The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 9

And now already had he gained the strand, Where a tall vessel rode with sail unfurled, And soon he thought to reach the farther land, Which to his eager eye seemed like a world That he by strength might win and make his own; And in that citadel, which shone so bright, Seat him, a purple sovereign, on his throne.

So he went tilting o'er the waters white, And whilst he oft looked back with stern disdain, In louder tone, methought, was heard the inspiring strain:

By the shade of cities old,[47]

By many a river stained with gore, By the sword of Sesac bold, Who smote the nations from the sh.o.r.e Of ancient Nile to India's farthest plain, By Fame's proud pillars, and by Valour's shield By mighty chiefs in glorious battle slain, a.s.sert thy sway; amid the b.l.o.o.d.y field Pursue thy march, and to the heights sublime Of Honour's glittering cliffs, a mighty conqueror climb!

Then said I, in my heart: Man, thou dost rear Thine eye to heaven, and vaunt thy lofty worth; The ensign of dominion thou dost bear O'er nature's works; but thou dost oft go forth, Urged by proud hopes to ravage and destroy, Thou dost build up a name by cruel deeds; Whilst to the peaceful scenes of love and joy, Sorrow, and crime, and solitude, succeeds.

Hence, when her war-song Victory doth sing, Destruction flaps aloft her iron-hurtling wing.

But see, as one awakened from a trance, With hollow and dim eyes and stony stare, Captivity with faltering step advance!

Dripping and knotted was her coal-black hair; For she had long been hid, as in the grave; No sounds the silence of her prison broke, Nor one companion had she in her cave, Save Terror's dismal shape, that no word spoke; But to a stony coffin on the floor With lean and hideous finger pointed evermore.

The lark's shrill song, the early village chime, The upland echo of the winding horn, The far-heard clock that spoke the pa.s.sing time, Had never pierced her solitude forlorn; At length, released from the deep dungeon's gloom, She feels the fragrance of the vernal gale; She sees more sweet the living landscape bloom, And while she listens to Hope's tender tale, She thinks her long-lost friends shall bless her sight, And almost faints with joy amid the broad daylight.

And near the spot, as with reluctant feet, Slowly desponding Melancholy drew, The wind and rain her naked breast had beat, Sunk was her eye, and sallow was her hue: In the huge forest's unrejoicing shade Bewildered had she wandered day by day, And many a grisly fiend her heart dismayed, And cold and wet upon the ground she lay; But now such sounds with mellow sweetness stole, As lapped in dreams of bliss her slow-consenting soul.

Next, to the woody glen poor Mania strayed, Most pale and wild, yet gentle was her look; A slender garland she of straw had made, Of flowers and rushes from the running brook; But as she sadly pa.s.sed, the tender sound Of its sharp pang her wounded heart beguiled; She dropped her half-made garland on the ground, And then she sighed, and then in tears she smiled: But in such sort, that Pity would have said, O G.o.d, be merciful to that poor hapless maid!

Now ravingly she cried: The whelming main-- The wintry wave rolls over his cold head; I never shall behold his form again; Hence flattering fancies--he is dead, is dead!

Perhaps on some wild sh.o.r.e he may be cast, Where on their prey barbarians howling rush, Oh, fiercer they, than is the whelming blast!

Hush, my poor heart! my wakeful sorrows, hush!

He lives! I yet shall press him to my heart, And cry, Oh no, no, no,--we never more will part!

So sang she, when despairing, from his cell, Hid furthest in the lone umbrageous wood, Where many a winter he had loved to dwell, Came grim Remorse; fixed in deep thought he stood, His senses pierced by the unwonted tone; Some stagnant blood-drops from his locks he shook; He saw the trees that waved, the sun that shone, He cast around an agonised look; Then with a ghastly smile, that spoke his pain, He hied him to his cave in thickest shades again.

And now the sun sank westward, and the sky Was hung with thousand lucid pictures gay; When gazing on the scene{c} with placid eye, An ancient man appeared in amice gray; His sandal shoes were by long travel worn, O'er hill and valley, many a weary mile, Yet drooped he not, like one in years forlorn; His pale cheek wore a sad, but tender smile; 'Twas sage Experience, by his look confessed, And white as frost his beard descended to his breast.

