The Spirit Of Discovery By Sea: Book The Fourth.

Stand on the gleaming Pharos,[1] and aloud     Shout, Commerce, to the kingdoms of the earth;     Shout, for thy golden portals are set wide,     And all thy streamers o'er the surge, aloft,     In pomp triumphant wave. The weary way     That pale Nearchus passed, from creek to creek     Advancing slow, no longer bounds the track     Of the adventurous mariner, who steers     Steady, with eye intent upon the stars,     To Elam's echoing port. Meantime, more high     Aspiring, o'er the Western main her towers     Th' imperial city lifts, the central mart     Of nations, and beneath the calm clear sky,     At distance from the palmy marge, displays     Her clustering columns, whitening to the morn.     Damascus' fleece, Golconda's gems, are there.     Murmurs the haven with one ceaseless hum;     The hurrying camel's bell, the driver's song,     Along the sands resound. Tyre, art thou fall'n?     A prouder city crowns the inland sea,     Raised by his hand who smote thee; as if thus     His mighty mind were swayed to recompense     The evil of his march through cities stormed,     And regions wet with blood! and still had flowed     The tide of commerce through the destined track,     Traced by his mind sagacious, who surveyed     The world he conquered with a sage's eye,     As with a soldier's spirit; but a scene     More awful opens: ancient world, adieu!     Adieu, cloud-piercing pillars, erst its bounds;     And thou, whose aged head once seemed to prop     The heavens, huge Atlas, sinking fast, adieu!     What though the seas with wilder fury rave,     Through their deserted realm; though the dread Cape,[2]     Sole-frowning o'er the war of waves below,     That bar the seaman's search, horrid in air     Appear with giant amplitude; his head     Shrouded in clouds, the tempest at his feet,     And standing thus terrific, seem to say,     Incensed, Approach who dare! What though the fears     Of superstition people the vexed space     With spirits unblessed, that lamentations make     To the sad surge beyond, yet Enterprise,     Not now a darkling Cyclop on the sands     Striding, but led by Science, and advanced     To a more awful height, on the wide scene     Looks down commanding.     Does a shuddering thought     Of danger start, as the tumultuous sea     Tosses below! Calm Science, with a smile,     Displays the wondrous index, that still points,     With nice vibration tremulous, to the Pole.     And such, she whispers, is the just man's hope     In this tempestuous scene of human things;     Even as the constant needle to the North     Still points; so Piety and meek-eyed Faith     Direct, though trembling oft, their constant gaze     Heavenward, as to their lasting home, nor fear     The night, fast closing on their earthly way.     And guided by this index, thou shall pass     The world of seas secure. Far from all land,     Where not a sea-bird wanders; where nor star,     Nor moon appears, nor the bright noonday sun,     Safe in the wildering storm, as when the breeze     Of summer gently blows; through day, through night,     Where sink the well-known stars, and others rise     Slow from the South, the victor bark shall ride.     Henry! thy ardent mind first pierced the gloom     Of dark disastrous ignorance, that sat     Upon the Southern wave, like the deep cloud     That lowered upon the woody skirts, and veiled     From mortal search, with umbrage ominous,     Madeira's unknown isle. But look! the morn     Is kindled on the shadowy offing; streaks     Of clear cold light on Sagres' battlements     Are cast, where Henry watches, listening still     To the unwearied surge; and turning still     His anxious eyes to the horizon's bounds.     A sail appears; it swells, it shines: more high     Seen through the dusk it looms; and now the hull     Is black upon the surge, whilst she rolls on     Aloft, the weather-beaten ship, and now     Streams by the watch-tower!     Zarco,[3] from the deep     What tidings?     The loud storm of night prevailed,     And swept our vessel from Bojador's rocks     Far out to sea; a sylvan isle[4] received     Our sails; so willed the ALMIGHTY, He who speaks,     And all the waves are still!      Hail, HENRY cried,     The omen: we have burst the sole barrier,     (Prosper our wishes, Father of the world!)     We speed to Asia.         Soon upon the deep     The brave ship speeds again. Bojador's rocks     Arise at distance, frowning o'er the surf,     That boils for many a league without. Its course     The ship holds on; till lo! the beauteous isle,     That shielded late the sufferers from the storm,     Springs o'er the wave again. Here they refresh     Their wasted strength, and lift their vows to Heaven,     But Heaven denies their further search; for ah!     What fearful apparition, palled in clouds,     For ever sits upon the Western wave,     Like night, and in its strange portentous gloom     Wrapping the lonely waters, seems the bounds     Of Nature? Still it sits, day after day,     The same mysterious vision. Holy saints!     Is it the dread abyss where all things cease?     