The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

"But Morcar and Edwin, the unfortunate Queenes' brethren, by night escaping the battaile, came unto London, where, with the rest of the peeres, they beganne to lay the foundation of some fresh hopes; posting thence their messengers to raise a new supply, and to comfort the English (who, through all the land, were stricken into a feareful astonishment with this unexpected newes) from a despairing feare, showing the chance of warre to be mutable, their number many and captaines sufficient to try another field. Alfred, Archbishop of Yorke, there present, and president of the assembly, stoutly and prudently gave his counsell forthwith to consecrate and crowne young Edgar Atheling (the true heire) for their king, to whom consented likewise both the sea-captaines and the Londoners. But the Earles of Yorkeshire and Cheshire, Edwin and Morcar (whom this fearefull state of their country could not disswade from disloyaltie and ambition), plotting secretly to get the crown themselves, hindred that wise and noble designe. In which, while the sorrowfull Queene, their sister, was conueyed to Westchester, where, without state or title of a Queene, she led a solitary and quiet life.

"The mother of the slaine King did not so well moderate her womanly passions as to receive either comfort or counsell of her friends: the dead body of her sonne shee greatly desired, and to that end sent to the Conquerour two sage brethren of his Abbey at Waltham, who had accompanied him in his unfortunate expedition. Their names (as I finde them recorded in an olde manuscript) were Osegod and Ailric, whose message to the Conquerour, not without abundance of teares and feare, is there set downe in the tenour as followeth:

"'Noble Duke, and ere long to be a most great and mightie King, we thy most humble servants, destitute of all comfort (as we would we were also of life) are come to thee as sent from our brethren, whom this dead King hath placed in the monastery of Waltham, to attend the issue of this late dreadfull battaile (wherein God favouring thy quarrell, he is now taken away and dead, which was our greatest comforter, and by whose onely bountifull goodenesse we were relieved and maintained, whom hee had placed to serve God in that church). Wherefore wee most humbly request thee (now our dread lord) by that gracious favour which the Lord of lords hath showed unto thee, and for the reliefe of their soules, who in this quarrell have ended their dayes, that it may be lawfull for us by thy good leave safely to take and carry away with us the dead body of the King, the founder and builder of our church and monasterie; as also the bodies of such others as whom, for the reverence of him and for his sake, desired also to be buried with us, that the state of our church by their helpe strengthened, may be the stronger, and endure the firmer.' With whose so humble a request, and abundant teares, the victorious and worthy Duke moved, answered:

"'Your King (said he) unmindfull of his faith, although he have for the present endured the worthy punishment of his fault, yet hath he not therefore deserved to want the honour of a sepulchre or to lie unburied: were it but that he died a King, howsoever he came by the kingdom, my purpose is, for the reverence of him, and for the health of them who, having left their wives and possessions, have here in my quarrel lost their lives, to build here a church and a monastery with an hundred monkes in it, to pray for them for ever, and in the same church to bury your King above the rest, with all honour unto so great a prince, and for his sake to endow the same with great revenewes.'

"With which his courteous speech and promises, the two religious fathers, comforted and encouraged, again replied:

"'Not so, noble Duke, but grant this thy servants' most humble request, that we may, for God, by thy leave, receive the dead body of our founder, and to bury it in the place which himself in his lifetime appointed, that wee, cheered with the presence of his body, may thereof take comfort, and that his tombe may be unto our successors a perpetual monument of his remembrance.'

"The Duke, as he was of disposition gracious, and inclined to mercy, forthwith granted their desires, whereupon they drew out stores of gold to present him in way of gratulation, which he not only utterly refused, but also offered them plenty to supply whatsoever should be needfull for the pompe of his funerall, as also for their costs in travaile to and fro, giving strait commandments that none of his souldiers should persume to molest them in this businesse or in their returne. Then went they in haste to the quarry of the dead, but by no meanes could find the body of the King; for the countenances of all men greatly alter by death, but being maimed and imbrued with bloud, they are not known to be the men they were. As for his other regall ornaments which might have shewed him for their King, his dead corps was despoyled of them, either through the greedy desire of prey (as the manner of the field is) or to be the first bringer of such happy news, in hope of a princely reward, upon which purpose many times the body is both mangled and dismembred, and so was this King after his death by a base souldier gasht and hackt into the legge, whom Duke William rewarded for so unsouldier like a deed, cashiering him for ever out of his wages and warres. So that Harold, lying stript, wounded, bemangled, and goared in his bloud, could not be founde nor knowne till they sent for a woman named Editha (for her passing beautie surnamed Swan-shals, that is, Swan's-necke), whom hee entertained in secret love before he was King, who by some secret marks of his body, to her well knowne, found him out, and then put into a coffine, was by divers of the Norman nobilitie honourably brought unto the place afterward called Battle Bridge, where it was met by the nobles of England, and, so conveyed to Waltham, was there solemnly and with great lamentation of his mother, royally interred, with this rude epitaph,111 well beseeming the time, though not the person.

"Goodwine, the eldest son of the King Harold, being growne to some ripenesse of years in y^e life of his father, after his death and overthrow by the Conquerour, took his brother with him and flew over into Ireland, from whence he returned and landed in Somersetshire, slew Edmoth (a baron sometimes of his fathers) that encountered him, and taking great preyes in Devonshire and Cornwell, departed till the next yeare; when, comeing again, he fought with Beorn and Earle of Cornwall, and after retired into Ireland, and thence went into Denmarke to King Swayn, his cosen-german, where he spent the rest of his life.

