Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems

by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

ANTISTROPHE.

To thee, we raise our suppliant hands,
Diana, queen of forests cold,
To where the stately forum stands,
Seated on thy throne of gold.
God of the distant-wounding bow,
Apollo, hear, avert our wo.
If e’er before ye gave us aid,
When burthen’d with the monster-maid,20
Averters of Misfortune’s band,
Oh! now assist our suff’ring land.

Alas! to you, we suppliant call,
And, crush’d with ills unnumber’d, fall,
Whilst all our people pine away with grief,
And vain each plan to bring the wish’d relief;
Our corn is wasted in the barren earth,
Our women sink beneath th’ untimely birth;
Corpse upon corpse promiscuously expire,
Flocking to gloomy Pluto’s dreary reign,30
As birds, who, swifter than th’ unwearied fire,
Fall in vast numbers o’er the azure main.
Unnumber’d deaths, alas! exhaust our land—
Unhonour’d corpses load the burning strand.
Mothers and wives, thy sacred altars round,
Emit one sad, one darkly-mournful sound;
Perpetual Pæans lengthen on the gale,
And dismal sighs and mournful groans prevail.
Oh! haste then, golden Pallas, heav’nly maid,
Deign, in all thy might to aid,40
And cause to fly this dreadful god,
Who smites us with his baleful rod;
And, sword and buckler laid aside,
Destroys us with o’erwhelming tide;
Drive him, banish’d, from our home,
Where th’ unbounded ocean’s foam—
Or where th’ Ægean waters roar
Around the barb’rous Thracian’s shore.
What night has spar’d awhile!—the day
Has unrelenting swept away.50
Oh, potent Jove! thy thunders bare,
Oh, bid thy lightnings pierce the air,
And wrap beneath the blazing storm,
The murd’rous fury’s raging form.
Oh, King of Lycia! now thy darts employ,
Beneath thy arms this god destroy.
Those weapons, oh, Diana? pour,
With which thou hunt’st the Lycian boar.
And thou, who lov’st the nymphs to lead,
With golden mitre round thy head,60
Guardian God of Theban shore,
Purple Bacchus, we implore,
Oh, rear thy blazing brand on high,
Against this monster of the sky,
And banish, madd’ning with the pain,
The god, most hated of the heav’nly train.

PARNASSUS[15];

A VISION.

Written at Fourteen Years and a Half.

Loves not thy soul, when sated with the crowd,
And all the trifles of the great and proud;—
Loves not thy soul, its wearied pow’rs to bless,
With the rich charms of pensive loneliness?—
To turn thine eye, in mem’ry’s fond survey,
To scenes and pleasures faded long away;
Till they fall on thee, like spring’s grateful rain,
And, in idea, thou liv’st them o’er again?
Or, if bright Hope extends her magic wand,
To the dark future’s cloud-encircled land;10
Dost thou not feel a secret wish to view
Th’ entangled vale, thou hast to wander through?
While Fancy loves to deck the scene with flow’rs,
Gather’d from Glory’s fields, or Pleasure’s roseate bow’rs;
Till, perhaps, some passing peasant’s laughter’s roll,
Breaks the soft spell that binds thy wand’ring soul.
Yes, thou hast felt it, at that grateful hour,
When eve excites the Muse’s heav’nly pow’r,—
When all is calm!—when nothing rude is near,
To bound the pensive eye, or wound the ear!20
When Zephyr, wakened by paternal spring,
Rimples the waters with his roseate wing;
And, like a lover, wooes them with a sigh,
Sweet, but soon over, as he wanders by.

’Twas such an eve as this, I lately stood
On the green banks that shade Brent’s humble flood,
And mus’d o’er pleasures past, o’er scenes to be,
The cheering lights of dim futurity;
Till softly o’er my mind began to creep
Th’ unearthly calm of visionary sleep.30

Methought, a spacious plain before me lay,
Ting’d with that light which gilds the dawn of day;
Beauteous in every charm that can impart
Aught to delight, or captivate the heart:
Like those bright realms[16], replete with ev’ry joy,
That Venus rear’d to please her fav’rite boy.
Far up the wide expanse, was clearly seen,
A mountain cover’d with eternal green:
There, wreath’d in flow’rs of heav’n’s own splendid hue,
This hallow’d word blaz’d on the distant view,40
“Parnassus!”——

