Poems

THE OBDURATE BEAUTY

("A Juana la Grenadine!")

{XXIX., October, 1843.}

     To Juana ever gay,     Sultan Achmet spoke one day       "Lo, the realms that kneel to own       Homage to my sword and crown     All I'd freely cast away,       Maiden dear, for thee alone."     "Be a Christian, noble king!     For it were a grievous thing:       Love to seek and find too well       In the arms of infidel.     Spain with cry of shame would ring,       If from honor faithful fell."     "By these pearls whose spotless chain,     Oh, my gentle sovereign,       Clasps thy neck of ivory,       Aught thou askest I will be,     If that necklace pure of stain       Thou wilt give for rosary."JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

DON RODRIGO

A MOORISH BALLAD

("Don Roderique est à la chasse.")

{XXX., May, 1828.}

     Unto the chase Rodrigo's gone,       With neither lance nor buckler;     A baleful light his eyes outshone —       To pity he's no truckler.     He follows not the royal stag,       But, full of fiery hating,     Beside the way one sees him lag,       Impatient at the waiting.     He longs his nephew's blood to spill,       Who 'scaped (the young Mudarra)     That trap he made and laid to kill       The seven sons of Lara.     Along the road – at last, no balk —       A youth looms on a jennet;     He rises like a sparrow-hawk       About to seize a linnet.     "What ho!" "Who calls?" "Art Christian knight,       Or basely born and boorish,     Or yet that thing I still more slight —       The spawn of some dog Moorish?     "I seek the by-born spawn of one       I e'er renounce as brother —     Who chose to make his latest son       Caress a Moor as mother.     "I've sought that cub in every hole,       'Midland, and coast, and islet,     For he's the thief who came and stole       Our sheathless jewelled stilet."     "If you well know the poniard worn       Without edge-dulling cover —     Look on it now – here, plain, upborne!       And further be no rover.     "Tis I – as sure as you're abhorred       Rodrigo – cruel slayer,     'Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord,       Who bids you crouch in prayer!     "I shall not grant the least delay —       Use what you have, defending,     I'll send you on that darksome way       Your victims late were wending.     "And if I wore this, with its crest —       Our seal with gems enwreathing —     In open air – 'twas in your breast       To seek its fated sheathing!"

CORNFLOWERS

("Tandis que l'étoile inodore.")

{XXXII.}

     While bright but scentless azure stars       Be-gem the golden corn,     And spangle with their skyey tint       The furrows not yet shorn;     While still the pure white tufts of May       Ape each a snowy ball, —     Away, ye merry maids, and haste       To gather ere they fall!     Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines       Upon a fairer town     Than Peñafiel, or endows       More richly farming clown;     Nowhere a broader square reflects       Such brilliant mansions, tall, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Nowhere a statelier abbey rears       Dome huger o'er a shrine,     Though seek ye from old Rome itself       To even Seville fine.     Here countless pilgrims come to pray      And promenade the Mall, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Where glide the girls more joyfully       Than ours who dance at dusk,     With roses white upon their brows,       With waists that scorn the busk?     Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes —       Compared with these, how small!     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     A blossom in a city lane,       Alizia was our pride,     And oft the blundering bee, deceived,       Came buzzing to her side —     But, oh! for one that felt the sting,       And found, 'neath honey, gall —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,       A stranger hither came —     Was he a Moor or African,       Or Murcian known to fame?     None knew – least, she – or false or true,       The name by which to call.     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Alizia asked not his degree,       She saw him but as Love,     And through Xarama's vale they strayed,       And tarried in the grove, —     Oh! curses on that fatal eve,       And on that leafy hall!     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     The darkened city breathed no more;       The moon was mantled long,     Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak       Upon the steeples' throng;     The crossway Christ, in ivy draped,       Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     But while, alone, they kept the shade,       The other dark-eyed dears     Were murmuring on the stifling air       Their jealous threats and fears;     Alizia was so blamed, that time,       Unheeded rang the call:     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Although, above, the hawk describes       The circle round the lark,     It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass       Had eyes but for her spark —     A spark? – a sun!  'Twas Juan, King!       Who wears our coronal, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     A love so far above one's state       Ends sadly. Came a black     And guarded palanquin to bear       The girl that ne'er comes back;     By royal writ, some nunnery       Still shields her from us all     Away, ye merry maids, and haste       To gather ere they fall!H. L. WILLIAMS

MAZEPPA

("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")

{XXXIV., May, 1828.}

     As when a mortal – Genius' prize, alack!     Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back,         Thou reinless racing steed!     In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star,     Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far         Out of the flow'ry mead, —     So – though thou speed'st implacable, (like him,     Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,         As if each stride the nearer bring     Him to the grave) – when comes the time,     After the fall, he rises – KING!H.L. WILLIAMS

THE DANUBE IN WRATH

("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")

{XXXV., June, 1828.}

     The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams: —     Ye daughters mine! will naught abate     Your fierce interminable hate?     Still am I doomed to rue the fate       That such unfriendly neighbors made?     The while ye might, in peaceful cheer,     Mirror upon your waters clear,     Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,       And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!Fraser's Magazine

OLD OCEAN

("J'étais seul près des flots.")

{XXXVII., September 5, 1828.}

     I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight,     Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright;       Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye;     And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around,     Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound,       The waves, and the pure stars on high.     And the clear constellations, that infinite throng,     While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,       Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze —     And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest,     Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest       "Creator! we bless thee and praise!"R.C. ELLWOOD

MY NAPOLEON

("Toujours lui! lui partout!")

{XL., December, 1828.}

     Above all others, everywhere I see       His image cold or burning!     My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free       The thoughts within me yearning.     My quivering lips pour forth the words       That cluster in his name of glory —     The star gigantic with its rays of swords       Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.     I see his finger pointing where the shell       Should fall to slay most rabble,     And save foul regicides; or strike the knell       Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.     A Consul then, o'er young but proud,       With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,     But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,       And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.     And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame       Whole nations' contact urging     To gain his soldiers gold and fame       Oh, Sun on high emerging,     Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells       Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose     To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,       Into his host of half-a-million heroes!     What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.       No weight of arms enfolded     Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart       Which Nature – not her journeymen – self-moulded.     Let sordid jailers vex their prize;       But only bends that brow to lightning,     As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs

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