ALARIC IN ITALY.

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?

The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?

His steps have track’d that glorious clime,

The birth-place of heroic time;

But he, in northern deserts bred,

Spared not the living for the dead,[120]

Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries

From temple and from tomb arise.

He pass’d—the light of burning fanes

Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;

And woke they not—the brave, the free,

To guard their own Thermopylæ?

And left they not their silent dwelling,

When Scythia’s note of war was swelling?

No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,

Sad freedom battled not—but wept!

For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand,

And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;

Nor one high soul from slumber broke

When Athens own’d the northern yoke.

But was there none for thee to dare

The conflict, scorning to despair?

O City of the seven proud hills!

Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills,

As doth a clarion’s battle-call—

Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?

Did no Camillus from the chain

Ransom thy Capitol again?

Oh, who shall tell the days to be

No patriot rose to bleed for thee!

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?

The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?

That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121]

Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:—

How woke the mighty? She whose will

So long had bid the world be still,

Her sword a sceptre, and her eye

Th’ ascendant star of destiny!

She woke—to view the dread array

Of Scythians rushing to their prey,

To hear her streets resound the cries

Pour’d from a thousand agonies!

While the strange light of flames, that gave

A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave,

Bursting in that terrific hour

From fane and palace, dome and tower,

Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine,

Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine:

Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed

O’er spear and sword, with carnage red,

Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying,

And kindled pyres for Romans dying.

Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er

Should tears alone thy wrongs declare!

The time hath been when thy distress

Had roused up empires for redress!

Now, her long race of glory run,

Without a combat Rome is won,

And from her plunder’d temples forth

Rush the fierce children of the North,

To share beneath more genial skies

Each joy their own rude clime denies.

Ye who on bright Campania’s shore

Bade your fair villas rise of yore,

With all their graceful colonnades,

And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,

Along the blue Hesperian deep,

Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep—

Beneath your olive and your vine

Far other inmates now recline;

And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed

With rich libations duly shed,[122]

O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends,

Its bowery canopy extends.

For them the southern heaven is glowing,

The bright Falernian nectar flowing;

For them the marble halls unfold,

Where nobler beings dwelt of old,

Whose children for barbarian lords

Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords.

Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine

To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine.

Yet, though luxurious they repose

Beneath Corinthian porticoes—

While round them into being start

The marvels of triumphant art—

Oh! not for them hath Genius given

To Parian stone the fire of heaven,

Enshrining in the forms he wrought

A bright eternity of thought.

In vain the natives of the skies

In breathing marble round them rise,

And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade

People the dark-green laurel shade.

Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye

To visions of divinity;

And rude his hand which dares deface

The models of immortal grace.

Arouse ye from your soft delights!

Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites;

And other lands must yet be won,

And other deeds of havoc done.

Warriors! your flowery bondage break,

Sons of the stormy North, awake!

The barks are launching from the steep—

Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123]

And Afric’s burning winds afar

Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war.

Where shall his race of victory close?

When shall the ravaged earth repose?

But hark! what wildly mingling cries

From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise?

Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air?

A sterner conquerer hath been there!

A conqueror—yet his paths are peace,

He comes to bring the world’s release;

He of the sword that knows no sheath,

The avenger, the deliverer—Death!

Is then that daring spirit fled?

Doth Alaric slumber with the dead?

Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength,

And he and earth are calm at length.

The land where heaven unclouded shines,

Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines;

The land by conquest made his own,

Can yield him now—a grave alone.

But his—her lord from Alp to sea—

No common sepulchre shall be!

Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye

Its buried wealth may ne’er descry!

Where mortal foot may never tread

Above a victor-monarch’s bed.

Let not his royal dust be hid

’Neath star-aspiring pyramid;

Nor bid the gather’d mound arise,

To bear his memory to the skies.

Years roll away—oblivion claims

Her triumph o’er heroic names;

And hands profane disturb the clay

That once was fired with glory’s ray;

And Avarice, from their secret gloom,

Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb.

But thou, O leader of the free!

That general doom awaits not thee:

Thou, where no step may e’er intrude,

Shalt rest in regal solitude,

Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,

The Awakener’s final trumpet sound.

Turn ye the waters from their course,

Bid Nature yield to human force,

And hollow in the torrent’s bed

A chamber for the mighty dead.

The work is done—the captive’s hand

Hath well obey’d his lord’s command.

Within that royal tomb are cast

The richest trophies of the past,

The wealth of many a stately dome,

The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome;

And when the midnight stars are beaming,

And ocean waves in stillness gleaming,

Stern in their grief, his warriors bear

The Chastener of the Nations there;

To rest at length from victory’s toil,

Alone, with all an empire’s spoil!

