Other published works including poetry
Corinne - Mdme. de Staël, translated by Isabel Hill, 1833
Traits and Trials of Early Life, 1836
A Birthday gift to Princess Victoria, 1837
A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE, ADDRESSED TO H. R. H. THE PRINCESS ALEXANDRINA VICTORIA, ON ATTAINING HER EIGHTEENTH YEAR
When has the day the loveliest of its hours?
It is the hour when morning breaks into day,
When dew-drops like the yet unfolded flowers,
And sunshine seems like hope upon its way.
Then soars the lark amid the azure, singing
A seraph's song, that is of heaven, not earth ;
Then comes the wind, a fragrant wanderer, bringing
The breath of vales where violets have birth.
Which of the seasons in the year is fairest?
That when the spring first blushes into bloom ;
There is the beauty, earliest and rarest,
When the world warms with colour and perfume.
Then are the meadows filled with pleasant voices,
Earth one bright promise what it is to be;
Then the green forest in its depths rejoices,
Flowers in the grass, and buds upon the tree.
Then the red rose reveals her future glory,
Breaking the green moss with one crimson trace ;
So dawns the white—while old historic story
Tells now they wreath for England's Royal race.
If thus so fair the spring-time and the morning,
But in the world of leaf and bud; how fair,
With all their early loveliness adorning,
Still lovelier in our human world they are.
Youth is around thee, Ladye of the ocean,
Ocean that is thy kingdom and thy home,
Where not a heart but kindles with emotion,
Dreaming of honoured years that are to come.
What is the light of morning's rosy breaking,
To the young promise of that Royal mind ?
What are the hopes of sunny spring‘s awaking,
To hopes which in thy future are inshrined?
Mighty the task, and glorious the fulfilling,
Duties that round thy future hours must be:
The East and West depend upon thy willing
Mistress art thou wherever rolls the sea.
Fair art thou, PRINCESS, in thy youthful beauty
Thoughtful and pure, the spirit claims its part :
Gazing on thy young face, a nation’s duty
Bursts forth into the homage of the heart.
O'er thy high forehead is the soft hair braided :
Be never darker shadow on that brow !
Not yet one tint of youth’s sweet hues are faded ;
The loveliness of promise lights thee now.
Around thee are a thousand hearts addressing
Prayer for thy sake to every power divine ;
No lip that names thee, names without a blessing ;
A nation's holiest wishes are all thine.
The present looks on thee with eyes
Of love, and joy, and enterprise ;
They shine as shines a rising star,
That lights the unknown and the far.
To prophesy the future, cast
A glance upon thy country's past.
How has our England changed since first
The Roman Cæsar on her burst :
And something lingers with us still
Of their indomitable will.
Like theirs, our banners when unfurl'd
Have swept o'er half a conquer'd world.
No stranger power hath sought our coast,
But to bequeath their proudest boast.
Hengist and Horsa, Saxon kings,
On their proud galley's sweeping wings :
Lords of the banner and the breeze,
Gave us our empire o'er the seas ;
Next came the Norman William's gallant power,
Those barons brought a noble dower
Of minstrel harp, and stainless sword,
High courtesy, and knightly word.
Then sea and land had done their best
To grace our Island of the West.
And never since hath foreign brand
Flash'd over our unconquer'd land ;
Never hath rung the tocsin bell,
That other soils have known too well.
Sacred, inviolate, unstained,
Have England's fields and hearths remained.
Our victories have been won afar,
Our homes have only heard of war.
They gave thy name and since thy birth
Peace, dovelike, broodeth over earth :
Still be its shadow o'er thy throne —
Enough of laurels are our own. >>>>
With the golden sunbeam shining
Round the Abbey's towers,
Stands that stately pile enshrining
England's noblest hours,
There they rest its honoured dead.
There the trophies of our annals
Fling their shade below,
Flags that in our English channels
Once announced a foe,
Now in triumph are they spread.
‘Tis no lesson taught in vain,
So would millions die again.
In those ancient chancels slumber
As within a shrine,
Men whom history loves to number
On her sacred line,
Men who leave themselves behind ;
Statesmen holding yet dominion
With their fellow-men ;
By the empire of opinion,
Ruling them again :
For immortal is the mind,
And a thoughtful truth maintains
Whatsoever ground it gains.
Not this the first time that our lion and land
Have owned the soft sway of a woman's white hand ;
She the last branch of the Tudor's proud line
Held empire — an omen of glory for thine :
The name of Elizabeth tells of an age
Alone in its splendour on history's page.
'Twas then the mind burst from its slumbers, and broke
The depth of its shade, the weight of its yoke ;
And thoughts that lay dark, like the seeds in the earth,
Sprung up into varied and beautiful birth :
Whence, grown 'mid all changes of good and of ill,
We reap a rich harvest for garnering still.
For thoughts are like waves that come rushing to shore,
One breaks into many — is followed by more ;
Then came the doomed Spaniard, the last one, whose boast.
The white cliffs have echoed that girdle our coast.
Each strong as a tower — and stern as a tomb,
The death-bearing ships sailed the seas in their gloom ;
Strange tortures were hid in the depths of each hold,
And wealth that might buy her— could England be sold ;
Then came the proud queen to the shores of the sea,—
She gathered around her the brave and the free ;
Of all the Armada that darkened the main,
No vessel returned to its harbour again ;
The maidens of Cadiz look'd out through their tears.
No banner their hand had embroidered appears ;
They are torn by the winds and the waves, or have been
Laid low at the feet of the proud island queen.
'Twas in a woman's reign uprose
That soul of enterprise,
Which since has borne our English flag
Through foreign seas and skies.
Few were the first adventurous barks
That ploughed the deep — but now
What breeze that bears St. George's cross,
What shore but knows our prow !
And more than glory, or than gold,
May British merchants say ;
Look on what blessings infinite
Have followed on our way.
To civilize and to redeem
Has been our generous toil,
To sow the seeds of future good
In many a thankful soil.
Where'er to dark and pagan lands
Our path has been decreed,
Have we not brought the Christian's hope,
The Christian's holy creed !
