Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

“ But well I ween, that spirits proud and strong
Like theirs, can never intermingle long.
And even now they half-reluctant go,
Hand link’d in hand, against a mutual foe,
To wage a mutual war.—They part awhile,
Moratcham hast’ning to Assyria’s soil,400
Fresh troops to raise; while to Armenia’s skies,
In warlike pride, Alvante’s banners rise,
And numbers daily to those banners came,
Or led by plunder, or arous’d by fame.
Meantime young Ismael hears the dread alarms,
Of his great enemy’s increasing arms. ”

“ His kindling soul flash’d glory from his eyes,
And to his voice, that gleam of enterprise
Had giv’n a tone prophetic; as it roll’d,
He seem’d a being of immortal mould.
And loud they cry, as high is rear’d each sword,
“Long live great Ismael, Persia’s mighty lord.”
Forth from the tent then rush’d the warrior-train,
And here, and there, disperse along the plain;260
Swift sink the tents, the bands in many a throng,
Arm,—form their deep’ning squares,—and sweep along. ”

“ Save, where the sulphur flash’d on some proud crest,
Or danc’d terrific on the steel-clad breast:
The warrior rear’d his arm,—then, sudden fell,
Nor knew who sent him to the gates of hell.180
Long was the fight, and furiously severe,
For neither host e’er felt the pow’r of fear:
Here fell the flow’r of Britain! here the pride
Of Gallia’s long-extended squadrons died!
Whose muse can sing, whose daring tongue can tell,
What heroes triumph’d, and what chieftains fell?
How many a youth, who ne’er had fought before,
Sent souls unnumber’d to the Stygian shore? ”

“ When Ismael learn’d, from whom he drew his breath,
Shich-Eidar’s virtues, and Shich-Eidar’s death,90
The rightful heir to Persia’s realms; his soul
With glory heav’d, disdaining Love’s control.
He left the maid, for Honour’s trumpet blew,
And straight to arms, and to revenge he flew.
Wrong’d by oppression, or impell’d by fame,
Around his standard, thousands daily came:
His sire’s old followers, joying to behold,
From their dead sage, arise a son so bold ”

“ Has ever shewn a more than brother’s part;
Say, my beloved, can the sobbing breath,
The ling’ring tear, put off the stroke of death?
The hand of destiny has fix’d my doom,
By heav’n allotted to a warrior’s tomb.360
Yet still my words in prophecy may say,
Death shall not call my ev’ry part away:
To late posterity, recording fame
Shall tell the triumphs that adorn my name. ”

“ Gather’d from Glory’s fields, or Pleasure’s roseate bow’rs;
Till, perhaps, some passing peasant’s laughter’s roll,
Breaks the soft spell that binds thy wand’ring soul.
Yes, thou hast felt it, at that grateful hour,
When eve excites the Muse’s heav’nly pow’r,—
When all is calm!—when nothing rude is near,
To bound the pensive eye, or wound the ear!20
When Zephyr, wakened by paternal spring,
Rimples the waters with his roseate wing;
And, like a lover, wooes them with a sigh,
Sweet, but soon over, as he wanders by. ”

“ His steed he spurr’d, on high his youthful hand
Rear’d the bright terrors of the blasting brand;
But Holstein saw th’ impending danger near,
With giant strength he hurl’d his weighty spear;230
Like lightning-flash, it piere’d the Briton’s side,
And life receded on the crimson tide.
Forth from the victor’s sheath the sword was bare,
Hov’ring on high, it thinn’d the ranks of war;
Ten bleeding warriors, gasping on the strand,
Proclaim’d the prowess of his mighty hand;{160}
Terror and death attend his rabid way,
And conquest claim’d him as her own that day. ”

“ Why vainly strive to quit the fatal field?
With all the strength which agony can yield,
Why vainly nerve each mighty limb to strain?
Each effort binds him closer to the plain;290
The hand of fate has fix’d his master there,
And heav’n has call’d him from his bright career.
XIX.
When that dread chief perceiv’d th’ inglorious doom,
Which seem’d to sink him to a living tomb,
Pale grew his cheek, his raging eye-balls glare,
And thus, to heav’n, he offers up his prayer:—
“Oh, thou dread Pow’r, whose mighty name is bore
On ev’ry tongue, to earth’s remotest shore! ”

“ And shall you Briton, glorying from far,
Destroy our troops, and thin the ranks of war?
Frenchmen, charge forwards! and your king’s applause
Awaits your efforts in his glorious cause;
For he that sends yon haughty Briton’s head,
A worthy off’ring to the noble dead,
Napoléon’s self shall grace his radiant name,
And age to age perpetuate his fame.”160
He ceas’d;—and, warm’d by hope, his legion broke
Through fires of sulphur, and through mists of smoke [22] :
Onwards they roll’d, elate with warrior’s pride,
Each soldier charging by his comrade’s side. ”

