And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips »The foe! They come! they come!<< And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, Battle's magnificently-stern array! the day The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent! 7. THE THUNDERSTORM. (From the same Canto.) The sky is changed! and such a change! O night, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among And this is in the night: -Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black, and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Of years all winters, war within themselves to wage. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, Of what in me is sleepless, if I rest. But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, I could I wreak With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 8. VENICE. (From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV.) I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; O'er the far times, when many a subject land Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles! She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 9. ROME. (From the same Canto.) O Rome! my country! city of the soul! What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride: She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, And say, 'Here was, or is', where all is doubly night? The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap roll! Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields Are not a spoil for him, thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay. |