Book III

My heart has sighed in secret, when I thoughtThat the dark tide of time might one day close,England, o'er thee, as long since it has closedOn Egypt and on Tyre: that ages hence,From the Pacific's billowy loneliness,Whose tract thy daring search revealed, some isleMight rise in green-haired beauty eminent,And like a goddess, glittering from the deep,Hereafter sway the sceptre of domainFrom pole to pole; and such as now thou art,Perhaps NEW-HOLLAND be. For who shall sayWhat the OMNIPOTENT ETERNAL ONE,That made the world, hath purposed! Thoughts like these,Though visionary, rise; and sometimes moveA moment's sadness, when I think of thee,My country, of thy greatness, and thy name,Among the nations; and thy character,--Though some few spots be on thy flowing robe,--Of loveliest beauty: I have never passedThrough thy green hamlets on a summer's morn,Nor heard thy sweet bells ring, nor seen the youthsAnd smiling maidens of thy villages,Gay in their Sunday tire, but I have said,With passing tenderness--Live, happy land,Where the poor peasant feels his shed, though small,An independence and a pride, that fillHis honest heart with joy--joy such as theyWho crowd the mart of men may never feel!Such, England, is thy boast. When I have heardThe roar of ocean bursting 'round thy rocks,Or seen a thousand thronging masts aspire,Far as the eye could reach, from every portOf every nation, streaming with their flagsO'er the still mirror of the conscious Thames,--Yes, I have felt a proud emotion swellThat I was British-born; that I had livedA witness of thy glory, my most lovedAnd honoured country; and a silent prayerWould rise to Heaven, that Fame and Peace, and LoveAnd Liberty, might walk thy vales, and singTheir holy hymns, while thy brave arm repelledHostility, even as thy guardian cliffsRepel the dash of that dread elementWhich calls me, lingering on the banks of Thames,On to my destined voyage, by the shoresOf Asia, and the wreck of cities old,Ere yet we burst into the wilder deepWith Gama; or the huge Atlantic wasteWith bold Columbus stem; or view the boundsOf field-ice, stretching to the southern pole,With thee, benevolent, lamented Cook!Tyre be no more! said the ALMIGHTY voice:But thou too, Monarch of the world, whose armRent the proud bulwarks of the golden queenOf cities, throned upon her subject seas,The whole earth is at rest:"They break forth into singing:" LebanonWaves all his hoary pines, and seems to say,No feller now comes here; HELL from beneathIs moved to meet thy coming; it stirs upThe DEAD for thee; the CHIEF ONES of the earth,Tyre and the nations, they all speak and say--Art thou become like us! Thy pomp brought downE'en to the dust! The noise of viols ceased,The worm spread under thee, the crawling wormTo cover thee! How art thou fall'n from heaven,Son of the morning! In thy heart thou saidst,I will ascend to Heaven; I will exaltMy throne above the stars of God! Die--die,Blasphemer! As a carcase under foot,Defiled and trodden, so be thou cast out!And SHE, the great, the guilty Babel--SHEWho smote the wasted cities, and the worldMade as a wilderness--SHE, in her turn,Sinks to the gulf oblivious at the voiceOf HIM who sits in judgment on her crimes!Who, o'er her palaces and buried towers,Shall bid the owl hoot, and the bittern scream;And on her pensile groves and pleasant shadesPour the deep waters of forgetfulness.On that same night, when with a cry she fell,(Like her own mighty idol dashed to earth,)There was a strange eclipse, and long lamentsWere heard, and muttering thunders o'er the towersOf the high palace where his wassail loudBelshazzar kept, mocking the GOD OF HEAVEN,And flushed with impious mirth; for BEL had leftWith sullen shriek his golden shrine, and sat,With many a gloomy apparition girt,NISROCH and NEBO chief, in the dim sphereOf mooned ASTORETH, whose orb now rolledIn darkness:--They their earthly empire mourned;Meantime the host of Cyrus through the nightSilent advanced more nigh; and at that hour,In the torch-blazing hall of revelry,The fingers of a shadowy hand distinctCame forth, and unknown figures marked the wall,Searing the eye-balls of the starting king:Tyre is avenged; Babel is fall'n, is fall'n!Bel and her gods are shattered!PRINCE, to theeCalled by the voice of God to executeHis will on earth, and raised to Persia's throne,CYRUS, all hearts pay homage. Touched with tintsMost clear by the historian's magic art,Thy features wear a gentleness and graceUnlike the stern cold aspect and the frownOf the dark chiefs of yore, the gloomy clanOf heroes, from humanity and loveRemoved: To thee a brighter characterBelongs--high dignity, unbending truth--Yet Nature; not that lordly apathyWhich confidence and human sympathyRepresses, but a soul that bids all heartsSmiling approach. We almost burn in thoughtTo kiss the hand that loosed Panthea's chains,And bless him with a parent's, husband's tear,Who stood a guardian angel in distressTo the unfriended, and the beautiful,Consigned a helpless slave. Thy portrait, touchedWith tints of softest light, thus wins all heartsTo love thee; but severer policy,Cyrus, pronounces otherwise: she hearsNo stir of commerce on the sullen margeOf waters that along thy empire's vergeBeat cheerless; no proud moles arise; no ships,Freighted with Indian wealth, glide o'er the mainFrom cape to cape. But on the desert sandsHurtles