'Tis from a woman's glorious reign
Our English isles may date
The honours of their after hours,
The triumphs of their state.
And yet how much remains to do,
How much is left behind !
Young daughter of a line of kings,
Much is to thee assigned.
Great changes have been wrought since first
The Roman legions stood
Beneath the ancient oaks that formed
The Druid's mystic wood.
There frown'd above the dank morass,
The forest whose long night
Of noisome and of tangled shade
Forgot the noontide's light.
Men crowded round the victim pyre
In worship vile as vain ;
And God's own precious gift of life,
Was flung to him again.
We were the savages — of whom
We now can only hear ;
The change has been the mighty work
Of many a patient year.
The progress of our race is marked
Wherever we can turn:
No more the gloom woods extend,
No more the death-fires burn.
The village rises where once spread
Th' inhabitable moor:
And Sabbath-bells sweep on the wind,
The music of the poor.
The sun sinks down o'er myriad spires
That glisten in the ray.
As almost portions of that heaven
To which they point the way.
There is not a more lovely land
On all our lovely earth.
Than that. VICTORIA, which now gives
Its blessing on thy birth.
-----------------
Such, youthful Ladye, is the outward seeming
Of the fair land whose trust is placed on thee ;
Alas ! too much is as the ivy gleaming
Round the worn branches of some ancient tree.
Farewell unto thy childhood, and forever ;
Youth's careless hours dwell not around a throne ;
The hallowed purpose, and the high endeavour,
The onward-looking thought must be thine own.
An hour of moral contest is before thee,
Not the old combat of the shield and spear,
But to the azure heaven arching o'er thee,
Rises a nobler hope — a loftier fear. >>>>
Low in decay lies many an aged error,
From dust of mouldering falsehood springeth Truth ;
The past is to the present as a mirror ;
And Hope, to mankind has eternal youth.
Vast is the charge intrusted by high Heaven,
Heavy the weight upon that delicate hand ;
Into thy keeping is the balance given,
Wherein is weighed the future of our land.
Around thee is much misery : want and sorrow
Lurk in the hidden places of our earth ;
To-day how many tremble at to-morrow,
Life has to them been bitter from its birth.
Mark those pale children — cold and wan while basking >>>
O'er embers mocking with their feeble glow :
The elder silent — but the youngest asking
For food the mother has not to bestow.
These are life's common scenes — thy regal dower
Were but a drop flung in a boundless sea ;
But thou mayst lead the way — the pomp of power
Will make the careless many follow thee.
From glowing Ind to Huron’s waters spreading
Extends the empire that our sword hath won,
There have our sails been peace and knowledge shedding,
Upon thy sceptre never sets the sun.
A nobler triumph still awaits thy winning,
"The mind's ethereal war" is in its birth;
The Cross of Christ is on its way, beginning
Its glorious triumph o'er the darken'd earth.
Gods blessing be upon thee, Royal Maiden!
And be thy throne heaven's altar here below,
With sweet thanksgivings, and with honours laden,
Of moral victories o’er want and woe.
Glorious and happy be thy coming hours,
Young Daughter of old England’s Royal line!
As in an angels pathway spring up flowers,
So may a nation's blessing spring in thine.
Published by Fisher, Son and Co., 1837, with a portrait (not identified).
"Enough of laurels are our own."— Conquest is the commencement of civilization ; it is also its scourge. With us, the sail and the sword have gone together, and commerce has consolidated what was gained by war. We have now to civilize what we have subdued: it is ours to bestow knowledge, freedom, and faith. Education, sealed laws, and Christianity must follow the course of our victories and our manufactures.
For us there yet remains
A nobler conquest far ;
We must pay back the past, the debt we owe :
Let us around dispense
Light, hope. intelligence,
Till blessings track our steps where'er we go.
O England, thine be the deliverer's meed,
Be thy great empire known
By hearts made all thine own,
Through thy free Laws and thy immortal Creed.
"Rises a nobler hope— a loftier fear."— Human perfection is still a beautiful and unrealized dream; it has its encouragement in human progress. A higher and more generous purpose is now the stimulus to all efforts of improvement: our views are more enlightened, because more general; the many have taken the place of the few. In the earlier ages, science kept as secrets those discoveries, which now its chief object is to promulgate. Trade was fettered by monopolies, which it is the first step of commerce to shake off. Laws were rather privilege than protection, not what to-day admits them to be, the sacred barriers of universal right. Knowledge was solitary distinction, or secluded enjoyment ; not, as now, to be gained by all, and to be used for all. It is to intellectual intercourse that we owe our advancement ; intellect is the pioneer to improvement. We have still to hope, and to aspire. It is only by looking onwards that we can perceive the goal ; It is only by looking upwards that we can see heaven.
"Mark those pale children." — If there be one condition in our land that demands assistance and sympathy, it is that of children of the poor. —
It is for childhood's hour to be
Life's fairy well, and bring
To life's worn, weary memory
The freshness of its spring.
But here the order is reversed,
And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,
One dull and darkened page.
Written with tears, and stamped with toil,
Crushed from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil,
That never knew a flower.
Alas! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise.
Man from the cradle, 'tis too soon
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.
To labour ere their strength be come,
Or starve — such is the doom
That makes of many an English home,
One long and living tomb.
This is no overcharged picture: many a cottage in our villages--many a court in our cities, attest its truth. Example is the influence of a Sovereign; and Royal sympathy will avail to draw that attention which is the harbinger of remedy. In the education of the poor lies the true preservative against the worst ills of want. The first steps towards this object must be taken by the rich; this brings the two classes together, and for their mutual benefit. Indifference is startled out of selfish indulgence-and ignorance awakened into hope. Instruction forms the habit, and lays open the resource--while the schemes that originated in pity will be matured by thought; for to effect the beneficial result, it is the mind that must direct the heart.
CHANT OF CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL
Cradle of Letters ! Mistress of the World !
Soil of the Sun ! Italia! I salute thee !
