Delphi Collected Poetical Works of Walter Savage Landor (Illustrated) E-Book

Walter Savage Landor

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 1902

Beschreibung

The poetry of Walter Savage Landor spans the final years of the Enlightenment to the greatest achievements of the Victorian Empire. Landor is now regarded as a ‘poet’s poet’, whose sensitive and beautiful poetry won the admiration of Browning, Yeats, Ezra Pound and Robert Frost. His celebrated love poems were inspired by a succession of female romantic ideals – Ione, Ianthe, Rose Aylmer and Rose Paynter — while his "domestic" poems concerning his sister and children reveal equal finesse. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Landor’s collected poetical works, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Landor's life and works
* Concise introduction to the life and poetry of Walter Savage Landor
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Rare collections available in no other digital publication
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Includes a selection of Landor's prose
* Features a bonus biography - discover Landor's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

Please note: due to Landor’s method of titling the majority of his poems with Roman numerals, this Delphi edition does not feature our usual chronological and alphabetical contents tables.

Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to see our wide range of poet titles

CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of Walter Savage Landor
BRIEF INTRODUCTION: WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

The Poetry Collections
GEBIR
COLLECTION OF 1846
THE HELLENICS
THE LAST FRUIT OF AN OLD TREE
DRY STICKS
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS FROM “HEROIC IDYLS” WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS, 1863

The Play
COUNT JULIAN

Selected Prose
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS: A SELECTION
THE PENTAMERON
CITATION AND EXAMINATION OF WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE

The Biography
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR by Leslie Stephen

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Leseprobe

Walter Savage Landor

(1775-1864)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of Walter Savage Landor

BRIEF INTRODUCTION: WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

The Poetry Collections

GEBIR

COLLECTION OF 1846

THE HELLENICS

THE LAST FRUIT OF AN OLD TREE

DRY STICKS

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS FROM “HEROIC IDYLS” WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS, 1863

The Play

COUNT JULIAN

Selected Prose

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS: A SELECTION

THE PENTAMERON

CITATION AND EXAMINATION OF WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE

The Biography

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR by Leslie Stephen

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2016

Version 1

Walter Savage Landor

By Delphi Classics, 2016

COPYRIGHT

Walter Savage Landor - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2016.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78656 204 3

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

NOTE

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The Life and Poetry of Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor was born in Warwick, England, the eldest son of Dr Walter Landor, a physician, and his second wife, Elizabeth Savage. His birthplace, Eastgate House, is now occupied by The King’s High School for Girls.

BRIEF INTRODUCTION: WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

By Edmund Clarence Stedman

IF the many lovers of the beautiful, into whose hands, we trust, this collection will fall, shall derive from the study of its gems something of the pleasure experienced in their choice and arrangement, the editors thus will be a second time rewarded for most enjoyable labor. The master-artist, to whose exquisite touch these compositions owe their excuse for being, possessed beyond his contemporaries the liberal faculty which endowed some of the great workmen of the past: the double gift upon which the poets, sculptors, and painters of the golden age, before the era of the specialists, were wont to plume themselves. He had the joyous range of Benvenuto Cellini, whom the chroniclers describe as “founder, gold-worker, and medailleur”; who, in his larger moods, devised and cast the Perseus and other massive bronzes which still ennoble the Italian city-squares; yet who found felicitous moments in which to carve the poniard-handles, vaunted by knights and courtiers as their rarest treasures, or to design some wonder of a cup, or bracelet, or other thing of beauty, for the queen or mistress of the monarch who protected him and honored his unrivalled art.

The legend of Walter Savage Landor justly might have been Fineness and Strength, since, while distinguished by his epic and dramatic powers, and at home in the domain of philosophic thought, he had also that delicate quality which enriches the smallest detail, and changes at will from its grander creations to those of subtile and ethereal perfection. He had the strongest touch and the lightest; his vision was of the broadest and the most minute. Leigh Hunt characterized him by saying that he had never known any one of such a vehement nature with so great delicacy of imagination, and that he was “like a stormy mountain-pine that should produce lilies.” In this there is something of the universal genius of “men entirely great.”

Landor’s minor poems, therefore, bear a relation to his more extended work similar to that borne by Shakespeare’s songs and sonnets to his immortal plays. Yet they are not songs, because not jubilant with that skylark gush of melody which made so musical the sunrise of English rhythm. They address themselves no less to the eye than to the ear; are the daintiest of lyrical idyls, — things to be seen as well as to be heard; compact of fortunate imagery, of statuesque conceptions marvellously cut in verse. Are we not right in designating them as Cameos? And from what other modern author could a selection of relievos be made, so flawless in outline and perfect in classical grace, for the delight of both the novice and the connoisseur?

So finished are these metrical carvings that the observer, mindful of the art celare artem, might suppose them to be the product of care and elaborate revision. But with Landor’s lyrics, however it may be with those of the poets, it is known that the reverse was the case. He was a true improvisator, — and that, too, without recourse to the irregular freedom looked for in improvisations. The spontaneity of the early songsters, at least, was his; these little poems were the overflow of his genius, by means of which he relieved himself of a surplusage of passion, exhilaration, or scorn; and were thrown off with such ease and skill, both natural and acquired, that we are in doubt whether most to admire their beauty or the swift precision with which they grew to excellence beneath his hands.

Who has not chanced upon some lounging philosopher, retentive of his boyish or sea-faring skill, modelling with his penknife a ring or puzzle from a bit of wood, — possibly, a tiny basket from a nutshell, — while engaged in earnest argument; discoursing, it may be, of world-wide topics, and apparently almost unconscious of the work so deftly and gracefully responding to his artistic design? Just so it was Landor’s habit while engaged upon his prose masterpieces, the Imaginary Conversations, the Pentameron, Pericles and Aspasia, — or, in poetry, the noble Helenics, — to fashion at any hour or moment some delicious specimen of this cameo-work, without disturbing the progress of his more intellectual and elevated creations.

One of the first qualities which should impress the reader of these verses is the thorough purity and simplicity of their English idiom. In prose and poetry, their author belonged to the school which clings to the natural order and genius of the English tongue, and in both departments of literature he easily ranked with the foremost. Nowadays, when there is so much of what is called word-painting, so much straining after effect through use of words painfully chosen for sound or color, it is difficult to estimate properly the limpid, translucent clearness of Landor’s verse. It is Corinthian rather than Composite, and seems to disdain any resort to eccentric or meretricious devices. Doubtless its maker might have put words together as curiously as any imitator of a great poet’s youthful style; but “doubtless,” as Thomas Fuller would say, he “never did,” however tempted by unlimited power of language, and with an exhaustless vocabulary at his control.

