
Pour  forth  !  —  and  yet  more  miracles  !  the  stake 
Branches  and  buds,  and,  spreading  its  green  leaves. 
Embowers  and  canopies  the  innocent  Maid, 
Who  there  stands  glorified  ;  and  Roses,  then 
First  seen  on  earth  since  Paradise  was  lost, 
Profusely  blossom  round  her,  white  and  red, 
In  all  their  rich  variety  of  hues  ; 
And  fragrance  such  as  our  first  parents  breathed 
In  Eden  she  inhales,  vouchsafed  to  her 
A  presage  sure  of  Paradise  regain'd. 

Weslbury,  1798. 


THE    LOVER'S    ROCK 


De  la  Pena  de  los  Enamorados. 

Un  mogo  Christiana  estava  cmitivo  en  Granada,  sus  partes  y 
diligencia  eran  tales,  su  buen  termino  y  cortesia,  que  su  amo 


hazia  mucha  coiijiunga  del  dentro  y  fuera  de  su  casa.  Una 
hija  suya  al  taulu  sc  le  nficioim  y  puso  en  el  los  ojos.  Pero 
euvw  quier  que  rlla  fucsse  casadera,  y  el  viogo  escluvo,  no  po- 
dian  passar  udetante  coiiio  dcseavan ;  ca  el  amur  rnal  se  puede 
encubrir,  y  temiaii  si  el  padre  dclla,  y  amo  del,  le  sahia,  pagu- 
rian con  las  cabegas.  Aciirdaron  de  huir  a  ticrra  de  Christia- 
nas, rcsolucion  que  al  viogo  venia  mrjor,  par  holver  a  los  suyos, 
que  a  Ma  por  desterrarse  de  su  patria .-  si  ya  no  la  movia  el 
deseo  de  hazersc  Chridtiuna,  lo  que  yo  no  creo.  Tuviaroii  su 
camino  con  tudo  secreto,  hasta  llegar  al  pcnasco  ya  dicho,  en  que 
la  moga  cansada  se  puso  a  reposur.  En  esto  vieron  assomar  a 
su  padre  con  gente  de  atarullo,  que  venia  en  su  seguimiento. 
Que  podian  huzer,  o  a  que\arte  bolverse  7  que  ciinsijo  tornar  7 
mentirosas  las  esperangas  de  los  hombres  y  miserables  sus  inten- 
tos.  Jicudieron  a  lo  que  solo  les  queduva  de  encunibrar  aquel 
penol,  Irepando  por  aquellos  riscos,  que  era  riparo  assuz  flaco. 
El  padre  con  vn  scinblantc  sunuiJo  los  mando  abazar  .-  amena- 
gaca  Icssino  obedecian  de  eiecutar  en  ellos  una  nmcrte  muy  cru- 
el. Los  que  acompariavan  al  padre  los  ainoncstavun  lo  mismo, 
pues  solo  les  restuva  aquella  espcranga  dc  ulangar  pcrdon  de  la 
misericordia  de  su  padre,  con  hazer  lo  que  les  mandava,  y 
echarseles  a  los  pies.  J^o  quUieron  vmir  en  esto.  Los  Moras 
pucstos  a  pic  acometicron  a  subir  el  pehasco  :  pero  el  mogo  les 
defindio  la  subida  con  galgas,  piedrus  y  polos,  y  todo  lo  demas 
que  le  venia  a  la  mano,  y  le  scrvia  de  armas  en  aquella  desespc- 
racion.  El  padre  visto  esto,  hizo  cenir  de  un  pueblo  alii  circa 
vallcsteros  para  que  de  icxos  lus  flrchassen.  Ellos  vista  su 
perdieion,  acordaron  con  su  muerte  librarse  dc  los  dciiucstos  y 
tormentos  mayores  qui  temian.  Laspalabras  que  en  este  trance 
se  diieron,  no  ay  para  que  relaUirlas.  Finalmciite  ahragados 
entresi  fuertemente,  se  echaron  del  penol  abazo,  por  aquella 
parte  en  que  los  m irava  su  cruel  y  sanudo padre.  Deste  manera 
espiraron  antes  de  llegar  a  lo  haxo,  con  lastima  de  los  presentes , 
y  aun  con  lagrivias  de  algunos  que  se  moiiun  con  uquel  triste 
eipectaculo  de  aquellos  inogos  desgraciados,  y  a  pesar  del  padre, 
coTno  estavan,  los  entirraron  en  aquel  misvio  lugar ;  constancia 
que  se  eviplcara  mejor  en  otra  hazaha,  y  les  fuera  bien  cimtada 
la  muerte,  si  la  padecieron  por  la  virtud  y  en  dffensa  de  la  ver- 
dadcra  religion,  y  nopor  satisfacer  a  sus  apetitos  desnfrrnados 

Mariana 


Thk  Maiden,  through  the  favoring  night, 
From  Granada  took  her  flight ; 
She  bade  her  Father's  house  farewell. 
And  fled  away  with  Manuel. 

No  Moorish  maid  might  hope  to  vie 
With  Laila's  cheek  or  Laila's  eye ; 
No  maiden  loved  with  purer  truth, 
Or  ever  loved  a  lovelier  youth. 

In  fear  they  fled,  across  the  plain. 
The  father's  wrath,  the  captive's  chain  ; 
In  hope  to  Seville  on  they  flee, 
To  peace,  and  love,  and  liberty. 

Chiuma  they  have  left,  and  now. 
Beneath  a  precipice's  brow. 
Where  Guadalhorce  winds  its  way, 
There  in  the  shade  awhile  they  lay;  — 

For  now  the  sun  was  near  its  height. 
And  she  was  weary  with  her  flight ; 
She  laid  her  head  on  Manuel's  breast, 
And  pleasant  was  the  maiden's  rest. 

While  thus  the  lovely  Laila  slept, 
A  fearful  watch  young  Manuel  kept. 
Alas  !  her  Father  .and  his  train 
He  sees  come  speeding  o'er  the  plain. 


GARCIFERRANDEZ.                                              459 

The  Maiden  started  from  lier  sleep ; 

He  wedded  the  Lady  Argentine, 

They  sought  for  refuge  up  the  steep ; 

As  ancient  stories  tell ; 

To  scale  tiie  precipice's  brow 

He  loved  the  Lady  Argentine , 

Their  only  hope  of  safety  now. 

Alas  !  for  what  befell ! 

The  Lady  Argentine  hath  fled ; 

But  them  the  angry  Father  sees ; 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

With  voice  and  arm  he  menaces ; 

She  hath  left  the  husband  who  loved  her  well, 

And  now  the  Moors  approach  the  steep  ; 

To  go  to  Count  Aymerique's  bed. 

Loud  are  his  curses,  loud  and  deep. 

2. 

Then  Manuel's  heart  grew  wild  with  woe  ; 

Garci  Ferrandez  was  brave  and  young. 

He  looscn'd  stones  and  roll'd  below  ; 

The  comeliest  of  the  land ; 

He  loosen'd  crags ;  for  Manuel  strove 

There  was  never  a  kniglit  of  Leon  in  fight 

For  life,  and  liberty,  and  love. 

Who  could  meet  the  force  of  his  matchless  might; 

There  was  never  a  foe  in  the  infidel  band 

The  ascent  was  perilous  and  high  ; 

Who  against  his  dreadful  sword  could  stand ; 

The  Moors  they  durst  not  venture  nigh  ; 

And  yet  Count  Garci's  strong  riglit  hand 

The  fugitives  stood  safely  there ; 

Was  shapely,  and  soft,  and  white; 

They  stood  in  safety  and  despair. 

As  wliite  and  as  soft  as  a  lady's  hand 

Was  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  knight. 

The  Moorish  chief  unmoved  could  see 

His  daughter  bend  her  suppliant  knee ; 

3. 

He  heard  his  child  for  pardon  plead, 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

And  swore  the  offenders  both  should  bleed. 

To  Garci's  Hall  did  Count  Aymerique  go; 

In  an  evil  hour  and  a  luckless  night 

He  bade  the  archers  bend  the  bow, 

From  Garci's  Hall  did  he  take  his  flight, 

And  make  the  Christian  fall  below ; 

And  bear  with  him  that  lady  briglit. 

He  bade  the  archers  aim  the  dart, 

That  lady  false,  his  bale  and  bane. 

And  pierce  the  Maid's  apostate  heart. 

There  was  feasting  and  joy  in  Count  Aymerique's 

bower, 

The  archers  aim'd  their  arrows  there  ; 

When  he,  with  triumph,  and  pomp,  and  pride, 

She  clasp'd  young  Manuel  in  despair ; 

Brought  home  the  adulteress  like  a  bride : 

"  Death,  Manuel,  shall  set  us  free  ! 

His  daughter  only  sat  in  her  tower; 

Then  leap  below,  and  die  with  me." 

She  sat  in  her  lonely  tower  alone, 

And  for  her  dead  mother  she  made  her  moan ; 

He  clasp'd  her  close,  and  cried.  Farewell '. 

"  Methinks,"  said  she,  "my  father  for  me 

In  one  another's  arms  tliey  fell ; 

Might  have  brought  a  bridegroom  home. 

And  falling  o'er  the  rock's  steep  side, 

A  stepmother  he  brings  hither  instead  ; 

In  one  another's  arms  they  died. 

Count   Aymerique   will  not  his  daughter  should 

wed, 

But  he  brings  home  a  leman  for  his  own  bed." 

And  side  by  side  they  there  are  laid. 

The  Christian  youth  and  Moorish  maid ; 

So  thoughts  of  good  and  thoughts  of  ill 

But  never  Cross  was  planted  there, 

Were  working  thus  in  Abba's  will; 

Because  they  perish'd  for  despair. 

And  Argentine,  with  evil  intent. 

Ever  to  work  her  woe  was  bent ; 

Yet  every  Moorish  maid  can  tell 

That  still  she  sat  in  her  tower  alone, 

Where  Laila  lies,  who  loved  so  well ; 

And  in  that  melancholy  gloom. 

And  every  youth,  who  passes  there, 

When  for  her  mother  she  made  her  moan. 

Says  for  Manuel's  soul  a  prayer. 

She  wish'd  her  father  too  in  the  tomb. 

IVestbury,  1798. 

4. 

She  watches  the  pilgrims  and  poor  who  wait 
For  daily  food  at  her  father's  gate. 

"I  would  some  Knight  were  there,"  thought  she. 

GARCI    FERRANDEZ. 

"  Disguised  in  pilgrim-weeds  for  me  ! 

For  Aymeriqtie's  blessing  I  would  not  stay. 

Nor  he  nor  his  leman  should  say  me  nay. 

This  story,  wliicli  Inter  historians  liave  taken  some  pains  to 

But  I  with  him  would  wend  away." 

disprove,  may  bv  found  in  the  Coronica  General  de  Espana. 

5. 

She  watches  her  handmaid  the  pittance  deal ; 

PART  1. 

They  took  their  dole  and  went  away  ; 

1. 

But  yonder  is  one  who  lingers  still  ; 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

As  though  he  had  something  in  his  will. 

Did  Garci  Ferrandez  wed ! 

Some  secret  which  he  fain  would  say ; 

460 


GARCI     FERRANDEZ 


And  close  to  the  portal  she  sees  him  go; 

He  talks  with  her  handmaid  in  accents  low ; 

Oh  then  she  thought  that  time  went  slow, 

And  lono-  were  the  minutes  that  she  must  wait 

Till  her  handmaid  came  from  the  castle-gate. 


From  the  castle-gate  her  handmilid  came, 

And  told  her  that  a  Kniglit  was  there, 

Who  sought  to  speak  with  Abba  the  fair, 

Count  Aymerique's  beautiful  daughter  and  heir. 

She  bade  the  stranger  to  her  bower  ; 

His  stature  was  tall,  his  features  bold  ; 

A  goodlier  form  might  never  maid 

At  tilt  or  tourney  hope  to  see  ; 

And  though  in  pilgrim-weeds  arrayed, 

Yet  noble  in  his  weeds  was  he. 

And  did  his  arms  in  them  enfold 

As  they  were  robes  of  royalty. 

7. 

He  told  his  name  to  the  high-born  fair ; 

He  said  that  vengeance  led  him  there. 

"  Now  aid  me,  lady  dear,"  quoth  he, 

"  To  smite  the  adulteress  in  her  pride  ; 

Your  wrongs  and  mine  avenged  shall  be. 

And  I  will  take  you  for  my  bride." 

He  pledged  the  word  of  a  true  Knight ; 

From  out  the  weeds  his  hand  he  drew; 

She  took  the  hand  that  Garci  gave. 

And  then  she  knew  his  tale  was  true, 

For  she  saw  the  warrior's  hand  so  white. 

And  she  knew  the  fame  of  the  beautiful  Knight. 


PART    H. 


1. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  noon ; 

The  bell  of  the  convent  hath  done, 

And  the  Sexts  are  begun ; 

The  Count  and  his  leman  are  gone  to  their  meat. 

They  look  to  their  pages,  and  lo  they  see 

Where  Abba,  a  stranger  so  long  before, 

The  ewer,  and  basin,  and  napkin  bore  ; 

She  came  and  knelt  on  her  bended  knee. 

And  first  to  her  father  minister'd  she : 

Count  Aymerique  look'd  on  his  daughter  down ; 

He  look'd  on  her  then  without  a  frown. 

2. 

And  next  to  the  Lady  Argentine 

Humbly  she  went  and  knelt; 
The  Lady  Argentine  the  while 

A  haughty  wonder  felt ; 

Her  face  put  on  an  evil  smile  ; 

"  1  little  thought  that  I  should  see 

The  Lady  Abba  kneel  to  me 

In  service  of  love  and  courtesy  ! 

Count  Aymerique,"  the  leman  cried, 

"  Is  she  weary  of  her  solitude. 

Or  hath  she  quell'd  her  pride  ?  " 

Abba  no  angry  word  replied  ; 

She  only  raised  her  eyes,  and  cried. 


"  Let  not  the  Lady  Argentine 

Be  wroth  at  ministry  of  mine  !  " 

She  look'd  at  Aymerique,  and  sigh'd  ; 

"  My  father  will  not  frown,  I  ween. 

That  Abba  again  at  his  board  should  be  seen  ! 

Then  Aymerique  raised  her  from  her  knee. 

And  kiss'd  her  eyes,  and  bade  her  be 

The  daughter  she  was  wont  to  be. 

3. 

The  wine  hath  warm'd  Count  Aymerique ; 

That  mood  his  crafty  daughter  knew  ; 

She  came  and  kiss'd  her  father's  cheek. 

And  stroked  his  beard  with  gentle  hand, 

And  winning  eye  and  action  bland. 

As  she  in  childhood  used  to  do. 

"A  boon  !  Count  Aymerique,"  quoth  she; 

"  If  I  have  found  favor  in  thy  sight. 

Let  me  sleep  at  my  father's  feet  to-night. 

Grant  this,"  quoth  she,  "  so  I  shall  see 

That  you  will  let  your  Abba  be 

The  daughter  she  was  wont  to  be." 

With  asking  eye  did  Abba  speak  ; 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet ; 

The  wine  had  warm'd  Count  Aymerique, 

And  when  the  hour  of  rest  was  come. 

She  lay  at  her  father's  feet. 


In  Aymerique's  arms  the  adulteress  laj- ; 

Their  talk  was  of  the  distant  day. 

How  they  from  Garci  fled  away 

In  the  silent  hour  of  night; 

And  then  amid  their  wanton  play 

They  mock'd  the  beautiful  Knight 

Far,  far  away  his  castle  lay, 

The  weary  road  of  many  a  day ; 

"And  travel  long,"  they  said,  "  to  him. 

It  seem'd,  was  small  delight ; 

And  he  belike  was  loath  with  blood 

To  stain  his  hands  so  white." 

They  little  thought  that  Garci  then 

Heard  every  scornful  word  ! 

They  little  thought  the  avenging  hand 

Was  on  the  avenging  sword  ! 

Fearless,  unpenitent,  unblest. 

Without  a  prayer  they  sunk  to  rest, 

The  adulterer  on  the  leman's  breast. 


Then  Abba,  listening  still  in  fear. 

To  hear  the  breathing  long  and  slow. 

At  length  the  appointed  signal  gave. 

And  Garci  rose  and  struck  the  blow. 

One  blow  sufficed  for  Aymerique, — 

He  made  no  moan,  he  uttcr'd  no  groan ; 

But  his  death-start  waken'd  Argentine, 

And  by  the  chamber  lamp  she  saw 

The  bloody  falchion  shine  ! 

She  raised  for  help  her  in-drawn  breath  ; 

But  her  shriek  of  fear  was  her  shriek  of  death. 

6. 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

Did  Garci  Ferrandez  wed ! 


KING    RAMIRO. 


461 


One  wicked  wife  he  has  sent  to  her  grave ; 
He  liath  taken  a  worse  to  his  bed. 

Bnstol,  1801 


KING    RAMIRO 


The  rcniarkal)lo  story  here  versified  is  thus  rcliited  in  the 
J^obiUario  ilc  I).  Pedro,  Conde  de  I!racelos,son  of  D.Diniz, 
king  of  Portugal,  a  singularly  valuuhle  and  curious  work, 
published  by  the  Coronista  Mayor  of  that  kingdom,  Juan 
JJautista  Ijavana,  at  Rome,  in  1G40.  KingD.  Diniz  reigned 
from  1279  to  1323. 

El  Rcy  D.  Raniiro  o  seirundo  de  Leom,  ouviofalur  da  fermosura 
e  bundadc  dr  huma  Moura  ;  e  como  era  de  altu  sangue  irma  de 
Mboazar  ^Ibucadam,  JUha  de  D.  Zadam  Zada,  bUneta  del  Rcy 
Aboalli,  0  <jue  cotiqurreo  a  terra  tto  temim  dil  Rty  Rudrigo,  Este 
Alboazar  era  Senhor  dn  toda  a  terra  de^dr  Gaya  aid  Sanlarem ; 
e  ouvemuytas  batalhas  com  ChristaO",  cslrcmadameiite  com  este 
Rey  Ramiro  ;  e  cl  Rey  Ramiro  fez  com  cite  grandes  amizudes 
par  cobrar  aquclla  Moura,  ijue  cl  viiiyto  amova  ;  c  fez  cmfnta 
que  0  amava  viuytn  :  emanduulhe  dizer  que  o  queria  ver,  pcrrse 
aver  de  conheccr  com  elle  por  as  a:!nza(les  serem  maisfrmes  ;  e 
Mboaiar  mandoulhe  dizer  que  Ihe  jtrazia  diilo,  e  que  fosse  a 
Oaya,  c  hi  sc  vcria  com  el.  E  el  Rcy  Ramiro  foyse  Id  emtres 
gales  comfidalrros,  e  indiolhe  aquclla  Muura  que  Iha  dcsse,  e 
falaia  Christam,  c  cuzaria  com  ella  ;  e  Jitboazur  Ike  rcspondeo, 
ta  tens  molher,  e  Jillios  dclla,  e  ts  Ckristao  ;  como  podcs  tu 
casar  duos  vcies  ?  E  el  Ike  dijce,  ca  vcrdade  era,  mas  elle  era 
tarn  parente  da  Rainha  D.  Jildonza  sua  mother,  ca  a  santa 
Igrcja  OS  parliria.  E  Albouzar  juroulhc  por  sa  ley  de  Mafa- 
mede,  ca  Iha  nom  daria  por  todo  o  reyno  que  elle  avia,  que  a 
tenha  desposada  com  el  Rey  de  Mirrocos. 

Este  Rey  D.  Ramiro  trazia  hum  grandc  Astrologo  que  avia  nomc 
*^mad  ;  e  por  sds  artcs  tiroua  kuma  noyte  donde  esiava,  e  levoua 
ds  gales  que  hi  estaram  prestos,  c  eutrou  Rcy  Rumiro  com  a 
Moura  em  huma  gale,  A  esto  chegou  Alboazar,  e  allifoij  con- 
tenda  grande  entre  tiles ;  e  despay-ccrrom  hi  dos  de  Rcy  Rumiro 
vinte  dous  dos  boms  que  hi  levnca,  e  da  ouira  compahna  muyta  : 
e  el  Icvou  d  Moura  a  Minhor,  c  de  ahi  a  I.com,  e  bautizoua, 
e  poslhe  nomc  Ortiga,  que  queria  tanlo  dizir  cm  aquel  tevtpo, 
como  casiigada  c  ensiuada,  e  comprida  de  todos  os  bens. 

Alboazar  tenesc  por  mul  viltado  dest'i,  e  pensou  em  como  poderia 
vingar  tal  deshonra,  e  ouriofalar  cm  como  a  Rainha  D,  Aldunga, 
molher  del  Rey  Ramiro  cstava  em  Miuht.r.  Postou  sds  naos  e 
outras  velas,  o  melhor  quepode,  e  mais  encuherto  ;  e  foy  a  quelle 
lugar  de  Minhor,  e  entrou  a  villa,  rfilhou  a  Rainha  I).  Aldonga, 
e  meteoa  nas  naos  com  donas  e  donzcllas  que  ae.hou,  e  (Ins  outras 
companhas  mmjlas,  vcyosc  a  o  Castellu  de  Oaya,  que  era  em  a 
quelle  tempo  de  grandes  edificios  e  nobres  pagos. 

A  el  Rey  Ramiro  contarom  este  feyto,  c  foy  em  tamanha  tristna 
que  foy  louco  Ims  doze  dias  :  e  como  cobrou  sea  cntcndimento 
mandou  por  seu  filho  o  Infante  D.  Ordonho,  e  por  algus  seus 
vassallos  que  entendeo  que  eraO  para  gruo  feyto,  e  meteose  com 
elles  em  cinco  gales,  ca  nom  pode  mais  aver,  e  nom  quiz  Icvar 
galeoles  se  nom  uquelles  que  entendeo  que  podcriom  rcger  as 
gales,  e  mandnu  a  osfidalgos  que  remassem  em  lugar  de  gale- 
otes  ',  e  esto  fez  elle  porque  as  gales  erom  2>oucas,  e  por  irem 
mais  fidalgos,  e  as  gales  irem  mais  aparadas  para  aquel  mester 
para  que  ia  ;  e  el  cubrio  as  galds  de  pano  rrrde,  e  entrou  com 
ellcui  por  Sam  Joao  dc  Furudo,  que  agora  chamaO  Sam  Joane 
de  Foz.  Aquel  lugar  de  huma  parte  e  outra  era  a  ribeyra  cu- 
berta  de  arbores,  e  as  gales  encostouas  so  as  ramos  dellas  ;  e 
porque  era5  cubcrtas  de  pano  vcrdr,  nom  pareciaS.  El  deceo 
de  noyte  a  terra  com  todos  os  sens,  e  falou  com  o  Infante,  que 
te  deytassem  so  as  arbores  o  mais  encubrrto  que  fazer  podcssem, 
e  por  nenhuma  guiza  nom  se  abulasscm,  uti  que  ouvisscvi  a 
voi  de  seu  como,  e  ouvindoo  que  Ihe  acorressevt  a  grao  pressa. 
El  ves-tiose  em  panos  de  tacanho,  e  sua  cspada,  e  seu  lorigo  e  o 
como  so  hi ;  e  foyse  deytar  a  huma  fnnte  que  estava  so  o  cas- 
tello  de  Oaya.  E  estofazia  Rcy  Ramiro  por  ver  a  Rainha  sa 
molher,  para  aver  conselho  com  tlla,  como  poderia  mais  cum- 
pridamcnte  aver  direyto  de  Alboaiar,  e  de  todos  seusflhos,  e  de 


toda  sa  companha  ,'  ca  tinha  que  pello  consclho  delta  cobraria 
todo,  ca  cometendo  este  feyto  em  outra  maneyra,  poderia  esca- 
par  Alboazar  e  senis  fithos :  e  porque  el  era  de  graO  corago, 
punha  em  esta  guiia  seu  feyto  em  grao  venlura ;  mas  as  cousas 
que  saO  ordcnadas  de  Dcos,  vem  a  aquelto  que  a  elle  aprai,  e 
nom  assim  como  os  homes  pensao. 

Acontecco  assi,  que  Alboaiar  Atbucadau  fora  a  correr  monte  con- 
tra Alafuns,  c  huma  sergenlc  que  avia  nome  Perona,  natural  de 
Franga,  que  aviuo  levado  com  a  Rainha  servia  ante  ella :  le- 
vantouse  pella  manha,  assi  como  avia  de  costume  de  the  ir  por 
agoa  para  as  muos  a  aquclla  fonte,  e  achou  hi  jazer  Rey 
Ramiro,  e  nom  o  cvnheceo.  El  pediollie  na  Araria  da  agoa  por 
Deos,  ca  se  nom  podia  de  alii  lerantar ;  c  ella  deolha  por  huma 
aceler  ;  e  el  meteo  hum  camafeo  na  boea,  e  aquel  camiifco  avia 
partido  com  sa  molher  a  Rainha  por  a  metade ;  e  el  deose  a 
bever,  e  deytou  o  camafeo  no  aceter.  E  a  sergentr  foyse,  e  deo 
agoa.  d  Rainha,  e  ella  i^io  o  camafeo,  e  recvnheceo  logo,  e  a 
Rainha  pcrgunton,  qiinn  achara  no  caminho  ?  c  ella  rcspondeo, 
que  nom  achara  ningucm ;  e  ella  the  dixe  que  mcntia,  e  que  o 
nom  negasse,  e  que  llie  faria  bem  e  merce  ;  e  a  scrgrnte  lite  dixe, 
que  achara  hi  hum  Monro  domite  e  lazcrado,  e  Vie  pedira  agoa 
que  behessc  por  Dcos,  e  que  Ilia  dera ;  e  a  Rainha  dixe  que  the 
fosse  por  elle,  e  o  trouxesse  enciibcrlamente.  E  a  srrgente 
foy  Id,  e  dixethe,  homem  pobre,  a  Rainha  iiiinha  scniwra  vos 
manda  cliamar,  e  esto  he  por  vosso  bem,  rd  ella  mandara  prnsar 
de  vos.  F.  Rey  Ramiro  rcspondeo  so  si,  assi  o  mande  Deos. 
Foijse  com  ella,  e  cntrarom  pella  porta  da  camara,  c  conlteceo  a 
Rainha,  e  dixethe,  Rey  Ramiro  que  tc  aduce  aqui  1  e  el  the 
rcspondeo,  o  vosso  amor.  E  ella  the  dixe,  vesle  morto  .-  e  el  the 
dixe,  pequcna  maravitha,  pais  ofago  por  vo.^sso  amor.  E  ella 
respondeo,  nom  me  ha^  tu  amor,  pois  dc  aqui  Icvastc  Ortiga,  que 
mais  prezos  que  a  mi ;  mas  vaytc  hnra  piira  essa  trascamara, 
e  cscusnrmeey  destas  donas  e  donzcllas,  c  irmeey  logo  para  ti.  A 
camara  era  dc  aboheda,  e  como  Rey  Ramiro  foy  dentro,fechou 
ella  a  porta  com  grande  cadcado.  E  elle  jazendo  na  camara, 
chegou  Alboazar,  e  foyse  para  sd  camara ;  c  a  Rainha  the 
dixe,  se  tu,  aqui  tivcssrs  Rcy  Ramiro,  que  the  farias  f  O 
Moura  rcspondeo,  o  que  faria  a  mim ;  matiito  com  grandes 
tormentos.  E  Rey  Ramiro  ouvia  tudo,  e  a  Rainlia  dixe,  Pois 
setihor,  aprestcs  o  tens ;  cd  aqui  esta  fechado  cm  esta  trasca- 
mara, ca  ora  te  podes  delta  vingar  a  tua  vontade. 

Rey  Ramiro  entendeo  que  era  enganado  por  sd  molher,  queja 
de  alii  nom  podia  escapar  se  nom  pur  arte  alg^ima  ;  e  maginou 
que  era  tempo  de  se  ajudar  de  seu  saber,  e  dice  a  grao  alta  vor, 
Alboazar  Albucadam,  sabe  queen,  te  errey  mat ;  mostrandote 
amizade,levy  dcsta  caza  td  irma,  que  nom  era  de  miiilia  ley ; 
e  me  confessey  este  pecado  a  men  Abode  ;  e  cl  me  deo  cm  pcn- 
denga,  que  me  vecssc  meter  em  tcu  podcr  o  7nais  rilmente  que 
pudesse  ;  e  se  me  tu  malar  quizesses,  que  te  pedisse  que,  como 
eufizera  tarn  grande  pecado  ante  a  td  pessoa,  e  ante  os  teas, 
emjilhar  ta  irma,  mostrandote  bom  amor,  que  hem  assi  me  desses 
morte  em  proga  vergonhosa  ;  c  por  qnanto  a  pecado  que  eufiz, 
foy  em  grandes  terras  soudo,  que  bem  assi  fosse  a  miiiha  morte 
soada  por  hum  como,  e  mostrada  a  todos  os  teas.  E  hora  te 
pego  pois  de  morrer  ey,  que  fagas  chamar  teusfilhos  efUhas,  e 
teus  parentrs,  e  as  genlcs  dcsta  villa,  c  mefugas  ir  a  este  curral 
que  he  de  grande  ouvida,  erne  ponlias  em  lugar  alto,  e  me  Icyxes 
tangcr  mcu  como,  que  trago  para  c.-to,  a  tanto,  aid  que  me  saya 
ofolgo  e  a  alma  do  corpo.  Em  estajilharas  venganga  de  mi,  e 
teusfilhos  e  parentcs  averao  prazer,  e  a  vtinha  alma  serd  salva. 
Esto  me  nom  dcvcs  de  negar  por  salvamento  de  minha  alma ; 
que  sabes  que  por  td  ley  dcves  sulvar  se  poderes  as  almas  de 
todas  as  leys. 

E  esto  dezia  el,  por  fazer  I'ir  alii  todos  seus  fithos  e  parentcs,  por 
se  vingar  delles  ;  ea  em  outra  guiza  nom  os  poderia  achar  em 
hum  ;  e  pore/ue  o  curral  era  alto  de  muros,  e  nom  aria  mais  que 
kuma  porta  por  hu  os  seus  aviao  de  cntrar.  Alboazar  pensou 
no  que  the  pediu,  efilhou  delle  lastimn,  e  dixe  contra  a  Rainha, 
Este  homem  rependido  he  dc  seu  peciulo  ;  mais  ey  cu  errado  a 
elle  cd  elle  d  mi :  grao  torto  faria  de  o  matar,  pois  se  poc  cm 
meu  podcr.  A  Rainha  respondeolhe,  Alboazar,  fracn  de  cnrago, 
eu  sey  quern  he  Rey  Raniiro  ;  e  sey  de  certo,  se  o  salvas  de 
morte,  que  the  nom  podes  escapar  que  a  nom  prendas  act ;  ca  el 
he  arteyroso  a  vingador,  assi  como  tu  sabcs.  E  nom  ouviste  tu 
dizer,  como  cl  tirou  os  olhos  a  D.  Ordonho  seu  irmaS  que  era 
mor  de  dins,  por  o  deserdar  do  Reyno  ?  e  nom  tc  acordas  quan- 
tas  tides  ouveste  com  elle,  e  te  vcncco  ;  e  te  matou  e  cativou 
muytos  bans  ?  e  ja  te  esqueeeo  a  forga  que  te  fez  de  te  irmO  ? 
e  em  como  eu  era  sd  mother,  me  trouzeste,  que  he  a  mdr  des 


462 


KING    RAMIRO, 


konra  que  os  ChristaOs  podim  aver  ?  JVom  es  para  vivcr,  nem 
es  para  nuda,  se  te  nam  vingas.  K  se  o  tu  nam  faies  par  tua 
alma,  porque  assi  a  satva.^,  purque  he  lumicm  tie  outra  ley,  e 
em  cuntrario  da  tua;  e  tu  dullie  a  morte  que  te  pede,  poisja 
vem  aconselkado  de  seu  Made  ;  ca  grao  pecado  faria^,  se  Ilia 
partisses. 
Mboaiar  olhou  0  dizer  da  Rainha,  e  dixe  em  seu  coragom,  de  md 
Ventura  he  o  homem  que  se  Jia  de  nr.nhua  mother :  esta  he  sd 
mother  tidima,  e  tern  Infantes  e  Infantas  del,  e  qucr  sd  morte 
deshonrada  ;  eii  nom  eij  porque  delta  fie  ;  eu  atongahiey  de  mi. 
Epensou  em  o  que  the  dciia  a  Rainha,  em  anno  Rnj  Ramiro 
era  arletjroso  e  vingador  ;  e  receousc  delle,  se  o  nom  matasse ; 
e  mandou  chamar  todos  os  que  ermn  naquelle  tiigur,  e  dice  a 
Reij  Ramiro,  Tu  vieste  aqui  e  fzcste  gram  lucura,  que  nos 
teus  pagus  puderas  flhar  pendenga  ;  e  porque  seij  se  me  tu 
tivesses  em  tea  poder,  nom  escaparia  da  morte,  eu  te  quero 
cumprir  o  que  me  pidcs  pur  salvamento  de  tua  alma. 

Mandouo  tirar  da  camnra,  e  levouo  a  o  currat,  e  potto  sobre  lium 
gram  padrao  que  hi  estava,  e  mandou  que  taiijesse  seu  como  d 
tanlo  atd  que  llie  saissro  fotgo.  E  el  Rey  Ramiro  the  pedio 
que  fiiesse  hi  e^tar  a  Rainha,  e  as  donas  e  dunzellas,  €  todos 
seusjilhos,  e  parentes  e  cidadaos  naquel  currat,  e  Mboaiar 
feico  assi. 

El  Rey  Ramiro  tangeo  sea  como  a  todo  seu  poder,  para  ouvir- 
em  OS  sens,  e  o  Infante  D.  Ordonho  sai  filho  quando  ouvio  o 
eorno,  acorreolhe  com  todos  sous  vassaltos,  e  meteromse  pelta 
porta  do  currat ;  e  Rey  Ramiro  drceose  do  padrao  donde  estava, 
e  veyo  contra  o  Infante,  e  dixe  .-  Miu  fitho,  vossa  wadrc  nom 
moura,  nem  as  donas  c  doniellus  que  com  ctfa  vicrao  ;  e  guar- 
daya  de  cajoyn,  que  outra  riwrte  merecc,  Mti  tirou  a  espada 
da  bainha,  e  dco  com  ella  a  Mboaiar  por  cima  da  cabcga,  que 
0  fendeo  atd  os  pcytos.  Jitli  morcrao  quatro  filhos  e  tres 
fillias  de  Mboazar  Mtbucadao  ;  e  todos  os  Mouros  e  Mouras 
que  estavad  no  curral  .-  e  nomjicou  em  essa  vitta  de  Oaya  pe- 
dra  com  pedra,  que  toda  nom  fosse  em  terra,  Filhon  el  Rey 
Ramiro  sd  mother  com  sds  donas  e  dometlas  que  estavad  com 
etla,  e  quanta  aver  aclwu,  e  mcteo  nas  gales  ;  e  dcspois  que  este 
ouve  acahado,  chamou  o  Infante  seu  filho,  e  os  seus  fidatgos,  e 
contoulhes  tudo,  como  tlie  aviera  com  a  Rainha  sd  mother,  e 
elle  que  the  dera  ajuda  parafazer  delta  mats  crua  justiga  na  sd 
terra.  Esto  ouverom  todos  por  estranho  de  tamanha  maldade 
de  mother  ;  e  o  Infante  D.  Ordonho  sairaHllte  as  lagrimas  polos 
olhos,  e  dixe  contra  seti  padre,  Scnhor  a  mi  nom  cabe  defatar 
em  esto,  porque  lie  mi  madre ;  se  nom  tanto,  que  otheis  par 
vossa  liunra. 

E  entrarom  entom  nas  gales,  e  chegarom  d  foz  de  Ancora,  e 
amarrarao  as  galis  parafolgarem,  porque  aviad  muyto  trabal- 
hado  aquelles  dias  .•  alti  forum  dizer  a  el  Rey  que  a  Rainha  seia 
chorando  ;  e  el  Rey  dixe,  Vamota  vcr.  Foy  Id,  e  perguntuulhe 
porque  ckorava  ?  E  ella  respondeo,  Porque  mataste  aquclle 
Monro,  que  era  methor  que  ti.  0  Infante  dixe  contra  seu  pa- 
dre, Isto  he  demonio  ;  que  quereis  detlal  quepude  scr  que  vos 
fugira.  E  el  Rey  mandoua  entad  amarrar  a  huma  mo,  e lanca- 
la  no  mar,  e  desaquetle  tempo  Ike  chamarom  Foz  de  .^ncora.  Por 
este  pecado  que  dixe  o  Infante  D.  Ordonho  contra  sd  madre,  die- 
erom  despois  as  geiites  que  por  cssofora  deserdado  dos  povos 
de  Castetla.  Rey  Ramiro  fuyse  a  Lead,  e  fez  sds  cortes  muy 
ricas,  efalou  com  os  seus  de  sds  terras,  e  mostroulhes  a  mat 
dade  da  Rainha  Jltdonga  sa  mother :  que  ette  avia  por  bem  de 
catar  com  D.  Ortiga,  que  era  dc  alto  linkage  :  e  cites  todos  a 
huma  voz  o  louvarom,  e  ouviromno  por  bem.  Ette  foy  da  boa 
vida,  e  fez  0  Mostcyro  de  S.  Jutiao,  e  outros  kospitaes  muytos ; 
e  OS  que  delta  decenderon  forom  muyto  cumplidos.  —  Ff.  11] 
— IIG. 

A  characteristic  circumstance  in  tlie  poem  is  added  from  the 
Livro  yelhodes  Linkagens,  a  work  of  Iho  thirteenth  century, 
printed  among  tlie  Provas  da  liistoria  Ocnculogica  da  Casa 
Real  Portugueza,  t.  1.     It  is  related  there  in  these  words  :  — 

E  0  Mouro  the  d'lsse,  viestes  a  morrer ;  mas  querote  perguntar, 
que  se  me  tiveces  em  Mier,  que  morte  me  darias  ?  El  Rey  Ra- 
miro era  muito  faminto,  e  rcspondeolke  assim,  eu  te  doria  kum 
capaS  assado,  e  huma  regueifa,  afariate  tudo  comer,  e  dartehia 
em  sima  en  sa  eapa  chea  de  vinko  que  bebesse.  —  Provas,  T. 
1,  p.  213. 

1. 
Green  grow  the  alder-trees,  and  close 
To  the  water-side  by  St.  Joam  da  Foz. 


From  the  castle  of  Gaya  the  Warden  sees 

The  water  and  the  alder-trees ; 

And  only  these  the  Warden  sees  ; 

No  danger  near  doth  Gaya  fear ; 

No  danger  nigh  doth  the  Warden  spy ; 

He  sees  not  where  the  galleys  lie 

Under  the  alders  silently ; 

For  the  galleys  with  green  are  cover'd  o'er , 

They  have  crept  by  night  along  the  shore  ; 

And  they  lie  at  anchor,  now  it  is  morn, 

Awaiting  the  sound  of  Ramiro's  horn. 


In  traveller's  weeds  Ramiro  sate 

By  the  fountain  at  the  castle-gate  ; 

But  under  the  weeds  was  his  breastplate, 

And  the  sword  he  had  tried  in  so  many  fights, 

And  the  horn  whose  sound  would  ring  around, 

And  be  known  so  weli  by  his  knights. 

3. 

From  the  gate  Aldonza's  damsel  came 

To  fill  her  pitcher  at  the  spring, 

And  she  saw,  but  she  knew  not,  her  master  tlie 

King. 

In  the  Moorish  tongue  Ramiro  spake. 

And  begg'd  a  draught  for  mercy's  sake. 

That  he  his  burning  thirst  might  slake ; 

For,  worn  by  a  long  malady, 

Not  strength  enow,  he  said,  had  he 

To  lift  it  from  the  spring. 


She  gave  her  pitcher  to  the  King, 

And  from  his  mouth  he  dropp'd  a  ring 

Which  he  had  with  Aldonza  broken; 

So  in  the  water  from  the  spring 

Queen  Aldonza  found  the  token. 

With  that  she  bade  her  damsel  bring 

Secretly  the  stranger  in. 


"  What  brings  thee  hither,  Ramiro  ? "  she  cried  ; 

"The  love  of  you,"  the  King  replied. 

"  Nay  !  nay  !  it  is  not  so !  "  quoth  she  ; 

"  Ramiro,  say  not  this  to  me  ! 

I  know  your  Moorish  concubine 

Hath  now  the  love  which  once  was  mine. 

If  you  had  loved  me  as  you  say, 

You  would  never  have  stolen  Ortiga  away  ; 

If  you  had  never  loved  another, 

I  had  not  been  here  in  Gaya  to-day 

The  wife  of  Ortiga's  brother  ! 

But  hide  thee  here,  —  a  step  I  hear, 

King  Alboazar  draweth  near." 

6. 

In  her  alcove  she  bade  him  hide : 

"King  Alboazar,  my  lord,"  she  cried, 

"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  if  at  this  hour 

King  Ramiro  were  in  thy  power.'  " 

"This  I  would  do,"  the  Moor  replied  ; 

"  I  would  hew  him  limb  from  limb  ; 

As  he,  I  know,  would  deal  by  me, 

So  I  would  deal  by  him." 


KING    RAMIRO. 


463 


"Alboazar!  "  Queen  Aldonza  said, 
"Lo!  Jiere  I  give  him  to  thy  will; 

.11  yon  alcove  thou  hast  thy  foe. 

Now  thy  vengeance  then  fulfil  I  " 


^ith  that  up  spake  the  Christian  king  : 

"  O  Alboazar,  deal  by  me 

\s  I  would  surely  deal  with  thee, 

1{  I  were  you,  and  you  were  me  ! 

Like  a  friend  you  guested  me  many  a  day ; 

Like  a  foe  I  stole  your  sister  away  : 

The  sin  was  great,  and  I  felt  its  weight, 

All  joy  by  day  the  thought  oppress'd, 

And  all  night  long  it  troubled  my  rest ; 

Till  I  could  not  bear  the  burden  of  care. 

But  told  my  Confessor  in  despair. 

And  he,  my  sinful  soul  to  save, 

This  penance  for  atonement  gave; 

That  I  before  you  should  appear. 

And  yield  myself  your  prisoner  here, 

If  my  repentance  was  sincere. 

That  I  might  by  a  public  death 

Breathe  shamefully  out  my  latest  breath. 

8. 

"  King  Alboazar,  this  I  would  do, 

If  you  were  I,  and  I  were  you ; 

That  no  one  should  say  you  were  meanly  fed, 

I  would  give  you  a  roasted  capon  first, 

And  a  good  ring  loaf  of  whcaten  bread. 

And  a  skinful  of  wine  to  quench  your  thirst; 

And  after  that  I  would  grant  you  the  thino- 

Which  you  came  to  me  petitioning. 

Now  this,  O  King,  is  what  I  crave. 

That  I  my  sinful  soul  may  save  : 

Let  me  be  led  to  your  bull-ring, 

And  call  your  sons  and  daughters  all, 

And  assemble  the  people,  both  great  and  small, 

And  let  me  be  set  upon  a  stone. 

That  by  all  the  multitude  I  may  be  known, 

And  bid  me  then  this  horn  to  blow, 

And  I  will  blow  a  blast  so  strong. 

And  wind  the  horn  so  loud  and  lomr, 

Tliat  the  breath  in  my  body  at  last  shall  be  gone, 

And  I  shall  drop  dead  in  sight  of  the  throng. 
Thus  your  revenge,  O  King,  will  be  brave. 
Granting  the  boon  which  I  come  to  crave. 
And  the  people  a  holyday  sight  will  liave. 

And  I  my  precious  soul  shall  save ; 

For  this  is  the  i)enance  my  Coi>f('ssor  gave. 

King  Alboazar,  this  I  would  do, 

If  you  were  I.  and  I  were  you." 

9. 

"This  man  repents  his  sin,  be  sure  !  " 

To  Queen  Aldonza  said  the  Moor; 

"  He  hath  stolen  my  sister  away  from  me ; 

I  have  taken  from  him  his  wife  ; 

Shame  then  would  it  be,  when  he  comes  to  me, 

And  I  his  true  repentance  see. 

If  1  for  vengeance  should  take  his  life." 

10. 
"O  Alboazar!  "  then  quoth  she, 
"  Weak  of  heart  as  weak  can  be  I 


Full  of  revenge  and  wiles  is  he. 

Look  at  those  eyes  beneath  that  brow; 

I  know  Ilamiro  better  than  thou  ! 

Kill  iiim,  for  thou  hast  him  now; 

He  must  die,  be  sure,  or  thou. 

Hast  thou  not  heard  the  history 

How,  to  the  throne  that  he  might  rise. 

He  pluck'd  out  his  brother  Ordono's  eyes.' 

And  dost  not  remember  his  prowess  in  fight. 

How  often  he  met  thee  and  put  thee  to  flight. 

And  plunder'd  thy  country  for  many  a  day  .' 

And  how  many  Moors  he  has  slain  in  the  strife. 

And  how  many  more  carried  cajjtives  away  ? 

How  he  came  to  show  friendship  —  and  thou  didst 

believe  him .' 

How  he    ravish'd  thy  sister  —  and  wouldst  thou 

forgive  him  ? 

And  hast  thou  forgotten  that  I  am  his  wife. 

And  that  now  by  thy  side  I  lie  like  a  bride, 

The  worst  shame  that  can  ever  a  Christian  betide' 

And  cruel  it  were,  when  you  see  his  despair. 

If  vainly  you  thought  in  compassion  to  spare, 

And  refused  him  the   boon  he  comes  hither  to 

crave. 

For  no  other  way  his  poor  soul  can  he  save, 

Than  by  doing  the  penance  his  Confessor  gave." 

11. 

As  Queen  Aldonza  thus  replies, 

The  Moor  upon  her  fixed  his  eyes. 

And  he  said  in  his  heart,  Unhappj^  is  he 

Who  putteth  his  trust  in  a  woman  ! 

Thou  art  King  Ramiro's  wedded  wife, 

And  thus  wouldst  thou  take  away  his  life ! 

What  cause  have  I  to  confide  in  thcc  .' 

I  will  put  this  woman  away  from  me. 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  pas.s'd  in  his  breast 

But  he  call'd  to  mind  Ramiro's  might; 

And  he  fear'd  to  meet  him  hereafter  in  fio-ht. 

And  he  granted  the  King's  request. 

12. 

So  he  gave  him  a  roasted  capon  first. 

And  a  skinful  of  wine  to  quench  his  thirst; 

And  he  called  for  his  sons  and  dauohters  all. 

And  assembled  the  people,  both  great  and  small 

And  to  the  bull-ring  he  led  the  kinor; 

And  he  set  him  there  uprjii  a  stone. 

That  by  all  the  multitude  he  might  be  known ; 

And  he  bade  him  blow  tlirougli  his  horn  a  blast. 

As  long  as  his  breath  and  his  life  should  last. 

13. 

Oh,  then  his  horn  Ramiro  wound  : 

The  walls  rebound  the  pealing  sound, 

That  far  and  wide  rings  echoing  round; 

I.,ouder  and  louder  Ramiro  blows. 

And  farther  the  blast  and  farther  goes; 

Till  it  reaches  the  galleys  where  they  lie  close 

Under  the  alders,  by  St.  Joam  da  Foz. 

It  roused  his  knights  from  their  repose, 

And  they  and  their  merry  men  arose. 

Away  to  Gaya  they  speed  them  straight; 

Like  a  torrent  they  burst  through  the  city  gate; 

And  they  rush  among  the  Moorish  throng, 

And  slaufjhter  their  infidel  foes. 


464 


THE    INCHCAPE    ROCK. 


14. 

Then  his  good  sword  Ramiro  drew, 

Upon  the  Moorish  King  lie  flew, 

And  he  gave  him  one  blow,  for  there  needed  not 

two; 

They  killed  his  sons  and  his  daughters  too; 

Every  Moorish  soul  they  slew ; 

Not  one  escaped  of  the  infidel  crew ; 

Neither  old  nor  young,  nor  babe  nor  mother; 

And  they  left  not  one  stone  upon  another. 

15. 

They  carried  the  wicked  Queen  aboard, 
And  they  took  counsel  what  to  do  to  her ; 

They  tied  a  millstone  round  her  neck, 

And  overboard  in  the  sea  they  threw  her. 

But  a  heavier  weight  than  that  millstone  lay 

On  Ramiro's  soul  at  his  dying  day. 

Bristol,  1802. 


INCHCAPE    ROCK 


An  old  writer  mentions  a  curious  tradition  wliicli  tnny  bo 
wortli  quoting.  "  By  east  liie  Isle  of  May,"  siiys  lie,  "  twelve 
miles  from  all  hind  in  the  German  seas,  lyes  a  f^reat  hidden 
rock,  called  Inoliciipe,  very  dangerous  for  navigators,  beciiuse 
it  is  overflowed  everie  tide.  It  is  reported,  in  old  times,  upon 
the  saide  rock  there  was  a  bell,  fixed  upon  a  tree  or  timber, 
which  rang  continually,  being  moved  by  the  sea,  giving  no- 
tice to  the  saylers  of  the  danger.  This  bell  or  olocke  was 
put  there  and  maintained  by  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrotbok,  and 
being  taken  down  by  a  sea  pirate,  a  yoare  thereafter  he  per- 
ished upon  the  same  rocke,  with  ship  and  goodes,  in  the 
righteous  judgement  of  God."  —  Stoddard's  Remarks  on 
Scotland. 


No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion  ; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock. 
The  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrotbok 
Had  placed  that  Bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell. 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  Bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrotbok. 

The  Sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay  ; 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 


The  sea-birds  scream'd  as  they  wheel'd  round, 
And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk'd  his  deck, 
And  lie  fix'd  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring ; 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  anirthful  to  excess. 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float; 
Quoth  he,  "My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrotbok." 

The  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 

And  he  cut  the  Bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  Bell  with  a  gurgling  sound  ; 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around ; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph, "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 
Won't  bless  Clie  Abbot  of  Aberbrotbok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail'd  away, 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plunder'd  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  cannot  see  the  Sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand  ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  Moon." 

"Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers  roar.' 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
Butl  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along. 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  sliivering  shock,  — 
"  Oh  Christ !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  !  " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair ; 
He  curs'd  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side  ; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But,  even  in  his  dying  fear. 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear  — 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Bristol,  1802. 


THE    WELL    OF   ST.  KEYNE. 


4C5 


THE 


WELL   OF   ST.  KEYNE. 


"  I  know  not  whether  it  he  worth  the  reporting,  thnt  there  is 
in  Cornwall,  near  the  jiarish  of  St.  Neots,  a  Well,  arched 
over  with  the  robes  of  four  kinds  of  trees,  withy,  oak,  elm, 
and  ash,  dedicated  to  St.  Keyne.  The  rei)orted  virtue  of 
the  water  is  this,  that  whether  husband  or  wife  come  first 
to  drink  thereof,  they  get  the  mastery  thereby."  — Fuller. 

This  passage  in  one  of  the  folios  of  the  Worthy  old  Fuller, 
who,  as  he  says,  knew  not  whether  it  were  worth  the  re- 
porting, sugsested  the  following  Ballad  ;  and  the  Ballad  has 
produced  so  many  imitations,  tliat  it  may  he  prudent  here 
thus  to  assert  its  originality,  lest  I  should  be  accused  here- 
after of  having  committed  the  plagiarism  which  has  been 
practised  upon  it. 

"  Next,"  says  Carew,  in  his  Survey  of  Cornwall,  p.  150,  "  I 
will  relate  you  another  of  the  Cornish  natural  wonders,  viz. 
St.  Kayne's  Well  ;  but  lest  you  make  a  wonder  first  at  the 
Saint,  before  you  take  notice  of  the  Well,  you  must  under- 
stand, that  this  was  not  Kayne  the  manqueller,  but  one  of  a 
gentler  spirit  and  milder  sex,  to  wit,  a  woman.  He  who 
caused  the  spring  to  be  iiictnred,  added  this  rhyme  for  an 
exposition  :  — 

'  In  name,  in  shape,  in  (juality, 

This  Well  is  very  quaint ; 
The  name  to  lot  of  Kayne  befell. 

No  over-holy  saint. 
The  shape,  four  trees  of  divers  kinde, 

Withy,  Oak,  Elm,  and  Ash, 
Make  with  their  roots  an  arched  roof. 
Whose  floor  this  spring  doth  wash. 
The  quality,  that  man  or  wife. 

Whose  chance  or  choice  attains 

First  of  this  sacred  stream  to  drink. 

Thereby  the  mastery  gains.'  " 

Carew's  Survey  of  Cornwall,  p.  130. 
Of  St.  Keyne,  whose  death  is  placed  in  the  year  490,  and  whose 
festival  used  to  be  celebrated  in  Brecknockshire,  on  Oc- 
tober 8,  there  is  a  brief  account  in  the  English  Martyrologe. 
Father  Cressy,  the  Benedictine,  gives  her  history  more  fully. 
"Illustrious,"  says  he,  "  she  was  for  her  birth,  being  the 
daughter  of  Braganus,  prince  of  that  province  in  Wales, 
which,  from  him,  was  afterwards  called  Brecknockshire  ; 
but  more  illustrious  for  her  zeal  to  preserve  her  chastity, 
for  which  reason  slie  was  called  in  the  British  langua''e 
Keynevayre,  that  is,  Keyna  the  Virgin." 

2.  This  Prince  Braganus,  or  Brachanus,  the  father  of  St.  Key- 
na, is  *  said  to  have  had  twelve  sons  and  twelve  daughters 
by  his  lady,  called  Marcella,  daughter  of  Theodoric  s°on  of 
Tethphalt,  Prince  of  Garthmalrin,  the  same  region  called 
afterward  Brecknock.  Their  first  born  son  was  St.  Canoe  : 
and  their  eldest  daughter  was  Gladus,  who  was  mother  of 
Cadocus  by  St.  Gunley,  a  holy  king  of  the  southern  Britons. 
The  second  daughter  was  Melaria,  the  mother  of  the  holy 
Archbishop  St.  David.  Thus  writes  Capgrave,  neither  doth 
he  mention  any  other  of  their  children  besides  St.  Keyna. 

3.  But  in  Giraldus  Cambrensis  f  another  daughter  is  commem- 
orated, called  St.  Almedha.  And  David  PowelJ  makes 
mention  of  a  fifth  named  Tydvaijl,  who  was  the  wife  of 
Congen  the  son  of  Cadel,  Prince  of  Powisland  ;  and  mother 
of  Brocbmael,  surnamed  Scithroc,  who  slew  Ethelfred  King 
of  the  Northumbers. 

4.  Concerning  the  Holy  Virgin  St.  Keyna,  we  find  this  nar- 
ration in  the  author  of  her  life,  extant  in  Capgrave  ;  5  "  She 
was  of  royal  blood,  being  daughter  of  Braganus,  Prince  of 
Brecknockshire.  When  she  came  to  ripe  years  many  noble 
persons  sought  her  in  marriage;  but  she  utterly  refused 
that  state,  having  consecrated  her  virginity  to  our  Lord  by 
a  perpetual  vow.  For  which  cause  she  was  afterward  by 
the  Britons  called  Keyn-wiri,  that  is,  Keyna  the  Virgin." 

5.  At  length  she  determined  to  forsake  her  country  and  find 


*  Antiqiiit.  Glaslon. 

t  Girald.  Cambr.  I.  i.  e.  2. 


X  D.  Povrel  in  Aiinoiat.  ad  Girald. 
§  Capgrar.  in  S.  Keyna. 


59 


out  some  desart  place,  where  she  might  attend  to  contem. 
plation.  Therefore,  directing  her  journey  beyond  Severn, 
and  there  meeting  with  certain  woody  places,  she  made 
her  request  to  the  prince  of  that  country  that  she  might 
be  permitted  to  serve  God  in  that  solitude.  His  answer 
was,  that  he  was  very  willing  to  grant  her  request,  hut  that 
that  place  did  so  swarm  with  ser|)ents  that  neither  men  nor 
beasts  could  inhabit  it.  But  she  constantly  replied,  that  her 
firm  trust  was  in  the  name  and  assistance  of  Almighty 
God,  to  drive  all  that  poisonous  brood  out  of  that  region. 

6.  Hereupon  the  place  was  granted  to  the  Holy  Virgin  ;  who 
presently  prostrating  herself  in  fervent  prayer  to  God,  ob- 
tained of  him  to  change  all  the  serpents  and  vipers  there 
into  stones.  And  to  this  day  the  stones  in  that  region  do 
resemble  the  windings  of  seri)enls  through  all  the  fields  and 
villages,  as  if  they  had  been  framed  so  by  the  band  of  the 
engraver. 

7.  Our  learned  Camden,  in  his  diligent  search  after  antiqui- 
ties, seems  to  have  visited  this  country,  being  a  part  of 
Somersetshire,  though  he  is  willing todisparagelhe  miracle. 
His  words  are,  "On  the  western  bank  of  Avon  is  seen 
the  town  of  Cainsham.  Some  are  of  opinion  that  it  was 
named  so  from  Keyna,  a  most  holy  British  Virgin,  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  credulous  persuasion  of  former  ages,  is  be- 
lieved to  have  turned  serpents  into  stones  ;  because  such  like 
miracles  of  sporting  nature  are  there  sometimes  found  in  the 
quarries.  I  myself  saw  a  stone  brought  from  thence  repre- 
senting a  serpent  roiled  up  into  a  spire  ;  the  head  of  it  stuck 
out  in  the  outward  surface,  and  the  end  of  the  tail  termi- 
nated in  the  centre." 

8.  But  let  us  prosecute  the  life  of  this  holy  Virgin.  Many 
years  being  spent  by  her  i/^  this  solitary  place,  and  the 
fame  of  her  sanctity  every  wliere  divulged,  and  many  orato- 
ries built  by  her,  her  nephew  St.  Cadoc  performing  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  Mount  of  St.  Michael,  met  there  with  his 
blessed  aunt,  St.  Keyna,  at  whose  sight  he  was  replenished 
with  great  joy.  And  being  desirous  to  bring  her  back  to 
her  own  country,  the  inhabitants  of  that  region  would  not 
permit  him.  But  afterward,  by  the  admonition  of  an  angel, 
the  holy  Maid  returned  to  the  place  of  her  nativity,  where, 
on  the  top  of  a  hillock  seated  at  thefootofa  high  mountain, 
she  made  a  little  habitation  for  herself;  and  by  her  prayers 
to  God  obtained  a  spring  there  to  flow  out  of  the  earth, 
which,  by  the  merits  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  afforded  health  to 
divers  infirmities. 

9.  But  when  the  time  of  her  consummation  approached,  one 
night  she,  by  the  revelation  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  saw  in  a 
vision,  as  it  were,  a  fiery  pillar,  the  base  whereof  was  fixed 
on  hetbed;  now  her  bed  was  the  pavement  strewed  over  with 
a  few  branches  of  trees.  And  in  this  vision  two  angels  ap- 
peared to  her ;  one  of  which  approaching  respectfully  to  her, 
seemed  to  take  ofl"  the  sackcloth  with  which  she  was  cov- 
ered, and  instead  thereof  to  put  on  her  a  smock  of  fine  linen, 
and  over  that  a  tunic  of  purple,  and  last  of  all  a  mantle  all 
woven  witli  gold.  Which  having  done,  he  thus  said  to  her, 
"  Prepare  yourself  to  come  with  us,  that  we  may  lead  you 
into  your  heavenly  Father's  kingdom."  Hereupon  she  wept 
with  excess  of  joy,  and  endeavoring  to  follow  the  angels  she 
awaked,  and  found  her  body  inflamed  with  a  fever,  so  that 
she  perceived  her  end  was  near. 

10.  Therefore,  sending  for  her  nephew  Cadocus,  she  said  to 
him,  "  This  is  the  place  above  all  others  beloved  by  me  ; 
here  my  memory  shall  be  [lerpetuated.  This  place  I  will 
often  visit  in  spirit  if  it  may  be  permitted  me.  And  I  am  as- 
sured it  shall  be  permitted  me,  because  our  Lord  has  granted 
me  this  place  as  a  certain  inheritance.  The  time  will  come 
when  this  place  shall  be  inhabited  by  a  sinful  people,  which 
notwithstanding  I  will  violently  root  out  of  this  seat.  My 
tomb  shall  be  a  long  while  unknown,  till  the  coming  of  other 
people,  whom,  by  my  prayers,  I  shall  bring  liither  ;  them 
will  I  protect  and  defend  ;  and  in  this  place  shall  the  name 
of  our  Lord  be  blessed  for  ever." 

11.  After  this,  her  soul  being  ready  to  dej)art  out  of  her  body, 
she  saw  standing  before  her  a  troop  of  heavenly  angels, 
ready,  joyfully,  to  receive  her  soul,  and  to  transport  it  with- 
out any  fearor  danger  from  her  sjiiritual  enemies.  Which, 
having  told  to  those  who  stood  by,  her  blessed  soul  was  freed 
from  the  prison  of  her  body,  on  the  eighth  day  before  the 
Ides  of  October.     In  her  dissolution,  her  face  smiled,  and 


466 


THE    WELL    OF    ST.  KEYN  E.  — BISHOP    BRUNO. 


was  all  of  a  rosy  color ;  and  so  sweet  a  fragrancy  proceeded 
from  hei  sacred  virgin  body,  that  those  who  were  present 
thought  themselves  in  the  joy  of  I'aradise.  St.  Cadoctis 
buried  her  in  her  own  oratory,  where  for  many  years  she 
had  led  a  most  holy,  mortified  life,  very  acceptable  to  God. 
Church  History  of  BriUanij,  Book  X.,  Ch.  14. 

Such  is  the  history  of  St.  Keyne,  as  related  by  F.  Serenus 
Cressy,  permissu  supcriorum,  et  approbatione  Doctorum. 
There  was  evidently  a  scheme  of  setting  up  a  shrine  con- 
nected with  the  legend.  In  one  part  it  was  well  conceived, 
for  the  Cornu  Ammonis  is  no  where  so  frequently  found  as 
near  Keynsham  ;  fine  specimens  are  to  be  seen  over  the 
doors  of  many  of  the  houses  there,  and  I  have  often  ob- 
served fragments  among  the  stones  which  were  broken  vip 
to  mend  the  road.  The  Welsh  seem  nearly  to  have  forgot- 
ten this  saint.  Mr.  Owen,  in  his  Cambrian  Biography, 
enumerates  two  daughters  of  Brychan,  Ceindrech,  and  Cein- 
wen,  both  ranked  among  saints,  and  the  latter  having  two 
churches  dedicated  to  her  in  Mona.  One  of  these  is  proba- 
bly St.  Keyne. 


A  Well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen ; 
There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 

But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside, 

And  behind  doth  an  ash-tree  grow, 
And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 

Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne ; 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he ; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by, 

At  the  Well  to  fill  his  pail ; 
On  the  Well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  Stranger  hail. 

"  Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  Stranger  ?  "  quoth  he ; 

"For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife. 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast. 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life, 

She  has  drank  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  Stranger  he  made  reply ; 
"  But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornish-man,  " aiany  a 
Drank  of  this  crystal  Well ;  [time 

And  before  the  Angel  summon'd  her, 
She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"If  the  Husband  of  this  gifted  Well 
Shall  drink  before  his  Wife, 


A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he. 
For  he  shall  be  Master  for  life. 

"But  if  the  Wife  should  drink  of  it  first,— 

God  help  the  Husband  then  '  " 
The  Stranger  stoop'd  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

"  You  drank  of  the  Well,  I  warrant,  betimes.' " 

He  to  the  Cornish-man  said  : 
But  the  Cornish-man  smiled  as  the  Stranger  spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hasten'd  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done. 

And  left  my  Wife  in  the  porch ; 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me. 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

Westbury,  1798. 


BISHOP    BRUNO. 


"  Bruno,  the  Bishop  of  Herbipolitanum,  sailing  in  the  river 
of  Danubius,  with  Henry  the  Third,  then  Emperor,  being 
not  far  from  a  place  which  the  Gcrmanes  call  Ben  Strmlel, 
or  the  devouring  gulfe,  which  is  neere  unto  Grinon,  a  castle 
in  Austria,  a  spirit  was  heard  clumoring  aloud,  '  Ho,  ho. 
Bishop  Bruno,  whither  art  thou  travelling .'  but  dispose  of 
thyselfe  how  thou  pleasesi,  thou  shall  be  my  prey  and  spoil.' 
At  the  hearing  of  tliese  words  they  were  all  stupified,  and 
the  Bishop  with  the  rest  crossed  and  blessed  themselves. 
The  issue  was,  that  within  a  short  ti»ie  after,  the  Bishop, 
feasting  with  the  Emperor  in  a  castle  belonging  to  the 
Countesse  of  Esburch,  a  rafter  fell  from  the  roof  of  the 
chamber  wlierein  they  sate,  and  strooke  him  dead  at  the 
table."  —  Heywood's  Hierarchic  of  the  Blessed  Angels. 


Bishop  Bruno  awoke  in  the  dead  midnight, 
And  he  heard  his  heart  beat  loud  with  affright : 
He  dreamt  he  had  rung  the  palace  bell. 
And  the  sound  it  gave  was  his  passing  knell. 

Bishop  Bruno  smiled  at  his  fears  so  vain  ; 
He  turned  to  sleep,  and  he  dreamt  again ; 
He  rang  at  the  palace  gate  once  more. 
And  Death  was  the  Porter  that  open'd  the  door. 

He  started  up  at  the  fearful  dream,  [scream ; 

And   he   heard    at   his   window   the   screech-owl 
Bishop  Bruno  slept  no  more  that  night,  — 
Oh  !  glad  was  he  when  he  saw  the  day-light ! 

Now  he  goes  forth  in  proud  array, 
For  he  with  the  Emperor  dines  to-day ; 
There  was  not  a  Baron  in  Germany 
That  went  with  a  nobler  train  than  he. 

Before  and  behind  his  soldiers  ride  ; 
The  people  throng'd  to  see  their  pride  , 
They  bow'd  the  head,  and  the  knee  they  bent, 
But  nobody  bless'd  him  as  he  went. 

So  he  went  on  stately  and  proud, 
When  he  heard  a  voice  that  cried  aloud. 


4G8 


ST.   ANTIDIUS,   THE    POPE,   AND    THE    DEVIL. 


Lay  rotting  in  the  sun; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

10. 

"  Great  praise  tlie  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !  " 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"Nay  —  nay  —  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

IL 

"And  every  body  praised  the  Duke, 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last .'  " 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he  ; 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 

Westbury,  1798. 


A    TRUE    BALLAD 


OF 


St.  ANTIDIUS,  THE  POPE,  AND  THE  DEVIL. 


Deste  Mendio  cuentan  las  cstoi'ias  que  le  avino,  que  el  martes  des- 
pues  de  Ramos,  j'osso  por  la  punite  de  un  rio  que  ha  nombrc 
Divino  ;  e  vio  en  un  cavipo  gran  compaha  de  diablos  que  esta- 
van  cotitnndo  a  sus  principcs  los  males  que  faiien  por  las  ticr- 
ras ;  e  eiitrc  todos  los  otros  eslava  un  negro  a  manera  de  Ety- 
opianu ;  c  alabavasc  que  avie  stele  anos  que  andava  lidiando 
con  el  Papa  por  le  faicr  pecar ;  e  nunca  jnuHrra  sy  non  en- 
tonces  que  le  fizicra  fazcr  ya  que  pecado  muy  grave ;  e  esto 
provava  to  por  la  sandalia  del  apostnligo  que  traye.  E  Sunt 
Ale^idio  que  vido  aquello,  llamo  aqucl  diablo,  c  coiijnrol  por  la 
virtud  de  Dios  e  por  la  Santa  Cruz  que  lo  Uevasse  a  Roma ;  c 
cavalgo  en  cl ;  e  llevol  a  Roma,  el  juevcs  de  la  cena  a  hora  de 
viissa,  el  Papa  que  qucrie  rcvestirse  para  dezir  missa ;  dezo 
sant  Jilendio  al  diablo  a  la  puerta  e  dual  que  lo  atendiese  ;  e  el 
cntro  dentro  e  saco  el  Papa  aparte,  e  duol  que  fiziesse  peni- 
tencia  de  aquel  pecado ;  e  el  quisu  lo  negar,  masfiio  gelo  otor- 
gar  el  santo  obispo  con  a  sandalia  que  le  diu.  E  Jizo  cl  Papa 
peniiencia ;  e  dizo  sant  Atendio  la  missa  en  su  logar,  e  con- 
sagro  la  crisma ;  e  tamo  una  partida  dclla  para  sy ;  e  despe- 
diosse  del  Papa,  e  salio  fuera,  c  cavalgo  en  el  diablo,  e  llevo  lo 
a  su  argobispado  cl  sabado  de  pascua  a  hora  de  missa.  —  Coro- 

NICA    DE    ESPANA. 

This  Paint  Atendio,  acconling  to  the  Chronica  Geni'nil,  w.is 
Bisiiop  ot'Vesvtana  in  Gaul,  and  martyred  by  tlie  Vandals 
in  the  yeur411.  The  Spaniards  have  a  tradition  tliat  he 
was  Bisliop  of  .laen  :  they  sny,  "  that  ns  the  Devil  was  crosg- 
iii;;  tlie  sea  with  this  unwelcome  load  upon  his  back,  he  art- 
fully endeavored  to  make  Atendio  pronounce  the  name  of 
Jesus,  which,  i.s  it  breaks  all  spells,  would  have  enabled 
him  to  throw  him  off  into  the  water ;  but  that  the  Bishop, 
understanding  his  intent,  only  replied,  j3rrf  Z)i«A/«,  "  Gee- 
up  Devil !  "  and  they  add,  "  that  when  he  arrived  at  Rome, 
his  hat  was  still  covereil  with  the  snow  which  had  fallen 
upon  it  while  he  was  passing  the  Alps,  and  that  the  hat  is 
still  shown  at  Rome  in  confirmation  of  the  story  and  the 
miracle."  Feyjoo  has  two  letters  upon  this  whimsical  le- 
gend among  his  Cartas  Eruditas.  In  the  first  (T.  1,  Carta 
24,)  ho  replies  to  a  correspondent  who  had  gravely  inquired 
his  opinion  upon  the  story,  "  De  buen  humor,"  says  he, 
"  estaba  V.  md.  quando  le  ocurrid  inquirir  mi  dictamen,  sobre 


la  Historitta  de  cl  Obispo  de  Jahen,  de  quien  se  cuenta,  que 
fue  a  Roma  en  una  noche,  caballero  sobre  la  rspulda  de  un 
Diablo  de  ulquiler :  Triste  de  mi,  si  essa  curivsidad  sc  hare  con- 
tagiosa, y  dan  muchvs  en  siquir  el  excmplo  de  V.  md.  cvnsultan- 
dome sobre cuenlos  de  niniisyviejas."  JVevertheless,  though  he 
thus  treats  the  story  as  an  old  wife's  tale,  he  bestows  some 
reasoning  ui)on  it.  "  As  he  heard  it,"  he  says,  "  it  did  not 
appear  whether  the  use  Hliich  the  liisliop  made  of  the  Devil 
were  licit  or  illicit ;  that  is,  whether  he  made  use  of  him  as 
a  wizard,  by  virtue  of  a  compact,  or  by  virtue  of  authority, 
having  the  permission  of  the  Most  High  so  to  do.  In  either 
case  lh(  re  is  a  great  incongruity.  In  the  first,  inasmuch  as 
it  is  not  credii)le  that  the  Devil  should  voluntarily  serve 
the  Bishop  for  the  purj)ose  of  preventing  a  great  evil  to  the 
church  :  —  I  say  voluntarily,  because  the  notion  that  a  com- 
pact is  so  binding  upon  the  Devil  that  he  can  in  no  ways 
resist  the  pleasure  of  the  person  with  whom  he  has  con- 
tracted es  cosa  de  Theologos  de  Vade  d  la  cinta.  In  the 
second,  because  the  journey  being  designed  for  a  holy  pur- 
pose, it  is  more  conformable  to  reason  that  it  should  have 
been  executed  by  the  ministry  of  a  good  angel  than  of  a  bad 
one  ;  as,  for  instance,  Habakkuk  was  transported  by  the 
ministry  of  a  good  angel  from  Judea  to  Babylon,  that  he 
might  carry  food  to  the  imprisoned  Daniel.  If  you  should 
oppose  to  me  the  example  of  Christ,  who  was  carried  bvthe 
Devil  to  the  jiinnacle  of  the  temjile,  I  reply,  that  there  are 
two  miinifest  disparities.  The  first,  that  Christ  conducted 
himself  in  this  case  passively  anrl  perniissively  ;  the  second, 
that  the  Devil  ])leic(d  him  upon  the  i)innacle  of  the  Temple, 
not  for  any  good  end,  but  with  a  most  wicked  intention. 
"  But,"  pursues  the  good  Benedictine,  "  why  should  I 
fatigue  myself  ivitli  arguing .'  I  hold  the  story  unworthy  of 
being  critically  examined  till  it  be  shown  me  written  in 
some  history,  either  ecclesiastical  or  profane,  which  is  en- 
titled to  some  credit." 
Soon  after  this  letter  was  published,  another  correspondent  in- 
formed Feyjoo,  thit  the  story  in  question  was  written  in  the 
General  Chronicle  of  King  D.  Alphonso  the  Wise.  This 
incited  him  to  farther  inquiry.  He  found  the  same  legend 
in  the  Speculum  Historiale  of  WncenUus  Belovacensis,  and 
there  discovered  that  the  saint  was  called  Antidius,  not 
Alhendius,  and  that  the  scene  lay  upon  the  river  Dunius 
instead  of  the  river  Divinus.  Here  too  he  found  a  refer- 
ence to  Pigebertus  Gendilacensis  ;  and  in  that  author,  the 
.account  which  the  Chronicler  had  followed  and  the  expla- 
nation of  his  errors  in  the  topography:  his  Vesytania  prov- 
ing to  be  Besan^on,  and  the  river  the  Doubs,  which  the 
Romans  called  Dubius,  Dubis,  and  Aduadubis.  But  lie 
found  also  to  his  comfort,  that  though  Jean  Jacques  Chiflet, 
a  physician  of  Besancon,  had  endeavored  to  prove  the  truth 
of  the  story  for  the  honor  of  his  nation  or  city,  in  a  book 
entitled  Vesonlio  Civitas  Impcrialis  Libera  Scquanorum,  and 
had  cited  certain  ancient  ."lets  and  Breviaries,  in  support  of 
it,  the  veracious  BoUandists  had  decided  that  these  Acts 
were  ajiocrypbal,  the  Breviaries  not  to  be  believed  in  this 
point,  and  the  whole  story  a  fable  which  had  been  equally 
related  of  St.  Maximus  Taurinensis  and  Pope  I-eo  the 
Great.  These  BoUandists  strain  at  a  gnat,  and  .swallow  an 
Aullay  with  equal  gravity.  Fortitied  by  their  authority, 
Feyjoo,  who  was  worthy  to  have  belonged  to  a  more  en- 
lightened church,  triumphantly  dismissed  the  legend,  and 
observed,  "  '.hat  the  contriver  was  a  clumsy  fibler  to  make 
the  Devil  spend  two  days  upon  the  journey,  which,"  as  he 
says,  "  is  slow  travelling  foran  infornal  postilion."  {Cartas 
KniditJis,  T.  2,  C.  21.)  The  discussion,  however,  reminded 
him  of  a  curious  story,  which  he  thus  relates:  —  "  'J'here  is 
in  this  city  of  Oviedo  a  poor  Porter,  called  by  name  Pedro 
Moreno,  of  whom  a  talc  is  told  similar  in  substance  to  this 
of  the  Bisliop  of  Jaen.  The  circumstance  is  related  in  this 
manner.  Some  letters  had  been  delivered  to  him  which  he 
was  to  carry  to  Madrid  with  more  than  ordinary  diligence, 
because  expedition  was  of  importance.  At  a  little  distance 
from  this  city,  he  met  with  a  friar,  who  offered  to  join  com- 
pany with  him  for  the  journey  :  to  this  he  olijected,  upon 
the  ground,  that  he  was  going  in  great  haste,  and  that  the 
friar  would  not  be  able  to  keep  pace  with  him  ;  but  in  fine, 
the  friar  prevailed  upon  him  to  let  it  be  so,  and  at  the  same 
time  gave  him  a  walking-stick  for  his  use.  So  they  began  to 
travel  together,  anil  that  so  well,  that  Valladolid  being  forty 


ST.   ANTIDIUS,   THE    POPE,    AND    THE    DEVIL. 


469 


fcagues  (160  miles)  from  Ovieiio,  they  got  beyond  that  city 
on  the  first  day  to  dinner.  The  rest  of  the  journey  was 
performed  with  the  same  celerity.  This  story  spread 
through  (lie  whole  place,  and  was  believed  by  all  the  vulgar 
(and  by  some  also  who  were  not  of  the  vulgar)  when  it 
came  to  my  ears:  the  authority  referred  to  was  the  man 
himself,  who  had  related  it  to  an  infinite  number  of  persons. 
I  sent  for  him  to  my  cell  to  examine  him.  He  affirmed  that 
the  story  was  true,  but  by  questioning  and  cross-questioning 
him  concerning  the  particulars,  I  made  him  fall  into  many 
contradictions.  Moreover,  I  found  that  he  had  told  the 
story  with  many  variations  to  ditTerent  persons.  What  I 
clearly  ascertained  was,  that  lie  had  heard  the  legend  of  the 
Bishop  of  Jaen,  and  thought  to  become  a  famous  man,  by 
making  a  like  fable  believed  of  himself.  I  believe  that 
many  persons  were  undeceived  when  my  inquiry  was 
known.  But  before  this  examination  was  made,  to  how 
many  places  had  the  report  of  this  miraculous  journey  ex- 
tended, where  the  exposure  of  the  falsehood  will  never 
reach  !  Perhaps,  if  this  writing  should  not  prevent  it,  the 
journey  of  Pedro  Moreno,  the  Porter,  will  one  day  be  little 
less  famous  in  Spain  than  that  of  the  Bishop  of  Jaen."  — 
Cartas  Eruditai,  T.  1,  C.  24. 

According  to  Marullus,  as  quoted  by  Zuinger  in  bis  great 
Theatrum  Humana;  Vitae,  i.  417,  Antidius  was  Bishop  of 
Tours,  and  Zosimus  was  the  Pope  whom  he  served  so  essen- 
tially by  riding  post  to  his  aid. 

A  very  incorrect  copy  of  this  Ballad  was  printed  and  sold  by 
J.  Bailey,  116  Chancery  Lane,  price  6d.,  with  a  print  from 
a  juvenile  design  by  G.  Cruicksbank.  I  think  mysilf  fortu- 
nate in  having  accidentally  obtained  this  broadside,  which, 
for  its  rarity,  will  one  day  be  deemed  valuable  in  a  collec- 
tion of  the  works  of  a  truly  original  and  inimitable  artist. 


It  is  Antidius  the  Bishop 

Who  now  at  even  tide, 

Taking  the  air  and  saying  a  prayer, 

Walks  by  the  river  side. 

The  Devil  had  business  that  evening, 

And  he  upon  earth  would  go  ; 

For  it  was  in  the  month  of  August, 

And  the  weather  was  close  below. 

He  had  his  books  to  settle ; 

And  up  to  earth  he  hied. 

To  do  it  there  in  the  evening  air. 

All  by  the  river  side. 

His  imps  came  flying  around  him, 

Of  his  affairs  to  tell ; 

From  the  north,  and  the  south,  and  the  east,  and 

the  west. 

They  brought  him  the  news  that  he  liked  best, 

Of  things  they  had  done. 

And  the  souls  they  had  won, 

And  how  they  sped  well 

In  the  service  of  Hell. 

There  came  a  devil  posting  in, 

Return'd  from  his  employ  ; 

Seven  years  had  he  been  gone  from  Hell ; 

And  now  he  came  grinning  for  joy. 

"  Seven  years,"  quoth  lie,  "  of  trouble  and  toil 

Have  I  labor'd  the  Pope  to  win ; 

And  I  to-day  have  caught  him ; 

He  hath  done  a  deadly  sin  !  " 

And  then  he  took  the  Devil's  book. 

And  wrote  the  deed  therein. 


Oh,  then  King  Beelzebub,  for  joy, 

He  drew  his  mouth  so  wide 

You  might  have  seen  his  iron  teeth, 

Four  and  forty  from  side  to  side. 

He  wagg'd  his  ears,  he  twisted  his  tail, 

He  knew  not  for  joy  what  to  do ; 

In  his  hoofs  and  his  horns,  in  his  heels  and  his 

corns. 

It  tickled  him  all  through. 

The  Bishop,  who  beheld  all  this, 

Straight  how  to  act  bethought  him; 

He  leap'd  upon  the  Devil's  back, 

And  by  the  horns  he  caught  him. 

And  he  said  a  Pater-noster 

As  fast  as  lie  could  say, 

And  made  a  cross  on  the  Devil's  head, 

And  bade  him  to  Rome  away. 

Away,  away,  the  Devil  flew 

All  through  the  clear  moonlight ; 

I  warrant  who  saw  them  on  their  way 

He  did  not  sleep  that  night. 

Without  bridle,  or  saddle,  or  whip,  or  spur. 

Away  they  go  like  the  wind ; 

The  beads  of  the  Bishop  are  hanging  before, 

And  the  tail  of  the  Devil  behind. 

They  met  a  Witch,  and  she  hail'd  them. 

As  soon  as  she  came  within  call ; 

"  Ave  Maria !  "  the  Bishop  exclaim'd  ; 

It  frightened  her  broomstick,  and  she  got  a  fall. 

He  ran  against  a  shooting  star. 

So  fast  for  fear  did  he  sail. 

And  he  singed  the  beard  of  the  Bishop 

Against  a  comet's  tail ; 

And  he  pass'd  between  the  horns  of  the  moon. 

With  .'Vntidius  on  his  back  ; 

And  theie  was  an  eclipse  that  night 

Which  was  not  in  the  almanac. 

The  Bishop,  just  as  they  set  out, 

To  tell  his  beads  begun ; 

And  he  was  by  the  bed  of  the  Pope 

Before  the  string  was  done. 

The  Pope  fell  down  upon  his  knees, 

In  terror  and  confusion. 

And  he  confess'd  the  deadly  sin. 

And  he  had  absolution. 

And  all  the  Popes  in  bliss  that  be. 

Sung,  O  be  joyful  I  then ; 

And  all  the  Popes  in  bale  that  be, 

They  howl'd  for  envy  then; 

For  they  before  kept  jubilee. 

Expecting  his  good  company, 

Down  in  the  Devil's  den. 

But  what  was  tliis  the  Pope  had  done 
To  bind  his  soul  to  Hell  ? 


470 


GONZALO    HERMIGUEZ. 


Ah  !  that  is  the  mystery  of  tliis  wonderful  history, 
And  I  wish  that  I  could  tell  I 

But  would  you  know,  there  you  must  go ; 

You  can  easily  find  the  way  ; 

It  is  a  broad  and  a  well-known  road, 

That  is  traveird  by  night  and  by  day. 

And  you  must  look  in  the  Devil's  book; 

You  will  find  one  debt  that  was  never  paid  yet. 

If  you  search  the  leaves  throughout ; 

And  that  is  the  mystery  of  this  wonderful  history. 

And  the  way  to  find  it  out. 

Bi-istol,  1802. 


GONZALO    HERMIGUEZ. 


This  story  is  related  at  length  by  Bernardo  de  Brito,  in  his 
Cronica  de  Cister.,  I.  vi.  c.  1,  where  he  has  preserved,  also, 
piirt  of  a  poem  bylGonzalo  Hermiguez.  The  verses  are  said 
to  he  the  oldest  in  the  Portugunse  language  ;  and  Brito  says 
there  were  more  of  them,  but  he  thought  it  sufficient  to  cite 
these  for  his  purpose.  If  they  had  been  correctly  printed, 
it  might  have  been  difficult  to  make  out  their  meaning  ;  but 
from  a  text  so  corrupted,  it  is  impossible. 


1. 

In  arms  and  in  anger,  in  struggle  and  strife, 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez  won  his  wife  ; 

He  slew  the  Moor  who  from  the  fray 

Was  rescuing  Fatima  that  day  ; 

In  vain  she  sliriek'd :   Gonzalo  press'd 

The  Moorish  prisoner  to  his  breast : 

That  breast  in  iron  was  array'd; 

The  gauntlet  was  bloody  that  grasp'd  the  Maid  ; 

Through  the  beaver-sight  his  eye 

Glared  fierce,  and  red,  and  wrathfully; 

And  while  he  bore  the  captive  away, 

His  heart  rejoiced,  and  he  blest  the  day. 

2. 

Under  the  lemon  walk's  odorous  shade 
Gonzalo  Hermiguez  wooed  the  Maid ; 
The  ringlets  of  his  raven  hair 
Waved  upon  the  evening  air, 
And  gentle  thoughts,  that  raise  a  sigh, 
Soften'd  the  warrior's  dark-brown  eye, 
When  he  with  passion  and  sweet  song 
Wooed  her  to  forgive  the  wrong. 
Till  slie  no  more  could  say  him  nay ; 
And  the  Moorish  Maiden  blest  the  day 
When  Gonzalo  bore  her  a  captive  away. 

3. 
To  the  holy  Church,  with  pomp  and  pride, 
Gonzalo  Hermiguez  led  his  bride. 
In  tlie  sacred  font  that  happy  day 
Her  stain  of  sin  was  wash'd  away ; 
There  did  the  Moorish  Maiden  claim 
Another  faith,  another  name  ; 


There,  as  a  Christian  convert,  plight 
Her  faith  unto  the  Christian  Knight ; 
And  Oriana  blest  the  day 
When  Gonzalo  bore  her  a  captive  away. 

4. 
Of  Alfonso  Henriques'  court  the  pride 
Were  Gonzalo  Hermiguez  and  his  bride; 
In  battle  strongest  of  the  strong. 
In  peace  the  master  of  the  song, 
Gonzalo  of  all  was  first  in  fame, 
The  loveliest  she  and  the  happiest  dame. 
But  ready  for  her  heavenly  birth. 
She  was  not  left  to  fade  on  earth ; 
In  that  dread  hour,  with  Heaven  in  view, 
The  comfort  of  her  faith  she  knew, 
And  blest  on  her  death-bed  the  day 
When  Gonzalo  bore  her  a  captive  away. 


Through  a  long  and  holy  life, 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez  mourn'd  his  wife. 

The  arms  wherewith  he  won  his  bride. 

Sword,  shield,  and  lance,  were  laid  aside. 

That  head  which  the  high-plumed  helm  had  worn 

Was  now  of  its  tresses  shaven  and  shorn, 

A  Monk  of  Alcoba(;a  he 

Eminent  for  sanctity. 

Contented  in  his  humble  cell 

The  meekest  of  the  meek  to  dwell. 

His  business  was,  by  night  and  day, 

For  Oriana's  soul  to  pray. 

Never  day  did  he  let  pass 

But  scored  to  her  account  a  mass ; 

Devoutly  for  the  dear  one  dead 

With  self-inflicted  stripes  he  bled ; 

This  was  Gonzalo's  sole  employ, 

This  was  Gonzalo's  only  joy ; 

Till  love,  thus  purified,  became 

A  holy,  yea,  a  heavenly  flame ; 

And  now  in  heaven  doth  bless  the  day 

When  he  bore  the  Moorish  captive  away. 

Bristol,  1801. 


QUEEN    ORRACA 


THE  FIVE  MARTYRS  OF  MOROCCO. 


This  legend  is  related  in  the  Chronicle  of  Affonso  II.,  and  in 
the  Historia  Serafica  of  Fr.  Manoel  da  Esperan^a. 


The  Friars  five  have  girt  their  loins, 

And  taken  staff" in  hand; 
And  never  shall  those  Friars  again 

Hear  mass  in  Christian  land. 

They  went  to  Queen  Orraca, 

To  thank  her  and  bless  her  then ; 


QUEEN  ORRACA  AND  THE  FIVE  MARTYRS. 


471 


And  Queen  Orraca  in  tears 
Knelt  to  the  holy  men. 

"  Three  things,  Queen  Orraca, 

We  prophesy  to  you  : 
Hear  us,  in  the  name  of"  God ! 

For  time  will  prove  them  true 

"  In  Morocco  we  must  martyr'd  be ; 

Christ  hath  vouchsafed  it  thus  : 
We  shall  shed  our  blood  for  Him 

Who  shed  his  blood  for  us. 

"  To  Coimbra  shall  our  bodies  be  brought, 

Such  being  the  will  divine  ; 
That  Cliristians  may  behold  and  feel 

Blessings  at  our  shrine. 

"  And  when  unto  that  place  of  rest 

Our  bodies  shall  draw  nigh. 
Who  sees  us  first,  the  King  or  you. 

That  one  that  night  must  die. 

"  Fare  thee  well.  Queen  Orraca  ! 

For  thy  soul  a  mass  we  will  say. 
Every  day  as  long  as  we  live. 

And  on  thy  dying  day." 

The  Friars  they  blest  her,  one  by  one. 
Where  she  knelt  on  her  knee  ; 

And  they  departed  to  the  land 
Of  the  Moors  beyond  the  sea. 


"  What  news,  O  King  AfFonso, 

What  news  of  the  Friars  five  ? 
Have  they  prcach'd  to  the  Miramamolin; 
And  are  they  still  alive .?  " 

"  They  have  fought  the  fight,  O  Queen  ! 

They  have  run  the  race ; 
In  robes  of  white  they  hold  the  palm 

Before  the  throne  of  Grace. 

"  All  naked  in  the  sun  and  air 

Their  mangled  bodies  lie  ; 
What  Christian  dared  to  bury  them, 

By  the  bloody  Moors  would  die." 

3. 

"  What  news,  O  King  Alfonso, 
Of  the  Martyrs  five  what  news? 

Doth  the  bloody  Miramamolin 
Their  burial  still  refuse .' " 

"That  on  a  dunghill  they  should  rot. 

The  bloody  Moor  decreed  ; 
That  their  dishonor'd  bodies  should 

The  dogs  and  vultures  feed  ;  — 

"  But  the  thunder  of  God  roll'd  over  them. 
And  the  lightning  of  God  flash'd  round; 

Nor  thing  impure,  nor  man  impure. 
Could  approach  the  holy  ground. 


"  A  thousand  miracles  appall'd 
The  cruel  Pagan's  mind  ; 

Our  brotlier  Pedro  brings  them  here, 
In  Coimbra  to  be  shrined." 


Every  altar  in  Coimbra 

Is  dress'd  for  the  festival  day; 
All  the  people  in  Coimbra 

Are  dight  in  their  richest  array ;  — 

Every  bell  in  Coimbra 

Doth  merrily,  merrily  ring; 
The  Clergy  and  the  Kniglits  await 

To  go  forth  with  the  Queen  and  the  King. 

"Come  forth,  come  forth.  Queen  Orraca; 

We  make  the  procession  stay." 
"  I  beseech  thee,  King  AfFonso, 

Go  you  alone  to-day. 

"  I  have  pain  in  my  head  this  morning; 

I  am  ill  at  heart  also  : 
Go  without  me.  King  Alfonso, 

For  I  am  too  faint  to  go." 

"  The  relics  of  the  Martyrs  five 

All  maladies  can  cure ; 
They  will  requite  the  charity 

You  show'd  them  once,  be  sure  : 

"  Come  forth  then.  Queen  Orraca  ; 

You  make  the  procession  stay  : 
It  were  a  scandal  and  a  sin 

To  abide  at  home  to-day." 

Upon  her  palfrey  she  is  set. 

And  forward  then  they  go  ; 
And  over  the  long  bridge  they  pass. 

And  up  the  long  hill  wind  slow. 

"  Prick  forward,  King  AfFonso, 

And  do  not  wait  for  me  ; 
To  meet  them  close  by  Coimbra, 

It  were  discourtesy;  — 

"  A  little  while  I  needs  must  wait, 

Till  this  sore  pain  be  gone  ;  — 
I  will  proceed  the  best  I  can  ; 

But  do  you  and  your  Knights  prick  on. 

The  King  and  his  Knights  prick'd  up  the  hill 

Faster  than  before ; 
The  King  and  his  Knights  have  topp'd  the  hill, 

And  now  they  are  seen  no  more. 

As  the  King  and  his  Knights  went  down  the  hill, 

A  wild  boar  cross'd  the  way ; 
"  Follow  him  !  follow  him  .'  "  cried  the  King; 

'•'  We  have  time  by  the  Queen's  delay." 

A-hunting  of  the  boar  astray 

Is  King  AfFonso  gone  : 
Slowly,  slowly,  but  straight  the  while, 

Queen  Orraca  is  coming  on. 


47-3 


THE    OLD    WOMAN    OF    BERKELEY. 


And  winding  now  the  train  appears 

Between  the  olive-trees  : 
<4ueen  Orraca  alighted  tiien, 

And  fell  upon  her  knees. 

The  Friars  of  Alanquer  came  first, 
And  next  the  relics  past ;  — 

Queen  Orraca  look'd  to  see 

The  King  and  his  Knights  come  last. 

She  heard  the  horses  tramp  behind  ; 

At  tliat  she  turn'd  her  face  : 
King  AfFonso  and  his  Knights  came  up 

All  panting  from  the  chase. 

"  Have  pity  upon  my  poor  soul, 
Holy  Martyrs  five  !  "  cried  she  : 

"  Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God, 
Virgin,  pray  for  me  !  " 


That  day  in  Coimbra 

Many  a  heart  was  gay ; 
But  the  heaviest  heart  in  Coimbra 

Was  that  poor  Queen's  that  day. 

The  festival  is  over, 

The  sun  hath  sunk  in  the  west ; 
All  the  people  in  Coimbra 

Have  betaken  themselves  to  rest. 

Queen  Orraca's  Father  Confessor 

At  midnight  is  awake, 
Kneeling  at  the  Martyrs'  shrine, 

And  praying  for  her  sake. 

Just  at  the  midnight  hour,  when  all 

Was  still  as  still  could  be. 
Into  the  Church  of  Santa  Cruz 

Came  a  saintly  company. 

All  in  robes  of  russet  gray. 

Poorly  were  they  dight ; 
Each  one  girdled  with  a  cord, 

Like  a  Friar  Minorite. 

But  from  those  robes  of  russet  gray, 
There  flow'd  a  heavenly  light; 

For  each  one  was  the  blessed  soul 
Of  a  Friar  Minorite. 

Brighter  than  their  brethren, 

Among  the  beautiful  band, 
Five  were  there  who  each  did  bear 

A  palm-branch  in  his  hand. 

He  who  led  the  brethren, 

A  living  man  was  he  ; 
And  yet  he  shone  the  brightest 

Of  all  the  company. 

Before  the  steps  of  the  altar, 

Each  one  bow'd  his  head  ; 
And  then  with  solemn  voice  they  sung 

The  Service  of  the  Dead. 


"  And  who  are  ye,  ye  blessed  Saints.?  " 

The  Father  Confessor  said  ; 
"  And  for  what  happy  soul  sing  ye 

The  Service  of  the  Dead.'  " 

"  These  are  the  souls  of  our  brethren  in  bliss; 

The  Martyrs  five  are  we  : 
And  this  is  our  father  Francisco, 

Among  us  bodily. 

"  We  are  come  hither  to  perform 

Our  promise  to  the  Queen  ; 
Go  thou  to  King  AfFonso, 

And  say  what  thou  hast  seen." 

There  was  loud  knocking  at  the  door, 

As  the  heavenly  vision  fled ; 
And  the  porter  called  to  the  Confessor, 

To  tell  him  the  Queen  was  dead. 

Bristol,  1803. 


OLD   WOMAN   OF   BERKELEY, 

A  BALL.\D, 

SHOWING    HOW    AN    OLD    WOMAN    RODE    DODBLE, 
AND    WHO    RODE    BEFORE    HER. 


A.  D.  852.  Circa  dies  istos,  mulier  quwdam  vialefica,  in  villSt 
giuB  Bcrkeleia  dicitur  degens,  gulai  amatriz  ac  pclvlantia, 
Jlagiliis  modum  usque  in  senium  et  auguriis  nonponcns,  usque 
ad  mortem  impudica  permansit.  Hire  die  qitadam  cum  sedcret 
ad  prandium,  cornictda  quam  pro  dcUtiis  pasccbat,  nescio  quid 
garrire  coepil ;  quo  audita,  mulieris  cultellus  de  vianu  eicidit, 
simul  et  fades  pallescere  c(rpit,  ct  cmisso  rugilu,  hodie,  inquit, 
accipiam  grande  iiicommodunt,  Iwdicque  ad  sulcum  ultimum 
mium  pcrvenit  aralrum.  Quo  dicto,  nuncius  doloris  intravit ; 
muliere  vcro  pcrcunctata  ad  quid  vcniret,  affcro,  inquit,  tibi 
Jilii  tui  obitaia  et  totius familitc  ejus  ft  subitd,  ruina  interitum. 
Hoc  quoquc  dolorc  mulier  permota,  ler.to  protinus  decubuit  gra- 
vitcr  iiijirmata ;  sentiensquemorbumsubrepereadvitajia,  liberos 
quos  habuit  supcrstitcs,  monachum  videlicet  et  moitacham,  per 
epislolam  invitavit ;  adrcnienlcs  autem  voce  sin gultiente  allo- 
quitur.  Ego,  inquit,  a  piteri,  meo  miserabili  fato  d/Bmaniacis 
semper  artibus  inserviin ;  ego  omnium  vitiorum  sentina,  ego  il- 
lecehrarum  omnium  fui  magistra.  Erat  tameii  jnilii  inter  fuBC 
mala  spes  vestra  religiunis,  qua:  meam  solidarct  animam  de- 
speratam ;  vos  eipectabam  propugnatores  contra  damones, 
tutores  contra  savissimos  hastes.  JVmmc  igitur  guoniam  ad 
finem  vita:  perveni,  rogo  vos  per  malenia  uhtra,  ut  mea  tenia- 
tis  alleriare  tnrmcnla.  Jnsuite  me  difunctam  in  corio  cervino, 
ac  deiiule  in  sarcnphago  lapideo  supponite,  operculumque  ferro 
et  plumbo  constringitc,  uc  demum  lapidcm  tribus  cathenis  fer- 
reis  et  fnrtissimis  circundantrs,  chricns  quinquaginta  psalmo- 
rum  cantores,  et  tot  per  tres  dies  presbyteros  missarum  cele^ 
bratores  upplicalc,  quiferoces  Icnigcnt  adversariorum  incursus. 
Ita  si  tribus  noctihus  secura  jacurro,  quarlB.  die  me  infodite 
humo. 

Factunique  est  ut  pnrcrperat  illis.  Scd,  proh  dolor!  nil  preces, 
nil  lacriima:,  nil  demum  valuere  calhemc.  Primis  cnim  duabus 
voctibus,  cunt  cfiori  psallcntium  corpori  assistebant,  advcnientes 
DiCmones  ostium  ecclesitc  confregerunt  ingenii  obice  clausum, 
cztremasque  cathrnas  ntgolio  levi  dirumpunt ;  media  autem 
qua;  fortiur  erat,  illibata  manebat.  Trrtia  autem  nocte,  circa 
gallicinium,  strcpitu  hostiumadvrntantium,omne  monasterium 
vl'ium  est  a  fundamento  movrri.  Unas  ergo  damonum,  et 
vultu  ca'terui  terrihilior  et  staturh  eminentior,  januas  Ecclesia 
impetu  viulento  concussns  in  fragmenla  dejecit.     Diveierunt 


THE    OLD    WOMAN    OF    BERKELEY. 


473 


clerici  cum  laicis,  metu  steterunt  onmium  capilU,  et  psalmoi-um 
conceiUus  difccit.  Dtcmoii  ergo  gcstu  ut  videbatur  arroganti 
ad  sepulchram  accrdcns,  cl  nomcn  malicris  modicum  ingcmi- 
nans^  surgere  impcravit.  Qua  respondmte,  quod  nequiret  pro 
vutculisjjnm  malo  tuo,  iiKjuU,  sulccris ;  U  prutiiius  calhcnam 
qiix  cdslcrorum  fcrociiDii  dcciiwnuni  dchiscml,  vtiul  stuppeum 
vinculum  rumpcbat.  Operculum  r.tiam  sepulckrl  pede  depel- 
lens,  viulkrein  palum  omnibus  ah  ecclesia  extraxit,  ubi  priE 
foribus  niger  equus  supcrbe  launiens  videbatur,  uncis  firreis 
el  clavis  uiidique  fOH./iju.<,  super  quern  viisei-a  mulier  projeclit, 
ab  oculis  assistenlium  cvanmt.  Audiebautur  tauten  clamorcs 
per  quatuurftrc  miliaria  hurribdvs,  auxilium  postulantcs. 
{sta  itaquc  qua  retuli  incredibiUa  noii  erunt,  si  legatur  beati 
Oreirorii  dialogus,  in  quo  refert,  hominem  in  eeclesid sepultum, 
a  dir,monihus  foras  ejectum.  Et  apud  Francos  Curoliis  Mar- 
tellus  iTisignis  vir  f„rtitadims,  qui  Saraeenos  OaUiani  in- 
gressos,  Hispaniam  redire  compultt,  ezactis  vitte  suw  diebus, 
in  Eeclesid  beati  Dionysii  legitur  fuisse  scpultus.  Sed  quia 
patrimania,  cum  decimis  omnium  fere  ccclcsiarum  Oullitc,  pro 
stipendio  commilitonum  suorum  mul'davcrut,  miscrabiUtcr  a 
maligni-i  spiritibus  de  sepulchro  corporaliter  avulsus,  usque  in 
liodiernum  diem  nusquam  comparuU.  —  Matthew  of  West- 

VrNSTER. 

This  story  is  also  relateJ  by  Olaus  Magnus,  and  in  tlie  Nu- 
remberg Clironicle.  But  William  of  Malmesbury  si;ems  to 
have  been  the  original  authority,  ami  he  had  the  story  from 
an  eye-witness.  "  When  I  shall  have  rel.ited  it,"  he  says, 
"  the  credit  of  the  niirrative  will  not  he  shak(,'n,  though  the 
minds  of  the  hearers  should  he  incredulous,  for  I  have  heard 
it  from  a  man  of  such  character  ro/(o  woulJ  swear  he  liad  seen 
it,  that  I  should  blush  to  disbelieve."  —  Sliurpe's  William 
OF  Malmesdury,  p.  2G4. 


The  Raven  croak'd  as  she  sat  at  her  meal, 
And  the  Old  Woman  knew  what  he  said, 

And  she  grew  pale  at  the  Raven's  tale, 
And  sicken'd,  and  went  to  her  bed. 

"  Now  fetch  me  my  children,  and  fetch  them  with 
speed," 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  said  ; 
"The  Monk  my  son,  and  my  daughter  the  Nun, 

Bid  them  hasten,  or  I  shall  be  dead." 

The  Monk  her  son,  and  her  daughter  the  Nun, 

Their  way  to  Berkeley  went ; 
And  they  have  brought,  with  pious  thought. 

The  holy  sacrament. 

The    Old    Woman   shriek'd   as   they  enter'd  her 
door; 

And  she  cried  with  a  voice  of  despair, 
"  Now  take  away  the  sacrament. 

For  its  presence  I  cannot  bear!  " 

Her  lip  it  trembled  with  agony  ; 

The  sweat  ran  down  her  brow  ; 
"  I  have  tortures  in  store  for  evermore, 

But  spare  me,  my  children,  now  !  " 

Away  they  sent  the  sacrament  ; 

The  fit  it  left  her  weak  ; 
She  look'd  at  her  children  with  ghastly  eyes. 

And  faintly  struggled  to  speak. 

"All  kind  of  sin  I  liave  rioted  in. 

And  the  judgment  now  must  be  ; 
But  I  secured  my  children's  souls  ; 

Oh  I  pray,  my  children,  for  me  ! 
60 


"  I  have  'nointed  myself  with  infants'  fat ; 

The  fiends  have  been  my  slaves  ; 
From  sleeping  babes  I  have  suck'd  the  breath; 
And,  breaking  by  charms  the  sleep  of  deatli, 

1  have  call'd  the  dead  from  their  graves. 

"  And  the  Devil  will  fetch  me  now  in  fire, 

My  witchcrafts  to  atone ; 
And  I,  who  have  troubled  the  dead  man's  grave. 

Shall  never  have  rest  in  my  own. 

"  Bless,  I  entreat,  my  winding  sheet. 

My  children,  I  beg  of  you ; 
And  with  holy  water  sprinkle  my  shroud, 

And  sprinkle  my  coffin  too. 

"  And  let  me  be  chain'd  in  my  coffin  of  stone. 

And  fasten  it  strong,  I  implore. 
With  iron  bars,  and  with  three  chains 

Chain  it  to  the  church  floor. 

"And  bless  tlie  chains,  and  sprinkle  them; 

And  let  fifty  Priests  stand  round, 
Who  night  and  day  the  mass  may  say 

Where  I  lie  on  the  ground. 

"  And  see  that  fifty  Choristers 

Beside  the  bier  attend  me, 
And  day  and  night,  by  the  tapers'  light, 

With  holy  hymns  defend  me. 

"  Let  the  church  bells  all,  both  great  and  small, 

Be  toll'd  by  night  and  day, 
To  drive  from  thence  the  fiends  who  come 

To  bear  my  body  away. 

"  And  ever  have  tlie  church-door  barr'd 

After  the  even-song ; 
And  I  beseech  you,  children  dear. 

Let  the  bars  and  bolts  be  strong. 

"  And  let  this  be  three  days  and  nights, 

My  wretched  corpse  to  save ; 
Till  the  fourth  morning  keep  me  safe. 

And  then  I  may  rest  in  my  grave." 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  laid  her  down. 

And  her  eyes  grew  deadly  dim  ; 
Short  came  her  breath,  and  the  struggle  of  death 

Did  loosen  every  limb. 

They  bless'd  the  old  woman's  winding  sheet 

With  rites  and  prayers  due  ; 
With  holy  water  they  sprinkled  her  shroud. 

And  they  sprinkled  her  coffin  too. 

And  they  chain'd  her  in  her  coffin  of  stone. 

And  with  iron  barr'd  it  down, 
And  in  the  church  with  three  strong  chains 

They  chain'd  it  to  the  ground. 

And  they  bless'd  the  chains,  and  sprinkled  them 

And  fifty  Priests  stood  round. 
By  night  and  day  the  mass  to  say 

Where  she  lay  on  the  ground. 


474                            THE    OLD    WOMAN    OF    BERKELEY. 

And  fifty  sacred  Choristers 

The  third  night  came,  and  the  tapers'  flame 

Beside  the  bier  attend  her, 

A  frightful  stench  did  make ; 

Who  day  and  night,  by  the  tapers'  light, 

And  they  burnt  as  though  they  had  been  dipp'd 

Sliould  with  holy  hymns  defend  her. 

In  the  burning  brimstone  lake. 

To  see  the  Priests  and  Choristers 

And  the    loud  commotion,   like  the   rushing  of 

It  was  a  goodly  sight, 

ocean, 

Each  holding,  as  it  were  a  staff, 

Grew  momently  more  and  more; 

A  taper  burning  bright. 

And  strokes  as  of  a  battering-ram 

Did  shake  the  strong  church  door. 

And  the  church  bells  all,  both  great  and  small. 

Did  toll  so  loud  and  long; 

The  bellmen  they  for  very  fear 

And  they  have  barr'd  the  church  door  hard, 

Could  toll  the  bell  no  longer ; 

After  the  even-song. 

And  still  as  louder  grew  the  strokes, 

Their  fear  it  grew  the  stronger. 

And  the  first  night  the  tapers'  light 

Burnt  steadily  and  clear ; 

The  Monk  and  Nun  forgot  their  beads; 

But  they  without  a  hideous  rout 

They  fell  on  the  ground  in  dismay  ; 

Of  angry  fiends  could  hear ;  — 

There  was  not  a  single  Saint  in  heaven 

To  whom  they  did  not  pray. 

A  hideous  roar  at  the  church  door, 

Like  a  long  thunder  peal ; 

And  the  Choristers'  song,  which  late  was  so  strong, 

And  the  Priests  they  pray'd,  and  the  Choristers 

Falter'd  with  consternation ; 

sung 

For  the  church  did  rock  as  an  earthquake  shock 

Louder,  in  fearful  zeal. 

Uplifted  its  foundation. 

Loud  toll'd  the  bell ;   the  priests  pray'd  well ; 

And  a  sound  was  heard  like  the  trumpet's  blast 

The  tapers  they  burnt  bright ; 

That  shall  one  day  wake  the  dead  ; 

The  Monk  her  son,  and  her  daughter  the  Nun, 

The  strong  church  door  could  bear  no  more. 

They  told  their  beads  all  night. 

And  the  bolts  and  the  bars  they  fled;  — 

The  cock  he  crew  ;  the  Fiends  they  flew 

And  the  tapers'  light  was  extinguish'd  quite ; 

From  the  voice  of  the  morning  away ; 

And  the  Choristers  faintly  sung; 

Then  undisturb'd  the  Clioristers  sing. 

And  the  Priests,  dismay'd,  panted  and  pray'd, 

And  the  fifty  Priests  they  pray; 

And  on  all  Saints  in  heaven  for  aid 

As  they  had  sung  and  pray'd  all  night. 

They  call'd  with  trembling  tongue. 

They  pray'd  and  sung  all  day. 

And  in  He  came  with  eyes  of  flame. 

The  second  night  the  tapers'  light 

The  Devil,  to  fetch  the  dead  ; 

Burnt  dismally  and  blue. 

And  all  the  church  with  his  presence  glow'd 

And  every  one  saw  his  neighbor's  face 

Like  a  fiery  furnace  red. 

Like  a  dead  man's  face  to  view. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  iron  chains, 

And  yells  and  cries  without  arise, 

And  like  flax  they  moulder'd  asunder. 

That  the  stoutest  heart  might  shock, 

And  the  coffin  lid,  which  was  barr'd  so  firm, 

And  a  deafening  roaring  like  a  cataract  pouring 

He  burst  with  his  voice  of  thunder. 

Over  a  mountain  rock. 

And  he  bade  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  rise. 

The  Monk  and  Nun  they  told  their  beads 

And  come  with  her  master  away ; 

As  fast  as  they  could  tell, 

A  cold  sweat  started  on  that  cold  corpse, 

And  aye  as  louder  grew  the  noise. 

At  the  voice  she  was  forced  to  obey. 

The  faster  went  the  bell. 

She  rose  on  her  feet  in  her  winding-sheet; 

Louder  and  louder  the  Choristers  sung, 

Her  dead  flesh  quiver'd  with  fear ; 

As  they  trembled  more  and  more ; 

And  a  groan  like  that  which  the  Old  Woman  gave 

And  the  Priests  as  they  pray'd  to  Heaven  for  aid. 

Never  did  mortal  hear. 

They  smote  their  breasts  full  sore. 

She  follow'd  her  Master  to  the  church  door ; 

The  cock  he  crew ;  the  Fiends  they  flew 

There  stood  a  black  horse  there ; 

From  the  voice  of  the  morning  away ; 

His  breath  was  red  like  furnace  smoke. 

Then  undisturb'd  the  Choristers  sing. 

His  eyes  like  a  meteor's  glare. 

And  the  fifty  Priests  they  pray ; 

As  they  had  sung  and  pray'd  all  night. 

The  Devil  he  flung  her  on  the  horse, 

They  pray'd  and  sung  all  day. 

And  he  leap'd  up  before. 

THE    SURGEON'S    WARNING. 


475 


And  away  like  the  lightning's  speed  they  went, 
And  she  was  seen  no  more. 

Tliey  saw  her  no  more ;  but  her  cries 
For  four  miles  round  they  could  hear ; 

And  children  at  rest  at  their  niotiiers'  breast 
Started,  and  scream'd  with  fear. 

Hereford,  1798. 


THE 


SURGEON'S    WARNING 


Tlie  subject  of  this  parody  was  suggested  by  a  friend,  to  whom 
also  I  am  indebted  for  some  of  the  stanzas. 

Respecting  the  patent  coffins  herein  mentioned,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Catholic  Poets,  who  confess  the  actions  they  attribute 
to  their  Saints  and  Deity  to  be  but  fiction,  I  hereby  declare 
that  it  is  by  no  means  my  design  to  depreciate  that  useful  in- 
vention ;  and  all  persons  to  whom  this  Ballad  shall  come 
are  requested  to  take  notice,  that  nothing  herein  asserted 
concerning  the  aforesaid  coffins  is  true,  except  that  the 
maker  and  patentee  lives  by  St.  Martin's  Lane. 


The  Doctor  whisper'd  to  the  Nurse, 
And  the  Surgeon  knew  what  he  said ; 

And  he  grew  pale  at  the  Doctor's  tale, 
And  trembled  in  his  sick  bed. 

"  Now  fetch  me  my  brethren,  and  fetch  them  with 
speed," 

The  Surgeon  affrighted  said ; 
"  The  Parson  and  the  Undertaker, 

Let  them  hasten,  or  I  shall  be  dead." 

The  Parson  and  the  Undertaker 

They  hastily  came  complying, 
And  the  Surgeon's  Prentices  ran  up  stairs 

When  they  heard  that  their  Master  was  dying. 

The  Prentices  all  they  enter'd  the  room, 

By  one,  by  two,  by  three; 
With  a  sly  grin  came  Joseph  in, 

First  of  the  company. 

The  Surgeon  swore,  as  they  enter'd  his  door,  — 

'Twas  fearful  his  oaths  to  hear, — 
"  Now  send  these  scoundrels  out  of  my  sight, 

1  beseech  ye,  my  brethren  dear  !  " 

He  foam'd  at  the  mouth  with  the  rage  he  felt, 
And  he  wrinkled  his  black  eyebrow  : 

"  That  rascal  Joe  would  be  at  me,  I  know, 
But,  zounds,  let  him  spare  me  now !  " 

Then  out  they  sent  the  Prentices ; 

The  fit  it  leil  him  weak ; 
He  look'd  at  his  brothers  with  ghastly  eyes, 

And  faintly  struggled  to  speak. 

"  All  kinds  of  carcasses  I  have  cut  up. 
And  now  my  turn  will  be  ; 


But,  brothers,  I  took  care  of  you  ; 
So  pray  take  care  of  me. 

"  I  have  made  candles  of  dead  men's  fat; 

The  Sextons  have  been  my  slaves ; 
I  have  bottled  babes  unborn,  and  dried 

Hearts  and  livers  from  rifled  graves. 

"  And  my  Prentices  now  will  surely  come 

And  carve  me  bone  from  bone ; 
And  I,  who  have  rifled  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Shall  never  have  rest  in  my  own. 

"  Bury  me  in  lead  when  1  am  dead, 

My  brethren,  I  entreat. 
And  see  the  coffin  weigh'd,  I  beg, 

Lest  the  plumber  should  be  a  cheat. 

"  And  let  it  be  solder'd  closely  down, 
Strong  as  strong  can  be,  I  implore ; 

And  put  it  in  a  patent  coffin. 
That  I  may  rise  no  more. 

"If  they  carry  me  off  in  the  patent  cofRn, 

Their  labor  will  be  in  vain  ; 
Let  the  Undertaker  see  it  bought  of  the  maker, 

Who  lives  by  St.  Martin's  Lane. 

"And  bury  me  in  my  brother's  church, 

For  that  will  safer  be  ; 
And,  I  implore,  lock  the  church  door, 

And  pray  take  care  of  the  key. 

"  And  all  night  long  let  three  stout  men 

The  vestry  watch  within ; 
To  each  man  give  a  gallon  of  beer, 

And  a  keg  of  Holland's  gin;  — 

"Powder  and  ball,  and  blunderbuss, 

To  save  me  if  he  can. 
And  eke  five  guineas  if  he  shoot 

A  Resurrection  Man. 

"  And  let  them  watch  me  for  three  weeks. 

My  wretched  corpse  to  save ; 
For  then  I  think  that  I  may  stink 

Enough  to  rest  in  my  grave." 

The  Surgeon  laid  him  down  in  his  bed ; 

His  eyes  grew  deadly  dim ; 
Short  came  his  breath,  and  the  struggle  of  death 

Did  loosen  every  limb. 

They  put  him  in  lead  when  he  was  dead, 

And,  with  precaution  meet. 
First  they  the  leaden  coffin  weigh, 

Lest  the  plumber  should  be  a  cheat. 

They  had  it  solder'd  closely  down. 

And  examin'd  it  o'er  and  o'er; 
And  they  put  it  in  a  patent  coffin. 

That  he  might  rise  no  more. 

For  to  carry  him  off  in  a  patent  coffin, 

Would,  they  thought,  be  but  labor  in  vain , 


47(i      THE    SURGEON'S   WARNING.  — HEN  RY    THE    HERMIT.                | 

So  the  Undertaker  saw  it  bought  of  the  maker, 

And  they  could  not  stand  the  sound  in  his  hand. 

Who  lives  by  St.  Martin's  Lane. 

For  he  made  the  guineas  chink. 

In  his  brother's  church  they  buried  him, 

And  conscience,  late  that  had  such  weight. 

That  safer  he  might  be ; 

All  in  a  moment  fails ; 

They  lock'd  tlie  door,  and  would  not  trust 

For  well  they  knew  that  it  was  true 

Tlie  Sexton  with  the  key. 

A  dead  man  tells  no  tales. 

And  three  men  in  the  vestry  watch, 

And  they  gave  all  their  powder  and  ball, 

To  save  him  if  they  can ; 

And  took  the  gold  so  bright ; 

And,  should  he  come  there,  to  shoot  they  swear 

And  tliey  drank  their  beer,  and  made  good  cheer. 

A  Resurrection  Man. 

Till  now  it  was  midnight. 

And  the  first  night,  by  lantern  light. 

Then,  though  the  key  of  the  church-door 

Through  the  church-yard  as  they  went. 

Was  left  with  the  Parson,  his  brother. 

A  guinea  of  gold  the  Sexton  show'd 

It  open'd  at  the  Sexton's  touch,  — 

That  Mister  Joseph  sent. 

Because  he  had  another. 

But  conscience  was  tough ;  it  was  not  enough ; 

And  in  they  go,  with  that  villain  Joe, 

And  their  honesty  never  swerved  ; 

To  fetch  the  body  by  night; 

And  they  bade  liim  go,  with  Mister  Joe, 

And  all  the  church  look'd  dismally 

To  the  devil,  as  he  deserved. 

By  his  dark-lantern  light. 

So  all  night  long,  by  the  vestry  fire. 

They  laid  the  pick-axe  to  the  stones, 

They  quafF'd  their  gin  and  ale  ; 

And  they  moved  them  soon  asunder ; 

And  they  did  drink,  as  you  may  think, 

They  shovell'd  away  the  hard-press'd  clay. 

And  told  full  many  a  tale. 

And  came  to  the  coffin  under. 

The  Cock  he  crew,  Cock-a-doodle-doo  ! 

They  burst  the  patent  coffin  first, 

Past  five  !  the  watchmen  said  ; 

And  they  cut  through  the  lead ; 

And  they  went  away,  for  while  it  was  day 

And  they  laugh'd  aloud  when  they  saw  the  shroud, 

They  might  safely  leave  the  dead. 

Because  they  had  got  at  the  dead. 

The  second  night,  by  lantern  light, 

And  they  allow'd  the  Sexton  the  shroud, 

Through  the  church-yard  as  they  went. 

And  they  put  the  coffin  back ; 

He  whisper'd  anew,  and  show'd  them  two, 

And  nose  and  knees  they  then  did  squeeze 

That  Mister  Joseph  sent. 

The  Surgeon  in  a  sack. 

The  guineas  were  bright,  and  attracted  their  sight. 

The  watchmen,  as  they  pass'd  along, 

They  look'd  so  heavy  and  new  ; 

Full  four  yards  off  could  smell, 

And  their  fingers  itch'd  as  they  were  bewitch'd. 

And  a  curse  bestow'd  upon  the  load 

And  they  knew  not  what  to  do. 

So  disagreeable. 

But  they  waver'd   not  long,  for  conscience  was 

So  they  carried  the  sack  a-pick-a-back. 

strong. 

And  they  carved  him  bone  from  bone ; 

And  they  thought  they  might  get  more  ; 

But  what  became  of  the  Surgeon's  soul 

And  they  refused  the  gold,  but  not 

Was  never  to  mortal  known. 

So  rudely  as  before. 

Westbunj,  1798. 

So  all  night  long,  by  the  vestry  fire. 

They  quaff"d  their  gin  and  ale ; 

And  they  did  drink,  as  you  may  think. 

And  told  full  many  a  tale. 

HENRY   THE   HERMIT. 

The  third  night,  as,  by  lantern  light. 
Through  the  church-yard  they  went. 

He  bade  them  see,  and  show'd  them  three. 

It  was  a  little  island  where  he  dwelt, 

That  Mister  Joseph  sent. 

A  solitary  islet,  bleak  and  bare, 

Short,  scanty  herbage  spotting  with  dark  spots 

They  look'd  askance  with  greedy  glance ; 

Its  gray  stone  surface.     Never  mariner 

The  guineas  they  shone  bright ; 

Approach'd  that  rude  and  uninviting  coast, 

For  the  Sexton  on  the  yellow  gold 

Nor  ever  fisherman  his  lonely  bark 

Let  fall  his  lantern  light. 

Anchor'd  beside  its  shore.     It  was  a  place 

Befitting  well  a  rigid  anchoret, 

And  he  look'd  sly  with  his  roguish  eye, 

Dead  to  the  hopes,  and  vanities,  and  joys. 

And  gave  a  well-timed  wink ; 

And  purposes  of  life;  and  he  had  dwelt 

ST.    GUALBERTO, 


477 


Many  long  years  upon  that  lonoly  isle ; 
F'or  in  ripe  manhood  he  abandon'd  arms, 
Honors,  and  friends,  and  country,  and  the  world, 
And  had  grown  old  in  solitude.     That  isle 
Some  solitary  man,  in  other  times, 
Had  made  his  dwelling-place;  and  Henry  found 
The  little  chapel  which  his  toil  had  built 
Now  by  tlie  storms  unroof  d,  liis  bod  of  leaves 
Wind-scatter'd;    and   his   grave  o'ergrown    with 

grass, 
And  thistles,  whose  wliite  seeds  there  wing'd  in 

vain, 
Withcr'd  on  rocks,  or  in  the  waves  were  lost. 
So  lie  repair'd  the  chapel's  ruin'd  roof, 
Clear'd  the  gray  lichens  from  the  altar-stone, 
And  underneath  a  rock  that  shelter'd  him 
From  the  sea-blast,  he  built  his  hermitage. 

[food. 
The  peasants  from  the  shore  would  bring  him 
And  beg  his  prayers ;  but  human  converse  else 
He  knew  not  in  that  utter  solitude; 
Nor  ever  visited  the  haunts  of  men. 
Save  when  some  sinful  vi^retch  on  a  sick  bed 
Implored  his  blessing  and  his  aid  in  death. 
That  summons  he  delay'd  not  to  obey. 
Though  the  niglit-tempest  or  autumnal  wind 
Madden'd  the  waves;  and  though  the  mariner, 
Albeit  relying  on  his  saintly  load, 
Grew  pale  to  see  the  peril.     Thus  he  lived 
A  most  austere  and  self-denying  man. 
Till  abstinence,  and  age,  and  watchfulness, 
Had  worn  him  down,  and  it  was  pain  at  last 
To  rise  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves. 
And  bend  his  knees  in  praye*.     Yet  not  the  less. 
Though  with  reluctance  of  infirmity. 
Rose  he  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves. 
And  bent  his  knees  in  prayer;  but  with  more  zeal, 
More  self-condemning  fervor,  raised  his  voice, 
Imploring  pardon  for  the  natural  sin 
Of  that  reluctance,  till  the  atoning  prayer 
Had  satisfied  his  heart,  and  given  it  peace, 
And  the  repented  fault  became  a  joy. 

One  night,  upon  the  shore  his  chapel-bell 
Was  heard ;  the  air  was  calm,  and  its  far  sounds 
Over  the  water  came,  distinct  and  loud. 
Alarm'd,  at  that  unusual  hour,  to  hear 
Its  toll  irregular,  a  monk  arose. 
And  cross'd  to  the  island-chapel.     On  a  stone 
Henry  was  sitting  there,  dead,  cold,  and  stiff. 
The  bell-rope  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet 
The  lamp*  that  stream'd  a  long,  unsteady  light. 

Westbunj,  1799. 


ST.  GUALBERTO. 

ADDRESSED    TO    GEORGE    BURNETT. 


Milton  has  made  the  name  of  Vallumhrosa  familiar  to  English 
readers;  Tew  of  whom,  unless  they  have  visited  the  spot, 

•  ThU  itory  U  related  in  the  English  Martjrolofy,  1603. 


know  that  it  is  tliC  chief  snat  of  a  religious  order  founded  by 
St.  Guilberto.  A  passige  in  one  of  Mi.ss  Seward's  early 
letters  shows  how  well  Milton  hurl  oh>erved  the  peculiar 
feature  of  its  autumniil  scenery.  "  I  have  heard  my  father 
say,  lliat  when  he  was  in  Italy  with  Ijord  Chiirlts  Fitzroy, 
they  travelled  through  Vallumbrosa  in  autumn,  after  the 
loaves  had  begun  to  fill  ;  and  that  their  guide  was  obliged 
to  try  what  was  land,  and  what  water,  by  pushing  a  long 
pole  before  him,  which  he  carried  in  his  hand,  the  vale 
being  so  very  iriiguous,  and  the  loaves  so  totally  covering 
the  surface  of  the  streams."  —  Poetical  Wm-ks  of  Ar>KE 
Sewabd,  with  Extracts  from  her  Literary  Correspondence, 
vol.  i.  p.  l.xxxvi. 

1. 

The  work  is  done  ;   the  fabric  is  complete ; 

Distinct  the  Traveller  sees  its  distant  tower, 
Yet,  ere  his  steps  attain  the  sacred  seat, 

Must  toil  for  many  a  league  and  many  an  hour. 
Elate  the  Abbot  sees  the  pile,  and  knows, 
Stateliest  of  convents  now,  his  new  Moscera  rose. 

2. 
Long  were  the  tale  that  told  Moscera's  pride. 

Its  columns'  cluster'd  strength  and  lofty  state. 
How  many  a  saint  bedeck'd  its  sculptured  side  ; 

What  intersecting  arches  graced  its  gate ; 
Its  towers  how  high,  its  massy  walls  how  strong, 
These  fairly  to  describe  were  sure  a  tedious  song. 

3. 

Yet  while  the  fane  rose  slowly  from  the  ground, 

But  little  store  of  charity,  I  ween. 
The  passing  pilgrim  at  Moscera  found ; 

And  often  there  the  mendicant  was  seen 
Hopeless  to  turn  him  from  the  convent  door. 
Because  this  costly  work  still  kept  the  brethren 
poor. 

4. 
Now  all  is  finish'd,  and  from  every  side 

They  flock  to  view  the  fabric,  young  and  old. 
Who  now  can  tell  Rodulfo's  secret  pride. 

When,  on  the  Sabbath-day,  his  eyes  behold 
The  multitudes  that  crowd  his  church's  floor, 
Some  sure  to  serve  their  God,  to  see  Moscera  more  i* 


So  chanced  it  that  Gualberto  pass'd  that  way, 

Since  sainted  for  a  life  of  saintly  deeds. 
He  paused,  the  new-rear'd  convent  to  survey. 

And,  o'er  the  structure  whilst  his  eye  proceeds, 
Sorrowed,  as  one  whose  holier  feelings  deem 
That  ill  so  proud  a  pile  did  humble  monks  beseem. 


Him,  musing  as  he  stood,  Rodulfo  saw. 

And  forth  he  came  to  greet  the  holy  guest; 
For  him  he  knew  as  one  who  held  the  law 

Of  Benedict,  and  each  severe  behest 
So  duly  kept  with  such  religious  care. 
That  Heaven  had  oft  vouchsafed  its  wonders  to 
his  prayer. 


"  Good  brother,  welcome  !  "  thus  Rodulfo  cries 
"  In  sooth  it  glads  me  to  behold  you  here ; 


478 


ST.    GUALBERTO. 


It  is  Gualberto !  and  mine  aged  eyes 

Did  not  deceive  me  :  yet  full  many  a  year 
Hath  slipp'd  away,  since  last  you  bade  farewell 
To  me  your  host  and  my  uncomfortable  cell. 


"  'Twas  but  a  sorry  welcome  then  you  found, 

And  such  as  suited  ill  a  guest  so  dear. 
The  pile  was  ruinous,  the  base  unsound ; 

It  glads  me  more  to  bid  you  welcome  here. 
For  you  can  call  to  mind  our  former  state ; 
Come,  brother,  pass  with  me  the  new  Moscera's 
gate." 


So  spake  the  cheerful  Abbot ;  but  no  smile 
Of  answering  joy  relax'd  Gualberto's  brow ; 

He  raised  his  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  pile  — 
"  Moscera  better  pleased  me  then,  than  now ; 

A  palace  this,  befitting  kingly  pride  ! 
Will  holiness,  my  friend,  in  palace  pomp  abide  .'  " 

10. 
"  Ay,"  cries  Rodulfo,  "  'tis  a  stately  place  ! 

And  pomp  becomes  the  House  of  Worship  well. 
Nay,  scowl  not  round  with  so  severe  a  face ! 

When  earthly  kings  in  seats  of  grandeur  dwell, 

Where  art  exhausted  decks  the  sumptuous  hall, 

Can  poor  and  sordid  huts  beseem  the  Lord  of  all .'  " 

11. 

"  And  ye  have  rear'd  these  stately  towers  on  high 
To  serve  your  God  ?  "  the  Monk  severe  replied ; 

"  It  rose  from  zeal  and  earnest  piety. 

And  prompted  by  no  worldly  thoughts  beside  ? 

Abbot,  to  him  who  prays  with  soul  sincere, 
However  poor  the  cell,  God  will  incline  his  ear. 

12. 

"  Rodulfo !  while  this  haughty  building  rose, 

Still  was  the  pilgrim  welcome  at  your  door  ? 
Did  charity  relieve  the  orphan's  woes .' 

Clothed  ye  the  naked  .'  did  ye  feed  the  poor  ? 
He  who  with  alms  most  succors  the  distress'd. 
Proud  Abbot !  know  he  serves  his  heavenly  Father 
best. 

13. 
"  Did  they  in  sumptuous  palaces  go  dwell 

Who  first  abandon'd  all  to  serve  the  Lord .'' 
Their  place  of  worship  was  the  desert  cell ; 
Wild  fruits  and  berries  spread  their  frugal 
board ; 
And  if  a  brook,  like  this,  ran  murmuring  by. 
They  bless'd  their  gracious  God,  and  '  thought  it 
luxury.'  " 

14. 

Then  anger  darken'd  in  Rodulfo's  face ; 

"  Enough  of  preaching,"  sharply  he  replied  ; 
"  Thou  art  grown  envious ;  'tis  a  common  case  ; 

Humility  is  made  the  cloak  of  pride. 
Proud  of  our  home's  magnificence  are  we, 
But  thou  art  far  more  proud  in  rags  and  beggary." 


15. 

With  that  Gualberto  cried  in  fervent  tone, 
"  O  Father,  hear  me  !    If  this  costly  pile 
Was  for  thine  honor  rear'd,  and  thine  alone. 

Bless  it,  O  Father,  with  thy  fostering  smile  ! 
Still  may  it  stand,  and  never  evil  know. 
Long  as  beside  its  walls  the  endless  stream  shall 
flow. 

16. 

"But,  Lord,  if  vain  and  worldly-minded  men 
Have  wasted  here  the  wealth  which  thou  hast 
lent. 
To  pamper  worldly  pride  ;  frown  on  it  then ! 

Soon  be  thy  vengeance  manifestly  sent ! 
Let  yonder  brook,  that  gently  flows  beside, 
Now  from  its  base  sweep  down  the  unholy  house 
of  pride!" 

17. 

He  said,  —  and  lo,  the  brook  no  longer  flows ! 

The  waters  pause,  and  now  they  swell  on  high ; 
Erect  in  one  collectedheap  they  rose ; 

The  affrighted  brethren  from  Moscera  fly. 
And  upon  all  the  Saints  in  Heaven  they  call. 
To  save  them  in  their  flight  from  that  impending 
fall. 

18. 
Down  the  heap'd  waters  came,  and,  with  a  sound 

Like  thunder,  overthrown  the  fabric  falls; 
Swept  far   and  wide,  its  fragments   strow  the 
ground. 
Prone  lie  its  columns  now,  its  high-arch'd  walls; 
Earth  shakes  beneath  the  onward-rolling  tide. 
That  from  its  base  swept  down  the  unholy  house 
of  pride. 


19. 
Were  old  Gualberto's  reasons  built  on  truth. 

Dear  George,  or  like  Moscera's  base  unsound .' 
This  sure  I  know,  that  glad  am  I,  in  sooth. 

He  only  play'd  his  pranks  on  foreign  ground ; 
For  had  he  turn'd  the  stream  on  England  too, 
The  Vandal  monk  had  spoilt  full  many  a  goodly 
view. 

20. 

Then  Malmesbury's  arch   had  never   met   my 
sight, 
Nor  Battle's  vast  and  venerable  pile ; 
I  had  not  traversed  then  with  sucii  delight 
The  hallowed  ruins  of  our  Alfred's  isle. 
Where  many  a  pilgrim's  curse  is  well  bestow'd 
On  those  who  rob  its  walls  to  mend  the  turnpike 
road. 

21. 

Wells   would   have    fallen,   dear    George,   our 

country's  pride; 
And  Canning's  stately  church  been  rear'd  in 

vain  ; 
Nor  had  the  traveller  Ely's  tower  descried, 


ST.    GUALBERTO, 


479 


Which  when  thou  seest  far  o'er  the  fenny  plain. 
Dear  George,  I  counsel  thee  to  turn  that  way ; 
Its  ancient  beauties  sure  will  well  reward  delay. 

22. 
And  we  should  never  then  have  heard,  1  think. 
At  evening  hour,  great   Tom's   tremendous 
knell. 
The  fountain  streams  that  now  in  Christ-church 
stink, 
Had  Niagara'd  o'er  the  quadrangle  ; 
But,  as  'twas  beauty  tliat  deserved  the  flood, 
I  ween,  dear  George,  thy  own  old  Pompey  might 
have  stood. 

23. 
Then  had  not  Westminster,  the  house  of  God, 

Served  for  a  concert-room,  or  signal-post : 
Old  Thames,  obedient  to  the  father's  nod. 
Had    swept     down    Greenwich,    England's 
noblest  boast ; 
And,  eager  to  destroy  the  unholy  walls, 
Fleet  Ditch  had  roU'd  up  hill  to  overwhelm  St. 
Paul's. 

24. 

George,  dost  thou  deem  the  legendary  deeds 
Of  saints  like  this  but  rubbish,  a  mere  store 
Of  trash,  that  he  flings  time  away  who  reads  .'' 
And  wouldst  thou  rather  bid  ine  puzzle  o'er 
Matter  and  Mind  and  all  the  eternal  round, 
Plunged  headlong  down  the  dark  and  fathomless 
profound .'' 

25. 

Now  do  I  bless  the  man  who  undertook 
These  Monks  and  Martyrs  to  biographize  ; 

And  love  to  ponder  o'er  his  ponderous  book, 
The  mingle-mangle  mass  of  truth  and  lies. 

Where  waking  fancies  mix'd  with  dreams  appear, 
And  blind  and  honest  zeal,  and  holy  faith  sincere. 

26. 

All  is  not  truth ;  and  yet,  methinks,  'twere  hard 

Of  wilful  fraud  such  fablers  to  accuse  ; 
What  if  a  Monk,  from  better  themes  debarr  d, 

Should  for  an  edifying  story  choose 
How  some   great   Saint   the    Flesh   and  Fiend 
o'ercame ; 
His  taste  I  trow,  and  not  his  conscience,  were  to 
blame. 

27. 
No  fault  of  his,  if  what  he  thus  design'd. 
Like  pious  novels  for  the  use  of  youth, 
Obtain'd  such  hold  upon  the  simple  mind 

That  was  received  at  length  for  gospel-truth. 
A  fair  account  I  and  shouldst  thou  like  the  plea, 
Tliank  thou  our  valued  friend,  dear  George,  who 
taught  it  me. 

28. 
All  is  not  false  which  seems  at  first  a  lie. 

Fernan  Antolinez,  a  Spanish  knight, 
Kneitat  the  mass,  when,  lo  I  the  troops  hard  by 

Before  the  expected  hour  began  the  fight. 


Though  courage,  duty,  honor,  summon'd  there, 
He   chose   to  forfeit  all,  not  leave  the  unfinish'd 
prayer. 

29. 
But  while  devoutly  thus  the  unarm'd  knight 

Waits  till  the  holy  service  should  be  o'er. 
Even  then  the  foremost  in  the  furious  fight 

Was  he  behold  to  bathe  his  sword  in  gore ; 
First  in  the  van  his  plumes  were  seen  to  play. 
And  all  to  him  decreed  the  glory  of  the  day. 

30. 
The  truth  is  told,  and  men  at  once  exclaim'd. 
Heaven  had  his  Guardian  Angel  deign'd  to 
send ; 
And  thus  the  tale  is  handed  down  to  fame. 
Now,  if  our  good  Sir  Fernan  had  a  friend 
Who  in  this  critical  season  served  him  well, 
Dear  George,  the  tale  is  true,  and  yet  no  miracle. 

31. 

I  am  not  one  who  scan  with  scornful  eyes 
The  dreams  which  make  the  enthusiast's  best 
delight; 
Nor  thou  the  legendary  lore  despise. 
If  of  Gualberto  yet  again  I  write. 
How  first  impell'd  he  sought  the  convent  cell ; 
A  simple  tale  it  is,  but  one  that  pleased  me  well. 


32. 

Fortune  had  smiled  upon  Gualberto's  birth, 

The  heir  of  Valdespesa's  rich  domains ; 
An  only  child,  he  grew  in  years  and  worth, 
And  well  repaid  a  father's  anxious  pains. 
In  many  a  field  that  father  had  been  tried. 
Well  for  his  valor  known,  and  not  less  known  for 
pride. 

33. 

It  chanced  that  one  in  kindred  near  allied 

Was  slain  by  his  hereditary  foe ; 
Much  by  his  sorrow  moved,  and  more  by  pride, 
The  father  vow'd  that  blood  for  blood  should 
flow ; 
And  from  his  youth  Gualberto  had  been  taught 
That  with  unceasing  hate  should  just  revenge  be 
sought. 

34. 

Long  did  they  wait ;  at  length  the  tidings  came 

That,  through  a  lone  and  unfrequented  way. 
Soon    would   Anselmo  —  such   the    rnurderer'.s 
name  — 
Pass  on  his  journey  home,  an  easy  prey. 
"  Go,"  said  the  father,  "  meet  him  in  the  wood  ! ' 
And  young  Gualberto  went,  and  laid  in  wait  for 
blood. 

35. 

When  now  the  youth  was  at  the  forest  shade 
Arrived,  it  drew  toward  the  close  of  day; 

Anselmo  haply  might  be  long  dclay'd, 
And  he,  already  wearied  with  his  way, 


480 


ST.    GUALBERTO, 


Bencatli  an  ancient  oak  his  limbs  reclined, 
And  thoughts  of  near  revenge  alone  possess'd  his 
mind. 

36. 
Slow  sunk  the  glorious  sun  ;  a  roseate  light 

Spread  o'er  the  forest  from  his  lingering  rays; 
The  glowing  clouds  upon  Gualbcrto's  sight 
Soften'd  in  shade,  —  he  could  not  choose  but 
gaze; 
And  now  a  placid  grayness  clad  the  heaven, 
Save  where  the  west  retain'd  the  last  green  light 
of  even. 

37. 

Cool  breathed  the  grateful  air,  and  fresher  now 
The  fragrance  of  the  autumnal  leaves  arose  ; 
The  passing  gale  scarce  moved  the  o'erhanging 
bough. 
And  not  a  sound  disturb'd  the  deep  repose, 
Save  when  a  falling  leaf  came  fluttering  by, 
Save   the  near   brooklet's  stream  that  murmur'd 
quietly. 

38. 

Is  there  who  has  not  felt  the  deep  delight. 
The   hush   of  soul,   that   scenes   Ike    these 
impart .'' 
The  heart  they  will  not  soften  is  not  riglit ; 

And  young  Gualberto  was  not  hard  of  heart. 
Yet  sure  he  thinks  revenge  becomes  him  well. 
When  from  a  neighboring  church  he  heard  the 
vesper-bell. 

39. 
The  Romanist  who  hears  that  vesper-bell, 
Howe'er   employ'd,   must  send   a   prayer   to 
Heaven. 
In  foreign  lands  I  liked  the  custom  well ; 

For  with  the  calm  and  sober  thoughts  of  even 
It  well  accords;  and  wert  thou  journeying  there. 
It  would  not  hurt  thee,  George,  to  join  that  ves- 
per-prayer. 

40. 
Gualberto  had  been  duly  taught  to  hold 
All  pious  customs  with  religious  care  ; 
And — for  the  young  man's  feelings  were  not  cold, — 
He  never  yet  had  miss'd  his  vesper-prayer. 
But  strange  misgivings  now  his  heart  invade; 
And  when  the  vesper-bell  had  ceased,  he  had  not 
pray'd. 

41. 
And  wherefore  was  it  that  he  had  not  pray'd  ? 

The  sudden  doubt  arose  within  his  mind. 
And  many  a  former  precept  then  he  weigh'd. 

The  words  of  Him  who  died  to  save  mankind; 
How  'twas  the  meek  who  should  inherit  Heaven, 
And    man   must   man   forgive,    if  he    would   be 
forgiven. 

42. 

Troubled  at  heart,  almost  he  felt  a  hope. 
That  yet  some  chance  his  victim  might  delay. 


So  as  he  mused  adown  the  neighboring  slope, 

He  saw  a  lonely  traveller  on  his  way  ; 
And  now  he  knows  the  man  so  much  abliorr'd,  — 
His  holier  thoughts  are  gone,  he  bares  the  murder- 
ous sword. 

43. 

"  The  house  of  Valdespesa  gives  the  blow  ! 

Go,  and  our  vengeance  to  our  kinsman  tell !  " 

Despair  and  terror  seized  the  unarm'd  foe, 

And  prostrate  at  the  young  man's  knees  he 

fell. 

And  stopp'd  his  hand  and  cried,"  Oh,  do  not  take 

A  wretched  sinner's  life !  mercy  for  Jesus'  sake  !  " 

44. 
At  that  most  blessed  name,  as  at  a  spell. 

Conscience,  the  power  within  him,  smote  his 
heart. 
His  hand,  for  murder  raised,  unharming  fell; 

He  felt  cold  sweat-drops  on  his  forehead  start ; 
A  moment  mute  in  holy  horror  stood, 
Then  cried,  "  Joy,  joy,  my  God  !  I  have  not  shed 
his  blood  ! " 

45. 
He  raised  Ansel  mo  up,  and  bade  him  live. 

And  bless,  for  both  preserved,  that  holy  name  ; 
And  pray'd  the  astonisli'd  foeman  to  forgive 

The  bloody  purpose  led  by  which  he  came. 
Then  to  the  neighboring  church  he  sped  away, 
His  overburden'd  soul  before  his  God  to  lay. 

46. 
He  ran  with  breathless  speed,  —  he  reach'd  the 
door,  — 
With  rapid  throbs  his  feverish  pulses  swell;  — 
He  came  to  crave  for  pardon,  to  adore 

For  grace  vouchsafed  ;  before  the  cross  he  fell. 
And  raised  his  swimming  eyes,  and  thought  that 
there 
He  saw  the  imaged  Christ  smile  favoring  on  his 
prayer. 


A  blest  illusion  !  from  that  very  niglit 

The  Monk's  austerest  life  devout  he  led ; 
And  still  he  felt  the  enthusiast's  deep  delight ; 

Seraphic  visions  floated  round  his  head  ; 
The  joys  of  heaven  foretasted  fill'd  his  soul ; 
And  still  the  good  man's  name  adorns  the  sainted 
roll. 

Westbuiy,  1799. 


NOTES. 

Earth  shakes  l)cnoath  the  onward-rolling  tide, 
That  from  its  hase  swept  down  the  unholy  house  of  pride. 

Stanza  18,  p.  478. 

Era  amirro  dr.  pohrna,  en  tanto  grado,  que  sentia  mucho,  qve 
los  Monastrrios  sr  edificaasen  siimptiiosamrntc  ;  y  assi  vi.iitaiido 
el  de  Moscera  y  vicndo  iin  edificio  grande,  y  chgante,  bueho  a 
Rodiilpho,  que  era  alll.  Abad,  con  el  rostro  ayrado  le  dizo  .-  Cim 
lo  que  has  gastado,  siguiendo  tu  parcccr,  en  este  magnifico  edi. 


NOTES    TO    ST.    GUALBERTO. 


481 


Jrcio,  has  guitado  el  siistento  a  miiclios  pobres.  Puso  Ins  ojos  ei\^ 
un  pciiueho  arroyo,  que  curria  alU  cerca,  y  dixo,  Dins  Oinnipo- 
tente,  (jtic  sueles  hacrr  gratides  cnsas  de  pequenas  criatura'f,  yo  te 
riugo,  que  vea  pur  medio  de  esta  pcijueno  arrnyo  veiiirnnza  de 
este  gran  edificio.  Dixo  esto,  y  faese  de  alii  coma  abominando 
el  lugar  ;  y  siendo  oido,  el  arroijueh  comciizo  a  crecer,  y  fue  de 
suerte,  que  recogiendn  un  rnvnte  de  agua,  y  tomaiido  de  utrds  la 
corriKile,  vino  con  tan  grande  iinpcta,  que  llevando  piedras  y 
arbnles  cunsigo,  derribo  el  cdifrin.  — 

Flos  Sanctorum,  por  El  Macslrn  Jllonso  de  ViUegas. 

Quodam  itaque  tempore  cum  monasteria,  quw  sub  sun  cranl  rr- 
giyninv,  solito  more  inviseret,  veiitt  ad  cwuvbiuin  ciii  vocabulnm 
est  Jiluscctum  ;  ubi  cum  casas  cerneret  grandiores  pulchrioresque 
quam  vellet ;  accersito  vencrabili  viro  domino  Rodutfo,  qui  ra? 
construterat,  et  ab  illo  ibi  vrdinatus  fuerat  Abbas,  sevcrissimo 
vultu  diiit :  Tu  in  isto  loco  hac  tibi  fabrirastipaltitia  ?  Et  con- 
VFTSiis  ad  parvissi/iium  rivum  qui  inibi  juxta  currrbat,  dixit ;  O 
Rcgatnbulc,  si  me  dc  Rodulfo,  et  istis  ejus  domibus  vindica- 
veris,  utrem  aqud  SeviE  ftuminis  plenum,  luidis  tuis  augebo.  Et 
luec  dicens  sine  jnord  disccssit.  Cujas  imptrium,  ac  si  rationu- 
bilis  homo,  rivus  ille  suscipiens,  illo  rccedcnte  intumescere  co-pit, 
et  yiescio  unde  largissima  uquurum  fiucnta  congregans,  relicio 
propria  alvco  de  monte  praicipitante.r  ruit,  gravissimos  pctrarum 
scapulas  atque  arbores  secum  trahrns,  in  prwdictas  domos  illisus 
terra  tenus  cas  dejrcit.  Q«d  ultione  complete,  qxiasi  pro  mercedc, 
quod  promiscrat.  Pater  recepit.  Q«d  pro  re  Abbas  ille  turbatas 
cum  Fratrtbus,  de  loco  mntare  disponebat  ca'nobium.  Qaibus  ille 
hi£C  consolationis  verba  locutus  est :  JVulitr,  inquit,  timcre  ue  lia- 
bitetis  quia  rivus  ille  nee  quidquam  viali  vobis  faclunis  est,  nee 
ultra  vobis  nocebit.  Quod  ejus  raticinium  vcrum  firmumque 
usque  hodie  pennanet.  Denique  ille  sdpe  dictus  riculus,  quod 
tunc  casu,  immo  plus  imperio  Patris  accidcrit,  ncc  antcafacerat, 
7iec  ultcrius  fecit. 

B.  Andreas  de  Strumis.  Acta  ss.  Jul.  T.  3,  p.  351. 

The  destruction  of  this  Jlonastery  is  thus  minted  in  tlie 
Vita  del  Olorioso  S.  Giovan  Oualberto  Aizini,  JVobil  Fiorentino, 
e  Fondatore  delta  sacra  Religiovc  di  Vallombrosa,  a  poem  in 
nine  parts  or  books,  by  M.  Niccolo  Lorenzini,  Fisico  da  Monte 
Pulciano.  —  Firenie,  1599. 

prende  il  sentiero 

Di  Moscheto  il  Cenobio,  in  cui  discerne, 
Benche  da  lunge,  die  spento  i  quel  vera 
Segno  d'humili  e  pure  voglie  interne  ; 
Varriva,  e  trora  'I  edificio  tutto 
Esser  con  pompa  dal  Rettor  conslrutto. 

11  hiasma,  e  dice  che  cotanto  argento 
Si  speso,  havria  nudrito  viille  e  mille 
JUendici,  la  cui  vita  aspro  tormento 
Difame  accorcia,  e  ck'  in  eterne  stille 
Si  risolvon  di  pianto  al  giclo,  e  al  vento, 
Che  in  tanto  ei  menu  I'hore  sue  tranquille, 
Oodendo  in  cosi  ricca  stanza  e  hella ; 
E  lui  svperbo  con  disdegno  appella. 

Hor  dunque  d'humiltd  quel  buun  desio 

Cli'  esser  de'  verde,  6  secco  ?  (ahi  cieca  voglia! ) 

A  che  si  tosto  affondar  nelV  oblio 

Le  nostre  Leggi,  e  questa  humile  spoglia  ? 

Opria  che  si  dimostri  alcun  restio 

In  ben  serrarle,  sol  in  me  s'  aeeoglia 

Ogni  angoscia  e  martir,  ne  le  mieptne 

In  quesla  vita,  altro  che  morte  affrene. 

II  paterno  dolor  con  tai  parole 
Sfoga,  ed  ha  tanto  I'alterciza  d  schivo, 
Che  quel  vano  Rettor  corregger  vuole  ; 
Ond'  habbia  sol  d  Dio  to  spirto  vivo, 
Cui  prega,  c  pnscia  impetra,  com'  ei  suole, 
Che  si  cresca  un  vicino  e  piccinl  Rivo 
Per  le  nubi,  ch'  allhor  solca  e  disserri, 
Che  I'  edificio  e  quelle  pompe  atterri, 

E  quasi  dimorar  fosse  interdctto 
Piu  in  qnella  chiostrn,  raltnfuor  s'  invia, 
Comandando  al  Ruscel  che  inondi  il  tetto 
Con  ruina  del  loco  ;  eern  si  cria 

61 


Norribil  nembo,  esce  quel  Rio  del  tetto 
Usato,  e  per  diversa  alpestra  via, 
Incontro  a  quell'  albergo  prende  il  corso, 
E  sot  nella  parete  adorna  i  scorso. 

SI  alto  gonfia  il  torbido  torrente 

E  tragge  si  gran  pictre  e  legni  al  muro, 

Che  percotendo  'I  fa  che  immantenente 

In  tal  assalto  cosi  slrano  e  seuro, 

A  terra  caggia,  e  di  timor  la  gente 

Ingombri  il  caso  spnventoso  e  duro  ; 

Iiidi  sparisce  il  nembo  ed  i  serena 

Varia  gidfosca,  e  I'  onda  il  corso  affrenu. 

JVon  i  in  memoria  che  i  bel  Rio  gid  mat 

Inondasse  le  rive,  6  quando  il  Sole 

Stragge  le  vcvi,  o  quando  i  vaghi  rai 

Di  lui,  gran  pioggia  acvien  ch'  al  mondo  invole  i 

Hor  qual  torrente  adduce  affanni  e  guai 

Al  mnnaco  superbo,  e  tanta  mule 

{Perch'  al  Santo  ubidisca)  rompe  e  sfece- 

Poi  riede  come  pria  tranquillo,  e  tuce. 

Parte  7,  pp.  23^-5. 


Fcrnan  Antolinez,  a  Spanish  knigbt.  —  Stanza  28,  p.  479. 

Acontecio  en  aquella  *  hatalla  una  cosa  digna  de  memoria. 
Fernan  Antulinei,  hombre  noble  y  muy  devoto,  oia  missa  al 
tiempn  que  se  din  serial  de  acometer,  costumbre  ordinaria  suya 
antes  de  la  pelea ;  por  no  dexarla  comcngada,  se  quedo  en  el 
templo  quando  se  toco  a  la  arma.  Esta  picdad  quan  atrradable 
fuesse  a  Dins,  se  cntendio  por  un  milagro.  Estanase  primer') 
en  la  Iglesia,  dcspues  escondido  en  sii  casa,  temia  no  le  afren- 
tassen  cumo  a  coharde.  En  tanto,  otro  a  el  semrjantc,  es  a  sabe, 
su  Angel  bueno,  pelea  entre  los  primeros  tan  valientemcnte,  que 
la  vitoria  de  aquel  dia  se  atribuyo  en  gran  parte  al  valor  de  el 
dicho  Antolinez.  Covfirmaron  el  milagro  las  senales  de  los 
golpes,  y  las  manchas  de  la  sangre  que  sc  hallaron  frescos  en 
sus  armas  y  cavallo.  Assi  publicado  el  caso,  y  sabido  lo  que 
passava,  quedo  mas  conocida  la  inocencia  y  esfuergo  de  Antoli- 
nez. —  Mariana. 

Perhaps  this  miracle,  and  its  obvious  interpretation,  may 
have  suggested  to  Florian  the  circumstance  by  which  his 
Gonsalvo  is  prevented  from  combating  and  killing  the  brother 
of  his  mistress.     Florian  is  fund  of  Spanish  literature. 


A  simple  tale  it  is,  but  one  tliat  pleased  me  well. 

Stanza  31,  p.  479. 

Llamose  el  padre  Oualberto,  y  era  sennr  de  Vnldespesa, 
que  estd  entre  Sena,  y  Florencia  :  seguia  la  milicia  ,  y  com'*  le 
matasscn  vn  su  dcudo  cercano  injustamente,  indignados,  assi  el 
hijo,  que  era  ya  hombre,  como  el  padre,  eon  mucho  cuydado  bus- 
cavan  ocasion,  como  vengar  aquella  viuerte.  Sucedio,  que  ve~ 
niendo  a  Florencia  el  hijo,  con  un  criado  suyo,  hombre  valiente,  y 
los  dos  bien  armados,  d  cavallo,  vio  d  su  enemigo,  y  en  lugar 
que  era  impossible  irseles :  lo  qual  considerado  por  el  contrario,  y 
que  tenia  cierta  su  muerte,  descendio  de  un  cavallo,  en  que  venia, 
y  puesto  de  rndillas  le  pidio,  juntas  las  manos,  por  .Tesu  Christo 
crucificadn,  le  perdonasse  la  vida.  Entcrneciose  .Juan  Oual- 
berto, oyendo  el  nombre  de  Jesu  Christo  crucificado ;  y  d'lidle, 
que  por  amor  de  aquel  Senor,  que  rogd  en  la  Cruz  por  los  que 
le  pusieron  en  ella,  el  le  perdonara.  Pididle,  que  se  lerantasse, 
y  perdiesse  el  temor,  pie  ya  no  por  enemigo,  sino  por  amigo  le 
queria,  y  que  de  Dios,  por  quicn  hacia  esto,  esptrara  el  premio. 
Pass6  adelante  Oualberto  ;  y  viendo  una  Iglrsia  en  vn  m:>nte 
cerca  de  Florencia,  llamada  dc  Sun  Miniato,  que  era  de  Monges 
negros,  entrd  en  ella  para  dar  gracias  a  .Jesu  Christo  nuestro 
Sihor  por  la  vierced,  que  te  havia  hecho  cnfavoricrrle,  de  que 
perdonasse,  y  no  tomasse  vengania  de  su  enemigo  :  pusosedero- 
dillas  delante  de  un  Crucifixo,  el  qual,  viindolo  tl,  y  ntrns  que 
estavan  presentes,  drsde  la  Cruz  inclind  la  rabeza  d  Oualberto, 
como  agradecicndo,  y  dandole  gracias,  de  que  por  su  amor  htivi- 
esse  perdonado  la  vida  d  su  enemigo.  Descubridse  el  cmso,  y 
fue  publico,  y  muy  celebrado,  y  el  Cnic\fixofue  tenido  en  grande 

•  Ctrca  de  SanHtteran  de  Gormax,  a  la  rOura  del  no  Duero.  A.  D.  S&i. 


482 


NOTES    TO    ST.    GUALBERTO. 


reverencia  en  aquella  Iglesia  de  S.  JUmiato,  Quedu  Juan 
Gualberlo  de  este  ucueciinieido,  trocado  en  olru  varon,  y  deter- 
mind  dezar  el  mnndu,  y  las  cosas  pcrecedcras  de  el.  —  Villcgas. 
Flos  Sanctorum. 


He  saw  the  imaged  Christ  smile  favoring  on  his  prayer. 

Stanza  46,  p.  480. 

Sir  Peter  Damian  relates  a  story  so  siinilir  to  this  of  Cii  il- 
berto  in  almost  all  circumstances,  that  Cujier  fuund  it  advisable 
to  disparage  his  authority  on  this  occasion,  and  quote  some  of 
his  own  declarations,  that  he  was  not  always  satisfied  of  the 
truth  or  accuracy  of  what  he  related.  Cum  in  totaliis  narra- 
tionibus  id  sibi  cantiirisse  fateatur  Pelrus  Damiani,  idem  in  hac 
Crncijixi  historia  ipsi  evenisse  von  injuria  suspicor.  The  Bol- 
landist  then  proceeds  to  declare  his  own  stout  belief  in  the  mir- 
acle as  belonging  to  t't.  Gualberlo.  Vl  ut  r^t,  ego  Crucijixi 
sese  inclinantis  iniraculuin  S.  Joanni  Giuilbcrto  accidisse  liis- 
toricajide  credo,  alque  istud  in  dubium  revocare,  summa  pervi- 
cac.iiB,  ne  diram  dementia',  esse  existimo.  Quid  enim  historic^ 
tandem  certum  erit,  si  omnibus  histvricis,  atquc  eliam  vetustissi- 
mis  synchronis  aut  subcequalibus  factum  aliquod  narravlibus,  de 
€0  dubitare  liceat  ?  Iutolerabilu>  sane  est  htix  mentis  pertinacia, 
quam  quidam  nostri  temporis  .^ristarclii,  uc  pra:sertim  heterodoxi, 
prudcntiam  aut  constatitiain  vocare  non  erubcscunt. 

JVun  ignore  scriptores  aliquos  in  viiium  contrarium  incurrisse, 
et  in  exornando  hoc  miraculo  nimios  fuisse ;  inter  quos  jure 
merito  numerari  potest  Ludovicus  Zacconius,  qui  sine  ullo  veto- 
rum  testimonio,  colloquium  inter  Crucijiium  et  S.  Joannem 
Oualbertum  ex  stto,  ut  opinor,  cercbro  finxit.  HcEC  tamen  addi- 
tamenta  miractdi  verilatem  von  nrgnnt,  sed  potius  conjirmant, 
quamvis  per  hyperbolen  maxime  rcprehendendam.  —  Acta  SS. 
fol.  3,  p.  314. 

Ivi  adora  di  Christo  il  morto  e  macro 
Sembianle  {che  rassembra  il  ver)  depinto, 
11  verjigura  in  croce  eterno  e  sacro 
Re  del  mondo  di  sangue  infuso  e  tinto  ; 
Ma  sovra  gli  altri  con  dolente  ed  aero 
Volto,  e  con  suon  mosso  dal  petto,  e  spinto  ; 
.4  tanta  Imago  allhor^  pien  d'  alto  zelo 
L'  Eroe  s'  inchina,  e  porge  i  preghi  al  cielo. 

Signer  so  ben,  che  me  daW  empio  Egittn 
(Dicea)  salvasti,  e  dull'  horror  d'  inferno  ; 
C'hoggi  in  tutto  quel  mal  c'havca  prcscritto, 
E  quel  pensier  di  vcndicarmi  interna 
Sol  tua  mercefu  spento  ;  hor  fia  ben  dritto 
Ch'io  commetta  'I  mio  spirlo  al  tuo  governo, 
Cli'io  di  te  segua  I'opre,  i  detti,  e  I'urme, 
Che  sia  'I  mio  cor  al  tuo  desir  conforme. 


In  cotal  modo  humilementc  d  Dio 
Sacrd  Oiovanni  li  suoi  preghi  ardenti ; 
Poi  surto  in  piedi  in  atto  adorno  epio, 
Porgendo  gli  occhi  d  quetla  Imago  intenti, 
Confronte  lieta,  e  piiro  c  bel  dcsio 
Move  la  lingua  in  qucsti  nuovi  accenti, 
Stende  la  destra  al  cielo,  e  al  gid  prigione 
L'altra  man  sH  la  testa  allarga,  e  pone. 

0  mio  pietoso  Dio  qval  gid  gradisti 

Mel  co'  sacrifcii  suoi  pcrfetti, 

VAbrahan  Palriarca  i  voti  udisti 

E  di  suafede  i  rari  ardenti  affetti, 

Et  d  mill'  altri  i  bci  tesori  apristi 

Delia  tua  grazia  dagli  empirei  tctti, 

Tal  quasi  un  olocausto  quel  perdono 

Ch'io  diedi  d  questn,  accctta,  e  prendi  in  dono. 

Et  d  me  stringi  'I  cor  con  mille  nodi. 
Si  la  Croce  il  ritien,  teco  il  congiungi, 
Ivi  'I  trajiggi  co  ttioi  santi  chiodi. 
Col  sangue  il  lava,  e  con  le  spine  il  pnngi ; 
JVe  quindi  I'alma  unqua  si  torca,  e  snodi, 
Ivi  I'abbraccia,  la  conforta,  ct  ungi, 


E  con  la  mirra  et  aloe  del  pianto 

Fa  che  purghi  'I  sua  vil  corporeo  manto. 

Questo  voto  uovello,  e  questa  nfftrta, 
Qiiantuiique  e  nulla  al  tuo  gran  mcrto,  hor  prendi 
Un  raggio  di  tua  grazia  in  me  converta 
II  ghiaccio  infoco,  hor  al  mio  prego  intendi ; 
La  via  ch'al  ciel  conduce  c  stretla  ed  erta. 
Da  noi  I'opre,  lafcdc  c'l  pianto  attendi ; 
Dunquc  rlctvi  i  miei  sospiri  e  'I  duolo, 
S'  a  me,  per  csser  tuo,  me  stesso  involo. 

JVon  priafurmo  I'humil  preghiera  honesta 

II  giovin  degno,  e'l  suo  sermon  fi?iio, 
Che  in  un  momenta  la  depinta  testa 
Mosse  qui'l  che  rassembra  il  morto  Dio, 
E  la  inchind  ver  lui ;  vide  ognun  questa 
Oran  mcraviglia,  che  del  Cielo  uscio. 
Quasi  diccssr,  al  tuo  desir  consento. 

Com'  in  te  I'odio,  in  me  'I  furor  sia  spento. 

lu  si  'I  tue  dono,  e  'I  tuo  dolor  gradisco, 
Chor  d'  ogni  affunno,  e  di  tiinor  tc  spoglio, 
E  qual  ogni  alma  humil  prcndo  e  nudrisco 
Di  sacro  cibo,  e  d  degnc  imprese  invoglio  ; 
Tal  al  tuo  cor  leggiudra  rcte  ord'iaco 

III  cui  prcso  tenerlo  meco  io  voglio, 

Lui  d'  ogni  nchhia  e  d'  ogni  error  disgombro, 
Lui  di  niia  grazia  dolcemente  ingombro. 

In  tal  maniera  purea  dir  col  segno 
Del  capo,  e  ne  devenne  ognun  stupito, 
Si  dal  Euttor  del  glorioso  regno 
Fu  del  suo  servo  I'humil  prego  udilo, 
Ei  sol  mosse  dal  ciel  quel  volto  degno, 
Ei  sol  'il  cui  potcr  sommo  infinito, 
Quest'  anipio  globo  di  ricchcxic  adumo 
Move  ad  ognor  con  dulci  temprc  iiitorno 

Pur  huggi  il  simutacro  santo  e  puro 
Visto  e  dal  niiiudo  nel  medesino  tempio, 
II  mcmorabil  di  che  tristo  e  scuro 
Sifcce  il  Sol  per  I'aspro  caso  et  empio 
Dal  suo  Faltor  ;  animo  alpestrc  e  duro 
J^on  €,  ch'  ici  nol  mova  un  tanto  escmpio 
Di  nostra  fide,  e  non  sospiro,  c  gema, 
Si  lega  i  cnr  la  mcraviglia  estrema. 

Vide,  come  pur  vuol  I'  antica  istoria 
In  cotal  giorno  la  cittd  del  Fiore 
Quel  nobil  segno,  e  del  Signor  la  gloria 
In  quella  Imago,  e  'I  scmpiterno  amorc, 
Si  che  viva  ne  serba  ancor  memoria, 
Le  porge  voti,  d  Dio  sacrando  il  core ; 
Perd  ch'  i  scala  quel  depinto  aspetlo 
Onde  I'  huom  poggi  al  vcro  ctcrno  oggetto. 

.Svanzd  tanto  il  natural  confine 
Del  sacro  capo  in  ogni  parte  il  moto. 
Si  fur  sopra  natura  alle  e  divine 
Quelle  maniere,  e  I'  atto  opcrto  e  nolo, 
Che  tante  gciiti  ch'  ivi  humili,  e  chine 
11  vidcr,  s'  arrcstrar  col  guardo  immoto  ; 
Che  I'  estremo  stupor  fa  I'  huom  conforme 
A  un  sasso,  o  mezzo  tra  chi  vegghia,  e  dorme 

Ma  quel,  per  cui  sefe  'I  divin  mistero, 
Poi  che  spense  dell'  ira  ilfoco  avvcrso. 
Si  di  sc  dona  ul  suo  Signor  I'  impero, 
Si  ul  gran  miracol  dentro  ha  il  cor  convcrso, 
Ch'  ad  altro  non  rivolge  unqua  il  pcnsiero, 
In  questo  sol  tien  I'  intclletto  immcrso 
Senza  parlor  s'  nffisa  in  tenia,  i  a  pena 
L'  interna  ardor  per  brave  spazio  nffrcna. 

NicoLO  LoRENZiNi,  part  I.  pp  25 — 32, 


THE    MARCH    TO    MOSCOW, 


483 


THE 


MARCH    TO    MOSCOW 


1. 

The  Emperor  Nap  lie  would  set  off 

On  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow ; 

The  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 


Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more 

Must  go  with  him  to  Moscow  : 

There  were  Marshals  by  the  dozen, 

And  Dukes  by  the  score  ; 

Princes  a  few,  and  Kings  one  or  two; 

While  the  fields  are  so  green,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

3. 
There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 

Heigh-ho  for  Moscow ! 

Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowsky, 

Marshal  Ney,  lack-a-day  ! 

General  Rapp,  and  the  Emperor  Nap; 

Nothing  would  do, 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

Nothing  would  do 

For  the  whole  of  this  crew. 

But  they  must  be  marching  to  Moscow. 


The  Emperor  Nap  he  talk'd  so  big 

That  he  frightcn'd  Mr.  Roscoe. 

John  Bull,  he  cries,  if  you'll  be  wise, 

Ask  the  Emperor  Nap  if  he  will  please 

To  grant  you  peace,  upon  your  knees, 

Because  he  is  going  to  Moscow  ! 

He'll  make  all  the  Poles  come  out  of  their  holes. 

And  beat  the  Russians,  and  eat  the  Prussians ; 

For  the  fields  are  green,  and  the  sky  is  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu  ! 

And  he'll  certainly  march  to  Moscow  ! 


And  Counsellor  Brougham  was  all  in  a  fume 

At  the  thought  of  the  march  to  Moscow  : 

The  Russians,  ho  said,  they  were  undone, 

And  the  great  Fee-Faw-Fum 

Would  presently  come. 

With  a  hop,  step,  and  jump,  unto  London. 

For,  as  for  his  conquering  Russia, 

However  some  persons  might  scoff  it, 

Do  it  he  could,  and  do  it  he  would, 

And  from  doing  it  nothing  would  come  but  good, 

And  nothing  could  call  him  off  it. 

Mr.  Jeffrey  said  so,  who  must  certainly  know. 

For  he  was  the  Edinburgh  Prophet. 
They  all  of  them  knew  Mr.  Jeffrey's  Review, 
Which  with  Holy  Writ  ought  to  be  reckon'd  : 


It  was,  through  thick  and  thin,  to  its  party  true  ; 
Its  back  was  buff,  and  its  sides  were  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu  I 
It  served  them  for  Law  and  for  Gospel  too. 

6. 

But  the  Russians  stoutly  they  turned  to 
Upon  the  road  to  Moscow. 
Nap  had  to  fight  his  way  all  through ; 
They  could  fight,  though  they  could  not  parlez- 

vous; 

But  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  bhie, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu ! 

And  so  he  got  to  Moscow. 


He  found  the  place  too  warm  for  him. 

For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow. 

To  get  there  had  cost  him  much  ado, 

And  then  no  better  course  he  knew, 

While  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 

But  to  march  back  again  from  Moscow. 


The  Russians  they  stuck  close  to  him 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

There  was  Tormazow  and  Jemalow, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  ow  ; 

Milarodovitch  and  Jaladovitch, 

And  Karatschkowitch, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch ; 

Schamscheff,  Souchosaneff, 

And  Schepaleff, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  eff ; 

Wasiltschikoff,  Kostomaroff, 

And  Tchoglokoff, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off; 

Rajeffsky,  and  Novereffsky, 

And  Rieffsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  effsky ; 

Cscharoffsky  and  Rostoffsky, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  offsky ; 
And  Platoff  he  play'd  them  off. 
And  Shouvaloff  he  shovell'd  them  off. 
And  Markoff  he  mark'd  them  off, 
And  Kro.snoff  he  cross'd  them  off, 
And  Tuchkoff  he  touch'd  them  off. 
And  Boroskoff  he  bored  them  off. 
And  Kutousoff  he  cut  them  off. 
And  Parenzoff  he  pared  them  off, 
And  Worronzoff  he  worried  them  off. 
And  Doctoroff  he  doctor'd  them  off. 
And  Rodionoff  he  flogg'd  them  off. 
And,  last  of  all,  an  Admiral  came, 
A  terrible  man  with  a  terrible  name, 
A  name  which  you  all  know  by  sight  very  well. 
But  which   no   one  can   speak,  and  no  one  can 
spell. 
They  stuck  close  to  Nap  with  all  their  might ; 

They  were  on  the  left  and  on  the  right. 

Behind  and  before,  and  by  day  and  by  night ; 

He  would  rather  parlez-vous  than  fight; 

But  he  look'd  white,  and  he  look'd  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 


484 


BROUGH    BELLS. 


When  parlez-vous  no  more  would  do, 
For  they  remember'd  Moscow. 

y. 

And  then  came  on  the  frost  and  snow, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

The  wind  and  the  weather  he  found,  in  that  hour, 

Cared  nothing  for  him,  nor  for  all  his  power ; 

For  him  who,  while  Europe  crouch'd  under  his  rod, 

Put  his  trust  in  his  Fortune,  and  not  in  his  God. 

Worse  and  worse  every  day  the  elements  grew, 

The  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Sacrebleu  !  Ventrebleu ! 

What  a  horrible  journey  from  Moscow  ! 

10. 

What  then  thought  the  Emperor  Nap 

Upon  the  road  from  Moscow  .' 

Why,  I  ween  he  thought  it  small  delight 

To  fight  all  day,  and  to  freeze  all  night ; 

And  he  was  besides  in  a  very  great  fright. 

For  a  whole  skin  he  liked  to  be  in ; 

And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do. 

When  the  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu  ! 

He  stole  away,  —  I  tell  you  true, — 

Upon  the  road  from  Moscow. 

'Tis  myself,  quoth  he,  I  must  mind  most ; 

So  the  Devil  may  take  the  hindmost. 

11. 

Too  cold  upon  the  road  was  he  ; 

Too  hot  had  he  been  at  Moscow  ; 

But  colder  and  hotter  he  may  be. 

For  the  grave  is  colder  than  Moscovy  ; 

And  a  place  there  is  to  be  kept  in  view. 

Where  the  fire  is  red,  and  the  brimstone  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 

Which  he  must  go  to. 

If  the  Pope  say  true. 

If  he  does  not  in  time  look  about  him ; 

Where  his  namesake  almost 

He  may  have  for  his  Host ; 

He  has  reckon'd  too  long  without  him ; 

If  that  Host  get  him  in  Purgatory, 

He  won't  leave  hiin  there  alone  with  his  glory ; 

But  there  he  must  stay  for  a  very  long  day, 

For  from  thence  there  is  no  stealing  away, 

As  there  was  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

Kes^wick.  1813. 


BROUGH    BELLS 


The  church  at  Brougb  is  a  pretty  large,  liamlsniiip,  ancient 
building.  The  steeple  is  not  so  old,  h;iving  been  built 
about  the  year  1.513,  under  the  direction  of  Thomas  Blen- 
kinsop,  of  Helbeck,  Esq.  There  are  in  it  four  excellent 
bells,  by  much  the  largest  in  the  county,  except  the  great 
bell  at  Kirkby  Thore.  Concerning  these  bells  at  Brough, 
there  is  a  tradition  tliat  they  were  given  liy  one  Brunskill, 
who  lived  upon  Stanemoro,  in  tlie  remotest  part  of  the 
parish,  and  had  a  great  many  cattle.  One  time  it  happened 
that  his  Bull  fell  a  bellowing,  which  in  the  dialect  of  the 
country  is  called  cruning,   this   being  the  genuine  Saxon 


word  to  denote  that  vociferation.  Thereupon  he  said  to 
one  of  his  neigbbor.a,  '  Hearest  thou  bow  loud  ttiis  bull 
crunes.'  If  these  cattle  should  all  crune  together,  might 
they  not  be  beard  from  Brough  hither .''  He  answered, 
'  Yea.'  '  Well  then,'  says  Brunskill, '  I'll  make  them  all 
crune  together.'  And  he  sold  them  all,  and  with  the  price 
thereof  be  bought  the  said  bells,  (or  perhaps  be  might  got 
the  old  b(  lis  new  cast  and  made  larger.)  There  is  a  monu- 
ment in  the  boily  of  the  church,  in  the  south  wall,  between 
the  highest  and  second  window,  and  in  which  it  is  suid  the 
said  Brunskill  was  the  last  that  was  interred." — JVkutson 
and  Bunm'  Histurij  and  Antiquities  of  tVestmoreland  and 
Cumberland,  vol.  i.  p.  571. 

"  At  the  further  Brough  there  was  a  chapel  or  oratory,  founded 
by  John  Brunskill,  (probably  the  same  who  gave  the  bells,) 
in  1.506.  Unto  whom  Thom;is  Blenkinsop,  Esq.,  of  Helbeck, 
gave  the  ground  called  Gibgarth,  on  condition  that  b(^  should 
build  a  chapel  there,  and  also  an  hospital,  with  two  beds  in 
it  for  travellers  and  other  poor  people,  and  maintain  for  ever, 
paying  to  him  and  his  heirs  twopence  rent  at  Pentecost 
yearly,  and  on  defect  of  such  maintaining  and  repairing  the 
said  chapel,  hosjjital,  and  beds,  the  land  to  revert  to  the  said 
Thomiis  and  his  heirs.  In  pursuance  whereof  he,  the  said 
John  Brunskill,  founded  an  oratory  or  chapel,  dedicated  to 
Our  Lady  St.  Mary,  the  Mother  of  Christ,  and  to  St.  Ga- 
briel, the  Archangel  ;  who,  as  Roger,  Bishop  of  Carlisle, 
and  Richard,  Abbot  of  Sbap,  did,  by  writing  under  their 
hands  and  seals,  affirm,  wrought  many  fiir  and  divers  mir- 
acles by  the  sufferance  of  our  Lord  God.  Two  priests  were 
established  to  sing  and  to  pray  in  the  said  chapel  for  ever- 
more, for  the  souls  of  all  the  benefactors  of  the  said  chapel 
that  were  departed  from  the  world,  and  for  the  welfare  of 
those  that  were  living.  One  of  the  said  priests  was  to 
teach  grammar,  the  other  to  instruct  children  willing  to 
learn  singing,  freely,  without  any  salary  from  them.  The 
foundation  of  this  chapel  was  confirmed  both  by  the  Bishop 
of  Carlisle  and  the  Archbishop  of  York,  and  yet  was  after- 
wards opposed  by  the  Vicar  of  Brough,  who  conceived 
himself  much  prejudiced  thereby,  and  particularly  in  respect 
of  the  oblations  which  were  given  from  him  to  the  said 
chapel.  Whereupon  he  set  up  the  cross,  and  lighted  up 
candles  in  the  church  at  mid-time  of  the  day,  caused  the 
bells  to  be  rung,  and  cursed  with  bell,  book,  and  candle,  all 
those  that  should  receive  any  oblations  of  those  that  re- 
sorted to  the  said  chapel,  or  should  give  any  encouragement 
unto  the  same.  Brunskill,  the  founder,  complained  to  the 
Archbishop's  Court,  at  York,  against  the  vicar,  Mr.  Rase- 
beck,  and  obtained  a  sharp  citation  against  bim  ;  censuring 
him  as  nn  abandoned  wretch,  and  inflated  with  diabolical 
venom  foropposing  so  good  a  work.  Notwithstanding  which, 
Mr.  Rasebeck  appealed  to  the  Pope,  and  an  agreement  was 
made  between  the  founder  and  liim,  by  a  composition  of 
twenty  shillings  yearly,  to  he  paid  to  Mr.  Rasebeck,  and  his 
successors,  vicars  of  Brougb. 

"  Thus  the  chapel  continued  till  the  dissolution  of  the  religious 
houses.  And  the  priest  that  taught  to  sing  being  removed, 
the  other  that  taught  grammar  was  thought  fit  to  be  con- 
tinued as  master  of  a  free-school ;  and  by  the  commi.«sioners. 
Sir  Walter  Mildmay  and  Robert  Kcllison,  Esq.,  order  was 
taken,  and  a  fund  settled  for  this  purpose.  So  that  a  salary 
of  71.  Hi".  4d.  was  to  be  paid  yearly  to  the  master  of  the 
school  by  the  king's  auditors,  ibey  receiving  all  the  rents 
and  revenues  which  formerly  belonged  unto  it  as  a  chapel, 
and  which  were  given  to  it  by  the  founder  and  other  bene- 
factors. 

"  This  is  all  the  endowment  which  it  hath  at  present,  (1777,) 
except  a  convenient  dwelling-house  and  garden,  which  were 
given  by  one  of  the  schoolmasters,  Mr.  John  Beck.  But  it 
was  formerly  very  bountifully  endowed  by  several  benefac- 
tors ;  as  Henry,  Earl  of  Cumberland,  Edward  Musgrave,  of 
Hartley,  Esq.,  William  Musgrave,  son  of  Richard  Musgrave, 
of  Brough,  Thomas  Blenkinsop,  Esq.,  Hugh  Newton,  and 
divers  others,  who  give  lands  in  Brougb,  Slanemore,  More- 
ton,  Yanewith,  Mekel-Strickland,  Bampton  Cundall,  and 
Mekel-Ashby,  all  in  Westmoreland  ;  and  in  Penrith,  in 
Cumberland,  and  West-Laton,  in  Yorkshire,  and  Bernard 
Caatle,  in  the  county  of  Durham."  —  Tb.  p.  574. 


BROUGH    BELLS. 


485 


One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  stroll'd, 

Among  tlie  Crossfell  Hills, 
And,  resting  in  its  rocky  grove, 

Sat  listening  to  the  rills,  — 

The  while  to  tlieir  sweet  undersong 

Tlie  birds  sang  blithe  around. 
And  tlie  soft  west  wind  awoke  the  wood 

To  an  intermitting  sound. 

Louder  or  fainter,  as  it  rose 

Or  died  away,  was  borne 
The  harmony  of  merry  bells, 

From  Brough,  tiiat  pleasant  morn. 

"  Why  are  the  merry  bells  of  Brough, 

My  friend,  so  few?  "  said  I  ; 
"  They  disappoint  the  expectant  ear, 

Which  they  should  gratify. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four ;  one,  two,  three,  four ; 

'Tis  still  one,  two,  three,  four; 
Mellow  and  silvery  are  the  tones ; 

But  I  wish  the  bells  were  more  !  " 

"  What !  art  thou  critical  ? "  quoth  he ; 

"  Eschew  that  heart's  disease 
That  seeketh  for  displeasure  where 

The  intent  hath  been  to  please. 

"  By  those  four  bells  there  hangs  a  tale, 

Which  being  told,  I  guess, 
Will  make  thee  hear  their  scanty  peal 

With  proper  thankfulness. 

"  Not  by  the  Cliffords  were  they  given. 

Nor  by  the  Tuftons'  line  ; 
Thou  hearest  in  that  peal  the  crune 

Of  old  John  Brunskill's  kine. 

"  On  Stanemore's  side,  one  summer  eve, 

John  Brunskill  sat  to  see 
His  herds  in  yonder  Borrodale 

Come  winding  up  the  lea. 

"Behind  them,  on  the  lowland's  verge, 

In  the  evening  light  serene, 
Brough's  silent  tower,  then  newly  built 

By  Blenkinsop,  was  seen. 

'*  Slowly  they  came  in  long  array. 

With  loitering  pace  at  will ; 
At  times  a  low  from  them  was  heard, 

Far  off,  for  all  was  still. 

"  The  hills  return'd  that  lonely  sound 

Upon  the  tranquil  air ; 
The  only  sound  it  was,  which  then 

Awoke  the  echoes  there. 

" '  Thou  hear'st  that  lordly  bull  of  mine. 
Neighbor,'  quoth  Brunskill  thenj 

'  How  loudly  to  the  hills  he  crunes, 
That  crune  to  him  again  1 


"  '  Thinkest  thou  if  yon  whole  herd  at  once 

Their  voices  should  combine. 
Were  they  at  Brough,  that  we  might  not 
Hear  plainly  from  this  upland  spot 

That  cruning  of  tlie  kine .' ' 

"  '  That  were  a  crune,  indeed,'  replied 

His  comrade,  '  which,  I  ween, 
Might  at  the  Spital  well  be  heard. 

And  in  all  dales  between. 

'"Up  Mallerstang  to  Eden's  springs. 
The  eastern  wind  upon  its  wings 

The  mighty  voice  would  bear ; 
And  Appleby  would  hear  the  sound, 

Methinks,  when  skies  are  fair.' 

" '  Then  shall  the  herd,'  John  Brunskill  cried, 

'From  yon  dumb  steeple  crune. 
And  thou  and  I,  on  this  hill-side. 

Will  listen  to  their  tune. 

"  '  So,  while  the  merry  Bells  of  Brough, 

For  many  an  age  ring  on, 
John  Brunskill  will  remember'd  be, 

When  he  is  dead  and  gone,  — 

" '  As  one  who,  in  his  latter  years, 

Contented  with  enough. 
Gave  freely  what  he  well  could  spare 

To  buy  the  Bells  of  Brough.' 

"  Thus  it  hath  proved :  three  hundred  years 

Since  then  have  past  away, 
And  Brunskill's  is  a  living  name 

Among  us  to  this  day." 

"  More  pleasure,"  I  replied,  "  shall  I 

From  this  tim^  forth  partake. 
When  I  remember  Helbeck  woods. 

For  old  John  Brunskill's  sake. 

"  He  knew  how  wholesome  it  would  be, 

Among  these  wild,  wide  fells. 
And  upland  vales,  to  catch,  at  times, 

The  sound  of  Christian  bells ;  — 

"  What  feelings  and  what  impulses 

Their  cadence  might  convey 
To  herdsman  or  to  shepherd  boy, 
Whiling  in  indolent  employ 

The  solitary  day  ;  — 

"  That,  when  his  brethren  were  convened 

To  meet  for  social  prayer. 
He  too,  admonish'd  by  the  call. 

In  spirit  might  be  there  ;  — 

"  Or,  when  a  glad  thanksgiving  sound. 

Upon  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
Was  sent  to  speak  a  Nation's  joy. 

For  some  great  blessing  given,-  • 

"  For  victory  by  sea  or  land. 
And  happy  peace  at  length  ; 


486 


QUEEN    MARY'S    CHRISTENING. 


Peace  by  his  country's  valor  won, 
And  'staWish'd  by  lier  strength;  — 

"  When  such  exultant  peals  were  borne 

Upon  the  mountain  air, 
The  sound  should  stir  his  blood,  and  give 

An  English  impulse  tliere." 

Such  thoughts  were  in  tlie  old  man's  mind, 
Wlicn  he  that  eve  look'd  down 

From  Stanemore's  side  on  Borrodale, 
And  on  the  distant  town. 

And  had  I  store  of  wealth,  methinks, 

Another  herd  of  kine, 
John  Brunskill,  I  would  freely  give, 

That  they  might  crune  witii  thine. 

Keswick,  1828. 


aUEEN    MARY'S    CHRISTENING. 


Estava  la  Reijna  {Dona  Maria)  lo  mas  del  tlcmpo  en  la  villa 
de  Moinpilter,  y  las  vezcs  que  el  Reij  yva  ulla,no  huiia  con  ella 
vida  de  iiiarido  ;  y  may  dissolutameide  se  rcmlia  a  oiras  muge- 
res,  purque  era  muy  sujeto  a  aquel  vicio.  Sucedio  que  estando 
en  Miraval  la  Reyna,  y  cl  Hey  Dun  Pedro  en  un  lugar  alii 
cerca,  junto  a  jMompdler,  que  se  diie  Lutes,  un  Rico  Hombre 
de  Jlragon,  que  se  delta  Don  Ouillen  de  Alcala,  por  grandes 
ruegos  y  inslancia  llcvo  al  Rey  adonde  la  Reyna  estava  messa, 
segun  se  esci-ice,  que  tenia  rccabado  que  cumpliria  su  vuluntad 
una  dama  de  quien  era  servidor  ;  y  en  su  lugar  pusole  en  la 
camara  de  la  Reyna  ;  y  en  aquella  noche  que  tuvo  participacion 
con  ella,  quedo  prenuda  de  vn  hijo,  el  qual  purio  en  Mompeller 
en  la  casa  de  los  de  Turiiamira,  en  la  ccspera  de  la  Purijicacion 
de  nuestra  Sehora  del  ano  1207.  Mando  luego  la  Reyna 
llevar  al  Infante  a  la  Iglcsia  de  Saitta  Maria,  y  al  tcmplo  de 
Sunt  Fcrmin,  pare  dar  gracius  a  nucstro  Senor,por  averle 
dado  hijo  tan  impaisadamentc  ;  y  buelto  a  palacio  mando  en- 
cender  doze  vclas  de  un  mismo  peso  y  tamano,  y  poncrlcs  los 
noiuhres  de  los  doze  ^postolcs,  para  que  de  aquella  que  mas 
durasse,  tomasse  el  nombre ;  y  ussi  fuc  llamado  Jayine.  — 
ZuRiTA,  L.  2,  C.  59. 

The  story  is  told  at  muoli  greater  length  in  La  Historia  del 
muy  alto  e  invencible  Rey  Don  Jayme  de  Aragon,  Primero  deste 
vombre,  llamado  El  Conquistador.  Cumpuesta  primero  en 
leiigua  Latina  por  el  Maestro  Bernardino  Qomes  Miedes, 
Arcediano  de  Murviedro,  y  Canonigo  de  Valencia,  agora 
nuevamente  tradnzida  por  el  mcsmo  Autor  en  leugua  Caitd- 
lana.  —  Valencia,  1584. 

There  are  three  chapters  relating  to  the  "  mystery  of  this 
wonderful  Ijistory,"  in  the  first  book  of  this  work. 

Cap.  X.  Como  bolcio  el  Rey  {D.  Pedro)  de  Roma  a  Zaragozn,  y 
de  los  mudos  que  la  Reyna  su  madrc  tuvu  para  casarle  con  la 
Senora  de  Mompeller,  y  comofue  alia. 

Cap.  xi.  De  la  notable  invrncwn  y  arte  que  la  Reyna  Doha 
Maria  uso  vieiidosc  tan  dcsprrciada  del  Rey,  para  ciincibir  del. 

Cap.  xiii.  Del  JVacimiento  del  Principe  Dun  Jayme,  y  de  los 
estranos  mystrrios  que  en  su  bautismo  acaceieron. 

Miedes  thus  gives  his  reason  for  taking  much  pains  in  com- 
piling a  faithful  statement  of  tlie  circumstances:  —  Con- 
fonnan  todos  los  historiadores  antiguos  y  modernos  en  coittur 
la  cstrana  concepcion  y  naeimiento  del  Infante  Don  Jaym»; 
puesto  que  en  ei  modo y  discurso  de  cada  cosa,  y  como  ello  passo, 
discrepun  en  algo  ;  pues  los  unos  Ic  passan  brene  y  succintamnUe 
por  mas  honestidad,  como  la  propria  historia  del  Rey ;  otros 
cuentan  muchas  y  diversas  cosas  sobre  ello,  purque  son  atiiigos 
de  passar  por  todo,  y  es  cierto  que  cnnvienrn  todos  con  cl  Rey,  y 
como  esta  dicho,  en  solo  el  modo  difficren.  Por  tanto,  tomando 
de  cada  una  lo  mas  provable  y  menos  discrepante,  nos  rcsolve- 
mos  en  lo  siguiente.  —  P.  13. 


In  justice  to  the  Queen,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  Miedes  repre- 
sents her  as  beautiful  and  of  unblemished  reputation,  her- 
niosa  y  honestissima  ;  and  in  justice  to  tlie  King,  |)rofligato 
as  he  was,  that  there  was  a  very  strong  suspicion  of  Dona 
Maria's  being  secretly  married  to  another  husband,  by  wliom 
she  had  two  daughters,  a  story  wliicli  hud  readied  the  King, 
and  which  Miedes  seems  to  accredit. 


The  first  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 

Is,  that  she  may  bear  a  son, 
Who  shall  inherit  in  his  time 

The  kingdom  of  Aragon. 

She  hath  put  up  prayers  to  all  the  Saints 

This  blessing  to  accord. 
But  chiefly  she  hath  call'd  upon 

The  Apostles  of  our  Lord. 

The  second  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 

Is  to  have  that  son  call'd  James, 
Because  she  thought  for  a  Spanish  King 

'Twas  the  best  of  all  good  names. 

To  give  him  this  name  of  her  own  will 

Is  what  may  not  be  done, 
For,  having  apj)lied  to  all  the  Twelve, 

She  may  not  prefer  the  one. 

By  one  of  their  names  she  hath  vow'd  to  call 

Her  son,  if  son  it  should  be  ; 
But  which,  is  a  point  wliereon  she  must  let 

The  Apostles  themselves  agree. 

Already  Queen  Mary  hath  to  them 

Contracted  a  grateful  debt ; 
And  from  their  patronage  she  hoped 

For  these  further  blessings  yet. 

Alas  1  it  was  not  her  hap  to  be 

As  handsome  as  she  vi?as  good  ; 
And  that  her  husband  King  Pedro  thought  so, 

She  very  well  understood. 

She  had  lost  him  from  her  lawful  bed 

For  lack  of  personal  graces. 
And  by  prayers  to  them,  and  a  pious  deceit. 

She  had  compass'd  his  embraces. 

But  if  this  hope  of  a  son  sliould  fail. 

All  hope  must  fail  with  it  then, 
For  she  could  not  e.xpect  by  a  second  device 

To  compass  the  King  again. 

Queen  Mary  hath  had  her  first  heart's  wish  — 
She  hath  brought  forth  a  beautiful  boy; 

And  tlie  bells  have  rung,  and  masses  been  sung, 
And  bonfires  have  blazed  for  joy. 

And  many's  the  cask  of  the  good  red  wine. 

And  many  the  cask  of  the  white. 
Which  was  broach'd  for  joy  that  morning. 

And  emptied  before  it  was  night. 

But  now  for  Queen  Mary's  second  heart's  wish, 
It  must  be  determined  now  ; 


Q,UEEN    MARY'S    CHRISTENING, 


487 


And  Bishop  B03-I,  her  Confessor, 
Is  tlie  person  who  taught  her  how. 

Twelve  waxen  tapers  lie  liatii  had  made, 

In  size  and  weight  the  same  ; 
And  to  each  of  these  twelve  tapers, 

He  hath  given  an  Apostle's  name. 

One  holy  Nun  had  bleached  the  wax, 

Another  the  wicks  had  spun ; 
And  the  golden  candlesticks  were  bless'd, 

Which  they  were  set  upon. 

From  that  which  should  burn  the  longest, 
The  infant  his  name  must  take  ; 

And  the  Saint  who  own'd  it  was  to  be 
His  Patron  for  his  name's  sake. 

A  godlier  or  a  goodlier  sight 

Was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
Methinks,  that  day,  in  Christendom, 

Than  in  the  chamber  of  that  good  Queen. 

Twelve  little  altars  have  been  there 

Erected,  for  the  nonce ; 
And  the  twelve  tapers  are  set  thereon, 

Which  are  all  to  be  lit  at  once. 

Altars  more  gorgeously  dress'd 

You  nowhere  could  desire ; 
At  each  there  stood  a  ministering  Priest 

In  his  most  rich  attire. 

A  high  altar  hath  there  been  raised, 

Where  the  Crucifix  you  see ; 
And  the  sacred  Fix  that  shines  with  gold 

And  sparkles  with  jewelry. 

Bishop  Boyl,  with  his  precious  mitre  on. 

Hath  taken  there  his  stand, 
In  robes  which  were  embroidered 

By  the  Queen's  own  royal  hand. 

In  one  part  of  the  ante-room 

The  Ladies  of  the  Queen, 
All  with  their  rosaries  in  hand, 

Upon  their  knees  are  seen. 

In  the  other  part  of  the  ante-room. 
The  Chiefs  of  the  realm  you  behold, 

Ricos  Omes,  and  Bishops,  and  Abbots, 
And  Knights,  and  Barons  bold. 

Queen  Mary  could  behold  all  this 

As  she  lay  in  her  state  bed ; 
And  from  the  pillow  needed  not 

To  lift  her  languid  head. 

One  fear  she  had,  though  still  hor  heart 
The  unwelcome  thoiiglit  cschcw'd, 

That  haply  the  unlucky  lot 
Might  fall  upon  St.  Jude. 

But  the  Saints,  she  trusted,  that  ill  chance 
Would  certainly  forefend ; 


And  moreover  there  was  a  double  liope 
Of  seeing  the  wish'd-for  end ;  — 

Because  there  was  a  double  chance 

For  the  best  of  all  good  names ; 
If  it  should  not  be  Santiago  himself, 

It  might  be  the  lesser  St.  James. 

And  now  Bishop  Boyl  hath  said  the  mass; 

And  as  soon  as  the  mass  was  done. 
The  priests,  who  by  the  twelve  tapers  stood. 

Each  instantly  lighted  one. 

The  tapers  were  short  and  slender  too. 

Yet  to  the  expectant  throng. 
Before  they  to  the  socket  burnt. 

The  time,  I  trow,  seem'd  long 

The  first  that  went  out  was  St.  Peter, 

The  second  was  St.  John ; 
And  now  St.  Matthias  is  going. 

And  now  St.  Matthew  is  gone. 

Next  there  went  St.  Andrew ; 

There  goes  St.  Philip  too ; 
And  see  !  there  is  an  end 

Of  St.  Bartholomew. 

St.  Simon  is  in  the  snuff; 

But  it  was  a  matter  of  doubt 
Whether  he  or  St.  Thomas  could  be  said 

Soonest  to  have  gone  out. 

There  are  only  three  remaining, 
St.  Jude,  and  the  two  St.  James ; 

And  great  was  then  Queen  Mary's  hope 
For  the  best  of  all  good  names. 

Great  was  then  Queen  Mary's  hope. 

But  greater  her  fear,  I  guess. 
When  one  of  the  three  went  out, 

And  that  one  was  St.  James  the  Less. 

They  are  now  within  less  than  quarter-inch, 

The  only  remaining  two  ! 
When  there  came  a  thief  in  St.  James, 

And  it  made  a  gutter  too  ! 

Up  started  Queen  Mary, 

Up  she  sat  in  her  bed  ; 
"  I  never  can  call  him  Judas  .  ' 

She  clasp'd  her  hands  and  said. 

"  I  never  can  call  him  Judas  !  " 

Again  did  she  exclaim ; 
"  Holy  Mother,  preserve  us  ! 

It  is  not  a  Christian  name  !  " 

She  spread  her  hands,  and  clasp'd  them  again, 

And  the  Infant  in  the  cradle 
Set  up  a  cry,  an  angry  cry. 

As  loud  as  he  was  able. 

"  Holy  Mother,  preserve  us  !  " 
The  Queen  her  f  rayer  renew'd ; 


488 


ROPRECHT    THE    ROBBER, 


When  in  came  a  moth  at  the  window, 
And  flutter'd  about  St.  Jude. 

St.  James  hath  fallen  in  the  socket, 
But  as  yet  the  flame  is  not  out ; 

And  St.  Jude  hath  singed  the  silly  moth 
That  flutters  so  blindly  about. 

And  before  the  flame  and  the  molten  wax 

That  silly  moth  could  kill, 
It  hath  beat  out  St.  Jude  with  its  wings, 

And  St.  James  is  burning  still  I 

Oh,  that  was  a  joy  for  Queen  Mary's  heart; 

The  babe  is  christened  James ; 
The  Prince  of  Aragon  hath  got 

The  best  of  all  good  names  ! 

Glory  to  Santiago, 

The  mighty  one  in  war ! 
James  he  is  call'd,  and  he  shall  be 

King  James  the  Conqueror  ! 

Now  shall  the  Crescent  wane, 

The  Cross  be  set  on  high 
In  triumph  upon  many  a  Mosque ; 

Woe,  woe  to  Mawnetry  ! 

Valencia  shall  be  subdued ; 

Majorca  shall  be  won  ; 
The  Moors  be  routed  every  where ; 

Joy,  joy,  for  Aragon  ! 

Shine  brighter  now,  ye  stars,  that  crown 

Our  Lady  del  Pilar, 
And  rejoice  in  thy  grave,  Cid  Campeador, 

Ruydiez  de  Bivar ! 

Keswick,  1829. 


ROPRECHT  THE  ROBBER. 


The  story  here  versified  is  told  hy  Taylor  the  Water  Poet,  in 
his  "  Three  Weeks,  Three  Days,  and  Three  Hours'  Ohscr- 
vations  from  London  to  H;unl)urgh,  in  Germany  ;  amongst 
Jews  and  Gentiles,  with  Descriptions  of  Towns  and  Towers, 
Castles  and  Citadels,  artificial  Gallowses  and  natural  Hang- 
men ;  and  dedicated  for  tlie  present  to  the  absent  Odroni- 
bian  Knight  Errant,  8ir  Thomas  Coryat."  It  is  in  the 
volume  of  his  collected  works,  p.  82,  of  the  third  paging. 

CoUein,  which  is  the  scene  of  this  story,  is  more  probably 
Kollen  on  the  Elbe,  in  Bohemia,  or  a  town  of  the  same 
name  in  Prussia,  tlian  Cologne,  to  which  groat  city  the 
reader  will  perceive  I  had  good  reasons  for  transferring  it. 


PART   I. 


RopRECHT  the  Robber  is  taken  at  last; 

In  Cologne  they  have  him  fast ; 

Trial  is  over,  and  sentence  past ; 

And  hopes  of  escape  were  vain,  he  knew. 

For  the  gallows  now  must  have  its  due. 


But  though  pardon  cannot  here  be  bought, 
It  may  for  the  other  world,  he  thought; 
And  so,  to  his  comfort,  with  one  consent 
The  Friars  assured  their  penitent. 

Money,  they  teach  him,  when  rightly  given. 
Is  put  out  to  account  with  Heaven  ; 
For  suffrages  therefore  his  plunder  went. 
Sinfully  gotten,  but  piously  spent. 

All  Saints,  whose  shrines  are  in  that  city, 
They  tell  him,  will  on  him  have  pity. 
Seeing  he  hath  liberally  paid, 
In  this  time  of  need,  for  their  good  aid. 

In  the  Three  Kings  they  bid  him  confide, 
Who  there  in  Cologne  lie  side  by  side  : 
And  from  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins  eke, 
Intercession  for  him  will  they  bespeak. 

And  also  a  sharer  he  shall  be 

In  the  merits  of  their  community ; 

All  which  they  promise,  he  need  not  fear. 

Through  Purgatory  will  carry  him  clear. 

Though  the  furnace  of  Babylon  could  not  compare 
With  the  terrible  fire  that  rages  there, 
Yet  they  their  part  will  so  zealously  do. 
He  shall  only  but  frizzle  as  he  flies  through. 

And  they  will  help  him  to  die  well, 
And  he  shall  be  hang'd  with  book  and  bell ; 
And  moreover  with  holy  water  they 
Will  sprinkle  him,  ere  they  turn  away. 

For  buried  Roprecht  must  not  be ; 

He  is  to  be  left  on  the  triple  tree ; 

That  they  who  pass  along  may  spy 

Where  the  famous  Robber  is  hanging  on  high. 

Seen  is  that  gibbet  far  and  wide 
From  the  Rhine  and  from  the  Dusseldorff'side; 
And  from  all  roads  which  cross  the  sand. 
North,  south,  and  west,  in  that  level  land. 

It  will  be  a  comfortable  sight 
To  see  him  there  by  day  and  by  night; 
For  Roprecht  the  Robber  many  a  year 
Had  kept  the  country  round  in  fear. 

So  the  Friars  assisted,  by  special  grace, 
With  book  and  bell  to  tlic  fatal  place ; 
And  he  was  hang'd  on  the  triple  tree. 
With  as  much  honor  as  man  could  be. 

In  his  suit  of  irons  he  was  hung  ; 

Tliey  sprinkled  him  then,  and  their  psalm  they 

sung ; 
And  turning  away  when  this  duty  was  paid. 
They  said.  What  a  goodly  end  he  had  made  ! 

The  crowd  broke  up,  and  went  their  way; 
All  were  gone  by  the  close  of  day  ; 
And  Roprecht  the  Robber  was  left  there 
Hanirinof  alone  in  the  moonliirht  air 


ROPRECHT    THE    ROBBER. 


489 


The  last  who  look'd  back  for  a  parting  sight, 
Beheld  him  there  in  the  clear  moonlight; 
But  tlie  first  who  look'd  when  the  morning  shone, 
Saw  in  dismay  that  Roprecht  was  gone. 


PART   II. 

The  stir  in  Cologne  is  greater  to-day 
Than  all  the  bustle  of  yesterday; 
Hundreds  and  thousands  went  out  to  see  ; 
The  irons  and  chains,  as  well  as  he, 
Were  gone,  but  the  rope  was  left  on  the  tree. 

A  wonderful  thing !  for  every  one  said 
He  had  hung  till  he  was  dead,  dead,  dead, 
And  on  the  gallows  was  seen,  from  noon 
Till  ten  o'clock,  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Moreover  the  Hangman  was  ready  to  swear 
He  had  done  his  part  with  all  due  care ; 
And  that  certainly  better  hang'd  than  he 
No  one  ever  was,  or  ever  could  be. 

Neither  kith  nor  kin,  to  bear  him  away, 
And  funeral  rites  in  secret  pay. 
Had  he ;  and  none  that  pains  would  take. 
With  risk  of  the  law,  for  a  stranger's  sake. 

So  'twas  thought,  because  he  had  died  so  well, 
He  was  taken  away  by  miracle. 
But  would  he  again  alive  be  found  ? 
Or  had  he  been  laid  in  holy  ground  ? 

If  in  holy  ground  his  relics  were  laid, 

Some  marvellous  sign  would  show,  they  said ; 

If  restored  to  life,  a  Friar  he  would  be. 

Or  a  holy  Hermit  certainly. 

And  die  in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 

That  thus  it  would  prove  they  could  not  doubt, 
Of  a  man  whose  end  had  been  so  devout; 
And  to  disputing  then  they  fell 
About  who  had  wrought  this  miracle. 

Had  the  Three  Kings  this  mercy  shown, 
Who  were  the  pride  and  honor  of  Cologne .' 
Or  was  it  an  act  of  proper  grace. 
From  the  Army  of  Virgins  of  British  race. 
Who  were  also  the  glory  of  that  place  ? 

Pardon,  some  said,  they  might  presume, 
Being  a  kingly  act,  from  the  Kings  must  come ; 
But  others  maintained  that  St.  Ursula's  heart 
Would  sooner  be  moved  to  the  merciful  part. 

There  was  one  who  thought  this  aid  divine 
Came  from  the  other  bank  of  the  Rhine ; 
For  Roprecht  there,  too,  had  for  favor  applied. 
Because  his  birthplace  was  on  that  side. 

To  DusseldorfF  then  the  praise  might  belong. 
And  its  Army  of  Martyrs,  ten  thousand  strong; 
But  he  for  a  DusseldorfF  man  was  known, 
62 


And  no  one  would  listen  to  him  in  Cologne, 
Where  the  people  would  have  the  whole  wonder 
their  own. 

The  Friars,  who  help'd  him  to  die  so  well. 

Put  in  their  claim  to  the  miracle ; 

Greater  tilings  than  this,  as  their  Annals  could  tell, 

The  stock  of  their  merits  for  sinful  men 

Had  done  before,  and  would  do  again. 

'Twas  a  whole  week's  wonder  in  that  great  town, 
And  in  all  places,  up  the  river  and  down ; 
But  a  greater  wonder  took  place  of  it  then. 
For  Roprecht  was  found  on  the  gallows  again  ! 


PART    III. 

With  that  the  whole  city  flocked  out  to  see; 
There  Roprecht  was  on  the  triple  tree. 
Dead,  past  all  doubt,  as  dead  could  be ; 
But  fresh  he  was  as  if  spells  had  charm'd  him, 
And  neither  wind  nor  weather  had  harm'd  him. 

While  the  multitude  stood  in  a  muse, 
One  said,  I  am  sure  he  was  hang'd  in  shoes ! 
In  tliis  the  Hangman  and  all  concurr'd; 
But  now,  behold,  he  was  booted  and  spurr'd  I 

Plainly  therefore  it  was  to  be  seen. 

That  somewhere  on  horseback  he  had  been  ; 

And  at  this  the  people  marvelled  more. 

Than  at  any  tiling  which  had  happened  before. 

For  not  in  riding  trim  was  he 

When  he  disappeared  from  the  triple  tree ; 

And  his  suit  of  irons  he  still  was  in. 

With  the  collar  that  clipp'd  him  under  the  chin. 

With  that  this  second  thought  befell. 
That  perhaps  he  had  not  died  so  well. 
Nor  had  Saints  perform'd  the  miracle ; 
But  rather  there  was  cause  to  fear, 
That  the  foul  Fiend  had  been  busy  here ! 

Roprecht  the  Robber  had  long  been  their  curse, 
And  hanging  had  only  made  him  worse ; 
For  bad  as  he  was  when  living,  they  said 
They  had  rather  meet  him  alive  than  dead. 

What  a  horse  must  it  be  which  he  had  ridden  ! 
No  earthly  beast  could  be  so  bestridden ; 
And  when  by  a  hell  horse  a  dead  rider  was  carried. 
The  whole  land  would  be  fearfully  harried  ! 

So  some  were  for  digging  a  pit  in  the  place, 
And  burying  him  there  with  a  stone  on  his  face; 
And  that  hard  on  his  body  the  earth  should  be 

press'd. 
And  exorcists  be  sent  for  to  lay  him  at  rest. 

But  others,  wJiose  knowledge  was  greater,  opined 
That  this  corpse  was  too  strong  to  be  confined ; 
No  weight  of  earth  which  they  could  lay 


490 


ROPRECHT    THE    ROBBER, 


Would  hold  him  down  a  single  day, 
If  he  chose  to  get  up  and  ride  away. 

There  was  no  keeping  Vampires  under  ground ; 
And  bad  as  a  Vampire  he  might  be  found, 
Pests  against  whom,  it  was  understood, 
Exorcism  never  had  done  any  good. 

But  fire,  they  said,  had  been  proved  to  be 
The  only  infallible  remedy ; 
So  they  were  for  burning  the  body  outright. 
Which  would  put  a  stop  to  his  riding  by  night. 

Others  were  for  searching  the  mystery  out. 
And  setting  a  guard  the  gallows  about, 
Who  sliould  keop  a  careful  watch,  and  see 
Whether  Witch  or  Devil  it  might  be 
That  helped  him  down  from  the  triple  tree ;  — 

For  that  there  were  Witches  in  the  land, 
Was  what  all  by  this  might  understand; 
And  they  must  not  let  the  occasion  slip 
For  detecting  that  cursed  fellowship. 

Some  were  for  this,  and  some  for  that, 
And  some  they  could  not  tell  for  what ; 
And  never  was  such  commotion  known 
In  that  great  city  of  Cologne. 


PART    IV. 


PiETER  Snoye  was  a  boor  of  good  renown. 
Who  dwelt  about  an  hour  and  a  half  from  the  town; 
And  he,  while  the  people  were  all  in  debate, 
Went  quietly  in  at  the  city  gate. 

For  Father  Kijf  he  sought  about, 

His  confessor,  till  he  found  him  out; 

But  the  Father  Confessor  wondered  to  see 

The  old  man,  and  what  his  errand  might  be. 

The  good  Priest  did  not  wonder  less 
When  Pieter  said  he  was  come  to  confess ; 
"  Why,  Pieter,  how  can  this  be  so  ? 
I  confessed  thee  some  ten  days  ago ! 

"  Thy  conscience,  methinks,  may  be  well  at  rest, 

An  honest  man  among  the  best; 

I  would  that  all  my  flock,  like  thee, 

Kept  clear  accounts  with  Heaven  and  me !  " 

Always  before,  without  confusion. 

Being  sure  of  easy  absolution, 

Pieter  his  little  slips  had  summ'd ; 

But  he  hesitated  now,  and  he  haw'd,  and  humm'd. 

And  something  so  strange  the  Father  saw 
In  Pieter's  looks,  and  his  hum  and  his  haw. 
That  he  began  to  doubt  it  was  something  more 
Than  a  trifle  omitted  in  last  week's  score. 

At  length  it  came  out,  that  in  the  afiuir 

Of  Roprecht  the  Robber  he  had  some  share ; 


The  Confessor  then  gave  a  start  in  fear  — 

"  God  grant  there  have  been  no  witchcraft  here ! " 

Pieter  Snoye,  who  was  looking  down, 
With  something  between  a  smile  and  a  frown, 
Felt  that  suspicion  move  his  bile. 
And   look'd   up    with   more   of  a  frown   than   a 
smile. 

"  Fifty  years  I,  Pieter  Snoye, 
Have  lived  in  this  country,  man  and  boy. 
And  have  always  paid  the  Church  her  due. 
And  kept  short  scores  with  Heaven  and  you. 

"The  Devil  himself,  though  Devil  he  be. 

Would  not  dare  impute  that  sin  to  me ; 

He  might  charge  me  as  well  with  heresy ; 

And  if  he  did,  here,  in  this  place, 

I'd  call  him  liar,  and  spit  in  his  face  !  "  ^ 

The  Father,  he  saw,  cast  a  gracious  eye 
When  he  heard  him  thus  the  Devil  defy ; 
The  wrath,  of  which  he  had  eased  his  mind. 
Left  a  comfortable  sort  of  warmth  behind, 

Like  what  a  cheerful  cup  will  impart, 
In  a  social  hour,  to  an  honest  man's  heart ; 
And  he  added,  "  For  all  the  witchcraft  here, 
I  shall  presently  make  that  matter  clear. 

"  Though  I  am,  as  you  very  well  know.  Father  Kijf, 
A  peaceable  man,  and  keep  clear  of  strife. 
It's  a  queerish  business  that  now  I've  been  in ; 
But  I  can't  say  that  it's  much  of  a  sin. 

"  However,  it  needs  must  be  confess'd, 

And  as  it  will  set  this  people  at  rest, 

To  come  with  it  at  once  was  best : 

Moreover,  if  I  delayed,  I  thought 

That  some  might  perhaps  into  trouble  be  brought 

"  Under  the  seal  I  tell  it  you. 

And  you  will  judge  what  is  best  to  do. 

That  no  hurt  to  me  and  my  son  may  ensue. 

No  earthly  harm  have  we  intended, 

And  what  was  ill  done  has  been  well  mended. 

"  I  arid  my  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon, 

Were  returning  home  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

From  this  good  city  of  Cologne, 

On  the  night  of  the  execution  day ; 

And  hard  by  the  gibbet  was  our  way. 

"About  midnight  it  was  we  were  passing  by. 
My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 
When  we  heard  a  moaning  as  we  came  near, 
Which  made  us  quake  at  first  for  fear. 

"  But  the  moaning  was  presently  heard  again. 
And  we  knew  it  was  nothing  ghostly  then; 
'  Lord  help  us,  Father  ! '  Piet  Pieterszoon  said, 
'  Roprecht,  for  certain,  is  not  dead  ! ' 

"  So  under  the  gallows  our  cart  we  drive, 
And,  sure  enough,  the  man  was  alive ; 


ROPRECHT  THE  ROBBER. 


491 


Because  of  the  irons  that  he  was  in, 

He  was  hanging,  not  by  the  neck,  but  the  chin. 

"  The  reason  why  things  had  got  thus  wrong, 
Was,  that  the  rope  liad  been  left  too  long ; 
The  Hangman's  fault  —  a  clumsy  rogue. 
He  is  not  fit  to  hang  a  dog. 

"  Now  Roprccht,  as  long  as  the  people  were  there, 

Never  stirr'd  hand  or  foot  in  the  air; 

But  when  at  last  he  was  left  alone. 

By  tiiat  time  so  much  of  his  strength  was  gone, 

That  he  could  do  little  more  than  groan. 

"  Piet  and  I  had  been  sitting  it  out, 
Till  a  latish  hour,  at  a  cliristening  bout; 
And  perhaps  we  were  rash,  as  you  may  think. 
And  a  little  soft,  or  so,  for  drink. 

"Father  Kijf,  we  could  not  bear 
To  leave  him  hanging  in  misery  there ; 
And  'twas  an  act  of  mercy,  I  cannot  but  say. 
To  gel  him  down,  and  take  him  away. 

"  And,  as  you  know,  all  people  said 
What  a  goodly  end  that  day  he  had  made  ; 
So  we  thought  for  certain.  Father  Kijf, 
That,  if  he  were  saved,  he  would  mend  his  life. 

"  My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 
We  took  him  down,  seeing  none  was  nigh ; 
And  we  took  off  his  suit  of  irons  with  care. 
When  we  got  him  home,  and  we  hid  him  there. 

"  The  secret,  as  you  may  guess,  was  known 
To  Alit,  my  wife,  but  to  her  alone ; 
And  never  sick  man,  I  dare  aver. 
Was  better  tended  than  he  was  by  her. 

"  Good  advice,  moreover,  as  good  could  be. 
He  had  from  Alit,  my  wife,  and  me ; 
And  no  one  could  promise  fairer  than  he  : 
So  that  we  and  Piet  Pieterszoon,  our  son. 
Thought  that  we  a  very  good  deed  had  done. 

"  You  may  well  think  we  laughed  in  our  sleeve. 
At  what  the  people  then  seem'd  to  believe  ; 
Queer  enough  it  was  to  hear  them  say. 
That  the  Three  Kings  took  Roprecht  away  ;  — 

"  Or  that  St.  Ursula,  who  is  in  bliss. 
With  her  Army  of  Virgins  had  done  this : 
The  Three  Kings  and  St.  Ursula,  too, 
I  warrant,  had  something  better  to  do. 

"  Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son,  and  I, 
We  heard  them  talk  as  we  stood  by, 
And  Piet  look'd  at  me  with  a  comical  eye. 
We  thought  them  fools,  but,  as  you  shall  see. 
Not  over-wise  ourselves  were  we. 

"  For  I  must  tell  you,  Father  Kijf, 
That  when  we  told  this  to  Alit,  my  wife, 
She  at  the  notion  perk'd  up  with  delight, 
A  nd  said  she  believed  the  people  were  right. 


"  Had  not  Roprecht  put  in  the  Saints  his  hope, 
And  who  but  they  should  have  loosen'd  the  rope, 
When  they  saw  that  no  one  could  intend 
To  make  at  the  gallows  a  better  end .' 

"  Yes,  she  said,  it  was  perfectly  clear 
That  there  must  have  been  a  miracle  here ; 
And  we  had  the  happiness  to  be  in  it. 
Having  been  brought  there  just  at  the  minute. 

"  And  therefore  it  would  become  us  to  make 
An  offering  for  this  favor's  sake 
To  the  Three  Kings  and  the  Virgins  too, 
Since  we  could  not  tell  to  which  it  was  due. 

"  For  greater  honor  there  could  be  none 

Than  what  in  this  business  the  Saints  had  done 

To  us  and  Piet  Pieterszoon,  our  son ; 

She  talk'd  me  over.  Father  Kijf, 

With  that  tongue  of  hers,  did  Alit,  my  wife. 

"  Lord,  forgive  us  !  as  if  the  Saints  would  deign 
To  come  and  help  such  a  rogue  in  grain ; 
When  the  only  mercy  the  case  could  admit 
Would  have  been  to  make  his  halter  fit ! 

"  That  would  have  made  one  hanging  do, 

In  happy  season  for  him  too, 

When  he  was  in  a  proper  cue ; 

And  have  saved  some  work,  as  you  will  see, 

To  my  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  me. 

"  Well,  Father,  we  kept  him  at  bed  and  board. 
Till  his  nock  was  cured  and  his  strength  restored , 
And  we  sliould  have  sent  him  off"  this  day 
With  something  to  help  him  on  his  way. 

"  But  this  wicked  Roprecht,  what  did  he .' 
Though  he  had  been  saved  thus  mercifully, 
Hanging  had  done  him  so  little  good, 
That  he  took  to  his  old  ways  as  soon  as  he  could. 

"  Last  night,  when  we  were  all  asleep. 
Out  of  his  bed  did  this  gallows-bird  creep  ; 
Piet  Pieterszoon's  boots  and  spurs  he  put  on. 
And  stole  my  best  horse,  and  away  he  was  gone ! 

"  Now  Alit,  my  wife,  did  not  sleep  so  hard. 
But  she  heard  the  horse's  feet  in  the  yard ; 
And  when  she  jogg'd  me,  and  bade  me  awake. 
My  mind  misgave  me  as  soon  as  she  spake. 

"  To  the  window  my  good  woman  went. 
And  watch'd  which  way  his  course  he  bent ; 
And  in  such  time  as  a  pipe  can  be  lit. 
Our  horses  were  ready  with  bridle  and  bit. 

"  Away,  as  fast  as  we  could  hie, 

We  went,  Piet  Pieterszoon  and  I ; 

And  still  on  the  plain  we  had  him  in  sight; 

The  moon  did  not  shine  for  nothing  that  night. 

"  Knowing  the  ground,  and  riding  fast. 

We  came  up  with  him  at  last. 

And  —  would  you  believe  it .'     Father  Kijfj 


492 


THE    YOUNG    DRAGON. 


The  ungrateful  wretch  would  have  taken  my  life, 
If  he  had  not  miss'd  his  stroke  with  a  knife ! 

"  The  struggle  in  no  long  time  was  done, 
Because,  you  know,  we  were  two  to  one ; 
But  yet  all  our  strength  we  were  fain  to  try, 
Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son,  and  I. 

"  When  we  had  got  him  on  the  ground, 
We  fastened  his  hands,  and  his  legs  we  bound ; 
And  across  the  horse  we  laid  him  then, 
And  brought  him  back  to  the  house  again. 

"  '  We  have  robb'd  the  gallows,  and  that  was  ill 
Said  1  to  Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son ;  [done  ! ' 

'  And  restitution  we  must  make 
To  that  same  gallows,  for  justice'  sake.' 

"  In  his  suit  of  irons  the  rogue  we  array'd. 
And  once  again  in  the  cart  he  was  laid  ! 
Night  not  yet  so  far  was  spent. 
But  there  was  time  enough  for  our  intent ; 
And  back  to  the  triple  tree  we  went. 

"  His  own  rope  was  ready  there  ; 

To  measure  the  length  we  took  good  care ; 

And  the  job  which  the  bungling  Hangman  begun. 

This  time,  I  think,  was  properly  done 

By  me  and  Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son." 


THE    YOUNG    DRAGON. 


The  legend  on  which  this  poem  is  founded  is  related  in  the 

Fida  y  Hazahas  del  Oran  Tamorlan,  con  la  descripcion  de 
las  Tierras  de  su  Imperio  y  Senorio,  escrita  por  Ruy  Oonza- 
lei  de  Clavijo,  Camarero  del  muy  alto  y  Poderoso  Scnor  Don 
Enrique.  Tercero  deste  nombre,  Rey  dc  Costilla  y  de  Leon  ; 
con  un  Itinerario  de  lo  sucedido  en  la  Embajada,  que  por  dicho 
Senor  el  Rey  hito  al  dicho  Principe,  llanado  por  otro  nombre 
Tamurbec,  ana  del  nacimiento  de  1403. 
The  ambassadors  had  seen  at  Constantinople,  in  the  Church 
of  St.  John  of  the  Stone,  el  braio  izquicrdo  de  Sant  Juan 
Baptista ;  el  qual  brazo  era  de  so  el  ombro  ayuso  fasta  en  la 
mano.  E  esle  brazo  fue  quamado,  e  non  tenia  salvo  el  cuero 
e  el  kueso,  e  a.  las  coyunturas  del  codo  a  de  la  mano  estaka 
guamecida  dc  oro  con  piedras.  They  then  went  to  a  church 
of  our  Lady,  called  Peribelico,  e  aqui  in  esta  Islesia  estaba 
el  otra  brazo  del  bienavenlurado  Sant  Juan  Baptista,  el  qual 
fue  mostrado  &  los  dichos  Embajadorcs :  el  qual  brazo  era  rl 
derecho,  y  era  desde  cl  codo  ayuso  con  su  mano ;  c  estaba  bien 
fresco  i  sano  ;  e  como  quiera  que  dicen  que  todo  el  cuerpo  drl 
bienavenlurado  Sant  Juan  fue  que  mado,  salvo  elun  dedo  de  la 
mano  derecha  con  que  sehalo  qvando  dizo,  Ecce  Agnus  Dei, 
todo  esle  dicho  brazo  estaba  sano  segun  alii  parcscid  .-  estaba 
encastonado  con  Unas  vergas  de  oro  dclgadas,  y  fallcsciale  el 
dedo  pulgar ;  y  larazonquelos  Mongcsdecianporquefallescia 
aquel  dedo  de  alii,  era  esta  .-  Decian  que  en  la  ciudad  de  An- 
tiochia,  al  tiempo  que  en  ella  avia  idolatras,  que  andaba  en  H 
unafigura  de  Dragon,  a  que  avian  por  costumbrc  los  de  la 
ciudad  de  dar  cada  ano  d  comer  a  aqucl  Dragon  una  persona. 
E  qui  echaban  suertes  a  qual  caeria ;  e  que  aquel  a  quien  caia, 
que  non  pudiese  escusar  que  lo  non  comic.se  aquel  Dragon.  La 
qual  suerte  diz  que  cayd  en  aquel  tiempo  a  unafija  de  un  ome 
bueno,  e  que  quando  vido  que  non  podia  escusar  de  dar  sujija 
&  aquel  Dragon,  que  ovo  gran  cuita  en  su  coraion,  e  que  con 
dolor  de  lafija,  que  se  fuera  d  una  Iglesia  dc  Monges  Christi- 
anas, que  entonces  en  la  dicha  ciudad  avia,  e  dizo  a  los  Monges 


que  el  avia  oido  algunas  veees,  que  Dios  avia  fecho  muchos 
mUagros  por  Sant  Juan  ;  por  ende  que  el  queria  creer  que  era 
vcrdad,  e  adorar  en  aquel  brazo  suyo  que  alii  tenian.  E  de- 
manddle  mcrced  que  entre  los  otros  milagros  que  Dios  nueslro 
Senor  avia  mostrado  por  il,  que  quisiere  agora  facerle  mcrced 
de  mostrar  estc,  eficiese  como  su  fja  non  muricse  tan  mala 
muerte,  como  era  comida  de  aquella  fiera,  e  la  librase  de  aquel 
peligro :  e  que  los  Monges  aviendo  compasion  del,  que  Ic  vios- 
traron  el  dicho  brazo,  c  que  el  que  finrdra  los  hinojos  por  lo 
adorar ;  e  que  con  dolor  de  la  fija  que  travdra  con  los  dientej 
del  dedo  pulgar  de  la  mano  del  Sancto  glorioso,  6  t/ue  ge  lo  ar- 
rancdra  e  Uevdra  en  su  boca,  que  los  Monges  non  lo  vieron,  e 
que  quando  qriisicron  dar  la  doncella  al  Dragon,  que  el  que 
abrii  la  voca  por  la  comer,  e  que  el  entonces  qui  le  lanzd  cl 
dedo  del  bienavenlurado  Sant  Juan  Baptista  en  la  boca,  e  que 
rebento  luego  el  Dragon,  que  fue  un  gran  milagro ;  e  que 
aquel  ome  que  se  convirtid  d  le  Fi  de  nuestro  Senor  Jesu 
Christo.  pp.  53,  54. 


PART  I. 


PiTHYRiAN  was  a  Pagan, 

An  easy-hearted  man. 
And  Pagan  sure  he  thought  to  end, 

As  Pagan  he  began ; 
Thought  he,  the  one  must  needs  be  true, 
The  old  Religion,  or  the  new. 

And  therefore  nothing  care  I ; 
I  call  Diana  the  Divine  ; 
My  daughter  worships  at  the  shrine 

Of  the  Christian  Goddess,  Mary. 

In  this  uncertain  matter 

If  I  the  wrong  course  take, 
Mary  to  me  will  mercy  show 

For  my  Marana's  sake. 
If  I  am  right,  and  Dian  bend 
Her  dreadful  bow,  or  Phosbus  send 

His  shafts  abroad  for  slaughter. 
Safe  from  their  arrows  shall  I  be, 
And  the  twin  Deities  for  me 

Will  spare  my  dear-loved  daughter. 

If  every  one  in  Antioch 

Had  reasoned  in  this  strain, 
It  never  would  have  raised  alarm 

In  Satan's  dark  domain. 
But  Mary's  Image  every  day 
Looks  down  on  crowds  who  come  to  pray  ; 

Her  votaries  never  falter ; 
While  Dian's  temple  is  so  bare, 
That  unless  her  Priestess  take  good  care. 

She  will  have  a  grass-green  altar. 

Perceiving  this,  the  old  Dragon 

Inflamed  with  anger  grew ; 
Earthquakes  and  Plagues  were  common  ills , 

There  needed  something  new ; 
Some  vengeance  so  severe  and  strange 
That  forepast  times,  in  all  their  range, 

With  no  portent  could  match  it; 
So  for  himself  a  nest  he  made, 
And  in  that  nest  an  egg  he  laid, 

And  down  he  sat  to  hatch  it. 

He  built  it  by  the  fountain 
Of  Phlegethon's  red  flood, 


THE    YOUNG    DRAGON. 


493 


In  the  innermost  abyss,  the  place 

Of  central  solitude ; 
Of  adamantine  blocks  unhewn, 
With  lava  scoria  interstrewn, 

The  sole  material  fitting ; 
With  amianth  he  lined  the  nest. 
And  incombustible  asbest, 

To  bear  tlie  fiery  sitting. 

There,  with  malignant  patience. 

He  sat  in  fell  despite. 
Till  this  dracontine  cockatrice 

Should  break  its  way  to  light. 
Meantime  his  angry  heart  to  cheer, 
He  thought  that  all  this  while  no  fear 

The  Antiocheans  stood  in, 
Of  what,  on  deadliest  vengeance  bent, 
With  imperturbable  intent, 

He  there  for  them  was  brooding. 

The  months  of  incubation 

At  length  were  duly  past ; 
And  now  the  infernal  Dragon-chick 

Hath  burst  its  shell  at  last ; 
At  which  long-look'd-for  sight  enrapt, 
For  joy  the  father  Dragon  clapp'd 

His  brazen  wings  like  thunder, 
So  loudly  that  the  mighty  sound 
Was  like  an  earthquake  felt  around. 

And  all  above  and  under. 

The  diabolic  youngling 

Came  out  no  callow  birth. 
Puling,  defenceless,  blind  and  weak. 

Like  bird  or  beast  of  earth  ; 
Or  man,  most  helpless  thing  of  all 
That  fly,  or  swim,  or  creep,  or  crawl ; 

But  in  his  perfect  figure ; 
His  horns,  his  dreadful  tail,  his  sting. 
Scales,  teeth,  and  claws,  and  every  thmg. 

Complete  and  in  their  vigor. 

The  Old  Dragon  was  delighted, 

And  proud  withal  to  see 
In  what  perfection  he  had  hatch'd 

His  hellish  progeny ; 
And  round  and  round,  with  fold  on  fold. 
His  tail  about  the  imp  he  roll'd, 

In  fond  and  close  enlacement ; 
And  neck  round  neck,  with  many  a  turn, 
He  coil'd,  which  was,  you  may  discern, 

Their  manner  of  embracement. 


PART  II. 


A  VOICE  was  heard  in  Antioch, 
Whence  uttered  none  could  know ; 

But  from  their  sleep  it  wakened  all, 
Proclaiming,  Woe,  woe,  woe  ! 

it  sounded  here,  it  sounded  there. 

Within,  without,  and  every  where, 
A  terror  and  a  warning ; 


Repeated  thrice  the  dreadful  word 
By  every  living  soul  was  heard 
Before  the  hour  of  morning. 

And  in  the  air  a  rushing 

Past  over,  in  the  night; 
And  as  it  past,  there  past  with  it 

A  meteoric  light ; 
The  blind  that  piercing  light  intense 
Felt  in  their  long-seal'd  visual  sense. 

With  sudden,  short  sensation  : 
The  deaf  that  rushing  in  the  sky 
Could  hear,  and  that  portentous  cry 

Reach'd  them  with  consternation. 

The  astonished  Antiocheans 

Impatiently  await 
The  break  of  day,  not  knowing  when 

Or  what  might  be  their  fate. 
Alas !  what  then  the  people  hear. 
Only  with  certitude  of  fear 

Their  sinking  hearts  affrighted-, 
For  in  the  fertile  vale  below. 
Came  news  that,  in  that  night  of  woe, 

A  Dragon  had  alighted. 

It  was  no  earthly  monster 

In  Libyan  deserts  nurs'd; 
Nor  had  the  Lerna  lake  sent  forth 

This  winged  worm  accurs'd ; 
The  Old  Dragon's  own  laid  egg  was  this, 
The  fierce  Young  Dragon  of  the  abyss. 

Who  from  the  fiery  fountain. 
Through  earth's  concavities,  that  night 
Had  made  his  way,  and  taken  flight 

Out  of  a  burning  mountain. 

A  voice  that  went  before  him 

The  cry  of  woe  preferred  ; 
The  motion  of  his  brazen  wings 

Was  what  the  deaf  had  heard ; 
The  flashing  of  his  eyes,  that  light 
The  which  upon  their  inward  sight 

The  blind  had  felt  astounded; 
What  wonder  then,  when  from  the  wall 
They  saw  him  in  the  vale,  if  all 

With  terror  were  confounded .' 

Compared  to  that  strong  armor 

Of  scales  which  he  was  in, 
The  hide  of  a  rhinoceros 

Was  like  a  lady's  skin. 
A  battering-ram  might  play  in  vain 
Upon  his  head,  with  might  and  main. 

Though  fift)'  men  had  work'd  it ; 
And  from  his  tail  they  saw  him  fling 
Out,  like  a  rocket,  a  long  sting. 

When  he  for  pastime  jerk'd  it. 

To  whom  of  Gods  or  Heroes 

Should  they  for  aid  apply  .' 
Where  should  they  look  for  succor  now. 

Or  whither  should  they  fly  .' 
For  now  no  Demigods  were  found 
Like  those  whose  deathless  deeds  abouna 


494                                          THE    YOUNG    DRAGON. 

In  ancient  song  and  story ; 

A  Christian  Virgin,  every  day, 

No  Hercules  was  then  on  earth, 

Ye  must  present  him  for  his  prey, 

Nor  yet  of  her  St.  George's  birth 

With  garlands  deck'd,  as  meet  is : 

Could  Cappadocia  glory. 

That  with  the  Christians  he  begins 

Is  what,  in  mercy  to  your  sins. 

And  even  these  against  him 

Ye  owe  to  my  entreaties. 

Had  found  their  strength  but  small ; 

He  could  have  swallowed  Hercules, 

Whether,  if  to  my  worship 

Club,  lion-skin,  and  all. 

Ye  now  continue  true. 

Yea,  had  St.  George  himself  been  there 

I  may,  when  these  are  all  consumed. 

Upon  the  fiercest  steed  that  e'er 

Avert  the  ill  from  you. 

To  battle  bore  bestrider. 

That  on  the  Ancient  Gods  depends. 

This  dreadful  Dragon,  in  his  might, 

If  they  be  made  once  more  your  friends 

One  mouthful  only,  and  one  bite, 

By  your  sincere  repentance : 

Had  made  of  horse  and  rider. 

But  for  the  present,  no  delay  ; 

Cast  lots  among  ye,  and  obey 

They  see  how  unavailing 

The  inexorable  sentence. 

All  human  force  must  prove  ; 

Oh,  might  their  earnest  prayers  obtain 

♦ 

Protection  from  above ! 

The  Christians  sought  our  Lady's  shrine, 

PART  III. 

To  invocate  her  aid  divine ; 

And,  with  a  like  emotion. 

Though  to  the  Pagan  priesthood 

The  Pagans,  on  that  fearful  day. 

A  triumph  this  might  seem, 

Took  to  Diana's  fane  their  way. 

Few  families  there  were  who  thus 

And  offered  their  devotion. 

Could  in  their  grief  misdeem ; 

For,  oft  in  those  distracted  days. 

Parent  and  child  went  different  ways, 
The  sister  and  the  brother ; 

But  there  the  offended  Goddess 

Beheld  them  with  a  frown ; 

And  when,  in  spirit  moved,  the  wife 

The  indignant  altar  heaved  itself, 

Chose  one  religious  course  of  life. 

And  shook  their  offerings  down  ; 

The  husband  took  the  other. 

The  Priestess,  with  a  deathlike  hue, 

Pale  as  the  marble  Image  grew ; 

Therefore  in  every  household 

The  marble  Image  redden'd  ; 

Was  seen  the  face  of  fear; 

And  these  poor  suppliants,  at  the  sight, 

TJiey  who  were  safe  themselves,  exposed 

Felt,  in  fresh  access  of  affright. 

In  those  whom  they  held  dear. 

Their  hearts  within  them  deaden'd. 

J 

The  lists  are  made,  and  in  the  urn 

The  names  are  placed  to  wait  their  turn 

Behold  the  marble  eyeballs 

For  this  far  worse  than  slaughter ; 

With  life  and  motion  shine  ! 

And  from  that  fatal  urn,  the  first 

And  from  the  moving  marble  lips 

Drawn  for  this  dreadful  death  accurs'd 

There  comes  a  voice  divine, 

Was  of  Pithyrian's  daughter. 

A  demon  voice,  by  all  the  crowd 

Distinctly  heard,  nor  low,  nor  loud. 

With  Christian-like  composure. 

But  deep,  and  clear,  and  thrilling ; 

Marana  heard  her  lot ; 

And  carrying  to  the  soul  such  dread 

And  though  her  countenance  at  first 

That  they  perforce  must  what  it  said 

Grew  pale,  she  trembled  not. 

Obey,  however  unwilling. 

Not  for  herself  the  Virgin  grieved  ; 

She  knew  in  whom  she  had  believed, 

Hear !  hear  !  it  said,  ye  people  ! 

Knew  that  a  crown  of  glory 

The  ancient  Gods  have  sent. 

In  Heaven  would  recompense  her  worth. 

In  anger  for  your  long  neglect, 

And  her  good  name  remain  on  earth 

This  signal  punishment. 

The  theme  of  sacred  story. 

To  mortal  Mary  vows  were  paid. 

And  prayers  preferr'd,  and  offerings  made ; 

Her  fears  were  for  her  father. 

Our  tetnples  were  deserted ; 

How  he  should  bear  this  grief. 

Now  when  our  vengeance  makes  ye  wise, 

Poor  wretched  heathen,  if  he  still 

Unto  your  proper  Deities 

Remain'd  in  misbelief; 

In  fear  ye  have  reverted  ! 

Her  looks  amid  the  multitude. 

Who  struck  with  deep  compassion  stood, 

Hear  now  the  dreadful  judgment 

Are  seeking  for  Pithyrian : 

For  this  which  ye  have  done  :  — 

He  cannot  bear  to  meet  her  eye. 

The  infernal  Dragon  will  devour 

Where  goest  thou  ?  whither  wouldst  thou  fly. 

Your  daughters,  one  by  one ; 

Thou  miserable  Syrian ' 

THE    YOUNG    DRAGON.                                           495 

Hatli  sudden  hope  inspired  him, 

With  his  right  arm  uplifted, 

Or  is  it  in  despair 

The  great  Precursor  stood, 

That  through  the  throng  he  made  his  way, 

Thus  represented  to  the  life 

And  sped  he  knew  not  where  ? 

In  carved  and  painted  wood. 

For  how  could  he  tiie  sight  sustain, 

Below  the  real  arm  was  laid 

When  now  the  sacrificial  train 

Within  a  crystal  shrine  display'd 

Inhumanly  surround  her ! 

For  public  veneration ; 

How  bear  to  see  her  when,  with  flowers 

Not  now  of  flesh  and  blood, — but  bone. 

From  rosiers  and  from  jasmine  bowers, 

Sinews,  and  shrivell'd  skin  alone. 

They  like  a  victim  crown'd  her ! 

In  ghastly  preservation. 

He  knew  not  why  nor  whither 

Moved  by  a  secret  impulse 

So  fast  he  hurried  thence. 

Which  he  could  not  withstand, 

But  felt  like  one  possess'd  by  some 

Let  me,  Pithyrian  cried,  adore 

Controlling  influence ; 

That  blessed  arm  and  hand  ! 

Nor  turn'd  he  to  Diana's  fane, 

This  day,  this  miserable  day. 

Inly  assured  that  prayers  were  vain 

My  pagan  faith  I  put  away, 

If  made  for  such  protection ; 

Abjure  it  and  abhor  it ; 

His  pagan  faith  he  now  forgot. 

And  in  tlie  Saints  I  put  my  trust, 

And  the  wild  way  he  took  was  not 

And  in  the  Cross  ;  and,  if  I  must, 

His  own,  but  Heaven's  direction. 

Will  die  a  Martyr  for  it. 

He  who  had  never  enter'd             ^ 

This  is  the  arm  whose  succor 

A  Christian  church  till  then, 

Heaven  brings  me  here  to  seek  ! 

Except  in  idle  mood  profane. 

Oh,  let  me  press  it  to  my  lips, 

To  view  the  ways  of  men. 

And  so  its  aid  bespeak  I 

Now  to  a  Christian  church  made  straight, 

A  strong  faith  makes  me  now  presume 

And  hastened  through  its  open  gate. 

That  when  to  this  unhappy  doom 

By  his  good  Angel  guided. 

A  hellish  power  hath  brought  her. 

And  thinking,  though  he  knew  not  why, 

The  heavenly  hand,  whose  mortal  mould 

That  there  some  blessed  Power  on  high 

I  humbly  worship,  will  unfold 

Had  help  for  him  provided. 

Its  strength,  and  save  my  daughter. 

Wildly  he  look'd  about  him 

The  Sacristan  with  wonder 

On  many  a  form  divine, 

And  pity  heard  his  prayer, 

Whose  Image  o'er  its  altar  stood, 

And  placed  the  relic  in  his  hand, 

And  many  a  sculptured  shrine. 

As  he  knelt  humbly  there. 

In  which  believers  might  behold 

Right  thankfully  the  kneeling  man 

Relics  more  precious  than  the  gold 

To  that  confiding  Sacristan 

And  jewels  which  encased  them, 

Return'd  it,  after  kissing; 

With  painful  search  from  far  and  near 

And  he  within  its  crystal  shrine 

Brought  to  be  venerated  here. 

Replaced  the  precious  arm  divine. 

Where  piety  had  placed  them. 

Nor  saw  that  aught  was  missing. 

There  stood  the  Virgin  Mother, 
Crown'd  with  a  starry  wreath. 

And  there  the  awful  Crucifix 

PART   IV. 

Appeared  to  bleed  and  breathe  ; 

Martyrs  to  whom  their  palm  is  given. 

Oh  piety  audacious ! 

And  sainted  Maids  who  now  in  Heaven 

Oh  boldness  of  belief! 

With  glory  are  invested  ; 

Oh  sacrilegious  force  of  faith, 

Glancing  o'er  these,  his  rapid  eye 

That  then  inspired  the  thief! 

Toward  one  image  that  stood  nigh 

Oh  wonderful  extent  of  love, 

Was  drawn,  and  tiiere  it  rested. 

That  Saints  enthroned  in  bliss  above 

Should  bear  such  profanation, 

The  countenance  that  fix'd  him 

And  not  by  some  immediate  act, 

Was  of  a  sun-burnt  mien  ; 

Striking  the  offender  in  the  fact. 

The  face  was  like  a  Prophet's  face 

Prevent  the  perpetration ! 

Inspired,  but  yet  serene  ; 

His  arms,  and  legs,  and  feet  were  bare ; 

But  sure  the  Saint  that  impulse 

The  raiment  was  of  camel's  hair, 

Himself  from  Heaven  had  sent. 

That,  loosely  hanging  round  him, 

In  mercy  predetermining 

Fell  from  the  shoulders  to  the  knee ; 

The  marvellous  event; 

And  round  the  loins,  though  elsewhere  free, 

So  inconceivable  a  thought. 

A  leathern  girdle  bound  him. 

Seeming  with  such  irreverence  fraught, 

496 


THE    YOUNG    DRAGON. 


Could  else  have  no  beginning ; 
Nor  else  might  such  a  deed  be  done, 
As  then  Pithyrian  ventured  on, 

Yet  had  no  fear  of  sinning. 

Not  as  that  Church  he  enter'd 

Did  he  from  it  depart, 
Like  one  bewildered  by  his  grief, 

But  confident  at  heart ; 
Triumphantly  he  went  his  way, 
And  bore  the  Holy  Thumb  away, 
Elated  with  his  plunder; 
That  Holy  Thumb  which  well  he  knew 
Could  pierce  the  Dragon  through  and  through, 
Like  Jupiter's  own  thunder. 

Meantime  was  meek  Marana 

For  sacrifice  array 'd; 
And  now  in  sad  procession  forth 

They  led  the  flower-crown'd  Maid. 
Of  this  infernal  triumph  vain, 
The  Pagan  Priests  precede  the  train  ; 

Oh  hearts  devoid  of  pity  1 
And  to  behold  the  abhorr'd  event, 
At  far  or  nearer  distance  went 

The  whole  of  that  great  city. 

The  Christians  go  to  succor 

The  sufferer  with  their  prayers, 
The  Pagans  to  a  spectacle 

Which  dreadfully  declares, 
In  this  their  over-ruling  hour. 
Their  Gods'  abominable  power ; 

Yet  not  without  emotion 
Of  grief,  and  horror,  and  remorse, 
And  natural  piety,  whose  force 

Prevail'd  o'er  false  devotion. 

The  walls  and  towers  are  cluster'd, 

And  every  hill  and  height 
That  overlooks  the  vale,  is  throng'd 

For  this  accursed  sight. 
Why  art  thou  joyful,  thou  green  Earth? 
Wherefore,  ye  happy  Birds,  your  mirth 

Are  ye  in  carols  voicing  ? 
And  thou,  O  San,  in  yon  blue  sky. 
How  canst  thou  hold  thy  course  on  high 

This  day,  as  if  rejoicing.' 

Already  the  procession 

Hath  past  the  city  gate  ; 
And  now  along  the  vale  it  moves 

With  solemn  pace  sedate. 
And  now  the  spot  before  them  lies 
Where,  waiting  for  his  promised  prize. 

The  Dragon's  chosen  haunt  is  ; 
Blacken'd  beneath  his  blasting  feet, 
Though  yesterday  a  green  retreat 

Beside  the  clear  Orontes. 

There  the  procession  halted ; 

The  Priests  on  either  hand 
Dividing  then,  a  long  array, 

In  order  took  their  stand. 


Midway  between  the  Maid  is  left. 
Alone,  of  human  aid  bereft: 

The  Dragon  now  hath  spied  her; 
But  in  that  moment  of  most  need, 
Arriving  breathless  with  his  speed. 

Her  Father  stood  beside  her. 

On  came  the  Dragon  rampant, 

Half  running,  half  on  wing, 
His  tail  uplifted  o'er  his  back 

In  many  a  spiral  ring  ; 
His  scales  he  ruffled  in  his  pride ; 
His  brazen  pennons,  waving  wide, 

Were  gloriously  distended ; 
His  nostrils  smoked ;  his  eyes  flash'd  fire  ; 
His  lips  were  drawn ;  and  in  his  ire 

His  mighty  jaws  extended. 

On  came  the  Dragon  rampant, 

Expecting  there  no  check. 
And  open-mouth'd  to  swallow  both 

He  stretch'd  his  burnish'd  neck. 
Pithyrian  put  his  daughter  by, 
Waiting  for  this  with  watchful  eye. 

And  ready  to  prevent  it ; 
Within  arm's  length  he  let  him  come, 
Then  in  he  threw  the  Holy  Thumb, 

And  down  his  throat  he  sent  it. 

The  hugest  brazen  mortar 

That  ever  yet  fired  bomb. 
Could  not  have  check'd  this  fiendish  beast 

As  did  that  Holy  Thumb. 
He  stagger'd  as  he  wheel'd  short  round ; 
His  loose  feet  scraped  along  the  ground. 

To  lift  themselves  unable  : 
His  pennons  in  their  weakness  flagg'd ; 
His  tail,  erected  late,  now  dragg'd. 

Just  like  a  long,  wet  cable. 

A  rumbling  and  a  tumbling 

Was  heard  in  his  inside  ; 
He  gasp'd,  he  panted,  he  lay  down. 

He  roll'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
He  moan'd,  he  groan'd,  he  snufF'd,  he  snored 
He  growl'd,  he  howl'd,  he  raved,  he  roar'd; 

But  loud  as  were  his  clamors. 
Far  louder  was  the  inward  din, 
Like  a  hundred  braziers  working  in 

A  caldron  with  their  hammers. 

The  hammering  came  faster. 

More  faint  the  moaning  sound  ; 
And  now  his  body  swells,  and  now 

It  rises  from  the  ground. 
Not  upward  with  his  own  consent, 
Nor  borne  by  his  own  wings,  he  went ; 

Their  vigor  was  abated ; 
But  lifted,  no  one  could  tell  how. 
By  power  unseen,  with  which  he  now 

Was  visibly  inflated. 

Abominable  Dragon, 

Now  art  thou  overmatch'd  ; 


EPILOGUE    TO    THE    YOUNG    DRAGON.                       407 

And  better  had  it  been  for  thee 

And  my  daughters  made  great  eyes  as  they  heard, 

That  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  halch'd ; 

Which  were  full  of  deliglit  and  wonder. 

For  now,  distended  like  a  ball 
To  its  full  stretch,  in  sight  of  all, 

The  body  mounts  ascendant; 
The  head  before,  the  tail  behind, 
The  wings,  like  sails  that  want  a  wind, 

With  listening  lips  and  looks  intent, 

There  sat  an  eager  boy. 
Who  shouted  sometimes,  and  clapp'd  his  hands. 

And  could  not  sit  still  for  joy. 

On  either  side  are  pendant. 

But  when  I  look'd  at  my  Mistress's  face, 

It  was  all  too  grave  the  while; 

Not  without  special  mercy 

Was  he  thus  borne  on  high. 
Till  he  appear'd  no  bigger  than 

And  when  I  ceased,  methought  there  was  more 
Of  reproof  than  of  praise  in  her  smile. 

An  Eagle  in  the  sky. 

That  smile  I  read  aright,  fur  thus 

For  when  about  some  three  miles  height, 

Reprovingly  said  she, 

Yet  still  in  perfect  reach  of  sight,  — 

"  Such  tales  are  meet  for  youthful  ears, 

Oh,  wonder  of  all  wonders  !  — 

But  give  little  content  to  me. 

lie  burst  in  pieces,  with  a  sound 

Heard  for  a  hundred  leagues  around, 

"  From  thee  far  rather  would  I  hear 

And  like  a  thousand  thunders. 

Some  sober,  sadder  lay, 

Such  as  I  oft  have  heard,  well  pleased 

But  had  that  great  explosion 

Before  those  locks  were  gray." 

Been  in  the  lower  sky, 

All  Antioch  would  have  been  laid 

"  Nay,  Mistress  mine,"  1  made  reply, 

In  ruins,  certainly. 

"  The  Autumn  hatli  its  flowers, 

And  in  that  vast  assembled  rout 

Nor  ever  is  the  sky  more  gay 

Who  crowded  joyfully  about 

Than  in  its  evening  hours. 

Pithyrian  and  his  daughter. 

The  splinters  of  the  monster's  hide 

"  Our  good  old  Cat,  Earl  Tomlemagne, 

Must  needs  have  made  on  every  side 

Upon  a  warm  Spring  day, 

A  very  dreadful  slaughter. 

Even  like  a  kitten  at  its  sport. 

Is  sometimes  seen  to  play. 

So  far  the  broken  pieces 

Were  now  dispersed  around, 

"  That  sense  which  held  me  back  in  youth 

And  shiver'd  so  to  dust,  that  not 

From  all  intemperate  gladness, 

A  fragment  e'er  was  found. 

That  same  good  instinct  bids  me  shun 

The  Holy  Thumb,  (so  it  is  thought,) 

Unprofitable  sadness. 

When  it  this  miracle  had  wrought, 

At  once  to  Heaven  ascended  ; 

"  Nor  marvel  you  if  I  prefer 

As  if,  when  it  had  thus  display'd 

Of  playful  themes  to  sing ; 

Its  power,  and  saved  the  Christian  Maid, 

The  October  grove  hath  brighter  tints 

Its  work  on  earth  was  ended. 

Than  Sunmier  or  than  Spring; 

But  at  Constantinople 

"  For  o'er  the  leaves,  before  they  fall, 

The  arm  and  hand  were  shown, 

Such  hues  hath  Nature  thrown, 

Until  the  mighty  Ottoman 

That  the  woods  wear,  in  sunless  days. 

O'erthrew  the  Grecian  throne. 

A  sunshine  of  their  own. 

And  when  the  Monks,  this  tale  who  told 

To  pious  visitors,  would  hold 

"  Why  should  I  seek  to  call  forth  tears .' 

The  holy  hand  for  kissing, 

The  source  from  whence  we  weep 

They  never  fail'd,  with  faith  devout, 

Too  near  the  surface  lies  in  youth  ; 

In  confirmation  to  point  out 

In  age  it  lies  too  deep. 

That  there  the  Thumb  was  missing. 

"Enough  of  foresight  sad,  too  much 

Keswick,  1829. 

Of  retrospect,  have  I ; 
And  well  for  me  that  I  sometimes 

Can  put  those  feelings  by  ;  — 
"  From  public  ills,  and  thoughts  that  else 

EPILOGUE 

Might  weigh  me  down  to  earth. 

That  I  can  gain  some  intervals 

TO 

For  healthful,  hopeful  mirth  ;  — 

THE    YOUNG    DRAGON. 

"  That  I  can  sport  in  tales  which  suit 

Young  auditors  like  these. 

1  TOLD  my  tale  of  the  Holy  Thumb 

Yet,  if  1  err  not,  may  content 

That  split  the  Dragon  asunder, 
63 

The  few  I  seek  to  please. 

498 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY;    PREFACE. 


"  I  know  in  what  responsive  minds 

My  liglitest  lay  will  wake 
A  sense  of  pleasure,  lor  its  own, 

And  for  its  author's  sake 

"  I  know  the  eyes  in  which  the  light 

Of  memory  will  appear; 
I  know  the  lips,  which,  while  they  read, 

Will  wear  a  smile  sincere ;  — 

"  The  hearts  to  which  my  sportive  song 
The  thought  of  days  will  bring. 

When  they  and  I,  whose  Winter  now 
Comes  on,  were  in  our  Spring. 

"  And  I  their  well-known  voices  too. 
Though  far  away,  can  hear, 


Distinctly,  even  as  when  in  dreams 
They  reach  the  inward  ear. 

" '  There  speaks  the  man  we  knew  of  yore,* 

Well  pleased  I  hear  them  say ; 
'  Such  was  he  in  his  lighter  moods. 

Before  our  heads  were  gray. 

"  '  Buoyant  he  was  in  spirit,  quick 

Of  fancy,  blithe  of  heart, 
And  Care,  and  Time,  and  Change  have  left 

Untouch'd  his  better  part.' 

"  Thus  say  my  morning  friends  who  now 

Are  in  the  vale  of  years, 
And  I,  save  such  as  thus  may  rise, 

Would  draw  no  other  tears." 

Keswick.  1829. 


i3aUatr!$  antr  JHttttcal  K^Xtu. 


VOL.    IL 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  two  volumes  of  this  collection,  which  con- 
sist of  Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales,  contain  the 
Author's  earliest  and  latest  productions  of  that 
kind ;  those  which  were  written  with  most  facility 
and  most  glee,  and  those  upon  which  most  time 
and  pains  were  bestowed,  according  to  the  subject 
and  the  mode  of  treating  it. 

The  Tale  of  Paraguay  was  published  separately 
in  1825,  having  been  so  long  in  hand  that  the  Ded- 
ication was  written  many  years  before  the  Poem 
was  completed. 

All  for  Love,  and  The  Legend  of  a  Cock  and  a 
Hen,  were  published  together  in  a  little  volume  in 
1829. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY 


PREFACE 


O.NE  of  my  friends  observed  to  me,  in  a  letter,  that  many 
stories  wliicli  are  said  to  he  founded  on  fart,  have  in  reality 
hpcn  foundered  on  it.  This  is  the  case,  if  there  be  any  gross 
violation  committed,  or  ignorance  betrayed,  of  historical 
manners  in  the  prominent  parts  of  a  narrative  wherein  the 
writer  affects  to  observe  them  ;  or  when  the  ground-work 
is  tiken  from  some  part  of  history  so  popuhir  and  well  known 
that  any  mixture  of  fiction  disturbs  the  sense  of  truth..  Still 
more  so,  if  the  subject  be  in  itself  so  momentous  that  any 
alloy  of  invention  must  of  necessity  debase  it;  but  most  of  all 
in  themes  drawn  from  Scripture,  whether  from  the  more  fa- 
miliar or  the  more  awful  portions ;  for  when  what  is  true  is 


sacred,  whatever  may  be  added  to  it  is  so  surely  felt  to  be 
false,  that  it  appears  profane. 

Founded  on  fact  the  Poem  is,  which  is  here  committed  to 
the  world ;  but,  whatever  may  be  its  defects,  it  is  liable  to 
none  of  these  objections.  The  story  is  so  singular,  so  simple, 
and,  withal,  so  complete,  that  it  must  have  been  injured  by 
any  alteration.  How  faithfully  it  has  been  followed,  the 
leader  may  perceive,  if  he  chooses  to  consult  the  abridged 
translation  of  Dubrizhoff'er's  History  of  the  Abipones  ;  and 
for  those  who  may  be  gratified  with  what  Pinkerton  has 
well  called  the  lively  singularity  of  the  old  man's  Latin, 
the  passage  from  the  original  is  here  su!)joined. 


"  Ad  Australes  fluvii  Empalado  ripas  Hispanorum  turma 
Herbae  Paraquaricae  conficiends  operam  dabat.  Deficientibus 
jam  arboribus,  k  quibus  ilia  folia  rescinduntur,  exploratores 
tres  emiseraut,  qui  trans  illud  flunien  arbores  desideratas  in- 
vestigarent.  Forte  in  tugurium,  agrumque  frumento  Turcico 
consitum  incidere,  ex  quo  banc  sylvam  biirbaronim  contubcr- 
niis  scatere  perperam  arguebant.  Hapc  notitia  lanto  omncs 
perculit  nietu,  ut  suspenso,  ad  quern  conducti  fuerant,  labore 
suis  aliquamdiu  in  tuguriis  laterent,  ut  Umax  intra  concham. 
Diu  noctuque  hoslilis  aggressio  formidabutur.  Ad  lil)erandos 
so  hoc  terrore  cursor  ad  S.  Joacliimi  oppidum  missus,  qui,  ut 
barbnros  istic  bahitantes  perquiramus,  inventosque  ad  nostram 
transfcramus  coloniam  flagitavit.  Sine  tergivcrsalione  opc- 
ram  addixi  nieam.  Licet  trium  hebdomaduni  itinere  dcfunctus 
Nato  servatori  sacra  die  ex  Mbaebera  domuni  redierim,  S.  Jo- 
annis  apostoli  festo  iter  mox  aggressus  sum  cum  quadraginta 
Indortmi  nieorum  comitatu.  Fluviis  ob  continuatum  dies 
complures  imbrem  turgentibus  profuctio  perardua  nobis  cx- 
stitit.  Accepto  ex  Hispanorum  tugurio  viarum  duce,  trajec- 
toque  flumine  Empalado  sylvas  omnes  ad  fluvii  .Mondag  miri 
ripas  usque  attentis  oculis  pervagali,  tertio  demuni  die,  hu- 
mane, quod  deteximus,  vestigio  nos  ducente  sediculam  attigi- 
mus,  ul)i  mater  vetula,  cum  filio  viccsimum,  filiaque  quintum 
decimum  annum  ngentn  annis  ubliinc  multis  degebat.  Cluibus 
in  latebris  Indi  alii  versnrentur,  i  me  rogala  mater,  neminem 
niortalium  priEtor  se,  binasqiie  proles,  his  in  sylvis  superesse, 
oniues,  qui   per  banc  viciniam  habitaverant,  variolarum  dira 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY;    PREFACE. 


49$) 


pesto  iluduni  extinctos  fuissc,  rcspondit.  l)e  ilicti  veritale 
anci|)itein  me  <luiii  oliscrvuret  tilius  :  luto,  ait,  fulem  luiliiliuo- 
lis  iiuilri  mea)  Utu  ullirinuiiti  :  nani(|u«  ipsus  ej;o  uxonin  iiiilil 
qussiturus  reriiotUsitnas  ctiam  sylvas  idontiileni  perciirsavi, 
quin  tamcii  vcl  liominis  umbrain  reperirtin  uspiain.  Eii !  nu- 
turiE  instinctu  adolesccns  l)arbarus,conjugiuin  cum  sorore  sibi 
ncutiquam  licere,  inUllexit.  Is  iiiultis  post  mensihus  meo  in 
opi)ido,  uullos  prffiter  sc  liommes  illis  in  sylvis  degere,  iterum, 
ilerumque  ingenue  mihi  ussevoravit.  Idem  confirmarunl  His- 
pani,  i  quibus  cvocatus  sum,  ultra  biennium  in  eoiKpiirenda 
lierba  dein  per  illas  sylvas  occupati,  non  medioc.rl  cum  qujcslu. 

•'  Vetulam  matrem  conjjruis  argunientis  hortatua  sum  ad 
meum  ut  oppidum,  si(piidem  luberet,  coinmigaret  ocyus,  so, 
suosquo  meliori  Ibrliina  illic  usuros,  jiolieitus.  Ii\ibenter  in- 
vitationi  mea;  obtoniperatam  se,  respondit ;  rem  unieam  mi- 
grationi  suae  obstare.  Sunt  mibi,  ait,  tros,  quos  coram  vides, 
apri  ii  prima  aDtate  mansuefacti ;  nos  quoquo  euntes  caniculi 
more  seiiuunlur.  Ill,  si  cani|)um  aridnm  vidoant,  vel  extra 
sylvarum  umbram  i  sole  ardenti  videantur,  pcril)unt  confustim, 
tiineo.  Ilanc  solicitudinem,  qua;so,  aniiiio  ejicias  tuo,  reposui ; 
cordi  mihi  fore  charaaninialcula,  nil  didiites.  Pole  a"stuante 
unil)ram,  ubi  ubi  denium,  ciptabimus.  Neque  lacuna;,  amncs, 
paludcs,  ubi  refrigcrenlur  tua  ha-c  corcula,  usquarn  deerunt. 
Talibus  delinita  i)roniissis  se  nobiscum  ituram,  spopomlit.  Et 
vcro  postridie  iter  ingressi,  calcndis  Januarii  incolumes  oppi- 
dum  uttigimus,  licet  per  viam  bina;  fulniinibus,  imbribusque 
liorrendis  t'asttB  tempestates  nobis  incubnerint,  ac  tigris  rugitu 
assiduo  totam  per  noctem  minitans  nc)l)is  iterum,  iterumipje 
propincpiirit.  Hispanos,  quels  matrem  duabus  cum  prtdibus 
per  transcnnam  exbihui,  niliilque  omnino  Indorum  sylvustrium 
in  tola  late  vicinia  superesse,  signilicavi,  timoris  sui  ct  puduit, 
et  poenituit.  Autumaveraiit  equidcm  sylvas  Empalado,  et 
Mondag  lluminibus  interjectas  barbarorum  babitalionibus,  per- 
irwie  ut  t'ormicis,  undique  scatero.  Jam  defoima,  liabitudine, 
Vivendi  ratione,  quani  in  matre,  ejusque  prolil)us  observaveram, 
dicendum  obiter  aliquid.  Ab  ineunte  a^tate  in  Mondag  litori- 
bus,  culicum,  serpentum,  aliorumque  aiiimalculotum  noxiorum 
fr'tpientia  oppido  infVctis  consedere.  Palniarum  ramis  tugu- 
riolum  definiebatur.  Aqua  semper  lutulonta  potum  ;  arborum 
frnclus,  alces,  damulx,  cuniculi,  avcs  varia^,  Irumcntum  tur- 
cicum,  radices  arboris  manilio  dapem  ;  tela  ex  foliis  caraquati 
contexta  vestitum,  lectum(iue  pra:buere.  Mel,  quod  exesis 
in  arboribus  passim  prostat,  inter  cupedias  lumierubatur.  Ta- 
bacs,  quam  peti  vorant  (iuar.iiii,  fumum  ex  arundlne,  cui 
ligncum  vasculum  cacabi  instar  prsfixum,  diu  ntJCtuque  hau- 
serat  vetula  ;  filius  tabacoe  folia  in  pulverem  rcdacta  ore  man- 
dere  nunquam  deslit.  Coiiclia  ad  lapidem  exacuta  pro  cultro 
utebantur,  interdum  arundlne  fissa.  Adolesccns  matris,  soro- 
rlsquc  nutricius  bina  ferri  frustilla,  cultri  olim  confr.acti  reli- 
quiae, pollicem  lata,  et  pollice  nil  longiora,  ligno,  ceu  manu- 
brio  inserta,  cera,  filoque  circumligata  cingulo  gestabat  suo. 
Hoc  instrumento  sagittas  scitissime  elaborare,  decipulas  e 
ligno  ad  capiendas  alces  fiicere,  arbores,  ubi  mellis  indicium 
viderat,  perfudere,  aliaque  id  genus  prajstaro  solcbat.  Cum 
argilla,  fe  qua  ollae  conficiuntur,  nusquam  esset,  carnibus  assis, 
uon  coctis  voscebantur  per  omnem  vitani.  Ilerba;  Paraquari- 
cs  folia  non  nisi  frigida  perfudere,  cum  vas,  quo  aquam  rc- 
ccpto  more  calefacerent,  non  liaberent.  Ignem  per  aftricltun 
cclerom  duorum  lignellorum  norunt  |)roniptissime  elicere, 
omnium  Americanorum  more,  quod  alio  loco  exponam  ubcri- 
us.  Ad  reslinguendam  sitim  aqua  palustri,  semperque,  ni  ab 
Austro  frigido  refrigeretur  tantisper,  tepida  utebantur,  cui  ad- 
ferend»,  asservandaeque  ingentes  cucurl>ila!  pro  cantliaris 
serviunt.  Ut,  quam  curta  illis  domi  fuerit  suppellex,  porro 
videas,  de  corum  vestitu  ficienda  est  mentio. 

"Juvcni  lacerna  6  caraquati  filis  concinnuta  c  scapulis  ad 
genua  utrinque  defluebat ;  venire  funiculis  praBcincto,  e  quibus 
cucurbitam  tabacae  pulveribus,  quos  mandit,  plenam  suspendit. 
Reic  crassioribus  k  fills  matri  lectus  noctu,  iiiterdlu  vestis 
fuit  unica. 

"  PuellaB  pariter  breve  reticulum,  in  quo  noctibus  cub  ibat, 
per  diem  vestltus  instar  fuerat.  Cum  nimls  diapbana  inilil 
viderrtur,  ut  vorccundiseionsnltum  ireni  In  Indorum,  [lispano- 
runique  pra^scntia,  llntcum  gossiplnum,  quo  lotas  nianus  ter- 
gimus,  illius  nuditati  tegendte  desllnavl.  Puella  lintenm, 
quod  nil  Indl  mcl  porrcxerant,  iterum,  ilerumque  complica- 
tum  papyri  instar,  capiti  impopuit  suo,  ceu  clypfum  contra 
Bolls  SDStus  ;  verum  admonita  «b  Indis  illo  se  involvit.  Juvc- 
ni quoque,  ne  verccnndos  offenderet  oculos.  pcrizomata  llnea, 


quibus  in  itineribus  contra  culicum  morsus  ca|)ut  obvolvcrairi 
meum.  Invito  obtrusi.  Prlus  celsissimas  arbores  slnili  velocl- 
tate  scandebat,  ut  fructus  ab  apris  tribus  devorandos,  indc  dc- 
ceri)eret.  Callgi'',  veluti  compcdibus  Inipeditus  vix  gressum 
figure  potuit.  Tanta  rerum  p'Miurla,  frugalitate  tanta  cum  in 
solltiuline  vlctitarcnt  semper,  ac  anachorctarum  vetetum  rl- 
gores,  aspcritatcsque  experirentur,  sorte  sua  contentissimos, 
tranciuillo  animo,  corjioreque  niorborum  nescios  illos  suspexl. 
Ex  quo  palani  fit,  naturam  paucis  contentam  esse  ;  erubescant 
illi,  quibus  saturandls,  ornandlsquo  totus  orbls  vix  sufficit. 
Ex  ultimis  terrie  finibus,  ex  oceanl,  sylvarum,  camporum, 
montiuin,  tellurls(|ue  greniio,  ex  elementls  omnibus,  et  undo 
non?  avlde  petuntur  subsidia,  <piac  ad  comendum  corjius,  ad 
oblcctandum  jialatum  faciunt.  Verum  dum  oldictare  se,  or- 
nareque  putant,  so  onerant,  opprimunt(iue.  Dum  dcllclas 
inultipllcaTit  suas,  opes,  vircsque  imminuunt  quotldie,  forma) 
vcnustatcm  labefactant,  morbos  adsciscunt  sibi,  mortcmque 
accelerant  co  infoliclores,  quo  fumint  dclicatiorcs. 

"  Trcs  mei  sylvicola-,  de  quibus  sernio,  rltuum  Quaranlls 
barbaris  propriorum  vel  Immemores,  vel  contemptores  fuerunt. 
Crinlbus  passls  sine  ulla  incisione,  vel  llgamlne  incedebant. 
Juvenl  nee  labium  pertusum,  nee  vertex  pslttacorum  plumls 
coronatus.  Matri,  filia'que  inaures  nulla-,  quamvis  Ilia  collo 
circumdederit  monilis  loco  funlculum,  6  quo  frustilla  ligni 
pyramidati,  sat  mulli  ponderls  pendebant;  e  muluo  illorum 
collisu  ad  quenivls  gressum  strcpitus  edcbatur.  Prlmo  con- 
spectu  interrogavi  vetul.nu  :  num  ad  terrcndos  culices  strejii- 
tans  hoc  monile  k  collo  suspenderlt  ?  nioxqur  globulorum  vitro- 
orum  exquisltl  colorls  fascem  ligneis  his  ponderibus  substitui. 
Mater,  filiusque  corjiore  crant  procero,  forma  bonesta ;  filia 
vultu  tani  candido,  tamque  eleganti,  ut  4  Pootis  Driadas  inter 
Nymphas,  Hamadriadasque  numerari,  ab  Eurojii'o  (juovis 
pulcbra  dlci  tuto  posset.  Hllaiitatem  decoram  afl'alnlilati 
conjunctam  pia;  seferebat.  Nostroadventu  repenlinomlnime 
terreri,  recreari  potlus  videl)atur.  (inaraniea  lingua  loquentes 
nos  llberalis  inter  cacbinnos  rislt,  nos  lllam  eadem  respon- 
dentem.  Cum  enlm  extra  aliorum  Indoium  societatcm  ftatti, 
matrique  duntaxat  colloqueretur,  verbis  Quaranicis  retentis 
quiilem,  ridicula  qusdam  dlalectus  irrcpsll.  Sic  quaragi  sol  : 
yagi  luna :  chrragi  iEgroto  diclmus  reliqul,  et  illud  c  cum 
subjecta  notula  veluti  s  pronunciamus,  qutirassi,  ijassi,  che- 
ras."! ;  illi  i/uarat.iclii,  yatsclii,  chrratschi  dicebaiit.  Juvenis 
pra;ter  malreni,  sororeinquc  nullam  unquam  vidlt  fo'minam  j 
neque  prjeter  patrcm  suum  virum  aliquem.  Puella  matrem 
duntaxat  novit,  nullam  pra'terea  fa>minam.  Virum  praster 
fratr(^m  suum  ne  eminus  quldem  conspexit,  dum  enlm  utero  i 
matre  gestabatur,  jialer  ejus  i  tigrlde  fuerat  discerptus.  Ad 
fructus  seu  humi,  scu  in  arboribus  natos  conquirendos,  ad 
llgna,foco  necessaria,  colligcnda  sylvamdumctls,  arundinibus, 
spinisque  horrcntem  solers  puella  peragravit  quotldie,  quibus 
pedes  misere  pertusos  habebat.  Ne  inconiitata  esset,  psitta- 
cum  exilem  liumero,  simlolum  bracliio  insidenteni  circumtullt 
plerumque,  ruillo  ligridnm  nielu,  quels  omuis  ilia  vicinla  abun- 
dat,  vel  me  Ipso  teste  oculato.  Prldle  ejus  dlel,  quo  in  isto- 
rum  contubernium  incurrlnms,  parum  abfuit,  quin  dor.Tiiens  it. 
propinqua  jam  tigrlde  devorarer.  Indi  mei  ejus  rugitu  exper- 
gefiictl  et  hast  is  et  admotls  celerltet  ignibus  vltam  servarunt 
nieam.  His  in  nemoribus,  cum  juinor  sit  ferarum  copla,  tlgrl- 
des  fame  stlmulante  ferociunt  atroclus,  avidlusque  in  obvlos 
asslllurit  homines,  quam  in  campls,  ubi,  cum  Infinlta  vis  peco- 
rum  omnls  generis  oberret,  juffida,  famisque  rcmedinm,  quoties 
lubct,  illis  In  proniptu  est.  Novi  proselyti  in  oppido  mox 
vpstlti  reliquorum  more,  et  pra;  reliquls  quolidiano  cibo  libc- 
raliter  refecti  sunt.  Curatuni  quoque  ik  me  dlligenler,  ad 
sylvas  vlcinas  cum  aliis  ut  excurrant  frequentius,  umbra, 
amcenaque  arborum,  quels  assueverant,  viriditate  frultuii. 
Kxj>erientia  cquidem  novimus,  ut  pisoes  extra  aquam  cilo 
intereunt,  sic  barbaros  h  sylvls  ad  oppida  translates  sajic 
contabcscere,  victus,  aerisque  nuitatione,  ac  soils  pollsslmum 
a;stu  corporum  habitudlncm  perturbante,  quippe  qua;  i  pucritia 
hnmidis,  frlgidiusculis,  opaciscjue  nemoribus  assue^erunt. 
Idi  m  fuit  ni  itris,  filli,  filL-Btpie  noslro  in  oppido  fatum.  Paucis 
ab  advintu  suo  liebdomadibus  gravedlne,  rbeumalequu  totum 
corpus  pervadinte  tentabanlur  omues.  Ills  oeulorum,  auri- 
umque  dolor,  ac  baud  mullo  post  surditas  successlt.  Maroro 
aniini,  clblque  omnis  fastidium  vires  absumpsit  adeo,  ut  ex- 
trcma  demuin  macles,  labesque  nullis  remediis  proficienllbus 
consequrretur.  Aliquot  menslbus  langueseens  mater  seni- 
cula,  Christiana!  disciplinte  rudinienlls  rile  imimla,  sacroquo 


500 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY;    DEDICATION 


tincta  latice  prima  occubuit,  aninio  tarn  sereno,  Divinisque 
voluritatibus  uciiuicscente,  ut  ilium  ad  siiperos  transissc  nil 
dubitaverini.     ruella,  quiB  plena  vigoris,  veiiustiitisiiiie  oppi- 
dum    iiiyrediebatur,    viribua   oxlmusla,  sui  omnitio  jam   dis- 
similis,  lloris  iiistar  paulalim  marcescens  vix  ossibua  liaesit,  ac 
donique  matrem  ad  tiimulum   secuta  est,  et  nisi   veliemen- 
tissime  fallor,  ad  CaOum.     Quid  si  cum  regum  sapientissimo 
dicaimis  :  illam  post  sacrum,  quo  expiata  fsl,  baptisma  con- 
summatuin  in  bixvi  explevisse  tempora  multa:  placitam  Deo 
fuisse  animam  illiiis  :  raptam  esse,  nn  nialitia  nmtarct  intel- 
k'Ctum  ejus.     Illud  certi-tsimum  :  qui  innocentissimffi  puella; 
integritatcm  laudibus,  funus  prspropcrnm  lacrymis  non  prose- 
queretur,  neminem  in  oppido   f'uisse.     Fiater  illjus  turn  su- 
peistcs  eandem,  qui  mater,  sororque  extincta;  sunt,  invaletu- 
dinem  sensit,  sud,  quia  robustior,  superavit.     Quinetex  nior- 
billis,  qui  niultas  in  oppido  edebant  stragcs,  subiiide  convaluit 
adeo,  ut  confirmata  penitus  valetudine  nihil  illi  porro  metu- 
endum  esse  vidoretur.     Hilari  erat  animo,  statis  horis  sacram 
adivit  ctdem,  Christiana   dogmata   condidicit    pcrdiligentcr, 
morigerum,  placidumque  se  pri«l)uit  omnibus,  ac  tVugis  optima; 
indicia  passim  dedit.     Ad  periclitandam  tamcn  illius  in  oppido 
perseverantiam  tantisjier  diffcrcndum  ejus  baptismum  existi- 
mavi.     Ha;c  inter  adest  forte   Indus   Chri^tianus,   qui    hunc 
catcchumenum  me  jubente  suis  dudum  habobat  in  iedibns,  vir 
probus,  et  agri  dives.     Hie  :  mi  Pater,  ajebat,  sylvicola  noster 
equidem  optima   valet,  verum  mihi  videtur  ad  delirandum 
propendere.     Nil  sibi  jam  dolere,  sed  noctes  sibi  insomncs 
abire,  inquit,  spectabilem  sibi  matrem  cum  sorore  adesse  quot 
noclibus,  et  amica  voce  sibi  diccrc  :  JVdccaraij,  nilecarayanga, 
ndereniimO  a  cyrupi  orS  yu  yebi  vdcreraliabuiie.     Sine  te,  quEso, 
baptizari.     Prieter   tuam  expectalionem  veniemus  iti^rum  te 
abducturc     Hoc  alloquio,  hoc  aspectu  sibi  somnuni  impediri, 
ait.     Jubeas  ilium  meo  nomine,  respondi,  bono  esse  animo. 
Tristem   matris,  sororisque,  quibuscum,  per  omnem  aetatem 
.rersatus  est,  recordationcm  somniorum  ejusmodi  causam  esse, 
lllas  cdlo,  ut  quidem  mihi  verisimilc,  receptas  nihil  jam  ne- 
gotii  his  in  terris  habere.     Hsec  ego.     Verum  paucos  post  dies 
idem  redit  Indus,  eadem,  qua;  nuper,  rel'ert,  suamque  de  ti- 
menda  catechumeni  deliratione  suspicionem  contirmat.     Ali- 
quid  rei  subesse,  .snspicatus  actutum  ejus  in  domum  propero, 
sedentem  deprehendo.     Rogatusime:  qui  se  habeat.'  inco- 
lumom,  doloris  omnis  expertem  se  esse  ridens  reponit,  addit 
tamen  :  vigilando  semper  se  noctem  agere,  quod  mater,  soror- 
que identidem  pr^sentes  sibi  oiferantur,  de  baptismo   acce- 
lerando moneant,  et  inopin;ite  se  al)ducendum,  minentur;  id- 
circo  nullam  se  quietis  partem  capere  posse,  iterum,  iterumque 
mihi  affirmat  candore,  ut  semper  alias,  summo.     .Somniari  ab 
illo  talia,  atque  adeo  contemni  posse,  autnmaveram  ;  memor 
tamen,  sonmia  monitiones  ctrlestes,  l)ei  oracula  non  rare  ex- 
stitisse,  uti  divinis  ex  literis  patet,  in  negotio  tanti  momcnti 
visum  mihi  est  catcclumieni  et  securitati  ct  tranquillitati  con- 
sulerc.     De  illius  persoverantia,  do  religionis  capitum  scientia 
sat  ccrtus  praimissis  inteirogationibusque  necessariis  eum  sa- 
cris  undis  mox  ablui,  Ludovici  nomine  insignivi.     Hoc  a  me 
prKstitum  23Junii,  S.  .loannis  BaptistiE  vigilia  circa  horam 
decimam  antemeridianam.     Eodem  die  circa  vesperum  nullo 
morbo,  aut  apoploxia;  indicio  accedente  placidissime  rxpiravit. 
"  Hie  eventus,  universe  oppido  comptrtus,  quemque  juratus 
testari   possum,   in    admirationem    rapuit   omnes.      Lectoris 
arbitrio,  quid   de    hoc   sentiendum   sit,   relinquo.     Nunquam 
tamcn  in  animum  inducere  nieuni,  potui,  ut  factum  hoc  for- 
tuitum  putarcm.     Eximis  Dei  dementia!  tril>uo,  quod  hi  tres 
sylvicolsE  i  me  sint  reperti  in  ignotis  sylvarnm  latebris,  quod 
mihi  ad  oppidum  meum,  ad  amplectendam  rcjigioiiem  se  hor- 
tanti  morcni  promplissime  gesserint,  quod  sacro  latice  expiati 
vitam  clauserint.     Optimum  Numen  in  Coelo  consociatos  vo- 
luit,  qui  tot  annos  in  sylva  contubernales  fuere  incredibili 
moruni  integritate.     Fateor,  dulcissirnam  mihi  ctiamnum  ac- 
cidcre  expoditionis  ad  (lumen  Empalado  mcmoriam,  qua;  licet 
multis    molestiis,   periculisque    mihi   constiterit,   ternis    illis 
sylvicolis  fulicissima  fuit ;  Hispanis  utilissima  :  hi  equidem  4 
me  facli  certiores,  quod  per  immensos  illos  nemorum  tractus 
nulla  porro  liarbarorum  vestigia  extent,  istic  per  tricnnium 
quaestii  maximo  multa  centenariorum  millia  herba;  Paraquaricse 
collegerunt.     Noque   id   rarum,    missionariorum,   qui   sylvas 
herba;  feraces  barbaris  liborant,  sudore,  ac  periculo  Ilispanos 
dite-cere  inercatores.     His  tamcn  nunquam  in  mentcm  venit 
ad  alendos,  vtsliendosque  catechumenos  vel  micam,  filumve 
contribuere.     Il/orum  corpora,  ut  animi  missionariorum  sa^pis- 


sime  inopum  curaj  relinquuntur." 
bus,  Lib.  Prodrovius,  pp.  97 — 106. 


■  Dobriihuffer  de  Abipmi- 


DEDICATION. 


TO  EDITH  MAY  SOUTHEY. 


Edith  !  ten  years  are  number'd,  since  the  day, 
Whicli  ushers  in  the  cheerful  month  of  May, 
To  us  by  thy  dear  birth,  my  daughter  dear, 
Was    blest.     Thou    therefore    didst   the    name 

partake 
Of  that  sweet  month,  the  sweetest  of  the  year  ; 
But  fitlier  was  it  given  thee  for  the  sake 
Of  a  good  man,  thy  father's  friend  sincere, 
Who  at  the  font  made  answer  in  thy  name. 
Thy  love  and  reverence  rightly  may  he  claim, 
For  closely  hath  he  been  with  me  allied 
In  friendship's  lioly  bonds,  from  that  first  hour 
When  in  our  youth  we  met  on  Tejo's  side; 
Bonds  which,  defying  now  all  Fortune's  power, 
Time  hath  not  looscn'd,  nor  will  Death  divide. 

2. 
A  child  more  welcome,  by  indulgent  Heaven 
Never  to  parents'  tears  and  prayers  was  given : 
For  scarcely  eight  months  at  thy  happy  birth 
Had  pass'd,  since  of  thy  sister  we  v/ere  left,  — 
Our  first-born  and  our  only  babe,  bereft. 
Too  fair  a  flower  was  she  for  this  rude  earth ! 
The  features  of  her  beauteous  infancy 
Have  faded  from  me,  like  a  passing  cloud, 
Or  like  the  glories  of  an  evening  sky  : 
And   seldom  hath  my  tongue  pronounced  her 

name 
Since  she  was  summon'd  to  a  happier  sphere. 
But  that  dear  love,  so  deeply  wounded  then, 
I  in  my  soul  with  silent  faith  sincere 
Devoutly  cherish  till  we  meet  again. 

3. 
I  saw  thee  first  with  trembling  thankfulness, 
_0  daughter  of  my  hopes  and  of  my  fears ! 
Press'd  on  thy  senseless  cheek  a  troubled  kiss, 
And  breathed  my  blessing  over  tliee  with  tears. 
But  memory  did  not  long  our  bliss  alloy  ; 
P'or  gentle  nature,  who  had  given  relief, 
Wean'd  with  new  love  the  chasten'd  heart  from 

grief; 
And  the  sweet  season  minister'd  to  joy. 


It  was  a  season  when  their  leaves  and  flowers 
The  trees  as  to  an  Arctic  summer  spread ; 
When  chilling  wintry  winds  and  snowy  showers. 
Which  had  too  long  usurp'd  the  vernal  hours. 
Like  spectres  from  the  sight  of  morning,  fled 
Before  the  presence  of  that  joyous  May; 
And  groves  and  gardens  all  the  live-long  day 
Rung  with  the  birds'  loud  love-songs.     Over  all. 
One  thrush  was  heard  from  morn  till  even-fall; 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY;    DEDICATION;    PROEM. 


501 


Thy  Mother  well  remembers  when  she  lay 
The  happy  prisoner  of  the  genial  bed, 
How  from  yon  lofty  poplar's  topmost  spray, 
At  earliest  dawn  his  thrilling  pipe  was  heard  ; 
And  when  the  light  of  evening  died  away. 
That  blithe  and  indefatigable  bird 
Still  his  redundant  song  of  joy  and  love  preferr'd. 

5. 
How  1  have  doted  on  thine  infant  smiles 
At  morning,  when  thine  eyes  unclosed  on  mine; 
How,  as  the  months  in  swift  succession  roll'd, 
1  mark'd  thy  human  faculties  unfold, 
And  watch'd  the  dawning  of  the  light  divine; 
And  with  what  artifice  of  playful  guiles 
Won  from  thy  lips  with  still-repeated  wiles 
Kiss  after  kiss,  a  reckoning  often  told,  — 
Something  I  ween  thou  know'st;  for  thou  hast 

seen 
Thy  sisters  in  their  turn  such  fondness  prove. 
And  felt  how  childhood,  in  its  winning  j'ears, 
The  attemper'd  soul  to  tenderness  can  move. 
This  thou  canst  tell ;  but  not  the  hopes  and  fears 
With  which  a  parent's  heart  doth  overflow,  — 
The   thoughts    and   cares    inwoven   with    that 

love, — 
Its  nature  and  its  depth,  thou  dost  not,  canst  not 

know. 


The  years  which  since  thy  birth  have  pass'd  away 
May  well  to  thy  young  retrospect  appear 
A  measureless  extent :  —  like  yesterday 
.  To  me,  so  soon  they  fill'd  their  short  career. 
To  thee  discourse  of  reason  have  they  brought, 
With  sense  of  time  and  change;  and  something 

too 
Of  this  precarious  state  of  things  have  taught. 
Where  Man  abideth  never  in  one  stay ; 
And  of  mortality  a  mournful  thought. 
And  I  have  seen  thine  eyes  suffused  in  grief. 
When  I  have  said  that  with  autumnal  gray 
The  touch  of  eld  hath  mark'd  thy  father's  head  ; 
That  even  the  longest  day  of  life  is  brief, 
And  mine  is  falling  fast  into  the  yellow  leaf 


Thy  happy  nature  from  the  painful  thought 
With  instinct  turns,  and  scarcely  canst  thou  bear 
To  hear  me  name  the  Grave.    Thou  knowest  not 
How  large  a  portion  of  my  heart  is  there  I 
The  faces  which  I  loved  in  infancy 
Are  gone  ;  and  bosom-friends  of  riper  age. 
With  whom  I  fondly  talk'd  of  years  to  come, 
Summon'd  before  me  to  their  heritage 
Are  in  the  better  world,  beyond  the  tomb. 
And  I  have  brethren  there,  and  sisters  dear, 
And  dearer  babes.     I  therefore  needs  must  dwell 
Often  in  thought  with  those  whom  still   I  love  so 
well. 

8. 
Thus  wilt  thou  feel  in  thy  maturer  mind  ; 
When  grief  shall  be  thy  portion,  thou  wilt  find 
Safe  consolation  in  such  thouirhts  as  these.  — 


A  present  refuge  in  affliction's  hour. 

And  if  indulgent  Heaven  thy  lot  should  bless 

With  all  imaginable  happiness. 

Here  shall  thou  have,  my  child,  beyond  all  power 

Of  chance,  thy  holiest,  surest,  best  delight. 

Take  therefore  now  thy  Father's  latest  lay,  — 

Perhaps  his  last;  —  and  treasure  in  tiiine  heart 

The  feelings  that  its  musing  strains  convey. 

A  song  it  is  of  life's  declining  day. 

Yet  meet  for  youth.     Vain  passions  to  excite. 

No  strains  of  morbid  sentiment  I  sing, 

Nor  tell  of  idle  loves  with  ill-spent  breath ; 

A  reverent  offering  to  the  Grave  I  bring. 

And  twine  a  garland  for  the  brow  of  Death. 

Keswick,  1814. 


PROEM. 

That  was  a  memorable  day  for  Spain, 
When  on  Pamplona's  towers,  so  basely  won. 
The  Frenchmen  stood,  and  saw  upon  the  plain 
Their  long-expected  succors  hastening  on  : 
Exultingly  they  mark'd  the  brave  arraj-. 
And  dcem'd  their  leader  should  his  purpose  gain. 
Though  Wellington  and  England  barr'd  the  way. 
Anon  the  bayonets  glitter'd  ia  the  sun. 
And  frequent  cannon  flash'd,  whose  lurid  light 
Redden'd  through  sulphurous  smoke ;  fast  vol- 
leying round 
Roll'd  the  war-thunders,  and  with  long  rebound 
Backward   from  many  a  rock  and  cioud-capt 

height 
In  answering  peals  Pyrene  sent  the  sound. 
Impatient  for  relief,  toward  the  fight 
The  hungry  garrison  their  eye-balls  strain  : 
\a\n  was  the  Frenchman's  skill,  his  valor  vain  ; 
And  even  then,  when  eager  hope  almost 
Had  moved  their  irreligious  lips  to  pra3'er. 
Averting  from  the  fatal  scene  their  sight, 
They  breathed  the  execrations  of  despair. 
For  Wellesley's  star  hath  risen  ascendant  tliere  , 
Once  more  he  drove  the  host  of  France  to  flight, 
And  triumph'd  once  again  for  God  and  for  the  right. 

That  was  a  day,  whose  influence  far  and  wide 
The  struggling  nations  felt ;  it  was  a  joy 
Wherewith  all  Europe  rung  from  side  to  side. 
Yet  hath  Pamplona  seen,  in  former  time, 
A  moment  big  with  mightier  consequence, 
Affecting  many  an  age  and  distant  clime. 
That  day  it  was  which  saw  in  her  defence, 
Contending  with  the  French  before  her  wall, 
A  noble  soldier  of  Guipuzcoa  fall. 
Sore  hurt,  but  not  to  death.    For  when  long  care 
Restored  his  shatter'd  leg,  and  set  him  free. 
He  would  not  brook  a  slight  deformity, 
As  one  who,  being  gay  and  debonnair, 
In  courts  conspicuous  as  in  camps  must  be  : 
So  he,  forsooth,  a  shapely  boot  must  wear ; 
And  the  vain  man,  with  peril  of  his  lii'e, 
Laid  the  recover'd  limb  again  beneath  the  knife. 


502 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    I. 


Long  time  upon  the  bed  of  pain  he  lay, 
Whiling  with  books  the  weary  hours  away  ; 
And  from  tliat  circumstance  and  this  vain  man 
A  train  of  long  events  their  course  began, 
Whose  term  it  is  not  given  us  yet  to  see. 
WIio  hath  not  heard  Loyola's  sainted  name, 
Before  whom  Kings  and  Nations  bow'd  the  knee  ? 
Tiiy  annals,  Ethiopia,  might  proclaim 
What  deeds  arose  from  that  prolific  day ; 
And  of  dark  plots  might  shuddering  Europe  tell. 
But  Science,  too,  her  trophies  would  display  ; 
Faith  give  tlic  martyrs  of  Japan  their  fame ; 
And  Charity  on  works  of  love  would  dwell 
In  California's  dolorous  regions  drear ; 
And  where,  amid  a  pathless  world  of  wood. 
Gathering  a  thousand  rivers  on  his  way, 
Huge  Orcllana  rolls  his  affluent  flood; 
And  where  the  happier  sons  of  Paraguay, 
By  gentleness  and  pious  art  subdued, 
Bow'd  their   meek  heads  beneath  the  Jesuits' 

sway, 
And  lived  and  died  in  filial  servitude. 

I  love  thus  uncontroll'd,  as  in  a  dream. 
To  muse  upon  the  course  of  human  things ; 
Exploring  sometimes  the  remotest  springs, 
Far  as  tradition  lends  one  guiding  gleam ; 
Or  following,  upon  Thought's  audacious  wings. 
Into  Futurity,  the  endless  stream. 
But  now,  in  quest  of  no  ambitious  height, 
I  go  where  Truth  and  Nature  lead  my  way. 
And  ceasing  here  from  desultory  flight, 
In  measured  strains  I  tell  a  Tale  of  Paraguay. 


CANTO   I. 


1. 
Jenner  I  forever  shall  thy  honor'd  name 
Among  the  children  of  mankind  be  bless'd. 
Who  by  thy  skill  hast  taught  us  how  to  tame 
One  dire  disease,  —  the  lamentable  pest 
Which  Africa  sent  forth  to  scourge  the  West, 
As  if  in  vengeance  for  her  sable  brood 
So  many  an  age  remorselessly  oppress'd. 
For  that  most  fearful  malady  subdued 
Receive  a  poet's  praise,  a  father's  gratitude. 


Fair  promise  be  this  triumph  of  an  age 
When  Man,  with  vain  desires  no  longer  blind. 
And  wise,  though  late,  his  only  war  shall  wage. 
Against  the  miseries  whicli  afflict  mankind. 
Striving  with  virtuous  heart  and  strenuous  mind 
Till  evil  from  the  earth  shall  pass  away. 
Lo,  this  his  glorious  destiny  assign'd  ! 
For  that  bless'd  consummation  let  us  pray, 
And  trust  in  fervent  faith,  and  labor  as  we  may. 

3. 
The  hideous  malady  which  lost  its  power 
When  Jenner's  art  the  dire  contagion  stay'd. 
Among  Columbia's  sons,  in  fatal  hour, 
Across  the  wide  Atlantic  wave  convey'd. 


Its  fiercest  form  of  pestilence  display'd  : 
Where'er  its  deadly  course  the  plague  began. 
Vainly  the  wretched  sufferer  look'd  for  aid; 
Parent  from  child,  and  child  from  parent  ran, 
For  tyrannous   fear   dissolved   all    natural    bonds 
of  man. 


A  i'eeble  nation  of  Guarani  race, 
Thinn'd  by  perpetual  wars,  but  unsubdued, 
Had  taken  up  at  lengtii  a  resting-place 
Among  those  tracts  of  lake,  and  swamp,   and 

wood. 
Where  Mondai,  issuing  from  its  solitude. 
Flows  with  slow  stream  to  Empalado's  bed. 
It  was  a  region  desolate  and  rude ; 
But  thither  had  tlie  horde  for  safety  fled. 
And  being  there  conceal'd,  in  peace  their  lives 

they  led. 


There  had  the  tribe  a  safe  asylum  found 
Amid  those  marshes  wide  and  woodlands  dense. 
With  pathless  wilds  and  waters  spread  around. 
And  labyrinthine  swamps,  a  sure  defence 
From  human  foes,  —  but  not  from  pestilence. 
The  spotted  plague  appear'd,  that  direst  ill ; 
How  brought  among  them  none  could  tell,  or 

whence ; 
The  mortal  seed  had  lain  among  them  still, 
And  quicken'd  now  to  work  the  Lord's  mysterious 

will. 

6. 

Alas,  it  was  no  medicable  grief 
Which  herbs  might  reach !     Nor  could  the  jug- 
gler's power. 
With  all  his  antic  mummeries,  bring  relief 
Faith  might  not  aid  him  in  that  ruling  hour. 
Himself  a  victim  now.     The  dreadful  stour 
None  could  escape,  nor  aught  its  force  assuage. 
The  marriageable  maiden  had  her  dower 
From  death ;   the  strong  man  sunk  beneath  its 
rage, 
And  death  cut  short  the  thread  of  childhood  and 
of  age. 

7. 
No  time  for  customary  mourning  now ; 
With  hand    close-clinch'd  to  pluck  the  rooted 

hair, 
To  beat  the  bosom,  on  the  swelling  brow 
Inflict  redoubled  blows,  and  blindly  tear 
The  cheeks,  indenting  bloody  furrows  there, 
The  deep-traced  signs  indelible  of  woe  ; 
Then  to  some  crag,  or  bank  abrupt,  repair. 
And  giving  grief  its  scope,  infuriate  throw 
The  impatient  body  thence  upon  the  earth  below. 

8. 
Devices  these  by  poor,  weak  nature  taught. 
Which  thus  a  change  of  suff'ering would  obtain; 
And  flying  from  intolerable  thought, 
And  piercing  recollections,  would  full  fain 
Distract  itself  by  sense  of  fleshly  pain 


CANTO    I. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY, 


503 


From  ancruish  lluit  the  soul  must  else  endure. 
Easier  all  outward  torments  to  sustain, 
Than  those  heart-wounds  which  only  time  can 
cure, 
And  He  in  whom  alone  the  hopes  of  man  are  sure. 


None  sorrow'd  here  ;  the  sense  of  woe  was  sear'd. 
When  every  one  endured  his  own  sore  ill. 
The  prostrate  sufferers  neither  hoped  nor  fear'd  ; 
The  body  labor'd,  but  the  heart  was  still :  — 
So  let  the  conquering  malady  fulfil 
Its  fatal  course,  rest  cometh  at  the  end  ! 
Passive  they  lay  with  neither  wish  nor  will 
For  aught  but  this ;  nor  did  they  long  attend 
That  welcome  boon  from  death,  the  never-failing 
friend. 

10. 

Who  is  there  to  make  ready  now  the  pit. 
The  house  that  will  content  from  this  day  forth 
Its  easy  tenant  ?     Who  in  vestments  fit 
Shall  swathe  the  sleeper  for  his  bed  of  earth, 
Now  tractable  as  when  a  babe  at  birth .' 
Who  now  the  ample  funeral  urn  shall  knead, 
And,  burying  it  beneath  his  proper  hearth, 
Deposit  there  with  careful  hands  the  dead. 
And  lightly  then  relay  the  floor  above  his  head .' 

11. 

Unwept,  unshrouded,  and  unsepulchred, 
The  hammock,  where  they  hang,  for  winding- 
sheet 
And  grave  suffices  the  deserted  dead : 
There  from  the  armadillo's  searching  feet 
Safer  than  if  within  the  tomb's  retreat. 
The  carrion  birds  obscene  in  vain  essay 
To  find  that  quarry  :  round  and  round  they  beat 
The  air,  but  fear  to  enter  for  their  prey, 
And  from  the  silent  door  the  jaguar  turns  away. 

12. 

But  nature  for  her  universal  law 
Hath  other,  surer  instruments  in  store, 
Whom  from  the  haunts  of  men  no  wonted  awe 
Withholds  as  with  a  spell.     In  swarms  they  pour 
From  wood  and  swamp ;  and  when  their  work 

is  o'er. 
On  the  white  bones  the  mouldering  roof  will  fall ; 
Seeds   will   take   root,  and  spring  in  sun  and 

shower ; 
And  Mother  Earth  ere  long  with  her  green  pall. 
Resuming  to  herself  the  wreck,  will  cover  all. 

13. 

Oh  !  better  thus  with  earth  to  have  their  part. 

Than  in  Egyptian  catacombs  to  lie. 

Age  after  age  preserved  by  horrid  art. 

In  ghastly  image  of  humanity  ! 

Strange  pride  that  with  corruption  thus  would 

vie  ! 
And  strange  delusion  that  would  thus  maintain 
The  fleshly  form,  till  cycles  shall  pass  by. 
And  in  the  series  of  the  eternal  chain, 
riie  spirit  come  to  seek  its  old  abode  again. 


14. 

One  pair  alone  survived  the  general  fatej 
Left  in  such  drear  and  mournful  solitude, 
That  death  might  seem  a  preferable  state. 
Not  more  depress'd  the  Arkite  patriarch  stood. 
When  landing  first  on  Ararat  he  view'd, 
Where  all  around  the  mountain  summits  lay, 
Like  islands  seen  amid  the  boundless  flood  : 
Nor  our  first  parents  more  forlorn  than  they. 
Through  Eden  when  they  took  their  solitary  way. 

15. 

Alike  to  them  it  seem'd,  in  their  despair. 
Whither  they  wander'd  from  the  infected  spot. 
Ciiance  might  direct  their  steps  :  they  took  no 

care ; 
Come  well  or  ill  to  them,  it  matter'd  not! 
Left  as  they  were  in  that  unhappy  lot. 
The  sole  survivors  they  of  all  their  race. 
They  reck'd  not  when  their  fate,  nor  where, 

nor  what. 
In  this  resignment  to  their  hopeless  case, 
Indifferent  to  all  choice  or  circumstance  of  place 

16. 
That  palsying  stupor  past  away  ere  long, 
And  as  the  spring  of  health  resumed  its  power. 
They  felt  that  life  was  dear,  and  hope  was  strong. 
What  marvel  ?     'Twas  with  them  the  morning 

hour. 
When  bliss  appears  to  be  the  natural  dower 
Of  all  the  creatures  of  this  joyous  earth ; 
And  sorrow,  fleeting,  like  a  vernal  shower, 
Scarce  interrupts  the  current  of  our  mirth; 
Such  is  the  happy  heart  we  bring  with  us  at  birth. 

17. 

Though  of  his  nature  and  his  boundless  love 
Erring,  yet  tutor'd  by  instinctive  sense, 
They  rightly  deem'd  the  Power  who  rules  above 
Had  saved  them  from  the  wasting  pestilence. 
That  favoring  power  would  still  be  their  defence  : 
Thus  were  they  by  their  late  deliverance  taught 
To  place  a  child-like  trust  in  Providence, 
And  in  their  state  forlorn  they  found  this  tliought 
Of  natiu-al  faith  with  hope  and  consolation  fraught. 

18. 
And  now  they  built  themselves  a  leafy  bower. 
Amid  a  glade,  slow  Mondai's  stream  beside, 
Screen'd    from   the  southern  blast  of  piercing 

power ; 
Not  like  their  native  dwelling,  !ciig  and  wide. 
By  skilful  toil  of  numbers  edified. 
The  common  home  of  all,  their  human  nest. 
Where  threescore  hammocks,  pendant  side  by 

side, 
Were  ranged,  and  on  the  ground  the  fires  were 

dress'd  ; 
Alas,  that  populous  hive  hath  now  no  living  guest ! 

19. 
A  few  firm  stakes  they  planted  in  the  ground. 
Circling  a  narrow  space,  yet  large  enov'  j 
These,  strongly  interknit,  they  closed  around 


504 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    I. 


With  basket-work  of  many  a  pliant  bough. 
The  roof  was  hke  the  sides ;  the  door  was  low, 
And  rude  the  hut,  and  triinm'd  with  little  care. 
For  little  heart  had  they  to  dress  it  now ; 
Yet  was  tiie  humble  structure  fresh  and  fair. 
And  soon  its  inmates  found  that  love  might  so- 
journ there. 

20. 
Quiara  could  recall  to  mind  the  course 
Of  twenty  summers ;  perfectly  he  knew 
Whate'er  his  fathers  tauglit  of  skill  or  force. 
Right  to  the  mark  his  whizzing  lance  he  threw. 
And  from  his  bow  the  unerring  arrow  flew 
With  fatal  aim  :  and  when  the  laden  bee 
Buzz'd  by  him  in  its  flight,  he  could  pursue 
Its  path  with  certain  ken,  and  follow  free 
Until  he  traced  the  hive  in  hidden  bank  or  tree. 

21. 

Of  answering  years  was  Monnema,  nor  less 
Expert  in  all  her  sex's  household  ways. 
The  Indian  weed  she  skilfully  could  dress ; 
And  in  what  depth  to  drop  the  yellow  maize 
She  knew,  and  when  around  its  stem  to  raise 
The  lighten'd  soil ;  and  well  could  she  prepare 
Its  ripen'd  seed  for  food,  her  proper  praise ; 
Or  in  the  embers  turn  with  frequent  care 
Its  succulent  head  yet  green,  sometimes  for  daintier 

[fare. 
22. 

And  how  to  macerate  the  bark  she  knew, 
And  draw  apart  its  beaten  fibres  fine. 
And  bleaching  them  in  sun,  and  air,  and  dew, 
From  dry  and  glossy  filaments  entwine. 
With  rapid  twirl  of  hand,  the  lengthening  line; 
Next  interknitting  well  the  twisted  thread. 
In  many  an  even  mesh  its  knots  combine. 
And  shape  in  tapering  length  the  pensile  bed, 
Light  hammock  there  to  hang  beneath  the  leafy 
shed. 

23. 

Time  had  been  when,  expert  in  works  of  clay. 
She  lent  her  hands  the  swelling  urn  to  mould. 
And  filld  it  for  the  appointed  festal  day 
With  the  beloved  beverage  which  the  bold 
Quaff''d  in  their  triumph  and  their  joy  of  old; 
The  fruitful  cause  of  many  an  uproar  rude. 
When,  in  their  drunken  bravery  uncontroll'd, 
Some  bitter  jest  awoke  the  dormant  feud, 
And  wrath,  and  rage,  and  strife,  and  wounds,  and 
death  ensued. 

24. 

These  occupations  were  gone  by ;  the  skill 
Was  useless  now,  which  once  had  been  her  pride.. 
Content  were  they,  when  thirst  impell'd,  to  fill 
The  dry  and  hollow  gourd  from  Mondai's  side; 
The  river  from  its  sluggish  bed  supplied 
A  draught  for  repetition  all  unmeet; 
Howbeit  the  bodily  want  was  satisfied ; 
No  feverish  pulse  ensued,  nor  ireful  heat ; 
Their  days  were  undisturb'd,  their  natural  sleep 
was  sweet. 


25. 
She,  too,  had  learn'd  in  youth  how  best  to  trim 
The  honor'd  Chief  for  his  triumphal  day. 
And  covering  with  soft  gums  the  obedient  limb 
And  body,  then  with  feathers  overlay, 
In  regular  hues  disposed,  a  rich  display. 
Well  pleased  the  glorious  savage  stood,  and  eyed 
The  growing  work  ;  then,  vain  of  his  array, 
Look'd  with  complacent  frown  from  side  to  side, 
Stalk'd  with  elater  step,  and  swell'd  with  statelier 
pride. 

26. 

Feasts  and  carousals,  vanity  and  strife. 
Could  have  no  place  with  them  in  solitude 
To  break  the  tenor  of  their  even  life. 
Quiara  day  by  day  his  game  pursued, 
Searching  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  wood, 
W  ith  hawk-like  eye,  and  arrow  sure  as  fate ; 
And  Monnema  prepared  the  hunter's  food  : 
Cast  with  him  here  in  this  forlorn  estate, 
In  all  things  for  the  man  was  she  a  fitting  mate. 

27. 
The  Moon  had  gather'd  oft  her  monthly  store 
Of  light,  and  oft  in  darkness  left  the  sky. 
Since  Monnema  a  growing  burden  bore 
Of  life  and  hope.     The  appointed  weeks  go  by ; 
And  now  her  hour  is  come,  and  none  is  nigh 
To  help  :  but  human  help  she  needed  none. 
A  few  short  throes  endured  with  scarce  a  cry. 
Upon  the  bank  she  laid  her  new-born  son, 
Then  slid  into  the  stream,  and  bathed,  and  all  was 
done. 

28. 
Might  old  observances  have  there  been  kept. 
Then  should  the  husband  to  that  pensile  bed. 
Like  one  exhausted  with  the  birth,  have  crept, 
And  laying  down  in  feeble  guise  his  head, 
For  many  a  day  been  nursed  and  dieted 
With  tender  care,  to  childing  mothers  due. 
Certes  a  custom  strange,  and  yet  far  spread 
Through  many  a  savage  tribe,  howe'er  it  grew. 
And  once  in  the  old  world  known  as  widely  as 
the  new. 

29. 

This  could  not  then  be  done  ;  he  might  not  lay 

Tlie  bow  and  those  unerring  shafts  aside ; 

Nor  through  the   appointed   weeks  forego  the 

prey. 
Still  to  be  sought  amid  those  regions  wide. 
None  being  there  who  should  the  while  provide 
That  lonely  household  with  their  needful  food  : 
So,  still  Quiara  through  the  forest  plied 
His  daily  task,  and  in  the  thickest  wood 
Still  laid  his  snares  for  birds,  and  still  the  chase 

pursued. 

30. 

But  seldom  may  such  thoughts  of  mingled  joy 
A  father's  agitated  breast  dilate, 
As  when  he  first  beheld  that  infant  boy. 
Who  hath  not  proved  it,  ill  can  estimate 


CANTO    I. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


305 


The  feeling  of  that  stirring  hour,  —  the  weight 
Of  that  new  sense,  the  thouglitful,  pensive  bhss. 
In  all  the  changes  of  our  changeful  state, 
Even  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  I  wis. 
The  heart  doth  undergo  no  change  so  great  as  this. 

31. 
A  deeper  and  unwonted  feeling  fiU'd 
These  parents,  gazing  on  their  new-born  son. 
Already  in  their  busy  hopes  they  build 
On  tliis  frail  sand.     Now  let  the  seasons  run, 
And  let  tlie  natural  work  of  time  be  done 
With  theni,  —  for  unto  them  a  child  is  born  ; 
And  when  the  hand  of  Death  may  reach  the  one, 
The  other  will  not  now  be  left  to  mourn 
A  solitary  wretcji,  all  utterly  forlorn. 

32. 
Thus  Monnema  and  thus  Quiara  thought, 
Though  each  the  melancholy  thought  repress'd ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  feel,  yet  utter'd  not 
The  human  feeling,  which  in  hours  of  rest 
Often  would  rise,  and  fill  the  boding  breast 
With  a  dread  foretaste  of  that  mournful  day. 
When,  at  the  inexorable  Power's  behest, 
The  unwilling  spirit,  called  perforce  away, 
Must  leave,  forever  leave,  its  dear  connatural  clay. 

33. 
Link'd  as  they  were,  where  each  to  each  was  all. 
How  might  the  poor  survivor  hope  to  bear 
That  heaviest  loss  which  one  day  must  befall. 
Nor  sink  beneath  tiie  weight  of  his  despair  .' 
Scarce  could  the  heart  even  for  a  moment  dare 
That  miserable  time  to  contemplate, 
When  the  dread  Messenger  should  find  them 

there. 
From  whom  is  no  escape,  —  and  reckless  Fate, 
Whom  it  had  bound  so  close,  forever  separate. 

34. 

Lighter  that  burden  lay  upon  the  heart 

When  this  dear  babe  was  born  to  share  their  lot; 

They  could    endure    to  think   that   they   must 

part. 
Then  too  a  glad  consolatory  thought 
Arose,  while  gazing  on  the  child  they  sought 
With  hope  their  dreary  prospect  to  delude. 
Till  they  almost  believed,  as  fancy  taught. 
How  that  from  them  a  tribe  should  spring  re- 

new'd. 
To  people  and  possess  that  ample  solitude. 

35. 

Such  hope  they  felt,  but  felt  that  whatsoe'er 
The  undiscovcrable  to  come  might  prove. 
Unwise  it  were  to  let  that  bootless  care 
Disturb  the  present  hours  of  peace  and  love. 
For  they  had  gain'd  a  happiness  alwvc 
The  state  which  in  their  native  horde  was  known  : 
No  outward  causes  were  there  here  to  move 
Discord  and  alien  thoughts  ;  being  thus  alone 
From  all  mankind,  their  hearts  and  their  desires 
were  one. 

64 


36. 
Different  their  love  in  kind  and  in  degree 
From  what  their  poor  depraved  forefathers  knew, 
With  whom  degenerate  instincts  were  left  free 
To  take  their  course,  and  blindly  to  pursue. 
Unheeding  they  the  ills  that  must  ensue, 
The  bent  of  brute  desire.     No  moral  tie 
Bound  the  hard  husband  to  his  servile  crew 
Of  wives;  and  they  the  chance  of  change  might 
try, 
All  love  destroy 'd  by  such  preposterous  liberty. 

37. 
Far  other  tie  this  solitary  pair 
Indissolubly  bound  ;  true  helpmates  they. 
In  joy  or  grief,  in  weal  or  woe  to  share, 
Li  sickness  or  in  health,  through  life's  long  day  ; 
And  reassuming  in  their  hearts  her  sway 
Benignant  Nature  made  the  burden  light. 
It  was  the  Woman's  pleasure  to  obey, 
The  Man's  to  ease  her  toil  in  all  he  might ; 
So  each  in  serving  each  obtain'd  the  best  delight. 

38. 
And  as  connubial,  so  parental  love 
Obey'd  unerring  Nature's  order  here, 
For  now  no  force  of  impious  custom  strove 
Against  her  law  ;  —  such  as  was  wont  to  sear 
The  unhappy  heart  with  usages  severe. 
Till  harden'd  mothers  in  the  grave  could  lay 
Their  living  babes  with  no  compunctious  tear ; 
So  monstrous  men  become,  when  from  the  way 
Of  primal  light  they  turn  through  heathen  paths 
astray. 

39. 
Deliver'd  from  this  yoke,  in  them  henceforth 
The  springs  of  natural  love  may  freely  flow : 
New  joys,  new  virtues  with  that  happy  birth 
Are  born,  and  with  the  growing  infant  grow. 
Source  of  our  purest  happiness  below 
Is  that  benignant  law^  which  hath  entwined 
Dearest  delight  with  strongest  duty,  so 
Tliat  in  the  healthy  heart  and  righteous  mind 
Ever  they  co-exist,  inseparably  combined. 

40 
Oh  !  bliss  for  them  when  in  that  infant  face 
Tiiey  now  the  unfolding  faculties  descry. 
And  fondly  gazing,  trace  —  or  think  they  trace  — 
The  first  faint  speculation  in  that  eye. 
Which  hitherto  hath  roll'd  in  vacancy  ! 
Oh  !  bliss  in  that  soft  countenance  to  seek 
Some  mark  of  recognition,  and  espy 
The  quiet  smile  which  in  the  innocent  cheek 
Of  kindness  and  of  kind  its   consciousness  doth 
speak ! 

41. 
For  him,  if  born  among  their  native  tribe, 
Some  haughty  name  his   parents  had   thought 

good, 
As  weening  that  wherewith  they  should  ascribe 
The  strength  of  some  fierce  tenant  of  the  wood. 


506 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO   II. 


The  water,  or  the  aerial  solitude, 
Jaguar  or  vulture,  water- wolf  or  snake, 
The  beast  that  prowls  abroad  in  search  of  blood, 
Or  reptile  that  within  tlie  treacherous  brake 
Waits  for  the  prey,  upcoil'd,  its  hunger  to  aslake. 

42. 
Now  soften'd  as  their  spirits  were  by  love, 
Abhorrent  from  such  thoughts  they  turn'd  away  ; 
And  with  a  happier  feeling,  from  the  dove, 
They  named  the  child  Yeruti.     On  a  day, 
When,  smiling  at  his  mothers  breast  in  play. 
They  in  his  tones  of  murmuring  pleasure  heard 
A  sweet  resemblance  of  the  stock-dove's  lay. 
Fondly  they  named  him  from  that  gentle  bird  ; 
And  soon  such  happy  use  endear'd  the  fitting  word. 

43. 
Days  past,  and  moons  liave  wax'd  and  waned, 

and  still 
This  dovelet,  nestled  in  their  leafy  bower. 
Obtains  increase  of  sense,  and  strength,  and  will. 
As  in  due  order  many  a  latent  power 
Expands,  —  humanity's  exalted  dower; 
And  they,  while  thus  the  days  serenely  fled, 
Beheld  him  flourish  like  a  vigorous  flower, 
Which,  lifting  from  a  genial  soil  its  head, 
By  seasonable  suns  and  kindly  showers  is  fed. 

44. 
Erelong  the  cares  of  helpless  babyhood 
To  the  next  stage  of  infancy  give  place. 
That  age  with  sense  ofconscious  growth  endued. 
When  every  gesture  hath  its  proper  grace  : 
Then  come  the  unsteady  step,  the  tottering  pace ; 
And    watchful    hopes   and    emulous    thoughts 

appear ; 
The  imitative  lips  essay  to  trace 
Their  words,  observant  both  with  eye  and  ear. 
In  mutilated  sounds  which  parents  love  to  hear. 

45. 

Serenely  thus  the  seasons  pass  away  ; 

And,  oh  I  how  rapidly  they  seem  to  fly 

With  those  for  whom  to-morrow,  like  to-day. 

Glides  on  in  peaceful  uniformity  ! 

Five  years  have  since  Yeruti's  birth  gone  by. 

Five  happy  years;  —  and  ere  the  Moon  which 

then 
Hung  like  a  Sylphid's  light  canoe  on  high 
Should  fill  its  circle,  Monnema,  again. 
Laying  her  burden  down,  must  bear  a  mother's 

pain. 

46. 
Alas,  a  keener  pang,  before  that  day. 
Must  by  the  wretched  Monnema  be  borne  ! 
In  quest  of  game  Quiara  went  his  way 
To  roam  the  wilds,  as  he  was  wont,  one  morn ; 
She  look'd  in  vain  at  eve  for  his  return. 
By  moonlight,  through  the  midnight  solitude. 
She  sought  him ;  and  she  found  his  garment  torn. 
His  bow  and  useless  arrows  in  the  wood, 
Marks  of  a  jaguar's  feet,  abroken  spear,  and  blood. 


CANTO   II. 


O  THOU  who,  listening  to  the  Poet's  song, 
Dost  yield  thy  willing  spirit  to  his  sway, 
Look  not  that  I  should  painfully  prolong 
The  sad  narration  of  that  fatal  day 
With  tragic  details ;  all  too  true  the  lay  ! 
Nor  is  my  purpose  e'er  to  entertain 
The  heart  with  useless  grief;  but,  as  I  may, 
Blend  in  my  calm  and  meditative  strain 
Consolatory  thoughts,  the  balm  for  real  pain. 


0  Youth  or  Maiden,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Safe  in  my  guidance  may  thy  spirit  be  ; 

1  wound  not  wantonly  the  tender  heart; 
And  if  sometimes  a  tear  of  sympathy 
Should  rise,  it  will  from  bitterness  be  free  — 
Yea,  with  a  healing  virtue  be  endued. 

As  thou,  in  this  true  tale,  shall  hear  from  me 
Of  evils  overcome,  and  grief  subdued. 
And  virtues  springing  up  like  flowers  in  solitude. 

3. 
The  unhappy  Monnema,  when  thus  bereft. 
Sunk  not  beneath  the  desolating  blow. 
Widow'd  she  was;  but  still  her  child  was  left; 
For  him  must  slie  sustain  the  weight  of  woe, 
Which  else  would  in  that  hour  have  laid  her  low. 
Nor  wish'd  she  now  the  work  of  death  complete  ; 
Then  only  doth  the  soul  of  woman  know 
Its  proper  strength,  when  love  and  duty  meet; 
Invincible  the  heart  wherein  they  have  their  seat. 


The  seamen  who,  upon  some  coral  reef. 
Are  cast  amid  the  interminable  main. 
Still  cling  to  life,  and,  hoping  for  relief, 
Drag  on  their  days  of  wretchedness  and  pain. 
In  turtle-shells  they  hoard  the  scanty  rain, 
And  eat  its  flesh,  sun-dried  for  lack  of  fire, 
Till  the  weak  body  can  no  more  sustain 
Its  wants,  but  sinks  beneath  its  suff'erings  dire  ; 
Most  miserable  man  who  sees  the  rest  expire  ! 

5. 

He  lingers  there  while  months  and  years  go  by, 
And  holds  his  hope  though  months  and  years 

have  past; 
And  still  at  morning  round  the  farthest  sky. 
And  still  at  eve  his  eagle  glance  is  cast. 
If  there  he  may  behold  the  far-off"  mast 
Arise,  for  which  he  hath  not  ceased  to  pray. 
And  if  perchance  a  ship  should  come  at  last. 
And  bear  him  from  that  dismal  bank  away. 
He  blesses  God  that  he  hath  lived  to  see  that  day. 


So  strong  a  hold  hath  life  upon  the  soul. 
Which  sees  no  dawning  of  eternal  light. 
But  subject  to  this  mortal  frame's  control. 
Forgetful  of  its  origin  and  right. 


CANTO    II. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY, 


507 


Content  in  bondage  dwells  and  utter  night. 
By  worthier  ties  was  this  poor  mother  bound 
To  life;  even  while  her  grief  was  at  the  height, 
Then  in  maternal  love  support  she  found, 
And  in  maternal  cares  a  healing  for  her  wound. 


For  now  her  hour  is  come  :  a  girl  is  born, 

Poor  infant,  all  unconscious  of  its  fate, 

How  passing  strange,  how  utterly  forlorn  ! 

The  genial  season  served  to  mitigate, 

In  all  it  might,  their  sorrowful  estate. 

Supplying  to  the  mother,  at  her  door. 

From  neighboring  trees,  which  bent  beneath  their 

weight, 
A  full  supply  of  fruitage  now  mature; 
So  in  that  time  of  need  their  sustenance  was  sure. 

8. 
Nor  then  alone,  but  alway  did  the  Eye 
Of  Mercy  look  upon  that  lonely  bower. 
Days  past,  and  weeks ;  and  months  and  years 

went  by, 
And  never  evil  thing  the  while  had  power 
To  enter  there.     The  boy,  in  sun  and  shower. 
Rejoicing  in  his  strength  to  youthhed  grew; 
And  Mooma,  that  beloved  girl,  a  dower 
Of  gentleness  from  bounteous  nature  drew. 
With  all  that    should    the    heart   of  womankind 

imbue. 

9. 
The  tears  which  o'er  her  infancy  were  shed 
Profuse,  resented  not  of  grief  alone  : 
Maternal  love  their  bitterness  allay 'd. 
And,  witli  a  strength  and  virtue  all  its  own, 
Sustain'd  the  breaking  heart.     A  look,  a  tone, 
A  gesture  of  that  innocent  babe,  in  eyes 
With  saddest  recollections  overflown. 
Would  sometimes  make  a  tender  smile  arise. 
Like  sunshine  opening  through  a  shower  in  vernal 
skies. 

10. 

No  looks  but  those  of  tenderness  were  found 
To  turn  upon  that  helpless  infant  dear ; 
And  as  her  sense  unfolded,  never  sound 
Of  wrath  or  discord  brake  upon  her  ear. 
Her  soul  its  native  purity  sincere 
Possess'd,  by  no  example  here  defiled; 
From  envious  passions  free,  exempt  from  fear, 
Unknowing  of  all  ill,  amid  the  wild 
Beloving  and  beloved  she  grew,  a  happy  child. 

11. 

Yea,  where  that  solitary  bower  was  placed. 
Though  all  unlike  to  Paradise  the  scene, 
(A  wide  circumference  of  woodlands  waste,) 
Something  of  what  in  Eden  might  have  been 
Was  shadow'd  there  imperfectly,  I  ween. 
In  this  fair  creature  :  safe  from  all  otfence, 
Expanding  like  a  sheltered  plant  serene, 
Evils  that  fret  and  stain  being  far  from  thence. 
Her  heart  in   peace  and  joy  retain'd  its  inno- 
cence. 


12. 

At  first  the  infant  to  Yeruti  proved 
A  cause  of  wonder  and  disturbing  joy. 
A  stronger  tic  than  that  of  kindred  moved 
His  inmost  being,  as  the  happy  boy 
Felt  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  without  alloy, 
The  sense  of  kind  :  a  fellow  creature  she, 
In  whom,  when  now  she  ceased  to  be  a  toy 
For  tender  sport,  his  soul  rejoiced  to  see 
Connatural  powers  expand,  and  growing  sympathy 

13. 

For  her  he  cuU'd  the  fairest  flowers,  and  sought 
Throughout  the  woods  the  earliest  fruits  for  her. 
The  cayman's  eggs,  the  honeycomb  he  brought 
To  this  beloved  sister,  —  whatsoe'er, 
To  his  poor  thought,  of  delicate  or  rare 
The  wilds  might  yield,  solicitous  to  find. 
They  who  aflirm  all  natural  acts  declare 
Self-love  to  be  the  ruler  of  the  mind. 
Judge   from   their   own  mean  hearts,  and   foully 
wrong  mankind. 

14. 

Three  souls  in  whom  no  selfishness  had  place 
Were  here  ;  three  happy  souls,  which  undefiled. 
Albeit  in  darkness,  still  retain'd  a  trace 
Of  their  celestial  origin.     The  wild 
Was  as  a  sanctuary  where  Nature  smiled 
Upon  these  simple  children  of  her  own. 
And,  cherishing  whato'er  was  meek  and  mild, 
Call'd  forth  the  gentle  virtues,  such  alone. 
The    evils  which  evoke    the  stronger   being  un- 
known. 

15. 

What  though  at  birth  we  bring  with  us  the  seed 
Of  sin,  a  mortal  taint, —  in  heart  and  will 
Too  surely  felt,  too  plainly  shown  in  deed, — 
Our  f  ital  heritage ;  yet  are  we  still 
The  children  of  the  All-Merciful ;  and  ill 
They  teach,  who  tell  us  that  from  hence  must 

flow 
God's  wrath,  and  then,  liis  justice  to  fulfil, 
Death  everlasting,  never-ending  woe  : 
O  miserable  lot  of  man  if  it  were  so  ! 

16. 

Falsely  and  impiously  teach  they  who  thus 
Our  heavenly  Father's  holy  will  misread  I 
In  bounty  hath  the  Lord  created  us. 
In  love  redeem'd.     From  this  authentic  creed 
Let  no  bewildering  sophistry  impede 
The  heart's  entire  assent,  for  God  is  good. 
Hold  firm  this  faith,  and,  in  whatever  need. 
Doubt  not  but  thou  wilt  find  thy  soul  endued 
With  all-suflicing  strength  of  heavenly  fortitude  ! 

17. 

By  nature  peccable  and  frail  are  we, 
Easily  beguiled  ;  to  vice,  to  error  prone  ; 
But  apt  for  virtue  too.     Humanity 
Is  not  a  field  where  tares  and  thorns  alone 
Are  left  to  spring;  good  seed  hath  there  been 
sown 


508 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    II. 


With  no  unsparing  hand.     Sometimes  the  shoot 
Is  choked  with  weeds,  or  withers  on  a  stone ; 
But  in  a  kindly  soil  it  strikes  its  root, 
And  flourisheth,  and  bringeth  forth  abundant  fruit. 

18. 
Love,  duty,  generous  feeling,  tenderness, 
Spring  in  the  uncontaminated  mind ; 
And  these  were   Mooma's  natural  dower.    Nor 

less 
Had  liberal  Nature  to  the  boy  assign'd, 
Happier  heiein  than  if  among  mankind 
Their  lot  had  fallen,  —  oh,  certes  happier  here  ! 
That  all  things  tended  still  more  close  to  bind 
Their  earliest  ties,  and  they  from  year  to  year 
Retain'd  a  childish  heart,  fond,  simple,  and  sincere. 

19. 

They  had  no  sad  reflection  to  alloy 
The  calm  contentment  of  the  passing  day, 
Nor  foresight  to  disturb  the  present  joy. 
Not  so  with  Monnema ;  albeit  the  sway 
Of  time  had  reach'd  her  heart,  and  worn  away. 
At  length,  the  grief  so  deeply  seated  there, 
The  future  often,  like  a  burden,  lay 
Upon  that  heart,  a  cause  of  secret  care 
And  melancholy  thought ;  yet  did  she  not  despair. 

20. 

Chance  from  the  fellowship  of  human  kind 

Had  cut  them  off,  and  chance  might  reunite. 

On  this  poor  possibility  her  mind 

Reposed ;  she  did  not  for  herself  invite 

The  unlikely  tJiought,  and  cherish  with  delight 

The  dream  of  what  such  change  might  haply 

bring ; 
Gladness  with  hope  long  since  had  taken  flight 
From  her;  she  felt  that  life  was  on  the  wing, 
And  happiness,  like  youth,  has   here   no   second 
spring. 

21. 

So  were  her  feelings  to  her  lot  composed, 
That  to  herself  all  change  had  now  been  pain. 
For  Time  upon  her  own  desires  had  closed ; 
But  in  her  children  as  she  lived  again, 
For  their  dear  sake  she  learnt  to  entertain 
A  wish  for  human  intercourse  renew'd; 
And  oftentimes,  while  they  devour'd  the  strain, 
Would  she  beguile  their  evening  solitude 
With  stories  strangely  told  and  strangely  under- 
stood. 

22. 
Little  she  knew,  for  little  had  she  seen. 
And  little  of  traditionary  lore 
Had  reach'd  her  ear ;  and  yet  to  them,  I  ween, 
Their  mother's  knowledge  seem'd  a  boundless 

store. 
A  world  it  opened  to  their  thoughts,  yea,  more,  — 
Another  world  beyond  this  mortal  state. 
Bereft  of  her,  they  had  indeed  been  poor  ; 
Being  left  to  animal  sense,  degenerate  ; 
Mere  creatures,  they  had  sunk  below  the  beasts' 

estate. 


23. 
The  human  race,  from  her  thoy  understood, 
Was  not  within  that  lonely  hut  confined, 
But  distant  far  beyond  their  world  of  wood 
Were  tribes  and  powerful  nations  of  their  kind ; 
And  of  the  old  observances  which  bind 
People  and  chiefs,  the  ties  of  man  and  wife, 
The  laws  of  kin  religiously  assign'd. 
Rites,  customs,  scenes  of  riotry  and  strife. 
And  all  the  strange  vicissitudes  of  savage  life. 

24.     . 

Wondering  they  listen  to  the  wondrous  tale ; 
But  no  repining  thought  such  tales  excite  : 
Only  a  wish,  if  wishes  miglit  avail. 
Was  haply  felt,  with  juvenile  deliglit, 
To  mingle  in  the  social  dance  at  night. 
Where  the  broad  moonshine,  level  as  a  flood, 
O'erspread  the  plain,  and  in  the  silver  light. 
Well  pleased,  the  placid  elders  sat  and  view'd 
The  sport,  and  seem'd  therein  to  feel  their  youth 
renew'd. 

25. 
But  when  the  darker  scenes  their  mother  drew, 
What  crimes  were  wrought  when  drunken  fury 

raged  ; 
What  miseries  from  their  fatal  discord  grew. 
When  horde  with  horde  in  deadly  strife  engaged  ; 
The  rancorous  hate  with  which  their  wars  they 

waged ; 
The  more  unnatural  horrors  which  ensued, 
When,  with  inveterate  vengeance  unassuaged. 
The   victors  round    their    slaughter'd    captives 

stood,  [blood ;  — 

And  babes  were  brought  to  dip  their  little  hands  in 

2G. 
Horrent  they  heard ;  and  with  her  hands  the  Maid 
Press'd  her  eyes  close,  as  if  she  strove  to  blot 
The  hateful  image  which  her  mind  portray'd. 
The  Boy  sat  silently,  intent  in  thought ; 
Then,  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  as  if  he  sought 
To  heave  the  oppressive  feeling  from  his  breast, 
Complacently  compared  their  harmless  lot 
With  such  wild  life,  outrageous  and  unblest; 
Securely  thus  to  live,  he  said,  was  surely  best. 

27. 
On  talcs  of  blood  they  could  not  bear  to  dwell ; 
From  such  their  hearts  abhorrent  shrunk  in  fear. 
Better  they  liked  that  Monnema  should  tell 
Of  things  unseen;  what  Power  had  placed  them 

here, 
And  whence  the  living  spirit  came,  and  where 
It  past,  when  parted  from  this  mortal  mould  ; 
Of  such  mysterious  themes  with  willing  ear 
They  heard,  devoutly  listening  while  she  told 
Strangely-disfigured  truths,  and  fables  feign'd  of 
old. 

28. 

By  the  Great  Spirit  man  was  made,  she  said ; 
His  voice  it  was  which  peal'd  along  the  sky, 
And  shook  the  heavens,  and  fill'd  the  earth  with 
Alone  and  inaccessible,  on  high  [dread. 


CANTO    II. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


509 


He  had  his  dwelling-place  eternally, 
And  Father  was  his  name.    This  all  ktiew  well ; 
But  none  had  seen  his  face ;  and  if  his  eye 
Regarded  what  upon  the  earth  befell, 
Or  if  he  cared  for  man,  she  knew  not :  —  who  could 
tell? 

29. 
But  this,  she  said,  was  sure  —  that  after  death 
There  was  reward,  and  there  was  punishment: 
And  that  the  evil-doers,  when  the  breath 
Of  their  injurious  lives  at  length  was  spent, 
Into  all  noxious  forms  abhorr'd  were  sent, 
Of  beasts  and  reptiles  ;  so  retaining  still 
Their  old  propensities,  on  evil  bent, 
They  work'd  where'er  they  might  their  wicked 
will, 
The  natural  foes  of  man,  whom  we  pursue  and  kill. 

30. 

Of  better  spirits,  some  there  were  who  said 
That  in  the  grave  they  had  their  place  of  rest. 
Lightly  they  laid  the  earth  upon  the  dead, 
Lest  in  its  narrow  tenement  the  guest 
Should  suffer  underneath  such  load  oppress'd. 
But  that  death  surely  set  the  spirit  free. 
Sad  proof  to  them  poor  Monnema  address'd. 
Drawn  from  their  father's  fate ;  no  grave  had  he 
Wherein   his  soul  might  dwell.     This   therefore 
could  not  be. 

31. 

Likelier  they  taught  who  said  that  to  the  Land 
Of  Souls  the  happy  spirit  took  its  flight, 
A  region  underneath  the  sole  command 
Of  the  Good  Power;  by  him  for  the  upright 
Appointed  and  rcplenish'd  with  delight; 
A  land  where  nothing  evil  ever  came. 
Sorrow,  nor  pain,  nor  peril,  nor  affright, 
Nor  change,  nor  death;  but  there  the  human 
frame, 
Untouch'd  by  age  or  ill,  continued  still  the  same. 

32. 

Winds  would  not  pierce  it  there,  nor  heat  and  cold 
Grieve,  nor  thirst  parch,  and  hunger  pine  ;  but 

there 
The  sun  by  day  its  even  influence  hold 
With  genial  warmth,  and  thro'  the  unclouded  air 
The  moon  upon  her  nightly  journey  fare  : 
The  lakes  and  fish-full  streams  are  never  dry ; 
Trees  ever  green  perpetual  fruitage  bear ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  hunter  turns  his  eye, 
Water,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  to  him  their  stores 

supply. 

33. 
And  once  there  was  a  way  to  that  good  land, 
For  in  mid-earth  a  wondrous  Tree  there  grew, 
By  which  the  adventurer  might,  with  foot  and 

hand, 
From   branch    to   branch    his    upward    course 

pursue  ; 
An  easy  path,  if  what  were  said  be  true, 


Albeit  the  ascent  \Vas  long ;  and  when  the  height 
Was  gain'd,  tliat  blissful  region  was  in  view, 
Wherein  tiie  traveller  safely  iniglit  aliglit. 
And  roam  abroad  at  will,  and  take  his  free  delight. 

34. 

O  happy  time,  when  ingress  thus  was  given 
To  the  upper  world,  and  at  their  pleasure  the}- 
Whose  hearts  were  strong  might  pass  from  Earth 

to  Heaven 
By  their  own  act  and  choice  I     In  evil  day- 
Mishap  had  fatally  cut  oft'  that  way,       • 
And  none  may  now  the  Land  of  Spirits  gain, 
Till  from  its  dear-loved  tenement  of  clay. 
Violence  or  age,  infirmity  and  pain, 
Divorce  the  soul  which  there  full  gladly  would 
remain. 

35. 
Such  grievous  loss  had  by  their  own  misdeed 
Upon  the  unworthy  race  of  men  been  brought. 
An  aged  woman  once,  who  could  not  speed 
In  fishing,  earnestly  one  day  besought 
Her  countrymen,  that  they  of  what  they  caught 
A  portion  would  upon  her  wants  bestow. 
They  set  her  hunger  and  her  age  at  nought. 
And  still  to  her  entreaties  answered  no  ! 
And  mock'd  her,  till  they  made  her  heart  with  rage 
o'erflow. 

36. 
But  that  Old  Woman,  by  such  wanton  wrong 
Inflamed,  wenthurrying  down;  and  in  the  pride 
Of  magic  power,  wherein  the  crone  was  strong. 
Her  human  form  infirm  she  laid  aside. 
Better  the  Capiguara's  limbs  supplied 
A  strength  accordant  to  her  fierce  intent ; 
These  she  assumed,  and,  burrowing  deep  and 

wide 
Beneath  the  Tree,  with  vicious  will,  she  went, 
To  inflict  upon  mankind  a  lasting  punishment. 

37. 
Downward  she  wrought  her  way,  and  all  around 
Laboring,  the  solid  earth  she  undermined, 
And  loosen'd  all  the  roots ;  then  from  the  ground 
Emerging,  in  her  hatred  of  her  kind. 
Resumed  her  proper  form,  and  breathed  a  wind 
Which  gather'd  like  a  tempest  round  its  head  ■. 
Eftsoon  the  lofty  Tree  its  top  inclined, 
Uptorn  with  horrible  convulsion  dread, 
And  over  half  the  world  its   mighty  wreck   lay 
spread. 

38. 
But  never  scion  sprouted  from  that  Tree, 
Nor  seed  sprang  up ;  and  thus  the  easy  way, 
Which  had  till  then  for  young  and  old  been  free, 
Was  closed  upon  the  sons  of  men  for  aye. 
The  mighty  ruin  moulder'd  where  it  lay, 
Till  not  a  trace  was  left ;  and  now  in  sooth 
Almost  had  all  remembrance  past  away. 
This  from  the  elders  she  had  heard  in  youth; 
Some  said  it  was  a  tale,  and  some  a  very  truth. 


510 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    II. 


39. 
Nathless  departed  spirits  at  tiicir  will 
Could  from  the  Land  ot"  Souls  pass  to  and  fro  ; 
They  come  to  us  in  sleep  when  all  is  still, 
Sometimes  to  warn  against  the  impending  blow, 
Alas  I  more  oft  to  visit  us  in  woe  : 
Though  in  their  presence  there  was  poor  relief! 
And  this  had  sad  experience  made  her  know ; 
For  when  Quiara  came,  liis  stay  was  brief, 
And,  waking  then,  she  felt  a  freshen'd  sense  of 
grief. 

40. 
Yet  to  behold  his  face  again,  and  hear 
His  voice,  though  painful,  was  a  deep  delight ; 
It  was  a  joy  to  tliink  that  he  was  near. 
To  see  him  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  — 
To  know  that  the  departed  still  requite 
The  love  which  to  their  memory  still  will  cling : 
And  though  he  might  not  bless  her  vi^aking  siglit 
With  his  dear  presence,  'twas  a  blessed  thing 
That  sleep  would  thus  sometimes  his  actual  image 
bring. 

4L 

Why  comes  he  not  to  me  ?  Yeruti  cries  ; 
And  Mooma,  echoing  with  a  sigh  the  thought, 
Ask'd  why  it  was  that  to  her  longing  eyes 
No  dream  the  image  of  her  father  brought ; 
Nor  Monnema  to  solve  that  question  sought 
In  vain,  content  in  ignorance  to  dwell ; 
Perhaps  it  was  because  they  knew  him  not; 
Perhaps  —  but  sooth  she  could  not  answer  well ; 
What  the  departed  did,  themselves  alone  could  tell. 

42. 
What  one  tribe  held  another  disbelieved, 
For  all  concerning  this  was  dark,  she  said ; 
Uncertain  all,  and  hard  to  be  received. 
The  dreadful  race,  from  whom  their  fathers  fled, 
Boasted  that  even  the  Country  of  the  Dead 
Was  theirs,  and  where  their  Spirits  chose  to  go. 
The  ghosts  of  other  men  retired  in  dread 
Before  the  face  of  that  victorious  foe  ; 
No  better,  then,  the  world  above,  than  this  below  ! 

43. 

What  then,  alas  !  if  this  were  true,  was  death .-' 
Only  a  mournful  change  from  ill  to  ill ! 
And  some  there  were  who  said  the  living  breath 
Would  ne'er  be  taken  from  us  by  the  will 
Of  the  Good  Father,  but  continue  still 
To  feed  with  liie  the  mortal  frame  he  gave. 
Did  not  mischance  or  wicked  witchcraft  kill ;  — 
Evils  from  which  no  care  avail'd  to  save. 
And  whereby  all  were  sent  to  fill  the  greedy  grave. 

44. 

In  vain  to  countervirork  the  baleful  charm 
By  spells  of  rival  witchcraft  was  it  sought; 
Less  potent  was  that  art  to  help  than  harm. 
No  means  of  safety  old  experience  brought: 
Nor  better  fortune  did  they  find  who  thought 
From  Death,  as  from  some  living  foe,  to  fly  ; 
For  speed  or  subterfuge  avail'd  them  nought; 


But  wheresoe'er  they  fled  they  found  him  nigh : 
None  ever  could  elude  that  unseen  enemy. 

45. 

Bootless  the  boast,  and  vain  the  proud  intent 
Of  those  who  hoped,  with  arrogant  display 
Of  arms  and  force,  to  scare  him  from  their  tent, 
As  if  their  threatful  sliouts  and  fierce  array 
Of  war  could  drive  the  Invisible  away  ! 
Sometimes,  regardless  of  the  sufferer's  groan. 
They  dragg'd  the  dying  out,  and  as  a  prey 
Exposed  him,  that,  content  with  him  alone. 
Death  might  depart,  and  thus  his  fate  avert  their 
own. 

46. 

Depart  he  might,  — but  only  to  return 
In  quest  of  other  victims,  soon  or  late; 
When  they  who  held  this  fond  belief,  would  learn, 
Each  by  his  own  inevitable  fate, 
Tliat,  in  the  course  of  man's  uncertain  state, 
Death  is  the  one  and  only  certain  thing. 
Oh  folly  then  to  fly  or  deprecate 
That  which,  at  last,  Time,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Certain  as  day  and  night,  to  weary  age  must  bring  I 

47. 
While  thus  the  Matron  spake,  the  youthful  twain 
Listen'd  in  deep  attention,  wistfully ; 
Whether  with  more  of  wonder  or  of  pain 
Uncath  it  were  to  tell.     With  steady  eye 
Intent  they  heard ;  and  when  she  paused,  a  sigh 
Their  sorrowful  foreboding  seem'd  to  speak  : 
Questions  to  wliich  she  could  not  give  reply 
Yeruti  ask'd  ;  and  for  that  Maiden  meek. 
Involuntary  tears  ran  down  her  quiet  cheek. 

48. 
A  different  sentiment  within  them  stirr'd, 
When  Monnema  recall'd  to  mind,  one  day. 
Imperfectly,  what  she  had  sometimes  heard 
In  childhood,  long  ago,  the  Elders  say,  — 
Almost  from  memory  had  it  pass'd  away,  — 
How  there  appear'd  amid  the  woodlands  men 
Whom  the  Great  Spirit  sent  there  to  convey 
His  gracious  will;  but  little  heed  she  then 
Had  given,  and  like  a  dream  it  now  recurr'd  again. 

49. 
But  these  young  questioners,  from  time  to  time, 
Call'd  up  the  long-forgotten  theme  anew. 
Strange  men  they  were  ,from  some  remotest  clime. 
She  said,  of  different  speech,  uncouth  to  view. 
Having  hair  upon  their  face,  and  white  in  hue  : 
Across  the  World  of  waters  wide  they  came 
Devotedly  the  Father's  work  to  do. 
And  seek  the  Red  Men  out,  and  in  his  name 
His  merciful  laws,  and  love,  and  promises  proclaim. 

50. 
They  served  a  Maid  more  beautiful  than  tongue 
Could  tell,  or  heart  conceive.     Of  human  race, 
All  heavenly  as  that  Virgin  was,  she  sprung ; 
But  for  her  beauty  and  celestial  grace. 
Being  one  in  whose  pure  elements  no  trace 
Had  e'er  inhered  of  sin  or  mortal  stain, 


CANTO    III. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


5J1 


The  highest  Heaven  was  now  her  dwelling-place ; 
There  as  a  Queen  divine  she  held  her  reign, 
And  there  in  endless  joy  forever  would  remain. 

51. 

Her  feet  upon  the  crescent  Moon  were  set, 
And,  moving  in  their  order  round  her  head, 
The  Stars  compose  her  sparkling  coronet. 
There  at  her  breast  the  Virgin  Mother  fed 
A  Babe  divine,  who  was  to  judge  tlie  dead; 
Such  power  the  Spirit  gave  this  awful  Child  : 
Severe  he  was,  and  in  his  anger  dread, 
Yet  alway  at  his  Mother's  will  grew  mild. 
So  well  did  he  obey  that  Maiden  undefiled. 

52. 

Sometimes  she  had  descended  from  above 
To  visit  her  true  votaries,  and  requite 
Such  as  had  served  her  well.     And  for  her  love. 
These  bearded  men,  forsaking  all  delight. 
With  labor  long  and  dangers  infinite, 
Across  the  great  blue  waters  came,  and  sought 
The  Red  Men  here,  to  win  them,  if  they  might. 
From  bloody  ways,  rejoiced  to  profit  aught. 
Even  when  with  their  own  lives  the  benefit  was 
bought. 

53. 
For  trusting  in  this  heavenly  Maiden's  grace. 
It  was  for  tliem  a  joyful  thing  to  die, 
As  men  who  went  to  have  their  happy  place 
With  her,  and  with  that  Holy  Cliild,  on  high. 
In  fields  of  bliss  above  the  starry  sky. 
In  glory,  at  the  Virgin  Mother's  feet ; 
And  all  who  kept  their  lessons  faithfully 
An  everlasting  guerdon  there  would  meet. 
When  Death  had  led  their  souls  to  that  celestial  seat. 

54. 
On  earth  they  offer'd,  too,  an  easy  life 
To  those  who  their  mild  lessons  would  obey, 
Exempt  from  want,  from  danger,  and  from  strife  ; 
And  from  the  forest  leading  tliein  away, 
They  placed  them  underneath  this  Virgin's  sway, 
A  numerous  fellowship,  in  peace  to  dwell ; 
Their  high  and  happy  office  there  to  pay 
Devotions  due,  which  she  requited  well. 
Their  heavenly  Guardian  she  in  whatsoe'er  befell. 

55. 
Thus  Monnema  remember'd,  it  was  told 
By  one  who,  in  his  hot  and  lieadstrong  youth. 
Had  left  her  happy  service  ;  but  when  old, 
Lamented  oft,  with  unavailing  ruth, 
And  thoughts  which,  sliarper  than  a  serpent's 

tooth. 
Pierced  him,  that  he  had  changed  that  peaceful 

place 
For  the  fierce  freedom  and  the  ways  uncouth 
Of  their  wild  life,  and  lost  that  Lady's  grace. 
Wherefore  he  had  no  hope  to  see  in  Heaven  her  face. 

5a 

And  she  remember'd,  too,  when  first  they  fled 
For  safety  to  the  farthest  solitude 


Before  their  cruel  foes,  and  lived  in  dread 
That  thitiier,  too,  their  steps  might  be  pursued 
By  those  old  enemies  athirst  for  blood. 
How  some  among  them  hoped  to  see  the  day 
When  these  beloved  messengers  of  good 
To  that  lone  hiding-place  miglit  find  the  way, 
And  them  to  their  abode  of  blessedness  convey. 

57. 
Such  tales  excited  in  Yeruti's  heart 
A  stirring  hope  that  haply  he  might  meet 
Some  minister  of  Heaven ;  and  many  a  part, 
Untrod  before,  of  that  wild  wood  retreat. 
Did  he,  with  indefatigable  feet, 
Explore  ;  yet  ever  from  the  fruitless  quest 
Rcturn'd  at  evening  to  his  native  seat 
By  daily  disappointment  undepress'd,  — 
So  buoyant  was  the  hope  that  fill'd  his  youthful 
breast. 

58. 
At  length  the  hour  approach'd  that  should  fulfil 
His  harmless  heart's  desire,  when  they  shall  see 
Their  fellow-kind,  and  take  for  good  or  ill 
The  fearful  chance, —  for  such  it  needs  must  be, — 
Of  change  from  that  entire  simplicity. 
Yet  wherefore  should  the  thought    of  change 

appall  .•' 
Grief  it  perhaps  might  bring,  and  injury. 
And  death  ;  —  but  evil  never  can  befall 
The  virtuous,  for  the  Eye  of  Heaven  is  over  all. 


CANTO   HI. 


I. 

Amid  those  marshy  woodlands  far  and  wide. 
Which  spread  beyond  the  soaring  vulture's  eye, 
There  grew,  on  Empalado's  southern  side, 
Groves  of  that  tree  whose  leaves  adust  supply 
The  Spaniards  with  their  daily  luxury; 
A  beverage  whose  salubrious  use  obtains 
Through  many  a  land  of  mines  and  slavery. 
Even  over  all  La  Plata's  sea-like  plains, 
And   Chili's  mountain  realm,  and  proud  Peru's 
domains. 

2. 

But  better  for  the  injured  Indian  race 
Had  woods  of  manchineel  the  land  o'erspread : 
Yea,  in  that  tree  so  bless'd  by  Nature's  grace 
A  direr  curse  had  they  inherited, 
Than  if  the  Upas  there  had  rear'd  its  head, 
And  sent  its  baleful  scions  all  around. 
Blasting  wherr'e.r  its  eflluent  force  was  shed. 
In  air  and  water,  and  the  infected  ground. 
All  things  wherein  the  breath  or  sap  of  life  is  found. 


The  poor  Guaranies  dreamt  of  no  such  ill, 
When,  for  themselves  in  miserable  hour. 
The  virtues  of  that  leaf,  with  pure  good  will, 
They  taught  their  unsuspected  visitor, 
New  in  the  land  as  yet.     They  learnt  his  power 


512 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    III. 


Too   soon,    which    law    nor    conscience    could 

restrain ; 
A  fearless,  but  inlmman  conqueror, 
Heart-harden'd  by  the  accursed  lust  of  gain: 
O  fatal  thirst  of  gold  !     O  foul  reproach  for  Spain  ! 

4. 

For  gold  and  silver  had  the  Spaniards  sought. 
Exploring  Paraguay  with  desperate  pains ; 
Their  way  through  forests,  axe  in  hand,  they 

wrought ; 
Drcnch'd  from  above  by  unremitting  rains, 
They  waded  over  inundated  plains. 
Forward  by  hope  of  plunder  still  allured; 
So  they  might  one  day  count  their  golden  gains, 
They  cared  not  at  what  cost  of  sin  procured ; 
All   dangers  they   defied,  all  sufferings  they  en- 
dured. 


Barren  alike  of  glory  and  of  gold 

That  region  proved  to  them;  nor  would  the  soil 

Unto  their  unindustrious  hands  unfold 

Harvests,  the  fruit  of  peace,  and  wine  and  oil, 

The  treasures  that  repay  contented  toil 

With  health  and  weal ;  treasures  that  with  them 

bring 
No  guilt  for  priest  and  penance  to  assoil, 
Nor  with  their  venom  arm  the  awaken'd  sting 
Of  conscience  at  that  hour  when  life  is  vanishing. 


But,  keen  of  eye  in  their  pursuit  of  gain, 
The  conquerors  look'd  for  lucre  in  this  tree  : 
An  annual  harvest  there  might  they  attain. 
Without  the  cost  of  annual  Industry. 
'Twas  but  to  gather  in  what  there  grew  free, 
And  share  Potosi's  wealth.     Nor  thence  alone. 
But  gold  in  glad  exchange  they  soon  should  see 
From  all  that  once  the  Incas  called  their  own, 
Or  where  the  Zippa's  power  or  Zaque's  laws  were 
known. 

7. 
For  this,  in  fact  though  not  in  name  a  slave. 
The  Indian  from  his  family  was  torn ; 
And  droves  on  droves  were  sent  to  find  a  grave 
In  woods  and  swamps,  by  toil  severe  outworn, 
No  friend  at  hand  to  succor  or  to  mourn. 
In  death  unpitied,  as  in  life  unbless'd. 
O  miserable  race,  to  slavery  born  ! 
Yet  when  we  look  beyond  this  world's  unrest. 
More  miserable  then  the  oppressors  than  the  op- 
press'd. 

8. 
Often  had  Kings  essay'd  to  check  the  ill 
By  edicts  not  so  well  enforced  as  meant ; 
A  present  power  was  wanting  to  fulfil 
Remote  authority's  sincere  intent. 
To  Avarice,  on  its  present  purpose  bent. 
The  voice  of  distant  Justice  spake  in  vain ; 
False  magistrates  and  priests  their  influence  lent 
The  accursed  thing  for  lucre  to  maintain : 
O  fatal  thirst  of  gold  !     O  foul  reproach  for  Spain  ! 


9. 
O  foul  reproach !  but  not  for  Spain  alone, 
But  for  all  lands  that  bear  the  Christian  name  ! 
Where'er  commercial  slavery  is  known  ; 
O  shall  not  Justice,  trumpet-tongued,  proclaim 
The  foul  reproach,  the  black  offence,  the  same  .' 
Hear,  guilty  France  1  and  thou,  O  England,  hear  I 
Thou  who  hast  half  redeem'd  thyself  from  shame, 
When  slavery  from  thy  realms  shall  disappear, 
Then  from  this  guilt,  and  not  till  then,  wilt  thou 
be  clear. 

10. 
Uncheck'd  in  Paraguay  it  ran  its  course, 
Till  all  the  gentler  children  of  the  land 
Well  nigh  had  been  consumed  without  remorse. 
The  bolder  tribes  meantime,  whose  skilful  hand 
Had  tamed  the  horse,  in  many  a  warlike  band 
Kept  the  field  well  with  bow  and  dreadful  spear. 
And  now  the  Spaniards  dared  no  more  withstand 
Their  force,  but  in  their  towns  grew  pale  with  fear, 
If  the  Mocobio  or  the  Abipon  drew  near. 

11. 

Bear  witness,  Chaco,  thou,  from  thy  domain 
With  Spanish  blood,  as  erst  with  Indian,  fed  ! 
And  Corrientes,  by  whose  church  the  slain 
Were  piled  in  heaps,  till  for  thf  gather'd  dead 
One  common  grave  was  dug,  one  service  said ! 
Thou  too,  Parana,  thy  sad  witness  bear 
From    shores  with  many   a   mournful   vestige 

spread. 
And  monumental  crosses  here  and  there. 
And  monumental  names  that  tell  where  dwellings 
were  ! 

12. 

Nor  would  with  all  their  power  the  Kings  of 

Spain, 
Austrian  or  Bourbon,  have  at  last  avail'd 
This  torrent  of  destruction  to  restrain. 
And  save  a  people  every  where  assail 'd 
By  men  before  whose  face  their  courage  quail'd, 
But  for  the  virtuous  agency  of  those 
Who  with  the  Cross  alone,  when  arms  had  fail'd, 
Achieved  a  peaceful  triumph  o'er  the  foes, 
And  gave  that  weary  land  the  blessings  of  repose. 

13. 

For  whensoe'cr  tlie  Spaniards  felt  or  fear'd 
An  Indian  enemy,  they  calTd  for  aid 
Upon  Loyola's  sons,  now  long  endear'd 
To  many  a  happy  tribe,  by  them  convey'd 
From  the  open  wilderness  or  woodland  shade. 
In  towns  of  haj)piest  polity  to  dwell. 
Freely  these  faithful  ministers  essay'd 
The  arduous  enterprise,  contented  well 
If  with  success  they  sped,  or  if  as  martyrs  fell. 

