GREEK SONGS

THE STORM OF DELPHI.[246]

Far through the Delphian shades
An Eastern trumpet rung!
And the startled eagle rush’d on high,
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky;
And banners, o’er the shadowy glades,
To the sweeping winds were flung.
Banners, with deep-red gold
All waving as a flame,
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed,
And a peal of Asia’s war-notes told
That in arms the Persian came.
He came with starry gems
On his quiver and his crest;
With starry gems, at whose heart the day
Of the cloudless Orient burning lay,
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems,
As onward his thousands press’d.
But a gloom fell o’er their way,
And a heavy moan went by!
A moan, yet not like the wind’s low swell,
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell,
But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior’s dying sigh!
A gloom fell o’er their way!
’Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross’d the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;
The air was fill’d with a mightier sway—
But on the spearmen pass’d!
And hollow to their tread
Came the echoes of the ground;
And banners droop’d, as with dews o’erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn
Had an alter’d cadence, dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.
But they blew a louder strain,
When the steep defiles were pass’d!
And afar the crown’d Parnassus rose,
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!
In golden light it stood,
Midst the laurels gleaming lone;
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile,
O’er its graceful pillars look’d awhile,
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood
Grew deep round its mountain-throne.
And the Persians gave a shout!
But the marble walls replied
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore,
And a savage trumpet’s note peal’d out,
Till their hearts for terror died!
On the armour of the god
Then a viewless hand was laid;
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din,
And corslet brought from the shrine within,
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode,
And before its front array’d.
And a sudden silence fell
Through the dim and loaded air!
On the wild-bird’s wing and the myrtle spray,
And the very founts in their silvery way:
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.
But the pause was broken soon!
’Twas not by song or lyre;
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city’s towers,
But there burst a sound through the misty noon—
That battle-noon of fire!
It burst from earth and heaven!
It roll’d from crag and cloud!
For a moment on the mountain-blast
With a thousand stormy voices pass’d;
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder peal’d aloud.
And the lightnings in their play
Flash’d forth, like javelins thrown:
Like sun-darts wing’d from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turban’d brow;
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray,
And the banners were struck down!
And the massy oak-boughs crash’d
To the fire-bolts from on high,
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,
And lit the streams, as they foam’d and dash’d,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.
Then rush’d the Delphian men
On the pale and scatter’d host.
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rush’d from the dim Corycian cave;
And the singing blast o’er wood and glen
Roll’d on, with the spears they toss’d.
There were cries of wild dismay,
There were shouts of warrior-glee,
There were savage sounds of the tempest’s mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
But the mount of song, when they died away,
Still rose, with its temple, free!
And the Pæan swell’d ere long,
Io Pæan! from the fane;
Io Pæan! for the war-array
On the crown’d Parnassus riven that day!
—Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song!
With thy bounding streams again.

[246] See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford’s Greece.

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.[247]

Before the fiery sun—
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won—
Our fathers crown’d the Bowl of Liberty.
Amidst the tombs they stood,
The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep’d the soil in hues of sacrifice.
They call’d the glorious dead,
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.
They call’d them from the shades—
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.
Then fast the bright-red wine
Flow’d to their names who taught the world to die,
And made the land’s green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.[248]
So the rejoicing earth
Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil, thus hallow’d to the brave.
We have the battle-fields,
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields;
—When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?

[247] This and the following piece appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine.

[248] For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A voice from Scio’s isle—
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d,
And earth was hush’d the while—
The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among
That voice of victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?
To sky, and sea, and shore,
Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.
Still by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.
And kings their turf have crown’d!
And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!
A voice from Scio’s isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again;
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where’er our sun may smile!
Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne’er was given
To mortal song or lyre!
Know ye not whence it comes?
—From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!
’Tis with us through the night!
’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky—
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O’er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS’ MARCH.[249]

[“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur.”—Campbell, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.]