Though graven in the purest English, many of these gems reflect the manner of those Latin lyrists, with whom their author, in his gownsman days, became so familiar, — so imbued with their blithe and delicate spirit, that he may dispute with rare old Robert Herrick the title of the British Catullus. His epigrams are by turns playful and spleenful, and pointed as those of Martial; but among these, and in the lightness of his festive or amatory strains, there often is little of that emotion which takes the heart captive. You are not moved to tears, as by the passion of Mrs. Browning, the devotion and aspiration of Whittier, the pathos of Thomas Hood. Many of them are, as we have entitled them, just precious little works of art; to be prized, studied, marvelled over, — like the carved and mounted treasures of a virtuoso’s collection, — for beauty, pure and simple, and the perfection of their rhythmical execution.

Yet even in Tibullus there is nothing sweeter, and little more touching and tender in the anthology of our own tongue, than the stanzas composed by Landor when his personal feelings really were claiming utterance. As he laid bare his heart, whether in fiery youth, or old and lonely as the oak that has outlived its forest companions, he never gave voice to an unmanly or pitiful complaint. Yet, lion and eagle as he was, he was not ashamed of the softest natural emotion; it spontaneously broke out in his numbers; the glitter of a tear is in many a line; there is a wandering echo in many a stanza which haunts the mind long after. Such is the charm of “Rose Aylmer,” of which it may be said that, — although it has happened often that some minor lyric has entered the common heart, and gained for an author that popular regard which greater works have failed to procure him, — there hardly is another instance in recent literature where eight simple lines have so fascinated poetic and sensitive natures. Crabb Robinson recounts of Charles Lamb, that, “both tipsy and sober, he is ever muttering ‘Rose Aylmer’”; and Lamb said, in his own letter to Landor, “’Tis for ‘Rose Aylmer,’ which has a charm I cannot explain. I lived upon it for weeks.” The spell has been felt by many choice spirits, and continues to this day; a letter before us, from one of the most refined American essayists, says of Lamb’s extravagance: “Living on it for weeks is a daring thing to say, — yet it is just what I did.” The Roses of two later generations were dear to Landor for his first love’s sake, and, as we have embraced in this collection other verses inspired by her beautiful memory, it will be seen how loyally and tenderly he clung to it throughout the dreams and ventures of a prolonged, impulsive lifetime.

“Agläe,” “Aspasia to Cleone,” “Pyrrha,” and other antiques, are to be found, strung along at intervals, in Pericles and Aspasia, — that unequalled product of classical idealism, written in the most perfect English prose. Indeed, the conception of the present volume arose from the statement in a recent essay, that a book might be made of the lyrical gems with which Landor’s prose writings, even, are interspersed. “The Maid’s Lament” is a ditty put into the mouth of the youthful Shakespeare, in that remarkable Elizabethan study of the supposed Citation of the future dramatist before Sir Thomas Lucy upon a charge of deer-stealing. Some of the poet’s lighter stanzas are winsome for their careless, troubadour spirit, — a mood not affected by him, but his sustainer to the last; and our readers will not quarrel with us for resetting “The One White Hair,” “Sixteen,” “Time to be Wise,” familiar as these may be, on the pages of the volume before them.

Speaking of “occasional” verses, Forster rightly says, that “the finest examples of such writings are often found in men who have also written poetry of the highest order.” As Landor’s trifles often were composed for the pleasure of exercising a natural gift, their fantasy of compliment or spleen was exaggerated to suit the poet’s artistic caprice. He was not half so bitter as his epigrams pretended; was only “making believe,” like some vieux moustache chaffing with a group of youngsters. When more in earnest, they served him as a safety-vent. One can hear the roar of laughter with which his rancor went to the winds, as he contemplated the imaginary flight of those at whom he aimed his winged shafts. In certain amatory verses, he really was more in love with his art than with its object. When he needed a heroine he took the nearest one, adorned her with regal expenditure, and invested her with the attributes of his own idea. There was the pretty Countess de Molandé, the Ianthe of his youth; in age, a sprightly and buxom Irish widow, with Landor still her devoted friend and cavalier. He used her as a layfigure all his life, and dedicated lyrics to her that might have tempted a Vestal. No doubt she had as much appreciation of his songs as Lesbia for those of Catullus. Possibly she exclaimed, with Rosalind, “I never was so berhymed since Pythagoras’ time”; yet thought no less of her minstrel, for was he not a rich and well-born Englishman, as handsome and robust a gallant as even an Irish beauty could desire? After all, his feeling for her was more than poetic affectation. There is something Quixotic in the regard of most poets for women, and having once determined that Dulcinea should be a princess, Landor persuaded himself that she was nothing less. Indeed, like Burns, he went to the extreme of chivalry with every woman he admired, and for the time was sincere in all the honors paid to her. How closely these two men, — one born in a cottage, the other inheriting an ancient name and estate, — were akin in their manly health, their free poetic vigor, their courtliness to women, their tenderness to children and animals, their sturdy and portentous defiance of bigots, charlatans, and snobs!

Landor’s wit, especially in the sprightly rhymes of which his later years were prolific, occasionally was tinctured with the freedom of his Latin satirists; but rather in playful imitation of them than from any grossness in his own nature. It was a fault to write, and a still greater one to print, such verses; but it was the fault of that time of life when the faculty outstays the judgment. Of course, such indecorous trifles drew the attention and merciless censure of numberless Philistines, who chose to ignore, or were unconscious of the wisdom, goodness, and beauty of his serious literary achievements. In actual life he was a man without a vice, and whose every error might be traced to the infirmity of a most proud and obstreperous temper. Correct, temperate, and pure, he found a zest in outdoor communion with Nature, which maintained his inherent vitality to a grand old age. If his foibles subjected him to the charge of Paganism, his strength broke out in love of liberty, sympathy with the downtrodden, devotion to his honored poets and patriots, hatred of pretension and superstition. Among minor pieces which thus illustrate his character, their brevity and finish enable us to select the enduring verses to Browning, the lines upon Roland and Corday, and the tributes to Miss Mitford and Julius Hare.