"Edmund, the second sonne to King Harold, went with his brother into Ireland, returned with him into England, and was at the slaughter and overthrow of Edmoth and his power in Somersetshire, at the spoyles committed in Cornwall and Devonshire, at the conflict with the Cornish Earle Beorn, passed, repassed with him in all his voyages, invasions, and warres, by sea and by land, in England and Ireland; and at the last departed with him from Ireland to Denmarke, tooke part with him of all pleasure and calamitie whatsoever, and attending and depending wholly upon him, lived and died with him in that country.

"Magnus, the third sonne of the King Harold, went with his brothers into Ireland, and returned with them the first time into England, and is never after that mentioned amongst them, nor elsewhere, unlesse (as some conjecture) he be that Magnus, who, seeing the mutability of humane affaires, became an anchoret, whose epitaph, pointing to his Danish originall, the learned Clarenciaux discovered in a little desolate church at Lewes, in Sussex, where, in the gaping chinks of an arch in the wall, in a rude and over worne character, certain old imperfect verses were found."

A daughter, whose name is not known, left England with her brothers, and sought refuge with them in Denmark.

Speed quotes Saxo Grammaticus, who says, "She afterwards married Waldemar, King of Russia." To this daughter I have given the name and character assigned to her in the poem.

ST JOHN IN PATMOS

ADVERTISEMENT

This poem was first published under the name of "One of the Living Poets of Great Britain." I have thought it best to revise and publish it in my own name, and as it is the last written by me, and the last I may ever live to write, I have added, from volumes long out of print, some selected verses of my earliest days of song.112

Since these were written, I have lived to hear the sounds of other harps, whose masters have struck far more sublime chords, and died. I have lived to see among them females113 of the highest poetical rank, and many illustrious masters of the lyre, whose names I need not specify, crowned with younger and more verdant laurels, which they yet gracefully wear. Some who now rank high in the poet's art have acknowledged that their feelings were first excited by these youthful strains, which I have now, with melancholy feelings, revised for the last time.

It is a consolation that, from youth to age, I have found no line I wished to blot, or departed a moment from the severer taste which I imbibed from the simplest and purest models of classical composition.

Time – Four days.

Characters. – St John – Mysterious Stranger – Præfect of the Roman Guard – Robber of Mount Carmel, converted – Grecian Girl and Dying Libertine – Elders of Ephesus – Visions.

ST JOHN IN PATMOS

War, and the noise of battle, and the hum Of armies, by their watch-fires, in the night, And charging squadrons, all in harness bright, The sword, the shield, the trumpet, and the drum – Themes such as these, too oft, in lofty song Have been resounded, while the poet strung His high heroic lyre, and louder sung Of chariots flashing through the armed throng: – But other sights and other sounds engage, Fitlier, the thoughts of calm-declining age, More worthy of the Christian and the sage; Who, when deep clouds his country have o'ercast, And sadder comes the moaning of the blast, To God would consecrate a parting lay Of holier homage, ere he pass away.

PART FIRST

Cave in Patmos – Apparition – Mysterious Visitant – Day, Night, and Morning.