Thus said I: Master, pleasant is this place, And sweet are those melodious notes I hear, And happy they among man's toiling race Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near; Me they delight, whom sickness and slow pain Have bowed almost to death with heavy hand; The fairy scenes refresh my heart again, And, pleased, I listen to that music bland, Which seems to promise hours of joy to come, And bids me tranquil seek my poor but peaceful home.[48]

He said: Alas! these shadows soon may fly, Like the gay creatures of the element; Yet do poor mortals still with raptured eye Behold like thee the pictures they present; And, charmed by Hope's sweet music, on they fare, And think they soon shall reach that blissful goal, Where never more the sullen knell of Care For buried friends and severed loves shall toll: So on they fare, till all their troubles cease, And on a lap of earth they lie them down in peace.

But not there ceases their immortal claim; From golden clouds I heard a small voice say: Wisdom rejoiceth in a higher aim, Nor heeds the transient shadows of a day; These earthly sounds may die away, and all These perishable pictures sink in night, But Virtue from the dust her sons shall call, And lead them forth to joy, and life, and light; Though from their languid grasp earth's comforts fly, And with the silent worm their buried bodies lie.

For other scenes there are; and in a clime Purer, and other strains to earth unknown, Where heaven's high host, with symphonies sublime, Sing unto Him that sitteth on the throne.

Enough for man, if he the task fulfil Which G.o.d ordained, and to his journey's end Bear him right on, betide him good or ill; Then Hope to soothe his death-bed shall descend, Nor leave him, till in mansions of the blest He gains his destined home, his everlasting rest.

[47] Written at the time of Bonaparte's expedition to Egypt.

[48] That of a village curate.

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.[49]

Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!

Upon the sh.o.r.es of that renowned land, Where erst His mighty arm and outstretched hand He lifted high, And dashed, in pieces dashed the enemy;-- Upon that ancient coast, Where Pharaoh's chariot and his host He cast into the deep, Whilst o'er their silent pomp He bid the swoll'n sea sweep; Upon that eastern sh.o.r.e, 10 That saw His awful arm revealed of yore, Again hath He arisen, and opposed His foes' defying vaunt: o'er them the deep hath closed!

Shades of mighty chiefs of yore, Who triumphed on the self-same sh.o.r.e: Ammon, who first o'er ocean's empire wide Didst bid the bold bark stem the roaring tide; Sesac, who from the East to farthest West Didst rear thy pillars over realms subdued; And thou, whose bones do rest 20 In the huge pyramid's dim solitude, Beneath the uncouth stone, Thy name and deeds unknown; And Philip's glorious son, With conquest flushed, for fields and cities won; And thou, imperial Caesar, whose sole sway The long-disputed world at length confessed, When on these sh.o.r.es thy bleeding rival lay!

Oh, could ye, starting from your long cold rest, Burst Death's oblivious trance, 30 And once again with plumed pride advance, How would ye own your fame surpa.s.sed, And on the sand your trophies cast, When, the storm of conflict o'er, And ceased the burning battle's roar, Beneath the morning's orient light, Ye saw, with sails all swelling white, Britain's proud fleet, to many a joyful cry, Ride o'er the rolling surge in awful sovereignty!

For fierce Ambition fired your mind-- 40 Beside your glittering car, Amid the thickest war, Went Superst.i.tion, sorceress blind, In dimly-figured robe, with scowling mien, Half hid in jealous hood; And Tyranny, beneath whose helm was seen His eye suffused with blood; And giant Pride, That the great sun with haughty smile defied; And Avarice, that grasped his guilty gold; 50 These, as the sorceress her loud sistrum rung, Their dismal paean sung; And still, far off, pale Pity hung her head, Whilst o'er the dying and the dead The victor's brazen wheels with gory axle rolled.

Now look on him, in holy courage bold; The a.s.serter of his country's cause behold!

He lifts his gaze to heaven, serenely brave, And whilst around war's fearful banners wave, He prays: Protect us, as our cause is just; 60 For in thy might alone, Judge of the world, we trust!

And they are scattered--the destroyers die!

They that usurped the b.l.o.o.d.y victor's claim, That spoke of freedom; but, behold a cry!

They, that like a wasteful flame, Or the huge sandy pillar, that amain Whirls 'mid the silence of the desert plain, Deathful in their career of terror came, And scattered ruin as they pa.s.sed!

So rush they, like the simoom's horrid blast; 70 They sweep, and all around is wilderness!

But from thy throne on high, Thou, G.o.d, hast heard the cry Of nations in distress!

Britain goes forth, beneath thy might, To quell the proud blasphemers in the fight; And Egypt, far along her winding main, Echoes the shout of joy, and genuine Freedom's strain!

Now let them, who thy name, O G.o.d! defy, Invoke the mighty Prophet of the East; 80 Or deck, as erst, the mystic feast To Ashtaroth, queen of the starry sky!

Let them, in some cavern dark, Seek Osiris' buried ark; Or call on Typhon, of gigantic form, Lifting his hundred arms, and howling 'mid the storm!

