Book IV

Stand on the gleaming Pharos, and aloudShout, 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 wayThat pale Nearchus passed, from creek to creekAdvancing slow, no longer bounds the trackOf the adventurous mariner, who steersSteady, with eye intent upon the stars,To Elam's echoing port. Meantime, more highAspiring, o'er the Western main her towersTh' imperial city lifts, the central martOf nations, and beneath the calm clear sky,At distance from the palmy marge, displaysHer 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 thusHis mighty mind were swayed to recompenseThe evil of his march through cities stormed,And regions wet with blood! and still had flowedThe tide of commerce through the destined track,Traced by his mind sagacious, who surveyedThe world he conquered with a sage's eye,As with a soldier's spirit; but a sceneMore awful opens: ancient world, adieu!Adieu, cloud-piercing pillars, erst its bounds;And thou, whose aged head once seemed to propThe 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 airAppear with giant amplitude; his headShrouded in clouds, the tempest at his feet,And standing thus terrific, seem to say,Incensed--Approach who dare! What though the fearsOf superstition people the vexed spaceWith spirits unblessed, that lamentations makeTo the sad surge beyond--yet Enterprise,Not now a darkling Cyclop on the sandsStriding, but led by Science, and advancedTo a more awful height, on the wide sceneLooks down commanding.Does a shuddering thoughtOf danger start, as the tumultuous seaTosses 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 hopeIn this tempestuous scene of human things;Even as the constant needle to the NorthStill points; so Piety and meek-eyed FaithDirect, though trembling oft, their constant gazeHeavenward, as to their lasting home, nor fearThe night, fast closing on their earthly way.And guided by this index, thou shall passThe 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 breezeOf summer gently blows; through day, through night,Where sink the well-known stars, and others riseSlow from the South, the victor bark shall ride.Henry! thy ardent mind first pierced the gloomOf dark disastrous ignorance, that satUpon the Southern wave, like the deep cloudThat lowered upon the woody skirts, and veiledFrom mortal search, with umbrage ominous,Madeira's unknown isle. But look! the mornIs kindled on the shadowy offing; streaksOf clear cold light on Sagres' battlementsAre cast, where Henry watches, listening stillTo the unwearied surge; and turning stillHis anxious eyes to the horizon's bounds.A sail appears; it swells, it shines: more highSeen through the dusk it looms; and now the hullIs black upon the surge, whilst she rolls onAloft--the weather-beaten ship--and nowStreams by the watch-tower!Zarco, from the deepWhat tidings?The loud storm of night prevailed,And swept our vessel from Bojador's rocksFar out to sea; a sylvan isle receivedOur 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 deepThe brave ship speeds again. Bojador's rocksArise at distance, frowning o'er the surf,That boils for many a league without. Its courseThe ship holds on; till lo! the beauteous isle,That shielded late the sufferers from the storm,Springs o'er the wave again. Here they refreshTheir 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 gloomWrapping the lonely waters, seems the boundsOf 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 seatOf peace, where rest the Christians whom the hateOf Moorish pride pursued? Whate'er it be,Zarco, thy holy courage bids thee onTo burst the gloom, though dragons guard the shore,Or beings more than mortal pace the sands.The favouring gales invite; the bowsprit bearsRight onward to the fearful shade; more blackThe cloudy spectre towers; already fearShrinks at the view aghast and breathless. Hark!'Twas more than the deep murmur of the surgeThat struck the ear; whilst through the lurid gloomGigantic phantoms seem to lift in airTheir 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 wildernessOf varied wood is spread, that scents the air;Where fruits of "golden rind," thick interspersedAnd pendent, through the mantling umbrage gleamInviting. Cypress here, and stateliest pine,Spire o'er the nether shades, as emulousOf sole distinction where all nature smiles.Some trees, in sunny glades alone their headAnd graceful stem uplifting, mark belowThe turf with shadow; whilst in rich festoonsThe flowery lianes braid their boughs; meantimeChoirs of innumerous birds of liveliest songAnd brightest plumage, flitting through the shades,With nimble glance are seen; they, unalarmed,Now near in airy circles sing, then speedTheir 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 firedThe strangers' bosoms, as from glade to gladeThey passed, admiring all, and gazing stillWith new delight! 'Tis solitude around;Deep solitude, that on the gloom of woodsPrimÊval fearful hangs: a green recessNow opens in the wilderness; gay flowersOf unknown name purple the yielding sward;The ring-dove murmurs o'er their head, like oneAttesting 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 wavesIts long leaf; and an aged cypress nearLeans, 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 stoneA name, yet legible amid its moss,--Anna!In that remote, sequestered spot,Shut as it seemed from all the world, and lostIn boundless seas, to trace a name, to markThe emblems of their holy faith, from allDrew tears; while every voice faintly pronounced,Anna! But thou, loved harp! whose strings have rungTo louder tones, oh! let my hand, awhile,The wires more softly touch, whilst I rehearseHer name and fate, who in this desert deep,Far from the world, from friends, and kindred, foundHer long and last abode; there where no eyeMight shed a tear on her remains; no heartSigh in remembrance of her fate:--She leftThe Severn's side, and fled with him she lovedO'er the wide main; for he had told her talesOf happiness in distant lands, where careComes not; and pointing to the golden cloudsThat 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 lapOf innocence, and smile at all the toilOf the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealthTheir only bliss! Yes, there are scenes like these.Leave the vain chidings of the world behind,Country, and hollow friends, and fly with meWhere love and peace in distant vales invite.What wouldst thou here! Oh, shall thy beauteous lookOf maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyesOf tenderness and soft subdued desire,Thy form, thy limbs--oh, madness!