14. 

And  now  it  chanced  some  traders,  who  had  fell'd 
The  trees  of  precious  foliage  far  and  wide 
On  Empalado's  shore,  when  they  beheld 
The  inviting  woodlands  on  its  northern  side, 
Cross'd  thither  in  their  quest,  and  there  espied 


CAiNTO    III. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY, 


513 


Yeruti's  footsteps :  searching  then  the  shade, 
At  length  a  lonely  dwelling  they  descried, 
And  at  the  thought  of  liostile  hordes  dismay'd, 
To  the  nearest  mission  sped,  and  ask'd  the  Jesuit's 
aid. 

15. 
That  was  a  call  which  ne'er  was  made  in  vain 
Upon  Loyola's  sons.     In  Paraguay 
Much  of  injustice  had  they  to  complain, 
Much  oi'  neglect;  but  faithful  laborers  they 
In  the  Lord's  vineyard,  there  was  no  delay 
When  summon'd  to  his  work.     A  little  band 
Of  converts  made  them  ready  for  the  way ; 
Their  spiritual  fatiier  took  a  Cross  in  hand 
To  be  his  staff,  and  forth  they  went  to  search  the 
land. 

16. 

He  was  a  man  of  rarest  qualities. 
Who  to  this  barbarous  region  had  confined 
A  spirit  with  the  learned  and  the  wise 
Worthy  to  take  its  place,  and  from  mankind 
Receive  their  homage,  to  the  immortal  mind 
Paid  in  its  just  inheritance  of  fame. 
But  he  to  humbler  thoughts  his  heart  inclined  ; 
From  Gratz,  amid  the  Styrian  hills,  he  came. 
And  Dobrizhofterwas  the  good  man's  lionor'd  name. 

17. 

It  was  his  evil  fortune  to  behold 
The  labors  of  his  painful  life  destroy 'd ; 
His  flock,  which  he  had  brought  within  the  fold, 
Dispersed ;  the  work  of  ages  render'd  void, 
And  all  of  good  that  Paraguay  enjoy 'd 
By  blind  and  suicidal  Power  o'erthrown. 
So  he  the  years  of  his  old  age  employ'd, 
A  faithful  chronicler  in  handing  down 
Names  which  he  loved,  and  things  well  worthy  to 
be  known. 

18. 
And  thus,  when  exiled  from  the  dear-loved  scene, 
In  proud  Vienna  he  beguiled  the  pain 
Of  sad  remembrance;  and  the  Empress  Queen, 
That  great  Teresa,  she  did  not  disdain 
In  gracious  mood  sometimes  to  entertain 
Discourse  with  him  both  pleasurable  and  sage ; 
And  sure  a  willing  ear  she  well  might  deign 
To  one  whose  tales  may  equally  engage 
The    wondering   mind   of  youth,   the  thoughtful 
heart  of  age. 

19. 

But  of  his  native  speech  because  well  nigh 
Disuse  in  him  forgetfulness  liad  wrought, 
In  Latin  he  composed  his  history  — 
A  garrulous,  but  a  lively  tale,  and  fraught 
With  matter  of  deliffht  and  food  for  thounrht. 
And  if  he  could  in  Merlin's  glass  have  seen 
By  whom  his  tomes  to  speak  our  tongue  were 

taught. 
The  old  man  would  have  felt  as  ple.nsed,!  ween. 
As  when  he   won  the  ear  of  that  great  Empress 

Queen. 

Go 


20. 
Little  he  deeni'd  when  with  his  Indian  band 
He  through  the  wilds  set  forth  upon  his  way, 
A  Poet  then  unborn,  and  in  a  land 
Which  had  proscribed  his  order,  should  one  day 
Take  up  from  thence  his  moralizing  lay, 
And  shape  a  song  that,  with  no  fiction  dress'd. 
Should  to  his  worth  its  grateful  tribute  pay. 
And  sinking  deep  in  many  an  English  breast, 
Foster  that  faith  divine  that  keeps  the  heart  at  rest. 

21. 

Behold  him  on  his  way  !  the  breviary 
Which  from  his  girdle  hangs,  his  only  shield  ; 
That  well-known  habit  is  his  panoply. 
That  Cross,  the  only  weapon  he  will  wield  : 
By  day,  he  bears  it  for  his  staff  afield. 
By  night,  it  is  the  pillow  of  his  bed : 
No  other  lodging  these  wild  woods  can  yield 
Than  earth's  hard  lap,  and  rustling  overhead 
A  canopy  of  deep  and  tangled  boughs  far  spread. 

22. 

Yet  may  they  not  without  some  cautious  care 
Take  up  their  inn  content  upon  the  ground. 
First  it  behoves  to  clear  a  circle  there, 
And  trample  down  the  grass  and  plant;ige  round, 
Where  many  a  deadly  reptile  might  be  found. 
Whom  with  its  bright  and  comfortable  heat 
The  flame  would  else  allure  :  such  jjlagues  abound 
In  these  thick  woods,  and  therefore  must  they 
beat  [feet. 

The  earth,  and  trample  well  the  herbs  beneath  their 

23. 
And  now  they  heap  dry  reeds  and  broken  wood  : 
The  spark  is  struck,  the  crackling  fagots  blaze. 
And  cheer  that  unaccustom'd  solitude. 
Soon  have  they  made  their  frugal  meal  of  maize; 
In  grateful  adoration  then  they  raise 
The  evening  hymn.     How  solemn  in  the  wild 
That   sweet  accordant  strain   wherewith    they 

praise 
The  Queen  of  Angels,  merciful  and  mild  ! 
Hail,  holiest  Mary  !  Maid,  and  Mother  undefiled. 

24. 
Blame  as  thou  mayst  the  Papist's  erring  creed, 
But  not  their  salutary  rite  of  even  ! 
The  prayers  that  from  a  pious  soul  proceed. 
Though  misdirected,  reach  the  ear  of  Heaven. 
Us,  unto  whom  a  purer  faith  is  given. 
As  our  best  birthright  it  behoves  to  hold 
The  precious  charge  ;  but,  oh,  beware  the  leaven 
Which  makes  the  heart  of  charity  grow  cold  ! 
We  own  one  Shepherd,  we  shall  be  at  last  one  fold. 

25. 
Thinkest  thou  the  little  company  who  here 
Pour  forth  their  hymn  devout  at  close  of  day, 
Feel  it  no  aid  that  those  who  hold  them  dear. 
At  the  same  hour  the  self-same  homage  pay. 
Commending  them  to  Heaven  when  far  away  .' 
That  the  sweet  bells  are  heard  in  solemn  chime 
Through  all  the  happy  towns  of  Paraguay, 


514 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY 


CANTO    III. 


VVliere  now  their  brethren  in  one  point  of  time 
Join  in  the  general  prayer,  with  sympathy  sublime  ? 

26. 

That  to  the  glorious  Mother  of  their  Lord 
Whole  Christendom  that  hour  its  homage  pays  ? 
From  court  and  cottage  that  with  one  accord 
Ascends  the  universal  strain  of  praise? 
Amid  the  crowded  city's  restless  ways, 
One  reverential  tliouglit  pervades  tiie  throng  ; 
The  traveller  on  his  lonely  road  obeys 
The  sacred  hour,  and  as  he  fares  along, 
In  spirit  hears  and  joins  his  household's  even-song. 

27. 
Wiiat  if  they  think  that  every  prayer  enroll'd 
Shall  one  day  in  their  good  account  appear  ; 
That  guardian  Angels  hover  round  and  fold 
Their  wings  in  adoration  while  they  hear ; 
Ministrant  Spirits  through  the  ethereal  sphere 
Waft  it  with  joy,  and  to  the  grateful  theme, 
Well  pleased,  the  Mighty  Mother  bends  her  ear  ? 
A  vain  delusion  this  we  rightly  deem : 
Yet  what  they  feel  is  not  a  mere  illusive  dream. 

28. 
That  prayer  perform'd,  around  the  fire  reclined 
Beneath  the  leafy  canopy  they  lay 
Their  limbs  :  the  Indians  soon  to  sleep  resign'd  ; 
And  the  good  Father  v/ith  that  toilsome  day 
Fatigued,  full  fain  to  sleep,  —  if  sleep  he  may,  — 
Whom  all  tormenting  insects  tiiere  assail ; 
More  to  be  dreaded  these  tlian  beasts  of  prey 
Against  whom  strength  may  cope,  or  skill  pre- 
vail ; 
But  art  of  man  against  these  enemies  must  fail. 

29. 
Patience  itself,  that  should  the  sovereign  cure 
For  ills  that  touch  ourselves  alone,  supply, 
Lends  little  aid  to  one  who  must  endure 
This  plague  :  the  small  tormentors  fill  the  sky, 
And  swarm  about  their  prey  ;  there  he  must  lie 
And  suffer  while  the  hours  of  darkness  wear; 
At  times  he  utters  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh 
Some  name  adored,  in  accents  of  despair 
Breathed  sorrowfully  forth,  half  murmur  and  half 
prayer. 

30. 
Welcome  to  him  the  earliest  gleam  of  light ; 
Welcome  to  him  the  earliest  sound  of  day ; 
That,  from  the  sufferings  of  that  weary  night 
Released,  he  may  resume  his  willing  way. 
Well  pleased  again  the  perils  to  essay 
Of  that  drear  wilderness,  with  hope  renew'd  : 
Success  will  all  his  labors  overpay  ; 
A  quest  like  his  is  cheerfully  pursued  ; 
The  heart  is  happy  still  that  is  intent  on  good. 

31. 

And  now  where  Empalado's  waters  creep 
Through  low  and  level  shores  of  woodland  wide, 
They  come  ;  prepared  to  cross  the  sluggish  deep. 
An  ill-shaped  coracle  of  hardest  hide, 


Ruder  than  ever  Cambrian  fisher  plied 
Wliere  Towey  and  the  salt-sea  waters  meet, 
Tile  Indians  launch ;  they  steady  it  and  guide. 
Winning  their  way  with  arms  and  jiractised  feet, 
While  in  the  tottering  boat  the  Father  keeps  his  seat. 

32. 

For  three  long  summer  days  on  every  side 
They  search  in  vain  the  sylvan  solitude ; 
The  fourth  a  human  footstep  is  espied, 
And  tlirougli  the  mazes  of  the  pathless  wood 
With  hound-like  skill  and  hawk-like  eye  pur- 
sued ; 
For  keen  upon  their  pious  quest  are  they 
As  e'er  were  hunters  on  the  track  of  blood. 
Where  softer  ground  or  trodden  herbs  betray 
The  slightest  mark  of  man,  tJiey  there  explore  the 
way. 

33. 

More  cautious  when  more  certain  of  the  trace, 
In  silence  they  proceed ;  not  like  a  crew 
Of  jovial  hunters,  who  the  joyous  chase 
With  hound  and  horn  in  open  field  pursue, 
Cheering  their  way  with  jubilant  halloo. 
And  hurrying  forward  to  their  spoil  desired. 
The  panting  game  before  them,  full  in  view : 
Humaner  thoughts  this  little  band  inspired. 
Yet  with  a  liopc  as  high  tlieir  gentle  hearts  were 
fired. 

34. 

Nor  is  their  virtuous  hope  devoid  of  feac; 

The  perils  of  that  enterprise  they  know ; 

Some  savage  horde  may  have  its  fastness  here, 

A  race  to  whom  a  stranger  is  a  foe. 

Who  not  for  friendly  words,  nor  proffer'd  show 

Of  gifts,  will  peace  or  parley  entertain. 

If  by  such  hands  tlieir  blameless  blood  should 

flow 
To  serve  the  Lamb  who  for  their  sins  was  slain. 
Blessed  indeed  their  lot,  for  so  to  die  is  gain ! 

35. 

Them,  tlius  pursuing  where  the  track  may  lead, 
A  human  voice  arrests  upon  their  way  ; 
They  stop,  and  thither,  whence  the  sounds  pro- 
ceed. 
All  eyes  are  turn'd  in  wonder,  —  not  dismay, 
For  sure  such  sounds  might  charm  all  fear  away ; 
No  nightingale  whose  brooding  mate  is  nigh. 
From  some  sequester'd  bower  at  close  of  day, 
No  lark  rejoicing  in  the  orient  sky. 
Ever  pour'd  forth  so  wild  a  strain  of  melody. 

36. 

The  voice  which  through  the  ringing  forest  floats 
Is  one  which  having  ne'er  been  taught  tlio  skill 
Of  marshalling  sweet  words  to  sweeter  notes. 
Utters  all  unpremeditate,  at  will, 
A  modulated  sequence,  loud  and  shrill, 
Of  inarticulate  and  long-breathed  sound. 
Varying  its  tones  with  rise,  and  fall,  and  trill. 
Till  all  the  solitary  woods  around 
With  that  far-piercing  power  of  melody  resound. 


CANTO   in. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


51 ; 


37. 

In  mute  astonishment  attcnt  to  hear, 
As  if  by  some  enchantment  held,  tliey  stood. 
With  bending  head,  fix'd  eye,  and  eager  ear. 
And  hand  upraised  in  warning  attitude 
To  check  all  speech  or  step  that  might  intrude 
On  tliat  sweet  strain.    Them  leaving,  thus  spell- 
bound, 
A  little  way  alone  into  the  wood 
The  Father  gently  moved  toward  tlie  sound, 
Treading  with  quiet  feet  upon  the  grassy  ground. 

38. 
Anon  advancing  thus  the  trees  between, 
He  saw  beside  her  bower  the  songstress  wild. 
Not  distant  far,  himself  the  while  unseen. 
Mooma  it  was,  that  happy  maiden  mild. 
Who,  in  the  sunshine,  like  a  careless  child 
Of  nature,  in  her  joy  was  caroling, 
A  heavier  heart  than  his  it  had  beguiled 
So  to  have  heard  so  fair  a  creature  sing 
The  strains  which  she  had  learnt  from  all  sweet 
birds  of  sprmg. 

39. 

For  these  had  been  her  teachers,  these  alone ; 
And  she,  in  many  an  emulous  essay. 
At  length  into  a  descant  of  her  own 
Had  blended  all  their  notes,  a  wild  display 
Of  sounds  in  rich,  irregular  array ; 
And  now  as  blithe  as  bird  in  vernal  bower, 
Four'd  in  full  flow  the  unexpressive  lay, 
Rejoicing  in  her  consciousness  of  power, 
But  in  the  inborn  sense  of  harmony  yet  more. 

40. 

In  joy  had  she  begun  the  ambitious  song, 
With  rapid  interchange  of  sink  and  swell ; 
And  sometimes  high  the  note  was  rais'd,  and  long 
Produced,  with  shake  and  effort  sensible. 
As  if  the  voice  exulted  there  to  dv.'cll ; 
But  when  she  could  no  more  that  pitch  sustain, 
So  thrillingly  attuned  the  cadence  fell. 
That  with  tiie  music  of  its  dying  strain 
She  moved  herself  to  tears  of  pleasurable  pain. 

41. 

It  might  be  deem'd  some  dim  presage  possess'd 
The  virgin's  soul ;  that  some  mysterious  sense 
Of  change  to  come,  upon  her  mind  impress'd, 
Had  then  call'd  forth,  e'er  she  departed  thence, 
A  requiem  to  their  days  of  innocence. 
For  what  thou  losest  in  thy  native  shade 
There  is  one  change  alone  that  may  compense, 
O  Mooma,  innocent  and  simple  maid, 
Only  one  change,  and  it  will  not  be  long  delay'd  ! 

42. 

When  now  the  Father  issued  from  the  wood 
Into  that  little  glade  in  open  sight. 
Like  one  entranced,  beholding  him,  she  stood; 
Yet  had  she  more  of  wonder  than  affright, 
Yet  less  of  wonder  than  of  dread  dcliglit. 
When  thus  the  actual  vision  came  in  view; 
For  instantly  the  maiden  read  aright 


Wherefore  he  came ;    his  garb  and    beard  she 
knew ; 
All  that  her  mother  heard  had  then  indeed  been  true. 

43. 
Nor  was  the  Father  fiU'd  with  less  surprise ; 
He  too  strange  fancies  well  might  entertain, 
When  this  so  fair  a  creature  met  his  eyes. 
He  might  have  thought  her  not  of  mortal  strain  ; 
Rather,  as  bards  of  yore  were  wont  to  feign, 
A  nymph  divine  of  Mondai's  secret  stream; 
Or  haply  of  Diana's  woodland  train ; 
For  in  her  beauty  Mooma  sucli  might  seem. 
Being  less  a  child  of  earth  than  like  a  poet's  dream. 

44. 

No  art  of  barbarous  ornament  had  scarr'd 
And  stain'd  her  virgin  limbs,  or  'filed  her  face  ; 
Nor  ever  yet  had  evil  passion  marr'd 
In  her  sweet  countenance  the  natural  grace 
Of  innocence  and  youth ;  nor  was  there  trace 
Of  sorrow,  or  of  hardening  want  and  care. 
Strange  was  it  in  this  wild  and  savage  place. 
Which  seem'd  to  be  for  beasts  a  fitting  lair. 
Thus  to  behold  a  maid  so  gentle  and  so  fair. 

45. 

Across  her  shoulders  was  a  hammock  flung  ; 
By  night  it  was  the  maiden's  bed,  by  day 
Her  only  garment.     Round  her  as  it  hung. 
In  short,  unequal  folds  of  loose  array. 
The  open  meshes,  when  she  moves,  display 
Her  form.     She  stood  with  fix'd  and  wondering 

eyes ; 
And  trembling  like  a  leaf  upon  the  spray. 
Even  for  excess  of  joy,  with  eager  cries 
She  call'd  her  mother  forth  to  share  that  glad  sur- 
prise. 

46. 

At  that  unwonted  call,  with  quicken'd  pace. 
The  matron  hurried  thither,  half  in  fear. 
How  strange  to  Monnema  a  stranger's  face  ! 
Plow  strange  it  was  a  stranger's  voice  to  hear  ! 
How  strangely  to  her  disaccustom'd  ear 
Came  even  the  accents  of  her  native  tongue  ! 
But  when  she  saw  her  countrymen  appear. 
Tears  for  that  unexpected  blessing  sprung. 
And  once  again  she  felt  as  if  her  heart  were  young. 

47. 
Soon  was  her  melancholy  story  told 
And  glad  consent  imto  that  Father  good 
Was  given,  that  they  to  join  his  happy  fold 
Would  leave  with  him  their  forest  solitude. 
Why  comes  not  now  Yeruti  from  the  wood .' 
Why  tarrieth  he  so  late  this  blessed  day  ? 
They  long  to  see  their  joy  in  his  renew'd, 
And  look  impatiently  toward  his  way. 
And  think  they  hear  his  step,  and  chide  his  long 
delay. 

48. 
He  comes  at  length,  a  happy  man,  to  find 
His  only  dream  of  Jiope  fulfill'd  at  last. 


51(5 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY, 


CANTO    IV 


The  sunshine  of  his  all-believing  mind 
There  is  no  doubt  or  fear  to  overcast ; 
No  chilling  forethought  checks  his  bliss ;  the  past 
Leaves  no  regret  for  him,  and  all  to  come 
Is  change,  and  wonder,  and  delight.     How  fast 
Hath  busy  fancy  conjured  up  a  sum 
Of  joys  unknown,  whereof  the  expectance  makes 
him  dumb  ! 

49. 
O  happy  day,  the  Messenger  of  Heaven 
Hath  found  them  in  their  lonely  dwelling-place  ! 
O  happy  day,  to  them  it  would  be  given 
To  share  in  that  Eternal  Mother's  grace. 
And  one  day  see  in  Heaven  her  glorious  face, 
Where  Angels  round  her  mercy-throne  adore  ! 
Now  shall  they  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
Sequester'd  from  their  fellow-kind  no  more  ; 
O  joy  of  joys  supreme  !  O  bliss  for  them  in  store  ! 

50. 
Full  of  such  hopes  this  night  they  lay  them  down. 
But,  not  as  they  were  wont,  this  night  to  rest. 
Their  old  tranquillity  of  heart  is  gone  ; 
The  peace  wherewith  till  now  they  have  been 

blest 
Hath  taken  its  departure.     In  the  breast 
Fast-following  thoughts  and  busy  fancies  throng ; 
Their  sleep  itself  is  feverish,  and  possess'd 
With  dreams  that  to  the  wakeful  mind  belong ; 
To   Mooma   and   the   youth  then  first  the   night 

seem'd  long. 

51. 

Day  comes,  and  now  a  first  and  last  farewell 
To  that  fair  bower  within  their  native  wood, 
Their  quiet  nest  till  now.     The  bird  may  dwell 
Henceforth  in  safety  there,  and  rear  her  brood. 
And  beasts  and  reptiles  undisturb'd  intrude ; 
Reckless  of  this,  the  simple  tenants  go, 
Emerging  from  their  petaceful  solitude. 
To  mingle  with  the  world,  —  but  not  to  know 
Its  crimes,  nor  to  partake  its  cares,  nor  feel  its  woe. 


CANTO    IV. 


1. 

The  bells  rung  blithely  from  St.  Mary's  tower 
When  in  St.  Joachin's  the  news  was  told 
That  Dobrizhoffer  from  his  quest  that  liour 
Drew  nigh  :  the  glad  Guaranies,  young  and  old. 
Throng  through  the  gate,  rejoicing  to  behold 
His  face  again  ;  and  all  with  heartfelt  glee 
Welcome  the  Pastor  to  his  peaceful  fold. 
Where  so  beloved  amid  his  flock  was  he, 
That  this  return  was  like  a  day  of  jubilee. 


How  more  than  strange,  how  marvellous  a  sight 
To  the  new-comers  was  this  multitude  ! 
Something  like  fear  was  mingled  with  affright. 
When  they  the  busy  scene  of  turmoil  view'd; 
Wonder  itself  the  sense  of  joy  subdued, 


And  with  its  all-unwonted  weight  oppress'd 
These  children  of  the  quiet  solitude ; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  that  heaved  the  breast 
Unconsciously  bewray 'd  their  feeling  of  unrest. 


Not  more  prodigious  than  that  little  town 
Seem'd  to  these  comers,  were  the  pomp  and 

power 
To  us  of  ancient  Rome  in  her  renown ; 
Nor  the  elder  Babylon,  or  ere  that  hour 
When    her   high  gardens,  and   her  cloud-capt 

tower. 
And  her  broad  walls  before  the  Persian  fell ; 
Nor  those  dread  fanes  on  Nile's  forsaken  shore, 
Whose  ruins  yet  their  pristine  grandeur  tell. 
Wherein  the  demon  Gods  themselTes  might  deign 

to  dwell. 

4. 
But  if,  all  humble  as  it  was,  that  scene 
Possess'd  a  poor  and  uninstructed  mind 
With  awe,  the  thoughtful  spirit,  well  1  ween. 
Something  to  move  its  wonder  there  might  find, 
Something  of  consolation  for  its  kind. 
Some  hope  and  earnest  of  a  happier  age. 
When  vain  pursuits  no  more  the  heart  shall  blind, 
But  Faith  the  evils  of  this  earth  assuage. 
And  to  all  souls  assure  their  heavenly  heritage. 

5. 
Yes ;  for  in  history's  mournful  map,  the  eye 
On  Paraguay,  as  on  a  sunny  spot. 
May  rest  complacent:  to  humanity. 
There,  and  there  only,  hath  a  peaceful  lot 
Been  granted,  by  Ambition  troubled  not. 
By  Avarice  undebased,  exempt  from  care, 
By  perilous  passions  undisturb'd.     And  what 
If  Glory  never  rear'd  her  standard  there. 
Nor  with  her  clarion's  blast  awoke  the  slumbering 
air.-* 


Content  and  cheerful  Piety  were  found 
Within  those  humble  walls.     From  youth  to  age 
The  simple  dwellers  paced  their  even  round 
Of  duty,  not  desiring  to  engage 
Upon  the  busy  world's  contentious  stage. 
Whose  ways  they  wisely  had  been  train'd   to 

dread : 
Their  inoflTensive  lives  in  pupilage 
Perpetually,  but  peacefully  they  led. 
From  all  temptation  saved,  and  sure  of  daily  bread. 


They  on  the  Jesuit,  who  was  nothing  loath, 
Reposed  alike  their  conscience  and  their  cares; 
And  he,  with  equal  faith,  the  trust  of  both 
Accepted  and  discharged.     The  bliss  is  theirs 
Of  that  entire  dependence  that  prepares 
Entire  submission,  let  what  may  befall ; 
And  his  whole  careful  course  of  life  declares 
That  for  their  good  he  holds  them  thus  in  thrall, 
Their  Father  and  their  Friend,  Priest,  Ruler,  all 
in  all. 


CANTO    IV. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


517 


8. 
Food,  raiment,  shelter,  safety,  he  provides ; 
No  forecast,  no  anxieties  have  they ; 
The  Jesuit  governs,  and  instructs,  and  guides ; 
Their  part  it  is  to  honor  and  obey, 
Like  children  under  wise  parental  sway. 
All  thoughts  and  wishes  are  to  him  confess'd ; 
And  when,  at  length,  in  life's  last,  weary  day. 
In  sure  and  certain  hope  they  sink  to  rest. 
By  him  their  eyes  are  closed,  by  him  their  burial 
blest. 

9. 

Deem  not  their  lives  of  happiness  devoid, 
Though  thus  the  years  their  course  obscurely  fill ; 
In  rural  and  in  household  arts  employ'd. 
And  many  a  pleasing  task  of  pliant  skill. 
For  emulation  here  unmix'd  with  ill. 
Sufficient  scope  was  given.     Each  had  assign'd 
His  proper  part,  which  yet  left  free  the  will ; 
So  well  they  knew  to  mould  the  ductile  mind 
By  whom  the  scheme  of  that  wise  order  was  com- 
bined. 

10. 
It  was  a  land  of  priestcraft,  but  the  Priest 
Believed  himself  the  fables  that  he  taught : 
Corrupt  their  forms,  and  yet  those  forms  at  least 
Preserv'd  a  salutary  faith  that  wrought, 
Maugre  the  alloy,  the  saving  end  it  sought. 
Benevolence  had  gain'd  such  empire  there. 
That  even  superstition  had  been  brought 
An  aspect  of  humanity  to  wear, 
And  make  the  weal  of  man  its  first  and  only  care. 

11. 

Nor  lack'd  they  store  of  innocent  delight. 
Music  and  song,  and  dance  and  proud  array, 
Whate'er  might  win  the  ear,  or  charm  the  sight; 
Banners  and  pageantry  in  rich  display 
Brought  forth  upon  some  Saint's  high  holyday, 
The  altar  dress'd,  the  church  with  garlands  hung. 
Arches  and  floral  bowers  beside  the  way. 
And  festal  tables  spread  for  old  and  young. 
Gladness  in  every  heart,  and  mirth  on  every  tongue. 

12. 

Thou  who  despisest  so  debased  a  fate. 
As  in  the  pride  of  wisdom  thou  mayst  call 
These  meek,  submissive  Indians'  low  estate, 
Look  round  tiie  world,  and  see  where  over  all 
Injurious  passions  hold  mankind  in  thrall, 
How  barbarous  Force  asserts  a  ruthless  reign, 
Or  Mammon,  o'er  his  portion  of  the  ball. 
Hath  learn'd  a  baser  empire  to  maintain  — 
Mammon,  the  god  of  all  wiio  give  their  souls  to  gain. 

13. 
Behold  the  fraudful  arts,  the  covert  strife. 
The  jarring  interests  that  engross  mankind  ; 
The  low  pursuits,  the  selfish  aims  of  life; 
Studies  that  weary  and  contract  the  mind. 
That  bring  no  joy,  and  leave  no  peace  behind  ; 
And  Death  approaching  to  dissolve  the  spell ! 
The  immortal  soul,  which  hath  so  long  been  blind. 


Recovers  then  clear  sight,  and  sees  too  well 
The  error  of  its  ways,  when  irretrievable. 

14. 

Far  happier  the  Guaranies'  humble  race, 
With  whom,  in  dutiful  contentment  wise. 
The  gentle  virtues  had  their  dwelling-place. 
With  them  the  dear,  domestic  charities 
Sustain'd  no  blight  from  fortune  ;  natural  ties 
There  suffer'd  no  divorcement,  save  alone 
That  which  in  course  of  nature  might  arise; 
No  artificial  wants  and  ills  were  known ; 
But  there  they  dwelt  as  if  the  world  were  all  their 
own. 

15. 

Obedience  in  its  laws  that  takes  delight 
Was  theirs  ;  simplicity  that  knows  no  art ; 
Love,  friendship,  grateful  duty  in  its  height; 
Meekness  and  truth,  that  keep  all  strife  apart. 
And  faith  and  hope  which  elevate  the  heart 
Upon  its  heavenly  heritage  intent. 
Poor,  erring,  self-tormentor  that  thou  art, 
O  Man  !  and  on  thine  own  undoing  bent. 
Wherewith  canst  thou  be  blest,  if  not  with  these 
content .' 

16. 
Mild  pupils  in  submission's  perfect  school. 
Two  thousand  souls  were  gather'd  here,  and  here 
Beneath  the  Jesuit's  all-embracing  rule 
They  dwelt,  obeying  him  with  love  sincere. 
That  never  knew  distrust,  nor  felt  a  fear, 
Nor  anxious  thought  which  wears  tlie  heart  away. 
Sacred  to  them  their  laws,  their  Ruler  dear ; 
Humbler  or  happier  none  could  be  than  they. 
Who  knew  it  for  their  good  in  all  things  to  obey. 

17. 
The  Patron  Saint,  from  whom  their  town  was 

named. 
Was  that  St.  Joachin,  who,  legends  say, 
Unto  the  Saints  in  Limbo  first  proclaim'd 
The  Advent.     Being  permitted,  on  the  day 
That  Death  enlarged  him  from  this  mortal  clay, 
His  daughter's  high  election  to  behold. 
Thither  his  soul,  glad  herald,  wing'd  its  way. 
And  to  the  Prophets  and  the  Patriarchs  old 
The  tidings  of  great  joy  and  near  deliverance  told. 

18. 
There  on  the  altar  was  his  image  set. 
The  lamp  before  it  burning  night  and  day, 
And  there  was  incensed,  when  his  votaries  met 
Before  the  sacred  shrine,  their  beads  to  say. 
And  for  his  fancied  intercession  pray. 
Devoutly  as  in  faith  they  bent  the  knee. 
Such  adoration  they  were  taught  to  pay  ; 
Good  man,  how  little  had  he  ween'd  that  he 
Should  thus  obtain  a  place  in  Rome's  idolatry ! 

19. 
But  chiefly  there  the  Mother  of  our  Lord, 
His  blessed  daughter,  by  the  multitude 
Was  for  their  special  patroness  adored. 


518 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    IV 


Amid  the  square  on  high  her  image  stood, 
Clasping  the  Babe  in  lier  beatitude, 
The  Babe  Divine  on  whom  she  fix'd  her  sight; 
And  in  their  liearts,  albe  the  work  was  rude, 
It  rais'd  tlie  thought  of  all-commanding  might, 
Combin'd  with  boundless  love  and  mercy  infinite. 

20. 

To  this  great  family  the  Jesuit  brought 
His  new-lbund  children  now;  for  young  and  old 
He  deem'd  alike  his  children  while  he  wrought 
For  their  salvation,  —  seeking  to  unfold 
The  saving  mysteries  in  the  creed  enroll'd, 
To  their  slow  minds,  that  could  but  ill  conceive 
The  import  of  the  mighty  truths  he  told. 
But  errors  they  have  none  to  which  they  cleave, 
ind  whatsoe'er  he  tells  they  willingly  believe. 

21. 

Safe  from  that  pride  of  ignorance  were  they 
That  with  small  knowledge  thinks  itself  full  wise. 
How  at  believing  aught  should  these  delay. 
When  every  where  new  objects  met  their  eyes 
To  fill  the  soul  with  wonder  and  surprise.' 
Not  of  itself,  but  by  temptation  bred. 
In  man  doth  impious  unbelief  arise ; 
It  is  our  instinct  to  believe  and  dread  ; 
God  bids  us  love,  and  then  our  faith  is  perfected. 

22. 
Quick  to  believe,  and  slow  to  comprehend. 
Like  children,  unto  all  the  teacher  taught 
Submissively  an  easy  ear  they  lend  : 
And  to  the  font  at  once  he  might  have  brought 
These  converts,  if  the  Father  had  not  thought 
Theirs  was  a  case  for  wise  and  safe  delay. 
Lest  lightly  learn'd  might  lightly  be  forgot ; 
And  meanwhile  due  instruction  day  by  day 
Would  to  their  opening  minds  the  sense  of  truth 
convey. 

23. 

Of  this  they  reck'd  not  wiiether  soon  or  late ; 
For  overpowering  wonderment  possess'd 
Their  faculties  ;  and  in  this  new  estate 
Strange  sights,  and  sounds,  and  thoughts,  well 

nigh  oppress'd 
Their  sense,  and  raised  a  turmoil  in  the  breast 
Resenting  less  of  pleasure  than  of  pain; 
And  sleep  afforded  them  no  natural  rest, 
But  in  their  dreams,  a  mixed,  disorder'd  train, 
The    busy    scenes   of  day  disturb'd   their    hearts 

again. 

24. 
Even  when  tlie  spirit  to  that  secret  wood 
Return'd,  slow  Mondai's  silent  stream  beside, 
No  longer  there  it  found  the  solitude 
Which  late  it  left :  strange  faces  were  descried, 
Voices,  and  sounds  of  music  far  and  wide, 
And  buildings  scem'd  to  tower  amid  the  trees, 
And  forms  of  men  and  beasts  on  every  side, 
As  ever-wakeful  fancy  hears  and  sees 
All  things  that  it  had  heard,  and  seen,  and  more 
than  these. 


25. 

For  in  their  sleep  strange  forms  deform'd  they 

saw 
Of  frightful  fiends,  their  ghostly  enemies, 
And  souls  who  nmst  abide  tlie  rigorous  law 
Weltering  in  fire,  and  there  with  dolorous  cries 
Blaspheming  roll  around  their  hopeless  eyes  ; 
And  those  who  doom'd  a  shorter  term  to  bear 
In  penal  flames,  look  upward  to  the  skies, 
Seeking  and  finding  consolation  there. 
And  feel,  like  dew  from  heaven,  the  precious  aid 


of  prayer. 


26. 


And  Angels  who  around  their  glorious  Queen 
In  adoration  bent  their  heads  abased; 
And  infant  faces  in  their  dreams  were  seen 
Hovering  on  cherub-wings  ;  and  Spirits  placed 
To  be  their  guards  invisible,  who  chased 
With  fiery  arms  their  fiendish  foes  away  ; 
Such  visions  overheated  fancy  traced. 
Peopling  the  night  with  a  confused  array 
That  made  its  hours  of  rest  more  restless  than  the 
day. 

27. 
To  all  who  from  an  old  erratic  course 
Of  life,  within  the  Jesuit's  fold  were  led. 
The  change  was  perilous.     They  felt  the  force 
Of  habit,  when,  till  then  in  forests  bred, 
A  thick,  perpetual  umbrage  overhead, 
They  came  to  dwell  in  open  light  and  air. 
This  ill  the  Fathers  long  had  learnt  to  dread, 
And  stil|l  devised  such  means  as  might  prepare 
The  new-reclaim'd  unhurt  this  total  change  to  boar. 

28. 
All  thoughts  and  occupations  to  commute. 
To  change  their  air,  tlicir  water,  and  tlieir  food. 
And  those  old  habits  suddenly  uproot, 
Conform'd  to  which  the  vital  powers  pursued 
Their  functions,  —  such  nmtation  is  too  rude 
For  man's  fine  frame  unshaken  to  sustain. 
And  these  poor  children  of  the  solitude 
Began  erelong  to  pay  the  bitter  pain 
That  their  new  way  of  life  brought  with  it  in  its 
train. 

29. 

On  Monnema  the  apprehended  ill 
Came  first;  the  matron  sunk  beneath  the  weight 
Of  a  strong  malady,  whose  force  no  skill 
In  healing  might  avert  or  mitigate. 
Yet,  happy  in  her  children's  safe  estate. 
Her  thankfulness  for  them  she  still  express'd  ; 
And  yielding  then  complacently  to  fate. 
With  Christian  rites  her  passing  hour  wasblesM'd, 
And  with  a  Chistian's  hope  she  was  consign'd  to 
rest. 

3ft 

They  laid  her  in  the  Garden  of  the  Dead  ; 
Such  as  a  Christian  burial-place  should  be 
Wasthatfair  spot,  where  every  grave  was  spread 
With  flowers,  and  not  a  weed  to  spring  was  free  , 


CANTO    IV. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


519 


But  the  pure  blossoms  of  the  orange-tree 
Droi)|»'d  like  a  sliower  of  fragrance  on  the  bier; 
And  i)ahiis,  the  type  of  immortality, 
Planted  in  stately  colonnades  appear, 
That  all  was  verdant  there  throughout  the  unvary- 
ing year. 

31. 

Nor  ever  did  irreverent  feet  intrude 
Within  tliat  sacred  spot;  nor  sound  of  mirth. 
Unseemly  there,  profane  the  solitude, 
Where  solemnly  committed  earth  to  earth, 
Waiting  the  summons  for  their  second  birth, 
Whole  generations  in  Death's  peaceful  fold 
Collected  lay ;  green  innocence,  ripe  worth, 
Youtli  full  of  hope,  and  age  whose  days  were 
told, 
Compress'd  alike  into  that  mass  of  mortal  mould. 

32. 

Mortal,  and  yet  at  the  Archangel's  voice 

To  put  on  immortality.     That  call 

Shall  one  day  make  the  sentient  dust  rejoice ; 

These  bodies  then  shall  rise,  and  cast  oft'  all 

Corruption,  with  whate'er  of  earthly  thrall 

Had  clogg'd  the  heavenly  image,  then  set  free. 

How   then   should    Death   a    Christian's   heart 

appall  ? 
Lo,  Heaven  for  you  is  open  ;  —  enter,  ye 
Children  of  God,  and  heirs  of  his  eternity  ! 

33. 

This  hope  supported  Mooma,  hand  in  hand 
When  with  Yeruti  at  the  grave  she  stood. 
Less  even  now  of  death  they  understand 
Than  of  the  joys  eternal  that  ensued ; 
The  bliss  of  infinite  beatitude 
To  them  had  been  their  teacher's  favorite  theme, 
Wherewith  their  hearts  so  fully  were  imbued. 
That  it  the  sole  reality  might  seem. 
Life,   death,  and  all  things  else,  a  shadow  or  a 
dream. 

34. 

Yea,  so  possess'd  with  that  best  hope  were  they. 
That  if  the  heavens  had  opened  overhead, 
And  the  Archangel  with  his  trump  that  day 
To  judgment  had  convoked  the  quick  and  dead, 
They  would  have  heard  the  summons  not  with 

dread, 
But  in  the  joy  of  faith  that  knows  no  fear  ; 
Come,  Lord  !  come  quickly  !  would  this  pair  have 

said, 
And  thou,  O  Queen  of  men  and  Angels  dear, 
L'lti  -as,  whom  thou  hast   loved,  into  thy  happy 

sphere ! 

35. 
They  wept  not  at  the  grave,  though  overwrought 
With  feelings  there  as  if  the  heart  would  break. 
Some  haply  might  have  deem'd  they   suffered 

not; 
Yet  they  who  look'd  upon  that  Maiden  meek 
Might   see    what   deep  emotion    blanched    her 

cheek. 


An  inward  light  there  was  which  fill'd  her  eyes. 
And    told,    more   forcibly    than    words    could 

speak, 
That  this  disruption  of  her  earliest  ties 
Had  shaken  mind  and  frame  in  all  their  faculties. 

36. 
It  was  not  passion  only  that  disturb'd 
Her  gentle  nature  thus ;  it  was  not  grief; 
Nor  human  feeling  by  the  eff'ort  curb'd 
Of  some  misdeeming  duty,  when  relief 
Were  surely  to  be  found,  albeit  brief. 
If  sorrow  at  its  springs  might  freely  flow ; 
Nor  yet  repining,  stronger  than  belief 
In  its  first  force,  that  shook  the  Maiden  so, 
Though  these  alone  might  that  frail  fabric  over- 
throw. 

37. 
The  seeds  of  death  were  in  her  at  that  hour  ; 
Soon  was  their  quickening  and  their  growth  dis- 
play'd; 
Thenceforth  she  droop'd   and   wither'd    like   a 

flower. 
Which,  when  it  flourish'd  in  its  native  shade. 
Some  child  to  his  own  garden  hath  convcy'd, 
And  planted  in  the  sun,  to  pine  away. 
Thus  was  the  gentle  Mooma  seen  to  fade, 
Not  under  sharp  disease,  but  day  by  day 
Losing  the  powers  of  life  in  visible  decay 

38. 
The  sunny  hue  that  tinged  her  cheek  was  gone  ; 
A  deatliy  paleness  settled  in  its  stead ; 
The  light  of  joy  which  in  her  eyes  had  shone, 
Now  like  a  lamp  that  is  no  longer  fed 
Grew  dim  ;  but  when  she  raised  her  heavy  head. 
Some  proffer'd  help  of  kindness  to  partake. 
Those  feeble  eyes  a  languid  lustre  shed. 
And  her  sad  smile  of  thankfulness  would  wake 
Grief  even   in  callous  hearts  for  that  sweet  suf- 
ferer's sake. 

39. 

How  had  Yeruti  borne  to  see  her  fade  ? 
But  he  was  spared  the  lamentable  sight, 
Himself  upon  the  bed  of  sickness  laid. 
Joy  of  his  heart,  and  of  his  eyes  the  light, 
Had  Mooma  been  to  him,  his  soul's  delight. 
On  whom  his  mind  forever  was  intent, 
His  darling  thought  by  day,  his  dream  by  night, 
The  playmate  of  his  youth  in  mercy  sent. 
With    whom  his    life    had    passed  in   peacefulest 
content. 

40. 
Well  was  it  for  the  youth,  and  well  for  her 
As  there  in  placid  helplessness  she  lay. 
He  was  not  present  with  his  love  to  stir 
Emotions  that  might  shake  her  feeble  clay. 
And  rouse  up  in  her  heart  a  strong  array 
Of  feelings,  hurtful  only  when  they  bind 
To  earth  the  soul  that  soon  must  pass  away. 
But  this  was  spared  them;  and  no  pain  of  mind 
To  trouble  her  had  she,  instinctively  resign'd. 


520 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


CANTO    IV. 


41. 

Nor  was  there  wauliu!"-  to  tlie  sufferers  auirlit 
Of  careful  kindness  to  alleviate 
The  aiHiction  ;  for  the  universal  thought 
III  that  poor  town  was  of  their  sad  estate, 
And  wiiat  might  best  relieve  or  mitigate 
TJieir  case,  what  help  of  nature  or  of  art ; 
And  many  were  the  prayers  compassionate 
That  the  good  Saints  their  healing   would   im- 
part, 
Breathed  in  that  maid's  behalf  from  many  a  tender 
heart. 

4y. 

And  vows  were  made  for  her,  if  vows  might 

save ; 
She  for  herself  the  while  preferr'd  no  prayer ; 
For     when   she     stood     beside     her    Mother's 

grave, 
Her    earthly   hopes   and    thoughts    had    ended 

there. 
Her  only  longing  now  was,  free  as  air 
From  this  obstructive  flesh  to  take  her  flight 
For  Paradise,  and  seek  her  Mother  there. 
And  then,  regaining  her  beloved  sight, 
Rest  in  the  eternal  sense  of  undisturb'd  delight. 

43. 

Her   heart  was  there,  and   there  she   felt  and 

knew 
That  soon  full  surely  should  her  spirit  be. 
And  who  can  tell  what  foretastes  might  ensue 
To  one,  whose  soul,  from  all  earth's  thraldom 

free. 
Was  waiting  thus  for  immortality  .' 
Sometimes   slie   spake  with  short  and  hurried 

breath. 
As  if  some  happy  sight  she  seera'd  to  see. 
While,  in  the  fulness  of  a  perfect  faith. 
Even  with  a  lover's  hope,  she  lay  and  look'd  for 

death. 

44. 

I  said  that  for  herself  the  patient  maid 
Preferr'd  no  prayer  ;  but  oft  her  feeble  tongue 
And  feebler  breath  a  voice  of  praise  essay 'd  ; 
And  duly  when  the  vesper  bell  was  rung. 
Her  evening  hymn  in  faint  accord  she  sung 
So  piously,  that  they  who  gathered  round. 
Awe-stricken  on  her  heavenly  accents  hung, 
As  though  they  thought  it  were  no  mortal  sound, 
But  that  the  place  whereon  they  stood  was  holy 
ground. 

45. 

At  such  an  hour,  when  Dobrizhoffer  stood 
Beside  her  bed,  oh  !  how  unlike,  he  thought, 
This  voice  to  that  which,  ringing  through  the 

wood. 
Had  led  him  to  the  secret  bower  he  sought ! 
And  was  it  then  for  this  that  he  had  brought 
That   harmless     household    from    their    native 

shade .' 
Death  had  already  been  the  mother's  lot ; 


And  tliis  fair  Mooma,  was  she  form'd  to  fade 
So  soon,  — so  soon  must  she  in  earth's  cold  lap  be 
laid .' 

46. 

Yet  he  had  no  misgiving  at  the  sight; 
And  wherefore  should  he  ?     He  had  acted  well, 
And  deeming  of  the  ways  of  God  aright, 
Knew  that  to  such  as  these,  whate'er  befell 
Must  needs  for  them  be  best.     But  who  could 

dwell 
Unmoved  upon  the  fate  of  one  so  young. 
So  blithesome  late .'     What  marvel  if  tears  fell 
From  that  good  man  as  over  her  he  hunor. 
And  that  the  prayers  he  said  came  faltering  from 

his  tongue  ! 

47. 

She  saw  him  weep,  and  she  could  understand 
The    cause    thus    tremulously  that  made   hira 

speak. 
By  his  emotion  moved,  she  took  his  hand  ; 
A  gleam  of  pleasure  o'er  her  pallid  cheek 
Past,  while  she   look'd    at  him  with  meaning 

meek. 
And  for  a  little  while,  as  loath  to  part. 
Detaining  him,  her  fingers,  lank  and  weak, 
Play'd  with  tlieir  hold;  then  letting  him  depart, 
She  gave  him  a  slow  smile  that  toucli'd  him  to  the 

heart. 

48. 
Mourn  not  for  her !  for  what  hath  life  to  give 
That  should  detain  her  ready  spirit  here  ? 
Thinkest  thou  that  it  were  worth  a  wish  to  live, 
Could  wishes  hold  her  from  her  proper  sphere  ' 
Tiiat  simple  heart,  that  innocence  sincere 
The  world  would  stain.  Fitter  she  ne'er  could  be 
For  the  great  change ;  and  now  that  change  is 

near. 
Oh,  who  would  keep  her  soul  from  being  free  .' 
Maiden  beloved  of  Heaven,  to  die  is  best  for  thee  ! 

49. 
She  hath  pass'd  away,  and  on  her  lips  a  smile 
Hath  settled,  fix'd  in  death.     Judged  they  aright, 
Or  suffered  they  their  fancy  to  beguile 
The  reason,  who  believed  that  she  had  sight 
Of  Heaven  before  her  spirit  took  its  flight ; 
That  Angels  waited  round  her  lowly  bed  ; 
And  that,  in  that  last  effort  of  delight, 
When  lifting  up  her  dying  arms,  she  said, 
I  come  !  a  ray  from  heaven  upon  her  face  was  shed .'' 

50. 

St.  Joachin's  had  never  seen  a  day 
Of  such  profuse  and  general  grief  before, 
As  when,  with  tapers,  dirge,  and  long  array, 
The  Maiden's  body  to  the  grave  they  bore. 
All  eyes,  all  hearts,  her  early  death  deplore ; 
Yet,  wondering  at  the  fortune  they  lament, 
They  the  wise  ways  of  Providence  adore. 
By  whom  the  Pastor  surely  had  been  sent. 
When  to  the  Mondai  woods  upon  his  quest  he  went. 


CANTO    IV. 


A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY, 


521 


51. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  chosen  family, 
For  Heaven's  especial  favor  niark'd,  they  said  ; 
Shut  out  from  all  mankind  they  seem'd  to  be ; 
Yet  mercifully  there  were  visited, 
'I'liat  so  within  the  fold  they  might  be  led. 
Then  call'd  away  to  bliss.     Already  two 
In  their  baptismal  innocence  were  dead; 
The  third  was  on  the  bed  of  death  they  knew, 
And  in  the  appointed  course  must  presently  ensue. 

52. 
They  marvell'd,  therefore,  when  the  youth  once 

more 
Rose  from  his  bed,  and  walk'd  abroad  again ; 
Severe  had  been  the  malady,  and  sore 
The  trial,  while  life  struggled  to  maintain 
Its  seat  against  the  sharp  assaults  of  pain: 
But  life  in  him  was  vigorous  ;  long  he  lay 
Ere  it  could  its  ascendency  regain  ; 
Then,  when  the  natural  powers  resumed  their 
sway, 
All  trace  of  late  disease  past  rapidly  away. 

53. 

The  first  inquiry,  when  his  mind  was  free. 
Was  for  his  Sister.     She  was  gone,  they  said, 
Gone  to  her  Mother,  evermore  to  be 
With  her  in  Heaven.     At  this  no  tears  he  shed. 
Nor  was  he  seen  to  sorrow  for  the  dead ; 
But  took  the  fatal  tidings  in  such  part 
As  if  a  dull,  unfeeling  nature  bred 
His  unconcern;  for  hard  would  seem  the  heart 
To  which  a  loss  like  his  no  suffering  could  impart. 

54. 
How  little  do  they  see  what  is,  who  frame 
Their  hasty  judgment  upon  that  which  seems  ! 
Waters  that  babble  on  their  way  proclaim 
A  shallowness ;  but  in  their  strength  deep  streams 
Flow  silently.     Of  death  Yeruti  deems 
Not  as  an  ill,  but  as  the  last  great  good. 
Compared  wherewitii  all  other  he  esteems 
Transient  and  void :  how  then  should  thought 
intrude 
Of  sorrow  in  liis  heart  for  their  beatitude .' 

55. 
While  dwelling  in  their  sylvan  solitude 
Less  had  Yeruti  learn'd  to  entertain 
A  sense  of  age  than  death.     He  understood 
Something  of  death  from  creatures  he  had  slain  ; 
But  here  the  ills  which  follow  in  the  train 
Of  age  had  first  to  him  been  manifest, — 
The  shrunken  form,  the  limbs  that  move  with 

pain. 
The  failing  sense,  infirmity,  unrest, — 
That  in  his  heart  he  said  to  die  betimes  was  best. 

5G. 
Nor  had  he  lost  the  dead :  they  were  but  gone 
Before  him,  whither  he  should  shortly  go. 
Their  robes  of  glory  the}'  had  first  put  on ; 
He,  cumber'd  with  mortality,  below 

66 


Must  yet  abide  awhile,  content  to  know 
He  should  not  wait  in  long  expectance  here. 
What  cause  then  for  repining,  or  for  woe  ? 
Soon  shall  he  join  them  in  their  heavenly  sphere, 
And  often,  even  now,  he  knew  that  they  were  near. 

57. 

'Twas  but  in  open  day  to  close  his  eyes. 
And  shut  out  the  unprofitable  view 
Of  all  this  weary  world's  realities. 
And  forthwith,  even  as  if  they  lived  anev/. 
The  dead  were  with  him ;  features,  form,  and  hue, 
And  looks,  and  gestures,  were  restored  again  : 
Their  actual  presence  in  his  heart  he  knew  ; 
Andwhenlheir  converse  was  disturb'd,  oh,  then 
How  flat  and  stale  it  was  to  mix  with  living  men  ! 

58. 

But  not  the  less,  whate'er  was  to  be  done, 
With  living  men  he  took  his  part  content, 
At  loom,  in  garden,  or  a-field,  as  one 
Whose  spirit,  wholly  on  obedience  bent. 
To  every  task  its  prompt  attention  lent. 
Alert  in  labor  he  among  the  best ; 
And  when  to  cliurch  the  congregation  went. 
None  more  exact  than  he  to  cross  his  breast, 
.\nd  kneel,  or  rise,  and  do  in  all  things  like  the  rest. 

59. 

Cheerful  he  was,  almost  like  one  elate 
With  wine,  before  it  hath  disturb'd  his  power 
Of  reason.     Y^et  he  seem'd  to  feel  the  weignt 
Of  time  ;  for  always,  when  from  yonder  tower 
He  heard  the  clock  tell  out  the  passing  hour, 
The  sound  appeared  to  give  him  some  delight ; 
And  when  the  evening  shades  began  to  lower. 
Then  was  he  seen  to  watch  the  fading  light 
As  if  his  heart  rejoiced  at  the  return  of  night. 

60. 

The  old  man,  to  whom  he  had  been  given  in  care, 
To  Dobrizhoffer  came  one  day,  and  said. 
The  trouble  which  our  youth  was  thought  to  bear 
With  such  indifference  hath  deranged  his  head. 
He  says  that  he  is  nightly  visited  ; 
His  Mother  and  his  Sister  come  and  say 
That  he  must  give  this  message  from  the  dead, 
Not  to  defer  his  baptism,  and  delay 
A  soul  upon  the  earth  which  should  no  longer  stay . 

CI. 
A  dream  the  Jesuit  deem'd  it;  a  deceit 
Upon  itself  by  feverish  fancy  wrought; 
A  mere  delusion,  which  it  were  not  meet 
To  censure,  lest  the  youth's  dislempcr'd  thought 
Might  thereby  be  to  further  error  brought; 
But  he  himself  its  vanity  would  find, — 
They  argued  thus, —  if  it  were  noticed  not. 
His  baptism  was  in  fitting  time  design'd, 
The  father  said,  and  then  dismiss'd  it  from  his  mind 

62. 
But  the  old  Indian  came  again  ere  long 
With  the  same  tale,  and  freely  then  confess  d 


522 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY. 


His  doubt  that  lie  had  done  Yeruti  wrong; 
ForsoiiiL'tliing  more    than  common  scem'd  im- 

press'd ; 
And  now  he  thought  that  certes  it  were  best 
From  tlie  youth's  lips  his  own  account  to  hear  ; 
Haply  the  father  then  to  his  request 
Might  yield,  regarding  his  desire  sincere, 
Nor  wait  for  further  time  if  there  were  aught  to  fear. 

63. 

Considerately  the  Jesuit  heard,  and  bade 
The  youth  be  called.     Yeruti  told  his  tale. 
iNightly  these  blessed  spirits  came,  he  said. 
To  warn  him  he  must  come  within  the  pule 
Of  Christ  without  delay  ;  nor  must  he  fail 
This  warning  to  their  pastor  to  repeat. 
Till  the  renewed  entreaty  should  prevail. 
Life's  business  then  for  him  would  be  coin])lete, 
And  'twas  to  tell  him  this  they  left  their  starry  seat. 

64. 

Came  they  to  him  in  dreams  .' —  he  could  not  tell ; 
Sleeping  or  waking  now  small  difference  made ; 
For  even,  while  he  slept,  he  knew  full  well 
That  his  dear  Mother  and  that  darling  Mad 
Both  in  the  Garden  of  the  Dead  were  laid ; 
And  yet  he  saw  them  as  in  life,  the  same, 
Save  only  that  in  radiant  robes  array'd, 
And  round  about  their  presence  when  they  came 
There  shone  an  effluent  light  as  of  a  harmless  flame. 

65. 

And  where   he  was  he   knew,   the    time,   the 

place, — 
All  circumstantial  things  to  him  were  clear. 
His  own  heart  undisturb'd.     His  Mother's  face 
How  could  he  choose  but  know ;  or,  knowing,  fear 
Her  presence  and  that  Maid's,  to  him  more  dear 
Than  all  that  had  been  left  him  now  below  .' 
Their  love  had  drawn  them  from  their  happy 

sphere ; 
That  dearest  love  unchanged  they  came  to  show ; 
And  he  must  be  baptized,  and  then  he  too  might  go. 

66. 

"With  searching  ken  the  Jesuit,  while  he  spake, 
Perused  him,  if  in  countenance  or  tone 
Aught  might  be  found  appearing  to  partake 
Of  madness.     Mark  of  passion  there  was  none  ; 
None  of  derangement :  in  his  eye  alone, 
As  from  a  hidden  fountain  emanate. 
Something  of  an  unusual  brightness  shone  : 
But  neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  a  state 
Of  wandering,  and  his  speech,  though  earnest,  was 
sedate. 

67. 

Reo-ular  his  pulse,  from  all  disorder  free. 

The  vital  powers  perform'd  their  part  assign'd  ; 

And  to  whate'er  was  ask'd  collectedly 

He  answer'd.     Nothing  troubled  him  in  mind ; 

Why  should  it .''     Were  not  all  around  him  kind  ' 

Did  not  all  love  him  with  a  love  sincere, 

And  seem  in  serving  him  a  joy  to  find.^ 


He  had  no  want,  no  pain,  no  grief,  no  fear; 
But  he  must  be  baptized  ;  he  could  not  tarry  here 

68. 
Thy  will  be  done,  Father  in  heaven  who  art ! 
TJie  pastor  said,  nor  longer  now  denied  ; 
But  with  a  weight  of  awe  upon  his  heart 
Enter'd  the  church,  and  there,  the  font  beside. 
With  holy  water,  chrism,  and  salt  applied, 
Ferform'd  in  all  solemnity  the  rite. 
His  feeling  was  that  hour  with  fear  allied ; 
Yeruti's  was  a  sense  of  pure  delight, 
And  while  he  knelt  his  eyes  secm'd  larger  and  more 
bright. 

69. 
His  wish  hath  been  obtain'd ;  and  this  being  done, 
His  soul  was  to  its  full  desire  content, 
'i'he  day  in  its  accustom'd  course  pass'd  on  ; 
The  Indian  mark'd  him  ere  to  rest  he  went. 
How  o'er  his  beads,  as  he  was  wont,  he  bent. 
And  then,  like  one  who  casts  all  care  aside. 
Lay  down.     The  old  man  fear'd  no  ill  event, 
When,  "  Ye  are  come  for  me  !  "  Yeruti  cried ; 
"  Yes,  I  am  ready  now  !  "  and  instantly  he  died. 


NOTES. 

So  he,  forsooth,  a  shapely  boot  must  wear  — Proem,  p.  501. 

His  Ifg  had  been  set  l)y  the  French  aftor  their  conquest  of 
Pamplona,  and  reset  after  his  removal  t-j  his  fatlier's  house. 
Tlie  latter  operation  is  described  as  liavirg  been  most  severe, 
but  borne  by  liim,in  bis  wonted  manner,  without  any  manifesta- 
tion of  suffering.  For  some  time  his  life  was  despaired  of. 
"  Wlicn  the  danger  of  death  was  past,  f nd  tlie  bones  were 
knit  and  Ixcoming  firm,  two  inconvenierces  remained:  one 
occaisioned  by  a  portion  of  bone  below  tfio  knee,  which  jiro- 
jectod  so  as  to  occasion  some  deformity  ;  the  other  was  a 
contraction  of  the  leg,  which  prevented  .Mm  from  walking 
erect  or  standing  firmly  on  his  feet.  Now,  as  he  was  very  so- 
licitous about  his  appearance,  and  intended  at  thai  lime  to 
follow  the  course  of  a  military  life,  which  'ie  had  begun,  he 
inquired  of  his  medical  attendants,  in  the  fi'st  place,  whether 
the  bone  could  he  removed,  which  stood  ou'  in  so  unsightly  a 
manner.  They  answered  that  it  was  possiMe  to  remove  it, 
but  the  operation  would  he  exceedingly  pailful,  much  more 
so  than  any  which  he  had  before  undergone.  He  nevertheless 
directed  them  to  cut  it  out,  that  he  might  htive  his  will,  and 
(as  he  himself  related  in  my  hearing,  says  Uihadeneira)  that 
he  might  wear  fisbionable  and  well-fitting  bjots.  Kor  could 
he  he  dissuaded  fioni  this  determination.  Hi  would  not  con- 
sent to  be  bound  during  the  operation,  and  went  through  it 
with  the  same  firmness  of  mind  which  he  Ind  mnnifesterl  in 
the  former  operations.  By  this  means  the  deformity  of  the 
bone  was  removed.  The  contraction  of  the  leg  wi:s  in  somj 
degree  relieved  by  other  applications,  and  especially  by  certair. 
machines,  with  which,  during  many  days,  ard  wilh  great  nnd 
continual  i)ain,  it  was  stretched  ;  nevertheless  it  could  not  be  so 
extended,  hut  that  it  always  remained  sometling  sher'ei  than 
the  other."  —  Hibadcncira,  Vita  S.  Ignatii  Loijolir,  Jicta  US. 
Jul.  t.  7,  p.  G.'iO. 

A  close-fitting  boot  seems  to  have  been  as  fashionable  at 
one  time  as  close-fitting  iitnominahles  of  buckskin  were  about 
the  year  1790;  and  perhaps  it  was  as  severe  an  operation  to 
get  into  them  for  the  first  time.  "  The  greasy  shoemaker," 
says  Tom  Nash,  with  his  squirrel's  skin,  and  a  whole  slall  of 
ware  upon  his  arm,  enters,  and  wrencheth  his  legs  for  an  hour 
together,  and  after  shows  his  tally.     By  St.  Loy  that  draws 


NOTES    TO    A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


523 


dicp." —  jVuiA'i  Lentin  Stuff.  Harl.  jMisccl.  vol.  ii.  p.  289, 8vo 
eiiitiuii. 

The  operation  of  fitting  a  Spanisli  dandy  with  short-laced 
quarter-bools  is  thus  minutely  described  by  Juan  de  Zavalcta, 
who  was  historiographer  at  the  commencement  of  Carlos  the 
Second's  reign, 

Eiilra  el  lapatero  oliendo  d  cansado.  Saca  tie  las  hormas  los 
lapatos,  con  tanta  dificuUud  cumo  si  desullara  las  hurmas.  Sicn- 
tasc  en  una  sUla  d  gaiun  ;  hincase  el  zapatcru  de  rodillas,  apo- 
derase  de  una  pienia  con  tanlos  tironrs  y  desuirrtidos,  cumo  si  Ic 
einbiaran  a  t/uc  Ic  diera  tormcntu.  Mete  un  cahador  en  rl  tulon 
dtl  zapatOj  encapillale  otto  en  la  punta  del  pie ,  y  luetro  eiripicza  a 
gviar  el  zapato  par  encima  del  calziidor.  Apenas  ha  camnuido 
yoco  mas  que  los  dedos  del  pie,  quando  es  menester  arrastrarlc 
con  uuas  teinizas,  y  aun  urrastrado  se  resiste.  Poncsc  en  pic  el 
pacicnte  fatigado,  pvro  contento  de  que  los  zupatos  le  vengan  an- 
gostos ;  y  de  orden  del  zapatero  da  tres  6  qualro  patadas  en  el 
suelii,  con  tanta  fuerza,  que  pues  no  se  quicbra,  deve  de  ser  de 
bronze. 

.icozeadus  dan  de  si  el  cordovan  y  la  sucla  ;  pellrjos  en  Jin  de 
aniinales,  que  obedecen  a  golpeji.  Buelvese  a  scntar  rl  tul  senirr, 
dobla  dzia  fucra  el  copete  del  zapato,  cogele  eon  la  boca  de  las 
tcnazas,  hinca  el  ojlcial  junto  a  el  entrambas  rodillas,  ofirmase  en 
el  suelu  con  la  mano  izquierda,  y  puesto  de  bruzas  solrre  cl  pie, 
heclio  arco  los  dos  drdos  de  la  mano  derecha  que  forman  el  jcine, 
va  con  ellns  ayudando  a  llccar  por  el  empeine  arriba  el  cordovan, 
de  quien  lira  con  las  tcnazas  sn  dueho.  Buelvc  a punerse  en  uua 
rodtlla,  coino  primero  csrava  ;  enipuna  con  la  una  mano  la  punta 
del  pie,  y  con  la  pubiia  de  la  otra  da  sobrc  su  vtano  tan  grandcs 
golpes  coino  si  los  diera  con  una  pala  de  jugar  a  la  pclota  ;  que 
es  la  necessidad  tan  discrcta,  que  se  haze  el  pobre  cl  mal  a  si  mis- 
mo,  por  no  hazersele  a  aquel  dc  quien  necessita. 

Jijustada  ya  la  piuita  del  pie,  acude  al  talon  ;  humedece  con  la 
lengua  los  remales  de  las  costuras,  pvrque  nofalseen  las  costuras 
de  secas  por  los  remotes.  Tremenda  vanidad,  sufrir  en  sus  pies 
vn  hombre  la  boca  de  otro  homhre,  solo  por  tencr  alinados  los  pies ! 
Desdobla  el  zapatero  cl  talon,  dnse  una  buelta  con  el  ealzador  a  la 
mano,  y  empieza  a  encazar  en  cl  pie  la  srgunda  porcion  del  zapato. 
Manda  que  se  baie  la  punta,  y  hazesc  lo  que  manda.  Llama 
dzia  a  si  el  zapato  con  tal  fuerza,  que  ciilrc  su  cuerpo,  y  el  esjial- 
dar  de  la  silla  ahrcvia  torpe  y  desalinadamcnte  al  que  calia. 
Dizele  luego  que  haga  talon,  y  cl  hombre  obedcce  como  un  esclacu. 
Ordenale  despucs  que  de  en  el  suclo  una  palada,  y  cl  da  la  pata- 
da,  como  se  le  ordena.  Buclve  a  sentarse  ;  saca  cl  cruel  niinis- 
tro  cl  ealzador  del  empeine,  y  por  donde  solid  el  ealzador  mete  un 
polo,  que  Human  casta,  y  contra  cl  buclve  y  rebuclve  cl  sacaboca- 
dos,  que  saca  los  bocados  del  cordovan,  para  que  cntrcn  las  cintas  ; 
y  dcra  en  el  empeine  delpic  un  dolor,  y  unas  scnalcs,  cumo  si  hu- 
vicra  sacado  dc  alii  los  bocados.  .Hguijereu  las  orejas,  passu  la 
ciiita  con  una  aguja,  lleva  las  orejas  a  tpie  cicrrcn  el  zapato, 
ajustalos,  y  da  luego  con  tanta  fuerza  el  nudo,  que  si  pudieran 
ahogar  a  uti  hombre  por  la  garganta  del  pie,  le  ahoirara.  Haze 
la  rosa  despucs  con  mas  cuydado  que  gracia.  Buclve  a  deva- 
narse  a  la  mano  cl  ealzador,  que  estd  colgando  del  talon  ;  tira  del 
como  quien  retoca,  dd  con  la  otra  mano  palmadas  en  la  planta, 
como  quien  assienta,  y  saca  cl  ealzador,  cchandose  todo  dzia  atrds. 
Pone  el  galaa  cl  pie  en  el  suclo,  y  quidase  mirundole.  Levan- 
tase  el  zapatero,  arrasa  con  el  dedo  el  sudor  de  lafrcnte,  y  queda 
respirando  como  si  hucicra  corrida.  Todo  csto  se  ahorrava  con 
hazrr  el  zapato  un  poco  mayor  que  cl  pie.  Padecen  lueiro  en- 
trambos  otro  tanto  con  cl  pie  segundo.  Llcga  el  ultimo  yfero 
trance  de  darle  el  dinero.  Rccoge  el  oficial  sus  baralijas.  Re- 
cibe  su  cstipendio,  salepor  la  puerta  dc  la  sola  mirando  si  es  bue- 
na  la  plata  que  le  han  dado,  drxando  d  su  durno  de  movimientos 
tan  torpes  como  si  le  huviera  echado  unos  grillos. 

Si  pensurdn  los  que  se  calzan  aprctudo  que  se  achican  elpic. 
Si  lo  piensan  se  enganan.  Los  huessos  no  se  pueden  meter  unos 
en  otros  ;  con  esto  es  fuerza  que  si  le  quitun  de  lo  largo  al  zapato, 
se  doblc  el  pie  por  las  coyunturas,  y  crczca  dzia  arriba  lo  que  le 
menguan  de  adelante.  Si  le  estrechan  lo  ancho,  csprccisoque 
se  alargue  aqurlla  carne  oprimida.  Con  la  misma  cantidud  de 
pie  que  se  tenian,  se  qucdan  los  que  calzan  sisado.  Lo  que  hazen 
es  atormcntarsc,  y  deiar  los  pies  de  pcor  hechura.  El  animal  d 
quien  mas  largos  pies  did  la  naturaleza  segun  su  cantidad,  es  el 
hombre  ;  porque,  como  ha  de  andar  todo  el  cuerpo  sobre  ellos,  y 
no  son  mas  de  dos,  quiso  que  anduviesse  srguro.  El  que  se  los 
quiere  abreviar,  gana  parece  que  tiene  de  cuer,  y  de  caer  en  los 
vieios,  donde  se  hard  mayor  mal,  que  en  las  piedras.  La  parte 
que  le  puso  Dios  al  hombre  en  lafubrica  de  su  cuerpo  mas  cerca 


de  la  tierra,  son  los  pies  .-  quiso  sin  duda  que  fucra  la  parte  mas 
humilde  de  su  fabrica  .-  jnro  los  galanes  viciosos  hs  quitini  la 
humildad  con  los  alinos,  y  los  ensobervecen  con  el  cuydado. 
Enfada  csto  a  Dios  tanto,  que  aviendo  de  hater  al  hombre  animal 
que  pisasse  la  tierra,  hizo  la  tierra  de  tal  calidad,  que  se  pudirssc 
imprimir  en  ella  la  huella  del  hombre.  .ibierta  dcxa  su  sipuUura 
li  pie  que  se  levanta,  y  parece  que  se  Icvanta  de  la  srpultura. 
Tremendad  crueldad  es  enloqueccr  con  cl  adorno  al  que  se  quiere 
tragar  la  tierra  a  cada  pa.ssu.  —  El  dia..de  Fiesta.  Obras  ds 
D.  Juan  de  Zavaleta,  p.  179,  180. 

"  In  comes  the  shoemaker  in  the  odor  of  haste  and  fatigue. 
He  takes  tlie  shoes  off  llio  last  with  as  much  difficulty  as  if  he 
were  skiiming  the  lasts.  The  gallant  seats  himself  upon  a 
chair;  the  shoemaker  kneels  down,  and  takes  possession  of 
one  foot,  which  he  handles  as  if  he  were  sent  there  to  admin- 
ister the  torture.  He  puts  one  shoeing-skin  *  in  tije  heel  of 
the  shoe,  fits  the  other  upon  the  point  of  the  foot,  and  then 
bc;;ins  to  guide  the  shoe  over  the  shoeing-skin.  Scarcely  has 
it  got  farther  than  the  toes  when  it  is  found  necessary  to  draw 
it  on  with  pincers,  and  even  then  it  is  liard  work.  The  pa- 
tient stanils  up,  fatigued  with  the  operation,  but  well  pleaseJ 
that  the  slioes  are  tight  ;  and  by  the  shoemaker's  directions 
lie  stamps  three  or  four  times  on  the  floor,  with  such  force  that 
it  nnist  be  of  iron  if  it  docs  not  give  way. 

"  The  cordovan  atid  the  soles  being  thus  beaten,  submit ; 
they  are  the  skins  of  animals  wlio  obey  blows.  Our  gallant 
returns  to  his  seat,  he  turns  up  the  upper  leather  of  the  slioe, 
and  lays  holil  on  it  with  the  pincers  ;  the  tradesman  kneels 
close  by  him  on  both  knees,  rests  on  the  ground  with  his  left 
hand,  and  bending  in  this  all-four's  position  over  the  foot, 
making  an  arch  with  those  fingers  of  the  right  hand  which 
form  the  ?pan,  assists  in  drawing  on  the  upper  part  of  the  cor- 
dovan, the  gallant  pulling  the  wliile  with  the  pincers.  He 
then  puts  himself  on  one  knee,  lays  hold  of  the  end  of  the  foot 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  palm  of  the  other  strikes  his  own 
hand  as  hard  as  if  he  were  striking  a  ball  with  a  racket.  For 
necessity  is  so  discreet  that  the  poor  man  inflicts  this  pain 
upon  himself  that  he  may  give  none  to  the  person  of  whose 
custom  he  stands  in  need. 

'•  'I'he  end  of  the  foot  being  thus  adjusted,  he  repairs  to  the 
heel,  and  with  his  tongue  moistens  the  end  of  the  seams,  that 
they  may  not  give  way  for  being  dry.  Tremendous  vanity, 
tliat  one  man  should  allow  the  mouth  of  another  to  b{'  a|)plied 
to  his  feet  that  lie  may  have  them  trimly  set  out !  The  shoe- 
maker unfolds  the  heel,  turns  round  with  the  shoeing-skin  in 
his  hand,  and  begins  to'fit  the  second  part  of  the  shoe  upon  the 
fiiot.  He  desires  the  gallant  to  put  the  end  of  the  foot  down, 
and  the  gallant  does  as  he  is  desired.  He  draws  the  shoe 
towards  him  with  such  force  that  the  person  who  is  thus  being 
shocd  is  compressed  in  an  unseemly  manner  between  the 
shoemaker's  body  and  the  back  of  the  chair.  Presently  he 
tells  him  to  put  his  heel  down,  and  the  man  is  as  obedient  as  a 
slave.  He  orders  him  then  to  stamp  upon  the  ground,  and 
the  man  stamps  as  he  is  ordered.  The  gallant  then  seats  him- 
self again  ;  the  cruel  operator  draws  the  shoeing-skin  from 
the  instep,  and  in  its  place  drives  in  a  stick  which  they  call 
costa.f  Ho  then  turns  upon  it  the  punch,  which  makes  tbo 
holes  in  the  leather,  through  which  the  ribands  arc  to  pass  ; 
be  again  twists  round  his  band  the  strip  of  hare's-skin  which 
hangs  from  the  heel,  and  jmlls  it  as  if  be  were  rinsing  a  bell, 
and  leaves  upon  the  upper  part  of  the  top  such  pain  and  marks 
as  if  he  had  punched  the  holes  in  it.  He  bores  the  ears,  passes 
the  string  through  with  a  bodkin,  brings  the  ears  together  that 
they  may  fasten  the  shoe,  fits  them  to  their  intended  place, 
and  ties  the  knot  with  such  force,  that  if  it  were  possible  to 
strangle  a  man  by  the  neck  of  his  foot,  strangled  the  gallant 
would  be.  Then  he  makes  the  rose,  with  more  care  than 
grace.  He  goes  then  to  take  out  the  shoeing  skin,  which  is 
still  hanging  from  the  heel  ;  ho  lays  hold  of  this,  strikes  tho 
sole  of  the  foot  with  his  other  hand  as  if  settling  il,-uid  draws 
out  the  skin,  bringing  out  all  with  it.  The  gallant  puts  his 
foot  to  the  grounil,  and  remains  looking  at  it.  The  shoemaker 
rises,  wipes  the  sweat  from  liis  forehead  with  his  fingers,  and 
draws  his  breath  like  one  who  has  been  running.     All  this 

•  A  piece  of  hare's-skin  is  »»Pi\  in  Spain  fur  Itiis  purpose,  ns  it  nppenrs  by 
the  former  exlracl  from  Tom  Nnsh  tli;it  sqiiirrrrs-skin  was  in  Kntrl.iiid. 

t  Wliicli  ia  used  lo  drive  in  upon  the  last,  to  raise  a  shoe  higlier  in  (h* 
initep. 


524 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY, 


troulili!  rni„'ht  hiive  been  saved  by  iniikiiig  tbe  sboe  a  little 
larger  tliuii  the  foot.  Presently  both  have  to  go  through  the 
eanic  pains  witli  the  other  foot.  Now  conies  the  last  and 
terrible  act  of  payment.  The  tradesman  collects  his  tools, 
receives  his  money,  and  goes  out  at  the  door,  looking  at  the 
iilvir  to  see  if  it  is  good,  and  leaving  the  giillunt  walking  as 
much  at  bis  ease  as  if  he  had  been  |)ut  in  fetters. 

"  If  they  who  wear  tight  shoes  think  that  thereby  they  can 
lessen  the  size  of  their  feet,  they  are  mistaken.  The  bones 
cannot  be  squeezed  one  into  another ;  if  therefore  the  shoe  is 
mado  short,  the  foot  must  be  crooked  at  the  joints,  and  grow 
upward  if  is  not  allowed  to  grow  forward.  If  it  is  pinched  in 
the  breadth,  the  flesh  which  is  thus  constrained  must  extend 
itself  in  length.  They,  who  are  shod  thus  miserably  remain 
wilh  just  the  same  quantity  of  foot. 

"  Of  all  animals,  man  is  the  one  to  whicli,  in  proportion  to 
its  size,  nature  has  given  the  largest  feet ;  because  as  his  whole 
body  is  to  be  supported  upon  them,  and  lie  has  only  two,  she 
chose  that  he  should  walk  in  safety.  He  who  wishes  to 
abbreviate  them  acts  as  if  he  were  inclined  to  fall,  and  to  fall 
into  vices  which  will  do  him  more  injury  than  if  he  fell  upon 
stones.  The  feet  are  the  part  which  in  tbe  fabric  of  the  human 
body  are  placed  nearest  to  the  earth  ;  they  are  meant  therefore 
to  be  the  humblest  part  of  his  frame,  but  gallants  take  away  all 
humility  by  adorning  and  setting  them  forth  in  bravery.  This 
so  displeases  the  Creator,  that  having  to  make  man  an  animal 
who  should  walk  upon  the  earth,  he  made  the  earth  of  such 
properties,  that  the  footsteps  should  sink  into  it.  The  foot 
which  is  lifted  from  the  ground  leaves  its  own  grave  open,  and 
seems  as  if  it  rose  from  the  grave.  What  a  tremendous  thing 
is  it  then  to  set  off  with  adornments  that  which  the  earth 
wishes  to  devour  at  every  step  !  " 


H'liiling  with  books  the  tedious  hours  away.  —  Proem,  p.  502. 

Vede  quanto  importa  a  li^ad  de  bons  livros!  Se  olirro  fora 
de  cavallerias,  sahiria  Ignacio  hum  grande  cavalleyro  ;  foy  hum 
Hero  de  vldas  de  Santos,  sahio  hum  grande  Santo,  Se  lera 
caridlerias,  sahiria  Ignacio  hum  Cavalleyro  da  ardenle  espada ; 
leo  vidasde  Santos,  sahio  hum  Santo  daardente  tocha. —  Vieyra, 
Scrmam  de  S.  Ignacio,  t.  i.  368. 

See,  says  Vieyra,  the  importance  of  reading  good  books. 
If  it  had  been  a  book  of  knight-errantry,  Ignacio  would  have 
become  a  great  knight-errant ;  it  was  the  Lives  of  the  Saints, 
and  Ignatius  became  a  great  saint.  If  he  had  read  about 
knights,  he  might  have  proved  a  Knight  of  the  Uutning  Sword  : 
he  read  about  saints,  and  proved  a  Saint  of  the  liurning  Torch. 

Nothing  could  seem  more  probable  than  that  Cervantes  had 
this  part  of  Loyola's  history  in  his  mind  when  he  described  the 
rise  of  Don  duixote's  madness,  if  Cervantes  had  not  shown 
himself  in  one  of  his  dramas  to  be  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
pestilent  superstition  of  his  country.  El  dichoso  Rnfian  is  one 
of  tlio«e  monstrous  compositions  which  nothing  but  the  anti- 
christian  fiibles  of  the  Romish  church  could  have  produced. 

Landor,  however,  supposes  that  Cervantes  intended  to  sat- 
irize a  f  ivorite  dogma  of  the  Spaniards.  The  passage  occurs 
in  his  thirteenth  conversation. 

"The  most  dexterous  attack  ever  made  against  the  worship 
among  catholics,  which  opens  so  many  side-chapels  to  pilfering 
and  imposture,  is  that  of  Cervantes. 

"  Leopold.    I  do  not  remember  in  what  part. 

"  President.  Throughout  Don  Quixote.  Dulcinoa  was  the 
peerless,  the  immaculate,  and  death  was  denounce  against 
all  who  hesitated  to  admit  the  assertion  of  her  pe  actions. 
Surely  your  highness  never  could  have  imagined  t.  nt  Cer- 
vantes was  such  a  knight-errant  as  to  attack  knight-errantry, 
a  folly  that  had  ceased  more  than  a  century,  if  indeed  it  was 
any  folly  at  all  ;  and  the  idea  that  he  ridiculed  the  poems  and 
romances  founded  on  it  is  not  less  improbable,  for  they  ron- 
tained  all  the  literature  of  the  nation,  excepting  the  garniture 
of  chapter-houses,  theology,  and  pervaded,  as  wilh  a  thread 
of  gold,  the  beautiful  histories  ol  this  illustrious  people.  He 
delighted  the  idlers  of  romance  by  the  jokes  he  scattered 
amongst  them  on  the  false  taste  of  his  predecessors  anil  of  his 
rivals  ;  and  he  delighted  his  own  heart  by  this  solitary  archery  ; 
well  knowing  what  amusement  those  who  came  another  day 
would  find  in  picking  up  his  arrows  and  discovering  the  bull's- 
*ye  hits. 


"Charles  V.  was  the  knight  of  La  Manclia,  devoting  his 
labors  and  vigils,  his  wars  and  treaties,  to  the  chimerical  idea 
of  making  all  minds,  like  watches,  turn  their  indexes  by  a 
simultaneous  movement  to  one  point.  Sancho  Panza  was  the 
synd)ol  of  the  people,  possessing  sound  sense  in  all  other 
matters,  but  ready  to  follow  the  most  extravagant  visionary 
in  this,  and  combining  implicit  belief  in  it  with  the  grosscit 
sensuality.  For  religion,  when  it  is  hot  enough  to  produce 
enthusiasm,  burns  up  and  kills  every  seed  intrusted  to  its 
bosom."  —  Imaginary  Conversations,  vol.  i.  187. 

Benedetto  di  Virgilio,  the  Italian  ploughman,  thus  dc'^crihea 
the  course  of  Loyola's  reading,  in  his  heroic  poem  ujion  that 
Saint's  life. 

Mentre  le  vote  indebolite  vene 
Stass'  egli  rinforiando  d  poco  d  poco 
Dentro  i  paterni  tetti,  e  si  trattiene 
Or  «U  la  ricctt  lambra,  or  prcsso  alfoco. 
For''  del  costume  suo,  pensier  gli  viene 
Di  legger  libripixL  che  d'altro  gioco ; 
Quant'  era  dianii  innamoruto,  e  d'armi 
Tant'  or,  mutando  stile,  inchina  d  i  carmi 

Quinci  coman/la,  che  i  volumi  ornati 
D'alti  concetti,  e  di  leggiadra  rima, 
Dentro  la  stanza  sua  vengan  portati, 
Che  passar  con  lor  versi  il  tempo  stima  : 
Cercan  ben  tosto  i  paggi  in  tutti  i  lati 
Ove  posar  solean  tai  libri  prima. 
Ma  ni  per  questa  parte,  ne  per  quella 
Ponno  istoria  trocar  vecchia,  o  novella. 

I  volumi  vergati  in  dolci  canti 
S'ascondon  si,  che  nulla  il  cercar  giova : 
Ma  pur  cercando  i  piti  secreti  canti 
Per  granfortuna  un  tomo  ecco  si  trova, 
Tomo  divin,  che  le  vite  de'Santi 
Conserca,  e  de  la  etade  prisca  e  nova, 
Oude  per  far  la  brama  sua  contcnta 
Tul  opra  un  fido  servo  d  lui  presenta 

II  volume,  che  spiega  in  ogni  parte 
De  guerriei-i  del  del  I'oprcfamose, 

Fa  ch'  Ignatio  s'acccnda  d  seguir  I'artc 
Che  d  soffrir  tanto  i  sacri  Eroi  dispose, 
Egli  gid  sprezia  di  Bellona  e  Marie 
Gli  studi,  che  d  seguir  primu  si  poae, 
E  s'  accinge  a  troncar  maggior  d'Alcide, 
Vllidra  del  vicio,  e  le  sue  teste  injidc. 

Tatto  giucondo  d  contemplar  s'appiglia 

Si  degni  fogli,  e  da  prinripio  al  fine  ; 

Qwi  ritrova  di  Dio  I'ampia  famiglia, 

Spirti  brati  ed  almc  peregrine  : 

Tra  gli  altri  osserva  eon  sua  meraviglia 

II  pio  Gasman,  che  colse  da  le  spine 

Rose  cclcsti  dc  la  terra  santa, 

Onde  del  buun  Oicso  nacquc  lapianta. 

Contempla  dopo  il  Serafico  Magna 
Fondat'ir  de  le  bigge  immense  squadre  ; 
La  divina  virtu,  I'ulto  guadagno 
De  I'opre  lor  mirabdl  e  leggiadre  : 
Rimira  il  Padoan  di  Ini  compagno^ 
Che  liberd  da  indrgna  worte  il  padre, 
E  per  provar  di  quella  causa  il  torto, 
Vivo  fi  de  la  toinha  uscire  il  morto. 

Quinci  ritrora  il  Celestin,  che  spandc 
Trionfante  bandiera  alia  enmpagna, 
De  Pegregie  virtil  sue  vtcmorande 
Con  Itidia  s'ingemma  e  Francia  e  Spagna  : 
Ornati  ifigli  suoi  d'opre  ainmirandc 
Son  per  I'Africa  sparti,  e  per  Lamagna, 
E  in  parti  infiile  al  Ciel  per  lor  si  vede 
JVascer  la  Chiesa,  e  pullular  lafcde. 

Quivi  s'avisa,  come  il  buon  J^orcino 
InclUo  Capitan  del  Ri  supemo. 


NOTES    TO    A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY, 


,25 


Un  giurno  <^uereffiriand>  ml  H  Cu.fi/io 
OP  Jduli  fnicassd ,  cinse  I'liifcnio, 
E  con  aita  del  motor  diviiio 
Ouastd  tempio  sa<~riito  al  cieco  Anerno, 
Par  di  novo  I'eresse  a  I'alta  prole 
Divino  cssempio  de  I'tterno  Sole. 

Legge  come  Brunone  oi  divi/i  Reggc 
AccoUc  al  Hi  del  Ciel  cignifelici, 
E  daitdo  ordine  lor,  rcgola  e  legge 
OV  impard  ealpeftare  ii.-yre  pendici ; 
E  qiicllr,  de  Ic  donne  unco  ri  legge, 
Che  qui  di  ricche  dirnitar  mciidici 
Per  trorar  poi  svi  tr  sedi  siipmie 
Lor  doti  incorruttibili  cd  eUrne. 

Cliiara  tra  raltre  vota  c  Critrrina, 
Che  per  f.s.Ncr  di  Diofrdelc  amante, 
Fii  intrrpida  d  i  lonnenti ;  r  la  Reijrina 
Di  Siena,  e  seco  Ic  compagne  Uinte  ; 
Orsola  con  la  schiera  peregrum, 
Monuclu  sacrc,  rerginelh  sante, 
Che  sjtrezznnda  del  mondo  il  vano  rito, 
Elesscro  Oiesrl  lor  gran  martto. 

E  tra  i  Romiti  mira  }tarione, 

E  rii  Vienna  iptcl  si  franco  e  forte 

Che  dcbvllu  lafurie,  c  '/  gran  Compio^ie 

Ch'  uppo  il  JVatal  di  Christo  hchbc  la  mm-te  ; 

Risguarda  i/iicl  del  prima  Coiifolvne, 

Che  del  Ciel  guurda  Ic  snprrne  parte : 

E  ffli  undrci  contpagni,  e  come  hice 

11  dico  .ignello  di  lor  capo  c  Dace. 

Mentre  in  qiiesto  prnetra  e  mrglio  intendc 
D^Eroi  si  gloriosi  il  nobil  vanto, 
Aura  immortal  del  Ciel  sorra  lui  srende, 
Aura  immortal  di  spirto  dico  e  sauto  ; 
Gia  gli  sgombra  gli  errori  e  gid  gli  acccnde 
In  guisa  il  cor,  che  distilla  in  pianto  ; 
Lagrime  versa,  e  Ic  lagrime  sparte 
Bapian  del  libra  le  vergate  carte. 

Qual  dura  ghiaccio  sovra  e  monti  alpini 
Da  la  virtd  del  sole  intencritu, 
Suol  liquefarsi,  e  di  bei  cristnllini 
Riri  I'herbe  inajfiar  del  snolfiorilo  ; 
Tal  da  laforza  dcjli  ardor  divini 
Del  Oiocanetlo  niolle  il  corferito, 
Jlor  si  discioglie  in  tepidi  lii/uori, 
E  rigan  del  bel  volto  i  vaghijiori. 

Com'  altri  nel  erislnlh,  o  nel  diamante 
Spec-chiarsi  tniol,  ijd  ei  ^  iipecchia,  e  mira 
JVel  specehio  di  s-na  mcnte,  indi  rerrantc 
Vita  discerne,  onde  con  dual  sospiru : 
Quinci  ri.^'nlre  mtrepido  e  cun.itante 
Depor  gli  orgogli  giovanili  e  Pira, 
Per  imitar  ne  I'npra  e  ne  n-li  effetti 
I  cele^ti  guerrier  del  libra  letti. 

Ignntio  Loiola.     Ilomn,  ltV17.     Canto  9. 

1  lie  Jpsuits,  liowpvor,  nssurc  us,  tint  T^oyola  is  not  tlip 
author  of  their  society,  und  that  it  is  not  allowable  either  to 
think  or  say  so.  Socielaa  Je.fu  ul  d  S.  Ignatio  de  LoiolA  non 
dncit  nomen,  ita  neijue  originem  primam,  el  alind  sentire  ant 
loi/ui,  nefas.  (Imago  primi  Pa^culi  t^oc.  Jesu,  p.  fi4.)  Jesus 
primus  ac  prmcipuus  auetor  Societ.atis  is  the  title  of  a  chipter 
in  this  their  secular  volume,  which  is  a  curious  and  verv 
heaiilifnl  hook.  Then  follows  Beata  Virgo  nutrir,  patrona, 
imd  altera  rrliit  auetor  Socirtnlis.  Lastly,  Post  Christum  ct 
J\fariam  Socictati-f  Auetor  et  Parens  sattrtns  Ignatius. 

"  On  the  90th  August,  1794,  the  rrem-h  pluiiilcred  the  rich 
church  of  Loyola,  at  .\zpeitia,  and  proceedinj  to  F,l;i,'oibas, 
loaded  five  carts  with  the  spoiU  of  the  church  of  that  plice. 
This  party  of  miir;iuders  consisted  of  200.  The  peasants  col- 
lected, fell  upon  thim,  and  after  an  oh-itinate  conflict  of  three 
hours,  recovered  the  whole  hooty,  which  they  conveyed  to 
Vittoria  in  triumph,     .\mong  other  things,  a  relic  of  Loyola 


wus  recovered,  which  was  carried  in  procession  to  the  chnnli, 
the  victorious  peasants  accompanying  il."  —  MarcdUic,  lii^t. 
de  la  Guerre  de  I'  Espagne,  p.  80. 


Vaccination.  —  Canto  L  st.  L 

It  is  odd  that  in  Ilindostan,  where  it  might  have  hecn 
supposed  superstition  would  have  facilitated  the  introduction 
of  this  practice,  a  pious  fraud  was  found  necessary  for  remov- 
ing the  prejudice  against  it, 

Mooperal  .'<treenivaschary,  a  Brahmin,  thus  writes  to  Dr. 
Anderson,  at  Madras,  on  vaccine  inoculation. 

"It  might  be  useful  to  remove  a  prejudice  in  the  minds 
of  the  people,  arising  from  the  term  cow-pock,  being  taken 
literally  in  our  Tamul  tongue  ;  whereas  there  can  he  no  doubt 
that  it  has  been  a  drop  of  nectar  from  the  exuberant  uddfrs 
of  the  cows  in  England,  und  no  way  similar  t(^  the  hunjor  dis- 
charged from  the  tongue  and  feet  of  diseased  cattle  in  this 
country."  —  Fokbes's  Oriental  Memoirs,  vol.  iii.  p.  423. 


Fur  tyrannous  fear  dissolved  all  natural  bonds  of  man. 

Canto  I.  St.  3. 

Mackenzie  gives  a  dreadful  picture  of  the  effectof  smallpox 
among  the  North  American  Indians. 

"  The  small-pox  spread  its  destructive  and  desolating  power, 
as  the  fire  consiunes  the  dry  grass  of  the  field.  The  fatal 
infl'Ction  spread  around  with  a  baneful  rapidity,  which  no 
flight  could  escape,  and  with  a  fatal  efl'ect  that  nothing  ccnild 
resist.  It  destroyed  with  its  pestilential  breath  wlmle  families 
and  tribes;  and  the  horrid  scene  presented  to  those  who  had 
the  melancholy  and  afflicting  opportunity  of  beholding  it,  a 
combination  of  the  dead,  the  dying,  and  such  as,  to  avoid  the 
horrid  fate  of  their  friends  around  them,  prei)ared  to  dis- 
appoint the  plague  of  its  prey,  by  terminating  their  own 
existence. 

"  The  habits  and  lives  of  these  devoted  peojile,  which  pro- 
vided not  to-day  for  the  wants  of  to-morrow,  must  have 
heightened  the  pains  of  such  an  affliction,  by  leaving  them  not 
only  without,  remedy,  hut  even  without  alleviation.  Nought 
was  left  them  but  to  submit  in  agony  and  despair. 

"  To  aggravate  the  picture,  if  aggravation  were  possible, 
may  he  added  the  putrid  carcasses  which  the  wolves,  with  a 
furious  voracity,  dragged  forth  from  the  huts,  or  which  were 
mangled  within  them  by  the  dogs,  whose  hunger  was  satisfied 
with  the  disfigured  remains  of  their  masters.  Nor  was  it 
uncommon  for  the  father  of  a  family,  whom  the  infection  had 
not  reached,  to  call  them  around  Jiim,  to  represent  the  cruel 
suti'erings  and  horrid  fate  of  their  relations,  from  the  influence 
of  some  evil  sjiirit,  who  was  preparing  to  extirpate  their  race  ; 
and  to  incite  them  to  baffle  death,  with  all  its  horrors,  by 
their  own  poniards.  At  the  same  time,  if  their  hearts  failed 
them  in  this  necessary  act,  he  was  himself  ready  to  perform 
the  deed  of  mercy  with  his  own  hand,  as  the  last  act  of  his 
aflection,  and  instantly  to  follow  them  to  the  common  ]dace 
of  rest  and  refuge  from  human  evil." 


And  from  the  silent  door  the  jaguar  turns  atraij. 

Canto  I.  St.  II. 

I  may  he  forgiven  for  not  having  strictly  adhered  to  natural 
history  in  this  instance.  The  liberty  which  I  have  taken  is 
mentioned,  that  it  may  not  be  supposed  to  have  arisen  from 
ignorance  of  this  animal's  habits. 

The  jaguar  will  not  attack  a  living  horse  if  a  dead  one  be 
near,  and  when  it  kills  its  prey,  it  drags  it  to  its  den,  but  is 
said  not  to  eat  the  body  fill  it  becomes  putrid.  They  are 
caught  in  large  traps  of  the  cage  kind,  baited  with  stinking 
meat,  and  then  speared  or  shot  through  the  bars.  The  Oial- 
eaquines  had  a  braver  way  of  killing  them  :  they  provokeil  the 
animal,  fronted  it,  received  its  attack  upon  a  thick  truncheon, 
which  they  Ijcld  by  the  two  ends,  threw  it  down  while  its 
teeth  were  fixed  in  the  wood,  and  ripped  the  creature  up 
before  it  could  recover.  (Tccho,  p.  99.)  A  great  profit  is 
made  by  their  skins.  The  jaguar  which  has  once  tasted 
human  flesh  becomes  a  most  formidable  auimal  ;  such  a  beast 


52» 


NOTES    TO    A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


is  r.iilleil  a  tig-rc  ceoado,  a.  fltslied  tiger.  Tlicre  was  one  which 
infi^>iii)il  tlie  road  between  Suntu  Fc  and  Santiago,  and  had 
kiileil  ten  mnn  j  after  which  a  party  of  soldiers  were  sent  to 
destroy  it.  The  same  thing  is  said  of  the  lion  and  other  heasts 
of  pri'j,  probably  with  truth;  not,  as  is  vulgarly  8upposed, 
because  they  have  a  particular  appetite  for  this  kind  of  food, 
but  because,  having  once  fed  ujion  man,  they  from  that  time 
regard  him,  like  any  animal  of  inferior  strength,  as  their  natural 
prey.  "  It  is  a  constant  observation  in  Numidia,"  says  Uruce, 
"  that  the  lion  avoids  and  flies  from  the  face  of  men,  till  by 
some  accident  they  have  been  brought  to  engage,  and  the  beast 
has  prevailed  against  him  ;  then  that  feeling  of  suiieriority, 
imprinted  by  the  Creator  in  the  heart  of  all  animals,  for  man's 
preservation,  seems  to  forsake  him.  The  lion,  having  once 
tasted  human  blood,  relinquishes  the  pursuit  after  the  flock. 
He  repairs  to  some  highway  or  frequented  path,  and  has 
been  known,  in  the  kingdom  of  Tunis,  to  interrupt  the  road 
to  a  market  for  several  weeks  ;  and  in  this  he  persists,  till 
hunters  or  soldiers  are  sent  out  to  destroy  him."  Oobrizboffer 
saw  the  skin  of  a  jaguar  which  was  as  long  as  the  standard 
liide.  He  says,  also,  that  he  saw  one  attack  two  horses  which 
were  coupled  with  a  thong,  kill  one,  and  drag  the  other  away 
after  it. 

A  most  unpleasant  habit  of  this  beast  is,  that  in  cold  or  wet 
weather  he  chooses  to  lodge  within  doors,  and  will  steal  into 
the  house.  A  girl  at  Corrientes,  who  slept  with  her  mother, 
saw  one  lying  under  the  bed  when  she  rose  in  the  morning: 
she  had  presence  of  mind  to  bid  her  mother  lie  still,  went  for 
help,  and  soon  rid  the  bouse  of  its  perilous  visiter.  Cat-like, 
the  jaguar  is  a  good  climber;  but  IJobrizhofler  tells  us  how  a 
traveller  who  takes  to  a  tree  for  shelter  may  profit  by  the  po- 
sition :  In  prompta  consilium ;  urina  pro  armis  est :  Aac  si 
tiirridis  ad  arboris  pedcm  viinilanlis  oculos  coiispersez-is,  salva 
res  eA.  QuA  dala  porta  faget  illico.  (i.  280.)  He  who  first 
did  this  must  have  been  a  good  marksman  as  well  as  a  cool 
fellow,  and  it  was  well  for  him  that  he  reserved  his  fire  till  the 
jaguar  was  within  shot. 

DobrizhofTer  seems  to  credit  an  opinion  (which  is  held  in 
India  of  the  tiger  also)  that  the  jaguar's  claws  are  in  a  certain 
degree  venonjous  ;  the  scar  which  they  leave  is  said  to  be 
always  liable  to  a  very  painful  and  burning  sense  of  heat. 
But  that  author,  in  his  usual  amusing  manner,  repeats  many 
credulous  notions  concerning  the  animal ;  .as  that  its  burnt 
claws  are  a  remedy  for  the  tooth-ache  ;  and  that  it  hiisamode 
of  decoying  fish,  by  standing  neck-deep  in  the  water,  and 
spitting  out  a  white  foam,  which  allures  them  within  reach. 
Techo  (30)  says  the  same  thing  of  a  large  snake. 

An  opinion  that  wounds  inflicted  by  the  stroke  of  animals  of 
this  kind  are  envenomed  is  found  in  the  liast  also.  Captain 
Williamson  says,  "  However  trivial  the  scratches  made  by  the 
claws  of  tigers  may  appear,  yet,  whether  it  he  owing  to  any 
noxious  quality  in  the  claw  itself,  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
tiger  strikes,  or  any  other  matter,  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying,  that  at  least  a  majority  of  such  as  have  been  under  my 
notice  dieil ;  and  I  have  generally  remarked,  that  those  whose 
cases  appeared  the  least  alarming  were  most  suddenly  carried 
off".  I  hive  ever  thought  the  perturbation  arising  from  the 
nature  of  the  attack  to  have  a  considerable  share  in  the  fatality 
alludcil  to,  especially  as  I  never  knew  any  one  wounded  by  a 
tiger  to  die  without  sufl"i;ring  for  some  days  under  that  most 
dreadful  symptom,  a  locked  jaw  !  Such  as  have  l)een  wounded 
to  appe  iranco  severely,  but  accompanied  with  a  moilerate 
haBmorrhage,  I  have  comnioidy  found  to  recover,  excepting  in 
the  rainy  season  :  at  that  period  I  should  expect  serious  con- 
sequences from  either  a  bite  era  scratch." —  Oriental  Sports, 
vol.  i.  p.  52. 

Wild  beasts  were  so  numerous  and  fierce  in  one  part  of 
Mexico,  among  the  Otomiles,  that  Fr.  Juan  de  Orijalva  says 
in  his  time,  in  one  year,  more  than  250  Indians  were  devoured 
by  them.  "  There  then  prevailed  an  opinion,"  he  proceeds, 
"and  still  it  prevails  among  many,  that  those  tigers  and  lions 
were  certain  Indian  sorcerers,  whom  they  call  Nahiiales,  who 
by  dial)olical  art  transform  themselves  into  beasts,  and  tear 
the  Indians  in  pieces,  either  to  revenge  themselves  for  some 
offences  which  they  have  received,  or  to  do  them  evil,  which 
is  the  proper  condition  of  the  Devil, andan  eft'ect  of  his  fierce- 
ness. Some  traces  of  these  diabolical  acts  have  been  seen  in 
our  time,  fur  in  the  year  1579,  the  deaths  of  this  kind  being 
many,  and  the  susjiicion  vehement,  some  Indians  were  put  to 


the  question,  and  they  confessed  the  crime,  and  were  executed 
for  it.  With  all  this  experience  and  proof,  there  are  many 
persons  who  doubt  these  transformations,  and  say  that  the 
land  being  mountainous  produces  wild  beasts,  and  the  beasts 
being  once  fleshed  commit  these  great  ravages.  And  it  was 
through  the  weak  understandings  of  the  Indians  that  they  were 
))ersuaded  to  belii:ve  their  conjurers  could  thus  mctamorplioso 
themsclvps  ;  and,  if  these  poor  wretches  confessed  themselves 
guilty  of  such  a  crime,  it  was  owing  to  their  weakness  under 
the  torture  ;  and  so  they  suffered  for  an  offence  wbicli  they 
had  never  committed." 

Father  Grijalva,  however,  holds  with  his  Father  S.  Au- 
gustine, who  has  said,  concerning  such  things,  hac  ad  nos  von 
quibuscuiiquc  qualibus  credere putaremus  indig-num,  sed  eis  refe- 
rentibus  pervenerunt,  qiios  nobis  non  eristimarcmus  fui.ise  men- 
tttos.  "  In  the  days  of  my  Father  S.  Augustine,"  he  says, 
"wonderful  things  were  relatedof  certain  inn-keejiers  in 
Italy,  who  transformed  passengers  into  beasts  of  bmden,  to 
bring  to  their  inns  straw,  barley,  and  whatever  was  wanted 
from  the  towns,  and  then  metamorphosed  them  into  their  own 
persons,  that  they  might  purchase,  as  customers,  the  very 
commodities  they  had  carried.  And  in  our  times  the  witches 
of  Logrono  make  so  many  of  these  transformations,  that  now 
no  one  can  doubt  them.  This  matter  of  the  Nahuales,or  sor- 
cerers of  Tututepec,  has  been  confessed  by  so  many,  that  that 
alone  suffices  to  make  it  credible.  The  best  proof  which  can 
be  had  is,  that  they  were  condemned  to  death  by  course  of 
justice  ;  and  it  is  temerity  to  condemn  the  judges,  for  it  is  to 
be  believed  that  they  made  all  due  inquiry.  Our  brethren 
who  have  been  ministers  there,  and  are  also  judges  of  the  in- 
terior court,  (that  is,  of  the  conscience,)  have  all  held  tlies.> 
transformations  to  be  certain  ;  so  that  there  ought  to  be  no 
doubt  concerning  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  useful  to  under- 
stand it,  that  if  at  any  time  in  heathen  lands  the  devil  should 
work  any  of  these  metamorphoses,  the  Indians  may  see  we 
are  not  surprised  at  them,  and  do  not  hold  them  as  miraculous, 
but  can  explain  to  them  the  reason  and  cause  of  these  effects, 
which  astonish  and  terrify  them  so  greatly." 

He  proceeds  to  show  that  the  devil  can  only  exercise  this 
power  as  far  as  he  is  permitted  by  God,  in  punishment  for 
sin,  and  that  the  metamorphosis  is  not  real,  bufonly  apparent  ; 
the  sorcerer  not  being  actually  transformed  into  a  lion,  but 
seeming  as  if  he  were  so  both  to  himself  and  others.  In  what 
manner  he  can  tear  a  man  really  to  pieces  with  imaginary 
claws,  and  devour  him  in  earnest  with  an  imaginary  niduth, 
the  good  friar  has  not  condescended  to  explain.  —  Historia 
de  la  Ordcn  de  S,  Augustin  en  la  Prornncia  de  JV.  Espahu, 
pp.  34,  35. 


Preseroed  with  horrid  art 
In  ghastly  image  of  humanity.  —  Canto  I.  st.  13. 

The  more  ghastly  in  proportion  as  more  of  the  appearance 
of  life  is  preserved  in  the  revolting  practice.  Such,  however, 
it  was  not  to  the  feelings  of  the  Egyptians,  who  had  as  much 
pride  in  a  collection  of  their  ancestors,  as  one  of  the  strongest 
family  feeling  could  have  in  a  collection  of  family  pictures. 
The  body,  Diodorus  says,  is  delivered  to  the  kindred  with 
every  member  so  whole  and  entire  that  no  part  of  the  body 
seems  to  be  altered,  even  to  the  very  liairs  of  the  eyelids  and 
the  eyebrows,  so  that  the  beauty  and  shape  of  the  face  seems 
just  as  before.  By  which  means  many  of  the  Egyptians, 
laying  up  the  bodies  of  their  ancestors  in  stately  monunu'nts, 
perfectly  see  the  true  visage  and  countenance  of  those  who 
were  buried  many  ages  before  they  themselves  were  born  ;  so 
that  in  regarding  the  proportion  of  every  one  of  these  bodies, 
and  the  lineaments  of  their  faces,  they  take  exceeding  great 
delight,  even  as  if  they  were  still  living  among  them.   (Book  i.) 

They  believe,  says  Herodotus,  [Euterpe,  $  123,)  that  on  the 
dissolution  of  the  body  the  soul  immediately  enters  into  ."ome 
other  animal ;  and  that  after  using  as  vehicles  every  S|)ecies 
of  terrestrial,  aquatic,  and  winged  creatures,  it  finally  enters  a 
second  time  into  a  human  body.  They  affirm  that  it  under- 
goes all  these  changes  in  the  space  of  three  thousand  years. 
This  opinion  some  among  the  Greeks  have  at  different  periods 
of  time  adopted  as  their  own  ;  but  I  shall  not,  though  I  could, 
specify  their  names. 

How   little   did   the  Egyptians  apprehend  that  the  bodies 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY. 


527 


wliicli  tlioy  preservpil  willi  siicli  cure,  lo  be  roudy  uyaiii  for  use 
wlieii  the  cycle  shuulil  be  tullilUd,  would  one  day  be  regarded 
U8  an  ni'ticle  of  Irude,  broken  up,  exported  piecenieul,  and 
adniiiiistered  in^;ralns  and  scruples,  a:<  a  costly  medicine,  tu  ricli 
patients  I     A  prel'erence  was  even  jjivcn  to  virgin  mummy. 

Tlio  liodies  of  tbe  Incus,  from  the  founder  of  the  em|>ire, 
were  jjfeserved  in  the  Temple  of  llie  Sun  :  they  were  seated 
each  on  bis  litter,  and  in  such  excellent  preservation  that  they 
si^enud  lo  be  alive  ;  according  to  the  testimony  of  P.  Acosta 
and  Garcibiso,  who  saw  them  and  touched  them.  It  is  not 
known  in  what  manner  they  were  prepared,  so  as  to  resist  tlie 
injuries  of  time.  Gomara  (c.  195)  says  they  were  embalmed 
Ly  the  juice  of  certain  flagrant  trees,  which  was  poured  down 
their  tliroats,  and  by  unguents  of  gum.  .Acosta  says  that  a 
certain  bitumen  was  used,  and  that  plates  of  gold  were  placed 
instead  of  eyes,  so  well  fitted  that  the  want  of  the  real  eye 
was  not  perceived.  Garciluso  thought  the  chief  preparation 
consisted  in  freezing  them  with  snow.     They  were  buried  in 

one  of  the  courts  of  the  hospital  of  St.  Andres. Merc.  Pc- 

ruano,  Xo.  HI. 

Hideous  exhibitions  of  this  kind  are  sometimes  made  in 
monasteries,  where  they  are  in  perfect  accord  with  monastic 
superstition.  I  remember  seeing  two  human  bodies,  dry  and 
shrivelled,  suspended  in  the  Casa  dos  O.isns,  at  Evora,  a 
chai>el,  the  walls  of  which  are  lined  with  skulls  and  bones. 

"  Among  the  remarkable  objects  in  the  vicinity  of  I'alerino 
pointed  out  lo  strangers,  they  fail  not  to  singularize  a  convent 
of  Capuchins  at  a  small  distance  from  town,  tbe  beautiful 
gardens  of  which  serve  as  a  public  walk.  You  are  shown, 
under  tbe  fabric,  a  vault  divided  into  four  great  galleries,  into 
which  the  light  is  admitted  by  windows  cut  out  at  the  top  of 
each  extremity.  In  this  vault  are  preserved,  not  in  flesh,  but 
in  skin  and  bone,  all  the  Capuchins  who  have  died  in  the 
convent  since  its  foundation,  as  well  as  the  bodies  of  several 
persons  from  the  city.  There  are  here  private  tombs  be- 
longing to  opulent  families,  who,  even  after  annihilation,  dis- 
dain to  be  confounded  with  the  vulgar  part  of  mankind.  It  is 
said,  that  in  order  to  secure  the  preservation  of  these  bodies, 
they  are  prepared  by  being  gradually  dried  before  a  slow  fire, 
so  as  to  consume  the  flesh  without  greatly  injuring  the  skin  ; 
when  perfectly  dry,  they  are  invested  with  tlie  C.ipuchin 
habit,  and  placed  upright,  on  tablets,  disposed  step  above  step 
along  the  sides  of  the  vault ;  the  head,  the  arms,  and  the  feet 
are  left  naked.  A  preservation  like  this  is  horrid.  The  skin 
discolored,  dry,  and  as  if  it  had  been  tanned,  nay,  torn  in 
some  places,  glued  close  to  the  bones.  It  is  easy  to  imagine, 
from  the  dift'erent  grimaces  of  this  uumerous  assemblage  of 
fleshless  figures,  rendered  still  more  frightful  by  a  long  beard 
on  the  chin,  what  a  hideous  spectacle  this  must  exhibit ;  and 
whoever  has  seen  a  Capuchin  alive,  may  form  an  idea  of  this 
singular  repository  of  dead  friars."  —  Sonnini, 

It  is  not  surprising  that  such  practices  arise  from  super- 
stition ;  but  it  is  strange,  indeed,  that  they  should  afford  any 
gratilication  to  pride.  That  excellent  man,  Fletcher  of  Rla- 
deley,  has  a  striking  remark  upon  this  subject.  "  'i'he  mur- 
derer," says  he,  "  is  dissected  in  the  surgeon's  hall,  gratis  ; 
and  tbe  rich  sinner  is  embowelled  in  his  own  apartment  at 
great  expense.  The  robber,  exposed  to  open  air,  wastes 
away  in  hoops  of  iron  ;  and  the  gentleman,  confined  to  a  damp 
vault,  moulders  away  in  sheets  of  lead  ;  and  while  the  fowls 
of  the  air  greedily  prey  upon  the  one,  the  vermin  of  the  earth 
eagerly  devour  tbe  other." 

How  ditferent  is  the  feeling  of  the  Hindoos  upon  tliis  snli- 
ject  from  that  of  the  Egyptians  !  "A  mansion  with  bones  for 
its  rafters  and  beams;  with  nerves  and  tendons  for  cords; 
with  muscles  and  blood  for  mortar;  with  skin  for  its  outward 
covering  ;  filled  with  no  sweet  perfume,  but  loaded  with  feces 
and  urine  ;  a  mansion  infested  by  ago  and  by  sorrow  ;  the  seat 
of  malady,  harassed  with  pains,  haunted  with  the  quality  of 
darkness,  and  incapable  of  standing  long.  Such  a  mansion 
of  thi'  vital  soul  lets  its  occupier  always  cheerfully  quit."  — 
lust,  of  Menu. 


Jflien  the  laden  bee 
Buzzed  by  him  in  its  flight,  he  could  pursue 
Its  course  with  certain  ken Canto  I.  st.  20. 

It  ia  difficult  to  account  for  the  superior  quickness  o(  sight 
which  lavages  appear  to  possess      The  Brazilian  tribes  used 


to  er.idicale  the  eyelashes  and  eyebrows,  as  impeding  it. 
"  Some  Indians,"  1'.  .Andres  I'eiez  de  Kibas  says,  "  were  su 
quick-sighted  that  they  could  ward  off' the  coming  arrow  wilU 
their  own  bow."  —  L.  ii.  c.  3,  p.  41. 


Covering  with  soft  gums  the  obedient  limb 

And  body,  then  wilhfeat/urs  overlay. 

In  regular  hues  disposed.  —  Canto  I.  St.  25. 

Inconvenient  as  this  may  seem,  it  was  the  full  dress  of  tlio 
Tiipi  and  Guatani  tribes.  A  fashion  less  gorgeous  and  elabo- 
rate, but  more  refined,  is  described  by  one  of  the  best  old 
travellers  to  tbe  East,  Francois  Pyrard. 

''The  inhabitants  of  the  Maldives  use  on  feast  days  this 
kind  of  gallantry.  They  bruise  Sanders  (sundul-wood)  and 
cami>hire,  on  very  slicke  and  snioolh  stones,  (which  they  bring 
from  the  firm  land,)  and  sometimes  other  sorts  of  oilori/'erous 
woods.  After  they  compound  it  with  water  distilled  of 
flowers,  and  overspread  their  bodies  with  this  paste,  from  the 
girdle  upwards ;  adding  many  forms  with  their  finger,  such  as 
they  imagine.  It  is  somewhat  like  cut  and  pinked  doul)lets, 
and  of  an  excellent  savor.  They  dress  their  wives  or  lemans 
in  this  sort,  and  make  upon  their  backs  works  and  shadows  as 
they  please."  Skin-prints  Purchas  calls  Uiis.  —  Pijrard  de 
Laval.     Purchas,  p.  1C65. 

'I'he  alioniinable  practice  of  tarring  and  feathering  was  but 
too  well  known  during  the  American  war.  It  even  found  its 
way  to  England.  I  remember,  when  a  child,  to  have  seen  a 
man  in  this  condition  in  the  streets  of  liristol. 

The  costume  of  the  savages,  who  figured  so  frequently  in 
the  pageants  of  the  sixteenth  century,  seems  to  have  been 
designed  to  imitate  the  Brazilian  tribes,  best  known  to  the 
French  and  English  at  that  time.  Indeed,  this  is  stated 
by  Vincent  Carloix,  when,  in  describing  an  entertainment  given 
to  Marechal  de  Vieilleville  by  the  captains  of  the  galleys  at 
Marseilles,  he  says,  .Aijant  lie  six  galeres  ensemble  de  front,  ct 
faict  dresser  les  tables  dessus,  et  tupissees  en  fa^on  de  grundcs 
sallcs ;  ayant  accoustres  les  forceats  en  Brcssiliens  pour  servir, 
ils  firent  unc  infinite  de  gambades  ct  de  tuurbwns  d  la  fugon  des 
sauvages,  que  personne n'avoit  encore  vev.es ;  dont  tout  Ir  nionde, 
avec  une  extresme  allaigresse,  s'esbahissoit  merveilleusement.  — 
Memoires,  1.  x.  ch.  18. 


Drinking  feasts.  —  Canto  I.  st.  26. 

The  point  of  honor  in  drinking  is  not  the  same  among  the 
savages  of  Guiana,  as  among  the  English  potators  :  they 
account  him  that  is  drunk  first  the  bravest  fellow.  —  UarcovrVs 
Voyage. 


A  custom  strange,  and  yet  far  spread 
Tlirough  many  a  savage  tribe,  howe'er  it  grew. 
And  once  in  the  old  world  known  as  widely  as  the  new. 

Canto  I.  St.  28. 

Je  la  trnvve  chez  les  Iberiens,  ou  les  premiers  pevples  d'Es- 
pagne  ;  je  la  trouve  chcz  les  aneiens  habitans  de  I' Isle  de  Corse  ; 
elle  etoit  chez  les  Tibarenicns  en  Asie;  elle  est  aujourd'hui  dans 
qurlquesunes  de  nos  provinces  voisines  d'Espagne,  ou  cela 
s''ai>pcle  faire  couvade ;  elle  est  encore  vers  le  Japan,  et  dans 
I'Ameriquc  chez  les  Caraibes  et  les  Oalibis.  —  Lafitau,  iMceurs 
des  Sauvages,  t.  i.  p.  50. 

Straho  says  this  strange  custom  existed  in  Cantal)ria,  (1.  iii. 
p.  174,  ed.  1571,)  so  that  its  Gascon  extraction  has  been  di- 
rect. Diodorus  Siculus  is  the  authority  for  its  existence  in 
Corsica.  (Book  iii.  ch.  1,  English  translation,  1814,  vol.  i.  p. 
305.)  Apollonius  Ehodius  describes  it  among  the  Tibareni, 
(I.  ii.  1012:)  cj{  lo-ToptT  Nvp<p66upoi  ei>  tiblv  v6pots,  says 
the  scholiast. 

Voicy  la  brutalite  de  nos  sauvages  dans  leurs  rijouissance  pour 
Vacroisscmcnt  de  leur  famille.  C^est  qu'au  mime  terns  que  la 
fnnme  est  dclivrec  lemary  sc  met  au  lit,  pour  s'y  plaindre  et  y 
faire  I'aeeoiicliee  :  coututne,  que  birn  que  souvage  et  ridicule  sc 
trouve  neantmoins  d  ce  que  Pon  dit,  parniy  les  paysans  d^une 
crrlainr  province  de  France  ;  ct  ils  nppcllcnt  crla  faire  la  couvade. 
Mais  ce  qui  est  de  facheuse  pour  Ic  pauvre  Curaibe  qui  s'cst  mia 
au  tit  au  lieu  de  I'accouchee,  c'est  qu'on  luy  fait  faire  djcle  dix  ou 
douze  jiiurs  de  suite,  ne  luy  donnant  rien  par  jour  qu'un  morceau 


528 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY. 


de  cassacej  et  un  peu  d^eati  dan.^  laqudle  on  a  aus:<i  fait  houUir 
un  peu  de  cc  pain  de  rucinc.  Jlprcail  man  ire  un  peu  plus  .-  mais 
H  n'entame  la  cassare  qu  luy  est  presentee  que  par  le  milieu  durant 
quelques  quarante  jourSy  en  laissant  les  hords  entiers  qu.''il  pendd 
sa  case,  pour  servir  d  un  festin  qu^ilfait  ordinairenient  en  suite  d 
tous  ses  amis,  Et  mime  il  s^ahstient  aprcs  cela,  quelquefois  dix 
inois  ou  un  an  entier  de  plusieurs  viandes,  comme  de  lauiantiUfde 
tortu'e,  de  pcurceau,  depoules,  de  poissuii,  et  de  chases  delicates, 
crai^nant  par  une  pitoyahle  folic  que  cela  ne  luiise  d  Venfant. 
Mais  ils  nefunt  ce  grand  jusne  qn'd  la  nai.isance  de  leur  premier 
tnfant.  —  Kocliefort.  Hist.  Moriile  des  lies  Antilles,  c. '23,  p. 
495. 

Marco  Polo,  (I.  ii.  c.  41,)  tlie  other  authority  to  which 
Lafitau  refers,  speaks  of  tlie  custom  as  existing  in  the  great 
Klian's  province  of  Cardandan.  Ilanno  un'  usania  che  subito 
ck'  una  donna  ha  partorito,  si  leva  del  letto,  e  larato  ilfanciullo  e 
ravolto  ne'  panni,  il  marito  si  melte  a  giaecre  in  letto  in  sua  vece, 
e  tiene  ilfiifliuolo  appresso  di  se,  harcndo  la  cura  di  quello  per 
quaranta  iriomi,  che  non  si  parte  mai.  Et  gli  arnici  e  parenti 
vanno  a  visitarlo  per  rallcorarlo  e  ronsolarlv  ;  e  le  donnc  che  sono 
da  parto  fanno  quel  che  bisogna  per  rasa,  portandu  da  mangiitrc 
e  bere  al  marito,  ch'  e  nel  letto,  e  dando  il  latle  al  fanciullo,  che 
gli  i  appresso.  —  Ramusio,  t.  ii.  p.  36,  ed.  1583. 

Yet  this  custom,  preposterous  as  it  is,  is  not  more  strange 
than  an  opinion  which  was  once  so  prevalent  in  this  country 
that  Primerose  made  it  the  suhject  of  a  chapter  in  his  work, 
De  Vulgi  Erroribu^  in  Jlledicina,  and  thon^lit  it  necessary  to 
prove,  hy  physical  reasons,  maritum  loco  uroris  graridcp.  von 
tBgrotare,  for  such  is  the  title  of  one  ofhis  chapters,  lie  says. 
Inter  errores  quamplurimos  ntaximi  ridendus  hie  esse  videtur, 
quod  rir  credatur  cegrotare,  iisque  affici  sijinptomati.i,  quihus  ipsa 
tnulier  prtegnans  solet,  illudque  experieutia  conjirmatuin  pluritni 
esse  volunt.  Habebam  tegrum  febre  laborenteni  cum  urin&  valde 
accensA  et  turbida,qui  (Vgrotutionissuo'  nullum  causam  agnoscebal 
quam  uxoris  sua;  graviditatem.  JVullibi  tcrrurum  qua:n  in  AngUa 
id  observatum  mcmini  me  audivisse,  aut  legUse  unquum.  —  JiTec  si 
quis  maritus  cum  uxor  gravida  est,  agrotat  ab  uxnre  infcctus  fait, 
sed  potest  ex  peculiari  proprii  corporis  vitio  id  pati.  Sicut  dnm 
hecc  scribe,  pluit ;  non  est  tamen  plucia  aut  causa  scriptionis,  aut 
seripturapluvia.  Res  norm  non  est,  r^iroset  nnilieresetiam  simul 
aegrotare.  At  mirrnn  est  hactenusque  ignotum,  grariditatem 
affectum  esse  contagiosum,  et  non  alias  mulieres  srd  riros,quos 
natura  immunes  ab  hoc  labore fecit,  solos  infici.  Pnrlerea  obser- 
vatum est  non  omnibus  mulieribns  ejusmodi  symptomala,  aut  sal- 
tern non  omnia  singulis  contingere  ;  at  tamen  accidil  sa-pe  ut  cum 
mulier  bene  valet,  (Pgrotet  maritus,  ctiam  absens  per  aliquot  mil- 
liaria,  Sed  quoniam  ex  sold,  relatione  absurditas  hujus  ei-roris 
patet,  plura  non  addam.  Jupiter  Bacchum  in  frmore.  Palladem 
incerebro gestavit.     Sed  hoc  illi  esto proprium.  —  Lib.  ii.  c.  13. 

This  notion,  however,  is  probably  not  yet  extinct,  for  I 
know  that  it  existed  in  full  force  some  thirty  years  ago,  and 
that  not  in  the  lowest  rank  of  life. 


Till  hardened  mothers  in  the  grave  could  lay 
TVieir  living  babes  with  no  compunctious  tear. 

Canto  I.  St.  38. 

This  dreadful  practice  is  carried  to  such  an  extent  in  the 
heart  of  South  America,  that  whole  tribes  have  become  ex- 
tinct in  consequence  of  it,  and  of  another  practice,  hardly  less 
nefarious. 

Those  bloody  African  savages,  the  Giagas,  reared  no  chil- 
dren whatsoever ;  "  for  as  soon,"  says  Battell,  "  as  the  woman 
is  delivered  of  her  child,  it  is  presently  buried  quick  ;  so  that 
there  is  not  one  child  brought  up  in  all  this  generation.  But 
when  they  take  any  town,  they  keep  the  boys  and  girls  of 
thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age  as  their  own  children,  but 
the  men  and  women  they  kill  and  eat.  These  little  hoys  they 
train  up  in  the  wars,  and  hang  a  collar  about  their  necks  for  a 
disgrace,  which  is  never  taken  off  till  he  proveth  himself  a 
man,  and  brings  his  enemy's  head  to  the  general  ;  and  then  it 
is  taken  off,  and  he  is  a  free  man,  and  is  called  'gonso,'  or 
'  soldier.'  This  maketh  them  all  desperate  and  forward  to  he 
free,  and  counted  men,  and  so  they  do  increase.  A  generation 
without  generation,  says  Purcbas,  p.  977. 

Among  the  causes  for  which  the  Knisteneaux  women 
procure  abortion,  Mackenzie  (p.  98)  assigns  that  of  hatred 


for  the  father.  No  other  traveller  has  ever  suspected  fl.e 
existence  of  this  motive.  They  sometimes  kill  their  female 
children  to  save  them  from  the  miseries  which  they  themselves 
have  suffered. 

The  practice  among  the  Panches  of  Bogota  was,  that  if  the 
first  born  proved  a  girl,  it  was  destroyed,  and  every  girl  in 
succession  till  the  mother  bore  a  boy,  after  which  girls  were 
allowed  to  live  ;  but  if  the  first-born  were  a  boy,  ull  the  chil- 
dren then  were  reared.  —  Piedrahita,  p.  11. 

Perhaps  the  most  flagitious  motive  for  which  this  crime  has 
ever  become  a  practice,  is  that  which  the  Guana  women  as- 
sign for  it;  they  destroy  the  greater  number  of  their  female 
infants  in  order  to  keep  up  the  value  of  the  sex.  (Azara,  t.  ii. 
8,')— 100.  Son  Hist,  of  Brazil,  VI,].  ]\.  379.)  A  knowledge  of 
the  evils  which  polygamy  brings  upon  some  of  their  neighbors 
may  have  led  to  this  mode  of  preventing  it. 

Father  Gumilla  one  day  bitterly  reproved  a  Betoya  woman 
(whom  he  describes  as  having  more  capacity  than  any  other  of 
the  Indians  in  those  parts,)  for  killing  her  new-born  daughter. 
She  listened  to  him  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  groural, 
and  when  he  had  done,  and  thought  that  she  was  convinced  of 
her  guilt,  and  heartily  repented  of  it,  she  said,  "  Father,  if  you 
v.'ill  not  be  angry,  I  will  tell  you  what  is  in  my  heart."  He 
promised  that  he  would  not,  and  bade  her  speak  freely.  This 
she  said  to  me,  he  says,  as  follows,  literally  translated  from  the 
Betoya  tongue.  "  Would  to  God,  Father,  would  to  God,  my 
mother  when  she  brought  me  forth  had  loved  me  so  well  and 
pitied  me  so  much  as  to  have  saved  me  from  all  those  troubles 
which  I  have  endured  till  this  day,  and  am  to  endure  till 
death  !  If  my  mother  had  buried  me  as  soon  as  I  was  born, 
I  should  have  died,  but  should  not  have  felt  death,  and  should 
have  been  spared  from  that  death  which  must  come,  and  should 
have  escajjed  so  many  things  bitterer  than  death  ;  who  knows 
how  many  more  such  I  must  endure  before  I  die  I  Consider 
well,  Father,  the  hardships  that  a  poor  Indian  woman  endures 
among  these  Indians  !  They  go  with  us  to  the  plantations,  but 
they  have  a  how  and  arrow  in  their  hands,  nothing  more  ;  we 
go  with  a  basket  full  of  things  on  the  hack,  one  child  at  the 
breast,  another  upon  the  basket.  Their  business  is  to  shoot  a 
bird  or  a  fish,  ours  is  to  dig  and  work  in  the  field  ;  at  evening 
they  go  home  without  any  burden  j  we,  besides  our  children, 
have  to  carry  roots  for  their  food,  and  maize  to  make  their 
drink.  They,  when  they  reach  the  house,  go  to  converse  with 
their  friends;  we  have  to  seek  wood,  fetch  water,  and  prepare 
their  supper.  Having  supped,  they  go  to  sleep  ;  butwealmost 
all  the  night  arc  pounding  maize  to  make  their  chica.  And 
what  is  the  end  of  this  our  watching  and  labor.'  They  drink 
the  chica,  they  get  drunk,  and  being  out  of  their  senses,  beat 
us  with  sticks,  take  us  by  the  hair,  drag  us  about  and  trample 
on  us.  Would  to  God,  Father,  that  my  mother  had  buried 
me  when  she  brought  mo  forth!  You  know  that  I  complain 
w  ith  cause,  for  all  that  I  have  said  you  witness  every  day.  But 
our  greatest  pain  you  do  not  know,  because  you  never  can 
suffer  it.  You  do  not  know.  Father,  the  death  it  is  for  the 
poor  Indian  woman,  when  having  served  her  husband  as  a 
slave,  sweating  in  the  field,  and  in  the  house  without  sleep,  at 
the  end  of  twenty  years  she  sees  him  take  a  girl  for  another 
wife.  Her  he  loves,  and  though  she  ill  uses  our  children,  we 
carfnot  interfere,  for  he  neither  loves  us  nor  cares  for  us  now. 
A  girl  is  to  command  over  us,  and  treat  us  as  her  servants,  and 
if  we  speak,  they  silence  us  with  sticks.  Can  any  Indian 
woman  do  better  for  the  daughter  which  she  brings  forth  than 
to  save  it  from  all  these  troubles,  and  deliver  it  from  this 
slavery,  worse  than  death  ?  I  say  again.  Father,  would  to 
God  my  mother  had  made  me  feel  her  kindness  by  burying 
me  as  soon  as  I  was  born  !  Then  would  not  this  heart  have 
had  now  so  much  to  feel,  nor  these  eyes  so  much  to  weep  for." 

Here,  says  Gumilla,  tears  put  an  end  to  her  speech  :  and  the 
worst  is,  that  all  which  she  said,  and  all  she  would  have  said, 
if  grief  had  allowed  her  to  proceed,  is  true. —  Orinoco  Illus- 
trado,  t.  ii.  p.  65,  ed.  1791. 


Prom  the  dove 
They  named  the  child  Yeruti.  — Canto  I.  st.  43. 

This  is  the   Guarani   name   for  the  specicp  described  by 
Azara,  t.  iv.  p.  130,  No.  cccxx. 


NOTES    TO    A    TALE    OF    PARAGUAY. 


529 


What  pouter  had  placed  them  here.  —  Cimto  IF.  sU  27. 

Some  of  the  Orinoco  tribes  licliuve  that  llieir  first  forcfutliprs 
grow  upon  trees.  —  (iumilla,  t.  i,  c.  (i. 

Tlie  Otiiomacas,  one  of  the  rudest  of  the  Orinoco  trihes, 
suppose  themselves  descended  from  a  pile  of  stones  upon  the 
top  of  a  rock  culled  Bura^umi,  and  that  they  all  return  to 
stone  as  they  came  from  it ;  so  that  this  mass  of  rock  is  eoni- 
posed  of  their  forcfatliers.  Therelbre,  though  they  hury  their 
dead,  within  the  year  they  take  oft'  their  heads  and  carry  them 
to  tlic  holes  in  the  rock. —  OumiUa,  t.  i.  c.  6. 

These  are  the  odd  people  who  always  for  a  first  marriage 
give  a  girl  to  an  old  man,  and  a  youth  to  an  old  woman. 
Polygamy  is  not  in  use  among  them  ;  and  they  say,  that  if 
the  young  people  came  together,  there  could  bo  no  good 
household  management.  —  OumiUa,  t.  i.  c.  12. 

P.  Labb6  {Lett.  Ethf.  t.  vili.  p.  180,  edit.  1781)  speaks  of  a 
tribe  on  the  norlli  liank  of  the  Plata  who  put  their  women  to 
death  when  they  were  thirty  years  old,  thinking  they  had 
then  lived  long  enough.  1  have  not  seen  this  custom  men- 
tioned by  any  other  writer,  nor  do  I  believe  that  it  can  possibly 
have  existed. 


And  Father  was  his  name.  —  Canto  II.  st.  28. 

Tupa.  It  is  the  Tupi  and  Guarani  name  for  Father,  for 
Thunder,  and  for  the  Supreme  Being. 

The  Patagones  call  the  Supreme  Being  Soychu,  a  word 
which  is  said  to  express  that  which  cannot  be  seen,  which  is 
worthy  of  all  veneration,  and  which  is  out  of  the  world.  They 
may  thus  explain  the  word ;  but  it  cannot  contain  this 
meaning  ;  it  is  a  definition  of  what  they  mean,  and  apparently 
not  such  as  a  savage  would  give.  T)ie  dead  they  call  Soy- 
chithrt;  they  who  are  with  God,  and  out  of  the  world. 

The  Puelches,  Picunches,  and  Moluches  have  no  name  for 
God.  Their  prayers  are  made  to  tlie  sun,  whom  they  regard 
as  the  giver  of  all  good.  A  Jesuit  once  admonished  them  to 
worship  that  God  who  created  all  things,  and  this  orb  among 
the  rest ;  but  tliey  replied,  they  had  never  known  any  thing 
greater  or  better  than  the  sun.  —  Dobrizhoffer,  t.  ii.  p.  100. 

The  most  remarkable  mode  of  superstition  I  remember  to 
nave  met  with  is  one  which  is  mentioned  by  the  Bishop  of 
Santa  Marta,  in  his  History  of  the  Nuevo  Reyno  de  Gra- 
nada. He  tells  us,  that  "  the  Pijjos  of  the  Nuevo  Reyno 
worshipped  nothing  visible  or  ijivisible,  except  the  spirits  of 
those  whom  they  killed  for  the  purpose  of  deifying  them. 
For  they  thought  that  if  an  innocent  person  were  put  to  death, 
he  became  a  god,  and  in  that  capacity  would  be  grateful  to 
those  who  were  the  authors  of  his  apotheosis.  For  this  reason 
they  used  to  catch  strangers  and  kill  them  ;  not  thinking  one 
of  their  own  horde,  or  of  their  enemies,  could  be  esteemed 
innocent,  and  therefore  fitting.  A  woman  or  a  child  would 
do.  But  after  a  few  months  they  held  it  necessary  to  make  a 
new  god,  the  old  one  either  having  lost  his  power,  or  changed 
his  place,  or  perhaps  by  that  time  discharged  himself  of  his 
debt  of  gratitude." —  Piedrahita,  p.  12. 


And  once  there  was  a  way  to  that  good  land. 
For  in  mid-earth  a  wondrous  Tree  there  grew. 

Canto  II.  St.  33. 

Los  Mocobis  fingian  un  Arbol,  que  en  su  idioma  llamaban 
JValliagdigua,  de  altura  tan  desmedida  que  Uegaba  desdc  la  tierra 
al  cielo.  Por  el  de  rama  en  ruma  ganando  siempre  maior  ele- 
vacion  subian  las  almas  d  pezear  de  un  rio  y  lagunas  muy 
grandr.s,  que  abundxthan  de  pescado  regaladisimo,  Pcro  un  dia 
que  el  alma  de  una  yirja  no  piido  pescar  cosa  alguna,  y  los 
Pescadores  la  negaron  el  socorro  de  una  limosna  para  su  man- 
tenimiento,  se  irritd  tanto  cmitra  la  nacion  Mocobi  que,  Irans- 
figuranda  en  O'piguara  tomo  el  ciercicio  de  roer  el  Arbol  por 
donde  subian  al  cielo,  y  no  drsi.ftid  hasta  derriharlo  en  tierra  con 
increible  scntimiento  y  dano  irreparable  de  toda  la  nacion. 

This  legend  is  contained  in  a  manuscript  history  of  Para- 
guay, the  Rio  de  la  I'lata,  and  Tucuman.  For  the  use  of 
the  first  volume  (a  transcript  of  which  is  in  my  possession) 
I  am  beholden,  as  for  other  civilities  of  the  same  kind,  to 
Mr.  Thomas  Kinder.  This  portion  of  the  work  contains  a 
good  account  of  the  native  tribes  ;  the  second  volume  contains 

67 


the  historical  part  ;  but  when  Mr.  Kinder  purchased  the  ono 
at  Buenos  Ayres,  the  other  was  on  its  way  to  the  United 
States,  having  been  borrowed  from  the  owner  by  an  American, 
and  not  returned.  Fortunately  the  subjects  of  the  two  volumes 
arc  so  distinct  that  each  may  be  considered  as  a  complete 
work  ;  and  I  have  referred,  in  the  history  of  Brazil,  to  that 
which  I  possess,  by  the  title  of  JVoticias  del  Paraguay,  &.C. 


TTie  land  of  souls.  —  Canto  II.  st.  39. 

Many  of  the  Indian  speculations  respecting  the  condition 
of  souls  in  a  future  state  are  given  in  my  History  of  Brazil. 
A  description  of  a  Keltic  Island  of  the  Blessed,  as  dressed  up 
by  Ossian  Macpherson,  may  be  found  in  the  notes  to  MaJoc. 
A  Tonga  one  is  thus  described  in  the  very  curious  and  valu- 
able work  of  Mr.  Mariner. 

"  The  Tonga  people  universally  and  positively  believe  in 
the  existence  of  a  large  island  lying  at  a  considerable  distance 
to  the  i\.  W.  of  their  own  islands,  which  they  consider  to  be 
the  place  of  residence  of  their  gods,  and  of  the  souls  of  theii 
nobles  and  mataboohes.  This  island  is  supposed  to  be  much 
larger  than  all  their  own  islands  put  together;  to  he  well 
stocked  with  all  kinds  of  useful  and  ornamental  plants  always 
in  a  state  of  high  perfection,  and  always  bearing  the  richest 
fruits  and  the  most  beautiful  flowers,  according  to  their  re 
spoctive  natures  ;  that  when  these  fruits  or  flowers  are  plucked, 
others  immediately  occupy  their  place,  and  that  the  whole 
atmosphere  is  filled  with  the  most  delightful  fragrance  that 
the  imagination  can  conceive,  proceeding  from  these  immortal 
plants.  The  island  is  also  well  stocked  with  the  most  beau- 
tiful birds  of  all  imaginable  kinds,  as  well  as  with  abundance 
of  hogs,  all  of  which  are  immortal,  unless  they  are  killed  to 
provide  food  for  the  Hotooas,  or  gods  ;  but  the  moment  a  hog 
or  bird  is  killed,  another  living  hog  or  bird  immediately 
comes  into  existence  to  supply  its  place,  the  same  as  with  the 
fruits  and  flowers  ;  and  this,  as  far  as  they  know  or  suppose, 
is  the  only  mode  of  propngation  of  plants  and  animals.  The 
island  of  Bolotoo  is  supposed  to  he  so  far  off  as  to  render  it 
dangerous  for  their  canoes  to  attempt  going  there  ;  and  it  is 
supjiosed,  moreover,  that  even  if  they  were  to  succeed  in  reach- 
ing so  far,  unless  it  happened  to  be  the  particular  will  of  the 
gods,  they  would  be  sure  to  miss  it.  They  give,  however, 
an  account  of  a  Tonga  canoe,  which,  in  her  return  from  the 
Fee  jee  Islands  a  long  time  ago,  was  driven  by  stress  of  weather 
to  Bolotoo:  ignorant  of  the  place  where  they  wore,  and  being 
much  in  want  of  provisions,  and  seeing  the  country  abound  in 
all  sorts  of  fruit,  the  crew  landed,  and  proceeded  to  pluck 
some  bread  fruit,  but  to  their  unspeakable  astonishment  they 
coulil  no  more  lay  hold  of  it  than  if  it  were  a  shadow.  They 
walked  through  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  and  passed  through 
the  substance  of  the  houses,  (which  were  built  like  those  of 
Tonga,)  without  feeling  any  resistance.  They  at  length  saw 
some  of  the  Hotooas,  who  passed  through  the  substance  of 
their  bodies  as  if  there  was  nothing  there.  The  Hotooas 
recommended  them  to  go  away  immediately,  as  they  had  no 
proper  food  for  them,  and  promised  them  a  fair  wind  and  a 
speedy  passage.  They  accordingly  put  directly  to  sea,  and  in 
two  days,  sailing  with  the  utmost  velocity,  they  arrived  at 
Hamoa,  (the  Navigators'  Island,)  at  which  place  they  wanted 
to  touch  before  they  got  to  Tonga.  Having  remained  at 
Hamoa  two  or  three  days,  they  sailed  for  Tonga,  where  they 
arrived  with  great  speed  ,  but  in  the  course  of  a  few  days 
they  all  died,  not  as  a  punislimeiit  for  having  been  at  Bolotoo, 
but  as  a  natural  consec|uence,  the  air  of  Bolotoo,  as  it  were, 
infecting  mortal  bodies  with  speedy  death." 

In  Yucatan  their  notion  of  the  happy  after  death  was,  that 
they  rested  in  a  delightful  land,  under  the  shade  of  a  great  tree, 
where  there  was  plenty  of  food  and  drink.  —  Ilirrera,  iv.  10,  n. 

The  Austral  tribes  believe  that  the  dead  live  in  some  region 
under  the  earth,  where  they  have  their  tents,  and  hunt  the 
souls  of  ostriches.  —  Dobrizh.  ii.  295. 

'i'he  Persians  have  a  great  reverence  for  large,  old  trees, 
thinking  that  the  souls  of  the  happy  delight  to  dwell  in  them, 
and  for  this  reason  they  call  theui  pir,  wliich  signifies  an  old 
man,  by  which  name  they  also  designate  the  supposed  in- 
habitant. Pietro  Delia  Valle  describes  a  pro<ligious  tree  of 
this  character,  in  the  hollow  of  which  tapers  were  always  kept 
burning  to  the  honor  of  the  Pir.     He  pitched  his  tent  under 


530 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY. 


its  boughs  twice ;  once  with  his  wife  when  on  his  way  to 
embark  for  Europe,  and  a^ain  when  returning  with  her 
corpse.  Tlie  passage  wherein  he  speaks  of  this  last  niglit's 
lodging  is  very  affecting'.  We  soon  forgive  tliis  excellent  trav- 
eller for  his  coxcombry,  take  an  interest  in  his  domestic  aftairs, 
and  part  with  him  at  hist  as  witli  an  old  friend. 


IVho  thought 
From  Death,  as  from  some  living  foe,  to  fly.  —  Canto  II.  st.  44. 

An  opinion  of  this  kind  has  extended  to  people  in  a  mucli 
higher  grade  of  society  than  the  American  Indians. 

"  After  this  Death  appeared  in  Uwaraka  in  a  human 
shape,  the  color  of  liis  skin  being  bliick  and  yellow,  his  head 
close  shorn,  and  all  his  limlis  distorted.  He  placed  himself  at 
men's  doors,  so  that  all  those  who  saw  him  shuddered  with 
apprehension,  and  became  even  as  dead  men  from  mere  af- 
fright. Every  person  to  whose  door  he  came  shot  an  arrow 
at  him  ;  and  the  moment  the  arrow  quitted  the  bow-string, 
they  saw  the  spectre  no  more,  nor  knew  which  way  he  was 
gone  "  —  Life  of  Cree^hna. 

This  is  a  poetical  invention  ;  but  such  an  invention  has 
formed  a.  popular  belief  in  Greece,  if  M.  Pouqueville  may  be 
trusted. 

"  The  Evil  Eye,  the  CacodtBmon,  has  been  seen  wandering 
over  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  Who  can  dure  to  douht  this.' 
It  was  in  the  form  of  a  withered  old  woman,  covered  with 
funeral  rags;  she  was  heard  to  ccill  by  their  n.imes  those  who 
are  to  be  cut  oft'  from  the  number  of  the  living.  Nocturnal 
concerts,  voices  murmuring  amid  the  silence  of  the  darkest 
nights  have  been  hoard  in  the  air  ;  phantoms  have  been  seen 
wandering  about  in  solitary  places,  in  the  streets,  in  the 
markets  ;  the  dogs  have  howled  with  the  most  dismal  and 
melancholy  tone,  and  their  cries  have  been  repeated  by  the 
echoes  along  the  desert  streets.  It  is  when  such  things 
happen,  as  I  was  told  very  seriously  by  an  iidiabitant  of 
Nauplia  di  Romania,  that  great  care  must  be  taken  not  to 
answer  if  you  should  be  called  during  the  night:  if  you  hear 
9ymphonies,bury  yourself  in  the  bed  clothes,  and  do  not  listen 
to  them ;  it  is  the  Old  Wuman,  it  is  the  Plague  itself  that 
knocks  at  your  door."  —  Pouqueville,  189. 

The  Patagones  and  other  Austral  tribes  attriliute  all  dis- 
eases to  an  evil  spirit.  Their  conjurers  therefore  beat  drums 
hy  the  patient,  which  have  hideous  figures  painted  upon  them, 
thinking  thus  to  frighten  away  the  cause.  If  he  dies,  his 
relations  endeavor  to  take  vengeance  upon  those  who  pre- 
tended to  cure  him  ;  but  if  one  of  the  chiefs  dies,  all  the 
conjurers  are  slain,  unless  they  can  save  themselves  by 
flight.  — jDoftWzAoJcr,  t.  ii.  286. 


TTiey  dragged  the  dying  out.  —  Canto  II.  st.  45. 

The  Austral  tribes  sometimes  bury  the  dying,  thinking  it 
an  act  of  mercy  thus  to  shorten  their  sufferings.  {Dohriih. 
X.  ii.  286.)  But  in  general  this  practice,  which  extends  widely 
among  savages,  arises  from  the  selfrsh  feeling  assigned  in  the 
text.  Superstition,  without  this  selfisliness,  produces  a  prac- 
tice of  the  same  kind,  though  not  absolutely  as  brutal,  in  the 
East.  "The  moorda  or  chultrics  are  small  huts  in  which  a 
Hindoo,  when  given  over  by  his  physicians,  is  deposited,  and 
left  alone  to  expire,  and  be  carried  off  by  the  sacred  flood." 
Cruso,  in  Forbes,  iv.  99. 

"  When  there  is  no  hope  of  recovery,  the  patient  is  gen- 
erally removed  from  the  bed,  and  laid  on  a  platform  of  fresh 
earth,  either  out  of  doors,  or  prepared  purposely  in  some 
adjoining  room  or  viranda,  that  he  may  there  breathe  his  last. 
In  a  physical  sense,  this  removal  at  so  critical  a  period  must 
be  often  attended  with  fatal  consequences ;  though  perhaps 
not  quite  so  decisive  as  that  of  exposing  an  aged  parent  or  a 
dying  friend  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges.  I  now  only  men- 
tion the  circumstances  as  forming  part  of  the  Hindoo  religious 
system.  After  having  expired  upon  the  earth,  the  boily  is 
carried  to  the  water-side,  and  washed  with  many  ceremonies. 
It  is  then  laid  upon  the  funeral  ])ile,  that  the  fire  may  have  a 
share  of  the  victim  :  the  ashes  are  finally  scattered  in  the  air, 
and  fall  upon  the  water. 

"  During  the  funeral  ceremony,  which  is  solemn  and  af 


fecting,  the  Brahmins  address  the  respective  elements  in  words 
to  the  following  purport  ;  although  there  may  be  a  different 
mode  of  performing  these  religious  rites  in  other  parts  of 
Ilindostan. 

"  O  Earth  !  to  thee  we  commend  our  brother  ;  of  thee  he 
was  formed  ;  by  thee  he  was  sustained  ;  and  unto  thee  he  now 
returns  ! 

"  O  Fire  !  thou  hadst  a  claim  in  our  brother ;  during  his 
life  he  subsisted  by  thy  influence  in  nature  ;  to  thee  we 
commit  his  body  ;  thou  emblem  of  purity,  may  his  spirit  be 
purified  on  entering  a  new  state  of  existence. 

"  O  Air !  while  the  breath  of  life  continued,  our  brother 
respired  by  thee  ;  his  last  breath  is  now  departed  ;  to  thee  wo 
yield  him. 

"  O  Water  '.  thou  didst  contribute  to  the  life  of  our  brother ; 
thou  wert  one  of  his  sustaining  elements.  His  remains  are 
now  dispersed  ;  receive  thy  share  of  him,  who  has  now  taken 
an  everlasting  flight !  "  —  Forbcs's  Oriental  Memoirs,  iii,  12. 


Jlnd  she,  in  many  ail  emulous  essay, 

At  length  into  a  descant  uf  her  own 

Had  blended  all  tlieir  notes.  —  Canto  III.  st.  39,  &c. 

An  extract  from  a  journal  written  in  Switzerland  will  be 
the  best  comment  upon  the  description  in  these  stanzas,  which 
indeed  were  probably  suggested  by  my  recollections  of  the 
Staubach. 

"While  we  were  at  the  waterfall,  some  half  score  iieasants, 
chiefly  women  and  girls,  assembled  just  out  of  reach  of  the 
spray,  and  set  up  —  surely  the  wildest  chorus  that  ever  was 
heard  by  human  ears  —  a  song,  not  of  articulate  sounds,  but 
in  which  the  voice  was  used  as  a  mere  instrument  of  music, 
more  flexible  than  any  which  art  could  produce,  —  sweet, 
powerful,  and  thrilling  beyond  descrijition." 

It  will  be  seen  by  the  subjoined  sonnet  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's,'who  visited  this  spot  three  years  after  me,  that  he  was 
not  less  impressed  than  I  had  been  by  this  wild  concert  of 
voices. 

On  approaching  the  Staub-bach,  Luuterbrunnen. 

Tracks  let  me  follow  far  from  human  kind 

Which  these  illusive  greetings  may  not  reach ; 

Where  only  Nuture  tunes  her  voice  to  teach 

Careless  iiursuits,  and  raptures  unconfined. 

No  Mermaid  warbles  (to  allay  the  wind 

That  drives  some  vessel  towards  a  dangerous  beach) 

More  thrilling  melodies  !  no  cavern'd  Witch, 

Chanting  a  love-spell,  ever  intertwined 

Notes  shrill  and  wild  with  art  more  musical ! 

Alas  !  that  from  the  lips  of  abject  Want 

And  Idleness  in  tatters  mendicant 

They  should  proceed  — enjoyment  to  inthrall, 

And  with  regret  and  useless  pity  haunt 

This  bold,  this  pure,  this  sky-born  Waterfall! 

"  The  vocal  powers  of  these  musical  beggars  (says  Mr. 
Wordsworth)  may  seem  to  be  exaggerated  ;  but  this  wild  and 
savage  air  was  utterly  unlike  any  sounds  I  hud  ever  heard  ; 
the  notes  reached  me  from  a  dislince,  and  on  what  occasion 
they  were  sung  I  could  not  guess,  only  they  seemed  to  belong 
in  some  w.ay  or  other  to  the  waterfall ;  and  reminded  me  of 
religious  services  chanted  to  streams  and  fountains  in  Pagan 
times." 


Some  dim  presage.  —  Canto  III.  st.  41. 

Upon  this  subject  an  old  Spanish  romancer  speaks  thus : 
.^iinque  hombre  no  sabe  lo  de  adelante  como  ha  dc  venir,  el  es- 
piritu  lo  siente,  y  antes  que  venga  se  duele  dello .-  y  de  aqiii  se 
levantaron  los  grandes  sospiros  i/ue  hombres  dan  a  sohrevicntji 
no  pcnsando  en  ninguna  cosa,  como  a  muchos  acaesce  ;  que  aquel 
que  el  sospiro  echa  de  si,  el  c^iritu  es  que  sieixte  el  mal  que  ha  de 
ser.  —  Chronica  del  Rey  D.  Rodrigo,  p.  ii.  c.  )71. 


Across  her  shoulders  was  a  hammock  flung .  —  Canto  III.  St.  45. 
Pinkerton,  in  his  Geography,  (vol.  ii.  p.  535,  n.  3d  edit.) 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY, 


531 


Bays,  that  nets  are  sometimes  worn  among  tlie  Guiiranis  in- 
stead of  clothes,  and  rt'firs  to  this  very  story  in  proof  of  liis 
assertion.  1  believe  he  had  no  otiier  ground  for  it.  lie  adds, 
that  "perhaps  they  were  worn  only  to  keep  oH'  the  flies;" 
as  if  those  blood-suckers  were  to  be  keiit  off  hy  open  net- 
work ! 

Wo  owe  something,  however,  to  the  person  who  introduces 
ua  to  a  good  and  valuable  book,  and  I  am  inilebted  ori^'inally 
to  Mr.  Pinkerton  for  my  knowledge  ofDobrizhoffer.  He  says 
of  him,  when  referring  to  the  HUturia  de  Miponibus,  "  the 
lively  singularity  of  tlio  old  man's  Latin  is  itself  an  amuse- 
ment ;  and  though  sometimes  garrulous,  he  is  redundiuit  in 
authentic  and  curious  iiifurmation.  His  work,  though  bear- 
ing a  restricted  title,  is  the  best  account  yet  published  of  the 
whole  viceroyalty  of  La  Plata." 


Her  feel  upon  the  crescent  moon  were  set.  —  Canto  III.  st.  51. 

This  is  a  common  representation  of  the  Virgin,  from  the 
Revelation. 

Virgem  de  Sol  veMida,  e  dos  sens  raios 
Claros  envolta  loda,  e  das  Estrcllas 
Coroadji,  e  debaixo  os  pes  a  Lua. 

Frakcisco  ue  Sa  de  Miranda, 

These  lines  are  highly  esteemed  by  the  Portuguese  critics. 


Severe  lie  was,  and  in  his  avger  dread, 
Yet  alioay  at  his  Mother's  will,  grew  mdd. 
So  well  did  he  obey  tluit  Maiden  undefilcd.  — 

Canto  III.  St.  51. 

"  How  hath  the  conceit  of  Christ's  humiliation  here  on 
earth,  of  his  dependence  on  his  mother  during  the  time  of  his 
formation  and  birth,  and  of  his  subjection  to  her  in  his  infancy, 
brought  forth  preposterous  and  more  than  heathenish  trans- 
formations of  bis  glory  in  the  superstitious  daughters  of  tlie 
idolatrous  churcli !  They  cannot  conceive  Christ  as  King, 
unless  they  acknowledge  her  as  Queen  Dowager  of  heaven  : 
her  title  of  Lady  is  a3<iniparant  to  his  title  of  Lord  ;  her  au- 
thority for  some  purposes  held  as  great,  her  bowels  of  com- 
punction (towards  the  weaker  sex  especially)  more  tender. 
And  as  the  Heathens  frame  Gods  suital)le  to  their  own  desire, 
soliciting  them  most,  (though  otherwise  loss  potent,)  whom 
they  conceive  to  be  most  favorable  to  their  present  suits,  so 
hath  the  blessed  Virgin,  throughout  the  Romish  Church,  ob- 
tained (what  she  never  sought)  the  entire  monopoly  of  wo- 
men's prayers  in  their  travails  ;  as  if  her  presence  at  others' 
distressful  labors  (for  she  herself,  by  their  doctrine,  brought 
forth  her  first-born  and  only  son  without  pain)  had  wrought 
in  her  a  truer  feeling  or  tenderer  touch,  than  the  High  Priest 
of  their  souls  can  have  of  their  infirmities  ;  or  as  if  she  would 
use  more  faithful  and  effectual  intercession  with  her  tJon,  than 
he  can  or  will  do  with  his  Father.  Some,  in  our  times,  out  of 
the  weakness  of  their  sex,  matching  with  the  impetuousncss 
of  their  adulterous  and  disloyal  zeal,  have  in  this  kind  been 
so  impotcntly  outrageous  as  to  intercept  others'  supplications 
directed  to  Christ,  and  superscribe  them  in  this  form  unto  his 
mother ;  Blessed  Lady,  command  thy  son  to  hear  this  woman's 
prayers,  and  send  her  deliverance !  Tliese,  and  the  like 
speeches,  have  moved  some  good  women,  in  other  points 
tainted  rather  with  superstition  than  preciseness,  to  dispense 
with  tlie  law  of  secrecy,  seldom  violated  in  their  parliaments  ; 
and  I  know  not  whether  I  should  attribute  it  to  their  courage 
or  stupidity,  not  to  be  more  affrighted  at  such  ijlasphemiea, 
than  at  some  monstrous  and  prodigious  birth.  This  and  the 
like  inbred  inclinations  unto  superstition,  in  the  rude  and 
uninstructed  people,  arc  more  artificially  set  forward  by  the 
fabulous  Roman  Legendary  and  his  Aimncr,  than  the  like  were 
in  the  heathen,  by  heathen  poets  and  painters."  —  Dr. 
Thomas  Jackson's  Works,  vol.  i.  1007. 


Tyranny  of  the  Spaniards.  —  Canto  IV.  St.  7,  8. 

The  consumption  of  the  Indians  in  the  Paraguay  tea-trade, 
and  the  means  taken  by  the  Jesuits  for  cultivating  the  Caa- 
trce,  are  described  by  Uobrizhoffer. 


The  Kncomenderos  compelled  the  unhap|>y  people  whom 
they  found  living  where  tliey  liked,  tc  fettle  in  such  places  as 
were  most  convenient  for  the  work  in  whiib  they  were  now 
to  be  compulsorily  em|)Ioyed.  All  tlicir  work  was  task-work, 
imposed  with  little  moderation,  and  exacted  without  mercy. 
This  tyranny  extended  to  the  women  and  children  ;  and  as  all 
the  Spaniards,  the  officers  of  justice  as  well  as  the  Encomen- 
deros,  were  implicated  in  it,  the  Indians  had  none  to  whom 
they  could  look  for  protection.  Even  the  institutions  of 
Christianity,  by  which  the  Spanish  government  hoped  to  bet- 
ter the  temporal  condition  of  its  now  subjects,  were  made  the 
occasion  of  new  grievances  and  more  intolerable  oppression. 
For,  as  the  Indians  were  legally  free,  —  free,  therefore,  to 
marry  where  they  pleased,  and  the  wife  was  to  follow  the 
husband,  —  every  means  was  taken  to  prevent  a  marriage  be- 
tween two  Indians  who  belonged  to  different  Rcpartimientns, 
and  the  interest  of  the  master  counteracted  all  the  efforts  of 
the  priest.  The  Spanish  women  are  said  to  have  exceeded 
their  husbands  in  cruelty  on  such  occasions,  and  to  have  insti- 
gated them  to  the  most  violent  and  iniquitous  measures,  that 
they  might  not  lose  their  female  attendants.  The  consetpienco 
was,  that  profligacy  of  manners  among  the  Indians  was  rather 
encouraged  than  restrained,  as  it  is  now  in  tlie  English  sugar 
islands,  where  the  planter  is  not  a  religious  man.  —  Lozano, 
1.1,  §3,0,7. 


St.  Joachin.  — Canto  IV.  st.  17. 

The  legend  of  his  visit  to  Limbo  is  given  here  in  a  trans- 
lated extract  from  that  very  curious  work,  the  Life  of  the 
Virgin  Mary,  as  related  by  herself  to  Sister  Maria  de  Jesus, 
Abbess  of  the  Franciscan  Convent  de  la  Inmaculada  Concep- 
cion  at  Agreda,  and  published  with  the  sanction  of  all  the 
ecclesiastical  authorities  in  Spain. 

After  some  conversation  between  the  Almighty  and  the  Vir- 
gin, at  that  time  three  years  and  a  half  old,  the  Franciscan 
confessor,  who  was  the  accomplice  of  the  abbess  in  this  blas- 
phemous imposture,  proceeds  thus  :  — 

"  The  Most  High  received  this  morning  sacrifice  from  his 
tender  spouse,  .Mary  the  most  holy,  and  with  a  pleased  coun- 
tenance said  to  her,  '  Thou  art  beautiful  in  thy  thoughts, 
O  Prince's  daughter,  my  dove,  and  my  beloved  !  I  admit  thy 
desires,  which  are  agreeable  to  my  eyes :  and  it  is  my  will,  in 
fulfilment  of  them,  that  thou  sliouldest  understand  the  time 
draws  nigh,  when  by  my  divine  appointment  thy  father 
Joachin  must  pass  from  this  mortal  life  to  the  life  immortal 
and  eternal.  His  death  shall  be  short,  and  he  will  soon  rest 
in  peace,  and  be  placed  with  the  Saints  in  Limbo,  awaiting 
the  redem|)tion  of  the  whole  human  race.'  'J'his  information 
from  the  Lord  neither  disturbed  nor  troubled  the  regal  breast 
of  Mary,  the  Princess  of  Heaven  ;  yet  as  the  love  of  children 
to  their  parents  is  a  debt  due  hy  nature,  and  that  love  in  all 
its  perfection  existed  in  this  most  holy  child,  a  natural  grief 
at  losing  her  most  holy  father  Joachin,  whom  as  a  daughter 
she  devoutly  loved,  could  not  fail  to  be  resented.  The  tender 
and  sweet  child  Mary  felt  a  movement  of  grief  compatible 
with  the  serenity  of  her  magnanimous  heart :  and  acting  with 
greatness  in  every  thing,  following  both  grace  and  nature,  she 
made  a  fervent  prayer  for  her  father  Joachin  :  she  besought 
the  Lord,  that,  as  the  mighty  and  true  God,  he  would  look 
upon  him  in  the  hour  of  his  liajipy  death,  and  defend  him 
from  the  Devil,  especially  in  th;it  hour,  and  preserve  him,  and 
appoint  him  in  the  number  of  his  elect,  as  one  who  in  bis  life 
had  confessed  and  magnified  his  holy  and  adorable  name. 
And  the  more  to  oblige  his  Majesty,  the  most  faithful  daugh- 
ter offired  to  endure  for  her  father,  the  most  holy  Joachin, 
all  that  the  Lord  might  ordain. 

"  His  Majesty  accepted  this  petition,  and  consoled  the  divine 
child,  assuring  her  that  he  would  be  with  her  fither  as  a  mer- 
ciful and  compassionate  remunerator  of  those  who  love  and 
serve  him,  and  that  he  would  place  him  with  the  Patriarchs, 
Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  ;  and  be  prepared  her  again  to 
receive  and  suffer  other  troubles.  Eight  days  before  the  death 
of  the  holy  Patriarch  Joachin,  Mary  the  most  holy  had  other 
advices  from  the  Lord,  declaring  the  day  and  hour  in  which 
he  was  to  die,  as  in  fact  it  occurred,  only  six  months  after  our 
Queen  wont  to  reside  in  the  temple.  When  her  Highness 
had  received  this  information  from  the  Lord,  she  besought  the 
twelve  angels,  (who,  1  have  before  said,  were  those  whom 


532 


NOTES  TO  A  TALE  OF  PARAGUAY. 


St.  John  names  in  tlio  Revelation,)  that  they  would  be  with 
her  father  Joachin  in  his  sickness,  and  comfort  him,  and  con- 
sole him  in  it ;  and  thus  they  did.  And  for  the  last  hour  of 
his  transit  she  sent  all  those  of  her  guard,  and  besought  the 
Lord  that  he  would  make  them  manifest  to  her  father  for  his 
greater  consolation.  The  Most  High  granted  this,  and  in 
every  thing  fulfilled  the  desire  of  his  elect,  unique,  and  per- 
fect one  :  and  the  great  Patriarch  and  happy  Joachin  saw  the 
thousand  holy  angels  who  guaided  his  daughter  Maria,  at 
whose  petition  and  desire  the  grace  of  the  Almighty  super- 
abounded,  and  by  his  command  the  angel  said  to  Joachin 
these  things  :  — 

"  '  Man  of  God,  the  Most  High  and  Mighty  is  thy  eternal 
salvation,  and  he  sends  thee  from  bis  holy  place  the  necessary 
and  timely  assistance  lor  thy  soul  I  Mary,  thy  daughter,  sends 
us  to  be  with  thee  at  Ibis  hour,  in  which  thou  hast  to  pay  to 
thy  Creator  the  debt  of  natural  death.  She  is  thy  most 
faithful  and  powerful  intercessor  with  the  Most  High,  in 
whose  name  and  peace  depart  thou  from  this  world  with  con- 
solation and  joy,  that  he  bath  made  thee  parent  of  so  blessed 
a  daughter.  And  aUliougb  bis  incomprebensible  Majesty,  in 
his  serene  wisdom,  hath  not  till  now  manifested  to  thee  the 
sacrament  and  dignity  in  whicii  he  will  constitute  thy  daugh- 
ter, it  is  bis  pleasure  that  thou  sbouldest  know  it  now,  to  the 
intent  that  thou  mayest  magnify  him  and  praise  him,  and  that 
at  such  news  the  jubilee  of  thy  s]jirit  may  be  joined  with  the 
grief  and  natural  sadness  of  death.  Mary,  thy  daughter,  and 
our  Ciueen,  is  the  one  chosen  by  the  arm  of  the  Omnipotent, 
that  the  Divine  Word  may  in  her  clothe  himself  with  flesh, 
and  with  the  human  form.  She  is  to  be  the  happy  Mother  of 
the  Messiah,  blessed  among  women,  superior  to  all  creatures, 
and  inferior  only  to  God  himself.  Thy  most  happy  daughter 
is  to  be  the  repairer  of  what  the  human  race  lost  by  the  first 
fall,  and  the  high  mountain  whereon  the  new  law  of  grace  is 
to  be  formed  and  established.  Thereibre,  as  tbou  leavest  now 
in  the  world  its  restauratrix  and  daughter,  by  whom  God 
prepares  for  it  the  fitting  remedy,  depart  thou  in  joy  ;  and  the 
Lord  will  bless  thee  from  Zion,  and  will  give  thee  a  place 
among  the  !?aints,  that  thou  mayest  attain  to  the  sight  and 
possession  of  the  happy  Jerusalem.' 

"  While  the  holy  Angels  spake  these  words  to  Joachin, 
St.  Anna,  his  wife,  was  present,  standing  by  the  pillow  of  his 
bed  ;  and  she  heard,  and,  by  divine  permission,  understood 
them.  At  the  same  time,  the  holy  Patriarch  Joachin  lost  his 
speech,  and  entering  upon  the  common  way  of  all  flesh,  began 
to  die,  with  a  marvellous  struggle  between  the  delight  of  such 
joyful  tidings  and  the  pain  of  death.  During  this  conflict 
with  his  interior  powers,  many  and  fervent  acts  of  divine 
love,  of  faith,  and  adoration,  and  praise,  and  thanksgiving,  and 
humiliation,  and  other  virtues,  did  he  heroically  perform  :  and 
thus  absorbed  in  the  new  knowledge  of  so  divine  a  mystery 
he  came  to  the  end  of  his  natural  life,  dying  the  precious 
death  of  the  .Saints.  His  most  holy  spirit  was  carried  by  the 
Angels  to  the  Limbo  of  the  Holy  Fathers  and  of  the  Just: 
and  for  a  new  consolation  and  light  in  the  long  night  wherein 
they  dwelt,  the  Most  High  ordered  that  the  soul  of  the  holy 
Patriarch  Joachin  sliould  be  the  new  Paranymph  and  Am- 
bassador of  his  Great  Majesty,  for  announcing  to  all  that 
congregation  of  the  Just,  how  the  day  of  eternal  light  had 
now  dawned,  and  the  day-break  was  born,  Mary,  the  most 
holy  daughter  of  Joachin  and  of  Anna,  from  whom  should  be 
born  the  Sun  of  Divinity,  Christ,  Restorer  of  the  whole 
human  race.  The  Holy  Fathers  and  the  Just  in  Limbo 
heard  these  tidings,  and  in  their  jubilee  composed  new  hymns 
of  thanksgiving  to  the  Most  High. 

"  This  happy  death  of  the  Patriarch  St.  Joachin  occurred 
(as  I  have  before  said)  half  a  year  after  his  daughter,  Mary 
the  most  holy,  entered  the  Temple  ;  and  when  she  was  at  the 
tender  age  of  three  and  a  half,  she  was  thus  left  in  the  world 
without  a  natural  father.  The  age  of  the  Patriarch  was  sixty 
and  nine  years,  distributed  and  divided  thus  :  at  the  age  of 
forty  six  years,  he  took  St.  An..a  to  wife  ;  twenty  years  after 


this  marriage,  Mary  the  most  holy  was  born  ;  and  the  three 
years  and  a  half  of  her  Highness's  age  make  sixty-nine  and  a 
half,  a  few  days  more  or  less. 

"  The  holy  Patriarch  and  father  of  our  Queen  being  dead, 
the  holy  Angels  of  her  guard  returned  incontinently  to  her 
presence,  and  gave  her  notice  of  all  that  bad  occurred  in  her 
father's  transit.  Forthwith  the  most  prudent  child  solicited 
with  prayers  for  the  consolation  of  her  mother  St.  Anna, 
entreating  that  the  Lord  would,  as  a  father,  direct  and  govern 
her  in  the  solitude  wherein,  by  the  loss  of  her  husband, 
Joachin,  she  was  left.  St.  Anna  .herself  sent  also  news  of  bis 
death,  whicli  was  first  comnmnitlted  fo  the  Mistress  of  our 
divine  Piincess,  that,  in  imparting  it,  she  might  console  her. 
The  Mistress  did  this,  and  the  most  wise  child  heard  her, 
with  all  composure  and  dissimulation,  but  with  the  patience 
and  the  modesty  of  a  Queen  ;  but  she  was  not  ignorant  of 
the  event  which  her  Mistress  related  to  her  as  news."  —  Mis- 
tica  Ciudud  de  Dios,  par.  1,  1.2,  c.  l(i,  ^664 — 669.  Madrid, 
1714. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  that  the 
work,  from  which  this  extract  is  translated,  was  palmed  upon 
the  Spaniards  as  a  new  revelation.  Gross  and  blasphemous 
as  the  imposture  is,  the  work  was  still  current  when  I  pro- 
cured my  copy,  about  twenty  years  ago ;  and  it  is  not  included 
in  the  Spanish  Index  Expurgatorius  of  1790,  the  last  (I  be- 
lieve) which  was  published,  and  which  is  now  before  me. 


He  could  not  tarry  here.  —  Canto  IV.  st.  67. 

A  case  precisely  of  the  same  kind  is  mentioned  by  Mr. 
Mariner.  "  A  young  Chief  at  Tonga,  a  very  handsome  man, 
was  inspired  by  the  ghost  of  a  woman  in  Bolotoo,  who  had 
fallen  in  love  with  him.  On  a  sudden,  he  felt  himself  low- 
spirited,  and,  shortly  afterwards,  fainted  away.  When  he 
came  to  himself,  he  was  very  ill,  and  was  taken  accordingly  to 
the  house  of  a  priest.  As  yet,  he  did  not  know  who  it  was 
that  inspired  him,  but  the  priest  informed  liim  that  it  was  a 
woman  of  Bolotoo,  mentioning  her  name,  who  bad  died  some 
years  before,  and  who  wished  him  nosv  to  die,  that  he  might 
be  near  her.  He  accordingly  died  in  two  dnys.  The  Chief 
said  he  suspected  this,  from  the  dreams  he  had  had  at  differ- 
ent times,  when  the  figure  of  a  woman  came  to  him  in  the 
night.  Mr.  Mariner  was  with  the  sick  Chief  three  or  four 
times  during  his  illness,  and  beard  the  priest  foretell  his  death, 
and  relate  the  occasion  of  it."  —  Mariner. 

The  following  similar  case  appeared  in  a  newspaper:  — 
"  Died,  on  Sunday  evening,  the  14th  instant,  John  Sackeouse, 
aged  22,  a  native  of  the  west  coast  of  Greenland.  This  Eski- 
maux  has  occupied  a  considerable  share  of  the  pulilic  attention, 
and  bis  loss  will  be  very  generally  felt.  He  bad  already  ren- 
dered important  service  to  the  country  in  the  late  expedition  of 
discovery,  and  great  expectations  were  naturally  formed  of  the 
utility  which  be  would  prove  on  the  expedition  about  to  sail 
for  Daffin's  Bay.  The  Admiralty,  with  great  liberality  and 
judgment,  had  directed  the  greatest  pains  to  be  taken  in  his 
further  education  ;  and  he  had  been  several  months  in  Edin- 
burgh with  this  view,  when  be  was  seized  with  a  violent 
inflammation  in  the  chest,  which  carried  him  ofi"  in  a  few 
days.  He  was  extremely  docile,  and,  though  rather  slow  in 
the  attainment  of  knowledge,  he  was  industrious,  zealous, 
and  cheerful,  and  was  always  grateful  for  the  kindness  aiul 
attention  shown  to  him.  His  amiable  disposition  and  simple 
manners  bad  interested  those  who  had  opportunities  of  know- 
ing him  personally,  in  a  way  that  will  not  soon  be  forgotten. 
'J'o  the  public,  his  loss,  we  fear,  is  irreparable — to  his 
friends,  it  is  doubly  severe.  Just  before  his  death,  the  poor 
Eskimaux  said  he  knew  he  was  going  to  die  ;  that  his  father 
and  mother  had  died  in  the  same  way  ;  and  that  his  sister, 
who  was  the  last  of  all  his  relations,  had  just  appeared  to  him, 
and  called  him  away."  —  Edinburgh  Courant,  Feb.  19. 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,  OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


533 


ALL    FOR    LOVE, 

OR 

A    SINNER    W^ELL    SAVED. 


TO   CAROLINE    BOWLES. 

Could  I  look  forward  to  a  distant  day 
With  hope  of  buildinsr  some  elaborate  lay, 
Then  would  I  wait  till  worthier  strains  of  mine 
Might  bear  inscribed  thy  name,  O  Caroline  ! 
For  I  would,  while  my  voice  is  heard  on  earth, 
Bear  witness  to  thy  genius  and  thy  worth. 
But  we  have  both  been  taught  to  feel  with  fear 
How  frail  the  tenure  of  existence  here. 
What  unforeseen  calamities  prevent, 
Alas,  how  oft !  the  best-resolved  intent ; 
And  therefore  this  poor  volume  I  address 
To  thee,  dear  friend,  and  sister  Poetess. 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


Keswick,  21  Feb.  1829. 


Tho  story  of  tlie  following  Poem  is  taken  from  a  Lift;  of 
St.  Basil,  ascribed  to  his  contemporary  St.  Amphilochius, 
Bishop  of  Iconium  ;  a  Latin  version  of  which,  made  by 
Cardinal  Ursus  in  the  ninth  century,  is  inserted  by  Ro3- 
weyde,  among  the  Lives  of  tlie  Fathers,  in  his  compilation 
Historic  Ereiniticie.  The  original  ha<l  not  then  been  printed, 
but  Rosweyde  obtained  a  copy  of  it  from  the  Royal  Library 
at  I'aris.  lie  intimates  no  suspicion  concerning  the  au- 
thenticity of  the  life,  or  the  truth  of  this  particular  legend  ; 
observing  only,  that  hisc  narralio  apud  solum  invenitur  Ain- 
philochium.  It  is,  indeed,  the  flower  of  the  work,  and  as 
such  had  been  culled  by  some  earlier  translator  than  Ursus. 

The  very  learned  Dominican,  P.  Francois  Combefis,  pub- 
lished the  original,  with  a  version  of  his  own,  and  endeav- 
ored to  establish  its  authenticity  in  opposition  to  Baronius, 
who  supposed  the  life  to  have  been  written  by  some  other 
Amphilochius,  not  by  the  Bishop  of  Iconium.  H;k1  Com- 
befis possessed  powers  of  mind  equal  to  his  erudition,  he 
might  even  then  have  been  in  some  degree  prejudiced  upon 
this  subject,  for,  according  to  Baillet,ii  avuit  un  attar.hemcnt 
particulier  pour  S.  Basile.  His  version  is  inserted  in  the 
.^cta  Sanctorum,  (Jun.  t.  ii.  pp.  937 — 957.)  But  the  Bol- 
landist  Baert  brands  the  life  there  as  apocryphal ;  and  in 
bis  annotations  treats  Combefis  more  rudely,  it  may  be  sus- 
pected, than  he  would  have  done,  had  he  not  belonged  to  a 
rival  and  hostile  order. 

Should  the  reader  be  desirous  of  comparing  the  Poem  with 
the  Legend,  he  may  find  the  story,  as  transcribed  from 
Rosweyde,  among  the  Notes. 


A  YOUTH  hath  enter'd  the  Sorcerer's  door, 

But  he  dares  not  lift  his  eye, 

For  his  knees  fail,  and  his  flesh  quakes, 

And  his  heart  beats  audibly. 

"  Look  up,  young  man  1  "  the  Sorcerer  said  ; 

"  Lay  open  thy  wishes  to  me  ! 

Or  art  thou  too  modest  to  tell  tliy  tale  .•' 

If  80, 1  can  tell  it  thee. 


"  Thy  name  is  Eleemon ; 

Proterius's  freedman  thou  art ; 

And  on  Cyra,  thy  Master's  daughter, 

Thou  hast  madly  fix'd  thy  heart. 

"  But  fearing  (as  thou  well  mayest  fear  !) 

The  high-born  Maid  to  woo. 

Thou  hast  tried  what  secret  prayers,  and  vov's, 

And  sacrifice  might  do. 

"Thou  hast  prayed  unto  all  Saints  in  Heaven, 

And  to  Mary  tlieir  vaunted  Queen  ; 

And  little  furtherance  hast  thou  found 

From  them,  or  from  her,  I  ween ! 

"And  thou,  I  know,  the  Ancient  Gods, 

In  hope  forlorn,  hast  tried. 

If  haply  Venus  might  obtain 

The  maiden  for  thy  bride. 

"  On  Jove  and  Phoebus  thou  hast  call'd, 

And  on  Astarte's  name  ; 

And  on  her,  who  still  at  Ephesus 

Retains  a  faded  fame. 

"  Thy  voice  to  Baal  hath  been  raised ; 

To  Nile's  old  Deities; 

And  to  all  Gods  of  elder  time, 

Adored  by  men  in  every  clime. 

When  they  ruled  earth,  seas,  and  skies. 

"  Their  Images  are  deaf! 

Their  Oracles  are  dumb  ! 

And  therefore  thou,  in  thy  despair. 

To  Abibas  art  come. 

"  Ay,  because  neither  Saints  nor  Gods 

Thy  pleasure  will  fulfil, 

Thou  comest  to  me,  Eleemon, 

To  ask  if  Satan  will ! 

"  I  answer  thee.  Yes.  But  a  faint  heart 
Can  never  accomplish  its  ends ; 

Put  thy  trust  boldly  in  him,  and  be  sure 
He  never  forsakes  his  friends." 

While  Eleemon  listen'd 

He  shudder'd  inwardly. 

At  the  ugly  voice  of  Abibas, 

And  the  look  in  his  wicked  eye. 

And  he  could  then  almost  have  given 

His  fatal  purpose  o'er  ; 

But  his  Good  Angel  had  left  him 

When  he  entered  the  Sorcerer's  door. 

So,  in  the  strength  of  evil  shame, 

His  mind  the  young  man  knit 

Into  a  desperate  resolve. 

For  his  bad  purpose  fit. 

"  Let  thy  Master  give  me  what  I  seek, 

O  Servant  of  Satan,"  he  said, 

"  As  I  ask  firmly,  and  for  his 

Renounce  all  other  aid  ! 


534             ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 

"Time  presses.     Cyra  is  content 

"  The  passage  will  be  swift  and  safe  ; 

To  bid  the  world  farewell, 

No  danger  awaits  thee  beyond ; 

And  pass  her  days,  a  virgin  vow'd. 

Thou  wilt  only  have  now  to  sign  and  seal, 

Among  Emmelia's  sisterhood, 

And  hereafter  to  pay  the  Bond." 

Tlie  tenant  of  a  cell. 

»  Thus  hath  her  father  will'd,  that  so 

♦ 

A  life  of  rigor  here  below 

May  fit  her  for  the  skies. 

11. 

And  Heaven  acceptably  receive 

His  costliest  sacrifice. 

Shunning  human  sight,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 

Eleijmon  made  no  delay, 

"  The  admiring  people  say  of  this 

But  went  unto  a  Pagan's  tomb 

That  Angels,  or  that  Saints  in  bliss. 

Beside  the  public  way. 

The  holy  thought  inspire  ; 

And  she  is  call'd  a  blessed  Maid, 

Enclosed  with  barren  elms  it  stood, 

And  he  a  happy  Sire. 

There  planted  when  the  dead 

Within  the  last  abode  of  man 

"  Through  Cappadocia  far  and  wide 

Had  been  deposited. 

The  news  hath  found  its  way, 

And  crowds  to  Coesarea  flock 

And  thrice  ten  years  those  barren  trees, 

To  attend  the  solemn  day. 

Enjoying  light  and  air, 

Had  grown  and  flourish'd,  while  the  dead 

"  The  robes  are  ready,  rich  with  gold. 

In  daj-kness  moulder'd  there. 

Even  like  a  bridal  dress. 

Which  at  the  altar  she  will  wear 

Long  had  they  overtopp'd  the  tomb ; 

When  self-devoted  she  stands  there 

And  closed  was  now  that  upper  room 

In  all  her  loveliness. 

Where  friends  were  wont  to  pour. 

Upon  the  honor'd  dust  below. 

"  And  that  coarse  habit  too,  which  she 

Libations  through  the  floor. 

Must  then  put  on,  is  made. 

Therein  to  be  for  life  and  death 

There  on  that  unblest  monument 

Unchangeably  array'd. 

The  young  man  took  his  stand, 

And  northward  he  the  tablets  held 

"  This  night,  this  precious  night  is  ours ; 

In  his  uplifted  hand. 

Late,  late,  I  come  to  you ; 

But  all  that  must  be  dared,  or  done. 

A  courage  not  his  own  he  felt. 

Prepared  to  dare  and  do." 

A  wicked  fortitude. 

Wherewith  bad  influences  unseen 

»•  Thou  hast  hesitated  long  !  "  said  Abibas, 

That  hour  his  heart  endued. 

"  And  thou  hast  done  amiss, 

In  praying  to  Him  whom  I  name  not, 

The  rising  Moon  grew  pale  in  heaven 

That  it  never  might  come  to  this  ! 

At  that  unhappy  sight ; 

And  all  the  blessed  Stars  seem'd  then 

'  But  thou  hast  chosen  thy  part,  and  here  thou  art ; 

To  close  their  twinkling  light ; 

And  thou  shalt  have  tliy  desire ; 

And  a  shuddering  in  the  elms  was  heard. 

And  though  at  the  eleventh  hour 

■      Though  winds  were  still  that  night. 

Thou  hast  come  to  serve  our  Prince  of  Power, 

He  will  give  thee  in  full  thine  hire. 

He  call'd  the  Spirits  of  the  Air, 

He  call'd  them  in  the  name 

"  These  Tablets  take ;  "  (he  wrote  as  he  spake ;) 

Of  Abibas;  and  at  the  call 

"  My  letters,  which  thou  art  to  bear. 

The  attendant  Spirits  came. 

Wherein  I  shall  commend  thee 

To  the  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air. 

A  strong  hand,  which  he  could  not  see, 

Took  his  uplifted  hand ; 

"  Go  from  the  North  Gate  out,  and  take 

He  felt  a  strong  arm  circle  him, 

On  a  Pagan's  tomb  thy  stand  ; 

And  lift  him  from  his  stand ;  — 

And,  looking  to  the  North,  hold  up 

The  Tablets  in  thy  hand ;  — 

A  whirr  of  unseen  wings  he  heard 

About  him  every  where. 

"  And  call  the  Spirits  of  the  Air, 

Which  onward,  with  a  mighty  force, 

That  they  iny  messenger  may  bear 

Impell'd  him  through  the  air. 

To  the  place  whither  he  would  pass. 

And  there  present  him  to  their  Prince 

Fast  through  the  middle  sky  and  far 

In  the  name  of  Abibas. 

It  hurried  him  along ; 

ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


535 


The  Hurricane  is  not  so  swift, 
The  Torrent  not  so  strong;  — 

The  Lightning  travels  not  so  fast. 
The  Sunbeams  not  so  far ; 

And  now  behind  him  he  hath  left 
The  Moon  and  every  Star. 

And  still,  erect  as  on  the  tomb 

In  impious  act  he  stood. 

Is  he  rapt  onward  —  onward  —  still 

In  that  fix'd  attitude. 

But  as  he  from  the  living  world 

Approach'd  where  Spirits  dwell, 

His  bearers  tliere  in  thinner  air 

Were  dimly  visible  ;  — 

Shapeless,  and  scarce  to  be  descried 
In  darkness  where  they  flew  ; 

But  still,  as  they  advanced,  the  more 
And  more  distinct  they  grew. 

And  when  their  way  fast-speeding  they 

Through  their  own  region  went. 

Then  were  they  in  their  substance  seen. 

The  angelic  form,  the  fiendish  mien. 

Face,  look,  and  lineament. 

Behold  where  dawns  before  them  now. 

Far  off,  tlie  boreal  ray. 

Sole  daylight  of  that  frozen  zone. 

The  limit  of  their  way. 

In  that  drear  realm  of  outer  night. 
Like  the  shadow,  or  the  ghost  of  light. 

It  moved  in  the  restless  skies, 

And  went  and  came,  like  a  feeble  flame 

That  flickers  before  it  dies. 

There  the  fallen  Seraph  reign'd  supreme 

Amid  the  utter  waste  ; 

There,  on  the  everlasting  ice. 

His  dolorous  tlirone  was  placed. 

Son  of  the  Morning  !  is  it  then 
For  this  that  thou  hast  given 
Thy  seat,  preeminent  among 
The  hierarchies  of  Heaven  .'  — 

As  if  dominion  here  could  joy 

To  blasted  pride  impart ; 

Or  this  cold  region  slake  the  fire 

Of  Hell  within  the  heart ! 

Thither  the  Evil  Angels  bear 

The  youth,  and,  rendering  homage  there 

Their  service  they  evince, 

And  in  the  name  of  Abibas 

Present  him  to  their  Prince  : 

Just  as  they  seized  him  when  he  made 

The  Sorcerer's  mandate  known. 

In  that  same  act  and  attitude 

They  set  him  before  the  throne. 


The  fallen  Seraph  cast  on  him 

A  dark,  disdainful  look  ; 

And  from  his  raised  hand  scornfully 

The  proffer'd  tablets  took. 

"  Ay,  —  love  !  "  he  cried.     "  It  serves  me  well. 

There  was  the  Trojan  boy,  — 

His  love  brought  forth  a  ten  years'  war. 

And  fired  the  towers  of  Troy. 

"  And  when  my  own  Mark  Antony 

Against  young  Caesar  strove. 

And  Rome's  whole  world  was  set  in  arms, 

The  cause  was,  —  all  for  love  ! 

"  Some  for  ambition  sell  themselves ; 

By  avarice  some  are  driven ; 

Pride,  envy,  hatred,  best  will  move 

Some  souls ;  and  some  for  only  love 

Renounce  their  hopes  of  Heaven. 

"  Yes,  of  all  human  follies,  love, 

Methinks,  hath  served  me  best ; 

The  Apple  had  done  but  little  for  me. 

If  Eve  had  not  done  the  rest. 

"  Well  then,  young  Amorist,  whom  love 

Hath  brought  unto  this  pass, 

I  am  willing  to  perform  the  word 

Of  my  servant  Abibas. 

"  Thy  Master's  daughter  shall  be  thine. 

And  with  her  sire's  consent; 

And  not  more  to  thy  heart's  desire 

Than  to  her  own  content. 

"  Yea,  more  ;  —  I  give  thee  with  the  girl, 

Thine  after-days  to  bless. 

Health,  wealth,  long  life,  and  whatsoe'er 

The  world  calls  happiness. 

"  But,  mark  me  !  — on  conditions,  youth  I 

No  paltering  here  we  know  ! 

Dost  thou  here,  solemnly,  this  hour. 

Thy  hope  of  Heaven  forego  ? 

"  Dost  thou  renounce  thy  baptism, 

And  bind  thyself  to  me, 

My  woful  portion  to  partake 

Through  all  eternity  ? 

"  No  lurking  purpose  shall  avail, 

When  youth  may  fail  and  courage  quail, 

To  cheat  me  by  contrition  ! 

I  will  have  thee  written  down  among 

The  children  of  Perdition. 

"Remember,  I  deceive  thee  not, 

Nor  have  I  tempted  thee  ! 

Thou  comcst  of  thine  own  accord, 

And  actest  knowingly. 

"  Dost  thou,  who  now  to  choose  art  free, 
Forever  pledge  thyself  to  me .' 
As  I  shall  help  thee,  say  !  "  — 


53G 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


I  do ;  so  lielp  me,  Satan  ! 
The  wilful  castaway. 


said 


"A  resolute  answer,"  quoth  the  Fiend; 

"  And  now  then,  Child  of  Dust, 

In  further  proof  of  that  firm  heart. 

Thou  wilt  sign  a  Bond  before  we  part,* 

For  I  take  thee  not  on  trust  I  " 

Swift  as  thought,  a  scroll  and  a  reed  were  brought. 

And  to  Eleiimon's  breast. 

Just  where  the  heart-stroke  plays,  the  point 

Of  the  reed  was  gently  press'd. 

It  pierced  not  in,  nor  touch'd  the  skin ; 

But  the  sense  that  it  caused  was  such, 

As  when  an  electric  pellet  of  light 

Comes  forcibly  out  at  a  touch ;  — 

A  sense  no  sooner  felt  than  gone, 

But,  with  that  short  feeling,  then 

A  drop  of  his  heart's  blood  came  forth 

And  fill'd  the  fatal  pen. 

And  with  that  pen  accurs'd  he  sign'd 

The  execrable  scroll. 

Whereby  he  to  perdition  bound 

His  miserable  soul. 

"Eleemon,  Eleemon  !  "  then  said  the  Demon, 

"  The  girl  shall  be  thine, 

By  the  tie  she  holds  divine. 

Till  time  that  tie  shall  sever ; 

And  by  this  writing  thou  art  mine, 

Forever,  and  ever,  and  ever  !  " 


III. 

Look  at  yon  silent  dwelling  now  ! 

A  heavenly  sight  is  there, 

Where  Cyra  in  her  Chamber  kneels 

Before  the  Cross  in  prayer. 

She  is  not  loath  to  leave  the  world ; 

For  she  hath  been  taught  with  joy 

To  think  that  prayer  and  praise  thenceforth 

Will  be  her  life's  employ. 

And  thus  her  mind  hath  she  inclined. 

Her  pleasure  being  still 

(An  only  child,  and  motherless) 

To  do  her  Father's  will. 

The  moonlight  falls  upon  lier  face. 

Upraised  in  fervor  meek. 

While  peaceful  tears  of  piety 

Are  stealing  down  her  cheek. 

That  duty  done,  the  harmless  maid 

Disposed  herself  to  rest ; 

No  sin,  no  sorrow  in  her  soul. 

No  trouble  in  her  breast. 


But  when  upon  the  pillow  then, 

Composed,  she  laid  her  head. 

She  little  thought  what  unseen  Powers 

Kept  watch  beside  her  bed. 

A  double  ward  had  she  that  night, 

When  evil  near  her  drew ; 

Her  own  Good  Angel  guarding  her. 

And  Eleiimon's  too. 

Their  charge  it  was  to  keep  her  safe 

From  all  unholy  things  ; 

And  o'er  her,  while  she  slept,  they  spread 

The  shadow  of  their  wings. 

So  when  an  Evil  Dream  drew  nigh. 

They  barr'd  him  from  access. 

Nor  sufTer'd  him  to  reach  her  with 

A  breath  of  sinfulness. 

But  with  his  instigations  they 

A  hallowing  influence  blent. 

And  made  his  fiendish  ministry 

Subserve  to  their  intent. 

Thus,  while  in  troubled  sleep  she  lay, 

Strange  impulses  were  given, 

Emotions  earthly  and  of  earth. 

With  heavenly  ones  of  Heaven. 

And  now  the  nightingale  hath  ceased 

Her  strain,  who  all  night  long 

Hath  in  the  garden  rosier  trill'd 

A  rich  and  rapturous  song. 

The  storks  on  roof,  and  dome,  and  tower. 

Forbear  their  clattering  din, 

As  now  the  motions  and  the  sounds 

Of  daily  life  begin. 

Then,  as  from  dreams  that  seem'd  no  dreams, 

The  wondering  Maid  awoke, 

A  low,  sweet  voice  was  in  her  ear, 

Such  as  we  might  expect  to  hear 

If  some  Good  Angel  spoke. 

According  with  her  dreams,  it  said, 

"  So,  Cyra,  must  it  be  ; 

The  duties  of  a  wedded  life 

Hath  Heaven  ordain'd  for  thee." 

This  was  no  dream  full  well  she  knew ; 

For  open-eyed  she  lay, 
Conscious  of  thought  and  wakefulness. 

And  in  the  light  of  day ; 

And  twice  it  spake,  if  doubt  had  been, 

To  do  all  doubt  away. 

Alas !  but  how  shall  she  make  known 

This  late  and  sudden  change .'' 

Or  how  obtain  belief  for  what 

Even  to  herself  is  strange  .' 

How  will  her  Father  brook  a  turn 
That  must  to  all  seem  shame  .' 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED.              5.37 

How  bear  to  tliink  that  vulgar  tongues 

"  Yea,  I  was  fruitful  as  a  vine ; 

Are  busy  with  her  name  ?  — 

Our  Heavenly  Parent  me  and  mine 

In  all  things  seem'd  to  bless ; 

That  she  should  for  a  voice  —  a  dream  — 

Our  ways  were  ways  of  peace,  our  patlis 

Expose  herself  to  be  the  theme 

Were  paths  of  pleasantness. 

Of  wonder  and  of  scorn  ;  — 

Public  as  lier  intent  had  been, 

"  When  I  taught  lisping  lips  to  pray, 

And  this  the  appointed  morn  ! 

The  joy  it  was  to  me. 

O  Father,  thus  to  train  these  plants 

The  Nuns  even  now  are  all  alert; 

For  immortality ! 

The  altar  hath  been  dress'd. 

The  scissors  that  should  clip  her  hair 

"  I  saw  their  little  winning  ways 

Provided,  and  the  black  hood  there, 

Their  grandsire's  love  engage  ; 

And  there  the  sable  vest. 

Methought  they  were  the  pride,  the  joy, 

The  crown  of  his  old  age. 

And  there  the  Priests  are  robing  now ; 

The  Singers  in  their  station ; 

"  When  from  the  Vision  I  awoke. 

Hark  !  in  the  city  she  can  hear 

A  voice  was  in  my  ear, — 

The  stir  of  expectation  ! 

A  waking  voice,  —  I  heard  it  twice; 

No  human  tongue  was  near ;  — 

Througli  every  gate  the  people  pour. 

And  guests  on  roof,  and  porch,  and  tower, 

"No  human  utterance  so  could  reach 

Expectant  take  their  place ; 

The  secret  soul,  no  human  speech 

The  streets  are  swarming,  and  the  church 

So  make  the  soul  rejoice ; 

Already  fills  apace. 

In  hearing  it  I  felt  and  knew 

It  was  an  Angel's  voice  ! 

Speak,  then,  she  must :  her  heart  she  felt 

This  night  had  changed  its  choice ; 

"  And  thus,  in  words  distinct,  it  said  :  — 

Nor  dared  the  Maiden  disobey,  — 

'  So,  Cyra,  must  it  be  ! 

Nor  did  she  wish  to  (sooth  to  say,)  — 

The  duties  of  a  wedded  life 

That  sweet  and  welcome  voice. 

Hath  Heaven  ordain'd  for  thee.'  " 

Her  Father  comes :  she  studies  not 

Her  cheek  was  like  the  new-blown  rose, 

For  gloss,  or  for  pretence  ; 

While  thus  she  told  her  tale  ; 

The  plain,  straight  course  will  Cyra  take 

Protcrius  listened  earnestly. 

(Which  none  without  remorse  forsake) 

And  as  he  heard  grew  pale  ;  — 

Of  truth  and  innocence. 

For  he,  too,  in  the  dreams  of  night. 

"  O  Father,  hear  me  patiently  !  " 

At  the  altar  had  seem'd  to  stand. 

The  blushing  Maiden  said; 

And  to  Eleemon,  his  freedman, 

"  I  tremble.  Father,  while  1  speak. 

Had  given  his  daughter's  hand. 

But  surely  not  for  dread ;  — 

Their  offspring,  courting  his  caress. 

"  If  all  my  wishes  liave  till  now 

About  his  knees  had  throng'd  ; 

Found  favor  in  thy  sight. 

A  lovely  progeny,  in  whom. 

And  ever  to  perform  thy  will 

When  he  was  in  the  silent  tomb. 

Hath  been  my  best  delight. 

His  line  should  be  prolong'd. 

Why  should  I  fear  to  tell  thee  now 

The  visions  of  this  night .'' 

And  he  had  heard  a  waking  voice, 

Which  said  it  so  must  be, 

"  I  stood  in  a  dream  at  the  altar,  — 

Pronouncing  upon  Cyra's  name 

But  it  was  as  an  earthly  Bride ; 

A  holiest  eulogy  :  — 

And  Eleemon,  thy  freedman, 

Was  the  Bridegroom  at  my  side. 

"  Her  shall  her  husband  praise,  and  her 

Her  children  bless'd  shall  call ; 

"  Thou,  Father,  gavest  me  to  him, 

Many  daughters  have  done  virtuously, 

With  thy  free  and  full  consent ; 

But  thine  excelleth  them  all !  " 

And  —  why  should  I  dissemble  it.''  — 

Methought  I  was  content. 

No  marvel  if  his  heart  were  moved  ; 

The  dream  he  saw  was  one  ; 

'  Months  then  and  years  were  crowded 

He  kiss'd  his  trembling  child,  and  said, 

In  the  course  of  that  busy  night; 

"  The  will  of  Heaven  be  done  !  " 

I  clasp'd  a  baby  to  my  breast, 

And,  oh !  with  what  delight ! 

Little  did  child  or  sire  in  this 

68 

The  work  of  sorcery  fear ; 

538             ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 

As  little  did  Elefimon  think 

And  what  though  EleC-mon  were 

That  the  hand  of  Heaven  waa  here. 

A  man  of  lowly  birth.' 

Enough  it  waa  if  Nature  had 

Ennobled  him  with  worth. 
"This  was  no  doubtful  thing,"  they  said, 

IV. 

"  For  he  had  in  the  house  been  bred. 

From  house  to  house,  from  street  to  street. 
The  rapid  rumor  flies  ; 

Nor  e'er  from  thence  removed  ; 

But  there  from  childhood  had  been  known. 

Incredulous  ears  it  found,  and  hands 
Are  lifted  in  surprise ; 

And  trusted,  and  approved. 

And  tongues  through  all  the  astonish'd  town 

Are  busier  now  than  eyes. 

"  Sucii  as  he  was,  his  qualities 

Might  to  the  world  excuse 

"  So  sudden  and  so  strange  a  change  ! 

The  Maid  and  Father  for  their  choice, 

A  Freedman,  too,  the  choice  ! 

Without  the  vision  and  the  voice, 

The  shame,  —  the  scandal,  —  and  for  what.' 

Had  they  been  free  to  choose. 

A  vision  and  a  voice  1 

"  But  Heaven  by  miracle  had  made 

"  Had  she  not  chosen  the  strait  gate,  — 

Its  pleasure  manifest; 

The  narrow  way,  —  the  holy  state, — 

That  manifested  will  must  set 

The  Sanctuary's  abode.' 

All  doubtful  thoughts  to  rest. 

Would  Heaven  call  back  its  votary 

Mysterious  though  they  be,  the  ways 

To  the  broad  and  beaten  road .' 

Of  Providence  are  best." 

"To  carnal  wishes  would  it  turn 

The  wondering  City  thus  discoursed; 

The  mortified  intent.' 

To  Abibas  alone 

For  this  are  miracles  vouchsafed  .' 

The  secret  truth,  and  even  to  him 

For  this  are  Angels  sent .' 

But  half  the  truth,  was  known. 

"  A  plain  collusion  !  a  device 

Meantime  the  Church  hath  been  prepared 

Between  the  girl  and  youth  ! 

For  spousal  celebration ; 

Good  easy  man  nmst  the  Father  be, 

The  Sisters  to  their  cells  retire. 

To  take  such  tale  for  truth !  " 

Amazed  at  such  mutation. 

So  judged  the  acrid  and  the  austere, 

The  habit  and  hood  of  camel's  hair. 

And  they  whose  evil  heart 

Which  with  the  sacred  scissors  there 

Inclines  them,  in  whate'er  betides. 

On  the  altar  were  display'd. 

To  take  the  evil  part. 

Are  taken  thence,  and  in  their  stead 

The  marriage  rings  are  laid. 

But  others,  whom  a  kindlier  frame 

To  better  thoughts  inclined, 

Behold,  in  garments  gay  with  gold. 

Preserved,  amid  their  wonderment. 

For  other  spousals  wrought, 

An  equitable  mind. 

The  Maiden  from  her  Father's  house 

With  bridal  pomp  is  brought. 

They  would  not  of  Proterius  thus 

Injuriously  misdeem,  — 

And  now  before  the  Holy  Door 

A  grave,  good  man,  and  with  the  wise 

In  the  Ante-nave  they  stand ; 

For  wisdom  in  esteem. 

The  Bride  and  Bridegroom  side  by  side, 

The  Paranymphs,  in  festal  pride. 

No  easy  ear,  or  vain  belief. 

Arranged  on  either  hand. 

Would  he  to  falsehood  lend ; 

Nor  ever  might  light  motive  him 

Then  from  the  Sanctuary  the  Priests, 

From  well-weigh'd  purpose  bend. 

With  incense  burning  sweet, 

Advance,  and  at  the  Holy  Door 

And  surely  on  his  pious  child, 

The  Bride  and  Bridegroom  meet. 

The  gentle  Cyra,  meek  and  mild, 

Could  no  suspicion  rest; 

There  to  the  Bride  and  Bridegroom  they 

For  in  this  daughter  he  had  been 

The  marriage  tapers  gave ; 

Above  all  fathers  blest. 

And  to  the  altar  as  they  go, 

With  cross-way  movement  to  and  fro, 

As  dutiful  as  beautiful, 

The  thuribule  they  wave. 

Her  praise  was  widely  known. 

Being  one  who,  as  she  grew  in  years, 

For  fruitfulness,  and  perfect  love, 

Had  stiJl  in  goodness  grown. 

And  constant  peace,  they  pray'd. 

ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


539 


On  EleCmoii,  the  Lord's  Servant, 
And  Cyra,  tlie  Lord's  Handmaid. 

They  call'd  upon  the  Lord  to  bless 

Their  spousal  celebration, 

And  sanctify  the  marriage  rite 

To  both  their  souls'  salvation. 

A  pause  at  every  prayer  they  made ; 

Whereat,  with  one  accord, 

The  Choristers  took  up  their  part, 

And  sung,  in  tones  that  thrill'd  the  heart, 

Have  mercy  on  us.  Lord  ! 

Then  with  the  marriage  rings  the  priest 

Betroth'd  them  each  to  each. 

And,  as  the  sacred  pledge  was  given. 

Resumed  his  awful  speech ;  — 

Pronouncing  them,  before  high  Heaven 

This  hour  espoused  to  be. 

Now  and  forevermore,  for  time, 

And  for  eternity. 

This  did  he  in  the  presence 

Of  Angels  and  of  men; 

And  at  every  pause  the  Choristers 

Intoned  their  deep  Amen ! 

Then  to  that  gracious  Lord,  the  Priest 

His  supplication  made. 

Who,  as  our  sacred  Scriptures  tell, 

Did  bring  Rebecca  to  the  well 
When  Abraham's  servant  pray'd. 

He  call'd  upon  that  gracious  Lord 

To  stablish  with  his  power 

The  espousals  made  between  them, 

In  truth  and  love,  this  hour ;  — 

And  with  his  mercy  and  his  word 
Their  lot,  now  link'd,  to  bless, 
And  let  his  Angel  guide  them 
In  the  way  of  righteousness. 

With  a  Christian  benediction. 

The  Priest  dismiss'd  them  then. 

And  the  Choristers,  with  louder  voice. 

Intoned  the  last  Amen  ! 

The  days  of  Espousals  are  over; 

And  on  the  Crowning-day, 

To  the  sacred  fane  the  bridal  train, 

A  gay  procession,  take  again 

Through  thronging  streets  their  way. 

Before  them,  by  the  Paranymphs, 

The  coronals  are  borne. 

Composed  of  all  sweet  flowers  of  spring 

By  virgin  hands  that  morn. 

With  lighted  tapers  in  array 

They  enter  the  Holy  Door, 

And  the  Priest  with  the  waving  thuribule 

Perfumes  the  way  before. 


He  raised  his  voice,  and  call'd  aloud 

On  Him  who  from  the  side 

Of  our  first  Father,  while  he  slept, 

Form'd  Eve  to  be  his  bride ;  — 

Creating  Woman  thus  for  Man 

A  helpmate  meet  to  be. 

For  youth  and  age,  for  good  and  ill, 

For  weal  and  woe,  united  still 

In  strict  society,  — 

Flesh  of  his  flesh;  appointing  them 

One  flesh  to  be,  one  heart. 

Whom  God  hath  joined  together. 

Them  let  not  man  dispart ! 

And  on  our  Lord  he  call'd,  by  whom 

The  marriage  feast  was  blest, 

When  first  by  miracle  he  made 

His  glory  manifest. 

Then,  in  the  ever-blessed  Name, 

Almighty  over  all. 

From  the  man's  Paranymph  he  took 

The  marriage  coronal ;  — 

And  crowning  him  therewith,  in  that 

Thrice  holy  Name,  he  said, 

"  Ele{jmon,  the  Servant  of  God,  is  crown'd 

For  Cyra,  the  Lord's  Handmaid  !  " 

Next,  with  like  action  and  like  words. 

Upon  her  brow  he  set 

Her  coronal,  intwined  wherein 

The  rose  and  lily  met; 

How  beautifully  they  beseem'd 

Her  locks  of  glossy  jet ! 

Her  he  for  Eleemon  crown'd. 
The  Servant  of  the  Lord  ;  — 

Alas,  how  little  did  that  name 
With  his  true  state  accord  ! 

"  Crown  them  with  honor.  Lord  !  "  he  said, 

"  With  blessings  crown  the  righteous  head  ! 

To  them  let  peace  be  given, 

A  holy  life,  a  hopeful  end, 

A  heavenly  crown  in  Heaven  !  " 

Still  as  he  made  each  separate  prayer 

For  blessings  that  they  in  life  might  share, 

And  for  their  eternal  bliss, 

The  echoing  Choristers  replied, 

"  O  Lord,  so  grant  thou  this  !  " 

How  differently,  meantime,  before 
The  altar  as  they  knelt, 

While  they  the  sacred  rites  partake 
Which  endless  matrimony  make. 
The  Bride  and  Bridegroom  felt ! 

She,  who  possess'd  her  soul  in  peace 

And  thoughtful  happiness, 

With  her  whole  heart  had  inly  join'd 

In  each  devout  address. 


540 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


His  lips  the  while  had  only  moved 

In  hollow  repetition ; 

For  he  had  steel'd  himself,  like  one 

Bound  over  to  perdition 

In- present  joy  he  wrapp'd  his  heart. 

And  resolutely  cast 

All  other  thoughts  beside  him, 

Of  the  future,  or  the  past. 


Tw  ELVE  years  have  held  their  quiet  course 

Since  Cyra's  nuptial  day  ; 

How  happily,  how  rapidly, 

Those  years  have  past  away  ! 

Bless'd  in  her  husband  she  hath  been ; 

He  loved  her  as  sincerely, 

(Most  siaful  and  unhappy  man  !) 

As  he  had  bought  her  dearly. 

She  hath  been  fruitful  as  a  vine, 

And  in  her  children  bless'd ; 

Sorrow  hath  not  come  near  her  yet, 

Nor  fears  to  shake,  nor  cares  to  fret. 

Nor  grief  to  wound  the  breast. 

And  bless'd  alike  would  her  husband  be. 

Were  all  things  as  they  seem ; 

Eleemon  hath  every  earthly  good, 

And  with  every  man's  esteem. 

But  where  the  accursed  reed  had  drawn 

The  heart-blood  from  his  breast, 

A  small  red  spot  remain'd 

Indelibly  impress'd. 

Nor  could  he  from  his  heart  throw  off 

The  consciousness  of  his  state ; 

It  was  there  with  a  dull,  uneasy  sense, 

A  coldness  and  a  weight ;  — 

It  was  there  when  he  lay  down  at  night. 

It  was  there  when  at  morn  he  rose ; 

He  feels  it  whatever  he  does. 

It  is  with  him  wherever  he  goes. 

No  occupation  from  his  mind 

That  constant  sense  can  keep ; 

It  is  present  in  his  waking  hours, 

It  is  present  in  his  sleep ;  — 

But  still  he  felt  it  most. 

And  with  painfulest  weight  it  press'd, 

O  miserable  man ! 

When  he  was  happiest. 

O  miserable  man. 

Who  hath  all  the  world  to  friend. 

Yet  dares  not  in  prosperity 

Remember  his  latter  end  ! 


But  happy  man,  whate'er 

His  earthly  lot  may  be, 

Who  looks  on  Death  as  the  Angel 

That  shall  set  his  spirit  free. 

And  bear  it  to  its  heritage 

Of  immortality ! 

In  such  faith  hath  Proterius  lived ; 

And  strong  is  that  faith,  and  fresh. 

As  if  obtaining  then  new  power, 

When  he  hath  reach'd  the  awful  hour 

Appointed  for  all  flesh. 

Elefimon  and  his  daughter 

With  his  latest  breath  he  bless'd. 

And  saying  to  them,  "  We  shall  meet 

Again  before  the  Mercy-seat!  " 

Went  peacefully  to  rest. 

This  is  the  balm  which  God 

Hath  given  for  every  grief; 

And  Cyra,  in  her  anguish, 

Look'd  heavenward  for  relief. 

But  her  miserable  husband 
Heard  a  voice  within  him  say, 

"  Eleemon,  Eleemon, 

Thou  art  sold  to  the  Demon  !  " 

And  his  heart  seem'd  dying  away. 

Whole  CiEsarea  is  pour'd  forth 

To  see  the  funeral  state. 

When  Proterius  is  borne  to  his  resting-place 

Without  the  Northern  Gate. 

Not  like  a  Pagan's  is  his  bier 

At  doleful  midnight  borne 

By  ghastly  torchlight,  and  with  wail 

Of  women  hired  to  mourn. 

With  tapers  in  the  face  of  day. 

These  rites  their  faithful  hope  display ; 

In  long  procession  slow. 

With  hymns  that  fortify  the  heart. 

And  prayers  that  soften  woe. 

In  honor  of  the  dead  man's  rank. 

But  of  his  virtues  more. 

The  holy  Bishop  Basil 

Was  one  the  bier  who  bore. 

And  with  the  Bishop  side  by  side. 

As  nearest  to  the  dead  allied, 

Was  Eletimon  seen : 

All  mark'd,  but  none  could  read  aright. 

The  trouble  in  his  mien. 

"  His  master's  benefits  on  him 

Were  well  bestow'd,"  they  said, 

"  Whose  sorrow  now  full  plainly  show'd 

How  well  he  loved  the  dead." 

They  little  ween'd  what  thoughts  in  him 
The  solemn  psalm  awoke. 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED.             541 

Which  to  all  other  hearts  that  hour 

Till  he  hath  wash'd  away  with  tears 

Its  surest  comfort  spoke  :  — 

The  red  spot  from  his  breast ! 

"  Gather  my  Saints  together  ; 

"  Hold  fast  thy  hope,  and  Heaven  will  not 

In  peace  let  them  be  laid, 

Forsake  thee  in  thine  hour : 

They  who  with  me,"  thus  saith  the  Lord, 

Good  Angels  will  be  near  thee. 

"  Their  covenant  have  made  1  " 

And  evil  ones  shall  fear  thee. 

And  Faith  will  give  thee  power." 

What  pangs  to  Eleemon  then. 

O  wretchedest  of  wretched  men. 

Perturb'd,  yet  comforted,  she  woke ; 

That  psalmody  convey'd! 

For  in  her  waking  ear 

For  conscience  told  liim  that  he,  too. 

The  words  were  heard  which  promised  her 

A  covenant  had  made. 

A  strength  above  all  fear. 

And  when  he  would  have  closed  his  ears 

An  odor,  that  refresh'd  no  less 

Against  the  unwelcome  word. 

Her  spirit  with  its  blessedness 

Then  from  some  elms  beside  the  way 

Than  her  corporeal  frame. 

A  Raven's  croak  was  heard. 

Was  breathed  around,  and  she  surely  found 

That  from  Paradise  it  came. 

To  him  it  seem'd  a  hollow  voice 

That  warn'd  him  of  his  doom ; 

And,  though  the  form  revered  was  gone. 

For  the  tree  whereon  the  Raven  sat 

A  clear,  unearthly  light 

Grew  over  the  Pagan's  tomb. 

Remain'd,  encompassing  the  bed. 

When  all  around  was  night. 
It  narrow'd  as  she  gazed ; 

VI. 

And  soon  she  saw  it  rest. 

Concentred,  like  an  eye  of  light. 

When  weariness  would  let  her 

Upon  her  husband's  breast. 

No  longer  pray  and  weep. 

And  midnight  long  was  past. 

Not  doubting  now  the  presence 

Then  Cyra  fell  asleep. 

Of  some  good  presiding  Power, 

Collectedness  as  well  as  strength 

Into  that  wretched  sleep  she  sunk 

Was  given  her  in  this  hour. 

Which  only  sorrow  knows, 

Wherein  the  exhausted  body  rests. 

And  rising  half,  the  while  in  deep 

But  the  heart  hath  no  repose. 

But  troubled  sleep  he  lay. 

She  drew  the  covering  from  his  breast 

Of  her  Father  she  was  dreaming, 

With  cautious  hand  away. 

Still  aware  that  he  was  dead. 

When,  in  the  visions  of  the  night. 

The  small,  round,  blood-red  mark  she  saw; 

He  stood  beside  her  bed. 

Eleemon  felt  her  not ; 

But  in  his  sleep  he  groan'd,  and  cried, 

Crown'd  and  in  robes  of  light  he  came  ; 

"  Out !  out  —  accursed  spot ! ' ' 

She  saw  he  had  found  grace  ; 

And  yet  there  seem'd  to  be 

The  darkness  of  surrounding  night 

A  trouble  in  his  face. 

Closed  then  upon  that  eye  of  light. 

She  waited  for  the  break 

The  eye  and  look  were  still  the  same 

Of  day,  and  lay  the  while  in  prayer 

That  she  from  her  cradle  knew ; 

For  that  poor  sinner's  sake  — 

And  he  put  forth  his  hand,  and  blest  her, 

As  he  had  been  wont  to  do. 

In  fearful,  miserable  prayer  ; 

But  while  she  pray'd,  the  load  of  care 

But  then  the  smile  benign 

Less  heavily  bore  on  her  heart. 

Of  love  forsook  his  face, 

And  light  was  given,  enabling  her 

And  a  sorrowful  displeasure 

To  choose  her  difficult  part. 

Came  darkly  in  its  place  ;  — 

And  she  drew,  as  comfortable  texts 

And  he  cast  on  EleCmon 

Unto  her  thoughts  recurr'd. 

A  melancholy  eye. 

Refreshment  from  the  living  well 

And  sternly  said,  "  I  bless  thee  not,  — 

Of  God's  unerring  word. 

Bondsman  !  thou  knowest  why  !  " 

But  when  the  earliest  dawn  appear'd, 

Again  to  Cyra  then  he  turn'd,-- 

Herself  in  haste  she  array'd. 

"  Let  not  thy  husband  rest 

And  watch'd  his  waking  patiently, 

542             ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 

And  still  as  she  watched  she  pray'd ; 

'Twould  be  for  that  lost  wretch  who  sold 

And  when  Eleemon  had  risen, 

His  hope  of  Heaven  for  thee  I 

She  spake  to  him,  and  said :  — 

"  Thou  seest  a  miserable  man 

"  We  have  been  visited  this  night ; 

Given  over  to  despair. 

My  Father's  Ghost  I  have  seen  ; 

Who  has  bound  himself,  by  his  act  and  deed, 

I  heard  his  voice,  —  an  awful  voice  !  — 

To  the  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air." 

And  so  hast  thou,  I  ween  !  " 

She  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

Eleemon  was  pale  when  he  awoke  ; 

And  hurrying  him  into  the  street, 

But  paler  then  he  grew, 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  Church,"  she  cried. 

And  over  his  whole  countenance 

"  And  to  Basil  the  Bishop's  feet !  " 

There  came  a  deathlike  liue. 
Still  he  controll'd  himself,  and  sought 

Her  question  to  beguile  ; 

VII. 

And  forcing,  while  he  answer'd  her. 

A  faint  and  hollow  smile,  — 

Public  must  be  the  sinner's  shame, 

As  lieinous  his  offence  ; 

"  Cyra,"  he  said,  "  thy  thoughts  possess'd 

So  Basil  said,  when  he  ordain'd 

With  one  too  painful  theme, 

His  form  of  penitence. 

Their  own  imaginations 

For  reality  misdeem ; 

And  never  had  such  dismay  been  felt 

Let  not  my  dearest,  best  beloved. 

Through  that  astonish'd  town. 

Be  troubled  for  a  dream  !  " 

As  when,  at  morn,  the  Crier  went 

Proclaiming  up  and  down,  — 

"  O  Eleemon,"  she  replied. 

"  Dissemble  not  with  me  thus; 

"  The  miserable  sinner,  Eleemon, 

111  it  becomes  me  to  forget 

Who  for  love  hath  sold  himself  to  the  Demon, 

What  Dreams  have  been  to  us ! 

His  guilt  before  God  and  man  declares ; 

And  beseeches  all  good  Christians 
To  aid  him  with  their  prayers." 

"  Thinkest  thou  there  can  be  peace  for  me. 

Near  to  me  as  thou  art. 

i     J 

While  some  unknown  and  fearful  sin 

Many  were  the  hearts  compassionate 

Is  festering  at  tliy  heart  ? 

Whom  that  woful  petition  moved ; 

For  he  had  borne  his  fortune  meekly. 

"  Elegmon,  Eleemon, 

And  therefore  was  well  beloved. 

I  may  not  let  thee  rest. 

Till  thou  hast  wash'd  away  with  tears 

Open  his  hand  had  been, 

The  red  spot  from  thy  breast ! 

And  liberal  of  its  store  ; 

And  the  prayers  of  the  needy  arose, 

"  Thus  to  conceal  thy  crime  from  me. 

Who  had  daily  been  fed  at  his  door. 

It  is  no  tenderness  ! 

The  worst  is  better  known  than  fear'd. 

They,  too,  whom  Cyra's  secret  aid 

Whatever  it  be,  confess  ; 

Relieved  from  pressing  cares, 

And  the  Merciful  will  cleanse  thee 

In  this  her  day  of  wretchedness. 

From  all  unrighteousness !  " 

Repaid  her  with  their  prayers. 

Like  an  aspen  leaf  he  trembled; 

And  from  many  a  gentle  bosom 

And  his  imploring  eye 

Supplications  for  mercy  were  sent. 

Bespake  compassion,  ere  his  lips 

If  haply  they  might  aid 

Could  utter  their  dreaded  reply. 

The  wretched  penitent. 

"  O  dearly  loved,  as  dearly  bought. 

Sorely  such  aid  he  needed  then  ! 

My  sm  and  punishment  1  had  thought 

Basil  himself,  of  living  men 

To  bear  through  life  alone  ; 

The  powerfulest  in  prayer. 

Too  much  the  Vision  hath  reveal'd. 

For  pity,  rather  than  in  hope. 

And  all  must  now  be  known  ! 

Had  bidden  him  not  despair. 

"On  thee,  methinks,  and  only  thee. 

So  hard  a  thing  for  him  it  seem'd 

Dare  I  for  pity  call ; 

To  wrest  from  Satan's  hand 

Abhor  me  not,  —  renounce  me  not,  — 

The  fatal  Bond,  which,  while  retain'd. 

My  life,  my  love,  my  all ! 

Must  against  him  in  judgment  stand. 

"  And,  Cyra,  sure,  if  ever  cause 

"  Dost  thou  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  Grace 

Might  be  a  sinner's  plea. 

Itself  can  reach  this  grief.'* " 

rl  ^ 


-    'J-. 


(0 


0      —        O 


--OS 


^ 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED.             543 

With  a  feeble  voice,  and  a  woful  eye, 

And  in  that  utter  silence 

"  Lord,  I  believe  I  "  was  the  sinner's  reply  j 

He  could  hear  his  temples  beat. 

"  Help  thou  mine  unbelief!  " 

But  cold  his  feet,  and  cold  his  hands; 

The  Bishop  then  cross'd  him  on  the  brow. 

And  at  his  heart  tiiere  lay 

And  cross'd  him  on  the  breast ; 

An  icy  coldness  unrelieved. 

And  told  him,  if  he  did  his  part 

While  he  pray'd  the  livelong  day. 

With  true  remorse  and  faithful  heart. 

God's  mercy  might  do  the  rest. 

A  long,  long  day  !     It  pass'd  away 

In  dreadful  expectation ; 

"  Alone  in  the  holy  Relic-room 

Yet  free  throughout  tiie  day  was  he 

Must  thou  pass  day  and  night. 

From  outward  molestation. 

And  wage  with  thy  ghostly  enemies 

A  more  than  mortal  fight. 

Nor  sight  appear'd,  nor  voice  was  heard, 

Though  every  moment  both  he  fear'd ; 

"  The  trial  may  be  long,  and  the  struggle  strong. 

The  Spirits  of  the  Air 

Yet  be  not  thou  dismay'd ; 

Were  busy  the  while  in  infusing 

For  thou  mayst  count  on  Saints  in  Heaven, 

Suggestions  of  despair. 

And  on  earthly  prayers  for  aid. 

And  he  in  strong  endeavor  still 

"  And  in  thy  mind  this  scripture  bear 

Against  them  strove  with  earnest  will ; 

With  steadfast  faithfulness,  whate'er 

Heart-piercing  was  his  cry, 

To  appall  thee  may  arrive,  — 

Heart-breathed  his  groaning:  but  it  seem'd 

'  When  the  wicked  man  turneth  away  from  his  sin. 

That  the  source  of  tears  was  dry. 

He  shall  save  his  soul  alive  ! ' 

And  now  had  evening  closed ; 

"Take  courage  as  thou  lookest  around 

The  dim  lamp-light  alone 

On  the  relics  of  the  blest ; 

On  the  stone  cross,  and  the  marble  walls, 

And  night  and  day,  continue  to  pray, 

And  the  shrines  of  the  Martyrs,  shone. 

Until  thy  tears  have  vvash'd  away 

The  stigma  from  thy  breast !  " 

Before  the  Cross  Eleemon  lay : 

His  knees  were  on  the  ground ; 

"  Let  me  be  with  him  !"  Cyra  cried  ; 

Courage  enough  to  touch  the  Cross 

"  If  thou  mayst  not  be  there ; 

Itself,  he  had  not  found. 

In  this  sore  trial  I  at  least  - 

My  faithful  part  may  bear  : 

But  on  the  steps  of  the  pedestal 

His  lifted  hands  were  laid ; 

"  My  presence  may  some  comfort  prove. 

And  in  that  lowliest  attitude 

Yea,  haply  some  defence ; 

The  suffering  sinner  pray'd. 

0  Father,  in  myself  I  feel 

The  strength  of  innocence  !  " 

A  strong  temptation  of  the  Fiend, 

Which  bade  him  despair  and  die,' 

"  Nay,  Daughter,  nay ;  it  must  not  be  ! 

He  with  the  aid  of  Scripture 

Though  dutiful  this  desire ; 

Had  faithfully  put  by  ; 

He  may  by  Heaven's  good  giace  be  saved. 

And  then,  as  with  a  dawning  hope. 

But  only  as  if  by  fire ;  — 

He  raised  this  contrite  cry  :  — 

"  Sights  which  should  never  meet  thine  eye 

"  O  that  mine  eyes  were  fountains ! 

Before  him  may  appear ; 

If  the  good  grace  of  Heaven 

And  fiendish  voices  proffer  words 

Would  give  me  tears,  methinks  I  then 

Which  should  never  assail  thy  ear ; 

Might  hope  to  be  forgiven  !  " 

Alone  must  he  this  trance  sustain ; 

Keep  thou  thy  vigils  here  !  " 

To  that  meek  prayer  a  short,  loud  laugh 

From  fiendish  lips  replied  : 

He  led  him  to  the  Relic-room ; 

Close  at  his  ear  he  felt  it. 

Alone  he  left  him  there ; 

And  it  sounded  on  every  side. 

And  Cyra  with  the  Nuns  remain'd 

To  pass  her  time  in  prayer. 

From  the  four  walls  and  the  vaulted  roof 

Alone  was  Eleiimon  left 

A  shout  of  mockery  rung; 

For  mercy  on  Heaven  to  call ; 

And  the  echoing  ground  repeated  the  sound, 

Deep  and  unceasing  were  his  prayers, 

Which  peal'd  above,  and  below,  and  around, 

Bqt  not  a  tear  would  fall. 

From  many  a  fiendish  tongue. 

His  lips  were  parch'd,  his  head  was  hot, 

The  lamps  went  out  at  that  hideous  shout. 

His  eyeballs  throbb'd  with  heat; 

But  darkness  had  there  no  place. 

544             ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A 

SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 

For  the  room  was  fill'd  with  a  lurid  light 

Nor  voice  nor  vision  more 

Tliat  came  from  a  Demon's  face. 

Disturb'd  him  through  the  night. 

A  dreadful  face  it  was,  —  too  well 

He  stirr'd  not  from  his  station. 

By  Eleumon  known  ! 

But  there  stood  fix'd  in  prayer ; 

Alas  !  he  had  seen  it  when  he  stood 

And  when  Basil  the  Bishop  enter'd 

Before  the  dolorous  Throne. 

At  morn,  he  found  him  there. 

"  Eleijmon  1  EleCmon  !  " 
Sternly  said  the  Demon, 

.*■  1 

^ 

How  have  I  merited  this .' 

1  kept  my  covenant  with  thee, 

VIII. 

And  placed  thee  in  worldly  bliss  ! 

"  And  still  thou  mightest  have  had, 

Thine  after-days  to  bless. 

Health,  wealth,  long  life,  and  whatsoe'er 

The  World  calls  happiness. 

Well  might  the  Bishop  see  what  he 

Had  undergone  that  night ; 

Remorse  and  agony  of  mind 

Had  made  his  dark  hair  white. 

"  Fool,  to  forego  thine  earthly  joys. 

Who  hast  no  hope  beyond  ! 

For  judgment  nmst  be  given  for  me. 

When  I  sue  thee  upon  the  Bond. 

So  should  the  inner  change,  he  ween'd. 

With  the  outward  sign  accord ; 

And  holy  Basil  cross'd  himself. 

And  blest  our  gracious  Lord. 

"Remember  I  deceived  thee  not; 

"  Well  hast  thou  done,"  said  he,  "  my  son, 

Nor  had  I  tempted  thee  : 

And  faithfully  fought  the  fight ; 

Thou  camest  of  thine  own  accord. 

So  shall  this  day  complete,  I  trust. 

And  didst  act  knowingly  ! 

The  victory  of  the  night. 

"  I  told  thee  thou  mightst  vainly  think 

"  I  fear'd  that  forty  days  and  nights 

To  cheat  me  by  contrition, 

Too  little  all  might  be  ; 

When  thou  wert  written  down  among 

But  great  and  strange  hath  been  the  change 

The  Children  of  Perdition  ! 

One  night  hath  wrought  in  thee.' 

"  '  So  help  me,  Satan  !'  were  thy  words 

"  O  Father,  Father,"  he  replied. 

When  thou  didst  this  allow ; 

"  And  hath  it  been  but  one .' 

I  help'd  thee,  Eletimon,  then, — 

An  endless  time  it  seem'd  to  me  !  . 

And  I  will  have  thee  now  !  " 

1  almost  thought  Eternity 

With  me  had  been  begun. 

At  the  words  of  the  Fiend,  from  the  floor 

Eleemon  in  agony  sprung ; 

"  And  surely  this  poor  flesh  and  blood 

Up  the  steps  of  the  pedestal  he  ran. 

Such  terrors  could  not  have  withstood, 

And  to  the  Cross  he  clung. 

If  grace  had  not  been  given ; 

But  when  I  clasp'd  the  blessed  Cross, 

And  then  it  seem'd  as  if  he  drew. 

I  then  had  help  from  Heaven. 

While  he  clasp'd  the  senseless  stone. 

A  strength  he  had  not  felt  till  then. 

"  The  coldness  from  my  heart  is  gone  ; 

A  hope  he  had  not  known. 

But  still  the  weight  is  there. 

.And  thoughts,  which  I  abhor,  will  come 

So  when  the  Demon  ceased. 

And  tempt  me  to  despair. 

He  answer'd  him  not  a  word  ; 

But,  looking  upward,  he 

"  Those  tlioughts  1  constantly  repel ; 

His  faithful  prayer  preferr'd  : 

And  all,  methinks,  might  yet  be  well, 

Could  I  but  weep  once  more. 

"  All,  all,  to  Thee,  my  Lord 

And  with  true  tears  of  penitence 

And  Savior,  I  confess  ! 

My  dreadful  state  deplore. 

And  I  know  that  Thou  canst  cleanse  me 

From  all  unrighteousness ! 

"  Tears  are  denied  ;  their  source  is  dried  1 

And  must  it  still  be  so .' 

"  I  have  turned  away  from  my  sin ; 

O  Thou,  who  from  a  rock  didst  make 

In  Thee  do  I  put  my  trust ; 

The  living  waters  flow,  — 

To  such  Thou  hast  promised  forgiveness. 

And  Thou  art  faithful  and  just !  " 

"  A  broken  and  a  bleeding  heart 

This  hour  I  offer  Thee  ; 

With  that  the  Demon  disappear'd  ; 

And,  when  Thou  seest  good,  my  tears 

The  lamps  resumed  their  light; 

Shall  then  again  be  free  !  " 

ALL    FOR   LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


A  knocking  at  the  door  was  licard 

As  lie  ended  this  reply  ; 

Hearing  that  unexpected  sound, 

The  Bishop  turn'd  his  eye, 

And  his  venerable  Mother, 

Emmelia,  the  Abbess,  drew  nigh. 

"We  have  not  ceased  this  mournful  night," 

Said  she,  "  on  Heaven  to  call ; 

And  our  afflicted  Cyra 

Hath  edified  us  all. 

"  More  fervent  prayers  from  suffering  heart, 

I  ween,  have  ne'er  been  sent ; 

And  now  she  asks,  as  some  relief. 

In  this  her  overwhelming  grief, 

To  see  the  penitent. 

"  So  earnestly  she  ask'd,  that  I 

Her  wish  would  not  defer ; 

And  I  have  brought  her  to  the  door  : 

Forgive  me.  Son,  if  1  err." 

"  Hard  were  I  did  I  not  consent 

To  thy  compassionate  intent, 

O  Mother,"  he  replied; 

And  raising  then  his  voice,  "  Come  in. 

Thou  innocent !  "  he  cried. 

That  welcome  word  when  Cyra  heard, 

Witli  a  sad  pace  and  slow. 

Forward  she  came,  like  one  whose  heart 

Was  overcharged  with  woe. 

Her  face  was  pale,  —  long  illness  would 

Have  changed  those  features  less ; 

And  long-continued  tears  had  dimtn'd 

Her  eyes  with  heaviness. 

Her  husband's  words  had  rcach'd  her  ear 

When  at  the  door  she  stood ; 

"Thou  hast  pray'd  in  vain  for  tears,"  slie  said, 

"  While  I  have  pour'd  a  flood  ! 

"  Mine  flow,  and  they  will  flow  ;  they  must ; 

They  cannot  be  repress'd  ! 

And  oh,  that  they  might  wash  away 

The  stigma  from  thy  breast ! 

"  Oh  that  these  tears  might  cleanse  that  spot, — 

Tears  which  I  cannot  check  I  " 

Profusely  weeping  as  she  spake, 

She  fell  upon  his  neck. 

He  clasp'd  the  mourner  close,  and  in 

That  passionate  embrace, 

In  grief  for  her,  almost  forgot 

His  own  tremendous  case. 

Warm  as  they  fell  he  felt  her  tears. 

And  in  true  sympathy. 

So  gracious  Heaven  permitted  then. 

His  own  to  flow  were  free. 

And  then  the  weight  was  taken  off, 
Which  at  his  heart  had  press'd  ;  — 
69 


545 


O  mercy  I  and  the  crimson  spot 
Hath  vanish'd  from  his  breast ! 

At  that  most  happy  sio-ht. 

The  four,  with  one  accord, 

Fell  on  their  knees,  and  blest 

The  mercy  of  the  Lord. 

"  What  then  !  before  the  strife  is  done, 
Would  ye  of  victory  boast?  " 
Said  a  Voice  above :  "  they  reckon  too  soon, 
Who  reckon  without  their  host !  " 

"  Mine  is  he  by  a  Bond 

Which  holds  him  fast  in  law  : 

I  drew  it  mj'self  for  certainty, 

And  sharper  than  me  must  the  Lawyer  be 

Who  in  it  can  find  a  flaw  ! 

"  Before  the  Congregation, 

And  in  the  face  of  day. 

Whoever  may  pray,  and  whoever  gainsay, 

I  will  challenge  him  for  my  Bondsman, 

And  carry  him  quick  away  1  " 

"  Ha,  Satan  !  dost  thou  in  thy  pride," 

With  righteous  anger  Basil  cried, 

"  Defy  the  force  of  prayer.' 

In  the  face  of  the  Church  wilt  thou  brave  it  ? 

Why,  then  we  will  meet  thee  there  I 

"There  mayst  thou  set  forth  thy  right. 

With  all  thy  might,  before  the  sight 

Of  all  the  Congregation; 

And  they  that  hour  shall  see  the  power 

Of  the  Lord  unto  salvation  ! ' 

"  A  challenge  fair  !     We  meet  then  there," 

Rejoin'd  the  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air; 

"  Tlie  Bondsman  is  mine  by  right. 

Let  the  whole  city  come  at  thy  call. 

And  great  and  small :  in  face  of  them  all, 

I  will  have  him  in  thy  despite  !  " 

So  having  said,  he  tarried  not 

To  hear  the  Saint's  reply. 

"  Beneath  the  sign  which  Constantine," 

Said  Basil,  "  beheld  in  the  sky, 

We  strive,  and  have  our  strength  therein, 

Therein  our  victory  1  " 


IX. 

The  Church  is  fill'd  ;  so  great  the  faith 

That  City  in  its  Bishop  hath ; 

And  now  the  Congregation 

Are  waiting  there  in  trembling  prayer 

And  terrible  expectation. 

Emmelia  and  her  sisterhood 

Have  taken  there  their  seat ; 

And  Choristers,  and  Monks,  and  Priests, 

And  Psalmists  there,  and  Exorcists, 

Are  station'd  in  order  meet. 


546 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    W  r.LL    SAVED. 


In  sackcloth  clad,  with  ashes  strown 

Upon  his  whiter  liair. 

Before  the  steps  of  the  altar, 

His  feet  for  penance  bare, 

Eleemon  stands,  a  spectacle 

For  men  and  Angels  there. 

Beside  him  Cyra  stood,  in  weal 
Or  woe,  in  good  or  ill. 
Not  to  be  sever'd  from  his  side. 
His  faithful  helpmate  still. 

Dishevell'd  were  her  raven  locks. 

As  one  in  mourner's  guise ; 

And  pale  she  was,  but  faith  and  hope 

Had  now  relumed  her  eyes. 

At  the  altar  Basil  took  his  stand  ; 

He  held  the  Gospel  in  his  hand, 

And  in  his  ardent  eye 

Sure  trust  was  seen,  and  conscious  power, 

And  strength  for  victory. 

At  his  command  the  Chorister 

Enounced  the  Prophet's  song, 

"  To  God  our  Savior  mercies 

And  forgivenesses  belong." 

Ten  thousand  voices  join'd  to  raise 

The  holy  hymn  on  high. 

And  hearts  were  thrill'd  and  eyes  were  fill'd 

By  that  full  harmony. 

And  when  they  ceased,  and  Basil's  hand 

A  warning  signal  gave. 

The  whole  huge  multitude  was  hush'd 

In  a  stillness  like  that  of  the  grave. 

The  Sun  was  high  in  a  bright  blue  sky  ; 

But  a  chill  came  over  the  crowd, 

And  the  Church  wat  suddenly  darken'd, 

As  if  by  a  passing  cloud. 

A  sound  as  of  a  tempest  rose. 

Though  the  day  was  calm  and  clear ; 

Intrepid  must  the  heart  have  been 

Which  did  not  then  feel  fear. 

In  the  sound  of  the  storm  came  the  dreadful  Form ; 

The  Church  then  darken'd  more, 

And  He  was  seen  erect  on  the  screen 

Over  the  Holy  Door. 

Day-light  had  sicken'd  at  his  sight ; 

And  the  gloomy  Presence  threw 

A  shade  profound  over  all  around. 

Like  a  cheerless  twilight  hue. 

"  I  come  hither,"  said  the  Demon, 

"  For  my  Bondsman  Eleemon  ! 

Mine  is  he,  body  and  soul. 

See  all  men !  "  and  with  that  on  high 

He  held  the  open  scroll. 

The  fatal  signature  appear'd, 
To  all  the  multitude, 


Distinct  as  when  the  accursed  pen 

Plad  traced  it  with  fresh  blood. 

"  See  all  men  !  "  Satan  cried  again, 

And  tlien  his  claim  pursued. 

"  I  ask  for  justice  !     I  prefer 

An  equitable  suit ! 

I  appeal  to  the  Law,  and  the  case 

Admitteth  of  no  dispute. 

"  If  there  be  justice  here. 

If  Law  have  place  in  Heaven, 

Award  upon  this  Bond 

Must  then  for  me  be  given. 

"  What  to  my  rightful  claim, 

Basil,  canst  thou  gainsay. 

That  I  should  not  seize  the  Bondsman, 

And  carry  him  quick  away  .' 

"  The  writing  is  confess'd ;  — 
No  plea  against  it  shown ;  — 

The  forfeiture  is  mine. 
And  now  I  take  my  own  ! 

"  Hold  there  !  "  cried  Basil,  with  a  voice 

That  arrested  him  on  his  way, 

When  from  the  screen  he  would  have  swoopt 

To  pounce  upon  his  prey ;  — 

"  Hold  there,  I  say  !     Thou  canst  not  sue 

Upon  this  Bond  by  law  ! 

A  sorry  legalist  were  he 

Who  could  not,  in  thy  boasted  plea, 

Detect  its  fatal  flaw. 

"  The  Deed  is  null,  for  it  was  framed 

With  fraudulent  intent; 

A  thing  unlawful  in  itself; 

A  wicked  instrument, — 

Not  to  be  pleaded  in  the  Courts.  — 

Sir  Fiend,  thy  cause  is  shent! 

"  This  were  enough ;  but,  more  than  this, 

A  ma.xim,  as  thou  knowest,  it  is, 

Wliereof  all  Laws  partake. 

That  no  one  may  of  his  own  wrong 

His  own  advantage  make. 

"The  man,  thou  sayest,  thy  Bondsman  is; 

Mark,  now,  how  stands  the  fact ! 

Thou  hast  allow'd,  nay,  aided  him, 

As  a  Freedman,  to  contract 

A  marriage  with  this  Christian  woman  here. 

And  by  a  public  act. 

"  That  act  being  publicly  perform'd 

With  thy  full  cognizance, 

Claim  to  him  as  thy  Bondsman  thou 

Canst  never  more  advance  ;  — 

"  For  when  they  solemnly  were  then 

United,  in  sight  of  Angels  and  men. 

The  matrimonial  band 

Gave  to  the  wife  a  right  in  him ; 

And  we  on  this  miirht  stand. 


ALL    FOR    LOVE,    OR    A    SINNER    WELL    SAVED. 


547 


"  Thy  claim  upon  the  man  was  by 

Thy  silence  then  forsaken  ; 
A  miirriage  thus  by  thee  procured 

May  not  by  thee  be  shaken  ; 

And  thou,  O  Satan,  as  thou  seest. 

In  thine  own  snare  art  taken  !  " 

So  Basil  said,  and  paused  awhile ; 

The  Arch-fiend  answer'd  not ; 

But  he  heaved  in  vexation 

A  sulpliurous  sigh  for  the  Bishop's  vocation, 

And  thus  to  himself  he  thought :  — 

"  The  Law  thy  calling  ought  to  have  been. 

With  thy  wit  so  ready,  and  tongue  so  free  ! 

To  prove  by  reason,  in  reason's  despite. 

That  right  is  wrong,  and  wrong  is  right. 

And  wliite  is  black,  and  black  is  white, — 

What  a  loss  have  1  had  in  thee  !  " 

"  I  rest  not  here,"  the  Saint  pursued  ; 
"Though  thou  in  this  mayst  see 
That  in  the  meshes  of  thine  own  net 
I  could  entangle  thee  ! 

"  Fiend,  thou  thyself  didst  bring  about 

The  spousal  celebration, 

Which  link'd  them  by  the  nuptial  tie 

For  both  their  souls'  salvation. 

"  Thou  sufTeredst  them  before  high  Heaven 

With  solemn  rites  espoused  to  be, 

Then  and  for  evermore,  for  time 

And  for  eternity. 

"  That  tie  holds  good ;  those  rites 

Will  reach  their  whole  intent ; 

And  thou  of  his  salvation  wert 

Thyself  the  instrument. 

"  And  now,  raethinks,  thou  seest  in  this 

A  higher  power  than  thine ; 

And  that  thy  ways  were  overruled, 

To  work  the  will  divine  !  " 

With  rising  energy  he  spake, 

And  more  majestic  look ; 
And  with  authoritative  hand 
Held  forth  the  Sacred  Book. 

Then  with  a  voice  of  power  he  said, 

"  The  Bond  is  null  and  void  ! 
It  is  nullified,  as  thou  knowest  well, 
By  a  Covenant  whose  strength  by  Hell 
Can  never  be  destroy'd  !  — 

"  The  Covenant  of  grace, 

That  greatest  work  of  Heaven, 

Which  whoso  claims  in  perfect  faith. 

His  sins  shall  be  forgiven. 

"  Were  tliey  as  scarlet  red, 

They  should  be  white  as  wool; 

This  is  the  All-mighty's  Covenant, 

Who  is  All-merciful ! 


"  His  Minister  am  I ! 

In  his  All-mighty  name 

To  this  repentant  sinner 

God's  pardon  I  proclaim  ! 

"  In  token  that  against  his  soul 

The  sin  sliall  no  longer  stand, 

The  writing  is  etiaced,  which  there 

Thou  holdest  in  thy  hand  ! 

"  Angels  that  are  in  bliss  above 
This  triumph  of  Redeeming  Love 

Will  witness,  and  rejoice ; 

And  ye  shall  now  in  thunder  hear 

Heaven's  ratifying  voice  !  " 

A  peal  of  thunder  shook  the  pile  ; 

The  Church  was  fill'd  with  light; 

And  wlien  the  flash  was  past,  the  Fiend 

Had  vanisli'd  from  their  sight. 

He  fled  as  he  came,  but  in  anger  and  shame ; 

The  pardon  was  complete  : 

And  the  impious  scroll  was  dropp'd,  a  blank, 

At  Eleemon's  feet. 


NOTES. 


FROM     THE     LIFE     OF     S.    BASIL   THE    GREAT,    BY    9.    AMPHILO- 
CHIUS,    BISHOP    OF    ICONIUM. 

Rosweijde,  Vita  Patrum,  pp.  156,  158. 

"  Helladius  axttem  sanztm  recordationis,  quiinspector  et  minister 
ftiit  miracnJoriim  qu(E  ab  eo  patratasunt,  quiquepost  obitum  ejus' 
(lem  JlpostolictB  mcmoriiB  BasiUi  sedem  illius  suscipere  meruit,  vir 
viiracuHs  ct  darns,  atque  omni  virtute  omatiis,  rctulil  vtihi,  quia 
film  senator  quidam  Jidelis,  nomine  Proterius,  pergcret  ad  saitcta 
et  percolenda  luca,  et  ibidem  JUiam  suam  tondrre,  et  in  unnm 
venerabilium  monasteriorum  mittere,  et  sacrificium  Deo  offerre 
voluisset ;  Diahulus,  qui  ab  initio  homieida  est,  invideiis  ejus 
religioto  proposito,  commovit  unu7n  ex  servis  ejus,  et  hunc  ad 
puelltE  succcndit  aiiiorem.  Hie  itaque  cum  tanto  voto  esset  in- 
dignus,  et  non  auderet  proposilum  saltern  conlingere,  alloqvitur 
unum  ez  detcstandis  malejicis,  reproinittens  illi,  ut  siforti  arte 
sua  posset  illam  eommovere,  viullam  d auri  tribucret  quantitatcm. 
At  vera  venejicus  dixit  ad  eum  :  0  homo,  ego  ad  hoe  impos  existo  : 
t:ed  si  vis,  mitto  te  ad  provisorem  meum  Diabolum,  et  illefaeiet 
voluntatetn  luam,  si  tu,  dumtaiat  feceris  voluntatem  ejus.  Qui 
dixit  ad  eum:  Queeeunque  dixeritmihi,faciam.  Ait  illc  :  Abrc- 
nuntias,  inquit,  Christo  in  scriptis7  Dicitei:  Etiam.  Porrtj 
iniquitatis  operarius  dicit  ei ;  Si  ad  hoc  paratus  es  cooperator 
tibi  effieiar.  Jlle  autem  ad  ipsum:  Paratus  sum,  tantAni  ut 
consequar  desidrrium.  Et  fucta  epistolU,  pessimal  opcralionis 
minister  ad  Diabolum  dcstinavit  cam,  habenicm  dietntum  hujus- 
modi :  Quonium  doruino  et  provisori  meo  oportet  me  dare  operam, 
qitd  a  ChrLitianorum  religione  discedunt,  et  ad  luam  societaleni 
acccdiint,  vt  compteatur  portio  tua  ;  misi  tibi  pncsentcm,  vteas 
defrrentcm  littcr^ilas,  cupidine  pueU(B  sauciatum.  Et  obsecro  ut 
hujus  voti  compos  existat,  ut  et  in  hoc  glorior,  et  cum  affluentiori 
alacritate  colllgam  amatores  tuos.  Et  datct  ci  epistold,  dixit  .- 
yade  tali  hora  tioctis,  et  sta  supra  monnmcntum  alicujus  pagani, 
et  erigc  chartam  in  aera,  et  adstabunt  tibi,  qui  te  tebcnt  duccre  ad 
Diabolum.  Quihocalacriter  gesto,  emisit  miserrimam  illam  vo- 
ccm,  invocans  Diaboli  adjutorium  :  et  continud  adstitcrunt  eiprin' 
cipes  potestatis  lenebramm,  spiritus  nequiti<e,  ct  suscepto  quifu- 
erat  deceptus,  cum  gaudio  magna  duxerunt  eu7n  ubi  erat  Diabolus, 
quern  ct  monstraveruni  ci  super  excclsum  solium  sedentcm,  et  in 
gyro  ejus  neqxdtuc  spiritus  circumstantes :  et  susceptis  venejici 


548 


NOTES    TO    ALL    FOR    LOVE,  &c. 


litteris,   dixit  ad  infelicem  ilium  :    Credis  in  me  ?     Qui  diiit : 

Credo.  Di/it  ci  Diabvltis :  Ter^ivtrsatorcs  entis  iios  Christiaiii, 
ct  quidem  qnandiy  me  opus  hahiticy,  vcnitis  ad  I'lC  ,'  cntii  uuteiit  cun- 
$ecuti  fai^ntU  affectum,  abnegatis mc  et  acceditis  ud  Christum  rcs- 
trum,  (jui,  cum  sit  I/onus  ulque  mi.iiricor.i,  suscipit  vos.  Scdfuc 
mild  in  tcriptif:  turn  Chrisli  tui  ct  saiieti  Baptismatis  vulunlariam 
abrcnnntiationem,  qudm  in  me  prr  scecula  spotiluneam  rrpromis- 
sionem,  et  quia  mecum  eris  in  die  judicii  simul  pcrfruiturus 
ceternis  suppliciis,  qua;  mild  sunt  prccparata.  At  illc  erposuit 
propria  miinus  scriptuin,  quemadinodum  fucrat  cxpetilus.  Rur- 
susque  die  corruptor  animarum  draco  dcstinal  damoncsforidcatio- 
ni pra'positos,  ct  ejcardescerefaciuntpucltam  adumorempveri,  quce 
projecit  se  in pavimentum,  ct  cupit  clamare  ad  patrcm  :  Miserere 
mei,  miserere  t  quia  atrociter  torqucor'  propter  talem  puerum 
nostrum .'  Compatcre  visccrihus  tuis  ;  ostende  in  mc  uidgeni- 
tam  tuam  patcrnum  affectum,  el  jungc  me  puero,  quern  elegi. 
Quod  si  h<cc  agere  nolucris,  vidcbis  me  amard,  mortepost  paiUulum 
mortuam,  et  rationem  dabis  Deo  pro  ne  in  die  judicii.  Pater  aa- 
tem  cum  lachrijmis  dicebat :  lieu  mild  pcccatori !  quid  est  quod 
conligit  misera;  fduB  mete  7  quis  thesaurum  mcum  furatus  est  ? 
quisjiiite  meji  injuriam  iidulit  1  quis  dulce  oculorum  nicorum  lu- 
men extinxit  ?  ego  te  semper  superc<clcsli  ."^ponso  consdiatus  sum 
desponsare  Christo,  et  Angclorum  contubcrnio  socium  conslituere, 
et  in  psulmis  et  liymnis  et  canlicis  spiritnalibus  cancre  Deo  ucce- 
Icrabam ;  tu  autem  in  lasciciam  petulauti<B  insanisti !  DimiLte 
me,  sicut  volo,  cum  Deo  cotitraclum  faccre,  ne  deducas  scnectu- 
tem  meam  cum  marore  in  infernum,  Deque  cmifusione  nobilitatem 
purentum  (uorum  operias.  Qiuc  in  nildtum  rcputu7is,  qmc  d  patre 
sibi  dicebantur,  pcrsevcrubal  damans:  Pater  mi,  uut  fuc  dcside- 
rium  mciim,  aut  prius  pauxilliXm  mortuam  me  videbis.  Pater 
itaque  ejus  in  magnb,  dementatione  constitutns,  tarn  immensitate 
inastitia  absorptus,  qudin  amicorum  consiliis  acquiescens  se  ad- 
monentium,  uc  dieentium,  cxpcdirepotivs  voluntatem  puella:  fieri, 
qudm  sesc  mai'ibus  interficcre,  consensit,  et  pru-cepil  fieri  deside- 
rium  puellis  potius,  qudm  earn  eritiabili  tradere  morti.  Et  mox 
protulit  puerum  qui  qumrebatur,  simul  ct  propriam  gcnitam,  et 
dans  eis  omnia  bona  sua,  dixit :  Salve  nata  verc  misera :  multum 
lamentabcris  repaniiens  in  novissimis,  quando  nihil  tibi  proderit. 
Porro  nefandi  matrimonii  conjugio  facto,  ct  diabolic<B  opcrationis 
complelo  fueinore,  etpauco  tempore  pretereunte,  notatus  estpucr 
d  quibusdam,  quod  non  ingrederetur  ccclesiam,  neque  attrectaret 
immortalia  et  vivifica  Sacramcnta,  ct  dicunt  miscranda  uxori 
ejus :  JVoveris  quia  marilus  tuns,  quern  clegisti,  non  est  Cliristi- 
anus,  se.d  eitraueus  est  dfide,  et  penitus  est  alicnus.  Quip-  tcne- 
bris  et  dira  pluga  rcferta,  jirojecit  se  inpavimcnlum,  et  caepit  ««- 
ffulis  scmetipsum  discerpcre,  et  percutere  pectus,  atque  clamare  ■■ 
J\remo  umquam  qui  parrntibus  inobedirns  fuit,  sale  us  f actus  est. 
Quis  unnuntiabit  patri  men  confusiouem  meam'!  Hen  mild  infe- 
lici!  in  quod  perditionis  profuudum  descendi  .'  quare  nata  sum  ? 
vel  nata  quarc  non  statim  indireptibilis  facta  sum  ?  Ilnjusmodi 
ergo  cam  cojnjdorantcm  seductus  vir  ejus  agnoscens,  venit  ad  cam, 
assevcrans  non  se  ita  rei  vcritatcm  habere :  qua;  in  refrigerium 
suasoriis  ejus  verbis  deveniens,  dixit  ad  earn :  Si  vis  mild 
sutisfacere,  el  infilicem  aidmam  meam  ccrtlficare,  eras  ego  et 
tu  pergemus  unanimder  ad  ecclesiam,  et  coram  me  same  in- 
temcrata  mysteria,  et  taliter  mild potcris  satisfacere.  Tunc  coac- 
tus  dixit  ei  sententiam  capituli.  Protinus  ergo  puella  fcmine& 
infirmitate  deposits,  ct  consilio  bono  acccpto,  currit  ad  pastorem 
et  discipulum  Christi  Basilium,  adversus  tantam  damans  im- 
pietatem :  Misericordiam  mild  miserce  pra:sta  sancle  Dei,  mi- 
serere mei  discipule  Domini,  qua  conlractum  cum  damonibusfeci. 
Jifiscrere  mei,  qua:  propria  patri  facia  sU7n  inobediens.  Etcognita 
illi  fecit  rei  gestce  negotin.  Porro  sanctus  Dei  convocalo  puero, 
sciscitabatur  ab  eo  si  luce  hujusmudi  esscnl.  Qui  ad  sanctum  cum 
lachrymis  ait .-  Etiam  sancte  Dei.  JVam  etsi  ergo  tacuero,  opera 
mea  damabunt.  Et  enarravit  ei  et  ipse  malignam  diaboli  opera- 
tionem,  qualiter  ab  exordia  usque  ad  fincin  fuerit  subsecutus. 
Tunc  dicit  ei :  Vis  converti  ad  Dominum  Dcum  nostrum'!  Qui 
dixit:  Etiam  roIn,sed  non  possum.  Dieitei:  Cur?  Rcspondit: 
In  scriptis  abrenuntiuvi  Christo,  et  fadus  pepegi  cum  diabolo. 
Dicit  ci  sanctus  :  JVon  tibi  sit  curat :  benignus  est  Drus  nosier, 
ct  suscipict  te  pa'nilcntiam  agentem.  Benignus  enini  est  super 
malitiis  nostris.  Et  projiciens  se  puella  ad  pedes  ejus,  erangdice 
roo-abut  cum,  dicens  :  Diseipule  Chrisli  Dc<  uostri,  si  quid  poles, 
adjava  nns !  Dicit  sanctus  ad  puerum  :  Credis  posse  salvari  ? 
At  ille  dixit :  Credo,  Domine,  udjura  incredulitatnn  meam.  Et 
confestim  adprehensd,  manu  ejus,  et  facto  super  cum  Christi  signo 
simul  et  oratione,  retrusit  ilium  in  uno  loco  intra  quern  sacri  ha- 
bebantur  amictus,  et  data  ei  regula  oravit  et  ipse  pro  illo  per  tres 


dies.  Post  quos  visitavit  eum,  ct  dixit;  Quomodo  te  habes,fili  ? 
Dicit  ei  puer  :  In  magna  su7n,  domine,  dej'ertione.  Su7tcte  Dei, 
non  suffcro  clamores,  pavorcs,  jacula,  et  lapidationes  ipsoruin 
Teneutes enim pr opritc manus mea; scripturam ,  objurguutur  inme, 
dicentes  :  Tu  ocnisti  ad  nos,  von  nos  ad  te.  Et  dint  ei  sanctus  : 
JVo/i  timere,fili  mi,  tuntumnwdo  crede.  Etdata  ci  modira  rsc&, 
el  facto  super  cum  Chrisli  denuo  signo  et  oratione,  inclusit  cum  ; 
et  post  paucos  dies  visitavit  ilium,  et  dixit :  Quomodo  Ic  liohes, 
fill  1  Ait :  Pater  sancle,  a  longe  clamores  eoriim  audio  simul  et 
minus ;  7uim  uon  video  illos.  Et  rursus  dato  ei  ciho,  ct  effusa 
oratione  daiisit  ostium,  et  discessit.  Pra:tn-rdquadrogesinio  die 
abiit  ad  cum,  el  dicit  illi:  Quo7nodo  te  habes,f rater?  Rcspondit 
et  dicit  ei:  Bene,  sa7icte  Dei.  Vidi  enim  te  hodic  m  so7nnio 
pngnantem  pro  me,  et  vmcentem  Diabolum.  Mox  ergo  secundum 
consuetudiimnfactcl  oratione  eduxil  ilium,  et  duxit  ilium  ad  cubi- 
culum  suum.  Mane  uute77i  facto,  convocalo  tain  venerabili  clero, 
quani  monastcriis  et  omni  Christo  amabili  populo,  dixit  eis  :  Filii 
7nei  dilecti,  univer.n gratias  agamus  Domino :  Ecce  enimfuturum 
est,,  et  ovemperditam  pastor  bonus  super  humeros  suos  iinponat,  et 
reducat  Er.clcsice :  Et  nos  oporlrt  prrvigilem  ducere  noctem,  et 
deprccari  voluntatC7n  ipsius,  ut  uon  vineat  corruptor  aniuiarinn. 
Quo  protinus  acta,  et  promptissimi  populo  congrrgiito,  per  tolain 
noctem  una  cum  bono  pastore  deprecati  sunt  Dcuin,  cum  lacrijmis 
pro  ipso  dainantes,  Kyrie  elrison.  Et  diluciild  una  cum  omni 
7nu!titudine  populi  assumit  sanctus  puerum,  et  tenens  dexteram 
7nunuin  ejus,  duxit  eum  in  sanctum  Dei  ecclesiam  cum  psalm  is  et 
hymnis.  Et  ecce  Diabolus,  qui  vita!  vost/'ie  sniipcr  i7ividit,  si  hanc 
sine  tristitia  viderit,  cum  tola  pcrniciosa  rirtute  sua  venit,  et 
puero  invisibiUtercoinprihcnso,voluit  rapere  ilium  de  manu  sanc- 
ti :  ct  ca'pit  puer  damans  dicere  :  Sancte  Dei  auxiliare  mild,  et 
adeo  contra  ilium  impiide7ili  instautid  venit,  ut  ipsuni  egregiuni 
Basdium  simul  cum  illo  iiiipellrrct  ct  subrerteret.  Convcrsus 
eriro  sanctus  ad  Diabolum  ait :  Impudentissiire,  ct  animunnn  vio- 
lator, pater  tenebrarum  et  perdilio7ds,  jwn  tibi  sufficit  tua pei-ditio, 
quam  tibimet  ipsi  et  his,  qui  sub  tc  sunt,  acquisisti,  sed  adhue  no7i 
quirscis,  et  Dei  mei  plasma  tentando?  Diabolus  vera  dixit  ad 
eum :  Prajudicas  mild,  Basili :  ita  ut  multi  ex  nobis  audirent 
voces  ejus.  At  vera  sanctus  Dei  ad  ettni :  increpat,  inquit,  tibi 
Doiidnus,  diahole.  At  ille,  Basili,  prijudicium  tnihifacis.  JVon 
ivi  ego  ad  emn,  sed  ille  venit  ad  7ne,  ahrcnuntiando  Christum, 
mecnmque  est  sponsione  pactuatus,  et  ecce  sci-iptum  habeo,  et  171 
die  judicii  coram  communi  judicc  dej'eram  illud.  Sanctus  autem 
Domini  dixit :  Benrdictus  Dominus  Deus  meus,  uon  deponet 
populus  isle  manus  ab  excelso  caili,  nisi  reddideris  seriptum.  Et 
convcrsus  dixit  plebi :  I'ollite  manus  vesicas  in  calum,  universi 
clc.mantes  cum  lacrijmis,  Kyrie  deison.  Ciimque  slurel  populus 
horii  niult&  extcnsas  habc7ites  tnanus  in  caliim,  ecce  scriptuin piicri 
in  oerein  deporlatum,  et  ab  omnibus  visum  venit,  el  posilum  est  in 
manus  egrcgii  patris  nostri pasloris  Basilii.  Susrejito  autem  illo, 
irratias  egil  Deo,  gavisusque  vehcmcnler  unci  cum  univers&  plebr, 
dixit  ad  puerum:  Recognoscis  litterulas  has,  f rater 7  At  ille 
dixit  ad  eum  :  Etiam  sancte  Dei,  propria:  manus  mea:  srriptura 
est.  El  dirupt&  scripturd.  introduxit  eum  in  ecchsium,  et  digitus 
habitus  est  sacris  interesse  Missarmn  officiis,  et  participatione 
sacrorum  mysteriorum,  ct  muneribus  Christi.  Et  faciei  susrep- 
tione  magna  recreavit  uidversum  populum,  ct  duclo  puero  et  in- 
slrncto,  atque  duth  ei  deceiiti  regula,  tradidil  eiiin  uxori  ejus, 
iiidisinenter  glorificantem  et  laudantem  Deum.    Amen. 


Bacrt,  tliough  lie  pronounces  the  life  in  which  this  lcj;enil 
appears  to  he  apocryphal,  does  not  deliver  a  decided  opinion 
upon  the  legend  itself.  He  snys,  "  Helladium  Basild  in  Epis- 
copatn  successorem  fuisse,  omnibus  est  indubitatiim  ;  vitam  de- 
cessoris  ab  illo  conscriptam,  credimus  {ut  par  est)  S.  Joanni 
Damasccno,  qui  utinain  ad  nos  tantum  tran.'unississet  thesaurum  ; 
eum  enim  videturpra  oculis  hahuisse,  cum  locum  inde  unuin  de- 
scripsit  in  oratione  pro  sacris  Iinaginibus.  An  vera  ea,  qua: hie 
nin-rantur,  ex  llelladio  sunt,  lector  judicet.  Poluit  enim  fieri, 
ut  eo  quo  Pseudo-Amphilochins  scripsit  tempore,  fragmmta 
qua-dain  Ildladii  ertarent,quie  ipse  retulerit  in  Basilium  suum. 
Quod  attinet  ad  Proterii  filiam,  a  dirmone  in  amorein  jurenis 
coucitaram,  simile  quid  conligisse  B.  Maria-  Antiochena:  rej'rriinus 
toino  7  Mnji,  die  29,  pag.  52.  Mild  tamrn  verosimilius  est, 
euindcm  qui  .fimphilocldum  mentltus  est,  mcniiri  diam  Ililladiuin 
poluisse."—  p.  952—3.     .Tun.  t.  2. 

The  story,  to  which  Bacrt  refers,  rescnililes  the  legend  of 
St.  Basil  in  one   part,  hut  is  utterly  unlike  it   in  the  circum 


NOTES    TO    ALL    FOR    LOVE,   &c, 


549 


•tances  wherein  lie  has  su|)post'il  Uio  rt'seiiihlancc  to  exist.  It 
B[)pears  to  have  l)ecn  one  of  tliosc  fictions  which  wore  com- 
posed lionestly  as  works  of  imagination,  not  like  the  lives  of 
St.  lieneJict,  St.  Francis,  St.  Dominic,  St.  Ignatius  Loyola, 
and  so  many  of  their  resi)ective  orders,  with  a  fraudulent 
intent,  to  impose  upon  mankind.  Like  other  such  fictions, 
however,  it  has  been  adopted  and  legiliniatcd  by  credulity 
and  fraud,  and  the  blessed  JIary,  the  Virgin  of  Antioch,  has 
her  place  accordingly  in  the  Acta  Sanctorum,  on  the  29th  of 
ftlay.  But  as  the  legend  evidently  was  not  written  when 
Antioch  was  a  Christian  city,  and,  moreover,  as  the  legend 
itself  contains  nothing  whatever  by  which  its  age  could  he 
determined,  Papebroche  presents  it  as  eo  hahcndam  esse  loco, 
quo  mulla  in  Vitls  Sanclirrum  Patrum,  utilein  quidem  iiistruc- 
tionem  continentia  ad  formandus  mores,  srd  ad  liistoricam  ccr- 
titiidiiieiii  panim  aut  niliil.  Igitiir  islam  quoqiic  ut  talem  hie 
daniKS ;  Itberum  lectori  rcliiiquentes,  ut  earn  quo  volet  grada 
credibititatis  collocet. 

In  this  legend,  one  of  the  chief  persons  in  Antioch,  An- 
themius  by  name,  failing  to  win  the  affections  of  Maria,  who 
was  the  daugliter  of  a  poor  widow,  and  had  resolved  to  lead  a 
life  of  celibacy,  applies  to  a  Magician  to  assist  him.  The 
Magician  sends  two  demons  to  influence  mother  and  daugliter 
in  their  sleep,  so  as  to  bring  Maria  to  Anthemius's  bed- 
chamber; but  the  temptations  of  worldly  wealth,  which  are 
offered,  have  only  the  effect  of  alarming  them  ;  they  rise  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  and  go  toward  the  Church,  there  to 
pray  for  protection  and  deliverance  ;  and,  on  the  way  thither, 
one  demon  takes  up<m  him  Maria's  form,  while  the  other 
personates  the  motlicr,  and  thus  decoys  Maria  into  the  apart- 
ment where  Anthemins  is  expecting  her.  She  is,  however, 
allowed  to  depart  uninjured,  upon  a  promise  to  return  at  the 
end  of  fifteen  days,  and  live  with  him  as  a  servant,  provided 
he  will  offer  her  no  violence.  Nothing  can  be  more  unlike 
the  story  of  Proterius's  daughter.  Having  extorted  an  oath 
from  her,  that  she  would  return  according  to  this  promise, 
Anthemius  remains,  wondering  at  the  great  power  of  the 
Magician.  "  Certes,"  thought  he,  "  one  who  can  do  what 
he  hath  done  in  this  matter  is  greater  than  all  men  ;  why, 
then,  should  I  not  ofier  him  all  I  am  worth,  if  he  will  make 
me  equal  to  himself?  "  And,  being  inflamed  with  this  desire, 
he  said  within  himself,  "  If  I  were  such  as  he  is,  whatever 
I  might  wish  for  would  be  within  my  reach."  This  thought 
came  into  his  mind  as  if  it  were  by  Divine  Providence,  to  the 
end  that  he  might  willingly  let  the  virgin  depart,  and  that 
she  might  not  be  bound  by  the  nefarious  oath  which  she  had 
taken,  and  that  the  devil,  who  was  the  instigator  of  his  evil 
desires,  might  be  confounded  in  his  design-^,  both  upon  the 
virgin  herself,  and  upon  him  who  was  at  this  time  the  virgin's 
enemy. 

"  As  soon,  therefore,  as  it  was  day,  Anthemius  went  out  to 
seek  for  the  Sorcerer,  and  to  give  him  thanks.  Having  fijund 
him,  and  sainted  hiin,  he  delivered  to  him,  with  many  thanks, 
the  gold  which  he  had  promised  ;  and  then,  falling  at  his  feet, 
earnestly  entreated  tliat  he  might  be  made  such  as  the  Sorcerer 
himself  was,  promising  that,  if  this  could  be  effected  through 
his  means,  he  would  recjuite  him  with  whatever  sum  he  might 
demand.  But  the  Sorcerer  replied,  '  that  it  was  not  possilile 
for  him  to  be  made  a  sorcerer  also,  because  he  was  a  Christian, 
having  been  made  such  by  his  baptism.'  But  Anthemius  an- 
swered, '  Then  I  renounce  my  baptism  and  Christian  name, 
if  I  may  be  made  a  sorcerer.'  Still  the  Sorcerer  rejdied,  'Thou 
canst  not  be  made  a  sorcerer,  neither  canst  thou  keep  the  laws 
of  the  sorcerers,  the  which  if  thou  wcrt  not  to  keep,  thou 
wouldst  then  fall  from  a  place  which  could  never  again  be 
recovered.'  But  Anthemius,  again  embracing  his  feet,  prom- 
ised that  he  would  perform  whatever  should  be  enjoined  him. 
Then  the  Sorcerer,  seeing  his  perseverance,  asked  for  paper, 
and  having  written  therein  what  he  thought  good,  gave  it  to 
Anthemius,  and  said,  '  Take  this  writing,  and,  in  the  dead  of 
the  night,  go  out  of  the  city,  supperless,  and  stand  u])on  yon- 
der little  bridge.  A  huge  multitude  will  pass  over  if,  about 
midnight,  with  a  mighty  uproar,  and  with  their  Prince  seated 
in  a  chariot:  yet  fear  not  thou,  for  thou  wilt  not  be  hurt, 
having  with  thee  this  my  writing;  but  hold  up  the  writing,  so 
that  it  may  be  perceived  :  and  if  thou  shouldest  bo  asked 
what  thou  doest  there  at  that  hour,  or  who  thou  art,  say, 
'The  Great  Master  sent  me  to  my  LorrI  the  Prince,  with  this 
letter,  that  I  might  deliver  it  unto  him.'     But  lake  heed  nei- 


ther to  sign  thyself  us  a  Christian,  nor  to  call  upon  Christ  ; 
for  in  either  case  thy  desire  would  then  be  frustrated.' 

"  Anthemius,  therefore,  ha\ing  received  the  letter,  went 
his  way  ;  and,  when  night  came,  he  went  out  of  the  city,  and 
took  his  stand  upon  the  little  bridge,  holding  up  the  writing  in 
his  hand.  About  midnight,  a  great  multitude  came  there,  and 
horsemen  in  great  numbers,  and  the  Prince  himself  sitting  in 
a  chariot ;  and  tiiey  who  went  first  surrounded  him,  saying, 
'  Who  is  this  that  standeth  here  .' '  To  whom  Anthemius 
made  answer,  'The  Great  Master  hath  sent  me  to  my  Lord 
the  Prince  with  this  letter.'  And  they  took  the  letter  from 
him,  and  delivered  it  to  the  Prince,  who  sat  in  the  chariot; 
and  he,  having  received  and  read  the  same,  wrote  something 
in  the  same  pijier,  and  gave  it  to  Anthemius,  that  he  should 
carry  it  to  the  Sorcerer.  So,  in  the  morning,  .Anthemius, 
having  returned,  delivered  it  to  the  Sorcerer,  who,  having 
perused  it,  said,  '  Wouldst  thou  know  what  he  hath  written 
to  us.'  even  just  as  I  before  said  to  thee,  to  wit,  '  Knovvest 
thou  not  tha^ this  man  is  a  Christian?  Such  a  one  I  can  in 
no  wise  admit,  unless,  according  to  our  manner,  he  performetli 
all  things,  and  renouncetli  and  abhorreth  his  faith.'  When 
Anlheniins  heard  this,  he  replied,  '  Master,  now  as  elsewhilo 
I  alijure  the  name  of  Christian,  and  the  fiiith,and  the  baptism.' 
Then  the  Sorcerer  wrote  again  ;  and  giving  the  writing  to 
Anthemius,  said,  '  Go  again,  and  take  thy  stand  at  night  at 
the  same  place,  and  when  he  shall  come,  give  him  this,  and 
attend  to  what  he  shall  say.'  Accordingly  he  went  his  way, 
and  took  his  stand  at  the  time  and  place  appointed.  Behold, 
at  the  same  hour  the  same  company  appeared  again,  and  they 
said  unto  him,  '  Wherefore  hast  thou  ri^turned  hither?  '  An- 
tliemius  answered  and  said,  '  liord,  the  Great  Master  hath 
sent  me  hack  with  this  writing.'  The  Prince  then  received 
it,  and  read,  and  again  wrote  in  it,  and  gave  it  again  to  be 
returned  to  the  Sorcerer.  To  whom  Anthemius  went  again 
in  the  morning,  and  he,  having  read  the  writing,  said  unto 
him,  'Know  est  thou  what  he  hath  written  unto  me  in  reply? 
I  wrote  to  him,  saying,  "  All  these  things,  Lord,  he  hath  ab- 
jured before  me  ;  admit  him,  therefore,  if  it  pleaseth  thee." 
But  he  hath  written  back,  "  Unless  he  abjureth  all  this  in 
writing,  and  in  his  own  hand,  I  will  not  admit  him."  Say 
now,  then,  what  wilt  thou  that  I  should  do  for  thee." 

"The  wretched  Anthemius  answered  and  said,  'Master,  I 
am  ready  to  do  this  also.'  And  with  that  he  sealed  himself, 
and  wrote  thus:  —  I,  Anthemius,  adjure  Christ  and  his  faith. 
I  abjure  also  his  baptism,  and  the  cross,  and  the  Christian 
name,  and  I  promise  that  I  will  never  again  use  them,  or 
invoke  them.'  But,  while  he  was  thus  writing,  a  copious 
sweat  ran  from  him,  from  the  top  of  his  head  to  the  soles  of  his 
feet,  so  that  his  whole  inner  garment  was  wet  therewith,  as  he 
himself  afterwards  with  continual  tears  confessed.  He  never- 
theless went  on  writing,  and,  when  it  was  finished,  he  gave 
the  writing  to  the  Sorcerer  to  read,  who,  when  he  had  perused 
it,  said, '  This  is  well ;  go  thy  way  again,  and  he  will  now 
certainly  receive  tliee.  And  when  he  shall  have  admitted 
thee,  say  to  him  reverently,  t  beseech  thee,  Lord,  assign  to 
me  those  who  may  be  at  my  bidding  ;  and  he  will  assign  unto 
thee  as  many  as  thou  wilt  have.  But  this  I  advise  tliee,  not 
to  take  more  than  one  or  two  familiars,  inasmuch  as  more 
would  perplex  thee,  and  would  be  perpetually  disturbing  thee 
night  and  day,  that  thou  mightest  give  them  what  to  do.' 
'J'hen  Anthemius  returned  to  the  same  place  as  before,  ami 
awaited  there,  and  the  same  company  came  there  again  at 
miilnight,  and  the  leader  of  them,  having  incontinently  re- 
cognized Anthemius,  began  to  cry  out,  '  Lord,  the  Great 
Master  hath  again  sint  hither  this  man  with  his  commands  :  ' 
and  the  Prince  hade  him  draw  nigh.  And  Anthemius, 
drawing  nigh,  gave  unto  him  his  profession  of  abjuration,  full 
of  calamity  and  woe.  He,  having  received  and  read  it,  raiseil 
it  on  high  in  his  hand,  and  began  to  exclaim, '  Clirist,  behold 
Anthemius,  who  heretofore  was  thine,  hath,  by  this  writing, 
abjured  and  execrated  thee  !  I  am  not  the  author  of  this  his 
deed  ;  but  he,  oftering  himself  to  my  service  with  many  en- 
treaties, hath  of  his  own  accord  written  this  his  profession  of 
alijuration,  and  delivered  it  to  me.  Have  thou  then  there- 
fore no  care  of  him  from  this  time  forth  '. '  And  he  repeated 
these  words  a  second  tiinc,  and  again  a  third. 

"  But  when  Anthemius  hefird  that  dreadful  voice,  he 
frendded  from  head  to  foot,  and  began  at  the  same  time  to  cry 
aloud,  and  to  say, '  Give  me  back  the  writing  !     I  am  a  Chris- 


550 


NOTES    TO    ALL    FOR    LOVE,    &.c. 


tian !  I  beseech  thee,  I  adjure  tliee  !  I  will  be  a  Christian  ! 
Give  me  back  the  profussion  which  I  have  wickedly  written  ! ' 
But  when  lliu  niisprable  man  was  proceeding  thus  to  exclaim, 
the  Prince  R:iid  unto  him,'  Never  again  majst  thou  have  this 
thy  profession,  wliich  I  shall  produce  in  the  terrible  day  of 
judgment.  From  this  moment  thou  art  mine,  and  I  have 
thee  in  my  power  at  will,  unless  an  outrage  bo  done  to  justice.' 
With  these  words  ho  departed,  leaving  Anthemius.  But 
Antheinius  lay  prostrate  on  his  face  upon  the  bridge  till  it  was 
dawn,  weeping  and  lamenting  bis  condition.  As  soon  as  it 
was  daylight  ho  rose,  and  returned  to  bis  own  house,  where  he 
remained  weeping  and  lamenting,  not  knowing  what  he  sliould 
do.  Now  there  was  another  city,  some  eighteen  miles  otT, 
where  there  was  said  to  be  a  Bishop,  who  was  a  man  of  God. 
To  him,  therefore,  he  resolved  to  repair,  that  be  might  obtain 
his  intercession,  and  having  confessed  the  whole  matter  even 
as  it  had  taken  place,  to  be  again  by  bini  baptized  ;  for  in  his 
own  city  he  was  ashamed  to  confess  what  he  had  done. 
Having  then  cut  off  his  huir,  and  clad  himself  in  sackcloth,  he 
departed,  and  came  unto  the  Bishop,  and  baving'made  himself 
known,  was  admitted  to  him,  nnd  threw  himself  at  his  feel, 
saying,  '  I  beseech  thee,  baptize  me  ! '  But  the  Bishop  re- 
plied, '  Can  I  believe  that  thou  hast  not  yet  been  baptized.^ ' 
Then  he,  taking  the  Bishop  apart,  told  him  the  whole  matter, 
saying,  '  I  have  indeed  received  baptism  when  I  was  a  child, 
but  having  now  renounced  it  in  writing,  behold  [  am  unbap- 
tized  !  '  To  which  the  Bishop  replied,  '  How  earnest  lliou 
persuaded  that  thou  bast  been  unbaptized  of  the  baptism 
which  thou  hast  received."  Anthemius  answered,  'In  that 
unhappy  hour  when  I  wrote  the  abjuration  of  my  Lord  and 
Savior,  and  of  his  baptism,  incontinently  a  profuse  sweat 
burst  out,  even  from  the  top  of  my  head  to  the  soles  of  my 
feet,  so  that  my  inner  garments  were  wet  therewith  ;  and 
from  that  time  I  have  believed  of  a  truth,  that  even  as  I  then 
abjured  my  baptism,  so  did  it  depart  from  me.  Now,  if  thou 
canst,  O  venerable  Father,  help  me,  in  compassion  upon  one 
who  has  thus  voluntarily  undone  himself.'  He  said  this 
prostrate  on  the  ground,  and  bedewed  with  tears, 

"When  the  man  of  God,  the  Bishop,  beard  this,  he  throw 
himself  upon  the  ground,  and  lay  there  beside  Anthemius, 
weeping  and  praying  to  the  Lord.  Then,  after  a  long  while, 
rising,  he  roused  Anthemius,  and  said  to  him,  '  Verily,  son,  I 
dare  not  again  purify  by  baptism  a  man  who  hath  been  already 
baptized,  for  among  Christians  there  is  no  second  baptism, 
except  of  tears.  Yet  do  not  thou  despair  of  thy  salvation, 
nor  of  the  divine  mercy,  but  rather  commit  thyself  to  God, 
praying  and  humbly  beseeching  him  for  all  the  remainder  of 
thy  life  ;  and  God,  who  is  good  and  merciful,  may  render 
back  to  thee  the  writing  of  thy  abjuration,  and  moreover 
forgive  thee  that  impiety,  as  he  forgave  the  ten  thousand 
talents  to  the  debtor  in  the  Gospel.  Hope  not  to  find  a  better 
way  than  this,  for  there  is  no  other  to  be  found.'  He  then 
being  persuaded  thus  to  do,  and  having  obtained  the  Bishop's 
prayers,  went  his  way,  weeping  and  groaning  for  the  sin 
which  he  had  committed  ;  and  having  returned  home,  he  sold 
all  his  goods,  and  set  at  liberty  all  his  people,  both  men 
servants  and  maid  servants,  giving  them  also  of  his  posses- 
sions, and  the  rest  of  his  goods  he  distrilmted  to  the  churches, 
nnd  to  the  poor,  secretly,  by  the  band  of  a  faithful  servant. 
Moreover,  he  gave  three  pounds  of  gold  to  the  mother  of  that 
Virgin,  with  the  love  of  whom  the  Demon,  to  his  own  de- 
struction, had  inflamed  him,  having  jdaccd  them  in  a  certain 
church,  saying,  '  I  beseech  ye,  pray  to  God  for  me  a  sinner: 
I  shall  never  again  trouble  you,  nor  any  other  person;  for  I 
depart  I  know  not  whither,  to  bewail  the  wickedness  of  my 
deeds.'  Thus  this  man  did,  —  and  from  that  time  he  was  seen 
no  more,  casting  himself  wholly  upon  the  mercy  of  God,  to 
which  none  who  hath  betaken  himself  can  jierish. 

"  But  we,  who  have  heard  the  relation  of  this  dreadful 
thing,  praise  the  Almighty  Lord  our  God,  nnd  adore  the 
greatness  of  his  works,  that  he  halh  protected  the  virgin  Maria 
in  her  holy  intention  of  leading  a  single  life,  and  hath  taken 
her  mother  out  of  poverty,  affording  liberally  to  them  both 
for  their  support  and  maintenance,  and  hath  delivered  her 
also  from  the  fear  of  sin,  avoiding  the  transgression  of  the 
oath,  which  had  passed  between  !\Iaria  the  virgin  and  her 
enemy  Anthemius,  by  annulling  it.  For  the  Lord  brought 
these  things  to  pass  before  the  fifteen  days,  which  were  tbo 
appointed  time  between  them,  had  elapsed.     Wherefore  we 


may  say  with  the  Evangelist,  Our  Lord  hath  done  all  things 
well.  Nor  hath  he  suffered  the  suppliant,  who  seeks  him  in 
poniti^nce,  to  perish  ;  for  he  saitb,  I  came  not  to  call  the 
righteous,  but  sinners  to  repentance.  Let  us,  therefore,  con- 
tinue to  entreat  him,  that  we  may  be  protected  by  his  Al- 
mighty hand,  and  may  be  delivered  from  all  the  devices  of 
the  Uevil,  and  that,  being  aided  by  the  prayers  of  the  Saints, 
we  may  be  worthy  to  attain  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.  To  the 
Lord  our  God  belong  all  honor,  and  glory,  and  adoration,  now 
and  always,  forever  and  ever.     Amen." 

The  Greeks  apjjcar  to  have  delighted  in  fictions  of  this 
peculiar  kind.  The  most  extravagant  of  such  legends  is  that 
of  St.  Justina  and  Si.  Cyprian,  which  Martene  and  Durand 
present  as  a  veritable  history,  censuring  Bishop  Fell  for  treat- 
ing it  as  fabulous!  It  is  much  loo  long  for  insertion  in  this 
place,  but  it  would  be  injured  by  abridging  it.  The  reader 
may  find  it  in  the  lliesaurus  M'ocus  Anecdutorum,  t.  iii.  pp. 
1G18 — 1050.  Calderon  has  taken  it  for  the  subject  of  his 
Mairico  Prodigioso. 


There,  on  the  everlasting  ice. 

His  dolorous  throne  was  placed,  —  p.  53.5,  col.  1. 

It  was  the  north  of  Heaven  that  Lucifer,  according  to  grave 
authors,  attempted  to  take  by  storm,  En  aver  criado  Dios 
con  tanta  lurmosiira  el  ciclo  y  la  lierra,  quedo  ordcnada  su  celes- 
tial Corte  de  dicinas  Hic-archias  ;  mas  reijito  tanto  la  ingratiiud 
en  uno  de  los  Cortcsanos,  vicndose  tan  Undo  ij  bello,  y  en  mas  emi- 
ncnte  Ingar  que  los  deinns  (segtin  Theodoreto)  que  quiso  empare- 
jar  con  el  Jiltissinto,  y  subtr  al  Aqnilon ,  formando  para  esto  una 
quadriUa  de  sns  roujidcntcs  y  parciales. 

With  this  sentence  Fr.  Marco  de  Guadalajara  y  Xavierr 
begins  liis  account  of  the  Jilcmorable  Expulsion,  y  justissimo 
destierro  de  los  Jiloriscos  de  Espana. 


The  marriage.  —  p.  538,  col.  2. 

The  description  of  the  marriage  service  is  taken  from  Dr. 
King's  work  upon  "the  Rites  and  Ceremonies  of  the  Greek 
Church  in  Russia."  "  In  all  the  offices  of  the  Greek  Church," 
he  says,  "  there  is  not  perhaps  a  mote  curious  service  than 
this  of  matrimony,  nor  any  which  carries  more  genuine  marks 
of  antiquity  ;  as  from  the  bare  perusal  of  it  may  be  seen,  at 
one  view,  most  of  the  ceremonies  which  antiquaiians  have 
taken  great  pains  to  ascertain."  It  agrees  very  closely  with 
the  ritual  given  by  Martene,  De  Antiqais  Ecdesice  Ritibus, 
t.  ii.  pp.  390—398. 

In  these  ceremonies, 

"  The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make," 

the  parties  are  betrothed  to  each  other  "  for  their  salvation," 
—  "  now  and  forever,  even  unto  ages  of  ages." 


The  Ante-nave.  —  p.  538,  col.  2. 
The  Tlpovao;. 


Tlie  coronals 

Composed  of  all  sweet  flowers. — ^p.  539,  col.  1. 

"  Formerly  these  crowns  were  garlands  made  of  flowers  or 
shrubs  ;  but  now  there  are  generally  in  all  churches  crowns  of 
silver,  or  other  metals,  kept  for  that  purpose."  —  Dr.  King's 
Rites,  &.C.  p.  232. 

"  A  certain  crown  of  flowers  used  in  marriages,"  says  the 
excellent  Bishop  Heber,  (writing  from  the  Carnatic,)  "  has 
been  denounced  to  me  as  a  device  of  Satan  !  And  a  gentle- 
man has  just  written  to  complain  that  the  Danish  Government 
of  Tranquebar  will  not  allow  him  to  excommunicate  some 
young  persons  for  wearing  masks,  and  acting,  as  it  appears,  in 
a  Christmas  mummery,  or  at  least  in  some  private  rustic  the- 
atricals. If  this  be  heathenish,  Heaven  help  the  wicked  I  But 
I  hope  you  will  not  suspect  that  I  shall  lend  any  countenance 
to  this  kind  of  ecclesiastical  tyranny,  or  consent  to  men's  con- 
sciences being  burdened  with  restrictions  so  foreign  to  the 
cheerful  spirit  of  the  Gospel."  —  vol.  iii.  pp.  4-16. 


NOTES    TO    ALL    FOR    LOVE,    &.c, 


551 


Basil,  of  living  men 

The  powerfulest  in  prayer.  —  p.  543,  col.  2. 

The  most  remarkal)le  instance  of  St.  Basil's  power  in  prayer 
is  to  be  found,  not  in  either  of  his  lives,  the  veracious  or  the 
apocryphal  one,  but  in  a  very  curious  account  of  the  o|iinions 
held  by  the  Armenian  Christians,  as  drawn  up  for  the  informa- 
tion of  Pope  Benedict  XIF.,  and  inserted  by  Domenico 
Bcrnino  in  his  Hi^toria  di  tatte  I'Heresie  (Secolo  xiv.  cap.  iv. 
t.  iii.  pp.  508—536.)  It  is  there  related  that  on  the  sixth 
day  of  the  Creation,  when  the  rebellious  angels  fell  from 
heaven  through  that  opening  in  the  firmament  which  the 
Armenians  call  Arocea,  and  we  the  Galaxy,  one  unlucky 
angel,  who  had  no  participation  in  their  sin,  but  seems  to  have 
been  caught  in  the  crowd,  fell  with  them  ;  and  many  others 
would  in  like  manner  have  fallen  by  no  fault  of  their  own,  if 
the  Lord  had  not  said  unto  them,  Paz  vibis.  But  this  un- 
fortunate angel  was  not  restored  till  he  obtained,  it  is  not  said 
how,  the  prayers  of  ?t.  Basil  ;  his  condiiiun  meantime,  from 
the  sixth  day  of  the  Creation  to  the  fourth  century  of  the 
Christian  era,  must  have  been  even  more  uncomfortable  than 
that  of  Klopstock's  repentant  Devil.  — p.  512,  §  IG. 


Ele'einon''s  penance. — p.  543,  col.  1. 

In  the  legend  the  penitent  is  left  forty  days  and  nights  to 
contend  with  the  Powers  of  Darkness  in  the  Kelic  Chamber. 

Captain  Hall  relati^s  an  amusing  example  of  the  manner  in 
which  penance  may  be  managed  at  this  time  in  Mexico. 

"  I  went,"  he  says,  "  to  the  Convent  of  La  Cruz  to  visit  a 
friend  who  was  doing  penance,  not  for  a  sin  he  had  committed, 
but  for  one  he  was  preparing  to  commit.  The  case  was  this  : 
—  Don  N.  had  recently  lost  his  wife,  and,  not  choosing  to  live 
in  solitude,  looked  about  for  another  helpmate  ;  and  being  of 
a  disposition  to  take  little  trouble  in  such  a  research,  or,  prob- 
ably, thinking  that  no  labor  could  procure  for  him  any  one 
so  suitable  as  what  his  own  house  afibrded,  he  proposed  the 
matter  to  his  lately  lamented  wife's  sister,  who  had  lived  in 
his  house  several  years  ;  and  who,  as  he  told  me  himself,  was 
not  only  a  very  good  sort  of  person,  but  one  well  acquainted 
with  all  the  details  of  his  household,  known  and  esteemed  by 
his  children,  and  accustomed  to  his  society. 

"  The  church,  however,  looked  exceedingly  grave  upon  the 
occasion  ;  not,  however,  as  I  at  first  supposed,  from  the  near- 
ness of  the  connection,  or  the  shortness  of  the  interval  since 
the  first  wife's  death,  but  because  the  intended  lady  had  stood 
godmother  to  four  of  Don  N.'s  children.  This,  the  church 
said,  was  a  serious  bar  to  the  new  alliance,  which  nothing 
could  surmount  but  protracted  penances  and  extensive  charity. 
Don  N.  was  urgent;  and  a  council  was  assembled  to  deliberate 
on  the  matter.  The  learned  body  declared,  after  some  dis- 
cussion, the  case  to  be  a  very  knotty  one  ;  and  that,  as  the 
lady  had  been  four  times  godmother  to  Don  N.'s  children,  it 
was  impossible  she  could  marry  him.  Nevertheless,  the 
Fathers  (compassionate  persons  1)  wished  to  give  the  unhappy 
couple  another  chance  ;  and  agreed  to  refer  the  question  to  a 
learned  doctor  in  the  neighborhood,  skilled  in  all  difficult  ques- 
tions of  casuistry.  This  sage  person  decided  that,  according 
to  the  canons  of  the  church,  the  marriage  might  take  place, 
on  payment  of  a  fine  of  four  hundred  dollars  ;  two  for  the  poor 
in  pocket,  and  two  for  the  poor  in  spirit ;  namely,  the  priests. 
But  to  expiate  the  crime  of  marrying  a  quadruple  godmother, 
a  slight  penance  must  also  be  submitted  lo  in  the  following 
manner.  Don  N.  was  to  place  himself  on  his  knees  before 
the  altar,  with  a  long  wax  candle  burning  in  his  hand,  while 
his  intended  lady  stood  by  his  side  holding  another :  this  was 
to  be  repeated  in  the  face  of  the  congregation,  for  one  hour, 
during  every  Sunday  and  fast-day  throughout  a  whole  year  ; 
after  which  purifying  exposure,  the  parties  were  to  be  held 
clig  ble  to  proceed  with  the  marriage.  Don  N.,  who  chose 
rather  to  put  his  conscience  than  his  knees  to  such  discipline, 
took  his  own  measures  on  the  occasion.  What  these  were,  the 
idle  public  took  the  lilierly  of  guessing  broadly  enough,  but  no 
one  could  say  positively.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  however,  it 
was  announced,  that  the  case  bad  undergone  a  careful  reex- 
amination, and  that  it  had  been  deemed  proper  to  commute 
the  penance  into  one  week's  retirement  from  the  world  ;  that 
is  to  say,  Don  N.  was  to  shut  himself  up  in  the  Convent  of  La 


Cruz,  there  to  fast  and  pray  in  solitude  and  silence  for  seven 
days.  The  manner  in  which  this  penance  was  performed  is 
an  appropriate  commentary  on  the  whole  transaction.  The 
penitent,  aided  and  assisted  by  two  or  three  of  the  jovial  friars 
of  the  convent,  passed  the  evening  in  discussing  some  capital 
wine,  sent  out  for  the  occasion  by  Don  N.  himself,  after  eating 
a  dinner,  prepared  by  the  cook  of  the  convent,  the  best  in  New 
Galicia.  As  for  silence  and  solitude,  his  romping  boys  and 
girls  were  with  him  during  all  the  morning;  besides  a  score 
of  visitors,  who  strolled  daily  out  of  town  as  far  as  the  con- 
vent, to  keep  up  the  poor  man's  spirits,  by  relating  all  the 
gossip  which  was  afloat  about  his  marriage,  his  penitence, 
and  the  wonderful  kindness  of  the  church."  —  Capt.  Hall's 
Journal,  vol.  ii.  pp.  210 — 214. 

"  I  have  read  of  a  gentleman,"  says  Bishop  Taylor,  "  who, 
being  on  his  death-bed,  and  his  confessor  searching  and  dress- 
ing his  wounded  soul,  was  found  to  be  obliged  to  make  restitu- 
tion of  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  with  the  diminution  of 
his  estate.     Ifis  confessor  found  him  desirous  to  be  saved,  a 
lover  of  his  religion,  and  yet  to  have  a  kindness  for  his  estate, 
which  he  desired  might  be  entirely  transmitted  to  his  beloved 
heir:  he  would  serve  God  with  all  his  heart,  and  repented 
him  of  his  sin,  of  his  ra])ine  and  injustice  ;  he  begged  for  par- 
don passionately,  he  humbly  hoped  for  mercy,  he  resolved,  in 
case  he  did  recover,  to  live  strictly,  to  love  God,  to  reverence 
his  priests,  to  be  charitable  to  the  poor  ;  but  to  make  restitu- 
tion he  found  impossible  to  him,  and  he  hoped  the  command- 
ment would  not  require  it  of  him,  and  desired  to  be  relieved 
by  an  easy  and  a  favorable  interpretation  ;  for  it  is  ten  thou- 
sand jiities  so  many  good  actions  and  good  purposes  should  be 
in  vain,  hut  it  is  worse,  infinitely  worse,  if  (he  man  should 
perish.     What  should  the  confessor  do  in  this  case.'  —  shall 
not  the  man  be  relieved,  and  his  piety  be  accepted ;  or  shall 
the  rigor  and  severity  of  his  confessor,  and    his  scrupulous 
fears  and  impertinent  niceness,  cast  away  a  soul  either  into 
future  misery,  or  present  discomfort  ?     Neither  one  nor  other 
was  to  be  done  ;  and  the  good  man  was  only  to  consider  what 
God  had  made  necessary,  not  what  the  vices  of  his  penitent 
and  his  present  follies   should   make   so.     Well:  the  priest 
insists  upon  his  first  resolution,  '  JSTon  dimittitur  ptccatmn,  nisi 
restituntiir  ablatiim  ; '  the  sick  man  could  have  no  ease  by  the 
loss  of  a  duty.     The  poor  clinic  desires  the  confessor  to  deal 
with  his  son,  and  try  if  he  could  be  made  willing  that  his 
father  might  go  to  heaven  at  charge  of  his  son,  which  when  he 
had  attempted,  he  was  answered  with  extreme  rudeness  and 
injurious  language;  which  caused  great  trouble  to  the  jirics! 
and  to  the  dying  father.     At  last  the  religious  man  found  out 
this  device,  telling  his  penitent,  that  unless  by  corporal  pen- 
ances there  could  be  made  satisfaction  in  exchange  of  restitu- 
tion, he  knew  no  hopes  ;  but  because  the  profit  of  the  estate, 
which  was  obliged  to  restitution,  was  to  descend  upon  the  son, 
ho  thnnglit  something  might  be  hoped,  if,  by  way  of  commuta- 
tion, the  son  would  hold  his  finger  in  a  burning  candle  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.     The  glad  father,  being  overjoyed  at  this 
loop-hole  of  eternity,  this  glimpse  of  heaven,  and  the  certain 
retaining  of  the  whole  estate,  called  to  his  son,  told  him  the 
condition  and  the  advantages  to  them  both,  making  no  ques- 
tion hut  he  would  gladly  undertake  the  i)enance.     But  the  son 
with  indignation  replied,  '  he  would  not  endure  so  much  tor- 
ture to  save  the  whole  estate.'     To  which  the  priest,  espying 
his  advantage,  made  this  quick  return  to  the  old  man :  — '  Sir, 
if  your  son  will  not,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  endure  the  pains 
of  a  burning  finger  to  save  your  soul,  will  you,  lo  save  a  por- 
tion of  the  estate  for  him,  endure  the  flames  of  hell  to  eternal 
ages."     The  unreasonableness  of  the  odds,  and  the  ungrate- 
fulness of  the  son,  and  the  importunity  of  the  priest,  and  the 
fear  of  hell,  and  the  indispensable  necessity    of  restitution, 
awakened  the  old  man  from  his  lethargy,  and  he  bowed  himself 
to  the  rule,  made  restitution,  and  had  hopes  of  pardon  and 
present  comfort." — Works  o/Jf.remv  Tavi.of,  vol.  xiii.  p.  38. 
The  penances  which  Indian  fanatics  voluntarily  undertake 
and  perform  would  be  deemed  impossible  in  Europe,  if  they 
had  not  been  witnessed  by  so  many  persons  of  unquestionable 
authority.     The  penances  which  the  Bramins  enjoin  are  prob- 
ably more  severe  than  they  would  otherwise  he,  on  this  ac- 
count, lest  they  should  seem  tiifling  in  the  eyes  of  a  people 
accustomed  to  such  exhibitions. 

"  If  a  Phoodru  go  to  a  Bramhunce  of  had  character,  he  must 
renounce  lifcby  casting  himself  into  a  large  fire.     If  a  Shoodru 


I 

I 


553 


NOTES    TO    ALL    FOR    LOVE,    &c. 


go  to  a  liraiiiluincc  of  unsulliiid  cliaractcr,  lie  must  tie  straw 
round  tlio  difi'crent  piirts  of  his  boily,  and  cast  hiinsplfinto  tliu 
fire.  'J'lio  vvom^in  must  l>e  [ilaced  on  an  ass  and  lod  round  tlin 
city,  and  tlipn  go  the  Oreat  Way  :  tlie  m(;aning  of  tliis  is,  slie 
must  wander  to  those  sacri'd  places  of  the  Hindoos  where  the 
climate  is  exceedingly  cold,  and  proceed  till  she  actually  per- 
ish with  cold.  This  is  a  meritorious  way  of  terminating  life, 
and  is  mentioned  as  such  in  the  Hindoo  writings. "  —  Ward, 
vol.  i.  p.  427. 

Sometimes  the  law  is  frustrated  by  its  own  severity.  "  It  is 
a  dogma  of  general  notoriety,  that  if  a  Jungum  has  the  mis- 
chance to  lose  his  Lingum,  he  ought  not  to  survive  the  misfor- 
tunc.  Poorniii,  the  present  minister  of  Mysoor,  relates  an 
incident  of  a  Ling-ayet  friend  of  his,  who  had  unhappily  lost 
liis  i)ortalile  god,  and  came  to  take  a  last  farewell.  The 
Indians,  like  more  enlightened  nations,  readily  laugh  at  the 
absurdities  of  every  sect  but  their  own,  and  Poornia  gave  Iiim 
better  counsel.  It  is  a  part  of  the  ceremonial,  preceding  the 
sacrifice  of  the  individual,  that  the  principal  persons  of  the 
sect  should  assemble  on  the  banks  of  some  holy  stream,  and 
placing  in  a  basket  the  lingum  images  of  the  whole  assembly, 
purify  tliem  in  the  sacred  waters.  The  destined  victim,  in 
conformity  to  the  advice  of  his  friend,  suddenly  seized  the 
basket,  and  overturned  its  contents  into  the  rapid  Caveri. 
'  Now,  my  friends,'  said  he,  '  we  are  on  equal  terms  :  let  us 
prepare  to  die  together.'  The  discussion  terminated  accord- 
ing to  expectation.  The  whole  party  took  an  oath  of  invio- 
lable secrecy,  and  each  privately  provided  himself  with  a  new 
image  of  the  lingum." —  Wilks,  vol.  i.  p.  506. 

In  1790,  when  the  Mahrattas  were  to  have  cooperated  with 
Lord  Cornwallis  at  Seringapatam,  their  general,  Parasu  Ram 
Bhao,  became  unclean  from  eating  with  a  Bramin  who  had  — 
kissed  a  cobbler's  wife.  There  was  no  stream  near  holy  enough 
to  \\'ash  away  the  impurity  ;  so  he  marched  bis  whole  immense 
army  to  the  junction  of  the  Tungha  and  the  Badra.  Major 
Moor,  w  ho  was  with  him,  says,  "  During  this  march,  uncalled 
for  in  a  military  point  of  view,  the  army  laid  waste  scores  of 
towns  and  thousands  of  acres,  —  indeed,  whole  districts;  we 
fought  battles,  stormed  forts,  destroyed  a  large  army,  and  ran 
every  military  risk.  Having  reached  the  sacred  place  of 
junction,  he  washed,  and  having  been  made  clean,  was  weighed 
against  gold  and  silver ;  his  weight  was  1G,Q00  pagodas,  about 
7000/.,  which  was  given  to  the  Bramins.  They  who  had  eaten 
with  the  Bramin  at  the  same  time,  in  like  manner  washed 
away  the  defilement ;  but  the  weighing  is  a  ceremony  peculiar 
to  the  great."  —  Moob's  Htiulu  infantiddc,  p.  SSI. 

"  The  present  king  of  Travancore  has  conquered,  or  carried 
war  into  all  the  countries  which  lay  round  bis  dominions,  and 
lives  in  the  continual  exercise  of  his  arms.  To  atone  for  the 
blood  which  he  has  spilt,  the  Brachmans  persuaded  him  that 
it  was  necessary  he  should  be  born  anew  :  this  ceremony  con- 
sisted in  putting  the  prince  into  the  body  of  a  golden  cow  of 
immense  value,  where,  after  ho  bad  lain  the  time  prescribed, 
he  came  out  regenerated,  and  freed  from  all  the  crimes  of  his 
former  life.  The  cow  was  afterwards  cut  up,  and  divided 
amongst  the  seers  who  had  invented  this  extraordinary  method 
for  the  remission  of  his  sins."  —  Orme's  Fragments. 

A  far  less  expensive  form  was  observed  among  the  ancient 
Greeks,  in  cases  wherein  a  second  birth  was  deemed  indispen- 
sabls  ;  "  for  i"  Greece  tbcy  thought  not  those  pure  and  clean 
ivho  ha'i  been  carried  forth  for  dead  to  be  interred,  or  whose 
sepulchre  and  funerals  had  been  solemnized  or  prepared ; 
neither  were  such  allowed  to  fre(|uent  the  company  of  others, 
nor  suffered  to'  come  near  unto  their  sacrifices.  And  there 
•'oeth  a  report  of  a  certain  man  named  Aristinus,  one  of  those 
who  had  been  poss'cssed  with  this  superstition;  how  he  sent 
unto  I  he  oracle  of  Apollo  at  Delphos,  for  to  make  supplication 
and  prayer  unto  the  god,  for  to  be  delivered  out  of  this  per- 
plexed anxiety  that  troubled  him  by  occasion  of  the  said 
custom,  or  law,  then  in  force,  and  that  the  prophetess  Pylhia 
returned  this  answer :  — 

"  Look  whatsoever  women  do, 

in  childbed  newly  laid. 
Unto  their  babes  which  they  brought  forth, 

the  very  same,  I  say. 
See  that  be  done  to  thee  again  ; 

and  after  that  be  sure, 


Unto  the  blessed  Gods  with  hanils 
to  sacrifice,  most  pure. 

"  Which  oracle  thus  delivered,  Aristinus,  having  well  pon- 
dered and  considered,  committed  himself  as  an  infant  new  born 
unto  wonu'u,  for  to  be  washed,  to  be  wrapped  in  swaddling 
clothes,  and  to  be  suckled  with  the  breast-bead  :  after  v\bich 
all  such  others,  whom  we  call  Uijsleropolmuus,  that  is  to  say, 
those  whose  graves  were  made  as  if  they  were  dead,  did  the 
scmblabh".  Howbeit  some  do  say  that,  before  Aristinus  was 
born,  these  ceremonies  were  observed  about  these  Hystero- 
potmoi,  and  that  this  Wiis  a  right  ancient  custom  kept  in  the 
semblal)le  case."  —  Pluturch's  Morals,  tr.by  Philemon  Hol- 
land, p.  852. 


The  lamps  went  out,  —  p.  543,  col.  2. 

There  is  the  authority  of  a  Holy  Man,  in  the  Komance  of 
Merlin, — which  is  as  good  authority  for  such  a  fact  as  any 
thing  in  the  Acta  Sanctorum,  —  that  the  Devil,  like  other 
w  ild  beasts  who  prowl  about  seeking  what  they  may  devour,  is 
afraid  of  a  light.  The  Holy  Man's  advice  to  a  pious  damsel 
is  never  to  lie  down  in  the  dark:  '^  garde  que  la  ou  tu  cav- 
cheras  il  y  ait  tousjours  clarte,  car  le  Viable  halt  toutes  clercs 
clioses ;  ne  ne  vicnt  pas  voulenticrs  ou  il  y  a  clartc."  —  vol.  i. 

fr.  4. 


And  ichile  is  hlael:,  and  black  is  while.  —  p.  547,  col.  1 . 

Satan  might  have  been  reconciled  to  St.  Basil's  profession 
if  he  had  understood,  by  his  faculty  of  second-sight,  that  this, 
which  it  is  sometimes  the  business  of  a  lawyer  to  prove,  would 
one  day  he  the  duty  of  the  Romanists  to  beliece,  if  their 
church  were  to  tell  them  so.  No  loss  a  personage  than  St.  Ig- 
natius Loyola  has  asserted  this.  In  his  Eiercilia  Spirilualia, 
tiie  ]3lh  of  the  Rules  which  are  laid  down  ad  scnticndum  cum 
Ecclesicl,  IS  in  these  words  :  — 

"  Deiiigue,  vt  ipsi  Ecdesia;  CatholiciB  omnino  unanimes,  confor- 
mesqnesimus,  si  quid,  quod  oculis  nostris  apparet  album,  nigrum 
ilia  esse  definierit,  debemus  itidem,  quod  nigrum  sit,  pronun- 
tiare.  Induhitate  namque  credendum  est,  endem  esse  Domini 
nostri  Jesii  Christi,  ct  Kcclesia  orUiodoxat,  sponsa  ejus,  spirit'xm, 
per  quern  guhernaiinir  ac  dirigimur  ad  salutcm ;  neque  alium  esse 
Deum,  qui  olim  tradidit  Decalogi  pracepta,  et  qui  nunc  tcmporis 
Ecclcsiam  hierarckicam  instruit  atque  regit."  —  p.  141.  Aut- 
werpia-,  KBo. 

Such  is  the  implicit  obedience  enjoined  in  those  Spiritual 
Exercises,  of  which  Pope  Paul  III.  said  in  his  brief,  sub 
annulo  Piscatoris,  "  Omnia  et  singula  in  cis  contenta,  ei  certa 
scicnti&  nostra,  apim,bumvs,  collaudanius,  ac  projsentis  scripti 
patrocinio  commnnimus."  The  Romanists  are  to  believe  that 
bbick  is  white,  if  the  Roman  Church  tells  tliern  so:  morally 
and  politically  it  has  often  told  them  so,  and  they  have  belieted 
and  acted  accordingly. 


The  impious  scroll  was  dropp'd,  a  blank, 
.4J  Ete'gmon's  feet.  —  p.  547,  col.  9. 

This  is  not  the  only  miracle  of  this  kind  recorded  of  St. 
Basil. 

"  There  was  a  certain  woman  of  noble  family,  and  horn  of 
rich  parents,  who  was  wholly  made  up  of  the  vanities  of  this 
world,  and  beyond  measure  arrogant  in  all  things  ;  she,  bo- 
coming  a  widow,  wasted  her  substance  shamelessly,  living  a 
loose  and  profligate  lil'e,  doing  none  of  those  things  which  are 
enjoined  by  the  Lord,  but  wallowing  like  a  swine  in  the  mire 
and  filth  of  her  iniquities.  But  being  at  length,  by  the  will 
of  God,  brought  lo  a  consideration  of  her  own  estate,  and  her 
mind  filled  with  consciousness  of  the  immeasurable  oHences 
which  she  had  committed,  she  called  to  remembrance  the 
multitude  of  her  sins,  and  bewailed  them  penitently,  saying, 
'  Woe  to  me  a  sinner,  how  shall  I  render  an  account  of  the 
multitude  of  my  sins  !  I  have  profaned  a  spiritual  tenijile  ;  I 
have  defiled  the  soul  which  inhabitetb  this  body !  Woe  is 
me,  woe  is  me  !  what  have  I  done  !  what  hath  befallen  me! 
Shall  I  say,  like  the  Harlot  or  the  Publican,  that  I  have 
sinned.'  Hut  no  one  has  sinned  like  me  !  How,  then,  shall 
I  be  assured  that  God  will  receive  my  rejientance  .' '    While 


NOTES    TO    ALL    FOR    LOVE,    &c. 


553 


slie  meditated  in  herself  upon  tlie-e  things,  lie,  wlio  would 
tlitit  all  should  he  saved  and  hrouglit  back  into  the  way  of 
truth,  and  would  have  no  one  perish,  was  pleased  to  liring 
unto  her  remembrance  all  the  sins  which  she  had  conimiltcd 
from  her  youth  up.  And  she  set  down  in  writing  all  these 
oliences,  even  all  that  she  had  committed  from  her  youth  to 
this  her  elder  age  ;  and,  last  of  all,  she  set  down  one  great  and 
heinous  sin,  tho  worst  of  all ;  and  having  done  this,  she  folded 
up  the  writing,  and  fastened  it  with  luad.  After  this,  having 
waited  till  a  convenient  season,  when  holy  liasil  was  ac- 
customed to  go  to  the  church  that  he  might  pray  there,  she 
ran  U>fore  to  meet  him,  and  threw  the  writing  at  his  feet,  and 
prostrated  herself  before  him,  saying,  '  O,  holy  man  of  God, 
have  compassion  ui>on  me  a  sinner,  yea,  the  vilest  of  sinners  ! ' 
The  most  blessed  man  sto])t  thereat,  and  asked  of  her  '  where- 
fore she  thus  groaned  and  lamnntod: '  and  she  said  unto  him, 
'  Saint  of  Uod,  sec,  I  have  set  down  all  my  sins  and  iniquities 
in  this  writing,  and  1  have  folded  it,  and  fastened  it  with  lead  ; 
do  not  thou,  t  charge  thee,  open  it,  but  by  thy  powerful 
prayers  blot  out  all  that  is  written  therein.'  Then  the  great 
and  holy  Basil  held  up  the  writing,  and,  looking  toward 
Heaven,  said,  '  O  Lord,  to  'i'hec  alone  all  the  deeds  of  this 
■woman  are  manifest  1  Thou  hast  taken  away  the  sins  of  the 
world,  and  more  easily  mayst  thou  blot  out  those  of  this 
single  soul.  Before  thee,  indeed,  all  our  offences  are  num- 
bered ;  but  thy  mercy  is  infinite.'  Saying  thus,  ho  went  into 
the  church,  holding  the  aforesaid  writing  in  his  hand;  and 
prostVating  himself  before  the  altar,  there  he  remained  through 
the  night,  and  on  the  morrow,  during  the  performance  of  all 
the  masses  which  were  celebrated  there,  entreating  God  for 
this  woman's  sake.  And  when  she  came  to  him,  ho  gave  her 
the  writing,  and  said  to  her,  '  Woman,  hast  thou  heard  that 
the  remission  of  sins  can  come  from  God  alone.''  She  an- 
swered, '  Vea,  fither  ;  and  therefore  liave  I  supplicated  thee 
that  thou  shouldst  intercede  with  that  most  merciful  God  in 
my  behalf.'  And  then  she  opened  the  writing,  and  found  that 
it  was  all  blotted  out,  save  only  that  tlie  one  great  and  most 
lieinous  sin  still  remained  written  there.  l!ui  sb",  seeing 
that  this  great  sin  was  still  legible  as  before,  beat  her  breast, 
and  began  to  bewail  herself,  and  falling  at  his  feet  again,  with 
many  tears  she  said,  '  Have  compassion  ujion  me,  O  Servant 
of  the  Most  High,  and  as  thou  hast  once  exerted  thyself  in 
prayer  for  all  my  sins,  and  hast  prevailed,  so  now  intercede,  as 
thou  canst,  that  this  oti'enco  also  may  he  blotted  out.'  Thereat 
holy  Basil  wept  for  pity  ;  and  he  said  unto  her,  '  Woman, 
arise  !  I  also  am  a  sinner,  and  have  myself  need  of  forgiveness. 
He  who  hath  blotted  out  thus  much,  hath  granted  thee  re- 
mission of  tliy  sins  as  far  as  hath  to  him  seemed  good  ;  and 
God,  who  hath  taken  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  is  able  to 
take  from  thee  this  remaining  sin  also ;  and  if  thou  wilt  keep 
his  commandments,  and  walk  in  his  ways,  thou  sbalt  not  only 
have  forgiveness,  but  wilt  also  become  worthy  of  glory.  But 
go  thou  into  the  desert,  and  there  thou  wilt  find  a  holy  man, 
who  is  well  known  to  all  the  holy  fathers,  and  who  is  called 
Ephra'm.  Give  thou  this  writing  to  him,  and  ho  will  in- 
tercede for  thee,  and  will  prevail  with  the  Lord.' 

"  The  woman  then  commend(  d  herself  to  the  holy  Bishop's 
prayers,  and  hastened  away  into  the  desert,  and  performed  a 
long  journey  therein.  She  came  to  the  great  and  wonderful 
Hermit,  who  was  called  Ephrwm  by  name,  and  knocking  at 
his  door,  she  cried  aloud,  saying,  '  Have  compassion  on  me, 
Saint  of  God,  have  compassion  on  me  I '  But  be,  having  been 
forewarned  in  spirit  concerning  the  errand  on  w  hicli  she  came, 
replied  unto  her,  saying,  '  Woman,  depart,  for  I  also  am  a 
man  and  a  sinner,  standing  myself  in  need  of  an  intercessor.' 
But  she  held  out  the  writing,  and  said, '  The  holy  .Vrchbishop 
Basil  sent  me  to  thee,  that  thou  mighlst  intercede  for  me,  and 
that  therethrough  the  sih  which  is  written  herein  might  be 
blotted  out.  The  other  many  sins  holy  Basil  hath  blotted 
out  hv  his  prayers:  Saint  of  God,  do  not  thou  think  it  much 
to  intercede  with  the  Lord  for  me  fur  this  one  sin,  seeing  that 
I  am  sont  tmto  thee  to  that  end.'  But  that  confessor  made 
answer,  '  No,  daughter '.  Could  he  obtain  from  the  Lord  the 
remission  of  so  many  other  sins,  and  cannot  he  intercede  and 
prevail  for  this  single  one  .'  Go  thy  way  back,  therefore,  and 
tarry  not,  that  thou  mayst  find  him  before  his  soul  be  de- 
70 


parted  from  his  body.'     Then  the  woman  commended  herself 
to  the  holy  Confessor  Ephrirm,  and  returned  to  Ca'sarea. 

"  But  when  she  entered  that  city,  she  met  the  i)ersons  who 
were  beating  the  body  of  St.  Basil  to  burial;  seeing  which, 
she  threw  herself  upon  the  ground,  and  began  to  cry  aloud 
against  the  holy  man,  saying,  '  Woe  is  me  a  sinner,  woe  is 
me  a  lost  wretch,  woe  is  me  !  O  man  of  God,  thou  hast  sent 
me  into  the  desert,  that  thou  mightst  be  rid  of  me,  and  not 
wearied  more  ;  and  behold  I  am  returned  from  my  bootless 
journey,  having  gone  over  so  great  a  way  in  vain  !  The  Lord 
God  see  to.  this  thing,  and  judge  between  me  and  thee,  in- 
asmuch as  thou  conldst  have  interceded  with  Him  for  i!:e, 
and  have  prevailed,  if  thou  hadst  not  sent  me  away  to  anolhe:.' 
Saying  this,  she  threw  the  writing  ujion  the  bier  whereon  the 
body  of  holy  Basil  was  borne,  and  related  before  the  people 
all  that  passed  between  ihcni.  One  of  the  clergy  then  desiring 
to  know  what  this  one  sin  was,  took  up  the  writing,  and 
opened  it,  and  found  that  it  was  clean  blotted  out :  vvhereu|)on 
he  cried  with  a  loud  voice  unto  the  woman,  and  said,  '  O 
woman,  there  is  nothing  written  herein !  Why  dost  thou 
consume  thyself  with  so  much  labor  and  sorrow,  not  knowing 
the  great  things  of  God  unto  thee  ward,  and  his  inscrutable 
mercies."  Then  the  multitude  of  the  people,  seeing  this 
glorious  and  great  miracle,  glorified  God,  who  hath  such 
power,  that  he  remittetli  the  sins  of  all  who  are  living,  and 
givi!th  grace  to  his  servants,  that  after  their  decease  they 
should  heal  all  sickness  and  all  infirmity  ;  and  hath  given  unto 
them  power  for  remitting  all  sins  to  those  who  preserve  a  right 
faith  in  the^ord,  continuing  in  good  works,  and  glorifying 
God  and  our  Lord  and  Savior." —  Vita:  Patruin,  pp.  159,  ICO. 

"  In  the  days  of  the  blessed  Theodcmir,  Bishop  of  Com- 
postella,  there  was  a  certain  Italian,  who  had  hardly  dared 
confess  to  his  own  Priest  and  Bishop  a  certain  enormous 
crime  which  he  had  formerly  committed.  His  Bishop  hi'ving 
heard  the  confession,  and  being  struck  with  astonishment  and 
horror  at  so  great  an  olfence,  dared  not  appoint  what  pen:uice 
he  should  perform.  Nevertheless,  being  moved  with  com 
passion,  he  sent  the  sinner  with  a  schedule,  in  which  the 
ofi'ence  was  written,  to  the  Church  of  Santiago  al  Compostclla, 
enjoining  him  that  he  should,  with  his  whole  heart,  implore 
the  aid  of  the  bli  sscd  Apostle,  and  submit  himself  to  the 
sentence  of  the  Bishop  of  that  Apostolical  Church.  He  there- 
fore, without  delay,  went  to  Santiago  in  Galicia,  and  there 
placed  the  schedule,  which  contained  the  stateinent  of  hia 
crime,  ujion  the  venerable  altar,  repenting  that  he  had  com- 
mitted so  great  a  sin,  and  entreating  forgiveness,  with  tears 
and  sobs,  from  God  and  the  Apostle.  This  was  on  Santiago's 
Day,  being  the  eighth  of  the  Kalends  of  August,  and  at  the 
first  hotir. 

"  When  the  blessed  Theodemir,  Bishop  of  the  See  of  Ctm- 
post<dla,  came  attired  in  his  pontificals  to  sing  mass  at  the  altar 
that  d;iy  at  the  third  hour,  he  found  the  schedule  under  the 
covering  of  the  altar,  and  demanded  forthwith,  wherefore,  and 
by  whom  it  had  been  placed  there.  The  Penitent  upon  this 
came  forward,  and  on  his  knees  declared,  with  many  tenrs, 
before  all  the  ])eople,  the  crime  which  he  had  committed,  and 
the  injunctions  which  had  been  laid  on  him  by  his  own  Bishop. 
The  holy  Bisho|)  then  opened  the  sciiedule,  and  found  nothing 
written  therein  ;  it  ai)peared  as  if  no  letters  had  ever  been 
inscribed  there.  A  marvellous  thing,  and  an  exceeding  joy, 
for  which  great  praise  and  glory  were  incontinently  rendered 
to  God  and  the  Apostle,  the  people  all  singing,  '  This  is  the 
Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  marv<dlou3  in  our  eyes  ! '  The  l'>ly 
Bishop  then  of  a  truth  believing,  that  the  penitent  had  ob- 
tained forgiveness  with  God  through  the  merits  of  the  Apostle, 
would  impose  ujion  him  no  other  penance  for  the  crime  which 
he  had  committed,  except  that  of  keeping  Friday  as  a  f  st 
from  that  time  forth,  and  having  absolved  him  from  all  his 
other  sins,  he  dismissed  him  to  his  own  country.  Hence  it 
may  be  inferred,  that  if  any  one  shall  truly  repent,  and,  going 
from  distant  countries  to  Galicia,  shall  there,  w  ith  his  whole 
heart,  entreat  pardon  from  God,  and  pray  for  the  aid  of  the 
blessed  Santiago,  the  record  of  his  misdeeds  shall,  without  all 
doubt,  be  blotted  out  forever."  —  ^cta  SS.  Jul.  t.  vi.  p.  48. 

There  is  a  miracle  of  the  s  ime  kind  related  of  St.  Antonio, 
—  and  probably  many  other  examples  might  be  found. 


554 


THE    PILGRIM    TO    CO  MPOSTELL  A ;    PRELUDE,    &c, 


PILGRIM     TO     COMPOSTELLA ; 

BEING    THE 

LEGEND  OF  A  COCK  AND  A  HEN, 

TO    THE    HONOR   AND    GLORY    OF 

SANTIAGO. 


A    CHRISTMAS    TALE. 


"  Res  similis  ficUe ;  srd  quid  mildjingere  prodest.'' 

Ovid,  Met.  xiii.  v.  935. 

"  Hear  also  no  lean  story  of  theirs  !  "  —  Lightfoot. 


The  Le;;enfl,  (for  a  genuine  Legend  it  is,)  which  has  been 
made  the  suliject  of  the  ensuing  Hallad,  is  related  by  Bishop 
Patrick  in  his  Parable  of  the  Pilgrim,  (ch.  wxv.  jip.  -VJO 
— 434.)  Ud:il  ap  Rhys  relates  it  in  his  Tour  tl^ough  Spain 
and  Portugal,  (pp.  35 — 38.)  Both  these  writers  refer  to 
Lucius  Marineus  .Siculus  as  their  authority.  And  it  is  told 
also  in  the  Journnl  (In  Voyage  d''E.ipagne,  (Paris,  1069,)  by  a 
Conseillcr  who  was  attached  to  tho  French  Embassy  in  that 
country,  (p.  18.) 

Tlie  story  may  likewise  be  found  in  the  ^ctu  Sanctorum.  A 
duplicateof  the  principal  miracle  occurs  in  the  third  volume, 
for  the  month  of  ftlay,  {die  12^,  p.  171,)  and  is  there  as- 
ciibed  to  S.  Domingo  do  la  Calzada,  the  autlior,  Luiz  de 
la  Vega,  contending,  that  both  relations  are  to  be  received 
as  true,  the  Bollandist  (Henschenius)  contrariwise  opining 
that  they  are  distinct  miracles,  but  leaving  tho  reader  never- 
theless to  determine  freely  for  himself  utrum.  id  vialit,  an 
vera  credere  vclit,  uiiicum  dumtaiat  esse  quod  sub  quadam 
circumstanliarum  varictat.e  refcrtiir  iit  geminum. 

In  the  sixth  volume  of  the  same  work,  for  the  month  of  July, 
{die  2.3*,)  the  legend  of  the  Pilgrim  is  twice  told,  once 
(p.  45)  as  occurring  to  a  native  of  Utrecht,  (Cajsnrius 
Heisterbachensis  is  the  authority,)  once  as  having  befallen 
a  German  at  Thoulouse,  (p.  50  ;)  the  latter  story  is  in  the 
collection  of  Santiago's  miracles,  which  Pope  Calixtus  II. 
is  said  to  have  compiled.  The  extract  from  Lucius  Marineus 
Siculus  may  also  be  seen  there.  It  is  here  annexed  as  it 
stands  in  the  fifth  book  of  that  author's  work  de  rebus  Ilis- 
panice  mtmnrahilibus. 

"  In  anliquissiinit  civilate  qvam  Sancti  Dominici  Culciatensis 
vulgus  appcllat,  gallum  vidimus  el  galUnam,  qui  dum  vire- 
runl,  cujus  coloris  fuissent  ignoramus  ■■  poslea  vera  cum  ju- 
guluti  fuissent  et  a^si,  candidissiini  reeireruntj  vtngnain  Dei 
potentiam  sununumque  mirncnluin  refercnics.  Cujus  rei  Veri- 
tas el  ratio  sic  se  liubet.  Vir  qtiidam  probus  et  amicus  Dei, 
et  uxor  ejus,  optima  inuUir,  cum  filio  adolesceiitulo  magna: 
probitatis,  ad  Sanctum  Jacobum  Compostellnm  projicisccntcs, 
in  hanc  urbem  itincris  labore  defissi  ingrcdiuntiir,  et  quiescendi 
gratis  restiterunt  in  dome  cujusdam  qui  adultam  Jiliam  habehut. 
Qitffi  cum  adolescentem  pulclirdt  facie  vidissil,  ejus  amore  capta 
est.  Et  cum  juvenis  ab  ea  requisilus  atque  reiatus,  ejus  votn 
repugnasset,  amorem  convertil  in  odium,  et  ei  nocere  cupiens, 
tempore  quo  discrdere  volebaiit  ejus  cucullo  cratrram  sui  patris 
clam  reposuit.  Cumque  peregrini  inane  discessisscnt,  ezcla- 
mavit  pucUa  coram  parentibus  crutcram  sibi  fuisse  suhreptam. 

tiuod  audiens  Prcetor  satellites  cotifestim  misit,  nt  peregrines  re- 
ducerent.  Qui  cum  ven'isscnl,  puella  conscia  sui  sceleris  ac- 
cessit  od  juvenem  et  crateram  emit  e  cucullo.  Quaproptcr  com- 
perto  delicto,  juvenis  in  campnm  productiis  iniqucl  scnteiitid.  el 
sine  cidp&  laqueo  suspcnsus  est :  miserique  pnrrnles  cumfilium 
deplorasseiit,  postra  discidcntcs  Compustcllam  pcrvenerunt. 
Ubi  suliitis  votis  et  Deo  gratias  agentes  subinde  redeuntes  ad 
locum  pcrvenerunt,  ubi  flius  crat  suspcnsus,  rt  mater  mult'is 
ferfiLsa  lacrymis  adfliinn  acccssit,  multilin  desuadentc  marito. 


Cumque  flium  suspicrrct,  dixit  et  flius.  Mater  mea  noli  flere 
super  me  :  ego  eniin  vivus  sum,  quoniam  Virgo  Dei  gendrix, 
et  Sinictus  Jacobus  me  sustinent  et  servant  inccilumrm.  Vade 
cliarissima  mater  adjiidicem  qui  me  falso  condrmnarit,  et  die 
ci  me  Hirers  propter  innocentiain  mram,  ut  me  liberari  jubeat, 
libiqiic  resliluut.  Properat  solicita  mater,  et  pro:  nimio  gaudio 
flens  uberius,  Prretorcm  convcnit  in  ntensd  sedentem,  qui 
gallum  et  gallinum  assos  scindere  volebat.  '  Prator,  inquil, 
flius  jneus  vivit ;  jube  sold,  obsecro  ! '  Quod  cum  amiissct 
Prtetor,  ecistimans  cam  quod  diccbat  propter  amorem  mater- 
num  somniasse,  responditsubridens, '  quid  hoc  est,  bona  mulicr  ? 
JVefallaris!  sic  enim  vivit  flius  tuus,  ut  vivunt  h<B  aves ." 
Et  viz  hoc  dixerat  cum  gallus  et  gallina  saltaverunt  in  mensd, 
statimque  gallus  cantavit.  Quod  cum  Pra:tor  vidisset  utloni- 
tus  coiitinno  egreditur,  vocat  sacerdotes,  et  does, prof  ciscuutui 
ad  juvenum  suspensum:  et  invenerunt  incolumem  valdeque 
lailantem,  et  parentibus  restiluunt ;  dommnque  revcrsi  gallum 
capiuiit  et  guUinam,  et  in  eccicsiam  Iransferunt  magn&  solcm- 
vitate.  QiiiB  ibi  clausal  res  admirabiles  et  Dei  potentiam 
testifcantes  observantur,  ubi  septennio  vivunt ;  hunc  enim 
terminum  Deus  illis  instituitj  et  in  fne  srptennii  antequam 
moriuntur,  pullum  relinquunt  et  pullam  sui  coloris  et  magni- 
tudinis  :  et  hoc  ft  in  eel  eeclesiii  quolibet  septennio.  J\Iugn<£ 
quoque  admi7'ationis  est,  quod  omnes  per  hanc  urbem  trans- 
euntes  peregrini,  qui  sunt  innumerahiles,  galli  hujus  et  gal- 
linte  plumam  capiunt,  et  numquam  illis  pluma  deficiunt.  Hoc 
ego  testor,  propterea  quod  vidi  et  interfui,  plumamque  mecum 
fero."  —  Reruin  Hispanicarum  Scriptores,  t.  ii.  p.  805. 
Luiz  de  la  Vega  agrees  with  Marineus  Siculus  in  all  the 
particulars  of  this  perpetual  miracle,  except  the  latter ;  "  sed 
scriptorem  ilium  fctionis  arguit,  quod  asserat,  plumas  galli  et 
gallina:,  qua:  quotidie  peregrinis  iliac  transeunttbus  distribuun- 
tur,  prodigiose  multiplicari :  ajjirmat  autem  tamquam  testis  oeu- 
latas,  in  eii  ecclesia  designatum  esse  quemdum  cicricum,  qui  plu- 
mas illus  conservit  et  peregrinis  distribuit ,"  at  negut  continuum 
■mulliplieationis  miruculum  d  Marinco  Siculo  tam  confidenter 
assertum,  in  ea  urbe  videri,  out  patrari.  Multis  tamen  probare 
nilitur  rrliqua  omnia  prodigia  esse  vera,  testaturque  ad  per- 
pctaam  rei  memoriam  in  superiori  ecclesue  parte  omnium  oculis 
exponi  idem  patlbulum,  in  quo  peregrinus  suspcnsus  fuit."  — 
Acta  Sanctorum,  Jul.  t.  vi.  p.  40. 


PRELUDE. 

"  Tell  us  a  story,  old  Robin  Graj- 1 

This  merry  Christmas  time  ; 

We  are  all  in  our  glory  ;  so  tell  us  a  story. 

Either  in  prose  or  in  rhyme. 

"  Open  your  budget,  old  Robin  Gray  ! 

We  very  well  know  it  is  full : 

Come  !  out  with  a  murder,  —  a  Goblin,  —  a  Ghost, 

Or  a  tale  of  a  Cock  and  a  Bull ! '' 

"  I  have  no  tale  of  a  Cock  and  a  Bull, 

My  good  little  women  and  men; 

But  'twill  do  as  well,  perhaps,  if  I  tell 

A  tale  of  a  Cock  and  a  Hen."' 


INTRODUCTION. 

You  have  all  of  you  heard  of  St.  James  for  Spain 

As  one  of  the  Champions  Seven, 

Who,  having  been  good  Knights  on  Earth, 

Became  Hermits,  and  Saints  in  Heaven. 

Their  history  once  was  in  good  repute. 

And  so.it  ought  to  be  still ; 

Little  friends,  I  dare  say  you  have  read  it : 

And  if  not,  why,  I  hope  you  will. 


THE    PILGRIM    TO 

•    COMPOSTELLA.                             555 

Of  this  St.  James  that  book  proclaims 

That  all,  who  in  their  mortal  stage 

Great  actions  inauirold ; 

Did  not  perform  this  pilgrimage. 

But  more  amazing  are  tlie  things 

Must  make  it  when  they  were  dead ;  — 

Which  of  him  in  Spain  are  told ;  — 

Some  upon  penance  for  their  sins, 

How  once  a  ship,  of  marble  made, 

In  person,  or  by  attorney  ; 

Came  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 

And  some  who  were  or  had  been  sick ; 

Wherein  his  headless  corpse  was  laid, 

And  some  who  thought  to  cheat  Old  Nick  ; 

Perfumed  with  sanctity ;  — 

And  some  who  liked  the  journey  ; 

And  how,  though  then  he  had  no  head, 

Which  well  they  might  when  ways  were  safe ; 

He  afterwards  had  two. 

And  therefore  rich  and  poor 

Which  both  work'd  miracles  so  well. 

Went  in  that  age  on  pilgrimage, 

That  it  was  not  possible  to  tell 

As  folks  now  make  a  tour. 

The  false  one  from  the  true ;  —  * 

The  poor  with  scrip,  the  rich  with  purse, 

And  how  he  used  to  fight  the  Moors 

They  took  their  chance  for  better  for  worse, 

Upon  a  milk-white  charger : 

From  many  a  foreign  land. 

Large  tales  of  him  the  Spaniards  tell. 

With  a  scallop-shell  in  the  hat  for  badge, 

Munchausen  tells  no  larger. 

And  a  Pilgrim's  staff  in  hand. 

But  in  their  cause,  of  latter  years, 

Something  there  is,  the  which  to  leave 

He  has  not  been  so  hearty ; 

Untold  would  not  be  well. 

For  that  he  never  struck  a  stroke  is  plain, 

Relating  to  the  Pilgrim's  staff. 

When  our  Duke,  in  many  a  hurd  campaign. 

And  to  the  scallop-shell. 

Beat  the  French  armies  out  of  Spain, 

And  conquer'd  Bonaparte. 

For  the  scallop  shows,  in  a  coat  of  arms, 

That  of  the  bearer's  line 

Yet  still  they  worship  him  in  Spain, 

Some  one,  in  former  days,  hath  been 

And  believe  in  him  with  miglit  and  main  ; 

To  Santiago's  shrine. 

Santiago  there  they  call  him ; 

And  if  any  one  there  should  doubt  those  tales. 

And  the  staff  was  bored  and  drilled  for  those 

They've  an  Inquisition  to  maul  him. 

Who  on  a  flute  could  play ; 

And  thus  the  merry  Pilgrim  had 

At  Compostella,  in  his  Church, 

His  music  on  the  way. 

His  body  and  one  head 

Have  been,  for  some  eight  hundred  years. 
By  Pilgrims  visited. 

THE   LEGEND. 

Old  scores  might  there  be  clean  rubb'd  off; 

And  tickets  there  were  given 

PART    I. 

To  clear  all  toll-gates  on  the  way 

Between  the  Church-yard  and  Heaven. 

Once  on  a  time,  three  Pilgrims  true. 

Being  Father,  and  Mother,  and  Son, 

Some  went  for  payment  of  a  vow 

For  pure  devotion  to  the  Saint, 

In  time  of  trouble  made  ; 

This  pilgrimage  begun. 

And  some,  who  found  that  pilgrimage 

Was  a  pleasant  sort  of  trade ;  — 

Their  names,  little  friends,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 

In  none  of  my  books  can  I  find ; 

And  some,  I  trow,  because  it  was 

But  the  son,  if  you  please,  we'll  call  Pierre ; 

Believed,  as  well  as  said. 

What  the  parents  were  call'd,  never  mind. 

*  Whereby,  my  little  friends,  we  see 

From  France  they  came,  in  which  fair  land 

That  an  original  may  sometimes  be 

They  were  people  of  good  renown  ; 

No  better  than  its  fac  simile; 
A  useful  truth  I  trow, 

And  they  took  up  their  lodging  one  night  on  the  way 
In  La  Calzada  town. 

Which  picture-buyers  won't  believe, 

But  which  picture-dealers  know. 

Now,  if  poor  Pilgrims  they  had  been, 

Young  Connoisseurs  who  will  be, 

Remember  I  say  this  — 

For  your  benefit  hereafter  — 

And  had  lodged  in  the  Hospice  instead  of  the  Inn, 
My  good  little  women  and  men. 

In  a  parenthesis. 

Why,  then  you  never  would  have  heard 

This  tale  of  the  Cock  and  the  Hen. 

And  not  to  interrupt 

The  order  of  narration, 

This  warning  shall  be  printed 

For  the  innkeepers  they  had  a  daughter, 

Br  way  of  annotation. 

Sad  to  say,  who  was  just  such  another 

556 


THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMPOSTELLA. 


As  Potiphar's  daughter,  I  think,  would  liave  heen, 
If  she  follow'd  the  ways  of  her  mother. 

This  wicked  woman  to  our  Pierre 

Beliaved  like  Pociphar's  wife  ; 

And,  because  she  fail'd  to  win  his  love, 

She  resolved  to  take  his  life. 

So  she  pack'd  up  a  silver  cup 

In  his  wallet  privily  ; 

And  then,  as  soon  as  they  were  gone. 

She  raised  a  hue  and  cry. 

The  Pilgrims  were  overtaken  ; 

The  people  galher'd  round  ; 

Their  wallets  were  search'd,  and  in  Pierre's 

The  silver  cup  was  found. 

They  dragg'd  him  before  the  Alcayde  ; 

A  hasty  Judge  was  he; 

"The  theft,"  he  said,  "  was  plain  and  proved, 

And  hang'd  the  thief  must  be." 

So  to  the  gallows  our  poor  Pierre 

Was  hurried  instantly. 

If  I  should  now  relate 

The  piteous  lamentation, 

Which  for  their  son  these  parents  made, 

My  little  friends,  I  am  afraid 

You'd  weep  at  the  relation. 

But  Pierre  in   Santiago  still 

His  constant  faith  profess'd; 

When  to  the  gallows  he  was  led, 

"  'Twas  a  short  way  to  Heaven,"  he  said, 

"  Though  not  the  pleasantest." 


'Mother,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  you're  return'd; 

It  is  time  1  should  now  be  released  : 

Though  I  cannot  complain  that  I'm  tired. 

And  my  neck  does  not  ache  in  the  least. 

"  The  Sun  has  not  scorch'd  me  by  day ; 

The  Moon  has  not  chill'd  me  by  night; 

And  the  winds  have  but  lielp'd  me  to  swin<T, 

As  if  in  a  dream  of  delight. 

'•  Go  you  to  the  Alcayde, 

That  hasty  Judge  unjust; 

Tell  him  Santiago  has  saved  me. 

And  take  me  down  he  must !  " 

Now,  you  must  know  the  Alcayde, 

Not  thinking  himself  a  great  sinner. 

Just  then  at  table  had  sat  down. 

About  to  begin  his  dinner. 

His  knife  was  raised  to  carve, 

The  dish  before  him  then ; 

Two  roasted  fowls  were  laid  therein  ; 

That  very  morning  they  had  been 

A  Cock  and  his  faithful  Hen 

In  came  the  Mother  wild  with  joy ; 

"A  miracle  !  "  she  cried; 

But  that  most  hasty  Judge  unjust 

Repell'd  her  in  his  pride. 

"Think  not,"  quoth  he,  "to  tales  like  this 

That  I  should  give  belief! 

Santiago  never  would  bestow 

His  miracles,  full  well  I  know. 

On  a  Frenchman  and  a  thief." 


And  from  their  pilgrimage  he  charged 

And  pointing  to  the  Fowls,  o'er  which 

His  parents  not  to  cease, 

He  held  his  ready  knife. 

Saying  that,  unless  they  promised  this, 

"As  easily  might  I  believe 

He  could  not  be  hang'd  in  peace. 

These  birds  should  come  to  life  !  " 

They  promised  it  with  heavy  hearts  : 

Tiie  good  Saint  would  not  let  him  thus 

Pierre  then,  therewith  content. 

The  Mother's  true  tale  withstand ; 

Was  hang'd  ;  and  they  upon  their  way 

So  up  rose  the  Fowls  in  the  dish, 

To  Compostella  went. 

And  down  dropp'd  the  knife  from  his  hand. 

T^lip  Cnpl*  u/oiilH  linve  crow'd  if  be  cnnld  ' 

To  cackle  the  Hen  had  a  wish; 

PART    11. 

And  they  both  slipp'd  about  in  the  gravy. 

Before  they  got  out  of  the  disii. 

Four  weeks  they  travell'd  painfully  ; 

They  paid  their  vows,  and  then 

And  when  each  would  have  open'd  its  eyes, 

To  La  Calzada's  fatal  town 

For  the  purpose  of  looking  about  them. 

Did  they  come  back  again. 

They  saw  they  had  no  eyes  to  open. 

And  that  there  was  no  seeing  without  them. 

The  Mother  would  not  be  withheld. 

But  go  she  must  to  see 

All  this  was  to  them  a  great  wonder ; 

Where  her  poor  Pierre  was  left  to  hang 

They  staggor'd  and  reel'd  on  the  table  ; 

Upon  the  gallows  tree. 

And  either  to  guess  where  they  were. 

Or  what  was  their  plight,  or  how  they  came  there, 

Oh  tale  most  marvellous  to  hear. 

Alas  !  they  were  wholly  unable  ;  — 

Most  marvellous  to  tell ! 

Eight  weeks  had  he  been  hanging  there. 

Because,  you  must  know,  that  that  morning  — 

And  yet  was  alive  and  well ! 

A  thing  which  they  thought  very  hard  — 

THE  PILGRIM    TO    COMPOSTELLA. 


557 


The  Cook  had  cut  off  tlioir  heads, 
And  thrown  tliem  away  in  tlie  yard. 

The  Hen  would  have  prank'd  up  her  feathers, 

But  pluckiuif  liad  sadly  defbnn'd  her  ; 

And  for  want  of  them  she  would  liave  shivcr'd 

witli  cold, 

If  the  roasting  she  had  had  not  warai'd  her. 

And  the  Cock  felt  e.Kceedingly  queer ; 

He  thought  it  a  very  odd  tiling 

That  his  head  and  his  voice  were  he  did  not  know 

where, 

And  his  ffizzard  tuck'd  under  his  wing. 

The  gizzard  got  into  its  place. 
But  how,  Santiago  knows  best ; 
And  so,  by  the  help  of  the  Saint, 

Did  the  liver  and  all  the  rest. 

The  heads  saw  their  way  to  the  bodies  ; 

In  tliey  came  from  the  yard  without  check, 

And  each  took  its  own  proper  station. 

To  the  very  great  joy  of  the  neck. 

And  in  flew  the  feathers,  like  snow  in  a  shower. 

For  they  all  became  white  on  the  way ; 

And  the  Cock  and  the  Hen  in  a  trice  wei  e  refledged , 

And  then  who  so  happy  as  they .' 

Cluck  •'  cluck  !  cried  the  Hen  right  merrily  then 

The  Cock  his  clarion  blew ; 

Full  glad  was  he  to  hear  again 

His  own  cock-a-doo-del-doo ! 


PART    III. 


"  A  MIRACLE  !  a  miracle  I  " 

The  people  shouted,  as  they  might  well, 

When  the  news  went  through  the  town ; 

And  every  child,  and  woman,  and  man 

Took  up  the  cry,  and  away  they  ran 

To  see  Pierre  taken  down. 

They  made  a  famous  procession ; 

My  good  little  women  and  men. 

Such  a  sight  was  never  seen  before. 

And  I  think  will  never  again. 

Santiago's  Image,  large  as  life, 

Went  first  with  banners,  and  drum,  and  fife ; 

And  next,  as  was  most  meet. 

The  twice-born  Cock  and  Hen  were  boi-ne 

Along  the  thronging  street. 

Perch'd  on  a  cross-pole  hoisted  high, 

They  were  raised  in  sight  of  the  crowd; 

And,  when  the  people  set  up  a  cry, 

The  Hen  she  cluck'd  in  sympathy. 

And  the  Cock  he  crow'd  aloud. 

And  because  they  very  well  knew  for  why 
They  were  carried  in  such  solemnity, 


And  saw  the  Saint  and  liis  bainiers  before  'em. 

They  behaved  with  the  greatest  propriety, 

And  most  correct  decorum. 

The  Knife,  which  had  cut  off  their  heads  that  morn, 
Still  red  with  their  innocent  blood,  was  borne  ; 

The  scullion  boy  lie  carried  it ; 

And  tlio  Skewers  also  made  a  ])art  of  the  show. 

With  which  they  were  trussd  for  the  spit. 

The  Cook  in  triumph  bore  that  Spit 

As  high  as  he  was  able  ; 

And  the  Dish  was  displayed,  wherein  they  were  laid, 

When  they  had  been  served  at  table. 

With  eager  faith  the  crowd  press'd  round ; 

There  was  a  scramble  of  women  and  men 

For  who  should  dip  a  fi.iger-tip 

111  the  blessed  Gravy  then. 

Ne.\t  v.'ent  the  Alcayde,  beating  his  breast. 

Crying  aloud,  like  a  man  distress'd, 

And  amazed  at  the  loss  of  his  dinner, 

"  Santiago,  Santiago ! 

Have  mercy  on  me  a  sinner  !  " 

And  lifting  oftentimes  his  hands 

Towards  the  Cock  and  Hen, 

"  Orate  pro  nobis!"  devoutly  he  cried; 

And  as  devoutly  the  people  replied, 

Whenever  he  said  it,  "  Amen  !  " 

The  Father  and  Mother  were  last  in  the  train  ; 

Rejoicingly  they  came, 

And  extoll'd,  with  tears  of  gratitude, 

Santiago's  glorious  name. 

So,  with  all  honors  that  might  be, 

They  gently  unhang'd  Pierre; 
No  hurt  or  harm  had  he  sustain'd, 

But,  to  make  the  wonder  clear, 

A  deep,  black  halter-mark  remain'd 

Just  under  his  left  ear. 


PART    IV, 


And  now,  my  little  listening  dears, 

With  open  moutiis  and  open  ears, 

Like  a  rhymer  whose  only  art  is 

That  of  telling  a  plain,  unvarnish'd  tale, 

To  let  you  know,  I  must  not  fail. 

What  became  of  all  the  parties. 

Pierre  went  on  to  Compostella 

To  finish  his    pilgrimage  ; 

His  parents  went  back  with  him  joyfully. 

After  which  they  rcturn'd  to  their  own  country ; 

And  there,  I  believe,  that  all  the  three 

Lived  to  a  good  old  age. 

For  the  gallows  on  which  Pierre 
So  happily  had  swung, 


558                             THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMPOSTELLA. 

It  was  resolved  that  never  more 

These  blessed  Fowls,  at  seven  years'  end. 

On  it  should  man  be  hung. 

In  the  odor  of  sanctity  died  ; 

They  were  carefully  pluck'd,  and  then 

To  the  Church  it  was  transplanted, 

They  were  buried,  side  by  side. 

As  ancient  books  declare  ; 

And  the  people  ia  connnotion, 

And,  lest  the  fact  should  be  forgotten, 

With  an  uproar  of  devotion, 

.  (Which  would  have  been  a  pity,) 

Set  it  up  for  a  relic  there. 

'Twas  decreed,  in  honor  of  their  worth. 

That  a  Cock  and  Hen  should  be  borne  thenceforth 

What  became  of  the  halter  I  know  not, 

In  the  arms  of  that  ancient  City. 

Because  the  old  books  show  not ; 

But  we  may  suppose  and  hope. 

Two  eggs  Saint  Hen  had  laid,  no  more ; 

That  the  city  presented  Pierre 

The  chicken  were  her  delight ; 

With  that  interesting  rope. 

A  Cock  and  Hen  they  proved, 

And   both,  like  their  parents,  were  virtuous  and 

For  in  his  family  —  and  this 

white. 

The  Corporation  knew  — 

It  rightly  would  be  valued  more 

The  last  act  of  the  Holy  Hen 

Than  any  cordon  bleu. 

Was  to  rear  this  precious  brood;  and,  when 

Saint  Cock  and  she  were  dead. 

The  Innkeeper's  wicked  daughter 

This  couple,  as  the  lawful  heirs. 

Confess'd  what  she  had  done  ; 

Succeeded  in  their  stead. 

So  they  put  her  in  a  convent, 

And  she  was  made  a  Nun. 

They  also  lived  seven  years ; 

And  tliey  laid  eggs  but  two. 

The  Alcayde  had  been  so  frighten'd 

From  which  two  milk-white  chicken 

That  he  never  ate  fowls  again ; 

To  Cock  and  Henhood  grew ; 

And  he  always  pull'd  off  his  hat 

And  always  their  posterity 

When  he  saw  a  Cock  and  Hen. 

The  self-same  course  pursue. 

Wherever  he  sat  at  table, 

Not  an  egg  might  there  be  placed ; 

Not  one  of  these  eggs  ever  addled, 

And  he  never  even  muster'd  courage  for  a  custard, 

(With  wonder  be  it  spoken  !) 

Though  garlic  tempted  him  to  taste 

Not  one  of  them  ever  was  lost. 

Of  an  omelet  now  and  then. 

Not  one  of  them  ever  was  broken. 

But  always,  after  such  a  transgression. 

Sacred  they  are ;  neither  magpie,  nor  rat, 

He  hasten'd  away  to  make  confession  ; 

Snake,  weasel,  nor  marten  approaching  them  : 

And  not  till  he  had  confess'd. 

And  woe  to  the  irreverent  wretch 

And  the  Priest  had  absolved  him,  did  he  feel 

Who  should  even  dream  of  poaching  them' 

His  conscience  and  stomach  at  rest. 

Thus,  then,  is  this  great  miracle 

The  twice-born  Birds  to  the  Pilgrim's  Clmrch, 

Continued  to  this  day  ; 

As  by  miracle  consecrated. 

And  to  their  Church  all  Pilgrims  go, 

Were  given ;  and  there  unto  the  Saint 

When  they  are  on  the  way ; 

They  were  publicly  dedicated. 

And  some  of  the  feathers  are  given  them ; 

For  which  they  always  pay. 

At  their  dedication  the  Corporation 

A  fund  for  their  keep  supplied ; 

No  price  is  set  upon  them ; 

And  after  following  the  Saint  and  his  banners. 

And  this  leaves  all  persons  at  ease  ; 

This  Cock  and  Hen  were  so  changed  in  their  man- 

The Poor  give  as  much  as  they  can, 

ners. 

Tlie  Rich  as  much  as  they  please. 

That  the  Priests  were  edified. 

But  that  the  more  tliey  give  the  better. 

Gentle  as  any  turtle-dove, 

Is  very  well  understood ; 

Saint  Cock  became  all  meekness  and  love ; 

Seeing  whatever  is  thus  disposed  of 

Most  dutiful  of  wives, 

Is  for  their  own  souls'  good  ;  — 

Saint  Hen  she  never  peck'd  again ; 

So  they  led  happy  lives. 

For  Santiago  will  always 

Befriend  his  true  believers; 

The  ways  of  ordinary  fowls 

And  the  money  is  for  him,  the  Priests 

You  must  know  they  had  clean  forsaken  ; 

Being  only  his  receivers. 

And  if  every  Cock  and  Hen  in  Spain 

Had  their  example  taken. 

To  make  the  miracle  the  more. 

Why,  then  —  the  Spaniards  would  have  had 

Of  these  feathers  there  is  always  store, 

No  eggs  to  eat  with  bacon. 

And  all  are  genuine  too ; 

NOTES    TO    THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMPOSTELLA. 


559 


All  of  tlif  origiiKil  Cock  and  Hen, 
Which  the  Priests  will  swear  is  true. 

Thousands    a  thousand  times   told   liave   bought 

them ; 

And  if  myriads  and  tens  of  myriads  sought  them, 

They  would  still  find  sonic  to  buy ; 

For,  however  great  were  the  demand. 

So  great  would  be  the  supply. 

And  if  any  of  you,  my  small  friends. 

Should  visit  those  parts,  1  dare  say 

You  will  bring  away  some  of  the  feathers, 

And  think  of  old  Robin  Gray. 


NOTES. 

^  ship  of  marble  made.  —  p.  555,  col.  1. 

The  marble  ship  I  have  not  found  any  where  except  in 
Gcddes,  who  must  have  found  it  in  some  version  of  the  legend 
which  has  not  fallen  into  my  hands,  liut  that  the  ship  was 
made  of  marble  I  belicvn  to  be  finite  as  true  as  any  other  part 
of  the  legend  of  Santiago.  —  Whetlier  of  marble  or  not,  it  was 
a  miraculous  ship  whicb,  wiihout  oars  or  sails,  performed  the 
voyage  from  Joppa  to  Ilia  Flava,  now  El  I'adron,  in  Galicia, 
in  seven  days. 

Classical  fables  were  still  so  passable  when  the  Historia 
Compostelana  was  written,  that  the  safe  passage  of  this  ship 
over  the  Syrtes,  and  between  Scylla  and  Cliaryhdis,  is  ascribed 
to  the  presiding  hand  of  Providence.  —  Espana  Sagrada,  t.  xx. 
P-  6.  

....  his  headless  curpsr,  —  p.  555,  col.  1. 

How  the  body  came  to  leave  its  head  behind  is  a  circum- 
stance which  has  not  been  accounted  for ;  and  yet  it  requires 
ex|iUination,  because  we  are  assured  that  Santiago  took  par- 
ticular care  not  to  part  with  his  head,  when  it  was  cut  oft'. 

"  At  the  moment,"  says  the  Annalist  of  Gdlicia,  "  when  the 
cruel  executioner  severed  from  its  neck  the  precious  head  of 
tlie  sacred  .Apostle,  the  body  miraculously  raised  its  hands  and 
caught  it,  and  in  that  posture  it  continued  till  night.  The 
astonished  Jews  attempted  to  separate  it,  but  in  vain  ;  for  upon 
touching  the  veneral)le  corpse,  their  arms  becaine  cold,  as  if 
frozen,  and  they  remained  witliout  the  use  of  them."  — .^iia- 
Us  de  Qalicia,  pur  £1  Doctor  D.  Francisco  Xavicr  Manuel  de  la 
Haerta  y  Vega.  —  Santiago,  1733. 

"  Cortada  la  cabeza  no  Dio  en  iicrra. 

Que  por  virlud  de  Dios,  el  con  las  manos, 
..Sntcs  que  cayga  at  sutlo  a  si  la  ajicrra, 
Que  no  pueden  quitarsela  tyranos." 
Cliristoval  de  Mesa :  El  Patron  de  Espana,  ff.  62. 