Mrs. Browning declared Landor to be “of all living writers the most unconventional in thought and word, the most classical, because the freest from mere classicalism, the most Greek, because pre-eminently and purely English.” It seems to us that precisely the amount of benefit which a familiarity with the antique models can render to a modern poet is discernible in the greater portion of our selections. Their clearness and terseness are of the classic mould, but the language, thought, emotion, are Landorian and English. Of this twofold quality there are no better examples in our language than the companion-pieces, “To Youth” and “To Age.” In finish these bear comparison with Collins’s “Dirge in Cymbeline,” and in feeling and purpose excel that melodious lyric. In respect to their theme, it may be said that no other poet has left so many or so beautiful verses inspired by the presence and sentiment of Age. Living long after he was content to die, he retained to the ninetieth year his sweetness of utterance and need for expression. It was the voice of Tithonus, whom Aurora had loved, thrilling tunefully and loudly after his bodily vigor had departed. It is said that poets die young; at all events the mass of poetry is ardent with the forward-looking hope of Youth; but in Landor’s most felicitous strains he searches the brooding and pathetic memory of the past for imaginative suggestion, as one who has discovered that all Time is relative, and that to the poet who looks before and after there is no choice between the beginning and the end of days.

The reader has perceived that these introductory comments are restricted to the lyrical quality of Landor’s genius, and to its productions, as displayed in the following exhibition. Our object having been to compose the latter solely of those faultless minor lyrics which come within the application of its title, of course many, and equally admirable, pieces are omitted. There is nothing in this volume which, from its length, severity, or freedom, will weary or repel the holder. Our intention has been to have it pure and charming, from the first selection to the end.

To many, these Cameos will present the graciousness of long familiar beauty, loveliest because best-remembered; to others, possibly, they may come as a first introduction to an author who only of late is beginning to be widely read, and whose works never have been placed fairly within the popular reach. To all such we offer this book in propitiation, assuring them that they are like wayfarers who have crossed the threshold of a royal, world-enriched Museum, and are examining a few of the more delicate treasures within its cabinets; glancing now at a carven seashell, and again at a winged head, cut upon agate or onyx for the finger of some beauty of the past; while around them are lofty walls laden with historical and dramatic paintings, — niches filled with statues of heroes, heroines, and “many a fallen old Divinity,” — and, in extended halls beyond, unique and changeful panoramas depicting every country and time. In hope that they will be led to look further for themselves, we now invite them to examine these sculptured gems; to note the hues of one, the matchless outlines of another, and the satisfying grace and repose which the hand of the same cunning artist has bestowed upon them all.

Walter Savage Landor by Robert Faulkner, c. 1855

The title page of Landor’s first collection of poetry — dating from 1795, it is now a particularly scarce book

Matthew Whitworth-Aylmer, 5th Baron Aylmer — Landor settled in Swansea, South Wales, where he became friendly with the family of Lord Aylmer, including his sister, Rose, whom Landor later immortalised in his most famous poem, ‘Rose Aylmer’.

The Poetry Collections

Landor was sent to Rugby School, Warwickshire, under Dr James, yet he took offence at the headmaster’s review of his work and was removed at Dr James’ request.

GEBIR

A POEM IN BOOKS

CONTENTS

GEBIR. FIRST BOOK.

GEBIR. SECOND BOOK.

GEBIR. THIRD BOOK.

GEBIR. FOURTH BOOK.

GEBIR. FIFTH BOOK.

GEBIR. SIXTH BOOK.

GEBIR. SEVENTH BOOK.

GEBIR. FIRST BOOK.

