A PRIZE POEM RECITED IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, IN THE YEAR MDCCCXII.
Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky?
Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry?
In settled majesty of calm disdain,
Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain,
The heav'nly Archer stands-no human birth,
No perishable denizen of earth;
Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face,
A God in strength, with more than godlike grace;
All, all divine-no struggling muscle glows,
Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows,
But animate with deity alone,
In deathless glory lives the breathing stone.
Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight,
His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight;
Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire,
And his lip quivers with insulting ire:
Firm fix'd his tread, yet light, as when on high
He walks th' impalpable and pathless sky:
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind,
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold,
Proud to display that form of faultless mould.
Mighty Ephesian! with an eagle's flight
Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light,
View'd the bright conclave of Heaven's blest abode,
And the cold marble leapt to life a God:
Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran,
And nations bow'd before the work of man.
For mild he seem'd, as in Elysian bowers,
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours;
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeds of day;
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep.
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep,
'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove,
Too fair to worship, too divine to love.
Yet on that form in wild delirious trance
With more than rev'rence gazed the Maid of France; Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood
With him alone, nor thought it solitude!
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care,
Her one fond hope--to perish of despair.
Oft as the shifting light her sight beguiled,
Blushing she shrunk, and thought the marble smiled:
Oft breathless list'ning heard, or seem'd to hear,
A voice of music melt upon her ear.
Slowly she waned, and cold and senseless grown,
Closed her dim eyes, herself benumb'd to stone.
Yet love in death a sickly strength supplied:
Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled and died.
CHORUS OF BABYLONIANS BEFORE THE PALACE.
Awake! awake! put on thy garb of pride,
Array thee like a sumptuous royal bride,
O festal Babylon!
Lady, whose ivory throne
Is by the side of many azure waters!
In floating dance, like birds upon the wing,
Send tinkling forth thy silver-sandal'd daughters;
Send in the solemn march,
Beneath each portal arch,
Thy rich-robed lords to crowd the banquet of their King.
They come! they come from both the illumined shores;
Down each long street the festive tumult pours;
Along the waters dark
Shoots many a gleaming bark,
Like stars along the midnight welkin flashing,
And galleys, with their masts enwreath'd with light,
From their quick oars the kindling waters dashing;
In one long moving line
Along the bridge they shine,
And with their glad disturbance wake the peaceful night.
Hang forth, hang forth, in all your avenues,
The arching lamps of more than rainbow hues,
O, gardens of delight!
With the cool airs of night
Are lightly waved your silver-foliaged trees,
The deep-embower'd yet glowing blaze prolong
Height above height the lofty terraces;
Seeing this new day-break,
The nestling birds awake,
The nightingale hath hush'd her sweet untimely song.
Lift up, lift up your golden-valved doors,
Spread to the glittering dance your marble floors,
Palace! whose spacious halls,
And far-receding walls,
Are hung with purple like the morning skies;
And all the living luxuries of sound
Pour from the long outstretching galleries;
Down every colonnade
The sumptuous board is laid,
With golden cups and lamps and bossy chargers crown'd. They haste, they haste! the high-crown'd rulers stand, Each with his sceptre in his kingly hand;
The bearded Elders sage,
Though pale with thought and age;
Those through whose bounteous and unfailing hands
The tributary streams of treasure flow
From the rich bounds of earth's remotest lands;
All but the pomp and pride
Chaldea's captains stand in many a glittering row.
They glide, they glide! each, like an antelope,
Bounding in beauty on a sunny slope,
With full and speaking eyes,
And graceful necks that rise
O'er snowy bosoms in their emulous pride,
The chosen of earth's choicest loveliness;
Some with the veil thrown timidly aside,
Some boastful and elate
In their majestic state
Whose bridal bed Belshazzar's self hath deign'd to bless.
Come forth, come forth, and crown the peerless feast,
Thou whose high birthright was the effulgent east!
On th' ivory seat alone,
Monarch of Babylon,
Survey th' interminable wilderness
Of splendour, stretching far beyond the sight;
Nought but thy presence wants there now to bless:
The music waits for thee,
Transcending glory thou of this thrice-glorious night!
Behold! behold! each gem-crown'd forehead proud
And every plume and crested helm is bow'd,
Each high-arch'd vault along
Breaks out the blaze of song,
Belshazzar comes! nor Bel, when he returns
From riding on his stormy thunder-cloud,
To where his bright celestial palace burns,
Alights with loftier tread,
More full of stately dread,
While under his fix'd feet the loaded skies are bow'd.
Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is He?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing limb,
By the flesh with scourges torn,
By the crown of twisted thorn,
By the side so deeply pierced,
By the baffled burning thirst,
By the drooping death-dew'd brow,
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!
Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the sun at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,
By earth that trembles at His doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died
To the felon at His side,
Lord! our suppliant knees we bow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!
Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He?
By the last and bitter cry
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chamber of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep;
Crucified! we know Thee now;
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!
Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the prayer for them that slew,
"Lord! they know not what they do!"
By the spoil'd and empty grave,
By the souls He died to save,
By the conquest He hath won,
By the saints before His throne,
By the rainbow round His brow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!
HYMN FOR THE SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.
The chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll on fire
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire:
Self-moving it drives on its pathway of cloud,
And the heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bow'd.
The glory! the glory! by myriads are pour'd
The hosts of the angels to wait on their Lord,
And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there,
And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear.
The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard: Lo the depths of the stone-cover'd charnel are stirr'd : From the sea, from the land, from the south and the north,
The vast generations of man are come forth.
The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the Lamb and the white-vested elders are met!
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on His word!
Oh mercy! oh mercy! look down from above,
Creator! on us thy sad children, with love!
When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven!
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