Selected Poems (68 page)

And she would sit beneath the very tree

Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;

And in that posture where she saw him fall,

615

His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall;

And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair,

And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,

And fold, and press it gently to the ground,

As if she stanch’d anew some phantom’s wound.

620

Herself would question, and for him reply;

Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly

From some imagined spectre in pursuit;

Then seat her down upon some linden’s root,

And hide her visage with her meagre hand,

625

Or trace strange characters along the sand –

This could not last – she lies by him she loved;

Her tale untold – her truth too dearly proved.

The Destruction of Sennacherib

I

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

II

5

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.

III

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

10

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

IV

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride:

15

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

V

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

20

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

VI

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Napoleon’s Farewell (From the French)

I

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory

Arose and o’ershadow’d the earth with her name –

She abandons me now — but the page of her story,

The brightest or blackest, is fill’d with my fame.

5

I have warr’d with a world which vanquish’d me only

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single Captive to millions in war.

II

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me,

10

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, –

But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,

Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won –

15

Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,

Had still soar’d with eyes fix’d on victory’s sun!

III

Farewell to thee, France! – but when Liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me then, –

The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;

20

Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again –

Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice –

There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,

Then
turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

From the French (‘Must thou go, my glorious Chief’)
¹

I

Must thou go, my glorious Chief,

Sever’d from thy faithful few?

Who can tell thy warrior’s grief,

Maddening o’er that long adieu?

5

Woman’s love, and friendship’s zeal,

Dear as both have been to me –

What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier’s faith for thee?

II

Idol of the soldier’s soul!

10

First in fight, but mightiest now:

Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow.

By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell,

15

When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so well.
²

III

Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see;

When the doubts of coward foes

20

Scarce dare trust a man with thee,

Dreading each should set thee free!

Oh! although in dungeons pent,

All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent.

IV

25

Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty’s prayer,

Were his borrow’d glories dim,

In his native darkness share?

Were that world this hour his own,

30

All thou calmly dost resign,

Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine?

V

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!

Never did I droop before;

35

Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore:

All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave;

Sharing by the hero’s side

40

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH

To
JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ.
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY HIS
FRIEND.

January 22
, 1816

ADVERTISEMENT

‘The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in all that country,
¹
thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat a parley: but while they were treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war.’ –
History of the Turks
, vol. iii. p. 151.

In the year since Jesus died for men,

Eighteen hundred years and ten,

We were a gallant company,

Riding o’er land, and sailing o’er sea.

5

Oh! but we went merrily!

We forded the river, and clomb the high hill,

Never our steeds for a day stood still;

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;

10

Whether we couch’d in our rough capote,

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,

Or stretch’d on the beach, or our saddles spread

As a pillow beneath the resting head,

Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

15

All our thoughts and words had scope,

We had health, and we had hope,

Toil and travel, but no sorrow.

We were of all tongues and creeds; —

Some were those who counted beads,

20

Some of mosque, and some of church,

And some, or I mis-say, of neither;

Yet through the wide world might ye search,

Nor find a mother crew nor blither.

But some are dead, and some are gone,

25

And some are scatter’d and alone,

And some are rebels on the hills
¹

That look along Epirus’ valleys,

Where freedom still at moments rallies,

And pays in blood oppression’s ills;

30

And some are in a far countree,

And some all restlessly at home;

But never more, oh! never, we

Shall meet to revel and to roam.

But those hardy days flew cheerily,

35

And when they now fall drearily,

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main,

And bear my spirit back again

Over the earth, and through the air,

A wild bird and a wanderer.

40

’Tis this that ever wakes my strain,

And oft, too oft, implores again

The few who may endure my lay,

To follow me so far away.

Stranger – wilt thou follow now,

45

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth’s brow?

1

Many a vanish’d year and age,

And tempest’s breath, and battle’s rage,

Have swept o’er Corinth; yet she stands,

A fortress form’d to Freedom’s hands.

5

The whirlwind’s wrath, the earthquake’s shock,

Have left untouch’d her hoary rock,

The keystone of a land, which still,

Though fall’n, looks proudly on that hill,

The landmark to the double tide

10

That purpling rolls on either side,

As if their waters chafed to meet,

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.

But could the blood before her shed

Since first Timoleon’s brother bled,

15

Or baffled Persia’s despot fled,

Arise from out the earth which drank

The stream of slaughter as it sank,

That sanguine ocean would o’erflow

Her isthmus idly spread below:

20 Or could the bones of all the slain,

Who perish’d there, be piled again,

That rival pyramid would rise

More mountain-like, through those clear skies,

Than yon tower-capp’d Acropolis,

25

Which seems the very clouds to kiss.

II

On dun Cithæron’s ridge appears

The gleam of twice ten thousand spears;

And downward to the Isthmian plain,

From shore to shore of either main,

30

The tent is pitch’d, the crescent shines

Along the Moslem’s leaguering lines;

And the dusk Spahi’s bands advance

Beneath each bearded pacha’s glance;

And far and wide as eye can reach

35

The turban’d cohorts throng the beach;

And there the Arab’s camel kneels,

And there his steed the Tartar wheels;

The Turcoman hath left his herd,
¹

The sabre round his loins to gird;

40

And there the volleying thunders pour

Till waves grow smoother to the roar.

The trench is dug, the cannon’s breath

Wings the far hissing globe of death;

Fast whirl the fragments from the wall,

45

Which crumbles with the ponderous ball;

And from that wall the foe replies,

O’er dusty plain and smoky skies,

With fires that answer fast and well

The summons of the Infidel.

III

50

But near and nearest to the wall

Of those who wish and work its fall,

With deeper skill in war’s black art,

Than Othman’s sons, and high of heart

As any chief that ever stood

55

Triumphant in the fields of blood;

From post to post, and deed to deed,

Fast spurring on his reeking steed,

Where sallying ranks the trench assail,

And make the foremost Moslem quail;

60

Or where the battery, guarded well,

Remains as yet impregnable,

Alighting cheerly to inspire

The soldier slackening in his fire;

The first and freshest of the host

65

Which Stamboul’s sultan there can boast,

To guide the follower o’er the field,

To point the tube, the lance to wield,

Or whirl around the bickering blade; —

Was Alp, the Adrian renegrade!

IV

70

From Venice – once a race of worth

His gentle sires – he drew his birth;

But late an exile from her shore,

Against his countrymen he bore

The arms they taught to bear; and now

75

The turban girt his shaven brow.

Through many a change had Corinth pass’d

With Greece to Venice’ rule at last;

And here, before her walls, with those

To Greece and Venice equal foes,

80

He stood a foe, with all the zeal

Which young and fiery converts feel,

Within whose heated bosom throngs

The memory of a thousand wrongs.

To him had Venice ceased to be

85

Her ancient civic boast – ‘the Free;’

And in the palace of St Mark

Unnamed accusers in the dark

Within the ‘Lion’s mouth’ had placed

A charge against him uneffaced:

90

He fled in time, and saved his life,

To waste his future years in strife,

That taught his land how great her loss

In him who triumph’d o’er the Cross,

‘Gainst which he rear’d the Crescent high,

95

And battled to avenge or die.

V

Coumourgi
¹
- he whose closing scene

Adorn’d the triumph of Eugene,

When on Carlowitz’ bloody plain,

The last and mightiest of the slain,

100

He sank, regretting not to die,

But cursed the Christian’s victory –

Coumourgi – can his glory cease,

That latest conqueror of Greece,

Till Christian hands to Greece restore

105

The freedom Venice gave of yore?

A hundred years have roll’d away