BOOK THE FOURTH.

Stand on the gleaming Pharos,and aloud

Shout, Commerce, to the kingdoms of the earth;

Shout, for thy golden portals are set wide,

And all thy streamers o'er the surge, aloft,

In pomp triumphant wave. The weary way

That pale Nearchus passed, from creek to creek

Advancing slow, no longer bounds the track

Of the adventurous mariner, who steers

Steady, with eye intent upon the stars,

To Elam's echoing port. Meantime, more high

Aspiring, o'er the Western main her towers

Th’ imperial city lifts, the central mart

Of nations, and beneath the calm clear sky,

At distance from the palmy marge, displays

Her clustering columns, whitening to the morn.

Damascus’ fleece, Golconda's gems, are there.

Murmurs the haven with one ceaseless hum;

The hurrying camel's bell, the driver's song,

Along the sands resound. Tyre, art thou fall'n?

A prouder city crowns the inland sea,

Raised by his hand who smote thee; as if thus

His mighty mind were swayed to recompense

The evil of his march through cities stormed,

And regions wet with blood! and still had flowed

The tide of commerce through the destined track,

Traced by his mind sagacious, who surveyed

The world he conquered with a sage's eye,

As with a soldier's spirit; but a scene

More awful opens: ancient world, adieu!

Adieu, cloud-piercing pillars, erst its bounds;

And thou, whose aged head once seemed to prop

The heavens, huge Atlas, sinking fast, adieu!

What though the seas with wilder fury rave,

Through their deserted realm; though the dread Cape,

Sole-frowning o'er the war of waves below,

That bar the seaman's search, horrid in air

Appear with giant amplitude; his head

Shrouded in clouds, the tempest at his feet,

And standing thus terrific, seem to say,

Incensed — Approach who dare! What though the fears

Of superstition people the vexed space

With spirits unblessed, that lamentations make

To the sad surge beyond — yet Enterprise,

Not now a darkling Cyclop on the sands

Striding, but led by Science, and advanced

To a more awful height, on the wide scene

Looks down commanding.

Does a shuddering thought

Of danger start, as the tumultuous sea

Tosses below! Calm Science, with a smile,

Displays the wondrous index, that still points,

With nice vibration tremulous, to the Pole.

And such, she whispers, is the just man's hope

In this tempestuous scene of human things;

Even as the constant needle to the North

Still points; so Piety and meek-eyed Faith

Direct, though trembling oft, their constant gaze

Heavenward, as to their lasting home, nor fear

The night, fast closing on their earthly way.

And guided by this index, thou shall pass

The world of seas secure. Far from all land,

Where not a sea-bird wanders; where nor star,

Nor moon appears, nor the bright noonday sun,

Safe in the wildering storm, as when the breeze

Of summer gently blows; through day, through night,

Where sink the well-known stars, and others rise

Slow from the South, the victor bark shall ride.

Henry! thy ardent mind first pierced the gloom

Of dark disastrous ignorance, that sat

Upon the Southern wave, like the deep cloud

That lowered upon the woody skirts, and veiled

From mortal search, with umbrage ominous,

Madeira's unknown isle. But look! the morn

Is kindled on the shadowy offing; streaks

Of clear cold light on Sagres’ battlements

Are cast, where Henry watches, listening still

To the unwearied surge; and turning still

His anxious eyes to the horizon's bounds.

A sail appears; it swells, it shines: more high

Seen through the dusk it looms; and now the hull

Is black upon the surge, whilst she rolls on

Aloft — the weather-beaten ship — and now

Streams by the watch-tower!

Zarco,from the deep

What tidings?

The loud storm of night prevailed,

And swept our vessel from Bojador's rocks

Far out to sea; a sylvan islereceived

Our sails; so willed the ALMIGHTY — He who speaks,

And all the waves are still!

Hail, HENRY cried,

The omen: we have burst the sole barrier,

( Prosper our wishes, Father of the world! )

We speed to Asia.

Soon upon the deep

The brave ship speeds again. Bojador's rocks

Arise at distance, frowning o'er the surf,

That boils for many a league without. Its course

The ship holds on; till lo! the beauteous isle,

That shielded late the sufferers from the storm,

Springs o'er the wave again. Here they refresh

Their wasted strength, and lift their vows to Heaven,

But Heaven denies their further search; for ah!

What fearful apparition, palled in clouds,

For ever sits upon the Western wave,

Like night, and in its strange portentous gloom

Wrapping the lonely waters, seems the bounds

Of Nature? Still it sits, day after day,

The same mysterious vision. Holy saints!

Is it the dread abyss where all things cease?

Or haply hid from mortal search, thine isle,

Cipango, and that unapproached seat

Of peace, where rest the Christians whom the hate

Of Moorish pride pursued? Whate'er it be,

Zarco, thy holy courage bids thee on

To burst the gloom, though dragons guard the shore,

Or beings more than mortal pace the sands.