I sing the fates of Gebir.  He had dweltAmong those mountain-caverns which retainHis labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,Nor have forgotten their old master’s nameThough severed from his people here, incensedBy meditating on primeval wrongs,He blew his battle-horn, at which uproseWhole nations; here, ten thousand of most mightHe called aloud, and soon Charoba sawHis dark helm hover o’er the land of Nile,   What should the virgin do? should royal kneesBend suppliant, or defenceless hands engageMen of gigantic force, gigantic arms?For ’twas reported that nor sword sufficed,Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,But that upon their towering heads they boreEach a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:“If on your bosom laying down my headI sobbed away the sorrows of a child,If I have always, and Heaven knows I have,Next to a mother’s held a nurse’s name,Succour this one distress, recall those days,Love me, though ‘twere because you loved me then.”   But whether confident in magic ritesOr touched with sexual pride to stand implored,Dalica smiled, then spake: “Away those fears.Though stronger than the strongest of his kind,He falls — on me devolve that charge; he falls.Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure;Nay, journey to his tents: a city stoodUpon that coast, they say, by Sidad built,Whose father Gad built Gadir; on this groundPerhaps he sees an ample room for war.Persuade him to restore the walls himselfIn honour of his ancestors, persuade — But wherefore this advice? young, unespoused,Charoba want persuasions! and a queen!”   “O Dalica!” the shuddering maid exclaimed,“Could I encounter that fierce, frightful man?  Could I speak? no, nor sigh!”      “And canst thou reign?”Cried Dalica; “yield empire or comply.” Unfixed though seeming fixed, her eyes downcast,The wonted buzz and bustle of the courtFrom far through sculptured galleries met her ear;Then lifting up her head, the evening sunPoured a fresh splendour on her burnished throne — The fair Charoba, the young queen, complied.   But Gebir when he heard of her approachLaid by his orbéd shield, his vizor-helm,His buckler and his corset he laid by,And bade that none attend him; at his sideTwo faithful dogs that urge the silent course,Shaggy, deep-chested, crouched; the crocodile,Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid earsAnd push their heads within their master’s hand.There was a brightening paleness in his face,Such as Diana rising o’er the rocksShowered on the lonely Latmian; on his browSorrow there was, yet nought was there severe.But when the royal damsel first he saw,Faint, hanging on her handmaids, and her kneesTottering, as from the motion of the car,His eyes looked earnest on her, and those eyesShowed, if they had not, that they might have loved,For there was pity in them at that hour.  With gentle speech, and more with gentle looks He soothed her; but lest Pity go beyond,And crossed Ambition lose her lofty aim,Bending, he kissed her garment and retired.He went, nor slumbered in the sultry noonWhen viands, couches, generous wines persuadeAnd slumber most refreshes, nor at night,When heavy dews are laden with disease,And blindness waits not there for lingering age.Ere morning dawned behind him, he arrivedAt those rich meadows where young Tamar fedThe royal flocks entrusted to his care.“Now,” said he to himself, “will I reposeAt least this burthen on a brother’s breast.”His brother stood before him.  He, amazed,Reared suddenly his head, and thus began:“Is it thou, brother!  Tamar, is it thou!Why, standing on the valley’s utmost verge,Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shoreWhere many a league Nile blackens all the sand.And why that sadness? when I passed our sheepThe dew-drops were not shaken off the bar;Therefore if one be wanting ’tis untold.”    “Yes, one is wanting, nor is that untold.”Said Tamar; “and this dull and dreary shoreIs neither dull nor dreary at all hours.”Whereon the tear stole silent down his cheek,Silent, but not by Gebir unobserved:Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying spake:“Let me approach thee; does the morning light Scatter this wan suffusion o’er thy brow, This faint blue lustre under both thine eyes?”   “O brother, is this pity or reproach?” Cried Tamar; “cruel if it be reproach, If pity, oh, how vain!”      “Whate’er it beThat grieves thee, I will pity: thou but speak And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for pang.”   “Gebir! then more than brothers are we now!Everything, take my hand, will I confess.I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold;How can I, lost in love?  But, Gebir, whyThat anger which has risen to your cheek?Can other men? could you? — what, no reply!And still more anger, and still worse concealed!Are these your promises, your pity this?”    “Tamar, I well may pity what I feel — Mark me aright — I feel for thee — proceed — Relate me all.”      “Then will I all relate,”Said the young shepherd, gladdened from his heart. “’Twas evening, though not sunset, and springtideLevel with these green meadows, seemed still higher. ’Twas pleasant; and I loosened from my neckThe pipe you gave me, and began to play.Oh, that I ne’er had learnt the tuneful art!It always brings us enemies or love!Well, I was playing, when above the wavesSome swimmer’s head methought I saw ascend;I, sitting still, surveyed it, with my pipeAwkwardly held before my lips half-closed.Gebir! it was a nymph! a nymph divine!I cannot wait describing how she came,How I was sitting, how she first assumedThe sailor; of what happened there remainsEnough to say, and too much to forget.The sweet deceiver stepped upon this bankBefore I was aware; for with surpriseMoments fly rapid as with love itself.Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsened reed,I heard a rustling, and where that aroseMy glance first lighted on her nimble feet.Her feet resembled those long shells exploredBy him who to befriend his steed’s dim sightWould blow the pungent powder in the eye.Her eyes too!  O immortal gods! her eyesResembled — what could they resemble? whatEver resemble those!  E’en her attireWas not of wonted woof nor vulgar art:Her mantle showed the yellow samphire-pod,Her girdle the dove-coloured wave serene.‘Shepherd,’ said she, ‘and will you wrestle nowAnd with the sailor’s hardier race engage?’I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrivedHow to keep up contention; could I failBy pressing not too strongly, yet to press?‘Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem,Or whether of the hardier race you boast,I am not daunted, no; I will engage.But first,’ said she, ‘what wager will you lay?’‘A sheep,’ I answered; ‘add whate’er you will.’‘I cannot,’ she replied, ‘make that return:Our hided vessels in their pitchy roundSeldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep.But I have sinuous shells of pearly hueWithin, and they that lustre have imbibedIn the sun’s palace porch, where when unyokedHis chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave:Shake one and it awakens, then applyIts polished lips to your attentive ear,And it remembers its august abodes,And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.And I have others given me by the nymphs,Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have.But we, by Neptune, for no pipe contend — This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.’Now came she forward eager to engage,But first her dress, her bosom then surveyed,And heaved it, doubting if she could deceive.Her bosom seemed, enclosed in haze like heaven,To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined:Above her knees she drew the robe succinct,Above her breast, and just below her arms.‘This will preserve my breath when tightly bound,If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.’Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake,And, rushing at me, closed: I thrilled throughoutAnd seemed to lessen and shrink up with cold.Again with violent impulse gushed my blood,And hearing nought external, thus absorbed,I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein,Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air.Yet with unyielding though uncertain armsI clung around her neck; the vest beneathRustled against our slippery limbs entwined:Often mine springing with eluded forceStarted aside, and trembled till replaced:And when I most succeeded, as I thought,My bosom and my throat felt so compressedThat life was almost quivering on my lips,Yet nothing was there painful! these are signsOf secret arts and not of human might — What arts I cannot tell — I only knowMy eyes grew dizzy, and my strength decayed.I was indeed o’ercome! with what regret,And more, with what confusion, when I reachedThe fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried:‘This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.’She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdainWas in her dimpled chin and liberal lip,And eyes that languished, lengthening, just like love.She went away; I on the wicker gateLeant, and could follow with my eyes alone.The sheep she carried easy as a cloak;But when I heard its bleating, as I did,And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feetStruggle and from her snowy shoulder slip — One shoulder its poor efforts had unveiled — Then all my passions mingling fell in tears;Restless then ran I to the highest groundTo watch her — she was gone — gone down the tide — And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sandLay like a jasper column half-upreared.”   “But, Tamar! tell me, will she not return?”   “She will return, yet not before the moonAgain is at the full; she promised this,Though when she promised I could not reply.”   “By all the gods I pity thee! go on — Fear not my anger, look not on my shame;For when a lover only hears of loveHe finds his folly out, and is ashamed.Away with watchful nights and lonely days,Contempt of earth and aspect up to heaven,Within contemplation, with humility,A tattered cloak that pride wears when deformed,Away with all that hides me from myself,Parts me from others, whispers I am wise — From our own wisdom less is to be reapedThan from the barest folly of our friend.Tamar! thy pastures, large and rich, affordFlowers to thy bees and herbage to thy sheep,But, battened on too much, the poorest croftOf thy poor neighbour yields what thine denies.”    They hastened to the camp, and Gebir thereResolved his native country to forego,And ordered, from those ruins to the rightThey forthwith raise a city: Tamar heardWith wonder, though in passing ’twas half-told,His brother’s love, and sighed upon his own.

GEBIR. SECOND BOOK.