By the fair bow’rs, and streams, that fill’d this plain,
Were wide-dispers’d the ancient bardic train:—
There (by a roaring cat’ract’s sweeping force,
That from Parnassus took its turbid course)
Tow’rd Homer’s form! in majesty sublime,
The living monument, of lasting time;
And near to him, beneath a spreading tree,
Stood thy wild Sire[17], imperial Tragedy!
And farther on, with eye, and stroke of fire,
High Pindar woke the transports of his lyre;50
While by a river, fann’d with Zephyr’s breeze,
Lay the mild shade of melting Sophocles;
There, many a form, in awful splendour bright,
Caught the wild, wondering raptures of my sight:—
Maro and Horace, godlike sons of Fame,
And am’rous Ovid’s ever-pleasing name;
While, through the air, that hush’d itself to hear,
Tibullus’ sweetness thrill’d the list’ning ear;
And mighty Lucan, with illustrious strain,
Told the dread scenes of fam’d Pharsalia’s plain:60
With gather’d arms, curl’d lip, and eye severe,
Stood Juvenal—alone, calm, stern, austere.

Methought the scene was changed!—a wider plain,
Spread with a gaudy, but a trifling train,
Before me lay!—--No more could I behold
The hallow’d mountain, or its fields of gold;
Till, as I strain’d mine eye, I view’d afar,
Its shrouded beams, like Herschel’s distant star.
Again I turn’d my eye upon the band,
Who pour’d their numbers o’er this humbler land;70
These were, I soon perceiv’d, the bards who smile,
In this fair era, o’er Britannia’s isle.
The first, was one, whom many-tongued Renown
Has deem’d the brightest gem that decks the Muse’s crown.

Apart from all he stood!—his burning eye
He strove to turn in rapture to the sky.
Upon his lyre he leant: and, as he sung,
His curling ringlets o’er his shoulders hung;
In ev’ry look the trifler gave, he sought
To shew how wisely, and how deep he thought;80
And to his flowing garb, and studied pace,
He strove, but strove in vain, to give a grace.
His first, his chiefest aim, his dearest pride,
To write!—how different from the world beside;
For this he rack’d his brain!—it would not do!
For every effort, more degen’rate grew.
At length he found a method to succeed,
’Twas this!—to celebrate each impious deed,
To Vice the charms of Virtue to impart,
To thrill the senses!—but corrupt the heart!90
While I gaz’d on this bard!—methought a sound,
Wild, sweet, but awful, swell’d along the ground;
I turn’d mine eye! and, by a mould’ring tow’r,
Espied a form of such high grace and pow’r,—
It seem’d as if Apollo from the skies
Had rov’d, and now had met my wond’ring eyes.
It was that bard, whose justly-lasting fame,
Illustrious Caledon is proud to claim!—
It was that bard, whose wild majestic lay,
The floods of time shall never sweep away!100
Fast by his side, soul-moving C . . . . .l stood—
C . . . . .l, the wise, the noble, and the good.
These two were in the open paths that led
To green Parnassus’ ever-radiant head.
Not far from them, in green, and vig’rous age,
Reclin’d at ease a venerable sage;
Like some calm stream his peaceful numbers flow,
Serenely soft, dispassionately slow;
Not his the genius that can soar sublime,
On wings of Glory, o’er the wrecks of time:110
Yet Fame’s fair pages shall record him long,
No humble vot’ry at the shrine of song.
Beneath the luxuries of a neighb’ring bow’r,
I view’d the figure of fantastic M . . . . .;
Around the poet’s myrtle-wreathed head,
A train of gaudy insects hovered;
Sudden he rises! and with haste pursues
The splendid fly, that boasts the richest hues;
And long upheld the chace! until it flew119
Within his grasp!—and then he straight withdrew.
It griev’d me to behold so vast a mind,
Ideas so grand, and talents so refin’d,
Desert Parnassus, to pursue a fly,
And change, for trifles, Immortality!

Two well-known sons of rapture-raising song,
Now slowly swept the radiant fields along.
Heroic S . . . . ., whose Parnassian lays
Richly deserve Britannia’s laureate bays.
With this great vot’ry of Apollo’s name,
The pensive shade of hallow’d R—— came;130
Each melting line, that this soft poet sung,
Flow’d from the heart, its richness to the tongue;
He, who has gain’d a fame for aye to last,
By singing of the Pleasures that are past.
While I did gaze on them, across the plain,
Like summer vapours, swept a jovial train,
Issuing from these, I caught th’ unmeaning note
Of senseless C . . . . .’s empty numbers float;
W . . . . . was there, who follow’d Homer’s rule,
In every line, to study Nature’s school;140
For as his heroes drive the waggon, so
Rustic and rude his humble verses flow.

Far to the hinder side, a mountain spread,
With shadowy clouds impervious, o’er its head,
Hiding whate’er beneath the veil might be,
With the dark mantle of futurity.
In vain, my searching eye-balls seek t’ explore
The hidden secrets of that mystic shore.

