LITMIR.BIZ

        Where can Peace find a refuge? Whither, say,

          Can Freedom turn? Lo, friend, before our view

        The CENTURY rends itself in storm away,

          And, red with slaughter, dawns on earth the New!

        The girdle of the lands is loosen'd[16]—hurl'd

          To dust the forms old Custom deem'd divine,—

        Safe from War's fury not the watery world;—

          Safe not the Nile-God nor the antique Rhine.

        Two mighty nations make the world their field,

          Deeming the world is for their heirloom given—

        Against the freedom of all lands they wield

          This—Neptune's trident; that—the Thund'rer's levin

        Gold to their scales each region must afford;

          And, as fierce Brennus in Gaul's early tale,

        The Frank casts in the iron of his sword,

          To poise the balance, where the right may fail—

        Like some huge Polypus, with arms that roam

          Outstretch'd for prey—the Briton spreads his reign;

        And, as the Ocean were his household home,

          Locks up the chambers of the liberal main.

        On to the Pole where shines, unseen, the Star,

          Onward his restless course unbounded flies;

        Tracks every isle and every coast afar,

          And undiscover'd leaves but—Paradise!

        Alas, in vain on earth's wide chart, I ween,

          Thou seek'st that holy realm beneath the sky—

        Where Freedom dwells in gardens ever green—

          And blooms the Youth of fair Humanity!

        O'er shores where sail ne'er rustled to the wind,

          O'er the vast universe, may rove thy ken;

        But in the universe thou canst not find

          A space sufficing for ten happy men!

        In the heart's holy stillness only beams

          The shrine of refuge from life's stormy throng;

        Freedom is only in the land of Dreams;

          And only blooms the Beautiful in Song!

        And mirth was in the halls of Troy,

          Before her towers and temples fell;

        High peal'd the choral hymns of joy,

          Melodious to the golden shell.

        The weary had reposed from slaughter—

          The eye forgot the tear it shed;

        This day King Priam's lovely daughter

          Shall great Pelides wed!

        Adorn'd with laurel boughs, they come,

          Crowd after crowd—the way divine,

        Where fanes are deck'd—for gods the home—

          And to the Thymbrian's[17] solemn shrine.

        The wild Bacchantic joy is madd'ning

          The thoughtless host, the fearless guest;

        And there, the unheeded heart is sadd'ning

          One solitary breast!

        Unjoyous in the joyful throng,

          Alone, and linking life with none,

        Apollo's laurel groves among

          The still Cassandra wander'd on!

        Into the forest's deep recesses

          The solemn Prophet-Maiden pass'd,

        And, scornful, from her loosen'd tresses,

          The sacred fillet cast!

        "To all its arms doth Mirth unfold,

          And every heart foregoes its cares;

        And Hope is busy in the old;

          The bridal-robe my sister wears.

        But I alone, alone am weeping;

          The sweet delusion mocks not me—

        Around these walls destruction sweeping

          More near and near I see!

        "A torch before my vision glows,

          But not in Hymen's hand it shines;

        A flame that to the welkin goes,

          But not from holy offering-shrines;

        Glad hands the banquet are preparing,

          And near, and near the halls of state

        I hear the God that comes unsparing;

          I hear the steps of Fate.

        "And men my prophet-wail deride!

          The solemn sorrow dies in scorn;

        And lonely in the waste, I hide

          The tortured heart that would forewarn.

        Amidst the happy, unregarded,

          Mock'd by their fearful joy, I trod;

        Oh, dark to me the lot awarded,

          Thou evil Pythian god!

        "Thine oracle, in vain to be,

          Oh, wherefore am I thus consign'd

        With eyes that every truth must see,

          Lone in the City of the Blind?

        Cursed with the anguish of a power

          To view the fates I may not thrall,

        The hovering tempest still must lower—

          The horror must befall!

        "Boots it the

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