How oft the human race have worn thy yoke,
The vessels of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky !
Olympus for Ausonia once was left,
And by a god. Of such a land are born
Dreams of the golden time, for there man looks
Too happy to suppose him criminal.
By genius Rome subdued the world, then reign'd
A queen by liberty. The Roman mind
Set its own stamp upon the universe;
And, when barbarian hordes whelm'd Italy,
Then darkness was entire upon the earth.
Italia reappear’d, and with her rose
Treasures divine, brought by the wandering Greeks;
To her were then reveal'd the laws of Heaven.
Her daring children made discovery
Of a new hemisphere : Queen still, she held
Thought's sceptre ; but that laurel’d sceptre made
Ungrateful subjects.
Imagination gave her back the world
Which she had lost. Painters and poets shaped
Earth and Olympus, and a heaven and hell.
Her animating fire by Genius kept,
Far better guarded than the Pagan God’s,
Found not in Europe a Prometheus
To bear it from her.
And wherefore am I at the capitol?
Why should my lowly brow receive the crown
Which Petrarch wore? which yet suspended hangs
Where Tasso's funeral cypress mournful waves:
Why ? oh, my countrymen ! but that you love
Glory so well that you repay its search
Almost like its success.
Now, if you love that glory which too oft
Chooses its victims from its vanquishers,
Those which itself has crown'd ; think, and be proud
Of days which saw the perish’d Arts reborn.
Your Dante ! Homer of the Christian age,
The sacred poet of Faith’s mysteries,—
Hero of thought,—whose gloomy genius plunged
In Styx, and pierced to hell ; and whose deep soul
Was like the abyss it fathom'd.
Italia ! as she was in days of power
Revived in Dante: such a spirit stirr'd
In old republics ; bard and warrior too,
He lit the fire of action 'mid the dead,
Till e'en his shadows had more vigorous life
Than real existence ; still were they pursued
By earthly memories ; passions without aim
Gnaw'd at their heart, still fever'd by the past;
Yet less irrevocable seem’d that past.
Than their eternal future.
. . . Methinks that Dante, banish'd his own soil,
Bore to imagined worlds his actual grief,
Ever his shades inquire the things of life,
And ask’d the poet of his native land ;
And from his exile did he paint a hell.
In his eyes Florence set her stamp on all;
The ancient dead seem'd Tuscans like himself;
Not that his power was bounded, but his strength;
And his great mind forced all the universe
Within the circle of its thought.
A mystic chain of circles and of spheres
Led him from Hell to Purgatory ; thence
From Purgatory into Paradise:
Faithful historian of his glorious dream,
He fills with light the regions most obscure;
The world created in his triple song
Is brilliant, and complete, and animate,
Like a new planet seen within the sky.
All upon earth doth change to poetry
Beneath his voice : the objects, the ideas,
The laws, and all the strange phenomena,
Seem like a new Olympus with new gods,—
Fancy's mythology,—which disappears
Like Pagan creeds at sight of Paradise,
That sea of light, radiant with shining stars,
And love, and virtue.
The magic words of our most noble bard
Are like the prism of the universe ;—
Her marvels there reflect themselves, divide,
And recreate her wonders ; sounds paint hues,
And colours melt in harmony. The rhyme —
Sounding or strange, and rapid or prolong’d—
That charm of genius, triumph of high art;
Poetry's divination, which reveals
All nature's secrets, such as influence
The heart of man.
From this great work did Dante hope the end
Of his long exile: and he called on Fame
To be his mediator ; but he died
Too soon to reap the laurels of his land.
Thus wastes the transitory life of man
In adverse fortunes ; and it glory wins,
If some chance tide, more happy, floats to shore.
The grave is in the port ; and destiny,
In thousand shapes, heralds the close of life
By a return of happiness.
Thus the ill-fated Tasso, whom your praise,
O Romans ! 'mid his wrongs, could yet console,—
The beautiful, the chivalric, the brave,
Dreaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung,—
With awe and gratitude approached your walls,
As did his heroes to Jerusalem.
They named the day to crown him ; but its eve
Death bade him to his feast, the terrible !
The Heaven is jealous of the earth ; and calls
Its favourites from the stormy waves of time
‘Twas in an age more happy and more free
Than Tasso's that, like Dante, Petrarch sang:
Brave poet of Italian liberty.
Elsewhere they know him only by his love:
Here memories more severe, aye, consecrate
His sacred name ; his country could inspire
E'en more than Laura.
His vigils gave antiquity new life;
Imagination was no obstacle
To his deep studies; that creative power
Conquer'd the future, and reveal'd the past.
He proved how knowledge lends invention aid;
And more original his genius seem'd,
When, like the powers eternal, it could be
Present in every time.
Our laughing climate, and our air serene
Inspired our Ariosto: after war,
Our many long and cruel wars, he came
Like to a rainbow ; varied and as bright
As that glad messenger of summer hours.
His light, sweet gaiety is like nature's smile,
And not the irony of man.
Raffaële, Galileo, Angelo,
Pergolese; you ! intrepid voyagers,
Greedy of other lands, though Nature never
Could yield ye one more lovely than your own;
Come ye, and to our poets join your fame :
Artists, and sages, and philosophers,
Ye are, like them, the children of a sun
Which kindles valour, concentrates the mind,
Develops fancy, each one in its turn ;
Which lulls content, and seems to promise air,
Or make us all forget.
Know ye the land where orange-trees are blooming
Where all heaven's rays are fertile, and with love?
Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury !
In air already so fragrant and so soft?
Now, answer, strangers ; Nature, in your home,
Is she as generous or as beautiful?
Not only with vine-leaves and ears of corn
Is nature dress'd, but 'neath the feet of man,
As at a sovereign's feet, she scatters flowers
And sweet and useless plants, which, born to please,
Disdain to serve.
Here pleasures delicate, by nature nurst,—
Felt by a people who deserve to feel :—
The simplest food suffices for their wants.
What though her fountains flow with purple wine
From the abundant soil, they drink them not !