“ Then pass’d his hand across his madd’ning brow—
“I follow, Bertrand, where you lead me now.”
XIX.
Mean time fierce Blücher, with impetuous might,470
Supports the war, and claims the equal fight;
Hill’s conq’ring banners, midst the thickest war,
Dripping red carnage, glitter’d from afar;
His ruthless Prussians, dreadful Bulow roll’d,
While Uxbridge shone the boldest of the bold;
Exulting Fame, in shouting clamours calls,
And Britain’s vengeance on Napoléon falls.
But now the Gauls are mass’d in one vast throng,
And Albion’s troops, collected, sweep along. ”

“ Before Alvante’s way, at headlong speed,
A youthful chief has spurr’d his snowy steed.
Each combatant has rous’d him from the fight,
Awhile to gaze on that high form of might.
But Iran’s genius, as aloft she flew,
Hung back, and trembled at the dangerous view:
For, in that god-like youth, she marks too well
Her last, lone hope, her favour’d Ismael.
‘Come on,’ he cries, ‘proud tyrant; come, and know
‘That thou wilt combat with no vulgar foe;470
‘Use thy whole art and strength; for I am he,
‘Worthy alone, to fight—to conquer thee.
‘I come arm’d in my bleeding country’s might! ”

“ ISMAEL. CANTO II.
“Let those who rule on Persia’s jewell’d throne,
“Be fam’d for love, and gentlest love alone,
“Or twine, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
“The lover’s myrtle with the warrior’s crown.”
Collins’s Oriental Eclogues.
{27}{26} ISMAEL. CANTO II. I.
‘Another hour is fled;—a few, few more,
‘And life, and all its sweets, are ever o’er;
“’Tis hard in youth’s fair blossom to decay,
‘And, like the dreams of midnight, pass away:
‘To go—we scarce know where,—and, as the wind,
‘To leave, alas! no ling’ring trace behind! ”

“ I view’d the waves that swell Brent’s shallow stream;
And heard the tinkling from the distant fold,
Stead of the strains from many a lyre of gold,
That e’en but now, had bound the melting soul,
In thralls of heav’nly, but of vain control.
The grateful spell is broke!—the treasur’d tone—
The hallow’d visions—yes, alas!—are flown!180
And I must back to scenes of loathsome life,
Pregnant with sorrow, and profuse with strife.
Yes! ”

“ There drops the widow’s tear—there heaves the sigh
Of mourning sire—there sounds the orphan’s cry—
And there dark Azrail [7] sits, and grimly waves
His sable pinions o’er a thousand graves;
Yet e’en his rugged soul is tir’d—his hand
Would fain let drop his all-destructive brand—
Would gladly spread his deadly plumes, to fly
From such a scene of desolate misery.
For when Alvante’s brother claim’d a throne,
Which none but Ismael had the right to own;230
The tyrant, wak’ning from inglorious ease,
Rush’d to the battle, like the northern breeze:—
They fought! ”

“ Thus falls some tow’r which long has rear’d its form,
And mock’d the fury of the raging storm:
The fierce besiegers strive each art in vain,
To cast its lofty fabric on the plain;
At length the treach’rous mine, with secret care,
Beneath its strong foundations they prepare;140
With horrid crash, its crackling piles resound,
And fall, a mighty ruin on the ground.
VIII.
Mean time brave Shawe usurps the martial plain,
And spreads the field with Gallic heaps of slain;
Where beams his sabre, wild confusion brings
Terror and death upon her iron wings ”

“ A foe so dread, Alvante never yet
In conflict’s thickest walks of heroes met;
And ne’er had Ismael, mid th’ embattled throng,
Known eye so keen, and arm so swift and strong.500
Each stroke, that like the flash of lightning past,
Seem’d fiercer, heavier, mightier than the last;
Till Ismael felt his youthful arm at length,
Weaken its blows, and slacken in its strength;{49}
While stern Alvante, like some massy tow’r,
Still seem’d to combat with the prime of pow’r:
But Ismael hop’d one blow, that should contain
All his remaining strength, should smite him on the plain. ”

“ In Fame’s first page, thy glorious name returned,
What tears erabalm’d thee, and what hearts have mourn’d!
Ah! how record the mighty chiefs that fell,
While peals of cannon sound their fun’ral knell!50
V.
Napoléon urg’d his ever-dauntless band,
Nerv’d was each arm, and bare each shining brand;
Flush’d was each cheek, joy beam’d in ev’ry eye,—
They seem’d to think it were a bliss to die.
“Forward, my comrades; forward speed your way,
Our guardian genius shall record this day!{152}”
They wait no more!—the courser feels the rein
No longer check him from the warring plain. ”