Perhaps  his  companions  dropped  it  on  their  way  to  the  coast, 
for  the  poet  tells  us  they  travelled  in  the  dark,  and  in  a  hurry  : 

"  Cubiertos  de  la  noche  con  el  manto 

Sin  que  ningiin  contrario  los  impida, 
Mas  presto  que  sifueran  a  galope, 

Llccan  el  cuerpo  a  la  ciudad  de  Jupe." —  lb.  fT.  C5. 

But  according  to  the  Historia  Compostelana,  (Espana  Sa- 
grn-la,  t.  xx.  p.  6,)  there  is  the  testimony  of  Pope  St.  Leo, 
that  the  original  head  came  with  the  body. 


.^nd  how,  though  then  he  had  no  head. 
He  afterwards  had  two.  —  p.  555,  col.  1. 

This  is  a  small  allowance,  and  must  be  understood  with 
reference  to  the  two  most  authentic  ones  in  that  part  of  the 
world,  —  that  at  Braga,  and  one  of  the  two  at  Compostella. 


It  is  a  common  thing  for  Saints  to  bo  polycephalous  ;  and 
Santiago  is  almost  as  great  a  pluralist  in  heads  as  St.  John  the 
Baptist  has  been  made  by  the  dealers  in  relics.  'J'here  are 
some  half  dozen  heads,  and  almost  as  many  whole  bodies 
ascribed  to  him,  —  all  in  good  oilor,  all  having  worked  mira- 
cles, and  all,  beyond  a  doubt,  equally  authentic. 


And  how  he  used  to  fight  the  Moors.  —  p.  555,  col.  1. 

Most  appropriately  therefore,  according  to  P.  Sautcl,  was 
he  called  Boanerges. 


"  Conspicitur  media  calaphractus  in  aere  ductor. 
Qui  dedit  in  Ircpidam  barbara  castrafugam. 
7'am  cito  tarn  vali(l(e  cur  terga  dederc  phalanges  ? 
JVimiruin  Tonitru  Fihus  ista  palral." 

Annus  Sacer  I'oeticus,  vol.  ii.  p.  32. 

— "  siendo  aca  en  Espana  nuestro  amparo  y  defensa  en  las 
guerras,  merecid  con  raznn  este  nombre  :  pues  mas  firoi  que 
trueno  ni  raijo  espantaba,  confundta  y  drsbarataba  los  grandes 
cxercitos  de  los  Moras."  —  Morales,  ('oronica  Gen.  de  Espana, 
I.  ix.  c.  vii.  §  4. 

"  Vitoria  Espana,  vitoria, 

que  tienes  en  ta  defensa, 

uno  de  los  Doze  Pares ; 

mas  no  de  nacion  Franccsa. 
Hijo  es  tuyo,  y  tantos  viata 

queparcce  que  sufucrza 

excede  a  la  de  la  muerte 

quando  mas  furiosa  y  presto." 
Ledesma,  Conceplos  Espirttuales,  p.  242. 

The  Spanish  Clergy  had  a  powerful  motive  for  propagating 
these  fables;  their  Privilegio  de  los  votos  being  one  of  the 
most  gainful,  as  well  as  most  impudent  forgeries,  that  ever 
was  committed. 

"The  twosonsof  Zebedee  manifested,"  says  Morales,"  their 
courage  and  great  heart,  and  the  faith  which  was  strength- 
ening in  them,  by  their  eagerness  to  revenge  tlie  injury  done  to 
their  kinsman  and  master  when  the  Samaritans  would  not  re- 
ceive him  into  their  city.  Then  Santiago  and  St.  John  distin- 
guislied  themselves  from  the  other  Apostles,  by  coming  for- 
ward, anil  saying  to  our  Savior,  '  Lord,  wilt  thou  that  we 
command  lire  to  come  down  from  Heaven  and  consume  tliem  .' ' 
It  seems  as  if  (according  to  the  Castilian  proverb  concerning 
kinsmen)  their  blood  boiled  in  them  to  kill  and  to  destroy, 
because  of  the  part  which  they  had  in  his.  But  be  not  in 
such  haste,  O  glorious  Apostle  Santiago,  to  shed  the  blood  of 
others  for  Christ,  your  cousin-german  !  It  will  not  be  long 
before  you  will  give  it  to  him,  and  for  him  will  give  all  your 
osvn.  Let  him  first  shed  his  for  you,  that,  when  yours  shall 
he  mingled  with  it  by  another  new  tie  of  spiritual  relationship, 
and  by  a  new  friendship  in  martyrdom,  it  shall  be  more  es- 
teemed by  him.  and  held  in  great  account.  Let  the  debt  he 
well  made  out,  that  the  payment  may  be  the  more  due.  Let 
the  benefit  be  comjileted,  that  you  may  make  the  recompense 
under  greater  obligation,  and  with  more  will.  Then  will  it 
be  worth  more,  and  manifest  more  gratitude.  Learn  mean- 
time from  your  Master,  that  lovo  is  not  shown  in  killing  and 
destroying  the  souls  of  others  for  the  beloved,  but  in  mortify- 
ing and  offering  your  own  to  death.  This,  which  is  the  height 
and  perfection  of  love,  your  Master  will  teach  you,  and  thence- 
forth you  will  not  content  yourself  with  any  thing  less.  And 
if  you  are  desirous,  for  Christ's  sake,  to  smite  and  slay  his  ene- 
mies, have  patience  awhile,  fierce  Saint '.  {Santo  fcroz.)  There 
will  come  a  time  when  you  shall  wage  war  for  your  Master, 
sword  in  hand,  and  in  your  person  shall  slaughter  myriads  and 
myriads  of  Moors,  his  wicked  enemies  !  "  —  Coronica  General 
de  Espana,  1.  ix.  c.  vii.  §  8. 

An  old  hymn,  which  was  formerly  used  in  the  service  of  his 
day,  likens  this  Apostle  to  —  a  Lion's  whelp  ! 

"  Elrctus  hie  .Apostolus 
Decorus  et  amubilis, 
Velul  Leonis  catulus 
Vkit  brtla  ccrlaminis."  —  Divi  Tutelares,  229. 


5G0 


NOTES    TO    THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMPUSTELLA. 


"  Tliii  ty-eiglit  visible  appeurances,"  says  the  Padre  Maestro 
Fray  Felipe  lin  la  Ganclaru,  Cliroiiicler  (Jcncral  of  the  King- 
dom of  Galicia,  — "  tliirty-eiglit  visible  appearai.ces,  in  ae 
many  ditferent  battles,  aiding  and  favoring  the  Spaniards,  are 
recounted  by  the  very  learned  Don  Miguel  Krce  (Jimenez  in 
his  most  erudite  and  laborious  work  upon  tiie  Preaching  of 
Santia:,'0  in  i^paln  ;  from  wliitli  work  tlie  Uluslrissiinus Doctor 
Don  Antonio  Calderon  has  collected  them  in  his  book  upon 
the  Excellencies  of  this  Apostle.  And  I  hold  it  for  certain 
that  his  appearances  have  been  many  more  ;  and  that  in  every 
victory,  wliich  the  Spaniards  have  acliieved  over  their  enemies, 
this  their  Great  Captain  has  been  present  with  his  favor  and 
intercession."  —  Armas  i  Triunfus  dd  Rciiio  de  Oalicia,  p.  G48. 

'J'he  Clironista  General  proceeds  to  say  that  Galicia  may  be 
especially  proud  of  its  part  in  all  these  victories,  the  Saint 
having  publicly  prided  himself  upon  his  connection  with  that 
kingdom  ;  for  being  asked  in  a  battle  once,  who  and  what  ho 
was,  (being  a  stranger,)  lie  replied,  "  I  am  a  Soldier,  a  Kins- 
man of  the  Eternal  King,  a  Citizen  and  Inhabitant  of  Com- 
postolla,  and  my  name  is  James."  For  this  fact  the  Chron- 
icler assures  us  that  book  of  manuscript  sermons,  preached 
in  Paris  three  centuries  before  his  time  by  a  Franciscan  Friar, 
is  sufficient  authority:  "  es  valicnti:  auloridiid!  " — Armas  i 
Triunfos  del  Xieino  de  Galicia,  p.  649. 


still  they  worsh'qi  him  in  Spain, 

And  believe  in  him  with  might  and  main.  —  p.  555,  col.  1. 

— "  calamo  descnbi  viz  potest,  aut  verbis  eiprimi,  quanta  in 
Jaeobum  Apostolum  Ilispuni  amure  fcrantur,  rjuam  tenero  pie- 
talis  sensu  festos  illitis  dies  ct  memorium  crhbrent ;  (jtiam  se 
sunque,  omnia  illius  Jidei  et  clientelie  devuveant ;  ipsius  auspiciis 
bcllicas  erpeditioncs  suscipcre,  ct  cniijiccre  soliti,  et  Jaboci  nomine 
quasi  tcsserct  sc  milites  illius  esse  projiteri.  Cum  pugnum  ineunt, 
ut  sibi  animus  fuciant  ct  hostibus  terrorcm  incutiiint,  in  prima, 
qua  vchenientior  esse  sidet,  impressione,  illam  vocem  inlonnul, 
Sancte  .lacobe,  urge  Hispania,  hoc  est,  Santiago,  cierra  Hes- 
panha ;  militari  sc  illi  sacramento  addicunt ;  et  illust/'issimo 
Eqaitum  Ordine  Jacobi  nomine  instituto,  ejusqiie  -numitii  sacru, 
cujus  Rex  ipse  Catholicus  Jilagnus  Mugistcr  ct  Rector  est ;  ejus 
se  ubscquiis  dedicant  et  legibus  (uUtringunt,  id  nullius  erga  qucn- 
quam  alium  Sanctum  Patronmn gentis  chiriora  extent,  quam  Jlis- 
paniC(C  crga  Jaeobum  amoris  et  rcligionis  indicia.  Qudm  vcro 
bene  respondeat  huic  amuri  ctpietciti  Apostolus  curd,  et  solicitu- 
dine  I'utris  ct  Patroni,  ex  rebus  d  suis  clieidibus,  ejus  auiiliu, 
praclare  gestis,  satis  constat,  turn  in  ipsa  Hispania,  turn  in  vtrH- 
que,  ad  Oricnteiii  ct  Occidentcm  Solan  Indict,  Hisrpanorum  et 
Lusitannrum  annis  subactA,  et  illorum  opera,  et  induslriH  ubiquc 
iocorum  propagald,  Christiaud,  religionc."  —  P.  Ant.  Macedo. 
Divi  Tutelares  Orbis  Chrisliani,  p.  22c5. 


Santiago  there  they  call  him p.  .555,  coi.  1. 

"  The  true  name  of  this  Saint,"  says  Ambrosio  de  Blorales, 
"  was  Jacobo,  (that  is,  according  to  llie  Spanish  forn),)  taken 
with  little  (lillerence  from  that  of  the  Patriarch  Jacob.  A 
greater  is  that  which  we  Spaniards  have  made,corru))ting  the 
word  little  l)y  little,  till  it  has  become  the  very  different  one 
which  we  now  use.  From  Santo  Jacobo  we  shortened  it,  as 
we  commonly  do  with  proper  names,  and  said  Santo  Jico. 
We  clipped  it  again  after  this  abbreviation,  and  by  taking  away 
one  letter,  and  changing  another,  made  it  into  Santiago.  Tlie 
alteration  did  not  stop  here;  but  because  Yago  or  Tiago  by 
itself  did  not  sound  distinctly  and  well,  we  began  to  call  it 
Diigo,  IIS  may  be  seen  in  Spanish  writings  of  two  or  three 
luiiulred  years  old.  At  last,  having  passed  tlirongh  all  tliese 
mutations,  we  rested  with  Diego  tor  the  ordinary  name,  re- 
serving that  of  Santiago  when  we  speak  of  the  Saint."  —  Co- 
ronica  Qencral  de.  Espana,  1.  ix.  c.  vii.  $  2. 

Florez  pursues  the  corruption  further  :  "  nombrandrlc  por  la 
voz  latina  Jacobus  Apostolus  cnn  ahrrvincion  y  rulgaridad  Ja- 
cobo Apostolo,  6  Giacomo  Postolo,  d  Jiac  Apostol."  —  Espana 
Sagrada,  t.  xix.  p.  71. 

It  has  not  been  explained  how  Jack  in  this  country  was 
transferred  from  James  to  John. 

The  Prior  Cayrasco  de  Figneroa  assures  us  that  St.  James 
was  a  gentleman,  his  father  Zebedee  being 


"  l^aron  de  ilustre  sangrc  y  Galileo, 
Puesto  que  usaca  ct  arte  piseatorta, 
Que  eiitunces  no  era  illicito,  nifco, 
JVJ  aora  en  muchas  partes  nieiios  gloria, 
La  geiitc  principal  tener  oficio, 
Opor  su  menester,  o  su  exercieio." 

Templo  Militante,  p.  iii.  p.  83. 

Morales  also  takes  some  pains  to  establish  this  point.  Zebc- 
dee,  he  assures  us,  "  era  hombre  principal,  senor  de  un  navio, 
con  que  seguia  la  pcsca ;  "  and  it  is  char,  he  says,  "  coma  padre 
y  hijos  seguian  este  trato  de  la  pesqueria  honradamentc,  mas  come 
senores  que  como  oficiales !  "  —  Coronica  Gen.  de  Espaiia,  I.  ix 
c.  vii.  $  3. 


They''ve  an  Inquisition  to  maul  him.  —  p.  555,  col.  ]. 

Under  the  dominion  of  that  atrocious  Tribunal  Ambrosio 
de  Morales  might  truly  say,  "  No  one  will  dare  deny  that  the 
body  of  the  glorious  Apostle  is  in  the  city  which  is  named  after 
him,  and  that  it  was  brought  thither,  and  afterwards  discovered 
there  by  the  great  miracles,"  —  of  which  he  proceeds  to  give 
an  account.  "  People  have  been  burnt  for  less,"  —  as  a  fellow 
at  Leeds  said  the  other  day  of  a  woman  whom  he  suspected  of 
bewitching  him. 

There  is  nothing  of  which  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  au 
tliors  have  boasted  with  greater  complacency  and  pleasure  than 
of  the  said  liiijuisition.  A  notable  example  of  this  is  atibrded 
in  the  following  passage  from  the  Templo  Mditonte,  Flos  San- 
torum,  y  Triumphos  de  sus  Virtudcs,  by  D.  Bartolome  Cayrasco 
de  Figneroa,  Prior  and  Canon  of  the  Cathedial  Church  of 
Grand  Canary.     (Lisbon,  l(jl3.) 

" gloriosa  Espana, 


Aunque.  de  mucho  puedcs  gloriurte, 
J^^o  cstd  en  esso  cl  valor  que  te  acompaha, 
Sino  en  tener  la  Fe  por  estandarte  : 
Por  esta  la  provincia  mas  eslraha, 

Y  todo  cl  orbc  teme  de  enojurte  ; 

Por  esta  de  lu  nombre  tiembla  el  mundo 

Y  el  cavcmoso  Tartaro  profunda. 

"  Agradccelo  a  Dios  de  cuya  mano 
Procede  toda  grucia,  toda  gloria  ; 

Y  despues  del  al  Principe  Christiana, 
Philipo  digno  de  immortal  mcmoria  ; 
Porquc  con  su  govierno  soberano, 
Con  sujtisticia,  y  supicdad  notoria, 
Estas  assrgurada,  y  drfendida, 

De  todos  los  pcUgros  desta  vida. 

"  Este  gran  Rry  decora  tu  terreno 
Con  veyntc  y  dos  insignes  fortalezas, 
Cuyos  fuertes  Aleaydes  ponen  freno 
A  todas  tas  tarlaricas  bravezas  -• 

Y  con  lemur  del  malo,  honor  del  bueno, 
Castigan  las  mulicias,  y  simplezas 

De  hercticas  palnbras  y  opinioncs. 
Que  son  lus  veynte  y  dos  Inquisiciones. 

"  De  la  Imperial  Toledo  es  la  primcra ; 
De  la  Real  Serilla  la  segunda, 
De  Cordova  la  dustre  la  terccra. 
La  quarla  de  Orunada  la  fccunda  .- 
Tambien  en  Caluhorra  la  vandera 
Dc  la  sagrada  Inqnisicion  sefunda, 

Y  margnritns  son  desta  corona, 
Zaragoza,  Valencia,  Barcelona. 

"  Tambien  ValladuVul  avcntajada : 

Despues  del  gran  incendio,  en  cdijicio  ; 
Cuenca,  Murcia,  Llcrena  eclebrnda 
En  mucha  antigucdad  del  Santo  Ojicio  : 
En  Galicia  assi  mismo  esta  fundada 
Torre  deste  sanlissimo  exercieio. 
En  Ecora,  en  Coimbra,  en  Ulisipo, 
Que  ya  la  Lusitania  cs  de  Philipo. 

"  Tambien  Sicilia  eyt  esta  viva  pena 
De  la  importante  Inquisicion  cstrivaj 


NOTES    TO    THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMPOSTELLA. 


561 


Y  Oran  Cunaria  rn  piiblica  reseha 
ZjOS  adversaria^  tie  la  Fe,  derriba : 
Ims  istas  de  jMaUorca  y  de  Cirdena, 
Y el  .trran  Rnjno  qvr  fne  dc  JiUibaliptt, 

Y  la  postrera  dislu  hcroijca  siima 
£j>  la  ciudad  juefiie  dc  Mutezuma. 

"  Sobre  estas  forlahias  de  imporlancia 
Esta  la  general  tnrre  sitprcma, 
Fnndada  sobre  aliissima  cnnstanciaj 
Cubierta  de  Calulica  diudnna  ; 
De  cuya  soherana  vigilancin, 
Rcsplendcciente  luz,  virtud  cstrema, 
Procede  a  las  demas,  la  fucrza,  el  brio, 
El  C/tristiano  valor,  el  podcrio. 

"  Estes  pues  son  las  celebres  Castillos, 
De  la  Fe  vcrdaderos  defensores, 
Que  con  habitos  roios  y  amarillos, 
Castigan  los  hcrclycos  errorcs  : 

Y  a  los  pechog  Catolicos  senzillos, 
De  la  verdad  Christiana  leladores, 
Les  dan  eljtisto  premio,  honor  dcvido, 
De  la  virtud  hrroyca  mercadu." 

The  Poet  proceeds  to  eulogize  Santiago  as  l)avins  been  the 
founder  in  Spain  of  that  faith  for  the  defence  and  promotion 
of  which  tliose  two-and-tvventy  Castles  weie  erected. 

"  Pues  si  en  el  mundo  es  digno  de  mcmoria 
El  fundador  de  una  ciudad  terrena  ; 

Y  tuego  es  celebrnda  cii  larga  historia 
El  inventor  de  alguna  cosa  buena. 

Que  premio  le  duras  ?  que  honor  1  que  gloria! 
Felice  Esparia,  de  virludcs  llena, 
M  quefue  de  la  Fe  que  aqui  rcficro. 
En  tus  Provincias  fundadur  primero  ? 

"  Razon  sera,  que  su.  mcmoria  sea 
En  todo  tu  dislrito  eternizada, 
Yque  en  aquestc  Santoral  se  lea 
{.^unque  con  debil  pluma)  celebrada  : 
Pues  alto  Espana,  porque  cl  mundo  vea 
Que  puedcs  en  la  Fe  mas  que  en  la  espada. 
Da  me  atentos  oydos  entretanto 
Que  de  tu  Cavatlero  ilustre  canto. 

"  Oyganme  los  magnanimos  guerreros 
Que  ponen  freno  al  harbaro  dcspecho, 

Y  en  especial  aquellos  Canalleros 

Que  adornan  de  su  insinia  roxa  el  pecho  ; 
yeran  que  los  blasones  verdadcros 
Se  alcanzan,  irnitando  en  dicho  y  hecho 
Al  Espanol  caudillo  Santiago 
Oran  lelador  del  Agareno  estrago." 

P.  iii.  p.  81. 


At  Compostella,  in  his  Church, 
His  body  and  one  head 
Have  been,  fur  some  eight  hundred  years. 
By  Pilgrims  visited.  —  p.  555,  col.  1. 

' a  visitor  el  cuerpo  santo 


Todofiel  Christiano  la  via  toma  : 
Adonde  viene  pcrcgrino  tanto 
Como  a  Jerusalem,  y  como  a  Roma, 
Que  a  el  de  tierra  y  mar  por  los  caminos 
Vimen  de  todo  el  mundo  peregrinos 

"  Varia  gentefiel,  pueblo  dcvoto. 
El  Santuario  celeb  re  frequenta, 
Acude  el  casi  naufrago  piloto, 
Libre  de  la  maritima  tormrnta  : 
Que  del  mar  combatidn  hizo  voto, 
Tcniendo  de  salcar  el  alma  cuenta. 
Que  de  la  teinprstad  casi  sin  habla. 
Can  la  vida  salio  sobre  ujia  tabla. 
71 


"  F,l  cozo  del  lugar  propio  se  aleia 
De  una  atcmila  o  curro  hecho  cargo, 

Y  representa  su  piadosa  queta, 

De  aqurlla  enfermcdad  prolira  y  larga  : 
Bueliie  en  sus  pies,  y  las  mulelas  deta, 

Y  de  alguna  piadosa  obra  se  cncarga, 
Oralifieando  con  palabras  sanlas, 
Poder  bolver  sobre  sus  propias  planlas. 

"  El  que  ya  tuvo  vista,  y  no  liene  ojos, 
Al  Templu  viene  del  Apostol  Diego, 
Haze  oracion,  y  postrase  de  hinojos, 
Burlve  con  luz,  avicndo  cnlrado  ciego  ; 

Y  ojos  dc  cera  deia  por  despojos, 

De  que  alcanco  salud  su  humilJe  ruego, 

Y  en  recompensa  dc  la  nueea  visla, 
Es  del  raro  milagro  coronista. 

"  El  que  hablar  no  puede,  aunque  con  lengua 
Que  subito  accidente  hizo  mudo, 
Pide  remedio  de  sufalla  y  mengna. 
Con  un  sunido  balbucicnte  y  rudo  ; 
Sit  devoeion  humilde  su  mal  mengua, 

Y  pudiendo  dezir  lo  que  no  pudo. 
Con  nueva  voz,  y  con  palabras  claras. 
Haze  gracias  por  dadivas  tan  raras. 

"  Si  aquestc  viene  de  sus  miembros  manco, 

Y  aqucl  sordo  del  todo,  otro  contrecho. 
Con  todos  el  Apostol  es  tan  franco. 
Con  su  medio  con  Dios  es  dc  prooecho  ■ 
Cada  qual  con  alegre  habito  bianco, 
Buelve  de  su  demanda  salisfecho, 
Dando  buclta  a  su  tierra  los  dolientes, 
Sanos  de  enfermedades  difercnt.es. 

"  A  quien  de  prision  saca,  5  cautivcrio, 
Remedia  evfermos,  muertos  resucila, 
Da  a  los  desconsulados  refngerio, 

Y  diferenles  ajlicciones  quita  .- 
Sobre  toda  doleneia  liene  imperio 
La  milagroso,  fahrica  bendita, 

Libra  de  muerte  en  agua,  en  hierro,  enfaego, 
El  cuerpo  santo  del  Apnstol  Diego. 

"  Da  toda  almafiel  gracias  al  cielo. 
Que  perdonado  al  pecador  que  yerra. 
Para  remedio  suyo,  y  su  cunsuelo, 
Tal  bien  el  Rryno  de  Gnlizia  encierra  .- 
Para  que  venga  desde  todo  el  suelo 
A  las  pustreras  partes  de  la  tierra, 
Todofiel  Catolico  Christiano, 
A  implorar  el  auxilio  soberano." 

Cristoval  de  Mesa,  El  Patron  de  Espana,  ff.  Ixxii.  p.  3. 

The  high  altar  at  Compostella  is,  as  all  the  altars  formerly 
were  in  Gulicia  and  Asturias,  not  close  to  the  wall,  but  a 
little  detached  from  it.  It  is  ten  feet  in  length,  and  very 
wide,  with  a  splendid  frontispiece  of  silver.  The  altar  itself 
is  hollow,  and  at  the  Gospel  end  there  is  a  small  door,  never 
opened  except  to  royal  visitors,  and  when  a  new  Archbishop 
first  comes  to  take  possession.  It  was  opened  for  Ambrosio 
de  Morales,  because  he  was  commissioned  to  inspect  the 
churches  :  nothing,  however,  was  to  be  seen  witiiin,  except 
two  large,  flat  stones,  which  formed  the  floor,  and  at  the  end 
of  them  a  liole  al)Out  the  size  of  an  orange,  but  filled  with 
mortar.  Below  is  the  vault  in  which  the  body  of  Santiago  is 
said  to  bo  deposited  in  the  miubic  coffin  wherein  it  was  found. 
The  vault  extends  under  the  altar  and  its  steps,  and  some  way 
back  under  the  Capella  Mayor:  it  is  in  fact  a  part  of  the 
Crypt  walled  otTwitb  a  thick  waW,  para  dczar  ccrrado  del  todo 
el  santo  cuerpo. 

The  Saint,  whose  real  presence  is  thus  carefully  concealed, 
receives  his  pilgrims  in  eftigy.  The  image  is  a  half  figure  of 
stone,  a  little  less  than  life,  gilt  and  painted,  holding  in  ono 
hand  a  book,  and  as  if  giving  a  l)lessii)g  with  the  other.  Esia 
en  cabello,  without  either  crown  or  glory,  on  the  head,  but  a 
large  silver  crown  is  suspended  immediately  above,  almost  so 
as  to  touch  the  head  ;  and  the  last  ceremony  which  a  pilgrim 


5G2 


NOTES    TO    THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMP  OSTELL  A . 


jierfotnis  is  to  ascend  to  the  image,  which  is  over  the  iiltar,  by 
u  staircase  from  the  Epistle  side,  kiss  it  reverently  on  the 
head,  embrace  it,  aiul  place  tliis  crown  upon  it,  and  then  go 
down  on  tlie  Gospel  side.  —  VUtgc  de  MuruUs,  t.  xx.  j).  151. 

"  /nireiis  nub  tcmplo  forni.c^  el  claustra  per  iinihras 
Miif^iia  jaceiit,  cjiciiniue  domus,  qiieis  mugna  Jucobi 
Oj'A'rt  sepulchrtili  furna  est  in  sede  latere, 
JVulltfus  hum  ilium  sar.ratum  iiisistere  limen  ; 
£l:it  vidisse  itrfas,  nee  eundi  iierviua  v^^us  : 
K  huge  cciiiaiii  exorant  atijue  oseulajignnt 
Liminibiis,  redeuntijuc  diimus  ;  variasijue  guleris 
Jacubi  ejjigieg  adduiit,  liumcrosque  bacdlin 
Circimdant,  conckhsque  super  falgentibus  ornant." 

Paciecis,  lib.  vii.  p.  117. 

The  sepulcliro  was  thus  closed  by  the  first  Archbishop, 
D.  Diego  (Jelmirez,  "  que  ya  de  ninguna  maiiera  se  puede  ver, 
VI  ciilcnderse  como  estd.  Y  eslo  hiio  con  prndenlissimu  conseju 
aquel  gran  Principe  y  valeroso  Periado,  y  cim  reeerencia  decuta, 
porque  cada  una  no  qiiisie.^e  ver  y  tralar  aquel  preciusti  rclicurio 
cumanmciile,  y  .tin  el  debidu  respele;  que  se  pierde  sin  duda 
quaiidu  los  cucrpus  saiUns  y  sas  scpulturas  pucdcn  ser  vistas 
rulgarmente  de  todus."  —  Morales,  I.  ix.  c.  vii.  '(,  67. 

A  print  of  the  sepulchre,  from  an  illuminated  drawing  in 
the  manuscript  of  the  Ilistoria  Compustclana,  is  given  in  the 
9'lth  volume  of  the  Espuha  Sagradu.  And  in  that  history 
(pji.  50,  .51)  is  the  following  characteristic  account  of  the 
tiihirgeinent  of  the  altar  by  D.  Diego  Gelniirez. 

'■  Among  the  other  worthinesses,  with  the  which  the  afore- 
said ISishop  in  no  inactive  solicitude  hastened  to  decorate  his 
Church,  v/e  have  been  careful  to  defend  from  the  death  of 
oblivion  whatsoever  his  restauratory  hand  did  to  the  altar  of 
the  .said  Church.  But,  lest  in  bringiiig  forward  all  singular 
circumstances  we  should  wander  into  devious  ways,  wo  will 
direct  our  intention  to  the  straight  path,  and  commit  to  suc- 
cee<ling  remembrance  so  far  as  our  possibility  may  reveal 
those  things  which  wo  beheld  with  our  own  eyes.  For  of 
how  small  dimensions  the  altar  of  Santiago  formerly  was,  lest 
we  should  be  supposed  to  diminish  it  iii  our  relation,  may 
better  be  collected  from  the  measure  of  tin;  altarlct  itself.  But 
IIS  religion  increased  in  the  knowledge  of  the  Christian  faith, 
that  another  altarlct,  a  little  larger  than  the  other,  was  placed 
over  it  by  those  who  were  zealous  for  their  holy  faith,  our 
ancient  fathers  have  declared  unto  us  as  well  by  faithfnl 
words,  as  by  the  assured  testimony  of  writings.  But  the 
afores;iid  Ilishop  being  vehemently  desirous  of  increasing  the 
beauty  of  his  Church,  and  seeing  that  this  little  altar,  though 
thus  enlarged,  was  altogether  unworthy  of  so  great  an  Apostle, 
thought  it  worthy  of  pious  consideration  to  aggrandize  the 
.'Vpostolical  altar.  Wherefore,  being  confirmed  thereunto  by 
the  prudent  counsel  of  religious  men,  although  the  Canons 
stoutly  resisted  him  in  this  matter,  he  declared  his  deter- 
min:ition  to  demolish  the  habitacle  which  was  made  in  the 
likeness  of  the  sepulchre  below,  in  which  .sepulchre  we  learn, 
without  all  doubt,  that  the  remains  of  the  most  holy  Apostle 
are  enclosed.  They  indeed  repeatedly  asserted  that  a  work 
which,  rude  and  deformed  as  it  was,  was  nevertheless  edified 
in  honor  to  the  remains  of  such  holy  personages,  ought  by 
no  means  to  be  destroyed,  lest  they  themselves  or  their  lord 
should  be  stricken  with  lightning  from  heaven,  and  suffer  the 
immediate  juinishment  of  such  audacity.  But  he,  like  a 
strenuous  soldier,  protected  with  the  impenetrable  shield  of  a 
good  resolution,  forasmuch  as,  with  the  eye  of  his  penetration, 
lie  perceived  that  they  regarded  external  things  more  than 
inner  ones,  trampled  upon  their  fears  with  the  foot  of  his  right 
intention,  and  levelled  to  the  ground  their  habitacle,  and 
enlarged  the  altar,  which  had  originally  been  so  small  a  one, 
now  for  the  third  lime,  with  marble  ])laced  over  and  about  it 
on  all  sides,  making  it  as  it  ought  to  be.  Without  delay  also 
lie  marvellously  began  a  silver  frontispiece  for  this  egregious 
and  exc(dlent  work,  and  more  marvellously  completed  it." 

There  used  to  he  interpreters  at  Coinpostella  fiir  all  lan- 
guages ;  lenguageros  they  were  called.  They  had  a  silver 
wand,  with  a  hand  and  finger  pointed  at  the  top,  to  show  the 
relics  with.  Among  those  relics  is  the  head  of  St.  James  the 
Less  ;  a  grinder,  in  a  splendid  gold  reliquary,  of  one  St.  James, 
it  has  not  been  determined  which  ;  one  of  St.  Christopher's 
arms,  of  modest  dimensions  ;  and  seven  heads  of  the  Eleven 


Thousand  Virgins.  These  are  from  the  list  which  Morales 
gives  ;  but  that  good  and  learned  man,  who  often  swallowed 
the  hull  and  stuck  at  the  tail,  omits  some  more  curious  ones, 
which  are  noticed  in  an  authentic  inventory.  (Espaiia  Sa- 
grada,  I.  xix.  p.  344.)  Among  these  are  part  of  our  Lord's 
raiment,  of  the  earth  on  which  he  stood,  of  the  bread  which 
he  brake,  of  his  blood,  and  of  the  Virgin's  milk. 

A  late  editor  of  Old  Fortunatus  is  reminded  in  one  of  his 
notes  of  Martirius  Scrihlerus,  by  a  passage  in  the  play,  which, 
as  he  should  have  seen,  is  evidently  allusive  to  such  relics  as 
those  at  Coinpostella. 

"  there  can  I  show  thee 


'I'he  ball  of  gold  that  set  all  Troy  on  fire  : 

'J'here  shall  thou  see  the  scarf  of  Cupiil's  mother, 

Snatch'd  from  the  soft  moist  ivory  of  her  arm 

'J'o  wrap  about  Adonis'  wounded  thigh  : 

There  slialt  thou  sec  a  wheel  of  Titan's  car, 

Which  dropp'd  from  Heaven  when  Phaeton  fired  the  world. 

I'll  give  thee  —  the  fan  of  Proserpine, 

Which,  in  reward  for  a  sweet  Thracian  song, 

'i'ho  black-brow'd  Empress  threw  to  Orpheus, 

Being  come  to  fetch  Eurydice  from  hell." 


all  who  in  their  mortal  stage 

Did  not  perform  this  pilgrimage^ 
Must  make  it  when  they  were  dead.  — p.  555,  col.  2. 

"  Hue  Lysia  propirant  urbes,  hue  gcntes  Iberte 
Turbo;  adeunt,  Oallique  oinncs,  et  Flandria  eantu 
Insiirnis,  popitlique  Ilali,  Rhenusque  bieomis 
Coiifluit,  ct  dnnis  altaria  sacra  frcquentant ; 
JVainqueferunt  vivi  qui  non  hixc  templa  patentes 
Iiivisnnt,  post  fata  illuc,  etfuneris  umbras 
Venturps,  rnnnnsque  isfud.  prcestare  beatis 
Lncte  viam  slellisque  album,  qua  node  serend. 
Fiilgurut,  et  loiigo  dcsigiiat  tramite  calum." 

P.  Bartholome  Peueira,  Paciecidiis,  lib.  vii.  p.  117. 

Fray  Jjiiys  de  Escobar  has  this  among  the  five  hundred 
proverbs  of  his  Litany  :  — 

—  el  camino  a  la  muerte 
cs  como  el  de  Santiago. 

Las  qualrocicntas,  &c.  ff.  140. 

It  seems  to  allude  to  this  superstition,  meaning,  that  it  is  a 
journey  which  all  must  take.  The  particular  part  of  the  pil- 
grimage, which  must  be  performed  either  in  ghost  or  in 
person,  is  that  of  crawling  through  a  hole  in  the  rock  at 
El  Padron,  which  the  Apostle  is  said  to  have  made  with  his 
staff.  In  allusion  to  this  part  of  the  pilgrimage,  which  is  not 
deemed  so  indispensable  at  Coinpostella  as  at  Padron,  they 
have  this  proverb  —  Qiden  va  a  Santiago,  y  non  va  a  Padron,  6 
fill  Romrria  6  non.  The  pilgrim,  indeed,  must  be  inciiiious 
who  would  not  extend  his  journey  thither  ;  a  copious  fountain, 
of  the  coldest  and  finest  water  which  Morales  tasted  in  Ga- 
licia,  rises  under  the  high  altar,  but  on  the  outside  of  the 
church  ;  the  pilgrims  drink  of  it,  and  wash  in  its  waters,  as 
the  Apostle  is  said  to  have  done  :  they  ascend  the  steps  in  the 
rock  upon  their  knees,  and  finally  perform  the  passage  which 
must  be  made  by  all :  "  ?/  cicrto,  considerndo  el  silin,  y  la  her- 
mosa  vista  que  de  alii  hay  a.  la  eiudud,  que  estaba  abaio  en  lo 
llano,  y  d  toda  la  anclia  hiiya  llena  de  grandcs  arboledas  y  fres- 
curas  de  mas  de  dos  legua.i  en  largo,  lugar  cs  oparrjadu  para 
mnelia  ennlemplacion."  —  Viage  de  Morales,  p.  174. 

One  of  Pantagruel's  Questions  Encylopcdiques  is,  "  Vtrum 
le  noir  Scorpion  pourroit  souffrir  solution  de  continuile  en  sa 
substance,  et  par  I'effusion  de  son  sang  obscurcir  ct  cmbrunir 
la  vuye  laetee,  au  grand  intercH  et  dommage  des  Tjifrelofres 
.Tacobipctes."  —  Rabelais,  t.  ii.  p.  417. 


T7ie  scallop-shell.  —  p.  555,  col.  2. 

"  The  escallops,  being  denominated  by  ancient  authors  the 
Shells  of  Oales,  or  Galir.iu,  plainly  apply  to  this  pilgrimage  in 
particular."  —  Fosbrooke,  British  Monachism,  p.  423. 

Fuller  is  therefore  mistaken  when,  speaking  of  the  Dacres 


NOTES    TO    THE    PILGRIM    TO    CO  MP  OST  ELL  A. 


5G3 


.'amilv,  (Cliurcli  Hist.  cent.  xii.  p.  4;>,)  who  gave  their  arms 
giilc--,  three  scallop-shelU  .irgeiit,  ho  says,  '■  which  .scallop- 
shells,  (I  iniaii  the  iietlicrmost  oflhi'in,  because  most  concave 
and  capacious,)  smooth  within,  ami  arlilicially  piatoil  witliout, 
was  ol"ltinios  cup  and  ilish  to  tlie  pilgrims  in  Palestine,  and 
thereupon  tlieir  arms  often  charged  tlierewitli." 

That  the  scallop  belojigeil  exclusively  to  the  Compostclla 
pilgrim  is  c<rl.iin,  as  the  following  miracle  may  show. 

"  The  shi|),  in  which  the  hoJy  of  the  Apostle  was  embarked, 
passed  swiflly  by  a  village  in  Portugal  called  Bouzas,  wherein 
there  dwell  a  noble  and  powcrl'nl  lord,  wjio  on  tbalday  married 
one  of  liis  dauglitors  to  the  son  of  another  person  as  consid- 
erable as  himself,  lord  of  the  land  of  .\maya.  The  nuplials 
were  celebrated  in  the  village  of  Bouzas,  and  many  noble 
knights  of  that  province  came  to  the  solemnity.  One  of  their 
sports  was  that  of  tlirovving  the  cane,  and  in  this  tiio  bride- 
groom chose  to  bear  a  part,  commanding  a  troop,  that  he  might 
display  his  de.tterity.  The  place  for  the  sport  was  on  the 
coast  of  the  ocean,  and  the  bridegroom's  horse,  becoming 
ungovornahio,  plunged  into  the  sea,  and  sunk  under  the  im- 
mensity of  its  waters,  and,  at  the  moment  when  the  ship  was 
passing  by,  rose  again  close  beside  it.  There  were  several 
miracles  in  this  case.  'J'ho  first  was,  that  the  sea  bore  upon 
its  waves  the  horse  and  horseman,  iis  if  it  had  been  firm  land, 
at\er  not  having  drowned  them  when  they  «  ere  so  long  a  time 
under  water.  'J'he  second  was,  that  the  wind,  which  was 
driving  the  sliip  in  full  speed  to  its  port,  suddenly  lell,  and  left 
it  motionless  ;  the  third,  and  most  remarkable,  was,  that  both 
the  garments  of  the  knight,  and  the  trappings  of  the  horse, 
came  out  of  the  soa  covered  with  scallop-shells. 

"  The  knight,  astonished  at  such  an  unex|)ectoiI  adventure, 
and  seeing  the  discijiles  of  the  Apostle,  who  with  equal  as- 
tonishment were  looking  at  him  from  the  ship,  asked  them 
what  it  was  that  had  brought  him  where  he  found  himself. 
To  which  the  discijdes,  being  inspired  by  IJeaven,  replied, 
'that  certes  Christ,  through  the  merit  of  a  certain  servant  of 
his,  whose  body  they  were  transporting  in  that  ship,  had 
chosen  to  manifest  bis  power  upon  him,  for  his  good,  by  means 
of  this  miracle.'  The  knight  then  humbly  requested  theai  to 
tell  him  who  Christ  was,  and  who  was  that  Servant  of  his 
of  whom  they  spake,  and  what  was  the  good  which  he  was  to 
derive.  The  disciples  then  briefly  catechized  him;  and  tlie 
knight,  having  thus  been  instructed,  said  to  them,  '  Friends 
and  Sirs,  you,  who  have  served  Christ  and  his  holy  Apostle, 
which  I  as  yet  have  not  done,  ask  of  him  to  show  you  fur 
what  purpose  he  has  put  these  scallop  shells  upon  mo,  because 
60  strange  a  marvel  cannot  have  been  wrought  without  some 
great  mystery.'  With  that  the  discii)les  nia<le  their  prayer 
accordingly,  and,  when  they  had  prayed,  they  heard  a  voice 
from  Heaven,  which  said  thus  unto  the  knight,  '  Our  Lord 
Christ  has  thought  good  to  show  by  this  act  all  persons  present 
and  to  come,  wlio  may  choose  to  love  and  serve  this  his  ser- 
vant, and  who  shall  go  to  visit  him  wliere  he  shall  be  interred, 
that  they  take  with  them  from  thence  other  such  scallop- 
shells  as  these  with  which  thou  art  covered,  as  a  seal  of 
privilege,  confirming  that  they  are  his,  and  will  he  so  from 
that  time  forward  :  and  he  promises  that  afterwards,  in  the 
Day  of  the  last  Judgment,  they  shall  be  recognized  of  God 
for  his ;  and  that,  because  of  the  honors  which  they  have 
done  to  this  his  servant  and  friend,  in  going  to  visit  him  and 
to  venerate  him,  he  will  receive  them  into  his  glory  and  his 
Paradise.' 

"  When  the  knight  heard  these  words,  immediately  ho 
made  the  disciples  baptize  him  ;  and  while  they  were  so  doing, 
he  noticed,  with  devotion  and  attention,  the  ceremonies  of  the 
sacred  ministry,  and,  wlion  it  was  done,  he  took  his  leave  of 
them,  commending  himself  to  their  grace,  and  entreating  of 
them  that  they  would  commend  him  in  their  prayers  to  Christ 
and  his  Apostle  r'antiago.  At  that  instant  the  wind,  which 
till  then  had  been  still,  struck  the  sails,  and  the  ship  began  to 
cleave  the  wide  sea.  The  knight  then  directed  his  course 
toward  the  shore,  rilling  upon  the  water,  in  sight  of  the  great 
multitude,  which  from  the  shore  was  watching  him  ;  and 
when  be  reached  the  shore,  and  was  surrounded  by  them,  be 
related  to  them  what  had  happened.  The  natives,  astonished 
at  the  sight  of  such  stupendous  miracles,  were  converted,  and 
the  knight,  with  his  own  hand,  baptized  his  bride." 

The  facts  are  thus  related,  to  the  letter,  in  the  Sanctoral 
Porlujues,  from  whence  the  Breviaries  of  Alcobaca  and  St. 


Cucufato  copied  it,  and  that  of  Oviedo  in  the  Hymn  for  the 
Apostle's  Day,  —  from  which  authorities  the  moderns  have 
taken  it.  The  Genealogists  say  that  the  Vieyias  of  Portugal 
are  descended  from  this  knight,  because  the  scallop  is  called 
by  that  name  in  their  tongue,  and  that  family  bear  it  in  their 
arms.  The  Pimenteles  make  the  same  pretensions,  and  also 
bear  four  scallops  in  their  shield.  The  Kibadaneyras  also  ad- 
vance a  similar  claim,  and  they  bear  a  cross  with  five  scallops. 
"This  is  the  origin  of  the  shells  with  which  the  pilgrims, 
who  come  to  visit  the  body  of  our  glorious  Patron,  adorn 
themselves,  tlie  custom  having,  without  lioubt,  been  preserved 
by  tradition  from  that  time,  'i'be  circumstances  are  confirmed 
by  pictures  representing  it,  which  from  ancient  times  have 
been  preserved  in  various  cities.  In  the  Church  of  St.  Maria 
de  Aracali  at  Rome,  on  the  Gospel  side,  tl.ere  is  a  spacious 
chapel,  dedicated  to  our  glorious  Patron  ;  it  was  painted  in 
the  year  1441,  and  in  one  compartment  this  adventure  is  rep- 
resented :  there  is  the  ship,  having  the  body  of  tlie  Apostle  on 
the  Jioop,  and  the  seven  Disciples  on  board  :  close  to  tlie,j^ip, 
upon  the  sea,  is  a  knight  upon  a  black  horse,  wit.'i  a  ted  saddle 
and  trappings,  both  covered  with  scallop-shells.  The  same 
story  is  painted  in  the  parish  church  of  Santiago  at  Madrid: 
and  it  is  related  in  a  very  ancient  manuscript,  which  is  pro- 
served  in  the  library  of  the  Monastery  of  St.  Juan  de  los  Reyes, 
at  1'oledo.  In  the  Ancient  Bieviaiy  of  the  Holy  Church  of 
Oviedo,  mention  is  made  of  this  prodigy  in  these  verses,  upon 
the  vesper  of  the  glorious  Saint:  — 

'  Cunctis  mare  cerneiHibus, 
Sed  a  profunda  ducitur, 
Aadis  Reffis  siibmergitiir 
Toius  planus  cunchUibus.' 

Finally,  the  fact  is  authenticated  by  their  Holinesses  Alex- 
ander III.,  Gregory  IX.,  and  Clement  V.,  who  in  their  Bulls 
grant  a  faculty  to  the  Archliishop  of  Compostella,  that  they 
may  excommunicate  those  who  sell  these  shells  to  pilgrims 
any  where  except  in  the  city  of  Santiago,  and  they  assign  this 
reason,  because  the  shells  are  the  badge  of  the  Apostle  San- 
tiago. And  thus  in  the  Church  of  St.  Clement  at  Rome, 
which  is  enriched  with  the  body  of  St.  Clement,  Pope  and 
Martyr,  is  a  picture  of  the  Ajioslle  Santiago,  apparently  more 
than  five  hundred  years  old,  which  is  adorned  with  scalhip- 

sbells  on  the  garment  and  bat,  as  his  proper  badge." 6nalrs 

dc  Oaiiciii,  vol.  i.  pp.  95,  9(3. 

Gwillim,  in  his  account  of  this  bearing,  says  nothing  of  its 
origin.  But  he  says,  "  The  Escallop  (according  to  Dioscorides) 
is  engendered  of  the  Dew  and  .•\ir,  and  bath  no  blood  at  all 
in  itself,  notwithstanding  in  man's  body  of  any  other  food  it 
turncth  soonest  into  blood.  The  eating  of  this  fish  raw  is  said 
to  cure  a  surfeit.  Such  (he  adds)  is  the  beautiful  shape  that 
nature  hath  bestowed  upon  this  siiell,  as  that  the  Collar  of  the 
Order  of  St.  Michel  in  France,  in  the  first  institution  thereof, 
was  richly  garnished  with  certain  pieces  of  gold  artificially 
wrought,  as  near  as  the  artificer  could  by  imitation  express  the 
stamp  of  nature."  —  Display  of  Heraldry,  p.  171,  (first  edit.) 

One  of  the  three  manners  in  which  Santiago  is  commonly 
represented,  is  in  the  costume  of  a  Compostellan  pilgrim,  w  it!i 
a  scallop-shell  in  his  hat.  All  three  are  described  in  a  book, 
as  rare  of  occurrence  as  curious  in  its  subject,  tlius  entitled, 
PicTOR  CH11ISTI.1NU3  Eruditi's  :  Sive,  de  Errvribus,  qui  pn.i- 
sim  admilluntitr  circa  pingendas  alque  cffiiigcndas  Sacras  I:na- 
irinfK.  Libri  Ocln  cum  Mppendice,  Opus  Sacra  Scripture-,  aUjur 
Ecclrsiasticte  Histnriie  studiosis  non  inutile.  Authnrc  Jl.  J'. 
J\f.  Fr.  Joanne  Interian  de  ./lijala,  Sucri,  Rfgii,  nc  .Militaris 
OrJiiiis  Beahe  MaritB  de  Merccde  Redemptionis  C'iptiroru)n, 
SalmnnticcnsisAcademia:  Dnclorc  Thcolciro,  ntqve  ibidem  Suncl,i: 
TkrcUiiriin  rum  snerarum  I.iiiguarum  interyrctationc  Vrifissure. 
jampridim  emrnto.  Anno  D.  1730,  Matiiiti  :  F.t  Tijpograpliia 
Convcntns  prtrfati  Ord.inis.  fol. 

One  of  the  Censors  of  this  book  says,  prodit  in  lucem  Pictor 
Christianus  cruditissimi  pectoris  eruditissimus  falus,  obslrtri- 
cnn'r  .V.  RR.  P.  J\t.  Fr.  Juscplto  Campa-.ano  de  la  t'cga.  The 
work  was  publish^^d  by  the  Master's  direction  at  the  cost  of 
the  Order ;  the  Master  dedicated  it  to  N.  Senora  Cct  las  Mir- 
cedes  as  claborulum  cxcullmnque  quantum  potuit,  by  her  assi.-t- 
ance  ;  and  there  is  a  cfn,*«?v;  prefixed  by  Ferreras  the  Historian, 
speaking  forcibly  of  the  importance  of  the  luidertaking,  and  of 
the  gieat  ability  with  which  it  is  executed. 

Instead  of  perceiving  that  Santiago  is  tepresented  in  the 


564 


NOTES    TO    THE    PILGRIM    TO    COMPOSTEL  L  A , 


costume  of  his  own  pilgrims,  this  autlior  siijjposed  that  the 
Saint  is  so  attired  because  he  had  travelled  over  Spain  !  The 
whole  jiassnge  is  ('urioiis  for  its  grave  and  cool  credulity. 
"  Sanctas  Juciihus  Zfhciki  fdius,  Jlisimnia  prhiiarius  {iiu'tilquid 
alii  commcnti  siiit)  Patronus  titque  Apostolus,  bifuriam  sa^piiis  a 
Pictnrihus  dcscribilur.  Piniritur  enim  pcregrini  liabitu,  ublongo 
innixus  buculo,  ez  quo  ctiam  bursa  pendent,  ct  circa  humeros 
amiculo,quod  Ilispani  Esclavinam  vacant;  insupvr  et  cum  galcro 
satis  amplo,  quern  tamen  ornant  concha;,  qua  circa  littus  maris 
passim  se  offcrunt ;  Totum  id  ex  en  arbitror  proficisci,  quod 
Hispaniam  celcrrimi,  et  at  decebiit  Tonit.ru  filium,  peragraverut ; 
ubi  postmodum  corpus  ejus  e  Hicrusolymis  translatum  condigno 
honorc  colitur.  Scd  ad  aliis  ctiam  cum  gladio  piiigitar,  cumquc 
libra  aperto.  '  Quw  pictura  {inquit  frcqueiis  nobis  author)  ctsi 
rarior  sit,  priori  tamcn  est  prcefercnda,  quod  cz  Sacrdt  ScripturU 
desumpta  sit,  ct  martijrium  ejus  explical.  Quod  ita  habctur, 
Occidit  autem  Jacohum  fralrem  Joannis  gladio.'  *  Seepi  etiam 
pinntur  equo  insisteus,  armatusquc  gladio,  acies  Maurorum  im- 
pigri  perrumpens,  eosqucad  internecioncm  usque  cmdcns.  Quod 
non  eiigub,  cum  Hispani  nominis  glvrid  rede  Jit ;  cum  saipe  visas 
sit  pro  Hispanis  in  aire  pugitans ;  de  cu  jus  rei  fide  duliiuiii  esse 
non  potest  iis  qui  interfuerunt  ejus  Ecclesiastico  oflicio,  ubi 
illud  metrice  habctur,  — 

Ta  bello  cum  nos  cingcrcnt, 
Es  visus  ipso  in  prdlio, 
Equoque  et  ease  accrrimas 
Mauros  furcates  sternere. 

Jitque  idem  alibi  solutdL  oratione  describitur  illis  verbis  ;  \  '  Ipse 
etiam  rrloriosus  .Apostolus  in  dijiciliimis  pr(eliis  paldm  se  conspi- 
ciendum  praibcns,  Ilispanos  adversus  Injidcles  pugnantcs  mirifice 
juBit.'"  — Lib.  vii.  c.  ii.  pp.  330,  321. 


....  the  staff  was  bored  and  drilled  for  those 
Who  on  ajlute  could  play.  —  p.  555,  col.  2. 

.Sir  John  Hawkins  says,  "  that  the  pilgrims  to  St.  James  of 
Compostella  excavated  a  staff,  or  walking-stick,  into  a  musical 
instrument  for  recreation  on  their  journey."— //(aforj/f»/Jl/«sii;, 
vol.  iv.  p.  139,  quoted  in  Fosbrookc's  British  Monachism,  p.  4C9. 
Mr.  Fosbrooke  thinks  that  "this  ascription  of  the  invention 
of  the  BoMT-rfortto  these  pilgrims  in  particular  is  very  question- 
able." Sir  John  probably  supposed,  with  Richelet,  that  the 
Bourdon  was  peculiar  to  these  pilgrims,  and  therefore  that 
tliey  had  invented  it. 

Mr.  Fosbrooke  more  than  doubts  the  Etymon  from  a  musi- 
cal use.  "  The  barbarous  Greek  B«/)(5i;)/<a,"  he  observes, 
"signified  a  beast  of  burden,  and  the  Bourdon  was  a  stafi'of 
support.  But  the  various  meanings  of  tlio  word,  as  given  by 
Cotgravc,  make  out  its  history  satisfactorily.  Bourdim,  a 
drone,  or  dorre-bee,  (Richelet  says  grosse  mouche,  euiiemic  dcs 
abeilles,)  also  the  humming  or  buzzing  of  bees  ;  also  the  drone 
of  a  bagpipe  ;  also  a  pilgrim's  staff;  also  a  walking-staff, 
having  a  sv.ord,  &c.  within  it. 

"  It  was  doubtless  applied  to  the  use  of  pitching  the  note,  or 
accompanying  the  songs  which  pilgrims  used  to  recreate  them- 
selves on  their  journeys,  and  supposed  by  Menestrier  to  be 
hymns  and  canticles."  —  Fosbrooke,  p.  422. 

In  Germany,  "  walking-sticks  that  serve  as  tubes  for  pipes, 
with  a  compressing  pump  at  one  end  to  make  a  fire,  and  a 
machine  at  the  otlier  for  impaling  insects  without  destroy- 
ing their  beauty,  are  common."  (Ilodgkins's  Travels,  vol.  ii. 
p.  135.)  I  have  seen  a  telescope  and  a  barometer  in  a  walking- 
stick,  if  that  name  may  be  applied  to  a  staff  of  copper. 


The  twice -born  Cock  and  Hen.  —  p.  557,  col.  1. 

There  is  another  story  of  a  bird  among  the  miracles  of  San- 
tia''o  ;  the  poor  subject  of  the  miracle  was  not  so  fortunate  as 
the  Cock  and  lien  of  the  Alcayde  ;  hut  the  story  is  true.  It 
occurred  in  Italy;  and  the  Spanish  fable  is  not  more  charac- 
teristic of  the  fraudulent  practices  carried  on  in  the  Romish 
Church,  than  the  Italian  story  is  of  the  i)itiablo  superstition 

•  Molan.  lib.  iii.  c.  26. 

t  In    feslo  TransUit.  ejiisilcin.    30  Dec. 


which  such  frauds  fostered,  and  which  was,  and  is  to  this  day, 
encouraged  by  the  dignitaries  of  that  church. 

At  the  request  of  St.  Atto,  Bishop  of  Pisjota,  the  Pisjotans 
say  that  some  relics,  taken  from  .Santiago'^  most  precious 
head,  were  given  to  their  church  by  the  Archbishop  of  Com- 
postella, Uiego  Gclmirez,  a  person  well  known  in  Spanish 
history.  "  JVullus  uniquam  murtalium  hoc  donuin  impclrare  pos- 
set," he  affirmed,  when  he  made  the  gift;  and  the  liistorian 
of  the  translator  adds,  "  quod  vcri  a  Domino  factum  credimus  ct 
non  dubitamus,  sicut  manifestis  et  apertis  indiciis  manifrste  et 
aperte  mtracula  dcclarabunt."  There  is  a  good  collection  of 
these  miracles,  but  this  of  the  Bird  is  the  most  remarkable. 

"  In  those  days,"  says  the  writer,  "  another  miracle,  as 
pious  as  it  is  glorious,  was  wrought  by  the  Lord,  in  the  which 
he  who  worthily  perpends  it  will  perceive  what  may  pertain 
to  the  edification  of  all  those  who  visit  the  shrine  of  S.antiago, 
and  of  all  faithful  Christians.  About  three  weeks  after  the 
consecration  of  Santiago's  altar,  a  certain  girl  of  the  country 
near  Pistoja  was  jilucking  hemp  in  a  garden,  when  she  ob- 
served a  pigeon  fiying  through  the  air,  which  came  near  her, 
and  alighted  :  upon  which  she  put  up  a  prayer  to  the  Lord 
Santiago,  saying,  '  O  Lord  Santiago,  if  the  things  which  are 
related  of  thee  at  Pistoja  be  true,  and  thou  workest  miracles, 
as  the  Pistojans  affirm,  give  me  this  i)ig(jon,  that  it  may  come 
into  my  hands  !  '  Forthwith  the  pigeon  rose  from  the  spot 
where  it  had  alighted,  and,  as  if  it  were  a  tame  bird,  came  to 
her,  and  she  took  it  ill  her  hands,  and  lielil  it  there  as  if  it 
had  been  lifeless.  What  then  did  the  girl  do.'  She  carried 
it  home,  showed  it  to  her  father,  and  to  him  and  the  rest  of 
the  family  related  in  what  manner  it  had  come  to  her  hands 
Some  of  them  said,  '  Let  ns  kill  and  eat  it ; '  others  said,  '  Do 
not  hurt  it,  but  let  it  go.'  So  the  girl  opened  her  hand,  to  see 
what  it  would  do.  The  jiigeon,  finding  itself  at  liberty,  fled 
to  the  ground,  and  joined  the  poultry  which  were  then  picking 
up  their  food,  nor  did  it  afterwards  go  from  the  house,  but  re- 
mained in  their  company,  as  if  it  belonged  to  them. 

"All  therefore  regarding,  with  no  common  wonder,  the 
remarkable  tameness  of  this  pigeon,  which  indeed  was  not  a 
tame  bird,  but  a  wild  one,  they  went  to  a  priest  in  the  adjacent 
city,  and  acquainted  him  with  the  circumstances.  The  priest, 
giving  good  counsel  to  the  girl  and  her  father,  as  he  was 
bound  to  do,  said,  '  We  will  go  together  to  our  Lord  the 
Bishoj),  on  Sunday,  and  act  as  he  may  think  projicr  to  direct 
us  in  this  matter.'  Accordingly,  on  the  Sunday  they  went  to 
Pistoja,  and  presented  the  pigeon  to  the  Bishop,  who,  with 
his  Canons,  was  then  devoutly  celebrating  mass  in  honor  of 
Santiago,  upon  the  holy  altar  which  had  been  consecrated  to 
bis  honor.  The  prelate,  when  he  had  listened  to  their  story, 
took  the  bird,  and  placed  it  upon  the  wall  of  the  chancel, 
which  is  round  about  the  altar  of  Santiago,  and  there  it 
remained  three  weeks,  never  departing  from  thence,  excepting 
that  sometimes,  and  that  very  seldom,  it  flew  about  the  church, 
hnt  always  returned  without  delay  to  its  own  station,  and 
there  mildly,  gently,  harmlessly,  and  tamely  continued ;  and 
rarely  did  it  take  food. 

"  But  people  from  Lucca,  and  other  strangers,  plucked 
feathers  from  its  neck,  that  they  might  carry  them  away  for 
demotion,  and,  moreover,  that  they  might  exhibit  Ihem  totliose 
who  had  not  seen  the  bird  itself.  From  such  injuries  it  never 
attempted  to  defend  itself,  though  its  nock  was  skinned  by  this 
plucking,  and  this  the  unthinking  people  continued  to  do, 
till  at  length  the  pigeon  paid  the  debt  of  nature.  And  it  was 
no  wonder  that  it  died  ;  for  how  could  any  creature  live  that 
scarcely  ever  ate  or  slept.'  People  came  thither  night  and 
day  from  all  parts,  and  one  after  another  disturbed  it ,  and 
every  night  vigils  were  kept  there,  the  clergy  and  the  people 
with  loud  voices  singing  praises  to  the  Lord,  and  many  lights 
were  continually  burning  there  :  how,  therefore,  could  it  live, 
when  it  was  never  allowed  to  be  at  rest.'  The  clergy  and 
people,  grieving  at  its  death,  as  indeed  it  was  a  thing  to  be 
lamented,  took  counsel,  and  hung  up  the  skin  and  feathers  to 
he  seen  there  by  all  comers. 

"In  such  and  so  great  a  matter,  what  could  he  more  grati- 
fying, what  more  convenient  than  this  wonderful  sign  which 
the  Almighty  was  pleased  to  give  us.'  There  is  no  need  to 
relate  anything  more  concerning  the  aforesaid  pigeon  ;  it  was 
seen  there  openly  and  pulilicly  liy  all  comers,  so  that  not  only 
the  laity  and  clergy  of  that  city,  but  many  religious  people 


PREFACE  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


565 


from  oilier  parts,  abbots,  friars,  clergy,  nnd  laity,  uro  able  to 
attest  the  truth.  Ami  I  also  uilil  this  my  testimony  as  a  true 
iimi  taithful  witiuss,  for  I  saw  the  pigeon  myself  for  a  whole 
week,  aiul  actually  touched  it  with  my  own  hands." 

There  is  a  postscript  to  this  story,  as  melancholy  as  the  talo 
itself.  The  sick,  and  the  ctii>plcd,  and  the  lame,  had  been 
brought  to  this  church,  in  expectation  of  obtaining  a  miraculous 
cure  by  virtue  of  the  new  relics  which  had  arrived.  Among 
these  was  a  poor  woman  in  the  last  stage  of  disease,  who  had 
been  brought  upon  her  pallet  into  the  church,  and  was  laid  in 
a  corner,  and  loft  there  ;  nor  was  it  observed  that  this  poor 
creature  was  inarticuln  mortis,  till  the  pigeon  flew  to  the  place, 
and  alighted  upon  her,  and  soilrewthe  attentionof  the  people 
in  the  church  to  the  dying  woman,  quam  quiilciii,proiit  credi- 
vius,  nisi  cohiiuba  monstrasscl,  nemo  monciitein  vidissct.     They 


removed  her  out  of  the  church  just  before  she  breathed  her 
last;  and,  in  conseciucnco  of  this  miracle,  as  it  was  deemed, 

they  gave  her  an  honorable  funeral. 9cta  Sanctuj-iim,  Ju). 

t.  vi.  p.  64. 


TfOiat  became  of  the  halter,  I  know  not. 
Because  the  old  books  show  not.  —  p.  558,  col.  1. 

"  Jintiffuedad  sa^rada,  el  que  sc  arricdra 
De  te,  sera  su  verso  falto  y  7nanco." 

So  Chrisloval  de  Mesa  observes,  when  he  proceeds  to  relate 
how  the  rude  stone,  upon  which  the  disciples  of  Santiago  laid 
his  body,  when  they  landed  with  it  in  Spain,  formed  itself  into 
a  sepulchre  of  white  marble.  —  El  Patron  de  Espafia,  ii'.  08. 


2rf|t  ^nvut  of  Iief)ama. 


KATAPAI,  as  KAl  TA  AAEKTPtONONEOTTA,  OIKON  AEI,  OI'E  KEN,  EHANIIHAN  ErKAeiSOMENAI. 

An-000.  AvCK.  Tov  FuXitX.  tov  Mr;-. 

CURSES    ARE    LIKE    VOUNG    CHICKENS  ;     THEY    ALWAYS    COME    HOME    TO    ROOST. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  GEBIR, 

WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR, 

THIS     POEM     IS     INSCRIBED, 

BY  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


XrrtiTaTC  jict  npojTiia  rruXvrfionov,  o(ppa  (pavcirj 
HoiKiXov  iiioi  EXO)!',  OTi  TTOiKiXov  Vjivov  apoacoi, 

Nov.  Aiof. 

FOE   I    WILL,    KOR    NO    MAN's    PLEASURE, 

change  a  syllable  or  measure; 
pedants  shall  not  tie  mt  strains 
to  our  antique  poets'  veins; 
being  born  as  free  a3  these, 
i  will  sing  as  i  shall  please. 

George  Wither. 


PREFACE, 


Several  years  ago,  in  the  Introduction  of  my 
"  Letters  to  Mr.  Charles  Butler,  vindicatinjr  the 
Book  of  the  Church,"  I  had  occasion  to  state  that, 
while  a  school-boy  at  Westminster,  I  had  formed 
an  intention  of  exhibiting  the  most  remariiable 
forms  of  Mythology  which  have  at  any  time 
obtained  among  mankind,  by  making  each  the 
groundwork  of  a  narrative  poem.  The  perform- 
ance, as  might  be  expected,  fell  far  short  of  the 
design,  and  yet  it  proved  something  more  than  a 
dream  of  juvenile  ambition. 

I  began  with  the  Mahomtnedan  religion,  as 
being  that  with  which  I  was  then  best  acquainted 


myself,  and  of  which  every  one  who  had  read  the 
Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments  possessed  all  the 
knowledge  necessary  for  readily  understanding  and 
entering  into  tlie  intent  and  spirit  of  the  poem. 
Mr.  Wilbcrforcc  thought  that  I  had  conveyed  in  it 
a  very  false  impression  of  that  religion,  and  that 
the  moral  sublimity  which  he  admired  in  it  was 
owing  to  this  flattering  misrepresentation.  But 
Thalaba  the  Destroyer  was  professedly  an  Arabian 
Tale.  The  design  required  that  I  should  bring 
into  view  the  best  features  of  that  system  of  belief 
and  worship  which  had  been  developed  under  the 
Covenant  with  Ishmacl,  placing  in  the  most  favor- 
able light  the  morality  of  the  Koran,  and  what  tlie 
least  corrupted  of  the  Mahommedans  retain  of  the 
patriarchal  faith.  It  would  have  been  altogether 
incongruous  to  have  touched  upon  the  abomina- 
tions engrafted  upon  it ;  first  by  the  false  Propliet 
himself,  wiio  appears  to  have  been  far  more  re- 
markable for  audacious  profligacy  than  for  any  in- 
tellectual endowments,  and  afterwards  by  tlie  spirit 
of  Oriental  despotism  which  accon)j)anied  Mahom- 
medanism  wherever  it  was  established. 

Heathen  Mytliologies  have  generally  been  rep- 
resented by  Christian  poets  as  tlie  work  of  the 
Devil  and  his  Angels ;  and  the  machinery  derived 
from  them  was  thus  rendered   credible,  according 


566 


PREFACE  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


to  what  was  during  man}-  ages  a  received  opinion. 
The  plan  upon  which  1  proceeded  in  Maduc  was 
to  produce  the  effect  of  machinery  as  far  as  was 
consistent  witli  the  cliaracter  of  the  poem,  by  rep- 
resenting the  most  remarkable  religion  of  the  New 
World  such  as  it  was,  a  system  of  atrocious  priest- 
craft. It  was  not  here,  as  in  Thalaba,  the  foundation 
of  the  poem,  but,  as  usual  in  what  are  called  e])ic 
poems,  only  incidentally  connected  with  it. 

When  I  took  up,  for  my  next  subject,  that  ray- 
tliology  which  Sir  William  Jones  had  been  the  first 
to  introduce  into  English  poetry,  I  soon  pcnxeived 
that  the  best  mode  of  treating  it  would  be  to  con- 
struct a  story  altogether  inj'thological.  In  what 
ibrm  to  compose  it  was  then  to  be  determined.  No 
such  fiuestion  had  arisen  concerning  any  of  my 
former  poems.  I  should  never  for  a  moment  have 
thought  of  any  other  measure  than  blank  verse  for 
Joan  of  Arc,  and  for  Madoc,  and  afterwards  for 
Roderick.  The  reason  why  the  irregular,  rhyme- 
less  lyrics  of  Dr.  Snyers  were  preferred  for  Thalaba 
was,  that  the  freedom  and  variety  of  such  verse 
were  suited  to  the  story.  Indeed,  of  all  the  laud- 
atory criticisms  with  which  I  have  been  favored 
during  a  long  literary  liie,  none  ever  gratified  me 
more  than  that  of  Henry  Kirke  White  upon  this 
occasion,  when  he  observed,  that  if  any  other  known 
measure  had  been  adopted,  the  poem  would  have 
been  deprived  of  half  its  beauty,  and  all  its  pro- 
priety. And  when  he  added,  that  the  author  never 
seemed  to  inquire  how  other  men  would  treat  a 
subject,  or  what  might  be  the  fashion  of  the  times, 
but  took  that  course  which  his  own  sense  of  fitness 
)ointed  out,  I  could  not  have  desired  more  appro- 
priate commendation. 

The  same  sense  of  fitness  which  made  me  choose 
for  an  Arabian  tale  the  simplest  and  easiest  form 
of  verse,  induced  me  to  take  a  different  course  in  an 
Indian  poem.  It  appeared  to  me,  that  here  neither 
the  tone  of  morals,  nor  the  strain  of  poetry,  could 
be  pitched  too  high ;  that  nothing  but  moral  sub- 
limity could  compensate  for  the  extravagance  of 
the  fictions,  and  that  all  the  skill  I  might  possess  in 
the  art  of  poetry  was  required  to  counterbalance 
the  disadvantage  of  a  mythology  with  which  few 
readers  v/ere  likely  to  be  well  acquainted,  and 
which  would  appear  monstrous  if  its  deformities 
were  not  kept  out  of  sight.  I  endeavored,  there- 
fore, to  combine  the  utmost  richness  of  versification 
with  the  greatest  freedom.  The  spirit  of  the  poem 
was  Indian,  but  there  was  nothing  Oriental  in  the 
style.  I  had  learnt  the  language  of  poetry  from 
our  own  great  masters  and  the  great  poets  of  an- 
tiquity. 

No  poem  could  have  been  more  deliberately 
planned,  nor  more  carefully  composed.  It  was 
commenced  at  Lisbon  on  the  first  of  May,  1801 , 
and  recommenced  in  the  summer  of  the  same  year 
at  Kino-sdown,  in  the  same  house  (endeared  to  me 
once  by  many  delightful  but  now  mournful  recol- 
lections) in  which  Madoc  had  been  finished,  and 
Thalaba  begun.  A  little  was  added  during  the 
winter  of  that  year  in  London.  It  was  resumed  at 
Kingsdown  in  the  summer  of  1802,  and  then  laid 
aside  till  1806,  during  which  interval  Madoc  was 


reconstructed  and  published.  Resuming  it  then 
once  more,  all  that  had  been  written  was  recast  at 
Keswick :  there  I  proceeded  with  it  leisurely,  and 
finished  it  on  the  25lh  of  November,  1809.  It  is 
the  only  one  of  iny  long  poems  of  which  detached 
parts  were  written  to  be  afterwards  inserted  in  their 
proper  places.  Were  I  to  name  the  persons  to 
whom  it  was  communicated  during  its  progress,  it 
would  be  admitted  now  that  I  might  well  be  en- 
couraged by  their  approbation;  and,  indeed,  when 
it  was  published,  I  nmst  have  been  very  unreason- 
able if  I  had  not  been  satisfied  with  its  reception. 

It  was  not  till  the  present  edition  of  these  Poems 
Vi'as  in  the  press,  that,  eight-and-twenty  years  after 
Kehama  had  been  published,  I  first  saw  the  article 
upon  it  in  the  Monthly  Review,  parts  of  which 
cannot  be  more  appropriately  preserved  any  where 
than  here ;  it  shows  the  determination  with  which 
the  Reviewer  entered  upon  his  task,  and  the  im- 
portance which  he  attached  to  it. 

"  Throughout  our  literary  career  we  cannot  rec- 
ollect a  more  favorable  opportunity  than  the 
present  for  a  full  discharge  of  our  critical  duty. 
We  are  indeed  bound  now  to  make  a  firm  stand  for 
the  purity  of  our  poetic  taste  against  this  last  and 
most  desperate  assault,  conducted  as  it  is  by  a 
writer  of  considerable  reputation,  and  unquestion- 
ably of  considerable  abilities.  If  this  poem  were 
to  be  tolerated,  all  things  after  it  may  demand 
impunity,  and  it  will  be  in  vain  to  contend  hereafter 
for  any  one  established  rule  of  poetry  as  to  design 
and  subject,  as  to  character  and  incident,  as  to 
language  and  versification.  We  may  return  at 
once  to  the  rude  hymn  in  honor  of  Bacchus,  and 
indite  strains  adapted  to  the  recitation  of  rustics  in 
the  season  of  the  vintage  :  — 

Qu(B  canercnt  agerentqiLC  pei-uncti  fitcibus  ora. 

It  shall  be  our  plan  to  establish  these  points,  we 
hope,  beyond  reasonable  controversy,  by  a  complete 
analysis  of  the  twenty-four  sections  (as  they  may 
truly  be  called)  of  the  portentous  work,  and  by 
ample  quotations  interspersed  with  remarks,  in 
which  we  shall  endeavor  to  withhold  no  praise  that 
can  fairly  be  claimed,  and  no  censure  that  is  ob- 
viously deserved." 

The  reviewer  fulfilled  his  promises,  however 
much  he  failed  in  his  object.  He  was  not  more 
liberal  of  censure  than  of  praise,  and  he  was  not 
sparing  of  quotations.  The  analysis  was  suf- 
ficiently complete  for  the  purposes  of  criticism, 
except  that  the  critic  did  not  always  give  himself 
the  trouble  to  understand  what  he  was  determined 
to  ridicule.  "It  is  necessary  for  us,"  he  said, 
"according  to  our  purpose  of  deterring  future 
writers  from  the  choice  of  such  a  story,  or  for  such 
a  management  of  that  story,  to  detail  the  gross 
follies  of  the  work  in  question;  and,  tedious  as  the 
operation  may  be,  we  trust  that,  in  the  judgment 
of  all  those  lovers  of  literature  who  duly  value  the 
preservation  of  sound  principles  of  composition 
amonnf  us,  the  end  will  excuse  the  means."  The 
means  were  ridicule  and  reprobation,  and  the  end 
at  which  he  aimed  was  thus  stated  in  the  Review 
cr's  peroration. 


PREFACE    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEIIAMA. 


567 


"  We  know  not  that  Mr.  Southoy'smost  devoted 
admirers  can  complain  of  our  having  omitted  a 
single  incident  essential  to  the  display  of  his  char- 
acter or  the  development  of  his  plot.  To  other 
readers  we  should  apologize  for  our  prolixity,  were 
we  not  desirous,  as  we  hinted  before,  of  giving  a 
death-blow  to  the  gross  extravagances  of  the 
author's  school  of  poetry,  if  we  cannot  hope  to  re- 
form so  great  an  offender  as  himself.  In  general, 
all  that  nature  and  all  that  art  has  lavished  on  him 
is  rendered  useless  by  his  obstinate  adherence  to 
his  own  system  of  fancied  originality,  in  which 
every  thing  that  is  good  is  old,  and  every  thing 
that  is  new  is  good  for  nothing.  Convinced  as  we 
are  that  many  of  the  author's  faults  proceed  from 
mere  idleness,  deserving  even  less  indulgence  than 
the  erroneous  principles  of  his  poetical  system,  we 
shall  conclude  by  a  general  exhortation  to  all 
critics  to  condemn,  and  to  all  writers  to  avoid,  the 
example  of  combined  carelessness  and  perversity 
v*hich  is  here  afforded  by  Mr.  Southey ;  and  we 
shall  mark  tliis  last  and  worst  eccentricity  of  his 
Muse  with  the  following  character:  —  Here  is  the 
composition  of  a  poet  not  more  distinguished  by 
his  genius  and  knowledge,  than  by  his  contempt 
for  public  opinion  and  the  utter  depravity  of  his 
taste — a  depravity  which  is  incorrigible,  and,  we 
are  sorry  to  add,  most  unblushingly  rejoicing  in  its 
own  hopelessness  of  amendment." 

The  Monthly  Review  has,  I  believe,  been  for 
some  years  defunct.  I  never  knew  to  whom  I  was 
beholden  for  the  good  service  rendered  me  in  that 
Journal,  when  such  assistance  was  of  most  value ; 
nor  by  whom  I  was  subsequently,  during  several 
years,  favored  in  the  same  Journal  with  such 
flagrant  civilities  as  those  of  which  the  reader  has 
here  seen  a  sample. 

Keswick,  19th  Mmj,  1838. 


ORIGINAL    PREFACE. 

In  the  religion  of  the  Hindoos,  which  of  all  false 
religions  is  the  most  monstrous  in  its  fables,  and 
the  most  fatal  in  its  effects,  there  is  one  remarka- 
ble peculiarity.  Prayers,  penances,  and  sacrifices, 
are  supposed  to  possess  an  inherent  and  actual 
value,  in  no  degree  depending  upon  the  disposition 
or  motive  of  the  person  who  performs  them.  They 
are  drafts  upon  Heaven,  for  which  the  Gods  can- 
not refuse  payment.  The  worst  men,  bent  upon 
the  worst  designs,  have  in  this  manner  obtained 
])0Vv'er  which  has  made  them  formidable  to  the 
Supreme  Deities  themselves,  and  rendered  an 
.Ivatar,  or  Incarnation  of  'Voeshnoo  the  Preserver, 
necessary.  This  belief  is  the  foxmdation  of  the 
following  Poem.  The  story  is  original;  but,  in  all 
its  parts,  consistent  with  the  superstition  upon 
whicli  it  is  built;  and  however  startling  the  fictions 
may  appear,  they  might  almost  be  called  credible 
when  compared  with  the  genuine  tales  of  Hindoo 
mythology. 


No  figures  can  be  imagined  more  anti-pictu- 
resque, and  less  poetical,  than  the  mythological 
personages  of  the  Bramins.  This  deformity  was 
easily  kept  out  of  sight: — their  hundred  hands 
are  but  a  clumsy  personification  of  power;  their 
numerous  heads  only  a  gross  image  of  divinity, 
"whose  countenance,"  as  the  Bhagvat-Geeta 
expresses  it,  "is  turned  on  every  side."  To  the 
other  obvious  objection,  that  the  religion  of  Hin- 
dostan  is  not  generally  known  enough  to  supply 
fit  machinery  for  an  English  poem,  1  can  only 
answer,  that,  if  every  allusion  to  it  throughout  the 
work  is  not  sufficiently  self-explained  to  render 
the  passage  intelligible,  there  is  a  want  of  skill 
in  the  poet.  Even  those  readers  who  should  be 
wholly  unacquainted  with  the  writings  of  our 
learned  Orientalists,  will  find  all  the  preliminary 
knowledge  that  can  be  needful,  in  the  brief  expla- 
nation of  mythological  names  prefixed  to  the  Poem. 


Brama, the  Creator. 

Veeshnoo,  .  .  .  the  Preserver. 

Seeta, the  Destroyer. 

Tliose  form  the  Trimourtce,  or  Trinity,  as  it  has  heen 
called,  of  tlie  Bramins.  The  allegory  is  ohvious,  hut 
has  been  made  for  the  Trimourtee,  not  the  Trimourteo 
for  the  allegory  ;  and  these  Deities  are  regarded  by  the 
people  as  three  distinct  and  personal  Gods.  The  two 
latter  have  at  this  day  their  hostile  sects  of  worshij)- 
pers  ;  that  nfSeeva  is  the  most  numerous  ;  and  in  this 
Poem,  Seeva  is  represented  as  Supreme  among  the 
Gods.  This  is  the  same  God  whose  name  is  variously 
written  Seeh,  Sieven,  and  Siva  ;  Chiven  by  the 
French  ;  Xiven  by  the  Portuguese  ;  and  whom  Kuro- 
pean  writers  sometimes  denominate  Eswiirn,  Iswaren, 
Mahadeo,  Maliadeva,  Kutren,  —  accoriling  to  which 
of  his  thousand  and  eight  names  prevailed  in  the 
country  where  they  obtained  their  information. 

Indra, God  of  the  Element-s. 

TheSwERGA,.  .  his  Paradise,  —  one  of  the  Hindoo  heavens. 

Yamen, Lord  of  Hell,  and  Judge  of  the  Dead. 

Padalon,  ....  Hell,  —  under  the  Earth,  anil,  like  the  Earth, 
of  iin  oct.'igon  shape  ;  its  eight  gates  are  guarded  by  as 
many  Gods. 

MAnRiiTALY,  .  .  the  Goddess  who  is  chif  fly  worshipped  by 
the  lower  castes. 

PoLi.EAR, or  Ganesa,  —  the  Protector  of  Travellers. 

His  statues  are  placed  in  the  highways,  and  some- 
times in  a  small,  lonely  sanctuary,  in  the  streets  ?nd 
in  the  fields. 

Casyapa, the  Father  of  the  Immortals. 

Devetas, the  Inferior  Deities. 

SuRis, Good  Spirits. 

AsuRAs, Evil  Spirits,  or  Devils. 

Gle.ndovkers,  .  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Good  Spirits,  thfl 
■  Grindouvers  of  Sonnerat. 


I. 


THE  FUNERAL. 


Midnight,  and  yet  no  eye 

Through  all  the  Imperial  City  closed  in  sleep  ! 

Behold  her  streets  a-blaze 

With  light  that  seems  to  kindle  the  red  sky, 

Her  myriads  swarming  through  the  crowded  Ways 


568 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


Master  and  slave,  old  age  and  infancy, 

All,  all  abroad  to  gaze; 

House-top  and  balcony 

Clustered  with  women,  who  throw  back  their  veils 

With  unimpeded  and  insatiate  sight 

To  view  tlie  funeral  pomp  which  passes  by, 

As  if  the  mournful  rite 

Were  but  to  them  a  scene  of  joyance  and  delight. 

2. 
Vainly,  ye  blessed  twinklers  of  the  night. 
Your  feeble  beams  ye  shed, 
Quench'd  in  the  unnatural  light  which  might  out- 
stare 
Even  the  broad  eye  of  day; 
And  thou  from  thy  celestial  way 
Pourest,  O  Moon,  an  ineffectual  ray  ! 
For  lo  !  ten  thousand  torches  flame  and  flare 
Upon  the  midnight  air, 
Blotting  the  lights  of  heaven 
With  one  portentous  glare. 
Behold,  the  fragrant  smoke,  in  many  a  fold 
Ascending,  floats  along  the  fiery  sky, 
And  hangeth  visible  on  high, 
A  dark  and  waving  canopy. 

3. 

Hark  I  'tis  the  funeral  trumpet's  breath  I 

'Tis  the  dirge  of  death  ! 

At  once  ten  thousand  drums  begin, 

With  one  long  tliunder-peal  the  ear  assailing; 

Ten  thousand  voices  then  join  in, 

And  with  one  deep  and  general  din 

Pour  their  wild  wailing. 

The  song  of  praise  is  drown'd 

Amid  the  deafening  sound; 

You  hear  no  jnore  the  trumpet's  tone, 

You  hear  no  more  the  mourner's  moan, 

Though  the  trumpet's   breath,    and  the  dirge  of 

death. 

Swell  with  commingled  force  the  funeral  yell. 

But  rising  over  all,  in  one  acclaim. 

Is  heard  the  echoed  and  reechoed  name, 

From  all  that  countless  rout  — 

Arvalan !  Arvalan .' 

Arvalan !  Arvalan ! 

Ten  times  ten  thousand  voices  in  one  shout 

Call  Arvalan  !  the  overpowering  sound. 

From  house  to  house  repeated,  rings  about, 

From  tower  to  tower  rolls  round. 

4. 

The  death-procession  moves  along ; 

Their  bald  heads  shining  to  the  torches'  ray, 

The  Bramins  lead  the  way, 

Chanting  the  funeral  song. 

And  now  at  once  they  shout, 

Arvalan  1  Arvalan  ! 

With  quick  rebound  of  sound. 

All  in  accordant  cry, 

Arvalan !  Arvalan ! 

The  universal  multitude  reply. 

In  vain  ye  thunder  on  his  ear  the  name ; 

Would  ye  awake  the  dead  .' 

Borne  upright  in  his  palanquin. 


There  Arvalan  is  seen  ! 

A  glow  is  on  his  face,  —  a  lively  red ; 

It  is  the  crimson  canopy 

Which  o'er  his  cheek  a  reddening  shade  hath  shed ; 

He  moves,  —  he  nods  his  head,  — 

But  the  motion  comes  from  the  bearers'  tread, 

As  the  body,  borne  aloft  in  state. 
Sways  with  the  impulse  of  its  own  dead  weight. 

5. 

Close  following  his  dead  son,  Kehama  came, 

Nor  joining  in  the  ritual  song, 

Nor  calling  the  dear  name ; 

With  head  dcpress'd,  and  funeral  vest, 

And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast, 

Silent  and  lost  in  thought  he  moves  along. 

King  of  the  world,  his  slaves,  unenvying  now, 

Behold  their  wretched  Lord;  rejoiced  they  see 

The  mighty  Rajah's  misery ; 

That  nature  in  his  pride  hath  dealt  the  blow. 

And  taught  the  Master  of  Mankind  to  know 

Even  he  himself  is  man,  and  not  exempt  from  woe. 

6. 

O  sight  of  grief !  the  wives  of  Arvalan, 

Young  Azla,  young  Nealliny,  are  seen  ! 

Their  widow-robes  of  white. 

With  gold  and  jewels  bright. 

Each  like  an  Eastern  queen. 

VVoe  !  woe  !  around  their  palanquin. 

As  on  a  bridal  day, 

With  symphony,  and  dance,  and  song. 

Their  kindred  and  their  friends  come  on. 

The  dance  of  sacrifice  !  the  funeral  song  ! 

And  next  the  victim  slaves  in  long  array, 

Richly  bedight  to  grace  the  fatal  day, 

Move  onward  to  their  death; 

The  clarions'  stirring  breath 

Lifts  their  thin  robes  in  every  flowing  fold, 

And  swells  the  woven  gold, 

That  on  the  agitated  air 

Flutters  and  glitters  to  the  torch's  glare. 


A  man  and  maid  of  aspect  wan  and  wild. 

Then,  side  by  side,  by  bowmen  guarded,  came ; 

O  wretched  father  !   O  unhappy  child  ! 

Them  were  all  eyes  of  all  the  throng  exploring — ■ 

Is  this  the  daring  man 

Who  raised  his  fatal  hand  at  Arvalan.' 

Is  this  the  wretch  condemn'd  to  feel 

Kehama's  dreadful  wrath.' 

Then  were  all  hearts  of  all  the  throng  deploring; 

For  not  in  that  innumerable  throng 

Was  one  who  loved  the  dead;  for  who  could  know 

What  aggravated  wrong 

Provoked  the  desperate  blow  ' 


Far,  far  behind,  beyond  all  reach  of  sight. 

In  order'd  files  the  torches  flow  along. 

One  ever-lengthening  line  of  gliding  light: 

Far,  far  behind. 

Rolls  on  the  undistinguishable  clamor 

Of  horn,  and  trump,  and  tambour; 


I.                                        THE    CURSE    ( 

OF    KEHAMA.                                      569 

Incessant  as  tlie  roar 

E-.ich  lifting  in  his  hand  a  torch  on  fire. 

Of  streams  which  down  the  wintry  mountain  pour, 

Alone  the  Father  of  the  dead  advanced 

And  louder  than  tlie  dread  commotion 

And  lit  the  funeral  pyre. 

Of  breakers  on  a  rocky  shore, 

When  tlie  winds  rage  over  the  waves, 

14. 

And  Ocean  to  the  Tempest  raves. 

At  once  on  every  side 

The  circling  torches  drop  ; 

9. 

At  once  on  every  side 

And  now  toward  the  bank  they  go, 

The  fragrant  oil  is  pour'd  ; 

Where,  winding  on  their  way  below. 

At  once  on  every  side 

Deep  and  strong  the  waters  flow. 

The  rapid  flames  rush  up. 

Here  doth  the  funeral  pile  appear 

Then  hand  in  hand  the  victim  band 

With  myrrh  and  ambergris  bestrew'd. 

Roll  in  the  dance  around  the  funeral  pyre  ; 

And  built  of  precious  sandal  wood. 

Their  garments'  flying  folds 

They  cease  their  music  and  their  outcry  here; 

Float  inward  to  the  fire  ; 

Gently  they  rest  the  bier ; 

In  drunken  whirl  they  wheel  around; 

They  wet  the  face  of  Arvalan, — 

One  drops,  —  another  plunges  in ; 

No  sign  of  life  the  sprinkled  drf)ps  excite; 

And  still  with  overwhelming  dim 

They  feel  his  breast,  —  no  motion  there; 

The  tambours  and  the  trumpets  sound ; 

They  feel  his  lips,  —  no  breath  ; 

And  clap  of  hand,  and  shouts,  and  cries, 

For  not  with  feeble,  nor  with  erring  hand. 

From  all  the  multitude  arise ; 

The  brave  avenger  dealt  tlie  blow  of  death. 

While  round  and  round,  in  giddy  wheel, 

Then,  with  a  doubling  peal  and  deeper  blast, 

Intoxicate  they  roll  and  reel. 

The  tambours  and  the  trumpets  sound  on  high. 

Till  one  by  one  whirl'd  in  they  fall. 

And  with  a  last  and  loudest  cry 

And  the  devouring  flames  have  swallow'd  all. 

They  call  on  Arvalan. 

15. 

10. 

Then  all  was  still ;  the  drums  and  clarions  ceased ; 

Woe  !  woe  !  for  Azla  takes  her  seat 

The  multitude  were  hush'd  in  silent  awe  ; 

Upon  the  funeral  pile ; 

Only  the  roaring  of  the  flames  was  heard. 

Calmly  she  took  her  seat, 

Calmly  the  whole  terrific  pomp  survey 'd; 

As  on  her  lap  the  while 

The  lifeless  head  of  Arvalan  was  laid. 

II. 

11. 

THE   CURSE. 

Woe  I  woe  !  Neallmy, 

The  young  Nealliny, 

1. 

They  strip  her  ornaments  away. 

Alone  towards  the  Table  of  the  Dead 

Bracelet  and  anklet,  ring,  and  chain,  and  zone; 

Kehama  moved ;  there  on  the  altar-stone 

Around  her  neck  tliey  leave 

Honey  and  rice  he  spread. 

The  marriage  knot  alone,  — 

There,  with  collected  voice  and  painful  tone, 

That  marriage  band,  which,  when 

He  call'd  upon  his  son. 

Yon  waning  moon  was  young. 

Lo  !  Arvalan  appears  ; 

Around  her  virgin  neck 

Only  Kehama's  powerful  eye  beheld 

With  bridal  joy  was  hung. 

The  thin,  ethereal  spirit  hovering  nigh; 

Then  with  white  flowers,  the  coronal  of  death. 

Only  the  Rajah's  ear 

Her  jetty  locks  they  crown. 

Receiv'd  his  feeble  breath. 

And  is  this  all.'  the  mournful  Spirit  said. 

12. 

This  all  that  thou  canst  give  me  after  death  ? 

O  sight  of  misery  ! 

This  unavailing  pomp. 

You  cannot  hear  her  cries,  —  their  sound 

These  empty  pageantries,  tliat  mock  the  dead ! 

In  that  wild  dissonance  is  drown'd ;  — 

But  in  her  face  you  see 

2. 

The  supplication  and  the  agony,  — 

In  bitterness  the  Rajah  heard. 

See  in  her  swelling  throat  the  desperate  strength 

And  groan'd,  and  smote  his  breast,  and  o'er  his  face 

That  with  vain  effort  struggles  yet  for  life  ; 

Cowl'd  the  white  mourning  vest. 

Her  arms  contracted  now  in  fruitless  strife, 

Now  wildly  at  full  length 

3. 

Towards  the  crowd  in  vain  for  pity  spread ;  — 

ARVALAN. 

They  force  her  on,  they  bind  her  to  the  dead. 

Art  thou  not  powerful,  —  even  like  a  God' 

And  must  I,  through  my  years  of  wandering, 

13. 

Shii-ering  and  naked  to  the  elements. 

Then  all  around  retire ; 

In  wretchedness  await 

Circling  the  pile,  the  ministering  Brami-ns  stand, 
72 

The  hour  of  Yamen's  wrath.' 

570                                       THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                          ir. 

I  thought  thou  wouldst  inibody  me  anew, 

He  moved  toward  the  pile, 

Undying  as  I  am ;  — 

And  raised  his  hand  to  hush  the  crowd,  and  cried, 

Yea,  re-create  me  !  — Father,  is  tliis  all? 

Bring  forth  the  murderer  1  At  the  Rajah's  voice, 

This  all  ?  and  thou  Almighty  ! 

Calmly,  and  like  a  man  whom  fear  had  stuun'd, 

Ladurlad  came,  obedient  to  the  call , 

4. 

But  Kailyal  started  at  the  sound. 

But  in  that  wrongful  and  upbraiding  tone 

And  gave  a  womanly  shriek  ;  and  back  she  drew, 

Kchaina  found  relief; 

And  eagerly  she  rolld  her  eyes  around, 

For  rising  anger  lialf  suppress'd  his  grief. 

As  if  to  seek  for  aid,  albeit  she  knew 

Reproach  not  me  !  he  cried. 

No  aid  could  there  be  found. 

Had  I  not  spell-sccur'd  thee  from  disease. 

Fire,  sword,  —  all  common  accidents  of  man, — 

8. 

And  thou  !  —  fool,  fool  —  to  perish  by  a  stake  ! 

It  chanced  that  near  her,  on  the  river-brink. 

And  by  a  peasant's  arm  !  — 

The  sculptured  form  of  Marriataly  stood; 

Even  now,  when  irom  reluctant  Heaven, 

It  was  an  Idol  roughly  hewn  of  wood, 

Forcing  new  gifts  and  mightier  attributes. 

Artless,  and  mean,  and  rude; 

So  soon  I  should  have  quell'd  the  Death-God's 

The  Goddess  of  the  poor  was  she  ; 

power. 

None  else  regarded  her  with  piety. 

But  when  that  holy  Image  Kailyal  view'd, 

5. 

To  that  she  sprung,  to  that  she  clung ; 

Waste  not  thy  wrath  on  mc,  quoth  Arvalan  ; 

On  her  own  Goddess  with  close-clasping  arms, 

It  was  my  hour  of  folly  !    Fate  prevail'd; 

For  life  the  maiden  hung. 

Nor  boots  it  to  reproach  me  that  I  fell. 

I  am  in  misery,  Father !     Other  souls, 

9. 

Predoom'd  to  Indra's  Heaven,  enjoy  the  dawn 

They  seized  tlie  maid ;  with  unrelenting  grasp 

Of  bliss;  to  them  the  temper'd  elements 

They  bruised  her  tender  limbs; 

Minister  joy  :  genial  delight  the  sun 

She,  nothing  yielding,  to  this  only  hope 

Sheds  on  their  happy  being,  and  the  stars 

Clings  with  the  strength  of  frenzy  and  despair; 

Effuse  on  them  benignant  influences; 

She  screams  not  now,  she  breathes  not  now. 

And  thus  o'er  earth  and  air  they  roam  at  will, 

She  sends  not  up  one  vow, 

And,  when  the  number  of  their  days  is  full, 

She  forms  not  in  her  soul  one  secret  prayer, 

Go  fearlessly  before  the  awful  throne. 

All  thought,  all  feeling,  and  all  powers  of  life 

But  I,  —  all  naked  feeling  and  raw  life, — 

In  the  one  effort  centring.     Wrathful  they 

What  worse  than  this  hath  Yamen's  hell  in  store .' 

With  tug  and  strain  would  force  the  maid  away  ; 

If  ever  thou  didst  love  me,  mercy,  father  ! 

Didst  thou,  O  Marriataly,  see  their  strife.' 

Save  me,  for  thou  can'st  save  —  the  Elements 

In  pity  didst  thou  see  the  suffering  maid.' 

Know  and  obey  thy  voice. 

Or  was  thine  anger  kindled,  that  rude  liands 

Assail'd  thy  holy  Image.'  —  for  behold 

6. 

The  holy  image  shakes  ! 

KEHAMA. 

The  Elements 

10. 

Shall  sin  no  more  against  thee ;  whilst  I  speak. 

Irreverently  bold,  they  deem  the  maid 

Already  dost  thou  feel  their  power  is  gone. 

Relax'd  her  stubborn  hold. 

Fear  not !    I  cannot  call  again  the  past; 

And  now  with  force  redoubled  drag  their  prey; 

Fate  hath  made  that  its  own ;  but  Fate  shall  yield 

And  now  the  rooted  Idol  to  their  sway 

To  me  the  future;  and  thy  doom  be  fix'd 

Bends,  —  yields,  —  and  now  it  falls.     But  then  they 

By  mine,  not  Yamen's  will.     Meantime  all  power, 

scream  ; 

Whereof  thy  feeble  spirit  can  be  made 

For  lo !  they  feel  the  crumbling  bank  give  way, 

Participant,  I  give.     Is  there  aught  else 

And  all  are  plunged  into  the  stream. 

To  mitigate  thy  lot.' 

11. 

ARVALAN. 

She  hath  escaped  my  will,  Kehama  cried ; 

Only  the  sight  of  vengeance.     Give  me  that! 

She  hath  escaped,  —  but  thou  art  .here; 

Vengeance,   full,    worthy    vengeance!  —  not    the 

[  have  thee  still. 

stroke 

The  worser  criminal ! 

Of  sudden  punishment,  —  no  agony 

And  on  Ladurlad,  while  he  spake,  severe 

That  spends  itself,  and  leaves  the  wretch  at  rest, 

He  fix'd  his  dreadful  frown. 

But  lasting,  long  revenge. 

The  strong  reflection  of  the  pile 

Lit  his  dark  lineaments. 

KEHAMA. 

Lit  the  protruded  brow,  the  gathered  front, 

What,  boy  ?  is  that  cup  sweet .'  then  take  thy  fill  I 

The  steady  eye  of  wrath. 

7. 
So,  as  he  spake,  a  glow  of  dreadful  pride 

12. 

But  while  the  fearful  silence  yet  endured, 

Inflamed  his  cheek ;  with  quick  and  angry  stride 

Ladurlad  roused  himself; 

II. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


571 


Ere  yet  the  voice  of  destiny 

Which  trembled  on  the  Rajah's  lips  was  loosed, 

Eager  he  interposed, 

As  if  despair  had  waken'd  him  to  hope; 

Mercy  !  oh  mercy  !  only  in  defence  — 

Only  instinctively  — 

Only  to  save  my  cliild,  I  smote  tlio  Prince ; 

King  of  the  world,  be  merciful ! 

Crush  me  —  but  torture  not ! 

13. 

The  Man- Almighty  deign'd  him  no  reply  ; 

Still  he  stood  silent;  in  no  human  mood 

Of  mercy,  in  no  hesitating  Ihcmght 

Of  right  and  justice.     At  the  length  he  raised 

His  brow,  yet  unrelax'd, — his  lips  unclosed. 

And,  uttered  from  the  heart, 

With  the  whole  feeling  of  his  soul  enforced, 

The  gathered  vengeance  came. 

14. 

I  charm  thy  life 

From  the  weapons  of  strife. 

From  stone  and  from  wood. 

From  fire  and  from  flood, 

From  the  serpent's  tooth. 

And  the  beasts  of  blood : 

From  Sickness  I  charm  thee. 

And  Time  shall  not  harin  thee ; 

But  Earth,  wliich  is  mine. 

Its  fruits  shall  deny  thee  ; 

And  Water  shall  hear  me. 

And  know  thee  and  fly  thee ; 

And  the  Winds  shall  not  touch  thee 

When  they  pass  by  thee. 

And  the  Dews  shall  not  wet  thee, 

When  they  fall  nigh  thee  : 

And  thou  shalt  seek  Death 

To  release  thee,  in  vain  ; 

Thou  shalt  live  in  thy  pain. 

While  Kehama  shall  reign, 

With  a  fire  in  thy  heart. 

And  a  fire  in  tjiy  brain  ; 

And  Sleep  shall  obey  me, 

And  visit  thee  never. 

And  the  Curse  shall  be  on  thee 

Forever  and  ever. 

15. 

There  where  the  Curse  had  stricken  him. 

There  stood  the  miserable  man, 

There  stood  Ladurlad,  with  loose-hanging  arms, 

And  eyes  of  idiot  wandering. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  alas  ! 

He  heard  the  river  flow ; 

He  heard  the  crumbling  of  the  pile  ; 

He  heard  the  wind  which  shower'd 

The  thin,  white  ashes  round. 

There  motionless  he  stood. 

As  if  he  hoped  it  were  a  dream. 

And  feared  to  move,  lest  he  should  prove 

The  actual  misery ; 
And  still  at  times  he  met  Kehama's  eye, 
Kehama's  eye,  that  fastened  on  him  still. 


HI. 


THE  RECOVERY. 


The  Rajah  turned  toward  the  pile  again ; 

Loud  rose  the  song  of  death  from  all  the  crowd ; 

Their  din  the  instruments  begin, 

And  once  again  join  in 

Willi  overwhelming  sound. 

Ladurlad  starts,  —  he  looks  around; 

What  hast  thou  here  in  view, 

O  wretched  man,  in  this  disastrous  scene.' 

The  soldier  train,  the  Bramins  who  renew 

Their  ministry  around  the  funeral  pyre. 

The  empty  palanquins, 

Tlie  dimly-fading  fire. 


Where,  loo,  is  she  whom  most  his  heart  held  dear. 

His  best-beloved  Kailyal,  where  is  she, 

The  solace  and  the  joy  of  many  a  year 

Of  widowhood  ?  is  she  then  gone. 

And  is  he  left  ail-utterly  alone, 

To  bear  his  blasting  curse,  and  none 

To  succor  or  deplore  him  .' 

He  staggers  from  the  dreadful  spot ;  the  throng 

Give  way  in  fear  before  him; 

Like  one  who  carries  pestilence  about, 

Shuddering  they  shun  him,  where  he  moves  along 

And  now  he  wanders  on 

Beyond  the  noisy  rout : 

He  cannot  fly  and  leave  his  Curse  behind  ; 

Yet  doth  he  seem  to  find 

A  comfort  in  the  change  of  circumstance. 

Adown  the  shore  he  strays. 

Unknowing  where  his  wretched  feet  shall  rest. 

But  farthest  from  the  fatal  place  is  best. 

3. 

By  this  in  the  orient  sky  appears  the  gleam 

Of  day.     Lo  !  what  is  yonder  in  the  stream, 

Down  the  slow  river  floating  slow. 

In  distance  indistinct  and  dimly  seen? 

The  childless  one,  with  idle  eye, 

Followed  its  motion  thoughtlessly  ; 

Idly  he  gazed,  unknowing  why. 

And  half  unconscious  that  he  watch'd  its  way. 

Belike  it  is  a  tree 

Which  some  rude  tempest,  in  its  sudden  sway, 

Tore  from  the  rock,  or  from  the  hollow  shore 

The  undermining  stream  hath  swept  away. 


But  when  anon  outswelling,  by  its  side, 

A  woman's  robe  he  spied. 

Oh  then  Ladurlad  started, 

As  one,  who  in  his  grave 

Had  heard  an  Angel's  call. 

Yea,  Marriataly.  thou  hast  deign'd  to  save  ! 

Yea,  Goddess  !  it  is  she, 

Kailyal,  still  clinging  senselessly 

To  thy  dear  Image,  and  in  happy  hour 


572                                        THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                        iv. 

Upborne  amid  the  wave 

10. 

By  that  preserving  power. 

And  hath  he  spared  us  then.'  she  cried, 

Half  rising  as  she  spake. 

5. 

For  hope  and  joy  the  sudden  strength  supplied ; 

Headlong  in  hope  and  in  joy 

In  mercy  hath  he  curb'd  his  cruel  will, 

Ladurlad  plunged  in  the  water ; 

That  still  thou  livest.''     But  as  thus  she  said. 

The  Water  knew  Kehama's  spell ; 

Impatient  of  that  look  of  hope,  her  sire 

The  Water  shrunk  before  him. 

Shook  hastily  his  head  ; 

Blind  to  the  miracle, 

Oh !  he  hath  laid  a  Curse  upon  my  life, 

He  rushes  to  his  daughter, 

A  clinging  curse,  quoth  he ; 

And  treads  the  river  depths  in  transport  wild, 

Hath  sent  a  fire  into  my  heart  and  brain. 

And  clasps,  and  saves  his  child. 

A  burning  fire,  forever  there  to  be  ! 

The  Winds  of  Heaven  must  never  breathe  on  me  ; 

6. 

The  Rains  and  Dews  must  never  fall  on  me  ; 

Upon  the  farther  side,  a  level  shore 

Water  must  mock  my  thirst,  and  shrink  from  me; 

Of  sand  was  spread  :  thither  Ladurlad  bore 

The  common  Earth  must  yield  no  fruit  to  me ; 

His  daughter,  holding  still  with  senseless  hand 

Sleep,  blessed  Sleep  !  must  never  light  on  me  ; 

The  saving  Goddess ;  there  upon  the  sand 

And  Death,  who  comes  to  all,  must  fly  from  me. 

He  laid  the  livid  maid, 

And  never,  never,  set  Ladurlad  free. 

Raised  up  against  his  knees  her  drooping  head; 

Bent  to  her  lips, — her  lips  as  pale  as  death, — 

11. 

If  he  might  feel  her  breath. 

This  is  a  dream  !  exclaimed  the  incredulous  maid. 

His  own  the  while  in  hope  and  dread  suspended ; 

Yet  in  her  voice  the  while  a  fear  express'd. 

Chafed  her  cold  breast,  and  ever  and  anon 

Which  in  her  larger  eye  was  manifest. 

Let  his  hand  rest,  upon  her  heart  extended. 

This  is  a  dream  !  she  rose,  and  laid  her  hand 

Upon  her  father's  brow,  to  try  the  charm; 

7. 

He    could    not    bear    the    pressure    there ;  —  he 

Soon  did  his  touch  perceive,  or  fancy,  there 

shrunk ; 

The  first  faint  notion  of  returning  life. 

He  warded  off  her  arm. 

He  chafes  her  feet,  and  lays  them  bare 

As  though  it  were  an  enemy's  blow;  he  smote 

In  the  sun ;  and  now  again  upon  her  breast 

His  daughter's  arm  aside. 

Lays  his  hot  hand ;  and  now  her  lips  he  press'd. 

Her  eye  glanced  down ;  his  mantle  she  espied, 

For  now  the  stronger  throb  of  life  he  knew; 

And  caught  it  up.  —  Oh  misery  !  Kailyal  cried. 

And  her  lips  tremble  too  ! 

He  bore  me  from  the  river-depths,  and  yet 

The  breath  comes  palpably  : 

His  garment  is  not  wet ! 

Her  quivering  lids  unclose, 

Feebly  and  feebly  fall, 

Relapsing,  as  it  scem'd,  to  dead  repose. 

IV. 

8. 
So  in  her  fatlier's  arms  thus  languidly. 

THE   DEPARTURE. 

While  over  her  with  earnest  gaze  he  hung. 

Silent  and  motionless  she  lay, 

1. 

And  painfully  and  slowly  writhed  at  fits ; 

Reclined  beneath  a  Cocoa's  feathery  shade 

At  fits,  to  short  convulsive  starts  was  stung. 

Ladurlad  lies, 

Till  when  the  struggle  and  strong  agony 

And  Kailyal  on  his  lap  her  head  hath  laid, 

Had  left  her,  quietly  she  lay  reposed  ; 

To  hide  her  streaming  eyes. 

Her  eyes  now  resting  on  Ladurlad 's  face. 

Tlie  boatman,  sailing  on  his  easy  way, 

Relapsing  now,  and  now  again  unclosed. 

With  envious  eye  beheld  them  where  they  lay; 

The  look  she  fix'd  upon  his  face  implies 

For  every  herb  and  flower 

Nor  thought  nor  feeling ;  senselessly  she  lies, 

Was  fresh  and  fragrant  with  the  early  dew; 

Composed  like  one  who  sleeps  with  open  eyes. 

Sweet  sung  tlie  birds  in  that  delicious  hour, 

And  the  cool  gale  of  morning,  as  it  blew. 

9. 

Not  yet  subdued  by  day's  increasing  power, 

Long  he  lean'd  over  her. 

Ruffling  the  surface  of  the  silvery  stream. 

In  silence  and  in  fear. 

Swept   o'er   the    moisten'd   sand,   and   raised   no 

Kailyal !  —  at  length  he  cried  in  such  a  tone 

shower. 

As  a  poor  mother  ventures  who  draws  near, 

Telling  their  tale  of  love, 

With  silent  footstep,  to  her  ciiild's  sick  bed. 

The  boatman  thought  they  lay 

My  Father!  cried  the  maid,  and  raised  her  head. 

At  that  lone  hour,  and  who  so  blest  as  they  ! 

Awakening  then  to  life  and  thought,  —  thou  here  .' 

For  when  his  voice  she  heard. 

2. 

The  dreadful  past  rccurr'd. 

But  now  the  Sun  in  heaven  is  high ; 

Which  dimly,  like  a  dream  of  pain. 

The  little  songsters  of  the  sky 

Till  now  with  troubled  sense  confused  her  brain. 

Sit  silent  in  the  sultry  hour ; 

IV.                                        THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                       573 

They  pant  and  palpitate  with  heat; 

G. 

Their  bills  are  open  languidly 

Oh  1   wrong  not  them  !  quoth  Kailyal ; 

To  catch  the  passing  air ; 

Wrong  not  the  Heavenly  Powers  ! 

They  liear  it  not,  they  feel  it  not, 

Our  hope  is  all  in   them.     They  are  not  blind! 

It  inurnuirs  not,  it  moves  not. 

And  lighter  wrongs  than  ours, 

The  boatman,  as  he  looks  to  land, 

And  lighter  crimes  than  his, 

Admires  what  men  so  mad  to  linger  there, 

Have  drawn  the  Incarnate  down  among  mankind 

For  yonder  Cocoa's  shade  behind  them  falls. 

Already  have  the  Innnortals  heard  our  cries, 

A  single  spot  upon  the  burning  sand. 

And  in  the  mercy  of  their  righteousness 

Beheld  us  in  the  hour  of  our  distress  I 

3. 

She  spake  with  streaming  eyes. 

There  all  the  morning  was  Ladurlad  laid 

Where  pious  love  and  ardent  feeling  beam. 

Silent  and  motionless,  like  one  at  ease  ; 

And  turning  to  the  Image  threw 

There  motionless  upon  her  father's  knees 

Her  grateful  arms  around  it.  — It  was  thou 

Reclined  the  silent  maid. 

Wlio  savcdst  me  from  the  stream  I 

The  man  was  still,  pondering  with  steady  mind, 

My  Marriataly,  it  was  thou  ' 

As  if  it  were  another's  Curse, 

I  had  not  else  been  here 

His  own  portentous  lot ; 

To  share  my  Father's  Curse, 

Scanning  it  o'er  and  o'er  in  busy  thought, 

To  suffer  now,  —  and  yet  to  thank  thee  thus  I 

As  though  it  were  a  last  night's  tale  of  woe, 

Before  the  cottage  door 

7. 

By  some  old  beldam  sung. 

Here  then,  the  maiden  cried,  dear  Father,  here 

While  young  and  old,  assembled  round. 

Raise  our  own  Goddess,  our  divine  Preserver  ! 

Listened,  as  if  by  witchery  bound, 

The  mighty  of  the  earth  despise  her  rites; 

In  fearful  pleasure  to  her  wondrous  tongue. 

She  loves  the  poor  who  serve  her. 

Set  up  her  Image  here  ; 

4. 

With  heart  and  voice  the  guardian  Goddess  bless; 

Musing  so  long  he  lay,  that  all  things  seem 

For  jealously  would  she  resent 

Unreal  to  his  sense,  even  like  a  dream, 

Neglect  and  thanklessness ;  — 

A  monstrous  dream  of  things  which  could  not  be. 

Set  up  her  Image  here, 

That  beating,  burning  brow,  —  why  it  was  now 

And  bless  her  for  her  aid  with  tongue  and  soul 

The  height  of  noon,  and  he  was  lying  there 

sincere. 

In  the  broad  sun,  all  bare  ! 

What  if  he  felt  no  wind  !  the  air  was  still. 

8. 

That  was  the  general  will 

So  saying,  on  her  knees  the  maid 

Of  Nature,  not  his  own  peculiar  doom ; 

Began  the  pious  toil. 

Yon  rows  of  rice  erect  and  silent  stand. 

Soon  their  joint  labor  scoops  the  easy  soil; 

The  shadow  of  the  Cocoa's  lighest  plume 

They  raise  the  Image  up  with  reverent  hand, 

Is  steady  on  the  sand. 

And  round  its  rooted  base  they  heap  the  sand. 

O  Thou  whom  we  adore. 

5. 

O  Marriataly,  thee  do  I  implore, 

Is  it  indeed  a  dream  ?  He  rose  to  try ; 

The  virgin  cried  ;  my  Goddess,  pardon  thou 

Impatient  to  the  water  side  he  went, 

The  unwilling  wrong,  that  I  no  more. 

And  down  he  bent. 

With  dance  and  song. 

And  in  the  stream  he  plunged  his  hasty  arm 

Can  do  thy  daily  service,  as  of  yore  I 

To  break  the  visionary  charm. 

The    flowers  which   last  I  wreathed  around  thy 

With  fearful  eye  and  fearful  heart, 

brow. 

His  daughter  watch'd  the  event ; 

Are  withering  there;  and  never  now 

She  saw  the  start  and  shudder, 

Shall  I  at  eve  adore  thee. 

She  heard  the  in-drawn  groan, 

And  sw^imming  round,  with  arms  outspread, 

For  the  Water  knew  Kehama's  charm  ; 

Poise  the  full  pitcher  on  my  head, 

The  Water  shrunk  before  his  arm  ; 

In  dexterous  dance  before  thee. 

His  dry  hand  moved  about  unmoisten'd  there; 

While  underneath  the  reedy  shed,  at  rest 

As  easily  might  that  dry  hand  avail 

My  father  sat  the  evening  rites  to  view. 

To  stop  the  passing  gale, 

And  blest  thy  name,  and  blest 

Or  grasp  the  impassive  air. 

His  daughter  too. 

He  is  Almighty  then  ! 

Exclaim'd  the  wretched  man  in  his  despair: 

9. 

Air  knows  him  ;   Water  knows  him ;  Sleep 

Then  heaving  from  her  heart  a  heavy  sigh. 

His  dreadful  word  will  keep; 

0  Goddess !  from  that  happy  home,  cried  she, 

Even  in  the  grave  there  is  no  rest  for  me, 

The  Almighty  Man  hath  forced  us  ! 

Cut  off  from  that  last  hope,  —  the  wretch's  joy  ; 

And  homeward  with  the  thought  unconsciously 

And  Veeshnoo  hath  no  power  to  save, 

She  turn'd  her  dizzy  eye.  —  But  there  on  high, 

Nor  Seeva  to  destroy. 

With  many  a  dome,  and  pinnacle,  and  spire, 

574 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


The  summits  of  the  Golden  Palaces 

Blazed  in  the  dark  blue  sky,  a^oft,  like  fire. 

Father,  away  !  she  cried,  away  I 

WJiy  linger  we  so  nigh  ? 

For  not  to  iiini  hath  Nature  given 

The  thousand  eyes  of  Deity, 

Always  and  every  where,  witli  open  si<rht. 

To  persecute  our  flight  I 

Away  — away  !  she  said. 

And  took  her  father's  hand,  and  like  a  child 

He  followed  where  she  led. 


THE    SEPARATION. 


Evening  comes  on :  arising  from  the  stream, 
Homeward  the  tall  flamingo  wings  his  flight; 
And  where  he  sails  athwart  the  setting  beam, 
His  scarlet  plumage  glows  witli  deeper  light. 
The  watchman,  at  the  wish'd  approach  of  night. 

Gladly  forsakes  the  field,  where  he  all  day. 

To  scare  the  winged  plunderers  from  their  prey, 

With  shout  and  sling,  on  yonder  clay-built  heiglit, 

Hath  borne  the  sultry  ray. 

Hark  !  at  the  Golden  Palaces 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  liour. 

For  leagues  and  leagues  around,  the  brazen  sound 

Rolls  through  the  stillness  of  departing  day, 

Like  thunder  far  away. 

2. 

Behold  them  wandering  on  their  hopeless  way, 

Unknowing  where  they  stray, 

Yet  sure  where'er  they  stop  to  find  no  rest. 

The  evening  gale  is  blowing ; 

It  plays  among  the  trees ; 

Like  plumes  upon  a  warrior's  crest, 

They  see  yon  cocoas  tossing  to  the  breeze. 

Ladurlad  views  them  with  impatient  mind; 

Impatiently  he  hears 

The  gale  of  evening  blowing, 

The  sound  of  waters  flowing, 

As  if  all  sights  and  sounds  combined 

To  mock  his  irremediable  woe ; 

For  not  for  him  the  blessed  waters  flow ; 

For  not  for  him  the  gales  of  evening  blow ; 

A  fire  is  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And  Nature  hath  no  healing  for  his  pain. 

3. 

The  Moon  is  up,  still  pale 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

A  cloud,  ascending  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Sails  slowly  o'er  the  vale. 

And  darkens  round,  and  closes  in  the  night. 

No  hospitable  house  is  nigh. 

No  traveller's  home,  the  wanderers  to  invite ; 

Forlorn,  and  with  long  watching  overworn. 

The  wretched  father  and  the  wretched  child 

Lie  down  amid  the  wild. 


Before  them,  full  in  sight, 

A  white  flag,  flapping  to  the  winds  of  night, 

Marks  where  the  tiger  seized  a  human  prey. 

Far,  far  away,  with  natural  dread 

Shunning  the  perilous  spot, 

At  other  times  abhorrent  had  they  fled ; 

But  now  they  heed  it  not. 

Nothing  they  care;  the  boding  death-flag  now 

In  vain  for  them  may  gleam  and  flutter  there. 

Despair  and  agony  in  him 

Prevent  all  other  tliought; 

And  Kailyal  hath  no  heart  or  sense  for  aught, 

Save  her  dear  father's  strange  and  miserable  lot 


There,  in  the  woodland  shade. 

Upon  the  lap  of  that  unhappy  maid, 

His  head  Ladurlad  laid. 

And  never  word  he  spake ; 

Nor  heaved  he  one  complaining  sigh, 

Nor  groaned  he  with  his  misery, 

But  silently,  for  her  dear  sake, 

Endured  the  raging  pain. 

And  now  the  moon  was  hid  on  high; 

No  stars  were  glimmering  in  the  sky ; 

She  could  not  see  her  father's  eye, 

How  red  with  burning  agony  : 

Perhaps  he  may  be  cooler  now, 

She  hoped,  and  long'd  to  touch  his  brow 

With  gentle  hand,  yet  did  not  dare 

To  lay  the  painful  pressure  there. 

Now  forward  from  the  tree  she  bent, 

And  anxiously  her  head  she  leant. 

And  listened  to  his  breath. 

Ladurlad's  breath  was  short  and  quick, 

Yet  regular  it  came. 

And  like  the  slumber  of  the  sick, 

In  pantings  still  the  same. 

Oh,  if  he  sleeps  !  — her  lips  unclose, 

Intently  listening  to  tlie  sound. 

That  equal  sound  so  like  repose. 

Still  quietly  the  sufferer  lies. 

Bearing  his  torment  now  Vv'ith  resolute  will; 

He  neither  moves,  nor  groans,  nor  sighs. 

Doth  satiate  cruelly  bestow 

This  little  respite  to  his  woe, 

She'  thought,  or  are  there  Gods  who  look  below  .' 

6. 

Perchance,  thought  Kailyal,  willingly  deceived, 

Our  Marriataly  hath  his  pain  relieved. 

And  she  hath  bade  the  blessed  Sleep  assuage 

His  agony,  despite  the  Rajah's  rage. 

That  was  a  hope  which  fiU'd  her  gushing  eyes, 

And  made  her  heart  in  silent  yearnings  rise. 

To  bless  the  power  divine  in  thankfulness. 

And  yielding  to  that  joyful  thought  her  mind. 

Backward  the  maid  her  aching  head  reclined 

Against  the  tree,  and  to  her  fatlier's  breath 

In  fear  she  hearken'd  still  with  earnest  ear. 

But  soon  forgetful  fits  the  eff'ort  broke : 

In  starts  of  recollection  then  she  woke. 

Till  now,  benignant  Nature  overcame 

Tlie  Virgin's  weary  and  exhausted  frame, 


THE   CURSE    OF    KEIIAMA. 


575 


Nor  abl«'  more  lu-r  painl'ul  watch  to  keep, 
She  closed  lier  heavy  lids,  and  sunk  to  sleep. 


Vain  was  her  hope  !  he  did  not  rest  from  pain  ; 

The  Curse  was  burning  in  his  brain  ; 

Alas  !  the  innocent  niaidc-n  thouglit  he  slept ; 

But  Sleep  the  Rajah's  dread  commandment  kept; 

Sleep  knew  Kehania's  Curse. 

The  dews  of  night  fell  round  them  now  ; 

They  never  bathed  Ladurlad's  brow; 

They  knew  Kehama's  Curse. 

The  niijht-wind  is  abroad  ; 

Aloft  it  moves  among-  the  stirring  trees; 

lie  only  heard  the  breeze, — 

No  healing  aid  to  him  it  brought ; 

It  play'd  around  his  head,  and  touch'd  him  not; 

It  knew  Kehaiua's  curse. 


Listening,  Ladurlad  lay  in  his  despair, 

If  Kailyal  slept,  for  wherefore  should  she  share 

Her  father's  wretchedness,  which  none  could  cure  ? 

Better  alone  to  suffer ;  he  must  bear 

The  burden  of  his  Curse  ;  but  why  endure 

The  unavailing  presence  of  her  grief  .^ 

She,  too,  apart  from  him,  might  find  relief; 

For  dead  the  Rajah  decm'd  her,  and  as  thus 

Already  she  his  dread  revenge  had  fled. 

So  might  she  still  escape,  and  live  secure. 

9. 

Gently  he  lifts  his  head. 

And  Kailyal  does  not  feel ; 

Gently  he  rises  up,  —  she  slumbers  still; 

Gently  he  steals  away  with  silent  tread. 

Anon  she  started,  for  she  felt  him  gone ; 

She  call'd,  and  through  the  stillness  of  the  nio-ht, 

His  step  was  heard  in  fliglit. 

Mistrustful  for  a  moment  of  the  sound, 

Slie  listens ;  till  the  step  is  heard  no  more ; 

But  then  she  knows  that  he  indeed  is  gone. 

And  with  a  thrilling  shriek  she  rushes  on. 

The  darkness  and  the  wood  impede  her  speed ; 

She  lifts  her  voice  ao-ain  — 

Ladurlad  !  — and  again,  alike  in  vain. 

And  with  a  louder  cry 

Straining  its  tone  to  hoarseness;  —  far  away. 

Selfish  in  misery, 

He  heard  the  call,  and  faster  did  he  fly. 

10. 

She  leans  against  that  tree  who.se  jutting  bough 

Smote  her  so  rudely.     Her  poor  heart. 

How  audibly  it  panted. 

With  sudden  stop  and  start ! 

Her  breath,  how  short  and  painfully  it  came  ! 

Hark  !  all  is  still  around  her, — 

And  the  night  so  utterly  dark. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  she  closed  them, 

And  the  blackness  and  blank  were  the  same. 

11. 

'Twas  like  a  dream  of  horror,  and  she  stood 
Half  doubting  whether  all  indeed  were  true. 


A  Tiger's  howl,  loud  ecJioing  through  the  wood. 

Roused  licr;  the  dreadful  sound  she  knew, 

And  turii'd  instinctiv<,'ly  to  what  she  fear'd. 

Far  off  the  Tiger's  hungry  liowl  was  heard  ; 

A  nearer  horror  met  the  maiden's  view. 

For  riglit  before  li<>r  a  dim  form  appear'd, 

A  liuiiian  form  in  tliat  black  night. 

Distinctly  shaped  by  its  own  lurid, light. 

Such  light  as  the  sickly  Moon  is  seen  to  shed. 

Through  spell-raised  fogs,  a  bloody,  baleful  red. 

12. 

That  Spectre  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  her  full ; 
The  light  which  shone  in  their  accursed  orbs 

AVas  like  a  light  from  Hell ; 
And  it  grew  deeper,  kindling  with  the  view. 

She  could  not  turn  her  sight 

From  that  infernal  gaze,  which  like  a  spell 

Bound  her,  and  held  her  rooted  to  the  ground. 

It  palsied  every  power ; 

Her  limbs  avail'd  her  not  in  that  dread  hour  ; 

There  was  no  moving  thence  ; 

Thought,  memory,  sense  were  gone  : 

She  heard  not  now  the  Tiger's  nearer  cry ; 

She  thought  not  on  her  father  now  ; 

Her  cold  heart's-blood  ran  back  ; 

Her  hand  lay  senseless  on  the  bough  it  clasp'd  ; 

Her  feet  were  motionless ; 

Her  fascinated  eyes 

Like  the  stone  eyeballs  of  a  statue  fix'd, 

Yet  conscious  of  the  sight  that  blasted  them. 

13. 

The  wind  is  abroad  ; 

It  opens  the  clouds ; 

Scattered  before  the  .gale, 

They  skurry  through  the  sky. 

And  the  darkness,  retiring,  rolls  over  the  vale. 

The  Stars  in  their  beauty  come  forth  on  high, 

And  through  tlie  dark  blue  nio-ht 

The  INIoon  rides  on  triumphant,  broad  and  bright. 

Distinct  and  darkenino-  in  her  liffht 

Appears  that  Spectre  foul ; 

The  moonbeam  gives  his  face  and  form  to  sight, 

The  shape  of  man. 

The  living  form  and  face  of  Arvalan  !  — 

His  hands  are  spread  to  clasp  her. 

14. 

But  at  that  sight  of  dread  the  Maid  awoke  ; 

As  if  a  lightning-stroke 

Had  burst  the  spell  of  fear. 

Away  she  broke  all  franticly,  and  flea. 

There  stood  a  temple  near,  beside  the  way, 

An  open  fane  of  Pollear,  gentle  God, 

To  whom  the  travellers  for  protection  pray. 

With  elephantine  head  and  eye  severe, 

Here  stood  his  image,  such  as  wlien  he  seiz'd 

And  tore  the  rebel  Giant  from  the  ground. 

With  mighty  trunk  wreathed  round 

His  impotent  bulk,  and  on  his  tusks,  on  high 

Impaled  upheld  hijn  between  earth  and  sky. 

15. 

Thither  the  affrighted  Maiden  sped  her  flight. 
And  she  hath  reach'd  the  place  of  sanctuary; 


576                                       THE    CURSE    ( 

DF    KEHAMA.                                         v,. 

And  now  within  tlie  temple  in  despite, 

Soaring  with  strenuous  flight  above, 

Yea,  even  before  the  ;iltar,  in  his  sioht, 

He  bears  her  to  the  blessed  Grove, 

Hath  Arvalan,  with  fleshly  arm  of  might, 

Where  in  his  ancient  and  august  abodes. 

Seized  licr.     That  instant  the  insulted  God 

There  dwells  old  Casyapa,  the  Sire  of  Gods. 

Caught  him  aloft,  and  from  his  sinuous  grasp. 

As  if  from  some  tort  catapult  let  loose, 

4. 

Over  tlie  forest  hurl'd  hiin  all  abroad. 

The  Father  of  the  Immortals  sat. 

Where,  underneath  the  Tree  of  Life, 

16. 

The  Fountains  of  the  Sacred  River  sprung  ; 

O'ercome  with  dread. 

The  Father  of  the  Immortals  smiled 

She  tarried  not  to  see  what  heavenly  Power 

Benignant  on  his  son. 

Had  saved  her  in  that  hour : 

Knowestthou,  he  said,  my  child. 

Breathless  and  faint  she  fled. 

Ereenia,  kuowest  thou  whom  thou  bringest  here, 

And  now  her  foot  struck  on  the  knotted  root 

A  mortal  to  the  holy  atmosphere  ? 

Of  a  broad  manchineel,  and  there  the  Maid 

Fell  eens^'lessly  beneath  the  deadly  shade. 

EREENIA. 

1  found  her  in  the  Groves  of  Earth, 

Beneath  a  poison-tree. 

Thus  lifeless  as  thou  seest  her. 

VI. 

In  pity  have  I  brought  her  to  these  bowers. 

Not  erring.  Father  !  by  that  smile  — 

CASYAPA. 

By  that  benignant  eye  ! 

1. 

CASVAPA. 

Shall  this,  then,  be  thy  fate,  O  lovely  Maid? 

What  if  the  Maid  be  sinful.'  if  her  ways 

Thus,  Kailyal,  must  thy  sorrows  then  be  ended  ? 

Were  ways  of  darkness,  and  her  death  predoom'd 

Her  face  upon  the  ground. 

To  that  black  hour  of  midnight,  when  the  Moon 

Her  arms  at  length  extended. 

Hath  turn'd  her  face  away. 

There,  like  a  corpse,  behold  her  laid 

Unwilling  to  behold 

Beneath  the  deadly  shade. 

The  unhappy  end  of  guilt? 

What  if  the  hungry  Tiger,  prowling  by. 

Should  snuff  his  banquet  nigh .' 

EREENIA. 

Alas !  Death  needs  not  now  his  ministry; 

Then  what  a  lie,  my  Sire,  were  written  here. 

The  baleful  boughs  hang  o'er  her. 

In  these  fair  characters !  and  she  had  died. 

The  poison-dews  descend. 

Sure  proof  of  purer  life  and  happier  doom. 

What  Power  will  now  restore  her .' 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  in  the  eye  of  Heaven, 

What  God  will  be  her  friend  ? 

If  I  had  left  so  fair  a  flower  to  fade. 

But  thou,  —  all  knowing  as  thou  art, 

2. 

Why  askest  thou  of  me  ? 

Bright  and  so  beautiful  was  that  fair  night. 

O  Father,  oldest,  holiest,  wisest,  best, 

It  might  have  calm'd  the  gay  amid  their  mirth. 

To  whom  all  things  are  plain. 

And  given  the  wretched  a  delight  in  tears. 

Why  askest  thou  of  me  ? 

One  of  the  Glendoveers, 

The  loveliest  race  of  all  of  heavenly  birth, 

CASVAPA. 

Hovering  with  gentle  motion  o'er  the  earth. 

Knowest  thou  Kehamy  ? 

Amid  the  moonlight  air. 

In  sportive  flight  was  floating  round  and  round, 

EKEENIA 

Unknowing  where  his  joyous  way  was  tending. 

The  Almighty  Man ! 

He  saw  the  Maid  where  motionless  she  lay, 

Who  knows  not  him  and  his  tremendous  power? 

And  stoop'd  his  flight  descending. 

The  Tyrant  of  the  Earth, 

And  raised  her  from  tb*^  ground. 

The  Enemy  of  Heaven  ! 

Her  heavy  eyelids  are  half  closed  ; 

Her  cheeks  are  pale  and  livid  like  the  dead  ; 

CASVAPA. 

Down  hang  her  loose  arms  lifelessly  ; 

Fearest  thou  the  Rajah  ? 

Down  hangs  her  languid  head. 

EREENIA. 

3. 

He  is  terrible ! 

With  timely  pity  touch'd  for  one  so  fair. 

The  gentle  Glendoveer 

CASVAPA. 

Press'd  her,  thus  pale  and  senseless,  to  his  breast. 

Yea,  he  is  terrible  !  such  powpr  hath  he, 

And  springs  aloft  in  air  with  sinewy  wings. 

That  hope  hath  entered  Hell. 

And  bears  the  Maiden  there, 

The  Asuras  and  the  spirits  of  the  damn'd 

Where  Himakoot,  the  holy  Mount,  on  high 

Acclaim  their  Hero;  Yamen,  with  the  might 

From  mid-earth  rising  in  mid-heaven. 

Of  Godhead,  scarce  can  quell 

Shines  in  its  glory  like  the  throne  of  Even. 

The  rebel  race  accursd  : 

VI.                                      THE    CURSP] 

OF    KEHAMA.                                     577 

Half  from  their  beds  of  torture  tliey  uprise, 

Kehama  hath  assign'd,  until  his  days 

And  lialf  uproot  their  chains. 

Of  wandering  shall  be  number'd. 

Is  there  not  fear  in  Heaven? 

The  souls  that  are  in  bliss  suspend  their  joy  ; 

KREENIA. 

The  danger  hath  disturb'd 

Look !  she  drinks 

The  calm  of  Deity, 

The  gale  of  healing  from  the  blessed  Groves. 

And  Brama  fears,  and  Veeshnoo  turns  his  face 

She  stirs,  and  lo  !  her  hand 

In  doubt  toward  Sccva's  throne. 

Hath  touch'd  tlie  Holy  River  in  its  source, 

Who  would  have  shrunk  if  aught  impure  were  nigh 

EREENIA. 

1  have  seen  Indra  tremble  at  his  prayers. 

CASYAPA. 

And  at  his  dreadful  penances  turn  pale. 

The  Maiden,  of  a  truth,  is  pure  from  sin. 

They  claim  and  wrest  from  Seeva  power  so  vast, 

That  even  Seeva's  self. 

5. 

The  Highest,  cannot  grant  and  be  secure. 

The  waters  of  the  Holy  Spring 

About  the  hand  of  Kailyal  play  ; 

CASYAPA. 

They  rise,  they  sparkle,  and  they  sing. 

And  darest  thou,  Ereenia,  brave 

Leaping  where  languidly  she  lay. 

The  Almighty  Tyrant's  power.? 

As  if  with  that  rejoicing  stir 

The  Holy  Spring  would  welcome  her. 

FRKENIA. 

The  Tree  of  Life,  which  o'er  her  spread, 

I  brave  him,  Father  !  I  ? 

Benignant  bow'd  its  sacred  head. 

And  dropp'd  its  dews  of  healing; 

CASYAPA. 

And  her  heart-blood,  at  every  breath 

Darest  thou  brave  his  vengeance.'  —  For,  if  not. 

Recovering  from  the  strife  of  death, 

Take  her  again  to  earth. 

Drew  in  new  strength  and  feeling. 

Cast  her  before  the  Tiger  in  his  path. 

Behold  her  beautiful  in  her  repose. 

Or  where  the  death-dew-dropping  tree 

A  life-bloom  reddening   now   her    dark-brown 

May  work  Kehama's  will. 

cheek ; 

And  lo  !  her  eyes  unclose. 

£Ri;£NIA. 

Dark  as  the  depth  of  Ganges'  spring  profound. 

Never ! 

When  night  hangs  over  it ; 

Bright  as  the  Moon's  refulgent  beam. 

CASYAPA. 

That  quivers  on  its  clear  up-sparkling  stream. 

Then  meet  his  wrath  !  for  He,  even  He, 

Hath  set  upon  this  worm  his  wanton  foot. 

6. 

Soon  she  let  fall  her  lids. 

EREENIA. 

As  one  who,  from  a  blissful  dream 

I  knew  her  not,  how  wretched  and  how  fair. 

Waking  to  thoughts  of  pain. 

When  here  I  wafted  her  —  poor  Child  of  Earth, 

Fain  would  return  to  sleep,  and  dream  again. 

Shall  I  forsake  thee,  seeing  thee  so  fair. 

Distrustful  of  the  sight. 

So  wretched  ?  O  my  Father,  let  the  Maid 

She  moves  not,  fearing  to  disturb 

Dwell  in  the  Sacred  Grove  ! 

The  deep  and  full  delight. 

In  wonder  fix'd,  opening  again  her  eye 

CASYAPA. 

She  gazes  silently. 

That  must  not  be, 

Thinking  her  mortal  pilgrimage  was  past. 

For  Force  and  Evil  then  would  enter  here ; 

That  she  had  reach'd  her  heavenly  home  of  rest. 

Ganges,  the  holy  stream  which  cleanseth  sin. 

And  these  were  Gods  before  her. 

Would  flow  from  hence  polluted  in  its  springs, 

Or  spirits  of  the  blest. 

And  they  who  gasp  upon  its  banks  in  death, 

Feel  no  salvation.     Piety,  and  Peace, 

7. 

And  Wisdom,  these  are  mine  ;  but  not  the  power 

Lo  !  at  Ereenia's  voice. 

Which  could  protect  her  from  the  Almighty  Man; 

A  Ship  of  Heaven  comes  sailing  down  the  skies. 

Nor  when  the  Spirit  of  dead  Arvalan 

Where  wouldst  thou  bear  her  ?  cries 

Should  persecute  her  here  to  glut  his  rajie, 

The  ancient  Sire  of  Gods. 

To  heap  upon  her  yet  more  agony. 

Straight  to  the  Swerga,  to  my  bower  of  bliss, 

And  ripen  more  damnation  for  himself. 

The  Glendovcer  replies. 

To  Indra's  own  abodes. 

EREENIA. 

Foe  of  her  foe,  were  it  alone  for  this 

Dead  Arvalan ' 

Indra  should  guard  her  from  liis  vengeance  there  ; 

But  if  the  God  forbear. 

CASYAPA. 

Unwilling  yet  the  perilous  strife  to  try. 

All  power  to  him,  whereof 

Or  shrinking  from  the  dreadful  Rajah's  might, — 

The  disimbodied  spirit  in  its  state 

Weak  as  I  am,  O  Father,  even  I 

Of  weakness  could  be  made  participant, 
73 

Stand  forth  in  Seeva's  sight. 

578 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


VI. 


8. 

Trust  tliou  in  him  whate'er  betide, 

And  stand  forth  fearlessly  1 

The  Sire  of  Gods  replied  : 

All  that  He  wills  is  right;  and  doubt  not  thou, 

Howe'er  our  feeble  scope  of  sight 

May  fail  us  now, 

His  righteous  will  in  all  things  must  be  done. 

My  blessing  be  upon  thee,  O  my  son ! 


vn. 


THE   SWERGA 


Then  in  the  Ship  of  Heaven,  Ereenia  laid 

The  waking,  wondering  Maid  ; 

The    Ship    of   Heaven,   instinct    with    thought, 

display'd 

Its  living  sail,  and  glides  along  the  sky 

On  either  side,  in  wavy  tide. 

The  clouds  of  morn  along  its  path  divide ; 

The  Winds,  who  sw^ept  in  wild  career  on  high, 

Before  its  presence  check  their  charmed  force ; 

The  Winds,  that  loitering  lagg'd  along  their  course. 

Around  the  living  Bark  enamor'd  play. 
Swell  underneath  the  sail,  and  sing  before  its  way. 

2. 

That  Bark,  in  shape,  was  like  the  furrow'd  shell 

Wherein  the  Sea-Nymphs  to  their  parent-King, 

On  festal  day,  their  duteous  offerings  bring. 

Its  hue  .'  —  Go  watch  the  last  green  light 

Ere  Evening  yields  the  western  sky  to  Night; 

Or  fix  upon  the  Sun  thy  strenuous  sight 

Till  thou  hast  reach'd  its  orb  of  chrysolite. 

The  sail,  from  end  to  end  display'd, 

Bent,  like  a  rainbow,  o'er  the  Maid. 

An  Angel's  head,  with  visual  eye, 

Through  trackless  space,  directs  its  chosen  way ; 

Nor  aid  of  wing,  nor  foot,  nor  fin. 

Requires  to  voyage  o'er  the  obedient  sky. 

Smooth  as  the  swan,  when  not  a  breeze  at  even 

Disturbs  the  surface  of  the  silver  stream, 

Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  Ship  of  Heaven. 

3. 

Recumbent  there  the  Maiden  glides  along 

On  her  aerial  way. 

How   swift    she   feels   not,   though   the    swiftest 

wind 

Had  flagg'd  in  flight  behind. 

Motionless  as  a  sleeping  babe  she  lay. 

And  all  serene  in  mind, 

Feeling  no  fear;  for  that  ethereal  air 

With  such  new  life  and  joyance  fill'd  her  heart, 

Fear  could  not  enter  there  ; 

For  sure  she  deem'd  her  mortal  part  was  o'er, 

And  she  was  sailing  to  the  heavenly  shore ; 

And  that  angelic  form,  who  moved  beside, 

Was  some  good  Spirit  sent  to  be  her  guide. 


Daughter  of  Earth  !  therein  thou  deem'st  aright^ 

And  never  yet  did  form  more  beautiful. 

In  dreams  of  night  descending  from  on  high. 

Bless  the  religious  Virgin's  gifted  sight. 

Nor,  like  a  vision  of  delight. 

Rise  on  the  raptured  Poet's  inward  eye. 

Of  human  form  divine  was  he, 

The  immortal  Youth  of  Heaven  who  floated  by, 

Even  such  as  that  divinest  form  shall  be 

In  those  blest  stages  of  our  onward  race, 

When  no  infirmity. 

Low  thought,  nor  base  desire,  nor  wasting  care, 

Deface  the  semblance  of  our  heavenly  sire. 


The  wings  of  Eagle  or  of  Cherubim 

Had  seem'd  unworthy  him ; 

Angelic  power,  and  dignity,  and  grace. 

Were  in  his  glorious  pennons ;  from  the  neck 

Down  to  the  ankle  reach'd  their  swelling  web. 

Richer  than  robes  of  Tyrian  dye,  that  deck 

Imperial  Majesty ; 
Their  color  like  the  winter's  moonless  sky, 
When  all  the  stars  of  midnight's  canopy 
Shine  forth ;  or  like  the  azure  deep  at  noon. 
Reflecting  back  to  heaven  a  brighter  blue. 
Such  was  their  tint  when  closed ;  but  when  out- 
spread. 
The  permeating  light 
Shed  tlirough  their  substance  thin  a  varying  hue ; 
Now  bright  as  when  the  rose. 
Beauteous  as  fragrant,  gives  to  scent  and  sight 
A  like  delight ;  now  like  the  juice  that  flows 
From  Douro's  generous  vine ; 
Or  ruby  when  with  deepest  red  it  glows ; 
Or  as  the  morning  clouds  refulgent  shine. 
When,  at  forthcoming  of  the  Lord  of  Day, 
The  Orient,  like  a  shrine. 
Kindles  as  it  receives  the  rising  ray. 
And  heralding  his  way, 
Proclaims  the  presence  of  the  Power  divine. 


Thus  glorious  were  the  wings 

Of  that  celestial  Spirit,  as  he  went 

Disporting  through  his  native  element. 

Nor  these  alone 

The  gorgeous  beauties  that  they  gave  to  view ; 

Through  the  broad  membrane  branched  a  pliant 

bone. 

Spreading  like  fibres  from  their  parent  stem  ; 

Its  veins  like  interwoven  silver  shone. 

Or  as  the  chaster  hue 

Of  pearls  that  grace  some  Sultan's  diadem. 

Now  with   slow   stroke   and   strong   behold   him 

smite 

The  buoyant  air,  and  now  in  gentler  flight, 

On  motionless  wing  expanded,  shoot  along. 


Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  Ship  of  Heaven ; 

Far,  far  beneath  tliem  lies 

The  gross  and  heavy  atmosphere  of  earth ; 


VII. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


570 


And  with  the  Swerga  gales, 

The  Maid  of  mortal  birth 

At  every  breath  a  new  delight  inhales. 

And  now  toward  its  port  the  Ship  of  Heaven, 

Swift  as  a  falling  meteor,  shapes  its  flight, 

Yet  gently  as  the  dews  of  night  that  gem, 

And  do  not  bend  the  hare-bell's  slenderest  stem. 

Daughter  of  Earth,  Ereenift  cried,  alight; 

This  is  thy  place  of  rest,  the  Swerga  this  ; 

Lo,  here  my  Bower  of  Bliss  I 


He  furl'd  his  azure  wings,  which  round  him  fold 

Graceful  as  robes  of  Grecian  chief  of  old. 

The  happy  Kailyal  knew  not  where  to  gaze ; 

Her  eyes  around  in  joyful  wonder  roam. 

Now  turn'd  upon  the  lovely  Glendoveer, 

Now  on  his  heavenly  home. 

EREENIA. 

Here,  Maiden,  rest  in  peace. 

And  I  will  guard  thee,  feeble  as  I  am. 

The  Almighty  Rajah  shall  not  harm  thee  here, 

While  Indra  keeps  his  throne. 

KAILYAL. 

Alas,  thou  fearest  him  ! 

Immortal  as  thou  art,  thou  fearest  him  ! 

I  thought  that  death  had  saved  me  from  his  power ; 

Not  even  the  dead  are  safe. 

EREENIA. 

Long  years  of  life  and  happiness, 

O  Child  of  Earth,  be  thine  ! 

From  death  I  sav'd  thee,  and  from  all  thy  foes 

Will  save  thee,  while  the  Swerga  is  secure. 

KAILYAL. 

Not  me  alone,  O  gentle  Deveta  ! 

I  have  a  Father  suffering  upon  earth, 

A  persecuted,  wretched,  poor,  good  man. 

For  whose  strange  misery 

There  is  no  human  help  ; 

And  none  but  I  dare  comfort  him 

Beneath  Kehama's  Curse ; 
O  gentle  Deveta,  protect  him  too ! 

EREENIA. 

Come,  plead  thyself  to  Indra !   Words  like  thine 

May   win    their  purpose,   rouse   his    slumbering 

heart. 

And  make  him  yet  put  forth  his  arm  to  wield 

The  thunder,  while  the  thunder  is  his  own. 

9. 

Then  to  the  Garden  of  the  Deity 

Ereenia  led  the  Maid. 

In  the  mid  garden  tower'd  a  giant  Tree ; 

Rock-rooted  on  a  mountain-top,  it  grew, 

Rear'd  its  unrivall'd  head  on  high. 

And  stretch'd  a  thousand  branches  o'er  the  sky. 

Drinking  with  all  its  leaves  celestial  dew. 

Lo!  where  from  thence,  as  from  a  living  well, 

A  thousand  torrents  flow  I 

For  still  in  one  perpetual  shower. 


Like  diamond  drops,  ethereal  waters  fell 

From  every  leaf  of  all  its  ample  bower. 

Rolling  adown  the  steep 

From  that  aerial  height, 

Through  the  deep  shade  of  aromatic  trees. 

Half  seen,  the  cataracts  shoot  their  gleams  of  light. 

And  pour  upon  the  breeze 

Their  thousand  voice.s ;  far  away  the  roar. 

In  modulations  of  delightful  sound, 

Half  heard  and  ever  varying,  floats  around. 

Below,  an  ample  Lake  expanded  lies. 

Blue  as  the  o'er-arching  skies ; 

Forth  issuing  from  that  lovely  Lake 

A  thousand  rivers  water  Paradise. 

Full  to  the  brink,  yet  never  overflowing. 

They  cool  the  amorous  gales,  which,  ever  blowing, 

O'er  their  melodious  surface  love  to  stray ; 

Then,  winging  back  their  way, 

Their  vapors  to  the  parent  Tree  repay  ; 

And  ending  thus  where  they  began, 

And  feeding  thus  the  source  from  whence  they 

came. 

The  eternal  rivers  of  the  Swerga  ran. 

Forever  renovate,  yet  still  the  same. 

10. 

On  that  ethereal  lake,  whose  waters  lie 

Blue  and  transpicuous,  like  another  sky. 

The  Elements  had  rear'd  their  King's  abode. 

A  strong,  controlling  power  their  strife  suspended. 

And  there  their  hostile  essences  they  blended, 

To  form  a  Palace  worthy  of  the  God. 

Built  on  the  Lake,  the  waters  were  its  floor  ; 

And  here  its  walls  were  water  arch'd  with  fire  ; 

And  here  were  fire  with  water  vaulted  o'er  ; 

And  spires  and  pinnacles  of  fire 

Round  watery  cupolas  aspire. 

And  domes  of  rainbow  rest  on  fiery  towers, 

And  roofs  of  flame  are  turreted  around 

With  cloud,  and  shafts  of  cloud  with  flame  are 

bound. 

Here,  too,  the  Elements  forever  veer. 

Ranging  around  with  endless  interchanging; 

Pursued  in  love,  and  so  in  love  pursuing. 

In  endless  revolutions  here  they  roll ; 

Forever  their  mysterious  work  renewing  ; 

The  parts  all  shifting,  still  unchanged  the  whole 

Even  we  on  earth  at  intervals  descry 

Gleams  of  the  glory,  streaks  of  flowing  light. 

Openings  of  heaven,  and    streams  that  flash   at 

night. 

In  fitful  splendor,  through  the  northern  sky. 

11. 

Impatient  of  delay,  Ereenia  caught 

The  Maid  aloft,  and  spread  his  wings  abroad. 

And  bore  her  to  the  presence  of  the  God. 

There  Indra  sat  upon  his  throne  reclined, 

Where  Devctas  adore  him  ; 

The  lute  of  Narcd,  warbling  on  the  wind, 

All  tones  of  magic  harmony  combined 

To  soothe  his  troubled  mind, 

While  the  dark-eyed  Apsaras  danced  before  him. 

In  vain  the  God-musician  play'd. 
In  vain  the  dark-eyed  Nymphs  of  Heaven  essay 'd 


580 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


VII. 


To  charm  liiin  with  their  beauties  in  tlie  dance  ; 

And  when  he  saw  tlie  mortal  Maid  appear, 

Led  by  the  heroic  Glendovcer, 

A  deeper  trouble  fill'd  his  countenance. 

What  hast  thou  done,  Ereenia,  said  the  God, 

Bringing  a  mortal  here  ? 

And  while  he  spake,  liis  eye  was  on  the  Maid ; 

The  look  he  gave  was  solemn,  not  severe  ; 

No  hope  to  Kailyal  itconvey'd, 

And  yet  it  struck  no  fear; 

There  was  a  sad  displeasure  in  his  air. 

But  pity  too  was  there. 

EREENIA. 

Hear  me,  O  Indra !  On  the  lower  eartli 

I  found  this  child  of  man,  by  what  mishap 

I  know  not,  lying  in  the  lap  of  death. 

Aloft  I  bore  her  to  our  Father's  grove, 

Not  having  other  thought,  than  when  the  gales 

Of  bliss  had  heal'd  her,  upon  earth  again 
To  leave  its  lovely  daughter.     Other  thoughts 

Arose,  when  Casyapa  declared  her  fate  ; 

For  she  is  one  who  groans  beneath  the  power 

Of  the  dread  Rajah,  terrible  alike 

To  men  and  Gods.     His  son,  dead  Arvalan, 

Arm'd  with  a  portion,  Indra,  of  thy  power. 

Already  wrested  from  tliee,  persecutes 

The  Maid,  the  helpless  one,  the  innocent. 

What,  then,  behoved  me  but  to  waft  her  here 

To  my  own  Bower  of  Bliss  ?  what  other  choice  .' 

The  spirit  of  foul  Arvalan  not  yet 

Hath  power  to  enter  here  ;  here  thou  art  yet 

Supreme,  and  yet  the  Swerga  is  thine  own. 

INDRA. 

No  child  of  man,  Ereenia,  in  the  Bowers 
Of  Bliss  may  sojourn,  till  he  hath  put  off 

His  mortal  part ;  for  on  mortality 

Time,  and  Infirmity,  and  Death  attend. 

Close  followers  they,  and  in  their  mournful  train 

Sorrjw,  and  Pain,  and  Mutability. 
Did  these  find  entrance  here,  we  should  behold 

Our  joys,  like  earthly  summers,  pass  away. 

Those  joys  perchance  may  pass ;  a  stronger  hand 

May  wrest  my  sceptre,  and  unparadise 

The  Swerga;  —  but,  Ereenia,  if  we  fall. 

Let  it  be  Fate's  own  arm  that  casts  us  down ; 

We  will  not  rashly  hasten  and  provoke 

The  blow,  nor  bring  ourselves  the  ruin  on. 

EREENIA. 

Fear  courts  the  blow.  Fear  brings  the  ruin  on. 

Needs  must  the  chariot-wheels  of  Destiny 

Crush  him  who  throws  himself  before  their  track, 

Patient  and  prostrate. 

INDRA. 

All  may  yet  be  well. 

Who  knows  but  Veesnnoo  will  descend  and  save. 

Once  more  incarnate .' 

EREENIA. 

Look  not  there  for  help. 

Nor  build  on  unsubstantial  hope  thy  trust. 

Our  Father  Casyapa  hath  said  he  turns 


His  doubtful  eye  to  Seeva,  even  as  thou 

Dost  look  to  him  for  aid.     But  thine  own  strength 

Should  for  thine  own  salvation  be  put  forth; 

Then  might  the  higher  Powers  approving  see 

And  bless  the  brave  resolve.  —  Oh  that  iny  arm 

Could  wield  yon  lightnings  which  play  idly  there. 

In  inoftensive  radiance,  round  thy  head  ! 

The  Swerga  siiould  not  need  a  champion  now. 

Nor  Earth  implore  deliverance  still  in  vain  ! 

INDRA. 

Thinkest  thou  I  want  the  will .'  rash  Son  of  Heaven, 

What  if  my  arm  be  feeble  as  thine  own 

Against  the  dread  Kehama .'   He  went  on 

Conquering  in  irresistible  career. 

Till  his  triumphant  car  had  measured  o'er 

The  insufficient  earth,  and  all  the  Kings 

Of  men  received  his  yoke ;  then  had  he  won 

Plis  will,  to  ride  upon  their  necks  elate, 

And  crown  his  conquests  with  the  sacrifice 

That  should,  to  men  and  gods,  proclaim  him  Lord 

And  Sovereign  Master  of  the  vassal  World, 

Sole  Rajah,  the  Omnipotent  below. 

The  steam  of  that  portentous  sacrifice 

Arose  to  Heaven.     Then  was  the  hour  to  strike; 

Then,  in  the  consummation  of  his  pride, 

His  height  of  glory,  then  the  thunderbolt 

Should  have  gone  forth,  and  hurl'd  him  from  his 

throne 

Down  to  the  fiery  floor  of  Padalon, 

To  everlasting  burnings,  agony 

Eternal,  and  remorse  which  knows  no  end. 

That  hour  went  by  :  grown  impious  in  success. 

By  prayer  and  penances  he  wrested  now 

Such  power  from  Fate,  that  soon,  if  Seeva  turn  not 

His  eyes  on  earth,  and  no  Avatar  save, 

Soon  will  he  seize  the  Swerga  for  his  own. 

Roll  on  through  Padalon  his  chariot  wheels. 

Tear  up  the  adamantine  bolts  which  lock 

The  accurs'd  Asuras  to  its  burning  floor, 

And  force  the  drink  of  Immortalitj' 

From  Yamen's  charge.     Vain  were  it  now  to  strive  ; 

My  thunder  cannot  pierce  the  sphere  of  power 

Wherewith,  as  with  a  girdle,  he  is  bound. 

KAILYAL. 

Take  me  to  earth,  O  gentle  Deveta  ! 

Take  me  again  to  earth  I     This  is  no  place 

Of  rest  for  me  !  — My  Father  still  must  bear 

His  Curse,  —  he  shall  not  bear  it  all  alone; 

Take  me  to  earth,  that  I  may  follow  him  !  — 

I  do  not  fear  the  Almighty  Man !  the  Gods 

Are  feeble  here ;  but  there  are  higher  Powers, 

Who  will  not  turn  their  eyes  from  wrongs  like 

ours; 

Take  me  to  earth,  O  gentle  Deveta  !  — 

12. 
Saying  thus,  she  knelt,  and  to  his  knees  she  clung. 
And  bow'd  her  head,  in  tears  and  silence  praying. 

Rising  anon,  around  his  neck  she  flung 

Her  arms,  and  there  with  folded  hands  she  hung, 

And  fixing  on  the  guardian  Glendoveer 

Her  eyes,  more  eloquent  than  Angel's  tongue. 

Again  she  cried,  There  is  no  comfort  here  ! 


VIII.                                     THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                      581 

1  must  be  vvifi  my  Father  in  his  pain.  — 

The  year  and  day  have  pass'd  away, 

Take  me  to  eartli,  O  Deveta,  again ! 

Nor  touch  of  man  haili  marr'd  the  rite  divine 

And  now  at  noon  the  Steed  must  bleed, 

13. 

The  perfect  rite  to-day  must  force  the  meed 

Indra  with  admiration  heard  the  Maid. 

Which  Fate  reluctant  shudders  to  bestow; 

O  Child  of  Earth,  lie  cried, 

Then  must  the  Swerga-God 

Already  in  thy  spirit  thus  divine, 

Yield  to  the  Tyrant  of  the  World  below ; 

Wlialover  weal  or  woe  betide. 

Tlien  must  tlie  Devctas  obey 

Be  that  high  sense  of  duty  still  tiiy  guide. 

The  Rajah's  rod,  and  groan  beneath  his  hateful 

And  all  good  Powers  will  aid  a  soul  like  thine. 

sway. 

Then  turning  to  Ereenia,  thus  he  said  — 

Take  her  wheie  Ganges  hatli  its  second  birth, 

3. 

Below  our  sphere,  and  yet  above  the  earth ; 

The  Sun  rides  high  ;  the  hour  is  nigh ; 

There  may  Ladurlad  rest  beyond  the  power 

The  multitude,  who  long 

Of  the  dread  Rajah,  till  the  fated  hour. 

Lest  aught  should  mar  the  rite. 

In  circle  wide  on  every  side, 

■*■ 

Have  kept  the  Steed  in  sight, 
Contract  their  circle  now,  and  drive  him  on. 

^ 

VIII. 

Drawn  in  long  files  before  the  Temple-court, 

The  Rajah's  archers  flank  an  ample  space ; 

THE   SACRIFICE. 

Here,  moving  onward  still,  they  drive  him  near. 

1 

Then,  opening,  give  him  way  to  enter  here. 

Dost  thou  tremble,  0  Indra,  O  God  of  the  sky. 

4. 

Why  slumber  those  thunders  of  thine .' 

Behold  him  ;  how  he  starts  and  flings  his  head  ! 

Dost  tiiou  tremble  on  high,  — 

On  either  side  in  glittering  order  spread. 

Wilt  tliou  tamely  the  Swerga  resign,  — 

The  archers  ranged  in  narrowing  lines  appear ; 

Art  thou  smitten,  O  Indra,  with  dread .' 

The  multitude  behind  close  up  the  rear 

Or  seest  thou  not,  seest  thou  not.  Monarch  divine, 

With  moon-like  bend,  and  silently  await 

How  many  a  day  to  Seeva's  shrine 

The  awful  end. 

Kehama  his  victim  hath  led  ? 

The  rite  that  shall  from  Indra  wrest  his  power. 

Nine  and  ninety  days  are  fled, 

In  front,  with  far-stretched  walls,  and  many  a 

Nine  and  ninety  steeds  have  bled ; 

tower. 

One  more,  the  rite  will  be  complete  — 

Turret,  and  dome,  and  pinnacle  elate. 

One  victim  more,  and  this  the  dreadful  day. 

The  huge  Pagoda  seems  to  load  the  land  : 

Then  will  the  impious  Rajah  seize  thy  seat. 

And  there  before  the  gate 

And  wrest  the  tiiunder-sceptre  from  thy  sway. 

The  Bramin  band  e.xpectant  stand  ; 

Along  the  mead  the  hallow'd  Steed 

The  axe  is  ready  for  Kehama's  hand. 

Yet  bends  at  liberty  his  way ; 

At  noon  his  consummating  blood  will  flow. 

5. 

O  day  of  woe  !  above,  below, 

Hark  !  at  the  Golden  Palaces 

That  blood  confirms  the  Almighty  Tyrant's  reign  ! 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  time  ! 

Thou  tremblest,  O  Indra,  O  God  of  the  Sky, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  a  thrice-told  chime. 

Thy  thunder  is  vain  ; 

And  then  again,  one,  two. 

Thou  tremblest  on  high  for  thy  power ! 

The  bowl  that  in  its  vessel  floats,  anew 

But  where  is  Veeshnoo  at  this  hour.' 

Must  fill  and  sink  again  ; 

But  where  is  Seeva's  eye.' 

Then  will  the  final  stroke  be  due. 

Is  the  Destroyer  blind  .' 

The  Sun  rides  high,  the  noon  is  nigh, 

Is  the  Preserver  careless  for  mankind  .' 

And  silently,  as  if  spell-bound. 

2. 

The  multitude  expect  the  sound. 

Along  the  mead  the  hallow'd  Steed 

6. 

Still  wanders  whereso'er  he  will, 

Lo !  how  the  Steed,  with  sudden  start. 

O'er  hill,  or  dale,  or  plain; 

Turns  his  quick  head  to  every  part ! 

No  human  hand  hatli  trick'd  that  mane 

Long  files  of  men  on  every  side  appear. 

From  which  he  shakes  the  morning  dew ; 

The  sight  might  well  his  heart  aflright ; 

His  mouth  has  never  felt  the  rein ; 

And  yet  the  silence  that  is  here 

His  lips  have  never  froth'd  the  chain  ; 

Inspires  a  stranger  fear; 

For  pure  of  blemish  and  of  stain, 

For  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 

His  neck  unbroke  to  mortal  yoke, 

Of  breatii  or  motion  rises  round  ; 

Like  Nature  free  the  Steed  must  be, 

No  stir  is  heard  in  all  that  mighty  crowd ; 

Fit  offering  for  the  Immortals  he. 

He  neighs,  and  from  the  temple-wall 

A  year  and  day  the  Steed  must  stray 

The  voice  reechoes  loud, 

Wherever  chance  may  guide  his  way. 

Loud  and  distinct,  as  from  a  hill 

Before  he  fall  at  Seeva's  shrine ; 

Across  a  lonely  vale,  when  all  is  still. 

582 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


IX. 


Within  the  temple,  on  liis  golden  throne 

Reclined,  Kehania  lies, 

Watcliing  with  steady  eyes 

The  perfumed  light  that,  burning  briglit. 

Metes  out  the  passing  hours. 

On  either  hand  his  eunuchs  stand, 

P'reshening  with  fans  of  peacock-plunics  the  air. 

Which,  redolent  of  all  rich  gums  and  flowers, 

Seems,  overcharged  with  sweets,  to  stagnate  there. 

Lo  !  the  time-taper's  flame,  ascending  slow. 

Creeps  up  its  coil  toward  the  fated  line; 

Kehama  rises  and  goes  forth, 

And  from  the  altar,  ready  where  it  lies. 

He  takes  the  axe  of  sacrifice. 


That  instant,  from  the  crowd,  with  sudden  shout, 

A  Man  sprang  out 

To  lay  upon  the  Steed  his  hand  profane. 

A  thousand  archers,  with  unerring  eye, 

At  once  let  fly, 

And  with  their  hurtling  arrows  fill  the  sky. 

In  vain  they  fall  upon  him  fast  as  rain  ; 

He  bears  a  charmed  life,  which  may  defy 

All  weapons,  —  and  the  darts  that  whizz  around. 

As  from  an  adamantine  panoply 

Repell'd,  fall  idly  to  the  ground. 

Kehama  clasp'd  his  hands  in  agony, 

And  saw  him  grasp  the  hallow'd  coursers  mane, 

Spring  up  with  sudden  bound, 

And  with  a  frantic  cry. 

And  madman's  gesture,  gallop  round  and  round. 

9. 

They  seize,  they  drag  him  to  the  Rajah's  feet. 

What  doom  will  now  be  his,  —  what  vengeance 

meet 

Will  he,  who  knows  no  mercy,  now  require .' 

The  obsequious  guards  around,  with  blood-hound 

eye. 

Look  for  the  word,  in  slow-consuming  fire. 

By  piecemeal  death,  to  make  the  wretch  expire. 

Or  hoist  his  living  carcass,  hook'd  on  high. 

To  feed  the  fowls  and  insects  of  the  sky ; 

Or  if  aught  worse  inventive  cruelty 

To  that  remorseless  heart  of  royalty 

Might  prompt,  accursed  instruments  they  stand 

To  work  the  wicked  will  with  wicked  hand. 

Far  otlicr  thoughts  were  in  the  multitude  ; 

Pity,  and  human  feelings,  held  them  still ; 

And  stifled  sighs  and  groans  suppress'd  were  there, 

And  many  a  secret  curse  and  inward  prayer 

Call'd  on  the  insulted  Gods  to  save  mankind. 

Expecting  some  new  crime,  in  fear  they  stood. 

Some  horror  which  would  make  the  natural  blood 

Start,  with  cold  shudderings  thrill  the  sinking  heart, 

Wliiten  the  lip,  and  make  the  abhorrent  eye 

Roll  back  and  close,  press'd  in  for  agony. 

10. 

How  then  fared  he  for  whom  the  mighty  crowd 

Suffer'd  in  spirit  thus,  —  how  then  fared  he.' 

A  ghastly  smile  was  on  his  lip,  his  eye 

Glared  with  a  ghastly  hope,  as  he  drew  nigh. 


And  cried  aloud.  Yes,  Rajali !  it  is  I ! 

And  wilt  thou  kill  me  now  ? 

The  countenance  of  the  Almighty  Man 

Fell  when  he  knew  Ladurlad,  and  his  brow 

Was  clouded  with  despite,  as  one  ashamed. 

That  wretch  again  !  indignant  he  exclaim'd. 

And  smote  his  forehead,  and  stood  silently 

Awhile  in  wrath :  then,  with  ferocious  smile, 

And  eyes  which  seem'd  to  darken  his  dark  cheek, 

Let  him  go  free  !  he  cried ;  he  hath  his  Curse, 

And  vengeance  upon  him  can  wreak  no  worse  — 

But  ye  who  did  not  stop  him  —  tremble  ye  ! 

11. 

He  bade  the  archers  pile  their  weapons  there ; 

No  manly  courage  fill'd  the  slavish  band. 

No  sweetening  vengeance  roused  a  brave  despair. 

He  call'd  his  horsemen  then,  and  gave  command 

To  hem  the  off'enders  in,  and  hew  them  down. 

Ten  thousand  cimeters,  at  once  uprear'd. 

Flash  up,  like  waters  sparkling  to  the  sun ; 

A  second  time  the  fatal  brands  appcar'd 

Lifted  aloft,  —  they  glitter'd  then  no  more; 

Their  light  was  gone,  their  splendor  quench'd  in 

gore. 

At  noon  the  massacre  begun, 

And  night  closed  in  before  the  work  of  death  was 

done. 


IX. 


THE   HOME-SCENE. 


The  steam  of  slaughter  from  that  place  of  blood 

Spread  o'er  the  tainted  sky. 

Vultures,  for  whom  the  Rajah's  tyranny 

So  oft  had  furnish'd  food,  from  far  and  nigh 

Sped  to  the  lure  :  aloft,  with  joyful  cry. 

Wheeling  around,  they  hover'd  overhead; 

Or,  on  the  temple  perch'd  with  greedy  eye. 

Impatient  watch'd  the  dead. 

Far  off"  the  Tigers,  in  the  inmost  wood. 

Heard  the  death  shriek,  and  snufFd  the  scent  of 

blood ; 

They  rose,  and  through  the  covert  went  their  way, 

Couch'd  at  the  forest  edge,  and  waited  for  their 

prey. 


He  who  had  sought  for  death  went  wandenng  on ; 

The  hope  which  had  inspired  his  heart  was  gone ; 

Yet  a  wild  joyance  still  inflamed  his  face, 

A  smile  of  vengeance,  a  triumphant  glow. 

Where  goes  he?  —  Whither  should  Ladurlad  go! 

Unwittingly  the  wretch's  footsteps  trace 

Their  wonted  path  toward  his  dwelling-place  ; 

And  wandering  on,  unknowing  where. 

He  starts  like  one  surprised  at  finding  he  is  there. 

3. 

Behold  his  lowly  home. 
By  yonder  broad-bough'd  plane  o'ershaded : 


IX. 


THE    CURSE    OF   KEHAMA. 


583 


There  Marriataly's  Image  stands, 

And  there  the  garland  twined  by  Kailyal's  hands 

Around  its  brow  hath  faded. 

The  peacocks,  at  tlicir  master's  sight, 

Quick  from  the  leafy  thatch  alight. 

And  hurry  round,  and  search  the  ground, 

And  veer  their  glancing  necks  from  side  to  side, 

Expecting  from  his  hand 

Their  daily  dole  which  erst  the  Maid  supplied, 

Now  all  too  long  denied. 


But,  as  he  gazed  around. 

How  strange  did  all  accustom'd  sights  appear ! 

How  differently  did  each  familiar  sound 

Assail  his  alter'd  ear  ! 

Here  stood  the  marriage  bower, 

Rear'd  in  that  happy  hour 

When  he,  witli  festal  joy  and  youthful  pride. 

Had  brought  Yedillian  home,  his  beauteous  bride. 

Leaves  not  its  own,  and  many  a  borrow'd  flower. 

Had  then  bedeck'd  it,  withering  ere  the  night; 

But  he  who  look'd  from  that  auspicious  day 

For  years  of  long  delight. 

And  would  not  see  the  marriage  bower  decay, 

There  planted  and  nurs'd  up,  with  daily  care. 

The  sweetest  herbs  that  scent  the  ambient  air, 

And  train'd  them  round  to  live  and  flourish  there. 

Nor  when  dread  Yamen's  will 

Had  call'd  Yedillian  from  his  arms  away. 

Ceased  he  to  tend  the  marriage-bower,  but  still. 

Sorrowing,  had  dress'd  it  like  a  pious  rite 

Due  to  the  monument  of  past  delight. 

5. 

He  took  his  wonted  scat  before  the  door,  — 

Even  as  of  yore, 
When  he  was  wont  to  view,  with  placid  eyes, 
His  daughter  at  her  evcninnr  sacrifice. 

C5  a 

Here  were  the  flowers  which  she  so  carefully 
Did  love  to  rear  for  Marriataly's  brow ; 
Neglected  now. 
Their  heavy  heads  were  drooping,  over-blown; 
All  else  appear'd  the  same  as  heretofore, 
All  —  save  himself  alone; 
How  happy  then,  —  and  now  a  wretch  for  ever- 
more i 


The  market-flag,  which,  hoisted  high. 

From  far  and  nigh. 

Above  yon  cocoa  grove  is  seen, 

Hangs  motionless  amid  the  sultry  sky. 

Loud  sounds  the  village  drum ;  a  luijjpy  crowd 

Is  there ;  Ladurlad  hears  their  distant  voices, 

But  with  their  joy  no  more  his  heart  rejoices; 

And  how  their  old  companion  now  may  fare 

Little  tliey  know,  and  less  they  care; 

The  torment  he  is  doom'd  to  bear 

Was  but  to  them  the  wonder  of  a  day, 

A  burden  of  sad  thoughts  soon  put  away. 

7. 

They  knew  not  that  the   wretched  man  was  near; 

And  yet  it  seem'd,  to  his  distemper'd  ear, 


As  if  they  wrong'd  him  with  their  merriment. 

Resentfully  he  turn'd  away  his  eyes. 

Yet  turn'd  them  but  to  find 

Sights  that  enraged  his  mind 

With  envious  grief  more  wild  and  overpowering. 

The  tank  which  fed  his  fields  was  there,  and  there 

The  large-leaved  lotus  on  the  waters  flowering. 

There,  from  the  intolerable  heat 

The  buffaloes  retreat; 

Only  their  nostrils  raised  to  meet  the  air, 

Amid  the  sheltering  element  they  rest. 

Impatient  of  the  sight,  he  closed  his  eyes. 

And  bow'd  his  burning  head,  and  in  despair 

Calling  on  Indra,  —  Thunder-God!  he  said. 

Thou  owest  to  me  alone  this  day  thy  throne  ; 

Be  grateful,  and  in  mercy  strike  me  dead. 

8. 

Despair  had  roused  him  to  that  hopeless  prayer  ; 

Yet  thinking  on  the  heavenly  Powers,  his  mind 

Drew  comfort ;  and  he  rose  and  gather'd  flowers, 

And  twined  a  crown  for  Marriataly's  brow  ; 

And  taking  then  her  wither'd  garland  down. 

Replaced  it  with  the  blooming  coronal. 

Not  for  myself,  the  unhappy  Father  cried, 

Not  for  myself,  O  Mighty  One  !  I  pray, 

Accursed  as  I  am  beyond  thy  aid ! 

But,  oh  !  be  gracious  still  to  that  dear  Maid 

Who  crown'd  thee  with  these  garlands  day  by  day. 

And  danced  before  thee  aye  at  even-tide 

In  beauty  and  in  pride. 

O  Marriataly,  whereso'er  she  stray 

Forlorn  and  wretched,  still  be  tiiou  her  guide  ! 

9. 

A  loud  and  fiendish  laugh  replied. 

Scoffing  his  prayer.     Aloft,  as  from  the  air. 

The  sound  of  insult  came  :  he  look'd,  and  there 

The  visage  of  dead  Arvalan  Came  forth. 

Only  his  face  amid  the  clear  blue  sky. 

With  long-drawn  lips  of  insolent  mockery, 

And  eyes  whose  lurid  glare 

Was  like  a  sulphur  fire, 

Mingling  with  darkness  ere  its  flames  expire. 

10. 

Ladurlad  knew  him  well :  enraged  to  see 

The  cause  of  all  his  misery, 

He  stoop'd  and  lifted  from  the  ground 

A  stake,  whose  fatal  point  was  black  with  blood ; 

The  same  wherewith  his  hand  had  dealt  the  wound, 

When  Arvalan,  in  hour  with  evil  fraught, 

For  violation  seized  the  shrieking  Maid. 

Thus  arm'd,  in  act  again  to  strike  he  stood, 

And  twice  with  inefficient  wrath  essay'd 

To  smite  the  impassive  shade. 

The  lips  of  scorn  their  mockery-laugh  rcncw'd. 

And  Arvalan  put  forth  a  hand,  and  caught 

The  sunbeam,  and  condensing  there  its  light. 

Upon  Ladurlad  turn'd  the  luirning  stream. 

Vain  cruelty  I  the  stake 

Fell  in  white  ashes  from  his  hold,  but  he 

Endured  no  added  pain  ;  his  agony 

Was  full,  and  at  the  height ; 

The  burning  stream  of  radiance  notliing  harm'd 

him ; 


584 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


X. 


A  fire  was  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And  from  all  otlier  flame 
Kehaina  s  Curse  had  charui'd  him. 

11. 

Anon  the  Spirit  waved  a  second  hand  ; 

Down  rusli'd  the  obedient  whirlwind  from  the  sky, 

Scoop'd  up  the  sand  like  smoke,  and  from  on  high 

Shed  the  hot  shower  upon  Ladurlad's  head. 

Where'er  he  turns,  the  accursed  Hand  is  tliere  ; 

East,  West,  and  North,  and  South,  on  every  side 

The  hand  accursed  waves  in  air  to  guide 
The  dizzying  storm  ;  cars,  nostrils,  eyes,  and  mouth 

It  fills  and  chokes,  and  clogging  every  pore. 

Taught  him  new  torments  might  be  yet  in  store. 

Where  shall  he  turn  to  fly  ?  behold  his  house 

In  flames  !  uprooted  lies  the  marriage-bower, 

The  Goddess  buried  by  the  sandy  shower. 

Blindly,  with  staggering  step,  he  reels  about, 

And  still  the  accursed  Hand  pursued. 

And  still  the  lips  of  scorn    their  mockery-laugh 

renew'd. 

12. 

What,  Arvalan  !  hast  thou  so  soon  forgot 

The  grasp  of  Follear .'     Wilt  thou  still  defy 

The  righteous  Powers  of  heaven.'  or  know'st  thou 

not 

That  there  are  yet  superior  Powers  on  high. 

Son  of  the  Wicked.'  —  Lo,  in  rapid  flight, 

Ereenia  hastens  from  the  ethereal  height ; 

Bright  is  the  sword  celestial  in  his  hand  ; 

Like  lightning  in  its  path  athwart  the  sky. 

He  comes  and  drives,  with  angel-arm,  the  blow. 

Oft  have  the  Asuras,  in  the  wars  of  Heaven, 

Felt  that  keen  sword  by  arm  angelic  driven. 

And  tied  before  it  from  the  fields  of  light. 

Thrice  through  the  vulnerable  shade 

The  Glendovecr  impels  the  griding  blade ; 

The  wicked  Shade  flies  howling  from  his  foe. 

So  let  that  Spirit  foul 

Fly,  and,  for  impotence  of  anger,  howl. 

Writhing  with  anguish,  and  his  wounds  deplore ; 

Worse  punishment  hath  Arvalan  deserved, 
And  rio-hteous  Fate  hath  heavier  doom  in  store. 

13. 

Not  now  the  Glendoveer  pursues  his  flight; 

He  bade  the  Ship  of  Heaven  alight, 

And  gently  there  he  laid 

The  astonish 'd  Father  by  the  happy  Maid, 

The  Maid  now  shedding  tears  of  deep  delight. 

Beholding  all  things  with  incredulous  eyes, 

Still  dizzy  with  the  sand-storm,  there  he  lay, 

While,  sailing  up  the  skies,  the  living  Bark 

Through  air  and  sunshine  held  its  heavenly  way. 


X. 

MOUNT  MERU. 

1. 

Swift  through  the  sky  the  veBsel  of  the  Suras 

Sails  up  the  fields  of  ether  like  an  Angel. 


Rich  is  the  freight,  O  Vessel,  that  thou  bearest ! 

Beauty  and  Virtue, 

Fatherly  cares  and  filial  veneration, 

Hearts   which   are   proved   and   strengthen'd   bj 

affliction. 

Manly  resentment,  fortitude,  and  action, 

Womanly  goodness; 

All  witli  which  Nature  halloweth  her  daughters. 

Tenderness,  truth,  and  purity,  and  meekness. 

Piety,  patience,  faith,  and  resignation, 

Love  and  devotemcnt. 

Ship  of  the  Gods,  how  richly  art  thou  laden  ! 

Proud  of  the  charge,  thou  voyagest  rejoicing  ; 

Clouds  float  around  to  honor  thee,  and  Evening 

Lingers  in  heaven. 


A  Stream  descends  on  Meru  Mountain  ; 

None  hath  seen  its  secret  fountain ; 

It  had  its  birth,  so  Sages  say. 

Upon  the  memorable  day 

When  Parvati  presumed  to  lay, 

In  wanton  play. 

Her  hands,  too  venturous  Goddess,  in  her  mirth. 

On  Seeva's  eyes,  the  light  and  life  of  Earth. 

Thereat  the  heart  of  the  Universe  stood  still ; 

The  Elements  ceased  their  influences  ;  the  Hours 

Stopp'd  on  the  eternal  round  ;  Motion,  and  Breath, 

Time,  Change,  and  Life,  and  Death, 

In  sudden  trance  oppress'd,  forgot  their  powers. 

A  moment  and  the  dread  eclipse  was  ended  ; 
But,  at  the  thought  of  Nature  thus  suspended, 

The  sweat  on  Seeva's  forehead  stood. 

And  Ganges  thence  upon  the  world  descended, 

The  Holy  River,  the  Redeeming  Flood. 


None  hath  seen  its  secret  fountain  ; 

But  on  the  top  of  Meru  Mountain, 

Which  rises  o'er  the  hills  of  earth, 

In  light  and  clouds,  it  hath  its  mortal  birth. 

Earth  seems  that  pinnacle  to  rear 

Sublime  above  this  worldly  sphere, 

Its  cradle,  and  its  altar,  and  its  throne ; 

And  there  the  new-born  River  lies 

Outspread  beneath  its  nativ*  skies. 

As  if  it  there  would  love  to  dwell 

Alone  and  unapproachable. 

Soon  flowing  forward,  and  resign'd 

To  the  will  of  the  Creating  Mind, 

It  springs  at  once,  with  sudden  leap, 

Down  from  the  immeasurable  steep. 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  shivering  force  rebounding. 

The  mighty  cataract  rushes ;  Heaven  around. 
Like  thunder,  with  the  incessant  roar  resounding. 

And  Meru's  summit  shaking  with  the  sound. 

Wide    spreads   the   snowy  foam,  the  sparkling 

spray 

Dances  aloft;  and  ever  there,  at  morning, 

The  earliest  sunbeams  haste  to  wing  their  way. 

With  rainbow  wreaths  the  holy  stream  adorning; 

And  duly  the  adoring  Moon  at  night 

Sheds  her  white  glory  there. 

And  in  the  watery  air 

Suspends  her  halo-crowns  of  silver  light. 


X.                                        THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                       585 

4. 

Framed  of  the  elements  of  Heaven  ; 

A  mountain-valley  in  its  blessed  breast 

Pure  dwelling-place  for  perfect  mind. 

Receives  the  stream,  which  there  delights  to  lie, 

She  stood  and  gazed  on  Sire  and  Child ; 

Untroubled  and  at  rest. 

Her  tongue  not  yet  had  power  to  speak  ; 

Beneath  tlie  untainted  slty. 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheek  ; 

There,  in  a  lovely  lake,  it  seems  to  sleep, 

And  when  those  tears  her  sight  beguiled. 

And  liience,  through  many  a  channel  dark  and  deep, 

And  still  her  faltering  accents  fail'd. 

Their  secret  way  tiie  holy  Waters  wind, 

The  Spirit,  mute  and  motionless. 

Till,  rising  underneath  the  root 

Spread  out  her  arms  for  the  caress, 

Of  tlie  Tree  of  Life  on  lleniakoot, 

Made  still  and  silent  with  excess 

Majestic  forth  they  flow  to  purify  mankind. 

Of  love  and  painful  happiness. 

5. 

Towards  tiiis  Lake,  above  the  nether  sphere. 

9. 

The  Maid  that  lovely  form  survey'd; 

The  living  Bark,  with  angel  eye. 

Wistful  she  gazed,  and  knew  her  not. 

Directs  its  course  along  the  ol)edient  sky. 

But  Nature  to  her  heart  convej^'d 

Kehama  hatli  not  yet  dominion  here  j 

A  sudden  thrill,  a  startling  thought, 

And  till  the  dreaded  hour. 

A  feeling  many  a  year  forgot. 

When  Indra  by  the  Rajah  shall  be  driven 

Now  like  a  dream  anew  recurring. 

Dethroned  from  Heaven, 

As  if  again  in  every  vein 

Here  may  Ladurlad  rest  beyond  his  pov/er. 

Her  mother's  milk  was  stirring. 

With  straining  neck  and  earnest  eye 

6. 

She  stretch'd  her  hands  imploringly. 

The  living  Bark  aliglits ;  the  Glendoveer 

As  if  she  fain  would  have  her  nigh. 

Then  lays  Ladurlad  by  the  blessed  Lake  ;  — 

Yet  fear'd  to  meet  tlie  wish'd  embrace. 

O  happy  Sire,  and  yet  more  happy  Daughter  ! 

At  once  with  love  and  awe  oppress'd. 

Tlie  etliereal  gales  his  agony  aslake, 

Not  so  Ladurlad ;  he  could  trace. 

His  daughter's  tears  are  on  his  cheek. 

Though  brighten'd  with  angelic  grace. 

His  liand  is  in  the  water; 

His  own  Yedillian's  earthly  face  ; 

The  innocent  man,  the  man  opprcss'd,  — 

He  ran  and  held  her  to  his  breast ' 

Oh  joy  1  — hatli  found  a  place  of  rest 

Oh  joy  above  all  joys  of  Heaven, 

Beyond  Kehama's  sway  ;            [away. 

By  Death  alone  to  others  given. 

The  Curse  extends  not  here ;  his  pains  have  past 

This  moment  hath  to  him  restored 

7. 

The  early-lost,  the  long-deplored. 

O  happy  Sire,  and  happy  Daughter ! 

10. 

Ye  on  the  banks  of  tiiat  celestial  water 

They  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die. 

Your  resting-place  and  sanctuary  have  found. 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly. 

What  1  hath  not  then  their  mortal  taint  defiled 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 

The  sacred,  solitary  ground  .' 

In  Heaven  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Vain  thought !  tiie  Holy  Valley  smiled. 

Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  Hell; 

Receiving  such  a  Sire  and  Ciiild ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  Earth, 

Ganges,  who  secm'd  asleep  to  lie, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth ; 

Beheld  them  with  benignant  eye, 

But  Love  is  indestructible. 

And  rippled  round  melodiously. 

Its  holy  flame  forever  burnetii ; 

And  roU'd  her  little  waves,  to  meet 

From  Heaven  it  came,  to  Heaven  rcturneth ; 

And  welcome  their  beloved  feet. 

Too  oft  on  Earth  a  troubled  guest. 

Tlie  gales  of  Swerga  thitlicr  fled, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppress'd, 

And  heavenly  odors  tiicre  were  shed 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

About,  below,  and  overhead  ; 

Then  hath  in  Heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

And  Earth,  rejoicing  in  their  tread. 

It  sowetli  here  with  toil  and  care. 

Hath  built  them  up  a  blooming  Bower, 

But  the  harvest-time  of  Love  is  there. 

Where  every  amaranthine  flower 

Its  deathless  blossom  interweaves 

11. 

With  bright  and  undecaying  leaves. 

Oh  !  when  a  Mother  meets  on  high 

The  Babe  she  lost  in  infancy. 

8. 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

Three  happy  beings  are  there  here  — 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 

The  Sire,  the  Maid,  the  Glendoveer. 

For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears, 

A  fourth  approaches, —  who  is  tliis 

An  over-payment  of  delight.' 

That  enters  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss.' 

No  form  so  fair  miglit  painter  find 

12. 

Among  the  daughters  of  mankind  ; 

A  blessed  family  is  this. 

For  deatii  her  beauties  hath  refined, 

Assembled  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss! 

And  unto  her  a  form  hath  given 
74 

Strange  woe,  Ladurlad,  hath  been  thine, 

586                                       THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                          x. 

And  pangs  beyond  all  human  measure, 

15. 

And  thy  reward  is  now  divine, 

Lovely  wert  thou,  0  Flower  of  Earth ' 

A  foretaste  of  eternal  pleasure. 

Above  all  flowers  of  mortal  birth; 

He  knew  indeed  there  was  a  day 

But  foster'd  in  this  Blissful  Bower, 

When  all  these  joys  would  pass  away. 

From  day  to  day,  and  hour  to  hour. 

And  he  must  quit  this  blest  abode, 

Lovelier  grew  the  lovely  flower. 

And,  taking  up  again  the  spell. 

0  blessed,  blessed  company  ! 

Groan  underneath  the  baleful  load, 

When  men  and  heavenly  spirits  greet, 

And  wander  o'er  the  world  again. 

And  they  whom  Death  had  sever'd  meet, 

Most  wretched  of  the  sons  of  men  : 

And  hold  again  communion  sweet;  — 

Yet  was  this  brief  repose,  as  when 

O  blessed,  blessed  company  ! 

A  traveller  in  the  Arabian  sands. 

Half  fainting  on  his  sultry  road. 

16. 

Hath  reach'd  the  water-place  at  last; 

The  Sun,  careering  round  the  sky, 

And  resting  there  beside  the  well, 

Beheld  tjiem  with  rejoicing  eye. 

Thinks  of  the  perils  he  has  past. 

And  bade  his  willing  Charioteer 

And  gazes  o'er  the  unbounded  plain. 

Relax  his  speed  as  they  drew  near; 

The  plain  which  must  be  traversed  still, 

Arounin  check' d  the  rainbow  reins, 

And  drinks,  —  yet  cannot  drmk  his  fill ; 

The  seven  green  coursers  shook  their  manes, 

Then  girds  his  patient  loins  again. 

And  brighter  rays  around  them  threw ; 

So  to  Ladurlad  now  was  given 

The  Car  of  Glory  in  their  view 

New  strength,  and  confidence  in  Heaven, 

More  radiant,  more  resplendent  grew; 

And  hope,  and  faith  invincible. 

And  Surya,  through  his  veil  of  light. 

13. 

Beheld  tlie  Bower,  and  blest  the  sight. 

For  often  would  Ereenia  tell 

17. 

Of  what  in  elder  days  befell. 

The  Lord  of  Night,  as  he  sail'd  by, 

When  other  Tyrants,  in  their  might. 

Stay'd  his  pearly  boat  on  high  ; 

Usurp'd  dominion  o'er  the  earth  ; 

And  while  around  the  Blissful  Bower, 

And  Vecshnoo  took  a  human  birth. 

He  bade  the  softest  moonlight  flow, 

Deliverer  of  the  Sons  of  men. 

Linger'd  to  see  that  earthly  flower. 

And  slew  the  huge  Ermaccasen, 

Forgetful  of  his  Dragon  foe. 

And  piecemeal  rent,  with  lion  force, 

Who,  mindful  of  their  ancient  feud. 

Errenen's  accursed  corse, 

With  open  jaws  of  rage  pursued. 

And  humbled  Baly  in  his  pride ; 

And  when  the  Giant  Ravanen 

18. 

Had  borne  triumphant  from  his  side 

There  all  good  Spirits  of  the  air. 

Sita,  the  earth-born  God's  beloved  bride. 

Suras   and  Devetas,  repair ; 

Then  from  his  island-kingdom,  laugh'd  to  scorn 

Aloft  they  love  to  hover  there. 

The  insulted  husband,  and  his  power  defied ; 

And  view  the  flower  of  mortal  birth, 

How,  to  revenge  the  wrong,  in  wrath  he  hied, 

Here  for  her  innocence  and  worth. 

Bridging  the  sea  before  his  dreadful  way. 

Transplanted  from  the  fields  of  earth; 

And  met  the  hundred-headed  foe. 

And  him,  who,  on  the  dreadful  day 

And  dealt  him  the  unerring  blow ; 

When  Heaven  was  fill'd  with  consternation 

By  Brama's  hand  the  righteous  lance  was  given. 

And  Indra  trembled  with  dismay. 

And  by  that  arm  immortal  driven, 

And  for  the  sounds  of  joy  and  mirth. 

It  laid  the  mighty  Tyrant  low; 

Woe  was  heard  and  lamentation, 

And  Eartl),  and  Ocean,  and  higli  Heaven, 

Defied  the  Rajah  in  his  pride. 

Rejoiced  to  see  his  overthrow. 

Though  all  in  Heaven  and  Earth  beside 

Oh  !  doubt  not  thou,  Yedillian  cried. 

Stood  mute  in  dolorous  expectation; 

Such  fate  Kehama  will  betide  ; 

And,  rushing  forward  in  that  hour. 

For  there  are  Gods  who  look  below, — 

Saved  the  Swcrga  from  his  power. 

Seeva,  the  Avenger,  is  not  blind. 

Grateful  for  tliis  tliey  hover  nigh. 

Nor  Veeshnoo  careless  for  mankind. 

And  bless  that  blessed  Company. 

14. 
Thus  was  Ladurlad's  soul  imbued 

19. 
One  God  alone,  with  wanton  eye, 

With  hope  and  holy  fortitude  ; 

Beheld  them  in  their  Bower ; 

And  Child  aiid  Sire,  with  pious  mind, 

O  ye,  he  cried,  who  have  defied 

Alike  resolved,  alike  resign'd, 

The  Rajah,  will  ye  mock  my  power .' 

Look'd  onward  to  the  evil  day : 

'Twas  Camdeo  riding  on  his  lory, 

Faith  was  their  comfort.  Faith  their  stay  ; 

'Twas  the  immortal  Youth  of  Love ; 

They  trusted  Woe  would  pass  away. 

If  men  below  and  Gods  above, 

And  Tyranny  would  sink  subdued. 

Subject  alike,  quoth  he,  have  felt  these  darts, 

And  Evil  yield  to  Good. 

Shall  ye  alone,  of  all  in  story. 

THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


587 


Boast  impenetrable  hearts  ? 

Hover  liere,  my  gentle  lory, 

Gently  hover,  while  I  see 

To  whom  hath  Fate  decreed  the  glory, 

To  the  Glendoveer  or  me. 

20. 

Then,  in  the  dewy  evening  sky, 

The  bird  of  gorgeous  plumery 

Poised  his  wings,  and  hover'd  nigh. 

It  chanced  at  that  delightful  hour 

Kailyal  sat  before  the  Bov/er, 

On  the  green  bank  with  amaranth  sweet, 

Where  Ganges  warbled  at  her  feet. 

Ereenia  there,  before  the  Maid, 

His  sails  of  ocean  blue  display 'd  ; 

And  sportive  in  her  sight 

Moved  slowly  o'er  the  lake  with  gliding  flight; 

Anon,  with  sudden  stroke  and  strong, 

In  rapid  course  careering,  swept  along ; 

Now  shooting  downward  from  his  heavenly  height, 

Plunged  in  the  deep  below, 

Then  rising,  soar'd  again. 

And  shook  the  sparkling  waters  off  like  rain, 

And  hovering  o'er  the  silver  surface  huncr. 

At  him  young  Camdeo  bent  the  bow ; 

With  living  bees  the  bow  was  strung, 

The  fatal  bow  of  sugar-cane. 

And  flowers  which  would  inflame  the  heart 

With  their  petals  barb'd  the  dart. 

21. 

The  shaft,  unerringly  address'd, 

Unerring  flew,  and  smote  Ereenia's  breast. 

Ah,  Wanton  I  cried  the  Glendoveer, 

Go  aim  at  idler  hearts ; 

Thy  skill  is  baffled  here  ! 

A  deeper  love  I  bear  that  Maid  divine, 

A  love  that  springeth  from  a  higher  will, 

A  holier  power  than  thine  1 

22. 
A  second  shaft,  while  thus  Ereenia  cried, 

Had  Camdeo  aim'd  at  Kailyal's  side ; 

But,  lo !  the  Bees  wliich  strung  his  bow 

Broke  off,  and  took  their  flight. 

To  that  sweet  Flower  of  earth  they  wing  their  way. 

Around  her  raven  tresses  play, 

And  buzz  about  her  with  delight, 

As  if  with  that  melodious  sound 

They  strove  to  pay  their  willing  duty 

To  mortal  purity  and  beauty. 

23. 

Ah  !  Wanton  !  cried  the  Glendoveer, 

No  power  hast  thou  for  mischief  here  ! 

Choose  thou  some  idler  breast. 

For  these  are  proof,  by  nobler  thoughts  possess'd. 

Go,  to  thy  plains  of  Matra  go. 

And  string  again  thy  broken  bow  ! 

24. 

Rightly  Ereenia  spake ;  and  ill  had  thoughts 

Of  earthly  love  beseem'd  the  sanctuary 
Where  Kailyal  had  been  wafted,  that  the  Soul 


Of  her  dead  Mother  there  might  strengflien  her. 

Feeding  her  with  the  milk  of  heavenly  lore, 

And  influxes  of  Heaven  imbue  her  heart 

With  hope,  and  faith,  and  holy  fortitude. 

Against  the  evil  day.     Here  rest  a  while 

In  peace,  O  father  !  mark'd  for  misery 

Above  all  sons  of  men;  O  daughter!  doom'd 

For  sufferings  and  for  trials  above  all 

Of  women ;  — yet  both  favor'd,  both  beloved 

By  all  good  Powers,  rest  here  a  while  in  peace. 


XI. 

THE   ENCHANTRESS. 

1. 

When  from  the  sword,  by  arm  angelic  driven, 

Foul  Arvalan  fled  howling,  wild  in  pain, 

His  thin,  essential  spirit,  rent  and  riven 

With  wounds,  united  soon  and  hcal'd  again  ; 

Backward  the  accursed  turn'd  his  eye  in  flight, 

Remindful  of  revengeful  thoughts  even  then. 

And  saw  where,  gliding  througli  the  evening  light. 

The  Ship  of  Heaven  sail'd  upward  throu<rh  the  sky. 

Then,  like  a  meteor,  vanish'd  from  his  siglit. 

Where  should  he  follow.'  vainly  miglit  he  try 

To  trace  through  trackless  air  its  rapid  course  ; 

Nor  dared  he  that  angelic  ana  defy, 
Still  sore  and  writhing  from  its  dreaded  force. 


Should  he  the  lust  of  vengeance  lay  aside  ? 

Too  long  had  Arvalan  in  ill  been  train'd; 

Nurs'd  up  in  power,  and  tyranny,  and  pride, 

His  soul  the  ignominious  thouglit  disdain'd. 

Or  to  his  mighty  Father  should  he  go. 

Complaining  of  defeature  twice  sustain'd. 

And  ask  new  powers  to  meet  the  immortal  foe.'  — 

Repulse  he  fear'd  not,  but  he  fear'd  rebuke, 

And  shamed  to  tell  him  of  his  overthrow. 

There  dwelt  a  dread  Enchantress  in  a  nook 

Obscure ;  old  helpmate  she  to  him  had  been, 

Lending  her  aid  in  many  a  secret  sin ; 
And  there,  for  counsel,  now  his  way  he  took. 

3. 

She  was  a  woman  whose  unlovely  youth. 

Even  like  a  canker'd  rose  which  none  will  cull, 

Had  withcr'd  on  the  stalk ;  her  heart  was  full 

Of  passions  which  had  found  no  natural  scope, 

Feelings  which  there  had  grown,  but  ripcn'd  not, 

Desires  unsatisfied,  abortive  hope, 

Repinings  which  provoked  vindictive  thought; 

These  restless  elements  forever  wrouglit, 

Fermenting  in  her  with  perpetual  stir, 

And  thus,  her  spirit  to  all  evil  moved, 

She  hated  men  because  they  loved  not  her. 

And  hated  women  because  they  were  lov'd. 

And  thus,  in  wrath,  and  hatred,  and  despair. 

She  tempted  Hell  to  tempt  her,  and  resign'd 

Her  body  to  the  Demons  of  the  Air, 

Wicked  and  wanton  fiends,  who  where  they  will 

Wander  abroad,  still  seeking  to  do  ill. 


588 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA 


XI. 


And  take  whatever  vacant  form  they  find, 

Carcass  of  man  or  beast  tliat  life  hatli  left, 

Foul  instrument  for  them  of  fouler  mind. 

To  these  the  Witch  her  wretched  body  gave, 

So  they  would  wreak  her  vengeance  on  mankind ; 

She  thus  at  once  their  mistress  and  their  slave ; 

And  they,  to  do  such  service  notliing  loath, 
Obey'd  her  bidding,  slaves  and  masters  both. 

4. 

So  from  this  cursed  intercourse  she  caught 

Contagious  power  of  mischief,  and  was  taught 

Such  secrets  as  are  damnable  to  guess. 

Is  there  a  child  whose  little  lovely  ways 

Might  win  all  hearts,  —  on  whom  his  parents  gaze 

Till  they  shed  tears  of  joy  and  tenderness  ^ 

Oh  !  hide  him  from  that  Witch's  withering  sight  ! 

Oh  !  hide  him  from  the  eye  of  Lorrinite  ! 

Her  look  hath  crippling  in  it,  and  her  curse 

All  plagues  which  on  mortality  can  light; 

Death  is  his  doom  if  she  behold,  —  or  worse, — 

Diseases  loathsome  and  incurable, 
And  inward  sufferings  that  no  tongue  can  tell. 


Woe  was  to  him  on  whom  that  eye  of  hate 

Was  bent ;  for,  certain  as  the  stroke  of  Fate, 

It  did  its  mortal  work,  nor  human  arts 

Could  save  the  unhappy  wretch,  her  chosen  prey  ; 

For  gazing,  she  consumed  his  vital  parts. 

Eating  his  very  core  of  life  away. 

The  wine  which  from  yon  wounded  palm  on  high 

Fills  yonder  gourd,  as  slowly  it  distils, 

Grows  sour  at  once  if  Lorrinite  pass  by. 

The  deadliest  worm  from  which  all  creatures  tly, 

Fled  from  the  deadlier  venom  of  her  eye  ; 

The  babe  unborn,  within  its  mother's  womb, 

Started  and  trembled  when  the  Witch  came  nigh ; 

And  in  the  silent  chambers  of  the  tomb. 

Death  shudder'd  her  unholy  tread  to  hear, 

And  from  the  dry  and  mouldering  bones  did  fear 

Force  a  cold  sweat,  when  Lorrinite  was  near. 

6. 

Power  made  her  haughty  :  by  ambition  fired, 

Erelong  to  mightier  mischiefs  she  aspired. 

The  Calis,  who  o'er  cities  rule  unseen, 

Each  in  her  own  domain  a  Demon  Queen, 

And  there  adored  with  blood  and  human  life. 

They  knew  her,  and  in  their  accurs'd  employ 

She  stirr'd  up  neighboring  states  to  mortal  strife. 

Sani,  the  dreadful  God,  who  rides  abroad 

Upon  the  King  of  the  Ravens,  to  destroy 

The  offending  sons  of  men,  when  his  four  hands 

Were  weary  with  their  toil,  would  let  her  do 

His  work  of  vengeance  upon  guilty  lands; 

And  Lorrinite,  at  his  commandment,  knew 

When  the  ripe  earthquake  should  be  loosed,  and 

where 

To  point  its  course.     And  in  the  baneful  air 

The  pregnant  seeds  of  death  he  bade  her  strew. 

All  deadly  plagues  and  pestilence  to  brew. 

The  Locusts  were  her  army,  and  their  bands, 

Where'er  she  turn'd  her  skinny  finger,  flew. 

The  floods  in  ruin  roU'd  at  her  commands ; 


And  when,  m  time  of  drought,  the  husbandman 

Beheld  the  gathered  rain  about  to  fall. 

Her  breath  would  drive  it  to  the  desert  sands, 

While  in  the  marshes'  parch'd  and  gaping  soil 

The  rice-roots  by  the  searching  Sun  were  dried, 

And  in  lean  groups,  assembled  at  the  side 

Of  the  empty  tank,  the  cattle  dropp'd  and  died  ; 

And  Famine,  at  her  bidding,  wasted  wide 

The  wretched  land,  till,  in  the  public  way, 

Promiscuous  where  the  dead  and  dying  lay. 

Dogs  fed  on  human  bones  in  the  open  light  of  day. 


Her  secret  cell  the  accursed  Arvalan, 

In  quest  of  vengeance,  sought,  and  thus  began :  — 

Mighty  mother  !  mother  wise  ! 

Revenge  me  on  my  enemies. 

LORRINITE. 

Comest  thou,  son,  for  aid  to  me .' 

Tell  me  who  have  injured  thee. 

Where  they  are,  and  who  they  be ; 

Of  the  Earth,  or  of  the  Sea, 

Or  of  the  aerial  company  ? 

Earth,  nor  Sea,  nor  Air  is  free 

From  the  powers  who  wait  on  me, 

And  my  tremendous  witchery. 

ARVALAN. 

She  for  whom  so  ill  I  sped. 
Whom  my  father  deemeth  dead, 

Lives,  for  Marriataly's  aid 

From  the  water  saved  the  Maid. 

In  hatred  I  desire  her  still. 

And  in  revenge  would  have  my  will. 

A  Deveta  with  wings  of  blue. 

And  sword  whose  edge  even  now  I  rue, 

In  a  Ship  of  Heaven  on  high, 

Pilots  her  along  the  sky. 

Where  they  voyage  thou  canst  tell, 

Mistress  of  the  mighty  spell. 


At  this  the  Witch,  through  shrivell'd  lips  and  lliin 

Sent  forth  a  sound  Jialf  whistle  and  half  hiss. 

Two  winged  Hands  came  in, 

Armless  and  bodiless, 

'  Bearing  a  globe  of  liquid  crystal,  set 

In  frame  as  diamond  bright,  yet  black  as  jet. 

A  thousand  eyes  were  quench  d  in  endless  night 

To  form  that  magic  globe  ;   for  Lorrinite 

Had,  from  their  sockets,  drawn  the  liquid  sight. 

And  kneaded  it,  with  re-creating  skill. 

Into  this  organ  of  her  mighty  will. 

Look  in  j'onder  orb,  she  cried  ; 

Tell  me  what  is  there  descried. 

9. 

ARVALAN. 

A  mountain  top,  in  clouds  of  light 

Enveloped,  rises  on  my  sight; 

Thence  a  cataract  rushes  down. 

Hung  with  many  a  rainbow  crown; 

Light  and  clouds  conceal  its  head ; 

Below,  a  silver  lake  is  spread; 


XI. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


589 


Upon  its  shores  a  Bower  I  see 

Fit  lioiiie  for  blessed  company. 

See,  they  come  forward,  —  on'^,  two,  three, — 

The  last  a  Maiden,  —  it  is  she  ! 

The  foremost  shakes  his  wings  of  blue  ; 

'Tis  he  whose  sword  even  yet  I  rue  ; 

And  in  that  other  one  I  know 

The  visage  of  my  deadliest  foe. 

Mother,  let  thy  magic  might 

Arm  me  for  the  mortal  fight ; 

Helm,  and  shield,  and  mail  afford. 

Proof  against  his  dreaded  sword. 

Then  will  I  invade  their  scat; 

Then  shall  vengeance  be  complete. 

10. 

LORRINITE. 

Spirits,  who  obey  my  will, 
Hear  him,  and  his  wish  fulfil ! 

So  spake  the  mighty  Witch,  nor  further  spell 

Needed  ;  anon  a  sound,  like  sniothcr'd  thunder. 

Was  heard,  slow  rolling  under; 

The  solid  pavement  of  the  cell 

Quaked,  heaved,  and  cleft  asunder. 

And  at  the  feet  of  Arvalan  display 'd, 

Helmet  and  mail,  and  shield  and  cimeter,  were 

laid. 

11. 

The  Asuras,  often  put  to  flight 

And  scatter'd  in  the  fields  of  light 

By  their  foes"  celestial  might. 

Forged  this  enchanted  armor  for  the  fight. 

'Mid  fires  intense  did  they  anneal. 

In  mountain  furnaces,  the  quivering  steel. 

Till,  trembling  through  each  deepening  hue, 

It  settled  in  a  midnight  blue  ; 

Last  they  cast  it,  to  aslake. 

In  the  penal  icy  lake. 

Then  they  consigned  it  to  the  Giant  brood ; 

And  while  they  forged  the  impenetrable  arms, 

The  Evil  Powers,  to  oversee  them,  stood, 

And  there  imbued 

The  work  of  Giant  strength  with  magic  charms. 

Foul  Arvalan,  with  joy,  survey 'd 

The  crescent  sabre's  cloudy  blade. 

With  deeper  joy  the  imj)ervious  mail. 

The  shield  and  helmet  of  avail. 

Soon  did  he  himself  array, 

And  bade  her  speed  him  on  his  way. 

12. 

Then  she  led  him  to  the  den, 

Where  her  chariot,  night  and  day, 

Stood  harness'd  ready  for  the  way. 

Two  Dragons,  yoked  in  adamant,  convey 

The  magic  car;  from  eitiier  collar  sprung 

An  adamantine  rib,  which  met  in  air, 

O'erarch'd,  and  cross'd,  and  bent,  diverging  there, 

And  firmly  in  its  arc  upbore, 

Upon  their  brazen  necks,  the  seat  of  power. 

Arvalan  mounts  the  car,  and  in  his  hand 

Receives  the  magic  reins  from  Lorrinite  ; 

The  Dragons,  long  obedient  to  command, 


Their  ample  sails  expand ; 
Like  steeds  well-broken  to  fair  lady's  hand 

They  foel  the  reins  of  might, 
And  up  the  northern  sky  begin  tlieir  flight. 

13. 

Son  of  the  Wicked,  doth  thy  soul  delight 

To  think  its  hour  of  vengeance  now  is  nigh.' 

Lo !  where  the  far-off"  light 

Of  Indra's  palace  flashes  on  his  sight. 

And  Meru's  heavenly  summit  shines  on  high. 

With  clouds  of  glory  bright. 

Amid  the  dark-blue  sky. 

Already,  in  his  hope,  doth  he  esp}', 

Himself  secure  in  mail  of  tenfold  charms, 

Ereenia  writhing  from  the  magic  blade. 

The  Father  sent  to  bear  iiis  Curse,  —  the  Maid 

Resisting  vainly  in  his  impious  arms. 

14. 

Ah,  Sinner  !  whose  anticipating  soul 

Incurs  the  guilt  even  when  the  crime  is  spared ! 

Joyous  toward  Meru's  summit  on  he  fared. 

While  the  twin  Dragons,  rising  as  he  guides. 

With  steady  flight,  steer  northward  for  the  pole. 

Anon,  with  irresistible  control. 

Force  mightier  far  than  his  arrests  their  course  ; 

It  wrought  as  though  a  Power  unseen  had  caught 

Their  adamantine  yokes  to  drag  them  on. 

Straight  on  they  bend  their  way,  and  now,  in  vain, 

Upward  doth  Arvalan  direct  the  rein ; 

The  rein  of  magic  might  avails  no  more; 

Bootless  its  strength  against  that  unseen  Power, 

That,  in  their  mid  career. 

Hath  seized  the  Chariot  and  the  Charioteer. 

With  hands  resisting,  and  down-pressing  feet 

Upon  tlieir  hold  insisting, 

He  struggles  to  maintain  his  difficult  seat. 

Seeking  in  vain  with  that  strange  Power  to  vie. 

Their  doubled  speed  the  affrighted  Dragons  try. 

Forced  in  a  stream  from  whence  was  no  retreat. 

Strong  as  they  are,  behold  them  whirled  along. 

Headlong,  with  useless  pennons,  through  the  sky. 

15. 

What  Power  was  that,  which,  with  resistless  might, 

Foil'd  the  dread  magic  thus  of  Lorrinite .' 

'Twas  all  commanding  Nature.  —  They  were  here 

Within  the  sphere  of  the  adamantine  rocks 

Which  gird  Mount  Meru  round,  as  far  below 

That  heavenly  height  wjiere  Ganges  hath  its  birth 

Involv'd  in  clouds  and  light. 

So  far  above  its  roots  of  ice  and  snow. 

16. 

On  —  on  they  roll,  — rapt  headlong  they  roll  on  ,  — 

The  lost  canoe,  less  rapidly  than  this, 

Down  the  precipitous  stream  is  whirl'd  along 

To  the  brink  of  Niagara's  dread  abyss. 

On  —  on  they  roll,  and  now,  with  shivering  shock, 

Are  dash'd  against  the  rock  that  sirds  the  Pole. 

Down  from  his  shattcr'd  mail  the  unhappy  Soul 

Is    dropp'd,  —  ten    thousand    thousand    fathoms 

down,  — 

Till  in  an  ice-rift,  'mid  the  eternal  snow, 


590 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


XII 


Foul  Arvalan  is  stopp'd.     There  let  him  howl, 

Groan  there,  —  and  tlii-re,  with  unavailing  moan, 

For  aid  on  his  Almighty  Father  call. 

17. 

All  human  sounds  are  lost 

Amid  those  deserts  of  perpetual  frost, 

Old  Winter's  drear  domain,  , 

Beyond  the  limits  of  the  living  World, 

Beyond  Kehama's  reign. 

Of  utterance  and  of  motion  soon  bereft, 

Frozen  to  the  ice-rock,  there  behold  him  lie, 

Only  the  painful  sense  of  Being  left, 

A  Spirit  who  must  feel,  and  cannot  die. 

Bleaching  and  bare  beneath  the  polar  sky. 


XII. 
THE   SACRIFICE  COMPLETED. 

1. 

O  VE  who,  by  the  Lake 

On  Meru  Mount,  partake 

The  joys  which  Heaven  hath  destin'd  for  the  blest. 

Swift,  swift  the  moments  fly. 

The  silent  hours  go  by. 

And  ye  must  leave  your  dear  abode  of  rest. 

O  wretched  Man,  prepare 

Again  thy  Curse  to  bear  ! 

Prepare,  O  wretched  Maid,  for  further  woe  ! 

The  fatal  hour  draws  near. 

When  Indra's  heavenly  sphere 

Must  own  the  Tyrant  of  the  World  below. 

To-day  the  hundredth  Steed 

At  Seeva's  shrine  must  bleed; 

The  dreadful  sacrifice  is  full  to-day  j 

Nor  man  nor  God  hatli  power, 

At  this  momentous  hour, 

Again  to  save  tlie  Swerga  from  his  sway. 

Fresh  woes,  O  Maid  divine. 

Fresh  trials  must  be  thine  : 

And  what  must  thou,  Ladurlad,  yet  endure  ! 

But  let  your  hearts  be  strong, 

And  rise  against  all  wrong, 

For  Providence  is  just,  and  virtue  is  secure. 


They,  little  deeming  that  the  fatal  day 

Was  come,  beheld,  where  through  the  morning  sky 

A  Ship  of  Heaven  drew  nigh. 

Onward  they  watch  it  steer  its  steady  flight; 

Till,  wondering,  they  espy 

Old  Casyapa,  the  Sire  of  Gods,  alight. 

But  when  Ereenia  saw  the  Sire  appear. 

At  that  unwonted  and  unwelcome  sight 

His  heart  received  a  sudden  shock  of  fear. 

Thy  presence  doth  its  doleful  tidings  tell, 

O  Father  !  cried  the  startled  Glendoveer  ! 

The  dreadful  hour  is  near !  I  know  it  well ! 

Not  for  less  import  would  the  Sire  of  Gods 

Forsake  his  ancient  and  august  abodes. 


Even  so,  serene  the  immortal  Sire  replies ; 

Soon  like  an  earthquake  will  ye  feel  the  blow 

Which  consummates  the  mighty  sacrifice  : 

And  this  World,  and  its  Heaven,  and  all  therein. 

Are  then  Kehama's.     To  the  second  ring 

Of  these  seven  Spheres,  the  Swerga  King, 

Even  now,  prepares  for  flight. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  the  conquer'd  world. 

Beyond  the  Rajah's  might. 

Ocean,  that  clips  this  inmost  of  the  Spheres, 

And  girds  it  round  with  everlasting  roar, 

Set  like  a  gem  appears 

Within  that  bending  shore. 

Thither  fly  all  the  Sons  of  heavenly  race  : 

I,  too,  forsake  mine  ancient  dwelling-place. 

And  now,  O  Child  and  Father,  ye  must  go  ■ 

Take  up  the  burden  of  your  woe, 

And  wander  once  again  below. 

With  patient  heart  hold  onward  to  the  end  : 

Be  true  unto  yourselves,  and  bear  in  mind 

That  every  God  is  still  the  good  Man's  friend; 

And  when  the  Wicked  have  their  day  assign'd. 

Then  they  who  suffer  bravely  save  mankind. 


Oh,  toll  me,  cried  Ereenia,  —  for  from  thee 
Nought  can  be  hidden,  —  when  tlie  end  will  be. 

Seek  not  to  know,  old  Casyapa  replied. 

What  pleaseth  Heaven  to  hide. 

Dark  is  the  abyss  of  Time, 

But  light  enough  to  guide  your  steps  is  given ; 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide. 

Turn  never  from  the  way  of  truth  aside. 

And  leave  the  event,  in  holy  hope,  to  Heaven 

The  moment  is  at  hand  ;  no  more  delay ; 

Ascend  the  ethereal  bark,  and  go  your  way ; 

And  Ye,  of  heavenly  nature,  follow  me. 

5. 

The  will  of  Heaven  be  done,  Ladurlad  cried; 

Nor  more  the  man  replied. 

But  placed  his  daughter  in  the  ethereal  bark. 

Then  took  his  seat  beside. 

There  was  no  word  at  parting,  no  adieu. 

Down  from  that  empyreal  height  they  flew  : 

One  groan  Ladurlad  breathed,  yet  utter'd  not. 

When,  to  his  heart  and  brain. 

The  fiery  Curse  again  like  lightning  shot. 

And  now  on  earth  the  Sire  and  Child  alight; 

Up  soar'd  the  Ship  of  Heaven,  and  sail'd  away 

from  sight. 


O  ye  immortal  Bowers, 

Where  hitherto  the  Hours 

Have  led  their  dance  of  happiness  for  aye, 

With  what  a  sense  of  woe 

Do  ye  expect  the  blow, 

And  see  your  heavenly  dwellers  driven  away  ! 

Lo  !  where  the  aunnay-birds  of  graceful  mien. 

Whose  milk-white  forms  were  seen. 
Lovely  as  Nymphs,  your  ancient  trees  between, 


XIII. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEIIAMA, 


591 


And  by  your  silent  springs, 

With  niehmclioly  cry, 

Now  spread  unwilling  wings ; 

Tiicir  stately  nocks  reluctant  they  protend. 

And  through  tiie  sullen  sky, 

To  other  worlds,  their  mournful  progress  bend. 


The  affrighted  gales  to-day 

O'er  their  beloved  streams  no  longer  play  ; 

The  streams  of  Paradise  have  ceased  to  flow ; 

The  Fountain-Tree  withholds  its  diamond-shower 

111  this  portentous  hour, — 

This  dolorous  hour,  —  this  universal  woe. 

Where  is  the  Palace,  whose  far-flashing  beams, 

With  streaks  and  streams  of  ever-varying  light, 

Brighten'd  the  polar  night 

Around  the  frozen  North's  extremest  shore  ? 

Gone  like  a  morning  rainbow,  — like  a  dream, — 

A  star  that  shoots  and  falls,  and  then  is  seen  no  more . 

8. 

Now  !  now !  —  Before  the  Golden  Palaces, 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  inevitable  hour. 

The  fatal  blow  is  given, 

That  over  Earth  and  Heaven 

Confirms  the  Almighty  Rajah  in  his  power. 

All  evil  Spirits  then. 

That  roam  the  World  about. 

Or  wander  through  the  sky. 

Set  up  a  joyful  shout. 

The  Asuras  and  the  Giants  join  the  cry; 

The  damn'd  in  Padalon  acclaim 

Their  hoped  Deliverer's  name  ; 

Heaven    trembles    with    the    thunder-drowning 

sound  ; 

Back  starts  aff'righted  Ocean  from  the  shore, 

And  the  adamantine  vaults  and  brazen  floor 

Of  Hell  are  shaken  with  the  roar. 

Up  rose  the  Rajah  through  the  conquer'd  sky. 

To  seize  the  Swerga  for  his  proud  abode  ; 

Myriads  of  evil  Genii  round  him  fly, 

As  royally  on  wings  of  winds  he  rode, 

And  scaled  high  Heaven,  triumphant  like  a  God. 


xni. 

THE  RETREAT. 


Around  her  Father's  neck  the  Maiden  lock'd 
Her  arms,  when  that  portentous  blow  was  given  ; 

Clinging  to  him  she  heard  the  dread  uproar. 

And  felt  the  shuddering  shock  which  ran  throuffh 

Heaven ; 

Earth  underneath  them  rock'd, 

Her  strong  foundations  heaving  in  commotion, 

Such  as  wild  winds  upraise  in  raving  Ocean, 

As  tiiough  the  solid  base  were  rent  asunder. 

And  lo  !  where,  storming  the  astonish'd  sky, 

Kchama  and  his  evil  host  ascend  ! 

Before  them  rolls  the  thunder; 

Ten  thousand  thousand  lightnings  round  them  fly  ; 


Upward  the  lengthening  pageantries  aspire, 

Leaving  from  Eartli  to  Heaven  a  widening  vvakc 

of  fire. 

2. 

When  the  wild  uproar  was  at  length  allay 'd, 

And  Earth,  recovering  from  the  shock,  was  still. 

Thus  to  her  Father  spake  the  imploring  Maid  :  — 

Oh !  by  the  love  which  we  so  long  have  borne 

Each  other,  and  we  ne'er  shall  cease  to  bear, — 

Oh  !  by  the  suff'erings  we  have  shared, 

And  must  not  cease  to  share,  — 

One  boon  I  supplicate  in  this  dread  hour. 

One  consolation  in  this  hour  of  woe ! 

Father,  thou  hast  it  in  thy  power ; 

Thou  wilt  not.  Father,  sure  refuse  me  now 

Tlie  only  comfort  my  poor  heart  can  know. 

3. 

O  dearest,  dearest  Kailyal !  with  a  smile 

Of  tenderness  and  anguish,  he  replied, 

O  best  beloved,  and  to  be  loved  the  best, 

Best  worthy,  —  sot  thy  duteous  heart  at  rest. 

I  know  thy  wish,  and  let  what  will  betide, 

Ne'er  will  I  leave  thee  wilfully  again. 

My  soul  is  strengthcn'd  to  endure  its  pain; 

Be  thou,  in  all  my  wanderings,  still  my  guide ; 

Be  thou,  in  all  my  suff'erings,  at  my  side. 

4. 

The  Maiden,  at  those  welcome  words,  impress'd 

A  passionate  kiss  upon  her  Father's  cheek : 

They  look'd  around  them  then,  as  if  to  seek 

Where  they  should  turn,  North,  South,  or  East,  or 

West, 

Wherever  to  their  vagrant  feet  seem'd  best. 

But,  turning  from  the  view  her  mournful  eyes. 

Oil,  whither  should  we  wander  ?  Kailyal  cries. 

Or  wherefore  seek  in  vain  a  place  of  rest.' 

Have  we  not  here  the  Earth  beneath  our  tread. 

Heaven  overhead, 

A  brook  that  winds  through  this  sequester'd  glade. 

And  yonder  woods,  to  yield  us  fruit  and  shade.' 

The  little  all  our  wants  require  is  nigh ; 

Hope  we  have  none ;  —  why  travel  on  in  fear  .' 

We  cannot  fly  from  Fate,  and  Fate  will  find  us  here. 

5. 

'Twas  a  fair  scene  wherein  they  stood, 

A  green  and  sunny  glade  amid  the  wood, 

And  in  the  midst  an  aged  Bannian  grew. 

It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see 

That  venerable  tree, 

For  o'er  the  lawn,  irregularly  spread, 

Fifty  straight  columns  propp'd  its  lofly  head  ; 

And  many  a  long,  depending  shoot. 

Seeking  to  strike  its  root. 

Straight  like  a  plummet,  grew  towards  the  ground. 

Some  on  the  lower  boughs  which  cross'd  their  way, 

Fi.xing  their  bearded  fibres,  round  and  round, 

With  many  a  ring  and  wild  contortion  wound  ; 

Some  to  the  passing  wind,  at  times,  with  sway 

Of  gentle  motion  swung; 

Others,  of  younger  growth,  unmoved,  wore  hung 

Like  stone-drops  from  the  cavern's  fretted  height ; 


592 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEIIAMA. 


xiit 


Beneath  was  smootli  and  fair  to  sight, 

Nor  weeds  nor  briers  deform 'd  the  natural  floor, 

And  through  the  leafy  cope  which  bower'd  it  o'er 

Came  gleams  of  checker'd  light. 

So  like  a  temple  did  it  seem,  that  there 

A  pious  heart's  first  impulse  would  be  prayer. 

6. 
A  brook,  with  easy  current,  murinur'd  near ; 

Water  so  cool  and  clear 

The  peasants  drink  not  from  the  humble  well, 

Which  they,  with  sacrifice  of  rural  pride. 

Have  wedded  to  the  cocoa-grove  beside ; 

Nor  tanks  of  costliest  masonry  dispense 

To  those  in  towns  who  dwell. 

The  work  of  Kings,  in  their  beneficence. 

Fed  by  perpetual  springs,  a  small  lagoon. 

Pellucid,  deep,  and  still,  in  silence  join'd. 

And  swell'd  the  passing  stream.     Like  burnish'd 

steel 

Glowing,  it  lay  beneath  the  eye  of  noon  ; 

And  when  the  breezes,  in  their  play. 

Ruffled  the  darkening  surface,  then,  with  gleam 

Of  sudden  light,  around  the  lotus  stem 

It  rippled,  and  the  sacred  flowers,  that  crown 

The  lakelet  with  their  roseate  beauty,  ride, 

In  easy  waving  rock'd,  from  side  to  side  ; 

And  as  the  wind  upheaves 

Their  broad  and  buoyant  weight,  the  glossy  leaves 

Flap  on  the  twinkling  waters,  up  and  down. 


They  built  them  here  a  bower,  of  jointed  cane. 

Strong  for  the  needful  use ;  and  liglit  and  long 

Was  the  slight  framework  rear'd,  with  little  pain; 

Lithe  creepers,  then,  the  wicker  sides  supply, 

And  the  tall  jungle-grass  fit  roofing  gave 

Beneath  the  genial  sky. 

And  here  did  Kailyal,  each  returning  day. 

Pour  forth  libations  from  the  brook  to  pay 

The  Spirits  of  her  Sires  their  grateful  rite ; 

In  such  libations  pour'd  in  open  glades. 

Beside  clear  streams  and  solitary  shades. 

The  Spirits  of  the  virtuous  dead  delight. 

And  duly  here,  to  Marriataly's  praise. 

The  Maid,  as  with  an  angel's  voice  of  song, 

Pour'd  her  melodious  lays 

Upon  the  gales  of  even. 

And  gliding  in  religious  dance  along, 

Moved   graceful   as   the    dark-eyed    Nymphs   of 

Heaven ; 

Such  harmony  to  all  her  steps  was  given. 


Thus  ever,  in  her  Father's  doting  eye, 

Kailyal  perform'd  the  customary  rite  ; 

He,  patient  of  his  burning  pain  the  while. 

Beheld  her,  and  approved  her  pious  toil ; 

And  sometimes,  at  the  sight, 

A  melanciioly  smile 

Would  gleam  upon  his  awful  countenance. 

He,  too,  by  day  and  night,  and  every  hour. 

Paid  to  a  higher  Power  his  sacrifice  ; 

An  offering,  not  of  ghee,  or  fruit,  and  rice. 

Flower-crown,  or  blood;  but  of  a  heart  subdued. 


A  resolute,  unconquer'd  fortitude, 

An  agony  repress'd,  a  will  reslgn'd. 

To  her,  who,  on  her  secret  throne  reclin"d. 

Amid  the  Sea  of  Milk,  by  Veeshnoo's  side, 

Looks  with  an  eye  of  mercy  on  mankind. 

By  the  Preserver,  with  his  power  endued. 

There  Voomdavee  beholds  this  lower  clime, 

And  marks  the  silent  sufferings  of  the  good, 

To  recompense  them  in  her  own  good  time. 


O  force  of  faith  !  O  strength  of  virtuous  will ! 

Behold  him  in  his  endless  martyrdom. 

Triumphant  still! 

The  Curse  still  burning  in  his  heart  and  brain  ; 

And  yet  doth  he  remain 

Patient  the  while,  and  tranquil,  and  content  I 

The  pious  soul  hath  framed  unto  itself 

A  second  nature,  to  exist  in  pain 

As  in  its  own  allotted  element. 

10. 

Such  strength  the  will  reveal'd  had  given 

Tills  holy  pair,  such  influxes  of  grace. 

That  to  their  solitary  resting-place 

They  brought  the  peace  of  Heaven. 

Yea,  all  around  was  hallow'd  !     Danger,  Fear, 

Nor  thought  of  evil  ever  enter'd  here. 

A  charm  was  on  the  Leopard  when  he  came 

Within  the  circle  of  that  mystic  glade  ; 

Submiss  he  crouch'd  before  the  heavenly  Maid, 

And  offer'd  to  her  touch  his  speckled  side ; 

Or,  with  arch'd  back  erect,  and  bending  head. 

And  eyes  half-closed  for  pleasure,  would  he  stand. 

Courting  the  pressure  of  her  gentle-  hand. 

11. 

Trampling  his  path  through  wood  and  brake, 

And  canes  which  crackling  fall  before  his  way, 

And  tassel-grass,  whose  silvery  feathers  play, 

O'ertopping  the  young  trees. 

On  comes  the  Elephant,  to  slake 

His  thirst  at  noon  in  yon  pellucid  springs. 

Lo !  from  his  trunk  upturn 'd,  aloft  he  flings 

The  grateful  shower;  and  now 

Plucking  the  broad-leaved  bough 

Of  yonder  plane,  with  wavy  motion  slow, 

Fanning  the  languid  air, 

He  moves  it  to  and  fro. 

But  when  that  form  of  beauty  meets  his  sight, 

The  trunk  its  undulating  motion  stops, 

From  his  forgetful  hold  the  plane-branch  drops, 

Reverent  he  kneels,  and  lifts  his  rational  eyes 

To  her  as  if  in  prayer ; 

And  when  she  pours  her  angel  voice  in  song, 

Intranced  he  listens  to  the  thrilling  notes, 

Till  his  strong  tcini)les,  bathed  with  sudden  dews, 

Their  fragrance  of  delight  and  love  diffiise. 

12. 

Lo !  as  the  voice  melodious  floats  around. 

The  Antelope  draws  near. 

The  Tigress  leaves  her  toothless  cubs  to  hear; 

The  Snake  comes  gliding  from  the  secret  brake, 

Himself  in  fascination  forced  along 


xiir. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


593 


By  that  enchanting  song  ; 

Tlie  antic  Monkeys,  whoso  wild  gambols  late, 

Wiien  not  a  bri'oze  waved  tlie  tall  jungle-grass, 

Sliook  the  whole  wood,  are  hush'd,  and  silently 

Hang  on  the  cluster'd  tree. 

All  things  in  wonder  and  delight  are  still ; 

Only  at  times  tlie  Nightingale  is  heard, 
Not  that  in  enmlous  skill  tliat  sweetest  bird 

Her  rival  strain  would  try, 

A  mighty  songster,  with  the  Maid  to  vie ; 

She  only  bore  her  part  in  powerful  sympathy. 

13. 

Well  might  tliey  thus  adore  that  heavenly  Maid  ! 

For  never  Nymph  of"  Mountain, 

Or  Grove,  or  Lake,  or  Fountain, 

With  a  diviner  presence  fiU'd  the  shade. 

No  idle  ornaments  deface 

Her  natural  grace. 

Musk-spot,  nor  sandal-streak,  nor  scarlet  stain, 

Ear-drop  nor  chain,  nor  arm  nor  ankle-ring. 

Nor  trinketry  on  front,  or  neck,  or  breast. 

Marring  the  perfect  form  :  she  seem'd  a  thing 

Of  Heaven's  prime  uncorrupted  work,  a  child 

Of  early  nature  undefiled, 

A  daughter  of  the  years  of  innocence. 

And   therefore  all  things  loved  her.     When  she 

stood 

Beside  the  glassy  pool,  the  fish,  that  flies 

Quick  as  an  arrow  from  all  other  eyes, 

Hover'd  to  gaze  on  her.     The  mother  bird. 

When  Kailyal's  step  she  heard. 

Sought  not  to  tempt  her  from  her  secret  nest, 

But,  hastening  to  the  dear  retreat,  would  fly 

To  meet  and  welcome  her  benignant  eye. 

14. 

Hope  we  have  none,  said  Kailyal  to  her  Sire. 

Said  she  aright .'  and  had  the  mortal  Maid 

No  thoughts  of  heavenly  aid,  — 

No  secret  hopes  her  inmost  heart  to  move 

With  longings  of  such  deep  and  pure  desire, 

As  Vestal  Maids,  whose  piety  is  love. 

Feel  in  their  ecstasies,  when,  rapp'd  above, 

Their  souls  unto  their  heavenly  Spouse  aspire .' 

Why  else  so  often  doth  that  searching  eye 

Roam  through  the  scope  of  sky  .•* 

Why,  if  she  sees  a  distant  speck  on  high. 

Starts  there  that  quick  suffusion  to  her  cheek  ? 

'Tis  but  the  Eagle  in  his  heavenly  height ; 

Reluctant  to  believe,  she  hears  his  cry. 

And  marks  his  wheeling  flight, 

Then  pensively  averts  her  mournful  sight. 

Why  ever  else,  at  morn,  that  waking  sigh, 

Because  the  lovely  form  no  more  is  nigh 

Which  hath  been  present  to  her  soul  all  night; 

And  that  injurious  fear 

Which  ever,  as  it  riseth,  is  repress'd. 

Yet  riseth  still  within  her  troubled  breast. 

That  she  no  more  shall  see  the  Glendoveer ! 

15. 

Hath  he  forgotten  me  ?     The  wrongful  thought 

Would  stir  within  her,  and,  though  still  repell'd 

With  shame  and  self-reproaches,  would  recur. 

75 


Daj'S  after  days  unvarying  come  and  go, 

And  neither  friend  nor  foe 

Approaches  them  in  tlicir  sequester'd  bower. 

Maid  of  strange  destiny  !  but  think  not  thou 

Thou  art  forgotten  now. 
And  hast  no  cause  for  further  hope  or  fear ; 

High-fated  Maid,  thou  dost  not  know 

What  eyes  watch  over  thee  for  weal  and  woe ! 

Even  at  this  hour, 

Searching  the  dark  decrees  divine, 

Kehama,  in  the  fulness  of  his  power. 

Perceives  his  thread  of  fate  entwine  with  thine. 

The  Glendoveer,  from  his  far  sphere. 

With  love  that  never  sleeps,  beholds  thee  here. 

And  in  the  hour  permitted  will  be  near. 

Dark  Lorrinite  on  thee  hath  fixed  her  sight, 

And  laid  her  wiles,  to  aid 

Foul  Arvalan  when  he  shall  next  appear ; 

For  well  she  weeri'd  his  Spirit  would  renew 

Old  vengeance  now,  with  unremitting  hate; 

The  Enchantress  well  tliat  evil  nature  knew ; 

The  accursed  Spirit  hath  his  prey  in  view; 

And  thus,  while  all  their  separate  hopes  pursue. 

All  work,  unconsciously,  the  will  of  Fate. 

16. 

Fate  work'd  its  own  the  while.     A  band 

Of  Yoguces,  as  they  roam'd  the  land. 

Seeking  a  spouse  for  Jaga-Naut,  their  God, 

Stray 'd  to  this  solitary  glade. 

And  reach'd  the  bower  wherein  the  Maid  abode 

Wondering  at  form  so  fair,  they  deeni'd  the  Power 

Divine  had  led  them  to  his  chosen  bride, 

And  seized  and  bore  her  from  her  Father's  side. 


XIV. 
JAGA-NAUT. 

1. 

Jov  in  the  City  of  great  Jaga-Naut  1 

Joy  in  the  seven-headed  Idol's  shrine  ! 

A  Virgin-bride  his  ministers  have  brought, 

A  mortal  Maid,  in  form  and  face  divine. 

Peerless  among  all  daughters  of  mankind ; 

Search'd  they  the  world  again  from  East  to  West, 

In  endless  quest. 

Seeking  the  fairest  and  the  best, 

No  maid  so  lovely  might  they  hope  to  find ; — 

For  she  hath  breathed  celestial  air. 

And  heavenly  food  hath  been  her  fare. 

And  heavenly  thoughts  and  feelings  give  her  face 

That  heavenly  grace. 

Joy  in  the  City  of  great  Jaga-Naut, 

Joy  in  the  seven-headed  Idol's  shrine  ! 

The  fairest  Maid  his  Yoguees  sought; 

A  fairer  than  the  fairest  have  they  brought, 

A  Maid  of  charms  surpassing  human  thought, 

A  Maid  divine. 

2. 

Now  bring  ye  forth  the  Chariot  of  the  God ! 
Bring  him  abroad, 


594 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEIIAMA. 


XIV. 


That  through  the  swarming  City  he  may  ride; 

And  by  his  side 

Place  ye  the  Maid  of  more  than  mortal  grace, 

The  Maid  of  perfect  form  and  heavenly  face; 

Set  her  aloft  in  triumph,  like  a  bride 

Upon  the  Bridal  Car, 

And  spread  the  joyful  tidings  wide  and  far,  — 

Spread  it  witii  trump  and  voice, 

That  all  may  hear,  and  all  who  hear  rejoice, — 

Great  Jaga-Naut  hath  found  his  mate  !  the  God 

Will  ride  abroad  ! 

To-night  will  he  go  forth  from  his  abode  ! 

Ye  myriads  who  adore  him, 

Prepare  the  way  before  him  I 


Uprear'd  on  twenty  wheels  elate. 

Huge  as  a  Ship,  the  Bridal  Car  appear'd ; 

Loud  creak  its  ponderous  wheels,  as  through  the 

gate 

A  thousand  Braniins  drag  tlio  enormous  load. 

There  thi-oned  aloft  in  state, 

The  Image  of  the  seven-headed  God 

Came  forth  from  his  abode ;  and  at  his  side 

Sat  Kailyal  like  a  bride. 

A  bridal  statue  rather  might  she  seem. 

For  she  regarded  all  things  like  a  dream, 

Having  no  thought,  nor  fear,  nor  will,  nor  aught 

Save  hope  and  faith,  that  lived  within  her  still. 


O  silent  Night,  how  have  they  startled  thee 

With  the  brazen  trumpet's  blare  ! 

And  thou,  O  Moon !  whose  quiet  light  serene 

Filleth  wide  heaven,  and  bathing  hill  and  wood. 

Spreads  o'er  the  peaceful  valley  like  a  flood. 
How   have  they  dimm'd   thee   with  the  torches' 

glare. 

Which  round  yon  moving  pageant  flame  and  flare. 

As  the  wild  rout,  with  deafening  song  and  shout, 

Fling  their  long  flaslies  out. 

That,  like  infernal  lightnings,  fire  the  air. 


A  thousand  pilgrims  strain 

Arm,  shoulder,  breast,  and  thigh,  with  might  and 

main, 

To  drag  that  sacred  wain, 

And  scarce  can  draw  along  the  enormous  load. 

Prone  fall  the  frantic  votaries  in  its  road, 

And  calling  on  the  God, 

Their  self-devoted  bodies  there  they  lay 

To  pave  his  chariot-way. 

On  Jaga-Naut  they  call ; 

The  ponderous  Car  rolls  on,  and  crushes  all. 

Through  flesh  and  bones  it  ploughs  its  dreadful  path. 

Groans  rise  unheard  ;  the  dying  cry. 

And  death  and  agony 

Are  trodden  under  foot  by  yon  mad  throng. 

Who  follow  close,  and  thrust  the  deadly  wheels 

along. 

6. 

Pale  grows  the  Maid  at  this  accursed  sight; 

The  yells  which  round  her  rise 

Have  roused  her  with  affright. 


And  fear  hath  given  to  her  dilated  eyes 

A  wilder  light. 

Where  shall  those  eyes  be  turn'd  .''  she  knows  not 

where ! 

Downward  they  dare  not  look,  for  there 

Is  deatn,  and  horror,  and  despair ; 

Nor  can  her  patient  looks  to  Heaven  repair. 

For  the  huge  Idol  over  her,  in  air. 

Spreads  his  seven  hideous  heads,  and  wide 

Extends  their  snaky  necks  on  every  side  ; 

And  all  around,  behind,  before 

The  Bridal  Car,  is  the  raging  rout. 

With  frantic  shout  and  deafening  roar. 

Tossing  the  torches'  flames  about. 

And  the  double  double  peals  of  the  drum  are  there, 

And  the  startling  burst  of  the  trumpet's  blare  ; 

And  the  gong,  that  seems,  with  its  thunders  dread, 

To  astound  the  living,  and  waken  the  dead. 

The  ear-strings  throb  as  if  they  were  rent, 

And  the  eyelids  drop  as  stunned  and  spent. 

Fain  would  the  Maid  have  kept  them  fast ; 

But  open  they  start  at  the  crack  of  the  blast. 

7. 
Where  art  thou,  Son  of  Heaven,  Ereenia  !  where, 

In  this  dread  hour  of  horror  and  despair  .-' 

Thinking  on  him,  she  strove  her  fear  to  quell  — 

If  he  be  near  me,  then  will  all  be  well; 

And,  if  he  reck  not  for  my  misery. 

Let  come  the  worst ;  it  matters  not  to  me. 

Repel  that  wrongful  thought, 

O  Maid  !  thou  feelest,  but  believ'st  it  not; 

It  is  thine  own  imperfect  nature's  fault 

That  lets  one  doubt  of  him  arise  within ; 

And  this  the  Virgin  knew  ;  and  like  a  sin 

Repell'd  the  thought,  and  still  believed  him  true, 

And  summon'd  up  her  spirit  to  endure 

All  forms  of  fear,  in  that  firm  trust  secure. 


She  needs  that  faith,  she  needs  that  consolation, 

For  now  the  Car  hath  measured  back  its  track 

Of  death,  and  hath  reentered  now  its  station. 

There,  in  the  Temple-court,  with  song  and  dance, 

A  harlot-band,  to  meet  the  Maid,  advance. 

The  drum  hath  ccas'd  its  peals  ;  the  trump  and  gong 

Are  still ;  the  frantic  crowd  forbear  their  yells  ; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  hear  the  voice  of  song. 

And  the  sweet  music  of  their  girdle-bells. 

Armlets  and  anklets,  that,  with  cheerful  sound, 

Symphonious  tmkled  as  they  wheel'd  around. 

9. 

They  sung  a  bridal  measure, 

A  song  of  pleasure, 

A  hymn  of  joyance  and  of  gratulation. 

Go,  chosen  One,  they  cried, 

Go,  happy  bride  .' 

For  thee  the  God  descends  in  expectation  ! 

For  thy  dear  sake 

He    leaves    his    Heaven,   O    Maid    of  matchless 

charms ! 

Go,  happy  One,  the  bed  divine  partake, 

And  fill  his  longing  arms! 

Thus  to  the  inner  fane. 

With  circling  dance  and  hymeneal  strain, 


XV. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


o95 


Tlie  astonish'd  Maid  they  led. 

And  there  they  laid  her  on  the  bridal  bed. 

Then  forth  they  go,  and  close  the  Temple-gate, 

And  leave  the  wretched  Kailyal  to  her  fate. 

10. 

Where  art  thou.  Son  of  Heaven,  Ereenia,  whore  ? 

From  the  loatlied  bed  she  starts,  and  in  the  air 

Looks  up,  as  if  she  thought  to  find  him  th(-re  ; 

Then,  in  despair. 

Anguish,  and  agony,  and  hopeless  prayer, 

Prostrate  she  laid  herself  upon  the  floor. 

There  trembling  as  she  lay, 

The  Bramin  of  the  fane  advanced, 

And  came  to  seize  his  prey. 

But  as  the  abominable  Priest  drew  nigh, 

A  power  invisible  opposed  his  way ; 

Starting,  he  utter'd  wildly  a  death-cry. 

And  fell.     At  that  the  Maid  all  eagerly 

Lifted  in  hope  her  head ; 

She  thought  her  own  deliverer  had  been  near  ; 

When  lo  !  with  other  life  reanimate. 

She  saw  the  dead  arise. 

And  in  the  fiendish  joy  within  his  eyes. 

She  knew  the  hateful  Spirit  who  look'd  through 

Their  specular  orbs, —  clothed  in  the  flesli  of  man, 

She  knew  the  accursed  soul  of  Arvalan. 

11. 

Where  art  thou.  Son  of  Heaven,  Ereenia,  where  .' 

But  not  in  vain,  with  sudden  shriek  of  fear, 

She  calls  Ereenia  now;  the  Glendovcer 

Is  here  !      Upon  the  guilt}'  sight  he  burst 

Like   lightning  from    a  cloud,   and    caught   the 

accurs'd, 

Bore  him  to  the  roof  aloft,  and  on  the  floor 

With  vengeance  dash'd  him,  quivering  there  in 

gore. 

Lo  I    from    the     pregnant     air  —  heart-withering 

sight  — 

There  issued  forth  the  dreadful  Lorrinite. 

Seize  him  !  the  Enchantress  cried ; 

A  host  of  Demons  at  her  word  appear, 

And,  like  tornado  winds,  from  every  side 

At  once  they  rush  upon  the  Glendoveer. 

Alone  against  a  legion,  little  here 

Avails  his  single  might. 

Nor  that  celestial  falchion,  which  in  fight 

So  oft  had  put  the  rebel  race  to  flight. 

There  are  no  Gods  on  earth  to  give  him  aid ; 

Ilemm'd  round,  he  is  overpower'd,  beat  down,  and 

bound, 

And  at  the  feet  of  Lorrinite  is  laid. 

12. 

Meantime  the  scatter'd  members  of  the  slain, 

Obedient  to  her  mighty  voice,  assumed 

Their  vital  form  again. 

And  that  foul  Spirit,  upon  vengeance  bent, 

Fled  to  the  fleshly  tenement. 

Lo !  here,  quoth  Lorrinite,  thou  seest  thy  foe  ! 

Him  in  the  Ancient  Sepulchres,  below 

The  billows  of  the  Ocean,  will  I  lay ; 

Gods  are  there  none  to  help  him  now,  and  there 

For  Man  there  is  no  way. 

To  that  dread  scene  of  durance  and  despair. 


Asuras,  bear  your  enemy  !  I  go 

To  chain  hijn  in  the  Tombs.     Meantime  do  thou. 

Freed  from  thy  foe,  and  now  secure  from  fear, 

Son  of  Kehama,  take  thy  pleasure  here. 

13. 

Her  words  the  accursed  race  obey'd; 

Forth  with  a  sound  like  rushing  winds  they  fled  ; 

And  of  all  aid  from  Earth  or  Heaven  bereft. 

Alone  with  Arvalan  the  Maid  was  left. 

But  in  that  hour  of  agony,  the  Maid 

Deserted  not  herself;  her  very  dread 

Had  calm'd  her ;  and  her  heart 

Knew  the  whole  horror,  and  its  only  part. 

Yamen,  receive  me  undefiled  I  she  said. 

And  seized  a  torch,  and  fired  the  bridal  bed. 

Up  ran  the  rapid  flames ;  on  every  side 

They  find  their  fuel  vvheresoe'er  they  spread; 

Thin  hangings,  fragrant  gums,  and  odorous  wood. 

That  piled  like  sacrificial  altars  stood. 

Around  they  run,  and  upward  they  aspire. 

And,  lo  !  the  huge  Pagoda  lined  with  fire. 

14. 

The  wicked  Soul,  wlio  had  assumed  again 

A  form  of  sensible  flesh  for  his  foul  will. 

Still  bent  on  base  revenge,  and  bafiled  still, 

Felt  that  corporeal  shape  alike  to  pain 

Obnoxious  as  to  pleasure :  forth  he  flew. 

Howling  and  scorch'd  by  the  devouring  flame; 

Accursed  Spirit!     Still  condemn'd  to  rue. 

The  act  of  sin  and  punishment  the  same. 

Freed  from  his  loathsome  touch,  a  natural  dread 

Came  on  the  self-devoted,  and  she  drew 

Back  from  the  flames,  which  now  toward  her  spread, 

And,  like  a  living  monster,  seem'd  to  dart 
Their  hungry  tongues  toward  their  shrinking  prey. 

Soon  she  subdued  her  heart ; 

"  O  Father  !  "  she  exclaim'd,  "there  was  no  way 

But  this  !  And  thou,  Ereenia,  who  for  me 

Sufferest,  my  soul  shall  bear  thee  company." 

15. 

So  having  said,  she  knit 

Her  body  up  to  work  her  soul's  desire, 

And  rush  at  once  among  the  thickest  fire. 

A  sudden  cry  withheld  her,  —  "  Kailyal,  stay  ! 

Child!  daughter!  lamhcrc!"  the  voice  exclaims. 

And  from  the  gate,  unharm'd,  through  smoke  and 

flames, 

Like  as  a  God,  Ladurlad  made  his  way ; 

Wrapp'd  his  preserving  .arms  around,  and  bore 

His  Child,  uninjured,  o"er  the  burning  floor. 


XV. 

THE  CITY  OF  BALY. 

1. 

KAILYAI.. 

Ereenia ! 

LADURLAD. 

Nay,  let  no  reproachful  thought 
Wronn-  l)is  heroic  heart !     The  Evil  Powers 


596                                       THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                        xv. 

Have  the  dominion  o'er  this  wretched  World, 

4. 

And  no  good  Spirit  now  can  venture  here 

Their  talk  was  of  the  City  of  the  days 

Of  old.  Earth's  wonder  once,  and  of  the  fame 

KAILYAL. 

Of  Baly,  its  great  founder,  —  he  whose  name. 

Alas,  my  Father  !  he  hath  ventured  here, 

In  ancient  story  and  in  poet's  praise, 

And  saved  me  from  one  horror.     But  the  Powers 

Liveth  and  flourisheth  for  endless  glory, 

Of  Evil  beat  him  down,  and  bore  away 

Because  his  might 

To  some  dread  scene  of  durance  and  despair ; 

Put  down  the  wrong,  and  aye  upheld  the  right. 

The    Ancient   Tombs,  methought   their   mistress 

Till  for  ambition,  as  old  sages  tell. 

said. 

At  length  the  universal  Monarch  fell : 

Beneath  the  ocean  waves ;  no  way  for  Man 

For  he  too,  having  made  the  World  his  own. 

Is  there ;  and  Gods,  she  boasted,  there  are  none 

Then  in  his  pride,  had  driven 

On  Earth  to  help  him  now. 

The  Devetas  from  Heaven, 

And  seized  triumphantly  the  Swerga  throne. 

LADURLAD. 

The  Incarnate  came  before  the  Mighty  One, 

Is  that  her  boast .' 

In  dwarfish  stature,  and  in  mien  obscure ; 

And  hath  she  laid  him  in  the  Ancient  Tombs, 

The  sacred  cord  he  bore, 

Relying  that  the  Waves  will  guard  him  there  .' 

And  ask'd,  for  Brama's  sake,  a  little  boon, 

Short-sighted  are  the  eyes  of  Wickedness, 

Three  steps  of  Baly's  ample  reign,  no  more. 

And  all  its  craft  but  folly.     Oh  my  child  ! 

Poor  was  the  boon  required,  and  poor  was  he 

The  Curses  of  the  Wicked  are  upon  me. 

Who  begg'd,  —  a  little  wretch  it  seem'd  to  be  ; 

And  the  immortal  Deities,  who  see 

But  Baly  ne'er  refused  a  suppliant's  prayer. 

And  suffer  all  things  for  their  own  wise  end. 

He  on  the  Dwarf  cast  down 

Have  made  them  blessings  to  us  1 

A  glance  of  pity  in  contemptuous  mood. 

And  bade  him  take  the  boon. 

KAILYAL. 

And  measure  where  he  would. 

Then  thou  knowest 

Where  they  have  borne  him .' 

5. 

Lo,  Son  of  giant  birth, 

LADURLAD. 

I  take  my  grant!  the  Incarnate  Power  replies. 

To  the  Sepulchres 

With  his  first  step  he  measured  o'er  the  Earth  ; 

Of  the  Ancient  Kings,  which  Baly,  in  his  power. 

The  second  spann'd  the  skies. 

Made  in  primeval  times ;  and  built  above  them 

Three  paces  thou  hast  granted  ; 

A  City,  like  the  Cities  of  the  Gods, 

Twice  have  I  set  my  footstep,  Veeshnoo  cries. 

Being  like  a  God  himself     For  many  an  age 

Where  shall  the  third  be  planted .' 

Hath  Ocean  warr'd  against  his  Palaces, 

Till,  overwhelm'd,  they  lie  beneath  the  waves. 

6. 

Not  overthrown,  so  well  the  awful  Chief 

Then  Baly  knew  the  God,  and  at  his  feet. 

Had  laid  their  deep  foundations.     Rightly  said 

In  homage  due,  he  laid  his  humbled  head. 

The  Accursed,  that  no  way  for  man  was  there  ; 

Mighty  art  thou,  O  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven, 

But  not  like  man  am  I ! 

Mighty  art  thou !  he  said  ; 

Be  merciful,  and  let  me  be  forgiven. 

2. 

He  ask'd  for  mercy  of  the  Merciful, 

Up  from  the  ground  the  Maid  exultant  sprung. 

And  mercy  for  his  virtue's  sake  was  shown. 

And  clapp'd  her  happy  hands  in  attitude 

For  though  he  was  cast  down  to  Padalon, 

Of  thanks  to  Heaven,  and  flung 

Yet  there,  by  Yamen's  throne. 

Her  arms  around  her  Father's  neck,  and  stood 

Doth  Baly  sit  in  majesty  and  might, 

Struggling  awhile  for  utterance,  with  excess 

To  judge  the  dead,  and  sentence  them  aright. 

Of  hope  and  pious  thankfulness. 

Andlbrasmuch  as  he  was  still  the  friend 

Come  —  come  1  she  cried.    Oh  let  us  not  delay, — 

Of  righteousness,  it  is  permitted  him, 

He  is  in  torments  there,  —  away  !  —  away  ! 

Yearly,  from  those  drear  regions  to  ascend 

3. 

And   walk   the    Earth,   that  he   may   hear   his 

Long  time  they  travell'd  on ;  at  dawn  of  day 

name 
Still  hymn'd  and  honor'd  by  the  grateful  voice 

Still  setting  forward  with  the  earliest  light, 

Of  human-kind,  and  in  his  fame  rejoice. 

Nor  ceasing  from  their  way 

Till  darkness  closed  the  night. 

7. 

Short  refuge  from  the  noontide  heat. 

Such  was  the  talk  they  held  upon  their  way. 

Reluctantly  compell'd,  the  Maiden  took. 

Of  him  to  whose  old  City  they  were  bound ; 

And  ill  her  indefatigable  feet 

And  now,  upon  their  journey,  many  a  day 

Could  that  brief  respite  brook. 

Had  risen    and   closed,  and  many  a  week  gone 

Hope  kept  her  up,  and  her  intense  desire 

round, 

Supports  that  heart  which  ne'er  at  danger  quaik , 

And  many  a  realm  and  region  had  they  pass'd, 

Those  feet  which  never  tire. 

When    now   the   Ancient   Towers   appear'd   at 

That  frame  which  never  fails. 

last. 

XV. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


597 


Their  golden  suiniuits,  in  the  noon-day  light, 

Slione  o'er  the  dark-green  deep  thatroll'd  between  ; 

For  domes,  and  pinnacles,  and  spires  were  seen 

Peering  above  the  sea  —  a  mournful  sight! 
Well  might  the  sad  beholder  ween  from  thence 

What  works  of  wonder  the  devouring  wave 

Had  swallow'd  there,  when  monuments  so  brave 

Bore  record  of  tlieir  old  magnificence. 

And  on  the  sandy  shore,  beside  the  verge 

Of  Ocean,  here  and  there,  a  rock-hewn  fane 

Resisted  in  its  strength  the  surf  and  surge 

That  on  their  deep  foundations  beat  in  vain. 

In  solitude  the  Ancient  Temples  stood, 

Once  resonant  with  instrument  and  song. 

And  solemn  dance  of  festive  multitude; 

Now,  as  the  weary  ages  pass  along, 

Hearing  no  voice  save  of  the  Ocean  flood. 

Which  roars  forever  on  the  restless  shores ; 

Or  visiting  their  solitary  caves, 

The  lonely  sound  of  winds,  that  moan  around 

Accordant  to  the  melancholy  waves. 


With  reverence  did  the  travellers  see 

The  works  of  ancient  days,  and  silently 

Approach  the  shore.     Now  on  the  yellow  sand, 

Where  round  their  feet  the  rising  surges  part. 

They  stand.     Ladurlad's  heart 

Exulted  in  his  wondrous  destiny. 

To  Heaven  he  raised  his  hand 

In  attitude  of  stern,  heroic  pride  ; 

Oh  what  a  Power,  he  cried, 

Thou  dreadful  Rajah,  doth  thy  curse  impart ! 

I  thank  thee  now  !  —  Then  turning  to  the  Maid, 

Thou  seest  how  far  and  wide 

Yon  Towers  extend,  he  said  ; 

My  search  must  needs  be  long.     Meantime  the 

flood 

Will  cast  thee  up  thy  food,  — 

And  in  the  Chambers  of  the  Rock,  by  night. 

Take  thou  thy  safe  abode. 

No  prowling  beast  to  harm  thee,  or  affright. 

Can  enter  there  ;  but  wrap  thyself  with  care 

From  the  foul  Birds  obscene  that  thirst  for  blood  ; 

For  in  such  caverns  doth  the  Bat  delight 

To  have  its  haunts.      Do  thou,  with   stone   and 

shout. 

Ere  thou  liest  down  at  evening,  scare  them  out, 

And  in  this  robe  of  mine  involve  thy  feet. 

Duly  commend  us  both  to  Heaven  in  prayer ; 

Be  of  good  heart,  and  may  thy  sleep  be  sweet ! 

10. 

So  saying,  he  i)ut  back  his  arm,  and  gave 

The  cloth   which  girt  his  loins,  and   pross'd  her 

hand 

With  fervent  love,  then  from  the  sand 

Advanced  into  the  sea ;  the  coming  Wave 

Whicli  knew  Kehama's  curse,  before  his  way 

Started,  and  on  he  went  as  on  dry  land ; 

And  still  around  his  path  the  waters  parted. 

She  stands  upon  the  shore,  where  sea-weeds  play, 

Lasiiing  her  polish'd  ankles,  and  the  spray 

Which  off  her  Father,  like  a  rainbow,  fled, 


Falls  on  her  like  a  shower ;  there  Kailyal  stands. 

And  sees  the  billows  rise  above  his  head. 

She,  at  the  startling  sight,  forgot  the  power 

Tlie  Curse  had  given  him,  and  held  forth  her  hands 

Imploringly,  —  her  voice  was  on  the  wind, 

And  the  deaf  Ocean  o'er  Ladurlad  closed. 

Soon  she  recall'd  his  destiny  to  mind, 

And,  shaking  oft' that  natural  fear,  composed 

Her  soul  with  prayer,  to  wait  the  event  resigned 

11. 

Alone,  upon  the  solitary  strand. 

The  lovely  one  is  left;  behold  her  go. 

Pacing  with  patient  footsteps,  to  and  fro, 

Along  the  bending  sand. 

Save  her,  ye  Gods  !  from  Evil  Powers,  and  here 

From  man  she  need  not  fear : 

For  never  Traveller  comes  near 

These  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  yore, 

Nor  fisher's  bark,  nor  venturous  mariner, 

Approach  the  sacred  shore. 

All  day  she  walk'd  tiie  beach  ;  at  night  she  sought 

The  chamber  of  the  Rock  ;  with  stone  and  shout 

Assail'd  the  Bats  obscene,  and  scared  them  out; 

Then  in  her  Father's  robe  involved  her  feet. 

And  wrapp'd  her  mantle  round  to  guard  her  head. 

And  laid  her  down:  the  rock  was  Kailyal's  bed; 

Her  chamber-lamps  were  in  the  starry  sky  ; 

The  winds  and  waters  were  her  lullaby. 

12. 

Be  of  good  heart,  and  may  thy  sleep  be  sweet, 

Ladurlad  said.  —  Alas  I  that  cannot  be 

To  one  whose  days  are  days  of  misery. 

How  often  did  she  stretch  her  hands  to  greet 

Ereenia,  rescued  in  the  dreams  of  night ! 

How  oft,  amid  the  vision  of  delight. 

Fear  in  her  heart  all  is  not  as  it  seems  ! 

Then  from  unsettled  slumber  start,  and  hear 

The  Winds  that  moan  above,  the  Waves  below ! 

Thou  hast  been   call'd,  O  Sleep !    the  friend  of 

Woe; 

But  'tis  the  happy  who  have  call'd  thee  so. 

13. 

Another  day,  another  night  are  gone ; 

A  second  passes,  and  a  third  wanes  on. 

So  long  she  paced  the  shore. 

So  often  on  the  beach  she  took  her  stand, 

That  the  wild  Sea-Birds  knew  her,  and  no  mora 

Fled,  when  she  past  beside  them  on  the  strand. 

Bright  shine  the  golden  summits  in  the  light 

Of  the  noon-sun,  and  lovelier  far  by  night 

Their  moonlight  glories  o'er  the  sea  they  shed  : 

Fair  is  the  dark-green  deep:  by  night  and  day, 

Unvex'd  with  storms,  the  peaceful  billows  play, 

As  when  they  closed  upon  Ladurlad's  head; 

The  firmament  above  is  bright  and  clear; 

Tiie  sea-fowl,  lords  of  water,  air,  and  land. 

Joyous  alike  upon  the  wing  appear, 

Or  when  they  ride  the  waves,  or  walk  the  sand ; 

Beauty,  and  light,  and  joy  are  every  where; 

There  is  no  sadness  and  no  sorrow  here, 

Save  what  that  single  human  breast  contains; 

But  oh  !  what  hopes,  and  fears,  and  pains  are  there  ' 


598                                       THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                      xvi. 

14. 

Like  things  of  Nature  !  the  eternal  rocks 

Seven  miserable  days  the  expectant  Maid, 

Themselves  not  firmer.     Neither  hath  the  sand 

From  earliest  dawn  till  evening,  watcli'd  the  shore  ; 

Drilled  within  their  gates  and  chok'd  their  doors, 

Hope  left  her  then  ;  and  in  her  heart  she  said, 

Nor  slime  defiled  their  pavements  and  their  floors. 

Never  should  she  behold  her  Father  more. 

Did  then  the  Ocean  wage 

His  war  for  love  and  envy,  not  in  rao-e. 

^, 

O  thou  fair  City,  that  he  spared  thee  thus.' 

^^ 

Art  thou  Varounin's  capital  and  court, 

XVI. 

Where  all  the  Sea  Gods  for  delight  resort. 

A  place  too  godlike  to  be  held  by  us. 

THE   ANCIENT   SEPULCHRES. 

The  poor  degenerate  children  of  the  earth  r 

So  thought  Ladurlad,  as  he  iook'd  around, 

1. 

Weening  to  hear  the  sound 

When  the  broad  Ocean  on  Ladurlad's  head 

Of  Mermaid's  shell,  and  song. 

Had  closed  and  arch'd  him  o'er. 

Of  choral  throng  from  some  imperial  hall, 

With  steady  tread  he  held  his  way 

Wherein  the  Immortal  Powers,  at  festival, 

Adown  the  sloping  shore. 

Their  high  carousals  keep ; 

The  dark-green  waves  with  emerald  hue 

But  all  is  silence  dread. 

Iinbue  the  beams  of  day. 

Silence  profound  and  dead. 

And  on  the  wrinkled  sand  below, 

The  everlasting  stillness  of  the  Deep. 

Rolling  their  mazy  network  to  and  fro, 

Light  shadows  shift  and  play. 

4. 

The  hungry  Shark,  at  scent  of  prey. 

Through  many  a  solitary  street, 

Toward  Ladurlad  darted ; 

And  silent  market-place,  and  lonely  square. 

Beholding  then  that  human  form  erect, 

Arm'd  with  the  mighty  Curse,  behold  him  fare. 

How  like  a  God  the  depths  he  trod, 

And  now  his  feet  attain  that  royal  fane 

Appall'd  the  monster  started, 

Where  Baly  held  of  old  his  awful  reign. 

And  in  his  fear  departed. 

What  once  had  been  the  Gardens  spread  around. 

Onward  Ladurlad  went  with  heart  elate. 

Fair  Gardens,  once  which  wore  perpetual  green. 

And  now  hath  reach'd  the  Ancient  City's  gate. 

Where  all  sweet  flowers  through  all  the  year  were 

found. 

2. 

And  all  fair  fruits  were  through  all  seasons  seen ; 

Wondering  he  stood  awhile  to  gaze 

A  place  of  Paradise,  where  each  device 

Upon  the  works  of  elder  days. 

Of  emulous  Art  with  Nature  strove  to  vie  ; 

The  brazen  portals  open  stood. 

And  Nature,  on  her  part. 

Zven  as  the  fearful  multitude 

Call'd  forth  new  powers  wherewith  to  vanquish 

Had  left  them,  when  they  fled 

Art. 

Before  the  rising  flood. 

The  Swerga-God  himself,  with  envious  eye, 

High  overhead,  sublime. 

Survey'd  those  peerless  gardens  in  their  prime; 

The  mighty  gateway's  storied  roof  was  spread. 

Nor  ever  did  the  Lord  of  Light, 

Dwarfing  the  puny  piles  of  younger  time. 

Who  circles  Earth  and  Heaven  upon  his  way, 

With  the  deeds  of  days  of  yore 

Behold  from  eldest  time  a  goodlier  sight 

That  ample  roof  was  sculptured  o'er, 

Than  were  the  groves  which  Baly,  in  his  might, 

And  many  a  godlike  form  there  met  his  eye. 

Made  for  his  chosen  place  of  solace  and  delight. 

And  many  an  emblem  dark  of  mystery. 

Through  these  wide  portals  oft  had  Baly  rode 

5. 

Triumphant  from  his  proud  abode. 

It  was  a  Garden  still  beyond  all  price  ; 

When,  in  his  greatness,  he  bestrode 

Even  yet  it  was  a  place  of  Paradise ; 

The  Aullay,  hugest  of  four-footed  kind, 

For  where  the  mighty  Ocean  could  not  spare, 

The  Aullay-Horse,  that  in  his  force, 

There  had  he,  with  his  own  creation, 

With  elephantine  trunk,  could  bind 

Sought  to  repair  his  work  of  devastation . 

And  lift  the  elephant,  and  on  the  wind 

And  here  were  coral  bowers. 

Whirl  him  away,  with  sway  and  swing, 

And  grots  of  madrepores. 

Even  like  a  pebble  from  the  practis'd  sling. 

And  banks  of  sponge,  as  soft  and  fair  to  eye 

As  e'er  was  mossy  bed 

3. 

Whereon  the  Wood  Nymphs  lie, 

Those  streets  which  never,  since  the  days  of  yore. 

With  languid  limbs,  in  summer's  sultry  hours 

By  human  footstep  had  been  visited. 

Here,  too,  were  living  flowers 

Those  streets  which  never  more 

Which,  like  a  bud  compacted. 

A  human  foot  shall  tread. 

Their  purple  cups  contracted, 

Ladurlad  trod.     In  sun-light  and  sea-green. 

And  now,  in  open  blossom  spread. 

The  thousand  Palaces  were  seen 

Stretch 'd  like  green  anthers  many  a  seeking  head 

Of  that  proud  City,  whose  superb  abodes 

And  arborets  of  jointed  ston*  were  there. 

Seem'd  rear'd  by  Giants  for  the  immortal  Gods. 

And  plants  of  fibres  fine,  as  silkworm's  thread, 

How  silent  and  how  beautiful  they  stand, 

Yea,  beautiful  as  Mermaid's  golden  hair 

XVI.                                      THE    CURSE    OF    KEH  AM  A.                                        59y 

Upon  the  waves  dispread. 

9. 

Others  that,  hkc  the  broad  banana  growinsr, 

Trembling  with  hope,  the  adventurous  man  de- 

Raised their  long,  wrinkled  leaves  of  purple  hue, 

scended. 

Like  streamers  wide  outflowing. 

The  sea-green  liglit  of  day 

And  whatsoe'er  tlie  depths  of  Ocean  hide 

Not  far  along  the  vault  extended; 

From  human  eyes,  Ladurlad  there  espied,  — 

But  where  the  slant  reflection  ended, 

Trees   of  the   deep,  and   shrubs,  and   fruits,  and 

Another  light  was  seen 

flowers, 

Of  red  and  fiery  hue. 

As  fair  as  ours. 

That  with  the  water  blended, 

Wherewith  the  Sea  Nymphs  love  their   locks   to 

And  gave  the  secrets  of  the  Tombs  to  view. 

braid. 

When  to  their  father's  hall,  at  festival 

10. 

Repairing,  they,  in  emulous  array, 

Deep  in  the  marble  rock,  the  Hall 

Their  charms  display, 

Of  Death  was  hollow'd  out,  a  chamber  wide, 

To  grace  the  banquet  and  the  solemn  day. 

Low-roof 'd,  and  long;  on  cither  side, 

Each  in  his  own  alcove,  and  on  his  throne, 

6. 

The  Kings  of  old  were  seated  :  in  his  hand 

The  golden  fountains  had  not  ceased  to  flow  ; 

Each  held  the  sceptre  of  command. 

And  where  they  mingled  with  the  briny  Sea, 

From  whence,  across  that  scene  of  endless  night, 

There  was  a  sight  of  wonder  and  delight. 

A  carbuncle  diff"used  its  everlasting  light. 

To  see  the  fish,  like  birds  in  air, 

Above  Ladurlad  flying. 

IL 

Round  those  strange  waters  they  repair, 

So  well  had  tlie  enibalniers  done  their  part 

Their  scarlet  fins  outspread  and  plying; 

With  spice  and  precious  unguents  to  imbue 

They  float  with  gentle  hovering  there ; 

The  perfect  corpse,  that  each  had  still  the  hue 

And  now,  upon  those  little  wings, 

Of  living  man,  and  every  limb  was  still 

As  if  to  dare  forbidden  thinjis, 

Supple,  and  firm,  and  full,  as  when  of  yore 

With  wilful  purpose  bent. 

Its  motion  answered  to  the  moving  will. 

Swifl  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow. 

The  robes  of  royalty,  which  once  they  wore. 

They  shoot  across,  and  to  and  fro, 

Long   since   had   mouldered   off",    and   left   them 

In  rapid  glance,  like  lightning  go 

bare : 

Through  that  unwonted  element. 

Naked  upon  their  thrones  behold  them  there, 

Statues  of  actual  flesh  —  a  fearful  sight ! 

7. 

Their  large  and  rayless  eyes. 

Almost  in  scenes  so  wondrous  fair. 

Dimly  reflecting  to  that  gem-born  light. 

Ladurlad  had  forgot 

Glazed,  fix'd,  and  meaningless,  —  yet,  open  wide, 

The  mighty  cause  which  led  him  there; 

Their  ghastly  balls  belied 

His  busy  eye  was  every  where  ; 

The  mockery  of  life  in  all  beside. 

His  mind  had  lost  all  thought; 

His  heart,  surrender'd  to  the  joys 

12. 

Of  sight,  was  happy  as  a  boy's. 

But  if,  amid  these  chambers  drear. 

But  soon  the  awakening  thouglit  recurs 

Death  were  a  siglit  of  shuddering  and  of  fear. 

Of  hiin  wlio  in  the  Sepulchres, 

Life  was  a  thing  of  stranger  horror  here. 

Hopeless  of  human  aid,  in  chains  is  laid; 

For  at  the  farther  end,  in  yon  alcove, 

And  her  who,  on  the  solitary  shore. 

Where  Baly  should  have  lain,  had  he  obey'd 

By  nigiit  and  day,  her  weary  watch  will  keep. 

Man's  common  lot,  behold  Ereenia  laid. 

Till  she  shall  see  them  issuing  from  tlie  deep. 

Strong  fetters  link  him  to  the  rock ;  his  eye 

Now  rolls  and  widens,  as  with  effort  vain 

8. 

He  strives  to  break  the  chain. 

Now  hath  Ladurlad  rcach'd  the  Court 

Now  seems  to  brood  upon  his  misery. 

Of  the  great  Pahice  of  the  King:   its  floor 

Before  him  couch'd  there  lay 

Was  of  the  marble  rock:   and  there,  before 

One  of  the  mighty  monsters  of  the  deep. 

The  imperial  door, 

Whom  Lorrinite,  encountering  on  the  way. 

A  mighty  Lnage  on  the  steps  was  seen. 

There  station'd,  his  perpe'ja.'  guard  to  keep; 

Of  stature  huge,  of  countenance  serene. 

In  the  sport  of  wanton  power,  sne  cnarm'd  hun 

A  crown  and  sceptre  at  liis  feet  were  laid  ; 

there. 

One  hand  a  scroll  display  d  ; 

As  if  to  mock  the  Glendoveer's  despair. 

The  other  pointed  there,  that  all  might  see ; 

My  name  is  Deatli,  it  said  ; 

13. 

In  mercy  have  the  Gods  np])ointed  me. 

Upward  his  form  was  human,  save  that  here 

Two  brazen  gates  beneatli  h'un,  niglit  and  day, 

The  skin  was  cover'd  o'er  with  scale  on  scale 

Stood  open;  and  within  them  j'ou  behold 

Compact,  a  panoply  of  natural  mail. 

Descending  steps,  which  in  the  living  stone 

His  mo\itl),  from  car  to  car, 

Were  hewn,  a  spacious  way 

Weapon'd  with  triple  teeth,  extended  wide, 

Down  to  the  Chambers  of  the  Kings  of  old. 

And  tusks  on  either  side; 

GOO 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


XVI. 


A  double  snake  below,  he  roH'd 
His  supple  length  behind  in  many  a  sinuous  fold. 

14 

With  red  and  kindling  eye,  tlie  Beast  beholds 

A  living  man  draw  nigh. 

And  rising  on  his  folds. 

In  hungry  joy  awaits  the  expected  feast. 

His  mouth  half  open,  and  his  teeth  unsheath'd. 

Then  on  he  sprung,  and  in  his  scaly  arms 

Seized  him,  and  fasten'd  on  his  neck,  to  suck. 

With  greedy  lips,  the  warm  life-blood :  and  sure 

But  for  the  mighty  power  of  magic  charms. 

As  easily  as,  in  the  blithesome  hour 

Of  spring,  a  child  doth  crop  the  meadow-flower, 

Piecemeal  those  claws 

Had  rent  their  victim,  and  those  armed  jaws 

Snapp'd  him  in  twain.     Naked  Ladurlad  stood, 

Yet  fearless  and  unharm'd  in  this  dread  strife. 

So  well  Kehama's  Curse  had  charm'd  his  fated  life. 

15. 

He  too,  —  for  anger,  rising  at  the  siglit 

Of  him  he  sought,  in  such  strange  thrall  confined. 

With  desperate  courage  fired  Ladurlad's  mind, — 

He  too  unto  the  fight  himself  address'd, 

And  grappling  breast  to  breast, 

With  foot  firm-planted  stands. 

And  seized  tlie  monster's  throat  with  both  his  hands. 

Vainly,  with  tJirottling  grasp,  he  press'd 

The  impenetrable  scales ; 

And  lo  1  the  Guard  rose  up,  and  round  his  foe, 

With  gliding  motion,  wreath'd  his  lengthening 

coils, 

Then  tighten'd  all  their  folds  with  stress  and  strain. 

Nought  would  the  raging  Tiger's  strength  avail, 

If  once  involved  within  those  mighty  toils; 

The  arm'd  Rhinoceros,  so  clasp'd,  in  vain 

Had  trusted  to  his  hide  of  rugged  mail, 

His  bones  all  broken,  and  the  breath  of  life 

Crusli'd  from  tiie  lungs,  in  that  unequal  strife. 

Again,  and  yet  again,  he  sought  to  break 

The  impassive  limbs;  but  when  the  Monster  found 

His  utmost  power  was  vain, 

A  moment  he  rclax'd  in  every  round, 

Then  knit  his  coils  again  with  closer  strain, 

And,  bearing  forward,  forced  him  to  the  ground. 

16. 

Ereenia  groan'd  in  anguish  at  the  sight 
Of  this  dread  fight :  once  more  the  Glendovoer 

Essay'd  to  break  his  bonds,  and  fear 

For  that  brave  father  who  had  sought  him  here. 

Stung  him  to  wilder  stragglings.     From  tlie  rock 

He  raised  himself  half  up,  with  might  and  main, 

Pluckd  at  the  adamantine  chain. 

And  now,  with  long  and  unrelaxing  strain. 

In  obstinate  effort  of  indignant  strength, 

Labor'd  and  strove  in  vain  ; 

Till  his  immortal  sinews  fail'd  at  Icngtli ; 

And  yielding,  with  an  inward  groan,  to  fate, 

Despairingly,  he  lot  himself  again 

Fall  prostrate  on  his  prison-bed  of  stone. 

Body  and  chain  alike  with  lifeless  weight. 


17. 

Struggling  they  lay  in  mortal  fray 

All  day,  while  day  was  in  our  upper  sphere ; 

For  light  of  day 

And  natural  darkness  never  entered  here ; 

All  night,  with  unabated  might, 

They  waged  the  unremitting  fight. 

A  second  day,  a  second  night. 

With  furious  will  tliey  wrestled  still. 

The  third  came  on,  the  fourth  is  gone; 

Another  comes,  another  goes; 

And  yet  no  respite,  no  repose ! 

But  day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Involv'd  in  mortal  strife  they  lay ; 
Six  days  and  nights  have  pass'd  away. 
And  still  they  wage,  with  nmtual  rage. 

The  unremitting  fray. 

With  mutual  rage  their  war  they  wage. 

But  not  with  mutual  will ; 

For  when  the  seventh  morning  came. 

The  monster's  worn  and  wearied  frame 

In  this  strange  contest  fails ; 

And  weaker,  weaker,  every  hour, 

He  yields  beneath  strong  Nature's  power, 

For  now  the  Curse  prevails 

18. 

Sometimes  the  Beast  sprung  up  to  bear 

His  foe  aloft;  and  trusting  there 

To  shake  him  from  his  hold, 

Relax'd  the  rings  that  wreaih'd  him  round; 

But  on  his  throat  Ladurlad  hung, 

And  weigh'd  him  to  the  ground ; 

And  if  they  sink,  or  if  tliey  float. 

Alike  with  stubborn  clasp  he  clung, 

Tenacious  of  his  grasp ; 

For  well  he  knew  with  what  a  power, 

Exempt  from  Nature's  laws. 

The  Curse  had  arm'd  him  for  this  hour; 

And  in  the  monster's  gasping  jaws, 

And  in  his  hollow  eye. 

Well  could  Ladurlad  now  descry 

The  certain  signs  of  victory. 

19. 

And  now  the  Beast  no  more  can  keep 

His  painful  watch;  his  eyes,  oppress'd, 

.   Are  fainting  for  their  natural  sleep ; 

His  living  flesh  and  blood  must  rest; 

The  Beast  must  sleep  or  die. 

Then  he,  full  faint  and  languidly, 

Unwreathes  his  rings  and  strives  to  fly, 

And  still  retreating,  slowly  trails 

His  stiff"  and  heavy  length  of  scales. 

But  that  unweariable  foe, 

With  will  relentless  follows  still ; 

No  breathing-time,  no  pause  of  fight 

He  gives,  but  presses  on  his  flight ; 

Along  the  vaulted  chambers,  and  the  ascent 

Up  to  the  emerald-tinted  light  of  day, 

He  harasses  his  way. 

Till  lifeless,  underneath  his  grasp, 

The  huge  Sea  Monster  lay. 


xvn. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


GUI 


20. 

That  obstinate  work  is  done  ;  Ladurlad  cried, 

One  labor  yet  remains  ! 

And  tlioughttully  lie  eyed 

Ereenia's  ponderous  chains ; 

And  with  faint  etlort,  half-despairinjr,  tried 

The  rivets  deep  in-driven.     Instinctively, 

As  if  in  search  of  aid,  he  look'd  around  : 

Oh,  then  how  gladly,  in  the  near  alcove, 

Fallen  on  the  ground  its  lifeless  Lord  beside. 

The  crescent  ciraeter  he  spied, 

Whose  cloudy  blade,  with  potent  spells  imbued. 

Had  lain  so  many  an  age  unhurt  in  solitude  I 

21. 

Joyfully  springing  there. 

He  seized  the  weapon,  and  with  eager  stroke 

Hew'd  at  the  chain ;  the  force  was  dealt  in  vain. 

For  not  as  if  through  yielding  air 

Pass'd  the  descending  ciineter. 

Its  deaden'd  way  the  heavy  water  broke ; 

Yet  it  bit  deep.     Again,  with  both  his  hands. 

He  wields  the  blade,  and  dealt  a  surer  blow. 

The  baser  metal  yields 

To  that  fine  edge,  and  lo !  the  Glendovcer 

Rises  and  snaps  the  half-sever'd  links,  and  stands 

Freed  from  his  broken  bands. 


XVII. 


BALY. 


Tins  is  the  appointed  night, 

The  night  of  joy  and  consecrated  mirth, 

When  from  his  judgment-scat  in  Padalon, 

By  Yamen's  throne, 

Baly  goes  forth,  that  he  may  walk  the  Earth 

Unseen,  and  hear  his  name 

Still  hymn'd  and  honor'd  by  the  grateful  voice 

Of  human-kind,  and  in  his  fame  rejoice. 

Therefore,  from  door  to  door,  and  street  to  street, 

With  willing  feet. 
Shaking  their  firebands,  the  glad  children  run  ; 

Baly!  great  Baly!  they  acclaim; 

Where'er  they  run  they  bear  the  mighty  name ; 

Where'er  they  meet, 

Baly  !  great  Baly  !  still  their  choral  tongues  repeat. 

Therefore  at  every  door  the  votive  flame 

Through  pendent  lanterns  sheds  its  painted  light, 

And  rockets,  hissing  upward  through  the  sky. 

Fall  like  a  shower  of  stars 

From  Heaven's  black  canopy. 

Therefore,  on  yonder  mountain's  templed  height. 

The  brazen  caldron  blazes  through  the  night. 

Huge  as  a  Ship  that  travels  the  main  sea 

Is  that  capacious  brass ;  its  wick  as  tall 

As  is  the  mast  of  some  great  admiral. 

Ten  thousand  votaries  bring 

Camphor  and  ghee  to  feed  the  sacred  flame ; 

And  while,  through  regions  round,  the  nations  see 

Its  fiery  pillar  curling  high  in  heaven, 

Baly  !  great  Baly  !  they  exclaim, 

76 


Forever  hallowed  be  his  blessed  name  I 
Honor  and  praise  to  him  for  evermore  be  given  . 

2. 

Why  art  not  thou  among  the  festive  throng, 

Baly,  O  righteous  Judge  !  to  hear  thy  fame.'' 

Still,  as  of  yore,  with  pageantry  and  song, 

The  glowing  streets  along, 

They  celebrate  thy  name ; 

Baly  I  great  Baly  !  still 

The  grateful  habitants  of  Earth  acclaim, 

Baly  !  great  Baly  !  still 

The  ringing  walls  and  echoing  towers  proclaim. 

From  yonder  mountain  the  portentous  flame 

Still  blazes  to  the  nations,  as  before  ; 

All  things  appear  to  human  eyes  the  same. 

As  perfect  as  of  yore  ; 

To  human  eyes,  —  but  how  unlike  to  thine  I 

Thine,  which  were  wont  to  see 

The  Company  divine. 

That  with  their  presence  came  to  honor  thee ! 

For  all  the  blessed  ones  of  mortal  birth 

Who  have  been  clothed  with  immortality, 

From  the  eight  corners  of  the  Earth, 

From  the  Seven  Worlds  assembling,  all 

Wont  to  attend  thy  solemn  festival. 

Then  did  thine  eyes  behold 

The  wide  air  peopled  with  that  glorious  train ; 

Now  mayst  thou  seek  the  blessed  ones  in  vain, 

For  Earth  and  Air  are  now  beneath  the  Rajah's 

reign. 

3. 

Therefore  the   righteous  Judge  hath  walk'd  the 

Earth 

In  sorrow  and  in  solitude  to-night 

The  sound  of  human  mirth 

To  him  is  no  delight ; 

He  turns  away  from  that  ungrateful  sight, 

Hallowed  not  now  by  visitants  divine, 

And  there  he  bends  his  melancholy  way, 

Where,  in  yon  full-orb'd  Moon's  refulgent  light, 

The  Golden  Towers  of  his  old  City  shine 

Above  the  silver  sea.     The  ancient  Chief 

There  bent  his  way  in  grief, 

As  if  sad  thoughts  indulged  would  work  their  own 

relief. 


There  he  beholds,  upon  the  sand, 

A  lovely  Maiden  in  the  moonlight  stand. 

The  land-breeze  lifts  her  locks  of  jet ; 

The  waves  around  her  polish'd  ankles  play  , 

Her  bosom  with  the  salt  sea-spray  is  wet ; 

Her  arms  are  cross'd,  unconsciously,  to  fold 

That  bosom  from  the  cold, 

While,  statue-like,  she  seems  her  watch  to  keep. 

Gazing  intently  on  the  restless  deep. 

5. 

Seven  miserable  days  had  Kailyal  there, 

From  earliest  dawn  till  evening,  watch'd  the  deep; 

Six  nights,  within  the  chamber  of  the  rock. 

Had  laid  her  down,  and  found  in  prayer 

That  comfort  which  she  sought  in  vain  from  sleep 

But  when  the  seventh  night  came, 


602                                      THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                     xvii. 

Never  should  she  behold  her  father  more, 

The  Asuras  once  again  appear. 

The  wretched  Maiden  said,  in  her  despair ; 

And  seize  Ladurlad  and  the  Glcndoveer. 

Yet  would  not  quit  the  shore, 

Nor  turn  her  eyes  one  moment  from  the  sea  : 

11. 

Never  before 

Hold  your  accursed  hands  ! 

Had  Kailyal  watch'd  it  so  impatiently, 

A  voice  exclaim'd,  whose  dread  commands 

Never  so  eagerly  had  hoped  before, 

Were  fear'd  through  all  the  vaults  of  Padalon ; 

As  now,  when  she  believed,  and  said,  all  hope  was 

And  there  among  them,  in  the  midnight  air. 

o'er. 

The  presence  of  the  mighty  Baly  shone. 

He,  making  manifest  his  mightiness. 

6. 

Put  forth  on  every  side  a  hundred  arms. 

Beholding  her,  how  beautiful  she  stood. 

And  seized  the  Sorceress ;  maugre  all  her  charms. 

In  that  wild  solitude. 

Her  and  her  fiendish  ministers  he  caught 

Baly  from  his  invisibility 

With  force  as  uncontrollable  as  fate, 

Had  issued  then,  to  know  her  cause  of  woe ; 

And  tiiat  unhappy  Soul,  to  whom 

But  that  in  the  air  beside  her,  he  espied 

The  Almiglity  Rajah's  power  availeth  not 

Two  Powers  of  Evil  for  her  hurt  allied, 

Living  to  avert,  nor  dead  to  mitigate. 

Foul  Arvalan  and  dreadful  Lorrinite. 

His  righteous  doom. 

Walking  in  darkness  him  they  could  not  see. 

And  marking  with  what  demon-like  delight 

12. 

They  kept  their  innocent  prey  in  sight. 

Help,  help,  Keliama  !  Father,  help  !  he  cried ; 

He  waits,  expecting  what  the  end  may  be. 

But  Baly  tarried  not  to  abide 

That  mightier  Power ;  with  irresistible  feet 

7. 

He  stamp'd  and  cleft  the  Earth ;  it  open'd  wide. 

She  starts ;  for  lo !  where,  floating  many  a  rood, 

And  gave  him  way  to  his  own  Judgment-seat. 

A  Monster,  hugest  of  the  Ocean  brood. 

Down,  like  a  plummet,  to  the  World  below 

Weltering  and  lifeless,  drifts  toward  the  shore. 

He  sunk,  and  bore  his  prey 

Backward  she  starts  in  fear  before  the  flood. 

To  punishment  deserved,  and  endless  woe. 

And,  when  the  waves  retreat, 

They  leave  their  hideous  burden  at  her  feet. 

8. 
She  ventures  to  approach  with  timid  tread ; 

XVIII. 

She  starts,  and  half  draws  back  in  fear, 

Then  stops,  and  stretches  out  her  head, 

KEHAMA'S  DESCENT. 

To  see  if  that  huge  Beast  indeed  be  dead. 

Now,  growing  bold,  tlic  Maid  advances  near. 

1. 

Even  to  the  margin  of  the  ocean-flood. 

The  Earth,  by  Baly's  feet  divided. 

Rightly  she  reads  her  Father's  victory. 

Closed  o'er  his  way  as  to  the  Judgment-seat 

And  lifts  her  joyous  hands  cxultingly 

He  plunged  and  bore  his  prey. 

To  Heaven  in  gratitude. 

Scarce  had  the  shock  subsided. 

Then,  spreading  them  toward  the  Sea, 

When,  darting  from  the  Swerga's  heavenly  heights, 

While  pious  tears  bedim  her  streaming  eyes. 

Kehama,  like  a  thunderbolt,  alights. 

Come  !  come  !  my  Father,  come  to  me ; 

In  wrath  he  came ;  a  bickering  flame 

Ereenia,  come  !  she  cries  ; 

Flash'd  from  his  eyes,  which  made  the  moonlight 

Lo  !  from  the  opening  deep  they  rise. 

dim. 

And  to  Ladurlad's  arms  the  iiappy  Kailyal  flies. 

And  passion  forcing  way  from  every  limb, 

Like  furnace-smoke,  with  terrors  wrapt  him  round. 

9. 

Furious  he  smote  the  ground  ; 

She  turn'd  from  him,  to  meet,  with  beating  heart. 

Earth  trembled  underneath  the  dreadful  stroke, 

The  Glendoveer's  embrace. 

Again  in  sunder  riven ; 

Now  turn  to  me,  for  mine  thou  art ! 

He  hurl'd  in  rage  his  whirling  weapon  down. 

Foul  Arvalan  exclaim'd;  his  loathsome  face 

But  lo  !  the  fiery  sheckra  to  his  feet 

Came  forth,  and  from  the  air, 

Return'd,  as  if  by  equal  force  re-driven, 

In  fleshly  form,  he  burst. 

And  from  the  abyss  the  voice  of  Baly  came  , 

Always  in  horror  and  despair. 

Not  yet,  O  Rajah,  hast  thou  won 

Had  Kailyal  seen  that  form  and  face  accurs'd ; 

The  realms  of  Padalon  ! 

But  yet  so  sharp  a  pang  had  ne'er 

Earth  and  the  Swerga  are  thine  own; 

Shot  with  a  thrill  like  death  through  all  her  frame. 

But,  till  Kehama  shall  subdue  the  throne 

As  now  when  on  her  hour  of  joy  the  Spectre  came. 

Of  Hell,  in  torments  Yamen  holds  his  son 

10. 
Vain  is  resistance  now ; 

2. 
Fool  that  he  is  !  —  in  torments  let  him  lie  ' 

The  fiendish  laugh  of  Lorrinite  is  heard  ; 

Kehama,  wrathful  at  his  son,  replied. 

And  at  her  dreadful  word, 

But  what  am  I, 

XVIII. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


G03 


That  thou  shouldst  brave  me?  —  kindling  in  his 

pride 

The  dreadful  Rajah  cried. 

IIo  !  Yamen  !  hear  me.     God  of  Padalon, 

Prepare  thy  throne, 

And  let  the  Amreeta  cup 

Be  ready  for  my  lips,  when  1  anon 

Triumphantly  shall  take  my  seat  thereon, 

And  plant  upon  thy  neck  my  royal  feet. 

3. 

In  voice  like  thunder  thus  the  Rajah  cried, 

Impending  o'er  the  abyss,  with  menacing  hand 

Put  forth,  as  in  the  action  of  command, 

And  eyes  that  darted  their  red  anger  down. 

Then,  drawing  back,  he  let  the  earth  subside, 

And,  as  his  wrath  relax'd,  survey'd, 

Thoughtfully  and  silently,  the  mortal  Maid. 

Her  e^'e  the  while  was  on  the  farthest  sky. 

Where  up  the  ethereal  height 

Ereenia  rose  and  pass'd  away  from  sight. 

Never  had  she  so  joyfully 

Beheld  the  coming  of  the  Glendoveer, 

Dear  as  he  was  and  he  deserved  to  be. 

As  now  she  saw  him  rise  and  disappear. 

Come  now  what  will,  within  her  heart  said  she  ; 

For  thou  art  safe,  and  what  have  I  to  fear .' 


Meantime  the  Almighty  Rajah,  late 

In  power,  and  majesty,  and  wrath  array'd. 

Had  laid  his  terrors  by, 

And  gazed  upon  the  Maid. 

Pride  could  not  quit  his  eye, 

Nor  that  remorseless  nature  from  his  front 

Depart;  yet  whoso  had  beheld  him  then, 

Had  felt  some  admiration  mix'd  with  dread. 

And  might  have  said, 

That  sure  he  seem'd  to  be  the  King  of  Men  ! 

Less  than  the  greatest  that  he  could  not  be. 

Who  carried  in  his  port  such  might  and  majesty. 


In  fear  no  longer  for  the  Glendoveer, 

Now  toward  the  Rajah  Kailyal  turn'd  her  eyes, 

As  if  to  ask  what  doom  awaited  her. 

But  then  surprise, 

Even  as  with  fascination,  held  them  there  ; 

So  strange  a  thing  it  seem'd  to  see  the  change 

Of  purport  in  that  all-commanding  brow, 

Wliich  thoughtfully  was  bent  upon  her  now. 

Wondering  she  gazed,  the  while  her  Father's  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  Kehama  haughtily ; 

It  spake  defiance  to  him,  high  disdain, 

Stern  patience  unsubduable  by  pain. 

And  pride  triumphant  over  agony. 

6. 

Ladurlad,  said  the  Rajah,  thou  and  I 

Alike  have  done  the  work  of  Destiny, 

Unknowing  each  to  what  the  impulse  tended  ; 

But  now  that  over  Earth  and  Heaven  my  reign 

Is  stablish'd,  and  the  ways  of  Fate  are  plain 

Before  me,  here  our  enmity  is  ended. 

I  take  away  thy  Curse.  —  As  thus  he  said, 


The  fire  which  in  Ladurlad's  heart  and  brain 

Was  burning,  fled,  and  left  him  free  from  pain. 

So  rapidly  his  torments  were  departed. 

That  at  the  sudden  case  he  started. 

As  with  a  shock,  and  to  his  head 

His  hands  up-fled. 

As  if  he  felt  through  every  failing  limb 

The  power  and  sense  of  life  forsaking  him. 

7. 

Then  turning  to  the  Maid,  the  Rajah  cried, 

O  Virgin,  above  all  of  mortal  birth 

Favor'd  alike  in  beauty  and  in  worth, 

And  in  the  glories  of  thy  destiny. 

Now  let  thy  happy  heart  exult  with  pride. 

For  Fate  hath  chosen  thee 

To  be  Kehama's  bride. 

To  be  the  Queen  of  Heaven  and  Earth, 

And  of  whatever  Worlds  beside 

Infinity  may  hide ;  for  I  can  see 

The  writing  which,  at  thy  nativity. 

All-knowing  Nature  wrought  upon  thy  brain. 

In  branching  veins,  which  to  the  gifted  eye 

Map  out  the  mazes  of  futurity. 

There  is  it  written,  Maid,  that  thou  and  I, 

Alone  of  human  kind  a  deathless  pair. 

Arc  doom'd  to  share 

The  Amreeta-drink  divine 

Of  immortality.     Come,  Maiden  mme  ! 

High-fated  One,  ascend  the  subject  sky, 

And  by  Kehavna's  side 
Sit  on  the  Swerga  throne,  his  equal  bride. 

8. 

Oh  never,  —  never,  —  Father  !     Kailyal  cried ; 

It  is  not  as  he  saith,  —  it  cannot  be  ! 

I !  —  I  his  bride  ! 

Nature  is  never  false  ;  he  wrongeth  her ! 

My  heart  belies  such  lines  of  destiny. 

There  is  no  other  true  interpreter  ! 


At  that  reply,  Kehama's  darkening  brow 

Bewray'd  the  anger  which  he  yet  suppress'd ; 

Counsel  thy  daughter !  tell  her  thou  art  now 

Free  from  thy  Curse,  he  said,  and  bid  her  bow 

In  thankfulness  to  Fate's  benign  behest. 

Bid  her  her  stubborn  will  restrain, — 

For  Destiny  at  last  must  bo  obey'd, — 

And  tell  her,  while  obedience  is  delay 'd. 

Thy  Curse  will  burn  again. 

10. 
She  needeth  not  my  counsel,  he  replied. 
And  idly.  Rajah,  dost  thou  reason  thus 
Of  Destiny  !  for  though  all  other  things 
Were  subject  to  the  starry  influcncuigs. 
And  bow'd  submissive  to  thy  tyrsflPjy, 
The  virtuous  heart  and  resolute  mind  are  free. 

Thus  in  their  wisdom  did  the  Gods  decree 

Wlicn  they  created  man.     Let  come  what  will 

This  is  our  rock  of  strength  ;  in  every  ill, 

Sorrow,  oppression,  pain,  and  agony, 

Tiic  spirit  of  the  good  is  unsubdued. 

And,  suff'er  as  they  may,  they  triumph  still. 


604 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


XIX, 


11. 

Obstinate  fools  !  exclaim'd  the  Mighty  One  ; 

Fate  and  my  pleasure  must  be  done, 

And  ye  resist  in  vain  ! 

Take  your  fit  guerdon  till  we  meet  again  ! 

So  saying,  his  vindictive  hand  he  flung 

Towards  them,  fiU'd  with  curses ;  then  on  high 

Aloft  he  sprung,  and  vanish'd  through  the  Sky. 


XIX. 


MOUNT  CALASAY. 


The  Rajah,  scattering  curses  as  he  rose, 

Soar'd  to  the  Swerga,  and  resumed  his  throne. 

Not  for  his  own  redoubled  agony. 

Which  now,  through  heart  and  brain, 

With  renovated  pain, 

Rush'd  to  its  seat,  Ladurlad  breathes  that  groan. 

That  groan  is  for  his  child ;  he  groan'd  to  see 

That  she  was  stricken  now  with  leprosy. 

Which,  as  the  enemy  vindictive  fled, 

O'er  all  her  frame  with  quick  contagion  spread. 

She,  wondering  at  events  so  passing  strange, 

And  fill'd  with  hope  and  fear. 

And  joy  to  see  the  Tyrant  disappear, 

And  glad  expectance  of  her  Glendoveer, 

Perceived  not  in  herself  the  hideous  change. 

His  burning   pain,  she   thought,  had  forced    the 

groan 

Her  father  breathed  ;  his  agonies  alone 

Were  present  to  her  mind ;  she  clasp'd  his  knees. 

Wept  for  his  Curse,  and  did  not  feel  her  own. 


Nor,  when  she  saw  her  plague,  did  her  good  heart. 

True  to  itself,  even  for  a  moment  fail. 

Ha,  Rajah  !  with  disdainful  smile  she  cries, 

Mighty,  and  wise,  and  wicked  as  thou  art, 

Still  thy  blind  vengeance  acts  a  friendly  part. 

Shall  I  not  tlwink  thee  for  this  scurf  and  scale 

Of  dire  deformity,  whose  loathsomeness, 

Surer  than  panoply  of  strongest  mail. 

Arms  me  against  all  foes .''    Oh,  better  so, 

Better  such  foul  disgrace. 

Than  that  this  innocent  face 

Should  tempt  thy  wooing  !    That  I  need  not  dread  : 

Nor  ever  impious  foe 

Will  offer  outrage  now,  nor  further  woe 

Will  beauty  draw  on  my  unhappy  head  ; 

Safe  through  the  unholy  world  may  Kailyal  go. 

3. 

Her  face,  in  virtuous  pride, 

wK     Was  lifted  to  the  skies, 

As  him  and  his  poor  vengeance  she  defied  ; 

But  earthward,when  she  ceased,  she  turn'd  her  eyes, 

As  if  she  sought  to  hide 

The  tear  which  in  her  own  despite  would  rise. 

Did  then  the  thought  of  her  own  Glendoveer 

Call  fortli  that  natural  tear .' 

Was  it  a  woman's  fear. 


A  thought  of  earthly  love  which  troubled  her .' 

Like  yon  thin  cloud,  amid  the  moonlight  sky, 

That  flits  before  the  wind. 

And  leaves  no  trace  behind. 

The  womanly  pang  pass'd  over  Kailyal 's  mirwl. 

This  is  a  loathsome  sight  to  human  eye, 

Half  shrinking  at  herself,  the  maiden  thought ; 

Will  it  be  so  to  him .'     Oh,  surely  not  ! 

The  immortal  Powers,  who  see 

Through  the  poor  wrappings  of  mortality. 

Behold  the  soul,  the  beautiful  soul,  within. 

Exempt  from  age  and  wasting  maladies. 

And  undefonn'd,  while  pure  and  free  from  sin. 

This  is  a  loathsome  sight  to  human  eyes. 

But  not  to  eyes  divine, 
Ereenia,  Son  of  Heaven,  oh,  not  to  thine  ! 

4. 

The  wrongful  thought  of  fear,  the  womanly  pain 

Had  pass'd  away  ;  her  heart  was  calm  again. 

She  raised  her  head,  expecting  now  to  see 

The  Glendoveer  appear ; 

Where  hath  he  fled,  quoth  she. 

That  he  should  tarry  now .-'    Oh  !  had  she  known 

Whither   the   adventurous   Son   of    Heaven  was 

flown. 

Strong  as  her  spirit  was,  it  had  not  borne 

The  appalling  thought,  nor  dared  to  hope  for  his 

return. 


For  he  in  search  of  Seeva's  throne  was  gone, 

To  tell  his  tale  of  wrong ; 

In  search  of  Seeva's  own  abode 

The  Glendoveer  began  his  heavenly  road. 

O  wild  emprise  !  above  the  farthest  skies 

Pie  hoped  to  rise  ! 

Him  who  is  throned  beyond  the  reach  of  thought, 

The  Alone,  the  Inaccessible,  he  sought. 

O  wild  emprise  !  for  when,  in  days  of  yore. 

For  proud  preeminence  of  power, 

Brama  and  Veeshnoo,  wild  with  rage,  contended, 

And  Seeva,  in  his  might, 

Their  dread  contention  ended. 

Before  their  sight 

In  form  a  fiery  column  did  he  tower, 

Whose  head  above  the  highest  height  extended. 

Whose  base  below  the  deepest  depth  descended. 

Downward,  its  depth  to  sound, 

Veeshnoo  a  thousand  years  explored 

The  fathomless  profound. 

And  yet  no  base  ho  found  : 

Upward,  to  reach  its  head. 

Ten  myriad  years  the  aspiring  Brama  soar'd. 

And  still,  as  up  he  fled. 

Above  him  still  the  Immeasurable  spread. 

The  rivals  own'd  their  Lord, 

And  trembled  and  adored. 

How  shall  the  Glendoveer  attain 

What  Brama  and  what  Veeshnoo  sought  in  vain  ? 

6. 

Ne'er  did  such  thought  of  lofty  daring  enter 

Celestial  Spirit's  mind.     O  wild  adventure 

That  throne  to  find,  for  he  must  leave  behind 


XIX. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


G05 


Tliis  World,  tli;it  in  tlie  centre, 

Witliin  its  salt-sea  girdle,  lies  confined  ; 

Yea,  the  Seven  Earths  that,  each  with  its  own 

ocean, 

Ring  clasping  ring,  compose  the  mighty  round. 

What  power  of  motion. 
In  less  than  endless  years  shall  bear  him  there, 

Along  the  limitless  extent. 

To  tlie  utmost  bound  of  the  remotest  spheres .' 

What  strength  of  wing 

Suffice  to  pierce  the  Golden  Firmament 

That  closes  all  within  ? 

Yet  he  hath  pass'd  the  measureless  extent. 

And  pierced  the  Golden  Firmament ; 

For  Faith  hath  given  him  power,  and  Space  and 

Time 

Vanish  before  that  energy  sublime. 

Nor  doth  eternal  Night 

And  outer  Darkness  check  his  resolute  flight ; 

By  strong  desire  through  all  he  makes  his  way. 

Till     Seeva's     Seat     appears,  —  behold     Mount 

Calasay  ! 


Behold  the  Silver  Mountain  !  round  about 

Seven  ladders  stand,  so  high,  the  aching  eye, 

Seeking  their  tops  in  vain  amid  the  sky, 

Mig'ht  deem  they  led  from  earth  to  highest  Heaven. 

Ages  would  pass  away. 

And  worlds  with  age  decay, 

Ere  one,  whose  patient  feet,  from  ring  to  ring, 

Must  win  their  upward  way. 

Could  reach  the  summit  of  Mount  Calasay. 

But  that  strong  power  that  nerved  his  wing. 

That  all-surmounting  will. 

Intensity  of  faith  and  holiest  love, 

Sustain'd  Ereenia  still  ; 

And  he  hath  gain'd  the  plain,  the  sanctuary  above. 


Lo,  there  the  Silver  Bell, 

That,  self-sustain'd,  hangs  buoyant  in  the  air ! 

Lo !  the  broad  Table  there,  too  bright 

For  mortal  sight. 

From  whose  four  sides  the  bordering  gems  unite 

Their  harmonizing  rays, 

In  one  mid  fount  of  many-color'd  light. 

The  stream  of  splendor,  flashing  as  it  flows, 

Plays  round,  and  feeds  the  stem  of  yon  celestial 

Rose  I 

Where  is  the  Sage  whose  wisdom  can  declare 

The  hidden  things  of  that  mysterious  flower. 

That  flower  which  serves  all  mysteries  to  bear.'' 

The  sacred  Triangle  is  there. 

Holding  the  Emblem  which  no  tongue  may  tell ; 

Is  this  the  Heaven  of  Heavens,  where  Seeva's  self 

doth  dwell  ? 

9. 

Here  first  the  Glendoveer 

Felt  his  wing  flag,  and  paused  upon  his  flight. 

Was  it  that  fear  came  over  him,  when  here 

He  saw  the  imagined  throne  appear  ? 

Not  so,  for  his  immortal  sight 

Endured  the  Table's  light; 


Distinctly  he  beheld  all  things  around. 

And  doubt  and  wonder  rose  within  his  mind 

That  this  was  all  he  found. 

Howbeit  he  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  spake. 

There  is  oppression  in  the  World  below ; 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  yoke  ;  yea,  in  her  woe 

She  asks  if  the  Avenger's  eye  is  blind  ? 

Awake,  O  Lord,  awake  ! 

Too  long  thy  vengeance  slecpeth.     Holiest  One  ! 

Put  thou  thy  terrors  on  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  strike  the  blow,  in  justice  to  mankind  ! 

10. 

So,  as  he  pray'd,  intenser  faith  he  felt ; 

His  spirit  seem'd  to  melt 

With  ardent  yearnings  of  increasing  love  ; 

Upward  he  turn'd  his  eyes. 

As  if  there  should  be  something  yet  above  ; 

Let  me  not,  Seeva !  seek  in  vain  !  he  cries; 

Thou  art  not  here,  —  for  how  should  these  contaii 

thee  ? 

Thou  art  not  here,  —  for  how  should  I  sustain  thee  .' 

But  thou,  where'er  thou  art, 

Canst  hear  the  voice  of  prayer, 

Canst  read  the  righteous  heart. 

Thy  dwelling  who  can  tell  ? 

Or  who,  O  Lord,  hath  seen  thy  secret  throne  ' 

But  Thou  art  not  alone. 

Not  unapproachable  ! 

O  all-containing  Mind, 

Thou  who  art  every  where, 

Whom  all  who  seek  shall  find. 

Hear  me,  O  Seeva !  hear  the  suppliant's  prayer ! 

11. 

So  saying,  up  he  sprung, 

And  struck  the  Bell,  which  self-suspended  hung 

Before  the  mystic  Rose. 

From  side  to  side  the  silver  tongue 

Melodious  swung,  and  far  and  wide 

Soul-thrilling  tones  of  heavenly  music  runo-. 

Abash'd,  confounded 

It  left  the  Glendoveer ;  yea,  all  astounded 

In  overpowering  fear  and  deep  dismay; 

For  when  that  Bell  had  sounded, 

The  Rose,  with  all  the  mysteries  it  surrounded, 

The  Bell,  the  Table,  and  Mount  Calasay, 

The  holy  Hill  itself,  with  all  thereon. 

Even  as  a  morning  dream,  before  the  day, 

Dissolves  away,  they  faded  and  were  gone. 

12. 

Where  shall  he  rest  his  wing  ?  where  turn  for  flin-ht .' 

For  all  around  is  Light, 

Primal,  essential,  all-pervading  Light! 

Heart  cannot  think,  nor  tongue  declare. 

Nor  eyes  of  Angel  bear 

That  Glory  unimaginably  bright ; 

The  Sun  himself  had  seem'd 

A  speck  of  darkness  there, 

Amid  that  Light  of  Light ! 

13. 

Down  fell  the  Glendoveer ; 
Down  through  all  regions,  to  our  mundane  sphere 


'iOG                                       THE    CURSE 

OF    K  EH  AM  A.                                        xx. 

He  fell ;  but  in  his  ear 

Wiicn  with  unholy  purpose  it  would  pry 

A  Voice,  which  from  within  him  came,  was  heard, 

Into  the  secrets  of  futurity. 

The  indubitable  word 

So  may  it  be  permitted  him  to  see 

Of  Him  to  whom  all  secret  things  are  known  : 

Dimly  the  inscrutable  decree ; 

Go,  ye  who  suffer,  go  to  Yamen's  throne. 

For  to  the  World  below, 

He  hath  the  remedy  for  every  woe ; 

Where  Yamcn  guards  tlie  Amreeta,  we  must  go ; 

He  setteth  right  whate'er  is  wrong  below. 

Thus  Seeva  hath  express'd  his  will ;  even  he. 

The  Holiest,  hath  ordain'd  it ;  there,  he  saith. 
All  wrongs  shall  be  redress'd 

XX. 

By  Yamen,  by  the  righteous  Power  of  Death. 

THE   EMBARKATION. 

5. 

Forthwith  the  Father  and  the  fated  Maid, 

And  that  heroic  Spirit,  who  for  them 

1. 

Such  flight  had  late  essay'd, 

Down  from  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  Ereenia  fell 

The  will  of  Heaven  obey'd. 

Precipitate,  yet  imperceptible 

Tliey  went  their  way  along  the  road 

His  fall ;  nor  had  he  cause  nor  thought  of  fear ; 

That  leads  to  Yamen's  dread  abode. 

And  when  he  came  within  this  mundane  sphere, 

And  felt  that  Earth  was  near, 

6. 

The  Glendoveer  his  azure  wings  expanded. 

Many  a  day  hath  pass'd  away 

And,  sloping  down  the  sky 

Since  they  began  their  arduous  way. 

Toward  the  spot  from  whence  he  sprung  on  high, 

Their  way  of  toil  and  pain  ; 

There  on  the  shore  he  landed. 

And  now  their  weary  feet  attain 

The  Earth's  remotest  bound, 

2. 

Where  outer  Ocean  girds  it  round. 

Kailyal  advanced  to  meet  him, 

But  not  like  other  Oceans  this  ; 

Not  moving  now  as  she  was  wont  to  greet  him. 

Rather  it  secm'd  a  drear  abyss. 

Joy  in  her  eye  and  in  her  eager  pace ; 

Upon  whose  brink  they  stood. 

With  a  calm  smile  of  melancholy  pride 

Oh  !  scene  of  fear  !  the  travellers  hear 

She  met  him  now,  and,  turning  half  aside, 

The  raging  of  the  flood  ; 

Her  warning  hand  repell'd  the  dear  embrace. 

They  hear  how  fearfully  it  roars. 

But  clouds  of  darker  shade  than  night 

3. 

Forever  hovering  round  those  shores. 

Strange  things,  Ereenia,  have  befallen  us  here. 

Hide  all  things  from  their  sight ; 

Tlie  Virgin  said ;  the  Almighty  Man  hath  read 

The  Sun  upon  that  darkness  pours 

The  lines  which,  traced  by  Nature  on  my  brain, 

His  unavailing  light. 

There  to  the  gifted  eye 

Nor  ever  Moon  nor  Stars  display. 

Make  all  my  fortunes  plain. 

Through  the  thick  shade,  one  guiding  ray 

Mapping  the  mazes  of  futurity. 

To  show  the  perils  of  the  way. 

He  sued  for  peace,  for  it  is  written  there 

That  I  with  him  the  Amreeta  cup  must  sliare  ; 

7. 

Wherefore  he  bade  me  come,  and  by  his  side 

There,  in  a  creek,  a  vessel  lay  ; 

Sit  on  the  Swerga-throne,  his  equal  bride. 

Just  on  the  confines  of  the  day. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  what  reply  was  given ; 

It  rode  at  anchor  in  its  bay. 

My  heart,  the  sure  interpreter  of  Heaven, 

These  venturous  pilgrims  to  convey 

His  impious  words  belied. 

Across  that  outer  Sea. 

Thou  seest  his  poor  revenge  !     So  having  said. 

Strange  vessel  sure  it  seem'd  to  be, 

One  look  she  glanced  upon  her  leprous  stain 

And  all  unfit  for  such  wild  sea  ! 

Indignantly,  and  shook 

For  through  its  yawning  side  the  wave 

Her  head  in  calm  disdain 

Was  oozing  in  ;  the  mast  was  frail. 

And  old  and  torn  its  only  sail. 

4. 

How  may  that  crazy  vessel  brave 

0  Maid  of  soul  divine  ! 

The  billows  that  in  wild  commotion 

O  more  than  ever  dear. 

Forever  roar  and  rave .' 

And  more  than  ever  mine. 

How  hope  to  cross  the  dreadful  Ocean 

Replied  the  Glendoveer; 

O'er  which  eternal  shadows  dwell. 

He  hath  not  read,  be  sure,  the  mystic  ways 

Whose  secrets  none  return  to  tell ! 

Of  Fate ;  almighty  as  he  is,  that  maze 

Hath  mock'd  his  fallible  sight. 

8. 

Said  he  the  Amreeta  cup  .'     So  far  aright 

Well  might  the  travellers  fear  to  enter ! 

The  Evil  One  may  see  ;  for  Fate  displays 

But  summon'd  once  on  that  adventure, 

Her  hidden  things  in  part,  and  part  conceals, 

For  them  was  no  retreat. 

Baffling  the  wicked  eye 

Nor  boots  it  with  reluctant  feet 

Alike  with  what  she  hides,  and  what  reveals, 

To  linger  on  the  strand  ; 

XX  i; 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


607 


Aboard  !  aboard  ! 

An  awful  voice,  that  left  no  choice, 

Sent  forth  its  stern  command, 

Aboard  !  aboard  ! 

The  travellers  liear  tliat  voice  in  fear, 

And  breatlie  to  Heaven  an  inward  prayer, 

And  take  their  seats  in  silence  there. 

9. 

Self-hoisted  then,  behold  tlie  sail 

Expands  itself  before  the  gale  ; 

Hiinds  which  they  cannot  see,  let  slip 

Tlie  cable  of  that  fated  Ship  ; 

The  land  breeze  sends  her  on  her  way, 

And  lo  !  they  leave  the  living  light  of  day  ! 


XXI. 
THE   WORLD'S   END. 

1. 

Swift  as  an  arrow  in  its  flight 

The  Ship  shot  through  the  incumbent  night; 

And  they  have  left  behind 

The  raging  billows  and  the  roaring  wind. 

The  storm,  the  darkness,  and  all  mortal  fears  ; 

And  lo  !  another  light 

To  guide  their  way  appears, 

The  light  of  other  spheres. 


That  instant  from  Ladurlad's  heart  and  brain 

The  Curse  was  gone  ;  he  feels  again 

Fresh  as  in  youth's  fair  morning,  and  the  Maid 

Hatli  lost  her  leprous  stain. 

The  Tyrant  then  hath  no  dominion  here, 

Starting,  she  cried  ;  O  happy,  happy  hour  ! 

We  are  beyond  his  power  ! 

Then,  raising  to  tiie  Glendoveer, 

With  heavenly  beauty  bright,  her  angel  face, 

Turn'd    not    reluctant    now,   and   met   his    dear 

embrace. 

3. 

Swift  glides  the  Ship  with  gentle  motion 

Across  that  calm  and  quiet  ocean, 

That  glassy  sea,  which  seem'd  to  be 

The  mirror  of  tranquillity. 

Their  pleasant  passage  soon  was  o'er  ; 

The  Ship  hath  reach'd  its  destined  shore  — 

A  level  belt  of  ice,  which  bound. 

As  with  an  adamantine  mound, 

The  waters  of  the  sleeping  Ocean  round. 

Strange  forms  were  on  the  strand 

Of  earth-born  spirits  slain  before  their  time  ; 

Who,  wandering  over  sea,  and  sky,  and  land. 

Had  so  fulfill'd  their  term;  and  now  were  met 

Upon  this  icy  belt,  a  motley  band. 

Waiting  their  summons  at  the  appointed  hour. 

When   each   before   the  Judgment-seat  must 

stand. 

And  hear  his  doom  from  Baly's  righteous  power. 


Foul  with  habitual  crimes,  a  hideous  crew 

Were  there,  the  race  of  rapine  and  of  blood. 

Now,  having  overpass 'd  the  mortal  flood. 

Their  own  deformity  tliey  knew, 

And  knew  the  meed  that  to  their  deeds  was  due. 

Therefore  in  fear  and  agony  they  stood. 

Expecting  when  the  Evil  Messenger 

Among  them  should  appear.     But  with  llieir  fear 

A  hope  was  mingled  now ; 

O'er  the  dark  shade  of  guilt  a  deeper  hue 

It  threw,  and  gave  a  fiercer  character 

To  the  wild  eye,  and  lip,  and  sinful  brow. 

They  hoped  that  soon  Kehama  would  subdue 

The  inexorable  God,  and  seize  his  throne. 

Reduce  the  infernal  World  to  his  command, 

And,  with  his  irresistible  right  hand. 

Redeem  them  from  liie  vaults  of  Padalon. 


Apart  from  these,  a  milder  company. 

The  victims  of  offences  not  their  own, 

Look'd   when    the    appointed   Messenger   should 

come  ; 

Gather'd  together  some,  and  some  alone 

Brooding  in  silence  on  their  future  doom. 

Widows  whom,  to  their  husbands'  funeral  fire, 

Force  or  strong  error  led,  to  share  the  pyre, 

As  to  their  everlasting  marriage-bed  ; 

And  babes,  by  sin  unstain'd. 

Whom  erring  parents  vow'd 

To  Ganges,  and  the  holy  stream  profaned 

With  that  strange  sacrifice,  rite  unordain'd 

By  Law,  by  sacred  Nature  unallow'd  ; 

Others  more  hapless  in  their  destiny. 

Scarce  having  first  inhaled  their  vital  breath. 

Whose  cradles  from  some  tree 

Unnatural  hands  suspended. 

Then  left,  till  gentle  Death, 

Coming  like  Sleep,  their  feeble  meanings  ended  ; 

Or  for  his  prey  the  ravenous  Kite  descended ; 

Or  marching  like  an  army  from  their  caves. 

The  Pismires  blackcn'd  o'er,  then,  bleach'd  and 

bare. 
Left  their  unharden'd  bones  to  fall  asunder  there. 


Innocent  Souls  !  thus  set  so  early  free 

From  sin,  and  sorrow,  and  mortality, 

Their  spotless  spirits  all-creating  Love 

Received  into  its  universal  breast. 

Yon  blue  serene  above 

Was  their  domain  ;  clouds  pillow'd  them  to  rest; 

The  Elements  on  them  like  nurses  tended. 

And  with  tiieir  growth  ethereal  substance  blended. 

Less  pure  than  these  is  that  strange  Indian  bird. 

Who  never  dips  in  earthly  streams  her  bill. 

But,  when  the  sound  of  coming  showers  is  heard. 

Looks  up,  and  from  the  clouds  receives  her  fill. 
Less  pure  the  footless  fowl  of  Heaven,  tliat  never 

Rest  upon  earth,  but  on  the  wing  forever 

Hovering  o'er  flowers,  their  fragrant  food  inhale, 

Drink  the  descending  dew  upon  its  way. 

And  sleep  aloft  while  floating  on  the  gale 


608 


THE    CURSE    OF    K EH AM A. 


XXII. 


And  thus  these  innocents,  in  yonder  sky, 

Grow  and  are  strengthen'd,    while    the   allotted 

years 

Perforin  their  course ;  then  hitherward  they  fly, 

Being  free  from  moral  taint,  so  free  from  fears, 

A  joyous  band,  expecting  soon  to  soar 

To  Indra's  happy  spheres, 
And  mingle  with  the  blessed  company 
Of  heavenly  spirits  there  for  evermore. 

8. 

A  Gulf  profound  surrounded 

This  icy  belt ;  the  opposite  side 

With  highest  rocks  was  bounded  , 

But  where  their  heads  they  hide. 

Or  where  their  base  is  founded. 

None  could  espy.     Above  al!  reach  of  sight 

They  rose;  the  second  Earth  was  on  their  height; 

Their  feet  were  fix'd  in  everlasting  nigrht. 


So  deep  the  Gulf,  no  eye 

Could  plumb  its  dark  profundity. 

Yet  all  its  depth  must  try  ;  for  this  tlie  road 

To  Padalon,  and  Yamen's  dread  abode. 

And  from  below  continually 

Ministrant  Demons  rose  and  caught 

The  Souls  whose  hour  was  come  ; 

Then,  with  their  burden  fraught. 

Plunged  down,  and  bore  them  to  receive  their  doom. 

10. 

Then  might  be  seen  who  went  in  hope,  and  who 

Trembled  to  meet  the  meed 

Of  many  a  foul  misdeed,  as  wild  they  threw 

Their  arms  retorted  from  the  Demons'  grasp, 

And  look'd  around,  all  eagerly,  to  seek 

For  help,  where  help  was  none  ;  and  strove  for  aid 

To  clasp  the  nearest  shade  ; 

Yea,  with  imploring  looks  and  horrent  shriek, 

Even  from  one  Demon  to  another  bending, 

With  hands  extending. 

Their  mercy  they  essay'd. 

Still  from  the  verge  they  strain. 

And  from  the  dreadful  Gulf  avert  tlieir  eyes, 

In  vain;  down  plunge  the  Demons,  and  their  cries 

Feebly,  as  down  they  sink,  from  that  profound  arise. 

11. 

What  heart  of  living  man  could  undisturb'd 

Bear  sight  so  sad  as  this  !     What  wonder  there 

If  Kailyal's  lip  were  blanch'd  with  inmost  dread  ! 

The  chill  which  from  that  icy  belt 
Struck  through  her,  was  less  keen  than  what  she 

felt 
With  her  heart'sblood  through  every  limb  dispread. 

Close  to  the  Glendoveer  she  clung. 

And  clasping  round  his  neck  her  trembling  hands. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  there  in  silence  hung. 

12. 

Then  to  Ladurlad  said  the  Glendoveer, 

These  Demons,  whom  thou  seest,  the  ministers 

Of  Yamen,  wonder  to  behold  us  here  ; 


But  for  the  dead  they  come,  and  not  for  us  ; 

Therefore,  albeit  they  gaze  upon  thee  thus, 

Have  thou  no  fear. 

A  little  while  thou  must  be  left  alone, 

Till  I  have  borne  thy  daughter  down. 

And  placed  her  safely  by  the  throne 

Of  him  who  keeps  the  Gate  of  Padalon. 

13. 

Then,  taking  Kailyal  in  his  arms,  he  said, 

Be  of  good  heart,  Beloved  !  it  is  I 

Who  bear  thee.     Saying  this,  his  wings  he  spread, 

Sprung  upward  in  the  sky,  and  poised  his  flight, 

Then    plunged    into    the  Gulf,    and  sought    the 

World  of  Night. 


XXII. 
THE   GATE  OF   PADALON. 

1. 

The  strong  foundations  of  this  inmost  Earth 

Rest  upon  Padalon.     That  icy  Mound, 

Which  girt  the  mortal  Ocean  round, 

Reach'd  the  profound,  — 

Ice  in  the  regions  of  the  upper  air. 

Crystal  midway,  and  adamant  below, 

Whose  strength  sufficed  to  bear 

The  weight  of  all  this  upper  World  of  ours, 

And  with  its  rampart  closed  the  Realm  of  Woe. 

Eight  gates  hath  Padalon  ;  eight  heavenly  Powers 

Have  them  in  charge,  each  alvvay  at  his  post, 

Lest  from  their  penal  caves  the  accursed  host, 

Maugre  the  might  of  Baly  and  the  God, 

Should  break,  and  carry  ruin  all  abroad. 


Those  gates  stand  ever  open,  night  and  day. 

And  Souls  of  mortal  men 

Forever  throng  the  way. 

Some  from  the  dolorous  den. 

Children  of  sin  and  wrath,  return  no  more  : 

They,  fit  companions  of  the  Spirits  accurs'd, 

Are  doom'd,  like  them  in  baths  of  fire  immers'd, 

Or  weltering  upon  beds  of  molten  ore, 

Or  stretch  "d  upon  the  brazen  floor, 

Are  fasten'd  down  witli  adamantine  chains; 

While  on  their  substance,  inconsumable. 

Leeches  of  fire  forever  hang  and  pull. 

And  worms  of  fire  forever  gnaw  their  food, 

That,  still  renew'd, 

Freshens  forever  their  perpetual  pains. 

3. 
Others  there  were  whom  Baly's  voice  condemned 

By  long  and  painful  penance,  to  atone 

Their  fleshly  deeds.     Them  from  the  Judgment 

Throne, 

Dread  Azyoruca,  where  she  sat  involved 

In  darkness  as  a  tent,  received,  and  dealt 

To  each  the  measure  of  his  punishment ; 

Till,  in  the  central  springs  of  fire,  the  Will 

Impure  is  purged  away  ;  and  the  freed  soul, 


XXII.                                     THE    CURSE 

OF    KEHAMA.                                     609 

Thus  fitted  to  receive  a  second  birth, 

Or  wilder  hope,  from  realms  of  upper  air, 

Inibodied  once  again,  revisits  Eartli. 

Tempts  thee  to  bear 

This  mortal  Maid  to  our  forlorn  abodes ' 

4. 

Fitter  for  her,  I  ween,  the  Swerga  bowers, 

But  they  whom  Baly's  righteous  voice  absolved, 

And  sweet  society  of  heavenly  Powers, 

And  Yamen,  viewing  with  benignant  eye. 

Than  this,  —  a  doleful  scene, 

Dismiss'd  to  seek  their  lieritage  on  high. 

Even  in  securest  hours. 

How  joyfully  they  leave  this  gloomy  bourn, 

And  whither  would  ye  go  ' 

The  dread  sojourn 

Alas  !  can  human  or  celestial  car 

Of  Guilt  and  twin-born  Punishment  and  Woe, 

Unmadden'd  hear 

And  wild  Remorse,  here  link'd  with  worse  Despair  ! 

The  shrieks  and  yellings  of  infernal  woe? 

They  to  the  eastern  Gate  rejoicing  go : 

Can  living  flesh  and  blood 

The  Ship  of  Heaven  awaits  their  coming  there  ; 

Endure  the  passage  of  the  fiery  flood ! 

And  on  they  sail,  greeting  the  blessed  light 

Through  realms  of  upper  air, 

8. 

Bound  for  the  Swerga  once  ;  but  now  no  more 

Lord  of  the  Gate,  replied  the  Glendoveer, 

Their  voyage  rests  upon  that  happy  shore, 

We  come  obedient  to  the  will  of  Fate; 

Since  Indra,  by  the  dreadful  Rajah's  might 

And  haply  doom'd  to  bring 

ConipcU'd,  hath  taken  flight; 

Hope  and  salvation  to  the  Infernal  King ; 

On  to  the  second  World  their  way  they  wend. 

For  Seeva  sends  us  here ; 

And  there,  in  trembling  hope,  await  the  doubtful 

Even  He  to  whom  futurity  is  known. 

end. 

The  Holiest,  bade  us  go  to  Yamen's  throne. 

Thou  seest  my  precious  charge  ; 

5. 

Under  thy  care,  secure  from  harm,  I  leave  her. 

For  still  in  them  doth  hope  predominate, 

While  I  ascend  to  bear  her  Father  down. 

Faith's  precious  privilege,  when  higher  Powers 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  thine  arm  receive  her ! 

Give  way  to  fear  in  these  portentous  hours. 

Behold  the  Wardens  eight 

9. 

Each  silent  at  his  gate 

Then  quoth  he  to  the  Maid, 

Expectant  stands  ;  they  turn  their  anxious  eyes 

Be  of  good  cheer,  my  Kailyal !  dearest  dear, 

Within,  and  listening  to  the  dizzy  din 

In  faith  subdue  thy  dread  ; 

Of  mutinous  uproar,  each  in  all  his  hands 

Anon  I  shall  be  here.     So  having  said. 

Holds  all  his  weapons,  ready  for  the  fight. 

Aloft,  with  vigorous  bound,  the  Glendoveer 

For,  hark  !  what  clamorous  cries 

Sprung  in  celestial  might, 

Upon  Kehama,  for  deliverance,  call ! 

And  soaring  up,  in  spiral  circles,  wound 

Come,  Rajah  I  they  exclaim  ;  too  long  we  groan 

His  indefatigable  flight. 

In  torments.     Come,  Deliverer  !  yonder  throne 

Awaits  thee.     Now,  Kehama!  Rajah,  now  ! 

10. 

Earthly  Almighty,  wherefore  tarriest  thou?  — 

But  as  he  thus  departed, 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  rung,  in  wild  uproar, 

The  Maid,  who  at  Neroodi's  feet  was  lying, 

O'er  all  the  eclioing  vaults  of  Padalon  ; 

Like  one  intranced  or  dying. 

And  as  the  Asuras  from  the  brazen  floor. 

Recovering  strength  from  sudden  terror,  started  ; 

Struggling  against  their  fetters,  strove  to  rise, 

And,  gazing  after  him,  with  straining  sight 

Their  clashing  chains  were  heard,  and  shrieks  and 

And  straining  arms,  she  stood, 

cries, 

As  if  in  attitude 

With  curses  mix'd,  against  the  Fiends  who  urge, 

To  win  him  back  from  flight. 

Fierce  on  their  rebel  limbs,  the  avenging  scourge. 

Yea,  she  had  shaped  his  name 

For  utterance,  to  recall  and  bid  him  stay. 

6. 

Nor  leave  her  thus  alone ;  but  virtuous  shame 

These  were  the  sounds  which,  at  the  southern  Gate, 

Repress'd  the  unbidden  sounds  upon  their  way  ; 

Assail'd  Ereenia's  ear ;  alighting  here, 

And  calling  faith  to  aid. 

He  laid  before  Ncroodi's  feet  the  Maid, 

Even  in  this  fearful  hour,  the  pious  Maid 

Who,  pale  and  cold  with  fear, 

Collected  courage,  till  she  seem'd  to  be 

Hung  on  his  neck,  well  nigh  a  lifeless  weight. 

Calm  and  in  hope  ;  such  power  hath  piety. 

Before  the  Giant  Keeper  of  the  Gate 

7. 

She  cross'd  her  patient  arms,  and  at  his  feet 

Who    and   what   art   thou.'    cried   the    Guardian 

Prepar'd  to  meet 

Power, 

The  awful  will  of  Fate  with  equal  mind. 

Sight  80  unwonted  wondering  to  behold, — 

She  took  her  seat  resign'd. 

O  Son  of  Light ! 

Who  comest  here  at  this  portentous  hour, 

11. 

When  Yamen's  throne 

Even  the  stern  trouble  of  Neroodi's  brow 

Trembles,  and  all  our  might  can  scarce  keep  down 

Relax'd  as  he  beheld  the  valiant  Maid. 

The  rebel  race  from  seizing  Padalon, — 

Hope,  long  unfelt  till  now. 

Who  and  what  art  thou?  and  what  wild  despair, 

77 

Rose  in  his  heart  reviving,  and  a  smile 

GIO 


THE   CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


XXIII. 


Dawn'd  in  his  brightening  countenance,  the  while 
He  gazea  on  her  with  wonder  and  dcliglit. 

The  blessing  of  the  Powers  of  Padalon, 

Virgin,  be  on  thee  !  said  the  admiring  God; 

And  D.essea  oc  tne  hour  that  gave  thee  birth, 

Daughter  of  Earth  ! 

For  thou  to  this  forlorn  abode  hast  brought 

Hope,  who  too  long  liatli  been  a  stranger  here. 

And  surely  for  no  lamentable  lot. 

Nature,  that  erreth  not. 

To  thee  that  heart  of  fortitude  hath  given, 

Those  eyes  of  purity,  that  face  of  love  :  — 

If  thou  bei-st  not  the  inlieritrix  of  Heaven, 

There  is  no  truth  above. 

12. 

Thus  as  Neroodi  spake,  his  brow  severe 

Shone  with  an  inward  joy  ;  for  sure  he  thought, 

When  Seeva  sent  so  fair  a  creature  here, 

In  this  momentous  hour, 

Erelong     the     World's    deliverance     would     be 

wrought. 

And  Padalon  escape  the  Rajah's  power. 

With  pious  mind  the  Maid,  in  humble  guise 

Inclined,  received  his  blessing  silently. 

And  raised  her  grateful  eyes 

A  moment,  then  again 

Abased  them  at  his  presence.     Hark  !  on  high 

The  sound  of  coming  wings  !  —  her  anxious  ears 

Have  caught  the  distant  sound.     Ereenia  brings 

His  burden  down  !      Upstarting  from  her  seat. 

How  joyfully  she  rears 

Her  eager  head  !  and  scarce  upon  the  ground 

Ladurlad's  giddy  feet  their  footing  found, 

When  with  her  trembling  arms  she  clasp'd  him 

round. 

No  word  of  greeting, 

No  other  sign  of  joy  at  that  strange  meeting ; 

Expectant  of  their  fate, 

Silent,  and  hand  in  hand. 

Before  the  Inl'ernal  Gate, 

The  Father  and  his  pious  Daughter  stand. 

13. 

Then  to  Neroodi  said  the  Glendoveer, 

No  Heaven-born  Spirit  e'er  hath  visited 

This  region  drear  and  dread,  but  I,  the  first 

Who  tread  your  World  accurs'd. 

Lord  of  the  Gate,  to  whom  these  realms  are  known. 

Direct  our  fated  way  to  Yamen's  throne. 

14. 

Bring  forth  my  Chariot,  Carmala !  quoth  then 

The  Keeper  of  the  way. 

It  was  the  Car  wherein. 

On  Yamen's  iestal  day. 

When  all  the  Powers  of  Hell  attend  their  King, 

Yearly  to  Yamenpur  did  he  repair 

To  pay  his  homage  there. 

Poised  on  a  single  wheel,  it  mov'd  along. 

Instinct  with  motion;  by  what  wondrous  skill 

Compact,  no  human  tongue  could  tell, 

Nor  human  wit  devise ;  but  on  that  wheel. 

Moving  or  still, 


As  if  with  life  indued, 
The  Car  miraculous  supported  stood. 

15. 

Then  Carmala  brought  forth  two  mantles,  white 

As  the  swan's  breast,  and  bright  as  mountain  snow, 

When  from  the  wintry  sky 

The  sun,  late  rising,  shines  upon  the  height. 

And  rolling  vapors  fill  the  vale  below. 

Not  without  pain  the  unaccustom'd  sight 

That  brightness  could  sustain; 

For  neither  mortal  stain. 

Nor  parts  corruptible,  remain. 

Nor  aught  that  time  could  touch,  or  force  destroy, 

In  that  pure  web  whereof  the  robes  were  wrought; 

So  long  had  it  in  tenfold  fires  been  tried. 

And  blanch'd,  and  to  that  brightness  purified. 

Apparell'd  thus,  alone. 

Children  of  Earth,  Neroodi  cried. 

In  safety  may  ye  pass  to  Yamen's  throne. 

Thus  only  can  your  living  flesh  and  blood 

Endure  the  passage  of  the  fiery  flood. 

16. 

Of  other  frame,  O  son  of  Heaven,  art  thou ! 

Yet  hast  thou  now  to  go 

Through  regions  which  thy  heavenly  mould  will 

try. 

Glories  unutterably  bright,  I  know, 

And  beams  intense  of  empyrean  light, 

Thine  eye  divine  can  bear ;  but  fires  of  woe, 

The  sight  of  torments,  and  the  cry 

Of  absolute  despair, — 

Might  not  these  things  dismay  thee  on  thy  flight, 

And  thy  strong  pennons  flag  and  fail  thee  there .' 

Trust  not  thy  wings,  celestial  though  thou  art. 

Nor  thy  good  heart,  which  horror  might  assail, 

And  pity  quail. 

Pity  in  these  abodes  of  no  avail ; 

But  take  thy  seat  this  mortal  pair  beside, 

And  Carmala  the  inf(?rnal  Car  will  guide. 

Go,  and  may  happy  end  your  way  betide  ! 

So,  as  he  spake,  the  self-moved  Car  roll'd  on; 

And  lo  !  they  pass  the  Gate  of  Padalon. 


XXIII. 
PADALON. 


1. 

Whoe'er  hath  loved,  with  venturous  step,  to  tread 

The  chambers  dread 

Of  some  deep  cave,  and  seen  his  taper's  beam 

Lost  in  the  arch  of  darkness  overhead, 

And  mark'd  its  gleam. 

Playing  afar  upon  the  sunless  stream. 

Where  from  their  secret  bed, 

And  course  unknown  and  inacccessible. 

The  silent  waters  well,  — 

Whoe'er  hath  trod  such  caves  of  endless  night. 

He  knows,  when  measuring  back  the  gloom}'  way, 

With  what  delight  refresh'd,  his  eye 


XXIII. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA 


611 


Perceives  the  shadow  of  the  light  of  day, 

Tlirougli  the  far  portal  slanting,  where  it  falls 

Dimly  reflected  on  the  watery  walls; 

How  heavenly  seenis  the  sky ; 

And  how,  with  quicken'd  feet,  he  hastens  up, 

Eager  again  to  greet 

The  living  World  and  blessed  sunshine  there. 

And  drink,  as  from  a  cup 

Of  joy,  with  thirsty  lips,  the  open  air. 


Far  other  light  than  that  of  day  there  shone 

Upon  the  travellers,  entering  Padalon. 

They  too  in  darkness  cnter'd  on  their  way. 

But  far  before  the  Car, 

A  glow,  as  of  a  fiery  furnace  light, 

Fill'd  all  before  them.     'Tvvas  a  light  which  made 

Darkness  itself  appear 

A  thing  of  comfort,  and  the  sight,  dismay 'd, 

Shrunk  inward  from  the  molten  atmosphere. 

Their  way  was  through  the  adamantine  rock 

Which  girt  the  World  of  Woe ;  on  either  side 

Its  massive  walls  arose,  and  overhead 

Arch'd  the  long  passage  ;  onward  as  they  ride, 

With    stronger    glare   the   light   around   them 

spread, 

And  lo  !  the  regions  dread. 

The  World  of  Woe  before  them,  opening  wide. 


There  rolls  the  fiery  flood. 

Girding  the  realms  of  Padalon  around. 

A  sea  of  flame  it  seem'd  to  be, 

Sea  without  bound ; 

For  neither  mortal  nor  immortal  sight 

Could  pierce  across  through  that  intensest  light. 

A  single  rib  of  steel. 

Keen  as  the  edge  of  keenest  cimcter, 

Spann'd  this  wide   gulf  of  fire.     The  infernal 

Car 

Roll'd  to  the  Gulf,  and,  on  its  single  wheel 

Self-balanced,  rose  upon  that  edge  of  steel. 

Red-quivering  float  the  vapors  overhead  ; 

The  fiery  gulf,  beneath  them  spread, 

Tosses  its  billowing  blaze  with  rush  and  roar  ; 

Steady  and  swift  the  self-moved  Chariot  went, 

Winning  the  long  ascent. 

Then,  downward  rolling,  gains  the  farther  shore. 


But,  oh  !  what  sounds  and  sights  of  woe, 

What  sights  and  sounds  of  fear. 

Assail  the  mortal  travellers  here  ! 

Their  way  was  on  a  causey  straight  and  wide, 

Where  penal  vaults  on  either  side  were  seen. 

Ranged  like  the  cells  wherein 

Those  wondrous  winged  alchemists  infold 

Their  stores  of  liquid  gold. 

Thick  walls  of  adamant  divide 

The  dungeons ;  and  from  yonder  circling  flood. 

Off-streams  of  fire  through  secret  channels  glide. 

And  wind  among  them,  and  in  each  provide 

An  everlasting  food 
Of  rightful  torments  for  the  accursed  brood. 


These  were  the  rebel  race,  wlio,  in  their  might 

Confiding  impiously,  would  fain  have  driven 

The  deities  supreme  from  highest  Heaven  ; 

But  by  the  Suras,  in  celestial  fight. 

Opposed  and  put  to  flight, 

Here,  in  their  penal  dens,  the  accursed  crew. 

Not  for  its  crime,  but  for  its  failure,  rue 
Their  wild  ambition.     Yet  again  they  long 

The  contest  to  renew. 

And  wield  their  arms  again  in  happier  hour ; 

And  with  united  power. 

Following  Kehama's  triumph,  to  press  on 

From  World  to  World,  and  Heaven  to  Heaven, 

and  Sphere 

To  Sphere,  till  Hemakoot  shall  be  their  own, 

And  Meru  Mount,  and  Indra's  Swcrga-Bowers, 

And  Brama's  region,  where  the  heavenly  Hours 

Weave  the  vast  circle  of  his  age-long  day. 

Even  over  Veeshnoo's  empyreal  seat 

They  trust  the  Rajah  shall  extend  their  sway, 

And  that  the  seven-headed  Snake,  whereon 

The  strong  Preserver  sets  his  conquering  feet, 

Will  rise  and  shake  him  headlong  from  his  throne. 

When,  in  their  irresistible  array. 

Amid  the  Milky  Sea  they  force  their  way. 

Even  higher  yet  their  frantic  thoughts  aspire  ; 

Yea,  on  their  beds  of  torment  as  they  lie. 

The  highest,  holiest  Seeva,  they  defy. 

And  tell  him  they  shall  have  anon  their  day, 

When  they  will  storm  his  realm,  and  seize  Mount 

Calasay. 


Such  impious  hopes  torment 

Their  raging  hearts,  impious  and  impotent; 

And  now,  with  unendurable  desire 

And  lust  of  vengeance,  that,  like  inward  fire. 

Doth  aggravate  their  punishment,  they  rave 

Upon  Kehama;  him  the  accursed  rout 

Acclaim;  with  furious  cries  and  maddening  shout 

They  call  on  him  to  save ; 

Kehama  !  they  exclaim ; 

Thundering  the  dreadful  echo  rolls  about. 

And  Hell's  whole  vault  repeats  Kehama's  name. 


Over  these  dens  of  punishment,  the  host 

Of  Padalon  maintain  eternal  guard. 

Keeping  upon  the  walls  their  vigilant  ward. 

At  every  angle  stood 

A  watch-tower,  the  decurion  Demon's  po.st, 

Where  raised  on  high  he  view'd  with  sleepless  eye 

His  trust,  that  all  was  well.     And  over  these,  — 

Such  was  the  perfect  discipline  of  Hell,  — 

Captains  of  fifties  and  of  hundreds  held 

Authority,  each  in  his  loftier  towx>r  ; 

And  chiefs  of  legions  over  them  had  power ; 

And  thus  all  Hell  with  towers  was  girt  around. 

Aloft  the  brazen  turrets  shone 

In  the  red  light  of  Padalon; 

And  on  the  walls  between, 

Dark  moving,  the  infernal  Guards  were  seen, 

Gigantic  Demons,  pacing  to  and  fro ; 


612 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


XXIII. 


Who,  ever  and  anon 

Spreading  their  crimson  pennons,  plunged  below, 

Faster  to  rivet  down  the  Asuras'  chains, 

And  with  the  snaky  scourge  and  fiercer  pains, 

Repress  their  rage  rebellious.     Loud  around. 

In  mingled  sound,  the  echoing  lash,  the  clash 

Of  chains,  the  ponderous  hammer's  iron  stroke, 

With  execrations,  groans,  and  shrieks,  and  cries. 

Combined,  in  one  wild  dissonance,  arise ; 

And  through  the  din  there  broke, , 

Like  thunder  heard  through  all  the  warring  winds. 

The  dreadful  name.     Kchama,  still  they  rave. 

Hasten  and  save  ! 

Now,  now.  Deliverer  !  now,  Kehama,  now  ! 

Earthly  Almighty,  wherefore  tarriest  thou .' 

8. 

Oh,  if  that  name  abhorr'd. 

Thus  utter'd,  could  well  nigji 

Dismay  the  Powers  of  Hell,  and   daunt   their 

Lord, 

How  fearfully  to  Kailyal's  ear  it  came  ! 

She,  as  the  car  roll'd  on  its  rapid  way, 

Bent  down  her  head,  and  closed  her  eyes  for  dread  ; 

And  deafening,  with  strong  effort  from  within. 

Her  ears  against  tlie  din, 

Cover'd  and  press'd  them  close  with  both  her  hands. 

Sure,  if  the  mortal  Maiden  had  not  fed 

On  heavenly  food,  and  long  been  strengthened 

With  heavenly  converse  for  such  end  vouchsafed, 

Her  human  heart  had  fail'd,  and  she  had  died 

Beneath  the  horrors  of  this  awful  hour. 

But  Heaven  supplied  a  power 

Beyond  her  earthly  nature,  to  the  measure 

Of  need  infusing  strength; 

And  Fate,  whose  secret  and  unerring  pleasure 

Appointed  all,  decreed 

An  ample  meed  arid  recompense  at  length. 

High-fated  Maid,  the  righteous  hour  is  nigh  I 

The  all-embracing  eye 

Of  Retribution  still  beholdeth  thee; 

Bear  onward  to  the  end,  O  Maid,  courageously  ! 


On  roU'd  the  car,  and  lo !  afar 
Upon  its  height  the  towers  of  Yamenpur 

Rise  on  the  astonish'd  sight. 

Behold  the  infernal  City,  Yamen's  seat 

Of  empire,  in  the  midst  ofPadalon, 

Where  the  eight  causeys  meet. 

There,  on  a  rock  of  adamant,  it  stood. 

Resplendent  far  and  wide. 

Itself  of  solid  diamond  edified. 

And  all  around  it  roll'd  the  fiery  flood. 

Eight  bridges  arch'd   the  stream;    huge   piles  of 

brass 

Magnificent,  sucli  structures  as  beseem 

The  Seat  and  Capital  of  such  great  God, 

Worthy  of  Yamen's  own  august  abode. 

A  brazen  tower  and  gateway  at  each  end 

Of  each   was   raised,   where    Giant   Wardens 

stood, 

Station'd  in  arms  the  passage  to  defend, 

That  never  foe  might  cross  the  fiery  flood. 


10. 

Oh,  what  a  gorgeous  sight  it  was  to  see 

The  Diamond  City  blazing  on  its  height 

With  more  than  mid-sun  splendor,  by  the  light 

Of  its  own  fiery  river  ! 

Its  towers,  and  domes,  and  pinnacles,  and  spires, 

Turrets  and  battlements,  that  flash  and  quiver 

Througli  the  red,  restless  atmosphere  forever; 

And  hovering  overhead. 

The  smoke  and  vapors  of  all  Padalon, 

Fit  firmament  for  such  a  world,  were  spread. 

With  surge,  and  swell,  and  everlasting  motion, 

Heaving  and  opening  like  tumultuous  ocean. 

11. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  there 

Such  glories  as  beseem'd  such  region  well ; 

For  though  with  our  blue  heaven  and  genial  air 

The  firmament  of  Hell  might  not  compare, 

As  little  might  our  earthly  tempests  vie 
With  the  dread  storms  of  that  infernal  sky. 
Whose  clouds  of  all  metallic  elements 
Sublimed   were    full.     For,    when    its   thunder 
broke. 
Not  all  the  united  World's  artillery. 
In  one  discharge,  could  equal  that  loud  stroke  ; 
And  though  the  Diamond  Towers  and  Battle- 
ments 
Stood  firm  upon  their  adamantine  rock. 
Yet  while  it  volleyed  round  the  vault  of  Hell, 
Earth's  solid  arch  was  shaken  with  the  shock. 
And  Cities  in  one  mighty  ruin  fell. 
Through  the  red  sky  terrific  meteors  scour ; 
Huge   stones   come   hailing   down;    or    sulphur- 
shower. 
Floating  amid  the  lurid  air  like  snow, 
Kindles  in  its  descent, 
And  with  blue  fire-drops  rains  on  all  below. 
At  times  the  whole  supernal  element. 
Igniting,  burst  in  one  vast  sheet  of  flame. 

And  roar'd  as  witli  the  sound 

Of  rushing  winds,  above,  below,  around; 

Anon  the  flame  was  spent,  and  overhead 

A  heavy  cloud  of  moving  darkness  spread. 

12. 

Straight  to  the  brazen  bridge  and  gate 

The  self-moved  Chariot  bears  its  mortal  load. 

At  sight  of  Carmala, 

On  either  side  the  Giant  Guards  divide. 

And  give  the  cliariot  way. 

Up  yonder  winding  road  it  rolls  along. 

Swift  as  the  bittern  soars  on  spiral  wing, 

And  lo  !  the  Palace  of  the  Infernal  King! 

13. 

Two  forms  inseparable  in  unity 

Hath  Yamen  ;  even  as  with  hope  or  fear 

The  Soul  regardeth  him  doth  he  appear ; 

For  hope  and  fear. 

At  that   dread  hour,  from  ominous  conscience 

spring, 

And  err  not  in  their  bodings.     Therefore  some, 

They  who  polluted  with  off'ences  come, 


XXIII. 


THE    CURSE    OF    K EH AM A. 


613 


Behold  him  as  the  King 

Of  Terrors,  black  of  aspect,  red  of  eye, 

Reflecting  back  upon  the  sinful  mind, 

Heighten'd    with    vengeance,  and  with    wrath 

divine, 

Its  own  inborn  deformity. 

But  to  the  righteous  Spirit  how  benign 

His  awful  countenance. 

Where,  tempering  justice  with  parental  love, 

Goodness,  and  heavenly  grace. 

And  sweetest  mercy  shine  !     Yet  is  lie  still 

Himself  the  same,  one  form,  one  face,  one  will ; 

And  these  his  twofold  aspects  are  but  one; 

And  change  is  none 

In  him   for  change  in  Yamen  could  not  be ; 

The  Immutable  is  he. 

14. 

He  sat  upon  a  marble  sepulchre. 

Massive  and  huge,  where,  at  tiie  Monarch's  feet. 

The  righteous  Baly  had  his  Judgment-seat. 

A  Golden  Throne  before  them  vacant  stood ; 

Three    human    forms  sustain'd    its   ponderous 

weight. 

With  lifted  hands  outspread,  and  shoulders  bow'd 

Bending  beneath  the  load. 

A  fourth  was  wanting.     They  were  of  the  hue 

Of  coals  of  fire  ;  yet  were  they  flesh  and  blood, 

And  living  breath  they  drew; 

And  their  red  eyeballs  roll'd  with  ghastly  stare, 

As  thus,  for  their  misdeeds,  they  stood  tormented 

there. 

15. 

On  steps  of  gold  those  living  Statues  stood, 

Who  bore  the  Golden  Throne.     A  cloud  behind 

Immovable  was  spread  ;  not  all  the  light 

Of  all  the  flames  and  fires  of  Padalon 

Could  pierce  its  depth  of  night. 

There  Azyoruca  veil'd  her  awful  form 

In  those  eternal  shadows :  there  she  sat. 

And  as  the  trembling  Souls,  who  crowd  around 

The  Judgment-seat,  received  the  doom  of  fate. 

Her  giant  arms,  extending  from  the  cloud, 

Drew  them  within  the  darkness.     Moving  out 

To  grasp  and  bear  away  the  innumerous  rout. 

Forever  and  forever  thus  were  seen 

The  thousand  mighty  arms  of  that  dread  Queen. 

16. 

Here,  issuing  from  the  Car,  the  Glendoveer 
Did  homage  to  the  God,  then  raised  his  head. 

Suppliants  we  come,  he  said, 

1  need  not  tell  thee  by  what  wrongs  opprcss'd. 

For  nought  can  pass  on  earth  to  thee  unknown; 

Sufferers  from  tyranny  we  seek  for  rest, 

And  Seeva  bade  us  go  to  Yanien's  throne  ; 

Here,  he  hath  said,  all  wrongs  shall  be  redress'd. 

Yamen  replied.  Even  now  the  hour  draws  near, 

When  Fate  its  hidden  ways  will  manifest. 

Not  for  light  purpose  would  the  Wisest  send 

His   suppliants   here,  when   we,  in  doubt  and 

fear. 

The  awful  issue  of  the  hour  attend. 

Wait  ye  in  patience  and  in  faith  the  end  ! 


XXIV. 
TIIE   AMREETA. 

1. 

So  spake  the  King  of  Padalon,  when,  lo ! 
The  voice  of  lamentation  ceas'd  in  Hell, 
And  sudden  silence  all  around  them  fell, 

Silence  more  wild  and  terrible 

Than  all  the  infernal  dissonance  before. 

Through  that  portentous  stillness,  far  away, 

Unwonted  sounds  were  heard,  advancing  on 

And  deepening  on  their  way ; 

For  now  the  inexorable  hour 

Was  come,  and,  in  the  fulness  of  his  power. 

Now  that  the  dreadful  rites  had  all  been  done, 

Kehama  from  the  Swerga  hastened  down 

To  seize  upon  the  throne  of  Padalon. 

2. 

He  came  in  all  his  might  and  majesty, 

With  all  his  terrors  clad,  and  all  his  pride ; 

And,  by  the  attribute  of  Deity, 

Which  he  had  won  from  Heaven,  self-multiplied, 

The  Almighty  Man  appear'd  on  every  side. 

In  the  same  indivisible  point  of  time. 

At  the  eight  Gates  he  stood  at  once,  and  beat 

The  Warden-Gods  of  Hell  beneath  his  feet ; 

Then,  in  his  brazen  Cars  of  triumph,  straight. 

At  the  same  moment,  drove  througli  every  gate. 

By  Aullays,  liugest  of  created  kind, 

Fiercest,  and  fleeter  than  the  viewless  wind. 

His  Cars  were  drawn,  ten  yokes  often  abreast, — 

What  less  sufficed  for  such  almighty  weight.^ 

Eight  bridges  from  the  fiery  flood  arose, 

Growing  before  his  way  ;  and  on  he  goes, 

And  drives  the  thundering  Chariot-wheels  along. 

At  once  o'er  all  the  roads  of  Padalon. 


Silent  and  motionless  remain 

The  Asuras  on  their  bed  of  pain, 

Waiting,  with  breathless  hope,  the  great  event. 

All  Hell  was  hush'd  in  dread, 

Such  awe  that  omnipresent  coming  spread  ; 

Nor  had  its  voice  been  heard,  though  all  its  rout 

Innumerable  had  lifted  up  one  shout ; 

Nor,  if  the  infernal  firmament 

Had  in  one  unimaginable  burst 

Spent  its  collected  thunders,  had  the  sound 

Been  audible,  such  louder  terrors  went 

Before  his  forms  substantial.     Round  about 

The  presence  scattered  lightnings  far  and  wide, 

That  qucnch'd  on  every  side, 

Willi  their  intensest  blaze,  the  feebler  fire 

Of  Padalon,  even  as  the  stars  go  out. 

When,  with  prodigious  light. 

Some  blazing  meteor  fills  the  astonish'd  night. 

4. 
The  Diamond  City  shakes  ! 

The  adamantine  Rock 

Is  loosen'd  with  the  shock  ! 

From  its  foundation  moved,  it  heaves  and  quakea , 


614 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


XXIV. 


The  brazen  portals,  crumbling,  fall  to  dust ; 

Prone  fall  the  Giant  Guards 

Bcneatli  the  Aullays  crush'd  ; 

On,  on,  through  Yamenpur,  their  thundering  feet 

Speed  from  all  points  to  Yaraen's  Judgment-seat. 