They love their sky, their arts, their monuments;
Their land, the ancient, and yet bright with spring;
Brilliant society ; refined delight:
Coarse pleasures, fitting to a savage race,
Suit not with them.
Here the sensation blends with the idea;
Life ever draws from the same fountain-head ;
The soul, like air, expands o'er earth and heaven.
Here Genius feels at ease : its reveries
Are here so gentle ; its unrest is soothed :
For one last aim a thousand dreams are given,
And nature cherishes, if man oppress;
A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound :
E'en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart,
Is comfort here: by admiration fill’d,
For God, all goodness ; taught to penetrate
The secret of his love ; not thy brief days—
Mysterious heralds of eternity —
But in the fertile and majestic breast
Of the immortal universe !
L. E. L.
Translated from Madame de Staël, Corinne
CHANT OF CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL
(Continuation)
Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky
May not efface ; but where will grief convey
Noble and soft impressions to the soul,
As it does here ?
Elsewhere the living cannot find them space
For all their hurrying paths, and ardent hopes;
And deserts, ruins, vacant palaces,
Leave a vast vacancy to shadows; —Rome,
Is she not now the country of the tomb?
The Coliseum. and the obelisks—
The wonders brought from Egypt and from Greece—
From the extremity of time, here met,
From Romulus to Leo —all are here,
Greatness attracting greatness, that one place
Might garner all that man could screen from time :
All consecrate to funeral monuments.
Our idle life is scarcely here perceived :
The silence of the living to the dead
Is homage : they endure, but we decay.
The dead alone are honour'd, and alone
Recorded still;—our destinies obscure
Contrast the glories of our ancestors ;
Our present life leaves but the past entire,
And deep the quiet around memory :
Our trophies are the work of those no more :
Genius itself ranks 'mid th' illustrious deed.
It is Rome's secret charm to reconcile
Imagination with our long last sleep.
We are resign'd ourselves, and suffer less
For those we love. The people of the South
Paint closing life in hues less terrible
Than do the gloomy nations of the North :
The sun, like glory, even warms the grave.
The chill, the solitude of sepulchres
‘Neath our fair sky, beside our funeral urns
So numerous, less haunt the frighted soul.
We deem they wait for us, yon shadowy crowd:
And from our silent city's loneliness
Down to the subterranean one below
It is a gentle passage.
The edge of grief is blunted thus, and turn'd,
Not by a harden'd heart, a wither'd soul.
But by a yet more perfect harmony,—
An air more fragrant —blending with our life.
We yield ourselves to Nature with less fear—
Nature whose great Creator said of old,—
"The lilies of the vale, lo ! they toil not,
And neither do they spin :
Yet the great Solomon, in all his glory
Was not arrayed like one of these."
L. E. L.
Translated from Madame de Staël, Corinne.
CORINNE’S CHANT IN THE VICINITY OF NAPLES
Ay, Nature, History and Poesie,
Rival each other's greatness: —here the eye
Sweeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lake
Avernus, with the fear-inspiring waves
Acheron, and Phlégeton boiling up
With subterranean flame : these are the streams
Of that old hell Aeneas visited.
Fire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
When least its laws were known—Ah ! Nature then
Reveal'd her secrets but to poetry.
The town of Cuma and the Sibyl's cave,
The temple of Apollo mark'd this height;
Here is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the Æneid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
Are memories whose traces still we seek.
A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Trojan, who in song defied
The sea divinities : still are the rocks
Hollow and sounding, such as Virgil told.
Imagination's truth is from its power:
Man's genius can create when nature's felt;
He copies when he deems that he invents.
Amid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation's witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born :
For here the earth is stormy as the sea,
But doth not, like the sea, peaceful return
Within its bounds : the heavy element,
Upshaken by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains ; while the waves,
Harden'd to stone, attest the storms which rend
Her depths ; strike now upon the earth,
You hear the subterranean vault resound.
It is as if the ground on which we dwell
Were but a surface ready to unclose.
Naples ! how doth thy country likeness bear
To human passions; fertile, sulphurous:
Its dangers and its pleasures both seem born
Of those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Yet bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.
Pliny but studied nature that the more
He might love Italy; and call'd his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail’d.
He sought for science as a warrior seeks
For conquest : it was from this very cape
He went to watch Vesuvius through the flames:—
Those flames consumed him.
O Memory ! noble power ! thy reign is here.
Strange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
Still do departed years, each in their turn,
Seem treasures of happiness gone by:
And while mind, joyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the Soul
Seems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.
We envy Roman grandeur —did they not
Envy their fathers' brave simplicity ?
Once this voluptuous country they despised;
Its pleasures but subdued their enemies.
See, in the distance, Capua ! she o'ercame
The warrior, whose firm soul resisted Rome
More time than did a world.
The Romans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
When strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief ; effeminate,
They sank without remorse. Yet Baiæ saw
The conquer'd sea give place to palaces;
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
And the world's masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subject to console themselves
That they were subject too.
And Cicero on this promontory died:
This Gaëta we see. Ah ! no regard
Those triumvirs paid to posterity,
Robbing her of the thoughts yet unconceived
Of this great man : their crime continues still;
Committed against us was this offence.
Cicero ‘neath the tyrant's dagger fell,
But Scipio, more unhappy, was exiled
With yet his country free. Beside this shore
He died ; and still the ruins of his tomb
Retain the name, " Tower of my native land :" *
Touching allusion to the memory
Which haunted his great soul.
Marius found a refuge in yon marsh,*
Near to the Scipio's home. Thus in all time
Have nations persecuted their great men.
But they enskied them after death* ; and heaven,
Where still the Romans deem’d they could command,
Received amid her planets Romulus,
Numa, and Caesar ; new and dazzling stars !
Mingling together in our erring gaze
The rays of glory and celestial light.
And not enough alone of misery.
The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behold
The isle of Capri, where at length old age
Disarm'd Tiberius ; violent yet worn;
Cruel, voluptuous ; wearied e'en of crime,
He sought yet viler pleasures ; tis he were
Not low enough debased by tyranny.