'Twas in the rugged and forsaken isleOf Patmos, dreariest of the sister islesWhich strew the Ægean, where the pirate, wontTo rove the seas with scymitar of blood,Now scowled in sullen exile, an old man,Tranquilly listening to the ocean-sounds,And resting on his staff, beside a cave,Gazed on the setting sun, as it went downIn glory o'er the distant hills of Greece.Pale precipices frowned above the trackOf dark gray sands and stone; nor wood nor streamCheered the lone valleys, desolate, and sad,And silent; not a goat amid the cragsWandering, and picking here and there a bladeOf withered grass, above the sea-marge hung.The robber114 scowled, and spoke not; his dark eyeStill flashed unconquered pride, and sullen hateTo man, and, looking on his iron chain,He muttered to himself a deeper curse.The old man had his dwelling in a cave,Half-way upon the desert mountain's side,Now bent with the full weight of eighty yearsAnd upwards; and that caverned mountain-cragFive years had been his dwelling:115 there he sat,Oft holding converse, not with forms of earth,But, as was said, with spirits of the blessed,Beyond this cloudy sphere, or with the deadOf other days. A girdle bound his loins;Figs and Icarian honey were his food;An ill-carved cup by a clear fount was seen;His long locks and his white descending beardShook when he tottered down into the sun,Supported by a slender cross of pine,His staff; and when the evening star aroseO'er Asia, a brief time he stood and gazed,Then sought his melancholy cave and prayed.And who, in this sad place, was this old man?Who, in this island, where the robber scowled,Was this old man, exiled and destitute —Old, but so reverenced, the murderer passedHis rocky dwelling, and bade peace to it?'Twas he who leaned upon our Saviour's breastAt the last supper; he to whom the Lord,Looking upon his countenance of youth,His calm, clear forehead, and his clustering hair,Said, What if he shall tarry till I come!Long years – and many sorrows marked these years —Had passed since this was said; and now that faceWas furrowed o'er with age; and wearinessAnd exile, in the last lone days of life,Were now his lot; for they whom he had loved —They, the disciples of "Him crucified" —Professing one warm faith, one glorious hope,Were all, in the same faith and the same hope,Laid down in peace, after their pilgrimage,Where the world ceased from troubling.He aloneLingered when all were dead, with fervent prayerSoon in the bosom of his Lord to rest.And now he comes forth from his rocky caveTo gaze a while upon the silent sea,In the calm eventide of the Lord's day;To think on Him he loved, and of that voiceOnce heard on earth: so, pondering, on his staff,The old man watched another sun go downBeyond the Cape of Tenos.116 The still seaSlept, in the light of eve, beneath his feet,And often, as in very gentleness,It seemed to touch his sandals, and retire.And now the last limb of the sinking orbIs hid, yet far away the cloudy trackReddens with its departing glory.Hark!A voice, and, lo! seven "golden candlesticks,"117The "Angels of the Churches" upon earth,"Seven golden candlesticks," and He, the Lord,Among them, like unto that Son of GodWho radiant on the mount of vision118 stood,Now recognised the same, in the same shape.His hair was white as snow; his eyes were flame;His voice, the sound of waters; in his hand —His raised right hand – seven stars; his countenanceAs the bright sun, that shineth in his strength;And yet serene as the descending day.It was the Lord: the old man at his feetFell down as dead; the apparition stoodGlorious above his head, and spoke:Fear not;I am the first and last; the last and first:Lo, I am he that liveth, and was dead:And now, behold, I live for evermore —For evermore, and have the keys of hellAnd death!119The glory passed – and all aroundIs still as death: the old man sinks to earth,Astonied, faint, and pale. When the slow senseStruggled to recollection, he looked around,Yet trembling; but no voice was heard; no formStood, bending in its glory, o'er him.Then seemed the hills of that forsaken isleMore dreary; and the promontories bareLifted their weather-beaten brows more darkAnd desolate. Back to his lonely caveThe old man passed; and, wrapped in thoughts of heaven,Lifted in prayer his clasped emaciate hands;Then on his bed of rushes in the caveLay down to rest till dawn. What was his dream?He saw again, as when the rocks were rent,And "darkness at midday was o'er the land,"His Saviour calmly bowing his meek headUpon the cross: he heard that thrilling voiceEven from the cross, Woman, behold thy son!Son, look upon thy mother!Then he sawThe forms of those whom he had loved on earth,And heard their voices still; and stood entranced,With Peter and with James, upon the mountOf glorious vision; now he saw, in dreams,Again the glistening apparition rise,And stand above him. He has tarried longAnd lonely in the world: the vision comesTo animate his hopes – to say, Live, liveWith me, for evermore! And, lo, the keys!This opens the bright mansions of the blessed;This closes the eternal gates of hell,Upon the gnashing of the teeth, and groansUnutterable. So the Saviour spoke,As seemed in his sleep. Ah! the stern shadeOf murdered Cæsar rises: Art thou dead,King of the world? for this didst thou proclaimThyself a god – a living god on earth?120Let the pit hide thee! But thou art a god!Then bid the fury of these flames assuageEre they reach thee! Who shrieked?At the sound,The ancient and the solitary manStarted from sleepThe cold gray dawn appeared,When, standing opposite, with steadfast look,And in the glimmer of the inmost cave,He saw a stranger.Whence and who art thou?With trembling voice he asked – whence? who art thou?Perhaps the spirit of this dismal isle!Or, cast upon these melancholy rocks,A poor and world-forsaken thing, like me!The stranger gazed unmoved, and answered not:His looks were those of pity – of respect —As mingling thoughtful wisdom with the graceOf beauty. In his hand he held a book:He opened it; and never light appearedSo fair as that on his majestic brow,For now the sun had risen, and its beamsShot far into the cave.John gazed with aweOn that majestic man, he knew not why;And well might he have gazed with reverence,For here, in this rude spot, he only sawMen the most dark and savage of their kind,Murderers, and ruthless criminals in chains.He spoke to them of