And  lo  I  where  multiplied, 

Behind,  before  him,  and  on  every  side. 

Wielding  all  weapons  in  his  countless  hands, 

Around  the  Lord  of  Hell  Kehama  stands  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Lord  of  Hell  put  forth  his  might : 

Thick  darkness,  blacker  tlian  the  blackest  night. 

Rose  from  their  wrath,  and  veil'd 

The  unutterable  fight. 

The  power  of  Fate  and  Sacrifice  prevail'd. 

And  soon  the  strife  was  done. 

Then  did  the  Man-God  reassume 

His  unity,  absorbing  into  one 

The  consubstantiate  shapes  ;  and  as  the  gloom 

Opened,  fallen  Yamen  on  the  ground  was  seen, 

His  neck  beneath  the  conquering  Rajah's  feet. 

Who  on  the  marble  tomb 

Had  his  triumphal  seat. 


Silent  the  Man-Almighty  sat :  a  smile 

Gleam'd  on  his  dreadful  lips,  the  while, 

Dallying  with  powder,  he  paused  from  following  up 

His  conquest,  as  a  man  in  social  hour 

Sips  of  the  grateful  cup. 

Again  and  yet  again,  with  curious  taste, 

Searching  its  subtile  flavor  ere  he  drink; 

Even  so  Kehama  now  forbore  his  haste, 

Havinop  within  his  reach  whatever  he  sought. 

On  his  own  haughty  power  he  seem'd  to  muse. 

Pampering  his  arrogant  heart  with  silent  thought. 

Before  him  stood  the  Golden  Throne  in  sight. 

Right  opposite  ;  he  could  not  choose  but  see. 

Nor  seeing  choose  but  wonder.     Who  are  ye 

Who  bear  the  Golden  Throne  tormented  there  .' 

He  cried;  for  whom  doth  Destiny  prepare 
The  Imperial  Seat  ?  and  why  are  ye  but  Three  .■■ 

6. 

FIRST   STATUE. 

1  of  the  Children  of  Mankind  was  first, 

Me  miserable  !  who,  adding  store  to  store, 

Heap'd  up  superfluous  wealth  ;  and  now  accurs'd. 

Forever  I  the  frantic  crime  deplore. 

SECOND    STATUE. 

1  o'er  my  Brethren  of  Mankind  the  first 

Usurping  power,  set  up  a  throne  sublime, 

A  King  and  Conqueror  ;  therefore  thus  accurst. 

Forever  I  in  vain  repent  the  crime. 

THIRD    STATUE. 

I  on  the  Children  of  Mankind  the  first. 

In  God's  most  holy  name,  imposed  a  tale 

Of  impious  falsehood  ;  therefore  thus  accurst, 

Forever  I  in  vain  the  crime  bewail. 


Even  as  thou  here  beholdest  us, 

Here  we  have  stood,  tormented  thus, 

Such  countless  ages,  that  they  seem  to  be 


Long  as  eternity  ; 

And  still  we  are  but  Three. 

A  Fourth  will  come  to  share 

Our  pain,  at  yonder  vacant  corner  bear 

His  portion  of  the  burden,  and  complete 

The  Golden  Throne  for  Yamen's  Judgment-seat. 

Thus  hath  it  been  appointed  :  he  must  be 

Equal  in  guilt  to  us,  the  guilty  Three. 

Kehama,  come  I  too  long  we  wait  for  thee  ' 

8. 

Thereat,  with  one  accord. 

The  Three  took  up  the  word,  like  choral  song. 

Come,  Rajah  !  Man-God  !  Earth's  Almighty  Lord  ! 

Kehama,  come  !  we  wait  for  thee  too  long. 


A  short  and  sudden  laugh  of  wondering  pride 

Burst  from  him  in  his  triumph :  to  reply 

Scornful  he  deign'd  not;  but  with  alter'd  eye. 

Wherein  some  doubtful  meaning  seem'd  to  lie. 

He  turn'd  to  Kailyal.     Maiden,  thus  he  cried, 

I  need  not  bid  thee  see 

How  vain  it  is  to  strive  with  Fate's  decree, 

When  hither  thou  hast  fled  to  fly  from  me. 

And  lo !  even  here  thou  find'st  me  at  thy  side. 

Mine  thou  must  be,  being  doom'd  with  me  to  share 

The  Amreeta  cup  of  immortality  ; 

Yea,  by  Mj-self  I  swear. 

It  hath  been  thus  appointed.     Joyfully 

Join  then  thy  hand,  and  heart,  and  will  with  mine. 

rSor  at  such  glorious  destiny  repine. 

Nor  in  thy  folly  more  provoke  my  wrath  divine. 

10. 
She  answer'd,  I  have  said.     It  must  not  be  ! 

Almighty  as  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  put  all  things  underneath  thy  feet ; 

But  still  the  resolute  heart 

And  virtuous  will  are  free. 

Never,  oh !  never,  —  never  —  can  there  be 

Commiinion,  Rajali,  between  thee  and  me. 

11. 

Once  more,  quoth  he,  1  urge,  and  once  alone. 

Thou  seest  yon  Golden  Throne, 

Where  I  anon  shall  set  thee  by  my  side ; 

Take  thou  thy  scat  thereon, 

Kehama's  willing  bride, 

And  I  will  place  the  Kingdoms  of  the  World 

Beneath  thy  Father's  feet, 

Appointing  him  the  King  of  mortal  men  : 

Else  underneath  that  Throne, 

The  Fourth  supporter  he  shall  stand  and  groan ; 

Prayers  will  be  vain  to  move  my  mercy  then. 

12. 

Ao-aii)  the  Viro-in  answer'd,  I  have  said  ! 

Ladurlad  caught  her  in  his  proud  embrace. 

While  on  his  neck  she  hid 

In  agony  her  face. 

In 
O. 

Bring  forth  the  Amreeta-cup  !  Kehama  cried 
To  Yamen,  rising  sternly  in  his  pride. 


I 


XXIV. 


THE    CURSE    OF    KEIIAMA. 


615 


It  is  within  the  Marble  Sepulclire, 

The  vanquish'd  Lord  of  Padalon  replied  ; 

Bid  it  be  opcn'd.     Give  thy  treasure  up  ! 

Exclaun'd  the  Man-Almighty  to  tiie  Tomb. 

And  at  his  voice  and  look 

The  massy  fabric  shook,  and  opcn'd  wide. 

A  huge  Anatomy  was  seen  reclined 

Within  its  marble  womb.     Give  me  the  Cup  ! 

Again  Kcliama  cried  ;  no  other  charm 

Was  needed  than  that  voice  of  stern  command. 

From  his  repose  the  ghastly  form  arose, 

Put  forth  his  bony  and  gigantic  arm, 

And  gave  the  Amreeta  to  the  Ilajah's  hand. 

Take  .  drink  !  with  accents  dread  tiie  Spectre  said ; 

For  thee  and  Kailyal  hath  it  been  assign'd, 

Ye  only  of  the  Children  of  Mankind. 

14. 

Then  was  the  Man- Almighty's  heart  elate  ; 

This  is  the  consummation!  he  exclaiin'd; 

Thus  have  I  triumphed  over  Death  and  Fate. 

Now,  Seeva !  look  to  thine  abode  ! 

Henceforth,  on  equal  footing  we  engage, 

Alike  immortal  now ;  and  we  shall  wage 

Our  warfare,  God  to  God  ! 

Joy  fill'd  his  impious  soul, 

And  to  his  lips  he  raised  the  fatal  bowl. 

15. 

Thus  long  the  Glendoveer  had  stood 

Watching  the  wonders  of  the  eventful  hour, 

Amazed,  but  undismay'd  ;  for  in  his  heart 

Faith,  overcoming  fear,  maintain'd  its  power. 

Nor  had  that  faith  abated,  when  the  God 

Of  Padalon  was  beaten  down  in  fight; 

For  then  he  look'd  to  see  the  heavenly  might 

Of  Seeva  break  upon  them.     But  when  now 

He  saw  the  Amreeta  in  Kehama's  hand. 
An  impulse  which  defied  all  self-command 

In  that  extremity 

Stung  him,  and  he  resolved  to  seize  the  cup. 

And  dare  the  Rajah's  force  in  Seeva's  sight. 

Forward  lie  sprung  to  tempt  the  unequal  fray, 

When,  lo  !  the  Anatomy 

With  warning  arm,  withstood  his  desperate  way. 

And  from  the  Golden  Throne  the  Fiery  Three 

Again,  in  one  accord,  rencw'd  their  song  — 

Kehama,  come  !  wo  wait  for  thee  too  long. 

16. 

O  fool  of  drunken  hope  and  frantic  vice  I 

Madman  !  to  seek  for  power  beyond  tliy  scope 

Of  knowledge,  and  to  deem 

Less  than  Omniscience  could  suffice 

To  wield  Omnipotence  I  O  fool,  to  dream 

That  immortality  could  be 

The  meed  of  evil  I  —  yea,  thou  hast  it  now. 

Victim  of  thine  own  wicked  heart's  device  ; 

Thou  hast  thine  object  now,  and  now  must  pay  the 

price. 

17. 

He  did  not  know  the  holy  mystery 

Of  that  divinest  cup,  that  as  the  lips 

Which  touch  it,  even  sucii  its  quality. 


Good  or  malignant :    Madman  !  and  he  thinks 
The  blessed  prize  is  won,  and  joyfully  he  drinks. 

18. 

Then  Seeva  opcn'd  on  the  Accursed  One 

His  Eye  of  Anger  :  upon  him  alone 

The  wrath-beam  fl'll.     He  shudders  —  but  too  late  ; 

The  deed  is  done ; 

The  dreadful  liquor  works  tlio  will  of  Fate. 

Immortal  lie  would  be, 

Immortal  he  is  made;  but  through  his  veins 

Torture  at  once  and  immortality, 

A  stream  of  poison  doth  tlie  Amreeta  run, 

And  while  within  the  burning  anguish  flows, 

His  outward  body  glows, 

Like  molten  ore,  beneath  the  avenging  Eye, 

Doom'd  thus  to  live  and  burn  eternally. 

19. 

The  Fiery  Three, 

Beholding  him,  set  up  a  fiendish  cry, 

A  song  of  jubilee  ! 

Come,  Brother,  come  I  they  sung  ;  too  long 

Have  we  expected  thee  ; 

Henceforth  we  bear  no  more 

The  unequal  weight.    Come,  Brother,  we  are  Four  ! 

20. 

Vain  his  almightiness,  for  mightier  pain 

Subdued  all  power;  pain  ruled  supreme  alone  ; 

And  yielding  to  the  bony  hand 

The  uncinpticd  cup,  he  moved  toward  the  Throne, 

And  at  the  vacant  corner  took  his  stand. 

Behold  the  Golden  Throne  at  length  complete. 

And  Yamen  silently  ascends  the  Judgment-seat. 

21. 

For  two  alone,  of  all  mankind,  to  mc 

The  Amreeta  Cup  was  given, 

Then  said  the  Anatomy  ; 

The  Man  hath  drank,  the  Woman's  turn  is  next. 

Come,  Kail3'al,  come,  receive  thy  doom, 

And  do  the  Will  of  Heaven  !  — 

Wonder,  and  Fear,  and  Awe  at  once  perplex'd 

The  mortal  Maiden's  heart;  but  over  all 

Hope  rose  triumphant.     Witli  a  trembling  hand, 

Obedient  to  his  call. 

She  took  the  fated  Cup  ;  and,  lifting  up 

Her  eyes,  where  holy  tears  began  to  swell. 

Is  it  not  your  command. 

Ye  heavenly  Powers .'  as  on  her  knees  she  fell, 

The  pious  Virgin  cried  ; 

Ye  know  my  innocent  will,  my  heart  sincere  ; 

Ye  govern  all  things  still. 

And  wherefore  should  I  fear  ? 

22. 

She  said,  and  drank.     The  Eye  of  Mercy  beam'd 

Upon  the  Maid  :  a  cloud  of  fragrance  steam'd 

Like  incense-smoke  as  all  her  mortal  frame 

Dissolved  beneath  the  potent  agency 

Of  that  mysterious  draught;  such  quality 

From  her  pure  touch  the  fated  Cup  partook. 

Like  one  entranced  she  knelt. 

Feeling  her  body  melt 


(ilG 


JNOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


Till  all  but  what  was  heavenly  pass'd  away  : 

Yet  still  she  felt 

Her  Spirit  strong  within  her,  the  same  heart, 

With  the  same  loves,  and  all  her  heavenly  part 

Unchaiig'd,  and  ripen'd  to  such  perfect  state 

In  this  miraculous  birth,  as  here  on  Earth, 

Diinly  our  holiest  hopes  anticipate. 

23. 

Mine  !  mine  !  with  rapturous  joy  Erecnia  cried. 

Immortal  now,  and  yet  not  more  divine  ; 

Mine,  mine,  —  forever  mine  ! 

The  immortal  Maid  replied. 

Forever,  ever  thine  ! 

24. 

Tlien  Yamen  said,  O  thou  to  whom  by  Fate, 

Alone  of  all  mankind,  this  lot  is  given, 

Daughter  of  Earth,  but  now  the  Child  of  Heaven  ! 

Go  with  thy  heavenly  Mate, 

Partaker  now  of  his  immortal  bliss  ; 

Go  to  the  Swerga  Bowers, 

And  there  recall  the  hours 

Of  endless  happiness. 


But  that  sweet  Angel,  —  for  she  still  retain'd 

Her  human  loves  and  human  piety,  — 

As  if  reluctant  at  the  God's  commands, 

Linger'd,  with  anxious  eye 

Upon  her  Father  fix'd,  and  spread  her  hands 

Toward  him  wistfully. 

Go  !  Yamen  said,  nor  cast  that  look  behind 

Upon  Ladurlad  at  this  parting  hour. 

For  thou  shalt  find  him  in  thy  Mother's  Bower. 

2G. 
The  Car  —  for  Carmala  his  word  obey'd  — 
Moved  on,  and  bore  away  the  Maid, 
While  from  the  Golden  Throne  the  Lord  of  Death 
With  love  benignant  on  Ladurlad  smiled. 
And  gently  on  his  head  his  blessing  laid. 
As  sweetly  as  a  Child, 
Whom    neither    thouglit    disturbs    nor   care   en- 
cumbers. 
Tired  with  long  play,  at  close  of  summer  day. 

Lies  down  and  slumbers, 

Even  thus,  as  sweet  a  boon  of  sleep  partaking. 

By  Yamen  blest,  Ladurlad  sunk  to  rest. 

Blessed  that  sleep !  more  blessed  was  the  waking ! 

For  on  that  night  a  heavenly  morning  broke  ; 

The  light  of  heaven  was  round  him  when  he  woke  ; 

And  in  the  Swerga,  in  Yedillian's  Bower, 

All  whom  he  loved  he  met,  to  part  no  more. 


NOTES 


the  iimlauntoil  clicerfulnesa  tliat  appeared  in  her  countenance, 
the  resolution  with  which  she  marched,  washed  liprselt',  sjjoke 
to  the  people  ;  the  confidence  with  whicli  she  looked  upon  us, 
viewed  her  little  cahin,  made  up  of  very  <iry  millet-straw  and 
small  wood,  went  into  this  cabin,  and  .«at  down  upon  the  pile, 
and  took  her  husband's  head  into  her  lap,  and  a  torch  into 
her  own  hand,  and  kindled  the  cabin,  whilst  I  know  not  how 
many  Brahmuns  were  busy  in  kindling  the  lire  round  about. 
To  represent  to  you,  [  say,  all  this  as  it  ought,  is  not  possible 
for  me  ;  I  can  at  present  scarce  believe  it  myself,  though  it 
be  but  a  few  days  since  I  saw  it." 


IViry  strip  her  ornaments  away.  —  I.  11,  p.  509. 

She  went  out  I'gr.in  to  the  river,  and  taking  up  some  water 
in  her  hands,  muttered  some  prayers,  and  ottered  it  to  the 
sun.  All  her  ornaments  were  then  taken  from  her ;  and  her 
armlets  wore  broken,  and  chaplets  of  white  flowers  were  put 
upon  her  neck  and  hands.  Her  hair  was  tucked  up  with 
five  combs  ;  and  her  forehead  was  marked  with  clay  in  the 
same  manner  as  that  oflicr  husband.  —  Stavokinus. 


.ground  her  neck  they  leave 

The  marriage-knot  alone.  —  I.  11,  p.  569. 

When  the  time  for  consummating  the  marriage  Is  come, 
they  light  the  fire  Iloman  with  the  wood  of  Ravasiton.  The 
Bramin  blesses  the  former,  which,  being  done,  the  bridegroom 
takes  three  handfuls  of  rice,  and  throws  it  on  the  bride's  head, 
who  does  the  same  to  him.  Afterwards  the  bride's  father 
clothes  her  in  a  dress  according  to  his  condition,  and  washes 
the  bridegroom's  feet  ;  tlie  bride's  nmther  observing  to  pour 
out  the  water.  This  being  done,  the  father  puts  his  daughter's 
hand  in  his  own,  puts  water  into  it,  some  pieces  of  money, 
and,  giving  it  to  the  bridegroom,  says,  at  the  same  time,  I 
have  no  longer  any  thing  to  do  with  you,  and  I  give  you  up 
to  the  power  of  another.  The  Tali,  which  is  a  ribbon  with  a 
golden  head  hanging  at  it,  is  held  ready;  and,  being  shown 
to  the  company,  some  prayers  and  blessings  aie  pronounced  ; 
after  which  the  bridegroom  takes  it,  and  hangs  it  about  the 
bride's  neck.  This  knot  is  what  particularly  secures  his  pos- 
session of  her  ;  for  before  he  had  had  the  TaXi  on,  all  the  rest 
of  the  ceremonies  might  have  been  made  to  no  purpose  ;  for 
it  has  sometimes  happened  that  when  the  bridegroom  was 
going  to  fix  it  on,  the  bride's  father  has  discovered  his  not 
being  satisfied  with  the  bridegroom's  gift,  when  another, 
offering  more,  has  carried  off  the  bride  with  her  father's  con- 
sent. But,  when  once  the  Tali  is  put  on,  the  marriage  is 
indissoluble  ;  and  whenever  the  husband  dies,  the  Tali  is 
burnt  along  with  him,  to  show  that  the  marriage  bands  are 
broke.  Besides  these  particular  ceremonies,  the  people  have 
notice  of  the  wedding  by  a  Pandal,  which  is  raised  before  the 
bride's  door  some  days  before.  The  whole  concludes  with  an 
entertainment  which  the  bride's  father  gives  to  the  common 
friends  ;  and  during  this  festivity,  which  continues  five  days, 
alms  are  given  to  the  poor,  and  the  fire  Homan  is  kept  in. 
The  seventh  day,  the  new-married  couple  set  out  for  the 
bridegroom's  house,  whither  they  frequently  go  by  torchlight. 
The  bride  and  bridegroom  are  carried  in  a  sedan,  pass  through 
the  chief  streets  of  the  city,  and  are  accompanied  by  their 
friends,  who  are  either  on  horseback  or  mounted  on  elephants. 
—  A.  Roger. 


Calmly  she  took  her  seat.  —  I.  10,  p.  560. 

"  She,"  says  Bernier,  "  whom  t  saw  burn  lu^rself,  when  I 
parted  from  Sural  to  travel  into  Peryia,  in  the  presence  of  Mon- 
sieur Chardin  of  Paris,  and  of  many  Enirlijsh  and  Dutch,  was 
of  a  middle  age,  and  not  unhandsome.     To  represent  unto  you 


They  force  her  on,  they  bind  her  to  the  dead.  —  I.  12,  p.  5C9 

'Tis  true,  says  Bernier,  tliat  I  have  seen  some  of  them, 
which,  at  the  sight  of  the  pile  and  the  fire,  appeared  to  have 
some  apprehension,  and  that  perhaps  would  have  gone  back. 
Those  demons  the  Braniins  that  are  there  with  their  great 
sticks,  astonish  them,  and  hearten  them  up,  or  even  thrust 
them  in  ;  as  I  have  seen  it  done  to  a  young  woman,  that  re- 
treated five  or  six  paces  from  the  pile,  and  to  another,  that 
was  much  disturbed  when  she  saw  the  fire  take  hold  of  her 
clothes,  these  executioners  thrusting  her  in  with  their  long 
poles. 

At  Labor,  I  saw  a  very  handsome  and  a  very  young  woman 
burnt  ;  I  believe  she  was  not  above  twelve  years  of  age.     This 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA, 


G17 


poor  uiilmi>i>y  creature  appeared  rullier  dead  than  alive  wlieii 
slie  came  ncnr  the  pile  ;  slie  sliouk  and  wi'pt  bitteily.  J[ean- 
wliile,  three  or  four  of  these  executioners,  llie  Braniins, 
toj;etlier  with  an  old  liag  that  held  her  under  the  arm,  tlirust 
h  r  on,  and  made  her  sit  down  upon  the  wood;  and  lest  she 
should  run  away,  they  tied  lier  Ic^-s  and  hands;  and  so  they 
burnt  lier  alive.  I  had  enough  to  do  to  contain  myself  for 
inili;;nation.  —  Bernier. 

I'ietri)  delli  Valle  conversed  with  a  widow,  who  was  about 
to  turn  herself  by  her  own  choice.  She  told  him,  tliat  fjenc- 
rally  speaking,  women  were  not  forced  to  burn  themselves  ; 
but  sometimes,  among  people  of  rank,  when  a  young  woman, 
V.  ho  was  handsome,  was  left  a  widow,  and  in  danger  of  mar- 
r\ing  again,  (which  is  never  practised  among  them,  because 
of  the  confusion  and  disgrace  which  are  insepar.il)le  from  such 
a  thing,)  or  of  falling  into  other  irregularities,  then  indeed 
the  relations  cf  the  husband,  if  tbey  are  at  all  tenacious  of 
the  honor  of  the  family,  compel  her  to  burn  herself,  whether 
she  likes  it  or  no,  merely  to  prevent  the  inconveniences  which 
might  take  place. 

Dellon  also,  whom  I  consider  as  one  of  the  best  travellers 
in  the  East,  expressly  asserts,  that  widows  are  burnt  there 
"  de  gre,  on  deforce.  L'oii  n'cn  voit  tjue  trop  qui  aprid  avoir 
desire  et  tlemandc  la  mart  avec  uii  courage  intrcpidc,  et  apre.-> 
avoir  ohtnnu  et  achate  la  permission  de  se  brttler,  out  tremble  d 
la  rru'd  da  huclicr,  se  sont  repeiities,  mais  trop  turd,  de  Icur  ini 
prudence,  ct  ont  fait  d'iitutilcs  efforts  pour  se  rctracter.  Mais 
lursque  crla  arrive,  bien  loin  que  les  Bramenes  soient  touches 
d'aucuue  pitic,  ils  lient  crucllement  ccs  malheureiiscs,  et  les  bric- 
lent  par  force,  sans  avoir  aucun  egard  a  leurs  plaintcs,  ni  a 
Icurs  cm-."  — Tom.  i.  p.  138. 

It  would  be  easy  to  mulliply  autliorities  upon  this  point. 
Let  it  sutlice  to  mention  one  important histoiical  fact:  When 
the  great  Alboquerque  had  established  himself  at  Goa,  he 
forbade  these  accursed  sacrifices  ;  the  women  extolled  liim  for 
it  as  their  benefactor  and  deliverer,  (Cummentarios  de  Jilb.  ii. 
20,)  and  no  European  in  India  was  ever  so  popular,  or  so 
revered  by  the  natives.  Yet,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  anti- 
missionaries,  none  but  fools,  fanatics,  and  pretenders  to  hu- 
manity, would  wish  to  deprive  the  Hindoo  women  of  the  right 
of  burning  themselves!  "It  may  be  useful  (says  Colonel 
Mark  Wilks)  to  examine  the  reasonableness  of  interfering 
with  the  most  exceptionable  of  all  their  institutions.  It  has 
been  thought  an  abomination  not  to  be  tolerated,  that  a  widow 
sliould  inmiolate  herself  on  the  funeral  pile  of  her  deceased 
husband.  But  what  judgment  should  we  form  of  the  Hindoo, 
who  (if  any  of  our  institutions  admitted  the  parallel)  should 
forcibhi  pretend  to  stand  between  a  Christian  and  the  hope  of 
eternal  salvation  .'  And  shall  we  not  hold  him  to  be  a  driveller 
in  politics  and  morals,  a  fanatic  in  religion,  and  a  pretender  in 
humanity,  vvlio  would  foreibly  wrest  this  ho])e  from  the  Hindoo 
widow  !"  — I{i.,torical  Sketches  of  the  South  of  India,  \o\.  i. 
p.  49!). 

Such  opinions,  and  such  language,  may  safely  be  left  to  the 
indignation  and  pity  which  they  cannot  fail  to  excite.  T  shall 
only  express  my  astonishment,  that  any  thing  so  monstrous, 
and  so  miserably  futile,  should  have  proceeded  from  a  man 
of  learning,  great  good  sense,  and  general  good  feelings,  as 
Colonel  Wilks  evidently  appears  to  be. 


Oar  drops,  another  plunges  in.  —  I.  34,  p.  569. 

When  Bernier  was  passing  from  Amad-Avad  to  Agra, 
there  came  news  to  bim  in  a  borough,  where  the  caravan  rested 
under  the  shade,  (staying  fur  the  cool  of  the  evenin"to  march 
on  their  journey,)  th  it  a  woman  was  then  upon  the  point  of 
burning  herself  with  the  body  of  her  husband.  I  presently 
rose,  says  he,  and  ran  to  th(!  place  where  it  was  to  be  done, 
which  wMsa  great  pit,  with  a  pile  of  wood  raised  in  it,  whereon 
r  saw  laid  a  dead  corpse  and  a  woman,  which,  at  a  distance, 
seemed  to  me  pretty  fair,  sitting  near  it  on  the  same  pile, 
besides  four  or  five  Bramins  putting  the  fire  to  it  from  all 
sides  ;  five  women  of  a  middle  age,  and  well  enough  dressed, 
holding  one  another  by  the  hand,  and  dancing  about  the  pit, 
and  a  {^reat  crowd  of  people,  men  and  women,  looking  on. 
The  pile  of  wooil  was  presently  nil  on  fire,  because  store  of  oil 
and  butter  had  been  thrown  upon  it ;  and  I  saw,  at  the  same 

78 


time,  through  the  flimes,  tliat  the  fire  look  bold  of  the  clothes 
of  the  woman,  that  were  imbued  with  well-scented  oils,  min- 
gled with  powder  of  sandal  and  saffron.  All  this  I  saw,  but 
observed  not  that  the  woman  was  at  all  disturbed  ;  yea,  it  was 
said,  that  she  had  been  heard  to  pronounce,  with  gri!at  force, 
these  two  words, Jfrc,  tao,  to  signify,  according  to  the  opinion 
of  those  that  hold  the  soul's  transmigration,  that  this  was  the 
Jifth  time  she  had  burnt  herself  with  the  same  husband,  and 
that  there  remained  but  two  more  for  perfection  ;  as  if  she 
had  that  time  this  remembrance,  or  some  prophetical  spirit. 
But  here  ended  not  this  infernal  tragedy :  i  thought  it  was 
only  by  way  of  ceremony  that  these  five  women  sung  and 
danced  about  the  pit;  hut  I  was  altogether  surprised  when  I 
saw  that  the  flame  having  taken  hold  of  the  clothes  of  one 
of  them,  she  cast  herself,  with  her  bead  foremost,  into  the  pit ; 
and  that  after  her,  another,  being  overcome  by  the  flame  and 
the  smoke,  did  the  like  ;  and  my  astonishment  redoubled 
afterwards,  when  I  saw  that  the  remaining  three  took  one 
anothei  again  by  the  hand,  continued  their  dance  without  any 
apparent  fear ;  and  that  at  length  tbey  precijiitated  themselves, 
one  after  another,  into  the  fire,  as  their  companions  had  done. 
I  learnt  that  these  hid  been  five  sl.ives,  who,  having  seen 
their  mistress  extremely  afflicted  at  the  sickness  of  her  hus- 
band, and  heard  hei  promise  him,  that  she  would  not  survive 
him,  but  burn  herself  with  him,  were  so  touched  with  com- 
passion and  tenderness  towards  this  their  mistress,  that  they 
engaged  themselves  in  a  promise  to  follow  her  in  her  resolu- 
tion, and  to  burn  themselves  with  her.  —  Beknier. 

This  excellent  traveller  relates  an  extraorilinary  circum- 
stance which  occurred  at  one  of  these  sacrifices.  A  woman 
was  engaged  in  some  love-intrigues  with  a  young  Jlahomedaii, 
her  neighbor,  who  was  a  tailor,  and  could  play  tinely  upon  the 
tabor.  This  woman,  in  the  hopes  she  had  of  marrying  this 
young  man,  poisoned  her  husband,  and  presently  came  away 
to  tell  the  tailor,  that  it  was  time  to  be  gone  together,  as  they 
had  projected,  or  else  she  should  be  obliged  to  burn  herself. 
The  young  man,  fearing  lest  he  might  bo  entangled  in  a 
mischievous  business,  flatly  refused  her.  The  woman,  not 
at  all  surprised  at  it,  went  to  her  relations,  and  advertised 
them  of  the  sudden  death  of  her  husband,  and  openly  pro- 
tested that  she  would  not  survive  him,  but  burn  herself  with 
him.  Her  kindred,  well  satisfied  with  so  generous  a  resolu- 
tion, and  the  great  honor  she  did  to  the  whole  finiily, presently 
had  a  pit  made  and  filled  witli  wood,  exposing  the  corpse  upon 
it,  and  kindling  the  fire.  All  being  prepared,  the  woman  goes 
to  embrace  and  bid  farewell  to  all  her  kindred  that  were  there 
about  the  pit,  among  whom  was  also  the  tailor,  who  had  been 
invited  to  play  ujion  the  tabor  that  day,  witli  many  others  of 
that  sort  of  men,  according  to  tlie  custom  of  the  country. 
This  fury  of  a  woman  being  also  come  to  this  young  man, 
made  sign  as  if  she  would  bid  him  farewell  with  the  rest; 
but,  instead  of  gently  embracing  him,  she  taketli  him  with  all 
her  force  about  his  collar,  pulls  him  to  the  jiit,  and  tumbleth 
him,  together  with  herself,  into  the  ditch,  where  they  both 
were  soon  despatched.  —  Beknier. 

The  Hindoos  sometimes  erect  a  chapel  on  the  spot  where 
one  of  these  sacrifices  has  been  performed,  both  on  account  of 
the  soul  of  the  deceased,  and  as  a  trophy  of  her  virtue.  I 
remember  to  have  seen  one  of  these  places,  where  the  spot  on 
which  the  funeral  pile  had  been  erected,  was  enclosed  and 
coveted  with  l).imboos,  formed  into  a  kind  of  bower,  planted 
with  flowering  creepers.  The  inside  was  set  round  with 
flowers,  and  at  one  end  there  was  an  image.  —  Crawfird. 

Some  of  the  Yogees,  who  smear  themselves  with  ashes, 
use  none  but  what  they  collect  from  funeral  piles, — human 
ashes  !  —  Pietbo  Della  Valle. 

From  a  late  investigation,  it  appears,  that  the  number  of 
women  who  sacrifice  themselves  within  thirty  miles  round 
Calcutta  every  ye.ar,  is,  on  an  average,  upwards  of  two  hun- 
dred. The  Pundits  have  already  been  called  on  to  proiluce 
the  sanction  of  their  Shastcrs  for  this  custom.  The  passages 
exhibited  are  vague  and  general  in  their  meaning,  and  dill'er- 
ently  interpreted  by  the  siime  casts.  Some  sacred  verses  com- 
mend the  practice,  but  none  command  it ;  an<l  the  I'undits  re- 
fer once  more  to  custom.  'I'bey  have,  however,  intimated, 
that  if  government  will  pass  a  regulation,  amercing  by  fine 
every  Brahmin  who  attends  a  burning,  or  every  Zemindar  who 
permits  him  to  attend  it,  the  practice  cannot  possibly  long 
continue  ;  for  that  the  ceremony,  unsanctificd  by  the  presence 


618 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA 


of  the  priests,  will  lose  its  dignity  and  consequence  in  the 
eyes  of  the  people. 

The  civilized  woild  may  expect  soon  to  hear  of  the  abolition 
of  this  opptolirinin  of  a  Christian  administration,  the  female 
sacrifice  ;  which  has  snhsistod,  to  our  certain  knowledge,  since 
the  lime  of  Alexander  the  Great.  —  Claudius  Buchanan. 

This  practice,  however,  was  manifestly  unknown  when  the 
Institutes  of  Menu  were  written.  Instructions  are  there 
given  for  the  conduct  of  a  widow :  "  Let  her,"  it  is  said, 
"emaciate  her  body,  by  living  voluntarily  on  pure  flowers, 
roots,  and  fruit;  but  let  her  not,  when  her  lord  is  deceased, 
even  pronounce  the  iinme  of  another  man.  Let  her  continue 
till  deiith  forgiving  all  injuries,  performing  harsh  duties, 
avoiding  every  sensual  pleasure,  and  cheerfully  practising  the 
incomparable  rules  of  virtue,  which  have  been  followed  by  such 
women  as  were  devoted  to  one  only  husband.  Jlany  thou- 
sands of  Brahmins,  having  avoided  sensuality  from  their  early 
youtli,  and  having  left  no  issue  in  their  families,  have  as- 
cended nevertheless  to  heaven  ;  and,  like  those  abstemious 
men,  a  virtuous  wife  ascends  to  heaven,  though  she  have  no 
child,  if,  after  the  decease  of  her  lord,  she  devote  herself  to 
pious  austerity  ;  but  a  widow,  who,  from  a  wish  to  bear  chil- 
dre[i,  slights  her  deceased  husband  by  marrying  again,  brings 
disgrace  on  herself  here  below,  and  shall  be  excluded  from 
the  seat  of  her  lord."  —  Iiist.  of  Menu,  ch.  5,  157 — IGI. 

Second  marriages  were  permitted  to  men.  —  Ibid.,  167,  8,  9. 


Lo!  Arvatan  appears.  —  II.  1,  p.  5G9. 

Many  believe  that  some  souls  are  sent  back  to  the  spot 
where  their  bodies  were  burnt,  or  where  their  ashes  are  pre- 
served, to  wait  there  until  the  new  bodies  they  are  destined  to 
occupy  be  ready  for  their  reception.  This  ai)]ieiits  to  cor- 
respond with  an  opinion  of  Plato,  which,  with  many  other 
tenets  of  that  philosopher,  was  adopted  by  the  early  Chris- 
tians ;  and  an  ordinance  of  the  Romish  church  is  still  extant, 
prohibiting  having  lights  or  making  merriment  in  church-yards 
at  night,  lest  they  should  disturb  the  souls  that  might  come 
thither.  —  Ckawfurd. 

According  to  the  Danish  missionaries,  the  souls  of  those 
who  are  untimely  slain  wander  about  as  diabolfcal  spectres, 
doing  evil  to  mankind,  and  possessing  those  whom  they  per- 
secute.   NiECAMP,  i.  10,  $  14. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  hills  near  Rajamahall  believe  that 
when  God  sends  a  messenger  to  summon  a  person  to  his  pres- 
ence, if  the  messenger  should  mistake  his  object,  and  carry 
oflf  another,  he  is  desired  by  the  Deity  to  take  him  away  ; 
hut  as  the  earthly  mansion  of  this  soul  must  be  decayed,  it  is 
destined  to  remain  mid-way  between  heaven  and  earth,  and 
never  can  return  to  the  presence  of  God.  Whoever  commits 
homicide  without  a  divine  order,  and  whoever  is  killed  by  a 
snake,  as  a  punishment  for  some  concealed  crime,  will  be 
doomed  to  the  same  state  of  wandering  ;  and  whoever  hangs 
liimself  will  wander  eternally  with  a  rope  about  his  neck.^ 
Asiut.  Researches. 

Pope  Benedict  XII.  drew  up  a  list  of  117  heretical  opinions 
held  by  the  Armenian  Christians,  which  he  sent  to  the  king 
of  Armenia,  —  instead  of  any  other  assistance,  Avhcn  that 
prince  applied  to  him  for  aid  against  the  Mahomedans.  This 
paper  was  first  published  by  Bernino,  and  exhibits  a  curious 
mixture  of  mythologies.  One  of  their  opinions  was,  that  the 
souls  of  the  adult  wander  about  in  the  air  till  the  day  of  judg- 
ment ;  neither  hell,  nor  the  heavenly,  nor  the  terrestrial  para- 
dise, being  open  to  them  till  that  day  shall  have  passed. 

Davenant,  in  one  of  his  plays,  si)eculates  upon  such  a  state 
of  wandering  as  the  lot  of  the  soul  after  death  :  — 

I  must  to  darkness  go,  hover  in  clouds, 
Or  in  remote  untroul)led  air,  silent 
As  thought,  or  what  is  uncreated  yet ; 
Or  I  must  rest  in  some  cold  shade,  and  shall 
Perhaps  ne'er  see  that  everlasting  spring 
Of  which  philosophy  so  long  has  dreamt. 
And  seems  rather  to  wish  than  understand. 

Love  and  Honor. 

I  know  no  other  author  who  has  so  often  expressed  to  those 
who  could  understand  him,  his  doubts  respecting  a  future 
state,  and  how  burdensome  he  felt  them. 


Undying  as  I  am!  —  II.  3,  p.  570. 

The  Soul  is  not  a  thing  of  which  a  man  may  say,  it  hath 
been,  it  is  about  to  be,  or  is  to  he  hereafter ;  for  it  is  a  thing 
without  birth  ;  it  is  ancient,  constant,  and  eternal,  and  is  not 
to  be  destroyed  in  this  its  mortal  frame.  How  can  the  man 
who  believeth  that  this  thing  is  incorruptible,  eternal,  inex- 
haustible, and  without  birth,  think  th.at  he  can  either  kill  or 
cause  it  to  be  killed  !  As  a  man  throweth  away  old  garments 
and  puttetb  on  new,  even  so  the  Houl,  having  quitted  its  old 
mortal  frames,  entereth  into  others  which  are  new.  The 
weajion  divideth  it  not,  the  fire  hurncth  it  not,  the  water 
corrupteth  it  not,  the  wind  drietb  it  not  away;  —  for  it  is 
indivisible,  inconsumable,  incorruptible,  and  is  not  to  be  dried 
away  —  it  is  eternal,  universal,  permanent,  immovable  ;  it  is 
invisible,  inconceivable,  and  unalterable.  —  Bhagvat  Geeta. 


/(  uias  my  hour  of  fully.  —  II.  5,  p.  570. 

"  Among  the  qualities  required  for  the  proper  execution  ol 
public  business,  mention  is  made,  '  That  a  man  must  be  able 
to  keep  in  subjection  his  lust,  his  anger,  his  avarice,  Wilfully, 
and  his  pride.'  The  folly  there  specified  is  not  to  be  under- 
stood in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word  in  an  European  idiom, 
as  a  negative  quality,  or  the  mere  want  of  sense,  but  as  a 
kind  of  obstin.itely  stupid  lethargy,  or  perverse  absence  of 
mind,  in  which  the  will  is  not  altogether  passive:  it  seems  to 
be  a  weakness  peculiar  to  .Asia,  for  we  cannot  find  a  term  by 
which  to  express  the  precise  idea  in  the  European  languages 
It  operates  somewhat  like  the  violent  impulse  of  fear,  under 
which  men  will  utter  falsehoods  totally  incompatible  with 
each  other,  and  utterly  contrary  to  llieir  own  opinion,  knowl- 
edge, and  conviction  ;  and,  it  may  be  added,  also,  their  incli- 
nation and  intention. 

"  A  very  remarkaule  instance  of  this  temporary  frenzy  ha[>- 
pened  lately  in  the  supreme  Court  of  Judicature  at  Calcutta, 
where  a  man  (not  an  idiot)  swore,  upon  a  trial,  that  he  was 
no  kind  of  relation  to  his  brother,  who  was  then  in  Court,  and 
who  had  constantly  supported  him  from  bis  infancy  ;  and  that 
he  lived  in  a  house  by  himself,  for  which  he  paid  the  rent 
from  his  own  pocket,  when  it  was  proved  that  he  was  not 
worth  a  rupee,  and  when  the  person,  in  whose  house  he  had 
always  resided,  stood  at  the  bar  close  to  him. 

"  Another  conjecture,  and  that  exceedingly  acute  and  inge- 
nious, has  been  started  upon  this  folly,  that  it  may  mean  the 
deception  which  a  man  permits  to  be  imposed  on  his  judg- 
ment by  his  passions  ;  as  acts  of  rapacity  and  avarice  are  often 
committed  by  men  who  ascribe  them  to  prudence  and  a  just 
assertion  of  their  own  right ;  malice  and  rancor  pass  for 
justice,  and  brutality  for  spirit.  This  opinion,  when  thor- 
oughly examined,  will  very  nearly  tally  with  the  former;  for 
all  the  passions,  as  well  as  fear,  have  an  equal  efficacy  to  dis- 
turb and  distort  the  mind  :  but,  to  account  for  the  fully  here 
spoken  of  as  being  the  oft'spring  of  the  passions,  instead  of 
drawing  a  parallel  between  it  and  the  impulses  of  those  pas- 
sions, we  must  suppose  the  impulses  to  act  with  infinitely 
more  violence  upon  an  Asiatic  mind  than  we  can  ever  have 
seen  exemplified  in  Europe.  It  is,  however,  something  like 
the  madness  so  inimitably  delineated  in  the  Hereof  Cervantes, 
sensible  enough  upon  some  occasions,  and  at  the  same  time 
completely  wild,  and  unconscious  of  itself  upon  others,  and 
that,  too,  originally  produced  byaneflfort  of  the  will,  though, 
in  the  end,  overpowering  and  superseding  its  functions."  — 
Halhed. 


But  I,  all  naked  feeling  and  raw  life.  —  II.  5,  p.  570. 

By  the  vital  souls  of  those  men  who  have  committed  sinz  in 
the  body,  another  body,  composed  of  verves,  with  five  sen- 
sations, in  order  to  be  susceptible  of  torment,  shall  certainly 
be  assumed  after  death  ;  and  being  intimately  united  with 
those  minute  nervous  particles,  according  to  their  distribution, 
they  shall  feel  in  that  new  body  the  pangs  inflicted  in  each 
case  by  the  sentence  of  Yama.  —  Inst,  of  Menu. 

Henry  More,  the  Platonist,  has  two  applicable  stanzas  in 
his  Song  of  the  Soul :  — 

Like  10  a  light  fast  lock'd  in  lantern  dark, 
Whereby  by  night  our  wary  steps  we  guide 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


619 


In  sl,ibt\j'  streets,  and  dirty  cluinn'-ls  mark, 
'  Some  weaaer  rays  tlirougli  tlie  black  top  do  glide, 
And  fluslicr  streams,  pcrlmps,  from  horny  side  ; 
But  when  we've  past  the  peril  ol'  the  way. 
Arrived  at  home,  and  laid  that  case  aside, — 
The  naked  light  how  clearly  doth  it  ray, 
And  spread  its  joyful  beams  as  bright  as  summer's  day. 

Even  so  the  soul,  in  this  contracted  state, 

Confined  to  these  straight  instruments  of  sense, 

More  dull  and  narrowly  doth  operate  ; 

At  this  hole  hears,  — the  sight  must  ray  from  thence,— 

Here  tastes,  there  smells;  — but  when  she's  gone  from 

hence. 
Like  naked  lamp  she  is  one  shining  sphere. 
And  round  about  has  perfect  cognoscence  ; 
Whute'er  in  her  horizon  dolh  appear, 
She  is  one  orb  of  sense,  all  eye,  all  airy  ear. 

Amid  the  uncouth  allegory,  and  more  uncouth  languiigo,  of 
this  strange  series  of  poems,  a  few  passages  are  to  bo  found  of 
exceeding  beauty.  Milton,  who  was  the  author's  friend,  had 
evidently  read  them. 


JUarriataly.  —  II.  8,  p.  570. 

Mariatale,  as  Sonnerat  spells  the  name,  was  wife  of  the 
penitent  Chamadaguini,  and  mother  of  tarassourama,  who 
was,  in  part,  an  incarnation  of  Veeshno.  This  goddess,  says 
Sonnerat,  commanded  the  elements,  but  could  not  preserve 
that  empire  longer  than  her  heart  was  pure.  One  day,  while 
she  was  cotlecling  water  out  of  a  tank,  and,  according  to  her 
custom,  was  making  a  bowl  of  earth  to  carry  it  to  the  house, 
she  saw  on  the  surface  of  the  water  some  figures  of  Grin- 
dovers,  (Glendoveers,)  which  were  flying  over  her  head. 
Struck  with  their  beauty,  her  heart  admitted  an  impure 
thought,  and  the  earth  of  the  bowl  dissolved.  From  that 
time  she  was  obliged  to  make  use  of  an  ordinary  vessel.  This 
discovered  to  Chamadaguini  that  his  wife  had  deviated  from 
purity  ;  and  in  the  excess  of  his  rage,  he  ordered  his  son  to 
drag  her  to  the  place  were  criminals  were  executed,  and  to 
behead  her.  The  order  was  executed  ;  but  Parassourama  was 
80  much  afflicted  for  the  loss  of  his  mother,  that  Chamada- 
guini told  liim  to  take  up  the  body,  and  fasten  the  liead  upon 
it,  and  repeat  a  prayer  (which  he  taught  him  for  that  pur- 
pose) in  her  ear,  and  then  his  mother  would  come  to  life 
again.  The  son  ran  eagerly  to  perform  what  he  was  ordered, 
but,  by  a  very  singular  blunder,  he  joined  the  head  of  his 
mother  to  the  body  of  a  Parichi,  who  bad  been  executed  for 
her  crimes ;  a  monstrous  union,  which  gave  to  this  woman  the 
virtues  of  a  goddess,  and  the  vices  of  a  criminal.  The  god- 
dess, becoming  impure  by  such  a  mixture,  was  driven  from 
her  house,  and  connnitted  all  kinds  of  cruelties.  The  De- 
verkels,  perceiving  the  destruction  she  made,  appeased  her  by 
giving  her  power  to  cure  the  small-pox,  and  promising  that 
she  should  be  implored  for  that  disorder.  Mariatale  is  the 
great  goddess  of  the  Parias  ;  —  to  honor  her,  they  have  a 
custom  of  dancing  with  several  pots  of  water  on  their  heads, 
placed  one  above  the  other;  tliese  pots  are  adorned  with  the 
leaves  of  the  Margosies,  a  tree  consecrated  to  her. 


The  little  sontrsters  of  the.  sky 

Sit  silent  in  the  sultnj  hour.  —  IV.  2,  p.  572. 

The  tufted  lark,  fixed  to  this  fruitful  land,  says  Sonnini, 
speaking  of  Egypt,  never  forsakes  it;  it  seems,  however, that 
the  excessive  heat  annoys  him.  You  may  see  these  birds,  as 
well  as  sparrows,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  with  their  bills 
half  open,  and  the  muscles  of  their  breasts  agitated,  breathing 
with  diflicnlty,  and  as  if  they  pnnted  for  respiration.  The 
instinct  which  induces  them  to  prefir  those  means  of  subsist- 
ence which  are  easily  obtained,  and  in  abundance,  although 
attended  with  some  suffering,  resembles  the  mind  of  man, 
whom  a  thirst  for  liches  engages  to  brave  calamities  and  dan- 
gers without  number. 


The  watchman.  —  V.  1,  p.  574. 

The  watchmen  are  provided  with  no  offensive  weapons  ex- 
cepting a  sling  ;  on  the  contr.nry,  they  continue  the  whole  day 
standiiig,  in  one  single  position,  upon  a  pillar  of  clay  raised 
about  ten  feel,  where  they  remain  bellowing  continually,  that 
they  may  terrify,  without  hurting,  the  birds  who  feed  upon  the 
crop.  Every  considerable  field  contains  several  such  senti- 
nels, stationed  at  difTerent  corners,  who  P'peat  the  call  from 
one  to  another  so  incessantly,  that  the  invaders  have  hardly 
any  opportunity  of  making  a  good  livelihood  in  the  field. 

Thfse  watchmen  are  forced,  during  the  rains,  to  erect,  in- 
stead of  a  clay  pillar,  a  scafl'olding  of  wood  as  high  as  the 
crop,  over  which  they  suspend  a  roof  of  straw,  to  shelter  their 
naked  bodies  from  the  rain.  —  Tennant. 


The  Goldm  Palaces.  —  V.  1,  p.  574. 

Every  thing  belonging  to  the  Sovereign  of  Ava  has  the  ad- 
dition of  shoe,  or  golden,  annexed  to  it  ;  even  his  majesty's 
person  is  never  mentioned  but  in  conjunction  with  this  pre- 
cious metal.  When  a  subject  meai}s  to  affirm  that  the  king 
has  heard  any  thing,  he  says,  "  It  has  reached  the  golden 
ears  ;  "  he  who  obtained  admission  to  the  royal  presence  has 
been  at  the  "  golden  feet."  The  perfume  of  otta  of  roses,  a 
nobleman  observed  one  day,  "  was  an  odor  grateful  to  the 
golden  nose."  —  Symes. 


A  cloud,  ascending  in  the  eastern  sh-y, 
Sails  shicly  o'er  the  vale, 
Jind  darkens  round,  and  closes  in  the  niglU.  —  V.  3,  j).  574. 

At  this  season  of  the  year,  it  is  not  uncommon,  towards  the 
eveniiig,  to  see  a  small  black  cloud  rising  in  the  eastern  part 
of  the  horizon,  and  afterwards  spreading  itself  to  the  north- 
west. This  phenomenon  is  always  attended  with  a  violent 
storm  of  wind,  and  flashes  of  the  strongest  and  most  vivid 
lightning  and  heavy  thunder,  which  is  followed  by  rain. 
These  storms  sometimes  last  for  half  an  hour  or  more  ;  and, 
when  they  disperse,  they  leave  the  air  greatly  freshened,  and 
the  sky  of  a  deep,  clear  and  transparent  blue.  When  they 
occur  near  the  full  moon,  the  whole  atmosphere  is  illuminated 
by  a  soft  but  brilliant  silver  light,  attended  with  gentle  airs. — 

IIODGES. 


.4  white  flag, flapping  to  the  winds  of  night, 

Marlis  where  the  tiger  seized  a  human  prey,  —  V.  4,  p.  574. 

It  is  usual  to  pi. ice  a  small,  white,  triangular  flag,  fixed  to 
a  bamboo  staff,  of  ten  or  twelve  feet  long,  at  tbi'  place  where  a 
tiger  has  destroyed  a  man.  It  is  common  for  the  passengers, 
also,  each  to  throw  a  stone  or  brick  near  the  spot,  so  that,  in 
the  course  of  a  little  time,  a  pile,  e(|ual  to  a  good  wagon-load,  is 
collected.  This  custom,  as  well  as  the  fixing  a  rag  on  any  partic- 
ular tliorn-busli,  near  the  fital  spot,  is  in  use,  likewise,  on  vari- 
ous accoimts.  Many  brambles  may  be  seen  in  a  day's  journey, 
completely  covered  with  this  motley  assemblage  of  remnants. 
The  sight  of  the  flags  and  piles  of  stones  imparts  a  certain 
melancholy,  not  perhaps  altogether  devoid  of  apprehension. 
They  may  be  said  to  be  of  service  in  pointing  out  the  places 
most  frequented  by  tigers.  —  Orinital  Spo'rLs,  vol.  ii.  p.  22. 


Orntly  he  steals  away  with  silent  tread.  —  V.  9,  p.  575. 

This  part  of  the  poem  ha.s  been  censured,  upon  the  ground 
that  Ladurlad's  conduct  in  thus  forsaking  his  daughter  is  in- 
consistent with  his  affection  for  her.  There  is  a  passage  in 
Mr.  Milman's  version  of  Nala  and  Dainayanti  so  curiously 
resembling  it  in  the  situation  of  the  two  i)ersons,  that  any  one 
might  suppose  I  had  imitated  the  Sanscrit,  if  Kchama  had  not 
been  published  five-and-twenty  years  before  Mr.  Milmnn's 
most  characteristic  specimen  of  Indian  poetry.  Indeed,  it  is 
to  him  that  I  am  obliged  for  pointing  out  the  very  singular 
coincidence. 
"  Mighty  is  thy  father's  kingdom  —  once  was  mine  as  mighty, 

too ; 
Never  will  I  there  seek  refuge —  in  my  base  extremity. 


G20 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


There  I  once  appenred  in  glory  —  to  the  exalting  of  tliy  pride  ; 
Shall  I    now  a|ipcar   in  misery  —  to  the    increasing   of  thy 

slianic  ? " 
Nala  thus  to  Daniayanti  —  spake  again,  and  yet  a^ain, 
Comforting  the  noble  lady — scant  in  half  a  garment  (-lad. 
Both  together,  by  one  garment  —  covered,  roamed  they  here 

and  tliorc  ; 
Wearied  out  l)y  thirst  and  famine  —  to  a  cabin  drew  they  near, 
WluMi  they  reached  tliat  lowly  cabin  —  then  di<l  great  Nislia- 

dlia's  king 
With  tlie  princess  of  Vidarbha — on  the  hard  caitli  seat  tlieni 

down  ; 
Naked,  with  no  mat  to  rest  on —  wet  willi  mire  and  stained 

with  dust. 
Weary  then  with  Damayanti  —  on  the  earth  he  fell  asleep. 
Sank  the  lovely  Damayanti  —  by  his  side  with  sleep  oppress'd, 
She   thus  plunged   in   sudden   misery  —  she   the    tender,  the 

devout. 
But  while  on  the  cold  earth  slumbered  —  Damayanti,  all  dis- 
traught, 
Nala  in  his  mind  by  sorrow  —  might  no  longer  calmly  sleep  ; 
For  the  losing  of  his  kingdom  —  the  desertion  of  his  friends. 
And  his    weary  forest   wanderings  —  painful  on  his  thought 

arose  ; 
"  If  I  do  it,  what  may  follow  ? —  what  if  I  refuse  to  do.' 
Were  my  instant  death  the  better  —  or  to  abandon  her  I  love. 
But  to  me  too  deep  devoted  —  suffers  she  distress  and  shame  ; 
Reft  of  me,  she  home  may  wander  —  to  her  royal   father's 

house  ; 
Faithful  wandering  ever  with  me  —  certain  sorrow  will  she 

bear, 
But  if  separated  from  me  —  chance  of  solace  may  he  hers." 
Long  within  his  heart  he  pondered  —  and  again,  again  weighed 

o'er. 
Best  he   thought  it    Damayanti  —  to  desert,  that  wretched 

king. 
From  her  virtue  none  dare  harm  ber  —  in  the  lonely  forest 

way, 
Iler  the  fortunate,  the  noble,  my  devoted  wedded  wife. 
Thus  bis  mind  on  Damayanti  —  dwelt  in  its  perverted  thought, 
'Wrought  by  Kali's  evil  influence  —  to  desert  his  lovely  wife. 
Of  himself  without  a  garment  —  and  of  her  with  only  one 
As  he  thought,  approached  he  near  her — to  divide  that  single 

robe. 
"  IIow  shall  I  divide  the  garment  —  by  my  loved  one  unper- 

ceived  ?  " 
Pondering  this  within  his  spirit  —  round  the  cabin  Nala  went ; 
In  that  narrow  cabin's  circuit  —  Nala  wandered    here  and 

there. 
Till  he  found  without  a  scabbard  —  shining,  a  well-tempered 

sword. 
Then   when  half  that  only  garment  —  he   had  severed   and 

put  on. 
In  her  sleep  Vidarbha's  princess  —  with  bewildered  mind  he 

fled. 
Yet,  his  cruel  heart  relenting  —  to  the  cabin  turns  be  back  ; 
On  the  slumbering  Damayanti  —  gazing,  sadly  wept  the  king  ; 
"Thou  that  sun  nor  wind  hath  ever  —  roughly  visited,  my 

love  ! 
On  the  hard  earth  in  a  cabin  —  sleepest  with  thy  guardian 

gone. 
Thus  attired  in  half  a  garment — she   that  aye  so  sweetly 

smiled. 
Like  to  one   distracted,  beauteous  —  liow  at  length  will  she 

awake '. 
How  will't  fare  with  Bhima's  daughter  —  lone,  abandoned  by 

her  lord. 
Wandering  in  the  savage  forest  —  where  wild  beasts  and  ser- 
pents dwell  ! 
May  the  suns  and  winds  of  heaven  —  may  the  genii  of  the 

woods, 
Noblest,  may  they  all  protect  thee  —  thine  own  virtue  thy  best 

guard." 
To  his  wife  of  peerless  beauty  —  on  the  earth,  'twas  thus  he 

spoke. 
Then  of  sense  bereft  by  Kali  —  Nala  hastily  set  forth  ; 
And  departing,  still  departing  —  he  returned  again,  again  ; 
Dragged  away  by  that  bad  demon  —  ever  by  bis  love  drawn 

back. 


Nala,  thus  his  heart  divided  —  into  two  conflicting  parts, 
Like  a  swing  goes   backward,  forward  —  from  the  cabin,  to 

and  fro. 
Torn  away  at  length  by  Kali  —  flies  afar  the  frantic  king. 
Leaving  there  his  wife  in  slumber  —  making  miserable  moans. 
Reftof  sense,  possessed  by  Kali  —  thinking  still  on  her  he  left. 
Passed  he  in  the  lonely  forest  —  leaving  his  deserted  wife. 


PoUear.  —  y.  14,  p.  575. 

The  first  and  greatest  of  the  sons  of  Sevee  is  Pollear;  he 
presides  over  marriages  :  the  Indians  build  no  house  without 
having  first  carried  a  Pollear  on  the  ground,  which  they 
sprinkle  with  oil,  and  throw  flowers  on  it  every  day.  If  they 
do  not  invoke  it  before  they  undertake  any  enterprise,  they 
believe  that  God  will  make  them  forget  what  they  wanted  to 
undertake,  and  that  their  labor  will  be  in  vain.  He  is  rep- 
resented with  an  elephant's  head,  and  mounted  on  a  rat ;  but 
in  the  pagodas  they  place  him  on  a  pedestal,  with  his  legs 
almost  crossed.  A  rat  is  always  put  before  the  door  of  his 
chapel.  This  rat  was  a  giant,  called  Gudja-mouga-chourin, 
on  whom  the  gods  had  bestow  ed  immortality,  as  well  as  great 
powers,  which  he  abused,  and  did  much  harm  to  mankind. 
Pollear,  entreated  by  the  sages  and  penitents  to  deliver  them, 
pulled  out  one  of  his  tusks,  and  threw  it  against  Gudja- 
mouga-chourin  ;  the  tooth  entered  the  giant's  stomach,  and 
overthrew  him,  who  immediately  changed  himself  into  a  rat 
as  large  as  a  mountain,  and  came  to  attack  Pollear ;  who 
sprung  on  his  back,  telling  him,  that  hereafter  he  should  ever 
be  his  carrier. 

The  Indians,  in  their  adoration  of  this  god,  cross  their  arms, 
shut  the  fist,  and  in  this  manner  give  themselves  several  blows 
on  the  temples  ;  then,  but  always  with  the  arms  crossed,  they 
take  hold  of  their  ears,  and  make  three  inclinations,  bending 
the  knee  ;  after  which,  with  their  hands  joined,  they  address 
their  prayers  to  him,  and  strike  their  forehead.  They  have  a 
groat  veneration  for  this  deity,  whose  image  they  place  in  all 
temples,  streets,  highways,  and  in  the  country,  at  the  foot  of 
some  tree  ;  that  all  the  world  may  have  an  opportunity  of  in- 
voking him  before  they  undertake  any  concern  ;  and  that 
travellers  may  make  their  adorations  and  offerings  to  him 
before  they  pursue  their  Journey.  —  Sonnerat. 


The  Olenduveers.  —  VI.  p.  57G. 

This  word  is  altered  from  the  Grindonrcrs  of  Sonnerat 
who  describes  these  celestial  children  of  Casyapa  as  famom 
for  their  beauty  ;  they  have  wings,  he  adds,  and  fly  in  the  air 
with  their  \\ives.  I  do  not  know  whether  they  are  the  Oand- 
harvas  of  the  English  Orientalists.  The  wings  with  which 
they  are  attired  in  the  ]ioem  are  borrowed  from  the  neglected 
story  of  Peter  Wilkins.  At  a  recent  sale  of  mannscrii>ts,  the 
author's  assignment  of  this  book  to  Dodsley  for  ten  guineas 
was  brought  to  light,  and  it  then  appeared  that  bis  name,  which 
till  then  bad  been  unknown,  was  R.  Paltoek.  Nothing  more' 
has  been  discovered  concerning  him.  His  liook,  however,  is 
a  work  of  great  genius,  and  I  know  that  l)olb  Sir  Walter  Scott 
and  Mr.  Coleridge  thought  as  highly  of  it  as  I  do.  His  w  inged 
people  are  the  most  beautiful  creatures  of  injagination  that 
ever  were  devised.  I  copy  his  minute  description  of  the 
grauiuhe,  as  he  calls  it  ;  —  Slothnrd  has  made  some  delightful 
drawings  of  it  in  the  Novelist's  Magazine. 

"She  first  threw  up  two  long  branches,  or  ribs,  of  the 
whalebone,  as  I  called  it  before,  (and  indeed  for  several  of  its 
properties,  as  toughness,  elasticity,  and  pliableness,  nothing  I 
have  ever  seen  can  so  justly  be  compared  to  it,)  which  were 
jointed  behind  to  the  upper  bone  of  the  spine,  and  which, 
when  not  extended,  lie  bent  over  the  shoulders  on  each  side 
of  the  neck  forwards,  from  whence,  by  nearer  and  nearer  ap- 
proaches, they  just  meet  at  the  lower  rim  of  the  belly  in  a  sort 
of  point  ;  but,  when  extended,  they  stand  their  whole  length 
above  the  shoulders,  not  perpendicularly,  but  spreading  out- 
wards, with  a  web  of  the  softest  and  most  pliable  and  spongy 
membrane  that  can  be  imagined  in  the  interstices  between 
them,  reaching  from  their  root  or  joint  on  the  back  up  above 
the  hinder  i)art  of  the  head,  and  near  half  way  their  own 
length;  but,  when  closed,  the  membrane  falls  down   in  the 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


G21 


midJlo  upon  the  neck,  like  a  liandkercliicf.  There  are  also 
Jwo  oilier  ribs,  rising,  as  it  wero,  from  the  same  root,  wliich, 
wlien  open,  run  horizont;illy,  but  not  so  long  us  the  others. 
These  are  tilled  up  in  the  intcrstiie  between  tliem  and  the 
upper  ones  with  the  same  membrane  ;  and  on  the  lower  side 
of  tliis  is  also  a  deep  lliipof  the  membrane,  so  that  the  arms  can 
be  either  above  or  below  it  in  flight,  and  are  alwajs  above 
it  when  closed.  This  last  rib,  when  shut,  flaps  under  the 
upper  one,  and  also  falls  down  with  it  before  to  the  waist; 
but  it  is  not  joined  to  the  ribs  below.  Along  the  whole  si)ine- 
bone  runs  a  strong,  flat,  broad,  gristly  cartilage,  to  which  are 
joined  several  other  of  these  ribs,  all  which  open  horizontally, 
and  are  filled  in  the  inlcrstices  with  the  above  membrane,  and 
arc  jointed  to  the  ribs  of  the  person  just  where  the  pi  me  of  the 
hack  begins  to  turn  towards  the  breast  and  belly;  and,  when 
shut,  wrap  the  body  round  to  the  joints  on  tlie  contrary  side, 
folding  neatly  one  side  over  the  other. 

"  At  the  lower  spine  are  two  more  ribs  extended  horizon- 
tally when  open,  jointed  again  to  the  hips,  and  long  enough  to 
meet  the  joint  on  the  contrary  side  across  the  belly :  and  from 
the  hip-joint,  which  is  on  the  outermost  edge  of  the  hip-bone, 
runs  a  pliable  cartilage  quite  down  the  outside  of  the  thigh 
and  leg  to  the  ankle  ;  from  which  there  branch  out  divers 
other  ribs,  horizontally  also  when  open,  but,  when  closed, 
they  encompass  the  whole  thigh  and  leg,  rolling  inwards  across 
the  back  of  the  leg  and  thigh,  till  they  reach  and  just  cover 
the  cartilage.  The  interstices  of  these  are  filled  up  with  the 
same  membrane.  From  the  two  ribs  which  join  to  the  lower 
spine-bone,  there  hangs  down  a  sort  of  short  apron,  very  full 
of  plaits,  from  hip-joint  to  hip-joint,  and  reaches  below  the 
buttocks,  half  way  or  more  to  the  hams.  This  has  also  sev- 
eral small  limber  ribs  in  it.  Just  upon  the  lower  spine-joint, 
and  above  the  apron,  as  I  call  it,  there  are  two  other  long 
branches,  which  when  close,  extend  upon  the  back  from  the 
point  they  join  at  below  to  the  shoulders,  where  each  rib  has 
a  clasper,  which  reaching  over  the  shoulders,  just  under  the 
fold  of  the  uppermost  branch  or  ribs,  hold  up  the  two  ribs  flat 
to  the  back,  like  a  V,  the  interstices  of  which  arc  filled  up  with 
the  aforesaid  membrane.  This  last  piece,  in  flight,  falls  down 
almost  to  the  ankles,  where  the  two  claspers,  lapping  under 
each  leg  within-side,  hold  it  very  fast ;  and  then,  also,  the 
short  apron  is  drawn  up,  by  the  strength  of  the  ribs  in  it, 
between  the  thighs,  forward  and  covers  as  far  as  the  rim  of 
the  belly.  The  whole  arras  are  covered  also  from  the  shoul- 
ders to  the  wrist  with  the  same  delicate  membrane,  fastened  to 
ribs  of  proportionable  dimensions,  and  jointed  to  a  cartilage 
on  the  outside  in  the  same  manner  as  on  the  legs.  It  is  very 
surprising  to  feel  the  difference  of  these  ribs  when  open  and 
when  closed ;  for  closed  they  are  as  pliable  as  the  finest 
whalebone,  or  more  so  ;  but,  when  extended,  are  as  strong  and 
stiff  as  a  bone.  They  are  tapering  from  the  roots,  and  are 
broader  or  narrower,  as  best  suits  the  places  they  occupy,  and 
the  stress  they  are  put  to,  up  to  their  points,  which  are  almost 
as  small  as  a  hair.  The  membrane  between  them  is  the  most 
elastic  thing  I  ever  met  with,  occupying  no  more  space,  when 
the  ribs  are  closed,  than  just  from  rib  to  rib,  as  flat  and  smooth 
as  possible  ;  but,  when  extended  in  some  postures,  will  dilate 
itself  surprisingly. 

"  It  is  the  most  amazing  thing  in  the  world  to  observe  the 
large  expansion  of  this  graundee  when  open,  and,  when  closed, 
(as  it  all  is  in  a  moment,  upon  the  party's  descent,)  to  see  it 
fit  so  close  and  compact  to  the  body  as  no  tailor  can  come  up 
to  it ;  and  then  the  several  ribs  lie  so  justly  disposed  in  the 
several  parts,  that  instead  of  being,  as  one  would  imagine,  a 
disadvantage  to  the  shape,  they  make  the  body  and  limbs  look 
extremely  elegant ;  and,  by  the  different  adjustment  of  their 
Una  on  the  body  and  limbs,  the  whole,  to  my  fancy,  some- 
what resembles  the  dress  of  the  old  Roman  warriors  in  their 
napkins  ;  and,  to  appearance,  seems  much  more  noble  than  any 
fictitious  garb  I  ever  saw,  or  can  frame  a  notion  of  to  myself." 


Mount  Himakout.  —  VI.  3,  p.  576. 

Diishmanta.  Say,  Matali,  what  mountain  is  that  which, 
like  an  evening  cloud,  pours  exhilarating  streams,  and  forms  a 
golden  zone  between  the  western  and  eastern  seas.' 

JUutali.  That,  O  king !  is  the  mountain  of  Gandharvas, 
named  H^maciita  :  the  universe  contains  not  a  more  excellent 


place  for  the  successful  devotion  of  the  pious.  There  Casya- 
l)a,  father  of  the  immortals,  ruler  of  men,  son  of  Marichi,  who 
sprang  from  the  self-existent,  resides  with  his  consort  Aditi, 
blessed  in  holy  retirement.  —  We  now  enter  the  sanctuary  of 
him  who  rules  the  world,  and  the  groves  which  are  watered 
by  streams  from  celestial  sources. 

Dtu^lunanta.  I  see  with  equal  amazement  both  the  pious  and 
their  awful  retreat.  It  becomes,  indeed,  pnr<>  spirits  to  feed 
on  balmy  air  in  a  forest  blooming  with  trees  of  life  ;  to  bathe 
in  rills  dyed  yellow  with  the  golden  dust  of  the  lotus,  and  to 
fortify  their  viitue  in  the  mysterious  bath;  to  meditate  in 
caves,  the  pebbles  of  whicli  are  unblemished  gems  ;  and  to 
restrain  their  passions,  even  though  nymphs  of  exquisite 
beauty  frolick  around  them.  In  this  giove  alone  is  attained 
the  summit  of  true  piety,  to  wliich  other  hermits  in  vain 
aspire.  —  Sacontala. 


Her  death  predooin'd 

To  that  black  hour  of  midnight,  when  the  Moun 

Hath  turned  her  face  away. 

Unwilling  to  behold 

Tlie  unhappy  end  of  guilt! —  VI.  4,  p.  576. 

I  will  now  speak  to  thee  of  that  time  in  which,  should  a 

devout  man  die,  he   will   never  return  ;  and  of  that  time  in 

which,  dying,  he  shall  return  again  to  earth. 

Those  holy  men  who  are  acquainted  with  lirabnia,  depart- 
ing this  lite  in  the  fiery  light  of  day,  in  the  bright  season  of  the 
moon,  within  the  six  months  of  the  sun's  northern  course,  go 
unto  him  :  but  those  who  depart  in  the  gloomy  night  of  the 
moon's  dark  season,  and  whilst  the  sun  is  yet  within  the 
southern  path  of  bis  journey,  ascend  for  a  while  into  the  re- 
gions of  the  moon,  and  again  return  to  mortal  birth.  These 
two.  Light  and  Darkness,  are  esteemed  the  World's  eternal 
ways:  he  who  walketh  in  the  former  path  returneth  not; 
whilst  he  who  walketh  in  the  latter  cometh  back  again  upon 
the  earth.  —  Kbeeshna,  in  the  Bhagval  Oceta. 


Indra VI.  4,  p.  577. 

The  Indian  God  of  the  visible  Heavens  is  called  Indra,  or 
the  King;  and  Direspetir,  Lord  of  the  Sky.  He  has  the 
character  of  the  Koman  Ocnius,  or  chief  of  the  Good  Spirits. 
His  consort  is  named  Suchi ;  his  celestial  city,  Jlmaraiuli; 
his  palace,  Vaijaijanla ;  his  garden,  JVuni/ana;  his  chief  ele- 
phant, ./?i>(Ta(;  his  charioteer,. l/nroZi ;  and  his  weapon,  Vajra, 
or  the  thunderbolt.  He  is  the  regent  of  winds  and  showers, 
and,  though  the  East  is  peculiarly  under  his  care,  yet  his 
Olympus  is  Mcru,  or  the  North  Pole,  allegorically  represented 
as  a  mountain  of  gold  and  gems.  He  is  the  Prince  of  the 
beneficent  Genii.  —  ^'ir  W.  Jones. 

A  distinct  idea  of  Indra,  the  King  of  Immortals,  may  be 
collected  from  a  passage  in  the  ninth  section  of  the  Gceta. 

"These  having,  through  virtue,  reached  the  mansion  of  the 
king  of  Suras,  feast  on  the  exquisite  heavenly  food  of  the 
Gods;  they  who  have  enjoyed  this  lofty  region  of  Pweroa, 
but  whose  virtue  is  exhausted,  revisit  the  habitation  of 
mortals." 

He  is  the  God  of  thunder  and  the  five  elements,  with  in- 
ferior Genii  under  his  command  ;  and  is  conceived  to  govern 
the  eastern  quarter  of  the  world,  but  to  preside,  like  the 
Oenius  or  J}gaikod<rmon  of  the  ancients,  over  the  celestial 
bands,  which  are  stationed  on  the  summit  of  Meru,  or  the 
North  Pole,  where  he  solaces  the  Gods  with  nectar  and 
heavenly  music. 

The  Cinnaras  are  the  male  dancers  in  Swerga,  or  the 
Heaven  of  Indra,  and  the  Apsaras  are  his  dancing  girls, 
answering  to  the  fairies  of  the  Persians,  and  to  the  damsels 
called  in  the  Koran  hhuru  Idyiln,  or,  with  antelope's  eyes.  — 
Sir  W.  Jones. 


/  have  seen  InAra  tremble  at  his  prayers, 

•Snd  at  his  dreadful  penances  turn  pale.  —  VI.  4,  p.  577. 

Of  such  penances  Mr.  Halhed  has  produced  a  curious 
specimen. 

"In  the  wood  Midhoo,  which  is  on  the  confines  of  the 
kingdoms  of  Brcge,  Tarakee  selected  a  pleasant  and  beautiful 


622 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


spot,  adorned  with  verdure  and  blossoms,  nnd  there  exercised 
hinisfir  in  pununce  und  mortification,  cxteinally  with  tlu; 
sincerest  piety,  but  in  reality,  the  most  malignant  inten- 
tion, and  with  the  determined  purpose  of  oppressing  the 
Devetas ;  penances  such  as  credulity  itself  was  astonished  to 
Jiear  ;  and  they  are  here  recounted  :  — 

J.  For  u  hundred  years,  he  held  up  his  arms  and  one  foot 
towards  heaven,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  sun  the  wliole 
time. 

2.  For  a  hundred  years,  he  remained  standing  on  tiptoe. 

3.  For  a  liundred  years  more,  he  nouiished  himself  witli 
nothing  but  water. 

4.  For  a  hundred  years  more,  he  lived  upon  nothing  but  air. 

5.  For  a  liundred  years  more,  he  stood  arid  made  his  adora- 
tions in  the  river. 

0.  For  a  hundred  years  more  lie  made  those  adorations 
buried  up  lo  his  neck  in  tlie  earth. 

7.  For  a  liundred  years  more,  enveloped  with  fire. 

8.  For  a  hundred  years  more,  he  stood  upon  his  liead  with 
his  feet  towards  heaven. 

9.  For  a  hundred  years  more,  he  stood  upon  the  palm  of  one 
Iiand  resting  on  the  ground. 

10.  For  a  hundred  years  more,  lie  hung  by  his  hand  from 
the  liranch  of  a  tree. 

11.  For  a  hundred  years  more,  he  hung  from  a  tree  with 
his  head  downwards. 

When  he  at  length  came  to  a  respite  from  these  severe  mor- 
tifications, a  radiant  glory  encircled  the  devotee,  and  a  flame 
of  fire,  arising  from  liis  head,  beg^in  to  consume  the  whole 
world."  —  From  the  Scva  Pooraun,  Maurice's  History  of  Hin- 
dostan. 

You  see  a  pious  Yogi,  motionless  as  a  pollard,  holding  bis 
thick,  busby  hair,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  S(d.it  orb.  Mark  — 
his  body  is  half  covered  with  a  white  ant's  edifice  made  of 
raised  clay  ;  the  skin  of  a  snake  supplies  the  place  of  his  sa- 
cerdotal thread,  and  pirt  of  it  girds  his  loins;  a  number  of 
knotty  pl.ints  encircle  and  wound  his  neck,  and  surrounding 
birds'  nests  almost  conceal  his  shoulders. 

Diislimanta.  I  bow  to  a  man  of  his  austere  devotion. — 
Sacontala. 


That  even  Sr.eva's  self. 
The  Highest,  cannot  grunt  and  be  secure.  —  VI.  4,  p.  577. 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  following  fable,  that  Seeva  had  once 
been  reduced  to  a  very  humiliating  employment  by  one  of 
Kehama's  predecessors :  — 

Havana,  by  his  power  and  infernal  arts,  had  subjugated 
all  the  gods  and  demigods,  and  forced  them  to  perform  menial 
oflices  about  bis  person  and  household.  Indra  made  garlands 
of  flowers  to  adorn  him  withal  ;  Jl:rnl  was  his  cook  ;  Surya 
supplied  light  by  day,  and  Cknmira  by  night  ;  Varima  pur- 
veyed water  for  the  palace  ;  Kuvrra  furnished  cash.  The 
whole  nava-graha  {ihc  nine  planftarij  ii\}Uv.Ti^s)  sometimes  ar- 
ranged themselves  into  a  ladder,  by  which,  they  serving  as 
steps,  the  tyrant  ascended  his  throne.  Brakma  (lor  the  great 
gods  were  there  also ;  and  I  give  this  anecdote  as  I  find  it  in 
my  memoranda,  without  any  improved  arrangement)  —  Brahma 
was  a  herald,  proclaiming  the  giiint's  titles,  the  day  of  the 
week,  month,  &;c.  daily  in  the  palace,  —  a  sort  of  speaking 
almanac:  Mahadeva,  (i.  e.  Seeva,)  in  his  Avatira  of  A'aw- 
deli-rvo,  performed  the  office  of  barber,  and  trimmed  the  giants' 
beards:  y^ishnu  h&ti  the  honorable  occupation  of  instructing 
and  drilling  the  dancing  and  singing  girls,  and  selecting  the 
fairest  for  the  royal  bed  :  Oanrsa  bad  the  care  of  the  cows, 
goats,  and  herds:  yuiju  swept  the  house  ;  Yama  washed  the 
linen  ;  —  and  in  this  manner  were  all  the  gods  employed  in  the 
menial  oflices  of  Havana,  who  rebuked  and  flogged  them  in 
default  of  industry  and  attention.  Nor  were  the  female 
divinities  exempted  ;  for  Bhuvani,  in  her  name  and  form  of 
Satni,  was  head  Aya,  or  nurse,  to  Havana's  children  ;  Lakshmi 
and  Saraswali  were  also  among  them,  but  it  does  not  appear 
in  what  capacity.  —  Moore's  Hindu  Pantheon,  p.  333. 

Seeva  was  once  in  danger  even  of  annihilation.  "  In  pass- 
ing from  the  town  of  Silgut  to  Deonhully,"  says  Colonel 
Wilks,  "I  became  accidentally  informed  of  a  sect,  peculiar, 
as  I  since  understand,  to  the  north-eastern  parts  of  Mysoor, 
the  women  of  which  universally  undergo  the  amputation  of 
the  first  joints  of  the  third  and  fourth  fingers  of  their  right 


hands.  On  my  arrival  at  Deonhully,  after  ascertaining  that 
the  reriuest  would  not  give  oflence,  I  desired  to  sec  some  of 
these  HDinen  ;  and,  the  same  atternoon,  seven  of  them  at- 
tended at  my  tent.  The  sect  is  a  subdivision  of  the  Murresoo 
JVokal,*  and  belongs  to  the  fourth  great  class  of  the  Hindoos, 
viz.  the  Soudi.r.  Every  woman  of  the  sect,  previously  to 
piercing  the  ears  of  hor  eldest  daughter,  preparatory  to  her 
being  betrothed  in  marriage,  must  necessarily  undergo  this 
mutilation,  which  is  performed  by  the  blacksmith  of  the  vil- 
lage for  a  regulated  fee,  by  a  surgical  process  sufficiently  rude. 
The  finger  to  be  am|iutated  is  placed  on  a  block ;  the  black- 
smith places  a  cliisel  over  the  articulation  of  the  joint,  and 
chops  it  olf  at  a  single  blow.  If  the  girl  to  be  betrothed  is 
motberless,  and  the  mother  of  the  boy  have  not  before  been 
subject  to  the  operation,  it  is  iiicumbent  on  her  to  perforin  the 
sacrifice.  After  satisfying  myself  with  regard  to  the  facts  of 
the  case,  I  inipiircd  into  the  origin  of  so  strange  a  practice, 
and  one  of  the  women  related,  with  great  fluency,  the  follow- 
ing traditionary  tale,  which  has  since  been  repeated  to  me, 
with  no  material  deviation,  by  several  others  of  the  sect. 

A  Kaclias  (or  giant)  named  Vrica,  and  in  after  times  Bus- 
mna-sour,  or  the  giant  of  llio  ashes,  had,  by  a  course  of  austere 
devotion  to  Mahudco,  (Seeva,)  obtained  from  him  the  promise 
of  whatever  boon  he  should  ask.  The  Rachas  accordingly 
demanded,  that  every  person  on  whose  head  he  should  plate 
his  right  hand  might  instantly  be  reduced  to  ashes  j  and 
Mahadeo  conferred  the  boon,  without  suspicion  of  the  purpose 
for  which  it  was  designed. 

Tlie  Radius  no  sooner  found  himself  possessed  of  this  for- 
midable power,  than  he  attempted  to  use  it  for  the  destruction 
of  bis  benefactor.  Mahadeo  fled,  the  Rachas  pursued,  and 
followed  the  fugitive  so  closely  as  to  chase  him  into  a  thick 
grove;  where  Mahadeo,  changing  his  form  and  bulk,  con- 
cealed himself  in  the  centre  of  a  fruit,  then  called  tunda 
pundoo,  but  since  named  liuga  tunda,  from  the  resemblance 
which  its  kernel  thenceforward  assumed  to  the  ling,  the 
appropriate  emblem  of  Mahadeo. 

The  Rachas  having  lost  sight  of  Mahadeo,  inquired  of  a 
husbandman,  who  was  working  in  the  adjoining  field,  whethi^r 
he  had  seen  the  fugitive,  and  what  direction  he  had  taken. 
The  husbandman,  who  hud  attentively  observed  the  whole 
transaction,  fearful  of  the  future  resentment  of  Mahadeo,  and 
ecjually  alarmed  for  the  present  vengeance  of  the  giant,  an- 
swered aloud,  that  he  had  seen  no  fugitive,  but  pointed,  at  the 
same  time,  with  the  little  finger  of  his  right  hand,  to  the  place 
of  Mahadeo's  concealment. 

In  this  extremity,!  Vishnou  descended,  in  the  form  of  a 
beautiful  damsel,  to  the  rescue  of  Mahadeo.  The  Rachas 
became  instantly  enamored  ;  —  the  damsel  was  a  pare  Brah- 
min, and  might  not  be  approached  by  the  unclean  Rachas. 
By  degrees  she  appeared  to  relent;  and  as  a  previous  con- 
dition to  farther  advances,  enjoined  the  performance  of  his 
ablutions  in  a  neighboring  pool.  After  these  were  finished, 
she  prescribed,  as  a  further  purification,  the  perfiirmance  of 
the  SunJia,  —  a  ceremony  in  which  the  right  band  is  suc- 
cessively a|iplied  to  the  breast,  to  the  crown  of  the  head,  and 
lo  other  parts  of  the  body.  The  Rachas,  thinking  only  of 
lovp,  and  forgetful  of  the  powers  of  his  right  hand,  performed 
the  Siindia,  and  was  himself  ri^duced  to  ashes. 

Mahadeo  now  issued  from  the  Unga  tunda,  and,  after  the 
projier  acknowledgments  for  his  deliverance,  proceeded  to 
discuss  the  guilt  of  the  treacherous  liusbandmaii,  and  deter- 
mined on  the  loss  of  the  finger  with  which  be  had  offended, 
as  the  jiroper  punishment  of  his  crime. 

The  wife  of  the  husbandman,  who  had  just  arrived  at  the 
field  with  food  for  her  husband,  hearing  this  dreadful  sentence, 
threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  Mahadeo.  She  represented  the 
certain  ruin  of  her  family,  if  her  husband  should  be  disablc(2 
for  some  months  from  performing  the  l.ihors  of  the  farm,  and 
besought  the  Deity  to  accept  two  of  her  fingers,  instead  of 
one  from  her  husband.  Mahadeo,  pleased  with  so  sincere  a 
proof  of  conjugal  affection,  accepted  the  exchange,  and  or- 
dained that  her  female  posterity,  in  all  future  generations, 
should  sacrifice  two  fingers  at  his  temple,  as  a  memorial  of  the 
transaction,  and  of  their  exclusive  devotion  to  the  God  of  the 
Ling. 

"  MuTTfsoo,  or  MitTsoo,  in  the  II.iIa  Canarti,  signifies  rude,  uncivilijud  ; 
—  Woku'y  a  husbandman. 
I  Di^nus  vindice  nudus. 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


623 


The  practice  is,  accordingly,  confined  to  tlie  supposed  pos- 
terity of  this  siiij;le  womun,  uiid  is  not  common  to  the  whole 
soct  (if  Murrosoo-VVokul.  I  ascertained  the  actual  numher  of 
fiimill 'S  who  ohscrved  this  practice  in  throe  successive  districts 
tliKiugh  which  I  afterwards  passed,  and  I  conjecture  that, 
within  the  limits  of  Mysoor,  they  may  amount  to  ahout  two 
tht)asand  houses. 

Th!  Ilill  uf  Scrtce,  in  the  lalook  of  Colar,  where  the  giant 
was  destroyed,  is  (according  to  this  tradition)  formed  of  the 
ushes  of  Busii'.aa-soor.  It  is  held  in  particular  veneration  hy 
this  sect,  as  the  chief  seat  of  th<wr  appropriate  sacrifice  ;  and 
ibv  fjct  of  its  containing  little  or  no  moisture  is  held  to  ho  a 
miraculous  jiroof  that  the  ashes  of  the  giant  continue  to 
ali-'orb  tlio  most  violent  and  continued  rain.  This  is  a  re 
mark  ble  example  of  ensy  credulity.  I  liave  examined  the 
mountain,  which  is  of  a  sloping  form,  and  composed  of  coarse 
granite."  —  Hint,  Sketches  uf  the  South  uf  India,  vol.  i.  p.  44:), 
note. 


The  Ship  nf  Heaven.  —  VII.  1,  p.  578. 

1  have  converted  the  Vimana,  or  self-moving  Car  of  the 
Gods,  into  a  Ship.  Captain  VVilford  has  given  the  history  of 
its  inveiitiim,  —  and,  what  is  more  curious,  has  attempted  to 
settle  the  geography  of  the  story. 

"  A  most  pious  and  venurahle  sage,  named  Rishi'ce'sa, 
being  very  far  advanced  in  years,  had  resolved  to  visit,  before 
he  died,  all  the  famed  places  of  pilgrimage  ;  and,  having  per- 
formed his  resolution,  he  hathed  at  last  in  the  sacred  water  of 
the  CaTi,  where  he  observed  some  fishes  engiiged  in  ainciroiis 
play,  and  reflecting  on  their  numerous  progeny,  which  would 
sport  like  them  in  the  stream,  he  lamented  the  improbability 
of  leaving  any  children:  but,  since  ho  might  possibly  be  a 
father,  even  at  his  great  age,  he  went  imnieiliiitely  to  the  king 
of  that  country,  Hiranvaverna,  who  had  lilly  daughters,  and 
demanded  one  of  them  in  marriage.  So  strange  a  demand  gave 
the  prince  great  uneasiness:  yet  he  was  unwilling  to  incur 
the  disple^isuie  of  a  saint  whose  imprecations  he  dreaded  ;  he, 
thi.'refore,  invoked  Hrri,  or  yiahnii,  to  inspire  him  with  a  wise 
answer,  and  told  the  hoar  philosopher,  tliat  he  should  marry 
any  one  of  his  daughters,  who,  of  her  own  accord,  should  fix 
on  him  as  her  bridegroom.  The  sage,  rather  disconcerted, 
left  the  palace  ;  but,  calling  to  mind  the  two  sons  of  Aswini, 
he  hastened  to  their  terrestrial  abode,  and  reciuested  that  they 
would  bestow  on  him  both  youth  and  beauty:  they  imme- 
diately conducted  him  to  Mhimatudd,  which  we  suppose  to  be 
Jibxjdax,  in  Upper  Egypt ;  and,  when  he  had  bathed  in  the 
pool  uf  Rupaijuuvana,  he  was  restored  to  the  flower  of  his  age, 
with  tl;e  graces  and  charms  of  Ca'.iia'ue'va.  On  his  return 
to  the  palace,  he  entiTcd  the  secret  apartments,  called  antnk- 
piira,  where  the  fifty  princesses  were  assembled;  and  they 
were  all  so  transported  with  the  vision  of  more  than  human 
beauty,  that  they  fell  into  an  ecstasy,  whence  the  place  was 
afterwards  named  Mohast-han,  or  Mohana,  and  is,  possibly,  the 
f.une  with  Moliniman.  They  no  sooner  had  recovered  from 
their  trance,  than  each  of  them  exclaimed,  that  she  would  be 
his  bride  ;  and  their  altercation  having  brought  Hiranyaver.na 
into  their  apartment,  he  terminated  the  contest  by  giving 
them  all  in  marriage  to  Rishi'ce'sa,  who  became  the  father 
of  a  hundred  sons  ;  and,  when  he  succeeded  to  the  throne, 
built  the  city  of  Sur.-hnvtrddhaiia,  framed  vim&nas,  or  celestial, 
self  moving  cars,  in  which  he  visited  the  gods,  and  made  gar- 
dens, abounding  in  delights,  which  rivalled  the  bovvers  of 
Indra  ;  but,  having  obtained  the  desire  which  he  formed  at 
Matnyasnntrama,  or  the  place  where  the  fish  were  assembled, 
he  resigned  the  kingdom  to  his  eldest  son  IIiranyavriddah, 
and  returned,  in  his  former  shape,  to  the  hanks  of  the  Ca'li, 
where  he  closed  his  days  in  devotion."  —  Wilford.  Asiatic 
hracarches. 

Diishmanta.  In  what  path  of  the  winds  are  we  now 
journeying  .' 

MaOili.  This  is  the  way  which  leads  along  the  triple  river, 
heaven's  brightest  ornament,  and  causes  yon  luminaries  to  roll 
in  a  circle  with  diffused  beams :  it  is  the  course  of  a  gentle 
breeze  which  supports  the  floating  forms  of  the  gods  ;  and 
this  path  was  the  second  step  of  Vishnu  when  he  confounded 
the  proud  Bali. 


Dushmnnta.  The  car  itself  instructs  me  that  we  arc  moving 
over  clouds  pregnant  with  showers  ;  for  the  circumference  uf 
its  wheels  disperses  pellucid  water. 

*  *  * 

Dashmanla.  Tliese  chariot  wheels  yield  no  sound  ;  no  dust 
arises  from  them,  and  the  descent  of  the  car  gave  me  no 
shock. 

Malali.  Such  is  the  difference,  O  King !  between  thv  car 
and  that  of  Indra.  —  Sacontala. 


The  liaininir  Tree.  —  VII.  9,  p.  579 

The  island  of  Fierro  is  one  of  the  most  considerable  of  the 
Canaries  ;  and  I  conceive  that  name  to  be  given  it  upon  this 
account,  that  its  soil,  not  affording  so  much  as  a  drop  of  fresh 
water,  seems  to  be  of  iruii ;  and,  indeed,  there  is  in  this  island 
neither  river,  nor  rivulet,  nor  well,  nor  spring,  save  that  only 
towards  the  sea-side,  there  are  some  wells ;  but  they  lie  at 
such  a  distance  from  the  city,  that  the  inhabitants  can  make 
no  use  thereof.  But  the  great  Preserver  and  Sustainer  of  all 
remedies  this  inconvenience  by  a  way  so  extraordinary,  that  a 
man  will  be  forced  to  sit  down  and  acknowledge  that  he  gives 
in  this  an  undeniable  demonstration  of  his  goodness  and  in- 
finite providence. 

For  in  the  midst  of  the  island,  there  is  a  tree,  which  is  the 
only  one  of  its  kind,  inasmuch  as  it  hath  no  resemblance  to 
those  mentioned  by  us  in  this  relation,  nor  to  any  other  known 
to  us  in  Kurope.  The  leaves  of  it  are  long  and  narrow,  and 
continue  in  a  constant  verdure,  winter  and  summer  ;  and  its 
branches  are  covered  with  a  cloud,  which  is  never  dispelled, 
but  resolved  into  a  moisture,  which  causes  to  fall  from  its 
leaves  a  very  clear  water,  and  that  in  such  abundance,  that 
the  cisterns,  which  are  jilaced  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  to  receive 
it,  are  never  empty,  but  contain  enough  to  supply  both  men 
and  beasts.  —  Mandelslo. 

Feyjoo  denies  the  existence  of  any  such  tree,  upon  the  au- 
thority of  P.  Tallandier,  a  French  Jesuit,  (quoted  in  Mem.  de 
Trevoux,  27J5,  art.  97,)  who  visited  the  island.  "  Assi  no 
dudu,'"  he  ailds,  "  gue  este  Feniz  de  les  plantas  es  ten  Jin<rido 
como  cl  de  las  aves."  —  Theat.  Crit.  Turn.  ii.  Disc.  2,  §  05. 
What  authority  is  due  to  the  testimony  of  this  French  Jesuit 
I  do  not  know,  never  liaving  seen  his  book ;  but  it  appears, 
from  the  undoubted  evidence  of  Glas,  that  the  existence  of 
such  a  tree  is  believed  in  the  Canaries,  and  positively  affirmed 
by  the  inhabitants  of  Fierro  itself. 

"  There  are,"  says  this  excellent  author,  "  only  three  foun- 
tains of  water  in  the  whole  island  ;  one  of  them  is  called  Acof,* 
which,  in  the  language  of  the  ancient  inhabitants,  signifies 
river ;  a  name,  however,  which  docs  not  seem  to  have  been 
given  if  on  account  of  its  yielding  much  water,  for  in  that 
respect  it  hardly  deserves  the  name  of  a  fountain.  More  to 
the  northward  is  another  called  Ilapio ;  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  island  is  a  spring,  yielding  a  stream  about  the  thickness  of 
a  man's  finger.  This  last  was  discovered  in  the  year  15G5, 
and  is  called  the  Fountain  of  Anton  Ilcrnaudez.  On  account 
of  the  scarcity  of  water,  the  sheep,  goats,  and  swine  here  do 
not  drink  in  the  summer,  but  are  taught  to  dig  up  the  roots 
of  fern,  and  chew  them  to  quench  their  thirst.  'J'he  great 
cattle  are  watered  at  those  fountains,  and  at  a  jilace  where 
water  distils  from  the  leaves  of  a  tree.  Many  writers  have 
made  mention  of  this  famous  tree  ;  some  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  make  it  appear  miraculous  ;  others  again  deny  the  existence 
of  any  such  tree,  among  whom  is  Father  Feyjoo,  a  modern 
Spanish  author,  in  his  Thcalro  Critico.  But  he,  and  those 
who  agree  with  him  in  this  matter,  are  as  much  mistaken  as 
they  who  would  make  it  appear  miraculous.  This  is  the  only 
island  of  all  the  Canaries  which  I  liave  not  been  in  ;  but  I 
have  sailed  with  natives  of  Hicrro,  who,  when  questioned 
about  the  existence  of  this  tree,  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

The  author  of  the  History  of  the  Discovery  and  Conquest 
has  given  us  a  particular  account  of  it,  which  I  shall  relate 
here  at  large.  "  The  district  in  which  this  tree  stands  is 
called  Tigulahe  ;  near  to  which,  and  in  the  cliff,  or  steep 
rocky  ascent  that  surrounds  the  whole  island,  is  a  narrow 
gutter  or  gulley,  which  conunences  at  the  sea,  and  continues 
to  the  summit  of  the  cliff,  where  it  joins  or  coincides  with  a 

•  In  tlie  Azannja  dialect  of  die  Lybian  tongue,  Aseif  ai^nifici  «  ri»er. 


624 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


valley,  wliieli  is  tirniiiuitcd  by  tlio  steep  front  of  a  rock.  On 
the  top  of  this  roik  f.'ro\vs  a  tree,  ceiUcil,  in  tlie  language  of 
the  ancient  inhabitants,  Garse,  i.  e.  Sacred  or  Holy  Tree, 
which,  for  many  years,  lias  been  preserved  sound,  entire,  and 
fresli.  Its  leaves  constantly  distil  sueli  a  quantity  of  water 
as  is  suliiciont  to  furnish  drink  to  every  living  creature  in 
llierro;  nature  having  provided  this  remedy  for  tlie  drought 
of  the  island.  It  is  situated  about  a  league  and  a  half  from 
tlie  sea.  Nobody  knows  of  what  sjiecies  it  is,  only  that  it  is 
called  Til.  It  is  distinct  from  other  trees,  and  stands  by  it- 
self; the  circumference  of  the  trunk  is  about  twelve  spans, 
the  diameter  four,  and  in  height,  from  the  ground  to  the  top 
of  the  highest  branch,  forty  spans  :  The  circumference  of  all 
the  branches  together  is  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet.  The 
branches  are  thick  and  extended ;  the  lowest  commence 
about  the  height  of  an  ell  from  the  ground.  Its  fruit  resembles 
the  acorn,  and  tastes  something  like  the  kernel  of  a  pine  nut, 
but  is  softer  and  more  aromatic.  The  leaves  of  this  tree 
resemble  those  of  the  laurel,  but  are  larger,  wider,  and  more 
curved  ;  they  come  forth  in  a  perpetual  succession,  so  that 
the  tree  always  remains  green.  Near  to  it  grows  a  thorn, 
which  fastens  on  many  of  its  branches,  and  interweaves  with 
them ;  and,  at  a  small  distance  from  the  Garse,  are  some 
beech-trees,  bresos,  and  thorns.  On  the  north  side  of  the 
trunk  are  two  large  tanks,  or  cisterns,  of  rough  stone,  or 
rather  one  cistern  divided,  each  half  being  twenty  feet  square, 
and  sixteen  spans  in  depth.  One  of  these  contains  water  for 
the  drinking  of  the  inhabitants,  and  the  other  that  which  they 
use  for  their  cattle,  washing,  and  such  like  purposes.  Every 
morning,  near  this  part  of  the  island,  a  cloud  or  mist  arises 
from  the  sea,  which  the  south  and  easterly  winds  force 
against  the  fore-mentioned  steep  cliff;  so  that  the  cloud, 
having  no  vent  but  by  the  gutter,  gradually  ascends  it,  and 
from  thence  advances  slowly  to  the  extremity  of  the  valley, 
where  it  is  stopped  and  checked  by  the  front  of  the  rock 
which  terminates  the  valley,  and  then  rests  upon  the  thick 
leaves  and  wide-spreading  branches  of  the  tree  ;  from  whence 
it  distils  in  drops  during  the  remainder  of  tJie  day,  until  it  is 
at  length  exhausted,  in  the  same  manner  that  we  see  water 
drip  from  the  leaves  of  trees  after  a  heavy  shower  of  rain. 
This  distillation  is  not  peculiar  to  the  Garse,  or  Til,  for  the 
bresos  which  grow  near  it  likewise  drop  water ;  but  their 
leaves  being  but  few  and  narrow,  the  quantity  is  so  trilling, 
that,  though  the  natives  save  some  of  it,  yet  they  make  little 
Dr  no  account  of  any  but  what  distils  from  the  Til ;  which, 
together  with  the  water  of  some  fountains,  and  what  is  saved 
m  the  winter  season,  is  sufficient  to  serve  them  and  their 
flocks.  This  tree  yields  most  water  in  those  years  when  the 
Levant,  or  easterly  winds  have  prevailed  for  a  continuance  ; 
for  by  these  winds  only  the  clouds  or  mists  are  drawn  hither 
from  the  sea.  A  person  lives  on  the  spot  near  which  this  tree 
grows,  who  is  appointed  by  the  Council  to  take  care  of  it  and 
its  water,  and  is  allowed  a  house  to  live  in,  with  a  certain 
salary.  He  every  day  distributes  to  each  family  of  the  dis- 
trict seven  pots  or  vessels  full  of  water,  besides  what  he  gives 
to  the  principal  people  of  the  island." 

Whether  the  tree  which  yields  water  at  this  present  time 
be  the  same  as  that  mentioned  in  the  above  description,  I 
cannot  pretend  to  determine,  but  it  is  probable  there  has  been 
a  succession  of  them  ;  for  Pliny,  describing  the  Fortunate 
Islands,  says,  "In  the  mountains  of  Ombrion  are  trees  resem- 
bling the  plant  Ferula,  from  which  water  may  be  procured 
by  pressure.  What  comes  from  the  black  kind  is  bitter,  but 
that  which  the  white  yields  is  sweetand  palatable."  —  Glas's 
HUUirij  (if  Ike  Canary  Islands. 

Cordeyro  {IJistoria  Insulana,  lib.  ii.  c.  5)  says,  that  this 
tree  resembles  what  in  other  places  is  called  the  Til  {Tilia,) 
the  Linden  Tree  ;  and  he  proceeds,  from  these  three  letters, 
to  make  it  an  emblem  of  the  Trinity.  The  water,  he  says, 
was  called  the  .^gua  Santa,  and  the  tree  itself  the  Santa 
.^rvore,  —  appellations  not  ill  bestowed.  According  to  his 
account  the  water  was  delivered  out  in  stated  portions. 

There  is  an  account  of  a  similar  tree  in  Cockburne's 
Travels  ;  but  this  I  believe  to  be  a  work  of  fiction.  Bernal 
Diaz,  however,  mentions  one  as  growing  at  Naco,  in  Honduras, 
"  Que  en  mitad  de  la  siesta,  pvr  reciu  sol  que  hizies.sr,  pareria 
que  la  sombra  del  arbol  refrescava  al  coraion,  caia  del  uno  como 
roiio  iniiy  delgadu  que  confort.ara  las  cabezas.'^  —  206. 

There  may  be  some  exaggeration  in  the  accounts  of  the 


Fierro  Tree,  but  that  the  story  has  some  foundation  I  have 
no  doubt.  The  islanders  of  St.  Thomas  say,  that  they  have  » 
sort  of  trees  whose  leaves  continually  are  distilling  water. 
{Barbot.  in  Cliurckle,  405.)  It  is  certain  that  a  dew  falls  in 
hot  weather  from  the  lime,  —  a  fact  of  which  any  person  inaj 
easily  convince  himself.  The  same  property  lias  been  oiv 
served  in  other  English  trees,  as  appears  by  Ibc  following 
extract  from  the  Monthly  Magazine  :  — 

"  In  the  beginning  of  August,  after  a  sunshiny  day,  the 
air  became  suddenly  misty  about  six  o'clock  ;  I  walked,  how- 
ever, by  the  roadside  from  seven  to  eight,  and  observed,  in 
many  places,  that  a  shower  of  big  drops  of  water  was  falling 
under  the  large  trees,  although  no  rain  fell  elsewhere.  The 
road  and  path  continued  dusty,  and  the  field-gates  showeil  no 
signs  of  being  wetted  by  the  mist.  I  have  oflen  noticed  the 
like  fict,  but  have  not  met  with  a  satisfactory  explanation  of 
this  power  in  trees  to  condense  mist." 

I  am  not  the  only  poet  who  has  availed  himself  of  the 
Fierro  Tree.  It  is  thus  introduced  in  the  Columbus  of  Car- 
rara,—  a  singular  work,  containing,  amid  many  extravagances, 
some  passages  of  rare  merit :  — 

Ecce  autem  inspector  miri  dum  devius  ignis 
Fertur,  in  occursum  mirwmagis  incidit  unda. 
JEqnoris  in  medio  diffusi  largiter  arbor 
Stabat,  opaca,  ingens,  mvvque  intacta  priori, 
Orata  quics  JVijmphis,  el  grata  colentibus  umbram 
AUtibas  scdes,  quarmn  vox  blanda  nee  nllH 
Musicus  arte  canor  sylvam  resonare  doccbat. 
Auditor  primum  rari  modulaminis,  ntque 
Cominiis  admovit  gressvm,  spectator  ct  h(Fsit : 
JVaniqiie  videbat,  ubi  de  cortice,  deque  supernis 
Crinibiis,  argentum.  gnttatim  mittcret  humens 
Truncus,  ct  ignaro  plueret  Jove ;  moxque  screnits 
In  concham  caderet  subjccti  marmoris  imber, 
Donee  ibi  infontem  collcctis  undique  rivis 
Cresceret,  atque  ipso  jam  non  ingratus  ab  ortu 
Reddcrct  humorem  matri,  qiue  commodat  umbrtim. 

Dam  stupct  ct  qiucrit,  cur  intemodia  possit 
Unda  ;  per  etfbras,  virides  et  serpere  nigas, 
F.tfcrri  sursvm,  gcnio  dnccnte  dcorsum  ; 
Adstiiil  en  JVymphc  ;  dubitat  decemerc,  JVais, 
Anne  Dryas,  custos  num  fvnti-s,  an  arboris  essct  ,■ 
Verius  ut  credavi.  Genius  sub  imagine  J^TyniphtB 
rie  loci  fucrat.     Qxicm  prastantlssimns  Hcros 
Protinns  ui  vidit,  Parce,  o  pulchcrrima,  dixit. 
Si  miser,  et  vestras  ejectus  nuper  ad  oras 
jYaufragus,  idem  audaz  videor  fortasse  rogando. 
Die  age,  qiias  labi  video  dc  stipite,  lymplue 
Montihus  anne  cadant,  per  operta  foramina  ducla, 
jMoz  trahis  irrigucB  saliant  infrondea  svrsum 
Brackia,  ramalesque  tubos ;  genitalis  an  ahvs 
UmbrosiB  gcnitricis  alut ;  ecu  scape  videmvs  > 

Bahama  de  truncis,  stillare  electra  racemis, 
Pandere  ne  grave  sit  cupienti  noscere  causam 
Vilia  quw  vobis  usus  miracula  fecit. 

Hac  ubi  dicta,  silet.     Turn  Virgo  ita  reddidit ;  Ilofvtt 
Quisquis  es,  {eximium  certe  -praisentia  prudit) 
Deciperis,  si  forte  p^itas,  quas  aspicis  undas 
Esse  satas  terrd. ;  procul  omni  a  scde  rcmota 
Mira  arbos,  vni  debet  .?!(a  muncra  Ca:lo. 
Quh  ratione  tamen  capiat,  quia  noscere  gcstis 
Edicam  ;  sed  dicrndis  ne  tjedia  repant. 
Hie  locus,  ha:c  eadcm,  de  qnb,  cantabitur,  arbor 
Dat  tempestiram  blandis  afflutihus  umbram  .- 
iric  una  scdeamus  ;  ct  amhofojitis  ad  vndam 
Consedere ;  defiinc  intermittcntc  pnmmpcr 
Concentu  volucrum,  pUicido  sic  incipit  ore. 

Jfomine  Canaruc,  dc  qu&  tenet  Insula  nomcn 
Virgo  fuit,  non  ore  minus,  quam  priedita  rant 
iMude  pudicitiie,  mirum  qua:  pectore  votum 
Clausit,  ut  esse  eadcm  genitrix  et  Virgo  cupirct. 
At  quia  in  Urbe  satam  fuerat  sortita  parentem 
Ortum  rare  Patrem,  diversis  moribus  hausit 
nine  stjlva:  austeros,  teneros  hinc  Urbis  amorcs 
Sxpc  ubi  risrndi  studio  contericrat  Urbes, 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


625 


Et  (tare  blandilMa  natis  el  sniinre  matres 
Videral  anlrforcx,  vt  mattr  umiivit  amari. 
Sirpc  ubi  rurcfuii  dr  ninnphis  una  Ditijur, 
Vidcrat  alqac  Dcum  llwlumi  consorte  carentem, 
Ksse  Detc  similui,  nic  amtiri  iit  viatir  ainavit. 
Srd  i]uid  aget  ?  cirnit  fieri  non  posse  (juod  vptal ; 
A'tfTi  uptare  Uimcn,  crudeliiis  urit  amantim. 
J^Tuctis  irat  meilium  .-  quo  nus  .v-h.h«,<,  has  erat  ilia 
Forte  loco,  Calot/uc  vidcnn  splenriescere  Lunam, 
0  Dca,  cut  triplicis  concessa  potnitia  regni, 
Parce  prccor,  dixit,  si  qiue  nunc  prnfrrc,  non  sum 
Jiusa  priu-s ;  quod  non  posses  audire.  Diana, 
Cum  sis  Lunapotcs  ;  tciiebrw  minuerr  pndorem. 
Est  milii  yirginitiis,futcor,  re  charior  omni, 
Atlamcn,  h&c  sulci,  facundcK  si  quoque  Mutris 
JVumiHa  misccrem,  duplici  de  nomine  quantum 
.9mbitiosa  forem  ;  certc  non  parca  voUiplas 
Me  caperet,  coram  si  qui-s  mc  ludcrct  infans 
Si  mecum  geslu,  mecum  Ivqucrelur  orellis, 
Cumque  potest,  quacumque  potest,  me  voce  vocaret, 
Cujus  et  in  vultu  multum  de  matre  vidrrnn. 
.Yi  sinit  hoc  humana  tumcn  natura  liccrc, 
Fiat  qud.  ratione  potest ;  mature  figuram 
J^il  refert,  voti  compos  si  deniquefiam. 

Annuit  oranti  facilis  Dea  ;   Virginr  digna 
Et  quia  rota  tulit,  Virgo  probut.     Eligit  ergo 
De  trrei^'C  Plantarum  ligiii  qute  ca:libis  esset. 
Visafuit  Platanus :  plncil  here  ;  «!  vrrtat  in  istam 
Canaritz  corpus,  sibi  tempos  in  omne  futuram 
Tarn  coram  esse  videt,  quant  sit  stia  laurea  Phabo. 
J\rec  mora,  poscenti  muntis,  ue  sigita  decssent 
Cerla  dati,  muvit  falccta:  cornuafiontis. 
Virginis  exti-mpio  cccpere  rigcre  crura 
Tenuia  vestiri  duro  priecurdia  libro, 
fpsaque  miratur,  cervix  quod  ehurnra,  qvantum 
It  Oelo,  tantum  tendant  in  Tarlara  plantee. 
Et  jam  formosd.  de  Virg^ine  stabat  et  Arbus 
JiTon  formosa  minus  ;  qui  toto  in  corpore  pridem 
Par  ebori  fuerat,  candor  quoque  cortice  mansU. 
Sed  deer  at  covjux  uxoris  vitnibus  cequc 
Integer  et  ccelebs,  et  VirginiUitis  amator. 
Quo  fircunda  font ;  verum  tellure  petendiis 
N'on  hie,  ab  axefu.it.     Qtiare  incorruptus  et  idem 
Purior  c  cunetis  stellota:  noctis  alumnis 
I'oscitur  Hersophurus,  sic  Graii  nomine  dieunt, 
Horem  Itali.     Quacumque  die  {quis  credere  posset  ?) 
Tamqtiam  ex  eondicio  cum  Sol  altissimus  exlat, 
Sijdereus  conjux  nebuhr.  vrlatus  amiclu 
Labitur  hue,  nivei''que  mariturn  amplectitur  alis  : 
Quodque  Jidcm  superat,  pare o  post  ttinporafoctum 
Concipil,  et  parvo  post  tempore  parturit  arbor. 
jMolle  puerpcrium  vis  noscere  ?   Consult  fontevn. 
Qui  nos  propter  adest,  in  quo  mixlura  duoruin 
Agnosci  possit,  spleiidet  malerquc  patcrque. 
Detafnvet  gcnitrix,  compos  jam  facta  cupiti ; 
Illius  optarat  vultu  se  noscere,  noscit ; 
Cernere  ludentem  se  cireum,  ludere  cernit; 
Ilium  audire  rudi  matrrm  quoque  voce  voeantcm, 
Et  matrem  scse  diet  dam  murmurat,  audit. 
JVcc  modo  Virginitas  fetcunda  est  arboris,  ipste 
Sunt  quoque  fceciinda:  frondes,  quas  eicuttt  arbor. 
JVam  simul  ac  supra  lutices  cecidere  tepentes, 
Insuper  accessit  Phcebei  fiamma  caloris, 
Concipiunt,  paritintque:  oriturque  tencrrimvj  ales 
J^omine  Catiarius,  qui  pene  excliunij  in  auras. 
Tenuis  adhue,  calique  rudis,  erudttsquc  labori 
Jam  super  extantes  affectat  scandere  ramos, 
Et  frondes,  quorum  unafuit.    JV'i^lum  inde  sub  Hits 
Collocat  adversum  Soli,  cut  pandere  pcunus 
Et  siccare  queat ;  latet  hie,  nullAque  magistrh 
Arte  canil,  ntatrisque  replet  conctnitibus  aures. 
Adde  quod  affectus  reddit  genilricis  eosdem, 
Utquc  puellari  genilrii  in  pcetore  clausit, 
Iline  stjiett  atisteros,  tencros  hinc  Urbis  amores. 
Sic  amat  hie  .f7/foas,  ut  nonfastidiat  Urbes. 
Tecta  colit,  patiturque  hominem,  nee  divilis  aula: 
Orande  suprrcilium  mrluit  stjlvestris  alumnus. 
Jmo  loco  admonitus,  viz  aulicus  incipit  esse, 
79 


Jam  fit  adulator,  positum  profcrre  paratus 
In  statione  melos,  domini  quod  vetlieet  aurem. 

Carrara.  Columbus.     Lib.  iii.  pp.  53 — 57 


JVared.—\U.  11,  p.  579. 

A  very  distinguished  son  of  Bralima,  named  Nared,  bears  a 
strong  rcspmblance  to  Hermes  or  Mercury  ;  he  was  a  wise 
legislator,  great  in  arts  and  in  arms,  an  eloquent  messenger  of 
the  Gods,  either  to  one  another  or  to  favored  mortals,  and  a 
musician  of  exquisite  skill.  His  invention  of  the  Vina,  or 
Indian  lute,  is  thus  described  in  the  poem  entitled  Magha: 
"  Nared  sat  watching  from  time  to  time  his  large  Vina,  wliich, 
by  the  impulse  of  the  breeze,  yielded  notes  that  pierced  suc- 
cessively the  regions  of  his  ear,  and  proceeded  by  musical 
intervals."  —  Asiatic  Researches,  Sir  W.  Jones. 

The  Viva  is  an  yEoIian  liarp.  The  people  of  Amboyna 
have  a  different  kind  of  yEolian  instrument,  which  is  thus  de- 
scribed in  the  first  account  of  D'Entrecasteaux's  Voyage  ; 
"  Being  on  the  sea-shore,  I  heard  some  wind-instruments,  Iho 
harmony  of  wliich,  (hougli  sometimes  very  correct,  was  inter- 
mixed with  discordiint  notes  that  were  by  no  means  unpleasing. 
These  sounds,  which  were  very  musii^al,  and  formed  fine  ca- 
dences, seemed  to  come  from  such  a  distance,  that  I  for  some 
time  imagined  the  natives  were  having  a  concert  beyond  the 
roadstead,  near  a  myriametcr  from  the  spot  where  I  stood. 
My  ear  was  greatly  deceived  respecting  the  distance,  for  1  was 
not  a  hundred  meters  from  the  instrument.  It  was  a  bamboo 
at  least  twenty  meters  in  height,  which  had  been  fixed  in  a 
vertical  situation  by  the  sea-side.  I  remarked  between  each 
knot  a  slit  about  three  centimeters  long  by  a  centimeter  and  a 
half  wide  ;  these  slits  formed  so  many  holes,  which,  when  the 
wind  introduced  itself  into  them,  gave  agreeable  and  diversi- 
fied sounds.  As  the  knots  of  this  long  bamboo  were  very  nu- 
merous, care  had  been  taken  to  make  holes  in  different  direc- 
tions, in  order  that,  on  whatever  side  the  wind  blew,  it  might 
always  meet  with  some  of  them.  I  cannot  convey  a  better 
idea  of  the  sound  of  this  instrument,  than  by  comparing  them 
to  those  of  the  Harmonica."  —  Labillarsifre.  Voyage  in 
Search  of  La  Pcrou.-^e. 

Nareda,  the  mythological  offspring  of  Sarasvati,  patroness 
of  music,  is  filmed  for  his  talents  in  that  science.  So  great 
were  they,  that  he  became  presumptuous  ;  and  emulating  the 
divine  strains  of  Krishna,  he  was  punished  by  having  his  Vi7ia 
placed  in  the  paws  of  a  bear,  whence  it  emitted  sounds  far 
sweeter  than  the  minstrelsy  of  the  mortified  musician.  I  have 
a  picture  of  this  joke,  in  which  Kriihita  is  forcing  his  reluc- 
tant friend  to  attend  to  his  rough-visagod  rival,  who  is  ridicu- 
lously touching  the  chords  of  poor  JVureda's  Vina,  accompa- 
nied by  a  brother  Bruin  on  the  cymbals.  Krishna  passed 
several  practical  jokes  on  his  humble  and  affectionate  friend: 
he  metamorphosed  him  once  into  a  woman,  at  another  time 
into  a  boar.  —  Moore's  Hitulu  Pantheon,  p.  204. 


TVie  sacrifice 

That  shottld,  to  men  ai,d  gods,  proclaim  him  Lord 
And  Sovereign  Master  of  the  vassal  IVorld.  —  VII.  11,  p.  580. 

The  Raisoo  Yug,  or  Feast  of  Rajahs,  could  only  be  per- 
formed by  a  monarch  who  had  conquered  all  the  other  sove- 
reigns of  the  world.  —  Halhed.     JVote  to  the  Life  of  Crecskna. 


Sole  Rajah,  the  Omnipotent  below.  —  VII.  1 1,  p.  580. 

No  person  has  given  so  complete  a  sample  of  the  absurdity 
of  Oriental  titles  as  the  Dutch  traveller  Struys,  in  bis  enumer- 
ation of  "  the  proud  and  blasphemous  titles  of  the  King  of 
Siam,  —  they  will  hardiy  bear  sense,"  says  the  translator,  in 
what  he  calls,  by  a  happy  blunder,  "  the  idiotism  of  our 
tongue." 

The  Alliance,  written  with  letters  of  fine  gold,  being  full 
of  godlike  glory.  The  most  Excellent,  containing  all  wise 
sciences.  The  most  Happy,  which  is  not  in  the  world  among 
men.  The  Best  and  most  Certain  that  is  in  Heaven,  Earth, 
and  Hell.  The  greatest  Swc(t,and  friendly  Royal  Word; 
whoso  powerful  sounding  properties  and  glorious  fame  range 


62G 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAJMA. 


throuijli  the  world,  as  il'  tlie  dead  wer;.'  riiscd  by  a  godlike 
power,  mid  wond^'rfuily  |)urf;c'd  from  glioslly  and  corporal  cor- 
ruption. At  tliw  botli  spiritual  and  secular  men  admire  with 
a  special  joy,  whereas  no  dignity  may  be  herewith  compared. 
Proceeding  IVom  a  friendly,  illustrious,  inconciuerahle,  most 
mighty  and  most  high  Lord  ;  and  a  royal  Crown  of  Gold, 
adorned  with  nine  sorts  of  precious  stones.  The  greatest, 
clearest,  and  most  godlike  Lord  of  unblamable  Souls.  The 
most  Holy,  seeing  every  where,  and  protecting  Sovereign  of 
the  city  Judia,  whose  many  streets  and  open  gates  are 
thronged  by  troops  of  men,  which  is  the  chief  metropolis  of 
the  whole  world,  the  royal  throne  of  the  earth,  that  is  adorned 
with  nine  sorts  of  stones  and  most  pleasant  valleys.  He  who 
guides  the  reins  of  the  world,  and  has  a  house  more  than  the 
Gods  of  tine  gold  and  of  precious  stones ;  they  the  godlike 
Lords  of  tlirones  and  of  tine  gold  ;  the  White,  Red,  and 
Round-tayl'd  Elephants,  —  which  excellent  creatures  are  the 
chiefest  of  the  nine  sorts  of  Gods.  To  none  hath  the  divine 
Lord  given,  in  whoso  hand  is  the  victorious  sword ;  who  is 
!ike  tile  liery-arnied  God  of  Battails,  to  the  most  illustrious. 

The  second  is  as  blasphemous  as  the  first,  though  hardly 
swells  so  fir  out  of  sense. 

'J'he  highest  Paducco    SvRy  Sultan,  Nelmonam  Wel- 

GACA,    Ne-MOCHADI.N     BLlGIVIITHA,     JoL'KEN    DER     EAUTEN 

Allaula  fylan.  King  of  the  whole  world;  who  makes  the 
water  rise  and  How.  A  King  thiit  is  like  a  God,  and  shines 
like  the  sun  at  noon-day.  A  King  that  gives  a  glance  like  the 
Moon  when  it  is  at  full.  Elected  of  God  to  be  worthy  as  the 
North  Star,  being  of  the  race  and  oftspring  of  the  great  Alex- 
ander ;  with  a  great  understanding,  as  a  round  orb,  tliat  tum- 
bles hither  and  thither,  able  to  guess  at  the  depth  of  tiie  great 
sea.  A  King  that  hath  amended  all  the  funerals  of  the  de- 
parted Saints,  and  is  as  righteous  as  God,  and  of  such  power, 
that  all  the  world  may  come  and  shelter  under  his  wings.  A 
King  that  doth  right  in  all  things,  as  the  Kings  of  old  have 
done.  A  King  more  liberal  than  all  Kings.  A  King  that 
hath  many  mines  of  gold  that  God  hath  lent  him  ;  who  hath 
built  temples  half  gold  and  half  brass  ;  sitting  upon  a  throne 
of  pure  gold,  and  of  all  sorts  of  precious  stones.  A  King  of 
the  wlutc  Elephant,  which  Elephant  is  the  King  of  all  Ele- 
phants, before  whom  many  thousands  of  other  Elephants  must 
how  and  fill  upon  their  knees.  He  whose  eyes  shine  like  tlie 
morning-star.  A  King  that  hath  Elephants  with  (our  teeth, 
red,  purple,  and  pied.  Elephants,  aij,  and  a  Bvytenai^ues 
Elephant ;  for  which  God  has  given  him  many  and  divers 
/lorts  of  apparel  wrought  with  most  fine  gold,  ennobled  with 
many  precious  stomas  :  and,  besides  these,  so  many  Elephants 
ased  in  battel,  liaving  harnesses  of  iron,  their  teeth  tipt  with 
itecl,  and  their  harnesses  laid  over  with  shining  brass.  A  King 
that  has  many  hundred  horses,  whose  trappings  are  wrought 
with  fine  gold,  and  adorned  with  precious  stones  of  every  sort 
that  are  found  in  the  universal  world  where  the  Sun  shines, 
end  these  shod  with  fine  gold  :  besides  so  many  hundred  horses 
that  are  used  in  war  of  every  kind.  A  King  who  has  all  Em- 
pcrours.  Kings,  Princes,  and  Sovereigns  in  the  whole  world 
from  the  rising  to  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  under  subjec- 
tion ;  —  and  such  as  can  obtain  his  favor  are  by  him  promoted 
to  great  honor  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  such  as  revolt,  he  burns 
with  fire.  A  King  who  can  show  the  power  of  God,  and 
wliatever  God  has  made. 

And  so,  by  this  time,  I  hope  you  have  heard  enough  of  a 
King  of  Elephants  and  Horses,  though  not  a  word  of  his 
Asses.  —  Stbuvs. 


T/u  Sacrifu:e.  —  VIIL  p.  581. 

The  ^siDamedha,  or  sacrifice  of  a  horse.  Considerable  dif- 
ficulties usually  attended  that  ceremony  ;  for  the  consecrated 
horse  was  to  be  set  at  liberty  for  a  certain  time,  and  followed 
at  a  distance  by  the  owner,  or  his  champion,  who  was  usually 
one  of  his  near  kinsman  ;  and,  if  any  person  should  attempt 
to  stop  it  in  its  rambles,  a  battle  must  inevitably  ensue  ;  be- 
sides, as  the  performer  of  a  hundred  A.^ioainedhas  became 
equal  to  the  God  of  the  firmament,  Inilra  was  perpetually  on 
the  watch,  and  generally  carried  off  the  sacred  animal  by 
force  or  by  fraud.  —  Wilford.  Asiat.  Res. 

Mr.  Halhed  gives  a  very  curious  account  of  this  remarkable 
sacrifice :  — 

"  The  Ashum-meedJugg  does  not  merely  consist  in  the 


performince  of  that  ceremony  which  is  ojien  to  the  inspection 
of  the  world,  n.imely,  bringing  a  horse  and  sacrificing  tiiin  ; 
but  Ashuin-meed  is  to  be  taken  in  a  mystic  signilication,  as 
implying  tliut  the  sacrificer  must  look  upon  himself  to  be  typi- 
fied in  that  horse,  sucli  as  he  shall  be  described,  because  the 
religious  duty  of  the  Ashnni-meed-Jugg  comprehends  all  those 
other  religious  duties,  to  the  performance  of  which  all  the 
wise  and  holy  direct  all  their  actions,  and  by  which  all  the 
sincere  j)rofessors  of  every  different  faith  aim  at  perfection  : 
the  mystic  signification  thereof  is  as  follows  : 

"  The  head  of  that  unblemished  horse  is  the  symbol  of  the 
morning ;  his  eyes  are  the  sun ;  his  breath  the  wind ;  liis 
wide-opening  mouth  is  the  Bishwaner,  or  that  innate  warmth 
which  invigorates  all  the  world :  his  body  typifies  one  entire 
year;  his  back  paradise  ;  his  belly  the  pi  lins  ;  his  hoofs  this 
earth  ;  his  sides  the  four  quarters  of  the  heavens ;  the  bones 
thereof  the  intermediate  spaces  between  the  four  quarters  ;  the 
rest  of  his  limbs  represent  all  distinct  matter ;  the  places  wluire 
those  limbs  meet,  or  his  joints,  imjily  the  months  and  halves  of 
the  months,  w  hich  are  called  pcclie  (or  fortnights) ;  liis  feet 
signify  night  and  day ;  and  night  and  day  are  of  four  kinds. 
1.  The  night  and  day  of  Birhma,  2.  The  night  and  diy  of 
angels,  3."  The  night  and  day  of  the  world  of  the  spiriu  of 
deceased  ancestors,  4.  The  night  and  day  of  mortals  ^  these 
four  kinds  are  typified  in  his  four  feet.  The  rest  of  his  bones 
are  tlie  constellations  of  the  fixed  stars,  which  are  the  twenty- 
eight  stages  of  Ihe  moon's  course,  called  the  Lunar  year:  his 
flesh  is  the  clouds  ;  his  food  the  sand  ;  his  tendons  the  river ; 
his  spleen  and  his  liver  the  mountains  ;  the  hair  of  his  body 
the  vegetables,  and  his  long  hair  the  trees  ,  the  lore  part  of  his 
body  typifies  the  first  half  of  the  day,  and  the  hinder  part  the 
latter  half;  his  yawning  is  the  flash  of  the  lightning,  and  his 
turning  hiniself  is  the  thunder  of  the  cloud  ;  his  urine  repre- 
sents the  rain,  and  his  mental  reflection  is  his  only  speech. 
The  golden  vessels,  which  are  prepared  before  the  horse  is  let 
loose,  are  the  light  of  the  day,  and  the  place  where  those 
vessels  are  kejit  is  a  type  of  the  Ocean  of  the  East ;  the  silver 
vessels  which  are  prepared  after  the  horse  is  let  loose,  are  llie 
light  of  the  night ;  and  the  place  where  those  vessels  are 
kept  is  a  type  of  the  Ocean  of  the  West ;  these  two  sorts 
of  vessels  are  always  before  and  after  the  horse.  The  Arabian 
horse,  which,  on  account  of  his  swiftness,  is  called  the  Hy,  is 
the  performer  of  the  journeys  of  angels  ;  the  Tajcc,  which  is 
of  the  race  of  Persian  horses,  is  the  performer  of  the  journeys 
of  the  Kundherps  (or  good  spirits  ;)  the  Wazba,  which  is  of 
the  race  of  the  deformed  Tazce  horses,  is  the  performer  of 
the  journeys  of  the  Jins  (or  demons  ;)  and  the  Ashoo,  which  is 
of  the  race  of  Turkish  horses,  is  the  performer  of  the  journeys 
of  mankind.  This  one  horse,  which  performs  these  several 
services,  on  account  of  his  four  different  sorts  of  riders,  obtains 
the  four  different  appellations.  The  place  where  this  horse 
remains  is  the  great  ocean,  which  signifies  the  great  spirit  of 
Porm-Atnia,  or  the  Universal  Soul,  which  proceeds  also  from 
that  Perin-Atma,  and  is  comprehended  in  the  same  Perm- 
Atma.  The  intent  of  this  sacrifice  is,  that  a  man  should  con- 
sider himself  to  be  in  the  place  of  that  horse,  and  look  upon 
all  these  articles  as  typified  in  himself;  and,  conceiving  the 
Atma  (or  divine  soul)  to  be  an  ocean,  should  let  all  thought 
of  Self  bo  absorbed  in  that  Atma."  —  Halhed, /roHi  Daral 
Shekiih. 

Compare  this  specimen  of  Eastern  sublimity  with  the  de- 
scription of  the  horse  in  Job  !  Compare  it  also  with  the  ac- 
count of  the  Bengal  horses,  in  the  very  amusing  work  of 
Captain  Williamson,  —  "  which  said  horses,"  he  says,  "  h.ive 
generally  Roman  noses,  and  sharp,  narrow  foreheads,  much 
white  in  their  eyes,  ill  shaped  ears,  square  heads,  thin  necks, 
narrow  chests,  shallow  girths,  lank  bellies,  cat  hams,  goose 
rumps,  and  switch  tails."  —  Oriental  Sports,  vol.  ii.  p.  2l)G. 


The  howl  that  in  its  vessel  floati.  —  VIII.  5,  p.  581. 

The  day  and  night  are  here  divided  into  four  quarters,  each 
of  six  hours,  and  these  again  into  fifteen  parts,  of  twenty-four 
minutes  each.  For  a  chronometer  they  use  a  kind  of  dish  of 
thin  brass,  at  the  bottom  of  which  there  is  a  little  hole  ;  Ibis 
is  put  into  a  vessel  with  water,  and  it  runs  full  in  a  certain 
time.  They  begin  their  first  quarter  at  six  in  the  morning. 
They  strike  the  quarters  and   subdivisions  of  time  with  a 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


627 


wooden  hammer,  upon  a  Hat  piece  of  iron  or  steel,  of  about 
ten  inches  in  ili.inicter,  vvliioh  is  c;ilk'd  a  garnial.  and  ijives  a 
pretty  smart  sound,  which  can  bo  heard  at  some  distance. 
The  quarters  are  first  struck,  and  tlien  as  many  times  as  the 
brass  dish  has  run  full  in  tint  quarter.  None  but  the  chief 
men  of  a  district  are  allowed  to  have  a  garnial,  and  still  they 
may  not  strike  the  first  division  of  the  tirst  quarter,  which  is 
a  privilege  reserved  to  the  nabob  alone.  Those  who  attend 
at  these  clocks  must  be  of  the  Bramin  cast.  —  Stavorinus. 


Lol  tfic  time-taper' s Jhtme,  ascending  slow, 
Creeps  up  its  coil.  —  VIII.  7,  p.  58"2. 

They  make  a  sort  of  paste  of  the  dust  of  a  certain  sort  of 
wood,  (the  learned  and  rich  men  of  sandal,  eagle-wood,  and 
others  that  are  odoriferous,)  and  of  this  paste  they  make 
sticks  of  several  sorts,  drawing  them  through  a  hole,  that  they 
may  be  of  an  equal  thickness.  They  commonly  make  them 
one,  two,  or  three  yards  long,  about  the  thickness  of  a  goose- 
quill,  to  burn  in  the  pagods  before  their  idols,  or  to  use  like  a 
match  to  convey  fire  from  one  thing  to  another.  These  sticks 
or  ropes  they  coil,  beginning  at  the  centre,  and  so  form  a 
spiral,  conical  figure,  like  a  fisherman's  wheel,  so  that  the  last 
circle  shall  be  one,  two,  or  three  spans  in  diameter,  and  will 
last  one,  two,  or  three  days,  or  more,  according  as  it  is  in 
thickness.  There  are  of  them  in  the  temples  that  last  ten, 
twenty,  and  thirty  days.  This  thing  is  hung  up  by  the  centre, 
and  is  lighted  at  the  lower  end,  whence  the  fire  gently  and 
insensibly  runs  round  all  the  coil,  on  which  there  are  generally 
five  marks,  to  distinguish  the  five  parts  of  the  night.  'I'his 
method  of  measuring  time  is  so  exact  and  true,  that  they 
scarce  ever  find  any  considerable  mistake  in  it.  The  learn(;d 
travellers,  and  all  others,  who  will  rise  at  a  certain  hour  to 
follow  their  business,  hang  a  little  weight  at  the  mark  that 
shows  the  hour  they  have  a  mind  to  rise  at,  which,  when  the 
fire  comes  thither,  drops  into  a  brass  basin  set  under  it ;  and 
so  the  noise  of  it  falling  awakes  them,  as  our  alarum-clocks 
do.  —  Gemelli  Cabebi. 


.4(  noon  the  nuusiicre  begun, 
And  night  closed  in  before  the  work  of  death  was  done. 

VIII.  11,  p.  582. 

Of  such  massacres  the  ancient  and  modern  history  of  the 
East  supply  but  too  many  examples.     One  may  suflice  : 

After  the  surrender  of  the  Ilbars  Khan,  Nadir  prohibited 
his  soldiers  from  molesting  the  inhabitants  ;  but  their  rapacity 
was  more  powerful  than  their  habits  of  obedience,  or  even 
their  dread  of  his  displeasure,  and  they  accordingly  btgon  to 
plunder.  The  instant  Nadir  heard  of  their  disobedience,  he 
ordered  the  oiTenders  to  be  brought  before  him,  and  the  officers 
were  beheaded  in  his  presence,  and  the  private  soldiers  dis- 
missed with  the  loss  of  their  ears  and  noses.  The  execu- 
tioners toiled  till  sunset,  when  he  commanded  the  headless 
trunks  with  their  arms  to  be  carried  to  the  main-guard,  and 
there  to  be  exposed  for  two  days,  as  an  example  to  others.  I 
was  present  the  whole  time,  and  saw  the  wonderful  hand  of 
God,  which  employs  such  instruments  for  the  execution  of  his 
divine  vengeance  ;  although  not  one  of  the  executioners  was 
satisfied  with  Nadir  Shah,  yet  nol)ody  dared  to  disobey  his 
commands: — a  father  beheaded  his  son,  and  a  brother 
a   brother,    and    yet    presumed   not   to    complain.  —  .\bdul 

KUBREM. 


Behold  h'ls  lowly  home, 
By  yonder  broad-bough'd  Plane  o'crshaded. 


■  IX.  3,  p.  582. 


The  plane-tree,  that  species  termed  the  Platanvs  Orientalis, 
is  commonly  cultivated  in  Cashmire,  where  it  is  said  to  arrive 
at  a  greater  perfection  than  in  other  countries.  This  tree, 
which,  in  most  parts  of  Asia,  is  called  the  Chinur,  grows  to 
the  size  of  an  oak,  and  has  a  taper,  straight  trunk,  with  a 
silver-colored  bark ;  and  its  leaf,  not  unlike  an  expanded 
hand,  is  of  a  pale  green.  When  in  full  foliage,  it  has  a  grand 
and  beautiful  appearance  :  and,  in  the  hot  weather,  it  aflords 
a  refreshing  shade.  —  Forster. 


The  marriage  bower.  —  IX.  4,  p.  583 

The  Pandal  is  a  kind  of  arbor  or  bower  raised  before  the 
doors  of  young  married  women.  They  set  up  two  or  three 
poles,  seven  or  eight  foot  in  length,  round  which  the  leaves 
of  the  I'isan-tree,  the  symbol  of  joy,  are  entwined.  These 
poles  support  others  that  are  laid  crossways,  which  are  cov- 
ered with  leaves,  in  order  to  form  a  shade.  The  Siriperes  are 
allowed  to  set  up  no  more  than  three  pillars,  and  the  infringing 
of  this  custom  would  be  sufficient  to  cause  an  insurrection.  — 
A.  Roger,  in  Picart. 


Tlie  market^Jlag.  —  \X.  G,  p.  583. 

Many  villages  have  markets  on  particular  days,  when  not 
only  fr\iits,  grain,  and  the  common  necessariesof  life  are  sold, 
but  occasionally  manufactures  of  various  descriptions.  These 
markets  are  well  known  to  all  the  neighlmring  country,  being 
on  appointed  days  of  the-  week,  or  of  the  lunar  month  ;  but, 
to  remind  those,  who  may  be  travelling,  of  their  vicinity  to  the 
meaiLs  of  supply,  a  naugaurah,  or  I  irge  kettle-drum,  is  beat 
during  the  forenoon,  and  a  small  flag,  usually  of  white  linen, 
with  some  symbolical  figures  in  colors,  or  with  a  colored 
border,  is  hoisted  on  a  very  long  bamboo,  kejjt  <.|iright  by 
means  of  ropes  fastened  to  pins  driven  into  the  ground.  The 
flags  of  Hindoo  villages  are  generally  square  and  plain ; 
those  of  the  Mussulman's  towns  are  ordinarily  triangular,  and 
bear  the  type  of  their  religion,  viz.  a  double-bladcd  cimeter. 
—  Oriental  Sports,  vol.  i.  p.  100. 


T7ierc,from  the  intolerable  heat, 
The  buffaloes  retreat.  —  IX.  7,  p.  583. 

About  noon,  in  hot  weather,  the  buftalo  throws  herself  into 
the  water  or  mud  of  a  tank,  if  there  be  one  accessible  at  a 
convenient  distance  ;  and  leaving  nothing  above  water  but  her 
nose,  continues  there  for  five  or  six  hours,  or  until  the  heat 
abates.  —  Bucha  nan. 

In  the  hot  season,  when  water  becomes  very  scarce,  the 
bulTaloes  avail  themselves  of  any  puddle  they  may  find  among 
the  covers,  wherein  they  roll  and  rub  themselves,  so  as  in  a 
very  short  time  to  change  what  was  at  first  a  shallow  fiat,  into 
a  deep  pit,  sufiicient  to  conceal  their  own  bulk.  The  humid- 
ity of  the  soil,  even  when  tlie  water  may  have  evaporated,  is 
particularly  gratifying  to  these  animals,  which  cannot  bear 
heat,  and  which,  if  not  indulged  in  a  free  access  to  the  water, 
never  thrive. —  Oriental  Sports,  vol.  i.  p.  259. 

The  buffalo  not  only  delights  in  the  water,  but  will  not 
thrive  unless  it  have  a  swamp  to  wallow  in.  There,  rolling 
themselves,  they  speedily  work  deep  hollows,  wherein  they 
lay  inunersed.  No  place  seems  to  delight  the  bufl'alo  more 
than  the  deep  verdure  on  the  confines  of  jiels  and  marshes, 
especially  if  surrounded  by  tall  grass,  so  as  to  aflbrd  conceal- 
ment and  shade,  while  the  body  is  covered  by  the  water.  In 
such  situations  they  seem  to  enjoy  a  perfect  ecstasy,  having, 
in  general,  nothing  above  the  surface  but  their  eyes  and  nos- 
trils, the  horns  being  kept  low  down,  and,  consequently,  en- 
tirely hidden  from  view. —  Oriental  Sports,  vol.  ii.  p.  49. 

Captain  Beaver  describes  these  animals  as  to  be  found 
during  the  heat  of  the  day  in  the  creeks  and  on  the  shores  of 
the  Island  of  Bulama,  almost  totally  immerged  in  water,  little 
more  than  their  heads  appearing  above  it. 


Mount  Meru.  —  X.  p.  584. 

According  to  the  orthodox  Hindus,  the  globe  is  divided 
into  two  hemispheres,  both  called  jMcru  ;  but  the  superior 
hemisphere  is  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Samern,  which 
implies  beauty  and  excellence,  in  opposition  to  the  lower 
hemisphere,  or  Cumeru,  which  signifies  the  reverse  :  by  Mrru, 
without  any  adjunct,  they  generally  mean  tnc  higher  or 
northern  hemisphere,  which  they  describe,  with  a  profusion  of 
poetic  imagery,  as  the  seat  of  delights  ;  while  they  represent 
Cumeru  as  the  dreary  habitation  of  demons,  in  some  parts 
intensely  cold,  and  in  others  so  hot  that  the  waters  are  con- 
tinually boiling.  In  strict  propriety,  Meru  denotes  the  polo 
and  the  polar  regions  ;  but  it  is  the  celestial  north  pole  round 


628 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


which  they  place  the  gardens  and  metropolis  of  Indra,  while 
Yama  holds  his  court  in  the  opposite  pohir  circle,  or  the  sta- 
tion of  ^suras,  who  warred  with  the  Suras,  or  gods  of  the 
firmament.  —  Wilford.     Asialic.  Researches. 

In  the  Vaya  Ptiraiid,  we  are  tol;l,  tliat  the  water  or  On'Au 
of  the  ocean,  coming  down  from  lioaven  like  a  stream  of 
Jimrita  upon  Mem,  encircles  it  throU!,'li  seven  cliannels,  for 
the  space  of  81,000  i'ojanas,  and  then  divides  into  four 
streams,  which,  fallin;^  from  the  immense  heiglit  of  Meru, 
rest  themselves  in  four  lakes,  from  which  they  spring  over  the 
mountains  through  the  air,  just  brusliing  the  summits.  This 
wild  account  was  not  unknown  in  the  west ;  for  this  passage 
is  translated  almost  verbally,  hy  Pliny  and  Q..  Curtins,  in 
speaking  of  the  Ganges.  Cuni  vmirno  fragurc  ipxins  statim 
foiitis  Ganges  erumpil,  et  magnorum  montium  juga  recto  alveo 
stringit,  et,  ubi  jirimum  moUls  planilics  coiitingat,  in  quodam  lacu 
hospitiitur.  The  words  in  Italics  are  from  Pliny,  (vi.  c.  18,) 
the  otliers  from  Curtius,  (viii.  c.  9.)  —  Capt.  Wilford.  As. 
Res.  vol.  viii.  p.  322.     Calcutta  edition. 

The  Swarganga,  or  Mandacini,  rises  from  under  the  feet  of 
Vceshno,  at  the  polar  star,  and,  passing  through  the  circle  of 
the  moon,  it  falls  upon  the  sununit  of  Meru  ;  where  it  divides 
into  four  streams,  flowing  towards  the  four  cardinal  points. 
These  four  branches  pass  through  four  rocks,  carved  into  the 
shape  of  four  heads  of  different  animals.  Tlie  Ganges,  run- 
ning towards  the  south,  passes  through  a  cow's  head:  to  the 
west  is  a  horse's  head,  from  whicli  flows  tlie  Chaaslin  or  Oxus  ; 
towards  the  east,  is  tlie  head  of  an  elephant,  from  whicli  Hows 
the  river  Sita ;  and  to  the  north,  is  a  lion's  head,  from  which 
flows  the  Bhadrasama.  —  Wilford.  .4s.  iie«.  v.  viii.  p.  317. 
Calc.  edition. 

The  mountains  through  which  the  Ganges  flows  at  Hurd- 
war,  present  the  spectator  with  the  view  of  a  grand  natural 
amphitlieatre  ;  their  appearance  is  rugged,  and  destitute  of 
verdure  ;  they  run  in  ridges  and  blufl"  points,  in  a  direction 
east  and  west :  at  the  back  of  the  largest  range  rise,  towering 
to  the  clouds,  the  lofty  mountains  of  Himmalayah,  whose  tops 
are  covered  with  perpetual  snow,  whicli,  on  clear  days,  present 
a  most  sublime  prospect  Theirlarge  jagged  masses,  broken 
into  a  variety  of  irregular  shapes,  added  to  their  stupendous 
height,  impress  the  mind  with  an  idea  of  antiquity  and 
grandeur,  coeval  with  the  creation  ;  and  the  eternal  frost  with 
which  they  are  incrusted,  appears  to  preclude  the  possibility 
of  mortals  ever  attaining  their  summit. 

In  viewing  this  grand  spectacle  of  nature,  the  traveller  may 
easily  yield  his  assent  to,  and  pardon  the  superstitious  venera- 
tion of,  the  Hindoo  votary,  who,  in  the  fervor  of  his  imagi- 
nation, assigns  the  summit  of  these  icy  regions  as  the  abode 
of  the  great  Mahadeo,  or  First  Cause,  where,  sealed  on  his 
throne  of  ice,  he  is  supposed  to  receive  the  homage  of  the 
surrounding  universe.  —  Franklin's  Li/c  nf  Ocurge  T/iomas, 
p.  41. 

At  Gangdttara,  three  small  streams  fall  down  from  im- 
passable snowy  precipices,  and  unite  into  a  small  basin  below, 
which  is  considered  by  the  Hindus  as  the  source  of  the 
Ganges,  over  which,  at  that  place,  a  man  can  step.  This  is 
one  of  the  five  Tirthas,  or  stations,  more  eminently  sacred 
than  the  rest  upon  this  sacred  river.  Narayana  Shastri,  who 
gave  this  account,  had  visited  it.  —  Buchanan. 

The  mountain,  called  Cailasa  Cungri,  is  exceedingly  lofty. 
On  its  summit  there  is  a  Bhowjputr  tree,  from  the  root  of 
which  sprouts  or  gushes  a  small  stream,  which  the  people  say 
is  the  source  of  the  Ganges,  and  that  it  conies  from  V'airont'ha, 
or  Heaven,  as  is  also  related  in  the  Purinas  ;  although  Ibis 
source  appears  to  the  sight  to  flow  from  the  spot  where  grows 
this  Bhowjputr  tree,  which  is  at  an  ascent  of  some  miles  ;  and 
yet  above  this  there  is  a  still  loftier  summit,  where  no  one 
goes:  but  I  have  heard  that,  on  that  uppermost  pinnacle, 
there  is  a  fountain  or  cavity,  to  which  a  Jogni  somehow  pene- 
trated, who,  having  immersed  his  little  finger  in  it,  it  became 
petrified. —  Purana  Poora.     Asiatic  Researches. 

Respecting  the  true  source  of  ilie  Ganges  much  uncer- 
tainty still  prevails.  In  vain  one  of  the  most  powerful  sove- 
reigns of  Indostan,  the  emperor  Achar,  at  the  close  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  sent  a  number  of  men,  an  army  of  dis- 
coverers, provided  with  every  necessary,  and  the  most  potent 
recommendations,  to  explore  the  course  of  the  mighty  river 
which  adorned  and  fertilized  the  vast  extent  of  his  dominions. 
They  were  not  able  to  penetrate  beyond  the  famous  Mouth  of 


the  Cow.  This  is  an  immense  aperture,  in  a  ridge  of  the 
mountains  of  Thibet,  to  which  the  natives  of  India  have  given 
this  appellation,  from  the  fancied  or  real  resemblance  of  the 
rocks  which  form  the  stupendous  chasm,  to  the  mouth  of  an 
animal  esteemed  sacred  throughout  Indostan  from  the  remotest 
anticpiity.  From  this  opening,  the  Ganges,  precipitating  itself 
into  a  large  and  deep  basin  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  forms 
a  cataract,  which  is  called  Gangotri.  The  impracticability  of 
scaling  these  precipitous  rocks,  and  advancing  beyond  this 
formidable  pass,  has  prevented  the  tracing  whence  this  rushing 
mass  of  water  takes  its  primary  rise.  —  Wilcocke,  JVote  Jo 
Stacorlnus. 


The  birth  of  Ganges.  —  X.  9,  p.  584. 

I  am  indebted  to  Sir  William  Jones's  Hymn  to  Gangn,  foi 
this  fable  :  — 

"  Above  the  stretch  of  mortal  ken. 

On  bless'd  Cailasa's  top,  where  every  stem 
Glow'd  with  a  vegetable  gem, 
Mahe'sa  stood,  the  dread  and  joy  of  men  ; 
While  PArvati,  to  gain  a  boon, 
Fix'd  on  his  locks  a  beamy  moon. 
And  hid  his  frontal  eye  in  jocund  play, 
With  reluctant  sweet  delay. 
All  nature  straight  was  lock'd  in  dim  eclipse, 
Till  Brahmans  pure,  with  hallow'd  lips, 
And  warbled  prayers,  restored  the  day  ; 
When  Ganga  from  his  bro\v,  by  heavenly  fingers  press'd, 
Sprang  radiant,  and,  descending,  graced  the  caverns  of  the 
west." 

The  descent  of  the  Ganges  is  related  in  the  Ramayuna, 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  sacred  books  of  the  Bramins. 
This  work  the  excellent  and  learned  Bajitist  missionaries  at 
Serampore  are  at  this  time  employed  in  printing  and  trans- 
lating ;  one  volume  has  arrived  in  Europe,  and  from  it  I  am 
tempted  here  to  insert  an  extract  of  considerable  length.  The 
reader  will  be  less  disposed  to  condemn  the  fictions  of  Kehama 
as  extrav.agant,  when  he  compares  them  with  this  genuine 
specimen  of  Hindoo  fable.  He  will  perceive,  too,  that  no 
undue  importance  has  been  attributed  to  the  Horse  of  the 
Sacrifice  in  the  Poem. 

"  The  son  of  Kooshika  having,  in  mellifluous  accents,  re- 
lated these  things  to  Rama,  again  addressed  the  descendant  of 
Kakootitha.  Formerly,  O  hero  !  there  was  a  king  of  Hyood- 
hya,  named  Sugura,  the  Sovereign  of  Men,  virtuous,  desirous 
of  children,  but  childless  ;  O  Rama  !  the  daughter  of  Vidur- 
bhakeshinee,  virtuous,  attached  to  truth,  was  his  chic'f  con- 
sort, and  the  daughter  of  Urishtuncmi,  Soomuti,  uneijualled 
in  beauty,  bis  second  spouse.  With  these  two  consorts,  the 
great  king,  going  to  Himuvat,  engaged  in  sacred  austerities 
on  the  mountain  in  whose  sacred  stream  Blirigoo  constantly 
bathed.  A  hundred  years  being  completed,  the  sage  Bhrigoo, 
clothed  with  truth,  rendered  projiitious  by  his  austerities, 
granted  him  this  blessing:  O  sinless  One  I  thou  shalt  obtain 
a  most  numerous  progeny  ;  thy  fame,  O  chief  of  men  !  will  be 
unparalleled  in  the  universe.  From  one  of  thy  consorts,  O 
sire  !  shall  spring  the  founder  of  thy  race,  and,  from  the  other, 
sixty  thousand  sons. 

"  The  queens,  pleased,  approached  the  chief  of  men  who 
was  thus  speaking,  and,  with  hands  respectfully  joined,  asked, 
O  Brahman  !  who  shall  he  the  one  son,  and  who  shall  pro- 
duce the  multitude  ?  We,  O  Brahman  !  desire  to  hear. 
May  thy  words  be  verified.  Hearing  their  request,  the  most 
virtuous  Bhrigoo  replied  in  these  admirable  words  :  Freely  say 
which  of  these  favors  ye  desire,  whether  the  one,  founder  of 
the  family,  or  the  multitude  of  valiant,  renowned,  energetic 
sons.  O  Rama  !  son  of  Rughoo,  Keshinee  hearing  the  words 
of  the  sage,  in  the  presence  of  the  king  accepted  the  one  son, 
the  founder  of  the  family;  and  Soomuti,  sister  of  Soopurna, 
accepted  the  sixty  thousand  sons,  active  and  renowned.  The 
king,  O  son  of  Rnglioo  !  having  respectfully  circumambulated 
the  sage,  bowing  the  head,  returned  with  his  spouses  to  his 
own  city. 

"  After  some  time  had  elapsed,  his  eldest  spouse  Keshinee 
bore  to  Sugura  a  son,  named  Usumunja  ;  and  Soomuti,  O 
chief  of  men  !  brought  forth  a  gourd,  from  which,  on  its  being 
opened,  came  forth  sixty  thouaand  sons.     These,  carefully 


NOTES    TO   THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


G29 


biouglh  \i\>  liy  their  luirscs,  in  jars  filled  uitli  cinriliod  buUer, 
in  [iroci'SH  of  liiiio  atlaiiied  tlie  stato  of  yoiitli  ;*  and,  after  a 
long;  period,  the  sixty  thousand  sons  of  Siigura,  possessed  of 
youth  and  heauty,  hecanio  men.  The  eldest  son,  the  oirsj>ring 
of  r-u;,nira,  O  son  of  Kughoo  !  chief  of  men,  seizing  ehildren, 
would  throw  them  into  tlie  waters  of  llie  Suruyoo,  and  sport 
iiimself  with  their  drowning  pangs.  This  evil  person,  the 
distresser  of  good  men,  devoted  to  the  injury  of  the  citizens, 
was  hy  his  father  expelleil  from  the  city.  The  son  of  Usu- 
niunja,  the  heroic  Ungshooman,  in  conversation  courteous  and 
aftectionate,  was  esteemed  hy  all. 

"After  a  long  time,  O  chief  of  men  I  Sugura  formed  the 
steady  resolve,  ■  I  will  perform  a  sacrifice.'  Versed  in  the 
Veda,  the  king,  attended  by  his  instructors,  having  determined 
the  things  relating  to  the  sacrificial  work,  began  to  prepare 
the  sacrifice. 

"  Hearing  the  words  of  VishwM-initra,  the  son  of  Rughoo, 
highly  gratified  in  the  midst  of  the  story,  addressed  the  sage, 
briglit  as  the  ardent  liame.  Peace  he  to  Thee  :  I  desire,  O 
Brahman,  to  hear  this  story  at  large,  how  my  predecessors 
performed  the  sacrifice.  Hearing  his  words,  Vishwa-mitra, 
smiling,  pleasantly  replied  to  Rama:  'Attend,  then,  O 
Rama!  to  the  story  of  Sugura,  repeated  at  full  length. 
Where  the  great  mountain  llimuvat,  the  happy  father  in-law 
of  Sliunkura,  and  the  mountain  Bindhyo,  overlooking  the 
country  around,  proudly  vie  with  each  other,  there  was  the 
sacrifice  of  the  great  Sugura  performed.  That  land,  sacred 
and  renowned,  is  the  habitation  of  Rakshuses.  At  the  com- 
mand of  Sugura,  the  hero  Ungshooman,  O  Rama  !  eminent  in 
archery,  a  mighty  charioteer,  was  the  attendant  (of  the 
horse. tJ  While  the  king  was  performing  the  sacrifice,  a  ser- 
pent, assuming  the  form  of  Ununta,  rose  from  the  earth,  and 
seized  the  sacrificial  horse.  The  sacrificial  victim  being 
stolen,  all  the  priests,  O  son  of  Rughoo!  going  to  the  king, 
said,  Thy  consecrated  horse  has  been  stolen  by  some  one  in 
the  form  of  a  serpent.  Kill  the  thief,  and  bring  back  the 
sacred  horse.  This  interruption  in  the  sacrifice  portends  evil 
to  us  all.  Take  those  steps,  O  king  !  which  may  lead  to  the 
completion  of  the  sacrifice.  Having  heard  the  advice  of  his 
instructors,  the  king,  calling  his  sixty  thousand  sons  into  the 
assembly,  said,  I  perceive  that  the  Rakshuses  have  not  been 
to  this  great  sacrifice.  A  sacrifice  of  the  Nagas  is  now  per- 
forming by  the  sages,  and  some  god,  in  the  form  of  a  serpent, 
has  stolen  the  devoted  horse.  Whoever  he  be,  who,  at  the 
time  of  the  Decksha,  has  been  the  cause  of  this  afflictive 
circumstance,  this  unhappy  event,  whether  ho  be  gone  to 
I'atala,  or  whether  he  remain  in  the  waters,  kill  him,  O  sons  ! 
and  bring  back  my  victim.  May  success  attend  you,  O  my 
sons  !  At  my  command  traverse  the  sea-girt  earth,  digging 
with  mighty  labor,  till  you  obtain  a  sight  of  the  horse  ;  each 
one  piercing  the  earth  to  the  depth  of  a  yojuna,  go  you  in 
search  of  him  who  stole  the  sacred  horse.  Being  consecrated 
by  the  Deeksha,  F,  with  my  grandson,  and  my  teachers,  will 
remain  with  the  sacrifice  unfinished,  till  I  again  behold  my 
devoted  horse.' 

"  Thus  instructed  by  their  father  Sugura,  they,  in  obedi- 
ei.ce  to  him,  went  with  cheerful  mind,  O  Rama  !  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  earth.  The  strong  ones,  having  gone  over  the  earth 
without  obtaining  a  sight  of  the  horse,  each  of  these  mighty 
men  pierced  the  earth  to  the  depth  of  a  yojuna,  with  their 
mighty  arm,  the  stroke  of  which  resembled  the  thunderbolt. 
Pierced  by  Kooddalas,}:  by  Pnrighas,$  hy  Shoolas,||  by  Moos- 
hulas,ir  and  Shuktis,**  the  earth  cried  out  as  in  darkness. 
Then  arose,  O  Raghuva  !  a  dreadful  cry  of  the  serpents,  the 
Usooras,  the  Rakshuses,  and  other  creatures,  as  of  beings 
suffering  death.  These  angry  youths,  O  son  of  Rughoo  !  dug 
the  earfi  even  to  Patala,  to  the  extent  of  sixty  flionsand 
yojuna.4  Thus,  O  prince  !  the  sons  of  the  sovereign  of  men 
traversed  Jumhoodweepa,  enclosed  with  mountains,  digging 

•  The  H'.ldoosc!ill  a  cliild  Bala,  (ill  il  attains  llie  age  of  fifteen  ye:irs 
efil.  From  'he  sixteenlli  year  to  ihc  fifllelti,  You^um,  or  a  slale  of  yo.illi, 
\s  supposed  io  continue.  E.ich  of  these  his  several  suUilivisioiis  ;  and  in 
c?r(aiu  cases  the  period  atlniils  of  varialion,  as  appears  to  have  Ixen  the 
case  hen?. 

t  The  horse  iiitendc^f  for  the  sacrifice. 

X  The  Indian  spade,  formed  lil<c  a  lioe,  with  a  short  handle. 

§  An  intlrumeiil  said  to  bo  furmed  tif«  an  ox's  yoke. 

II  A  dart,  or  spear.  Tf  a  club,  or  crow. 

••A  weapon  now  uiilrnown. 


wherever  they  came.  The  gods  now,  with  the  Gundhurwas 
and  the  great  serpents,  struck  with  ustonishment,  went  all  of 
them  to  liruhma,  and,  bowing  even  to  the  foot  of  the  great 
siiirit,  they,  full  of  terror,  with  dejected  countenance,  ad- 
dressed him  thus  :  '  O  Jjeva  !  O  divine  One  !  the  whole 
earth,  covered  with  mountains  and  woods,  with  rivers  and 
continents,  the  sons  of  Sugura  are  now  digging  up.  By  these 
digging,  O  Bruhma  !  the  mightiest  beings  are  killed.  This  is 
the  stealer  of  our  consecrated  victims;  hy  this  (fellow)  our 
horse  was  taken  away.'  Thus  saying,  these  sons  of  Sugura 
destroy  all  creatures.  O  most  Powerful !  having  heard  this, 
it  becomes  thee  to  interpose,  before  these  horse-seekers  de- 
stroy all  thy  creatures  endued  with  life." 

Thus  far  the  thirty-second  Section,  describing  the  digging 
of  earth. 

SECTION  THIRTY-THREE. 

"Hearing  the  words  of  the  gods,  the  divine  Bruhma  replied 
to  these  affrighted  ones,  stupefied  with  the  Yuma-like  power 
of  these  youths  :  The  wise  Vasoo-deva,  the  great  Madhuva, 
who  claims  the  earth  for  his  spouse,  that  divine  one,  residing 
in  the  form  of  Kupila,  supports  the  earth.  By  the  fire  of  his 
wrath  he  will  destroy  the  sons  of  the  king.  This  piercing  of 
the  earth  must,  I  suppose,  be  perceived  hy  him,  and  he  will 
(effect)  the  destruction  of  the  long-sighted  sons  of  Sugura. 
The  thirty-three  gods,*  enemy  subduing,  having  heard  the 
words  of  Bruhma,  returned  home  full  of  joy.  The  sons  of 
Sugura  highly  renowned,  thus  digging  the  earth,  a  sound  was 
produced  resembling  that  of  conflicting  elements.  Having 
encompassed  and  penetrated  the  whole  earth,  the  sons  of 
Sugura,  returning  to  their  father,  said.  The  whole  earth  has 
been  traversed  by  us ;  and  all  the  powerful  gods,  the  Danu- 
vas,  the  Ruckshuses,  the  Pishachas,  the  serpents,  and  hydras 
aref  killed  ;  but  we  have  not  seen  thy  horse,  nor  the  thief. 
What  shall  we  do.'  Success  be  to  thee:  be  pleased  to  de- 
termine what  more  is  proper.  The  virtuous  king,  having 
heard  the  words  of  his  sons,  O  son  of  Rughoo  !  angrily  re- 
plied. Again  commence  digging.  Having  penetrated  the  earth, 
and  found  the  stealer  of  the  horse,  having  accomiilished  your 
intention,  return  again.  Attentive  to  the  words  of  their 
father,  the  great  Sugura,  the  sixty  thousand  descended  to 
Patala,  and  there  renewed  their  digging.  There,  O  chief  of 
men  !  they  saw  the  elephant  of  that  quarter  of  the  globe,  in 
size  resembling  a  mountain,  with  distorted  eyes,  supporting 
with  his  head  tliis  earth,  with  its  mountains  and  forests,  cov- 
ered with  various  countries,  and  adorned  with  numerous 
cities.  When,  for  the  sake  of  rest,  O  Kakootsha!  the  great 
elephant,  through  distress,  refreshes  himself  by  moving  his 
head,  an  earthquake  is  produced. 

"  Having  respectfully  circumambulated  this  mighty  ele- 
phant, guardian  of  the  quarter,  they,  O  Rnma!  praising  hini, 
penetrated  into  Patala.  After  they  had  thus  penetrated  the' 
east  quarter,  they  opened  their  way  to  the  south.  Here  they 
saw  that  great  elephant  Muha-pudma,  equal  to  a  huge  moun- 
tain, sustaining  the  earth  with  his  head.  Beholding  him,  tliev 
were  filled  with  surprise  ;  and,  after  the  usual  circumambu. 
lation,  the  sixty  thousand  sons  of  the  great  Sugura  perforated 
the  west  quarter.  In  this  these  mighty  ones  saw  the  elephant 
Souinunusa,  of  equal  size.  Having  respectfully  saluted  him, 
and  inquired  r-specting  his  health,  these  valiant  ones  digging, 
arrivetl  at  the  north.  In  this  quarter,  O  cliiefof  Rughoo Tthe^ 
saw  the  snow-white  elephant  Bhudra,  supportiiig'this  earth 
with  his  beautiful  body.  Circumambulating  him,  they  a-'ain 
penetrated  the  earth,  and  proceeding  north-east  to  that"  re 
nowned  quarter;  all  the  sons  of  Sugura,  thrnngh  anger, 
pierced  the  earth  again.  There  all  those  magnaniinous  ones] 
terrible  in  swiftness,  and  of  mighty  prowess,  saw  Kupila' 
Vasodeva  the  eternal.J  and  near  him  the  horse  feeding.' 
Filled,  O  son  of  Rughoo  !  with  unparalleled  joy,  they  all 
knowing  him  to  he  tlie  stealer  of  the  horse,  with  eyes  startin" 
with  rage,  seizing  their  spades  and  their  langulas,  and  even 

Tlie  eijht  Viisoos,  the  eleven  Roodr.is,  the  twelve  Adityas,  and  L'sli- 
winee  and  KoomaTa. 

t  This  seems  to  liave  been  spoken  by  these  youths  in  the  warmth  n( 
their  iinaginaUon. 

I  The  Hindoos  8.iy,  that  Ifupila,  or  Vasoo-devn,  is  an  incarnation  of 
Vishuoo,  whom  they  describe  as  Imvinj  been  thus  partially  incarnate 
twenty-four  times. 


630 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA, 


trees  and  stones,  r;in  towiirds  liim  full  of  wratli,  calling  out, 
Stop,  stop  !  thou  art  tlic  stealer  of  our  sacrificial  horse  :  Thou 
etupici  one,  know  that  we  «hu  have  found  thee  are  the  sons 
of  Kughoo.  Kupila,  filled  with  excessive  anger,  uttered  from 
his  nostrils  a  loud  sound,  and  instantly,  O  Kakoostlia '.  by 
Kujiila  of  innncasurable  power,  were  all  the  sons  of  Sugura 
turned  to  a  heap  of  ashes." 

Thus  far  the  thirty-tliird  Section,  describing  the  interview 
with  Kuj)ila. 

SECTION   TinRTY-FOIIR. 

"  O  son  of  Rughoo  !  Sugura,  perceiving  that  his  sons  had 
been  absent  a  long  time,  thus  addressed  his  grandson,  illus- 
trious by  his  own  might :  Thou  art  uherO,  possessed  of  science, 
in  prowess  equal  to  thy  predecessors.  Search  out  the  fate  of 
thy  paternal  relatives,  and  the  person  by  whom  the  horse  was 
stolen,  tliat  we  may  avenge  ourselves  on  these  subterraneous 
beings,  powerful  and  great.  'J'ake  thy  cimeter  and  bow,  O 
beloved  one  !  and  finding  out  thy  deceased  paternal  relatives, 
destroy  my  adversary.  The  proposed  end  bcmg  thus  accom- 
plished, return      Bring  me  happily  tbrougli  this  sacrifice. 

"  Thus  particularly  addressed  by  the  great  Sugura,  Ungshoo- 
mm,  swift  and  powerful,  taking  bis  bow  and  cimeter,  depart- 
ed. Urged  by  llie  king,  the  chief  of  men  traversed  the  sub- 
ti'rraneous  road  dug  by  his  great  ancestors.  There  the  mighty 
one  saw  the  elej)bant  of  the  quarter,  adored  by  the  gods,  the 
Danuvas  and  Ruksbuses,  the  Pishachas,  the  birds  and  the  ser- 
pents. Having  circumambulated  him,  and  asked  concerning 
his  welfare,  Ungshooman  inquired  for  his  paternal  relatives, 
and  the  stealer  of  the  sacred  victim.  The  miglity  elephant  of 
the  quarter  hearing,  replied,  O  son  of  Usumunja  !  thou  wilt 
accomplish  thine  intention,  and  speedily  return  with  the  horse. 
Having  heard  this,  be,  with  due  respect,  inquired,  in  regular 
succession,  of  all  the  elephants  of  the  quarters.  Honored  by 
iill  these  guardians  of  the  eight  sides  of  the  earth,  acquainted 
with  speech,  and  eminent  in  eloquence,  he  was  told,  'I'hou 
wilt  return  with  the  horse.  Upon  this  encouraging  declara- 
tion, he  swiftly  went  to  the  place  where  lay  bis  paternal  rel- 
atives, the  sons  of  Sugura,  reduced  to  a  heap  of  ashes.  (At 
this  sight)  the  son  of  Usumunja,  overwhelmed  with  sorrow  on 
account  of  their  death,  cried  out  with  excess  of  grief.  In  this 
state  of  grief,  the  chief  of  men  beheld,  grazing  near,  the  sacri- 
ficial horse.  The  illustrious  one,  desirous  of  performing  the 
funeral  obsequies  of  these  sons  of  the  king,  looked  around  for 
a  receptacle  of  water,  but  in  vain.  Extending  his  eager  view, 
he  saw,  O  Rama '.  the  sovereign  of  birds,  the  uncle  of  his  pa- 
ternal relatives,  Soopurna,  in  size  resembling  a  mountain. 
Vinuteya,  of  mighty  prowess,  addressed  him  thus  :  Grieve  not, 
O  chief  of  men!  this  slaughter  is  approved  by  the  universe. 
These  great  ones  were  reduced  to  ashes  by  Kupila  of  un- 
measurable  might.  It  is  not  proper  for  thee,  O  wise  one  I  to 
pour  common  water  upon  these  ashes.  Gunga,  O  chief  of 
men  !  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  Himuvut.  With  her  sacred 
stream,  O  valiant  one  I  perform  the  funeral  ceremonies  for 
thine  ancestors.  If  the  purifier  of  the  world  flow  on  them, 
reduced  to  a  heap  of  ashes,  these  ashes  being  wetted  by  Gunga, 
the  illuminator  of  the  world,  the  sixty  thousand  sons  of  thy 
grandfather  uill  be  received  into  heaven.  May  success  attend 
thee  !  Bring  Gunga  to  the  earth  from  the  residence  of  the  gods. 
If  thou  art  able,  O  chief  of  men  !  possessor  of  the  amjile  share, 
let  the  descent  of  Gunga  be  accomplished  by  thee.  Take  the 
horse,  and  go  forth.  It  is  thine,  O  hero  !  for  to  complete  the 
great  paternal  sacrifice. 

"  Having  heard  these  words  of  Soopurna,  Ungshooman,  the 
heroic,  speedily  seizing  the  horse,  returned.  Then,  O  son  of 
Rughoo  !  being  come  to  the  king,  who  was  still  performing  the 
initiatory  ceremonies,  he  related  to  him  the  whole  affair,  and 
the  advice  of  Soopurna. 

"  After  hearing  the  terror-inspiring  relation  of  Ungsliooman, 
the  king  finished  the  sacrifice,  in  exact  conformity  to  the  tenor 
and  spirit  of  the  ordinance  ;  having  finished  his  sai'rifice,  the 
sovereign  of  the  earth  returned  to  his  palace.  The  king,  how- 
ever, was  unable  to  devise  any  way  for  the  descent  of  Gunga 
from  heaven  :  after  a  long  time,  unable  to  fix  upon  any  method, 
he  departed  to  heaven,  having  reigned  thirty  thousand  years. 

"  Sugura  having,  O  Rama  '.  paid  the  debt  of  nature,  the 
people  chose  Ungshooman,  the  pious,  for  their  sovereign. 
Ungshooman,  O  son  of  Rughoo  !   was  a  very  great  monarch. 


His  son  was  called  Dwileepa.  Having  placed  him  on  the 
throne,  be,  O  Raguva  !  retiring  to  the  pleasant  top  of  Mount 
Ilimuvut.  performed  the  most  severe  austerities.  This  excel- 
lent sovereign  of  men,  illustrious  as  the  immortals,  was  ex- 
ceedingly desirous  of  the  descent  of  Gunga;  but  not  obtaining 
his  wish,  the  renowned  monarch,  rich  in  sacred  austerities, 
departed  to  heaven,  after  having  abode  in  the  forest  sacred  to 
austerities  thirty-two  thousand  years.  Dwileepa,  the  highly 
energetic,  being  made  acquainted  with  the  slaughter  of  his  pa- 
ternal great-uncles,  was  overw  helmed  with  grief;  but  was  still 
unable  to  fix  upon  a  way  of  deliverance.  How  shall  I  accom- 
plish the  descent  of  Gunga  .■■  How  shall  I  perform  the  fune- 
ral ablutions  of  these  relatives?  llow  shall  I  deliver  them  .' 
In  such  cogitations  was  his  mind  constantly  engaged.  While 
these  ideas  filled  the  mind  of  the  king,  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  sacred  duties,  there  was  born  to  him  a  most  virtuous  son, 
called  lihugee-rutha.  The  illustrious  king  Dwilee])a  per- 
formed many  sacrifices,  and  governed  the  kingdom  for  thirty 
thousand  years  ;  but,  O  chief  of  men  !  no  way  of  obtaining 
the  deliverance  of  bis  ancestors  appearing,  he,  by  a  disease, 
discharged  the  debt  of  nature.  Having  installed  his  own  son 
Bliugee-rutha  in  the  kingdom,  the  lord  of  men  departed  to  the 
paradise  of  Indru,  through  the  merits  of  his  own  virtuous 
deeds. 

"  The  pious,  the  royal  sage,  Bhugee-rutha,  O  son  of  Rug- 
)ioo !  was  childless.  Desirous  of  ofTsprinj;,  yet  childless, 
the  great  monarch  intrusted  the  kingdom  to  the  care  of  bis 
counsellors  ;  and,  having  his  heart  set  on  obtaining  the  descent 
of  Gunga,  engiiged  in  a  long  course  of  sacred  austerities  upon 
the  mountain  Gokurna.  With  hands  erected,  he,  O  son  of 
Rughoo  !  surrounded  in  the  hot  season  with  five  fires,*  ac- 
cording to  the  prescribed  ordinance  in  the  cold  season  lying  in 
water;  and  in  the  rainy  season  exposed  to  the  descending 
clouds,  feeding  on  fallen  leaves,  with  his  mind  restrained,  and 
his  sensual  feelings  subdued,  this  valiant  and  great  king  con- 
tinued a  thousand  years  in  the  practice  of  the  most  severe 
austerities.  The  magnanimous  monarch  of  miglity  arm  having 
finished  this  period,  the  divine  Bruhma,  the  lord  of  creatures, 
the  supreme  governor,  was  highly  pleased  ;  and  with  the  gods, 
going  near  to  the  great  Bhugee-rutha,  employed  in  sacred 
austerities,  said  to  him,  I  am  propitious.  O  performer  of 
sacred  vows  !  ask  a  blessing.  The  mighty,  the  illustrious 
Bhugeerutha,  with  hands  respectfully  joined,  replied  to  the 
sire  of  all,  O  di\ine  one  !  if  thou  art  pleased  with  me,  if  the 
fruit  of  my  austerities  may  be  granted,  let  all  the  sons  of  Su- 
gura obtain  water  for  their  funeral  rites.  The  ashes  of  the 
great  ones  being  wetted  by  the  water  of  Gunga,  let  all  my  an- 
cestors ascend  to  the  eternal  heaven. f  Let  a  child,  O  divine 
one  !  be  granted  to  us,  that  our  family  become  not  extinct.  O 
God  I  let  this  great  blessing  be  granted  to  the  fimily  of  Iksh- 
wakoo.  The  venerable  sire  of  all  replied  to  the  king  thus  re- 
questing in  the  sweetest  and  most  pleasing  accents  :  Bhugee- 
rutha,  thou  mighty  charioteer,  be  this  great  wish  of  thine  lieart 
accomplished.  Let  prosperity  attend  thee,  thou  increaser  of 
the  family  of  Ikshwakoo  !  Engage  Ilura,  Oking!  to  receive 
(in  her  descent)  Gunga  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  mountain 
Himuvut.  The  earth,  O  king  !  cannot  sustain  the  descent  of 
Gun^'a,  nor  beside  Sboolee|  do  I  behold  any  one,  O  king! 
able  to  receive  her.  The  creator  having  thus  replied  to  the 
king,  and  spoken  to  Gunga,  returned  to  heaven  with  Macroots 
and  all  the  gods." 

Thus  fir  the  thirty-fourth  Section,  describing  the  gift  of  the 
blessing  to  Bughee-rutha. 


SECTION  THIRTY-FIVE. 

"  Pruja-pnti  being  gone,  Bhugee-rutha,  O  Rama  !  with  up- 
lifted arm,  without  support,  without  a  helper,  immovable  as  a 
dry  tree,  and  feeding  on  air,  remained  day  and  night  on  the 
tip  of  his  great  toe  upon  the  afflicted  earth.  A  full  year  hav- 
ing now  elapsed,  the  husband  of  Ooma,  and  the  lord  of  ani- 
mals, who  is  reverenced  by  all  worlds,  said  to  the  king,  I  am 
propitious  to  thee,  O  chief  of  men !    I  will  accomplish  thy 

*  One  towards  each  of  the  cardinaJ  points,  and  the  sun  over  his  head^ 
towards  which  he  Wi»s  constantly  lootiin*. 

t  The  heaven  from  wliich  there  can  lie  nn  fall. 
I  Shiva,  from  Shoola,  the  spear  which  he  held. 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA, 


03) 


utmost  desire.  'J'o  liiiii  the  sovereign  replied,  O  Hura,  receive 
Guiiga  !  I{luirg;i,*  thus  addressed,  replied,  I  will  perform  tliy 
desire  ;  I  will  receive  her  on  my  head,  the  daughter  of  the 
mountain.  Muheshwra  then,  mounting  on  the  summit  of 
Himuvut,  addressed  Gunga,  the  river  flowing  in  the  ether, 
saying,  Descend,  O  Gunga  !  The  eldest  daughter  of  Himuvut, 
adored  by  the  universe,  having  heard  the  words  of  the  lord  of 
Ooma,  was  filled  with  anger,  and  assuming,  O  Rama  !  a  form 
of  amazing  size,  with  insupportable  celerity,  fell  from  the  air 
upon  the  auspicious  head  of  Shiva.  The  goddess  Gunga,  ir- 
resistible, thought  within  herself,  I  will  boar  down  Sbunkura 
with  my  stream,  and  enter  Patala.  The  divine  Hura,  the 
three-eyed  God,  was  aware  of  her  proud  resolution,  and,  being 
angry,  determined  to  prevent  her  design.  The  purifier,  fallen 
upon  the  sacred  head  of  Roodra,  was  detained,  O  Rama !  in 
the  recesses  of  the  orb  of  bis  Jula,  resembling  Himuvut,  and 
was  unable,  by  the  greatest  efforts,  to  descend  to  the  earth. 
From  the  borders  of  the  orb  of  his  .luta,  the  goddess  could  not 
obtain  regress,  but  wandered  there  for  many  series  of  years. 
Thus  situated,  Bhugee-tutha  beheld  her  wandering  there,  and 
again  engaged  in  severe  austerities. 

"  With  these  austerities,  O  son  of  Rugboo  !  Hura  being 
greatly  pleased,  discharged  Gunga  towards  the  lake  Vindoo. 
In  her  flowing  forth  seven  streams  were  produced.  Three  of 
these  streams,!  beautiful,  filled  with  water  conveying  liap))i- 
iiess,  Hladinee,!:  Pavunee,^  and  Nulinee,||  directed  their 
course  eastward  ;  while  8oochukohoo,ir  Seeta,**  and  Sind- 
hoo,f  f  three  pellucid  mighty  rivers,  flowed  to  the  west.  The 
seventh  of  these  streams  followed  king  Bhugee-riitha.  The 
royal  sage,  the  illustrious  Bhugee-rutha,  seated  on  a  resplen- 
dent car,  led  the  way,  while  Gunga  followed.  Pouring  down 
from  the  sky  upon  the  head  of  Sbunkura,  and  afterwards 
upon  the  earth,  her  streams  rolled  along  with  a  shrill  sound. 
The  earth  was  willingly  chosen  by  the  fallen  fislies,  the  turtles, 
the  porpoises,  and  the  birds.  The  royal  sages,  the  Gundhur- 
vus,  tlie  Yukshas,  and  the  Siddhas,  beheld  her  falling  from  the 
ether  to  the  earth  ;  yea,  the  gods,  immeasurable  in  power, 
filled  with  surprise,  came  thither  with  chariots  resembling  a 
city,  horses,  and  elephants,  and  litters,  desirous  of  seeing  the 
wonderful  and  unparalleled  descent  of  Gunga  into  the  world. 
Irradiated  by  the  descending  gods,  and  the  splendor  of  their 
ornaments,  the  cloudless  atmosphere  shone  with  the  splendor 
of  a  hundred  suns,  while,  by  the  uneasy  porpoises,  the  ser- 
pents, and  the  fishes,  the  air  was  coruscated  as  with  lightning. 
T'hrough  the  white  foam  of  the  waters,  spreading  in  a  thousand 
directions,  and  the  flights  of  water-fowl,  the  atmosphere  ap- 
peared tilled  with  autumnal  clouds.  The  water,  pure  from 
defilement,  falling  from  the  head  of  Shunkura,  and  thence  to 
the  earth,  ran  in  some  places  with  a  rapid  stream,  in  others  in 
a  tortuous  current ;  here  widely  sjireading,  there  descending 
into  caverns,  and  again  spouting  upward  ;  in  some  places  it 
moved  slowly,  stream  uniting  with  stream  ;  while  repelled 
in  others,  it  rose  upwards,  and  again  fell  to  the  earth.  Know- 
ing its  purity,  the  sages,  the  Gundhurvas,  and  the  inhabitants 
of  the  earth,  touched  the  water  fallen  from  the  body  of  Bhuva.JJ 
Those  who,  through  a  curse,  had  fillen  from  heaven  to  earth, 
having  performed  ablution  in  this  stream,  became  free  from 
sin  ;  cleansed  from  sin  by  this  water,  and  restored  to  happi- 
ness, they  entered  the  sky,  and  returned  again  to  heaven. 
By  this  illustrious  stream  was  the  world  rejoiced,  and  by  per- 
forming ablution  in  Gunga,  became  free  from  impurity. 

"  The  royal  sage,  Bhugeo-rutlia,  full  of  energy,  went  liefore, 
seated  on  his  resplendent  car,  while  Gunga  followed  after. 
'J'he  gods,  O  Rama  !  with  the  sages,  the  Dityas,  the  Danuvas, 
the  Rakshuses,  the  chic^f  Gundhurvas,  and  Yukshas,  with  the 
Kinnnrns,  the  chief  serpents,  and  all  the  LTpsuras,  together, 
with  ai|uatic  animals,  fallowing  the  chariot  of  Bhugec-rulha, 
attended  Gnnga.  Whither  king  Bhugee-rutha  went,  thither 
went  the  renowned  Gunga,  the  chief  of  streams,  the  destroyer 
of  all  sin. 

".\fter  this,  Gunga,  in  her  course,  inundated  this  sacrificial 

•  Shir.i. 

T  I.ilfrally,  lliree  Gting:i«.  Wherever  n  part  of  Gun ja  flows,  it  is  diVni- 

tied  with  her  name  :  thus  the  Hindoos  say,  the  Gunga  of  Pouyao-a,  ftc.  ° 

t  The  riirer  of  Joy.  ^  The  purifier. 

J  Abounding  with  water.  Tf  Beaiililid  eyed. 

'*  While.  tt  Probably  the  Indus. 
J{  Sliiva,  the  existent. 


ground  of  the  great  Juhnoo  of  astonishing  deeds,  who  was 
then  offering  sacrifice,  .luhnoo,  O  Rughuva!  perceiving  her 
pride  enraged,  drank  up  the  whole  of  the  water  of  Gunga  — 
a  most  astonishing  deed  !  At  this  the  gods,  the  Gundhurvas, 
and  the  sagca,  exceedingly  surprised,  adored  the  great  Juh- 
noo, the  most  excellent  of  men,  and  named  Gunga  the  daugh- 
ter of  this  great  sage. 

"  The  illustrious  chief  of  men,  pleased,  discharged  Gunga 
from  his  ears.  Having  liberated  her,  he,  recognizing  the 
great  Bhugee-rutha,  the  chief  of  kings,  then  present,  duly 
honored  him,  and  returned  to  the  place  of  sacrifice.  From 
this  deed  Gunga,  the  daughter  of  Jahnoo,  obtained  the  name 
Jahnuvee. 

"  Gunga  now  went  forward  again,  following  the  chariot  of 
Bhugee-rutha.  Having  reached  the  sea,  the  chief  of  streams 
proceeded  to  Patala,  to  accomplish  the  work  of  Bughre-rutha. 
The  wise  and  royal  s;ige,  having,  with  great  labor,  conducted 
Gunga  thither,  there  beheld  his  ancestors  reduced  to  asJies. 
Then,  O  chief  of  Rughoo's  race,  that  heap  of  ashes,  bathed 
by  the  excellent  waters  of  Gunga,  and  purified  from  sin,  the 
sons  of  the  king  obtained  heaven.  Having  arrived  at  the  sea, 
the  king,  followed  by  Gunga,  entered  the  subterraneous  re- 
gions, where  lay  the  sacred  ashes.  After  these,  O  Rama  ! 
had  been  laved  by  the  water  of  Gunga,  Brulima,  the  lord  of 
all,  thus  addressed  the  king:  O  chief  of  men  !  thy  predeces- 
sors, the  sixty  thousand  sons  of  the  great  Su.^ura,  are  all  de- 
livered by  thee  ;  and  the  great  and  perennial  receptacle  of 
water,  called  by  Sugura's  name,  shall  henceforth  bo  univer- 
sally known  by  the  appellation  of  Sagura.*  As  long,  O  king  ! 
as  the  waters  of  the  sea  continue  in  the  earth,  so  long  shall 
the  sons  of  Sugura  remain  in  heaven,  in  all  the  splendor  of 
gods. 

"  This  Gunga,  O  king  !  shall  be  thy  eldest  daughter,  known 
throughout  the  three  worlds  (by  the  name)  Bhagee-ruthee  ; 
and  l)ecause  she  passed  through  the  earth,  the  chief  of  rivers 
shall  be  called  Gnnga]  througliout  the  universe.  (.She  shall 
also  be)  called  Triputhagn,  on  account  of  her  proceeding  for- 
ward in  three  different  directions,  watering  the  three  worlds. 
Thus  is  she  named  by  the  gods  and  sages.  She  is  called 
Gunga,  O  sovereign  of  the  Vasliyas  !  on  account  of  her  flow- 
ing through  Gang  ;  |  and  her  third  name,  O  thou  observer  of 
vows',  is  Bhagee-ruthee.  O,  accomplished  one!  througli 
affection  to  thee,  and  regard  to  me,  these  names  will  remain  ; 
as  long  as  Gunga,  the  great  river,  shall  remain  iu  the  world, 
so  long  shall  thy  deathless  fame  live  throughout  the  universe. 

0  lord  of  men  !  O  king  !  perform  here  the  funeral  rites  of  all 
thine  ancestors.  Relinquish  thy  vows,§  O  king  !  this  devout 
wish  of  theirs  was  not  obtained  by  thine  ancestors  highly  re- 
nowned, chief  among  the  pious  ;  not  by  Ungshooman,  unpar- 
alleled in  the  universe,  so  earnestly  desiring  the  descent  of 
Gunga,  O  beloved  one  !  was  this  object  of  desire  obtained. 
Nor,  O  possessor  of  prosperity  !  O  sinless  one!  could  she  bo 
(obtained)  by  thine  illustrious  father  Dwileepa,  the  Rijurshi 
eminently  accom])lished,  whose  energy  was  equal  to  that  of  a 
Muhurshi,  and  who,  established  in  all  the  virtues  of  the 
Ksluitras,  in  sacred  austerities  equalled  myself.  This  great 
design  has  been  fully  accomplished  by  thee,  O  chief  of  men  ! 
Thy  fime,  the  blessing  so  much  desired,  will  spread  through- 
out the  world.  O  subduer  of  enemies  !  this  descent  of  Gunga 
has  been  eft'ected  by  thee.  This  Gunga  is  the  great  abode  of 
virtue  ;  by  this  deed  thou  art  become  possessed  of  the  divini- 
ty itself.  In  this  stream  constantly  b.itho  thyself.  C  chief  of 
men!  Purified,  O  most  excellent  of  mortals  ,  be  a  partaker 
of  the  fruit  of  holiness  ;  perform  the  funeral  ceremonies  of  all 
thy  ancestors.     May  blessings  attend  thee,  O  chief  of  men  I 

1  return  to  heaven. 

"  The  renowned  one,  the  sovereign  of  the  gods,  the  sire  of 
the  universe,  having  thus  spoken,  returned  to  heaven. 

"  King  Bhugee-rutha,  the  royal  sage,  having  performed  the 
funeral  ceremonies  of  the  descendants  of  Sugura,  in  proper 
order  of  succession,  according  to  the  ordinance  ;  the  renowned 
one  having  also,  O  chief  of  men !  performed  the  customary 

*  Sahara  is  one  ot  the  most  common  names  for  the  sea  which  the 
Hindoos  have. 

f  From  the  nnt  ^um,  signifying  motion. 

X  'l"hc  earth. 

§  The  end  of  liiy  vows  is  accoiiiiilislied,  therefore  now  relinquish  thy 
vows  of  being  an  ascetic. 


G32 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA, 


coremoiiica,  unci  purified  himsnir,  returned  to  his  own  city, 
where  lie  governed  the  kingdom.  Having  (again,)  O  Rag- 
hura  !  possessed  of  abundant  weallli,  obtained  their  king,  his 
people  rejoiced  ;  their  sorrow  was  completely  removed ;  they 
increased  in  wealth  and  prosperity,  and  were  freed  from 
disease. 

"  Thus,  O  Kama  !  has  the  story  of  Gunga  been  related  at 
large  by  me.  May  prosperity  attend  thee  :  may  every  good 
be  thine.  'I'he  evening  is  fast  receding.  He  who  causes  this 
relation,  securing  wealth,  finie,  longevity,  posterity,  and 
heaven,  to  he  heard  among  the  Brahinans,  the  Ksliutriyas,  or 
the  otlier  t.'ilies  of  men,  his  ancestors  rejoice,  and  to  him  ore 
the  gods  propitious  :  and  he  who  hears  tliis  admirable  story 
of  tlie  descent  of  Gunga,  ensuring  long  life,  sliall  obtain,  O 
Kakootstlia  !  all  the  wislies  of  his  heart.  All  his  sins  shall 
be  destroyed,  and  his  life  and  fame  he  abundantly  prolonged." 

End  of  the  thirty-fifth  Section,  describing  the  descent  of 
Gunga. 


Parvati.  —  X.  2,  p.  584. 

A-1  the  Dovatas,  and  other  inhabitants  of  the  celestial  re- 
gions, being  collected  at  the  summons  of  Bhagavat,  to  arrange 
the  ceremonials  of  the  marriage  of  Seeva  and  Parvati,  first 
came  Brahma,  mounted  on  his  goose,  with  the  lleyshees  at  his 
stirrup  ;  next  Vecshnu,  riding  on  Garoor,  his  eagle,  with  the 
chank,  the  chakra,  the  club,  and  the  pedive  in  his  hands  ; 
Eendra  also,  and  Yama,  and  Cuvera,  and  Varuna,  and  the 
rivers  Ganga  and  Jumna,  and  the  seven  Seas.  The  Gandarvas 
also,  and  Apsaras,  and  Vasookec,  and  other  serpents,  in  obe- 
dience to  tlie  conmiands  of  Seeva,  all  dressed  in  superb  chains 
and  habits  of  ceremony,  were  to  be  seen  in  order  amidst  the 
crowded  and  glittering  cavalcade. 

And  now,  Seeva,  after  the  arrival  of  all  the  Devetas,  and 
the  coni|)letion  of  tlie  preparations  for  the?  procession,  set  out, 
in  the  utmost  pomp  and  splendor,  from  tlie  mountain  Kilas. 
His  third  eye  tiamed  like  the  sun,  and  the  crescent  on  his 
forehead  assumed  the  form  of  a  radiated  diadem  ;  his  snakes 
were  exchanged  forcliains  and  necklacesof  pearls  and  rubies, 
his  ashes  for  sandal  and  perfume,  and  his  elephant's  skin  for 
a  silken  robe,  so  that  none  of  the  Devetas  in  brilliance  came 
near  his  figure.  The  bridal  attendants  now  spread  wide 
abroad  the  carpet  of  congratulation,  and  arranged  in  order  the 
banquet  of  bliss.  Nature  herself  assumed  the  appearance  of 
renovated  youth,  and  the  sorrowing  universe  recalled  its  long- 
forgotten  happiness.  The  Gandarvas  and  Apsaras  began  their 
melodious  songs,  and  the  Genes  and  Keeners  displayed  the 
magic  of  their  various  musical  instruments.  The  earth  and 
its  inhabitants  exulted  with  tongues  of  glorification  and  tri- 
umph ;  fresh  moisture  invigorated  llie  withered  victims  of 
time  ;  a  thousand  happy  and  animating  conceptions  inspired 
the  hearts  of  the  intelligent,  and  enlightened  the  wisdom  of  the 
thoughtful :  The  kingdom  of  external  forms  obtained  gladness  ; 
the  world  of  intellect  acquired  brightness.  The  dwellers  upon 
earth  stocked  the  casket  of  their  ideas  with  the  jewels  of  de- 
light, am!  reverend  pilgrims  exchanged  their  beads  for  pearls. 
The  joy  of  those  on  earth  ascended  up  to  heaven,  and  the 
Tree  of  the  bliss  of  those  in  Heaven  extended  its  auspicious 
branches  downwards  to  the  earth,  'i'he  eyes  of  the  Devetas 
flamed  like  torches  oulieholding  these  scenes  of  rapture,  and 
the  hearts  of  the  just  kindled  like  touchwood  on  hearing  these 
ravishing  symphonies.     Thus  Seeva  set  oft'  like  a  garden  in 

full  blow,  and  paradise  was  eclipsed  by  his  motion Mau 

KicE,from  the  SeevorPooraun. 


Thereat  the  heart  of  the  Universe  stood  still.  —  X.  2,  p.  584. 

Long  after  these  lines  were  written,  I  was  amused  at  find- 
ing a  parallel  passage  in  a  sermon  : 

Quamlo  o  Sol  parou  as  votes  de  Josue,  aconteceram  no  mundo 
todas  flf/TteHa*  ennscqiicncias,  que  parando  o  viovimento  celeste, 
consideram  as  Filnsofos.  .^s  plaiila.i  por  todo  aquelte  tempo  nam 
creceram  ;  as  calidades  das  clrmrntns,  e  dns  mixtos,  nam  se  alte- 
raram  ;  a  gera^am  e  eorrupgaiii  com  que  se  cniiscrva  o  mundo, 
cessou ;  as  artes  e  os  exerriciiis  de  hum  e  outro  F.mUferio  estivc- 
ram  suspen.sos  ;  os  Jlntlpudas  nam  Irabalharam,  porque,  Ihrsfal- 
tava  a  lui,  os  de  cima  cangados  de  lam  comprido  dia  deuravam  o 
trabalho  ;  estes  pasmados  de  verem  n  Svl  que  se  nam  movia ; 


aquelles  tarnbem  pasmados  de  rsperarem.  pelo  Sol,  que  nam  che~ 
gava,  cuida'mm  que  se  acabdra  para  elles  a  lui ;  imaginavam 
que  se  acahaca  a  mundo  :  tudo  era  latrrimas,  tudo  assomhros,  tudo 
horrores,  tudo  cunfusuens.  —  Vieyra,  Scrmocns,  torn.  ix.  p.  505. 


Sarya.  —  X.  16,  p.  586. 

Surya,  the  Sun.  The  poets  and  painters  describe  his  car  as 
drawn  by  seven  green  horses,  preceded  by  Aruu,  or  the  Dawn 
who  acts  as  his  charioteer,  and  followed  l)y  thousands  of  genii, 
worshipping  him,  and  modulating  his  jiraises.  Surya  is  be- 
lieved to  have  descended  frequently  from  his  car  in  a  human 
shape,  and  to  have  left  a  race  on  earth,  who  are  equally  re- 
nowned in  the  Indian  stories  with  the  Heliadai  of  Greece.  It 
is  very  singular  that  his  two  sons,  called  Aswiuaii  or  Asiciui- 
cumarau,  in  the  Dual,  should  be  considered  as  twin  brothers, 
and  painted  like  Castor  and  Pollux  ;  but  they  have  each  the 
character  of  jEscuIapius  among  the  gods,  and  are  believed  to 
have  been  born  of  a  nymph,  who,  in  the  form  of  a  marc,  was 
impregnated  with  sunbeams.  —  Sir  W.  Jones. 

That  sun,  O  daughter  of  Ganga '.  than  which  nothing  is 
higher,  to  which  nothing  is  equal,  enlightens  the  summit  of 
the  sky  —  with  the  sky  enlightens  the  earth  —  with  the  earth 
enlightens  the  lower  worlds  ;  enlightens  the  higher  worlds, 
enlightens  other  worlds;  —  it  enlightens  the  breast,  —  en- 
lightens all  besides  the  breast.  —  Sir  W.Johes,  from  the  Veda. 


Forgetful  of  his  Dragon  foe.  —  X.  16,  p.  586. 

Ra'hu  was  the  son  of  Cas'ijapa  and  Dity,  according  to  some 
authorities  ;  but  others  represent  Siuhica'  (perhaps  the  sphinx) 
as  his  natural  mother.  He  had  four  arms  ;  his  lower  parts 
ended  in  a  tail  like  that  of  a  dragon  ;  and  his  aspect  was  grim 
and  gloomy,  like  the  (/flWfn«5of  the  chaos,  whence  he  had  also 
the  name  of  Tamas.  He  was  the  adviser  of  all  mischief  among 
the  Daitijas,  who  had  a  regard  for  him  ;  but  among  the  De'- 
vetas  it  was  his  chief  delight  to  sow  dissension  ;  and  when  the 
gods  had  produced  the  amrit,  by  churning  the  ocean,  he  dis- 
guised himself  like  one  of  them,  and  received  a  portion  of  it; 
but  the  Sun  and  Moon  having  discovered  his  fraud,  fishnii 
severed  his  head  and  two  of  his  arms  from  the  rest  of  his 
monstrous  body.  That  part  of  the  nectarcous  fluid  which  he 
had  time  to  swallow  secured  his  immortality  :  his  trunk  and 
dragon-like  tail  fell  on  the  mountain  of  jWa?n)/«,  where  Jlfin/,  a 
Bruliman,  carefully  preserved  them  by  the  name  of  Ce'tu  ;  and, 
as  if  a  complete  body  had  been  formed  from  them,  like  a  dis- 
membered poli/pe,  he  is  even  said  to  have  adopted  Cc'tuas  his 
own  cliild.  The  head,  with  two  arms,  fell  on  tlie  sands  of 
Barbara,  where  Pi't'hc'/ta's  was  then  walking  with  Sinhica', 
by  some  called  his  wife  :  They  carried  the  Daitya  to  their 
palace,  and  adopted  him  as  their  son  ;  whence  he  acijuired  the 
name  of  Paite  he'na^-i.  This  extravagant  fable  is,  no  doubt, 
astronomic:il  ;  Ra'hu  and  Ce'tu  being  clearly  the  nodes,  or  what 
astrologers  call  the  head  and  tail  of  the  dragon.  It  is  added, 
that  they  appeased  Vishnu,  and  obtained  re-admission  to  the 
firmaftient,  but  were  no  longer  visibli;  from  the  earth,  their 
enlightened  sides  being  turned  from  it ;  that  Ra'hu.  strives, 
during  eclipses,  to  wreak  vengeance  on  the  Sun  and  Moon, 
who  detected  him ;  and  that  CeHu  often  appears  as  a  comet, 
a  whirlwind,  a  fiery  meteor,  a  water-spout,  or  a  column  of 
sand.  —  WiLFoBo.     Asiatic  Researches. 


Suro.1.  —  X.  18,  p.  .586. 

The  word  Sura,  in  Sanscrit,  signifies  both  wine  and  true 
wealth  ;  hence,  in  the  first  CAaiiriof  the  fiamayaji  of  Valmit, 
it  is  expressly  said  that  the  Z)cef«a.<,  having  received  the  Sura, 
acquired  the  title  of  Suras,  and  the  Daityas  that  of  .Ssura, 
from  not  having  received  it.  The  Veda  is  represented  as  that 
wine  and  true  wealth Paterson.     Jlsiat.  Researches. 


Camdco.  —  X.  19,  p.  586. 

Eternal  Cama  !  or  doth  Smara  bright. 
Or  proud  Ananga,  give  the  more  delight ' 


Sir  W.  Jones. 


NOTES   TO    THE   CURSE   OF    KEHAMA. 


63;j 


He  was  llie  son  of  May  a,  or  tlic  generiil  attracting  power, 
and  iiiarrio'l  lo  Rettv,  or  .Iffectiun,  and  his  bosom  friend  is 
Bessent,  or  Siiriiirr.  He  is  represented  as  a  beautiful  youlli, 
sometimes  conversing  with  liis  motlier  and  consort  in  the 
midst  of  liis  gardens  and  temples;  sometimes  riding'  by  moon- 
light on  a  parrot  or  lory,  and  attended  by  dancing  girls  or 
nymphs,  the  foremost  of  whom  bears  his  colors,  which  are  a 
fsh  on  a  red  ground.  His  lUvorito  place  of  resort  is  a  large 
tract  of  country  round  Agra,  and  principally  the  plains  of 
Mutra,  where  Krishen  also,  and  the  nine  Gopia,  who  are 
clearly  the  Jipollo  and  Muses  of  the  Greeks,  usually  spend  the 
night  with  music  and  dance.  His  bow  of  sugar-cane  or 
flowers,  with  a  string  of  bees,  and  his  five  arrows,  each 
pointed  with  an  Indian  blossom  of  a  heating  quality,  are  alle- 
gories equally  new  and  beautiful. 

It  is  possible  that  the  words  Dipuc  and  Cupid,  which  have 
the  same  signification,  may  have  the  Bame  origin  ;  since  we 
know  that  the  old  Hetrurians,  from  whom  great  part  of  the 
Roman  language  and  religion  was  derived,  and  whose  system 
had  a  near  artinity  with  that  of  the  Persians  and  Indians,  used 
to  write  their  lines  alternately  forwards  and  backwards,  as 
furrows  are  made  by  the  plough.  —  Sir  VV.  Jones. 

Mahadevaand  I'arvati  were  playing  with  dice  at  the  ancient 
gameof  (yliaturanga,  when  tliey  disputed,  and  parted  in  wrath  ; 
the  godiless  retiring  to  the  forest  of  Gauri,  and  the  god  repair- 
ing to  Cuslmdwip.  They  severally  |)erformed  rigid  acts  of 
devotion  to  the  Supreme  Being  ;  but  the  fires  which  they  kin- 
dled blazed  so  vehemently  as  to  threaten  a  general  conflagra- 
tion. The  Devas,  in  great  alarm,  hastened  to  Brahma,  who 
led  them  to  Mahadeva,  and  supplicated  him  to  recall  his  con- 
sort ;  but  the  wrathful  deity  only  answered.  That  she  must 
come  by  her  own  free  choice.  They  accordingly  despatched 
Ganga,  the  river  goddess,  who  prevailed  on  Parvati  to  return 
to  him,  on  condition  that  his  love  for  her  should  be  restored. 
The  celestial  mediators  then  employed  Cama-Deva,  who 
wounded  Mahadeva  with  one  of  his  flowery  arrows  ;  but  the 
angry  divinity  reduced  him  to  ashes  with  a  flame  from  his  eye. 
Parvati  soon  after  presented  herself  before  him  in  the  form  of 
a  Cirati,  or  daughter  of  a  mountaineer,  and,  seeing  him  en- 
amored of  her,  resimied  her  own  shape.  In  the  place  where 
they  were  renoneiled,  a  grove  sprang  up,  whi'di  was  named 
Camavana  ;  and  the  relenting  god,  in  the  character  of  Ca- 
meswara,  consoled  the  afilictcd  Reti,  the  widow  of  Cama,  by 
assuring  her  that  she  should  rejoin  her  husband  when  he 
should  be  born  again  in  the  form  of  I'radyumna,  son  of 
Crishna,  and  should  put  Sambara  to  death.  Tlii-!  favorable 
prediction  was  in  due  time  accomplished,  and  I'radyumna 
having  sprung  to  life,  he  was  instantly  seized  by  the  demon 
Sambara,  who  placed  him  in  a  chest,  which  ho  threw  into  the 
ocean  ;  but  a  largo  fish,  which  had  swallowed  the  chest,  was 
caught  in  a  net,  and  carried  to  the  palace  of  a  tyrant,  where 
the  unfortunate  Reti  had  been  comi)elled  to  do  menial  service. 
It  was  her  lot  to  open  llie  fish,  and  seeing  an  iiif  mt  in  the 
chest,  she  nursed  him  in  private,  and  educated  him,  till  he 
had  sufficient  strength  to  destroy  the  malignant  Sambara.  He 
had  before  considered  Reti  as  his  mother ;  but  the  minds  of 
them  both  being  irradiated,  the  prophecy  of  Mahadeva  was 
remembered,  and  the  God  of  Love  was  again  united  with  the 
Goddess  of  Pleasure.  —  Wili'oed.    Asiatic  Researches. 


Eating-  his  very  core  of  life  awaij.  —  XI.  .'5,  p.  588. 

One  of  the  wonders  of  this  country  is  the  Jiggerkhar,  (or 
liver-cater.)  One  of  this  class  can  steal  away  the  liver  of  an- 
other by  looks  and  incantations.  Other  accounts  say,  that,  by 
looking  at  n  person,  he  deprives  him  of  his  senses,  and  then 
steals  from  him  something  resembling  the  seed  of  a  pomegran- 
ate, which  he  hidi'S  in  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The  Jigger/char 
throws  on  the  fire  the  grain  before  described,  which  thereupon 
spreads  to  the  size  of  a  dish,  and  he  distrilmtes  it  amongst  his 
fellows,  to  be  eaten  ;  which  ceremony  concludes  the  life  of 
the  fascinated  person.  A  Siggerkhar  is  able;  to  communicate 
his  art  to  another,  which  he  does  by  learning  him  the  incan- 
tations and  by  making  him  eat  a  bit  of  the  liver-cake.  If  any 
one  cut  open  the  ca  f  of  the  magician's  leg,  extract  the  grain, 
and  give  it  to  the  afflicted  person  to  cat,  he  immediately 
recovers.  Those  Jirgerkhars  are  mostly  women.  It  is  said, 
moreover,  that  they  can  bring  intelligence  from  a  great  dis- 
80 


tanco  in  a  short  space  of  time  ;  and  if  they  are  thrown  into  a 
river,  with  a  stone  tied  to  them,  they  nevertheless  will  not 
sink.  In  order  to  deprive  any  one  of  this  wicked  power,  they 
brand  his  temples,  and  every  joint  in  his  body,  cram  his  eyes 
with  salt,  suspend  him  for  forty  days  in  a  suliterraneous 
cavern,  and  repeat  over  him  certain  incantations.  In  this 
state  he  is  called  Dctche-reh.  Although,  after  having  under- 
gone this  discipline,  ho  is  not  able  to  destroy  the  liver  of  any 
one,  yet  he  retains  the  power  of  being  able  to  discover  another 
Jiggerkliar,  and  is  used  for  detecting  those  disturbers  of  man- 
kind. They  can  also  cure  many  diseases,  by  administering  a 
potion,  or  by  repeating  an  incantation.  Many  other  marvel- 
lous stories  are  told  of  these  people.  —  .^veen  Acisery. 

An  Arabian  old  woman,  by  name  Meluk,  was  thrown  in 
prison,  on  a  charge  of  having  bewitched,  or,  as  they  call  it, 
eaten  the  heart  of  a  young  native  of  Ormuz,  who  had  lately, 
from  being  a  Christian,  turned  Mahommedan.  The  cause  of 
oflence  was,  that  the  young  man,  aOer  keeping  company  some 
time  with  one  of  her  daughters,  had  forsaken  her:  he  him- 
self, who  was  in  a  pitiable  condition,  and  in  danger  of  his 
life,  was  one  of  her  accusers.  This  sort  of  witchcraft,  which 
the  Indians  call  eating  the  heart,  and  which  is  what  we  call 
bewitching  as  sorcerers  do  by  their  venomous  and  deadly 
looks,  is  not  a  new  thing,  nor  unheard  of  elsewhere  ;  for 
many  persons  practised  it  formerly  in  Sclavonia,  and  the 
country  of  the  Triballes,  as  we  learn  from  Ortelius,  who  took 
the  account  from  Pliny,  who,  upon  the  report  of  Isigones, 
testifies,  that  this  sjiecies  of  enchantment  was  much  in  use 
among  these  people,  and  many  others  whom  he  mentions,  as 
it  is  at  present  here,  especially  among  the  Arabians  who  in- 
habit the  western  coast  of  the  Persian  gulf,  where  this  art 
is  common.  The  way  in  which  they  do  it  is  only  by  the  eyes 
and  the  mouth,  keeping  the  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the  person 
whose  heart  they  design  to  eat,  and  pronouncing,  between 
their  teeth,  I  know  not  what  diabolical  words,  by  virtue  of 
which,  and  by  the  operation  of  the  devil,  the  person,  how  hale 
and  strong  soever,  falls  immediately  into  an  unknown  and 
incurable  disease,  which  makes  him  appear  phthisical,  con- 
sumes him  little  by  little,  and  at  last  destroys  him.  And  this 
takes  place  faster  or  slower  as  the  heart  is  eaten,  as  they  say  ; 
for  these  sorcerers  can  either  eat  the  whole  or  a  part  only  ; 
that  is,  can  consume  it  entirely  and  at  once,  or  hit  by  bit,  as 
they  please.  The  vulgar  give  it  this  name,  because  tliey 
believe  that  the  devil,  acting  ujion  the  imagination  of  the 
witch  when  she  mutters  her  wit  ked  words,  represents  invis- 
ibly to  her  the  heart  and  entrails  of  the  patient,  taken  out  of 
his  body,  and  makes  her  devour  them.  In  which  these 
wretches  find  so  delightful  a  task,  that  very  often,  to  satisfy 
their  appetite,  without  any  impulse  of  resentment  or  enmity, 
they  will  destroy  innocent  persons,  and  even  their  nearest 
relatives,  as  there  is  a  report  that  (uir  prisoner  killed  one  of 
her  own  da'ighters  in  this  manner. 

This  was  confirmed  to  me  by  a  similar  story,  which  I  heard 
at  Ispahan,  from  the  mouth  of  P.  Sebastian  de  Jesus,  a  Por- 
tuguese Augustiiiian,  a  man  to  be  believed,  and  of  singular 
virtue,  who  was  prior  of  their  convent  when  I  departed.  He 
assured  me,  that,  in  one  of  the  places  dependent  ni>on  Portu 
gal,  on  the  confines  of  Arabia  Felix,  I  know  not  whether  it 
was  at  Mascate  or  at  Ormuz,  an  Arab  having  been  taken  up 
for  a  similar  crime,  and  convicted  of  it,  for  he  confessed  the 
fact,  the  captain,  or  governor  of  the  place,  who  was  a  Portu- 
guese, that  he  might  better  understand  the  truth  of  these 
black  and  devilish  actions,  of  which  there  is  no  doulit  in  this 
country,  made  the  sorcerer  be  brought  before  him  belbre  he 
was  led  to  his  punishment,  and  asked  him,  if  he  could  eat  the 
inside  of  a  cucumber  without  opening  it,  as  well  as  the  heart 
of  a  man  .'  The  sorcerer  said  yes  ;  and,  in  order  to  prove  it, 
a  cucumber  was  brought :  he  looked  at  it,  never  touching  it, 
steadily  for  some  time,  with  his  usual  enclnintinenis,  and 
then  told  the  captain  he  had  eaten  the  whole  inside  ;  and 
accordingly  when  it  was  opened,  nothing  was  found  but  the 
rind.  This  is  not  impossible  ;  for  the  devil,  of  whom  they 
make  use  in  these  operations,  having,  in  the  order  of  nature, 
greater  power  than  all  inferior  creatures,  can,  with  God's 
permission,  produce  these  effects,  and  others  more  mar- 
vellous. 

The  same  father  told  me,  that  one  of  these  sorcerers, 
whether  it  was  the  same  or  not  I  do  not  know,  having  been 
taken  for  a  similar  offence,  was  asked  if  he  could  eat  the 


634 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    K  Ell  A  MA. 


heart  of  the  Portuguese  captain  ?  aud  lie  replied  no  ;  for  the 
Franks  had  a  certain  tiling  upon  the  hreiist,  which  covered 
them  like  a  cuirass,  and  was  so  impenetrahle,  that  it  was 
proof  against  all  his  charms.  This  can  he  nothing  else  but 
the  virtue  of  baptism,  the  armor  of  the  faith,  and  the  privi- 
leges of  the  sons  of  the  church,  against  which  the  gates  of  hell 
cannot  prevail. 

To  return,  however,  to  my  first  subject :  —  This  witch  of 
Combru  made  some  dithculty  at  tirst  to  confess  her  guilt ;  but 
seeing  herself  pressed  with  threats  of  death,  and  being  led,  in 
fact,  to  the  public  square,  where  I  saw  her  with  the  sick 
young  man,  she  said,  that  though  she  had  not  been  the  cause 
of  his  complaint,  perhaps  she  could  cure  it,  if  they  would  let 
lier  remain  alone  with  him,  in  liis  house,  without  interrup- 
tion ;  by  which  she  tacitly  confessed  her  witchcraft :  for  it  is 
held  certain  in  these  countries,  that  these  wicked  women  can 
remove  the  malady  which  they  have  caused,  if  it  be  not  come 
to  the  last  extremity.  And  of  many  remedies  which  they  use 
to  restore  health  to  the  sufferers,  there  is  one  very  extraor- 
dinary, which  is,  that  the  wilch  casts  something  out  of  her 
mouth,  like  the  grain  of  a  pomegranate,  which  is  believed  to 
be  a  part  of  the  heart  she  had  eaten.  The  patient  picks  it  up 
immediately,  as  part  of  his  own  intestines,  and  greedily  swal- 
lows it;  and  by  this  means,  as  if  his  heart  was  replaced  in 
his  body,  he  recovers  by  degrees  his  health.  I  dare  not  as- 
sure you  of  these  things  as  certainly  true,  not  having  myself 
seen  them,  surpassing  as  they  do  the  course  of  nature.  If 
they  are  as  is  said,  it  can  be  only  in  appearance,  by  the  illu- 
sions of  the  devil  ;  and  if  the  afflicted  recover  actually  their 
health,  it  is  because  the  same  devil  ceases  to  torment  them. 
Without  dwelling  longer  upon  these  curious  speculations, — 
the  witch  having  given  hopes  that  she  would  cure  the  patient, 
the  officers  promised  that  she  sliould  receive  no  injury,  and 
they  were  both  sent  home  ;  but  an  archer  was  set  over  her  as 
a  guard,  that  she  might  not  escape.  —  Pietro  Della  Valle. 


The  Calls.  —  XI.  6,  p.  588. 

The  Calis  and  Pandaris  are  the  protectresses  of  cities  ; 
each  city  has  its  own.  They  address  prayers  to  these  tutelary 
divinities,  and  build  temples  to  them,  otTering  to  them  blood 
in  sacrifice,  and  sometimes  human  victims.  These  objects  of 
worship  are  not  immortal,  and  they  take  their  name  from  the 
city  over  which  they  preside,  or  from  the  form  in  which  they 
are  represented.  They  are  commonly  framed  of  a  gigantic 
stature,  having  several  arms,  and  the  head  surrounded  with 
flames;   several   fierce  animals   are  also  placed  under  their 

feet. —  SONNERAT. 


Sani,  the  dreadful  Qod,  who  rides  abroad 
Upon  the  King  of  the  Ravens.  —  XI.  6,  p.  588. 

Major  Moor  has  a  curious  remark  upon  this  subject :  — 
"  Sani  being  among  the  astrologers  of  India,  as  well  as  with 
their  sapient  brethren  of  Europe,  a  planet  of  malignant  as- 
pects, the  ill-omened  raven  may  be  deemed  a  fit  Vahan  for 
such  a  dreaded  being.  But  this  is  not,  I  think,  a  sufficient 
reason  for  the  conspicuous  introduction  of  the  raven  into  the 
mythological  machinery  of  the  Hindu  system,  so  accurate,  so 
connected,  and  so  complete  in  all  its  parts  ;  although  the 
investigations  that  it  hath  hitherto  undergone  have  not  fully 
developed  or  reached  such  points  of  perfection.  Now  let  me 
ask  the  reason,  why,  both  in  England  and  in  India,  the  raven 
is  so  rare  a  bird  .'  It  breeds  every  year,  like  the  crow,  and  is 
much  longer  lived  ;  and  wliilo  the  latter  bird  abounds  every 
where,  to  a  degree  bordering  on  nuisance,  a  pair  of  ravens, 
for  they  are  seldom  seen  singly  or  in  trios,  are  scarcely  found 
duplicated  in  any  place.  Perhaps,  take  England  or  India 
over,  two  pair  of  ravens  will  not  be  found,  on  an  average,  in 
the  extent  of  five  hundred  or  a  tliousand  acres.  I  know  not, 
for  I  Vv-rite  where  I  have  no  access  to  books,  if  our  naturalists 
have  sought  the  theory  of  this  ;  or  whether  it  may  have  first 
occurred  to  me,  which  it  did  while  contemplating  the  char- 
acter and  attributes  of  Sani,  that  the  raven  destroys  its  young  ; 
and  if  this  notion  be  well  founded,  and  on  no  other  can  I  ac- 
count for  the  rareness  of  the  annual-breeding,  long-lived  raven, 
we  shall  at  once  see  the  propriety  of  symbolizing  it  with 


Saturn,  or  Kronos,  or  Time,  devouring  or  destroying  his  own 
offspring."  —  Moor's  Ilindii,  Pantheon,  p.  311. 

"  It  is  remarked  by  N.ituralists,  tliat  young  ravens  are  for- 
saken before  they  are  Hedged  ;  and  therefore  they  would 
starve,  if  Providence  had  not  ajipointed  that  the  scra]is  of 
raw  meat  dropped  round  the  nest  should  engender  maggots  and 
worms  which  serve  to  sujiport  them  till  they  urn  in  a  condi- 
tion to  rove  for  food.     And  thus  it  is  he  feedeth  the  ravens." 

From  an  old  JUagaiinc. 


.^  thousand  eyes  were  (/ucnch^d  in  endless  nirrlU 
To  form  that  magic  gltihc,  —  XI,  8,  p.  588. 

A  similar  invention  occurs  in  Dr.  Beaumont's  Psyche,  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  poems  in  our  language.  I  am  far 
from  claiming  any  merit  for  such  inventions,  which  no  man 
can  value  more  cheaply,  —  but  such  as  it  is,  I  am  not  be- 
holden for  it  to  this  forgotten  writer,  whose  strange,  long,  but 
by  no  means  uninteresting  work  I  had  never  read  till  after 
two  editions  of  Kehaina  were  printed :  — 

A  stately  mirror's  all-enamell'd  case 

The  second  was  ;  no  crystal  ever  yet 
Smiled  with  such  pureness  :  never  ladies'  glass 

Its  owner  flattered  with  so  smooth  a  cheat. 
Nor  could  Narcissus'  fount  with  such  delight 
Into  his  fair  destruction  him  invite. 

For  He  in  that  and  self-love  being  drown'a, 

Agenor  from  him  pluck'd  his  doting  eyes. 
And,  shutfled  in  tier  fragments,  having  found 

Old  Jezabels,  he  stole  the  dog's  due  prize. 
Goliah's  staring  bacins  too  he  got, 
Which  he  with  Pharaoh's  all  together  put. 

But  not  content  with  these,  from  Phaeton, 

From  .loab,  Icarus,  Nebuchadnezzar, 
From  Philip  and  his  world-devouring  son, 

From  Sylla,  Catiline,  Tully,  Pompey,  Ceesar, 
From  Herod,  Cleopatra,  and  Sejanus, 
From  Agrippina  and  Domitianus, 

And  many  surly  stoics,  theirs  he  ptiU'd ; 

Whose  proudest  humors  having  drained  out, 
He  blended  in  a  large  and  polisli'd  mould  ; 

Which  up  he  fill'd  with  what  from  heaven  he  brought. 
In  extract  of  those  looks  of  Lucifer, 
In  which  against  his  God  he  breathed  war. 

Then  to  the  North,  that  glassy  kingdom,  where 

Establish'd  frost  and  ice  forever  reign, 
lie  sped  his  course,  and  meeting  Boreas  there, 

Pray'd  him  this  liquid  mixture  to  restrain. 
When  lo  !  as  Boreas  oped  his  mouth  and  blew 
For  his  command,  the  slime  all  solid  grew. 

Thus  was  the  mirror  forged,  and  contain'd 

The  vigor  of  those  self-admiring  eyes 
Agenor's  witchcraft  into  it  had  strain'd ; 

A  dangerous  juncture  of  proud  fallacies  ; 
Whose  fair  looks  so  inamored  him,  that  he, 
Thrice  having  kiss'd  it,  named  it  Philanty. 

Inchanted  Psyche  ravish'd  was  to  see 

The  Glass  herself  upon  herself  reflect 
With  trebled  majesty.     The  sun,  when  he 

Is  by  Aurora's  roseat  fingers  deck'd. 
Views  not  his  repercussed  self  so  fair 
Upon  the  eastern  main,  as  she  did  here. 


Be  true  unto  yourselves.  —  XII.  3,  p.  590. 

The  passage  in  which  Menu  exhorts  a  witness  to  speak 
the  truth  is  one  of  the  few  sulilime  ones  in  his  Institutes. 
"  The  soul  itself  is  its  own  witness  ;  the  soul  itself  is  its  own 
refuge  ;  offend  not  thy  conscious  soul,  the  supreme  internal 
witness  of  men  !  —  The  sinful  have  said  in  their  hearts,  None 
see  us.     Yes,  the  gods  distinctly  see  them,  and  so  does  the 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


635 


spirit  within  their  breasts.  —  The  guardiun  deities  of  the  fir- 
mament, of  the  earth,  of  the  waters,  of  the  human  heart,  of 
the  moon,  of  the  sun,  and  of  lire,  of  punishment  after  death,  of 
the  winds,  of  night,  of  l)otli  Iwiliglits,  and  of  justice,  perfectly 
know  the  stale  of  all  spirits  clothed  with  bodies  —  O  friend  to 
virtue  !  that  supreme  Spirit,  tohich  Ihou.  belicvcst  one  and  the 
same  with  thyself,  resides  in  thy  bosom  perpetually,  and  is  an 
all-knowinf;  inspector  of  thy  goodness  or  of  thy  wickedness. 
If  thou  beest  not  at  variance,  by  speaking  falsely,  with  Yama, 
the  subduer  of  all,  with  Vaivaswata  the  punisher,  with  that 
great  Divinity  who  dwells  in  thy  breast,  —  go  no^  on  a  pil- 
grimago  to  the  river  Ganga,  nor  to  the  plains  of  Guru,  for  thou 
hast  no  need  of  expiation.  —  CA.  viii.  pp.  84,  85,  8G.  91,  92. 


The  Aannay  Birds.  —  XII.  6,  p.  590. 

The  Aunnays  act  a  considerable  part  in  the  history  of  the 
Nella  Rajah,  an  amusing  romance,  for  a  translation  of  which 
we  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Kindersley.  They  are  milk-white, 
and  remarkable  for  the  gracefulness  of  their  walk. 


The  Bannian  Tree.  —  XIII.  5,  p.  591. 

The  Burghut,  or  Bannian,  often  measures  from  twenty-four 
to  thirty  feet  in  girtli.  It  is  distinguished  from  every  other 
tree  hitherto  known,  by  the  very  peculiar  circumstance  of 
throwing  out  roots  from  all  its  branches.  These,  being  pen- 
dent, and  perfectly  lax,  in  time  reach  the  ground,  which  tliey 
penetrate,  and  ultimately  become  substantial  props  to  the  very 
massy  horizontal  boughs,  which,  but  for  such  a  support,  must 
either  be  stopped  in  their  growth,  or  give  way,  from  their  own 
weight.  Many  of  tliese  quondam  roots,  changing  their  out- 
ward appearance  from  a  brown,  rough  rind  to  a  regular  bark, 
not  unlike  that  of  the  beecli,  increase  to  a  great  diameter. 
They  may  be  often  seen  from  four  to  five  feet  in  circumfer- 
ence, and  in  a  true  perpendicular  line.  An  observer,  ignorant 
of  their  nature,  might  think  them  artificial,  and  that  they  had 
been  placed  for  the  purpose  of  sustaining  the  boughs  from 
which  they  originated.  They  proceed  from  all  the  branches 
indiscriminately,  whether  near  or  far  removed  from  the 
ground.  They  appear  like  new  swabs,  such  as  are  in  use  on 
board  ships  :  however,  few  reach  sufficiently  low  to  take  a 
hold  of  the  soil,  except  those  of  the  lower  branches.  I  have 
Been  some  do  so  from  a  great  height,  but  tliey  were  thin,  and 
did  not  promise  well.  JIany  of  the  ramifications  pendent  from 
the  higher  boughs  are  seen  to  turn  round  the  lower  branches, 
but  without  any  obvious  eft'ect  on  either  ;  possibly,  liowever, 
they  may  derive  sustenance  even  from  that  partial  mode  of 
communication.  The  height  of  a  full-grown  Bannian  may  be 
from  sixty  to  eighty  feet ;  and  many  of  them,  I  am  fully  con- 
fident, cover  at  least  two  acres.  Their  leaves  are  similar  to, 
but  rather  larger  than  those  of  the  laurel.  The  wood  of  the 
trunk  is  used  only  for  fuel ;  it  is  light  and  brittle  ;  but  the 
pillars  formed  by  the  roots  are  valuable,  being  extremely 
elastic  and  light,  working  witli  case,  and  possessing  great 
toughness  :  it  resembles  a  good  kind  of  ash.  —  Oriental  Field 
Sports,  vol.  ii.  p.  113. 


the  Well 

Which  they,  with  sacrifice  of  rural  pride. 
Have  wedded  to  the  cocoa-grove  beside.  —  XIII.  6,  p.  592. 

It  is  a  general  practice,  that,  when  a  plantation  is  made,  a 
well  should  be  dug  at  one  of  its  sides.  The  well  and  the  tope 
are  married  ;  a  ceremony  at  which  all  the  village  attends,  and 
in  which  often  nmoli  money  is  expended.  The  well  is  con- 
sidered as  the  husband,  as  its  waters,  which  are  copiously 
furnished  to  the  young  trees  during  the  first  hot  season,  are 
supposed  to  cherish  and  impregnate  them.  Though  vanity 
and  superstition  are  evidently  the  basis  of  these  institutions, 
yet  we  cannot  help  admiring  their  effects,  so  beautifully  or- 
namenting a  torrid  country,  and  affording  such  general  con- 
venience.—  Oriental  Sports,  p.  10. 


Tanks.  —  XlU.6,p  592. 

Some  of  these  tanks  are  of  very  great  extent,  often  cover- 
mg  eight  or  ten  acres  ;  and,  besides  having  steps  of  masonry, 
perhaps  fifty  or  sixty  feet  in  breadth,  arc  faced  with  brick- 
work, plastered  in  the  most  sul)stantial  manner.  The  corners 
are  generally  ornamented  with  round  or  polygon  pavilions  of 
a  neat  appearance. —  Oriental  SporLi,  vol.  ii.  p.  116. 

There  are  two  kindsof  tanks,  which  we  confound  under  one 
common  name,  tliougli  nothing  can  be  more  different.  The 
first  is  the  Eratj,  which  is  formed  by  throwing  a  mound  or 
bank  across  a  valley  or  hollow  ground,  so  that  the  rain  water 
collects  in  the  upper  part  of  the  valley,  and  is  let  out  on  the 
lower  part  by  sluices,  for  the  purposes  of  cultivation.  The 
other  kind  is  the  Culam,  which  is  formed  by  digging  out  the 
earth,  and  is  destined  for  supplying  the  inhabitants  with  water 
for  domestic  purposes.  The  CulamsaTe  very  frequently  lined 
on  all  the  four  sides  with  cut  stone,  and  are  the  most  elegant 
works  of  the  natives.  —  Buchanan. 

Where  there  are  no  springs  or  rivers  to  furnish  them  with 
water,  as  it  is  in  the  northern  parts,  where  there  are  but  two 
or  three  springs,  they  su|)ply  this  defect  by  saving  of  rain 
water  ;  which  they  do  by  casting  u|)  great  banks  in  convenient 
places,  to  stoj)  and  contain  the  rains  that  fill,  and  so  save  it 
till  they  have  occasion  to  let  it  out  into  the  fields.  'J'hey  are 
made  roimding  like  a  (  ,  or  half  moon.  Every  town  has  one 
of  these  ponds,  which  if  they  can  but  get  filled  with  water, 
they  count  their  corn  is  as  good  as  in  the  barn.  It  was  no 
small  work  to  the  ancient  inhabitants  to  make  all  these  banks, 
of  whiih  there  is  a  great  number,  being  some  two,  some 
three,  f  itlioms  in  height,  and  in  length  some  above  a  mile, 
some  less,  not  all  of  a  size.  They  are  now  grown  over  with 
great  trees,  and  so  seem  natural  hills.  When  they  would  use 
the  water,  they  cut  a  gap  in  one  end  of  the  baiik,  and  .so  draw 
the  water  by  little  and  little,  as  they  have  occasion,  for  the 
watering  their  corn. 

These  ponds,  in  dry  weather,  dry  up  quite.  If  they  should 
dig  these  ponds  deep,  it  would  not  be  so  convenient  for  them. 
It  would,  indeed,  contain  the  water  well,  but  would  not  so 
well,  nor  in  such  plenty,  empty  out  itself  into  their  grounds. 
In  these  ponds  are  alligators,  which,  when  the  water  is  dried 
up,  depart  into  the  woods  and  down  to  the  rivers,  and,  in  the 
time  of  rains,  come  up  again  into  the  ponds.  Th('y  are  but 
small,  nor  do  use  to  catch  people,  nevertheless  they  stand  in 
some  fear  of  them. 

The  corn  they  sow  in  tliese  parts  is  of  that  sort  that  is 
soonest  rijic,  fearing  lest  their  waters  sliould  fill.  As  the 
water  dries  out  of  these  ponds,  they  make  use  of  them  fur 
fields,  treading  the  mud  with  buffaloes,  and  then  sowing  rice 
thereon,  and  frequently  casting  up  water  with  scoops  on  it. 
—  Knox,  p.  9. 


The  Lotus.  —  XIII.  6,  p.  592. 

The  lotus  abounds  in  the  numerous  lakes  and  ponds  of  the 
province  of  Garah  ;  and  we  had  the  pleasure  of  comparing 
several  varieties  ;  single  and  full,  white,  and  tinged  with  deep 
or  with  faint  tints  of  red.  To  a  near  view,  the  simple  ele- 
gance of  the  white  lotus  gains  no  accession  of  beauty  from  the 
multiplication  of  its  petals,  nor  from  the  tinge  of  gaudy  hue  ; 
but  the  richest  tint  is  most  pleasing,  when  a  lake,  covered 
with  full-blown  lotus,  is  contemplated.  —  Journey  from  Mirza- 
put  to  JVugpur.  —  Asiatic  Annual  Register,  180G. 


They  built  them  here  a  Bower,  &c.  —  XIII.  7,  p.  592 

The  materials  of  which  these  houses  are  made  are  always 
easy  to  be  procured,  and  the  structure  is  so  simple,  that  a 
spacious,  and  by  no  means  uncomfortable  dwelling,  suited  to 
the  climate,  may  be  erected  in  one  day.  Our  haliitation,  con- 
sisting of  three  small  rooms,  and  a  hall  open  to  the  north,  in 
little  more  than  four  hours  was  in  readiness  for  our  reception  ; 
fifty  or  sixty  laliorers  completed  it  in  that  time,  and  on  emer- 
gency could  perform  the  work  in  much  less.  Bamboos,  grass 
for  thatching,  and  the  ground  ratan,  are  all  the  materials 
requisite  :  not  a  nail  is  useil  in  the  whole  edifice.  A  row  of 
strong  bamboos,  from  eight  to  ten  feet  high,  are  fixed  firm  in 
the  ground,  which  describe  the  outline,  and  are  the  supporten 


636 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  K  EH  AM  A. 


of  tlic  buiklin<; :  Binaller  bamboos  lire  tlien  tied  liorizontuUy, 
by  strips  of  tlie  groiiiul  ratuii,  to  tbese  uprigbt  posts  ;  tlie 
walls,  composed  of  bamboo  mats,  arc  iasteried  to  the  sides  witli 
similar  ligatures  :  bamboo  rafters  are  quickly  raised,  and  a 
roof  Ibnneil,  over  wbicli  tliatcli  is  spread  in  regular  layers, 
and  bound  to  tbe  roof  by  filaments  of  ratan.  A  floor  of  bam- 
boo grating  is  next  laid  in  tbe  iiisidc,  elevated  two  or  three 
feet  above  tbe  ground:  this  grating  is  supported  on  bamboos, 
and  covered  with  mats  and  carpets.  Tlius  ends  the  process, 
wliicli  is  not  more  simple  than  effectual.  When  the  work- 
men take  pains,  a  house  of  this  sort  is  proof  against  very  in- 
clement weather.  We  experienced,  during  our  stay  at  Mee- 
day,  a  severe  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  but  no  water  penetrated, 
nor  tliatch  escaped:  and  if  the  tempest  should  blow  down  the 
house,  the  inhabitants  would  run  no  risk  of  having  their  brains 
knocked  out,  or  their  bones  broken  ;  the  fall  of  the  whole  fab- 
ric would  not  crush  a  lady's  lap-dog.  —  Symes's  Embassy  to 
Ava. 


Jangle-grass.  —  XIII.  7,  p.  592. 

In  this  district  the  long  grass  called  jungle  is  more  prevalent 
IhaEi  I  ever  yet  noticed.  It  rises  to  the  height  of  seven  or 
eight  feet,  and  is  topped  with  a  beautiful  white  down,  resem- 
bling a  swan's  feather.  It  is  the  mantle  with  which  nature 
hero  covers  all  tlie  uncultivated  ground,  and  at  once  veils  the 
indolence  of  the  people  and  the  nakedness  of  their  land.  It 
has  a  fine  showy  appearance,  as  it  undulates  in  the  wind,  like 
the  waves  of  tbe  sea.  Nothing  but  the  want  of  greater  va- 
riety to  its  color  prevents  it  from  being  one  of  the  finest  and 
most  beautiful  objects  iu  that  rich  store  of  productions  with 
wbicli  nature  spontaneously  supplies  the  improvident  natives. 
—  Tennant. 


In  such  libalions,  poured  in  open  glades, 

Beside  clear  streams  and  solitary  shades, 

The  Spirits  of  the  virtuous  dead  delight.  —  XIII.  7,  p.  59a. 

Tlie  Hindoos  are  enjoined  by  the  Ke(/«  to  offer  a  cake,  which 
is  called  Peenda,  to  the  ghosts  of  their  ancestors,  as  far  back 
as  the  third  generation.  This  ceremony  is  performed  on  tbe 
day  of  the  new  inoon  in  every  month.  The  oiiering  of  water 
is  in  like  manner  commanded  to  be  performed  daily  ;  and  this 
ceremony  is  called  Tarpon,  to  satisfy,  to  appease.  The  souls 
ofsucli  men  as  have  left  children  to  continue  their  generation, 
are  supposed  to  be  transported,  immediately  upon  quitting 
their  bodies,  into  a  certain  region  called  tbe  Petree  Log,  where 
they  may  continue  in  proportion  to  their  former  virtues,  pro- 
vided these  ceremonies  be  not  neglected  ;  otherwise  they  are 
precipitated  into  JVarh,  and  doomed  to  be  born  again  in  the 
bodies  of  unclean  beasts  ;  and  until,  by  repeated  regenera- 
tions, all  their  sins  are  done  away,  and  they  attain  such  a  de- 
gree of  perfection  as  will  entitle  them  to  what  is  called  Mookice, 
eternal  salvation,  by  which  is  understood  a  release  from  future 
transmigration,  and  an  absorption  in  the  nature  of  the  godhead, 
who  is  called  Brabm.  —  Wilkins.  J^Tole  to  the  Bhagval 
Oecta. 

The  divine  manes  are  always  pleased  with  an  oblation  in 
empty  glades,  naturally  clean,  on  the  banks  of  rivers,  and  in 
solitary  spots.  —  Inst,  of  Menu.. 

Parva  petunt  Manes ;  pietas  pro  divite  grata  est 
Munere  j  non  avidos  Styz  habet  ima  Deos. 

Ovid.  Fast.  II.  535. 


Foomdavee.  —  XIII.  8,  p.  592. 

This  wife  of  Veoshnoo  is  the  Goddess  of  the  Earth  and  of 
Patience.  No  direct  adoration  is  paid  her  ;  but  she  is  held  to 
be  a  silent  and  attentive  spectator  of  all  that  passes  in   the 

world.  —  KiNDERSLEY. 


Tassel-grass.  — Xni.  11,  p.  592. 

The  Surput,  or  tassel-grass,  which  is  much  the  same  as  the 
guinea-grass,  grows  to  the  height  of  twelve  or  fourteen  feet. 
Its  stem  becomes  so  thick  as  to  resemble  in  some  measure  a 
reed.     It  is  very  strong,  and  grows  very  luxuriantly  :  it  is 


even  used  as  a  fence  against  cattle  ;  for  which  purpose,  it  is 
often  planted  on  banks  excavated  from  ditches,  to  enclosa 
fiebis  of  corn,  &c.  It  grows  wild  in  all  the  uncultivated  parts 
of  India,  but  especially  in  the  lower  provinces,  in  which  it 
occupies  immense  tracts;  sometimes  mixing  with,  and  rising 
above,  coppices  ;  affording  an  asylum  for  elephants,  rliiiioce- 
roscB,  tigers,  &c.  It  frequently  is  laid  by  high  winds,  of 
which  breeding  sows  fail  not  to  take  advantage,  by  forming 
their  nests,  and  concealing  their  young  under  the  prostrata 
grass.  —  Oriental  Sports,  vol.  i.  p.  32. 


Lo!  from  his  trunk,  upturn'd,  aloft  he  fiings 

The  grateful  shower ;  and  now. 

Plucking  the  broad-leaved  bough 

Of  yonder  plane,  he  moves  it  to  and  fro.  —  XIII.  Jl,  p.  599. 

Nature  has  provided  the  elejihant  witli  means  to  cool  its 
heated  surface,  by  enabling  it  to  draw  from  its  throat,  by  the 
aid  of  its  trunk,  a  copious  supply  of  saliva,  which  the  animal 
spurts  with  force  very  frequently  all  over  its  skin.  It  also 
sucks  up  dust,  and  blows  it  over  its  back  and  sides,  to  keep 
ofl'the  flies,  and  may  often  be  seen  fanning  itself  with  a  large 
bough,  which  it  uses  with  great  ease  and  dexterity. —  Orien- 
tal Sports,  vol.  i.  p.  100. 


Till  his  strong  temples,  batlied  with  sudden  dews, 
Their  fragrance  of  delight  and  lovediffuse.  —  XIII.  II, p.  592. 

The  Hindoo  poets  frequently  allude  to  the  fragrant  juice 
which  oozes,  at  certain  seasons,  from  small  ducts  in  the  tem- 
ples of  tbe  male  elephant,  and  is  useful  in  relieving  him  from 
the  redundant  moisture,  with  which  he  is  then  ojipresscd  ;  and 
they  even  describe  the  bees  as  allured  by  the  scent,  and  mis- 
taking it  for  that  of  the  sweetest  flowers.  When  Crishna 
visited  Sanc'ha-dvvip,  and  bad  destroyed  the  demon  who  in- 
fested that  delightful  country,  lie  jiassed  along  tlic  bank  of  a 
river,  and  was  charmed  with  a  delicious  odor,  which  its  water.i 
diffused  in  their  course.  He  was  eager  to  view  the  source  of 
so  fragrant  a  stream,  but  was  informed  by  the  natives  that  it 
flowed  from  the  temples  of  an  elephant,  immensely  large, 
milk-white,  and  beautifully  formed  ;  that  be  governed  a  nu- 
merous race  of  elephants  ;  and  that  tlie  odoriferous  fluid  which 
exuded  from  his  temjdcs  in  the  season  of  love  had  formed  tbe 
river;  that  tbe  Uevas,  or  inferior  gods,  and  tbe  Apsaras,  or 
nymphs,  bathed  and  sported  in  its  waters,  impassioned  and 
intoxicated  with  the  liquid  perfume. — Wilford.  .Asiatic 
Researches. 


The  antic  Monkeys,  whose  wild  gambols  late 
Shook  the  whole  wuod.—X\U.  12,  p.  593. 

They  are  so  numerous  on  the  island  of  Bulaina,  says  Captain 
Beaver  in  his  excellent  book,  that  I  have  seen  on  a  calm  even- 
ing, when  there  was  not  an  air  sufficiently  strong  to  agitate  a 
leaf,  the  whole  surrounding  wood  in  as  much  motion,  from 
their  playful  gambols  among  its  branches,  as  if  it  had  blown  a 
strong  wind. 


J\i"ut  that  in  emulous  skill  that  swetlrst  bird 
Her  rival  strain  would  try.  —  XIII.  12,  p.  59.3. 

I  have  been  assured  by  a  credible  eye-witness,  that  two 
wild  antelopes  used  oflen  to  come  from  their  woods  to  the 
place  where  a  more  savage  beast,  Sirajuddaulab,  entertained 
himself  with  concerts,  and  that  they  listened  to  the  strains 
with  an  appearance  of  pleasure  till  the  monster,  in  whose  soul 
there  was  no  music,  shot  one  of  them,  to  display  his  archery. 
A  learned  native  of  this  country  told  me  that  he  had  frequent- 
ly seen  tbe  most  venomous  and  malignant  snakes  leave  their 
holes,  upon  hearing  tunes  on  a  flute,  which,  as  he  supposed, 
gave  them  peculiar  delight.  An  intelligent  Persian,  who  re- 
peated his  story  again  and  again,  and  permitted  me  to  write  it 
down  from  his  lips,  declaied,  he  had  more  than  once  been 
present  when  a  celebrated  lutanist,  Mirza  Mohammed,  sur- 
named  Bulbul,  was  playing  to  a  large  company,  in  a  grove  near 
Shira.z,  where  he  distinctly  saw  the  nightingales  trying  to  vie 
with  the  musician  ;  sometimes  warbling  on  the  trees,  some- 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


637 


time*  fluttering  from  branch  to  branch,  as  if  they  wished  to 
approacli  the  instrument  whence  the  melody  proceeded,  and 
at  Icn^'tli  dropping  on  the  ground,  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  from 
which  they  were  soon  raised,  he  assured  me,  by  a  change  of 
the  mode.  1  hardly  know,  siiys  Sir  William  Jones,  how  to 
disbelieve  the  testimony  of  men  who  hud  no  system  of  their 
own  to  support,  and  could  have  no  interest  in  deceiving  me. 
—  .liiatic  Rcacarches. 


JVo  idle  ornamnits  deface 
Jler  natural  ^race.  —  XIII.  13,  p.  593. 

The  Hindoo  Wife,  in  Sir  William  Jones's  poem,  describes 
her  own  toilet  tasks  :  — 

Nor  were  my  night  thoughts,  I  confess, 

Free  from  solicitude  for  dress  ; 

IIow  best  to  bind  my  flowing  hair 

With  art,  yet  with  an  artless  air, — 

My  hair,  like  musk  in  scent  and  hue, 

Oh  !  blacker  far,  and  sweeter  too  I 

In  what  nice  braid,  or  glossy  curl. 

To  fix  a  diamond  or  a  pearl. 

And  where  to  smooth  the  love-spread  toils 

With  nard  or  jasmin's  fragrant  oils  ; 

Ilovv  to  adjust  the  golden  7'eic,* 

And  most  adorn  my  forehead  sleek  ; 

VV'hat  Condals^  should  emblaze  my  ears. 

Like  Seita's  |  waves,  or  Seita's'^  tears  ; 

How  elegantly  to  dispose 

Bright  circlets  for  my  well-formed  nose  ; 

With  strings  of  rubies  how  to  deck. 

Or  emerald  rows,  my  stately  neck ; 

While  some  that  ebon  tower  embraced. 

Some  pendent  sought  my  slender  waist; 

How  next  my  purfled  veil  to  choose 

From  silken  stores  of  varied  hues. 

Which  would  attract  the  roving  view, 

Pink,  violet,  purple,  orange,  blue  ; 

The  loveliest  mantle  to  select, 

Or  unembellish'd  or  bcdeck'd  ; 

And  how  my  twisted  scarf  to  place 

With  most  inimitable  grace, 

(Too  thin  its  w  arp,  too  fine  its  woof, 

For  eyes  of  males  not  beauty-proof;) 

What  skirts  the  mantle  best  would  suit. 

Ornate,  with  stars,  or  tissued  fruit. 

The  flower-embroider'd  or  the  plain. 

With  silver  or  with  golden  vein  ; 

The  Chunj  ||  bright,  which  gayly  shows 

Fair  objects  aptly  to  compose  ; 

How  each  smooth  arm,  and  each  soft  wrist, 

By  richest  Cosccs  IF  might  he  kiss'd. 

While  some  my  taper  ankles  round. 

With  sunny  radiance  tinged  the  ground 

See  how  he  kisses  the  lip  of  my  rival,  and  imprints  on  her 
forehead  an  ornament  of  pure  musk,  black  as  the  young  an- 
telope on  the  lunar  orb  !  Now,  like  the  husband  of  Rett,  he 
fixes  white  blossoms  on  her  dark  locks,  where  they  gleam  like 
(lashes  of  lightning  among  the  curled  clouds.  On  her  breasts, 
like  two  firmaments,  he  places  a  string  of  gems  like  a  radiant 
constellation  ;  he  binds  on  her  arms,  graceful  as  the  stalks  of 
tlio  water-lily,  and  adorned  with  hands  glowing  like  the  petals 
of  its  flower,  a  bracelet  of  sapphires,  which  resemble  a  cluster 
of  bees.  Ah  !  see  how  he  ties  round  her  waist  a  rich  girdle 
illumined  with  golden  bells,  which  seem  to  laugh  as  they 
tinkle,  at  the  inferior  brightness  of  the  leafy  garlands  which 
.(avers  hang  on  their  bowers,  to  propitiate  the  god  of  desire. 
He  places  her  sort  foot,  as  he  reclines  by  her  side,  on  his 
ardent  bosom,  and  stains  it  with  the  ruddy  hue  of  Yavaca. — 
Songs  of  Jaijadcva. 

*  Properly  TVica,  an  oniamctit  of  gold  placed  above  ihe  n09e. 

t  Penflcnts. 

X  Seita  Cund,  or  the  Pool  of  Seita,  the  wife  of  Rani,  is  the  ntme  given 
to  the  wonderful  sprin*  at  MAngeir,  with  boiling  water  of  exquisite  dear- 
Dess  nnd  purity. 

$  Her  tears,  when  she  waB  made  captive  by  the  giant  Rawan. 

I  A  small  n.irror  worn  in  a  ring.  ^  Bracelets. 


SandiUstrealc—XlU.  13,  p.  593. 

The  Hindoos,  especially  after  bathing,  paint  their  faces 
with  ochre  and  sandal-wood  ground  very  fine  into  a  pulp 

The  custom  is  principally  confined  to  the  male  sex,  though 
the  women  occasionally  wear  a  round  spot,  cither  of  sandal, 
which  is  of  a  light  dun  color,  or  odin^uiff,  that  is,  a  prepara- 
tion of  vermilion,  between  the  eyebrows,  and  a  strijie  of  the 
same  running  u|)  the  front  of  the  head,  in  the  furrow  made 
according  to  the  general  practice  of  dividing  all  the  frontal 
hair  ctjually  to  the  right  and  left,  where  it  is  rendered  smooth, 
and  glazed  by  a  thick  mucilage,  made  by  steeping  linseed  for 
awhile  in  water.  When  dry,  the  hair  is  all  firmly  matted  to- 
gether, antl  will  retain  its  form  for  many  days  together. — 
Oriental  Sports,  vol.  i.  p.  271. 


JViir  arm  nor  anklc-rin^  —  XHI   13   p  593 

Glass  rings  are  universally  worn  by  the  women  of  the  Decan, 
as  an  ornament  on  the  wrist.s  ;  and  their  applying  closely  to 
the  arm  is  considered  as  a  mark  of  delicacy  and  beauty,  for 
they  must  of  course  be  passed  over  the  hand.  In  doing  this,  a 
girl  seldom  escapes  without  drawing  blood,  and  rubl)ing  part 
of  the  skin  from  her  hand  ;  and  as  every  well-dressed  girl  has 
a  number  of  rings  on  each  arm,  and  as  these  are  fretpieiitly 
breaking,  the  poor  creatures  suffer  much  from  their  love  of 
admiration.  —  Buchanan. 


The  dear  retreat.  —  XIII.  13,  p.  593. 

There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  Statius,  which   may  be 
quoted  here  :  it  is  in  that  poet's  best  manner  :  — 

Qualis  vicino  volucrls  jam  scdula  parlii, 
Jamque  timenn  qu&fronde  domum  suspendat  inanem, 
Frovidct  hinc  vcntos,  hive  aniia  cogitat  ungues, 
Hinc  homines;  tandem  dubim  placet  umbra,  novisque 
Viz  stelit  in  ramis,  ct  prutinus  arbor  amatur. 

Achil.  ii.  212. 


Jaga-JVaut.  —  XIV.  p.  593. 

This  temple  is  to  the  Hindoos  what  Mecca  is  to  the  Mahom- 
mcdans.  It  is  resorted  to  by  pilgrims  from  every  quarter  of 
India.  It  is  the  chief  seat  of  Brahminical  power,  and  a 
strong-hold  of  their  superstition.  At  the  annual  festival  of 
the  Butt  Jattra,  seven  hundred  thousand  persons  (as  has  been 
computed  by  the  Pundits  in  College)  assemble  at  this  place. 
The  number  of  deaths  in  a  single  year,  caused  by  voluntary 
devotement,  by  imprisonment  for  non-payment  of  the  demands 
of  the  Brahmins,  or  by  the  scarcity  of  provisions  for  such  a 
multitude,  is  incredible.  The  precincts  of  the  place  are  cov- 
ered with  bones.  —  Claudius  Buchanan. 

Many  thousands  of  people  are  employed  in  carrying  water 
from  Hurdwar  to  Juggernat,  for  the  uses  of  that  temple.  It 
is  there  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  holy,  as  it  issues  froin  what 
is  called  the  Cow's  Mouth.  This  superstitious  notion  is  tho 
cause  of  as  much  lost  Kibor  as  would  long  since  have  con- 
verted the  largest  province  of  Asia  into  a  garden.  The 
numbers  thus  employed  are  immense  ;  they  travel  with  two 
flasks  of  the  water  slung  over  the  shoulder  by  means  of  an 
elastic  piece  of  bamboo.  The  same  quantity  which  employs, 
perhaps,  fifteen  thousand  persons,  might  easily  be  carried 
down  the  Ganges  in  a  few  boats  annually.  Princes  and 
families  of  distinction  have  this  water  carried  to  them  in  all 
parts  of  Hiniiostan  ;  it  is  drank  at  feasts,  as  well  as  upon 
religious  occasions.  —  Tf.nnant. 

A  small  river  near  Kinouge  is  held  by  some  as  even  more 
efficacious  in  washing  away  moral  defilement  than  the  Ganges 
itself.  Dr.  Tennant  says,  that  a  person  in  Ceylon  drinks 
daily  of  this  water,  though  at  the  distance  of,  perhaps,  three 
thousand  miles,  and  at  the  expense  of  five  thousand  rupees 
per  month ! 

No  distinction  of  castes  is  made  at  this  temple,  but  all,  like 
a  nation  descended  from  one  common  stock,  eat,  drink,  and 
make  merry  together.  —  Stavorinus. 


638 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


The  scvm-hcaded  Idol.  —  XIV.  1,  p.  593. 

The  idol  ii{  Jairgcrnat  is  in  sliiipe  like  ii  serpent,  with  rcvcii 
Iieads  ;  anil  on  tlie  cheeks  of  eacli  liciid  it  hulli  the  form  of  !i 
win^upon  I'ucli  cheek,  whicdi  wings  orien,  and  shut,  and  flap,  as 
it  is  carried  in  a  stately  chariot,  and  the  idol  in  the  midst  of 
it;  and  one  of  tlie  moiruh  sittin^'  hehind  it  in  tlie  chariot, 
upon  a  convenient  place,  with  a  canopy,  to  keep  the  sun  from 
injuring  of  it. 

When  r,  with  horror,  beheld  these  strange  things,  I  called 
to  mind  the  eighteenth  chapter  of  the  Rcvdutions,  and  the 
first  verse,  and  likewise  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  verses 
of  the  said  chapter,  in  which  places  there  is  a  beast,  and  such 
idolatrous  worship  mentioned  ;  and  those  sayings  in  that  text 
ure  herein  truly  accomplished  in  the  sixteenth  verse  ;  for  the 
Brahmins  are  all  marked  in  the  forehead,  and  likewise  all 
that  come  to  worship  the  idol  are  marked  also  in  their  fore- 
heads. —  Bri;ton.     ChurchiWd  Collection. 


The  Chariot  of  Ike  Ood.  —  XIV.  2,  p.  o93. 

The  size  of  the  chariot  is  not  exaggerated.  Speaking  of 
other  such,  Niecamp  says,  Carras  tarn  hurrenda  magniliidinis 
sunt,  ul  vd  inille  homines  uni  trahcitdo  viz  sufficianL.  —  V.  i. 
10,  j,  18. 

They  have  built  a  great  chariot,  that  gocth  on  sixteen 
wheels  of  a  side,  and  every  wheel  is  five  feet  in  height,  and 
the  chariot  itself  is  about  thirty  feet  high.  In  this  chariot, 
on  their  great  festival  d.iys,  at  night,  they  place  their  wicked 
god  Jiiirgarnat ;  and  all  the  Brann/is,  l)eing  in  number  nine 
thousand,  then  attend  tliis  great  idol,  besides  of  ashmen  and 
fackeires  soiiie  thousands,  or  more  than  a  good  many. 

The  chariot  is  most  richly  adorned  with  most  rich  and  cost- 
ly ornaments  ;  and  the  aforesaid  wheels  are  placed  very  com- 
plete in  a  round  circle,  so  artificially  that  every  wheel  doth 
its  proper  olKce  without  any  impediment ;  for  the  chariot  is 
aloft,  and  in  the  centre  betwixt  the  wheels  :  they  have  also 
more  than  two  thousand  lights  with  them.  And  this  chariot, 
with  the  idol,  is  also  drawn  with  the  greatest  and  best  men 
of  the  town  ;  and  tliey  are  so  eager  and  greedy  to  draw  it, 
that  whosoever,  by  shouldering,  crowding,  shoving,  heaving, 
thrusting,  or  any  violent  way,  can  but  come  to  lay  a  hand 
upon  the  ropes,  they  think  themselves  blessed  and  happy  ; 
and  when  it  is  going  along  the  city,  there  are  many  that  will 
o(r,;r  themselves  as  a  sacrifice  to  this  idol,  and  desperately  lie 
down  on  the  ground,  that  the  ch.iriot-wheels  may  run  over 
them,  whereby  they  are  killed  outright ;  some  get  broken 
arms,  some  broken  legs  ;  so  that  miriy  of  them  are  so  de- 
stroyed, and  by  this  means  they  think  to  merit  heaven. — 
Bruton.     ChurdiitPs  Collection. 

They  sometimes  lie  down  in  the  track  of  this  machine  a 
few  hours  before  its  arrival,  and,  taking  a  soporiferous 
draught,  hope  to  meet  death  asleep.  —  Claudius  Buchanan. 


./J  harlot-band.  —  XIV.  8,  p.  594. 

There  are  in  India  common  women,  called  Wives  of  the 
Idol.  Wlien  a  woman  has  made  a  vow  to  obtain  children,  if 
she  brings  into  the  world  a  beautiful  daughter,  she  carries  her 
to  Bod,  so  their  idol  is  called,  with  whom  she  leaves  her. 
This  girl,  when  she  is  arrived  at  a  proper  age,  takes  an  apart- 
ment in  the  public  place,  hangs  a  curtain  before  the  door,  and 
waits  for  those  who  are  passing,  as  well  Indians  as  those  of 
other  sects  among  whom  this  debauchery  is  permitted.  She 
prostitutes  herself  for  a  certain  price,  and  all  that  she  can 
thus  acquire  she  carries  to  the  priest  of  the  idol,  that  he  may 
apply  it  to  the  service  of  the  temple.  Let  us,  says  the  Mo- 
hammedan relator,  bless  the  almighty  and  glorious  God,  that 
he  has  cliosen  us,  to  exempt  us  from  all  tlie  crimes  into  which 
men  are  led  by  their  unbelief. — Jinricnncs  Relations. 

Incited,  unquestionably,  says  Mr.  Maurice,  by  the  hiero- 
glyphic ernlilem  of  vice  so  conspicuously  elevated,  and  so 
strikingly  painted  in  the  temples  of  Mahadeo,  the  priests  of 
that  deity  industriously  selected  the  most  beautiful  females 
that  could  be  found,  and,  in  their  tenderest  years,  with  great 
pomp  and  solemnity,  consecrated  them  (as  it  is  impiously 
sailed)  to  the  service  of  the  presiding  divinity  of  the  pagoda. 


They  were  trained  up  in  every  art  to  delude  and  to  delight ; 
and  to  the  fascination  of  external  beauty,  their  artful  betrayers 
added  the  attractions  arising  from  mental  accomplishments. 
Thus  was  an  invariable  rule  of  the  Hindoos,  that  women  have 
no  concern  with  literature,  dispensed  with  upon  this  infamous 
occasion.  The  moment  these  hapless  victims  reached  maturity, 
they  fell  victims  to  the  lust  of  the  Brahmins.  They  were 
early  taught  to  practise  the  most  alluring  blandishments,  to 
roll  the  expressive  eye  of  wanton  pjeasure,  and  to  invite  to 
criminal  indulgence,  by  stealing  upon  the  beholder  the  tender 
look  of  voluptuous  languishing.  They  were  instructed  to 
mould  their  elegant  and  airy  forms  into  the  most  enticing 
attitudes  and  the  most  lascivious  gestures,  while  the  rapid  and 
graceful  motion  of  their  feet,  adorned  with  golden  bells,  and 
glittering  with  jewels,  kept  unison  with  the  exquisite  melody 
of  their  voices.  Every  pagoda  has  a  band  of  these  young 
sirens,  whose  business,  on  great  festivals,  is  to  dance  in  public 
before  the  idol,  to  sing  hymns  in  his  honor,  and  in  private  to 
enrich  the  treasury  of  that  jiagoda  with  the  .vages  of  pros- 
titution. These  women  are  not,  however,  regarded  in  a  dis- 
honorable light;  they  are  considered  as  wedded  to  the  idol, 
and  they  partake  of  the  veneration  paid  to  him.  They  are 
forbidden  ever  to  desert  the  pagoda  where  they  are  educated, 
and  are  never  permitted  to  marry  ;  but  the  offspring,  if  any, 
of  their  criminal  embraces  are  considered  as  sacred  to  tho 
idol :  the  boys  are  taught  to  play  on  the  sacred  instruments 
used  at  the  festivals,  and  the  daughters  are  devoted  to  the 
abandoned  occupations  of  their  mothers.  —  Indian  .Antiquities. 
These  impostors  take  a  young  maid,  of  the  fairest  they  can 
meet  with,  to  be  the  bride,  (as  they  speak  and  bear  the  be- 
sotted people  in  hand,)  of  Jai^annat,  and  they  leave  her  all 
night  in  the  temple  (whither  they  have  carried  her)  with  the 
idol,  making  her  believe  that  .7H^an«a«  himself  will  come  and 
embrace  her,  and  appointing  her  to  ask  him,  whether  it  will 
be  1  fruitful  year,  what  kind  of  processions,  feasts,  prayers, 
and  alms  he  demands  to  be  made  for  it.  In  the  mean  time 
one  of  these  lustful  priests  enters  at  night  by  a  little  b.ick  door 
into  the  temple,  deflowereth  this  young  maid,  and  maketh  her 
believe  any  thing  he  pleaseth ;  and  the  next  day,  being  trans- 
ported from  this  temple  into  another,  with  the  same  magnifi- 
cence she  was  carried  before  upon  the  chariot  of  triumph,  on 
the  side  of  Ja^unnat,  her  bridegroom  :  these  Brahmans  make 
her  say  aloud,  before  all  the  people,  whatsoever  she  hath  been 
taught  of  these  cheats,  as  if  she  had  learnt  it  from  the  very 
mouth  of  Jatraniiat.  —  Bernier. 


Batij.  —  XV.  p.  595. 

The  fifth  incarnation  was  in  a  Bramin  dwarf,  under  the 
name  of  Vanien  ;  it  was  wrought  to  restrain  the  pride  of  the 
giant  Baly.  The  latter,  after  having  conquered  the  gods, 
expelled  them  from  Sorgon  ;  he  was  generous,  true  to  his 
word,  compassionate,  and  charitable.  Vichenou,  under  the 
form  of  a  very  little  Bramin,  presented  himself  before  him 
while  he  was  sacrificing,  and  asked  him  for  three  paces  of  land 
to  build  a  hut.  Baly  ridiculed  the  apparent  imbecility  of  the 
djvarf,  in  telling  him  that  ho  ought  not  to  limit  his  demand 
to  a  bequest  so  trifling;  that  his  generosity  could  bestow  a 
much  larger  donation  of  land.  Vamen  answered,  that  being 
of  so  small  a  stature,  what  he  asked  was  more  than  sufficient. 
The  prince  immediately  granted  his  request,  and,  to  ratify  his 
donation,  poured  water  into  his  right  hand  ;  which  was  no 
sooner  done,  than  the  dwarf  grew  so  prodigiously,  that  his 
body  filled  the  universe  !  He  measured  the  earth  with  one 
pace,  and  the  heavens  with  another,  and  then  summoned  Baly 
to  give  him  his  word  for  the  third.  The  prince  than  recog- 
nized Vichenou,  adored  him,  and  presented  his  head  to  him  ; 
but  the  god,  satisfied  with  his  submission,  sent  him  to  govern 
the  Padalon,  and  permitted  him  to  return  every  year  to  the 
earth,  the  day  of  the  full  moon,  in  the  month  of  November. 
—  SoNNERix's  Voyages,  vol.  i.  p.  24. 


TVie  Sacred  Cord.  —  XV.  4,  p.  596. 

The  Brahmans  who  officiate  at  the  temple  generally  go 
with  their  heads  uncovered,  and  the  upper  part  of  the  body 
naked.    The  Zcnnar,  or  sacred  string,  is  hung  round  the  body 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


639 


from  llie  loll  shouUlcr ;  a  piece  of  wliite  cotton  clotli  is 
\vrai>j>eii  rouiul  tlie  loins,  wiiich  tlesccnils  umior  tiio  knee,  but 
lower  on  lliu  left  siJe  tlian  on  the  other ;  and  in  cold  weather 
they  Boinctin^os  cover  their  bodies  witli  a  shawl,  and  their 
liciids  with  a  ted  cap.  The  Zeniiar  is  made  of  a  particular 
kiml  of  perennial  cotton,  called  Veriiia:  it  is  composed  of  a 
ccrti.in  number  of  threads  of  a  fixed  length.  The  Ze«Har  worn 
by  the  Khntriea  has  fewer  threads  than  that  worn  hy  the  Brah- 
nians  ;  and  that  worn  by  the  lihjse  fewer  than  that  worn  by 
the  Kliatrios  ;  but  those  of  the  Soodra  caste  are  excluded  from 
this  di^inction,  none  of  them  being  pcrinilteil  to  wear  it.  — 
Ckaukurd. 


Tht  city  of  Balij.  —  XV.  7,  p.  596. 
lluins  of  Mahibalipur,  the  City  of  the  great  Baly. 

A  rork  or  rather  hill  of  stone,  is  that  which  first  engrosses 
tl.y  attonlion  on  approaching  the  place  ;  for  as  it  rises  abruptly 
out  of  a  level  plain  of  great  extent,  consists  chiefly  of  one 
singli!  slone,  and  is  situated  very  near  to  the  sea-beach,  it  is 
such  a  kind  of  object  as  an  inqursitive  travi  Her  would  natu- 
rally turn  aside  to  examine.  Its  shape  is  also  singular  and  ro- 
mantic, anil,  from  a  distant  view,  has  an  a|ipearance  like  some 
anii  |ue  and  lofty  edifice.  On  coming  near  to  the  foot  of  tlie 
rock  from  the  north,  works  of  imagery  and  sculpture  crowd  so 
tlii.k  upon  the  eye,  as  might  seem  to  favor  the  idea  of  a  pet- 
rifit'd  town,  like  those  that  have  been  fabled  in  different  parts 
of  the  world,  by  too  credulous  tiavellers.  Proceeding  on  by 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  on  the  side  facing  the  sea,  there  is  a  pa- 
goda rising  out  of  the  ground,  of  one  soli<l  stone,  about  sixteen 
or  eighteen  feet  high,  which  seems  to  li..ve  been  cut  upon  the 
spot,  out  of  a  detached  rock,  that  has  been  found  of  a  projx'r 
size  for  that  purpose.  The  top  is  arched,  and  the  style  of 
ariliileclure,  according  to  wliich  it  is  formed,  dili'erent  from 
any  now  used  in  those  parts.  A  little  firther  on,  there  ap- 
pears upon  a  huge  surface  of  slone  that  juts  out  a  little  from 
tho  sidi'  of  the  hill,  a  numerous  group  of  hunnm  figures,  in 
bass  relief,  considerably  larger  than  life,  representing  the  most 
remarkable  persons  whose  aciions  are  celebrated  in  the  Ma- 
hubliarit,  eacli  of  them  in  an  attitude,  or  willi  weapons,  or 
other  insignia,  expressive  of  his  character,  or  of  some  one  of 
his  Uiost  fainons  exploits.  All  these  figures  are  doubtless 
much  K  ss  distinct  than  they  were  at  first ;  fi)r  upon  cojnpariiig 
lliefc  and  the  rest  of  the  sculptures  Ihit  arc  exposed  to  the  sea- 
air,  with  others  at  the  same  place,  whose  situition  has  afforded 
them  protection  from  that  efnient,  the  dilftrence  is  striking  — 
the  former  being  every  where  much  defaced,  while  the  others 
are  fresh  as  recently  finished.  An  excavation  in  another  part 
of  th(!  e.ist  side  of  the  great  rock  appears  to  have  been  made 
on  the  same  plan,  and  for  the  same  purpose  that  Chowltries 
arc  usn.illy  built  in  that  country,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  accom- 
moil.ition  of  travellers.  The  rock  is  hollowed  out  to  the  size 
of  a  spacious  room,  and  two  or  three  rows  of  pillars  are  left, 
as  a  aeeming  su)>port  to  the  mountainous  mass  of  stone  which 
forms  the  rooT. 

The  ascent  of  the  hill  on  the  north  is,  from  its  natural 
shape,  gradual  and  easy  at  first,  and  is  in  other  parts  rendered 
more  so  by  very  excellent  steps,  cut  out  in  several  places 
where  the  communication  would  be  difficult  or  im]>ractical>le 
without  them.  A  winding  stair  of  this  sort  leads  to  a  kind 
of  temple  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock,  with  some  figures  of  idols 
in  high  relief  upon  the  walls,  very  well  finished.  From  this 
ti-mpio  there  are  flights  of  steps,  that  seem  to  have  led  to  some 
edifice  fiirmerly  standing  upon  the  hill ;  iior  does  it  seem  ab- 
surd to  suppose  that  this  may  have  been  a  palace,  to  wliich 
this  temple  may  have  appertained  ;  for  l)esides  the  small 
detached  ranges  of  stairs  that  are  here  and  there  cut  in  the 
I3cl  and  seem  as  if  they  had  once  led  todilferent  parts  of  one 
ptei.t  building,  there  appear  in  many  places  small  water 
channels  cut  also  in  the  rock,  as  r.  for  drains  to  a  house; 
and  the  whole  top  of  the  hill  is  strewed  with  small  round 
pioc.!S  of  brick,  which  may  be  supposed,  from  their  appear- 
and ,  to  have  been  worn  down  to  their  present  form  during  the 
lapfeof  many  ages.  On  a  plain  surface  of  the  rock,  which  may 
once  have  served  as  the  floor  of  some  apartment,  there  is  a 
plalfoim  of  stone,  about  eight  or  nine  feet  long,  by  three  or 
four  wide,  in  a  situation  rather  elevated,  with  two  or  tliroe 


steps  leading  up  to  it,  perfectly  resembling  a  couch  or  bed, 
and  a  liim  very  well  executed  at  the  upper  end  of  it,  by  way 
of  j)illow  :  the  whole  of  one  piece  being  part  of  the  hili  itself. 
This  the  Bramins,  inhabitants  of  the  place,  call  the  bed  of 
Dherinarajah,  or  Judishter,  the  eldest  of  the  five  brothers, 
whose  exjdoits  are  the  leading  subject  in  the  .Mahahhirit. 
And  at  a.  considerable  distance  from  this,  at  such  a  distance, 
indeed,  as  the  apartments  of  the  women  might  be  supposed  to 
be  from  that  of  the  men,  is  n  hath,  excavated  also  from  the 
rock,  with  steps  in  the  inside,  which  the  Bramins  call  the 
Bath  of  Uropedy,  the  wife  of  Judishter  and  his  brothers. 
How  much  credit  is  due  to  this  tradition,  and  whether  this 
stone  couch  may  not  have  been  anciently  used  as  a  kind  of 
throne,  rather  than  a  bed,  is  mutter  fur  future  iiupiiry.  A 
circumstance,  however,  which  may  seem  to  favor  this  idea  is, 
that  a  throne,  in  the  Sanscrit  and  otiicr  Hindoo  languages,  is 
called  SiliirhcLieii,  wliich  is  compounded  of  Suig,  a  lion,  and 
asm,  a  seat. 

But  though  these  works  may  be  deemed  stupendous,  they 
are  surpassed  by  others  that  arc  to  be  seen  at  the  distance  of 
about  a  mile,  or  a  mile  and  half,  to  the  south  of  the  hill.  'J'hey 
consist  of  two  pagodas,  of  al)out  thirty  feet  long,  by  twenty 
feet  wide,  and  about  as  many  in  height,  cut  out  of  the  soliu 
rock,  and  each  consisting  originally  of  one  single  stone.  Their 
form  is  different  from  the  .style  of  architecture  according  to 
which  idol  temples  are  now  built  in  that  country.  These 
sculjitures  approach  nearer  to  the  Gothic  taste,  being  sur- 
mounted by  arched  roofs  or  domes,  not  semicircular,  but  com- 
posed of  two  segments  of  circles  meeting  in  a  point  at  top. 
Near  these  also  stand  an  elephant  full  as  big  as  life,  and  a  lion 
much  larger  than  the  natural  size,  both  hewn  also  out  of  one 
stone. 

The  great  rock  is  about  fifty  or  one  hundred  yards  from  the 
sea  ;  but  close  to  the  sea  are  the  remains  of  a  pagoda  built  of 
biick,  and  dedicated  to  i^ib,  the  greatest  part  of  which  has 
evidently  been  swallowed  up  by  that  element  ;  for  the  door  of 
the  innermost  apartment,  in  which  the  idol  is  placed,  and  be- 
fore which  there  are  always  two  or  three  spacious  courts  sur- 
rounded with  walls,  is  now  washed  by  the  waves,  and  the 
pillar  used  to  discover  the  meridian  at  the  time  of  founding 
the  pagoda,  is  seen  standing  at  some  distance  in  the  sea.  In 
the  neiglihurhond  of  this  building  there  are  some  detached 
rocks,  washed  also  by  the  waves,  on  which  there  appear 
sculptures,  though  now  much  worn  and  defaced.  And  the 
natives  of  the  place  declared  to  the  writer  of  this  account, 
that  the  more  aged  people  among  them  remembered  to  have 
seen  the  tops  of  several  pagodas  far  out  in  the  sea,  which, 
being  covered  with  copper,  (probably  gilt,)  were  particularly 
visible  at  sunrise,  as  their  shining  surface  used  then  to  reflect 
the  sun's  rays,  but  that  now  that  effect  was  no  longer  [iro- 
duced,  as  the  copper  had  since  become  incrusfod  with  mould 
and  verdigris.  —  Chambers.    Asiatic  Researches. 


Thna  hast  been  caWd,  0  Sleep!  Hie  friend  of  Woe, 
But  'tis  the  liuppij  irho  have  call'd  thee  so.  —  XV.  12,  p.  597. 

Daniel   has  a  beautiful  passage   concerning  Richard  II.- 
sufliciently  resembling  this  part  of  the  poem  to  bo  inserted 
here  : 

To  Flint,  from  thence,  into  a  restless  bed, 
That  miserable  night  he  comes  conveyed; 
Poorly  provided,  poorly  fidlowed, 
Uncourted,  unrespected,  unohey'd  ; 
Where,  if  uncertain  Sleep  but  hovered 
Over  the  drooping  cares  that  heavy  weigh'd, 
Millions  of  figures  Fantasy  presents 
(Jnlo  that  sorrow  waken'd  grief  augments. 

His  now  misfortune  makes  deluded  Sleep 
Say  'twas  not  so  :  —  false  dreams  the  truth  deny  . 
Wherewith  he  starts  ;  feels  waking  cares  do  creep 
Upon  his  soul,  and  give  his  dreams  the  lie. 
Then  sleeps  again  ;  —  and  then  again  as  deep 
Deceits  of  darkness  mock  his  misery. 

Cinil  IVar,  Book  II.  st.  52,58 


640 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


T/icjiiillay.  —  XV[.  2,  p.  598. 

Tliis  monster  of  Hindoo  iinaginiition  is  a  horse  witli  tlie 
trunk  of  an  elephant,  but  bearing;  about  llie  same  proi)ortion 
to  tlio  elcpliant  in  size,  tliat  tiie  elephant  itself  does  to  a  com- 
mon slieej).  In  one  of  the  prints  to  Mr.  Kiiulersley's  "  Spe- 
cimens of  llimloo  Literature,"  an  aullay  is  represented  taking 
up  an  elephant  with  his  trunk. 


Did  then  the  Ocean  wage 
His  war  for  luce  and  envy,  not  in  rage, 
0  thou  fair  City,  tliat  he  spared  thee  thus  1  —  XVI.  3,  p.  598. 

Malecheren,  (which  is  probably  another  name  for  lialy,)  in 
an  excursion  which  he  maile  one  day  alone,  and  in  disguise, 
came  to  a  garden  in  the  environs  of  his  city  Mahihalipoor, 
where  was  a  fountain  so  inviting,  that  two  celestial  nymphs 
had  come  down  to  bathe  there.  'I'he  Raj.ih  became  enamored 
of  one  of  them,  who  condescended  to  allow  of  his  atlachinent 
to  her  ;  and  she  and  her  sister  nymph  used  thenceforward  to 
have  frequent  interviews  with  him  in  that  garden.  On  one 
of  those  occasions  they  brought  with  them  a  male  inhabitant 
of  the  heavenly  regions,  to  whom  they  introduced  the  Rajah, 
and  between  him  and  Malecheren  a  strict  friendship  ensued  ; 
in  consequence  of  which  he  agreed,  at  the  Rajah's  earnest 
request,  to  carry  him  in  disguise  to  see  the  court  of  the  divine 
Indor  —  a  favor  never  before  granted  to  any  mortal.  The 
Rajah  returned  from  thence  with  new  ideas  of  s)>lendor  and 
magnificence,  which  he  immediately  ailopted  in  regulating  his 
court  and  his  retinue,  and  in  beautifying  his  seat  of  goverjiment. 
By  this  means  Mahahalipoor  became  soon  celebrated  beyond 
all  the  cities  of  the  earth  ;  and  an  account  of  its  magnificence 
having  been  brought  to  the  gods  assembled  at  the  court  of 
Inder,  their  jealousy  was  so  much  excited  at  it,  that  they 
sent  orders  to  the  Uud  of  the  .Sea  to  let  loose  his  billows,  and 
overflow  a  place  which  im|iiously  pretended  to  vii.'  in  splendor 
with  their  celestial  mansions.  This  command  he  obeyed, 
and  the  city  was  at  once  overflowed  by  that  fiuious  element ; 
nor  has  it  ever  since  been  able  to  rear  its  head.  —  Chambers. 
Asiatic  Researches. 


Round  those  strange  waters  they  repair. —  XVI.  C,  p.  599. 

In  the  Bahia  dos  Artifices,  which  is  between  the  river  Ja- 
goarive  and  S.  Miguel,  there  are  many  springs  of  fresh  water, 
which  may  be  seen  at  low  tide,  and  these  springs  are  fre- 
quented by  fish  and  by  the  sea-cow,  which  they  say  comes  to 
drink  there.  —  JVoticias  do  Brazil.  MSS.  i.  8. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  Feroe  Islands  seek  for  cod  in  places 
wliere  there  is  a  fresh  water  spring  at  the  bottom.  —  Landt. 


The  Sheckra.  —  XVUl.  1,  p.  002. 

This  weapon,  which  is  often  to  be  seen  in  one  of  the  whoel- 
spoke  hands  of  a  Hindoo  god,  resembles  a  quoit:  the  external 
edge  is  sharp ;  it  is  held  in  the  middle,  and  being  whirled 
along,  outs  wherever  it  strikes. 


TTie  writing  which,  at  thy  nativity, 
Jlll-knoioing  JVature  wrought  upon  thy  brain. 

XVni.  7,  p.  603. 

Brahma  is  considered  as  the  immediate  creator  of  all  things, 
and  particulfiriy  as  the  disposer  of  each  person's  fate,  which 
he  inscribes  within  the  skull  of  every  created  being,  and 
which  the  gods  themselves  cannot  avert.  —  Kinderslev, 
p.  21.     NiECAMP,  vol.  i.  p.  10,  ft  7. 

It  is  by  the  sutures  of  the  skull  that  these  lines  of  destiny 
are  formed.  See  also  a  note  to  Thalaba  (Book  V.  p.  273,) 
upon  a  like  superstition  of  the  Mahommedans. 

Qiiand  on  Irur  reproche  quelqae  vice,  ou  qu^on  les  rrprend 
d'une  rnavvaise  action,  ils  repondent  froidcment,  que  cela  est  ccrit 
sur  leur  tele,  ct  quails  n'ont  pu  faire  autrement.  Si  vous  pa- 
roissez  etoniie  de  cc  langagc  noui^eaii,  et  que  vous  demandici  d 
voir  ori  cela  e.it  ccrit,  its  vous  montrent  les  diverges  jointures  du 


crane  de  Icur  tele,  prclcndant  que  les  sutures  m£,ne  sont  les  nuac- 
teres  de  cettc  ecriture  myslenea.ic.  Si  vous  Icsprrxsez  de  dec/iif- 
frer  ces  caructcrcs,  et  de  vousfuireconnoitre  eequ'ilssignijient, 
iU  avouent  quUls  ne  le  s^aernt  pas.  Mais  puisque  vans  ve 
sgavez  2>as  lire  cctte  ecriture,  disais-je  quelquefuis  d  ces  gens 
entttes,  qui  cst-ce  done  qui  vous  la  lit  1  qui  est-ce  qui  vous  en 
explique  le  sens,  et  qui  vous  fait  connoitre  cc  qu'ellc  contient  ? 
D^ullieurs  ces  pretrndus  caracteres  etant  les  mimes  sur  la  tcte 
de  tons  Irs  liommcs,  d'ou  virnt  qu'ils  agissent  si  differemment,  et 
qu'ils  sont  si  contraires  les  uns  uui  autrcs  duns  leurs  vucs,  duns 
leurs  desseins,  ct  dans  leurs  prujcts  ? 

Les  Brumes  m'ccoutoient  de  sangfroid,  et  sans  s'inquieter  ni 
dcs  contradictions  oil  ils  tombuient,  ni  des  consequences  ridicules 
qu'ils  ctoient  obliges  d'avouer.  Enfn,  lorsqu'ils  se  scntoient 
vicemcnt  presses,  toute  leur  ressource  etoit  de  se  retirer  sans  rien 
dire.  — P.  Mauduit.     Lettres  Edifiantes,  t.  .x.  p.  248. 


The  Seven  Eartlis.  —  XlX.  6,  p.  COS. 

The  seas  which  surround  these  earths  are,  1.  of  salt  water, 
enclosing  our  inmost  earth  ;  2.  of  fresh  water  ;  3.  of  tyre,  cur- 
dled milk;  4.  of  ghee,  clarified  butter  ;  5.  of  cauloo,  a  liquor 
drawn  from  the  pullum  tree  ;  6.  of  liquiil  sugar ;  7.  of  milk. 
The  whole  system  is  enclosed  in  one  broad  circumference 
of  pure  gold,  beyond  which  reigns  impenetrable  darkness.  — 
Kinderslev. 

I  know  not  whether  the  following  fable  was  invented  to  ac- 
count for  the  saltness  of  our  sea  :  — 

"  Agastya  is  recorded  to  have  been  very  low  in  stature  ;  and 
one  day,  previously  to  the  rectifying  the  too  obliqne  posture  of 
the  earth,  walking  with  Veeshnu  on  the  shore  of  the  ocean,  the 
insolent  Deep  asked  the  god  who  that  dw:irf  was  strutting  by 
his  side.  Veeshnu  replied,  it  was  the  patriarcli  Agastya  go- 
ing to  restore  the  earth  to  its  true  balance.  The  sea,  in  utter 
contempt  of  his  pygmy  form,  dashed  him  with  his  spray  as  he 
passed  along  ;  on  which  the  s:ige,  greatly  incensed  nt  the  de- 
signed affront,  scooped  up  some  of  the  water  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand,  and  drank  it  ofl":  he  again  and  again  repeated  the 
drau^'ht,  nor  desisted  till  lie  had  drained  the  bed  of  the  ocean 
of  the  entire  volume  of  its  waters.  Alarmed  at  this  effect  of 
his  holy  indignation,  and  dreading  an  universal  drought,  the 
Devetas  made  intercession  with  Agastya  to  relent  from  his 
anger,  and  again  restore  an  element  so  necessary  to  the  ex- 
istence of  nature,  both  animate  and  inanimate.  Agastya, 
pacified,  granted  their  request,  and  discharged  the  imbibed 
fluid  in  a  way  becoming  the  histories  of  a  gross  physical  people 
to  relate,  but  by  no  means  proper  for  this  page  ;  a  way,  how- 
ever, that  evinced  his  sovereign  power,  while  it  marked  his 
ineffable  contemi)t  for  the  vain  fury  of  an  element,  contending 
with  a  being  armed  with  the  delegated  power  of  the  Creator 
of  all  things.  After  this  miracle,  the  earth  being,  by  the 
same  power,  restored  to  ils  just  balance,  Agastya  and  Veesh- 
nu separated  ;  when  the  latter,  to  prevent  any  similar  acci- 
dent occurring,  commanded  the  great  serpent  (that  is,  of  the 
sphere)  to  wind  its  enormous  f(dds  round  the  seven  continents, 
of  which,  according  to  Sanscreet  geography,  the  earth  con- 
sists, and  a|)pointed,  as  perpetual  guardians,  to  watch  over 
and. protect  it,  the  eight  powerful  genii,  so  renowned  in  the 
Hindoo  system  of  mythology,  as  presiding  over  the  eight 
points  of  the  worhl."  —  Maurice. 

The  PauranicR  (said  Ramachandra  to  Sir  William  Jones) 
will  tell  you  that  our  earth  is  a  plane  figure,  studded  with 
eight  mountains,  and  surrounded  by  seven  seas  of  milk,  nc>c- 
tar,  and  other  fluiils  ;  that  the  part  which  we  inhabit  is  one  of 
seven  islands,  to  which  eleven  smaller  isles  arc  subordinate  ; 
that  a  god,  riding  on  a  huge  elephant,  guards  each  of  the 
eight  regions  ;  and  that  a  mountain  of  gold  rises  and  gleams 
in  the  centre. ilsiatic  Researches. 

"  Eightoriginal  mountains  and  seven  seas,  Brahma,  Indra, 
the  Si'N,  and  Rudra,  these  are  permanent;  not  thou,  not  I, 
not  this,  or  that  people.  Wherefore  then  should  anxiety  be 
raised  in  our  ininds  ?  "  —  .Asiatic  Researches. 


Mount  Calasay.  —  XIX.G,  p.  605. 

The  residence  of  Iznra  is  upon  the  silver  mount  Calaja,  to 
the  south  of  the  famous  mountain  Muhameru,  being  a  most 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


G41 


deliciuus  place,  [ihiiited  with  all  sorts  of  trees,  that  bear  fruit 
all  the  year  louiul.  Tlic  roses  and  other  (lowers  send  forth  a 
most  odoriferous  scent ;  and  the  pond  at  the  foot  of  the  mount 
is  enclosed  with  pleasant  walks  of  trees,  that  alVord  an  agreea- 
ble shade,  whilst  the  peacocks  and  divers  other  birds  entertain 
the  ear  with  their  liarnionious  noise,  as  the  beautiful  women 
do  the  eyes.  The  circumjacent  woods  are  inliabited  by  a 
certain  people  called  JIii7iis,  or  Huis,  who,  avoiding  the  con- 
versation of  others,  spend  their  lime  in  olVcring  daily  sacrifices 
to  their  god. 

It  is  observable  that,  though  these  pagans  are  generally 
black  tluniselves,  they  do  represent  these  Ruts  to  be  of  a  fair 
comiilixion,  with  long,  white  beards,  and  long  garments  hang- 
ing crossways,  from  about  the  neck  down  over  the  breast. 
They  are  in  such  high  esteem  among  them,  they  believe  that 
whom  they  bless  are  blessed,  and  whom  they  curse  are 
cursed. 

Within  the  mountain  lives  another  generation,  called  Jex- 
aquinncra  and  Qucndra,  who  are  free  from  all  trouble,  spend 
their  days  in  continual  contenijjlation,  praises,  and  prayers  to 
God.  Round  about  the  mountain  stand  seven  ladders,  by 
which  you  ascend  to  a  spacious  plain,  in  the  middle  whereof 
is  a  bell  of  silver,  and  a  square  table,  surrounded  with  nine 
precious  stones,  of  divers  colors.  Upon  this  table  lies  a  sil- 
ver rose,  called  Taiiioru  Pua,  which  contains  two  women  as 
bright  and  fair  as  a  pearl :  one  is  called  Brigasiri,  i.  e.  the 
Lailtj  of  the  Moutli ;  the  other  Tarasiri,  i.  e.  the  Lady  of  the 
Tongue, —  beeWlse  they  praise  God  with  the  mouth  and 
tongue.  In  the  centre  of  this  rose  is  the  triangle  of  Quive- 
ii«n-a,  which  they  say  is  the  permanent  residence  of  God. — 

hxLDJEVS. 


0  all-containing  Mind, 
Thou  who  art  eoery  where  !  —  XIX.  10,  p.  COS. 

"  Even  I  was  even  at  first,  not  any  other  thing  ;  that  which 
exists,  unperceived,  supreme  ;  afterwards  I  am  that  which  is ; 
and  ho  who  must  lemain,  am  I. 

"  Except  the  First  Cause,  whatever  may  appear,  and  may 
not  appear,  in  the  mind,  know  that  to  be  the  mind's  Maya,  or 
delusion,  as  light,  as  darkness. 

"  As  the  great  elements  are  in  various  beings  entering,  yet 
not  entering,  (that  is,  pervading,  not  destroying,)  thus  am  I 
in  them,  yet  not  in  them. 

"  Even  thus  far  may  inquiry  be  made  by  him  who  seeks  to 
know  the  principle  of  miml  in  union  and  separation,  which 
must  be  errry  where,  nticayg."  —  Asiatic  Researches.  Sir  W. 
Jones, //-om  the  Bhagaval. 

I  am  the  creation  and  the  dissolution  of  the  whole  universe. 
There  is  not  any  thing  greater  than  I,  and  all  things  hang  on 
me,  even  as  precious  gems  upon  a  string.  I  am  moisture  in 
the  water,  light  in  the  sun  and  moon,  invocation  in  the  Veds, 
sound  in  the  firmament,  human  nature  in  mankind,  sweet- 
smelling  savor  in  the  earth,  glory  in  the  source  of  light:  in 
all  things  I  am  life  ;  and  I  am  zeal  in  the  zealous  ;  and  know, 
O  Arjoon  !  that  I  am  the  eternal  seed  of  all  nature.  I  am 
the  understanding  of  the  wise,  the  glory  of  the  proud,  the 
strength  of  the  strong,  free  from  lust  and  anger  ;  and  in  ani- 
mals I  am  desire,  regulated  by  moral  fitness.  —  Kkeeshna, 
in  the  Bhagavat  Oceta. 


Heart  cannot  think,  nor  tongue  declare, 
JVor  eyes  of  .^ngel  bear 
Tliat  glory  unimaginably  bright.  —  XIX.  12,  p.  605. 

Being  now  in  the  splcndorous  lustre  of  the  divine  bliss  and 
glory,  I  there  saw  in  spirit  the  choir  of  the  holy  angfls,  the 
choir  of  the  prophets  and  apostles,  who,  with  heavenly  tongues 
and  music,  sing  and  play  around  the  throne  of  God  ;  yet  not 
in  just  such  corporeal  forms  or  shapes  as  are  those  we  now 
bear  and  walk  about  in  ;  no,  but  in  shapes  all  spiritual;  the 
holy  angels  in  tlie  shape  of  a  multitude  of  (lames  of  fire,  the 
souls  of  believers  in  the  shape  of  a  multitude  of  glittering  or 
luminous  sparkles,  God's  throne  in  the  shape  or  under  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  great  splendor.  —  Hans  Engelbrecht. 

Something  analogous  to  Ibis  unendurable  presence  of  Secva 
is  found  amid  the  nonsense  of  Joanna  Soutlicott.  Apollyon 
is  there  made  to  say  of  the  Lord,  "  Thou  knowcst  it  is  written, 
81 


He  is  a  consuming  fire,  and  who  can  dwell  in  everlasting  burn- 
ings .'  who  could  abide  in  devouring  flame's  ?  Our  backs  arc 
not  brass,  nor  our  sinews  iron,  to  dwell  with  God  in  heaven." 
—  Dispute  between  tliz  Wovtan.  and  the  Powers  of  Darkness. 


The  Sun  himself  had  seemed 
Ji  speck  of  darkness  there.  —  XIX.  12,  p.  605. 

"  There  the  sun  shines  not,  nor  the  moon  and  stars  :  these 
lightnings  (kish  not  in  that  place  :  how  should  even  fire  blaze 
there.'  God  irradiates  all  this  bright  substance,  and  by  its 
elTulgence  the  universe  is  enlightened."  —  From  the  Yajar- 
vcda.    Asiatic  Researches. 

ILec  ait,  ct  sese  radiorum  nocte  suorum 
Chaudil  inaccessum,  —  Carrara . 


Whose  cradles  from  some  tree 

Unnatural  hands  suspended.  —  XXI.  5,  p.  607. 

I  heard  a  voice  crying  out  under  my  window  ;  I  looked  out 
and  saw  n  poor  young  girl  lamenting  the  unhappy  case  of  her 
sis»er.  On  asking  what  was  the  matter,  the  reply  was.  Boot 
iMggeeosa,  a  demon  has  seized  her.  These  unhappy  people 
say  Boot  Laggeeosa,  if  a  child  newly  born  will  not  suck  ;  and 
they  expose  it  to  death  in  a  basket,  hung  on  the  branch  of  a 
tree.  One  day,  as  Mr.  Thomas  and  I  were  riding  out,  we 
saw  a  basket  hung  in  a  tree,  in  which  an  infant  had  been  ex- 
posed, the  skull  of  which  remained,  the  rest  having  been 
devoured  by  ants.  —  Periodical  Accounts  of  the  Baptist  Mis- 
sionaries. 


That  strange  Indian  Bird.  — XXI.  6,  p.  GOT. 

The  Chatookee.  They  say  it  never  drinks  at  the  streams 
below,  but,  opening  its  bill  when  it  rains,  it  catches  the  drops 
as  they  fall  from  the  clouds.  —  Periodical  Accounts  of  the 
Baptist  Missionaries,  vol.  ii.  p.  309. 


The  footless  Fowl  of  Heaven.  —  XXI.  6,  p.  607. 

There  is  a  bird  tl>at  falls  down  out  of  the  air  dead,  and  is 
found  sometimes  in  the  Molucca  Islands,  that  has  no  feet  at 
all.  The  bigness  of  her  body  and  bill,  as  likewise  the  form 
of  them,  is  much  the  same  as  a  swallow's  ;  but  the  spreading 
out  of  her  wings  and  tail  has  no  less  compass  than  an  eagle's. 
She  lives  and  breeds  in  the  air,  comes  not  near  the  earth  but 
for  her  burial,  for  the  largeness  and  lightness  of  her  wings  and 
tail  sustain  her  without  lassitiKle.  And  the  laying  of  her 
eggs,  and  breeding  of  her  young,  is  upon  the  back  of  the  male, 
which  is  made  hollow,  as  also  the  breast  of  the  female,  for  the 
more  easy  incubation.  Also  two  strings,  like  two  shoemaker's 
ends,  come  from  the  hinder  parts  of  the  male,  wherewith  it  is 
conceived  that  he  is  fastened  closer  to  the  female,  while  she 
hatches  her  eggs  on  the  hollow  of  his  back.  The  dew  of 
heaven  is  appointed  her  for  food,  her  region  being  too  far 
removed  from  the  approach  of  flies  and  such  like  insects. 

This  is  the  entire  story  and  ])hilosopby  of  this  miraculous 
bird  in  Cardan,  who  professes  himself  to  have  seen  it  no  less 
than  thrice,  and  to  have  described  it  accordingly.  The  con- 
trivances whereof,  if  the  matter  were  certainly  true,  are  as 
evident  arguments  of  a  Divine  Providence,  as  that  copper- 
ring,  with  the  Greek*  inscription  upon  it,  was  an  undeniable 
monument  of  the  artifice  and  finger  of  man. 

But  that  the  reproach  of  over-much  credulity  may  not  lie 
upon  Cardan  alone,  Scaliger,  who  lay  at  catch  with  him  to 
take  him  tripping  wherever  he  could,  cavils  not  w  ith  any  thing 
in  the  whole  narration  but  the  bigness  of  wings  and  the  little- 
ness of  the  body  ;  which  he  undirtakes  to  correct  from  one  of 
his  own  which  was  sent  him  by  Orvesaniis  from  Java.  Nay, 
he  confirms  what  his  antagonist  has  wrote,  partly  by  history 

•  The  inscription  runs  ttiiis  :  El'//'  iKCifOi  tx9d{  rairri  Xijivri 
jrai/ToirpuTof  inirtOui  iia  roii  Kocrnnroii  'tcSnpiitov  /?  raf 
Xe'pas  tv  rii  i.  rffitpa  row  'OKTi>>Spiov.  a.  c.  X.  Thi«  pike  wu 
talicn  about  Huilprun,  the  imperial  ciiy  of  Sue?ta,  in  the  year  1497.— 
Ceaner. 


G42 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


and  partly  !)y  icason  ;  uftirining,  timl  himsi  If,  in  his  own 
garden,  found  two  little  birds  with  meniliranaccous  wings  ut- 
terly devoid  of  legs  ;  their  form  was  near  to  lliul  of  a  bat's. 
Nor  is  he  deterred  from  the  belief  of  the  perpetual  flying  of 
the  Mauucodiatii,  by  the  ijiiping  of  the  feuthers  of  her  vvings, 
which  seem  thereby  less  fit  to  sustain  her  body,  but  further 
makes  the  narration  probable  by  what  he  has  observed  in  kites 
hovering  in  the  air,  as  he  saith,  for  a  whole  hour  together 
without  flapping  of  her  wings,  or  changing  place.  And  he 
has  found  also  how  she  may  sleep  in  the  air,  from  the  exam- 
ple of  fishes,  which  he  has  seen  sleeping  in  the  water  without 
einking  themselves  to  the  bottom,  and  without  changing  place, 
but  lying  stock  still,  pinnulis  iant.um  vescia  quid  iiwUaiicidc 
meilUantes,  only  wagging  a  liltle  their  fins,  as  heedlessly  and 
unconcernedly  as  horses  while  they  are  asleej)  wag  their  ears 
to  displace  the  flies  that  sit  upon  then).  Wherever  Scaliger 
admitting  that  the  Manucodiata  is  perpetually  on  the  wing  in 
the  air,  he  must  of  necessity  admit  also  that  manner  of  incu- 
bation that  Cardan  describes,  else  how  could  their  generations 
continue  ? 

Franeiscus  Ilernandeo  affirms  the  same  with  Cardan  ex- 
pressly in  every  thing;  as  also  Eusebins  Nierembergius,  wlio 
is  so  taken  with  the  story  of  this  bird,  that  he  could  not  ab- 
stain from  celebrating  her  miraculous  properties  in  a  short 
but  elegant  copy  of  verses ;  and  does  after,  though  confidently 
opposed,  assert  the  main  matter  again  in  prose. 

Such  are  the  sufi'rages  of  Cardan,  Scaliger,  Ilernandeo, 
Nierembergius.  But  Aldrovandus  rejects  that  fable  of  her 
feeding  on  the  dew  of  heaven,  and  of  her  incubiture  on  the 
back  of  the  male,  with  much  scorn  and  indignation.  And  as 
for  the  former,  his  reasons  are  no  ways  contemptible,  he  al- 
leging that  dew  is  a  body  not  perfectly  enough  mixed,  or 
helerogeneal  enough  for  food,  nor  the  hard  bill  of  the  bird 
made  for  such  easie  uses  as  sip|iing  this  soft  moisture. 

To  which  I  know  not  what  Cardan  and  the  rest  would  an- 
swer, unless  this,  that  they  mean  by  dew  the  more  unctuous 
moisture  of  the  air,  which  as  it  may  not  he  alike  every  where, 
so  these  birds  may  be  fitted  with  a  natural  sagacity  to  find  it 
out  where  it  is.  That  there  is  dew  in  this  sense  day  and 
night,  (as  well  as  in  the  morning,)  and  in  all  seasons  of  the 
year;  tind  therefore  a  constant  supply  of  moisture  and  spirits 
to  their  perpetual  flying,  which  they  more  copiously  imbibe 
by  reason  of  their  exercise  :  That  the  thicker  parts  of  this 
moisture  slick  and  convert  into  flesh,  and  that  the  lightness  of 
their  feathers  is  so  great,  that  their  pains  in  sustaining  them- 
selves are  not  over-much.  That  what  is-homogenealand  sim- 
ple to  our  sight  is  fit  enough  to  be  the  rudiments  of  genera- 
tion, all  animals  being  generated  of  a  kind  of  clear  crystalline 
liquor  ;  and  that,  therefore,  it  may  be  also  of  nutrition  ;  that 
orpine  and  sea-house-leek  are  nourished  and  grow,  being  hung 
in  the  air,  and  that  dock-weed  has  its  root  no  deeper  than 
near  the  upper  parts  of  the  water ;  and,  lastly,  that  the  bills 
of  these  birds  are  for  their  better  flying,  by  cutting  the  way, 
and  for  better  ornament ;  for  the  rectifying  also  and  composing 
of  their  feathers,  while  they  swim  in  the  air  with  as  much 
ease  as  swans  do  in  rivers. 

To  his  great  impatiency  against  their  manner  of  incubation, 
they  would  haiijjily  return  this  answer:  That  the  way  is  not 
ridiculous  ;  but  it  may  be  rather  necessary  from  what  Aldro- 
vandus liimself  not  only  .acknowledges  but  contends  for,  name- 
ly, that  they  have  no  feet  at  all.  For  hence  it  is  manifest  that 
they  cannot  light  upon  the  ground,  nor  any  where  rest  on 
their  b-dlies,  and  be  able  to  get  on  wing  again,  because  they 
canno*.  creep  out  of  holes  of  rocks,  as  swifts  and  such  like 
shoit-footed  birds  can,  they  having  no  feet  at  all  to  creep 
with.  Besides,  as  Aristotle  well  argues  concerning  the  long 
Ics  of  certain  water-fowl,  that  they  were  made  so  long,  be- 
cause they  were  to  wade  in  the  water  and  catch  fish,  adding 
that  excellent  aphorism,  r«  yap  opyava  Trodf  to  epyop  fi 
(jtiair,  Tzoiei  aW  oi  to  'ipyuv  npoi  tg  opyana,  so  may  we 
rationally  conclude,  will  they  say,  that  as  the  long  legs  of 
these  water-fowl  imply  a  design  of  their  haunting  the  water, 
so  want  of  legs  in  these  Mtinucodiatas  argue  they  are  never 
to  come  down  to  the  earth,  because  they  can  neither  stand 
there  nor  get  oft"  again.  And  if  they  never  come  on  the  earth, 
or  any  other  resting-place,  where  can  their  eggs  be  laid  or 
hatched  but  on  the  back  of  the  male  .' 

Besides  that  Cardan  pleases  himself  with  that  Antiphonie  in 
nature,  that  as  the  Ostrich  being  a  bird,  yet  never  flies  in  the 


air,  and  never  rests  upon  tho  earth.  And  as  for  Al irovandua, 
his  presumption  from  the  five  several  Manucodiatas  that  he 
had  seen,  and  in  which  he  could  observe  no  such  figuration 
of  parts  as  implied  a  fitness  for  such  a  manner  of  incubation, 
Cardan  will  answer.  Myself  has  seen  three,  and  Scaliger  one, 
who  both  agree  against  you. 

However,  you  see  that  both  Cardan,  Aldrovandus,  and  the 
rest,  do  jointly  agree  in  allowing  the  Manucodiata  no  feet,  aa 
also  in  furnishing  her  with  two  strings,  hanging  at  the  hinder 
jiarts  of  her  body,  which  Aldrovandus  will  have  to  be  in  the 
female  as  well  as  in  the  male,  though  Cardan's  experience 
reachoth  not  so  far. 

But  Tighafetta  and  Clusius  will  easily  end  this  grand  con- 
troversy betwixt  Cardan  and  Aldrovandus,  if  it  be  true  which 
they  report,  and  if  they  s|)eak  of  the  same  kind  of  Birds  of 
Paradise.  For  they  both  aflirin  that  they  have  feet  a  palm 
long,  and  that  with  all  confidence  imaginable  ;  but  Nierem- 
bergius on  the  contrary  iiffirms,  that  one  tliat  was  an  eye-wit- 
ness, and  that  had  taken  up  one  of  these  birds  newly  dead, 
told  him  that  it  had  no  feet  at  all.  Johnston  also  gives  his 
sntiVage  with  Nierembergius  in  this,  tliough  with  Aldrovandus 
he  rejects  the  manner  of  their  incubation. 

But  unless  they  can  raise  themselves  from  the  ground  by 
the  stiffness  of  some  of  the  feathers  of  their  wings,  or  rather  by 
virtue  of  those  nervous  strings  which  they  may  have  a  power 
to  slifl'en  when  they  are  alive,  by  transfusing  spiiils  into  them, 
and  making  them  serve  as  well  instead  of  legs  to  raise  them 
from  the  ground  as  to  hang  upon  the  bougli*  of  trees,  by  a 
slight  thing  being  able  to  raise  or  hold  up  their  light-feathered 
bodies  in  the  air,  as  a  small  twig  will  us  in  the  water,  I  should 
rather  incline  to  the  testimony  of  Pighafetta  and  Clusius  than 
to  the  judgment  of  the  rest,  and  believe  those  mariners  that 
told  him  that  the  legs  are  jiulled  off  by  them  that  take  them, 
and  exenterate  them  and  dry  them  in  the  sun  for  either  their 
private  use  or  sale. 

Which  conclusion  would  the  best  solve  the  credit  of  Aris- 
totle, who  long  since  has  so  peremptorily  jironounced,  {in 
TiTrji'di'  jxdvnv  oviiv  iaTiit  ionep  vevaiKov  fiovov  terni/  I'xSos,  — 
that  there  is  not  any  bird  that  only  flies  as  the  fish  only  swims. 

But  thus  our  Bird  of  Paradise  is  nuite  flown  and  vanished 
into  a  figment  or  fable.  But  if  any  one  will  condole  the  loss 
of  so  convincing  an  argument  for  a  Providence  that  fits  one 
thing  to  another,  I  must  take  the  freedom  to  tell  him,  that, 
unhss  he  be  a  greater  admirer  of  novelty  than  a  searcher 
into  the  indissoluble  consequences  of  filings,  I  shall  supply  his 
meditation  with  what  of  this  nature  is  as  strongly  conclusive, 
and  remind,  that  it  will  be  his  own  reproach  if  he  cannot  spy 
as  clear  an  inference  from  an  ordinary  truth  as  from  either 
an  uncertainty  or  a  fiction.  And  in  this  regard,  the  bringing 
this  doubtful  narration  into  play  may  not  justly  seem  to  no 
purpose,  it  carrying  so  serious  and  castigatory  a  piece  of 
pleasantry  with  it. 

The  Manucodiata's  living  on  the  dew  is  no  part  of  the  con- 
victivenessof  a  Providence  in  this  story  :  But  the  being  excel- 
lently well  provided  of  wings  and  feathers,  tanta  levitatis  su- 
pellrctile  exornala,  as  Niereniliergius  speaks,  being  so  well 
furnished  with  all  advantages  for  lightness,  that  it  seems 
harde_r  for  her  to  sink  down,  as  he  conceits,  than  to  be  borne 
up  in  the  air;  that  a  bird  thus  fitted  for  that  region  should 
have  no  legs  to  stand  on  the  earth,  this  would  be  a  considera- 
ble indication  of  a  discriminating  Proviilenoe,  that  on  purpose 
avoids  all  uselessness  and  superfluities. 

The  other  remarkable,  and  it  is  a  notorious  one,  is  the  cav- 
ity on  the  back  of  the  male  and  in  the  breast  of  the  female, 
for  incubation  ;  and  the  third  and  last,  the  use  of  those 
strings,  as  Cardan  supposes,  for  the  better  keeping  them  to- 
gether in  incubiture. 

Ifthese  considerations  of  this  strange  story  strike  so  stronjly 
upon  thee  as  to  convince  thee  of  a  Providence,  think  it  humor, 
and  not  judgment,  if  what  I  put  in  lieu  of  them,  and  is  but 
ordinary,  have  not  the  same  force  with  thee. 

For  is  not  tlio  fish's  wanting  feet,  (as  we  observed  before,) 
she  being  suft'icicntly  supplied  with  fins  in  so  thick  an  cle- 
ment as  the  water,  as  great  an  argument  for  a  Providence  as 
so  light  a  bird's  wanting  feet  in  that  thinner  element  of  the 
air,  the  extreme  lightness  of  her  furniture  being  appropriated 
to  the  thinness  of  that  element.'  And  is  not  the  same  Provi- 
dence seen,  and  that  as  conspicuously,  in  allotting  but  very 
short  legs  to  those  birds  that  are  called  Apodeo  both  in  Plinie 


NOTES    TO    THE    CURSE    OF    KEHAMA. 


643 


and  Aristollc,  upon  wliotii  sliu  has  bestowed  such  large  and 
strong  wings,  and  a  power  of  flying  so  long  and  swift,  as  in 
giving  no  legs  at  all  to  the  Alunucodiatu,  who  luis  still  a 
greater  power  of  wing  and  lightness  of  body  ? 

And  as  tor  the  cavities  on  the  b.ick  of  the  male  and  in  the 
breast  of  the  female,  is  that  design  of  nature  any  more  certain 
and  plain  than  in  the  genital  parts  of  the  male  and  female  in 
all  kinds  of  animals?  What  greater  argument  of  counsel  and 
purpiise  of  fitting  one  thing  fur  another  can  there  be  than 
that  ?  And  if  we  should  make  a  more  inward  starch  into  the 
contrivances  of  these  parts  in  an  ordinary  hen,  and  consider 
how  or  by  what  force  an  egg  of  so  great  a  growth  and  bigness 
is  transmitted  from  the  ovarium  through  the  infundlbulutu 
into  the  processus  of  the  ulerns,  the  membranes  buing  so  thin 
and  the  passage  so  very  small,  to  see  to  the  principle  of  that 
motion  cannot  be  thought  less  than  divine. 

Anil  if  you  would  compare  the  protuberant  paps  of  teats  in 
the  females  of  beasts  with  that  cavity  in  the  breast  of  the  she- 
Manucodiata,  whether  of  them,  think  yon,  is  the  plainer 
pledge  of  a  knowing  and  designing  Providence  ? 

And,  lastly,  for  the  strings  that  are  conceived  to  hold  to- 
gether the  male  and  female  in  their  incubiturc,  what  a  toy  is 
it,  if  compared  with  those  invisible  links  and  lies  that  engage 
ordinary  birds  to  sit  upon  their  eggs,  they  having  no  visible 
allurement  to  such  a  tedious  service  ?  —  Henrv  JJoee's  ^n- 
tidiitc  against  Atheism,  b.  ii.  ch.  11. 

"  Mankind,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  now  taken  in  his  whole 
constitution  and  design,  are  like  the  Birds  of  Paradise,  which 
travellers  tell  us  of  in  the  Molucca  Islands,  born  without  legs, 
but  by  a  celestial  power  they  have  a  rrcompense  made  to  thcni 
for  that  defect,  and  they  always  hover  in  the  air  and  feed  on 
the  dew  of  Heaven  :  so  are  wo  Birds  of  Paradise,  but  cast  out 
from  thence,  and  born  without  legs,  —  without  strength  to 
walk  in  the  laws  of  God,  or  to  go  to  Heaven  ;  but  by  a  Power 
from  above,  wo  are  adopted  in  our  new  birth  to  a  celestial 
conversation  ;  we  feed  on  the  dew  of  Heaven  ;  '  the  just  does 
live  by  faith,'  and  breathes  in  this  new  life  by  the  Spirit  of 
God."  — Vol.  i.x.  339.    Heber's  edition. 


Yamen.  —  XXII.  4,  p.  609. 

Yawa  was  a  child  of  the  Sun,  and  thence  named  Vaivas- 
vata ;  another  of  his  titles  was  Dhtrmaraju,  or  King  of  Jus- 
tice ;  and  a  third  Pitripcti,  or  Lord  of  the  Patriarchs  :  but  he 
is  chiefly  distinguished  as  Judge  of  departed  souls  ;  for  the 
Hindus  believe  that,  when  a  soul  leaves  its  body,  it  imme- 
diately repairs  to  Yaviapur,  or  the  city  of  Yama,  where  it  re- 
ceives a  just  sentence  from  him,  and  thence  either  ascends  to 
Swerga,  or  the  first  Heaven  ;  or  is  driven  down  to  JVarac,  the 
region  of  serpents  ;  or  assumes  on  earth  the  form  of  some 
animal,  unless  its  offence  has  been  such,  that  it  ought  to  be 
condemned  to  a  vegetable,  or  even  to  a  mineral  prison.  —  Sir 
VV.  Jones. 

There  is  a  story  concerning  Yamen  which  will  remind  the 
reader,  in  its  purport,  of  the  f^iblo  of  Love  and  Death.  "  A 
famous  penitent,  Morrugandumairarcti  by  name,  had,  during 
a  long  series  of  years,  served  the  gods  with  uncommon  and 
most  exemplary  piety.  This  very  virtuous  man,  having  no 
children,  was  extremely  desirous  of  having  one,  and  therefore 
daily  besought  the  god  Xiven,  (or  Seeva,)  to  grant  him  one. 
At  length  the  god  heard  his  desire,  but,  before  he  indulged  it 
him,  he  asked  him,  whether  he  would  have  several  children, 
who  should  bo  long-lived  and  wicked,  or  one  virtuous  and 
prudent,  who  should  die  in  his  sixteenth  year.  The  penitent 
chose  the  latter:  his  wife  conceived,  and  was  happily  deliv- 
ered of  the  promised  son,  whom  they  named  Marcandem.  The 
boy,  like  his  father,  zealously  devoted  himself  to  the  worship 
of  Xiven  ;  hut  as  soon  as  he  had  attained  his  sixteenth  year, 
the  officers  of  Yliamen,  god  of  death,  were  sent  on  the  earth, 
to  remove  him  from  thence. 

"  Young  Marcandem,  being  informed  on  what  errand  they 
were  come,  told  them,  with  a  resolute  air,  that  ho  was  resolved 
not  to  die,  and  that  they  might  go  back,  if  they  pleased.  They 
returned  to  their  master,  and  told  him  the  whole  affair.  Yha- 
men  immediately  mounted  his  great  bnffle,  and  set  out.  Being 
come,  he  told  the  youth  that  he  acted  very  rashly  in  refusing 
to  leave  the  world,  and  it  was  unjust  in  him,  for  Xiven  had 
promised  him  a  life  only  of  sixteen  years,  and  the  term  was 


expired.  But  this  reason  did  not  satisfy  Marcandem,  who 
persisted  in  his  resolution  not  to  die;  and,  fearing  lest  the 
god  of  death  should  attenjpt  to  take  him  away  by  force,  he 
ran  to  his  oratory,  and  taking  the  Lingam,  clasped  it  to  his 
breast.  Meantime  Yhamen  came  down  from  his  hullle,  threw 
a  rope  about  the  youth's  neck,  and  held  him  fust  therewith, 
as  also  the  Lingam,  which  Marcandem  grasped  with  all  his 
strength,  and  was  going  to  drag  them  both  into  hell,  when 
Xiven  issued  out  of  the  Lingam,  drove  back  the  king  of  the 
dead,  and  gave  him  so  furious  a  blow  that  ho  killed  him  on 
the  spot. 

" 'J'he  god  of  death  being  tlius  slain,  mankind  multiplied 
so  that  the  earth  was  no  longer  able  to  contain  them.  The 
gods  represented  this  to  Xiven,  and  he,  at  their  entreaty,  re- 
stored Yhamen  to  life,  and  to  all  the  power  be  had  before 
enjoyed.  Yhamen  immediately  despatched  a  herald  to  all  parts 
of  the  world,  to  summon  all  the  old  men.  Tlie  herald  got 
drunk  before  be  set  out,  and,  without  staying  till  the  fumes  of 
the  wine  were  dispelled,  mounted  an  elephant,  and  rode  up 
and  down  the  world,  puisuanl  to  hisconunission  ;  and,  instead 
of  publishing  this  order,  be  declared,  that  it  was  the  will  and 
pleasure  of  Yhamen  that,  from  this  day  forward,  all  tlie 
leaves,  fruits,  anil  flowers,  whether  ripe  or  green,  should  fall 
to  the  ground.  This  proclamation  was  no  sooner  issued  than 
men  began  to  yield  to  death.  But  before  Yhamen  was  killed, 
only  the  old  were  deprived  of  life,  and  now  people  of  all  ages 
are  summoned  indiscriminately."  —  Picart. 


And  Brama's  rrgion,  whrrc  the  heancnbj  Hours 
Weave  the  vast  circle  of  his  age-lmig  daij. 

XXIli.  5,  p.  GIL 

They  who  are  acquainted  with  day  and  night  know  that  the 
day  of  Brahma  is  as  a  thousand  revolutions  of  tlie  Yoogs,ani] 
that  his  night  extendeth  for  a  thousand  more.  On  the  coming 
of  that  day  all  things  proceed  from  invisibility  to  visibility  ;  so, 
on  the  ajiproacli  of  night,  they  are  all  dissolved  away  in  that 
which  is  called  invisilile.  The  universe,  even,  having  existed, 
is  again  dissolved  ;  and  now  again,  on  the  approach  of  day, 
by  divine  necessity,  it  is  reproduced.  Tiiat  which,  upon  the 
dissolution  of  all  things  else,  is  not  destroyed,  is  superior  and 
of  another  nature  from  that  visibility  :  it  is  invisible  and 
eternal.  He  who  is  thus  called  invisible  and  incorruptible  is 
even  he  who  is  called  the  Supreme  Abode  ;  which  men  having 
once  obtained,  they  never  more  return  to  earth  :  that  is  my 
mansion.  —  Kreeshna,  in  the  Shagavat  Oeeta. 

The  guess,  that  Brama  and  his  wife  Saraswadi  may  be 
Abraham  and  Sarah,  has  more  letters  in  its  favor  than  are 
usually  to  he  found  in  such  guesses.  —  Niecamf,  p.  i.  c.  10, 
$2. 

The  tniei  cause  why  there  is  no  idol  of  Brama,  (except  the 
head,  which  is  his  share  in  the  Trimourter,)  is  probably  to  be 
found  in  the  conquest  of  his  sect.  A  different  ri'ason,  how- 
ever, is  implied  in  the  Veda:  "  Of  Him,  it  says,  whoso  glory 
is  so  great,  there  is  no  image  : —  He  is  the  incomprehensible 
Being  which  illumines  all,  delights  all,  whence  all  proceeded  ; 
—  that  by  which  they  live  when  born,  and  that  to  which  all 
must  return."  —  Moor's  Hindu  Pantheon,  p.  i. 


Two  forms  inseparable  in  nnittj, 

Hath  Yamen.  —  XXIII.  13,  p.  fiI2. 

The  Dharma-Rnja,  or  king  of  justice,  has  two  counte- 
nances ;  one  is  mild  and  full  of  lienevolence  ;  those  alone  who 
abound  with  virtue  see  it.  He  holds  a  court  of  justice,  where 
are  many  assistants,  among  whom  are  many  just  and  pious 
kings  ;  Chitragupta  acts  as  chief  secretary.  These  holy  men  de- 
termine what  is  dhnrma  and  adharma,  just  and  unjust.  His 
{Dhartna-Raja^s)  servant  is  called  Carnialii :  ho  brings  the 
righteous  on  celestial  cars,  which  go  of  themselves,  when- 
ever holy  men  arc  to  be  brought  in,  according  to  the  directions 
of  the  Dharma-Rajn,  who  is  the  sovereign  of  the  Pitris.  This 
is  called  his  divine  coitnteitanrc,  and  the  lightcous  alone  do  see 
it.  His  other  coMn(c«aHcc,  or /arm,  is  called  Yama;  this  the 
wicked  nione  can  see:  it  has  largo  teeth  and  a  monstrous 
body.  Yama  is  the  lord  o(  Paiala;  there  ho  orders  some  to 
be  beaten,  some  to  be  cut  to  pieces,  sonic  to  be  devoured  by 


(i44 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


monsters,  &c.  His  servant  is  called  Cdskmala,  wlio,  witli 
ropes  round  tiieir  necks,  drags  tlie  wicked  over  rugfjed  putlis, 
and  throws  llieni  headlong  into  liell.  lie  is  unmercitiil,  and 
hard  is  his  heart ;  every  body  trembles  at  the  sight  of  liim.  — 
VVii.FOiiD.     jisialic  Researches . 


Black  of  aspect,  red  of  eije.  —  XXFII.  13,  p.  G13. 

Punishment  is  the  A[agistrate  ;  Punishment  is  the  Inspirer 
of  Terror  ;  Punishment  is  the  Defender  from  Calamity  ;  Pun- 
ishment is  the  Guardian  of  those  that  sleep ;  Punishment, 
with  a  black  aspect  and  a  red  eye,  tempts  the  guilty.  —  Hal- 
hed's  Gentoo  Code,  ch.  xxi.  sect.  8. 


Azyoruca,  —  XXIII.  15,  p.  613. 

In  Patala  (or  the  infernal  regions)  resides  the  sovereign 
Queen  of  the  Nagas,  (large  snakes  or  dragons  :)  she  is  beau- 
tiful, and  her  name  is  Asyoruca.  There,  in  a  cave,  she  per- 
formed Taparya  with  such  rigorous  austerity,  that  fire  sprang 
from  her  body,  and  formed  numerous  agnitiratlis  (places  of 
sacred  fire)  in  Patala.  These  fires,  forcing  their  way  through 
the  earth,  waters,  and  mountains,  formed  various  openings  or 
mouths,  called  from  thence  the  flaming  mouths,  or  juala  muihi. 
By  Samudr  (Oceanus)  a  daughter  was  born  unto  her,  called 
Rama-Devi.  She  is  most  beautiful;  she  is  Lacshmi ;  and 
her  name  is  Asyotcarsha,  or  Asyotcrishta.  Like  a  jewel  she 
remains  concealed  in  the  Ocean.  —  Wilford.    Jisial.  Kes. 


He  came  in  all  his  might  and  majesty.  —  XXIV.  2,  p.  613. 

What  is  this  to  the  coming  of  Seeva,  as  given  us  by  Mr. 
Maurice,  from  the  Seeva  Paurana  .' 

"In  the  place  of  tlie  riglit  wheel  blazed  the  Sun,  in  the 
place  of  the  left  was  the  Moon;  instead  of  the  brazen  nails 
and  bolts,  which  firmly  held  the  ponderous  wheels,  were  dis- 
tributed Bramins  on  the  right  hand,  and  Reyshees  on  the  left ; 
in  lieu  of  the  canopy  on  the  top  of  the  chariot  was  overspread 
the  vault  of  Heaven  ;  tlie  counterpoise  of  the  wlieels  was  on 
the  east  and  west,  and  the  four  Semordres  were  instead  of  the 
cushions  and  bolsters ;  the  four  Vedas  were  placed  as  the 
horses  of  tlie  chariot,  and  Saraswaty  was  for  the  bell ;  the 
piece  of  wood  by  which  the  horses  are  driven  was  the  three- 
lettered  iMantra,  while  Brama  himself  was  the  charioteer,  and 
the  Nacshatras  and  stars  were  distributed  about  it  by  way  of 
ornaments.  Sumaru  was  in  the  place  of  a  bow,  the  serpent 
Seschanaga  was  stationed  as  the  string,  Veeshnu  instead  of 
an  arrow,  and  fire  was  constituted  its  point.  Ganges  and 
other  rivers  were  appointed  its  precursors  ;  and  the  setting 
out  of  the  chaiiot,  with  its  appendages  and  furniture,  one 
would  affirm  to  bo  the  year  of  twelve  months  gracefully  mov- 
ing forwards. 

"When  Seeva,  with  his  numerous  troops  and  prodigious 
army,  was  mounted,  Brama  drove  so  furiously,  that  thought 
itself,  which,  in  its  rapiil  career,  compasses  Heaven  and  Earth, 
could  not  keep  pace  with  it.  By  the  motion  of  the  chariot 
Heaven  and  Earth  were  put  into  a  tremor ;  and,  as  the  Earth 
was  not  able  to  bear  up  under  this  burden,  the  Cow  of  the 
Earth,  Kam-deva,  took  upon  itself  to  support  the  weight. 
Seeva  went  with  intention  to  destroy  Treepoor  ;  and  the  mul- 
titude of  Devetas,  and  Reyshees,  and  Apsaras  who  waited  on 
his  stirrup,  opening  their  mouths,  in  transports  of  joy  and 
praise,  exclaimed,  Jaya  !  Jaya  !  so  that  Parvati,  not  being 
able  to  bear  his  absence,  set  out  to  accompany  Seeva,  and  in 
an  instant  was  up  with  him  ;  while  the  light  which  brightened 
on  his  countenance,  on  the  arrival  of  Parvati,  surpassed  all 
imagination  and  description.  The  Genii  of  the  eight  regions, 
armed  with  all  kinds  of  weapons,  but  particularly  with  ag-iiy- 
astra,  or  fire  darts,  like  moving  mountains,  advanced  in  front 
of  the  army  ;  and  Eendra  and  other  Devatas,  some  of  them 
mounted  on  elephants,  some  on  horses,  others  on  chariots,  or 
on  camels  or  buffaloes,  were  stationed  on  eacli  side,  while  all 
the  other  order  of  Devetas,  to  the  amount  of  some  lacks, 
formed  the  centre.  The  Munietuvaras,  with  long  hair  on  their 
heads,  like  Saniassis,  holding  their  staves  in  their  hands, 
rtanced  as  they  went  along  ;  the  Syddyhas,  who  revolve  about 


the  heavens,  opening  their  mouths  in  praise  of  Seeva  rained 
flowers  upon  his  head  ;  and  the  vaulted  hraven,  which  is  like 
an  inverted  goblet,  being  appointed  in  the  place  of  a  drum, 
exalted  his  dignity  by  its  majestic  resounding." 

Tlirougliout  the  Hindoo  fables  there  is  the  constant  mistake 
of  bulk  for  sublimity. 


By  the  attribute  of  Deity, 

self-multiplied. 

The  Almighty  Man  appcar'd  on  every  side. 

XXIV.  2,  p.  613. 

This  more  than  polypus  power  was  once  exerted  by  Krishna 
on  a  curious  occasion. 

It  happened  in  Dicurka,a  splendid  city  built  by  Viswakanna, 
by  command  of  Krishna,  on  the  sea-shore,  in  the  province  of 
Quzerat,  that  his  musical  associate,  JVareda,  had  no  wife  or 
substitute  ;  and  he  hinted  to  his  friend  the  decency  of  sparing 
him  one  from  his  long  catalogue  of  ladies.  Krishna  gene- 
rously told  him  to  win  and  wear  any  one  he  chose,  not  imme- 
diately in  requisition  for  himself.  JVureda  accordingly  went 
wooing  to  one  house,  but  found  his  master  there  ;  to  a  second, 
—  ho  was  again  forestalled  ;  a  third,  the  same  ;  to  a  fourth, 
fifth,  the  same:  in  fine,  after  the  round  of  sixteen  thousand 
of  tliese  domiciliary  visits,  he  was  still  forced  to  sigh  and  keep 
single  ;  for  Krishna  was  in  every  house,  variously  employed, 
and  so  domesticated,  tliat  each  lady  congratulated  herself  on 
ner  exclusive  and  uninterrupted  possession  of  the  ardent  dei. 
ty.  —  Moor's  ITindu,  Pantheon,  p.  204. 

Eight  of  the  chief  gods  have  each  their  sacti,  or  energy, 
proceeding  from  them,difiering  from  them  in  sex,  but  in  every 
other  respect  exactly  like  them,  with  tlie  same  form,  the  same 
decorations,  the  same  weapons,  and  the  same  vehicle.  —  Asiut. 
Res.  8vo  edit.  vol.  viii.  p.  08,  82. 

The  manner  in  which  this  divine  power  is  displayed  by 
Kuhama,  in  his  combat  with  Yamen,  will  remind  some  readers 
of  the  Irishman,  who  brought  in  four  prisoners,  and  being 
asked  how  he  had  taken  them,  replied,  he  had  surrounded 
them. 


Tlie  Amreeta,  or  Drink  of  Immortality. 

XXIV.'  9,  p.  614. 

Mr.  Wilkins  has  given  the  genuine  history  of  this  liquor, 
which  was  produced  by  churning  the  sea  with  a  mountain. 

"  There  is  a  fair  and  stately  mountain,  and  its  name  is 
Mcroo,  a  most  exalted  mass  of  glory,  reflecting  the  sunny  rays 
from  the  splendid  surface  of  its  gilded  horns.  It  is  clothed 
in  gold,  and  is  the  respected  haunt  of  Dews  and  Oandharvas. 
It  is  inconceivable,  and  not  to  be  encompassed  by  sinful  man  ; 
and  it  is  guarded  by  dreadful  serjients.  Jlany  celestial  medi- 
cinal plants  adorn  its  sides  ;  and  it  stands,  piercing  the  heaven 
with  its  aspiring  summit,  a  mighty  hill,  inaccessible  even  by 
the  human  mind.  It  is  adorned  with  trees  and  pleasant 
streams,  and  resoundeth  with  the  delightful  songs  of  various 
birds. 

"  'i'he  Soars,  and  all  the  glorious  hosts  of  heaven,  having 
ascended  to  the  summit  of  this  lofty  mountain,  sparkling  witli 
precious  gems,  and  for  eternal  ages  raised,  were  sitting  in 
solemn  synod,  meditating  the  discovery  of  the  Amreeta,  the 
Water  of  Immortality.  The  Dr\D  M'arayan  being  also  there, 
spoke  unto  Brahma,  whilst  the  Soors  were  thus  consulting 
together,  and  said,  '  Let  the  Ocean,  as  a  pot  of  milk,  be  ctiurn?d 
by  the  united  labor  of  the  Soors  and  Asoors ;  and  when  tne 
mighty  waters  have  been  stirred  up,  the  Amreeta  shall  be 
found.  Let  them  collect  together  every  medicinal  herb,  and 
every  precious  thing,  and  let  them  stir  the  Ocean,  and  they 
shall  discover  the  AinreetcL' 

"  There  is  also  another  mighty  mountain,  whose  name  is 
Mandar,  and  its  rocky  summits  are  like  towering  clouds.  It 
is  clothed  in  a  net  of  the  entangled  tendrils  of  the  twining 
cree))cr,  and  resoundeth  with  the  harmony  of  various  birds. 
Innumerable  savage  beasts  infest  its  borders ;  and  it  is  the 
respected  haunt  of  Kennars,  Dews,  and  Apsars.  It  standeth 
eleven  thousand  Ynjayi  above  the  earth,  and  eleven  thousand 
more  below  its  surface. 

"  As  the  united  bands  of  Dews  were  unable  to  remove  thij 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  KEHAMA. 


G45 


inouiituiii,  tliLj'  went  before  Vreskiivo,  who  was  sitting  with 
Brahma^  ami  aJdrL-ssed  them  in  those  words  :  '  Exert,  O  mas- 
ters !  your  most  superior  wisdom  to  remove  the  mountain 
Munilar,  and  emphjy  your  utmost  power  for  our  good.' 

"  yeeshnou  and  Brahma  having  siiid,  '  It  sliall  be  according 
to  your  wish,'  he  witli  the  lotus  eye  directed  the  King  of 
Serpents  to  apjiear  ;  and  Ananta  arose,  and  was  instructed  in 
tlnit  wo.is  hy  Brahma,  and  commanded  by  JVarayun  to  per- 
form it.  Then  Aiianta,  by  his  power,  took  up  that  king  of 
mountains,  together  with  all  its  forests  and  every  inliabitant 
thereof;  and  the  Soars  accompanied  him  into  the  presence  of 
the  Ocean,  whom  they  addressed,  saying,  '  We  will  stir  up 
thy  waters  to  obtain  the  Amrccta.^  And  the  Lord  of  the 
Waters  replied,  '  Let  me  also  have  a  share,  seeing  I  am  to 
bear  the  violent  agitation  that  will  he  caused  by  the  whirling 
ol'  the  mountain  1 '  Then  the  Soars  and  Asoors  sjioke  unto 
Koorma-raj,  the  King  of  the  Tortoises,  upon  the  strand  of  the 
Ocean,  and  said,  '  My  lord  is  able  to  he  the  supporter  of  this 
niountiin.'  The  Tortoise  replied,  'Be  it  so;'  and  it  was 
placed  upon  his  hack. 

"  So  the  mountain  being  set  upon  the  back  of  the  Tortoise, 
Ecndra  began  to  whirl  it  about  as  it  were  a  machine.  The 
mountain  Jl/urerZur  served  as  a  churn,  and  the  serpent  Vasoukce 
for  the  rope  ;  and  thus  in  former  days  did  the  Dmvs,  and 
Asoors,  and  the  Danoos,  begin  to  stir  up  the  waters  of  the 
ocean  for  the  discovery  of  the  Amrecta. 

"  The  mighty  Asoors  were  employed  on  the  side  of  the  ser- 
pent's head,  whilst  all  the  Soars  assembled  about  his  tail. 
Anaiita,  that  sovereign  Dew,  stood  near  J^arayan. 

"  They  now  pull  forth  the  serpent's  bead  repeatedly,  a.id  as 
often  let  it  go  ;  whilst  there  issued  from  his  mouth,  thus  vio- 
lently drawing  to  and  fro  by  the  Soars  and  Asoors,  a  continual 
stream  of  fire  and  smoke  and  wind,  which  ascending  in  thick 
clouds,  replete  with  lightning,  it  began  to  rain  down  upon  the 
heavenly  bands,  who  were  already  fatigued  with  their  labor  ; 
whilst  a  shower  of  flowers  was  shaken  from  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  covering  the  heads  of  all,  both  Soars  and  Asoors. 
In  the  mean  time  the  roaring  of  the  ocean,  whilst  violently 
agitated  with  the  whirling  of  the  mountain  MaiiJur  hy  the 
Soors  and  Asaors,  was  like  the  bellowing  of  a  mighty  cloud. 
Thousands  of  the  various  productions  of  the  waters  were  torn 
to  pieces  by  the  mountain,  and  confounded  with  the  briny 
flood  ;  and  every  specific  being  of  the  deep,  and  all  the  in- 
habitants of  tiie  great  abyss  which  ia  below  the  earth,  were 
annihilated  ;  whilst,  from  the  violent  agitation  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  forest  trees  were  dashed  against  each  other,  and 
precipitated  from  its  utmost  height,  with  all  the  birds  thereon  ; 
from  whose  violent  confrication  a  raging  fire  was  produced, 
involving  the  whole  mountain  with  smoke  and  flame,  as  with 
a  dark-blue  cloud,  and  the  lightning's  vivid  flash.  The  lion 
and  the  retreating  elephant  are  overtaken  by  the  devouring 
flames,  and  every  vital  being  and  every  specific  thing  are 
consumed  in  the  general  conflagration. 

"  The  raging  flames,  thus  spreading  destruction  on  all  sides, 
were  at  length  quenched  by  a  shower  of  cloud-borne  water, 
poured  down  hy  the  immortal  Eendra.  And  now  a  hetero- 
geneous stream  of  the  concocted  juices  of  various  trees  and 
plants  ran  down  into  the  briny  flood. 

"  It  was  from  this  milk-like  stream  of  juices,  produced 
from  those  trees  and  plants  and  a  mixture  of  melted  gold,  that 
the  Soors  obtained  their  immortality. 

"  The  waters  of  the  Ocean  now  being  assimilated  with 
those  juices,  were  converted  into  milk,  and  from  that  milk  a 
kind  of  butter  was  presently  produced  ;  when  the  heavenly 
bands  went  again  into  the  presence  of  Brahma,  the  granter  of 
boons,  and  addressed  him,  saying,  '  Excejit  JVuraijan,  every 
other  Soar  and  Asoor  is  fatigued  with  his  labor,  and  still  the 
Amreeta  doth  not  appear ;  wherefore  the  churning  of  the 
Ocean  is  at  a  stand.'  Then  Brahma  said  unto  Miraijan, 
'  Endue  them  with  recruited  strength,  for  thou  art  their  sup- 
port.' And  JVurayan  answered  and  said,  '  I  will  give  ficsh 
vigor  to  such  as  cooperate  in  the  work.  Let  Mimdar  he 
whirled  about,  and  the  bed  of  the  ocean  be  kept  steady.' 

"  When  they  heard  the  words  of  JVurayan,  they  all  returned 
again  to  the  work,  and  began  to  stir  about  with  great  force 
that  butter  of  the  ocean,  when  there  presently  arose  from  out 
the  troubled  deep,  first  the  Moon,  with  a  pleasing  counte- 
nance, shining  with  ten  thousand  beams  of  gentle  light ;  next 
(bllowed  Srce,  the  goddess  of  fortune,  whose  seat  is  the  white 


lily  of  the  waters  ;  then  Soora-Devec,  the  goddess  of  wine, 
and  the  white  horse  called  Oohisrava.  And  after  these  there 
was  produced  from  the  unctuous  mass  the  Jewell  Kowsloobh, 
that  glorious  sparkling  gem  worn  by  Narayan  on  his  breast; 
also  Parerjut,  the  tree  of  plenty,  and  Soora'jhce,  the  cow  that 
granted  every  heart's  desire. 

"  The  moon,  Soora-Dcccc,  the  goddess  of  Srcc,  and  the 
Horse,  as  swift  as  thought,  instantly  marched  away  towards 
the  Dews,  keeping  in  the  path  of  the  Sun. 

"Then  the  Dew  Dhainounlarce,  in  human  shape,  came 
forth,  holding  in  his  hand  a  white  vessel  filled  with  the  im- 
mortal juice  Amrecta.  When  the  Asoors  beheld  these  won- 
drous things  appear,  they  raised  their  tumultuous  voices  for 
the  .Imrccta,  and  each  of  them  clamorously  exclaimed,  '  This 
of  right  is  mine.' 

"  In  the  mean  lime  Travat,  a  mighty  elephant,  arose,  now 
kept  by  the  god  of  thunder;  and  as  they  continued  to  churn 
the  ocean  more  than  enough,  that  deadly  poison  issued  from 
its  bed,  burning  like  a  raging  fire,  whose  dreadful  fumes  in  a 
moment  spread  througho\it  the  world,  confounding  the  threa 
regions  of  the  universe  with  the  mortal  stench,  imtil  Seev,  at 
the  word  of  Brahma,  swallowed  the  fatal  drug,  to  save  man- 
kind ;  which,  remaining  in  the  throat  of  that  sovereign  Dew 
of  magic  form,  from  that  time  he  hath  been  called  JVni-Kaiit, 
because  his  throat  was  stained  blue. 

"  When  the  Asoors  beheld  this  miraculous  deed,  they  he- 
came  desperate,  and  [be  Amrecta  and  the  goddess  Srce  became 
the  source  of  endless  hatred. 

"  Then  JVurayan  assumed  the  character  and  person  of  Mo- 
heenrc  Maya,  the  power  of  enchantment,  in  a  female  foriri  of 
wonderful  lieauty,  and  stood  before  the  Asoors,  whose  minds 
being  fascinated  hy  her  presence,  and  deprived  of  reason,  they 
seized  the  Amrecta,  and  gave  it  unto  her. 

"The  Asoors  now  clothe  themselves  in  costly  armor,  and, 
seizing  their  various  weapons,  rush  on  together  to  attack  the 
Soors.  In  the  mean  time  JVwrni/a?),  in  the  female  form,  having 
ol)tained  the  Amrecta  from  the  bands  of  their  leader,  the  hosts 
of  Soo»'.-',  during  the  tumult  and  confusion  of  the  Asoors,  drank 
of  the  living  water. 

"  And  it  so  fell  out,  that  whilst  the  Soors  were  quenching 
their  thirst  for  immortality,  Rahoo,  an  Asoor.  assumed  the 
form  of  a  Soar,  and  began  to  drink  also:  and  the  water  had 
but  reached  his  throat,  when  tlic  Sun  and  Moon,  in  friendship 
to  the  Soors,  discovered  the  deceit ;  and  instantly  J^'arayan 
cut  ofT  his  head  as  he  was  drinking,  with  his  splendid  weapon 
Chalcra.  And  the  gigantic  head  of  the  Asoor,  emblem  of  a 
mountain's  sunmiit,  being  thus  separated  from  his  body  by 
the  Chakra^s  edge,  bounded  into  the  heavens  with  a  dreadful 
cry,  whilst  his  ponderous  trunk  fell,  cleaving  the  ground 
asunder,  and  shaking  the  whole  earth  unto  its  foundation, 
with  all  its  islands,  rocks,  and  forests;  and  from  that  time 
the  head  of  Rahoo  resolved  an  eternal  enmity,  and  contiiiueth, 
even  unto  this  day,  at  times  to  seize  upon  the  Sun  nn<l  Moon. 

"  Now  Narayan,  having  quitted  the  female  figure  he  had 
assumed,  began  to  disturb  the  Asoors  with  sundry  celestial 
weapons;  and  from  that  instant  a  dreadful  battle  was  com- 
menced, on  the  ocean's  briny  strand,  between  the  Asoors  and 
the  Soors.  Innumerable  sharp  and  missile  weapons  were 
hurled,  and  thousands  of  piercing  darts  and  battle-axes  fell 
on  all  sides.  The  Asoors  vomit  blood  from  the  wounds  of 
the  Chalcra,  and  fall  upon  the  ground  pierced  by  the  sword, 
the  spear,  and  spiked  club.  Heads,  glittering  with  polished 
gold,  divided  by  the  Pattces'  blade,  drop  incessantly;  and 
mangled  bodies,  wallowing  in  their  gore,  lay  like  fragments  of 
mighty  rocks,  sparkling  with  gems  and  |)recious  ores.  Mil- 
lions of  sighs  and  groans  arise  on  every  side  ;  and  the  sun  is 
overcast  with  blooil,  as  they  clash  their  arms,  and  wound  each 
other  witli  their  dreadful  instruments  of  destruction. 

"  Now  the  battle  is  fought  with  the  iron-spiked  cluli,  and, 
as  they  close,  with  clinched  fist ;  and  the  din  of  war  ascendeth 
to  the  heavens.  They  cry,  '  Pursue  !  strike  '.  fell  to  the 
ground  I  '  so  that  a  horrid  anil  tumultuous  noise  is  hoard  on 
all  sides. 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  dreadful  hurry  and  confusion  of  the 
fight,  JVar  and  JVurayan  entered  the  field  together.  JVarayan, 
beholding  a  celestial  bow  in  the  hand  of  JVar,  it  reminded  him 
of  his  Chalcra,  the  destroyer  of  the  Asoors.  The  faithful 
weapon,  by  name  SooiJursaii,  ready  at  the  mind's  call,  flew 
down  from  heaven  with  direct  and  refulgent  speed,  beautiful, 


64G     PREFACE   TO    RODERICK,   THE   LAST   OF   THE  GOTHS. 


yet  torriblo  to  Iteliuld  :  .iiid  bt'iii^  arrived,  glowing  like  thi? 
sacrifiuiul  Hume,  uiul  spreading  terror  around,  JVuruijuii,  witli 
his  riglit  arm  fornifd  like  tlie  elupliantiiu;  trunk,  liurk'd  forth 
the  ponderous  orl),  tlie  speedy  messenger  and  glorious  ruin  of 
hostile  towns;  wh.),  laging  like  the  final  ull-destroying  fire, 
shot  hounding  with  desolating  force,  killing  thousands  of  the 
^soor.i  in  his  rapid  flight,  burning  and  involving,  like  the  lain- 
beut  flame,  and  cutting  dosvn  all  that  would  oppose  him. 
Anon  he  climbeth  the  heavens,  and  now  again  darteth  into 
the  field  like  a  Pecsiuh,  to  feast  in  blooil. 

"  .\ow  the  dauntless  Msoors  strive,  with  repeated  strength, 
to  crush  the  Soors  with  rocks  and  mountains,  which,  hurled  in 
vast  nuni!)ers  into  the  heavens,  appeared  like  scattered  clouds, 
and  fell,  with  all  the  trees  thereon,  in  millions  of  fear-exciting 
torrents,  striking  violently  against  each  other  with  a  mighty 
noise  ;  and  in  their  fill  the  earth,  with  ail  its  fields  and  forests, 
is  driven  from  its  foundation  :  they  thunder  furiously  at  each 
other  us  they  roll  along  the  field,  and  sjiend  their  strength  in 
mutual  conflict. 

"Now  JiTar,  seeing  the  Soars  overwhelmed  with  fear,  filled 
up  the  path  to  Heaven  with  showers  of  golden-headed  arrows, 


and  S]ilit  the  mountain  summits  with  his  unerring  shafts  ;  and 
the  ^.fuurx,  finding  theinselves  again  sore  pressed  by  the  Soors, 
jirecipitately  lice  ;  some  rush  headlon:;  into  the  briny  waters 
of  the  ocean,  and  others  hide  themselves  within  the  bowels 
of  the  earth. 

"The  rage  of  the  glorious  CItakra,  Soodarsan,  which  for  a 
while  burnt  like  the  oil-fed  fire,  now  grew  cool,  and  he  retired 
iiilo  the  heavens  from  whence  he  came.  And  the  Sours  hav- 
ing obtained  the  victory,  the  mountain  Mundar  was  carried 
back  to  its  former  station  with  great  respect,  whilst  the  waters 
also  retired,  filling  the  firmament  and  the  heavens  with  their 
dreadful  roarings. 

"The  Soors  guarded  the  j?mr«te  with  great  care,  and  re- 
joiced exceedingly  because  of  their  success.  And  Ecndra, 
with  all  his  immortal  bands,  gave  the  water  of  life  unto  JVa- 
raijan,  to  keep  it  for  their  use." —  Mahabharat. 

Amrita,  or  Immortal,  is,  according  to  Sir  William  Jones, 
the  name  which  the  mythologists  of  Tibet  apply  to  a  celestial 
tree,  bearing  ambrosial  fruit,  and  adjoining  to  four  vast  rocks, 
from  which  as  many  sacred  livers  derive  their  several 
streams. 


A    TRAGIC    POEM. 


Tanlo  acrior  apud  majores,  sicut  virtutibus  gloria,  ita  flagitiis  pfenitentia,  fuit.     Sed  haec  aliarjue,  ex  veteri  memoril 
pctita,  quotiens  res  locusque  exempla  recti,  aut  solatia  mali,  poscet,  baud  absurde  memorahimus. 

Taciti  Hist.  lib.  3.  c.  51. 


TO    GROSVENOR    CHARLES    BEDFORD, 

THIS     POEM     IS     INSCRIBED, 

I.V    LASTING    MEMORIAL    OF    A    LONG    AND    UNINTERRUPTED    FRIENDSHIP, 

BV    HIS    OLD    SCHOOLFELLOW, 


ROBERT     SOUTHEY. 


As  the  ample  Moon, 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  even 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  Grove, 
Burns  like  an  unconsuming  tire  of  liglit 
In  the  green  trees  ;  and  kindling  on  all  sides 
Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own. 
Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene  ;  —  like  power  abides 
In  Man's  celestial  Spirit ;  Virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself;  thus  feeds 
A  calm,  a  beautiful  and  silent  fire. 
From  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life, 
From  error,  disappointment,  —  nay,  from  guilt ; 
And  sometimes,  so  relenting  Justice  wills, 
From  palpable  oppressions  of  Despair. 

WoRDSWOBTH. 


-«- 


PREFACE. 

This  poem  was  commenced  at  Keswick,  Dec.  2, 
1809,  and  finished  there  July  14,  1814. 


A  French  translation,  by  M.  B.  de  S.,  in  three 
volumes  12ino.,  was  published  in  1820,  and  another 
by  M.  le  Chevalier*  *  *,  in  one  volume  8vo.,  1821. 
Both  are  in  prose. 

When  the  latest  of  these  versions  was  nearly 
ready  for  publication,  the  publisher,  who  was  also 
the  printer,  insisted  upon  having  a  life  of  the  author 
prefi.xed.  The  French  public,  he  said,  knew  noth- 
ing of  M.  Southey,  and  in  order  to  make  the 
book  sell,  it  must  be  managed  to  interest  them  for 
the  writer.  The  Chevalier  represented  as  a  con 
elusive  reason  for  not  attempting  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  that  he  was  not  acquainted  with  M.  Southey 's 
private  history.  "  Would  you  believe  it.'  "  says  a 
friend  of  the  translator's,  from  whose  letter  .trans- 
scribe  what  follows  ;  "  this  was  his  answer  rcrha- 
tim  :  '  jXimporte,  dcrivez  toujours  ;  brodcz,  hrodcz- 
la  un  peu  ;  que  ce  soil  vrai  ou  non  ce  nc  fait  rien  ; 
qui  ■prendra  la  peine  de  s' informer?'  "  Accord- 
ingly a  JVutire  .^-iir  M.  Soalhry  was  composed,  not 
exactly  in  conformity  with  the  publisher's  notions 


PREFACE  TO  RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  (JOTHS.  (M7 


of  biography,  but  from  such  materials  as  could  be 
collected  from  magazines  and  other  equally  unau- 
thentic sources. 

In  one  of  these  versions  a  notable  mistake  occurs, 
occasioned  by  the  French  pronunciation  of  an 
English  word.  The  whole  passage  indeed,  in  both 
versions,  may  be  regarded  as  curiously  exemplify- 
ing the  difference  between  P^encli  and  English 
poetry . 

"The  lamps  and  tapers  now  grew  pale, 
And  through  the  eastern  windows  slanting  fell 
The  roseate  ray  of  morn.     Within  those  walls 
Returning  day  restored  no  cheerful  sounds 
Or  joyous  motions  of  awakening  life  ; 
But  in  the  stream  of  light  the  speckled  motes 
As  if  in  mimicry  of  insect  play, 
Floated  with  mazy  movement.     Sloping  down 
Over  the  altar  pass'd  the  pillar'd  beam, 
And  rested  on  the  sinful  woman's  grave 
As  if  it  enter'd  there,  alight  from  Heaven. 
So  be  it !  cried  Pelayo,  even  so  ! 
As  in  a  momentary  interval. 

When  thought  expelling  thought,  had  left  his  mind 
Oj)on  and  passive  to  the  influxes 
Of  outward  sense,  his  vacant  eye  was  there, — 
So  be  it,  Heavenly  Father,  even  so  ! 
Thus  may  thy  vivifying  goodness  shed 
Forgiveness  there ;  for  let  not  thou  the  groans 
Of  dying  penitence,  nor  my  bitter  prayers 
Before  thy  mercy-seat,  be  heard  in  vain  ! 
And  thou,  poor  soul,  who  from  the  dolorous  house 
Of  weeping  and  of  pain,  dost  look  to  me 
To  shorten  and  assuage  thy  penal  term. 
Pardon  me  that  these  hours  in  other  thoughts 
And  other  duties  than  this  garb,  this  night 
Enjoin,  should  thus  have  past !  Our  mother-land 
Exacted  of  my  heart  the  sacrifice  ; 
And  many  a  vigil  must  thy  son  perform 
Henceforth  in  woods  and  mountain  fastnesses, 
And  tented  fields,  outwatching  for  her  sake 
The  starry  host,  and  ready  for  the  work 
Of  day,  before  the  sun  begins  his  course."* 

//  se  livraii  a  tonics  ccs  rcfleziojis,  quand  la  hi- 
initre  des  lampcs  et  des  cieracs  commenra  a  pulir. 
ft  que  les  prcmiircs  tcintes  de  iuurore  se  inonlrcrcnt 
a  travers  les  hautcs  croisies  tournies  vers  Vorient. 
Le  retour  dii.  jour  ne  rumena  point  dans  ccs  murs 
des  sons  joyeux  ni  les  ynouccmens  de  la  vie  qui  se 
riveille  ;  les  seals  papillvns  de  nuit,  agiiant  leurs 
ailes  pesantes,  bourdonnuient  encore  sous  les  voiites 
tcnr.breuses.  Bicntut  Ic  premier  rayon  du  solcil 
glissant  ohliquement  par-dessus  I'autel,  vint  s'arrc- 
ter  sur  la  tomhc  de  la  femme pccheresse,  etla  lumicre 
du  del  sembla  ij  pcniitrer.  "  (^ue  ce  presage  s'ac- 
conij/lisxc,"  s'ccria  Prlagc,  qui  absorb:';  duns  scsmt- 
dUiUions,Jixuit  en  ce  moment  scs  yeux  sur  le  tombcau 
de  su  mere  ;  "  Dicu  de  misiricorde,  qu'il  en  soit  ainsi ! 
Puisse  ta  bont^:  vivijiante  y  vcrscr  de  me  me  Ic  pardon. ! 
Que  les  sanglots  dc  la,  pinitcnce  expirante,  ct  que  mcs 
pricres  amcres  ne  mmitcnt  point  en  vain  devant 
le  trdne  itcrnel.  El  toi,  pauvre  dme,  qui  de  ton 
sdjtrur   douloureux   de  souffranctiS   et    de    larmcs, 

*  See  page  G67,  col.  9. 


espires  en  moi  pour  abrcger  ct  adoucir  ton  svpplice, 
temporaire,  pardonne  moi  d'avoir,  sous  ces  habits  ct 
dans  cellc  nuit,  ditourni  mcs  pcnsics  sur  d'aulrcs 
devoirs.  jXoire  patrie  commune  a  cxigc  dc  vnoi  ce 
sacrifice,  ct  ton  fils  doit  dor6na,vant  accomjdir  plus 
d'u7ic  villc  dans  la  profondeur  desforCls  sur  la  cime 
des  monts,  dans  les  plaincs  couverlcs  de  tcntcs,  ob- 
servant, pour  I'amour  de  V Kspagne,  la  viarche  des 
astres  dc  la  nuit,  ct  prcparant  Vouvragc  de  sajmirndc 
avant  que  le  solcil  ne  commence  sa  course.'' — T.  i. 
pp.  17.') — 177. 

In  the  other  translation  the  motes  are  not  con- 
verted into  moths,  —  but  tlie  image  is  omitted. 

Consumt  cs  dans  des  sains pareils  les  rapidcs  li  cures 
s'dcouloicnt,  les  lampcs  ct  les  torches  commcnroicnt 
a.  pdlir,  ct  iobliquc  rayon  du  matin  doroit  dcja  les 
vitraux  6lev6s  qui  rcgurdoient  vers  i Orient:  Ic 
retour  du  jour  ne  ramenoit  point,  dans  ccttc  sombre 
enceinte,  les  sons  joyeux,  ni  le  tableau  mouvant  dc 
la  vie  qui  sc  reveille  ;  mais,  tombant  d'en  haut,  le 
cilcste  rayon,  passant  au-dcssus  de  I'avtcl,  rintfrap- 
per  Ic  tombcau  dc  la  femme  pi-chcrcssc.  ^'■^'iinsi 
soit-il,"  s'ccria  Pelage;  "ain«  .soit-il,  6  divin 
Crealeur!  Puissc  ta  v'lv'ifiante  bontc  vcrscr  ainsi 
le  pardon  en  ce  lieu  !  Que  les  gcmissemcns  d'vne 
mort  finitente,  que  mes  amdres  pricres  ne  soient 
pas  arrivccs  en  vain  devout  la  trdne  de  misiriccrdc  .' 
Et  toi,  qui,  de  ton  sijour  de  sovffrances  ct  de  larmcs, 
rcgardcs  vers  ton  fils,  pour  abrcger  et  soulagcr  tes 
peines,  pardonne,  si  d'aulrcs  devoirs  out  rcmpli  les 
heures  que  cette  nuit  et  cet  habit  m' evjoignoient  dc 
le  consacrcr !  JS'otre  patrie  exigeoit  ce  sacrifice; 
d'aulrcs  vigilcs  mallcndenl  dans  les  bois  et  les 
defiles  de  nos  montagnes;  et  bicntdt  sous  la  tenle, 
il  me  faudra  vcillcr,  Ic  soir,  avant  que  le  cicl  ne  se 
couvre  d'ctoilcs,  ctre  prtt  pour  Ic  travail  du  jour, 
avant  que  le  solcil  ne  commence  sa  course.''  —  Pp. 
92,  93. 

A  very  good  translation,  in  Dutch  verse,  was 
published  in  two  volumes,  8vo,  182;j-4,  with  this 
title:  — "  Rodrigo  de  Goth,  Koning  van  Spanje. 
Naar  het  Engelsch  van  Southey  gevolgd,  door 
Vrouwe  Katharina  Wilhelmina  Bilderdijk.  Te 
's  Ciravcnhage."  It  was  sent  to  nie  with  the 
following  epistle  from  her  husband,  Mr.  Willem 
Bilderdijk. 

"  Pioberto  Southey,  viro  spectatissimo, 
Gulielmus  Bilderdijk,  S.  P.  D. 

"  Etsi  ea  nunc  tem])oris  passim  invaluerit  opinio, 
poetarum  genus  quam  maxima  gloria;  cupiditate 
flagrare,  mihi  tamen  contraria  semper  insedit  per- 
suasio,  qui  divinic  Poeseos  allitudinem  veramque 
laudem  non  nisi  ab  iis  cognosci  putavi  quorum 
praj  cajterise  meliori  luto  finxerit  proccordia  Titan, 
neque  aut  verc  cut  juste  judicari  vatein  nisi  ab  iis 
(jui  eodeni  afHatu  moveantur.  Sexagesinius  autcm 
jam  agitur  annus  ex  quo  et  ipse  meos  inter  tcqualcs 
poeta  salutor,  eumque  locum  quem  ineunte  ado- 
lescentia  occupare  contigit,  in  hunc  usque  diem 
tenuisse  videor,  popularis  aurte  nunfjuam  captator, 
quin  innno  perpetuus  contemptor ;  parcus  ipse 
laudator,  censor  gravis  ct  nonnunquam  molestus. 