’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dress’d the vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills,
Arcadia’s rocks and pines.
And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander’d by,
When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers
Of solemn harmony.
Was it the hunters’ choral strain
To the woodland-goddess pour’d?
Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane
Strike the full-sounding chord?
But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!
And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swell’d through the deep blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.
They march’d not with the trumpet’s blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d,
Rang with no battle-shout!
They ask’d no clarion’s voice to fire
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!
And still sweet flutes their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!
So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!

[249] Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.

THE URN AND SWORD.

They sought for treasures in the tomb,
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.[250]
They scatter’d far the greensward heap,
Where once those hands the bright wine pour’d;
—What found they in the home of sleep?—
A mouldering urn, a shiver’d sword!
An urn, which held the dust of one
Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done
Between our mountains and the sea.
And these are treasures!—undismay’d,
Still for their suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid
With freedom’s sword and valour’s dust.

[250] See Potter’s Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234.

THE MYRTLE BOUGH.

Still green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer’d on the graves—
The graves wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.
Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet’s mirth,
And free the minstrel’s hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown’d,
Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.
Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant’s blood was pour’d:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer’s sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI.

Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground,
Where freedom’s foot hath been!
Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound
Ne’er shook that solemn scene.
Flower of a noble field! thy birth
Was not where spears have cross’d,
And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth,
Midst banners won and lost.
But where the sunny hues and showers
Unto thy cup were given,
There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven;
And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpine dell
Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam,
The shaft of William Tell.
And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Hallow’d the pastoral sod;
And souls grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peace of God.
Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,
And rose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain-land.
Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

And was thy home, pale wither’d thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns in golden light e’en now
Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave;
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow
May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb.
Thy place is void; oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.
Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung
On the green stem which once was thine;
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?

THE CHIEFTAIN’S SON.

Yes, it is ours!—the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
Speak not of victory!—in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame—
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.
Speak not of victory!—from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long; I had but him—but one!
Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.
And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me?
And is there but for stately youth a grave?
Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?
Thou wert so full of life and joy,
I had not dreamt of this—that thou couldst fall!
Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;
How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?
Thou didst not seem as one to die,
With all thy young renown!
—Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high,
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!
Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

A FRAGMENT.

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o’er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave—
We call you back no more!
Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,
An agony, a wild farewell—
But that hath long been o’er.
Rest with your still and solemn fame;
The hills keep record of your name,
And never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.
But we on changeful days are cast,
When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory pass’d,
We cannot mourn you now.

ENGLAND’S DEAD.

Son of the Ocean Isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep—
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.
On Egypt’s burning plains,
By the pyramid o’ersway’d,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade;—
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!—
There slumber England’s dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges’ banks at night
Is heard the tiger’s roar;—
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone,—
There slumber England’s dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia’s woods,
The hunter’s bow is strung;—
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England’s dead!
The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;—
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,—
There slumber England’s dead.
On the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower;—
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,—
Even there sleep England’s dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep—
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, “in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light.” The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.—See Owen’s Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen.]

Where met our bards of old?—the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met—oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves;
They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves,
And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.
There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!—on plain or height,
In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty!—soaring thought
From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below;
And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
—Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old;
Not where great Nature’s majesty and might
First broke all glorious on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet—dark Mona’s shore,
Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!
But as the stream, (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn,
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,)
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,
Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height,
In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light!

[251] Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

[252] Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

[253] The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.—Pennant.

[254] Llyn, a lake or pool.

[255] Eryri, Snowdon.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.[256]

I come, I come! ye have call’d me long—
I come o’er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains;—
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free,
And the pine has a hinge of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine—I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye!—ye are changed since ye met me last!
There is something bright from your features pass’d!
There is that come over your brow and eye
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
—Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet:
Oh! what have you look’d on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed!—and I see not
here
All whom I saw in the vanish’d year!
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets
bright,
Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!
There were steps that flew o’er the cowslip’s head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass’d?
Ye have look’d on death since ye met me last!
I know whence the shadow comes o’er you now—
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace—
She hath taken the fairest of beauty’s race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown:
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!
They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there falls no blight—
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer—farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne—
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore—
Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more;
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death’s. Fare ye well, farewell!