truth and righteousness —He spoke of an offended God! Some lookedTo the bright sun, defying; others turnedMuttering. He spoke of pity, and they heard,Even as the relentless hurricaneHears the last prayer of the faint mariner,Whom wintry waves had dashed upon the rocks.Yet ever with the gentlest offices,With tears and prayers the holy exile stroveTo wake their better feelings, for he laidHis hands upon the sick, and they looked upWith hope and blessed him, and, restored to strength,Forgot the vows they made; him, too, who diedHardened, and, as to human eyes, in sin,He laid in the cold grave, and said a prayerFor mercy to the God of all, the Judge,To whom all hearts be open, and from whomNo secret thought is hid – and, self-accused,Mortal himself, presumed not to condemn.So passed this ancient holy man his days,Peaceful, amid the banished criminals,Banished and poor himself, but living thus,Among the sternest of their kind, he prayedFor their salvation: – so he passed his daysPeaceful, but sad; and now, with anxious gaze,He turned his look to the mysterious man,Who, steadfastly beholding him, thus spoke:The voice of prophecy has been fulfilled;Where is the Temple? where Jerusalem?Ah! wretched city! Famine, war, and woeHave done their destined work. The living drops121Dead on the carcase he is burying!That famished babe is black! Oh! turn away!All – all is silent now; and thou hast seenThis prophecy fulfilled, for not one stoneOf beautiful and sacred SolimaIs left upon another! He who died,When he beheld the city, o'er it wept,And said, O daughters of Jerusalem!Weep not for me, but for your little ones!The tender words – dost thou remember them?Jerusalem, Jerusalem! how oftWould I have gathered up those little ones,Even as a hen beneath a mother's wing;But ye would not: and now, behold your houseIs left unto you desolate! Alas!How desolate! But even in those last daysWarning was given, if yet they would repent.A bloody sword, like a red comet, hungAbove the Temple, and a strange sad lightSat on the altar; while the inner gate,Untouched, at midnight burst its brazen bars,And stood wide open; armed men did fightAmid the clouds; and, in the dead of night,The pale priest heard a voice, Depart! depart!122So the fair city of JerusalemPerished: but, lo! Christ's holy Church shall rise —Rise from its ashes – yea, is risen now;Its glorious gates shall never be cast down,Till He, the King of glory, shall appear!He founded it upon a rock – a rock,Which time, the rushing earthquake, or the storm,Whilst earth endures, shall never shake!Old man,Beloved of the Lord, wouldst thou know more —What things shall be hereafter? rise and mark!The old man, lifting up his eyelids, slow,Saw a door opened in the heaven, and heardA voice, as of a trumpet: Come and see!Straight he was in the Spirit, and the voiceInquired, What vision comes? The seer replied:There is a throne in heaven,123 and on the throneOne sitteth, and he seems, to look upon,Red as a sardine-stone – a deep, deep redIs round about, yet, as a jasper, brightHis face! The sun is of an ashy pale,So red and bright that form!VOICEThou seest the throneOf the Eternal Justice. Look again.JOHNThere is a rainbow124 round about the throne,Tempering the fiery red.VOICEIt is the bowOf mercy, and of pardon, and of peace;Of mercy, as when, stealing from the clouds,It came forth, beautiful and silently,Above the waste of waters, and the flood,Receding – token of the covenantOf grace restored; while the great orb of dayShone westering, and some few small drops of rainFell transient in the sunshine, where, far off,The wings of the ascending dove were seen,And by the altar, in the rainbow-light —That light upon the altar and his brow —The world's survivor stood. What seest thou more?JOHNAbout the throne are four and twenty seats;125And four and twenty elders, clothed in white,Each having on his head a crown of gold,Are on those seats.VOICE.126Dost thou not hear a voice?JOHNYea! voices, such as earth ne'er heard; and, lo!There are seven lamps of fire, before the throne.VOICEThey are the Spirits of the living God.JOHNFour mighty cherubims,127 which blaze with eyes,Having six wings, and full of eyes within,Are 'round the throne: I see their radiant forms.VOICEThese rest not night nor day.JOHNI hear them now,Proclaiming, Holy, holy, holy Lord,Lord God Almighty, Him who was, and is,And is to come! And while these cherubimsGive honour, glory, praise, and thanks to HimWho sitteth on the throne, —VOICETo Him who livesFor ever and for ever!JOHNThey fall down,The four and twenty elders, at the feetOf Him who sitteth on the throne, and castTheir crowns before the throne, and cry, O LordAlmighty! thou art worthy to receiveGlory and honour, majesty and might!Thou hast created all things; and for theeThey are and were created!VOICEOh that earthMight answer their glad voices! Oh that earthMight listen and repeat! What more?JOHNI see,In His right hand who sitteth on the throne,A book; without, within darkly inscribed,Having seven seals. Now, a strong angel cries,With a loud voice, What man is worthy foundTo loose the seals, and open that dark book!128VOICEAh! no one, in the heaven or on the earth,May open that same book, or look thereon!Why dost thou weep?JOHNI weep because no manIs worthy found to open, or to read,Or look upon that book. I weep for this.129VOICEWeep not; but say what follows.JOHNLo! a Lamb,As it were slain – it hath seven horns and eyes.He takes the book from the right hand of HimWho sitteth on the throne!VOICEWhat follows? mark!JOHNThe elders and the mighty cherubimsFall down before the Lamb, the Lamb of God,With solemn harps, and golden vials fullOf odours.VOICEThese are prayers of saints on earth:They sing a new song to the Lamb!JOHNAnd shout:Thou only, Lamb of God! art worthy foundTo take the book, and ope the seals thereof;For thou wert slain, thou hast redeemed usFrom every tongue and nation upon earth!VOICEHearest thou aught beside?JOHNI hear the voice,Of shining mighty troops, about the throne,Angels, and seraphim, and cherubim,Ten thousand and ten thousand hierarchies,Lift up their voices:Worthy is the Lamb,Slain from the world's foundation, to receiveRiches and wisdom. Blessing, glory, powerBe unto Him that sitteth on the throne,And to the Lamb, for ever and for ever!The quail130 goes clamouring by; the old man raisesHis eyelids, and the vision floats away.