G48  PREFACE  TO  RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


Tuum  vero  nomen,  Vir  ccleberrime  ac  spectalis- 
sime,  jam  antea  veneratus,  perlecto  tuo  de  Roderi- 
co  rego  poumate,  non  potui  non  summis  extollere 
laudibus,  quo  doctissimo  siniul  ac  venustissiiiio 
opere,  si  minus  divinam  Aeneida,  saltern  immor- 
talem  Tassonis  Epopeiam  tentassc,  quin  et  certo 
respeclu  ila  superasse  videris,  ut  majorum  perpau- 
cos,  lEqualium  neminem,  cum  vera  fide  ac  pietate 
in  Deum,  turn  ingenio  omnique  poetica  dote  tibi 
comparandum  existimem.  Ne  niireris  itaque,  car- 
mini-s  tui  gravitate  ac  dulcedinc  captain,  meoque 
judicio  fultam,  non  illaudatam  in  nostratibus  Mu- 
sam  tuum  illud  nobile  poema  focminea  manu  sed 
non  insueto  labore  attrectasse,  Belgicoque  sermone 
reddidisse.  Hanc  certe,  per  quadrantem  seculi  et 
quod  excurrit  felicissimo  connubio  mihi  junctam, 
meamque  in  Divina  arte  alumnam  ac  sociam,  ni- 
niium  in  eo  sibi  sumpsisse  nemo  facile  arbitrabitur 
cui  vel  minimum  Poeseos  nostrss  sensum  usurpare 
contigerit ;  nee  ego  hos  ejus  conatus  quos  illustri 
tuo  nomini  dicandos  putavit,  tibi  mea  manu  ofFerre 
dubitabam.  Hebc  itaque  utriusque  nostrum  in  te 
observantise  specimina  accipe,  Vir  illustrissimc,  ac 
si  quod  communium  studiorum,  si  quod  verse  pie- 
tatis  est  vinculum,  nos  tibi  ex  animo  liabe  addic- 
tissimos.     Vale. 

"  Dabam  Lugduni  in   Batavis.     Ipsis  idib. 
Februah  CIOIOCCCXXIV." 

I  went  to  Ley  den  in  1825,  for  the  purpose  of 
seeing  tlie  writer  of  this  epistle,  and  the  lady  who 
had  translated  my  poem,  and  addressed  it  to  me  in 
some  very  affecting  stanzas.  It  so  happened,  that 
on  my  arrival  in  that  city,  I  was  laid  up  under  a 
surgeon's  care  ;  they  took  me  into  their  house,  and 
made  the  days  of  my  confinement  as  pleasurable 
as  they  were  memorable.  I  have  never  been  ac- 
quainted with  a  man  of  higher  intellectual  power, 
nor  of  greater  learning,  nor  of  more  various  and 
extensive  knowledge  than  Bilderdijk,  confessedly 
the  most  distinguished  man  of  letters  in  his  own 
country.  His  wife  was  worthy  of  him.  I  paid 
them  another  visit  the  following  year.  They  a1-e 
now  both  gone  to  their  rest,  and  I  shall  not  look 
upon  their  like  again. 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  Roderick,  I  re- 
ceived the  following  curious  letter  from  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  (who  had  passed  a  few  days  with  me  in 
the  preceding  autumn,)  giving  me  an  account  of 
his  endeavors  to  procure  a  favorable  notice  of  the 
poem  in  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

"  Edinburgh,  Dec.  15,  1614. 
"My  dear  Sir, 

"  I  was  very  happy  at  seeing  the  post-mark  of 
Keswick,  and  quite  proud  of  the  pleasure  you  make 
me  believe  iry  "  Wake  "  has  given  to  the  beauteous 
and  happy  group  at  Greta  Ilall.  Indeed,  few 
things  could  give  me  more  pleasure,  for  I  left  my 
heart  a  sojourner  among  them.  I  have  had  a 
higher  opinion  of  matrimony  since  that  period  than 
ever  1  had  before ;  and  I  desire  that  you  will  posi- 
tively give  my  kindest  respects  to  each  of  them 
individually. 

"  The  Pilo-rim  of  the  Sun  is  published,  as  you  will 


see  by  the  Papers,  and  if  J  may  believe  some  com 
munications  that  I  have  got,  the  public  opinion  of 
it  is  high  ;  but  these  communications  to  an  author 
are  not  to  be  depended  on. 

"  I  have  read  Roderick  over  and  over  again,  and 
am  the  more  and  more  convinced  that  it  is  the 
noblest  epic  poem  of  the  age.  I  have  had  some 
correspondence  and  a  good  deal  of  conversation 
with  Mr.  Jeffrey  about  it,  though  he  does  not  agree 
with  me  in  every  particular.  He  says  it  is  too 
long,  and  wants  elasticity,  and  will  not,  he  fears,  be 
generally  read,  though  much  may  be  said  in  its 
favor.  I  had  even  teased  him  to  let  me  review  it 
for  him,  on  account,  as  I  said,  that  he  could  not 
appreciate  its  merits.  I  copy  one  sentence  out  of 
the  letter  he  sent  in  answer  to  mine  :  — 

"  '  For  Southey  I  have,  as  well  as  you,  great  re- 
spect, and  when  he  will  let  me,  great  admiration ; 
but  he  is  a  most  provoking  fellow,  and  at  least  as 
conceited  as  his  neighbor  Wordsworth.  I  cannot 
just  trust  you  with  his  Roderick;  but  I  shall  be 
extremely  happy  to  talk  over  that  and  other  kin- 
dred subjects  with  you  ;  for  I  am  every  way  dis- 
posed to  give  Southey  a  lavish  allowance  of  praise  ; 
and  few  things  would  give  me  greater  pleasure 
than  to  find  he  had  afforded  m?  a  fair  opportunity. 
But  I  must  do  my  duty  according  to  my  own  ap- 
prehensions of  it.' 

"  I  supped  with  him  last  night,  but  there  was  so 
many  people  that  I  got  but  little  conversation  with 
him ;  but  what  we  had  was  solely  about  you  and 
Wordsworth.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  a 
crushing  review  he  has  given  the  latter.  I  still 
found  him  persisting  in  his  first  asseveration,  that  it 
was  heavy ;  but  what  was  my  pleasure  to  find  that 
he  had  only  got  to  the  seventeenth  division  !  1 
assured  him  he  had  the  marrow  of  the  thing  to 
come  at  as  yet,  and  in  that  I  was  joined  by  Mr. 

Alison.     There  was  at  the  same  time  a  Lady  M 

joined  us  at  the  instant ;  short  as  her  remark  was, 
it  seemed  to  make  more  impression  on  JeflTrey  than 
all  our  arguments  :  —  '  Oh,  I  do  love  Southey  ! ' 
that  was  all. 

"  I  have  no  room  to  tell  you  more.  But  1  beg 
that  you  will  not  do  any  thing,  nor  publish  any 
thing  that  will  nettle  Jeffrey  for  the  present, 
knowing,  as  you  do,  how  omnipotent  he  is  with  the 
fashionable  world,  and  seemingly  so  well  disposed 
toward  you. 

"  I  am  ever  yours  most  truly, 

"  James  Hogg. 

"  1  wish  the  Notes  may  be  safe  enough.  I  never 
looked  at  them.  I  wish  these  large  quartoes  were 
all  in  hell  burning." 

The  reader  will  be  as  much  amused  as  I  was  with 
poor  Hogg's  earnest  desire  that  I  would  not  say 
any  thing  which  miglit  tend  to  frustrate  his  friendly 
intentions. 

Hilt  wliat  success  the  Shepherd  met, 
Is  to  tlie  world  a  secret  yet. 

There  can  be  no  reason,  however,  for  withhold- 
ino-  what  was  said  in  my  reply  of  the  crushing  re- 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


649 


view  whicli  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
poem  :  —  "  //c  crush  the  Excursion  ! !  Tell  him  he 
might  as  easily  crush  Skiddaw  !  " 

Kf.swick,  I o  June,  1838. 


ORIGINAL   PREFACE. 

The  iiistory  of  the  AVisi-Goths  for  some  years 
before  llieir  overthrow  is  very  imperfectly  known. 
It  is,  however,  apparent  that  the  enmity  between 
the  royal  families  of  Ciiindasuintho  and  Wamba 
was  one  main  cause  of  the  destruction  of  the  king- 
dom, the  latter  party  having  assisted  in  betraying 
their  country  to  the  Moors  for  the  gratification  of 
their  own  revenge.  Theodofred  and  Favila  were 
younger  sons  of  King  Ciiindasuintho  ;  King  Witiza, 
who  was  of  VVamba's  family,  put  out  the  eyes  of 
Theodofred,  and  murdered  Favila,  at  the  instigation 
of  that  Chieftain's  wife,  with  whom  he  lived  in 
adultery.  Pelayo,  the  son  of  Favila,  and  afterwards 
the  founder  of  the  Spanish  monarchy,  was  driven 
into  exile.  Roderick,  the  son  of  Theodofred,  re- 
covered the  throne,  and  put  out  Witiza's  eyes  in 
vengeance  for  his  father ;  but  he  spared  Orpas,  the 
brotlier  of  the  tyrant,  as  being  a  Priest,  and  Ebba 
and  Sisibert,  the  two  sons  of  Witiza,  by  Pelayo's 
mother.  It  may  be  convenient  thus  briefly  to  pre- 
mise these  circumstances  of  an  obscure  portion  of 
history,  with  which  few  readers  can  be  supposed  to 
be  familiar;  and  a  list  of  the  principal  persons  who 
are  introduced,  or  spoken  of,  may  as  properly  be 
prefixed  to  a  Poem  as  to  a  Play. 


(letlironeil  and 


Witiza,    King  of  the  Wisi-Goths 

blinilcd  by  Roderick. 
Theodofred,  ....  son  of  Kin;;  Cliiiidasuintlio,  blinded  by 

King  Witiz.i. 

Favila, his  brother ;  [lut  to  death  by  W^itiza. 

The  Wife  of  Favila,  Witiza's  adnlterous  mistress. 

{These four pcrnons  are  dead  hefnre  th.e  action  of  the iwcm 

commences.) 

***** 

Roderick, the  last  King  of  the  Wisi-Goths  ;    son 

of  Tlieodofred. 
Pelayo, the  fouridur  of  the  Spanish  Monarcliy ; 

son  of  Favila. 

Gaudiosa, his  wife. 

GvisLA, liis  sister. 

Favila, his  son. 

IIermesind, his  daughter. 

iIlmll\, widow   of  Theodofred,   and   mother  of 

Roderick. 
CoI'NT  Pr.DRO,    .  .  > 
Cuixr  EuDos, 

.Alphonso, Count  Pedro's  son,  afterwards  King. 

(jRBAS, Arrhbishop  of  Toledo. 

Romano, a  Monk  of  the   Caulian  Schools,   near 

Jlerida. 

.Ann  vLvziz, the  Moorish  governor  of  Spain. 

EoiLoNA, formerly  the  wifo  of  Roderick,  now  of 

Abl'lcacem,    .  .  .  ")  [.\bdalaziz. 

Alcahmax,  ....    I 

AvuB, ;  Moorish  Chiefs. 

Irr\him,  I 

Macued, j 

82 


powerful  Lords  of  Cantabria. 


Orpas, brother  to  Witiza,  and  formerly  Arch- 
bishop of  Seville,  now  a  renegade. 

'    sons  of  Witiza  and  of  Pelayo's  mother. 


Erra, 

NuMACiAN, a  renegade,  governor  of  Gegio. 

Count  Julian,   ...  a  powerful  Lord  among  the  Wisi-Goths, 
now  a  renegade. 

Florinda, his  daughter,  violated  by  King  Roderick. 

***** 
Adosinda,.    .  daughter  of  the  Governor  of  Auria. 

Odoar, Abbot  of  St.  Felix 

SivERiAN, Roderick's  foster-father. 

Favinia, Count  Pedro's  wife. 

The  four  latter  persons  are  imaginary.  All  the  others  arc 
mentioned  in  history.  I  ought,  however,  to  observe,  that 
Romano  is  a  creature  of  monkish  legends  ;  that  the  name  of 
Pelayo's  sister  has  not  been  preserved  ;  and  that  tliat  of  Rod- 
erick's mother,  Ruscilo,  has  been  altered  to  Rusilla.  for  thfl 
sake  of  euphony. 


RODERICK   AND   ROMANO. 

Long  had  the  crimes  of  Spain  cried  out  to  Heaven : 

At  length  the  measure  of  offence  was  full. 

Count  Julian  call'd  the  invaders;  not  because 

Inhuman  priests  with  unoffending  blood 

Had  stain'd  their  country  :  not  because  a  yoke 

Of  iron  servitude  oppress'd  and  gall'd 

The  children  of  the  soil  :  a  private  wrong 

Roused  the  remorseless  Baron.     Mad  to  wreak 

His  vengeance,  for  his  violated  child. 

On  Roderick's  head,  in  evil  hour  for  Spain, 

For  that  unhappy  daughter,  and  himself, — 

Desperate  apostate  !  —  on  the  Moors  he  call'd  ; 

And  like  a  cloud  of  locusts,  whom  the  South 

Wafts  from  the  plains  of  wasted  Africa, 

The  Mussulmen  upon  Iberia's  shore 

Descend.     A  countless  multitude  they  came; 

Syrian,  Moor,  Saracen,  Greek  renegade, 

Persian,  and  Copt,  and  Tatar,  in  one  bond 

Of  erring  faith  conjoin'd, —  strong  in  the  youth 

And  heat  of  zeal,  —  a  dreadful  brotherhood, 

In  whom  all  turbulent  vices  were  let  loose; 

While  Conscience,  with  their  impious  creed  ac- 

curs'd 
Drunk  as  with  wine,  had  sanctified  to  them 
All  bloody,  all  abominable  things. 

Thou,  Calpe,  saw'st  their  coining ;  ancient  Rock 
Rcnown'd,  no  longer  now  shalt  thou  be  call'd 
From  Gods  and  Heroes  of  the  years  of  yore, 
Kronos,  or  hundred-handed  Briarcus, 
Bacchus,  or  Hercules ;  but  doom'd  to  bear 
The  name  of  thy  new  conqueror,  and  thenceforth 
To  stand  his  everlasting  monument. 
Thou  saw'st  the  dark-blue  waters  flash  before 
Their  ominous  way,  and  whiten  round  their  keels  ; 
Their  swarthy  myriads  darkening  o'er  thy  sands. 
There,  on  the  beach,  tiie  Mi.sbelievers  sprcjtd 
Their  banner.^,  flaunting  to  the  sun  and  breeze ; 
Fair  shone  the  sun  upon  their  proud  array, 
White  turbans,  glittering  armor,  shields  engrail'd 
With  gold,  and  ciineters  of  Syrian  steel ; 
And  gently  did  the  breezes,  as  in  sport, 


650 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


Curl  their  long  flags  outroUing,  and  display 
The  blazon'd  scrolls  of  bla&i)heniy.     Too  soon 
The  gales  of  Spain  from  that  unhappy  land 
Wafted,  as  from  an  open  charnel-house, 
The  taint  of  death  ;  and  that  bright  sun,  from  fields 
Of  slaughter,  with  the  morning  dew  drew  up 
Corruption  through  the  infected  atmosphere. 

Then  fell  the  kingdom  of  the  Goths ;  their  hour 
Was  come,  and  Vengeance,  long  withheld,  went 

loose. 
Famine  and  Pestilence  had  wasted  them. 
And  Treason,  like  an  old  and  eating  sore, 
Consumed  the  bones  and  sinews  of  their  strength; 
And,  worst  of  enemies,  their  Sins  were  arm'd 
Against  them.     Yet  the  sceptre  from  their  hands 
Pass'd  not  away  inglorious,  nor  was  shame 
Left  for  their  children's  lasting  heritage ; 
Eight  summer  days,  from  morn  till  latest  eve. 
The  fatal  fight  endured,  till  perfidy 
Prevailing  to  their  overthrow,  they  sunk 
Defeated,  not  dishonor'd.     On  the  banks 
Of  Chrysus,  Roderick's  royal  car  was  found, 
His  battle-horse  Orelio,  and  that  helm 
Whose  horns,  amid  the  thickest  of  the  fray 
Eminent,   had    mark'd    his    presence.     Did    the 

stream 
Receive  him  with  the  undistinguish'd  dead. 
Christian  and  Moor,  who  clogg'd  its  course  that 

day .' 
So  thought  the  Conqueror  ;  and  from  that  day  forth, 
Memorial  of  his  perfect  victory. 
He  bade  the  river  bear  the  name  of  Joy. 
So  thought  the  Goths  ;  they  said  no  prayer  for  him. 
For  him  no  service  sung,  nor  mourning  made. 
But  charged  their  crimes  upon  his  head,  and  cursed 
His  memory. 

Bravely  in  that  eight-days'  fight 
The  King  had  striven,  —  for  victory  first,  while 

hope 
Remain'd,  then  desperately  in  search  of  death. 
The  arrows  pass'd  him  by  to  right  and  left ; 
The  spear-point  pierced  him  not ;  the  cimeter 
Glanced  from  his  helmet.    Is  the  shield  of  Heaven, 
Wretch  that  I  am,  extended  over  me .-' 
Cried  Roderick  ;  and  he  dropp'd  Orelio's  reins. 
And  threw  his  hands  aloft  in  frantic  prayer,  — 
Death  is  the  only  mercy  that  I  crave. 
Death  soon  and  short,  death  and  forgetfulness  ! 
Aloud  he  cried ;  but  in  his  inmost  heart 
There  answer'd  him  a  secret  voice,  that  spake 
Of  righteousness  and  judgment  after  death. 
And  God's  redeeming  love,  which  fain  would  save 
The  guilty  soul  alive.     'Twas  agony. 
And  yet  'twas  hope;  —  a  momentary  light. 
That  flash'd  through  utter  darkness  on  the  Cross 
To  point  salvation,  then  left  all  within 
Dark  as  before.     Fear,  never  felt  till  then, 
Sudden  and  irresistible  as  stroke 
Oflightning,  smote  him.  From  his  horse  he  dropp'd. 
Whether  with  human  impulse,  or  by  Heaven 
Struck  down,  he  knew  not;  loosen'd  from  his  wrist 
The  sword-chain,  and  let  fall  the  sword,  whose  hilt 
Clung  to  his  palm  a  moment  ere  it  fell, 
Glued  there  with  Moorish  gore.     His  royal  robe. 


His  horned  helmet  and  enamell'd  mail. 

He  cast  aside,  and  taking  from  the  dead 

A  peasant's  garment,  in  tliose  weeds  involved 

Stole  like  a  thief  in  darkness  from  the  field. 

Evening  closed  round  to  favor  him.     All  night 
He  fled,  the  sound  of  battle  in  his  ear 
Ringing,  and  sights  of  death  before  his  eyes, 
With  forms  more  horrible  of  eager  fiends 
That  seem'd  to  hover  round,  and  gulfs  of  fire 
Opening  beneath  his  feet.     At  times  the  groan 
Of  some  poor  fugitive,  who,  bearing  with  him 
His  mortal  hurt,  had  fallen  beside  the  way, 
Roused  him  from  these  dread  visions,  and  he  call'd 
In  answering  groans  on  his  Redeemer's  name. 
That  word  the  only  prayer  that  pass'd  his  lips, 
Or  rose  within  his  heart.     Then  would  he  see 
The  Cross  whereon  a  bleeding  Savior  hung. 
Who  call'd  on  him  to  come  and  cleanse  his  soul 
In    those   all-healing    streams,    which   i'rom    his 

wounds, 
As  from  perpetual  springs,  forever  flow'd. 
No  hart  e'er  panted  for  the  water-brooks 
As  Roderick  thirsted  there  to  drink  and  live ; 
But  Hell  was  interposed;  and  worse  than  Hell  — 
Yea,  to  his  eyes  more  dreadful  than  the  fiends 
Who  flock'd  like  hungry  ravens  round  his  head, — 
Florinda  stood  between,  and  warn'd  him  off" 
With  her  abhorrent  hands,  —  that  agony 
Still  in  iier  face,  which,  when  the  deed  was  done, 
Inflicted  on  her  ravisher  the  curse 
That  it  invoked  from  Heaven.  —  Oh,  what  a  night 
Of  waking  horrors  !     Nor,  when  morning  came, 
Did  the  realities  of  light  and  day 
Bring  aught  of  comfort  ;  wheresoe'er  he  went 
The  tidings  of  defeat  had  gone  before; 
And  leaving  their  defenceless  homes  to  seek 
What  shelter  walls  and  battlements  might  yield, 
Old  men  v/ith  feeble  feet,  and  tottering  babes, 
And  widows  with  their  infants  in  their  arms, 
Hurried  along.       Nor  royal  festival. 
Nor  sacred  pageant,  with  like  multitudes 
E'er  fill'd  the  public  way.     All  whom  the  sword 
Had  spared  were  here ;  bed-rid  infirmity 
Alone  was  left  behind  ;  the  cripple  plied 
His  crutches;  with  her  child  of  yesterday 
The  mother  fled,  and  she  whose  hour  was  come 
Fell  by  the  road. 

Less  dreadful  than  this  view 
Of  outward  suffering  which  the  day  disclosed. 
Had  night  and  darkness  seem'd  to  Roderick's  heart, 
With  all  their  dread  creations.     From  the  throng 
He  turn'd  aside,  unable  to  endure 
This  burden  of  the  general  woe;  nor  walls. 
Nor  towers,  nor  mountain  fastnesses  he  sought; 
A  firmer  hold  his  spirit  yearn'd  to  find, 
A  rock  of  surer  strength.     Unknowing  where. 
Straight  through  the  wild  he  hastcn'd  on  all  day, 
And  with  unslacken'd  speed  was  travelling  still 
When  evening  gather'd  round.     Seven  days,  from 

morn 
Till  night,  he  travell'd  thus ;  the  forest  oaks. 
The  fig-grove  by  the  fearful  husbandman 
Forsaken  to  the  spoiler,  and  the  vines. 
Where  fox  and  household  dog  together  now 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


651 


Fed  on  the  vintage,  gave  him  food ;  the  hand 
Of  Heaven  was  on  him,  and  the  agony 
Whicli  wrought  within,  supplied  a  strength  beyond 
All  natural  force  of  man. 

When  the  eighth  eve 
Was  come,  ho  found  himself  on  Ana's  banks. 
Fast  by  the  Caulian  Schools.     It  was  the  hour 
Of  vespers  ;  btit  no  vesper-bell  was  heard. 
Nor  other  sound,  than  of  the  passing  stream. 
Or  stork,  who,  flapping  with  wide  wing  the  air, 
Sought  her  broad  nest  upon  the  silent  tower. 
Brethren  and  pupils  thence  alike  had  fled 
To  save  themselves  within  the  embattled  walls 
Of  neighboring  Merida.     One  aged  Monk 
Alone  was  left  behind ;  he  would  not  leave 
The  sacred  spot  beloved,  for  having  served 
There,  from  his  childhood  up  to  ripe  old  age, 
God's  holy  altar,  it  became  him  now, 
He  thought,  before  that  altar  to  await 
The  merciless  misbelievers,  and  lay  down 
His  life,  a  willing  martyr.     So  he  staid 
When  all  were  gone,  and  duly  fed  the  lamps. 
And  kept  devotedly  the  altar  dress'd. 
And  duly  offer'd  up  the  sacrifice. 
Four  days  and  nights  he  thus  had  pass'd  alone, 
In  such  high  mood  of  saintly  fortitude, 
That  hope  of  Heaven  became  a  heavenly  joy  ; 
And  now  at  evening  to  the  gate  he  went. 
If  he  might  spy  the  Moors,  —  for  it  seem'd  long 
To  tarry  for  his  crown. 

Before  the  Cross 
Roderick  had  thrown  himself;  his  body  raised. 
Half  kneeling,  half  at  length  he  lay  ;  his  arms 
Embraced  its  foot,  and  from  his  lifted  face 
Tears  streaming  downbedew'd  the  senseless  stone. 
He  had  not  wept  till  now ;  and  at  the  gush 
Of  these  first  tears,  it  seem'd  as  if  his  heart, 
From  a  long  winter's  icy  thrall  let  loose. 
Had  open'd  to  the  genial  influences 
Of  Heaven.     In  attitude,  hut  not  in  act 
Of  prayer  he  lay  ;  an  agony  of  tears 
Was  all  his  soul  could  off'er.     When  the  Monk 
Beheld  him  suffering  thus,  he  raised  him  up. 
And  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  in  ; 
And  there,  before  the  altar,  in  the  name 
Of  Him  whose  bleeding  image  there  was  hung. 
Spake  comfort,  and  adjured  him  in  that  name 
There  to  lay  down  the  burden  of  his  sins. 
Lo  !  said  Romano,  I  am  waiting  here 
The  coming  of  the  Moors,  that  from  their  hands 
My  spirit  may  receive  the  purple  robe 
Of  martyrdom,  and  rise  to  claim  its  crown. 
That  God  who  willeth  not  the  sinner's  death 
Hath  led  thee  hither.     Threescore  years  and  five. 
Even  from  the  hour  when  I,  a  five-years'  child, 
Enter'd  the  schools,  have  I  continued  here. 
And  served  the  altar  :  not  in  all  those  years 
Hath  such  a  contrite  and  a  broken  heart 
Appear'd  before  me.     O  my  brother.  Heaven 
Hath  sent  thee  for  thy  comfort,  and  for  mine, 
That  my  last  earthly  act  may  reconcile 
A  sinner  to  his  God. 

Then  Roderick  knelt 
Before  the  iioly  man,  and  strove  to  speak. 
Thou  seest,  he  cried,  —  thou  seest, — but  memory 


And  suffocating  thoughts  repress'd  the  word, 

And  shudderings  like  an  ague-fit,  from  head 

To  foot  convulsed  him  ;  till  at  length,  subduing 

His  nature  to  the  elfort,  he  exclaim'd. 

Spreading  his  hands  and  lifting  up  his  face, 

As  if  resolved  in  penitence  to  bear 

A  human  eye  upon  his  shame,  —  Thou  seest 

Roderick  the  Goth  !  That  name  would  have  sufficed 

To  tell  its  whole  abhorred  history : 

He  not  the  less  pursued,  —  the  ravisher. 

The  cause  of  all  this  ruin  I     liaving  said, 

In  the  same  posture  motionless  he  knelt, 

Arms  straighten'd  down,  and  hands  outspread,  and 

eyes 
Raised  to  the  Monk,  like  one  who  from  his  voice 
Awaited  life  or  death. 

All  niglit  the  old  man 
Pray'd  with  his  penitent,  and  minister'd 
Unto  the  wounded  soul,  till  he  infused 
A  healing  hope  of  mercy  that  allay'd 
Its  heat  of  anguish.     But  Romano  saw 
What  strong  temptations  of  despair  beset, 
And  how  lie  needed  in  this  second  birth. 
Even  like  a  yearling  child,  a  fosterer's  care. 
Father  in  Heaven,  he  cried,  thy  will  be  done  ! 
Surely  I  hoped  that  I  this  day  should  sing 
Hosannahs  at  thy  throne  ;  but  thou  hast  yet 
Work  for  thy  servant  here.     He  girt  his  loins, 
And  from  her  altar  took,  with  reverent  hands, 
Our  Lady's  image  down  :  In  this,  quoth  he. 
We  have  our  guide,  and  guard,  and  comforter, 
The  best  provision  for  ovir  perilous  way. 
Fear  not  but  we  shall  find  a  resting-place  ; 
The  Almighty's  hand  is  on  us. 

They  went  forth  ; 
They  cross'd  the  stream  ;  and  when  Romano  turn'd 
For  his  last  look  toward  the  Caulian  towers, 
Far  off  the  Moorish  standards  in  the  light 
Of  morn  were  glittering,  where  the  miscreant  host 
Toward  the  Lusitanian  capital 
To  lay  their  siege  advanced ;  the  eastern  breeze 
Bore  to  the  fearful  travellers  far  away 
The  sound  of  horn  and  tambour  o'er  the  plain. 
All  day  they  hasten'd,  and  when  evening  fell, 
Sped  toward  the  setting  sun,  as  if  its  line 
Of  glory  came  from  Heaven  to  point  their  course. 
But  feeble  were  the  feet  of  that  old  man 
For  such  a  weary  length  of  way  ;  and  now 
Being  pass'd  the  danger,  (for  in  Merida 
Sacaru  long  in  resolute  defence 
Withstood  the  tide  of  war,)  with  easier  pace 
The  wanderers  journey 'd  on;  till  having  cross'd 
Rich  Tagus,  and  the  rapid  Zezere, 
They  from  Albardos'  hoary  height  beheld 
Pine-forest,  fruitful  vale,  and  that  fair  lake 
Where  Alcoa,  mingled  there  with  Baza's  stream, 
Rests  on  its  passage  to  the  western  sea. 
That  sea  the  aim  and  boundary  of  their  toil. 

The  fourth  week  of  their  painful  pilgrimage 
Was  full,  when  they  arrived  where  from  the  land 
A  rocky  hill,  rising  with  steep  ascent, 
O'erhung  the  glittering  beach  ;  there,  on  the  top, 
A  little,  lowly  hermitage  they  found. 
And  a  rude  Cross,  and  at  its  foot  a  grave, 


G52 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


II 


Bearing  no  name,  nor  other  monument. 

Wliere  better  could  they  rest  than  here,  where  faith, 

And  secret  penitence,  and  happiest  death, 

Had  bless'd  the  spot,  and  brought  good   Angels 

down, 
And  open'd,  as  it  were,  a  way  to  Heaven  ? 
Behind  them  was  the  desert,  offering  fruit 
And  water  for  their  need  ;  on  either  side 
The  white  sand  sparkling  to  the  sun  ;  in  front. 
Great  Ocean  with  its  everlasting  voice. 
As  in  perpetual  jubilee,  proclaini'd 
The  wonders  of  the  Almighty,  filling  thus 
The  pauses  of  their  fervent  orisons. 
Where  better  could  the  wanderers  rest  than  here  ? 


n. 


RODERICK   IN   SOLITUDE. 

Twelve  months  they  sojourn'd  in  their  solitude, 
And  then  beneath  the  burden  of  old  age 
Romano  sunk.     No  brethren  were  there  here 
To  spread  the  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  strow 
That  penitential  bed,  and  gather  round 
To  sing  his  requiem,  and  with  prayer  and  psalm 
Assist  him  in  his  hour  of  agony. 
He  lay  on  the  bare  earth,  which  long  had  been 
His  only  couch ;  beside  him  Roderick  knelt, 
Moisten'd  from  time  to  time  his  blacken'd  lips, 
Received  a  blessing  with  his  latest  breath. 
Then  closed  his  eyes,  and  by  the  nameless  grave 
Of  the  fore-tenant  of  that  holy  place 
Consign'd  him,  earth  to  earth. 

Two  graves  are  here  ; 
And  Roderick,  transverse  at  their  feet,  began 
To  break  the  third.     In  all  his  intervals 
Of  prayer,  save  only  when  he  search'd  the  woods 
And  fiU'd  the  water-cruise,  he  labor'd  there  ; 
And  when  the  work  was  done,  and  he  had  laid 
Himself  at  length  within  its  narrow  sides 
And  measured  it,  he  shook  his  head  to  think 
There  was  no  other  business  now  for  him. 
Poor  wretch,  thy  bed  is  ready,  he  exclaim'd. 
And  would  that  night  were  come  !  —  It  was  a  task. 
All  gloomy  as  it  was,  which  had  beguiled 
The  sense  of  solitude ;  but  now  he  felt 
The  burden  of  the  solitary  hours  : 
The  silence  of  that  lonely  hermitage 
Lay  on  liim  like  a  spell  ;  and  at  the  voice 
Of  his  own  prayers,  he  started,  half  aghast. 
Then,  too,  as  on  Romano's  grave  he  sat 
And  pored  upon  his  own,  a  natural  thought 
Arose  within  him,  —  well  might  he  have  spared 
That  useless  toil ;  the  sepulchre  would  be 
No  hiding-place  for  him;  no  Christian  hands 
Were  here  who  should  compose  his  decent  corpse 
And  cover  it  with  earth.     There  he  might  drag 
His  wretched  body  at  its  passing  hour; 
But  there  the  Sea-Birds  of  her  heritage 
Would  rob  the  worm,  or  peradventure  seize. 
Ere  death  had  done  its  work,  their  helpless  prey. 
Even  now  they  did  not  fear  him  :  when  he  walk'd 
Beside  them  on  the  beach,  regardlessly 


They  saw  his  coming  ;  and  their  whirring  wings 
Upon  the  height  had  sometimes  fann'd  his  cheek, 
As  if,  being  thus  alone,  humanity 
Had  lost  its  rank,  and  the  prerogative 
Of  man  were  done  away. 

For  liis  lost  crown 
And  sceptre  never  had  he  felt  a  thought 
Of  pain  ;  repentance  had  no  pangs  to  spare 
For  trifles  such  as  these,  —  the  loss  of  these 
Was  a  cheap  penalty  ;  —  that  he  had  fallen 
Down  to  the  lowest  depth  of  wretchedness. 
His  hope  and  consolation.     But  to  lose 
His  human  station  in  the  scale  of  things, — 
To  see  brute  nature  scorn  him,  and  renounce 
Its  homage  to  the  human  form  divine;  — 
Had  then  Almighty  vengeance  thus  reveal'd 
His  punishment,  and  was  he  fallen  indeed 
Below  fallen  man,  below  redemption's  reach, — 
Made  lower  than  the  beasts,  and  like  the  beasts 
To  perish  !  —  Such  temptations  troubled  him 
By  day,  and  in  the  visions  of  the  night ; 
And  even  in  sleep  he  struggled  with  the  thought, 
And  waking  with  the  effort  of  his  prayers. 
The  dream  assail'd  him  still. 

A  wilder  form 
Sometimes  his  poignant  penitence  assumed, 
Starting  with  force  revived  from  intervals 
Of  calmer  passion,  or  exhausted  rest ; 
When  floating  back  upon  the  tide  of  thought 
Remembrance  to  a  self-excusing  strain 
Beguiled  him,  and  recall'd  in  long  array 
The  sorrows  and  the  secret  impulses 
Which  to  the  abyss  of  wretchedness  and  guilt 
Led  their  unwary  victim.     The  evil  hour 
Return'd  upon  him,  when  reluctantly 
Yielding  to  worldly  counsel  his  assent. 
In  wedlock  to  an  ill-assorted  mate 
He  gave  his  cold,  unwilling  hand  :  then  came 
The  disappointment  of  the  barren  bed. 
The  hope  deceived,  the  soul  dissatisfied. 
Home  without  love,  and  privacy  from  which 
Delight  was  banish'd  first,  and  peace  too  soon 
Departed.     Was  it  strange  that,  when  he  met 
A  heart  attuned,  —  a  spirit  like  his  own. 
Of  lofty  pitch,  yet  in  affection  mild. 
And  tender  as  a  youthful  mother's  joy,  — 
Oh,  was  it  strange  if,  at  such  sympathy. 
The.  feelings,  which  within  his  breast  repell'd 
And  chill'd,  had  shrunk,  should  open  forth  like 

flowers 
After  cold  winds  of  night,  when  gentle  gales 
Restore  the  genial  sun  ?     If  all  were  known, 
Would  it  indeed  be  not  to  be  forgiven  ?  — 
(Thus  would  he  lay  the  unction  to  his  soul,) 
If  all  were  truly  known,  as  Heaven  knows  all, 
Heaven,  that  is  merciful  as  well  as  just, — 
A  passion  slow  and  mutual  in  its  growth, 
Pure  as  fraternal  love,  long  self-conceal  d. 
And  when  confess'd  in  silence,  long-contro'l'd  ; 
Treacherous  occasion,  human  frailty,  fear 
Of  endless  separation,  worse  than  death, — 
The  purpose  and  the  hope  with  which  the  Fiend 
Tempted,  deceived,  and  madden'd  him ;  —  but  then 
As  at  a  new  temptation  would  he  start. 
Shuddering  beneath  the  intolerable  shame, 


II. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS 


653 


And  clinch  in  agony  his  matted  hair; 
While  in  his  soul  the  perilous  tiiought  arose, 
How  easy  "twere  to  plunge  where  yonder  waves 
Invited  him  to  rest. 

Oh  for  a  voice 
Of  comfort,  —  for  a  ray  of  hope  from  Heaven  ! 
A  hand  tiiat  from  these  billows  of  despair 
May  reach  and  snatch  him  ere  he  sink  ingulf 'd  I 
At  length,  as  life,  when  it  hath  lain  long  time 
Oppress'd  beneath  some  grievous  malady, 
Seems  to  rouse  up  with  re-oollected  strength, 
And  the  sick  man  doth  feel  within  himself 
A  second  spring,  so  Roderick's  better  mind 
Arose  to  save  hiin.     Lo  !  the  western  sun 
Flames  o'er  the  broad  Atlantic  ;  on  the  verge 
Of  glowing  ocean  rests;  retiring  then 
Draws  with  it  all  its  rays,  and  sudden  night 
Fills  the  whole  cope  of  lieaven.     The  penitent 
Knelt  by  Romano's  grave,  and  falling  prone, 
Clasp'd  with  extended  arms  the  funeral  mould. 
Father  !  he  cried  ;  Companion  !  only  friend. 
When  all  beside  was  lost !  thou  too  art  gone, 
And  the  poor  sinner  whom  from  utter  death 
Thy  providential  hand  preserved,  once  more 
Totters  upon  the  gulf     I  am  too  weak 
For  solitude,  —  too  vile  a  wretch  to  bear 
This  everlasting  commune  with  myself. 
The  Tempter  hath  assail'd  me  ;  my  own  heart 
Is  leagued  with  him  ;  Despair  hath  laid  the  nets 
To  take  my  soul,  and  Memory,  like  a  ghost. 
Haunts  me,  and  drives  me  to  the  toils.     O  Saint, 
While  I  was  bless'd  with  thee,  the  hermitage 
Was  my  sure  haven  1     Look  upon  me  still. 
For  from  thy  heavenly  mansion  thou  canst  see 
The  suppliant ;  look  upon  thy  child  in  Christ. 
Is  there  no  other  way  for  penitence .' 
I  ask  not  martyrdom  ;  for  vi^hat  am  I 
That  I  should  pray  for  triumphs,  the  fit  meed 
Of  a  long  life  of  holy  works  like  thine  ; 
Or  how  should  I  presumptuously  aspire 
To  wear  the  heavenly  crown  resign'd  by  thee, 
For  my  poor  sinful  sake  ?     Oh  point  me  thou 
Some  humblest,  painfulest,  severest  path, — 
Some  new  austerity,  unheard  of  yet 
In  Syrian  fields  of  glory,  or  the  sands 
Of  holiest  Egypt.     Let  me  bind  my  brow 
With  thorns,  and  barefoot  seek  Jerusalem, 
Tracking  the  way  with  blood ;  there,  day  by  day, 
Inflict  upon  this  guilty  flesh  the  scourge. 
Drink  vinegar  and  gall,  and  for  my  bed 
Hang  with  extended  limbs  upon  the  Cross, 
A  nightly  crucifixion  !  —  any  thing 
Of  action,  difficulty,  bodily  pain, 
Labor,  and  outward  suffering,  —  any  thing 
But  stillness  and  this  dreadful  solitude  ! 
Romano  !  Father  I  let  me  hear  thy  voice 
In  dreams,  O  sainted  Soul !  or  from  the  grave 
Speak  to  thy  penitent ;  even  from  the  grave 
Thine  were  a  voice  of  comfort. 

Thus  he  cried, 
Easing  the  pressure  of  his  burden'd  heart 
With  passionate  prayer  ;  thus  pour'd  his  spirit  forth. 
Till,  with  the  long,  impetuous  eff'ort  spent, 
His  spirit  fail'd,  and,  laying  on  the  grave 
His  weary  head  as  on  a  pillow,  sleep 


Foil  on  liim.     He  had  pray'd  to  hear  a  voice 

Of  consolation,  and  in  dreams  a  voice 

Of  consolation  came.     Roderick,  it  said, — 

Roderick,  my  poor,  unhappy,  sinful  child, 

Jesus  have  mercy  on  thee  !  —  Not  if  Heaven 

Had  opened,  and  Romano,  visible 

In  his  beatitude,  had  breathed  that  prayer ;  — 

Not  if  the  grave  had  spoken,  had  it  pierced 

So  deeply  in  his  soul,  nor  wrung  his  heart 

With  such  compunctious  visitings,  nor  given 

So  quick,  so  keen  a  pang.     It  was  that  voice 

Which  sung  his  fretful  infancy  to  sleep 

So  patiently;  which  soothed  his  childish  griefs, 

Counsell'd,  with  anguish  and  prophetic  tears, 

His  headstrong  youth.     And  lo  !  his  Mother  stood 

Before  him  in  the  vision ;  in  those  weeds 

Which  never  from  the  hour  when  to  the  grave 

She  follow'd  her  dear  lord  Theodofred 

Rusilla  laid  aside ;  but  in  her  face 

A  sorrow  that  bespake  a  heavier  load 

At  heart,  and  more  unmitigated  woe, — 

Yea,  a  more  mortal  wretchedness  than  when 

Witiza's  ruffians  and  the  red-hot  brass 

Had  done  their  work,  and  in  her  arms  she  held 

Her  eyeless  husband;  wiped  away  the  sweat 

Which  still  his  tortures  forced  from  every  pore ; 

Cool'd  his  scorch'd  lids  with  medicinal  herbs, 

And  pray'd  the  while  for  patience  for  herself 

And  him,  and  pray'd  for  vengeance  too,  and  found 

Best  comfort  in  her  curses.     In  his  dream. 

Groaning  he  knelt  before  her  to  beseech 

Her  blessing,  and  she  raised  her  hands  to  lay 

A  benediction  on  him.     But  those  hands 

Were  chain'd,  and  casting  a  wild  look  around. 

With  thrilling  voice  she  cried.  Will  no  one  break 

These  shameful  fetters  .•"     Pedro,  Theudemir, 

Athanagild,  where  are  ye .'     Roderick's  arm 

Is  wither'd ;  —  Chiefs  of  Spain,  but  where  are  ye .' 

And  thou,  Pelayo,  thou  our  surest  hope. 


Dost  thou, too,  sleep?  —  Awake,  Pelayo! 


-up  !  — 


Why  tarricst  thou,  Deliverer.'' —  But  with  that 
She   broke    her  bonds,   and,   lo  !    her   form   was 

changed  ! 
Radiant  in  arms  she  stood  !  a  bloody  Cross 
Gleam'd  on  her  breastplate ;  in  her  shield  display'd, 
Erect  a  lion  ramp'd  ;  her  helmed  head 
Rose  like  the  Bcrecynthian  Goddess  crown'd 
With  towers,  and  in  her  dreadful  hand  the  sword 
Red  as  a  firebrand  blazed.     Anon  the  tramp 
Of  horsemen,  and  the  din  of  multitudes 
Moving  to  mortal  conflict,  rang  around; 
The  battle-song,  the  clang  of  sword  and  shield, 
War-cries,  and  tumult,  strife,  and  hate,  and  rage, 
Blasphemous  prayers,  confusion,  agony, 
Rout,  and  pursuit,  and  death ;  and  over  all 
The  shout  of  victdry,  —  Spain  and  Victory  ! 
Roderick,  as  the  strong  vision  mastcr'd  him, 
Rush'd  to  the  fight  rejoicing :  starting  then, 
As  his  own  eff'ort  burst  the  charm  of  sleep, 
He  found  himself  upon  that  lonely  grave 
In  moonlight  and  in  silence.     But  the  dream 
Wrought  in  him  still ;  for  still  he  felt  his  heart 
Pant,  and  his  wither'd  arm  was  trembling  still ; 
And  still  that  voice  was  in  his  ear  which  call'd 
On  Jesus  for  his  sake. 


(;54 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


III. 


Oh,  might  he  hear 
That  actual  voice  !  and  if  Rusilla  hved,  — 
If  shame  and  anguish  for  his  crimes  not  yet 
Had  brought  her  to  the  grave,  —  sure  she  would 

bless 
Her  penitent  child,  and  pour  into  his  heart 
Prayers  and  forgiveness,  which  like  precious  balm 
Would  heal  the  wounded  soul.     Nor  to  herself 
Less  precious,  or  less  healing,  would  the  voice 
That  spake  forgiveness  flow.     She  wept  her  son 
Forever  lost,  cut  off  with  all  the  weight 
Of  unrcpented  sin  upon  his  head. 
Sin  which  had  weigh'd  a  nation  down  —  what  joy 
To  know  that  righteous  Heaven  had  in  its  wrath 
Remember'd  mercy,  and  she  yet  might  meet 
The  child  whom  she  had  borne,  redeem'd,  in  bliss  ! 
The  sudden  impulse  of  such  thoughts  confirm'd 
That  unacknowledged  purpose,  which  till  now 
Vainly  had  sought  its  end.     He  girt  his  loins. 
Laid  holiest  Mary's  image  in  a  cleft 
Of  the  rock,  where,  shelter'd  from  the  elements. 
It  might  abide  till  happier  days  came  on. 
From  all  defilement  safe  ;  pour'd  his  last  prayer 
Upon  Romano's  grave,  and  kiss'd  the  earth 
Which  cover'd  his  remains,  and  wept  as  if 
At  long  leave-taking,  then  began  his  way. 


III. 
ADOSINDA. 


'TvvAS  now  the  earliest  morning ;  soon  the  Sun, 

Rising  above  Albardos,  pour'd  his  light 

Amid  the  forest,  and  with  ray  aslant 

Entering  its  depth,  illumed  the  branchless  pines, 

Brighten'd  their  bark,  tinged  with  a  redder  hue 

Its  rusty  stains,  and  cast  along  the  floor 

Long  lines  of  shadow,  where  they  rose  erect 

Like  pillars  of  the  temple.     With  slow  foot 

Roderick  pursued  his  way ;  for  penitence. 

Remorse  which  gave  no  respite,  and  the  long 

And  painful  conflict  of  his  troubled  soul. 

Had   worn   him  down.     Now,  brighter  thoughts 

arose. 
And  that  triumphant  vision  floated  still 
Before  his  sight  with  all  her  blazonry. 
Her  castled  helm,  and  the  victorious  sword 
That  flash'd  like  lightning  o'er  the  field  of  blood. 
Sustain 'd  by  thoughts  like  t!iese,from  morn  till  eve 
He  journey'd,  and  drew  near  Leyria's  walls. 
'Twas  even-song  time,  but  not  a  bell  was  heard ; 
Instead  thereof,  on  her  polluted  towers. 
Bidding  the  Moors  to  their  unhallow'd  prayer. 
The  crier  stood,  and  with  his  sohorous  voice 
Fill'd  the  delicious  vale  where  Lena  winds 
Through  groves  and  pastoral  meads.     The  sound, 

the  sight 
Of  turban,  girdle,  robe,  and  cimeter, 
And  tawny  skins,  awoke  contending  thoughts 
Of  anger,  shame,  and  anguish  in  the  Goth ; 
The  face  of  human-kind  so  long  unseen 
Confused  him  now,  and  through  the  streets  he  went 
With  haggcid  mien,  and  countenance  like  one 


Crazed  or  bewikier'd.     All  who  met  him  turn'd, 
And  wonder'd  as  he  pass'd.    One  stopp'd  him  shor^ 
Put  alms  into  his  hand,  and  then  desired. 
In  broken  Gothic  speech,  the  moon-struck  man 
To  bless  him.     With  a  look  of  vacancy 
Roderick  received  the  alms ;  his  wandering  eye 
Fell  on  the  money ;  and  the  fallen  Kino-, 
Seeing  his  own  royal  impress  on  the  piece. 
Broke  out  into  a  quick,  convulsive  voice, 
That  scem'd  like  laughter  first,  but  ended  soon 
In  hollow  groans  suppress'd  :  the  Mussulman 
Shrunk  at  the  ghastly  sound,  and  magnified 
The  name  of  Allah  as  he  hasten'd  on. 
A  Christian  woman,  spinning  at  her  door, 
Beheld  him,  and,  with  sudden  pity  touch'd, 
She  laid  her  spindle  by,  and  running  in. 
Took  bread,  and  following  after,  call'd  him  back, 
And  placing  in  his  passive  hands  the  loaf. 
She  said,  Christ  Jesus  for  his  mother's  sake 
Have  mercy  on  thee  !     With  a  look  that  seem'd 
Like  idiotcy  he  heard  her,  and  stood  still. 
Staring  awhile  ;  then,  bursting  into  tears. 
Wept  like  a  child,  and  thus  relieved  his  heart, 
Full  even  to  bursting  else  with  swelling  thoughts, 
So  through  the  streets,  and  through  the  northern 

gate. 
Did  Roderick,  reckless  of  a  resting-place, 
With  feeble  yet  with  hurried  step  pursue 
His  agitated  way  ;  and  when  he  reach'd 
The  open  fields,  and  found  himself  alone 
Beneath  the  starry  canopy  of  Heaven, 
The  sense  of  solitude,  so  dreadful  late. 
Was  then  repose  and  comfort.     There  he  stopp'd 
Beside  a  little  rill,  and  brake  the  loaf; 
And  sheddinff  o'er  that  long  untasted  food 

to  to 

Painful  but  (juiet  tears,  with  grateful  soul 

He  breathed  thanksgiving  forth,  then  made  his  bed 

On  heath  and  myrtle. 

But  when  he  arose 
At  day-break,  and  pursued  his  way,  his  heart 
Felt  lighten'd  that  the  shock  of  mingling  first 
Among  his  fellow-kind  was  overpast; 
And  journeying  on,  he  greeted  whom  he  met 
With  such  short  interchange  of  benison 
As  each  to  other  gentle  travellers  give, 
Recovering  thus  the  power  of  social  speech 
Which  he  had  long  disused.    When  hunger  press'd, 
He'  ask'd  for  alms  :  slight  supplication  served  ; 
A  countenance  so  pale  and  woe-begone 
Moved  all  to  pity ;  and  the  marks  it  bore 
Of  rigorous  penance  and  austerest  life. 
With  something,  too,  of  majesty  that  still 
Appear'd  amid  the  wreck,  inspired  a  sense 
Of  reverence  too.     The  goat-herd  on  the  hills 
Open'd  his  scrip  for  him ;  the  babe  in  arms. 
Affrighted  at  his  visage,  turn'd  away. 
And  clinging  to  the  mother's  neck  in  tears. 
Would  yet  again  look  up,  and  then  again 
Shrink  back,  with  cry  renew'd.     The  bolder  imps 
Sporting  beside  the  way,  at  his  approach 
Brake  off  their  games  for  wonder,  and  stood  still 
In  silence;  some  among  them  cried,  A  Saint! 
The  village  matron,  when  she  gave  him  food. 
Besought  his  prayers  ;  and  one  entreated  him 
To  lay  his  healing  hands  upon  her  child. 


III. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


G55 


For  with  a  sore  and  hopeless  malady 
Wasting  it  long  liad  lain,  —  and  sure,  she  said 
He  was  a  man  of  Ood. 

Thus  travelling  on. 
He  pass'd  the  vale  where  wild  Arunca  pours 
Its  wintry  torrents  ;  and  tiie  happier  site 
Of  old  Conimbrica,  whose  ruin'd  towers 
Bore  record  of  the  fierce  Alani"s  wrath. 
Mondego,  too,  he  cross'd,  not  yet  renown'd 
In  {■■Oct's  amorous  lay;  and  left  beliind 
The  walls  at  whose  foundation  pious  hands 
Of  Priest,  and  Monk,  and  Bishop  meekly  toil'd,  — 
So  had  the  insulting  Arian  given  command. 
Those  stately  palaces  and  rich  domains 
Were  now  the  Moor's ;  and  many  a  weary  age 
Must  Coimbra  wear  the  misbeliever's  yoke, 
Before  Fernando's  banner  through  her  gate 
Sli.ill  pass  triumphant,  and  her  hallow'd  Mosque 
Behold  the  hero  of  Bivar  receive 
Tlie  knighthood  which  he  glorified  so  oft 
In  his  victorious  fields.     Oh,  if  the  years 
To  come  might tiien  have  risen  on  Roderick's  soul, 
How  had  they  kindled  and  consoled  his  heart !  — 
What  joy  might  Douro's  haven  then  have  given, 
Whence  Portugal,  the  faithful  and  the  brave. 
Shall    take  her   name  illustrious  !  —  what,    those 

walls 
Where  Mumadona  one  day  will  erect 
Convent,  and  town,  and  towers,  which  shall  become 
The  cradle  of  that  famous  monarchy  I 
What  joy    might  these    prophetic    scenes    have 

given,— 
What  ample  vengeance  on  the  Mussulman, 
Driven  out  with  foul  defeat,  and  made  to  feel 
In  Africa  the  wrongs  he  wrought  to  Spain  ; 
And  still  pursued  by  that  relentless  sword. 
Even  to  the  farthest  Orient,  where  his  power 
Received  its  mortal  wound  ! 

Oh  years  of  pride  ! 
In  undiscoverable  futurity. 
Yet  unevolved,  your  destined  glories  lay ; 
And  all  that  Roderick  in  these  fated  scenes 
Beheld,  was  grief  and  wretchedness,  —  the  waste 
Of  recent  war,  and  that  more  mournful  calm' 
Of  joyless,  helpless,  hopeless  servitude. 
'Twas  not  the  ruin'd  walls  of  church  or  tower, 
Cottage,  or  hall,  or  convent,  black  with  smoke ; 
Twas  not  the  unburied  bones,  which,  whore  the 

dogs  ' 

And  crows  had  strown  then,  lay  amid  the  field 
Blcaciiing  in  sun  or  shower,  that  wrung  his  heart 
With  keenest  anguish:  'twas  when  he  beheld 
The  turban'd  traitor  show  his  shameless  front 
In  the  open  eye  of  Heaven,  —  the  renegade. 
On  whose  base,  brutal  nature,  unredeem'd, 
Evf  n  black  apostasy  itself  could  stamp 
No  deeper  reprobation  at  the  hour 
Assign'd  fall  prostrate;  and  unite  the  names 
Of  (iod  and  the  Blasphemer,  — impious  prayer,  — 
Most  impious,  when  from  unbelieving  lips 
The  accursed  utterance  came.     Then  Roderick's 

heart 
With  indignation  burnt,  and  then  he  long'd 
To  be  a  King  again,  that  so,  for  Spain 
Betray'd  and  his  Redeemer  thus  renounced, 


He  might  indict  due  punishment,  and  make 

These  wretclies  feel  his  wrath.     But  when  he  saw 

Tlie  daughters  of  the  land,  —  who,  as  they  went 

With  cheerl'ul  step  to  church,  were  wont  to  show 

Their  innocent  faces  to  all  passers'  eyes. 

Freely,  and  free  from  sin  as  when  they  look'd 

In  adoration  and  in  praise  to  Heaven,  — 

Now  mask'd  in  Moorish  mufflers,  to  the  Mosque 

Holding  uncompanied  their  jealous  "iray, 

His  spirit  seem'd  at  that  unhappy  sight 

To  die  away  within  him,  and  lie,  too. 

Would  fain  have  died,  so  death  could  bring  with  it 

Entire  oblivion. 

Rent  v/ith  thoughts  like  these. 
He  reach'd  that  city,  once  the  seat  renown'd 
Of  Suevi  kings,  where,  in  contempt  of  Rome 
Degenerate  long,  the  North's  heroic  race 
Raised  first  a  rival  throne  ;  now  from  its  state 
Of  proud  regality  debased  and  fallen. 
Still  bounteous  nature  o'er  the  lovely  vale, 
Where  like  a  Queen  rose  Bracara  august, 
Pour'd  forth  her  gifts  profuse;  perennial  springs 
Flow'd  for  her  habitants,  and  genial  suns, 
With  kindly  showers  to  bless  the  happy  clime. 
Combined  in  vain  their  gentle  influences; 
For  patient  servitude  was  there,  who  bow'd 
His  neck  beneath  the  Moor,  and  silent  grief 
That  eats  into  the  soul.     The  walls  and  stones 
Seem'd  to  reproach  their  dwellers  ;  stately  piles 
Yet  undecay'd,  the  mighty  monuments 
Of  Roman  pomp,  Barbaric  palaces. 
And  Gothic  halls,  where  haughty  Barons  late 
Gladden'd  their  faithful  vassals  with  the  feast 
And  flowing  bowl,  alike  the  spoiler's  now. 

Leaving  these  captive  scenes  behind,  he  cross'd 
Cavado's  silver  current,  and  the  banks 
Of  Lima,  through  whose  groves,  in  after  years, 
Mournful  yet  sweet,  Diogo's  amorous  lute 
Prolong'd  its  tuneful  eciioes.     But  when  now, 
Beyond  Arnoya's  tributary  tide. 
He  came  where  Minho  roll'd  its  ampler  stream 
By  Auria's  ancient  walls,  fresh  horrors  met 
His  startled  view ;  for  prostrate  in  the  dust 
Those    walls  were  laid,  and  towers  and  temples 

stood 
Tottering  in  frightful  ruins,  as  the  flame 
Had  left  tliem  black  and  bare ;  and  through  the 

streets. 
All  with  the  recent  wreck  of  war  bestrewn, 
Helmet  and  turban,  cimeter  and  sword. 
Christian  and  Moor  in  death  promiscuous  lay. 
Each  where  they  fell ;  and  blood-flakes,  parch'd 

and  crack'd 
Like  the  dry  slime  of  some  receding  flood ; 
And  half-burnt  bodies,  which  allured  from  far 
The  wolf  and  raven,  and  to  impious  food 
Tempted  the  houseless  dog. 

A  thrilling  pang, 
A  sweat  like  death,  a  sickness  of  the  soul. 
Came  over  Roderick.     Soon  they  pass'd  away, 
And  admiration  in  their  stead  arose, 
Stern  joy  and  inextinguishable  hope, 
With  wrath,  and  hate,  and  sacred  vengeance  now 
Indissolubly  link'd.     O  valiant  race, 


656 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


III. 


0  people  excellently  brave,  he  cried, 
True  Goths  ye  fell,  and  faithful  to  the  last ; 
Though  overpower'd,  triumphant,  and  in  death 
Unconcpier'd  !     Holy  be  your  memory  ! 
Bless'd  and  glorious  now  and  evermore 

Be  your  heroic  names !  —  Led  by  the  sound. 
As  thus  he  cried  aloud,  a  woman  came 
Toward  him  from  the  ruins.     For  the  love 
Of  Christ,  she  said,  lend  me  a  little  while 
Thy  charitable  help  !  —  Her  words,  her  voice. 
Her  look,  more  horror  to  his  heart  convey'd 
Than  all  the  havock  round ;  for  thougli  she  spake 
With  the  calm  utterance  of  despair,  in  tones 
Deep  breathed  and  low,  yet  never  sweeter  voice 
Pour'd  forth  its  liymns  in  ecstasy  to  Heaven. 
Her  hands  were  bloody,  and  her  garments  stain'd 
With  blood,  her  face  with  blood  and  dust  defiled. 
Beauty  and  youth,  and  grace  and  majesty, 
Had  every  charm  of  form  and  feature  given  ; 
But  now  upon  her  rigid  countenance 
Severest  anguish  set  a  fi.xedness 
Ghastlier  than  death. 

She  led  him  through  the  streets 
A  little  way  along,  where  four  low  walls, 
Heap'd  rudely  from  the  ruins  round,  enclosed 
A  narrow  space  :  and  there  upon  tiie  ground 
Four  bodies,  decently  composed,  were  laid, 
Tliough  horrid  all  with  wounds  and  clotted  gore  ; 
A  venerable  ancient,  by  his  side 
A  comely  matron,  for  whose  middle  age, 
(If  ruthless  slaughter  had  not  intervened,) 
Nature,  it  seem'd,  and  gentle  Time,  might  well 
Have  many  a  calm  declining  year  in  store ; 
The  third  an  armed  warrior,  on  his  breast 
An  infant,  over  whom  his  arms  were  cross'd. 
There,  —  with  firm  eye  and  steady  countenance, 
Unfaltering,  she  address'd  him,  — there  they  lie, 
Child,  Husband,  Parents,  —  Adosinda's  all! 

1  could  not  break  the  earth  with  these  poor  hands, 
Nor  other  tomb  provide,  —  but  let  that  pass  ! 
Auria  itself  is  now  but  one  wide  tomb 

For  all  its  habitants  :  —  What  better  grave  .' 
What  worthier  monument .'  —  Oh,  cover  not 
Their  blood,  thou  Earth  !  .and  ye,  ye  blessed  Souls 
Of  Heroes  and  of  murder'd  Innocents, 
Oh,  never  let  your  everlasting  cries 
Cease  round  the  Eternal  Throne,  till  the  Most  High 
For  all  these  unexampled  wrongs  hath  given 
Full,  overflowing  vengeance  ! 

While  she  spake, 
Slie  raised  her  lofty  hands  to  Heaven,  as  if 
Calling  for  justice  on  the  Judgment-seat ; 
Then  laid  them  on  her  eyes,  and,  leaning  on. 
Bent  o'er  the  open  sepulchre. 

But  soon. 
With  quiet  mien  collectedly,  like  one 
Who  from  intense  devotion,  and  the  act 
Of  ardent  prayer,  arising,  girds  himself 
For  this  world's  daily  business  she  arose. 
And  said  to  Roderick,  Help  me  now  to  raise 
The  covering  of  the  tomb. 

With  half-burnt  planks. 
Which  she  had  gather'd  for  this  funeral  use, 
They  roof'd  the  vault;  then,  laying  stones  above. 
They  closed  it  down ;  last,  rendering  all  secure, 


Stones  upon  stones  they  piled,  till  all  appear'd 

A  huge  and  shapeless  heap.     Enough,  she  cried ; 

And  taking  Roderick's  hands  in  both  her  own, 

And  wringing  them  with  fervent  thankfulness. 

May  God  show  mercy  to  thee,  she  exclaim'd, 

When  most  thou  needest  mercy  !     Who  thou  art 

I  know  not ;  not  of  Auria,  —  for  of  all 

Her  sons  and  daughters,  save  the  one  who  stands 

Before  thee,  not  a  soul  is  left  alive. 

But  thou  hast  render'd  to  me,  in  my  hour 

Of  need,  the  only  help  which  man  could  give. 

Wliat  else  of  consolation  may  be  found 

For  one  so  utterly  bereft,  from  Heaven 

And  from  myself  must  come.     For  deem  not  thou 

That  I  shall  sink  beneath  calamity  : 

This  visitation,  like  a  lightning-stroke. 

Hath  scathed  the  fruit  and  blossom  of  my  youth; 

One  hour  hath  orphan'd  me,  and  widow'd  me. 

And  made  me  childless.     In  this  sepulchre 

Lie  buried  all  my  earthward  hopes  and  fears. 

All  human  loves  and  natural  charities  ;  — 

All  womanly  tenderness,  all  gentle  thoughts. 

All  female  weakness  too,  I  bury  here, 

Yea,  all  my  former  nature.     There  remain 

Revenge  and  death  :  —  the  bitterness  of  death 

Is  past,  and  Heaven  already  hath  vouchsafed 

A  foretaste  of  revenge. 

Look  here  !  she  cried. 
And  drawing  back,  held  forth  her  bloody  hands,  — 
'Tis  Moorish  !  —  In  the  day  of  massacre, 
A  captain  of  Alcahman's  murderous  host 
Reserved  me  from  the  slaughter.     Not  because 
My  rank  and  station  tempted  him  with  thoughts 
Of  ransom,  for  amid  the  general  waste 
Of  ruin  all  was  lost ;  — nor  yet,  be  sure, 
Tliat  pity  moved  him,  —  they  who  from  this  race 
Accurs'd  for  pity  look,  such  pity  find 
As  ravenous  wolves  show  the  defenceless  flock. 
My  husband  at  my  feet  had  fallen ;  my  babe,  — 
Spare  me  that  thought,  O  God  !  —  and  then  —  even 

then, 
Amid  the  maddening  throes  of  agony 
Which  rent  my  soul,  —  when,  if  this  solid  Earth 
Had  open'd,  and  let  out  the  central  fire. 
Before  whose  all-involving  flames  wide  Heaven 
Shall  shrivel  like  a  scroll,  and  be  consumed. 
The  universal  wreck  had  been  to  me 
Relief  and  comfort;  —  even  then  this  Moor 
Turn'd  on  me  his  libidinous  eyes,  and  bade 
His  men  reserve  me  safely  for  an  hour 
Of  dalliance,  —  me  !  —  me  in  my  agonies  ! 
But  when  I  found  for  what  this  miscreant  child 
Of  Hell  had  snatch'd  me  from  the  butchery, 
The  very  horror  of  that  monstrous  thought 
Saved  me  from  madness  ;  I  was  calm  at  once,  — 
Yet  comforted  and  reconciled  to  life  ; 
Hatred  became  to  me  the  life  of  life. 
Its  purpose  and  its  power. 

The  glutted  Moors 
At  length  broke  up.     This  hell-dog  turn'd  aside 
Toward  his  home  ;  we  travcll'd  fast  and  far. 
Till  by  a  forest  edge  at  eve  he  pitched 
His  tents.     I  wasli'd  and  ate  at  his  command, 
Forcing  revolted  nature  ;  I  composed 
My  garments,  and  bound  up  my  scatter'd  hair ; 


IV. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


657 


And  when  he  took  my  hand,  and  to  liis  couch 
Would  fata  have  drawn  me,  gently  I  retired 
From  that  abominable  toucli,  and  said. 
Forbear  to-night,  I  pray  tiiee,  for  tliis  day 
A  widow,  as  thou  seest  me,  am  I  made ; 
Therefore,  according  to  our  law,  must  watch 
And  pray  to-night.     The  loathsome  villain  paused 
Ere  lie  assented,  then  laid  down  to  rest  j 
While,  at  the  door  of  the  pavilion,  I 
Knelt  on  the  ground,  and  bowed  my  face  to  earth  ; 
But  when  the  neighboring  tents  had  ceased  their 

stir, 
The  fires  were  out,  and  all  were  fast  asleep. 
Then  I  arose.     The -blessed  Moon  from  Heaven 
Lent  me  her  holy  light.     I  did  not  pray 
For  strength,  for  strength  was  given  me  as  I  drew 
The  cimeter,  and  standing  o'er  his  couch. 
Raised  it  in  both  my  hands  with  steady  aim. 
And  smote  his  neck.     Upward,  as  from  a  spring 
When  newly  open'd  by  the  husbandman. 
The  villain's  life-blood  spouted.     Twice  I  struck. 
So  making  vengeance  sure  ;  then,  praising  God, 
Retired  amid  the  wood,  and  measured  back 
My  patient  way  to  Auria,  to  perform 
This  duty  which  thou  seest 

As  thus  she  spake, 
Roderick,  intently  listening,  had  forgot 
His  crown,  his  kingdom,  his  calamities. 
His  crimes,  —  so  like  a  spell  upon  the  Goth 
Her  powerful  words  prevail'd.     With  open  lips, 
And  eager  ear,  and  eyes  which,  while  they  watch'd 
Her  features,  caught  the  spirit  that  she  breathed. 
Mute  and  enrapt  he  stood,  and  motionless  ; 
The  vision  rose  before  him  ;  and  that  shout. 
Which,  like  a  thunder-peal,  victorious  Spain 
Sent  through  the  welkin,  rung  within  his  soul 
Its  deep,  prophetic  echoes.     On  his  brow 
The  pride  and  power  of  former  majesty 
Dawn'd  once  again,  but  changed  and  purified ; 
Duty  and  high  heroic  purposes 
Now  hallow'd  it,  and,  as  with  inward  light. 
Illumed  his  meagre  countenance  austere. 

Awhile  in  silence  Adosinda  stood, 
Reading  his  alter'd  visage  and  the  thoughts 
Which  thus  transfigured  him.     Ay,shecxclaim'd, 
My  tale  hath  moved  thee  1  it  might  move  the  dead. 
Quicken  captivity's  dead  soul,  and  rouse 
This  prostrate  country  from  her  mortal  trance  : 
Therefore  I  live  to  tell  it ;  and  for  this 
Hath  the  Lord  God  Almighty  given  to  me 
A  spirit  not  mine  own  and  strength  from  Heaven  ; 
Dealing  with  me  as  in  the  days  of  old 
With  that  Bethulian  Matron  when  she  saved 
His  people  from  the  spoiler.     What  remains 
But  that  the  life  which  he  hath  thus  preserved 
I  consecrate  to  him  .'     Not  veil'd  and  vow'd 
To  pass  my  days  in  holiness  and  peace  ; 
Nor  yet  between  sepulchral  walls  immured. 
Alive  to  penitence  alone  ;  my  rule 
He  hath  himself  prescribed,  and  hath  infused 
A  passion  in  this  woman's  breast,  wherein 
All  passions  and  all  virtues  are  combined ; 
Love,  hatred,  joy,  and  anguish,  and  despair. 
And  hope,  and  natural  piety,  and  faith, 
83 


Make  up  the  mighty  feeling.     Call  it  not 
Revenge  !  thus  sanctified,  and  thus  sublimed, 
'Tis  duty,  'tis  devotion.     Like  the  grace 
Of  God,  it  came  and  saved  me  ;  and  in  it 
Spain  must  have  her  salvation.     In  thy  hands 
Here,  on  the  grave  of  all  my  family, 
I  make  my  vow. 

She  said,  and,  kneeling  down. 
Placed  within  Roderick's  palms  her  folded  hands. 
This  life,  she  cried,  I  dedicate  to  God, 
Therewith  to  do  him  service  in  the  way 
Which  he  hath  shown.     To  rouse  the  land  against 
This  impious,  this  intolerable  yoke, — 
To  offer  up  the  invader's  hateful  blood,  — 
This  shall  be  my  employ,  my  rule  and  rite, 
Observances  and  sacrifice  of  faith  ; 
For  this  I  hold  the  life  which  he  hath  given, 
A  sacred  trust ;  for  this,  when  it  shall  suit 
His  service,  joyfully  will  lay  it  down. 
So  deal  with  me  as  I  fulfil  the  pledge, 
O  Lord  my  God,  my  Savior,  and  my  Judge. 

Then  rising  from  the  earth,  she  spread  her  arms. 
And  looking  round  with  sweeping  eyes  exclaim'd, 
Auria,  and  Spain,  and  Heaven  receive  the  vow  ! 


IV. 


THE   MONASTERY   OF  ST.   FELIX. 

Thus  long  had  Roderick  heard  her  powerful  words 
In  silence,  awed  before  her;  but  his  heart 
Was  fill'd  the  while  with  swelling  sympathy, 
And  now  with  impulse  not  to  be  restrain'd 
The  feeling  overpower'd  him.     Hear  me  too, 
Auria,  and  Spain,  and  Heaven  !  he  cried ;  and  thou 
Who  risest  thus  above  mortality, 
Suff'crer  and  patriot,  saint  and  heroine, 
The  servant  and  the  chosen  of  the  Lord,  — 
For  surely  such  thou  art,  —  receive  in  me 
The  first-fruits  of  thy  calling.     Kneeling  then. 
And  placing,  as  he  spake,  his  hand  in  hers. 
As  thou  hast  sworn,  the  royal  Goth  pursued. 
Even  so  I  swear ;  my  soul  hath  found  at  length 
Her  rest  and  refuge;  in  the  invader's  blood 
She  must  eff"acc  her  stains  of  mortal  sin, 
And  in  redeeming  this  lost  land,  work  out 
Redemption  for  herself.     Herein  I  place 
My  penance  for  the  past,  my  hope  to  come. 
My  faith  and  my  good  works ;  here  offer  up 
All  thoughts  and  passions  of  mine  inmost  heart. 
My  days  and  nights,  — this  flesh,  this  blood,  this 

life. 
Yea,  this  whole  being,  do  I  here  devote 
For  Spain.     Receive  the  vow,  all  Saints  in  Heaven, 
And  prosper  its  good  end  !  —  Clap  now  your  wings, 
The  Goth  with  louder  utterance,  as  he  rose, 
Exclaim'd,  —  clap  now  your  wings  cxultingly. 
Ye  ravenous  fowl  of  Heaven ;  and  in  your  dens 
Set  up,  ye  wolves  of  Spain,  a  yell  of  joy  ; 
For,  lo !  a  nation  hath  this  day  been  sworn 
To  furnish  forth  your  banquet ;  for  a  strife 


658 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


IV. 


Hath  been  commenced,  the  which,  from  this  day 

fortli, 
Permits  no  breathing-time,  and  knows  no  end 
Till  in  this  land  the  last  invader  bow 
His  neck  beneath  the  exterminating  sword. 

Said  I  not  rightly  ?  Adosinda  cried  ; 
The  will  which  goads  me  on  is  not  mine  own  ; 
'Tis  from  on  high,  —  yea,  verily  of  Heaven  ! 
But  who  art  thou  who  hast  profess'd  with  me, 
My  first  sworn  brother  in  the  appointed  rule  ? 
Tell  me  thy  name. 

Ask  any  thing  but  that ! 
The  fallen  King  replied.     My  name  was  lost 
When  from  the  Goths  the  sceptre  pass'd  away. 
The  nation  will  arise  regenerate  ; 
Strong  in  her  second  youth,  and  beautiful, 
And  like  a  spirit  which  hath  shaken  off 
The  clog  of  dull  mortality,  shall  Spain 
Arise  in  glory.     But  for  my  good  name 
No  resurrection  is  appointed  here. 
Let  it  be  blotted  out  on  earth  :  in  Heaven 
There  shall  be  written  with  it  penitence, 
And  grace,  and  saving  ftiith,  and  such  good  deeds 
Wrought  in  atonement  as  my  soul  this  day 
Hath  sworn  to  offer  up. 

Then  be  thy  name. 
She  answer'd,  Maccabee,  from  this  day  forth ; 
For  this  day  art  thou  born  again;  and  like 
Those  brethren  of  old  times,  whose  holy  names 
Live  in  the  memory  of  all  noble  hearts 
For  love  and  admiration,  ever  young, — 
So  for  our  native  country,  for  her  hearths 
And  altars,  for  her  cradles  and  her  graves, 
Hast  thou  thyself  devoted.     Let  us  now 
Each  to  our  work  —  among  the  neighboring  hills, 
I  to  the  vassals  of  my  father's  house ; 
Thou  to  Visonia.     Tell  the  Abbot  there 
What  thou  hast  seen  at  Auria ;  and  with  him 
Take  counsel  who,  of  all  our  Baronage, 
Is  worthiest  to  lead  on  the  sons  of  Spain, 
And  wear  upon  his  brow  the  Spanish  crown. 
Now,  brother,  fare  thee  well  I  we  part  in  hope. 
And  we  shall  meet  again,  be  sure,  in  joy. 

So  saying,  Adosinda  left  the  King 
Alone  amid  the  ruins.     There  he  stood, 
As  when  Elisha,  on  the  farther  bank 
Of  Jordan,  saw  that  elder  prophet  mount 
The  fiery  chariot,  and  the  steeds  of  fire. 
Trampling  the  whirlwind,  bear  him  up  the  sky  : 
Thus  gazing  after  her  did  Roderick  stand; 
And  as  the  immortal  Tishbite  left  behind 
His  mantle  and  prophetic  power,  even  so 
Had  her  inspiring  presence  left  infused 
The  spirit  which  she  breathed.     Gazing  he  stood. 
As  at  a  heavenly  visitation  there 
Vouchsafed  in  mercy  to  himself  and  Spain ; 
And  when  the  heroic  mourner  from  his  sight 
Had  pass'd  away,  still  reverential  awe 
Held  him  suspended  there  and  motionless. 
Then  turning  from  the  ghastly  scene  of  death 
Up  murmuring  Lona,  he  began  toward 
The  holy  Bierzo  his  obedient  way.  [vale 

Sil's  ample  stream  he  cross'd,  where  through  the 


Of  Orras,  from  that  sacred  land  it  bears 
The  whole  collected  waters ;  northward  then, 
Skirting  the  heights  of  Aguiar,  he  reach'd 
That  consecrated  pile  amid  the  wild. 
Which  sainted  Fructuoso  in  his  zeal 
Rear'd  to  St.  Felix,  on  Visonia's  banks. 

In  commune  with  a  priest  of  age  mature. 
Whose  thoughtful  visage  and  majestic  mien 
Bespake  authority  and  weight  of  care, 
Odoar,  the  venerable  Abbot,  sat. 
When  ushering  Roderick  in,  the  Porter  said, 
A  stranger  came  from  Auria,  and  required 
His  private  ear.     From  Auria.'  said  the  old  man; 
Comest  thou  from  Auria,  brotlier .'     I  can  spare 
Thy  painful  errand  then,  —  we  know  the  worst. 

Nay,  answer'd  Roderick,  but  thou  hast  not  heard 
My  tale.     Where  that  devoted  city  lies 
In  ashes,  mid  the  ruins  and  the  dead 
I  found  a  woman,  whom  the  Moors  had  borne 
Captive  away ;  but  she,  by  Heaven  inspired 
And  her  good  heart,  with  her  own  arm  had  wrought 
Her  own  deliverance,  smiting  in  his  tent 
A  lustful  Moorish  miscreant,  as  of  yore 
By  Judith's  holy  deed  the  Assyrian  fell. 
And  that  same  spirit  which  had  strengthen'd  her 
Work'd  in  her  still.     Four  walls  with  patient  toil 
She  rear'd,  wherein,  as  in  a  sepulchre. 
With  her  own  hands  she  laid  her  murder'd  babe, 
Her  husband  and  her  parents,  side  by  side; 
And  when  we  cover'd  in  this  shapeless  tomb, 
There,  on  the  grave  of  all  her  family. 
Did  this  courageous  mourner  dedicate 
All  thoughts  and  actions  of  her  future  life 
To  her  poor  country.     For  she  said,  that  Heaven, 
Supporting  her,  in  mercy  had  vouchsafed 
A  foretaste  of  revenge  ;  that,  like  the  grace 
Of  God,  revenge  had  saved  her;  that  in  it 
Spain  must  have  her  salvation  ;  and  henceforth 
That  passion,  thus  sublimed  and  sanctified. 
Must  be  to  all  the  loyal  sons  of  Spain 
The  pole-star  of  their  faith,  their  rule  and  rite. 
Observances  and  worthiest  sacrifice. 
I  took  the  vow,  unworthy  as  I  am. 
Her  first  sworn  follower  in  the  appointed  rule ; 
And  then  we  parted  ;  she  among  the  hills 
ToTouse  the  vassals  of  her  father's  house ; 
I  at  her  bidding  hitherward,  to  ask 
Thy  counsel,  who,  of  our  old  Baronage, 
Shall  place  upon  his  brow  the  Spanish  crown. 

The  Lady  Adosinda.'  Odoar  cried. 
Roderick  made  answer.  So  she  call'd  herself. 

Oh,  none  but  she  1  exclaim'd  the  good  old  man, 
Clasping  his  hands,  which  trembled  as  he  spake, 
In  act  of  pious  passion  raised  to  Heaven, — 
Oh,  none  but  Adosinda!  —  none  but  she, — 
None  but  that  noble  heart,  which  was  the  heart 
Of  Auria  while  it  stood,  its  life  and  strength, 
More  than  her  father's  presence,  or  the  arm 
Of  her  brave  husband,  valiant  as  he  was.- 
Hers  was  the  spirit  which  inspired  old  age, 
Ambitious  boyhood,  girls  in  timid  youth, 


IV. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


659 


And  virgins  in  the  beauty  of  their  spring, 

And  youthful  mothers,  doting,  like  herself. 

With  ever-anxious  love.    She  breathed  througli  all 

That  zeal  and  that  devoted  faitlifulness. 

Which  to  the  invader's  threats  and  promises 

Turn'd  a  deaf  ear  alike ;  which  in  the  head 

And    flood    of    prosperous    fortune    check 'd    his 

course, 
Repell'd  him  from  the  walls,  and  when  at  length 
His  overpowering  numbers  forced  their  way. 
Even  in  that  uttermost  extremity 
Unyielding,  still  from  street  to  street,  from  house 
To  house,  from  floor  to  floor,  maintain'd  the  fight; 
Till  by  their  altars  falling,  in  their  doors, 
And  on  their  household  hearths,  and  by  their  beds 
And  cradles,  and  their  fathers'  sepulchres, 
This  noble  army,  gloriously  revenged. 
Embraced  their  martyrdom.     Heroic  souls  1 
Well  have  ye  done,  and  righteously  discharged 
Your  arduous  part  I     Your  service  is  perform'd, 
Your  earthly  warfare  done  !     Ye  have  put  on 
The  purple  robe  of  everlasting  peace  ! 
Ye  have  received  your  crown  !     Ye  bear  the  palm 
Before  the  throne  of  Grace  ! 

With  that  he  paused, 
Checking  the  strong  emotions  of  his  soul. 
Then,  with  a  solemn  tone,  addressing  him. 
Who  shared  his  secret  thoughts.  Thou  knowest, 

he  said, 
O  Urban,  that  they  have  not  fallen  in  vain ; 
For  by  this  virtuous  sacrifice  they  thinn'd 
Alcahman's  thousands;  and  his  broken  force. 
Exhausted  by  their  dear-bought  victory, 
Turn'd  back  from  Auria,  leaving  us  to  breathe 
Among  our  mountains  yet.     We  lack  not  here 
Good  hearts,  nor  valiant  hands.     What  walls,  or 

towers. 
Or  battlements  are  like  these  fastnesses. 
These  rocks,  and  glens,  and  everlasting  hills? 
Give  but  that  Aurian  spirit,  and  the  JVIoors 
Will  spend  their  force  as  idly  on  these  holds 
As  round  the  rocky  girdle  of  the  land 
The  wild  Cantabrian  billows  waste  their  rage. 
Give  but  that  spirit!  — Heaven  hath  given  it  us, 
If  Adosinda  thus,  as  from  the  dead. 
Be  granted  to  our  prayers  ! 

And  who  art  thou. 
Said  Urban,  who  hast  taken  on  thyself 
This  rule  of  warlike  faith  ?     Thy  countenance 
And  those  poor  weeds  bespeak  a  life  ere  this 
Devoted  to  austere  observances. 

Roderick  replied,  I  am  a  sinful  man, 
One  who  in  solitude  hath  long  deplored 
A  life  misspent;  but  never  bound  by  vows, 
Till  Adosinda  taught  me  where  to  find 
Comfort,  and  how  to  work  forgiveness  out. 
When  that  exalted  woman  took  my  vow, 
She  call'd  me  Maccabee ;  from  th'is  day  forth 
Be  that  my  earthly  name.     But  tell  me  now. 
Whom  shall  we  rouse  to  take  upon  his  head 
The  crown  of  Spain .'     Where  are  the    Gothic 

Chiefs  ? 
Sacaru,  Theudemir,  Athanagild, 
All  who  suivived  that  eight-days"  obstinate  fight, 


When  clogg'd  with  bodies,  Chrysus  scarce  could 

force 
Its  bloody  stream  along.'     Witiza's  sons, 
Bad  off'spring  of  a  stock  accurs'd,  I  know. 
Have  put  the  turban  on  their  recreant  heads. 
Where  are  your  own  Cantabrian  Lords.'     I  ween, 
Eudon,  and  Pedro,  and  Pelayo  now 
Have  ceased  their  rivalry.     If  I'elayo  live. 
His  were  the  worthy  heart  and  rightful  hand 
To  wield  the  sceptre  and  the  sword  of  Spain. 

Odoar  and  Urban  eyed  him  while  he  spake. 
As  if  they  wonder'd  whose  tlie  tongue  might  be 
Familiar  thus  with  Ciiiefs  and  thoughts  of  state. 
They  scann'd  his  countenance,  but  not  a  trace 
Betray'd  the  Royal  Goth :  sunk  was  that  eye 
Of  sovereignty,  and  on  the  emaciate  cheek 
Had  penitence  and  anguish  deeply  drawn 
Their  furrows  premature,  —  forestalling  time. 
And  shedding  upon  thirty's  brow  more  snows 
Than  threescore  winters  in  their  natural  course 
Might  else  have  sprinkled  there.     It  seems  indeed 
That  thou  hast  pass'd  thy  days  in  solitude, 
Replied  the  Abbot,  or  thou  wouldst  not  ask 
Of  things  so  long  gone  by.     Athanagild 
And  Theudemir  have  taken  on  their  necks 
The  yoke.     Sacaru  play'd  a  nobler  part. 
Long  within  Mcrida  did  he  withstand 
The  invader's  hot  assault;   and  when  at  length, 
Hopeless  of  all  relief,  he  yielded  up 
The  gates,  disdaining  in  his  fathers'  land 
To  breathe  the  air  of  bondage,  with  a  few 
Found  faithful  till  the  last,  indignantly 
Did  he  toward  the  ocean  bend  his  way, 
And  shaking  from  his  feet  the  dust  of  Spain, 
Took  ship,  and  hoisted  sail  through  seas  unknown 
To  seek  for  freedom.     Our  Cantabrian  Chiefs 
All  have  submitted,  but  the  wary  Moor 
Trusteth  not  all  alike.     At  his  own  Court 
He  holds  Pelayo,  as  suspecting  most 
That  calm  and  manly  spirit;  Pedro's  son 
There  too  is  held  as  hostage,  and  secures 
His  father's  faith  ;  Count  Eudon  is  despised, 
And  so  lives  unmolested.     When  he  pays 
His  tribute,  an  uncomfortable  thought 
May  then  perhaps  disturb  him;  —  or  more  like 
He  meditates  how  profitable  'twere 
To  be  a  Moor  ;    and  if  apostasy 
Were  all,  and  to  be  unbaptized  might  servo,  — 
But  I  waste  breath  upon  a  wretcli  like  this; 
Pelayo  is  the  only  hope  of  Spain, 
Only  Pelayo. 

If,  as  we  believe, 
Said  Urban  then,  the  hand  of  Heaven  is  here. 
And  dreadful  though  they  be,  yet  for  wise  end 
Of  good,  these  visitations  do  its  work ; 
And  dimly  as  our  mortal  sight  may  scan 
The  future,  yet  methinks  my  soul  descries 
How  in  Pelayo  should  the  pur|)oses 
Of  Heaven  be  best  accomplish'd.     All  too  long, 
Here  in  their  own  inheritance,  the  sons 
Of  Spain  have  groan'd  bem-atli  a  foreign  yoke, 
Punic  and  Roman,  Kelt,  and  Goth,  and  Greek  r 
This  latter  tempest  comes  to  sweep  away 
All  proud  distinctions  which  commingling  blood 


6G0 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OP    THE    GOTHS, 


V. 


And  time's  long  course  have  fail'd  to  efface  ;  and 

now 
Perchance  it  is  the  will  of  Fate  to  rear 
Upon  the  soil  of  Spain  a  Spanish  throne, 
Restoring  in  Pclayo's  native  line 
The  sceptre  to  the  Spaniard. 

Go  thou,  then, 
And  seek  Pelayo  at  the  Conqueror's  Court. 
'I'ell  him  the  mountaineers  are  unsubdued ; 
The  precious  time  they  needed  hath  been  gain'd 
By  Auria's  sacrifice,  and  all  they  ask 
Is  him  to  guide  them  on.     In  Odoar's  name 
And  Urban's,  tell  him  that  tlie  hour  is  come. 

Then,  pausing  for  a  moment,  he  pursued ;  — 
The  rule  which  thou  hast  taken  on  thyself 
Toledo  ratifies  :  'tis  meet  for  Spain, 
And  as  the  will  divine,  to  be  received, 
Observed,  and  spread  abroad.     Come  hither  thou, 
Who  for  thyself  hast  chosen  the  good  part; 
Let  me  lay  hands  on  thee,  and  consecrate 
Ihy  life  unto  the  Lord. 

Me  !  Roderick  cried  ; 
Me  !  sinner  that  I  am  !  —  and  while  he  spake 
His  wither'd  cheek  grew  paler,  and  his  hmbs 
Shook.     As  tliou  goest  among  the  infidels. 
Pursued  the  Primate,  many  thou  wilt  find 
Fallen  from  the  faitii ;  by  weakness  some  betray'd. 
Some  led  astray  by  baser  hope  of  gain, 
And  haply,  too,  by  ill  example  led 
Of  those  in  whom  they  trusted.     Yet  have  these 
Their  lonely  hours,  when  sorrow,  or  the  touch 
Of  sickness,  and  that  awful  power  divine 
Which  hath  its  dwelling  in  the  heart  of  man. 
Life  of  his  soul,  his  monitor  and  judge. 
Move  them  with  silent  impulse ;  but  they  look 
For  help,  and  finding  none  to  succor  them. 
The  irrevocable  moment  passe th  by. 
Therefore,  my  brother,  in  the  name  of  Christ 
Thus  I  lay  hands  on  thee,  that  in  His  name 
Thou  with  His  gracious  promises  mayst  raise 
The  fallen,  and  comfort  those  that  are  in  need, 
And  bring  salvation  to  the  penitent. 
Now,  brother,  go  thy  way  :  the  peace  of  God 
Be  with  thee,  and  his  blessing  prosper  us ! 


RODERICK   AND   SIVERIAN. 

Between  St.  Felix  and  the  regal  seat 

Of  Abdalaziz,  ancient  Cordoba, 

Lay  many  a  long  day's  journey  interposed ; 

And  many  a  mountain  range  hath  Roderick  cross'd, 

And  many  a  lovely  vale,  ere  he  beheld 

Where    Betis,   winding   through  the   unbounded 

plain, 
Roll'd  his  majestic  waters.     There,  at  eve. 
Entering  an  inn,  he  took  his  humble  seat 
With  other  travellers  round  the  crackling  hearth, 
Where  heath  and  cistus  gave  their  fragrant  flame. 
That  flame  no  longer,  as  in  other  times, 
Lit  up  the  countenance  of  easy  mirth 


And  light  discourse  :  the  talk  which   now   went 

round 
Was  of  the  grief  that  press'd  on  every  heart; 
Of  Spain  subdued;  the  sceptre  of  the  Goths 
Broken  ;  their  nation  and  their  name  effaced ; 
Slaughter  and  mourning,  which  had  left  no  house 
Unvisited ;  and  shame,  which  set  its  mark 
On  every  Spaniard's  face.     One  who  had  seen 
His  sons  fall  bravely  at  his  side,  bewail'd 
The  unhappy  chance  which,  rescuing  him  from 

death. 
Left  him  the  last  of  all  his  family; 
Yet  he  rejoiced  to  think  that  none  who  drew 
Their  blood  from  him  remain'd  to  wear  the  yoke, 
Be  at  the  miscreant's  beck,  and  propagate 
A  breed  of  slaves  to  serve  them.     Here  sat  one 
Who  told  of  fair  possessions  lost,  and  babes 
To  goodly  fortunes  born,  of  all  bereft. 
Another  for  a  virgin  daughter  mourn'd. 
The  lewd  barbarian's  spoil.     A  fourth  had  seen 
His  only  child  forsake  him  in  his  age, 
And  for  a  Moor  renounce  her  hope  in  Christ. 
His  was  the  heaviest  grief  of  all,  he  said  ; 
And  clinching,  as  he  spake,  his  hoary  locks, 
He  cursed  King  Roderick's  soul. 

Oh,  curse  him  not  ! 
Roderick  exclaim'd,  all  shuddering  as  he  spake. 
Oh,  for  the  love  of  Jesus,  curse  him  not ! 
Sufficient  is  the  dreadful  load  of  guilt 
That  lies  upon  his  miserable  soul ! 
O  brother,  do  not  curse  that  sinful  soul. 
Which  Jesus  suffer'd  on  the  cross  to  save ! 

But  then  an  old  man,  who  had  sat  thus  long 
A  silent  listener,  from  his  seat  arose, 
And  moving  round  to  Roderick,  took  his  hand; 
Christ  bless  thee,  brother,  for  that  Christian  speech, 
He  said ;  and  shame  on  me  that  any  tongue 
Readier  than  mine  was  found  to  utter  it ! 
His  own  emotion  fill'd  him  while  he  spake. 
So  that  he  did  not  feel  how  Roderick's  hand 
Shook  like  a  palsied  limb ;  and  none  could  see 
How,  at  his  well-known  voice,  the  countenance 
Of  that  poor  traveller  suddenly  was  changed. 
And  sunk  with  deadlier  paleness;  for  the  flame 
Was  spent,  and  from  behind  him,  on  the  wall 
High  hung,  the  lamp  with  feeble  glimmering  play'd. 

Oh,  it  is  ever  thus  !  the  old  man  pursued ; 
The  crimes  and  woes  of  universal  Spain 
Are  charged  on  him  ;  and  curses,  which  should  aim 
At  living  heads,  pursue  beyond  the  grave 
His  poor  unhappy  soul !  As  if  his  sin 
Had  wrought  the  fall  of  our  old  monarchy  ! 
As  if  the  Mussulmen,  in  their  career, 
Would  ne'er  have  overleap'd  the  gulf  which  parts 
Iberia  from  the  Mauritanian  shore. 
If  Julian  had  not  beckon'd  them  !  —  Alas! 
The  evils  which  drew  on  our  overthrow. 
Would  soon  by  other  means  have  wrought  their 

end. 
Though  Julian's  daughter  should  have  lived  and 

died 
A  virgin  vow'd  and  veil'd. 

Touch  not  on  that, 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


661 


Shrinking  with  inward  shiverings  at  the  thought, 

The  penitent  exclaim'd      Oh,  if  thou  lovest 

The  soul  of  Roderick,  touch  not  on  that  deed  ! 

God,  in  liis  mercy,  may  forgive  it  him. 

But  liuman  tongue  nmst  never  speak  his  name 

Without  reproach  and  utter  infamy. 

For  that  abhorred  act.     Even  thou  —  But  here 

Siverian  taking  up  the  word,  brake  off. 

Unwittingly,  the  incautious  speech.     Even  I, 

Quoth  he,  who  nursed  him  in  his  father's  hall, — 

Even  I  can  only  for  that  deed  ol'  shame 

Offer  in  agony  my  secret  prayers. 

But  Spain  hatii  witness'd  other  crimes  as  foul : 

Have  we  not  seen  Favila's  shameless  wife, 

Throned  in  Witiza's  ivory  car,  parade 

Our  towns  with  regal  pageantry,  and  bid 

The  murderous  tyrant  in  her  husband's  blood 

Dip  his  adulterous  hand  '(     Did  we  not  see 

Pelayo,  by  that  bloody  king's  pursuit. 

And  that  unnatural  mother,  from  the  land 

With  open  outcry,  like  an  outlaw'd  thief, 

Hunted  .'     And  saw  ye  not  Theodofred, 

As  through  the  streets  I  guided  his  dark  steps. 

Roll  mournfully  toward  the  noon-day  sun 

His  blank  and  senseless  eyeballs  .'     Spain  saw  this. 

And  suffer'd  it !  —  I  seek  not  to  excuse 

The  sin  of  Roderick.     Jesu,  who  beholds 

The  burning  tears  I  shed  in  solitude. 

Knows  how  I  plead  for  him  in  midnight  prayer. 

But  if,  when  he  victoriously  revenged 

The  wrongs  of  Chindasuintho's  house,  his  sword 

Had  not  for  mercy  turn'd  aside  its  edge. 

Oh  what  a  day  of  glory  had  there  been 

Upon  the  banks  ol'  Chrysus  !     Curse  not  him, 

Who  in  that  fatal  conflict  to  the  last 

So  valiantly  maintain'd  his  country's  cause  ; 

But  if  your  sorrow  needs  must  have  its  vent 

In  curses,  let  your  imprecations  strike 

The  caitiffs,  who,  when  Roderick's  horned  helm 

Rose  eminent  amid  the  thickest  fight, 

Betraying  him  who  spared  and  trusted  them. 

Forsook  their  King,  their  Country,  and  their  God, 

And  gave  the  Moor  his  conquest. 

Ay  !  they  said. 
These  were  Witiza's  hateful  progeny  ; 
And  in  an  evil  hour  the  unhappy  King 
Had  spared  the  viperous  brood.     With  that  they 

talk'd 
How  Sisibert  and  Ebba  through  the  land 
Guided  the  foe  ;  and  Orpas,  who  had  cast 
The  mitre  from  his  renegado  brow. 
Went  with  the  armies  of  the  infidels  ; 
And  how  in  Hispalis,  even  where  his  hands 
Had  minister'd  so  oft  the  bread  of  life, 
The  circumcised  apostate  did  not  shame 
To  show  in  open  day  his  turban'd  head. 
The  Queen  too,  Egilona,  one  exclaim'd  ; 
Was  she  not  married  to  the  enemy. 
The  Moor,  the  Misbeliever .'     What  a  heart 
Were  hers,  that  she  could  pride  and  plume  herself 
To  rank  among  his  herd  of  concubines,  [say 

Having  been  what  she  had  been  !     And  who  could 
How  far  domestic  wrongs  and  discontent 
Had  wrought  upon  the  King  !  —  Hereat  the  old 

man. 


Raising  beneath  the  knit  and  curly  brow 
His  mournful  eyes,  replied.  This  I  can  tell. 
That  that  unquiet  spirit  and  unblest. 
Though  Roderick  never  told  his  sorrows,  drove 
Rusilla  from  the  palace  of  her  son. 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  his  generous  mind 
Wither  beneath  the  unwholesome  influence. 
And  cankering  at  the  core.     And  1  know  well. 
That  oft,  when  she  deplored  his  barren  bed, 
The  thought  of  Egilona's  qualities 
Came  like  a  bitter  medicine  for  her  grief. 
And  to  the  extinction  of  her  husband's  line, 
Sad  consolation,  reconciled  her  heart. 

But  Roderick,  while  they  communed  thus,  had 
ceased 
To  hear,  such  painfulest  anxiety 
The  sight  of  that  old,  venerable  man 
Awoke.     A  sickening  fear  came  over  him  : 
The  hope  which  led  him  from  his  hermitage 
Now  seem'd  forever  gone  ;   for  well  he  knew 
Nothing  but  death  could  break  the  ties  which  bound 
That  faithful  servant  to  his  father's  house. 
She  then  for  whose  forgiveness  he  had  yearn' d. 
Who  in  her  blessing  would  have  given  and  found 
The  peace  of  Heaven,  —  she  then  was  to  the  grave 
Gone  down  disconsolate  at  last;  in  this. 
Of  all  the  woes  of  her  unhappy  life 
Unhappiest,  that  she  did  not  live  to  see 
God  had  vouchsafed  repentance  to  her  child. 
But  then  a  hope  arose  that  yet  she  lived  ; 
The  weighty  cause  which  led  Siverian  here 
Might  draw  him  from  her  side  ;  better  to  know 
The  worst  than  fear  it.     And  with  that  lie  bent 
Over  the  ambers,  and  with  head  half  raised 
Aslant,  and  shadow'd  by  his  hand,  he  said, 
Where  is  King  Roderick's  mother  .'  lives  she  still .' 

God  hath  upheld  her,  the  old  man  replied ; 
She  bears  this  last  and  heaviest  of  her  griefs. 
Not  as  she  bore  her  husband's  wrongs,  when  hope 
And  her  indignant  heart  supported  her ; 
But  patiently,  like  one  who  finds  from  Heaven 
A  comfort  which  the  world  can  neither  give 
Nor  take  away.  —  Roderick  inquired  no  more; 
He  breathed  a  silent  prayer  in  gratitude. 
Then  wrapt  his  cloak  around  him,  and  lay  down 
Where  he  might  weep  unseen. 

When  morning  came, 
Earliest  of  all  the  travellers  he  went  forth. 
And  lingor'd  for  Siverian  by  the  way. 
Beside  a  fountain,  where  the  constant  fall 
Of  water  its  perpetual  gurgling  made. 
To  the  wayfaring  or  the  musing  man 
Sweetest  of  all  sweet  sounds.    The  Christian  hand, 
Whose  general  charity  for  man  and  beast 
Built  it  in  better  times,  had  with  a  cross 
Of  well-'hewn  stone  crested  the  pious  work, 
Whicli  now  the  misbelievers  had  cast  down. 
And  broken  in  the  dust  it  lay  defiled. 
Roderick  beheld  it  lying  at  his  feet, 
And  gathering  reverently  the  fragments  up, 
Placed  them  within  tlie  cistern,  and  restored 
With  careful  collocation  its  dear  form,  — 
So  might  the  waters,  like  a  crystal  shrine, 


662 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


V. 


Preserve  it  from  pollution.     Kneeling  then, 
O'er  the  memorial  of  redeeming  love 
He  bent,  and  mingled  with  the  fount  his  tears, 
And  pour'd  liis  spirit  to  tiie  Crucified. 

A  Moor  came  by,  and  seeing  him,  exclaim'd. 
Ah,  Kaffer  !  worshipper  of  wood  and  stone, 
God's   curse   confound  thee  !     And  as   Roderick 

turn'd 
His  face,  the  miscreant  spurn'd  him  with  his  foot 
Between  tlie  eyes.     The  indignant  King  arose, 
And  fell'd  him  to  the  ground.     But  then  the  Moor 
Drew  forth  his  dagger,  rising  as  he  cried, 
What !   dari'st  thou,  thou  infidel  and  slave, 
Strike  a  believer  ':'  and  he  aim'd  a  blow  [arm, 

At  Roderick's  breast.     But  Roderick  caught  his 
And   closed,  and   wrench'd  the   dagger   from  his 

hold,— 
Such  timely  strength  did  those  emaciate  limbs 
From  indignation  draw,  —  and  in  his  neck 
With  mortal  stroke  he  drove  the  avenging  steel 
Hilt  deep.     Then,  as  the  thirsty  sand  drank  in 
The  expiring  miscreant  s  blood,  he  look'd  around 
In  sudden  apprehension,  lest  the  Moors 
Had  seen  them  ;  but  Siverian  was  in  sight, 
Tlie  only  traveller,  and  he  smote  his  mule. 
And  hasten'd  up.     Ah,  brother  !  said  the  old  man, 
Thine  is  a  spirit  of  the  ancient  mould  ! 
And  would  to  God  a  thousand  men  like  thee 
Had  fought  at  Roderick's  side  on  that  last  day 
When  treason  overpowcr'd  him  !     Now,  alas  ! 
A  manly  Gothic  heart  doth  ill  accord 
With  these  unhappy  times.     Come,  let  us  hide 
This  carrion,  while  the  favoring  hour  permits. 

So  saying,  he  alighted.     Soon  they  scoop'd 
Amid  loose-lying  sand  a  hasty  grave. 
And  levell'd  over  it  the  easy  soil. 
Father,  said  Roderick,  as  they  journey'd  on. 
Let  this  thing  be  a  seal  and  sacrament 
Of  truth  between' us.    Wherefore  should  there  be 
Concealment  between  two  right  Gothic  hearts 
In  evil  days  like  ours  .''     What  thou  hast  seen 
Is  but  the  first  fruit  of  the  sacrifice. 
Which  on  this  injured  and  polluted  soil. 
As  on  a  bloody  altar,  I  have  sworn 
To  offer  to  insulted  Heaven  for  Spain, 
Her  vengeance  and  her  expiation.     This 
Was  but  a  hasty  act,  by  sudden  wrong 
Provoked  :  but  I  am  bound  for  Cordoba, 
On  weighty  mission  from  Visonia  sent. 
To  breathe  into  Pelayo's  ear  a  voice 
Of  spirit-stirring  power,  which  like  the  trump 
Of  the  Archangel,  shall  awake  dead  Spain. 
The  northern  mountaineers  are  unsubdued  ; 
They  call  upon  Pelayo  for  their  chief; 
Odoar  and  Urban  tell  him  that  the  hour 
Is  come.     Thou,  too,  I  ween,  old  man,  art  charged. 
With  no  light  errand,  or  thou  wouldst  not  now 
Have  left  the  ruins  of  thy  master's  house. 

Who  art  thou  .'  cried  Siverian,  as  he  search'd 
The  wan  and  wither'd  features  of  the  King. 
Thy  face  is  of  a  stranger  ;  but  thy  voice 
Disturbs  me  like  a  dream. 


Roderick  replied, 
Thou  seest  me  as  I  am,  —  a  stranger ;  one 
Whose  fortunes  in  the  general  wreck  were  lost, 
His  name  and  lineage  utterly  extinct, 
Himself  in  mercy  spared,  surviving  all;  — 
In  mercy,  that  the  bitter  cup  might  heal 
A  soul  diseased.     Now,  having  cast  the  slough 
Of  old  offences,  thou  beholdest  me 
A  man  new-born;  in  second  baptism  named. 
Like  those  who  in  Judea  bravely  raised 
Against  the  Heathen's  impious  tyranny 
The  banner  of  Jehovah,  Maccabee ; 
So  call  me.     In  that  name  hath  Urban  laid 
His  consecrating  hands  upon  my  head ; 
And  in  that  name  have  I  myself  for  Spain 
Devoted.     Tell  me  now  why  thou  art  sent 
To  Cordoba  ;  for  sure  thou  goest  not 
An  idle  gazer  to  the  Conqueror's  court. 

Thou  judgest  well,  the  old  man  replied.     I,  too, 
Seek  the  Cantabrian  Prince,  the  hope  of  Spain, 
With  other  tidings  charged,  for  other  end 
Designed,  yet  such  as  well  may  work  with  thine. 
My  noble  mistress  sends  me  to  avert 
The  shame  that  threats  his  house.     The  renegade 
Numacian,  he  who,  for  the  infidels, 
Oppresses  Gegio,  insolently  wooes 
His  sister.     Moulded  in  a  wicked  womb, 
The  unworthy  Guisla  hath  inherited 
Her  mother's  leprous  taint ;  and,  willingly, 
She  to  the  circumcised  and  upstart  slave, 
Disdaining  all  admonishment,  gives  ear. 
The  Lady  Gaudiosa  sees  in  this. 
With  the  quick  foresight  of  maternal  care. 
The  impending  danger  to  her  husband's  house, 
Knowing  his  generous  spirit  ne'er  will  brook 
The  base  alliance.     Guisla  lewdly  sets 
His  will  at  nought;  but  that  vile  renegade, 
From  hatred,  and  from  avarice,  and  from  fear, 
Will  seek  the  extinction  of  Pelayo's  line. 
This,  too,  my  venerable  mistress  sees ; 
Wherefore  these  valiant  and  high-minded  dames 
Send  me  to  Cordoba ;  that,  if  the  Prince 
Cannot,  by  timely  interdiction,  stop 
The  irrevocable  act  of  infamy, 
He  may,  at  least,  to  his  own  safety  look. 
Being  timely  warn'd. 

Thy  mistress  sojourns  then 
With  Gaudiosa,  in  Pelayo's  hall.' 
Said  Roderick.     'Tis  her  natural  home,  rejoin'd 
Siverian  :  Chindasuintho's  royal  race 
Have  ever  shared  one  lot  of  weal  or  woe  ; 
And  she  who  hath  beheld  her  own  fair  shoot. 
The  goodly  summit  of  that  ancient  tree, 
Struck  by  Heaven's  bolt,  seeks  shelter  now  beneath 
The  only  branch  of  its  majestic  stem 
That  still  survives  the  storm. 

Thus  they  pursued 
Their  journey,  each  from  other  gathering  store 
For  thought,  with  many  a  silent  interval 
Of  mournful  meditation,  till  they  saw 
The  temples  and  the  towers  of  Cordoba 
Shining  majestic  in  the  light  of  eve. 
Before  them.  Betis  roll'd  his  glittering  stream, 
In  many  a  silvery  winding  traced  afar 


VI. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


Gti3 


Amid  tl;e  ample  plain.     Behind  the  walls 

And  stately  piles,  which  crown'd  its  margin,  rich 

With  olives,  and  with  sunny  slope  of  vines. 

And  many  a  lovely  hamlet  interspersed, 

Whose  citron  bowers  were  once  the  abode  of  peace, 

Height  above  height,  receding  hills  were  seen 

Imbued  with  evening  hues  ;  and  over  all 

The  sunmiits  of  the  dark  sierra  rose, 

Lifting  their  heads  amid  the  silent  sky. 

The  traveller  who,  with  a  heart  at  ease. 

Had  seen  the  goodly  vision,  would  have  loved 

To  linger,  seeking  with  insatiate  sight 

To  treasure  up  its  image,  deep  imi)ress'd, 

A  joy  for  years  to  come.     O  Cordoba, 

Exclaim'd  the  old  man,  how  princely  are  thy  towers, 

How  fair  thy  vales,  thy  hills  how  beautiful ! 

The  sun  who  sheds  on  thee  his  parting  smiles 

Sees  not  in  all  his  wide  career  a  scene 

Lovelier,  nor  more  exuberantly  blest 

By  bounteous  earth  and  heaven.     The  very  gales 

Of  Eden  waft  not  from  the  immortal  bowers 

Odors  to  sense  more  exquisite,  than  these 

Which,  breathing  from  thy  groves  and  gardens, 

now 
Recall  in  me  such  thoughts  of  bitterness. 
The  time  has  been  when  happy  was  their  lot 
Who  had  their  birthright  here  ;  but  happy  now 
Are  they  who  to  thy  bosom  are  gone  home, 
Because  they  feel  not  in  their  graves  the  feet 
That  trample  upon  Spain.     'Tis  well  that  age 
Hath  made  me  like  a  child,  that  1  can  weep  : 
My  heart  would  else  have  broken,  overcharged. 
And  I,  false  servant,  should  lie  down  to  rest 
Before  my  work  is  done. 

Hard  by  their  path, 
A  little  way  without  the  walls,  there  stood 
An  edifice,  whereto,  as  by  a  spell, 
Siverian's  heart  was  drawn.     Brother,  quoth  he, 
'Tis  like  the  urgency  of  our  return 
Will  brook  of  no  retardment;  and  this  spot 
It  were  a  sin  if  I  should  pass,  and  leave 
Unvisited.     Beseech  you  turn  with  me, 
The  while  I  offer  up  one  duteous  prayer. 

Roderick  made  no  reply.     He  had  not  dared 
To  turn  his  face  toward  those  walls;  but  now 
He  follow'd  where  the  old  man  led  the  way. 
Lord  !  in  his  heart  the  silent  sufferer  said, 
Forgive  my  feeble  soul,  which  would  have  shrunk 
From  this,  —  for  what  am  I  that  I  should  put 
The  bitter  cup  aside  !  O  let  my  shame 
And  anguish  be  accepted  in  thy  sight .' 


VI. 


RODERICK   IN   TIMES    PAST. 

TiiF.  mansion  whitherward  they  went,  was  one 
Which  in  his  youth  Theodofred  had  built : 
Thither  had  he  brought  home,  in  happy  hour. 
His  blooming  bride  ;  there  fondled  on  his  knee 
The  lovely  boy  she  bore  him.     Close  beside. 


A  temple  to  that  Saint  he  rcar'd,  who  first. 

As  old  tradition  tells,  proclaim'd  to  Spain 

The  gospel-tidings;  and  in  health  and  youth, 

There  mindful  of  mortality,  he  saw 

His  sepulchre  prepared.     Witiza  took 

For  his  adulterous  leman  and  himself 

The  stately  pile  :  but  to  that  sepulchre. 

When  from  captivity  and  darkness  death 

Enlarged  him,  was  Theodofred  consign'd  ; 

For  that  unhappy  woman,  wasting  then 

Beneath  a  mortal  malady,  at  heart 

Was  smitten,  and  the  Tyrant  at  her  prayer 

This  poor  and  tardy  restitution  made. 

Soon  the  repentant  sinner  follow'd  him; 

And  calling  on  Pelayo  ere  she  died, 

For  his  own  wrongs,  and  for  his  father's  death, 

Implored  forgiveness  of  her  absent  child, — 

If  it  were  possible  he  could  forgive 

Crimes  black  as  hers,  she  said.     And  by  the  pangs 

Of  her  remorse,  —  by  her  last  agonies, — 

The  unutterable  horrors  of  her  death, — 

And  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  on  the  cross 

For  sinners  given,  did  she  beseech  his  prayers 

In  aid  of  her  most  miserable  soul. 

Thus  mingling  sudden  shrieks  with  hopeless  vows, 

And  uttering  franticly  Pelayo's  name, 

And  crying  out  for  mercy  in  despair. 

Here  had  she  made  her  dreadful  end,  and  here 

Her  wretched  body  was  deposited. 

That  presence  seem'd  to  desecrate  the  place  : 

Thenceforth  the  usurper  shunn'd  it  with  the  heart 

Of  conscious  guilt;  nor  could  Rusilla  bear 

These   groves   and  bowers,  which,  like  funereal 

shades, 
Oppress'd  her  with  their  monumental  forms: 
One  day  of  bitter  and  severe  delight. 
When  Roderick  came  for  vengeance,  she  endured. 
And  then  forever  left  her  bridal  halls. 

Oh,  when  I  last  beheld  yon  princely  pile, 
Exclaim'd  Siverian,  with  what  other  thoughts 
Full,  and  elate  of  spirit,  did  I  pass 
Its  joyous  gates  !    The  weedery  which  through 
The  interstices  of  those  neglected  courts 
Uncheck'd  had  flourish'd  long,  and  seeded  there. 
Was  trampled  then  and  bruised  beneath  the  feet 
Of  thronging  crowds.     Here,  drawn  in  fair  array. 
The  faithful  vassals  of  my  master's  house. 
Their  javelins  sparkling  to  the  morning  sun, 
Spread    their    triumphant  banners;    high-plumed 

helms 
Rose  o'er  the  martial  ranks,  and  prancing  steeds 
Made  answer  to  the  trumpet's  stirring  voice ; 
While  yonder  towers  shook  the  dull  silence  off 
Which  long  to  their  deserted  walls  had  clung. 
And  with  redoubling  echoes  swcll'd  the  shout 
That  hail'd  victorious  Roderick.     Louder  rose 
The  acclamation,  when  the  dust  was  seen 
Rising  beneath  his  chariot-wheels  far  off; 
But  nearer  as  the  youthful  hero  came. 
All  sounds  of  all  the  multitude  were  hush'd. 
And  from  the  thousands  and  ten  thousands  here, 
Whom  Cordoba  and  Hispalis  sent  forth,  — 
Yea,  whom  all  Btctica,  all  Sjiain  pour'd  out 
To  greet  his  triumph,  —  not  a  whisper  rose 


G64 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


VI. 


To  Heaven,  such  awe    and    reverence    master'd 

them, 
Such  expectation  held  tliem  motionless. 
Conqueror  and  King  he  came  ;  but  with  no  joy 
Of  conquest,  and  no  pride  of  sovereignty 
That  day  display'd;  for  at  his  father's  grave 
Did  Roderick  come  to  offer  up  his  vow 
Of  vengeance  well  perform' d.     Three  coal-black 

steeds 
Drew  on  his  ivory  chariot :  by  his  side, 
Still  wrapt  in  mourning  for  the  long-deceased, 
Rusilla  sat;  a  deeper  paleness  blanch'd 
Her  faded  countenance,  but  in  her  eye 
The  light  of  her  majestic  nature  shone. 
Bound,  and  expecting  at  their  hands  the  death 
So  well  deserved,  Witiza  follow'd  them  ; 
Aghast  and  trembling,  first  he  gazed  around, 
Wildly  from  side  to  side  ;   then  from  the  face 
Of  universal  execration  shrunk. 
Hanging  his  wretched  head  abased ;  and  poor 
Of  spirit,  with  unmanly  tears  deplored 
His  fortune,  not  his  crimes.     With  bolder  front. 
Confiding  in  his  priestly  character. 
Came  Orpas  next ;  and  then  the  spurious  race 
Whom  in  unhappy  hour  Favila's  wife 
Brought  forth  for  Spain.     O  mercy  ill  bestovv'd, 
When  Roderick,  in  compassion  for  their  youth, 
And  for  Pelayo's  sake,  forbore  to  crush 
The  brood  of  vipers  ! 

Err  perchance  he  might, 
Replied  the  Goth,  suppressing,  as  he  spake. 
All  outward  signs  of  pain,  though  every  word 
Went  like  a  dagger  to  his  bleeding  heart ;  — 
But  sure,  1  ween,  that  error  is  not  placed 
Among  his  sins.     Old  man,  thou  mayst  regret 
The  mercy  ill  deserved,  and  worse  return'd, 
But  not  for  this  wouldst  thou  reproach  the  King  ! 

Reproach  him  .'  cried  Siverian  ;  —  I  reproach 
My  child,  —  my  noble  boy,  —  whom  every  tongue 
Bless'd  at  that  hour,  —  whose  love  fill'd  every  heart 
With  joy,  and  every  eye  with  joyful  tears  ! 
My  brave,  my  beautiful,  my  generous  boy  ! 
Brave,  beautiful,  and  generous  as  he  was. 
Never  so  brave,  so  beautiful,  so  great 
As  then,  —  not  even  on  that  glorious  day. 
When  on  the  field  of  victory,  elevate 
Amid  the  thousands  who  acclaim'd  him  King, 
Firm  on  the  shield  above  their  heads  upraised, 
Erect  he  stood,  and  waved  his  bloody  sword  — 
Why  dost  thou  shake  thy  head  as  if  in  doubt .'' 
I  do  not  dream,  nor  fable  !  Ten  short  years 
Have  scarcely  past  away,  since  all  within 
Tlie  Pyrenean  hills,  and  the  three  seas 
Which  girdled  Spain,  echoed  in  one  response 
The  acclamation  from  that  field  of  fight  — 
Or  doth  aught  ail  thee,  that  thy  body  quakes 
And  shudders  thus.-" 

'Tis  but  a  chill,  replied 
The  King,  in  passing  from  the  open  air 
Under  the  shadow  of  this  thick-set  grove. 

Oh  !  if  this  scene  awoke  in  thee  such  thoughts 
As  swell  my  bosom  here,  the  old  man  pursued, 
Sunshine,  or  shade,  and  all  things  from  without, 


Would  be  alike  indifferent.     Gracious  God, 
Only  but  ten  short  years,  —  and  all  so  changed  ! 
Ten  little  years  since  in  yon  court  he  check'd 
His  fiery  steeds.     The  steeds  obey'd  his  hand, 
The   whirling   wheels   stood   still,  and  when   .he 

leap'd 
Upon  the  pavement,  the  whole  people  heard, 
In  their  deep  silence,  open-ear'd,  the  sound. 
With  slower  movement  from  the  ivory  seat 
Rusilla  rose,  her  arm,  as  down  she  stepp'd. 
Extended  to  her  son's  supporting  hand  ; 
Not  for  default  of  firm  or  agile  strength, 
But  that  the  feeling  of  that  solemn  hour 
Subdued  her  then,  and  tears  bedinim'd  her  sight. 
Howbeit  when  to  her  husband's  grave  she  came, 
On  the  sepulchral  stone  she  bow'd  her  head 
Awhile  ;  then  rose  collectedly,  and  fix'd 
Upon  the  scene  her  calm  and  steady  eye. 
Roderick,  —  oh,  when  did  valor  wear  a  form 
So  beautiful,  so  noble,  so  august.' 
Or  vengeance,  when  did  it  put  on  before 
A  character  so  awful,  so  divine.' 
Roderick  stood  up,  and  reaching  to  the  tomb 
His  hands,  my  hero  cried,  Theodofred  ! 
Father !  I  stand  before  thee  once  again. 
According  to  thy  prayer,  when  kneeling  down 
Between  thy  knees  I  took  my  last  farewell ; 
And  vow'd  by  all  thy  sufferings,  all  thy  wrongs, 
And  by  my  mother's  days  and  nights  of  woe, 
Her  silent  anguish,  and  the  grief  which  then 
Even  from  thee  she  did  not  seek  to  hide, 
That,  if  our  cruel  parting  should  avail 
To  save  me  from  the  Tyrant's  jealous  guilt. 
Surely  should  my  avenging  sword  fulfil 
Whate'er  he  omen'd.     Oh  that  time,  I  cried, 
Would  give  the  strength  of  manhood  to  this  arm. 
Already  would  it  find  a  manly  heart 
To  guide  it  to  its  purpose  !     And  I  swore 
Never  again  to  see  my  father's  face. 
Nor  ask  my  mother's  blessing,  till  I  brought, 
Dead  or  in  chains,  the  Tyrant  to  thy  feet. 
Boy  as  I  was,  before  all  Saints  in  Heaven, 
And  highest  God,  whose  justice  slumbereth  not, 
I  made  the  vow.     According  to  thy  prayer, 
In  all  things,  O  my  father,  is  that  vow 
Perform'd,  alas,  too  well  !  for  thou  didst  pray, 
While,  looking  up,  I  felt  the  burning  tears 
Which  from  thy  sightless  sockets  stream'd,  drop 

down, — 
That  to  thy  grave,  and  not  thy  living  feet, 
The  oppressor  might  be  led.     Behold  him  there, 
Father  !  Theodofred  !  no  longer  now 
In  darkness,  from  thy  heavenly  seat  look  down, 
And  see  before  thy  grave  thine  enemy 
In  bonds,  awaiting  judgment  at  my  hand  ! 

Thus  while  the  hero  spake,  Witiza  stood 
Listening  in  agony,  with  open  mouth. 
And  head,  half-raised,  toward  his  sentence  turn'd  ; 
His  eyelids  stiffen'd  and  pursed  up,  —  his  eyes 
Rigid,  and  wild,  and  wide  ;  and  when  the  King 
Had  ceased,  amid  the  silence  which  ensued, 
The  dastard's  chains  were  heard,  link  against  link 
Clinking.     At  length  upon  his  knees  he  fell. 
And  lifting  up  his  trembling  hands,  outstretch'd 


VII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS 


C65 


In  supplication,  —  Mercy  !  he  exclaim'd, — 
Clxains,    dungeons,    darkness, —  any    tiling-     but 

death  !  — 
[  did  not  touch  his  life. 

Roderick  replied, 
His  hour,  whenever  it  had  come,  had  found 
A  soul  prepared  :  he  lived  in  peace  with  Heaven ; 
And  lilb  prolong'd  for  him,  was  bliss  delay'd. 
But  life,  in  pain,  and  darkness,  and  despair. 
For  thee,  all  leprous  as  thou  art  with  crimes. 
Is  mercy.  —  Take  him  hence,  and  let  him  see 
The  light  of  day  no  more  1 

Such  Roderick  was 
When  last  I  saw  these  courts,  —  his  theatre 
Of  glory  ;  —  such  when  last  I  visited 
My  master's  grave  !     Ten  years  have  hardly  held 
Their  course,  ten  little  years  —  break,  break,  old 

heart  — 
Oh,  why  art  thou  so  tough  .' 

As  thus  he  spake. 
They  reach'd   the  church.     The  door  before  his 

hand 
Gave  way  ;  both  blinded  with  their  tears,  they  went 
Strai-ght  to  the  tomb  ;  and  there  Siverian  knelt. 
And  bow'd  his  face  upon  the  sepulchre, 
Weeping  aloud  ;  while  Roderick,  overpower'd. 
And  calling  upon  earth  to  cover  liim. 
Threw  himself  prostrate  on  his  father's  grave. 

Thus  as  they  lay,  an  awful  voice,  in  tones 
Severe,  address'd  them.     Who  are  ye,  it  said. 
That  with  your  passion  thus,  and  on  this  night, 
Disturb  my  prayers .'     Starting  they  rose ;   there 

stood 
A  man  before  them  of  majestic  form 
And  stature,  clad  in  sackcloth,  bare  of  foot. 
Pale  and  in  tears,  with  ashes  on  his  head. 


VII. 

RODERICK   AND   PELAYO. 

'TwAS  not  in  vain  that  on  her  absent  son, 
Pelayo's  mother,  from  the  bed  of  death, 
Call'd  for  forgiveness,  and  in  agony 
Besought  his  prayers  ;  all  guilty  as  she  was. 
Sure  he  had  not  been  human,  if  that  cry 
Had  fail'd  to  pierce  him.     When  he  heard  the  tale, 
He  bless'd  the  messenger,  even  while  his  speech 
Was  faltering, —  while  from  head  to  foot  he  shook 
With  icy  feelings  from  his  inmost  heart 
Effused.     It  changed  the  nature  of  his  woe. 
Making  the  burden  more  endurable  : 
The  life-long  sorrow  that  rcmain'd,  became 
A  healing  and  a  chastening  grief,  and  brought 
His  soul,  m  close  communion,  nearer  Heaven. 
For  he  had  been  her  first-born,  and  the  love 
Which  at  her  breast  he  drew,  and  from  her  smiles, 
And  from  her  voice  of  tenderness  imbibed, 
Gave  such  unnatural  horror  to  her  crimes, 
That  when  the  thougiit  came  over  him,  it  seem'd 
As  if  the  milk  which  with  his  infant  life 
Had  blended  thrill  d  like  poison  through  his  frame. 
84 


It  was  a  woe  beyond  all  rcoali  of  hope, 

Till  wi,th  the  dreadful  tale  of  her  remorse 

Faith  touch'd  his  heart ;  and  ever  from  that  day 

Did  he  for  her  who  bore  him,  night  and  morn, 

Pour  out  the  anguish  of  his  soul  in  prayer  : 

But  chiefly  as  the  night  return'd,  which  heard 

Her  last  expiring  groans  of  penitence, 

Then  through  the  long  and  painful  hours,  before 

The  altar,  like  a  penitent  himself. 

He  kept  his  vigils ;  and  when  Roderick's  sword 

Subdued  Witiza,  and  the  land  was  free, 

Duly  upon  her  grave  he  ofFer'd  up 

His  yearly  sacrifice  of  agony 

And  prayer.     This  was  the  night,  and  he  it  was 

Who  now  before  Siverian  and  the  King 

Stood  up  in  sackclotii. 

The  old  man,  from  fear 
Recovering  and  from  wonder,  knew  him  first. 
It  is  the  Prince  !  he  cried,  and  bending  down, 
Embraced  his  knees.     The  action  and  the  word 
Awaken 'd  Roderick  ;  he  shook  oft'  the  load 
Of  struggling   thoughts,  which,  pressing   on  his 

heart. 
Held  him  like  one  entranced ;  yet,  all  untaught 
To  bend  before  the  face  of  man,  confused 
Awhile  he  stood,  forgetful  of  his  part. 
But  when  Siverian  cried.  My  Lord,  my  Lord, 
Now  God  be  praised  that  I  have  found  thee  thus. 
My  Lord  and  Prince,  Spain's  only  hope  and  mine  ! 
Then  Roderick,  echoing  him,  exclaim'd.  My  Lord, 
And  Prince,  Pelayo  !  —  and  approaching  near, 
He  bent  his  knee  obeisant :  but  his  head 
Earthward  inclined  ;  while  the  old  man,  looking  up 
From  his  low  gesture  to  Pelayo's  face, 
Wept  at  beholding  him  for  grief  and  joy. 

Siverian  I  cried  the  chief,  —  of  whom  hath  Death 
Bereaved  me,  that  thou  comest  to  Cordoba  .' 
Children,  or  wife  .'  —  Or  hath  the  merciless  scythe 
Of  this  abhorr'd  and  jealous  tyranny 
Made  my  house  desolate  at  one  wide  sweep  ? 

They   are    as   thou  couldst  wish,  the  old  man 
replied, 
Wert  thou  but  lord  of  thine  own  house  again. 
And  Spain  were  Spain  once  more.     A  tale  of  ill 
I  bear,  but  one  that  touches  not  the  heart 
Like  what  thy  tears  forebode.     The  renegade 
Numacian  wooes  thy  sister,  and  she  lends 
To  the  vile  slave,  unworthily,  her  ear: 
The  Lady  Gaudiosa  hath  in  vain 
Warn'd  her  of  all  the  evils  which  await 
A  union  thus  accurs'd  :  she  sets  at  nought 
Her  faith,  her  lineage,  and  thy  certain  wrath. 

Pelayo,  hearing  him,  remain'd  awhile 
Silent ;  tlien  turning  to  his  mother's  grave,  — 
O  thou  poor  dust,  hath  then  the  infectious  taint 
Survived  thy  dread  remorse,  that  it  should  run 
In  Guisla's  veins  .'  he  cried  ;  —  I  should  have  heard 
This  shameful  sorrow  any  where  but  here.'  — 
Humble    thyself,    proud     heart;    thou,   gracious 

Heaven, 
Be  merciful !  — it  is  the  original  flaw, — 
And  what  are  we.'  —  a  weak,  unhappy  race, 


666 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


VIII 


Born  to  our  sad  inheritance  of  sin 

And  dcatii  I  —  He  smote  his  forehead  as  he  spake, 

And  from  his  head  the  ashes  fell,  like  snow 

Shaken  from  some  dry  beech-leaves,  when  a  l)ird 

Lights  on  the  bending  spray.     A  little  while 

In  silence,  rather  than  in  thought,  he  stood 

Passive  beneath  the  sorrow  :  turning  then. 

And  what  doth  Gaudiosa  counsel  me  ? 

He  ask'd  the  old  man  ;  for  she  hath  ever  been 

My  wise  and  faithful  counsellor.  —  He  replied. 

The  Lady  Gaudiosa  bade  me  say 

She  sees  the  danger  which  on  every  part 

Besets    her    husband's    house. — Here    she    had 

ceased ; 
But  when  my  noble  Mistress  gave  in  charge. 
How  I  should  tell  thee  that  in  evil  times 
The  bravest  counsels  ever  are  the  best, 
Then  that  high-minded  Lady  thus  rejoin'd  :  — 
Whatever  be  my  Lord's  resolve,  he  knows 
I  bear  a  mind  prepared. 

Brave  spirits !  cried 
Pelayo,  worthy  to  remove  all  stain 
Of  weakness  from  their  sex  !  I  should  be  less 
Than  man,  if,  drawing  strength  where  others  find 
Their  hearts  most  open  to  assault  of  fear, 
I  quail 'd  at  danger.     Never  be  it  said 
Of  Spain,  that  in  the  hour  of  her  distress 
Her  women  were  as  heroes,  but  her  men 
Perform'd  the  woman's  part. 

Roderick  at  that 
Look'd  up,  and  taking  up  tiie  word,  exclaim'd, 
O  Prince,  in  better  days  the  pride  of  Spain, 
And  prostrate  as  she  lies,  her  surest  hope. 
Hear  now  my  tale.     The  fire  which  seem'd  extinct 
Hath  risen  revigorate  :  a  living  spark 
From  Auria's  ashes,  by  a  woman's  hand 
Preserved  and  quicken'd,  kindles  far  and  wide 
The  beacon-flame  o'er  all  the  Asturian  hills. 
There  hath  a  vow  been  off"er'd  up,  which  binds 
Us  and  our  children's  children  to  the  work 
Of  holy  hatred.     In  the  name  of  Spain 
That  vow  hath  been  pronounced,  and  register'd 
Above,  to  be  the  bond  whereby  we  stand 
For  condemnation  or  acceptance.     Heaven 
Received  the  irrevocable  vow,  and  Earth 
Must  witness  its  fulfilment ;  Earth  and  Heaven 
Call  upon  thee,  Pelayo  !  Upon  thee 
The  spirits  of  thy  royal  ancestors 
Look  down  expectant;  unto  thee,  from  fields 
Laid  waste,  and  hamlets  burnt,  and  cities  sack'd. 
The  blood  of  infancy  and  helpless  age 
Cries  out;  thy  native  mountains  call  for  thee. 
Echoing  from  all  their  armCd  sons  thy  name. 
And  deem  not  thou  that  hot  impatience  goads 
Thy  countrymen  to  counsels  immature. 
Odoar  and  Urban  from  Visonia's  banks 
Send  me,  their  sworn  and  trusted  messenger, 
To  summon  thee,  and  tell  thee  in  their  name 
That  now  the  hour  is  come  :  For  sure  it  seems. 
Thus  saith  the  Primate,  Heaven's  high  will  to  rear 
Upon  the  soil  of  Spain  a  Spanish  throne. 
Restoring  in  thy  native  line,  O  Prince, 
The  sceptre  to  tlie  Spaniard.     Worthy  son 
Of  that  most  ancient  and  heroic  race. 
Which  with  unweariable  endurance  still 


Hath  striven  against  its  mightier  enemies, 

Roman  or  Carthaginian,  Greek  or  Goth  ; 

So  often  by  superior  arms  opprcss'd, 

More  often  by  superior  arts  beguiled ; 

Yet,  amid  all  its  sufferings,  all  the  waste 

Of  sword  and  fire  remorselessly  employ 'd, 

Unconquer'd  and  unconquerable  still ;  — 

Son  of  that  injured  and  illustrious  stock. 

Stand  forward  thou,  draw  forth  the  sword  of  Spain, 

Restore  them  to  their  rights,  too  long  with'held. 

And  place  upon  thy  brow  the  Spanish  crcvn. 

When   Roderick   ceased,    the    princely   Moun- 
taineer 
Gazed  on  the  passionate  orator  awhile. 
With  eyes  intently  fix'd,  and  thoughtful  brow  ; 
Then  turning  to  the  altar,  he  let  fall 
The  sackcloth  robe,  which  late,  with  folded  arms, 
Against  his  heart  was  press'd;  and  stretching  forth 
His  hands  toward  the  crucifix,  exclaim'd, 
My  God  and  my  Redeemer  !  where  but  here, 
Before  thy  awful  presence,  in  this  garb. 
With  penitential  ashes  thus  bestrewn, 
Could  I  so  fitly  answer  to  the  call 
Of  Spain,  and  for  her  sake,  and  in  thy  name, 
Accept  the  Crown  of  Thorns  she  proffers  lue .' 

And  where  but  here,  said  Roderick  in  his  heart, 
Could  I  so  properly,  with  humbled  knee 
And  willing  soul,  confirm  my  forfeiture.'  — 
The  action  follow'd  on  that  secret  thought : 
He  knelt,  and  took  Pelayo's  hand,  and  cried, 
First  of  the  Spaniards,  let  me  with  this  kiss 
Do  homage  to  thee  here,  my  Lord  and  King !  — 
With  voice  unchanged  and  steady  countenance 
He  spake  ;  but  when  Siverian  follow'd  him, 
The  old  man  trembled  as  his  lips  pronounced 
The  faltering  vow;  and  rising  he  exclaim'd, 
God  grant  thee,  O  my  Piince,  a  better  fate 
Than  thy  poor  kinsman's,  who  in  happier  days 
Received   thy    homage    here  !    Grief  choked  his 

speech. 
And,  bursting  into  tears,  he  sobb'd  aloud. 
Tears  too  adown  Pelayo's  manly  cheek 
Roll'd  silently.     Roderick  alone  appear'd 
Unmoved  and  calm ;  for  now  the  royal  Goth 
Had  offer'd  his  accepted  sacrifice. 
And  therefore  in  his  soul  he  felt  that  peace 
Which  follows  painful  duty  well  perform'd, — 
Perfect  and  heavenly  peace,  —  the  peace  of  God. 


VHL 

ALPHONSO. 

Fain  would  Pelayo  have  that  hour  obey'd 
The  call,  commencing  his  adventurous  flight, 
As  one  whose  soul  impatiently  endured 
His  country's  thraldom,  and  in  daily  prayer 
Imploring  her  deliverance,  cried  to  Heaven, 
How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  1  —  But  otlier  thoughts 
Curbing  his  spirit,  made  him  yet  awhile 
Sustain  the  weight  of  bondage.     Him  alone. 


VIII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


667 


Of  all  the  Gothic  baronage,  the  Moors 

Watch'd  witli  regard  of  wary  policy, — 

Knowing  his  jxjwerful  name,  iiis  noble  mind. 

And  how  in  him  the  old  Iberian  blood, 

Of  royal  and  remotest  ancestry. 

From  undisj)uted  source  flow'd  undcfiled ; 

His  mother's  after-guilt  attainting  not 

The  claim  legitimate  he  derived  from  her. 

Her  first-born  in  her  time  of  innocence. 

He,  too,  of  Chindasuintho's  regal  line 

Sole  remnant  now,  drew  after  him  the  love 

Of  all  true  Goths,  uniting  in  himself 

Thus,  by  this  double  right,  the  general  heart 

Of  Spain.     For  tiiis  the  rencgado  crew. 

Wretches  in  whom  their  conscious  guilt  and  fear 

Engender'd  crudest  hatred,  still  advised 

The  e.xtinction  of  Pelayo's  house  ;  but  most 

Tlie  apostate  Prelate,  in  iniquity 

Witiza's  genuine  brother  as  in  blood, 

Orpas,  pursued  his  life.     He  never  ceased 

With  busy  zeal,  true  traitor,  to  infuse 

His  deadly  rancor  in  the  Moorish  chief; 

Their  only  danger,  ever  he  observed, 

Was  from  Pelayo ;  root  his  lineage  out. 

The  Caliph's  empire  then  would  be  secure. 

And  universal  Spain,  all  hope  of  change 

Being  lost,  receive  the  Prophet's  conquering  law. 

Then  did  the  Arch-villain  urge  the  Moor  at  once 

To  cut  off  future  peril,  telling  him 

Death  was  a  trusty  keeper,  and  that  none 

E'er  broke  the  prison  of  the  grave.     But  here 

Keen  malice  overshot  its  mark  ;  the  Moor, 

Who  from  the  plunder  of  their  native  land 

Had  bought  the  recreant  crew  that  join'd  his  arms. 

Or  cheaplier  with  their  own  possessions  bribed 

Their  sordid  souls,  saw  through  the  flimsy  show 

Of  policy  wherewith  they  sought  to  cloak 

Old  enmity  and  selfish  aims  :  he  scorn'd 

To  let  their  private  purposes  incline 

His  counsels,  and  believing  Spain  subdued, 

Smiled,  in  the  pride  of  power  and  victory, 

Disdainful  at  the  thought  of  further  strife. 

Howbeit  he  held  Pelayo  at  his  court. 

And  told  him  that,  until  his  countrymen 

Submissively  should  lay  their  weapons  down. 

He  from  his  children  and  paternal  hearth 

Apart  must  dwell ;  nor  hope  to  see  again 

His  native  mountains  and  their  vales  beloved. 

Till  all  the  Asturian  and  Cantabrian  hills 

Had  bow'd  before  the  Caliph;  Cordoba 

Must  be  his  nightly  prison  till  that  hour, 

This  night,  by  special  favor  from  the  Moor 

Ask'd  and  vouchsafed  he  past  without  the  walls, 

Keeping  his  yearly  vigil ;  on  this  night. 

Therefore,  tlie  princely  Spaniard  could  not  fly. 

Being  thus  in  strongest  bonds  by  honor  held; 

Nor  would  he  by  his  own  escape  expose 

To  stricter  bondage,  or  belike  to  death, 

Count  Pedro's  son.     The  ancient  enmity 

Of  rival  houses  from  Pelayo's  heart 

Had,  like  a  thing  forgotten,  past  away; 

He  pitied  child  and  parent,  separated 

By  the  stern  mandate  of  unfeeling  power. 

And  almost  with  a  father's  eyes  beheld 

The  boy,  his  fellow  in  captivity. 


For  young  Alphonso  was  in  truth  an  heir 

Of  nature's  largest  patrimony  :  rich 

In  form  and  feature,  growing  strength  of  limb, 

A  gentle  heart,  a  soul  affectionate, 

A  joyous  spirit  fill'd  with  generous  thoughts, 

And  genius  heightening  and  ennobling  all ; 

The  blossom  of  all  manly  virtues  made 

His  boyhood  beautiful.     Shield,  gracious  Meaveu, 

In  this  ungenial  season  perilous,  — 

Thus  would  Pelayo  sometimes  breathe  in  prayer 

The  aspirations  of  prophetic  hope, —  [let 

Shield,  gracious  Heaven,  the  blooming  tree  !  and 

This  goodly  promise,  for  thy  people's  sake. 

Yield  its  abundant  fruitage. 

When  the  Prince, 
With  hope,  and  fear,  and  grief,  and  shame,  disturb'd, 
And  sad  remembrance,  and  the  shadowy  light 
Of  days  before  him,  thronging  as  in  dreams, 
Whose  quick  succession  fill'd  and  overpower'd 
Awhile  the  unresisting  faculty. 
Could,  in  the  calm  of  troubled  thoughts  subdued. 
Seek  in  his  heart  for  counsel,  his  first  care 
Was  for  the  boy  ;  how  best  they  might  evade 
The  Moor,  and  renegade's  more  watchful  eye ; 
And  leaving  in  some  unsuspicious  guise 
The  city,  through  what  unfrequented  track 
Safeliest  pursue  with  speed  their  dangerous  way. 
Consumed  in  cares  like  these,  the  fleeting  hours 
Went  by.     The  lamps  and  tapers  now  grew  pale, 
And  through  the  eastern  window  slanting  fell 
The  roseate  ray  of  morn.     Within  those  walls 
Returning  day  restored  no  cheerful  sounds 
Or  joyous  motions  of  awakcn'mg  life  ; 
But  in  the  stream  of  light  the  speckled  motes. 
As  if  in  mimicry  of  insect  play. 
Floated  with  mazy  movement.     Sloping  down 
Over  the  altar  pass'd  the  pillar'd  beam. 
And  rested  on  the  sinful  woman's  grave 
As  if  it  enter'd  there,  a  light  from  Heaven. 
So  be  it  !  cried  Pelayo,  even  so  ! 
As  in  a  momentary  interval. 

When  thoughtexpelliiigthought,  had  left  his  mind 
Open  and  passive  to  the  influxes 
Of  outward  sense,  his  vacant  eye  was  there, — 
So  be  it,  Heavenly  Father,  even  so  ! 
Thus  may  thy  vivifying  goodness  shed 
Forgiveness  there  ;  for  let  not  thou  the  groans 
Of  dying  penitence,  nor  my  bitter  prayers 
Before  thy  mercy-seat,  be  heard  in  vain ! 
And  thou,  poor  soul,  who,  from  the  dolorous  house 
Of  weeping  and  of  pain,  dost  look  to  me 
To  shorten  and  assuage  thy  penal  term. 
Pardon  me  that  these  hours  in  other  thoughts 
And  other  duties  than  this  garb,  this  night 
Enjoin,  should  thus  have  past !  Our  mother-land 
E.xacted  of  my  heart  the  sacrifice  ; 
And  many  a  vigil  must  thy  son  perform 
Henceforth  in  woods  and  mountain  fastnesses, 
And  tented  fields,  outwatching  for  her  sake 
The  starry  host,  and  ready  for  the  work 
Of  day,  before  the  sun  begins  his  course. 

The  noble  Mountaineer,  concluding  then 
With  silent  prayer  the  service  of  the  night, 
Went  forth.     Without  the  porch,  awaiting  him, 


G68 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


IX 


He  saw  Alphonso,  pacing  to  and  fro 

With  patient  step  and  eye  reverted  oft. 

He,  springing  forward  when  he  heard  the  door 

Move  on  its  heavy  hinges,  ran  to  liim, 

And  welcomed  him  with  smiles  of  youthful  love. 

I  have  been  watching  yonder  moon,  quoth  he. 

How  it  grew  pale  and  paler  as  the  sun 

Scattered  the  flying  shades  ;  but  woe  is  me. 

For  on  the  towers  of  Cordoba  the  while 

That  baleful  crescent  glitter'd  in  the  morn, 

And  with  its  insolent  triumph  seem'd  to  mock 

The  omen  1  had  found.  —  Last  night  I  dream' 

That  thou  wert  in  the  field  in  arms  for  Spain, 

And  I  was  at  thy  side  :  the  infidels 

Beset  us  round,  but  we  with  our  good  swords 

Hew'd  out  a  way.     Methought  1  stabb'd  a  Moor 

Who  would  have  slain  thee;  but  with  that  I  woke 

Foi  joy,  and  wept  to  find  it  but  a  dream. 

Thus,  as  he  spake,  a  livelier  glow  o'erspread 
His  cheek,  and  starting  tears  again  suffused 
The  brightening  lustre  of  his  eyes.     The  Prince 
Regarded  him  a  moment  steadfastly, 
As  if  in  quick  resolve  ;  tlien,  looking  round 
On  every  side  with  keen  and  rapid  glance. 
Drew  him  within  the  clmrch.     Alphonso's  heart 
Throbb'd  with  a  joyful  boding  as  he  mark'd 
The  calmness  of  Pelayo's  countenance 
Kindle  with  solemn  thoughts,  expressing  now 
High  purposes  of  resolute  hope.     He  gazed 
All  eagerly  to  hear  what  most  he  wish'd. 
If,  said  the  Prince,  thy  dream  were  verified, 
And  I  indeed  were  in  the  field  in  arms 
For  Spain,  wouldst  thou  be  at  Pelayo's  side?  — 
If  I  should  break  these  bonds,  and  fly  to  rear 
Our  country's  banner  on  our  native  hills, 
Wouldst   thou,   Alphonso,   share    my   dangerous 

flight  > 
Dear  boy,  —  and  wilt  thou  take  thy  lot  with  me 
For  death,  or  for  deliverance  .'' 

Shall  I  swear? 
Replied  the  impatient  boy  ;  and  laying  hand 
Upon  the  altar,  on  his  knee  he  bent. 
Looking  towards  Pelayo  with  such  joy 
Of  reverential  love,  as  if  a  God 
Were  present  to  receive  the  eager  vow. 
Nay,  quoth  Pelayo  :  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  oaths?  —  Bright  emanation  as  thou  art. 
It  were  a  wrong  to  thy  unsullied  soul, 
A  sin  to  nature,  were  I  to  require 
Promise  or  vow  from  thee  !     Enough  for  me 
That  thy  heart  answers  to  the  stirring  call. 
Alphonso,  follow  thou  in  happy  faith 
Alway  the  indwelling  voice  that  counsels  thee ; 
And  then,  let  fall  the  issue  as  it  may. 
Shall  all  thy  paths  be  in  the  light  of  Heaven, 
The  peace  of  Heaven  be  with  thee  in  all  hours. 

How  then,  exclaim'd  the  boy,  shall  I  discharge 
The  burden  of  this  happiness,  —  how  ease 
My  overflowing  soul?  —  Oh  gracious  God, 
Shall  I  behold  my  mother's  face  again,  — 
My  father's  hall,  —  my  native  hills  and  vales. 
And  hear  the  voices  of  their  streams  again,  — 
And  free  as  I  was  born  amid  those  scenes 


Beloved,  maintain  my  country's  freedom  there,  - 

Or,  failing  in  the  sacred  enterprise. 

Die  as  becomes  a  Spaniard.''  —  Sayinor  thus, 

He  lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes  toward 

The  image  of  the  Crucified,  and  cried, 

O  Thou  who  didst  with  thy  most  precious  blood 

Redeem  us,  Jesu  I  help  us  while  we  seek 

Earthly  redemption  from  this  yoke  of  shame. 

And  misbelief,  and  death. 

The  noble  boy 
Then  rose,  and  would  have  knelt  again  to  clasp 
Pelayo's  knees,  and  kiss  his  hand  in  act 
Of  homage ;  but  the  Prince,  preventing  this, 
Bent  over  him  in  fatherly  embrace. 
And  breathed  a  fervent  blessing  on  his  head. 


IX. 

FLORINDA. 

There  sat  a  v/oman  like  a  supplicant. 
Muffled  and  cloak'd,  before  Pelayo's  gate. 
Awaiting  when  he  should  return  that  morn. 
She  rose  at  his  approach,  and  bow'd  her  head. 
And,  with  a  low  and  trembling  utterance. 
Besought  him  to  vouchsafe  her  speech  within 
In  privacy.     And  when  they  were  alone. 
And  the  doors  closed,  she  knelt  and  clasp'd  his 

knees. 
Saying,  A  boon  !  a  boon  !     This  night,  O  Prince, 
Hast  thou  kept  vigil  for  thy  mother's  soul : 
For  her  soul's  sake,  and  for  the  soul  of  him 
Whom  once,  in  happier  daj's,  of  all  mankind 
Thou  heldest  for  thy  chosen  bosom  friend. 
Oh,  for  the  sake  of  his  poor  suffering  soul. 
Refuse  me  not! 

How  should  I  dare  refuse. 
Being  thus  adjured  ?  he  answer'd.     Thy  request 
Is  granted,  woman,  —  be  it  what  it  may, 
So  it  be  lawful,  and  within  the  bounds 
Of  possible  achievement:  —  aught  unfit 
Thou  wouldst  not  with  these  adjurations  seek. 
But  who  thou  art,  I  marvel,  that  dost  touch 
Upon  that  string,  and  ask  in  Roderick's  name  !  — 
She  bared  her  face,  and,  looking  up,  replied, 
Florinda!—  Shrinking  then,  with  both  her  hands 
She  hid  herself,  and  bow'd  her  head  abased 
Upon  her  knee,  —  as  one  who,  if  the  grave 
Had  oped  beneath  her,  would  have  thrown  herself, 
Even  like  a  lover,  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Pelayo  stood  confused :  he  had  not  seen 
Count  Julian's  daughter  since,  in  Roderick's  court, 
Glittering  in  beauty  and  in  innocence, 
A  radiant  vision,  in  her  joy  she  moved  ; 
More  like  a  poet's  dream,  or  form  divine, 
Heaven's  prototype  of  perfect  womanhood. 
So  lovely  was  the  presence,  —  than  a  thing 
Of  earth  and  perishable  elements. 
Now  had  he  seen  her  in  her  winding-sheet. 
Less  painful  would  that  spectacle  have  proved  ; 
For  peace  is  with  the  dead,  and  piety 
Bringeth  a  patient  hope  to  those  who  mourn 


I 


IX. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


669 


O'er  the  departed  ;  but  this  altcr'd  face, 

JJcarinif  its  deadly  sorrow  character'd, 

Came  to  liim  like  a  ghost,  which  in  the  grave 

Could  find  no  rest.     He,  taking  her  cold  hand, 

Raised  lier,  and  would  have  spoken ;  but  his  tongue 

Fail'd  in  its  ollice,  and  could  only  speak 

In  under  tones  compassionate  her  name. 

The  voice  of  pity  soothed  and  melted  her ; 
And  when  the  Prince  bade  her  be  comforted, 
Protfering  his  zealous  aid  in  whatsoe'er 
Might  please  her  to  appoint,  a  feeble  smile 
Pass'd  slowly  over  her  pale  countenance. 
Like  moonlight  on  a  marble  statue.     Heaven 
Requite  thee.  Prince  !  she  answer'd.     All  I  ask 
Is  but  a  quiet  resting-place,  wherein 
A  broken  heart,  m  prayer  and  humble  hope, 
May  wait  for  its  deliverance.     Even  this 
My  most  unhappy  fate  denies  me  here. 
Griefs  which  are  known  too  widely  and  too  well 
I  need  not  now  remember.     I  could  bear 
Privation  of  all  Christian  ordinances  ; 
The  woe  which  kills  hath  saved  me  too,  and  made 
A  temple  of  this  ruin'd  tabernacle. 
Wherein  redeeming  God  doth  not  disdain 
To  let  his  presence  shine.     And  I  could  bear 
To  see  the  turban  on  my  father's  brow,  — 
Sorrow  beyond  all  sorrows,  —  shame  of  shames, — 
Yet  to  be  borne,  while  I  with  tears  of  blood. 
And  throes  of  agony,  in  his  behalf 
Implore  and  wrestle  with  offended  Heaven. 
This  I  have  borne  resign'd :  but  other  ills. 
And  worse,  assail  me  now  ;  the  which  to  bear, 
If  to  avoid  be  possible,  would  draw 
Damnation  down.     Orpas,  the  perjured  Priest, 
The  apostate  Orpas,  claims  me  for  his  bride. 
Obdurate  as  he  is,  the  wretch  profanes 
My  sacred  woe,  and  wooes  me  to  his  bed. 
The  thing  I  am,  —  the  living  death  thou  seest ! 

Miscreant !  exclaira'd  Pelayo.     Might  I  meet 
That  renegado,  sword  to  cimeter, 
In  open  field,  never  did  man  approach 
The  altar  for  the  sacrifice  in  faith 
More  sure,  than  I  should  hew  the  villain  down ! 
But  how  should  Julian  favor  his  demand.'  — 
Julian,  who  hath  so  passionately  loved 
His  child,  so  dreadfully  revenged  her  wrongs  ! 

Count  Julian,  she  replied,  hath  none  but  me. 
And  it  hath,  therefore,  been  his  heart's  desire 
To  see  his  ancient  line  by  me  preserved. 
This  was  their  covenant  when,  in  fatal  hour 
For  Spain,  and  for  themselves,  in  traitorous  bond 
Of  union  they  combined.     My  father,  stung 
To  madness,  only  thought  of  how  to  make 
His  vengeance  sure;  the  Prelate,  calm  and  cool. 
When  he  renounced  his  outward  faith  in  Christ, 
Indulged  at  once  his  hatred  of  the  King, 
His  inbred  wickedness,  and  a  haughty  hope. 
Versed  as  he  was  in  treasons,  to  direct 
The  invaders  by  his  secret  policy. 
And  at  their  head,  aided  by  Julian's  power, 
Reign  as  a  Moor  upon  that  throne  to  which 
The  priestly  order  else  had  barr'd  his  way. 


The  African  hath  conquer'd  for  himself; 

But  Orpas  covetrth  Count  Julian's  lands. 

And  claims  to  have  the  covenant  perform'd. 

Friendless,  and  worse  tiian  fatherless,  I  come 

To  thee  for  succor.     Send  me  secretly,  — 

For  well  I  know  all  faithful  hearts  must  be 

At  thy  devotion,  —  with  a  trusty  guide 

To  guard  me  on  the  way,  that  I  may  reach 

Some  Christian  land,  where  Christian  rites  are  free. 

And  there  discharge  a  vow,  alas !  too  long, 

Too  fatally  delay'd.     Aid  me  in  this 

For  Roderick's  sake,  Pelayo  !  and  thy  name 

Shall  be  remember'd  in  my  latest  prayer. 

Be  comforted  !  the  Prince  replied ;  but  when 
He  spake  of  comfort,  twice  did  he  break  off 
The  idle  words,  feeling  that  earth  had  none 
For  grief  so  irremediable  as  hers. 
At  length  he  took  her  hand,  and  pressing  it, 
And  forcing  through  involuntary  tears 
A  mournful  smile  affectionate,  he  said. 
Say  not  that  thou  art  friendless  while  I  live  ! 
Thou  couldst  not  to  a  readier  ear  have  told 
Thy  sorrows,  nor  have  ask'd  in  fitter  hour 
What  for  my  country's  honor,  for  my  rank. 
My  faith,  and  sacred  knighthood,  I  am  bound 
In  duty  to  perform ;  which  not  to  do 
Would  show  me  undeserving  of  the  names 
Of  Goth,  Prince,  Christian,  even  of  Man.     Thia 

day. 
Lady,  prepare  to  take  thy  lot  with  me. 
And  soon  as  evening  closes  meet  me  here. 
Duties  bring  blessings  with  them,  and  I  hold 
Thy  coming  for  a  happy  augury, 
In  this  most  awful  crisis  of  my  fate. 


X. 


RODERICK  AND  FLORINDA. 

With  sword  and  breastplate,  under  rustic  weeds 
Conceal'd,  at  dusk  Pelayo  pass'd  the  gate, 
Florinda  following  near,  disguised  alike. 
Two  peasants  on  their  mules  they  seem'd,  at  eve 
Returning  from  the  town.     Not  distant  far, 
Alphonso  by  the  appointed  orange-grove. 
With  anxious  eye  and  agitated  heart, 
Watch'd  for  the  Prince's  coming.     Eagerly 
At  every  foot-fall  through  the  gloom  he  strain'd 
His  sight,  nor  did  he  recognize  him  when 
The  Chieftain  thus  accompanied  drew  nigh ; 
And  when  the  expected  signal  called  him  on. 
Doubting  this  female  presence,  half  in  fear 
Obey'd  the  call.     Pelayo  too  perceived 
The  boy  was  not  alone  ;  he  not  for  that 
Delay'd  the  summons,  but  lest  need  should  be. 
Laying  hand  upon  his  sword,  toward  him  bent 
In  act  soliciting  speech,  and  low  of  voice 
Inquired,  if  friend  or  foe.     Forgive  me,  cried 
Alphonso,  that  I  did  not  tell  thee  this, 
Full  as  I  was  of  happiness,  before. 
'Tis  Hoya,  servant  of  my  father's  house. 
Unto  whose  dutiful  care  and  love,  when  sent 


670 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


To  this  vile  bondage,  I  was  given  in  charge. 
How  could  I  look  upon  my  father's  face. 
If  I  had  in  my  joy  deserted  liira. 
Who  was  to  me  found  faithful  ?  —  Right !  replied 
The  Prince;  and  viewing  him  with  silent  joy, 
Blessed  the  Mother,  in  his  heart  he  said. 
Who  gave  thee  birth  I  but  sure  of  womankind 
Most  blessed  she  whose  hand  her  happy  stars 
Shall  link  with  thine  !  and  with  that  thought  the 

form 
Of  Hermesind,  his  daughter,  to  his  soul 
Came  in  her  beauty. 

Soon,  by  devious  tracks, 
They  turn'd  aside.     The  favoring  moon  arose, 
To  guide  them  on  their  flight  through  upland  paths 
Remote  from  frequentage,  and  dales  retired. 
Forest  and  mountain  glen.     Before  their  feet 
The  fire-flies,  swarming  in  the  woodland  shade. 
Sprung  up  like  sparks,  and  twinkled  round  their 

way; 
The  timorous  blackbird,  startmg  at  their  step. 
Fled  from  the  thicket  with  shrill  note  of  fear  ; 
And  far  below  them  in  the  peopled  dell. 
When  all  the  soothing  sounds  of  eve  had  ceased, 
The  distant  watch-dog's  voice  at  times  was  heard. 
Answering  the  nearer  wolf.     All  through  the  night 
Among  the  hills  they  travell'd  silently  ; 
Till  when  the  stars  were  setting,  at  what  hour 
The  breath  of  Heaven  is  coldest,  they  belield 
Within  a  lonely  grove  the  expected  fire. 
Where  Roderick  and  his  comrade  anxiously 
Look'd  for  the  appointed  meeting.     Halting  there. 
They  from  the  burden  and  the  bit  relieved 
Their  patient  bearers,  and  around  the  fire 
Partook  of  needful  food  and  grateful  rest. 

Bright  rose  the  flame  replenish'd  ;  it  illumed 
The  cork-tree's  furrow'd  rind,  its  rifts,  and  swells. 
And  redder  scars,  —  and  where  its  aged  boughs 
O'erbower'd  the  travellers,  cast  upon  the  leaves 
A  fl'jating,  gray,  unrealizing  gleam. 
Alphonso,  light  of  heart,  upon  the  heath 
Lay  carelessly  dispread,  in  happy  dreams 
Of  home;  his  faithful  Hoya  slept  beside. 
Years  and  fatigue  to  old  Siverian  brought 
Easy  oblivion;  and  the  Prince  himself. 
Yielding  to  weary  nature's  gentle  will. 
Forgot  his  cares  awhile.     Florinda  sat 
Beholding  Roderick  with  fix'd  eyes  intent. 
Yet  unregardant  of  the  countenance 
Whereon  they  dwelt ;  in  other  thoughts  absorb'd. 
Collecting  fortitude  for  what  she  yearn'd. 
Yet  trembled  to  perform.     Her  steady  look 
Disturb'd  the  Goth,  albeit  he  little  ween'd 
What  agony  awaited  him  that  hour. 
Her  face,  well  nigh  as  changed  as  his,  was  nww 
Half-hidden,  and  the  lustre  of  her  eye 
Extinct ;  nor  did  her  voice  awaken  in  him 
One  startling  recollection  when  she  spake, 
So  altered  were  its  tones. 

Father,  she  said, 
All  thankful  as  I  am  to  leave  behind 
The  unhappy  walls  of  Cordoba,  not  less 
Of  consolation  doth  my  heart  receive 


At  sight  of  one  to  whom  1  may  disclose 

The  sins  which  trouble  me,  and  at  his  feet 

Lay  down  repentantly,  in  Jesu's  name. 

The  burden  of  my  spirit.     In  his  name 

Hear  me,  and  pour  into  a  wounded  soul 

The  balm  of  pious  counsel.  —  Saying  thus. 

She  drew  toward  the  minister  ordain 'd, 

And  kneeling  by  him.  Father,  dost  thou  know 

The  wretch  who  kneels  beside  thee .'  she  inquired. 

He  answered.  Surely  we  are  each  to  each 

Equally  unknown. 

Then  said  she,  Here  thou  seest 
One  who  is  known  too  fatally  for  all, — 
TJie  daughter  of  Count  Julian.  —  Well  it  was 
For  Roderick  that  no  eye  beheld  him  now  ; 
From  head  to  foot  a  sharper  pang  than  death 
Thrill'd  him;  his  heart,  as  at  a  mortal  stroke, 
Ceased  from  its  functions :  his  breath  fail'd,  and 

when 
The  power  of  life,  recovering,  set  its  springs 
Again  in  action,  cold  and  clammy  sweat 
Starting  at  every  pore  suft'uscd  his  frame. 
Their  presence  help'd  him  to  subdue  himself; 
For  else,  had  none  been  nigh,  he  would  have  fallen 
Before  Florinda  prostrate  on  the  earth. 
And  in  that  mutual  agony  belike 
Both  souls  had  taken  flight.     She  mark'd  him  not , 
For  having  told  her  name,  she  bow'd  her  head. 
Breathing  a  short  and  silent  prayer  to  Heaven, 
While,  as  a  penitent,  she  wrought  herself 
To  open  to  his  eye  her  liidden  wounds. 

Father,  at  length  she  said,  all  tongues  amid 
This  general  ruin  shed  their  bitterness 
On  RodericCk,  load  his  memory  with  reproach. 
And  with  their  curses  persecute  his  soul. — 
Why  shouldst  thou  tell  me  this  ?   exclaim'd   the 

Goth, 
From  his  cold  forehead  wiping,  as  he  spake. 
The   death-like    moisture  ;  —  why   of   Roderick's 

guilt 
Tell  me .'  Or  thinkest  thou  I  know  it  not .' 
Alas  !  who  hath  not  heard  the  hideous  tale 
Of  Roderick's  shame  I  Babes  learn  it  from  their 

nurses, 
And  children,  by  their  mothers  unreproved, 
Link  their  first  execrations  to  his  name. 
Oh,  it  hatii  caugjjt  a  taint  of  infamy, 
That,  like  Iscariot's,  through  all  time  shall  last. 
Reeking  and  fresh  forever  ! 

There  !  she  cried, 
Drawing  her  body  backward  where  she  knelt. 
And   stretching   forth   her   arms   with   head    up- 
raised,— 
There  !  it  pursues  me  still !  —  I  came  to  thee, 
Father,  for  comfort,  and  thou  heapest  fire 
Upon  my  head.     But  hear  me  patiently. 
And  let  me  undeceive  thee ;  self-abased. 
Not  to  arraign  another,  do  I  come  ;  — 
1  come  a  self-accuser,  self-condemn'd 
To  take  upon  myself  the  pain  deserved ; 
For  I  have  drank  the  cup  of  bitterness. 
And  having  drank  therein  of  heavenly  gracej 
I  must  not  put  away  the  cup  of  shame. 


i 


RODERICK,  THU  LA«T  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


671 


Thus  as  she  spake  she  falter'd  at  the  close, 
And  in  that  dyiiisr  fall  her  voice  sent  forth 
Somewhat  of  its  original  sweetness.     Thou  !  — 
Tliou  self-abased  !  exclaini'd  the  astonish'd  King  ; — 
Thou  self-condeinn'd  I  —  The  cup  of  shame  for  thee! 
Thee  —  thee,  Florinda  I  —  But  the  very  excess 
Of  passion  check'd  his  speech,  restraining  thus 
From  further  transport,  which  had  liaply  else 
Masler'd  him  ;  and  he  sat  like  one  entranced, 
Gazing  upon  that  countenance  so  fallen. 
So  changed  :   her  face,  raised  from  its  muffler  now, 
Was  turn'd  toward  him,  and  the  fire-light  shone 
Full  on  its  mortal  paleness;  but  the  shade 
Conceal'd  the  King. 

She  roused  him  from  the  spell 
Which  held  him  like  a  statue  motionless. 
Thou,  too,  quoth  she,  dost  join  the  general  curse, 
Like  one,  who,  when  he  sees  a  felon's  grave. 
Casting  a  stone  there  as  he  passes  by. 
Adds  to  the  lieap  of  shame.     Oh,  what  are  we. 
Frail  creatures  as  we  are,  that  we  should  sit 
In  judgment,  man  on  man  !  and  what  were  we. 
If  the  All-merciful  should  mete  to  us 
With  the  same  rigorous  measure  wherewithal 
Sinner  to  sinner  metes!     But  God  beholds 
The  secrets  of  the  heart,  —  therefore  his  name 
Is  Merciful.     Servant  of  God,  see  thou 
The  hidden  things  of  mine,  and  judge  thou  then 
In  charity  thy  brother  who  hath  fallen. — 
Nay,  hear  me  to  the  end  !     I  loved  the  King,  — 
Tenderly,  passionately,  madh'  loved  him. 
Sinful  it  was  to  love  a  child  of  earth 
With  such  entire  devotion  as  I  loved 
Roderick,  the  heroic  Prince,  the  glorious  Goth  ! 
And  yet  methought  this  was  its  only  crime. 
The  imaginative  passion  seem'd  so  pure ; 
Quiet  and  calm  like  duty,  hope  nor  fear 
Disturbed  the  deep  contentment  of  that  love; 
He  was  the  sunshine  of  my  soul,  and  like 
A  flower,  I  lived  and  flourish'd  in  his  light. 
Oh,  bear  not  with  me  thus  impatiently  ! 
No  tale  of  weakness  this,  that  in  the  act 
Of  penitence,  indulgent  to  itself. 
With  garrulous  palliation  half  repeats 
The  sin  it  ill  repents.     I  will  be  brief. 
And  shrink  not  from  confessing  how  the  love 
Which  thus  began  in  innocence,  betray'd 
My  unsuspecting  heart ;  nor  me  alone. 
But  him,  before  whom,  shining  as  ho  shone 
With  whatsoe'er  is  noble,  whatsoe'er 
Is  lovely,  whatsoever  good  and  great, 
I  was  as  dust  and  ashes,  —  him,  alas  ! 
This  glorious  being,  this  exalted  Prince, 
Even  him,  with  all  his  royalty  of  soul. 
Did  this  ill-omen'd,  this  accursed  love. 
To  his  most  lamentable  fall  betray 
And  utter  ruin.     Thus  it  was  :   The  King, 
3j  ^CTinsels  of  cold  statesmen  ill-advised. 
To  an  unworthy  mate  had  bound  himself 
In  politic  wedlock.     Wherefore  should  I  tell 
How  Nature  upon  Egilona's  form. 
Profuse  of  beauty,  lavishing  her  gifts. 
Left,  like  a  statue  from  the  graver's  hands. 
Deformity  and  hollowness  beneath 
The  rich  external.'     For  the  love  of  pomp 


And  emptiest  vanity,  hath  she  not  incurr'd 

The  grief  and  wonder  of  good  men,  the  jibes 

Of  vulgar  ribaldry,  the  reproach  of  all; 

Profaning  the  most  holy  sacrament 

Of  marriage,  to  become  chief  of  the  wives 

Of  Abdalaziz,  of  the  Infidel, 

The  Moor,  the  tyrant-enemy  of  Spain  ! 

All  know  her  now ;  but  they  alone  who  knew 

What  Roderick  was,  can  judge  liis  wretchedness, 

To  that  light  spirit  and  unfeeling  heart 

In  hopeless  bondage  bound.     No  children  rose 

From  this  unhappy  union,  towards  whom 

Tlie  springs  of  love,  within  his  soul  confined. 

Might  flow  in  joy  and  fulness ;  nor  was  he 

One,  like  Witiza,  of  the  vulgar  crew. 

Who  in  promiscuous  appetite  can  find 

All  their  vile  nature  seeks.     Alas  for  man  ! 

Exuberant  health  diseases  him,  frail  worm  ! 

And  the  slight  bias  of  untoward  chance 

Makes  his  best  virtue  from  the  even  line. 

With  fatal  declination,  swerve  aside. 

Ay,  thou  mayst  groan  for  poor  mortality, — 

Well,  Father,  mayst  thou  groan  ! 

My  evil  fate 
Made  me  an  inmate  of  the  royal  house. 
And  Roderick  found  in  me,  if  not  a  heart 
Like  his,  —  for  who  was  like  the  heroic  Goth.'  — 
One  which  at  least  felt  his  surpassing  worth. 
And  loved  him  for  himself.  —  A  little  yet 
Bear  with  me,  reverend  Father,  for  I  touch 
Upon  the  point,  and  this  long  prologue  goes, 
As  justice  bids,  to  palliate  his  offence. 
Not  mine.     The  passion,  which  I  fondly  thought 
Such  as  fond  sisters  for  a  brother  feel. 
Grew  day  by  day,  and  strengthen'd  in  its  growth, 
Till  the  beloved  presence  had  become 
Needful  as  food  or  necessary  sleep. 
My  hope,  light,  sunshine,  life,  and  every  thing. 
Thus  lapp'd  in  dreams  of  bliss,  I  might  have  lived 
Contented  with  this  pure  idolatry. 
Had  he  been  happy  ;  but  I  saw  and  knew 
The  inward  discontent  and  household  griefs 
Which  he  subdued  in  silence  ;  and  alas  ! 
Pity  with  admiration  mingling  then, 
Alloy'd,  and  lower'd,  and  humanized  my  love, 
Till  to  the  level  of  my  lowliness 
It  brought  him  down  ;  and  in  this  treacherous  heart 
Too  often  the  repining  thought  arose. 
That  if  Florinda  had  been  Roderick's  Queen, 
Then  might  domestic  peace  and  happiness 
Have  bless'd  his  home  and  crown'd  our  wedded 

loves. 
Too  often  did  that  sinful  thought  recur. 
Too  feebly  the  temptation  was  repell'd. 

See,  Father,  1  have  probed  my  inmost  soul ; 
H.ave  search'd  to  its  remotest  source  the  sin ; 
And  tracing  it  through  all  its  specious  forms 
Of  fair  disguisement,  I  present  it  now. 
Even  as  it  lies  before  the  eye  of  God, 
Bare  and  exposed,  convicted  and  condemn'd. 
One  eve,  as  in  the  bowers  which  overhang 
The  glen  where  Tagus  rolls  between  his  rocks 
I  roam'd  alone,  alone  I  met  the  King. 
His  countenance  was  troubled,  and  his  speech 


G7;i 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


Like  that  of  one  whose  tongue  to  lijrht  discourse 

At  fits  constrain'd,  betrays  a  heart  disturb'd  : 

I  too,  albeit  unconscious  of  liis  thoughts, 

With  anxious  looks  reveal'd  what  wandering  words 

In  vain  essay'd  to  hide.     A  little  while 

Did  this  oppressive  intercourse  endure, 

Till  our  eyes  met  in  silence,  each  to  each 

Telling  their  mutual  tale,  then  consciously 

Together  fell  abash'd.     He  took  my  hand, 

And  said,  Florinda,  would  that  thou  and  I 

Earlier  had  met !     Oh,  what  a  blissful  lot 

Had  then  been  mine,  who  might  have  found  m 

thee 
The  sweet  companion  and  the  friend  endear'd, 
A  fruitful  wife  and  crown  of  earthly  joys ! 
Thou  too  shouldst  then  have  been  of  womankind 
Happiest,  as  now  the  loveliest.  —  And  with  that, 
First  giving  way  to  passion  first  disclosed. 
He  press'd  upon  my  lips  a  guilty  kiss,  — 
Alas  I  more  guiltily  received  than  given. 
Passive  and  yielding,  and  yet  self-reproach'd. 
Trembling  I  stood,  upheld  in  his  embrace  ; 
When  coming  steps  were  heard,  and  Roderick  said, 
Meet  me  to-morrov/,  I  beseech  thee,  here, 
Queen  of  my  heart !     Oh  meet  me  here  again, 
My  own  Florinda,  meet  me  here  again  !  — 
Tongue,  eye,  and  pressure  of  the  iinpassion'd  hand 
Solicited  and  urged  the  ardent  suit, 
And  from  my  hesitating,  hurried  lips 
The  word  of  promise  fatally  was  drawn. 
O  Roderick,  Roderick  !  hadst  thou  told  me  all 
Thy  purpose  at  that  hour,  from  what  a  world 
Of  woe  had  thou  and  I  —  The  bitterness 
Of  that  reflection  overcame  her  then, 
And   chok'd  her   speech.     But  Roderick   sat  the 

while 
Covering  his  face  with  both  his  hands  olose-press'd. 
His  head  bow'd  down,  his  spirit  to  such  point 
Of  sufferance  knit,  as  one  who  patiently 
Awaits  the  uplifted  sword. 

Till  now,  said  she, 
Resuming  her  confession,  I  had  lived, 
If  not  in  innocence,  yet  self-deceived, 
And  of  my  perilous  and  sinful  state 
Unconscious.     But  this  fatal  hour  reveal'd 
To  my  awakening  soul  her  guilt  and  shame  : 
And  in  those  agonies  with  which  remorse, 
Wrestling  with  weakness  and  with  cherish'd  sin. 
Doth  triumph  o'er  the  lacerated  heart, 
That  night  —  that  miserable  night —  I  vow'd, 
A  virgin  dedicate,  to  pass  my  life 
Immured ;  and,  like  redeemed  Magdalen, 
Or  that  Egyptian  penitent,  whose  tears 
Fretted  the  rock,  and  moisten'd  round  her  cave 
riie  thirsty  desert,  so  to  mourn  my  fall. 
The  struggle  ending  thus,  the  victory 
Thus,  as  I  thought,  accomplish'd,  I  believed 
My  soul  was  calm,  and  that  the  peace  of  Heaven 
Descended  to  accept  and  bless  my  vow ; 
And  in  this  faith,  prepared  to  consummate 
The  sacrifice,  I  went  to  meet  the  King. 
See,  Father,  what  a  snare  had  Satan  laid  ! 
For  Roderick  came  to  tell  me  that  the  Church 
From  his  unfruitful  bed  would  set  him  free, 
And  I  should  be  his  Queen. 


O  let  me  close 
The  dreadful  tale  !     I  told  him  of  my  vow  ; 
And  from  sincere  and  scrupulous  piety. 
But  more,  I  fear  me,  in  that  desperate  mood 
Of  obstinate  will  perverse,  the  which,  with  pride. 
And   shame,  and    self-reproach,  doth    sometimea 

make 
A  woman's  tongue,  her  own  worst  enemy, 
Run  counter  to  her  dearest  heart's  desire,  — 
In  that  unhappy  mood  did  I  resist 
All  his  most  earnest  prayers  to  let  the  power 
Of  holy  Church,  never  more  rightfully 
Invoked,  he  said,  than  now  in  our  behalf. 
Release  us  from  our  fatal  bonds.     He  urged 
With   kindling  warmth   his  suit,  like  one  whose 

life 
Hung  on  the  issue  ;  I  dissembled  not 
My  cruel  self-reproaches,  nor  my  grief. 
Yet  desperately  maintain'd  the  rash  resolve ; 
Till,  in  the  passionate  argument,  he  grew 
Incensed,  inflamed,  and  madden'd  or  possess'd  — 
For  Hell  too  surely  at  that  hour  prevail'd, 
And  with  such  subtile  toils  enveloped  him, 
That  even  in  the  extremity  of  guilt 
No  guilt  he  purported,  but  rather  meant 
An  amplest  recompense  of  life-long  love 
For  transitory  wrong,  which  fate  perverse  — 
Thus  madly  he  deceived  himself — compell'd. 
And  therefore  stern  necessity  excused. 
Here  then,  O  Father,  at  thy  feet  I  own 
Myself  the  guiltier;  for  full  well  I  knew 
These  were  his  thoughts,  but  vengeance  master'd 

me. 
And  in  my  agony  I  cursed  the  man 
Whom  I  loved  best. 

Dost  thou  recall  that  curse .' 
Cried  Roderick,  in  a  deep  and  inward  voice, 
Still  with  his  head  depress'd,  and  covering  still 
His  countenance.     Recall  it  .-^  she  exclaim'd  ; 
Father,  I  come  to  thee  because  I  gave 
The  reins  to  wrath  too  long, — because  I  wrought 
His  ruin,  death,  and  infamy.  —  O  God, 
Forgive  the  wicked  vengeance  thus  indulged. 
As  I  forgive  the  King  !  —  But  teach  me  thou 
What  reparation  more  than  tears  and  praj'crs 
May  now  be  made;  —  how  shall  I  vindicate 

His  injured  name,  and  take  upon  myself 

Daughter  of  Julian,  firmly  he  replied. 

Speak  not  of  that,  I  charge  thee  !     On  his  fame 

The  Ethiop  dye,  fixed  ineffaceably. 

Forever  \v\\\  abide ;  so  it  must  be, 

So  should  be  :  'tis  his  rightful  punishment; 

And  if  to  the  full  measure  of  his  sin 

The  punishment  hath  fallen,  the  more  our  hope 

That  through  the  blood  of  Jesus  he  may  find 

That  sin  forgiven  him. 

Pausing  then,  he  raised 
His  hand,  and  pointed  where  Siverian  lay 
Stretch'd  on  the  heath.     To  that  old  man,  said  he. 
And  to  the  mother  of  the  unhappy  Goth, 
Tell,  if  it  please  thee,  —  not  what  thou  hast  pour'd 
Into  my  secret  ear,  but  that  the  child 
For  whom  they  mourn  with  anguish  unallay'd, 
Sinn'd  not  from  vicious  will,  or  heart  corrupt, 
But  fell  by  fatal  circumstance  betray'd. 


XI. 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


673 


And  if  in  charity  to  them  thou  sayest 
Sonietliinir  to  palliato,  soinothing  to  excuse 
An  act  of  sudden  frenzy  when  tlie  Fiend 
0"ercame  liim,  thou  wilt  do  for  Roderick 
All  he  could  ask  thee,  all  that  can  be  done 
On  earth,  and  all  his  spirit  could  endure. 

Venturing  towards  her  an  imploring  look. 
Wilt  thou  join  witli  me  for  his  soul  in  prayer  ? 
He  said,  and  trembled  as  he  spake.     That  voice 
Of  sympathy  was  like  Heaven's  influence, 
Woundinor  at  once  and  comforting  the  soul. 
O  Father,  Christ  requite  thee!  she  exclaim'd; 
Thou   hast  set  free  the  springs  which  withering 

griefs 
Have  closed  too  long.     Forgive  me,  for  I  thought 
Thou  wert  a  rigid  and  unpitying  judge  ; 
One  whose  stern  virtue,  feeling  in  itself 
No  flaw  of  frailty,  heard  impatiently 
Of   weakness    and    of    guilt.     I    wrong'd   thee, 

Father !  — 
With  that  she  took  his  hand,  and  kissing  it, 
Bathed  it  with  tears.     Then  in  a  firmer  speech, 
For  Roderick,  for  Count  Julian,  and  myself. 
Three  wretchedcst  of  all  the  human  race, 
Who  have  destroyed  each  other  and  ourselves, 
Mutually  wrong'd  and  wronging,  let  us  pray ! 


XI. 


COUNT  PEDRO'S  CASTLE. 

Twelve  weary  days  with  unremitting  speed. 
Shunning  frequented  tracks,  the  travellers 
Pursued  their  way  ;  the  mountain  path  they  chose, 
The  forest  or  the  lonely  heath  wide-spread. 
Where  cistus  shrubs  sole  seen  exhaled  at  noon 
Their  fine  balsamic  odor  all  around ; 
Strow'd  with  their  blossoms,  frail  as  beautiful. 
The  thirsty  soil  at  eve  ;   and  when  the  sun 
Relumed  the  gladden'd  earth,  opening  anew 
Their  stores  exuberant,  prodigal  as  frail, 
Whiten'd  again  the  wilderness.     They  left 
The  dark  Sierra's  skirts  behind,  and  cross'd 
The  wilds  where  Ana,  in  her  native  hills, 
Collects  her  sister  springs,  and  hurries  on 
Her  course  melodious  amid  loveliest  glens. 
With  forest  and  with  fruitage  overbower'd. 
These  scenes  profusely  blest  by  Heaven  they  left. 
Where  o'er  the  hazel  and  the  quince  the  vine 
Wide-mantling  spreads;   and  clinging  round  the 

cork 
And  ilex,  hangs  amid  their  dusky  leaves 
Garlands  of  brififhtest  hue,  with  reddenintr  fruit 
Pendent,  or  clusters  cool  of  glassy  green. 
So  holding  on  o'er  mountain  and  o'er  vale, 
Tagus  they  cross'd,  where,  midland  on  his  way, 
The  King  of  Rivers  rolls  his  stately  stream  ; 
And  rude  Alverches'  wide  and  stony  bed. 
And  Duero  distant  far,  and  many  a  stream 
And  many  a  field  obscure,  in  future  war 
For  bloody  theatre  of  famous  deeds 
Foredoom'd ;  and  deserts  where,  in  years  to  come, 
85 


Shall  populous  towns  arise,  and  crested  towers, 
And  stately  temples  rear  their  heads  on  high. 

Cautious,  with  course  circuitous  they  shunn'd 
The  embattled  city,  which,  in  eldest  time. 
Thrice-greatest  Hermes  built,  so  fables  say. 
Now  subjugate,  but  fated  to  behold 
Erelong  the  heroic  Prince  (who,  passing  now 
Unknown  and  silently  the  dangerous  track, 
Turns  thither  his  regardant  eye)  come  down 
Victorious  from  the  heights,  and  bear  abroad 
Her  banner'd  Lion,  symbol  to  the  Moor 
Of  rout  and  death  through  many  an  age  of  blood. 
Lo,  there  the  Asturian  hills  !     Far  in  the  west. 
Huge  Rabanal  and  Foncebadon  huge, 
Preeminent,  their  giant  bulk  display, 
Darkening  with  earliest  shade,  the  distant  vales 
Of  Leon,  and  with  evening  premature. 
Far  in  Cantabria  eastward,  the  long  line 
Extends  beyond  the  reach  of  eagle's  eye, 
When  buoyant  in  mid-heaven  tiie  bird  of  Jove 
Soars  at  his  loiliest  pitch.     In  the  north,  before 
The  travellers  the  Erbasian  mountains  rise. 
Bounding  the  land  beloved,  their  native  land. 

How  then,  Alphonso,  did  thy  eager  soul 
Chide    the   slow  hours   and    painful   wa}',  which 

seem'd 
Lengthening  to  grow  before  their  lagging  pace! 
Youth  of  heroic  thought  and  high  desire, 
'Tis  not  the  spur  of  lofty  enterprise 
That  with  unequal  throbbing  hurries  now 
The  unquiet  heart,  now  makes  it  sink  dismay'd ; 
'Tis  not  impatient  joy  which  thus  disturbs 
In  that  young  breast  the  healtliful  spring  of  life; 
Joy  and  ambition  have  forsaken  him. 
His  soul  is  sick  with  hope.     So  near  his  home, 
So  near  his  mother's  arms  ;  —  alas  !  perchance 
The  long'd-for  meeting  may  be  yet  far  off 
As   earth   from   heaven.     Sorrow,  in  tliese   long 

months 
Of  separation,  may  have  laid  her  low; 
Or  what  if  at  his  flight  the  bloody  Moor 
Hath  sent  his  ministers  of  slaughter  forth. 
And  ho  himself  should  thus  have  brought  the  sword 
Upon  his  father's  head  ?  —  Sure  Hoya  too 
The  same  dark  presage  feels,  the  fearful  boy 
Said  in  himself;  or  wlierefore  is  his  brow 
Thus  overcast  with  heaviness,  and  why 
Looks  he  thus  anxiously  in  silence  round  .' 

Just  then  that  faithful  servant  raised  his  hand. 
And  turning  to  Alphonso  with  a  smile. 
He  pointed  where  Count  Pedro's  towers  far  off 
Peer'd  in  the  dell  below  ;  faint  was  the  smile, 
And  while  it  sat  upon  his  lips,  his  eye 
Retain'd  its  troubled  speculation  still. 
For  long  had  he  look'd  wistfully  in  vain. 
Seeking  where  far  or  near  he  might  espy 
From  wliom  to  learn  if  time  or  chance  had  wrought 
Change  in  his  master's  house  :  but  on  the  hills 
Nor  goatherd  could  he  see,  nor  traveller. 
Nor  huntsman  early  at  his  sports  afield. 
Nor  angler  following  up  the  mountain  glen 
His  lonely  pastime  ;  neither  could  he  hear 


674 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XII. 


Carol,  or  pipe,  or  shout  of  shepherd's  boy, 
Nor  woodman's  axe,  for  not  a  Imman  sound 
Disturb'd  tlie  silence  of  the  solitude. 

Is  it  the  spoiler's  work .'     At  yonder  door 
Behold  the  favorite  kidling  bleats  unheard  ; 
The  next  stands  open,  and  the  sparrows  there 
Boldly  pass  in  and  out.     Thither  he  turn'd 
To  seek  what  indications  were  within ; 
The  chestnut-bread  was  on  the  shelf,  the  churn. 
As  if  in  haste  forsaken,  full  and  fresh  ; 
The  recent  fire  had  mouldcr'd  on  tiie  hearth ; 
And  broken  cobwebs  mark'd  the  whiter  space 
Where  from  the  wall  the  buckler  and  the  sword 
Had  late  been  taken  down.     Wonder  at  first 
Had  mitigated  fear ;  but  Hoya  now 
Return'd  to  tell  the  symbols  of  good  hope, 
And  they  prick'd  forward  joyfully.     Erelong 
Perceptible  above  the  ceaseless  sound 
Of  yonder  stream,  a  voice  of  multitudes, 
As  if  in  loud  acclaim,  was  heard  far  off; 
And  nearer  as  they  drew,  distincter  shouts 
Caine  from  the  dell,  and  at  Count  Pedro's  gate 
The  human  swarm  were  seen,  —  a  motley  group. 
Maids,  mothers,  helpless  infancy,  weak  age, 
And  wondering  children,  and  tumultuous  boys. 
Hot  youth,  and  resolute  manhood  gather'd  there. 
In  uproar  all.     Anon  the  moving  mass 
Falls  in  half  circle  back  ;  a  general  cry 
Bursts  forth ;   exultant  arms  are  lifted  up. 
And  caps  are  thrown  aloft,  as  through  the  gale 
Count  Pedro's  banner  came.     Alphonso  shriek'd 
For  joy,  and  smote  his  steed  and  gallop'd  on. 

Fronting  the  gate,  the  standard-bearer  holds 
His  precious  charge.     Behind,  the  men  divide 
In  ordcr'd  files ;  green  boyhood  presses  there. 
And  waning  eld,  pleading  a  youthful  soul. 
Entreats  admission.     All  is  ardor  here, 
Hope,  and  brave  purposes,  and  minds  resolved. 
Nor  where  the  weaker  sex  is  k-fl  apart 
Doth  aught  of  fear  find  utterance,  though  perchance 
Some  paler  cheeks  might  there  be  seen,  some  eyes 
Big  with  sad  bodings,  and  son)e  natural  tears. 
Count  Pedro's  war-horse  in  the  vacant  space 
Strikes  with  impatient  hoof  the  trodden  turf. 
And  gvizing  round  upon  the  martial  show. 
Proud  of  his  stately  trappings,  flings  his  head. 
And  snorts  and  champs  the  bit,  and  neighing  shrill 
Wakes  the  near  echo  with  his  voice  of  joy. 
The  page  beside  him  holds  his  master's  spear. 
And  shield,  and  helmet.     In  the  castle-gate 
Count  Pedro  stands,  his  countenance  resolved. 
Put  mournful,  for  Favinia  on  his  arm 
Hung,  passionate  with  her  fears,  and  held  him  back. 
Go  not,  she  cried,  with  this  deluded  crew .' 
She  hath  not,  Pedro,  with  her  frantic  words 
Bereft  thy  faculty,  — she  is  crazed  with  grief, 
And  her  delirium  hath  infected  these : 
But,  Pedro,  thou  art  calm ;  thou  dost  not  share 
The  madness  of  the  crowd  ;  thy  sober  mind 
Surveys  the  danger  in  its  whole  extent. 
And  sees  the  certain  ruin,  —  for  thou  know'st 
I  know  thou  hast  no  hope.     Unhappy  man, 
Why  then  for  this  most  desperate  enterprise 


Wilt  thou  devote  thy  son,  thine  only  child  .' 
Not  for  myself  I  plead,  nor  even  for  thee ; 
Thou  art  a  soldier,  and  thou  canst  not  fear 
The  face  of  death ;  and  I  should  welcome  it 
As  the  best  visitant  whom  Heaven  could  send. 
Not  for  our  lives  I  speak  then,  —  were  they  worth 
The  thought  of  preservation  ;  —  Nature  soon 
Must  call  for  them  ;  the  sword  that  should  cut  short 
Sorrow's  slow  work  were  merciful  to  us. 
But  spare  Alphonso  !  there  is  time  and  hope 
In  store  for  him.     O  thou  who  gavest  liim  life. 
Seal  not  his  death,  his  death  and  mine  at  once  ! 

Peace  !    he  replied :    thou  know'st  there    is   no 
choice  ; 
I  did  not  raise  the  storm  ;  I  cannot  turn 
Its  course  aside  !  but  where  yon  banner  goes 
Thy  Lord  must  not  be  absent !    Spare  me  then, 
Favinia,  lest  I  hear  thy  honor'd  name 
Now  first  attainted  with  deserved  reproach. 
The  boy  is  in  God's  hands.     He  who  of  yore 
Walk'd  with  the  sons  of  Judah  in  the  fire. 
And  from  the  lions'  den  drew  Daniel  forth 
Unhurt,  can  save  him,  —  if  it  be  his  will. 

Even  as  he  spake,  the  astonish'd  troop  set  up 
A  shout  of  joy  which  rung  through  all  the  hills. 
Alphonso  heeds  not  how  they  break  their  ranks 
.\nd  gather  round  to  greet  liim ;  from  his  horse 
Precipitate  and  panting  off"  he  springs.  • 

Pedro  grew  pale,  and  trembled  at  his  sight ; 
Favinia  clasp'd  her  hands,  and  looking  up 
To  Heaven  as  she  embraced  the  boy,  exclaim'd, 
Lord  God,  forgive  me  for  my  sinful  fears ; 
Unworthy  that  I  am,  —  my  son,  my  son  ! 


XII. 

THE   VOW. 

Alvv.ws  I  knew  thee  for  a  generous  foe, 

Pclayo  I  said  the  Count ;  and  in  our  time 

Of  enmity,  thou  too,  I  know,  didst  feel 

The  feud  between  us  was  but  of  the  house, 

Not  of  the  heart.     Brethren  in  arms  henceforth 

We  stand  or  fall  together;  nor  will  I 

Lopk  to  tlie  event  with  one  misgiving  thought,  — 

That  were  to  prove  myself  unworthy  now 

Of  Heaven's  benignant  providence,  this  hour, 

Scarcely  by  less  than  miracle,  vouchsafed. 

I  will  believe  that  we  have  days  in  store 

Of  hope,  now  risen  again  as  from  the  dead, — 

Of  vengeance,  —  of  portentous  victory,  — 

Yea,  maugre  all  unlikelihoods,  —  of  peace. 

Let  us  then  here  indissolubly  knit 

Our  ancient  houses,  that  those  happy  days, 

When  they  arrive,  may  find  us  more  than  friends, 

And  bound  by  closer  than  fraternal  ties. 

Thou  hast  a  daughter.  Prince,  to  whom  my  heart 

Yearns  now,  as  if  in  winning  infancy 

Her  smiles  had  been  its  daily  food  of  love. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  what  Alphonso  is, — 

Thou  know'st  the  boy  ' 


XII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


675 


Already  had  that  hope, 
lloplied  Pelayo,  risen  within  my  soul. 

0  Thou,  who,  in  thy  mercy,  from  the  house 
Of  Moorish  bondage  hast  deliver'd  us. 
Fulfil  the  pious  purposes  for  wliich 

Here,  in  thy  presence,  thus  we  pledge  our  hands  I 

Strange  hour  to  plight  espousals  !  yielding  half 
To  superstitions  thoughts,  Favinia  cried, 
And    these    strange    witnesses! — The   times  are 

strange, 
With  tlioughtful  speech  composed  her  Lonl  replies  ; 
And  what  thou  seest  accords  with  tiicin.     This  day 
Is  wonderful ;  nor  could  auspicious  Heaven 
With  fairer  or  with  fitter  omen  gild 
Our  enterprise,  when,  strong  in  heart  and  hope. 
We  take  the  field,  preparing  thus  for  works 
Of  piety  and  love.     Unwillingly 

1  yielded  to  my  people's  general  voice. 
Thinking  that  she  who  with  her  powerful  words 
To  this  excess  had  roused  and  kindled  them. 
Spake  from  the  spirit  of  her  griefs  alone. 

Not  with  prophetic  impulse.     Be  that  sin 
Forgiven  me  !  and  the  calm  and  quiet  faith 
Which,  in  the  place  of  incredulity , 
Hath  fill'd  me,  now  that  seeing  I  believe. 
Doth  give  of  liappy  end  to  righteous  cause 
A  presage,  not  presumptuous,  but  assured. 

Then  Pedro  told  Pelayo  how  from  vale 
To  vale  the  exalted  Adosinda  went, 
Exciting  sire  and  son,  in  holy  war 
Conquering  or  dying,  to  secure  their  place 
In  Paradise  ;  and  how  reluctantly. 
And  mourning  for  his  child  by  his  own  act 
Thus  doom'd  to  death,  he  bade  with  heavy  heart 
His  banner  be  brought  forth.     Devoid  alike 
Of  purpose  and  of  hope  himself,  he  meant 
To  march  toward  the  western  Mountaineers, 
Where  Odoar  by  his  counsel  might  direct 
Their  force   conjoin'd.      Now,  said  he,  we  must 

haste 
To  Cangas,  there,  Pelayo,  to  secure. 
With  timely  speed,  I  trust  in  God;  thy  house. 

Then  looking  to  his  men,  he  cried,  Bring  fortli 
The  armor  which  in  Wamba's  wars  I  wore.  — 
Alphonso's  heart  leapt  at  the  auspicious  words. 
Count  Pedro  mark'd  the  rising  glow  of  joy, — 
Doubly  to  thee,  Alphonso,  he  pursued. 
This  day  above  all  other  days  is  blest, 
From  whence,  as  from  a  birth-day,  thou  wilt  date 
Thy  life  in  arms  ! 

Rejoicing  in  their  task. 
The  servants  of  the  house,  with  emulous  lov(>. 
Dispute  the  charge.     One  brings  the  cuirass,  one 
The  buckler ;  this  exultingly  displays 
The  sword  ;  his  comrade  lifts  the  iielm  on  high  ; 
The  greaves,  the  gauntlets  they  divide  ;  a  spur 
Seems  now  to  dignify  the  officious  hand 
Which  for  sucli  service  bears  it  to  his  Lord. 
Greek  artists  in  the  imperial  city  forged 
That  splendid  armor,  perfect  in  their  craft ; 
With  curious  skill  they  wrought  it,  framed  alike 
To  shine  amid  the  pageantry  of  war. 


And  for  the  proof  of  battle.     Many  a  time 
Alphonso  from  his  nurse's  lap  had  stretch'd 
His  infant  hands  toward  it  eagerly. 
Where  gleaming  to  the  central  fire  it  hung 
Higli  in  the  hall ;  and  many  a  time  had  wish'd, 
With  boyish  ardor,  that  tiie  day  were  come 
When  Pedro  to  his  prayers  would  grant  the  boon, 
His  dearest  heart's  desire.     Count  Pedro  then 
Would  smile,  and  in  his  heart  rejoice  to  see 
'i'he  noble  instinct  manifest  itself. 
Then,  too,  Favinia,  with  maternal  pride. 
Would  turn  lier  eyes  exulting  to  her  Lord, 
And  in  that  silent  language  bid  liini  mark 
His  spirit  in  his  boy;  all  danger  then 
Was  distant,  and  if  secret  forethought  faint 
Of  manhood's  perils,  and  the  chance  of  war, 
Hateful  to  mothers,  pass'd  across  her  mind, 
The  ill  remote  gave  to  the  present  hour 
A  heighten'd  feeling  of  secure  delight. 

No  season  this  for  old  solemnities, 
For  wassailry  and  sport; — the  bath,  the  bed, 
The  vigil,  —  all  preparatory  rites 
Omitted  now,  —  here,  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 
Before  the  vassals  of  his  father's  house. 
With  them  in  instant  peril  to  partake 
The  chance  of  life  or  death,  the  heroic  boy 
Dons  his  first  arms ;  the  coated  scales  of  steel 
Which  o'er  the  tunic  to  his  knees  depend, 
The  hose,  the  sleeves  of  mail ;  bareheaded  then 
He  stood.     But  when  Count  Pedro  took  the  spurs, 
And  bent  his  kree  in  service  to  his  son, 
Alphonso  from  that  gesture  half  drew  back. 
Starting  in  reverence,  and  a  deeper  hue 
Spread  o'er  the  glow   of  joy   wiiich    flush  d    his 

cheeks. 
Do  thou  the  rest,  Pelayo  !  said  the  Count ; 
So  shall  the  ceremony  of  this  hour 
E.vceed  in  honor  what  in  form  it  lacks. 
The  Prince  from  Hoya's  faitliful  hand  receiv'd 
The  sword ;  he  girt  it  round  the  youth,  and  drew 
And  placed  it  in  his  hand  ;  unsheathing  then 
His  own  good  falchion,  witli  its  burnish'd  blade 
He  touch'd  Alphonso's  neck,  and  with  a  kiss 
Gave  him  his  rank  in  arms. 

Thus  long  the  crowd 
Had  look'd  intently  on,  in  silence  hush'd ; 
Loud  and  continuous  now  with  one  accord, 
Shout  following  shout,  their  acclamations  rose; 
Blessings  were  breathed  from  every  heart,  and  joy, 
Powerful  alike  in  all,  which,  as  with  force 
Of  an  inebriating  cup,  inspired 
The  youthful,  from  the  eye  of  age  drew  tears. 
The  uproar  died  away,  when,  standing  fortii, 
Roderick,  with  lifted  hand,  besought  a  pause 
For  speech,  and  moved  towards  the  youth.     I,  too, 
Young  Baron,  he  began,  must  do  my  part; 
Not  with  prerogative  of  earthly  power, 
But  as  the  servant  of  the  living  God, 
The  God  of  Hosts.     This  day  thou  promises! 
To  die,  when  honor  calls  tiiee,  for  thy  faith. 
For  thy  liege  Lord,  and  for  thy  native  land ; 
The  duties  which  at  birth  we  all  contract. 
Arc  by  tlie  high  profession  of  this  hour 
Made  thine  especially.     Thy  noble  blood, 


G7G 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XIII. 


The   thouglits   with   which    thy    childhood    hath 

been  led, 
And  thine  own  noble  nature  more  than  all, 
Are  sureties  for  thee.     But  these  dreadful  times 
Demand  a  further  pledge ;  for  it  hath  pleased 
The  Highest,  as  he  tried  his  Saints  of  old. 
So  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  his  wrath 
To  prove  and  purify  the  sons  of  Spain  ; 
And  they  must  knit  their  spirits  to  the  proof, 
Or  sink,  forever  lost.     Hold  forth  thy  sword. 
Young  Baron,  and  before  thy  people  take 
The  vow  which,  in  Toledo's  sacred  name. 
Poor  as  these  weeds  bespeak  me,  I  am  here 
To  minister  v/ith  delegated  power. 

With  reverential  awe  was  Roderick  heard 
By  all,  so  well  authority  became 
That  mien,  and  voice,  and  countenance  austere. 
Pelayo  with  complacent  eye  beheld 
The  unlook'd-fbr  interposal,  and  the  Count 
Bends  toward  Alphonso  his  approving  head. 
The  youth,  obedient,  loosen'd  from  his  belt 
The  sword,  and  looking,  while  his  heart  beat  fast, 
To  Roderick,  reverently  expectant  stood. 

O  noble  youth,  the  Royal  Goth  pursued, 
Thy  country  is  in  bonds ;  an  impious  foe 
Oppresses  her ;  he  brings  with  him  strange  laws. 
Strange  language,  evil  customs,  and  false  faith, 
And  forces  them  on  Spain.     Swear  that  thy  soul 
Will  make  no  covenant  with  these  accursed. 
But  that  the  sword  shall  be  from  this  day  forth 
Thy  children's  portion,  to  be  handed  down 
From  sire  to  son,  a  sacred  heritage. 
Through  every  generation,  till  the  work 
Be  done,  and  this  insulted  land  hath  drunk 
In  sacrifice  the  last  invader's  blood.' 

Bear   witness,   ancient  Mountains !    cried   the 
youth, 
And  ye,  my  native  Streams,  who  hold  your  course 
Forever; — this  dear  Earth,  and  yonder  Sky, 
Be  witness !  for  myself  I  make  the  vow, 
And  for  my  children's  children.     Here  I  stand 
Their  sponsor,  binding  them  in  sight  of  Heaven, 
As  by  a  new  baptismal  sacrament. 
To  wage  hereditary,  holy  war. 
Perpetual,  patient,  persevering  war. 
Till  not  one  living  enemy  pollute 
The  sacred  soil  of  Spain. 

So,  as  he  ceased. 
While  yet  toward  the  clear,  blue  firmament 
His  eyes  were  raised,  he  lifted  to  his  lips 
The  sword,  with  reverent  gesture  bending  then. 
Devoutly  kiss'd  its  cross. 

And  ye  !  exclaimed 
Roderick,  as,  turning  to  the  assembled  troop. 
He  motion'd  with  authoritative  hand, — 
Ye  children  of  the  hills  and  sons  of  Spain ! 

Through  every  heart  the  rapid  feeling  ran, — 
For  us!  they  answer'd  all  with  one  accord, 
And  at  the  word  they  knelt :  People  and  Prince, 
The  young  and  old,  the  father  and  the  son. 
At  once  they  knelt;  with  one  accord  they  cried. 


For  us,  and  for  our  seed  !  with  one  accord 
They  cross'd  their  fervent  arms,  and  with  bent  head 
Inclined  toward  that  awful  voice  from  whence 
The  inspiring  impulse  came.     The  Royal  Goth 
Made  answer,  —  I  receive  your  vow  for  Spain 
And  for  the  Lord  of  Hosts  :  your  cause  is  good ; 
Go  forward  in  his  spirit  and  his  strength. 

Ne'er  in  his  happiest  hours  had  Roderick 
With  such  commanding  majesty  dispensed 
His  princely  gifts,  as  dignified  him  now. 
When,  with  slow  movement,  solemnly  upraised, 
Toward  the  kneeling  troop  he  spread  his  arms, 
As  if  the  expanded  soul  diffused  itself. 
And  carried  to  all  spirits  with  the  act 
Its  effluent  inspiration.     Silently 
The  people  knelt,  and  when  they  rose,  such  awe 
Held  them  in  silence,  that  the  eagle's  cry. 
Who  far  above  them,  at  her  highest  flight 
A  speck  scarce  visible,  gyred  round  and  round, 
Was  heard  distinctly  ;  and  the  mountain  stream, 
Which  from  the  distant  glen  sent  forth  its  sounds 
Wafted  upon  the  wind,  grew  audible 
In  that  deep  hush  of  feeling,  like  the  voice 
Of  waters  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 


xm. 

COUNT  EUDON. 

That  awful  silence  still  endured,  when  one, 

Who  to  tlie  northern  entrance  of  the  vale 

Had    turn'd    his     casual     eye,    exclaim'd,    The 

Moors  !  — 
For  from  the  forest  verge  a  troop  were  seen 
Hastening  toward  Pedro's   hall.     Their  forward 

speed 
Was  check'd  when  they  beheld  his  banner  spread. 
And  saw  his  order'd  spears  in  prompt  array. 
Marshalled  to  meet  their  coming.     But  the  pride 
Of  power  and  insolence  of  long  command 
Prick'd  on    their  Chief  presumptuous  :    We  are 

come 
Late  for  prevention,  cried  the  haughty  Moor, 
But  never  time  more  fit  for  punishment  I 
These  unbelieving  slaves  must  feel  and  know 
Their  master's  arm  I  —  On,  faithful  Mussulmen, 
On  —  on,  —  and  hew  down  the  rebellious  dogs!  — 
Then,  as  he  spurr'd  his  steed,  Allah  is  great ! 
Mahommed  is  his  Prophet !  he  exclaim'd, 
And  led  the  charge. 

Count  Pedro  met  the  Chief 
In  full  career ;  ne  bore  him  from  his  horse 
A  full  spear's  length  upon  the  lance  transfix'd ; 
Then  leaving  in  his  breast  the  mortal  shaft, 
Pass'd  on,  and,  breaking  through  the  turban'd  file.i, 
Open'd  a  path.     Pelayo,  who  that  day 
Fought  in  the  ranks  afoot,  for  other  war 
Yet  uncquipp'd,  pursued  and  smote  the  foe. 
But  ever  on  Alphonso,  at  his  side. 
Retained  a  watchful  eye.     The  gallant  boy 
Gave  his  good  sword  that  hour  its  earliest  taste 


XIII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


677 


Of  Moorish    blood,  —  that  sword,  whose   hungry 

edge, 
Througli  the  lair  course  of  all  liis  glorious  life. 
From  that  auspicious  day,  was  fed  so  well. 
Cheap  was  tlie  victory  now  for  Spain  aciiieved ; 
For  tlie  first  fervor  of  their  zeal  inspired 
The  Mountaineers,  —  the  presence  of  their  Chiefs, 
Tlie  sight  of  all  dear  objects,  all  dear  tics. 
The  air  they  breathed,  the  soil  whereon  they  trod. 
Duty,  devotion,  faith,  and  hope,  and  joy. 
And  little  liad  the  misbelievers  ween'd 
In  such  impetuous  onset  to  receive 
A  greeting  deadly  as  their  own  intent; 
Victims  they  thought  to  find,  not  men  prepared 
And  eager  for  the  fight ;  their  confidence 
Therefore  gave  way  to  wonder,  and  dismay 
Effected  what  astonishment  began. 
Scatter'd  before  the  impetuous  Mountaineers, 
Buckler,  and  spear,  and  cimetcr  tliey  dropp'd. 
As  in  precipitate  rout  they  fled  before 
Tlie    Asturian    sword :    the   vales,  and    hills,  and 

rocks, 
Received   their   blood,  and    where    they    fell   the 

wolves 
At  evening  found  them. 

From  the  figlit  apart 
Two  Africans  had  stood,  who  held  in  charge 
Count  Eudon.     When  they  saw  their  countrymen 
Falter,  give  way,  and  fly  before  the  foe. 
One  turn'd  toward  him  with  malignant  rage. 
And  saying.  Infidel !  thou  shalt  not  live 
To  join  their  triumph  I  aim'd  against  his  neck 
The  moony  falchion's  point.     His  comrade  raised 
A  hasty  hand,  and  turn'd  its  edge  aside. 
Yet  so  that  o'er  the  shoulder  glancing  down. 
It  scarr'd  him  as  it  pass'd.     The  murderous  Moor, 
Not  tarrying  to  secure  his  vengeance,  fled; 
While  lie  of  milder  mood,  at  Eudon's  feet 
Fell  and  embraced  his  knees.     The  mountaineer 
Who  found  them  thus,  withheld  at  Eudon's  voice 
His  wrathful  hand,  and  led  them  to  his  Lord. 

Count  Pedro,  and  Alphonso,  and  the  Prince 
Stood  on  a  little  rocky  eminence 
Which  overlook'd  the  vale.     Pedro  had  pat 
His  helmet  off,  and  with  sonorous  horn 
Blew  the  recall ;  for  well  he  knew  what  tlioughts. 
Calm  as  the  Prince  appear'd  and  undisturb'd, 
Lay  underneath  his  silent  fortitude  ; 
And  how  at  tliis  eventful  juncture  speed 
Imported  more  than  vengeance.     Thrice  he  sent 
The  long-resounding  signal  forth,  which  rung 
From  hill  to  hill,  n'uchoing  far  and  wide. 
Slow  and  unwillingly  his  men  obey'd 
The  swelling  horn's  reiterated  call; 
Repining  that  a  single  foe  escaped 
The  retribution  of  tliat  righteous  hour. 
With  lingering  step  reluctant  from  the  chase 
They  turn'd,  —  their  veins  full-swollen,  their  sin- 
ews strung 
For  battle  still,  their  hearts  unsatisfied  ; 
Their   swords  were  dropping   still  with  Moorish 

blood, 
And  where  they  wiped  their  reeking  brows,  the 
stain 


Of  Moorish  gore  was  left.     But  when  they  came 

Where  Pedro,  with  Alphonso  at  his  side. 

Stood  to  beiiold  their  coming,  then  tliey  prcss'd. 

All  emulous,  witli  gratulation  round, 

E.\tolling,  for  his  deeds  that  day  display'd, 

The  iiobli'  boy.     Oh  !   when  had  Heaven,  they  said, 

Witli  such  especial  favor  manifest 

Illustrated  a  first  essay  in  arms  ! 

They  bless'd  the  father  from  whose  loins  he  sprung. 

The  mother  at  v/liose  happy  breast  he  fed ; 

And  pray'd  that  tiieir  young  hero's  fields  might  be 

Many,  and  all  like  this. 

Thus  they  indulged 
The  honest  heart,  exuberant  of  love. 
When  that  loquacious  joy  at  once  was  check'd. 
For  Eudon  and  the  Moor  were  brought  before 
Count  Pedro.     Both  came  fearfully  and  pale. 
But  with  a  different  fear :  the  African 
Felt,  at  this  crisis  of  his  destiny, 
Sucli  apprehension  as  without  reproach 
Might  blanch  a  soldier's  check,  when  life  and  deatli 
Hang  on  another's  will,  and  helplessly 
He  must  abide  the  issue.     But  the  thoughts 
Whicii  quail'd  Count  Eudon's  heart,  and  made  his 

limbs 
Quiver,  were  of  his  own  unworthiness. 
Old  enmity,  and  that  he  stood  in  power 
Of  hated  and  hereditary  foes. 
I  came  not  with  them  willingly  !  he  cried, 
Addressing  Pedro  and  the  Prince  at  once. 
Rolling  from  each  to  each  his  restless  eyes 
Aghast,  —  the  Moor  can  tell  I  had  no  choice  ; 
They  forced  me  from  my  castle  :  —  in  the  fight 
They  would  have  slain  me  :  —  see,  I  bleed  !     The 

Moor 
Can  witness  that  a  Moorish  cimetcr 
Inflicted  this: — he  saved  me  from  worse  hurt:  — 
I  did  not  come  in  arms:  —  he  knows  it  all;  — 
Speak,  man,  and  let  the  truth  be  known  to  clear 
My  innocence  ! 

Thus  as  he  ceased,  with  fear 
And  rapid  utterance,  panting  open-mouth'd. 
Count  Pedro  half  rcpress'd  a  mournful  smile, 
Wherein  compassion  seem'd  to  mitigate 
His  deep  contempt.     Methinks,  said  he,  the  Moor 
Might  with  more  reason  look  himself  to  find 
An  intercessor,  than  be  call'd  upon 
To  play  the  pleader's  part.     Didst  thou  tnen  save 
The  Baron  from  thy  comrades  ? 

Let  mj'  liord 
Show  mercy  to  me,  said  the  Mussulman, 
As  I  am  free  from  falsehood.     We  were  lefl, 
I  and  another,  holding  him  in  charge  ; 
My  fellow  would  have  slain  him  when  he  saw 
How  the  fight  fared;  I  turn'd  the  cimeter 
Aside,  and  trust  that  life  will  be  the  meed 
For  life  by  me  preserved. 

Nor  shall  thy  trust, 
Rejoin'd  the  Count,  be  vain.  Say  further  now, 
From  whence  ye  came; — your  orders,  what-  — 

what  force 
In  Gegio ;  and  if  others  like  yourselves 
Are  in  the  field. 

The  African  replied, 
We  came  from  Gegio,  order'd  to  secure 


G78 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XIV. 


This  Baron  on  the  way,  and  seek  thee  liere 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  bonds.     A  messenger 
From  Cordoba,  wliose  speed  denoted  well 
He  came  witli  urgent  tidings,  wa^  the  cause 
Of  this  our  sudden  movement.     We  went  forth 
Three  hundred  men  ;  an  equal  force  was  sent 
For  Cangas,  on  like  errand,  as  I  ween. 
Four  luHulrcd  in  the  city  then  were  left. 
If  other  force  be  moving  from  the  south, 
1  know  not,  save  that  all  appearances 
Denote  alarm  and  vigilance 

The  Prince 
Fi.x'd  upon  Eudon  then  his  eye  severe  ; 
Baron,  he  said,  the  die  of  war  is  cast; 
What  part  art  thou  prepared  to  take  .''  against. 
Or  with  the  oppressor .' 

Not  against  my  friends,  — 
Not  against  you  I  — the  irresolute  wretch  replied, 
Hasty,  yet  faltering  in  his  fearful  speech ; 
But,  —  have  ye  weigh'd  it  well .''  —  It  is  not  yet 
Too  late,  —  their  numbers,  —  their  victorious  force. 
Which  hath  already  trodden  in  the  dust 
The    sceptre    of   the     Goths :  —  the    throne    de- 
stroy'd,  — 
Our  towns  subdued,  —  our  country  overrun, — 
The  people  to  the  yoke  of  their  new  Lords 
Resign'd  in  peace  —  Can  I  not  mediate.'  — 
Were  it  not  batter  through  my  agency 
To  gain  such  terms,  — such  honorable  terms.'  — 

Terms  !  cried  Pelayo,  cutting  short  at  once 
That  dastard  speech,  and  checking,  ere  it  grew 
Too  powerful  for  restraint,  the  incipient  wrath 
Which  in  indignant  murmurs  breathing  round. 
Rose  like  a  gathermg  storm,  learn  thou  what  terms 
Asturias,  this  day  speaking  by  my  voice. 
Doth  constitute  to  be  the  law  between 
Thee  and  thy  Country.     Our  portentous  age, 
As  with  an  earthquake's  desolating  force. 
Hath  loosen'd  and  disjointed  the  whole  frame 
Of  social  order,  and  she  calls  not  now 
For  service  with  the  force  of  sovereign  will. 
That  which  was  common  duty  in  old  times, 
Becomes  an  arduous,  glorious  virtue  now  ; 
And  every  one,  as  between  Hell  and  Heaven, 
In  free  election  must  be  left  to  choose. 
Asturias  asks  not  of  thee  to  partake 
The  cup  which  we  have  pledged  ;  she  claims  from 

none 
The  dauntless  fortitude,  the  mind  resolved. 
Which  only  God  can  give  ;  — therefore  such  peace 
As  thou  canst  find  where  all  around  is  war, 
She  leaves  thee  to  enjoy.     But  think  not.  Count, 
That  because  thou  art  weak,  one  valiant  arm. 
One  generous  spirit  must  be  lost  to  Spain  I 
The  vassal  owes  no  service  to  the  Lord 
Who  to  his  Country  doth  acknowledge  none. 
The  summons  which  thou  hast  not  heart  to  give, 
I  and  Count  Pedro  over  thy  domains 
Will  send  abroad  ;  the  vassals  who  were  thine 
Will  fight  beneath  our  banners,  and  our  wants 
Shall  from  thy  lands,  as  from  a  patrimony 
Which  hath  reverted  to  the  common  stock. 
Be  fed  :  such  tribute,  too,  as  to  the  Moors 
Thou  renderest,  we  will  take     It  is  the  price 


Which  in  this  land  for  weakness  must  be  j)aid 
While  evil  stars  prevail.     And  mark  me,  Chief. 
Fear  is  a  treacherous  counsellor  !  I  know 
Thou  thinkijst  that  beneath  his  horses'  hoofs 
The  Moor  will  trample  our  poor  numbers  down  ; 
But  join  not,  in  contempt  of  us  and  Heaven, 
His  multitudes !  for  if  thou  shouldst  be  found 
Against  thy  country,  on  the  readiest  tree 
Those  recreant  bones  shall  rattle  in  the  wind. 
When  the  birds  have  left  them  bare. 

As  thus  he  spake. 
Count  Eudon  heard  and  trembled  :  every  joint 
Was  loo.sen'd,  every  fibre  of  his  flesh 
Thrill'd,  and  from  every  pore  effused,  cold  sweat 
Clung  on  his  quivering  limbs.     Shame  forced  it 

fortii, 
Envy,  and  inward  consciousness,  and  fear 
Predominant,  which  stifled  in  his  heart 
Hatred  and  rage.     Before  his  livid  lips 
Could  shape  to  utterance  their  essa3''d  reply. 
Compassionately  Pedro  interposed. 
Go,  Baron,  to  the  Castle,  said  the  Count ; 
There  let  thy  wound  be  look'd  to,  and  consult 
Thy  better  mind  at  leisure.     Let  this  Moor 
Attend  upon  thee  there,  and  when  thou  wilt, 

Follow  thy  fortunes To  Pelayo  then 

He  turn'd,  and  saying,  All-too-lonff,  O  Prince, 
Hath  this  unlook'd-for  conflict  held  thee  here, — 
He  bade  his  gallant  men  begin  their  march. 

Flush'd  with  success,  and  in  auspicious  hour, 
The  Mountaineers  set  forth.  Blessings  and  prayers 
Pursued  them  at  their  parting,  and  the  tears 
Which  fell  were  tears  of  fervor,  not  of  gnef. 
The  sun  was  verging  to  the  western  slope 
Of  Heaven,  but  they  till  midnight  travell'd  on; 
Renewing  then  at  early  dawn  their  way, 
They  held  their  unremitting  course  from  morn 
Till  latest  eve,  such  urgent  cause  impell'd; 
And  night  had  closed  around,  when  to  the  vale 
Where  Sella  in  her  ampler  bed  receives 
Pionia's  stream  they  came.     Massive  and  black 
Pelayo's  castle  there  was  seen;    its  lines 
And  battlements  against  the  deep  blue  sky 
Distinct  in  solid  darkness  visible. 
No  light  is  in  the  tower.     Eager  to  know 
The  worst,  and  with  that  fatal  certainty 
To  terminate  intolerable  dread. 
He  spurr'd  his  courser  forward.     All  his  fears 
Too  surely  are  fulfill'd,  —  for  open  stand 
The  doors,  and  mournfully  at  times  a  dog 
Fills  with  his  howling  the  deserted  hall. 
A  moment  overcome  with  wretchedness. 
Silent  Pelayo  stood  !    recovering  then, 
Lord  God,  resign'd  he  cried,  thy  will  be  done ! 


XIV. 

THE   RESCUE. 

Count,  said  Pelayo,  Nature  hath  assign'd 
Two  sovereign  remedies  for  human  grief; 


I 


XIV. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


679 


Religion,  surest,  firmest,  first  and  best. 

Strength  to  tlie  weak,  and  to  the  wounded  balm  ; 

And  strenuous  action  next.     Think  not  1  came 

With  unprovided  heart.     My  noble  wile, 

In  the  last  solemn  words,  the  last  farewell 

With  which  she  charged  her  secret  messenger, 

Told  me  that  whatsoe'er  was  my  resolve, 

She  bore  a  mind  prepared.     And  well  I  know 

The  evil,  be  it  what  it  may,  hath  found 

In  her  a  courage  (Mjual  to  the  hour. 

Captivity,  or  death,  or  what  worse  pangs, 

She  in  her  children  may  be  doom'd  to  feel, 

Will  never  make  that  steady  soul  repent 

Its  virtuous  purpose.     I,  too,  did  not  cast 

My  single  life  into  the  lot,  but  knew 

These  dearer  pledges  on  the  die  were  set ; 

And  if  the  worst  have  fallen,  I  shall  but  bear 

That  in  my  breast,  which,  with  transfiguring  power 

Of  piety,  makes  chastening  sorrow  take 

The  form  of  hope,  and  sees,  in  Death,  the  friend 

And  the  restoring  Angel.     We  nmst  rest 

Perforce,  and  wait  what  tidings  night  may  bring, 

Haply  of  comfort.     Ho,  there  !   kindle  fires, 

And  see  if  aught  of  hospitality 

Can  yet  within  these  mournful  walls  be  found  I 

Thus  while  he  spake,  lights  were  descried  far  off" 
Moving  among  the  trees,  and  coming  sounds 
Were  heard  as  of  a  distant  nmltitude. 
Anon  a  company  of  horse  and  foot, 
Advancing  in  disorderly  array, 
Came  up  the  vale ;  before  them  and  beside 
Their  torches  flash'd  on  Sella's  rippling  stream  ; 
Now  gleam'd  through  chestnut  groves,  emerging 

now, 
0"er  their  huge  bouffhs  and  radiated  leaves 
Cast  broad  and  bright  a  transitory  glare. 
That  sight  inspired  with  strength  the  mountaineers; 
All  sense  of  weariness,  all  wish  for  rest 
At  once  were  gone  ;    impatient  in  desire 
Of  second  victory  alert  they  stood  ; 
And  when  the  hostile  symbols,  which  from  far 
Imagination  to  their  wish  had  shaped, 
V^anish'd  in  nearer  vision,  high-wrought  hope 
Departing,  left  the  spirit  pall'd  and  blank. 
No  turban'd  race,  no  sons  of  Africa 
Were  they  who  now  came  winding  up  the  valo, 
As  waving  wide  before  their  horses'  feet 
The  torch-light  floated,  with  its  hovering  glare 
Blackeninc  the  incumbent  and  surroundino-  nitrjit. 
Helmet  and  breastplate  glittcr'd  as  they  came, 
And  spears  erect;  and  nearer  as  they  drew 
Were  the  loose  folds  of  female  garments  seen 
On  those  who  led  the  company.     Who  then 
Had  stood  beside  Pelayo,  might  have  heard 
The  beating  of  his  heart. 

But  vainly  there 
Sought  he  with  wistful  eye  the  well-known  forms 
Beloved ;  and  plainly  might  it  now  be  seen, 
That  from  some  bloody  conflict  they  return'd 
Victorious,  —  for  at  every  saddle-bow 
A  gory  head  was  hung.     Anon,  they  stopp'd. 
Levelling,  in  quick  alarm,  their  ready  spears. 
Hold!    who  goes  there.'  cried  one.     A  hundred 

tongues 


Sent  fbrtli  with  one  accord  the  glad  reply, 
Friends    and    Astuilans.      Onward     moved    the 

lights,  — 
The  people  knew  their  lord. 

Then  what  a  shout 
Rung  througii  the  valley  !     From  their  clay-built 

nests, 
Beneath  the  overbrowlng  battlements. 
Now  first  disturb'd,  the  aiTrighted  martins  flew, 
And  uttering  notes  of  terror  abort  and  shrill. 
Amid  tlie  yellow  glare  and  lurid  smoke 
Wheel'd  giddily.     Then  plainly  was  it  sliown 
How  well  the  vassals  loved  their  generous  lord, 
How  like  a  father  the  Asturian  Prince 
Was  dear.     They  crovided  round  ;  they   clasp'd 

his  knees ; 
They  snatch'd  his  hand  ;  they  fell  upon  his  neck,  — 
They  wept;  —  they  blest  Almighty  Providence, 
Which  had  restored  him  thus  from  bondage  free  ; 
God  was  with  them  and  their  good  cause,  they  said  ; 
His  hand  was  here.  —  His  shield  was  over  them,  — 
His  spirit  was  abroad,  —  His  power  displayed  ; 
And  pointing  to  their  bloody  trophies  then. 
They  told  Pelayo,  there  he  might  behold 
The  first  fruits  of  the  harvest  they  should  soon 
Reap  in  the  field  of  war  I     Benlgnantl}-, 
With  voice,  and  look,  and  gesture,  did  the   Prince 
To  these  warm  greetings  of  tumultuous  joy 
Respond  ;  and  sure,  if  at  that  moment  auglit 
Could  for  a  while  have  overpower'd  those  fears 
Which,  from  the  inmost  heart,  o'er  all  his  frame 
Diffused  their  chlUlng  influence,  worthy  pride, 
And  sympathy  of  love,  and  joy,  and  hope, 
Had  then  possessed  him  wholly.     Even  now 
His  spirit  rose ;  the  sense  of  power,  the  sight 
Of  his  brave  people,  ready  where  he  led 
To  fight  their  country's  battles,  and  the  thought 
Of  instant  action,  and  deliverance,  — 
If  Heaven,  which  thus  far  had  protected  him, 
Should  favor  still,  —  revived  liis  heart,  and  gave 
Fresh  impulse  to  its  spring.     In  vain  he  sought, 
Amid  that  turbulent  greeting,  to  inquire 
Where  Gaudlosa  was,  his  children  where, 
Who  call'd  them  to  the  field,  who  captain'd  them  ; 
And  how  these  women,  thus  with  arms  and  death 
Envlron'd,  came  amid  their  company  ; 
For  yet,  amid  the  Huetu;iting  light 
And  tumult  of  tlie  crowd,  he  knew  them  not. 

Gulsla  was  one.     The  Moors  had  found  in  her 
A  willing  and  concerted  prisoner. 
Gladly  to  Geglo,  to  the  renegade. 
On  whom  her  loose  and  shameless  love  was  bent, 
Had  she  set  forth ;  and  in  her  heart  slie  curs'd 
Tlie  busy  spirit,  who,  with  powerful  call 
Rousing  Pelayo's  people,  led  them  on 
In  quick  pursual,  and  victoriously 
Achieved  the  rescue,  to  her  mind  perverse 
Unwelcome  as  unlook'd  for.     With  dismay 
She  recognized  her  brother,  dreaded  now 
More  than  he  once  was  dear ;  her  countenance 
Was  turn'd  toward  him,  —  not  with  eager  joy 
To  court  his  sight,  and  meeting  its  first  glance, 
Exchange  delightful  welcome,  soul  with  soul : 
Hers  was  the  conscious  eye,  that  cannot  choose 


G80 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


\v. 


But  look  to  what  it  fears.     She  could  not  shun 

His  presence,  and  the  rigid  smile  constrain'd, 

With  which  she  coldly  dress'd  hor  features,  ill 

Conceal'd  her  inward  thoughts,  and  the  despite 

Of  obstinate  guilt  and  unrepentant  shame. 

Sullenly  thus,  upon  her  mule  she  sat, 

^Vaiting  the  greeting  which  she  did  not  dare 

Jiring  on.     But  who  is  she  that,  at  her  side, 

Upon  a  stately  war-horse  eminent, 

Holds  the  loose  rein  with  careless  hand  ?     A  helm 

Presses  the  clusters  of  her  flaxen  hair ; 

The  shield  is  on  her  arm  ;  her  breast  is  mail'd; 

A  sword-belt  is  her  girdle,  and  right  well 

It  may  be  seen  that  sword  hath  done  its  work 

To-day,  for  upward  from  the  wrist  her  sleeve 

Is  stiff  with  blood.     An  unrcgardant  e3'e. 

As  one  whose  thoughts  were  not  of  earth,  she  cast 

Upon  the  turmoil  round.     One  countenance 

So  strongly  mark'd,  so  passion-worn,  was  there. 

That  it  recall'd  her  mind.     Ha!  Maccabee  ! 

Lifting  her  arm,  exultingly  she  cried, 

Did  I  not  tell  thee  we  should  meet  in  joy  .' 

Well,  Brother,  hast  thou  done  thy  part,  —  I,  too. 

Have  not  been  wanting  !     Now  be  His  the  praise 

From  whom  the  impulse  came  ! 

That  startling  call. 
That  voice  so  well  remember'd,  touch'd  the  Goth 
With  timely  impulse  now;  for  he  had  seen 
His  Mother's  face,  —  and  at  her  sight,  the  past 
And  present  mingled  like  a  frightful  dream. 
Which  from  some  dread  reality  derives 
Its  deepest  horror.     Adosinda's  voice 
Dispersed  the  waking  vision.     Little  deem'd 
llusilla,  at  that  moment,  that  the  child, 
For  whom  her  supplications  day  and  night 
Were  offer'd,  breathed  the  living  air.     Her  heart 
Was  calm  ;  her  placid  countenance,  though  grief 
Deeper  than  time  had  left  its  traces  there, 
Ilctain'd  its  dignity  serene ;  yet,  when 
Siverian,  pressing  through  the  people,  kiss'd 
Her  reverend  hand,  some  quiet  tears  ran  down. 
As  she  approach'd  the  Prince,  the  crowd  made  way 
Respectful.     The  maternal  smile  which  bore 
Her  greeting,  from  Pelayo's  heart  at  once 
Dispell'd  its  boding.     What  he  would  have  ask'd 
She  knew,  and  bending  from  her  palfrey  down. 
Told  him  tliat  they  for  whom  he  look'd  were  safe. 
And  that  in  secret  he  should  hear  the  rest. 


XV. 

RODERICK   AT   CANGAS. 

How  calmly  gliding  through  the  dark-blue  sky 
The  midnight  Moon  ascends  !     Her  placid  beams 
Through  tliinly-scatter'd  leaves  and  boughs  gro- 
tesque. 
Mottle  with  mazy  shades  the  orchard  slope  ; 
Here,  o'er  the  chestnut's  fretted  foliage,  gray 
And  massy,  motionless  they  spread  ;  here  shine 
Upon  the  crags,  deepening  with  blacker  night 
Their  chasms;  and  there  the  glittering  argentry 
Ripples  and  glances  on  the  confluent  streams. 


A  lovelier,  purer  light  than  that  of  day 

Rests  on  the  hills  ;  and  oh,  how  awfully 

Into  that  deep  and  tranquil  firmament 

The  summits  of  Auseva  rise  serene  ! 

The  watchman  on  the  battlements  partakes 

The  stillness  of  the  solemn  hour  ;  he  feels 

The  silence  of  the  earth,  the  endless  sound 

Of  flowing  water  soothes  him,  and  the  stars, 

Which    in    that    brightest    moonlight    well   nigh 

quench 'd 
Scarce  visible,  as  in  the  utmost  depth 
Of  yonder  sapphire  infinite,  are  seen, 
Draw  on,  with  elevating  influence. 
Toward  eternity  the  atteniper'd  mind. 
Musing  on  worlds  beyond  the  grave  he  stands, 
And  to  the  Virgin  Mother  silently 
Prefers  her  hymn  of  praise. 

The  mountaineers 
Before  the  castle,  rouna  their  mouldering  fires. 
Lie  on  the  hearth  outstretch'd.     Pelayo's  hall 
la  full,  and  he  upon  his  careful  couch 
Hears  all  around  the  deep  and  long-drawn  breath 
Of  sleep  ;  for  gentle  night  hath  brought  to  these 
Perfect  and  undisturb'd  repose,  alike 
Of  corporal  powers  and  inward  faculty. 
Wakeful  the  while  he  lay,  yet  more  by  hope 
Than  grief  or  anxious  thoughts  possess'd,  —  though 

grief 
For  Guisla's  guilt,  which  freshen'd  in  his  heart 
The  memory  of  their  wretched  mother's  crime, 
Still  made  its  presence  felt,  like  the  dull  sense 
Of  some  perpetual  inward  malady  : 
And  the  whole  peril  of  the  future  lay 
Before  him  clearly  seen.     He  had  heard  all  ; 
How  that  unworthy  sister,  obstinate 
In  wrong  and  shameless,  rather  seem'd  to  woo 
The  upstart  renegade  than  to  wait 
His  wooing;  how,  as  guilt  to  guilt  led  on. 
Spurning  at  gentle  admonition  first, 
When  Gaudiosa  hopelessly  forbore 
From  further  counsel,  then  in  sullen  mood 
Resentful,  Guisla  soon  began  to  hate 
The  virtuous  presence  before  which  she  felt 
Her  nature  how  inferior,  and  her  fault 
How  foul.     Despiteful  thus  she  grew,  because 
Humbled,  yet  unrepentant.     Who  could  say 
To  what  excess  bad  passions  might  impel 
A  woman  thus  possess'd  .'     She  could  not  fail 
To  mark  Siverian's  absence,  for  what  end 
Her  conscience  but  too  surely  had  divined  ; 
And  Gaudiosa,  well  aware  that  all 
To  the  vile  paramour  was  thus  made  known, 
Had  to  safe  hiding-place,  with  timely  fear, 
Removed  her  children.    Well  the  event  had  proved 
How  needful  was  that  caution  ;  for  at  night 
She  sought  the  mountain  solitudes,  and  morn 
Beheld  Numacian's  soldiers  at  the  gate. 
Yet  did  not  sorrow  in  Pelayo's  heart 
For  this  domestic  shame  prevail  that  hour, 
Nor  gathering  danger  weigh  his  spirit  down. 
The  anticipated  meeting  put  to  flight 
These  painful  thoughts :  to-morrow  will  restore 
All  whom  his  heart  holds  dear ;  his  wife  beloved. 
No  longer  now  remember'd  for  regret, 
Is  present  to  his  soul  with  hope  and  joy; 


XV. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


681 


I 


Mis  inward  eye  beholds  Favila's  form 
In  opening  youtii  robust,  and  Ilorniosind, 
His  daugliter,  lovely  as  a  budding  rose  ; 
Tiicir  images  beguile  the  hours  of  night, 
Till  with  the  earliest  morning  he  may  seek 
Tlieir  secret  hold. 

The  nightingale  not  yet 
Had  ceased  her  song,  nor  liad  the  early  lark 
Her  dewy  nest  forsaken,  when  the  Prince 
Upward  beside  Pionia  took  his  way 
Toward  Auseva.     Heavily  to  him. 
Impatient  for  the  morrow's  happiness. 
Long  night  had  linger'd;  but  it  seem'd  more  long- 
To  Roderick's  aching  heart.     He,  too,  had  watch'd 
For  dawn,  and  seen  the  earliest  break  of  day. 
And  heard  its  earliest  sounds  ;  and  when  the  Prince 
Went  forth,  the  melancholy  man  was  seen 
Witii  pensive  pace  upon  Pionia's  side 
Wandering  alone  and  slow.     For  he  had  left 
The  wearying  place  of  his  unrest,  that  morn 
With  its  cold  dews  might  bathe  his  throbbing  brow. 
And  with  its  breath  allay  the  feverish  heat 
That  burnt  within.     Alas  !  the  gales  of  morn 
Reach  not  the  fever  of  a  wounded  heart! 
How  shall  he  meet  his  Motiicr's  eye,  how  make 
His  secret  known,  and  from  that  voice  revered 
Obtain  forgiveness,  — all  that  he  has  now 
To  ask,  ere  on  the  lap  of  earth  in  peace 
He  lay  his  head  resign'd  .'     In  silent  prayer 
He  supplicated  Heaven  to  strengthen  him 
Against  that  trying  hour,  there  seeking  aid 
Where  all  who  seek  shall  find  ;  and  thus  his  soul 
Received  support,  and  gather'd  fortitude. 
Never  than  now  more  needful,  for  the  hour 
Was  nigh.     He  saw  Siverian  drawing  near. 
And  with  a  dim  but  quick  foreboding  met 
The  good  old  man  :  yet  when  he  heard  him  say, 
IVIy  Lady  sends  to  seek  thee,  like  a  knell 
To  one  expecting  and  prepared  for  death, 
But  fearing  the  dread  point  that  hastens  on. 
It  smote  his  heart.     He  follow'd  silently. 
And  knit  his  suiFering  spirit  to  the  proof. 

He  went  resolved  to  tell  his  Mother  all, 
Fall  at  her  feet,  and  drinking  the  last  dregs 
Of  bitterness,  receive  the  only  good 
F.artii  had  in  store  for  hiin.     Resolved  for  this 
He  went ;  yet  was  it  a  relief  to  find 
That  painful  resolution  must  await 
A  fitter  season,  when  no  eye  but  Heaven's 
Might  witness  to  their  mutual  agony. 
Count  Julian's  daughter  with  Rusilla  sat; 
Both  had  been  weeping,  both  were  pale,  but  calm. 
With  head  as  for  humility  abased 
Roderick  approach'd,  and  bending,  on  his  breast 
He  cross'd  his  humble  arms.     Rusilla  rose 
In  reverence  to  the  priestly  character. 
And  with  a  mournful  eye  regarding  him. 
Thus  she  began  :  —  Good  Father,  I  have  heard 
F'rom  my  old  faithful  servant  and  true  friend. 
Thou  didst  reprove  the  inconsiderate  tongue, 
That  in  the  anguish  of  its  spirit  pour'd 
A  curse  upon  my  poor  unhappy  child. 
O  Father  Maccabee,  this  is  a  hard  world. 
And  hasty  in  its  judgments  !     Time  has  been, 
86 


When  not  a  tongue  within  the  Pyrenees 

Dared  whisper  in  dispraise  of  Roderick's  name, 

Lest,  if  the  conscious  air  had  caught  the  sound, 

The  vengeance  of  the  honest  multitude 

Should  fall  upon  the  traitorous  head,  or  brand 

For  life-long  infamy  the  lying  lips. 

Now,  if  a  voice  be  raised  in  his  behalf, 

'Tis  noted  for  a  wonder,  and  the  man 

Who  utters  the  strange  speech  shall  be  admired 

For  such  excess  of  Christian  charity. 

Thy  Christian  charity  hath  not  been  lost ;  — 

Father,  I  feel  its  virtue  :  —  it  hath  been 

Balm    to    my    heart ;  —  with   words   and   grateful 

tears,  — 
All  that  is  left  me  now  for  gratitude,  — 
I  thank  thee,  and  beseech  thee  in  thy  prayers 
That  thou  wilt  still  remember  Roderick's  name. 

Roderick  so  long  had  to  this  hour  look'd  on. 
That  when  the  actual  point  of  trial  came. 
Torpid  and  numb'd  it  found  him;  cold  he  grew, 
And  as  the  vital  spirits  to  the  heart 
Retreated  o'er  his  wither'd  countenance, 
Deathy  and  damp,  a  whiter  paleness  spread. 
Unmoved  the  while,  the  inward  feeling  seem'd, 
Even  in  such  dull  insensibility 
As  gradual  age  brings  on,  or  slow  disease. 
Beneath  whose  progress  lingering  life  survives 
The  power  of  suffering.     Wondering  at  himself, 
Yet  gathering  confidence,  he  raised  his  eyes. 
Then  slowly  shaking  as  he  bent  his  head, 
O  venerable  Lady,  he  replied, 
If  aught  may  comfort  that  unhappy  soul. 
It  must  be  thy  compassion,  and  thy  prayers. 
She  whom  he  most  hath  wrong'd,  she  who  alone 
On  earth  can  grant  forgiveness  for  his  crime, 
She  hath  forgiven  him  ;  and  thy  blessing  now 
Were  all  that  he  could  ask,  —  all  that  could  bring 
Profit  or  consolation  to  his  soul. 
If  he  hath  been,  as  sure  we  may  believe, 
A  penitent  sincere. 

Oh,  had  he  lived, 
Replied  Rusilla,  never  penitence 
Had  equalld  his  !  full  well  I  know  his  heart, 
Vehement  in  all  things.     He  would  on  himself 
Have  wreak'd  such  penance  as  had  reach'd  the 

height 
Of  fleshly  suffering  —  yea,  which  being  told 
With  its  portentous  rigor  should  have  made 
Tlie  memory  of  his  fault,  o'erpower'd  and  lost 
In  shuddering  pity  and  astonishment, 
Fade  like  a  feebler  horror.     Otherwise 
Seem'd  good  to  Heaven.     I  murmur  not,  nor  doubt 
The  boundless  mercy  of  redeeming  love. 
For  sure  I  trust  that  not  in  his  offence 
Harden'd  and  reprobate  was  my  lost  son, 
A  child  of  wrath,  cut  off!  — that  dreadful  thought, 
Not  even  amid  the  first  fresh  wretchedness. 
When  the  ruin  burst  around  me  like  a  flood, 
Assail'd  my  soul.     I  ever  dcem'd  his  fall 
An  act  of  sudden  madni-ss  :  and  this  day 
Hath  in  unlook'd-for  confirmation  given 
A  livelier  hope,  a  more  assured  faith. 
Smiling  benignant  then  amid  her  tears, 
She  took  Florinda  by  the  hand,  and  said, 


G82 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


XVI. 


I  little  thought  that  I  should  live  to  bless 

Count  Julian's  dauiihter  !     She  hath  brought  to  uie 

Tlie  last,  the  best,  the  only  comfort  earth 

Could  minister  to  this  alHicted  heart. 

And  my  gray  hairs  may  now  unto  the  grave 

Go  down  in  peace. 

Happy,  Florinda  cried, 
Arc  tliey  for  whom  the  grave  hath  peace  in  store  ! 
'The  wrongs  they   have  sustain'd,  the   woes  they 

bear, 
Pass  not  that  holy  threshold,  where  Death  heals 
The  broken  heart.     O  Lady,  thou  mayst  trust 
111  humble  hope,  through  Him  who  on  the  Cross 
Gave  his  atoning  blood  for  lost  mankind, 
To  meet  beyond  the  grave  thy  child  forgiven. 
1  too  with  Roderick  tliere  may  interchange 
Forgiveness.     But  the  grief  which  wastes  away 
This  mortal  frame,  hastening  the  happy  hour 
Of  my  enlargement,  is  but  a  light  part 
Of  what  my  soul  endures  ! — that  grief  hath  lost 
Its  sting  :  —  I  have  a  keener  sorrow  here,  — 
One  which,  — but  God  forcfend  that  dire  event, — 
May  pass  with  me  the  portals  of  the  grave. 
And  with  a  thought,  like  sin  which  cannot  die, 
Imbitter  Heaven.     My  father  hath  renounced 
His  hope  in  Christ !     It  was  his  love  for  me 
Which  drove  him  to  perdition  —  I  was  born 
To  ruin  all  who  loved  me,  —  all  I  loved  ! 
Perhaps  I  sinn'd  in  leaving  him ;  — that  fear 
Rises  within  me  to  disturb  the  peace 
Which  I  should  else  have  found. 

To  Roderick  then 
The  pious  mourner  turn'd  her  suppliant  eyes: 

0  Father,  there  is  virtue  in  thy  prayers  I 

1  do  beseech  thee  offer  them  to  Heaven 

In  his  behalf!     For  Roderick's  sake,  for  mine. 
Wrestle  with  Him  whose  name  is  Merciful, 
That  Julian  may  with  penitence  be  touch'd. 
And  clinging  to  the  Cross,  implore  that  grace 
Which  ne'er  was  sought  in  vain.     For  Roderick's 

sake 
And  mine,  pray  for  him  !     We  have  been  the  cause 
Of  his  otFence  !     What  other  miseries 
May  from  that  same  unhappy  source  have  risen. 
Are  earthly,  temporal,  reparable  all;  — 
But  if  a  soul  be  lost  through  our  misdeeds, 
That  were  eternal  evil !     Pray  for  him, 
Good  Father  Maccabee,  and  be  thy  prayers 
More  fervent,  as  the  deeper  is  the  crime. 

While  thus  Florinda  spake,  the  dog  who  lay 
Before  Rusilla's  feet,  eyeing  him  long 
And  wistfully,  had  recognized  at  length, 
Changed  as  he  was  and  in  those  sordid  weeds, 
His  royal  master.     And  he  rose  and  lick'd 
His  wither'd  hand,  and  earnestly  look'd  up 
With  eyes  whose  human  meaning  did  not  need 
The  aid  of  speech  ;  and  moan'd,  as  if  at  once 
To  court  and  chide  the  long-withheld  caress. 
A  feeling  nncommi.x'd  with  sense  of  guilt 
Or   shame,   yet    painfulest,    thrill'd   through   the 

King; 
But  he  to  self-control  now  long  inured, 
RepresS'M  his  rising  heart,  nor  other  tears. 
Full  as  his  struggling  bosom  was,  let  fall 


Than  seem'd  to  follow  on  Florinda's  words. 
Looking  toward  her  then,  yet  so  that  still 
He  shunn'd  the  meeting  of  her  e3'c,  he  said, 
Virtuous  and  pious  as  thou  art,  and  ripe 
For  Heaven,  O  Ladv,  I  must  think  the  man 
Hath  not  by  his  good  Angel  been  cast  oft" 
For  whom  thy  supplications  rise.     The  Lord, 
Whose  justice  doth  in  its  unerring  course 
Visit  the  children  for  the  sire's  oft'ence. 
Shall  He  not  in  his  boundless  mercy  hear 
The  daughter's  prayer,  and  for  her  sake  restore 
The  guilty  parent.'     My  soul  shall  with  thine 
In  earnest  and  continual  duty  join. — 
How  deeply,  how  devoutly,  He  will  know 
To  whojn  the  cry  is  raised  ! 

Thus  having  said, 
Deliberately,  in  self-possession  still. 
Himself  from  that  most  painful  interview 
Dispeeding,  he  withdrew.     The  watchful  dog 
Follow 'd  his  footsteps  close.     But  he  retired 
Into  the  thickest  grove  ;  there  yielding  way 
To  his  o'erburden'd  nature,  from  all  eyes 
Ajjart,  he  cast  himself  upon  the  ground, 
And  threw  his  arms  around  the  dog,  and  cried, 
While  tears  stream'd  down.  Thou,  Theron,  then 

hast  known 
Thy  poor  lost  master,  — Theron,  none  but  thou  ! 


XVI. 

COVADONGA. 

Meantime  Pelayo  up  the  vale  pursued 

Eastward  his  way,  before  the  sun  had  climb'd 

Auscva's  brow,  or  shed  Jiis  silvering  beams 

Upon  Europa's  summit,  where  the  snows 

Through  all  revolving  seasons  hold  their  seat. 

A  happy  man  he  went,  his  heart  at  rest. 

Of  hope,  and  virtue,  and  affection  full. 

To  all  exhilarating  influences 

Of  earth  and  heaven  alive.     With  kindred  joy 

He  heard  the  lark,  who  from  her  airy  height, 

On  twinkling  pinions  poised,  pour'd  forth  profuse, 

In  thrilling  sequence  of  exuberant  song. 

As  one  whose  joyous  nature  overflovv'd 

With  life  and  power,  her  rich  and  rapturous  strain. 

The' early  bee,  buzzing  along  the  way. 

From  flower  to  flower,  bore  gladness  on  its  wing 

To  his  rejoicing  sense ;  and  he  pursued, 

With  quicken'd  eye  alert,  the  frolic  hare. 

Where  from  the  green  herb  in  her  wanton  path 

She  brush'd  away  the  dews.     For  he  long  time, 

Far  from  his  home  and  from  his  native  hills, 

Had  dwelt  in  bondage  ;  and  the  mountain  breeze, 

Which  he  had  with  the  breath  of  infancy 

Inhaled,  such  impulse  to  his  heart  restored, 

As  if  the  seasons  had  roll'd  back,  and  life 

Enjoy'd  a  second  spring. 

Through  fertile  fields 
He  went,  by  cots  with  pear-trees  overbower'd, 
Or  spreading  to  the  sun  their  trellised  vines  ; 
Through  orchards  now,  and  now  by  thymy  banks, 
Where  wooden  hives  in  some  warm  nook  were  hid 


XVI. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


G83 


From  wind  and  shower  ;  and  now  through  shadowy 

putlis, 
Where  hazels  fringed  Pionia's  vocal  stream  ; 
Till  where  the  loftier  hills  to  narrower  bound 
Confine  the  vale,  lie  reach'd  those  h\its  remote, 
Which  should  hereafter  to  the  noble  line 
Of  Soto  origin  and  name  impart ; 
A  gallant  lineage,  long  in  fields  of  war 
And  faitliful  chronicler's  enduring  page 
Blazon'd  ;  but  most  by  him  illustrated. 
Avid  of  gold,  yet  greedier  of  renown. 
Whom  not  the  spoils  of  Atabalipa 
Could  satisfy  insatiate,  nor  the  fame 
Of  that  wide  empire  overthrown  appease; 
But  he  to  Florida's  disastrous  shores 
In  evil  hour  his  gallant  comrades  led. 
Through  savage   woods  and  swamps,  and  hostile 

tribes, 
The  Apalachian  arrows,  and  the  snares 
Of  wilier  foes,  hunger,  and  thirst,  and  toil; 
Till  from  ambition's  feverish  dream  the  touch 
Of  Death  awoke  him  ;  and  when  he  had  seen 
The  fruit  of  all  his  treasures,  all  his  toil, 
foresight,  and  long  endurance,  fade  away, 
Earth  to  the  restless  one  refusing  rest. 
In  the  great  river's  midland  bed  he  left 
His  honor'd  bones. 

A  mountain  rivulet, 
Now  calm  and  lovely  in  its  summer  course, 
Held  by  those  huts  its  everlasting  vi'ay 
Towards  Pionia.     They,  whose  flocks  and  herds 
Drink  of  its  water,  call  it  Deva.     Here 
Pelayo  southward  up  the  ruder  vale 
Traced  it,  his  guide  unerring.     Amid  heaps 
Of  mcmntain  wreck,  on  either  side  thrown  high, 
The  wide-spread  traces  of  its  wintry  might. 
The  tortuous  channel  wound  ;  o'er  beds  of  sand 
Hero  silently  it  flows ;  here,  from  the  rock 
Rebutted,  curls  and  eddies;  plunges  here 
Precipitate  ;  here  roaring  among  crags, 
It  leaps,  and  foams,  and  whirls,  and  hurries  on. 
Gray  alders  here  and  bushy  hazels  hid 
The  mossy  side  ;  their  wreath'd  and  knotted  feet, 
Bared  oy  the  current,  now  against  its  force 
Repaying  the  support  they  found,  upheld 
The  bank  secure.     Here,  bending  to  the  stream, 
The  birch  fantastic  stretch'd  its  rugged  trunk. 
Tall  and  erect  from  whence,  as  from  their  base, 
Each  like  a  tree,  its  silver  branches  grew. 
The  cherry  here  hung,  for  the  birds  of  heaven. 
Its  rosy  fruit  on  high.     The  elder  there 
Its  purple  berries  o'er  the  water  bent. 
Heavily  hanging.     Here,  amid  the  brook. 
Gray  as  the  stone  to  which  it  clung,  half  root. 
Half  trunk,  the  young  ash  rises  from  the  rock ; 
And  there  its  parent  lifts  a  lofty  head, 
And  spreads  its  graceful  boughs  ;  the  passing  wind 
With  twinkling  motion  lifts  the  silent  leaves. 
And  shakes  its  rattling  tufls. 

Soon  had  the  Prince 
Behind  him  left  the  farthest  dwelling-place 
Of  man ;  no  fields  of  waving  corn  were  here. 
Nor  wicker  storehouse  for  the  autumnal  grain. 
Vineyard,  nor  bowery  fig,  nor  fruitful  grove  ; 
Only  the  rocky  vale,  the  mountain  stream, 


Incumbent  crags,  and  hills  that  over  hills 
Arose  on  either  hand,  here  hung  with  woods. 
Here    rich    with    heath,    that  o'er    some    smooth 

ascent 
Its  purple  glory  s])read,  or  golden  gorse  ; 
Bare  here,  and  striated  with  many  a  hue. 
Scored  by  the  wintry  rain  ;  by  torrents  here 
Riven,  and  with  overhanging  rocks  abrupt. 
Pelayo,  u])ward  as  he  cast  his  eyes 
Where  crags  loose-hanging  o'er  the  narrow  pass 
Impended,  there  beheld  his  country's  strength 
Insuperable,  and  in  his  heart  rejoiced. 
Oh  that  the  Mussulman  were  here,  he  cried. 
With  all  his  myriads  !     While  thy  day  endures, 
Moor  !  thou  mayst  lord  it  in  the  plains  ;  but  here 
Hath  nature,  for  the  free  and  brave,  prepared 
A  sanctuary,  where  no  oppressor's  power, 
No  might  of  human  tyranny,  can  pierce 

The  tears  which  started  then  sprang  not  alone 
From  lofty  thoughts  of  elevating  joy  ; 
For  love  and  admiration  had  their  part. 
And  virtuous  pride.     Here  then  thou  hast  retired, 
My  Gaudiosa  !   in  his  heart  he  said  ; 
Excellent  woman  !  ne'er  was  richer  boon 
By  fate  benign  to  favur'd  man  indulged, 
Than  when  thou  wert,  before  the  face  of  Heaven, 
Given  me  to  be  my  cliildrcn's  mother,  brave 
And  virtuous  as  thou  art!     Here  thou  hast  fled, 
Thou,  who  wert  nursed  in  palaces,  to  dwell 
In  rocks  and  mountain  caves! — The  thought  was 

proud. 
Yet  not  without  a  sense  of  inmost  pain  ; 
For  never  had  Pelayo,  till  that  hour. 
So  deeply  felt  the  force  of  solitude. 
High  over  head,  the  eagle  soar'd  serene, 
And  the  gray  lizard,  on  the  rocks  below, 
Bask'd  in  the  sun  :  no  living  creature  else, 
In  this  remotest  wilderness,  was  seen  ; 
Nor  living  voice  v;as  there,  —  only  the  flow 
Of  Deva,  and  the  rushing  of  its  springs, 
Long  in  the  distance  heard,  which  nearer  now, 
With  endless  repercussion  deep  and  loud, 
Throbb'd  on  the  dizzy  sense. 

The  ascending  vale, 
Long    straiten'd    by    the    narrowing    mountains, 

here 
Was  closed.     In  front,  a  rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Stood  eminent,  in  height  exceeding  far 
All  edifice  of  human  power,  by  King, 
Or  Caliph,  or  barbaric  Sultan  rear'd. 
Or  mightier  tyrants  of  the  world  of  old, 
Assyrian  or  Egyptian,  in  their  pride  ; 
Yet,  far  above,  beyond  the  reach  of  sight. 
Swell  after  swell,  the  heathery  mountain  rose 
Here,  in  two  sources,  from  the  living  rock 
The  everlasting  springs  of  Deva  gush'd. 
Upon  a  smooth  and  grassy  plat  below. 
By  nature  there,  as  for  an  altar,  dress'd, 
They  join'd  their  sister   stream,  which  from  the 

earth 
Well'd  silently.     In  such  a  scene,  rude  man, 
With  pardonable  error,  might  have  knelt, 
Feeling  a  present  Deity,  and  made 
His  offerinnr  to  the  fountain  Nymph  devout 


684 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XVI. 


The  arching  rock  disclosed,  above  the  springs, 
A  cave,  where  hugesl  son  of  giant  birth. 
That  e'er  of  old  in  forest  of  romance 
'Gainst  knights  and  ladies  waged  discourteous  war, 
Erect  witiiin  the  portal,  might  have  stood. 
The  broken  stone  allovv'd  lor  hand  and  foot 
No  difficult  ascent,  above  the  base 
In  heiglit  a  tall  man's  stature,  measured  thrice. 
No  holier  spot  than  Covadonga  Spain 
Boasts  in  her  wide  extent,  though  all  lier  realms 
Be  with  the  noblest  blood  of  martyrdom, 
In  elder  or  in  later  days,  enrich'd. 
And  glorified  with  tales  of  heavenly  aid 
By  many  a  miracle  made  manifest; 
Nor  in  the  heroic  annals  of  her  fame 
Doth  she  show  forth  a  scene  of  more  renown. 
Then,  save  the  hunter,  drawn  in  keen  pursuit 
Beyond  his  wonted  haunts,  or  shepherd's  boy. 
Following  the  pleasure  of  his  straggling  flock. 
None  knew  the  place. 

Pelayo,  when  he  saw 
TJiose  glittering  sources  and  their  sacred  cave, 
Took  from  his  side  the  bugle,  silver-tipt, 
And  witli  a  breath  long  drawn,  and  slow  expired, 
Sent  forth   that  strain,  which,  echoing  from  the 

walls 
Of  Cangas,  wont  to  tell  his  glad  return 
When  from  the  chase  he  came.     At  the  first  sound 
Favila  started  in  the  cave,  and  cried, 
My  father's  horn  !  —  A  sudden  flush  suffused 
Hermesind's  cheek,  and  she  with  quicken'd  eye 
Look'd  eager  to  her  mother  silently; 
But  Gaudiosa  trembled  and  grew  pale. 
Doubting  her  sense  deceived.     A  second  time 
The  bugle  breathed  its  well-known  notes  abroad ; 
And  Hermesind  around  her  mother's  neck 
Threw  her  white  arms,  and  earnestly  exclaim'd, 
'Tis  he  1  —  But  when  a  third  and  broader  blast 
Rung  in  tlie  echoing  archway,  ne'er  did  wand, 
With  magic  power  endued,  call  up  a  sight 
So  strange,  as  sure  in  that  wild  solitude 
It  seein'd,  when  from  the  bowels  of  the  rock 
Tlie  mother  and  her  children  hastened  forth ; 
Slie  in  the  sober  charms  and  dignity 
Of  womanhood  mature,  nor  verging  yet 
Upon  decay  ;  in  gesture  like  a  Queen, 
Such  inborn  and  habitual  majesty 
Ennobled  all  her  steps  —  or  Priestess,  chosen 
Because  within  such  faultless  work  of  Heaven 
Inspiring  Deity  might  seem  to  make 
Its  habitation  known,  —  Favila  such 
In  form  and  stature  as  the  Sea  Nymph's  son, 
When  that  wise  Centaur  from  his  cave  well  pleased 
Beheld  the  boy  divine  his  growing  strength 
Against  some  shaggy  lionet  essay, 
And  fixing  in  the  half-grown  mane  his  hands, 
Roll  with  him  in  fierce  dalliance  intertwined. 
But  like  a  creature  of  some  liigher  sphere 
His  sister  came  ;  she  scarcely  touch'd  the  rock, 
So  light  was  Hermesind's  aerial  speed. 
Beauty,  and  grace,  and  innocence  in  her 
In  heavenly  union  shone.     One  who  had  held 
The  faith  of  elder  Greece,  would  sure  have  thought 
She  was  some  glorious  nymph  of  seed  divine. 


Oread  or  Dryad,  of  Diana's  train 

The  youngest  and  the  loveliest :  yea,  she  seem'd 

Angel,  or  soul  beatified,  from  realms 

Of  bliss,  on  errand  of  parental  love. 

To  earth  re-sent,  —  if  tears  and  trembling  limbs 

With  such  celestial  natures  might  consist. 

Embraced  by  all,  in  turn  embracing  each, 
The  husband  and  the  father  for  a  while 
Forgot  his  country  and  all  things  beside  : 
Life  hath  few  moments  of  such  pure  delight. 
Such  foretaste  of  the  perfect  joy  of  Heaven. 
And  when  the  thought  recurr'd  of  suff'erings  past, 
Perils  which  threaten'd  still,  and  arduous  toil 
Yet  to  be  undergone,  remember'd  griefs 
Heighten'd  the  present  happiness;  and  hope 
Upon  the  sliadows  of  futurity 
Shone  like  the  sun  upon  the  morning  mists. 
When  driven  before  his  rising  rays  they  roll, 
And  melt,  and  leave  the  prospect  bright  and  clear. 

When  now  Pelayo's  eyes  had  drank  their  fill 
Of  love  from  those  dear  faces,  he  went  up 
To  view  tlie  hiding-place.     Spacious  it  was 
As  that  Sicilian  cavern  in  tiie  hill. 
Wherein  earth-shaking  Neptune's  giant  son 
Duly  at  eve  was  wont  to  fold  his  flock, 
Ere  the  wise  Ithacan,  over  that  brute  force 
By  wiles  prevailing,  for  a  life-long  night 
Seel'd  his  broad  eye.     The  healthful  air  had  here 
Free  entrance,  and  the  cheerful  light  of  heaven; 
But  at  the  end,  an  opening  in  the  floor 
Of  rock  disclosed  a  wider  vault  below, 
Which  never  sunbeam  visited,  nor  breath 
Of  vivifying  morning  came  to  cheer. 
No  light  was  tliero  but  that  which  from  above 
In  dim  reflection  fell,  or  found  its  way, 
Broken  and  quivering,  tlirough  the  glassy  stream, 
Wliere  tlirough  the  rock  itgush'd.     That  shadowy 

light 
Sufficed  to  show,  where  from  their  secret  bed 
The  waters  issued ;  with  whose  rapid  course, 
And  with  whose  everlasting  cataracts 
Such  motion  to  the  chill,  damp  atmosphere 
Was  given,  as  if  the  solid  walls  of  rock 
Were  shaken  with  the  sound. 

Glad  to  respire 
The  upper  air,  Pelayo  hasten'd  back 
Frofn   that   drear   den.      Look !     Hermesind   ex- 
claim'd, 
Taking  her  father's  hand  ;  thou  hast  not  seen 
My  chamber:  — See  ! — did  ever  ringdove  choose 
In  so  secure  a  nook  her  hiding-place, 
Or  build  a  warmer  nest  ?     'Tis  fragrant  too. 
As  warm,  and  not  more  sweet  than  soft ;  for  tliyme 
And  myrtle  with  the  elastic  heath  are  laid. 
And,  over  all,  this  dry  and  pillowy  moss, — 
Smiling  she  spake.     Pelayo  kiss'd  the  child, 
And,  sighing,  said  witiiin  himself,  I  trust 
In  Heaven,  wliene'er  thy  May  of  life  is  come, 
Sweet  bird,  that  thou  shalt  have  a  blither  bower  ! 
Fitlier,  he  thought,  such  chamber  might  beseem 
Some  hermit  of  Ililarion's  school  austere, 
Or  old  Antonius,  lie  who  from  the  hell 


XVI. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


G85 


Of  his  bewildcr'd  phantasy  saw  fiends 
In  actual  vision,  a  foul  tlirong  grotesque 
Of  all  horrilic  shapes  and  forms  obscene 
Crowd  in  broad  day  before  his  open  eyes. 
Tiiat  feeling  cast  a  momentary  shade 
Of  sadness  o'er  his  soul.     But  deeper  thoughts. 
If  he  might  have  foreseen  the  things  to  come. 
Would   there  have  fill'd  him ;    for   within    that 

cave 
His  own  remains  were  one  day  dooni'd  to  find 
Their  final  place  of  rest;  and  in  that  spot, 
Where  that  dear  child  with  innocent  delight 
Had  spread  her  mossy  couch,  thi;  sepulchre 
Shall  in  the  consecrated  rock  be  hewn. 
Where  with  Alphonso,  her  beloved  lord, 
Laid  side  by  side,  must  Hermcsind  partake 
The  everlasting  marriage-bed,  when  he. 
Leaving  a  name  perdurable  on  earth. 
Hath  changed  his  earthly  for  a  heavenly  crown. 
Dear  child,  upon  that  fated  spot  she  stood, 
In  all  the  beauty  of  her  opening  youth. 
In  health's  ricli  bloom,  in  virgin  innocence, 
While  her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  heart  o'crflow'd 
With  pure  and  perfect  joy  of  filial  love. 

Many  a  slow  century  since  that  day  hath  fill'd 
Its  course,  and  countless  multitudes  have  trod 
With  pilgrim  feet  that  consecrated  cave; 
Yet  not  in  all  those  ages,  amid  all 
The  untold  concourse,  hath  one  breast  been  swollen 
With  such  emotions  as  Pelayo  felt 
That  hour.     O  Gaudiosa,  he  exclaim'd, 
And  thou  couldst  seek  for  shelter  here,  amid 
This  awful  solitude,  in  mountain  caves ! 
Thou  noble  spirit!     Oh,  when  hearts  like  thine 
Grow  on  this  sacred  soil,  would  it  not  be 
In  me,  thy  husband,  double  infamy, 
And  tenfold  guilt,  if  I  despair'd  of  Spain  .^ 
In  all  her  visitations,  favoring  Heaven 
Hath  left  her  still  the  unconquerable  mind  ; 
And  thus  being  worthy  of  redemption,  sure 
Is  she  to  be  redeem 'd. 

Beholding  her 
Through  tears  he  spake,  and  press'd  upon  her  lips 
A  kiss  of  deepest  love.     Think  ever  thus. 
She  answer'd,  and  that  faith  will  give  the  power 
In  which  it  trusts.     When  to  this  mountain  hold 
These  children,  thy  dear  images,  I  brought, 
I  said  within  myself,  Where  should  they  fly 
But  to  the  bosom  of  their  native  hills.' 
I  brought  them  here  as  to  a  sanctuary. 
Where,   for    the   temple's   sake,   the    indwelling 

God 
Would  guard  his  supplicants.     O  my  dear  Lord, 
Proud  as  I  was  to  know  that  they  were  thine. 
Was  it  a  sin  if  I  almost  believed. 
That  Spain,  her  destiny  being  link'd  with  theirs. 
Must  save  the  precious  charge  .' 

So  let  us  think. 
The  chief  replied,  so  feel,  and  teach,  and  act. 
Spain  is  our  common  parent :  let  the  sons 
Be  to  the  parent  true,  and  in  her  strength 
And   Heaven,  their   sure    deliverance    they   will 
find. 


XVII. 

RODERICK   AND   SIVERIAN. 

O  HOLIEST  Mary,  Maid  and  Mother !  thou 

In  Covadonga,  at  thy  rocky  shrine. 

Hast  witness'd  whatsoe'er  of  human  bliss 

Heart  can  conceive  most  perfect  I     Faithful  love , 

Long  cross'd  by  envious  stars,  hath  there  attain  d 

Its  crown,  in  endless  matrimony  given ; 

The  youthful  mother  there  hath  to  the  font 

Her  first-born  borne,  and  there,  with  deeper  sense 

Of  gratitude  for  that  dear  babe  redeem'd 

From  threatening  deatli,  return'd  to  pay  her  vows. 

But  ne'er  on  nuptial,  nor  baptismal  day, 

Nor  from  their  grateful  pilgrimage  discharged, 

Did  happier  group  their  way  down  Deva's  vale 

Rejoicing  hold,  than  this  blest  family. 

O'er  whom  the  mighty  Spirit  of  the  Land 

Spread  his  protecting  wings.     Tlie  children,  free 

In  youthhead's  happy  season  from  all  cares 

Tliat  might  disturb  the  hour,  yet  capable 

Of  that  intense  and  unalloyed  delight 

Which  childhood  feels  when  it  enjoys  again 

The  dear  parental  presence  long  deprived  ; 

Nor  were  the  parents  now  less  bless'd  than  thej', 

Even  to  the  height  of  human  happiness; 

For  Gaudiosa  and  her  Lord  that  hour 

Let  no  misgiving  thoughts  intrude  :  she  fix'd 

Her  hopes  on  him,  and  his  were  fi.x'd  on  Heaven  , 

And  hope  in  that  courageous  heart  derived 

Such  rooted  strength  and  confidence  assured 

In  righteousness,  that  'twas  to  him  like  faith  — 

An  everlasting  sunshine  of  the  soul. 

Illumining  and  quickening  all  its  powers. 

But  on  Pionia's  side  meantime  a  heart 
As  generous,  and  as  full  of  noble  thoughts. 
Lay  stricken  with  the  deadliest  bolts  of  grief. 
Upon  a  smooth  gray  stone  sat  Roderick  there ; 
The  wind  above  him  stirr'd  the  hazel  boughs, 
And  murmuring  at  his  feet  the  river  ran. 
He  sat  with  folded  arms  and  head  declined 
Upon  his  breast,  feeding  on  bitter  thoughts. 
Till  nature  gave  him  in  the  exhausted  sense 
Of  woe  a  respite  something  like  repose ; 
And  then  the  quiet  sound  of  gentle  winds 
And  waters  with  their  lulling  consonance 
Beguiled  him  of  himself.     Of  all  within 
Oblivious  there  he  sat,  sentient  alone 
Of  outward  nature,  —  of  the  whispering  leaves 
That  soothed  his  ear,  —  the  gonial  breath  of  Heaven 
That  fann'd  his  cheek,  —  the  stream's   perpetual 

flow, 
That,  with  its  shadows  and  its  glancing  lights. 
Dimples  and  thread-like  motions  infinite. 
Forever  varying  and  yet  still  the  same. 
Like  time  toward  eternity,  ran  by. 
Resting  his  head  upon  his  master's  knees, 
Upon  the  bank  beside  him  Theron  lay. 
What  matters  change  of  state  and  circumstance. 
Or  lapse  of  years,  with  all  their  dread  events. 
To  him  ?     What  matters  it  that  Roderick  wears 


fidG 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


XVII. 


Tlie  crown  no  longer,  nor  the  sceptre  wields?  — 
It  is  the  de;ir-loved  hand,  whose  friendly  touch 
Had  flatter'd  li'ini  so  oft;  it  is  the  voice, 
At  wliose  glad  summons  to  the  field  so  oft 
From  slumber  he  had  started,  shaking  off 
Dreams  of  the  chase,  to  share  the  actual  joy; 
The  eye,  whose  recognition  he  was  wont 
To  watch  and  welcome  with  exultant  tongue 

A  coming  step,  unheard  by  Roderick,  roused 
His  watchful  ear,  and  turning  he  beheld 
Siverian.     Father,  said  the  good  old  man, 
As  Theron  rose  and  fawn'd  about  his  knees, 
Hast  thou  some  charm,  which  draws  about  thee  thus 
The  hearts  of  all  our  house,  —  even  to  the  beast 
That  lacks  discourse  of  reason,  but  too  oft. 
With  uncorrupted  feeling  and  dumb  faith. 
Puts  lordly  man  to  shame?  —  The  king  replied, 
'Tis  that  mysterious  sense  by  which  mankind 
To  fix  their  friendships  and  their  loves  are  led, 
And  wliich  with  fainter  influence  dotli  extend 
To  such  poor  things  as  this.     As  we  put  off 
The  cares  and  passions  of  this  fretful  world. 
It  may  be  too  that  we  thus  far  approach 
To  elder  nature,  and  regain  in  part 
The  privilege  through  sin  in  Eden  lost. 
The  timid  hare  soon  learns  that  she  may  trust 
The  solitary  penitent,  and  birds 
Will  light  upon  the  hermit's  harmless  hand. 

Thus  Roderick  answer'd  in  excursive  speech, 
Tliinkintr  to  draw  the  old  man's  mind  from  what 
Might  touch  him  else  too  nearly,  and  himself 
Disposed  to  follow  on  the  lure  he  threw. 
As  one  whom  such  imaginations  led 
Out  of  the  world  of  his  own  miseries. 
But  to  regardless  ears  his  words  were  given, 
For  on  the  dog  Siverian  gazed  the  while. 
Pursuing  his  own  thoughts.     Thou  hast  not  felt, 
Exclaim'd  the  old  man,  the  earthquake    and  the 

storm ; 
The  kingdom's  overthrow,  the  wreck  of  Spain, 
The  ruin  of  thy  royal  master's  house, 
Have    reach'd  not   thee  !  —  Then  turning   to  the 

Kinor, 
When  the  destroying  enemy  drew  nigh 
Toledo,  he  continued,  and  we  fled 
Before  their  fury,  even  while  her  grief 
Was  fresh,  my  Mistress  would  not  leave  behind 
This  faithful  creature.    Well  we  knew  she  thought 
Of  Roderick  then,  although  she  named  him  not; 
For  never  since  the  fiital  certainty 
Fell  on  us  all,  hath  that  unhappy  name. 
Save  in  her  prayers,  been  known  to  pass  her  lips 
Before  this  day.    She  names  him  now,  and  weeps; 
But  now  her  tears  are  tears  of  thankfulness  ; 
For  blessed  hath  thy  coming  been  to  her 
And  all  who  loved  the  King. 

His  faltering  voice 
Here  fail'd  him,  and  he  paused :  recovering  soon. 
When  that  poor  injured  Lady,  he  pursued, 
Did  in  my  presence  to  the  Prince  absolve 
The  unhappy  King  — 

Absolve  him!  Roderick  cried, 
And  in  that  strong  emotion  turn'd  his  face 


Sternly  toward  Siverian,  for  the  sense 

Of  shame  and  self-reproach  drove  from  his  mind 

All  other  thoughts.     The  good  old  man  replied, 

Of  human  judgments  humanly  I  speak. 

Who  knows  not  what  Pelayo's  life  hath  been? 

Not  happier  in  all  dear  domestic  ties, 

Than  worthy  for  his  virtue  of  the  bliss 

Which  is  that  virtue's  fruit;  and  yet  did  he 

Absolve,  upon  Florinda's  tale,  the  Kino-. 

Siverian,  thus  he  said,  what  most  1  hoped, 

And  still  within  my  secret  heart  believed, 

Is  now  made  certain.     Roderick  hath  been 

More  sinn'd  against  than  sinning.     And  with  that 

He  clasp'd  his  hands,  and,  lifting  them  to  Heaven, 

Cried,  Would  to  God  that  he  were  yet  alive  ! 

For  not  more  gladly  did  I  draw  my  sword 

Against  Witiza  in  our  common  cause, 

Than  I  would  fight  beneath  his  banners  now, 

And  vindicate  his  name  ! 

Did  he  say  this  ? 
T!ie  Prince  ?  Pelaj'o  ?  in  astonishment 
Roderick  exclaim'd.  —  He  said  it,  quoth  the  old 

man. 
None  better  knew  his  kinsman's  noble  heart. 
None  loved  him  better,  none  bewail'd  him  more : 
And  as  he  felt,  like  me,  for  his  reproach 
A  deeper  grief  than  for  his  death,  even  so 
He  cherish 'd  in  his  heart  the  constant  thought 
Something  was  yet  untold,  which,  being  known, 
Would  palliate  his  offence,  and  make  the  fall 
Of  one,  till  then,  so  excellently  good, 
Less  monstrous,  less  revolting  to  belief. 
More  to  be  pitied,  more  to  be  forgiven. 

While  thus  he  spake,  the  fallen  King  felt  his  face 
Burn,   and    his   blood    flow   fast.      Down,  guilty 

thouglits  ! 
Frmly  he  said  within  his  soul;  lie  still. 
Thou  heart  of  flesh  !     I  thought  thou  hadst  been 

quell'd. 
And  quell'd  thou  shalt  be  !  Help  me,  O  my  God, 
That  I  may  crucify  this  inward  foe  ! 
Yea,  thou  hast  help'd  me.  Father  !    I  am  strong, 

0  Savior,  in  thy  strength. 

As  he  breath'd  thus 
His  inward  supplications,  the  old  man 
Eyed  him  with  frequent  and  unsteady  looks. 
He  had  a  secret  trembling  on  his  lips, 
And  hesitated,  still  irresolute 
In  utterance  to  imbody  the  dear  hope  : 
Fain  would  he  have  it  strengthen'd  and  assured 
By  this  concording  judgment,  yet  he  fear'd 
To  have  it  chill'd  in  cold  accoil.     At  length 
Venturing,  he  brake  with  interrupted  speech 
The  troubled  silence.     Father  Maccabee, 

1  cannot  rest  till  I  have  laid  my  heart 
Open  before  thee.     When  Pelayo  wish'd 
That  his  poor  kinsman  were  alive  to  rear 
His  banner  once  again,  a  sudden  thought  — 
A  hope  —  a  fancj'  —  what  shall  it  be  call'd  ? 
Possess'd  me,  that  perhaps  the  wish  might  see 
Its  glad  accomplishment,  — that  Roderick  lived. 
And  might  in  glory  take  the  field  once  more 
For  Spain.  —  I  see  thou  startest  at  the  thought ! 
Yet  spurn  it  not  with  hasty  unbelief. 


i 


xvn. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


687 


As  tliough  'twere  ultorly  beyond  the  scope 

Ot"  jiossible  contingency.     1  think 

That  L  have  calmly  satisfied  myself 

How  this  is  more  than  idle  fancy,  more 

Than  mere  imaginations  of  a  mind 

Which  from  its  wishes  builds  a  baseless  faith. 

His  horse,  his  royal  robe,  his  horned  helm. 

His  mail  and  sword  were  found  upon  the  field ; 

But  if  King  Roderick  had  in  battle  fallen, 

Tiiat  sword,  I  know,  would  only  have  been  found 

Clinch'd  in  the  hand  which,  living,  knew  so  well 

To  wield  the  dreadful  steel  1     Not  in  the  throng 

Confounded,  nor  amid  the  torpid  stream, 

Opening  with  ignominious  arms  a  way 

For  flight,  would  he  have  pcrish'd  !     Where  the 

strife 
Was  hottest,  ring'd  about  with  slaughter'd  foes. 
Should  Roderick  have  been  found :  by  this  sure 

mark 
Ye  should  have  known  him,  if  nought  else   re- 

inain'd. 
That  his  whole  body  had  been  gored  with  wounds. 
And  quill'd  with  spears,  as  if  the  Moors  had  felt 
That  in  his  single  life  the  victory  lay, 
More  than  in  all  the  host ! 

Siverian's  eyes 
Shone  with  a  youthful  ardor  while  he  spake  ; 
His  gathering  brow  grew  stern;  and  as  he  raised 
His  arm,  a  warrior's  impulse  character'd 
The  impassion'd  gesture.    But  the  King  was  calm, 
And  heard  him  with  unchanging  countenance ; 
For  he  had  taken  his  resolve,  and  felt 
Once  more  the  peace  of  God  within  his  soul, 
As  in  that  hour  when  by  his  father's  grave 
He  knelt  before  Pelayo. 

Soon  the  old  man 
Pursued  in  calmer  tones  —  Thus  much  I  dare 
Believe,  that  Roderick  fell  not  on  that  day 
When  treason  brought  about  his  overthrow. 
If  yet  he  live,  for  sure  I  think  I  know 
His  noble  mind,  'tis  in  some  wilderness. 
Where,  in  some  savage  den  inhumed,  he  drags 
The  weary  load  of  life,  and  on  his  flesh, 
As  on  a  mortal  enemy,  inflicts 
Fierce  vengeance  with  immitigable  hand. 
Oh  that  I  knew  but  where  to  bend  my  way 
In  his  dear  search  !  my  voice  perhaps  might  reach 
His  heart,  might  reconcile  him  to  himself. 
Restore  him  to  his  mother  ere  she  dies, 
H's  people  and  his  country  :  with  the  sword. 
Them  and  his  own  good  name  should  he  redeem. 
Oh  might  I  but  behold  him  once  again 
Leading  to  battle  these  intrepid  bands. 
Such  as  he  was,  —  yea,  rising  from  his  fall 
More  glorious,  more  beloved !  Soon,  I  believe, 
Joy  would  accomplish  then  what  grief  hath  fail'd 
To  do  with  this  old  heart,  and  I  should  die 
Clasping  his  knees  with  such  intense  delight, 
That  when    I    woke    in    Heaven,  even    Heaven 

itself 
Could  have  no  higher  happiness  in  store. 

Thus  fervently  he  spake,  and  copious  tears 
Ran  down  his  cheeks.     Full  oft  the  Royal  Goth, 
Since  he  came  forth  again  among  mankind, 


Had  trembled  lest  some  curious  eye  should  read 
His  lineaments  too  closely;  now  he  long'd 
To  fall  upon  the  neck  of  that  old  man. 
And  give  his  full  heart  utterance.     But  the  sense 
Of  duty,  b}'  the  pride  of  self-control 
Corroborate,  made  him  steadily  repress 
His  yearning  nature.     Whether  Roderick  live, 
Paying  in  penitence  the  bitter  price 
Of  sin,  he  answered,  or  if  earth  hath  given 
Rest  to  his  earthly  part,  is  only  known 
To  him  and  Heaven.     Dead  is  he  to  the  world; 
And  let  not  lhe.se  imagination,s  rob 
His  soul  of  thy  continual  j>rayers,  whose  aid 
Too  surely,  in  whatever  world,  he  needs. 
The  faithful  love  that  mitigates  his  fault. 
Heavenward  address'd,  may  mitigate  his  doom. 
Living  or  dead,  old  man,  be  sure  his  soul, — 
It  were  unworthy  else,  —  doth  hold  with  thine 
Entire  communion  I     Doubt  not  he  relies 
Firmly  on  thee,  as  on  a  father's  love, 
Counts  on  thy  offices,  and  joins  with  thee 
In  sympathy  and  fervent  act  of  faith. 
Though  regions,  or    though    worlds,  should   in- 
tervene. 
Lost  as  he  is,  to  Roderick  this  must  be 
Thy  first,  best,  dearest  duty  ;  next  must  be 
To  hold  right  onward  in  that  noble  path. 
Which  he  would  counsel,  could  his  voice  be  heard. 
Now  therefore  aid  me,  while  I  call  upon 
The  Leaders  and  the  People,  that  this  day 
We  may  acclaim  Pelayo  for  our  King. 


XVIII. 

.    THE   ACCLAMATION. 

Now,  when  from  Covadonga,  down  the  vale 

Holding  his  way,  the  princely  mountaineer 

Came  with  that  happy  family  in  sight 

Of  Cangas  and  his  native  towers,  far  off" 

He  saw  before  the  gate,  in  fair  array, 

The   assembled    land.     Broad    banners  were  dis- 

play'd. 
And  spears  were  sparkling  to  the  sun ;  shields  shone, 
And  helmets  glitter'd,  and  the  blaring  horn, 
With  frequent  sally  of  impatient  joy, 
Provoked  the  echoes  round.     Well  he  areeds, 
From  yonder  ensigns  and  augmented  force, 
That  Odoar  and  the  Primate  from  the  west 
Have  brought  their  aid ;  but  wherefore  all  were 

thus 
Instructed  as  for  some  great  festival, 
He  found  not,  till  Favila's  quicker  eye 
Catching  the  ready  buckler,  the  glad  boy 
Lcap'd  up,  and  clapping  his  exultant  hands, 
Shouted,  King  !    King!  my  father  shall  be  King 
This  day  I     Pelayo  started  at  the  word. 
And  the  first  thought  vvhich  smote  him  brought  a 

sigh 
For  Roderick's  fall ;  the  second  was  of  hope, 
Deliverance  for  his  country,  for  himself 
Enduring  fame,  and  glory  for  his  line. 
That  high  prophetic  forethought  gather'd  strength, 


(i88 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


XVIII 


As  looking-  to  his  honor'd  mate,  he  read 
Ilcr  soul's  accordant  augury;  lier  eyes 
Brighlon'd;  the  qiiicken'd  action  of  the  blood 
Tinged  with  a  deeper  hue  her  glowing  check, 
And  on  her  lips  there  sat  a  smile  which  spake 
The  honorable  pride  of  perfect  love, 
Rejoicing,  for  her  husband's  sake,  to  share 
The  lot  he  chose,  the  perils  he  defied. 
The  lofty  fortune  which  their  faith  foresaw. 

Roderick,  in  front  of  all  the  assembled  troops. 
Held  the  broad  buckler,  following  to  the  end 
That  steady  purpose  to  the  which  his  zeal 
Had  this  day  wrought  the  Chiefs.     Tall  as  himself. 
Erect  it  stood  beside  him,  and  his  hands 
Hung  resting  on  the  rim.     This  was  an  hour 
That  sweeten'd  life,  repaid  and  recompensed 
All  losses ;  and  although  it  could  not  heal 
All  griefs,  yet  laid  thein  for  a  while  to  rest. 
The  active,  agitating  joy  that  fiU'd 
The  vale,  that  with  contagious  influence  spread 
Through  all  the  exulting  mountaineers,  that  gave 
New  ardor  to  all  spirits,  to  all  breasts 
Inspired  fresh  impulse  of  excited  hope. 
Moved    every   tongue,    and    strengthen'd    every 

limb,  — 
That  joy  which  every  man  reflected  saw 
From  every  face  of  all  the  multitude. 
And  heard  in  every  voice,  in  every  sound, 
Reach'd  not  the  King.     Aloof  from  sympath}-. 
He  from  the  solitude  of  his  own  soul 
Beheld  the  busy  scene.     None  shared  or  knew 
His  deep  and  incommunicable  joy  ; 
None  but  that  heavenly  Father,  who  alone 
Beholds  the  struggles  of  the  heart,  alone 
Sees  and  rewards  the  secret  sacrifice. 

Among  the  chiefs  conspicuous.  Urban  stood. 
He  whom,  with  well-weigh'd  choice,  in  arduous 

time. 
To  arduous  office  the  consenting  Church 
Had  call'd  when  Sindered,  fear-smitten,  fled ; 
Unfaithful  shepherd,  who  for  life  alone 
Solicitous,  forsook  his  flock,  when  most 
In  peril  and  in  suffering  they  required 
A  pastor's  care.     Far  off"  at  Rome  he  dwells 
In  ignominious  safety,  while  the  Church 
Keeps  in  her  annals  the  deserter's  name. 
But  from  the  service,  which  with  daily  zeal 
Devout  her  ancient  prelacy  recalls, 
Blots  it,  unworthy  to  partake  her  prayers. 
Urban,  to  that  high  station  thus  being  call'd. 
From  whence  disanimating  fear  had  driven 
The  former  primate,  for  the  general  weal 
Consulting  first,  removed  with  timely  care 
The  relics  and  the  written  works  of  Saints, 
Toledo's  choicest  treasure,  prized  beyond 
All  wealth,  their  living  and  their  dead  remains; 
These  to  the  mountain  fastnesses  he  bore 
Of  unsubdued  Cantabria,  there  deposed, 
One  day  to  be  the  boast  of  yet  unbuilt 
Oviedo,  and  the  dear  idolatry 
Of  multitudes  unborn.     To  things  of  state 
Then  giving  thought  mature,  he  held  advice 
With  Odoar,  whom  of  counsel  competent 


And  firm  of  heart  he   knew.      What  then   they 

plann'd, 
Time  and  the  course  of  overruled  events 
To  earlier  act  had  ripen'd,  than  their  hope 
Had  ever  in  its  gladdest  dream  proposed; 
And  here  by  agents  unforeseen,  and  means 
Beyond  the  scope  of  foresight  brought  about, 
This  day  they  saw  tiieir  dearest  heart's  desire 
Accorded  them  ;  all-able  Providence 
Thus  having  ordered  all,  that  Spain  this  hour 
With  happiest  omens,  and  on  surest  base. 
Should  from  its  ruins  rear  again  her  throne. 

For  acclamation  and  for  sacring  now 
One  form  must  serve,  more  solemn  for  the  breach 
Of  old  observances,  whose  absence  here 
Deeplier  impress'd  the  heart,  than  all  display 
Of  regal  pomp  and  wealth  pontifical. 
Of  vestments  radiant  with  their  gems,  and  stiff" 
With  ornature  of  gold  ;  the  glittering  train, 
The  long  procession,  and  the  full-voiced  choir. 
This  day  the  forms  of  piety  and  war 
In  strange  but  fitting  union  must  combine. 
Not  in  his  alb,  and  cope,  and  orary, 
Came  Urban  now,  nor  wore  he  mitre  here, 
Precious  or  auriphrygiatc  ;  bare  of  head 
He  stood,  all  else  in  arras  complete,  and  o'er 
His  gorget's  iron  rings  the  pall  was  thrown 
Of  wool  undyed,  which  on  the  Apostle's  tomb 
Gregory  had  laid,  and  sanctified  with  prayer; 
That  from  the  living  Pontiff"  and  the  dead, 
Replete  with  holiness,  it  might  impart 
Doubly  derived  its  grace.     One  Page  beside 
Bore  his  broad-shadow'd  helm  ;  another's  hand 
Held  the  long  spear,  more  suited  in  these  times 
For  Urban,  than  the  crosier  richly  wrought 
With  silver  foliature,  the  elaborate  work 
Of  Grecian  or  Italian  artist,  train'd 
In  the  eastern  capital,  or  sacred  Rome, 
Still  o'er  the  west  predominant,  though  fallen. 
Better  the  spear  befits  the  shepherd's  hand 
When  robbers  break  the  fold.     Now  he  had  laid 
The  weapon  by,  and  held  a  natural  cross 
Of  rudest  form,  unpeel'd,  even  as  it  grew 
On  the  near  oak  that  morn. 

Mutilate  alike 
Of  royal  rites  was  this  solemnity. 
Where  was  tiie  rubied  crown,  the  sceptre  where. 
And  where  the  golden  pome,  the  proud  array 
Of  ermines,  aureate  vests,  and  jewelry. 
With  all  which  Leuvigild  for  after  kings 
Left,  ostentatious  of  his  power .''     The  Moor 
Had  made  his  spoil  of  these,  and  on  the  field 
Of  Xeres,  where  contending  multitudes 
Had  trampled  it  beneath  their  bloody  feet, 
The  standard  of  the  Gotiis  forgotten  lay 
Defiled,  and  rotting  there  in  sun  and  rain. 
Utterly  is  it  lost ;  nor  evermore 
Herald  or  antiquary's  patient  search 
Shall  from  forgetfulness  avail  to  save 
Those  blazon 'd  arms,  so  fatally  of  old 
Renown'd  through  all  the  aff"righted  Occident. 
That  banner,  before  which  imperial  Rome 
First  to  a  conqueror  bow'd  her  head  abased ; 
Which  when  the  dreadful  Hun,  with  all  his  powers, 


XVIII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


G89 


Came  like  a  deliijre  rolling  o'er  the  world, 
Made  head,  and  ia  the  Iroiit  of  battle  broke 
His  force,  till  then  resistless;  which  so  oft 
Had  with  alternate  fortune  braved  the  Frank; 
Driven  the  Byzantine  from  the  farthest  shores 
Of  Spain,  long  lingering  there,  to  final  flight ; 
And  of  their  kingdoms  and  their  name  despoil'd 
The  Vandal,  and  the  Alan,  and  the  Sueve; 
Blotted  from  human  records  is  it  now 
As  it  had  never  been.     So  let  it  rest 
With  things  forgotten  !     But  Oblivion  ne'er 
Shall  cancel  from  the  historic  roll,  nor  Time, 
Who  changeth  all,  obscure  that  fated  sign, 
Which  brighter  now  than  mountain  snows  at  noon 
To  the  bright  sun  displays  its  argent  field. 

Rose  not  the  vision  then  upon  thy  soul, 
O  Roderick,  when  within  that  argent  field 
Thou  saw'st  the  rampant  Lion,  red  as  if 
Upon  some  noblest  quarry  he  had  roll'd. 
Rejoicing  in  his  satiate  rage,  and  drunk 
With  blood  and  fury  ?     Did  the  auguries 
Which  open'd  on  thy  spirit  bring  with  them 
A  perilous  consolation,  deadening  heart 
And   soul,   yea,    worse   than    death  —  that    thou 

through  all 
Thy  checker'd  way  of  life,  evil  and  good. 
Thy  errors  and  thy  virtues,  hadst  but  been 
The  poor,  mere  instrument  of  things  ordain 'd, — 
Doing  or  suffering,  impotent  alike 
To  will  or  act,  —  perpetually  bemock'd 
With  semblance  of  volition,  yet  in  all 
Blind  worker  of  the  ways  of  destiny  ! 
That  thought  intolerable,  which  in  the  hour 
Of  woe  indignant  conscience  had  repell'd. 
As  little  might  it  find  reception  now. 
When  the  regenerate  spirit  self-approved 
Beheld  its  sacrifice  complete.     With  faith 
Elate,  he  saw  the  baniier'd  Lion  float 
Refulgent,  and  recall'd  that  thrilling  shout 
Which  he  had  heard  when  on  Romano's  grave 
The  joy  of  victory  woke  him  from  his  dream, 
And  sent  him  with  prophetic  hope  to  work 
Fulfilment  of  the  great  events  ordain'd. 
There  in  imagination's  inner  world 
Prefigured  to  his  soul. 

Alone,  advanced 
Before  the  ranks,  the  Goth  in  silence  stood. 
While  from  all  voices  round,  loquacious  joy 
Mingled  its  buzz  continuous  with  the  blast 
Of  horn,  shrill  pipe,  and  tinkling  cymbals'  clash. 
And  sound  of  deafening   drum.     But   when   the 

Prince 
Drew  nigh,  and  Urban,  with  the  Cross  upheld, 
Stepp'd  forth  to  meet  him,  all  at  once  were  still'd 
With  instantaneous  hush;  as  when  the  wind. 
Before  whose  violent  gusts  the  forest  oaks, 
Tossing  like  billows  their  tempestuous  heads, 
Roar  like  a  raging  sea,  suspends  its  force, 
And  leaves  so  dead  a  calm  that  not  a  leaf 
Moves  on  the  silent  spray.     The  passing  air 
Bore  with  it  from  the  woodland  undisturb'd 
The  ringdove's  wooing,  and  the  quiet  voice 
Of  waters  warbling  near. 

Son  of  a  race 
87 


Of  Heroes  and  of  Kings!  the  Primate  thus 
Addrcss'd  him,  Thou  in  whom  the  Gothic  blood, 
Mingling  with  old  Iberia's,  hath  restored 
To  Spain  a  ruler  of  her  native  line. 
Stand  forth,  and  in  the  face  of  God  and  man 
Swear  to  uphold  the  right,  abate  the  wrong, 
With  equitable  hand,  protect  the  Cross 
Whereon  thy  lips  this  day  shall  seal  their  vow. 
And  underneath  that  hallow'd  symbol,  wage 
Holy  and  inextinguishable  war 
Against  the  accursed  nation  that  usurps 
Thy  country's  sacred  soil ! 

So  speak  of  me 
Now  and  forever,  O  my  countrymen  1 
Replied  Pelayo :  and  so  deal  with  me 
Here  and  hereafter,  tliou  Almighty  God, 
In  whom  I  put  my  trust ! 

Lord  God  of  Hosts, 
Urban  pursued,  of  Angels  and  of  Men 
Creator  and  Disposer,  King  of  Kings, 
Ruler  of  Earth  and  Heaven,  —  look  down  this  day. 
And  multiply  thy  blessings  on  the  head 
Of  this  thy  servant,  chosen  in  thy  sight! 
Be  thou  his  counsellor,  his  comforter, 
His  hope,  his  joy,  his  refuge,  and  his  strength ; 
Crown  him  with  justice,  and  with  fortitude  ; 
Defend  him  with  thine  all-sufficiei)t  shield  ; 
Surround  him  every  where  with  the  right  hand 
Of  thine  all-present  power,  and  with  the  might 
Of  thine  omnipotence  ;  send  in  his  aid 
Thy  unseen  Angels  forth,  that  potently 
And  royally  against  all  enemies 
He  may  endure  and  triumph !    Bless  the  land 
O'er  which  he  is  appointed  ;  bless  thou  it 
With  the  waters  of  the  firmament,  the  springs 
Of  the  low-lying  deep,  the  fruits  which  Sun 
And  Moon  mature  for  man,  the  precious  stores 
Of  the  eternal  hills,  and  all  the  gifts 
Of  Earth,  its  wealth  and  fulness ! 

Then  he  took 
Pelayo's  hand,  and  on  his  finger  placed 
The  mystic  circlet.  —  With  this  ring,  O  Prince, 
To  our  dear  Spain,  who  like  a  widow  now 
Mourneth  in  desolation,  I  thee  wed  • 
For  weal  or  woe  thou  takest  her,  till  deatli 
Dispart  the  union.    Be  it  blest  to  her. 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  seed  ! 

Thus  when  he  ceased, 
He  gave  the  awaited  signal.     Roderick  brought 
The  buckler  :  Eight  for  strength  and  stature  chosen 
Came  to  their  honor'd  office :  Round  the  shield 
Standing,  they  lower  it  for  the  Chieftain's  feet, 
Then,  slowly  raised  upon  their  shoulders,  lift 
The  steady  weight.     Erect  Pelayo  stands. 
And  thrice  he  brandishes  the  burnish'd  sword, 
While  Urban  to  the  assembled  people  cries, 
Spaniards,  behold  your  King  I     The  multitude 
Then  sent  forth  all  their  voice  with  glad  acclaim, 
Raising  the  loud  Real ;  thrice  did  the  word 
Ring  through  the  air,  and  echo  from  the  walls 
Of  Cangas.     Far  and  wide  the  thundering  shout, 
Rolling  among  reduplicating  rocks, 
Peal'd  o'er  the  hills,  and  up  the  mountain  vales. 
The  wild  ass  starting  in  the  forest  glade 
Ran  to  the  covert;  the  affrighted  wolf 


690 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XIX. 


Skulk'd  through  the  thicket  to  a  closer  brake  ; 
The  sluggish  bear,  awakened  in  his  den, 
Roused  up  and  answer'd  with  a  sullen  growl, 
Low-brcatlied  and  long  ;  and  at  the  uproar  scared. 
The  brooding  eagle  from  her  nest  took  wing. 

Heroes  and  Chiefs  of  old  !  and  ye  who  bore 
Firm  to  the  last  your  part  in  that  dread  strife, 
When  Julian  and  Witiza's  viler  race 
Betray'd  their  country,  hear  ye  from  yon  Heaven 
The  joyful  acclamation  which  proclaims 
That  Spain  is  born  again  !     O  ye  who  died 
In  that  disastrous  field,  and  ye  who  fell 
Embracing  witli  a  martyr's  love  your  death 
Amid  the  flames  of  Auria;  and  all  ye 
Victims  innumerable,  v%'liose  cries  unheard 
On  earth,  but  heard  in  Heaven,  from  all  the  land 
Went  up  for  vengeance  ;  not  in  vain  ye  cry 
Before  tlie  eternal  throne  I  —  Rest,  innocent  blood  ! 
Vengeance  is  due,  and  vengeance  vi^ill  be  given. 
Rest,  innocent  blood  ?     The  appointed  age  is  come  ! 
The  star  that  harbingers  a  glorious  day  [there 

Hath  risen  !    Lo,  there  the  Avenger  stands  !    Lo, 
He  brand islics  the  avenging  sword  !  Lo,  there 
The  avenging  banner  spreads  its  argent  field 
Refulgent  with  auspicious  light!  — Rejoice, 
O  Leon,  for  thy  banner  is  displayed  ; 
Rejoice  with  all  thy  mountains,  and  thy  vales 
And  streams  !     And  thou,  O  Spain,  through  all  thy 

realms. 
For  thy  deliverance  cometh  !     Even  now. 
As  from  all  sides  the  miscreant  hosts  move  on ;  — 
From  southern  Betis ;  from  the  western  lands, 
Where  through    redundant  vales   smooth  Minho 

flows, 
AndDouropours  through  vine-clad  hills  the  wealth 
Of  Leon's  gathered  waters  ;  from  the  plains 
Burgensian,  in  old  time  Vardulia  call'd, 
But  in  their  castellated  strength  erelong 
To  be  design'd  Castille,  a  deathless  name  ; 
From  midland  regions  where  Toledo  reigns 
Proud  city  on  her  royal  eminence, 
And  Tagus  bends  his  sickle  round  the  scene 
Of  Roderick's  fall ;  from  rich  Rioja's  fields  ; 
Dark  Ebro's  shores  ;  the  walls  of  Salduba, 
Seat  of  the  Sedetanians  old,  by  Rome 
CsEsarian  and  August  denominate. 
Now  Zaragoza,  in  this  later  time 
Above  all  cities  of  the  earth  renown'd 
For  duty  perfectly  perform'd ;  —  East,  West, 
And  South,  where'er  their  gather'd  multitudes. 
Urged  by  the  speed  of  vigorous  tyranny, 
AVith  more  than  with  commeasurable  strength 
Haste  to  prevent  the  danger,  crush  the  hopes 
Of  rising  Spain,  and  rivet  round  her  neck 
The  eternal  yoke,  —  the  ravenous  fowls  of  heaven 
Flock  there  presentient  of  their  food  obscene. 
Following  the  accursed  armies,  whom  too  well 
They  know  their  purveyors  long.     Pursue  their 

march. 
Ominous  attendants  !  Ere  the  moon  hath  fill'd 
Her  horns,  these  purveyors  shall  become  the  prey, 
And  ye  on  Moorish,  not  on  Christian  flesh 
Wearying  your  beaks,  shall  clog  your  scaly  feet 
With  foreign  gore.     Soon  will  ye  learn  to  know, 


Followers  and  harbingers  of  blood,  the  flag 

Of  Leon  where  it  bids  you  to  your  feast ! 

Terror  and  flight  shall  with  that  flag  go  forth, 

And  Havock  and  the  Dogs  of  War  and  Death 

Thou  Covadonga  with  the  tainted  stream 

Of  Deva,  and  this  now  rejoicing  vale. 

Soon  its  primitial  triumphs  wilt  behold! 

Nor  shall  tlic  glories  of  the  noon  be  less 

Than  such  miraculous  promise  of  the  dawn  : 

Witness  Clavijo,  where  the  dreadful  cry 

Of  Santiago,  then  first  heard  o'erpower'd 

The  Akbar,  and  that  holier  name  blasphemed 

By  misbelieving  lips  !     Simancas,  thou 

Be  witness  I     And  do  ye  your  record  bear, 

Tolosan  mountains,  where  the  Almohade 

Beheld  his  myriads  scatter'd  and  destroy'd. 

Like  locusts  swept  before  the  stormy  North  ! 

Thou  too,  Salado,  on  that  later  day 

When  Africa  received  her  final  foil. 

And  thy  swollen  stream  incarnadined,  roll'd  back 

The  invaders  to  the  deep,  —  there  shall  they  toss 

Till,  on  their  native  Mauritanian  shore, 

The  waves  shall  cast  their  bones  to  whiten  there. 


XIX. 

RODERICK  AND   RUSILLA. 

When  all  had  been  perform'd,  the  royal  Goth 
Look'd  up  towards  the  chamber  in  the  tower, 
Where,  gazing  on  the  multitude  below, 
Alone  Rusilla  stood.     He  met  her  eye. 
For  it  was  singling  him  amid  the  crowd  ; 
Obeying  then  the  hand  which  beckon'd  him. 
He  went  with  heart  prepared,  nor  shrinking  now, 
But  arm'd  with  self-approving  thoughts  that  hour. 
Entering  in  tremulous  haste,  he  closed  the  door. 
And  turn'd  to  clasp  her  knees;  but  lo,  she  spread 
Her  arms,  and  catching  him  in  close  embrace. 
Fell  on  his  neck,  and  cried,  My  Son,  my  Son  !  — 
Erelong,  controlling  that  first  agony 
With  effort  of  strong  will,  backward  she  bent, 
And  gazing  on  his  head,  now  shorn  and  gray, 
And  on  his  furrow'd  countenance,  exclaim'd, 
Still,  still  my  Roderick  !  the  same  noble  mind  ! 

The  same  heroic  heart !     Still,  still  my  Son  ! 

Changed, — yet  not  wholly  fallen, —  not  wholly 

lost. 
He  cried, — not  wholly  in  the  sight  of  Heaven 
Unworthy,  O  my  Mother,  nor  in  thine  ! 
She  lock'd  her  arms  again  around  his  neck, 
Saying,  Lord,  let  me  now  depart  in  peace  ! 
And  bow'd  her  head  again,  and  silently 
Gave  way  to  tears. 

When  that  first  force  was  spent, 
And  passion  in  exhaustment  found  relief,  — 
I  knew  thee,  said  Rusilla,  when  the  dog 
Rose  from  my  feet,  and  lick'd  his  master's  hand. 
All  flash'd  upon  me  then;  the  instinctive  sense 
That  goes  unerringly  where  reason  fails,  — 
The    voice,  the   eye, — a   mother's   thoughts  are 

quick, — 
Miraculous  as  it  seem'd,  —  Siverian's  tale,  — 


XIX. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


691 


Florinda's, — every  action,  —  every  word, — 
Each  strengthening  each,  and  all  confirming  all, 
Reveal'd  thee,  O  my  Son  !  but  I  restrain'd 
My  heart,  and  yielded  to  thy  holier  will 
The  thoughts  which  rose  to  tempt  a  soul  not  yet 
Wean'd  wholly  from  the  world. 

What  Ihouglits  ?  replied 
Roderick.     That  I  might  see  thee  yet  again 
Such  as  thou  wert,  she  answer'd ;  not  alone 
To  Heaven  and  me  restored,  but  to  thyself, — 
Thy    Crown,  —  thy    Country,  —  all    within    thy 

reach ; 
Heaven  so  disposing  all  things,  that  the  means 
Which  wrought  the  ill,  might  work  the  remedy. 
Methought  I  saw  thee  once  again  the  hope,  — 
The  strength,  — the  pride  of  Spain  I     The  miracle 
Which  I  beheld  made  all  things  possible. 
I  know  the  inconstant  people,  how  their  mind. 
With  every  breath  of  good  or  ill  report. 
Fluctuates,  like  summer  corn  before  the  breeze ; 
Quick  in  their  hatred,  quicker  in  their  love, 
Generous  and  hasty,  soon  would  they  redress 
All  wrongs  of  former  obloquy.  —  I  thought 
Of  happiness  restored,  —  the  broken  heart 
Heal'd,  —  and    Count  Julian,  for   his   daughtei's 

sake, 
Turning  in  thy  behalf  against  the  Moors 
His  powerful  sword  :  —  all  possibilities. 
That  could  be  found  or  fancied,  built  a  dream 
Before  me  ;  such  as  easiest  might  illude 
A  lofty  spirit  train'd  in  palaces. 
And  not  alone  amid  the  flatteries 
Of  youth  with  thoughts  of  high  ambition  fed 
When  all  is  sunshine,  but  through  years  of  woe, 
When  sorrows  sanctified  their  use,  upheld 
By  honorable  pride  and  earthly  hopes. 
I  thought  I  yet  might  nurse  upon  my  knee 
Some  young  Thcodofred,  and  see  in  him 
Thy  Father's  image  and  thine  own  renew'd. 
And  love  to  think  the  little  hand  which  there 
Play'd  with  the  bauble  should  in  after  days 
Wield  the  transmitted  sceptre ;  — that  through  him 
The  ancient  seed  should  be  perpetuate, — 
That  precious  seed  revered  so  long,  desired 
So  dearly,  and  so  wondrously  preserved. 

Nay,  he  replied.  Heaven  hath  not  with  its  bolts 
Scathed  the  proud  summit  of  the  tree,  and  left 
The  trunk  unflaw'd  ;  ne'er  shall  it  clothe  its  boughs 
Again,  nor  push  again  its  scions  forth, 
Head,  root,  and  branch,  all  mortified  alike  !  — 
Long  ere  these  locks  were  shorn  had  I  cut  off 
The  thoughts  of  royalty  !     Time  might  renew 
Their  growth,  as  for  Manoah's  captive  son. 
And  I  too  on  the  miscreant  race,  like  him, 
Might  prove  my  strength  regenerate  ;  but  the  hour, 
When,  in  its  second  best  nativity, 
My  soul  was  born  again  through  grace,  this  heart 
Died  to  the  world.     Dreams  such  as  thine  pass  now 
Like  evening  clouds  before  me  ;  if  f  think 
How  beautiful  they  seem,  'tis  but  to  feel 
How  soon  they  fade,  how  fast  the  night  sliuts  in. 
But  in  that  World  to  which  my  hopes  look  on, 
Time  enters  not,  nor  Mutability ; 
Beauty  and  goodness  are  unfading  there  ; 


Whatever  there  is  given  us  to  enjoy. 

That  we  enjoy  forever,  still  the  same. — 

Much    might  Count   Julian's   sword   achieve  for 

Spain 
And  me,  but  more  will  his  dear  daughter's  soul 
Effect  in  Heaven ;  and  soon  will  she  be  there, 
An  Angel  at  the  throne  of  Grace,  to  plead 
In  his  behalf  and  mine. 

1  knew  thy  heart, 
She  answer'd,  and  subdued  the  vain  desire. 
It  was  the  World's  last  effort.     Thou  hast  chosen 
The  better  part.     Yes,  Roderick,  even  on  earth 
There  is  a  praise  above  the  monarch's  fame, 
A  higher,  holier,  more  enduring  praise. 
And  this  will  yet  be  thine  ! 

O  tempt  me  not. 
Mother  !  he  cried ;  nor  let  ambition  take 
That  specious  form  to  cheat  us  !     WHiat  but  this, 
Fallen  as  1  am,  have  I  to  offer  Heaven  .' 
The  ancestral  sceptre,  public  fame,  content 
Of  private  life,  the  general  good  report. 
Power,  reputation,  happiness,  —  whate'er 
The  heart  of  man  desires  to  constitute 
His  earthly  weal,  —  unerring  Justice  claim'd 
In  forfeiture.     I  with  submitted  soul 
Bow  to  the  righteous  ]a.w  and  kiss  the  rod. 
Only  while  thus  submitted,  suffering  thus,  — 
Only  while  offering  up  that  name  on  earth, 
Perhaps  in  trial  offer'd  to  my  choice, 
Could  I  present  myself  before  thy  sight; 
Thus  only  could  endure  myself,  or  fix 
My  thoughts  upon  that  fearful  pass,  where  Death 
Stands  in  the  Gate  of  Heaven  !  —  Time  passes  on, 
The  healing  work  of  sorrow  is  complete ; 
All  vain  desires  have  long  been  weeded  out. 
All  vain  regrets  subdued;  the  heart  is  dead, 
The  soul  is  ripe  and  eager  for  her  birth. 
Bless  me,  my  Mother  !  and  come  when  it  will 
The  inevitable  hour,  we  die  in  peace. 

So  saying,  on  her  knees  he  bow'd  his  head ; 
She  raised  her  hands  to  Heaven  and  blest  her  child 
Then  liending  forward,  as  he  rose,  embraced 
And  clasp'd  him  to  her  heart,  and  cried.  Once  more 
Theodofred,  with  pride  behold  thy  son  ! 


XX. 

THE   MOORISH   CAMP. 

The  times  are  big  with  tidings  ;  every  hour 
From  cast,  and  west,   and    south,  the   breathless 

scouts 
Bring  swift  alarums  in ;  the  gathering  foe. 
Advancing  from  all  quarters  to  one  point, 
Close  their  wide  crescent.     Nor  was  aid  of  fear 
To  magnify  their  numbers  needed  now  ; 
They  came  in  myriads.     Africa  had  pour'd 
Fresh  shoals  upon  the  coast  of  wretched  Spain ; 
Lured  from  their  hungry  deserts  to  the  scene 
Of  spoil,  like  vultures  to  tlie  battle-field. 
Fierce,  unrelenting,  habited  in  crimes. 
Like  bidden  guests  the  mirthful  ruffians  flock 


692 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


nx. 


To  that  free  feast  which  in  their  Prophet's  name 

Rapine  and  Lust  proclaim'd.     Nor  were  the  chiefs 

Of  victory  less  assured,  by  long  success 

Elate,  and  proud  of  that  o'erwhelming  strength. 

Which,  surely  they  believed,  as  it  l;ad  roH'd 

Thus  iar  uncheck'd,  would  roll  victorious  on, 

Till,  like  the  Orient,  the  subjected  West 

Should  bow  in  reverence  at  Mahommed's  name; 

And  pilgrims,  from  remotest  Arctic  shores. 

Tread  with  religious  feet  tlie  burning  sands 

Of  Araby,  and  Mecca's  stony  soil. 

Proud  of  his  part  in  Roderick's  overthrow. 

Their  leader  Abulcacem  came,  a  man 

Immitigable,  long  in  war  renown'd. 

Here  Magued  comes,  who  on  the  conquer'd  walls 

Of  Cordoba,  by  treacherous  fear  betray'd. 

Planted  the  moony  standard  :  Ibrahim  iiere, 

He,  who,  by  Genii  and  in  Darro's  vales, 

Had  for  the  Moors  the  fairest  portion  won 

Of  all  their  spoils,  fairest  and  best  maintain'd. 

And  to  tlie  Alpuxarras  given  in  trust 

His  other  name,  through  them  preserved  in  song. 

Here  too  Alcahman,  vaunting  his  late  deeds 

At  Auria,  all  her  children  by  the  sword 

Cut  off,  her  bulwarks  razed,  her  towers  laid  low. 

Her  dwellings  by  devouring  flames  consumed. 

Bloody  and  hard  of  heart,  he  little  wcen'd. 

Vain-boastful  chief!  tliat  from  those  fatal  flames 

The  fire  of  retribution  had  gone  forth. 

Which  soon  should  wrap  him  round. 

The  renegades 
Here  too  were  seen,  Ebba  and  Sisibert; 
A.  spurious  brood,  but  of  their  parent's  crimes 
True  heirs,  in  guilt  begotten,  and  in  ill 
Train'd  up.     The  same  unnatural  rage  that  turn'd 
Their  swords  against  their  country,  made  them  seek. 
Unmindful  of  their  wretched  mother's  end, 
Pelayo's  life.     No  enmity  is  like 
Domestic  hatred.     For  his  blood  they  thirst, 
As  if  that  sacrifice  might  satisfy 
AVitiza's  guilty  ghost,  eff"ace  the  shame 
Of  their  adulterous  birth,  and  one  crime  more 
Crowning  a  hideous  course,  emancipate 
Thenceforth  tlieir  spirits  from  all  earthly  fear. 
This  was  their  only  care  ;  but  other  thoughts 
Were  rankling  in  that  elder  villain's  mind, 
Their  kinsman  Orpas,  he  of  all  the  crew 
Who  in  this  fatal  visitation  fell, 
The  foulest  and  the  falsest  wretch  that  e'er 
Renounced  his  baptism.     From  liis  cherish'd  views 
Of  royalty  cut  off",  he  coveted 
Count  Julian's  wide  domains,  and  hopeless  now 
To  gain  them  through  the  daughter,  laid  his  toils 
Against  tlie  father's  life,  —  the  instrument 
Of  liis  ambition  first,  and  now  design'd 
Its  victim.     To  this  end,  with  cautious  hints, 
.\t  favoring  season  ventured,  he  possess'd 
The  leader's  mind  ;  then,  subtly  fostering 
The  doubts  himself  had  sown,  with  bolder  charge 
He  bade  him  warily  regard  the  Count, 
Lest  underneath  an  outward  show  of  faith 
The  heart  uncircumcised  were  Christian  still ; 
Else,  wherefore  had  Florinda  not  obey'd 
Her  dear-loved  sire's  example,  and  embraced 
The  saving  truth .'     Else,  wherefore  was  her  hand, 


Plighted  to  him  so  long,  so  long  withheld, 

Till  she  had  found  a  fitting  hour  to  fly 

With  tliat  audacious  Prince,  who  now,  in  arms, 

Defied  the  Caliph's  power ;  — for  who  could  doubt 

That  in  his  company  she  fled,  perhaps 

The  mover  of  his  flight  ?     What  if  the  Count 

Himself  had  plann'd  the  evasion  which  he  feign'd 

In  sorrow  to  condemn  .'     What  if  she  went, 

A  pledge  assured,  to  tell  the  mountaineers 

That  when  they  met  the  Mussulmen  in  the  heat 

Of  fight,  her  father,  passing  to  their  side, 

Would   draw   the  victory  witli  him .'  —  Thus  he 

breathed 
Fiend-like  in  Abulcacem's  ear  his  schemes 
Of  murderous  malice  ;  and  the  course  of  things. 
Erelong,  in  part  approving  his  discourse, 
Aided  iiis  aim,  and  gave  his  wishes  weight. 
For  scarce  on  the  Asturian  territory 
Had  they  set  foot,  when,  with  the  speed  of  fear. 
Count  Eudon,  nothing  doubting  that  their  force 
Would  like  a  flood  sweep  all  resistance  down, 
Ilasten'd  to  plead  his  merits;  —  he  alone. 
Found  faithful  in  obedience  through  reproach 
And  danger,  when  the  madden'd  multitude 
Hurried  tiieir  chiefs  along,  and  high  and  low 
With  one  infectious  frenzy  seized,  provoked 
The  invincible  in  arms.     Pelayo  led 
The  raging  crew,  —  he  doubtless  the  prime  spring 
Of  all  these  perilous  movements ;  and  'twas  said 
He  brought  the  assurance  of  a  strong  support. 
Count  Julian's  aid,  for  in  his  company 
From  Cordoba,  Count  Julian's  daughter  came. 

Thus  Eudon  spake  before  the  assembled  chiefs ; 
When  instantly  a  stern  and  wrathful  voice 
Replied,  I  know  Pelayo  never  made 
That  senseless  promise  !     He  who  raised  the  tale 
Lies  foully  ;  but  the  bitterest  enemy 
That  ever  hunted  for  Pelayo's  life 
Hath  never  with  the  charge  of  falsehood  touch'd 
His  name. 

The  Baron  had  not  recognized 
Till  tlien,  beneath  the  turban's  shadowing  folds, 
Julian's  swart  visage,  where  the  fiery  skies 
Of  Africa,  through  many  a  year's  long  course, 
Had  set  their  hue  inburnt.     Something  he  sought 
In  quick  excuse  to  say  of  common  fame. 
Lightly  believed  and  busily  diff'used, 
And  that  no  enmity  liad  moved  his  speech 
Repeating  rumor's  tale.     Julian  replied. 
Count  Eudon,  neither  for  thyself  nor  me 
Excu.se  is  needed  here.     The  path  I  tread 
Is  one  wiierein  there  can  be  no  return. 
No  pause,  no  looking  back  !     A  choice  like  mine 
For  time  and  for  eternity  is  made, 
Once  and  forever !  and  as  easily 
The  breath  of  vain  report  might  build  again 
The  throne  which  my  just  vengeance  overthrew, 
As  in  the  Caliph  and  his  Captain's  mind 
Aflect  the  opinion  of  my  well-tried  truth. 
The  tidings  which  thou  givest  me  of  my  child 
Touch  me  more  vitally  ;  bad  though  they  be, 
A  secret  apprehension  of  aught  worse 
Makes  me  with  joy  receive  them. 

Then  the  Count 


XX. 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


693 


To  Abulcacem  turn'd  his  speech,  and  said, 

1  pray  thee.  Chief,  give  iiic  a  messenger 

By  whom  1  may  to  this  unliappy  child 

Despatch  a  father's  bidding,  sucli  as  yet 

May  win  iier  back.     Wliat  I  would  say  requires 

No  veil  of  privacy ;  before  ye  all 

The  errand  shall  be  given. 

Boldly  he  spake, 
Yet  wary  in  that  show  of  open  truth. 
For  well  he  knew  what  dangers  girt  him  round 
Amid  the  faithless  race.     Blind  witii  revenge, 
For  them  in  madness  had  he  sacrificed 
His  name,  his  baptism,  and  his  native  land. 
To  feel,  still  powerful  as  he  was,  that  life 
Hung  on  tlicir  jealous  favor.     But  his  lieart 
Approved  him  now,  where  love,  too  long  restrain'd. 
Resumed  its  healing  influence,  leading  him 
Riglit  on  with  no  misgiving.     Chiefs,  he  said, 
Hear  me,  and  let  your  wisdom  judge  between 
Me  and  Piince  Orpas  !  — Known  it  is  to  all, 
Too  well,  what  mortal  injury  provoked 
My  spirit  to  that  vengeance  which  your  aid 
So  signally  hath  given.     A  covenant 
We  made  when  first  our  purpose  we  combined. 
That  he  should  have  Florinda  for  his  wife, 
My  only  child  ;  so  should  she  be,  I  thought, 
Revenged  and  lionor'd  best.     My  word  was  given 
Truly,  nor  did  I  cease  to  use  all  means 
Of  counsel  or  command,  entreating  her 
Sometimes    with   tears,   seeking   sometimes  with 

threats 
Of  an  offended  father's  curse  to  enforce 
Obedience ;  that,  she  said,  the  Christian  law 
Forbade  ;  moreover  she  had  vow'd  herself 
A  servant  to  the  Lord.     In  vain  I  strove 
To  win  her  to  the  Prophet's  saving  faith. 
Using  perhaps  a  rigor  to  that  end 
Beyond  permitted  means,  and  to  my  heart. 
Which  loved  her  dearer  than  its  own  life-blood. 
Abhorrent.     Silently  she  suffer'd  all ; 
Or,  when  I  urged  her  with  most  vehemence. 
Only  replied,  I  knew  her  fix'd  resolve. 
And  craved  my  patience  but  a  little  while. 
Till  death  should  set  her  free.     Touch'd  as  I  was, 
I  yet  persisted,  till  at  length,  to  escape 
The  ceaseless  importunity,  she  fled  : 
And  verily  I  fejir'd,  until  this  hour, 
My  rigor  to  some  fearfuler  resolve 
Than   flight,  had  driven  my  child.       Chiefs,  I 

appeal 
To  each  and  all,  and,  Orpas,  to  thyself 
Especially,  if,  having  thus  essay'd 
All  means  that  law  and  nature  have  allow'd 
To  bend  her  will,  I  may  not  rightfully 
Hold  myself  free,  that  promise  being  void 
Which  cannot  be  fulfill'd. 

Thou  sayest  then, 
Orpas  replied,  that  from  her  false  belief 
Her  stubborn  opposition  drew  its  force. 
I  should  have  thought  that  from  the  ways  corrupt 
Of  these  idolatrous  Christians,  little  care 
Might  have  sufficed  to  wean  a  duteous  child. 
The  example  of  a  parent  so  beloved 
Leading  the  way  ;  and  yet  I  will  not  doubt 
Thou  didst  enforce  with  all  sincerity 


And  holy  zeal  upon  thy  daughter's  mind 
The  truths  of  Islam. 

Julian  knit  his  brow, 
And  scowling  on  the  insidious  renegade, 
He  answcr'd.  By  what  reasoning  my  poor  mind 
Was  from  the  old  idolatry  reclaim'd, 
None  better  knows  than  Seville's  mitred  chief, 
Who,  first  renouncing  errors  which  he  taught, 
Led  me  his  follower  to  the  Prophet's  pale. 
Thy  lessons  I  repeated  as  I  could ; 
Of  graven  images,  unnatural  vows. 
False  records,  fabling  creeds,  and  juggling  priests, 
Who,  making  sanctity  the  cloak  of  sin, 
Laugh'd  at  the  fools  on  whose  credulity 
They  fatten'd.     To  these  arguments,  whose  worth 
Prince  Orpas,  least  of  all  men,  should  impeach, 
I  added,  like  a  soldier  bred  in  arms. 
And  to  the  subtleties  of  schools  unused, 
The  flagrant  fact,  that  Heaven  with  victory. 
Where'er  they  turn'd,  attested  and  approved 
The  chosen  Prophet's  arms.     If  thou  wert  still 
The  mitred  Metropolitan,  and  I 
Some  wretch  of  Arian  or  of  Hebrew  race. 
Thy  proper  business  then  might  be  to  pry 
And  question  me  for  lurking  flaws  of  faith. 
We  Mussulmen,  Prince  Orpas,  live  beneath 
A  wiser  law,  which  with  the  iniquities 
Of  thine  old  craft,  hath  abrogated  this 
Its  foulest  practice  ! 

As  Count  Julian  ceased. 
From  underneath  his  black  and  gather'd  brow 
There  went  a  look,  which  with  these  wary  words 
Bore  to  the  heart  of  that  false  renegade 
Their  whole  envenom'd  meaning.     Haughtily 
Withdrawing  then  his  alter'd  eyes,  he  said, 
Too  much  of  this  !     Return  we  to  the  sum 
Of  my  discourse.     Let  Abulcacem  say. 
In  whom  the  Caliph  speaks,  if  with  all  faith 
Having  essay'd  in  vain  all  means  to  win 
My  child's  consent,  I  may  not  hold  henceforth 
The  covenant  discharged. 

The  Moor  replied, 
Well  hast  thou  said,  and  rightly  mayst  assure 
Thy  daughter  that  the  Prophet's  holy  law 
Forbids  compulsion.     Give  thine  errand  now ; 
The  messenger  is  here. 

Then  Julian  said. 
Go  to  Pelayo,  and  from  him  entreat 
Admittance  to  my  child,  where'er  she  be. 
Say  to  her,  that  her  father  solemnly 
Annuls  the  covenant  with  Orpas  pledged. 
Nor  with  solicitations,  nor  with  threats. 
Will  urge  her  more,  nor  from  that  liberty 
Of  faith  restrain  her,  which  the  Prophet's  lavi', 
Liberal  as  Heaven  from  whence  it  came,  to  all 
Indulges.     Tell  her  that  her  father  says 
His  days  are  number'd,  and  beseeches  her 
By  that  dear  love,  which  from  her  infancy 
Still  he  hath  borne  her,  growing  as  she  grew. 
Nursed  in  our  weal  and  strongthen'd  in  our  woe, 
She  will  not  in  the  evening  of  his  life 
Leave  him  forsaken  and  alone.     Enough 
Of  sorrow,  tell  her,  have  her  injuries 
Brought  on  her  father's  head ;  let  not  her  act 
Thus  ao-o-ravate  the  burden.     Tell  her,  too, 


094 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF   THE    GOTHS. 


XXI. 


That  when  he  pray'd  her  to  return,  he  wept 
Profusely  as  a  child  ;  but  bitterer  tears 
Than  ever  lell  from  childliood's  eyes,  were  those 
Which  traced  his  hardy  cheeks. 

With  faltering  voice 
He  spake,  and  after  he  had  ceased  from  speech 
His  lip  was  (juivering  still.     Tlie  Moorisii  chief 
Then  to  the  messenger  his  bidding  gave. 
Say,  cried  he,  to  these  rebel  infidels. 
Thus  Abulcaceni,  in  the  Caliph's  name 
Exhorteth  them  :  Repent  and  be  forgiven  ! 
Nor  think  to  stoj)  the  dreadful  storm  of  war. 
Which,  conquering  and  to  conquer,  must  fulfil 
Its  destined  circle,  rolling  eastward  now, 
Back  from  the  subjugated  west,  to  sweep 
Thrones  and  dominions  down,  till  in  the  bond 
Of  unity  all  nations  join,  and  Earth 
Acknowledge,  as  slie  sees  one  Sun  in  heaven, 
One  God,  one  Chief,  one  Prophet,  and  one  Law. 
Jerusalem,  the  holy  City,  bows 
To  holier  Mecca's  creed  ;  the  Crescent  shines 
Triumpliant  o'er  tiie  eternal  pyramids; 
On  the  cold  altars  of  the  worshippers 
Of  Fire,  moss  grows,  and  reptiles  leave  their  slime  ; 
The  African  idolatries  are  fallen. 
And  Europe's  senseless  gods  of  stone  and  wood 
Have  had  their  day.     Tell  these  misguided  men, 
A  moment  for  repentance  yet  is  left, 
And  mercy  the  submitted  neck  will  spare 
Before  the  sword  is  drawn;  but  once  unsheath'd. 
Let  Auria  witness  how  that  dreadful  sword 
Accomplislieth  its  work  !     I'liey  little  know 
The  Moors,  who  hope  in  battle  to  withstand 
Their  valor,  or  in  flight  escape  their  rage  ! 
Amid  our  deserts,  we  hunt  down  the  birds 
Of  heaven,  —  wings  do  not  save  them !     Nor  shall 

rocks. 
And  holds,  and  fastnesses,  avail  to  save 
These  mountaineers.     Is  not  the  Earth  the  Lord's ' 
And  we,  his  chosen  people,  whom  he  sends 
To  conquer  and  possess  it  in  his  name  .•' 


XXI. 

THE    FOUNTAIN    IN    THE    FOREST. 

The  second  eve  had  closed  upon  their  march 
Within  the  Asturian  border,  and  the  Moors 
Had  pitch'd  their  tents  amid  an  open  wood 
Upon  the  mountain  side.     As  day  grew  dim, 
Their  scatter'd  fires  shone  with  distincter  light 
Among  the  trees,  above  whose  top  the  smoke 
Diffused  itself,  and  stain'd  the  evening  sky. 
Erelong  the  stir  of  occupation  ceased. 
And  all  the  murmur  of  the  busy  host. 
Subsiding,  died  away,  as  through  the  camp 
The  crier,  from  a  knoll,  proclaim'd  the  hour 
For  prayer  appointed,  and  with  sonorous  voice. 
Thrice,  in  melodious  modulation  full. 
Pronounced  the  highest  name.     There  is  no  God 
But  God,  he  cried ;  there  is  no  God  but  God  I 
■Vlahommed  is  the  Prophet  of  the  Lord  ! 


Come  ye  to  prayer  !    to  prayer !     The    Lord    is 

great ! 
There  is  no  God  but  God  !  —  Thus  he  pronounced 
His  ritual  form,  mingling  with  lioliest  truth 
Tlie  audacious  name  accursed.     The  multitude 
Made  their  ablutions  in  the  mountain  stream 
Obedient,  then  their  faces  to  the  earth 
Bent  in  formality  of  easy  prayer. 

An  arrow's  flight  above  that  mountain  stream 
There  was  a  little  glade,  where  underneath 
A  long,  smooth.,  mossy  stone  a  fountain  rose. 
An  oak  grew  near,  and  with  its  ample  boughs 
O'ercanopied  the  spring ;  its  fretted  roots 
Emboss'd  the  bank,  and  on  their  tufted  bark 
Grew  plants  which  love  the   moisture    and   the 

shade ; 
Short  ferns,  and  longer  leaves  of  wrinkled  green 
Which  bent  toward  the  spring,  and  when  the  wind 
Made  itself  felt,  just  touch'd  with  gentle  dip 
The  glassy  surface,  ruffled  ne'er  but  then. 
Save  when  a  bubble  rising  from  the  depth 
Burst,  and  with  faintest  circles  mark'd  its  place, 
Or  if  an  insect  skimm'd  it  with  its  wing. 
Or  when  in  heavier  drops  the  gathcr'd  rain 
Fell  from  the  oak's  high  bower.    The  mountain  roe, 
When,    having    drank    there,    he    would    bound 

across. 
Drew  up  upon  the  bank  his  meeting  feet. 
And  put  forth  half  his  force.     With  silent  lapse 
From  thence  through  mossy  banks  the  water  stole, 
Then  murmuring  hastened  to  the  glen  below. 
Diana  might  have  loved  in  that  sweet  spot 
To  take  her  noontide  rest ;  and  when  she  stoop'd 
Hot  from  the  chase  to  drink,  well  pleased  had  seen 
Her  own  bright  crescent,  and  the  brighter  face 
It  crown'd,  reflected  there 

Beside  that  spring 
Count  Julian's  tent  was  pitch'd  upon  the  glade; 
There  his  ablutions  Moor-like  he  perform 'd. 
And  Moor-like  knelt  in  prayer,  bowing  his  head 
Upon  the  mossy  bank.     There  was  a  sound 
Of  voices  at  the  tent  when  he  arose. 
And  lo !  with  hurried  step  a  woman  came 
Toward  him ;  rightly  then  his  heart  presaged, 
And  ere  he  could  behold  her  countenance, 
Florinda  knelt,  and  with  uplifted  arms 
Embraced  her  sire.    He  raised  her  from  the  ground, 
Kiss'd  her,  and  clasp'd  her  to  his  heart,  and  said. 
Thou  hast  not  then  forsaken  me,  my  child  ! 
Ilowe'er  the  inexorable  will  of  Fate 
May,  in  the  world  which  is  to  come,  divide 
Our  everlasting  destinies,  in  this 
Thou  wilt  not,  O  my  child,  abandon  me  ! 
And  then,  with  deep  and  interrupted  voice, 
Nor  seeking  to  restrain  his  copious  tears, 
My  blessing  be  upon  thy  head,  he  cried, 
A  father's  blessing  !    Though  all  faiths  were  false. 
It  should  not  lose  its  worth  !  —  She  lock'd  her  hands 
Around  his  neck,  and  gazing  in  his  face 
Through   streaming  tears,  exclaim'd.  Oh,  never 

more. 
Here  or  hereafter,  never  let  us  part! 
And  breathing  tlien  a  prayer  in  silence  forth, 
The  name  of  Jesus  trembled  on  her  tongue. 


XXI. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


693 


Whom  hast  thou  there?  cried  Julian,  and  drew 
back, 
Seeing  that  near  them  stood  a  meagre  man 
In  humble  garb,  who  rested  with  raised  hands 
On  a  long  staff",  bending  his  head  like  one 
Who,  when  he  hears  the  distant  vesper-bell, 
Halts  by  the  way,  and,  all  unseen  of  men, 
Offers  his  homage  in  the  eye  of  Heaven. 
She  answered,  Let  not  my  dear  father  frown 
In  anger  on  his  child  !    Thy  messenger 
Told  me  that  I  should  be  restrain'd  no  more 
From  liberty  of  faith,  which  the  new  law 
Indulged  to  all;  how  soon  my  hour  might  come 
I  knew  not,  and  although  that  hour  will  bring 
Few  terrors,  yet  methinks  I  would  not  be 
Without  a  Christian  comforter  in  death. 

A  Priest !    exclaimed  the   Count,  and  drawing 
back, 
Stoop'd  for  his  turban,  that  he  might  not  lack 
Some  outward  symbol  of  apostasy  ; 
For  still  in  war  his  wonted  arms  he  wore. 
Nor  for  the  cimeter  had  changed  the  sword 
Accustomed  to  his  hand.     He  covered  now 
His  short,  gray  hair,  and  under  the  white  folds, 
His  swarthy  brow,  which  gather'd  as  he  rose, 
Darken'd.     Oh,  frown  not  thus  !   Florinda  said  ; 
A  kind  and  gentle  counsellor  is  this, 
One  who  pours  balm  into  a  wounded  soul. 
And  mitigates  the  griefs  he  cannot  heal. 
I  told  him  1  had  vow'd  to  pass  my  days 
A  servant  of  the  Lord,  yet  that  my  heart. 
Hearing  the  message  of  thy  love,  was  drawn 
With    powerful     yearnings    back.      Follow    thy 

heart  — 
It  answers  to  the  call  of  duty  here. 
He  said,  nor  canst  thou  better  serve  the  Lord 
Than  at  thy  father's  side. 

Count  Julian's  brow. 
While  tlius  she  spake,  insensibly  relax'd. 
A  Priest,  cried  he,  and  thus  with  even  hand 
Weigh  vows  and  natural  duty  in  the  scale? 
In  what  old  heresy  hath  he  been  train'd? 
Or  in  what  wilderness  hath  he  escaped 
The  donuneering  Prelate's  fire  and  sword  ? 
Come  hither,  man,  and  tell  me  who  thou  art  I 

A  sinner,  Roderick,  drawing  nigh,  replied. 
Brought  to  repentance  by  the  grace  of  God, 
And  trusting  for  forgiveness  through  the  blood 
Of  Christ  in  humble  hope. 

A  smile  of  scorn 
Julian  assumed,  but  merely  from  the  lips 
It  came ;  for  he  was  troubled  while  lie  gazed 
On  the  strong  countenance  and  thoughtful  eye 
Before  him.     A  new  law  hath  been  proclaim'd. 
Said  he,  which  overthrows  in  its  career 
The  Christian  altars  of  idolatry. 
^V'hat  think'st  thou  of  the  Prophet?  —  Roderick 
Made  answer,  I  am  in  the  Moorish  camp, 
And  he  who  asketh  is  a  Mussulman. 
How  then  should  I  reply?  —  Safely,  rejoin'd 
The  renegade,  and  freely  mayst  thou  speak 
To  all  that  Julian  asks.     Is  not  the  yoke 
Of  Mecca  easy,  and  its  burden  light?  — 


Spain  hath  not  found  it  so,  the  Goth  replied. 
And  groaning,  turn'd  away  his  countenance. 

Count  Julian  knit  his  brow,  and  stood  awhile 
Regarding  him  with  meditative  eye 
In  silence.     Thou  art  honest  too  !  he  cried  ; 
Wiiy,  'twas  in  quest  of  such  a  man  as  this 
That  the  old  Grecian  search'd  by  lantern  light, 
In  open  day,  the  city's  crowded  streets; 
So  rare  he  deem'd  the  virtue.     Honesty, 
And  sense  of  natural  duty  in  a  Priest ! 
Now  for  a  miracle,  ye  Saints  of  Spain  ! 
I  shall  not  pry  too  closely  for  the  wires. 
For,  seeing  what  I  see,  ye  have  me  now 
In  the  believing  mood  ! 

O  blessed  Saints, 
Florinda  cried,  'tis  from  the  bitterness. 
Not  from  the  hardness  of  the  heart,  he  speaks '. 
Hear  him !  and  in  your  goodness  give  the  scoff 
The  virtue  of  a  prayer!     So  saying,  she  raised 
Her  hands,  in  fervent  action  clasp'd,  to  Heaven, 
Then  as,  still  clasp'd,  they  fell,  toward  her  sire 
She  turn'd  her  eyes,  beholding  him  through  tears 
The  look,  the  gesture,  and  that  silent  woe, 
Soften'd  her  father's  heart,  which  in  this  hour 
Was  open  to  the  influences  of  love. 
Priest,  thy  vocation  were  a  blessed  one. 
Said  Julian,  if  its  mighty  power  were  used 
To  lessen  human  misery,  not  to  swell 
The  mournful  sum,  already  all-too-great. 
If,  as  thy  former  counsel  should  imply. 
Thou  art  not  one  who  would  for  his  craft's  sake 
Fret  with  corrosives  and  inflame  the  wound, 
Which  the  poor  sufferer  brings  to  thee  in  trust 
That  thou  with  virtuous  balm  wilt  bind  it  up, — 
If,  as  I  think,  thou  art  not  one  of  those 
Whose  villany  makes  honest  men  turn  Moors, 
Thou  then  wilt  answer  with  unbias'd  mind 
What  1  shall  ask  thee,  and  exorcise  thus 
The  sick  and  feverish  conscience  of  my  child. 
From  inbred  phantoms,  flend-like,  which  possess 
Her  innocent  spirit.     Cliildren  we  are  all 
Of  one  great  Father,  in  whatever  clime 
Nature  or  chance  hath  cast  the  seeds  of  life. 
All  tono-ues,  all  colors ;  neither  after  death 
Shall  we  be  sorted  into  languages 
And  tints, — white,  black,  and  tawny,  Greek  and 

Goth, 
Northmen  and  ofl^spring  of  hot  Africa, 
The  All-Father,  He  in  whom  we  live  and  move, 
He  the  indifferent  Judge  of  all,  regards 
Nations,  and  hues,  and  dialects  alike ; 
According  to  their  works  shall  they  be  judged. 
When  even-handed  Justice  in  the  scale 
Their  good  and  evil  weighs.     All  creeds,  I  weeji, 
Agree  in  this,  and  hold  it  orthodox. 

Roderick,  perceiving  here  that  Julian  paused, 
As  if  he  waited  for  acknowledgment 
Of  that  plain  truth,  in  motion  of  assent 
Inclined  his  brow  complacently,  and  said. 
Even   so:    What   follows?  —  This,   resumed    the 

Count ; 
That  creeds,  like  colors,  being  but  accident. 
Arc  therefore  in  the  scale  imponderable  ;  — 


G'JG 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


XXI 


Tliou  secst  my  meaning;  —  That  from  every  faith, 
As  every  cliiae,  there  is  a  way  to  Heaven; 
And  thou  and  I  may  meet  in  Paradise. 

Oh  grant  it,  God  !  cried  Roderick  fervently. 
And  smote  his  breast.     Oh  grant  it,  gracious  God! 
Tlirougii  the  dear  blood  of  Jesus,  grant  that  he 
And  1  may  meet  before  the  mercy-throne  ! 
That  were  a  triumph  of  Redeeming  Love, 
For  which  admiring  Angels  would  renew 
Their  hallelujahs  througli  the  choir  of  Heaven  ! 
Man  I  quoth    Count  Julian,    wherefore   art   thou 

moved 
To  this  strange  passion  ?     I  require  of  thee 
Tliy  judgment,  not  thy  prayers  1 

Be  not  displeased ! 
In  gentle  voice  subdued  the  Goth  replies ; 
A  praj'cr,  from  whatsoever  lips  it  flow. 
By  thine  own  rule  should  find  the  way  to  Heaven, 
So  that  the  heart  in  its  sincerity 
Straight  forward  breathe  it  forth.     I,  like  thyself. 
Am  all  untrain'd  to  subtilties  of  speech. 
Nor  competent  of  this  great  argument 
Thou  openest;  and  perliaps  shall  answer  thee 
Wide  of  the  words,  but  to  the  purport  home. 
There  are  to  wliom  the  light  of  gospel  truth 
Hath  never  reach'd  ;  of  such  I  needs  must  deem 
As  of  the  sons  of  men  who  had  their  day 
Before  the  light  was  given.     But,  Count,  for  those 
Who,  born  amid  the  light,  to  darkness  turn. 
Wilful  in  error,  —  I  dare  only  say, 
God  doth  not  leave  the  unhappy  soul  without 
An  inward  monitor,  and  till  the  grave 
Open,  the  gate  of  mercy  is  not  closed 

Priest-like  I  the  renegade  replied,  and  shook 
His  head  in  scorn.     What  is  r_ot  in  the  craft 
Is  error,  and  for  error  there  shall  be 
No  mercy  found  in  Him  whom  yet  ye  name 
The  Merciful ! 

Now  God  forbid,  rejoin'd 
The  fallen  King,  that  one  who  stands  in  need 
Of  mercy  for  his  sins  should  argue  thus 
Of  error  !     Thou  hast  said  that  thou  and  I, 
Thou  dying  in  name  a  Mussulman,  and  I 
A  servant  of  the  Cross,  may  meet  in  Heaven. 
Time  was  when  in  our  fathers'  ways  we  walk'd 
Regardlessly  alike;  faith  being  to  each  — 
For  so  far  thou  hast  reason'd  rightly  —  like 
Our  country's  fashion  and  our  mother-tongue, 
Of  mere  inheritance,  —  no  thing  of  choice 
In  judgment  fix'd,  nor  rooted  in  the  heart. 
Me  have  the  arrows  of  calamity 
Sore  stricken  ;  sinking  underneath  the  weight 
Of  sorrow,  yet  more  heavily  oppress'd 
Beneath  the  burden  of  my  sins,  I  turn'd 
in  that  dread  hour  to  Him  who  from  the  Cross 
Calls  to  the  heavy-laden.     There  I  found 
Relief  and  comfort;  there  I  have  my  hope, 
My  strength,  and  my  salvation ;  there,  the  grave 
Ready  beneath  my  feet,  and  Heaven  in  view, 
I  to  the  King  of  Terrors  say.  Come,  Death, — 
Come  quickly  !    Thou  too  wert  a  stricken  deer, 
Julian,  —  God  pardon  the  unhappy  hand 
That  wounded  thee  I  — but  whither  didst  thou  go 


For  healing  .'     Thou  hast  turn'd  away  from  Him, 
Who  saith.  Forgive,  as  ye  would  be  forgiven  ; 
And,  that  tiie  Moorish  sword  might  do  thy  work. 
Received  the  creed  of  Mecca :  with  what  fruit 
For  Spain,  let  tell  her  cities  sack'd,  her  sons 
Slaughtcr'd,  her  daughters  than  thine  own  dear 

child 
More  foully  wrong'd,  more  wretched  I  For  thyself. 
Thou  hast  had  thy  fill  of  vengeance,  and,  perhaps. 
The  cup  was  sweet ;  but  it  hath  left  behind 
A  bitter  relish !    Gladly  would  thy  soul 
Forget  the  past ;  as  little  canst  thou  bear 
To  send  into  futurity  thy  thoughts. 
And  for  this  Now,  what  is  it.  Count,  but  fear, — 
However  bravely  thou  mayst  bear  thy  front, — 
Danger,  remorse,  and  stinging  obloquy  .' 
One  only  hope,  one  only  remedy. 
One  only  refuge  yet  remains.  —  My  life 
Is  at  thy  mercy.  Count  I     Call,  if  thou  wilt, 
Thy  men,  and  to  the  Moors  deliver  me ! 
Or  strike  thyself!    Death  were  from  any  hand 
A  welcome  gift;  from  thine,  and  in  this  cause, 
A  boon  indeed  !      My  latest  words  on  earth 
Should  tell  thee  that  all  sins  may  be  effaced. 
Bid  thee  repent,  have  faith,  and  be  forgiven ! 
Strike,  Julian,  if  thou  wilt,  and  send  my  soul 
To  intercede  for  thine,  that  we  may  meet, 
Thou,  and  thy  child,  and  I,  beyond  the  grave. 

Thus  Roderick  spake,  and  spread  his  arms  as  if 
He  ofTer'd  to  the  sword  his  willing  breast. 
With  looks  of  passionate  persuasion  fix'd 
Upon  the  Count,  who,  in  his  first  access 
Of  anger,  seem'd  as  though  he  would  have  call'd 
His  guards  to  seize  the  Priest.     The  attitude 
Disarm'd  him,  and  that  fervent  zeal  sincere. 
And  more  than  both,  the  look  and  voice,  which 

like 
A  mystery  troubled  him.     Florinda  too 
Hung  on  his  arm  with  both  her  hands,  and  cried, 

0  father,  wrong  him  not !  he  speaks  from  God  I 
Life  and  salvation  are  upon  his  tongue  ! 
Judge  thou  the  value  of  that  faith  whereby, 
Reflecting  on  the  past,  I  murmur  not. 

And  to  the  end  of  all  look  on  with  joy 
Of  hope  assured  ! 

Peace,  innocent!    replied 
The  Count,  and  from  her  hold  withdrew  his  arm ; 
Thci),  with  a  gather'd  brow  of  mournfulness 
Rather  than  wrath,  regarding  Roderick,  said, 
Thou  prcachest  that  all  sins  may  be  effaced  ; 
Is  there  forgiveness,  Christian,  in  thy  creed 
For  Roderick's  crime .'  —  For  Roderick  and  for  thee, 
Count  Julian,  said  the  Goth,  and,  as  he  spake. 
Trembled  tiirough  every  fibre  of  his  frame. 
The  gate  of  Heaven  is  open.     Julian  threw 
His  wrathful  hand  aloft,  and  cried.  Away  ! 
Earth  could  not  hold  us  both,  nor  can  one  Heaven 
Contain  my  deadliest  enemy  and  me  ! 

My  father,  say  not  thus  !    Florinda  cried ; 

1  have  forgiven  him  !    I  have  pray'd  for  him! 
For  him,  for  thee,  and  for  myself  I  pour 

One  constant  prayer  to  Heaven  !    In  passion  then 
She  knelt,  and  bending  back,  with  arms  and  face 


XXI. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


r97 


Raised  toward  the  sky,  the  supplicant  exclaim'd, 
Redeemer,  Ileal  his  heart!    It  is  the  grief 
Wliich  festers  there  that  hath  bewilder'd  him! 
Save  jiim,  Redeemer  1  by  thy  precious  death 
Save,  save  him,  O  my  God  !    Then  on  her  face 
She  fell,  and  thus  virith  bitterness  pursued 
In  silent  throes  her  agonizing  prayer. 

Afflict  not  thus  thyself,  my  child,  the  Count 
Exclaim'd ;  O  dearest,  be  thou  comforted  ; 
Set  but  thy  heart  at  rest,  I  ask  no  more  ! 
Peace,  dearest,  peace  !  —  and  weeping  as  he  spake, 
He  knelt  to  raise  her.     Roderick  also  knelt ; 
Be  comforted,  he  cried,  and  rest  in  faith 
That  God  will  hear  thy  prayers  !  they  must   be 

heard. 
He  who  could  doubt  the  worth  of  prayers  like  thine. 
May  doubt  of  all  things  !     Sainted  as  thou  art 
Tn  sufferings  here,  this  miracle  will  be 
Thy  work  and  thy  reward  ! 

Then,  raising  her, 
They  seated  her  upon  the  fountain's  brink. 
And  there  beside  her  sat.     The  moon  had  risen, 
And  that  fair  spring  lay  blackened  half  in  shade, 
Half  like  a  burnish'd  mirror  in  her  light. 
By  that  reflected  light  Count  Julian  saw 
That  Roderick's  face  was  bathed  with  tears,  and 

pale 
As  monumental  marble.     Friend,  said  he. 
Whether  thy  faith  be  fabulous,  or  sent 
Indeed  from  Heaven,  its  dearest  gift  to  man, 
Thy  heart  is  true :  and  had  the  mitred  Priest 
Of  Seville  been  like  thee,  or  hadst  thou  held 
The  place  he  fill'd  ;  — but  this  is  idle  talk, — 
Things  are  as  they  will  be  ;  and  we,  poor  slaves, 
Fret  in  the  harness  as  we  may,  must  drag 
The  Car  of  Destiny  where'er  she  drives. 
Inexorable  and  blind ! 

Oh  wretched  man ! 
Cried  Roderick,  if  thou  seekest  to  assuage 
Thy  wounded  spirit  with  that  deadly  drug, 
Hell's  subtlest  venom  ;  look  to  thine  own  heart, 
Where  thou  hast  Will  and  Conscience  to  belie 
This  juggling  sophistry,  and  lead  thee  yet 
Through  penitence  to  Heaven  ! 

Whate'er  it  be 
That  governs  us,  in  mournful  tone  the  Count 
Replied,  Fate,  Providence,  or  Allah's  will. 
Or  reckless  Fortune,  still  the  effect  the  same, 
A  world  of  evil  and  of  misery  ! 
Look  where  we  will,  we  meet  it;  wheresoe'er 
We  go,  we  bear  it  with  us.     Here  we  sit 
Upon  the  margin  of  this  peaceful  spring, 
And  oh  !  what  volumes  of  calamity 
Would  be  unfolded  here,  if  either  heart 
Laid  open  its  sad  records  !    Tell  me  not 
Of  coodnoss  !     Either  in  some  freak  of  power 
Tliis  frame  of  things  was  fashion'd,  then  cast  off 
To  take  its  own  wild  course,  the  sport  of  chance ; 
Or  the  bad  Spirit  o'er  the  Good  prevails, 
And  in  the  eternal  conflict  hath  arisen 
Lord  of  the  ascendant ! 

Rightly  wouldst  thou  sa}'. 
Were  there  no  world  but  this !  the  Goth  replied. 
Th"  happiest  child  of  earth  that  e'er  was  mark'd 


To  be  the  minion  of  prosperity, 

Richest  in  corporal  gifts  and  wealth  of  mind, 

Honor  and  fame  attending  him  abroad, 

Peace  and  all  dear  domestic  joys  at  home, 

And  sunshine  till  the  evening  of  liis  days 

Closed  in  without  a  cloud,  —  even  such  a  man 

Would  from  the  gloom  and  horror  of  his  heart 

Confirm  thy  fatal  thought,  were  this  world  all ! 

Oh  !  who  could  bear  the  haunting  mystery, 

If  death  and  retribution  did  not  solve 

The  riddle,  and  to  heavenliest  harmony 

Reduce  the  seeming  chaos  !  —  Here  we  see 

Tlie  water  at  its  well-head  ;  clear  it  is, 

Not  more  transpicuous  the  invisible  air; 

Pure  as  an  infant's  thoughts;  and  here  to  life 

And  good  directed  all  its  uses  serve. 

The  herb  grows  greener  on  its  brink ;  sweet  flowers 

Bend   o'er  the  stream  that  feeds  their  freshened 

roots ; 
The  red-breast  loves  it  for  his  wintry  haunts ; 
And  when  the  buds  begin  to  open  forth. 
Builds  near  it  with  his  mate  their  brooding  nest; 
The  thirsty  stag,  with  widening  nostrils,  there 
Invigorated  draws  his  copious  draught; 
And  there,  amid  its  flags,  the  wild  boar  stands, 
Nor  sufferino-  wrono-  nor  meditatincr  hurt. 
Through  woodlands  wild  and  solitary  fields, 
Unsullied  thus  it  holds  its  bounteous  course ; 
But  when  it  reaches  the  resorts  of  men, 
The  service  of  the  city  there  defiles 
The  tainted  stream ;  corrupt  and  foul  it  flows 
Through  loathsome  banks  and  o'er  a  bed  impure. 
Till  in  the  sea,  the  appointed  end  to  which 
Through  all  its  way  it  hastens,  'tis  received. 
And,  losing  all  pollution,  mingles  there 
In  the  wide  world  of  waters.     So  is  it 
With  the  great  stream  of  things,  if  all  were  seen; 
Good  the  beginning,  good  the  end  shall  be. 
And  transitory  evil  only  make 
The  good  end  happier.     Ages  pass  away. 
Thrones  fall,  and  nations  disappear,  and  worlds 
Grow  old  and  go  to  wreck ;  the  soul  alone 
Endures,  and  what  she  chooseth  for  herself, 
The  arbiter  of  her  own  destiny. 
That  only  shall  be  permanent. 

But  guilt. 
And  all  our  suffering.'  said  the  Count.     The  Goth 
Replied,  Repentance  taketh  sin  away. 
Death  remedies  the  rest.  —  Soothed  by  the  strain 
Of  such  discourse,  Julian  was  silent  then, 
And  sat  contemplating.     Florinda  too 
Was  calm'd.     If  sore  experience  may  be  thought 
To  teach  the  uses  of  adversity, 
She  said,  alas !   who  better  learn'd  than  I 
In  that  sad  school !     Methinks,  if  ye  would  know 
How  visitations  of  calamity 
Affect  the  pious  soul,  'tis  shown  ye  tiiere ! 
Look  yonder  at  that  cloud,  which,  through  the  sky 
Sailing  alone,  doth  cross,  in  her  career, 
The  rolling  Moon  !   I  watch'd  it  as  it  came. 
And  deem'd  the  deep  opake  would  blot  her  beams ; 
But,  melting  like  a  wreath  of  snow,  it  hangs 
In  folds  of  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her  own. 
Then  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene 


G98 


RODEllICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XXIL 


Thus  having  said,  the  pious  sufferer  sat, 
Beliolding  with  fix  d  eyes  that  lovely  orb. 
Till  quiet  tears  confused  in  dizzy  light 
Tlie  broken  inoonl)eains.     Tiiey  too  by  the  toil 
Of  spirit,  as  by  travail  of  the  day 
Subdued,  were  silent,  yielding  to  the  liour. 
Tlie  silver  cloud  diffusing  slowly  past. 
And  now  into  its  airy  elements 
Resolved  is  ^one  ;  while  through  the  azure  depth 
Alone  in  heaven  the  glorious  Moon  pursues 
Her  course  appointed,  with  indifferent  beams 
Shining  upon  the  silent  hills  around, 
And  tlie  dark  tents  of  that  unholy  host. 
Who,  all  unconscious  of  impending  fate. 
Take  their  last  slumber  there.     The  camp  is  still ; 
The  fires  have  mouldered,  and  the  breeze  which  stirs 
The  soft  and  snowy  embers,  just  lays  bare 
At  times  a  red  and  evanescent  light, 
Or  for  a  moment  wakes  a  feeble  flame. 
They  by  the  fountain  hear  the  stream  below, 
Whose  murmurs,  as  the  wind  arose  or  fell. 
Fuller  or  fainter  reach  the  ear  attuned. 
And  now  the  nightingale,  not  distant  far, 
Beffan  her  solitary  song,  and  pour'd 
To  the  cold  moon  a  richer,  stronger  strain 
Than  that  with  which  the  lyric  lavk  salutes 
The  new-born  day.     Her  deep  and  thrilling  song 
Seem'd  with  its  piercing  melody  to  reach 
The  soul,  and  in  mysterious  unison 
Blend  with  all  thoughts  of  gentleness  and  love. 
Their  hearts  were  open  to  the  healing  power 
Of  nature ;  and  the  splendor  of  the  night. 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  that  sweetest  lay 
Came  to  them  like  a  copious  evening  dew 
Fallinjr  on  vernal  herbs  which  thirst  for  rain. 


