A dense, dark mass, and fear is on their souls,
Like an o'erhanging cloud. Their lips are white
As the salt foam, and quivering in despair ;-
They gaze, but speak not. In the wither'd heart
The half-formed prayer dies. The grey-hair'd man,
Mad with the misery that death has wrought,
Thinks of his murdered children and blasphemes
The God he worshipp'd in his youth. The child
Looks on his mother, and perplexed to see
Her depth of agony, forgets to weep.
The very ocean seems to share with them
Their tongueless terror, and is hush'd as death.-
Yet, hark!-far off there comes the hollow sound
Of rushing waves.-Nearer and louder !—Lo!
The waters have arisen, and instinct
With a strange life, needing no winds to guide,
Are sweeping on in their wild majesty !
Arm'd with the voice of thunder when it leaps
Among the mountain chasms, see! they come!
But louder, wilder, and more terrible,
The bursting shriek of that last multitude
Along the barren sands !-Up-up to heaven!
Shaking the Almighty's throne, that dread sound rose,-
That last unearthly Miserere !-Hush !—
The billows are upon them. They have pass'd
For ever and for ever from the earth;-
The lordly element has won its prey,
And howling proudly holds its reckless course.
What's hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not to be trod
By man, the image of his God;
Unscourg'd by superstitions rod
To bow the knee?
That's hallow'd ground-where mourn'd and miss'd
The lips repose our love has kiss'd;
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't
Yon churchyard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound;
The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er are riven,
Is hallow'd down to Earth's profound,
And up to heaven!
For time makes all but true love old,
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould,
And will not cool,
Until the heart itself be cold
In Lethe's pool.
What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
"Tis not the sculptured piles you heap;
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom,
Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.
But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has saved mankind,
And is he dead whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high?
To live in hearts we leave behind
Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light,
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight
The sword he draws:-
What can alone ennoble fight?
Give that and welcome War to brace
Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking space;
The colours planted face to face,
The charging cheer,
Tho' Death's pale horse lead on the race
And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven! but Heaven rebukes my zeal:
The cause of truth and human weal
O God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
Το peace and love.
Peace, Love-the Cherubim that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,—
Prayers sound in vain and temples shine
When they are not;
The heart alone can make divine
To inclinations dost thou trust,
rites in dome's august? See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt,
That man can bless one pile of dust
With chime or chaunt.
The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Thy temples-creeds themselves grow wan!
But there's a dome of nobler span,
A temple given
Thy faith that bigots dare not ban-
Its space is Heaven!
Its roof star-pictured, Nature's ceiling,
Where trancing the rapt spirits feeling,
And God himself to man revealing
Th' harmonious spheres,
Make music, tho' unheard their pealing
By mortal ears.
Are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Aspect above;
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!
And in your harmony sublime,
I read the doom of distant time,
That man's regenerate soul from crime
Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime
What's hallow'd ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!
Peace! Independence! Truth! Go forth
Earth's compass round,
And your high priesthood shall make earth
All hallow'd ground!
O THOU, who from the mountain's height
Rollest down thy clouds with all their weight
Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide;
Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain
Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride,
The mistress of the main ;
Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry!
Not always should'st thou love to brood
Stern o'er thy desert solitude
Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high;
Nor, Genius, should the midnight song
Detain thee in some milder mood,
The palmy trees among,
Where Gambia to the torches' light,
Flows radiant through the awaken'd night.
Ah, linger not to hear the song!
Genius, avenge thy children's wrong!
The demon Commerce on your shore
Pours all the horrors of his train,
And hark! where from the fields of gore
Howls the hyæna o'er the slain ;
Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies!
Avenging Power, awake! arise!
Arise, thy children's wrongs redress!
Ah, heed the mother's wretchedness,
When in the hot infectious air,
O'er her sick babe she bows oppress'd-
Ah, hear her when the Christian's tear
The drooping infant from her breast;
Whelmed in the waters, he shall rest!
Hear thou the wretched mother's cries,
Avenging Power! awake! arise !
By the rank infected air
That taints those dungeons of despair,
By those who there imprisoned die,
Where the black herd promiscuous lie,
By the scourges blackened o'er
And stiff and hard with human gore,
By every groan of deep distress,
By every curse of wretchedness,
By all the train of crimes that flow
From the hopelessness of woe,
By every drop of blood bespilt,
By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt,
Awake! arise! revenge!
"O winds howl not so long and loud ;
Nor with your vengeance arm the snow:
Bear hence each heavy loaded cloud,
And let the twinkling star-beams glow.
"Now sweeping floods rush down the slope
Wide scattering ruin-stars shine soon!
No other light my love can hope:
Midnight will want the joyous moon. "O guardian spirits, ye that dwell
Where woods and pits and hollow ways,
The lone night traveller's fancy swell
With fearful tales of other days,—
"Press round him :-Guide his willing steed
Through darkness, dangers, currents, snows;
Wait where from roaring thickets freed
The dreary heath's rude whirlwind blows,
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