Or haply hid from mortal search, thine isle,     Cipango, and that unapproached seat     Of peace, where rest the Christians whom the hate     Of Moorish pride pursued? Whate'er it be,     Zarco, thy holy courage bids thee on     To burst the gloom, though dragons guard the shore,[5]     Or beings more than mortal pace the sands.     The favouring gales invite; the bowsprit bears     Right onward to the fearful shade; more black     The cloudy spectre towers; already fear     Shrinks at the view aghast and breathless. Hark!     'Twas more than the deep murmur of the surge     That struck the ear; whilst through the lurid gloom     Gigantic phantoms seem to lift in air     Their misty arms; yet, yet, bear boldly on,     The mist dissolves; seen through the parting haze,     Romantic rocks, like the depictured clouds,     Shine out; beneath a blooming wilderness     Of varied wood is spread, that scents the air;     Where fruits of "golden rind," thick interspersed     And pendent, through the mantling umbrage gleam     Inviting. Cypress here, and stateliest pine,     Spire o'er the nether shades, as emulous     Of sole distinction where all nature smiles.     Some trees, in sunny glades alone their head     And graceful stem uplifting, mark below     The turf with shadow; whilst in rich festoons     The flowery lianes braid their boughs; meantime     Choirs of innumerous birds of liveliest song     And brightest plumage, flitting through the shades,     With nimble glance are seen; they, unalarmed,     Now near in airy circles sing, then speed     Their random flight back to their sheltering bowers,     Whose silence, broken only by their song,     From the foundation of this busy world,     Perhaps had never echoed to the voice,     Or heard the steps, of Man. What rapture fired     The strangers' bosoms, as from glade to glade     They passed, admiring all, and gazing still     With new delight! 'Tis solitude around;     Deep solitude, that on the gloom of woods     Primval fearful hangs: a green recess     Now opens in the wilderness; gay flowers     Of unknown name purple the yielding sward;     The ring-dove murmurs o'er their head, like one     Attesting tenderest joy; but mark the trees,     Where, slanting through the gloom, the sunshine rests!     Beneath, a moss-grown monument appears,     O'er which the green banana gently waves     Its long leaf; and an aged cypress near     Leans, as if listening to the streamlet's sound,     That gushes from the adverse bank; but pause,     Approach with reverence! Maker of the world,     There is a Christian's cross! and on the stone     A name, yet legible amid its moss,     Anna!     In that remote, sequestered spot,     Shut as it seemed from all the world, and lost     In boundless seas, to trace a name, to mark     The emblems of their holy faith, from all     Drew tears; while every voice faintly pronounced,     Anna! But thou, loved harp! whose strings have rung     To louder tones, oh! let my hand, awhile,     The wires more softly touch, whilst I rehearse     Her name and fate, who in this desert deep,     Far from the world, from friends, and kindred, found     Her long and last abode; there where no eye     Might shed a tear on her remains; no heart     Sigh in remembrance of her fate:         She left     The Severn's side, and fled with him she loved     O'er the wide main; for he had told her tales     Of happiness in distant lands, where care     Comes not; and pointing to the golden clouds     That shone above the waves, when evening came,     Whispered, Oh, are there not sweet scenes of peace,     Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart,     Where gold alone bears sway, scenes of delight,     Where love may lay his head upon the lap     Of innocence, and smile at all the toil     Of the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth     Their only bliss! Yes, there are scenes like these.     Leave the vain chidings of the world behind,     Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me     Where love and peace in distant vales invite.     What wouldst thou here! Oh, shall thy beauteous look     Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes     Of tenderness and soft subdued desire,     Thy form, thy limbs, oh, madness! be the prey     Of a decrepit spoiler, and for gold?     Perish his treasure with him. Haste with me;     We shall find out some sylvan nook, and then,     If thou shouldst sometimes think upon these hills,     When they are distant far, and drop a tear,     Yes, I will kiss it from thy cheek, and clasp     Thy angel beauties closer to my breast;     And whilst the winds blow o'er us, and the sun     Sinks beautifully down, and thy soft cheek     Reclines on mine, I will infold thee thus,     And proudly cry, My friend, my love, my wife!     So tempted he, and soon her heart approved,     Nay wooed, the blissful dream; and oft at eve,     When the moon shone upon the wandering stream,     She paced the castle's battlements, that threw     Beneath their solemn shadow, and, resigned     To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet     To wander o'er the world with him she loved.     