Alaric in Italy

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?His steps have track’d that glorious clime,The birth-place of heroic time;But he, in northern deserts bred,Spared not the living for the dead,Nor heard the voice whose pleading criesFrom temple and from tomb arise.He pass’d--the light of burning fanesHath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;

And woke they not--the brave, the free,To guard their own Thermopylæ?And left they not their silent dwelling,When Scythia’s note of war was swelling?No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,Sad freedom battled not--but wept!For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand,And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;Nor one high soul from slumber brokeWhen Athens own’d the northern yoke.

But was there none for thee to dareThe conflict, scorning to despair?O City of the seven proud hills!Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills,As doth a clarion’s battle-call--Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?Did no Camillus from the chainRansom thy Capitol again?Oh, who shall tell the days to beNo patriot rose to bleed for thee!

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?That fearful sound, at midnight deep,Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:--How woke the mighty? She whose willSo long had bid the world be still,Her sword a sceptre, and her eyeTh’ ascendant star of destiny!She woke--to view the dread arrayOf Scythians rushing to their prey,To hear her streets resound the criesPour’d from a thousand agonies!While the strange light of flames, that gaveA ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave,Bursting in that terrific hourFrom fane and palace, dome and tower,Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine,Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine:Fierce fitful radiance wildly shedO’er spear and sword, with carnage red,Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying,And kindled pyres for Romans dying.

Weep, Italy! alas, that e’erShould tears alone thy wrongs declare!The time hath been when thy distressHad roused up empires for redress!Now, her long race of glory run,Without a combat Rome is won,And from her plunder’d temples forthRush the fierce children of the North,To share beneath more genial skiesEach joy their own rude clime denies.

Ye who on bright Campania’s shoreBade your fair villas rise of yore,With all their graceful colonnades,And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,Along the blue Hesperian deep,Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep--Beneath your olive and your vineFar other inmates now recline;And the tall plane, whose roots ye fedWith rich libations duly shed,O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends,Its bowery canopy extends.For them the southern heaven is glowing,The bright Falernian nectar flowing;For them the marble halls unfold,Where nobler beings dwelt of old,Whose children for barbarian lordsTouch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords.Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twineTo crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine.Yet, though luxurious they reposeBeneath Corinthian porticoes--While round them into being startThe marvels of triumphant art--Oh! not for them hath Genius givenTo Parian stone the fire of heaven,Enshrining in the forms he wroughtA bright eternity of thought.In vain the natives of the skiesIn breathing marble round them rise,And sculptured nymphs of fount or gladePeople the dark-green laurel shade.Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eyeTo visions of divinity;And rude his hand which dares defaceThe models of immortal grace.

Arouse ye from your soft delights!Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites;And other lands must yet be won,And other deeds of havoc done.Warriors! your flowery bondage break,Sons of the stormy North, awake!The barks are launching from the steep--Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,And Afric’s burning winds afarWaft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war.Where shall his race of victory close?When shall the ravaged earth repose?But hark! what wildly mingling criesFrom Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise?Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air?A sterner conquerer hath been there!A conqueror--yet his paths are peace,He comes to bring the world’s release;He of the sword that knows no sheath,The avenger, the deliverer--Death!

Is then that daring spirit fled?Doth Alaric slumber with the dead?Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength,And he and earth are calm at length.The land where heaven unclouded shines,Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines;The land by conquest made his own,Can yield him now--a grave alone.But his--her lord from Alp to sea--No common sepulchre shall be!Oh, make his tomb where mortal eyeIts buried wealth may ne’er descry!Where mortal foot may never treadAbove a victor-monarch’s bed.Let not his royal dust be hid’Neath star-aspiring pyramid;Nor bid the gather’d mound arise,To bear his memory to the skies.Years roll away--oblivion claimsHer triumph o’er heroic names;And hands profane disturb the clayThat once was fired with glory’s ray;And Avarice, from their secret gloom,Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb.But thou, O leader of the free!That general doom awaits not thee:Thou, where no step may e’er intrude,Shalt rest in regal solitude,Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,The Awakener’s final trumpet sound.Turn ye the waters from their course,Bid Nature yield to human force,And hollow in the torrent’s bedA chamber for the mighty dead.The work is done--the captive’s handHath well obey’d his lord’s command.Within that royal tomb are castThe richest trophies of the past,The wealth of many a stately dome,The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome;And when the midnight stars are beaming,And ocean waves in stillness gleaming,Stern in their grief, his warriors bearThe Chastener of the Nations there;To rest at length from victory’s toil,Alone, with all an empire’s spoil!

Then the freed current’s rushing waveRolls o’er the secret of the grave;Then streams the martyr’d captives’ bloodTo crimson that sepulchral flood,Whose conscious tide alone shall keepThe mystery in its bosom deep.Time hath past on since then--and sweptFrom earth the urns where heroes slept;Temples of gods and domes of kingsAre mouldering with forgotten things;Yet not shall ages e’er molestThe viewless home of Alaric’s rest:Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river,The guardian of his dust for ever.