The Gadite men the royal charge obey.Now fragments weighed up from th’ uneven streetsLeave the ground black beneath; again the sunShines into what were porches, and on stepsOnce warm with frequentation — clients, friends,All morning, satchelled idlers all mid-day,Lying half-up and languid though at games.   Some raise the painted pavement, some on wheelsDraw slow its laminous length, some intersperseSalt waters through the sordid heaps, and seizeThe flowers and figures starting fresh to view.Others rub hard large masses, and essayTo polish into white what they misdeemThe growing green of many trackless years.Far off at intervals the axe resoundsWith regular strong stroke, and nearer homeDull falls the mallet with long labour fringed.Here arches are discovered, there huge beamsResist the hatchet, but in fresher airSoon drop away: there spreads a marble squaredAnd smoothened; some high pillar for its baseChose it, which now lies ruined in the dust.Clearing the soil at bottom, they espyA crevice: they, intent on treasure, striveStrenuous, and groan, to move it: one exclaims,“I hear the rusty metal grate; it moves!”Now, overturning it, backward they start,And stop again, and see a serpent pant,See his throat thicken, and the crispéd scalesRise ruffled, while upon the middle foldHe keeps his wary head and blinking eye,Curling more close and crouching ere he strike.Go mighty men, invade far cities, go — And be such treasure portions to your heirs.   Six days they laboured: on the seventh dayReturning, all their labours were destroyed. ’Twas not by mortal hand, or from their tents ‘Twere visible; for these were now removed Above, here neither noxious mist ascends Nor the way wearies ere the work begin.  There Gebir, pierced with sorrow, spake these words:   “Ye men of Gades, armed with brazen shields,And ye of near Tartessus, where the shoreStoops to receive the tribute which all oweTo Boetis and his banks for their attire,Ye too whom Durius bore on level meads,Inherent in your hearts is bravery:For earth contains no nation where aboundsThe generous horse and not the warlike man.But neither soldier now nor steed avails:Nor steed nor soldier can oppose the gods:Nor is there ought above like Jove himself;Nor weighs against his purpose, when once fixed,Aught but, with supplicating knee, the prayers.Swifter than light are they, and every face,Though different, glows with beauty; at the throneOf mercy, when clouds shut it from mankind,They fall bare-bosomed, and indignant JoveDrops at the soothing sweetness of their voiceThe thunder from his hand; let us ariseOn these high places daily, beat our breast,Prostrate ourselves and deprecate his wrath.”    The people bowed their bodies and obeyed:Nine mornings with white ashes on their heads,Lamented they their toil each night o’erthrown.And now the largest orbit of the year,Leaning o’er black Mocattam’s rubied brow,Proceeded slow, majestic, and serene,Now seemed not further than the nearest cliff,And crimson light struck soft the phosphor wave.Then Gebir spake to Tamar in these words:“Tamar!  I am thy elder and thy king,But am thy brother too, nor ever said, ‘Give me thy secret and become my slave:’But haste thee not away; I will myself Await the nymph, disguised in thy attire.”   Then starting from attention Tamar cried:“Brother! in sacred truth it cannot be!My life is yours, my love must be my own:Oh, surely he who seeks a second loveNever felt one, or ’tis not one I feel.”    But Gebir with complacent smile replied:“Go then, fond Tamar, go in happy hour — But ere thou partest ponder in thy breast And well bethink thee, lest thou part deceived, Will she disclose to thee the mysteries Of our calamity? and unconstrained?When even her love thy strength had to disclose.  My heart indeed is full, but witness heaven!  My people, not my passion, fills my heart.”   “Then let me kiss thy garment,” said the youth, “And heaven be with thee, and on me thy grace.”   Him then the monarch thus once more addressed:“Be of good courage: hast thou yet forgot What chaplets languished round thy unburnt hair, In colour like some tall smooth beech’s leaves Curled by autumnal suns?”      How flatteryExcites a pleasant, soothes a painful shame!   “These,” amid stifled blushes Tamar said, “Were of the flowering raspberry and vine:But, ah! the seasons will not wait for love; Seek out some other now.”      They parted here:And Gebir bending through the woodlands culledThe creeping vine and viscous raspberry,Less green and less compliant than they were;And twisted in those mossy tufts that growOn brakes of roses when the roses fade:And as he passes on, the little hindsThat shake for bristly herds the foodful bough,Wonder, stand still, gaze, and trip satisfied;Pleased more if chestnut, out of prickly huskShot from the sandal, roll along the glade.   And thus unnoticed went he, and untiredStepped up the acclivity; and as he stepped,And as the garlands nodded o’er his brow,Sudden from under a close alder sprangTh’ expectant nymph, and seized him unaware.He staggered at the shock; his feet at onceSlipped backward from the withered grass short-grazed;But striking out one arm, though without aim, Then grasping with his other, he enclosedThe struggler; she gained not one step’s retreat,Urging with open hands against his throatIntense, now holding in her breath constrained,Now pushing with quick impulse and by starts,Till the dust blackened upon every pore.Nearer he drew her and yet nearer, claspedAbove the knees midway, and now one armFell, and her other lapsing o’er the neckOf Gebir swung against his back incurved,The swoll’n veins glowing deep, and with a groanOn his broad shoulder fell her face reclined.But ah, she knew not whom that roseate faceCooled with its breath ambrosial; for she stoodHigh on the bank, and often swept and brokeHis chaplets mingled with her loosened hair.     Whether while Tamar tarried came desire,And she grown languid loosed the wings of love,Which she before held proudly at her will,And nought but Tamar in her soul, and noughtWhere Tamar was that seemed or feared deceit,To fraud she yielded what no force had gained — Or whether Jove in pity to mankind,When from his crystal fount the visual orbsHe filled with piercing ether and enduedWith somewhat of omnipotence, ordainedThat never two fair forms at once tormentThe human heart and draw it different ways,And thus in prowess like a god the chiefSubdued her strength nor softened at her charms — The nymph divine, the magic mistress, failed.Recovering, still half resting on the turf,She looked up wildly, and could now descryThe kingly brow, arched lofty for command.   “Traitor!” said she, undaunted, though amazeThrew o’er her varying cheek the air of fear,“Thinkest thou thus that with impunityThou hast forsooth deceived me? dar’st thou deemThose eyes not hateful that have seen me fall?O heaven! soon may they close on my disgrace.Merciless man, what! for one sheep estrangedHast thou thrown into dungeons and of dayAmerced thy shepherd? hast thou, while the ironPierced through his tender limbs into his soul,By threats, by tortures, torn out that offence,And heard him (oh, could I!) avow his love?Say, hast thou? cruel, hateful! — ah my fears!I feel them true! speak, tell me, are they true?”   She blending thus entreaty with reproachBent forward, as though falling on her kneeWhence she had hardly risen, and at this pauseShed from her large dark eyes a shower of tears.   Th’ Iberian king her sorrow thus consoled.“Weep no more, heavenly damsel, weep no more:Neither by force withheld, or choice estrangedThy Tamar lives, and only lives for thee.Happy, thrice happy, you! ’tis me aloneWhom heaven and earth and ocean with one hateConspire on, and throughout each path pursue.Whether in waves beneath or skies aboveThou hast thy habitation, ’tis from heaven,From heaven alone, such power, such charms, descend.Then oh! discover whence that ruin comesEach night upon our city, whence are heardThose yells of rapture round our fallen walls:In our affliction can the gods delight,Or meet oblation for the nymphs are tears?”   He spake, and indignation sank in woe.Which she perceiving, pride refreshed her heart,Hope wreathed her mouth with smiles, and she exclaimed:“Neither the gods afflict you, nor the nymphs.Return me him who won my heart, returnHim whom my bosom pants for, as the steedsIn the sun’s chariot for the western wave,The gods will prosper thee, and Tamar proveHow nymphs the torments that they cause assuage.Promise me this! indeed I think thou hast,But ’tis so pleasing, promise it once more.”   “Once more I promise,” cried the gladdened king,“By my right hand and by myself I swear,And ocean’s gods and heaven’s gods I adjure,Thou shalt be Tamar’s, Tamar shalt be thine.”   Then she, regarding him long fixed, replied:“I have thy promise, take thou my advice.Gebir, this land of Egypt is a landOf incantation, demons rule these waves;These are against thee, these thy works destroy.Where thou hast built thy palace, and hast leftThe seven pillars to remain in front,Sacrifice there, and all these rites observe.Go, but go early, ere the gladsome Hours,Strew saffron in the path of rising Morn,Ere the bee buzzing o’er flowers fresh disclosedExamine where he may the best alightNor scatter off the bloom, ere cold-lipped herdsCrop the pale herbage round each other’s bed,Lead seven bulls, well pastured and well formed,Their neck unblemished and their horns unringed,And at each pillar sacrifice thou one.Around each base rub thrice the black’ning blood,And burn the curling shavings of the hoof;And of the forehead locks thou also burn:The yellow galls, with equal care preserved, Pour at the seventh statue from the north.”   He listened, and on her his eyes intent Perceived her not, and she had disappeared — So deep he pondered her important words.   And now had morn arisen and he performedAlmost the whole enjoined him: he had reachedThe seventh statue, poured the yellow galls,The forelock from his left he had releasedAnd burnt the curling shavings of the hoofMoistened with myrrh; when suddenly a flameSpired from the fragrant smoke, nor sooner spiredDown sank the brazen fabric at his feet.He started back, gazed, nor could aught but gaze,And cold dread stiffened up his hair flower-twined;Then with a long and tacit step, one armBehind, and every finger wide outspread,He looked and tottered on a black abyss.He thought he sometimes heard a distant voiceBreathe through the cavern’s mouth, and further onFaint murmurs now, now hollow groans reply.Therefore suspended he his crook above,Dropped it, and heard it rolling step by step:He entered, and a mingled sound aroseLike one (when shaken from some temple’s roofBy zealous hand, they and their fretted nest)Of birds that wintering watch in Memnon’s tomb, And tell the halcyons when spring first returns.

