The votaries of Satan or of Jove;
The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe;
The din of multitudes that onward move;
The voice of conscience in the heart below;
The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still;
Th’ elastic air; the streamlet on
its way;
And all that man projects, or sovereigns will;
Or things inanimate might seem to say;
The strain of gondolier slow streaming by;
The lively barks that o’er the waters
bound;
The trees that shake their foliage to the sky;
The wailing voice that fills the cots
around;
And man, who studies with an aching heart—
For now, when smiles are rarely deemed
sincere,
In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart—
Those doubts at length will arguments
appear!
Hence, reader, know the subject of my song—
A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,
Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,
With noiseless steps, a victim to the
tomb!
THE LAND OF FABLE.
("L’Orient! qu’y voyez-vous, poetes?")
[PRELUDE, b.]
Now, vot’ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,
Unto the East, and say what there appears!
“Alas!” the voice of Poesy replies,
“Mystic’s that light between
the hemispheres!”
“Yes, dread’s the mystic light in yonder
heaven—
Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill;
Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,
When the far thunder seems as it were
still!
“But who can tell if that uncertain glare
Be Phoebus’ self, adorned with glowing
vest;
Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air,
Have drawn our glances to the radiant
west?
“Haply the sunset has deceived the sight—
Perchance ’tis evening, while we
look for morning;
Bewildered in the mazes of twilight,
That lucid sunset may appear a
dawning!”
THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS.
("Freres, vous avez vos journees.")
[I., July, 1830.]
Youth of France, sons of the bold,
Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!
Our civic-laurels—honored dead!
So bright your triumphs in life’s
morn,
Your maiden-standards hacked and torn,
On Austerlitz might lustre shed.
All that your fathers did re-done—
A people’s rights all nobly won—
Ye tore them living from the shroud!
Three glorious days bright July’s
gift,
The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!
Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!
Of patriot sires ye lineage claim,
Their souls shone in your eye of flame;
Commencing the great work was theirs;
On you the task to finish laid
Your fruitful mother, France, who bade
Flow in one day a hundred years.
E’en chilly Albion admires,
The grand example Europe fires;
America shall clap her hands,
When swiftly o’er the Atlantic wave,
Fame sounds the news of how the brave,
In three bright days, have burst their bands!