And Agrippina's tomb is on these shores,
Facing the isle* , reared after Nero's death ;
The murderer of his mother had proscribed
Even her ashes. Long at Baiæ he dwelt
Amid the memories of his many crimes.
What wretches fate here brings before our eyes !
Tiburius, Nero, on each other gaze.
The isles, volcano-born amid the sea,
Served at their birth the crimes of the old world.
The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks,
Watched 'mid the waves their native land afar,
Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air:
And often, a long exile worn away,
Sentence of sudden death arrived to show
They were remember'd by their enemies.
O Earth ! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never
Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers;
And hast thou then no pity for mankind ?
Can thy maternal breast receive again
Their dust, and yet not throb ?
* "La tour de la patrie." Patrie can scarce be rendered by a single word : ''native land " perhaps best expresses the ancient patria.--L. E. L.
* Minturno.
* "Ils sont consolés par l'apothéose." This is the only instance in which I have not given, as nearly as possible, the English word that answered most exactly ; but I confess one so long as “apotheosis " fairly baffled my efforts to get it into rhythm. It is curious to observe how many Pagan observances were grafted on the Roman Catholic worship. Canonization is but a Christian apotheosis, only the deceased turned into saints instead of gods.
* Caprea
CORINNE’S CHANT IN THE VICINITY OF NAPLES
(Continuation)
Some memories of the heart, some women's names
Yet ask your tears. 'Twas at this very place,
Massena,* that Cornelia kept till death
Her noble mourning; Agrippina too
Long wept Germanicus beside these shores.
At length the same assassin who deprived
Her of her husband found she was at last
Worthy to follow him. And yonder isle *
Saw Brutus and his Portia bid farewell.
Thus women loved of heroes have beheld
The object perish which they so adored.
Long time in vain they follow'd in their path;
There came the hour when they were forced to part.
Portia destroy'd herself; Cornelia clasp'd
The sacred urn which answer'd not her cries;
And Agrippina, for how many years !
Vainly her husband's murderer defied.
And wander'd here the wretched ones, like ghosts
On wasted shores of the eternal stream,
Sighing to reach the other far-off land.
Did they not ask in their long solitude
Of silence, of all nature, of the sky,
Star-shining?—and from the deep sea, one sound.
One only tone of the beloved voice
They never more might hear.
Mysterious enthusiasm, Love !
The heart's supremest power;—which doth combine
Within itself religion, poetry,
And heroism. Love, what may befall
When destiny has bade us separate
From him who has the secret of our soul;
Who gave us the heart's life, celestial life.
What may befall when absence, or when death
Isolate woman on this earth? —She pines,
She sinks. How often have these rocks
Offer'd their cold support to the forlorn !
Those once worn in the heart;—those once sustain’d
Upon a hero's arm.
Before you is Sorrento : —dwelling there
Was Tasso's sister, when the pilgrim came
Asking asylum 'gainst the prince unjust
From humble friends: long grief had almost quench'd
Reason's clear light, but genius still was left.
Yet kept he knowledge of the things divine,
When earthly images were all obscured.
Thus shrinking from the desert spread around,
Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds
No likeness to itself; no echo given
By Nature ; and the Common crowd but hold
As madness that desire of the rapt soul,
Which finds not in this world enough of air—
Of high enthusiasm, or of hope.
For Destiny compels exalted minds;—
The poet, whose imagination draws
Its power from loving and from suffering, —
They are the vanish'd from another sphere.
For the Almighty goodness might not frame
All for the few—th’ elect or the proscribed.
Why spoke the ancients with such awe of Fate?
What had this terrible Fate to do with them.
The common and the quiet, who pursue
The seasons, and still follow timidly
The beaten track of ordinary life?
But she, the priestess of the oracle,
Shook with the presence of the cruel power,
I know not what the involuntary force
That plunges Genius into misery.
Genius doth catch the music of the spheres,
Which mortal ear was never meant to know.
Genius can penetrate the mysteries
Of feeling, all unknown to other hearts;
A power hath entered in the inmost soul,
Whose presence may not be contained.
Sublime Creator of this lovely world,
Protect us: our exertions have no strength;
Our hope's a lie. Tumultuous tyranny
Our passions exercise, and neither leave
Repose nor liberty. What we may do
To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate.
We may have said but yesterday some word
Which may not be recalled. Still, when our mind
Is elevate with noblest thoughts, we feel
As on the height of some great edifice,
Giddiness blending all things in our sight;
But even there, woe ! terrible woe ! appears.
Not lost amid the clouds, it pierces through;
It flings the shades asunder ; O my God !
What doth it herald to us ?
Translated from Madame de Staël, Corinne.
* The retreat of Pompey.
* Niseda
THE DEAD ROBIN
IT is dead — it is dead — it will wake no more
With the earliest light, as it wak'd before —
And singing, as if it were glad to wake,
And wanted our longer sleep to break ;
We found it a little unfledg'd thing,
With no plume to smooth and no voice to sing;
The father and mother both were gone,
And the callow nurseling left alone.
For a wind, as fierce as those from the sea,
Had broken the boughs of the apple tree :
The scattered leaves lay thick on the ground,
And among them the nest and the bird we found
We warm'd it, and fed it, and made it a nest
Of Indian cotton, and watch'd its rest ;
Its feathers grew soft, and its wings grew strong,
And happy it seemed as the day was long.
Do you remember its large dark eye,
How it brightened, when one of us came nigh ?
How it would stretch its throat and sing,
And beat the osier cage with its wing,
Till we let it forth, and it perched on our hand—
It needed not hood, nor silken band,
Like the falcons we read of, in days gone by,
Linked to the wrist lest away they should fly.
But our bird knew not of the free blue air,
He had lived in his cage, and his home was there :
No flight had he in the green wood flown —
He pined not for freedom he never had known !
If he had lived amid leaf and bough
It had been cruel to fetter him now ;
For I have seen a poor bird die,
And all for love of his native sky.