--be the preyOf 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 claspThy angel beauties closer to my breast;And whilst the winds blow o'er us, and the sunSinks beautifully down, and thy soft cheekReclines 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 threwBeneath their solemn shadow, and, resignedTo fancy and to tears, thought it most sweetTo 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 eyeCommanding (yet suffused in tendernessAt times), and smiles that like the lightning playedOn his brown cheek,--so gently stern he stood,Accomplished, generous, gentle, brave, sincere,--Robert a Machin. But the sullen prideOf haughty D'Arfet scorned all other claimTo his high heritage, save what the pompOf amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave.Reckless of human tenderness, that seeksOne loved, one honoured object, wealth aloneHe worshipped; and for this he could consignHis only child, his aged hope, to loathedEmbraces, and a life of tears! Nor hereHis hard ambition ended; for he sought,By secret whispers of conspiracies,His sovereign to abuse, bidding him liftHis arm avenging, and upon a youthOf promise close the dark forgotten gatesOf living sepulture, and in the gloomInhume the slowly-wasting victim.SoHe purposed, but in vain; the ardent youthRescued her--her whom more than life he loved,Ev'n when the horrid day of sacrificeDrew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark,And while he kissed a stealing tear that fellOn her pale cheek, as trusting she reclinedHer head upon his breast, with ardour cried--Be mine, be only mine! the hour invites;Be mine, be only mine! So won, she castA look of last affection on the towersWhere she had passed her infant days, that nowShone to the setting sun. I follow thee,Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the airA sail hangs tremulous, and soon her feetAscend the vessel's side: The vessel glidesDown the smooth current, as the twilight fades,Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spotWhere D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose,Is lost; a tear starts to her eye, she thinksOf 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 lightMight flit across the wave (by no seen powerDirected, save when Love upon the prowGathered or spread with tender hand the sail),That now some fairy pinnace, o'er the surgeSilent, as in a summer's dream, might waftThe passengers upon the conscious floodTo regions bright of undisturbed joy!But hark!The wind is in the shrouds;--the cordage singsWith fitful violence;--the blast now swells,Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the further wave,Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneathThe veering bowsprit.Oh, retire to rest,Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose cheekTurn pale to see another thus exposed!Hark! the deep thunder louder peals--Oh, save!--The high mast crashes; but the faithful armOf love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye,Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall viewGreen Erin's hills aspiring!The sad mornComes forth; but terror on the sunless waveStill, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smilesBeneath the flash that through the struggling cloudsBursts frequent, half revealing his scathed front,Above the rocking of the waste that rollsBoundless around.No word through the long dayShe spoke;--another slowly came;--no wordThe beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sunTwelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge,And cheerless rose again:--Ah, where are nowThy havens, France! But yet--resign not yet--Ye lost seafarers--oh, resign not yetAll hope--the storm is passed; the drenched sailShines in the passing beam! Look up, and say--Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers!And lo! scarce seen,A distant dusky spot appears;--they reachAn 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 manSince first the earth arose, they wind. The voiceOf 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 hereWhisper repose and peace; the very birdsThat '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 glenAppears, embowered with mantling laurels high,That sloping shade the flowery valley's side;A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, straysBeneath 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 lickThe feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.A beauteous tree upshoots amid the gladeIts trembling top; and there upon the bankThey 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, tendernessAwaked, yet more endearing, in the heartsOf those who, severed wide from human kind,Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed,Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moonArose--they saw it not--cheek was to cheekInclined, and unawares a stealing tearWitnessed how blissful was that hour, that seemedNot of the hours that time could count. A kissStole on the listening silence; ne'er till nowHere heard; they trembled, ev'n as if the PowerThat made the world, that planted the first pairIn Paradise, amid the garden walked:--This since the fairest garden that the worldHas witnessed, by the fabling sons of GreeceHesperian named, who feigned the watchful guardOf the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit.Such was this sylvan Paradise; and hereThe loveliest pair, from a hard world remote,Upon each other's neck reclined; their breathAlone was heard, when the dove ceased on highHer plaint; and tenderly their faithful armsInfolded each the other.Thou, dim cloud,That from the search of men these beauteous valesHast 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 nightSounds through the leaves; the inmost woods resound;Slow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sailAlong the rocking of the windy wasteIs seen: the dash of the dark-heaving waveAlone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss,Poor victims! never more shall ye beholdYour native vales again; and thou, sweet child!Who, listening to the voice of love, hast leftThy friends, thy country,--oh, may the wan hueOf pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eyeWhere tenderness yet dwells, atone (if loveAtonement need, by cruelty and wrongBeset), atone ev'n now thy rash resolves!Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day, thy bloomFades, and the tender lustre of thy eyeIs dimmed: thy form, amid creation, seemsThe only drooping thing.Thy look was soft,And yet most animated, and thy stepLight as the roe's upon the mountains. Now,Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the treeThat fanned its joyous leaves above thy head,Where love had decked the blooming bower, and strewnThe sweets of summer: DEATH is on thy cheek,And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returnsOf him, who, agonised and hopeless, hangsWith 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 tombBeneath the beauteous tree where they reclined,Placed the last tribute of his earthly love.