GEBIR. THIRD BOOK.

Oh, for the spirit of that matchless manWhom Nature led throughout her whole domain,While he embodied breathed etherial air!   Though panting in the play-hour of my youthI drank of Avon too, a dangerous draught,That roused within the feverish thirst of song,Yet never may I trespass o’er the streamOf jealous Acheron, nor alive descendThe silent and unsearchable abodesOf Erebus and Night, nor unchastisedLead up long-absent heroes into day.When on the pausing theatre of earthEve’s shadowy curtain falls, can any manBring back the far-off intercepted hills,Grasp the round rock-built turret, or arrestThe glittering spires that pierce the brow of Heaven?Rather can any with outstripping voiceThe parting sun’s gigantic strides recall?   Twice sounded Gebir! twice th’ Iberian kingThought it the strong vibration of the brainThat struck upon his ear; but now descriedA form, a man, come nearer: as he cameHis unshorn hair grown soft in these abodesWaved back, and scattered thin and hoary light.Living, men called him Aroar, but no moreIn celebration or recording verseHis name is heard, no more by Arnon’s sideThe well-walled city which he reared remains.Gebir was now undaunted — for the braveWhen they no longer doubt no longer fear — And would have spoken, but the shade began,   “Brave son of Hesperus! no mortal handHas led thee hither, nor without the godsPenetrate thy firm feet the vast profound.Thou knowest not that here thy fathers lie,The race of Sidad; theirs was loud acclaimWhen living, but their pleasure was in war;Triumphs and hatred followed: I myselfBore, men imagined, no inglorious part:The gods thought otherwise, by whose decreeDeprived of life, and more, of death deprived,I still hear shrieking through the moonless nightTheir discontented and deserted shades.Observe these horrid walls, this rueful waste!Here some refresh the vigour of the mindWith contemplation and cold penitence:Nor wonder while thou hearest that the soulThus purified hereafter may ascendSurmounting all obstruction, nor ascribeThe sentence to indulgence; each extremeHas tortures for ambition; to dissolveIn everlasting languor, to resistIts impulse, but in vain: to be enclosedWithin a limit, and that limit fire;Severed from happiness, from eminence,And flying, but hell bars us, from ourselves.   Yet rather all these torments most endureThan solitary pain and sad remorseAnd towering thoughts on their own breast o’er-turnedAnd piercing to the heart: such penitence,Such contemplation theirs! thy ancestorsBear up against them, nor will they submitTo conquering Time the asperities of Fate;Yet could they but revisit earth once more,How gladly would they poverty embrace,How labour, even for their deadliest foe!It little now avails them to have raisedBeyond the Syrian regions, and beyondPhoenicia, trophies, tributes, colonies:Follow thou me — mark what it all avails.”   Him Gebir followed, and a roar confusedRose from a river rolling in its bed,Not rapid, that would rouse the wretched souls,Nor calmly, that might lull then to repose;But with dull weary lapses it upheavedBillows of bale, heard low, yet heard afar.For when hell’s iron portals let out night,Often men start and shiver at the sound,And lie so silent on the restless couchThey hear their own hearts beat.  Now Gebir breathedAnother air, another sky beheld.Twilight broods here, lulled by no nightingaleNor wakened by the shrill lark dewy-winged,But glowing with one sullen sunless heat.Beneath his foot nor sprouted flower nor herbNor chirped a grasshopper.  Above his headPhlegethon formed a fiery firmament:Part were sulphurous clouds involving, partShining like solid ribs of molten brass;For the fierce element which else aspiresHigher and higher and lessens to the sky,Below, earth’s adamantine arch rebuffed.   Gebir, though now such languor held his limbs, Scarce aught admired he, yet he this admired;And thus addressed him then the conscious guide.“Beyond that river lie the happy fields;From them fly gentle breezes, which when drawnAgainst yon crescent convex, but uniteStronger with what they could not overcome.Thus they that scatter freshness through the grovesAnd meadows of the fortunate, and fillWith liquid light the marble bowl of earth,And give her blooming health and spritely force,Their fire no more diluted, nor its dartsBlunted by passing through thick myrtle bowers,Neither from odours rising half dissolved,Point forward Phlegethon’s eternal flame;And this horizon is the spacious bowWhence each ray reaches to the world above.”   The hero pausing, Gebir then besoughtWhat region held his ancestors, what clouds,What waters, or what gods, from his embrace.Aroar then sudden, as though roused, renewed.   “Come thou, if ardour urges thee and forceSuffices — mark me, Gebir, I unfoldNo fable to allure thee — on! beholdThy ancestors!” and lo! with horrid gaspThe panting flame above his head recoiled,And thunder through his heart and life blood throbbed.Such sound could human organs once conceive,Cold, speechless, palsied, not the soothing voiceOf friendship or almost of DeityCould raise the wretched mortal from the dust;Beyond man’s home condition they! with eyesIntent, and voice desponding, and unheardBy Aroar, though he tarried at his side.“They know me not,” cried Gebir, “O my sires,Ye know me not! they answer not, nor hear.How distant are they still! what sad extentOf desolation must we overcome!Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretchIs that with eyebrows white, and slanting brow?Listen! him yonder who bound down supine,Shrinks yelling from that sword there engine-hung;He too among my ancestors?”      “O King!Iberia bore him, but the breed accursedInclement winds blew blighting from north-east.”    “He was a warrior then, nor feared the gods?”    “Gebir, he feared the Demons, not the Gods;Though them indeed his daily face adored,And was no warrior, yet the thousand livesSquandered as stones to exercise a sling!And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — Oh, madness of mankind! addressed, adored!O Gebir! what are men, or where are gods!Behold the giant next him, how his feetPlunge floundering mid the marshes yellow-flowered,His restless head just reaching to the rocks,His bosom tossing with black weeds besmeared,How writhes he twixt the continent and isle!What tyrant with more insolence e’er claimedDominion? when from the heart of UsuryRose more intense the pale-flamed thirst for gold?And called forsooth Deliverer!  False or foolsWho praised the dull-eared miscreant, or who hopedTo soothe your folly and disgrace with praise!   Hearest thou not the harp’s gay simpering airAnd merriment afar? then come, advance;And now behold him! mark the wretch accursedWho sold his people to a rival king — Self-yoked they stood two ages unredeemed.”   “Oh, horror! what pale visage rises there?Speak, Aroar! me perhaps mine eyes deceive,Inured not, yet methinks they there descrySuch crimson haze as sometimes drowns the moon.What is yon awful sight? why thus appearsThat space between the purple and the crown?”   “I will relate their stories when we reachOur confines,” said the guide; “for thou, O king,Differing in both from all thy countrymen,Seest not their stories and hast seen their fates.But while we tarry, lo again the flameRiseth, and murmuring hoarse, points straighter, haste!’Tis urgent, we must hence.”      “Then, oh, adieu!”Cried Gebir, and groaned loud, at last a tearBurst from his eyes turned back, and he exclaimed,“Am I deluded?  O ye powers of hell,Suffer me — Oh, my fathers! — am I torn—”He spake, and would have spoken more, but flamesEnwrapped him round and round intense; he turned,And stood held breathless in a ghost’s embrace.“Gebir, my son, desert me not!  I heardThy calling voice, nor fate withheld me more:One moment yet remains; enough to knowSoon will my torments, soon will thine, expire.Oh, that I e’er exacted such a vow!When dipping in the victim’s blood thy hand,First thou withdrew’st it, looking in my faceWondering; but when the priest my will explained,Then swearest thou, repeating what he said,How against Egypt thou wouldst raise that handAnd bruise the seed first risen from our line.Therefore in death what pangs have I endured!Racked on the fiery centre of the sun,Twelve years I saw the ruined world roll round.Shudder not — I have borne it — I deservedMy wretched fate — be better thine — farewell.”   “Oh, stay, my father! stay one moment more.Let me return thee that embrace— ’tis past — Aroar! how could I quit it unreturned!And now the gulf divides us, and the wavesOf sulphur bellow through the blue abyss.And is he gone for ever! and I comeIn vain?”  Then sternly said the guide, “In vain!Sayst thou? what wouldst thou more? alas, O prince,None come for pastime here! but is it noughtTo turn thy feet from evil? is it noughtOf pleasure to that shade if they are turned?For this thou camest hither: he who daresTo penetrate this darkness, nor regardsThe dangers of the way, shall reascendIn glory, nor the gates of hell retardHis steps, nor demon’s nor man’s art prevail.Once in each hundred years, and only once,Whether by some rotation of the world,Or whether willed so by some power above,This flaming arch starts back, each realm descriesIts opposite, and Bliss from her repose Freshens and feels her own security.”   “Security!” cried out the Gadite king, “And feel they not compassion?”      “Child of Earth,”Calmly said Aroar at his guest’s surprise,“Some so disfigured by habitual crimes,Others are so exalted, so refined,So permeated by heaven, no trace remainsGraven on earth: here Justice is supreme;Compassion can be but where passions are.Here are discovered those who tortured LawTo silence or to speech, as pleased themselves:Here also those who boasted of their zealAnd loved their country for the spoils it gave.Hundreds, whose glitt’ring merchandise the lyreDazzled vain wretches drunk with flattery,And wafted them in softest airs to Heav’n,Doomed to be still deceived, here still attuneThe wonted strings and fondly woo applause:Their wish half granted, they retain their own,But madden at the mockery of the shades.Upon the river’s other side there growDeep olive groves; there other ghosts abide,Blest indeed they, but not supremely blest.We cannot see beyond, we cannot seeAught but our opposite, and here are fatesHow opposite to ours! here some observedReligious rites, some hospitality:Strangers, who from the good old men retired,Closed the gate gently, lest from generous useShutting and opening of its own accord,It shake unsettled slumbers off their couch:Some stopped revenge athirst for slaughter, some Sowed the slow olive for a race unborn.  These had no wishes, therefore none are crowned; But theirs are tufted banks, theirs umbrage, theirsEnough of sunshine to enjoy the shade,And breeze enough to lull them to repose.”   Then Gebir cried: “Illustrious host, proceed.Bring me among the wonders of a realmAdmired by all, but like a tale admired.We take our children from their cradled sleep,And on their fancy from our own impressEtherial forms and adulating fates:But ere departing for such scenes ourselvesWe seize their hands, we hang upon their neck,Our beds cling heavy round us with our tears,Agony strives with agony — just gods!Wherefore should wretched mortals thus believe,Or wherefore should they hesitate to die?”   Thus while he questioned, all his strength dissolvedWithin him, thunder shook his troubled brain,He started, and the cavern’s mouth surveyedNear, and beyond his people; he arose,And bent toward them his bewildered way.

