We, we have seen the intellectual race Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face- Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, As the deep billows of the Ægean roar Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. But where are they-the rivals?-a few feet Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, Which hushes all! a calm unstormy wave Which oversweeps the world! The theme is old Of dust to dust,» but half its tale untold. Time tempers not its terrors-still the worm Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form- Varied above, but still alike below;
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea, O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; Though Alexander's urn a show be grown On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown- How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear! He wept for worlds to conquer-half the earth Knows not his name, or but his death and birth And desolation; while his native Greece Hath all of desolation, save its peace.
He « wept for worlds to conquer!» he who ne'er Conceived the globe he panted not to spare! With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne.
But where is he, the modern, mightier far, Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car? The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state! Yes! where is he, the champion and the child Of all that's great or little, wise or wild?
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones; Whose table, earth-whose dice were human bones? Behold the grand result in you lone isle, And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage; Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations; Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; O'er petty quarrels upon petty things:
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings? Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues! A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake The sleep of him who kept the world awake. Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, Now slave of all could teaze or irritate- Thy paltry jailor and the prying spy, The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great: How low, how little was this middle state, Between a prison and a palace, where How few could feel for what he had to bear! Vain his complaint-my lord presents his bill, His food and wine were doled out duly still:
Vain was his sickness,-never was a clime So free from homicide-to doubt's a crime; And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. But smile-though all the pangs of brain and heart Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art;
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, None stand by his low bed--though even the mind Be wavering which long awed and awes mankind : Smile-for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, And higher worlds than this are his again.
How, if that soaring spirit still retain A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, How must he smile, on looking down, to see The little that he was and sought to be! What though his name a wider empire found Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound; Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, He tasted empire's blessings, and its curse; Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape: How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave! What though his jailor, duteous to the last, Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, Refusing one poor line along the lid
To date the birth and death of all it hid, That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, A talisman to all save him who bore: The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast; When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, The rocky isle that holds or held his dust Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies Do more than niggard Envy still denies. But what are these to him? Can glory's lust Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? Small care hath he of what his tomb consists, Nought if he sleeps-nor more if he exists; Alike the better-seeing shade will smile On the rude cavern of the rocky isle,
As if his ashes found their latest home In Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. He wants not this; but France shall feel the want Of this last consolation, though so scant; Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones, To rear amid a pyramid of thrones;
Or carried onward, in the battle's van
To form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman.
But be it as it is, the time may come
His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum.
Oh, Heaven! of which he was in power a feature; Oh, earth! of which he was a noble creature; Thou isle! to be remember'd long and well, That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell!
Guesclin died during the siege of a city; it surrendered, and the keys were brought and laid upon his bier, so that the place might appear rendered to his ashes.
Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights Hover the victor of an hundred fights! Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Cæsar's deeds outdone! Alas! why pass'd he too the Rubicon! The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, To herd with vulgar kings and parasites? Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, And shook within her pyramids to hear A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; While the dark shades of forty ages stood Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood; Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell,
With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand To re-manure the uncultivated land!
Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid! Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall! Ye race of Frederic!-Frederics but in name And falsehood-heirs to all except his fame; Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell, First, and but rose to follow: ye who dwell Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt! Poland! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, But left thee as he found thee, still a waste: Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name; Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear: Kosciusko! on-on-on-the thirst of war Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar; The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets Gleam in the sun, but 't is a sun that sets! Moscow! thou limit of his long career,
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear To see in vain-he saw thee-how! with spire And palace fuel to one common fire.
To this the soldier lent his kindling match, To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, The prince his hall-and Moscow was no more! Sublimest of volcanos! Etua's flame
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height: Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire To come, in which all empires shall expire. Thou other element! as strong and stern To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn, Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, Till fell a hero with each flake of show; How did thy numbing beak and silent fang Pierce, till hosts perishi'd with a single pang! In vain shall Seine look up along his banks For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks; In vain shall France recal beneath her vines Her youth-their blood flows faster than her wines, Or stagnant in their human ice remains In frozen mummies on the polar plains. In vam will Italy's broad sun awaken
Her offspring chill'd, its beams are now forsaken. Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, What shall return? The conqueror's broken car!