“ But as genius and a desire of fame are naturally allied, and, perhaps, the former never existed without the latter; will not the youthful adventurer be justified in endeavouring to stand well in the opinion of the judicious and discerning, by disseminating his works among them—under a confidence, that the more candid will be pleased with the first blossoms of poetical talent, not only as the fruits of industry, but as presages in maturer years of more elevated titles to distinction? ”

“ Slacken’d each rein, each Scottish brand was bare,
The dancing plumage kiss’d the lurid air!
Their steeds they urge—hark!—“Scotland” is the cry,
The loyal sound the echoing hills reply.{153}
Link’d in one body, small, yet firm they go,
And charge impetuous on the yielding foe.80
Dismay’d, confounded at the glorious sight,
In vain the Gauls would claim the equal fight;
On ev’ry side their comrades strew the plain,
And heaps arise of Gallia’s mighty slain:
The useless sabre drops,—they turn,—they fly,
The serrying cannon follows through the sky. ”

“ Thou strik’st the hallow’d lyre.{66}
Oh who can tell the heart’s ecstatic play,
So sweetly pensive, so sublimely pure,
When wand’ring far from world’s disgusting lure,
The Muse bewitching wafts the soul away.
In sickness, pain, or care, or strife,
In all the woes that wait on life,
Thy pow’r can soothing balm impart,
And lull to sleep the breaking heart. ”

“ But here, while Mars and dread Bellona rag’d,
And the hot conflict Gaul and Albion wag’d,
An hostile race, from Poland’s northern shore,
On Wellesley’s bands their martial numbers pour;
Skill’d in the art, a piercing death they bear,
Their native arms, the far-extending spear.
Th’ heroic Ponsonby perceiv’d the band,—
Forth from the scabbard leapt his beamy brand;
His heaving breast with indignation burn’d,
While to his troops the godlike warrior turn’d:200
“Shall haughty Poland triumph o’er the plain,
And boast her heaps of Britain’s mighty slain? ”

“ The fate of Europe, on your arms await;
Should victory crown our efforts, then no more320
Shall war destructive waste our native shore.
The hostile league, which now appears so fast,
Will break asunder, ere a day be past;
And Wellesley, weaken’d in the dire affray,
To Gallic brav’ry, falls an easy prey.
Think of your ancient deeds! beneath your arms,
Prussia, and Austria, fled with dire alarms;
Dejected Spain, a Gallic Monarch own’d,
And soft Italia mourn’d her Sire dethron’d;
The winds of Fame your conq’ring eagles bore,330
To climes ne’er fann’d by Victory’s wing before. ”

“ It glows on Ismael’s tent; the sentry there,
With cautious step, keeps more than common care.
But say, why (lord of all this num’rous band,
The sword of conquest flaming in his hand)
He, he alone, of all his armies yield,
Is absent now from Caymyr’s tented field ”

“ Alone, scarce arm’d, from ev’ry limb, and pore,
Dripping, a long and ghastly stream of crimson gore?
’Tis Shawe’s fierce murd’rer, by his sable crest,
And ruby crosslet glitt’ring at his breast—
’Tis dark Bernot!—the hero’s thirst of fame,510
Led his last act, to consecrate his name:{193}
See! in the thickest of the hostile band,
Wave his dark plumes, and gleam his gory brand.
Five chiefs he strikes—and rears to strike again—
Why drops his arm?—why useless on the plain
Falls the red blade?—why sinks his plumy crest?
The streams of life no longer warm his breast! ”

“ It must be remembered that Ismael first attacked Armenia, &c. before his successes made him so bold{59} as to strike so adventurous a blow as attacking Alvante in his own capital. It was the custom of those who inhabited the provinces, and who were too peaceably inclined to mix in the intestine commotions that so often occur in the East, to remove their families and effects as near the capital as possible, though this scheme must appear very injudicious to one who reflects that the chief city is generally the most harrassed, ultimately. ”

“ He pierc’d his courser with a mortal blow;—
He fell!—and Bernot, riding o’er the plain,
Trod on his crackling crest and crush’d the brain.180
Britons and Gauls now gath’ring clos’d around,
One war tumultuous shook th’ affrighted ground:
Arm rose ’gainst arm, and man encounter’d man;
Through ev’ry breast revenge and hatred ran.
At length, so fierce the Britons’ rushing force,
In vain the Gauls attempt to stop their course:
Slow they retreat!—yet, facing to the foe,
Defiance threaten, as they sternly go ”

“ Of love himself, upon that word is found.
O ne’er, O ne’er can he, whose inmost soul
Has never felt it, tell its sweet control!210
Selyma views him seize the snowy rein,
O’er his dark courser’s widely-streaming mane
(Like streaks of light in sable clouds) that hung,
Then on the back of mighty pride he sprung;—
One parting look he casts!—with eagle speed,
Away, away, swift scours that gen’rous steed.
{15} V.
Now pensive midnight’s sable mantle falls
O’er stately Tauris’ proud imbattled walls;
And there dark Desolation’s fix’d his throne ”