And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death,
The very anguish of that hour becomes
A joy for memory now."
"O earliest friend!
I too remember," Madelon replied,
"That hour, thy looks of watchful agony,
The supprest grief that struggled in thine eye
Endearing love's last kindness. Thou did'st know
With what a deep and earnest hope intense
I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak
The unutterable transport, when mine eyes,
As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed
Amid this peaceful vale, . . unclosed upon
My Arnaud! He had built me up a bower,
A bower of rest. See, Maiden, where he comes,
His manly lineaments, his beaming eye
The same, but now a holier innocence
Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume
The enlighten'd glance."
Waiting the allotted hour when capable
Of loftier callings, to a better state
They pass; and hither from that better state
Frequent they come, preserving so those ties
Which through the infinite progressiveness
Complete our perfect bliss.
Even such, so blest,
Save that the memory of no sorrows past
Heighten'd the present joy, our world was once,
In the first æra of its innocence,
Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man.
Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd,
He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits
His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd
The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid,
Nor she disdain'd the gift; for Vice not yet
Had burst the dungeons of her Hell, and rear'd
Those artificial boundaries that divide
Man from his species. State of blessedness!
They met; what joy was theirs Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's true son
He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead
Hath wet the midnight pillow with his tears.
Fair was the scene around; an ample vale
Whose mountain circle at the distant verge
Lay soften'd on the sight; the near ascent
Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,
Part with the ancient majesty of woods
Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime.
A river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath;
Beside the bower of Madelon it wound
A broken stream, whose shallows, though the waves
Roll'd on their way with rapid melody,
A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove
Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit.
But with what odours did their blossoms load
The passing gale of eve! Less thrilling sweets
Rose from the marble's perforated floor,
[ Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen
Inhaled the cool delight1, and whilst she ask'd
The prophet for his promised paradise,
Shaped from the present bliss its utmost joys.
A goodly scene! fair as that faery land
Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne
From Camelot's bloody banks; or as the groves
Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say,
Enoch abides; and he who, rapt away
By fiery steeds and charioted in fire,
Pass'd in his mortal form the eternal ways;
And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there
The beatific vision, sometimes seen,
The distant dawning of eternal day,
Till all things be fulfilled.
"Survey this scene!"
So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc:
"There is no evil here, no wretchedness;
It is the heaven of those who nurst on earth
Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here
Centering their joys, but with a patient hope,
Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold,
Accursed bane of virtue, . . of such force
As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks,
Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood
Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh
Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot
To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more
To Justice paid his homage, but forsook
Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine
Of Wealth and Power, the idols he had made.
Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,
Her legion fiends rush'd forth. Oppression came,
Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath
Blasts like the pestilence; and Poverty,
A meagre monster, who with withering touch
Makes barren all the better part of man,
Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth,
Which God had framed for happiness, became
One theatre of woe, and ail that God
Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends
His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best
Have all things been appointed by the All-wise!
For by experience taught shall man at length
Dash down his Moloch-idols, Samson-like,
And burst his fetters. Then in the abyss
Oppression shall be chain'd, and Poverty
Die, and with her, her brood of miseries;
And Virtue and Equality preserve
The reign of Love, and earth shall once again
Be Paradise, where Wisdom shall secure
The state of bliss which Ignorance betray'd,
"O, age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, "Roll fast thy current, Time, till that blest age Arrive and happy thou, my Theodore, Permitted thus to see the sacred depths Of wisdom!"
"Such," the blessed spirit replied, "Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range
In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the queen used to dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting !sight, there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to
afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment. Sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova.
The vast infinity, progressive still
In knowledge and increasing blessedness,
This our united portion. Thou hast yet
A little while to sojourn amongst men :
I will be with thee; there shall not a breeze
Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing
I will not hover near; and at that hour
When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose,
Thy phoenix-soul shall soar, O best-beloved!
I will be with thee in thine agonies,
And welcome thee to life and happiness,
Eternal infinite beatitude!"
He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, Love's palace. By the Virtues circled there, The Immortal listen'd to such melodies, As aye, when one good deed is register'd Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose, Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph Health Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope, The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eye Wept o'er the widow'd dove: and, loveliest form, Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast The snow-drop hung its head, that seem'd to grow Spontaneous, cold and fair. Beside the maid Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous
1 "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same
Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er
Too bold approach'd; yet anxious would he read
Her every rising wish, then only pleased
When pleasing. Hymning him the song was raised.
"Glory to thee, whose vivifying power
Pervades all Nature's universal frame!
Glory to thee, Creator Love! to thee,
Parent of all the smiling Charities,
That strew the thorny path of life with flowers!
Glory to thee, Preserver! To thy praise
The awakened woodlands echo all the day
Their living melody; and warbling forth
To thee her twilight song, the nightingale
Holds the lone traveller from his way, or charms
The listening poet's ear. Where Love shall deign
To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds
Her roseate dews; Content will sojourn there,
And Happiness behold Affection's eye
Gleam with the mother's smile. Thrice happy he
Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag,
Forlorn and friendless, along life's long path
To age's drear abode; he shall not waste
The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd;
But Hope shall cheer his hours of solitude,
And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,
That bears that talisman; and when he meets
The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears
The bosom-thrilling music of her voice,
The joy he feels shall purify his soul,
And imp it for anticipated heaven."
snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the virgin.”— P. H.