PART SECOND

Morning in the Ægean – Contemplative view – Seven Churches of Asia – Superstitions – Crete, Egypt – Spread of Gospel Light through the Pagan World.

How beautiful is morning on the hillsOf Asia, stretching far, and faint descried!While, nearer, all the sunny Sporades,131That break the blue Ægean, shine in light,On this autumnal dawn!How musicalThe fresh airs, and the ocean's solemn soundCome to the mountain grot!Let us go forth,Said then the unknown and mysterious man.JOHNFirst on that mossy stone, beneath the arch,Kneel we, and offer up our orisonsTo Him who bade the sun go forth:O God,Thou didst create this living world! Thy voice,When darkness sat upon the lonely deep,Spoke – Be there light, and there was light! Thy handSpread out the heavens, and fashioned from the dustMan, the high habitant of earth, now fallen,And to return to dust again: but thanksBe unto thee, O Christ! who, when the trumpShall sound, and all this mortal pomp is passed,Shalt call the dead up, incorruptible!And glory be to Thee, O Spirit pure!Who hast infused into our hearts of fleshThe love of God, through faith in Jesus Christ!Oh! in the hour of death, and in the dayOf judgment, Lord, to us be merciful!So prayed they, suppliant, when morning shoneUpon the seas; so they together prayed,Giving God thanks that one more day of lightWas granted to the feeble and the old,Ere long to rest in peace. Upon their heads,As slow they rose, a halo seemed to rest,Touching the forehead of the aged man:The features of the younger, as he stood,Were mild, but awful; thoughtful, yet not sad;Whilst, from the caverned rock, into the sun,The lonely and the last Apostle came.As both together stood and gazed a whileUpon the deep blue sea, the younger said:Listen, old man: I was at Antioch,When mild Evodias132 filled St Peter's chair;And fair that place, as well beseems the spotWhere first the Christian name133 was heard.The ValeOf Tempe, sung through Greece, is not so fairAs that green valley, where Orontes winds,Beneath the grove of Daphne, to the sea;Scarce Eden fairer, where the first-formed manStood up majestic, in the world's new day.I heard Evodias, and from youth I lovedTo wander 'mid the scenes of old renown,Hallowed by prophets, and by holy men,Who long from earth had passed. How beautifulUpon those hills and mountains were the feetOf them who brought glad tidings of the light,Now risen on the darkened world!I satUpon a stone of fallen Jerusalem,Sat down and wept, when I remembered thee,O Sion! and thy Temple, and thy sonsScattered in the wide world – scattered or dead!Like him, the mighty prophet,134 who of yoreWatched the dark gathering of the clouds and rain,I stood upon Mount Carmel, and beheldThe great sea westward. Hark! Euroclydon135Is up; the tempest rushes from the east;Fire and the whirlwind follow; but, O God!Thou art not in the whirlwind nor the fire.And, after, came a still small voice, which said,Go, visit John, sad and in solitude.We sailed from Joppa, in a Tyrian ship,To Rhodes: a skiff was waiting near the shore,On which the shadowy moonlight seemed to rest;Then a pale mariner, who never spoke,Conveyed me hither, swift as silently —Swift, though the passing keel no murmur made,As the dim sail no shadow cast. I looked,When I had reached the shore, and it was gone!I saw thy mountain-cave: I stood and gazedA while on thy gray hairs as thou didst sleep,And the same voice which came, after the wind,Said audibly, Reveal to him the thingsThat shall hereafter be, as I unfold.I watched when the great vision came to thee,Hearing the voice and answer: it was sentTo animate thy hope! Art thou refreshed,As now these airs of morn blow soothingly,And breathe a sad repose? John placed his hand,Pale and emaciate, on his breast, and said:Thy words might raise from earth the heaviest heart.Then both in silence gazed on the blue sea,136And heard it murmuring. John his full lookTowards his face who spoke now turned intent,To mark his features. Dignity sereneWas on that face; and as the freshening airsStirred the dark locks that clustered round his brow,A faint rose mantled on his cheek; his cloak,Gathered upon his breast, descending touchedHis sandals; whilst, with more majestic mien,Pointing to Asia's hills, he spoke again:Old man, lift up thine eyes – turn to the east:How fair, with tower and turret, by the streamOf clear Cayister, shines that Ephesus,The "angel" of whose "golden candlestick"Here droops in banishment!Hail, Smyrna, hail!Beneath thy towers, and piers, and bastions,Far-seen through intermingled cypresses,Ships from all nations, with their ensigns, floatSilent; but, lo! a purer light from heavenIs on thy walls, while from the citadelStreams the triumphant banner of the Cross.And beautiful thy sisters of the faith,137First, in the east, when the wide world was dark,Laodicea, Philadelphia,And Pergamos, and Thyatira, shine,While Sardis, at the foot of Tmolus high,Seems from the wildering plains below, to gleamLike a still star that guides the sailor's wayO'er Adria!138 But, alas! here AntichristShall rise with power, permitted from on high!Mourn, Ephesus, thy glory and thy lightExtinguished! Sardis,139 Thyatira, mourn:Yet the blessed kingdom of the Lamb againShall be restored, and all the earth bow downTo the "unarmed Conqueror of the world."140Turn to the south, there are the pines of Crete,And, hark! the frantic Coribantes141 shoutTo Cybele, the mother of the gods,Drawn, by gaunt lions, in her car: they moveIn stern subjection, and with foot-fall slow,And shaggy necks hung down, though their red eyesFlash fire beneath; silent and slow they pace.'Mid cymbals, shouts, and songs, and clashing swords,Pipes, and the dissonance of brazen drums,She bears aloft her calm brow, turreted.JOHNOh, pomp of proud and dire