Nor was his birth ignoble, for he shone     'Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reign:     With countenance erect, and honest eye     Commanding (yet suffused in tenderness     At times), and smiles that like the lightning played     On his brown cheek, so gently stern he stood,     Accomplished, generous, gentle, brave, sincere,     Robert a Machin. But the sullen pride     Of haughty D'Arfet scorned all other claim     To his high heritage, save what the pomp     Of amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave.     Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks     One loved, one honoured object, wealth alone     He worshipped; and for this he could consign     His only child, his aged hope, to loathed     Embraces, and a life of tears! Nor here     His hard ambition ended; for he sought,     By secret whispers of conspiracies,     His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift     His arm avenging, and upon a youth     Of promise close the dark forgotten gates     Of living sepulture, and in the gloom     Inhume the slowly-wasting victim.         So     He purposed, but in vain; the ardent youth     Rescued her, her whom more than life he loved,     Ev'n when the horrid day of sacrifice     Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark,     And while he kissed a stealing tear that fell     On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined     Her head upon his breast, with ardour cried,     Be mine, be only mine! the hour invites;     Be mine, be only mine! So won, she cast     A look of last affection on the towers     Where she had passed her infant days, that now     Shone to the setting sun. I follow thee,     Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air     A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her feet     Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides     Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades,     Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot     Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose,     Is lost; a tear starts to her eye, she thinks     Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend,     When he speaks nothing, but be all, like death,     Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze,     And oh! that now some fairy pinnace light     Might flit across the wave (by no seen power     Directed, save when Love upon the prow     Gathered or spread with tender hand the sail),     That now some fairy pinnace, o'er the surge     Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft     The passengers upon the conscious flood     To regions bright of undisturbed joy!         But hark!     The wind is in the shrouds; the cordage sings     With fitful violence; the blast now swells,     Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the further wave,     Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath     The veering bowsprit.         Oh, retire to rest,     Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose cheek     Turn pale to see another thus exposed!     Hark! the deep thunder louder peals, Oh, save!     The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm     Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye,     Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view     Green Erin's hills aspiring!         The sad morn     Comes forth; but terror on the sunless wave     Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles     Beneath the flash that through the struggling clouds     Bursts frequent, half revealing his scathed front,     Above the rocking of the waste that rolls     Boundless around.     No word through the long day     She spoke; another slowly came; no word     The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun     Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge,     And cheerless rose again: Ah, where are now     Thy havens, France! But yet, resign not yet,     Ye lost seafarers, oh, resign not yet     All hope, the storm is passed; the drenched sail     Shines in the passing beam! Look up, and say,     Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers!         And lo! scarce seen,     A distant dusky spot appears; they reach     An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales,     And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams,     Shine forth; a Paradise, which Heaven alone,     Who saw the silent anguish of despair,     Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves.     They gain the haven; through untrodden scenes,     Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man     Since first the earth arose, they wind. The voice     Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet,     As waving woods retired, or falling streams,     Can make; most soothing to the weary heart,     Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate,     And wearied long with watchings and with grief,     Seek but a place of safety. All things here     Whisper repose and peace; the very birds     That 'mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes,     The songsters of the lonely valley, sing,     Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us.     The wild wood opens, and a shady glen     Appears, embowered with mantling laurels high,     That sloping shade the flowery valley's side;     A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays     Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves,     Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain,     It glances light along its yellow bed;     The shaggy inmates of the forest lick     The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.     