"Twas lost, as many a murmur'd sound
Of grief, "not loud, but deep," is drown'd,
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise
To tell the calm untroubled skies
That earth hath banish'd care and woe,
And man holds festivals below!
THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.
CALL it not loneliness to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o'er;
For nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:-
A bird's light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric's awful waste--
Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath view'd,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever'd from earthly being's trace,
Alone amidst eternal space!
'Tis noon-and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sunborn race,
Seeks a more shelter'd dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare.
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o'er the blasted plain,
1 The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of
2 See the description of the Simoom in Bruce's Travels.
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
-Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high,
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown.
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side-
Speed on pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press-they gaze dismay'd-
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo'd.1
What meteor comes? A purple haze Hath half obscured the noontide rays:2 Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere.
Haste, haste! avert th' impending doom,
Fall prostrate! 'tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces-till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass'd,
Far bearing o'er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the Grave.
It camee-'tis vanish'd-but hath left The wanderers e'en of hope bereft; The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, Pride, courage, strength, its power coul tame.
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign'd, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their deathbed and their tomb.3
But onward still!--yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not; Yon palms, which tremulously seem'd Reflected as the waters gleam'd,
3 The extreme languor and despondence produced by Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been scribed by many travellers.
Along th' horizon's verge display'd,
Still rear their slender colonnade-
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain
The Caravan's exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert's emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent's wave,
A gem embosom'd in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty's image might convey!
Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.
Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in th' acacia shade:
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise
Their aromatic breath diffuse;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o'er your heads.
Nature once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales :
And oh! to Afric's child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent's venom'd coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose-
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life's best balm-Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.
The day hath closed-the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric's heaven Serene inagnificence have givenPure beacons of the sky, whose flame Shines forth eternally the same. Blest be their beams, whose holy light Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, And lead, as with a track divine, The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine! -Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu ! Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing, And heavens with softer beauty glowing.
"Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild.
Darkly they rise-what eye hath view'd
The caverns of their solitude?
Away! within those awful cells
The savage lord of Afric dwells!
Heard ye his voice?—the lion's roar
Swells as when billows break on shore.
Well may the camel shake with fear,
And the steed pant-his foe is near.
Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw
Far o'er the waste, a ruddy glow;
Keep vigil-guard the bright array
Of flames that scare him from his prey;
Within their magic circle press,
O wanderers of the wilderness!
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze,
Tell the wild tales of elder days,-
Arabia's wond'rous lore, that dwells
On warrior deeds and wizard spells;
Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these,
Rising to vanish with the breeze;
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed
Their light where mortal may not tread;
And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls
Th' eternal billow heaves and falls.
-With charms like these, of mystic power,
Watchers beguile the midnight hour.
Slowly that hour hath roll'd away,
And star by star withdraws its ray.
Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veil'd-with sanguine glare
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim.
'Tis death's red banner streams on high-
Fly to the rocks for shelter!-fly!
Lo! dark'ning o'er the fiery skies,
The pillars of the desert rise!
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling,
A giant-host, the heavens concealing,
They move, like mighty genii-forms,
Towering immense midst clouds and storms.
Who shall escape !-with awful force
The whirlwind bears them on their course;
They join, they rush resistless on-
The landmarks of the plain are gone;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning waste!
. All whelm'd, all hush'd !-none left to bear
Sad record how they perish'd there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell-
The desert guards its mysteries well;
And o'er th' unfathom'd sandy deep,
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.
MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
["Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him :"Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy." Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. "Go and tell him," said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, "that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage."-Plutarch.]
'Twas noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high With fierce resplendence fill'd th' unclouded sky; No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head, And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread; While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes Had strew'd their precious marble o'er the plains; Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown, The lizard bask'd upon the altar stone; Whelm'd by the ruins of their own abodes, Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods; While near-dread offspring of the burning day! Coil'd midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.
There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene :-
Shadow'd, not veil'd, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow'd brow;
Time had not quench'd the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit roll'd,
Nor dimm'd the fire that might not be controll'd;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter'd, but yet unconquer'd, by the storm.
-But slow his step-and where, not yet o'er thrown,
Still tower'd a pillar midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th' indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head,
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seem'd to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!
"And sleep'st thou, Roman ?" cried his voice austere ;
"Shall son of Latium find a refuge here? Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate, When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate ! Go! with her children's flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave:
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!
"Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, I hear a voice that prophesies her doom; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time-while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar ! Lo! from the frozen forests of the North, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! Who shall awake the mighty?—will thy woe, City of thrones ! disturb the realms below? Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! -Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, And their lost children bend the subject knee, Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal-thou, whose eye Was lightning to the earth-whose pinion wave In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved; Sink from thy heavens! for glory's noon is o'er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more Closed is thy regal course-thy crest is torn, And thy plume banish'd from the realms of mor The shaft hath reach'd thee !-rest with chic and kings,
Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings; Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey, And share thy glorious heritage of day!
But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head.
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate !
"Still sleep'st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise! Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood! My children's manès call-awake! prepare The feast they claim !—exult in Rome's despair! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; Let carnage revel e'en her shrines among, Spare not the valiant, pity not the young! Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!"
The vision flies-a mortal step is near, Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear; He starts, he wakes to woe-before him stands Th' unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief To seek on other shores a home for grief. -Silent the wanderer sat-but on his cheek The burning glow far more than words might speak; And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke Language where all th' indignant soul awoke, Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, "Return! Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!"
A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.
THE moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave,
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,
The wild wind slumbers in its cave,
And heaven is cloudless-earth is still!
The pile that crowns yon savage height
With battlements of Gothic might,
Rises in softer pomp array'd,
Its massy towers half lost in shade,
Half touch'd with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,
Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone,
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime,
A placid smile have thrown.
And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A pencil'd shade, a softer gloom :
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep;
But darting from its side,
How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line
Of radiance o'er the tide !
No sound is on the summer seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze
Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
That boat has reach'd the silent bay-
The dashing oar has ceased to play ;
The breeze has murmur'd and has died
In forest shades, on ocean's tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound;
And midnight spreads o'er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane
To break on nature's sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar
High o'er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore-
For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres !
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,
Children of hallow'd peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,
To blow beneath the midnight moon,
The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!
Hark! did some note of plaintive swell
Melt on the stillness of the air?
Or was it fancy's powerful spell
That woke such sweetness there?
For wild and distant it arose,
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose,
When in lone wood, or mossy cave,
He dreams beside some fountain wave,
And fairy worlds delight the eyes
Wearied with life's realities.
Was it illusion? Yet again
Rises and falls th' enchanted strain,
Mellow, and sweet, and faint-
As if some spirit's touch had given
The soul of sound to harp of heaven
To soothe a dying saint!
Is it the mermaid's distant shell,
Warbling beneath the moonlit wave? -Such witching tones might lure full well The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aërial melodies! -Is it the song of woodland-fay
From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear; And accents low, as if in fear,
Thus murmur, half suppress'd:
"Awake! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,
The world is hush'd to rest!"
Then sinks the voice-the strain is o'er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.
Fair Bertha hears th' expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks;
And, in that hour of silence deep,
While all around the dews of sleep
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flush'd, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o'er her soul
What struggling passions claim control!
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,
By turns have won th' ascendency;
And as, all tremulously bright,
Streams o'er her face the beam of night,
What thousand mix'd emotions play
O'er that fair face, and melt away.
Like forms whose quick succession gleams
O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams;
Like the swift glancing lights that rise
Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies.
And traverse ocean o'er;
So in that full, impassion'd eye
The changeful meanings rise and die,
Just seen-and then no more!
But oh! too short that pause. Again
Thrills to her heart that witching strain :-
"Awake! the midnight moon is bright:
Awake! the moments wing their flight;
Haste or they speed in vain !".
O call of Love! thy potent spell
O'er that weak heart prevails too well;
The "still small voice" is heard no more
That pleaded duty's cause before,
And fear is hush'd, and doubt is gone,
And pride forgot, and reason flown!
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled,
Resumes its warmest, brightest red,
Her step its quick elastic tread,
Her eye its beaming smile!
Through lonely court and silent hall,
Flits her light shadow o'er the wall;
And still that low, harmonious call
Melts on her ear the while! Though love's quick ear alone could tell The words its accents faintly swell:"Awake! while yet the lingering night And stars and seas befriend our flight: Oh! haste, while all is well !"The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, She gains the moonlit beach at last. Who waits to guide her trembling feet? Who flies the fugitive to greet? He, to her youthful heart endear'd By all it e'er had hoped and fear'd, Twined with each wish, with every thought Each day-dream fancy e'er had wrought, Whose tints portray with flattering skill What brighter worlds alone fulfil ! -Alas! that aught so fair should fly Thy blighting wand, Reality!
A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore,
A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore—
Disguise that vainly strove to hide
Bearing and glance of martial pride:
For he in many a battle-scene,
On many a rampart breach had been;
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh,
Had seen the valiant bleed and die,
And proudly rear'd on hostile tower,
Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower,
Britannia's banner high !
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