idolatry!Crete, other sounds thy sister-island heard,Far other sounds, when, on his seat of power,Amid the altars of the Queen of Love,142The Christian faith there touched a heathen's heart.Paul was in Cyprus: the Proconsul prayedTo hear of faith from the Apostle's lips,But Elymas withstood him, ElymasThe sorcerer. He beckoned up his legions direOf fierce and frowning shadows. Paul, unmoved,Smote him, amid his gaunt and grisly troop, —Smote him with instant blindness, and he stoodDark in the midday sun.STRANGERWas not the handOf God so visible, that ships of TyreMight bear the tidings from the east to westFrom Tyre to Thule? South from Crete, beholdThe land of ancient Egypt, scarce discernedAbove the sea-line, the mysterious landOf Isis, and Anubis; of the Sphynx,Of Memnon, resonant at early dawn,143When the red sun rose o'er the desert sands;Of those vast monuments144– their tale unknown —Which, towering, pale and solemn, o'er the waste,Stand mocking the uplifted mace of Time,Who, as he smites in vain, mutters, and hiesTo other spoil! Yet there the timbrelled hymnRings to Osiris; there, great Isis reigns,Veiled, and no mortal hath removed her veil;There, Thoth,145 first teacher of the mysteriesOf sacred wisdom, hid in signs obscure,Is still invoked to lead the ghosts, that passThrough the dim portal, to hell's silent king.JOHNHast thou forgotten, that in this dark land,The passover – meet emblem of the LambOf God – was first ordained? That here his powerIn wonder and in judgment was displayed?"Fire ran along upon the ground,"146 with hailMingled; and darkness, such as might be felt —Darkness, not earthly, was on all the land.Arrested and suspended at God's word,On either side the billows of the deepHung over those who passed beneath their shade,While Pharaoh's charioteers and horsemen sankIn the Red Sea: "not one of them is left."STRANGERAnd Miriam took a timbrel in her hand,And all the women went out after her,With timbrels, and with dances, and they sang:And Miriam answered them, Sing to the Lord,For he hath triumphed – triumphed gloriously!The rider and his horse hath he cast downInto the sea – the rider and his horse!And the dark sea was silent over them.But Israel's children safely held their way,And the Lord went before them in a cloudLike to a pillar, and a fire by night,Till Moses, bearing with him Joseph's bones,Beheld, from Pisgah's top, far off, in clouds,The land of promise – saw that blessed land,And died in peace.JOHNOh! may the pilgrimageOf the tired Christian, in the wildernessOf life, so lead him to his home of rest!STRANGERLook northward – for the sheet let down from heavenHad "its four corners knit: " and are not theseThe north, the south, the east, the west – in bondsOf brotherhood, and faith, and charity?Mountains and forests by the Caspian, plainsOf Scythia, and ye dwellers on the shoresOf the Black Sea, where the vast Ister hurls,Sounding, its mass into the inner deep;Shout, for the banners of the cross of ChristFar as your dark recesses have been borne,By Andrew and by Thomas,147 messengersOf the slain Lamb – even to the utmost boundsOf wild and wintry Caucasus! Aloft,In silence, high above the rack of earth,That solitary mountain stands, nor hearsThe thunder bursting at its base.JOHNSo standsThe Christian, calm amid the storms of life,Heaven's sunshine on his head, and all the caresAnd sorrows of the world beneath his feet!STRANGERYea! and the Cross shall further yet be borne,To realms of pagan darkness and deep night!The cymbals to the gods of fire and bloodShall clash no more; the idol-shapes are fled;Grim Moloch's furnace sinks in smoke, to soundsStrange and unutterable; but that shriek!It came from Tauris, from the altars redOf Scythian Diana148 terrible!She, too, has left that altar and its blood,As when her image young Orestes149 bore(So fable masters of the pagan harp) —Bore in his ship o'er the black waves to Greece.Greece! who can think of thee, thou land of song,Of science, and of glory, and not feelHow in this world illustrious thou hast been,If triumphs such as thine may be pronouncedIllustrious, worthy thine own Plato's fame!Here the proud Stoic150 spoke of constancy,Of magnanimity, which raised the soulAbove all mortal change; of Jove's high will;Of fate; – and here the master,151 from the schoolsOf human wisdom, to his votaries,Spoke of the life of man but as the flowerBlooming to fade and die; alas! to die,And never bloom again! Vain argument!'Twas on that hill, named of the fabled lordOf battle and of blood,152 amid the shrinesAnd altars of the Grecian deities,Before the temple of the Parthenon,153That shone, on this illustrious hill, aloft,And as supreme o'er all the lesser fanes,Fronting the proud proficients in the codeOf such vain wisdom, vain philosophy,Fearless amid this scene of earthly pomp,Eloquent, ardent, and inspired by Heaven,The loved Apostle stood. With look upraised,And hands uplifted, he spoke fervently;Spoke of that God, whose altar he had marked,"The unknown God," who dwelleth not on earth,In temples made with hands, but in the heavens,'Mid inaccessible and glorious light.In Him we live and move; He giveth life,And breath, and all things. Him alone behovesTo worship and adore with prayer and praise.That God is now revealed, who, by his Son,Shall judge the world in righteousness, when earthAnd heaven shall pass away; when the last trumpShall sound above the graves of all who sleep;When all who sleep, and all who are alive,Shall be caught up together in the clouds,To stand before the judgment-seat of HimWhom God appointed Judge; who shall descendFrom heaven, with a shout, and with the voiceOf the Archangel, and the trump of God,While sun, and moon, and stars, are blotted out,And perish as a scroll!As Paul thus spoke —Spoke of