Then the freed current’s rushing wave

Rolls o’er the secret of the grave;

Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood

To crimson that sepulchral flood,

Whose conscious tide alone shall keep

The mystery in its bosom deep.

Time hath past on since then—and swept

From earth the urns where heroes slept;

Temples of gods and domes of kings

Are mouldering with forgotten things;

Yet not shall ages e’er molest

The viewless home of Alaric’s rest:

Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river,

The guardian of his dust for ever.

The sun sets brightly—but a ruddier glow

O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw.

Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire

In lurid splendour from her domes aspire;

Sway’d by the wind, they wave—while glares the sky

As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh;

The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall

Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall;

Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams—

Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams;

While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains,

Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes;

And shouts of triumph, echoing far around,

Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124]

—But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height

What towering form bursts wildly on the sight,

All regal in magnificent attire,

And sternly beauteous in terrific ire?

She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour

Of dread communion and delirious power;

A being more than earthly, in whose eye

There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency.

The flames are gathering round—intensely bright,

Full on her features glares their meteor light;

But a wild courage sits triumphant there,

The stormy grandeur of a proud despair;

A daring spirit, in its woes elate,

Mightier than death, untameable by fate.

The dark profusion of her locks unbound

Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round;

Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien—

She seems the avenging goddess of the scene.

Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry

Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh,

Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest,

And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?

Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain,

And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?

Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands

Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands;

On him who left her to that burning tomb,

Alone to share her children’s martyrdom;

Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife,

And knelt to win the worthless boon of life.

“Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee,

E’en in thy fetters, can existence be!

Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!—with blasted name,

The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame.

O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain

With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain!

Still may the manès of thy children rise

To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes;

Still may their voices on the haunted air

In fearful whispers tell thee to despair,

Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume,

Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb!

E’en now my sons shall die—and thou, their sire,

In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.

Think’st thou I love them not?—’Twas thine to fly—

’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.

Behold their fate!—the arms that cannot save

Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.”

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams,

Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams;

With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast

Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest;

Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high,

Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.

A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries

Rose from her dwellings—youthful cheeks were pale,

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes,

And voices mingling in tumultuous wail;

Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer,

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair.

Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside

The regal splendour of their fair array,

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride,

And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay;

While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine

Who made of old renown and empire thine.

But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate,

The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold;

And all the scene reveals its solemn state,

Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold;

And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode,

The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God.

Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore

Wert wont between the cherubim to rest,

Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er

Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest?

Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne,

And call the oracle’s recess thine own!

Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host,

Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour,

To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast,

Didst pass triumphant in avenging power,

Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene,

And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been.

Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might,

To guard thine ancient and majestic hill,

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light

Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill?

Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain,

Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again!

Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d

Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid,

The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store:

What recks his heart though age unsuccour’d die,

And want consume the cheek of infancy?

Away, intruders!—hark! a mighty sound!

Behold, a burst of light!—away, away!

A fearful glory fills the temple round,

A vision bright in terrible array!

And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame,

His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame!

His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane

Seems waving fire—the kindling of his eye

Is as a meteor—ardent with disdain

His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty!

Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear

Some dread archangel through the fields of air.

But who is he, in panoply of gold,

Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form,

Yet in its brightness awful to behold,

And girt with all the terrors of the storm!

Lightning is on his helmet’s crest—and fear

Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe.

And by his side two radiant warriors stand,

All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace—

Oh! more than kingly—godlike!—sternly grand,

Their port indignant, and each dazzling face

Beams with the beauty to immortals given,

Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven.

Then sinks each gazer’s heart—each knee is bow’d

In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight,

Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd,

Bursts on their leader in terrific might;

And the stern angels of that dread abode

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God.

Darkness—thick darkness!—low on earth he lies,

Rash Heliodorus—motionless and pale—

Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes

Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil;

And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train,

Is borne from that inviolable fane.

The light returns—the warriors of the sky

Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away;

Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high

Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day;

Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill!

Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.

In Genoa, when the sunset gave

Its last warm purple to the wave,

No sound of war, no voice of fear,

Was heard, announcing danger near:

Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate

But slumber’d till its hour of fate,

Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close,

Sunk the wide city to repose.

But when deep midnight reign’d around,

All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound,

Full swelling, while the hollow breeze

Bore its dread summons o’er the seas.

Then, Genoa, from their slumber started

Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted;

Then mingled with th’ awakening peal

Voices, and steps, and clash of steel.

Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls;

Arise to guard your native walls!

With breathless haste the gathering throng

Hurry the echoing streets along;

Through darkness rushing to the scene

Where their bold counsels still convene.