Or to that grisly king In vain their cymbals let them ring, To him in Tophet's vale revered (With smoke his brazen idol smeared), 90 Grim Moloch, in whose fuming furnace blue The unpitying priest the shrieking infant threw, Whilst to shrill cries, and drums' and timbrels' sound, The frantic and unhearing troop danced round; To _him_ despairing let them go, And tell their fearful tale of hideous overthrow!

Calm breathed the airs along the evening bay, Where, all in warlike pride, The Gallic squadron stretched its long array; And o'er the tranquil tide 100 With beauteous bend the streamers waved on high But, ah! how changed the scene ere night descends!

Hark to the shout that heaven's high concave rends!

Hark to that dying cry!

Whilst, louder yet, the cannon's roar Resounds along the Nile's affrighted sh.o.r.e, Where, from his oozy bed, The cowering crocodile hath raised his head!

What bursting flame Lightens the long track of the gleamy brine! 110 From yon proud ship it came, That towered the leader of the hostile line!

Now loud explosion rends the midnight air!

Heard ye the last deep groaning of despair?

Heaven's fiery cope unwonted thunders fill, Then, with one dreadful pause, earth, air, and seas are still!

But now the mingled fight Begins its awful strife again!

Through the dun shades of night Along the darkly-heaving main 120 Is seen the frequent flash; And many a towering mast with dreadful crash Rings falling. Is the scene of slaughter o'er?

Is the death-cry heard no more?

Lo! where the East a glimmering freckle streaks, Slow o'er the shadowy wave the gray dawn breaks.

Behold, O Sun, the flood Strewed with the dead, and dark with blood!

Behold, all scattered on the rocking tide, The wrecks of haughty Gallia's pride! 130 But Britain's floating bulwarks, with serene And silent pomp, amid the deathful scene Move glorious, and more beautiful display Their ensigns streaming to thy orient ray.

Awful Genius of the land!

Who (thy reign of glory closed) By marble wrecks, half-hid in sand, Hast mournfully reposed; Who long, amid the wasteful desert wide, Hast loved with death-like stillness to abide; 140 Or wrapped in tenfold gloom, From noise of human things for ages hid, Hast sat upon the shapeless tomb In the forlorn and dripping pyramid; Awake! Arise!

Though thou behold the day no more That saw thy pride and pomp of yore; Though, like the sounds that in the morning ray Trembled and died away From Memnon's statue; though, like these, the voice 150 That bade thy vernal plains rejoice, The voice of Science, is no longer heard; And all thy gorgeous state hath disappeared: Yet hear, with triumph, and with hope again, The shouts of joy that swell from thy forsaken main!

And, oh! might He, at whose command Deep darkness shades a mourning land; At whose command, bursting from night, And flaming with redoubled light, The Sun of Science mounts again, 160 And re-illumes the wide-extended plain!

Might He, from this eventful day, Ill.u.s.trious Egypt, to thy sh.o.r.e Science, Freedom, Peace restore, And bid thy crowded ports their ancient pomp display!

No more should Superst.i.tion mark, In characters uncouth and dark, Her dreary, monumental shrine!

No more should meek-eyed Piety Outcast, insulted lie 170 Beneath the mosque, whose golden crescents shine, But starting from her trance, O'er Nubia's sands advance Beyond the farthest fountains of the Nile!

The dismal Gallas should behold her smile, And Abyssinia's inmost rocks rejoice To hear her awful lore, yet soft consoling voice!

Hasten, O G.o.d! the time, when never more Pale Pity, from her moonlight seat shall hear, And dropping at the sound a fruitless tear, 180 The far-off battle's melancholy roar; When never more Horror's portentous cry Shall sound amid the troubled sky; Or dark Destruction's grimly-smiling mien, Through the red flashes of the fight be seen!

Father in heaven! our ardent hopes fulfil; Thou speakest "Peace," and the vexed world is still!

Yet should Oppression huge arise, And with b.l.o.o.d.y banners spread, Upon the gasping nations tread, 190 Whilst he thy name defies, Trusting in Thee alone, we hope to quell His furious might, his purpose fell; And as the ensigns of his baffled pride O'er the seas are scattered wide, We will take up a joyous strain and cry-- Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!

[49] This poem, "Coombe Ellen," "St Michael's Mount," _et cet._, down to the Monody on Dr Warton, originally dedicated to the Countess of Mansfield, are dated from Donhead, 1802.

A GARDEN-SEAT AT HOME.

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home, Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose, And slender woods that the still scene inclose, For yon magnificent and ample dome[50]