The Subject of this Poem is taken from the third and fourth Chapters of the First Book of Esdras.
WITH way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone,
Life's upward road I journey'd many a day,
And framing many a sad yet soothing lay,
Beguil'd the solitary hours with song.
Lonely my heart and rugged was the way
Yet often pluck'd I, as I pass'd along,
The wild and simple flowers of poesy;
And sometimes, unreflecting as a child,
Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye.
Take thou the wreath, BELOVED; it is wild
And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou
The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves
Amid gay flowers its melancholy leaves,
And myrtle gathered to adorn thy brow.
Bristol, 1796.
1 Prefixed to a volume of Juvenile and Minor Poems, of which "The Triumph of Woman" was one.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
THE lily cheek, the "purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye,..
Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph; . . . . turn not thou away
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc
Had, in those ages, for her country's cause
Wielded the sword of freedom; no Roland
Had borne the palm of female fortitude;
No Cordé with self-sacrificing zeal
Had glorified again the Avenger's name,
As erst when Cæsar perish'd: haply too
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.
GLAD as the weary traveller tempest-tost
To reach secure at length his native coast;
Who wandering long o'er distant lands hath sped,
The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
The journey o'er and every peril past
Beholds his little cottage-home at last,
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
Feels his full eyes with transport overflow;
So from the scene where Death and Misery reign,
And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,
Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.
Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court, Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort: Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride,
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.
As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their light,
And social converse cheers the livelong night,
Thus spake Zorobabel: "Too long in vain
For Zion desolate her sons complain;
All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow,
And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe.
While Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate;
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.
"Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign, We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain. Now when Darius, chief of mild command, Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land, Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief, And sternly silent shun to seek relief? What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror's side. Our harps should echo to the cheerful song?"
No more the warrior wears the garb of war,
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car;
No more Judæa's sons dejected go,
And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe.
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train,
From where Orontes foams along the plain,
From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair,
They tinge the cheek which nature form'd so fair,
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne,
In royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire,
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire;
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the rank she bore.
Now on his couch reclined Darius lay, Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day, Without Judæa's watchful sons await, To guard the sleeping idol of the state. Three youths were these of Judah's royal race, Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace, To each the form of symmetry she gave, And haughty genius cursed each favourite slave; These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept, Served when he spake, and guarded while he slept.
Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low
The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow,
And when the dull and wearying round of power
Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour,
He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam,
And lingering gaze toward his distant home;
"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, "Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. And while the courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the gladden'd soul, Where all around is merriment, be mine
To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine."
"And while," his friend rejoin'd, "in state alone, Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne, Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing, My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."
To them Zorobabel: "On themes like these
Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please;
To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms,
Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.
To him victorious in the rival lays
Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;
A purple robe his honour'd frame shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;
A golden couch support his bed of rest,
The chain of honour grace his favour d breast;
His the rich turban, his the car's array,
On Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;
And for his wisdom seated on the throne,
For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be known."
Intent they meditate the future lay, And watch impatient for the dawn of day The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute, The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute; To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort, Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court. High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride, The fair Apame graced her Sovereign's side: And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.
In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,
Loves every look, and every act commends.
And now Darius bids the herald call
Judæa's Bards to grace the thronging hall.
Hush'd are all sounds, the attending crowd are mute,
And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute:
When the Traveller on his way,
Who has toil'd the livelong day,
Feels around on every side
The chilly mists of eventide,
Fatigued and faint his weary mind
Recurs to all he leaves behind;
He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,
The evening hour of social mirth,
And her who at departing day
Weeps for her husband far away.
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul !
Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,
And he who wept no more shall weep;
For his care-clouded brow shall clear,
And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear.
When the poor man heart-opprest
Betakes him to his evening rest,
And worn with labour thinks in sorrow
On the labour of to-morrow;
When repining at his lot
He hies him to his joyless cot,
And loathes to meet his children there,
The rivals for his scanty fare;
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul !
The generous juice with magic power
Shall cheat with happiness the hour,
And with each warm affection fill
The heart by want and wretchedness made chill.
When, at the dim close of day,
The Captive loves alone to stray
Along the haunts recluse and rude
Of sorrow and of solitude;
When he sits with mournful eye
To mark the lingering radiance die,
And lets distempered fancy roam
Amid the ruins of his home; . .
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul !
The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,
And lull to rest his wakeful woe,
And joy shall gild the evening hour,
And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.
When the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight, When from his pomp retired alone He feels the duties of the throne, Feels that the multitude below Depend on him for weal or woe; When his powerful will may bless A realm with peace and happiness,
Or with desolating breath
Breathe ruin round, and woe and death; Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it humanize his soul!
He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile.
Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song, Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; All tongues the liberal words of praise repaid, On every cheek a smile applauding play'd; The rival Bard approach'd, he struck the string, And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.