From time to time, a legion would emerge
From its dark region’s shade-encircled verge:150
But most, ere yet a few short stops were o’er,
Fell to the earth, and were beheld no more!
A few, indeed, a farther distance past;
But, though they sunk not first, they sunk at last.
Yet, as they fell, from forth the sable land,
All careless of their fate, another band
In swift succession issued forth, till they
Soon, in their turn, sunk down the dangerous way.

Methought my feet with rash, unhallow’d tread,
My longing eyes, to this dark region led;160
Methought my hand already seiz’d the shroud,
That o’er it hung its canopy of cloud;—
Methought, mid those just rushing on to light,
I view’d a form, with awful grandeur bright;
Upon his beaming brows, in leaves of gold,
“Britannia’s greatest glory” was enroll’d!
Scarce could I snatch a momentary trace
Of these high words, when, through the darksome place,
Burst forth these accents, awful, loud, and drear,
“Hold back, hold back, rash mortal, and forbear!”

Scarce was it utter’d, ere the wondrous scene,171
And those who fill’d it, were no longer seen;
And, in the stead of that remember’d dream,
I view’d the waves that swell Brent’s shallow stream;
And heard the tinkling from the distant fold,
Stead of the strains from many a lyre of gold,
That e’en but now, had bound the melting soul,
In thralls of heav’nly, but of vain control.
The grateful spell is broke!—the treasur’d tone—
The hallow’d visions—yes, alas!—are flown!180
And I must back to scenes of loathsome life,
Pregnant with sorrow, and profuse with strife.

Yes! though the hand of time has scarcely spread
His roseate wreath of youth around my head,
Yet I have felt, how keen the piercing dart,
That grief can give, to lacerate the heart.—
Yes, I have felt, how full of care, alas!
The thorny paths that man is doom’d to pass.
But for a bright, and ofttimes cheering ray,
Athwart my dark and melancholy way;190
For many a soothing, many a raptur’d hour,
I bless, my Muse, thy sweet celestial pow’r.
Oh, mayst thou still continue, o’er my soul,
To hold, for aye, thine heav’n-inspir’d control.
Oh, mayst thou still in many a dream like this,
Give thine unearthly purity of bliss!
Till snatch’d from life, from all its trammels free,
I lose its searing bitterness—in thee!

Upon the Death

OF

A LATE MAN OF QUALITY,

Well known for his Atheistical Principles.

Written at Thirteen.

Behold that man by Fortune’s fickle pow’r,
The gilded fav’rite of the “varying hour;”—
The gallant lord, whom noble ladies love,
Whom senates homage, and whom crowds approve.

For him, the bards attune their soften’d lays,
In mellow notes, declare their patron’s praise;—
For him, soft luxury courts each distant shore,
To tempt his palate with its varied store;—
For him, the goblet flows with Gallia’s wine,
And wit, and beauty, all their pow’rs combine;10
His sov’reign’s smile illumes his pageant day;
And thronging courtiers servile incense pay.
Revers’d the scene!—behold him stript of all!
Though great his height, yet greater still his fall!
Ah! see him stretch’d upon his dying bed,
His vain associates, num’rous flatt’rers fled:
Dim are those eyes, once darting soul and fire—
Pallid that cheek, which ladies wont t’ admire;—
Clos’d are those lips, once eloquently gay,
Whose fire of wit illum’d the festive day;—20
Ah! see his wasted limbs convuls’d by death,
Painful, and hard, he draws his quivering breath.

How different far, he views the face of things!—
How poor the comfort worldly wisdom brings!—
How deep he rues the fatal time that’s past,
When each new day was guiltier than the last;—
How much regrets the tale of former years,
The wide, black prospect, scarce a virtue cheers:
Tremendous mem’ry, to his mind displays,
The vice, the crimes, that stain’d his earlier days.30
Lo, he starts up;—his matted ringlets stare,
Like dying lamps, his glazing eye-balls glare.
Heard ye that scream?—and see ye not the fiend,
Come hot from hell to warn him of his end?
See ye him grin?—and wide display a scroll,
The horrid records of the sable soul?
Or is it Conscience all?—Again that cry,
That mocks description in its agony.
Peace!—peace!—upon that withering sound at last,
To heav’n’s high Judgement-Seat th’ escaping spirit’s past.40

TO LYRA.

Written at Fifteen Years Old.

By Idalia’s secret grove—
By the streams so dear to love—
By the beds, and fragrant bow’rs,
Fram’d from Flora’s brightest flow’rs—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?

By the transports of the lyre,
Bursting forth in hallow’d fire—
By thy tongue’s celestial lay,
Melting all the soul away—10
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?