The favouring gales invite; the bowsprit bears

Right onward to the fearful shade; more black

The cloudy spectre towers; already fear

Shrinks at the view aghast and breathless. Hark!

‘ Twas more than the deep murmur of the surge

That struck the ear; whilst through the lurid gloom

Gigantic phantoms seem to lift in air

Their misty arms; yet, yet — bear boldly on —

The mist dissolves;— seen through the parting haze,

Romantic rocks, like the depictured clouds,

Shine out; beneath a blooming wilderness

Of varied wood is spread, that scents the air;

Where fruits of “golden rind,” thick interspersed

And pendent, through the mantling umbrage gleam

Inviting. Cypress here, and stateliest pine,

Spire o'er the nether shades, as emulous

Of sole distinction where all nature smiles.

Some trees, in sunny glades alone their head

And graceful stem uplifting, mark below

The turf with shadow; whilst in rich festoons

The flowery lianes braid their boughs; meantime

Choirs of innumerous birds of liveliest song

And brightest plumage, flitting through the shades,

With nimble glance are seen; they, unalarmed,

Now near in airy circles sing, then speed

Their random flight back to their sheltering bowers,

Whose silence, broken only by their song,

From the foundation of this busy world,

Perhaps had never echoed to the voice,

Or heard the steps, of Man. What rapture fired

The strangers’ bosoms, as from glade to glade

They passed, admiring all, and gazing still

With new delight!‘ Tis solitude around;

Deep solitude, that on the gloom of woods

Primæval fearful hangs: a green recess

Now opens in the wilderness; gay flowers

Of unknown name purple the yielding sward;

The ring-dove murmurs o'er their head, like one

Attesting tenderest joy; but mark the trees,

Where, slanting through the gloom, the sunshine rests!

Beneath, a moss-grown monument appears,

O'er which the green banana gently waves

Its long leaf; and an aged cypress near

Leans, as if listening to the streamlet's sound,

That gushes from the adverse bank; but pause —

Approach with reverence! Maker of the world,

There is a Christian's cross! and on the stone

A name, yet legible amid its moss,—

Anna!

In that remote, sequestered spot,

Shut as it seemed from all the world, and lost

In boundless seas, to trace a name, to mark

The emblems of their holy faith, from all

Drew tears; while every voice faintly pronounced,

Anna! But thou, loved harp! whose strings have rung

To louder tones, oh! let my hand, awhile,

The wires more softly touch, whilst I rehearse

Her name and fate, who in this desert deep,

Far from the world, from friends, and kindred, found

Her long and last abode; there where no eye

Might shed a tear on her remains; no heart

Sigh in remembrance of her fate:—

She left

The Severn's side, and fled with him she loved

O'er the wide main; for he had told her tales

Of happiness in distant lands, where care

Comes not; and pointing to the golden clouds

That shone above the waves, when evening came,

Whispered — Oh, are there not sweet scenes of peace,

Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart,—

Where gold alone bears sway,— scenes of delight,

Where love may lay his head upon the lap

Of innocence, and smile at all the toil

Of the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth

Their only bliss! Yes, there are scenes like these.

Leave the vain chidings of the world behind,

Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me

Where love and peace in distant vales invite.

What wouldst thou here! Oh, shall thy beauteous look

Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes

Of tenderness and soft subdued desire,

Thy form, thy limbs — oh, madness!— be the prey

Of a decrepit spoiler, and for gold?—

Perish his treasure with him. Haste with me;

We shall find out some sylvan nook, and then,

If thou shouldst sometimes think upon these hills,

When they are distant far, and drop a tear,

Yes — I will kiss it from thy cheek, and clasp

Thy angel beauties closer to my breast;

And whilst the winds blow o'er us, and the sun

Sinks beautifully down, and thy soft cheek

Reclines on mine, I will infold thee thus,

And proudly cry, My friend — my love — my wife!

So tempted he, and soon her heart approved,

Nay wooed, the blissful dream; and oft at eve,

When the moon shone upon the wandering stream,

She paced the castle's battlements, that threw

Beneath their solemn shadow, and, resigned

To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet

To wander o'er the world with him she loved.

Nor was his birth ignoble, for he shone

‘ Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reign:

With countenance erect, and honest eye

Commanding ( yet suffused in tenderness

At times ), and smiles that like the lightning played

On his brown cheek,— so gently stern he stood,

Accomplished, generous, gentle, brave, sincere,—

Robert a Machin. But the sullen pride

Of haughty D'Arfet scorned all other claim

To his high heritage, save what the pomp

Of amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave.

Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks

One loved, one honoured object, wealth alone

He worshipped; and for this he could consign

His only child, his aged hope, to loathed

Embraces, and a life of tears! Nor here

His hard ambition ended; for he sought,

By secret whispers of conspiracies,

His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift

His arm avenging, and upon a youth

Of promise close the dark forgotten gates

Of living sepulture, and in the gloom

Inhume the slowly-wasting victim.