Why should the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight?
Alike to him if peace shall bless
The multitude with happiness;
Alike to him if frenzied War
Career triumphant on the embattled plain,
And rolling on o'er myriads slain,
With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.
What though the tempest rage? no sound
Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne;
And the red flash that spreads destruction round,
Reflects a glorious splendour on the crown.
Where is the Man who with ennobling pride
Regards not his own nature? where is he
Who without awe can see
The mysteries of the human mind,
The miniature of Deity?
For Man the vernal clouds descending
Shower down their fertilizing rain;
For Man the ripen'd harvest bending
Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.
He spreads the sail to catch the favouring gale,
Or sweeps with oars the main :
For him the winds of heaven subservient blow,
Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow,
He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!
Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side; Alike the wise, alike the brave, With timid step and pale, advance, And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millions watch his breath, Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.
Why goes the Peasant from that little cot,
Where Peace and Love have blest his humble life?
In vain his wretched wife
With tears bedews her husband's face,
And clasps him in a long and last embrace;
In vain his children round his bosom creep,
And weep to see their mother weep,
Fettering their father with their little arms!
What are to him the war's alarms?
What are to him the distant foes?
He at the earliest dawn of day
To daily labour went his way,
And when he saw the sun decline,
He sate in peace beneath his vine.
The King commands, the peasant goes,
From all he loved on earth he flies,
And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and
What though yon city's castled wall
Cast o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade?
What though her Priests in earnest terror call
On all their host of Gods to aid?
Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower!
In vain her gallant youth expose
Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes!
In vain at that tremendous hour,
Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms,
Shrieks to deaf Heaven the violated Maid!
By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round,
Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert
ground.
Low shall the mouldering palace lie,
Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,
And through the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.
Gay o'er the embattled plain,
Moves yonder warrior train,
Their banners wanton on the morning gale;
Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray,
Their glittering helms give glory to the day;
The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale.
Far reaches as the aching eye can strain
The splendid horror of their wide array.
Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er
Their glorious pomp the vultures soar!
Amid the Conqueror's palace high
Shall sound the song of victory;
Long after journeying o'er the plain
The traveller shall with startled eye
See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.
Lord of the earth! we will not raise
The temple to thy bounded praise;
For thee no victim need expire,
For thee no altar blaze with hallow'd fire;
The burning City flames for thee,
Thine Altar is the field of victory!
Thy sacred Majesty to bless
Man a self-offer'd victim freely flies;
To thee he sacrifices happiness
And peace, and Love's endearing ties;
To thee a Slave he lives, for thee a Slave he dies.
Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing ; The shout burst forth, "For ever live the King!" Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree Pronounced Achaia once again was free; Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief Heard the false boon, and bless'd the treacherous Chief. Each breast with freedom's holy ardour glows, From every voice the cry of rapture rose;
With downward eye he paused, a moment mute,
Then with light finger touch'd the softer lute.
Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,
And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause.
Why is the warrior's cheek so red?
Why downward droops his musing head?
Why that slow step, that faint advance,
That keen yet quick retreating glance?
That crested head in war tower'd high,
No backward glance disgraced that eye,
No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread,
When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead:
Strange tumult now his bosom moves,
The Warrior fears because he loves.
Why does the Youth delight to rove
Amid the dark and lonely grove?
Why in the throng where all are gay,
With absent eyes from gaiety distraught,
Sits he alone in silent thought?
Silent he sits, for far away
His passion'd soul delights to stray;
Recluse he roves as if he fain would shun
All human-kind, because he loves but One!
Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest!
But not because the sparkling bowl
To rapture elevates thy waken'd soul;
But not because of power possest;
Nor that the Nations dread thy nod,
And Princes reverence thee their earthly God!
Even on a monarch's solitude
Will Care, dark visitant, intrude;
The bowl brief pleasure can bestow;
The purple cannot shield from woe;
But, King of Persia, thou art blest,
For Heaven who raised thee thus the world above,
Hath made thee happy in Apame's love!
Oh! I have seen him fondly trace
The heavenly features of her face,
Rove o'er her form with eager eye,
And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.
See from his brow with mimic frown
Apame takes the sacred crown;
Those sparkling eyes, that radiant face,
Give to the diadem new grace:
And subject to a Woman's laws,
Darius sees, and smiles applause!
He ceased, and silent still remain'd the throng, While rapt attention own'd the power of song. Then, loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow, From every voice the thundering plaudits flow, Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes
Their thundering ciamours rend the astonished sky, Glanced on the King, and Woman won the prize.
And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.
Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring,
And the high hall re-echoed.. "Live the King!"
The mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord,
The assembled Satraps envied and adored,
Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes,
And his pleased pride already doom'd the prize.
Silent they saw Zorobabel advance :
He to Apame turn'd his timid glance;
Now silent sate the expectant crowd: Alone The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne; With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows, With statelier stature loftier now he rose ; Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throng, And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.
"Ancient of days! Eternal Truth! one hymn, One holier strain the Bard shall raise to Thee,
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