By the passion-breathing sigh,
When youthful rapture rises high—
By the drop of glist’ning dew,
In thine eye of violet blue—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?

By thy bosom’s heaving snow—
By thine orb’s averted glow—20
By this lovely hand of thine,
Trembling, thrilling, now in mine—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?

FAREWELL TO LYRA.

Written at Fifteen.

Farewell, oh farewell! though distance may sever
The persons of lovers, their hearts it can never;
And mine will still, Lyra, be tending on thee,
As the bird of the night on his own fragrant tree[18].
Can I think of the tear in thine orbit of blue,
When I falt’ringly murmur’d, “My Lyra, adieu!”—
Can I think of that hand, as it trembled in mine,
How pensive, yet sweet, was its exquisite thrill;
While my pulse woke the motion of transport in thine,9
Like the balm of the gale on the breast of the rill.
Can I think of the gift, when thou sigh’d, “we must part,”
That thou cast o’er my bosom to lie on my heart;
And as my keen anguish, thou sawest the while,
Thou strove to look up with a soul-soothing smile;
But when there, thou caught the wild glancing of pain,
Thou burst into tears (oh, how heartfelt!) again:—
Can I think of that scene, which remembrance will show,
As the sweetest, yet bitt’rest, it ever can know—
Can I think of that scene, and, oh! e’er can I be,
E’en in thought, for a moment unfaithful to thee?20
And now, as thy gift to my bosom I’m pressing,
Oh! dost thou not think, my belov’d, it will glow,
Like the mariner’s star—like the pilgrim’s last blessing,
To guide and to cheer through this desert of wo.
And if ever my country should call to the field
Of Honour’s thick slaughter, and Death’s scenes of gore,
Oh, dost thou not think that my head it will shield,
As the magical charms of the wizards of yore.
As it rests on my heart, I shall think that thine eye
Nerves mine arm, and enkindles the flame of my soul,
It will soften that heart to the conquer’d’s weak cry—
It will blend with its courage, soft Mercy’s control.
Or should Fate ever guide, in the patriot’s high cause,
To the senate of wisdom, oh, think’st thou this token
Will not cull to thy lover his country’s applause—
Will not keep the firm ties of the patriot unbroken?
And if e’er, for a moment, his bosom should swerve
From the dictates of Honour, he’s sworn to observe,
As he feels thy lov’d gift on his bosom recline,39
Will not all there again straight be Virtue’s and thine?

Yes, my Lyra, while life in thy lover can dwell—
While remembrance can give that endearing farewell,
He will carry this gift through life’s thorn-sprouting maze;
’Twill sublimate rapture—’twill soften despair—
’Twill lead him from grief, to those bliss-beaming days,
When each step was on roses,—for Lyra was there!

Yet, ah, can my lips e’er those hated words tell,
“For ever, my Lyra, for ever farewell!”

It cannot be ever!—or else with the thought,
(With feelings, with throes of such agony fraught,)50
This heart would be burst in its innermost core;—
Could it beat, and each throb of its beating not be
Thine only!—Oh, no, every pulse must be o’er,
Ere it once is forgetful of love and of thee.
If on earth our fond hopings of passion are riv’n,
Yet yonder, oh, gaze!—(where so often before
We have pour’d our full sighs) on yon balm-breathing heav’n,
There bliss will receive us—there grief be no more;
Love will pour round our heads his bright halo divine,
Sublim’d to a loftier, mellower glow,60
All celestial, all warm, like the Magi’s pure shrine,
Such as Seraphs can feel—such as heav’n can bestow.

THE CASKET;

ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

Written at Fourteen.

As Cupid was roving one morning, he found
A Casket emblazon’d in diamond and gold;
The gems of the ocean embrac’d it around,
And the handmaids of Venus had sculptured its mould.

“How transcendent must be the interior store
“Of so bright an exterior,” the mirth-lover cries,
As he hastens, in rapture, its depths to explore,
With joy in his dimples, and hope in his eyes.

But, I would ye had seen how he alter’d his air,
How he rag’d!—how to earth the gay bauble he cast,10
When the richness of splendour that promis’d so fair,
Was empty of aught—save the æther that past.

Thus the beaming of beauty may dazzle the glance,
Though void of the stores that beneath them should be;
But when the gay casket is open’d—the trance
Of hopefulness fades like the foam of the sea.

But, in thee, Queen of Loveliness, wond’ring we find,
Not merely the time-searing bloom of the skin,
But the grace of the form, and the wealth of the mind,
The Casket of Beauty, the treasure within.20

THE
BATTLE OF WATERLOO;

A POEM,

In Two Cantos.

Written between Fourteen and Fifteen.