XXH. 

THE   MOORISH    COUNCIL. 

Thus  they  beside  the  fountain  sat,  of  food 
And  rest  forgetful,  when  a  messenger 
Summon'd  Count  Julian  to  the  Leader's  tent. 
In  council  there,  at  that  late  hour,  he  found 
The  assembled  Chiefs,  on  sudden  tidings  call'd 
Of  unexpected  weight  from  Cordoba. 
Jealous  that  Abdalaziz  had  assumed 
A  regal  state,  affecting  in  his  court 
The  forms  of  Gothic  sovereignty,  the  Moors, 
Whom  artful  spirits  of  ambitious  mould 
Stirr'd  up,  had  risen  against  him  in  revolt : 
And  he  who  late  had  in  the  Caliph's  name 
Ruled  from  the  Ocean  to  the  Pyrenees, 
A  mutilate  and  headless  carcass  now, 
From  pitying  hands  received  beside  the  road 
A  hasty  grave,  scarce  hidden  there  from  dogs 
And  ravens,  nor  from  wintry  rains  secure. 
She,  too,  who  in  the  wreck  of  Spain  preserved 
Her  queenly  rank,  the  wife  of  Roderick  first, 
Of  Abdalaziz  after,  and  to  both 
Alike  unhappy,  shared  the  ruin  now 
Her  counsels  had  brought  on  ;  for  she  had  led 
The  infatuate  Moor,  in  dangerous  vauntery. 


To  these  aspiring  forms, — so  should  he  gain 

Respect  and  honor  from  the  Mussulman, 

She  said,  and  that  the  obedience  of  the  Goths 

Follow 'd  the  sceptre.     In  an  evil  hour 

She  gave  the  counsel,  and  in  evil  hour 

He  lent  a  vv'illing  ear ;  the  popular  rage 

Fell  on  theuj  both ;  and  they  to  whom  her  name 

Had  been  a  mark  for  mockery  and  reproach, 

Shudder'd  with  human  horror  at  her  fate. 

Ayub  was  heading  the  wild  anarchy; 

But  where  the  cement  of  authority 

Is  wanting,  all  things  there  are  dislocate : 

The  mutinous  soldiery,  by  every  cry 

Of  rumor  set  in  wild  career,  were  driven 

By  every  gust  of  passion,  setting  up 

One  hour,  what  in  the  impulse  of  the  next. 

Equally  unreasoning,  they  destroy'd ;  thus  all 

Was  in  misrule  where  uproar  gave  the  law. 

And  ere  from  far  Damascus  they  could  learn 

The  Caliph's  pleasure,  many  a  moon  must  pass. 

What  should  be  done  .'  should  Abulcacem  march 

To  Cordoba,  and  in  the  Caliph's  name 

Assume  the  power  which  to  his  rank  in  arms 

Rightly  devolved,  restoring  thus  the  reign 

Of  order.'  or  pursue,  with  quicken'd  speed. 

The  end  of  this  great  armament,  and  crush 

Rebellion  first,  then  to  domestic  ills 

Apply  his  undivided  mind  and  force 

Victorious.'     What,  in  this  emergency. 

Was  Julian's  counsel,  Abulcacem  ask'd; 

Should  they  accomplish  soon  their  enterprise  .' 

Or  would  the  insurgent  infidels  prolong 

The  contest,  seeking  by  protracted  war 

To  weary  them,  and  trusting  in  the  strength 

Of  these  wild  hills  ? 

Julian  replied.  The  Chief 
Of  this  revolt  is  wary,  resolute. 
Of  approved  worth  in  war:  a  desperate  part 
He  for  himself  deliberately  hath  chosen, 
Confiding  in  the  hereditary  love 
Borne  to  him  by  these  hardy  mountaineers  — 
A  love  which  his  own  noble  qualities 
Have  strengthen'd  so  that  every  heart  is  his. 
When  ye  can  bring  them  to  the  open  proof 
Of  battle,  ye  will  find  them  in  his  cause 
Lavish  of  life ;  but  well  they  know  the  strength 
Of  their  own  fastnesses,  the  mountain  paths 
Impervious  to  pursuit,  the  vantages 
Of  rock,  and  pass,  and  woodland,  and  ravine ; 
And  hardly  will  ye  tempt  them  to  forego 
These  natural  aids  wherein  they  put  their  trust 
As  in  their  stubborn  spirit,  each  alike 
Deem'd  by  themselves  invincible,  and  so 
By  Roman  found  and  Goth  —  beneath  whose  sway 
Slowly  persuaded  rather  than  subdued 
They  came,  and  still  through  every  change  retain'd 
Their  manners  obstinate  and  barbarous  speech. 
My  counsel,  therefore,  is,  that  we  secure 
With  strong  increase  of  force  the  adjacent  posts, 
And  chiefly  Gegio,  leaving  them  so  mann'd 
As  may  abate  the  hope  of  enterprise. 
Their  strength  being  told.     Time,  in  a  strife  like 

this, 
Becomes  the  ally  of  those  who  trust  in  him  : 
Make  then  with  Time  your  covenant.     Old  feuds 


XXII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


G9<J 


May  disunite  the  chiefs :  some  may  be  gain'd 

By  fair  entreaty,  others  by  the  stroke 

Of  nature,  or  of  policy,  cut  off. 

'J'his  was  tlie  counsel  whicii  in  Cordoba 

1  ort'cr'd  Abdalaziz  :  in  ill  hour 

Rejecting  it,  he  sent  upon  this  war 

His  father's  faithful  friend  !     Dark  are  the  ways 

Of  Destiny  !     Had  I  been  at  his  side, 

Old  Muza  would  not  now  have  mourn'd  his  ago 

Left  childless,  nor  had  Ayub  dared  defy 

The  Caliph's  represented  power.     The  case 

Calls  for  thine  instant  presence,  with  the  weight 

Of  thy  legitimate  authority. 

Julian,  said  Orpas,  turning  from  beneath 
llis  turban  to  the  Count  a  crafty  eye. 
Thy  daughter  is  rcturn'd  ;  doth  she  not  bring 
Some  tidings  of  the  movements  of  the  foe .' 
The  Count  replied,  When  child  and  parent  meet 
First  reconciled  from  discontents  which  wrung 
The  hearts  of  both,  ill  should  their  converse  be 
Of  warlike  matters  !     There  hath  been  no  time 
For  such  inquiries,  neither  should  I  think 
To  ask  her  touching  that  for  whicli  I  know 
She  hath  neither  eye  nor  thought. 

There  was  a  time  — 
Orpas  with  smile  malignant  thus  replied  — 
When  in  the  progress  of  the  Caliph's  arms 
Count  Julian's  daughter  had  an  interest 
Which  touch'd  iier  nearly  !    But  her  turn  is  served, 
And  hatred  of  Prince  Orpas  may  beget 
Indifference  to  the  cause.     Yet  Destiny 
Still  guideth  to  the  service  of  the  faith 
The  wayward  heart  of  woman  ;  for  as  one 
Delivered  Roderick  to  the  avenging  sword, 
So  hath  another  at  this  hour  betray'd 
Pelayo  to  his  fall.     His  sister  came 
At  nightfall  to  my  tent  a  fugitive. 
She  tells  me  that,  on  learning  our  approach. 
The  rebel  to  a  cavern  in  the  hills 
Had  sent  his  wife  and  children,  and  with  them 
Those  of  his  followers,  thinking,  there  conceal'd. 
They  might  be  safe.     She,  moved  by  injuries 
Whicli  stung  her  spirit,  on  the  way  escaped. 
And  for  revenge  will  guide  us.     In  reward 
She  asks  her  brother's  forfeiture  of  lands 
In  marriage  with  Numacian:  something  too 
Touching  his  life,  that  for  her  services 
It  might  be  spared,  she  said  ;  —  an  after-thought 
To  salve  decorum,  and  if  conscience  wake, 
Serve  as  a  sop;  but  when  the  sword  shall  smite 
Pelayo  and  his  dangerous  race,  I  ween. 
That  a  thin  kerchief  will  dry  all  the  tears 
The  Lady  Guisla  sheds  ! 

'Tis  the  old  taint ! 
Said  Julian  mournfully  ;  from  her  mother's  womb 
She  brought  the  inbred  wickedness  which  now 
In  ripe  infection  blossoms.     Woman,  woman. 
Still  to  the  Goths  art  thou  the  instrument 
Of  overthrow  ;  thy  virtue  and  thy  vice 
Fatal  alike  to  them  I 

Say  rather,  cried 
The  insidious  renegade,  that  Allah  thus 
By  woman  punisheth  the  idolatry 
Of  those  who  raise  a  woman  to  the  rank 


Of  godhead,  calling  on  their  Mary's  name 
With  senseless  prayers.     In  vain  shall  they  invoke 
Her  trusted  succor  now  I     Like  silly  birds, 
By  fear  betray'd,  they  fly  into  tlie  toils  ; 
And  this  Pelayo,  who,  in  lengthen'd  war 
Baffling  our  force,  has  thougiit  perhaps  to  reign 
Prince  of  the  Mountains,  when  we  hold  his  wife 
And  ofi'spring  at  our  mercy,  nmst  himself 
Come  to  the  lure. 

Enough,  the  Leader  said  ; 
This  unexpected  work  of  favoring  Fate 
Opens  an  easy  way  to  our  desires. 
And  renders  further  counsel  needless  now. 
Great  is  the  Prophet  whose  protecting  power 
Goes  with  tlu!  faithful  forth  !     The  rebels'  days 
Are  number'd;  Allah  hath  deliver'd  them 
Into  our  hands  ! 

So  saying  he  arose  ; 
The  Chiefs  withdrew  ;  Orpas  alone  remain'd 
Obedient  to  his  indicated  will. 
The  event,  said  Abulcacem,  hath  approved 
Thy  judgment  in  all  points;  his  daughter  comes 
At  the  first  summons,  even  as  thou  saidst ; 
Her  errand  with  the  insurgents  done,  she  brings 
Their  well-concerted  project  back,  a  safe 
And  unexpected  messenger  ;  —  the  Moor  — 
The  shallow  Moor  —  must  see  and  not  perceive  ; 
Must  hear  and  understand  not ;  yea,  must  bear. 
Poor  easy  fool,  to  serve  their  after-mirlli, 
A  part  in  his  own  undoing!     But  just  Heaven 
With  this  unlook'd-for  incident  hath  marr'd 
Their  complots,  and  the  sword  shall  cut  this  web 
Of  treason. 

Well,  the  renegade  replied, 
Thou  knowest  Count  Julian's  spirit,  quick  in  wiles, 
In  act  audacious.     BalHcd  now,  he  thinks 
Either  by  instant  warning  to  apprize 
The  rebels  of  their  danger,  or  preserve 
The  hostages  when  fallen  into  our  power. 
Till  secret  craft  contrive,  or  open  force 
Win  their  enlargement.     Haply,  too,  he  dreams 
Of  Cordoba,  the  avenger  and  the  friend 
Of  Abdalaziz,  in  that  cause  to  arm 
Moor  against  Moor,  preparing  for  himself 
The  victory  o'er  the  enfeebled  conquerors. 
Success  in  treason  hath  imbolden'd  him, 
And  power  but  serves  him   for  fresh  treachery, 

•         false 
To  Roderick  first,  and  to  the  Caliph  now. 

The  guilt,  said  Abulcacem,  is  confirm'd. 
The  sentence  past ;  all  that  is  now  required 
Is  to  strike  sure  and  safely.     He  hath  with  him 
A  veteran  force  devoted  to  his  will. 
Whom  to  provoke  were  perilous ;  nor  less 
Of  peril  lies  there  in  delay  ;  what  course 
Between  these  equal  dangers  should  we  steer  ? 

They  have  been  train'd  beneath  him  in  the  wars 
Of  Africa,  the  renegade  rejjlied  ; 
Men  are  they,  who,  from   their  youth    up,  have 

found 
Their  occupation  and  their  joy  ni  arms  ; 
Indifferent  to  the  cause  for  which  they  fight, 
But  faithful  to  their  leader,  who  hath  won 


700 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XXIII 


By  license  largely  given,  yet  temper'd  still 

With  exercise  of  firm  authority. 

Their  whoh;  devotion.     Vainly  should  we  seek 

By  proof  of  Julian's  guilt  to  pacify 

Sucli  martial  spirits,  unto  whom  all  creeds 

And  countries  are  alike ;  but  take  away 

Tlie  head,  and  fortiiwith  their  fidelity 

Goes  at  the  market  price.     The  act  must  be 

Sudden  and  secret ;  poison  is  too  slow. 

Thus  it  may  best  be  done ;  tlie  Mountaineers, 

Doubtless,  erelong  will  rouse  us  with  some  spur 

Of  sudden  enterprise  ;  at  such  a  time 

A  trusty  minister  approaching  him 

May  smite  him,  so  tliat  all  shall  think  the  spear 

Comes  from  the  hostile  troops. 

Right  counsellor ! 
Cried  Abulcacem,  thou  slialt  have  his  lands, 
The  proper  meed  of  thy  fidelity  : 
His  daughter  thou  mayst  take  or  leave.     Go  now 
And  find  a  faithful  instrument  to  put 
Our  purpose  in  effect  I  —  And  when  'tis  done,  — 
The  Moor,  as  Orpas  from  the  tent  withdrew. 
Muttering  pursued,  —  look  for  a  like  reward 
Thyself!     That  restless  head  of  wickedness 
In  the  grave  will  brood  no  treasons.     Other  babes 
Scream  when  the  Devil,  as  they  spring  to  life. 
Infects  them  with  his  touch;  but  thou  didst  stretch 
Thine  arms  to  meet  him,  and,  like  mother's  milk. 
Suck  the  congenial  evil  !     Thou  hast  tried 
Both  laws,  and,  were  there  aught  to  gain,  wouldst 

prove 
A  third  as  readily  ;  but  when  thy  sins 
Are  weigh'd,  'twill  be  against  an  empty  scale. 
And  neither  Prophet  will  avail  thee  then ! 


XXIII. 


THE    VALE    OF    COVADONGA. 

The  camp  is  stirring,  and  ere  day  hath  dawn'd 

The  tents  are  struck.     Early  they  rise  whom  Hope 

Awakens,  and  they  travel  fast  with  whom 

She  goes  companion  of  the  way.     By  noon 

Hath  Abulcacem  in  his  speed  attain'd 

The  Vale  of  Cangas.     Well  the  trusty  scouts 

Observe  his  march,  and,  fleet  as  mountain  roes,  • 

From  post  to  post,  with  instantaneous  speed. 

The  warning  bear :  none  else  is  nigh  :  the  vale 

Hath  been  deserted,  and  Pelayo's  hall 

Is  open  to  the  foe,  who  on  the  tower 

Hoist  their  white  signal-flag.     In  Sclla's  stream 

The  misbelieving  multitudes  perforin, 

With  hot  and  hasty  hand,  their  noontide  rite. 

Then  hurryingly  repeat  the  Impostor's  prayer. 

Here  they  divide  ;  the  Chieftain  halts  with  lialf 

The  host,  retaining  Julian  and  his  men. 

Whom  where  the  valley  widen'd  he  disposed. 

Liable  to  first  attack,  that  so  the  deed 

Of  murder  plann'd  with  Orpas  might  be  done. 

The  other  force  the  Moor  Alcahman  led. 

Whom  Guisla  guided  up  Pionia's  stream 

Eastward  to  Soto.     Ibrahim  went  with  him, 

Proud  of  Granada's  snowy  heights  subdued, 


And  boasting  of  his  skill  in  mountain  war ; 
Yet  sure  lie  deem'd  an  easier  victory 
Awaited  liim  this  day.     Little,  quotli  he, 
Weens  the  vain  Mountaineer,  who  puts  his  trust 
In  dens  and  rocky  fastnesses,  how  close 
Destruction  is  at  hand  !     Belike  he  tliinks 
The  Ilumma's  happy  wings  have  shadow'd  him, 
And  therefore  Fate  with  royalty  must  crown 
His  chosen  head  !     Pity  the  cimeter 
With  its  rude  edge  so  soon  should  interrupt 
The  pleasant  dream ' 

There  can  be  no  escape 
For  those  who  in  the  cave  seek  shelter,  cried 
Alcahman  ;  yield  they  must,  or  from  their  holes 
Like  bees  we  smoke  tliem  out.     The  Chief  perhaps 
May  reign  awhile  King  of  the  wolves  and  bears. 
Till  his  own  subjects  hunt  him  down,  or  kites 
And  crows  divide  what  hunger  may  have  left 
Upon  his  ghastly  limbs.     Happier  for  him 
That  destiny  should  this  day  to  our  hands 
Deliver  him  ;  short  would  be  his  sufferings  then  ; 
And  we  riglit  joyfully  should  in  one  hour 
Behold  our  work  accomplish'd,  and  his  race 
Extinct. 

Thus  these,  in  mockery  and  in  thoughts 
Of  bloody  triumph,  to  the  future  blind. 
Indulged  the  scornful  vein ;  nor  deem'd  that  they 
Whom  to  the  sword's  unsparing  edge  they  doom'd, 
Even  then  in  joyful  expectation  pray'd 
To  Heaven  for  their  approach,  and,  at  their  post 
Prepared,  were  trembling  with  excess  of  hope. 
Here  in  these  mountain  straits  the  Mountaineer 
Had  felt  his  country's  strength  insuperable; 
Here  he  had  pray'd  to  see  the  Mussulman 
With  all  his  myriads  ;  therefore  had  lie  look'd 
To  Covadonga  as  a  sanctuary 
Apt  for  concealment,  easy  of  defence  ; 
And  Guisla's  flight,  thougli  to  his  heart  it  sent 
A  pang  more  poignant  for  their  mother's  sake. 
Yet  did  it  further  in  its  consequence 
His  hope  and  project,  surer  than  decoy 
Well-laid,  or  best-concerted  stratagem. 
That  sullen  and  revengeful  mind,  he  knew, 
Would  follow  to  the  extremity  of  guilt 
Its  long  fore-purposed  shame  :   the  toils  were  laid. 
And  she  who  by  the  Mussulmen  full  sure 
Thought  on  her  kindred  her  revenge  to  wreak, 
Led  the  Moors  in. 

Count  Pedro  and  his  son 
VVere  hovering  with  the  main  Asturian  force 
In  the  wider  vale  to  watch  occasion  there, 
And  with  hot  onset  when  the  alarm  began 
Ptirsue  the  vantage.     In  the  fated  straits 
Of  Deva  had  tlie  King  disposed  the  rest : 
Amid  the  hanging  woods,  and  on  the  cliffs, 
A  long  mile's  length  on  either  side  its  bed. 
They  lay.     Tlie  lever,  and  the  axe,  and  saw 
Had  skilfully  been  plied;  and  trees  and  stones, 
A  dread  artillery,  ranged  on  crag,  and  shelf, 
And  steep  descent,  were  ready  at  the  word 
Precipitate  to  roll  resistless  down. 
The  faithful  maiden  not  more  wistfully 
Looks  for  the  day  that  brings  her  lover  home ;  — 
Scarce  more  impatiently  the  horse  endures 
The  rein,  when  loud  and  shrill  the  hunter's  horn 


XXIII. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS, 


701 


Rings  in  his  joyous  cars,  than  at  their  post 
Tlie  Mountaineers  await  their  certain  i)rey  ; 
Yet  inindiul  of  tlieir  Prince's  order,  oft 
And  solemnly  enforced,  with  eagerness 
Subdued  by  minds  vvell-niaster'd,  they  expect 
The  appointed  signal. 

Hand  must  not  be  raised, 
Foot  stirr'd,  nor  voice  be  utter'd,  said  the  Chief, 
Till  the  word  pass:  impatience  would  mar  all. 
God  hath  deliver'd  over  to  your  hands 
His  enemies  and  ours,  so  we  but  use 
The  occasion  wisely.     Not  till  the  word  pass 
From  man  to  man  transmitted,  "In  the  name 
'•  Of  God,  for  Spain  and  Vengeance  !   "  let  a  hand 
Be  lifted  ;  on  obedience  all  depends. 
Their  march  below  with  noise  of  horse  and  foot, 
And  haply  with  the  clang  of  instruments, 
Might  drown  all  other  signal,  this  is  sure  ; 
But  wait  it  calmly ;  it  will  not  be  given 
Till  the  whole  line  hath  enter'd  in  the  toils. 
Comrades,  be  patient,  so  shall  none  escape 
Who  once  set  foot  within  these  straits  of  death. 
Thus  had  Pelayo  on  the  Mountaineers 
With  frequent  and  impressive  charge  enforced 
The  needful  exhortation.     This  alone 
He  doubted,  that  the  Mussulmen  might  see 
The  perils  of  the  vale,  and  warily 
Forbear  to  enter.     But  they  thought  to  find, 
As  Guisla  told,  the  main  Asturian  force 
Seeking  concealment  there,  no  other  aid 
Soliciting  from  these  their  native  hills  ; 
And  that,  the  babes  and  women  having  fallen 
In  thraldom,  they  would  lay  their  weapons  down. 
And  supplicate  forgiveness  for  their  sake. 
Nor  did  the  Moors  perceive  in  what  a  strait 
They  enter'd  ;  for  the  morn  had  risen  o'ercast. 
And  when  the  Sun  had  reach'd  the  height  ofheaven, 
Dimly  his  pale  and  beamless  orb  was  seen 
Moving  through  mist.     A  soft  and  gentle  rain, 
Scarce  heavier  than  the  summer's  evening  dew, 
Descended,  —  through  so  still  an  atmosphere, 
That  every  leaf  upon  the  moveless  trees 
Was  studded  o'er  with  rain-drops,  bright  and  full. 
None  falling  till  i'rom  its  own  weight  o'erswollen 
The  motion  came. 

Low  on  the  mountain  side 
The  fleecy  vapor  hung,  and  in  its  veil. 
With  all  their  dreadful  preparations,  wrapp'd 
The  Mountaineers  ;  —  in  breathless  hope  they  lay. 
Some  blessing  God  in  silence  for  the  power 
This  day  vouchsafed  ;  others  with  fervency 
Of  prayer  and  vow  invoiced  the  Mother-Maid, 
Beseeching  her  that  in  this  favoring  hour 
She  would  be  strongly  with  them.     From  below, 
Meantime,  distinct  they  heard  the  passing  tramp 
Of  horse  and  foot,  continues  as  the  sound 
Of  Deva's stream,  and  barbarous  tongues  commix'd 
With  laughter,  and  with  frequent  shouts,  —  for  all 
Exultant  came,  expecting  sure  success; 
Blind  wretches,  over  whom  the  ruin  hung  I 

They  say,  quoth  one,  that  though  the  Prophet's 
soul 
Doth,  with  the  black-eyed  Houris  bathe  in  bliss, 
Life  hath  not  left  his  body,  which  bears  up 


By  its  miraculous  power  the  holy  tomb. 
And  holds  it,  at  Medina,  in  the  air. 
Buoyant  between  the  temple's  floor  and  roof; 
And  there  the  Angels  fly  to  him  with  news 
From   East,  West,  North,  and  South,  of  what  be- 
falls 
His  faithful  people.     If,  when  he  shall  hear 
The  tale  of  this  day's  work,  he  should,  for  joy, 
Forget  that  he  is  dead,  and  walk  abroad,  — 
It  were  as  good  a  miracle  as  when 
He  sliced  the  moon !     Sir  Angel,  hear  me  now, 
Whoe'er  thou  be'st  who  art  about  to  speed 
From  Spain  to  Araby  !  when  thou  hast  got 
The  Prophet's  ear,  be  sure  thou  tellest  him 
How  brpvely  Ghauleb  did  his  part  to-day. 
And  with  what  special  reverence  he  alone 
Desired  thee  to  commend  him  to  his  grace  !  — 
Fie  on  thee,  scoffer  that  thou  art !  replied 
His  comrade;  thou  wilt  never  leave  these  gibes 
Till  some  commission'd  arrow  through  the  teeth 
Shall  nail  the  off'ending  tongue.     Hast  thou  not 

heard 
How,  wlien  our  clay  is  leaven'd  first  with  life, 
The  ministering  Angel  brings  it  from  that  spot 
Whereon  'tis  wrritten  in  the  eternal  book 
That  soul  and  body  must  their  parting  take. 
And  earth  to  earth  return  ?     How  knowest  thou 
But  that  the  spirit  who  compounded  thee, 
To  distant  Syria  from  this  very  vale 
Bore  thy  component  dust,  and  Azrael  here 
Awaits  thee  at  this  hour  ?  —  Little  thought  he 
Who  spake,  that,  in  that  valley,  at  that  hour. 
One  death  awaited  both  I 

Thus  they  pursued 
Toward  the  cave  their  inauspicious  way. 
Weak  childhood  there,  and  ineff"ective  age, 
In  the  chambers  of  the  rock,  were  placed  secure; 
But  of  the  women,  all  whom  with  the  babes 
Maternal  care  detain'd  not,  were  aloft 
To  aid  in  the  destruction ;  by  the  side 
Of  fathers,  brethren,  husbands,  station'd  there, 
They  watch  and  pray.     Pelayo  in  the  cave, 
With  the  venerable  primate,  took  his  post. 
Ranged  on  the  rising  cliff's,  on  either  hand, 
Vigilant  sentinels,  with  eye  intent, 
Observe  his  movements,  when  to  take  the  word 
And  pass  it  forward.     He,  in  arms  complete, 
Stands  in  the  portal  ;  a  stern  majesty 
Reign'd  in  his  countenance  severe  that  hour, 
And  in  his  eye  a  deep  and  dreadful  joy 
Shone,  as  advancing  up  the  vale  he  saw 
The  Moorish  banners.     God  hath  blinded  them  ' 
He  said ;  the  measure  of  their  crimes  is  full ' 
O  Vale  of  Deva,  famous  shalt  thou  be 
From  this  day  forth  forever ;  and  to  these 
Thy  springs  shall  unborn  generations  come 
In  pilgrimage,  and  hallow  with  their  prayers 
The  cradle  of  their  native  monarchy  ! 

There  was  a  stirring  in  the  air ;   the  sun 
Prevail'd,  and  gradually  tiie  brightening  mist 
Began  to  rise  and  melt.     A  jutting  crag 
Upon  the  right  projected  o'er  the  stream, 
Not  farther  from  the  cave  than  a  strong  hand 
Expert,  with  deadly  aim,  might  cast  the  spear, 


702 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XXIV 


Or  a  strong  voice,  pilcli'd  to  full  compass,  make 

Its  clear  articulation  heard  distinct. 

A  venturous  dalesman,  once  ascending  there 

To  rob  the  eagle's  nest,  had  fallen,  and  hung 

Among  the  heather,  vvondrously  preserved  ; 

Therefore  had  he  with  pious  gratitude 

Placed  on  that  overhanging  brow  a  Cross, 

Tall  as  the  mast  of  some  light  fisher's  skiif. 

And  from  the  vale  conspicuous.     As  the  Moors 

Advanced,  the  Chieftain  in  the  van  was  seen. 

Known  by  his  arms,  and  from  the  crag  a  voice 

Pronounced  his  name,  —  Alcahman  !  hoa,  look  up, 

Alcahman  !     As  the  floating  mist  drew  up, 

It  had  divided  there,  and  open'd  round 

The  Cross;  part  clinging  to  the  rock  beneath. 

Hovering  and  waving  part  in  fleecy  folds, 

A  canopy  of  silver  light  condensed 

To  shape  and  substance.     In  the  midst  there  stood 

A  female  form,  one  hand  upon  the  Cross, 

The  other  raised  in  menacing  act;  below 

Loose  flow'd  her  raiment,  but  her  breast  was  arm'd. 

And  helmeted  her  head.     The  Moor  turn'd  pale, 

For  on  the  walls  of  Auria  he  had  seen 

That  well-known  figure,  and  had  well  believed 

She  rested  with  the  dead.     What,  hoa!  she  cried, 

Alcahman  !     In  the  name  of  all  who  fell 

At  Auria  in  the  massacre,  this  hour 

I  summon  thee  before  the  throne  of  God 

To  answer  for  the  innocent  blood  !     This  hour. 

Moor,  Miscreant,  Murderer,  Child  of  Hell,  this  hour 

I  summon  thee  to  judgment !  —  In  the  name 

Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  Vengeance  ! 

Thus  she  closed 
Her  speech;  for  taking  from  the  Primate's  hand 
That  oaken  cross  which  at  the  sacring  rites 
Had  served  for  crosier,  at  the  cavern's  mouth, 
Pelayo  lifted  it  and  gave  the  word. 
From  voice  to  voice  on  either  side  it  pass'd 
With  rapid  repetition,  —  In  the  name 
Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  Vengeance  !  and  forthwith. 
On  either  side,  along  the  whole  defile. 
The  Asturians,  shouting  in  the  name  of  God, 
Set  the  whole  ruin  loose  !  Huge  trunks  and  stones, 
And  loosen'd  crags,  down,  down  they  roU'd  with 

rush. 
And  bound,  and  thundering  force.     Such  was  the 

fall. 
As  when  some  city,  by  the  laboring  earth 
Heaved  from  its  strong  foundations,  is  cast  down. 
And  all  its  dwellings,  towers,  and  palaces, 
In  one  wide  desolation  prostrated. 
From  end  to  end  of  that  long  strait,  the  crash 
Was  heard  continuous,  and,  commix'd  with  sounds 
More  dreadful,  shrieks  of  horror,  and  despair. 
And  death, — the  wild  and  agonizing  cry 
Of  that  whole  host  in  one  destruction  whelm'd. 
Vain  was  all  valor  there,  all  martial  skill ; 
The  valiant  arm  is  helpless  now ;  the  feet 
Swift  in  the  race  avail  not  now  to  save  ; 
They  perish  ;  all  their  thousands  perish  there,  — 
Horsemen  and  infantry,  they  perish  all,  — 
The  outward  armor  and  the  bones  within 
Broken,  and  bruised,  and  crush'd.     Echo  prolong'd 
The  long  uproar :  a  silence  then  ensued. 


Through  which  the  sound  of  Deva's  stream  was 

heard, 
A  lonely  voice  of  waters,  wild  and  sweet; 
The  lingering  groan,  the  faintly-utter'd  prayer, 
The  louder  curses  of  despairing  death. 
Ascended  not  so  high.     Down  from  the  cave 
Pelayo  hastes ;  the  Asturians  hasten  down  ; 
Fierce  and  immitigable  down  they  speed 
On  all  s;des ;  and  along  the  vale  of  blood 
The  avenging  sword  did  mercy's  work  that  hour. 


XXIV. 

RODERICK   AND   COUNT  JULIAN. 

Tiiou  hast  been  busy.  Death  !  this  day,  and  yet 
But  half  thy  work  is  done  ;  the  Gates  of  Hell 
Are  throng'd,  yet  twice  ten  thousand  spirits  more, 
Who  from  their  warm  and  healthful  tenements 
Fear  no  divorce,  must,  ere  the  sun  go  down. 
Enter  the  world  of  woe  !     The  Gate  of  Heaven 
Is  open  too,  and  Angels  round  the  throne 
Of  Mercy  on  their  golden  harps  this  day 
Shall  sing  the  triumphs  of  Redeeming  Love. 

There  was  a  Church  at  Cangas  dedicate 
To  that  Apostle  unto  whom  his  Lord 
Had  given  the  keys —  a  humble  edifice, 
Whose  rude  and  time-worn  structure  suited  well 
That  vale  among  the  mountains.     Its  low  roof 
With  stone  plants  and  with  moss  was  overgrovrn. 
Short  fern,  and  richer  weeds,  which  from  the  eaves 
Hung   their  long  tresses  down.     White   lichens 

clothed 
The  sides,  save  where  the  ivy  spread,  which  bower'd 
The  porch,  and  clustering  round  the  pointed  wall, 
Wherein  two  bells,  each  open  to  the  wind. 
Hung  side  by  side,  threaded  with  hairy  shoots 
The  double  niche ;  and  climbing  to  the  cross. 
Wreathed  it,  and  half  conceal'd  its  sacred  form 
With  bushy  tufts  luxuriant.     Here  in  the  font  — 
Borne  hither  with  rejoicing  and  with  prayers 
Of  all  the  happy  land,  who  saw  in  him 
The  lineage  of  their  ancient  Chiefs  renew'd  — 
The  Prince  had  been  immersed :  and  here  within 
An  oaken  galilee,  now  black  with  age. 
His. old  Iberian  ancestors  were  laid. 

Two  stately  oaks  stood  nigh,  in  the  full  growth 
Of  many  a  century.     Th^y  had  flourish'd  there 
Before  the  Gothic  sword  was  felt  in  Spain, 
And  when  the  ancient  sceptre  of  the  Goths 
Was   broken,  there    they  flourish'd    still.     Their 

boughs, 
Mingled  on  liigh,  and  stretching  wide  around, 
Form'd  a  deep  shade,  beneath  which  canopy, 
Upon  the  ground  Count  Julian's  board  was  spread ; 
For  to  his  daughter  he  had  left  his  tent, 
Pitched  for  her  use  hard  by.     He  at  the  board 
Sat  with  his  trusted  Captains,  Gunderick, 
Felix  and  Miro,  Theudered  and  Paul, 
Basil  and  Cottila,  and  Virimar, 


x.w. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


7t)3 


Mt'ii  through  all  fortunes  faithful  to  their  Lord, 

And  to  tiiat  old  and  tried  fidelity, 

By  personal  love  and  honor  held  in  tics 

Strong  as  religious  bonds.     As  there  they  sat, 

In  the  distant  vale  a  rising  dust  was  seen, 

And  fre<juent  flash  of  steel,  —  the  flying  fight 

Of  men  who,  by  a  fiery  foe  pursued. 

Put  forth  their  coursers  at  full  speed,  to  reach 

The  aid  in  which  tlicy  trust.     Uj)  si>riing  the  Chiefs, 

And  hastily  taking  hclin,  and  shield,  and  spear. 

Sped  to  their  post. 

Amid  tlio  chestnut  groves 
On  Bella's  side,  Alphonso  had  in  charo-e 
To  watch  the  foe :  a  prowling  band  came  nigli. 
Whom,  with  the  ardor  of  impetuous  youth, 
He  charged,  and  followed  them  in  close  pursuit: 
Quick  succors  join'd  them  ;  and  the  strife  grew  hot. 
Ere  Pedro,  hastening  to  bring  off  his  son, 
Or  Julian  and  his  Ca])tains,  —  bent  alike 
That  hour  to  abstain  from  combat,  (for  by  this 
Full  sure  they  deem'd  Alcahman  had  secured 
The  easy  means  of  certain  victory,)  — 
Could  reach  the  spot.     Both  thus  in  their  intent 
According,  somewhat  had  they  now  allay'd 
The  fury  of  the  fight,  though  still  spears  flew. 
And  strokes  of  SAVord  and  mace  were  interchanged. 
When,  passing  through  the  troop,  a  Moor  came  up 
On  errand  from  the  Chief,  to  Julian  sent ; 
A  fatal  errand  fatally  perform'd 
For  Julian,  for  the  Chief,  and  for  himself, 
And  all  tliut  host  of  Mussulinen  he  brought; 
For  while  with  well-dissembled  words  he  lured 
The  warrior's  ear,  tlie  dexterous  ruffian  mark'd 
The  favoring  moment  and  unguarded  place, 
And  plunged  a  javelin  in  his  side.     The  Count 
Fell,  but  in  falling  called  to  Cottila, — 
Treachery!    the  Moor!    the  Moor! — lie   too  on 

whom 
He  caird  had  seen  the  blow  from  whence  it  came, 
And   seized    the    Murderer.     Miscreant !    he  ex- 

claim'd. 
Who  set  thee  on  ?     The  Mussulman,  who  saw 
His  secret  purpose  baffled,  undismayed, 
Replies,  What  I  have  done  is  authorized ; 
To  punish  treachery  and  prevent  worse  ill, 
Orpas  and  Abulcacem  sent  me  here  ; 
The  service  of  the  Caliph  and  the  Faith 
Required  the  blow. 

The  Prophet  and  the  Fiend 
Reward  thee  then  !  cried  Cottila  ;  meantime 
Take  thou  from  me  thy  proper  earthly  meed  ; 
Villain!  —  and  lifting,  as  he  spake,  the  sword. 
He  smote  him  on  the  neck ;  the  trenchant  blad(; 
Through  vein  and  artery  pass'd  and  yielding  bone  ; 
And  on  the  shoulder,  as  the  assassin  dropp'd. 
His  head  half-severed  fell.     The  curse  of  God 
Fall  01'.  the  Caliph,  and  the  Faith,  and  thee  ! 
Stamping  for  anguish,  Cottila  pursued  ; 
African  dogs,  thus  is  it  ye  requite 
Our  services  ?  —  But  dearly  shall  ye  pay 
For  this  days  work  !  —  O  fellow-soldiers,  here, 
Stretching  his  hands  toward  the  host,  he  cried, 
Behold  your  noble  le.ider  basely  slain  ! 
He  who  for  twenty  years  hath  led  us  forth 
To  war,  and  brought  us  home  with  victory, — 


Here  lie  lies  foully  murdered,  —  by  the  Moors, — 
Those  whom  he  trusted,  whom  he  starved  so  well ! 
Our  turn  is  next !  but  neither  will  we  wait 
Idly,  nor  tamely  fall  I 

Amid  the  grief. 
Tumult,  and  rage,  of  those  who  gather'd  round, 
When  Julian  could  be  heard,  I  have  yet  life, 
He  said,  for  vengeance.     Virimar,  speed  thou 
To  yonder  Mountaineers,  and  tell  tlu'ir  Chiefs 
That  Julian's  veteran  army  joins  this  day 
Pelayo's  standard  1     The  command  devolves 
On  (lunderick.     Fellow-soldiers,  who  so  well 
Redress'd  the  wrongs  of  your  old  General, 
Ye  will  not  let  his  death  go  unrevenged  !  — 
Tears  then  were  seen  on  many  an  iron  check, 
And  groans  were  heard  from  many  a  resolute  heart. 
And  vows  with  imprecations  mi.ic'd  went  forth. 
And  curses  chcckd  by  sobs.     Bear  me  apart. 
Said  Julian,  with  a  faint  and  painful  voice, 
And  let  me  see  my  daughter  ere  I  die. 

Scarce  had  he  spoken  when  the  pitying  throng 
Divide  before  her.     Eagerly  she  came; 
A  deep  and  fearful  lustre  in  her  eye, 
A  look  of  settled  woe, — pale,  deadly  pale. 
Yet  to  no  lamentations  giving  way. 
Nor  tears  nor  groans  ;  —  within  her  breaking  heart 
She  bore  the  grief,  and  kneeling  solemnly 
Beside  him,  raised  her  awful  hands  to  heaven, 
And  cried.  Lord  God  !  be  with  him  in  this  hour  ! 
Two  things  have  I  to  think  of,  O  my  child  — 
Vengeance  and  thee,  said  Julian.     For  the  first 
I  have  provided:  what  remains  of  life 
As  best  may  comfort  thee  may  so  be  best 
Employ'd ;  let  me  be  borne  within  the  church. 
And  thou,  with  that  good  man  who  follows  thee, 
Attend  me  there. 

Thus  when  Florinda  heard 
Her  father  speak,  a  gleam  of  heavenly  joy 
Shone  through  the  anguish  of  her  countenance. 

0  gracious  God,  she  cried,  my  praj'ers  are  heard  ; 
Now  let  me  die  !  —  They  raised  him  from  the  earth  ; 
He,  knitting,  as  they  lifted  him,  his  brow, 

Draw  in,  through  open  lips  and  teeth  firm-closed. 
His  painful  breath,  and  on  the  lance  laid  hand, 
Lest  its  long  shaft  should  shake  the  mortal  wound. 
Gently  his  men,  with  slow  and  steady  step, 
Their  suft"ering  burden  bore,  and  in  the  Church 
Before  the  altar  laid  him  down,  his  head 
Upon  Florinda's  knees.  — Now,  friends,  said  he. 
Farewell.     I  ever  hoped  to  meet  my  death 
Among  ye,  like  a  soldier, —  but  not  thus  ! 
Go  join  the  Asturians  ;  and  in  after-years. 
When  of  your  old  commander  ye  shall  talk, 
How  well  he  loved  his  followers,  Vv'hat  he  was 
In  battle,  and  how  basely  he  was  slain. 
Let  not  the  tale  its  fit  completion  lack, 
But  say  how  bravely  was  his  death  revenged. 
Venfreance  !  in  that  good  word  doth  Julian  make 
His  testament ;  your  faithful  swords  must  give 
The  will  its  full  performance.     Leave  me  now; 

1  have  done  with  worldly  things.     Comrades,  fare- 

well, 
And  love  my  memory  ! 

They  with  copious  tears 


ro4 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


XXV. 


Of  burning  anircr,  grief  exasprrating 

Their  rage,  and  fury  giving  force  to  grief, 

Hasten'd  to  form  their  ranks  against  the  Moors. 

Julian  mcanlimo  toward  the  altar  turn'd 

His  languid  eyes.      That  Image,  is  it  not 

St.  Peter .'   he  inquired ;  he  who  denied 

His  Lord,  and  was  forgiven.'  —  Roderick  rejoin'd. 

It  is  the  Apostle  ;  and  may  that  same  Lord, 

0  Julian,  to  thy  soul's  salvation  bless 
The  seasonable  thought ! 

The  dying  Count 
Then  fix'd  upon  the  Goth  his  earnest  eyes. 
No  time,  said  he,  is  this  for  bravery, 
As  little  for  dissemblance.     I  would  fain 
Die  in  the  faith  wherein  my  fathers  died. 
Whereto  they  pledged  me  in  mine  infancy. 
A  soldier's  habits,  he  pursued,  liave  steel'd 
My  spirit,  and  perhaps  I  do  not  fear 
This  passage  as  I  ought.     But  if  to  feel 
That  I  have  sinn'd,  and  from  my  soul  renounce 
The  Impostor's  faith,  which  never  in  that  soul 
Obtain'd  a  place, —  if  at  the  Savior's  feet. 
Laden  with  guilt,  to  cast  myself  and  cry. 
Lord,  I  believe  !  help  thou  my  unbelief  I 
If  this  in  the  sincerity  of  deatii 
Sulficeth, —  Father,  let  me  from  thy  lips 
Receive  the  assurances  with  which  the  Church 
Doth  bless  the  dying  Christian. 

Roderick  raised 
His  eyes  to  heaven,  and  crossing  on  his  breast 
His  open  palms  —  Mysterious  are  thy  ways 
And  merciful,  O  gracious  Lord!  he  cried. 
Who  to  this  end  hast  thus  been  pleased  to  lead 
My  wandering  steps  !  O  Father,  tliis  thy  son 
Hath  sinn'd  and  gone  astray  :  but  hast  not  Thou 
Said,  When  the  sinner  from  his  evil  ways 
Turneth,  that  he  shall  save  his  soul  alive, 
And  Angels  at  the  sight  rejoice  in  Heaven  ! 
Therefore  do  I,  in  thy  most  holy  name. 
Into  thy  fiimily  receive  again 
Him  who  was  lost,  and  in  that  name  absolve 
The  Penitent.  —  So  saying,  on  the  head 
Of  Julian  solemnly  he  laid  his  hands. 
Then  to  the  altar  tremblingly  he  turn'd. 
And  took  the  bread,  and  breaking  it,  pursued  — 
Julian  !  receive  from  me  the  Bread  of  Life  I 
In  silence  reverently  the  Count  partook 
The  reconciling  rite,  and  to  his  lips 
Roderick  then  held  the  consecrated  cup. 

Me  too !  exclaim'd  Florinda,  who  till  then 
Had  listen'd  speechlessly  ;  thou  Man  of  God, 

1  also  must  partake  !    The  Lord  hath  heard 

My   prayers  !  one   sacrament,  —  one    hour,  —  one 

grave, — 
One  resurrection ! 

That  dread  office  done. 
Count  Julian  with  amazement  saw  the  Priest 
Kneel  down  before  him.     By  the  sacrament 
vVhicli  we  have  here  partaken,  Roderick  cried. 
In  this  most  awful  moment ;  by  that  hope,  — 
That  holy  faith  which  comforts  thee  in  death. 
Grant  thy  forgiveness,  Julian,  ere  thou  dlestl 
Behold  the  man  who  most  hath  injured  thee ! 
Roderick,  the  wretched  Goth,  the  guilty  cause 


Of  all  thy  guilt, — the  unworthy  instrument 
Of  thy  redemption,  —  kneels  before  thee  here, 
And  prays  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Roderick  !   exclaim'd 
The  dying  Count, —  Roderick  !  —  and  from  the  floor 
With  violent  effort  half  he  raised  himself; 
The  spear  hung  heavy  in  his  side,  and  pain 
And  weakness  overcame  him,  that  he  fell 
Back  on  his  daughter's  lap.     O  Death,  cried  he, — 
Passing  his  hand  across  his  cold,  damp  brow,  — 
Tliou  tamest  the  strong  limb,  and  conquerest 
The  stubborn  heart !     But  yesterday  1  said 
One  Heaven  could  not  contain  mine  enemy 
And  me ;  and  now  I  lift  my  dying  voice 
To  say.  Forgive  me.  Lord,  as  I  forgive  [eyes 

Him  who  hath  done   the  wrong  !  —  He  closed  his 
A  moment;  then  with  sudden  impulse  cried, — 
Roderick,    thy    wife  is  dead,  —  the  Church  hath 

power 
To  free  thee  from  thy  vows,  —  the  broken  heart 
Might  yet  be  heal'd,  the  wrong  redress'd,  the  throne 
Rebuilt  by  that  same  hand  which  pull'd  it  down. 
And  the.se  cursed  Africans  —  Oh  for  a  month 
Of  that  waste  life  which  millions  misbestow  !  — 
His  voice  was  passionate,  and  in  his  eye 
With  glowing  animation  while  he  spake 
The  vehement  spirit  shone  :  its  effort  soon 
Was  past,  and  painfully,  with  feeble  breath. 
In  slow  and  difficult  utterance  he  pursued, — 
Vain  hope,  if  all  the  evil  was  ordain'd. 
And  this  wide  wreck  the  will  and  work  of  Heaven, 
We  but  the  poor  occasion  !     Death  will  make 
All  clear,  and,  joining  us  in  better  worlds. 
Complete  our  union  there  !     Do  for  me  now 
One  friendly  office  more  : —  draw  forth  the  spear. 
And  free  me  from  this  pain  !  —  Receive  his  soul. 
Savior  !  exclaim'd  the  Gotli,  as  he  perform'd 
The  fatal  service.     Julian  cried,  O  friend  !  — 
True  friend  !  — and  gave  to  him  his  dying  hand. 
Then  said  he  to  Florinda,  I  go  first, 
Thou  folio  west !  —  kiss  me,  child  !  —  and  now,  good 

night ! 

When  from  her  father's  body  she  arose. 
Her   cheek    was    flush'd,  and  in  her  eyes   there 

beam'd 
A  wilder  brightness.     On  the  Goth  she  gazed. 
While  underneath  the  emotions  of  that  hour 
Exhausted  life  gave  way.     O  God !  she  said. 
Lifting  her  hands,  thou  hast  restored  me  all,  — 
All  —  in   one   hour  !  —  and   round   his   neck  she 

threw 
Her   arms,   and   cried.   My    Roderick !    mine    in 

Heaven  ! 
Groaning,  he  clasp'd  her  close,  and  in  that  act 
And  agony  her  happy  spirit  fled. 


XXV. 

RODERICK  IN   BATTLE. 

Eight  thousand  men  had  to  Asturias  march'd 
Beneath  Count  Julian's  banner ;  the  remains 


XXV. 


RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


705 


Of  that  brave  army  which  in  Africa 

So  well  against  the  Mussulman  made  head, 

Till  sense  of  injuries  insupportable, 

And  raging  thirst  of  vengeance,  overthrew 

Their  leader's  noble  spirit.     To  revenge 

His  quarrel,  twice  that  number  left  their  bones. 

Slain  in  unnatural  battle,  on  the  field 

Of  Xeres,  when  the  sceptre  from  tlie  Goths 

By  righteous  Heaven  was  reft.     Others  had  fallen 

Consumed  in  sieges,  ahvay  by  the  Moor 

To  the  front  of  war  opposed.     The  policy, 

With  whatsoever  show  of  honor  cloak'd, 

Was  gross,  and  this  surviving  band  had  oft 

At  their  carousals,  of  the  flagrant  wrong, 

Held  such  discourse  as  stirs  the  mounting  blood. 

The  common  danger  with  one  discontent 

Affecting  chiefs  and  men.     Nor  had  the  bonds 

Of  rooted  discipline  and  faith  attach'd 

Thus  long  restraind  them,  had  they  not  known 

well 
That  Julian  in  their  just  resentment  shared. 
And  fix'd  their  hopes  on  him.     Slight  impulse  now 
Sutficed  to  make  these  fiery  martialists 
Break  forth  in  open  fury ;  and  though  first 
Count  Pedro  listen'd  vi-itli  suspicious  ear 
To  Julian's  dying  errand,  deeming  it 
Some  new  decoy  of  treason,  —  when  he  found 
A  second  legate  follow'd  Virimar, 
And  then  a  third,  and  saw  the  turbulence 
Of  the  camp,  and  how  against  the  Moors  in  haste 
They  form'd  their  lines,  he  knew  that  Providence 
This  hour  had  for  his  country  interposed. 
And  in  such  faith  advanced  to  use  the  aid 
Thus  wondrously  ordain'd.     The  eager  Chiefs 
Hasten  to  greet  him,  Cottila  and  Paul, 
Basil  and  Miro,  Theudered,  Gundcrick, 
Felix,  and  all  who  held  authority  ; 
The  zealous  services  of  their  brave  host 
They  proff'er'd,  and  besought  him  instantly 
To  lead  against  the  African  their  force 
Combined,  and  in  good  hour  assail  a  foe 
Divided,  nor  for  such  attack  prepared. 

While  thus  they  communed,  Roderick  from  the 

church 
Came  forth,  and  seeing  Pedro,  bent  his  way 
Toward  them.     Sirs,  said  he,  the  Count  is  dead ; 
He  died  a  Christian,  reconciled  to  Heaven, 
In  faith  ;  and  when  his  daughter  had  received 
His  dying  breath,  her  spirit  too  took  flight. 
One  sacrament,  one  death,  united  them  : 
And  I  beseech  ye,  ye  who  from  the  work 
Of  blood  which  lies  before  us  may  return,  — 
If,  as  I  think,  it  should  not  be  my  fate, — 
Tiiat  in  one  grave  with  Christian  ceremonies 
Ye  lay  them  side  by  side.     In  Heaven  I  ween 
They  are  met  through  mercy  :  —  ill  befall  the  man 
Who   should  in    death    divide  them  !  —  Then  he 

turn'd 
His  speech  to  Pedro  in  an  under  voice. 
The  King,  said  he,  I  know,  with  noble  mind 
Will  judge  of  the  departed  ;  Christian-like 
He  died,  and  with  a  manly  penitence  : 
They  who  condemn  him  most  should  call  to  mind 
89 


How   grievous   was  the  wrong  which   madden'd 

him; 
Be  that  remember'd  in  his  history, 
And  let  no  shame  be  off'er'd  his  remains. 

As  Pedro  would  have  answer'd,  a  loud  cry 
Of  menacing  imprecation  from  the  troops 
Arose  ;  for  Orpas,  by  the  Moorish  Chief 
Sent  to  allay  the  storm  his  villany 
Had  stirr'd,  came  hastening  on  a  milk-white  steed, 
And  at  safe  distance  liaving  check'd  the  rein, 
Beckon'd  for  parley.     'Twas  Orclio 
On  which  he  rode,  Roderick's  own  battle-horse. 
Who  from  his  master's  hand  had  wont  to  feed. 
And  with  a  glad  docility  obey 
His  voice  familiar.     At  the  sight  the  Goth 
Started,  and  indignation  to  his  soul 
Brought   back  the    thoughts  and  feelings  of  old 

times. 
Suffer  me,  Count,  he  cried,  to  answer  him. 
And  hold  these  back  the  while  !     Thus  having  said, 
He  waited  no  reply,  but  as  he  was. 
Bareheaded,  in  his  weeds,  and  all  unarm'd. 
Advanced  toward  the  renegade.     Sir  Priest, 
Quoth  Orpas  as  he  came,  I  hold  no  talk 
With  thee;  my  errand  is  with  Gunderick 
And  the  Captains  of  the  host,  to  whom  I  bring 

Such  liberal  oft'ers  and  clear  proof 

The  Goth, 
Breaking   with   scornful   voice    his    speech,    ex- 

claim'd, 
What,  could  no  steed  but  Roderick's   serve  thy 

t^rn! 
I  should  have  thought  some  sleek  and  sober  mule, 
Long  train'd  in  shackles  to  procession  pace. 
More  suited  to  my  lord  of  Seville's  use 
Than  this  good  war-horse,  —  he  who  never  bore 
A  villain,  until  Orpas  cross'd  his  back  !  — 
Wretch  !  cried  the  astonish'd  renegade,  and  stoop'd, 
Foaming  with  anger,  from  the  saddlo-bow. 
To  reach  his  weapon.     Ere  the  hasty  hand. 
Trembling  in  passion,  could  perform  its  will, 
Roderick  had  seized  the  reins.     How  now,  he  cried, 
Orelio  !  old  companion,  —  my  good  horse,  — 
Off  with  this  recreant  burden  !  —  And  with  that 
He  raised  his  hand,  and  rear'd  and  back'd  the  steed, 
To  that  remember'd  voice  and  arm  of  power 
Obedient.     Down  the  helpless  traitor  fell. 
Violently  thrown,  and  Roderick  over  him 
Thrice  led,  with  just  and  unrelenting  hand, 
The  trampling  hoofs.     Go,  join  Witiza  now, 
Where  he  lies  howling,  the  avenger  cried, 
And  tell  him  Roderick  sent  thee  ! 

At  that  sight, 
Count  Julian's  soldiers  and  tlie  Asturian  host 
Set  up  a  shout,  a  joyful  shout,  which  rung 
Wide  through  the  welkin.     Their  exulting  cry 
With  louder  acclama-tion  was  renew'd, 
When  from  the  expiring  miscreant's  neck  they  saw 
That  Roderick  took  the  shield,  and  round  his  own 
Hung  it,  and  vaulted  in  the  seat.     My  horse  ! 
My  noble  horse  !  he  cried,  with  flattering  hand 
Patting  his  high-arch'd  neck  !  the  renegade  — 
I  thank  him  for't  —  hath  kept  thee  daintily  ! 


706 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XXV. 


Orelio,  thou  art  in  thy  beauty  still, 

Thy  pride  and  strength !    Orelio,  my  good  horse. 

Once  more  thou  bearest  to  the  field  thy  Lord, 

He  who  so  oft  hath  fed  and  chcrish'd  thee, 

He  for  whose  sake,  wherever  thou  wert  seen, 

Tliou  wert  by  all  men  honor'd.     Once  again 

Thou  liast  thy  proper  master !     Do  thy  part 

As  thou  wert  wont;   and  bear  him  gloriously. 

My  beautiful  Orelio,  —  to  the  last  — 

Tlie  happiest  of  his  fields!  —  Then  he  drew  forth 

The  cinieter,  and  waving  it  aloft, 

Rode  toward  the  troops ;  its  unaccustom'd  shape 

Disliked  him.    Renegade  in  all  things  !   cried 

The  Goth,  and  cast  it  from  him ;  to  the  Chiefs 

Then  said.  If  I  have  done  ye  service  here, 

Help  me,  I  pray  you,  to  a  Spanish  sword  ! 

The  trustiest  blade  that  e'er  in  Bilbilis 

Was  dipp'd,  would  not  to-day  be  misbestowed 

On  this  right  hand!  —  Go,  some  one,  Gunderick 

cried, 
And  bring  Count  Julian's  sword.     Whoe'er  thou 

art, 
The  worth  which  thou  hast  shown  avenging  him 
Entitles  tliee  to  wear  it.     But  thou  goest 
For  battle  unequipp'd  ;  —  haste  there,  and  strip 
Yon  villain  of  his  armor  ! 

Late  he  spake, 
So  fast  the  Moors  came  on.     It  matters  not, 
Replied  the  Goth ;  there's  many  a  mountaineer. 
Who  in  no  better  armor  cased  this  day 
Than  his  wonted  leathern  gipion,  will  be  found 
In  the  hottest  battle,  yet  bring  off  untouch'd 
The  unguarded  life  he  ventures.  —  Taking  then 
Count  Julian's  sword,  he  fitted  round  his  wrist 
The  chain,  and  eyeing  the  elaborate  steel 
With  stern  regard  of  joy  —  The  African 
Under  unhappy  stars  was  born,  he  cried, 
Who    tastes    thy   edge !  —  Make   ready   for    the 

charge  ! 
riicy  come  —  they  come  !  —  On,  brethren,  to  the 

field !  — 
The  word  is.  Vengeance  ! 

Vengeance  was  the  word; 
From  man  to  man,  and  rank  to  rank  it  pass'd, 
By  everv  heart  enforced,  by  every  voice 
Sent  forth  in  loud  defiance  of  the  foe. 
The  enemy  in  shriller  sounds  return'd 
Their  Akbar  and  the  Prophet's  trusted  name. 
The  horsemen  lower'd  their  spears,  the  infantry, 
Deliberately,  with  slow  and  steady  step, 
Advanced ;  the  bow-strings  twang'd,  and  arrows 

hiss'd. 
And  javelins  hurtled  by.     Anon  the  hosts 
Met  in  the  shock  of  battle,  horse  and  man 
Conflicting;  shield  struck  shield,  and  sword,  and 

mace. 
And  curtle-axe  on  helm  and  buckler  rung ; 
Armor  was  riven,  and  wounds  were  interchanged. 
And  many  a  spirit  from  its  mortal  hold 
Hurried  to  bliss  or  bale.     Well  did  the  Chiefs 
Of  Julian's  army  in  that  hour  support 
Their  old  esteem ;  and  well  Count  Pedro  there 
Enhanced  his  former  praise  ;  and  by  his  side. 
Rejoicing  like  a  bridegroom  in  the  strife, 
Alphonso  through  the  host  of  infidels 


Bore  on  his  bloody  lance  dismay  and  death. 
But  there  was  worst  confusion  and  uproar, 
There  widest  slaughter  and  dismay,  wliere,  proud 
Of  his  recover'd  Lord,  Orelio  plunged 
Througli  thickest  ranks,  trampling  beneath  his  feet 
The  living  and  the  dead.     Where'er  he  turns, 
The  Moors  divide  and  fly.     What  man  is  this, 
Appall'd  they  say,  who  to  the  front  of  war 
Bareheaded  offers  thus  his  naked  life .-' 
Picplete  with  power  he  is,  and  terrible. 
Like  some  destroying  Angel !     Sure  his  lips 
Have  drank  of  Kaf 's  dark  fountain,  and  he  comes 
Strong  in  his  immortality  !     Fly  !  fly  ! 
They  said  ;  this  is  no  human  foe  !  —  Nor  less 
Of  wonder  fill'd  the  Spaniards  when  they  saw 
How  flight  and  terror  went  before  his  way, 
And  slaughter  in  his  path.     Behold,  cries  one, 
With  what  command  and  knightly  ease  he  sits 
Tiie  intrepid  steed,  and  deals  from  side  to  side 
His  dreadful  blows  !     Not  Roderick  in  his  power 
Bestrode  with  such  command  and  majesty 
That  noble  war-horse.     His  loose  robe  this  day 
Is  death's  black  banner,  shaking  from  its  folds 
Dismay  and  ruin.     Of  no  mortal  mould 
Is  he  who  in  that  garb  of  peace  affronts 
Whole  hosts,  and  sees  them  scatter  where  he  turns  I 
Auspicious  Heaven  beholds  us,  and  some  Saint 
Revisits  earth ! 

Ay,  cries  another.  Heaven 
Hath  ever  with  especial  bounty  bless'd 
Above  all  other  lands  its  favor'd  Spain ; 
Choosing  her  children  forth  from  all  mankind 
For  its  peculiar  people,  as  of  yore 
Abraham's  ungrateful  race  beneath  the  Law. 
Who  knows  not  how  on  that  most  holy  night 
When  peace  on  Earth  by  Angels  was  proclaim'd. 
The  light  which  o'er  the  fields  of  Bethlehem  shone, 
Irradiated  whole  Spain.'  not  just  display'd, 
As  to  the  Shepherds,  and  again  withdrawn ; 
All  the  long  winter  hours  from  eve  till  morn 
Her  forests,  and  her  mountains,  and  her  plains, 
Her  hills  and  valleys,  were  imbathed  in  light, 
A  light  which  came  not  from  the  sun,  or  moon, 
Or  stars,  by  secondary  powers  dispensed. 
But  from  the  fountain-springs,  the  Light  of  Light 
EfHuent.     And  wherefore  should  we  not  believe 
That  this  may  be  some  Saint  or  Angel,  charged 
To  lead  us  to  miraculous  victory .' 
Hath  not  the  Virgin  Mother,  oftentimes 
Descending,  clothed  in  glory,  sanctified 
With  feet  adorable  our  happy  soil !  — 
Mark'd  ye  not,  said  another,  how  he  cast 
In  wrath  the  unhallow'd  cimeter  away, 
And  called  for  Chrii^ian  weapon .'     Oh,  be  sure 
This  is  the  aid  of  Heaven  !     On,  comrades,  on  ! 
A  miracle  to-day  is  wrought  for  Spain  ! 
Victory  and  Vengeance  !      Hew   the  miscreants 

down. 
And  spare  not !  hew  them  down  in  sacrifice  ! 
God  is  with  us !  his  Saints  are  in  the  field  I 
Victory,  miraculous  Victory  ! 

Thus  they 
Inflamed  with  wild  belief  the  keen  desire 
Of  vengeance  on  their  enemies  abhorr'd. 
The  Moorish  Chief,  meantime,  o'erlooked  the  fight 


XXV. 


IIODERICK,  THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


707 


From  an  eminence,  and  cursed  the  renegade 

Whose  counsels  sorting  to  such  ill  effect 

Had  brought  this  danger  on.     Lo,  from  the  East 

Conies  fresh  alarm  !  a  few  poor  fugitives 

Well  nigh  with  fear  exanimate  came  up, 

From  Covadonga  flying,  and  the  rear 

Of  that  destruction,  scarce  with  breath  to  tell 

Their  dreadful  tale.     When  Abulcacem  heard, 

Stricken  with  horror,  like  a  man  bereft 

Of  sense,  he  stood.     O  Prophet,  he  cxclaim'd, 

A  hard  and  cruel  fortune  hast  thou  brought 

This  day  upon  thy  servant !     Must  I  then 

Here  with  disgrace  and  ruin  close  a  life 

Of  glorious  deeds.'     But  how  should  man  resist 

Fate's  irreversible  decrees,  or  why 

Murmur  at  what  must  be  ?     They  who  survive 

May  mourn  the  evil  which  this  day  begins : 

My  part  will  soon  be  done  !  —  Grief  then  gave  way 

To  rage,  and  cursing  Guisla,  he  pursued  — 

Oh  that  that  treacherous  woman  were  but  here  ! 

It  were  a  consolation  to  give  her 

The  evil  death  she  merits  ! 

That  reward 
She  hath  had,  a  Moor  replied.      For   when  we 

reach'd 
The  entrance  of  the  vale,  it  was  her  choice 
There  in  the  farthest  dwellings  to  be  left. 
Lest  she  should  see  her  brother's  face  ;  but  thence 
We  found  her  flying  at  the  overtlirow. 
And  visiting  the  treason  on  her  head, 
Pierced  her  with  wounds.  —  Poor  vengeance  for 

a  host 
Destroyed  !  said  Abulcacem  in  his  soul. 
Howbeit,  resolving  to  the  last  to  do 
His  office,  he  roused  up  his  spirit.     Go, 
Strike  off  Count  Eudon's  head  !  he  cried  ;  the  fear 
Which  brought  him  to  our  camp  will  bring  him  else 
In  arms  against  us  now  ;  for  Sisibert 
And  Ebba,  he  continued  thus  in  thought. 
Their  uncle's  fate  forever  bars  all  plots 
Of  treason  on  their  part ;  no  hope  have  they 
Of  safety  but  with  us.     He  call'd  them  then 
With  chosen  troops  to  join  him  in  the  front 
Of  battle,  that,  by  bravely  making  head, 
Retreat  might  now  be  won.     Then  fiercer  raged 
Tlie  conflict,  and  more  frequent  cries  of  death. 
Mingling  with  imprecations  and  with  prayers. 
Rose  through  the  din  of  war. 

By  this  the  blood 
Which  Deva  down  her  fatal  channel  pour'd, 
Purpling  Pionia's  course,  had  reach'd  and  stain'd 
The  wider  stream  of  Sella.     Soon  far  off 
The  frequent  glance  of  spears  and  gleam  of  arms 
Were  seen,  which  sparkled  to  the  westering  orb. 
Where  down  the  vale  impatient  to  complete 
The  glorious  work  so  well  that  day  begun, 
Pelayo  led  his  troops.     On  foot  they  caino. 
Chieftains  and  men  alike ;  the  Oaken  Cross 
Triumphant,  borne  on  high,  precedes  their  march. 
And  broad  and  bright  the  argent  banner  shone. 
Roderick,  who,  dealing  deatli  from  side  to  side. 
Had  through  the  Moorish  army  now  made  way. 
Beheld  it  flash,  and  judging  wci\  what  aid 
Approach'd,  with  sudden  impulse  that  way  rode. 
To  tell  of  what  had  pass'd, —  lest  in  the  strife 


They  should  engage  with  Julian's  men,  and  mar 

The  mighty  consunnnation.     One  ran  on 

To  meet  him  fleet  of  foot,  and  having  given 

His  tale  to  this  swift  messenger,  the  Goth 

Halted  awhile  to  let  Orelio  breathe. 

Siverian,  quoth  Pelayo,  if  mine  eyes 

Deceive  me  not,  yon  horse,  whose  reeking  sidts 

Are  red  with  slaughter,  is  the  same  on  whom 

The  apostate  Orpas  m  his  vauntery 

Wont  to  parade  the  streets  of  Cordoba. 

But  thou  shouldst  know  him  best;  regard  him  well ; 

Is't  not  Orelio .' 

Either  it  is  he. 
The  old  man  replied,  or  one  so  like  to  him,  . 
Whom  all  thought  matchless,  that  similitude 
Would  be  the  greater  wonder.     But  behold. 
What  man  is  he  who  in  that  disarray 
Doth  with  such  power  and  majesty  bestride 
The  noble  steed,  as  if  he  felt  himself 
In  his  own  proper  scat.-'     Look,  how  he  leans 
To  cherish  him ;  and  how  the  gallant  horse 
Curves  up  his  stately  neck,  and  bends  his  head, 
As  if  again  to  court  that  gentle  touch. 
And  answer  to  the  voice  which  praises  him ! 
Can  it  be  Maccabee  ^  rejoin'd  the  King, 
Or  are  the  secret  wishes  of  my  soul 
Indeed  fulfill'd,  and  hath  the  grave  given  up 
Its  dead  .-'  —  So  saying,  on  the  old  man  he  turn'd 
Eyes  full  of  wide  astonishment,  'which  told 
The  incipient  thought  that  for  incredible 
He  spake  no  further.     But  enough  had  pass'd, 
For  old  Siverian  started  at  the  words 
Like  one  who  sees  a  spectre,  and  exclaim'd, 
Blind  that  I  was  to  know  him  not  till  now  I 
My  Master,  O  my  Master  ! 

He  meantime 
With  easy  pace  moved  on  to  meet  their  march. 
King,  to  Pelayo  he  began,  this  day, 
By  means  scarce  less  than  miracle,  thy  throne 
Is  stablish'd,  and  the  wrongs  of  Spain  revenged. 
Orpas,  the  accursed,  upon  yonder  field 
Lies  ready  for  the  ravens.     By  the  Moors 
Treaclierously  slain,  Count  Julian  will  be  found 
Before  Saint  Peter's  altar;  unto  him 
Grace  was  vouchsafed ;  and  by  that  holy  power 
Which  at  Visonia  by  the  Primate's  hand 
Of  his  own  proper  act  to  ine  was  given, 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  —  yet  sure  I  think 
Not  without  mystery,  as  the  event  hatli  shown, — 
Did  I  accept  Count  Julian's  penitence. 
And  reconcile  the  dying  man  to  Heaven. 
Beside  him  hath  his  daughter  gone  to  rest. 
Deal  honorably  with  his  remains,  and  let 
One  grave  with  Christian  rites  receive  them  both. 
Is  it  not  written  that  as  the  Tree  falls 
So  it  shall  lie  .' 

In  this  and  ai.  things  else, 
Pelayo  answer'd,  looking  wistfully 
Upon  the  Goth,  thy  pleasure  shall  be  done. 
Then  Roderick  saw  that  he  was  known,  and  turn  d 
His  head  away  in  silence.     But  tlie  old  man 
Laid  hold  upon  his  bridle,  and  look'd  up 
In  his  master's  face,  weeping  and  silently. 
Thereat  the  Goth,  with  fervent  pressure,  took 
His  hand,  and  bending  down  toward  him,  said, 


708 


RODERICK,    THE   LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


XXV. 


My  good  Sivcrian,  go  not  tliou  this  day 

To  war  !  1  charge  tlice  keep  thyself  from  harm  ! 

Thou  art  past  the  age  for  combats,  and  with  whom 

Hereafter  should  thy  mistress  talk  of  me 

If  thou  wert  gone?  —  Thou  seest  I  an)  unarm'd  ; 

Thus  disarray'd  as  tiiou  beholdest  me, 

Clean  through  yon  miscreant  army  have  I  cut 

My  way  unhurt;  but  being  once  by  Heaven 

Preserved,  I  would  not  perish  with  the  guilt 

Of  having  wilfully  provoked  my  death. 

Give  me  thy  helmet  and  thy  cuirass  !  —  Nay,  — 

Thou  wert  not  wont  to  let  me  ask  in  vain, 

Nor  to  oppose  me  when  my  will  was  known  ! 

To  thee,  methinks,  I  should  be  still  the  King. 

Thus  saying,  they  withdrew  a  little  way 
Within  the  trees.     Roderick  alighted  there, 
And  in  the  old  man's  armor  dight  himself. 
Dost  thou  not  marvel  by  what  wondrous  chance. 
Said  he,  Orelio  to  his  master's  hand 
Hath  been  restored  .'     I  found  the  renegade 
Of  Seville  on  his  back,  and  hurl'd  him  down 
Headlong  to  the  earth.     The  noble  animal 
Rejoicingly  obey'd  my  hand  to  shake 
His  recreant  burden  off,  and  trample  out 
The  life  which  once  I  spared  in  evil  hoar. 
Now  let  me  meet  Witiza's  viperous  sons 
In  yonder  field,  and  then  I  may  go  rest 
In  peace,  —  my  work  is  done  ! 

And  nobly  done  ! 
Exclaim'd  the  old  man .     Oh  I    thou  art   greater 

now 
Than  in  that  glorious  hour  of  victory 
When  grovelling  in  the  dust  Witiza  lay, 
The  prisoner  of  thy  hand  !  —  Roderick  replied, 
O  good  Siverian,  happier  victory 
Thy  son  hath  now  achieved,  —  the  victory 
Over  the  world,  his  sins,  and  his  despair. 
If  on  the  field  my  body  should  be  found, 
See  it,  I  charge  thee,  laid  in  Julian's  grave, 
And  let  no  idle  ear  be  told  for  whom 
Thou  mournest.     Thou  wilt  use  Orelio 
As  doth  beseem  the  steed  which  hath  so  oft 
Carried  a  King  to  battle  ;  —  he  hath  done 
Good  service  for  his  rightful  Lord  to-day. 
And  better  yet  must  do.     Siverian,  now 
Farewell  1    I  think  we  shall  not  meet  again 
Till  it  be  in  that  world  where  never  change 
Is  known,  and  they  who  love  shall  part  no  more. 
Commend  me  to  my  mother's  prayers,  and  say 
That  never  man  enjoy'd  a  heavenlier  peace 
Than  Roderick  at  tills  hour.     O  faithful  friend, 
How  dear  thou  art  to  me  these  tears  may  tell  ! 

With  that  he  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck  ; 
Then  vaulted  in  the  saddle,  gave  the  reins, 
And  soon  rejoin'd  the  host.     On,  comrades,  on  ! 
Victory  and  Vengeance  I  he  exclaim'd,  and  took 
The  lead  on  that  good  charger,  he  alone 
Horsed  for  the  onset.     They,  with  one  consent, 
Gave  all  their  voices  to  the  inspiring  cry, 
V^ictory  and  Vengeance  !  and  the  hills  and  rocks 
Caught  the  prophetic  shout  and  roll'd  it  round. 
Count  Pedro's  people  heard  amid  the  heat 
Of  battle,  and  return'd  the  glad  acclaim. 


The  astonish'd  Mussulmen,  on  all  sides  charged, 

Hear  that  tremendous  cry  ;  yet  manfully 

They  stood,  and  every  where,  with  gallant  front. 

Opposed  in  fair  array  the  shock  of  war. 

Desperately  tiiey  fought,  like  men  expert  in  arms. 

And  knowing  that  no  safety  could  be  found. 

Save  from  their  own  right  hands.     No  former  day 

Of  all  his  long  career  had  seen  their  chief 

Approved  so  well;  nor  had  Witiza's  sons 

Ever  before  this  hour  achieved  in  fight 

Such  feats  of  resolute  valor.     Sisibert 

Beheld  Pelayo  in  the  field  afoot, 

And  twice  essay 'd  beneath  his  horse's  feet 

To  thrust  him  down.     Twice  did  the  Prince  evade 

The  shock,  and  twice  upon  his  shield  received 

The  fratricidal  sword.     Tempt  me  no  more. 

Son  of  Witiza,  cried  the  indignant  chief, 

Lest  I  forget  what  mother  gave  thee  birth  ! 

Go  meet  thy  death  from  any  hand  but  mine  ! 

He  said,  and  turn'd  aside.     Fitliest  from  ine  I 

Exclaim'd  a  dreadful  voice,  as  through  the  throng 

Orelio  forced  his  way  :  fitliest  from  me 

Receive  the  rightful  death  too  long  withheld  ! 

'Tis  Roderick  strikes  the  blow  !     And  as  he  spake, 

Upon  the  traitor's  shoulder  fierce  he  drove 

The  weapon,  well-bestow'd.     He  in  the  seat 

Totter'd  and  fell.     The  Avenger  hasten'd  on 

In  search  of  Ebba;  and  in  the  heat  of  fight 

Rejoicing,  and  forgetful  of  all  else. 

Set  up  his  cry,  as  he  was  wont  in  youth  — 

Roderick  the  Goth  1  —  his  war-cry  known  so  well. 

Pelayo  eagerly  took  up  the  word. 

And  shouted  out  his  kinsman's  name  beloved  — 

Roderick  the  Goth  !  Roderick  and  Victory  ! 

Roderick  and  Vengeance  !  Odoar  gave  it  forth ; 

Urban  repeated  it,  and  through  his  ranks 

Count  Pedro  sent  the  cry.     Not  from  the  field 

Of  his  great  victory,  when  Witiza  fell, 

With  louder  acclamations  had  that  name 

Been  borne  abroad  upon  the  winds  of  heaven. 

The  unreflecting  throng,  who  yesterday. 

If  it  had  pass'd  their  lips,  would  with  a  curse 

Have  clogg'd  it,  echoed  it  as  if  it  came 

From  some  celestial  voice  in  the  air,  reveal'd 

To  be  the  certain  pledge  of  all  their  hopes. 

Roderick  the  Goth  !     Roderick  and  Victory  ! 

Roderick    and    Vengeance !      O'er    the    field    it 

spread. 
All  hearts  and  tongues  uniting  in  the  cry ; 
Mountains,  and  rocks,  and  vales  reechoed  round , 
And  he,  rejoicing  in  his  strength,  rode  on, 
Laying  on  tiie  Moors  with  that  good  sword,  and 

smote. 
And  overthrew,  and  scatter'd,  and  destroy'd, 
And  trampled  down  ;  and  still  at  every  blow 
Exultingly  he  sent  the  war-cry  forth, 
Roderick  the  Goth  !    Roderick  and  Victory  I 
Roderick  and  Vengeance ! 

Thus  he  made  his  way, 
Smiting  and  slaying,  through  the  astonish'd  ranks, 
Till  he  beheld,  where,  on  a  fiery  barb, 
Ebba,  performing  well  a  soldier's  part. 
Dealt  to  the  right  and  left  his  deadly  blows. 
With  mutual  rage  they  met.     The  renegade 
Displays  a  cimeter,  the  splendid  gift 


r~ 


XXV. 


RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


70S 


Ot'Waliil  from  Damascus  sent;  its  hilt 
Euiboss'd  with  goms,  its  blado  of  pertcct  steel, 
VVhich,  like  a  mirror  sparkling  to  the  sun 
With  dazzling  splendor,  flash'd.     The  Goth  objects 
His  shield,  and  on  its  rim  received  the  edge 
Driven  from  its  aim  aside,  and  of  its  force 
Diminish'd.     Many  a  frustrate  stroke  was  dealt 
On  either  part,  and  many  a  foin  and  thrust 
Aim'd  and  rebated ;  many  a  deadly  blow 
Straight,  or  reverse,  delivered  and  repell'd. 
Roderick  at  length  with  better  speed  hath  reach'd 
The  apostate's  turban,  and  through  all  its  folds 
The  true  Cantabrian  weapon  making  way 
Attain'd  his  forehead.     Wretch !  the  avenger  cried, 
It  comes  from  Roderick's  hand  !     Roderick  the 

Goth  ! 
Who  spared,  who  trusted  thee,  and  was  betray'd  ! 
Go  tell  thy  father  now  how  thou  hast  sped 
With  all  thy  treasons !    Saying  thus,  he  seized 
The  miserable,  who,  blinded  now  with  blood, 
Reel'd  in  the  saddle;  and  with  sidelong  step 
Backing  Orelio,  drew  him  to  the  ground. 
He  shrieking,  as  beneath  the  horse's  feet 
He  fell,  forgot  liis  late-learnt  creed,  and  called 
On  Mary's  name.     The  dreadful  Goth  pass'd  on. 
Still  plunging  through  the  thickest  war,  and  still 
Scattering,  where'er  he  turn'd,  the  affrighted  ranks. 

O  who  could  tell  what  deeds  were  wrought  that 
day; 
Or  who  endure  to  hear  the  tale  of  rage, 
Hatred,  and  madness,  and  despair,  and  fear. 
Horror,  and  wounds,  and  agony,  and  death. 
The  cries,  the  blasphemies,  the  shrieks,  and  groans, 
And  praj-ers,  which  mingled  with  the  din  of  arms 
In  one  wild  uproar  of  terrific  sounds; 
While  over  all  predominant  was  heard, 
Reiterate  from  the  conquerors  o'er  the  field, 
Roderick  the  Goth  !    Roderick  and  Victory  I 
Roderick  and  Vengeance  !  —  Woe  for  Africa ! 
Woe  for  the  circumcised !     Woe  for  the  faith 
Of  the  lying  Islimaelite  that  hour  !     The  Chiefs 
Have  fallen  ;  the  Moors,  confused,  and  captainless. 
And  panic-stricken,  vainly  seek  to  escape 
The  inevitable  fate.     Turn  where  they  will, 
Strong  in  his  cause,  rejoicing  in  success, 
Insatiate  at  the  banquet  of  revenge. 
The  enemy  is  there ;  look  where  they  will, 
Death  hath  environed  their  devoted  ranks  : 
Fly  where  they  will,  the  avenger  and  tlie  sword 
Await  them,  —  wretches  !  whom  the  righteous  arm 
Hath  overtaken  !  — Join'd  in  bonds  of  faith 
Accurs'd,  the  most  flagitious  of  mankind 
From  all  parts  met  are  here  ;  the  apostate  Greek, 
The  vicious  Syrian,  and  the  sullen  Copt, 
The  Persian  cruel  and  corrupt  of  soul,    " 
Tlie  Arabian  robber,  and  the  prowling  sons 
Of  Africa,  who  from  their  thirsty  sands 
Pray  that  the  locusts  on  the  peopled  plain 
May  settle  and  prepare  tlieir  way.     Conjoined 
Beneath  an  impious  faith,  which  sanctifies 
To  them  all  deeds  of  wickedness  and  blood, — 
Yea,  and  halloos  them  on,  —  here  are  they  met 
To  be  conjoin'd  in  punishment  this  hour. 
For  plun(*er,  violation,  massacre, 


All  hid(?ous,  all  unutterable  things, 
The  righteous,  the  immitigable  sword 
Exacts  due  vengeance  now  I  the  cry  of  blood 
Is  heard  :  the  measure  of  tlieir  crimes  is  full; 
Such  mercy  as  the  Moor  at  Auria  gave, 
Such  mercy  hath  he  fuund  this  dreadful  hour  I 

The  evening  darken'd,  but  the  avenging  sword 
Turn'd  not  away  its  edge  till  night  had  closed 
Upon  the  field  of  blood.     The  Chieftains  then 
Blew  the  recall,  and  from  their  perfect  work 
Return'd  rejoicing,  all  but  he  for  whom 
All  look'd  with  most  expectance.     He  full  sure 
Had  thought  upon  that  field  to  find  his  end 
Desired,  and  with  Florinda  in  the  grave 
Rest,  in  indissoluble  union  join'd. 
But  still  where  through  the  press  of  war  ho  went 
Half-arrn'd,  and  like  a  lover  seeking  death, 
The  arrows  pass'd  him  by  to  right  and  left ; 
The  spear-point  pierced  him  not;  the  cimeter 
Glanced  from  his  helmet ;  he,  when  he  beheld 
The  rout  complete,  saw  that  the  shield  of  Heaven 
Had  been  extended  over  him  once  more. 
And  bowed  before  its  will.     Upon  the  banks 
Of  Sella  was  Orelio  found,  his  legs 
And  flanks  incarnadined,  his  poitral  smeared 
With  froth,  and  foam,  and  gore,  his  silver  mane 
Sprinkled  with  blood,  which  hung  on  every  hair, 
Aspersed  like  dew-drops ;  trembling  there  he  stood 
From  the  toil  of  battle,  and  at  times  sent  forth 
His  tremulous  voice  far  echoing  loud  and  shrill, 
A  frequent,  anxious  cry,  with  which  he  seem'd 
To  call  the  master  whom  he  loved  so  well, 
And  who  had  thus  again  forsaken  him. 
Siverian's  helm  and  cuirass  on  the  grass 
Lay  near  ;  and  Julian's  sword,  its  hilt  and  chain 
Clotted  with  blood ;  but  where  was  he  whose  hand 
Had  wielded  it  so  well  that  glorious  day .'  — 

Days,  months,  and  years,  and  generations  pass'd. 
And  centuries  held  their  course,  before,  far  off 
Within  a  hermitage  near  Viseu's  walls 
A  humble  tomb  was  found,  which  bore  inscribed 
In  ancient  characters  K'msc  Roderick's  name. 


NOTES 


Count  Julian  called  the  invaders.  —  I.  p.  649.   col.  2. 

The  story  of  Count  .lulian  and  hU  daughter  has  been  treated 
as  a  fable  by  some  authors,  because  it  is  not  mentioned  by  tlie 
three  writers  who  lived  nearest  the  time.  But  those  writers 
state  the  mere  fact  of  the  conquest  of  Spain  as  briefly  as  pos- 
sible, without  entering  into  i)articulars  of  any  kind;  and  the 
best  Spanish  historians  and  antiquaries  are  persuaded  that 
there  is  no  cause  for  disbclievinf;  the  uniform  and  concurrent 
tradition  of  both  Moors  and  Christians. 

For  the  purposes  of  poetry,  it  is  immaterial  whether  the 
story  be  true  or  false.  1  have  represented  the  Count  as  a  man 
both  sinned  against  and  sinning,  and  equally  to  bo  commiser- 
ated and  condemned.  The  author  of  the  Tragedy  of  Count 
Julian  has  contemplated  his  cliaracter  in  a  grander  point  of 
view,  and  rcpreser.ted  him  as  a  man  self-justified  in  bringing 
an  army  of  foreign  auxiliaries  to  assist  him  in  delivering  his 


710      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,   THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


country  from  a  tyrant,  anJ  foreseeing,  when  it  is  too  late  to 
recede,  the  evils  whiih  lie  is  ilius  bringing  ujioa  her. 

Not  victory  that  o'crsliadows  liirn,  sees  he  ! 
No  airy  and  light  iiassion  stirs  abroad 
To  rutlle  or  to  soothe  liiin  ;  all  are  qnell'd 
Beneath  a  mightier,  sterner,  stress  of  mind  : 
Wakeful  he  sits,  and  lonely  and  umnoved. 
Beyond  the  arrows,  views,  or  shouts  of  men : 
As  oftentimes  an  eagle,  when  the  sun 
Throws  o'er  the  varying  earth  his  early  ray. 
Stands  solitary,  stands  immovable 
Upon  some  highest  cliff,  and  rolls  his  eye, 
Clear,  constant,  unobservant,  unabased. 
In  the  cold  light,  above  the  dews  of  morn. 

Act  5,  Scene  2. 

Parts  of  this  tragedy  are  as  fine  in  their  kind  as  any  thing 
which  can  be  found  in  the  whole  compass  of  English  poetry. 

Juan  de  Mena  places  Count  Julian  witli  Oip:is,  the  rene- 
gado  Archbishop  of  Seville,  in  the  deepest  pit  of  liell. 

JVo  buenamcntc  te  puedo  callar 
Orpan  vuddito,  ni  a  ti  Julian, 
Paes  soys  en  el  vaile  mas  hondo  de  afan, 

Que  no  se  rcdiine  jamas  por  llorar : 

Qual  ija  crneza  vus  pudu  mdignur 
A  vender  un  dia  las  ticrras  y  leijes 
De  Espuna,  las  qiiales  pujanga  de  reyes 

Ell  anus  a  tantos  nu  pudo  cobrar.^ 

Copla  91. 

A  Portuguese  poet,  Andre  da  Sylva  JNIascarenhas,  is  more 
indulgent  to  the  Count,  and  seems  to  consider  it  as  a  mark  of 
degeneracy  in  his  own  times,  that  the  same  crime  would  no 
longer  provoke  the  same  vengeance.  His  catalogue  of  women 
who  have  become  famous  by  the  evil  of  which  they  have  been 
the  occasion,  begins  with  Eve,  and  ends  with  Anne  Bolcyn. 

Louvar  se  podc  ao  Conde  o  scntimento 

Da  offensa  da  sua  honestidade, 
Se  0  nam  vitupcrara  co  ernento 

Disl/arate  da  llispana  Christandade  ; 
Se  Itoje  oucera  stiipros  cento  e  cento 

J^esta  nossainfeliz  lasciim  idadc, 
JVurt  seperdera  nam  afuHe  Espanha, 
Que  0  crime  frequentado  nam  se  estranha. 

Por  mulhcrcs  porem  se  tern  pcrdido 
Muitos  reynos  da  outra  c  desla  vida  ; 

Por  Eva  se  perdeo  o  Ceo  subido, 
Por  Helena  a  Asia  esclarecida  ; 

Por  Cleopatra  o  Egypto  foi  vencidn, 
Assiriapor  Simiraniis perdida, 

Por  Cava  se  perdeo  a  forte  Espanha, 

E  por  Anna  Bolcna  a  Gram  Bretanha, 

Uestruicam  de  Espanha,  p.  9. 


Inhuman  priests  loith  unoffending  blood      , 
Had  stain'd  their  country.  —  I.  p.  1)49,  col.  2. 

Never  has  any  country  been  so  cursed  by  the  spirit  of  per- 
secution as  Spain.  Under  the  Heathen  Emperors  it  had  its 
full  share  of  sufTuring,  and  the  first  fatal  precedent  of  apjieal- 
ingtothe  secular  power  to  punish  heresy  with  death,  occurred 
in  Spain.  Then  came  the  Arian  controversy.  There  was  as 
much  bigotry,  as  much  rancor,  as  little  of  tlie  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  as  much  intolerance,  on  one  part  as  on  the  other : 
but  the  successful  party  were  better  politicians,  and  more 
expert  in  the  m magement  of  miracles. 

Near  to  the  city  of  Osen,  or  OsscI,  there  was  a  fiimous 
Catholic  church,  and  a  more  famous  baptistery,  which  was 
in  the  form  of  a  crois.  On  Holy  Thursday  i:i  every  year,  the 
bishop,  the  clergy,  and  the  people  assembled  there,  saw  that 
the  baptistery  was  empty,  and  enjoyed  a  marvellous  fragrance, 
which  diflered  from  that  of  any,  or  all,  flowers  and  spices,  for 
it  was  an  odor  which  came  as  the  vesper  of  the  divine  virtue 
that  was  about  to  manifest  itself.  Then  they  fastened  the 
doors  of  the  church,  and  sealed  them.    On  Easter  Eve  the  | 


doors  were  opened,  the  baptistery  was  found  full  of  water,  and 
all  the  children  born  within  the  preceding  twelve  months  were 
baptized.  Thcudisclo,  an  Arian  king,  set  his  seal  also  upon 
the  doors  for  two  successive  years,  and  set  a  guard  there. 
Still  the  miraculous  baptistery  was  filled.  The  third  year  he 
suspected  pipes,  and  ordered  a  trench  to  be  dug  round  the 
building ;  but  before  the  day  of  trial  arrived,  he  was  murdered, 
as  opportunely  as  Arius  himself.  The  trench  was  dry,  but 
the  workmen  did  not  dig  deep  enough,  and  the  miracle  was 
continued.  When  the  victory  of  the  Catholic  party  was  com- 
lilete,  it  was  no  longer  necessary  to  keep  it  up.  The  same 
baptistery  was  employed  to  convince  the  Spaniards  of  their 
error  in  keeping  Easter.  In  Brito's  time,  a  few  ruins,  called 
Oscla,  were  shown  near  the  river  Cambria  ;  the  broken  bap- 
tistery was  then  called  tlie  Bath,  and  some  wild  superstitions 
wliich  the  peasantry  related  bore  traces  of  the  original  legend. 
The  trick  was  not  uncommon  ;  it  was  practised  in  Sicily  and 
in  other  places.  The  story,  however,  is  of  some  value,  as 
showing  that  baptism  was  administered  *  only  once  a  year, 
(except  in  cases  of  danger,)  that  immersion  was  the  manner, 
and  that  infants  were  baptized. 

Arianism  seems  to  have  lingered  in  Spain  long  after  its 
defeat.  The  names  Pelayo  (Pelagius)  and  Arias  certainly 
appear  to  indicate  a  cherished  heresy,  and  Brito  f  must  have 
felt  this  when  he  deduced  the  former  name  from  Saint  Pelayo 
of  the  tenth  century ;  for  how  came  the  Saint  by  it,  and  how 
could  Brito  have  forgotten  the  founder  of  the  Spanish 
monarchy .' 

In  the  latter  half  of  the  eleventh  century,  the  Count  of  Bar- 
celona, Ramon  Berenguer,  Cap  de  cstopa,  as  he  was  called,  for 
his  bushy  head,  made  war  upon  some  Christians  who  are  said 
to  have  turned  Arians,  and  took  the  castles  into  which  they 
retired. J  By  the  number  of  their  castles,  which  he  gave  to 
those  chiefs  who  assisted  him  in  con(|ueringtlu'm,  they  appear 
to  have  been  numerous.  It  is  not  improliable  that  those  people 
were  really  what  they  are  called  ;  for  Arian  has  never  been, 
like  Manichiean,  a  term  ignorantly  and  indiscriminately  given 
to  heretics  of  all  descri|)tion5  ;  and  there  is  no  heresy  which 
would  be  so  well  understood  in  Spain,  and  so  likely  to  have 
revived  there. 

Tiie  feelings  of  the  triumphant  party  toward  their  oppo- 
nents are  well  marked  by  the  manner  in  which  St.  Isidore 
speaks  of  the  death  of  the  emperor  Valens.  Tliraciam  ferro 
incendiisque  depopnlantur,  deletoque  liomanorurn  exercitu  ipsnm 
Valentem  jaculo  vnlneratuni,  in  quadnm  villa  fugientem  succen- 
derunt,  ut  merito  ipse  ab  eis  rivns  tcmpuruli  cresnaretur  incendio, 
qui  tarn  pulchras  animus  ignibus  a:ternis§  trwliderat.  If  the 
truth  of  this  opinion  should  be  doubted,  there  is  a  good  Atha- 
nasian  miracle  in  the  Chronicon  ||  of  S.  Isidore  and  Melitus, 
to  prove  it.  A  certain  Arian,  by  name  Olympius,  being  in  the 
bath,  blasphemed  the  Holy  Trinity,  and,  behold  !  being  struck 
by  an  angel  with  three  fiery  darts,  he  was  visibly  consumed. 

Witli  regard  to  the  Arians,  the  Catholics  only  did  to  the 
others  as  tne  others  would  have  done  to  them ;  but  the  per- 
secution of  the  Jews  was  equally  unprovoked  and  inhuman. 
They  are  said  to  have  betrayed  many  towns  to  the  Moors  ; 
and  it  would  he  strange  indeed  if  they  had  not,  by  every  means 
in  their  iiower,  assisted  in  overthrowing  a  government  under 
which  thoy  were  miserably  oppressed.  St.  Isidore  has  a  mem- 
orable passage  relating  to  their  cruel  persecution  and  com- 
pulsory conversion  under  Sisebut ;  Qui  initio  regni  Judatos  ad 
Fidrm  Christiunam  pertnorrns  wmulationnn  quidem  habuit,  scd 
non  secundum  scicntiam :  polestute  enim  cnnipulit,  quos  pronocare 
fidei  rntione  oportuit.  Sidsicut  est  scriptuin  sivepcr  occasioitcm 
sivepervfritatem,  Christusannnntialur,in  hoc  gaudeo  etgaude- 
io.  — S.  Isidor.  Christ.  Goth.  Espana  Sagrada,  6,  502. 

The  Moorish  conquest  procured  for  them  an  interval  of 
repose,  till  the  Inquisition  was  established,  and  by  its  damnable 

•  In  the  seventeeiitU  aiul  last  council  ot  Toledo,  it  was  decreed  that  Ihe 
baptistery  shouUl  be  shnt  up,  and  sealed  witti  the  episcopal  seal,  dnrin^  the 
wliole  year,  till  Good  Friday ;  on  that  day  tlie  bishop  in  )iis  pontificals, 
was  to  open  it  with  great  soleirinity,  in  token  that  Clirist,  by  his  passion 
and  resurrection,  had  opened  the  way  to  heaven  for  nianltind,  as  on  that 
day  the  hope  was  opened  of  obtaining  redemption  through  the  holy  sacra 
meat  of  baptism.  — Morales,  12,  6'2,  3. 

\  Monarchia  Lusitana,  2,  7, 19. 

%  Pere  Tomich.  c.  24,  ff.  2n. 

§  Hist.  Goth,  apud  Florez.     Espana  Sagrada,  t.  6,  49S. 

\  Espana  Sa?Tada,  t.  6,  474. 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,  THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      71i 


acts  put  ;ill  former  liorri>rs  out  ol'  reincinlirauce.  When  To- 
ledo was  roiovcred  from  tlio  Moors  by  Alonso  VI.,  tlio  Jews 
of  that  city  wuited  upon  the  coiKpieror,  ami  assured  liiiii  that 
tliey  were  part  of  the  ten  tribes  whom  Nobuchaduezzar  bad 
transported  into  Spain;  not  the  descendants  ofthe  Jerusalem 
Jews  who  had  crucified  Christ.  Their  ancestors,  they  said, 
were  entirely  innocent  of  the  crucifixion  ;  for  when  Caiaphas 
the  high-priest  had  written  to  the  Toh>dan  syruigogues  to  ask 
their  advice  respecting  the  person  who  called  himself  the 
Messiah,  and  whether  he  should  bo  slain,  the  Toledan  Jews 
returned  for  answer,  that  in  their  judgment  the  prophecies 
seemed  to  be  fulfilled  in  this  person,  and,  therefore,  he  ought 
not  by  any  means  to  be  put  to  death.  This  reply  they  pro- 
duced in  the  original  Hebrew,  and  in  Arabic,  as  it  had  been 
translated  by  connnand  of  King  Galifre.  Alonso  gave  ear  to 
the  story,  had  tlio  letter  rendered  into  Latin  and  Castilian, 
and  deposited  it  among  the  archives  of  Toledo.  The  latter 
version  is  thus  printed  by  Sandoval :  — 

Levi  MrchUinagogo,  et  Samuel,  et  Joseph,  homes  bonos  del  Al- 
jama  de  Toledo,  a  Eleaiar  Muyd  gran  Sacerdotc,  c  a  Samuel 
Canud,  y  jlnas,  y  Cayphas,  homes  bonos  de  la  Aljama  de 
la  Terra  Santa,  Salad  en  el  Dios  de  Israel. 

Azarias  voso  Iwme,  Maeso  en  ley  7ios  adiixo  las  cartas  que  vos 
nos  embiavades,  por  las  quales  nos  faziades  saber  cucmo  jiassaca 
la  facienda  del  Propheta  JVazaret,  que  diz  que  facie  muchas 
sennas.  Colo  por  esta  vila,  7wn  ha  mucho,  un  cierto  Sa7nuel,Jil 
de  Amacias,  et  fablo  nusco,  ct  rcconto  muchas  bondadcs  deste 
home,  que  ye,  que  cs  home  homildoso  ct  manso,  quefabla  con  los 
lageriaJos,  qucfui  a  tados  bieu,  e  que  faciendolc  a  el  mul,  el  non 
faz  mal  a  ninguem ;  et  que  es  home  faerie  con  supcrbos  el  homes 
maUis,  et  que  vos  malamente  leniadcs  enemiga  con  ele,  por  quanta 
en  faz  el  descubria  vosos  pecados,  ca  por  quanta  facia  esto,le 
aviadcs  mala  voluntad.  Et  perquirimos  deste  home,  en  que  ano, 
0  mes  0  dia,  avia  nacido :  ct  que  nos  lo  dizesse :  falamos  que  cl 
dla  de  la  sua  Mitividadeforon  vistus  en  estas  partes  tres  soles 
muellea  muelle,  fizieron soldcmente  un  sol;  tlcuemo  nosospadres 
cataron  esta  senna,  asiiiados  dixeron  que  ccdo  el  MessiasJiaceria, 
et  que  por  avcntura  eraja  nacido.  Catad  hermanos  si  por  aven- 
tura  ha  ja  vcnido  et  non  le  aijades  acatado.  Rclalaba  tambien 
el  susodidio  home,  que  el  suo pay  le  rcconlaca,  que  ciertos  Jilagos, 
homes  de  macha  sapieucia,  en  lu  sua  JVatieidade  legaron  a  tierra 
Santa,  perquiricndo  logar  donde  el  niiio  saiicto  era  nacido ;  y  que 
Ilerodes  voso  Hey  se  asuio,  et  diposito  junto  a  homes  sabios  de 
sua  vita,  e  perquirio  donde  nasceria  el  Infante,  por  qvien  per- 
quirian  Magos,  ct  le  respondieron,  en  Bellcm  dc  Juda,  scgun  que 
Micheas  dcpergino  profeto.  Et  que  dtxtron  aqueles  Jllagos,  que 
una  estrclta  dc  gran  craredad,  de  luenne  aduxo  a  tierra  saula  : 
catad  non  sea  esta  quela  prifezia,  cataran  Reyes,  et  andaran  en 
craridad  de  la  sua  JVatieidadc.  Otrosi,  catad  nan  persigades 
al  que  furades  tcnudos  mucho  honrar  et  recibir  de  ban  talanle. 
Mais  fazed  lo  que  tavieres  por  bien  aguisada  ;  nos  vos  deiimos 
que  nin  por  consejo,nin  par  noso  alvedriu  veniremos  en  consenti- 
micnfo  de  la  sua  morte,  Ca,  si  nos  esto  fiziessemus,  logo  scria 
nuesco,  que  la  profezia  que  diz,  congregaronse  de  consuno  contra 
el  Seiinor,  et  contra  el  suo  Messias.  E  damos  vos  este  cons/jo, 
iuaguera  sodes  homes  de  viuyla  sapevga,  que  tengadcs  grande 
aficamenti)  sobre  tainana  fazinida,  purque  el  Dios  dc  Israel  eno- 
jado  con  vusr.o,  non  destruya  casa  segunda  de  voso  sen-undo 
lenipla.  Ca  sepades  cierto,  cedo  ha  de  si:r  destruyda  ;  et  por  esta 
rason  nosos  antepassadus,  que  salieron  de  captirerio  de  Baby- 
lonia, siendo  suo  Capitaue  Pyrro,  que  embio  Rcy  Cyro,  et  aduio 
nusco  muytus  riqurgas  que  toltu  dc.  Babylonia  el  aiio  de  sesenia  et 
nueve  de  captivtdade,  et  forun  recebidos  en  Toledo  de  Oentiles 
que  y  muracan,  et  cdificaron  una  grande  Alaina,  ct  non  quisieron 
bolrcr  a  Jerusalem  otra  rcgada  a  edijicar  Temple,  aciendo  ser 
destrvido  otra  veguda.  De  'Toledo  cutorze  dias  del  mcs  JVisan, 
Era  de  Cesar  diez  y  ocho,  y  de  Augusto  Oclaviano  setenta  y  uao. 
—  Sandoval,  71. 

Had  Alonso  been  as  zealous  as  some  of  his  Gothic  prede- 
cessors, or  his  most  Catliolic  successors,  he  might  have  found 
a  fair  pretext  in  this  letter  for  ordering  all  the  Jews  of  Toledo 
to  the  font,  unless  they  would  show  cause  why  they  should 
adhere  to  the  opinion  of  Caiaphas  and  the  Jerusalem  Jews, 
rather  than  to  that  of  their  own  ancestors. 

(Jeneral  Valiancy  believes  that  the  Spanish  Jews  were 
brought  into  the  Peninsula  by  Nebuchadnezzar,  and  admits 


these  Toledans  as  authority.  He  quotes  Count  do  Gebelin. 
and  refers  to  Strabo  and  Kzekiel.  The  proof  from  F>,ekiel 
rests  upon  the  word  Orb,  E.irb,  Warb,  or  Gliarb;  which  is 
made  into  Algarvo  ! 

A  Jew  in  Tirante  el  Blanco  (p.  2,  c.  74,  f.  243)  explains 
the  dilfercnce  between  the  diiferent  races  of  Jews.  They  are 
three,  ho  says.  One,  the  progeny  of  those  who  took  counsel 
for  the  death  of  Christ ;  and  they  were  known  by  this,  that 
tliey  were  in  continual  motion,  hands  and  feet,  and  never 
could  rest ;  neither  could  their  spirit  ever  be  still,  and  they 
had  very  little  shame.  The  second  were  the  descendants  of 
those  who  i)nt  in  execution  and  assisted  at  the  various  i)ar;g 
of  the  snlierings  and  death  of  Christ,  and  they  never  could 
look  any  man  in  the  face,  nor  could  they,  without  great  dilli- 
culty,  ever  look  up  to  heaven.  The  third  were  the  children 
of  Uavid,  who  did  all  they  could  to  prevent  the  death  of 
Christ,  and  shut  themselves  up  in  the  temple  that  they 
might  not  witness  it.  Tliese  are  aflable,  good  men,  who  love 
their  neighbors  ;  a  quiet,  peaceable  race,  who  can  look  any 
where. 

Tliomas  Tamaio  de  Vargas,  the  editor  of  the  sjiurious  Luit- 
prand,  says,  that  not  only  many  Hebrew  words  ate  mixed  with 
the  old  t^panlsli,  hut  ihat,  prO  dolor!  the  black  and  stinking 
Jewisli  blood  had  been  mingled  with  the  most  pure  blood  of 
the  Si)aniards,  (p.  9li.)  They  were  very  anxious,  he  says,  to 
intermarry,  and  spoil  the  pure  blood.  And  he  ailds,  that  tlie 
Sjianiards  call  them  putos,  quia  putant.  "  Cut,"  says  Sir 
Thomas  ISrovvno,  "  that  an  unsavory  odor  is  gentilitious,  ot 
national  to  the  Jews,  we  cannot  well  concede.  And  if,  (ac- 
cording to  good  relations,)  where  they  may  freely  speak  it, 
they  forbear  not  to  boast  tliat  there  are  at  present  many  thou- 
sand Jews  in  Spain,  France,  and  England,  and  some  dispensed 
withal  even  to  the  degree  of  priesthood,  it  is  a  matter  very 
considerable,  and  could  they  bo  smelled  out,  wouhl  much  ad- 
vantage not  only  tlie  churcli  of  Christ,  but  also  the  cofiers  of 
princes.  —  The  ground  that  begat  or  propagated  this  assertion 
might  be  the  distasteful  averseness  of  the  Christian  from  the 
Jew  upon  the  villany  of  that  fact,  which  made  them  abomi- 
nable, and  '  stink  in  the  nostrils  of  all  men.'  Which  real 
practice  and  metaphorical  expression  did  after  proceed  into  a 
literal  construction,  Init  was  a  fraudulent  illation  ;  for  such  an 
evil  savor  their  father  Jacob  acknowledged  in  himself,  when 
he  said  his  sons  had  made  him  stink  in  the  land,  that  is,  to  bo 
abominable  unto  the  inhabitants  thereof.  Another  cause  is 
urged  by  Campegius,  and  much  received  by  Christians  ;  that 
this  ill  savor  is  a  curse  derived  upon  them  by  Clirist,  and 
stands  as  a  badge  or  brand  of  a  generation  that  crncifieil  their 
Salvator.  But  this  is  a  conceit  without  all  warrant,  and  an 
easy  way  to  take  off  dispute  in  what  point  of  obscurity  soever." 
Vulgar  Errors,  Book  iv.  cli.  10. 

The  Mahommedans  also  hold  a  like  opinion  ofthe  unsavori- 
noss  of  the  Jews,  and  account  for  it  by  this  legend,  which  is 
given  by  Sale.  "Some  ofthe  children  of  Israel  abandoned 
their  dwellings  because  of  a  pestilence,  or,  as  others  say,  to 
avoid  serving  in  a  religious  war  ;  but  as  they  fled,  God  struck 
them  all  dead  in  a  certain  valley.  About  eight  days  or  more 
after,  when  their  bodies  were  corrupted,  the  Proiihet  Ezekiel 
happening  to  p  iss  tliat  way,  at  the  sight  wept ;  whereu]ion 
God  said  to  him,  '  Call  to  them,  O  Ezekiel,  and  I  will  restore 
them  to  Jife.'  And  accordingly,  on  the  jiropbet's  call,  they  all 
arose,  and  lived  several  years  after  ;  but  they  retained  the 
color  and  stench  of  dead  corpses  as  long  as  they  lived,  and  tlie 
clothes  they  wore  were  changed  as  black  as  pitch,  which 
([ualities  they  transmitted  to  their  posterity." 

One  of  our  own  travellers*  tells  us  of  a  curious  practical 
application  of  this  belief  in  Barbary.  "  The  Moors  of  Tan- 
gier," he  says,  "  when  they  want  rain,  and  have  prayed  in  vain 
for  it,  set  the  Jews  to  work,  saying,  that  though  God  would 
not  grant  it  to  the  prayers  of  the  faithful,  ho  would  to  the 
Jews,  in  order  to  be  rid  of  their  stink."  I.udicrinis  as  this  is, 
Soulli  has  a  passage  concerning  llie  Jews,  which  is  little  more 
reasonalile,  in  one  of  his  sermons.  "  The  truth  is,"  lie  says, 
"  they  were  all  along  a  cross,  odd,  untoward  sort  of  people, 
and  such  as  God  seems  lo  have  chosen,  and  (as  the  Prophets 
sometimes  phrase  it)  to  have  espoused  to  himself,  upon  the 
very  same  account  that  Socrates  espoused  Xantippe,  only  for 
her  extreme  ill  conditions,  above  all  that  he  could  possibly  find 
or  pick  out  of  that  sex  :  and  so  the  fittest  argument  both  to 
•  HL»t.  of  Che  C:iplivily  of  Tliomas  Pellew,  p.  257. 


712      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


exercise  and  decliire  liis  tulinirable  imlieiice  to  llie  world."  — 
Vol.  i.  421. 


A  yoke 
Of  iron  servitude  oppressed  and  galVd 
Tlie  cliildren  of  tke  soil.  —  I.  p.  U49,  col.  2. 

Of  the  condition  of  slaves  under  the  Spanish  Wisigotlis,  I 
have  given  an  account  i[i  the  Introduction  to  the  Chronicle  of 
the  Cid.  This  also,  like  the  persecution  of  tlie  Jews,  must 
greatly  have  facilitated  the  Jloorish  conquest.  Another 
facilitating  cause  was,  that  notwithstanding  their  frequent 
civil  disturbances,  they  had  in  great  measure  ceased  to  be  a 
warlilte  peojjlc.  The  many  laws  in  the  Fuero  Juzgo,  for 
conipelhng  men  to  military  service,  prove  this.  These  laws 
are  full  of  complaints  that  llie  people  would  avoid  the  service 
if  they  could.  Habits  of  settled  life  seem  throughout  Eurojje 
to  have  effeminated  the  northern  conquerors,  till  the  Normans 
renovated  the  race,  and  the  institutions  of  chivalry  and  the 
crusades  i)roduced  a  new  era. 


Thou,  Calpt,  rawest  their  coming' .-  aticient  Rock 

Reiiown'd,  ni)  lono-cr  vow  shult  thou  be  call'd 

From  Gods  and  Heroes  of  the  years  of  yore, 

Kronuf,  or  hundred-handed  Briarrus, 

Bacchus,  or  Hercules;  but  doom'd  to  bear 

Tlie  name  of  thy  new  conqueror.  —  1.  p.  649,  col.  2. 

Gibel-al-Tarif,  the  mountain  of  Tarif,  is  the  received  etymol- 
ogy of  Gibraltar :  lien  Hazel,  a  Granadan  Moor,  says  ex- 
pressly, tliat  the  mountain  derived  its  name  from  this  general. 
Its  former  appellations  may  be  seen  in  the  Historia  de  Oib- 
raltar,  by  Don  Ignacio  Lopez  de  Ayala.  The  derivation  of 
the  word  Calpc  is  not  known  :  Florian  de  Ocampo  identifies 
it  with  tlie  English  word  galloping,  in  a  passage  which  may 
amuse  the  Spanish  scholar.  "  La  segunda  nombradia  fue  lla- 
viarle  Calpc,  cutja  razon,  segun  dicen  algunos,  proccdio  de  que 
los  Andaluces  ancianos  en  su  lengtia  vicja  solian  llumar  Calepas 
y  Calpes  a  (/ualesquier  cosas  enhiestasy  levantadas,  agora  fuesen 
penascos,  o  pizarras,  o  naderos,  opiedras  vienores,  como  lo  slg- 
7iiJicamos  en  las  dicz  y  ocho  capitulos  precedcntes :  y  dicen  que  con 
estar  alii  junto  de  Oibraltur  sobre  sus  marinas  el  risco,  que  ya 
diie  muy  encumbrado  y  enhiesto,  qual  hoy  dia  parece,  lo  Uaniaban 
Calpes  aquellos  Jindaluccs  pasados  :  y  par  su  rcspecto  la  inesma 
poblaciuH  vino  tambicn  a  tcner  despues  aqael  propria  nombrc.  JVo 
faltan  otra^-  jicrsonas  que  siguiendo  las  Kscriluras  Ortegas  pon- 
gan  Cita  razon  del  nonibre  Calpes  mucho  diversantente,  diciendo, 
que  quando  los  cosarios  Jirgonautas  desembarcaron  en  Espaha, 
ccrradcl  eslrecho,  segmi  ya  lo  dcclaramos,  el  tiempo  que  liaeian 
sus  exercicios  arriba  dichos,  de  saltos  y  hicha.^,  y  muMcas  acor- 
dadas,  bieit  asi  conio  los  jiastores  Espaholes  coniareanos  recibian 
conlcntamientos  grande,  mirado  las  tales  desen  rotturas  y  Ugerezas, 
no  menos  aquellos  Oricgos  recien  venidos  notaban  algunos juegos, 
dado  que  trabajosos  y  dificilts,  que  Ins  vusmos  pastores  obruban 
entrc  si  para  su  recreacinn  y  deporte  ;  purticularmente  conside- 
raran  tin  rcgocijo  de  caballus,  donde  cicrtos  dias  aplaiados  venian 
todos  a  sejuntar  cnmo  para  cosa  dc  gran  pundonor. 

"  El  qual  rcgocijo  hariun  desta  maneru.  Tomaian  yeguas  en 
pelo,  quanta  mas  corredoras  y  ligeras  podian  hahcr,  y  pnestos  ellos 
encinia  desnudos  sin  alguna  ropa,  ataban  en  las  quixadas  barbi- 
cachos  dc  rama,  torcidos  y  niajados  a  manera  dc  frcno,  con  que 
salian  delpuesto  dos  a  dos  a  la  par  corriendo  lo  mas  que  sus 
yeguas  podian,  para  llegar  a  cierla  senal  de  pizarras  mhiestas  o 
de  madcros  hincados  y  h-vantados  en  Jin  de  la  carrera.  Venidos 
id  medio  trecho  de  su  corrida  sallaban  de  las  yeguas  en  tierra,  no 
ha  purando  ni  dcteniendo  :  y  asi  trabados  por  el  barbicacho, 
corrian  tmnbien  ellos  d  pie,  sin  las  dexar,  pueMa  que  mas  furia 
Uevasen ;  porque  si  la^  deiaban  6  se  desprendian  dellas,  y  no 
sustentabnn  elj'reno  continvaviente ,  hasta  ser  pasada  la  carrera, 
perdian  la  reputation  y  las  apuestos,  quedando  tan  amenguados  y 
vencidos,  quanto  quedaria  triunfante  quirn  priinero  llegase  con  su 
iicirua  para  toniar  la  presa  que  tenian  en  el  Jin  de  la  cai-rcra  sobre 
las  pizarras  o  madcros  hincados.  Quando  saltaban,  de  sus  ye- 
guas, dicen  que  lesiban  hablando porque  nosedetuviesen,  voccan- 
dolcs  y  diciendoles  a  menudo  palabras  animosos  y  dnlees .-  Itama- 
lanlcs  pies  hermosas,  gcnerosas  en  el  correr,  casta  real,  hevibras 
preciosas,  acrecentaduras  de  sus  honrns,  y  mas  otras  razanes 
muclias  con  que  las  tenian  veiadas,  a  no  se  parar  ni  perder  cl 


iinpetu  conienzado  :  dc  manera  que  los  tropelcs  en  estepunto,  loi 
pundonorcs  y  regocijos  de  correr,  y  de  no  mostrar  Jluzedad  era 
cosa  mucho  de  notar,  asi  por  la  parte  de  los  hombres,  como  por 
parte  de  las  yeguas:  j3  los  Griegos  jirgonautas  hs  parccio  juego 
tan  varonil  que  muchas  reees  lo  probaron  tambicn  dlos  a 
reouelta  dc  los  Espanolcs,  como  quiera  que  jamas  pudieron  tener 
aquella  vigilancia  tii  ligereza,  ni  reciura  que  tenian  eslos  otros 
para  durur  con  sus  yeguas.  Y  dado  que  las  tales  yeguas 
corriesen  harta  furiosas,  y  les  ensenasen  muckos  dias  antes 
a  seguir  e.'itas  parejas,  quanto  mijor  entendian  a  la  verdad, 
ni  las  de  los  unos,  ni  las  de  lus  otros  corrian  tanto  de.'ipues 
que  saltaba7i  dellas,  como  quando  los  traian  eneima  -.  y  asi  las 
palabras  que  los  Griegos  en  aquella  sazon  puestos  a  pie  hublaban 
eran  tambicn  al  mesmo  proposito  conj'ormes  a  las  de  los  Jindaluccs 
Espanoles  en  su  lengua  provincial,  noinbrundutas  Calopes,  Ca- 
lopes,  Calopes  a  la  contina,  quej'ue  palabra  Griega,  conipuesta  de 
dosvocablos:  una  Calos,  que  signifca  cosa  hermosa,  ligera  y 
agraciada  :  otro  Pus,  que  quiere  dccir  pie,  como  que  las  llaniasm 
pics  agraciados,  o  pies  desenvueltos  y  ligeros :  y  por  abreviar 
mas  el  vocablo,  para  que  sus  yeguas  lupudiesen  mas  presto  sentir, 
aeortabanlo  con  una  Ictra  menos  en  el  medio,  y  en  lugar  de  nom- 
brarlas  Calopes,  les  deeiam  Calpes,  que  signifca  lo  rncsmo  Ca- 
lopes :  la  qual  palabra  meparece  dura  todavia  hasta  nuestro  siglo 
])rescnte,  donde  poeas  Utras mududas, por  decir  Calopes o  Calpes, 
lo  pronuneiamos  Galopes,  quando  los  caballosy  yeguas,  o  qvulcs- 
quier  otros  animales,  no  corrcn  a  todo  podcr  sino  trote  largo  se- 
giiido.  Vino  desto  que  las  mesmas  fiestas  y  manera  del  juego  se 
nombraron  Calpes :  dado  que  para  conniigo  bastara  sabir  la  vic- 
toria deste  juego  consistir  en  ligereza  de  pies,  y  por  eso  solo  de- 
berse  llaniar  Calopes  a  Calpe,  sin  anadir  lo  que  hablaban  a  las 
yeguas,  pues  aquello  priniero  cimiprehendebastantrmentc  la  razon 
deste  vocablo.  Pcro  si  todavia  fue  cierto  que  les  dtcian  aquellas 
palabras  quando  corrian  sus  jiarejas,  ninguna  cosa  dana  dezar- 
las  aqui  jruestas."  —  Coronica  General  de  Espana,  c.  38. 


Famine  and  Pestilence  had  wasted  them.  —  I.  p.  650,  col.  1. 

In  the  reign  of  Egica,  Witiza's  father, — plaga  inguinalis 
immisericorditer  illabitur.  (Isid.  Paccnsis.)  And  for  two  years 
before  the  Moorish  invasion,  —  habia  habiiio  continua  hambrc  y 
pestilencia  en  Espana,  con  que  se  habian  debilitado  mucho  los 
cucrpos,  sin  lo  que  cl  ocio  las  habia  cmfiaquecido.  —  Morales,  12, 
G9,  5. 

St.  Isidore,  in  his  History  of  the  Goths,  distinctly  describes 
the  Northern  Lights  among  the  signs  that  announced  the 
wars  of  Altila.  "  Malta  codem  tempore  call  et  terra  signa  pra- 
cesserunt,  quorum  prodigiis  tarn  crudele  bellum  signijicaretur. 
J^''am,  assiduis  tcrrw  motibus  J'aclis,  a  parte  Orientis  Lunafus- 
cata  est,  a  solis  occasu  Stella  eometes  appuruit,  atque  ingenti 
magnitudine  aliquandiu  fulsit.  Ah  a(iuilonis  plaga  cadum  ru- 
hens,  sicut  ignis  aut  sanguis,  efl'cctus  est,  permistis  pcrigne- 
um  ruhorem  lineis  clavioribus  in  speciem  hastarum  rutilan- 
tium  deformatis.  JWc  mirum,  ut  in  tarn  ingenti  axsorum  strage, 
divinitus  tarn  multa  signorutn  demonstrarettir  ostcnsio.^^  — 
Espana  Sagrada,  t.  vi.  491. 


jind,  worst  of  enemies,  tlieir  Sins  were  arm^d 
jlgainst  them.  —  I.  p.  650,  col.  1. 

The  following  description  of  the  state  of  the  Christian 
world  when  the  Saracens  began  their  conquests,  is  taken  from 
a  singular  manuscript,  "  where  in  the  history  of  the  Cruisades 
and  of  all  the  Mahommedan  emperors  from  A.  D.  558,  to 
A.  D.  1588,  is  gathered  out  of  the  Chronikes  of  William 
Archbishop  of  Tyreus,  the  protoscrilie  of  Palestine,  of  Basilius 
Jhohannes  Heraldus,  and  sundry  others,  an<l  reduced  into  a 
poem  epike  by  Rolx-rt  Barret,  lUIO."  The  autlior  was  an 
old  soldier,  whose  language  is  a  compound  of  Josuali  Sylvester 
and  King  Cambyses,  with  a  strong  relish  of  Ancient  Pistol. 

Now  in  this  sin-tlood  age  not  only  in  East 
Did  the  impious  imps  the  faithful  persecute, 
But  like  affliction  them  pursued  in  West, 
And  in  all  parts  the  good  trod  under  foot ; 
For  fiith  in  some  was  cold,  from  otlicrs  fled, 
And  fear  of  God  dislodged  out  human  hearts; 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OP    THE    GOTHS.      713 


Astrca  tlowii  to  skios,  ;iii<l  in  her  stead 

Iiiiciuity  enthroiiiz(!(i ;  in  all  parts 

VioU?nce  had  vogue,  and  on  sathanizod  carlh 

Fraud,  Mischief,  Murder  niartialled  tlio  Camp  ; 

Sweet  Virtue  tied  the  field  :  Hope,  out  of  breath  ; 

And  Vice,  all-stainer,  every  soul  did  stamp  ; 

So  that  it  seeni'd  World  drew  to's  evening  tide. 

Nought  else  expecting  but  Christ's  second  coming ; 

For  Charity  was  cold  on  every  side. 

And  Truth  and  Trust  were  gone  from  earth  a-niumming. 

All  things  confused  ran,  so  that  it  seemed 

The  World  return  would  to  his  chaos  old ; 

Princes  the  path  of  justice  not  esteemed, 

Hciullong  with  prince  ran  people  young  and  old. 

All  sainct  confederations  infringed. 

And  for  light  cause  would  prince  with  prince  enquarrel; 

Countries  bestreamed  with  blood,  with  fire  besingcd, 

All  set  to  each,  all  murders  sorts  unbarrelled. 

No  wiglit  his  own  could  own  ;  'twas  current  coin 

Each  man  to  strip,  provided  ho  were  rich. 

riie  church  sacrileged,  clioir  made  cot  for  swine, 

And  zealous  ministers  were  made  to  scritche. 

Robbing  was  made  fair  purchase,  murder  manhood. 

And  none  secure  by  land  ne  sea  could  pass  ; 

Tlio  humble,  heartless,  ireful  hearts  ran  wood. 

Esteemed  most  who  mischief  most  could  dress  ; 

All  lubrick  lusts  shameless  without  comptroU 

Ran  full  career  ;  each  would  a  rider  be  ; 

And  Heaven's  friend,  all  sainct  Continency, 

Was  banished  quite  :  Lasciviousncss  did  roll. 

Frugality,  healthful  Sobriety 

No  place  could  tind  ;  all  parts  enquartered  were 

With  Bacchus-brutes  and  Satyres-luxury. 

All  lawless  games  bore  sway,  with  blasphemes  roare, 

'Twixt  Clerk  and  Laick  difference  was  none, 

Disguized  all,  phantastic  out  of  norme  ; 

But  as  the  Prophet  says,  as  Priests  do  run, 

So  run  the  people,  peevish  in  disform. 

The  Bishops  graded  once,  dumb  dogs  become. 

Their  heads  sin  vyncting.  Hocks  abandon  soon  ; 

Princes  applauders,  person-acceptors. 

The  good's  deliarrers  and  the  bad's  abetters  ; 

Fleshly  all,  all  lilthy  simonized. 

Preferring  profit  'lure  the  Eternal's  praise. 

The  cliurcli  enschisined,  court  all  atheizcd, 

The  commons  kankrcd,  all  all  in  distrayes  ; 

The  plotting  politician's  pate  admired, 

Their  skill  consisting  in  preventions  scull, 

Patliicks  preferred,  Cyprin  ware  desired. 

Ocean  of  mischiefs  flowing  moon-tide  full : 

So  that  it  seem'd  that  all  flesh  desperately 

Like  wolf-scared  sheep  were  plunged  headlong  down 

In  pit  of  hell :  puddled  all  pestfully 

The  court,  church,  commons,  province,  city,  town ; 

All  haggards  ;  none  reclaimed  once  could  be, 

Ne  by  the  word,  the  word  'bused  by  organs  bad, 

Ne  yet  by  signs  that  spotted  chrystal  sky, 

Ne  other  prodigies,  presages  sad. 

Neither  gust  shakings  of  this  settled  globe  ; 

Neither  sharpe  pencil  of  war,  famine,  pest. 

Could  once  one  ray  engrave  in  steeled  breast, 

Or  Christians  cause  their  sin-jagged  robe  disrobe. 

Thus  stood  the  sad  state  of  that  sin-stain'd  time. 
And  Christians  of  this  onr  all-zeal  cold  time. 
Let  us  now  par'Ikl  tliat  time  with  our  time. 
Our  parallcl'd  time  will  parallel  that  time, 
Then  triple-sainct,  thou  just  geometer  true. 
Our  time  not  parallel  by  thy  justice  line, 
But  with  thy  mercy's  paralleling  brow. 
Reform  our  crimeful  Angles  by  grace  thine. 


Dc  la  luiia  atUrd  las  hiaiicas  teccs  ; 
Y  taiitus  dius  la  mortal  prlea, 

El  sol  y  las  rstriilas  por  jiieccs, 
En  Espaha  iluro,  sin  durar  clla 
Mas  en  su  libcrtad,  (luc  en  fcnecdla. 

Balbuona,  El  Bernardo, 


t.  ii.  2/5. 


Eight  summer  days,  from  mom  till  latest  eve, 
The  fatal  fight  endured.  —  I.  p.  650,  col.  ]. 

Ocho  veccs  la  lampara  fcbca 

Sallo  alunihrando  el  mundo,  y  ocho  vcces 
la  ncgra  somhra  de  la  vochefea 

90 


Roderick's  royal  car.  —  L  p.  C50,  col.  1 . 

"  Roderike,  the  first  day  after  the  battaylo,  observing  the 
auncient  guise  of  his  countrey,  came  into  the  fielde  apparailled 
in  a  gowne  of  beaten  golde,  having  also  on  his  head  a  crown 
of  gold,  and  golden  shoes,  and  all  his  other  apparaile  sot  vvitli 
rich  pearles  and  precious  stones,  ryding  in  a  horse-litter  of 
ivorie,  drawne  by  two  goodly  horses ;  which  order  the  Goths 
used  alwayes  in  battailes  for  tliis  consideration,  that  the  soul- 
diours,  well-knowing  their  king  could  not  escape  away  by 
flight  from  them,  shuld  be  assured  that  there  was  none  other 
way  but  either  to  die  logitlier  in  that  place,  or  else  to  winne 
the  victorie  ;  for  it  had  bene  a  thing  most  shamefull  and  re- 
proachful to  forsake  their  prince  and  anoynted  soveraigne. 
Which  cuslome  and  maner  many  free  confederate  cities  of 
Italie  folov.'ing,  trimmed  and  adorned  for  the  warres  a  certain 
chayre  of  estate,  called  Carocio,  wherein  were  set  the  pcnons 
and  ensigns  of  all  the  confederates  ;  this  chayre,  in  battaile, 
was  drawn  by  many  oxen,  wherliy  the  whole  hoast  was  given 
to  understand  that  they  could  not  with  any  honesty  flie,  by 
reason  of  the  slow  pace  and  unweldinesse  of  those  heavie 
beasts."  —  A  M'otahle  Historic  of  the  Saracens,  drawcn  out  of 
.Augustine  Curio,  and  sundry  other  good  Muthours.  By  Thomas 
JVewton,  1575. 

En  ruedas  dc  marfil,  envuelto  en  sedas, 

Dc  oro  lafrente  orlada,  y  mas  dispucsto 

Al  triunfo  y  alfestin  que  a  la  pelea. 

El  sncesor  indigno  de  Alarico 

Ueco  tras  si  la  maldicion  ctema. 

Ah  I  yo  la  vi :  la  lid  por  siete  dias 

Duro,  mas  nofue  lid,fue  una  sangrienta 

Camiceria :  huyrron  los  cobardes 

Los  traidores  vendicron  sus  banderas, 

Losfucrtcs,  los  leales perecicron.  —  Quintana. 

The  author  of  the  chivalrous  Chronicle  of  King  Don  Rod- 
rigo  gives  a  singular  description  of  tliis  car,  upon  the  authority 
of^  his  pretended  original  Eleastras  ;  for  he,  "seeing  that 
calamities  went  on  increasing,  and  that  the  destruction  of  the 
Goths  was  at  hand,  thought  that  if  things  were  to  end  as  they 
had  begun,  it  would  be  a  marvel  if  there  should  be  in  S|iain 
any  king  or  lord  of  the  lineage  of  the  Goths  after  the  death  of 
King  Don  Rodrigo  ;  and  tlierefore  it  imported  much  that  he 
sliould  leave  beliind  him  a  remembrance  of  the  customs  of  the 
Gothic  kings,  and  of  the  manner  in  which  they  were  wont  to 
enter  into  battle,  and  how  they  went  to  war.  And  he  says, 
that  the  king  used  to  go  in  a  car  made  after  a  strange  fashion. 
The  wheels  of  this  car  were  made  of  the  bones  of  elephants, 
and  the  axletree  was  of  fine  silver,  and  the  perch  was  of  fine 
gold.  It  was  drawn  by  two  horses,  who  were  of  great  size 
and  gentle  ;  and  upon  the  car  there  was  pitched  a  tent,  so 
large  that  it  covered  the  whole  car,  and  it  was  of  fine  cloth  of 
gold,  upon  which  were  wrought  all  the  great  feats  in  arms 
which  had  been  achieved  until  that  time  ;  and  the  pillar  of 
the  tent  was  of  gold,  and  many  stones  of  great  value  were  set 
in  it,  which  sent  forth  such  splendor,  that  by  night  there  was 
no  need  of  any  other  light  therein.  And  the  car  and  the 
horses  bore  the  same  adornments  as  the  king,  and  these  were 
full  of  pearls  the  largest  which  could  be  found.  And  in  the 
middle  of  the  car  there  was  a  seat  placed  against  the  jiillarof 
the  tent ;  and  this  seat  was  of  great  price,  insomuch  that  the 
value  of  it  cannot  be  summed  up,  so  many  and  so  great  were 
the  stones  which  were  set  in  it ;  and  it  was  wrought  so  subtly, 
and  of  sucli  rare  workmanship,  that  they  who  saw  it  marvelled 
thereat.  And  upon  this  seat  the  king  was  seated,  being  lifted 
up  so  high  that  all  in  the  host,  little  or  great,  miglit  behold 
him.  And  in  this  manner  it  was  appointed  tliat  the  king 
should  go  to  war.  And  round  about  the  car  there  were  to  go 
a  thousand  knights,  who  had  all  biren  knighted  by  the  hand  of 
the  king,  all  armed  ;  and  in  the  day  of  battle  they  were  to  be  on 


714      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


foot  round  about  the  car ;  and  all  plighted  homage  to  the  king 
not  to  depart  from  it  in  any  manner  whatsoever,  and  tliat  they 
'vould  rather  receive  tlieir  death  tlicrc,  tlian  go  from  tlieir 
place  beside  the  car.  And  the  king  had  his  crown  upon  his 
head.  And  in  tliis  guise  all  the  kings  ol'  the  Goths,  who  had 
been  lords  of  Spain,  were  to  go  to  battle  ;  and  this  custom 
they  had  all  observed  till  the  King  Don  Rodrigo ;  but  he, 
because  of  the  great  grief  which  he  had  in  his  heart,  would 
never  ascend  the  car,  neither  did  he  go  in  it  into  the  battle."  — 
Part  i.  c  215. 

Eiltro  Rndrigo  en  la  balallaficra, 

Armado  en  bianco  de  un  arnes  dorado, 

El  ijclmo  coronado  de  una  esftra 

Que  en  lines  vence  al  circulo  e.ttrelladu  ; 

En  Unas  ricas  andas,  o  litn-a 

Que  al  Itijo  de  CUmene  dcspenndo 

Engaharan  mejur  que  el  carro  de  oro 

De  ygualpeligro,  y  de  mayor  tcsuro. 

La  purpura  real  las  arinas  cubre, 
El  grave  rostro   en  magctitad  h  bana, 

El  eeptro  por  ijuien  era  le  dcscubrc 

Rodrigo  ultimo  Qodo  Reij  de  Espana : 

Mas  de  la  suerte  que  en  lluvioso  Otubre 
Lo  verdc  que  Ic  vcste  ya  conipuna, 

Desnuda  al  olmo  bianco,  ro:npe  y  quita 

Vulturno  ayrado  que  al  inviemo  incita, 

Caen  las  hojas  sobrc  cl  ngua  clara 
Que  le  bahara  el  pie,  y  el  ornamento 

Del  tronco  imita  nucstru  edad  que  para 
En  su  primero  kumildc  fundamento  : 

Desierta  queda  la  frondosa  vara, 

Siguc  la  ruuia,  en  reniolino,  al  vieido. 

Que  la  aparta  del  arbol,  que  saltea 

Su  blanca,  verde,  y  palida  librea. 

Assi  Rodrigo  el  miserable  dia 

Ultimo  de  esta  gucrra  desdichada, 
Quedo  en  el  campo,  donde  ya  tenia 

La  magestad  del  ombro  derribada  : 
Alii  la  rota  purpura  yazia 

Tenida  en  sangre,  y  en  sudor  vanada, 
Alii  el  verde  laurel,  y  el  eeptro  de  oro, 
Siendn  el  arbol  su  cuerpo,  el  viento  cl  Jiloro. 
Lope  de  Vega.    Jerusalen  Conquistada,  1.  vi.  f.  13G. 


That  helm 
Whose  horns,  amid  the  thickest  of  the  fray 
Eminent,  had  mark'd  his  presence.  —  I.  p.  650,  col.  1. 

Morales  describes  this  horned  helmet  from  a  coin.  "  Tiene 
de  la  una  parte  su  rostro,  harto  dlftrente  de  las  que  en  las  otras 
Monedas  de  estas  Reyes  pnrecen.  Tiene  maiura  de  estur  armado, 
y  salenle  por  ciuia  de  la  celada  unas  puntas  cuvto  euernos  peque- 
nos  y  derechos  por  umbos  lados,  quelo  hacen  estraho  y  espanta- 
ble."  Florez  lias  given  this  coin  in  his  Medullas  de  Espana, 
from  the  only  one  which  was  known  to  be  in  existence,  and 
which  was  then  in  the  collection  of  the  Infante  D.  Gabriel. 
It  was  struck  at  Egitania,  the  present  Idana,  and,  like  all  the 
poins  of  the  Visigoth  kings,  is  of  the  rudest  kind.  The  lines 
wn;ch  Morales  describes  are  sufficiently  apparent,  and  if  they 
are  no.  intended  for  horns,  it  is  impossible  to  guess  what  else 
they  may  hcve  been  meant  to  represent. 

"  These  Goth'c  coins,"  says  P.  D.  Jerdnymo  Contador  de 
Argote,  "  have  a  thcisand  barbarisms,  as  well  in  their  letters 
as  in  other  circumstances.  They  mingle  Greek  characters 
with  Latin  ones  ;  and  in  what  regards  the  relief  or  figure, 
nothing  can  be  more  dissimilar  thar,  the  representation  to  the 
thing  which  it  is  intended  to  represent.  I  will  relate  what 
happened  to  me  with  one,  however  much  D  Egidio  de  Albor- 
nos  de  Macedo  may  reprehend  me  for  it  in  his  Parecer  Ana- 
thomico.  Valerio  Pinto  de  Sa,  an  honorable  citizen  of  Braga, 
of  whom,  in  various  parts  of  these  Memoirs,  I  have  made 
well-deserved  mention,  and  of  whose  friendship  I  have  been 
proud  ever  since  I  have  been  in  that  city,  gave  me,  some  six 
or  seven  years  ago,  a  gold  coin  of  King  Leovigildo,  who  was 


the  first  of  the  Gothic  kings  of  Spain  that  coined  money,  for 
till  then  both  Gotlis  and  Sueves  used  the  Roman.  I  ex- 
amined it  leisurely,  and  what  I  clearly  saw  was  a  cross  on  the 
one  side  upon  some  steps,  and  some  ill-shaped  letters  around 
it ;  and  on  the  reverse  something,  I  knew  not  what :  It  seemed 
to  me  like  a  tree,  or  a  stake  which  shot  out  some  branches  : 
Round  about  were  some  letters,  more  distinct ;  I  could  not, 
however,  ascertain  what  they  signified.  It  happened  about 
that  time  that  I  had  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  the  most  illus- 
trious Sr.  D.  Francisco  de  Almeida,  then  a  most  worthy 
Academician  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  at  present  a  most  do- 
serving  and  eminent  Principal  of  the  Holy  Patriarchal  Church. 
He  saw  this  coin,  and  ho  also  was  puzzled  by  the  side  which 
represented  what  I  called  a  tree.  lie  asked  me  to  lend  it 
him,  that  he  might  examine  it  more  at  leisure.  He  took  it 
away,  and  after  some  days  returned  it,  saying,  that  lie  had 
examined  it  with  a  microscope,  and  that  what  I  had  taken 
for  a  stake  was  without  question  the  portrait  of  King  Leovi- 
gildo. I  confess  that  I  was  not  yet  entirely  satisfied  :  how- 
ever, I  showed  it  afterwards  to  divers  persons,  all  of  whom 
said  they  knew  not  what  the  said  figure  could  be  ;  but  when 
I  desired  them  to  see  if  it  could  be  this  portrait,  they  all 
agreed  that  it  was.  This  undeceived  me,  and  by  looking  at 
the  coin  in  every  possible  light,  at  last  1  came  to  see  it  also, 
and  acknowledge  the  truth  with  the  rest.  And  afterwards 
I  found  in  the  Dialogues  of  Antonio  Agostinho,  treating  of 
these  Gothic  coins,  that  there  are  some  of  such  rude  workman- 
ship, that  where  a  face  should  be  represented,  some  represent  a 
pitcher,  and  others  an  urn." Mrmorias  de  Braga,  t.  iii.  p.  lix. 


He  bade  the  rieer  bear  the  name  of  Joy.  —  I.  p.  650,  col.  1. 

Guadalete  had  been  thus  interpreted  to  Florez.  (Espana 
Sagrada,  t.  9,  p.  53.)  Earlier  writers  had  asserted  (but 
without  proof)  that  the  Ancients  called  it  Lethe,  and  the 
Moors  added  to  these  names  their  word  for  river.  Lope  de 
Vega  alludes  to  this  opinion  : 

Siempre  lamentable  Ouaddlete 

Que  Hero  tanta  sangre  al  mar  de  Espana, 

Si  por  olvido  se  llamava  el  Lete 

Trueque  este  nombre  la  vitoria  estrana, 

Y  llamase  memoria  deste  dia 

En  que  Espana  perdio  la  que  tenia. 

Que  por  donde  d  la  mar  entrava  apenas 

Diferenciando  cl  agua,  ya  se  via 
Con  roxo  humor  de  las  sangricutas  venas 

Por  donde  le  cortava  y  dividia  .- 
Gran  tiempo  eonservaron  sus  arenas 
(Ypienso  que  ha  llegado  a  la  edad  mia) 
Reliquias  del  estrago  y  piedras  echas 
Armas,  hierros  de  lama  y  deflechas. 

Jerusalen  Conquistada,  1.  vi.  ff.  136. 

The  date  of  the  battle  is  given  with  grandiloquous  circum- 
stantiality by  Miguel  de  Barrios. 

Salio  la  tercer  alva  del  tonante 

JVovicmbre,  convestido  nchdoso, 
sobre  cl  alado  bruto  que  al  brillante 

carro,  saca  del  pielago  espumoso  ; 
y  en  clfrio  Escorpion  casa  rotantc 

deljxero  Martc,  el  Astro  luminoso 
al  son  que  compasso  sus  plantas  sueltas 
dio  setecientas  y  calorie  hueltas. 

Coro  de  las  Musas,  p.  100. 

Ho  s'.ates  the  chronology  of  Pelayo's  accession  in  the  same 

taste. 

Era  el  pontificado  del  Segundo 

Oregorio  ;  Emperador  Leon  Tercero 
del  dodo  Oriego  ;  y  del  Persiano  inmundo, 

Zuleyman  Miramamolin  guerrero  ; 
y  de  Daphne  el  amante  rubicundo 

surcava  el  mar  delfulgido  Carnero 
sietecicntas  y  diet  y  ocho  vezes, 
dezando  el  puerto  de  los  aurcos  Pesces. 

Coro  de  las  Musas,  p.  103 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      715 


77ie  arrows  passed  him  by  to  rigid  and  left.  —  I.  p.  GJO,  col.  1. 
The  French  Jesuits  relate  of  one  of  their  converts  in  Cana- 
da k  Huron,  by  name  Jonn  Armand  Andeounrahcn,  that 
once  estunt  en  guerre  eschauffi  nu  combat,  il  s'eiifirn^n  si  avant 
dans  les  durts  H  Irs  fleclirs  drs  ciinams,  qu'd  fut  abanihiinc  des 
siens  dans  le  plus  fort  dc  la  wesMc.  Ce  fut  alors  (jti'il  se  rc- 
commenda  plus  particuUircmnit  d  Dicu:  d  scntit  pour  lors  ^lll 
secours  si  present,  que  du.  dipuis,  appuyi  sur  cette  mesmc  con- 
fiance,  il  est  tudjours  le  premier  el  le  plus  avant  dans  les  perils, 
etjamais  ne paid, pour  quclquc  danger  qii'il  envisage.  Je  voijois, 
disoit-il,  comme  une  gresle  de  flSclies  vcnirfondre  sur  moy  ;  je 
n'avois  point  d'uutre  bouclier  pour  les  arrester,  que  la  croyancc 
seule  que  Dicu  disposant  de  ma  vie,  il  en  feroit  scion  sa  volonte. 
Chose  Strange  !  les  iieclies  s'ccartoicnt  i  mos  <leux  costez, 
ainsi,  ilisoit-il,  que  fait  I'eau  lors  qu'clle  rencontre  la  pointe 
d'un  vaisaeau  qui  va  contre  mar^e.  —  Relation  de  la  JV.  France, 
1642,  p.  129. 


He  found  himself  on  jShu'.-t  banks. 
Fast  by  the  Cauliun  sckools.  —  l.  p.  Col,  col.  1. 
The  site  of  this  monastery,  which  was  one  of  the  most 
flourishing  seminaries  of  that  age,  is  believed  to  have  been  two 
leagues  fiom  Merida,  upon  tlie  Guadiana,  where  the  Ermida, 
or  Chapel  ofCubillana,  stands  at  present,  or  was  standing  a 
few  years  ago.  The  legend,  from  which  1  have  taken  such 
circumstances  as  might  easily  have  happened,  and  as  suited  my 
plan,  was  invented  by  a  race  of  men  who,  in  the  talent  of  in- 
vention, have  left  all  poets  and  romancers  far  behind  them. 
Florez  refers  to  Brito  for  it,  and  excuses  himself  from  relating 
it,  because  it  is  not  necessary  to  his*  subject;  — in  reality 
he  neither  believed  the  story,  nor  chose  to  express  his  objec- 
tions to  it.  His  disbelief  was  probably  founded  upon  the  sus- 
picious character  of  Brito,  who  was  not  at  that  time  so  de- 
cidedly condeamed  by  his  countrymen  as  he  is  at  present.  I 
give  tlie  legend  from  this  veracious  Cistercian.  Most  of  his 
other  fabrications  have  been  exploded,  but  this  has  given  rise 
to  a  popular  and  fashionable  idolatry,  which  still  maintains  its 
ground. 

"  The  monk  did  not  venture  to  leave  him  alone  in  that  dis- 
consolate state,  and  taking  him  apart,  besouglit  him  by  the 
passion  of  Jesus  Christ  to  consent  that  they  twain  should  go 
together,  and  save  a  venerable  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary  our 
Ludy,  which  in  that  convent  flourished  with  great  miracles, 
and  had  been  brought  from  the  city  of  Nazareth  by  a  Greek 
monk,  called  Cyriac,  at  such  time  as  a  heresy  in  the  parts  of 
the  East  arose  against  the  use  and  veneration  of  images  ;  and 
with  it  a  relic  of  the  Apostle  St.  Birtholomew,  and  another  of 
St.  Bras,  which  were  kept  in  an  ivory  coflfer,  for  it  would  be 
a  great  sacrilege  to  leave  them  exposed  to  the  ill  treatment  of 
barbarians,  who,  according  to  public  fame,  left  neither  temple 
nor  sacred  place  which  they  did  not  profane,  casting  the  images 
into  the  fire,  and  dragging  them   at  their  horses'  tails  for  a 
greater  opprobrium  to  the  baptized  people.     The  King,  seeing 
himself  thus  conjured  by  the  passion  of  our  Redeemer  Jesus 
Christ,  in  whom  alone  he  had  consolation  and  hope  of  remedy, 
and  considering  the  piety  of  the  thing  in  which  be  was  chosen 
for  companion,  let  himself  be  overcome  by  his  entreaties  ;  and 
taking  in  his  arms  the  little  ininge  of  our  Lady,  and  Romano 
the  cofl"er  with  the  relics,  and  some  provision  for  the  journey, 
they  struck  into  the  middle   of  Portugal,  having  their  faces 
alw'ay  towards  the  west,  and  seeking  the  coast  of  the  ocean  sea, 
because  in  those  times  it  was  a  land  more  solitary,  and  li«s 
frequented  by  people,  where  they  thought  the  Moors  would 
not  reach  so  soon,  because,  as  there  were  no  countries  to  con- 
quer in  those  parts,  there  was  no  occasion  which  should  lead 
them  thither.     Twenty-and-six  days  the  two  companions  trav- 
elled without  touching  at  any  inhaliited  place,  and  after  endur- 
ing many  ditiiculties  in  crossing  mountains  and  fording  rivers, 
Ihey  had  sight  of  the  ocean  sea  on  the  "Hd  of  Novemlicr,  being 
the' day  of'the  Virgin  Martyr  St.  Cecilia;  and  as  if  in  that 
place  they  should  have  an  end  of  their  labors,  they  took  some 
comfort,  and  gave  thanks  to  God,  for  that  he  had  saved  them 
from   the   hand   of  their   enemies.      The    place    which  they 
reached  is  in  the  Coutos  of  Alcoba(;a,  near  to  where  we  now 
uee  the  town  of  Pederneira,  on  the  eastern  side  of  which  there 

«  Espana  Sagraila,  t.  xiii.  p.  242. 


rises,  in  the  midst  of  certain  sands,  a  hill  of  rock  and  firm  land, 
somewhat  prolonged  from  north  to  south,  so  lofty  and  well 
proportioned  that  it  seenieth  miraculously  placed  in  that  site, 
being  surrounded  on  all  sides  with  plnins  covered  with  sand, 
without  height  or  rock  to  which  it  appears  connected.     And 
forasmuch  as  the  manner  thereof  draws  to  it  the  eyes  of  who- 
soever beholds  this  work  of  nature,  the  king  and  the  monk 
desired  to  ascend  the  height  of  it,  to  see  whether  it  would 
allord  a  place  for  them  iji  which  to  pass  their  lives.     They 
found  there  a  little  hermitage  with  a  holy  crucifix,  and  no 
other  signs  of  man,  save  only  a  plain  tond),  without  writing  or 
epitaph  to  declare  whose  it  might  he.     The  situation  of  the 
place,  which,  ascending  to  a  notable  height,  gives  a  prospect 
by  sea  and  by  land  as  far  as  the  eyes  can  reach,  and  the  sudden 
sight  of  tlie  crucifix,  caused  in  the  mind  of  the  king  such  ex- 
citement and  so  great  consolation,  that,  embracing  the  foot  of 
the  cross,  he  lay  there  melting  away  in  rivers  of  tears,  not  now 
of  grief  for  the  kingdoms  and  dominions  which  he  had  lost, 
but" of  consolation  in  seeing  that  in  exchange  the  crucified 
Jesus  himself  had  in  this  solitary  mountain  offered  himself  to 
him,  in  whose  company  he  resolved  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  life  ;  and  this  he  declared  to  the  monk,  who,  to  conteni 
him,  and  also  because  he  saw  that  the  place  was  convenient 
for  contemplation,  approved  the  king's  resolve,  and  abode  there 
with  him  some  days  ;  during  which,  perceiving  some  incon- 
venience in   living  upon   the  summit  of  the  mountain,  from 
whence  it  was  necessary  to  descend  with  much  labor,  when- 
ever they  would  drink,  or  seek  for  herbs  and  fruits  for  their 
food  ;  and  moreover,  understanding  that  it  was  the  king's  de- 
sire to  remain  there  alone,  that  he  might  vent  himself  in  tears 
and  exclamations,  which  he  made  oftentimes  bi'lbre  the  image 
ofClirist,  he  went  with  his  consent  to  a  place  little  more  than 
a  mile  from  the  mountain,  which  being  on  the  one  side  smooth 
and  of  easy  approach,  hangs  on  the  other  over  the  sea  with  so 
huge  a  precipice  that  it  is  two  hundred  fathoms  in  perpendicu- 
lar°heiglit,  from  the  top  of  the  rock  to  the  water.     There,  be- 
tween two  great  rocks,  each  of  which  projects  over  the  sea, 
hanging  suspended  from  the  height  in  such  a  form,  that  they 
seem  io  threaten  destruction  to  him  who  sees  them  from  the 
beach,  Romano  found  a  little  cave,  made  naturally  in  the  clift", 
which  he  enlarged  with  some  walls  of  loose  stone,  built  up 
with  his  own  hands,  and  having  thus  made  a  sort  of  hermitage, 
he  placed  therein  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary  of  Nazareth, 
which  he  had  brought  from  the  Caulinean  convent,  and  which 
being  small,  and  of  a  dark  color,  with  the  infant  Jesus  in  its 
arms,  hath  in  the  conntenance  a  certain  perfection,  with  a 
modesty  so  remarkable,  that  at  first  sight  it  presents  something 
miraculous ;  and  having  been  known  and  venerated  so  great  a 
number  of  years,  during  many  of  which  it  was  in  a  place  which 
did  not  protect  it  from  the  injuries  of  weather,  it  hath  never 
been  painted,  neither  hath  it  been  found  necessary  to  renew  it. 
The  situation  of  this  hermitage  was,  and  is  now,  within  sight 
of  the  mountain  where  the  king  dwell ;  and  though  the  me- 
morials from  whence  I  am  deriving  the  circumstances  of  these 
events  do  not  specify  it,  it  is  to  be  believed  that  they  often  saw 
each  other,  and  held  such  divine  communion  as  their  mode  of 
life  and  the  holiness  of  the  place  required  ;  especially  consid- 
ering the  great  temptations  of  the  Devil  which  the  king  suffered 
at  the  beginning  of  his  penitence,  for  which  the  counsels  and 
instructions  of  the  monk  would  be  necessary,  and  the  aid  of 
his  prayers,  and  the  presence  of  the  relics  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
which  miraculously  saved  him  many  times  from  various  illu- 
sions of  the  enemy.     And  in  these  our  days  there  are  seen  upon 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  in  the  living  rock,  certain  human  foot- 
slei>s,  and  others  of  a  dilTerent  form,  which  the  common  people, 
without  knowing  the  person,  attirm  to  be  the  footsteps  of  St. 
Bartholomew  and  the  Devil,  who  was  there  defeated  and  his 
illusions  confounded  by  the  saint,  coming  in  aid  of  a  devout 
man  who  called  iijion  him  in  the  force  of  ids  tribulation.     This 
must  liave  been  the  king,  (though  the  common  people  know  it 
not,)  whom  the  saint  thus  visibiy  aided,  and  he  chose  that  lor 
a  memorial  of  ibis  aid,  and  of  the  power  which  God  has  given 
him  over  the  evil  spirits,  these  marks  should  remain  impressed 
upon  the  living  rock.     And  the  ancient  name  of  the  mountain 
lieing  Soano,  it  was  changed  into  that  of  the  Apostle,  and  is 
calh'l  at  present  St.  Bartholomew's  ;  and  the  hermitage  which 
remains  upon  the  lop  of  it  is  under  the  invocation  of  the  same 
saint  and  of  St.  Bras,  which  must  have  arisen  from  the  relics 
of  these  two  saints  that  Romano  brought  with  him  and  left 


716      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS 


with  tile  king  for  liis  consolation,  wlicn  liu  witliilrcw  with  the 
image  of  Our  Lady  to  the  ]ilace  of  whicli  we  liiive  spoken, 
wliero  he  livi'd  little  more  than  a  year ;  ami  then  knowing  the 
time  of  Ills  dealh,  he  communicated  it  to  the  king,  beseeching 
him  that,  in  renuital  I'ur  the  love  with  which  he  had  accom- 
jianieil  him,  he  would  rfmemher  to  pray  to  God  for  bis  soul, 
and  would  give  his  body  to  the  earth,  from  which  it  had 
sprung;  and  that  having  to  depart  froTn  that  land,  he  would 
leave  there  the  image  and  the  relics,  in  such  manner  as  ho 
sliould  dispose  them  before  he  died.  With  that  Romano  de- 
parted to  enjoy  the  reward  deserved  by  his  labors,  leaving 
tlie  king  with  fresh  occasion  of  grief  for  wantof  so  goodacom- 
paniori.  Of  what  more  passed  in  this  place,  and  of  the  temp- 
tations and  tribulations  which  he  endured  till  the  end  of  his 
life,  there  is  no  authentic  historian,  nor  memorial  which  should 
certify  them,  more  than  some  relations  mingled  with  fabulous 
tales  in  the  ancient  Chronicle  of  King  IJon  Rodrigo,  where, 
among  the  truths  which  are  taken  from  the  Moor  Rasis,  there 
are  many  things  notoriously  impossible  ;  such  as  the  journey 
which  the  king  took,  being  guided  by  a  white  cloud  till  he 
jime  near  Viseo  ;  and  the  penance  in  which  he  ended  his  life 
(here,  enclosing  himself  alive  in  a  certain  tomb  with  a  serpent 
which  he  had  bred  for  that  purpose.  But  as  these  are  things 
dillicnlt  to  believe,  we  will  pass  them  over  in  silence,  leaving 
to  the  judgment  of  the  curious  the  credit  which  an  ancient 
picture  deserves,  still  existing  near  Viseo,  in  the  church  of 
St.  Michael,  over  the  tomb  of  the  said  King  Don  Rodeiick,  in 
which  is  seen  a  serpent  painted  with  two  heads  ;  and  in  the 
tond)  itself,  which  is  of  wrought  stone,  a  round  hole,  through 
which  they  say  that  the  snake  entered.  That  w  Inch  is  certain 
of  all  this  is,  as  our  historians  relate,  that  the  king  came  to 
this  place,  and  in  the  hermitage  of  St.  Michael,  which  we  now 
see  near  Viseo,  ended  his  days  in  great  penance,  no  mat) 
knowing  the  manner  thereof;  neither  was  there  any  other 
memorial  clearer  than  that  in  process  of  time  a  writing  was 
found  uj)on  a  certain  tomb  in  this  church  with  these  words : 

HiC      REIJVIESCIT       RUDERICUS       ULTIMUS     ReX       GoTHORUM, 

Here  rests  Roderick,  the  last  King  of  the  Goths.  I  remendjer 
to  have  seen  these  very  words  written  in  black  upon  an  arch 
of  the  wall,  which  is  over  the  tomb  of  the  king,  although  the 
Archbishop  Don  Rodrigo,  and  they  wdio  follow  him,  give  a 
longer  inscription,  not  observing  that  all  whicli  he  has  added 
are  his  own  curses  and  imprecations  upon  Count  Don  Julian, 
(as  .'\nibrosio  de  Morales  has  properly  remarked,  following  the 
Bishop  of  Salamanca  and  otliers,)  and  not  parts  of  the  same 
inscriiition,  as  they  make  them.  The  cliurch  in  which  is  the 
tomb  of  the  king  is  at  jiresent  very  small,  and  of  great  anti- 
quity, especially  the  first  chapel,  joined  to  which  on  cither  side 
is  a  cell  of  the  same  length,  but  narrow,  and  dark  also,  having 
no  more  light  than  what  enters  through  a  little  window  open- 
ing to  the  east.  In  one  of  these  cells  (that  which  is  on  the 
south  side)  it  is  said  that  a  certain  hermit  dwelt,  by  whose 
advice  the  king  governed  himself  in  the  course  of  his  penance  ; 
and  at  this  time  his  grave  is  shown  close  to  the  walls  of  the 
chapel,  on  the  Epistle  side.  In  the  other  cell  (which  is  on 
the  north)  the  king  passed  his  life,  paying  now,  in  the  strait- 
ness  of  that  place,  for  the  largeness  of  his  palaces,  and  the 
liberties  of  his  former  life,  whereby  he  had  offended  his 
Creator.  And  in  the  wall  of  the  chapel  which  answers  to  the 
Gospel  side,  there  remains  a  sort  of  arch,  in  which  the  tomb 
is  seen,  wherein  are  his  bones  ;  and  it  is  devoutly  visited  by 
tlie  natives,  who  believe  that  through  his  means  the  Lord 
does  miracles  there  upon  persons  afflicted  with  agues  and  oilier 
like  maladies.  Under  the  said  arch,  in  the  part  answering  to 
it  in  the  inside  of  the  cell,  I  saw  painted  on  the  wall  the  her- 
mit and  the  king,  with  the  serpent  with  two  heads,  and  I  read 
the  letters  which  are  given  above,  all  defaced  by  time,  and 
bearing  marks  of  great  antiquity,  yet  so  that  they  could  dis- 
tinctly be  seen.  The  tomb  is  flat,  and  made  of  a  single  stone, 
in  which  a  man's  body  can  scarcely  fnid  room.  When  I  saw 
it  it  was  open,  the  stone  which  had  served  to  cover  it  not  being 
there,  neither  the  bones  of  the  king,  which  they  told  me  had 
been  carried  into  Castillo  some  years  before,  but  in  what 
manner  they  knew  not,  nor  by  whose  order  ;  neither  could  I 
discover,  by  all  the  inquiries  which  I  made  among  the  old 
people  of  that  city,  who  had  reason  to  be  acquainted  with  a 
thing  of  so  much  importance,  if  it  were  as  certain  as  some  of 
tnem  aflirmed  it  to  be."  —  Brito,  Monarchia  Lusitania,  P.  ii. 
7,  c.  3. 


"  The  great  venerableness  of  the  Im.ige  of  our  Lady  of 
Nazareth  which  the  king  lef\  hidden  in  the  very  place  where 
Romano  in  his  lifetime  had  placed  it,  and  the  continual  miracle 
which  she  showed  formerly,  and  still  shows,"  induced  1'.  Ber- 
nardo de  Brito  to  continue  the  history  of  this  Image,  which, 
no  doubt,  he  did  the  more  willingly  because  he  bears  a  part  in 
it  hinjself.  In  the  days  of  Affonso  Henriquez,  the  first  king 
of  Portugal,  this  part  of  the  country  was  governed  by  1).  Fnas 
Roupinho,  a  knight  famous  in  the  Portuguese  chronicles,  who 
resided  in  the  castle  at  Porto  de  Mos.  This  Dom  Puas, 
"  when  he  saw  the  land  secure  from  enemies,  used  often  to  go 
out  bunting  among  the  sands  and  thickets  between  the  town 
and  the  sea,  where,  in  those  days,  there  used  to  be  great  store 
of  game,  and  even  now,  though  the  land  is  so  populous,  there 
is  still  some  ;  and  as  he  followed  this  exercise,  the  proper  jias- 
time  of  noble  and  spirited  men,  and  came  sometimes  to  tlie 
sea-shore,  he  came  upon  that  remarkable  rock,  which,  being 
level  on  the  side  of  the  north,  and  on  a  line  with  the  flat 
country,  ends  towards  the  soutii  in  a  precipice  over  the  waves 
of  the  sea,  of  a  prodigious  height,  causing  the  greater  admira- 
tion to  hiin  who,  going  over  the  plain  country  without  finding 
any  irregularity,  finds  himself,  when  least  expecting  it,  sud- 
denly on  the  summit  of  such  a  height.  And  as  he  was  curi- 
ously regarding  this  natural  wonder,  he  perceived  between  the 
two  biggest  cliffs  which  stand  out  from  the  ground  and  project 
over  the  sea,  a  sort  of  house  built  of  loose  stones,  which,  from 
its  form  and  antiquity,  made  him  go  himself  to  examine  it ; 
and  descending  by  the  chasm  between  the  two  rocks,  he  en- 
tered into  a  low  cavern,  where,  upon  a  little  altar,  he  saw  the 
venerable  Image  of  the  Virgin  Mary  of  Nazareth,  being  of 
such  perfection  and  modesty  as  are  found  in  very  few  images 
of  that  size.  The  Catholic  knight  venerated  it  with  all  sub- 
mission, and  would  have  removed  it  to  his  castle  of  Porto  de 
Mos,  to  have  it  held  in  more  veneration,  but  that  he  feared  to 
offend  it  if  he  should  move  it  from  a  habitation  where  it  had 
abode  for  so  many  years.  This  consideration  made  him  leave 
it  for  the  present  in  the  same  place  and  manner  in  which  he 
found  it ;  and  altliough  he  visited  it  afterwards  when  in  course 
of  the  chase  he  came  to  those  parts,  nevertheless  he  never  took 
in  liand  to  improve  the  poor  heimitage  in  which  it  was,  nor 
would  he  have  done  it,  if  the  Virgin  had  not  saved  him  from 
a  notorious  danger  of  death,  which,  pi'radventure,  God  per- 
mitted as  a  punislimcnt  for  his  negligence,  and  in  this  manner 
to  make  the  virtue  of  the  Holy  Image  manifest  to  the  world. 
It  was  thus,  that  going  to  his  ordinary  exercise  of  the  chase, 
in  the  month  of  September,  in  the  year  of  Christ  1182,  and 
on  the  14tli  of  the  month,  being  tlie  day  on  which  the  church 
celebrates  the  festival  of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Cross  upon  the 
which  Christ  redeemed  the  human  race,  as  the  day  rose  thick 
with  clouds,  which  ordinarily  arise  from  the  sea,  and  the 
country  round  about  could  not  be  seen  by  reason  of  the  clouds, 
save  for  a  little  space,  it  befell  that  the  dogs  put  up  a  stag,  (if 
indeed  it  were  one,)  and  Dom  Fuas  pressing  his  horse  in  pur- 
suit, without  fear  of  any  danger,  because  he  thought  it  was 
all  plain  ground,  and  the  mist  hindered  him  from  seeing  where 
he  was,  found  himself  upon  the  very  edge  of  the  rock  on  the 
precipice,  two  hundred  fathoms  above  the  sea,  at  a  moment 
when  it  was  no  longer  in  his  power  to  turn  the  reins,  nor 
could  he  do  any  thing  more  than  invoke  the  succors  of  the 
Virgin  Mary,  whose  image  was  in  that  place  ;  and  she  suc- 
cored him  in  such  a  manner,  that  less  than  two  palms  from 
the  edge  of  the  rock,  on  a  long  and  narrow  point  thereof,  the 
horse  stopped  as  if  it  had  been  made  of  stone,  the  marks  of  his 
hoofs  remaining  in  proof  of  the  miracle  imprinted  in  the  living 
rock,  such  as  at  this  day  they  are  seen  tiy  all  strangers  and 
persons  on  pilgrimage,  who  go  to  visit  the  Image  of  Our 
Lady  ;  and  it  is  a  notable  thing,  and  deserving  of  serious  con- 
sideration, to  see  that  in  the  midst  of  this  rock,  upon  which 
the  miracle  happened,  and  on  the  side  towards  the  east,  and  ip 
a  part  where,  because  it  is  suspended  in  the  air,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible that  any  human  being  could  reach.  Nature  herself  has 
impressed  a  cross  as  if  nailed  to  the  nardness  of  the  rock,  as 
though  she  had  sanctified  that  clitT  therewith,  and  marked  it 
witli  that  holy  sign,  to  be  the  theatre  in  which  the  miracu- 
lous circumstance  was  to  be  celebrated  ;  which,  by  reason  that 
it  took  place  on  the  day  of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Cross,  seemed 
as  if  it  showed  the  honor  and  glory  which  should  from  thence 
redound  to  the  Lord  who  redeemed  us  thereon.  Dom  Fuas, 
seeing  himself  delivered  from  so  great  danger,  and  knowing 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      717 


from  whence  the  gr;i(o  had  come  to  him,  went  to  the  little 
hcrrniliige,  whore,  with  that  great  devotion  which  the  presence 
ot'the  miracle  occasioned,  he  gave  infinite  tlinnks  to  Our  Lady, 
accusing  himself  hefore  licr  of  having  neglected  to  ri'pair  the 
honse,  and  promising  all  the  amends  w  hicli  his  possibility  per- 
niitti'd.     Mis  huntsmen  alVcrwards  arrived,  following  the  track 
of  the  horse,  and  knowing  the  marvel  which  had  occurred, 
they  prostrated  themselves   hefore  the  Image  of  Our  Lady, 
ad<[ing  with  their  asto[iishment  to  the  devotion  of  Dom  Funs, 
who,  hearing  that  the  stag  had  not  been  seen,  and  that  the 
dogs  had  found  no  track  of  him  in  any  part,  though  one  had 
been  represented  hefore  him  to  draw  him  on,  understood  that 
it  was  an  illusion  of  the  Devil,  seeking  by  that  means  to  make 
him  perish  miserably.     All  these  considerations  enhanced  the 
greatness  of  the  miracle,  and  the  obligations  of  Dom  Fuas, 
who,  tarrying  there  some  days,  made   workmen   come  from 
Leyriu   and   Porto  do  iMos,  to   make   another   hermitage,  in 
which  the  Lady  should  be  more  venerated  ;  and  as  they  were 
demolishing  the  first,  they  found  phiced  between  the  stones  of 
the  altar  a  little  box  of  ivory,  and  witliin  it  relics  of  St.  Bras, 
St.  Bartholomew,  and  other  saints,  with  a  parchment,  wherein 
a  relation  was  given  of  how  and  at  what  time  those  relics 
and  the  image  were  brought   there,  according  as  has  been 
aforesaid.     A  vaulted  chapel   was  soon  made,  after  a  good 
form  for  times  so  ancient,  over  the  very  place  where  the  Lady 
had  been  ;  and  to  the  end  that  it  might  be  seen  from  all 
sides,  they  left  it  open  with  four  arches,  which  in  process  of 
time   were   closed,   to  prevent  the  damage   which  the  rains 
and  storms  did  within  the  chapel,  and  in  this  manner  it  remains 
in  our  days.     The  Lady  remained    in  her  place,  being  soon 
known  and   visited  by  the  faithful,  who  flocked  there  upon 
the  fame  of  her  appearance  :  the  valiant  and  holy  king  D.  Af- 
fonso  Henricjuez,  being  one  of  the  first  whom  Dom  Fuas  ad- 
vised of  what  had  happened, -and  he,  accompanied  with  the 
great  persons  of  his  court,  and  with  his  son,  D.  Sancho,  came 
to  visit  the  Image  of  the  Lady,  and  see  with  his  own  eyes  the 
marks  of  so  rare  a  miracle  as  that  which  had  taken  place  ;  and 
with  his  consent,  D.  Fuas  made  a  donation  to  the  Lady  of  a 
certain  quantity  of  land  round  about,  which  was  at  that  time 
a  wild  thicket,  and  for  the  greater  part  is  so  still,  being  well 
nigh  all  wild  sands  incapable  of  giving  fruit,  and  would  pro- 
duce nothing  more  than  heath  and  some  wild  pine-trees.    And 
because  it  establishes  the  truth  of  all  that  I  have  said,  and 
relates  in  its  own  manner  the  history  of  the  Image  of  the 
Lady,  I  will  place  it  here  in  the  form  in  which  I  saw  it  in  the 
Record  Room  at  Alcobaca,  preserving  throughout  the  Latin 
and  the  barbarism  of  its  composition  ;  which  is  as  follows  :  — 
"  Sub  nomine  Patris,  nee  non  et  ejus  prolis,  in  unius  potentia 
Deitatis,  incipit  carta  dartationis,  ncaion  et  derotioriis,  quam  ego 
Fuas  Ropinho  tenens  Porto  de  Mas,  et  terram  dc  Alhardos  usque 
Lcirenam,  et  Tiirres  Veteres,  facio  Ecclesiw  SanttB  Maria:  de 
Jfaiarelh,  quce  de  pauco  tempore  surgit  fundata  super  mare,  nbi 
de  sacidis  anliquis  jacebat,  inter  lapides  et  xpinas  maltas,  de  tota 
ilia  terra  qute  jacrt  inter  fiumina  qum  vcnit  per  Mlcoubaz,  et 
aquam  nuncupatum  de  f uraturia,  et  diriditur  de  into  mado :  de 
illafoi  defiumine  Mcobai,  quomodo  vadit  per  aquas  bellas,  dcinde 
inter  mare  et  mata  dc  Patayas  usque ;  finir  in  ipso  f uraturia, 
quam  ego  obtinui  de  rege  Alfonso,  et  per  suuin  consensum  facio 
pra:scntem  scriem  ad  prirdielam  Ecclesiam  BeuUe  Muriw.   Vir- 
ginis,  quam  feci  supra  mare,  nt  in  stEculis  pcrpeluis  memurentur 
mirabilia  Dei,  et  sit  noUiin  omnibus  hominibus,  quomodo  a  viorte 
fuerim  salvatus  per  pielutem  Dei  et  Beata:  Maria;  quam  vacant  dc 
JVazaret,  tali  sucesu.     Cum  mancrem  in  contra  Porto  de  Mas,  et 
inde  vcniebam  ad  ocidendos  vcnatos,  per  Melvam  et  matam  de 
Fataijas  usque  ad  mare,  supra  quam  ineeni  furnam,  et  pari'am 
domunculam  inter  arbustas  et  vcpres,  in  qua  crat  una  Imago  Vir- 
ginis  Muriw,  et  veneracimus  illam,  et  abirimus  inde ;  veni  dcinde 
xviii  kal.  Octobris,  circa  dictum  locum,  cum  magna  obscuratione 
nebula  sparza  super  totam  terram,  et  invenimus  venatum,  tres 
quern  fui  in  meo  cquo,  usque  venirem  ad  esbarrondadciro  supra 
mare,  quod  cadit  ajuso  sine  mensura  hominis  et  pavet  visas  si 
cemit  furnam  cadentem  ad  aquas.     Pavi  ego  miser  peccator,  et 
venit  ad  remembrancam  dc  imagine  ihi  poslta,  etmagna  voce  dixi, 
Sancta   Maria   tal.     Benedicta  sit  iUa  in  mulicribus,  quia 
meum  equum  sicut  si  esset  lapis  fecit  stare,  pedibusf-iis  in  lapidc, 
et  erat  jam  vazatus  cttra  terram  in  punta  de  saxo  super  mare. 
Descendi  de  equo,  et  vcni  ad  locum  nbi  erat  imago,  et  ploravi  et 
grati/is  feci,  et  venerunt  monteiroa  et  viderunt,  et  laudaverunt 
Dewi  ct  Bcalam  Mariam :  Misi  homines  per  Leirenam  et  Porto 


de  Mos,  et  per  loca  vicina,  ut  venirent  Mvanires,  et  facerent  ec- 
clesiam bono  opere  nperatam  defurnice  et  lapidc,  et  jam  laudetur 
Dcus  Jinita  est.    JVos  vera  non  sciebamus  unde  esset,  et  unde 
renisset  ista  imago ;  sed  eece  cum  destruebatur  altare  per  Mva- 
nires,  inventa  est  arcula  de  ebore  untiquo,  et  in  ilia  una  envoltorio 
in  quo  crant  ossn  aliquorum  sanctorum,  et  cartula  cum  hac  in- 
srriptione:  Hie  sunt  reliquiai  Sanctorum  Blasii  et  Barthohnnci 
.Ipostoli,  qnas  drtulit  a  Monasterio  Cauliniana  Koinanus  moiia- 
rhus,  simul  cum  venerabili  Imagine  Virginis  Maria  de  J^uzarelh, 
qU(E  olim  in  JVazaretk  Cicitate  Gallilem  muHis  miracuUs  clarue- 
rut,  et  inde  asportata  per  Orwcum  monachum  nomine  Cyriacuvi, 
Gothorum  liegum  tempore,  in  pradicto  monasterio  per  mullum 
tempuris  munstTat,  quo  vsqae  Ilispania  d  Mauris  debeluta,  ct 
Rex  Rndericns  superatus  in  pridio,  solus,  lacrijmabilis,abjectMs, 
et  pene  dffficiens  prrcenit  ad  prasfatum  monuslcrium  Cauliniana, 
ibiquc  a  pra:dicto  Romano  panilentiie  et  Eucharistia;  Sacramenlis 
snsceptis,  paritcr  cum  iUo,  cum  imagine,  et  reliquiis  ad  Sranuni 
montem  pervenerunt  10  kal.  Dccnnb.  in  quo  rex  solus  per  annum 
integrum  permansii,  in  Ecclesia  ibi  inventa  enm  Christi  crucijiri 
imagine,  ct  ignoto  sepulchro.     Romanus  vera  cumhac  Sacra  Vir- 
ginis effigie  inter  duo  ista  saxa,  usque  ad  cxtremum  vitjE  per- 
7nansit ;  et  ne  futuris  temporibus  aliquem  ignoranlia  teneat,  luec 
cum  reliquiis  sacris  in  hac  extremw  orbis  parte  recondimus.  Dcus 
ista  omnia  a  Maurorum  manibus  servet.    Amen.    De  his  lectis 
ct  a  Presbyteris  apcrtis  satis  multum  sumus  gavisi,  quia  nomen 
de  Sanctis  reliquiis,  et  de  Virgine  seivimus,  et  at  memorentur  per 
semper  in  ista  serie  testamenti  scribere  fecimus.     Do  igitur  prce- 
dietam  hwreditatem  pro  rcparatione  prefatie  Ecclesia  cum  pascids, 
et  aquis,  de  monte  infonte,  ingressibus  et  regressibus,  quantum  a 
prestitum  hominis  est,  et  illam  in  melhiorato  foro  aliquis  potest 
habere  per  se.     JVe  igitur  aliquis  homo  de  nostris  vel  de  estraneis 
hoe  factum  nostrum  ad  irrumpendum  veniat,  quod  si  tentaverit 
peche  ad  dominum  terra   trccentos  marabilinos,  et  carta  nihil- 
ominus  in  suo  robore  permaneat,  et  insuper  sedeat  exeommnni cuius 
et  cum  Juda  proditore  panas  luat  damnatorum.     Facta  series 
testamenti  vi  Idas  Decemb.  era  M,CLXX,  Alfonsus  Portugalla 
Rex  confirm.     Sancius   Rex  confirm.     Regina   Dona    Tarasia 
confirm.     Pclrus  Fernandez,  regis  Sancii  dapifcr  confirm.     Me- 
nendus  Qunsalui,  ejusdem  sign  if er  confirm.       Domis  .Joannes 
Fernandez  curiic  regis  maiordomus  confirm.     Donus  Julianus 
Cancellarius  regis  confirm.     Murtinus  Oonsalui  Prrtnr  Colim- 
bria  confirm.     Petrus  Omnriz  Capellanus  regis  confirm.     Mc- 
nendus  Abbas  confirm.     Theolonius  conf.    Fernandus  J\i'unii, 
testis.     Egeas  JVuniz,  testis.     Dn  Tela,  testis.     Petrus  JVuniz, 
testis.      Fernandus    Vennundi,    testis.      Lucianus    Prasbytcr 
notavit." 

This  deed,  which  establishes  all  the  principal  facts  that  1 
have  related,  did  not  take  effect,  because  the  lands  of  which 
it  disposed  were  already  part  of  the  Coutosof  Alcobaca,  which 
King  Don  Aff'onso  had  given  some  years  hefore  to  our  father 
St.  Bernard  ;  and  Dom  Fuas  compensated  for  them  with  cer- 
tain properties  near  Pombal,  as  is  proved  by  another  writing 
annexed  to  the  former,  but  which  I  forbear  to  insert,  as  apper- 
taining little  to  the  thread  of  my  history  ;  and  resuming  the 
course  thereof,  you  must  know,  that  the  image  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  of  Nazareth  remained  in  the  chapel  which  Dom  Fuas 
made  for  it,  till  the  year  of  Christ  1377,  in  the  which,  King 
Dom  Fernando  of  Portugal  founded  for  it  the  house  in  which 
it  now  is,  having  been  enlarged  and  beautified  by  Queen  Dona 
Lianor,  wife  of  King  Dom  Joam  II.,  and  surrounded  with 
porticoes  by  King  Dom  Manoel.  And  now  in  our  times  a 
chapel  (Capela  mor)  of  good  fabric  has  been  built,  with  vol- 
untary contributions,  and  the  rents  of  the  brotherhood  ;  and  in 
the  old  hermitage  founded  by  Dom  Fuas  I.,  with  the  help 
of  some  devout  persons,  had  another  chajjcl  opened  under 
ground,  in  order  to  discover  the  very  rock  and  cavern  in  which 
the  Holy  Image  had  been  hidden  so  great  a  number  of  years  ; 
there  is  a  descent  to  it  by  eight  or  ten  steps,  and  a  notable 
consolation  it  is  to  those  who  consider  the  great  antiquity  of 
that  sanctuary.  And  for  that  the  memory  of  things  so  re- 
markable ought  not  to  be  lost,  I  composed  an  inscription  brief- 
ly recounting  the  whole :  and  Dr.  Ruy  Louren^o,  who  was 
then  Provedor  of  the  Comarca  of  Leyria,  and  visitor  of  the 
said  church  for  the  king,  ordered  it  to  be  engraven  in  marble. 
It  is  as  follows  — 

"Sacra  Virginis  Maria  veneranda  Imago,  a  Monasterio  Cau- 
liniana prope  Emeritam,  quo  Gothorum  tempore,  a  JS/'azareth 
translata,  mirnculis  elarueral,  in  generali  Hispania:  clade,  Ann. 
Dni.  DCCXIIII.  a  Romano  monacho,  comite,  utfertur.  Rode 


718      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


rico  Rege,  ad  hanc  extremam  orbis partem  addiicitnr,  in  quaduiit 
iimi.'i  moritur,  alter  jrrojiciscitur,  per  CCCCLXIX.  annus  inter 
duo  hiCc  prwrupta  saxa  sub  parvo  dclUnit  tugurio  :  delude  a  FvM 
Rnpinio,  Partus  Molarum  duce,  anno  Dumuii  MCLXXXII, 
(lit  ipse  in  dunatione  tcstatur)  invcnta,  dum  incaute  agitato  cquo 
fiigacein,  fictumqnc  furte,  insrquitur  ccrvuni,  ad  uUbnumque  im- 
maiiLs  hiijus  prmcipilii  cuneum,janijain  ruituriis  aecedit,  nomine 
Virginis  invocatn,  a  ruina,  et  mortis  faucibas  ereptus,  hoc  ei 
prins  dcdicat  saccllum ;  tandem  a  Ferdinando  Portugulia:  Rege, 
ad  tnajus  aliud  templum,  quod  ipse  a  fundamentis  erezcrat  trans- 
fcrtiir.  ^nn.  Domini  MCCCLXXVII.  Firgini  ct  perpelu- 
itati.  D.  D.  F.  B.  D.  B.  ex  volo." 

From  these  things,  taken  as  faithfully  as  I  possibly  could 
from  the  deed  of  gift  and  from  history,  wc  see  clearly  tlic  great 
antiquity  of  the  sanctuary,  since  it  is  893  years  since  the 
Image  of  the  Lady  was  brought  to  the  place  where  it  now  is  ; 
and  although  we  do  nai  know  the  exact  year  in  which  it  was 
brought  from  Nazareth,  it  is  certain  at  least  that  it  was  before 
King  Recaredo,  who  began  to  reign  in  the  year  of  Christ  586; 
so  tliat  it  is  1021  years,  a  little  more  or  less,  since  it  came  to 
Spain  ;  and  as  it  came  then,  as  one  well  known,  and  cele- 
brated for  miracles  in  the  parts  of  the  East,  it  may  well  be 
understood  that  this  is  one  of  the  most  famous  and  ancient 
Images,  and  nearest  to  the  times  of  the  apostles,  that  the 
world  at  present  possesses.  —  Brito  Monarchia  Lusitana,  p.  2, 
1.  7,  c.  4. 

This  legend  cannot  have  been  invented  before  Emanuel's 
reign,  for  Duarte  Galavam  says  nothing  of  it  in  his  Chronicle 
of  Affonso  Henriquez,  though  he  relates  the  exploits  and  death 
of  D.  Fuas  Roupinho.  I  believe  there  is  no  earlier  anthority 
for  it  than  Bernardo  de  Brito  himself.  It  is  one  of  many  ar- 
ticles of  the  same  kind  from  the  great  manufactory  of  Alco- 
baca,  and  is  at  this  day  as  firmly  believed  by  the  people  of 
Portugal  as  any  article  of  the  Christian  faith.  How  indeed 
should  they  fail  to  believe  it .'  I  have  a  print  —  it  is  one  of  the 
most  popular  devotional  prints  in  Portugal  —  which  represents 
the  miracle.  The  diabolical  stag  is  flying  down  the  precipice, 
and  looking  back  with  a  wicked  turn  of  the  head,  in  hopes  of 
seeing  Dom  Fuas  follow  him  ;  the  horse  is  rearing  up  with  his 
hind  feet  upon  the  brink  of  the  precipice  ;  the  knight  has 
dropped  his  hunting-spear,  his  cocked  hat  is  falling  behind  him, 
and  an  exclamation  to  the  Virgin  is  coming  out  of  his  mouth. 
The  Virgin  with  a  crown  upon  her  head,  and  the  Babe  with  a 
crown  upon  his,  at  her  breast,  appear  in  the  sky  amidst  clouds 
of  glory.  JV.  S.  de  JVazare  is  written  above  this  precious 
print,  and  this  more  precious  information  below  it,  —  0.  Emo 
Snr.  Cardcal  Patriarcha  concede  50  dias  de  Indulga.  a  qm.  rezar 
humahave  Ma.  diante  desla  Image.  His  Eminency  the  Cardi- 
nal Patriarch  grants  fifty  days  indulgence  to  whosoever  shall 
say  an  Ave-Maria  before  this  Image.  The  print  is  included, 
and  plenty  of  Ave-Marias  are  said  before  it  in  full  faith,  for 
this  JVossa  Senhora  de  JSTaiare  is  in  high  vogue.  Before  the 
French  invasion,  this  famous  Image  used  annually  to  be  es- 
corted by  the  Court  to  Cape  Espichel.  In  1796  I  happened  to 
be  upon  the  Tagus  at  the  time  of  her  embarkation  at  Belem. 
Slie  was  carried  in  a  sort  of  sedan-chair,  of  which  the  fashion 
resembled  that  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  coach ;  a  processional 
gun-boat  preceded  the  Image  and  the  Court,  and  I  was  liter- 
ally caught  ill  a  shower  of  rockets,  if  any  of  which  had  fallen 
upon  the  heretical  heads  of  me  and  my  companion,  it  would 
not  improbably  have  been  considered  as  a  new  miracle 
wrought  by  the  wonder-working  Senhora. 

In  .Tuly,  1808,  the  French,  under  General  Thomieres,  robbed 
this  church  of  Our  Lady  of  Nazareth  ;  their  booty,  in  jewels 
and  plate,  was  estimated  at  more  than  200,000  cruzados.  Jose 
Accursio  das  Neves,  the  Portuguese  historian  of  those  disas- 
trous times,  expresses  his  surprise  that  no  means  sliould  have 
been  taken  by  those  who  had  the  care  of  these  treasures,  for 
securing  them  in  time.  Care,  however,  seems  to  have  been 
taken  of  the  Great  Diana  of  the  Temple,  for  though  it  is 
stated  that  they  destroyed  or  injured  several  images,  no  men- 
tion is  made  of  any  insult  or  damage  having  been  offered  to 
this.  They  sacked  the  town  and  set  fire  to  it,  hut  it  escaped 
with  the  loss  of  only  thirteen  or  fourteen  houses  ;  the  suburb 
or  village,  on  the  beach,  was  less  fortunate  ;  there  only  four 
houses  of  more  than  300  remained  unconsuraed,  and  all  the 
boats  and  fishing-nets  were  destroyed.  —  Historia  da  Invasam, 
&c.  t.  4,  p.  85. 


Spreading  his  hands,  and  lifting  up  Ms  face,  &,c. 

I.  p.  651,  col.  2. 

My  friend  Walter  Scott's  Vision  of  Don  Roderick  supplies  a 
singular  contrast  to  the  picture  which  is  represented  in  this 
passage.  I  have  great  pleasure  in  quoting  the  stanzas  ;  if  the 
contrast  had  been  intentional,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
complete. 

But,  far  within,  Toledo's  Prelate  lent 

An  ear  of  fearful  wonder  to  the  King ; 
The  silver  lamp  a  fitful  lustre  sent. 

So  long  that  sad  confession  witnessing; 
For  Roderick  told  of  many  a  hidden  thing, 

Such  as  are  loathly  utter'd  to  the  air. 
When  Fear,  Remorse,  and  Shame,  the  bosom  wring, 

And  Guilt  his  secret  burden  cannot  bear, 
And  Conscience  seeks  in  speech  a  respite  from  Despair 

Full  on  the  Prelate's  face,  and  silver  hair, 

The  stream  of  failing  light  was  feebly  roU'd  ; 
But  Roderick's  visage,  though  his  head  was  bare. 

Was  sliadow'd  by  his  hand  and  mantle's  fold, 
While  of  bis  hidden  soul  the  sins  he  told. 

Proud  Aliiric's  descendant  could  not  brook. 
That  mortal  man  his  bearing  should  behold. 

Or  boast  that  he  had  seen,  when  conscience  shook. 
Fear  tame  a  monarch's  brow,  remorse  a  warrior's  look. 

This  part  of  the  story  is  thus  nakedly  stated  by  Dr.  Andre 
da  Sylva  Mascarenhas,  in  a  long  narrative  poem  with  this  title 
—  .4  destruigam  de  Kspanha,  Restauragam  Summaria  de  mesma. 

^chouse  0  pobre  Rey  cm  CauUniana 
Mosleiro  junto  ao  rio  Ouadiana. 

Eram  os  frades  fugidos  do  Mostciro 

Com  reccoi  dos  Barbaras  malvados, 
De  brugos  eslcce  cl  rey  hum  dia  inteiro 

JVa  Igrrja,  charando  sens  pcccados  ■■ 
Ham  Mange  vro  alii  por  derradciro 

Ji  conhecer  quein  era,  ouvindo  os  brados 
Que  0  disfargado  Rey  aos  arcs  dava, 
Este  Monge  Romano  se  chamava. 

Perguntoulhc  quern  era,  e  donde  vinha, 
Por  ver  no  pobre  traje  gram  portento  ; 

El  Rey  the  respondco  como  convinha 
Sem  deelarar  sen  posta,  uu  sen  intento  ; 

Pediulhe  coiifssatn,  c  o  Monge  asinha 
Lha  eoneedeo  e  a  Santo  Sacramento 

Eraforga  que  el  Rey  na  conjissam 

Lhe  declarasse  o  poslo  e  a  tencam. 

Como  entendeo  o  bum  Religioso 

Que  ayuclle  era  sen  Rey  que  por  estranhas 

Terras  andava  roto  e  lacrimoso. 
Mil  ays  tirou  das  intimas  entranhas  : 

Langouselhe  aos  pes,  e  com  piedoso 
Jiffecto  0  induziu  e  vurias  manhas, 

O  quizesse  tambem  levar  consigo 

Por  socio  no  destcrro  e  no  pcrigo.  —  P.  278. 


TTie  fourth  week  of  their  painful  pilgrimage.  —  I.  p.  G51.  col.  2. 

Dias  vinte  e  sete  na  passagem 

Oaslaram,  desviandosse  do  humano 
Trato,  e  maos  eiiconlros  que  este  mundo 
Tras  stmpre  a  quern  busca  o  bem  prof  undo, 

Destnii^am  de  Espanha,  p.  279. 


Some  new  austerity,  unheard  of  yet 
In  Syrian  f  elds  of  glory,  or  the  sands 
Of  holiest  Egypt.  — U.  p.  653,  col.  1. 

Egypt  has  been,  from  the  earliest  ages,  the  theatre  of  the 
most  abject  and  absurd  Buperstitione,  and  very  little  benefit 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      719 


was  produced  by  a  conversion  which  exchanged  crocodiles  and 
monkeys  for  monks  and  mountebanks.  Tlic  first  monastery  is 
said  to  have  been  established  in  that  country  by  St.  Anthony 
the  Great,  towards  tlie  close  of  the  tliird  century.  He  who 
rests  in  solitude,  said  the  saint,  is  saved  from  tliree  conllicts,  — 
from  the  war  of  hearing,  and  of  speech,  and  of  siglit ;  and  he 
has  only  to  maintain  tlic  struggle  against  his  own  lieart.  {Jlcta 
Sanctorum,  t.  ii.  p.  143.)  Indolence  was  not  the  only  virtue 
which  he  and  his  disciples  introduced  into  the  catalogue  of 
Christian  perfections  S.  Eufraxia  entered  a  convent  con- 
sisting of  a  hundred  and  thirty  nuns,  not  one  of  whom  had 
ever  washed  her  feet ;  tlie  very  mention  of  the  bath  was  an 
Ebomination  to  them.  {Ada  Sanctorum,  March  13.)  St. 
.Macarius  had  renounced  most  of  the  decencies  of  life  ;  but 
he  returned  one  day  to  his  convent,  humbled  and  mortified, 
exclaiming,  —  I  am  not  yet  a  monk,  but  I  have  seen  monks  ! 
for  he  had  met  two  of  these  wretches  stark  naked.  —  Ada 
Sanctorum,  i.  p.  107. 

The  principles  which  these  madmen  established  were,  that 
every  indulgence  is  sinful  ;  that  whatever  is  gratifying  to  the 
bodv,  must  be  injurious  to  tlie  soul ;  that  in  proportion  as  man 
inflicts  torments  upon  himself,  he  pleases  his  Creator ;  that  the 
ties  of  natural  affection  wean  the  heart  from  God  ;  and  that 
every  social  duty  must  be  abandoned  by  him  who  would  be 
perfect.  The  doctrine  of  two  principles  has  never  produced 
such  practical  evils  in  any  other  system  as  in  the  Komish. 
Manes,  indeed,  attributes  all  evil  to  the  equal  power  of  the 
Evil  Principle,  (that  power  being  only  for  a  time,)  but  some 
of  the  corrupted  forms  of  Christianity  actually  exclude  a 
gooil  one  ! 

There  is  a  curious  passage  in  the  Bibliotheca  Orientalis  of 
Assemanus,  in  which  the  deserts  are  supposed  to  have  been 
originally  intended  for  the  use  of  these  saints,  compensating 
for  tlieir  sterility  by  the  abundant  crop  of  virtues  which  they 
were  to  produce  .  In  iUt  xie.ru  xoli  vastUate,  qum  procul  a  JVili 
ripis  quaquavcrsus  latissime  proti-ndittir,  noii  urbes,  non  domici- 
lia,  non  agri,  non  arbares,  scd  dcscrluiii,  arena,  feres  ;  non  tamen 
hanc  tc-iriB  partem  {at  Euclivrii  vr.rhh  utar)  inutilem,  et  iiiho- 
noratam  dimitit  Dnas,  quum  inprimordiis  rerum  omnia  in  sapi- 
eiilid.  facerd,  d  singula quaique  faturis  usibus  apta  distingucrct ; 
Sfdcuncta  nan  magis  prasentis  magnificenlia,  quam  fuluripra- 
scieidih  creans,  Venturis,  ut  arbitror,  Suitdis  Eremum  paravit. 
Credo,  his  illam  locupletem  fructibus  vnluit,  et  pro  indulge utioris 
natural  vice,  hanc  Sanctorum  darefa:cundiam,  tU  sic  pinguesccrenl 
fncs  dcserti :  Et  quum  irrigaret  de  siiperioribus  suis  monies, 
abundaret  quoque  multiplicata  frnge  cnnralles  locorumquc  damna 
supplicet,  quum  habitationem  sterilem  habitatore  ditarci. 

"  If  the  ways  of  religion,"  says  South,  "  are  ways  of  pleas- 
antness, such  as  are  not  ways  of  pleasantness  are  not  truly 
and  properly  ways  of  religion.  Upon  which  ground  it  is  easy 
to  see  what  judgment  is  to  be  passed  upon  all  those  affected, 
uncommanded,  absurd  austerities,  so  much  prized  and  exer- 
cised by  some  of  the  Romish  profession.  Pilgrimages,  going 
barefoot,  hair-shirts  and  whips,  with  other  such  gospel-artil- 
lery, are  their  only  helps  to  devotion  ;  things  never  enjoined, 
either  by  the  prophets  under  the  Jewish,  or  by  the  apostles 
under  the  Christian  economy,  who  yet  surely  understood  the 
proper  and  the  most  efficacious  instruments  of  piety,  as  well 
as  any  confessor  or  friar  of  all  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  or  any 
casuist  whatsoever. 

"  It  seems  that  with  them  a  man  sometimes  cannot  bo  a 
penitent  unless  he  also  turns  vagabond,  and  foots  it  to  Jeru- 
salem, or  wanders  over  this  or  that  part  of  the  world  to  visit 
the  shrines  of  such  or  such  a  pretended  saint,  though  perhaps 
in  his  life  ten  times  more  ridiculous  than  tliemselves.  Thus, 
that  which  was  Cain's  error,  is  become  their  religion.  He 
that  thinks  to  expiate  a  sin  by  going  barefoot,  only  makes  one 
folly  the  atonement  for  another.  Paul,  indeed,  was  scourged 
and  beaten  by  the  Jews,  but  we  never  read  that  he  beat  or 
scourged  himself;  and  if  they  think  that  his  keeping  under  of 
his  bodii  imports  so  much,  they  must  first  prove  that  the  body 
cannot  be  kept  under  by  a  virtuous  mind,  and  that  the  mind 
cannot  be  made  virtuous  but  by  a  scourge,  and  consequently 
that  thonss  and  whip-cord  are  means  of  grace,  and  things 
necessary  to  salvation.  The  truth  is,  if  men's  religion  lies  no 
deeper  than  their  skin,  it  is  possible  that  they  may  scourge 
themselves  into  very  great  improvements. 

"  But  they  will  find  that  bodily  exercise  touches  not  the 
soul,  and  that  neither  pride,  nor  lust,  nor  covetousness,  was 


over  mortified  by  corporal  discipline;  'tis  not  the  back,  but 
the  heart  that  must  bleed  for  sin  ;  and,  consequently,  that  in 
their  wlioh!  course  they  are  like  men  out  of  their  way  ;  let 
tliom  lash  on  never  so  fast,  they  are  not  at  all  the  nearer  to 
their  journey's  end  ;  and  howsoever  they  deceive  themselves 
and  others,  they  may  as  well  expect  to  bring  a  cart  as  a  soul  to 
Heaven  by  such  means." —  Sermons,  vol.  i.  p.  34. 


In  those  weeds 
(fhich  never,  from  the  hour  when  to  the  grave 
Shefollow''d  her  dear  lord  Theodofred, 
Rusilla  laid  aside. —  If.  p.  653,  col.  2. 

Vide  miper  ipse  in  Hispaniis  constitutis  et  admiratus  sum  anti- 
quumhunc  morrm,  ab  Ilispanis  adhuc  omnibus  ubservari ;  morluH 
quippe  ur.orejiuiritus,  mortuo  marito  conjux,  morluisfliis  patres, 
mortuis  patribus  fdii,  defunctis  quibuslibet  cognntis  cognuti,  ex- 
tinctis,  quodlibct  casu  amicis  amici,  statim  arma  deponunt,  sericas 
vestfs,  pr.regrinarum  pellium  Icgmina  abjiciunt,  totmnque penitus 
multi  colorem,  ac  prdiasum  kabilum  abdicantcs,  uigris  tuntum 
vilibusquc  indumentis  se  contegunt.  Sic  crinibus  propriis  sicju- 
meuturum  suorum  caudis  dccurtatis,  scque  et  ipsa  afro prorsus 
colore  denigrant.  Tnlibus  luctui  dolorisvc  insignibus,  sublractos 
eharissimos  deflent,  et  integriad  minus  spatiam  anni,  in  tali  mce- 
rore  publica  lege  consumant.  —  Petri  Venerabilis  Epist.  quoted 
in  Yepes,  t.  vii.  ff.  21. 


Her  eyeless  husband.  — II.  p.  653,  col.  2. 

Witiza  put  out  the  eyes  of  Theodofred,  inhabilitandole  para 
lamonarchia,  says  Ferraras.  This  was  the  common  mode  of 
incapacitating  a  rival  for  the  throne. 

Un  Conde  de  Gallicla  que  fuera  valiado, 
Pelayo  avie  numbre,  omefo  dcsforzado, 
Perdio  la  vision,  andaba  embargado, 
Ca  ante  que  non  vcde,  non  debie  seer  vado. 

Gonzalo  de  Berceo.  S.  Dom.  388. 

The  history  of  Europe  during  the  dark  ages  abounds  with 
examples  of  eioculation,  as  it  was  called  by  those  writers  who 
endeavored,  towards  the  niiddle  of  the  17th  century,  to  intro- 
duce the  style-ornate  into  our  prose  after  it  had  been  banished 
from  poetry.  In  the  East,  the  practice  is  still  continued. 
When  Alboquerque  took  possession  of  Ormuz,  he  sent  to 
Portugal  fifteen  of  its  former  kings,  whom  he  found  there, 
each  of  whom,  in  his  turn,  had  been  deposed  and  blinded  ! 

In  the  semi-barbarous  stage  of  society,  any  kind  of  personal 
blemish  seems  to  have  been  considered  as  disqualifying  a  prince 
from  the  succession,  like  the  law  of  the  Nazarenes.  Yorwerth, 
the  son  of  Owen  Gwynedh,  was  set  aside  in  Wales  because  of 
his  broken  nose  ;  Count  Oliba,  in  Barcelona,  because  he  could 
never  speak  till  he  had  stamped  with  his  foot  three  times  like 
a  goat.  Aquest  Oliba  f rare  del  Conte  en  Grifa  no  era  a  dret  de 
sosmembras.  Car  la  dit  Oliba  james  no  podia  parlar,  si  primer 
no  donas  colps  ab'lo  peu  en  terra  quart  o  sine  vegades,  axi  comsi 
fos  cabra ;  e  per  aquesta  raho  lifou  imposat  lo  nam,  die/it  li  Oli- 
bra  Cahrda,  e  per  aquest  accident  lo  dit  Oliba  perde  lasuecessio 
del f rare  cnlo  Comtat  de  Barcelona,  e  fou  donat  lo  dit  Comtat  o 
en  Borrcll,  Comte  de  Urgdl,  qui  era  son  cosin  genua.—  Pfere 
Tomich,  c.  xxviii.  ff.  20. 

In  the  treaty  between  our  Henry  V.  and  Charles  VI.  of 
France,  by  which  Henry  was  appointed  King  of  France  after 
Charles's  decease,  it  was  decreed  that  the  French  should 
"  swear  to  become  liege  men  and  vassals  to  our  said  son  King 
Henry,  and  obey  him  ns  the  true  King  of  Franco,  and  without 
any  opposition  or  dispute  shall  receive  him  as  such,  and  never 
pay  obedience  to  any  other  as  king  or  regent  of  France,  but 
to  our  said  son  King  Henry,  unless  our  said  son  should  lose 
life  or  limb,  or  be  attacked  by  a  mortal  disease,  or  suffer  dim- 
inution in  person,  state,  honor,*  or.goods." 

Lope  de  Vega  alludes  to  the  blindness  of  Theodofred  in  hii 
Jerusalem  Conquistada :  — 

Criavase  con  otras  bellas  damas 
Florinda  bclla, 

•  JolineB'i  Monitrellet,  toI.  t.  p.  190. 


720      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


Esta  miro  Rodriyo  desdichado, 
^^y  si  como  su  pad  re  fucra  cie^n  I 

Saco  sus  ojns  H'itisa  ayrado, 

Fuera  mcjor  los  de  Hodrigo  luego  ; 

Ouiara  Espiina  el  timbre  coronado 
Dc  st(s  ctutiUos  en  mayor  sossiego 

Que  Ic  dio  Leovigildo,  y  no  sc  viera 

Estampa  de  ^fricano  en  su  ribera. 

L.  vi.  ff.  131. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  inconvenient  manner  in  vvhicli 
tlie  6  and  the  v  are  indiscriminately  used  by  the  Spaniards, 
occurs  here  in  the  original  edition.  The  w  not  being  used  in 
that  language,  it  would  naturally  be  represented  by  vv  ;  and 
here,  the  printer,  using  most  unluckily  his  typographical 
license,  has  made  the  word  Vbitisa. 

"  The  Spaniards,"  says  that  late  worthy  Jo.  Sandford,  some 
time  fellow  of  Magdalane  college,  in  Oxford,  (in  his  Spanish 
Grammar,  1K32,)  "do  with  a  kind  of  wantonness  so  confound 
the  sound  of  b  with  «,  that  it  is  hard  to  determine  when  and  in 
what  words  it  should  retain  its  own  power  of  a  labial  letter, 
which  gave  just  cause  of  laughter  at  that  Spaniard  who,  being 
in  conversation  with  a  French  lady,  and  minding  to  commend 
her  children  for  fair,  said  unto  her,  using  the  Spanish  liberty 
in  pronouncing  the  French,  —  Madame,  vous  arez  desveauz  en- 
fans,  telling  her  tliatshe  had  calves  to  her  children,  instead 
of  saying,  beauz  cnfans,  fair  children.  Neither  can  I  well 
justify  him  who  wrote  venejicio  for  benejicio." 


Conimbrica,  whose  ruined  towers 
Bore  record  of  the  fierce  Manias  wrath.  —  III.  [>.  655,  col.  1. 

The  Roman  Conimbrica  stood  al>out  two  leagues  from  the 
present  Coimbra,  on  the  siie  of  Condeyxa  Vellia.  Ataces, 
king  of  the  Alancs,  won  it  from  the  Sueves,  and,  in  revenge 
for  its  obstinate  resistance,  disjjeopled  it,  making  all  its  inhab- 
itants, without  distinction  of  persons,  work  at  the  foundation 
of  Coimbra  where  it  now  stands.  Hermenerico,  the  king  of 
the  Sueves,  attacked  him  while  thus  employed,  but  was  de- 
feated and  pursued  to  the  Douro  ;  peace  was  then  made,  and 
Sindasunda,  daughter  of  the  conquered,  given  in  marriage  to 
the  conqueror.  In  memory  of  the  pacification  thus  effected, 
Ataces  bore  upon  his  banners  a  damsel  in  a  tower,  with  a 
dragon  vert  on  one  side,  and  a  lion  rouge  on  the  other,  the 
bearings  of  himself  and  his  marriage-father;  and  this  device 
being  sculptured  upon  the  towers  of  Coimbra,  still  remains  as 
the  city  arms.  Two  letters  of  Arisbert,  bishop  of  Porto,  to 
Samerius,  archdeacon  of  Braga,  which  are  preserved  at  Alco- 
baca,  relate  these  events  as  the  news  of  the  day,  —  that  is,  if 
the  authority  of  Alcoba^an  records,  and  of  Bernardo  de  Brito, 
can  be  admitted.  — Mon.  Lus.  26,  3. 

Ataces  was  an  Arian,  and  therefore  made  the  Catholic 
bishops  and  priests  work  at  his  new  city  ;  but  his  queen  con- 
rerted  him. 


Mumadona.  —  III.  p.  655,  col.  1. 

Gasper  Esta^o  has  shown  that  this  is  the  name  of  the  foun- 
dress of  Guimaraens,  and  that  it  is  not,  as  some  writers  had 
supposed,  erroneously  thus  written,  because  the  words  Muma 
and  Dona  followed  each  other  in  the  deeds  of  gift  wherein  it  is 
preserved  ;  the  name  being  frequently  found  with  its  title 
affixed  thus,  Dma  Mumadna. 


the  hanlcs 

Of  Lima,  through  whose  groves,  in  after-years. 
Mournful  yet  sweet.  Dingo's  amorous  lute 
Prolonged  its  tuneful  echoes.  —  III   p.  655,  col.  9. 

Diogo  Bernardes,  one  of  the  best  of  the  Portuguese  poets, 
was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Lima,  and  passionately  fond  of 
its  scenery.  Some  of  his  sonnets  will  bear  comparison  with 
the  best  poems  of  their  kind.  There  is  a  charge  of  plagiarism 
against  him  for  having  printed  several  of  Can)0cns's  sonnets 
as  his  own  ;  to  obtain  any  proofs  upon  this  subject  would  be 
very  difficult;  this,  however,  is  certain,  that  his  own  undis- 
puted productions  resemble  them  so  closely  in  unaffected  ten- 


derness and  in  sweetness  of  diction,  that  the  whole  appeal 
like  the  works  of  one  author. 


Muria  itself  is  now  but  one  wide  tomb 
For  all  its  habitants.  —  HI.  p.  656,  col.  1. 

The  present  Orense.  The  Moors  entirely  destroyed  it ; 
dcpopulavit  usque  ad  solum,  are  the  words  of  one  of  the  old 
brief  chronicles.  In  832,  Alonzo  el  Casto  found  it  too  com- 
pletely ruined  to  be  restored.  —  Espana  Sagrada,  xvii.  p.  48. 


That  consecrated  pile  amid  the  wild. 
Which  sainted  Pructuoso,  in  his  zeal, 
Rear'd  to  St.  Fclit,  on  f^isonia's  banks. 

IV.  p.  658,  col.  2 

Of  this  saint,  and  the  curious  institutions  which  he  formed, 
and  the  beautiful  tract  of  country  in  which  they  were  placed, 
I  have  given  an  account  in  the  third  edition  of  Letters  from 
Spain  and  Portugal,  vol.  i.  p.  103. 


Sacaru indignantly 

Did  he  toward  the  oecan  bend  his  way. 
And,  shaking  from  his  feet  the  dust  of  Spain, 
Took  ship,  and  hoisted  sail  through  seas  unknovyn 
To  seek  for  freedom.  —  IV.  p.  G59,  col.  2. 

This  tale,  which  is  repeated  by  Bleda,  rests  on  no  better 
authority  than  that  of  Abulcacim,*  which  may,  however,  bj 
admitted,  so  far  as  to  show  that  it  was  a  prevalent  opinion  'r. 
his  time. 

Antonio  Galvam,  in  his  Tratado  dos  Descnbrimentos  Jintigoc 
e  Modernos,  relates  a  current,  and  manifestly  fabulous  story, 
which  has  been  supposed  to  refer  to  Sacaru,  and  the  com- 
panions of  his  emigration.  "They  say,"  he  says,  "that  at 
this  time,  A.  D.  1447,  a  Portuguese  ship  sailing  out  of  the 
Straits  of  Gibraltar,  was  carried  by  a  storm  much  farther  to 
the  west  than  she  had  intended,  and  came  to  an  island  whero 
there  were  seven  cities,  and  where  our  language  was  spoken  ; 
and  the  people  asked  whether  the  Moors  still  occupied  Spain, 
from  whence  they  had  fled  afler  the  loss  of  King  Don  Rodrigo 
T)ie  contramaster  of  the  ship  said,  that  he  brought  away  a 
little  sand  from  the  island,  and  sold  it  to  a  goldsmith  in 
Lisbon,  who  extracted  from  it  a  good  quantity  of  gold.  It  is 
said  that  the  Infante  D.  Pedro,  who  governed  at  that  time, 
ordered  these  things  to  be  written  in  the  Casa  do  Tombo. 
And  some  will  have  it  that  these  lands  and  islands  at  which 
the  Portuguese  touclied,  were  those  which  are  now  called  the 
Antilhas  and  New  Spain."     (P.  24.) 

This  Antilia,  or  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  is  laid  down  in 
Martin  Behaim's  map  ;  the  story  was  soon  improved  by  giving 
seven  bishops  to  the  seven  cities  :  and  Galvam  has  been  ac- 
cused by  Hornius  of  having  invented  it  to  give  his  countrymen 
the  honor  of  having  discovered  the  West  Indies  !  Now,  it  is 
evident  that  Antonio  Galvam  relates  the  story  as  if  he  did  not 
believe  it,  —  contam  —  they  relate,  —  and,  tZir,  it  is  said, — 
never  affirming  the  fact,  nor  making  any  inference  from  it,  but 
merely  stating  it  as  a  report ;  and  it  is  certain,  which  perhaps 
Hornius  did  not  know,  that  there  never  lived  a  man  of  purer 
integrity  than  Antonio  Galvam  ;  a  man  whose  history  is  dis- 
graceful, not  to  his  country,  but  to  the  government  under 
which  he  lived,  and  whose  uniform  and  unsullied  virtue  en- 
titles him  to  rank  among  the  best  men  that  have  ever  done 
honor  to  human  nature. 

The  writers  who  repeat  this  story  of  the  Seven  Islands  and 
their  bishops,  have  also  been  pleased  to  find  traces  of  Sacaru 
in  the  new  world,  for  which  the  imaginary  resemblances  to 
Christianity  which  were  found  in  Yucatan  and  other  places, 
serve  them  as  proofs. —  Orcgorio  Garcia,  Origcnde  las  Indios, 
I.  iv.  c.  20. 

The  work  of  Abulcacim,  in  which  the  story  first  appears, 
has  been  roundly  asserted  to  be  the  forgery  of  the  translator, 
Miguel  de  Luna.  The  Portuguese  academician,  Contador  de 
Argote,  speaking  of  this  romantic  history,  acquits  him  of  the 

•  C.  13. 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE  LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.       721 


fruuil,  which  has  with  little  reflection  bocii  laid  to  his  charge. 
Pciiraqa,  he  says,  in  the  Grnndczas  de  Granada,  and  Rodrigo 
Care,  ill  the  Grandozas  do  Sovilla,  hoth  aHirni  that  the  original 
Arahic  exists  in  the  Escuriul,  and  K'icolano  assorts  the  same, 
although  Nicholas  Antonio  suys  that  the  catalogues  of  that 
library  do  not  make  mention  of  any  such  book.  If  Luna  had 
forged  it,  it  would  not  have  had  many  of  those  blunders  which 
are  observed  in  it ;  nor  is  there  any  rea.'ion  for  imputing  such 
a  fraud  to  Luna,  a  man  well  skilled  in  Arabic,  and  of  good 
reputation.  What  I  suspect  is,  that  the  book  was  composed 
by  a  Granadan  Moor,  and  the  reason  wliich  induces  me  to  form 
this  opinion  is,  the  minuteness  with  which  he  describes  the 
comiuest  which  Tarif  made  of  those  parts  of  the  kingdom  of 
Granada,  of  the  Alpuxarras  and  the  Sorra  Neveda,  pointing 
out  the  etymologies  of  the  names  of  places,  and  other  circum- 
stances, which  any  one  who  reads  with  attention  will  observe. 
As  to  the  time  in  which  the  composer  of  this  amusing  romance 
flourished,  it  was  certainly  after  the  reign  of  Bedeci  Aben 
Uabuz,  who  governed,  and  was  Lord  of,  Granada  about  the 
year  1013,  as  Jlarniol  relates,  after  the  Arabian  writers  ;  and 
the  reason  which  1  have  for  this  assertion  is,  that  in  the  ro- 
mance of  Abulcacim  the  story  is  told  which  gave  occasion  to 
the  said  Bedeci  Aben  Habuz  to  set  up  in  Granada  that  famous 
vane,  which  represents  a  knight  upon  horseback  in  bronze, 
w  ith  a  spear  in  the  right  hand,  and  a  club  in  the  left,  and  these 
words  in  Arabic,  —  Bedeci  Aben  Habuz  says,  that  in  this 
manner  Andalusia  must  be  kept !  the  figure  moves  with  every 
wind,  and  veers  about  from  one  end  to  another. —  Mcmorias 
(lb  Braga,  t.  iii.  p.  120. 

In  the  fabulous  Chronicle  of  D.  Rodrigo,  Sacarus,  as  he  is 
there  called,  is  a  conspicuous  personage  ;  but  the  tale  of  his 
emigration  was  not  then  current,  and  the  author  kills  him  be- 
fore the  Moors  appear  upon  the  stage.  He  seems  to  have 
designed  him  as  a  representation  of  perfect  generosity. 


All  too  long. 
Here  in  their  own  inheritance,  the  sons 
Of  Spain  have  groaned  beneath  a  foreign  yoke. 

IV.  p.  C59,  col.  2. 

There  had  been  a  law  to  prohibit  intermarriages  between 
the  Goths  and  Romans  ;  this  law  Recesuintho  annulled,* 
observing,  in  his  edict,  that  the  people  ought  in  no  slight  de- 
gree to  rejoice  at  the  repeal.  It  is  curious  that  the  distinction 
should  have  existed  so  long;  but  it  is  found  also  in  a  law  of 
Wamba's,  and  doubtless  must  have  continued  till  both  names 
were  lost  together  in  the  general  wreck.  Tiie  vile  principle 
was  laid  down  in  the  laws  of  the  Wisigoths,  that  such  as  the 
root  is,  such  ought  the  branch  to  be,  —  gran  confusion  cs  de 
linage,  qnando  eljiyo  non  semeija  al  padre,  que  aquclo  qucs  de  la 
rail,  deba  ccr  en  a  cima,  and  upon  this  principle  a  law  was 
made  to  keep  the  children  of  slaves,  slaves  also. 

"  Many  men  well  versed  in  history,"  says  Contador  de  Ar- 
gote,  (Memorias  de  Braga,  3,  273,)  "  think,  and  think  rightly, 
that  this  was  a  civil  war,  and  that  the  monarchy  was  divided 
into  two  factions,  of  which  the  least  powerful  availed  itself 
of  the  Arabs  as  auxiliaries ;  and  that  these  auxiliaries  made 
themselves  masters,  and  easily  effected  their  intent  by  means 
of  the  divisions  in  the  country." 

"  The  natives  of  Spain,"  says  Joam  de  Barros,  "  never  bore 
much  love  to  the  Goths,  who  were  strangers  and  comelings, 
and  when  they  came  had  no  right  there,  for  the  whole  be- 
longed to  the  Roman  empire.  It  is  believed  that  the  greater 
part  of  those  whom  the  Moors  slew  were  Goths,  and  it  is  said 
that,  on  one  side  and  on  the  other,  in  the  course  of  two  years 
there  were  slain  by  the  sword  seven  hundred  thousand  men. 
The  Christians  who  escaped  chose  that  the  name  of  Goths 
should  be  lost ;  and  though  some  Castillians  complain  that 
the  race  should  be  extinguished,  saying  with  Don  Jorge  Man- 
rique, 

Pues  la  sangre  de  los  Oodos 
y  el  linage  y  la  nobleza 
tan  crecida, 
por  quantas  vias  y  modes 
ae  sume  su  grande  alleia 
en  esta  vida, 

•  Fu«ro  Juzgo,  L.  3.  lit.  1.  leg.  1. 

91 


I  must  say  that  I  see  no  good  foundation  for  this  ;  for  they 
were  a  proud  nation  and  barbarous,  and  wore  a  long  time 
heretics  of  the  sects  of  Arius  and  Eutychius  and  Pelagius, 
and  cati  be  praised  as  nothing  except  as  warriors,  who  were 
so  greedy  for  dominion,  that  wherever  they  reached  they  laid 
every  thing  bare  like  locusts,  and  therefore  the  emperor 
ceded  to  them  this  country.  The  people  who  dwelt  in  it 
before  were  a  better  race,  always  praised  and  feared,  and  re- 
spected by  the  Romans,  loyal  and  faithful  and  true  and  rea- 
sonable :  and  if  the  Goths  afterwards  were  worthy  of  any 
estimation  they  became  so  here :  for  as  plants  lose  their 
bitterness  and  improve  by  being  planted  and  translated  into  a 
good  soil,  (as  is  said  of  peaches,)  so  does  a  good  land  change 
its  inhabitants,  and  of  rustic  and  barbarous  make  them  polished 
and  virtuous. 

"  The  Moors  did  not  say  that  they  came  against  the  Chris- 
tians, but  against  the  Goths,  who  had  usurped  Spain  ;  and  it 
appears  that  to  the  people  of  the  land  it  mattered  little  whether 
they  were  under  Goths  or  Moors  ;  or  indeed  it  might  not  be 
too  much  to  say  that  they  preferred  the  Jloors,  not  only  be- 
cause all  new  things  and  changes  would  be  pleasing,  but  be- 
cause they  were  exasperated  against  tlie  Goths  for  what  they 
had  done  against  the  Christians,  (;'.  e.  the  Catholics,)  and  for 
the  bad  government  of  King  Witiza."    . 

"  You  are  not  to  think,"  says  the  Chronicler,  "  that  Count 
Don  Julian  and  the  Bishop  Don  Orpas  came  of  the  lineage  of 
the  Goths,  but  of  the  lineage  of  the  Caisars,  and  therefore  they 
were  not  grieved  that  the  good  lineage  should  be  destroyed." 
—  Chr.  del  K.  D.  Rodrigo,  p.  i.  c.  248. 


Favila.  —  V.  p.  661,  col.  ]. 

Barrios,  taking  a  punster's  license  ui  orthography,  plays 
upon  the  name  of  Pelayo's  father :  — 

del  gran  Favila  {que  centella 

significa)  Pclayo,  marcial  llama, 
restauro  el  Leones  rcyno  con  aquclla 
lui  que  alcanzo  la  victoriosa  rama. 

Core  de  las  Musas,  p.  102. 


The  Queen  too,  Egilona,  — 

IVas  she  not  married  to  the  enemy, 

T7w  Moor,  the  Misbeliever!  —  V.  p.  661,  col.  1. 

For  this  fact  there  is  the  unquestionable  testimony  of  Isi- 
dorus  Pacetisis.  Per  idem  tempus  in  ^ra  735,  anno  imperii 
ejus  9.  Arobum  97.  Mdalaziz  omnem  liitpaniam  per  tres  an- 
nos  sub  censuario  jugo  pacifirans,  cum  Hispali  divitiis  et  hono- 
rum  fascihus  cum  Rrgina  HispaniiB  in  conjagio  copulala,  filias 
P.egum  ac  Principum  pcllicatas,  et  imprudenter  distractas  wstu- 
aret,  seditione  suurum  facta,  orationi  in.staiif,  consilio  Ajub,  oc- 
cidilur  ;  uUjue  co  Hi.--paniam  retinentc,  mensc  impleto,  Alahor  in 
rctrno  Hesperi{B  per  principalia  jussa  succedit,  cui  de  morte  Ab- 
dalaiiz  ita  edicitur,  ut  quasi  consilio  Egilmiis  Regi(E  covjugis 
quondam  Ruderici  regis,  quam  sibi  sociaberat,  jugum  Arabicum 
a  sua  ccrvice  conaretur  avertere,  et  regnum  in  vasum  Hiberia. 
sibimet  retemptare.  —  Espana  Sagrada,  t.  viii.  302. 

Florez  relates  the  story  in  the  words  of  the  old  translation 
of  an  Arabic  original  imputed  to  Rasis.  "  When  Belazin,  the 
son  of  Muza,  remained  for  Lord  of  Spain,  and  had  ordered  his 
aff'airs  right  well,  they  told  him  tidings  of  Ulaca,  who  had 
been  the  wife  of  King  D.  Rodrigo,  tliat  she  was  a  right 
worthy  dame,  and  right  beautiful,  and  of  a  great  lineage,  and 
that  she  was  a  native  of  Africa  ;  whereupon  he  sent  for  her, 
and  ordered  that  beasts  should  be  given  her,  and  much  prop- 
erty, and  men-servants  and  maid-servants,  and  all  things  that 
she  could  require,  till  she  could  come  to  him.  And  they 
brought  her  unto  him,  and  when  he  saw  her,  he  was  well 
pleased  with  her,  and  said,  Ulaca,  tell  me  of  thy  affairs,  and 
conceal  nothing  from  me  ;  for  thou  knowest  I  may  do  with 
thee  according  to  my  will,  being  my  captive.  And  when  she 
heard  this,  it  increased  the  grief  which  she  had  in  her  heart, 
and  her  sorrow  was  such,  that  she  had  well  nigh  fallen  dead 
to  the  ground,  and  she  replied  weeping  and  said.  Baron,  what 
wouldst  thou  know  more  of  my  affairs .'  For  doth  not  all  the 
world  know,  that  I,  a  young  damsel,  being  married  with  King 


722      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


D.  Rodriyo,  was  with  liim  Lady  of  Si)aiii,  and  dwelt  in 
honor  and  in  all  pleasure,  more  than  I  deserved  ;  and  there- 
fore it  was  God's  will  that  they  sliould  endure  no  longer  ?  And 
now  I  am  in  dishonor  greater  tliun  ever  was  dnnie  of  such 
high  state  :  For  I  am  i)lundered,  and  have  not  a  single  jjalm 
of  inheritance  ;  and  I  am  a  captive,  and  brought  into  bondage. 
I  also  have  been  mistress  of  all  the  land  that  I  behold.  There- 
fore, Sir,  have  pity  upon  my  misfortunes  ;  and  in  respect  of 
the  great  lineage  which  you  know  to  be  mine,  sutler  not  that 
wrong  or  violence  be  oU'ered  mo  by  any  one  ;  and,  Sir,  if  it 
be  your  grace  you  will  ransom  me.  Tliere  are  men  I  know 
who  would  take  compassion  on  me,  and  give  you  for  me  a 
great  sum.  And  lielazin  said  to  her,  Be  certain  that  so  long 
us  I  live,  you  shall  never  go  from  my  house.  And  Ulaca  said, 
What  then,  Sir,  would  you  do  with  me  .'  and  lielazin  said,  I 
will  that  you  should  remain  in  my  liouso,  and  there  you  shall 
be  free  from  all  wretchedness,  with  my  other  wives.  And  she 
said,  In  an  evil  day  was  1  born,  if  it  is  to  be  true  that  I  have 
been  wife  of  the  honored  king  of  Spain,  and  now  have  to  live 
in  a  stranger's  house  as  the  concubine  and  captive  of  another  ! 
And  I  swear  unto  God  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  dismay  me  thus, 
that  I  will  rather  seek  my  own  death  as  soon  as  I  can ;  for  I  will 
endure  no  more  misery,  seeing  that  by  death  I  can  escape  it. 
And  when  Bolazin  saw  that  she  thus  lamented,  he  said  to  her. 
Good  dame,  think  not  that  we  have  concubines,  but  by  our  law 
we  may  have  seven  w  ives,  if  we  can  maintain  them,  and  there- 
fore you  shall  be  my  wife,  like  each  of  the  others  ;  and  all 
things  which  your  law  reijuires  that  a  man  should  do  for  his  wife, 
will  I  do  for  you  ;  and  therefore  you  have  no  cause  to  lament ; 
and  be  sure  that  I  will  do  you  much  honor,  and  will  make  all 
who  love  me  serve  and  honor  you,  and  you  shall  be  mistress 
of  all  my  wives.  To  this  she  made  answer  and  said,  Sir,  offer 
nio  no  violence  concerning  my  law,  but  let  me  live  as  a 
Christian:  And  to  this  Belazin  was  nothing  loth,  and  he 
granted  it,  and  his  marriage  was  performed  with  her  accord- 
ing to  the  law  of  the  Moors  ;  and  every  day  he  liked  her 
more,  and  did  her  such  b(nior  that  greater  could  not  be. 
And  it  befell  that  Belazin  being  one  day  with  Ulaca,  she  said 
to  him,  Sir,  do  not  think  it  ill  if  I  tell  you  of  a  thing  in 
which  you  do  not  act  as  if  you  knew  the  custom.  And  he 
said,  Wherein  is  it  that  I  err .'  Sir,  said  she,  because  you  have 
no  crown,  for  no  one  was  ever  confirmed  in  Spain,  except 
he  had  a  crown  upon  his  head.  He  said,  This  which  you  say 
is  nothing,  for  we  have  it  not  of  our  lineage,  neither  is  it  our 
custom  to  wear  a  crown.  She  said,  Many  good  reasons  are 
there  why  a  crown  is  of  use,  and  it  would  injure  you  nothing, 
but  be  well  for  you,  and  when  you  should  wear  your  crown 
upon  your  head,  God  would  know  you  and  others  also  by  it : 
And  she  said.  You  would  look  full  comely  with  it,  and  it 
would  be  great  nobleness  to  you,  and  he  right  fitting,  and  you 
should  wear  in  it  certain  stones,  which  will  be  good  for  you, 
and  avail  you.  And  in  a  short  time  afterwards,  Belazin  went 
to  dwell  at  Seville,  and  he  carried  Ulaca  with  him,  and  she 
took  of  her  gold,  and  of  her  pearls,  and  of  her  precious  stones, 
which  she  had  many  and  good,  and  made  him  the  noblest 
crown  that  ever  was  seen  by  man,  and  gave  it  him,  and  bade 
him  take  it,  and  place  it  where  it  should  be  well  kept ;  and 
Ulaca,  as  she  was  a  woman  of  understanding  and  prudence, 
ordered  her  affairs  as  well  as  Belazin,  so  that  he  loved  lier 
much  and  did  great  honor  to  her,  and  did  many  of  those  things 
which  she  desired  ;  so  that  he  was  well  pleased  with  the 
Christians,  and  di<l  them  much  good,  and  showed  favor  unto 
them."  —  Mcmorias  de  /«.?  Ri'tjiias  Catholicas,  1,  p.  28. 

The  issue  of  this  was  fatal  to  Abdalaziz.  In  Albucacim's 
history,  it  is  said  that  he  was  converted  by  this  Christian  wife, 
and  for  that  reason  put  to  death  by  his  father.  Others  have 
supposed  that  by  means  of  her  influence  he  was  endeavoring 
to  make  himself  King  of  Spain,  independent  of  the  Caliph. 
A  characteristic  circumstance  is  added.  Egilona  was  very 
desirous  to  convert  her  husband,  and  that  she  might  at  least 
obtain  from  him  some  mark  of  outward  respect  for  her  images, 
made  the  door  of  the  apartment  in  which  she  kept  them, 
so  low,  that  he  could  not  enter  without  bowing.  —  Blcda, 
p.  214. 

Deixam  a  Abdalaih,  que  dc  Bellona 
Jilamara  o  leitfj  par  Rector  da  Hcsperia  ; 

Este  caza  to  a  inclijta  Kgilona, 
Jilulher  de  Dom  Rodrigo,  (o  gram  miseria .') 


Tomou  Curoa  de  ouro,  c  a  Matrona 

Lhc  deu  para  a  tomar  larga  materia, 
Foi  nntado  a  misera  raynha 
Caiarse  com  hum  Mou.ro  turn  asinha. 

Destruicam  de  Espanha,  p.  237. 

The  character  of  this  Queen  is  beautifully  conceived  by 

the  author  of  Count  Julian  :  — 

Beaming  with  virtue  inaccessible 

Stood  Egilona ;  for  her  lord  she  lived. 

And  for  the  heavens  that  raised  her  sphere  so  high  : 

All  thoughts  were  on  her  —  all  beside  her  own. 

Negligent  as  the  blossoms  of  the  field. 

Arrayed  in  candor  and  simplicity, 

Before  her  path  she  heard  the  streams  of  joy 

Murmur  her  name  in  all  their  cadences. 

Saw  them  in  every  scene,  in  light,  in  shade, 

Reflect  her  image  ;  but  acknowledged  them 

Hers  most  complete  when  flowing  from  her  most. 

All  things  in  want  of  her,  herself  of  none, 

I'omp  and  dominion  lay  beneath  her  feet 

Unfelt  and  unregarded  :  now  behold 

The  earthly  passions  war  against  the  heavenly  '. 

Pride  against  love  ;  ambition  and  revenge 

Against  devotion  and  compliancy  — 

Her  glorious  beams  adversity  hath  blunted, 

And  coming  nearer  to  our  quiet  view, 

The  original  clay  of  coarse  mortality 

Hardens  and  flaws  around  her. 


One  day  of  bitter  and  severe  delight.  —  VI.  p.  663,  col.  2. 

I  have  ventured  to  borrow  this  expression  from  the  tragedy 
of  Count  Julian.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  passage  in 
which  it  occurs. 


AhdalaiU.   Thou  lovest  still  thy  country  .' 

Julian.    Abdalazis, 

All  men  with  h-jman  feelings  love  their  country. 

Not  the  high-born  or  wealthy  man  alone. 

Who  looks  upon  his  children,  each  one  led 

By  its  gay  handmaid,  from  the  high  alcove, 

And  hears  them  once  a-day  ;  not  only  he 

Who  hath  forgotten,  when  his  guest  inquires 

The  name  of  some  far  village  all  his  own  ; 

Whose  rivers  bound  the  province,  and  whose  hills 

Touch  the  last  cloud  upon  the  level  sky: 

No  ;  better  men  still  better  love  their  country. 

'Tis  the  old  mansion  of  their  earliest  friends. 

The  chapel  of  their  first  and  best  devotions ; 

When  violence,  or  perfidy,  invades. 

Or  when  unworthy  lords  hold  wassail  there, 

And  wiser  heads  are  drooping  round  its  moats. 

At  last  they  fix  their  steady  and  stiff  eye 

There,  there  alone  —  stand  while  the  trumpet  blows, 

And  view  the  hostile  flames  above  its  towers 

Spire,  with  a  bitter  and  severe  delight. 


Restoring  in  thy  native  line,  0  Prince, 

The  scejdrc  to  the  Spaniurd.  —  VII.  p.  666,  col.  1. 

This  was  a  favorite  opinion  of  Garibays,  himself  a  Bis- 
cayan,  but  he  has  little  better  proof  for  it  than  the  fact,  that 
Gothic  names  disappeared  with  Roderick,  and  that  Pelayo 
and  his  successors  drew  their  nomenclature  from  a  different 
stock.  He  says,  indeed,  that  ancient  writings  are  not  wanting 
to  sujiport  his  opinion.  Some  rude  commentator  has  written 
against  this  assertion  in  the  margin  of  my  copy,  mientc  Oari- 
bay ;  and  I  am  afraid  the  commentator  is  the  truer  man  of 
the  two. 

'J'here  is  a  fabulous  tale  of  Pelayo's  birth,  which,  like  many 
other  tales  of  no  better  authority,  has  legends  and  relics  to 
support  it.  The  story,  according  to  Dr.  D.  Christoval  Lozano, 
in  his  history  of  Los  Reyes  Nnevos  dc  Toledo,  is  this.  Luz, 
niece  to  Egilona,  and  sister  of  Roderick,  dwelt  at  Toledo,  in 
the  palace  of  King  Egica.     Duke  Favila,  her  father's  brother. 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,   THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      723 


fell  in  love  with  lier,  and  ciimo  from  liis  residence  in  Can- 
tabriu  to  ask  her  in  marriage,  expecting  to  lind  no  other 
obstacle  than  the  dis|)ensahle  one  of  consanguinity.  But  it  so 
happened,  that  tlie  King  was  wooing  Luz  to  become  liis  con- 
cubine ;  lier  refusal  madi:  him  jealous,  as  he  could  not  con- 
ceive that  it  proceeded  from  any  cause  except  love  for  anotiicr, 
and  as  his  temper  and  power  were  not  to  be  provoked  without 
danger,  Favila  dared  not  openly  make  his  suit.  He  and  liis 
mistress  therefore  met  in  private,  and  plighted  their  vows 
before  an  image  of  the  Virgin.  The  consequences  soon 
became  apparent,  —  the  more  so,  because,  as  Dr.  Lozano  as- 
sures us,  there  were  at  that  time  no  fashions  to  conceal  such 
tilings,  ¥  mas  que  en  aqiiella  era  no  se  avian  invcidado  las 
guarda-infantes.  The  king  observed  the  alteration  in  her 
shape,  and  placed  spies  upon  her,  meaning  to  destroy  the 
child  and  punish  the  mother  with  the  rigor  of  the  law,  death 
by  fire  being  the  punishment  for  such  an  oft'ence.  Luz  was 
well  aware  of  the  danger.  She  trusted  her  Camarera  and  one 
servant :  They  made  an  ark  :  She  herself,  as  soon  as  the 
infant  was  born,  threw  water  in  his  fat;«,  and  baptized  him  by 
tiie  name  of  Pelayo  :  a  writing  was  placed  with  him  in  the 
ark,  requesting  that  whoever  should  find  it  would  breed  up 
the  boy  with  care,  for  he  was  of  good  lineage.  Money  enough 
was  added  to  support  him  for  eight  years,  and  th«  ark  was 
then  launched  upon  the  Tugus,  where  it  Hoated  down  the 
stream  all  night,  all  day,  and  all  the  following  nigiit.  On  the 
second  morning  it  grounded  near  Alcantara,  and  was  found 
by  Grafeses,  who  happened  to  be  Luz's  uncle.  The  king's 
suspicion  being  confirmed  by  the  sudden  alteration  in  the 
lady's  appearance,  he  used  every  moans  to  detect  her,  but 
without  avail ;  he  even  ordered  all  children  to  be  examined 
who  had  been  born  in  or  around  Toledo  within  three  months, 
and  full  inquiry  to  be  made  into  the  circumstances  of  their 
births :  To  the  astonishment  of  later  historians,  35,000  of 
that  age  were  found,  and  not  one  among  them  of  suspicious 
extraction.  The  tale  proceeds  in  the  ordinary  form  of  romance. 
The  lady  is  accused  of  incontinence,  and  to  be  burnt,  unless 
a  champion  defeats  her  accuser.  Favila  of  course  undertakes 
her  defence,  and  of  course  is  victorious.  A  second  battle 
follows  with  the  same  success,  and  fresh  combats  would  have 
followed,  if  a  hermit  had  not  brought  the  king  to  repentance. 
Grafeses  in  due  time  discovers  the  secret,  and  restores  the 
child  to  his  parents 

This  fabulous  chronicle  seems  to  be  the  oldest  written 
source  of  this  story,  but  some  such  tradition  had  probably 
long  been  current.  The  ark  was  shown  at  Alcantara,  in  the 
convent  of  St.  Benito  ;  and  a  description  of  it,  with  reasons 
why  its  authenticity  should  be  admitted,  may  be  found  in 
Francisco  de  Pisa's  Description  dc  Toledo,  1.  iii.  c.  i. 


^nd  ill  thy  name, 
Accept  the  Crown  of  Thorns  she  proffers  me.  —  VII.  6C;i,  col.  2. 

Godfrey  was  actually  crowned  with  thorns  in  Jerusalem,  — 
a  circumstance  which  has  given  rise  to  a  curious  question  in 
heraldry,  —  thus  curiously  stated  and  commented  by  Robert 
Barret,  in  that  part  of  his  long  poem  which  relates  to  this 
Prince :  — 

A  Prince  religious,  if  ever  any. 
Considering  the  ago  wherein  he  lived. 
Vice-hater  great,  endued  with  virtues  many, 
True  humilized,  void  of  mundane  pride  ; 
For  though  he  now  created  were  great  king, 
Yet  would  he  not,  as  royal  pomp  requires, 
Encrowned  be  with  crownet  glistering 
Of  gold  and  gems  to  mnndains  vain  desires  ; 
But  with  a  piicking,  pricking  crown  of  thorn. 
Bearing  thereto  a  Christian  reverence, 
Sith  Heaven's  Kins,  man's  Redeemer,  did  not  scorn 
To  wear  such  crown  within  that  city's  fence. 
When  as,  cross-lodcn,  hnmhlely  he  went, 
AW  cowring  under  burden  of  that  wood. 
To  kee  man  To  pay  the  pain  of  man's  due  punishment, 


Some  blundering  in  world-witted  heraldry. 
The  foolish-  Not  knowing  how  t'  distinguish  vertues  trye, 
mL"^  ^"'  Do  question  mak('  this  Christian  king  to  set 
In  catalogue  of  gold-diademed  kings  ; 
Regarding  glitter  of  the  external  jet. 
And  not  true  garnish  of  th'  internal  things ; 
Th'  internal  virtues,  soul's  sweet  ornaments, 
So  pleasing  to  th'  Eternal's  sacred  eyes, 
In  angels  chore  consorting  sweet  concents 
Of  heavenly  harmony  'bove  christal  skies. 
But  we,  i  contra,  him  not  only  deem 
A  Christian  king,  but  perfect  Christian  king, 
A  christal  fanal,  lamping  light  divine 
To  after-comer  kings,  world  cmp'rizing. 
For  he,  religious  prince,  did  not  despise 
The  Heaven-sent  gift  to  be  anointed  king. 
But  disesteem'd  the  mundane  pompous  guiso 
Tickling  the  hearts  of  princes  monarching. 

Annotncion.       Potentates  regard  this  lieaven-aspiring  Prince, 
Not  priding,  as  up  proves  his  dignity  ; 
High  throned  kings  aspect  the  starred  fence 
Of  this  true  map  of  true  kings  royalty ; 
Not  Nembrothizing  in  cloud-kissing  towers. 
Not  Semiramizing  in  prides  palaces. 
Not  Neroniziiig  in  all  sanguine  hours. 
Not  Hcliogabalizing  in  lusts  lees  ; 
But  Joshuadizing  in  his  Christian  camp. 
And  Judithizing  in  his  Salem's  seat. 
And  Davidizing  in  his  Sion's  stamp. 
And  Solomonizing  in  all  sacred  heat. 


Ironi  hell. 


And  free  from  Pluto's  bands  Prometheus  brooil. 

By  reas'n  of  Godfrey's  great  humility 
Refusing  golden-crownets  dignity. 


Outwatching  for  her  sake 
The  slarrij  host,  and  ready  for  the  work 
Of  day  hi  fire  Ike  sun  begins  his  course.  —  VIIT.  p.  6G7,  col.  2. 

Garci  Fernandez  Manrique  surprised  the  Jloors  so  often 
during  the  night,  that  he  was  called  Garci  Madrugi,  — an 
appellation  of  the  same  import  as  Peep-of-day-boy.  He 
founded  the  convent  of  St.  Salvador  de  Palacios  de  Benagel 
for  Benedictine  nuns,  and  when  he  called  up  liis  merry  men, 
used  to  say.  Up,  sirs,  and  fight,  for  my  nuns  are  up  and 
praying  ;  Levantaos  Senores  d  pelcar,  que  mis  monjas  son  Icvan- 
tadas  a  rczar.  —  Pruebas  de  la  Hist,  de  la  Casa  de  Lara,  p.  40. 


Hermesind.  —  X.  p.  670,  col.  1. 

Mariana  derives  the  name  of  Hermesinda  from  the  reverence 
in  which  Hormenegild  was  held  in  Spain,  — a  prince  who  has 
been  sainted  for  having  renounced  the  Homooisian  creed,  and 
riiised  a  civil  war  against  his  father  in  favor  of  the  Ho- 
moousian  one.  It  is  not  a  little  curious,  when  the  fate  of 
D.  Carlos  is  remembered,  that  his  name  should  have  been 
inserted  in  the  calendar,  at  the  solicitation  of  Philip  II.  ! 
From  the  same  source  Blariana  derives  the  names  Herme- 
nisiiida,  Armengol,  Ermengaud,  Hermegildez,  and  Hermildez 
But  here,  as  Brito  has  done  with  Pelayo,  he  seems  to  forget 
that  the  name  was  current  before  it  was  borne  by  the  Saint, 
and  the  derivations  from  it  as  numerous.  Its  root  may  be 
found  in  Herman,  whose  German  name  will  prevail  over  the 
Latinized  Arminius 


The  glen  tohcre  Tagus  rolls  between  liis  rocks. 

X.  p.  G7I,col.  2. 

The  story  of  the  Enchanted  Tower  at  Toledo  is  well  known 
to  every  English  reader.  It  neither  accorded  with  the  char- 
acter of  my  poem  to  introduce  the  fiction,  ncf  would  it  have 
been  prudent  to  have  touched  upon  it  after  Walter  Scott. 
The  account  of  the  Archbishop  Rodrego,  and  of  Abulcacjm, 
may  be  found  in  his  notes.  What  follows  here  is  trnnslat.-il 
from  the  fabulous  chronicle  of  King  Don  Rodrigo. 

"  And  there  came  to  him  the  keepers  of  the  house  which 
was  in  Toledo,  which  they  called  Pleasure  with  Pain,  the 
Perfect  Guard,  the  secret  of  that  which  is  to  come  ;  and  it 
was  called  also  by  another  name,  the  Honor  of  God.  And 
these  keepers  came  before  the  king,  and  said  unto  him,  Sire, 


724      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


since  God  hath  done  thee  such  good,  and  such  favor  as  that 
thou  shiiuldst  be  king  of"  all  Spain,  we  come  to  require  of 
thee  that  thou  wouldst  go  to  Toledo,  and  put  thy  lock  upon 
tho  house  which  we  are  appointed  to  keep.  And  the  king 
demanded  of  thorn  what  house  was  that,  and  wherefore  he 
should  put  upon  it  his  lock.  And  they  said  unto  him,  Sire, 
we  will  willinsly  tell  thee,  tliat  thou  mayst  know.  Sire,  true 
it  is,  that  when  Hercules  the  Strong  came  into  Spain,  he  made 
in  it  many  marvellous  things  in  those  places  where  he  under- 
stood tliat  they  might  best  remain  ;  and  thus  when  he  was  in 
Toledo  he  understood  well  that  that  city  would  be  one  of  the 
best  in  Spain  ;  and  saw  that  the  kings  w'ho  should  be  Lords 
of  Spain  would  have  more  pleasure  to  continue  dwelling 
therein  than  in  any  other  part ;  and  seeing  that  things  would 
come  after  many  ways,  some  contrariwise  to  others,  it  pleased 
him  to  leave  many  enchantments  made,  to  the  end  that  after 
his  death  his  power  and  wisdom  might  by  them  be  known. 
And  he  made  in  Toledo  a  house,  after  the  manner  which  we 
shall  now  describe,  with  great  mastership,  so  that  we  have  not 
lieard  tell  of  any  other  such :  The  which  is  made  after  this 
guise.  There  are  four  lions  of  metal  under  the  foundation 
of  this  house  :  and  so  large  are  they,  that  a  man  sitting  ujmn 
a  great  horse  on  the  one  side,  and  another  in  like  manner 
upon  the  other,  cannot  see  each  other,  so  large  are  the  lions. 
And  the  house  is  upon  them,  and  it  is  entirely  round,  and  so 
lofty  that  there  is  not  a  man  in  the  world  who  can  throw  a 
stone  to  the  top  :  and  many  have  attempted  this,  but  they 
never  could.  And  there  is  not  a  man  of  this  age  who  can 
tell  you  by  what  manner  this  house  was  made,  neither  whose 
understanding  can  reach  fo  say  in  what  manner  it  is  worked 
witliin.  But  of  that  which  we  have  seen  without,  we  have 
to  tell  thee.  Certes  in  the  whole  house  there  is  no  stone 
bigger  than  the  hand  of  a  man,  and  tlie  most  of  them  are  of 
jasper  and  marble,  so  clear  and  sl)ining,  that  they  si^em  to  be 
crystal.  They  are  of  so  many  colors  that  we  do  not  think 
there  are  two  stones  in  it  of  the  same  color ;  and  so  cun- 
ningly are  they  joined  one  with  another,  that  if  it  were  not 
for  the  many  colors,  you  would  not  believe  but  that  the 
whole  house  was  made  of  one  entire  stone.  And  the  stones 
are  placed  in  such  manner  one  by  another,  that  seeing  them 
you  may  know  all  the  things  of  the  battles  aforepast,  and  of 
great  feats.  And  this  is  not  by  jiictures,  but  the  color  of  the 
stones,  and  the  great  art  of  joining  one  with  the  other,  make 
it  appear  thus.  And  sans  doubt  he  who  should  wish  to  know 
the  truth  of  the  great  deeds  of  arms  which  have  been  wrought 
in  the  world,  might  by  means  of  that  house  know  it.  See 
now  in  what  manner  Hercules  was  wise  and  fortunate,  and 
right  valiant,  and  acquainted  with  the  things  which  were  to 
come.  And  when  he  was  Lord  of  Spain,  he  made  it  after 
this  guise,  which  we  have  related  unto  you.  And  he  com- 
manded that  neither  King  nor  Lord  of  Sjiain  who  might  come 
after  him,  should  seek  to  know  that  which  was  within  ;  but 
that  every  one  instead  should  put  a  lock  upon  the  doors 
thereof,  even  as  he  himself  did,  for  he  first  put  on  a  lock,  and 
fastened  it  with  his  key.  And  after  him  there  has  been  no 
King  nor  Lord  in  Spain,  who  has  thought  it  good  to  go  from 
his  bidding  ;  but  every  one  as  he  came  put  on  each  his  lock, 
according  to  that  which  Hercules  appointed.  And  now  that 
we  have  told  thee  the  manner  of  the  house,  and  that  which 
we  know  concerning  it,  we  require  of  thee  that  thou  shouldst 
go  thither,  and  put  on  thy  lock  on  the  gates  thereof,  even  as 
all  the  kings  have  done  who  have  reigned  in  Spain  until  this 
time.  And  the  King  Don  Rodrigo  hearing  the  marvellous 
things  of  this  house,  and  desiring  to  know  what  there  was 
within,  and  moreover  being  a  man  of  great  heart,  wished  to 
know  of  all  things  how  they  were  and  for  what  guise.  He 
made  answer,  that  no  such  lock  would  he  put  upon  that  house, 
and  that  by  all  means  he  would  know  what  there  was  within. 
And  they  said  unto  him.  Sire,  you  will  not  do  that  which  has 
never  been  don  >  in  Spain  ;  be  pleased  therefore  to  observe 
that  w  hich  the  other  kings  have  observed.  And  the  king  said 
unto  them.  Leave  off  now,  and  I  will  appoint  the  soonest  that 
may  be  how  I  may  go  to  see  this  house,  and  then  I  will  do 
that  which  shall  seem  good.  And  he  would  give  them  no 
other  reply.  And  when  they  saw  that  he  would  give  them 
no  other  reply,  they  dared  not  persist  farther,  and  they  dis- 
peeded  themselves  of  him,  and  went  their  way. 

"  Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  King  Don  Rodrigo  called  to 
mind  how  he  had  been  required  to  put  a  lock  upon  the  doors 


of  the  house  which  was  in  Toledo,  and  he  resolved  to  carry 
into  effect  that  unto  which  his  heart  inclined  him.  And  one 
day  he  gathered  together  all  the  greatest  knights  of  Spain, 
who  were  there  with  him,  and  went  to  see  this  house,  and  he 
saw  that  it  was  more  marvellous  than  those  who  were  its 
keepers  had  told  him,  and  as  he  was  thus  beholding  it,  he  said, 
Friends,  I  will  by  all  means  see  what  there  is  in  this  house 
which  Hercules  made.  And  when  the  great  Lords  who  were 
with  him  heard  this,  they  began  to  say  unto  him  that  he  ought 
not  to  do  this  ;  for  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  do  that 
which  never  king  nor  Csesar,  that  had  been  Lord  of  Spain 
since  Hercules,  had  done  until  that  time.  And  the  king  said 
unto  them.  Friends,  in  this  house  there  is  nothing  but  what 
may  be  seen.  I  am  well  sure  that  the  enchantments  caimot 
hinder  me,  and  this  being  so,  I  have  nothing  to  fear.  And  the 
knights  said.  Do  that,  sir,  which  you  think  good,  but  this  is 
not  done  by  our  counsel.  And  when  he  saw  that  they  were  all 
of  a  diflirent  accord  from  that  which  ho  wished  to  do,  he  said, 
Now  gainsay  me  as  you  will,  for  let  what  will  happen  I  shall 
not  forl)ear  to  do  my  pleasure.  And  forthwith  he  went  to  the 
doors,  and  ordered  all  the  locks  to  be  opened  ;  and  this  was  a 
great  labor,  for  so  many  were  the  keys  and  the  locks,  that  if 
they  had  not  seen  it,  it  would  have  been  a  great  thing  to  be- 
lieve. And  after  they  were  unlocked,  the  king  pushed  the 
door  with  his  hand,  and  he  went  in,  and  the  chief  persons  who 
were  tln're  with  him,  as  many  as  he  pleased,  and  they  found  a 
hall  made  in  a  square,  being  as  wide  on  one  part  as  on  the 
other,  and  in  it  there  was  a  bed  richly  furnished,  and  there 
was  laid  in  that  bed  the  statue  of  a  man,  exceeding  great,  and 
arnied  at  all  points,  and  ho  had  the  one  arm  stretched  out,  and 
a  writing  in  his  hand.  And  when  the  king  and  those  who 
were  with  him  saw  this  bed,  and  the  man  who  was  laid  in  it, 
they  marvelled  what  it  might  be,  and  they  said,  Certes,  that 
bid  was  one  of  the  wonders  of  Flercules  and  of  his  enchant- 
ments. And  when  they  saw  the  writing  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  they  showed  it  to  the  king,  and  the  king  went  to  him, 
and  took  it  from  his  hand,  and  opened  it  and  read  it,  and  it 
said  thus,  .Audacious  one,  thou  who  shall  read  this  writing, 
mark  well  what  thou  art,  and  how  great  evil  through  thee  shall 
come  to  pass,  for  even  as  Spain  was  peopled  and  conquered  bv 
me,  so  by  thee  shall  it  be  depopulated  and  lost.  And  I  sav 
unto  thee,  that  I  was  Hercules  the  strong,  he  who  conquered 
the  greater  part  of  the  world,  and  all  Spain  ;  and  I  slew  Gc- 
ryon  the  Great,  who  was  Lord  thereof;  and  I  alone  subdued 
all  these  lands  of  Spain,  and  conquered  many  nations,  and 
brave  knights,  and  never  any  one  could  conquer  me,  save  only 
Death.  Look  well  to  what  thou  doest,  lor  from  this  world 
thou  w  ilt  carry  with  thee  nothing  but  the  good  which  thou 
hast  done. 

"  And  when  the  king  had  read  the  writing  he  was  troubled, 
and  he  wished  then  that  he  had  not  begun  this  thing,  How- 
beit  he  made  semblance  as  if  it  touched  him  not,  and  said  that 
no  man  was  powerful  enough  to  know  that  which  is  to  come, 
except  the  true  God.  And  all  the  knights  who  were  present 
were  much  troubled  because  of  what  the  writing  said;  and 
having  seen  this  they  went  to  behold  another  apartment, 
which  was  so  marvellous,  that  no  man  can  relate  how  mar- 
vellous it  was.  The  colors  which  were  therein  were  four- 
The  one  part  of  the  apartment  was  white  as  snow  ;  and  the 
othct,  which  was  over  against  it,  was  more  black  than  pitch  ; 
and  another  part  was  green  as  a  fine  emerald,  and  that  which 
was  over  against  it  was  redder  than  fresh  blood  ;  and  the  whole 
apartment  was  bright  and  more  lucid  than  crystal,  and  it  was 
so  beautiful,  and  the  color  thereof  so  fine,  that  it  seemed  as  if 
each  of  the  sides  were  made  of  a  single  stone,  and  all  who  were 
there  present  said  that  there  was  not  more  than  a  single  stone 
in  each,  and  that  there  was  no  joining  of  one  stone  with 
another,  for  every  side  of  the  whole  four  appeared  to  be  one 
solid  slab  ;  and  they  all  said,  that  never  in  the  world  had  such 
a  work  as  this  elsewhere  been  made,  and  that  it  must  te  held 
for  a  remarkable  thing,  and  for  one  of  the  wonders  of  the 
world.  .And  in  all  the  apartments  there  was  no  benm,  nor 
any  work  of  wood,  neither  within  nor  without;  and  as  the 
floor  (hereof  was  flat,  so  also  was  the  ceiling.  Above  these 
were  windows,  and  so  many,  that  they  gave  a  great  light,  so 
that  all  which  was  within  might  be  seen  as  clearly  as  that 
which  was  without.  .And  when  they  had  seen  the  apartment 
how  it  was  made,  they  found  in  it  nothing  but  one  pillar,  and 
that  not  very  large,  and  round,  and  of  the  height  of  a  man  of 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


725 


mean  stature:  and  there  was  a  door  in  it  right  cunningly 
made,  and  upon  it  was  a  little  writing  in  Greek  letters,  which 
said,  Hercules  made  this  house  in  the  j'oar  of  Adam  three 
hundred  and  six.  And  when  the  king  had  read  these  letters, 
and  understood  that  which  they  said,  he  opened  the  door,  and 
when  it  was  opened  they  found  Hebrew  letters  which  said, 
This  house  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  Hercules  ;  and  when  they 
had  read  these  letters  they  saw  a  niche  made  in  that  pillar, 
in  which  was  a  coffer  of  silver,  right  subtly  wrought,  and  after 
a  strange  manner,  and  it  was  gilded,  and  covered  with  many 
precious  stones,  and  of  great  price,  and  it  was  fastened  with  a 
lock  of  mother-of-pearl.  And  this  was  made  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  it  was  a  strange  thing,  and  there  were  cut  upon  it 
Greek  letters  which  said,  It  cannot  be  but  that  the  king,  in 
whose  time  tliis  coffer  shall  be  opened,  shall  sec  wonders  be- 
fore his  death  :  thus  said  Hercules  the  Lord  of  Greece  and  of 
Spain,  who  knew  some  of  those  things  which  are  to  come. 
And  when  the  king  understood  this,  he  said,  Within  this  coffer 
lies  that  which  I  seek  to  know,  and  which  Hercules  has  so 
strongly  forbidden  to  be  known.  And  he  took  the  lock  and 
broke  it  with  his  hands,  for  there  was  no  other  who  durst 
break  it :  and  when  the  lock  was  broken,  and  tlie  coffer  open, 
they  found  nothing  within,  except  a  white  cloth  folded  be- 
tweea  two  pieces  of  copper ;  and  he  took  it  and  opened  it, 
and  found  Moors  portrayed  therein  with  turbans,  and  banners 
in  their  hands,  and  with  their  swords  round  their  necks,  and 
their  bows  behind  them  at  the  saddle-bow,  and  over  these 
figures  were  letters  which  said,  When  this  cloth  shall  be 
opened,  and  these  figures  seen,  men  appareled  like  them  shall 
conquer  Spain  and  shall  be  Lords  thereof. 

"  When  the  King  Don  Rodrigo  saw  this,  he  was  troubled  at 
heart,  and  all  the  knights  who  were  with  him.  And  they  said 
unto  him,  Xow,  sir,  you  may  see  what  has  befallen  you,  be- 
cause you  would  not  listen  to  those  who  coiuiselled  you  not 
to  pry  into  so  great  a  thing,  and  because  you  despised  the 
kings  who  were  before  you,  who  all  observed  the  commands 
of  Hercules,  and  ordered  them  to  be  observed,  but  you  would 
not  do  this.  And  he  had  greater  trouble  in  his  heart  than  he 
had  ever  before  felt ;  howbeit  he  began  to  comfort  them  all, 
and  said  to  them,  God  forbid  that  all  this  which  we  have  seen 
should  come  to  pass.  Nevertheless,  I  say,  that  if  things  must 
be  according  as  they  are  here  declared,  I  could  not  set  aside 
that  which  hath  been  ordained,  and,  therefore,  it  appears  that 
I  am  he  by  whom  this  house  was  to  be  opened,  and  that  for 
me  it  was  reserved.  .\nd  seeing  it  is  done,  there  is  no  reason 
that  we  should  grieve  for  that  which  cannot  be  prevented,  if 
it  must  needs  come.  And  let  come  what  may,  with  all  my 
power  I  will  strive  against  that  which  Hercules  has  foretold, 
even  till  I  take  my  death  in  resisting  it :  and  if  you  will  all  do 
in  like  manner,  I  doubt  whether  the  whole  world  can  take 
from  us  our  power.  But  if  by  God  it  hath  been  appointed, 
no  strength  and  no  art  can  avail  against  his  Almighty  power, 
but  that  all  things  must  be  fulfilled  even  as  to  him  seemeth 
good.  In  this  guise  they  went  out  of  the  house,  and  he 
charged  them  all  that  they  should  tell  no  man  of  what  they 
had  seen  there,  and  ordered  the  doors  to  be  fastened  in  the 
same  manner  as  before.  And  they  had  hardly  finished  fasten- 
ing them,  when  they  beheld  an  eagle  fall  right  down  from  the 
skv,  as  if  it  had  descended  from  Heaven,  carrying  a  burning 
firebrand,  which  it  laid  upon  the  top  of  the  house,  and  began 
to  fan  it  with  its  wings  ;  and  the  firebrand  with  the  motion  of 
the  air  began  to  blaze,  and  the  house  was  kindled  and  burnt 
as  if  it  had  been  made  of  rosin  ;  so  strong  and  mighty  were  the 
flames  and  so  high  did  they  blaze  up,  that  it  was  a  great 
marvel,  and  it  burnt  so  long  tliat  there  did  not  remain  the  sign 
of  a  single  stone,  and  all  was  burnt  into  ashes.  And  after  a 
while  there  came  a  great  flight  of  birds  small  and  black,  who 
hovered  over  the  ashes,  and  they  were  so  many,  that  with 
the  fanning  of  their  wings,  all  the  ashes  were  stirred  up,  and 
rose  into  the  air,  and  were  scattered  over  the  whole  of  Spain  ; 
and  many  of  those  persons  upon  whom  the  ashes  fell,  ap- 
peared as  if  they  had  been  besmeared  with  blood.  All  this 
happened  in  a  day,  and  many  said  afterwards,  that  all  those 
persons  upon  whom  those  ashes  fell,  died  in  battle  when  Spain 
was  conquered  and  lost  ;  and  this  was  the  first  sign  of  the 
destruction  of  Spain." — Chrvnica  del  Rry  D.  Rodrigo, 
Part  I.  c.  2&-30. 

"Ysienilo  vtrdad  lo  que  escriren  nuej!tros  Chronistas,  y  el 
A'icayde  Tarif,  las  leiras  que  en  estc  Palacio  faeron  halladas,  no 


sc  ha  dc  intend' r  que  fueron  pucstas  pur  Hercules  en  sufunda- 
cion,  ni  por  algun  nigromaiitico,  tomo  algnnos  picnsun,  pues  solo 
Dios  sabe  las  cosas  por  venir,  y  lupicllos  aqiiicn  el  es  scrcido  re- 
veUrrlas :  bienpuede  ser  que  fuessen  puestas  por  alguna  saata 
persona  aquien  nuestro  Senor  lo  oviessc  recelado  y  inuiulado ; 
coino  rivelo  el  casligo  que  atia  dc  sucedcr  del  dUuvio  general  en 
tiempo  de  Aof,  quefue  prcgonero  de  la  juslicia  dc  Dios ;  y  el 
de  las  ciudades  de  Sodoma  y  Oomorra  a  Abraham."  —  Fran,  do 
Pisa,  Uescr.  de  Toledo,  I.  2,  c.  3L 

Tlio  Sjianish  ballad  upon  the  subject,  fine  as  the  subject  is, 
is  flat  as  a  flounder :  — 

De  los  nobilissimos  Oodos 
que  en  Costilla  avian  reynado 
Rodrigo  reyno  elposlrero 
de  los  reyes  que  han  passado ; 
tn  cuyo  tiempo  losMoros 
todo  Espana  avian  ganado, 
sinofuera  las  Asturias 
que  defendio  Don  Pclayo. 
En  Toledo  csta  Rodrigo 
al  comicn^o  del  reynado  ; 
vinole  gran  voluntad 
de  ver  lo  que  esta  cerrado 
en  la  torre  que  esta  alii, 
antigua  dc  muchos  anos. 
En  esta  torre  los  reyes 
cada  uvo  hccho  un  canado, 
porquc  lo  ordenara  ansi 
Hercules  el  afamado, 
que  gano  primero  a  F-spana 
de  Gerion  gran  tirano. 
Crcyo  el  rcy  que  avia  en  la  torre 
gran  Ihcsoro  alii  guardado  ; 
la  torre  fue  luega  abierta 
y  quitados  los  canaiius  : 
no  ay  en  ella  cosa  alguna, 
sola  una  caxa  han  hallado. 
El  rey  la  mandara  ahrir ; 
un  pano  dentro  se  ha  Itallado, 
con  vnas  letras  latinos 
que  dizen  en  Castellanc, 
Quando  aquestas  ccrradaras 
que  cicrran  estos  canados, 
fueren  abicrtas  y  visto 
lo  en  el  pane  dcbuiado, 
Espana  sera  perdida, 
y  toda  ella  asolada ; 
ganaran  la  gente  estrana 
como  aqui  est  an  Jigurados, 
los  rostros  muy  deuegridos, 
los  bra^os  arremangados, 
nuchas  colores  vestidas, 
en  las  cabegas  tocados, 
alfaJas  traeran  sus  Sfnas 
en  cavallos  cavalgando, 
largas  langas  en  sus  manos, 
con  espadas  en  su  lado. 
Alarahes  se  diran, 
y  de  aquesia  tierra  eslranos; 
perderase  toda  Espana, 
que  nada  no  aurafincado. 
El  rey  con  sus  ricos  hombres 
todos  se  avian  espantado, 
quando  vieron  lasjiguras 
y  letras  que  hemos  contado ; 
bueloen  a  cerrar  la  torre, 
quedo  el  rey  muy  angustiado. 

Romances  nuevamonte  sacadosper  Lo- 
renzo de  Sepulveda,  ff.  160,  I5C4. 

Juan  Yague  de  Salas  relates  a  singular  part  of  this  miracle, 
which  I  have  not  seen  recorded  any  where  but  in  his  very  rare 
and  curious  poem :  — 

Caatd  como  rompidos  los  candados 
De  la  lobrega  cueva,  y  despedidas 
De  sus  senos  obscuros  vozes  tristes 
JVo  bien  articuladas,  si  a  rcmiendos, 


72G      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


Hfpetidas  adentro  par  el  aijrCj 
Y una  mas  broiica  sc  csciicho  que  dtie^ 
Desdiduido  Rnj  Ho  {y  ucaba  digo, 
Qucdaitdo  la  li  sabnisrsa  ciitre  pigavras) 
La  Cora  pcrdcras^  y  el  JMaii^  y  el  Cc, 
JVo  dij:u  el  na,  ni  cl  do,  ni  el  Ira,  no  duo  ; 
Mmenns  no  sc  uya,  si  bien  uyuse 
Por  lascivo  ttrano,  y  par  sabcrvio. 
Que  ya  pcrmile.  cl  Ciclo  ijur.  cl  de  Mtca 
Castiirue  por  tu,  causa  cl  Rcynu  Oodo, 
Por  solo  que  la  rii^es  con  mal  modo. 

Los  Ainaiitcs  tie  Toruel,  p.  20. 

Tho  Chronica  General  del  Rry  Don  Mfonso  gives  a  sin- 
gular account  of  tlio  first  inli.ibitant  of  tliis  fatal  spot :  — 

"  There  was  a  king  wlio  luul  to  name  Uocas  ;  lie  was  of 
•lie  east  country  from  Edom,  wherein  was  paradise,  and  for 
the  love  of  wisdom  lio  forsook  his  kingdom,  and  went  about 
the  world  seeking  knowledge.  And  in  a  country  between  the 
east  and  tlie  north,  he  found  seventy  pillars  ;  thirty  were  of 
brass,  thirty  of  marble,  and  they  lay  upon  the  grouiul,  and 
upon  them  was  written  all  knowledge  and  the  nature  of  things. 
These  Rocas  translated,  and  carried  with  him  the  book  in 
which  lie  had  translated  tliem,  by  which  he  did  marvels.  He 
came  to  Troy  when  the  people  under  I^aomcdon  were  build- 
ing the  city,  and  seeing  them  he  laughed.  They  asked  him 
why,  and  he  replied,  that  if  they  knew  what  was  to  happen, 
they  would  cease  from  their  work.  Then  they  took  him  and 
led  liim  befoie  Laomcdon,  and  Ijaomedou  asked  him  for  why 
he  had  spoken  tl'.esc  svords,  and  lloras  answered,  tliat  he  had 
spoken  truth,  for  tlio  people  should  be  put  to  the  sword, 
and  the  city  he  destroyed  by  fire.  Wherefore  the  Trojans 
would  have  slain  him,  but  Laomedon,  judging  that  he  spak(^ 
from  folly,  put  him  in  jirison  to  see  if  be  would  repent.  He, 
fearful  of  death,  by  his  art  sent  a  sleep  upon  the  guards,  and 
filed  olf  his  irons,  and  went  liis  way.  And  he  came  to  tlie 
seven  bills  by  the  Tiber,  and  there,  upon  a  stone,  he  wrote  the 
letters  Roma,  and  Romulus  found  them,  and  gave  them  as  a 
name  to  his  city,  because  they  bore  a  resemblance  to  his  own. 

"  Then  went  King  Rocas  westward,  and  he  entered  Spain, 
and  went  round  it  and  through  it,  till  coming  to  the  sjiot 
where  Toledo  stands,  ho  discovered  that  it  was  tho  central 
place  of  the  country,  and  that  one  day  a  city  should  there  be 
built,  and  there  he  found  a  cave,  into  which  he  entered.  There 
lay  in  it  a  huge  dragon,  and  Rocas  in  fear  besought  the  dragon 
not  to  hurt  him,  for  they  vvere  both  creatures  of  God.  And 
the  dragon  took  such  love  towards  him,  that  he  always  brought 
him  part  of  his  food  from  the  chase,  and  they  dwelt  together 
in  the  cave.  One  day,  an  honorable  man  of  that  land,  by 
name  Tartus,  was  hunting  in  that  mountain,  and  he  found  a 
bear,  and  the  bear  fled  into  the  cave,  and  Rocas,  in  fear,  ad- 
dressed him  as  he  bad  done  the  dragon,  and  the  bear  quietly 
lay  down,  and  Rocas  fondled  his  head  ;  and  Tartus  following, 
saw  Rocas,  how  his  beard  was  long,  and  his  body  covered  with 
hair,  and  he  thought  it  was  a  wild  man,  and  fitted  an  arrow 
to  his  bow,  and  drew  the  string.  Then  Rocas  besought  him 
in  the  name  of  God  not  to  slay  him,  and  obtained  security  for 
himself  and  the  bear  under  his  protection.  And  when  Tartus 
heard  how  he  was  u  king,  he  invited  him  to  leave  that  den  and 
return  with  him,  and  he  would  give  him  his  only  daughter  in 
marriage,  and  leave  him  all  that  he  had.  By  this  the  dragon 
returned.  Tartus  was  alarmed,  and  would  have  fled,  but 
Rocas  interfered,  and  the  dragon  threw  down  half  an  ox,  for 
he  had  devoured  the  rest,  and  asked  the  stranger  to  stop  and 
eat.  Tartus  declined  the  invitation,  for  he  must  be  gone. 
Then  said  Rocas  to  the  dragon.  My  friend,  I  must  now  leave 
you,  for  we  have  sojourned  together  long  enough.  So  he  de- 
jiartcd,  and  married,  and  had  two  sons  ;  and,  for  love  of  the 
dragon,  he  built  a  tower  over  the  cave,  and  dwelt  there.  After 
his  death,  one  of  his  sons  built  another,  and  King  Pirros  added 
more  building,  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  Toledo." 


Redeemed  Magdalen.  —  X.  p.  G72,  col.  1. 

Lardncr  published  a  letter  to  Jonas  Hanway,  showing  why 
houses  for  the  reception  of  penitent  harlots  ought  not  to  be 
called  Magdalen  Houses  ;  Mary  Magdalen  not  being  the  sin- 
ner recorded  in  the  7th  chapter  of  Luke,  but  a  woman  of  dis- 


tinction and  excellent  character,  who  labored  under  some 
bodily  infirmity,  which  our  Lord  miraculously  healed. 

In  the  Shibboleth  of  Jean  Despagne  is  an  article  thus  en- 
titled :  De  Marie  Magddainc  laquelle  faussement  on  dil  avoir 
esUfcmme  dc  maavaise  vie  .-  Lc  tart  que  lay  font  les  Tlieologiens 
pour  la  plus  part  en  leurs  sermons,  en  Icurs  livrcs ;  ct  spccialcmcnt 
la  Bible  Jingloise  rn  VArgument  du  7«  chap,  de  S.  Luc. 

"The  iiijnry,"  says  this  Hugonot  divine,  "which  the 
Romish  church  does  to  another  Mary,  the  sister  of  Lazarus, 
has  been  sutliciently  confuted  by  the  orthodox.  It  has  been 
ignorantly  believed  that  this  Mary,  and  another  who  was  of 
Mugdala,  and  the  sinner  who  is  spoken  of  in  the  7th  of  Luke, 
are  the  same  person,  confounding  the  three  in  one.  We  have 
justified  one  of  the  three,  to  wit,  her  of  Bethany,  the  sister 
of  Lazarus  ;  but  her  of  Magdala  we  still  defame,  as  if  that 
Magdalen  were  the  sinner  of  whom  St.  Luke  speaks. 

"  Nothing  is  more  common  in  the  mouth  of  the  vulgar  than 
the  wicked  life  of  the  Slagdalen.  The  preachers  who  wish 
to  confess  souls  that  are  afflicted  with  horror  at  their  sins,  rep- 
resent to  them  tliis  woman  as  one  of  the  most  immodest  and 
dissolute  that  ever  existed,  to  whom,  however,  God  has  shown 
mercy.  And  upon  this  same  prejudice,  which  is  altogether 
imaginary,  has  been  founded  a  reason  why  the  Son  of  God, 
having  been  raised  from  the  dead,  appeared  to  Slary  Mag- 
dalen before  any  other  person  ;  for,  say  they,  it  is  because 
she  had  greater  need  of  consolation,  having  been  a  greater 
sinner  than  the  others.  —  He  who  wrote  the  Practice  of  Piety 
places  her  with  the  greatest  oflendcrs,  even  with  Manasses, 
one  of  the  wickedest  of  men  :  and  to  authorize  this  error  the 
more,  it  has  been  inserted  in  the  Bible  itself.  For  the  argu- 
ment to  the  7tli  of  Luke  in  tho  English  version  says,  that  the 
woman  whose  sins  were  in  greater  number  than  those  of 
others  —  the  woman,  who  till  tlien  had  lived  a  wicked  and 
infamous  life  —  was  Mary  Magdalen.  But,  \st.  The  text  gives 
no  name  to  this  sinner :  Where  then  has  it  been  found .' 
Which  of  the  Evangelists,  or  what  other  authentic  writing, 
has  taught  us  the  proper  name  or  surname  of  the  woman .' 
For  she  who  poured  an  ointment  upon  Christ  (Matth.  xxvi. 
John  xii.)  was  not  this  sinner,  nor  Mary  Magdalen,  but  a 
sister  of  Lazarus.  All  these  circumstances  show  that  they  are 
two  different  stories,  two  divers  actions,  performed  at  divers 
times,  in  divers  jilaces,  and  by  divers  persons,  •idly,  Where  do 
we  find  that  Mary  Magdalen  ever  anointed  the  feet  of  our  Sa- 
vior.' .3d/;/,  Where  do  we  find  that  Mary  Magdalen  had  been 
a  woman  of  evil  life  ?  The  gospel  tells  us  that  she  had  been 
tormented  with  seven  devils  or  evil  spirits,  an  afl[liction  which 
might  bajipen  to  the  holiest  person  in  the  world  :  But  we  do 
not  see  even  tho  shadow  of  a  word  there  which  marks  her 
with  infimy.  Why  then  do  we  still  adhere  to  an  invention 
not  only  fibulous,  but  injurious  to  the  memory  of  a  woman 
illustrious  in  piety  .'  We  ought  as  well  to  beware  of  bearing 
false  witness  against  the  dead  as  against  the  living. 

"It  is  remarkable  that  neither  the  sinner  (Luke  vii.)  nor 
the  adulteress  who  is  spoken  of  in  the  8tli  of  Jchn,  are  named 
in  the  sacred  history,  any  more  than  the  thief  who  was  con- 
verted on  the  cross.  There  are  particular  reasons,  beyond  a 
doubt,  and  we  may  in  part  conjecture  them,  why  the  Holy 
Spirit  has  abstained  from  relating  the  names  of  these  great 
sinners,  although  converted.  It  is  not  then  for  us  to  impose 
thert ;  still  less  to  approjiriate  them  to  persons  whom  the 
Scripture  does  not  accuse  of  any  enormous  sins." 


That  Egyptian  penitent.  —  X.  p.  672,  col.  1. 

St.  Mary  the  Egyptian.  This  is  one  of  those  religious  ro- 
mances which  may  probably  have  been  written  to  edify  the 
people,  without  any  intention  of  deceiving  them.  Some  parts 
of  the  legend  are  beautifully  conceived.  An  English  Roman- 
ist has  versified  it  in  eight  books,  under  the  title  of  the  Tri- 
umjih  of  the  Cross,  or  Penitent  of  Egypt.  Birmingham,  1770. 
He  had  the  advantage  of  believinghis  story,  —  which  ought  to 
have  acted  like  inspiration. 


The  dreadful  Tale.'  —  X.  p.  672,  col.  2. 

.^mava  el  Rey  la  dcsigual  Florinda 
En  ser  gentil,  y  desdenosa  dama, 


NOTES   TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      727 


Que  quierc  amor,  que  qiiando  un  Rey  se  Hilda 

Deaaenes  puedaii  rcsistir  su  llama. 
Jfofae  de  Orccia  mas  hermoia  y  Linda 

La  que  U  dio  por  sii  dcsdidta  fama, 
JVi  desdc  el  SagUario  a  Cijiwsura 
Se  via  en  tanto  rigor  tanta  hermosura. 

Crecid  el  amor  como  cl  desden,  crecia  ; 

Enojuse  el  podcr ;  la  rciistcncia 
Sefue  aumculando,  pero  no  podia 

Sufrir  un  Reij  suje.la  eompeteacia  . 
Estendiose  d  furor  la  cortesia, 

Los  tcrminos  passo  de  la  paciencia, 
Haziendo  los  maijorcs  desenganos 
Las  horas  meses,  ij  los  meses  anas. 

Cansado  ya  Rodrigo  de  qnefacsse 

Teorica  el  amor,  y  intentus  vanos, 
Sin  que  demostracion  alguna  huviesse, 

Puso  su  gusto  en  pratiea  de  manos  : 
Pues  ijuien  de  tanlo  amor  no  le  luvicsse 

Con  los  medios  masfaeiles  y  kumanos, 
Como  tendria  enlonces  sufriiniento 
De  injustafaerga  en  cl  rigor  violento  t 

Ansias,  congojas,  lagrimas  y  vozes, 

Ammazas,  amores,fucrga,  injuria, 
Pruevan,  pclean,  llcgan,  danfr.roies 

Al  que  ama,  rabui,  al  que  aborrece,furia ; 
Discun-en  los  pronosticos  velozes, 

Que  ofrece  el  pensamiento  uquicn  injuria  ; 
Rodrigo  teme,  y  ama,  y  fuerga,  y  ella 
Qaatilo  7uas  se  resiste,  csid  inas  bella. 

Ya  visle  dejazmines  el  dcsmaijo 
Las  eladas  meiiUas  sieinpre  hermosas, 

Ya  la  verguenga  del  clavel  de  Mayo, 
Aleiandrinas,  y  purpureas  rosas  : 

Rodrigo  ya  como  encendido  rayo. 
Que  no  respcta  las  sagradas  cosas, 

JVi  se  alioga  en  sus  lagrimas,  ni  mueve 

Porque  se  abrasse,  o  se  convierta  en  nieve. 

Rindiose  alfia,  la  femenil  flaqueia 

Al  varonil  valor  y  atrevimiento  ; 
Quedo  sin  lustre  la  mayor  bclleia 

Que  es  de  una  casta  Virgm  ornamento  ; 
Siiruio  d  la  iiijaslafiiria  la  tibicza. 

Apareciose  el  arrepentiuiicnto, 

Que  viene  como  sumbroi  del  pecado, 

"Vrincipias  del  castigo  del  culpadu. 

Fue  con  Rodrigo  cste  nwrtal  disgusto, 
Y  qaedo  con  Florinda  la  vcnganga, 

Que  le  propuso  cl  echo  mas  injuslo 

Que  de  muger  nuestra  memoria  alcanna  : 

Dizese  que  iw  vcr  en  cl  Hey  guslo, 
Sino  de  lanto  amor  tanl.a  mudanga 

Fue  la  oeasinn,  que  la  muger  gozaila 

Mas  siente  itborrccida  que  furgada. 

JcTUsalen  CoiKiuistad'i,  1.  G,  ff.  130. 

Lope  de  Vega  quotes  scripture  in  proof  of  tlie  opinion  ex- 
pressed in  this  last  couplet.     2  Kings,  cli.  xiii. 

Old  Barret  tells  the  story  as  Ancient  Pistol  woiill  have 
done :  — 

"  In  Ulil's  time  there  regaiized  in  Spain 
One  Roderick,  king  from  the  Gothians  race't ; 
fnto  whose  secret  heart  with  silent  strain 
Instretcht  tlie  'sluilier  of  hart  pudike  chast, 
Him  enamoravizing  of  a  piece, 
.\  piece  by  Nature  ([uaintly  symmetrized, 
Enfayred  with  beauty  as  Helen  fair  of  Greece: 
Count  Julian's  daughter  of  hed-wedlockized, 
Ycleaped  Caba  ;  who  in  court  surshined 
The  rest,  as  Hesperus  the  dimmed  stars. 
This  piece  the  king  in  his  Love's-closet  shrined, 
Survicting  her  by  wile,  gold,  gems,  or  forced  jars." 


It  is  thus  related  in  the  fabulous  Chronicle:  —  "  Despues 
que  el  Rey  ovo  descuhierto  su  coragon  a  la  Cava,  no  era  dia  que 
la  no  requirie^se  una  vez  o  dos,  y  ella  se  defendia  con  bucna 
razon .-  cmpero  al  caho  como  el  Rey  no  pensava  cosa  como  en  esto, 
un  dia  en  la  siesta  embio  con  un  donzel  suyo  por  la  Cava  ;  y  ella 
vino  a  su  mandado ;  y  como  en  essa  hora  no  avia  en  toda  su 
camo^a  oiro  ninguno  sino  ellos  todos  tre.i,  clcumplio  con  ella  todo 
lo  que  puso.  Empero  tanto  subcd  que  si  ella  quisiera  dar  bozes 
que  bienfuera  oyda  de  la  rcijna,  was  callosse  con  lo  que  el  Rey 
quiso  fazer."  —  P.  1,  c.  172. 

In  this  fabulous  Chronicle  Roderick's  fall  is  represented  as 
the  work  of  bis  stars  :  —  "  Y  auni/ue  a  las  vezes pensava  el  gran 
yerro  en  que  tocava,  y  en  la  maldad  que  su  curagon  a-via  cometido, 
tanlo  era  el  ardor  que  tenia  que  lo  olvidava  todo,  y  esto  acarreava 
la  malandanga  que  le  avia  de  venir,  y  la  destrmjcion  de  Espana 
que  avia  de  aver  comicngo  para  se  haier  ;  y  quiero  vos  dczir  que 
so  constelaeioti  no  podia  Cficusar  que  esto  no  passasse  assi ;  y  ya 
Dios  lo  avia  dcxado  en  su  discrecion  ;  y  el  por  cosa  quefuesse.  no 
se  podia  arredrar  que  no  topasse  en  ello."  —  P.  1 ,  c.  1 G4. 

"  Certes,"  says  the  fabulous  Chronicler, "  he  was  a  Lord  of 
greater  bounty  than  ever  had  been  seen  before  his  time.  —  He 
used  to  say,  that  if  all  the  world  were  his,  he  would  rather  lose 
it  than  one  friend  ;  for  the  world  was  a  thing  wliicli,  if  it  wore 
lost,  might  be  recovered  ;  but  a  friend  once  lost  could  never 
he  recovered  for  all  the  treasure  in  the  world.  And  because 
he  was  thus  bountiful,  all  those  of  Spain  were  likewise  ;  and 
they  had  the  fame  of  being  the  most  liberal  men  in  the  world, 
especially  those  of  the  lineage  of  the  Goths.  Never  a  thing 
was  asked  at  his  hands,  whether  great  or  small,  to  which  he 
could  say  no;  and  never  king  nor  other  great  lord  asked  aid 
of  him  that  \w  denied,  but  gave  them  of  his  treasures  and  of 
his  people  as  much  as  they  nee<led.  And  doubt  not,  but  that 
if  fortune  had  not  ordered  that  in  bis  time  the  lineage  of  the 
Goths  should  be  cut  off,  and  Sjiain  destroyed,  there  was  no 
king  or  emperor  whom  he  would  not  have  brouglit  into  sub- 
jection ;  and  if  the  whole  world  ought  to  be  placed  in  the 
power  of  one  man,  (speaking  of  worldly  things,)  there  never 
was,  nor  will  be,  a  man  deserving  to  possess  it,  save  he  alone. 
But  as  envy  is  the  beginning  of  all  evil,  and  saw  bow  great 
was  the  goodness  of  this  king,  she  never  rested  till  she  had 
brought  about  that  things  should  be  utterly  reversed,  even  till 
she  had  destroyed  him.  Oh  what  great  damage  to  the  world 
will  it  be  when  God  shall  consent  that  so  much  bounty,  and 
courage,  and  frankness,  and  loyalty  should  be  destroyed  for- 
ever !  All  nations  ought  to  clad  themselves  in  wretched  weeds 
one  day  in  the  week  to  mourn  for  the  flower  of  tlie  world,  and 
especiallyoughtthe  people  of  Spain  to  make  such  mourning." 
—  Chronica  del  Rey  Don  Rodrigo,  p.  1,  c.  55. 

And  again,  when  the  last  battle  is  approaching,  he  praises 
the  king  :  —  •'  K  el  Rey  era  el  mas  esforgado  humbre  de  coragon 
que  nnnca  se  oyo  dczir:  y  el  7nas  franco  de  todo  lo  que  podia 
aver  ;  y  jrreciava  mas  cobrar  amigos  que  no  quanta  tesoro  pudirsse 
cstar  en  su  rcyno,  hasta  el  dia  que  creyo  cl  tonscjo  del  Iraydor  del 
conde  Don  Julian  ;  y  a  maraciUa  era  biien  cavallero  que  ul  tiempo 
que  el  no  era  rey,  no  se  hallava  cavallero  que  a  la  su  hondad  se 
ygualusse,  y  tanlo  sabed  que  sino  por  estas  maland/ingas  que  le 
vinieron,  nnnca  cavallero  ul  mundo  de  tales  condidones  fue  ;  que 
nunea  a  el  vino  chico  ni  grande  que  del  se  partiesse  despagado  a 
culpa  suya."  —  V.  1,  c.  2i;{. 

The  manner  in  which  Florinda  calls  upon  her  father  to  re- 
venge her  is  curiously  expressed  by  Lope  de  Vega:  — 

Al  cscrivirle  tiemblan  plama  y  mano, 
Llrga  el  agravio,  la  piedad  retira, 
Pu.es  quanta  derive  la  venganga,  tanto 
Quiere  borrar  de  la  verguenga  el  llanto. 

JVo  son  7ncnos  las  letras  que  soldados, 
Los  ringlnncs  yleros  y  csquudroncs. 

Que  al  son  de  los  snspiros  run  furmados 
Hacienda  las  distancias  las  dicinncs: 

Los  mayores  caraetcres,  armados 

JVavios,  tiendas,  maquinas,  pendones; 

Los  puntos,  los  incises,  los  acentos 

Capilanes,  Afcrez  y  Sargcnlos. 

Breve  processo  escrive,  aunque  el  sucessc 
Si(rnijicar  quexosa  determina. 


728      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


Pero  en  tan  breve  causa,  en  tal  proccsso 
La  pcrdicion  de,  Espaha  se  fiilmina. 

Jerusulea  Coiiquistudu,  1.  0,  fi".  138. 

I  remember  hut  one  of  the  old  poets  who  has  spoken  willi 
compassion  of  Florinda.  It  is  the  Portuyuose  Ureis  Garcia 
Mascarenhas,  a  writer  who,  with  many  odd  tilings  in  his  poem, 
has  some  fine  ones. 

Rffresca  cm  Covilham  agentc  ajlita, 

JVam  nc  sabc  que  noinr  cntum  a  lionrava; 

Muyto  deposisfoy  Cava  Julia  dila, 

For  nascer  nella  a  dcsdiUida  Cera. 

JV*ain  a  de:ilu,straj  antes  a  acredita 

Fdha  que  a  Iwnra  iiiais  que  hum  Retj  jiresava; 

Ilespanlta  eulpe  afurga  scm  desculpa, 

JVam  culpe  a  belli,  que  nam  tei'c  culpa. 

Viiiato  Traaico,  Canto  ii.  St.  118. 


Wamba's  wars  . —  XII.  p.  675,  col.  1. 

In  the  valuable  history  of  tliis  king  by  a  contemporary 
writer,  the  following  character  of  the  French  is  given:  — 

"  JIujus  igitur  gloriosis  trmpordius,  Qalliuruin  terra  altrix 
prrfidiiB  ivfami  denotatar  clogio,  quie  utique  iue.stimab'di  infi- 
dv.lital'is  febre  vezata,  genita  a  seiujidclium  depasceret  membra. 
Quid  enim  nun  in  ilia  crudele  vet  lubricumf  ubi  conjuratorum 
conciliabulum,  pcrfidim  signum,  obscamilas  opcrum,fraus  nego- 
tiorU7n,  va:nale  judicium,  ct  quod  pejus  his  omnibus  est,  contra 
ipsum  Salimtorem  nostrum,  et  Dominum,  .Judtnorum  blaspheman- 
lium prostibulum  liabebatur.  Jliee  enim  terra  suo,  ut  ita  dixcrini, 
partu,  perdilionis  sum  sibiviet  pruparavit  ncidium,  etez  vcntris 
suigencratione  viperea  cversionis  sua:  nutrioit  decipulam.  Etcniin 
duiu  multojam  tempore  hisfebrium  dirersitalibus  agcrctur,  subito 
in  ea  unius  nefandi  capitis prolapsione  turbo  iiiJideUtutis  adsurgit, 
ct  conccnsio pcrfidiir per  unum  adplurimos  transit."  —  S.  Julian, 
Hist.  WambiE,  §  5.  —  Espana  Sagrada,  0,  544. 


The  bath,  the  bed. 
The  vigil.  —  XII.  p.  675,  col.  2. 

The  Partidas  have  some  curious  matter  upon  this  subject. 

"  Cleanliness  makes  things  appear  well  1o  those  who  behold 
them,  even  as  propriety  makes  them  seemly,  each  in  its  way. 
And  therefore  the  ancients  hold  it  good  that  knights  should  be 
made  cleanly.  For  even  as  they  ought  to  have  cleanliness 
within  them  in  their  manners  and  customs,  so  ought  they  to 
have  it  without  in  their  garments,  and  in  the  arms  which  they 
wear.  For  albeit  their  business  is  hard  and  cruel,  being  to 
strike  and  to  slay  ;  yet  notwithstanding  they  may  not  so  far 
forego  their  natural  inclinations,  as  not  to  be  jileased  with  fair 
and  goodly  things,  especially  when  they  wear  them.  For  on 
one  part  they  give  joy  and  delight,  and  on  the  otiier  make  them 
fearlessly  perform  feats  of  arms,  because  they  are  aware  that  by 
them  they  are  known,  and  that  because  of  them  men  take 
more  heed  to  what  tliey  do.  Therefore,  for  this  reason,  clean- 
liness and  propriety  do  not  diminish  the  hardihood  and  cruelty 
which  they  ought  to  have.  Moreover,  as  is  aforesaid,  that 
which  api)cars  without  is  the  signification  of  what  they  have  in 
their  inclinations  within.  And  therefore  tlie  ancients  ordained 
that  the  squire,  who  is  of  noble  lineage,  sliould  keep  vigil  the 
day  before  he  receives  knighthood.  And  after  mid-day  the 
squires  shall  bathe  him,  and  wash  his  head  with  their  hands, 
and  lay  bini  in  the  goodliest  bed  tliat  may  be.  And  there  the 
knights  shall  draw  on  his  hose,  and  clothe  him  with  the  best 
garments  that  can  be  had.  And  when  the  cleansing  of  the 
body  has  been  performed,  they  shall  do  as  much  to  the  soul, 
taking  him  to  the  church,  where  he  is  to  labor  in  watching 
and  beseeching  mercy  of  God,  that  he  will  forgive  him  his  sins, 
and  guide  him  so  that  he  may  demean  himself  well  in  that 
order  which  he  is  about  to  receive  ;  to  the  end  that  he  may 
defend  his  law,  and  do  all  other  things  according  as  it  behoveth 
him,  and  that  he  would  be  his  defender  and  keeper  in  all 
dangers  and  in  all  ditliculties.  And  he  ought  to  bear  in  mind 
how  God  is  powerful  above  all  things,  and  can  show  his  power 
in  them  when  he  listetb,  and  especially  in  affairs  of  arms. 
For  in  his  hand  are  life  and  death,  to  give  and  to  take  away, 
and  to  make  the  weak  strong,  and  the  strong  weak.     .\\u\ 


when  he  is  making  this  prayer,  he  must  be  with  liis  knee8 
bent,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  time  on  foot,  as  long  as  he  can 
bear  it.  For  the  vigil  of  knights  was  not  ordained  to  be  a 
sport,  nor  for  any  thing  else,  except  that  they,  and  those  who 
go  tliere,  should  pray  to  God  to  protect  them,  and  direct  them 
in  the  right  way,  and  support  them,  as  men  who  are  entering 
upon  the  way  of  death."  —  Part.  ii.  Tit.  21,  Ley  13. 

"  When  the  vigil  is  over,  as  soon  as  it  is  day,  he  ought  first 
to  hear  mass,  and  pray  God  to  direct  all  his  feats  to  his  service. 
And  afterwards  he  who  is  to  knight  him  shall  come  and  ask 
him  if  he  would  receive  the  order  of  knighthood  ;  and  if  ho 
answereth  yea,  then  shall  it  be  asked  him,  if  he  will  maintain 
it  as  it  ought  to  be  maintained  ;  and  when  he  shall  have 
promised  to  do  this,  that  knight  shall  fasten  on  his  spurs,  or 
order  some  other  knight  to  fasten  them  on,  according  to  what 
manner  of  man  he  may  be,  and  the  rank  which  he  holdeth. 
And  this  they  do  to  signity,  that  as  a  kniglit  imttctb  spurs  on 
the  right  and  on  the  left,  to  make  his  horse  gallop  straight  for- 
ward, even  so  he  ought  to  let  his  actions  be  straight  forward, 
swerving  on  neither  side.  And  then  shall  his  sword  be  girt  on 
over  his  briul.  —  Formerly  it  was  ordained  that  when  noble  men 
were  made  knights,  they  should  be  armed  at  all  jioints,  as  if 
they  were  about  to  do  battle.  But  it  was  not  held  good  that 
their  heads  should  be  covered,  for  they  who  cover  their  heads 
do  so  fur  two  reasons  :  the  one  to  hide  something  there  which 
bath  an  ill  look,  and  for  that  reason  they  may  well  cover  them 
with  any  fair  and  becoming  covering.  The  other  reason  is, 
when  a  man  hath  done  some  unseemly  thing  of  which  he  is 
ashamed.  And  this  in  no  wise  becometh  noble  knights.  For 
when  they  are  about  to  receive  so  noble  and  so  honorable  a 
thing  as  knighthood,  it  is  not  fitting  that  they  should  enter 
intj  it  with  any  evil  shame,  neither  with  fear.  And  when 
they  shall  have  girded  on  his  sword,  they  shall  draw  it  from 
out  the  scabbard,  and  place  it  in  his  right  hand,  and  make  him 
swear  these  three  things  :  first,  that  he  shall  not  fear  to  die 
for  his  faitli,  if  need  be  ;  secondly,  for  his  natural  Lord ; 
thirdly,  for  his  country  ;  and  when  he  hath  sworn  this,  then 
shall  the  blow  on  the  neck  be  given  him,  in  order  that  these 
tilings  aforesaid  may  come  into  bis  mind,  saying,  God  guard 
him  to  his  service,  and  let  him  perform  all  that  he  hath  prom- 
ised ;  and  after  this,  he  who  hath  conferred  the  order  upon 
him,  shall  kiss  him,  in  token  of  the  faith  and  jieace  and  broth- 
erhood which  ouglit  to  be  observed  among  knights.  And  the 
same  ought  all  the  knights  to  do  who  are  in  that  place,  not 
only  at  that  time,  but  whenever  they  shall  meet  with  him 
during  that  whole  year."  —  Part.  ii.  Tit.  21,  Ley  14. 

"  The  gilt  spurs  which  the  knights  put  on  have  many  sig- 
nifications ;  for  the  gold,  which  is  so  greatly  esteemed,  he 
puts  upon  his  feet,  denoting  thereby,  that  the  knight  shall  not 
for  gold  commit  any  malignity  or  treason,  or  like  deed,  that 
would  detract  from  the  honor  of  knighthood.  The  spurs 
are  sharp,  that  they  may  quicken  the  speed  of  the  horse  ;  and 
this  signifies  that  the  knight  ought  to  spur  and  prick  on  the 
people,  and  make  them  virtuous  ;  for  one  knight  with  his 
virtues  is  suflicient  to  make  many  people  virtuous,  and  on  the 
other  band,  he  ought  to  prick  a  perverse  people  to  make  them 
fearful."—  Tirante  il  Blanco,  p.  1,  C.  19,  ff.  44. 

The  Hermit  reads  to  Tirante  a  chapter  from  the  Jirbor  de 
battaglie,  explaining  the  origin  of  knighthood.  The  world,  it 
is  there  said,  was  corrupted,  when  God,  to  the  intent  that 
he  might  be  loved,  honored,  servea,  and  feared  once  more, 
chose  out  from  every  thousand  men  one  who  was  more  ami- 
aide,  more  aff"able,  more  wise,  more  loyal,  more  strong,  more 
noble-minded,  more  virtuous,  and  of  better  customs  than  all 
the  others :  And  then  he  sought  among  all  beasts  for  that 
which  was  the  goodliest,  and  the  swiftest,  and  which  could 
bear  the  greatest  fatigue,  and  might  be  convenient  ibr  the 
service  of  man  ;  and  he  chose  the  horse,  and  gave  him  to  this 
man  who  was  chosen  from  the  thousand  ;  and  for  this  reason 
he  was  called  cavallero,  because  the  best  animal  was  thus 
joined  to  the  most  noble  man.  And  when  Romulus  founded 
Rome,  he  chose  out  a  thousand  young  men  to  be  knights,  and 
furno  nominati  militi  porche  inille  furono  fatti  in  un  tempo  ccval- 
'leri.  —  P.  1,  C.  14,  fr.  40. 

The  custom  which  some  kings  had  of  knighting  tncmsclves 
is  censured  by  the  Partidas.  — P.  ii.  T.  21,  L.  11.  It  is 
there  said,  that  there  must  be  one  to  give,  and  another  to 
receive  the  order.  And  a  knight  can  no  more  knight,  than  a 
priest  can  ordain  himself. 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


729 


'"•  When  the  Infinto  HoriKindo  of  Ca-itilo  was  chosen  king 
of  Aragoii,  he  kniglitcd  hiinsolf  on  liis  coronation  day:  — 
De  que  lots  log  Bdroiis  nobler  ho  tengcreii  vita  gran  mariwdla 
com  cl  matcz  nc  foil,  cavalier,  qui  scgons  los  dcisiis  dits  dcijen 
ncnguno  pot  csscr  cavalUr,  siiio  doiics  nos  fa  cavalier  de  via  de 
cavalier  qui  huge  lorde  de  cavalleria."  —  Toiiiich.  C.  47,  ff.  C8. 

'•  The  <]iialili(;alions  for  a  knight,  cavallero,  or  horse-soldier, 
111  the  barbarous  stage  of  society,  were  tlireo  :  ],st,  That  lie 
sliould  be  al)le  to  endure  fatigue,  liardsliip,  and  privations. 
'2dlii,  TImt  lie  sliould  have  been  used  to  strike,  tliat  liis  blows 
nii^'bt  be  the  more  deadly.  'Mlij,  That  he  should  be  bloody- 
minded,  and  rol),  hack,  and  destroy  the  enemy  without  com- 
punction. The  persons,  therefore,  who  were  preferred,  were 
mountaineers,  accustomed  to  hunting, — carpenters,  black- 
smitlis,  stone-cutters,  and  butchers.  Hut  it  being  found  that 
such  persons  would  sometimes  run  away,  it  was  then  dis- 
covered that  they  who  were  chosen  for  cavaliers  ought  to  have 
a  natural  sense  of  shame.  And  for  this  reason  it  was  ap- 
pointed that  they  should  be  men  of  family."  —  Partida,  ii. 
T.  21,  L.  2.     Vegetius,  1.  1,  c.  7. 

The  privileges  of  knighthood  were  at  one  time  so  great, 
that  if  the  goods  of  a  knight  were  liable  to  seizure,  they  could 
not  be  seized  where  he  or  his  wife  were  jirosent,  nor  even 
where  liis  cloak  or  shield  was  to  be  found.  —  Part.  ii.  Tit.  21, 
Ley  23. 


Tlie  coated  scales  of  steel 
Which  o'er  the  tunic  to  his  knees  depend. 

XII.  p.  675,  col.  2. 

Canciani  (T.  3,  p.  34)  gives  a  representation  of  Roland 
from  the  porch  of  the  Cathedral  at  Verona,  which  is  supposed 
to  have  been  built  about  the  beginning  of  tlie  ninth  century. 
The  figure  is  identified  by  the  inscription  on  the  sword, — 
Dii-rin-dar-da.  The  lorica,  which  Canciani  explains,  Vcstica 
bellica  maciilis  fcrrcis  contezta,  is  illustrated  by  this  figure.  It 
is  a  coat  or  frock  of  scuic-mail  reacliingto  the  knees,  and  with 
half  sleeves.  The  only  hand  which  appears  is  unarmed,  as 
far  as  the  elbow.  The  right  leg  also  is  unarmed  ;  the  other 
leg  and  foot  are  in  the  same  sort  of  armor  as  the  coat.  The 
end  of  a  loose  garment  appears  under  the  mail.  The  shield 
reaches  from  the  chin  to  the  middle  of  the  leg  ;  it  is  broad 
enough  at  the  top  to  cover  the  breast  and  shoulder,  and  slopes 
gradually  oft"  to  tlie  form  of  a  long  oval. 


M  every  sadiUe-bow 
A  gory  head  was  hang.  —  XIV.  p.  C79,  col.  1. 

This  picture  frequently  occurs  in  the  Spanish  Chronicles. 
Sigurd  the  elder,  Earl  of  Orkney,  owed  his  death  to  a  like 
custom.  "  Suddenly  clapping  spurs  to  his  horse,  as  he  was 
returning  liome  in  triumpli,  bearing,  like  each  of  his  followers, 
one  of  these  bloody  spoils,  a  large  front  tooth  in  the  mouth  of 
the  head  which  hung  dangling  by  his  side,  cut  the  calf  of  his 
leg,  —  the  wound  mortified,  and  he  died.  The  Earl  must 
have  been  bare-legged." — Torfa:us,  quoted  in,  Edmoiiston's 
Vieio  of  the  Zetland  Islands,  vol.  i.  p.  33. 


In  reverence  to  the  priestly  character.  —  XV.  p.  G81,  col.  1. 

"  At  the  synod  of  Mascou,  laymen  were  enjoined  to  do 
honor  to  the  honorable  clergy  by  humbly  bowing  the  head, 
and  uncovering  it,  if  they  were  both  on  horseback,  and  by 
alighting  also  if  the  clergymen  were  a-foot."  —  Pierre  de 
Marca.     Hist,  de  Beam,  1.  i.  ch.  18,  §  2. 


Whom  not  the  spoils  of  Atabalipa 

Could  satisfy  insatiate.  —  XVI.  p.  683,  col.  1 

Hernando  de  Soto,  —  tlie  history  of  whose  expedition  to 
Florida  by  the  Inca  Garcilaso,  is  one  of  the  most  delightful 
books  in  the  Spanish  language. 

92 


JVo7'  wicker  storehouse  for  the  autumnal  gram. 

XVI.  p.  683,  col.  1. 

"  Morales,  (8,  23,  3,)  speaking  of  the  Asturians,  mentions, 
with  wonder,  their  chairs,  furniture,  and  granaries  of  basket- 
work,  —  las  sillas  y  otras  cosas  de  servicio  rccias  y  Jirmas  que 
haccn  entrcteiiJas  de  mimbres  y  varus  de  avellano.  Y  aun  a  me 
no  me  espantaba  en  aquclla  tierra  taiito  esto  como  ver  los  gra- 
neros,  que  cllos  Human  los  horreos,  fubricados  desla  misma  obra 
de  varus  cntritexidas,  y  tun  tapidas y  de  tania firmeia,  que  siifrcn 
gran  carga  como  buenas  paredes." 


Covadonga.  — XVI.  p.  684,  col.  1. 

The  valley  of  Covadonga  is  thus  described  by  the  Conde  de 
Salduena ;  —  and  tlie  description  is  a  fair  specimen  of  his 
poem ;  - 

Voce  de  Asturias,  donde  cl  Sol  infante 
Sus  monies  con  primcras  luces  buna, 

De  Covadonga  el  sitio,  que  triunfante 
Citnafue  en  que  racio  la  insigne  Espana 

Vierte  en  el  Sela  Uquidos  cristales 
Con  Buena  y  Dcha,  que  de  la  vwntana 

Debcn  la  vida  d  lafragosa  ciipa, 

A  quien  la  antiguedud  llumo  de  Europa. 

Aqui  la  juventud  de  mi  bello  llano 
Compile  dflores,  luces  de  la  esphcra; 

Y  burlando  el  fnvierno  y  el  Verano 
Elerna  vive  en  el  la  Frimavera : 

Sobre  sus  glebas  se  dcrravia  vfano 
El  prodigiosu  cuerno  de  la  Fiera 
De  Amaltea,  y  aromas,  y  colores 
Confundeii  los  viatices  con  olores. 

Robustos  troncos,  con  pobladas  ramus 
Vuelven  el  sitio  rustica  Alameda, 

Y  del  Sol  no  pcrmiten  a  las  llamas 
Lo  espeso  penetrar  de  la  Arboleda : 

Picrden  sus  rayos  las  ardientes  famas, 

Pues  lafrondosidad  opuesta  veda 
La  lui  al  dia,  y  denso  verde  muro 
Crepusculo  le  viste  al  ayre  puro. 

Sigeiendo  la  ribera  de  Peonia 

Al  Oricnte  Estival,  y  algo  inclinado 

A  la  parte  que  mira  al  medio  dia, 
Otro  valle  se  ve  mas  dilutado  : 

A  lu  derecha  de  esta  sclva  umbria 
Reijnazo  corre,  que  precipitado 

Va  d  dar  d  Buena  en  Uquidos  abraios 

Supodre  vena  en  cristalinos  lazos. 

Sin  passar  de  Reynazo  el  successive 
Curso,  dezando  presto  su  torrente. 

Con  el  cristal  se  encuentra  fugitivo 
De  Delia,  a  quien  la  Cueba  dio  lafuente: 

La  admirucion  aqui  raro  mutivo 

Vi,furmando  la  senda  su  corriente, 

Pues  lo  estrecho  del  sitio  pchascoso 

Hace  camino  del  licor  undoso. 

Hecho  serpiente  Deva  del  camino 

En  circulo  se  enrosca  tortuoso, 
Vomitando  vcneno  cristalino 

En  el  liquido  aljofar  proceloso  : 
En  las  orillas  con  vivaz  destino. 

En  tosigo  se  vuelvc,  que  espumoso 
Inficiona  lethal  al  pie  ligero, 
Quando  lepisa  incanto  cl  passagero. 

Ya  de  este  valle  cierran  las  canipanas, 
Crecirndo  de  sus  riscos  la  eslatura, 

Desmesurodas  tanto  las  viontanas 

Que  ofusran  ya  del  Sol  la  lumbrc  pura 

Son  ruslicos  los  lados,  las  cntranas 
Del  valle  vislen  siempre  la  hermosura 


730      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 

Fronsidad  el  iiijre,  y  dc  colorcs 

A  las  cartas  reliquias,  que  d  la  ruina 

El  sado  Icxc  alfotnbra  de  iirivwres. 

Reservo  su  pu-dad,  cncicnde  en  sana 

Religiosa,  que  a  Imperio  sin  regunda 

Aunque  los  }iiunlcs  con  cspcsas  brehas 

Abra  futura  Have  JVueuo  Mundo. 

El  ladu  al  sitioformam  horrorosn, 

El  Pelayo,  Cant,  ir 

Y  contra  su  verdor  dt'snudoa  pcnas 

Compitcn  dc  lu  llano  lo  frondoso ; 

ChrUtoval  de  Mesa  also  describes  the  scene. 

Pintados  pajarilios  dulccs  senas 

Accrcandose  mas,  oye  el  sonido 

Al  son  del  airua  en  tiinv  sonoroso 

Del  agua,  con  un  manso  y  sordo  ruydo. 

De  ignoradiis  idiomas  en  su  canlo 

Dan  con  arpados  picos  duJcc  cucanto. 

El  qual  era  de  quatro  claras  fuentes 

Que  estavan  de  la  ermita  en  las  esquinas, 

Lo  ultimo  de  este  vallc  la  alia  sierra 

Cuyas  pvras  deplata  aguas  corrientcs 

De  Coi'iidontra  ocupa^  donde  fuertc 

Mostro  la  blaiica  Luna  cristalinas ; 

Se  expone  el  Ileruc  aljac/ro  de  la  guerra. 

Y  corriendo  por  partes  diferentes 

Sin  temor  negro  ocaso  de  la  suerte  : 

Eran  de  grande  maravilla  dignas. 

Los  que  aniniosos  cste  sitio  encierra 

Y  en  qualquieru  de  todas  por  su  parte 

El  ceno  dcsprer.iando  de  la  muerte, 

JYuturaleza  sc  esmero  con  arte. 

Su  pecho  cncicndcn  en  la  altica  llama 

Que  no  cahra  en  las  trvwpas  de  la  Fama. 

La  una  mana  de  una  viva  pena. 

Y  qual  si  tambienfuera  el  agua  viva. 

De  Diha  en  ella  lapreciusafuenle 

Parte  la  bana,  y  parte  se  despina 

Al  llano  brota  arroyos  de  cristales^ 

Con  rapida  corriente  fugitiv a  : 

Donde  en  pequtna  balsa  su  corriente 

Despues  distinto  un  largo  arroyo  ensena 

Se  dctiene  en  suspen.'ivs  manantiales : 

Que  por  divcrsas  partes  se  derriba. 

Despues  se  prccipita  su  torrente 

Con  difirrnte  curso  en  vario  modo. 

Quanta  sus  ondas  enfrcno  neutrales. 

Hasta  que  a  donde  nace  buelve  todo. 

Con  sonoroso  ruido  dc  la  pena 

El  curso  de  sus  aguas  se  despcna. 

Otra,  que  alta  descubre  ancho  Orizontc, 

Como  agraviada  del  lugar  segundo 

Cierra  todo  este  valle  esta  rubusta 

Sustcnta  un  ynonstruo  que  parece  un  monte, 

Pena,  dunde  la  Cueva  estd  divina, 

Qual  Atlante  que  ticne  en  peso  el  mundo : 

Que  amenaza  tajuda  a  ser  injuUa 

Y  como  sucle  el  caudaloso  Oronte 

Del  breve  llano  formidable  rulna  : 

Dar  el  ancho  tributo  al  mar  profunda. 

Parece  quicre  ser  con  saha  adusta 

Assi  se  arroja  con  furiosas  ondas. 

Secopadron,  yjiera  se  destina 

Por  las  partes  mas  bazas  y  mas  hondas. 

A  erigirse  tpitajio  penascoso. 

Scpullando  su  horror  el  sitio  hcrmoso. 

Sale  bramando  la  tcrcera  fuenle. 

Como  un  mar,  y  despues  por  el  arena 

De  piedra  viva  tan  tremcnda  altura 

Va  con  tan  mansa  y  placida  corriente 

Que  la  vista  al  mirarla  se  estremece ; 

Tan  grata  y  sosscgada,  y  tan  serena. 

Vasta  grena  se  visle,  y  la  hcrmosura 

Que  a  lusficras,  ganados,  peces,  gente. 

De  la  fertilidad  seca  aborrcce  : 

Puede  aplacar  la  sed,  men  guar  la  pena. 

Es  tan  dcsmesurada  su  cstatura 

Y  da  despties  la  buelta,  y  forma  el  cucmo 

De  la  Luna,  imitando  el  curso  ctemo. 

Que  estrecha  el  ayre,  y  barbara  parece 

Que  quiere  que  la  sirvan  de  Cimera 

JVace  la  quarta  de  una  gran  caverna, 

Las  fulminantes  luces  de  la  Esphera. 

Ysiguiendo  suprospera  dcrrota 

Parece  que  por  arte  se  govierna. 

Oomo  a  dos  picas  en  la  pena  dura 

Segun  va  destilando  gota  a  gota : 

Construye  en  circo  una  abcrtura  vara, 

J^o  vido  antigua  edad,  edad  inodema 

De  una  pica  dc  alto,  y  dos  dc  anchura. 

En  region  muy  propinqua,  o  may  remota, 

Rica  de  sojnbras  su  mansion  avara  ; 

Fucnte  tan  peregrina,  obra  tan  nucva. 

Ventana,  6  boca  de  la  cueva  cbscura 

En  grula  ariificiosa,  o  tosca  cueva. 

Donde  el  Sol  no  dispcnsa  sti  luz  clara. 

Restauraciou  de  Espana,  Lib.  2,  ff.  27. 

Tan  carta,  que  su  centro  tenebroso 

Aun  no  admite  crepusculo  dudoso. 

Morales  has  given  a  minute  description  both  of  the  scenery 

and   antiquities   of    this   memorable  place.     The   Conde  de 

En  este  sitio  puei,  donde  compile 

Salduena  evidently  had  it  before  him.     I  also  am  greatly  in- 

La rustiquez  con  las  pintadas  flores. 

debted  to  this  faithful  and  excellent  author. 

Puci  la  pclada  sierra  no  permite 

A  la  vista,  sino  es  yerlos  horrores : 
Por  el  contrario  el  llano  que  en  si  admite 

De  los  bellos  malices  los  primores, 
Rfecto  siendo  de  naturaleza 
La  union  en  Infealdad,  y  la  belleza. 

T%e  timid  hare  soon  learns  that  she  may  trust 

Tlie  solitary  penitent,  and  birds 

Will  light  upon  the  hermit's  harmless  hand. 

A  tiorba  de  cristal  las  dulces  aves 

XVII.  p.  686,  col.  1. 

Corresponden  en  trinos  amorosos. 

Con  mil  mortificaciones 

Virtiendo  en  blando  son  tonos  suaves 

Sus  passiones  crucifcan, 

Ecos  los  ayres  bcben  harmoninsos  : 

Porque  elhis  de  todo  mueran 

Enmudecen  su  canto  quando  graves 

Porque  el  alma  solo  viva. 

Bemoles  gorgeando  mas  preciosos, 

Hazen  por  huyr  al  ocio 

Es  m/iestro  d  la  barbara  Capilla 

Cestos,  y  espuertas  texidas 

El  Ruysenor,  plumada  maravilla. 

De  las  Iwjas  de  las  palmas 

Que  alii  crecen  sin  medida. 

Elige  este  distrito  la  Divina 

Los  arboles,  y  las  plantas 

Providencia  d  lo  grave  de  la  haiana. 

Porque  a  su  gusto  los  sirvan 

Pues  aqui  sujusticia  determina 

Para  esto  vergas  offrecen, 

La  monarquiafabricar  de  Espana  : 

De  Uis  mas  tiernas  que  crian 

NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS, 


731 


Tambieii  ilc  corcho  haicn  vasos 
Cuentas,  Cruzes,  y  haxiUas, 
Cuijo  vwdo  artijicioso. 
El  oro,  y  la  plata  cmbidian. 
Este  los  cUicios  tejre, 
Aquel  haze  disciplinas, 
El  otro  las  calaveras 
En  tosco  polo  esculpidas. 
Uno  a  sombra  del  aiiso. 
Con  la  cscrilara  divina 
J\Usticos  sentidos  saca 
De  sus  literules  ininas. 
Otro  junto  de  lafuoite 

Que  murmura  en  dulce  risa 
Mira  en  los  libros  las  obras 
De  los  santos  Ereinitas^ 
Qual  cerca  del  arroyudo 
Qiie  saltando  cnrre  aprissa, 
Discurre  como  a  la  muerte 
Corre  sin  parar  la  vida. 
Qual  con  un  Christe  abragado 
Besandole  las  hcridas, 
Herido  de  sus  dolores 
A  sus  pies  llora,  y  suspira. 
Qual  en  lasftores  que  at  campo 
Ent.re  estneraUlas  matiian, 
Las  grandezas  soberanas 
Del  immenso  autor  medita. 
Qual  subida  en  las  pigarras 
Que  plata,  y  perlas  distilan, 
Con  lagrimas  acrecienta 
Su  corrientc  cristalina. 
Qual  a  las  Jieras  coiivoca. 
Las  aves  llama,  y  combida 
A  que  al  criador  de  todo 
Alaben  airi-adecidas. 
Qual  immoble  todo  cl  cucrpo. 
Con  las  acetones  pcrdida-s, 
Tiene  arrcbatada  cl  alma 
Alia  donde  amando  anima* 
Y  de  aquel  extasi  qaando 
Parece  que  resuscita, 
Dize  con  razon  que  muere 
Porquc  no  pcrdw  lo  vida. 
Lafuerga  de  amor  a  vezes 
Sucno,  y  reposo  los  quita, 
Y  salicndo  de  su  estaucia 
Buscan  del  Ciclo  la  vista. 
Quando  screna  la  noche 
Clara  se  dcscubre  Cynthia, 
Bnrdando  de  azul,  y  plata 
El  postrer  mobil  que  pisa ; 
Quando  al  oro  de  su  hermano 
JVo  puede  tener  embidia. 
Que  llcnu  del  que  le  presta 
Haze  de  la  noche  dia  ; 
Del  baculo  acompanado 
El  amantc  Anachorita 
Solo  por  las  soledades 
Solitarivs  pasos  guia, 
Yparando  entre  el  silencio 
Las  claras  estrellas  mira 
Que  le  deleitan  por  obra 
De  la  potencia  divina. 
En  alias  bozes  alaba 

Sin  tener  quien  se  lo  impidA 
Al  amador  soberano 
Cuya  gracia  solicita. 
Contempla  sus  pcrfcciones, 
Sus  grandezas  solcniza, 
Sus  misericordias  canta, 
Sus  ezcclencias  publica. 
La  noche  atenta  entre  tanlo 
Callando  porquc  el  prosiga, 
Cruzen  los  vezinos  ramos, 
Y  blando  el  viento  resyira. 
Olmen  las  aves  noctnmas 
Por  haierle  compania, 


Sucnan  lusfuenlcs,  y  arroyos, 
Retumban  las  penas  frias. 
Todo  ayuda  al  solitiirw, 
Mienlras  con  cl  alma  fixa 
En  sus  quiridos  amores 
Contcmplandolns  se  alivia. 

Solet'ades  de  Busaco. 

Fuller,  the  Worlliy,  has  a  beautiful  passage  in  his  Church 
History  concernin;;  "Primitive  iMonks  with  their  Tiety  and 
Painfulness."  —  "  When  the  furnace  of  persecution  in  the  in- 
fancy of  Christianity  was  grown  so  hot,  that  most  cities,  towns, 
and  populous  places  were  visited  with  that  epidemical  disease, 
many  pious  men  fled  into  deserts,  there  to  live  with  more 
safety,  and  serve  God  with  less  disturbance.  No  wild  humor 
to  make  themselves  miserable,  and  to  choose  and  court  their 
own  calamity,  j)ul  them  on  this  project,  much  less  any  super 
stitious  opinion  of  transcendent  sanctity  in  a  solitary  life, 
made  them  willingly  to  leave  their  former  habitations.  For 
whereas  all  men  by  their  birth  are  indiOited  lo  their  country, 
there  to  stay  and  <iischarge  all  civil  relations,  it  had  been  dis 
honesty  in  them  like  bankrupts  to  run  away  into  the  wilder 
ness  to  defraud  their  country,  their  creditor,  e.xcept  some 
violent  occasion  (such  as  persecution  was)  forced  them  there- 
unto ;  and  this  was  tlie  first  original  of  monks  in  the  world,  so 
called  from  poi/og,  because  living  alone  by  themselves. 

"  Here  they  in  the  deserts  hoped  to  find  rocks  and  stocks, 
yea  beasts  themselves,  more  kind  than  men  had  been  to  them 
What  would  hide  and  heat,  cover  and  keep  warm,  served 
them  for  clothes,  not  placing  (as  their  successors  in  after  ages) 
any  holiness  in  their  habit,  folded  up  in  the  ufiectod  fashion 
thereof.  As  for  their  food,  the  grass  was  their  cloth,  the 
giound  their  t.ible,  herbs  and  roots  their  diet,  wild  fruits  and 
berries  their  dainties,  hunger  their  sauce,  their  nails  their 
knives,  their  hands  their  cups,  the  ne.\t  well  their  wine-cel- 
lar;  but  what  their  bill  of  fare  wanted  in  cheer  it  had  in  grace, 
their  life  being  const:intly  spent  in  prayer,  reading,  musing, 
and  such  like  pious  employments.  They  turned  solitariness 
itself  into  society  ;  and  cleaving  themselves  asunder  by  the 
divine  art  of  meditation,  did  make  of  one,  two  or  more,  op- 
posing, answering,  moderating  in  their  own  bosoms,  and  busy 
in  themselves  with  variety  of  heavenly  recreations.  It  would 
do  one  good  even  but  to  think  of  their  goodness,  and  at  the 
rebound  and  second  hand  to  meditate  upon  their  meditations. 
For  if  ever  poverty  was  to  be  envied  it  was  here.  And  I 
appeal  to  the  moderate  men  of  these  times,  whet^ier  in  the 
height  of  these  woful  Wiirs,  they  have  not  sometimes  wisht 
(not  out  of  passionate  distemper,  but  serious  recollection  of 
themselves)  some  such  private  place  to  retire  unto,  where, 
out  of  the  noise  of  this  clamorous  world,  they  might  have 
reposed  themselves,  and  served  God  with  more  ciuiet." 


JVone  but  that  heavenly  Father,  who  alone 
Beholds  the  struggles  of  the  heart,  alone 
Sees  and  rewards  the  secret  sucrijicc. 

XVIII.  p.  088,  col.  1. 

Mcu  amor  faga  em  Dcos  sen  fundamento 
Em  Deos,  que  so  conhecc  e  so  estima 
A  nobreia  e  o  valor  de  hum  pcnsamento. 

Fernam  Alvares  do  Oriente. 


Sindered.  —  XXlU.  p.  688,  col.  1. 

"  Per  idem  tcmpus  divines  mtmorim  Sinderedus  vrbis  Rcgite 
Mclropolitanus  Episcopus  sanctimojiiic  studio  claret ;  alque  longa;- 
vos  et  menic  honurnbdcs  viros  quos  in  suprafata  sihi  commissa 
Ecclcsia  repctit,  non  secundum  scicntiam  zclo sanctilatis  stimiilut, 
atque  instinctu  jam  dicti  H'itizai  Principis  cos  sub  ejus  tempore 
conveiarc  non  ccssat ;  qui  cl  post  modicum  ineursus  Arabnm  ex- 
pavescens,  von  vt  pastor,  sed  ut  mrrccnarius,  Christi  oves  contra 
dccrcln  majurum  dcscrens,  linmanie  palrite  sese  advcntat."  — 
Isid.  Pacensis,  Kspana  Sagrada,  T.  8,  p.  298. 

"  E  assi  como  cl  Argobispa  fue  cierto  de  la  viola  andanga  partio 
de  Cordova  ;  y  nunca  ccsso  de  andar  dia  ni  noche  fasta  que  llego 
a  Toledo  ;  y  no  cmbargante  que  cl  era  hombrc  de  buena  vida,  no 


732      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


36  qaiso  mostrar  por  tal  coino  ileinera  scr,  y  siifrir  antes  martyrio 
por  amor  de  Jesu  Ckristo  y  caforgar  tos  suyos,  pon/ue  se  drfeii- 
diciscii,  y  que  las  gentrx  no  desamparassen  la  ticrra  ;  ca  su  inlen- 
cioii  fue  de  scr  confessor  antes  que  martyr."  —  Cor.  del  K.  D. 
Rodrigo,  p.  2,  C.  48. 


While  the  Church 
Keeps  in  her  annals  Vie  deserter^s  name, 
But  from  the  service  which,  with  daily  teal 
Devout,  her  ancient  prelacy  recalls. 
Blots  it,  unworthy  to  partake  her  prayers, 

XVIII.  p.  088,  col.  1. 

"  Jic  nc  scrois  pas  cii  grande  peine,"  s.iyg  Pierre  de  Marca, 
"  de  rechercher  Ics  noms  des  Kvesques  des  Beam,  si  la  saincte  et 
louable  pratique  des  anciens  Peres  d'inscrer  dans  les  Diptyches,  et 
cnyers  sacres  de  chascunc  Eglisc,  les  noms  des  Evtsqucs  ortho- 
dozes,  et  qui  estoient  dccedcs  daits  la  communion  dc  V  F.irlise 
Catholique,  cust  este  continuee  jusqu''  our  derniers  siecles.  Et 
je  ponrrois me  seroir  en  cette  rencontre  du  moyen  que  V  Empereur 
Justinian  et  Ic  cinquicsme  Cnncile  Qeneral  cmployercnt,  pour 
sgavoir  si  Theodore  Evesquc  dc  Mopsucstie  estoit  reconnu  apres 
su  mort  pour  Evesquc  dc  V  Etrlise  qu'il  avoit  posscdcc  durant  sa 
vie.  Car  Us  ordonnercnt  a  V  Enesque  et  au  Clerge  de  cette  ville, 
dc  revoir  les  Diptyches  de  leur  Eglise,  et  de  rapporter  fidcllcment 
ce  qu'ils  y  trouveruient.  Ce  qu'  ayant  execute  diligemment,  its 
fircnt  rapport  qu''  apris  avoir  fucillcte  quatre  divers  cayers  en 
parchcmiii,  qui  estoient  lnurs  Diptyches,  Us  y  avuient  trouve  Ic 
nom  de  tous  les  Evesqnes  de  ce  siege  ;  horsniis  qu'  en  la  place  de 
Theodore,  avoit  estc  substitue  le  nom  de  Cyrille,  qui  estoit  le 
Patriarche  rf'  Alez/indrie  ;  lequel  presidant  au  Concile  d'  Ephese 
avoit  condamne  I'  hcresie  de  JVestorius  et  de  Theodore  de  Mop6ii- 
cslie.  D'ou  il  apert  que  les  noms  de  tous  les  Evcsques  depuis  V 
origine  et  /'  cstahlissement  de  chascune  des  Eglises  estoient  enre- 
gislrcs  dans  les  cayers  que  Von  appelloit  Diptyches,  et  que  Von 
les  rccitoit  nom  par  nom  en  leur  lieu,  pendant  la  celebration  de  la 
Liturgie,  tant  pour  lesmoigner  la  continuation  de  la  communion 
avec  lis  Evcsques  dccedcs,  que  I'on  avoit  cue  avcc  cuimcsmcs 
viva)is,  qu'  afin  de  procurer  par  les  pricrcs  publiques,  et  par 
I'ejjirace  du  Sacrifice  non  sanglant,  en  la  celebration  du,  quel  ils 
estoient  rccommendcs  a  Dieu,  suivant  I'ordonnancc  dcs.^poslres, 
un grand  profit,  soulagement,  et  refraichisscmcnt  pour  Icurs  ames, 
comme  ensciguent  Cyrille  dc  Hierusalem,  Chrysostome,  et  Epi- 
phane."  —  Ilistoire  de  Beam,  I.  4,  c.  9,  §  1. 

"  Some  time  before  they  made  olilation  for  the  dead,  it  was 
usual  in  siJne  ages  to  recite  the  names  of  such  eminent  bisli- 
ops,  or  saints,  or  martyrs,  as  were  particularly  to  he  mentioned 
in  this  part  of  the  service.  To  this  purpose  they  had  certain 
books,  which  they  called  their  Holy  Books,  and  commonly 
their  Diptychs,  from  their  being  folded  together,  wherein  the 
names  of  such  persons  were  written,  that  the  deacon  might 
rehearse  them  as  occasion  required  in  the  time  of  divine  ser- 
vice. Cardinal  Bona  and  Schclstrate  make  three  sorts  of 
these  Diptychs;  one  wherein  the  names  of  bishops  only  were 
written,  and  more  particularly  such  bishops  as  had  been  gov- 
ernors of  that  i)articular  church  :  a  second,  wherein  the  names 
of  the  living  were  written,  who  were  eminent  anil  conspicuous 
either  for  any  office  and  dignity,  or  some  benel'action  and  good 
work,  whereby  they  had  deserved  well  of  the  church  ;  in  this 
rank  were  the  patriarchs  and  bishops  of  great  sees,  and  the 
bishop  and  clergy  of  that  particular  cluifch  ;  together  with  the 
emperors  and  magistrates,  and  others  most  conspicuous  among 
the  people  :  the  third  was  the  book  containing  the  names  of 
such  as  were  deceased  in  Catholic  coummnion.  —  These  there- 
fore were  of  use,  partly  to  preserve  the  memory  of  such  emi- 
nent men  as  were  dead  in  the  conununion  of  the  church,  and 
partly  to  make  honorable  mention  of  such  general  councils  as 
had  established  the  chief  articles  of  the  faith  :  and  lo  er;ise 
the  names  either  of  men  or  councils  out  of  these  Diptychs, 
was  the  same  thing  as  to  dechire  that  they  were  heterodox, 
and  such  as  they  thought  unworthy  to  hold  communion  with, 
as  criminals,  or  some  way  deviating  from  the  faith.  Upon 
this  account  St.  Cyprian  ordered  the  name  of  Ceminius  Victor 
to  be  left  out  among  those  that  were  commemorated  at  the 
holy  table,  because  he  had  broken  the  rules  of  the  church. 
And  Evagrius  observes  of  Thcodorus,  Bishop  of  Mopsuestia, 
that  his  name  was  struck  out  of  the  Holy  Hooks,  that  is,  the 
Diptychs,  upon  the  account  of  his  heretical  opinions,  after 
death.      And  St.   Austin,  speaking  of  CiEcilian,  Bishop  of 


Carthage,  whom  the  Uonatists  falsely  accused  of  being  or- 
dained by  Traditorcs,  or  men  who  had  delivered  up  the  Bible 
to  be  burned  in  the  times  of  persecution,  tells  Ihem  that  if 
they  could  make  good  any  real  charge  against  him,  they  would 
no  longer  name  liim  auKuig  the  rest  of  the  bishops,  whom 
they  believed  to  he  faithful  and  innocent,  at  the  altar."  — 
Bingham,  b.  1.'),  ch.  3,  sect.  17. 


Orary.  —  X\lU.  p.  688,  col.  2. 

"  The  Council  of  Laodicea  has  two  canons  concerning  the 
little  habit  called  the  Orarium,  which  was  a  scarf  or  tippet  to 
be  worn  upon  the  shoulders ;  and  might  be  used  by  bishops, 
presbyters,  and  deacons,  but  not  by  subdeacons,  singers,  or 
readers,  who  are  expressly  debarred  the  use  of  it  in  that  coun- 
cil. —  The  first  council  of  Braga  speaks  of  the  tunica  and  the 
orarium  as  both  belonging  to  deacons.  And  the  third  council 
of  Braga  orders  priests  to  wear  the  orarium  on  both  shoulders 
when  they  ministered  at  the  altar.  By  which  we  learn  that 
the  tunica  in  surplice  was  common  to  all  the  clergy,  the  orarium 
oil  the  left  shoulder  proper  to  deacons,  and  on  both  shoulders 
the  distinguishing  badge  of  priests.  —  The  fourth  council  of 
Toledo  is  most  particular  in  these  distinctions.  For  in  one 
canon  it  says,  that  if  a  bishop,  presbyter,  or  deacon,  be  un- 
justly degraded,  and  be  found  innocent  by  a  synod,  yet  they 
shall  not  be  what  they  were  before,  unless  they  receive  the 
degrees  they  had  lost  from  the  hands  of  the  bishops  before  the 
altar.  If  he  be  a  bishop,  he  must  receive  his  orarium,  his 
fing,  and  his  staff:  if  a  presbyter,  his  orarium  and  planeta  .-  if 
a  deacon,  his  orarium  and  alba.  And  in  another  canon,  that 
the  deacon  shall  wear  but  one  orarium,  and  that  upon  his  left 
shoulder,  wherewith  he  is  to  give  the  signal  of  prayers  to  the 
people.  Where  we  may  observe  also  the  reason  of  the  name 
orarium  in  the  ecclesiastical  sense  ab  orando,  from  praying, 
though  in  common  acceptation  it  signifies  no  more  than  an 
handkerchief  to  wipe  the  face,  and  so  comes  ab  ore,  in  which 
signification  it  is  sometimes  used  by  St.  Ambrose  and  Si. 
Austin,  as  well  as  by  the  old  Roman  authors.  But  here  we 
take  it  in  the  ecclesiastical  sense  for  a  sacred  habit  appropri- 
ated to  bishops,  priests,  and  deacons,  in  the  solemnities  of 
divine  service,  in  which  sense  it  appears  to  have  been  a  habit 
distinct  from  that  of  civil  and  common  use,  by  all  the  author- 
ities that  have  been  mentioned."  —  Bingham,  b.  13,  c.  8, 
sect.  2. 


M'or  wore  he  mitre  here. 
Precious  or  auriphrygiate.  —  XVIII.  p.  688,  col.  2. 

Mitral  usus  antiquissimus  est,  et  ejus  triplex  est  species ;  una 
qu(E  pretiosa  dicitur,  quia  gemmis  et  lapidihiis  pretiosis,  vel  lami- 
nis  aureis,  vel  argenteis  contexta  essesolet ;  altera  auriphrygiata 
sine  gemmis,  et  sine  laminis  aureis  vel  argenteis ;  scd  vel  aliquibus 
parvis  margaritis  composita,  vel  ex  serico  albo  auro  intermisto, 
vel  ex.  tela  aurea  simplici  sine  laminis  et  margaritis ;  tertia,  qua 
simplex  vocatur,  sine  aura,  ex  simplici  sirico  Damasceno,  vel  alio, 
aut  ctiam  hnra,  cr  tela  niba  confecta,rubcis  laciniis  sen  frangiis 
et  vittis  pendentibus.  Pretiosa  utitur  Episcopus  in  solemniuribus 
feslis,,el  grncraliter  quandocumque  in  officio  dicitur  hymnus  Te 
Deum  laudamus,  &c.  et  in  jn/.v.va  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo.  JVi- 
hilominus  in  eisdem  festis  etiam  auriphrygiata  itti  poterit,  sed 
poiius  ad  commoditatemquam  ix  necessitate  ;  ne  scilicet  Episcopus 
nimis  gravctur,  si  in  toto  officio  pretiosa  ntntur ;  propterea  usu 
receptum  est,  tarn  in  Vcsperis,  quani  in  Jilissis,  ul  pretiosa  utatur 
Episcopus  in  principio  et  in  fine  Vcsperarnm  (t  .Missarum  solrm- 
niuju,  ac  eunilo  ad  Ecclrsiam  et  redeundo  ab  en  ;  et  quando  Invat 
manus  et  dot  benedtctionem  solemnem.  Intermedia  autem  spalio 
loco  pretiosiB  accipit  auriphryginlnm.  —  JIuriphrygiata  mitra 
utitur  Episcopus  ab  Jidrmia  Domini  usque  ad  festum  JVativita- 
tis,  excepta  Dominica  tertia  Adrentus,  in  qua  dicitur  Introitua 
Gaudete,  &c.  ideoque  in  signum  laititia:  utitur  tunc  pretiosa. 
Item  a  Sepluagesinia  usque  ail  fcrium  qunrtam  majoris  hebdomada 
inclusive,  excepta  Dominica  quarta  Quadragesima,  in  qua  dicitur 
Introitns  I^a^tare,  &c.  Item  in  omnibus  vigiliis,qua'  jejunantur, 
et  in  omnibus  (piatuor  temporibus ;  in  Rogntionibus,  Litaniis  et 
processionibus,  qua:  ex  causa  penitentice  fuvt ;  in  festo  Innocen- 
tium,  nisi  venial  in  Dominica ;  et  bencdictionibus,  et  consecra- 
lionibus,  qua:  private  aguntur.  Quibus  quidem  temporibus 
abstinet,  Episcopus  a  mitra  pretiosa.    Poterit  tamcn  Episcopus 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE   LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      733 


ditin  utitiir  auriiilirijgiuta,  nil  rtiam  siwplicicodemmmUi  etfurma, 
prout  dc  pretiosa  cl  auriphrygialu  dictum  est.  Simptici  vrru 
mitra  utitur  Episcopiis  fcria  stxla  in  Piirascene,  et  in  offiriis  el 
Missis  (if/uHcioritHi."  — Coeremoiiialo  Eiiiscoiiorum,  I.  l,c.  17. 


The  pall 
Of  wool  undijcd,  which  on  the  j9postk's  tomb 
Gregory  had  laid.  —  XVIII.  p.  688,  col.  2. 

"  By  the  way,  the  pall  is  a  pontifical  vestment,  considerable 
for  tlie  matter,  making,  and  mysteries  thereof.  For  tlie  mat- 
ter, it  is  made  of  laml)'s  wool!  and  superstition.  I  say  of 
lanih's  wooll,  as  it  comes  from  the  sheep's  hack,  without  any 
other  artificial!  colour,  spun,  say  some,  by  a  peculiar  order  of 
nuunes,  first  cast  into  the  tombu  of  St.  I'eler,  taken  from  his 
body,  s.ay  others,  surely  most  sacred  if  from  both  ;  and  supcr- 
slitiously  adorned  with  little  black  crosses.  For  the  form 
thereof;  the  breadth  exceeded  not  three  fingers,  one  of 
our  b.ichelours'  lambskin  hoods  in  Cambridge  would  make 
thri'C  of  them,  having  two  labells  hanging  down  before  and 
behind,  wliicli  the  archbisliops  onily,  when  going  lothe  altar, 
put  al}Out  their  necks,  above  their  other  pontilicall  ornaments. 
Three  mysteries  were  couched  therein.  First,  Humility, 
which  beautifies  the  clergy  above  all  their  costly  copes. 
Secondbj,  Innocency,  to  imitate  lamb-like  siniplicitie.  And, 
Thirdly,  Industry,  to  follow  him  who  fetched  his  wandering 
sheep  home  on  his  shoulders.  But  to  speak  plainly,  tlie  mys- 
tery of  mysteries  in  the  pall  was,  that  the  archbishops  receiv- 
ing it  shewed  therein  their  dependence  on  Rome ;  and  a  mote 
in  tins  manner  ceremoniously  taken  was  a  sufficient  acknowl- 
edgement of  their  subjection.  And  as  it  owned  Rome's 
power,  so  in  after  ages  it  increased  their  profit.  For,  though 
now  such  palls  were  freely  given  to  archbisliops,  whose  places 
in  Britain  for  the  present  were  rather  cumbersome  than  com- 
modious, having  little  more  than  their  painos  for  their  labour  ; 
yet  in  after  ages  the  arclibishopof  Canterburie's  pall  was  sold 
for  five  thousand  florenes,  so  that  the  pope  might  well  have 
the  golden  fleece  if  he  could  sell  all  his  lamb's  wooll  at  that 
rate.  Onely  let  me  add,  that  the  author  of  Canterbury -book 
stiles  this  pall  Tiwqunm  grandr,  Chriili  Sacramentum.  It  is 
well  tunqiiam  came  in  to  help  it,  or  else  we  sliould  have  had 
eight  sacraments."  —  Fuller's  Church  History,  page  71. 


The  relics  and  the  written  works  of  Saints, 
Toledo's  choicest  treasure,  prized  beyond 
All  wealth,  their  living  and  their  dead  remains; 
These  to  the  mountain  fastnesses  he  bore 
Of  unsubdued  Cuntiibria,  there  deposed, 
One  day  to  be  the  boast  of  yet  unbuilt 
Oviedo,  and  the  dear  idolutry 
Of  multitudes  unburn.  —  XVI  [I,  p.  638,  col.  1. 

"  Among  those,"  says  Morales,  "  who  then  passed  from 
Toledo  to  Asturias,  was  the  archbishop  of  Toledo,  named 
Urban.  —  He,  with  a  holy  foresight,  collected  the  sacred  relics 
which  he  could,  and  the  most  precious  hooks  of  his  own 
church  and  of  others,  determining  to  carry  Ihem  all  to  the 
Asturias,  in  order  that  the  holy  relics  might  not  be  profaned 
or  treated  with  little  reverence  by  the  infidels;  and  that  the 
books  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  of  the  ecclesiastical  offices, 
and  the  works  of  our  holy  doctors,  might  not  be  lost. . —  And 
allhongh  many  relics  are  mentioned  which  the  archbishop 
then  carried  from  Toledo,  especial  mention  is  made  of  a  holy 
ark  full  of  many  and  most  remarkable  relics,  which  through 
divers  chances  and  dangers,  had  been  brought  from  Jerusalem 
to  Toledo,  and  of  which  all  that  is  fitting  shall  be  related  in 
its  place,  if  it  please  God  that  this  history  should  proceed. 
It  is  also  expressly  said,  that  the  cope  which  Our  Lady  gave 
to  St.  IMefonso,  was  then  carried  to  the  Asturias  with  the 
other  relics  ;  and  being  so  capital  a  relic,  it  was  a  worthy 
thing  to  write  of  it  thus  particularly.  Of  the  sacred  books 
which  were  saved  at  that  time,  there  are  specified  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  the  Councils,  the  works  of  St.  Isidore,  and  St. 
Ildefoiiso,  and  of  St.  Julian  the  archbishop  of  Toledo.  And 
PS  there  is  at  this  day  in  the  church  of  Oviedo  that  holy  ark, 
together  with  many  others  of  the  relics  which  were  then  re- 
moTed,  so  do  I  verily  believe  that  there  are  in  the  library  of 


that  church  three  or  four  books  of  those  which  were  then 
brought  from  Toledo.  I  am  led  to  this  belief  by  seeing  that 
they  are  written  in  a  form  ofGotliic  letters,  which  being  com 
pared  with  writings  six  hundred  years  old,  are  without  doubt 
much  older,  and  of  characters  so  different,  that  they  may  well 
be  attril)uted  to  the  times  of  the  Goths.  One  is  the  volume 
of  the  Councils,  another  is  a  Santorul,  another  contains  the 
books  of  St.  Isidore  de  JVuturis  Rerum,  with  other  works  of 
other  authors.  And  there  are  also  some  leaves  of  a  Bible.  — 
To  put  these  sacred  relics  in  greater  security,  and  avoid  the 
danger  of  the  Moors,  they  hid  them  in  a  cave,  and  in  a  sort 
of  deep  pit  therein,  two  leagues  from  the  city  of  Oviedo, 
(which  was  not  at  that  time  built,)  in  a  mountain,  which  was 
for  this  reason  called  Montesacro.  It  is  now  by  a  slight  cor- 
ruption called  Monsagro  ;  and  the  people  of  that  country  hold 
the  cave  in  great  veneration,  and  a  great  romery,  or  pilgrim- 
age, is  made  on  St.  Magdalen's  day,— Morales,  1.  12,  c.  71. 

The  place  where  the  relics  were  deposited  is  curiously 
described  in  the  Romantic  Chronicle.  lie  found  that  in 
this  land  of  Asturias  there  was  a  sierra,  full  great,  and  high, 
the  which  had  only  two  entrances,  after  this  manner.  On  the 
one  entrance,  there  was  a  great  river,  which  was  to  be  passed 
seven  times,  and  in  none  of  those  seven  places  was  it  fordable 
at  any  time,  except  in  the  month  of  July.  And  after  the  river 
had  been  crost  seven  times,  there  was  an  ascent  of  a  long 
league  up  a  high  mountain,  which  is  full  of  many  great  trees 
and  great  thickets,  wherein  are  many  wild  beasts,  such  as  bears 
and  boars  and  wolves,  and  there  is  a  pass  there  between  two 
rocks,  which  ten  men  might  defend  against  the  whole  w^orld, 
and  this  is  the  one  entrance.  The  other  is,  that  you  must 
ascend  this  great  mountain,  by  a  path  of  two  full  leagues  in 
length,  on  the  one  side  having  always  the  river,  and  the  way 
so  narrow,  that  one  man  must  go  before  another,  and  one  man 
can  defend  the  path  in  such  manner,  that  no  arbalist,  nor  engine 
of  other  kind,  nor  any  other  thing,  can  hurt  him,  not  if  the 
whole  world  were  to  come  against  him.  And  if  any  one  were 
to  stumble  upon  this  path,  he  would  fall  more  than  two 
thousand  fathoms,  down  over  rocks  into  the  river,  which  lies  at 
such  a  depth  that  the  water  appears  blacker  than  pitch.  And 
upon  that  mountain  there  is  a  good  spring,  and  a  plain  where 
there  are  good  meadows,  and  room  enough  to  raise  grain  for 
eight  or  ten  persons  for  a  year  ;  and  the  snow  is  always  there 
for  company,  enduring  from  one  year  to  another.  And  upon 
that  mountain  the  arclibisliop  made  two  churches,  one  to  the 
honour  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen,  and  the  other  to  the  honour 
of  St.  Michael,  antK  there  ho  i)laced  all  these  reliques,  where 
he  had  no  fear  that  any  should  take  them  ;  and  for  the  honour 
of  these  relics,  the  archbishop  consecrated  the  whole  mountain, 
and  appointed  good  guard  over  the  sacred  relics,  and  left  there 
three  men  of  good  life,  who  were  willing  to  remain  there, 
serving  God,  and  doing  penance  for  their  sins."  —  P.  2,  c.  48. 

Of  the  Camura  Santa,  Morales  has  given  a  curious  account 
in  his  Journal :  the  substance,  with  other  remarkable  circum- 
stances, he  afterwards  thus  inserted,  in  his  great  history  :  — 

'■  The  other  church  (or  chapel)  which  KingAlonsoel  Casto 
ordered  to  be  built  on  the  south  side  of  the  Iglesia  Jlayor,  (or 
cathedral,)  was  with  the  advocation  of  the  Glorious  Arch- 
angel St.  Michael.  And  in  order  that  he  might  elevate  it, 
he  placed  under  it  another  church  of  the  Virgin  and  Martyr 
St.  Leocadia,  somewhat  low,  and  vaulted  with  a  strong  arch, 
to  support  the  great  weight  which  was  to  be  laid  upon  it. 
The  king's  motive  for  thus  elevating  this  church  of  St.  .^li- 
chael,  I  believe  certainly  to  have  been  because  of  the  great 
humidity  of  that  land.  He  had  determined  to  place  in  this 
church  the  famous  relics  of  which  we  shall  presently  speak, 
and  the  humidity  of  the  region  is  so  great,  that  even  in 
sununer  the  furniture  of  the  houses  on  high  ground  is  covered 
with  mold.  This  religious  prince  therefore  elevated  the 
church  with  Becoming  foresight  for  reverence  and  belter 
preservation  of  the  precious  treasure  which  was  therein  to 
be  deposited.  For  this  reason  Ihey  call  it  Camara,  (the 
chamber,)  and  fiir  the  many  and  great  relics  which  it  con- 
tains, it  has  most  deservedly  the  appellation  of  Holy.  You 
ascend  to  it  by  a  flight  of  twenty-two  steps,  which  begin  in 
the  cross  of  the  Iglesia  Mayor,  (or  cathedral,)  and  lead  to  a 
vaulted  apartment  twenty  feet  square,  where  there  is  an  altar 
upon  which  mass  is  said  ;  for  within  there  is  no  altar,  neither 
is  mass  said  there  by  reason  of  the  reverence  shewn  to  so  great 
a  sanctuary  ;  and  it  may  be  seen  that  K.  D.  Alonso  mtcnded 


7ai       NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


in  his  plan  that  there  sliould  bo  no  altar  within.  In  this 
apartni(Mit  or  outer  chapel  is  a  great  arched  door,  witli  a  very 
strong  fastening  ;  it  leads  to  another  smaller  square  chamber, 
vaulted  also,  with  a  sciuare  door,  whicli  also  is  fastened  with 
another  strong  fastening,  and  those  are  the  fastenings  and 
keys  which  the  Bishoi)  Sanipyro  admires  for  their  strength 
and  security. 

"Tlie  square  door  is  the  door  of  the  Holy  Chamber,  which 
is  in  the  form  of  a  complete  church,  and  you  descend  to  it  by 
twelve  steps.  The  body  of  this  church  is  twenty  four  feet  in 
length,  and  sixteen  in  width.  Its  archcil  roof  is  of  the  same 
dimensions.  The  roof  is  most  richly  wrought,  and  supported 
uj)on  six  columns  of  divers  kinds  of  marble,  all  precious  and 
rightbeautiful,  upon  which  the  twelve  apostles  are  sculptured, 
two  and  two.  The  ground  is  laid  with  Mosaic  work,  with 
variety  of  columns,  representing  jasixT  ware.  The  Uishop 
Sampyro  had  good  reason  to  complain  of  the  darkness  of  this 
church,  which  has  only  one  small  window  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  chapel ;  and,  therefore,  in  this  which  we  call  the  body 
of  the  church,  there  are  commonly  three  silver  lamps  burning, 
the  one  in  the  middle  larger  than  the  other  two,  and  many 
other  lights  are  kindled  when  the  relics  are  shewn.  These 
are  kept  within  a  grating,  which  divides  the  chajiel  from  the 
church.  The  chapel  has  two  rich  marbles  at  the  entrance ;  it 
is  eighteen  feet  in  length,  and  its  width  somewhat  less  ;  the 
floor  and  the  roof  are  after  the  same  fashion  as  those  of  the 
church,  but  it  is  one  esUuhi  lower,  which  in  those  times  seems 
to  have  been  customary  in  Asturiis  and  in  Gallicia,  the 
Capillas  Mayores,  or  principal  chapels,  being  much  lower 
than  the  body  of  the  church.  The  roof  of  the  chapel  is  plain, 
and  has  painted  in  the  middle  our  Saviour  in  the  midst  of  the 
four  evangelists  ;  and  this  performance  is  so  ancient,  that  it 
is  manifestly  of  the  age  of  the  founder.  At  this  iron  grating 
strangers  are  usually  detained  ;  there  is  a  lower  one  within 
of  wood,  to  which  persons  are  admitted  who  deserve  this 
privilege  for  their  dignify  ;  and  few  there  be  who  enter 
farther.  This  church  the  king  built  to  remove  to  it,  as 
accordingly  he  forthwith  removed,  the  Holy  Ark,  the  holy 
bodies,  and  the  other  great  relics,  which,  at  tlie  destruction 
of  Spain,  were  hidden  in  the  cave  and  well  of  Monsagro,  and 
for  this  cause  he  had  it  built  with  so  much  care,  and  so  richly, 
and  with  such  security. 

"  I  have  described  the  Camara  Santa  thus  particularly,  that 
what  I  may  say  of  the  most  precious  relics  which  it  contains 
may  be  the  better  enjoyed.  I  will  particularize  the  most 
principal  of  them,  beginning  with  the  Holy  Ark,  which  with 
great  reason  has  deserved  this  name.  It  is  in  the  midst  of 
the  chapel,  close  to  the  wooden  grate,  so  that  you  can  only 
go  round  it  on  three  sides,  and  it  is  placed  upon  a  stone 
pedestal,  wrought  with  mouldings  of  a  palm  in  height.  It  is 
a  vara  and  a  half  (about  five  feet)  in  length  ;  little  less  than 
a  vara  wide,  and  about  as  deep,  that  part  which  is  of  silver, 
not  including  the  height  which  the  pedestal  gives  it.  The 
cover  is  flat,  and  it  is  covered  in  all  parts  with  silver  plates 
of  some  thickness,  and  gilt  on  some  places.  In  the  front, 
or  th;it  side  which  fronts  the  body  of  the  church,  it  has  the 
twelve  apostles  in  more  than  half  relief,  and  on  the  sides 
there  are  histories  of  Our  Lady  in  the  same  silver-work.  On 
the  flat  part  of  the  cover  there  is  a  large  crucifix  engraved 
with  many  other  images  round  al)out  it.  The  sides  are 
elaborately  wrought  with  foliage,  and  the  whole  displays  great 
antiquity.  The  cover  has  round  about  it  four  lines  in  the 
silver,  which,  however,  are  imperfect,  the  silver  being  want- 
ing in  some  places.  What  they  contain  is  this,  as  I  have 
copied  it  faithfully,  with  its  bad  Latin  and  other  faults  :  — 

"  Oninis  cojivciHus  pupuli  Deo  digitus  calholici  cognnscat, 
quorum  inclijtas  veneratur  reliquias,  intra  pretinsijiaima  prie- 
sentis  arclutlnlcra.  Hoc  est  de  ligno  plurimum,  sivc  de  cruce 
Domini.  De  veslimentis  illius,  quod  per  sortcm  divis-um  est. 
De  pane  delectabili  unde  in.  cena  vsus  est.  De  sindone  Do- 
minico  ejus  adque  sudario  et  cruore  sanctissimo.  De  terra 
sancta  quam  piis  calcavit  tunc  vestigiis.  De  vestimentis  matris 
ejus  Virginis  Maria;.  De  lacte  quoque  ejus,  quod  mullum  est 
mirabile,  H'ls  paritcr  conjunctee  sunt  qutcdam  sanctorum  maxirnc 
prestantes  reliquia:,  quorum  prout  potuimns,  hwc  nomina  sub- 
scripsimus.  Hoc  est  de  Sancto  Petro,  de  Sancto  Tlioma,  Sancti 
Bartolomei.  De  ossihus  Prophctnruvi,  de  omnibus  ^postolis,  et 
de  aliis  quam  plurimis  Sanctis,  quorum  nomina  sola  Dei  scientia 
tolligit.    His  omnibus  egregius  Rex  Mrfonsus  humili  devotione 


perditus  fecit  hoc  receptaculum,  sanctorum  pignoribus  insignitum 
argcnlo  dcaurutum,  etterius  udornatum  non  vilibus  operibus : 
p<r  quod  post  ejus  vitam  mercatur  consortium  illorum  in  coelestibus 

siinclnruin  jubari  precibus.     H<rc  quidem  saluti  ct  re Here 

a  largo  piece  of  the  silver  is  gone.  —  JVovil  omnis  provintiu  in 

terra  sine  dubio. Here  there  is  another  great  chasm. — 

Manus  et  industria  clericorum  et  prasulum,  qui  propter  hoc  can- 
venimu.'i  cum  dido  JldeJ'onso  Principe,  et  cum  germana  hcctissima 
Urraca  nomina  dicta:  quibus  Redemptor  omnium  conccdit 
indulgentiam  et  suorum  peccatorum  vcniam,  per  hoc  sanctorum 
pigiiura  Jipostolorum  et  Sancti  Justi  et  Pastoris,  Cosmo:  el  Da- 
miani,  Eulalia;  Virginis,  etJMaximi,  Gcrmani,  Baudili,  Panleile- 
oni.t,  Cijpriani  ct  Jiegtinre,  Sebastiani,  Facundi  el  Primitivi, 
Chrislophori,  Cncnfati,  Fclicis,  Sulpicii. 

"  This  inscription,  with  its  had  Latin  and  olher  defects, 
and  by  reason  of  the  parts  tliat  are  lost,  can  ill  be  translated. 
Nevertheless  I  shall  render  it,  in  order  that  it  may  be  enjoyed 
by  all.  It  says  thus  :  Know  all  the  congregation  of  Catholic 
people,  worthy  of  God,  whose  the  famous  relics  arc,  which 
they  venerate  within  the  most  precious  sidesof  this  ark.  Know 
then  that  herein  is  great  part  of  the  wood  or  cross  of  our  Lord. 
Of  his  garment  for  whicli  they  cast  lots.  Of  the  blessed  bread 
whereof  he  ate  at  the  supper.  Of  his  linen,  of  the  holy  hand- 
kerchief, (the  Sudario,)  and  of  his  most  holy  blood.  Of  the 
holy  ground  which  he  then  trod  with  his  holy  feet.  Of  the 
garments  of  his  mother  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  also  of  her  milk, 
which  is  a  great  wonder.  With  these  also  there  are  many 
cajiital  relics  of  saints,  whose  names  we  s.'iall  write  here  as  we 
can.  Saint  Peter,  St.  Tliomas,  St.  Bartholomew.  Bones  of 
the  prophets,  and  of  all  the  Apostles,  and  of  many  other  saints 
whose  names  are  known  only  to  the  wisdom  of  God.  The 
noble  King  Don  Alonso,  being  full  of  humble  devotion  for  all 
these  holy  relics,  made  this  repository,  adorned  and  ennoliled 
with  pledges  of  the  saints,  and  on  the  outside  covered  with 
silver,  and  gilded  with  no  little  cunning.  For  the  which  may 
he  deserve  after  this  life  the  com])any  of  these  Saints  in 
heaven,  being  aided  by  their  intercession.  —  These  holy  relics 
were  placed  here  by  the  care  and  by  the  hands  of  many  clergy 
and  prelates,  who  were  here  assembled  with  the  said  King  U. 
Alonso,  and  with  his  chosen  sister  called  Donna  (Jrraca.  To 
wliom  may  the  Redeemer  of  all  grant  remission  and  pardon 
of  their  sins,  for  the  reverence  and  rich  reliquary  which  they 
made  for  the  said  relics  of  the  Apostles,  and  for  those  of  the 
Saints,  St.  Justus  and  Pastor,  St.  Cosme  and  St.  Damian, 
St.  Eulalia  the  Virgin,  and  of  the  Saints  Maximus,  Germanus, 
Caudilus,  Pantaloon,  Cyprianus  and  Justina,  Sebastian,  Fa- 
cundus  and  Primitivus,  Christopher,  Cucufatus,  Felix  and 
Sulpirius. 