But there a blaze of torches bright

Pours its red radiance on the night,

O’er fane, and dome, and column playing,

With every fitful night-wind swaying:

Now floating o’er each tall arcade,

Around the pillar’d scene display’d,

In light relieved by depth of shade:

And now, with ruddy meteor glare,

Full streaming on the silvery hair

And the bright cross of him who stands

Rearing that sign with suppliant hands,

Girt with his consecrated train,

The hallow’d servants of the fane.

Of life’s past woes the fading trace

Hath given that aged patriarch’s face

Expression holy, deep, resign’d,

The calm sublimity of mind.

Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d,

And left him of his race the last,

Alone on earth—yet still his mien

Is bright with majesty serene;

And those high hopes, whose guiding star

Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar,

Have with that light illumed his eye

Whose fount is immortality,

And o’er his features pour’d a ray

Of glory, not to pass away.

He seems a being who hath known

Communion with his God alone,

On earth by nought but pity’s tie

Detain’d a moment from on high!

One to sublimer worlds allied,

One from all passion purified,

E’en now half mingled with the sky,

And all prepared—oh! not to die—

But, like the prophet, to aspire,

In heaven’s triumphal car of fire.

He speaks—and from the throngs around

Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound;

Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance,

They stand as in a spell-bound trance:

He speaks—oh! who can hear nor own

The might of each prevailing tone?

“Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long

Aroused to strife by mutual wrong,

Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate

Hath made your country desolate;

Now by the love ye bear her name,

By that pure spark of holy flame

On freedom’s altar brightly burning,

But, once extinguished, ne’er returning;

By all your hopes of bliss to come

When burst the bondage of the tomb;

By Him, the God who bade us live

To aid each other, and forgive—

I call upon ye to resign

Your discords at your country’s shrine,

Each ancient feud in peace atone,

Wield your keen swords for her alone,

And swear upon the cross, to cast

Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”

No voice replies. The holy bands

Advance to where yon chieftain stands,

With folded arms, and brow of gloom

O’ershadow’d by his floating plume.

To him they lift the cross—in vain:

He turns—oh! say not with disdain,

But with a mien of haughty grief,

That seeks not e’en from heaven relief.

He rends his robes—he sternly speaks—

Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:—

“Father! not thus the wounds may close

Inflicted by eternal foes.

Deem’st thou thy mandate can efface

The dread volcano’s burning trace?

Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene

Be smiling as it once hath been?

No! for the deeds the sword hath done

Forgiveness is not lightly won;

The words by hatred spoke may not

Be as a summer breeze forgot!

’Tis vain—we deem the war-feud’s rage

A portion of our heritage.

Leaders, now slumbering with their fame,

Bequeath’d us that undying flame;

Hearts that have long been still and cold

Yet rule us from their silent mould;

And voices, heard on earth no more,

Speak to our spirits as of yore.

Talk not of mercy!—blood alone

The stain of bloodshed may atone;

Nought else can pay that mighty debt,

The dead forbid us to forget.”

He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow

There beams more lofty grandeur now;

His reverend form, his aged hand,

Assume a gesture of command;

His voice is awful, and his eye

Fill’d with prophetic majesty.

“The dead!—and deem’st thou they retain

Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain?

Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by,

Aught but the fearful penalty?

And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone

For deeds of slaughter may atone?

There hath been blood—by Him ’twas shed

To expiate every crime who bled;

Th’ absolving God, who died to save,

And rose in victory from the grave!

And by that stainless offering given

Alike for all on earth to heaven;

By that inevitable hour

When death shall vanquish pride and power,

And each departing passion’s force

Concentrate all in late remorse;

And by the day when doom shall be

Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee—

The doom that shall not be repeal’d,

Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d—

I summon thee, O child of clay!

To cast thy darker thoughts away,

And meet thy foes in peace and love,

As thou wouldst join the blest above.”

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling

Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing.

Oh, not in vain the pleading cries

Of anxious thousands round him rise!

He yields: devotion’s mingled sense

Of faith, and fear, and penitence,

Pervading all his soul, he bows

To offer on the cross his vows,

And that best incense to the skies,

Each evil passion’s sacrifice.

Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing,

High hearts with soft emotions glowing;

Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting,

And ardent throngs in transport meeting;

And eager footsteps forward pressing,

And accents loud in joyous blessing;

And when their first wild tumults cease,

A thousand voices echo “Peace!”

Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away,

And the rich Orient burns with day;

Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth,

Rises the choral hymn of earth—

Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling,

Of peace and holy rapture telling.

Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep,

The seaman hears them on the deep—

So mellow’d by the gale, they seem

As the wild music of a dream.

But not on mortal ear alone

Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone;

For beings of a purer sphere

Bend with celestial joy, to hear.

ALARIC IN ITALY.

THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.

HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.

NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.

THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.