But our's would come to our cup and sip,
And peck the sugar away from our lip —
Would sit on our shoulder and sing, then creep
And nestle in our hands to sleep :
There is the water, and there is the seed —
Its cage hung round with the green chickweed ;
But the food is untouched — the song is unheard —
Cold and stiff lies our beautiful bird.
From Traits and Trials of Early Life
THE LADY MARIAN
HER silken cloak around her thrown,
Lined with the soft brown fur,
So that no wind, howe'er it blew,
Could blow too rough on her.
The lady Marian thus went forth,
To breath the opening day ;
Two snow-white ponies drew the chair
That bore her on her way.
A little page upheld the reins,
Who, drest in gold and green,
Might have seem'd fitting charioteer
To her the fairy queen.
The graceful equipage drove on,
And sought the woodland shade ;
Where boughs of aspen and of birch
A pleasant shelter made.
A murmur musical and sad
Disturbed the noon-tide rest ;
For balanced on each topmost branch
Hung the wood pigeons' nest
But soon amid the parting trees
There came a gladder song;
For, fill'd with music and with light,
A small brook danced along.
The small brook had a cheerful song,
But one more cheerful still,
The song of childhood in its mirth,
Came o'er its sunny rill.
Over the silvery wave which shewed
The pebbles white below,
Where cool beneath the running stream
The water-cresses grow ;
A little maiden gathering them,
Bent down with natural grace ;
The sunshine touch'd her auburn hair,
The rose was on her face.
A rose accustomed to the sun,
Which gave a richer hue
Than ever pale and lanquid flower (sic)
Within a hot-house knew.
Blessing the child within her heart,
Marian past thoughtfully by,
And long the child watch'd thro' the boughs.
With dark and alter'd eye.
And when the lady past again,
The brook its glad song kept ;
But, leaning on its wild flower bank,
The little maiden wept.
Marian was still a child in years.
Though not a child in thought ;
She paused, and with her low soft voice,
The cause for sorrow sought.
It was for envy Edith wept,
And this she shamed to say ;
And it was long e'er Marian learnt
Why tears had found their way.
At last she rather guess'd than learnt,
And with a graver tone
She said, " Oh rather thank thy God,
My lot is not thine own. "
" How would my weary feet rejoice
Like thine to walk and run
Over the soft and fragrant grass,
Beneath yon cheerful sun.
" And yet I trust to God's good will
My spirit is resign'd ;
Though sore my sickness, it is borne
At least with patient mind. "
" Though noble be my father's name,
And vast my father's wealth;
He would give all, could he but give
His only child thy health !
" Ah, judge not by the outside show
Of this world, vain and frail — "
Still wept the child ; but now she wept
To watch a cheek so pale.
The lady Marian's voice grew faint,
Her hour of strength was o'er ;
She whisper'd, " Come to-morrow morn,
And I will tell thee more."
Next morning Edith sought the hall ; —
They shew'd her Marian laid
Upon a couch where many a year
That gentle child had pray'd.
And dark and hollow were her eyes,
Yet tenderly the while
Play'd o'er her thin white cheek and lip
A sweet and patient smile.
The shadow of the grave was nigh,
But to her face was given
A holy light from that far home
Where she was hasteningh — eaven. (sic)
It was her latest task on earth,
That work of faith and love ;
She taught that village child to raise
Her youthful heart above.
She gave her sweet and humble thought
That make their own content ;
And hopes that are the gift of heaven,
When heavenward the're bent. (sic)
And many wept above the tomb
That over Marian closed ;
When in the bosom of her God
The weary soul reposed.
None wept with tenderer tears than she
Who such vain tears had shed ;
But holy was the weeping given
To the beloved dead.
Throughout a long and happy life
That peasant maiden kept
The lesson of that blessed hour
When by the brook she wept.
From Traits and Trials of Early Life
Presumably should be 'hastening - heaven.'
It is quoted elsewhere as 'hastening - Heaven!'
Landon may be referring to Cowper's lanquid nature here, but in The Golden Violet she wrote:
"The rose leant as it languish'd with delight,".
For her a flower can be either happy, sad or indeed, languid.
In view of the other errors below and Letitia's reportedly poor handwriting, lanquid here is probably a misreading by the publisher. Regarding her hand, it has been inferred that she was left-handed.
Alternatively, she may have been having a bit of fun and making her juvenile readers ask questions
Correction 'When heavenward they're bent.'
THE LAST SONG OF CORINNE
Take ye my solemn farewell ! O, my friends,
Already night is darkening on my eyes ;—
But is not heaven most beuutiful by night ?
Thousands of stars shine in the kindling sky,
Which is an azure desert during day.
Thus do the gathering of eternal shades
Reveal innumerable thoughts, half lost
In the full daylight of prosperity.
But weaken'd is the voice which might instruct;
The soul retires within itself, and seeks
To gather round itself its failing fire.
From my first days of youth, my inward hope
Was to do honour to the Roman name;
That name at which the startled heart yet beats.
Ye have allow'd me fame, O generous land !
Ye banished not a woman from the shrine !
Ye do not sacrifice immortal gifts
To passing jealousies, Ye who still yield
Applause to Genius in its daring flight;
Victor without the vanquished, —Conqueror,
Yet without spoil ; —who, from eternity,
Draws riches for all time.
Nature and Life ! with what deep confidence
Ye did inspire me. I deem'd all grief arose
For what we did not feel, or think enough :
And that we might, even on this our earth,
Beforehand taste that heavenly happiness,
Which is—but length in our enthusiasm,
But constancy in love.
No. I repent it not, this generous faith;
No — that caused not the bitter tears I've shed.
Watering the dust which doth await me now.
I had accomplish'd all my destiny—
I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven,
If I had only vow'd my sounding lyre
To celebrate that goodness all divine,
Made manifest throughout the universe.
And thou, my God !—Oh, thou wilt not reject
The offering of the mind; for poetry,
Its homage is religious, and the wings
Of thought but serve to draw more near to thee.
Religion has no limits, and no bounds;—
The vast, the infinite, and the eternal,
Never from her may Genius separate.