"  The  sum  of  the  manner  in  which  this  Holy  Ark  came 
into  Spain  is  this,  conformably  to  what  is  written  by  all  our 
grave  authors.  When  Cosroes  the  King  of  Persia,  in  the  time 
of  the  Emperor  Ilcraclius,  came  ujion  the  Holy  Land,  and  took 
the  city  of  Jerusalem,  the  bishop  of  that  city,  who  was  called 
Philip,  and  his  clergy,  with  pious  forethought,  secreted  the 
Holy  Ark,  which  from  the  time  of  the  Apostles  had  been  kept 
there,  and  its  stores  augmented  with  new  relics,  which  were 
deposited  therein.  After  the  victory  of  Cosroes,  the  Bishop 
Philip,  with  many  of  his  clergy,  passed  into  Africa,  carrying 
with  them  the  Holy  Ark  :  and  there  it  remained  some  years, 
till  Hie  Saracens  entered  into  that  province  also,  and  then 
Fulgeutius  the  Bishop  of  Kuspina,  with  providence  like  that 
which  hail  made  Philip  bring  it  to  Africa,  removed  it  into 
Spain.  Thus  it  came  to  the  Holy  Church  of  Toledo,  and 
was  from  thence  removed  to  Asturias,and  hidden  in  the  cave 
of  Monsagro :  finally.  King  D.  Alonso  el  Casto  removed  it  to 
the  Camara  Santa;  and  afterwards  K.  D.  Alonso  the  Great 
enriched  it.  Thus  our  histories  write,  and  the  same  is  read 
in  the  lessons  on  the  festival  which  the  church  of  Oviedo 
celebrates  of  the  coming  there  of  this  Holy  Ark,  with  a 
sermon  proper  for  the  day,  and  much  solemnity,  the  service 
being  said  on  the  13th  of  March,  after  vespers,  above  in  the 
church  of  the  Camara  Santa.  This  is  a  most  weighty  tes- 
timony which  the  Holy  Ark  possesses  of  its  own  authenticity, 
and  of  the  genuineness  of  the  most  great  treasure  which  it 
contains.  —  These  also  are  strong  testimonies,  that  K.  D. 
Alonso  the  Great  should  not  only  have  made  the  Ark  so  rich, 
but  that  this  king  sliould  also  have  fortified  the  city  of  Oviedo, 
surrounding  it  with  walls,  and  making  for  it  a  castle,  and 
building  also  the  castle  of  Gauzon  upon  the  shore,  for  the 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      735 


(lorciK-e  and  security  of"  this  holy  treasure,  iiiul  I'or  iinot'.ior  end, 
as  he  loft  written  upon  the  stone  of  wlilcliwo  have  elsewhere 
spoken.  Another  testimony  of  great  autliority,  is  the  great 
reveteueo  whicli  1ms  heen  shewn  to  this  Holy  Ark,  from  the 
time  which  is  spoken  of  hy  Alonso  the  Great  in  the  inscription, 
to  these  our  days.  This  is  so  great  that  no  one  has  dared  to 
open  it,  nieliincholy  examples  being  related  of  some  daring 
attempts  which  have  been  made.  'J'hat  which  occurred  in  our 
days  is  not  mournful,  but  rather  of  much  devotion  and  holy 
joy.  The  most  illustrious  Peiior  D.  Christoval  de  Rojas  y 
Sandoval,  who  is  now  the  most  worthy  Arclibishop  of  Seville, 
when  he  was  Bishop  of  Oviedo,  determined  to  open  tho  holy 
Ark.  For  this,  as  the  singular  devotion  and  most  holy  zeal 
fur  tho  glory  of  God  which  ho  has  in  all  things,  admonished 
him,  ho  made  such  pious  preparations  as  the  fame  of  so  celes- 
tial a  treasure  showed  to  be  necessary.  lie  proclaimed  sol- 
emnly a  fast  of  forty  days  in  his  church  and  through  all  his 
diocese,  commanding  that  prayers  should  be  m.nde  to  our  Lord, 
beseeching  him  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  what  was  in- 
tended, his  Alost-Illustriousness  giving  tho  example,  which  is 
very  common  and  very  edifying  in  his  church,  in  himself,  and 
in  tlie  ministers  thereof.  Three  days  before  the  Sunday  on 
which  the  Ark  was  to  be  opened,  he  ordered  all  persons  to  fast, 
and  to  make  greater  prayers  witli  processions.  When  the 
day  arrived,  he  said  pontifical  mass,  and  preached,  infusing 
with  his  holy  exhortations  much  of  his  own  devout  desires 
into  tlie  hearts  of  tlie  hearers.  The  mass  being  finished,  clad 
as  he  was,  he  ascended  to  the  Caraara  Santa,  with  much  out- 
ward solemnity,  and  with  much  fervor  of  devotion  internally 
in  his  heart ;  and  having  there  again  renewed  his  humble 
prayers  to  our  Lord,  and  quickened  the  ardor  of  that  sacred 
desire  which  had  influenced  him ;  on  his  knees  as  he  was  be- 
fore the  Holy  Ark,  he  took  the  key  to  open  it.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  put  tho  key  in  the 
lock,  suddenly  he  felt  such  horror  and  dismay,  and  found  him- 
self so  bereft  of  all  power  {tan  impossibilitado)  to  move  it  in 
any  way,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  proceed,  or  do  any 
thing  but  remain  in  that  lioly  consternation,  without  having 
strength  or  ability  for  more.  And  as  if  he  had  come  there  to 
oppose  and  prevent  that  which  purposely,  and  with  so  much 
desire  and  preparation,  ho  iuid  intended  to  do,  ho  desisted  from 
liis  intent,  and  gave  it  up,  his  whole  holy  desire  being  turned 
into  a  chill  of  humble  shrinking  and  fear.  Among  other  things 
which  his  most  Illustrious  Lordship  relates  of  what  he  then 
felt,  he  says,  that  his  hair  stood  up  in  such  a  manner  and  w  ith 
such  force,  that  it  seemed  to  him,  as  if  it  lifted  the  mitre  a 
considerable  way  from  his  head.  Now,  we  all  know  that  this 
famous  prelate  lias  vigor  and  persevering  courage  for  all  the 
great  things  which  he  undertakes  in  the  service  of  our  Lord  ; 
but  in  this  manner  the  Holy  Ark  remained  unopened  then, 
and  thus  I  believe  it  will  always  remain,  fastened  more  surely 
with  veneration  and  reverence,  and  with  respect  of  these  ex- 
amples, than  with  the  strong  bolt  of  its  lock. 

"  In  the  inscription  of  this  Holy  Ark,  mention  is  made  of 
the  relics  of  St.  Baudilus,  and  by  reason  that  he  is  a  Saint 
very  little  knownj  it  will  be  proper  to  say  something  of  him. 
This  Saint  is  much  reverenced  in  Salamanca  and  in  Zamora, 
and  in  both  cities  he  has  a  parochial  church,  and  in  Zamora 
they  have  a  good  part  of  his  relics.  They  have  so  much 
corrupted  the  name,  calling  him  St.  Boal,  that  the  Saint  is 
now  scarcely  known  by  his  own. 

"  They  of  the  church  say,  that  tho  cope  of  St.  Ildcfonso, 
which  Our  Lady  gave  him,  is  in  the  Ark.  This  may  well  be 
believed,  since  our  good  authors  particularly  relate  that  it  was 
carried  to  Oviedo  with  tho  Holy  Ark,  and  with  the  other 
relics,  and  it  does  not  now  appear  among  them,  and  there  is 
much  more  reason  to  think  that  it  has  been  very  carefully  put 
away,  than  that  it  has  been  lost.  Also  they  say,  that  when 
the  celestial  cope  was  put  into  the  Holy  Ark,  they  took  out 
of  it  the  piece  of  the  holy  Sudario,  in  which  the  head  of  our 
Redecn.er  was  wrapped  up  for  his  interment,  as  is  said  in  the 
inscription  of  the  Ark.  This  is  one  of  the  most  famous  relics 
in  all  Christendom,  and  therefore  it  is  most  richly  adorned, 
and  reverently  preserved,  being  shovi'n  only  three  times  in  the 
year  with  the  greatest  solemnity.  The  box  in  which  it  is 
kept  is  wrought  without  of  gold  and  azure,  with  beautiful 
mouldings  and  pictures,  and  other  orn.in.ents  of  much  au- 
thority. Within  this  there  is  a  square  pieceof  wood,  covered 
entirely  with  black  velvet,  with  silver  handles,  and  other 


decorations  of  silver  round  abnut  ;  in  the  hollow  of  this  square, 
the  holy  Sudario  is  stretched  and  fastened  upon  the  velvet; 
it  is  a  thin  linen  cloth,  three  quarters  long  and  half  a  vara 
wide,  and  in  many  places  full  of  the  divine  blood  from  the 
head  of  our  Redeemer,  in  divers  forms  and  stains  of  various 
sizes  ;  wherein  some  persons  observe  marks  of  the  divine 
countenance  and  other  particularities.  I  did  not  perceive 
this  ;  but  the  feeling  which  came  upon  me  when  I  looked  at 
it  is  sufficient  to  make  me  believe  any  thing  of  it ;  and  if  a 
wretch  like  me  was  thus  affected,  what  must  it  be  with  those 
who  deserve  of  our  Lord  greater  regalements  on  such  an  occa- 
sion !  It  is  exhibited  to  the  people  three  times  in  tho  year ; 
on  Good  Friday,  and  on  the  two  festivals  of  the  Cross  in  May 
and  in  September,  and  there  is  then  a  great  concourse  from 
all  the  country,  and  from  distant  parts.  This  part  of  the  cross 
of  the  church  where  the  Camara  Santa  is,  is  richly  hung,  and 
in  tho  first  apartment  of  the  Camara,  a  corridor  is  erected  for 
this  exhibition,  which  is  closed  that  day  with  curtains  of 
black  velvet,  and  a  canopy  that  extends  over  the  varandas. 
The  Bishop  in  his  pontificals,  with  his  assistants  and  other 
grave  persons,  places  himself  behind  the  curtains  with  the 
Holy  Sudario,  holding  it  liy  the  silver  handles,  covered  with 
a  veil.  The  curtains  are  undrawn,  and  the  quiristers  below 
immediately  begin  the  Miserere.  The  Bishop  lifts  the  veil, 
and  at  the  sight  of  tlie  Holy  Sudario,  another  music  begins  of 
the  voices  of  the  people,  deeply  aiTectcd  with  devotion,  which 
verily  penetrates  all  hearts.  The  Bishop  stands  some  time, 
turning  the  Sacred  Relic  to  all  sides,  and  afterwards  tho  veil 
being  replaced,  and  tho  curtains  redrawn,  he  replaces  the 
Holy  Sudario  in  its  box.  With  all  these  solemnities,  the  very 
Illustrious  and  most  Reverend  SeBor,  M.  D.  Gonza!o  de 
Solorzano,  Bishop  of  Oviedo,  exhibited  this  Holy  Relic  on 
the  day  of  Santiago,  in  the  year  of  our  Redeemer  1572,  in 
order  that  I  might  bear  a  more  complete  relation  of  the  whole 
to  the  King  our  Lord,  I  having  at  that  time  undertaken  this 
sacred  journey  by  his  command. 

"  Another  chest,  with  a  covering  of  crimson  and  brocade, 
contains  a  good  quantity  of  bones,  and  some  pieces  of  a  head  ; 
which,  although  they  are  very  damp,  have  a  most  sweet  odor, 
and  this  all  we  who  were  present  perceived,  when  they  were 
shown  me,  and  we  spoke  of  it  as  of  a  notable  and  marvellous 
thing.  The  account  which  they  of  the  church  give  of  this 
holy  body  is,  that  it  is  that  of  St.  Serrano,  without  knowing 
any  thing  more  of  it.  I,  considering  the  great  dampness  of 
tho  sacred  bones,  believe  certainly  that  it  was  brought  up  to 
tho  Camara  Santa  from  the  church  of  Lcocadia,  which,  as  it 
has  been  seen,  is  underneath  it.  And  there,  in  the  altar,  the 
great  stone-chest  is  empty,  in  which  King  Alonso  el  Casto 
enclosed  many  relics,  as  the  Bishop  Sampyro  writes.  For 
myself  I  have  always  held  for  certain,  that  the  body  of  St. 
Lcocadia  is  that  which  is  in  this  rich  chest.  And  in  this 
opinion  I  am  the  more  confirmed  since  the  year  1580,  when 
sucli  exquisite  diligence  lias  been  used  by  our  Spaniards  in 
the  monastery  of  St.  Gisleno,  near  Mons  de  Henao  in  Flan- 
ders, to  verify  whether  the  body  of  St.  Leocadia,  which  they 
have  there,  is  that  of  our  Saint.  The  result  has  been,  that  it 
was  ascertained  beyond  all  doubt  to  be  the  same ;  since  an 
authentic  writing  was  found  of  the  person  who  carried  it 
thither  by  favor  of  one  of  our  earliest  kings,  and  he  carried  it 
from  Oviedo  without  dispute ;  because,  according  to  my 
researches,  it  is  certain  that  it  was  there.  Now  I  affirm,  that 
the  king  who  gave  part  left  part  also  ;  and  neither  is  that 
which  is  there  so  much,  that  what  we  saw  at  Oviedo  might 
not  well  have  been  left,  neither  is  this  so  much  but  that  which 
is  at  Mons  might  well  have  been  given. 

"  In  the  church  below,  in  a  hollow  made  for  this  purpose, 
with  grates,  and  a  gate  well  ornamented,  is  one  of  the  vessels 
which  our  Redeemer  Jesus  Christ  filled  with  miraculous  wine 
at  tho  marriage  in  Galileo.  It  is  of  white  marlilo,  of  an  an- 
cient fashion,  more  than  three  feet  high,  and  two  wide  at 
the  mouth,  and  contains  more  than  six  airobas.  And  foras- 
much as  it  is  in  tho  wall  of  the  church  of  K.  Alonso  el  Casto, 
and  all  the  work  about  it  is  very  ancient,  it  may  be  believed 
that  the  said  king  ordered  it  to  be  placed  there."  -  CoroHica 
General  de  E^pana,  I.  1^,  b.  40. 

Morales  gives  an  outline  of  this  vessel  in  his  Journal,  and 
observes,  that  if  the  Christians  transported  it  by  land,  partic- 
ular strength  and  the  aid  of  God  would  have  been  necessary 
to  carry  it  so  many  leagues,  and  movo  it  over  tho  rugged 


73<J      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


mountains  of  Euro]).!  ;  —  but,  lie  mlds,  it  niij;lit  li:ive  come  by 
water  from  Aiidaliisia  or  I'ortugal,  and  in  that  case  this  would 
have  been  a  land  journey  of  only  lour  or  five  leagues.  In  )iis 
Journal,  Morale's  nu.'utions  certain  other  relics  of  which  the 
church  of  Oviedo  boasted,  but  for  which  he  required  better 
evidence  than  could  bo  adduced  for  them.  Such  were  a  por- 
tion of  Tobit's  fisli,  and  of  .Samson's  honey-comb,  with  other 
such  tilings,  which,  he  says,  would  lessen  the  credit  of  the 
Ark,  where,  according  to  the  Bishop  of  Oviedo,  D.  Pelayo, 
and  Sebastian,  Bishop  of  Salamanca,  they  were  deposited. 
Of  these  precious  relics  he  says  nothing  in  his  history,  neither 
docs  he  mention  a  piece  of  Moses's  rod,  a  large  piece  of  St. 
Bartholomew's  skin,  and  the  sole  of  St.  Peter's  shoe,  all  which 
ho  enumerates  in  his  Journal,  implying  rather  than  expressing 
his  doubts  of  their  authenticity.  As  a  scrupulous  and  faithful 
antiquary,  Morales  was  accustomed  to  require  evidence,  and 
to  investigate  it ;  and  for  these  he  could  find  no  other  testi- 
mony than  tradition  and  antiijuity,  which,  as  ])resumptive 
proofs,  were  strong  corroborants  of  faith,  but  did  not  suffice  of 
themselves.  The  Holy  Ark  has  all  the  evidence  which  he 
required,  and  the  reverence  with  which  ho  regarded  it,  is 
curiously  expressed  in  his  Journal.  "  I  have  now,"  he  says, 
"  described  the  material  part  of  the  Camara  Santa.  The 
spiritual  and  devout  character  which  it  derives  from  the  sa- 
cred treasures  which  it  contains,  and  the  feeling  which  is  expe- 
rienced upon  entering  it,  cannot  be  described  without  giving 
infinite  thanks  to  our  liord,  that  he  has  been  pleased  to  suffer 
a  wretch  like  me  to  enjoy  it.  I  write  this  in  the  church 
before  the  grating,  and  God  knows  I  am  as  it  were  beside 
myself  with  fear  and  reverence,  and  I  can  only  beseech  God 
to  give  me  strength  to  proceed  with  that  for  which  I  have  no 
power  myself."  —  T.  10,  Viage,  p.  91. 

Morales,  like  Origen,  had  given  in  his  youtli  a  decisive 
proof  of  the  sincerity  of  his  religious  feelings,  and  it  some- 
times seems  as  if  he  had  emasculated  his  mind  as  well  as 
his  body.  But  with  all  this  abject  superstition,  he  was  a 
thoroughly  pious  and  good  man.  His  life  is  deejjly  interest- 
ing, and  his  writings,  besides  their  great  historical  and  anti- 
quarian value,  derive  additional  interest  from  the  picture  of 
the  author's  mind  which  they  so  frequently  display.  The 
portrait  prefixed  to  the  last  edition  of  his  work  is  singularly 
characteristic. 


The  proud  array 
Of  ermines,  aureate  vests,  and  jewelry, 
With  all  which  Lcumgild  for  after  kings 
Left,  ostentatioiis  of  his  power  ?  —  XVIII.  p. 


,  col.  '2. 


"  Postremum  bellum  Suevis  intulit,  regnumque  corum  in  jura 
gentis  sua:  mirh  celcritate  transmisit.  Hispania  magna  ex  parte 
potitus,  nam  antea  gens  Gothorum  angtistis  fnibas  arctabatiir. 

—  Fiscum  quoque  primus  istc  locuplctavit,  primusquc  a:rarium  de 
rapinis  civium,  hostiumque  manubiis  aiuit.  Primusquc  ctiam 
inter  suos  regali  veste  opertus  in  solio  resedit.  JVum  ante  cum 
et  habitus  et  consessus  communis,  ut  populo,  ita  ct  regibus  erat." 

—  S.  Isidor.  Hist.  Goth.  —  Espana  Sagrada,  G,  498-9. 


The  Sueve.—XVni.  p.  689,  col.  1. 

As  late  as  the  age  of  the  Philips,  the  Portuguese  were 
called  Sevosos  by  the  Castilians,  as  an  opprobrious  name. 
Brito  says,  It  was  the  old  word  Suevos  continued  and  cor- 
rupted, and  used  contemptuously,  because  its  origin  was  for- 
golten.  — Monorchia  Lusitana,  2,  G,  4. 

When  the  Sueves  and  Alans  overran  Spain,  they  laid  siege 
to  Lisbon,  and  the  Saints  Maxima,  Julia,  and  Verissimus,  (a 
most  undoubted  personage,)  being  Lisbonians,  were  applied  to 
by  their  town's  people  to  deliver  them.  Accordingly  a  sick- 
ness broke  out  in  the  besiegers'  camp,  and  they  agreed  to  de- 
part upon  payment  of  a  sum  of  money.  Bernardo  de  Brito 
complains  that  Blondus  and  Sabellicus,  in  their  account  of  this 
transaction,  have  been  so  careless  as  to  mention  the  money, 
and  omit  the  invocation  of  the  Saints.  —  M.  Las.  2,  5,  23. 


ages  of  the  French  monarcliy.  I  am  indebled  fi^r  them  to 
Turner's  most  valuable  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  to 
Mr.  Lingard's  Antiquities  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Cliurch,a  work 
not  more  full  of  erudition  than  it  is  of  Romish  sophistry  and 
misrepresentation. 


Roderick  brought 
The  buckler.  — XVni.  p.  C89,  col.  2. 

Toman,  diziendo  aquesto,  un  ancho  escudo 

El  Duquc  y  Condc  y  hombres  principales, 
De  pies  encima  el  Principe  membrudo 

Lo  lecantan  assi  del  suelo  iguales  : 
Y  algarlo  en  peso,  quanta  algar  se  pudo 

De  al^arlo  pur  su  Rry  fueron  senales. 
Real,  Real,  Real,  diziendo  todos, 
Scgun  costumbre  antigua  de  los  Oodos. 

Ch.  de  Messa.  Rastauracion  de  Espana,  I.  4,  ff.  34. 


Lm-d  God  of  Hosts,  &c.  —  XVIII.  p.  G89,  col.  2. 

The  substance  of  these  prayers  will  be  found  in  the  forms 
of  coronation  observed  by  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  in  the  early 


Rejoice, 
0  Leon,  for  thy  banner  is  displayed.  —  XVIII.  p.  690,  col.  1. 

"  La  yrimera  ciiidad  que  gano  diicn  fue  Leon,  y  desde  alii  se 
llamo  Rey  de  Levn,  y  tomo  pur  annas  un  Leon  rooro  en  campo 
bianco,  dciando  his  antiguas  arnias  de  los  Godos,  que  eran  un 
Leon  bermcjo  rampante,  en  campo  azul,  buclta  la  earn  atras,  sobre 
trcs  ondas  blaitcas  y  aznles."  —  Fran,  de  Pisa.  Desc  de  To- 
ledo, I.  3,  c.  2. 

Fue  la  del  quinto  globo  roxa  cstrella 
rayo  de  su  valor,  voz  de  sufama, 
y  Leon  de  sa  escudo  y  luzimiento, 
hcredudo  blason,  Signo  Sangriento. 

Coro  de  las  Mnsas,  p.  102. 

"  Les  anciennes  armes  estoicnt  parlantes,  comme  Von  void  en 
celles  des  Comtes  de  Castille,  et  des  Rois  dc  Leon,  qui  prindrent 
des  Chateaux  cl  des  Lions,  pour  significr  les  noms  vulgaires  des 
Provinces,  par  le  blason  dc  leurs  armes  ;  qui  nc  se  reportent  pas 
a  Vancienne  denomination  de  Castulo  et  de  Legio,  ches  Pline." 
—  Pierre  de  Marca,  Hist,  de  Beam,  1.  1,  c.  12,  §  11. 

"  The  lion's  grinders  are,  relevecs  de  trois  pointes  un  pea 
creusees  dans  leur  centre,  dans  lesquelles  les  spcculatij's  croyent 
voir  la  figure  d'unejleur  de  lys.  Jcn^ay  garde  de  dire  le  con- 
Iraire,"  says  P.  Labat,  "  il  est  permis  a  bien  des  gens  de  voir 
dans  les  nu'es  et  dans  les  charbons  ardens  tout  ce  qu'il  plait  d  tear 
imairination  de  .v'y  representer  j  pourquoy  nc  scrn-t-il  pas  libre  de 
voir  sur  les  dents  du  Lion  la  figure  desficurs  de  lys  ?  Je  doute 
que  les  Espagnols  en  conviennent,  eux  qui  prennent  le  Lion  pour 
les  armes  ct  le  symbule  de  leur  monarchie ;  car  on  pourroit  leur 
dire  que  c^est  nne  marque  que  sans  le  secotirs  de  la  France,  leur 
Lion  ne  seroit  pas  fort  a  craindre.^'  —  Afrique  Occidentale,  T. 
ii.  p.  14. 

jjnrf  Tagus  bend-t  his  sickle  round  the  scene 
Of  Roderick's  full.  — Will.  p.  090,  col.  1. 

Th,ere  is  a  place  at  Toledo  called  la  Alcurnia.  "  El  nombre 
de  Alcurnia  es  .^rabigo,  que  es  dczir  cosa  dc  cuerno,  o  en  forma 
de  cuerno,  lo  que  Christianos  llamavan  foz,  o  hoz  de  Tajo. 
Llamase  assi  porque  desde  que  este  rio  passa  por  debaxo  de  la 
puente  de  ..Alcantara,  va  haziendo  una  buclta  y  lorccdura,  que  en 
una  escritura  antigua  se  llama  hoz  de  Tajo.  Lo  mesmo  acontccio 
a  Jirlanca  cerca  de  Lara,  de  dondc  se  llamo  la  hoz  de  Lara, 
como  la  nota  Ambrosio  de  Morales ;  y  en  cl  Rcyno  de  Toledo  ay 
la  hoz  dc  Jucar.''  —  Francisco  de  Pisa.  Desc.  de  Toledo, 
I.  i.  c.  14. 


Amid  our  deserts  tee  hunt  dovxn  the  birds 

Of  heaven,  —  icings  do  not  sace  them!  —  XX.  p.  694,  col.  1. 

The  Moors  have  a  peculiar  manner  of  hunting  the  par- 
tridge. In  the  plains  of  Akkernmte  and  Jibbcl  Ilidded  in 
Shedma,  they  take  various  kinds  of  dogs  with  tliom,  from  the 
greyhound  to  the  shepherd's  dog,  and  following  the  birds  on 
horseback,  and  allowing  (hem  no  time  to  rest,  they  soon  fatigue 
them,  when  they  are  taken  by  the  dogs.  But  as  the  Moosel- 
min  eats  nothing  but  what  has  had  its  throat  cut,  he  takes  out 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


737 


his  kiiifi",  anil  oxclaiming  Bismillah,  in  tlic  name  of  God,  cuts 
the  throat  of  the  game.  —  Jacksmt's  Morocco,  p.  121. 


^  hasty  gravt,  scarce  hidden  therefrom  do^'s 
And  ravens,  nor  from  wintry  rains  secure. 

XX  n.  p.  G'J8,  col.  1. 

In  composing  these  lines  I  remembered  a  far  more  beauti- 
ful passage  in  one  of  tlio  Eclogues  of  the  Jesuit  Bussieres:  — 

.irtesi:is  ruit  eccefurens,fincsquepro])Vuiuos 
Insultans,  stragem  agricolh  fugientibns  infcrt. 
Quidfaccrem  7  matrcm,  ul  potid,  tcnerumquc  puellum 
Raptabam,  ct  mcdiis  abdibam  corpora  sihi^. 
Axpera  jam  frigebal  hyems,  frondosaquc  qucrcus 
Pro  tccto  et  latcbris  ramos  prabcbal  iipacos  ; 
Mgcntemfovi  mutrem  ;  fovet  ilia  rigcntcm 
Iiifantem  grcmio.     Sub  prima  crcpuscula  lucis 
Progredior,  tectum  miseris  si  forte  patcret : 
Silvam  fusus  cques  tclis  infensus  habebat ; 
Bonafugin,  et  capio  compendia  tnta  riorum. 
Conditur  atra  dies ;  ccpIo  nox  horrida  surgit. 
Quam  longis  mihi  noz  misero  producitur  horis. 
Quos  geinituifletufquc  dedi .-  qnam  proxima  votum 
Lux  fait !  heu  tri-ti  lux  infcnsissiina  clade! 
Currcbum  ad  notam  quercam  per  dcvia  tesqua. 
Dux  amor  eat.     Jinnnm  video,  pucrumque  jacentem 
AJixiim  vbcribus,  dura;  succu7nbrrc  morti. 
Ipsa  parens,  postqunm  ad  voccvi  conversa  vocantis 
In  me  nmplexantem  morientia  buiiina  fixit, 
F.luctantcm  anininm  glaciato  c  corpore  viittit. 
Obrigai,  fr igusque  novum  penctravit  in  ossa  : 
f^lix,  si  simiii  potuis.-tcm  occumbere  letho ; 
Sors  infesta  vetat.     Restabat  cura  sepulchri, 
Quo  fodcrim  ferrum  dcerat ;  miserubile  corpus 
Frondtbus  obtrxi,  pucrum  nee  ab  ubere  vulsi 
Sicut  eratfoliis  tcgitur ;  funusque  paratur, 
lieu  nimis  incertum,  et  primis  violabilc  ventis. 


,  tJceir  white  sigTtal-flag.  —  XXIII.  p.  700,  col.  1. 


A  white  flag,  called  El  Alem,  the  signal,  is  hoisted  every 
day  at  twelve  o'clock,  to  warn  the  people  out  of  hearing,  or  at 
a  great  distance,  to  prepare,  by  the  necessary  preliminary  ab- 
lutions, to  prostrate  themselves  before  God  at  the  service  of 
prayer.  —  Jackson's  Morocco,  p.  149. 


TTie  Humma's  happy  wings  have  shadowed  htm. 

XXIII.  p.  700,  col.  2. 

The  humma  is  a  fabulous  bird.  The  head  over  which  its 
shadow  once  passes  will  assuredly  be  encircled  with  a  crown. 
—  Wilkes,  S.  of  India,  v.  i.  p.  423. 


Life  hath  not  left  his  body.  —  XXIII.  p.  701,  col.  1. 

Among  the  Prerogatives  et  Proprietcs  singuliires  du  Pro- 
phete,  Gagnier  states  that,  "  /(  est  vivant  dans  son  Tomheau.  II 
fait  la  priire  dans  ce  Tombeau  d  chaquefois  que  le  Crieur  en 
fait  la  proclamation,  et  au  inSme  terns  qu'on  la  recite.  H  y  aun 
Ange  paste  sur  son  Tombeau  qui  a  le  soin  de  lui  donner  avis  des 
Priires  que  Ics  Fidiles  font  pour  lui."  —  Vie  de  Mahomet,  I. 
vii.  c.  18. 

The  common  notion,  that  tlie  impostor's  tomb  is  suspended 
by  means  of  a  loadstone,  is  well  known.  Labat,  in  his  Afrique 
Occidentale,  (T.  ii.  p.  143,)  mentions  the  lie  of  a  Marabout, 
who,  on  his  return  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  and  Medina, 
affirmed,  "  que  le  tomheau  de  Mahomet  etoit  parte  en  Pair  par  le 
moyen  de  certains  Anges  qui  se  relayent  d'heure  en  heures  pour 
soulenir  ce  fardeau."  These  fables,  however,  are  modest  in 
comparison  with  those  which  the  Franciscans  and  Dominicans 
have  invented  to  magnify  their  founders. 

93 


Hast  thou  not  heard 
How,  when  our  clay  is  Icaven'djirsl  with  l{fe. 
The  ministering  Angel  brings  it  from  that  spot 
IVhneon  'tis  written  in  the  eternal  book 
That  soul  and  body  tnv^t  their  parting  take. 
And  earth  to  earth  return  ?  —  XXIII.  p.  701,  col.  2. 

The  Persians,  in  their  creed,  have  a  pleasant  imaginatior. 
concerning  the  death  of  men.  They  say  that  every  one  must 
come  and  die  in  the  jjlacc  where  the  Angel  took  the  earth  of 
which  he  hiith  been  made,  thinking  that  one  of  these  spirits 
has  the  care  of  forming  the  human  creature,  which  he  doth 
by  mingling  a  little  earth  with  the  seed. —  Thevcnot. 


They  perish,  all  their  thoiLSands  perish  there. 

XXm.  p.  702,  col.  1. 

The  battle  of  Covadonga  is  one  of  the  great  miracles  of 
Spanish  history.  It  was  assorted  for  many  centuries,  without 
contradiction,  and  is  still  believed  by  the  people,  that  when 
the  Moors  attacked  Felayo  in  the  cave,  their  weapons  were 
turned  back  upon  themselves  ;  that  the  Virgin  Mary  appeared 
in  the  clouds,  and  that  part  of  a  mountain  fell  upon  the  Infi- 
dels, and  crushed  those  who  were  flying  from  the  destruction. 
In  what  manner  that  destruction  might  have  been  eliected, 
was  exemplified  upon  a  smaller  scale  in  the  Tyrol,  in  the 
memorable  war  of  180!). 

Barret  sums  up  tlie  story  briefly,  and  in  tlie  true  .strain  of 
Mine  Ancient. 

The  Sarr'cen,  hearing  that  th'  Asturianites 

Had  King  created,  and  stood  on  their  guard. 

Sends  multitudes  of  Mohametized  knights 

To  rouse  them  out  their  rocks,  and  Ibrce  their  ward. 

Pehigius,  hearing  of  this  enterprise. 

Prepares  his  petty  power  on  Ausevc  mount; 

Ak'hameh  comes  with  Zar/on  multiplies. 

Meaning  Pelagius'  forces  to  dismount. 

To  blows  they  come  ;  but  lo '.  a  stroke  divine. 

The  Iher,  few,  beats  numbrous  Sarracene, 

Two  myriads  with  Mahomet  went  to  dine 

In  Parca's  park. 


Tlie  Bread  of  Life.  —  XXIV.  p.  704,  col.  I. 

It  IS  now  admitted  by  the  best  informed  of  the  Romish 
writers  themselves,  that,  for  a  thousand  years,  no  other  but 
common  or  leavened  bread  was  used  in  the  Eucharist.  The 
wafer  was  introduced  about  the  eleventh  century.  And  as  far 
down  as  the  twelfth  century,  the  people  were  admitted  to 
communicate  in  both  kinds. 


And  let  no  shame  be  offcr'd  his  remains.  —  XXV.  p.  705,  col.  2. 

According  to  the  Comcndiidor  Fernan  Nunez,  in  his  Com- 
mentary upon  the  Trezientas,  the  tomb  of  Count  Julian  was 
shown  in  his  days  about  four  leagues  from  Iluesca,  at  a  castle 
called  Loarri,  on  the  outside  of  a  church,  which  was  in  the 
castle. 


llis  wonted  leathern  gipion.  —  XXV.  p.  706,  col.  1. 

The  Musical  Pilgrim  in  Purchas  thus  describes  the  Leo- 
nese :  — 

Wymmen  in  that  land  use  no  vullcn, 
But  alio  in  lether  be  the  wounden  : 
And  her  hevedez  wonderly  ben  trust, 
Standing  in  her  forheved  as  a  crest, 
In  rould  clouthez  lappet  alle  be  forn 
Like  to  the  prikke  of  a  N'unicorn. 
And  men  have  doubelettez  full  schert, 
Bare  legget  and  light  to  stert.  —  P.  1231 

Purchas   supposes  this  very  curious  poem  to  have  been 
written  about  200  years  before  he  published  it,  i.  e.  about  1425 


738      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


It  is  probably  mucli  oliler.     Fn  entering  Castille  from  Elvas, 
the  autlior  says, 

Now  into  Custell  scliall  we  fare 
Over  the  river,  the  land  is  b:ire 
Full  of  licath  and  liunger  also, 
And  Sarasynez  Governouriz  thereto. 

Now  Badajoz,  and  that  pnrt  of  the  country,  was  finally 
recovered  from  the  Moors  in  the  early  |)art  of  tlie  thirteenth 
century.  Purchas  perhaps  judged  from  tlie  ago  of  the  manu- 
script, which  may  have  been  written  about  the  time  on  which 
he  tixcs,  and  the  language  modernized  by  the  transcriber. 


Tlie  light  which  o'er  the  fields  of  Bethlehem  shone. 
Irradiated  whole  Syain.  —  XXV.  i).  700,  col.  2. 

'■^  Fallamos  en  las  cstorias  que  aquella  ora  que  nuestro  Senor 
Jesu  Christo  nascio,  seyendo  media  nochc,  aparesfio  una  nuve 
sobre  Espafia  que  dio  tun  gran  claridad,  e  tan  gran  resplandor, 
c  tan  gran  caloTj  corno  el  sol  en.  medio' del  dia  quando  va  mas 
apodcrado  sobre  la  tierra.  K  dcpartcn  los  sabios  c  dizen  que  sc 
enliende  por  aquella  que  de.<pues  de  Jesu  Christo  vernie  su  man- 
dadero  a  Kspana  a  prediear  a  los  gentiles  la  eeguedad  en  que 
estuvan,  e  que  los  alumbrarie  con  la  fee  de  Jesu  ChnjstOj  e  aquesto 
fue  San  Pablo.  Otros  departen  que  en  Kspana  acie  de  nasger 
Tin  pringipe  chrystiano  que  seric  senor  de  todo  el  mundo,  e  valdrie 
mas  pur  el  todo  el  linoje  de  los  oincs,  bicn  como  escla.rescio  toda 
la  tierra  por  la  claridad  de  aquella  nure  en  quanta  ella  duro."  — 
Coronica  General,  ff.  71. 

A  more  extraordinary  example  of  the  divine  favor  towards 
Ppain  is  triumphantly  brought  forward  by  Francisco  de  Pisa. 
"  Our  Lord  God,"  says  he,"  has  been  pleased  to  preserve  these 
kingdoms  in  the  purity  of  the  Faith,  like  a  terrestrial  Para- 
dise, by  means  of  the  Cherubim  of  the  Holy  Office,  which, 
with  its  sword  of  fire,  has  defended  the  entrance,  through  the 
merits  and  patronage  of  the  most  serene  Virgin  Mary  the 
Mother  of  God."  Hasido  servido  nuestro  Si  nor  Dies  conservar 
estiis  reynos  de  Espana  en  la  entereza  de  la  Fe,  como  a  un  Pa- 
rayso  terrcnal,  mcdiante  el  Chcrubin  del  Santo  Officio,  que  con  su 
espada  de  fuego  Ics  ha  dcfendido  la  cntrada  por  los  meritos  y 
patrocinio  de  la  sercnissima  Virgen  Jilaria  Madre  de  Dios."  — 
Desc.  de  Toledo,  L.  1,  C.  25. 

This  passage  is  truly  and  lamentably  characteristic. 


The  Oaken  Cross.  — XXV.  p.  707,  col.  1. 

The  oaken  cross  which  Pelayo  bore  in  battle  is  said  to  have 
been  preserved  at  Oviedo,  in  the  Camara  Santa,  in  company 
with  that  which  the  angels  made  for  Alfonso  the  Great,  con- 
cerning which  Morales  delivers  a  careful  opinion,  how  much 
of  it  was  made  by  the  angels,  and  how  much  has  been  human 
workmanship.  The  people  of  Cangas,  not  willing  that  Pe- 
liiyo's  cross  should  be  in  any  thing  inferior  to  his  successor's, 
insist  that  it  fell  from  Heaven.  Morales,  however,  says,  it  is 
more  certain  that  the  king  had  it  made  to  go  out  with  it  to 
battle  at  Oovadonga.  It  was  covered  with  gold  and  enamel 
in  the  year  908  ;  when  Morales  wrote,  it  was  in  fine  preserva- 
tion, an<l  doubtless  so  continued  till  the  present  generation. 
Upon  the  top  branch  of  the  cross  there  was  this  inscrij)tion : 
Susceptum  placide  maneat  hoc  in  honore  Dei,  quod  offcrunt 
famuli  Christi  .idrfonsus  Princeps  et  Scemcna  Regina.  On  the 
right  arm,  Q^uisquis  auferre  hiec  donaria  nostra  presumpserit, 
fulniine  dieino  intereut  ipse.  On  the  left.  Hoc  opus  perfretum 
est,  eoncessum  est  Sancto  Salvatori  Ooctcnsis  Scdis.  Hoc  signo 
tueturpius,  hoc  signo  vincitur  inimicus.  On  the  foot,  Et  ope- 
ralum  est  in  Castello  Oauzonanno  Rrgni  nostri  XVII  discur- 
rcnte  Era  DCCCCXLVI. 

"  There  is  no  other  testimony,"  says  Morales,  "  that  this 
is  the  cross  of  King  Don  Pelayo,  than  tradition  handed  down 
from  one  age  to  another.  I  wish  the  king  had  stated  that  it 
was  so  in  his  inscription,  and  I  even  think  he  would  not  have 
been  silent  upon  this  point,  unless  he  had  wished  to  imitate 
Alonso  el  Casto,  who,  in  like  manner,  says  nothing  concern- 
ing the  Angels  upon  his  cross."  This  passage  is  very  char- 
acteristic of  good  old  Ambrosio. 


Like  a  mirror  sparkling  to  the  sun.  —  XXV.  p.  709,  col.  I. 

The  Damascus  blades  are  so  highly  polished,  that  when  any 
one  wants  to  arrange  his  turban,  he  uses  his  cimeter  for  a 
looking-glass.  —  Le  Brocquiere,  p.  138. 


0,  who  could  tell  what  deeds  were  wrought  that  day. 
Or  who  endure  to  hear!  —  XXV.  p.  709,  col.  1. 

I  have  nowhere  seen  a  more  curious  description  of  a  battle 
between  Christians  and  Saracens  than  in  Barret's  manuscript : 

The  forlorn  Christian  troops  Moon'd  troops  encharge, 

Th«  Mooned  troops  requite  them  with  the  like  ; 

Whilst  (Jrecian  lance  cracks  (thundering)  Parthian  targe, 

Parth's  fiamo-flash  arrow  Grecian  through  doth  prick  : 

And  whilst  that  Median  scymetar  unlimbs 

The  Christian  knight,  doth  Christian  curtle-axe 

Unhcad  the  Median  liorsemen  ;  whilst  here  dials 

The  Pagan's  goggling-eyes  by  Greekish  axe. 

The  Greek  unhorsed  lies  by  Persian  push, 

And  both  all  rageful  grapple  on  the  ground. 

And  whilst  the  Saracen  with  furious  rush 

The  Syrian  shocks,  the  Syrian  as  round 

Down  shouldrcth  Saracen  :  whilst  Babel  blade 

Sends  soul  Byzantine  to  the  starred  cell, 

Byzantine  pike  with  like-employed  trade, 

Packs  Babel's  spirit  posting  down  to  hell. 


Who  from  their  thirsty  sands 
Pray  that  the  locusts  on  the  peopled  plain 
May  settle  and  prepare  their  way.  —  XXV.  p.  709,  col.  1. 

The  Saharawans,  or  Arabs  of  the  Desert,  rejoice  to  seethe 
clouds  of  locusts  proceeding  towards  the  north,  anticipating 
therefrom  a  general  mortality,  which  they  call  elkhcre,  the 
good,  or  the  benediction  ;  for,  after  depopulating  the  rich 
plains  of  Barbary,  it  affords  to  them  an  opportunity  of  ema- 
nating from  their  arid  recesses,  in  the  desert,  to  pitch  their 
tents  in  the  desolated  plains,  or  along  the  banks  of  some 
river.  —  Jackson's  Morocco,  p.  106. 


But  where  was  he  whose  hand 
Had  wieldea  it  so  well  that  glorious  day  ?  —  XXV.  p.  709,  col.  2. 

The  account  which  the  Romantic  Chronicle  gives  of  Rode- 
rick after  his  disappearance,  is  in  so  singular  a  strain  of  fic- 
tion, that  I  have  been  tempted  to  translate  it.  It  strikingly 
exemplifies  the  doctrine  of  penance,  of  which  monastic  his- 
tory supplies  many  instances  almost  as  extraordinary  as  this 
fable 


Chap.  238.  —  How  the  King  Don  Rodrigo  left  the  battle  and 
arrived  at  a  hermitage,  and  of  that  which  befell  him. 

"  Now  when  the  King  Don  Rodrigo  had  escaped  from  the 
battle,  he  began  to  go  as  fast  as  he  could  upon  his  horse  along 
the  banks  of  the  Guadalete,  and  night  rame  on,  and  the  horse 
began  to  fail  by  reason  of  the  many  wounds  -which  he  had 
received  ;  and  as  he  went  thus  by  the  river  side  deploring  the 
great  ruin  which  had  come  upon  him,  he  knew  not  where  he 
was,  and  the  horse  got  into  a  (piagmirc,  and  when  he  was  in 
he  could  not  get  out.  And  when  the  king  saw  this  he  alighted, 
and  stript  off  all  his  rich  arms  and  the  furniture  thereof,  and 
took  off  his  crown  from  his  head,  and  threw  them  all  into  the 
quagmire,  saying.  Of  earth  was  I  made,  and  even  so  are  all 
my  deeds  like  unto  mud  and  mire.  Therefore  my  pomp  and 
vanity  shall  be  buried  in  this  mud  till  it  has  all  relumed 
again  to  earth,  as  I  myself  must  do.  And  the  vile  end  which 
I  have  deserved  will  beseem  me  well,  seeing  that  I  have  been 
the  principal  cause  of  this  great  cruelty.  And  as  he  thus 
stript  off  all  his  rich  apparel,  he  cast  the  shoes  from  his  feet, 
and  went  his  way,  and  wandered  on  towards  Portuga. ;  End 
he  travelled  so  far  that  night  and  the  day  following,  that  he 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      739 


rame  to  a  hermitage  near  llio  sea,  where  there  was  a  good  man 
who  had  dwelt  there  seiviiig  God  tor  lull  forty  years  ;  and 
now  he  was  ol  great  age,  for  he  was  well  ni;,'h  a  hundred  years 
ohl.  And  he  entered  into  the  hermitage,  and  found  a  crucifix 
therein,  being  tlie  image  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Chiist,  even  as  he 
was  crucilicd,  and  for  tlie  remembrance  of  Ilini,  he  bent  both 
iiis  knees  to  the  ground,  and  claspt  his  hands,  weeping  and 
confessing  his  sins  before  God,  for  he  w  eeiied  not  that  any  man 
in  the  world  saw  or  heard  him.  And  he  sai<l  thus,  O  very 
Ijord  who  by  thy  word  hast  made  all  the  world  from  nothing 
which  it  was,  and  hast  created  all  things,  those  which  are 
visible  to  men,  and  those  which  are  invisible,  the  heavenly  as 
well  as  the  earthly,  and  who  didst  incarnate  thyself  that  tlion 
mightst  undergo  thy  passion  and  death,  to  save  those  who 
firmly  put  their  trust  in  thee,  giving  up  thy  holy  ghost  from 
thy  glorilied  body  upon  the  tree  of  the  true  cross,  —  and  who 
didst  descend  into  Hell,  and  deliveredst  thy  friends  from 
thence,  and  didst  regale  them  with  the  glory  of  Heaven  :  And 
afterwards  thy  holy  spirit  came  again  into  that  most  holy  body, 
which  thou  wast  pleased  to  take  upon  thee  in  this  world  ;  and, 
manifesting  thyself  for  the  true  God  which  thou  wert,  thou 
didst  deign  to  abide  in  this  dark  world  forty  days  with  their 
nights,  and  then  thou  didst  ascend  into  thy  heavenly  glory, 
and  didst  enlighten  with  the  grace  of  tlie  Holy  Ghost  thy 
beloved  disciples.  I  beseech  thee,  O  Lord,  that  thou  wouldst 
enlighten  me,  a  king  in  tribulation,  wretched  and  full  of  many 
sins,  and  deserving  all  evils  ;  let  not  the  soul  wlii<di  is  thine, 
and  which  cost  thee  so  dear,  receive  the  evil  and  the  desert  of 
this  abominable  flesh  ;  and  may  it  jilease  thee,  O  Lord,  after 
the  downfall,  destruction,  perdition,  and  desol.ition,  which  I, 
a  miserable  king,  liave  suffered  in  this  world,  that  my  discon- 
solate soul  may  not  be  forgotten  by  tlieo,  and  that  all  this 
misery  may  be  in  satisfaction  for  rny  errors.  And  I  earnestly 
beseech  thee,  O  Lord,  that  thy  grace  may  breallie  upon  me, 
that  in  this  world  I  may  make  satisfaction  for  my  sins,  so  that 
at  the  Great  Day  of  Judgment  I  may  not  be  condemned  to  the 
torments  of  hell. 

"  Having  said  these  words,  weeping  as  though  he  would 
burst,  he  remained  there  a  long  hour.  And  when  the  Hermit 
heard  him  say  all  this,  he  was  greatly  astonished,  and  he  went 
unto  him.  And  when  the  King  saw  him  he  was  little  pleased  ; 
howbeit  after  he  had  talked  with  him,  he  would  rather  have 
found  him  there  than  have  been  restored  again  to  the  great 
honor  which  he  had  lost ;  for  the  Hermit  comforted  him  in 
such  wise  in  this  his  tribulation,  that  he  was  right  w  ell  con- 
tented ;  and  he  confessed  unto  him,  and  tohl  him  all  that 
concerned  him.  And  the  Hermit  said  to  him.  King,  thou  shalt 
remain  in  this  hermitage,  which  is  a  remote  place,  and  where 
thou  rnayst  lead  thy  life  as  long  as  it  shall  please  God.  And 
for  me,  on  the  third  day  from  hence,  I  shall  pass  away  out  of 
this  world  ;  and  thou  shall  bury  me,  and  thou  shalt  take  my 
garments,  and  fulfil  the  time  of  a  year  in  this  hermitage. 
Take  no  thought  as  to  provision  for  thy  support,  for  every 
Friday  thou  shalt  have  it  after  the  same  manner  as  1,  and  thou 
shalt  so  husband  it,  that  it  may  suffice  thee  for  tlio  whole 
week;  That  flesh  which  hath  been  fostered  in  great  delight 
shall  suffer  abstinence,  lest  it  should  grow  proud  ;  and  thou 
shalt  endure  hunger  and  cold  and  thirst  in  the  love  of  our 
Lord,  that  he  may  have  compassion  upon  thee.  Thy  station 
till  the  hour  of  sleep  must  alv\'ays  be  upon  that  rock,  where 
there  is  an  oratory  facing  the  east  ;  and  thou  shalt  continue 
the  service  of  God  in  such  manner  as  God  will  direct  Iheo 
to  do.  And  take  heed  that  thy  soul  fall  not  into  temptation. 
And  since  thou  hast  spoken  this  day  of  penitence,  to-morrow 
thou  shalt  communicate  and  receive  the  true  body  of  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  who  will  be  thy  protection  and  support  against 
the  enemy  and  the  persecutor.  And  put  thou  thy  firm  trust 
in  the  sign  of  the  Cross;  and  thus  shalt  thou  please  thy 
Savior. 

"  Many  ether  things  the  holy  Hermit  said,  which  made  the 
King  right  joyful  to  hear  them  ;  and  there  they  continued  till 
it  was  the  hour  for  sleep.  .And  the  holy  Hermit  showed  him 
his  bed,  and  said,  When  I  shall  have  left  the  company,  thou 
wilt  follow  the  ways  which  I  have  followed,  for  which  our 
Lord  will  have  mercy  upon  thee,  and  will  extend  his  hand 
over  thee,  that  thou  mayst  persevere  in  good,  and  in  his  holy 
service.  And  then  they  laid  down  and  sle|>t  till  it  was  the 
hour  of  miitins,  when  they  should  both  arise.  And  the  Her- 
mit awoke  hiin,  for  as  the  King  had  not  slept  for  a  long  time, 


and  was  moreover  full  weary,  he  would  not  have  awaked  so 
soon,  if  the  Hermit  had  not  roused  him ;  and  they  said  their 
hours.  .And  when  it  was  time,  the  Hermit  said  mass,  and  the 
King  heard  it  with  great  devotion,  and  communicated  with 
great  contrition,  and  remained  in  prayer  for  the  space  of  two 
hours.  Anil  the  hour  for  taking  food  came,  and  the  Hermit 
took  a  loaf  which  was  made  of  paniiick  and  of  rye,  and  gave 
half  thereof  to  the  King,  and  took  for  himself  the  other  half: 
And  they  ate  little  of  it,  as  men  who  could  not  eat  more,  the 
one  by  reason  of  age,  and  the  other  because  he  was  not  used 
to  such  fare.  And  thus  they  continued  till  the  third  day, 
when  the  holy  Hermit  departed  this  life. 

Oh.  239.  —  llotc  the  Hermit  died,  and  the  King  found  a  loritivg 
in  liii  hand. 

"  Un  the  third  day,  the  pious  Hermit  expired  at  the  same 
hour  which  he  had  said  to  the  King,  whereat  the  King  was 
full  sorrowful,  as  one  who  took  great  consolation  in  the  lessons 
which  he  gave.  And  when  he  liad  thus  deceased,  the  King 
by  himself,  with  his  hands,  and  with  un  oaken  stick  which 
was  there,  made  his  grave.  And  when  he  was  about  to  bury 
liim,  he  found  a  writing  in  his  hand  ;  and  he  took  it  and  opened 
it,  and  found  that  it  contained  these  words. 

Ch.  240.  —  Of  the  rule  nf  life  which  tlic  Hermit  left  written  for 
King  Don  Rodrigo. 

"  O  King,  who  through  thy  sins  hast  lost  the  great  honor 
in  which  thou  wert  placed,  take  heed  that  thy  soul  also  come 
not  into  the  same  judgment  which  hath  fallen  upon  thy  flesh. 
And  receive  into  thy  heart  the  instructions  that  I  shall  give 
thee  now,  and  see  that  thou  swerve  not  from  them,  nor  abatest 
them  a  jot ;  for  if  thou  observest  them  not,  or  departcst  in 
ought  from  them,  thou  wilt  bring  damnation  upon  thy  soul ; 
for  all  that  thou  shalt  find  in  this  writing  is  given  thee  for 
penance,  and  thou  must  learn  with  great  contrition  of  repent- 
ance, and  with  humbleness  of  patience,  to  be  content  with  that 
which  God  hath  given  thee  to  suffer  in  this  world.  And  tliat 
thou  mayst  not  be  deceived  in  case  any  company  should  come 
unto  tliec,  mark  and  observe  this  and  pass  in  it  thy  life.  Thou 
shalt  arise  two  hours  sifter  midnight,  and  say  thy  matins 
w  ithin  the  hermitage.  When  the  day  breaks  thou  shalt  go  to 
the  oratory,  and  kneeling  upon  the  ground,  say  tlie  whole 
hours  by  the  breviary,  and  when  thou  hast  finished  them  thou 
shalt  say  certain  prayers  of  our  Lord,  which  thou  wilt  find 
therein.  And  when  thou  hast  done  this,  conteuiplate  then 
upon  the  great  power  of  our  Lord,  and  upon  his  mercy,  and 
also  upon  the  most  holy  passion  which  he  suffered  for  mankind 
upon  the  cross,  being  himself  very  God,  and  maker  of  all 
things  ;  and  how  with  great  humility  he  chose  to  be  incarnate 
in  a  poor  virgin,  and  not  to  come  as  a  king,  but  as  a  mediator 
among  the  nations.  And  contemplate  also  upon  the  poor  life 
which  he  always  led  in  this  world,  to  give  us  an  example  ;  and 
that  he  will  come  at  the  day  of  judgment  to  judge  the  ijuick 
and  the  dead,  and  give  to  every  one  the  meed  which  he  hath 
deserved.  Then  shalt  thou  give  sustenance  to  thy  flesh  of 
that  bread  of  pannick  and  rye,  which  shall  be  brought  to  thee 
every  Friday  in  the  manner  that  I  have  said;  and  of  other 
food  thou  shalt  not  eat,  although  it  should  be  given  or  sent 
thee  ;  neither  shalt  thou  change  thy  bread.  And  when  thou 
hast  eaten  give  thanks  to  God,  because  he  has  let  thee  come 
to  repentance  ;  and  then  thou  shalt  go  to  the  oratory,  and  there 
give  praise  to  the  Virgin  our  Lady  holy  Mary,  mother  of  God, 
in  such  manner  as  shall  come  to  thee  in  devotion.  If,  when 
thou  hast  finished,  heaviness  should  come  upon  thee,  thou 
mayst  sleep,  and  when  thou  shalt  have  rested  as  long  as  is 
reasonable,  return  thou  to  thy  oratory,  and  there  remain, 
making  thy  prayers  always  upon  thy  knees,  and  for  nothing 
which  may  befall  thee  dejiart  thou  from  thence,  till  thou  hust 
made  an  end  of  thy  prayers,  whether  it  rain  or  snow,  nr  if  a 
tempest  should  blow.  And  for  as  much  as  the  flesh  could 
sustain  so  many  mundane  pleasures,  so  must  it  sufier  also 
celestial  abstinences  ;  two  masses  thou  hast  heard  in  this 
hermitage,  and  in  it,  it  is  (;od's  will  that  thou  shall  hear  no 
more,  fiir  more  would  not  be  to  his  service.  And  if  thou 
observest  these  things,  God  will  have  compassion  upon  thy 
deserts.  And  when  the  King  had  read  this,  he  laid  il  upon 
the  altar,  in  a  place  where  it  would  be  well  preserved. 


740   NOTES  TO  RODERICK,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  GOTHS. 


Cli.  2U.  —  How  the  Dcril  canw  in  the  farm  of  a  Hermit  to  de- 
ceive the  Killer  Don  liuiirigo. 
"  Now  when  the  King  had  made  a  grave  in  which  to  bury 
tlie  Hermit,  the  Devil  was  troubled  lit  the  good  course  which 
tho  King  liad  taltcn,  and  lie  cast  about  for  means  liow  he 
might  deceive  him  ;  and  he  found  none  so  certain  as  to  come 
to  him  in  the  figure  of  a  hermit,  and  keep  company  with  him, 
to  turn  him  aside  from  lliose  doctrim-s  which  the  Hermit  had 
given  liim,  that  he  might  nut  fulfil  his  pcriitence.  And  the 
King  being  in  great  liaste  to  l)nry  the  body,  tlic  Devil  came  to 
him  with  a  long  white  heard,  and  a  great  hood  over  tlie  eyes, 
and  some  paternosters  hanging  from  liis  girdle,  and  supporting 
liimseif  upon  a  staff  as  though  he  were  lame,  and  could  not 
go.  And  whon  he  came  where  the  King  was,  he  humbled 
himself,  and  said  unto  him.  Peace  be  with  thee  !  And  the 
King  turned  toward  that  side  from  which  he  came,  and  when 
lie  saw  Iiim  of  so  great  age,  be  thouglit  that  it  was  some  holy 
n;an  who  knew  of  the  deatli  of  the  Hermit,  and  was  come  to 
bury  him  ;  and  he  liumbled  himself,  and  went  towards  him  to 
kiss  his  Innd,  and  the  Devil  would  not,  saying,  It  is  not  iltling 
that  a  King  should  kiss  the  hand  of  a  poor  servant  of  God. 
And  the  King  was  astonished  at  hearing  himself  named,  and 
believed  that  this  must  needs  bo  a  man  of  holy  life,  and  that 
lie  spake  by  some  revelation  ;  nevertheless,  he  said,  I  am  not 
a  king,  but  a  miserable  sinner,  for  whom  it  had  been  better 
never  to  have  been  born,  than  that  so  much  evil  should  have 
happened  through  me.  And  the  false  Hermit  said  to  him. 
Think  not  that  thou  hast  so  much  fault  as  thou  imaginest  in 
what  has  now  been  done,  for  even  if  thou  hudst  had  no  part 
in  it,  this  destruction  would  have  fallen  at  this  time.  And 
since  it  was  ordained  that  it  should  be  so,  the  fault  is  not 
thine  ;  some  fault  tlion  hadst,  but  it  was  very  little.  .\nd  think 
not  that  r  speak  this  of  myself;  for  my  words  are  those  of  a 
spirit  made  and  created  by  the  will  of  God,  who  speaks 
through  me  this  and  many  other  things,  which  hereafter  thou 
slialt  know,  that  thou  mayst  see  how  God  has  given  me  power 
that  I  slioulil  know  all  thy  concerns,  and  counsel  thee  in  what 
nianiKir  tliou  shouldst  live.  And  albeit  I  have  more  need  of 
rest  than  of  labor,  by  reason  of  my  age,  which  is  far  greater 
than  my  countenance  shows,  yet  I  have  disposed  myself  to 
labor  for  the  love  of  thee,  to  console  thee  in  this  thy  persecu- 
tion, knowing  that  this  good  man  was  about  to  die.  Of  a 
truth  you  may  believe  that  on  this  day  month  I  was  in  Rome, 
being  there  in  the  church  of  .St.  John  de  Lateran,  out  of  which 
I  had  never  gone  for  thirty  years,  till  I  came  now  to  keep  thee 
company  according  as  I  am  commanded.  Blarvel  not  that  a 
man  of  so  great  age,  and  crippled  as  I  am,  should  have  been 
able  to  traverse  so  much  land  in  so  short  time,  for  certes  I  tell 
thee  that  he  who  speaks  in  this  form  which  thou  seest,  has 
given  me  strength  to  go  through  so  great  a  journey  ;  and  sans 
doubt  I  feel  myself  as  strong  now  as  on  the  day  when  I  set 
forth.  And  the  King  said  to  him,  Friend  of  God,  I  rejoice 
much  in  thy  coming,  for  that  in  my  misfortunes  I  shall  be  by 
tlico  consoled  and  instructed  in  that  which  must  be  done  to 
fulfil  my  penitence  ;  I  rejoice  also  that  this  holy  Hermit  here 
shall  receive  burial  from  the  hands  of  a  man  much  more  right- 
eous than  I.  And  tlie  false  Hermit  said.  Think  not.  King, 
that  it  is  for  tho  service  of  God  to  give  to  any  person  a  name 
not  appertaining  to  him.  And  this  I  say  because  I  well  know 
the  life  of  this  person,  what  it  was  ;  and  as  thou  knowcst 
nothing  of  celestials,  thou  tbinkest  that  as  tlie  tongue  speakctb, 
even  such  is  the  heart.  But  I  tell  thee  the  habit  doth  not 
make  the  monk,  and  it  is  from  such  persons  as  these  that  the 
saying  arose  which  is  common  in  the  world,  I  would  have  jus- 
tice, but  not  for  my  own  house.  This  I  say  to  thee,  because 
he  commanded  thee  to  perform  a  penance  such  as  never 
man  did,  the  which  is,  that  thou  shouldst  eat  only  once  a 
day,  and  that  of  such  bread  that  even  the  shepherds'  dogs 
would  not  cat  it;  and  of  this  that  thou  shouldst  not  eat  as 
much  as  thou  conldst ;  and  appointed  thee  the  term  of  a  year 
that  thou  shouldst  continue  in  this  diet.  Also  he  commanded 
thee  that  thou  shouldst  not  hear  mass  during  the  time  that 
thou  abidest  here,  for  that  the  two  masses  which  thou  hast 
lieaid  should  suffice  :  look  now  if  that  doctrine  he  good,  which 
bids  a  man  forget  the  holy  sacrament  1  Certes  I  tell  thee  that 
only  for  that  which  he  commanded  thee  to  observe,  his  soul  is 
consigned  to  a  place  where  1  would  not  that  thine  should  go 
for  all  the  world,  if  it  were  in  my  power,  with  all  its  riches. 


Nevertheless,  to  be  rid  of  the  ill  smell  which  he  would  give, 
it  is  tit  that  you  should  bury  him,  and  while  yon  do  this  I  will 
go  for  food.  .'\nd  the  King  s aid,  Friend  of  God,  do  not  take 
this  trouble,  but  remain  still,  and  before  noon  there  will  come 
food,  which  will  suffice  for  you  and  for  me  ;  help  mo  now  to 
give  burial  to  this  good  man,  which  will  be  much  for  the  ser- 
vice of  (Jod,  although  he  may  have  been  a  sinner.  And  the 
false  Hermit  answered,  King,  it  would  be  less  evil  to  roll  liiin 
over  these  rocks  into  iho  sea  ;  but  if  not,  let  him  lie  thus  upon 
the  earth  till  the  birds  and  the  beaits  devour  his  flesh.  And 
the  King  iiiarvellrd  attjiis:  nevertheless  though  be  believed 
that  this  false  Hermit  was  a  servant  of  God,  he  left  not  lor 
that  to  bury  the  good  Hermit  who  there  lay  without  life,  and 
he  began  by  himself  to  carry  him  to  the  grave  which  he  had 
made.  And  as  he  was  employed  in  burying  him,  he  saw  that 
the  false  Hermit  went  away  over  the  mountains  at  a  great 
rate,  not  as  one  who  was  a  crippli',  but  like  a  stout  man  and 
a  young ;  and  he  marvelled  what  this  might  mean. 

Cli.  242.  —  How  Kin  IT  Don  Rodrigo  iiiformtd  himself  concerning 
the  penance  which  he  was  to  perform,  from  the  leriting  which 
the  holy  Hermit  left  him. 

"  When  the  King  had  finished  burying  the  good  servant  of 
God,  he  went  to  the  altar,  and  look  the  writing  in  his  hand, 
and  read  it  to  inform  himself  well  of  it.  And  when  he  had 
read  it,  he  saw  that  of  a  certainty  all  that  was  said  therein 
was  for  the  service  of  God,  and  was  of  good  doctrine  for  his 
soul ;  and  be  said,  that,  according  to  the  greatness  of  his  sins, 
it  behoved  that  his  penitence  must  be  severe,  if  he  wished  to 
save  his  soul.  And  then  he  called  to  mind  the  life  which  St. 
Mary  Magdalen  endured,  for  which  God  bad  mercy  on  her. 
And  forthwith  be  went  to  his  oratory,  and  began  his  prayers ; 
and  he  remained  there  till  it  was  near  noon  ;  and  he  knew 
that  he  had  nothing  to  eat,  and  awaited  till  it  should  be 
brought  him. 


Cb.  2-13.  — How  the  Devil  brought  meat  to  King  Don  Rodngo 

that  he  should  eat  it;  and  he  would  only  cat  of  the  Hermit's 
bread. 

"  After  it  was  mid-day  tho  filse  Hermit  came  with  a  basket 
upon  bis  shoulders,  and  went  straight  to  where  the  King  was, 
and  he  came  sweating  and  weary.  And  the  King  bad  com- 
passion on  him,  howbeit  he  said  nothing,  neither  did  he  leave 
his  prayers.  And  the  false  Hermit  said  to  him,  King,  make 
an  end  of  thy  prayers,  for  it  is  time  to  eat;  and  here  I  bring 
food.  And  the  King  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  looked  toward  him, 
and  he  saw  that  there  came  into  the  hermitage  a  shepherd 
with  a  wallet  upon  his  back,  and  he  thought  this  must  be  he 
who  brought  him  that  which  he  was  to  eat.  And  so  in  truth 
it  was,  that  that  shepherd  brought  every  Friday  four  loaves  of 
pannick  and  rye  for  the  holy  Hermit,  upon  which  he  lived 
during  the  week.  And  as  tliis  shepherd  knew  not  that  the 
good  man  was  dead,  he  did  no  more  than  put  his  bread  upon 
the  altar,  and  go  his  way.  And  the  King,  wlieii-  he  had  ceased 
praying,  rose  up  from  the  oratory,  and  v.ent  to  the  false  Her- 
mit. And  he  found  the  four  loaves,  and  he  took  one,  and 
brake  it  in  the  middle,  and  laid  by  the  rest  carefully,  and  he 
went  out  of  the  hermitage  into  the  portal,  where  there  was  a 
table  full  small,  and  he  laid  a  cloth  upon  it,  and  the  bread 
which  he  was  to  eat,  and  the  water  ;  and  he  began  to  bless 
the  table,  and  then  seated  himself.  And  the  false  Hermit 
noted  well  how  he  blest  the  table,  and  arose  from  where  he 
was,  and  went  to  the  King,  and  said,  King,  take  of  this  poor 
fare  which  I  have  brought,  and  which  has  been  given  me  in 
alms.  And  he  took  out  two  loaves  which  were  full  whit"}, 
and  a  roasted  partridge,  and  a  fowl,  of  wliieli  the  legs  were 
wanting;  and  he  placed  it  upon  the  table.  And  when  the 
King  saw  it,  his  eyes  were  filled  willi  tears,  for  he  could  not 
but  call  to  mind  his  great  honor  in  former  times,  and  how  it 
was  now  fallen,  and  that  his  talile  had  never  before  been 
served  like  this.  And  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  Lord, 
Praised  be  thy  name,  thou  who  canst  make  the  high  low,  and 
the  low  nothing.  And  he  turned  to  his  bread,  and  did  cat 
thereof.  And  though  he  bad  great  hunger,  yet  could  he 
scarcely  eat  thereof,  for  he  had  never  used  it  till  in  that  her- 
mitage, and  now  it  seemed  worse  by  reason  of  the  white 
bread  which  that  false  Hermit  had  brought.     And  the  false 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,   THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      741 


Hermit,  wlio  suw  that  he  gave  no  reguril  m-ither  to  the  hread, 
nor  the  meat  which  ho  hiid  brought,  said  to  the  Kin?,  Why 
ealcst  thou  not  of  this  which  God  Ins  sent  thee  ?  and  the 
King  said,  I  cams  not  to  this  hermitage  to  serve  God,  but  to 
do  penance  for  my  sins,  that  my  soul  may  not  be  lost.  And 
the  penance  which  is  given  me  in  tliis  life,  I  must  observe  for 
a  year,  and  not  depart  from  it,  lest  it  should  prove  to  my  great 
hurt.  And  tlie  fiilso  Hermit  said.  How,  King,  liath  it  been 
given  thee  for  penance,  that  thou  shonldst  let  thyself  die  for 
despair.'  The  Gospel  commands  not  so;  contrariwise  it 
forl)ids  man  to  do  any  such  penance  through  which  the  body 
might  be  brought  to  death  ;  for  if  in  killing  another,  he  who 
causes  the  death  is  held  for  a  murderer,  much  more  is  he  who 
killeth  hijnself ;  and  such  thou  wouldst  bo.  And  now  through 
despair  thou  wouldst  let  thyself  die  of  hunger,  that  thou 
niightst  no  longer  live  in  this  world,  wherefore  I  say  eat  of 
this  food  that  1  have  brought  thee  fonie  little,  tint  thou 
mayst  not  die.  And  with  that  ho  began  to  eat  right  heartily. 
And  the  King,  when  he  beheld  him,  was  seized  willi  affection 
to  do  tlie  like,  howbeit  he  was  withheld,  and  would  eat  noth- 
ing thereof.  .\nd  as  it  was  time  when  he  would  drink  of  the 
water,  the  false  Hermit  said  to  him,  that  he  sliould  drink  of 
the  wine  ;  and  the  King  would  only  taste  of  that  water ;  and 
as  he  went  to  take  of  it,  the  false  Hermit  struggled  with  bini, 
but  he  could  not  prevail,  and  the  King  did  according  to  his 
rule,  and  departed  not  from  it.  And  when  he  had  eaten,  be 
began  to  give  thanks  to  God.  And  the  false  Hermit,  w  ho  saw 
that  he  would  have  to  cross  himself  at  arising  from  the  table, 
rose  up  before  him,  as  one  who  was  about  to  do  something ; 
and  the  King  heeded  it  not.  And  when  he  had  thus  eaten, 
he  went  to  the  oratory,  and  began  to  give  praises  to  the  Virgin 
iMary,  according  as  the  good  man  had  comm  :nded  him,  when 
that  traitor  went  to  him  and  said,  Certes  this  doctrine  which 
thou  boldest  is  no  way  to  servo  God,  for  sans  doubt  when  the 
stoTuacb  is  heated  with  food  the  will  shall  have  no  power  to 
pray  as  it  ought ;  and  although  the  tongue  may  say  the  prayers, 
the  heart  confirms  them  not,  being  hindered  by  the  force 
which  nature  derives  from  the  food.  Therefore  I  say  to  thee 
that  thou  oughtest  to  sleep  first ;  for  whilst  thou  art  sleeping 
the  food  will  settle,  and  the  will  will  then  be  more  able  for 
contemplation.  Moreover,  God  is  not  pleased  with  prayers 
without  contrition,  as  with  one  who  speaketh  of  one  thing, 
and  hath  his  heart  placed  on  another,  so  that  he  can  give  no 
faith  to  the  words  which  he  beginneth.  If  thou  wouldst  be 
saved,  O  King,  it  behoves  thee  to  li-ilen  to  mo  ;  and  if  thou 
wilt  not  believe  me,  I  will  depart  and  leave  thee,  as  one 
who  will  take  no  counsel,  except  from  himself.  And  the 
King  replied.  If  I  should  see  that  thou  confirmedst  the  good 
maimer  of  life  whereof  my  soul  hath  need,  according  as  it 
was  appointed  by  the  good  man  whom  I  have  buried,  then 
would  I  follow  thy  way.  But  I  see  that  thy  life  is  not  that 
of  a  man  of  abstinence,  nor  of  one  who  forsakes  worldly  en- 
joyments for  the  love  of  God  ;  rather  it  seemeth  by  what  I 
see  in  thee  that  thy  life  is  a  strengthening  of  worldly  glory  ; 
for  thou  satisfiest  thy  flesh  with  good  viands  as  I  was  wont  to 
do,  when  I  was  puffed  up  with  the  vanities  of  the  world. 
Wherefore  I  will  in  no  wise  follow  thy  way,  for  I  see  that  tliou 
art  a  worldly  man,  who  deceivest  God  and  the  world,  and  when 
it  comes  to  the  end  thou  thyself  wilt  be  deceived. 

Ch.  244.  —  Of  what  the  Devil  said  to  King  Don  Rnilrigo  to 
dispart  him  from  his  penance. 

"  The  false  Hermit  said  to  him,  For  what  reason  art  thou 
certain  that  the  rule  which  this  deceiver  whom  thou  hast 
buried  appointed  for  thee,  will  be  salvation  for  thy  soul,  and 
that  what  I  say  to  thee  is  not  of  a  truth  .'  Tlnm  understand- 
est  me  not  well :  I  never  forbade  thee  that  thou  shouldst  hear 
mass,  as  he  has  done  ;  for  this  is  one  of  the  good  things  that 
man  may  every  day  see  his  Savior  and  adore  him.  And  see- 
ing that  he  forbade  thee  to  do  this,  thou  mayst  be  certain 
that  as  he  deceived  his  own  soul,  he  would  deceive  thine  also. 
For  at  the  hour  when  man  passeth  away  out  of  the  world,  he 
would  fain  that  that  same  hour  should  be  the  end  of  all  the 
world;  and  thus  that  enemy  did,  for  where  he  went,  thither 
he  would  draw  thee  also.  Now  since  God  hath  given  thee 
sense  and  reason,  thou  mayst  clearly  understand  that  his 
counsel  and  doctrine  are  deceitful,  and  what  thou  oughtest 
to  do. 


C'li.  240.  —  Of  the  reply  which  the  King  made  to  the  Devil. 

"  .Sans  doubt,  said  the  King,  he  forbade  me  not  that  I  should 
hear  mass  ;  but  because  he  commanded  me  that  I  should  ful- 
fil my  penance  here  for  the  term  of  a  year,  as  ho  knew  the 
hour  of  his  own  death,  so  also  be  knew  that  no  other  person 
who  could  say  mass  would  come  to  this  hermitage  within  the 
year  ;  and,  therefore,  he  said  to  me,  that  in  this  hermitage 
I  should  not  hear  mass,  but  he  never  forbade  me  from  hear- 
ing it. 

Ch.  246.  —  Of  the  rea-wning  which  the  falne  Hermit  viaite  tu 
King  Don  Rodrigo. 

'•  The  false  Hermit  said,  Now  thou  thyself  manifestest  that 
he  was  not  so  worthy  as  a  man  ought  to  he  who  knows  that 
which  is  to  come.  For  according  to  thy  words,  he  knew  not 
that  I  should  come  here,  who  can  say  mass  if  I  please  ;  and 
if  there  be  good  judgment  in  thee,  thou  wilt  understand  that 
I  must  needs  be  nearer  to  God,  because  I  know  all  which  he 
had  eonmianded  thee  to  do,  and  also  how  he  was  to  ilie.  And 
I  can  know  better  in  what  place  he  is,  than  he  who  has  com- 
manded thee  to  observe  this  rule,  knew  concerning  himself 
while  he  was  here.  But  this  I  tell  thee,  that  as  I  came  to 
teach  thee  the  way  in  which  thou  shouldst  live,  and  thou  w  ilt 
not  follow  my  directions,  I  will  return  as  I  came.  And  now 
I  marvel  not  at  any  thing  which  has  befallen  thee,  for  thou 
hast  a  right  stubborn  heart ;  hard  and  painful  wilt  thou  find 
the  way  of  thy  salvation,  and  in  vain  wilt  thou  do  all  this,  for 
it  is  a  thing  which  profiteth  nothing. 

Ch.  247. —  Of  the  reply  which  King  Don  Rodrigo  made  to  the 
false  Hermit. 

"  Good  man,  said  the  King,  all  that  thou  slialt  command 
me  to  do  beyond  the  rule  which  the  holy  Hermit  api)ointed 
me,  that  will  I  do  ;  that  in  which  my  i)enanee  may  be  more 
severe,  willingly  will  I  do  it.  But  in  other  manner  I  will  not 
take  thy  counsel ;  and  as  thou  hast  talked  enough  of  this, 
laavo  me,  therefore,  to  my  prayers.  And  then  the  King  bent 
his  knees,  and  began  to  go  on  with  his  rule.  And  the  false 
Hermit,  when  he  saw  this,  departed,  and  returned  not  again 
for  a  month  ;  and  all  that  time  the  King  maintained  his  pen. 
ance,  in  the  manner  which  had  been  appointed  him.  .\nd  by 
reason  that  he  ate  only  of  that  black  bread,  and  drank  only 
water,  his  flesh  fell  away,  and  be  became  such  that  there  was 
not  a  man  in  the  world  who  would  have  known  him.  Thus 
he  remained  in  the  hermitage,  thinking  of  no  other  thing  than 
to  implore  the  mercy  of  God  that  he  would  pardon  him. 

Ch.  248.  —  Of  what  the  false  Hermit  said  to  King  Don  Rodri- 
go to  dispart  hint  from  his  rule, 

"  King  Don  Rodrigo  living  thus,  one  day,  between  midnight 
and  dawn,  the  false  Hermit  came  to  the  hermitage  ;  and  not 
in  the  same  figure  as  before,  but  appearing  more  youthful,  so 
that  he  would  not  be  known.  And  he  called  at  the  door,  and 
the  King  looked  who  it  might  be,  and  saw  that  he  was  habited 
like  a  servant  of  God,  and  he  opened  the  door  forthwith. 
And  they  saluted  each  other.  And  when  they  saw  each  other, 
the  false  Hermit  greeted  the  King,  and  demanded  of  hiin 
where  the  father  was  ;  and  the  King  answered,  that  for  more 
than  a  month  there  had  been  no  person  dwelling  there  save 
himself.  And  the  false  Hermit,  when  he  heard  this,  made 
semblance  as  if  he  were  afflicted  with  exceeding  grief,  and 
said,  How  came  this  to  be,  for  it  is  not  yet  six  weeks  since  I 
came  here  and  confessed  my  sins  to  the  father  who  abode 
here,  and  then  departed  from  this  hermitage  to  my  own,  which 
is  a  league  from  hence  .'  And  King  Don  Rodrigo  said.  Friend, 
know  that  this  Hermit  is  now  in  Paradise,  as  I  believe,  and  I 
buried  him  with  my  own  hands  :  and  he  showed  him  the 
place  where  he  lay.  And  when  he  went  there  he  began  to 
kiss  the  earth  of  the  grave,  and  to  make  great  dole  and  lam- 
entation over  him.  And  when  some  half  hour  had  past,  he 
withdrew,  making  semblance  as  if  ho  wished  to  say  his  hours. 
And  before  the  King  had  finished  to  say  his,  he  came  to  him, 
and  said.  Good  man,  will  you  say  mass .'  And  the  King  an- 
swered, that  he  never  said  it.  Then,  said  the  false  Hermit, 
Hear  me  then  in  penitence,  for  I  would  confess      And  th« 


742      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


King  seeing  tliiit  it  was  for  the  service  of  God  to  liear  him  in 
ponitenc",  they  seated  themselves  hoth  at  the  foot  of  the 
altar.  And  when  tiie  filse  Hermit  spake,  it  appeared  that  he 
had  no  sin  to  confess  :  for  he  began  to  relate  many  great  ser- 
vices which  he  had  done  to  God,  as  well  in  tlie  life  wliich  he 
led  as  in  other  things.  And  before  the  King  could  absolve 
him  he  rose  up,  and  asked  if  things  were  ready  for  the  mass. 
Anil  the  King  said  that  he  knew  not,  and  hade  him  look.  It 
was  now  time  that  he  should  go  to  his  (.ratory.  .And  the  false 
Hermit  asked  him  that  lie  should  assist  him  in  saying  mass, 
and  then  he  should  hear  it.  And  the  King  said,  that  for  noth- 
ing i]i  the  world  would  he  leave  to  liiltil  his  penance,  accord- 
ing as  it  had  been  appointed  him :  and  he  went  to  his  oratory. 
And  the  f  ilse  Hermit  made  as  if  he  put  on  the  vestments  and 
all  the  ornaments,  and  began  to  say  mass,  to  the  end  that  he 
might  deceive  the  King,  and  make  him  cease  to  observe  his 
penance,  and  come  to  adore  the  mass.  And  he  made  a  watery 
cloud  arise,  so  that  it  rained  heavily  where  the  King  was. 
And  when  he  saw  that  he  could  in  no  ways  entice  him,  then 
he  went  to  him,  and  said.  Good  man,  for  that  you  may  he 
placed  out  of  danger  in  cases  which  at  all  times  will  happen, 
seeing  that  you  are  alone,  I  have  consecrated  the  body  of  Je- 
sus Christ,  that  you  may  adore  it  every  day,  since  you  may 
not  hear  mass  ;  and  thus  you  may  fulfil  your  penance  as  a 
faithful  Christian.  And  with  that  he  dispeedcd  himself,  say- 
ing. In  the  coffer  upon  the  altar  you  will  find  the  Corpus 
Christi :  when  you  rise  from  hence  go  and  adore  it.  When  he 
had  said  this,  he  went  his  way.  And  the  King  believed  that 
what  he  said  was  true,  and  held  that  he  was  a  good  man,  and 
of  holy  life. 

Cli.  249.  —  How  the  Huhj  Ohosl  visited  King  Don  Rodrigo. 

"  Now  when  the  King  had  ended  his  prayers,  which  he  used 
to  say  every  day  before  he  took  his  food,  he  saw  a  good  man 
come  towards  hijn,  clad  in  white  garments,  and  with  a  fresh 
countenance  and  a  cheerful,  and  a  cross  upon  his  breast.  .And 
as  he  arrived  where  the  King  was,  he  blest  him  ;  and  when 
the  King  saw  him  he  perceived  that  it  was  a  revelation  of 
God,  and  he  joined  his  hands  and  placed  himself  on  his  knees 
upon  the  ground,  weeping  plenti  uUy.  And  the  holy  man 
said.  King,  who  art  desirous  of  heavenly  glory,  continue  the 
service  which  thou  art  performing  for  the  love  of  my  holy 
name  ;  and  take  heed  lest  the  enemy  overcome  thee,  as  he 
who  many  times  hath  overcome  thee,  whereby  thou  hast  come 
to  what  thou  now  art.  And  believe  none  of  all  those  who 
may  come  to  thee  here,  for  they  come  for  no  other  cause  but 
only  to  deceive  thee,  and  withdraw  thee  from  the  service 
which  thou  dost  me.  And  always  observe  the  rule  given  thee 
by  the  holy  man  whom  thou  buriedst;  for  I  am  content  with 
it,  and  thy  soul  shall  receive  refreshment  if  thou  observcst  it. 
Come  here,  and  I  will  show  thee  how  the  Devil  thought  to 
deceive  thee,  that  thou  migbtst  adore  liim.  Then  the  King 
arose  and  went,  alway  upon  his  knees,  following  the  Holy 
Spirit  of  God  ;  and  when  he  was  within  the  hermitage,  our 
Lord  spake  and  said.  Depart  from  hence,  thou  cursed  one,  and 
go  thy  way,  for  thou  bast  no  power  to  deceive  him  who  con- 
tinues in  my  service.  Get  thee  to  the  i[ifernal  pains  which 
are  suffered  by  tliose  who  are  in  the  ninth  torment !  And  at 
that  hour  the  King  plainly  saw  how  from  the  ark,  which  was 
upon  the  altar,  there  went  out  a  foul  and  filthy  devil,  with 
more  than  fifty  tails,  and  as  many  eyes,  who,  uttering  great 
yells,  departed  from  the  place.  And  the  King  was  greatly 
dismayed  at  the  manner  in  which  (he  false  Hermit  had  de- 
ceived him.  And  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  said  to  him.  King, 
let  thy  hope  he  in  my  name,  and  [  will  alway  be  with  thee, 
.so  thou  wilt  not  let  thyself  be  vanquished  by  the  enemy. 
Then  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  departed,  and  the  King  remained 
full  joyful  and  greatly  comforted,  as  if  he  had  been  in  celes- 
tial glory.  And  thus  he  continued  his  life  for  nearly  two 
months. 

Ch.  250.  —  Huw  the  Devil  would  have  deceived  King  Don  Rod- 
rigo in  Hie  figure  of  Count  Don  Julian. 

"  The  King  was  in  his  oratory  one  Sunday  toward  nightfall, 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  when  he  saw  a  man  coming  toward 
him,  clad  in  such  guise  as  is  fitting  for  one  who  follows  arms. 
And  as  ho  looked  at  him,  he  saw  that  it  was  the  Count  Don  Ju- 


lian who  approached  ;  and  he  saw  that  behind  him  there  came 
a  great  power  of  armed  people.  And  the  false  Count,  when  he 
drew  nigh,  made  obeisance  to  him  ;  and  the  King  was  amazed 
at  seeing  him,  for  he  knew  him  well:  nevertheless  he  re- 
mained still.  And  the  false  Count  came  to  him,  and  would 
have  kissed  bis  hand,  hut  the  King  would  not  give  it,  neither 
would  be  rise  up  Worn  the  oratory  ;  and  the  f;<Ise  Count  knelt 
upon  the  ground  before  him,  and  said.  Sir,  forasmuch  as  I  am 
he  who  sinned  against  thee  like  a  man  who  is  a  traitor  to  his 
Lord,  and  as  I  did  it  with  great  wrath  and  fury,  which  pos- 
sessed my  heart  through  the  strength  of  the  De\il,  our  Lord 
God  hath  had  compassion  upon  me,  and  would  not  that  I 
should  he  utterly  lost,  nor  that  Spain  should  be  destroyed,  nor 
that  thou,  sir,  sboiildst  be  put  down  Irom  tbv  great  honor  and 
state,  ami  the  great  lordsliip  which  thou  biuist  in  Spain.  And 
he  has  shown  me,  in  a  revelation,  bow  thou  wert  here  in  this 
hermitage  doing  this  great  penance  for  thy  sins.  Wherefore 
1  say  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  do  justice  upon  me,  and  take 
vengeance  according  to  thy  will,  as  upon  one  who  deserves  it, 
for  I  acknowledge  that  thou  wert  my  lord,  and  also  the  great 
treason  into  which  I  have  fallen.  Wherefore,  sir,  I  pray  and 
beseech  thee  hy  the  one  only  God,  that  thou  wilt  take  the 
power  of  Spain,  which  is  there  awaiting  thee,  and  that  thou 
wilt  go  forth  to  defend  the  faith  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
sufi'er  not  that  poor  Sj)ain  should  he  utterly  destroyed,  seeing 
that  thou  canst  defend  it  and  protect  it.  And  then  Count  Ju- 
li;m  drew  his  sword,  and  giive  it  to  the  King,  saying.  Sir,  lake 
this  my  sword,  and  with  thine  own  hand  do  justice  upon  me, 
and  take  such  vengeance  as  thou  pleascst ;  for  I  will  suffer  it 
with  much  patience,  seeing  I  have  sinned  against  thee.  And 
the  King  was  greatly  troubled  at  this  sight,  and  at  his  words 
also,  and  knew  not  what  be  should  do,  neither  what  he  should 
say.  Howbeit,  presently  he  called  to  mind  what  the  Holy 
Spirit  of  God  had  said  to  him,  how  he  should  take  heed  lest 
the  Devil  should  subdue  him;  and  so  he  said  nothing,  but 
continued  in  his  prayer.  And  the  false  Count  Don  Julian  Siiid 
to  him.  Sir,  wilt  thou  not  turn  for  the  Holy  Faith  of  Jesus 
Christ,  which  is  utterly  going  to  destruction  .'  rise  up  and 
defend  it,  for  I  bring  thee  a  full  great  power  ;  and  thus  thou 
wilt  serve  God  and  recover  the  honor  which  thou  hadst  lost. 
Rise  then  and  go  forth,  and  have  pity  upon  miserable  Spain, 
which  is  about  to  he  lost ;  and  have  compassion  also  upon  so 
many  people  as  are  perishing  for  want  of  a  Lord  who  should 
defend  them.  Now  all  these  words  were  only  meant  to  de- 
ceive him,  for  it  was  the  Devil  who  had  taken  the  form  of 
Count  Don  Julian,  and  not  the  Coimt  himself.  But  the  King 
could  no  longer  restrain  himself  from  replying,  and  he  said. 
Go  you.  Count,  and  defend  the  land  with  this  force  which  you 
have  assembled,  even  as  you  went  to  destroy  it  hy  the  great 
treason  which  you  committed  against  me  and  against  God. 
And  even  as  you  brought  the  men,  who  are  enemies  of  God 
and  of  his  Holy  Faith,  and  led  them  into  .''jiain,  so  now  thrnst 
them  out  and  defend  it ;  for  I  will  neither  slay  you,  nor  assist 
you  in  it.  Leave  me  to  myself ;  I  am  no  longer  for  the  world, 
for  here  I  v\'ill  do  penance  for  my  sins.  L^rge  me,  therefore, 
no  more  with  these  reasons.  And  the  false  Count  Don  Julian 
rose,  and  went  to  the  great  company  which  he  had  brought 
there,  and  brought  them  all  before  the  King.  And  the  King, 
when  he  beheld  that  great  company  of  knights,  saw  some 
among  them  whom  he  surely  thought  had  been  slain  in  battle. 
And  they  all  said  to  him  w  ith  loud  voices.  Sir,  whom  wilt 
thou  send  us,  that  we  may  take  him  fi)r  our  King  and  Lord  to 
protect  and  defend  us,  seeing  that  thoM  wilt  not  defend  the 
land,  neither  go  with  us  .'  Wouliist  thou  give  us  thy  nephew 
the  Infant  Don  Si\ncho.'  He  is  dead.  What  then  vvonldst 
thou  conmiand  us  that  we  should  do.'  Look  to  it  well,  sir; 
it  is  no  service  of  God  that  thou  shouldst  let  perish  so  great  a 
Christianity  as  is  every  day  perishing,  because  thou  art  here 
dwelling  in  this  solitude.  Look  to  it,  for  God  will  require  an 
account  at  thy  hands  :  thou  hadst  the  charge  of  defending 
them,  and  thou  lettest  them  die.  And  tell  us  what  course 
shall  we  take.  And  when  the  Kingheard  these  words  he  was 
moved  to  compassion  :  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  so 
that  be  could  not  restrain  them  ;  and  he  was  in  such  state  that 
his  thoughts  fiileil  him,  and  he  was  silent,  and  made  no  reply 
to  any  thing  that  they  could  say.  And  all  these  companies 
who  saw  him  complained  so  much  the  more,  and  sent  forth 
great  cries,  and  made  a  great  tumult  and  uproar,  and  said,  O 
miserable  King,  why  wilt  thou  not  rouse  thyself  for  thy  own 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF   THE    GOTHS        743 


<akp,  and  lor  tluit  of  all  tliy  people  whom  thou  secst  without 
a  Lord?  and  thou  wilt  uoteven  spcuk  a  word  to  comfort  tijuiii, 
and  tell  them  what  they  shall  do.  And  all  this  while  the 
Kiii^  did  nothing  hut  weep,  and  answereil  them  never  a  word. 
And  when  this  vile  race  saw  that  they  could  not  take  him 
from  thence,  and  that  he  answered  them  nothing,  and  that 
they  could  not  overcome  him  by  whatever  they  mi;;ht  do,  they 
went  forthwith  from  the  mountain  down  into  a  plain,  which 
was  then  made  to  apjiear  before  the  King,  and  there  they  drew 
up  their  battles  in  such  guise  as  the  King  Don  llodrigo  was 
used  to  darrain  them.  -And  eft-soon  he  saw  great  multitudes  of 
strange  people,  who  came  from  the  other  side,  and  they  began 
a  battle  so  fierce  and  so  cruel,  that  the  King  thought  he  had 
never  seen  one  like  it.  And  the  one  party  put  the  other  to 
the  worst,  anil  followed  after  them  in  pursuit.  And  then  there 
came  messengers  to  the  King,  telling  him  that  his  people  had 
conquered,  and  had  slain  many  of  the  enemy ;  but  the  King 
was  confounded,  and  as  it  wore  beside  himself,  and  heeded 
not,  neither  did  he  know  what  they  said,  and  he  answered 
nothing.  And  then  they  all  went  away,  and  seemed  to  the 
King  that  the  one  were  pursuing  the  others,  and  this  continued 
till  the  first  crowing  of  the  cock.  And  the  King  recovered 
his  senses:  howbeit  he  knew  not  whether  it  was  a  vision,  or 
if  it  had  indeed  happeneil ;  but  he  called  to  mind  that  he  had 
not  completed  the  prayers  which  he  made  every  day  ;  and  he 
began  them  again  and  finished  them.  And  when  he  had  fin- 
ished, great  part  of  the  night  was  past,  anil  he  laid  himself 
down  to  sleep.  And  then  for  three  months  he  had  no  other 
temptation. 

Cli.  251.  —  How  the  Devil,  in  the  figure  nf  La  Cava,  the 
daughter  of  Count  Don  Julian,  sought  to  deceive  King  Don 
Rodrigo, 

"The  King  was  saying  his  prayers  at  the  hour  of  vespers 
on  a  Tuesday,  when  he  saw  people  on  horseback  coming 
toward  him  :  andas  they  were  about  the  reach  of  a  cross-bow 
from  him,  he  saw  that  they  alighted,  and  that  there  came 
toward  him  a  woman,  who  was  full  nobly  clad  ;  and  when  she 
came  near,  he  knew  her  that  she  was  La  Cava,  the  daughter 
of  Count  Don  Julian,  and  she  seemed  to  him  more  beautiful 
than  he  had  ever  before  seen  her  in  his  life.  And  when  she 
drew  nigh,  she  humbled  herself,  and  said,  Sir,  what  fortune 
his  brought  you  to  this  wretched  life  in  which  you  have  so 
long  continued.'  And  the  King  held  his  peace,  and  said 
nothing.  And  that  false  Cava  said.  Sir,  it  is  a  month  since 
a  holy  man,  el  id  in  while  garments,  and  having  a  red  cross 
u|x>n  his  breast,  appeared  to  me  when  I  was  with  my  father 
Count  Don  Julian  in  Toledo;  where  he  now  holds  the 
seat  of  the  lordship  of  Spain,  as  he  who,  by  force  of  arms, 
has  subilued  the  Jloors,  and  killed  or  made  captives  of  them 
all.  At  the  hour  when  this  holy  man  appeared  to  me,  I 
was  alone  in  niy  chamber,  having  great  sorrow  in  rny  heart, 
because  I  had  no  certain  news  where  you  was,  and  whether 
your  soul  continued  to  live  in  this  world,  or  in  another. 
And,  moreover,  I  was  full  sorrowful,  because  of  the  death  of 
my  Lady  the  (iueen  Eliaca,  your  wife,  who  is  now  deceased. 
And  for  these  things  my  heart  was  full  sorrowful,  and  in 
great  trouble  with  griefs  and  thoughts,  which  came  to  me  I 
know  not  from  whence,  and  I  was  like  one  bereft  of  his  judg- 
ment. And  while  I  was  contemplating  in  this  state,  the 
holy  man  appeared  to  me  in  such  wise  as  I  have  said,  and 
said  to  me,  Of  what  art  thou  taking  thought.'  Cease  to  la- 
ment, for  without  me  thou  canst  do  nothing  certain  of  that 
which  thou  desirest.  But  that  the  dominion  of  Sjiain  may 
not  pass  away  from  the  power  of  the  Goths,  and  that  he  who 
shall  have  it  m;iy  descend  from  thy  seeil,  and  be  of  the  gene- 
ration of  King  Don  lioilrigo,  it  is  my  will  that  thou  shouldst 
know  where  ho  is,  and  that  thou  sliouMst  go  to  him,  and  that 
he  should  go  in  unto  thee,  and  that  thou  shouldst  conceive  of 
him  a  son,  and  shalt  call  liis  name  Felbersan,  the  which  shall 
be  such  a  one  that  he  shall  reduce  under  his  forces  all  the 
earth  which  is  below  the  firmament.  Depart,  therefore,  from 
hence,  and  go  to  111''  place  where  he  is,  and  make  no  tar- 
riance  :  for  thus  it  hehoveth  for  the  service  of  God,  and  for 
the  weal  and  protection  and  defence  of  the  land.  And  I  said 
to  him.  Sir,  how  can  this  he  which  yon  lell  me,  seeing  that 
King  Don  RodriiM  is  dr-ad  ;  for  his  enemies  slew  him  when  they 
won  the  battle  in  which  the  great  chivalrv  of  Spain  perished. 


And  he  said  to  me.  Cava,  think  not  he  is  dead,  for  he  liveth' 
and  passelh  his  life  alone  in  a  hermitage  ;  of  the  which  thy 
fiitlier  Count  Don  Julian  will  certify  thee,  for  he  went  to  seek 
him  there,  and  found  him  there  when  he  overcame  the 
Moors.  Kc  will  tell  thee  that  he  is  alive,  and  in  what  place 
is  the  hermitage  wherein  he  abideth.  And  I  said  to  him, 
Itiil  if  King  Don  llodrigo  jiasselh  his  life  after  this  manner  in 
the  service  of  God,  he  will  noi  approach  me  that  I  may  con- 
ceive of  him  this  son  who  shall  prove  so  good.  And  since  it 
thus  pleases  you,  give  me  a  sign  by  which  I  may  show  him 
that  this  is  pleasing  to  God,  and  that  he  may  do  this  which 
you  say,  seeing  so  great  good  is  to  follow  from  it.  And, 
mor(!over,  he  will  be  brought  to  such  weakness  that  he  will 
not  be  able  to  obey,  by  reason  of  the  great  abstinence  to  which 
his  body  has  been  subjected  duiing  his  continuance  there. 
And  the  holy  man  said  to  me.  Care  not  for  this,  for  God  will 
give  him  strength  ;  and  thou  shalt  say  to  him  for  a  sign  that 
he  may  believe  thee,  how  1  told  him  that  he  should  take  heed 
lest  the  enemy  deceive  him,  and  how  I  bade  tlu^  Devil  depart 
from  the  altar  where  he  was  in  the  ark  instead  of  the  Corpus 
Christi,  for  that  he  should  adore  him.  When  thou  tellest  him 
this  lie  will  believe  thee,  and  will  understand  that  it  is  by  the 
cnminaiid  of  God.  And  when  he  had  said  these  words  he  dis- 
ai)peared,  so  that  I  saw  him  no  more  ;  and  I  remained  for  a 
full  hour,  being  greatly  comlorted,  because  I  knew  of  your 
life,  so  that  it  seemed  to  me  there  were  no  other  glory  in  this 
world.  And  when  I  came  to  myself  I  went  incontinently  to 
my  father  Count  Don  Julian,  and  told  him  all  that  had  be- 
fallen me  with  the  holy  man  who  came  in  that  holy  vision  ; 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  aught  concerning  you.  And  he 
told  me  how  he  had  gone  to  you  w  itli  all  his  chivalry  to  bid 
you  come  out  from  thence  to  defend  your  country,  which  the 
enemies  had  taken  from  you,  and  that  you  would  not  ;  but 
rather  commended  it  to  him  that  he  should  undertake  it,  and 
defend  the  land  and  govern  it ,  and  that  it  grieved  him  to  think 
that  you  would  not  be  alive,  because  of  the  great  abstinence 
which  yon  imposed  every  day  upon  your  flesh:  nevertheless, 
since  it  pleases  our  Lord  that  I  should  have  a  son  by  you,  who 
should  be  so  good  a  man  that  he  should  recover  all  Sjiain,  he 
would  have  me  go  to  this  place,  where  I  should  find  you  if 
you  were  alive  ;  and  right  content  would  he  he  that  there 
should  remain  of  you  so  great  good.  And  I,  sir  King,  seeing 
how  it  pleased  God  that  this  should  be  accomplished,  accord- 
ing as  1  have  said,  am  come  here  in  secret,  fiir  neither  man 
nor  woman  knoweth  of  this,  save  my  father  Count  Don 
Julian  ;  for  I  have  told  my  people  who  came  with  me  to  re- 
main yonder,  because  I  would  go  and  confess  to  a  holy  man 
who  had  made  his  abode  here  more  than  fifty  years.  Now, 
since  Goil  is  the  author  of  this,  recover  yourself,  and  remember 
the  time  when  you  told  me  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  world 
which  you  loved  so  much  as  me,  nor  which  you  desiied  so 
greatly  as  to  obtain  a  promise  of  me,  the  which  I  could  not 
give  at  that  hour,  by  reason  that  the  (iueen  was  living,  and  I 
knew  it  to  be  great  sin.  And  if  1  come  to  you  now,  it  is  by 
command  of  God,  for  it  pleases  him  to  send  me  here  ;  and, 
also,  because  tlie  (iueen  is  no  longer  in  this  present  life.  And 
because  you  are  so  fallen  away  of  your  strength,  let  us  go  into 
the  httrmitage,  or  1  will  order  a  tent  to  be  placed  here,  and  let 
us  sup  together,  that  your  heart  may  revive  and  you  may  fulfil 
the  command  of  God. 

Cli.  252.  —  How  the   Devil  would   have    deceived   Kiiitr   Don 
Rodrigo,  if  the  Hohj  Spirit  had  not  visited  and  protrxted  him. 

"  As  the  King  heard  all  this,  his  whole  body  began  to 
tremlile,  and  his  soul  within  him  also  ;  and  all  sense  and 
power  passed  away  from  him,  so  that  he  was  in  a  trance,  and 
then  it  was  revealed  to  him  that  he  should  take  heed  against 
that  temptation.  And  the  false  Cava,  who  saw  him  thus  en- 
tranced, made  many  burning  torches  of  wax  come  there,  by 
reason  that  it  was  cold,  and  because  that  the  King  should 
derive  heat ;  also  there  was  a  pavilion  pitched  there,  and  a 
table  set  within  it  with  many  viands  thereon,  and  all  the 
peoph^  who  came  with  her  were  seen  to  lodge  themselves 
far  away  upon  the  mountain.  And  when  he  had  recovered 
himself,  he  saw  that  the  false  Cava  was  drest  in  a  close-fitting 
kirtle,  which  came  half  way  below  the  knee,  and  she  seemed 
to  him  the  fiirest  woman  that  he  had  ever  seen  in  bis  life,  and 
it  appeared  to  the  King  that  she  said  to  him,  Here,  sir,  come 


744      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS. 


ami  take  your  supper.  And  the  King  began  again  to  trpinl)l(i 
anil  lose  liis  judgment,  iind  I'dl  into  such  a  state  that  lie  know 
not  wlitre  he  was,  and  it  was  revealed  to  him  in  that  hour  that 
lie  should  guard  against  the  temptation.  And  when  he  came 
to  liiniseiriie  saw  that  the  pavilion  was  spread  over  his  head  ; 
and  seeing  hiniseli'  in  that  place,  he  looked  for  the  onitoiy,  and 
perceived  that  it  was  where  it  used  to  be  ;  and  within  the  pa- 
vilion lie  saw  tlic  false  Cava,  who  was  there  with  him,  and  that 
slie  was  standing  beside  a  bed,  which  was  a  full  rich  one,  and 
that  she  began  to  lake  off  her  kirtle,  and  remained  in  her  shift 
only,  and  with  her  long  hair,  whicli  reached  to  her  feet ;  and 
she  Slid  to  him.  See,  sir,  here  in  your  power  that  which  you 
most  desired,  and  which  is  now  awaiting  you.  Rejoice,  then, 
and  take  heart,  and  do  that  which  (iod  has  appointed,  and 
wliich  will  recover  i?pain,  and  recompense  the  losses,  and 
sorrows,  and  wrongs,  whicli  you  have  endured.  And  then 
she  turned  toward  the  King,  for  the  Devil  thought  thus  to 
tempt  liini,  and  make  him  break  the  penance  which  he  had 
begun  ;  and  certes  I  ween  there  was  no  living  man  who  would 
not  right  gladly  have  approached  her.  And  then  before  him,  in 
his  sight,  she  began  to  comb  and  to  plait  hergolden  locks.  And 
the  King,  seeing  how  beautiful  she  was,  began  to  tremble  all 
over,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  with  palsy  ;  and  he  lost  his 
judgment  again,  and  became  entianced,  and  remained  thus  a 
long  while  before  he  came  again  to  himself.  And  it  was  re- 
vealed to  him  again  that  he  should  tiike  heed  how  the  Devil 
tempted  him,  and  that  he  should  have  lirm  hope  in  God, 
and  not  break  the  penance  which  the  holy  Hermit  had  ap- 
pointed him.  But  ever  when  he  recovered  from  these  trances, 
he  forgot  all  which  had  been  revealed  to  him  while  he 
was  entranced  ;  and  now  he  found  that  there  was  a  large 
cstradii  placed  by  him,  and  that  La  Cava  was  lying  there  beside 
him  on  some  pillows,  which  were  richly  wrought  in  gold,  un- 
dresf,  as  he  had  seen  her,  and  that  she  said  to  him.  Come,  sir, 
for  you  tarry  long,  and  it  will  soon  be  day-break.  And  the 
King  seeing  her  so  near  him,  then  he  was  gre:itly  troubled,  yet 
could  he  not  withdraw  his  eyes  from  her:  but  he  called  to 
mind  how  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  had  bade  him  that  lie  should 
always  confide  in  his  name,  and  place  his  true  hope  in  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  And  he  clasped  his  hands,  and  lifted  them 
towards  Heaven,  and  weeping  iiitterly,  and  in  great  contrition, 
he  said,  O  Lord  and  very  God  Jesu-i  C'lirist,  deliver  me  from  all 
temptation,  and  preserve  my  soul,  that  it  fall  not  into  perdition. 
And  while  he  was  praying  thus,  he  saw  how  there  caine  from 
the  hermilnge  a  great  brightness,  and  he  said,  Deliver  me. 
Lord,  from  the  power  of  the  Devil,  tinit  I  may  not  be  de- 
ceived, nor  withdrawn  from  thy  holy  service.  And  at  that 
hour  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  his  forehead,  and 
blest  himself  j  and  at  tint  hour  the  false  Cava  fell  down 
the  rock  into  the  sea,  with  such  a  sound  as  if  the  whole 
world  were  falling  to  pieces,  and  with  the  plunge  which  she 
made  the  sea  dashed  up  so  high,  that  where  the  oratory  was 
the  King  was  wetted  wilh  the  sjiray.  And  he  remained  in 
such  astonishment  that  he  could  not  for  an  hour  recover  him- 
self. And  when  he  came  to  himself  he  began  to  pray  with 
great  repentance,  as  if  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  falling  into 
temptation.  And  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  came  to  him  in  that 
same  manner  in  which  he  had  seen  it  the  former  time.  And 
he  fell  on  his  face  upon  the  ground,  and  began  to  lament  full 
bitterly,  and  to  say.  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  my  soul,  and  for- 
sake me  not  among  mine  enemies,  who  would  withdraw  me 
from  thee.  And  the  Holy  Spirit  said  to  him,  O  King,  of  little 
failh,  how  hast  thou  been  on  the  point  of  perishing  !  And  the 
King  made  no  reply,  for  he  did  nothing  but  weep.  And  the 
Holy  Spirit  of  God  said  to  him.  Take  heed,  King,  lest  the 
Devil  deceive  thee,  and  have  power  over  thee,  that  thou 
shouldst  not  fulfil  the  penance  which  thou  hast  commrnced, 
neither  save  thy  soul.  And  the  King  lifled  up  his  countenance, 
and  had  great  shame  to  behold  him.  Howbeit  ho  took  cour- 
age, and  said.  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  nie,  and  let  me  not  be 
tempted  by  the  enemy,  for  my  heart  is  weak,  and  hath  no 
power  to  defend  itself  against  the  false  one:  for  my  judgment 
is  clean  confounded,  as  one  who  hath  no  virtue  if  he  be  not 
aided  by  thy  grace.  Deliver  me,  Lord,  for  thy  holy  mercy 
and  compassion :  my  salvation  cannot  come  through  the 
strength  of  my  heart,  for  it  is  wholly  full  of  fear,  like  a  thing 
which  is  overcome.  And  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  sai:l  to  hiin. 
Take  courage  and  fear  not,  for  thou  shall  depart  from  this 
place  sooner  than  thou  thinkest.     And  when  it  is  time  I  will 


guide  thee  to  the  place  where  thou  shall  do  thy  penance,  that 
tliy  soul  may  receive  salvation.  When  thou  shall  see  a  little 
white  cloud  appear  above  thee,  and  that  there  is  no  other  in 
the  sky,  follow  after  it:  and  in  tlie  place  where  it  shall  stop 
shall  thou  fullil  thy  penance,  according  as  the  chief  priest  in 
that  place  shall  appoint  it  thee.  And  lake  heart,  and  alway 
call  to  mind  my  holy  name,  and  have  true  faith  and  constant 
hope  in  tliy  Savior.  And  when  he  had  said  this  he  departed. 
And  the  King  was  greatly  comforted  and  full  of  grace,  as  one 
with  whom  God  was  present  in  his  mercy.  And  he  abode  in 
the  hermitage  a  whole  year,  according  to  his  reckoning,  and 
twelve  days  more.  And  one  day,  when  it  was  full  clear,  the 
King  looked  up  and  saw  above  him  the  cloud  of  which  the 
Holy  Spirit  of  God  had  told  him  ;  and  when  he  saw  it  he  was 
full  joyful,  and  gave  many  thanks  to  God.  Nevertheless  the 
King  did  not  rise  from  his  prayers,  neither  did  the  cloud  move 
from  above  him.  And  when  he  had  finished  his  prayers  he 
looked  at  the  cloud  and  saw  tiiat  it  moved  forward. 


Cli.  25;i.  — How  King  Von  Rodrigo  drpnrtcd  from  the  hermil- 
age,  and  arrived  where  he  was  to  do  yenance. 

"  The  King  arose  from  the  oratory  and  followed  the  cloud  ; 
and  so  great  was  the  pleasure  which  he  had,  that  he  cared  not 
for  food,  neither  remembered  it,  but  went  after  that  his  holy 
guide.  And  at  night  he  saw  how  the  cloud,  when  the  sun  was 
about  to  set,  turned  to  the  right  of  the  road  toward  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  it  went  on  so  far,  that  before  night  had  closed  it 
came  to  a  hermitage,  in  which  there  was  a  good  man  for  a 
Hermit,  who  was  more  than  ninety  years  of  age,  and  there  ii 
stopt.  And  the  King  perceived  that  he  was  to  rest  there,  and 
the  good  man  welcomed  the  King,  and  Ihey  spake  together  of 
many  things.  And  the  King  was  well  contented  with  his 
speech,  and  saw  thai  certes  he  was  a  servant  of  God.  And  all 
that  day  the  King  had  not  eaten,  and  he  was  barefoot,  and  his 
raiment  tattered  :  and  as  he  had  not  been  used  to  travel  a-fool, 
and  with  his  feel  bare,  his  feet  vv'ere  swollen  with  blisters. 
And  when  it  was  an  hour  after  night,  the  Hermit  gave  him 
a  loaf,  full  small,  which  was  made  of  rye,  and  there  were  ashes 
kneaded  with  it,  and  the  King  ate  it :  and  when  he  had  eaten 
they  said  prayers.  And  when  they  had  said  their  hours,  they 
lay  down  to  sleep.  And  when  it  was  midnight  they  arose  and 
said  their  hours  :  and  when  they  had  said  them  the  King  went 
out  of  the  hermitage,  and  saw  that  the  cloud  did  not  move  : 
and  then  the  King  understood  that  he  had  to  tarry  here,  or 
that  he  was  to  hear  mass  before  he  departed,  and  he  asked  the 
flermit  to  hear  his  confession,  and  the  Hermit  confessed  him. 
And  when  he  had  confessed,  he  said  that  he  would  communi- 
cate, and  the  good  Hermit  saw  that  it  was  good,  and  he  put  on 
his  vestments  and  said  mass  :  and  the  King  heard  the  mass, 
and  received  the  very  body  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  And 
when  the  King  had  done  this,  he  went  out  to  look  at  the  cloud. 
And  as  he  went  out  of  the  hermitage  he  saw  that  the  cloud 
began  to  move,  and  then  lie  dispceded  himself  from  the  Her- 
mit, and  they  embraced  each  other  weeping,  and  each  en- 
treated the  other,  that  he  would  bear  him  in  mind,  and 
remember  him  in  his  prayers.  And  when  the  King  had 
dispeeded  himself,  he  followed  after  his  holy  guide,  anil  the 
holy  Hermit  returned  to  his  hermitage.  And  the  King  Don 
Rodrigo,  notwithstanding  his  feet  were  swollen  and  full  of 
blisters,  and  that  in  many  places  they  were  broken  and  bleed- 
ing, such  and  so  great  was  the  joy  which  lie  felt  at  going  on  in 
the  course  which  he  now  held,  that  he  endured  it  all  as  though 
he  felt  nothing.  And  he  went,  according  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
full  six  leagues,  and  arrived  at  a  convent  of  Black  Monks,  and 
there  the  cloud  stopt,  and  would  proceed  no  farther.  And  at 
that  convent  there  w^as  an  Abbot  who  led  an  extraordinary 
good  and  holy  life  ;  and  they  were  not  there  like  other  monks  ; 
and  he  was  a  great  friend  of  God  and  of  our  Lady  the  Virgin 
St.  Jlary :  and  this  Abbot  took  the  King  to  his  cell,  and 
asked  if  he  would  eat  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  or  like  the  other 
monks  ;  and  the  King  said,  that  he  would  do  as  he  should 
direct  him.  And  the  Abbot  ordered  that  a  loaf  should  be 
brought  of  pnnnick  and  maize  mixed  together,  and  a  jar  of  wa- 
ter, and  on  the  other  side  he  had  food  placed  such  as  the  monks 
used  ;  and  the  King  would  eat  only  of  the  pannick  bread,  as 
he  had  been  wont  to  do,  and  he  drank  of  the  water.  And 
when  lie  had  eaten,  the  Abbot  asked  him  if  he  would  remain 


NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE    LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS.      745 


tliBt  iii^'lit  or  not,  and  the  King  F.iiil  that  lie  knew  not,  but 
that  lie  woiihl  go  out  and  sec  whetlier  he  were  to  go  or  to  re- 
main. And  the  Abbot  said  tliat  it  was  tlie  hour  ofveFpers, 
and  th;',t  lie  oudit  to  remain  ;  and  tlie  King  went  out  and  saw 
tlial  the  cK)u<l  moved,  and  tliat  it  believed  liiin  to  go,  and  he 
dispeeded  hiinsciri'roni  the  Abbot,  and  they  commended  tlieni- 
selvos  each  to  the  other  in  his  prayers.  And  the  Abbot  saw 
plainly  how  that  cloud  had  guided  him,  and  bow  there  was  no. 
other  in  the  sky,  and  he  marvelled  greatly,  and  said,  Certes 
this  is  some  holy  man,  and  he  gave  thanks  to  God.  And  the 
King  went  on  that  evening  till  he  came  to  a  church  which  was 
solitary  and  remote  from  peopled  places:  and  there  the  cloud 
slept,  and  be  abode  there  that  night.  And  the  King  went 
into  tlie  church,  and  found  in  it  a  lamp  burning,  and  it  re- 
joiced him  much,  for  by  the  light  of  it  he  said  his  hours  as  well 
before  he  should  sleep  as  alter.  And  on  the  morrow  when  be 
had  made  his  prayer,  he  went  out  of  the  church  and  beheld  the 
cloud,  and  saw  that  it  moved  ;  and  he  went  after  it,  and  after 
two  days' journey  became  to  a  place  which  where  it  is,  or  what 
it  is  called,  is  not  said,  save  that  it  is  the  place  of  his  burial, 
for  such  it  is.  And  there  the  cloud  stopt,  and  proceeded  no 
farther  ;  and  it  rested  without  the  town  over  an  ancient  her- 
mitage. And  the  Elder  of  that  place  incontinently  knew  by 
the  Holy  t?pirit  how  King  Don  Kodrigo  was  come  there  :  but 
be  knew  not  his  name,  neither  who  he  was  ;  and  he  asked  him 
if  lie  meant  to  lead  his  lifij  there,  and  he  answered  that  it  was 
to  be  as  God  should  please.  And  the  Elder  said  to  him, 
Friend,  I  am  the  Elder  of  Ibis  place,  for  all  the  others,  when 
they  knew  that  King  Don  Rodrigo  and  his  chivalry  were  slain 
and  vamiuisbed,  fled  from  hence  for  fear  of  the  Moors,  and  of 
the  traitor  Count  Don  Julian,  and  they  all  went  to  the  moun- 
tains to  escape.  And  I  remained,  putting  my  trust  in  our 
Lord  God,  and  in  his  holy  hands :  for  that  I  would  rather 
abide  that  which  may  bef  ill  anil  take  my  adventure  here,  than 
utterly  forsake  our  mother  holy  church  ;  while  I  am  able  I 
will  remain  here  and  not  forsake  it,  but  rather  receive  my 
death.  And  therefore  I  say,  that  if  you  are  to  abide  here  you 
must  provide  yourself  of  that  whereof  you  have  need.  And 
the  King  said.  Friend  of  God,  concerning  my  tarriancc  1 
cannot  certify  you  ;  though  surely  I  think  that  I  shall  abide  ; 
and  if  for  the  service  of  God  you  will  be  pleased  to  send  me 
every  day  that  I  remain  a  loaf  of  pannick  and  water,  I  shall 
be  contented  therewith.  And  the  Elder  promised  this,  and 
departed  forthwith  and  went  to  his  home,  and  sent  him  a  loaf 
of  pannick  and  water,  .'^nd  the  cloud  remained  there  three 
days  over  that  hermitage,  and  when  the  three  days  were  at 
an  end,  it  was  seen  no  more.  And  the  King,  when  he  could 
no  longer  see  it,  understood  that  there  ho  must  perform  bis 
penance,  and  gave  many  thanks  to  God,  and  was  full  joyful 
thereat.  And  on  the  morrow  the  Elder  came  to  see  him,  and 
they  communed  with  each  other  in  such  manner,  that  the 
King  confessed  to  him  all  the  sins  which  he  had  committed 
during  bis  whole  life  till  that  time,  all  which  be  called  to 
mind  with  great  contrition,  weeping  full  bitterly  and  groaning 
for  bis  errors  and  sins.  And  the  Elder  was  greatly  astonished, 
and  said,  that  on  the  third  day  from  thence  he  would  appoint 
him  his  penance.  And  he  went  to  bis  church  and  confessed, 
and  addrest  himself  to  prayer  in  such  guise  that  he  neither  ate 
nor  drank,  nor  raised  himself  from  one  place,  weeping  bitterly, 
and  beseecliing  God  that  he  would  show  him  what  penance 
he  should  appoint  the  King  ;  for  after  no  other  manner  did  he 
think  to  appoint  it,  than  such  as  his  holy  mercy  and  compas- 
sion should  direct.  And  on  the  third  day  he  heard  a  voice 
which  said  thus  :  Command  King  Don  Rodrigo  that  he  go  to 
a  fountain  which  is  below  his  hermitage,  and  be  shall  find 
there  a  smooth  stone  ;  and  bid  him  lift  it  up,  and  under  it  he 
shall  lind  three  little  serpents,  the  one  having  two  heads.  And 
bid  him  take  that  which  bath  two  beads,  and  carry  it  away, 
and  place  it  in  ajar,  and  nurse  it  secretly,  so  that  no  person 
in  the  world  shall  know  thereof,  save  only  be  and  thou  ;  and 
let  him  keep  it  till  it  wax  so  great  that  it  hath  made  three 
turns  within  the  jar,  and  puts  its  head  out ;  and  when  it  is  of 
that  greatness,  then  let  him  take  it  out,  and  lay  it  in  a  tomb 
which  is  there,  and  lie  down  himself  with  it,  naked  ;  and  close 
the  tomb  well,  that  the  seipent  may  not  be  able  to  go  out  ;  and 
in  this  manner  God  is  pleased  that  King  Don  Rodrigo  should 
do  penance. 

94 


Cb.  251. —  Of  the  pvnauci:  which  was  appointed  King  Don 
Rodrigo. 
"  The  Elder  when  he  heard  the  voice  was  greatly  aina/.od  at 
so  rigorous  a  penance  as  this,  and  gave  many  thiJilts  to  God, 
end  he  went  to  King  J)(in  Rodrigo,  and  told  him  the  manner 
bow  he  bad  heard  the  voice  ;  and  the  King  was  full  joyful  and 
content  and  jdeased  therewith,  and  gave  many  thanks  lo  our 
Lord,  for  that  ho  shouhl  now  complete  bis  penance  and  save 
his  soul.  And  therewith  in  great  joy,  and  shedding  many 
tears  for  jileasurc,  he  went  to  the  fountain  as  be  bad  been  di- 
rected, and  found  the  smooth  stone.  And  when  he  had  lifted 
it  up,  he  found  the  three  serpents  according  as  the  Elder  had 
said,  and  he  took  that  which  had  two  beads,  and  he  took  it  and 
put  it  in  a  great  jar,  such  as  would  be  a  large  wine  vessel,  and 
nurst  it  there  till  it  was  of  such  bigness  as  the  voice  bad  said. 
And  when  King  Don  Rodrigo  saw  that  it  was  of  this  bigness 
be  confessed  to  the  Elder,  weeping  full  bitterly,  demanding 
favor  of  God  that  ho  would  give  him  grace  and  strength  with 
patience  to  fulfil  that  penance  without  any  temptation  or 
trouble  of  soul  ;  to  the  end  that,  the  penance  being  completed, 
it  might  please  our  Lord  God  to  receive  bis  soul  into  his 
glory.  And  before  the  fifth  day  after  the  serpent  was  thus 
big,  the  King  and  the  Elder  went  to  the  tomb,  and  they 
cleansed  it  well  within;  and  the  King  placed  himself  in  it 
naked  as  be  was  born,  and  the  serpent  with  him,  and  the 
Elder  with  a  great  lever  laid  the  stone  upon  the  top.  And  the 
King  besought  the  Elder  that  he  would  pray  to  our  Lord  to 
give  him  grace  that  he  might  patiently  endure  that  penance, 
and  the  Elder  promised  him,  and  thus  the  King  remained  in 
his  tomb,  and  the  serpent  «  itii  him.  And  the  Elder  con- 
soled him,  saying  to  him  many  things  to  the  end  that  he 
might  not  be  dismayed,  neither  fall  into  despair,  whereby  he 
should  lose  the  service  of  God.  And  all  this  was  so  secret 
that  no  man  knew  it,  save  only  the  King  and  the  Elder.  And 
when  it  was  day-break  the  Elder  went  to  the  church  and  said 
mass,  with  many  tears  and  with  great  devotion  beseeching  God 
that  be  would  have  mercy  and  compassion  upon  King  Don  Rod- 
rigo, that  with  true  devotion  and  repentance  be  might  com- 
plete his  penance  in  this  manner,  which  was  for  his  service. 
And  when  he  had  said  mass,  he  went  to  the  place  where 
King  Don  Rodrigo  lay,  and  asked  hirn  how  he  fared,  and  the 
King  answered.  Well,  thanks  to  God,  and  better  than  he  de- 
served, but  that  as  yet  he  was  just  as  when  be  went  in.  And 
the  Elder  strengthened  him  as  much  as  he  could,  telling  him 
that  he  should  call  to  mind  how  be  had  been  a  sinner,  and  that 
he  should  give  thanks  to  our  Lord  God,  for  that  he  had  visited 
him  in  this  world,  and  delivered  him  from  many  temptations, 
and  had  himself  appointed  for  him  this  penance  ;  the  which  be 
should  sufl'er  and  take  with  patience,  for  soon  he  would  he  in 
heavenly  glory.  And  the  King  said  to  him,  that  he  well  knew 
bow  according  to  his  great  sins  he  merited  a  stronger  penance  : 
but  that  be  gave  many  thanks  to  our  Lord  Jesus,  for  that  he 
himself  had  given  him  this  penance,  which  he  did  receive  and 
take  with  great  patience  ;  and  he  besought  the  Elder  that  he 
would  continue  to  pray  our  Lord  God  that  he  would  let 
him  fulfil  it.  And  the  Elder  said  to  him  many  good  things 
concerning  our  Lord  God.  And  the  King  lay  there  three 
days,  during  all  which  time  the  serpent  would  not  seize  on 
him.  And  w  hen  the  third  day,  after  that  he  had  gone  into  the 
tomb,  was  completed,  the  serpent  rose  from  his  side,  and  crept 
ujion  his  belly  and  his  breast,  and  began  with  the  one  head  to 
eat  at  his  nature,  and  with  the  other  straight  toward  his  heart, 
.^nd  at  this  time  the  Elder  came  to  the  tomli,  and  asked  him 
how  he  fared,  and  he  said,  Well,  thanks  to  God,  for  now  the 
serpent  had  begun  to  eat.  And  the  Elder  asked  him  at  what 
place,  and  he  answered  at  two,  one  right  against  the  heart  with 
which  he  had  conceived  all  the  ills  that  he  had  done,  and  the 
other  at  his  nature,  the  which  had  been  the  cause  of  the  great 
destruction  of  Spain.  And  the  Elder  said  that  God  was  with 
him,  and  exhorted  him  that  he  should  be  of  good  courage,  for 
now  all  bis  persecutions  both  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul  would 
have  an  end.  And  the  King  ceased  not  always  to  demand 
help  of  our  Lord,  and  to  entreat  that  of  his  holy  mercy  he 
would  be  pleased  to  forgive  him.  AnA  the  Elder  went  to  his 
home,  and  would  not  seat  himself  to  eat,  but  retired  into  his 
chamber,  and  weeping,  prayed  full  devoutly  to  our  Lord  tha 
he  would  give  streiigth  to  the  King  that  he  might  complete 
his  penance.     And  the  serpent,  as  he  was  dying  for  hunger, 


74G      NOTES    TO    RODERICK,    THE  LAST    OF    THE    GOTHS 


and  moreover  ivns  large,  liad  in  one  minute  euten  the  nature, 
anil  lie^an  to  cat  at  tlic  howels  ;  nevertheless  he  did  not  cut  so 
fast,  Imt  that  the  King  endured  in  that  torment  fVojn  an  liour 
before  night  till  it  was  j)ast  the  middle  of  the  day.  And  when 
the  seri)eiit  liroke  through  the  web  of  the  heart,  he  staid  there 
and  ate  no  further.  And  incontinently  the  King  gave  uj)  his 
spirit  to  our  Lord,  who  by  his  holy  mercy  took  hiju  into  his 
glory.  And  at  that  hour  when  he  expired  all  the  hells  of  the 
place  rang  of  themselves  as  if  men  had  rung  them.  Then 
the  KIder  knew  that  the  King  was  dead,  and  that  his  suul 
was  saved." 

Thomas  NcwlX)n,in  his  "Notable  Flistory  of  the  Saracens," 
seems  to  imagine  that  this  story  is  allegorical.  "  Nowe,"  he 
says,  "  whereas  it  is  reported,  and  written  that  he  folowed  a 
starre  or  a  messenger  of  God,  which  conducted  and  guided 
him  in  his  way  ;  it  may  be  so,  and  the  same  hath  also  hap- 
pened to  others  ;  but  it  may  as  well  also  be  understoode  of  a 
certaine  secrete  starre  moving  and  directing  his  will. 

"  .'\nd  whereas  they  say  ho  was  put  by  that  holy  man  into  a 
cave  or  hole,  and  a  serpent  with  him  that  had  two  heads,  which 
in  two  days'  space  gnawed  all  the  fhsb  off  his  body  from  the 
bones  ;  this,  beyng  simplie  taken  and  understanded,  hath  no 
likelihood  of  any  truth.  For  what  sanctity,  what  religion,  or 
what  pietic,  comniandeth  to  kill  a  penitent  person,  and  one 
that  seeketh  comfort  of  hys  afflicted  mind  by  amendment  of 
life,  with  such  horrible  torments  and  straunge  jiunishment.'' 
Wherefore  I  woulde  rather  think  it  to  be  spoken  mysticallye, 
and  that  the  serpent  with  two  heads  signilieth  his  sinful  and 
gylty  conscience." 


A  humble  tomb  was  found.  —  XXV.  p.  709,  col.  2. 

How  Carestes  found  the  grave  of  King  Dun  Rodrigo  at  Viseo 
in  Portugal. 

"  I,  Carestes,  vassal  of  King  Don  Alfonso  of  Leon,  son-in- 
law  of  the  Knight  of  God,  King  Don  Pelayo,  when  the  said 
King  Don  Alfonso  won  Viseo  from  the  Moors  who  held  it, 
found  a  grave  in  a  field,  upon  the  which  were  written  in 
Gothic  letters,  the  words  which  you  sliall  here  road.  This 
grave  was  in  front  of  a  little  church,  without  the  town  of  Viseo, 
and  the  superscription  of  the  writing  was  thus:  — 

Of  the  writing  which  was  upon  the  grave  of  King  Don  Rodrigo. 

"  Here  lies  King  Don  Rodrigo,  the  last  of  the  Goths. 
Cursed  be  the  wrath  of  the  traitor  Julian,  for  it  was  of  long 
endurance,  and  cursed  be  his  anger,  for  it  was  obdurate  and 
evil,  for  he  was  mad  with  rage,  and  stomachful  with  pride, 
and  puffed  up  with  folly,  and  void  of  loyalty,  and  unmindful 
of  the  laws,  and  a  despiser  thereof;  cruel  in  himself,  a  slayer 
of  his  lord,  a  destroyer  of  his  country,  a  traitor  to  his  coun- 
trymen ;  bitter  is  his  name  ;  and  it  is  as  grief  and  sorrow  in 
the  mouth  of  him  who  pronounces  it;  and  it  shall  always  be 
eursed  by  all  that  speak  of  hira." 


That  veracious  chronicler  Carestes  then  concludes  his  true 
history  in  these  words:  —  "And  by  this  which'  I  found 
written  upon  this  grave,  I  am  of  mind  that  King  Don  Rod- 
rigo lies  there,  and  because  of  the  life  which  he  led  in  his 
penitence,  according  as  yc  have  heard,  which  also  was  in  the 
same  tond)  written  in  a  book  of  parchment,  1  believe  without 
doubt  that  it  is  true,  and  because  of  the  great  penance  which 
he  did,  that  God  was  pleased  to  make  it  known  in  such 
manner  as  it  past,  for  those  who  hereafter  shall  ha\e  to  rule 
and  govern,  to  the  end  that  all  men  may  see  how  soon  pride  is 
abased  and  humility  exalted.  This  Chronicle  is  comjajsed  in 
memory  of  the  noble  King  Don  Rodrigo;  that  God  pardon 
his  sins,  and  that  the  son  of  the  Virgin  without  stain,  Jesus 
Christ,  bring  us  to  true  rei)entance,  who  livelh  and  reigneth 
for  ever  and  ever.     Amen. 

Thanks  be  to  God  !  " 

I  believe  the  Archbishop  Roderick  of  Toledo  is  the  earliest 
writer  who  mentions  this  discovery.  He  died  in  1247.  The 
fact  may  very  possibly  have  been  true,  for  there  seems  to  have 
been  no  intention  of  setting  up  a  shrine  connected  with  it. 
The  arclibisliop's  words  are  as  follow  :  — 

**  Quid  de  Rege  Rodcrico  accidcrit  ignoratur ;  tamen  corona 
vestrs  ct  insignia  el  calciamenta  auto  et  lapidibus  adornaia,  el 
equus  qui  Orelia  dicebalur,  in  loco  tremulo  juxta  jluvimn  sine 
corpore  sunt  inventa.  Quid  autein  de  corpore  fuer it  factum  peni- 
tus  ignoratur^  nisi  quod  modernis  teniporibus  a^md  Viseum  civi- 
tatem  Portngallia:  inscriptus  tumulus  invenitur.  Hie  jacet  Rode- 
ricus  ultimus  Rex  Gotliorum.  Mahdictus furor  impius  Juliani 
quia  pertinaXy  et  indignatio,  quia  dura;  aniniosns  indignatione^ 
impetuosiLs  furore^  obtitus  Jidelitatis^  immcmor  religiouis^  con- 
temptor  divinitali.i,  cruddis  in  se,  homicida  in  dominuni,  hostis 
in  domesticos,  vastator  in  patriam,  reus  in  omnes,  memoria  ejus 
in  omni  ore  amarescet^  et  nomen  ejus  in  wfernum  putrcscct.*^  — 
Rod.  Tol.  f.  3,  g.  19. 

Lope  de  Vega  has  made  this  epitaph,  with  its  accompany- 
ing reflections,  into  two  stanzas  of  Latin  rhymes,  which  occur 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  long  poems  :  — 

Hoc  jacet  in  sarcophago  Rex  Hie 
Penulinnus  Gothorum  in  Hispania^ 

Infelix  Rodericus ;  viator  sile, 
JVe  forte  percat  tola  Lusitania, 

Provocatus  Cupidinis  viissite 

Tela,  tarn  magna  affectus  fait  insaniA 

Quant  tola  Uibrria  vinculis  astricta 

Testatur  7nasta,  lachrimatur  victa. 

Kxecrabilon  Comitan  Julianum 

Abhorreant  omnes,  nomine  el  remote 

Patrio,  appellent  Erostratum  Ilii^panum, 
JVcc  tantum  nostri,  sed  in  orbe  toto  ; 

Dum  current  cali  sidera,  vesanum 
Vociferant,  testante  Mauro  ct  Qotho, 

Cesset  Florinda:  nomen  insuave, 

Cava  viator  est,  a  Cava  cave. 

Jerusftlen  Conquiitada,     6,  <r.  13" 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


747 


2ri|e  poet's  H^ilQvimaQt  to  Wiattvloo. 


Evavd^ca  d'  ava^uao^ai 
2toXov  uu(p'   afiCTa 
Kti-aSiuv. 

Pindar.  Pyth.  2. 


TO    JOHN    MAY, 

LFTER    A    FRIENDSHIP    OF    TWENTY    YEARS 

THIS     POEM      IS     INSCRIBED, 

IN   TESTIMONY    OF    THE    HIGHEST    ESTEEM   AND    AFFECTION, 

BY    ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  first  part  of  this  Poem  describes  a  journey 
to  the  scene  of  war.  The  second  is  in  an  allegor- 
ical form ;  it  exposes  the  gross  material  philoso- 
phy which  has  been  the  guiding  principle  of  the 
French  politicians,  from  Mirabeau  to  Bonaparte  ; 
and  it  states  the  opinions  of  those  persons  who 
lament  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  because 
the  hopes  which  they  entertained  from  the  French 
Revolution  have  not  been  realized  ;  and  of  those 
who  see  only  evil,  or  blind  chance,  in  the  course 
of  human  events. 

To  the  Christian  philosopher  all  things  are  con- 
sistent and  clear.  Our  first  parents  brought  with 
them  the  light  of  natural  religion  and  the  moral 
law  ;  as  men  departed  from  these,  they  tended 
towards  barbarous  and  savage  life  ;  large  portions 
of  the  world  are  in  this  degenerated  state ;  still, 
upon  the  great  scale,  the  human  race,  from  the 
beginning,  has  been  progressive.  But  the  direct 
object  of  Bonaparte  was  to  establish  a  military 
despotism  wherever  his  power  extended  ;  and  the 
immediate  and  inevitable  consequence  of  such  a 
system  is  to  brutalize  and  degrade  mankind.  The 
contest  in  which  this  country  was  engaged  against 
that  Tyrant,  was  a  struggle  between  good  and  evil 
principles  ;  and  never  was  there  a  victory  so  im- 
portant to  .he  best  hopes  of  human  nature  as  that 
which  was  won  by  British  valor  at  Waterloo, — 
its  effects  extending  over  the  whole  civilized 
world,  and  involving  the  vital  interests  of  all 
mankind. 

That  victory  leaves  England  in  security  and 
peace.  In  no  age,  and  in  no  country,  has  man 
ever  existed  under  circumstances  so  favorable  to 
the  full  development  of  his  moral  and  intellectual 
faculties,  as  in  England  at  this  time.     The  peace 


which  she  has  won  by  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
leaves  her  at  leisure  to  pursue  the  great  objects 
and  duties  of  bettering  her  own  condition,  and 
diffusing  the  blessings  of  civilization  and  Chris- 
tianity. 


PROEM. 


1. 

Oncf.  more  1  see  thee,  Skiddaw  !  once  again 

Behold  thee  in  thy  majesty  serene. 
Where,  like  the  bulwark  of  this  favor'd  plain, 

Alone  thou  standest,  monarch  of  the  scene  — 
Thou  glorious  Mountain,  on  whose  ample  breast 
The  sunbeams  love  to  play,  the  vapors  love  to  rest' 

2. 
Once  more,  O  Derwent,  to  thy  awful  shores 

I  come,  insatiate  of  the  accustom'd  sight. 
And,  listening  as  the  eternal  torrent  roars, 

Drink  in  with  eye  and  ear  a  fresh  delight ; 
For  I  have  wander'd  far  by  land  and  sea. 
In  all  my  wanderings  still  remembering  thee. 


Twelve  years,  (how  large  a  part  of  man's  brief 
day  !) 

Nor  idly  nor  ingloriously  spent. 
Of  evil  and  of  good  have  held  their  way, 

Since  first  upon  thy  banks  I  pitch'd  my  tent. 
Hither  I  came  in  manhood's  active  prime. 
And  here  my  head  hath  felt  the  touch  of  time. 


Heaven  hath  with  goodly  increase  blest  me  here, 
Where  childless  and  oppress'd  with  grief  I  came 


748 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


With  voice  of  fervent  thankfulness  sincere 

Let  me  the  blessings  which  are  mine  proclaim : 
Here  I  possess  —  what  more  should  I  require?  — 
Books,  children,  leisure,  —  all  my  heart's  desire. 

5. 

O  joyful  hour,  when  to  our  longing  home 

The  long-expected  wheels  at  length  drew  nigh  ! 
When   the  first  sound  went  forth,  "  They  come, 
they  come  !  " 
And  hope's  impatience  quicken'd  every  eye  ! 
"  Never  had  man  whom  Heaven  would  heap  with 

bliss 
More  glad  return,  more  happy  hour  than  this." 

6. 

Aloft  on  yonder  bench,  with  arms  dispread. 

My  boy  stood,  shouting  there  his  father's  name, 

Waving  his  hat  around  his  happy  head ; 

And  there,  a  younger  group,  his  sisters  came  : 

Smiling  they  stood  with  looks  of  pleased  surprise. 

While  tears  of  joy  were  seen  in  elder  eyes. 

7. 
Soon  each  and  all  came  crowding  round  to  share 

The  cordial  greeting,  the  beloved  sight; 
What  welcomings  of  hand  and  lip  were  there ! 

And  when  those  overflowings  of  delight 
Subsided  to  a  sense  of  quiet  bliss, 
Life  hath  no  purer,  deeper  happiness. 


The  young  companion  of  our  v^eary  way 
Found  here  the  end  desired  of  all  her  ills ; 

She  who,  in  sickness  pining  many  a  day, 
Hungor'd  and  thirsted  for  her  native  hills. 

Forgetful  now  of  sufferings  pass'd  and  pain. 

Rejoiced  to  see  her  own  dear  home  again. 

9. 
Recover'd  now,  the  homesick  mountaineer 

Sat  by  the  playmate  of  her  infancy, 
Her  twin-like  comrade, — render'd  doubly  dear 

For  that  long  absence  :  full  of  life  was  she, 
With  voluble  discourse  and  eager  mien 
Tellintr  of  all  the  wonders  she  had  seen. 

10. 
Here  silently  between  her  parents  stood 

My  dark-eyed  Bertha,  timid  as  a  dove ; 
And  gently  oft  from  time  to  time  she  woo'd 

Pressure  of  hand,  or  word,  or  look  of  love, 
With  impulse  shy  of  bashful  tenderness. 
Soliciting  again  the  wish'd  caress. 

11. 

The  younger  twain,  in  wonder  lost  were  they, 
My  gentle  Kate,  and  my  sweet  Isabel : 

Long  of  our  promised  coming,  day  by  day. 
It  had  been  their  delight  to  hear  and  tell ; 

And   now,  when    that    long-promised    hour   was 
come, 

Surprise  and  wakening  Memory  held  them  dumb. 


12. 

For  in  the  infant  mind,  as  in  the  old. 

When  to  its  second  childhood  life  declines, 

A  dim  and  troubled  power  doth  Memory  hold : 
But   soon   the   light    of   young   Remembrance 
shines 

Rencw'd,  and  influences  of  dormant  love, 

Waken'd  within,  with  quickening  influence  move. 

13. 

O  happy  season  theirs,  when  absence  brings 
Small  feeling  of  privation,  none  of  pain. 

Yet  at  the  present  object  love  re-springs, 

As  night-closed  flowers  at  morn  expand  again  ! 

Nor  deem  our  second  infancy  unblest, 

When  gradually  composed  we  sink  to  rest. 

14. 
Soon  they  grew  blithe  as  they  were  wont  to  be ; 

Her  old  endearments  each  began  to  seek  : 
And  Isabel  drew  near  to  climb  my  knee. 

And  pat  with  fondling  hand  her  father's  cheek ; 
With  voice,  and  touch,  and  look,  reviving  thus 
The  feelings  which  had  slept  in  long  disuse. 

15. 

But  there  stood  one  whose  heart  could  entertain 
And  comprehend  tlie  fulness  of  the  joy  ; 

The  father,  teacher,  playmate,  was  again 
Come  to  his  only  and  his  studious  boy  : 

And  he  beheld  again  that  mother's  eye 

Which  with  such  ceaseless  care  had  watch'd  his 


infancy. 


16. 


Bring  forth  the  treasures  now,  —  a  proud  display,  — 
For  rich  as  Eastern  mercliants  we  return  ! 

Behold  the  black  Beguine,  the  Sister  gray. 

The  Friars  whose  heads  with  sober  motion  turn. 

The  Ark  well-fill'd  with  all  its  numerous  hives, 

Noah,  and  Shem,  and  Ham,  and  Japhet,  and  their 
wives ; — 

17. 

The  tumbler,  loose  of  limb;  the  wrestlers  twain; 

And  many  a  toy  beside  of  quaint  device. 
Which,  when  his  fleecy  troops  no  more  can  gain 

Their  pasture  on  the  mountains  hoar  with  ice, 
The  German  shepherd  carves  with  curious  knife, 
Earning  m  easy  toil  the  food  of  frugal  life. 

18. 
It  was  a  group  which  Richter,  had  he  view'd. 

Might  have  deem'd  worthy  of  his  perfect  skill; 
The  keen  impatience  of  the  younger  brood, 

Their  eager  eyes  and  fingers  never  still ; 
The  hope,  the  wonder,  and  the  restless  joy 
Of  those  glad  girls  and  that  vociferous  boy  I  — 

19. 
The  aged  friend  serene  with  quiet  smile. 

Who  in  their  pleasure  finds  her  own  delight ; 
The  mother's  heart-felt  happiness  the  while  ; 

The  aunts,  rejoicing  in  the  joyful  sight; 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


749 


And  he  wlio,  in  his  gayety  of  heart, 
Witli  glib  and  noisy  tongue  perform'd  tlie  show- 
man's part. 

20. 

ScofFye  who  will !  but  let  me,  gracious  Heaven, 
Preserve  this  boyish  heart  till  life's  last  day ! 

For  so  that  inward  light  by  Nature  given 
Shall  still  direct,  and  cheer  me  on  my  way, 

And,  brightening  as  the  shades  of  age  descend, 

Shine  forth  with  heavenly  radiance  at  tlie  end. 

21. 
This  was  the  morning  light  vouchsafed,  which  led 

My  favor'd  footsteps  to  the  Muses'  hill. 
Whose  arduous  paths  I  have  not  ceased  to  tread, 

From  good  to  better  persevering  still ; 
And  if  but  self-approved,  to  praise  or  blame 
Indifferent,  while  I  toil  for  lasting  fame. 

22. 

And,  O  ye  nymphs  of  Castaly  divine  ! 

Whom  I  have  dutifully  served  so  long. 
Benignant  to  your  votary  now  incline. 

That  I  may  win  your  ear  with  gentle  song, 
Such  as,  I  ween,  is  ne'er  disown'd  by  you, — 
A  low,  prelusive  strain,  to  nature  true. 

23. 
But  when  I  reach  at  themes  of  loftier  thought, 

And  tell  of  things  surpassing  earthly  sense, 
(Which  by  yourselves,  O  Muses,  I  am  taught,) 

Then  aid  me  with  your  fuller  influence. 
And  to  the  height  of  that  great  argument, 
Support  my  spirit  in  her  strong  ascent  I 

24. 
So  may  I  boldly  round  my  temples  bind 

The  laurel  which  my  master  Spenser  wore ; 
And  free  in  spirit  as  the  mountain  wind 

That  makes  my  symphony,  in  this  lone  hour, 
No  perishable  song  of  triumph  raise. 
But  smg  in  worthy  strains  my  Country's  praise. 


PART    I. 


THE    JOURNEY 


Tmv  iroXvKTOvuv  yap 

'OvK  dvKOJrot  Oeol iEscHVLUs. 


I. 

FLANDERS. 


1. 


OoR  world  hath  seen  the  work  of  wars  debate 
Consummated  in  one  momentous  day 

Twice  in  the  course  of  time ;  and  twice  the  fate 
Of  unborn  ages  hung  upon  the  fray : 


King, 


First  at  Platoea,  in  that  awful  hour 

When  Greece  united  smote  the  Persian's  power. 

2. 

For  had  the  Persian  triumph'd,  then  the  spring 
Of  knowledge  from  that  living  source  had  ceased 

All  would  have  fallen  before  the  barbarous 
Art,  Science,  Freedom ;  the  despotic  East, 

Setting  her  mark  upon  the  race  subdued, 

Had  stamp'd  them  in  the  mould  of  sensual  ser 
vitude. 

3. 
The  second  day  was  that  when  Martel  broke 

The  Mussulmcn,  delivering  France  opprcss'd. 
And  in  one  mighty  conflict,  from  the  yoke 

Of  misbelieving  Mecca  saved  the  West; 
Else  had  the  Impostor's  law  dcstroy'd  the  ties 
Of  public  weal  and  private  charities. 


Such  was  the  danger  when  that  Man  of  Blood 
Burst  from  the  iron  Isle,  and  brought  again. 

Like  Satan  rising  from  the  sulphurous  flood, 
His  impious  legions  to  the  battle  plain  : 

Such  too  was  our  deliverance  when  the  field 

Of  Waterloo  beheld  his  fortunes  yield. 


1,  who,  with  faith  unshaken  from  the  first, 

Even  when  the  Tyrant  seem'd  to  touch  the  skies, 

Had  look'd  to  see  the  high-blown  bubble  burst. 
And  for  a  fall  conspicuous  as  his  rise. 

Even  in  that  faith  had  look'd  not  for  defeat 

So  swift,  so  overwhelming,  so  complete. 

6. 
Me  most  of  all  men  it  behoved  to  raise 

The  strain  of  triumph  for  this  foe  subdued. 
To  give  a  voice  to  joy,  and  in  my  lays 

Exalt  a  nation's  hymn  of  gratitude, 
And  blazon  forth  in  song  that  day's  renown, — 
For  I  was  graced  with  England's  laurel  crown. 


And  as  I  once  had  journey'd  to  behold, 
Far  off,  Ourique's  consecrated  field. 

Where  Portugal,  the  faithful  and  the  bold, 
Assumed  the  symbols  of  her  sacred  shield, 

More  reason  now  that  I  should  bend  my  way 

The  field  of  British  glory  to  survey. 

8. 
So  forth  1  set  upon  this  pilgrimage, 

And  took  the  partner  of  my  life  with  me, 
And  one  dear  girl  just  ripe  enough  of  age 

Retentively  to  see  what  I  should  see ; 
That  thus,  with  mutual  recollections  fraught, 
We  might  bring  home  a  store  for  afler- thought. 

9. 
We  left  our  pleasant  Land  of  Lakes,  and  went 

Throughout  wholeEngland's  length,a  weary  way, 
Even  to  the  farthest  shores  of  eastern  Kent : 

Embarking  there  upon  an  autumn  day. 


750 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


Toward  Ostend  we  held  our  course  all  night, 
And  anchor'd  by  its  quay  at  morning's   earliest 
light. 

10. 

Small  vestige  there  of  that  old  siege  appears, 
And  little  of  remembrance  would  be  found, 

When,  for  the  space  of  three  long,  painful  years, 
The  persevering  Spaniard  girt  it  round, 

And  gallant  youths,  of  many  a  realm  from  far, 

Went  students  to  that  busy  school  of  war. 

11. 

Yet  still  those  wars  of  obstinate  defence 
Their  lessons  offer  to  the  soldier's  hand ; 

Large  knowledge  may  the  statesman  draw  from 
thence ; 
And  still  from  underneath  the  drifted  sand 

Sometimes  the  storm,  or  passing  foot,  lays  bare 

Part  of  the  harvest  Death  has  gather'd  there. 

12. 

Peace  be  within  thy  walls,  thou  famous  town, 
For  thy  brave  bearing  in  those  times  of  old  ; 

May  plenty  thy  industrious  children  crown. 
And  prosperous  merchants  day  by  day  behold 

Many  a  rich  vessel,  from  the  injurious  sea, 

Enter  the  bosom  of  thy  quiet  quay. 

13. 

Embarking  there,  we  glided  on  between 

Strait  banks  raised  high  above  the  level  land. 

With  many  a  cheerful  dwelling,  white  and  green, 
In  goodly  neighborhood  on  either  hand. 

Huge-timber'd  bridges  o'er  the  passage  lay, 

Which  wheel'd  aside  and  gave  us  easy  way. 

14. 

Four  horses,  aided  by  the  favoring  breeze. 

Drew  our  gay  vessel,  slow,  and  sleek,  and  large ; 

Crack  goes  the  whip ;   the  steersman  at  his  ease 
Directs  the  way,  and  steady  went  the  barge. 

Ere  evening  closed,  to  Bruges  thus  we  came, — 

Fair  city,  worthy  of  her  ancient  fame. 

15. 

The  season  of  her  splendor  is  gone  by. 
Yet  every  where  its  monuments  remain  — 

Temples  which  rear  their  stately  heads  on  high, 
Canals  that  intersect  the  fertile  plain. 

Wide  streets  and  squares,  with  many  a  court  and 
hall 

Spacious  and  undefaced,  but  ancient  all. 

16. 
Time  hath  not  wrong'd  her,  nor  hath  Ruin  sought 

Rudely  her  splendid  structures  to  destroy. 
Save  in  those  recent  days,  with  evil  fraught. 

When  Mutability,  in  drunken  joy 
Triumphant,  and  from  all  restraint  released. 
Let  loose  the  fierce  and  many-headed  beast. 

17. 
JtJut  for  the  scars  in  that  unhappy  rage 
Inflicted,  firm  she  stands  and  undecayd; 


Jiike  our  first  sires',  a  beautiful  old  age 

Is  hers,  in  venerable  years  array'd; 
And  yet  to  her  benignant  stars  may  bring. 
What  fate  denies  to  man,  —  a  second  spring. 

18. 
When  1  may  read  of  tilts  in  days  of  old. 

And  tourneys  graced  by  chieftains  of  renown, 
Fair  dames,  grave  citizens,  and  warriors  bold. 

If  Fancy  would  portray  some  stately  town. 
Which  for  such  pomp  fit  theatre  should  be, 
Fair  Bruges,  1  shall  then  remember  thee. 

19. 
Nor  did  thy  landscape  yield  me  less  delight. 

Seen  from  the  deck  as  slow  it  glided  by. 
Or  when  beneath  us,  from  thy  Belfroy's  height. 

Its  boundless  circle  met  the  bending  sky  ; 
The  waters  smooth  and  straight,  thy  proper  boast. 
And  lines  of  road-side  trees  in  long  perspective 
lost. 

20. 

No  happier  landscape  may  on  earth  be  seen. 
Rich  gardens  all  around  and  fruitful  groves. 

White  dwellings  trim  relieved  with  lively  green. 
The  pollard  that  the  Flemish  painter  loves. 

With  aspens  tall  and  poplars  fair  to  view. 

Casting  o'er  all  the  land  a  gray  and  willowy  hue. 

21. 
My  lot  hath  lain  in  scenes  sublime  and  rude, 

Where  still  devoutly  I  have  served  and  sought 
The  Power  divine  which  dwells  in  solitude. 

In  boyhood  was  I  wont,  with  rapture  fraught, 
Amid  those  rocks  and  woods  to  wander  free. 
Where  Avon  hastens  to  the  Severn  sea. 

22. 
In  Cintra  also  have  I  dwelt  erewhile, 

Tiiat  earthly  Eden,  and  have  seen  at  eve 
The  sea-mists,  gathering  round  its  mountain  pile. 

Whelm  with  their  billows  all  below,  but  leave 
One  pinnacle  sole  seen,  whereon  it  stood 
Like  the  Ark  on  Ararat,  above  the  flood. 

23. 

And  now  am  I  a  Cumbrian  mountaineer; 

Their  wintry  garment  of  unsullied  snow 
Th^  mountains  have  put  on,  the  heavens  are  clear. 

And  yon  dark  lake  spreads  silently  below  ; 
Who  sees  them  only  in  their  summer  hour 
Sees  but  their  beauties  half,  and  knows  not  half 
their  power. 

24. 

Yet  hath  the  Flemish  scene  a  charm  for  me 
That  soothes  and  wins  upon  the  willing  heart ; 

Though  all  is  level  as  the  sleeping  sea, 
A  natural  beauty  springs  from  perfect  art. 

And  something  more  than  pleasure  fills  the  breast, 

To  see  how  well-directed  toil  is  blest. 

25. 
Two  nights  have  past ;  the  morning  opens  well ; 
Fair  are  the  aspects  of  the  favoring  sky ; 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE, 


751 


Soon  yon  sweet  chimes  the  appointed  hour  will 
tell, 
For  here  to  music  Time  moves  merrily : 
Aboard  !  aboard  !  no  more  must  we  delay, — 
Farewell,  good  people  of  the  ["leur  de  Bled .' 

26. 
Beside  the  busy  wharf  the  Trekschuit  rides, 

With  painted  plumes  and  tent-like  awning  gay  ; 
Carts,  barrows,  coaches,  hurry  from  all  sides, 

And  passengers  and  porters  throng  the  way, 
Contending  all  at  once  in  clamorous  speech,  — 
French,  Flemish,  English,  —  each  confusing  each. 

27. 
All  disregardant  of  the  Babel  sound, 

A  swan  kept  oaring  near  with  upraised  eye, — 
A  beauteous  pensioner,  who  daily  found 

The  bounty  of  such  casual  company  ; 
Nor  left  us  till  the  bell  said  all  was  done, 
And  slowly  we  our  watery  way  begun. 

28. 
Europe  can  boast  no  richer,  goodlier  scene. 

Than  that  through  which  our  pleasant  passage 

lay, 
By  fertile  fields  and  fruitful  gardens  green. 

The  journey  of  a  short  autumnal  day  ; 
Sleek,  well-fed  steeds  our  steady  vessel  drew; 
The  heavens  were  fair,  and  Mirth  was  of  our  crew. 

29. 
Along  the  smooth  canal's  unbending  line. 

Beguiling  time  with  light  discourse,  we  went. 
Nor  wanting  savory  food  nor  generous  wine. 

Ashore,  too,  tliere  was  feast  and  merriment; 
The  jovial  peasants  at  some  village  fair 
Were  dancing,  drinking,  smoking,  gambling  there. 

30. 
Of  these,  or  of  the  ancient  towers  of  Ghent 

Renown'd,  I  must  not  tarry  now  to  tell ; 
Of  picture,  or  of  church,  or  monument; 

Nor  how  we  mounted  to  that  ponderous  bell. 
The  Belfroy's   boast,  which   bears   old  Roland's 

name, 
Nor  yields  to  Oxford  Tom,  or  Tom  of  Lincoln's 
fame ;  — 

31. 

Nor  of  that  sisterhood  whom  to  their  rule 

Of  holy  life  no  hasty  vows  restrain. 
Who,  meek  disciples  of  the  Christian  school, 

Watch  by  the  bed  of  sickness  and  of  pain  : 
Oh  what  a  strength  divine  doth  Faith  impart 
To  inborn  goodness  in  the  female  heart ! 

32. 

A  gentle  party  from  the  shores  of  Kent 
Thus  far  had  been  our  comrades,  as  befell  ; 

Fortune  had  link'd  us  first,  and  now  Consent, — 
(For  why  should  Choice  divide  whom  Chance  so 
well 

Had  join'd  .')  and  they  to  view  the  famous  ground, 

Like  us,  were  to  the  Field  of  Battle  bound. 


33. 

Farther  as  yet  they  look'd  not  than  that  quest, — 
The  land  was  all  before  them  where  to  choose. 

So  we  consorted  here  as  seemed  best ; 

Who  would  such  pleasant  fellowship  refuse 

Of  ladies  fair  and  gentle  comrades  free  ? 

Certes  we  were  a  joyous  company. 

34. 

Yet  lack'd  we  not  discourse  for  graver  times, 
Such  as  might  suit  sage  auditors,  I  ween  ; 

For  some  among  us,  in  far  distant  climes 
The  cities  and  the  ways  of  men  had  seen  ; 

No  unobservant  travellers  they,  but  well 

Of  what  they  there  had  learnt  they  knew  to  tell. 

35. 
The  one  of  frozen  Moscovy  could  speak. 

And  well  his  willing  listeners  entertain 
With  tales  of  that  inclement  region  bleak, 

The  pageantry  and  pomp  of  Catherine's  reign. 
And  that  proud  city,  which  with  wise  intent 
The  mighty  founder   raised,  his  own  great  mon- 
ument. 

36. 

And  one  had  dwelt  with  Malabars  and  Moors, 
Where  fertile  earth  and  genial  heaven  dispense 

Profuse  their  bounty  xipon  Indian  shores; 

Whate'er  delights  the  eye,  or  charms  the  sense, 

The  valleys  with  perpetual  fruitage  bless'd, 

The  mountains  with  unfading  foliage  dress'd. 

37. 
He  those  barbaric  palaces  had  seen. 

The  work  of  Eastern  potentates  of  old; 
And  in  the  Temples  of  the  Rock  had  been. 

Awe-struck  their  dread  recesses  to  behold ; 
A  gifted  hand  was  his,  which  by  its  skill 
Could  to  the  eye  portray  such  wondrous  scenes  at 
will. 

38. 
A  third,  who  from  the  Land  of  Lakes  with  me 

Went  out  upon  this  pleasant  pilgrimage, 
Had  sojourn'd  long  beyond  the  Atlantic  sea  ; 

Adventurous  was  his  spirit  as  his  age. 
For  he  in  far  Brazil,  tlirough  wood  and  waste. 
Had  travell'd  many  a  day,  and  there  his  heart  was 
placed. 

39. 

Wild  region,  —  happy  if  at  night  he  found 
The  shelter  of  some  rude  Tapuya's  shed, 

Else  would  he  take  his  lodgment  on  the  ground, 
Or  from  the  tree  suspend  his  hardy  bed  ; 

And  sometimes,  starting  at  the  jaguar's  cries. 

See  through  the  murky  night  the  prow'ler's  fiery 
eyes. 

40. 

And  sometimes  over  thirsty  deserts  drear, 

And  sometimes  over  flooded  plains  he  went;  — 

A  joy  it  was  his  fireside  tales  to  hear. 

And  he  a  comrade  to  my  heart's  content : 


75a 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


11. 


For  he  of  what  I  most  desired  could  tell,         [well. 
And  loved  the  Portugals  because  he  knew  them 

41. 
Here  to  the  easy  barge  we  bade  adieu ; 

Land-travellers  now  along  the  well-paved  way, 
Where  road-side  trees  still  lengthening  on  tlie  view, 

Before  us  and  behind  unvarying  lay  : 
Through  lands  well  labor'd  to  Alost  we  came. 
Where    whilome    treachery    stain'd    the    English 
name. 

42. 

Then  saw  we  Afflighem,  by  ruin  rent, 

Whose  venerable  fragments  strow  the  land; 

Grown  wise  too  lat(;,  the  multitude  lament 
The  ravage  of  their  own  unhappy  hand  ; 

Its  records  in  their  frenzy  torn  and  tost, 

Its  precious  stores  of  learning  wreck'd  and  lost. 

43. 

Whatever  else  we  saw  was  cheerful  all, 
The  signs  of  steady  labor  well  repaid ; 

The  grapes  were  ripe  on  every  cottage  wall, 
And  merry  peasants  seated  in  the  shade 

Of  garner,  or  within  the  open  door,  [store. 

From    gather'd   hop-vines  pluck'd    the  plenteous 

44. 
Through  Assche,  for  water  and  for  cakes  renown'd. 

We  pass'd,  pursuing  still  our  way,  though  late  ; 
And  when  the  shades  of  night  were  closing  round, 

Brussels  received  us  through  her  friendly  gate,  — 
Proud  city,  fated  many  a  change  to  see. 
And  now  the  seat  of  new-made  monarchy. 


II. 


BRUSSELS. 

1. 

Where  might  a  gayer  spectacle  be  found 
Than  Brussels  offer'd  on  that  festive  night. 

Her  squares  and  palaces  irradiate  round 
To  welcome  the  imperial  Moscovite, 

Who  now,  the  wrongs  of  Europe  twice  redress'd. 

Came  there  a  welcome  and  a  glorious  guest .' 


Her  mile-long  avenue  with  lamps  was  hung, 
Innumerous,  which  diffused  a  light  like  day ; 

Where,  through  the  line  of  splendor,  old  and  young 
Paraded  all  in  festival  array  ; 

While  fiery  barges,  plying  to  and  fro, 

Illumined  as  they  moved  the  liquid  glass  below. 

3. 

By  day   with  hurrying  crowds  the  streets    were 
throng'd. 
To  gain  of  this  great  Czar  a  passing  sight ; 
And  music,  dance,  and  banquetings  prolong'd 
The   various    work   of    pleasure    through    the 
night. 


You  might  have  dcem'd,  to  see  that  joyous  town, 
Tliat  wretchedness  and  pain  were  there  unknown. 


Yet  three  short  months  had  scarcely  pass'd  awav. 
Since,   shaken   wit.'i   the    approaching   battle's 
breath, 

Her  inmost  chambers  trembled  with  dismay  ; 
And  now,  within  her  walls,  insatiate  Death, 

Devourer  whom  no  harvest  e'er  can  fill, 

The  gleanings  of  that  field  was  gathering  still. 


Within  those  walls  there  linger'd  at  that  hour 
Many  a  brave  soldier  on  the  bed  of  pain, 

Whom  aid  of  human  art  should  ne'er  restore 
To  see  his  country  and  his  friends  again ; 

And  many  a  victim  of  that  fell  debate 

Whose  life  yet  waver'd  in  the  scales  of  fate. 

6. 

Some  I  beheld,  for  whom  the  doubtful  scale 
Had  to  the  side  of  life  inclined  at  length  ; 

Emaciate  was  their  form,  their  features  pale. 
The  limbs,  so  vigorous  late,  bereft  of  strength  ; 

And  for  their  gay  habiliments  of  yore. 

The  habit  of  the  House  of  Pain  they  wore. 


Some  in  the  courts  of  that  great  hospital. 
That  they  might  taste  the  sun  and  open  air, 

Crawl'd  out;  or  sat  beneath  the  southern  wall ; 
Or,  leaning  in  the  gate,  stood  gazing  there 

In  listless  guise  upon  the  passers  by, 

Whiling  away  the  hours  of  slow  recovery. 


Others  in  wagons  borne  abroad  I  saw. 

Albeit  recovering,  still  a  mournful  sight : 
Languid   and    helpless,    some  were    stretch'd   on 
straw ; 
Some,    more   advanced,    sustain'd     themselves 
upright, 
And  with  bold  eye  and  careless  front,  methought, 
Seem'd  to  set  wounds  and  death  again  at  nought. 

9. 
Well  had  it  fared  with  these  ;  nor  went  it  ill 

With  those  whom  war  had  of  a  limb  bereft. 
Leaving  the  life  untouch'd,  that  they  had  still 

Enough  for  health  as  for  existence  left ; 
But  some  there  were  who  lived  to  draw  the  breath 
Of  pain  through  hopeless  years  of  lingering  death 

10. 
Here  might  the  hideous  face  of  war  be  seen, 

Stripp'd  of  all  pomp,  adornment,  and  disguise; 
It  was  a  dismal  spectacle,  I  ween, 

Such  as  might  well  to  the  beholders'  eyes 
Bring  sudden  tears,  and  make  the  pious  mind 
Grieve  for  the  crimes  and  follies  of  mankind. 

11. 

What  had  it  been,  then,  in  the  recent  days 
Of  that  great  triumph,  when  the  ojen  wound 


III. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


753 


Was  iesU;rini»,  ariL  a.ong  tnc  crowdeu  ways, 

Hour  alter  liour,  was  lieard  the  incessant  sound 
Of  wheels,  which  o'er  the  rough  and  stony  road 
Convey'd  their  living,  agonizing  load  ! 

12. 

Hearts  little  to  the  melting  mood  inclined 

Grew   sick  to  see    tlieir    sufferings ;    and    the 
thought 

Still  comes  with  horror  to  the  shuddering  mind 
Of  those  sad  days  when  Belgian  ears  were  taught 

The  British  soldier's  cry,  lialf  groan,  half  prayer, 

Breathed  when  his  pain  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 

13. 
Brave  spirits,  nobly  had  their  part  been  done  ! 
Brussels  could  show,  where  Senne's  slow  waters 
glide, 
The  cannon  which  their  matchless  valor  won. 

Proud  trophies  of  tiie  field,  ranged  side  by  side. 
Where,  as  they  stood  in  inoifensive  row. 
The  solitary  guard  paced  to  and  fro. 

14. 

Unconscious  instruments  of  human  woe, 
Some  for  their  mark  the  royal  lilies  bore, 

Fix'd  there  when  Britain  was  the  Bourbon's  foe  ; 
And  some,  emboss'd  in  brazen  letters,  wore 

The  sign  of  that  abhorr'd  misrule,  which  broke 

The  guilty  nation  for  a  Tyrant's  yoke. 

15. 
Others  were  stamp'd  with  that  Usurper's  name, — 

Recorders  thus  of  many  a  change  were  they. 
Their  deadly  work  througli  every  change  the  same ; 

Nor  ever  had  they  seen  a  bloodier  day, 
Than  when,  as  their  late  thunders  roll'd  around, 
Brabant  in  all  her  cities  felt  the  sound. 

16. 

Then  ceased  their  occupation.     From  the  field 
Of  battle  here  in  triumph  were  they  brought; 

Ribbons  and  flowers,  and  laurels  half  conceal'd 
Their  brazen  mouths,  so  late  with  ruin  fraught; 

Women  beheld  them  pass  with  joyful  eyes. 

And  children  clapp'd  their  hands  and  rent  the  air 
with  cries. 

17. 
Now  idly  on  the  banks  of  Sonne  they  lay, 

Like  toys  with  which  a  child  is  pleased  no  more  : 
Only  the  British  traveller  bends  his  way 

To  see  them  on  that  unfrequented  shore. 
And,  as  a  mournful  feeling  blends  with  pride, 
^members  those  who  fought,  and  those  who  died. 


III. 

THE    FIELD    OF    BATTLE. 

1. 
Southward  from  Brussels  lies  the  field  of  blood, 
Some  three  hours'  journey  for  a  well-girt  man ; 
95 


A  horseman  who  in  haste  pursued  his  road 

Would  reach  it  as  the  second  hour  began. 
The  way  is  through  a  forest  deep  and  wide, 
Extending  many  a  mile  on  cither  side. 


No  cheerful  woodland  this  of  antic  trees, 
With  thickets  varied  and  with  sunny  glade ; 

Look  where  he  will,  the  weary  traveller  sees 
One  gloomy,  thick,  impenetrable  shade 

Of  tall,  straight  trunks,  which  move  before  his  sight, 

With  interchange  of  lines  of  long  green  light. 


Here,  where  the  woods,  receding  from  the  road. 
Have  left,  on  either  hand,  an  open  space 

For  fields  and  gardens,  and  for  man's  abode. 
Stands  Waterloo ;  a  little,  lowly  place. 

Obscure  till  now,  when  it  hath  risen  to  fame, 

And  given  the  victory  its  English  name. 


What  time  tJic  second  Carlos  ruled  in  Spain, 
Last  of  the  .Austrian  line  by  Fate  decreed. 

Here  Castanaca  reared  a  votive  fane. 

Praying  the  Patron  Saints  to  bless  with  seed 

His  childless  sovereign;  Heaven  denied  an  heir. 

And  Europe  mourn'd  in  blood  the  frustrate  prayer 


That  temple  to  our  hearts  was  hallow'd  now ; 

For  many  a  wounded  Briton  there  was  laid. 
With  such  poor  help  as  time  might  then  allow 

From  the  fresh  carnage  of  the  field  convey'd ; 
And  tliey  whom  human  succors  could  not  save 
Here  in  its  precincts  found  a  hasty  grave. 

6. 

And  here,  on  marble  tablets  set  on  high. 

In  English  lines  by  foreign  workmen  traced, 

Are  names  familiar  to  an  English  eye  ; 

Their  brethren  here  tlie  fit  memorials  placed, 

Whose  unadorn'd  inscriptions  briefly  tell 

Their  gallant  comrades'  rank,  and  where  they  fell. 


The  stateliest  monument  of  public  pride, 
Enrich'd  with  all  magnificence  of  art. 

To  honor  Chieftains  who  in  victory  died. 

Would  wake  no  stronger  feeling  in  the  heart 

Than  these  plain  tablets,  by  the  soldier's  hand 

Raised  to  his  comrades  in  a  foreign  land. 

8. 
Not  far  removed  you  find  the  burial-ground. 

Yet  so  tliat  skirts  of  woodland  intervene ; 
A  small  enclosure,  rudely  fenced  around; 

Three  grave-stones  only  for  tlie  dead  are  seen  : 
One  bears  the  name  of  some  ricli  villager, 
The  first  for  whom  a  stone  was  planted  there. 


Beneath  the  second  is  a  German  laid. 

Whom  Bremen,  shaking  off"  the  Frenchman's 
yoke, 


754 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


III. 


Sent  with  her  sons  the  general  cause  to  aid ; 
He  in  the  fight  received  his  mortal  stroke, 
Yet  for  his  country's  aggravated  woes 
Lived  to  see  vengeance  on  lier  hated  foes. 

10. 
A  son  of  Erin  sleeps  below  the  third ; 

By  friendly  hands  his  body  where  it  lay 
Upon  the  field  of  blood  had  been  interr'd, 

And  thence  by  those  who  mourn'd  him  borne 
away, 
In  pious  reverence  for  departed  wortli, 
Laid  here  with  holy  rites  in  consecrated  earth. 

11. 

Repose  in  peace,  brave  soldiers,  who  have  found 
In  Waterloo  and  Soigny's  shade  your  rest ! 

Ere  this  hath  British  valor  made  that  ground 
Sacred  to  you,  and  for  your  foes  unbless'd. 

When  Marlborough  liere,  victorious  in  his  might, 

Surprised    the    French,  and  smote  tliem  in  their 
flight. 

12. 

Those  wars  are  as  a  tale  of  times  gone  by, 
For  so  doth  perishable  fame  decay, — 

Here  on  the  ground  wherein  the  slaughter'd  lie. 
The  memory  of  that  fight  is  pass'd  away ;  — 

And  even  our  glorious  Blenheim  to  the  field 

Of  Waterloo  and  Wellington  must  yield. 

13. 

Soon  shall  we  reach  tliat  scene  of  mighty  deeds. 
In  one  unbending  line  a  short  league  hence; 

Aright  the  forest  from  the  road  recedes. 

With  wide  sweep  trending  south  and  westward 
thence ; 

Aleft  along  the  line  it  keeps  its  place, 

Some  half  hour's  distance  at  a  traveller's  pace. 

14. 

The  country  here  expands,  a  wide-spread  scene  ; 

No    Flemish    gardens    fringed    with   willows 
these ; 
Nor  ricli  Brabantine  pastures  ever  green, 

With  trenches  lined  and  rows  of  aspen  trees ; 
In  tillage  here  the  unwooded,  open  land 
Pieturns  its  increase  to  the  farmer's  hand. 

15. 

Behold  the  scene  where  Slaughter  had  full  sway  ! 

A  mile  before  us  lieth  Mount  St.  John, 
The  hamlet  which  the  Highlanders  that  day 

Preserved  from  spoil ;  yet  as  much  farther  on 
The  single  farm  is  placed,  now  known  to  fame, 
Whicli  from  the  sacred  hedge  derives  its  name. 

16. 

Straight  onward  yet  for  one  like  distance  more. 
And  there  the  house  of  Belle  Alliance  stands, 

So  named,  I  guess,  by  some  in  days  of  yore. 
In  friendship  or  in  wedlock  joining  hands  : 

Little  did  they  who  call'd  it  thus  foresee 

The  place  that  name  should  hold  in  history  ! 


17. 
Beyond  these  points  the  fight  extended  not  — 

Small  theatre  for  such  a  tragedy  ! 
Its  breadtli  scarce  more,  from  eastern  Papelot 

To  where  the  groves  of  Hougoumont  on  high 
Rear  in  tlie  west  their  venerable  head, 
And  cover  with  their  shade  the  countless  dead. 

18. 
But  wouldst  thou  tread  this  celebrated  ground, 

And  trace  with  understanding  eyes  a  scene 
Above  all  other  fields  of  war  rcnown'd. 

From  western  Hougoumont  tliy  way  begin ; 
There  was  our  strength  on  tliat  side,  and  there  first, 
In  all  its  force,  the  storm  of  battle  burst. 

19. 
Strike  eastward  then  across  toward  La  Haye, 

The  single  farm  :  with  dead  the  fields  between 
Are  lined,  and  thou  wilt  see  upon  the  way 

Long  wave-like  dips  and  swells  which  intervene, 
Such  as  would  breathe  the  war-horse,  and  impede, 
When  that  deep  soil  was  wet,  his  martial  speed. 

20. 
This  is  the  ground  whereon  the  young  Nassau, 

Emuling  that  day  his  ancestors'  renown. 
Received  his  hurt;  admiring  Belgium  saw 

The  youth  proved  worthy  of  his  destined  crown: 
All  tongues  his  prowess  on  that  day  proclaim, 
And  children  lisp  his  praise  and  bless  their  Prince's 
name. 

21. 

When  thou  hast  reach'd  La  Haye,  survey  it  well ; 

Here  was  the  heat  and  centre  of  the  strife ; 
This  point  must  Britain  hold  whate'er  befell. 

And  here  both  armies  were  profuse  of  life : 
Once  it  was  lost,  —  and  then  a  stander  by 
Belike  had  trembled  for  the  victory. 

22. 
Not  so  the  leader,  on  whose  equal  mind 

Such  interests  hung  in  that  momentous  day ; 
So  well  had  he  his  motley  troops  assign'd. 

That  where  the  vital  points  of  action  lay. 
There  had  he  placed  those  soldiers  whom  he  knew 
No  fears  could  quail,  no  dangers  could  subdue. 

23. 

Small  was  his  British  force,  nor  had  he  here 
The  Portugals,  in  heart  so  near  Jillied, 

The  worthy  comrades  of  his  late  career. 

Who  fought  so  oft  and  conquer'd  at  his  side, 

When  with  the  Red  Cross  join'd  in  brave  advance, 

The  glorious  Quinas  mock'd  the  air  of  France. 

24. 
Now  of  the  troops  with  whom  he  took  the  field, 

Some  were  of  doubtful  faith,  and  others  raw  ; 
He  station'd  these  where  they  might  stand  or  yield ; 

But  where  the  stress  of  battle  he  foresaw. 
There  were  his  links  (his  own  strong  words  I  speak) 
And  rivets,  which  no  human  force  could  break. 


III. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


755 


25. 

O  my  brave  countrymen,  ye  answcr'd  well 
To  that  heroic  trust  I     Nor  less  did  yc, 

Whose  worth  your  grateful  countr}'  aye  shall  tell, 
True  children  of  our  sister  Germany, 

Who,  while  she  groan'd  beneath  the  oppressor's 
chain, 

Fought  for  her  freedom  in  the  fields  of  Spain. 

26. 
La  Haye,  bear  witness  !  sacred  is  it  liight, 

And  sacred  is  it  truly  from  that  day ; 
For  never  braver  blood  was  spent  in  fight 

Than  Britain  here  hath  mingled  with  the  clay. 
Set  where  thou  wilt  thy  foot,  thou  sciirce  canst 

tread 
Here  on  a  spot  unhallow'd  by  the  dead. 

27. 
Here  was  it  that  the  Highlanders  withstood 

The  tide  of  hostile  power,  received  its  weight 
With  resolute  strength,  and  stcmm'd  and  turn'd 
the  flood ; 
And  fitly  here,  as  in  that  Grecian  strait, 
The  funeral  stone  might  say.  Go,  traveller,  tell 
Scotland,  that  in  our  duty  here  we  fell. 

23. 
Still  eastward  from  this  point  thy  way  pursue. 

There  grows  a  single  hedge  along  the  lane,  — 
No  other  is  there  far  or  near  in  view : 
The  raging  enemy  essay'd  in  vain 
To  pass  that  line,  —  a  braver  foe  withstood. 
And  this  whole  ground  was  moisten'd  with  their 
blood. 

29. 
Leading  his  gallant  men,  as  he  was  wont, 

The  hot  assailants'  onset  to  repel. 
Advancing  hat  in  hand,  here  in  the  front 

Of  battle  and  of  danger,  Picton  fell ; 
Lamented  Chief!  than  whom  no  braver  name 
His  country's  annals  shall  consign  to  fame. 

30. 
Scheldt  had  not  seen  us,  had  his  voice  been  heard, 

Return  with  shame  from  her  disastrous  coast : 
But  Fortune  soon  to  fairer  fields  preferr'd 

His  worth  approved,  which  Cambria  long  may 
boast : 
France  felt  him  then,  and  Prrtugal  and  Spain 
His  honor'd  memory  will  for  aye  retain. 

31. 
Hence  to  the  high- wall 'd  house  of  Papelot, 

The  battle's  boundary  on  the  left,  incline  ; 
Here  thou  seest  Frischermont  not  far  remote. 

From  whence,  like  ministers  of  wrath  divine. 
The  Prussians,  issuing  on  the  yielding  foe. 
Consummated  their  great  and  total  overthrow. 

32. 
Deem  not  that  I  the  martial  skill  should  boast, 
Where  horse  and  foot  were  station'd,  here  to  tell, 


What  points  were  occupied  by  either  host, 

And  how  the  battle  raged,  and  what  befell, 
.\nd  how  our  great  Commander's  eagle  eye, 
Which  comprehended  all,  secured  the  victory. 

33. 

This  were  the  liistorian's,  not  the  poet's  part; 

Such  task  would  ill  the  gentle  Muse  beseem. 
Who,  to  the  thoughtful  mind  and  pious  heart. 

Comes  with  her  off'ering  from  this  awful  theme ; 
Content  if  what  she  saw  and  gathor'd  there 
She  may  in  unambitious  song  declare. 

34. 

Look  how  upon  the  Ocean's  treacherous  face 
The  breeze  and  summer  sunshine  softly  play, 

And  the  green-heaving  billows  bear  no  trace 
Of  all  the  wrath  and  wreck. of  3'estcrday  ;  — 

So  from  the  field,  which  here  we  look'd  upon. 

The  vestiges  of  dreadful  war  were  gone. 

35. 

Earth  had  received  into  her  silent  womb 

Her  slaughter'd  creatures :  horse  and  man  they 
lay, 

And  friend  and  foe,  within  the  general  tomb. 
Equal  had  been  their  lot ;  one  fatal  day 

For  all,  —  one  labor,  —  and  one  place  of  rest 

They  found  within  their  common  parent's  breapt. 

36. 
The  passing  seasons  had  not  yet  effaced 

The  stamp  of  numerous  hoofs  impress'd  by  force 
Of  cavalry,  whose  path  might  still  be  traced. 

Yet  Nature  every  where  resumed  her  course ; 
Low  pansies  to  the  sun  their  purple  gave. 
And  the  soft  poppy  blossom'd  on  the  grave. 

37. 

In  parts  the  careful  farmer  had  renew'd 
His  labors,  late  by  battle  frustrated; 

And  where  the  unconscious  soil  had  been  imbued 
With  blood,  profusely  there  like  water  shed. 

There   had   his    ploughshare    turn'd    the    guilty 
ground, 

And  the  green  corn  was  springing  all  around. 

38. 
The  graves  he  left  for  natural  thought  humane 
Untouch'd ;  and  here  and  there,  where  in  the 
strife 
Contending  feet  had  trampled  down  the  grain, 
Some  hardier  roots  were  found,  which  of  theii 
life 
Tenacious,  had  put  forth  a  second  head. 
And  sprung,  and  ear'd,  and  ripen'd  on  the  dead 

39. 

Some  marks  of  wreck  were  scatter'd  all  around, 
As  shoe,  and  belt,  and  broken  bandoleer. 

And  hats  which  bore  the  mark  of  mortal  wound  ; 
Gun-flints  and  balls  for  tliose  wlio  closelier  peer ; 

And  sometimes  did  the  breeze  upon  its  breath 

Bear  from  ill-cover'd  graves  a  taint  c  f  death 


756 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


III. 


40. 
More  vestige  of  destructive  man  was  seen 

Where  man  in  works  of  peace  had  labor'd  more ; 
At  flougoumont  the  hottest  strife  had  been, 

Where  trees  and  walls  the  mournful  record  bore 
Of  war's  wild  rage,  trunks  pierced  with  many  a 

wound, 
And  roofs  and  half-burnt  rafters  on  the  ground. 

41. 

A  goodly  mansion  this,  with  gardens  fair. 

And  ancient  groves  and  fruitful  orchard  wide, 

Its  dove-cot  and  its  decent  house  of  prayer. 
Its  ample  stalls  and  garners  well  supplied. 

And  spacious  bartons  clean,  well-wall'd  around. 

Where  all  the  wealth  of  rural  life  was  found. 

42. 

That  goodly  mansion  on  the  ground  was  laid, 
Save  here  and  there  a  blacken'd,  broken  wall ; 

The  wounded  who  were  borne  beneath  its  shade 
Had  there  been  crush'd  and  buried  by  the  fall ; 

And   there   they   lie,  where  they    received   their 
doom,  — 

Oh,  let  no  hand  disturb  that  honorable  tomb ! 

43. 

Contiguous  to  this  wreck,  the  little  fane. 

For  worship  hallow'd,  still  uninjured  stands. 

Save  that  its  Crucifix  displays  too  plain 
The  marks  of  outrage  from  irreverent  hands. 

Alas,  to  think  such  irreligious  deed 

Of  wrong  from  British  soldiers  should  proceed! 

44. 

The  dove-cot  too  remains  ;  scared  at  the  fight. 
The  birds  sought  shelter  in  the  forest  shade  ; 

But  still  they  kept  their  native  haunts  in  sight. 
And,  when  few  days  their  terror  had  allay'd, 

Forsook  again  the  solitary  wood, 

For  their  old  home  and  human  neighborhood. 

45. 

The  gardener's  dwelling  was  untouch'd;  his  wife 
Fled  with  her  children  to  some  near  retreat, 

And  there  lay  trembling  for  her  husband's  life  : 

He  stood  the  issue,  saw  the  foe's  retreat, 

And  lives  unhurt,  where  thousands  fell  around, 

To  tell  the  story  of  that  famous  ground. 

46. 

His  generous  dog  was  well  approved  that  hour. 
By  courage  as  by  love  to  man  allied ; 

He  through  the  fiery  storm  and  iron  shower 
Kept  the  ground  bravely  by  his  master's  side  ; 

And  now,  when  to  the  stranger's  hand  he  draws. 

The  noble  beast  seems  conscious  of  applause. 

47. 

Toward  the  grove,  the  wall  with  musket-holes 
Is  pierced;  our  soldiers  here  their  station  held 

Against  the  foo ;  and  many  were  the  souls 
Then  from  their  fleshly  tenements  expell'd. 

Six  hundred  Frenchmen  have  been  burnt  close  by. 

And  underneath  one  mound  their  bones  and  ashes 
he. 


48. 
One  streak  of  blood  upon  the  wall  was  traced, 

In  length  a  man's  just  stature  from  the  head  ; 
There  where  it  gusli'd  you  saw  it  unefTaced  : 

Of  all  the  blood  which  on  that  day  was  shed, 
This  mortal  stain  alone  remain'd  inipress'd, — 
The  all-devouring  earth  had  drunk  the  rest. 

49. 
Here,  from  the  heaps  who  strew'd  the  fatal  plain. 

Was  Howard's  corse  by  faithful  hands  convey'd, 
And,  not  to  be  confounded  with  the  slain. 

Here  in  a  grave  apart  with  reverence  laid. 
Till  hence  his  honor'd  relics  o'er  the  seas 
Were  borne  to  England,  there  to  rest  in  peace. 

50. 
Another  grave  had  yielded  up  its  dead, 

From  whence  to  bear  liis  son  a  father  came. 
That  he  might  lay  him  where  his  own  gray  head 

Ere  long  must  needs  be  laid.  That  soldier's  name 
Was  not  remember'd  there,  yet  may  the  verse 
Present  this  reverent  tribute  to  his  hearse. 

51. 

Was  it  a  soothing  or  a  mournful  thought. 
Amid  this  scene  of  slaughter  as  we  stood. 

Where  armies  had  with  recent  fury  fought. 
To  mark  how  gentle  Nature  still  pursued 

Her  quiet  course,  as  if  she  took  no  care 

For  what  her  noblest  work  had  suffer'd  there  ? 


The  pears  had  ripen'd  on  the  garden  wall ; 

Those  leaves  which  on  the  autumnal  earth  were 
spread. 
The  trees,  though  pierced  and  scarr'd  with  many 
a  ball. 
Had  only  in  their  natural  season  shed : 
Flowers  were  in  seed,  whose  buds  to  swell  began 
When  such  wild  havock  here  was  made  of  man  ! 

53. 
Throughout   the   garden,  fruits,   and   herbs,  and 
flowers. 
You  saw  in  growth,  or  ripeness,  or  decay ; 
The  green  and  well-trimm'd  dial  mark'd  the  hours 

With  gliding  shadow  as  they  pass'd  away; 
Who, would  have  thought,  to  see  this  garden  fair. 
Such  horrors  had  so  late  been  acted  there  ! 

54. 
Now,  Hougoumont,  farewell  to  thy  domain  ! 

Might  I  dispose  of  thee,  no  woodman's  hand 
Should  e'er  thy  venerable  groves  profane ; 

Untouch'd,  and  like  a  temple  should  they  stand, 
And,  consecrate  by  general  feeling,  wave 
Their  branches  o'er  the  ground  where  fleep  the 
brave. 

55. 
Thy  ruins,  as  they  fell,  should  aye  remain, — 

What  monument  so  fit  for  those  below  ? 
Thy  garden  through  whole  ages  should  retain 

The  form  and  fashion  which  it  weareth  now, 


IV. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


757 


That  future  pilgrims  here  might  all  things  see, 
Such  as  they  were  at  this  great  victory. 


IV. 
THE  SCENE  OF  WAR. 


No  cloud  the  azure  vault  of  heaven  distain'd 
That  day  when  we  the  field  of  war  survey 'd  ; 

The  leaves  were  falling,  but  the  groves  retain'd 
Foliage  enough  for  beauty  and  for  shade ; 

Soft  airs  prevail'd,  and  through  the  sunny  hours 

The  bees  were  busy  on  the  year's  last  flowers. 

2. 
Well  was  the  season  with  the  scene  combined. 

The  autumnal  sunshine  suited  well  the  mood 
Whioli  here  possess'd  the  meditative  mind,  — 

A  human  sense  upon  the  field  of  blood, 
A  Christian  thankfulness,  a  British  pride, 
Temper'd  by  solemn  thought,  yet  still  to  joy  allied. 


What  British  heart  that  would  not  feel  a  flow, 
Upon  that  ground,  of  elevating  pride.' 

What  British  cheek  is  there  that  would  not  glow 
To  hear  our  country  blest  and  magnified  ?  — 

For  Britain  here  was  blest  by  old  and  young. 

Admired  by  every   heart,   and   praised  by  every 
tongue. 

4. 
Not  for  brave  bearing  in  the  field  alone 

Doth  grateful  Belgium  bless  the  British  name ; 
The  order  and  the  perfect  honor  shown 

In  all  things,  have  enhanced  the  soldier's  fame ; 
For  this  we  heard  the  admiring  people  raise 
One  universal  voice  sincere  of  praise. 


Yet  with  indignant  feeling  they  inquired 

Wherefore  we  spared  the  author  of  this  strife.' 

Why  had  we  not,  as  highest  law  required, 
With  ignominy  closed  the  culprit's  life .' 

For  him  alone  had  all  this  blood  been  shed, — 

Why  had  not  vengeance  struck  the  guilty  head  ? 

6. 
O  God  I  they  said,  it  was  a  piteous  thing 

To  .see  the  after-horrors  of  the  fight. 
The  lingering  deatli,  the  hopeless  suffering, — 
What  heart  of  flesh  unmoved  could  bear  the 
sight .' 
One  man  was  cause  of  all  this  world  of  woe, — 
Ye  had  him,—  and  ye  did  not  strike  the  blow  ! 


How  will  ye  answer  to  all  afler-time 

For  that  great  lesson  which  ye  fail'd  to  give .' 

As  if  excess  of  guilt  excussed  the  crime. 
Black  as  he  is  with  blood,  ye  let  him  live  ! 


Children  of  evil,  take  ycur  course  henceforth, 
For  what  is  Justice  but  a  name  on  earth  ! 

8. 
Vain  had  it  been  with  these  in  glozing  speech 

Of  precedents  to  use  the  specious  tongue  : 
This  might  perplex  the  ear,  but  fail  to  reach 
The   heart,    from  whence  that   honest    feeling 
sprung; 
And  had  I  dared  my  inner  sense  belie. 
The  voice  of  blood  was  there  to  join  them  in  their 
cry. 


We  left  the  field  of  battle  in  such  mood 

As   human    hearts    from   thence    should  bear 
away. 
And  musing  thus  our  purposed  route  pursued. 
Which  still  tlirough  scenes  of  recent  bloodshed 
lay. 
Where  Prussia  late,  with  strong  and  stern  delight, 
Hung  on  her  hated  foes  to  persecute  their  flight. 

10. 

No  hour  for  tarriance  that,  or  for  remorse  ! 

Vengeance,  who  long  had  hunger'd,  took  her  fill. 
And  Retribution  held  its  righteous  course  : 

As  when  in  elder  time,  the  Sun  stood  still 
On  Gibeon,  and  the  Moon  above  the  vale 
Of  Ajalon  hung  motionless  and  pale. 

11. 

And  what  though  no  portentous  day  was  given 
To  render  here  the  work  of  wrath  complete ; 

The  Sun,  I  ween,  seem'd  standing  still  in  heaven 
To  those  who  hurried  from  that  dire  defeat ; 

And  when  they  pray'd  for  darkness  in  their  flight. 

The  Moon  arose  upon  them  broad  and  bright. 

12. 

No  covert  might  they  find  ;  the  open  land, 
O'er  which  so  late  exultingly  they  pass'd. 

Lay  all  before  them  and  on  either  hand ; 

Close  on  their  flight  the  avengers  follow 'd  fast, 

And  when  they  reach'd  Genappe,  and  there  drew 
breath. 

Short  respite  found  they  there  from  fear  and  death. 

13. 

That  fatal  town  betray'd  them  to  more  loss ; 

Through  one  long  street  the  only  passage  lay. 
And  then  the  narrow  bridge  they  needs  must  cross 

Where   Dyle,  a  shallow  streamlet,  cross'd  the 
way  : 
For  life  they  fled,  —  no  thought  had  they  but  fear. 
And  their  own  baggage  chok'd  the  outlet  here. 

14. 

He  who  had  bridged  the  Danube's  affluent  stream, 
With  all  the  unbroken  Austrian  power  in  sight, 

(So  had  his  empire  vanish'd  like  a  dream,) 
Was  by  this  brook  impeded  in  his  flight,  — 

And  then  what  passions  did  he  witness  there 

Rage,  terror,  execrations,  and  despair  ! 


758 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


IV. 


15. 


EiC  through  the  wreck  his  passage  could  be  made, 
Three  miserable  hours,  which  seem'd  like  years, 

Was  he  in  that  ignoble  strait  delay'd ; 

The  dreadful  Prussian's  cry  was  in  his  ears, 

Fear  in  liis  heart,  and  in  his  soul  that  hell 

Whose  due  rewards  he  merited  so  well. 

16. 

Foremost  again,  as  he  was  wont  to  be 

In  flight,  though  not  the  foremost  in  tlie  strife. 

The  Tyrant  hurried  on,  of  infamy 

Regardless,  nor  regarding  ought  but  life  ;  — 

O  wretcli !  without  the  courage  or  the  faith 

To  die  with  those  whom  he  had  led  to  death  1 

17. 
Meantime  his  guilty  followers  in  disgraf'e, 

Whose  pride  forever  now  was  beaten  down, 
Some  in  the  houses  sought  a  hiding-place  ; 

While  at  the  entrance  of  that  fatal  town 
Others,  who  yet  some  show  of  heart  display'd, 
A  short,  vain  effort  of  resistance  made;  — 

13. 
Feeble  and  ill-sustain'd  !  — The  foe  burst  through  : 

With  unabating  heat  they  search'd  around ; 
The    wretches    from     their     lurking-holes     they 
drew,  — 
Such  mercy  as  the  French  had  given  they  found ; 
Death  had  more  victims  there  in  that  one  hour 
Tlian  fifty  years  might  else  have  render'd  to  his 
power. 

19. 
Here  did  we  inn  upon  our  pilgrimage. 

After  such  day  an  unfit  resting-place  : 
For  who  from  ghastly  thoughts  could  disengage 

The  haunted  mind,  when  every  where  the  trace 
Of  death  was  seen,  —  the  blood-stain  on  the  wall, 
And  musket-marks  in  chamber  and  in  hall ! 

20. 

All  talk,  too,  was  of  death.     They  show'd  us  here 
The   room  where    Brunswick's  body  had  been 
laid. 

Where  his  brave  followers,  bending  o'er  the  bier. 
In  bitterness  their  vow  of  vengeance  made; 

Where  Wellington  beheld  the  slaughter'd  Chief, 

And  for  a  while  gave  way  to  manly  grief. 

21. 

Duhesme,  whose  crimes  the  Catalans  may  tell. 
Died  here  ;  —  with  sabre  strokes  the  posts  are 
scored. 

Hewn  down  upon  the  threshold  where  he  fell. 
Himself  then  tasting  of  the  ruthless  sword; 

A  Brunswicker  discharged  the  debt  of  Spain, 

And  where  he  dropp'd  the  stone  preserves  the  stain. 

22. 
Too  much  of  life  hath  on  thy  plains  been  shed, 

Brabant !  so  oft  the  scene  of  war's  debate  ; 
But  ne'er  with  blood  were  they  so  largely  fed 

As  in  this  rout  and  wreck ;  when  righteous  Fate 


Brought  on  the  French,  in  warning  to  all  times, 
A  vengeance  wide  and  sweeping  as  their  crimes;  — 


23. 

Vengeance  for  Egypt  and  for  Syria's  wrong ; 

For  Portugal's  unutterable  woes; 
For  Germany,  who  suffer'd  all  too  long 

Beneath  these  lawless,  faithless,  godless  foes; 
For  blood  which  on  the  Lord  so  long  had  cried. 
For   Earth   oppress'd,  and   Heaven  insulted  and 
defied. 

24. 

We  follow'd  from  Genappe  their  line  of  flight 
To    the    Cross    Roads,    where    Britain's    sons 
sustain'd 

Against  such  perilous  force  the  desperate  fight ; 
Deserving  for  that  field,  so  well  maintain'd. 

Such  fame  as  for  a  like  devotion's  meed 

The  world  hath  to  the  Spartan  band  decreed. 

25. 
Upon  this  ground  the  noble  Brunswick  died, 

Led  on  too  rashly  by  his  ardent  heart ; 
Long  shall  his  grateful  country  tell  with  pride 

How  manfully  he  chose  the  better  part ; 
When  groaning  Germany  in  chains  was  bound, 
He  only  of  her  Princes  faithful  found. 

26. 
And  here  right  bravely  did  the  German  band 

Once  more  sustain  their  well-deserved  applause  ; 
As  when,  revenging  there  their  native  land. 

In  Spain  they  labor'd  for  the  general  cause. 
In  this  most  arduous  strife  none  more  than  they 
Endured  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day. 

27. 
Here  too  we  heard  the  praise  of  British  worth, 

Still  best  approved  when  most  severely  tried ; 
Here  were  broad  patches  of  loose-lying  earth, 

Sufficing  scarce  the  mingled  bones  to  hide, — 
And  half-uncover'd  graves,  where  one  might  see 
The  loathliest  features  of  mortality. 

28. 
Eastward  from  hence  we  struck,  and  reach'd  the 
field 
Of  Ligny,  where  the  Prussian,  on  that  day 
By  far-outnumbering  force  constrain'd  to  yield, 

Fronted  the  foe,  and  held  them  still  at  bay ; 
And  in  that  brave  defeat  acquired  fresh  claim 
To  glory,  and  enhanced  his  country's  fame. 

29. 
Here  was  a  scene  which  fancy  might  delight 

To  treasure  up  among  her  cherish'd  stores, 
And  bring  again  before  the  inward  sight 

Often  when  she  recalls  the  long-pass'd  hours;  — 
Well-cultured  hill  and  dale  extending  wide, 
Hamlets  and  village  spires  on  every  side  ;  — 

30. 
The  autumnal-tinted  groves;  the  upland  mill, 
Which  oft  was  won  and  lost  amid  the  fray; 


IV. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


759 


Green  pastures  water'd  by  tlic  silent  rill ; 

The  lordly  Castle  yielding  to  decay, 
With  bridge  and  barbican,  and  moat  and  tower, 
A  fairer  sight  perchance  than  when  it  frown'd  in 
power ;  — 

31. 
The  avenue  before  its  ruin'd  gate, 

Which,   when   the    Castle,  suffering  less  from 
time 
Than  havock,  hath  foregone  its  strength  and  state, 

Uninjured  flourishcth  in  nature's  prime  ; 
To  us  a  grateful  shade  did  it  supply. 
Glad  of  that  shelter  from  the  noontide  sky  ;  — 

22. 
The  quarries  deep,  where  many  a  massive  block 

For  some  Parisian  monument  of  pride, 
Hewn  with  long  labor  from  the  granite  rock. 

Lay  in  the  change  of  fortune  cast  aside  ; 
But  rightly  with  those  stones  should  Prussia  build 
Her  monumental  pile  on  Ligny's  bloody  field  I  — 

33. 
The  wealthy  village  bearing  but  too  plain 

The  dismal  marks  of  recent  fire  and  spoil ; 
Its  decent  habitants,  an  active  train, 

And  many  a  one  at  work  with  needful  toil 
On  roof  or  thatch,  the  ruin  to  repair, — 
May  never  War  repeat  such  devastation  there  ! 

34. 
Ill  had  we  done  if  we  had  hurried  by 

A  scene  in  faithful  history  to  be  famed 
Through  long  succeeding  ages  ;  nor  may  1 

The  hospitality  let  pass  unnamed, 
And  courteous  kindness  on  tliat  distant  ground. 
Which,  strangers  as  we  were,  for  England's  sake 
we  found. 

35. 
And  dear  to  England  should  be  Ligny's  name ; 
Prussia    and   England    both  were  proved    that 
day  ; 
Each  generous  nation  to  the  other's  fame 
Her  ample  tribute  of  applause  will  pay; 
Long  as  the  memory  of  those  labors  past. 
Unbroken  may  their  Fair  Alliance  last ! 

36. 
The  tales  which  of  that  field  I  could  unfold, 

Better  it  is  that  silence  should  conceal. 
They  who  had  seen  them  shuddcr'd  while  they  told 

Of  things  so  hideous  ;  and  they  cried  witii  zeal. 
One  man  hath  caused  all  this,  of  men  the  worst, — 
O  wherefore  have  ye  spared  his  head  accurst ' 

37. 
It  fits  not  now  to  tell  our  farther  w'ay 
Through  many  a    scene    by  bounteous  nature 
blest. 
Nor  how  we  found,  where'er  our  journey  lay, 
An  Englishman  was  still  an  honor'd  guest; 
But  still  upon  this  point,  where'er  we  went. 
The  indignant  voice  was  heard  of  discontent. 


38. 
And  hence  there  lay,  too  plainly  might  we  see, 

An  ominous  feeling  upon  every  heart: 
What  hope  of  lasting  order  could  there  be. 

They  said,  where  Justice  has  not  had  her  part.' 
Wisdom  doth  rule  with  Justice  by  her  side  ; 
Justice  from  Wisdom  none  may  e'er  divide. 

39. 
The  shaken  mind  felt  all  things  insecure  : 

Accustom'd  long  to  see  successful  crimes, 
And  helplessly  the  heavy  yoke  endure. 

They  now  look'd  back  upon  their  fathers'  times, 
Ere  the  wild  rule  of  Anarchy  began. 
As  to  some  happier  world,  or  golden  age  of  man. 

40. 

As  they  who  in  the  vale  of  years  advance, 
And  tlie  dark  eve  is  closing  on  tlieir  way. 

When  on  their  mind  the  recollections  glance 
Of  early  joy,  and  Hope's  delightful  day. 

Behold,  in  brighter  hues  than  those  of  truth, 

The  light  of  morning  on  the  fields  of  youth. 

4L 

Those  who  amid  these  troubles  had  grown  gray, 
Ilecurr'd  with  mournful  feeling  to  the  past; 

Blest  had  we  known  our  blessings,  they  would  say  ; 
We  were  not  worthy  that  our  bliss  should  last ! 

Peaceful  we  were,  and  flourishing,  and  free ; 

But  madly  we  required  more  liberty  ! 

42. 

Remorseless  France  had  long  oppress'd  the  land. 
And  for  her  frantic  projects  drain'd  its  blood; 

And  now  they  felt  the  Prussian's  heavy  hand : 
He  came  to  aid  them  ;  bravely  had  he  stood 

in  their  defence  ;  —  but  oh  !   in  peace  how  ill 

The  soldier's  deeds,  how  insolent  his  will ! 

43. 

One  general  wish  prevail'd,  —  if  they  might  see 
Tlie  happy  order  of  old  times  restored; 

Give  them  their  former  laws  and  liberty  ; 

This  their  desires  and  secret  prayers  implored  ;  — 

Forgetful,  as  the  stream  of  time  flows  on. 

That  that  which  passes  is  forever  gone. 


PART    II. 
THE    VISION. 


"Aye  Su;(£ Pindar. 


THE  TOWER. 

1. 

I  THOUGHT  upon  these  things  in  solitude, 
And  mused  upon  them  in  the  silent  night; 


7G0 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE, 


The  open  graves,  the  recent  scene  of  blood, 
Were  present  to  the  soul's  creative  sight; 
These  mournful  images  my  mind  possess'd, 
And  mingled  with  the  visions  of  my  rest. 

2. 
Methought  that  1  was  travelling  o'er  a  plain 

Whose  limits,  far  beyond  all  reach  of  sense, 
The  aching,  anxious  sight  explored  in  vain. 

How  I  came  there  I  could  not  tell,  nor  whence ; 
Nor  where  my  melancholy  journey  lay  ; 
Only  that  soon  the  night  would  close  upon  my 
way. 

3. 
Behind  me  was  a  dolorous,  dreary  scene. 

With  huge  and  mouldering  ruins  widely  spread  ; 
Wastes  which  had  whilome  fertile  regions  been. 

Tombs  which  had  lost  all  record  of  the  dead ; 
And  where  the  dim  horizon  seem'd  to  close, 
Far  off  the  gloomy  Pyramids  arose. 

4. 

Full  fain  would  1  have  known  what  lay  before. 
But  lifted  there  in  vain  my  mortal  eye; 

That  point  with  cloud  and  mist  was  cover'd  o'er. 
As  though    the    earth  were    mingled  with    the 
sky. 

Yet  thitlier,  as  some  power  unseen  impell'd. 

My  blind,  involuntary  way  I  held. 

5. 
Across  the  plain  innumerable  crowds. 

Like  me,  were  on  their  destined  journey  bent. 
Toward  the  land  of  shadows  and  of  clouds; 

One   pace    they   travelled,   to   one   point    they 
went ; — 
A  motley  multitude  of  old  and  young, 
Men  of  all  climes  and  hues,  and  every  tongue. 


Erelong  I  came  upon  a  field  of  dead, 

Where  heaps  of  recent  carnage  fiU'd  the  way; 

A  ghastly  sight,  —  nor  was  there  where  to  tread. 
So  thickly   slaughter'd,   horse   and   man,    they 
lay. 

Methought  that  in  that  place  of  death  I  knew 

Again  the  late-seen  field  of  Waterloo. 

7. 
Troubled  I  stood,  and  doubtful  where  to  go  ; 
A  cold,  damp  shuddering  ran  through  all    my 
frame ; 
Fain  would  I  fly  from  that  dread  scene,  when,  lo ! 

A  voice  as  from  above  pronounced  my  name ; 
And  looking  to  the  sound,  by  the  way-side 
I  saw  a  lofty  structure  edified. 


Most  like  it  seem'd  to  that  aspiring  Tower 
Which  old  Ambition  rear'd  on  Babel's  plam, 

As  if  he  ween'd  in  his  presumptuous  power 

To  scale  high  Heaven,  with  daring  pride  profane  ; 

Such  was  its  giddy  height;  and  round  and  round 

The  spiral  steps  in  long  ascension  wound. 


9. 
Its  frail  foundations  upon  sand  were  placed, 

And  round  about  it  mouldering  rubbish  lay; 
For  easily  by  time  and  storms  defaced, 

The  loose  materials  crumbled  in  decay ; 
Rising  so  high,  and  built  so  insecure, 
111  might  such  perishable  work  endure. 

10. 
I  not  the  less  went  up,  and  as  I  drew 

Toward  the  top,  more  firm  the  structure  seem'd, 
With  nicer  art  composed,  and  fair  to  view  : 

Strong  and  well-built,  perchance,  I  might  have 
deem'd 
The  pile,  had  I  not  seen  and  understood 
Of  what  fra'l    matter  form'd,   and  on  what  base 
it  stood 

U. 

There,  on  the  summit,  a  grave  personage 

Received  and  welcomed  me  in  courteous  guise; 

On  his  gray  temples  were  the  marks  of  age. 
As  one  whom  years,  methought,  should  render 
wise. 

I  saw  that  thou  wert  fill'd  with  doubt  and  fear. 

He  said,  and  therefore  have  I  call'd  thee  here. 

12. 

Hence  from  tliis  eminence  sublime  I  see 
The  wanderings  of  the  erring  crowd  below, 

And  pitying  thee  in  thy  perplexity. 

Will  tell  thee  all  that  thou  canst  need  to  know 

To  guide  thy  steps  aright.     I  bent  my  head 

As  if  in  thanks,  —  And  who  art  thou.'  I  said. 

13. 

He  answer'd,  I  am  Wisdom.     Mother  Earth 
Me,  in  her  vigor  self-conceiving,  bore  ; 

And  as  from  eldest  time  I  date  my  birth. 
Eternally  with  her  shall  I  endure ; 

Her  noblest  offspring  I,  to  whom  alone 

The  course  of  sublunary  things  is  known. 

14. 

Master  !  quoth  1,  regarding  him,  I  thought 
That  Wisdom  was  the  child  divine  of  Heaven. 

So,  he  replied,  have  fabling  preachers  taught, 
And  the  dull  World  a  light  belief  hath  given. 

But  vainly  would  these  fools  my  claim  decry, — 

Wisdom  I  am,  and  of  the  Earth  am  I. 

15. 

Thus  while  he  spake  I  scann'd  his  features  well ; 

Small  but  audacious  was  the  Old  Man's  eye  ; 
His  countenance  was  hard,  and  seem'd  to  tell 

Of  knowledge  less  than  of  effrontery. 
Instruct  me  then,  I  said,  for  thou  shouldst  know 
From  whence  I  came,  and  whither  I  must  go. 

16. 

Art  thou  tlicn  one  who  would  his  mind  perplex 
With  knowledge  bootless  even  if  attain'd  ? 

Fond   man  !    he  answer'd  ;  —  wherefore  shouldst 
thou  vex 
Thy  heart  with  seeking  what  may  not  be  gamd  ' 


THE  POET'S  Pilgrimage. 


7G1 


Rey^ard  not  what  lias  been,  nor  what  may  be ; 

0  Child  of  Earth,  this  Now  is  all  that  toucheth 

thee  ! 

17. 
He  who  performs  the  journey  of  to-day 

Cares  not  if  yesterday  were  shower  or  sun  : 
To-morrow  let  the  heavens  be  what  they  may. 

And  what  recks  he? — his  wayfare  will  be  done. 
Heedless  of  what  hereafter  may  befall, 
Live  whilst  thou  livest,  for  this  life  is  all ! 

18. 

1  kept  my  rising  indignation  down, 

That  I  might  hear  what  farther  he  would  teach ; 
Yet  on  my  darkened  brow  the  instinctive  frown, 

Gathering  at  that  abominable  speech, 
Maintain'd  its  place  :  he  mark'd  it,  and  pursued, 
Tuning    his    practised  tongue  to  subtle  flattery's 
mood  :  — 

19. 

Do  I  not  know  thee,  —  that  from  earliest  youth 
Knowledge  hath  been  thy  only  heart's  desire  .' 

Here  seeing  all  things  as  they  are  in  truth, 
I  show  thee  all  to  whicli  thy  thoughts  aspire  : 

No  vapors  here  impede  the  exalted  sense, 

Nor  mists  of  earth  attain  this  eminence. 

20. 
Whither  thy  way,  thou  askest  me,  and  what 

The  region  dark  whereto  thy  footsteps  tend. 
And  where,  by  one  inevitable  lot. 

The  course  of  all  yon  multitude  must  end. 
Take  thou  this  glass,  whose  perfect  power  shall  aid 
Thy  faulty  vision,  and  therewitji  explore  the  shade. 

21. 

Eager  I  look'd ;  but  seeing  with  surprise 

That  the  same  darkness  still  the  view  o'erspread. 

Half  angrily  I  turn'd  away  mine  eyes. 

Complacent  then  the  Old  Man  smiled  and  said, 

Darkness  is  all !  what  more  wouldst  thou  descry  .' 

Rest  now  content,  for  farther  none  can  spy. 

22. 

Now  mark  me,  Child  of  Earth  !  he  thus  pursued; 

Let  not  the  li}'pocrites  thy  reason  blind. 
And  to  the  quest  of  some  unreal  good 

Divert  with  dogmas  vain  thine  erring  mind  : 
Learn  thou,  whate'cr  the  motive  they  may  call, 
That  Pleasure  is  the  aim,  and  Self  the  spring  of  all. 

23. 

This  is  the  root  of  knowledge.  Wise  are  they 
Who  to  this  guiding  principle  attend ; 

They,  as  they  press  along  the  world's  highway. 
With  single  aim  pursue  their  steady  end ; 

No  vain  compunction  checks  their  sure  career; 

No  idle  dreams  deceive ;  their  heart  is  here. 

24. 
They  from  the  nature  and  the  fate  of  man. 

Thus  clearly  understood,  derive  their  strength ; 
96 


Knowing  that  as  from  nothing  they  began. 

To  nothing  thoy  must  needs  return  at  length; 
This  knowledge  steels  the   heart  and  clears  tlie 

mind. 
And  they  create  on  earth  the  Heaven  they  find. 

25. 

Such,  1  made  answer,  was  the  Tyrant's  creed 
Who  bruised  the  nations  with  his  iron  rod. 

Till  on  yon  field  the  wretch  received  his  meed 
From  Britain, and  the  outstretch'd  arm  of  God. 

Behold  him  now,  —  Death  ever  in  his  view, 

The   only   change   for  him,  —  and   Judgment   to 
ensue ! 

26. 

Behold  him  when  tlie  unbidden  thoughts  arise 
Of  his  old  passions  and  unbridled  power; 

As  the  fierce  tiger  in  confinement  lies, 

And  dreams   of  blood  that  he    must   taste  no 
more,  — 

Then  waking  in  that  appetite  of  rage, 

Frets  to  and  fro  within  his  narrow  cage. 

27. 
Hath  he  not  chosen  well  ?  the  Old  Man  replied ; 

Bravely  he  aim'd  at  universal  sway  ; 
And  never  earthly  Chief  was  glorified 

Like  this  Napoleon  in  his  prosperous  day. 
All-ruling  Fate  itself  hath  not  the  power 
To  alter  what  has  been  :  and  he  has  had  his  hour 

28. 
Take  him,  I  answer'd,  at  his  fortune's  flood  ; 

Russia  his  friend,  the  Austrian  wars  surceased, 
When    Kings,    his    creatures    some,    and    some 
subdued, 
Like  vassals  waited  at  his  marriage  feast; 
And  Europe  like  a  map  before  him  lay, 
Of  which  he  gave  at  will,  or  took  away. 

29. 
Call  then  to  mind  Navarre's  heroic  chief. 

Wandering   by  night   and   day   through   wood 
and  glen, 
His  country's  sufferings  like  a  private  grief 

Wringing  his  heart:  would  Mina  even  then 
Those  perils  and  that  sorrow  have  foregone 
To  be  that  Tyrant  on  his  prosperous  throne.' 

30. 
But  wherefore  name  I  him  whose  arm  was  free .' 

A  living  hope  his  noble  heart  sustain'd, 
A  faith  which  bade  him  through  all  dangers  see 

The  triumph  his  enduring  country  gain'd. 
See  Hofer  with  no  earthly  hope  to  aid,  — 
His  country  lost,  himself  to  chains  and  death  be- 
tray "d  I 

31. 

By  those  he  served  deserted  in  his  need  ; 

Given  to  the  unrelenting  Tyrant's  power. 
And  by  his  mean  revenge  condemn'd  to  bleed, — 

Would  he  have  bartcr'd,  in  that  awful  hour. 


7G2 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


His  heart,  his  conscience,  and  his  sure  renown. 
For  the  malignant  murderer's  crimes  and  crown  ? 

32. 

Him  too,  I  know,  a  worthy  thought  of  fame 

In  that  dread  trance  upheld  ;  —  the  foresight  sure 
Tliat  in  his  own  dear  country  his  good  name 
Long  as  the    streams    and    mountains    should 
endure ; 
The  herdsmen  on  the  hills  should  sing  his  praise, 
And  children  learn  his  deeds  throuffh  all  succeedinor 
days. 

33. 
Turn  we  to  those  in  whom  no  glorious  thought 

Lent  its  strong  succor  to  the  passive  mind  ; 
Nor  stirring  enterprise  within  them  wrought;  — 

Who  to  their  lot  of  bitterness  rcsign'd. 
Endured  their  sorrows  by  the  world  unknown. 
And  look'd  for  their  reward  to  Death  alone: 

34. 

Mothers  within  Gerona's  Icaguer'd  wall,     [die;  — 
Who    saw  their    famisli'd    children    pine    and 

Widows  surviving  Zaragoza's  fall 
To  linger  in  abhorr'd  captivity  ;  — 

Yet  would  not  have  exchanged  their  sacred  woe 

For  all  the  empire  of  their  miscreant  foe  ! 


Serene  the  Old  Man  replied,  and  smiled  with  scorn. 
Behold  the  effect  of  error  !  thus  to  wear 

The  days  of  miserable  life  forlorn. 

Struggling  with  evil  and  consumed  with  care  ;  — 

Poor  fools,  whom  vain  and  empty  hopes  mislead  ! 

They  reap  their  sufferings  for  their  only  meed. 

36. 

O  false  one,  I  exclaim'd,  whom  canst  thou  fool 
With  such  gross  sophisms,  but  the  wicked  heart .' 

The  pupils  of  thine  own  unhappy  school 

Are  they  who  choose  the  vain  and  empty  part; 

How  oft  in  age,  in  sickness,  and  in  woe. 

Have  they  complain'd  that  all  was  vanity  below  ! 

37. 

Look  at  that  mighty  Gaznevide,  Mahmood, 
When,  pining  in  his  Palace  of  Delight, 

He  bade  the  gather'd  spoils  of  realms  subdued 
Be  spread  before  him  to  regale  his  sight, 

Whate'er  the  Orient  boasts  of  rich  and  rare, — 

And  then  he  wept  to  think  what  toys  they  were  ! 

38. 
Look  at  the  Russian  minion  when  he  play'd 

With  pearls  and  jewels  which  surpass'd  all  price ; 
And  now  apart  their  various  hues  array'd. 

Blended  their  colors  now  in  union  nice, 
Then,  weary  of  the  bawbles,  with  a  sigh. 
Swept  them  aside,  and  thought  that  all  was  vanity  ! 

39. 

Wean'd  by  the  fatal  Messenger  from  pride. 

The   Syrian   through   the    streets   exposed   his 
shroud ; 


And  one  that  ravaged  kingdoms  far  and  wide 

TJpon  the  bed  of  sickness  cried  aloud, 
What  boots  my  empire  in  this  mortal  throe.' 
For  the  Grave  calls  me  now,  and  I  must  go  ! 

40. 
Thus  felt  these  wretched  men,  because  decay 

Had  touch'd  them  in  their  vitals ;  Death  stood  by; 
And  Reason,  when  the  props  of  flesh  gave  way, 

Purged  as  with  euphrasy  the  mortal  eye. 
Who  seeks  for  worldly  honors,  wealth,  or  power, 
Will  find  them  vain  indeed  at  that  dread  hour  I 

4L 

These  things  are  vain ;  but  all  things  are  not  so ; 

The  virtues  and  the  hopes  of  human-kind  !  — 
Yea,  by  the  God  who,  ordering  all  below, 

In  his  own  image  made  the  immortal  mind, 
Desires  there  are  which  draw  from  Him  their  birth, 
And  bring  forth  lasting  fruits    for    Heaven    and 
Earth. 

42. 

Therefore  through  evil  and  through  good  content, 
The  righteous  man  performs  his  part  assign'd  ; 

In  bondage  lingering,  or  with  sufferings  spent. 
Therefore  doth  peace  support  the  heroic  mind ; 

And  from  the  dreadful  sacrifice  of  all. 

Meek  viroman  doth  not  shrirdi  at  Duty's  call. 

43. 

Therefore  the  Martyr  clasps  the  stake  in  faith, 
And  sings  thanksgiving  while  the  flames  aspire; 

Victorious  over  agony  and  death. 

Sublime  he  stands,  and  triumphs  in  the  fire, 

As  though  to  him  Elijah's  lot  were  given. 

And  that  the  chariot  and  the  steeds  of  Heaven. 


II. 


THE   EVIL   PROPHET. 

1. 

With  that  my  passionate  discourse  I  brake ; 

Too  fast  the  thought,  too  strong  the  feeling  came. 
Composed  the  Old  Man  listen'd  while  I  spake, 

Nor  moved  to  wrath,  nor  capable  of  shame ; 
And  when  I  ceased,  unalter'd  was  his  mien, 
His  hard  eye  unabash'd,  his  front  serene. 


Hard  is  it  error  from  the  mind  to  weed, 

He  answer'd,  where  it  strikes  so  deep  a  root. 

Let  us  to  other  argument  proceed. 

And  if  we  may,  discover  what  the  fruit 

Of  this  long  strife,  —  what  harvest  of  great  good 

The  World  shall  reap  for  all  this  cost  of  blood ! 


Assuming  then  a  frown  as  thus  he  said, 

He  stretch'd  his  hand  from  that   commanding 
height; 


II. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


763 


Beliold,  quoth  he,  where  thrice  ten  thousand  dead 

Are  laid,  the  victims  of  a  single  light ! 
And  thrice  ten  thousand  more  at  Ligny  lie, 
Slain  for  the  prelude  to  this  tragedy ! 

4. 

This  but  a  page  of  the  great  book  of  war,  — 
A  drop  amid  the  sea  of  human  woes !  — 

Thou  canst  remember  when  the  Morning  Star 
Of  Freedom  on  rejoicing  France  arose, 

Over  her  vine-clad  hills  and  regions  gay, 

Fair  even  as  Phosphor,  who  foreruns  the  day. 


Such  and  so  beautiful  that  Star's  uprise ; 

But  soon  the  glorious  dawn  was  overcast : 
A  baleful  track  it  held  across  the  skies. 

Till  now,  through  all  its  fatal  changes  past. 
Its  course  fulfiU'd,  its  aspects  understood, 
On  Waterloo  it  hath  gone  down  in  blood. 

6. 
Where  now  the  hopes  with  which  thine    ardent 
youth 
Rejoicingly  to  run  its  race  began  ? 
Where  now  the  reign  of  Liberty  and  Truth, 

The  Rights  Omnipotent  of  Equal  Man, 
The  principles  should  make  all  discord  cease, 
And   bid   poor   human-kind   repose  at  length   in 
peace  ? 


Behold  the  Bourbon  to  that  throne  by  force 
Restored,  from  whence  by  fury  he  was  cast : 

Thus  to  the  point  where  it  began  its  course, 
The  melancholy  cycle  comes  at  last ; 

And  what  are  all  the  intermediate  j'ears  ?  — 

What,  but  a  bootless  waste  of  blood  and  tears  ! 

8. 
The  peace  which  thus  at  Waterloo  ye  won, 

Shall  it  endure  with  this  e-xasperate  foe  .' 
In  gratitude  for  all  that  ye  have  done. 

Will  France  her  ancient  enmity  forego  ? 
Her  wounded  spirit,  her  envenom'd  will 
Ye  know, — and  ample  means  are  left  her  still. 


What  though  the  tresses  of  her  strength  be  shorn ; 

The  roots  remain  untouch'd  ;  and  as  of  old 
The  bondsman  Samson  felt  his  power  return 

To  his  knit  sinews,  so  shall  ye  behold 
France,  like  a  giant  fresh  from  sleep,  arise 
And  rush  upon  her  slumbering  enemies. 

10. 

Woe  then  for  Belgium !  for  this  ill-doom'd  land, 
The  theatre  of  strife  through  every  age  ! 

Look  from  this  eminence,  whereon  we  stand, — 
What  is  the  region  round  us  but  a  stage 

For  the  mad  pastime  of  Ambition  made. 

Whereon  War's  dreadful  drama  may  be  play'd? 

11. 

Thus  hath  it  been  from  history's  earliest  light. 
When  yonder  by  the  Sabis  Cajsar  stood. 


And  saw  his  legions,  raging  from  the  fight, 
Root  out  the  noble  nation  they  subdued ; 
Even  at  this  day  the  peasant  findeth  there 
The  relics  of  that  ruthless  massacre. 

12. 

Need  I  recall  the  long  religious  strife.' 

Or  William's  hard-fought   fields  ?    or  Marl- 
borough's fame, 

Here  purchased  at  such  lavish  price  of  life, — 
Or  Fontenoy,  or  Fleurus'  later  name .' 

Wherever  here  the  foot  of  man  may  tread, 

The  blood  of  man  hath  on  that  spot  been  shed. 

13. 

Shall  then  Futurity  a  happier  train 

Unfold,  than  this  dark  picture  of  the  past .' 

Dreamst  thou  again  of  some  Saturnian  reign, 
Or  that  this  ill-compacted  realm  should  last ' 

Its  wealth  and  weakness  to  the  foe  are  known. 

And  the  first  shock  subverts  its  baseless  throne. 

14. 

O  wretched  country,  better  should  thy  soil 
Be  laid  again  beneath  the  invading  seas. 

Thou  goodliest  masterpiece  of  human  toil. 

If    still  thou  must  be   doom'd   to  scenes   like 
these ! 

O  Destiny  inexorable  and  blind  ! 

O  miserable  lot  of  poor  mankind  ! 

15. 

Saying  thus,  he  fix'd  on  me  a  searching  eye 
Of  stern  regard,  as  if  my  heart  to  reach  • 

Yet  gave  he  now  no  leisure  to  reply ; 

For  ere  I  might  dispose  my  thoughts  for  speech, 

The  Old  Man,  as  one  who  felt  and  understood 

His  strength,  the  theme  of  his  discourse  pursued. 

16. 

If  we  look  farther,  what  shall  we  behold 
But  every  where  the  swellin^g  seeds  of  ill, 

Half-smother'd  fires,  and  causes  manifold 

Of  strife  to  come ;  the  powerful  watching  still 

For  fresh  occasion  to  enlarge  his  power. 

The  weak  and  injured  waiting  for  their  hour  .•" 

17. 

Will  the  rude  Cossack  with  his  spoils  bear  back 
The  love  of  peace  and  humanizing  art.' 

Think  ye  the  mighty  Moscovite  shall  lack 

Some  specious  business  for  the  ambitious  heart .' 

Or  the  black  Eagle,  when  she  moults  her  ])lume, 

The  form  and  temper  of  the  Dove  assume  .' 

18. 

From  the  old  Germanic  chaos  hath  there  risen 
A  happier  order  of  cslablish'd  things.' 

And  is  the  Italian  Mind  from  papal  prison 
Set  free  to  soar  upon  its  native  wings.' 

Or  look  to  Spain,  and  let  her  Despot  tell 

If  there  thy  high-raised  hopes  are  answer'd  well  '• 

19. 

At  that  appeal  my  spirit  breathed  a  groan  ; 
But  he  triumphantly  pursued  his  spf'ech  : 


764 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE, 


III. 


O  Child  of  Earth,  he  cried  with  loftier  tone, 

The  present  and  the  past  one  lesson  teach ; 
Look  where  thou  wilt,  tlie  liistory  of  man 
Is  but  a  thorny  maze,  without  a  plan  ' 

20. 
The  winds  which  have  in  viewless  heaven  their 
birth, 
The  waves  which  in  their  fury  meet  the  clouds, 
The  central  storms  which  shake  the  solid  earth. 

And  from  volcanoes  burst  in  fiery  floods, 
Are  not  more  vague,  and  purportless,  and  blind, 
Than  is  the  course  of  things  among  mankind ! 

2L 

Rash  hands  unravel  what  the  wise  have  spun ; 

Realms  which  in  story  fill  so  large  a  part, 
Rear'd  by  the  strong,  are  by  the  weak  undone ; 

Barbarians  overthrow  the  works  of  art. 
And  what  force  spares  is  sapp'd  by  sure  decay,  — 
So  earthly  things  are  changed  and  pass  away. 

22. 

And  think  not  thou  thy  England  hath  a  spell. 
That  she  this  general  fortune  should  elude ; 

Easier  to  crush  the  foreign  foe,  than  quell 
The  malice  which  misleads  the  multitude, 

And  that  dread  malady  of  erring  zeal. 

Which  like  a  cancer  eats  into  the  commonweal. 

23. 

The  fabric  of  her  power  is  undermined ; 

The  earthquake  underneath  it  will  have  way. 
And  all  that  glorious  structure,  as  the  wind 

Scatters  a  summer  cloud,  be  swept  away  ; 
For  Destiny,  on  this  terrestrial  ball. 
Drives  on  her  iron  car,  and  crushes  all. 

24. 
Thus  as  he  ended,  his  mysterious  form  [view. 

Enlarged,   grew    dim,  and   vanish'd   from    my 
At  once  on  all  sides  rusli'd  the  gather'd  storm. 
The   thunders    roU'd   around,   the    wild    winds 
blew. 
And  as  the  tempest  round  the  summit  beat. 
The  whole  frail  fabric  shook  beneath  my  feet. 


III. 

THE   SACRED  MOUNTAIN. 

1. 

But  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  voice  exclaim, 
Hither,  my  Son,  oh,  hither  take  thy  flight ! 

A  heavenly  voice  which  call'd  me  by  my  name. 
And  bade   me   hasten    from   that    treacherous 
height : 

The  voice  it  was  which  1  was  wont  to  hear, 

Sweet  as  a  Mother's  to  her  infant's  ear. 


I  hesitated  nc  ,  but  at  the  call 

Sprung  from  the  summit  of  that  tottering  tower. 


There  is  a  motion  known  in  dreams  to  all. 

When,  buoyant  by  some  self-sustaining  power. 
Through  air  we  seem  to  glide,  as  if  set  free 
From  all  encumbrance  of  mortality. 


Thus  borne  aloft,  I  reach'd  the  Sacred  Hill, 
And  left  the  scene  of  tempests  far  behind  ; 

But  that  old  tempter's  parting  language  still 
Press'd  like  a  painful  burden  on  my  mind ; 

The  troubled  soul  had  lost  her  inward  light. 

And  all  within  was  black  as  Erebus  and  Night. 

4. 
The  thoughts  which  I  had  known  in  youth  return'd, 

But,  oh,  how  changed  !  a  sad  and  spectral  train  ; 
And  while  for  all  the  miseries  past  I  monrn'd. 

And  for  the  lives  which  had  been  given  in  vain. 
In  sorrow  and  in  fear  I  turn'd  mine  eye 
From  the  dark  aspects  of  futurity. 


I  sought  the  thickest  woodland's  shade  profound, 
As  suited  best  my  melancholy  mood. 

And  cast  myself  upon  the  gloomy  ground. 

When  lo  !  a  gradual  radiance  fill'd  the  wood; 

A  heavenly  presence  rose  upon  my  view. 

And  in  that  form  divine  the  awful  Muse  I  knew. 


Hath  then  that  Spirit  false  perplcx'd  thy  heart, 
O  thou  of  little  faith  '  severe  she  cried. 

Bear  with  me.  Goddess,  heavenly  as  thou  art. 
Bear  with  my  earthly  nature  !  I  replied. 

And  let  me  pour  into  thine  ear  my  grief; 

Thou  canst  enlighten,  thou  canst  give  relief. 


The  ploughshare  had  gone  deep,  the  sower's  hand 
Had  scatter'd  in  the  open  soil  the  grain  : 

The  harrow,  too,  had  well  prepared  the  land ; 
I  look'd  to  see  the  fruit  of  all  this  pain  !  — 

Alas !  the  thorns  and  old  inveterate  weed 

Have  sprung  again,  and  stifled  the  good  seed. 

8. 
I  hoped  that  Italy  should  break  her  chains, 

Foreign  and  papal,  with  the  world's  applause. 
Knit. infirm  union  her  divided  reigns. 

And  rear  a  well-built  pile  of  equal  laws  : 
Then  might  the  wrongs  of  Venice  be  forgiven, 
And  joy  should  reach  Petrarca's  soul  in  Heaven. 

9. 

I  hoped  that  that  abhorr'd  Idolatry 

Had  in  the  strife  received  its  mortal  wound  : 

The  Souls  which  from  beneath  the  Altar  cry, 
At  length,  I  thought,  had  their  just  vengeance 
found  ;  — 

In  purple  and  in  scarlet  clad,  behold 

The  Harlot  sits,  adorn'd  with  gems  and  gold  ! 

10. 
The  golden  cup  she  bears  full  to  the  brim 
Of  her  abominations,  as  of  yore  ; 


in. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


765 


Her  eyeballs  with  inebriate  triumph  swim ; 

Though  drunk  with  righteous  blood,  she  thirsts 
for  more, 
Eao-er  to  reassert  her  influence  fell, 
And  once  again  let  loose  the  Dogs  of  lloll 

11. 

Woe  for  that  people,  too,  who  by  their  path 

For   these  late   triumphs  first   made   plain   the 
way; 

Whom,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shade  of  Death, 
No  fears  nor  fiery  sufferings  could  dismay  ; 

Art  could  not  tempt,  nor  violence  enthrall 

Their  firm  devotion,  faithful  found  through  all. 

12. 

Strange  race  of  haughty  heart  and  stubborn  will, 
Slavery  they  love,  and  chains  witii  pride  they 
wear  ; 

Inflexible  alike  in  good  or  ill. 
The  inveterate  stamp  of  servitude  they  bear. 

Oil  fate  perverse,  to  see  all  change  withstood, 

There  only  where  all  change  must  needs  be  good  ! 

13. 

But  them  no  foe  can  force,  nor  friend  persuade  ; 

Impassive  souls  in  iron  forms  enclosed. 
As  though  of  human  mould  they  were  not  made, 

But  of  some  sterner  elements  composed, 
Against  offending  nations  to  be  sent. 
The  ruthless  ministers  of  punishment. 

14. 

Where  are  those  Minas  after  that  career 

Wherewith  all  Europe  rang  from  side  to  side  ? 

In  exile  wandering !     Where  the  Mountaineer,  — 
Late,  like  Pelayo,  the  Asturian's  pride  ? 

Had  Ferdinand  no  mercy  for  that  life. 

Exposed  so  long  for  him  in  daily,  hourly  strife  ! 

15. 

From  her  Athenian  orator  of  old 

Greece  never  listen'd  to  sublimer  strain 

Than  that  with  which,  for  truth  and  freedom  bold, 
Quintana  moved  the  inmost  soul  of  Spain. 

What  meed  is  his  let  Ferdinand  declare  — 

Chains,  and  the  silent  dungeon,  and  despair  ! 

16. 

For  this  hath  England  borne  so  brave  a  part ! 

Spent  with  endurance,  or  in  battle  slain, 
Is  it  for  this  so  many  an  English  heart 

Lies  mingled  with  the  insensate  soil  of  Spain  ! 
Is  this  the  issue,  this  the  happy  birth 
In  those  long  throes  and  that  strong  agony  brought 
forth ! 

17. 

And  oh  !  if  England's  fatal  hour  draw  nigh,  — 
If  tli/it  most  glorious  edifice  should  fall 

By  the  wild  hands  of  bestial  Anarchy, — 

Then  might  it  seem  that  He  who  ordereth  all 

Doth  take  for  sublunary  things  no  care  ;  — 

The  burden  of  that  thought  is  more  than  I  can 
bear. 


18. 
Even  as  a  mother  listens  to  her  child 

My  plaint  the  Muse  divine  benignant  heard, 
Then  answer'd,  in  reproving  accents  mild, 

What  if  thou  seest  the  fruit  of  hope  deferr'd; 
Dost  thou  for  tliis  in  faltering  faith  repine  ? 
A  manlier,  wiser  virtue  should  be  thine  ! 

19. 
Ere  the  good  seed  can  give  its  fruit  in  Spain, 

The  light  must  shine  on  that  bedarken'd  land. 
And  Italy  must  break  her  papal  chain. 

Ere  the  soil  answer  to  the  sower's  hand; 
For,  till  the  sons  their  fathers'  fault  repent. 
The  old  error  brings  its  direful  punishment. 

20. 
Hath  not  experience  bade  the  wise  man  see 

Poor  hope  from  innovations  premature .' 
All  sudden  change  is  ill :  slow  grows  the  tree 

Which  in  its  strength  througli  ages  shall  endure. 
In  that  ungrateful  earth  it  long  may  lie 
Dormant,  but  fear  not  that  the  seed  should  die. 

21. 

Falsely  that  Tempter  taught  thee  that  the  past 
Was  but  a  blind,  inextricable  maze  ; 

Falsely  he  taught  that  evil  overcast 

With  gathering  tempests  these  propitious  days. 

That  he  in  subtle  snares  thy  soul  might  bind. 

And  rob  thee  of  thy  hopes  for  human-kind. 

22. 

He  told  thee  the  beginning  and  the  end 
Were  indistinguishable  all,  and  dark  ; 

And  when  from  his  vain  Tower  he  bade  thee  bend 
Thy  curious  eye,  well  knew  he  that  no  spark 

Of  heavenly  light  would  reach  the  baffled  sense ; 

The  mists  of  earth  lay  round  him  all  too  dense. 

23. 

Must  1,  as  thou  hadst  chosen  the  evil  part. 
Tell  thee  that  Man  is  free  and  God  is  good .' 

These  primal  truths  are  rooted  in  thy  heart : 
But  these,  being  rightly  felt  and  understood, 

Should  bring  with  them  a  hope,  calm,  constant, 
sure. 

Patient,  and  on  the  rock  of  faith  secure. 

24. 

The  Monitress  Divine,  as  thus  she  spake. 
Induced  me  gently  on,  ascending  still. 

And  thus  emerging  from  tliat  mournful  brake 
We  drew  toward  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

And  reach'd  a  green  and  sunny  place,  so  fair 

As  well  with  long-lost  Eden  might  compare. 

25. 
Broad  cedars  grew  around  that  lovely  glade. 

Exempted  from  decay,  and  never  sere, 
Their    wide-spread    boughs    diflTused    a   fragrant 
shade ; 
The  cypress  incorruptible  was  here. 
With  fluted  stem  and  head  aspiring  high, 
Nature's  proud  column,  pointing  to  the  sky. 


7fi6 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


III. 


26. 
There,  too,  the  vigorous  olive  in  its  pride. 

As  in  its  own  Apulian  soil  uncheck'd, 
Tower'd  high,  and  sj)read  its  glaucous  foliage  wide  : 

With  liveliest  hues  the  mead  beneath  was  deck'd, 
Gift  of  that  grateful  tree  that  with  its  root 
Repays  the  earth,  from  whence  it  feeds  its  fruit. 

27. 
There,  too,  the  sacred  bay,  of  brighter  green, 

Exalted  its  rejoicing  head  on  high  ; 
And  there  the  martyrs'  liolier  palm  was  seen 

Waving  its  plumage  as  the  breeze  went  by. 
All  fruits  which  ripen  under  genial  skies 
Grew  there,  as  in  another  Paradise. 

28. 
And  over  all  that  lovely  glade  there  grew 

All  wholesome  roots  and  plants  of  healing  power ; 
The  herb  of  grace,  the  medicinal  rue. 

The  poppy  rich  in  wortli  as  gay  in  flower ; 
The  heart's-ease  that  dehghteth  every  eye, 
And  sage  divine,  and  virtuous  euphrasy. 

29. 
Unwounded  here  Judasa's  balm  distill'd 

Its  precious  juice  ;  the  snowy  jasmine  here 
Spread  its  luxuriant  tresses  wide,  and  fill'd 

With  fragrance  the  delicious  atmosphere  ; 
More  piercing  still  did  orange-flowers  dispense 
From  golden  groves  the  purest  joy  of  sense. 

30. 

As  low  it  lurk'd  the  tufted  moss  between. 
The  violet  there  its  modest  perfume  shed. 

Like  humble  virtue,  rather  felt  than  seen  : 
And  here  the  Rose  of  Sharon  rear'd  its  head, 

The  glory  of  all  flowers,  to  sense  and  sight 

Yielding  their  full  contentment  of  delight. 

31. 

A  gentle  river  wound  its  quiet  way 

Through    this    sequester'd   glade,    meandering 
wide ; 
Smooth  as  a  mirror  here  the  surface  lay, 

Where  the  pure  lotus,  floating  in  its  pride, 
Enjoy'd  the  breath  of  heaven,  the  sun's  warm  beam, 
And  the  cool  freshness  of  its  native  stream. 

32. 

Here,  o'er  green  weeds,  whose  tresses  waved  out- 
spread, 

With  silent  lapse  the  glassy  waters  run  ; 
Here,  in  fleet  motion  o'er  a  pebbly  bed. 

Gliding  they  glance  and  ripple  to  the  sun  ; 
The  stirring  breeze  that  swept  them  in  its  flight, 
Raised  on  the  stream  a  shower  of  sparkling  light. 

33. 
And  all  sweet  birds  sung  there  their  lays  of  love ; 

The  mellow  thrush,  the  blackbird  loud  and  shrill. 
The  rapturous  nightingale  that  shook  the  grove. 

Made  the  ears  vibrate,  and  the  heart-strings  tlirill ; 
The  ambitious  lark,  that,  soaring  in  the  sky, 
Pour'd  forth  her  lyric  strain  of  ecstasy. 


34. 
Sometimes,  when  that  wild  chorus  intermits. 

The  linnet's  song  was  heard  amid  the  trees, 
A  low,  sweet  voice ;  and  sweeter  still,  at  fits 

The  ringdove's  wooing  came  upon  the  breeze; 
While    with   the  wind   which  moved    the  leaves 

among. 
The  murmuring  waters  join'd  in  undersong. 

35. 
The  hare  disported  here,  and  fear'd  no  ill, 

For  never  evil  thing  that  glade  came  nigh  ; 
The  sheep  were  free  to  wander  at  their  will, 

As  needing  there  no  earthly  shepherd's  eye  ; 
The  bird  sought  no  concealment  for  her  nest, 
So  perfect  was  the  peace  wherewith  those  bowers 
were  blest. 

36. 

All  blending  thus  with  all  in  one  delight, 

Tiie  soul  was  soothed,  and  satisfied,  and  fill'd ; 
This  mingled  bliss  of  sense,  and  sound,  and  sight, 
The  flow  of  boisterous  mirth  might  there  have 
still'd. 
And,  sinking  in  the  gentle  spirit  deep, 
Have  touch 'd  those  strings  of  joy  which  make  us 
weep. 

37. 

Even  Ihns  in  earthly  gardens  had  it  been. 

If  earthly  gardens  might  with  these  compare  ; 

But  more  than  all  such  influences,  I  ween. 
There  was  a  heavenly  virtue  in  the  air. 

Which  laid  all  vain,  perplexing  thoughts  to  rest, 

And  lieal'd,  and  calm'd,  and  purified  the  breast. 

38. 
Then  said  I  to  that  guide  divine,  My  soul. 

When  here  we  enter'd,  was  o'ercharged  with 
grief; 
For  evil  doubts,  which  I  could  not  control. 
Beset  my  troubled  spirit.     This  relief,  — 
This  change,  —  whence  are  they.'  Almost  it  might 

seem 
1  never  lived  till  now  :  —  all  else  had  been  a  dream. 

39. 

My  heavenly  teacher  answer'd.  Say  not  seem  ;  — 
In-this  place  all  things  are  what  they  appear; 

And  they  who  feel  the  past  a  feverish  dream, 
Wake  to  reality  on  entering  here. 

These  waters  are  the  Well  of  Life,  and  lo ! 

The  Rock  of  Ages  there,  from  whence  they  flow 

40. 
Saying  thus,  we  came  upon  an  inner  glade, 

The  holiest  place  that  human  eyes  might  see  ; 
For  all  that  vale  was  like  a  temple  made 

By  Nature's  hand,  and  this  the  sanctuary ; 
Where,  in  its  bod  of  living  rock,  the  Rood 
Of  Man's  redemption  firmly  planted  stood. 

41. 
And  at  its  foot  the  never-failing  Well 

Of  Life  profusely  flow'd  that  all  might  drink. 


III. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


767 


Most  blessed  Water  !     Neither  tongue  can  tell 
The  blessedness  thereof,  nor  heart  can  think, 
Save  only  those  to  whom  it  hath  been  given 
To  taste  of  that  divinest  gift  of  Heaven. 

42. 
There  grow  a  goodly  Tree  this  Well  beside  ;  — 

Behold  a  branch  from  Eden  planted  here, 
Pluck'd   from   the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  said  my 
guide. 
O  Child  of  Adam,  put  away  thy  fear, — 
In  thy  ih-st  father's  grave  it  hath  its  root; 
Taste  thou  the  bitter,  but  the  wholesome  fruit. 

43. 

In  awe  I  heard,  and  trembled,  and  obey'd : 
The  bitterness  was  even  as  of  death ; 

I  felt  a  cold  and  piercing  thrill  pervade 

My  loosen'd  limbs,  and  losing  sight  and  breath. 

To  earth  I  should  have  fallen  in  my  despair. 

Had  I  not  clasp'd  the  Cross,  and  been  supported 
there. 

44. 

My  heart,  I  thought,  was  bursting  with  the  force 
Of  that  most  fatal  fruit ;  soul-sick  I  felt. 

And  tears  ran  down  in  such  continuous  course, 
As  if  the  very  eyes  themselves  should  melt. 

But  then  I  heard  my  heavenly  teacher  say, 

Drink,  and  this  mortal  stound  will  pass  away. 

45. 
I  stoop'd  and  drank  of  that  divinest  Well, 

Fresh  from  the  Rock  of  Ages  where  it  ran  , 
It  had  a  heavenly  quality  to  quell 

My  pain  :  —  I  rose  a  renovated  man. 
And  would  not  now,  when  that  relief  was  known. 
For  worlds  the  needful  suffering  have  foregone. 

46. 
Even  as  the  Eagle  (ancient  storyers  say) 

When,  faint  with  years,  she  feels  her  flagging 
wing. 
Soars  up  toward  the  mid  sun's  piercing  ray, 

Then,  fill'd  with  fire,  into  some  living  spring 
Plunges,  and  casting  there  her  aged  plumes. 
The  vigorous  strength  of  primal  youth  resumes;  — 

47. 
Such  change  in  me  that  blessed  Water  wrought ; 

The  bitterness  which,  from  its  fatal  root. 
The  Tree  derived,  with  painful  healing  fraught, 

Pass'd  clean  away ;  and  in  its  place  the  fruit 
Produced,  by  virtue  of  that  wondrous  wave, 
The  savor  which  in  Paradise  it  gave. 

48. 
Now,  said  the   heavenly   Muse,  thou  mayst  ad- 
vance. 
Fitly  prepared  toward  the  mountain's  height. 
O  Child  of  Man,  this  necessary  trance 

Hath  purified  from  flaw  thy  mortal  sight, 
That,  with  scope  unconfined  of  vision  free. 
Thou  the  beginning  and  the  end  mayst  see. 


49. 
She  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  on  we  went ; 

Hope  urged  me  forward,  and  my  soul  was  strong , 
With  winged  speed  we  scaled  the  steep  ascent. 

Nor  seem'd  tlie  labor  difficult  or  long, 
Ere  on  the  summit  of  the  sacred  hill 
Upraised  I  stood,  where  1  might  gaze  my  fill. 

50. 
Below  me  lay,  unfolded  like  a  scroll. 

The  boundless  region  where  I  wander'd  late, 
Where  I  might  see  realms  spread  and  oceans  roll. 
And  mountains  from  their  cloud-surmounting 
state 
Dwarf'd  like  a  map  beneath  the  excursive  sight. 
So  ample  was  the  range  from  that  commanding 
height. 

51. 

Eastward  with  darkness  round  on  every  side, 
An  eye  of  light  was  in  the  farthest  sky. 

Lo,  the  beginning!  —  said  my  heavenly  Guide; 
The  steady  ray  which  there  thou  canst  descry, 

Comes  from  lost  Eden,  from  the  primal  land 

Of  man  "  waved  over  by  the  fiery  brand." 

52. 

Look  now  toward  the  end  !  no  mists  obscure. 
Nor  clouds  will  there  impede  the  strengthen'd 
sight ; 
Unblench'd  thine  eye  the  vision  may  endure. 
I  look'd,  —  surrounded  with  effulgent  light 
More  glorious  than  all  glorious  hues  of  even. 
The  Angel  Death  stood  there  in  the  open  Gate  of 
Heaven. 


IV. 


THE  HOPES  OF  MAN. 

1. 

Now,  said  my  heavenly  Teacher,  all  is  clear!  — 
Bear  the  Beginning  and  the  End  in  mind, 

The  course  of  human  things  will  tlien  appear 
Beneatli  its  proper  laws;  and  thou  wilt  find, 

Through  all  their  seeming  labyrinth,  the  plan 

Which  "  vindicates  the  ways  of  God  to  Man." 

2. 

Free  choice  doth  Man  possess  of  good  or  ill ; 

All  were  but  mockery  else.    From  Wisdom's  way, 
Too  oft,  perverted  by  the  tainted  will. 

Is  his  rebellious  nature  drawn  astray; 
Therefore  an  inward  monitor  is  given, 
A  voice  that  answers  to  the  law  of  Heaven. 


Frail  as  he  is,  and  as  an  infant  weak, 

The  knowledge  of  his  weakness  is  his  strength ; 
For  succor  is  vouchsafed  to  those  who  seek 

In  humble  faith  sincere ;  and  when  at  length 
Death  sets  the  disimbodied  spirit  free, 
Accordins:  to  their  deeds  their  lot  shall  be. 


768 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


IV. 


4. 
Thus,  should  the  chance  of  private  fortune  raise 

A  transitory  doubt,  Death  answers  all. 
And  in  the  scale  of  nations,  if  tiie  ways 

Of  Providence  mysterious  we  may  call, 
Yet,  rigiitly  view'd,  all  history  doth  impart 
Comfort,  and  hope,  and  strength  to  the  believing 
heart. 


For  through  the  lapse  of  ages  may  the  course 
Of  moral  good  progressive  still  be  seen, 

Though  mournful  dynasties  of  Fraud  and  Force, 
Dark  Vice  and  purblind  Ignorance  intervene; 

Empires  and  Nations  rise,  decay  and  fall, 

But  still  the  Good  survives  and  perseveres  through 
all. 


Yea,  even  in  those  most  lamentable  times. 
When,  every  where  to  wars  and  woes  a  prey. 

Earth  seem'd  but  one  wide  theatre  of  crimes. 
Good  unperceived  had  work'd  its  silent  way. 

And  all  those  dread  convulsions  did  but  clear 

The  obstructed  path  to  give  it  free  career. 

7. 
But  deem  not  thou  some  overruling  Fate, 

Directing  all  things  with  benign  decree. 
Through  all  the  turmoil  of  this  mortal  state. 

Appoints  that  what  is  best  shall  therefore  be ; 
Even  as  from  man  his  future  doom  proceeds. 
So  nations  rise  or  fall  according  to  their  deeds. 


Light  at  the  first  was  given  to  human-kind. 
And  Law  was  written  in  the  human  heart. 

If  they  forsake  the  Light,  perverse  of  mind, 
And  wilfully  prefer  the  evil  part. 

Then  to  their  own  devices  are  they  left. 

By  their  own  choice  of  Heaven's  support  bereft. 


The  individual  culprit  may  sometimes 
Unpunish'd  to  his  after-reckoning  go  : 

Not  thus  collective  man,  —  for  public  crimes 
Draw  on  their  proper  punishment  below  ; 

When  Nations  go  astray,  from  age  to  age 

The  effects  remain,  a  fatal  heritage. 

10. 

Bear  witness,  Egypt,  thy  huge  monuments 
Of  priestly  fraud  and  tyranny  austere  ! 

Bear  witness  thou,  whose  only  name  presents 
All  holy  feelings  to  religion  dear,  — 

In  Earth's  dark  circlet  once  the  precious  gem 

Of  living  light,  —  O  fallen  Jerusalem  I 

IL 

See  barbarous  Africa,  on  every  side 

To  error,  wretchedness,  and  crimes  resign'd  ! 
Behold  the  vicious  Orient,  far  and  wide 

Enthrall'd  in  slavery  !     As  the  human  mind 
Corrupts  and  goes  to  wreck.  Earth  sickens  there, 
And  the  contagion  taints  the  ambient  air. 


12. 

They  had    Ihe   Light,  and  from   the  Light   they 
turri'd; 
What  marvel  if  they  grope  in  darkness  lost.' 
They  had  the   Law ;  —  God's  natural  Law  they 
scorn'd. 
And  choosing  error,  thus  they  pay  the  cost ! 
Wherever  Falsehood  and  Oppression  reign. 
There  degradation  follows  in  their  train. 

13. 

What,  then,  in  these  late  da3's  had  Europe  been. 

This  moral,  intellectual  heart  of  earth, — 
From  which  the  nations  who  lie  dead  in  sin 

Should  one  day  yet  receive  their  second  birth, — 
To  what  had  she  been  sunk  if  brutal  Force 
Had  taken  unrestrain'd  its  impious  course  ! 

14. 

The  Light  had  been  extinguish'd,  —  this,  be  sure. 
The  first  wise  aim  of  conscious  Tyranny, 

Whicl)  knows  it  may  not  with  the  Light  endure  • 
But  where  Light  is  not.  Freedom  cannot  be  ; 

"  Where  Freedom  is  not,  there  no  Virtue  is;  " 

Where  Virtue  is  not,  there  no  Happiness. 

15. 
If  among  hateful  Tyrants  of  all  times 

For  endless  execration  handed  down. 
One  may  be  found  surpassing  all  in  crimes. 

One  that  for  infamy  should  bear  the  crown, 
Napoleon  is  that  man,  in  guilt  the  first. 
Preeminently  bad  among  the  worst. 

16. 

For  not,  like  Scytliian  conquerors,  did  he  tread 
From  his  youth  up  the  common  path  of  blood; 

Nor  like  some  Eastern  T3Tant  was  he  bred 
In  sensual  harems,  ignorant  of  good;  — 

Their  vices  from  the  circumstance  have  grown; 

His,  by  deliberate  purpose,  were  his  own. 

17. 

Not  led  away  by  circumstance  he  err'd, 
But  from  the  wicked  heart  his  error  came  . 

By  Fortune  to  the  highest  place  preferr'd. 
He  sought  through  evil  means  an  evil  aim, 

And  all  his  rutliless  measures  were  design'd 

To  enslave,  degrade,  and  brutalize  mankind. 

18. 
Some  barbarous  dream  of  empire  to  fulfil. 

Those  iron  ages  he  would  have  restored, 
When  Law  was  but  the  ruffian  soldier's  will. 

Might  govern'd  all,  the  sceptre  was  the  sword. 
And  Peace,  not  elsewhere  finding  where  to  dwell, 
Sought  a  sad  refuge  in  the  convent-cell. 

19. 
Too  far  had  he  succeeded  !     In  his  mould 

An  evil  generation  liad  been  framed. 
By  no  religion  temper'd  or  controll'd. 

By  foul  examples  of  all  crimes  inflamed. 
Of  faith,  of  honor,  of  compassion  void  ,  — 
Such  were  the  fitting  agents  he  employ'd. 


IT. 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


769 


20. 
Believing  as  yon  lying  Spirit  taught, 

They  to  that  vain  philosophy  held  fast, 
And  trusted  that,  as  they  began  from  nought, 

To  nothing  they  should  needs  return  at  last ; 
Hence  no  restraint  of  conscience,  no  remorse, 
But  every  baleful  passion  took  its  course. 

21. 

And  had  tliey  triumph'd.  Earth  had  once  again. 
To  Violence  subdued,  and  impious  Pride, 

Verged  to  such  state  of  wickedness,  as  when 
The  Giantry  of  old  their  God  defied, 

And  Heaven,  impatient  of  a  world  like  this, 

Open'd  its  flood-gates,  and  broke  up  the  abyss. 

22. 

That  danger  is  gone  by.     On  Waterloo 

The  Tyrant's  fortune  in  the  scale  was  weigh'd,  — 

His  fortune  and  the  World's,  —  and  England  threw 
Her  sword  into  the  balance  — down  it  sway'd : 

And  when  in  battle  first  he  met  that  foe, 

There  he  received  his  mortal  overthrow. 

23. 
O  my  brave  Countrymen,  with  that  1  said,  — 

For  then  my  heart  with  transport  overflow'd,  — 
O  Men  of  England  !  nobly  have  ye  paid 

The  debt  which  to  your  ancestors  ye  owed. 
And  gather'd  for  your  children's  heritage 
A  glory  that  shall  last  from  age  to  age ! 

24. 

And  we  did  well  when  on  our  Mountain's  height 
For  Waterloo  we  raised  the  festal  flame. 

And  in  our  triumph  taught  the  startled  night 
To  ring  with  Wellington's  victorious  name, 

Making  the  far-off  mariner  admire 

To  see  the  crest  of  Skiddaw  plumed  with  fire. 

25. 

The  Moon  who  had  in  silence  visited 

His  lonely  summit  from  the  birth  of  time. 

That  hour  an  unavailing  splendor  shed. 
Lost  in  the  effulgence  of  the  flame  sublime. 

In  whose  broad  blaze  rejoicingly  we  stood. 

And  all  below  a  depth  of  blackest  solitude. 

26. 

Fit  theatre  for  this  great  joy  we  chose ; 

For  never  since  above  the  abating  Flood 
Emerging,  first  that  pinnacle  arose. 

Had  cause  been  given  for  deeper  gratitude. 
For  prouder  joy  to  every  English  heart, 
When  England  had  so  well  perform'd  her  arduous 
part. 

27. 
The  Muse  replied  with  gentle  smile  benign, — 
Well  mayst  thou  praise  the  land  that  gave  thee 
birth. 
And  bless  the  Fate  which  made  that  country  thine ; 

For  of  all  ages  and  all  parts  of  earth. 
To  choose  thy  time  and  place  did  Fate  allow. 
Wise  choice  would  be  this  England  and  this  Now. 
97 


28. 
From  bodily  and  mental  bondage,  there 

Hath  Man  his  full  emancipation  gain'd  ; 
The  viewless  and  illimitable  air 

Is  not  more  free  than  Thought;  all unrestrain'd, 
Nor  pined  in  want,  nor  sunk  in  sensual  sloth, 
There  may  the  immortal  Mind  attain  its  growth. 

29. 
There,  under  Freedom's  tutelary  wing, 

Deliberate  Courage  fears  no  human  foe ; 
There,  undefiled,  as  in  their  native  spring, 

The  living  waters  of  Religion  flow  ; 
There,  like  a  beacon,  the  transmitted  Light, 
Conspicuous  to  all  nations,  burnetii  bright. 

30. 
The  virtuous  will  she  hath,  which  should  aspire 

To  spread  the  sphere  of  happiness  and  light; 
She  hath  the  power  to  answer  her  desire. 

The  wisdom  to  direct  her  pov/er  aright ; 
The  will,  the  power,  the  wisdom  thus  combined, 
What  glorious  prospects  open  on  mankind  ! 

31. 
Behold  !  she  cried,  and  lifting  up  her  hand, 

The  shaping  elements  obey'd  her  will;  — 
A  vapor  gather'd  round  our  lofty  stand, 

Roll'd  in  thick  volumes  o'er  the  Sacred  Hill ; 
Descending  then,  its  surges  far  and  near 
Fill'd  all  the  wide  subjacent  atmosphere. 

32. 
As  I  have  seen  from  Skiddaw's  stony  height 

The  fleecy  clouds  scud  round  me  on  their  way, 
Condense  beneath,  and  hide  the  vale  from  sight. 

Then,  opening,  just  disclose  where  Derwent  lay 
Burnish'd  with  sunshine  like  a  silver  shield. 
Or   old    Enchanter's   glass,  for   magic  forms   fit 
field  ;— 

33. 
So  at  her  will,  in  that  receding  sheet 

Of  mist  wherewith  the  world  was  overlaid, 
A  living  picture  moved  beneath  our  feet. 

A  spacious  City  first  was  there  display'd. 
The  seat  where  England  from  her  ancient  reign 
Doth  rule  the  Ocean  as  her  own  domain. 

34. 
In  splendor  witii  those  famous  cities  old, 

Whose  power   it  hath  surpass'd,  it  now  might 
vie ; 
Through  many  a  bridge  the  wealthy  river  roU'd ; 
Aspiring  columns  rear'd  their  heads  on  high  ; 
Triumphal  arches  spann'd  the  roads,  and  gave 
Due  guerdon  to  the  memory  of  the  brave. 

35. 
A  landscape  follow'd,  such  as  might  compare 

With  Flemish  fields  for  well-requited  toil : 
The  wonder-working  hand  had  every  where 

Subdued  all  circumstance  of  stubborn  soil; 
In  fen  and  moor  reclaim'd,  rich  gardens  smiled, 
And  populous  hamlets  rose  amid  the  wild. 


770 


THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE, 


IV. 


36. 
There  the  old  seaman,  on  his  native  shore, 

Enjoy 'd  tlie  competence  deserved  so  well; 
The  soldier,  liis  dread  occupation  o'er, 

Of  well-rewarded  service  loved  to  tell; 
The  gray-halr'd    laborer   there,  whose  work  was 

done. 
In  comfort  saw  the  day  of  life  go  down. 

37. 

Such  was  the  lot  of  eld ;  for  childhood  there 
The  duties  which  bclonir  to  life  was  taught : 

The  good  seed,  early  sown  and  nursed  with  care, 
This  bounteous  harvest  in  its  season  brought; 

Thus  youth  for  manhood,  manhood  for  old  age 

Prepared,  and  found  their  weal  in  every  stage. 

38. 
Enough  of  knowledge  unto  all  was  given 

In  wisdom's  way  to  guide  their  steps  on  earth. 
And  make  tlie  immortal  spirit  fit  for  heaven. 

This  needful  learning  was  their  right  of  birth  ; 
Further  might  each,  who  chose  it,  persevere ; 
No  mind  was  lost  for  lack  of  culture  here. 

39. 

And  that  whole  happy  region  swarm'd  with  life, — 
Village  and  town;  —  as  busy  bees  in  spring, 

In  sunny  days,  when  sweetest  flowers  are  rife, 
Fill  fields  and  gardens  with  their  murmuring. 

Oh  joy  to  see  the  State  in  perfect  health  ! 

Her  numbers  were  her  pride,  and  power,  and  wealth. 

40. 
Then  saw  I,  as  the  magic  picture  moved, 

Her  shores  enrich'd  with  many  a  port  and  pier ; 
No  gift  of  liberal  Nature  unimproved. 

The  seas  their  never-failing  harvest  here 
Supplied,  as  bounteous  as  the  air  which  fed 
Israel,  when  manna  fell  from  heaven  for  bread. 

41. 

Many  a  tall  vessel  in  her  harbors  lay. 

About  to  spread  its  canvass  to  the  breeze. 

Bound  upon  happy  errand  to  convey 

The  adventurous  colonist  beyond  the  seas, 

Toward  those  distant  lands  where  Britain  blest 

With  her  redundant  life  the  East  and  West. 

42. 

The  landscape  changed  ;  —  a  region  next  was  seen, 
Where  sable  swans  on  rivers  yet  unfound 

Glided  through  broad  savannahs  ever  green  ; 
Innumerous  flocks  and  herds  were  feeding  round. 

And  scatter'd  farms  appear'd,  and  hamlets  fair. 

And  rising  towns,  wliich  made  another  Britain  there. 

43. 
Then,  thick  as  stars  which  stud  the  moonless  sky, 

Green  islands  in  a  peaceful  sea  were  seen ; 
Darken'd  no  more  with  blind  idolatry, 

Nor  curst  with  hideous  usages  obscene, 
But   heal'd  of  leprous  crimes,    from    butchering 

strife 
Deliver'd,  and  reclaim'd  to  moral  life. 


44. 
Around  the  rude  Morai,  the  temple  now 

Of  truth,  hosannahs  to  the  Holiest  rung: 
There,  from  the  Christian's  equal  marriage-vow, 

In  natural  growth,  the  household  virtues  sprung; 
Children  were  taught  the  paths  of  heavenly  peace, 
And  age  in  hope  look'd  on  to  its  release. 

45. 
The  light  those  happy  Islanders  enjoy'd. 

Good  messengers  from  Britain  had  convey  d ; 
(Where  might  such  bounty  wiselier  be  employ'd  .'') 
One  pcoj)le  with  their  teachers  were  they  made, 
Their    arts,    their  language,  and    their  faith  the 

same, 
And,  blest  in  all,  for  all  they  blest  the  British  name. 

46. 

Then  rose  a  different  land,  where  loftiest  trees 
High  o'er  the  grove  their  fan-like  foliage  rear; 

Where  spicy  bowers  upon  the  passing  breeze 
Diff'use  their  precious  fragrance  far  and  near; 

And  yet  untaught  to  bend  his  massive  knee, 

Wisest  of  brutes,  the  elephant  roams  free. 

47. 
Ministrant  there  to  health  and  public  good, 

The  busy  axe  was  heard  on  every  side. 
Opening  new  channels,  that  the  noxious  wood 

With  wind  and  sunshine  might  be  purified, 
And  that  wise  Government,  the  general  friend, 
Might  every  where  its  eye  and  arm  extend. 

48. 
The  half-brutal  Bedah  came  from  his  retreat, 

To  human  life  by  human  kindness  won  ; 
The  Cingalese  beheld  that  work  complete 

Which  Holland  in  her  day  had  well  begun; 
The  Candian,  prospering  under  Britain's  reign, 
Blest  the  redeeming  hand  which  broke  his  chain. 

49. 
Colors  and  castes  were  heeded  there  no  more ; 

Laws  which  depraved,  degraded,  and  oppress'd, 
Were  laid  aside,  for  on  that  happy  shore 

All  men  with  equal  liberty  were  blest ; 
And  through  the  land,  the  breeze  upon  its  swells 
Bore  the  sweet  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells. 

50. 
Again  the  picture  changed ;  those  Isles  I  saw 
With  every  crime  through  three  long  centuries 
curst. 
While  unrelenting  Avarice  gave  the  law ; 

Scene  of  the  injured  Indians'  sufferings  first. 
Then  doom'd,  for  Europe's  lasting  shame,  to  see 
The  wider-wasting  guilt  of  Slavery. 

51. 

That  foulest  blot  had  been  at  length  effaced ; 

Slavery  was  gone,  and  all  the  power  it  gave, 
Whereby  so  long  our  nature  was  debased, 

Baleful  alike  to  master  and  to  slave. 
O  lovely  Isles  !  ye  were  indeed  a  sight 
To  fill  the  spirit  with  intense  delight ' 


IV. 


NOTES    TO    THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE 


771 


52. 

For  willing  industry  and  cheerful  toil 

Perfom'd  their  easy  task,  with  Hope  to  aid; 

And  the  free  children  of  that  happy  soil 

Dwelt  each  in  peace  beneath  his  cocoa's  shade  ;  — 

A  race  who  with  the  European  mind 

The  adapted  mould  of  Africa  combined. 

53. 

Anon,  methought  that  in  a  spacious  Square, 
Of  some  great  town  the  goodly  ornament, 

Three  statutes  I  beheld,  of  sculpture  fair: 

These,  said  the  Muse,  are  they  whom  one  consent 

Shall  there  deem  worthy  of  the  purest  fame;  — 

Knowestthou  who  best  such  gratitude  may  claim.' 

54. 

Clarkson,  I  answer'd,  first;  whom  to  have  seen 
And  known  in  social  hours  may  be  my  pride, 

Such  friendship  being  praise;  and  one,  I  ween, 
Is  Wilberforce,  placed  rightly  at  his  side, 

Whose   eloquent   voice   in  that   great  cause    was 
heard 

So  oft  and  well.     But  who  shall  be  the  third.' 

55. 
Time,  said  my  Teacher,  will  reveal  the  name 

Of  him  who  with  these  worthies  shall  enjoy 
The  equal  honor  of  enduring  fame  ;  — 

He  who  the  root  of  evil  shall  destroy, 
And  from  our  Laws  shall  blot  the  accursed  word 
Of  Slave,  shall  rightly  stand  with  them  preferr'd. 

56. 
Enough  !  the  Goddess  cried  :  with  that  the  cloud 

Obey'd,  and  closed  upon  the  magic  scene : 
Thus  much,  quoth  she,  is  to  thine  hopes  allow'd ; 

Ills  may  impede,  delays  may  intervene. 
But  scenes  like  these  the  coming  age  will  bless, 
If  England  but  pursue  the  course  of  righteousness. 

57. 
On  she  must  go  progressively  in  good. 

In  wisdom  and  in  weal,  —  or  she  must  wane. 
Like  Ocean,  she  may  have  her  ebb  and  flood. 

But  stagnates  not.     And  now  her  path  is  plain  : 
Heaven's  first  command  she  may  fulfil  in  peace. 
Replenishing  the  earth  with  her  increase. 

58. 
Peace  she  hath  won,  —  with  her  victorious  hand 

Hath  won  through  rightful  war  auspicious  peace  ; 
Nor  this  alone,  but  that  in  every  land 

The  withering  rule  of  violence  may  cease. 
Was  ever  War  with  such  blest  victory  crown'd.' 
Did  ever  Victory  with  such  fruits  abound  .' 

59. 

Rightly  for  this  shall  all  good  men  rejoice, 

They  most  who  most  abhor  all  deeds  of  blood  ; 

Rightly  for  this  with  reverential  voice 

Exalt  to  Heaven  their  hymns  of  gratitude  ; 

For  ne'er  till  now  did  Heaven  thy  country  bless 

With  such  transcendent  cause  for  joy  and  thank- 
fulness. 


60 
If  they  in  heart  all  tyranny  abhor, 

This  was  the  fall  of  Freedom's  direst  foe  ; 
If  they  detest  the  impious  lust  of  war, 

Here  hath  that  passion  had  its  overthrow  ;  — 
As  the  best  prospects  of  mankind  are  dear. 
Their  joy  should  be  complete,  their  prayers  of  praise 
sincere. 

61. 

And  thou  to  whom  in  spirit  at  this  hour 
The  vision  of  thy  Country's  bliss  is  given, 

Who  feelest  that  she  holo.,  \er  trusted  power 
To  do  the  will  and  spread  the  word  of  Heaven,  — 

Hold  fast  the  faith  which  animates  thy  mind. 

And  in  thy  songs  proclaim  the  hopes  of  human-kind. 


NOTES. 


PART    L 

The  second  day  was  that  when  Mattel  broke 
The  Mussulmen.  —  I.  3,  p.  749. 

Upon  this  subject  Miss  Phimptre  relate.t  a  remarkable  an- 
ecilote,  in  tlm  words  of  one  ot'tlie  sufferers  at  Lyons:  — 

"  At  my  entrance  into  the  prison  of  the  Recluse  I  found 
about  twelve  hundred  of  my  follow-cilizens  already  immured 
there,  distributed  in  different  apartments.  The  doom  of  four 
fifths  of  tliom  at  least  was  considered  as  inevitable  ;  it  was  less 
a  prison  than  a  fold,  where  the  innocent  sheep  patiently  waited 
the  hour  tliat  was  to  carry  them  to  the  revolutionary  sliandilcs. 
[n  this  dreary  abode,  how  long,  how  tedious  did  the  days 
appear  I  they  seemed  to  liave  many  more  than  twenty-four 
hours.  Yet  we  were  allowed  to  read  and  write,  and  were 
composed  enough  to  avail  ourselves  of  this  privilege  ;  nay,  we 
could  somclinics  even  so  far  forget  our  situation  as  to  sport  and 
gambol  together.  The  continued  images  of  destruction  and 
devastation  which  we  had  before  our  eyes,  the  little  hope  that 
appeared  to  any  of  us  of  escaping  our  menaced  fate,  so  famil- 
iarized us  with  the  idea  of  death,  that  a  stoical  serenity  had 
taken  possession  of  our  minds  :  we  had  been  kept  in  a  state  of 
fear  till  the  sentiment  of  fear  was  lost.  All  our  conversation 
bore  thecharacter  of  this  disposition  :  it  was  reflective,  but  not 
complaining;  it  was  serious  without  being  melancholy;  and 
often  presented  novel  and  striking  ideas.  One  day,  when  we 
were  conversing  on  the  inevitable  chain  of  events,  and  the  ir- 
revocable order  of  things,  on  a  sudden  one  of  our  party  e.x- 
claimed  that  we  owed  all  our  misfortunes  to  Charles  Martel. 
We  thought  him  raving;  but  thus  he  reasoned  to  prove  his 
hypothesis.  'Had  not  Charles  Maitel,' said  he,  '  con(iuerod 
the  Saracens,  these  latter,  already  masters  of  Guienne,  of 
Saintonge,  of  Perigord,  and  of  Poitou,  would  soon  have  ex- 
tended their  dominion  over  all  France,  and  from  that  time  we 
should  have  had  no  more  religious  quarrels,  no  more  state  dis- 
putes ;  ue  should  not  now  have  assemblies  of  tlie  people,  clubs, 
couimiltees  of  public  safety,  sieges,  imprisonmenis,  bloody  ex- 
ecutions.' To  this  man  the  Turkish  system  of  government 
appeared  preferable  to  the  revolutionary  regime ;  and,  all 
chances  calciilated,  he  preferred  the  bow-string  of  the  Ba- 
shaw, rarely  drawn,  to  the  axe  of  the  guillotine,  incessantly  at 
work." 


That  old  siege  —  I.  10,  p.  750. 

"  It  is  uncertain  what  numbers  were  slain  during  the  siegs 
of  Ostend,  yet  it  is  said  that  there  was  lonnd  in  a  commissary'B 
\y  cket,  who  was  slain  before  Ostend  the  7thof  August,  before 


772 


NOTES    TO    THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE, 


IliG  yielding  thereof,  divers  romark.ible  notes  and  observations, 
and  among  the  rest  what  numboriiied  without  in  the  archduke's 
camp,  of  every  degree. 

Masters  of  the  camp 7 

Colonels 15 

Sergeants  Maiors 29 

Captaincs 505 

Lieutenants 1116 

Ensignes 322 

Sergeants 1911 

Corporals 11  (i6 

Lanspisadoes 600 

Soldiers 34663 

Marriners 611 

Women  and  cliildren 119 

All  which  amount  to  72124  persons  ;  which  number  is  not  so 
great,  considering  tlie  long  siege,  sickness,  and  the  cold  winters 
upon  the  sea  coast,  in  so  colil  a  climiite,  fighting  against  the 
elements.  It  is  unknown  what  number  died  in  the  town,  the 
which  is  thought  much  less,  for  th;it  there  were  not  so  many  in 
the  town,  and  they  were  better  lodged,  had  more  Oiise,  and 
were  better  victualled."  —  Grimestone's  ffisi.  o/ (Ac  JVitli- 
erlanrh,  p.  1317. 

"  The  besieged  in  Ostend  had  certain  adventuring  soldiers 
whom  they  called  Lopers,  ofthe  which,  among  other  captains, 
were  the  young  captain  Grenu,  and  captain  Adam  Van  Leest. 
Their  arms  which  they  bore  were  a  long  and  great  pike,  with 
a  flat  head  at  the  neallierenil  thereof,  to  the  end  that  it  should 
not  sink  too  deep  into  the  mud,  a  harquebuse  hung  in  a  scarf, 
as  we  have  said  of  Frebuters,  a  coutelas  at  his  side,  and  his 
dagger  about  his  neck,  who  would  usually  leap  over  a  ditch 
four  and  twenty  foot  broad,  skirmishing  often  with  his  enemy 
so  as  no  liurscnian  could  overtake  them  before  they  had  leapt 
over  the  ditches  againe."  —  Ibid.  1299. 

"  In  remembrance  of  the  long  siege  of  Ostend,  and  the 
winning  of  Since,  there  were  certaine  counters  made  in  the 
United  Provinces,  both  of  silver  and  cop|)er,  the  one  having  on 
the  one  side  the  picture  of  Ostend,  and  on  the  other  the  towns 
of  Ubinberg,  Grave,  Sluce,  Ardenbourg,  and  the  forts  of  Isen- 
dyke  and  Cadsant,  with  this  inscription  round  about.  '  Plus 
triennio  obsessa,  hosli  rudcra,  patri<B  quatuor  ez  me  urbes  dedi. 
Anno  1604.'  Ostend  being  more  than  tliree  years  besieged, 
gave  the  enemie  a  heap  of  stones,  and  to  her  native  country 
four  townes. 

"The  town  of  Utrecht  did  also  make  a  triumphant  piece  of 
coyne  both  of  gold  and  silver,  where  on  the  one  side  stood  the 
siege  of  Ostend,  and  on  the  other  the  siege  of  Sluce,  and  all 
the  forts  and  havens,  and  on  both  sides  round  about  was 
graven, 

'  Jehovah  prius  dedcrat  plus  quam  perdidimus.'  " 

mu.  1318. 


Many  a  rich  vessel,  from  the  injurious  sea, 
Enter  the  bnsom  of  thy  quiet  quay I.  12,  p.  750. 

These  lines  are  borrowed  from  duarles  ;  —  the  passage  in 
which  they  occur  would  be  very  pleasing  if  he  had  not  dis- 
figured it  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner. 

'  Saile  gentle  Pinnace  '.  now  the  heavens  are  clear, 
The  winds  blow  fiir:  behold  the  harbor's  near. 
Tridented  Neptune  hath  forgot  to  frown. 
The  rocks  are  past ;  the  storine  is  overblown. 
Up  weather-beaten  voyagers  and  rouze  ye, 
Forsake  your  loathed  Cabbins  ;  up  and  louze  ye 
Upon  the  open  decks,  and  smell  the  land  : 
Cheare  up,  the  welcome  shoare  is  nigh  at  hand. 
Saile  gentle  Pinnace  with  a  prosperous  gale 
To  the  Isle  of  Peace  :  saile  gentle  Pinnace  saile  ! 
Fortune  conduct  thee  ;  let  thy  koele  divide 
The  silver  streames,  that  thou  maist  safely  slide 
Into  the  bosom  of  thy  quiet  Key, 
And  quite  thee  fairly  ofthe  injurious  Sea. 

CiUARLEs's  jlrgalus  4'  Pnrthema. 


Bruges.  —  I,  14,  p.  750. 

Urbs  est  ad  miraculum  pulchra,  potens,  amana,  says  Luigi 
Guicciardini.  Its  power  is  gone  by,  but  its  beauty  is  perhaps 
more  impressive  now  than  in  the  days  of  its  splendor  and 
prosperity. 

M.  Paquet  Syphoricn,  and  many  writers  after  him,  mention 
the  preservation  of  the  monuments  of  Charles  the  Bold,  and 
his  daughter  Mary  of  Burgundy,  wife  to  the  Archduke  Max- 
imilian; but  they  do  not  mention  the  name  ofthe  Beadle  who 
preserved  them  at  the  imminent  risk  of  his  own  life.  Pierre 
Dezitter  is  this  person's  name.  During  the  revolutionary 
frenzy,  when  the  mob  seemed  to  take  most  pleasure  in  de- 
stroying whatever  was  most  venerable,  he  took  these  splendid 
tombs  to  pieces  and  buried  them  during  the  night,  for  which 
he  was  proscribed  and  a  reward  of  2000  francs  set  upon  his 
head.  Bonaparte,  after  his  marriage  into  the  Austrian  fam- 
ily, rewarded  him  with  1000  francs,  and  gave  10,000  for  orna- 
menting the  chapel  in  which  the  tombs  were  replaced.  This 
has  been  done  with  little  taste. 


that  sisterhood  whom  to  their  rule 

Of  holy  life  no  hasty  vows  restrain.  —  I.  31,  p.  751. 

The  Beguines.  Helyot  is  mistaken  when  he  says  (t.  viii.  p.  6) 
that  the  Beguinage  at  Mechlin  is  the  finest  in  all  Flanders  ;  it 
is  not  comparable  to  that  at  Ghent,  which  for  extent  and 
beauty  may  be  called  the  Capital  of  the  community. 


Most, 

Where  whilome  treachery  stain'd  the  English  name. 

I.  41,  p.  752 

In  1583,  "  the  English  garrison  of  Alost  being  mutinied  for 
their  pay,  the  Ganthois  did  not  only  refuse  to  give  it  them,  but 
did  threaten  to  force  them  out,  or  else  to  famish  them.  In  the 
mean  time  the  Prince  of  Parma  did  not  let  slip  this  opportunity 
to  make  his  profit  thereby,  but  did  solicit  them  by  fair  words 
and  promises  to  pay  them  ;  and  these  English  companies,  not 
accustomed  to  endure  hunger  and  want,  began  to  give  ear  unto 
him,  for  that  their  Colonel  Sir  John  Norris  and  the  States  were 
somewhat  slow  to  provide  for  tlieir  pay,  for  the  which  they 
intended  to  give  order,  but  it  was  too  late.  For  after  that  the 
English  had  chased  away  the  rest  ofthe  garrison  which  were 
of  the  country,  then  did  Captain  Pigot,  Vincent,  Tailor,  and 
others,  agree  to  deliver  up  the  town  unto  the  Spaniard,  giving 
them  for  their  pay,  which  they  received,  thirty  thousand 
pistolets.  And  so  the  said  town  was  delivered  unto  the  Span- 
iard in  the  beginning  of  December,  and  filled  with  VVallons. 
Most  of  these  English  went  to  serve  the  Prince  of  Parma  in 
his  camp  before  Eckloo,  but  finding  that  he  trusted  them  not, 
they  ran  in  a  manner  all  away."  —  Grimestone,  833. 

It  is  one  proof  of  the  improved  state  of  general  feeling  in 
the  more  civilized  states  of  Europe,  that  instances  of  this 
kind  of  treachery  have  long  since  ceased  even  to  be  suspected. 
During  the  long  wars  in  the  Netherlands,  nothing  was  more 
common  than  for  officers  to  change  their  party,  —  considering 
war  as  a  mere  profession,  in  which  their  services,  like  those 
of  a  lawyer,  were  for  the  best  bidder. 


Then  saw  we  Jlfflighem,  by  ruin  rent.  —  I.  42,  p.  752. 

This  magnificent  Abbey  was  destroyed  during  the  Revolu- 
tion,—  an  act  of  popular  madness  which  the  people  in  its 
vicinity  now  spoke  of  with  unavailing  regret.  The  library 
was  at  one  time  the  richest  in  Brabant ;  "  ciieberrimn,"  Luigi 
Guicciardini  calls  it,  "  adeo  quidem,  ut  quod  ad  libros  antiquos 
habcatur  pro  locupletissima  simul  et  laudatissima  universa  istius 
tractus."  The  destruction  of  books  during  the  Revolution 
was  deplorably  great.  A  bookseller  at  Brussels  told  me  he 
had  himself  at  one  time  sent  off  five  and  twenty  wagon-loads 
for  waste  paper,  and  sold  more  than  100,0001b.  weight  for  the 
same  purpose  !  In  this  manner  were  the  convent-librariec 
destroyed. 


NOTES    TO    THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


773 


Jlssche.fur  water  atidfitr  cakes  rcnown'd.  —  I.  44,  p.  752. 

The  Floinish  name  of  these  said  cakes  has  a  marvellously 
uncouth  appearance  —  suykcr-koekjckcns,  —  nevertheless  they 
are  good  cakes,  and  are  sold  hy  Judocus  de  Bisschop,  at  the 
sign  of  the  Jloor,  next  door  to  the  Auberge  la  Telc-de-Ba:iif. 
This  information  is  for  those  whom  it  may  concern. 


when  Belgian  cars  were  taught 

The  British  soldier's  cry,  half  groan,  half  prayer, 
Breathed  when  his  pain  was  more  than  he  can  bear. 

II.  12,  p.  753. 

One  of  our  coachmen,  who  had  been  employed  (like  all  his 
fraternity)  in  removing  the  wounded,  asked  us  what  was  the 
meaning  of  the  English  word  0  Lord!  for  thus,  he  said,  tlie 
wounded  were  continually  crying  out. 


Brabant  in  all  her  cities  felt  the  sound.  —  II.  15,  p.  753. 

The  battle  of  the  18th  was  heard  throughout  the  whole  of 
Brabant,  and  in  some  directions  far  beyond  it.  It  was  dis- 
tinctly heard  at  Herve  ;  and  I  have  been  assured,  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  that  it  was  perceived  at  Amiens.  The  firing 
on  the  16th  was  heard  at  Antwerp,  —  not  that  of  the  18th, 
though  the  scene  of  action  was  nearer. 


Here  Castanaca  reared  a  votive  fane.  —  III.  4,  p.  753. 

The  following  dedicatory  inscription  is  placed  over  the  por- 
tico of  Waterloo  Church  :  — 

D.  O.  M. 

Et  D.  D.  Josepho  et  Annoe 

Hoc  Sacellum 

Pro  Desiderata  Dominiis  Catholicis 

Caroli.  2.  Hisp.   Ind.  Regis  Belg.    Principis  Prosapia  Fran. 

Ant.  Agurto  Marchio  de  Castanaca  Belg.  Guberntor. 

The  a  in  Ouiernator  has  been  left  out,  either  by  the  mistake 
of  the  workmen,  or  for  want  of  room. 

Carlos  II.  of  Spain,  one  of  the  most  wretched  of  men,  married 
for  his  first  wife  Marie  Louise,  Lewis  the  Fourteenth's  niece. 
A  curious  instance  of  the  public  anxiety  that  she  should  pro- 
duce an  heir  to  the  throne  is  preserved  by  Florez  in  his  Mem- 
orias  de  las  Reynas  Catholicas.  When  she  had  been  married 
two  years  without  issue,  this  strange  epigram,  if  so  it  may  he 
called,  was  circulated. 

Parid  bclla  Flor  de  Lis 
En  affiiccion  tan  estrana  : 
Si  parts,  parts  d  Espana, 
Si  no  paris,  d  Paris. 

FJorez  describes  the  dress  of  the  bride  at  her  espousals  :  it 
was  a  robe  of  murray  velvet  embroidered  with  fleurs  de  lys  of 
gold  trimmed  with  ermine  and  jewels,  and  with  a  train  of  seven 
ells  long;  the  princesses  of  the  blood  had  all  long  trains,  but 
not  so  long,  the  length  being  according  to  their  proximity  to 
the  throne.  The  description  of  a  Queen's  dress  accorded  well 
with  the  antiquarian  pursuits  of  Florez  ;  but  it  is  amusing  to 
observe  some  of  the  expressions  of  this  laborious  writer,  a 
monk  of  the  most  rigid  habits,  whose  life  was  spent  in  severe 
study,  and  in  practices  of  mortification.  In  her  head-dress, 
he  says,  she  wore  porcelain  pins  which  supported  large  dia- 
monds, —  y  conrertian  en  cielo  aquel  poco  de  ticrra  :  and  at  the 
ball  after  the  espousals,  el  Cliri.stianisiiimo  danzd  con  la  Catho- 
lica.  These  appellations  sound  almost  as  oddly  as  Messrs. 
Bogue  and  Bennett's  description  of  St.  Paul  in  a  minuet,  and 
Timothy  at  a  card-table. 

This  poor  dueen  lived  eight  years  with  a  husband  whoso 
mind  and  body  were  equally  debilitated.  Never  were  the 
miseries  of  a  mere  state-marriage  more  lamentably  exemplified. 
In  her  hist  illness,  when  she  was  advised  to  implore  the  prayers 
of  a  personage  who  was  living  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  for  her 
recovery,  she  replied,  Certainly  I  will  not ;  —  it  would  be  folly 


to  ask  for  a  life  which  is  worth  so  little.  And  when,  toward 
the  last,  her  Confessor  inquired  if  any  thing  troubled  her,  her 
answer  was  that  she  was  in  perfect  peace,  and  rejoiced  that  she 
was  dying,  —  en  paz  me  hallo  Padre,  y  vtuy  guswsa  de  niorir. 
She  died  on  the  12th  of  February  ;  and  such  was  the  solicitude 
for  an  heir  to  the  monarchy,  that  on  the  15lh  of  May  a  second 
marriage  was  concluded  for  the  King. 


plain  tablets  by  the  soldier's  hand 

Raised  to  his  comrades  in  a  foreign  land.  —  III.  7,  p.  753 

The  inscriptions  in  the  church  are  as  follows :  — 

Sacred 
to  the  Memory 
of 
Lt.  Col.  Edward  Stables 

Sir  Francis  D'Oyley,  K.  C.  B. 

Charles  Thomas 

William  Miller 

William  Henry  Milner 

Capt.  Robert  Adair 

Edward  Grose 

Newton  Chambers 

Thomas  Brown 

Ensign  Edward  Pardee 
James  Lord  Hay 

the  Hon.  S.  S.  P.  Harrington 

of 

his  Britannic  Majesty's 

First  Regiment  of  Foot  Guards, 

who  fell  gloriously  in  the  battle 

of  (iuatre  Bras  and  Wateloo,*  on 

the  10th  and  18th  of  June, 

1815. 

The  Officers  of  the 

Regiment  have  erected  this 

Monument  in  commemoratioc 

of  the  fall  of  their 

Gallant  Companions. 


To 

the  Memory  of 

of 

Major  Edwin  Griffith, 

Lt.  Isaac  Sherwood,  and 

Lt.  Henry  Buckley, 

Officers  in  the  XV  King's  Regiment  of  Hussars 

(British) 

who  fell  in  the  battle  of 

Waterloo, 

June  18,  1815. 

This  stone  was  erected  by  the  Officers 

of  that  Regiment, 

as  a  testimony  of  their  respect. 


Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patriSi  mori. 


The  two  following  are  the  epitaphs  in  the  church-yard  :  — 

D.  O.  M. 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  Fitz  Gerald, 
of  the  Second  Regiment  of  Life  Guards  of  his  Britannic 
Majesty,  who  fell  gloriously  at  tlie  battle  of  La  Belle  Alliance, 
near  this  town,  on  the  18th  of  June,  1815,  in  the  41st  year  of 
his  life,  deeply  and  deservedly  regretted  by  his  family  and 
friends.  To  a  manly  loftiness  of  soul  be  united  all  the  virtues 
that  could  render  him  an  ornament  to  his  profession,  and  to 
private  and  social  life. 

Jlnz  manes  du  plus  vertueux  dcs  hommcs,  generalcment  rsti;nc 

et  regrcUi  de  safamillc  et  desesamis,  Ic  Lieutenant-Colonel  Fitz 

Qerald,  de  la   Gurd  da   Corps  de,  sa  Mije.stc  Brilannique,  tue 

nlorieuscmcnt  d  la  bataille  de  la  Belle  Alliance,  le  18  June,  1815 

R.  /.  P. 

*  The  word  is  thus  misspelt. 


774 


NOTES    TO    THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


D.  0.  M. 

Id  repose  U  Cvlonrl 
De  Lang-rchr,  Cnmmnndant 
le  -preinier  BattiiUun  tic 
Bremen,  Blcsse  d  JIurt  d 
la  Battaile  de  fVaterloo, 
le  18  June,  1815,  et  enterre 
le  Icndemain,  age, 

de  40  ans. 

R.  I.  P. 


tween  Hougouinont  anil  Pupelot  at  three  miles  ;  in  a  straight 
line  it  might  prohahly  not  exceed  two  and  a  half. 

Our  guide  was  very  much  displeased  at  the  name  which 
the  battle  had  obtained  in  England.  Why  call  it  the  battle 
of  Waterloo?  he  said,  —  call  it  Mont  St.  Jean,  call  it  La 
Belle  Alliance,  call  it  Hougoumont,  call  it  La  Haye  Sainte, 
call  it  Papelot,  —  any  thing  but  Waterloo. 


Lord  Uxbridge's  leg  is  buried  in  a  garden  opposite  to  the  inn, 
or  rather  pul)lic-house,  at  Waterloo.  The  owner  of  the  house 
in  wliicli  the  amputation  was  performed  considers  it  as  a  relic 
whlcli  has  fallen  to  his  share.  He  had  deposited  it  at  first  be- 
hind the  house  ;  but  as  he  intended  to  plant  a  tree  ujion  the 
s|)ot,  he  considered,  that  as  the  ground  there  was  not  his  own 
property,  the  boys  miglit  injure  or  destroy  the  tree,  and  there- 
fore he  removed  the  leg  into  bis  own  garden,  where  it  lies  in 
a  proper  sort  of  coffin,  under  a  mound  of  earth  about  three  or 
four  feet  in  diameter.  A  tuft  of  Michaelmas  daisies  was  in 
blossom  upon  this  mound  when  we  were  at  Waterloo  ;  but 
this  was  a  temporary  ornament :  in  November  the  owner 
meant  to  plant  a  weeping  willow  there.  He  was  obliging 
enough  to  give  me  a  copy  of  an  epitaph  which  he  had  pre- 
pared, and  which,  he  said,  -was  then  in  the  stone-cutter's 
hiinds.     It  is  as  follows  :  — 

Ci  est  enterree  la  Jainbe  de  V'dlastrr.,  brave,  et  vaillant  Comte 
Uzbridgc,  Lieutenant-Gencral,  Commandant  en  Chef  la  Ca- 
valerie  Angloise,  Bdge,  el  Ilullandoise  ;  blessc  le  18  Jidn,  1815, 
a  la  memorable  bataille  dc  Waterloo  ;  qui  par  sun  heroisme  a 
coiicouru  au  Iriomphe  dc  la  cause  du  Genre  humain,  glorieusement 
decidee  par  I'cclatante  vicloire  du,  ditjuur. 


When  Marlborough  here,  victorious  in  his  might. 
Surprised  the  French,  and  smote  them  in  tJieir  flight. 

in.  II,  p.  754. 

A  detachment  of  the  French  was  intrenched  at  Waterloo 
Chapel,  August,  1705,  when  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  ad- 
vanced to  attack  the  French  army  at  Over  Ysche,  and  this  de- 
tachment was  destroyed  with  great  slaughter.  {Echard's  Oaz- 
etteer.)  The  Sieur  La  Lande  says,  "  on  donne  la  chasse  d  un 
parte  Frangois  qui  etoit  d  Waterloo."  Marlborough  was  pre- 
vented by  the  Deputies  of  the  States  from  pursuing  his  advan- 
tage, and  attacking  the  enemy,  at  a  time  when  he  made  sure 
of  victory.  —  Hist,  dc  I'Empcreur  Charles  VI.  t.  ii.  p.  90. 


Mount  St.  John, 

The  hamlet  which  the  Highlanders  that  day 
Preserved  from  spoil.  — III.  15,  p.  754. 

The  peasant  who  led  us  over  the  field  resided  at  this  hamlet. 
Mont  St.  Jean  was  every  thing  to  him,  and  his  frequent  ex- 
clamations of  admiration  for  the  courage  of  the  Highlanders 
in  particular,  and  indeed  of  the  whole  army,  always  ended 
with  a  reference  to  his  own  dwelling-place  :  "  if  they  had  not 
fought  so  well.  Oh  mon  Dieu,  Mont  St.  Jean  would  have  been 
burnt." 

This  was  an  intelligent  man,  of  very  impressive  countenance 
and  manners.  Like  all  the  peasantry  with  whom  we  con- 
versed, he  spoke  with  the  bitterest  hatred  of  Bonaparte,  as 
the  cause  of  all  the  slaughter  and  misery  he  had  witnessed, 
and  repeatedly  expressed  his  astonishment  that  he  had  not 
been  put  to  death.  My  house,  said  he,  was  full  of  the  wound- 
ed : —  it  was  nothing  but  sawing  oft' legs,  and  sawing  off 
arms.  Oh  my  God,  and  all  for  one  man  !  Why  did  you  not 
put  him  to  death  .'  I  myself  would  have  put  him  to  death 
witli  my  own  hand. 


Sm/ill  theatre  for  such  a  tragedy.  —  III.  17,  p.  754. 

So  important  a  battle  perhaps  was  never  before  fought  within 
90  small  an  extent  of  ground.    I  computed  the  distance  be- 


.Admiring  Belgium  saw 

The  youth  proved  worthy  of  his  destined  crown. 

III.  20,  p.  754. 
A  man  at  Les  (iuatre  Bras,  who  spoke  with  the  usual  en- 
thusiasm of  the  Prince  of  Orange's  conduct  in  the  campaign, 
declared  that  he  fought  "  like  a  devil  on  horseback."  Look- 
ing at  a  portrait  of  the  (iueen  of  the  Netherlands,  a  lady  ob- 
served that  there  was  a  resemblance  to  the  Prince  ;  a  young 
Fleming  was  quite  angry  at  this,  —  he  could  not  bear  that  his 
hero  should  not  be  thought  beautiful  as  well  as  brave. 


Oenappe.  —  IV.  12,  p.  757. 

At  the  Roy  d'Espagne,  where  we  were  lodged,  Wellington 
had  his  head-quarters  on  the  17th,  Bonaparte  on  the  18th, 
and  Blucher  on  the  19th.  The  coachmen  had  told  us  that  it 
was  an  assez  bon  auberge ;  but  when  one  of  them  in  the  morn- 
ing askiul  how  we  had  passed  the  night,  he  observed  that  no 
one  ever  slept  at  Genappe,  —  it  was  imjiossible,  because  of  the 
continual  passing  of  posts  and  coal-carts. 


The  Cross  Roads.  —  IV.  24,  p.  758. 

It  is  odd  that  the  inscription  upon  the  directing-post  at 
Les  Quatre  Bras,  (or  rather  boards,  for  they  are  fastened 
against  a  house,)  should  be  given  wrongly  in  the  account  of 
the  campaign  printed  at  Frankfort.     The  real  directions  are, 

J  de  pte  ver  St.  Douler 
I  de  pte  ver  Genappe 
J  de  pte  ver  Marbais 
5  de  pie  ver  Frasne, 

spelt  in  this  manner,  and  ill  cut.     I  happened  to  copy  it  in  a 
mood  of  superfluous  minuteness. 

A  fat  and  jolly  Walloon,  who  inhabited  this  corner  house, 
ate  his  dinner  in  peace  at  twelve  o'clock  on  the  16th,  and  was 
driven  out  by  the  balls  flying  about  his  ears  at  four  the  same 
day.  This  man  described  that  part  of  the  action  which  took 
place  in  his  sight,  with  great  animaticn.  He  was  particularly 
impressed  by  the  rage,  —  the  absolute  fury  which  the  French 
displayed;  they  cursed  the  English  while  they  were  fighting, 
and  cursed  the  precision  with  which  the  English  grape-shot 
was  tired,  which,  said  the  man,  was  neither  too  high  nor  too 
low,  but  struck  right  in  the  middle.  The  last  time  that  a 
British  army  had  been  in  this  place,  the  Duke  of  York  slept 
in  this  man's  bed,  —  an  event  which  the  Walloon  remembered 
with  gratitude  as  well  as  pride,  the  Duke  having  given  him  a 
Louis,  d'or. 


0  wherefore  have  yc  .ipared  hin  head  accursed !  —  IV.  36,  p.  759. 

Among  the  peasantry  with  whom  \vc  conversed  this  feeling 
was  universal.  We  met  with  many  persons  who  disliked  the 
union  with  Holland,  and  who  hated  the  Prussians,  but  none 
who  spoke  in  favor  or  even  in  palliation  of  Bonaparte. 
The  manner  in  which  this  ferocious  beast,  ag  they  call  him, 
has  been  treated,  has  given  a  great  shock  to  the  moral  feelings 
of  mankind.  The  almost  general  mode  of  accounting  for  it 
on  the  Continent,  is  by  a  sujiposition  that  England  purposely 
let  him  loose  from  Elba  in  order  to  have  a  pretext  for  again 
attacking  France,  and  crippling  a  country  which  she  had  left 
too  strong,  and  which  would  soon  have  outstripped  her  in 
prosperity.  I  found  it  impossible  to  dispossess  even  men  of 
sound  judgment  and  great  ability  of  this  belief,  preposterous 
as  it  is  ;  and  when  they  read  the  account  of  the  luxuries  which 
have  been  sent  to  St.  Helena  for  the  accommodation  of  this 
great  criminal,  they  will  consider  it  as  the  fullest  proof  of 
their  opinion. 


NOTES    TO    THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE, 


775 


^nd  now  they  felt  the  Prussian's  heavy  hand.  —  XV.  42,  p.  759. 

Wherever  we  went  we  heard  one  cry  of  complaint  against 
the  Prussians,-- except  at  Ligiiy,  where  the  people  had  wit- 
nessed only  their  courage  and  their  sufferings.  This  is  the 
effect  of  making  the  military  spirit  predominate  in  a  nation. 
The  conduct  of  our  men  was  universally  extolled  ;  but  it  re- 
quired years  of  exertion  and  severity  hefore  Lord  Wellington 
brojghtthe  British  army  to  its  present  state  of  discipline. 
The  moral  discipline  of  an  army  lias  never  perhaps  been  un- 
derstood by  any  General,  except  the  great  Gustuvus.  Even 
in  its  best  state,  with  all  the  alleviations  of  courtesy  and 
honor,  with  all  the  correctives  of  morality  and  religion,  war 
is  so  great  an  evil,  that  to  engage  in  it  without  a  clear  necessity 
is  a  crime  of  the  blackest  dye.  When  the  necessity  is  clear, 
(and  such,  assuredly,  I  hold  it  to  have  been  in  our  struggle 
with  Bonaparte,)  it  then  becomes  a  crime  to  shrink  from  it. 

What  I  have  said  of  the  Prussians  relates  solely  to  their 
conduct  in  an  allied  country  ;  and  I  must  also  say  that  the 
Prussian  officers  with  whom  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  asso- 
ciate, were  men  who  in  every  respect  did  honor  to  their 
profession  and  to  their  country.  But  that  the  general  con- 
duct of  their  troops  in  Belgium  had  excited  a  strong  feeling 
of  disgust  and  indignation  we  bad  abundant  and  indisputable 
testimony.  In  France  they  had  old  wrongs  to  revenge,  —  and 
forgiveness  of  injuries  is  not  among  the  virtues  which  are 
taught  in  camps.  The  annexed  anecdotes  are  reprinted  from 
one  of  our  newspapers,  and  ought  to  be  preserved. 

"  A  Prussian  Officer,  on  his  arrival  at  Paris,  particularly 
requested  to  be  billeted  on  the  house  of  a  lady  inhabiting  the 
Fauxbourg  St.  Germain.  His  request  was  coni|)lied  with, 
and  on  bis  arriving  at  the  lady's  hotel,  he  was  shown  into  a 
small  but  comfortable  sitting-room,  with  a  handsome  bed- 
chamber adjoining  it.  With  these  rooms  be  ajipeared  greatly 
dissatisfied,  and  desired  that  the  lady  sliould  give  up  to  him 
her  apartment,  (on  tlie  first  floor,)  which  was  very  spacious, 
and  very  elegantly  furnished.  To  tliis  the  lady  made  the 
strongest  objections  ;  but  the  Otiicer  insisted,  and  she  was 
under  the  necessity  of  retiring  to  the  second  floor.  He  after- 
wards sent  a  message  to  her  by  one  of  her  servants,  say- 
ing that  he  destined  the  second  floor  for  his  Aid-de-Camp, 
&c.  &c.  This  occasioned  more  violent  remonstrances  from 
the  lady,  but  they  were  totally  unavailing,  and  unattended  to 
by  the  Officer,  whose  only  answer  was, '  obeisscz  d  mes  ordres.' 
He  then  called  for  the  cook,  and  told  him  he  must  prepare  a 
handsome  dinner  for  six  persons,  and  desired  the  lady's  butler 
to  take  care  that  the  best  wines  the  cellar  contained  should  be 
forthcoming.  After  dinner  he  desired  the  hostess  should  be 
sent  for  ;  —  she  obeyed  the  summons.  The  Officer  then  ad- 
dressed her,  and  said,  '  No  doubt,  ftladam,  but  you  consider 
my  conduct  as  indecorous  and  brutal  in  the  extreme.'  '  I 
must  confess,'  replied  she, '  that  I  did  not  expect  such  treat- 
ment from  an  officer;  as,  in  general,  military  men  are  ever 
disposed  to  show  every  degree  of  deference  and  respect  to  our 
sex.'  '  Vou  thi»k  me  then  a  most  perfect  barbarian  i"  answer 
me  frankly.'  '  If  you  really,  then,  desire  my  undisguised 
opinion  of  the  subject,  I  must  say,  that  I  think  your  conduct 
truly  barbarous.'  '  Madam,  I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion  ; 
but  I  only  wished  to  give  you  a  specimen  of  the  behavior 
and  conduct  of  your  son,  during  six  months  that  he  resided  in 
my  house,  after  the  entrance  of  the  Fiench  army  into  the 
Prussian  capital.  I  do  not,  however,  mean  to  follow  a  bad 
example.  You  will  resume,  therefore,  your  apartment  to- 
morrow, and  I  will  seek  lodgings  at  some  public  hotel.'  The 
I.ady  then  retired,  extolling  the  generous  conduct  of  the  Prus- 
sian officer,  and  deprecating  that  of  her  son." 

"  Another  Prussian  officer  was  lodged  at  the  bouse  of 
Marshal  Ney,  in  whose  stables  and  coach-house  he  found  a 
great  number  of  horses  and  carriages.  He  immediately  or- 
dered some  Prussian  soldiers,  who  accompanied  him,  to  take 
away  nine  of  the  horses  and  three  of  th(!  carriages.  Ney's 
servants  violently  remonstrated  against  this  proceeding,  on 
which  the  Prussian  officer  observed,  '  They  are  my  property, 
inasmuch  as  your  master  took  the  same  number  of  horses  and 
carriages  from  me  when  he  entered  Berlin  with  the  French 
army.'  I  think  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  the  Icz  talionis 
was  never  more  properly  nor  more  justly  resorted  to." 


PART    II. 

The  Martyr.  —  I.  43,  p.  762. 

Sir  Thomas  Brown  writes  upon  this  subject  with  his  usual 
feeling. 

"  We  applaud  not,"  says  he,  "  the  judgment  of  Machiavel, 
that  Christianity  makes  men  cowards,  or  that,  with  the  con- 
fidence of  but  half  dying,  the  despised  virtues  of  patience  and 
humility  have  abased  the  spirits  of  men,  which  pagan  princi- 
ples exalted  ;  lint  rather  regulated  the  wildness  of  audacities 
in  the  attempts,  grounds  and  eternal  sequels  of  death,  wherein 
men  of  the  boldest  spirit  are  often  prodigiously  temerarious. 
Nor  can  we  extenuate  the  valor  of  ancient  martyrs,  who  con- 
temned death  in  the  uncomfortable  scene  of  their  lives,  and  in 
their  decrepit  martyrdoms  did  probably  lose  not  many  months 
of  their  days,  or  parted  with  life  when  it  was  scarce  worth 
living.  For  (beside  that  long  time  past  holds  no  considera- 
tion unto  a  slender  time  to  come)  they  had  no  small  disad- 
vantage from  the  constitution  of  old  age,  which  naturally 
makes  men  fearful,  and  complexionally  suiierannuated  from 
the  bold  and  courageous  thoughts  of  youth  and  fervent  years. 
But  the  contempt  of  death  from  corporal  animosity  promoteth 
not  our  felicity.  They  may  sit  in  the  Orchestra  and  noblest 
seats  of  Heaven  who  have  held  up  shaking  hands  in  the  fire, 
and  humanly  contended  for  glory."  —  Hydriataphia,  17. 


In  purple  and  in  scarlet  clad,  behdd 

The  Harlot  sits,  adorned  with  gems  and  gold'. 

III.  9,  p.  764. 

The  homely  but  scriptural  appellation  by  which  our  fathers 
were  wont  to  designate  the  Church  of  Rome  has  been  deli- 
cately softened  down  by  later  writers.  I  have  seen  hersome- 
wliero  called  the  Scarlet  Woman,  —  and  Helen  Maria  Wil- 
liams names  her  the  Dissiilutc  of  Babylon. 

Let  me  here  offer  a  suggestion  in  defence  of  Voltaire.  Is  it 
not  probable,  or  rather  can  any  person  doubt,  that  the  ecrasei 
Vinfanie,  upon  wliicb  so  horrible  a  charge  against  him  lias  been 
raised,  refers  to  the  Church  of  Rome,  under  this  well-known 
designation  .'  No  man  can  hold  the  principles  of  Voltaire  in 
stronger  abhorrence  than  I  do,  —  but  it  is  an  act  of  justice  to 
exculpate  him  from  this  monstrous  accusation. 


For  till  the  sons  Ihcir  fathers'  fuulls  repent. 
The  old  error  brings  its  direful  punishment. 

III.  19,  p.  705 

"  Political  chimeras,"  says  Count  Stolberg,  "  arc  innume- 
rable ;  but  the  most  chimerical  of  all  is  the  project  of  imagining 
that  a  people  deeply  sunk  in  degeneracy  are  capable  of  re- 
covering the  ancient  grandeur  of  freedom.  Who  tosses  the 
bird  into  the  air  afler  his  wings  are  clipped.'  So  far  from  re- 
storing it  to  the  power  of  flight,  it  will  but  disable  it  more." 
—  Travels,  iii.  139. 


the  lark 

Pour'd  forth  her  lyric  strain.  —  III.  33,  p.  7G6 

The  epithet  Ujric,  as  applied  lo  the  lark,  is  borrowed  from 
one  of  Donne's  poems.  I  mention  this  more  particularly  for 
the  purpose  of  repairing  an  accidental  omission  in  the  notes  to 
Roderick;  —  it  is  the  duty  of  every  poet  to  acknowledge  all 
bis  obligations  of  this  kind  to  his  predecessors. 


public  crimes 

Dram  on  their  proper  punishment  below.  —  IV.  9,  p.  768. 

I  will  insert  here  a  passage  from  one  of  Lord  Brooke's 
poems.  Few  writers  have  ever  given  proofs  of  profounder 
thought  than  this  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney.  Had  his  com- 
mand of  language  been  equal  to  bis  strength  of  intellect,  I 
scarcely  know  the  author  whom  he  would  not  have  surpassed 


776 


NOTES    TO    THE    POET'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


XXI. 

Some  love  no  equals,  some  superiors  scorn, 
One  seeks  more  worlds,  and  this  will  Helen  have; 

This  covets  gold,  with  divers  faces  borne, 

These  humors  reign,  and  lead  men  to  their  grave  ; 

Whereby  for  bayes  and  little  wages  we 

Ruin  ourselves  to  raise  up  tyranny. 

XXII. 

And  as  when  winds  among  themselves  do  jar, 

Seas  there  are  tost,  and  wave  with  wave  must  fight ; 

So  when  power's  restless  humors  bring  forth  War, 
There  people  bear  the  faults  and  wounds  of  Might ; 

The  error  and  diseases  of  the  head 

Descending  still  until  the  limbs  be  dead. 

XXIII. 

Yet  are  not  people's  errors  ever  free 

From  guilt  of  wounds  they  suffer  by  the  war  ; 

JVcver  did  any  public  misery 

Rise  of  itself :  God's  plagues  still  grounded  are 

On  common  stains  of  our  humanity  ; 

And  to  the  flame  which  ruinetli  mankind 

Man  gives  the  matter,  or  at  least  gives  wind. 

j3  Trcatic  of  H'urrcs. 

The  extract  which  follows,  from  the  same  author,  bears  as 
directly  upon  the  effects  of  the  military  system  as  if  it  had 
been  written  with  a  reference  to  Eonaparte's  government. 
The  thoughtful  reader  will  perceive  its  intrinsic  value,  through 
its  difficult  language  and  uncouth  versification. 

LIX. 

Let  us  then  thus  conclude,  that  only  they 

Whose  end  in  this  vorld  is  tlie  world  to  come, 

Whose  hearts'  desire  is  that  their  desires  may 
Measure  themselves  by  Truth's  eternal  doom. 

Can  in  the  fVar  find  nothing  that  they  prize. 

Who  in  the  world  would  not  be  great  or  wise. 

LX. 

With  these,  1  say.  War,  Conquest,  Honor,  Fame, 
Stand  (as  the  world)  neglected  or  forsaken. 

Like  Error's  cobwebs,  in  whose  curious  frame 
She  only  joys  and  mourns,  takes  and  is  taken  ; 

In  which  these  dying,  that  to  God  live  thus. 

Endure  our  conquests,  would  not  conquer  us. 

LXI. 

Where  all  states  else  that  stand  on  power,  not  grace. 
And  gage  desire  by  no  such  spiritual  measure, 

Make  it  their  end  to  reign  in  every  place, 
To  war  for  honor,  for  revenge  and  pleasure  ; 

Tliinking  the  strong  should  keep  the  weak  in  awe. 

And  every  inequality  give  law. 

Lxn. 

These  serve  the  world  to  rule  her  by  her  arts. 
Raise  mortal  trophies  upon  mortal  passion  ; 

Their  wealth,  strength,  glory,  growing  from  those  hearts 
Which  to  their  ends  they  ruin  and  disfashion  ; 

The  more  remote  from  God  the  less  remorse  ; 

Which  still  gives  Honor  power.  Occasion  force. 

LXIII. 
These  make  the  Sword  their  judge  of  wrong  and  right. 

Their  story  Fame,  their  laws  but  Power  and  Wit ; 
Their  endless  mine  all  vanities  of  Might, 

Rewards  and  Pains  the  mystery  of  it ; 
And  in  this  sphere,  this  wilderness  of  evils. 
None  prosper  highly  but  the  perfect  Devils. 

A  Trealie  of  IVarres. 


and  accuser  at  such  continual  war  within  us,  the  laws  that 
guide  so  good  for  them  that  obey,  and  the  first  shape  of  every 
sin  so  ugly,  as  whosoever  does  but  what  he  knows,  or  forbears 
what  he  doubts,  shall  easily  follow  nature  unto  grace." 

"  God  left  not  the  world  without  mformation  from  the  be- 
ginning ;  so  that  wherever  we  find  ignorance,  it  must  be 
charged  to  the  account  of  man,  as  having  rejected,  and  not  to 
that  of  his  Maker,  as  having  denied,  the  necessary  means  of 
instruction."  —  Horne's  Considerations  on  tlie  Life  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist. 


They  had  the  Light,  and  from  the  Light  they  turned. 

IV.  12,  p.  768 
"  Let  no  ignorance,"  says  Lord  Brooke,  "  seem  to  excuse 
mankind  ;  since  the  light  of  truth  is  still  near  us,  the  tempter 


JV«po/con.—  IV.  15,  p.  7G8. 

It  is  amusing  to  look  back  upon  the  flattery  which  was 
offered  to  Bonaparte.  Some  poems  of  Mme.  Fanny  de 
Reaubarnois  exhibit  rich  specimens  of  this  kind  :  she  praises 
him  for 

la  douce  huwanitc 
Que  le  devurc  de  sa  flamme. 

Of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  she  says, 

Dans  cejour  memorable  on  dutfinir  la  guerre, 
Et  que  nommcront  7naints  auteurs 
La  Trinite  des  Kmpereurs, 
Vous  sent  en  etes  le  mystere. 

Subsequent  events  give  to  some  of  these  adulatory  strains 
an  interest  which  they  would  else  have  wanted. 

JVapoMon,  objet  de  nos  liommages, 
Et  Josephine,  objet  non  moins  aime. 
Couple  que  I'  Etemel  I'un  pour  V autre  a  forme, 
Vous  ctes  ses  plus  beaux  ouvrages. 

In  some  stanzas,  called  Les  Trois  Bateaur,  upon  the  vessels 
in  which  Alexander  and  Bonaparte  held  their  conferences 
before  the  Peace  of  Tilsit,  the  following  prophecy  is  intro- 
duced, with  a  felicity  worthy  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  :  — 

Tremble,  tremble,  fiere  Mbion! 
Guide  par  d'hcureuses  etoiles, 
Crs  gcnircuz  bateaux,  exempts  d'ambition, 
Vont  triomphcr  par-tout  de  tes  cent  mille  voiles. 

The  Grand  JVapoleon  is  the 

Eiifan  chcri  de  Mars  et  d'.HpoUon, 
Qu'aucun  rovers  ne  pent  abattre. 

Here  follows  part  of  an  Arabic  poem  by  Michael  Sabbag, 
addressed  to  Bonaparte  on  his  marriage  with  Marie  Louise, 
and  printed,  with  translations  in  French  prose  and  German 
verse,  in  the  first  volume  of  the  Fundgrubcn  des  Orients:  — 

"  August  Prince,  whom  Heaven  has  given  us  for  Sovereign, 
and  who  boldest  among  the  greatest  monarchs  of  thy  age  the 
same  rank  which  the  diadem  holds  upon  the  head  of  Kings, 

"  Thou  hast  reached  the  summit  of  happiness,  and  by  thine 
invincible  courage  hast  attained  a  glory  which  the  mind  of 
man  can  scarcely  comprehend  ; 

"  Thou  hast  imprinted  upon  the  front  of  time  the  remem- 
brance of  thine  innumerable  exploits  in  characters  of  light,  one 
of  which  alone  suffices  with  its  brilliant  rays  to  enlighten  the 
whole  universe. 

"  Who  can  resist  him  who  is  never  abandoned  by  the  as- 
sistance of  Heaven,  who  has  Victory  for  his  guide,  and  w  hose 
course  is  directed  by  God  himself.' 

"  In  every  age  Fortune  produces  a  hero  who  is  the  pearl  of 
his  time  ;  amidst  all  these  extraordinary  men  thou  shinest  like 
an  inestimable  diamond  in  a  necklace  of  precious  stones. 

"  The  least  of  thy  subjects,  in  whatever  country  he  may  be, 
is  the  object  of  universal  homage,  and  enjoys  thy  glory,  the 
splendor  of  which  is  reflected  upon  him. 

"  All  virtues  are  united  in  thee,  but  the  justice  which  regu- 
lates all  thy  actions  would  alone  suflice  to  immortalize  thy 

name. 

****** 

"  Perhaps  the  English  will  now  understand  at  last  that  it  is 
folly  to  oppose  themselves  to  the  wisdom  of  thy  designs,  and 
to  strive  against  thy  fortune." 

A  figure  of  Liberty,  which,  during  the  days  of  Jacobinism, 
was  erected  at  Aix  in  Provence,  was  demolished  during  thi 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


777 


night  ubout  the  time  when  Bonaparte  assumed  the  empire. 
Among  tlie  squibs  to  which  this  gave  occasion,  was  the  fol- 
lowing question  and  answer  between  Pasquin  and  Marlbrio. 
Pusquin  inquires,  .l/dii- (/u'ei£-cc  qui  est  dcvcnu  dune  dc  la  Li- 
berie 7  —  Heyday,  what  is  become  of  Liberty  then  ?  —  To  which 
Marforio  replies.  Bite!  elle  est  morU  rn  s'accunchant  d'unEiii- 
jxrear  —  Blockhead  I  she  is  dead  in  bringing  forth  an  Empe- 
ror. —  iMiss  Plumtue's  JVarrative,  ii.  382. 

Well  may  the  lines  of  Pindar  respecting  Tantalus  be  applied 
to  Bonaparte. 

Ec  ^£  (5i"j  Tip'  av- 
Spa  dvarov  'OM/iTTov  axuTrot  crliin- 
aav,  7tv  Tii^raXos  ovtos.     'AAAu  yap  Kira- 
irixpai  ficyav  SXSov  OVK  cSv- 
vacdi]'  K6r,(;!  6'  tXcv 
Arav  vTtijtovXov.  Pindak,  01.  I. 

J^''am  se  dene  accusar  a  Fortuna  de  cega,  mas  s5  aos  que  delta 
sc  deizam  cegar.  It  is  not  Fortune,  says  D.  Luiz  da  Cunha, 
who  ought  to  be  accused  of  l>lindnees,  —  but  they  who  let 
themselves  be  blinded  by  her.  —  Memorias  desde  1659  rt(/ie 
1700.  MSS. 

Lieutenant  Bowerbank,  in  his  Journal  of  what  passed  on 
board  the  Bellerophon,  has  ai)plie(I  a  passage  from  Horace  to 
the  same  effect,  with  humorous  felicity. 

I,  Bone,  quo  virtus  tua  tc  vocat. 
Oraiidia  laturus  meritorum  prwmia. 

Epist.  2,  lib.  ii.  v.  37. 


One  beail  more  in  this  string  of  quotations  :  Un  Roi  philo- 
sophe,  says  the  Comte  do  Pnissaye,  speaking  of  Frederick  of 
Prussia,  dans  le  setiis  de  nos  jours,  est  selan  moi  le  plus  terrible 
flcauque  Ic  ciel  puisse  envoijcr  auc  habitans  de  la  terre.  Mais 
I'idce  d'ua  Roi  philosophe  et  despote,  est  un  injure  au  sens  com- 
tnun,  un  outrage  a  la  raison.  —  Memoires,  t.  ii.  125. 


Ore  Waterloo 

The  7\rant's  fortune  in  the  scale  was  wcigh'd, 
JFis  fortune  and  the  IVorld's,  and  England  threw 
Her  sword  into  tlie  balance.  —  IV.  22,  p.  7G9. 

"  How  highly  has  Britain  been  honored,"  says  Alexander 
Knox,  in  a  letter  to  Hannah  More,  written  not  long  after  the 
battle  of  Waterloo ;  "  and  yet  how  awfully  has  all  undue 
exultation  been  repressed  by  the  critical  turn  which,  after  all, 
effected  a  prosperous  conclusion  !  It  was  not  human  wisdom 
which  wrought  our  deliverance  ;  for  when  i)ollcy  (as  well  as 
prowess)  had  done  its  utmost,  Bonaparte's  return  from  Elba 
seemed  at  once  to  undo  all  that  had  been  accomplished.  It 
was  not  human  power ;  for  at  Waterloo  the  prize  was  as  much 
as  ever  to  be  contended  for ;  and  notwithstanding  all  that  had 
been  achieved,  tlie  fate  of  Europe  once  more  trembled  on  the 
balance.  Never,  surely,  did  so  momentous  and  vital  a  contest 
terminate  at  once  so  happily  and  so  instructively."  —  Knox's 
Remains,  iv.  297. 


CARMEN    NUPTIALE. 


Ei)t   Hag  of  tijt   Huuvt^tt. 


TO    HER    ROYAL    HIGHNESS    THE    PRINCESS    CHARLOTTE, 

THE    FOLLOWING    POEM    IS    DEDICATED 

WITH    PROFOUND    RESPECT,    BY    HER    ROYAL    HIGHNESS'S    MOST    DUTIFUL 

AND    MOST    DEVOTED    SERVANT, 

ROBERT     SOUTHEY, 

POET    LAUREATE. 


PROEM. 


1. 


There  was  a  time  wlion  all  my  youthful  thought 
Was  of  the  Muse ;  and  of  the  Poet's  fame, 

How  fair  it  flourisheth,  and  fadeth  not,  — 
Alone  enduring,  when  tlie  Monarch's  name 

Is  but  an  empty  sound,  the  Conqueror's  bust 

Moulders  and  is  forgotten  in  the  dust. 


How  beat  to  build  the  imperishable  lay 

Was  then  my  daily  care,  my  dream  by  night ; 

And  early  in  adventurous  essay 

My  spirit  imp'd  her  wings  for  stronger  flight; 
98 


Fair  regions  Fancy  open'd  to  my  view, — 
"There  lies  thy  path,"  she  said;    "do  thou  that 
path  pursue  I 

3. 

"  For  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  wealth  or  power. 
Thou  whom  rich  Nature  at  thy  happy  birlli 

Bless'd  in  her  boimty  with  the  largest  dower 
That  Heaven  indulges  to  a  child  of  Earth, — 

Then  when  the  sacred  Sisters  for  their  own 

Baptized  thee  in  the  springs  of  Helicon .' 

4. 

"  They  promised  for  thee  that  thou  shouldst  eschew 
All  low  desires,  all  empty  vanities; 


778 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


That  thou  shouldst,  slill  to  Truth  and   Freedom 
true, 
The  applause  or  censure  of  the  herd  despise ; 
And,  in  obedience  to  their  impulse  given, 
AValk  in  the  light  of  Nature  and  of  Heaven. 


"  Along  the  World's  highwray  let  others  crowd, 
Jostling  and  moiling  on  through  dust  and  heat; 

Far  fioin  the  vain,  the  vicious,  and  the  proud. 
Take  thou,  content  in  solitude,  thy  seat ; 

To  noble  ends  devote  thy  sacred  art. 

And  nurse  for  better  worlds  thine  own  immortal 
oart !  " 


Praise  to  that  Power  who,  from  my  earliest  days. 
Thus  taught  me  what  to  seek  and  what  to  shun. 

Who  turn'd  my  footsteps  from  the  crowded  waj's. 
Appointing  me  my  better  course  to  run 

In  solitude,  with  studious  If /Sure  bless'd. 

The  mind  unfetter'd,  and  the  heart  at  rest. 

7. 
For  therefore  have  my  days  been  days  of  joy, 
And  all  my  paths  are  paths  of  pleasantness : 
And  still  my  heart,  as  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Doth  never  know  an  ebb  of  cheerfulness; 
Time,  which  matures  the  intellectual  part. 
Hath  tinged  my  hairs  with  gray,  but  left  untoucli'd 
my  heart. 


Sometimes  I  soar  where  Fancy  guides  the  rein. 

Beyond  this  visible  diurnal  sphere ; 
But  most,  with  long  and  self-approving  pain, 

Patient  pursue  the  historian's  task  severe ; 
Thus  in  the  ages  which  are  past  I  live. 
And  those  which  are  to  come  my  sure  reward  will 
give. 

9. 

Yea,  in  this  now,  while  Malice  frets  her  hour. 
Is  foretaste  given  me  of  that  meed  divine ; 

Here,  undisturb'd  in  this  sequester'd  bower. 
The  friendship  of  the  good  and  wise  is  mine ; 

And  that  green   wreath  which  decks  the    Bard 
when  dead. 

That  laureate  garland,  crowns  my  living  head. 

10. 

That  wreath  which,  in  Eliza's  golden  days. 
My  Master  dear,  divinest  Spenser,  wore. 

That  which  rewarded  Drayton's  learned  lays. 
Which  thoughtful  Ben  and  gentle  Daniel  bore,  — 

Grin,  Envy,  through  thy  ragged  mask  of  scorn ! 

In  honor  it  was  given,  with  honor  it  is  worn  ! 

11. 

Proudly  I  raised  the  high  thanksgiving  strain 
Of  victory  in  a  rightful  cause  achieved ; 

For  which  I  long  had  look'd,  and  not  in  vain, 
As  one  who,  with  firm  faith  and  undeceived. 

In  history  and  the  heart  of  man  could  find 

Sure  presage  of  deliverance  for  mankind. 


12. 


Proudly  I  off'er'd  to  the  royal  ear 

My  song  of  joy  when  War's  dread  work  was 
done. 
And  glorious  Britain  round  her  satiate  spear 

The  olive  garland  twined,  by  Victory  won ; 
Exulting  as  became  me  in  such  cause, 
I  offer'd  to  the  Prince  his  People's  just  applause. 

13. 

And  when,  as  if  the  tales  of  old  Romance 
Were  but  to  typify  his  splendid  reign. 

Princes  and  Potentates  from  conquer'd  France, 
And  chiefs  in  arms  approved,  a  peerless  train, 

Assembled  at  his  Court,  —  my  duteous  lays 

Preferr'd  a  welcome  of  enduring  praise. 

14. 

And  when  that  last  and  most  momentous  hour 
Beheld  the  re-risen  cause  of  evil  yield 

To  the  Red  Cross  and  England's  arm  of  power, 
I  sung  of  Waterloo's  unequall'd  field. 

Paying  the  tribute  of  a  soul  imbued 

With  deepest  joy  devout  and  awful  gratitude. 

15. 

Such  strains  beseem'd  me  well.     But  how  shall  I 
To  hymeneal  numbers  tune  the  string. 

Who  to  the  trumpet's  martial  symphony, 
And  to  the  mountain  gales  am  wont  to  sing? 

How  may  these  unaccustom'd  accents  suit 

To  the  sweet  dulcimer  and  courtly  lute.'* 

16. 

Fitter  for  me  the  lofty  strain  severe. 

That  calls  for  vengeance  for  mankind  oppress'd ; 
Fitter  the  songs  that  youth  may  love  to  hear. 

Which  warm  and  elevate  the  throbbing  breast ; 
Fitter  for  me  with  meed  of  solemn  verse. 
In  reverence,  to  adorn  the  hero's  hearse. 

17. 
But  then  my  Master  dear  arose  to  mind. 

He  on  whose  song,  while  yet  I  was  a  boy, 
My  spirit  fed,  attracted  to  its  kind, 

And  still  insatiate  of  the  growing  joy;  — 
He  on  whose  tomb  these  eyes  were  wont  to  dwell. 
With  inward  yearnings  which  I  may  not  tell ;  — 

18. 
He  whose  green  bays  shall  bloom  forever  young, 

And  whose  dear  name  whenever  I  repeat. 
Reverence  and  love  are  trembling  on  my  tongue  ; 
Sweet  Spenser,  sweetest  Bard ;  yet  not  more 
sweet 
Than  pure  was  he,  and  not  more  pure  than  wise. 
High  Priest  of  all  the  Muses'  mysteries. 

19. 
1  call'd  to  mind  that  mighty  Master's  song. 

When  he  brought  home  his  beautifulest  bride. 
And  Mulla  murmur'd  her  sweet  undersong. 

And  Mole  with  all  his  mountain  woods  replied 
Never  to  mortal  lips  a  strain  was  given 
More  rich  with  love,  more  redolent  of  Heaven. 


THE    LAY    OF    THE   LAUREATE. 


779 


20. 
His  cup  of  joy  was  mantling  to  tlie  brim, 

Yet  solemn  thoughts  enhanced  his  deep  delight; 
A  holy  feeling  fiU'd  his  marriage-hymn, 

And  Love   aspired  witli    Faith   a   heavenward 
flight. 
And  hast  not  thou,  my  Soul,  a  solemn  theme  ? 
I  said,  and  mused  until  I  fell  into  a  dream. 


THE   DREAM. 


Methought  I  heard  a  stir  of  hasty  feet, 

And  horses  tramp'd  and  coaches  roll'd  along. 

And  tliere  were  busy  voices  in  the  street, 
As  if  a  multitude  were  hurrying  on  ; 

A  stir  it  was  which  only  could  befall 

Upon  some  great  and  solemn  festival. 

2. 

Such  crowds  I  saw,  and  in  such  glad  array, 
It  seem'd  some  general  joy  had  fill'd  the  land; 

Age  had  a  sunshine  on  its  cheek  that  day, 
^And  children,  tottering  by  the  mother's  hand. 

Too  young  to  ask  why  all  this  joy  should  be. 

Partook  it,  and  rejoiced  for  sympathy. 

3. 
The  shops,  that  no  dull  care  might  intervene. 
Were  closed ;  the  doors  within  were  lined  with 
heads; 
Glad  faces  were  at  every  window  seen, 

And  from  the  cluster'd  house-tops  and  the  leads, 
Others,  who  took  their  stand  in  patient  row, 
Look'd  down  upon  the  crowds  that  swarm'd  below. 


And  every  one  of  all  that  numerous  throng 
On  head  or  breast  a  marriage  symbol  wore ; 

The  war-horse  proudly,  as  he  paced  along, 
Those  joyous  colors  in  his  forelock  wore. 

And  arch'd  his  stately  neck  as  for  delight. 

To  show  his  mane  thus  pompously  bedight. 


From  every  church  the  merry  bells  rung  round 
With  gladdening  harmony  heard  far  and  wide ; 

In  many  a  mingled  peal  of  swelling  sound. 
The  hurrying  music  came  on  every  side ; 

And  banners  from  the  steeples  waved  on  high, 

And  streamers  flutter'd  in  the  sun  and  sky. 

6. 

Anon  the  cannon's  voice  in  thunder  spake ; 

Westward  it  came  ;  the  East  returned  the  sound  ; 
Burst  after  burst  the  innocuous  thunders  brake. 

And  roll'd  from  side  to  side  with  quick  rebound. 
O  happy  land,  where  that  terrific  voice 
Speaks  but  to  bid  all  habitants  rejoice  ! 

7. 
Thereat  the  crowd  rush'd  forward  one  and  all, 
And  I  too  in  my  dream  was  borne  along. 


Eftsoon,  methought,  I  reach'd  a  festal  hall, 

Where  guards  in  order  ranged  repell'd  the  throng-, 
But  I  had  entrance  through  that  guarded  door, 
In  honor  to  the  laureate  crown  I  wore. 

8. 
That  spacious  hall  was  hung  with  trophies  round. 

Memorials  proud  of  many  a  well- won  day  : 
The  flag  of  France  tliere  trail'd  toward  the  ground  ; 

There  in  captivity  her  Eagles  lay. 
And  under  each,  in  aye-enduring  gold. 
One  well-known  word  its  fatal  story  told. 

9. 

There  read  1  Nile,  conspicuous  from  afar; 

And  Egypt  and  Maida  there  were  found; 
And  Copenhagen  there  and  Trafalgar  ; 

Vimeiro  and  Busaco's  day  renown'd; 
There  too  was  seen  Barrosa's  bloody  name, 
And  Albuhera,  dear-bought  field  of  fame. 

10. 

Yon  spoils  from  boastful  Massena  were  won ; 
Those  Marmont  left  in  that  illustrious  fight 
By  Salamanca,  when  too  soon  the  sun 

Went  down,  and  darkness  hid  the  Frenchman's 
flight. 
These  from  Vittoria  were  in  triumph  borne. 
When  from    the    Intruder's   head   Spain's   stolen 
crown  was  torn. 

11. 

These  on  Pyrene's  awful  heights  were  gain'd. 

The  trophies  of  tliat  memorable  day. 
When  deep  with  blood  her  mountain  springs  were 
stain'd. 
Above  the  clouds  and  lightnings  of  that  fray, 
Wheeling  afar  the  affrighted  eagles  fled; 
At  eve  the  wolves  came  forth  and  prey'd  upon  the 
dead. 


12. 

And  blood-stain'd  flags  were  here   from   Orthies 
borne. 

Trampled  by  France  beneath  her  flying  feet; 
And  what  before  Thoulouse  from  Soult  were  torn, 

When  the  stern  Marshal  met  his  last  defeat, 
Yielding  once  more  to  Britain's  arm  of  might. 
And  Wellington  in  mercy  spared  his  flight. 

13. 

There  hung  the  Eagles  which,  with  victory  flush'd, 
From  Fleurus  and  from  Ligny  proudly  flew, 

To  see  the  Usurper's  high-swollen  fortune  crush'd 
Forever  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  — 

Day  of  all  days,  surpassing  in  its  fame 

All  fields  of  elder  or  of  later  name  ! 


14. 
There,  too,  the  painter's  universal  art 

Each  story  told  to  all  beholders'  eyes ; 
And  Sculpture  there  had  done  her  fitting  part, 

Bidding  the  forms  perdurable  arise 
Of  those  great  Chiefs  who  in  the  field  of  fight 
Had  best  upheld  their  country's  sacred  right. 


780 


THE    LAY    OP    THE   LAUREATE. 


15. 
There  stood  our  peerless  Edward,  gentle-soul  d, 

Tlie  Sable  Prince,  of  chivalry  the  flower; 
And  that  Plantagenei  of  sterner  mould, 

He  who  the  conquer'd  crown  of  Gallia  wore; 
And  Blake,  and  Nelson,  Glory's  favorite  son, 
And    Marlborough    there,  and  Wolfe,    and  Wel- 
lington. 

16. 
But  from  the  statues  and  the  storied  wall, 

The  living  scene  withdrew  my  wondering  sense  ; 
For  with  accordant  pomp  that  gorgeous  hall 

Was  fill'd;  and  I  beheld  the  opulence 
Of  Britain's  Court,  — a  proud  assemblage  there. 
Her  Statesmen,  and  her  Warriors,  and  her  Fair. 

17. 
Amid  that  Hall  of  Victory,  side  by  side. 

Conspicuous  o'er  the  splendid  company, 
There  sat  a  royal  Bridegroom  and  his  Bride ; 

In  her  fair  cheek,  and  in  her  bright  blue  eye. 
Her  flaxen  locks,  and  her  benignant  mien, 
The  marks  of  Brunswick's  Royal  Line  were  seen. 

18. 
Of  princely  lineage  and  of  princely  heart,     [fight. 

The  Bridegroom  seem'd,  —  a  man  approved  in 
Who  in  the  great  deliverance  bore  his  part, 

And  had  pursued  the  recreant  Tyrant's  flight. 
When,  driven  from  injured  Germany,  he  fled. 
Bearing  the  curse  of  God  and  Man  upon  his  head. 

19. 
Guardant  before  his  feet  a  Lion  lay, 

The  Saxon  Lion,  terrible  of  yore. 
Who,  in  his  wither'd  limbs  and  lean  decay. 

The  marks  of  long  and  cruel  bondage  bore  ; 
But  broken  now  beside  him  lay  the  chain. 
Which  gall'd  and  fretted  late  his  neck  and  mane. 

20. 
A  Lion  too  was  couch'd  before  the  Bride  ; 

That  noble  Beast  had  never  felt  the  chain ; 
Strong   were    his   sinewy    limbs   and   smooth  his 
hide, 
And  o'er  his  shoulders  broad  the  affluent  mane 
Dishevell'd  hung;  beneath  his  feet  were  laid 
Torn  flags  of  France,  whereon  his  bed  he  made. 

21. 
Full  diff"erent  were  those  Lions  twain  in  plight, 

Yet  were  they  of  one  brood ;  and  side  by  side 
Of  old,  the  Gallic  Tiger  in  his  might 

They  many  a  time  had  met,  and  quell'd  his  pride. 
And  made  the  treacherous  spoiler  from  their  ire. 
Cowering  and  crippled,  to  his  den  retire. 

22. 
Two  forms  divine  on  either  side  the  throne, 

Its  heavenly  guardians,  male  and  female  stood  ; 
His  eye  was  bold,  and  on  his  brow  there  shone 

Contempt  of  all  base  things,  and  pride  subdued 
To  wisdom's  will :  a  warrior's  garb  he  wore, 
And  Honor  was  the  name  the  Genius  bore. 


23. 

That  other  form  was  in  a  snow-white  vest, 
As  well  her  virgin  loveliness  became; 

Erect  her  port,  and  on  her  spotless  breast 

A   blood-red  cross   was  hung :  Faith    was  her 
name, 

As  by  that  sacred  emblem  might  be  seen, 

And  by  her  eagle  eye,  and  by  her  dove-like  mien. 

24. 

Her  likeness  such  to  that  robuster  power, 

That  sure  his  sister  she  miglit  have  been  deem'd. 

Child  of  one  womb  at  one  auspicious  hour. 
Akin  they  were,  yet  not  as  thus  it  seem'd  ; 

For  he  of  Valor  was  the  eldest  son. 

From  Arete  in  happy  union  sprung. 

25. 
But  her  to  Phronis  Eusebeia  bore, 

She  whom  her  mother  Dice  sent  to  earth  ; 
What  marvel  then  if  thus  their  features  wore 

Resemblant  lineaments  of  kindred  birth. 
Dice  being  child  of  Him  who  rules  above, 
Valor  his  earth-born  son ;  so  both  derived  from 
Jove. 

26. 

While  I  stood  gazing,  suddenly  the  air 

Was  fiU'd  with  solemn  music  breathing  round; 

And  yet  no  mortal  instruments  were  there. 
Nor  seem'd  that  melody  an  earthly  sound, 

So  wondrously  it  came,  so  passing  sweet. 

For  some  strange  pageant  sure  a  prelude  meet. 

27. 

In  every  breast  methought  there  seem'd  to  be 
A  hush  of  reverence  mingled  with  dismay; 

For  now  appear'd  a  heavenly  company 

Toward  the  royal  seat  who  held  their  way  ; 

A  female  Form  majestic  led  them  on, — 

With  awful  port  she  came,  and  stood  before  the 
Throne. 

28. 
Gentle  her  mien,  and  void  of  all  offence ; 
But  if  aught  wrong'd  her,  she  could  strike  such 
fear, 
As  when  Minerva,  in  her  Sire's  defence. 

Shook  in  Phlegraean  fields  her  dreadful  spear. 
Yet  her  benignant  aspect  told  that  ne'er 
Would  she  refuse  to  heed  a  suppliant's  prayer. 

29. 
The  Trident  of  the  Seas  in  her  right  hand. 

The  sceptre  which  that  Bride  was  born  to  wield. 
She  bore,  in  symbol  of  her  just  command. 

And  in  her  left  display 'd  the  Red-Cross  sliield. 
A  plume  of  milk-white  feathers  overspread 
The  laurell'd  helm  which  graced  her  lofty  head. 

30. 

Daughter  of  Brunswick's  fated  line,  she  said. 
While  joyful  realms  tlieir  gratulations  pay, 

And  ask  for  blessings  on  thy  bridal  bed. 
We,  too,  descend  upon  this  happy  day  ;  — 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


781 


Receive  with  willing  oar  what  we  impart, 
And  treasure  up  our  counsels  in  thy  heart ! 

31. 

Long  may  it  be  ere  thou  art  call'd  to  bear 
The  weight  of  empire  in  a  day  of  woe  ! 

Be  it  thy  favor'd  lot  meantime  to  share 
The  joys  which  from  domestic  virtue  flow, 

And  may  the  lessons  which  are  now  impress'd, 

In  years  of  leisure,  sink  into  thy  breast. 

32. 

Look  to  thy  Sire,  and  in  his  steady  way, 
As  in  his  Father's  he,  learn  thou  to  tread ; 

That  thus,  when  comes  the  inevitable  day, 
No  other  change  be  felt  than  of  the  head 

Which  wears  the  crown  ;  thy  name  will  then  be 
blest 

Like  theirs,  when  thou,  too,  shalt  be  call'd  to  rest. 

33. 

Love  peace  and  cherish  peace  ;  but  use  it  so 
That  War  may  find  thee  ready  at  all  hours ; 

And  ever  when  thou  strikest,  let  the  blow 

Be  swift  and  sure  :  then  put  forth  all  the  powers 

Which  God  hath  given  thee  to  redress  thy  wrong, 

And,  powerful  as  thou  art,  the  strife  will  not  be 
long. 

34. 

Let  not  the  sacred  Trident  from  thy  hand 
Depart,  nor  lay  the  falchion  from  thy  side  '. 

Queen  of  the  Seas,  and  mighty  on  the  land. 

Thy  power  shall  then  be  dreaded  far  and  wide  : 

And  trusting  still  in  God  and  in  the  Right, 

Thou   mayst    again   defy  the    World's   collected 
might. 

35. 

Thus  as  she  ceased,  a  comely  Sage  came  on, 
His  temples  and  capacious  forehead  spread 

With  locks  of  venerable  eld,  which  shone 

As  when,  in  wintry  morns,  on  Skiddaw's  head 

The  cloud,  the  sunshine,  and  the  snow  unite. 

So  silvery,  so  unsullied,  and  so  white. 

36. 
Of  Kronos  and  the  Nymph  Mnemosyne 

He  sprung,  on  either  side  a  birth  divine  ; 
Thus  to  the  Olympian  Gods  allied  was  he. 

And  brother  to  the  sacred  Sisters  nine. 
With  whom  he  dwelt  in  interchange  of  lore, 
Each  thus  instructing  each  for  evermore. 

37. 
They  call'd  him  Praxis  in  the  Olympian  tongue  ; 

But  here  on  earth  Experience  was  his  name. 
Whatever  things  have  pass'd  to  him  were  known, 

And  he  could  see  the  future  ere  it  came ; 
Such  foresight  was  his  patient  wisdom's  meed, — 
Alas  for  those  who  his  wise  counsels  will  not  heed  ! 

38. 
He  bore  a  goodly  volume,  which  he  laid 
Between  that  princely  couple  on  the  throne. 


Lo,  there  my  work  for  this  great  realm,  he  said. 
My  work,  which  with  the  kingdom's  growth  has 
grown. 
The  rights,  the  usages,  the  laws  wherein 
Blessed  above  all  nations  she  hath  been. 

39. 
Such  as  the  sacred  trust  to  thee  is  given, 

So  unimpair'd  transmit  it  to  thy  line  : 
Preserve  it  as  the  choicest  gift  of  Heaven, 

Alway  to  make  the  bliss  of  thee  and  thine : 
The  talisman  of  England's  strength  is  there,  — 
With  reverence  guard  it,  and  with  jealous  care ! 

40. 
The  next  who  stood  before  that  royal  pair 

Came  gliding  like  a  vision  o'er  the  ground ; 
A  glory  went  before  him  through  the  air. 

Ambrosial  odors  floated  all  around. 
His  purple  wings  a  heavenly  lustre  shed 
A  silvery  halo  hover'd  round  his  head 

41. 

The  Angel  of  the  English  Church  was  this, 
With  whose  divinest  presence  there  appear'd 

A  glorious  train,  inheritors  of  bliss. 

Saints  in  the  memory  of  the  good  revered. 

Who,  having  render' d  back  their  vital  breath 

To  Him  from  whom  it  came,  were  perfected  by 
Death. 

42. 

Edward  the  spotless  Tudor,  there  I  knew, 
In  whose  pure  breast,  with  pious  nurture  fed. 

All  generous  hopes  and  gentle  virtues  grew ; 
A  heavenly  diadem  adorn'd  his  head, — 

Most  blessed  Prince,  whose  saintly  name  might 
move 

The  understanding  heart  to  tears  of  reverent  love. 

43. 

Less  radiant  than  King  Edward,  Cranmer  came. 
But  purged  from  persecution's  sable  spot ; 

For  he  had  given  his  body  to  the  flame. 

And  now  in  that  right  hand,  which,  flinching  not, 

He  proff'er'd  to  the  fire's  atoning  doom. 

Bore  he  the  unfading  palm  of  martyrdom. 

44. 

There  too  came  Latimer,  in  worth  allied. 

Who,  to  the  stake  when  brought  by  Romish  rage. 

As  if  with  prison  weeds  he  cast  aside 
The  infirmity  of  flesh  and  weight  of  age, 

Bow-bent  till  then  with  weakness,  in  his  shroud 

Stood  up  erect  and  firm  before  the  admiring  crowd. 

45. 

With  these,  partakers  in  beatitude. 

Bearing  like  them  the  palm,  their  emblem  meet, 
The  Noble  Army  came,  who  had  subdued 

All  frailty,  putting  death  beneath  their  feet : 
Their  robes  were  like  the  mountain  snow,  and 

bright 
As  though  they  had  been  dipp'd  in  the  fountain 
springs  of  light. 


782 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


4G. 
For  these  were  they  who  valiantly  endured 

The  fierce  extremity  of  mortal  pain, 
By  no  weak  tenderness  to  life  allured, 

The  victims  of  that  hateful  Henry's  reign, 
And  of  the  bloody  Queen,  beneath  whose  sway 
Rome  lit  her  fires,  and  Fiends  kept  holyday. 

47. 
O  pardon  me,  thrice  holy  Spirits  dear, 

That  hastily  I  now  must  pass  ye  by  ! 
No  want  of  duteous  reverence  is  there  here ; 

None  better  knows  nor  deeplier  feels  than  I 
What  to  your  sufferings  and  your  faith  we  owe, 
Ye  valiant  champions  for  the  truth  below  ! 

48. 
Hereafter,  haply,  with  maturer  care, 

(So   Heaven   permit,)  that   reverence   shall  be 
shown. 
Now  of  my  vision  I  must  needs  declare. 

And  how  the  Angel  stood  before  the  throne, 
And,  fixing  on  that  Princess,  as  he  spake. 
His  eye  benign,  the  awful  silence  brake. 

49. 
Thus  said  the  Angel  — Thou  to  whom  one  day 

There  shall  in  earthly  guardianship  be  given 
The  English  Church,  preserve  it  from  decay  ! 

Ere  now  for  that  most  sacred  charge  hath  Heaven 
In  perilous  times  provided  female  means. 
Blessing  it  beneatli  the  rule  of  pious  Queens. 

50. 
Bear  thou  that  great  Eliza  in  thy  mind. 

Who  from  a  wreck  this  fabric  edified ; 
And  Her  who,  to  a  nation's  voice  resign'd. 

When  Rome  in  hope  its  wiliest  engines  plied. 
By  her  own  heart  and  righteous  Heaven  approved. 
Stood  up  against  the  Father  whom  she  loved. 

51. 
Laying  all  mean  regards  aside,  fill  Thou 

Her  seats  with  wisdom  and  with  learned  worth  ; 
That  so,  whene'er  attack'd,  with  fearless  brow 

Her  champions  may  defend  her  rights  on  earth ; 
Link'd  is  her  welfare  closely  with  thine  own  ; 
One  fate  attends  the  Altar  and  the  Throne  I 

52. 
Think  not  that  lapse  of  ages  shall  abate 

The  inveterate  malice  of  that  Harlot  old; 
Fallen  though  thou  deem'st  her  from  her  high  estate. 

She  proffers  still  the  envenom'd  cup  of  gold. 
And  her  fierce  Beast,  whose  names  are  Blasphemy, 
The  same  that  was,  is  still,  and  still  must  be. 

53. 

The  stern  Sectarian  in  unnatural  league 
Joins  her  to  war  against  their  hated  foe  ; 

Error  and  Faction  aid  the  bold  intrigue, 
And  the  dark  Atheist  seeks  her  overthrow. 

While  giant  Zeal  in  arms  against  her  stands. 

Barks  with  a  hundred  mouths,  and  lifts  a  hundred 
hands. 


54. 

Built  on  a  rock,  the  fabric  may  repel 

Their  utmost  rage,  if  all  within  be  sound  ; 

But  if  within  the  gates  IndiflTcrence  dwell. 

Woe  to  her  then  !  there  needs  no  outward  wound ! 

Through  her  whole  frame  benumb'd,  a  lethal  sleep. 

Like  the  cold  poison  of  the  asp,  will  creep. 

55. 

In  thee,  as  in  a  cresset  set  on  high. 

The  light  of  piety  should  shine  far  seen, 

A  guiding  beacon  fix'd  for  every  eye  : 

Thus  from  the  influence  of  an  honor'd  Queen, 

As  from  its  spring,  should  public  good  proceed,  — 

The  peace  of  Heaven  will  be  thy  proper  meed. 

56. 
So  should  return  that  hajipy  state  of  yore, 

When  piety  and  joy  went  hand  in  hand  ; 
The  love  which  to  his  flock  the  shepherd  bore, 
The  old  observances  whicli  cheer'd  the  land. 
The  household  prayers  which,  honoring  God's  high 

name. 
Kept  the  lamp  trimm'd  and  fed  the  sacred  flame. 

57. 

Thus  having  spoke,  away  tlie  Angel  pass'd 
With  all  his  train,  dissolving  from  the  sight : 

A  transitory  shadow  overcast 

The  sudden  void  they  left;  all  meaner  light 

Seeming  like  darkness  to  the  eye  which  lost 

The  full  eff"ulgence  of  that  heavenly  host. 

58. 
Eftsoon,  in  reappearing  light  confess'd, 

There  stood  another  Minister  of  bliss. 
With  his  own  radiance  clothed  as  with  a  vest. 

One  of  the  angelic  company  was  this. 
Who,  guardians  of  the  rising  human  race, 
Alway  in  Heaven  behold  the  Father's  face. 

59. 

Somewhile  he  fix'd  upon  the  royal  Bride 
A  contemplative  eye  of  thoughtful  grief; 

The  trouble  of  that  look  benign  implied 

A  sense  of  wrongs  for  which  he  sought  relief, 

And  that  Earth's  evils  which  go  unredress'd 

May  waken  sorrow  in  an  Angel's  breast. 

60. 
I  plead  for  babes  and  sucklings,  he  began. 

Those  who  are  now,  and  who  are  yet  to  be  ; 
I  plead  for  all  the  surest  hopes  of  man. 

The  vital  welfare  of  humanity: 
Oh  !  let  not  bestial  Ignorance  maintain 
Longer  within  the  land  her  brutalizing  reign. 

6L 
O  Lady,  if  some  new-born  babe  should  bless, 

In  answer  to  a  nation's  prayers,  thy  love. 
When  thou,  beholding  it  in  tenderness. 

The  deepest,  holiest  joy  of  earth  shalt  prove, 
In  that  the  likeness  of  all  infants  see. 
And  call  to  mind  that  hour  what  now  thou  hear'st 
from  me. 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


7»3 


62. 
Then  seeing  infant  man,  that  Lord  of  Earth, 

Most  weak  and  helpless  of  all  breathing  things, 
Remember  that  as  Nature  makes  at  birth 

No  different  law  for  Peasants  or  for  Kings, 
And  at  the  end  no  difference  may  befall, 
The  "short  parenthesis  of  life"  is  all 

63. 

But  in  that  space,  how  wide  may  be  their  doom 

Of  honor  or  dishonor,  good  or  ill ! 
From  Nature's  hand  like  plastic  clay  they  come. 

To  take  from  circumstance  their  woe  or  weal ; 
And  as  the  form  and  pressure  may  be  given. 
They  wither  upon  earth,  or  ripen  there  for  Heaven. 

64. 
Is  it  then  fitting  that  one  soul  should  pine 

For  lack  of  culture  in  this  favor'd  land.'  — 
That  spirits  of  capacity  divine 

Perish,  like  seeds  upon  the  desert  sand?  — 
That  needful  knowledge  in  this  age  of  light 
Should  not  by  birth  be  every  Briton's  right  ? 

65. 
Little  can  private  zeal  effect  alone  ; 

Tlie  State  must  this  state-malady  redress ; 
For  ns,  of  all  the  ways  of  life,  but  one  — 

The  path  of  duty  —  leads  to  happiness. 
So  in  their  duty  States  must  find  at  length 
Their  welfare,  and  their  safety,  and  their  strength. 

66. 

This  the  first  duty,  carefully  to  train 

The  children  in  the  way  that  they  should  go ; 

Then  of  the  family  of  guilt  and  pain 

How  large  a  part  were  banish'd  from  below  ! 

How  would  the  people  love  with  surest  cause 

Their  country,  and  revere  her  venerable  laws ! 

67. 

Is  there,  alas  !  within  the  human  soul 

An  inbred  taint  disposing  it  for  ill .' 
More  need  that  early  culture  should  control 

And  discipline  by  love  the  pliant  will ! 
The  heart  of  man  is  rich  in  all  good  seeds ; 
Neo-lected,   it  is  choked  with  tares  and  noxious 
weeds. 

68. 
He  ceased,  and  sudden  from  some  unseen  throng 

A  choral  peal  arose  and  shook  the  hall ; 
As  when  ten  thousand  children  with  their  song 

Fill  the  resounding  temple  of  St.  Paul ;  — 
Scarce   can   the    heart  their  powerful  tones  sus- 
tain;— 
"  Save,  or  we  perish !  "  was  the  thrilling  strain. 

69. 

"Save,  or  we  perish  !  "  thrice  the  strain  was  sung 
By  unseen  Souls  innumerous  hovering  round  ; 

And  whilst  the  hall  with  their  deep  chorus  rung. 
The  inmost  heart  was  shaken  with  the  sound  ; 

I  felt  the  refluent  blood  forsake  my  face. 

And  my  knees  trembled  in  that  awful  place. 


70. 
Anon  two  female  forms  before  our  view 

Came  side  by  side,  a  beauteous  couplement; 
The  first  a  virgin  clad  in  skyey  blue  ; 

Upward  to  Heaven  her  steadfast  eyes  were  bent , 
Her  countenance  an  anxious  meaning  bore, 
Yet  such  as  might  have  made  her  loved  the  more. 

71. 

This  was  that  maiden,  "sober,  chaste,  and  wise," 
Who  bringeth  to  all  hearts  their  best  delight : 

"  Though  spoused,  yet  wanting  wedlock's  solem- 
nize;  " 
"Daughter  of  CoBlia,  and  Speranza  hight, 

I  knew  her  well  as  one  whose  portraiture 

In  my  dear  Master's  verse  forever  will  endure. 

