Classic Poem

A PRIZE POEM

Full many a record on his ample page
Old History carries of the enkindled rage
Of heroes, when some man of might hath breath'd
His soul into a people, and so wreath'd
From his own spirit acting on the throng
The circlet of events; or from among
The many by one common impulse urg'd
Some one superior being hath emerg'd
As chief, by intellect to rule his kind,
The top-most wave on the vex'd sea of mind.
Not these we sing; yet us a kindred song,
Though mightier, animates; to us belong
A nation's throe and triumph, a wide flush
Of vengeance; when amid the fiery rush
Of coalescent energy, not one
Could rise to stand conspicuous and alone.
No hero-beacon on a coming age
Flash'd wonderful, but all alike did wage
An equal deed, and equal fame receive.
So single stars by multitude achieve
The nebulous splendour of the milky way:
Unlike that other star, whose primal ray,
Lone throbbing upon twilight's breast, hath lustre
Till night shakes out her many-spangled cluster.
This be to me a song; nor rashly deem
That it in aught diminishes my theme,
That from a people enervate and slow
To feats of arms such sudden deed should flow.
As when from Aetna huge red flames leap forth
On summer's flushest bloom, so was the wrath
Of that dread outbreak, so unlooked for,
So devastating. How shall I explore
A region thus immense? Not mine th' instilment
Of double-flashing precept, or fulfilment
Of promise so transcendent: nor will ever
Effected purpose crown my weak endeavour.
Yet still, inspired by the bold light that breaks
Thro' time's dim mists from noble deeds, and makes
Bright circlets in the dark oblivious stream,
I will essay to modulate my theme,
Looking far out into that wide waste sea
Of crescent manners, ere society
Was moulded into any permanence,
Or shaken into law: and to my sense
A southern land presents itself, where all
The seasons' round is lush and musical;
And where the ardour of the people vies
With every tinge of the aye-varying dyes,
Wherewith the sunbeams that bright land imbue.
And there a quick blood struggle hath my view
For liberty, won by that sudden fate
Which on prompt enterprise doth often wait
So, after leaping at a rock, a wave
Flows smoothly in along a shelving cave.
The smothering sunshine of Sicilia's noon
Was melted into eve: the day-long swoon
Of nature was fulfill'd, while twilight brings
Her shade-engrained coolness, from her wings
Shaking the dew-bells; and the golden haze
Of sunset was upon the daedal# maze
Of nature,—deepening the orange gleams,
Glossing smooth olive leaves, empurpling streams,
Gilding brown tree-stocks, glowing thro' the grapes,
And dancing on the corn-tops; till the shapes
Of the whole valley fruitage seemed a mass
Tangled of light and shade: above there was,
In th' upper air, one vast unbroken rain
Of tremulous lustre; for the sunbeam train
Fell not on earth, save where some distant peak
Brow-bound with rosy snow, stood up to break
That soften'd glory streaming forth so wide,
Like to a river isle, round which the tide
Disparts: and evening's breathing gently stirred
The locks of Flora; that light sigh uprear'd
On Ocean's face no frown-ridge; he lay spread
All waveless, windless, on his sandy bed.
And in Palermo's streets was holiday,
And toward the church at Montreal the way
Was throng'd with a procession; all the road
Echo'd with measured footfalls; from the crowd
Great psalms swell'd up long cadenc'd: priests were there
To pray; green branches floated on the air,
And the swart southern race came trooping all,
Each passion by that time of festival
Aw'd seasonably from their soften'd eyes,
Their brows flower-crowned, their limbs in peaceful guise,
And 'gainst the broad, calm, heavy sunshine bare
The massy layers of their sun-burnt hair.
But chief, enflooded in that golden flame,
The flower-inwoven, white-rob'd virgins came.
They scatter them among the bloomed fields
To gather all that the fresh season yields
Of fair or fragrant;—blossom-born, new-blown,
Springing in native lavishness, unmown,
Uncut, untrimm'd;—long waving silky grass,
And mazy-flower'd circlets, that embrace
In joyous meshes dew-sprent rosaries
Of richest blushings, and the giant trees,
That rib magnificently with bent boughs
The heaven's answering purple; a carouse
Of nature rioting within the arms
Of her most lovely daughters. Such the charms
That Sicily's maidens cull, and, as they cull,
Transcend, and seem more deeply beautiful;
Moving accordant to the silvery chime
Of voices, like flowers to the airy time
Blown o'er them by the winds; themselves again
In mellow cadence pouring back the strain;
Their white robes fluttering on the gazer's sight,
Like snow flakes falling through the pale moon light.
Vain joy! the half smile utter'd forcedly,
Which is the effort of a coming sigh.
For as the concourse draws the fane anear,
Dark glances pass from man to man; for there
On either side the pathway dense array'd
In long dark panoply of helm and blade,
A host stands fix'd in silence; but on high
The fierce-eyed eagle-signs of Gallia fly,
And tell the tale of blood and tyranny;
And crimson pennons toss among the glaives,
Like poppies rolling in the meadowy waves,
When the wind takes the corn-tops. Yet too sure
And careless seems that host, as if secure
In its own puissance, and full many an eye
Rests on the advancing concourse vauntingly.
At sight of them, on th' other hand, fell hate,
Darkens on many eyebrows; eyes dilate
With glittering cruelty, or downcast glow
All full of sullen fire; and to and fro
Rolling impatiently, the angry throng
With high defiant treading sweeps along
Yet foremost still the white-rob'd virgins come,
In front of that dark mass; so seething foam
With whiten'd crest leads on the blacken'd sea,
When, laden with thick clouds, the wind bears heavily.
