The Poetical Works of Hemans, Heber and Pollok

THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.

YES, it is ours!--the field is won,

A dark and evil field!

Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!

Let me not hear your trumpets ring,

Swell not the battle-horn! Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!-in the name

There is too much of wo!

Hushed be the empty voice of Fame-
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!-from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long-I had but him-but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires

The hearths will soon be cold,

With me must die the beacon-fires

That streamed at midnight from the mountainhold.

And let them fade, since this must be,

My lovely and my brave!

Was thy bright blood poured forth for me, And is there but for stately youth a grave?

Speak to me once again, my boy!

Wilt thou not hear my call? Thou wert so full of life and joy,

I had not dreampt of this-that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep

For thy returning plume;

How shall I tell her that thy sleep

Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die,

With all thy young renown! -Ye saw his falchion's flash on high,

In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be your march!-the field is won!
A dark and evil field!

Lift from the ground my noble son,

And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

THE TOMBS OF PLATEA.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

AND there they sleep!--the men who stood In arms before th' exulting sun,

And bathed their spears in Persian blood,

They sleep!-th' Olympic wreaths are dead, Th' Athenian lyres are hushed and gone; The Dorian voice of song is fled-Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on!

They sleep, and seems not all around
As hallowed unto glory's tomb?
Silence is on the battle ground,

The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.

And stars are watching on their height, But dimly seen through mist and cloud, And still and solemn is the light Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.

And thou, pale night-queen! here thy beams
Are not as those the shepherd loves,
Nor look they down on shining streams,
By Naiads haunted, in their laurel groves:

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines;
No temple gleaming from the steep,
'Midst the gray olives, or the mountain pines:
But o'er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood,
Where man's departed steps are traced

But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!-What slave shall tread
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains?
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead,

When their bright land sits weeping o'er her chains:

Here, where the Persian clarion rung,

And where the Spartan sword flashed high,
And where the Pæan strains were sung,

From year to year swelled on by liberty!

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard,
Until the bonds of Greece be riven,
Save of the leader's charging word,

Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven!

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave!
No vines festoon your lonely tree!*

No harvest o'er your war-fields wave.
Till rushing winds proclaim-the land is free!

THE VIEW FROM CASTRI.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

THERE have been bright and glorious pageants here,

Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie;

* A single tree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive pic.

And taught the earth how freedom might be won. ture.

There have been words, which earth grew pale High hopes o'erthrown!-It is, when lands rejoice, When cities blaze, and lift th' exulting voice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!

to hear,

Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh:
There have been voices, through the sunny sky,
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes
sending,

And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody,
With incense-clouds around the temple blending,
And throngs, with laurel-boughs, before the altar
bending.

There have been treasures of the seas and isles
Brought to the day-god's now forsaken throne:
Thunders have pealed along the rock-defiles,
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known
That foes were on their way!-the deep-wind's

moan

Hath chilled the invader's heart with secret fear,
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone,
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce

career,

From his bold hand have struck the banner and

the spear.

Fear ye the festal hour!

When mirth o'erflows, then tremble !—'T was a
night

Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light,
When through the regal bower

The trumpet pealed, ere yet the song was done,
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon,
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.

The marble shrines were crowned:

Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky,
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody,
And censers waved around;

And lyres were strung, and bright libations poured,
When, through the streets, flashed out the aveng-
ing sword,

Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound!*
Through Rome a triumph passed.
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by

The shrine hath sunk!—but thou unchanged That long array of glorious pageantry,

art there!

Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams!
Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant air,

With shout and trumpet-blast.

An empire's gems their starry splendor shed O'er the proud march; a king in chains was led; With thy dark-waving pines, and flashing A stately victor, crowned and robed, came last. f

With inspiration yet; and each dim haze,

And many a Dryad's bower

Had lent the laurels, which in waving play,
Stirred the warm air, and glistened round his way,
As a quick-flashing shower.

Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems-O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, As with its mantle, veiling from our gaze The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!

foe,

Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung—
Wo for the dead!-the father's broken flower!

A sound of lyre and song,

In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile,
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile,
Swept with that voice along;
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam,
Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome,
And fresh rose-garlands decked a glittering throng.

'T was Antony that bade

The joyous chords ring out!-but strains arose
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close!
Sounds by no mortal made‡
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night,
And passed-and with another sunset's light,
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.

• The sword of Harmodius.

Paulus Emilius, one of whose sons died a few days beWhile the friend sleeps!—When falls the traitor's fore, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest

blow?

When are proud sceptres riven,

This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, have appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine.

of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.

See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of An tony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony's death.

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay
The fair Campanian city,* with its towers
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers,
Clear in the golden day;

Joy was around it as the glowing sky,
And crowds had filled its halls of revelry,
And all the sunny air was music's way.

A cloud came o'er the face

Of Italy's rich heaven!-its crystal blue
Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hue

Of night, o'ershadowing space,
As with the wings of death!—in all his power
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower,
And who could tell the buried city's place?

Such things have been of yore,
In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow

On the grape-clusters pour;

And where the palms to spicy winds are waving,
Along clear seas of melted sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their southern shore.