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die : Dresden surveys three despots fly once more Before their sovereign-sovereign, as before; But there exhausted Fortune quits their field, And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield; The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side
To turn the bear's, and wolfs, and fox's guide; And backward to the den of his despair The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair! Oh ye! and each, and all! oh, France! who found Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill Look'd down o'er trampled Paris, and thou, isle, Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile, The momentary shelter of his pride,
Till, woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride; Oh, France! retaken by a single march, Whose path was through one long triumphal arch! Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, Won, half by blunder, half by treachery; Oh, dull Saint Helen! with thy jailor nigh- Hear! hear! Prometheus from his rock appeal To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel His power and glory, ail who yet shall hear A name eternal as the rolling year; He teaches them the lesson taught so long So oft, so vainly-learn to do no wrong! A single step into the right had made This man the Washington of worlds betray'd; A single step into the wrong has given His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven; The reed of fortune and of thrones the rod, Of fame the Moloch or the demi-god; His country's Cæsar, Europe's Hannibal, Without their decent dignity of fall. Yet vanity herself had better taught A surer path even to the fame he sought, By pointing out on history's fruitless page, Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, Or drawing from the no less kindled earth Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth: While Washington's a watch-word, such as ne'er Shall sink while there's an echo left to air: While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave,- The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, Who burst the chains of millions to renew The very fetters which his arm broke through, And crush d the rights of Europe and his own To fit between a dungeon and a throne?
But it will not be-the spark 's awaken'd-lo! The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow;
I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in Eschylus, when he is left alone by bis attendants, and before the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs.
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor Through eight long ages of alternate gore, Revives-and where? in that avenging clime Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew,
The infant world redeems her name of « New.» T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, To kindle souls within degraded flesh,
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore Where Greece was-No! she still is Greece once more. One common cause makes myriads of one breast! Slaves of the east, or Helots of the west;
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, The self-same standard streams o'er either world: The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord; The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek; Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique; Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar: Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, Sweep lightly by the half-tamed land of France, Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain Unite Ausonia to the mighty main :
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, Break o'er the Ægean, mindful of the day Of Salamis-there, there the waves arise, Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories.
Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need
By Christians unto whom they gave their creed, The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile, The aid evaded, and the cold delay, Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey;- These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece, Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. How should the autocrat of bondage be The king of serfs, and set the nations free? Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; Better still toil for masters, than await, The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,- Number'd by hordes, a human capital, A live estate, existing but for thrall, Lotted by thousands as a meet reward For the first courtier in the czar's regard; While their immediate owner never tastes His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes; Better succumb even to their own despair, And drive the camel than purvey the bear.
But not alone within the hoariest clime, Where freedom dates her birth with that of time; And not alone where plunged in night, a crowd Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, The dawn revives; renown'd, romantic Spain Holds back the invader from her soil again. Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde, Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both; Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. Long in the peasant's song or poet's page Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage, The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. But these are gone-their faith, their swords, their sway, Yet left more anti-christian foes than they: The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, The inquisition, with her burning feast, The faith's red «auto,» fed with human fuel, While sat the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, Enjoying, with inexorable eye,
That fiery festival of agony!
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth, The long-degenerate noble; the debased Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced But more degraded; the unpeopled realm; The once proud navy which forgot the helm; The once impervious phalanx disarray'd; The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade; The foreign wealth that flow'd on every shore, Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore; The very language, which might vie with Rome's, And once was known to nations like their homes, Neglected or forgotten:-such was Spain; But such she is not, nor shall be again. These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel The new Numantine soul of Old Castile. Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor! The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain Revive the cry-« Jago! and close Spain!»* Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, And form the barrier which Napoleon found,— The exterminating war; the desert plain; The streets without a tenant, save the slain; The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop For their incessant prey; the desperate wall Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall; The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid Waving her more than Amazonian blade: The knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel; The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; The unerring rifle of the Catalan; The Andalusian courser in the van; The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid; And in each heart the spirit of the Cid :- Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, And win-not Spain, but thine own freedom, France!
But lo! a congress! What, that hallow'd name Which freed the Atlantic? May we hope the same For outworn Europe? With the sound arise, Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, The prophets of young freedom, summon'd far From climes of Washington and Bolivar; Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas;
St lago! and close Spain! the old Spanish war-cry.
2 The Arragonians are peculiarly dextrous in the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars.
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd; And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, To bid us blush for these old chaius, or break. But who compose this senate of the few That should redeem the many? Who renew This consecrated name, till now assign'd To councils held to benefit mankind? Who now assemble at the holy call?- The bless'd alliance which says three are all ! An earthly trinity! which wears the shape Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. A pious unity! in purpose one, To melt three fools to a Napoleon. Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these; Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, Cared little, so that they were duly fed: But these, more hungry, must have something more— The power to bark and bite, to toss, and gore. Ah, how much happier were good Esop's frogs Than we! for ours are animated logs,
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, And crushing nations with a stupid blow, All dully anxious to leave little work Unto the revolutionary stork.