GEBIR. FOURTH BOOK.

  The king’s lone road, his visit, his return,Were not unknown to Dalica, nor longThe wondrous tale from royal ears delayed.When the young queen had heard who taught the ritesHer mind was shaken, and what first she askedWas, whether the sea-maids were very fair,And was it true that even gods were movedBy female charms beneath the waves profound,And joined to them in marriage, and had sons — Who knows but Gebir sprang then from the gods!He that could pity, he that could obey,Flattered both female youth and princely pride,The same ascending from amid the shadesShowed Power in frightful attitude: the queenMarks the surpassing prodigy, and strivesTo shake off terror in her crowded court,And wonders why she trembles, nor suspectsHow Fear and Love assume each other’s form,By birth and secret compact how allied.Vainly (to conscious virgins I appeal),Vainly with crouching tigers, prowling wolves,Rocks, precipices, waves, storms, thunderbolts,All his immense inheritance, would FearThe simplest heart, should Love refuse, assail:Consent — the maiden’s pillowed ear imbibesConstancy, honour, truth, fidelity,Beauty and ardent lips and longing arms;Then fades in glimmering distance half the scene,Then her heart quails and flutters and would fly — ’Tis her belovéd! not to her! ye Powers!What doubting maid exacts the vow? beholdAbove the myrtles his protesting hand!Such ebbs of doubt and swells of jealousyToss the fond bosom in its hour of sleepAnd float around the eyelids and sink through.   Lo! mirror of delight in cloudless days,Lo! thy reflection: ’twas when I exclaimed,With kisses hurried as if each foresawTheir end, and reckoned on our broken bonds,And could at such a price such loss endure:“Oh, what to faithful lovers met at morn,What half so pleasant as imparted fears!”Looking recumbent how love’s column roseMarmoreal, trophied round with golden hair,How in the valley of one lip unseenHe slumbered, one his unstrung low impressed.Sweet wilderness of soul-entangling charms!Led back by memory, and each blissful mazeRetracing, me with magic power detainThose dimpled cheeks, those temples violet-tinged,Those lips of nectar and those eyes of heaven!     Charoba, though indeed she never drankThe liquid pearl, or twined the nodding crown,Or when she wanted cool and calm reposeDreamed of the crawling asp and grated tomb,Was wretched up to royalty: the jibeStruck her, most piercing where love pierced before,From those whose freedom centres in their tongue,Handmaidens, pages, courtiers, priests, buffoons.Congratulations here, there prophecies,Here children, not repining at neglectWhile tumult sweeps them ample room for play,Everywhere questions answered ere begun,Everywhere crowds, for everywhere alarm.Thus winter gone, nor spring (though near) arrived,Urged slanting onward by the bickering breezeThat issues from beneath Aurora’s car,Shudder the sombrous waves; at every beamMore vivid, more by every breath impelled,Higher and higher up the fretted rocksTheir turbulent refulgence they display.Madness, which like the spiral elementThe more it seizes on the fiercer burns,Hurried them blindly forward, and involvedIn flame the senses and in gloom the soul.   Determined to protect the country’s godsAnd asking their protection, they adjureEach other to stand forward, and insistWith zeal, and trample under foot the slow;And disregardful of the SympathiesDivine, those Sympathies whose delicate handTouching the very eyeball of the heart,Awakens it, not wounds it nor inflames,Blind wretches! they with desperate embraceHang on the pillar till the temple fall.Oft the grave judge alarms religious wealthAnd rouses anger under gentle words.Woe to the wiser few who dare to cry“People! these men are not your enemies,Inquire their errand, and resist when wronged.”Together childhood, priesthood, womanhood,The scribes and elders of the land, exclaim,“Seek they not hidden treasure in the tombs?Raising the ruins, levelling the dust,Who can declare whose ashes they disturb!Build they not fairer cities than our own,Extravagant enormous aperturesFor light, and portals larger, open courtsWhere all ascending all are unconfined,And wider streets in purer air than ours?Temples quite plain with equal architravesThey build, nor bearing gods like ours embossed.Oh, profanation!  Oh, our ancestors!”    Though all the vulgar hate a foreign face,It more offends weak eyes and homely age,Dalica most, who thus her aim pursued.“My promise, O Charoba, I perform.Proclaim to gods and men a festivalThroughout the land, and bid the strangers eat;Their anger thus we haply may disarm.”   “O Dalica,” the grateful queen replied, “Nurse of my childhood, soother of my cares, Preventer of my wishes, of my thoughts, Oh, pardon youth, oh, pardon royalty!  If hastily to Dalica I sued,Fear might impel me, never could distrust.Go then, for wisdom guides thee, take my name,Issue what most imports and best beseems,And sovereignty shall sanction the decree.”   And now Charoba was alone, her heartGrew lighter; she sat down, and she arose,She felt voluptuous tenderness, but feltThat tenderness for Dalica; she praisedHer kind attention, warm solicitude,Her wisdom — for what wisdom pleased like hers!She was delighted; should she not beholdGebir? she blushed; but she had words to speak,She formed them and re-formed them, with regretThat there was somewhat lost with every change;She could replace them — what would that avail? — Moved from their order they have lost their charm.While thus she strewed her way with softest words,Others grew up before her, but appearedA plenteous rather than perplexing choice:She rubbed her palms with pleasure, heaved a sigh,Grew calm again, and thus her thoughts revolved —    “But he descended to the tombs! the thoughtThrills me, I must avow it, with affright.And wherefore? shows he not the more belovedOf heaven? or how ascends he back to day?Then has he wronged me? could he want a causeWho has an army and was bred to reign?And yet no reasons against rights he urged,He threatened not, proclaimed not; I approached,He hastened on; I spake, he listened; wept,He pitied me; he loved me, he obeyed;He was a conqueror, still am I a queen.”    She thus indulged fond fancies, when the soundOf timbrels and of cymbals struck her ear,And horns and howlings of wild jubilee.She feared, and listened to confirm her fears;One breath sufficed, and shook her refluent soul.