Turn we to other climes!

Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread,
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead,†
And ancient battle-rhymes

Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed,
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time.

But ere the giant-fane

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hushed were the bards, and, in the face of Heaven,

O'er that old burial-plain

Flashed the keen Saxon dagger!-Blood was streaming,

Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,

Have veiled the sword!-Red wines have sparkled fast

From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passed,
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower.
Twine the young glowing wreath!
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along,
Like summer's quickening breath!
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth,
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death!

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

"In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested, that this prince repeatedly declared he would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;' and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.

"The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host; and this being the first army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry; and these last, as the nature of the country did not

And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives,

vain.

For they returned no more!

They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part; And on the rushy floor,

and many of them trampled to death. A general rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was, with much difficulty, rescued by a peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed."-Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.

And the red grapes clustering hung,

And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls,THE wine-month shone in its golden prime,
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls;
But not for them-they slept—their feast was o'er!

Fear ye the festal hour!

Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart!—the bridal rose,
And the rich myrtle's flower

But a deeper sound through the Switzer's clime, Than the vintage music, rung.

A sound, through vaulted cave,

A sound, through echoing glen
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
-'T was the tread of steel-girt men.

• Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inha-And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, bitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes, which covered the city, descended.

1 Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others, mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.

'Midst the ancient rocks was blown, Till the Alps replied to that voice of war, With a thousand of their own.

• Wine-month, the German name for October.

And through the forest glooms Flashed helmets to the day,

And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.

In Hasli's wilds there was gleaming steel,
As the host of the Austrian passed;

And the Schreckhorn'st rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion's blast.

Up 'midst the Righit snows The stormy march was heard, With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, And the leader's gathering word.

But a band, the noblest band of all,

Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazoned streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards, in princely state.

They came with heavy chains For the race despised so long-But amidst his Alp-domains,

The herdsman's arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they entered the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rung the while.
But on the misty height,
Where the mountain-people stood,
There was stillness, as of night,

When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness, as of deep dead night,
And a pause-but not of fear,

While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.

On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,

But they looked not to the misty height

Where the mountain-people stood.

The pass was filled with their serried power,
All helmed and mail-arrayed,

And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower
In the rustling forest-shade.

There were prince and crested knight,
Hemmed in by cliff and flood,
When a shout arose from the misty height

Where the mountain-people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down,
Their startled foes among,

With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown-
-Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong!

'Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.

↑ Schreckhorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the canton of Berne.

↑ Righi, a mountain in the canton of Schwytz.

They came, like lauwine* hurled
From Alp to Alp in play,

When the echoes shout through the snowy world,

And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crashed on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rushed from high,
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:

Like hunters of the deer,

They stormed the narrow dell,
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear.

Was the arm of William Tell.t

There was tumult in the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild dismay,
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant's hand that day!
And the empire's banner then,
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd-men,
The men of the Forest-sea.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,

And the war-horse dashed to the reddening

lake,

From the reapers of the field!

The field-but not of sheaves-
Proud crests and pennons lay

Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves
In the autumn-tempest's way.

Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed,
When the Austrian turned to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!

And the leader of the war
At eve unhelmed was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, Went back from the battle-toil,

To their cabin-homes 'midst the deep green hills,
All burdened with royal spoil.

There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprung to greet their sires,
From the wild Morgarten fight.

Laurine, the Swiss name for the avalanche.

↑ William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongst the confederates at Morgarten.

Forest-sea, the lake of the four cantons is also so called.

Ask not!-the peasant at his cabin-door
Sits, calmly pointing to the distant cloud
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour
Destruction down, o'er fields he hath not ploughed.
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar,
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain,
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd
Or tell of cities burning on the plain.

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze,
Fixed on his mother's lips, intent to know,
By names of insult, those, whom future days
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe!
There proudly many a glittering dame displays
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow,
By husbands, lovers, home in triumph borne,
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.

Wo to the victors and the vanquished! Wo!
The earth is heaped, is loaded with the slain,
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow,
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain!
But from th' embattled front, already, lo!
A band recedes-it flies-all hope is vain,
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife,
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.
As the light grain disperses in the air,
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around,
Thus fly the vanquished, in their wild despair,
Chased-severed-scattered--o'er the ample

ground.

But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight-and hark! the deepening

sound

Of fierce pursuit !—still nearer and more near,
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear!

The day is won;-they fall-disarmed they yield,
Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying!
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field,
Oh! who may hear the murmurs of the dying?
-Haste! let the tale of triumph be revealed!
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying,
He spurs-he speeds-with tidings of the day,
To rouse up cities in his lightning way.

Why pour ye thus from your deserted homes,
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams,
Oh, eager multitudes! around him pressing?
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing!
Know ye not whence th' ill-omened herald comes,
And dare ye dream he comes with words of bless-
ing?

-Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold-
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told.

I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry!
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains;
E'en now the homicides assail the sky
With peans, which indignant Heaven disdains!

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Libros

The Poetical Works of Hemans, Heber and Pollok: Complete in One Volume