Lights through the Temple of the Winds In our own Athens-battled round, Deafening me with chaotic sound. Nor this the worst-for, holding still
With hands unmov'd, though shrinking oft, I found myself, at the wild will
Of countless whirlwinds, caught aloft,
And round and round, with fearful swing,
Swept, like a stone-shot in a sling!
Till breathless, mazed, I had begun,-
So ceaselessly I thus was whirl'd,—
To think my limbs were chain'd upon
That wheel of the Infernal World,
To turn which, day and night, are blowing
Hot, withering winds that never slumber;
And whose sad rounds, still going, going,
Eternity alone can number!
And yet, ev'n then-while worse than Fear
Hath ever dreamt seem'd hovering near,
Had voice but ask'd me, "is not this
A price too dear for aught below?"
I should have said "for knowledge, yes—
But for bright, glorious Woman-no."
At last, that whirl, when all my strength
Had nearly fled, came to an end;
And, through that viewless void, at length
I felt the still-grasp'd ring descend
Rapidly with me, till my feet-
Oh, ne'er was touch of land so sweet
To the long sea-worn exile-found
A resting-place on the firm ground.
At the same instant o'er me broke
A glimmer through that gloom so chill,-
Like day-light, when beneath the yoke
Of tyrant darkness struggling still-
And by th' imperfect gleam it shed,
I saw before me a rude bed,
Where poppies, strew'd upon a heap
Of wither'd lotus, wooed to sleep.
Blessing that couch-as I would bless,
Ay, ev'n the absent tiger's lair,
For rest in such stark weariness,-
I crawl'd to it and sunk down there.
How long I slept, or by what means
Was wafted thence, I cannot say;
But, when I woke-oh the bright scenes
The glories that around me lay-
If ever yet a vision shone
On waking mortal, this was one!
But how describe it? vain, as yet,
While the first dazzle dims my eyes,
All vain the attempt-I must forget
The flush, the newness, the surprise,
The vague bewilderment, that whelms,
Ev'n now, my every sense and thought,
Ere I can paint these sunless realms,
And their hid glories as I ought. While thou, if ev'n but half I tell Wilt that but half believe-farewell!
And, gay and godless, makes the present hour Its only heaven, is now within our power. Smooth, impious school!-not all the weapons aimed
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed,
E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,
The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers
conceal'd.
And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet
As any thou canst boast,-ev'n when the feet
Of thy proud war-steed wade through Christian
blood,
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,
And bring him, tamed and prostrate, to implore
The vilest gods ev'n Egypt's saints adore.
What!-do these sages think, to them alone
The key of this world's happiness is known?
That none but they, who make such proud
parade
Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid,
Or that Religion keeps no secret place,
No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace? Fools!-did they know how keen the zest that's given
To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven;
How Piety's grave mask improves the hue
Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen through,
And how the Priest, set aptly within reach
Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,
Would they not, Decius,-thou, whom th' an-
'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally,Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?
Leave the gross daylight joys, that, in their bowers,
Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown
For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd
That slily lurk within the Temple's shade?
And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's
school,-
Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,
Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide; Where pleasure, cramp'd and chill'd by wisdom's
Counts her own pulse's regulated play,
And in dull dreams dissolves her life away,-
Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true,
Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,-
Who, far too wise to theorise on bliss,
Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss,
Preach other worlds, but live for only this:
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.
Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they
Alone despise the craft of us who pray ;
Still less their creedless vanity deceive
With the fond thought, that we who pray believe.
FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO Belicve!--Apis forbid-forbid it, all
DECIUS, THE PRÆTORIAN PREFECT.
REJOICE, my friend, rejoice :-the youthful Chief Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,
Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we
fall,Deities, framed in jest, as if to try
Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward
stray
To these earth-hidden temples, tracked his way,
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine and me
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to
How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky;
How far the same low fancy that combines
Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,
And turns that Heaven itself into a place
Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,
Can bring Olympus ev'n to shame more deep,
Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap,
Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,
Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food,-At the Well's lowest depth,-which none but
All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees
In dogs, cats, owls, and apes divinities!
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.
The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that standa
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move,-
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:-
'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's
sky,
Believe!-oh, Decius, thou, who hast no care
Of things divine, beyond the soldier's share,
Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs,-Had been observed, curiously wandering round
Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.
Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs
Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart,
Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part,-
The deep and dire disgust with which I wade
Through the foul juggling of this holy trade,-
This mud profound of mystery, where the feet,
At every step, sink deeper in deceit.
Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze,
O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,
Did I not keep still proudly in my mind,
The power this priestcraft gives me o'er man-
kind,-
A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,
To move this world, than Archimede
plann'd,-
Instant, th' Initiate's Trials were prepared,-
The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared,
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Samian* pass'd,
With trembling hope to come to—what, at last i
Go, ask the dupes of Myst'ry; question him
Who, mid terrific sounds and spectres dim,
Walks at Eleusis; ask of those, who brave
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave,
With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep
Those terrible night-myst'ries where they weep
And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze,
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities,-
e'er Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men,
Drown'd, hang'd, empaled, to rise, as gods,
I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel
At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel
Besotted round; and,-like that kindred breed
Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,
At famed Arsinoë,*-make my keepers bless,
With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness.
Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain
Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,
Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast
sold,
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?
It must not be:-think'st thou that Christian sect,
Whose followers, quick as broken waves, erect
Their crests anew and swell into a tide,
That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride-
Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells,
ev'n they
Would triumph thus, had not the constant play
Of Wit's resistless archery clear'd their way ?—
That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,
Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,
Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs
Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,
Threatening such change as to the awful freaks
Of summer lightning, ere the tempest breaks.
But, to my point,-a youth of this vain school,
But one, whoin Doubt itself hath fail'd to cool
Down to that freezing point, where Priests despair
Of any spark from th' altar catching there,-
Hath, some nights since, it was, methinks, the
night
That follow'd the full moon's great annual rite,
For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented, see the Epicurean, chap. 10.
And such th' advance in fraud since Orpheus'
time-
That earliest master of our craft sublime,-
So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,
From the great Orphic Egg have wing'd abroad,
That, still t' uphold our Temple's ancient boast,
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round
In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound;
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,
With changeful skill; and make the human mind
Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray,
But by the Priest's permission, wins its way,—
Where, through the gloom as wave our wizard
rods,
Monsters, at will, are conjured into Gods;
While Reason, like a grave-faced mummy, stands
With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.
But chiefly in the skill with which we use
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,
Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.
And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil
Hath, for our use, scoop'd out of Egypt's soil
This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,
Gardens, and palaces, where Pleasure reigns
In a rich, sunless empire of her own,
With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne;
A realm for mystery made, which undermines
The Nile itself, and, 'neath the Twelve Great
Shrines
That keep Initiation's holy rite,
Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light,
A light that knows no change-its brooks that run
Too deep for day, its gardens without sun,
Where soul and sense, by turns, are charm'd,
surprised;
And all that bard or prophet e'er devised
For man's Elysium, priests have realized.
Here, at this moment,-all his trials past,
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last,-
The young Initiate roves, as yet left free
To wander through this realm of mystery,
Feeding on such illusions as prepare
The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear
All shapes and hues, at Fancy's varying will,
Through every shifting aspect, vapour still;-
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown,
By scenic skill, into that world unknown,
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;
And all those other witching, wildering arts,
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,
Ay, ev'n the wisest and the hardiest, quail
To any goblin throned behind a veil.
Yes, such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,
Mixt with his night-dreams, from his atmosphere;
Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length,
His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,
Like Phrygian priests, in honour of the shrine,-
If he become not absolutely mine,
Body and soul, and, like the tame decoy
Which wary hunters of wild doves employ,
Draw converts also, lure his brother wits
To the dark cage where his own spirit flits,
And give us, if not saints, good hypocrites,-
If I effect not this, then be it said
The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled,
Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased
To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.
When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning
Bright we've seen it burning-
Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes,
On its lingering roses,
Once so loved by thee-
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them--
Oh! then remember me.
When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing,
Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee
Oh! then remember me.
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME AIR-The Brown Maid.
OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives!
FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon!
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade.
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay-Oh! stay-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.
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Solis Fons, near the temple of Ammon.
This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book 10.
"Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm-
For though they love women and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!
On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle,
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride!
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.* AIR-The Old Head of Denis.
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters
Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart. Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill-
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature im
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in
WHEN in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear,
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue while it linger'd here:
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
"The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of 1807.
The rivers of Avon and Avoca.
Hang it up at that friendly door,
Where weary travellers love to call.*
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest!
But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.
AIR-Unknown.
OH! weep for the hour,
When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the valley with false vows came;
The moon hid her light
From the heavens that night,
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
The clouds pass'd soon
From the chaste cold moon,
And Heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
The white snow lay
On the narrow path-way,
When her kings, with standards of green unfurl'd,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;-*
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear, cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days,
In the wave beneath him shining!
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover!
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN-
DEARING YOUNG CHARMS.
AIR-My Lodging is on the cold Ground.
BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my
Like fairy gifts fading away!
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment
thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still!
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
Oh! the heart that has truly loved, never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
Where the Lord of the valley cross'd over the As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
pions, whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his
LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS victory."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book 9.
LET Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,t
Which he won from her proud invader;
• "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in music."-O'Halloran.
"Military orders of knights were very early es tablished in Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ, we find a hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Cura idhe na Craoibhe ruadh, or the knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craoibhe |ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier."-O'Halloran's Introduction, etc., part i. chap. 5.
It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by "This brought on an encounter between Malachi whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated (the monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, over. Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their cham-whelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear wea
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