the resurrection of the dead —'Mid the proud fanes of pagan deities,At Athens, the stern Stoic mocked; the flowersSeemed withering on the brow of that fair youth,Whom Epicurus taught that life was brief,Brief as those flowers which in the garden bloomOf that philosopher of earthly bliss.154And what the moral? Let us eat and drink,For we to-morrow die. Oh! heartless creed!Far other lessons Christ's Apostle taught,Of faith, of hope, of judgment, in a worldTo come, of light and life beyond the grave.So Athens, Corinth, Macedonia, heardThe tidings of salvation.155 Hark! the soundIs gone forth to all lands: the glorious lightExtends – the light of faith, and hope, and joy —The light from Heaven; whilst he, so falsely calledThe God of Day,156 shorn of his golden hair,And rays of morn, shall leave his Delphian shrine,Discomfited, and hide his head in night.The dayspring of Heaven's purer light hath reachedImperial Rome: the tyrant157 on his throneStarts; at his voice the famished lion springsAnd crashes the pale martyr at his feet;While the vast amphitheatre is hushed,And not a sound heard through the multitude,But that dire crash, and the breath inly drawn,The moment it is heard, from the still throngShuddering; the blood streams from the lion's beard,Whilst that vast, breathless amphitheatreBursts into instant thunders to the skies.But not the lion, with blood-matted mane,Nor the fierce fires about the martyr's stake,With rolling smoke, that the winds warp awayIn surges, when the miserable manBlackened and half-consumed appears; not these,Nor famine, nor the sword, nor death, nor hell,Shall move the Christian's heart or hope, or frayHim, steadfast and victorious, though he die.Farther and farther yet the light is spread:158And thou hast lived to see this gospel-dawnKindling from Asia, like a beacon-flameThrough darkness – oh! more cheering than the morn,With all its lovely hues, on sea or shore,As now it shines around us!John replied:Teacher of wisdom, or from heaven or earth,We know that Paul, our brother in the faith,Proclaimed the tidings of "Him crucified"From Rome to Spain; but Paul is in his grave:Soon must I follow him, and be at rest:Who then shall bear these tiding of great joy,To all the people of all lands?STRANGERThat bookWhich the Lamb opened, as a "flying roll"Angels of light shall bear with wings unseen,From shore to shore; and thus, though Paul be dead,He still shall speak, and millions yet unbornShall bless the boon. Thou shalt reveal the thingsThat thou hast seen; but that same book, which noneIn heaven or earth could open, but the Lamb,None but the Lamb shall close. Awake, awake,Ye who now slumber in the shades of death!Yes! every nation shall confess the Lord;Till all shall be fulfilled, and there shall be,Through the wide world, "one Shepherd and one fold."For deem not this small frith, called "the Great Sea,"159That girds yon promontories, girds the world:Without is the great ocean, the main sea,Rocking in tempest and in solitude;Ten thousand isles are scattered o'er the wasteOf those dark waters, and each isle and land,All earth, shall be one altar; and from earthTo heaven one flame of incense, and one voiceOf prayer and praise and harmony shall rise!So these two held communion on the shoreOf melancholy Patmos, when a soundAs of a griding chain was heard, and, lo!A criminal is kneeling at the feetOf the old man: God has been kind to me,He cried, and hid his forehead with his hands.Oh! listen to my tale, and pray for me.'Twas when the Roman sentinel, who pacedThe platform of the dungeon where we slept,Had called the midnight watch, and overheadBright Aldebaran held his course in heaven,Westering o'er yonder Cape, I waked, and musedOn my eventful life.Then to my heartCame words which I had heard from thee: I weptEven as an infant, and I smote my breast.The brave companion of my fortunes died —Died yesterday, stern and impenitentAs he lived, pitiless; and, left alone,I cried for mercy, mercy of that GodWhom thou didst call thy Father; and I prayedTo Christ, and cried, Me – me – oh! pardon me!I dare not lift my eyes. Thou, father, hear.I am a free-born citizen of Rome,My name, Pedanius,160 the Decurion.When Titus led his legions to the East,Against the city of Jerusalem,To raze it from the earth; at the last day,When the third wall shook to the battering-rams,Amid the shrieks of horror and despair,Flung from the tottering battlements, a babeFell at my horse's feet.161 Famished and black,With livid lips and ghastly, on the groundIt lay; when, frantic from the crowd within,A wretched and bereaved woman rushed,And held my bridle, fearless of the swordsThat flashed above her head. I heard her cries —Protect me! – he is dead! – my child, my child!Brave soldier, for the love of God! I lookedA moment, there was famine in her face,Wasted, yet beautiful. Pitying, I spoke:Follow; and through the clouds of smoke we passedTo the green olive trees, and then she sankUpon the ground, and, pale and still as death,Lay long – the winds just stirring her dark hair:I brought her water from the spring that wells,Soft murmuring, from the brook of Siloa:She drank, and feebly opened her dark eyes,Which seemed more large, for all her flesh was shrunk;Then she looked up, and faintly spoke again;My mother – and my husband – and my child —Are – and she sobbed aloud. By Him, I cried,Who rules among the gods, I will protectThy life with mine! Her tears fell fast and warmUpon the bloody hand which held the sword;The other checked my fierce and foaming horse.Hark! hark! a turret falls! Hark! hark! again —They shout, ten thousand voices rend the skies,The Temple, the proud Temple to the ground!The Temple, the proud temple to the dust!Her infant she had taken from the ground,To lay it in her bosom, while the