MUSINGS.
I did not dream, but yet fantastic thought
Wrought such wild changes on the spirit's harp,
It seemed that slumber ruled.
A structure rose,
Deep-founded and gigantic. Strangely blent
Its orders seemed. The solemn Gothic arch—
The obelisk antique—the turret proud
In castellated pomp—the palace dome—
The grated dungeon—and the peasant's cot—
Were grouped within its walls.
A throne was there;
A king, with all his gay and courtly train,
In robes of splendour, and a vassal throng,
Eager to do their bidding, and to wear
A gilded servitude. The back-gound seemed
Darkened by misery's pencil. Famine cast
A tinge of paleness o'er the brow of toil,
While Poverty, to soothe her naked babes,
Shrieked forth a broken song.
Then came a groan—
A rush—as if of thunder. The grey rocks
From yawning clefts breathed forth volcanic flames,
While the huge fabric, parting at its base,
A ruin seemed. A miserable mass
Of tortured life rolled through the burning gates,
And spread destruction o'er the scorching soil,
Like Etna's lava-stream.
There was a pause!
Mad revolution mourned its whirlwind wreck,
And even 'mid smouldering fires, the artificers
Wrought to uprear the pile.
But all at once,
A bugle blast was heard—a courser's tramp—
While a young warrior waved his sword and cried—
"Away! Away!"—Like dreams the pageant fled,
Monarch, and royal dome, and nobles proud.
So there he stood, in solitary power—
Supreme and self-derived. Where the rude Alps
Mock with their battlements the bowing cloud,
His eagle banner streamed. Pale Gallia poured
Strong incense to her idol, mixed with blood
Of her young conscript-hearts. Chained in wild wrath
The Austrian lion crouched. Even Cæsar's realm
Cast down its crown pontifical, and bade
The Eternal City lay her lip in dust.
The land of pyramids bent darkly down,
And from the subject nations rose a voice
Of wretchedness, that awed the trembling globe.
Earth, slowly rising from her thousand thrones,
Did homage to the Corsican, as he
The favoured patriarch in his dream beheld
Heaven, with her sceptred blazonry of stars,
Bow to a reapers sheaf.
But fickle man,
Though like the sea, he boast himself awhile,
Hath bounds to his supremacy. I saw
A listed field, where the embattled kings
Drew in deep wrath their armed legions on.
The self-made warrior blenched not, and his eye
Was like the flashing lightning, when it cleaves
The vaulted firmament.
In vain!—In vain!
The hour of fate had come. From a far isle,
'Gainst whose firm rocks the foiled Pacific roars,
The wondering surges listened to the moan
Of a chafed spirit warring with its lot:
And there, where every element conspired
To make ambition's prison doubly sure,
The mighty hero gnawed his chain—and died.