Imagination from its earliest flight,
Past o'er the bounds of life : and the sublime
Is the reflection of divinity.
Alas ! my God, had I loved only thee ; *
If I had raised my head aloft in heaven—
From passionate affections shelter'd there,
I had not now been crush'd before my time—
Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams.
Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives,
I only know it by my strength of grief:
Under the features of an enemy
I recognise it now.
Farewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land !
Farewell, remembrances of infancy,
Farewell ! Ah, what have ye to do with death ?
And ye who in my writings may have found
Feelings, whose echo was within your soul,
Oh, friends of mine—where'er ye be—farewell !
Corinne has suffer'd much —but suffer'd not
In an unworthy cause : she has not lost.
At least her claim on pity.
Beautiful Italy ! it is in vain
To promise me your loveliness ; my heart
Is worn and wasted ; what can ye avail ?
Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs?
Would ye recall my happiness, and thus
Make me revolt against my fate?
Meekly I do submit myself. Oh, ye
Who may survive me,— when the spring returns,
Remember how I loved its loveliness !
How oft I sung its perfume and its air.
I pray you sometimes to recall a line
From out my songs—my soul is written there:
But fatal Muses, love and misery,
Taught my best poetry.
When the designs of mighty Providence
Are work'd in me, internal music marks
The coming of the angel of the grave:
Nor fearful, nor yet terrible he spreads
His white wings ; and, though compass'd by night,
A thousand omens tell of his approach.
If the wind murmurs then they seem to hear
His voice ; and when night falls, the shadows round
Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.
At noon, when life sees only the clear sky,
Feels only the bright sun, the fated one
Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks
The heavy shade so soon to shroud
All nature from their eyes.
Youth, hope, emotions of the heart—ye all
Are now no more. Far from me —vain regrets;
If I can yet obtain some falling tears,
If I can yet believe myself beloved,
It is because I am about to die.
Could I recall my fleeting life,— that life,
Soon would it turn upon me all its stings.
And Rome ! Rome, where my ashes will be borne!
Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,
If, with a trembling step, I join the shades,
The multitude of your illustrious dead !
Forgive me for my pity of myself.*
Feelings and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance
As might have yielded fruit—expire with me.
Of all the powers of mind which nature gave,
The power of suffering has been,the sole one,
Which I have used to its extent.
It matters not. —I do obey. —Whate’er
May be the mighty mystery of death,
That mystery at least must give repose.
Ye do not answer me, ye silent tombs !
Merciful God, thou dost not answer me!
I made my choice on earth, and now my heart
Has no asylum. Ye decide for me,
And such a destiny is best.
Translated from Madame de Staël, Corinne.
* Had I but served my God with half the zeal, etc."— Wolsey.
(SHAKESPEARE)
* J'ai pitié de moi-même.—Corneille.
THE LITTLE BOY'S BED-TIME
Translated from Madame Desborde Valmore.
Hush ! no more fire, no noise — all round is still.
See the pale moon hath on th' horizon risen
While thou wert speaking,
VICTOR HUGO
SLEEP, little Paul, what, crying, hush ! the night is very dark ;
The wolves are near the rampart, the dogs begin to bark ;
The bell has rung for slumber, and the guardian angel weeps
When a little child beside the hearth so late a play-time keeps.
" I will not always go to sleep, I like to watch the light
Of the fire upon my sabre, so glittering and so bright !
And I will keep the wolves at bay, if they approach the door ;"
And again the little naughty one sat undrest upon the floor.
" My God ! forgive the wayward child who mocks his mother's word ;
Oh Thou ! the long in suffering ! whose wrath is slowly stirr'd ;
Knowledge within the opening soul has but a feeble lay,
Wait till he knows Thy graciousness ! wait till a future day.
" The little birds since set of sun are plunged in slumbers deep ;
The long grass and the lonely trees are filled with them asleep ;
The little birds, new from the shell, have left the topmost bough,
And ‘neath the midnight's trembling shade they all are resting now.
" Closed is the dove-cot, quiet there the cooing pigeons rest,
The azure waters rock beneath the sleeping swan's white breast ;
Paul, three times has the careful hen counted her brood anew ;
They sleep within her sheltering wings, but, Paul, I wait for you..
" The sinking moon looks down from heaven her last farewell to take,
And, pale and angry, asks, ' Who is the child I see awake ?'
Lo ! there upon her cloudy bed she is already laid,
And sleeps within the circle dark of midnight's dusky shade.
" The little beggar, only he, is wandering in the street,
Poor sufferer ! at such an hour, with cold and tired feet.
He wanders wearily, and hangs his little languid head ;
How glad, how thankful would he be for a soft warm bed."
Then little Paul, though watching still anxious his shining sword,
Folded his clothes and laid him down without another word:
And soon his mother bent to kiss his eyelids' deep repose,
Tranquil and sweet as angel hands had bade those eyelids close.
From Traits and Trials of Early Life
THE PRISONER
" Now come and see the linnet that I have caught to-day.
Its wicker cage is fastened, he cannot fly away.
All the morning I've been watching the twigs I lim'd last night
At last he perch'd upon them — he took no further flight,
I wish he would be quiet, and sit him down and sing —
You cannot see the feathers upon his dark brown wing."
He was her younger brother — she laid aside her book —
His sister with her pale soft cheek, and sweet and serious look —
" Alas," she cried, " poor prisoner, now, Henry, set him free,
His terror and his struggles I cannot bear to see."
But the eager boy stood silent, and with a darken'd brow,
Such pains as he had taken, he could not lose them now.
" Poor bird ! see how he flutters ! and many a broken plume
Lies scatter'd in the struggle, around his narrow room.
His wings will soon be weary, and he will pine and die
For love of the green forest, and of the clear blue sky,
We read of giants, Henry, in those old books of ours,
Would you like to be a captive within their gloomy towers ?
"You said in our old ash-tree a bird had built its nest ;
Perhaps this very linnet has there its place of rest.
Now who will keep his little ones when night begins to fall ?