thy numerous host, seizing, in thoughtRapacious, the rich fields of Hindostan,As the poor savage fells the blooming treeTo gain its tempting fruit; but woe the while!For in the wilderness the noise is lostOf all thy archers;--they have ceased;--the windBlows o'er them, and the voice of judgment cries:So perish they who grasp with avariceAnother's blessed portion, and disdainThat interchange of mutual good, that crownsThe slow, sure toil of commerce.It was thine,Immortal son of Macedon! to hangIn the high fane of maritime renownThe fairest trophies of thy fame, and shine,THEN only like a god, when thy great mindSwayed in its master council the deep tideOf things, predestining th' eventful rollOf commerce, and uniting either world,Europe and Asia, in thy vast design.Twas when the victor, in his proud career,O'er ravaged Hindostan, had now advancedBeyond Hydaspes; on the flowery banksOf Hyphasis, with banners thronged, his campWas spread. On high he bade the altars rise,The awful records to succeeding yearsOf his long march of glory, and to pointThe spot where, like the thunder rolled away,His army paused. Now shady eve came down;The trumpet sounded to the setting sun,That looked from his illumed pavilion, calmUpon the scene of arms, as if, all still,And lovely as his parting light, the worldBeneath him spread; nor clangours, nor deep groans,Were heard, nor victory's shouts, nor sighs, nor shrieks,Were ever wafted from a bleeding land,After the havoc of a conqueror's sword.So calm the sun declined; when from the woods,That shone to his last beam, a Brahmin oldCame forth. His streaming beard shone in the ray,That slanted o'er his feeble frame; his frontWas furrowed. To the sun's last light he castA look of sorrow, then in silence bowedBefore the conqueror of the world. At onceAll, as in death, was still. The victor chiefTrembled, he knew not why; the trumpet ceasedIts clangor, and the crimson streamer wavedNo more in folds insulting to the LordOf the reposing world. The pallid frontOf the meek man seemed for a moment calm,Yet dark and thronging thoughts appeared to swellHis beating heart. He paused--and then abrupt:Victor, avaunt! he cried,Hence! and the banners of thy prideBear to the deep! Behold on highYon range of mountains mingled with the sky!It is the placeWhere the great Father of the human raceRested, when all the world and all its soundsCeased; and the ocean that surroundsThe earth, leaped from its dark abodeBeneath the mountains, and enormous flowed,The green earth deluging! List, soldier, list!And dread His might no mortal may resist.Great Bramah rested, hushed in sleep,When Hayagraiva came,With mooned horns and eyes of flame,And bore the holy Vedas to the deep.Far from the sun's rejoicing ray,Beneath the huge abyss, the buried treasures lay.Then foamed the billowy desert wide,And all that breathed--they died,Sunk in the rolling waters: such the crimeAnd violence of earth. But he above,Great Vishnu, moved with pitying love,Preserved the pious king, whose ark sublimeFloated, in safety borne:For his stupendous horn,Blazing like gold, and many a roodExtended o'er the dismal flood,The precious freight sustained, till on the crestOf Himakeel, yon mountain high,That darkly mingles with the sky,Where many a griffin roams, the hallowed ark found rest.And Heaven decrees that hereShall cease thy slaughtering spear:Enough we bleed, enough we weep,Hence, victor, to the deep!Ev'n now along the tideI see thy ships triumphant ride:I see the world of trade emergeFrom ocean's solitude! What fury firesMy breast! The flood, the flood retires,And owns its future sovereign! UrgeThy destined way; what countless pennants stream!(Or is it but the shadow of a dream?)Ev'n now old Indus hailsThy daring prows in long array,That o'er the lone seas gliding,Around the sea-gods riding,Speed to Euphrates' shores their destined way.Fill high the bowl of mirth!From west to east the earthProclaims thee Lord; shall the blue mainConfine thy reign?But tremble, tyrant; hark in many a ring,With language dreadAbove thy head,The dark Assoors thy death-song sing.What mortal blowHath laid the king of nations low?No hand: his own despair.--But shout, for the canvas shall swell to the air,Thy ships exploreUnknown Persia's winding shore,While the great dragon rolls his arms in vain.And see, uprising from the level main,A new and glorious city springs;--Hither speed thy woven wings,That glance along the azure tide;Asia and Europe own thy might;--The willing seas of either world unite:Thy name shall consecrate the sands,And glittering to the sky the mart of nations stands.He spoke, and rushed into the thickest wood.With flashing eyes the impatient monarch cried--Yes, by the Lybian Ammon and the godsOf Greece, thou bid'st me on, the self-same trackMy spirit pointed; and, let death betide,My name shall live in glory!At his wordThe pines descend; the thronging masts aspire;The novel sails swell beauteous o'er the curvesOf INDUS; to the Moderators' songThe oars keep time, while bold Nearchus guidesAloft the gallies. On the foremost prowThe monarch from his golden goblet poursA full libation to the gods, and callsBy name the mighty rivers, through whose courseHe seeks the sea. To Lybian Ammon loudThe songs ascend; the trumpets bray; aloftThe streamers fly, whilst on the evening waveMajestic to the main the fleet descends.