72. 
Her  sister,  too,  the  same  divinest  page 

Taught  me  to  know  for  that  Charissa  fair 
"  Of  goodly  grace  and  comely  personage, 

Of  wondrous  beauty  and  of  bounty  rare, 
Full  of  great  love,"  in  whose  most  gentle  mien 
The  charms  of  perfect  womanhood  were  seen. 

73. 
This  lovely  pair  unroll'd  before  the  throne 

"Earth's  melancholy  map,"  whereon  to  sight 
Two  broad  divisions  at  a  glance  were  shown,  — 

The  empires  these  of  Darkness  and  of  Light. 
Well  might  the  thoughtful  bosom  sigh  to  mark 
How  wide  a  portion  of  the  map  was  dark. 

74. 

Behold,  Charissa  cried,  how  large  a  space 

Of  Earth  lies  unredeem'd  !     Oh,  grief  to  think 

That  countless  myriads  of  immortal  race. 
In  error  born,  in  ignorance  must  sink, 

Train'd  up  in  customs  which  corrupt  the  heart, 

And  following  miserably  the  evil  part! 

75. 
Regard  the  expanded  Orient,  from  the  shores 

Of  scorch'd  Arabia  and  the  Persian  sea. 
To  where  the  inhospitable  Ocean  roars 

Against  the  rocks  of  frozen  Tartary  ; 
Look  next  at  those  Australian  isles,  which  lie 
Thick  as  the  stars  that  stud  the  wintry  sky ;  — 

76. 
Then  let  thy  mind  contemplative  survey 

That  spacious  region,  where,  in  elder  time. 
Earth's  unremember'd  conquerors  held  the  sway  ; 

And  Science,  trusting  in  her  skill  sublime. 
With  lore  abstruse  the  sculptured  walls  o'erspread, 
Its  import  now  forgotten  with  the  dead. 

77. 
From  Nile  and  Congo's  undiscover'd  sprmgs 

To  the  four  seas  which  gird  the  unhappy  land, 
Behold  it  left  a  prey  to  barbarous  Kings, 

The  Robber,  or  the  Trader's  ruthless  hand  ? 
Sinning  and  suffering,  every  where  unbless'd, 
Behold   her   wretched   sons,  oppressing    and    op- 
press'd  ' 


784 


THE   LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


78. 
To  England  is  the  Eastern  empire  given, 

And  hers  the  sceptre  of  the  circling  main ; 
Shall  she  not  then  diffuse  the  word  of  Heaven 

Through  all  the  regions  of  her  trusted  reign, — 
Wage  against  evil  things  the  hallowd  strife. 
And  sow  with  liberal  hand  the  seeds  of  life ! 

79. 
By  strenuous  efforts  in  a  rightful  cause. 

Gloriously  hath  she  surpass'd  her  ancient  fame, 
And   won    in    arms    the  astonish'd   World's   ap- 
plause. 
Yet  may  she  win  in  peace  a  nobler  name. 
And  Nations,  which  now  lie  in  error  blind, 
Hail  her  the  Friend  and  Teacher  of  Mankind  ! 

80. 

Oh  !  what  a  part  were  that.  Speranza  then 
Exclaim'd,  to  act  upon  Earth's  ample  stage  ! 

Oh !  what  a  name  among  the  sons  of  men 

To  leave,  which  should  endure  from  age  to  age  ! 

And  what  a  strength  that  ministry  of  good 

Should  find  in  love  and  human  gratitude  ! 

81. 
Speed  thou  the  work.  Redeemer  of  the  World  ! 

That  the  long  miseries  of  mankind  may  cease  ! 
Where'er  the  Red  Cross  banner  is  unfurl'd 

There  let  it  carry  truth,  and  light,  and  peace  ! 
Did  not  the  Angels  who  announced  thy  birth 
Proclaim  it  with  the  sound  of  Peace  on  Earth .'' 

82. 
Bless  thou  this  happy  Island,  that  the  stream 

Of  blessing  far  and  wide  from  hence  may  flow ! 
Bless  it  that  thus  thy  saving  Mercy's  beam 
Reflected  hence  may  shine  on  all  below ! 
Thy  kingdom    come  !    thy   will   be    done,   O 

Lord  ! 
And   be   thy  Holy   Name   through    all   the 
world  adored  ! 

83. 
Thus  as  Speranza  cried,  she  clasp'd  her  hands. 

And  heavenward  lifted  them  in  ardent  prayer. 
Lo  !  at  the  act  the  vaulted  roof  expands,  — 

Heaven  opens,  —  and  in  empyreal  air 
Pouring  its  splendors  through  the  inferior  sky 
More  bright  than  noon-day  suns  the  Cross  ap- 
pears on  high. 

84. 
A  strain  of  heavenly  harmony  ensued. 

Such  as  but  once  to  mortal  ears  was  known,  — 
The  voice  of  that  Angelic  Multitude, 

Who,  in  their  Orders,  stand  around  the  Throne ; 
Peace  upon  Earth,  Good  Will  to  Men  !  they 

sung. 
And  Heaven   and  Earth  with  that  prophetic  an- 
them rung. 

85. 
In  holy  fear  I  fell  upon  the  ground. 
And  hid  my  face,  unable  to  endure 


The  glory,  or  sustain  the  piercing  sound ; 

In  fear  and  yet  in  trembling  joy,  for  sure 
My  soul  that  hour  yearn'd  strongly  to  be  free, 
Tliat  it  might  spread  its  wings  in  immortality. 

86. 
Gone  was  the  glory  when  I  raised  my  head ; 

But  in  the  air  appear'd  a  form  half  seen, 
Below  with  shadows  dimly  garmented. 

And  indistinct  and  dreadful  was  his  mien : 
Yet,  when  1  gazed  intentlier,  I  could  trace 
Divinest  beauty  in  that  awful  face. 

87. 
Hear  me,  O  Princess  !  said  the  shadowy  form, 

As,  in  administering  this  mighty  land, 
Tliou  with  thy  best  endeavor  shalt  perform 

The  will  of  Heaven,  so  shall  my  faithful  hand 
Thy  great  and  endless  recompense  supply ;  — 
My  name  is  DEATH  :  the  last,  best   friend 

AM  I  ! 


EPILOGUE. 


Is  this  the  Nuptial  Song.'  with  brow  severe 
Perchance  the  votaries  of  the  world  will  say  : 

Are  these  fit  strains  for  Royal  ears  to  hear.' 
What  man  is  he  who  thus  assorts  his  lay, 

And  dares  pronounce  with  inauspicious  breath, 

In  Hymeneal  verse,  the  name  of  Death .' 

2. 

Remote  from  cheerful  intercourse  of  men, 
Hath  he  indulged  his  melancholy  mood. 

And,  like  the  hermit  in  some  sullen  den, 
Fed  his  distemper'd  mind  in  solitude .' 

Or  have  fanatic  dreams  distraught  his  sense, 

That  thus   he   should  presume  with  bold   irrev- 
erence .' 

3. 

O  Royal  Lady,  ill  they  judge  the  heart 
That  reverently  approaches  thee  to-day, 

And  anxious  to  perform  its  fitting  part. 
Prefers  the  tribute  of  this  duteous  lay  ! 

Not  with  displeasure  should  his  song  be  read 

Who  prays  for  Heaven's  best  blessings  on  thy 
head. 

4. 
He  prays  that  many  a  year  may  pass  away 

Ere  the  State  call  thee  from  a  life  of  love ; 
Vex'd  by  no  public  cares,  that  day  by  day 

Thy  heart  the  dear  domestic  joys  may  prove. 
And  gracious  Heaven  thy  chosen  nuptials  bless 
With  all  a  Wife's  and  all  a  Mother's  happiness. 

5. 

He  prays  that,  for  thine  own  and  England's  sake. 
The  Virtues  and  the  Household  Charities 

Their  favor'd  seat  beside  thy  hearth  may  take ; 
That  when  the  Nation  thither  turn  their  eyes, 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAUREATE. 


785 


There  the  conspicuous  model  they  may  find 
Of  all  which  makes  the  bliss  of  human-kind. 

6. 

He  prays  that,  when  the  sceptre  to  thy  hand 
In  due  succession  shall  descend  at  length, 

Prosperity  and  Peace  may  bless  the  Land, 
Truth    be    thy    counsellor,   and    Heaven 
strength  ; 

That  every  tongue  tliy  praises  may  proclaim, 

And  every  heart  in  secret  bless  thy  name. 


thy 


He  prays  that  thou  mayst  strenuously  maintain 
The  wise  laws  handed  down  from  sire  to  son ; 

He  prays  that,  under  thy  auspicious  reign, 
All  may  be  added,  which  is  left  undone, 

To  make  the  realm,  its  polity  complete, 

In  all  things  happy,  as  in  all  things  great;  — 


That,  through  the  will  of  thy  enlighten'd  mind, 
Brute  man  may  be  to  social  life  reclaim'd  ; 

That,  in  compassion  for  forlorn  .mankind, 
The  saving  Faith  may  widely  be  proclaim'd 

Through    erring    lands,    beneath    thy    fostering 
care ;  — 

This  is  his  ardent  hope,  his  loyal  prayer. 

9. 
In  every  cottage  may  thy  power  be  blest 

For  blessings  which  should  every  where  abound ; 
Thy  will,  beneficent,  from  East  to  West, 

May  bring  forth  good  where'er  the  sun  goes 
round, 
And    thus,  through  future  times,  should   Char- 
lotte's fame 
Surpass  our  great  Eliza's  golden  name. 

10. 

Of  awful  subjects  have  I  dared  to  sing  ; 

Yet  surely  are  they  such,  as,  view'd  aright. 
Contentment  to  thy  better  mind  may  bring  ; 

A  strain  which  haply  may  thy  heart  invite 
To  ponder  well  how  to  thy  choice  is  given 
A   glorious   name   on   Earth,  a   high   reward    in 
Heaven. 


n. 

Light   strains,   though   cheerful  .as   the   hues  of 
spring, 

Would  wither  like  a  wreath  of  vernal  flowers ; 
The  amaranthine  garland  which  I  bring 

Shall  keep  its  verdure  through  all  afler-hours ;  — 
Yea,  while  the  Poet's  name  is  doom'd  to  live, 
So  long  this  garland  shall  its  fragrance  give. 

12. 

"  Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown  :  " 

Thus  said  the  Bard  who  spake  of  kingly  cares ; 
But  calmly  may  the  Sovereign  then  lie  down 
When  grateful  Nations  guard  him  with  their 
prayers  • 

99 


How  sweet  a  sleep  awaits  tlie  Royal  head 

Wlien  these  keep  watch  and  ward  around  tlxe  bed  ' 


L'ENVOY. 


Go,  little  Book ;  from  this  my  solitude, 
I  cast  thee  on  the  waters  :  —  go  thy  ways  I 

And  if,  as  I  believe,  thy  vein  be  good. 

The  World  will  find  thee,  after  many  days. 

Be  it  with  thee  according  to  thy  worth:  — 

Go,  little  Book !  in  faith  1  send  thee  forth 


NOTES, 


The  "  short  parenthesis  of  life  "  is  all.  —  62,  p.  783 
I  have  borrowed  tliis  striking  expression  from  Storer. 

All  as  my  clirysom,  so  my  winding  sheet; 
None  joy'd  my  birth,  none  mourn'd  my  death  to  see  ; 

The  short  parenthesis  of  life  was  sweet, 

But  short ;  —  what  was  before,  unknown  to  me. 
And  what  must  follow  is  the  Lord's  decree. 

Stoker's  Life  and  Death  of  Wolsey. 

Let  me  insert  here  a  beautiful  passage  from  this  forgotten 
poet,  whose  work  has  been  retrieved  from  oblivion  in  the  Hcli- 
conia.     Wolsey  is  speaking. 

More  fit  the  dirige  of  a  mournful  quire 
In  dull  sad  notes  all  sorrows  to  exceed. 
For  him  in  whom  the  Prince's  love  is  dead. 

I  am  the  tomb  where  that  affection  lies. 
That  was  the  closet  where  it  living  kept : 

Yet  wise  men  say  afte.;tion  never  dies  ;  — 
No,  but  it  turns,  and  when  it  long  hath  slept, 
Looks  heavy,  like  the  eye  I'lat  long  hath  wept. 

O  could  it  die,  —  that  were  a  restful  state  ! 

But  living,  it  converts  to  deadly  hate. 


Daughter  of  Calia,  and  Speranza  hight. — 71,  p.  783. 

IV. 
Dame  Ccelia  men  did  her  call,  as  thought 
From  Heaven  to  come,  or  thither  to  arise, 
The  mother  of  three  daughters  well  up-brought 
In  goodly  thews  or  godly  e.xercise  : 
Tlie  eldest  two,  most  sober,  chaste  and  wise, 
Fidelia  and  S|)eranza  virgins  were. 
Though  spoused  yet  wanting  wedlock's  solemnize  ; 
Rut  fair  Charissa  to  a  lovely  fere 
Was  linked,  and  by  him  had  many  pledges  dear. 

Faery  Queen,  Book  I.  c.  10. 


/  knew  her  well  as  one  whose  portraiture 

III  mij  dear  Jlastcr's  verse  forever  will  endure.  ■ 


-71,p.?8a 


xa. 

Thus  as  they  gan  of  sundry  things  devise, 

Lo  !  two  must  goodly  virgins  came  in  place, 

Ylinked  arm  in  arm  in  lovely  wise. 

With  countenance  demure,  and  modest  grace, 

They  niinibred  equal  steps  and  even  pace  ; 

Of  which  the  eldest,  that  Fidelia  hight, 

Like  sunny  beams  threw  from  her  chrystal  face. 


786 


FUNERAL    SONG. 


Tliat  could  have  dazed  the  rash  beholder's  sight, 
And  round  about  her  head  did  shine  like  Heaven's  light. 

Xlll. 
She  was  arrayed  all  in  lilly  white. 
And  in  her  ri;;ht  hand  born  a  cnp  of  gold, 
With  wino  and  water  filled  up  to  the  height, 
In  which  a  serpent  did  himself  enfold, 
That  horror  made  to  all  that  did  behold  ; 
But  she  no  whit  did  change  her  constant  mood  ; 
And  in  her  other  hand  she  fast  did  hold 
A  book,  that  was  both  signed  and  sealed  with  blood, 
Wherein  dark  things  were  writ,  hard  to  be  understood. 

XIV. 
Her  younger  sister,  that  Speranza  hight, 
Was  clad  in  blue  that  her  beseemed  well : 
Not  all  so  chearful  seemed  she  of  sight 
As  was  her  sister;  whether  dread  did  dwell, 
Or  anguish  in  her  heart,  is  hard  to  tell. 
Upon  her  arm  a  silver  anchor  lay, 
Whereon  she  leaned  ever,  as  befell : 
And  ever  up  to  Heaven  as  she  did  pray. 
Her  stedfast  eyes  were  bent,  ne  swarved  other  way. 

Faery  Q,uem,  Book  I.  c.  10. 


Her  sister,  too,  the  same  divinest  page 
Taught  VIC  to  know.  —  72,  p.  763. 

XXX. 

She  was  a  woman  in  her  freshest  age. 
Of  wondrous  beauty,  and  of  bounty  rare, 
With  goodly  grace  and  comely  personage, 
That  was  on  earth  not  easy  to  compare. 
Full  of  great  love. 

Faery  Queen,  Book  I.  c.  10. 


"  Eartli's  melancholy  map." —73,  p.  78a 

A  part  how  small  of  the  terraqueous  globe 
Is  tenanted  by  man  !  the  rest  a  waste  ; 
Rocks,  deserts,  frozen  seas,  and  burning  sands, 
Wild  haunts  of  monsters,  poisons,  stings  and  death  '. 
Such  is  Earth's  melancholy  map  !  but  far 
More  sad  !  this  earth  is  a  true  map  of  man. 

Young,  JVight  1,  /.  285. 

It  is  the  moral  rather  than  the  physical  map  which  ought  to 
excite  this  mournful  feeling,  —  but  such  contemplations  should 
excite  our  hope  and  our  zeal  also  ;  for  how  large  a  part  of  all 
existing  evil,  physical  as  well  as  moral,  is  remediable  by 
human  means ! 


iFunetal  Sons, 


FOR   THE   PRINCESS   CHARLOTTE  OF  WALES, 


ItJ  its  summer  pride  array 'd, 

Low  our  Tree  of  Hope  is  laid  ! 

Low  it  lies  :  —  in  evil  hour, 

Visiting  the  bridal  bower, 

Death  hath  levell'd  root  and  flower. 

Windsor,  in  thy  sacred  shade, 

(This  the  end  of  pomp  and  power !) 

Have  the  riles  of  death  been  paid  : 

Windsor,  in  thy  sacred  shade 

Is  the  Flower  of  Brunswick  laid  ! 

Ye  whose  relics  rest  around, 
Tenants  of  this  funeral  ground  ! 
Know  ye.  Spirits,  who  is  come, 
By  immitigable  doom 
Summon'd  to  the  untimely  tomb? 
Late  with  youth  and  splendor  crown'd. 
Late  in  beauty's  vernal  bloom. 
Late  with  love  and  joyance  blest ; 
Never  more  lamented  guest 
Was  in  Windsor  laid  to  rest. 

Henry,  thou  of  saintly  worth. 
Thou,  to  whom  thy  Windsor  gave 
Nativity,  and  name,  and  grave  ; 
Thou  art  in  this  hallowed  earth 
Cradled  for  the  immortal  birth  ! 
Heavily  upon  his  head 
Ancestral  crimes  were  visited  : 


He,  in  spirit  like  a  child, 
Meek  of  heart  and  undefiled. 
Patiently  his  crown  resign'd. 
And  fix'd  on  heaven  his  heavenly  mind, 
Blessing,  while  he  kiss'd  the  rod, 
His  Redeemer  and  his  God. 
Now  may  he  in  realms  of  bliss 
Greet  a  soul  as  pure  as  his. 

Passive  as  that  humble  spirit 
Lies  his  bold  dethroner  too ; 
A  dreadful  debt  did  he  inherit 
To  his  injured  lineage  due; 
Ill-starr'd  prince,  whose  martial  merit 
His  own  England  long  might  rue  ! 
Mournful  was  that  Edward's  fame. 
Won  in  fields  contested  vi'ell. 
While  he  sought  his  rightful  claim  : 
Witness  Aire's  unhappy  water. 
Where  the  ruthless  Clifford  fell ; 
And  when  Wharfe  ran  red  with  slaughter, 
On  the  day  of  Towton's  field. 
Gathering,  in  its  guilty  flood, 
The  carnage  and  the  ill-spilt  blood 
That  forty  thousand  lives  could  yield. 
Cressy  was  to  this  but  sport, 
Poictiers  but  a  pageant  vain ; 
And  the  victory  of  Spain 
Seem'd  a  strife  for  pastime  mean 


FUNERAL    SONG.                                               787 

And  the  work  of  Agincourt 

By  the  life  so  basely  shed 

Only  like  a  tournament ; 

Of  the  pride  of  Norfolk's  line, 

Half  the  blood  which  there  was  spent, 

By  the  a.xe  so  often  red. 

Had  sufficed  again  to  gain 

By  the  fire  with  martyrs  fed, 

Anjou  and  ill-yielded  Maine, 

Hateful  Henry,  not  with  thee 

Normandy  and  Aquitaine, 

May  her  happy  spirit  be  ! 

And  Our  Lady's  Ancient  towers. 

Maugre  all  the  Valois '  powers, 

Had  a  second  time  been  ours.  — 

And  here  lies  one  whose  tragic  name 

A  gentle  daughter  of  thy  line, 

A  reverential  thought  may  claim  ; 

Edward,  lays  her  dust  with  thine. 

That  murder'd  Monarch,  whom  the  grave, 

Revealing  its  long  secret,  gave 

Thou,  Elizabeth,  art  here  ; 

Again  to  sight,  that  we  might  spy 

Thou  to  whom  all  griefs  were  known ; 

His  comely  face  and  waking  eye  ! 

Who  vvert  placed  upon  the  bier 

There,  thrice  fifty  years,  it  lay. 

In  happier  hour  than  on  the  throne. 

Exempt  from  natural  decay. 

Fatal  daughter,  fatal  mother,. 

Unclosed  and  bright,  as  if  to  say. 

Raised  to  that  ill-omen'd  station, 

A  plague,  of  bloodier,  baser  birth. 

Father,  uncle,  sons,  and  brother. 

Than  that  beneath  whose  rage  he  bled, 

Mourn'd  in  blood  her  elevation  ! 

Was  loose  upon  our  guilty  earth ;  — 

Woodville,  in  the  realms  of  bliss. 

Such  awful  warning  from  the  dead 

To  thine  offspring  thou  mayst  say, 

Was  given  by  that  portentous  eye ; 

Early  death  is  happiness ; 

Then  it  closed  eternally. 

And  favor'd  in  their  lot  are  they 

Who  are  not  left  to  learn  below 

That  length  of  life  is  length  of  woe. 
Lightly  let  this  ground  be  press'd ; 
A  broken  heart  is  here  at  rest. 

Ye  whose  relics  rest  around. 

Tenants  of  this  funeral  ground  ; 
Even  in  your  immortal  spheres, 

What  fresh  yearnings  will  ye  feel, 

But  thou,  Seymour,  with  a  greeting 

When  this  earthly  guest  appears  1 
Us  she  leaves  in  grief  and  tears ; 
But  to  you  will  she  reveal 
Tidings  of  old  England's  weal; 

Such  as  sisters  use  at  meeting, 
Joy,  and  sympathy,  and  love. 
Wilt  hail  her  in  the  seats  above. 

Like  in  loveliness  were  ye  j 
By  a  like  lamented  doom. 

Of  a  righteous  war  pursued. 

Long,  through  evil  and  through  good. 

With  unshaken  fortitude  ; 

Hurried  to  an  early  tomb. 
While  together,  spirits  blest, 

Of  peace,  in  battle  twice  achieved ; 

Of  her  fiercest  foe  subdued,                                  i 

Here  your  earthly  relics  rest ; 
Fellow  angels  shall  ye  be 

And  Europe  from  the  yoke  reliev'd,                    j 
Upon  that  Brabantine  plain  ! 

In  the  angelic  company. 

Such  the  proud,  the  virtuous  story. 

Henry,  too,  hath  here  his  part ; 
At  the  gentle  Seymour's  side. 

Such  the  great,  the  endless  glory 

Of  her  father's  splendid  reign  !                             ! 

He  who  wore  the  sable  mail                                  i 

With  his  best  beloved  bride. 

Might,  at  this  heroic  tale. 
Wish  himself  on  earth  again. 

Cold  and  quiet,  here  are  laid 
The  ashes  of  that  fiery  heart. 

Not  with  his  tyrannic  spirit. 

Shall  our  Charlotte's  soul  inherit; 

One  who  reverently,  for  thee, 

No,  by  Fisher's  hoary  head,  — 

Raised  the  strain  of  bridal  verse. 

By  More,  the  learned  and  the  good,  — 

Flower  of  Brunswick  !  mournfully 

By  Kptharine's  wrongs  and  Boleyn's  blood, 

Lays  a  garland  on  thy  hearse. 

788      A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT;    DEDICATION;    PREFACE. 


^  Ti^ion  of  3tttr0went» 


TO    THE    KING. 


Sir, 


Only  to  Your  Majesty  can  the  present  pub- 
lication with  propriety  be  addressed.  As  a  tribute 
to  the  sacred  memory  of  our  late  revered  Sover- 
eign, it  is  my  duty  to  present  it  to  Your  Majesty's 
notice  ;  and  to  whom  could  an  experiment,  which, 
perhaps,  may  be  considered  herealter  as  of  some 
importance  in  English  Poetry,  be  so  fitly  inscribed, 
as  to  the  Royal  and  munificent  Patron  of  science, 
art,  and  literature  .•' 

We  owe  much  to  the  House  of  Brunswick ;  but 
to  none  of  that  illustrious  House  more  than  to 
Your  Majesty,  under  whose  government  the  mili- 
tary renown  of  Great  Britain  has  been  carried  to 
the  highest  point  of  glory.  From  that  pure  glory 
there  has  been  nothing  to  detract ;  the  success  was 
not  more  splendid  than  the  cause  was  good  ;  and 
the  event  was  deserved  by  the  generosity,  the 
justice,  the  wisdom,  and  the  magnanimity  of  the 
counsels  which  prepared  it.  The  same  perfect 
integrity  has  been  manifested  in  the  whole  admin- 
istration of  public  affairs.  More  has  been  done 
than  was  ever  before  attempted,  for  mitigating 
the  evils  incident  to  our  stage  of  society;  for 
imbuing  the  rising  race  with  those  sound  principles 
of  religion  on  which  the  welfare  of  states  has  its 
only  secure  foundation ;  and  for  opening  new 
regions  to  the  redundant  enterprise  and  industry 
of  the  people.  Under  Your  Majesty's  government, 
the  Metropolis  is  rivalling  in  beauty  those  cities 
wliich  it  has  long  surpassed  in  greatness :  sciences, 
arts,  and  letters  are  flourishing  beyond  all  former 
example ;  and  the  last  triumph  of  nautical  dis- 
covery and  of  the  British  flag,  which  had  so  often 
been  essayed  in  vain,  has  been  accomplished.  The 
brightest  portion  of  British  history  will  be  that 
which  records  the  improvements,  the  works,  and 
the  achievements  of  the  Georgian  Age. 

That  Your  Majesty  may  long  continue  to  reign 
over  a  free  and  prosperous  people,  and  that  the 
blessings  of  the  happiest  form  of  government  which 
has  ever  been  raised  by  human  wisdom  under  the 
favor  of  Divine  Providence,  may,  under  Your 
Majesty's  protection,  be  transmitted  unimpaired 
to  posterity,  is  the  prayer  of 

Your  Majesty's 

Most  dutiful  Subject  and  Servant, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


PREFACE 


THE    PRESENT    EDITION 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


Soon  after  the  publicationof  this  poem,  the  Rev- 
erend S.  Tillbrook,  B.  D.,  at  that  time  Fellow  of 
Peterhouse,  and  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  pub- 
lished a  pamphlet  entitled, 

"HISTORICAL  AND  CRITICAL  REMARKS 

UPON* 

THE   MODERN   HEXAMETERS, 

AND    UPON 

MR.    SOUTHEY'S   VISION   OF  JUDGMENT. 

'  The  Hexameter  Verse  I  grant  to  be  a  gentleman  of  an 
ancient  house,  (so  is  many  an  English  beggar ;)  yet  this  climo 
of  ours  he  cannot  thrive  in  ;  our  speech  ia  too  craggy  for  him 
to  set  his  plough  in;  he  goes  twitching  and  hopping,  like  a 
man  running  upon  quagmires,  up  the  hill  in  one  syllable,  and 
down  the  dale  in  another,  retaining  no  part  of  that  strictly 
smooth  gait  which  he  vaunts  himself  with  among  the  Greeks 
and  Latins.'  —  Thomas  Nash. 

CAMBRIDGE. 

1822." 

The  following  extracts  comprise  the  most  im- 
portant of  Mr.  Tillbrook's  animadversions  :  — 

"  The  Laureate  says  that  '  if  it  be  difficult  to 
reconcile  the  public  to  a  new  tune  in  verse,  it  is 
plainly  impossible  to  reconcile  them  to  a  new  pro- 
nunciation.' But  why  not  attempt  to  teacli  this 
tune  on  new  principles  ?  why  leave  the  public  with- 
out a  guide  to  the  accents  and  divisions  of  the 
Georgian  hexameter  ?  This  should  have  been  done 
either  by — borrowing  from  the  Latin  rules  —  adopt- 
ing those  of  the  early  prosodians  —  or  by  inventing 
a  new  metronome.  It  is  difficult  to  recommend, 
much  more  to  establish,  any  theoretical  attempt 
upon  individual  authority,  because  practical  expe- 
rience is  the  best  and  ultimate  test  of  success. 
After  repeated  trials,  the  enterprise  in  question  has 
uniformly  failed,  and  experience  has  shown  that 
all  modern  imitations  of  the  epic  are  unworthy  of 
becoming  denizens  among  our  English  metres. 
The  system  attempted  by  the  Laureate  is  profess- 
edly  an    imitation    of    the  ancient   systems ;    but 


PREFACE    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT, 


789 


every  copy  is  good  or  bad  as  it  resembles  or  differs 
from  its  original.  In  defence  of  his  enterprise, 
Mr.  Southoy  should  not  have  contented  liiinself 
with  a  bare  exposition  of  the  measures  of  his  verse, 
but  should  have  actually  noted  the  ccusuras,  ac- 
cented the  syllables,  anil  divided  tlie  feet.  In  mat- 
ters of  rhythm  and  sound,  the  untried  car  cannot 
always  catch  the  precise  meaning  of  the  musician 
or  poet,  especially  where  an  original  air  is  turned 
into  a  variation  ;  and  this  seems  precisely  the  case 
between  the  modernized  and  original  epic,  tlie  dif- 
ference acknowledged  by  the  Laureate  being  the 
variation  alluded  to. 

"A  table,  exhibiting  the  varieties  which  Mr.  S. 
lias  adopted,  and  their  agreement  or  disagreement 
with  the  legitimate  hexameter,  should  have  been 
drawn  out.  Critical  experience  has  long  ago 
selected  and  established  certain  canons  for  the 
iambic,  sapphic,  alcaic,  and  other  metres ;  and 
Greek  or  Latin  verses  constructed  according  to 
these  laws  invariably  excel  both  in  rhythm  and 
melody.  —  There  are  in  the  Vision  of  Judgment 
parts  which  may  charm  and  delight,  but  they  do 
so  from  no  metrical  effect.  The  reader  (notwith- 
standing the  Laureate's  caution)  soon  finds  liim- 
self  in  a  tangled  path,  and  gets  bewildered  for 
want  of  those  guides  which  lead  him  smoothly 
through  the  Siege  of  Troy.  But  if  lie  travel  far 
with  the  Muse  of  modern  epic,  ho  will  Jiave  little 
running,  frequent  baitings,  some  stumbling  and 
jostling,  and  now  and  then  find  the  good  lady 
gaping,  or  sitting  crosslegged  in  the  midst  of  a 
barbarous  rabble  of  monosyllabic  particles. 

■»  7f  *  #  * 

"  But  it  will  be  easier  to  show  the  comparative 
and  probable  sources  of  excellence  or  failure  in 
the  composition  of  the  modern  hexameter,  by  an 
analysis  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  com- 
pared as  to  their  literal  and  syllabic  relations.  To 
effect  this,  four  separate  tables  have  been  drawn, 
containing  the  component  parts  and  totals  of  eight 
verses  of  hexumetrical  dimensions,  taken  severally 
from  the  Iliad,  JEne'id,  Vision  of  Judgment,  and 
from  a  poem  by  Schiller.  The  divisions  are  cal- 
culated to  show  the  totals  of  words,  syllables,  con- 
sonants, vowels,  dipiithongs,  letters,  and  variety  of 
final  syllables.  It  will  be  seen  from  this  tabular 
exposition  that  the  Greek  and  Latin  are  nearly 
analogous,  except  tliat  the  balance  of  polysyllables 
inclines  to  the  former.  The  diphthongs  are  more 
and  the  consonants  fewer,  and  the  total  of  letters 
and  words  also  is  less  with  the  Greek.  The  con- 
clusion therefore  is,  that  the  euphony,  and  syllabic 
power  of  speech,  must  likewise  be  on  the  side  of 
the  Greeks. 

"  In  the  English  scale,  the  number  of  monosylla- 
bles IS  five  times  as  great  as  in  either  of  the  two 
ancient  languages,  and  more  than  twice  as  great 
as  in  the  German.  The  English  consonants  are 
very  nearly  double  those  of  the  Greek  or  Latin, 
and  the  total  number  of  words  bears  nearly  the 
same  ratio  both  to  the  Greek  and  Latin,  viz.  two 
to  one.  By  necessity  of  grammar,  a  large  pro- 
portion of  these  words  consists  of  monosyllables 


and  expletives.  Neither  the  consonants  in  the 
German,  nor  the  total  of  letters,  is  so  numerous 
as  in  the  English,  and  the  same  relation  holds 
between  the  final  varieties  of  these  two  languages. 
"  It  has  been  before  remarked  that  the  Teutonic 
hexameter  may  be  rendered  somewhat  superior  to 
the  English.  This  superiority  is  in  a  great  meas- 
ure to  be  attributed  to  the  smaller  aggregate  of 
consonants  and  monosyllables  which  distinguish 
the  (Jernian  vocabulary.  But  the  unprejudiced 
reader  will  draw  what  inferences  he  pleases  from 
the  comparative  powers  of  each  language,  and  reg- 
ulate his  decision  according  to  the  apparent  truth 
or  falsehood  of  the  whole  of  the  argument  and 
evidence. 

"  '  Excludat  jurgia  Finis.' 

"  In  taking  leave  of  this  question,  the  Writer 
again  assures  Mr.  Southey  of  his  high  regard  both 
for  the  private  and  literary  life  of  the  Laureate  of 
the  present  age.  The  pen  v.iiich  has  traced  tliese 
Remarks,  if  it  be  not  that  of  a  ready  writer,  would 
fain  be  considered  as  that  of  a  humble  critic,  actu- 
ated by  no  other  motives  than  those  of  friendly 
discussions,  and  a  desire  to  preserve  the  Epic 
Muse  of  Greece  and  Latium  free  from  the  barbar- 
ities of  modern  imitation. 

"  It  is  against  the  metre  —  the  metrical  association 
and  arrangement  —  against  the  innovation,  not  the 
innovator,  that  the  writer  protests ;  the  merits  or 
demerits  therefore  of  the  Vision  of  Judgment,  as  a 
poem,  he  leaves  to  abler  reviewers  and  to  posterity 
It  will  be  read  and  admired  by  a  few  persons,  just 
as  the  attempts  of  other  Hexametrists  have  been. 
The  experiments  of  Trissino,  Sydney,  and  Spenser, 
produced  a  short-lived  sensation,  which  perished 
with  the  sympathetic  caprice  of  the  times.  The 
reputation  of  Mr.  Southey  may,  even  in  the  Geor- 
gian age,  produce  a  parallel  effect ;  but,  independent 
of  the  probable  causes  of  the  failure  already  stated, 
the  poem  itself,  being  an  occasional  one,  is  on  that 
account,  also,  more  liable  to  forgetfulness. 

it  if  -Jf  * 

"  Via  trita,  via  ttita,  is  therefore  as  good  a  password 
for  the  aspirant  who  would  climb  Parnassus,  as  for 
the  humble  pilgrim  who  plods  along  the  beaten 
path  of  Prose.  There  is  no  necessity,  indeed  no 
apology,  for  attempting  to  revive  those  misshapen 
forms  of  Poetry,  —  those  '  immodulata  poemata,' 
which  have  long  ago  been  laid  to  rest,  shrouded 
in  cobwebs  and  buried  in  the  dust.  Ennius  may 
be  pardoned  his  imaginary  metempsychosis,  his 
Somnia  Prjlhagorca,  and  assumption  of  the  title 
'■Mcr  Ifomcrus.'  but  the  world  would  be  loalli 
now-a-days  to  allow  the  same  privileges  to  an 
English  poet. 

"  Had  there  been  any  good  chance  of  imitating 
the  classic  hexameter,  surely  he  (who  by  distinction 
among  our  Poets  was  called  'divine  ')  must  liave 
succeeded  in  the  enterprise.  Spenser,  however, 
relinquished  tlu;  hopeless  task  ;  and  it  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that  his  example,  in  this  respect  at  least 
has  not  acted  preventively  upon  his  worthy  suc- 
cessor. 


790 


PREFACE    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


"  In  the  farrawo  of  metrical  trash  wliich  has  been 
extracted  from  the  modern  liexainetrists  of  different 
countries,  what  is  there  worthy  of  example  or  re- 
membrance, either  in  the  subjects  or  execution  of 
their  performances  ?  Human  nature  is  indeed  so 
fickle  in  her  intellectual  operations,  that  the  most 
absurd  and  impracticable  speculations  have  ever 
found  partisans  ready  to  advocate  their  truth,  and 
embark  in  the  execution  of  them.  But  the  career 
of  such  preposterous  enterprises  can  neither  be 
prosperous  nor  long.  To  wage  war  against  the 
opinions  of  the  wise  and  experienced,  is  to  challenge 
the  fate  of  poor  Dick  Tinto,  who  after  all  his  ill- 
spent  time  and  labor,  found  himself  '  patronized 
by  one  or  two  of  those  judicious  persons  who  make 
a  virtue  of  being  singular,  and  of  pitching  their  own 
opinions  against  those  of  the  world  in  matters  of 
taste  and  criticism.'  Ever  since  the  Republic  of 
Letters  was  established,  innovators  of  one  kind  or 
other  have  endeavored  to  supplant  the  sterling 
writers,  not  only  of  Greece  and  Rome,  but  of  every 
civilized  country.  But  when  ingenuity  or  imita- 
tion can  be  foisted  upon  true  scholarsliip,  as  the 
representative  of  original  genius,  the  taste  of  tlie 
public  must  either  be  sadly  perverted  to  relish 
what  is  bad,  or  be  already  satiated  with  that  which 
is  good. 

"  There  can  now  be  little,  or  rather  no  honor 
conferred  upon  our  own  legitimate  Muse,  by  an  at- 
tempt to  naturalize  a  bastard  race  of  metre,  which 
has  been  banished  from  the  most  enlightened  coun- 
tries of  Europe.  Within  the  last  two  centuries,  lit- 
erature, arms,  and  commerce  have  extended  our 
vernacular  tongue  over  a  vast  portion  of  the  globe, 
and  it  is  spreading  still  further.  On  this,  if  on  no 
other  account,  it  behoves  the  guardians  of  our 
native  quarry  to  see  that  it  maintains  its  proper  ex- 
cellence, and  to  recommend,  as  worthy  of  imitation, 
only  such  standard  works  of  art  or  science,  as  may 
have  received  the  repeated  sanction  of  the  scholar 
and  critic.  The  arts  are  naturally  imitative  ;  they 
will,  however,  sometimes,  from  mistaken  judgment 
or  self-confidence,  undertake  to  copy  that  which  is 
inimitable.  We  cannot,  under  any  coloring  or 
disguise,  mistake  the  Muse  of  modern  hexameter 
for  the  original  Calliope  of  Homer  or  Virgil. 

"  In  the  preface  to  the  Vision  of  Judgment,  Mr. 
Southey  assures  us  that  a  desire  to  realize  one  of 
the  hopes  of  his  youth  was  one  among  the  leading 
causes  of  his  enterprise  :  to  this  motive  might  have 
been  superadded  the  conscientious  discliarge  of 
an  official  duty,  and  the  public  expression  of  his 
loyalty  and  attachme'nt  to  the  reigning  sovereign. 
With  these,  or  such  like  considerations,  the  im- 
aginary apotheosis  of  our  late  revered  monarch 
seems  to  have  cooperated  in  the  plan  and  ex 
eeution  of  a  poem,  which  cannot  fail  of  giving 
offence  to  many  serious  and  well-meaning  persons. 
To  dive  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven,  and  to 
pronounce  upon  the  eternal  condition  of  departed 
kings  or  others,  is  unquestionably  a  bold,  if  not 
a  presumptuous  undertaking.  But  when  this  is 
carried  on  under  the  bias  of  political  feelings,  there 
is  greater  danger  of  its  becoming  erroneous,  or 
digressing  into  what  some  might  call  impiety.     It 


must,  however,  be  remembered,  that  the  'Vision 
of  Judgment'  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
poet's  dream.  Objections  of  a  similar  kind  might 
apply  to  Dante  or  Milton,  and  to  the  subjects  of 
their  great  labors,  and  in  sliort  to  all  scriptural 
themes.  It  would  be  difiicult,  perhaps,  to  deter- 
mine in  what  manner  the  scenes  of  the  Vision  of 
Judgment  could  have  been  unobjectionably  por- 
trayed. But  there  is  no  reason  why  a  gentleman 
and  scholar,  like  Mr.  Sq.utliey,  (  who  cannot,  any 
more  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  be  deemed 
infallible,)  should  be  loaded  with  abuse  which 
would  liave  been  hardly  justifiable  had  he  pub- 
lished a  series  of  poems  as  licentious  as  many  of 
recent  notoriety.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that  the 
offended  pride  of  the  Laureate  turns  in  disgust 
from  the  counsel  of  such  unworthy  rivals.  When 
the  civilities  of  learning  cease  to  be  cherished, 
admonition  will  become  nauseous,  and  criticism 
will  lose  half  its  usefulness.  It  is,  however,  to 
be  hoped,  that  no  dispassionate  inquirer  will  be 
ranked,  even  by  the  Laureate,  among  the  Dun- 
cerij  of  the  Georgian  age.  At  all  events,  the  Writer 
of  the  present  remarks  had  rather  accept  an  humble 
place  among  those  wliom  King  James  has  styled 
'  tiie  docile  bairncs  of  knowledge.'  The  Writer's 
stock  in  trade  as  a  critic  is  poor  and  homely ;  a 
little  recollection  of  the  rules  of  prosody,  accent, 
and  rhythm,  imprinted  upon  early  memory  by  rod 
or  ferula;  an  Etonian  master  and  grammar  —  rem- 
nants of  scanning  and  proving  —  an  ordinary  pair 
of  ears,  and  lungs  no  better  than  those  of  other 
folks.  These  scanty  materials  have  been  exercised 
in  the  examination  of  the  '  Vision  of  Judgment,' 
and  conclusions  very  different  from  those  of  its 
author  have  been  deduced.  And  when  the  reader 
has  perused  the  following  eulogy  by  the  Laureate 
upon  the  excellence  of  our  blank  verse,  he  will 
surely  ask  himself  why  that  gentleman  did  not 
apply  it  in  the  composition  of  a  poem,  which,  from 
the  nature  of  its  argument,  embraced  the  terrible 
and  sublime  as  well  as  the  tender  and  pathetic. 
'  Take  our  .blank  verse  for  all  in  all,  in  all  its 
gradations,  from  the  elaborate  rhythm  of  Milton, 
down  to  its  loosest  structure  in  the  early  drama- 
tists, and  I  believe  that  there  is  no  measure  com- 
parable to  it,  either  in  our  own  or  any  other 
language,  for  might,  and  m.njesty,  and  flexibility, 
and  compass.'  A  host  of  authors  might  be  brought 
in  support  of  this  panegyric  upon  English  blank 
verse ;  but  as  it  is  against  the  modern  hexame- 
trists  that  the  Writer  has  waged  a  somewhat  long 
(though,  as  he  trusts,  a  friendl}-)  warfiire,  he  will 
now  draw  his  last  shaft  from  the  quiver  of  honest 
old  Puttenham,  and  when  he  has  shot  it,  will  hang- 
up his  bow  and  shake  hands  with  the  Laureate. 
'  Now,  pcradventure,  with  us  Englishmen,  it  be 
somewhat  too  late  to  admit  a  new  invention  of 
feete  and  times,  that  our  forefathers  never  used, 
nor  ever  observed  till  this  day,  either  in  their  meas- 
ures or  in  their  pronunciation,  and  perchance  will 
.seem  in  us  a  presumptuous  part  to  attempt;  con- 
sidering also  it  would  be  hard  to  find  many  men  to 
like  one  man's  choice,  in  tlie  limitation  of  times 
and  quantities  of  words,  with  which  not  one,  but 


PREFACE    TO    THE   VISION    OP    JUDGMENT. 


791 


every  care,  is  to  be  pleased  and  made  a  particular 
judge  ;  being  most  truly  said  that  a  multitude,  or 
commonality,  is  hard  to  please  and  easy  to  offend. 
And  therefore  I  intend  not  to  proceed  any  further 
in  this  curiositye,  than  to  .shew  the  small  subtility 
that  any  other  hath  yet  done,  and  not  by  imitation, 
but  by  observation  ;  not  to  the  intent  to  have  it  put 
ill  c.rxcutiun  in  our  vulgar  I'ocsie,  but  to  be  pleas- 
antly scanned  upon,  as  are  all  novelties  so  frivo- 
lous and  ridiculous  as  it.'  " 


After  thanking  Mr.  Tillbrook  for  sending  me  his 
pamphlet,  and  for  explaining  what  I  should  else 
have  been  sorry  to  notice,  that  it  contained  no  inti- 
mation of  the  personal  acquaintance  and  mutual 
good  will  which  had  so  long  subsisted  between  us, 
I  addressed  to  him  the  following  cursory  remarks 
in  reply  to  his  observations  :  — 

"  Tlie  greater  part  of  your  Treatise  is  employed 
in  very  ably  and  pleasantly  supplying  the  defi- 
ciencies of  my  Preface,  in  points  wherein  it  was 
necessarily  deficient,  because  I  was  out  of  reach  of 
materials.  The  remarks  wliich  are  directed  against 
my  own  hexameters  appear  to  me  altogetiier  ill 
founded.  You  try  the  measure  by  Greek  and  Latin 
prosody  :  you  might  as  well  try  me  by  the  Laws 
of  Solon,  or  the  Twelve  Tables.  I  have  distinctly 
stated  that  the  English  hexameter  is  not  constructed 
upon  those  canons,  but  bears  the  same  relation  to 
the  ancient,  that  our  heroic  line  does  to  the  iambic 
verse.  I  have  explained  the  principle  of  adaptation 
which  I  had  chosen,  and  by  that  principle  the 
measure  ought  to  be  judged. 

"You  bring  forward  arguments  which  are  de- 
rived from  music.  But  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
a  principle  which  holds  good  in  music,  should  there- 
fore be  applicable  to  metre.  The  arts  of  music 
and  poetry  are  essentially  distinct ;  and  I  have  had 
opportunities  of  observing  that  very  skilful  musi- 
cians may  be  as  utterly  without  ear  for  metre,  as  I 
am  myself  without  ear  for  music.  If  these  ar- 
guments were  valid,  they  would  apply  to  the  Ger- 
man hexameter  as  well  as  to  the  English ;  but  the 
measure  is  as  firmly  established  among  the  Germans 
as  blank  verse  is  with  us,  and,  having  been  sanc- 
tioned by  the  practice  of  their  best  poets,  can  never 
become  obsolete  so  long  as  the  works  of  Voss,  and 
Goethe,  and  Schiller  are  remembered,  that  is,  as 
long  as  the  language  lasts. 

"  Twice  you  have  remarked  upon  the  length  of 
tiie  verse  as  occasioning  a  difficulty  in  reading  it 
aloud.  Surely  you  have  taken  up  this  argument 
with  little  consideration,  because  it  lay  upon  the 
surface.  It  is  doubly  fallacious :  first,  upon  your 
own  principle ;  for  if  the  English  verse  is  not 
isochronous  with  the  Latin,  it  must  be  shorter; 
and,  secondly,  because  the  breath  is  regulated  in 
reading  by  the  length  of  the  sentence,  not  by  that 
of  the  verse. 

"  Why  did  you  bring  against  my  trochee  in  the 
fifth  place  an  argument  just  as  applicable  to  the 
spondaic  verse,  and  which,  indeed,  is  only  saying 
that  a  versifier  who  writes  without  any  regard  to 


effect,  may  produce  very  bad  verses.'  You  might 
as  well  object  to  the  Alexandrine  that  it  admits  of 
twelve  monosyllables.  And  how  is  it  that  you,  who 
know  Glaramara  so  well,  should  have  made  me 
answerable  for  a  vowel  dropped  at  the  press  ? 

"  You  have  dealt  fairly  in  not  selecting  single 
lines,  which,  taken  singly,  would  be  unfavorable 
specimens;  but  methinks  you  should  have  exhib- 
ited one  extract  of  sufficient  length  to  show  the 
effect  of  the  measure.  I  certainly  think  that  any 
paragraph  of  the  poem  containing  from  ten  lines  up- 
ward would  confute  all  the  reasoning  which  you 
have  advanced,  or  which  any  one  could  adduce 
against  the  experiment. 

"  But  I  have  done.  It  is  a  question  de  <rustibus, 
and  therefore  interminable.  The  proof  of  the 
pudding  must  be  in  the  eating ;  and  not  all  the  rea- 
soning in  the  world  will  ever  persuade  any  one  that 
the  j)udding  which  he  dislikes  is  a  good  pudding, 
or  that  the  pudding  which  pleases  his  palate  and 
agrees  with  his  stomach  can  be  a  bad  one.  I  am 
glad  that  I  have  made  the  experiment,  and  quite 
satisfied  with  the  result.  The  critics  who  write 
and  who  talk  are  with  you  ;  so,  I  dare  say,  are  the 
whole  posse  of  schoolmasters.  The  women,  the 
young  poets,  and  the  docile  bairns  are  with  me. 

"I  thank  you  for  speaking  kindly  and  consider- 
ately concerning  the  subject  of  the  Vision,  and 
remain, 

"  My  dear  Sir, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  Robert  Southei/ 
^-  Keswick,  17i1i  June,  1822." 


ORIGINAL   PREFACE. 


Having  long  been  of  opinion  that  an  English 
metre  might  be  constructed  in  imitation  of  the 
ancient  hexameter,  which  would  be  perfectly  con- 
sistent with  the  character  of  our  language,  and 
capable  of  great  richness,  variety,  and  strength,  1 
have  now  rnadc  the  experiment.  It  will  have 
some  disadvantages  to  contend  with,  both  among 
learned  and  unlearned  readers ;  among  the  former 
especially,  because,  though  they  may  divest  them- 
selves of  all  prejudice  against  an  innovation,  which 
has  generally  been  thought  impracticable,  and 
might  even  be  disposed  to  regard  the  attempt  fa- 
vorably, nevertheless  they  will,  from  inveterate 
association,  be  continually  reminded  of  rules  which 
are  inapplicable  to  our  tongue;  and  looking  for 
quantity  where  emphasis  only  ought  to  be  ex- 
pected, will  perhaps  less  easily  be  reconciled  to 
the  measure,  than  those  persons  who  consider  it 
simply  as  it  is.  To  the  one  class  it  is  necessary 
that  I  should  explain  the  nature  of  the  verse  ;  to 
the  other,  the  principle  of  adaption  which  lias 
been  followed. 

First,  then,  to  the  former,  who,  in  glancing  over 
these  long  lines,  will  perc'Ve  that  they  have  none 


792 


PREFACE    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


of  the  customary  characteristics  of  English  versi- 
fication, being  neiliier  marked  by  rhyme,  nor  by 
any  certain  number  of  syUables,  nor  by  any  regu- 
lar recurrence  of  emphasis  throughout  the  verse. 
Upon  closer  observation,  they  will  find  that  (with 
a  very  few  exceptions)  there  is  a  regular  recur- 
/  rence  of  emphasis  in  the  last  five  syllables  of  every 
line,  the  first  and  the  fourth  of  those  syllables 
being  accented,  tlie  others  not.  These  five  sylla- 
bles form  two  of  the  feet  by  which  the  verse  is 
measured,  and  which  are  called  dactyls  and  tro- 
chees, the  dactyl  consisting  of  one  long  syllable 
and  two  short  ones,  as  e.xemplified  in  the  name  of 
Wellington ;  the  trochee,  of  one  long  and  one 
short,  as  exemplified  in  the  name  of  Nelson.  Of 
such  feet,  there  are  six  in  every  verse.  The  four 
first  are  disposed  according  to  the  judgment  and 
convenience  of  the  writer ;  that  is,  they  may  be 
all  dactyls  or  all  trochees,  or  any  mixture  of  both 
in  any  arrangement;  but  the  fifth  is  always  a  dac- 
tyl, and  the  sixth  always  a  trochee,  except  in  some 
rare  instances,  when,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  or 
of  some  particular  effect,  a  trochee  is  admitted  in 
the  fifth  place.  One  more  remark  will  suffice  for 
this  preliminary  explanation.  These  feet  are  not 
constituted  each  by  a  sej)arate  word,  but  are  made 
up  of  one  or  more,  or  of  parts  of  words,  the  end 
of  one  and  the  beginning  of  another,  as  may  hap- 
pen. A  verse  of  the  Psalms,  originally  pointed 
out  by  Harris  of  Salisbury,  as  a  natural  and  per- 
fect hexameter,  will  exemplify  what  has  been 
said  :  — 

Why  do  (he  |  liestlien  |  nge,  and  Ihe  ]  people  i-  \  -m.igine  a  |  vain  tiling? 

This,  I  think,  will  make  the  general  construc- 
tion of  the  metre  perfectly  intelligible  to  persons 
who  may  be  unacquainted  with  the  rules  of  Latin 
versification;  those,  especially,  who  are  still  to  be 
called  gentle  readers,  in  this  ungentle  age.  But  it 
is  not  necessary  to  understand  the  principle  upon 
wrliich  the  verse  is  constructed,  in  order  to  feel  the 
harmony  and  power  of  a  metrical  composition;  — 
if  it  were,  how  few  would  be  capable  of  enjoying 
poetry !  In  the  present  case,  any  one  who  reads 
a  page  of  these  hexameters  aloud,  with  just  that 
natural  regard  to  emphasis  which  the  sense  of  the 
passage  indicates,  and  the  usual  pronunciation  of 
the  words  requires,  will  perceive  the  rhythm,  and 
find  no  more  difficulty  in  giving  it  its  proper  effect, 
than  in  reading  blank  verse.  This  has  often  been 
tried,  and  with  invariable  success.  If,  indeed,  it 
were  not  so,  the  fault  would  be  in  the  composition, 
not  in  the  measure. 

The  learned  reader  will  have  perceived,  by  what 
has  already  been  said,  that  in  forming  this  English 
measure  in  imitation,  rather  than  upon  the  model 
of  the  ancient  hexameter,  the  trochee  has  been 
substituted  for  the  spondee,  as  by  the  Germans. 
This  substitution  is  rendered  necessary  by  the 
nature  of  our  pronunciation,  which  is  so  rapid, 
that  I  believe  the  whole  vocabulary  of  the  language 
does  not  afford  a  single  instance  of  a  genuine 
native  *  spondee.     The  spondee,  of  course,  is  not 

*  Ami  only  onp  of  foreign  derivation,  which  is  the  word 
Egypt.     Some  readers,   who   have   never  practised  metrical 


excluded  from  the  verse ;  and  where  it  occurs,  the 
effect,  in  general,  is  good.  This  alteration  was 
necessary ;  but  it  is  not  the  only  one  which,  upon 
mature  consideration  and  fair  trial,  it  has  been 
deemed  expedient  to  make.  If  every  line  were  to 
begin  with  a  long  syllable,  the  measure  would 
presently  appear  exotic  and  forced,  as  being  di- 
rectly opposite  to  the  general  character  of  all  our 
dignified  metres,  and  indeed  to  the  genius  of  the 
English  language.  Therefore  the  license  has  been 
taken  of  using  any  foot  of  two  or  three  syllables 
at  the  beginning  of  a  line  ;  and  sometimes,  though 
less  frequently,  in  the  second,  third,  or  fourth 
place.  The  metre,  thus  constructed,  bears  the 
same  analogy  to  the  ancient  hexameter  that  our 
ten-syllable  or  heroic  line  does  to  iambic  verse ; 
iambic  it  is  called,  and  it  is  so  in  its  general  move- 
ment; but  it  admits  of  many  other  feet,  and  would, 
in  fact,  soon  become  insupportably  monotonous 
without  their  frequent  intermixture. 

II. 

Twenty  years  ago,  when  the  rhythmical  romance 
of  Thalaba  was  sent  from  Portugal  to  the  press,  I 
requested,  in  the  preface  to  that  poem,  that  the 
author  might  not  be  supposed  to  prefer  the  rhythm 
in  which  it  was  written,  abstractedly  considered,  to 
the  regular  blank  verse,  the  noblest  measure,  in 
his  judgment,  of  wiiicli  our  admirable  language  is 
capable  :  it  was  added,  that  the  measure  which  was 
there  used,  had,  in  that  instance,  been  preferred, 
because  it  suited  the  character  of  the  poem,  being, 
as  it  were,  the  Arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian 
tale.  Notwithstanding  this  explicit  declaration, 
the  duncery  of  that  day  attacked  me  as  if  1  had 
considered  the  measure  of  Thalaba  to  be  in  itself 
essentially  and  absolutely  better  than  blank  verse. 
The  duncery  of  this  day  may  probably  pursue  the 
same  course  on  the  present  occasion.  With  that 
body  I  wage  no  war,  and  enter  into  no  explana- 
tions. But  to  the  great  majority  of  my  readers, 
who  will  take  up  the  book  without  malevolence, 
and,  having  a  proper  sense  of  honor  in  themselves, 
will  believe  the  declarations  of  a  writer  whose 
veracity  they  have  no  reason  to  doubt,  I  will  state 
what  are  the  defects,  and  what  the  advantages,  of 
the  metre  which  is  here  submitted  to  their  judg- 
ment, as  they  appear  to  me  after  this  fair  experi- 
ment of  its  powers. 

It  is  not  a  legitimate  inference,  that  because  the 
hexameter  has  been  successfully  introduced  in  the 
German  language,  it  can  be  naturalized  as  well  in 
English.  Tlie  English  is  not  so  well  adapted  for 
it,  because  it  does  not  abound  in  like  manner  with 
polysyllabic  words.  The  feet,  therefore,  nmst  too 
frequently  be  made  up  of  monosyllables,  and  of 
distinct  words,  whereby  the  verse  is  resolved  and 
decomposed  into  its  component  feet,  and  the  feet 
into   their  component  syllables,  instead  of  being 

composition  in  their  own  lanf;uase,  may  perhaps  doubt  this, 
and  suppose  that  such  words  as  tmliirhl  and  evening  arc  spon- 
daic ;  but  they  only  appear  so  when  they  are  pronounced 
singly,  tlie  last  syllable  then  hanging  upon  the  tongue,  and 
dwelling  on  the  ear,  like  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock.  Used 
in  combination,  they  become  pure  trochees. 


PREFACE    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


7i)3 


articulated  and  inosculated  throughout,  as  in  the 
German,  still  more  in  the  Greek,  and  most  in  the 
Latin  measure.  This  is  certainly  a  great  defect.* 
From  the  same  cause  the  ctesura  generally  coin- 
cides with  a  pause  in  the  sentence  ;  but,  though 
this  breaks  the  continuity  of  the  verse,  it  ought, 
perhaps,  rather  to  be  considered  as  an  advantage  ; 
for  the  measure,  like  blank  verse,  thus  acquires  a 
greater  variety.  It  may  possibly  be  objected,  that 
the  four  first  feet  are  not  metrical  enough  in  their 
effect,  and  the  two  last  too  much  so.  I  do  not  leel 
the  objection ;  but  it  has  been  advanced  by  one, 
whose  opinion  upon  any  question,  and  especially 
upon  a  question  of  poetry,  would  make  me  distrust 
my  own,  where  it  happened  to  be  difterent.  Lastly, 
the  double-ending  may  be  censured  as  double 
rhymes  used  to  be  ;  but  that  objection  belongs  to 
the  dunccry. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  range  of  the  verse  being 
from  thirteen  syllables  to  seventeen,  it  derives 
from  that  range  an  advantage  in  the  union  of 
variety  with  regularity,  which  is  peculiar  to  itself. 
The  capability  which  is  thus  gained,  may  perhaps 
be  better  appreciated  by  a  few  readers  from  their 
own  sense  of  power,  than  it  is  exemplified  in  this 
experiment. 

I  do  not,  however,  present  the  English  hex- 
ameter as  something  better  than  our  established 
metres,  but  as  something  different,  and  which 
therefore,  for  that  reason,  may  sometimes  advan- 
tageously be  used.  Take  our  blank  verse,  for  all 
in  all,  in  all  its  gradations,  from  the  elaborate 
rhythm  of  Milton,  down  to  its  loosest  structure  in 
the  early  dramatists,  and  I  believe  that  there  is  no 
measure  comparable  to  it,  either  in  our  own  or  in 
any  other  language,  for  might  and  majesty,  and 
flexibility  and  compass.  And  this  is  affirmed,  not 
as  the  predilection  of  a  young  writer,  or  the  pref- 
erence of  one  inexperienced  in  the  difliculties  of 
composition,  but  as  an  opinion  formed  and  con- 
firmed during  the  long  and  diligent  study,  and  the 
long  and  laborious  practice  of  the  art.  But  I  am 
satisfied  also  that  the  English  hexameter  is  a  legit- 
imate and  good  measure,  with  which  our  literature 
ought  to  be  enriched. 

"  I  first  adventure  ;  follow  me  « lio  list  !  " 

III. 
I  am  well  aware  that  the  public  are  peculiarly 
intolerant  of  such  innovations ;  not  less  so  than 
the  populace  used  to  be  of  any  foreign  fashion, 
whether  of  foppery  or  convenience,  \yould  that 
this  literary  intolerance  were  under  the  influence 

*  It  leads  also  to  this  inconvenience,  that  the  English  line 
greatly  exceeds  the  ancient  one  in  literal  length,  so  that  it  is 
actually  too  long  for  any  page,  if  printed  in  types  of  the 
ordinary  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  hook,  whatever  that  may 
be.  The  same  inconvenience  was  formerly  felt  in  that  fine 
measure  of  the  Elizahelhan  age,  the  seven-footed  couplet ; 
which,  to  the  diminution  of  its  powers,  was,  for  that  reason, 
divided  into  quatrains,  (the  pause  generally  falling  upon  the 
eighth  syllahle,)  and  then  converted  into  the  common  ballad 
etanza.  The  hcNametcr  cannot  be  thus  divided,  and  therefore 
must  generally  look  neither  like  prose  nor  poetry.  This  is 
noticed  as  merely  a  dissight,  and  of  no  moment,  our  poetry  not 
being,  like  that  of  the  Chinese,  addressed  to  the  eye  instead  of 
Jje  ear. 

100 


of  a  saner  judgment,  and  regarded  the  morals 
more  than  the  manner  of  a  composition  ;  the  spirit 
rather  than  the  form  I  Would  that  it  were  directed 
against  those  monstrous  cpmbinations  of  horrors  y 
and  mockery,  lewdness  and  impiety,  with  which 
English  poetry  has,  in  our  days,  first  been  pol- 
luted  !  For  more  than  half  a  century  English 
literature  had  been  distinguished  by  its  moral 
purity,  the  effect,  and,  in  its  turn,  the  cause  of  an 
improvement  in  national  manners.  A  father  might, 
without  apprehension  of  evil,  have  put  into  the 
hands  of  his  children  any  book  which  issued  from 
the  press,  if  it  did  not  bear,  either  in  its  title-page 
or  frontispiece,  manifest  signs  that  it  was  intended 
as  furniture  for  the  brothel.  There  was  no  dan- 
ger in  any  work  which  bore  the  name  of  a  re- 
spectable publisher,  or  was  to  be  procured  at  any 
respectable  bookseller's.  This  was  particularly 
the  case  with  regard  to  our  poetry.  It  is  now 
no  longer  so ;  and  woe  to  those  by  whom  the 
offence  comcth !  The  greater  the  talents  of  the 
joffender,  the  greater  is  his  guilt,  and  the  more 
jenduring  will_be_Jiis_^ame.  Whether  it  be  that 
the  laws  are  in  themselves  unable  to  abate  an  evil 
of  this  magnitude,  or  whether  it  be  that  they  are 
remissly  administered,  and  with  such  injustice  that 
the  celebrity  of  an  offender  serves  as  a  privilege 
whereby  he  obtains  impunity,  individuals  arc 
bound  to  consider  that  such  pernicious  works 
would  neither  be  published  nor  written,  if  they 
were  discouraged  as  they  might,  and  ought  to  be, 
by  public  feeling  ;  every  person,  therefore,  who 
purchases  such  books,  or  admits  them  into  his 
house,  promotes  the  mischief,  and  thereby,  as  far 
as  in  him  lies,  becomes  an  aider  and  abettor  of 
the  crime. 

The  publication  of  a  lascivious  book  is  one  of 
the  worst  offences  that  can  be  committed  against 
the  well-being  of  society.  It  is  a  sin,  to  the  con- 
sequences of  which  no  limits  can  be  assigned,  and 
those  consequences  no  after-repentance  in  the 
writer  can  counteract.  Whatever  remorse  of  con- 
science he  may  feel  when  his  hour  comes  (and 
come  it  must !)  will  be  of  no  avail.  The  poig- 
nancy of  a  death-bed  repentance  cannot  cancel 
one  copy  of  the  thousands  which  are  sent  abroad  ; 
and  as  long  as  it  continues  to  be  read,  so  long  is  ho 
the  pander  of  posterity,  and  so  long  is  he  heaping 
up  guilt  upon  his  soul  in  perpetual  accumulation. 

Tliese  remarks  are  not  more  severe  than  the 
offence  deserves,  even  when  applied  to  those 
immoral  writers  who  have  not  been  conscious  of 
any  evil  intention  in  their  writings,  who  would 
acknowledge  a  little  levity,  a  little  warmth  of 
coloring,  and  so  forth,  in  that  sort  of  language 
with  which  men  gloss  over  their  favorite  vices, 
and  deceive  themselves.  What,  then,  should  be 
said  of  those  for  whom  the  thoughtlessness  and 
inebriety  of  wanton  youth  can  no  longer  be 
pleaded,  but  who  have  written  in  sober  manhood 
and  with  deliberate  purpose.'  — Men  of  diseased* 

*  Summi  poeliB  in  omiii  poetanim  saculo  riri  fuerunt  proH : 
in  nostrU'  id  vidimus  ft  videmiis  ;  nrque  alitts  eat.  en-ur  a  veritnte 
lonfrixl.s  qudin  jnairna  ingenia  wagnis  vecessario  cttrrumjn  vitiis. 
Sccundo  plerique  posthabent  primum,  hi  malitrnitate,  illi  igno- 


794 


PREFACE    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


Iiearts  and  depraved  imaginations,  who,  forming  a 
system  of  opinions  to  suit  their  own  unhappy 
course  of  conduct,  have  rebelled  against  the  holiest 
ordinances  of  human  society,  and  liating  that 
revealed  religion  which,  with  all  their  efforts  and 
bravadoes,  they  are  unable  entirely  to  disbelieve, 
labor  to  make  others  as  miserable  as  themselves, 
by  infecting  them  with  a  moral  virus  that  eats  into 
tlie  soul  1  The  school  which  they  have  set  up  may 
properly  be  called  the  Satanic  school;  for  though 
their  productions  breathe  the  spirit  of  Belial  in 
their  lascivious  parts,  and  the  spirit  of  Moloch  in 
tliose  loathsome  images  of  atrocities  and  horrors 
which  they  delight  to  represent,  they  are  more 
especially  characterized  by  a  Satanic  spirit  of 
pride  and  audacious  impiety,  which  still  betrays 
the  wretched  feeling  of  hopelessness  wherewith  it 
is  allied. 

This  evil  is  political  as  well  as  moral,  for  indeed 
moral  and  political  evils  are  inseparably  connected. 
Truly  has  it  been  affirmed  by  one  of  our  ablest  and 
clearest*  reasoners,  that  "  the  destruction  of  gov- 
ernments may  be  proved  and  deduced  from  the 
general  corruption  of  the  subjects'  manners,  as  a 
direct  and  natural  cause  thereof,  by  a  demonstra- 
tion as  certain  as  any  in  the  mathematics."  There 
is  no  maxim  more  frequently  enforced  by  Machia- 
velli,  than  that  where  the  manners  of  a  people  are 
generally  corrupted,  there  the  government  cannot 
long  subsist,  —  a  truth  which  all  history  exempli- 
fies ;  and  there  is  no  means  whereby  that  corrup- 
tion can  be  so  surely  and  rapidly  diffused,  as  by 
poisoning  the  waters  of  literature. 

Let  rulers  of  the  state  look  to  this  in  time  !  But, 
to  use  tlie  words  of  South,  if  "our  physicians 
think  the  best  way  of  curing  a  disease  is  to  pamper 
it,  the  Lord  in  mercy  prepare  the  kingdom  to  suf- 
fer what  He  by  miracle  only  can  prevent!  " 

No  apology  is  offered  for  these  remarks.  The 
subject  led  to  them ;  and  the  occasion  of  intro- 
ducintr  them  was  willingly  taken,  because  it  is  the 
duty  of  every  one,  whose  opinion  may  have  any 
influence,  to  expose  the  drift  and  aim  of  those 
writers  who  are  laboring  to  subvert  the  foundations 
of  human  virtue  and  of  human  happiness. 


rantici;  ct  quumaliqiieminveniuntstylimorumquevitiisnotatum, 
nee  iiijicetam  lameii  nee  in  libris  edendis  parcum,  eum  stipant, 
prtsdicant,  occupant,  amplecluntur.  Si  mores  aliquantidum  vcllet 
corrigere,  bi  styliim  curare  paululum,  si  fervido  ingenio  tcmpe- 
rare,  si  mora:  lantillum  interponcre,  turn  ivgctis  nescio  quid  ct 
vcri  epicum,  quadraginta  annos  natus,  procudcret.  Ignorant 
verd  frbricuUs  nnn  indicari  vires,  impatientiam  ab  imbccillitate 
non  differre  ;  ignorant  a  levi  homiue  et  inconstantc  multa  fortasse 
scribi  posse  plusquam  mediocria,  nihil  compositum,  arduum, 
tEtcrnum.  —  Savagius  Landor,  De  Cultu  atque  Usu  Latini  Scr- 
monis,  p.  197. 

This  essay,  which  is  full  of  fine  critical  remarks  and  striking 
thoughts  felicitously  expressed,  reached  me  from  Pisa,  while 
the  proof  of  the  present  sheet  was  before  me.  Of  its  author, 
(the  author  of  Gebir  and  Count  Julian)  I  will  only  say  in  this 
place,  that  to  have  obtained  his  approbation  as  a  poet,  and 
possessed  his  friendship  as  a  man,  will  be  remembered  among 
the  honors  of  my  life,  when  the  petty  enmities  of  this  genera- 
tion will  be  forgotten,  and  its  ephemeral  reputations  shall 
have  passed  away. 

*  South. 


IV. 

Returning  to  the  point  from  whence  1  digressed, 
I  am  aware  not  only  that  any  metrical  innovation 
which  meets  the  eye  of  the  reader  generally  pro- 
vokes his  displeasure,  but  that  there  prevails  a 
particular  prejudice  against  the  introduction  of 
hexameters  in  our  language.  The  experiment,  it 
is  alleged,  was  tried  in  the  Elizabethan  age,  and 
failed,  though  made  under  the  greatest  possible 
advantages  of  favor,  being  encouraged  by  the  great 
patron  of  literature.  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  (in  letters, 
as  well  as  in  all  other  accomplishments  and  all 
virtues,  the  most  illustrious  ornament  of  that  illus- 
trious court,)  and  by  the  Queen  herSelf. 

That  attempt  failed,  because  it  was  made  upon  a 
scheme  which  inevitably  prevented  its  success.  No 
principle  of  adaption  was  tried.  Sydney,  and  his 
followers  wished  to  subject  the  English  pronun- 
ciation to  the  rules  of  Latin  prosody  ;  but  if  it  be 
difficult  to  reconcile  the  public  to  a  new  tune  in 
verse,  it  is  plainly  impossible  to  reconcile  them  to 
a  new  *  pronunciation.  There  was  the  further  ob- 
stacle of  unusual  and  violent  elisions  ;  and  more- 
over, the  easy  and  natural  order  of  our  speech  was 
distorted  by  the  frequent  use  of  forced  inversions, 
which  are  utterly  improper  in  an  uninflected  lan- 
guage. Even  if  the  subjects  for  the  experiment 
had  been  judiciously  chosen,  and  well  composed  in 
all  other  respects,  these  errors  must  have  been 
fatal ;  but  Sydney,  whose  prose  is  so  full  of  imagery 
and  felicitous  expressions,  that  he  is  one  of  our 
greatest  poets  in  prose,  and  whose  other  poems 
contain  beauties  of  a  high  order,  seems  to  have 
lost  all  ear  t  for  rhythm,  and  all  feeling  of  poetry, 
when  he  was  engaged  in  metrical  experiments. 

What  in  Sydney's  hands  was  uncouth  and  diffi- 
cult was  made  ridiculous  by  Stanihurst,  whose 
translation  of  the  four  first  booksof  the  jEneid  into 
hexameters  is  one  of  the  most  portentous  composi- 
tions in  any  language.  No  satire  could  so  effectual- 
ly have  exposed  the  measure  to  derision.  The 
specimens  which  Abraham  Fraunce  produced  were 
free  from  Stanihurst's  eccentricities,  and  were 
much  less  awkward  and  constrained  than  Sydney's. 
But  the  mistaken  principle  upon  which  the  metre 
was  constructed  was  fatal,  and  would  have  proved 
so  even  if  Fraunce  had  possessed  greater  powers 
of  thought  and  of  diction.  The  failure  therefore 
was  complete,!  and  for  some  generations  it  seems 

*  For  example  : 

Neither  he  bears  reverence  to  a  prince,  nor  i>ity  to  a  bc<;giir. 
That  to  my  advancement  their  wisdoms  have  mc  abased. 
Well  may  a  pastor  plain  ;  but  alas  '.  his  plaints  be  not  esteemed, 
oppress'd  with  ruinous  conceits  by  the  help  of  an  outcry 
Despair  most  tragical  clause  to  a  deadly  request. 
Hard  like  a  rich  marble  ;  hard  but  a  fair  diamond. 

f  That  the  reader  may  not  suppose  I  have  depreciated  Syd- 
ney and  his  followers,  by  imputing  to  the  faults  of  tlieir  execu- 
tion a  failure  which  the  nature  of  the  metre  itself  might  ex- 
plain, I  have  added  a  few  fair  snmplos  at  the  end  of  the  jmem. 

J  A  writer  in  the  Censura  Literaria  (vol.  iv.  3Sfi  J)  has  said, 
that  liexameters  were  "  much  in  vogue,  owing  to  the  per- 
nicious example  of  Spenser  and  Gabriel  Harvey."  They 
were  never  in  vogue.  There  is  no  reason  to  believe,  that 
Spenser  ever  wrote  an  English  hexameter.     Gabriid  Harvey's 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


795 


to  have  prevented  any  thought  of  repeating  the 
experiment. 

Goldsmith,  in  later  days,  delivered  *  an  opinion 
ill  its  favor,  observing,  that  all  the  feet  of  the  an- 
cient poetry  are  still  found  in  the  versification  of 
living  languages,  and  that  it  is  impossible  the  same 
measure,  composed  of  the  same  times,  should  have  a 
good  effect  upon  the  ear  in  one  language,  and  a 
bad  effect  in  another.  He  had  seen,  he  says,  sev- 
eral late  specimens  of  English  hexameters  and 
sapphics,  so  happily  composed,  that  they  were,  in 
all  respects,  as  melodious  and  agreeable  to  the  ear 
as  the  works  of  Virgil  and  Horace.  What  these 
specimens  t  were  I  have  not  discovered  ;  —  the  sap- 
phics may  possibly  have  been  those  by  Dr.  Watts. 
Proofs  of  the  practicability  of  the  hexameter  were 
given,  about  twenty  years  ago,  by  some  translations 
from  the  Messiah  of  Klopstock,  which  appeared  in 

example  only  incurred  ridicule  ;  and  as  for  Spenser,  the  only 
specimen  which  he  is  known  to  have  produced  is  the  following 
Tetrasticon ;  — 

See  ye  the  blindofouldod  pretio  God,  tliat  foatliered  archer, 
Of  lovers  miseries  which  maketli  his  bloodie  game  .' 

Wote  ye  why  his  motlicr  with  a  voile  hath  covered  liis  face  .' 
Trust  me,  leaste  he  my  love  happily  chance  to  behold. 

With  so  little  knowledge  of  facts,  and  so  little  regard  to  ac- 
curacy, are  confident  assertions  sometimes  made  ! 

Gabriel  Harvey  was  one  of  the  great  promoters  of  the  at- 
tempt ;  and  Spenser,  who  was  his  intimate  friend,  is  believed 
to  have  sanctioned  it  by  his  opinion,  —  certainly  not  hy  )iis 
example.  That  great  master  of  versification  has  left  only  one 
piece  which  is  not  written  in  rhyme.  It  was  printed  in  Da- 
vison's Poetical  Rhapsodic,  and  is  inserted  in  Warton's  Ob- 
servations on  the  Faery  Q.ueen,  vol.  ii.  p.  245.  The  author 
has  called  it  an  Iambic  Elegy,  but  neither  by  any  rule  of 
quantity,  or  violence  of  accentuation,  can  it  be  reduced  to 
iambics. 

*  "  It  is  generally  supposed,"  says  Goldsmith,  "  that  the 
genius  of  the  English  language  will  not  admit  of  Greek  or 
Latin  measure;  hut  this,  weajiprehend,  is  a  mistake  owing  to 
the  prejudice  of  education.  It  is  impossible  that  the  same 
measure,  composed  of  the  same  times,  should  have  a  good 
effect  upon  the  ear  in  one  language,  and  a  bad  effect  in 
another.  The  truth  is,  we  have  been  accustomed  from  our 
infancy  to  the  numbers  of  English  poetry,  and  the  very  sound 
and  signification  of  the  words  disposes  the  ear  to  receive  them 
in  a  certain  manner ;  so  that  its  disappointment  must  be  at- 
tended with  a  disagreeable  sensation.  In  inihibing  the  first 
rudiments  of  education,  we  acquire,  as  it  were,  another  ear  for 
the  numbers  of  Greek  and  Latin  poetry  ;  and  this  being  re- 
served entirely  for  the  sounds  and  significitions  of  the  words 
that  constitute  those  dead  languages,  will  not  easily  accom- 
modate itself  to  the  sounds  of  our  vernacular  tongue,  though 
conveyed  in  the  same  time  and  measure.  In  a  word,  Latin 
and  Greek  have  annexed  to  them  the  ideas  of  the  ancient 
measure  from  which  they  are  not  easily  disjoined.  But  we 
will  venture  to  say,  this  difficulty  might  be  surmounted  by  an 
effort  of  attention  and  a  little  practice  ;  and  in  that  case  we 
should  in  time  be  as  well  pleased  with  English,  as  with  Latin 
hcvameters." —  Ooldsmith's  Edsaijs,  vol.  ii.  p.  2C5. 

t  Mr.  Park  (Censura  Literaria,  vol.  iv.  233)  mentions  an 
attempt  to  revive  what  he  calls  "  this  obsolete  whimsey  by 
an  anonymous  writer  in  1737,  who  translated  the  first  an<l 
fourth  Eclogues  of  Virgil,  &c.  into  hexametrical  verse,  and 
prefixed  a  vindication  of  his  attempt,  with  directions  for  the 
reader's  pronunciation." 

I  venture  to  hope  that  tliis  excellent  English  scholar  will  no 
longer  think  the  scheme  of  writing  English  hexameters  a  mere 
whimsey.  Glad  indeed  should  I  be,  if  my  old  acqii  lintance 
were  to  be  as  well  pleased  with  the  present  attempt  as  I  have 
been  with  some  of  hiR  Morning  Thoughts  and  Midnight 
Musings. 


the  Monthly  Magazine ,  and  by  an  eclogue,  en- 
titled The  Showman,  printed  in  the  second  volume 
of  the  Annual  Anthology.  These  were  written 
by  my  old  friend  Mr.  William  Taylor  of  Norwich, 
the  translator  of  Burger's  Lenora  ; — of  whom  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say,  whether  he  is  more  de- 
servedly admired  l>y  all  who  know  him  for  the  va- 
riety of  his  talents,  the  richness  and  ingenuity  of 
his  discourse,  and  the  liveliness  of  his  fancy,  or 
loved  and  esteemed  by  them  for  the  goodness  of 
his  heart.  In  repeating  the  experiment  upon  a 
more  adequate  scale,  and  upon  a  subject  suited  to 
the  movement,  I  have  fulfilled  one  of  the  hopes 
and  intentions  of  my  early  life. 


THE    TRANCE. 

'TwAS  at  that  sober  hour  when  the  light  of  day  is 

receding. 
And  from  surrounding  things  the  hues  wherewith 

day  has  adorn 'd  them 
Fade,  like  the  hopes  of  youth,  till  the  beauty  of 

earth  is  departed : 
Pensive,  though  not  in  thought,  1  stood  at  the  win- 
dow, beholding 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  vale  ;  the  valley  disrobed 

of  its  verdure ; 
Derwent,  retaining  yet  from  eve  a  glassy  reflection 
Where  his  expanded  breast,  then  still  and  smooth 

as  a  mirror, 
Under  the  woods  reposed ;  the  hills  that,  calm  and 

majestic. 
Lifted  their  heads  in  the  silent  sky,  from  far  Gla- 

ramaia 
Bleacrag,  and  Maidenmawr,  to  Grizedal  and  west- 

ermost  Withop. 
Dark   and   distinct  they   rose.     The   clouds   had 

gather'd  above  them 
High   in    the    middle    air,   huge,   purple,   pillowy 

masses. 
While  in  the  west  beyond  was  the  last  pale  tint 

of  the  twilight; 
Green  as  a  stream  in  the  glen  whose  pure  and 

chrysolite  waters 
Flow  o'er  a  schistous  bed,  and  serene  as  the  age 

of  the  righteous. 
Earth  was  hush'd  and  still ;  all  motion  and  sound 

were  suspended : 
Neither  man  was  heard,  bird,  beast,  nor  humming 

of  insect. 
Only  the  voice  of  the  Greta,  heard  only  when  all 

is  in  stillness. 
Pensive  I  stood  and  alone  ;  the  hour  and  the  scene 

had  subdued  me  ; 
And  as  I  gazed  in  the  west,  where  Infinity  seem'd 

to  be  open, 
Yearn'd  to  be  free  from  time,  and  felt  that  this 

life  is  a  thraldom. 

Thus  as  I  stood,  the  bell,  which  awhile  from  ita 
warning  had  rested, 


796 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


II 


Sent  forth  its  note  again,  toll,  toll,  through  the  si- 
lence of  evening. 

'Tis  a  deep,  dull  sound,  that  is  heavy  and  mourn- 
ful at  all  times,  lA'^Y 

For  it  tells  of  mortality  always.     But  heavier  this 

Fell  on  the  conscious  ear  its  deeper  and  mourn- 
fuler  import ; 

Yea,  in  the  heart  it  sunk ;  for  this  was  the  day 
when  the  herald, 

Breaking  his  wand,  should  proclaim,  that  George 
our  King  was  departed. 

Thou  art  released  !  I  cried  :  thy  soul  is  deliver'd 
from  bondage ! 
'  Thou  who  hast  lain  so  long  in  mental  and  visual 
darkness. 

Thou  art  in  yonder  heaven  !  thy  place  is  in  light 
and  in  glory. 

Come,  and  behold  !  —  methought  a  startling 
Voice  from  the  twilight 

Answered ;  and  therewithal  I  felt  a  stroke  as  of 
lightning, 

With  a  sound  like  the  rushing  of  winds,  or  the 
roaring  of  waters. 

If  from  without  it  came,  I  knew  not,  so  sudden 
the  seizure  ; 

Or  if  the  brain  itself  in  that  strong  flash  had  ex- 
pended 

All  its  electric  stores.  Of  strength  and  of  thought 
it  bereft  me  ; 

Hearing,  and  sight,  and  sense  were  gone ;  and 
y  when  I  awaken'd, 

'Twas  from  a  dream  of  death,  in  silence  and  ut- 
termost darkness ; 

Knowing  not  where  or  how,  nor  if  I  was  rapt  in 
the  body, 

Nor  if  entranced,  or  dead.  But  all  around  me  was 
blackness, 

Utterly  blank  and  void,  as  if  this  ample  creation 

Had  been  blotted  out,  and  1  were  alone  in  the 
chaos. 

Yet  had  I  even  then  a  living  hope  to  sustain  me 

Under  that  awful  thought,  and  I  strengthen'd  my 
spirit  with  prayer. 

Comfort  1  sought  and  support,  and  both  were 

found  in  retiring 
Into  that  inner  world,  the  soul's  strong-hold  and 

her  kingdom. 
Then  came  again  the  Voice ;  but  then,  no  longer 

appalling, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  friend  it  came  :   O  son  of  the 

Muses  I 
Be  of  good  heart,  it  said,  and  think  not  that  thou 

art  abandon'd ; 
For  to  thy  mortal  sight  shall  the  Grave  unshadow 

its  secrets ; 
Such  as  of  yore  the  Florentine  saw.  Hell's  peril- 
ous chambers 
He  who  trod  in  his  strengtii ;  and  the  arduous 

Mountain  of  Penance, 
And  the  regions  of  Paradise,  sphere  within  sphere 

intercircled. 
Child  of  earth,  look  up !  and  behold  what  passes 

before  thee. 


n. 


THE  VAULT. 

So  by  the  Unseen  comforted,  raised  I  my  head  in 

obedience. 
And  in  a  vault  I  found  myself  placed,  arch'd  over 

on  all  sides. 
Narrow   and   low   was   that   house   of  the    dead. 

Around  it  were  coffins, 
Each  in  its  niche,  and  palls,  and  urns,  and  funeral 

hatchments ; 
Velvets  of  Tyrian  dye,  retaining  their  hues  un- 

faded ; 
Blazonry  vivid  still,  as  if  fresh  from  the  touch  of 

the  limner: 
Nor  was  the  golden  fringe,  nor  the  golden  broidery 

tarnish'd. 

Whence  came  the  light  whereby  that  place  of 
death  was  discovcr'd .' 

For  there  was  there  no  lamp,  whose  wondrous 
flame  inextinguish'd, 

As  with  a  vital  power  endued,  renewing  its  sub- 
stance. 

Age  after  age  unchanged,  endureth  in  self-sub- 
sistence ; 

Nor  did  the  cheerful  beam  of  day,  direct  or  re- 
flected. 

Penetrate  there.  That  low  and  subterranean 
chamber 

Saw  not  the  living  ray,  nor  felt  the  breeze ;  but 
forever. 

Closely  immured,  was  seal'd  in  perpetual  silence 
and  darkness. 

Whence  then  this  lovely  light,  calm,  pure,  and 
soft,  and  cerulean, 

Such  as  the  sapphire  sheds  ?  And  whence  this 
air  that  infuses 

Strength  while  I  breathe  it  in,  and  a  sense  of  life, 
and  a  stillness, 

Filling  the  heart  with  peace,  and  giving  a  joy  that 
contents  it  ? 

Not  of  the  Earth  that  light ;  and  these  paradisiacal 
breathings. 

Not  of  the  Earth  are  they  ' 

These  thoughts  were  passing  within  me, 
When    there   arose   around   a  strain  of  heavenly 

music, 
Such  as  the  hermit  hears  when  Angels  visit  his 

slumbers. 
Faintly  it  first  began,  scarce  heard ;  and  gentle  its 

rising. 
Low  as  the  softest  breath  that  passes  in  summer  at 

evening 
O'er  the  Eolian  strings,  felt  there  when  nothing  is 

moving, 
Save  the  thistle-down,  lighter  than  air,  and  the  leaf 

of  the  aspen. 
Then,  as  it  swell'd  and  rose,  the  thrilling  melody 

deepen'd  ; 
Such,  methought,  should  the  music  be,  which  is 

heard  in  the  cloister, 


III. 


A    VISlOlN    OF    JUDGMENT. 


797 


By  the  sisterhood  standing  around  the  beatified 
Virgin,  [open, 

When  with  her  dying  eyes  she  sees  the  firmament 

Lifts  from  the  bed  of  dust  her  arms  towards  her 
beloved, 

Utters  the  adorable  name,  and  breathes  out  her 
c-oul  in  a  rapture. 

Well  could  I  then  believe  such  legends,  and 
well  could  I  credit 

All  that  the  poets  old  relate  of  Amphion  and  Or- 
pheus ; 

How  to  melodious  sounds  wild  beasts  their  strength 
have  surrender'd. 

Men  were  reclaim'd  from  the  woods,  and  stones  in 
harmonious  order 

Moved,  as  their  atoms  obey'd  the  mysterious  at- 
traction of  concord. 

This  was  a  higlior  strain  ;  a  mightier,  holier  virtue 

Came  with  its  powerful  tones.  O'ercome  by  the 
piercing  emotion, 

Dizzy  I  grew,  and  it  seem'd  as  though  my  soul 
were  dissolving. 

How  might  I  bear  unmoved  such  sounds  ?  For, 
like  as  the  vapors 

Melt  on  the  mountain  side,  when  the  sun  comes 
forth  in  his  splendor, 

Even  so  the  vaulted  roof  and  whatever  was  earthly 

Faded  away ;  the  Grave  was  gone,  and  the  Dead 
was  awaken'd. 


HI. 
THE  AWAKENING. 

^iiEN  1  beheld  the  King.     From  a  cloud  which 

cover'd  the  pavement 
His  reverend  form  uprose  :  heavenward  his  face 

was  directed. 
Heavenward  his  eyes  were   raised,  and   heaven- 
ward his  arms  were  extended. 
Lord,  it  is  past !  he  cried ;  the  mist,  and  the  weight, 

and  the  darkness  ;  — 
That  long  and  weary  night,  that  long,  drear  dream 

of  desertion. 
Father,  to  Thee  I  come  !     My  days  have  been 

many  and  evil ; 
Heavy  my  burden  of  care,  and  grievous  hath  been 

my  affliction. 
Thou  hast  releas'd  me  at  length.     O  Lord,  in  Thee 

have  I  trusted ; 
Thou  art  my  hope  and  my  strength  !  —  And  then, 

in  profound  adoration. 
Crossing  his  arms  on  his  breast,  he  bent  and  wor- 
Ji^  shipp'd  in  silence. 

Presently  one  approach'd  to  greet  him  with  joy- 
ful obeisance ; 

He  of  whom,  in  an  hour  of  woe,  the  assassin  be- 
reaved us, 

When  his  counsels  most,  and  his  resolute  virtue 
were  needed. 


Thou,  said  the  Monarch,  here .'     Thou,  Perceval, 

summon'd  before  me.''  — 
Tiien,  as  his  waken 'd  mind  to   the  weal   of  his 

country  reverted. 
What  of  his  son,  he  ask'd,  what  course  by  the 

Prince  had  been  follow'd. 
Right  in  his  Father's  steps  hath  the  Regent  tro4, 

was  the  answer : 
Firm  hath  he   proved  and  wise,  at  a  time  when 

weakness  or  error 
Would  have  sunk  us  in  shame,  and  to  ruin  have 

hurried  us  headlong. 
True  to  himself  hath  he  been,  and  Heaven  has 

rewarded  his  counsels. 

Peace  is  obtain'd  then  at  last,  with  safety  and 

honor  !  the  Monarch 
Cried,  and  he  clasp'd  his  hands;  —I  thank  Thee, 

O  merciful  Father  1 
Now  is  my  heart's  deaire  fulfill'd. 

With  honor  surpassing 
All  that  in  elder  time  had  adorn'd  the  annals  of 

England, 
Peace  hath  been  won  by  the  sword,  the  faithful 

minister  answer'd. 
Paris  hath  seen  once  more  the  banners  of  England 

in  triumph 
Wave  within  her   walls,  and  the  ancient  line  is 

establish'd. 
While  that  man  of  blood,  the  tyrant,  faithless  and 

godless, 
Render'd  at  length  the  sport,  as  long  the  minion 

of  Fortune, 
Far  away,  confined  in  a  rocky  isle  of  the  ocean, 
Fights  his  battles  again,  and  pleased  to  win  in  the 

chamber 
What  he  lost  in  the  field,  in  fancy  conquers  his 

conqueror. 
There  he  reviles  his  foes,  and  there  the  ungrateful 

accuses, 
For  his  own  defaults,  the  men  who  too  faithfully 

served  him ; 
Frets,  and  complains,  and  intrigues,  and  abuses  the 

mercy  that  spared  him. 
Oh  that  my  King  could  have  known  these  things  ! 

could  have  witness'd  how  England 
Check'd  in  its  full  career  the  force  of  her  enemy's 

empire, 
Singly   defied  his  arms  and  his  arts,  and  baffled 

them  singly. 
Roused  from  their  lethal  sleej),  with  the  stirring 

example,  the  nations, 
And  the  refluent  tide  swept  him  and  his  fortune 

before  it. 
Oh  that  my  King,  ere  lie  died,  might  have  seen  the 

fruit  of  his  counsels  ! 

Nay,  it  is  better  thus,  tlie  Monarch  piously  an- 
swer'd ; 

Here  I  can  bear  the  joy  ;  it  comes  as  an  earnest 
of  Heaven. 

Righteous  art  Thou,  O  Lord  !  long-suffering,  but 
sure  are  thy  judgments. 


798 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


IV. 


Then  having  paused  awhile, like  one  in  devotion 

abstracted, 
Earthward  his  thoughts  recurr'd,  so  deeply  the  care 

of  his  country 
Lay  in  that  royal  soul  reposed ;  and  he  said,  Is  the 

spirit 
Quell'd  which    hath  troubled  the  land  ?  and  the 

multitude  freed  from  delusion. 
Know  they  their  blessings  at  last,  and  are  they 

contented  and  thanki'ul  ? 

Still  is  that  fierce  and  restless  spirit  at  work,  was 

the  answer ; 
Still  it  deceiveth  the  weak,  and  inflameth  the  rash 

and  the  desperate. 
Even  now,  I  ween,  some  dreadful  deed  is  preparing ; 
For  the  Souls  of  the  Wicked  are  loose,  and  the 

Powers  of  Evil 
Move  on  the  wing  alert.  Some  nascent  horror  they 

look  for. 
Be  sure  !  some  accursed  conception  of  filth  and  of 

darkness 
Ripe  for  its  monstrous  birth.     Whether  France  or 

Britain  be  threaten'd, 
Soon  will  the  issue  show ;  or  if  both  at  once  are 

endanger'd. 
For  with  the  ghosts  obscene  of  Robespierre,  Danton, 

and  Hebert, 
Faux  and  Despard  1  saw,  and  the  band  of  rabid 

fanatics. 
They  v/hom  Venner   led,  who,   rising   in  frantic 

rebellion. 
Made  the  Redeemer's  name  their  cry  of  slaughter 

and  treason. 


IV. 


THE   GATE  OF  HEAVEN. 

Thus  as  he  spake,  methought  the  surrounding 
space  dilated. 

Overhead  I  beheld  the  infinite  ether;  beneath  us 

Lay  the  solid  expanse  of  the  firmament  spread 
like  a  pavement. 

Wheresoever  I  look'd,  there  was  light  and  glory 
around  me. 

Brightest  it  seem'd  in  the  East,  where  the  New  Je- 
rusalem glitter'd. 

Eminent  on  a  hill,  there  stood  the  Celestial  City ; 

Beaming  afar  it  shone  ;  its  towers  and  cupolas 
rising 

High  in  the  air  serene,  with  the  brightness  of  gold 
in  the  furnace. 

Where  on  their  breadth  the  splendor  lay  intense 
and  quiescent : 

Part  with  a  fierier  glow,  and  a  short,  quick,  trem- 
ulous motion, 

Like  the  burning  pyropus ;  and  turrets  and  pinna- 
cles sparkled, 

Playing  in  jets  of  light,  with  a  diamond-like  glory 
coruscant. 

Groves  of  all  hues  of  green  their  foliage  inter- 
mingled. 


Tempering  with  grateful  shade  the  else  unendura- 
ble lustre. 

Drawing  near,  1  beheld  what  over  the  portal  was 
written : 

This  is  the  Gate  of  Bliss,  it  said  ;  through  me  is 
the  passage 

To  the  City  of  God,  the  abode  of  beatified  Spirits. 

Weariness  is  not  there,  nor  change,  nor  sorrow, 
nor  parting; 

Time  hath  no  place  therein;  nor  evil.  Ye  who 
would  enter, 

Drink  of  the  Well  of  Life,  and  put  away  all  that 
is  earthly. 

O'er  the  adamantine  gates  an  Angel  stood  on 
the  summit. 

Ho !  he  exclaim'd.  King  George  of  England  Com- 
eth to  judgment ! 

Hear,  Heaven  !  Ye  Angels,  hear  !  Souls  of  the 
Good  and  the  Wicked, 

Whom  it  concerns,  attend !  Thou,  Hell,  bring 
forth  his  accusers  ! 

As  the  sonorous  summons  was  utter'd,  the  Winds, 
who  were  waiting. 

Bore  it  abroad  through  Heaven  :  and  Hell,  in  her 
nethermost  caverns. 

Heard,  and  obey'd  in  dismay. 

Anon  a  body  of  splendor 

Gather'd  before  the  gate,  and  veil'd  the  Ineffable 
Presence, 

Which,  with  a  rushing  of  wings,  came  down.  The 
sentient  ether 

Shook  witli  that  dread  descent,  and  the  solid  fir- 
mament trembled. 

Round  the  cloud  were  the  Orders  of  Heaven - 
Archangel  and  Angel, 

Principality,  Cherub  and  Seraph,  Thrones,  Domi 
nations. 

Virtues,  and  Powers.  The  Souls  of  the  Good, 
whom  Death  had  made  perfect. 

Flocking  on  either  hand,  a  multitudinous  army. 

Came  at  the  awful  call.     In  semicircle  inclining. 

Tier  over  tier  they  took  their  place  :  aloft,  in  the 
distance. 

Far  as  the  sight  could  pierce,  that  glorious  company 
glisten'd. 

From  the  skirts  of  the  shining  assembly,  a  silvery 
yapor 

Rose  in  the  blue  serene,  and  moving  onward  it 
deepen'd. 

Taking  a  denser  form ;  the  while  from  the  opposite 
region 

Heavy  and  sulphurous  clouds  roll'd  on,  and  com- 
pleted the  circle. 

There,  with  the  Spirits  accurs'd,  in  congenial  dark- 
ness enveloped. 

Were  the  Souls  of  tlie  Wicked,  who,  wilful  in  guilt 
and  in  error. 

Chose  the  service  of  sin,  and  now  were  abiding  its 
wages. 

Change  of  place  to  them  brought  no  reprieval  from 
anguish ; 

They,  in  their  evil  thoughts  and  desires  of  impotent 
malice, 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


71)9 


Env}',  and  liato,  and  blasphemous  rage,  and  remorse 
uaavail'mir,  [tion, — 

Carried  a  Iloll  within,  to  which  all  outer  afflic- 

So  it  abstracted  the  sense  —  might  be  dcem'd  a 
remission  of  torment. 

At  the  edge  of  tlie  cloud,  the  Princes  of  Darkness 
were  marshall'd : 

Dimly  descried  within  were  wings  and  truculent 
faces  ; 

And  in  the  thick  obscure  there  struggled  a  mutinous 
uproar, 

Railing,  and  fury,  and  strife,  that  the  whole  deep 
body  of  darkness 

Roll'd  like  a  troubled  sea,  with  a  wide  and  a  man- 
ifold motion. 


THE  ACCUSERS. 

On  the  cerulean  floor,  by  that  dread  circle  sur- 
rounded. 

Stood  the  soul  of  the  King  alone.  In  front  was 
the  Presence 

Veil'd  with  excess  of  light;  and  behind  was  the 
blackness  of  darkness. 

Then  might  be  seen  the  strength  of  holiness,  tlien 
was  its  triumph ; 

Calm  in  his  faith  he  stood,  and  his  own  clear  con- 
science upheld  him. 

When  the  trumpet  was  blown,  and  the  Angel 

made  proclamation  — 
Lo,  where  the  King  appears  !     Come  forward,  ye 

who  arraign  him ! 
Forth  from  the  lurid  cloud  a  Demon  came  at  the 

summons. 
It  was  the  Spirit  by  which  his  righteous  reign  had 

been  troubled ; 
Likest  in  form  uncouth  to  the  hideous  Idols  whom 

India  [don'd) 

(Long  by  guilty  neglect  to  hellish  delusions  aban- 
Worships   with   horrible  rites  of  self-immolation 

and  torture. 
Many-headed   and    monstrous  the    Fiend ;    with 

numberless  faces. 
Numberless  bestial  ears  erect  to  all  rumors,  and 

restless, 
And   with  numberless  mouths  which  were  fill'd 

with  lies  as  with  arrows. 
Clamors  arose  as  he  came,  a  confusion  of  turbulent 

voices, 
Maledictions,  and  blatant  tongues,  and  viperous 

hisses ; 
And  in  the  hubbub  of  senseless  sounds  the  watch- 
words of  faction. 
Freedom,  Invaded  Rights,  Corruption,  and  War) 

and  Oppression, 
Loudly  enounced,  were  heard. 

But  when  he  stood  in  the  Presence, 
Then  was  the  Fiend  dismay'd,  though  with  impu- 
dence clothed  as  a  garment; 


And  the  lying  tongues  were  mute,  and  tlie  lips 
which  had  scatter'd 

Accusation  and  slander,  were  still.  No  time  for 
evasion 

This,  in  the  Presence  he  stood  ;  no  place  for  flight ; 
for  dissembling 

No  possibility  there.  From  the  souls  on  the  edge 
of  the  darkness, 

Two  he  produced,  prime  movers  and  agents  of 
mischief,  and  bade  them 

Show  tiuMnsolves  faithful  now  to  the  cause  for 
whicli  they  had  labor'd. 

Wretched  and  guilty  souls,  where  now  their  au- 
dacity .'     Where  now 

Are  the  insolent  tongues  so  ready  of  old  at  re- 
joinder.' 

Where  the  lofty  pretences  of  public  virtue  and 
freedom .' 

Where  the  gibe,  and  the  jeer,  and  the  threat,  the 
envenom'd  invective. 

Calumny,  falsehood,  fraud,  and  the  whole  ammu- 
nition of  malice .' 

Wretched  and  guilty  souls,  they  stood  in  the  face 
of  their  Sovereign, 

Conscious  and  self-condemn'd ;  confronted  with 
him  they  had  injured. 

At  the  Judgment  seat  they  stood. 

Beholding  the  foremost, 

Him  by  the  cast  of  his  eye  oblique,  I  knew  as  the 
firebrand 

Whom  the  unthinking  populace  held  for  their  idol 
and  hero. 

Lord  of  Misrule  in  his  day.  But  how  was  that 
countenance  alter'd 

Where  emotion  of  fear  or  of  shame  had  never  been 
witness'd ; 

That  invincible  forehead  abash'd;  and  those  eyes 
wherein  malice 

Once  had  been  wont  to  shine,  with  wit  and  hilarity 
temper'd. 

Into  how  deep  a  gloom  their  mournful  expression 
had  settled ! 

Little  avail'd  it  now  that  not  from  a  purpose  ma- 
lignant, [evil ; 

Not  with  evil  intent  he  had  chosen  the  service  of 

But  of  his  own  desires  the  slave,  with  profligatp 
impulse. 

Solely  by  selfishness  moved,  and  reckless  of  aught 
tiiat  might  follow. 

Could  he  plead  in  only  excuse  a  confession  of 
baseness .' 

Could  he  hide  the  extent  of  his  guilt  ■  or  hope  to 
atone  for 

Faction  excited  at  home,  when  all  old  feuds  were 
abated. 

Insurrection  abroad,  and  the  train  of  woes  that 
had  follow'd ! 

Discontent  and  disloyalty,  like  the  teeth  of  the 
dragon. 

He  had  sown  on  the  winds ;  they  had  ripen'd  be- 
yond the  Atlantic  ; 

Thence  in  natural  birth,  sedition,  revolt,  revolution  ; 

France  had  received  the  seeds,  and  reap'd  the  har- 
vest of  horrors ;  — 


800 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


VI. 


Where  —  where  should  the  plague  he  slay'd  ?     Oh, 

most  to  be  pitied 
They  of  all  souls  in  bale,  who  see  no  terra  to  the 

evil 
Tliey  by  their  guilt  have  raised,  no  end  to  their 

inner  upbraidings  ! 

Him  I  could  not  choose  but  know,  nor  knowing 

but  grieve  for. 
Who  might  the  other  be,  his  comrade  in  guilt  and 

in  suffering. 
Brought  to  the  proof  like  him,  and  shrinking  like 

him  from  the  trial  ? 
Nameless  the  libeller  lived,  and  shot  his  arrows 

in  darkness ; 
Undetected  he   pass'd  to  the  grave,  and  leaving 

behind  him 
Noxious  works  on  earth,  and  the  pest  of  an  evil 

example, 
Went  to  the  world  beyond,  where  no  offences  are 

hidden. 
Mask'd  had  he  been  in  his  life,  and  now  a  visor  of 

iron. 
Riveted  round  his  head,  had  abolish'd  his  features 

forever. 
Speechless  the  slanderer  stood,  and  turn'd  his  face 

from  the  Monarch, 
[ron-bound  as  it  was, —  so  insupportabjy  dreadful. 
Soon  or  late,  to  conscious  guilt  is  the  eye  of  the 

injured. 

Caitiffs,    are   ye    dumb.''    cried   the   multifaced 

Demon  in  anger; 
Think  ye  then  by  shame  to  shorten  the  term  of 

your  penance .'' 
Back  to  your  penal  dens! — And   with  horrible 

grasp  gigantic 
Seizing  the  guilty  pair,  he  swung  them  aloft,  and 

in  vengeance 
Hurl'd  them  all  abroad,  far  into  the  sulphurous 

darkness. 
Sons  of  Faction,  be  warned !     And  ye,  ye  Slan- 
derers !  learn  ye 
Justice,  and  bear  in  mind  that  after  death  there  is 

judgment. 
Whirling,  away  they  flew.     Nor  long  himself  did 

he  tarry, 
Ere  from  the  ground  where  he  stood,  caught  up 

by  a  vehement  whirlwind. 
He,  too,  was  harried  away;  and  the  blast  with 

lightning  and  thunder 
Volleying  aright  and  aleft  amid  the  accumulate 

blackness, 
Scatter'd   its   inmates   accurs'd,   and   beyond  the 

limits  of  ether 
Drove  the  hircine  host  obscene  :  they,  howling  and 

groaning. 
Fell,  precipitate,  down  to  their  dolorous  place  of. 

endurance. 
Then   was  the  region  clear ;  the  arrowy   flashes 

which  redden'd 
Through  the  foul,  thick  throng,  like  sheeted  ar- 

gentry  floating 
Now  o'er  the  blue  serene,  diffused  an  innocuous 

splendor, 


'^o! 


In    the    infinite    dying   away.      The   roll   of  the 

thunder 
Ceased,  and  all  sounds  were   hush'd,  till  again 

from  the  gate  adamantine 
Was  the   voice  of  the  Angel  heard  through  the 

silence  of  Heaven. 


VI. 
THE  ABSOLVERS. 


he   exclaim'd.   King    George    of    England 
standeth  in  judgment! 
Hell  hath  been  dumb  in  his  presence.     Ye  who  on 

earth  arraign'd  him. 
Come  ye  before  him  now,    and   here   accuse   or 

absolve  him ! 
^or  injustice  hath  here  no  place. 

From  the  Souls  of  the  Blessed 
Some  were  there  then  who  advanced ;  and  more 

from  the  skirts  of  the  meeting  — 
Spirits    who    had    not    yet    accomplish'd     their 

purification, 
Yet,  being  cleansed  from  pride,  from  faction  and 

error  deliver'd, 
Purged  of  the  film  wherewith  the  eye  of  the  mind 

is  clouded, 
They,  in  their  better  state,  saw  all  things  clear; 

and  discerning 
Now,  in  the  light  of  truth,  what  tortuous  views  had 

deceived  them. 
They   acknowledged    their   fault,  and  own'd  the 

wrong  they  had  offer'd ; 
Not    without   ingenuous   shame,    and  a  sense  of 

compunction, 
More  or  less,  as  each  had  more  or  less  to  atone  for. 
One  alone  remain'd,  when  the  rest  had  retired  to 

their  station : 
Silently  he  had  stood,  and  still  unmoved  and  in 

silence. 
With  a  steady    mien,  regarded   the    face   of  the 

Monarch. 
Thoughtful  awhile  he  gazed ;  severe,  but  serene, 

was  his  aspect; 
Calm,  but  stern ;  like  one  whom  no  compassion 

■   could  weaken. 
Neither  could  doubt  deter,  nor  violent    impulses 

alter ; 
Lord  of  his    own    resolves,  —  of  his   own   heart 

absolute  master. 
Awful  Spirit ;    his  place  was  with  ancient  sages 

and  heroes ; 
Fabius,  Aristides,  and  Solon,  and  Epaminondas. 

^I^ere  then  at  the  Gate  of  Heaven  we  are  met ! 

said  the  Spirit; 
King  of  England !  albeit  in  life  opposed  to  each 

other. 
Here  we  meet   at  last.     Not  unprepared  for  the 

meeting 
Ween  I ;  for   we  had  both   outlived   all   enmity, 

rendering 


VII. 


A    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT. 


80J 


Each  to  each  that  justice  wliich  each  from  each 

had  withholden. 
In  the  course  of  events,  to  thee  Iseem'das  a  Rebel, 
Thou  a  Tyrant  to  me;  —  so  strongly  doth  circum- 
stance rule  men 
During   evil   days,    when    right   and    wrong    are 

confounded. 
Left  to  our  hearts  we  were  just.     For   me,   my 

actions  have  spoken. 
That   not  for    lawless    desires,    nor    goaded    by 

desperate  fortunes. 
Nor  for  ambition,  I  chose  my  part ;  but  observant 

of  duty. 
Self-approved.     And  here,  this  witness  I  willingly 

bear  thee,  — 
Here,  before  Angels  and  Men,  in  the  awful  hour 

of  judgment, — 
Thou  too  didst  act  with  upright  heart,  as  befitted  a 

Sovereign 
True  to  his  sacred  trust,  to  his  crown,  his  kingdom, 

and  people. 
Heaven  in  these  things  fulfill 'd  its  wise,  though 

inscrutable  purpose, 
While  we  work'd  its  will,  doing  each  in  his  place 
'yf-  as  became  him. 

Washington !  said  the  Monarch,  well  hast  thou 

spoken  and  truly. 
Just  to  thyself  and  to  me.     On  them  is  the  guilt 

of  the  contest. 
Who  for  wicked  ends,  with  foul  arts  of  faction  and 

falsehood. 
Kindled  and  fed  the  flame ;  but  verily  they  have 

their  guerdon. 
Thou  and  1  are  free    from   offence.    And  would 

that  the  nations. 
Learning   of  us,    would   lay   aside   all   wrongful 

resentment. 
All  injurious  thought,  and,  honoring  each  in  the 

other 
Kindred     courage     and     virtue,     and     cognate 

knowledge  and  freedom, 
Live  in  brotherhood  wisely  conjoin'd.     We  set  the 

example. 
They  who  stir  up  strife,   and   would   break   that 

natural  concord, 
Evil   they  sow,  and  sorrow  will  they  reap  for  their 

harvest. 


VII. 


THE   BEATIFICATION. 

When  that  Spirit  withdrew,  the  Monarch  around 

the  assembly 
Look'd,  but  none  else  came  forth;  and  he  heard 

the  voice  of  the  Angel, — 
King  of  England,  speak  for  thyself!  here  is  none  to 

arraign  thee. 
Father,   he   replied,   from   whom   no   secrets   are 

hidden. 
What  should  I  say  ?  Thou  knowest  that  mine  was 

an  arduous  station, 
101 


Full  of  cares,  and  with  perils  beset.     How  heavy  ( 

the  burden  1 

Thou  alone  canst  tell !  Short-sighted  and  frail  hast  j 

Thou  made  us. 
And   Thy  judgments   who    can   abide?    But   as 

surely  Thou  knowest  1 

The  desire  of  my  heart  hath  been  alway  the  good  1 

of  my  people,  | 

Pardon  my  errors,  O  Lord,  and  in  mercy  accept 

the  intention !  I 

As  in  Thee  I  have  trusted,  so  let  me  not  now  be  i 

confounded.  .— -' 

Bending  forward,  he  spake  with  earnest  humility. 

Well  done. 
Good  and  faithful  servant !  then  said  a  Voice  from 

the  Brightness, 
Enter    thou    into    the    joy  of   thy    Lord.  —  The 

ministering  Spirits 
Clapp'd  their  pennons  therewith,  and   from  that 

whole  army  of  Angels 
Songs  of  thanksgiving   and  joy    resounded,   and 

loud  hallelujahs ; 
While,   on    the   wings    of    Winds    upraised,    the 

pavilion  of  splendor, 
Where  inscrutable  light  enveloped   the    Holy   of 

Holies, 
Moved,  and  was  borne  away ,  through  the  empyrean 

ascending. 

Beautiful  then  on  its  hill  appear'd  the  Celestial 

City, 
Soften'd,  like  evening  suns,,  to  a  mild  and  bearable 

lustre. 
Beautiful  was  the  ether  above ;  and  the  sapphire 

beneath  us. 
Beautiful    was  its   tone,   to   the   dazzled  sight  as 

refreshing 
As  the  fields  with  their  loveliest  green  at  the  coming 

of  summer. 
When  the  mind  is  at  ease,  and  the  eye  and  the 

heart  are  contented. 

Then  methought  we  approach'd  the  gate.     In 

front  of  the  portal. 
From    a    rock    where    the     standard     of    man's 

Redemption  was  planted. 
Issued  the  Well  of  Life,  where  whosoever  would 

enter,  — 
So  it  was  written,  —  must  drink,  and  put  away  all 

that  is  earthly. 
Earth  among  its  gems,  its  creations  of  art  and  of 

nature, 
Offers  not  aught  whereto  that  marvellous  Cross 

may  be  liken'd 
Even  in  dim  similitude ;  such  was  its  wonderful 

substance. 
Pure  it  was  and  diaphanous.     It  had   no  visible 

lustre ; 
Yet  from  It  alone  whole  Heaven  was  illuminate 

alway ; 
Day  and  Night  being  none  in  the  upper  firmament, 

neither 
Sun,  nor  Moon,  nor  Stars;  but  from  that  Cross,  as 

a  fountain, 


802 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


VIII. 


Flow'd   the  Light  uncreated;    light  all-sufficing, 

eternal, 
Light  which  was,  and  which  is,  and  which  will  be, 

forever  and  ever ; 
Light  of  light,  which,  if  daringly  gazed  on,  would 

blind  an  Archangel, 
Yet   the   eye    of    weak    man    may    behold,    and 

beholding  is  strengthcn'd ; 
Yea,  while  we  wander  below,  oppress'd  with  our 

bodily  burden. 
And  in  the  shadow  of  death,  this  Light  is  in  mercy 

vouchsafed  us, 
So  we  seek  it  with  humble  heart;  and  the  soul 

that  receives  it 
Hath  with  it  healing  and  strength,  peace,  love,  and 

life  everlasting. 

Thither  the  King  drew  nigh,  and  kneeling  he 

drank  of  the  water. 
Oh,  what  a  change  was  wrought!     In   the  sem- 
blance of  age  he  had  risen. 
Such  as  at  last  he  appear'd,  with  the  traces  of  time 

and  affliction 
Deep  on  his  faded  form,  when  the  burden  of  years 

was  upon  him. 
Oh,  what  a  change  was  wrought!    For  now  the 

corruptible  put  on 
Incorruption  ;  the  mortal  put  off  mortality.     Rising 
Rejuvenescent     he    stood    in    a     glorified    body, 

obnoxious 
Never  again  to  change,  nor  to  evil,  and  trouble,  and 

sorrow. 
But  for  eternity  form'd,  and  to  bliss  everlasting 

appointed. 


vin. 

THE   SOVEREIGNS. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  Gates;  and, ye  everlasting 

Portals, 
Be  ye   lift   up !      For   lo  I    a    glorified    Monarch 

approacheth, 
One  who  in  righteousness  reign'd,  and  religiously 

govern'd  his  people. 
Who  are  these  that  await  him  within '     Nassau  the 

Deliverer, 
Him  1  knew :   and  the  Stuart,  he  who,  serene  in 

his  meekness, 
Bow'd    his   anointed   head   beneath   the   axe    of 

rebellion, 
Calm  in  that  insolent  hour,  and  over  his  fortune 

triumphant. 

Queen  of  the  eagle  eye,- Ihou  too,  O  matchless 

Eliza, 
Ejccfillejit  Queen,   wert  there!  and  thy  brother's 

beautiful  spirit; 
O'er  whose  innocent  head  there  hover'd  a  silvery 

halo, 
Such  as  crowns  the  Saint  when  his  earthly  warfare 

is  ended. 


There  too  was  he  of  the  sable  mail,  tlie  hero  of 

Cressy, 
Flower  of  chivalry,  he  in  arms  and  in  courtesy 

peerless. 
There  too  his  royal  sire  I  saw,  niagluficent£(Lvtaj:d , 
He  who  made  the  English  renown,  and  the  fame 

of  liis  Windsor 
In  the  Orient  and  Occident  known,  from  Tagus 

to  Tigris. 
Lipn-liearted    Richard     was    there,    redoubtable 

warrior, 
At     whose     irresistible     presence     the     Saracen 

trembled ; 
At  whose  name  the  Caliph  exclaim'd  in  ^smay  on 

Mahommed, 
Syrian  mothers  grew  pale,  and  their  children  were 

scared  into  silence. 
Born  in  a  bloody  age,  did  he,  in  his  prowess  ex- 
ulting. 
Run  like  a  meteor  his  course,  and  fulfil  the  service 

assign'd  him, 
Checking  the  Mussulman  power  in  the  height  of 

its  prosperous  fortune ; 
But  that  leonine  heart  was  with  virtues  humaner 

ennobled; 
(Otherwhere  else,  be  sure,  his  doom  had  now  been 

appointed ;) 
Friendship,  disdain  of  wrong,  and  generous  feeling 

redeem'd  it ; 
Magnanimity  there  had  its  seat,  and  the  love  of 

the  Muses. 

There,  with  the  Saxon  Kings  who  founded  our 

laws  and  our  temples, 
(Gratefully  still  to  be  named  while  these  endure 

in  remembrance, 
They,  for  the  pious  work !)     I  saw  the  spirit  of 

Alfred ; 
Alfj:ed^lhan_ffiliein_noJPrince  with  lofliet intellect 

gifted. 
Nor  with  a  firLer_soul,  nor  in  virtue  more  absolute, 

ever 
Made  a  throne  twice-hallow'd,  and  reign'd  in  the 

hearts  of  his  people. 
With  him  the   Worthies  were  seen  who  in  life 

partook  of  his  labors, 
Shared  his  thoughts,  and  with  him  for  the  weal  of 

posterity  travail'd : 
Some  who  in  cloisters  immured,  and  to  painful 

study  devoted 
Day  and  night,  their  patient  and   innocent  lives 

exhausted. 
And  in  meekness  possess'd  their  souls ;  cand  some 

who  in  battle 
Put  the  Raven  to  flight;  and  some  who,  intrepid 

in  duty, 
Reach'd  the  remotest  East,  or  invading  the  king- 
dom of  Winter, 
Plough'd   with  audacious  keel  the  Hyperborean 

Ocean. 
I  could  perceive  the  joy  which  fill'd  their  beatified 

spirits 
While  of  the  Georgian  age  they  thought,  and  the 

glory  of  England. 


IX. 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


803 


IX. 

THE   ELDER   WORTHIES. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  Gates;  and. ye  everlasting 

Portals, 
Be  ye  lift  up  !     Beliold,  the  Worthies  are  there  to 

receive  him, 
They  who,  in  later  days,  or  in  elder  ages,  ennobled, 
Britain's  dear  name.     Bede  I  beheld,  vi^ho,  humble 

and  holy. 
Shone   like    a   single   star,  serene  in  a   night  of 

darkness. 
Bacon  also  was  there,  the  marvellous  Friar  ;  and 

he  who 
Struck  the  spark  from  which  the  Bohemian  kin- 
dled his  taper ; 
Thence  the  flame,  long  and  hardly  preserved,  was 

to  Luther  transmitted. 
Mighty  soul,  and  he  lifted  his  torcli,  and  enlight- 

en'd  the  nations. 

Thee,  too,  Father  Chaucer,  1  saw,  and  delighted 
to  see  thee, 

At  whose  well  undefiled  I  drank  in  my  youth,  and 
was  strengthen'd ; 

With  whose  mind  immortal  so  oft  I  have  com- 
muned, partaking 

All  its  manifold  moods,  and  willingly  moved  at  its 
pleasure. 

Bearing  the  palm  of  martyrdom,  Cranmer  was 
there  in  his  meekness, 

Holy  name,  to  be  ever  revered !  And  Cecil,  whose 
wisdom 

Stablish'd  the  Church  and  State,  Eliza's  pillar  of 
council. 

And  Shakspeare,  who  in  our  hearts  for  himself 
hath  erected  an  empire 

Not  to  be  shaken  by  Time,  nor  e'er  by  another  di- 
vided. 

But  with  what  love  did  1  then  behold  the  face  of 
my  master,  — 

Spenser,  my  master  dear  !  with  whom  in  boyhood 
I  wander'd 

Through  the  regions  of  Faery  land,  in  forest  or 
garden 

Spending  delicious  hours,  or  at  tilt  and  tourney 
rejoicing  ; 

Yea,  by  the  magic  of  verse  enlarged,  and  trans- 
lated in  spirit. 

In  the  World  of  Romance  free  denizen  I ;  —  till 
awakening, 

When  the  spell  was  dissolved,  this  real  earth  and 
its  uses 

Seem'd  to  me  weary,  and  stale,  and  flat. 

With  other  emotion 
Milton's  severer  shade   1  saw,  and   in  reverence 

humbled 
Gazed  on  that  soul  sublime  :  of  passion  now  as 

of  blindness 
Heal'd,  and  no  longer  here  to  Kings  and  to  Hie- 

rarchs  hostile, 
He  was  assoil'd  from  taint  of  the  fatal  fruit;  and 

in  Eden 


Not  again  to  be  lost,  consorted  an  equal  with 
Angels. 

Taylor  too  was  there,  from  whose  mind  of  its 
treasures  redundant 

Streams  of  eloquence  flow'd,  like  an  inexhaustible 
fountain ; 

And  the  victoi  of  Blenheim,  alike  in  all  virtues 
accomplish'd. 

Public  or  private,  he ;  the  perfect  soldier  and 
statesman, 

England's  reproach  and  her  pride  ;  her  pride  for 
his  noble  achievements, 

Her  reproach  for  tlie  wrongs  he  endured.  And 
Newton,  exalted 

There  above  those  orbs  whose  motions  from  earth 
he  had  measured, 

Through  infinity  ranging  in  thought.  And  Berke- 
ley, angelic 

Now  in  substance  as  soul,  that  kingdom  enjoying 
wliere  all  things 

Are  what  they  seem,  and  the  good  and  the  beauti- 
ful there  are  eternal. 


X. 


THE   WORTHIES   OF   THE    GEORGIAN 
AGE. 

These  with  a  kindred  host  of  great  and  illustrious 
spirits 

Stood  apart,  while  a  train,  whom  nearer  duty  at- 
tracted, 

Through  the  Gate  of  Bliss  came  forth  to  welcome 
their  Sovereign. 

Many  were  they  and  glorious  all.  Conspicuous 
among  them 

Wolfe  wiis  seen.  And  the  seaman  who  fell  on  the 
shores  of  Owyhee, 

Leaving  a  lasting  name,  to  humanity  dear  as  to 
science. 

And  the  mighty  musician  of  Germany,  ours  by 
adoption, 

Who  beheld  in  the  King  his  munificent  pupil  and 
patron. 

Reynolds,  with  whom  began  that  school  of  art 
which  hath  equall'd 

Richest  Italy's  works,  and  the  masterly  labors  cf 
Belgium, 

Came  in  that  famous  array.  And  Hogarth,  who 
follow'd  no  master. 

Nor  by  pupil  shall  e'er  be  approach'd,  alone  in  his 
greatness. 

Reverend  in  comely  mien,  of  aspect  mild  and  be- 
nignant. 

There,  too,  Wesley  I  saw  and  knew,  whose  zeal 
apostolic. 

Though  with  error  alloy'd,  hath  on  earth  its  mer- 
ited honor, 

As  in  heaven  its  reward.  And  Mansfield,  the 
just  and  intrepid  ; 

Wise  Judge,  by  the  craft  of  the  Law  ne'er  seduced 
from  its  purpose ; 


804 


A    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


XI. 


And  when  the  misled  multitude   raged  like  the 

winds  in  their  madness, 
Not  to  be  moved  from  his  rightful  resolves.     And 

Burke  I  beheld  there, 
Eloquent  statesman  and  sage,  who,  though  late, 

broke  loose  from  his  trammels, 
Giving  then  to  mankind  what  party  too  long  had 

diverted. 
Here,  where  wrongs  are  forgiven,  was  the  injured 

Hastings  beside  him ; 
Strong  in  his  high  deserts,  and  in  innocence  hap- 
py, though  injured, 
He,  in  his  good  old  age,  outlived  persecution  and 

malice. 
Even  where  he  had  stood  a  mark  for  the  arrows 

of  slander. 
He  had  his  triumph  at  last,  when,  moved  with  one 

feeling,  the  Senate 
Rose  in  respect  at  his  sight,  and  atoned  for  the  sin 

of  their  fathers. 

Cowper,  thy  lovely  spirit  was  there,  by  death 
disenchanted 

From  that  heavy  spell  which  had  bound  it  in  sor- 
row and  darkness ; 

Thou  wert  there,  in  the  kingdom  of  peace  and  of 
light  everlasting. 

Nelson  also  was  there  in  the  kingdom  of  peace, 
though  his  calling, 

While  upon  earth  he  dwelt,  was  to  war  and  the 
work  of  destruction. 

Not  in  him  had  that  awful  ministry  deaden'd  or 
weaken'd 

Quick  compassion,  and  feelings  that  raise  while 
they  soften  our  nature. 

Wise  in  counsel,  and  steady  in  purpose,  and  rapid 
in  action, 

Never  thought  of  self  from  the  course  of  his  duty 
seduced  him. 

Never  doubt  of  the  issue  unworthily  warp'd  his 
intention. 

Long  shall  his  memory  live,  and  while  his  exam- 
ple is  cherish'd, 

From  the  Queen  of  the  Seas  the  sceptre  shall 
never  be  wrested. 


XI. 

THE  YOUNG  SPIRITS. 

Ye  whom  1  leave  unnamed,  ye  other  Worthies  of 

Britain, 
Lights  of  the  Georgian  age,  —  for  ye  are  many 

and  noble,  — 
How  might  1  name  ye   all,  whom  I  saw  in  this 

glorious  vision .' 
Pardon  ye  the  imperfect  tale  !     Yet  some  1  beheld 

there. 
Whom  should  1  pretermit,  my  heart  might  rightly 

upbraid  me, 
That  its  tribute  of  honor,  poor  though  it  be,  was 

withholden. 


Somewhat  apart  they  came,  in  fellowship  gather'd 

together, 
As  in  goodly  array  they  follow'd  the  train  of  the 

Wortliies. 
Chosen  spirits  were  these,  of  the  finest  elements 

temper' d. 
And    mibodied    on   earth    in    mortality's    purest 

texture  ; 
But  in  the  morning  of  hope,  in  the  blossom  ol 

virtue  and  genius. 
They  were  cut  down  by  Death.     What  then.''  — 

were  it  wise  to  lament  them. 
Seeing  the  mind  bears  with  it  its  wealth,  and  the 

soul  its  affections .' 
What   we   sow    we   shall   reap ;    and    the   seeds 

whereof  earth  is  not  worthy 
Strike  their  roots  in  a  kindlier  soil,  and  ripen  to 

harvest. 

Here  where  the  gallant  youths  of  high,  heroic 

aspiring, 
Who,  so  fate  had  allow 'd,  with  the  martial  renown 

of  their  country 
Would  have  wedded  their  names,  for  perpetua 

honor  united; 
Strong  of  heart  and  of  mind,  but  in  undistinguish 

ing  battle. 
Or  by  pestilence  stricken,  they  fell,  unknown  anc. 

confounded 
With  the  common  dead.     Oh  I  many  are  they  who 

were  worthy, 
Under  the  Red  Cross  flag,  to  have  wielded  the 

thunders  of  Britain, 
Making  her  justice   felt,  and  her  proper   power 

upholding 
Upon  all  seas  and  shores,  wheresoever  her  rights 

were  offended. 
Followers  of  Nelson's  path,  and  the  glorious  career 

of  the  Wellesley. 
Many  are  they,  whose  bones  beneath  the  billows 

have  whiten'd, 
Or  in  foreign  earth  they  have   moulder'd,  hastily 

cover'd, 
In  some  wide  and  general  grave. 

Here  also  were  spirits 
To  have  guided,  like  Cecil  of  old,  the  councils  of 

England ; 
Or,  'like  Canning,  have  silenced  and  charm'd  a 

tumultuous  Senate, 
When  to  the  height  of  his  theme  the  consummate 

Orator  rising 
Makes  our  Catilines  pale,  and  rejoices  the  friends 

of  their  country. 

Others  came  in  that  goodly  band  whom  benigner 

fortune 
Led  into  'pleasanter  ways  on  earth :  the  children 

of  Science 
Some,    whose    unerring   pursuit   would,   but  for 

death,  have  extended 
O'er  the  unknown  and  material,  Man's  intellectual 

empire, 
Such  their  intuitive  power ;  like  Davy,  disarming 

destruction 


XI. 


A    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT. 


805 


When  it  moves  on  the  vapor;  or  him,  who,  dis- 
covering the  secret 

Of  the  dark  and  ebullient  abyss,  with  the  fire  of 
Vesuvius 

Arm'd  the  chemist's  hand :  well  then  might 
Eleusinian  Ceres 

Yield  to  him,  from  whom  the  seas  and  the 
mountains  conceard  not 

Nature's  mystery,  hid  in  their  depths. 

Here,  lost  in  their  promise 
And  prime,  were  the  children  of  Art,  who  should 

else  have  deliver'd 
Works  and  undying  names  to  grateful  posterity's 

keeping, 
Such  as  Haydon  will  leave  on  earth ;  and  he  who, 

returning 
Rich  in  praise  to  his  native  shores,  hath  loft  a 

remembrance 
Lonor  to  be  honor'd  and  loved  on  the  banks  of 

Thames  and  of  Tiber  : 
So  may  America,  prizing  in  time  the  worth  she 

possesses, 
Give  to  that  hand  free  scope,  and  boast  hereafter 

of  Allston. 

Here   too,  early   lost   and   deplored,   were    the 

youths  whom  the  Muses 
Mark'd  for  themselves  at  birth,  and  with  dews 

from  Castalia  sprinkled : 
Chatterton  first,  (  for  not  to  his  aflfectionate  spirit 
Could  the    act   of   madness  innate   for   guilt  be 

accounted,) 
Marvellous  boy,  whose  antique  songs  and  unhappy 

story 
Shall,  by  gentle  hearts,  be  in  mournful  memory 

cherish'd 
Long  as  thy  ancient  towers  endure,  and  the  rocks 

of  St.  Vincent, 
Bristol !    my   birth-place    dear.      What  though    I 

have  chosen  a  dwelling 
Far  away,  and  my  grave  shall  not  be  found  by  the 

stranger 
Under  thy  sacred  care,  nathless  in  love  and  in 

duty 
Still  am  I  bound  to  thee,  and  by  many  a  deep 

recollection ! 
City  of  elder  days,   I  know   how  largely   I   owe 

thee  ; 
Nor  least  for  the  hope   and  the  strength  that   I 

gather'd  in  boyhood, 
While  on  Chatterton  musing,  I  fancied  his  spirit 

was  with  me 
In  the  haunts  which  he  loved  upon  earth.     'Twas 

a  joy  in  my  vision 
When  I  beheld  his  face.  —  And  here  was  the  youth 

of  Loch  Leven, 
Nipp'd,  like  an  April  flower,  that  opens  its  leaves  to 

the  sunshine, 
While    the   breath    of   the    East    prevails.     And 

Russell  and  Bampfylde, 
Bright  emanations  they  I  And   the    Poet,  whose 

songs  of  childhood 
Trent  and  the  groves  of  Cliftun   heard ;  not  alone 

by  the  Muses, 


But  by   the  Virtues  loved,  his  soul,  in  its  youthful 

aspirings, 
Sougiit  the  Holy  Hill,  and  his  thirst  was  for  Siloa's 

waters. 
Was  I  deceived  by  desire,  or,  Henry,  indeed  did 

thy  spirit 
Know  me,  and  meet  my  look,  and  smile  like  a 

friend  at  the  meeting .' 


xn. 

y^  THE   MEETING. 

Lift  up  your  heads, ye  Gates;  and, ye  everlastmg 

Portals, 
Be  ye  lift  up !     Behold    the    splendent   train   of 

the  Worthies 
Halt;  and  with  quicker   pace  a  happy  company 

issues 
Forth  from  the   Gate   of  Bliss :   the  Parents,  the 

Children,  and  Consort, 
Come  to  welcome  in  Heaven  the  Son,  the  Father, 

.and  Husband ! 
Hour  of  perfect  joy  that  o'erpays  all  earthly  af- 
fliction ; 
Yea,  and  the  thought  whereof  supporteth  the  soul 

in  its  anguish ! 

There  came  England's  blossom  of  hope,  —  the 
beautiful  Princess ; 

Slie  in  whose  wedded  bliss  all  hearts  rejoiced,  and 
whose  death-bell. 

Heard  from  tower  to  tower  through  the  island, 
carried  a  sorrov/, 

Felt  by  all  like  a  private  grief,  which,  sleeping  or 
waking. 

Will  not  be  shaken  away  ;  but  possesses  the  soul 
and  disturbs  it. 

Tliere  was  our  late -lost  Queen,  the  nation's 
example  of  virtue  ; 

In  whose  presence  vice  was  not  seen,  nor  the  face 
of  dishonor. 

Pure  in  heart,  and  spotless  in  life,  and  secret  in 
bounty, 

Queen,  and  Mother,  and  Wife  unreproved.  —  The 
gentle  Amelia 

Stretch'd  her  arms  to  her  father  there,  in  tender- 
ness shedding 

Tears,  such  as  Angels  weep.  That  hand  was  to- 
ward him  extended 

Whose  last  pressure  he  could  not  bear,  when  mer- 
ciful Nature, 

As  o'er  her  dying  bed  he  bent  in  severest  anguisji. 

Laid  on  liis  senses  a  weight,  and  suspended  the 
sorrow  forever. 

He  hath  recover'd  her  now  :  all,  all  that  was  lost 
is  restored  him ;  — 

Hour  of  perfect  bliss  that  o'erpays  all  earthly  afflic- 
tion ! 

They  are  met  where  Change  is  not  known,  nor 
Sorrow,  nor  Parting. 

Death  is  subdued,  and  the  Grave,  which  conquers 
all,  hath  been  conquer'd. 


806 


NOTES    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT, 


When  I  beheld   them  meet,  tlie  desire  of  my 

soul  overcame  me ; 
And  when  with  harp  and  voice   the  lo\id   hosan- 

nahs  of  welcome 
Fill'd   the  rejoicing  sky,  as  the  happy  company 

enter'd 
Through  the    everlasting  Gates,    I,   too,  press'd 

forward  to  enter  :  — 
But  the   weight   of  the   body    withheld   mo.      I 

stoop'd  to  the  fountain, 
Eager   to  drink  thereof,  and  to  put  away  all  tliat 

was  earthly. 
Darkness  came  over  me  then,  at  the  chilling  touch 

of  the  water. 
And  my  feet,  methought,  sunk,  and  I  fell  precipi- 
tate.    Starting, 
Then   1    awoke,    and   beheld    the   mountains   in 

twilight  before  me, 
Dark  and  distinct;  and  instead  of  the  rapturous 

sound  of  hosannahs, 
Heard  the  bell  from  the  tower,  toll !  toll !  through 

the  silence  of  eveninor. 


NOTES 


—  From  surrounding  Ihingg  the  liars  whcrcwitk  day  has  adorned 

them 
Fade,  like  the  hopes  of  youth.  —  I.  col.  2,  p.  795. 

Tlii5  effect  of  twili;;lif,  and  in  tlio  very  scene  described,  lias 
lieon  lately  represented  by  Mr.  William  Westall,  in  one  of  his 
Views  of  the  Lakes,  with  the  true  feeling  and  power  of  genius. 
The  ratigo  of  mountains  wliich  is  described  in  these  intro- 
ductory lines,  may  also  he  seen  in  his  View  of  the  Vale  of 
Keswick  from  the  Penrith  road. 


The  last  pale  tint  ef  the  tvsiliirht ; 
Green  as  a  stream  in  the  glen  whose  pure  and  chrysolite  waters 
Flow  o^er  a  schistous  bed.  —  I.  col.  2,  p.  795. 

St.  Pierre,  who  is  often  a  finciful,  generally  a  delightful,  but 
always  an  animated  and  ingenious  writer,  has  some  charac- 
teristic speculations  concerning  this  green  light  of  evening. 
He  says,  Jc  sitis  porte  d  attribuer  d  la  coulcur  vcrte  des  vcgclaiii 
qui  coucrent  en  ete  une  grande  partie  dc  notre  hemisphere,  eette 
belle  teinte  d^emeraude  que  Von  appergoit  quelquefais  dans  eette 
suison  au  firmament,  vers  Ic  coucher  du  soleil.  Etle  est  rare  dans 
■nos  cHmats  ;  mais  elle  est  frcquentc  entre  les  troplques,  oil  Pete 
dure  toute  I'annc.e.  Je  sais  bien  qiVon  pent  rendre  raison  de  ce 
phinomene  par  la  simple  refraction  dis  rayons  da  soleil  dans 
Vutmosphdre,  ee  prisme  spherique  de  notre  globe.  Mais,  outre 
qu^oiipcut  objecter  que  la  couleur  rcric  ve  se  volt  point  en  hirer 
dans  notre  cicl,  c^est  qucjcpeux  apporter  d  I'appui  dc  won  opinion 
d'autres  fails  qui  semblent  prouver  que  la  coulcur  incme  aiurce 
deVatmosphire  ii'est  qu'une  reflexion  dc  cclle  dc  P ocean.  En 
cffct,  les  glaces  finttantes  qui  descendcnt  tous  les  ans  du  pole 
■nord,  s''annoncent,  decant  de  parottre  sur  I'horizon,  par  une 
lueur  blanche  qui  eclaire  Ic  cicl  jour  ct  nuit,  et  qui  ipest  qu'un 
reflet  des  nriires  cristallisces  qui  les  composent.  Crtte  lueur pa- 
■ruit  semblable  d  cellc  de  I'aurorc  borcale,  dovt  Ic  foyer  est  au 
milieu  des  glaces  meme  de  notre  pole,  mais  dont  la  coulcur  blanche 
est  melangee  dejnune,  de  rouge,  etdevert,parcc  qu'elleparticipc 
des  couleur s  du  sol  ferrugineux  et  de  la  verdure  des  furtts  de 
sapins  qui  coavrent  notre  lotie  glacinle.  La  cause  dc  eette  vari- 
ation de  couleurs  dans  notre  aurore  boriale  est  d'autant  plus 
vraisemblable,  que  Paurore  australe,  eomme  Pa  obsercc  le  Capi- 
taine  Cook,  en  diffdre  eh.  ce  que  sa  coulcur  blanche  n^st  jamais 
melangee  que  de  teintes  bleues,  qui  n'  ont  lieu,  scion  mni,  que 
parec  que  les  glaces  du  pole  austral,  sans  continent  et  sans  vcge- 
tauz,  sonl  entourees  de  toutes  parts  de  Pocean,  qui  est  bleu.    J\re 


voyons-nous  pas  que  la  lune,  que  nous  supposons  converte  en 
grande  partie  de  glaciers  tres-eleces,  noils  renvoie  en  lumiire 
d'un  hlanc  bleuatre  les  rayons  du  soleil,  qui  sont  dures  dans  notre 
atmosphere  fcn-ugineuse  ?  JVcst-ce  pas  par  la  reverberation 
d'un  sol  compose  de  fiT,  que  laplanite  de  Mars  nous  reflcchit, 
en  tout  temps,  une  lumiere  rouge  ?  JV'est-il  pas  plus  naturel 
d'attribuer  ces  couleurs  constantes  aux  reverberations  du  sol,  des 
mers,  ct  des  vegctaux  de  ces  planetes,  plutot  qu'aux  refractions 
variables  des  rayons  du  soldi  dans  leurs  atmospheres,  dont  les 
couleurs  dcvroicnt  changer  d  toutc  heure,  suivarU  leurs  differena 
aspects  avec  cct  autre!  Commc  Murs  apparoU  conslamment 
rouge  d  la  terre,  il  est  pos.fiblc  que  la  tcrre  apparoisse  d  Mars 
comme  une  pierrcrie  brillunte  des  couleurs  de  Popale  au  pole 
nord,  dc  cclles  de  Paigue-marine  au  pole  sud,  ct,  tour-d-tour,  dc 
crlles  du  saphir  et  de  Pemeraude  dans  le  rcste  de  sa  circonfcrencc. 
Mais,  sans  sortir  de  noire  atmosphere,  jc  erois  que  la  tei-rc  y 
renvoie  la  couleur  bleue  de  son  ocean  avec  des  reflets  de  la  cou- 
leur rerte  de  ses  vegetaux,  en  tout  temps  dans  la  zone  torride,  ct 
en  ete  seulement  dans  nos  climats,  par  la  viSmc  raison  que  ces 
deux  poles  y  reflcchisscnt  des  aurorcs  borcales  diffcrentcs,  qui 
participent  des  couleurs  de  In  terre,  ou  des  mers  qui  les  avoisincnt. 

Peut-ctre  mSme  notre  atmosphere  rcflcchit-elle  quelquefois  les 
formes  des paysages,  qui  annonccnt  les  ilesauz  naviguteurs  bim 
long  temps  avant  qu'ils  puissent  y  aborder.  II  est  rcmarquable 
qu'ellcs  ne  se  montrent  comme  les  rrflcts  de  verdure  qu'd  Vhorizon 
et  du  cute  du  soled  couchant.  Je  citcrai,  d  ce  sujet,  un  homme 
de  Pile  de  France  qui  apercevoit  dans  le  del  les  images  des  vais- 
seaux  qui  ctoient  en  pleine  mer .-  Ic  celibre  Vemet,  qui  m'a  attesle 
avoir  vu  unefois  dans  les  nuagcs  les  tours  et  les  remparts  d'une 
ville  situec  d  sept  lieues  de  lui ;  el  Ic  phenomene  du  dctroit  de 
Sidle,  connu.  sous  le  nom  de  Fee-Murgane.  Les  nuages  ct  les 
vapevrs  de  P atmosphere  peuvent  fort  bien  reftcchtr  les  formes  ct 
les  couleurs  des  objcU  trrrestres,  puiiqipils  reflcchisscnt  duns  les 
parches  Pimage  du  soldi  au  point  dc  la  rendre  ardente  eomme  le 
soleil  lui-m&me.  Enfin,  les  eauz.  de  la  terre  rcpetent  les  couleurs 
el  lei  formes  des  nuages  de  Patmospherc  :  pourquoi  les  vnpcurs 
de  Patmospherc  ?  d  leur  tour,  ne  pourroient-ellcs  pas  reflcehir  le 
bleu  dc  la  mer,  la  verdure  et  le  jaunc  dc  la  terre,  ainsi  que  lis 
couleurs  chatoyantcs  des  glaces  polaircs  ? 

./?».  restr,  je  ne  donne  mon  opinion  que  comme  mon  opinion. 
L'histoirc  de  la  nature  est  une  edifice  d  peine  commence;  ne 
craigjions  pas  d'y  poser  qudques  pierrcs  d'altente  :  nos  nrvcnx 
s'c7i  servirontpour  Pagrandir,  cu  les  suprlmeront  comme  super- 
flues.  Si  mon  autorite  est  nulla  dans  Pavcnir,  peu  importera 
que  je  me  sois  trcmpc  sur  ce  point .-  mon  ouvrage  rentrcra  dans 
Pobscurite  d'oil  il  etoit  sorti.  Mais  s'il  est  un  jour  de  quclque 
consideration,  mon  erreur  en  physique  sera  plus  utile  d  la  morale, 
qn'unc  vcrite  d'ailleurs  indiffcrentc  au  bonheur  des  hommes.  Or. 
en  cojiclura  avee  raison  qu'il  faut  ctre  en  garde  conire  les  ecri- 
vains  mSme  accrcditcs.  —  Harmonies  de  la  Nature,  t.  i.  129. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  to  the  green  color  of  the  vege- 
tables with  which,  during  the  summer,  a  great  part  of  our 
hemisphere  is  covered,  that  beautiful  emerald  tint  which  we 
sometimes  perceive  at  that  season  in  the  firmament,  towards 
the  setting  of  the  sun.  It  is  rare  in  our  climates,  but  is  fre- 
quent between  the  tropics,  where  summer  continues  through- 
out the  year.  I  know  that  this  phenomenon  may  be  explained 
by  the  simple  refraction  of  the  rays  of  the  sun  in  the  atmos- 
phere, that  spherical  jirism  of  our  globe.  But  to  this  it  may 
be  objected,  that  the  green  color  is  not  seen  during  the  winter 
in  our  sky  ;  and  moreover,  I  can  support  my  opinion  by  other 
facts,  which  appear  to  prove  that  even  the  azure  color  of  the 
atmosphere  is  only  a  rellection  of  that  of  the  ocean.  In  fact, 
the  floating  ice  which  descends  every  year  from  the  North 
Pole,  is  announced  before  it  appears  upon  the  horizon,  by  a 
white  blink  which  enlightens  the  heaven  day  and  night,  and 
which  is  only  a  reflection  of  the  crystallized  snows,  of  which 
those  masses  are  composed.  This  blink  resembles  the  light 
of  the  aurora  borralis,  the  centre  of  which  is  in  the  middle  of 
the  ice  of  our  polo,  but  the  white  color  of  which  is  mixed  ft  itli 
yellow,  with  red,  and  with  green,  because  it  partakes  of  the 
color  of  a  ferruginous  soil,  and  of  the  verdure  of  the  pine  for- 
ests which  cover  our  icy  zone.  This  explanation  of  these 
variations  of  color  in  our  aurora  borealis,  is  so  much  the  more 
probable,  because  that  of  the  aurora  australii,  as  Captain  Cook 
has  observeil,  differs  in  that  its  white  color  is  mixed  with  blue 
tints  alone,  which  can  only  be,  according  to  my  opinion,  be- 
cause the  ire  of  the  austral  pole  (where  there  is  no  continent 
and  no  vegetation)  is  surrounded  on  all  parts  with  the  ocean, 


NOTES    TO   THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


807 


which  is  blue.  Do  mo  not  sue  tliat  the  moon,  wliich  we  sup- 
pose to  be  covered  in  great  part  with  very  elevated  glaciers, 
sends  back  to  us,  in  a  light  of  a  bluish  white,  tlie  rays  of  tlie  sun, 
which  are  golden  in  our  ferruginous  atmosphere  ?  Is  it  not 
by  the  reverberation  of  a  soil  conii)osed  of  iron,  that  the  planet 
Mars  reflects  upon  us,  at  all  times,  u  red  light .'  Is  it  not 
more  natural  to  attribute  these  constant  colors  to  the  rever- 
beration of  the  soil,  of  the  seas,  and  of  the  vegetalilesof  these 
pl.uiets,  rather  than  to  the  variable  refractions  of  the  rays  of 
tho  SUM  in  their  atmospheres,  the  colors  of  which  ought  to 
change  every  hour,  according  to  their  different  aspects  with 
regard  to  that  star?  As  Mars  appears  constantly  red  to  the 
earth,  it  is  possible  that  tlic  earth  miglit  appear  to  Mars  like  a 
brilliant  jewel,  of  the  color  of  tho  opal  towards  the  North  Pole, 
of  the  agoa  marina  at  the  Soutli  Pole,  and  alternately  of  the 
supphire  m  the  rest  of  its  circumference.  But  without  going 
out  of  our  atmosphere,  I  believe  that  the  earth  reflects  there 
the  blue  color  of  its  ocean  with  the  green  of  its  vegetation,  at 
all  times  in  the  torrid  zone,  ami  in  summer  only  in  our  cli- 
mate, for  the  same  reason  that  its  two  poles  reflect  their  dif- 
ferent auroraa,  which  partic'ipate  of  the  colors  of  the  earth  or 
the  seas  that  are  near  them. 

"  Perhaps  our  atmosphere  sometimes  reflects  landscapes, 
which  announce  islands  to  tho  sailors  long  before  they  reach 
tliem.  It  js  remarkable  thiit  they  show  themselves,  like  the 
reflections  of  verdure,  only  in  the  horizon  and  on  the  side  ol 
the  setting  sun.  I  shall  cite,  on  this  subject,  a  man  of  the 
Isle  of  France,  who  used  to  perceive  in  the  sky  the  images  of 
vessels  which  were  out  in  full  sea  ;  the  celebrated  Vernet,  who 
related  to  me  that  he  bad  once  seen  in  the  clouds  the  ramparts 
of  a  town,  situated  seven  leagues  distant  fiom  him,  and  the 
phenomenon  of  the  straits  of  Sicily,  known  under  the  name 
of  tlie  Fata  Morgana.  The  clouds  and  the  vapors  of  the  at- 
mosphere may  very  well  reflect  the  forms  and  the  colors  of 
earthly  objects,  since  they  reflect  in  parlielions  the  image  of 
the  sun,  so  as  to  ren<ler  it  bi-rning  as  the  sun  itself.  In  fine, 
if  the  waters  of  the  earth  repeat  the  colors  and  the  forms  of 
the  clouds  of  the  atmosphere,  why  then  should  not  the  vapors 
of  the  atmosphere,  in  their  turn,  reflect  the  blue  of  tho  sea, 
the  verdure  and  the  yellow  of  the  earth,  as  well  as  the  glancing 
colors  of  the  polar  ices.' 

"  I  advance  my  opinion,  however,  only  as  my  opinion.  The 
history  of  nature  is  an  edifice  which,  as  yet,  is  scarcely  com- 
menced ;  let  us  not  fear  to  carry  some  stones  towards  the 
building  ;  our  grandchildren  will  use  them,  or  lay  them  aside 
if  they  be  useless.  If  my  authority  is  of  no  weight  hereafter, 
it  will  import  little  that  I  have  deceived  myself  upon  this 
point ;  my  work  will  enter  into  obscurity,  from  whence  it 
came;  but  if  it  should  be,  in  future,  of  some  consideration, 
my  error  in  physics  will  be  more  useful  to  morals  than  a 
truth,  otherwise  indifferent  to  the  happiness  of  mankind.  For 
it  will  be  inferred  with  reason,  that  it  is  necessary  to  regard 
even  writers  of  credit  with  caution." 

In  one  point  of  fact,  St.  Pierre  is  certainly  mistaken.  Tho 
<»reen  evening  light  is  seen  as  often  in  winter  as  in  summer. 
Having  been  led  to  look  for  it  in  consequence  of  suspecting 
the  accuracy  of  his  remarks,  I  noticed  it  on  the  very  day 
when  this  extract  was  transcribed  for  tlie  press,  (late  in  De- 
cember,) and  twice  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week  ;  and  I 
observed  it,  not  in  tho  evening  alone,  and  in  the  west,  (in 
which  quarter,  however,  and  at  which  time,  it  is  most  fre- 
quently seen,)  but  in  different  parts  of  the  sky,  and  at  difter- 
ent  times  of  the  day. 


when  not  our  jackdaws  only,  but  some  of  our  swans  also,  trick 
themsilves  in  borrowed  plumage.  I  have  never  contracted 
an  obligation  of  this  kiiid,  either  to  contemporary  or  prede- 
cessor, «illioiit  acknowledging  it. 


Whether  France  or  Britain  be  tlireatcnal, 
Soon  will  the  is^e  shoic,  or  if  both,  at  once  are  endangcrUl. 

III.  col.  I,  p.  798. 

The  murder  of  the  Duke  of  Kerry,  and  tlio  Cato-strcet  con- 
spiracy, were  both  planned  at  the  time  of  tho  King's  death. 


r/iw  is  the  Gate  of  Blifs.  —  IV.  col.  2,  p.  798. 

The  reader  will  so  surely  think  of  the  admirable  passage  of 
Dante,  which  was  in  the  writer's  mind  when  these  lines  were 
composed,  that  I  should  not  think  it  necessary  to  notice  the 
imitation,  were  it  not  that  we  live  in  an  age  of  plagiarism  ; 


Discontent  and  disloijultij,  like  the  teeth  of  the  dragon, 
lie  had  sown  on  the  winds ;  they  had  ripen'd  bei/ond  the  Allanlic. 

V.  col.  2,  p.  799. 

"  Our  i\ew  V\'orld,"  says  M.  Simond,  "  has  generally  the 
credit  of  having  first  lighted  the  torch  which  was  toilluminate, 
and  soon  set  in  a  blaze,  the  finest  part  of  Europe  ;  yet  I  think 
the  flint  was  struck,  and  the  first  spark  elicited,  by  the  patriot, 
John  Wilkes,  a  few  years  before.  In  a  time  of  profound  peace, 
the  restless  spirits  of  men,  deprived  of  other  objects  of  public 
curiosity,  seized  with  avidity  on  those  questions  which  were 
then  agitated  with  so  much  violence  in  England,  touching  the 
rights  of  the  people,  and  of  the  government,  and  the  nature 
of  power.  The  end  of  tho  political  drama  was  in  favor  of 
what  was  called,  and  in  some  respect  was,  the  liberty  of  the 
people.  Encouraged  by  the  success  of  this  great  comedian, 
the  curtain  was  no  sooner  drop|>cd  on  the  scene  of  Europe,  than 
new  actors  hastened  to  raise  it  aguin  in  America,  and  to  give 
tho  world  a  new  play,  infinitely  more  interesting,  and  more 
brilliant,  than  the  first." 

Dr.  Franklin  describes  the  state  of  things  during  the  reign 
of  Wilkes  and  liberty.  He  says,  "  There  have  been  amazing 
contests  all  over  the  kingdom,  twenty  or  thirty  thousand 
pounds  of  a  side  spent  in  several  places,  and  inconceivable 
mischief  done,  by  drunken,  mad  mobs,  to  houses,  windows, 
&c.  The  scenes  have  been  horrible.  Ijomlon  was  illuminated 
two  nights  running,  at  the  command  of  the  mob,  for  the  suc- 
cess of  Wilkes  in  the  Middlesex  election  ;  the  second  night 
exceeded  any  thing  of  the  kind  ever  seen  here  on  the  greatest 
occasions  of  rejoicing,  as  even  the  small  cross  streets,  lanes, 
courts,  and  other  out-of-the-way  places,  were  all  in  a  blaze 
with  lights,  and  the  principal  streets  all  night  long,  as  the  mobs 
went  round  again  aller  two  o'clock,  and  obliged  people  who 
had  extinguished  their  candles,  to  light  them  again.  Those 
who  refused  had  all  their  windows  destroyed.  The  damage 
done,  and  the  expense  of  candles,  has  been  computed  at  fifty 
thousand  pounds.  It  must  have  been  great,  though  probably  not 
so  much.  The  ferment  is  not  yet  over,  for  he  has  promised  to 
surrender  to  the  court  next  Wednesday,  and  another  tumult  is 
then  exi)ected  ;  and  what  the  upshot  will  be,  no  one  can  yet 
fiiresee.  It  is  really  an  extraordinary  event,  to  see  an  outlaw 
and  exile,  of  bad  personal  character,  not  worth  a  farthing,  come 
over  from  Frjuce,set  himself  up  as  a  candidate  forthe  capital 
of  the  kingdotu,  miss  his  election  only  by  being  too  late  in  his 
application,  and  immediately  carrying  it  for  the  principal 
county.  The  mo!),  (spirited  up  by  numbers  of  diflerent  bal- 
lads, sung  or  roared  in  every  street,)  requiring  gentlemen  and 
ludii's  of  all  ranks,  as  they  passed  in  their  carriages,  to  shout 
for  Wilkes  and  liberty,  marking  the  same  words  on  all  their 
coaches  with  chalk,  and  No  45  on  every  door,  which  extends 
a  vast  way  along  the  roads  in  the  country.  I  went  last  week 
to  Winchester,  and  observed  that  for  fifteen  miles  out  of  town 
there  was  scarce  a  door  or  window-shutter  next  the  road  un- 
marked :  and  this  continued  liero  and  there  quite  to  Win- 
chester, which  is  sixty-four  miles. 

******* 
Even  this  capital,  the  residence  of  the  king,  is  no'v  a  daily  scene 
of  lawless  riot  and  confusion.  Mobs  patrolling  the  street  at 
noonday,  some  knocking  all  down  that  will  not  roar  for  Wilkes 
and  liberty  ;  courts  of  justice  afraid  to  give  judgment  against 
him;  coal-heavers  and  porters  pulling  down  the  houses  of 
coal-mcrchnnts  that  refuse  to  give  them  more  wages  ;  sawyers 
destroying  saw-mills  ;  sailors  unrigging  all  the  outward-bound 
ships,  and  suft'ering  none  to  sail  till  merchants  agree  to  raise 
their  pay  ;  watermen  destroying  private  boats,  and  threatening 
bridges  ;  soldiers  firing  among  the  mobs,  and  killing  men, 
women,  and  children,  which  seems  only  to  have  produced  an 
universal  sullcnness,  that  looks  like  a  great  black  cloud  coming 
on,  ready  to  burst  in  a  general  tempest.  What  the  event  w  ill 
be  God  only  knows.  Put  some  punishment  seems  preparing 
for  a  people  who  are  ungratefully  abusing  the  best  constit\ilion, 
and  the  best  king,  any  nation  was  ever  blessed  »it;i  ;  intent 
on  nothing  but  luxury,  licentiousness,  power,  places,  pensions 


808 


NOTES    TO    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


and  plunder,  while  the  ministry,  divided  in  tlieir  councils, 
with  little  regard  for  (•ach  other,  wearied  by  perpetual  oppo- 
Bitions,  in  continual  apprehension  of  changes,  intent  on  se- 
curing po|)ularity,  in  case  they  should  lose  favor,  have,  for 
some  years  past,  had  little  time  or  inclination  to  attend  to  our 
small  affairs,   whose   remoteness   makes   them  appear    still 

smaller. 

******* 

All  respect  to  law  and  government  seems  to  be  lost  among  the 
common  people,  who  are  moreover  continually  inflamed  by 
seditious  scribblers  to  trample  on  authority,  and  every  thing 
that  used  to  keep  them  in  order." 


Soils  of  Faction,  be  warn'dl  and  ye,  ye  Slanderers,  learn  ye 
justice,  and  bear  in  mind,  that  after  death  there  is  judgment. 

V.  col.  1,  p.  800. 

Discite  justitiam  moniti,  et  non  temnere  Uivos.  —  Virgil. 


Thou  too  didst  act  with  upright  heart,  as  befitted  a  Suvercign, 
True  to  his  sacred  trust,  to  his  crown,  his  kingdom,  and  people. 

VI.  col.  I,  p.  801. 

I  am  pleased  to  find  (since  the  first  publication  of  thisiroem) 
the  same  opinion  forcibly  expressed  by  Cowper.  "  It  appears 
to  me,"  he  says,  (writing  in  1782,)  "that  the  king  is  bound, 
both  by  the  duty  he  owes  to  himself  and  to  his  people,  to  con- 
sider himself,  with  respect  to  every  inch  of  his  territories,  as 
a  trustee  deriving  his  interest  in  them  from  God,  and  invested 
with  them  by  divine  authority,  lor  the  benefit  of  his  subjects. 
As  he  may  not  sell  them  or  waste  them,  so  he  may  not  resign 
them  to  an  enemy,  or  transfer  his  right  to  govern  them  to  any, 
not  even  to  themselves,  so  long  as  it  is  possible  for  him  to  keep 
it.  If  he  does,  he  betrays  at  once  his  own  interest,  and  that 
of  his  other  dominions.  It  may  be  said,  suppose  Providence 
has  ordained  tliat  they  shall  be  wrested  from  him,  how  then? 
I  answer,  that  cannot  appear  to  be  the  case,  till  God's  purpose 
is  actually  accomplished  ;  and  in  the  mean  time  the  most 
probable  prospect  of  such  an  event  does  not  release  him  from 
his  obligation  to  hold  them  to  the  last  n;oment,  forasmuch  as 
adverse  appearances  are  no  infallible  indications  of  God's  de- 
signs, but  may  give  place  to  more  comfortable  symptoms  when 
we  least  expect  it.  Viewing  the  thing  in  this  light,  if  I  sat 
on  his  Majesty's  throne,  I  should  be  as  obstinate  as  him,  be- 
cause, if!  quitted  the  contest  while  I  hail  any  means  left  of 
carrying  it  on,  I  should  never  know  that  I  had  not  relinquished 
what  I  might  have  retained,  or  be  able  to  render  a  satisfactory 
answer  to  the  doubts  and  inquiries  of  my  own  conscience." 


Would  that  the  nations. 
Learning  of  us,  would  lay  aside  all  wrongful  resentment. 
Ml  injurious  thought,  and  honoring  each  in  the  other, 
Kindred  courage  and  virtue,  and  cognate  knowledge  and  freedom. 
Live  in  brotherhood  wiselij  conjoin' J.     We  set  the  example. 

VI.  col.  1,  p.  801. 

The  wise  and  dignified  manner  in  which  the  late  King  re- 
ceived the  first  minister  from  the  United  States  of  America  is 
well  known.  It  is  not  so  generally  known  that  anxiety  and 
sleeplessness,  during  the  American  war,  are  believed  by  those 
persons  who  had  the  best  opportunity  for  forming  an  opinion 
upon  the  subject,  to  have  laid  the  fbundalion  of  that  malady  by 
which  the  King  was  afflicted  during  the  latter  years  of  his  life. 

Upon  the  publication  of  Captain  Cook's  Voyages,  a  copy  of 
this  national  work  was  sent  to  Dr.  Franklin,  by  the  King's 
desire,  because  he  had  given  orders  for  the  protection  of  that 
illustrious  navigator,  in  case  he  should  fall  in  with  any  Amer- 
ican cruisers  on  his  way  home. 


Calm  in  that  insolent  hour,  and  over  his  fortune  triumphant. 

VIII.  col.  1,  p.  802. 

The  beliavior  of  Charles  in  that  insolent  hour  extorted 
admiration  even  from  the  better  part  of  the  Commonwealth's- 
mcn.     It  is  thus  finely  described  by  Andrew  Marvel :  — 


While  round  the  armed  band> 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 
He  nothing  common  did,  or  mean, 
Upon  that  memorable  scene  ; 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try  : 
Mor  call'd  the  Gods  with  vulgar  spight 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right; 

But  how'd  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 


Magnificent  Edward, 
He  who  made  the  English  renown,  and  the  fame  of  his  Windsor 
In  the  Orient  and  Occident  known  from  Tagus  to  Tigris. 

VI (I.  col.  2,  p.  802. 

The  celebrity  which  Windsor  had  obtained,  as  being  the 
most  splendid  court  in  Christendom,  and  the  seat  of  chivalry, 
may  be  plainly  seen  in  the  romance  of  Amadis,  which  was 
written  in  Portugal,  towards  the  latter  end  of  Edward  the 
Third's  reign.  The  Portuguese  in  that  age  took  theii 
military  terms  from  the  English,  and  St.  George  came  into 
fashion  among  them  at  the  .same  time,  as  being  the  English 
Santiago. 

A  dispute  arose  between  two  knights,  the  one  a  Cypriot,  the 
other  a  Frenchman,  who  were  serving  the  King  of  Armenia 
against  the  Soldan  of  Babylon.  The  other  Christian  captains 
in  the  army  determined  that  they  should  decide  it  by  single 
combat  before  King  Edward  of  England,  as  the  most  worthy 
and  honorable  prince  in  all  Christendom  ;  and  the  quarrel, 
which  began  in  .\rmenia,  was  actually  thus  decided  within 
the  lists,  at  the  palace  of  Westminster.  It  was  won,  not  very 
honorably,  by  the  Frenchman. 


He,  who  discovering  the  secret 
Of  the  dark  and  ebullient  aby.'is,  with  the  fire  of  Vesuvius 
Arni'd  the  chcmi.it's  hand.  —  XI.  col.  ],  p.  805. 

Though  chemistry  is  one  of  the  sufijects  of  which  lam  con- 
tented to  be  ignorant,  I  can  nevertheless  perceive  and  ap- 
preciate the  real  genius  indicated  by  Dr.  Clarke's  discovery 
in  the  art  of  fusion.  See  his  Treatise  upon  the  Gas  Blow- 
Pipe  ;  or  the  account  of  it  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  No.  xlvi. 
p.  4Gti. 

In  referring  to  the  Safety  Lamp  of  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  I 
must  not  bo  understood  as  representing  that  to  be  the  most 
important  of  his  many  and  great  discoveries.  No  praise  can 
add  to  his  deserved  celebrity. 


JVot  to  his  affectionate  spirit 
Could  the  act  of  madness  innate  for  guilt  be  accounted. 

XI.  col.  1,  p.  805. 

The  a,ct  of  suicide  is  very  far  from  being  so  certain  an  indi- 
cation of  insanity  as  it  is  usually  considered  by  our  inquests. 
But  in  the  case  of  Chatterton,  it  was  the  manifestation  of  an 
hereditary  disease.  There  was  a  madness  in  his  family.  His 
only  sister,  during  one  part  of  her  life,  was  under  confinement. 

The  law  respecting  suicide  is  a  most  barbarous  one  ;  and  of 
late  years  has  never  been  carried  into  effect  without  exciting 
horror  and  disgust.  It  might  be  a  salutary  enactment  that 
all  suiciiles  should  be  given  up  for  dissection.  This  would 
certainly  prevent  many  women  from  committing  self-murder, 
and  possibly  might  in  time  be  useful  to  physiology.  But  a 
sufhcient  objection  to  it  is,  that  it  would  aggravate  the  dis- 
tress of  afflicted  families. 


The  gentle  .Imelia.  —  XII.  col.  2,  p.  805. 

In  one  of  his  few  intervals  of  sanity,  after  the  death  of  this 
beloved  daughter,  the  late  King  gave  orders  that  a  monument 
should  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  one  of  her  attendants,  ii; 
St.  George's  Chapel,  with  the  following  inscription  :  — 


SPECIMENS,    &c, 


809 


Kiiii;  George  III. 

caused  to  he  interred  near  this  place 

the  body  of  Mary  Gascoigne, 

Servant  to  tlic  Priiu-oss  Amelia  ; 

and  tliis  stone 

to  be  inscriliod  in  testimony  of  iiis  grateful 

sense 

of  the  faithful  services  and  attachment 

of  un  amiable  Young  VVonuin  to  his  beloved 

Daughter, 

whom  she  survived  only  three  months. 

She  died  19th  of  February,  1811. 

This  may  probably  be  consideicd  as  the  last  act  of  his  life  ; 

—  a  very  art'eiting  one  it  is,  and  worthy  of  rcmen)brance.    Such 

a  monument  is   more  honorable  to  the  King  by  whom  it  was 

set  up,  than  if  he  had  erected  a  pyramid. 


SPECIMENS,    &c 


The  annexed  Specimens  of  Sir  Phili|)  Sydney's  hexameters 
will  sulhciently  evince  that  the  fiiluie  of  the  attempt  to  nat- 
uralize this  fine  measure  in  his  days,  was  owing  to  the  manner 

which  the  attempt  was  made,  not  the  measure  itself. 

First  shall  fertile  grounds  not  yield  increase  of  a  good  seed, 
First  the  rivers  shall  cease  to  repay  their  floods  to  the  ocean  ; 
First  may  a  trusty  greyhound  transform  himself  to  a  tygcr. 
First  shall  vertue  be  vice,  and  beauty  be  counted  a  blemish  ; 
Ere  that  I  leave  with  song  of  praise  her  praise  to  solemnize, 
Her  praise,  whence  to  the  world  all  praise  liiitli  his  only  be- 
ginning : 
But  yet  well  I  do  find  each  man  most  wise  in  his  own  case. 
None  can  speak  of  a  wound  witli  skill,  if  be  have  not  a  wound 
felt :  [ment : 

Great  to  thee  my  state  seems,  tliy  state  is  blest  by  my  judg- 
And  yet  neither  of  us  great  or  blest  deemeth  his  own  self, 
For  yet  (weigh  this,  alas  '.)  great  is  not  great  to  the  greater. 
What  judge  you  doth  a  hillock  show,  by  the  lofty  Olympus .? 
Such  my  minute  greatness  doth  seem  conipar'd  to  the  greatest. 
When  Cedars  to  the  ground  fall  down  by  the  weight  of  an 

Enmiet, 
Or  when  a  rich  Ruble's  price  be  the  worth  of  a  Walnut, 
Or  to  the  Sun  for  wonders  seem  small  spiirks  of  a  candle  : 
Then  by  my  high  Cedar,  rich  Ruble,  and  only  shining  Sun, 
Vertues,  riches,  beauties  of  mine  shall  great  be  reputed. 
Ob,  no,  no,  worthy  Shepherd,  worth  can  never  enter  a  title, 
Where  proofs  justly  do  teach,  thus  matcht,  such  worth  to  be 
nought  worth  ;  [them 

Let  not  a  Puppet  abuse  thy  sprite.  Kings'  Crowns  do  not  help 
From  the  cruel  headach,  nor  shoes  of  gold  do  the  gout  heal ; 
And  precious  Couches  full  oft  are  sliak't  with  a  feavcr. 
tf  then  a  bodily  evil  in  a  bodily  gloze  be  not  hidden, 
Shall  such  morning  dews  be  an  ease  to  the  heat  of  a  love's  fire  .' 


Sydney's  pentameters  appear  even  more  uncouth  than  his 
hexameters,  as  more  unlike  their  model ;  for,  in  our  pronun- 
ciation, the  Latin  pentauietcr  reads  as  if  it  ended  with  two 
trochees. 

Fortune,  Nature,  Love,  long  have  contended  about  me. 

Which  should  most  miseries  cast  on  a  worm  that  I  am. 
Fortune  thus  'gan  say,  misery  and  misfortune  is  all  one, 

.'\nd  of  misfortune,  fortune  hath  only  the  gift. 
With  strong  foes  on  land,  on  sea  with  contrary  tempests. 

Still  do  I  cross  this  wretch  what  so  he  taketh  in  hand. 
Tush,  tush,  said  Nature,  this  is  all  but  a  trifle,  a  man's  self 

Gives  haps  or  mishaps,  even  as  he  ordereth  his  heart. 
But  so  his  humor  I  frame,  in  a  mould  of  choler  adusted, 

That  the  delights  of  life  shall  be  to  him  dolorous. 
Love  smiled,  and  thus  said  ;  what  joyn'd  to  desire  is  unhappy  : 

But  if  he  nought  do  desire,  what  can  Heraclitus  ail.' 
None  but  I  work  by  desire  :  by  desire  have  I  kindled  in  his  soul 

iTifernal  agonies  into  a  beauty  divine  : 
Where  thou  poor  Nature  lefi'st  all  thy  due  glory,  to  Fortune 

Her  vertue  is  soveraign.  Fortune  a  vassal  of  hers. 

102 


Nature  abasht  went  back :  Fortune  bluslit :  yet  she  replied 
thus  : 

And  even  in  that  love  shall  I  reserve  him  a  spite. 
Thus,  thus,  alas  !   woful  by  Nature,  unhappy  by  Fortune  ; 

But  most  wretched  I  am,  now  love  wakes  my  desire. 

Sydney  has  also  given  examples  in  his  Arcadia  of  Anacre- 
ontic, Phaleucian,  Sapphic,  and  Asclepiad  verse,  all  written 
upon  the  same  erroneous  principle.  Those  persons  who  con- 
sider it  ridiculous  to  write  English  verses  upon  any  scheme 
of  Latin  versification,  may  perhaps  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
they  have  read,  as  blank  verse,  many  lines  which  are  perfect 
Sapphics  or  Phaleucians.  Rowe's  tragedies  are  full  of  such 
lines. 

The  Censura  Literaria  supplies  me  with  two  choice  samples 
of  Stanihurst's  Virgil. 

"Neere  joynctlye  brayeth  with  rufllerye  *  rumbolcd  jEtna : 
Soomtyme  owt  it   bolcketh  f  from  buick  clouds  grimly  be- 

dimmed 
Like  fyerd  pitche  skorching,  or  flash  flame  sulphurus  heating  • 
Flovvnce  to  the  stars  towring  the  fire  like  a  pellet  is  hurled, 
Ragd  rocks,  up  raking,  and  guts  of  mounten  yrented 
From  roote   np  he  jogleth :  stoans  budge  slag  |    molten  he 

rowsetii. 
With  route  snort  grumbling  in  bottom  flash  furie  kindling. 
Men  say  that  Enceladus,  with  bolt  haulf  blasted,  here  har- 

brought, 
Ding'd  ij  witli  this  squising||  and  massive  burthen  of  JEtnn, 
Wliich  pres  on  him  nailed,  from  broaclied  chimnys  stil  heateth  ; 
As  oft  as  the  giant  his  broldH  syds  croompeled  altretb. 
So    oft     Sicil    al    shivereth,    therewith    flaks    smoakye    be 

sparckled." 

"  T'ward  Sicil  is  seated,  to  the  welkin  loftily  peakiiig, 
A  soyl,  ycleapt  Liparen,lVom  whence  with  flounce  fury  fling- 
ing, 
Stoans  and  burlye  bukts,  like  tampounds,  maynelye  betowring. 
Under  is  a  kennel,  wheare  chynmeys  fyrye  be  scorching 
Of  Cyclopan  toslers,  with  rent  rocks  chamferye  sharded, 
Lowd  rub  a  dub  tabering  with  trapping  rip  rap  of  ^tna. 
In  the  den  are  drumming  gads  of  Steele,  parchfulye  sparckling, 
And  flam's  fierclye  glowing,  from  fornace  flasbye  be  whisking. 
Vulcan  his  hoatc  fordgharth,  named  eke  thee  Vulcian  Island. 
Doun  from  the  hev'nlye  palace  travayled  the  firye  God  hither. 
In  this  cave  the  rakehels  yr'ne  bars,  bigge  bulcked  ar  hamring, 
Brontes  and  Steropes,  with  baerlym  swartie  Pyracmon. 
These  thre  nere  upbotching,  not  shapte,  but  partlye  wel  on- 
ward , 
A  clapping  fier-bolt  (such  as  oft  with  rouncc  robel  hobble, 
Jove  to  the  ground  clattreth)  but  yeet  not  finnisbod  holye. 
Three    showrs   wringlye    wrythen   glimmring,  and    forciblye 

sowcing, 
Thre  watrye  clowds  shymring  to  the  crafl  they  rainpired  hizz- 

ing)  n 

Three   wheru's  fierd    glystring,  with  south   winds   rutflered 

buflling. 
Now  doe  they  rayse  gastly  lightnings,  now  grislye  reboundings 
Of  ruffe  raffe  roaring,  mens  harts  with  terror  agrysing. 
With  peale   moale  ramping,  with   thwick  thwack  stuidilye 

thundering." 

Stanihurst's^'irgil  is  certainly  one  of  those  curiosities  in 
our  literature  which  ought  to  be  reprinted.  Yet  notwith- 
standing the  almost  incredible  absurdity  of  this  version,  Stani- 
hurst  is  entitl(Ml  to  an  honorable  remembrance  for  the  part 
which  he  contributed  to  Holinshed's  Collection  of  Chronicles. 
None  of  our  Chroniclers  possessed  a  mind  better  stored,  nor 
an  intellect  more  perpetually  on  the  alert. 


Sydney,  who  failed  so  entirely  in  writing  hexameters,  has 
written  concerning  them  in  his  Defence  of  Poesic,  with  the 
good  sense  and  propriety  of  thought  by  which  that  beautiful 
treatise  is  distinguished.  liCt  me  not  be  thought  to  disparage 
this  admirable  man  and  delightfiil  writer,  because  it  has  been 
necessary  for  me  to  show  the  cause  of  his  failure  in  an  attempt 

•  Ruffling  seems  to  Ik  turbiilenl  noise.  A  ruflior  wtis  formerly  .-v  boisleroua 
bully, 

t  To  bolck,  or  boke,  is  ructare.  1  Slag  is  the  dross  of  iron. 

§  D.ish'd  down.            |]  Squeexin*.  %  i.  e.  Broiled  sides  crumpled. 


810 


SPECIMENS,    &c. 


wherein  I  have  now  followed  him.  I  should  not  forgive  my- 
self were  I  ever  to  mention  Sydney  without  an  expression  of 
reverence  and  love. 

"  Of  versifying,"  he  says,  "  there  are  two  sorts,  the  one 
ancient,  the  otlier  modern  ;  the  ancient  marked  the  quantity 
of  each  syllable,  and,  according  to  that,  framed  his  verse  ;  the 
modern,  observing  only  nundjer,  with  some  regard  of  the  ac- 
cent ;  the  chief  life  of  it  standeth  in  that  iilie  sounding  of  the 
words  which  we  call  Rhyme.  Whether  of  these  he  the  more 
excellent,  would  hear  many  speeches,  the  ancient,  no  douht, 
more  fit  for  niusick,  both  words  and  time  observing  quantity, 
and  more  tit  lively  to  express  divers  passions  by  the  low  or 
lofty  sound  of  the  well-weighed  syllable.  The  latter  like- 
wise witli  his  Rhyme  striketh  a  certain  musick  to  the  ear ; 
and,  in  fine,  since  it  doth  delight,  though  by  another  way,  it 
obtaineth  the  same  purpose,  there  being  in  either  sweetness, 
and  wanting  in  neither  majesty.  Truly  the  English,  before 
any  vulgar  language  I  know,  is  tit  for  both  sorts  ;  for,  for  the 
ancient,  the  Italian  is  so  full  of  vowels,  that  it  must  ever  be 
cumbered  with  elisions  :  the  Dutch  so,  of  the  otlier  side,  with 
consonants,  that  they  cannot  yield  the  sweet  sliding  fit  for  a 
verse.  The  French,  in  his  whole  language,  hath  not  one 
word  that  hath  his  accent  in  the  last  syllable,  saving  two, 
called  Antepenultima  ;  and  little  more  liatli  the  Spanish,  and 
therefore  very  gracclesly  may  they  use  Dactyls;  the  English 
is  subject  to  none  of  those  defects.  Now  fur  Rhyme,  though 
we  do  not  observe  quantity,  yet  we  observe  tlie  accent  very 
precisely,  which  other  languages  either  cannot  do,  or  will  not 
do  so  absolutely. 

"  That  Ca'sura,  or  breathing-place,  in  the  midst  of  the  verse, 
neither  Italian  nor  Spanish  have  ;  the  French  and  we  never 
almost  fail  of.  Lastly,  the  very  Rhyme  itself  the  Italian 
sannot  put  in  the  last  syllable,  by  the  French  named  the  Mas- 
culine Rhyme,  but  still  in  the  next  to  the  last,  which  the 
French  call  the  Female,  or  tlie  next  before  that,  which  the 
Italian  call  Sdrucciola:  the  example  of  the  former  is  Buono 
Suono:  of  the  Sdrucciola,  is  Femina  Semina.  The  French, 
on  the  other  side,  hath  both  the  male,  as  Bon  Son  ;  and  the 
Female,  as  Tlaise,  Taise,  but  the  Sdrucciola  he  liatli  not, 
where  the  English  hath  all  three,  as  Due,  True,  Father, 
Rather,  Motion,  Potion,  with  much  more,  which  might  be  said, 
but  that  already  I  find  the  trifling  of  this  discourse  is  too 
much  enlarged." 


The  French  attempted  to  introduce  the  ancient  metres  some 
years  before  the  trial  was  made  in  England.  Pasquier  says, 
that  Estienne  Jodelle  led  the  way  in  the  year  1553,  by  this 
distich  upon  tlie  poems  of  Olivier  de  Maigny,  "  lequel,^^  he 
adds,  "  est  vrmjement  une  petit  chcf-d'cpuvre." 

Phabiis,  Amour,  Cijpria,  vcut  sauoer,  nourrir  el  orncr 
Ton  vers  ct  ehe.f,  d'umbrc,  dcfiamine,  dcfleurs, 

Pasquier  himself,  three  years  afterwards,  at  the  solicitation 
of  a  friend,  produced  the  following  "  essay  de  plus  longue 
kaleine :  "  — 

Rien  ne  me  plaist  siiion  de  te  chanter,  et  servir  ct  orner; 

Rien  ne  te  plaist  mon  hicn,  rien  ne  te  plaist  que  ma  mart. 
Plusje  rcquicrs,  et  2>liis  je  me  tiens  seur  d'estre  refuse, 

Et  ce  refiis  puurtant  point  ne  me  semble  refus. 
0  trompcurs  attraicts,  desir  ardent,  prompte  volonte, 

Espoir,  non  espnir,  ains  miserable  pipeur. 
Discours  mejisovgers,  tnihUtreuz  oeil,  aspre  cruaute. 

Qui  me  mine  le  corps,  qui  me  mine  le  caur. 
Pourquoy  t/int  de  facenrs  t\int  les  Cieuz  mis  d  Vabandon, 

Ou  pourquoy  dans  moy  si  violentefureur  ? 
Si  vaine  est  mafureur,  si  vain  est  tout  ce  que  des  cieuz 

Tu  tiens,  s^en  toy  gist  cette  criiclle  rigenr  : 
Dieuz  patrons  de  I'amour  banvissez  d'elle  la  beaute, 

Ou  bien  Vaccouplei  d^unc  amiable  pitie  ; 
Ou  si  dans  le  miel  vous  meslci  un  vcntmeux  fiel, 

Vueillei  Dieuz  que  I'amour  r'entre  dedans  le  Chaos: 
Commandci,  que  lefroid,  Peau,  I'F.stc,  I'humide,  Vardeur : 

Brief  que  ce  tout  par  tout  tende  d  Vabisme  de  tous, 
Pourjinir  ma  douleur,  pourjinir  cette  cruaute. 

Qui  me  mine  le  corps,  qui  me  mine  Ic  caur. 


JVun  hrhis  ijue  ce  rond  suit  tout  un  sans  se  rechanger, 

Mais  que  -.na  Sourdn  se  change,  ou  deface,  ou  de  fagons : 
Mais  que  7H«  Sourde  sc  change,  etylus  douce  escoutc  lesvoix, 

Voix  queje  seme  crianl,  voir,  que  je  seme,  riant. 
Et  que  Irfea  dufroid  desormuis  puissc  triompher, 

Et  que  lefroid  aufcupcrtle  sa  lente  vigeur : 
Alnsi  s'assopira  mon  tourment,  et  la  cruaute 

Qui  me  mine  le  corps,  qi'i  me  mine  le  casur. 

"  Je  ne  dy  pas,"  says  the  author,  "  que  ces  vers  soient  de 
quelque  valeur,  aussi  ne  les  mets-je  icy  sur  la  monstre  en  intention 
qu'on  les  truuve  tels  ;  mais  bien  estime-je  qu'ils  sont  autuntfiuides 
que  les  Latins,  et  d  tant  veuz-je  que  Von  pcnse  nostre  vulgaire 
estre  aucunement  capable  de  ce  subject."  Pasquier's  verses 
were  not  published  til!  many  years  after  they  were  written  ; 
and  in  the  moan  time  Jean  Antoine  de  Baif  made  tlic  attempt 
upon  a  larger  scale,  — "  Toulcsfuis,  says  Pasquier,  '■'■en  ce 
subject  si  ymmvais  parrain  que  non  seulement  il  ne  fut  suivy 
d'aucun,  mais  au  contraire  descovrngea  un  charun  de  s'y  em 
ploycr.  D'uutant  que  tout  ce  qu'il  cnfit  estoit  tant  despoarveu 
de  cette  iiaij'ccti  qui  doit  accompagner  7ios  ccuvres,  qu'aussi 
tost  que  cette  sienne  po'e'sie  vuit  la  lumierc,  elte  rnourut  comme  un 
avorton."  The  Abbe  Goujet,  therefore,  had  no  reason  to  rep- 
present  this  attempt  as  a  proof  of  the  bad  taste  of  the  age  : 
the  bad  taste  of  an  age  is  proved,  when  vicious  compositions 
arc  applauded,  not  when  they  are  unsuccessful.  Jean 
Antoine  do  Baif  is  the  writer  of  whom  Cardinal  du  Perron 
said,  "  qu'il  ctuit  bon  liomme,  mais  qu'il  etoit  mediant  poite 
Francois." 

I  subjoin  a  specimen  of  Spanish  Hexameters,  from  an  Ec- 
logue by  D.  Esteban  de  Villegas,a  poet  of  great  and  deserved 
estimation  in  his  own  country. 

Licidas  y  Coridon,  Coridon  el  amtmie  de  Fills, 
Pastor  el  uno  de  Cobras,  el  otro  de  blancas  Ocejas, 
Jlnibos  a  dos  ticrnos,  mozns  umbos,  Arcades  ambos, 
Vicndo  que  los  rayos  del  Solfatigaban  al  Orbe, 
Yque  vibrando  furgo  feroi  la  Canicula  ladra, 
M  puro  cristal,  que  cria  lafuente  sonora, 
Llcvados  del  son  alegre  de  su  blando  susurro, 
Las  plantas  vcloces  mucven,  los  pasos  animan, 

Y  al  tronco  de  un  verdc  enebro  se  sientan  amigos. 

Tit,,  que  los  erguidos  sobrepujas  del  hondo  Timavo 
Pcnones,  generoso  Duque,  con  tu  inclitafrente. 
Si  acuso  tocdre  el  eco  de  mi  r-iistica  avena 
Tus  siencs,  si  acaso  llega  a  tufcrtil  abono, 
Francisco,  del  acrnto  mio  la  sonora  Tal'ia, 
Oye  pio,  responde  grato,  censura  severo  : 
JVo  menos  al  caro  hermano  generoso  retratas. 
Que  al  tronco  prudente  sigues,  generoso  nacistc 
Hcroe,  que  guarde  el  Cielo  dilatando  tus  anos  : 
Licidas  y  Coridon,  Coridon  el  amante  de  Fills, 
Pastores,  las  Musus  aman,  rrcrcartc  dcsean: 
Tu,  cuerdo,  perdona  entrrtanto  la  barbara  JKasa, 
Que  presto,  inspirando  Penn  eon  amigo  Coturno, 
En  trompa,  que  al  Olimpo  llegue  por  el  dbrcgo  suelta, 
Tufama  llevardn  his  ecos  del  Ganges  al  Jstra, 

Y  luego,  torciendo  el  vuelo,  del  aquilo  al  Austro. 

It  is  admitted  by  the  Spaniards,  that  the  fitness  of  their  lan- 
guage for  the  hexameter  has  been  established  by  Villegas'j 
his  success,  however,  did  not  induce  other  poets  to  follow 
the  example.  I  know  not  whom  it  was  that  he  followed,  for 
he  was  not  the  first  to  make  the  attempt.  Neither  do  I  know 
whether  it  was  ever  made  in  Portuguese,  except  in  some 
verses  upon  St.  Ursula  and  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins, 
which  are  Latin  as  well  as  Portuguese,  and  were  written  as 
a  whimsical  proof  of  the  affinity  of  the  two  languages.  1 
have  met  with  no  specimens  in  Italian.  The  complete  suc- 
cess of  the  metre  in  Germany  is  well  known.  The  Bohemi- 
ans have  learnt  the  tune,  and  have,  like  their  neigldiors,  a 
translation  of  the  Iliad  in  the  measure  of  the  original.  This 
I  learn  acciuentally  from  a  Bohemian  grammar ;  which  shows 
me  also,  that  the  Bohemians  make  a  dactyl  of  Achilles, 
probably  because  they  pronounce  the  x  "''h  ^  strong  aspirate 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE 


811 


OLIVER  NEWMAN: 


TO  WILLIAM  AND  MARY  WORDSWORTH, 
THE  OLD  AND  DEAR  FRIENDS  OF  ROBERT  SOUTHEY, 

THESE    LAST    PRODUCTIONS, 

THE    IMPERFECT    "  AUTUMNAL    FLOWERS,"    OF    HIS    POETICAL    GENIUS. 
ARE     INSCRIBED,    WITH    FILIAL    REVERENCE    AND    AFFECTION, 

BY 

THE  EDITOR. 


PREFACE. 


The  principal  Poem  of  this  volume,  Oliver  New- 
man, was  well  known  to  many  friends  of  the  late 
Poet  Laureate  :  and  it  is  presumed  that  those  per- 
sons at  least,  who  have  heard  him  read  portions  of! 
it,  with  his  peculiar  and  highly  expressive  intona- 
tion, will  welcome  with  pleasure,  not  however  un- 
mingled    with   melancholy,   this   his    last    poetical 
work,  imperfect  as  it  is.     Oliver  Newman  was  not 
a  rapid  production  :   the  first  idea   of  it  seems   to 
have   arisen  in   his  mind  in   1811  ;  it   was   com- 
menced in  January,  1815  ;  and  liaving  been  con- 
tinued at  different  intervals,  amid  the  pressure  of 
more  urgent  business,  received  its  last  additions  in 
September,  1829.     Although  this  is  not  the  place  to 
speak  criticaliy,  one    observation  perhaps  may  be 
pardoned — that  this  poem  seems  to    possess  in   a 
considerable  degree  a  quality  which  some   of  the 
Author's  other  poems  were  judged  by  several  critics 
to  be  deficient  in,  viz.,  a  human  interest :  we  feel 
that  we  are  among  persons  of  a  like  nature  with 
ourselves,  and  their  sufferings  touch  the  heart.     A 
general    account   of   the    story  upon   which   it    is 
based,  and  the  intended  plan,  has  been  drawn  up 
from   the   Author's  notes,  and  printed  as  an  Ap- 
pendix.    It  was  thought  better  to  do  this,  than  to 
leave  the  reader  entirely  without  information :  yet 
the  sketch  is  presented  with  considerable  misgiv- 
ings ;  because  it  is   likely,  that  to   some  persons, 
notwithstanding  that   the    Author's  own  words  are 
used  wherever  it  is  possible,  the   dry  bones   of   a 
poem  may  seem  not  only  uninteresting,  but  even 
repulsive.     Neither  can  such  a  sketch  be  certainly 


a  true  representation  of  the  mere  story  of  the  per- 
fect work  ;  because,  even  of  the  few  particulars 
there  noted,  several  might,  in  the  working  out  of 
the  poem,  be  altered  or  expunged. 

Of  the  other  pieces  here  collected,  the  "  Frag- 
mentary Thoughts  occasioned  by  his  Son's  Death," 
and  the  "  Short  Passages  of  Scripture,"  are  printed 
as  much  for  the  purpose  of  giving  fresh  \n-ooi'  oi 
the  purity  and  elevation  of  his  character,  as  for 
their  own  intrinsic  beauty.  His  son  Herbert — of 
whom  he  wrote  thus  in  the  Colloquies,  "  I  called 
to   mind   my   hopeful   H too,   so   often   the 


sweet  companion  of  my  morning  walks  to  this  very 
spot,  in  whom  I  had  fondly  thought  my  better  part 
should  have  survived  me,  and 


'  with  whom  it  seem'd  my  very  life 
Went  half  away'  " — 


died  17tli  April,  1816,  being  about  ten  years  old,  a 
boy  of  remarkable  genius  and  sweetness  of  dispo- 
sition. These  Fragments  bear  a  date  at  their 
commencement,  3d  May,  1816,  but  do  not  seem  ail 
written  at  the  same  time.  The  Author  at  one  time 
contemplated  founding  upon  them  a  considerable 
work,  of  a  meditative  and  deeply  serious  cast. 
But,  although  he,  like  Schiller,  after  the  vanishing 
of  his  Ideals,  always  found  "  Employment,*  the 
never-tiring,"   one  of  his  truest  friends, — yet  ijiis 

*  Schiller's  "  Die  Ideale,"  Merivale'3  translation,  p.  61.— 

"  Thou  too,  hiii  mate,  with  him  conspiring 
To  (|in'll  the  bosom'.s  ri.sing  slorm, 
Employment  —  thou,  the  never-tiring, 
Who  toilsomn  shai)'st,  nor  break'si  the  form." 


812 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


partii'ular  form  of  employment,  which  seemed  at 
first  attractive  to  him,  liad  not,  when  tried,  the 
sootliiiig  effect  upon  his  feelings  which  was  need- 
ful ;  and  in  March,  1817,  he  writes,  that  he  "  had 
not  recovered  heart  enough  to  proceed  with  it." 

The  "  Passages  of  Scripture"  are  found  in  one 
of  his  latest  note-books  :  they  were  evidently  not 
written  with  any  view  to  publication,  but  arose 
simply  from  the  pure  pleasure  which  he  took  in 
marking  down,  after  his  own  fashion,  verses  that 
attracted  his  poetical  taste,  either  by  the  force  of 
some  peculiar  idea,  or  by  the  musical  harmony  of 
the  words  in  our  English  version.  Moreover,  these 
passages  seem  illustrative  of  the  structure  and  choice 
of  language  in  some  of  his  poems  ;  for  they  lead  us 
to  observe  in  them  also  the  effects  of  habitual  study 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  evidenced  not  only  by  the 
references,  which  are  frequently  given,  but  also, 
which  is  more  important,  by  the  apparently  uncon- 
scious use  of  a  diction  borrowed  from  the  poetical 
and  imaginative  portions  of  the  Bible. 

It  was  natural  that  a  writer  of  so  energetic  a 
mind  as  the  late  Poet  Laureate,  would  leave  many 
unfiniiBhed  projects.  Besides  the  Fragments  here 
published,  he  had  commenced  a  poem  on  "  Robin 
Hood,"  the  manuscript  of  which  is  not  among  his 
other  poetical  papers.  He  had  also  thought  of  a 
series  of  "  Inscriptions  in  honour  of  English  Poets, 
the  notice  of  which,  as  it  is  short,  may  be  here  in- 
serted, for  the  use  of  those  Vv'ho  may  take  pleasure 
in  cultivating  that  style,  of  which  Akenside  is  the 
prototype. 

"  Tuesday,  6th  Sept.,  1814. 

"  Inscriptions  for  the  Poetical  Ground  of  these 
Kingdoms  ;  /.  e.,  a  tribute  of  respect  to  all  those 
poets  who  deserve  it.  This,  I  think,  would  be  a 
worthy  task. 

Chaucer — at  Woodstock  ?  Blenheim  will  become 
an  empty  name,  and  that  palace  a  pile  of  ruins, 
while  he  remains. 

Malvern  —  Piers  Ploughman. 

Lydgate  —  at  Bury. 

Spenser  —  by  the  Mole. 

Surrey — this  a  place  of  burial,  if  that  be  known  ; 
otherwise,  at  the  chief  seat  of  the  Howards. 

Amwell  —  Warner  and  Walton  and  Scott. 

T.  Warton  —  by  the  Cherwell. 
Rokeby — Mason  and  Scott  and  Morritt  himself. 
Davenant — Cowes  Castle. 
Sylvester — Donnington  ;  buried  at  Middleburg." 

Lastly,  it  may  be  not  unfitly  recorded,  that  some 
notes  exist,  preparatory  to  a  poem  in  honour  of  her 
Majesty  Queen  Victoria.  During  the  first  years  of 
this  reign,  severe  reflections  were  from  time  to  time 
made  upon  the  Poet  Laureate,  for  his  silence.  Now, 
the  solemn  events  which  have  happened  since  that 
time,  allow  us  to  suppose  that  the   Spirit  of  Poetry 


was  then  too  dead  within  him,  to  permit  him  to  un- 
dertake this  new  labour. 

It  only  remains  lo  be  said,  that  these  poems  are 
printed  as  he  left  them  ;  and  that,  as  none  of  them 
had  received  his  final  corrections  for  the  press, 
there  may  be  defects  of  language  which  he  himself 
would  have  removed.  At  the  same  time  it  is 
honestly  avowed  that,  deservedly  high  as  his  repu- 
tation, both  as  a  poet  and  a  man,  has  stood  among 
the  writers  of  his  generation — now,  alas  !  fast  de- 
parting from  us, — a  strong  confidence  is  felt  that 
this  small  volume  will  in  no  way  derogate  from  it  ; 
and  in  this  hope  it  is  committed  to  the  world. 


Herbert  Hill. 


Warwick,  Nov.  4,  1845. 


FUNERAL  AT  SEA. 

The  summer  sun  is  riding  high 

Amid  a  bright  and  cloudless  sky ; 
Beneath  whose  deep  o'er-arching  blue 
The  circle  of  the  Atlantic  sea, 
Reflecting  back  a  deeper  hue. 
Is  heaving  peacefully. 
The  winds  are  still,  the  ship  with  idle  motion 

Rocks  gently  on  the  gentle  ocean  ; 

Loose  hang  her  sails,  awaiting  when  the  breeze 

Again  shall  wake  to  waft  her  on  her  way. 

Glancing  beside,  the  dolphins,  as  they  play, 

Their  gorgeous  tints  suffused  with  gold  display  ; 

And  gay  bonitos  in  their  beauty  glide  : 

With  arrowy  speed,  in  close  pursuit, 

They  through  the  azure  waters  shoot ; 

A  feebler  shoal  before  them  in  affright 

Spring  from  the  wave,  and  in  short  flight. 

On  wet  and  plumeless  wing  essay 

The  afirial  element : 

The  greedy  followers,  on  the  chase  intent. 

Dart  forward  still  with  keen  and  upturn'd  sight, 

And,  to  their  proper  danger  blind  the  while. 
Heed  not  the  sharks,  which  have  for  many  a  day 
Hover'd  behind  the  ship,  presentient  of  their  prey. 

So  fair  a  season  might  persuade 
Yon  crowd  to  try  the  fisher's  trade  ; 
Yet  from  the  stern  no  line  is  hung. 
Nor  bait  by  eager  sea-boy  flung  ; 
Nor  doth  the  watchful  sailor  stand 
Alert  to  strike,  harpoon  in  hand. 
Upon  the  deck  assembled,  old  and  young, 
Bareheaded  all  in  reverence,  see  them  there ; 
Behold  where,  hoisted  half-mast  high. 
The  English  flag  hangs  mournfully  ; 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


813 


And  hark  !  what  solemn  sounds  are  these 
Heard  in  the  silence  of  the  seas  ? 

"  Man  that  is  born  of  woman,  short  his  time, 
And  full  of  woe !  he  springeth  like  a  flower, 
Or  like  the  grass,  that,  green  at  morning  prime. 
Is  cut  and  withereth  ere  the  evening  hour  ; 
Never  doth  he  continue  in  one  stay. 
But  like  a  shadow  doth  he  pass  away." 
It  was  that  awful  strain,  which  saith 
How  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death : 
"  Yet  not  for  ever,  O  Lord  God  most  high  ! 
Saviour !  yet  not  for  ever  shall  we  die  !"' 

Ne'er  from  a  voice  more  eloquent  did  prayer 
Arise,  with  fervent  piety  sincere. 

To  every  heart,  of  all  the  listening  crew, 
It  made  its  way,  and  drew 

Even  from  the  hardy  seaman's  eyes  a  tear. 

"  God,"  he  pursued,  "  hath  taken  to  himself 
The  soul  of  our  departed  sister  dear  ; 

We  then  commit  her  body  to  the  deep  ; " 
He  paused,  and,  at  the  word. 
The  coffin's  plunge  was  heard. 

A  female  voice  of  anguish  then  brake  forth 
With  sobs  convulsive  of  a  heart  opprest. 
It  was  a  daughter's  agonizing  cry : 
But  soon  hath  she  rcprest 

The  fit  of  passionate  grief. 
And  listening  patiently, 
In  that  religious  effort  gained  relief. 
Beside  the  gray-hair'd  captain  doth  she  stand  ; 

One  arm  is  linked  in  his  ;  the  other  hand 

Hid  vdth  the  handkerchief  her  face,  and  prest 

Her  eyes,  whence  burning  tears  continuous  flow. 

Down  hung  her  head  upon  her  breast. 

And  thus  the  maiden  stood  in  silent  woe. 

Again  was  heard  the  preacher's  earnest  voice  : 

It  bade  the  righteous  in  their  faith  rejoice, 

Their  sure  and  certain  hope  in  Christ ;  for  blest 

In  Him  are  they,  who  from  their  labours  rest. 

It  rose  into  a  high  thanksgiving  strain, 

And  praised  the  Lord,  who  from  a  world  of  pain 

Had  now  been  pleased  to  set  his  servant  free  ; 

Hasten  thy  kingdom.  Lord,  that  all  may  rest  in  thee  ! 

In  manhood's  fairest  prime  was  he  who  pray'd, 

Even  in  the  flower  and  beauty  of  his  youth. 

These  holy  words  and  fervent  tones  portray'd 

The  feelings  of  his  inmost  soul  sincere  ; 

For  scarce  two  months  had  fill'd  their  short  career 

Since  from  the  grave  of  her  who  gave  him  birth 

That  sound  had  struck  upon  his  ear ; 

When  to  the  doleful  words  of  "  Earth  to  earth" 

Its  dead  response  the  senseless  coffin  gave  : — 

Oh  !  who  can  e'er  forget  that  echo  of  the  grave  ! 

Now  in  the  grace  of  God  dismiss'd. 
They  separate  as  they  may, 


To  narrow  limits  of  the  ship  confined  : 

Nor  did  the  impression  lightly  pass  away, 

Even  from  the  unreflecting  sailor's  mind. 

They  pitied  that  sweet  maiden,  all  bereft, 

Alone  on  shipboard  among  strangers  left. 

They  spake  of  that  young  jireacher,  day  by  day 

How  while  the  fever  held  its  fatal  course. 

He  minister'd  at  the  patient  sufferer's  side. 

Holding  of  faith  and  hope  his  high  discourse  ; 

And  how,  when  all  had  join'd  in  humble  prayer, 

She  solemnly  confided  to  his  care. 

Till  to  her  father's  hands  she  could  be  given, 

Her  child  forlorn, — and  blest  him  ere  she  died. 

They  call'd  to  mind,  how  peaceful,  how  serene. 

Like  one  who  seem'd  already  half  in  heaven. 

After  that  act  she  yielded  up  her  breath  ; 

And  sure  they  wish'd  their  end  like  hers,  I  ween, 

And  for  a  comforter  like  him  in  death. 


II. 


THE  VOYAGE. 

The  maiden  on  her  narrow  bed 

To  needful  solitude  hath  fled  ; 

He  who  perform'd  the  funeral  prayer 

Leans  o'er  the  vessel's  head,  and  there 

Contemplating  the  sea  and  sky, 

He  muses  of  eternity. 

The  captain  paces  to  and  fro 

The  deck  with  steady  step  and  slow. 

And  at  his  side  a  passenger. 

Conversing  as  they  go. 

Their  talk  was  of  that  maid  forlorn, 

The  moumfial  service  of  the  morn. 

And  the  young  man,  whose  voice  of  heartfelt  faith 

Breathed  hope  and  comfort  o'er  the  bed  of  death. 

"  Captain,"  quoth  Randolph,  "you  have  borne. 

Ere  this,  I  ween,  to  Boston's  shore. 

Saints  by  the  dozen,  and  the  score : 

But  if  he  preach  as  he  can  pray. 

The  Boston  men  will  bless  the  day 

On  which  you  brought  this  treasure  o'er : 

A  youth  like  him  they  well  may  call 

A  son  of  thunder,  or  a  second  Paul." 

Thereat  the  captain  smiled,  and  said, 

"  Oh  hang  the  broad  face  and  round  head. 

Hard  as  iron,  and  heavy  as  lead  ! 

I  have  whistled  for  a  wind  ere  now. 

And  thought  it  cheap  to  crack  a  sail. 

If  it  sent  the  canting  breed  below. 

Jonah  was  three  days  in  the  whale. 

But  I  have  had  fellows  here,  I  trow, 

With  lungs  of  brazen  power. 

Who  would  not  fail  to  preach  a  whale 

Dead  sick  in  half  an  hour. 

One  Sunday,  when  on  the  banks  we  lay. 

These  Roundheads,  think  ye,  what  did  they  I 


814 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE, 


Because,  they  said,  'twas  the  sabbath  day. 

And  hallow'd  by  the  Lord, 

They  took  the  fish,  which  their  servants  cauffht. 

And  threw  them  overboard. 

Newman  is  made  ol' different  clay  ; 

He  walks  in  his  own  quiet  way : 

And  yet  beneath  that  sober  mien 

Gleams  of  a  spirit  may  be  seen. 

Which  show  what  temper  lies  supprest 

Within  his  meek  and  unambitious  breast: 

He  seemeth  surely  one  of  gentle  seed. 

Whose  sires  for  many  an  age  were  wont  to  lead 

111  courts  and  councils,  and  in  camps  to  bleed." 

Randolph  replied,  "  He  rules  his  tongue  too  well 
Ever  of  those  from  whom  he  sprung  to  tell : 

Whatever  rank  they  once  possess'd 

In  camps  and  councils,  is,  I  ween,  suppress'd 

In  prudent  silence.     Little  love  that  pair 

Could  to  the  royal  Martyr  bear, 

Be  sure,  who  named  their  offspring  Oliver. 

You  have  mark'd  that  volume,  over  which  he  seems 

To  pore  and  meditate,  like  one  who  dreams, 

Pondering  upon  the  page  with  thought  intense. 

That  nought,  which  passes  round  him,  can  from 

thence 

His  fix'd  attention  move  : 

He  carries  it  about  his  person  still, 

Nor  lays  it  from  hun  for  a  moment's  time. 

At  my  request,  one  day,  with  no  good  will. 

He  lent  it  me  :  what,  think  ye,  did  it  prove  ? 

A  rigmarole  of  verses  without  rhyme. 

About  the  apple,  and  the  cause  of  sin. 

By  the  blind  old  traitor  Milton  !  and  within. 

Upon  the  cover,  he  had  written  thus. 

As  if  some  saintly  relic  it  had  been, 

Which  the  fond  owner  gloried  in  possessing : 

'  Given  me  by  my  most  venerable  friend. 

The  author,  with  his  blessing !' " 


CAPTAIN. 


Sits  the  wind  there  ! 

RANDOLPH. 

Returning  him  the  book, 
I  told  him  I  was  sorry  he  could  find 
None  who  deserved  his  veneration  more 
Than  one  who,  in  the  blackest  deed  of  guilt 
That  blots  our  annals,  stands  participant, 
A  volunteer  in  that  worst  infamy, 
Stain'd  to  the  core  with  blessed  Charles  his  blood. 
Although  by  some  capricious  mercy  spared. 
Strangely,  as  if  by  miracle,  he  still 
Lived  to  disparage  justice. 

CAPTAIN. 

And  how  brook'd  he 


Your  reprehension  ? 


RANDOLPH. 

With  his  wonted  air 
Of  self-possession,  and  a  mind  subdued: 
And  yet  it  moved  him  ;  for,  though  looks  and  words 
By  the  strong  mastery  of  his  practised  will 
Were  overruled,  the  mounting  blood  betray'd 
An  impulse  in  its  secret  spring  too  deep 
For  his  control.     By  taking  up  my  speech. 
He  answered  with  a  simulated  smile : 
"  Sir,  you  say  well  ;  by  miracle  indeed 
The  life  so  fairly  forfeited  seems  spared ; 
And  it  was  worth  the  special  care  of  Heaven  ; 
Else  had  the  hangman  and  the  insensate  a.xe 
Cut  off  this  toil  divine."     With  that  his  eyes 
Flash'd,  and  a  warmer  feeling  flush'd  his  cheek : 
"  Time  will  bring  down  the  pyramids,"  he  cried, 
"  Eldest  of  human  works,  and  wear  away 
The  dreadful  Alps,  coeval  with  himself: 
But  while  yon  sun  shall  hold  his  place  assign'd. 
This  ocean  ebb  and  flow,  and  the  round  earth, 
Obedient  to  the  Almighty  Mover,  fill 
Her  silent  revolutions,  Milton's  mind 
Shall  dwell  with  us,  an  influence  and  a  power ; 
And  this  great  monument,  which  he  hath  built, 
Outliving  empires,  pyramids,  and  Alps, 
Endure,  the  lasting  wonder  of  mankind." 

CAPTAIN. 

This  is  stark  madness. 

RANDOLPH. 

Or  stark  poetry. 
Two  things  as  near  as  Grub  Street  and  Moorfields. 
But  he  came  bravely  off;  for,  softening  soon 
To  his  habitual  suavity,  he  said. 
Far  was  it  from  his  thought  to  vindicate 
111  deeds  of  treason  and  of  blood.     The  wise 
Had  sometimes  err'd,  the  virtuous  gone  astray: 
Too  surely  in  ourselves  we  felt  the  seed 
"  Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe :" 
His  friend,  like  other  men,  had  drawn  a  part 
Of  that  sad  heritage  ;  he  loved  in  him 
His  wisdom  and  his  virtue,  not  his  faults. 

CAPTAIN. 

Well  said,  and  manfully,  like  one  who  speaks 
The  honest  truth. 

RANDOLPH. 

Why,  so  it  sounds,  and  seems. 

CAPTAIN. 

And  we  must  needs  admit,  he  hath  not  left 
His  native  country  in  that  piggish  mood 
Which  neither  will  be  led  nor  driven,  but  grunts 
And   strives  with  stubborn   neck   and   groundling 

snout. 
Struggling  through  mire  and  brake,  to  right  and  left, 
No  matter  where,  so  it  can  only  take 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


815 


The  way  it  should  not  go.  One  of  that  herd, 
Rather  thtm  read  the  service,  would  have  seen 
The  dead  thrown  overboard  without  a  prayer. 

RANDOLPH. 

Yet  he  hath  freaks  and  follies  of  opinion  ; 
The  hubbies  of  a  yeasty  mind,  that  works 
As  it  would  crack  its  vessel. 

CAPTAIN. 

They  are  ever 
The  sweetest  nuts  in  which  the  maggot  breeds. 

RANDOLPH. 

But,  once  fly-stricken,  what  avails  their  sweetness  1 
Only  to  feed  a  pamper'd  grub,  that  leaves 
Nothing  but  dirt  and  hoUowness  behind  it. 
Tainted  the  young  man  is,  and  deeply  too, 
I  fear,  by  birth  and  breeding :   I  perceive  it 
With  sorrow,  seeing  on  how  fair  a  stock 
The  unlucky  graft  is  set. 

CAPTAIN. 

Wliy  then,  alas 
For  that  poor  Annabel,  if  she  must  have 
This  farther  cause  to  me  our  baneful  factions. 
The  wretched  strife  already  hath  entail'd 
Upon  her  luckless  family  the  loss 
Of  fair  possessions,  friends,  and  native  land  ! 
And  now  a  chance  hath  offer'd,  which  to  her, 
I  trow,  might  largely  make  amends  for  all : 
It  would  be  hard  indeed,  when  all  things  seem 
To  square  so  well — youth,  opportunity. 
Their  fortunes  one,  the  natural  dower  of  each 
So  equal,  and  so  bountifully  given, 
A  dying  mother's  blessing  to  crown  all — 
It  would  be  hard  indeed,  should  loyalty 
Forbid  the  banns. 

RANDOLPH. 

I  know  her  father's  temper. 
True  as  his  own  Toledo  to  the  cause 
Wherein  they  both  were  tried.     Nor  will  neglect, 
Ingratitude  of  courts,  and  banishment, 
(For  a  grant  in  the  Amoiican  wilderness 
Only  calls  exile  by  a  fairer  name,) 
Subdue  his  high-wrought  virtue.     Satisfied 
At  last,  by  years  of  painful  proof. 
That  loyalty  must  find  in  its  own  proud  sense 
Its  own  reward,  that  pride  he  will  bequeath 
His  children  as  their  best  inheritance, 
A  single  heir-loom  rescued  from  the  wreck. 
And  worth  whate'er  was  lost. 

CAPTAIN. 

'Tis  well  the  youth 
Thinks  less  of  earth  than  heaven,  and  hath  his  heart 
More  with  the  angels  than  on  human  love : 
But  if  such  thoughts  and  hopes  have  enter'd  it, 
As  would  some  forty  years  ago  have  found 


Quick  entrance,  and  warm  welcome  too,  in  mine. 
His  ugly  baptism  may  mar  all,  and  make  him 
Breathe  maledictions  on  his  godfathers. 
Though  old  Nol  himself  were  one. 

RANDOLPH. 

Howbeit  't  will  win  him 
Worship  and  friends  in  the  city  of  the  saints  ; 
And,  to  the  ears  of  sober  Boston  men, 
Oliver  will  be  a  name  more  savoury 
Than  Tribulation,  or  Stand-fast-in-the-Lord, 
Increase  or  Nathan,  Gershom,  Ichabod, 
Praise-God,  or  any  of  the  Barebones  breed. 
They  rise  upon  the  oak-holyday  with  faces 
A  full  inch  longer  than  they  took  to  bed  : 
Experienced  nurses  feed  their  babes  that  day 
With  spoons,  because  the  mother's  milk  is  sour ; 
And  when  they  mourn  upon  the  Martyrdom, 
'Tis  for  the  expiation,  not  the  crime. 
Oh  they  love  dearly  one  of  the  precious  seed  ! 
Tyburn,  since  Sixty,  in  their  secret  hearts 
Holds  place  of  Calvary.     For  saints  and  martyrs. 
None  like  their  own  Hugh  Peters,  and  the  heads 
On  the  Hall  your  only  relics !     Fifteen  years 
They  have  hid  among  them  the  two  regicides, 
Shifting  from  den  to  cover,  as  we  found 
Where  the  scant  lay.    But  earth  them  as  they  will, 
I  shall  unkennel  them,  and  from  their  holes 
Drag  them  to  light  and  justice. 

CAPTAIN. 

There  hath  been 
Much  wholesome  sickness  thrown  away.  Sir  Ran- 
dolph 
On  your  strong  stomach !     Two  sea  voyages 
Have  not  sufficed  to  clear  the  bile  wherewith 
You  left  New  England  ' 

RANDOLPH. 

Nay,  it  rises  in  me 
As  I  draw  near  their  shores. 

CAPTAIN. 

Why  then,  look  shortly 
For  a  sharp  fit  ;  for,  if  the  sky  tell  true. 
Anon  we  shall  have  wind,  and  to  our  wish. 

So  spake  the  Captain,  for  his  eye. 
Versed  in  all  signs  and  weathers. 
Discerned  faint  traces  in  the  eastern  sky. 
Such  as  a  lion's  paw  might  leave 
Upon  the  desert,  when  the  sands  are  dry. 
The   dog- vane  now  blows  out  with  its  light  feath- 
ers ; 
And  lo  !  the  ship,  which  like  a  log  hath  lain. 
Heavily  rolling  on  the  long  slow  swell, 
Stirs  with  her  proper  impulse  now,  and  gathers 
A  power  like  life  beneath  the  helmsman's  will. 


816 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


Her  head  lies  right  ;  tlie  rising  breeze 
Astern  comes  rippling  o'er  the  seas  ; 

A  tramp  of  feet  !  a  sound  of  busy  voices  ! 

The  cordage  rattles,  and  the  topsails  fill  ; 

All  liands  are  active,  every  heart  rejoices. 

Blest  with  fair  seas,  and  favourable  skies, 

Right  for  her  promised  land 

The  gallant  vessel  flies  ; 

Far,  far  behind  her  now 

The  foamy  furrow  lies  ; 

Like  dust  around  her  prow 

The  ocean  spray  is  driven. 

O  thou  fair  creature  of  the  human  hand ! 

Thou,  who  wert  palsied  late, 

When  the  dead  calm  lay  heavy  on  the  deep. 

Again  hast  thou  received  the  breath  of  heaven. 

And,  waking  from  thy  sleep. 
As  strength  again  to  those  broad  wings  is  given. 

Thou  puttest  forth  thy  beauty  and  thy  state  ! 

Hold  on  with  happy  winds  thy  prosperous  way, 

And  may  no  storm  that  goodly  pride  abate. 

Nor  baffling  airs  thy  destined  course  delay. 

Nor  the  sea-rover  seize  thee  for  his  prey  ; 

But  minist'ring  angels  wait 

To  watch  for  thee,  against  all  ill  event 

From  man,  or  from  the  reckless  element. 

Thou  hast  a  richer  freight 

Than  ever  vessel  bore  from  Ophir  old, 

Or  spicey  India  sent. 

Or  Lisbon  welcomed  to  her  joyful  quay 

From  her  Brazilian  land  of  gems  and  gold  ; 

Thou  carriest  pious  hope,  and  pure  desires. 

Such  as  approving  angels  might  behold  ; 

A  heart  of  finest  mould, 

A  spirit  that  aspires 

To  heaven,  and  draws  its  flame  from  heavenly  fires 

Genius,  Devotion,  Faith, 

Stronger  than  time  or  Death, 

A  temper  of  the  high  heroic  mood, 

By  that  strong  faith  exalted,  and  subdued 

To  a  magnanimous  fortitude. 
The  blossom  of  all  virtues  dost  thou  bear. 
The  seed  of  noble  actions  !  Go  thy  way 
Rejoicingly,  from  fear  and  evil  free  : 

These  shall  be  thy  defence. 

Beneath  the  all-present  arm  of  Providence, 

Against  all  perils  of  the  treacherous  sea. 


in. 

CAPE  COD. 


Days  pass,  winds  veer,  and  favouring  skies 
Change  like  the  face  of  fortune  ;  storms  arise  ; 
Safely,  but  not  within  her  port  desired, 
The  good  ship  lies. 


Where  the  long  sandy  Cape 

Bends  and  embraces  round. 

As  with  a  lover's  arm,  the  shelter'd  sea, 

A  haven  she  hath  found 

From  adverse  gales  and  boisterous  billows  free. 

Now  strike  your  sails. 

Ye  toil-worn  mariners,  and  take  your  rest 

Long  as  the  fierce  north-west 

In  that  wild  fit  prevails. 

Tossing  the  waves  uptorn  with  frantic  sway. 

Keep  ye  within  the  bay, 

Contented  to  delay 

Your  course  till  the  elemental  madness  cease. 

And  heaven  and  ocean  are  again  at  peace. 

How  gladly  there. 

Sick  of  the  uncomfortable  ocean, 

The  impatient  passengers  approach  the  shore  ; 

Escaping  from  the  sense  of  endless  motion. 

To  feel  firm  earth  beneath  their  feet  once  more, 

To  breathe  again  the  air 

With  taint  of  bilge  and  cordage  undefiled. 

And  drink  of  living  springs,  if  there  they  may. 

And  with  fresh  fruits  and  wholesome  food  repair 

Their  spirits,  weary  of  the  watery  way. 

And  oh  !  how  beautiful 

The  things  of  earth  appear 

To  eyes  that  far  and  near 

For  many  a  week  have  seen 

Only  the  circle  of  the  restless  sea  ! 

With  what  a  fresh  delight 

They  gaze  again  on  fields  and  forests  green. 

Hovel,  or  whatsoe'er 

May  bear  the  trace  of  man's  industrious  hand  ; 

How  grateful  to  their  sight 

The  shore  of  shelving  sand, 

As  the  light  boat  moves  joyfully  to  land  ! 

Woods  they  beheld,  and  huts,  and  piles  of  wood, 

And  many  a  trace  of  toil. 

But  not  green  fields  or  pastures.     'Tvvas  a  land 

Of  pines  and  sand  ; 

Dark  pines,  that  from  the  loose  and  sparkling  soil 

Rose  in  their  strength  aspiring :  far  and  wide 

They  sent  their  searching  roots  on  every  side, 

And  thus,  by  depth  and  long  extension,  found 

Firm  hold  and  grasp  within  that  treacherous  ground : 

So  had  they  risen  and  flourished  ;  till  the  earth, 

Unstable  as  its  neighbouring  ocean  there. 

Like  an  unnatural  mother,  heap'd  around 

Their  trunks  its  wavy  furrows  white  and  high  ; 

And  stifled  thus  the  living  things  it  bore. 

Half  buried  thus  they  stand, 

Their  summits  sere  and  dry. 

Marking,  like  monuments,  the  funeral  mound  ; 

As  when  the  masts  of  some  tall  vessel  show 

Where,  on  the  fatal  shoals,  the  wreck  lies  whelm'd 

below. 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


817 


Such  was  the  ungenial  earth  ;  nor  was  the  air 

Fresh  and  delightful  there  : 

A  aoisonie  taint  upon  the  breath  it  bore  ; 

For  they  who  dwelt  upon  that  sandy  shore, 

Of  meadows  and  of  gardens  took  no  care  ; 

They  sow'd  not,  neither  did  they  reap  : 

The  ocean  was  their  field,  their  flocks  and  herds 

The  myriad-moving  armies  of  the  deep  ; 

The  whale  theirmighty  chase,  whose  bones bestrew'd 

The  sandy  margin  of  that  ample  bay, 

And  all  about,  in  many  a  loathly  heap. 

The  oflilil  and  the  reeking  refuse  lay, 

Left  there  for  dogs  obscene  and  carrion  birds  a  prey. 

Oliver,  as  they  approach'd,  said  thoughtfully  : 

"  It  was  within  this  bay 

That  they,  into  the  wilderness  who  bore 

The  seeds  of  English  faith  and  liberty. 

First  set  their  feet  upon  the  shore. 

Here  they  put  in,  escaping  from  the  rage 

Of  tempests,  and  by  treacherous  pilotage 

Led,  as  it  seem'd  to  fallible  men,  astray  : 

But  God  was  with  them ;  and  the  Providence 

Which  errs  not,  had  design'd  his  people's  way." 

"  A  blessed  day  for  England  had  it  been," 

Randolph  exclaim'd,  "had  Providence  thought 

good. 

If  the  whole  stem  round-headed  brotherhood 

Had  foUow'd,  man  and  woman,  great  and  small ; 

New  England  might  have  prosper'd  with  the  brood, 

Or  seas  and  sharks  been  welcome  to  them  all." 

"  Alas,  how  many  a  broken  family 

Hath  felt  that  bitter  wish  !"  the  youth  replied  ; 

And,  as  he  spake,  he  breathed  a  silent  sigh. 

"  The  wounded  heart  is  prone  to  entertain 

Presumptuous  thoughts  and  feelings,  which  arraign 

The  appointed  course  of  things.     But  what  are  we, 

Short-sighted  creatures  of  an  hour. 

That  we  should  judge  ?     In  part  alone  we  see. 

And  this  but  dimly.     He,  who  ordereth  all, 

Beholdeth  all,  at  once,  and  to  the  end : 

Upon  His  wisdom  and  His  power, 

His  mercy  and  His  boundless  love,  we  rest ; 

And  resting  thus  in  humble  faith,  we  know. 

Whether  the  present  be  for  weal  or  woe. 

For  us  whatever  is  must  needs  be  best." 

Thus,   while  he  spake,  the  boat  had  reach'd  the  land  ; 

And,  grating  gently,  rested  on  the  sand. 

They  step  ashore  ;  the  dwellers  gather  nigh  : 

"  Whence  comes  the  vessel  I  whither  is  she  bound  1" 

Then  for  Old  England's  welfare  they  inquire  ; — 

Eager  alike  for  question  and  reply, 

With  open  lips  and  ears  attending  round  ; — 

What  news  of  war,  and  plague,  and  plots,  and  fire  ? 

Till  satisfied  of  these,  with  cheerful  care 

The  board  and  bowl  they  hasten  to  prepare  ; 

Each  active  in  his  way. 


Glad  of  some  lawful  business,  that  may  break 
The  tedium  of  an  idle  Sabbath-day. 

But,  from  the  stir  of  that  loquacious  crew, 

Oliver  meantime  apart  from  all  withdrew. 

Beyond  the  bare  and  sapless  pines,  which  stood 

Half-overwhelm'd  with  sand, 

He  pass'd,  and  entering  in  the  wood. 

Indulged  his  burthen'd  heart  in  solitude. 

"  Thou  Earth,  receive  me,  from  my  native  land 

An  unoffending  exile  I     Hear  my  claim  ! 

In  search  of  wealth  I  have  not  sought  thy  shore, 

Nor  covetous  of  fame, 

Nor  treading  in  the  ambitious  steps  of  power  ; 

But  hiding  from  the  world  a  hapless  name, 

And  sacrificing  all 

At  holiest  duty's  call. 

Thou  barbarous  Land,  of  thee  I  only  crave — 

For  those  I  love — concealment  and  a  grave." 

Thus  he  relieved  his  breast ;  yet  did  not  dare 

Allow  himself  full  utterance,  even  there  : 

To  part  he  gave  a  voice  ;  and  then,  in  fear, 

Shaped  with  his  lips,  inaudibly,  the  rest : 

With  that  the  very  air 

Might  not  be  trusted  ;  and  he  look'd  around, 

Alarm'd,  lest  human  ear 

Had  caught  the  unfinish'd  sound. 

Some  tears  stole  down  his  cheek,  now  not  repressed. 

And,  kneeling  on  the  earth,  he  kiss'd  the  ground. 

Unbidden  thoughts  then  took  their  course,  and  drew 

The  future  and  the  past  before  his  view ; 

The  haunts,  the  friendships,  and  the  hopes  of  youth — 

All,  all  forsaken  ; — no  dear  voice. 

Ever  again  to  bid  his  heart  rejoice  ! 

Familiar  scenes  and  faces 

Only  in  dreams  should  he  behold  again  ; 

But,  in  their  places. 

The  wilderness,  wild  beasts,  and  savage  men  I 

Soon  from  that  poignant  thought 

His  soul  upon  the  wings  of  hope  took  flight ; 

And  strong  imagination  brought 

Visions  of  joy  before  his  inward  sight. 

Of  regions  yet  by  Englishmen  unsought. 

And  ancient  woods,  was  that  delightful  dream, — 

The  broad  savannah,  and  the  silver  stream. 

Fair  bowers  were  there,  and  gardens  smiled. 

And  harvests    flourish'd  in  the  wild  ; 

And,  while  he  made  Redeeming  Love  his  theme, — ■ 

Savage  no  longer  now — 

The  Indians  stood  around, 

And  drank  salvation  with  the  sound. 

One  Christian  grave  was  there, 

Turf'd  well,  and  weeded  by  his  pious  care. 

And  redolent  of  many  a  fragrant  flower 

And  herb  profusely  planted  all  about. 

Within  his  bower 
An  old  man  sate,  in  patience  and  in  peace. 


818 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE, 


Whiln  the  low  santls  of  life  ran  out, 

Awaiting  his  release. 

That  old  man  laid  his  hand  upon  his  head, 

And  blest  him  daily,  when  the  day  was  done  ; 

And  Heaven  was  open  to  him,  and  he  saw 

His  mother's  spirit  smile,  and  bless  her  son. 

Thus  to  the  voluntary  dream  resign'd 

He  lay,  while  blended  sounds  of  air  and  sea 

LuU'd  his  unconcious  mind 

With  their  wild  symphony. 

The  wind  was  in  the  pines,  awakening  there 

A  sea-like  sound  continuous,  and  a  swell 

At  fitful  intervals,  that  mingled  well 

With  ocean's  louder  roar. 

When  the  long  curling  waves. 

Reach  after  reach  in  regular  rising,  fell 

Upon  the  sandy  shore. 

Long  might  he  there  have  lain,  but  that,  in  tones 

Which  seem'd  of  haste  to  tell. 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  pronounced  he  heard  his 
name : 
Too  sweetly  to  his  ears  the  accents  came. 
Breathed  from  the  gentle  lips  of  Annabel. 

With  hurried  pace  she  comes,  and  flush'd  in  face. 

And  wilh  a  look,  half-pity,  half-affright, 
Which,  while  she  spake,  enlarged  her  timid  eyes  : 
'•'  O,  sir  !  I  have  seen  a  piteous  sight !" 
The  shuddering  maiden  cries  ; 
"  A  poor  wild  woman.     Woe  is  me  !  among 
What  worse  than  heathen  people  are  we  thrown  ? 
Beasts,  in  our  England,  are  not  treated  thus, — 
Our  very  stones  would  rise 
Against  such  cruelties  ! 
But  you,  perhaps,  can  reach  the  stony  heart, — 
Oh  come,  then,  and  perform  your  Christian  part." 

She  led  him  hastily  toward  a  shed. 

Where,  fetter'd  to  the  door  post,  on  the  ground 

An  Indian  woman  sate.     Her  hands  were  bound. 

Her  shoulders  and  her  back  were  waled  and  scored 

With  recent  stripes.     A  boy  stood  by. 

Some  seven  years  old,  who  wilh  a  piteous  eye 

Beheld  his  suffering  mother,  and  deplored 

Her  injuries  with  a  cry. 

Deep,  but  not  loud, — an  utterance  that  express'd 

The  mingled  feelings  swelling  in  his  breast, — 

Instinctive  love  intense,  the  burning  sense 

Of  wrong,  intolerable  grief  of  heart. 
And  rage,  to  think  his  arm  could  not  fulfil 
The  pious  vengeance  of  his  passionate  will. 

His  sister  by  the  door 
Lay  basking  in  the  sun  :   too  young  was  she 

To  feel  the  burthen  of  their  misery  ; 

Reckless  of  all  that  pass'd,  her  little  hand 

Play'd  idly  with  the  soft  and  glittering  sand. 

At  this  abhorred  sight. 

Had  there  been  place  for  aught 

But  pity,  half  relieved  by  iiidignation, 


They  would  have  seen  that  Indian  woman's  face 

Not  with  surprise  alone,  but  admiration  : 

With  such  severe  composure,  such  an  air 

Of  stern  endurance,  did  she  bear 

Her  lot  of  absolute  despair. 

You  rather  might  have  deem'd. 

So  fix'd  and  hard  the  strong  bronze  features  seem'd, 

That  they  were  of  some  molten  statue  part. 

Than  the  live  sentient  index  of  a  heart 

Suffering  and  struggling  with  extremest  wrong : 

But  that  the  coarse  jet  hair  upon  her  back 

Hung  loose,  and  lank,  and  long. 

And  that  sometimes  she  moved  her  large  black  eye, 

And  look'd  upon  the  boy  who  there  stood  weeping 

by. 

Oliver  in  vain  attempted  to  assuage, 

With  gentle  tones  and  looks  compassionate. 

The  bitterness  of  that  young  Indian's  rage. 

The  boy  drew  back  abhorrent  from  his  hand. 

Eyed  him  with  fierce  disdain,  and  breathed 

In  inarticulate  sounds  his  deadly  hate. 
Not  so  the  mother  ;  she  could  understand 
His  thoughtful  pity,  and  the  tears  which  fell 
Copiously  down  the  cheeks  of  Annabel. 
Touch'd  by  that  unaccustomed  sympathy 
Her  countenance  relax'd :  she  moved  her  head 
As  if  to  thank  them  both 
Then  frowning,  as  she  raised  her  mournful  eye, — 
"  Bad  Christian-man  !  bad  English-man !"  she  said  : 
And  Oliver  a  sudden  sense  of  shame 
Felt  for  the  English  and  the  Christian  name. 


IV 


THE  CAPTIVES  RANSOMED. 

OLIVER. 

I  pray  you,  sir,  who  owns  the  Indian  woman 
That  is  chain'd  in  yonder  hut? 

cape's-man. 

What !  you  have  seen  them. 
The  she-wolf  and  her  whelps  ? 

OLIVER. 

She  hath  indeed 
A  strange  wild  aspect,  and  the  boy  appears 
Of  a  fierce  nature.     I  should  think  her  owner 
Would  find  her  an  unprofitable  slave. 

cape's-man. 
Why,  sir,  you  reckon  rightly  ;  and,  methinks, 
Without  a  conjuror's  skill  you  well  may  think  so : 
Those  fetters,  and  the  marks  upon  her  skin, 
Speak  her  deserts.     On  week-days  with  the  whip 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE. 


819 


We  keep  her  tightly  to  her  work  ;  but  thus 
Her  Sabbath  must  be  spent,  or  she  would  put 
The  wilderness  between  her  and  her  owner. 
An  honest  dealer  never  paid  good  money 
For  a  worse  piece  :  and  for  that  boy  of  hers, 
He  is  a  true-bred  savage,  blood  and  bone. 
To  the  marrow  and  heart's  core. 

RANDOLPH. 

I  warrant  him ! 
No  mother  like  your  squaw  to  train  a  child 
In  the  way  she  would  have  him  go  ;  she  makes  him 

subtler 
Than  the  sly  snake,  untameable  as  bear 
Or  buffalo,  fierce  as  a  famish'd  wolf, 
And  crueller  than  French  judges,  Spanish  friars. 
Or  Dutchmen  in  the  East.     His  earliest  plaything 
Is  a  green  scalp,  and  then,  for  lollipop, 
The  toasted  finger  of  an  Englishman  ! 
Young  as  he  is,  I  dare  be  sworn  he  knows 
Where  is  the  liveliest  part  to  stick  a  skewer 
Into  a  prisoner's  flesh,  and  where  to  scoop 
The  tenderest  mouthful.     If  the  Devil  himself 
Would  learn  devices  to  afflict  the  damn'd 
With  sharper  torments,  he  might  go  to  school 
To  a  New  England  savage. 

cape's-man. 

I  perceive,  sir. 
You  know  them  well.   Perhaps  you  may  have  heard 
Of  this  young  deviling's  father  ; — he  was  noted 
For  a  most  bloody  savage  in  his  day : 
They  call'd  him  Kawnacom. 

RANDOLPH. 

What !  Kawnacom, 
The  Narhaganset  Sagamore  ? 

cape's-man. 

The  same  ; 
A  sort  of  captain,  or  of  prince,  among  them. 

RANDOLPH. 

A  most  notorious  villain !     But  I  left  him 
At  peace  with  the  English  ? 

cape's-man. 

And  you  find  him  so, — 
Under  the  only  bail  he  would  not  break  ; 
A  bullet  through  the  heart  is  surety  for  him. 
You  have  not  learnt,  I  guess,  what  dreadful  work 
There  is  in  the  back  country  ? — Families 
Burnt  in  their  houses  ;  stragglers  tomahawk'd 
And  scalp'd,  or  dragg'd  away  that  they  may  die 
By  piecemeal  murder,  to  make  mockery 
For  these  incarnate  devils  at  the  stake. 
Farms  are  forsaken  ;  towns  are  insecure  ; 
Men  sleep  with  one  eye  open,  and  the  gun 
By  their  bed-side.     And,  what  is  worst,  they  know 
not 


How  far  the  league  extends,  nor  whom  to  trust 
Among  these  treacherous  tribes.     Old  people  say 
That  things  were  not  so  bad  in  the  Pequod  war. 

RANDOLPH. 

What  then,  have  we  been  idle  ? 

cape's-man. 

Hitherto 
But  little  has  been  done.     The  evil  found  us 
Lapp'd  in  security,  and  unprepared  : 
Nor  know  we  where  to  strike,  nor  whom,  so  darkly 
The  mischief  hath  been  laid. 

RANDOLPH. 

Strike  where  we  will. 
So  we  strike  hard,  we  cannot  err.     The  blow 
That  rids  us  of  an  Indian  does  good  service 

OLIVER. 

That  were  a  better  service  which  should  win 
The  savage  to  your  friendship. 

cape's-man. 

You  are  young,  sir, 
And,  I  perceive,  a  stranger  in  the  land  ; 
Or  you  would  know  how  bootless  is  the  attempt 
To  tame  and  civilize  these  enemies, 
Man-beasts,  or  man-fiends, — call  them  which  you 

will,— 
Their  monstrous  nature  being  half  brute,  half  devil. 
Nothing  about  them  human  but  their  form. 
He,  who  expends  his  kindness  on  a  savage 
Thinking  to  win  his  friendship,  might  as  wisely 
Plant  thorns  and  hope  to  gather  grapes  at  vintage. 

OLIVER. 

Look  but  to  Martha's  Vineyard,  and  behold 

On  your  own  shores  the  impossibility 

Achieved — the  standing  miracle  display'd 

In  public  view,  apparent  to  all  eyes. 

And  famous  through  all  countries  wheresoe'er 

The  Gospel  truth  is  known.     Many  are  the  hearts 

In  distant  England  which  have  overflow'd 

With  pious  joy  to  read  of  Hiacoomes, 

Whose  prayerful  house  the  pestilence  past  by  ; 

And  blind  Wawompek, — he,  w^itliin  whose  doors 

The  glad  thanksgiving  strain  of  choral  praise 

Fails  not,  at  mom  and  eve,  from  year  to  year  ; 

And  the  Sachem,  who  rejoiced  because  the  time 

Of  light  was  come,  and  now  his  countrymen. 

Erring  and  lost,  no  longer  should  go  down 

In  ignorance  and  darkness  to  the  grave  ; 

And  poor  old  Lazarus,  that  rich  poor  man. 

The  child  of  poverty,  but  rich  in  faith. 

And  his  assured  inheritance  in  heaven. 

RANDOLPH. 

Young  sir,  it  is  with  stories  as  with  men  ; 


820 


A  NEW   ENGLAND    TALE, 


Tliat  credit  oftentimes  they  gain  abroad, 
Which,  either  for  mishick  or  misdesert, 
They  fail  to  find  at  home. 


OLIVER. 

Are  these  things  false,  then  ? 
Is  there  no  truth  in  Mayhew's  life  of  love  1 
Hath  not  the  impatient  Welshman's  zeal,  that  blazed 
Even  like  a  burning  and  consuming  fire. 
Refined  itself  into  a  steady  light 
Among  the  Indians? — and  the  name  of  Williams, 
The  signal  once  for  strife  where'er  he  went. 
Become  a  passport  and  a  word  of  peace 
Through  savage  nations  ?     Or  is  this  a  tale 
Set  forth  to  mock  our  weak  credulity  ; 
And  all  that  holy  Eliot  hath  perform'd 
Only  a  fable  cunningly  devised  1 


cape's-man. 

He  comes  out  qualified  to  lecture  us 
Upon  our  own  affairs  ! 


RANDOLrH. 

The  things  you  talk  of 
Serve  but  with  us  to  comfort  our  old  women, 
Furnish  an  elder  with  some  choice  discourse 
For  a  dull  synod,  and  sometimes  help  out 
Sir  Spintext  at  a  pinch,  when  he  would  think  it 
A  sin  did  he  dismiss  his  hungry  flock 
Before  the  second  glass  be  fairly  spent. 
Much  have  you  read,  and  have  believed  as  largely  ; 
And  yet  one  week's  abode  in  the  colony 
Will  teach  you  more  than  all  your  English  reading. 


OLIVER. 

Sir,  I  am  easy  of  belief,  for  that  way 
My  temper  leads  me, — liable  to  err; 
And  yet,  I  hope,  not  obstinate  in  error ; 
But  ready  still  to  thank  the  riper  judgment 
That  may  correct  my  inexperienced  years. 
You  paint  the  Indians  to  the  life,  I  doubt  not : 
Children  of  sin,  and  therefore  heirs  of  wrath, 
The  likeness  of  their  Heavenly  Sire  in  them 
Seems  utterly  defaced  ;  and  in  its  stead, 
.Almost,  it  might  be  thought,  the  Evil  Power 
Had  set  his  stamp  and  image.    This  should  move  us 
The  more  to  deep  compassion  ;  men  ourselves. 
In  whom  the  accident  of  birth  alone 
Makes  all  this  awful  difference  !   And  remembering. 
That  from  our  common  parent  we  derive 
Our  nature's  common  malady  innate, 
For  which  our  common  Saviour  offers  us 
•  The  only  cure, — oh !  ought  we  not  to  feel 
How  good  and  merciful  a  deed  it  were 
To  bring  these  poor  lost  sheep  within  his  fold  ! 


RANDOLPH. 

Sheep  call    you  them,  forsooth  !     When  you  can 

gather 
Bears,  wolves,  and  tigers  in  a  fold,  hope  then 
To  tame  such  sheep  as  these. 

OLIVER. 

What  is  there,  sir. 
That  may  not  by  assiduous  care  be  won 
To  do  our  will  ?     Give  me  a  lion's  cub. 
Torn  from  the  teat,  and  I  will  so  train  up 
The  noble  beast,  that  he  shall  fondle  me. 
And  lay  his  placid  head  upon  my  knees, 
And  lick  my  hand,  and  couch  my  bed-side, 
And  guard  me  with  a  dog's  fidelity. 

RANDOLPH. 

Behold  a  litter  ready  to  your  wish ! 

Our  friend,  if  I  mistake  not,  will  afford 

An  easy  purchase,  dam  and  cubs.     What  saj  you, 

My  lion-tamer  ] 

cape's-man. 

You  shall  have  them  cheap,  sir  I 
A  bargain  that  may  tempt  you  ;  come,  for  half 
That  they  would  fetch  in  the  Barbadoes  market. 
I  meant  to  ship  them  thither,  but  would  rather 
Sell  at  a  loss  than  keep  that  woman  longer. 

Thus  had  the  jeer  grown  serious,  and  it  drew 

Into  the  young  man's  cheek  a  deeper  hue. 

Moments  there  are  in  life, — alas, — how  few  ! — 

When,  casting  cold  prudential  doubts  aside. 

We  take  a  generous  impulse  for  our  guide. 

And,  following  promptly  what  the  heart  thinks  best, 

Commit  to  Providence  the  rest. 

Sure  that  no  after-reckoning  will  arise. 

Of  shame,  or  sorrow,  for  the  heart  is  wise. 

And  happy  they  who  thus  in  faith  obey 

Their  better  nature :  err  sometimes  they  may. 

And  some  sad  thoughts  lie  heavy  in  the  breast, 

Such  as  by  hope  deceived  are  left  behind  ; 

But,  like  a  shadow,  these  will  pass  away 

Fjom  the  pure  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  mind. 

Thus  feeling,  Oliver  obey'd 

His  uncorrupted  heart ;  nor  paused,  nor  weigh'd 

What  hindrance,  what  displeasure  might  ensue  ; 

But  from  his  little  store  of  worldly  wealth, 

Poor  as  it  was,  the  ready  ransom  drew. 

Half-earnest,  half-sarcastic,  Randolph  now 

Sought  him  from  that  rash  purpose  to  dissuade  ; 

While  the  hard  Cape's-man,  nothing  nice. 

Counted  the  money,  glad  to  get  his  price. 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


821 


V. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

At  length  the  adverse  gales  have  ceased  ; 

The  breath  of  morn  is  from  the  east, 

Where,  burnishing  with  gold  the  restless  sea, 

Uprose  the  sun  in  radiant  majesty. 

Unfelt  that  breath  upon  the  seas. 

Unheard  amid  the  silent  trees. 

It  breathes  so  quietly  : 

Yet  have  the  seamen,  on  their  way  intent. 

Perceived  the  auspicious  sign.     The  sails  are  bent, 

The  anchor  raised  ;  the  swelling  canvas  now 

Fills  with  the  fresh'ning  breeze  ;  the  Cape  recedes. 

Its  sandhills  and  its  pines 

In  distance  fade  away. 

Steady  she  holds  her  course  ;  and  still  the  day 

Is  young,  when  lo  !  the  haven  is  in  sight ; 

And  ere  from  his  meridian  height  the  sun 

Declines,  within  that  haven's  gentle  breast, 

From  the  long  labours  of  her  weary  way, 

The  vessel  comes  to  rest. 

Scatter'd  within  the  peaceful  bay 

Many  a  fair  isle  and  islet  lay. 

And  rocks  and  banks  which  threaten'd  there 

No  peril  to  the  mariner. 

The  shores  which  bent  around  were  gay 

With  maizals,  and  with  pastures  green, 

And  rails  and  hedge-row  trees  between, 

And  fields  for  harvest  white. 

And  dwellings  sprinkled  up  and  down  ; 

And  round  about  the  cluster'd  town, 

Which  rose  in  sunshine  bright. 

Was  many  a  shelter'd  garden  spot. 

And  many  a  sunny  orchard  plot, 

And  bowers  which  might  invite 

The  studious  man  to  take  his  seat 

Within  their  quiet,  cool  retreat. 

When  noon  was  at  its  height. 

No  heart  that  was  at  ease,  I  ween. 

Could  gaze  on  that  surrounding  scene 

Without  a  calm  delight. 

Behold  upon  the  quay  a  press 

Of  business  and  of  idleness, 

Where  these  new-comers  land. 

Kinsfolk  with  anxious  questions  meet ; 

And  friends  and  light  acquaintance  greet 

With  jocund  shake  of  hand  : 

The  idlers  ask  the  crew  of  what 

Upon  their  way  befell  ; 

And  all,  and  more  than  all  mey  know. 

The  wondering  sailors  tell. 

From  tongue  to  tongue  the  tidings  ran  ; 

The  lady's  death, — the  strange  young  man  ; 

His  moody  ways,  his  gift  of  prayer. 

The  maid  committed  to  his  care. 

His  destined  bride,  they  nothing  doubting  deem'd  ; 


And  how,  by  sudden  fit  of  pity  moved, 

From  slavery  he  redeeni'd 

The  children  and  the  wife  of  Kawnacom, 

(An  act  that  all  admired,  but  none  api)rovcd,) 

And  to  their  savage  tribe,  they  fear'd, 

Reckless  of  counsel,  would  conduct  them  home. 

All  marvell'd  at  the  tale  ;  the  many  jeer'd  : 

"  Mad  as  the  Quakers  !"  some  e.\claiiii"d  ;  and  some 

Pray'd  that  his  rash  and  unculiirhtonM  will 

Might  cause  no  after-troubles  in  a  state 

Pester'd  with  errors  and  new  fancies  still. 

Some  shook  their  heads ;  the  more  compassionate 

Observed,  that  where  so  kind  a  heart  was  found, 

Pity  it  was  the  wits  should  not  be  sound. 

"  It  is  a  madness  which  the  world  will  cure," 

Leverett,  the  Governor,  said,  "  too  soon,  be  sure." 

Randolph  had  risen  to  leave  him,  when  the  youth 

Enter'd  the  Governor's  door.  "  Come,  let  me  play," 

Quoth  he,  "  the  usher !"  in  his  wonted  way. 

Mingling  with  sportive  speech  sarcastic  truth. 

"  Your  Excellency  here  beholds  the  Man  ! 

The  Quaker-Church  of  England-Puritan, 

Knight-errant,  preacher,  and  we  know  not  what, 

So  many  things  he  is,  and  he  is  not ; 

A  hero,  certes,  if  he  would  but  fight ; 

A  Solomon,  if  his  notions  were  but  right. 

Should  he  into  a  lion's  den  be  thrown, — 

Look  at  those  arms  and  eyes,  and  you  might  swear 

That  he  would  act  the  London  'Prentice  there  ; 

But  trusting  to  the  mind,  forsooth,  alone 

He'd  take  the  cubs,  like  lambkins,  to  his  breast. 

And,  Daniel-like,  by  faith  subdue  the  rest. 

Then  for  the  harder  task  of  savage-quelling 

He  hath  a  talent  which  exceeds  all  telling. 

Two  full-bred  devilings  he  has  taught  to  greet  him, 

And  kiss  as  lovingly  as  they  would  eat  him  ; 

And  he  hath  bought  their  mother  squaw,  to  teach 

That  pleasant  lingo  the  Six-nation  speech  ; 

Words,  which  would  choke  a  Dutchman  or  a  Jew, 

Dumfound  Old  Nick,  and  which  from  me  or  you 

Could  not  be  forced  by  ipecacuanha. 

Drop  from  his  oratoric  lips  like  manna. 

So  fine  withal  his  temper  proves,  that  it 

Hath  borne  unhurt  the  file  of  my  rough  wit ; 

This  to  his  honour  I  am  bound  to  tell ; 

Would  that  he  took  true  counsel  half  as  well ! 

And  now,  sir,  as  your  favour  may  befriend  him. 

To  that  in  right  good  earnest  I  commend  him  !" 

"  A  man  of  caustic  speech  I"  the  Governor  said. 
Following  him  with  his  eye,  as  forth  he  went : 

"  Yet  hath  this  humour  no  unkind  intent ; 
His  commendation,  sir,  shall  have  its  weight, 
The  rest  we  take  as  it  is  meant." 

The  youth 

To  that  urbane  accoil,  with  grateful  eye. 

And  gentle  motion  of  the  bending  head, 

Return'd  a  mute  reply. 

There  was  a  troubled  meaning  in  his  look. 


822 


A    NEW    E  N  G  L  A  ^M3    TALE. 


And  o'er  his  brow  an  ashy  paleness  spread, 

As  forth  he  took 

A  little  casket,  and,  with  trembling  hand 

Presenting  it  to  Leverett,  said  : 

"  Thus  I  discharge  my  mother's  last  command  ; 

On  her  death-bed  she  told  me  I  should  need 
No  other  friend  with  you  in  my  behalf  to  plead." 

The   Governor's  countenance   changed,  as  he   re- 
ceived 
That  message  from  the  dead  ; 
And  when  he  open'd  and  contemplated 
The  sad  bequest, 
Tears  fill'd  his  eyes,  which  could  not  be  represt. 
It  was  a  woman's  picture,  in  her  youth 
And  bloom  portray'd  by  Cooper's  perfect  skill. 
The  eyes,  which  death  had  quench'd. 
Kept  there  their  life  and  living  lustre  still ; 
The  auburn  locks,  which  sorrow's  withering  hand, 
Forestalling  time,  had  changed  to  early  grey. 
Disparting  from  the  ivory  forehead,  fell 
In  ringlets  which  might  tempt  the  breath  of  May  ; 

The  lips,  now  cold  as  clay, 

Seem'd  to  breathe  warmth  and   vernal   fragrance 

there  ; 

The  cheeks  were  in  their  maiden  freshness  fair. 

Thus  had  the  limner's  art  divine  preserved 

A  beauty  which  from  earth  had  pass'd  away  ; 

And  it  had  caught  the  mind  which  gave  that  face 

Its  surest  charm,  its  own  peculiar  grace. 

A  modest  mien, 

A  meek,  submissive  gentleness  serene, 

A  heart  on  duty  stay'd, 

Simple,  sincere,  affectionate,  sedate, 

Were  in  that  virgin  countenance  portray'd : 

She  was  an  angel  now  ;  and  yet. 

More  beautiful  than  this  fair  counterfeit, 

Even  in  heaven,  her  spirit  scarce  could  be, 

Nor  seem  from  stain  of  ill,  and  evil  thoughts,  more 

free. 

Time  was,  when  Leverett  had  worn 

That  picture  like  a  relic  in  his  breast ; 

And  duly,  morn  and  night, 

With  Love's  idolatry 

Fix'd  on  its  beauties  his  adoring  sight, 

And  to  his  lips  the  precious  crystal  prest. 

Time  was,  when,  in  the  visions  of  his  rest, 

That  image  of  delight 

Came   with  sweet   smiles,  and   musical   voice,   to 

bless 

His  sleep,  and  all  his  dreams  were  happiness. 

And  still,  though  course  of  time,  and  fatal  force 

Of  circumstance,  grave  thoughts,  and  worldly  cares 

(Ah  !  how  unlike  the  blissful  hopes  of  youth, 

From  which  it  had  been  worse  than  death  to  part !) 

Had  fortified  as  well  as  heal'd  his  heart, 

That  vision,  in  her  beauty  and  her  truth. 

Sometimes  would  visit  him  ;  and  he, 

With  a  confused  but  conscious  faculty. 

Knowing  full  well 

That  this,  which  seem'd,  too  surely  could  not  be, 


Struggled  against  the  spell. 

Unchanged  and  unimpair'd  by  thirty  years, 

Her  image  came,  but  only  to  distress 

The  heart  she  wont  to  bless, 

Till  from  the  painful  unreality 

He  woke,  disturb'd  in  spirit,  and  in  tears. 

But  he  was  master  of  his  waking  soul, 

And  could  control 

AH  unbecoming  passion,  and  all  feeling 

That  needs  repressing  or  concealing. 

Howbeit  he  sought  not  to  restrain 

His  deep  emotion  now,  nor  turn'd  aside 

His  natural  tears  to  hide,  which  freely  fell  ; 

But  wiping  them  away  a  moment,  eyed 

Oliver's  pale  countenance  and  anxious  brow, 

Perusing  there  his  mother's  lineaments  : 

Then  took  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Thou  need'st  nr,t 

tell 

Thy  hapless  name  and  perilous  secret  now, 

I  know  them  but  too  well." 


VI. 


FUTURE  PROSPECTS. 


LEVERETT. 

Why  hast  thou  ventured  hither  ?     With  what  hc^pe 

Or  end  hath  natural  piety  betray'd  thee 

To  this  forlorn  attempt?     If  to  escape 

Had  offer'd  chance  enough  to  tempt  despair, 

The  desperate  effort  had  ere  this  been  tried. 

Besure,  it  hath  been  meditated  oft. 

And  bravely  ;  and,  had  life  been  all  the  stake, 

Life  had  been  cheaply  set  upon  the  die, 

To  lose  it  being  gain. 

OLIVER. 

They  must  forego. 
The  dear  desire  of  e'er  revisiting 
Their  native  land, — and  in  my  mother's  grave 
That  hope,  I  ween,  will  now  be  laid  at  rest : 
Nor  could  they  safely  seek  a  resting-place 
In  Europe,  even  if  we  reach'd  a  ship. 
And  left  these  shores  behind  us.     Oft  and  well 
Have  I  perpended  this,  devising  ways 
For  flight,  and  schemes  of  plausible  disguise, 
Such  thoughts  in  disappointment  ending  alway  ; 
Till  having  offer'd  up  in  fervent  faith 
A  d'sciplined  and  humbled  heart  to  Heaven, 
A  better  hope  arose.     The  wilderness 
Is  open  to  us !     Thither  will  we  go. 
Far  in  the  wilds,  where  foot  of  Englishman 
Hath  never  trod.     The  equal  elements 
Will  not  deny  our  portion  :   Mother  Earth 
In  unappropriated  freedom,  there 
Holds  forth  her  liberal  lap  ;  her  springs,  her  fruits, 
Her  creatures  of  the  land  and  air  and  stream. 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


823 


To  her  free  children  freely  offering. 
Hid  from  the  world,  a  double  duty  there 
May  I  perform,  to  God  and  man  discharged, 
Serving  my  human  and  my  Heavenly  Sire  ; 
There,  treading  in  your  saintly  Eliot's  path, 
Guide  the  poor  Indian  in  the  way  to  Heaven  ! 
And,  in  the  foretaste  of  its  joys  assured, 
Receive  mine  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

LEVERETT. 

Oh  pitiable  lot 

Oh  poor  humanity. 
When  virtue  thus  can  wrong  the  heroic  heart, 
And  blind  the  noble  intellect !     Thou  dreamest 
Of  peopling  some  Arcadian  solitude 
With  human  angels,  — ignorant,  alas  ! 
Of  time, place,  circumstance,  and  men,  and  things, — 
The  Indians,  and  thy  father,  and  thyself! 

OLIVER. 

Myself  at  least  I  know,  prepared  to  act 
Or  suffer,  with  a  soul  for  all  events 
Resign'd. 

LEVERETT. 

To  suffer,  rightly  thou  may'st  say  ; 
Easily  we  screw  our  courage  to  that  point. 
The  issue  being  remote,  and  hope  and  chance 

Between  us  and  the  event. 
But  how  prepared  to  act  ?     Ere  thou  couldst  hold 
With  these  Red  tribes  the  commonest  discourse 
Of  needful  things  and  every-day  concerns, 
Years  of  laborious  pupilage  must  pass. 
Unless  the  cloven  flame  upon  thy  head 
Should  light,  and  loose  thy  speech  by  miracle. 
But  wherefore  with  the  show  of  difficulties 
Should  1  dissuade  thee  from  an  enterprise 
Impossible  to  attempt? 

OLIVER. 

A  poet,  sir. 
In  whose  dark  sayings  deeper  wisdom  lies 
Than  ancient  oracles  enounced,  or  statesmen 
Appear  to  reach  in  these  ignoble  times. 
Hath  taught  me  to  believe,  "  impossible 
Is  but  the  faith  of  fear." 

LEVERETT. 

Are  poets,  then. 
Thy  teachers?    0,  young  man,  their  flattering  lore 
But  ill  prepares  the  spirit  for  the  uses 
Of  ordinary  life ! 

OLIVER. 

They  best  prepare  it, 
Who  warn  the  heart  against  its  own  illusions  ; 
And,  strengthening  it  with  patient  hope  and  faith, 
Arm  it  against  all  issues.     To  such  teachers 
My  inexperienced  youth  by  Providence 


Was  mercifully  led.     Penn  hath  allow'd  me 
To  call  him  friend,  in  no  sectarian  use 
Of  words  ;  and  I  have  sate  at  Milton's  feet 
A  reverential  listener. 

LEVERETT. 

Milton's  friendship 
Will  neither  hurt  nor  help  thee  in  a  land, 
Where  they,  who  stifflicst  hold  his  errors,  lift  not 
Their  thoughts  above  the  earth  to  follow  him, 
When  his  strong  spirit  mounts  upon  the  wing. 
Beyond  their  grovelling  vision.     But  well  is  it 
Thou  hast  not  from  Penn's  dangerous  fellowship 
Learnt  his  sectarian  speech,  and  other  follies 
Wherewith  that  formal  informality 
Provokes    the    law.        New    England    writes    her 

statutes 
In  blood  against  the  Quakers.     Thou  hast  'scaped 
Their  clownish  and  uncivil  usages  ; 
But  if  there  be  an  inner  taint,  take  heed 
To  keep  it  hidden  :  openly  I  must  not 
Allow  the  violation  of  our  laws. 

OLIVER. 

Oh  we  have  trespass'd  largely  on  your  goodness  ; 

Generous  beyond  example,  as  thou  art. 

Too  largely  have  we  tax'd  it  ;  and  the  cause. 

The  dreadful  cause  alone  can  palliate 

Conduct  like  ours  towards  thee.     Not  for  worlds 

Would  I  do  aught  that  might  displeasure  thee, 

Best  earthly  friend  !  whom  my  dear  mother  never 

Named  without  tears,  and  holiest  gratitude, 

Such  as  will  surely  bring  upon  thy  head 

The  blessing  that  it  pray'd  for.     I  come  here. 

Not  wilfully  and  madly  to  provoke 

Intolerant  laws,  nor  farther  to  presume 

Upon  thy  noble  nature  ;  but  to  thank  thee, 

In  her  dear  name,  for  all  which  thou  hast  done  ; 

To  tell  thee,  as  she  charged  me,  that  in  death 

She  bless'd  thee  for  thy  goodness  ;  and,  performing 

Her  latest  wish  and  will,  to  take  the  burthen 

Of  our  unhappy  fortunes  on  myself. 

LEVERETT. 

Her  latest  wish  and  will ! 

OLIVER. 

It  was  a  thought 
Which  added  to  her  griefs,  that  you  should  stand 
In  jeopardy  for  us  ;  howbeit,  she  said, 
She  hoped  and  felt  and  trusted  that  you  knew 
Her  inmost  mind,  and  Heaven  would  recompense 
A  true  affection,  too  severely  tried. 

LEVERETT. 

Thus  it  was  ever  with  her  gentle  heart. 
By  some  strange  fortune  fated  still  to  prove 
That  in  her  strength  alone  the  root 
Of  her  sole  weakness  lay. 
Poor  heart !  a  victim  always  at  the  call 


824 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE, 


Of  fancied  duty  ;  o'.ily  tlieii  unjust, 

Only  then  obstinate,  when  ofTeiing  up 

Itself  a  bleeding  sacrifice  !  I  know, 

And  understand,  in  what  devoted  mood 

Her  acquiescence  to  thy  dreams  was  given  ; 

Such  as  aspiring  saints  desire,  and  martyrs 

Reach  in  their  triumph,  when  they  clasp  the  stake. 


OLIVER. 

'Twas  in  no  height  of  feverish  exaltation, 

In  no  delusion  of  the  heated  mind. 

That  her  consent  was  given  :  but  mutually 

Our  hearts  received,  as  I  believe,  from  Heaven 

The  impulse.     By  the  test  of  prayer  we  tried. 

And  in  the  balance  of  the  sanctuary 

Weighed  it  ;  and  having  taken  our  resolve, 

Partook  that  inward  peace,  wherewith  the  Spirit 

Doth  set  the  seal  to  its  authentic  acts. 

Shake  not  thy  head  thus  mournfully,  nor  thus 

In  disapproval  knit  the  incredulous  brow  ! 

The  purpose,  which  at  first  was  entertain'd 

With  doubtfulness  and  fear,  increased  in  strength, 

While  long  infirmity  and  wasting  pain 

Consumed  her  mortal  mould  ;  and  at  that  hour, 

When  it  is  no  illusion  to  believe 

That  the  departing  soul  hath  sight  of  heaven 

Opening  before  its  happy  flight,  and  feels 

The  expansion  of  diviner  faculties 

Than  this  gross  earth  unfolds,  her  looks  and  tokens 

Confirm'd  the  injunction  of  her  latest  voice. 

And  bless'd,  and  for  obedience  strengthen'd  me. 

Betide  what  may. 


LEVERETT. 

For  me,  then,  it  remains 
Only  to  show  what  obstacles  impede 
The  perilous  course  from  which  I  must  not  farther 
Essay  to  turn  thee.     Thou,  who  art  not  less 
In  mind  than  lineaments  thy  mother's  image, 
Judge  for  thyself  if  they  be  superable. 
Thy  grandsire  lives,  indeed, — if  it  be  life, 
When  the  poor  flesh,  surviving,  doth  entomb 
The  reasonable  soul  defunct.     Below 
The  reach  of  grief  and  danger  he  hath  sunk. 
The  tale  of  his  dear  daughter's  death  to  him 
Will  be  like  baptism  to  a  chrysome  babe. 
Something   that  means   he   knows  and   recks  not 

what. 
Safely  in  court  might  he  hold  up  the  hand, 
Now  trembling  and  unconscious,  which  subscribed 
The  fatal  warrant :  even  the  sword  of  law 
Would,  in  his  pitiable  estate,  acknowledge 
The  visitation  of  a  higher  Power, 
And  turn  away  its  edge.     But  as  thou  canst  not, 
Encumber'd  with  a  twichild  man,  pursue 
Thy  purpose,  it  must  of  necessity 
Be  laid  aside,  at  least  till  death  remove 
The  impediment  not  else  removable. 


OLIVER. 


So  be  it.     We  must  patiently  await 

The  hour  of  his  release.     With  time  and  death 

Sure  reckoning  may  be  made. 

LEVERETT. 

That  hour  in  truth 
Cannot  be  long  delay'd.     But  what  shall  make 
Thy  father  to  thy  dreams  defer  his  own  ? 
If  in  his  corporal  uses  man  becomes 
The  slave  of  habit,  stronger  are  the  chains 
In  which  the  mind  is  bound,  a  willing  thrall. 


OLIVER. 


I  understand  you  not ! 


Your  father. 


LEVERETT. 

You  do  not  know 

OLIVER. 


Only  by  report,  alas  ! 
As  England  in  his  years  of  fortune  knew  him  ; 
Religious,  faithful,  excellently  skill'd 
In  war,  and  in  his  single  person  brave 
To  all  men's  admiration. 

LEVERETT. 

Yet  I  think 
Enthusiast  as  thou  art,  thou  needest  not 
Learn  with  how  much  alloy  the  richest  vein 
Of  virtues  is  too  often  found  combined. 
'Tis  the  condition  of  humanity. 
Frail  and  infirm  at  best  ;  and  they  who  boast 
Sinless  perfection  for  their  privilege. 
By  the  proud  folly  of  the  claim,  confute 
Their  own  insane  pretension. 

OLIVER. 

Surely,  sir. 
My  father  hath  not  in  the  school  of  Christ 
So  poorly  profited,  nor  lived  so  long 
A  stranger  to  himself  and  his  own  heart. 
That  he  should  hold  this  error. 

LEVERETT. 

Glad  I  am 
Thou  seest  it  erroneous.     Other  notions 
He  holds  too  near  akin  to  it,  the  breed 
Of  those  pestiferous  and  portentous  times 
Wherein  his  lot  had  fallen.     Even  yet  he  thinks 
The  kingdom  of  the  saints  shall  be  in  strength 
Establish'd  ;  finds  in  whatsoe'er  occurs 
The  accomplishment  of  some  dark  prophecy  ; 
Interprets,  and  expounds,  and  calculates 
That  soon  he  shall  be  call'd  to  bear  his  part 
In  setting  up  again  the  broken  work 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE, 


825 


Left  incomplete  by  chosen  Oliver. 

Thus  he  in  one  continuous  dream  of  hope 

Beguiles  the  tedious  years. 

OLIVER. 

Herein  I  see  not 
What  should  impede  my  purpose.     In  the  forest, 
The  sense  of  freedom  and  security, 
Healing  a  wounded  spirit,  may  restore 
To  health  his  mind  diseased. 


LEVERETT. 

But  if  the  patient 
Reject  the  means  of  cure  ?     He  will  not  leave 
A  place  of  refuge  which  the  Lord  prepared 
For  him  in  his  distress  ;  and  where  full  surely 
He  trusts  the  call  will  reach  him,  to  come  forth 
And  fight  the  battles  of  the  good  old  cause. 
For  which  he  doth  endure  contentedly 
This  living  martyrdom.     Tiiy  father  thus 
Would  answer  thee  ;  the  malady  is  rooted 
Li  him  so  deeply  now.     It  is  become 
Essential  in  his  being  :  long  success. 
Beyond  the  most  audacious  of  his  thoughts, 
Fed  and  inflamed  it  first  ;  long  suffering  since 
Hath  as  it  were  annealed  it  in  his  soul 
With  stubborn  fortitude,  bewilder'd  faith. 
Love,  hatred,  indignation,  all  strong  passions. 
The  bitterest  feelings,  and  the  tenderest  thoughts. 
Yea,  all  his  earthly,  all  his  heavenly  hopes. 
And  Rnssel — for  such  sympathy  alone 
Could  influence  him  to  Iiarbour  long  such  guests — 
Fosters  the  old  delusion  which  he  shares, 
And  ministers  to  it,  even  in  his  prayers. 


OLIVER. 

My  father  will  not  be  persuaded  then. 
You  think  ? 

LEVERETT. 

I  know  he  will  not.     There  are  minds, 
The  course  of  which,  as  of  some  slow  disease, 
Known  by  its  fatal  frequency  too  well. 
We  see  with  helpless  foresight,  hopelessly. 
But,  if  he  listcn'd  to  thy  moving  words. 
What  would  it  now  avail?     The  wilderness 
Affords  no  shelter  while  the  Indians, 
Fiercer  than  beasts,  and  wilier,  are  in  arms. 


OLIVER. 

1  have  a  passport  for  the  wilderness 
Safer  than  statesmen  could  accord,  or  states 
Enforce  with  all  their  strength.  The  Indian  woman. 
Of  whom  Sir  Randolph  in  his  mockery  told  thee  ; 
She  and  her  children  will  be  my  protection 
Among  the  wildest  tribes. 


LEVERETT. 

And  was  this  thought,  then. 
Thy  motive  for  the  act  ? 

OLIVER. 

I  will  not  say 
It  had  so  much  of  forethought :  but  the  ways 
Of  Providence  open  before  me  now. 
The  impulse,  which  appear'd  like  foolishness 
To  worldly  censure,  and  which  tremblingly 
I  follow'd,  for  this  issue  was  de.sign'd  : 
Oh  doubt  it  not  !     And  had  I  disobey'd 
The  inward  and  unerring  monitor 
That  hour,  infirm  of  faith,  how  had  I  then 
Disherited  myself  of  tiiis  fair  hope  ! 

LEVERETT. 

A  Narhaganset  woman,  is  she  not  ? 
The  widow  of  a  Sagamore,  who  fell 
In  the  outbreak  of  these  troubles? 

OLIVER. 

So  they  told  me  ; 
A  noted  savage,  Kawnacom  his  name. 

LEVERETT. 

Something,  methinks,  I  see  in  this,  wherein 
Our  purposes  may  square,  and  my  straight  path 
Of  policy  with  thy  eccentric  course 
Fall  in  and  meet  at  the  end.     But,  understand  mc, 
Rather  would  I  for  thine  own  sake  dissuade  thee. 
And  for  the  sake  of  that  dear  Saint  in  heaven, 
From  an  adventure  of  remotest  hope 
And  imminent  peril  :  but  if  thy  resolve 
Be  obstinate  against  all  reason,  blameless 
Then  may  I,  both  in  her  sight  and  in  thine. 
Betide  the  issue  how  it  will,  promote 
The  purpose  which  in  vain  I  disapprove. 
One  trust  we  have  ;  all-able  Providence 
Will  overrule  our  ways,  and  haply  too. 
Knowing  the  upright  intention,  rectify 
Our  erring  judgments.     Let  the  matter  sleep 
Till  I  have  taken  counsel  with  my  pillow 
And  this  night's  waking  thoughts.     See  me  to- 
morrow 
As  early  as  you  will,  before  the  stir 
Of  business  hath  begun :  and  now  farewell. 


VII. 
THE  INDIAN  WAR. 

With  many  an  anxious  thought  opprest. 

From  busy  sleep  more  wearying  than  unrest. 

Hath  Oliver  arisen  ; 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


And  from  his  bed  of  feverish  care, 
Glad  to  respire  the  cool  fresh  morning  air, 

Gone  forth  as  from  a  prison. 

The  wakeful  governor  received  his  guest ; 

And  ere  the  morning  board  was  placed. 

They  to  and  fro  the  garden  paced 

In  earnest  talk,  while  Leverctt  told 

How  mutual  injuries  of  old, 

And  mutual  fears,  the  envenom'd  will. 

Suspicions  still  concenl'd  but  festering  still. 

And  policy  that  shrunk  from  nothing  ill, 

(Savage  or  civilized — oh  shame 

To  man's  perverted  power ! — in  this  the  same,) 

Youth's  fiery  courage,  and  eld's  rooted  hate 

Had  brought  the  danger  on,  which  now  assail'd  the 

state. 

The  times  were  fearful ;  wheresoe'er  around 

Among  the  Indian  tribes  he  turn'd  his  view. 

False  friends,  or  open  enemies,  were  found. 

How  wide  their  league  he  rather  fear'd  than  knew. 

But  this  was  understood. 

That  feuds  deliver'd  down  for  many  an  age. 

From  sire  to  son  in  sacred  heritage. 

Wherewith  their  very  nature  seem'd  imbued. 

Had  been  with  dread  solemnities  forsworn 

And  secret  rites  accurst,  in  fell  intent 

That  they  should  root  the  English  from  the  land, 

And  the  last  white  man's  blood 

Re  of  their.bond  the  seal  and  sacrament. 

In  truth  they  were  a  formidable  foe  ; 

Compared  with  ours,  their  numbers  made  them  so  ; 

Crafty,  deceitful,  murderous,  merciless : 

Yet  with  heroic  qualities  endued  : 

Contempt  of  death,  surpassing  fortitude. 

Patience  through  all  privations,  self-control 

Even  such  as  saints  and  sages  scarce  attain. 

And  a  sustain'd  serenity  of  soul. 

Which  Fortune  might  assault  or  tempt  in  vain. 

Not  to  be  moved  by  pleasure  or  by  pain. 

OLIVER. 

Alas  to  think  they  have  not  long  ere  this 
Been  link'd  with  you  in  Christian  fellowship  ! 

LEVERETT. 

Look  at  divided  Christendom  ! — at  England  ; 

Her  wounds,  inflicted  by  sectarian  rage. 

Open  and  festering, — never  to  be  heal'd  ! 

Look  at  thy  father's  house  ;  a  threefold  cord 

Of  brotherhood  trebly  disparted  there  ; 

Then  tell  me,  where  may  Christian  fellowship 

In  this  wide  world  be  found  ?     Alas,  my  friend, 

I  see  it  only  in  the  Promised  Land. 

From  Pisgah's  summit,  through  the  glass  of  Faith, 

Far  in  the  regions  of  futurity. 

Yet   something   we   have  done,  which — though  I 

own  it 
Far  short  of  what  true  policy  requires. 


And  in  the  scale  of  national  duty  weig'.iing 
Lighter  than  dust— may  show  we  are  not  wholly 
The  slaves  of  Mammon.    Fretted  as  we  have  been 
By  schisms,  by  rampant  heresies  disturb'd. 
And  by  that  spiritual  pride  possess'd,  whose  touch. 
With  influence  lethal  as  aspic's  tooth, 
Numbs  the  life-blood  of  charity,  this  England 
Hath  sons,  whose  names,  if  there  be  any  praise. 
Shall   have   their  place    with   saints   of  primitive 

times 
Enroll'd,  true  heroes  of  humanity. 

OLIVER. 

Oh  doubt  not  that  their  virtue  and  their  prayers 
Will  in  this  rime  of  trial  speed  you  more 
Than  all  your  carnal  strength  ! 

LE"ERETT. 

That  faith  might  better 
Beseem  thine  uncle  of  the  seminary. 
The  Oratorian,  than  thy  father's  son. 
A  monk  may  put  his  trust  in  beads  and  sackcloth  ; 
But  Oliver's  saints  wore  buff,  and  their  right  hand.s 
]  Wrought  for  themselves  the  miracles  they  ask'd  for. 
Think  not,  young  man,  that  I  disparage  prayer, 
Because  I  hold  that  he,  who  calls  on  Heaven 
For  help  against  his  temporal  enemies. 
Then  with  most  cause  and  surest  hope  prefers 
His  supplication,  when  he  best  e.xerts 
The  prudence  and   the  strength  which  God  hath 
given  him. 

OLIVER. 

There  is  a  strength  in  patience  which  exceedeth 
All  other  power ;  a  prudence  in  the  Gospel 
Passing,  as  needs  it  must,  all  human  wisdom. 
That  Gospel  teaches  passiveness  and  peace. 

LEVERETT. 

Patience  he  needs.  Heaven  knows !  who  hath  to 

deal 
With  one  enamour'd  of  a  young  opinion. 
And  like  a  giddy  amorist  pursuing 
The  passionate  folly,  reckless  where  it  leads  him. 
Remember  that  you  come  not  here  to  teach : 
Remember  too,  that  something  like  respect 
Is  due  to  years,  and  something  to  experience  ; 
Some  deference  to  our  station  ;  some  attention — 
And  this  at  least  will  be  allow'd — to  one 
Who  at  all  hazards  has  approved  himself 
Thy  mother's  friend,  and  would  no  less  be  thine. 

Abash'd  at  that  reproof  severe 

Stood  Oliver,  unable  to  abate 

The  rising  glow  of  shame  that  firedf  his  cheek, 

Or  check  the  starting  tear. 

But  then  the  Governor's  eye  compassionate 

Even  in  reproof,  —  the  pause  he  interposed, — 

The  low  relenting  tone  wherein  he  closed 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE 


827 


His  stern  though  fit  authoritative  strain, 
Teniper'd  the  needful  pain. 

"  O  best  and  kindest  friend, 
O  friend  revered,  I  feel  and  own, 
Whether  I  spake  in  error  or  in  truth, 
That  thy  rebuke  is  just,"  replied  the  youth  : 
"  Forgive  me  !  and  no  more  will  I  offend  ; 
But  listen,  and  in  all  things,  that  I  may. 
Humbly  and  zealously  obey." 

LEVERETT. 

Hear  then,  and  patiently,  while  1  instruct  thee 

Of  things  as  yet  unchronicled  in  books, 

But  bearing  on  this  crisis,  and  the  knowledge 

Whereof  in  thine  adventure  will  be  found 

Specially  needful.     When  the  English  laid 

The  poor  foundations  of  our  colony, 

(For  poor  indeed  they  seem'd  ;  and  yet  I  ween 

In  happy  hour  a  corner-stone  was  placed 

That  ne'er  shall  be  removed  I)  they  found  the  land 

Contested  sotnctimes,  and  sometimes  possess'd 

In  captious  peace,  between  three  powerful  nations. 

Or  rather  families  of  tribes.     Omitting 

The  minor  distributions  (which  are  many 

And  barbarous  all),  suffice  it  to  name  these 

In  order  of  their  strength  ;  the  Pequods  first ; 

The  Narhagansets,  unto  whom  belong 

Thy  ransom'd  captives  ;  lastly,  the  Moheagans, 

Who  occupied  the  immediate  territory 

Whereon  our  sad  adventurers  set  foot. 

With  Massasoyt,  chief  Sachem  of  the  latter, 

A  league  was  made,  of  mutual  benefit ; 

For,  under  Providence,  his  only  friendship. 

In  the  first  hardships  of  the  settlement. 

Saved  them  alive  ;  and  their  alliance  proved 

A  shield  against  his  enemies.     This  being 

The  end  to  which  he  look'd,  who  was  a  man 

Advanced  in  years,  far-sighted,  honourable. 

And  of  a  spirit,  which,  if  he  had  sway'd 

An  European  sceptre,  might  have  blest 

The  people  over  whom  its  rule  extended. 

The  league  was  faithfully  on  both  sides  observed ; 

And  ere  his  death  the  old  man  solemnly 

Renew'd  it  for  his  sons,  who  for  themselves 

In  their  own  persons  ratified  the  engagement. 

But  men  and  times  were  changed,  when  the  elder 

youth 
Succeeded  to  his  sire  ;  for  the  Colonists, 
Now  well  acquainted  with  these  Indian  neighbours, 
Loath'd  their  unseemly  usages,  abhorr'd 
Their  most  incredible  cruelty,  despised 
Their  easy  ignorance,  —  and  practised  on  it. 
I  seek  not  to  conceal  our  own  offences : 
Compared  with  other  nations,  —  even  with  England, 
Such  as  corrupted  England  long  hath  been,  — 
We  are  a  sober,  yea,  a  righteous  people : 
But  Trade,  which  in  the  mother-land  is  one 
Of  many  wheels,  bearing  a  part  alone. 


And  that  too  but  subordinate,  in  the  movements 

Of  a  complicate  and  wonderful  machine, 

Is  in  our  simple  order  the  main-spring 

That  governs  all.     And  where  Trade  rules,  alas  ! 

Whatever  name  be  worsiiipji'd  in  the  temples. 

Mammon  receives  the  heart's  idolatry, 

And  is  the  god  of  the  land. 

Our  Indian  friends 
Too  soon  had  reason  to  abate  their  friendship  : 
And  politic  interests,  which  had  held  them  to  us, 

[Were  loosen'd,  when  they  saw  their  ancient  foes. 
The  dreaded  Pequods,  by  our  arms  pursued 
In  vigorous  war,  and  rooted  from  the  land. 
Till  the  name  alone  remain'd,  with  none  to  own  it. 
This  Alexander,  so  the  youth  was  called, 
Finding  that  check  removed,  and  being  also 
By  his  father's  death  set  free  from  all  control. 
Plotted  against  the  English,  in  resentment 
Partly,  no  doubt,  because  strict  pains  in  teaching 
(Less  wise  than  well  intended)  had  been  spent 
On  his  indocile  and  unwilling  spirit ; 
But  having  injuries  also  to  provoke 

]  A  haughty  courage.     Ere  his  schemes  were  ripe 

!  He  was,  on  sure  intelligence,  arrested  ; 

I  And  disappointed  malice,  joined  with  anger. 
Raising  a  fever  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

I  Deliver'd  him  from  our  restraint  by  death. 
He  left  a  brother,  who  inherited 
His  rights  and  wrongs,  —  that  Philip  who  is  now 

I  The  scourge  and  terror  of  the  colony. 

Think  not  that  these  were  names  imposed  in  bap- 
tism : 
j  Upon  that  point  the  heart  of  Massasoyt 
I  Was  harden'd  ;  and  his  sons,  like  him,  regarded 
I  With  mingled  hatred  and  contempt  a  faith 
They  failed  to  understand.     But  it  is  held 
A  mark  of  honour  to  bestow,  a  pledge 
Of  friendship  to  receive,  new  appellations; 
Which  here  too,  among  savages,  import 
Something  of  peerage,  of  deserved  esteem. 
Or  of  imputed  worth,  the  commonalty 
(Strange  as  such  custom  may  appear)  being  name- 
less. 
My  predecessor,  with  too  true  presage, 
Fix'd  on  these  names,  less  for  the  Christian  sound 
Which  use  hath  given  them,  than  because  he  saw 
In  the  one  youth  an  enterprising  temper, 
Ambitious  of  command  ;  and  in  the  other. 
More  to  be  fear'd,  a  deep  dissembling  spirit. 
Which,  if  the  time  required,  could  brook  its  wrongs. 
And  in  all  outward  patience  chew  the  while 
The  cud  of  bitter  thoughts.     He  being  yet  young. 
The  station,  which  his  sire  had  filled,  devolved 
Upon  a  chief,  who  was  alike  approved 
In  council  and  in  war  ;  the  right  remaining 
For  Philip  to  succeed  in  course  of  years, 
If  years  should  validate  the  acknowledged  claim 
Of  birthright ;  for  that  claim,  among  the  Indians, 
Is  held  defeasible  by  ill-desert. 


828 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    TALE 


During  this  lapse  of  time,  old  rivalries 
Revived  between  the  two  remaining  tribes ; 
Whom  ere  the  Pequods'  power  was  crush'd,  the 

sense 
Of  danger  from  that  common  enemy 
Restrain'd  in  peace.     Not  to  prolong  my  tale 
With  details  not  required  for  thy  instruction, 
The  sum  was  this,  that,  as  by  treaty  pledged 
And  justice  bound,  (for  the  right  cause  was  theirs, 
And  interest  also  led  us  to  uphold 
The  weaker  side,)  we  aided  the  Moheagans, 
Oar  first  allies  ;  and,  when  they  took  in  battle 
The  hostile  leader  Miantonnimo, 
He  suffer'd  death,  by  our  advice  and  sanction  ; 
Being  however,  at  our  instance,  spared 
From  all  those  customary  cruelties. 
Which  make  the  Indians  odious  in  the  sight 
Of  God  and  man.     Seem  I  to  speak  severely. 
Beyond  what  truth  or  Christian  charity 
May  warrant  ?     Soon,  my  friend,  thou  wilt  have 

cause 
To  give  that  sentence  thy  convinced  assent ; 
God  in  his  mercy  grant  thou  may'st  not  buy 
The  sad  conviction  dearly  ! 

For  awhile 
The  hatred  which  this  left  between  those  nations 
Was  our  security  ;  albeit  we  knew 
That,  in  the  offended  party,  the  desire 
Of  vengeance  would  outlive  the  gratitude 
Due  for  our  help,  from  those  whom  we  had  suc- 

cour'd. 
The  sense  of  injury  in  the  human  mind 
Is  like  a  drug  upon  the  offended  palate. 
Clinging  when  bitterest  most  abidingly  : 
The  benefits,  which  men  receive,  they  take 
Like  wholesome  food,  that  leaves  no  tang  behind  it. 

We  found  it  thus  :  for  now  these  Tribes,  foregoing 
Their  mutual  hatred,  as  of  lesser  moment, 
Have  leagued  against  us.     Philip  is  the  head 
Of  the  confederacy  :  his  crafty  brain 
Combines,  provides,  prepares  and  plans  the  mis- 
chief. 
And  yet  his  venomous  will  and  strong  desire 
Draw  him  to  this,  against  his  better  judgment, 
Fossess'd  not  more  with  wise  prudential  fear 
Than  with  a  strange  religious  awe,  so  weighty 
That,  politic  as  he  is,  he  hath  not  sought 
Even  from  his  own  people  to  conceal 
Its  dark  forebodings.     What  he  wants  in  hope 
His  new  ally  the  Narhaganset  Sachem 
Supplies  but  all  too  well :  for  this  Canonchet, 
Son  of  that  Miantonnimo  whose  death 
He  charges  on  our  counsels,  is  the  heart 
Of  the  league.     Insidious,  resolute,  inhuman  ; 
Brave,  both  in  passive  and  in  active  courage, 
Almost  beyond  belief;  implacable 
In  malice  ;  wily  as  a  snake  to  wind 
His  silent  way  unseen,  when  time  requires 
Concealment ;  furious  as  a  hungry  wolf. 


When  opportunity  allows  the  indulgence 

Of  his  fierce  hatred, — this  man  is  accomplish'd 

To  the  height  of  savage  virtue. 

Need  I  tell  thee, 
That,  as  in  civil,  so  in  barbarous  states. 
The  course  of  action  takes  its  bias  less 
From  meditation,  and  the  calm  resolve 
Of  wisdom,  than  from  accident  and  temper, 
Private  advantage  at  all  costs  pursued. 
Private  resentments  recklessly  indulged. 
The  humour,  will,  and  pleasure,  of  the  leaders. 
The  passions  and  the  madness  of  the  people. 
Under  all  climes,  and  in  all  forms  of  rule. 
Alike  the  one,  the  many,  or  the  few. 
Among  all  nations  of  whatever  tint. 
All  languages,  these  govern  every  where  ; 
The  difference  only  is  of  less  or  more. 
As  chance,  to  use  the  common  speech,  may  sway  ; 
In  wiser  words,  as  Providence  directs. 
The  bond  wherein  these  hostile  tribes  are  knit 
Against  us,  policy  cannot  imtie. 
Nor  the  sword  cut.     No  easy  conquest  ours. 
Such  as  the  Spaniards  found  in  Mexico, 
Or  Eldorado's  priestly  monarchies. 
Or  the  well-order'd  Incas'  rich  domains ; 
They  could  cope  there  with  multitudinous  hosts 
Drawn  forth  in  open  field,  and  kings  whose  will. 
Even  in  captivity,  was  through  the  realm 
Religiously  obey'd.     But  we  must  wage 
Wars  that  will  yield  the  soldier  neither  gold 
Nor  glory.     In  the  forest  and  the  swamp 
Have  we  to  seek  our  foes  ;  and  if  the  shield 
Of  the  good  Angel  be  not  over  us. 
On  all  sides  from  safe  cover  with  sure  aim 
The  death-shots  whiz,     Would  we   then  clear  the 

land. 
It  is  not  to  be  done  by  victories  ; 
But  head  by  head  must  they  be  hunted  down. 
Like  wolves  ;  a  work  of  danger  and  of  time  ; 
And  in  this  region  wild  of  endless  woods. 
Possible  only  to  the  inveterate  hatred 
Of  tribe  for  tribe.     We  tried  the  extremity — 
Inhuman  as  it  is — against  the  Pequods  ; 
And,  yyhh  the  ferine  help  of  such  allies. 
Pursued  it  to  the  end.     All  whom  the  sword 
Spared,  or  our  mercy  interposed  to  save 
From  torments,  to  the  Sugar  Isles  were  sold  ; 
And  in  the  daily  death  of  bondage  there 
The  race  hath  been  consumed.     But  what  hath  been 
The  issue  ?     Why,  the  tribes  which  aided  us 
To  root  them  out,  stand  on  the  hostile  part 
Against  us  now  the  more  audaciously, 
Because  they  feel  themselves  in  union  strong. 
And  see  us  in  the  land  without  allies. 
The  hope  thy  hazardous  adventure  offers 
Is  this,  that,  if  the  die,  whereon  thy  fate 
For  life  or  death  is  set,  fall  favourably. 
And  thou  shouldst  gain  access  among  the  elders. 
The  exasperate  mood,  which  would  too  surely  else 
Repel  our  proffer'd  terms  of  amnesty. 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE. 


829 


May  toward  thee  be  soften'd.     For  these  people 
Act  sometimes  upon  impulse,  like  thyself; 
A  generous  action  wins  them,  whom  no  fear 
Can  touch,  nor  pity  move  ;  and  they  will  trust, 
Like  dogs  and  children,  to  a  countenance, 
Wherein,  as  if  instinctively,  they  read 
Fair  testimonials  from  the  unerring  hand 
Of  Nature,  patent  there.     And  if  one  tribe, 
One  chief,  unto  thy  words  of  peace  incline 
A  willing  ear,  the  league  in  all  its  parts 
Will  feel  its  ill-compacted  strength  relax : 
Once  loosen'd,  it  dissolves. 

The  Governor 
Paused  then  ;  and  fixing  on  the  youth  a  look 
Benign  though  mournful,  "  Mark  me,  Oliver," 
He  said  ;  "  I  call  upon  thy  mother's  soul 
To  witness — if  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
Are  cognizant  of  what  is  done  below — 
That  I  have  sought  in  all  sincerity 
To  turn  thee  from  thy  purpose  !  If  the  event 
Be  fatal,  before  thee,  and  her,  and  Heaven, 
Shall  I  stand  unreproved  ;  and  with  my  sorrow 
No  self-reproach  will  mingle.     But  if  still 
Thy  purpose  holdeth  firm,  God  speed  thee  !   Go 
In  hope  !   I  would  not  that  my  words  should  prove 
A  load  to  weigh  thy  buoyant  spirit  down. 
It  may  be  thou  may'st  render  to  the  state 
Some  eminent  service  in  this  time  of  need. 
And  thus — 0  son  of  an  unhappy  house, 
Born  to  a  sad  inheritance  !  it  may  be. 
That  in  this  other  England,  this  new  world, 
Thou  may'st  recast  thy  fortunes  ;  may'st  acquire 
Such  honour  as  consists  with  peace  of  mind 
In  the  end  ;  and  for  thy  children's  children  gain 
In  this  good  land  a  goodly  heritage." 


VIII. 
PARTING  WORDS. 

Son  of  a  hapless  house  ! 
What  were  the  thoughts  which  then  within  thy 
breast. 
At  thy  true  friend's  concluding  words,  arose  ? 
Doth  that  quick  flush  disclose 
A  feeling  thou  hast  labour'd  to  control. 
And  hitherto  represt 
In  singleness  of  heart  and  strength  of  soul  ? 
A  light,  which  like  a  sudden  hope  might  seem. 
Kindled  his  cheek,  and  brighten'd  in  his  eye  : 
But  it  departed  like  a  gleam. 
That  for  a  moment  in  the  heavy  sky 
Is  open'd  when  the  storm  is  hurrying  by  ; 
And  then  his  countenance  resumed 
Ita  meek  serenity. 


Nor  did  that  sad  composure  change, 
When  of  the  gcnilc  maiden  Levcrett  spake. 
Whom  to  his  charge  her  mother's  dying  prayer 

In  Christian  confidence  consign'd. 
And  yet  it  was  a  theme  which  well  might  wake 
Oppugnant  feelings  in  his  inmost  mind  ; 
For  with  a  hope  upon  that  mother's  heari. 
Implied,  though  not  express'd,  the  solemn  care 
Was  given  ;  and  therefore  in  the  young  man's  heart 
Uneasily  it  lay. 
As  if  he  were  unjust, 
And  had  received  a  trust 
He  could  not,  must  not,  did  not  dare — 
And  yet  would  fain — repay. 

"  That  trust  I  could  not  choose  but  take,"  ho  said  ; 
"  And  all  that  I  stand  pledged  for  to  the  dead 
Is  soon  discharged  ;  it  will  not  from  my  way 
Detain  me  long,  nor  lead  me  far  astray." 

"  'Tis  but  the  easy  distance  of  a  day 

From  Hadley,"  quoth  the  Governor ;  and  he  spread 

A  map  before  them,  rudely  drawn,  wherein 

Wild  forests  stretching  far  and  wide  were  seen. 

Rivers  whose  inland  course  was  unexplored. 

And  infant  settlements,  as  yet  ill-stored. 

Few,  and  with  dreary  intervals  between. 

"  Here  in  the  vale  of  the  Connecticut," 

Said  Leverett,  "  Willboy's  allotment  lies  : 

A  part  from  our  immediate  enemies 

Remote,  and,  if  reliance  might  be  put 

On  distance,  safe.     From  hence  it  bears  due  west 

Some  five  day's  travel  through  the  woods  ;  and  now 

The  least  frequented  path  will  bo  the  best, 

That  thou  may'st  leave  behind  thee  on  the  left 

The  troubled  country.     Here  thou  see'st  it  south. 

About  these  creeks  and  inlets  and  the  mouth 

Of  Providence  river,  and  the  region  wide 

Of  lakes  and  swamps  in  woodland  interspersed, 

That  darkens  o'er  the  land  on  every  side. 

This  then  will  be  thy  course,  to  render  first 

The  damsel  to  her  father's  hands  ;  then  seek 

Thy  fortune  with  thine  Indian  company 

In  the  Narhaganset  lands.     If  it  fall  fair, 

Thou  wilt  among  their  people  leave  them  there. 

And  to  that  painful  interview  proceed, 

Which  of  thy  dearest  hope,  full  well  I  know. 

Must  undeceive  thee.     It  shall  be  my  care 

To  the  Connecticut  thy  way  to  speed  ; 

From  thence,  alas  !  I  can  but  follow  thee 

With  anxious  thoughts  in  spirit  and  in  prayer. 

But  I  will  suffer  no  ill  bodings  now : 

The  Lord  is  merciful,  and  thy  intent 

Is  righteous,  and  to  him  we  leave  the  event." 

Thus  having  ended,  to  the  board  he  led 
His  guest :  too  full  of  care  were  they 
For  appetite  or  easy  talk  that  day. 
"  This  caution  let  me  give  thee,"  Leverett  said, 
"  That  Willoby  is  a  high  old  Cavalier  !" 
"  Fear  not  lest  I  should  jar  upon  his  ear 


830                                     ANEWENGLANUTALE. 

With  ill-attuned  discourse,"  the  Youth  replied. 

Await  me,  fall  my  fortune  as  it  may, 

"  lie  bore  a  part,  a  brave  one  too,  I  hear, 

A  comfort  and  a  strength  it  is  to  know- 

In  those  unhappy  times,  and  may  look  back 

That  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

Upon  the  strife  with  passion  and  with  pride  : 

There  is  the  same  Heaven  over  me  on  high. 

My  soul  abhors  the  ill  deeds  on  either  side. 

Whereon  in  faith  to  fix  the  steady  eye  ; 

Even  if  it  had  not  cost  me  all  too  dear. 

The  same  access  for  prayer  ; 

Likelier  it  is  that  in  my  Father's  sight 

The  same  God,  always  present,  every  where  ; 

I  may  appear  degenerate,  and  excite 

And  if  no  home,  yet  every  where  the  bed 

Sorrow  or  sterner  notions  in  a  heart, 

Which  Earth  makes  ready  for  the  weary  head. 

The  which,  albeit  with  piety  imbued. 

Is  to  a  Christian  temper  unsubdued  : 

"  But  wherefore  should  I  talk  of  weariness 

But  this  too  I  can  bear.     Oh  what  a  strength 

Thus  early  in  the  day. 

For  sufferance  to  the  patient  soul  is  given 

And  when  the  morning  calls  me  on  my  way? 

When,  wholly  humbled,  it  iiath  placed  at  length 

In  brightness  and  in  beauty  hath  it  risen. 

Its  only  hope  in  Heaven." 

As  if  the  eternal  skies 

Approved  and  smiled  upon  our  enterprise  1 

"  Nay,"  answer'd  Leverett,  "  earth,  I  trust,  hath  yet 

Now  then  farewell !      That  wo  shall  meet  again. 

Good  hope  for  thee  in  store, 

True  friend  !  we  know  ;  but  whether  among  men 

One  day  with  fair  performance  to  be  crown'd  : 

Or  angels  who  can  tell  ?     It  is  not  ours 

For  one  who  doth  so  well  discharge  the  debt 

To  choose,  or  to  foresee  ; 

Of  filial  duty,  will  not  Heaven  fulfil 

Such  choice  or  foresight  would  but  ill  agree 

The  eternal  promise  which  it  made  of  yore  ? 

With  man's  imperfect  powers. 

Happy,  and  long,  I  trust,  thy  days  shall  be, 

Enough  for  him,  that  what  is  best  will  be." 

Here,  in  the  land  which  the  Lord  giveth  thee." 

And  then,  as  if  with  such  discursive  speech 

To  draw  his  mind  from  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

Did  Leverett  reach 

His  lifted  hand  towards  the  town  and  bay, 

Bright  in  the  morning  sunshine  as  they  lay 

Before  them  :  "  Is  it  not  a  goodly  land," 

IX. 

He  cried,  "  where  nought  is  wanting  that  may  bless 

The  heart  of  man  with  wholesome  happiness? 

Summer  subdues  not  here 

JOURNEY  THROUGH  THE  FOREST. 

To  sloth  the  dissolute  mind  ; 

Nor  doth  the  rigorous  year 

In  long  inaction  bind 

They  are  on  their  way,  and  they  have  enter'd  now 

His  ice-lock'd  arm  and  torpid  faculties. 

The  forest  that  from  earliest  time  hath  stood, 

But  changeful  skies 

By  human  culture  unsubdued. 

And  varying  seasons,  in  their  due  career, 

Strangelier  assorted  company 

Bring  forth  his  powers  ;  and  in  the  vigorous  frame 

Than  this,  which  through  that  ancient  wood 

The  human  spirit  thrives  and  ripens  here ! 

Their  solitary  course  pursued. 

Where  might  the  sober  mind. 

No  errant  knight  might  chance  to  see. 

Which  Heaven  with  temperate  desires  hath  blest. 

Wandering,  in  good  King  Arthur's  days. 

A  land  of  happier  promise  find  ? 

Through  Faery  or  Loegria  land. 

Where  might  a  good  man  fitlier  fix  his  rest? 

Where  most  adventures  were  at  hand. 

Where  better  might  he  choose  a  burial-place 

Liken'd  the  gentle  Annabel  might  be 

For  him  and  for  his  race  ? 

To  sweet  Serena,  ere  the  blatant  mouth 

Where  wiselier  plant  the  tree 

And  cankerous  tooth 

Of  his  posterity?" 

Had  with  their  venom  stain'd  her  harmless  youth. 

And  he  who  paced  beside  her  steed 

The  smile  wherewith  the  youth  received  his  speech 

Might  seem,  in  form,  and  strength,  and  manly 

Was  cold  and  feeble, —  one  in  which  the  heart 

grace. 

Too  plainly  had  no  part ; 

Like  Calidore,  when  he  had  laid  aside 

Constrain'd  it  came,  and  slowly  past  away. 

His  glorious  thoughts  and  martial  pride. 

"  Truly  thou  say'st,  0  friend  I" 

And,  as  a  shepherd,  in  the  sylvan  shade, 

He  said  ;  "  and  well  are  they 

Woo'd  Pastorella  for  his  bride, 

Who,  far  from  plagues  and  plots,  and  from  the  rage 

Contented  to  forego  for  her  the  meed 

Of  faction,  for  their  children  may  prepare 

Of  high  desert ;  and  with  true  love 

A  peaceful  heritage. 

How  largely  for  ambition  overpaid ! 

For  me,  if  other  end 

Such  Oliver  might  seem,  and  such  the  maid. 

A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE.                                     831 

But  lighter  hearts,  1  ween,  of  yore 

Then  first  perhaps  the  Virgin  thought 

The  errant  knights  and  damsels  bore, 

How  large  a  dower  of  love  and  faithfuhiess 

In  ages  when  the  shield  and  lance 

Her  gentle  spirit  could  have  brought 

Gave  law  through  all  the  realms  of  Old  Romance  ; 

A  kindred  heart  to  bless  ; 

Who  roam'd  at  hap,  or  on  adventure  bent, 

Herself  then  first  she  understood 

Searching  the  seas,  the  isles,  and  continent ; 

With  what  capacities  endued  ; 

When  they,  in  bovver,  in  hermitage,  and  hall, 

Then  first,  by  undeserved  neglect 

Were  welcomed  every  where  by  all, 

Roused  to  a  consciousness  of  self-respect. 

Or  underneath  the  greenwood  tree 

Felt  she  was  not  more  willing  to  be  won 

Took  up  their  inn  contentedly. 

Than  worthy  to  be  woo'd. 

For  in  that  pensive  maiden's  mien 

Had  they  from  such  disturbant  thoughts  been  free, 

Had  recent  sorrow  left  its  trace. 

It  had  been  sure  for  them 

And  plainly  too  might  there  be  seen 

A  gladsome  sight  to  see 

A  present  trouble  in  her  face : 

The  Indian  children,  with  what  glee 

She  fear'd  the  melancholy  meeting, 

They  breathed  their  native  air  of  liberty. 

When  grief  would  mar  her  father's  greeting ; 

Food  to  the  weary  man  with  toil  forespent 

And  hardly  less,  I  ween,  the  pain 

Not  more  refreshment  brings. 

With  which  she  soon  must  part 

Than  did  the  forest  breeze  upon  its  wings 

From  one  whose  image  would  remain 

To  these  true  younglings  of  the  wilderness: 

The  inmate  of  her  heart. 

A  happy  sight,  a  sight  of  hearts  content ! 

For  wishes,  from  herself  till  now  conceal'd — 

For  blithe  were  they 

Conceal'd,  if  not  represt — 

As  swallows,  wheeling  in  the  summer  sky 

And  thoughts,  to  which  the  will  had  not  consented. 

At  close  of  day  ; 

Forlornly  as  she  felt  them  now  reveal'd. 

As  insects,  when  on  high 

Her  secret  soul  unwillingly  confess'd. 

Their  mazy  dance  they  thread 

Unwillingly  repented : 

In  myriads  overhead. 

And  hopes,  that  had  arisen  she  scarce  knew  how, 

Where  sunbeams  through  the  thinner  foliage  gleam, 

Were  first  acknowledged  when  they  fail'd  her  now. 

Or  spin  in  rapid  circles  as  they  play. 

Where  winds  are  still. 

Think  not  that  Oliver  was  free 

Upon  the  surface  of  the  unrippled  stream : 

The  while  from  painful  sympathy : 

Yea,  gamesome  in  their  innocence  were  they 

What  more  had  he  required  his  lot  to  bless. 

As  lambs  in  fragrant  pasture,  at  their  will 

Than  in  the  depth  of  those  clear  eyes  was  seen — 

The  udder  when  to  press 

The  modest,  meek,  confiding  gentleness. 

They  run,  for  hunger  less 

That  soften'd  while  it  sanctified  her  mien ; 

Than  joy,  and  very  love  and  wantonness. 

Those  looks,  devoid  of  art, 

Nor  less  contentment  had  it  brought 

Whose  mild  intelligence  he  loved  to  meet ; 

To  see  what  change  benevolence  had  wrought 

The  voice,  that,  varying  still,  but  always  sweet. 

In  the  wild  Indian  mother,  whom  they  first 

Still  found  a  chord  responsive  in  his  heart  ? 

Had  seen,  her  spirit  strong 

If  ever  at  his  fate  he  half  repined, 

Madden'd  by  violence  of  wrong. 

If  ever  o'er  his  calm  and  constant  mind 

For  vengeance  in  her  inmost  soul, 

The  doTtbt,  tlie  trouble,  and  the  cloud,  were  brought, 

With  natural  but  with  ferine  rage,  athirst. 

'Twas  at  the  thought. 

That  soul  unhoped-for  kindness  had  subdued  : 

That  cruel  circumstance  two  souls  must  sever. 

Her  looks,  and  words,  and  actions,  now  combined. 

Whom  God,  he  surely  felt,  would  ek-e  have  join'd 

Express'd,  in  that  composure  of  the  mind 

for  ever. 

Which  unefiaceable  sorrow  had  left  behind, 

A  lively  ever-watchful  gratitude. 

Uneasy  now  became  perforce 

Oliver  seem'd  to  her  a  creature 

The  inevitable  intercourse, 

Less  of  this  earth  than  of  celestial  nature  , 

Too  grateful  heretofore  : 

And  Annabel  as  well 

Each  in  the  other  could  descry 

Had  won  from  her  a  love  like  veneration  ; 

The  tone  constrain'd,  the  alterd  eye. 

(So  goodness  on  the  gratefiil  heart  can  gain  ;) 

They  knew  that  each  to  each  could  seem 

Though  charms  of  European  tint  and  feature 

No  longer  as  of  yore  ; 

No  beauty  to  an  Indiaji  eye  convey. 

And  yet,  while  thus  estranged,  I  deem, 

Regarded  with  disdain. 

Each  loved  the  other  more. 

As  if  they  were  the  original  stamp  and  stain 

Hers  was  perhaps  the  saddest  heart ; 

Of  an  inferior  clay. 

His  the  more  forced  and  painful  part ; 

Proved  in  some  earlier,  inexpert  creation, 

A  sense  of  proper  rnaiden  pride 

And  then,  for  degradation, 

To  her  the  needful  strength  supplied. 

When  the  red  man  was  fashion'd,  put  away. 

832 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


Pamya  was  troubled  now,  for  she  liad  seen 
Their  alter'd  mien  ; 
Some  change  there  was,  she  knew  not  what,  nor 
why, 

Some  infelicity  ; 
Which  yet  she  might  descry 
Rose  not  from  wrath  nor  alienated  will ; 
For  in  their  converse  still 
The  tones  were  such  as  meet 
The  ear  of  love,  and  still 
The  smiles  they  interchanged,  though  sad,  were 
sweet : 
Yet  plainly  she  could  tell,  all  was  not  well. 
They  too  could  read  in  her  observant  eye 
Its  apprehension  and  its  sympathy  : 
And  surely  she,  had  but  her  speech  been  free. 
Had  prest,  how  earnestly  !  for  explanation. 
And  sought  to  bring  about 
The  full  and  perfect  reconciliation 
Dearly  desired  by  both,  she  did  not  doubt. 
Their  hearts  were  merciful  and  meek  she  knew, 

And  could  not  to  each  other  but  be  true  : 
But  on  her  tongue  the  curse  of  Babel  hung, 
And  when  the  eager  wish  her  breast  was  swelling. 
Eye-speaking  thoughts  were  all  she  could  impart. 
Intelligibly  telling 
The  deep  indwelling  yearnings  of  the  heart. 

Four  days  they  travell'd  through  the  endless  wood, 
Measuring  their  journey  still  to  reach  at  eve 
Some  settler's  home,  and  sure  of  their  receiving 
Such  hospitality,  sincere  though  rude, 
As  men  who  felt  no  want,  and  had  no  vice 
Of  chilling  avarice. 
In  their  plain  kindness  found  a  joy  in  giving. 
The  fifth  morn  rose,  and  with  the  morn  rose  they. 

That  they  might  reach  that  day 
Their  journey's  end  ;  and  through  the  forest  wide 
Did  they  their  weary  way 
Hold  on  from  early  dawn  till  eventide  ; 
But  ere  the  light  of  eve 
Began  to  fade,  their  guide. 
Accustomed  to  descry 
With  instantaneous  eye 
The  slightest  trace  of  man,  a  smoke  espied. 
Staining  a  little  space  of  open  sky : 
"  Yon  is  the  place  we  seek  ! "  he  said  ;  nor  knew 
What  a  cold  feeling,  at  the  words,  ran  through 
The  veins  of  Annabel,  and  Newman  too. 


If  that  dear  hope  which  served  so  long  to  cheer 

His  patient  labours  in  the  wilderness 

Had  wholly  been  fulfiU'd,  as  now  in  part  : 

After  so  many  storms  and  troubli^a  past. 

Here  had  the  faithful  partner  of  his  heart 

Rejoiced  to  reach  the  quiet  port  at  last. 


APPENDIX 


TO 


Oh,  what  a  happy  meeting  had  been  here, 
Willoby  thought,  in  anguish,  when  he  prest 
His  daughter  to  his  widow'd  breast ; 


OLIVER  NEWMAN. 


The  following  sketch  of  the  story  intended  to  be 
worked  out  in  this  poem  is,  with  the  exception  of 
those  passages  otherwise  appropriated  by  reTerences, 
drawn  from  very  brief  and  sometimes  contradictory 
notes  in  Mr.  Southey's  handwriting. 

In  the  published  letters  from  Mr.  Southey  to  Mr. 
W.  Taylor  of  Norwich,  there  is  a  passage,  written 
in  Jan.  1811,  which  records  the  earliest  germ  of  this 
poem  in  his  mind.  "  In  reviewing  Holmes's  Ameri- 
can Annals,  I  pointed  out  Philip's  war  as  the  proper 
subject  for  an  Anglo-American  Iliad.  I  have  now 
fallen  in  love  with  it  myself,  and  am  brooding  over 
it  with  the  full  intention  of  falling  to  work  as  soon  as 
Pelayo  is  completed.  The  main  interest  will  fi.x 
upon  Goffe,  the  regicide,  for  whom  I  invent  a  Qua- 
ker son,  a  new  character  you  will  allow  for  heroic 
poetry.  This  Oliver  Goife,  however,  is  to  be  the 
hero."  The  poem  itself  is  in  the  first  draught  called 
Oliver  Goffe. 

The  facts  relating  to  those  regicides  whose  fate  is 
alluded  to  in  the  poem  are  as  follow  :*  "  When  the  re- 
storation appeared  inevitable,  Colonel  Gofle,  with 
his  father-in-law.  Colonel  Whalley,  seeing  that  their 
life  was  in  danger,  left  the  kingdom,  and  arrived  in 
America  on  the  27th  of  July,  1660.  For  some  time 
they  resided  at  Cambridge,  four  miles  from  Boston 
attending  public  service,  and  being  received  with  re- 
spect and  hospitality  by  the  inhabitants.  But  when 
the  Act  of  Idemnity,  out  of  which  they  were  ex- 
pressly excepted,  arrived  at  Boston,  in  November, 
the  magistrates  withdrew  their  protection,  and 
Whalley  and  Goffe  retired  to  New  Haven.  Here  they 
were  forced  to  conceal  themselves,  and  eventually  to 
fly  to  a  retirement,  called  Hatchet's  Harbour,  in  the 
woods,  where  they  remained  two  nights,  til!  a  cave 
in  the  side  of  a  hill  was  prepared  to  conceal  them. 
To  this  hill  they  gave  the  name  of  Providence,  and 
remained  some  weeks  in  their  hiding-place,  sleeping, 

♦See  "Trial  of  Charles  Land  the  Reficides,"  in  Murray's 
Family  Library. 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE. 


833 


when  the  weather  was  tempestuous,  in  a  house  near 
it.  They  behaved  with  great  honour  to  their  friends  : 
and  when  Mr.  Davenport,  the  minister  of  New  Ha- 
ven, was  suspected  by  the  magistrates  of  concealing 
tliein,  they  went  publicly  to  the  deputy-governor  of 
New  Haven  to  offer  themselves  up ;  but  he  refused  to 
take  any  notice  of  them,  suffering  them  to  return 
again  to  tlic  woods.  The  pursuit  of  them  afterwards 
rela.xing,  they  remained  two  years  in  a  house  near 
Milford,  where  they  frequently  prayed  and  preached 
at  private  meetings  in  their  chamber;  till  the  king's 
commissioners  coming  to  Boston,  they  were  again 
driven  to  their  cave  in  the  woods.  Here  some  In- 
dians discovered  their  beds,  which  obliged  them  to 
seek  a  fresh  refuge :  and  they  went  to  Hadley,  100 
miles  distant,  where  they  were  received  by  Mr.  Rus- 
sell, the  minister,  and  remained  as  long  as  they  lived, 
very  few  persons  knowing  who  they  were.  Whnlley's 
death  took  place  about  1679.  They  confessed  that 
their  lives  were  "miserable,  and  constant  burdens  to 
them;"  especially  when  their  fanatical  hopes  of 
some  divine  vengeance  on  Charles  H.  and  his  ad- 
visers were  perpetually  disappointed.  The  fidelity 
and  affection  of  Goffe's  wife  to  her  husband  were 
remarkably  displayed  in  her  letters." 

While  they  were  at  Hadley  the  Indian  war  broke 
out,  which  was  particularly  disastrous  in  that  part 
of  the  colony.*  "  The  following  story  has  been  tra- 
ditionally conveyed  down  among  the  inhabitants  of 
Hadley.  In  the  course  of  Philip's  war,  which  in- 
volved almost  all  the  Indian  tribes  in  New  England, 
and  amongst  them  those  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
this  town,  the  inhabitants  thought  it  proper  to  ob- 
serve the  1st  of  September,  1675,  as  a  day  of  fasting 
and  prayer.  While  they  were  in  the  church,  and 
employed  in  their  worship,  they  were  surprised  by 
a  band  of  savages.  The  people  instantly  betook 
themselves  to  their  arms,  which,  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  times,  they  had  carried  with  them  to 
the  church,  and,  rushing  out  of  the  house,  attacked 
their  invaders.  The  panic  under  which  they  began 
the  conflict  was,  however,  so  great,  and  their  num- 
ber w-as  so  disproportioncd  to  that  of  their  enemies, 
that  they  fought  doubtfully  at  first,  and  in  a  short 
time  began  evidently  to  give  way.  At  this  time  an 
ancient  man,  with  houry  locks,  of  a  most  venerable 
and  dignified  aspect,  and  in  a  dress  widely  differing 
from  that  of  the  inhabitants,  appeared  suddenly  at 
their  head,  and  with  a  firm  voice,  and  an  example  of 
undaunted  resolution,  reanimated  their  spirits — led 
them  again  to  the  conflict — and  totally  routed  the 
savages.  When  the  battle  was  ended,  the  stranger 
suddenly  disappeared  ;  and  no  person  knew  whence 
he  had  come,  or  whither  he  had  gone.  The  relief 
was  so  timely,  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  and  so 
providential ;  the  appearance  and  the  retreat  of  him 
who  furnished  it,  were  so  unaccountable,  his  person 
was  no  dignified  and  commanding,  his  resolution  so 
superior,  and  his  interference  so  decisive,  that  the 
inhabitants,  without  any  uncommon  exertion  of  cre- 
dulity, readily  believed  him  to  be  an  angel  sent  by 
Heaven  for  their  preservation.  Nor  was  this  opin- 
ion seriously  controverted  until  it  was  discovered, 
several  years  afterwards,  that  Goffe  and  Whalley  had 
been  lodged  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Russell.    Then  it 

*  Dwighls  Travels  in  New  England,  vol  i.  p.  317.  London.  1823. 


was  known  that  their  deliverer  was  Goffc,  Whalley 
having  become  superannuated  some  time  before  the 
event  took  place."  The  latter  part  of  Goffe's  life 
seems  not  to  be  known  with  certainty.  Dwight  says 
immediately  before  the  passage  above  quoted,  "After 
Whalley's  death,  Goffe  quitted  Hadley,  went  into 
Connecticut,  and  afterwards,  according  to  tradition, 
to  the  neighbourhood  of  New  York.  Here  he  is 
said  to  have  lived  some  time,  and,  the  better  to  dis- 
guise himself,  to  have  carried  vegetables  at  times  to 
market.  It  is  said  that  having  been  discovered  here, 
he  retired  secretly  to  the  colony  of  Rhode  Island, 
and  there  lived  with  a  son  of  Whalley  during  the 
remainder  of  his  life." 

Goffe's  was  a  divided  family — one  of  his  bro- 
thers being  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England, 
while  another  was  become  a  Roman  Catholic  priest. 
To  this  division  allusion  is  made  in  Leverett's  con- 
versation with  Oliver.  Of  the  other  persons  intro- 
duced, the  following  are  historical :  Leverett  the 
governor,  who  succeeded  Bellingham,  in  1673;  he 
had  been  a  Cromvvcllian,  and  is  sobered  into  a  ra- 
tional Conformist ;  he  knew  where  the  regicides 
were,  and  connived  at  their  concealment,  as  he  is 
represented  doing  in  the  poem :  and  Randolph,  of 
whom  the  people  of  New  England  said  "  that  he 
went  up  and  down  to  devour  them."  Also  the 
names  of  the  Indian  chieftains,  and  the  general  ac- 
count of  the  war,  are  matter  of  history. 

The  hero  Oliver  himself  is  therefore  a  purely  im- 
aginary character:  he  was  originally  intended  to  be 
a  Quaker;  but  it  would  appear  that  the  author  after- 
wards considered  that  the  noble  points  of  character 
and  of  principle  intended  to  be  exhibited — viz.  zeal 
for  the  Christian  faith,  inflexible  truth,  peacefulness, 
and  endurance — were  not  exclusively  belonging  to 
that  sect  whose  operations  and  whose  sufferings  in 
New  England  he  had  been  contemplating ;  and  at 
the  same  time,  that  some  features  of  iheir  character 
were  both  unmanageable  in  poetry  and  distasteful  to 
his  own  mind.  There  was  also  another  reason  for 
the  alteration,  namely,  that  he  found  it  necessary  for 
his  plot,  that,  at  least  in  one  instance,  Oliver's  usual 
mode  of  conduct  should  bend  to  circutnstances  ;  and 
such  a  compliance  would  be  morally,  and  therefore 
poetically,  probable  in  a  person  swayed  only  by  a 
reasonable  principle,  but  not  so  in  one  governed  by 
an  absolute  rule  of  life.  The  following  notes  will 
explain  the  intended  bearing  of  this  character  upon 
the  sioi-y. 

1811.  "A  son  of  Goffe,  a  Quaker,  gone  after  his 
mother's  death  to  seek  his  father.  He,  by  convert- 
ing one  of  the  principal  Sacheins,  weakens  Meta- 
com's  party  so  materially  as  to  decide  the  contest ; 
and  with  that  Sachem  he  retires  into  the  interior. 
He  and  his  father  are  discovered,  and  he  will  not  lift 
his  hand  in  defence.  A  party  of  Indians  take  them 
all,  he  still  passive ;  hence  his  influence  begins  with 
their  astonishment."  "The  points  on  which  Oli- 
ver's Quakerism  is  put  to  the  test  are,  in  not  deny- 
ing his  father's  name,  and  in  not  lifting  a  hand  to 
defend  him." 

1814.  "Oliver  must  be  so  far  instrumental  in  ter- 
minating the  war  as  to  obtain  security  for  his  father; 
and  this  instrumentality  must  be  effected  wholly  by 
means  conformable  to  his  peculiar  opinions.  But 
those  opinions  must  yield  where  they  are  wrong." 


834 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE 


Imperfectly  as  the  latter  part  of  the  story  can  be 
ascertained,  it  has  been  thought  better  to  sketch  it 
out,  however  rudely,  from  the  author's  hints,  than 
to  leave  an  entire  blank. 

X.  Oliver  at  Willoby's  House. 

They  remain  awhile  at  Willoby's,  that  Pamya  may 
be  their  protection.  When  some  Indians  appear, 
she  goes  out,  and  finds  among  a  party  of  Indians 
one  of  her  own  tribe.  After  her  story,  the  calumet 
is  smoked,  and  the  door  of  Willoby's  house  painted 
with  marks  indicating  that  it  was  under  their  pro- 
tection. Then  they  venture  to  depart.  A  sort  of 
half-confidence  has  first  been  made  to  Willoby  in 
consequence  of  his  wife's  letter,  and  a  sort  of  half- 
engagement  formed.  Willoby  had  known  one  of  the 
Goffes.  His  moral  reasons  for  leaving  England, — 
on  account  of  his  sons,  seeing  the  character  of  the 
times,  and  that  all  that  we  pray  in  the  Litany  to  be 
delivered  from,  was  come  upon  the  country — blind- 
ness of  heart,  pride,  vain-glory  and  hypocrisy,  envy, 
hatred  and  malice,  false  doctrine,  heresy  and  schism, 
sedition,  privy  conspiracy,  and  rebellion,  &c. 

XI.  The  Wounded  Indian. 

Oliver  journeying  with  Pamya  and  her  children 
through  the  forest,  finds  a  wounded  Indian,  by  whom 
they  stay  till  a  party  of  his  countrymen  see  them. 
This  is  the  Mohawk,  whom  Philip  had  meant  to  kill, 
and  not  scalped,  to  create  a  belief  that  he  had  been 
killed  by  the  English.  (An  historical  fact,  and  re- 
presented as  not  of  unfrequent  occurrence.)  Many 
hints  for  forest  scenery,  which  are  noted  down, 
would  probably  belong  to  this  canto.  At  night  Oli- 
ver is  seen  reading  by  firelight  in  the  wood. 

XII.  Whalley'sbody. 

The  Indians  conduct  the  party  to  their  Sachem  : 
on  the  way  they  meet  with  Whalley's  body  being  con- 
veyed somewhere  for  interment.  Oliver  knows  it 
by  a  mutilated  hand.  Likeness  of  Whalley  to  his 
daughter  [Oliver's  mother];  that  family  character  of 
face  which  the  infant  brings  into  the  world,  and  into 
which  the  countenance  settles  in  old  age,  when  the 
cl'.aracter  which  individual  pursuits  and  passions 
have  induced  fades  away,  and  the  natural  linea- 
ments recover  their  primary  cast.  The  death  of 
Whalley  sets  Goffe  at  liberty.  They  reach  the  en- 
cainpment  of  Indians,  and  Pamya  is  restored  to  her 
own  friends,  the  Narhagansets. 

XIII.  The  Affair  of  Hadley. 

A  renegade  (in  one  place  named  Joshua  Tift,  the 
English  savage  and  traitor,)  being  among  the  In- 
dians, calls  Oliver  a  spy,  insults  and  strikes  him. 
This  Oliver  endures  patiently,  making  no  retalia- 
tion. This  fellow  relates  the  alFair  of  Hadley,  "the 
most  disastrous  day  that  ever  befell  New  England," 
and  especially  the  marvellous  apparition  of  one  dur- 
ing the  conflict,  who  was  really  GofFe,  Oliver's  fa- 
ther. 

XIV.  Reasoning  with  the  Sachems. 

The  interest  of  this  scene  is  to  turn  chiefly  upon 
two  points  :  the  effect  for  good  which  Oliver's  words 
have  upon   an  old  Indian  chief,  who  has  formerly 


been  impressed  by  Eliot  or  R.  Williams,  and  who 
now  puts  himself  under  Oliver's  guidance.  This 
man  belongs  to  the  tribe  of  Sakanets,  who  are  pro- 
bably connected  with  the  Narhaganset  stock.  It 
would  have  been  contrary  to  history  to  make  the 
Narhaganset  chieftain  himself  influenced  at  this 
time  by  Oliver.  The  other  point  is,  the  peculiar 
character  of  Philip,  composed  of  hatred  and  vindic- 
tiveness  against  the  English,  united  with  gloomy 
forebodings  about  the  issue  of  the  war. 

These  may  be  some  of  his  words,  or  rather  the 
more  hopeful  Canonchet's : 

The  forest  and  the  swamp  are  our  allies ; 

Have  we  not  with  these  giants  of  the  wood 
A  sacred  iminemorial  brotherhood  ? 

The  land  itself  will  aid  her  proper  children. 

XV.  Oliver  reaches  his  Father. 

When  Oliver  mentions  the  wilderness,  Goffe  re- 
plies, it  is  not  there  that  he  must  prepare  the  way 
of  the  Lord,  but  in  the  streets  of  London. 

XVI.  The  Arrest. 

A  party  sent  by  Randolph,  with  Willoby  the  cava- 
lier at  their  head,  surprise  them. — Willoby  offers  to 
let  them  go,  if  Oliver  will  declare  that  this  person  is 
not  Goffe.     Meeting  with  Randolph. 

XVII.  Rescue. 

The  whole  party  are  surprised  by  the  Sakonets. — 
Goffe  and  Willoby  escape.— Randolph  and  Oliver  are 
taken,  and  carried  to  the  encampment  of  the  Sachems. 
— Oliver  is  recognized  and  welcomed.— Randolph  is 
to  be  burnt,  but  Oliver  obtains  his  life  and  safe  dis- 
mission :  they  separate. 

XVIII.  Defeat  of  the  Indians. 

Goffe  meanwhile  has  rallied  some  stragglers,  who 
attack  and  defeat  the  Sakonet  party,  and  take  some; 
for  whom  Oliver  intercedes,  engaging  for  them  that 
they  shall  commit  no  more  hostilities. — He  then  goes 
with  these  Indians  to  negotiate  with  their  tribe. 

XIX.  Annabel  a  Prisoner. 

While  this  discussion  is  going  on,  Annabel  is 
brought  in  a  prisoner  by  the  renegade :  in  the  dis- 
pute which  ensues,  Oliver  kills  him.  This  is  the 
point  in  which  Oliver's  passiveness  is  to  give  way  to 
a  just  wrath.  Before  he  knocks  out  the  fellow's 
brains  he  stands  "  trembling,  but  not  with  fear." 

XX.  Peace. 

The  Sakonet  tribe  make  peace  with  the  English ; 
Oliver  going  with  the  chiefs  to  the  English  head- 
quarters to  sign  it. — The  Mohawk,  whom  he  had 
saved  in  the  forest,  meets  him  there,  at  the  head  of 
his  party. 

XXI.  Death  of  Philip. 

Oliver's  services  are  now  clearly  seen. — Randolph 
solicits  for  him  a  grant  of  land. — Willoby  gives  iiim 
his  daughter,  and  Russell  marries  them. — Pamya's 
children  baptized. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETICAL   REMAINS 


S3j 


ifHIf^erUantoufS  Dortital  IXtmainn* 


FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS 

OCCASIONED    BY    HIS    SON'S   DEATH.* 

Thy  life  was  a  day,  and  sum  it  well,  life  is  but  a 
week  of  such  days, — with  how  much  storm,  and 
cold,  and  darkness  !  Thine  was  a  sweet  spring  holy- 
day, — a  vernal  Sabbath,  all  sunshine,  hope,  and 
promise. 


and  that  name 
In  sacred  silence  buried,  which  was  still 
At  mom  and  eve  the  never-wearying  theme 
Of  dear  discourse. 


playful  thoughts 
Tum'd  now  to  gall  and  esel. 


He  to  whom  Heaven  in  mercy  hath  assign'd 
Life's  wholesome  wormwood,  fears  no  bitterness 
when 
From  th'  hand  of  Death  he  drinks  the  Amreeta  cup. 


Beauties  of  nature, — the  passion  of  my  youth. 
Nursed  up  and  ripen'd  to  a  settled  love. 
Whereto  my  heart  is  wedded. 


Feeling  at  Westminster,  when  summer  evening 
sent  a  sadness  to  my  heart,  and  I  sate  pining  for 
green  fields,  and  banks  of  flowers,  and  running 
streams,— or  dreaming  of  Avon  and  her  rocks  and 
woods. 


No  more  great  attempts,  only  a  few  autumnal 
flowers,  like  second  primroses,  &c. 


They  who  look  for  mc  in  our  Father's  kingdom 
Will  look  for  Him  also  ;  inseparably 
Shall  we  be  so  remembered. 


»  Letter  to  Mr.  W.  Taylor,  March,  1817.  "  I  have  begun  a 
desultory  poem  in  blank  verse,  pitched  in  a  higher  key  than 
Cowppr'g,  ami  in  a  wl^er  strain  of  philosophy  than  Vo■ln^'^ ;  but 
as  yet  I  have  not  recovered  heart  enough  to  proceed  with  it ; 
nor  is  it  likely  that  it  will  be  published  during  my  life." 


The  Grave  the  house  of  Hope  : 
It  is  the  haven  whither  we  are  bound 
On  the  rough  sea  of  life,  and  thence  she  lands 
In  her  own  country,  on  the  immortal  shore. 


Come,  then, 
Pain  and  infirmity  —  appointed  guests, 
My  heart  is  ready. 


3Iy  soul 
Needed  perhaps  a  longer  discipline. 
Or  sorer  penance,  here. 


A  respite  something  like  repose  is  gain'd 
While  I  invoke  them,  and  the  troubled  tide 
Of  feeling,  for  a  while  allay'd,  obeys 
A  tranquillizing  influence,  that  might  seem 
By  some  benign  intelligence  dispensed, 
Who  lends  an  ear  to  man. 

They  are  not,  though, 
Mere  unrealities  :  rather,  I  ween. 
The  ancient  Poets,  in  the  graceful  garb 
Of  fiction,  have  transmitted  earliest  truths, 
111  understood  ;  adorning,  as  they  deem'd, 
With  mythic  tales  things  erringly  received, 
And  mingling  with  primeval  verities 
Their  own  devices  vain.     For  what  to  us 
Scripture  assures,  by  searching  proof  confirm'd. 
And  inward  certainty  of  sober  Faith, 
Tradition  unto  them  deliver'd  down 
Changed  and  corrupted  in  the  course  of  time. 
And  haply  also  by  delusive  art 
Of  Evil  Powers. 


SHORT  PASSAGES  OF   SCRIPTURE, 

RHYTHMICALLY    ARRANGED    OR    PARAPHRASED. 
JeREM.  VI.   4. 

Woe  unto  us! 
For  the  day  goeth  down. 
For  the  shadows  of  evening 
Are  lengthen'd  out. 


Jer.  IX.  23- 

Lct  not  the  wise  man  glory  in  his  wisdom, 
Let  not  the  rich  man  glory  in  his  riches, 


836 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETICAL   REMAINS, 


Let  not  the  mighty  glory  in  his  might, 
But  in  only  this  let  him  that  glorieth,  glory, 
That  he  knoweth  the  Lord,  the  Lord  of  infinite 
mercy. 
Who  exerciseth  on  the  earth 
His  loving-kindness  and  his  righteousness. 


Jer.  xni.  16. 

Give  glory  to  the  Lord  your  God  ! 
Lest,  while  ye  look  for  light. 
He  bring  the  darkness  on, 
And  the  feet  that  advanced 
With  haughty  step. 
Marching  astray  in  their  pride. 
Stumble  and  fail 
In  the  shadow^  of  death. 


Jer.  XLVii.  6,  7. 

Sword  of  the  Lord  !  how  long 
Ere  thou  be  quiet  ?     O  thou  sword,  how  longl 
Put  up  thyself 
Into  thy  scabbard. 
Rest  and  be  still. 


Jer.  xlix.  7. 

From  the  prudent  hath  counsel  departed  ? 
Is  wisdom  no  more  in  the  land  ? 
Hath  it  utterly  perish'd  ? 
Is  it  vanish'd  and  gone  ? 


Jer.  l.  25. 

.  .  .  the  Lord 
Open'd  his  armoury,  and  brought  forth 
The  weapons  of  his  wrath. 


Jer.  l.  15. 

Ye  nations,  shout  against  her  round  about ; 

Take  vengeance  upon  her. 

It  is  the  vengeance  of  the  Lord, 

As  she  hath  done,  do  unto  her. 


Luke,  nr.  5. 

When  every  valley  shall  be  filled, 

And  every  mountain  be  brought  low ; 

The  crooked  be  made  straight. 

The  rough  ways  smooth. 


Lamentations,  hi.  44. 

The  Lord 
Covered  himself  with  a  cloud, 
That  the  prayer  should  not  pass  through. 


HosEA,  X.  12,  13. 

Break  up  your  fallow-ground. 
Sow  to  yourselves  in  righteousness,  and  reap 
In  mercy ;  it  is  time  to  seek  the  Lord. 
Ye  have  plough'd  wickedness,  and  ye  have  reap'd 
Iniquity :  the  fruit  of  lies  hath  been 
Your  harvest  and  your  food. 


Daniel,  ix.  7,  8,  9.  18. 

To  Thee  belongeth  righteousness,  0  Lord ! 
Confusion  and  shame  to  us  ; 
To  our  kings  and  our  princes. 
Our  priests  and  our  rulers. 
Ourselves  and  our  children. 
Because  we  have  sinned  against  Thee. 


But  mercies  and  forgivenesses  belong 
To  Thee,  0  Lord  our  God, 
Rebellious  though  we  be. 


Incline  thine  ear,  and  hear ; 
Open  thine  eyes,  and  pitifully  see 
Our  sins,  our  miseries, 
The  impending  punishment. 
Too  long,  too  much  deserved. 


Amos,  v.  8. 

Who  calleth  for  the  waters  of  the  sea, 

And  poureth  them  in  seasonable  rain 

Upon  the  face  of  earth. 


NAHtTM,  I.  3 8. 

The  Lord  hath  his  way  in  the  whirlwind. 
The  Lord  hath  his  way  in  the  storm. 
The  clouds  are  the  dust  of  his  feet. 
And  darkness  shall  pursue  his  enemies, 


Nahttm,  m.  15.  17. 

There  shall  the  fire  devour  thee, 
The  sword  shall  cut  thee  off. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POETICAL  REMAINS 


837 


Make  thyself  many  as  the  canker-worm, 

As  the  locusts  make  thyself  many. 

Thou  hast  multiplied  thy  merchants 

Above  the  stars  of  heaven  ! 

But  the  canker-worm  spoileth. 

Then  flieeth  away. 

And  his  place  is  not  found. 


1  Kings,  viii.  23.  27.  30. 

Lord  God  of  Israel ! 
There  is  no  God  like  Thee, 
In  heaven  above,  or  on  the  earth  beneath. 

Who  keepest  covenant 
And  mercy  with  thy  servants,  when  with  all 
Their  heart  they  walk  before  Thee. 


....  will  God  indeed 
Dwell  on  the  earth  ?  Behold,  the  heaven,  and 

heaven 
Of  heavens,  cannot  contain  Thee  ;  how  much  less 
This  house  that  man  hath  builded  ! 


He  laycth  it  low  to  the  ground, 
He  bringeth  it  down  to  tlie  dust : 

The  foot  shall  tread  it  down. 
The  feet  of  the  poor  and  the  needy. 


In  the  way  of  thy  judgments, 
O  Lord,  have  we  waited  for  thee. 


Isaiah,  xxviii.  15.  17,  18. 

They  have  made  lies  their  refuge, 
And  under  falsehood  have  they  hid  themselves  ; 
Their  covenant  is  with  death,  with  hell 
The  agreement  wherein  they  trust. 
O  fools  !  O  miserables  ! 
The  covenant  shall  be  annull'd, 
The  agreement  shall  not  stand. 
By  the  storm  shall  their  refuge  be  swept  away, 
Their  hiding-place 
By  the  flood  be  overflown. 


....  hear  Thou  in  heaven,  thy  dwelling  place  ; 
And  when  Thou  hearest,  0  Lord  God,  forgive ! 


Isaiah,  xxv.  1.  4.  7. 
Thy  counsels,  Lord,  of  old, 
Are  feithfulness  and  truth. 


A  strength  to  the  weak  hast  thou  been, 

A  help  to  the  poor  in  his  need, 

A  refuge  from  the  storm, 

A  shadow  from  the  heat. 


Isaiah,  xxviii.  16. 

In  Zion  the  foundation  hath  been  laid, 
A  precious  corner-stone,  a  sure  foundation. 


Isaiah,  xxxi.  3. 

When  the  Lord  shall  put  forth  his  anger, 
Then  both  he  that  helpeth  shall  fall,  and  he  that 
holpen. 


The  covering  that  is  cast 
Over  all  people  shall  be  then  removed. 
And  the  veil  that  is  spread 
Over  all  nations  be  taken  away. 


Isaiah,  xxvi.  3.  5.  8. 

Thou  wilt  keep  him  in  perfect  peace 
Whose  mind  is  staid  on  Thee. 


He  bringeth  down  them  that  dwell  on  high  ; 
The  lofty  city  he  layeth  it  low. 


Isaiah,  lvii.  1. 

The  righteous  perisheth. 

And  none  layeth  it  to  heart ! 

The  merciful  man 

Is  taken  away 

From  the  evil  to  come. 


EzEKIEL,  VII.  5,  6,  7.   12. 

An  evil,  an  only  evil. 
Behold,  is  come  !  an  end 
Is  come, — the  end  is  come  ! 
It  watcheth  for  thee,  behold  it  is  come. 
The  time  of  trouble  is  near. 
The  morning  is  gone  forth  ; 
Behold  the  day  is  come. 
Let  not  the  buyer  rejoice. 
Nor  let  the  seller  nioiirn, 
For  wrath,  the  wrath  of  God, 
Is  upon  all  the  multitudes  thereof. 


838 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETICAL   REMAINS 


EZEKIEL,  XXTI.   7,  8.    14. 


In  thee  have  they  set  light 
By  venerable  age. 
By  natural  piety. 
In  thee  God's  holy  things  have  they  despised, 
God's  sabbaths  have  profaned. 
Oh  can  thine  heart  endure. 
Or  can  thine  hand  be  strong, 
When  God  shall  deal  with  thee  ? 


When  those  feelings,  and  that  race, 
Have  in  course  of  time  given  place. 
Little  worth,  and  little  prized. 
Disregarded  or  despised, 
Thou  wilt  then  be  bought  and  sold. 
In  thy  faded  green  and  gold. 
Then,  unless  some  curious  eye 
Thee  upon  the  shelf  should  spy, 
Dust  will  gather  on  thee  there. 
And  the  worms,  that  never  spare. 
Feed  their  fill  within,  and  hide. 
Burrowing  safely  in  thy  side. 
Till  transfigured  out  they  come 
From  that  emblem  of  the  tomb  : 
Or,  by  mould  and  damp  consumed. 
Thou  to  perish  may'st  be  doom'd. 


LITTLE  BOOK,  IN  GREEN  AND  GOLD. 

Little  Book,  in  green  and  gold. 
Thou  art  thus  bedight  to  hold 
Robert  Southey'§  Album  rhymes. 
Wrung  from  him  in  busy  times  : 
Not  a  few  to  his  vexation. 
By  importune  application  ; 
Some  in  half-sarcastic  strain, 
More  against  than  with  the  grain  ; 
Other  some,  he  must  confess. 
Bubbles  blown  in  idleness  ; 
Some  in  earnest,  some  in  jest. 
Good  for  little  at  the  best : 
Yet  because  his  daughter  dear 
Would  collect  them  fondly  here, 
Little  Book,  in  gold  and  green, 
Thou  art  not  unfitly  seen 
Thus  apparell'd  for  her  pleasure, 
Like  the  casket  of  a  treasure. 
Other  owner,  well  I  know, 
Never  more  can  prize  thee  so. 

Little  Book,  when  thou  art  old. 

Time  will  dim  thy  green  and  gold. 

Little  Book,  thou  wilt  outlive 

The  pleasure  thou  wert  made  to  give : 

Dear  domestic  recollections, 

Home-born  loves,  and  old  aflfections. 

Incommunicable  they  : 

And  when  these  have  passed  away. 

As  perforce  they  must,  from  earth. 

Where  is  then  thy  former  worth  1 

Other  value,  then,  I  ween. 

Little  Book,  may  supervene. 

Happily  if  unto  some 

Thou  in  due  descent  shouldst  come, 

Who  would  something  find  in  thee 

Like  a  relic's  sanctity, 

And  in  whom  thou  may'st  awike, 

For  thy  ftrmer  ownei-'s  sake, 

A  pious  thought,  a  natural  sigh, 

A  feeling  of  mortality. 


But  if  some  collector  find  thee, 
He  will,  as  a  prize,  re-bind  thee  ; 
And  thou  may'st  again  be  seen 
Gayly  drest  in  gold  and  green. 

9th  Septemher,  1831. 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    ALBUM    OF 
ROTHA  Q. 

RoTHA,  after  long  delays. 

Since  thy  book  must  cross  the  Raise, 

Down  I  sit  to  turn  a  stave. 

Be  it  gay  or  be  it  grave. 

Wiser  wish  than  what  thy  name 
Prompts  for  thee  I  cannot  frame  ; 
Nowhere  find  a  better  theme 
Than  thy  native  namesake  stream. 
Lovelier  river  is  their  none 
Underneath  an  English  sun  ; 
From  its  source  it  issues  bright 
Upon  hoar  Hellvellyn's  height, 
Flowing  where  its  summer  voice 
Makes  the  mountain  herds  rejoice  ; 
Down  the  dale  it  issues  then ; 
Not  polluted  there  by  men  ; 
While  its  lucid  waters  take 
Their  pastoral  course  from  lake  to  lake. 
Please  the  eye  in  every  part. 
Lull  the  ear  and  soothe  the  heart, 
Till  into  Windermere  sedate 
They  flow  and  uncontaminate. 

Rotha,  such  from  youth  to  age 
Be  thy  mortal  pilgrimage  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETICAL   REMAINS. 


839 


Thus  in  childhood  blithe  and  free. 
Thus  in  thy  maturity. 
Blest  and  blessing,  may  it  be  ; 
And  a  course  in  welfare  past. 
Thus  serenely  close  at  last. 


IMAGINATION  AND  REALITY. 

The  hill  was  in  the  sunshine  gay  and  green, 

The  vale  below  could  not  be  seen  ; 

A  cloud  hung  over  it, 

A  thin  white  cloud,  that  scarce  was  seen  to  fly, 

So  slowly  did  it  flit ; 

Yet  cloud  methinks  I  err  in  calling  it. 

It  spread  so  evenly  along  the  sky. 

It  gave  the  hills  beyond  a  hue 

So  beautiful  and  blue. 

That  I  stood  loitering  for  the  view : 

Loitering  and  musing  thoughtfully  stood  I, 

For  well  those  hills  I  knew. 

And  many  a  time  had  travell'd  them  all  o'er ; 

Yet  now  such  change  the   hazy  air  had    wrought, 

That  I  could  well  have  thought 

I  never  had  beheld  the  scene  before. 

But  while  I  gazed  the  cloud  was  passing  by  ; 

On  the  slow  air  it  slowly  travell'd  on, 

Eftsoon  and  that  deceitful  haze  was  gone, 

Which  had  beguiled  me  with  its  mockery ; 

And  all  things  seem'd  again  the  things  they  were. 

Alas!  but  then  they  were  not  half  so  fair 

As  I  had  shaped  them  in  the  hazy  air ! 


MADRIGAL, 

TRANSLATED  FROM  LUIS  MARTIN. 

iThis  poem  is  selected  for  publication  from  a  small  volume  of 
translations,  because,  having  been  printeil  before  in  a  newspaper, 
It  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  D'Israeli.  who  has  in.serted  it  in 
the  "Curiositiei  of  Literature,"  as  a  beautiful  specimen  of  a 
kind  of  extravagance  characteristic  of  Spanish  poetry.  It  seem- 
ed, therefore,  worth  while  to  place  it  among  the  poems  of  tho 
Translntor.] 

On  the  green  margin  of  the  land. 

Where  Guadalhorce  winds  his  way. 

My  Lady  lay. 
With  golden  key  Sleep's  gentle  hand 

Had  closed  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Her  eyes — two  suns  of  light. 

And  bade  his  balmy  dews 

Her  rosy  cheeks  suflfuse. 


The  River  God  in  slumber  saw  her  laid. 

He  raised  his  dripping  head 

With  weeds  o'erspread, 
Clad  in  his  watery  robes  approach'd  the  maid. 

And  with  cold  ki.ss,  like  Death, 
Drank  the  rich  perfume  of  the  maiden's  breath. 
The  maiden  felt  that  icy  kiss  ; 

Her  Sims  unclosed,  their  flame 

Full  and  unclouded  on  the  intruder  came. 

Amazed,  the  bold  intruder  felt 

His  frothy  body  melt. 
And  heard  the  radiance  on  his  bosom  hiss  ; 
And  forced  in  blind  confusion  to  retire. 
Leapt  in  the  water  to  escape  the  fire. 

February,  1799. 


MOHAMMED  ; 

A  FRAGMENT,  WRITTEN  IN  1799. 

Cloak'd  in  the  garment  of  green,  who  lies  on   the 
bed  of  Mohammed, 

Restless  and  full  of  fear,  yet  semblant  of  one   that 
is  sleeping? 

Every  sound  of  the  feet  at  his   door  ho  hears,  and 
the  breathing 

Low  of  inaudible  words :  he  k]iows  their  meanimr 
of  murder. 

Knows   what  manner  of  men  await  his  outgoing, 
and  listens 

Ail  their  tread,  and  their  whisp'ring,  till  even  the 
play  of  his  pulses 

Disturbs  him,  so  deep  his  attention.     The  men  of 
the  Koreish 

Fix  on  the   green-robed  youth  their  eyes  ;    impa- 
tiently watchful 

Wait  they  the  steps  of  his  rising,  the   coming  of 
him  whom  they  hated. 

He  rises  and   makes  himself  pure,  and   turning  to- 
wards the  Caaba, 

Loud  he  repeats  his  prayer:  they  hear,  and,  in  ea- 
gerness trembling. 

Grasp  the  hilts  of  their  swords— their  swords  that 
are  sworn  to  the  slaughter. 

But  when  the  youth   went  forth,  they  saw,  and  be- 
hold !  it  was  Ali ! 

Steady  the  hero's  face  :  it  was  pale,  for  his  life  was 
a  blessing  ; 

It  was  calm,  for  in  death  he  look'd  on  to  the  crown 
of  the  martyr. 

Dark  as  they  were  of  soul,  and  goaded  by  rage  dis- 
appointed. 


810 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETICAL   REMAINS, 


Tliey  shed  not  the  blood  of  the  youth,  but  remem- 

ber'd  tlieir  chieftain  his  father, 
Abu    Taleb  the  good,  and  respected  the  virtue  of 

friendship. 


Baflk'd,  and    full  of  wrath,  through  Mecca  they 

scatter  the  tidings : 
''He   has  fled,  has  discovered  our  plans,  has  eluded 

our  vengeance. 
Saw  ye  the  steps  of  his  flight  1     Where  lurks  he, 

the  lying  blasphemer  ? 
Now  to  the   chase,  to  the  chase  ;    seize  now  the 

bow  and  the  quiver  ; 
Now  with   the  sword   and   the  spear,  ye  stubborn 

of  Mecca  !   pursue  him  ; 
Seek  him  now  to  the  north  and  the  south,  to  the 

sunset  and  sunrise  ;  ; 

Follow,  follow  the  chosen    one's    flight !"       They 

rush  from  the  city  :  i 

Over  the  plain  they  pursue  him,  pursue  him  with 

cries  and  with  curses —  ; 

Sounds  that  rung  over  the  plain,  and  rung  in  the 

echoing  mountains  ; 
And  Mecca  received  in  her  streets  the  din  of  their 

clamorous  uproar. 
But  the  voice  of  the   Moslem,  the  silent  prayer  of 

the  faithful. 
Rose  to  the  throne  of  God  ;  and  tears  of  the  heart 

overflowing 
Interceded  for  him  whom  they  loved  and  believed 

his  apostle. 


"  Where  is  the  blasphemous  fled  ? — the  lying  dis- 
turber of  Mecca? 

Has  he  journey'd  to  Tayef?     Under  the  shield  of 
his  uncle 

Lurks    he  for  safety  there  ? — or  to   Yathreb,    the 
credulous  city  ? 

Or  seeks  he  the   Ethiop's  court,  where  the  earlier 
runaways  shelter?" 

Lashing  their  steeds,  they  pursue  ;  to  the  east  and 
the  dwelling  of  Abbas 

Hasten  the  thirsty  for  blood  ;  to  the  north  they  hur- 
ry, to  Yathreb  ; 

Some    to   the   shore   of  the   sea,  lest  haply  a  bark 
might  await  him. 

And  the  waves  siiould  become  his  protectors :  im- 
petuously rushing. 

Drive   they   in   fury   along  ;  beneath  the   hoofs  of 
their  horses 

Sparkles  the  rock  of  the  valley,  and  rises  the   dust 
of  the  desert. 
Others  the  while,  more  cool  in  wrath,  and  thought- 
ful in  fury. 

Over  the  town  search  sedulous :  they  in    the   Ha- 
shemites'  dwellings 

Seek  for  the  man  proscribed  ;  in  the  dwellings  of 
Ilnniza  and  Omar, 

Ali,  Abubeker,  and  Saad,  and  Abu  Obcidah  ; 


All  whom  the  Prophet  loved,  who  believed  in  the 

son  of  Abdallah. 
Every  house    they    search    in    the    populous   city, 

whose  threshold 
Ever  his  feet  had  trod  :  thus  vainly  through  Mecca 

they  seek  him ; 
Then,  unassuaged  of  hate,  of  rancour  and  wrath 

unabated. 
They  to  the  mountains  turn,  to  seek  in  their  dens 

and  retirings 
If  from  the  death  he  lurks:  they  enter  the  cavern 

of  Hira, 
Place  of  his  fasting  and  prayer ;  the  cavern  of  Hi- 
ra is  lonely. 
Not  in  the  depth  of  the  cave,  and  not  in  the  moun- 
tain retirings, 
Not  in  their  hollows  and  glens,  can  tliey  track   the 

steps  of  his  going. 
So   through  the   day  they  sought ;  and  still,  when 
I  the  sun  was  descending. 

They  were  among  the  hills:   then  faint,  disappoint- 
ed, and  weary. 
Turning  their  faces  homeward,  they  journey'd  slow- 
ly and  sullen 
Down  their  rough  mountain  path  ;  but  often  pau.?ed, 

and  around  them 
Linger'd  with  prowling  eyes :  a  little  wide  of  their 

pathway, 
Thus  as  they  paused,  they  saw  in  the  side  of  the 

stony  mountain 
A  cave-mouth,  narrow  and  high :  the  hill  had  the 

hue  of  the  evening 
Rich  on  its  rugged  sides,  and  the  chasm  was  dis- 
j  tinct  in  its  blackness. 

Thither  turning,  they  sped  ;  and  one  who  forewent 
j  his  companions 

I  Came    to    the    cavern's   month  :    disturb'd   by   the 
I  noise  of  his  footsteps. 

From  her  nest,  in  the  side  of  the  chasm,  a  pigeon 

affVighted 
Fled.     The  advancing  pursuers  heard  the  whirr  of 

her  pinions, 
And  he  who  was  first  exclaim'd,"  There  is  none  in 

the  hole  of  the  mountain  ; 
For  lo !   a  pigeon  fled  from  her  nest   at  the  sound 

of  my  coming, 
And  the  spider  hath  spread  his  network  over   the 

entrance." 
Then  from  the  cave  he  turn'd. 

Was  thy  spirit  shaken,  Mohammed, 
When  in  the  depth  of  the  rock   thou  heardest  the 

voice  of  the  Koreish  ? 
He  who  was  with  thee  trembled  ;  the  sweat  on  his 

forehead  was  chilly, 
And  his  eyes  in  alarm  were  turn'd  towards  thee  in 

the  darkness. 
Silent  they  sat  in  the  rock  ;  nor  moved   they,  nor 

breathed  they  ;  but  listen'd 
Long  to  the  tread  of   the   feet,  that,  fainter  and 
fainter  sounding. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETICAL   REMAINS 


84J 


Died  in  the  distance  now :  yet  still  they  were  si-    And   the  figs  wrapt  under  his  robe:   then  told  he 


lent,  and  listen'd 
Abubekcr  first,  as  his  fear  gave  fiiith  to  the  echo. 
Fresh  in  his  sense  alarm'd— "  Hark  !  hark  !  I  hear 

them  returning ; 
They  are  many,  and   we   but  two  !"  he  whisper'd. 

in  terror. 
'  There   is  a  third  !"  aloud  replied  the  son  of  Ab- 

dallah— "  God  !" 


his  tidings. 

Low  was  his  voice,  for  he  spake  in  fear:  "The 
peril  is  pressing, 

Prophet  of  God,  I  saw  thy  foes  return  in  the  twi- 
light : 

Sullen  they  came  from  their  toil,  and  talk'd  of 
the  search  on  the  morrow. 

The  Idolaters  joy  in  thy  flight,  and  grieve  at   tliy 


safety : 
So  the  night  came  on,  and   they  in  the  place  of!  God  shall  remember  their  joy,  and  that   grief,  in 


their  refuge 


the  day  of  his  judgment. 


Silently    sat.      And    now    in    hope    they    listen'd,   They  shall  feel  in  their  evil  load !    A  price  is  ap- 

awaiting  '  pointed 

Sound   of   approaching  feet— of  trusted  friend   or   His   who   shall   shed    thy  blood :    but    keep    thou 

disciple,  '^'^'^^  i"  ^^^  mountain  ; 

Bringing    them    food    and    tidings,   now    that    the    God  will  confound  their  plots." 

darkness  had  settled.  I  He  paused  ;  so  suddenly  checking 

Slow  past  the  expectant  hours :   nearer  the  mouth   Words  on  their  way,  as  one  who  tells  but  half  of 

of  the  cavern  |  his  errand, 

Eagerly  now  they  drew.     The  sound  of  the  wind    Loth  to  utter  the   worse    remainder,  that  yet  must 

that  was  passing  i  be  utter'd. 

Took  from  their  hope  its  tone  ;  and  now  in  its  dis-  •  Sure  if  Mohammed  had  seen  his  eye,  he  had  read 

tant  murmurs  I  i"  its  trouble 

They  heard   the   tread  of  feet ;  and  now  despair-    Tidings  of  evil  to  come.     At  length  to  the  son  of 


ingly  argued 


Abdallah, 


Danger  was  yet  abroad,  and  none  could  venture    Telling  his  tale  of  woe,  spake  Ali  the  first  of  be 
towards  them.  lievers : 


Midnight  came  ;  and  a  step  was  heard — distinctly 

they  heard  it : 
Heavier  it  comes, — and  now  in  the  rock — and  a 

voice — it  is  Ali. 
He  in  the  cave  laid  down  the  water-skin  that  he 
carried, 


"  Prophet,  there  is  grief  in  thy  dwelling  :  Cadijah 
in  sickness 

Lies  on  her  bed  of  pain  :  for  death  she  is  strick- 
en, I  fear  me." 

Mohammed  heard  ;  aud  he  bow'd  his  head,  and 
groan'd  for  his  exile. 


THE    END. 


I 


LIST   or  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

From  a  Statue  executed  by  the  late  Princess  Marie  d'Orleans. 

(^To  face  Title.) 

MONUMENT  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC  AT  ROUEN. 

Engraved  Title-page. 

PORTRAIT   OF   THE   AUTHOR. 

Painted  by  Lane. 

P.  7. 

SAPPHO. 

Painted  by  R.  Westall. 

Hark  !  how  the  rude  deep  below 

Roars  round  the  rugged  base,  as  if  it  called 

Its  long  reluctant  victim  !     I  will  come  ! 

One  leap,  and  all  is  over ! 

Monodramas,  p.  121. 

THALABA    AND    ONEIZA. 

Painted  by  Ed.  Corbould. 

How  happily  the  days 
Of  Thalaba  went  by ! 

Thalaba  the  Destroyer,  p.  247. 

S  E  N  E  N  A. 
Painted  by  Middleton. 

But  she  the  while  did  off 
Her  bridal  robes,  and  dipt  her  golden  locks, 
And  put  on  boy's  attire,  through  wood  and  wild 
To  seek  her  own  true  love. 

Madoc  in  Atzlan,  p.  411. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE    WELL    OF    ST.    KEYNE. 

Painted  by  Kenny  Meadows. 

"  I  hastened  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 
And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch : 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 
For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales,  p.  466. 

ELEEMON    AND    CYRA. 

Painted  by  R.  Westall. 

She  seized  him  by  the  arms, 

And  hurrying  him  into  the  street, 
"  Come  with  me  to  the  church,"  she  cried, 
"  And  to  Basil  the  Bishop's  feet !" 

All  for  Love,  p.  542. 


DATE  DUE 


DtC  U  2 


1996- 


JUU2 


JUN  1  7  iiiag 


'1P9® 


'  MAY2  019fe 


^^^^^^ 


iAY2  0 
APRl 


989     i^Av 


2^ 


SE£Jl5?n 


^ 


t 


jak  ^ 


iaR  1 


m^ 


Sep  c  >? 


'«e^ 


WM^ 


ii_^1^9t». 


«  t  u  '  ■   >y 


FEB      7  -^ 


9^ 


MR    ^ 


a18^ 


rrTTit^ 


iJUL 


DEMCO  38-297 


3  1197  00506  0584