What has been done? A girl with closed eye,
With clutched foot, and hand repellantly
Thrust out, and tresses in a rippled shower
Falling around, like to a long-leav'd flower
Drawn streaming from the water, and robe torn,
And leafy chaplet crush'd, is backward borne
Of many outstretch'd arms. On the other hand,
A man has fall'n and deluging the sand
With blood lies hardly struggling; and the crowd
Moves round with many voices, now aloud,
Now whispering; and in the far distance,
As when the faint brain lapses to a trance,
The chaunted psalm-tune dies into the air,
Like wreaths of incense gradually rare:
And bitter murmurs lengthen, like the roar,
When tides draw backward from a shingly shore.
Why should our country sink away and die
'neath the base shame of ruthless tyranny?
Ah, why should these vile foreign herds devour
Of all our land the sweetest choicest flower?
While thus they stand upon the brink of fate,
Hate conquering fear, and fear subduing hate,
With terrible interchange of white and red
Upon their faces, both astonished,
Aw'd and infuriate, while the smallest thing
Would drive them from their close, black muttering,
Unto the achievement of some noble deed,
Or, so if hap direct, make them recede
From their proud purpose, forth the vesper bell
Chimes from the church, with music's holiest swell
Of soften'd psalmody, which might to tears
Flutter the soul; but to such worshippers
It only gives the key-note of revolt
Already mastering awe: awhile they halt
With parted lips, and with suspended breath;
Then, as from one, from all bursts forth the yell of death.
O that between my lips were volleying out
The hot, the fever breath of that fierce shout!
Then might I sing with no unequal glow
Of furious thrust, wild threat, and crushing blow.
For that great throng bristled right suddenly
With thick steel-flashings; and with that one cry
Ran on the French: small time had they to close
Their scatter'd ranks before that storm of foes
Burst in upon them; scarcely could the word
To level lances and close up, be heard,
Though thrill'd by danger. Oft by sudden gale
A stately ship, ere she can minish sail,
Is thrown upon her side; so with the Franks,
When the fierce crowd ran in among their ranks
They close, they close, and dreadful stabs are dealt.
Ah! small avail of cuirass and of belt,
And targe and breast-piece; harness tightly lac'd
Is but a cumbrance, when about the waist
Is thrown the arm of vengeance, and the dirk
Beneath the guard is at its bloody work
Sicilia's foes fall fast; their shouts back borne
Upon the edge of ringing yells return
Unsped to silence; their brave form of fight
Is swept away; as the last line of light
Circling cloud-edges o'er the western wave,
When storms grow high, sinks to its weltering grave.
Sometimes they downward slope the bickering lance,
And stand at bay; sometimes to the utterance
They thrust with redden'd blade; and the loud peal
Of trumpet clang swells o'er the clash of steel
And roar of battle: but anon they reel,
And their proud ensigns down the tide of flight
Swoop tossing; till, retriev'd by hand of knight
Or vantage ground, they struggle to a rally:
But to endure again the unceasing sally
Of foes infuriate till they break again.
Now footsteps plash upon the sodden plain
Like the waves washing in a reedy mere:
And in the lulls of combat one may hear,—
For sometimes both sides pause, still as the hush
Between two hymn staves, ere again they rush
Upon the ridges of close-grained war,—
Then may one hear those under noises far
More sickening;—the sobbing of the horses,
Whose desperate hooves have dash'd the sod where corses
Drawn out of shape with struggling lie, and sighs
Breath'd shuddering through hollow casques, and cries
Stronger than agony. All these below:
Above, a whirlwind darkness sweltering slow,
First form'd of upspurn'd volant sand, now thick
With blood and dust and sweat, and breathed reek
Of many thousand combatants, o'er all
Looms in dim heaviness, the purple pall
Of violent death; and through the broken air
Vibrates the cry of battle, and appear
Blue glimpses of its steel, till that dark stain
Swims slowly over all the plain again.
So on and on the tide of conflict roll'd,
Till night had fall'n, and sunset's warmth of gold
Was chill'd to grey, and till the wild bird's notes
Ceas'd from the woodland, and the phantom goats
Grew large upon the swiftly darkening hill,
And the wind shook itself;—still on, until
The last faint strugglings of the sunken sun
Awoke his sleeping sister, and the moon
Came out upon the heavens, large and low,
And with a weakly glimmering, as though
The cold, thick, heavy body of dark night
Had pushed her from her sphere; but then alight
On hill, and headlong bluff, and rocky steep
Glare bloody war-flames, burning with a deep
And savage splendour, and into the dark
Fitfully hooting make the upper arc
Grow blacker from their gleam. Palermo sees
First drifting over all her palaces
That mingled waft of smoke and flame; and thence
It spreads throughout the land, from eminence
To eminence: night-cover'd Ocean
Shone sudden with a ruddy crest, as ran
Along his rocks those couriers; and the tracts
Of forests were laid bare, and cataracts
Stream'd down with molten gold. But than all these
More fiercely, cities, towns, and villages
Sprang into life at that wild summoning
Long was night thrill'd with the incessant swing
Of loud alarm bells, and the brazen din
Of conflict swelling up; and crowds of men
Long struggled darkly in the choked streets,
And long the war scream throbb'd through pulsing beats
Of many bitter throats pour'd ceaselessly:—
But when the day broke, Sicily was free.