They have no other shelter, and they will perish all.
There'll be no more sweet singing within that lonely grove ;
Now, Henry, free your prisoner, I pray you, for my love.
"Our father is a soldier, and in some distant war
He too might be a prisoner in foreign lands afar."
Her dark eyes filled with tear-drops, and she could say no more—
But Henry had already unbarr'd the wicker door.
He threw the window open, and placed the cage below,
And to the ash-tree coppice he watch'd the linnet go.
That evening when the sunset flung around its rosy light,
And the air was sweet with summer, and the many flowers were bright
They took their walk together, and as they past along,
They heard from that old ash-tree the linnet's pleasant song.
It was like a sweet thanksgiving ; and Henry, thus spoke he,
" How glad I am, my sister, I set the linnet free.”
From Traits and Trials of Early Life
THE SAILOR
Now tell me of my brother,
So far away at sea;
Amid the Indian islands,
Of which you read to me,
I wish that I were with him,
Then I should see on high
The tall and stately cocoa,
That rises mid the sky.
But only round the summit
The feathery leaves are seen,
Like the plumes of some great warrior,
It spreads its shining green.
And there the flowers are brighter
Than any that I know;
And the birds have purple plumage,
And wings of crimson glow.
There grow cinnamon and spices,
And, for a mile and more,
The cool sweet gales of evening
Bring perfume from the shore.
Amid those sunny islands
His good ship has to roam:
Amid so many wonders
He must forget his home.
And yet his native valley
How fair it is to-day !
I hear the brook below us
Go singing on its way.
Amid its water lilies
He launched his first small boat.
He taught me how to build them,
And how to make them float.
And there too are the yew trees
From whence he cut his bow ;
Mournfully are they sweeping
The long green grass below.
It is the lonely churchyard,
And many tombs are there ;
On one no weeds are growing,
But many a flower is fair.
Though lovely are the countries
That lie beyond the wave,
He will not find among them,
Our mother's early grave.
I fear not for the summer,
However bright it be :
My heart says that my brother
Will seek his home and me.
From Traits and Trials of Early Life
THE SOLDIER'S HOME
THUS spoke the aged wanderer,
A kind old man was he,
Smoothing the fair child's golden hair
Who sat upon his knee : —
"'Tis now some fifteen years, or more,
Since to your town I came :
And, though a stranger, made my home
Where no one knew my name.
" I did not seek your pleasant woods,
Where the green linnets sing —
Nor yet your meadows, for the sake
Of any living thing.
" For fairer is the little town,
And brighter is the tide,
And pleasanter the woods that hang
My native river's side.
" Or such, at least, they seemed to me —
I spent my boyhood there ;
And memory, in looking back,
Makes every thing more fair.
" But half a century has past
Since last I saw their face :
God hath appointed me, at length,
Another resting-place
" I have gone east — I have gone west :
I served in that brave band
Which fought beneath the pyramids,
In Egypt's ancient land.
" I saw the Nile swell o'er its banks
And bury all around ;
And when it ebbed, the fertile land
Was like fair garden ground. *
" I saw the golden Ganges, next,
No meadow is so green
As the bright fields of verdant rice
Beside its waters seen.
" There grows the mournful peepul tree, **
Whose boughs are scattered o'er
The door-way of the warrior's house,
When he returns no more.
" I followed where our colours led,
In many a hard-won day ;
From ocean to the Pyrenees,
Old England fought her way.
" I had a young companion then —
My own, my only child ! —
The darkest watch, the longest march,
His laugh and song beguil'd.
"He was as cheerful as the lark
That singeth in the sky ;
His comrades gladdened on their way,
Whene'er his step drew nigh.
" But he was wounded, and was sent
To join a homeward band :
Thank God, he drew his latest breath
Within his native land.
" I shared in all our victories,
But sad they were to me;
I only saw the one pale face
That was beyond the sea.
" Peace came at last, and I was sent,
With many more, to roam ;
There were glad partings then, for most
Had some accustomed home.
" I took my medal, and with that
I crost the salt sea wave ;
Others might seek their native vales,
I only sought a grave.
" I knew that, on his homeward march
My gallant boy had died;
I knew that he had found a grave
By yonder river's side.
" The summer sun-set, soft and warm,
Seemed as it blest the sleep
Of that low grave, which held my child,
O'er which I longed to weep.
" The aged yew-trees' sweeping boughs
A solemn shadow spread ;
And many a growth of early flowers
Their soothing fragrance shed.
" But there were weeds upon his grave :
None watch'd the stranger's tomb,
And bade, amid its long green grass,
The spring's sweet children bloom.
" You know the spot — our old church yard
Has no such grave beside ;
The primrose and the violet
There blossom in their pride.
" It is my only task on earth —
It is my only joy,
To keep, throughout the seasons fair,
The green sod of my boy.
" Nor kin nor kindness have I lacked,
All here have been my friends ;
And, with a blessing at its close,
My lengthened wayfare ends.
"And now my little Edward knows
The cause why here I dwell ;
And how I trust to have my grave
By his I love so well."
From Traits and Trials of Early Life
* Not a traveller but alludes to the beautiful appearance of the country when the annual overflowing of the Nile, in Egypt, has subsided. Many use the very expression in the text, that it is " like a fair garden.”
** It is a custom with some of the Hindoo tribes to strew branches of the peepul tree before the door when the chief of the house has fallen in battle.
SONG (or WAVE, WIND AND BARK)
WAVE—that wanderest singing by,
Bearing leaves and flowers with thee
To the lady of my heart
Waft a benison from me.
Wind— that rov’st around the grove,
Kissing every flower nigh,
I’ll send thee on a sweeter search,
Bear my own sweet love my sigh.
Tree— that show’st my graven word,
Thine be yet a happier lot,
Mayst thou meet my maiden’s eye,
Bidding her “Forget me not.”
This was set to music by William Sterndale Bennett in 1842 as Opus 23 No.3
This is an abstracted from 'Love's Motto' in Forget Me Not, 1827, see under gift book poems, Sypher addendum.