Thrice bless'd Verona! since the holy three With their imperial presence shine on thee; Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets The vaunted tomb of all the Capulets;» Thy Scaligers-for what was «Dog the Great,» « Can' Grande» (which I venture to translate) To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate: And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate;
Thy good old man, whose world was all within Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : Would that the royal guests it girds about Were so far like, as never to get out! Ay, shout! inscribe! rear mouuments of shaine, To tell oppression that the world is tame! Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage- The comedy is not upon the stage; The show is rich in ribbonry and stars- Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars; Clasp thy permitted palms, kind Italy,
For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free!
Resplendent sight! behold the coxcomb cza The autocrat of waltzes and of war! As cager for a plaudit as a realm, And just as fit for flirting as the helm; A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, And generous spirit when 't is not frost-bit. Now half-dissolving to a liberal thaw,
But harden'd back whene'er the morning's law. With no objection to true liberty, Except that it would make the nations free, How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!
The famous old man of Verona
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet! How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain; How royally show off in proud Madrid His goodly person, from the south long hid,- A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, By having Muscovites for friends or foes. Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; And that which Scythia was to him of yore, Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth: Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, Many an old woman, but no Catherine. Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles- The bear may rush into the lion's toils. Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields; Thinks't thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields? Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
To infest the clime, whose skies and laws are pure, With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure; Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe; Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago: And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun; But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander Rather a worm than such an Alexander! Be slaves who will, the Cynic shall be free; His tub hath tougher walls than Sinopè: Still will he hold his lanthorn up to scan The face of monarchs for an honest man.»
And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band Of mercenaries? and her noisy Chambers, And tribune which cach orator first clambers Before he finds a voice, and, when 't is found, Hears the lie» echo for his answer round? Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear; A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; Even Constant, their sole master of debate, Must fight next day, his speech to vindicate. But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather Combat than listen, were it to their father. What is the simple standing of a shot, To listening long and interrupting not? Though this was not the method of old Rome, When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, In saying eloquence meant «< Action, action '»
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd? Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste For thrones-the table sees thee better placed : A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best,
To be a kind host and as good a guest; To talk of letters, and to know by heart One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; A scholar always, now and then a wit, And gentle when digestion may permit→ But not to govern lands enslaved or free; The gout was martyrdom enough for thee!
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase From a bold Briton in her wonted praise?
« Arts-arms-and George-and glory and the isles- And happy Britain-wealth and freedom's smiles- White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof- Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof- Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!' And Waterloo-and trade-and-- -(hush! not yet A syllable of imposts or of debt)-
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill t' other day- And 'pilots who have weather'd every storm'- (But no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform).» These are the themes thus sung so oft before, Methinks we need not sing them any more; Found in so many volumes far and near, There's no occasion you should find them here. Yet something may remain, perchance, to chime With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme; Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit, Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame; Our last, our best, our only orator, Even I can praise thee-Tories do no more, Nay, not so much;-they hate thee, man, because Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes.-- The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow: But not for love mistake their yelling cry, Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
Naso suspendit adunco.-Horace,
The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintance.
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast With his great self and rider in the mud; But what of that? the animal shows blood.
Alas, the country!-how shall tongue or pen Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen?— The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, The first to make a malady of peace. For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt and vote, and raise the price of corn? But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall- Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. And must ye fall with every ear of grain? Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? He was your great Triptolemus; his vices Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices; He amplified, to every lord's content,
The grand agrarian alchymy-high rent. Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, And lower wheat to such desponding quarters? Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? The man was worth much more upon his throne. True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, And acres told upon the appointed day. But where is now the goodly audit ale? The purse-proud tenant never known to fail? The farm which never yet was left on hand? The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land? The impatient hope of the expiring lease? The doubling rental? What an evil's peace! In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill; The landed interest-(you may understand The phrase much better leaving out the land)- The land's self-interest groans from shore to shore, For fear that plenty should attain the poor. Up! up again! ye rents, exalt your notes, Or else the ministry will lose their votes, And patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market price; For ah! << the loaves and fishes,» once so high, Are gone their oven closed, their ocean dry; And nought remains of all the millions spent, Excepting to grow moderate and content. They who are not so had their turn-and turn About still flows from fortune's equal urn; Now let their virtue be its own reward, And share the blessings which themselves prepared. See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm! Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Their fields manured by gore of other lands; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent Their brethren out to battle-why? for rent! Year after year they voted cent. per cent. Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions-why? for rent' They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they
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