tearsFell on its folded hands; but when she sawStill its wan livid lips, and the same glareOf its dead eyes, she turned away her face,Half looking down, half raised to heaven, and shedHer tears no more: one hand as thus she sat,With fingers spread, held fast her infant's arm,O'er its right shoulder, while its arid lipsShe drew, in vain, towards her open breast,Still fearing to look down: her other hand,Instinctively, she laid on its cold feet,As if to cherish them: the gouts of bloodFell heavy from its matted hair, and stainedHer bosom; but she had composed its hands,Which now, though cold and dead, each other clasped,Beneath her neck, as living. So she sat,Nor sighed, nor moved her face, nor shed a tearI gently took the infant from her arms,And buried it beside the sacred brook,And then, with muttered prayer, she turned and wept —Wept, as bereaved of all she loved on earth!Fly! and I placed her on the horse with me —Leaving behind the sounds and sights of death —The shrieks of massacre, the crash of towersFalling, the heavy sound of battering-rams:We passed the victims, blackening in the sun,And some, yet breathing, on the crucifix.162On, through the valley of Jehoshaphat,I spurred my horse; we passed the sepulchreOf Lazarus, restored from the dark grave,So those who own the faith of Christ affirm,With eye-balls ghastly glaring in the light,At the loud voice of Him who cried, Come forth!We held our eastern way from Bethany,Till now we reached the "Plain of Blood."163 I pausedA moment, ere we entered that sad plain.Ah! there are tents upon the southern edgeOf the horizon! Fly! it is the campOf Arabs: see! with long and couched spears,A troop is flying o'er the sands! We hearTheir cries – this way they rush – this way —Fly! fly! and instant, as an arrow speeds,(My pale companion breathless, and scarce held)We bounded o'er the desert, till the trackWas lost. The voices died away: she sankFaint in my arms, and with her head declinedUpon my breastplate. We will rest a while;For she was now so feeble, it behovedThus oft to rest, if haply she might feelSome cool reviving airs breathe on her face,Gently; a few dry dates were all our food.We gazed in silence on the sun, that, red,Was sinking now beyond the lonely sands,And hurriedly again renewed our flight.The track is lost! Fear not – those are the bones,Not of a murdered traveller. Look out!Is that a cloud? or seest thou not the smokeOf some lone cottage on the hills? List! list!Is it the tinkle of some rivulet,Wandering in solitude? On, on, my steed!We reached the hills, and, looking back, beheldThe western cope of heaven, as night came down,All fiery red. It was the light, far off,Of the proud Temple flaming! Through the nightWe held our toiling way, when, at gray dawn,We saw, beneath us, palms, and city walls,And Jordan, slowly flowing to the south.Yes! these are palms and walls of Jericho;But all was silent and forsaken. WarHad blown his trump; and Pity, at the blast,Had knelt in tears, and hid her face to hearThat deep, dire groan; but it is heard no more,For Silence, Solitude, and Ruin sit,Mocking each other, at the city gates.Here were no murmurs of tumultuous life.We joined a mourning train, that held their way,Women, and children, and white-headed men,Forlorn, by Jordan's banks, to Galilee,Seeking the city of Tiberias.With many tears, my poor companion toldHer tale: a daughter of JerusalemImplored their pity; and the daggers, raisedTo pierce a Roman soldier to the heart,Were in the act arrested, for her sake —Trifosa, of the tribe of Benjamin,Who owed her life and safety to his sword.We reached the city: here she had a friend,Widowed like her, who wept to hear her tale.Here, wedded, and by Israel's laws made one,I lived – a fisher toiling with his netTo gain our daily bread; but soon my heartBeat for a wider scene – for enterprise,The soul of a young soldier; and with thoughtsStirring and restless, after twelve long months,We came, by Tabor, to the western sea.I had a robber's cavern at the footOf Carmel, and oft skirred the neighbouring plainsOn my fleet battle-horse, with spurs of blood.Here I was joined by soldiers, desperateAnd outcast as myself; we were a bandOf secret and of fearful brotherhoodThat tenanted these caverns. But my wife,When we were absent, and the cave was still,Wept, for the love of those who were no more;Trembled, and wept for me. When I returned,Weary, at night, she sat and sang to me;And sometimes, when she was alone whole days,She wandered o'er the mountains, gathering flowers,Hyacinths, lilies, and anemones;164And when my hands were bloody, gave me them,With trembling hand, and sadness in her look.Why should I think, or sigh, or feel remorse!Was I not leader of the bravest bandThat ever shook their flashing scymitarsAgainst the morning sun! But, oh! that look!How has it thrilled, even to my inmost heart:One child, the pledge of warm affection, died,And now she roved in morning dew no more;And oft, when I returned with gore-stained brow,I saw a strange, sad wandering in her eyes.Alas! her gentle mind was gone! She sang —She gazed upon my face – she smiled – she died —And her last words were, O Jerusalem,Jerusalem! I buried her in peace,Without a name, among the mountain flowers.And now my heart was hardened as a rockAgainst the world. I heard no soothing voice;I never looked upon a human faceWith tenderness again; a darker shadeOf passions gathered on my lonely heart,Till love, and charity, and pity died.I may not say what I have seen and done:Here I have lived a fettered slave seven years;Here thy mild voice has called back to my heartSad recollections. Father, – and he kneltAnd kissed his withered hand, and cried again,Oh! father, pray for me!The stranger stoodUnmoved, but tears were on the old man's cheek.