What could her grief be?—she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?—she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Noi could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand Before an altar-with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made The star-light of his boyhood;-as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then- As in that hour-a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts
And the quick spirit of the universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret-Be it so.
My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness-both in misery.
Oн Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do?-any thing but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers-as the slime, been-The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Was traced, and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny came back, And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time? VII.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love;-oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms, impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its phantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With hatred and contention; pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontie monarch of old days,1 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And mʊde him friends of mountains: with the stars
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep. Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping strees. Oh! agony-that centuries should reap No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; And even the Lion all subdued appears, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song, That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas-and to the busy hum
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
Of the cold staggering race which death is winning, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ;~ And then he talks of life, and how again. He feels his spirit soaring-albeit wean, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps.
And so the film comes o'er him-and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy, At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, And all is ice and blackness,—and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. II.
There is no hope for nations! Search the Of many thousand years-the daily scene, The flow and ebb of each recurring age, The everlasting to be which hath been, Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air; For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the beasts Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order-they must go
Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return? A heritage of servitude and woes,
A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows. What? do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, O'er which stumble in a false ordeal, you
And deem this proof of loyalty the real; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your sires have left you, all that time Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime, Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, Gushing from freedom's fountains-when the crowd, Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore,—in which long yoked they plough'd The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain "T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:- Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations-fair, when free- For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!
Glory and empire! once upon these towers With freedom-godlike triad! how ye sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled-with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes
Were of the softer order-born of lovẹ, She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dea、., But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread, For these restored the cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, whicn clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of freedom to her glorious struggles; Yet she but shares with them a common woe, And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe,- But knows what all--and, most of all, we know— With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
The name of commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded science— Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three and then faltering:-better be paces, Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee!
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye! And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried nere September 14th, 1809.
And when the hollow drums of war Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain, Woe is me, Alhama!
Then the Moors, by this aware That bloody Mars recall'd them there, One by one, and two by two, To a mighty squadron grew.
Woe is me, Alhama !
Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, "Wherefore call on us, oh king? What may mean this gathering?" Woe is me, Alhama !
"Friends! ye have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow, That the Christians, stern and bold, Have obtain❜d Alhama's hold.” Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see, "Good king, thou art justly served, Good king, this thou hast deserved. Woe is me, Alhama!
"By thee were slain, in evil hour, The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; And strangers were received by thee Of Cordova the chivalry.
Woe is me, Alhama!
Una pena bien doblada; Que te pierdas tú y el reino, Y que se pierda Granada. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Si no se respetan leyes, Es ley que todo se pierda; Y que se pierda Granada, Y que te pierdas en ella. Ay de mi, Alhama !
Fuego por los ojos vierte, El Rey que esto oyera, Y como el otro de leyes De leyes tambien hablaba.
Ay de mi, Alhama!
Sabe un Rey que no hay leyes De darle á Reyes disgusto.-Eso dice el Rey moro Relinchando de cólera.
Ay de mi, Alhama!
Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, El Rey te manda prender, Por la pérdida de Alhama. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Y cortarte la cabeza,
Y ponerla en el Alhambra, Por que á tí castigo sea, Y otros tiemblen en miralla. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Caballeros, hombres buenos, Decid de mi parte al Rey, Al Rey moro de Granada, Como no le devo nada. Ay de mi, Alhama !
De aberse Alhama perdido A mi me pesa en el alma; Que si el Rey perdió su tierra Otro mucho mas perdiera. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Perdieran hijos padres, Y casados las casadas: Las cosas que mas amara Perdió uno y otro fama, Ay de mi, Alhama !
Perdí una hija doncella Que era la flor d' esta tierra; Cien doblas daba por ella, No me las estimo en nada. Ay de mi, Alhama !
Diciendo asi al hacen Alfaqui, Le cortaron la cabeza,
Y la elevan al Alhambra,
Asi como el Rey lo manda. Ay de mi, Alhama!
“And for this, oh king! is sent On thee a double chastisement, Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, One last wreck shall overwhelm. Woe is me, Alhama!
"He who holds no laws in awe,
He must perish by the law; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone." Woe is me, Alhama!
Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes, The monarch's wrath began to rise, Because he answer'd, and because He spake exceeding well of laws. Woe is me, Alhama!
"There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings :". Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish king, and doom'd him dead. Woe is me, Alhama
Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! Though thy beard so hoary be, The king hath sent to have thee seized, For Alhama's loss displeased. Woe is me, Alhama!
And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw. Woe is mé, Alhama !
"Cavalier! and man of worth! Let these words of mine go forth; Let the Moorish monarch know, That to him I nothing owe:
Woe is me, Alhama!
"But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys; And if the king his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most. Woe is me, Alhama!
"Sires have lost their children, wives Their lords, and valiant men their lives, One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth or fame. Woe is me, Alhama !
"I lost a damsel in that hour, Of all the land the loveliest flower, Doubloons a hundred I would pay, And think her ransom cheap that day." Woe is me, Alhama!
And as these things the old Moor said, They sever'd from the trunk his head; And to the Alhambra's wall with speen 'I was carried, as the king decreed. Woe is me, Alhama!
Hombres, ninos y mugeres, Lloran tan grande pérdida. Lloraban todas las damas Cuantas en Granada habia. - Ay de mi, Alhama!
Por las calles y ventanas Mucho luto parecia ;
Llora el Rey como fembra,
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia. Ay de mi, Alhama!
And men and infants therein weep Their loss, so heavy and so deep; Granada's ladies, all she rears Within her walls, burst into tears. Woe is me, Alhama!
And from the windows o'er the walls The sable web of mourning falls! The king weeps as a woman o'er His loss, for it is much and sore. Woe is me, Alhama !
Bonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; e diretto al genifure della sacra sposa.
Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, áccorte Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne fco;
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte, L' una e l' altra veggendo, ambo chiedo
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte
A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo:
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda,
Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posa, Batto e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.
TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.
Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Or two fair virgins, modest though admired,
Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires, Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, And gazing upon either, both required. Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon expires. But thine, within the closing grate retired, Eternal captive, to her God aspires. But thou at least from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more: I to the marble, where my daughter lies,
Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.
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