Classic Poem

XI.

 Lovely the stranger's land—the tawny meads,
 Track'd by the sleepy Seine's meanders blue;
 The vintage ripening on its sloping beds,
 Like sheets of emeralds, dropping purple dew;
 The forest belting with its waste of yew
 The chateau, lonely as the exile's tomb
 Where rests its lord; the hill's exotic hue;
 The umbraged roads, that from th' horizon come,
Like arrows, to one point, where still broods morning's gloom.

XII.

 There sleep'st thou, Paris! What profounder sleep
 Were thine, had matchless hearts not sieged thee round!
 When those who sow'd in blood, in blood should reap,
 When the bold hunters from earth's farthest bound
 At length the tiger in his cavern found;
 Then, not yon cloud that wraps thy giddy dream,
 But the red vapour of the bloody ground,
 Such as o'er Moscow hung, had caught the gleam;
The midnight fires of death, thy last, wild, waking beam.

XIII.

 The gale has come,—at once the fleecy haze
 Floats up,—then stands a purple canopy,
 Shading th' imperial city from the blaze.
 Glorious the vision! tower and temple lie
 Beneath the morn, like waves of ivory,
 With many an azure streak and gush of green,
 As grove and garden on the dazzled eye
 Rise in successive beauty, and between.
Flows into sudden light the long, slow, serpent Seine.

XIV.

 For Paris now.—Now farewell hill and vale,
 And silence sweet, fresh blooms, and dewy sky!
 Farewell the gentle moral of the gale,
 The wisdom written in the rose's dye!
 I go to meet the wizard city's eye,
 That puts on splendour but to dim the soul.
 A thousand years of crime beneath me lie!
 One glance!—I stand as on a mighty mole,
Around whose base not waves, but evil ages roll.

XV.

 And ye enduring monuments that rise,
 In your calm grandeur, round this fortress-hill,
 Masses of solemn shade and orient dyes!
 Are ye not each, as in that sea an isle,
 Sheltering the few and statelier memories, while
 The feeble pass like foam upon the wave?
 I gaze not here on Greek or Gothic pile!—
 I see but emblems of the days that gave
An impulse to the world, to empires throne or grave.

XVI.

 'Twas a dark time, that on Valerien's brow
 Rear'd the sad refuge of that convent tower!
 There mind was buried, wither'd beauty's glow,
 There passion lost its hope, but not its power;
 Yet good was mix'd with ill; its midnight hour
 Heard prayers from haughty lips that then first pray'd;
 And woman who had wept her loveliest dower,
 There hid her broken heart in calm and shade,
And turned her to His fold, who sought the lamb that stray'd!

XVII.

 Earth had a burst of madness; come, and gone,
 Like lightning from its cloud—a withering blaze.
 There stand its lonely halls, its Pantheon;
 Then were those halls not lonely;—nights and days
 Roll'd o'er their thousands, pouring heaven's high praise,
 From more than pagan lips, to harlotry.
 Temple of many gods! while O NE delays
 For wisdom deeply veil'd from human eye,
To strike it into dust, till ev'n its memory die.

XVIII.

 The emblem-circle 's wound. The sunbeams flow
 Latest, yet loveliest, on St. Denis' wall.
 But is there not a brighter sun than now
 Vestures in gold that patriarch cathedral?
 Is not earth's veil at length about to fall,
 As the slow shadows from that temple hoar;
 And the true faith unfold her gates to all;
 And man be glorious as he was before;
And earth be Paradise, till time shall be no more?

XIX.

 The hour shall come!—It is no mystic's trance,
 But true as H E , who wills, and it is done!
 The hour shall come,—is come!—Our feeble glance
 Ev'n now sees stooping from its clouds the throne
 Where One shall rule o'er earth—The M IGHTY O NE .
 Its kings his hallow'd viceroys—man's old stain
 Fast brightening from the spirit;—war unknown;—
 Till Death has died! and, rushing from his chain,
To heaven th' immortals rise, with angel plume and strain.