So

He purposed, but in vain; the ardent youth

Rescued her — her whom more than life he loved,

Ev'n when the horrid day of sacrifice

Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark,

And while he kissed a stealing tear that fell

On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined

Her head upon his breast, with ardour cried —

Be mine, be only mine! the hour invites;

Be mine, be only mine! So won, she cast

A look of last affection on the towers

Where she had passed her infant days, that now

Shone to the setting sun. I follow thee,

Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air

A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her feet

Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides

Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades,

Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot

Where D'Arfet' s solitary turrets rose,

Is lost; a tear starts to her eye, she thinks

Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend,

When he speaks nothing — but be all, like death,

Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze,

And oh! that now some fairy pinnace light

Might flit across the wave ( by no seen power

Directed, save when Love upon the prow

Gathered or spread with tender hand the sail ),

That now some fairy pinnace, o'er the surge

Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft

The passengers upon the conscious flood

To regions bright of undisturbed joy!

But hark!

The wind is in the shrouds;— the cordage sings

With fitful violence;— the blast now swells,

Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the further wave,

Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath

The veering bowsprit.

Oh, retire to rest,

Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose cheek

Turn pale to see another thus exposed!

Hark! the deep thunder louder peals — Oh, save!—

The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm

Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye,

Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view

Green Erin's hills aspiring!

The sad morn

Comes forth; but terror on the sunless wave

Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles

Beneath the flash that through the struggling clouds

Bursts frequent, half revealing his scathed front,

Above the rocking of the waste that rolls

Boundless around.

No word through the long day

She spoke;— another slowly came;— no word

The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun

Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge,

And cheerless rose again:— Ah, where are now

Thy havens, France! But yet — resign not yet —

Ye lost seafarers — oh, resign not yet

All hope — the storm is passed; the drenched sail

Shines in the passing beam! Look up, and say —

Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers!

And lo! scarce seen,

A distant dusky spot appears;— they reach

An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales,

And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams,

Shine forth; a Paradise, which Heaven alone,

Who saw the silent anguish of despair,

Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves.

They gain the haven; through untrodden scenes,

Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man

Since first the earth arose, they wind. The voice

Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet,

As waving woods retired, or falling streams,

Can make; most soothing to the weary heart,

Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate,

And wearied long with watchings and with grief,

Seek but a place of safety. All things here

Whisper repose and peace; the very birds

That‘ mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes,

The songsters of the lonely valley, sing —

Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us.

The wild wood opens, and a shady glen

Appears, embowered with mantling laurels high,

That sloping shade the flowery valley's side;

A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays

Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves,

Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain,

It glances light along its yellow bed;—

The shaggy inmates of the forest lick

The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.

A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade

Its trembling top; and there upon the bank

They rest them, while each heart o'erflows with joy.

Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet,

Came down: a softer sound the circling seas,

The ancient woods resounded, while the dove,

Her murmurs interposing, tenderness

Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts

Of those who, severed wide from human kind,

Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed,

Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon

Arose — they saw it not — cheek was to cheek

Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear

Witnessed how blissful was that hour, that seemed

Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss

Stole on the listening silence; ne'er till now

Here heard; they trembled, ev'n as if the Power

That made the world, that planted the first pair

In Paradise, amid the garden walked:—

This since the fairest garden that the world

Has witnessed, by the fabling sons of Greece

Hesperian named, who feigned the watchful guard

Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit.

Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here

The loveliest pair, from a hard world remote,

Upon each other's neck reclined; their breath

Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high

Her plaint; and tenderly their faithful arms

Infolded each the other.

Thou, dim cloud,

That from the search of men these beauteous vales

Hast closed, oh, doubly veil them! But alas,

How short the dream of human transport! Here,

In vain they built the leafy bower of love,

Or culled the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit.

The hours unheeded stole! but ah, not long —

Again the hollow tempest of the night

Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods resound;

Slow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail

Along the rocking of the windy waste

Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave

Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss,

Poor victims! never more shall ye behold

Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child!

Who, listening to the voice of love, hast left

Thy friends, thy country,— oh, may the wan hue

Of pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eye

Where tenderness yet dwells, atone ( if love

Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong

Beset ), atone ev'n now thy rash resolves!

Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day, thy bloom

Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye

Is dimmed: thy form, amid creation, seems

The only drooping thing.

Thy look was soft,

And yet most animated, and thy step

Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now,

Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree

That fanned its joyous leaves above thy head,

Where love had decked the blooming bower, and strewn

The sweets of summer: DEATH is on thy cheek,

And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns

Of him, who, agonised and hopeless, hangs

With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight,—

She faints — she dies!—

He laid her in the earth,

Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb

Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined,

Placed the last tribute of his earthly love.