Poems, supressed poems | Page 7

his bosom, and panting for action! He, like thee, was the child of the
heavenly genius.
But thou smilest and goest--
Thy gaze flies through the realms of the
world's long story,
Moor, the robber, it finds not there--
Stay, thou youth, and smile not!

Still survive all his sins and his shame--
Robber Moor liveth--in all
but name.
THE BAD MONARCHS. [66]
Earthly gods--my lyre shall win your praise,
Though but wont its
gentle sounds to raise
When the joyous feast the people throng;

Softly at your pompous-sounding names,
Shyly round your greatness
purple flames,
Trembles now my song.
Answer! shall I strike the golden string,
When, borne on by
exultation's wing,
O'er the battle-field your chariots trail?
When ye,
from the iron grasp set free,
For your mistress' soft arms, joyously

Change your pond'rous mail?--
Shall my daring hymn, ye gods, resound,
While the golden splendor

gleams around,
Where, by mystic darkness overcome,
With the
thunderbolt your spleen may play,
Or in crime humanity array,

Till--the grave is dumb?
Say! shall peace 'neath crowns be now my theme?
Shall I boast, ye
princes, that ye dream?--
While the worm the monarch's heart may
tear,
Golden sleep twines round the Moor by stealth,
As he, at the
palace, guards the wealth,
Guards--but covets ne'er.
Show how kings and galley-slaves, my Muse,
Lovingly one single
pillow use,--
How their lightnings flatter, when surpressed,
When
their humors have no power to harm,
When their mimic minotaurs
are calm,
And--the lions rest!
Up, thou Hecate! with thy magic seal
Make the barred-up grave its
wealth reveal,--
Hark! its doors like thunder open spring;
When
death's dismal blast is heard to sigh,
And the hair on end stands
fearfully,
Princes' bliss I sing!
Do I hear the strand, the coast, detect
Where your wishes' haughty
fleet was wrecked,
Where was stayed your greatness' proud career

That they ne'er with glory may grow warm,
Night, with black and
terror-spreading arm,
Forges monarchs here.
On the death-chest sadly gleams the crown,
With its heavy load of
pearls weighed down,
And the sceptre, needed now no more.
In
what splendor is the mould arrayed!
Yet but worms are with the body
paid,
That--the world watched o'er.
Haughty plants within that humble bed
See how death their pomp
decayed and fled
With unblushing ribaldry besets!
They who ruled o'er north and east
and west
Suffer now his ev'ry nauseous jest,
And--no sultan
threats?

Leap for joy, ye stubborn dumb, to-day,
And your heavy slumber
shake away!
From the battle, victory upsprings!
Hearken to the
trump's exulting song!
Ye are worshipped by the shouting throng!--

Rouse ye, then, ye kings!
Seven sleepers!--to the clarion hark!
How it rings, and how the fierce
dogs bark!
Shouts from out a thousand barrels whizz;
Eager steeds
are neighing for the wood,--
Soon the bristly boar rolls in his blood,--

Yours the triumph is!
But what now?--Are even princes dumb?
Tow'rd me scornful echoes
ninefold come,
Stealing through the vault's terrific gloom--
Sleep
assails the page by slow degrees,
And Madonna gives to you the keys

Of--her sleeping-room.
Not an answer--hushed and still is all--
Does the veil, then, e'en on
monarchs fall,
Which enshrouds their humble flatt'rers glance?
And
ye ask for worship in the dust,
Since the blind jade, Fate, a world has
thrust
In your purse, perchance?
And ye clatter, giant puppet troops,
Marshalled in your proudly
childish groups,
Like the juggler on the opera scene?--
Though the
sound may please the vulgar ear,
Yet the skilful, filled with sadness,
jeer
Powers so great, but mean.
Let your towering shame be hid from sight
In the garment of a
sovereign's right,
From the ambush of the throne outspring!

Tremble, though, before the voice of song
Through the purple,
vengeance will, ere long,
Strike down e'en a king!
THE SATYR AND MY MUSE.
An aged satyr sought
Around my Muse to pass,
Attempting to pay
court,
And eyed her fondly through his glass.

By Phoebus' golden torch,
By Luna's pallid light,
Around her
temple's porch
Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;
And warbled many a lay,
Her beauty's praise to sing,
And fiercely
scraped away
On his discordant fiddle-string.
With tears, too, swelled his eyes,
As large as nuts, or larger;
He
gasped forth heavy sighs,
Like music from Silenus' charger.
The Muse sat still, and played
Within her grotto fair,
And peevishly
surveyed
Signor Adonis Goatsfoot there.
"Who ever would kiss thee,
Thou ugly, dirty dunce?
Wouldst thou a
gallant be,
As Midas was Apollo once?
"Speak out, old horned boor
What charms canst thou display?

Thou'rt swarthy as a Moor,
And shaggy as a beast of prey.
"I'm by a bard adored
In far Teutonia's land;
To him, who strikes
the chord,
I'm linked in firm and loving band."
She spoke, and straightway fled
The spoiler,--he pursued her,
And,
by his passion led,
Soon caught her, shouted, and thus wooed her:
"Thou prudish one, stay, stay!
And hearken unto me!
Thy poet, I
dare say,
Repents the pledge he gave thee.
"Behold this pretty thing,--
No merit would I claim,--
Its weight I
often fling
On many a clown's back, to his shame.
"His sharpness it increases,
And spices his discourse,
Instilling
learned theses,
When mounted on his hobby-horse
"The best of songs are known,
Thanks to this heavy whip
Yet fool's
blood 'tis alone
We see beneath its lashes drip.

"This lash, then, shall be his,
If thou'lt give me a smack;
Then thou
mayest hasten, miss,
Upon thy German sweetheart's track."