A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade     Its trembling top; and there upon the bank     They rest them, while each heart o'erflows with joy.     Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet,     Came down: a softer sound the circling seas,     The ancient woods resounded, while the dove,     Her murmurs interposing, tenderness     Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts     Of those who, severed wide from human kind,     Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed,     Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon     Arose, they saw it not, cheek was to cheek     Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear     Witnessed how blissful was that hour, that seemed     Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss     Stole on the listening silence; ne'er till now     Here heard; they trembled, ev'n as if the Power     That made the world, that planted the first pair     In Paradise, amid the garden walked:     This since the fairest garden that the world     Has witnessed, by the fabling sons of Greece     Hesperian named, who feigned the watchful guard     Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit.     Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here     The loveliest pair, from a hard world remote,     Upon each other's neck reclined; their breath     Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high     Her plaint; and tenderly their faithful arms     Infolded each the other.         Thou, dim cloud,     That from the search of men these beauteous vales     Hast closed, oh, doubly veil them! But alas,     How short the dream of human transport! Here,     In vain they built the leafy bower of love,     Or culled the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit.     The hours unheeded stole! but ah, not long,     Again the hollow tempest of the night     Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods resound;     Slow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail     Along the rocking of the windy waste     Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave     Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss,     Poor victims! never more shall ye behold     Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child!     Who, listening to the voice of love, hast left     Thy friends, thy country, oh, may the wan hue     Of pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eye     Where tenderness yet dwells, atone (if love     Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong     Beset), atone ev'n now thy rash resolves!     Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day, thy bloom     Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye     Is dimmed: thy form, amid creation, seems     The only drooping thing.         Thy look was soft,     And yet most animated, and thy step     Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now,     Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree     That fanned its joyous leaves above thy head,     Where love had decked the blooming bower, and strewn     The sweets of summer: DEATH is on thy cheek,     And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns     Of him, who, agonised and hopeless, hangs     With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight,     She faints, she dies!         He laid her in the earth,     Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb     Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined,     Placed the last tribute of his earthly love.     Inscription For The Grave Of Anna D'Arfet.     O'er my poor ANNA'S lowly grave     No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring;     But angels, as the high pines wave,     Their half-heard "Miserere" sing.     No flowers of transient bloom at eve     The maidens on the turf shall strew;     Nor sigh, as the sad spot they leave,     Sweets to the sweet! a long adieu!     But in this wilderness profound,     O'er her the dove shall build her nest;     And ocean swell with softer sound     A requiem to her dreams of rest!     Ah! when shall I as quiet be,     When not a friend, or human eye,     Shall mark beneath the mossy tree     The spot where we forgotten lie!     To kiss her name on the cold stone,     Is all that now on earth I crave;     For in this world I am alone,     Oh, lay me with her in the grave!     Robert A Machin, 1344.     Miserere nobis, Domine.     He placed the rude inscription on her stone,     Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon     Himself beside it sunk, yet ere he died,     Faintly he spoke: If ever ye shall hear,     Companions of my few and evil days,     Again the convent's vesper bells, oh! think     Of me; and if in after-times the search     Of men should reach this far removed spot,     Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine,     And virgin choirs chaunt duly o'er our grave:     Peace, peace! His arm upon the mournful stone     He dropped; his eyes, ere yet in death they closed,     Turned to the name, till he could see no more     ANNA. His pale survivors, earth to earth,     Weeping consigned his poor remains, and placed     Beneath the sod where all he loved was laid.     Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods,     They sought their country o'er the waves, and left     Those scenes once more to deepest solitude.     The beauteous ponciana hung its head     O'er the gray stone; but never human eye     Had mark'd the spot, or gazed upon the grave     Of the unfortunate, but for the voice     Of ENTERPRISE, that spoke, from Sagre's towers,     Through ocean's perils, storms, and unknown wastes,     Speed we to Asia!     Here, Discovery, pause!     Then from the tomb of him who first was cast     Upon this Heaven-appointed isle, thy gaze     Uplift, and far beyond the Cape of Storms     Pursue De Gama's tract. Mark the rich shores     Of Madagascar, till the purple East     Shines in luxuriant beauty wide disclosed.     But cease thy song, presumptuous Muse! a bard,     In tones whose patriot sound shall never die,     Has struck his deep shell, and the glorious theme     Recorded.         Say, what lofty meed awaits     The triumph of his victor conch, that swells     Its music on the yellow Tagus' side,     As when Arion, with his glittering harp     And golden hair, scarce sullied from the main,     Bids all the high rocks listen to his voice     Again! Alas, I see an aged form,     An old man worn by penury, his hair     Blown white upon his haggard cheek, his hand     Emaciated, yet the strings with thrilling touch     Soliciting; but the vain crowds pass by:     His very countrymen, whose fame his song     Has raised to heaven, in stately apathy     Wrapped up, and nursed in pride's fastidious lap,     Regard not. As he plays, a sable man     Looks up, but fears to speak, and when the song     Has ceased, kisses his master's feeble hand.     Is that cold wasted hand, that haggard look,     Thine, Camoens? Oh, shame upon the world!     And is there none, none to sustain thee found,     But he, himself unfriended, who so far     Has followed, severed from his native isles,     To scenes of gorgeous cities, o'er the sea,     Thee and thy broken fortunes!         GOD of worlds!     Oh, whilst I hail the triumph and high boast     Of social life, let me not wrong the sense     Of kindness, planted in the human heart     By man's great Maker, therefore I record     Antonio's faithful, gentle, generous love     To his heartbroken master, that might teach,     High as it bears itself, a polished world     More charity.     DISCOVERY, turn thine eyes!     COLUMBUS' toiling ship is on the deep,     Stemming the mid Atlantic.         Waste and wild     The view! On the same sunshine o'er the waves     The murmuring mariners, with languid eye,     Ev'n till the heart is sick, gaze day by day!     At midnight in the wind sad voices sound!     When the slow morning o'er the offing dawns,     Heartless they view the same drear weltering waste     Of seas: and when the sun again goes down     Silent, hope dies within them, and they think     Of parting friendship's last despairing look!     See too, dread prodigy, the needle veers     Her trembling point, will Heaven forsake them too!     But lift thy sunk eye, and thy bloodless look,     Despondence! Milder airs at morning breathe:     Below the slowly-parting prow the sea     Is dark with weeds; and birds of land are seen     To wing the desert tract, as hasting on     To the green valleys of their distant home.     Yet morn succeeds to morn, and nought around     Is seen, but dark weeds floating many a league,     The sun's sole orb, and the pale hollowness     Of heaven's high arch streaked with the early clouds.     Watchman, what from the giddy mast?         A shade     Appears on the horizon's hazy line.     Land! land! aloud is echoed; but the spot     Fades as the shouting crew delighted gaze,     It fades, and there is nothing, nothing now     But the blue sky, the clouds, and surging seas!     As one who, in the desert, faint with thirst,     Upon the trackless and forsaken sands     Sinks dying; him the burning haze deceives,     As mocking his last torments, while it seems,     To his distempered vision, like th' expanse     Of lucid waters cool: so falsely smiles     Th' illusive land upon the water's edge,     To the long-straining eye showing what seems     Its headlands and its distant trending shores;     But all is false, and like the pensive dream     Of poor imagination, 'mid the waves     Of troubled life, decked with unreal hues,     And ending soon in emptiness and tears.     'Tis midnight, and the thoughtful chief, retired     From the vexed crowd, in his still cabin hears     The surge that rolls below; he lifts his eyes,     And casts a silent anxious look without.     It is a light, great God, it is a light!     It moves upon the shore! Land, there is land!     He spoke in secret, and a tear of joy     Stole down his cheek, when on his knees he fell.     Thou, who hast been his guardian in wastes     Of the hoar deep, accept his tears, his prayers;     While thus he fondly hopes the purer light     Of thy great truths on the benighted world     Shall beam!     The lingering night is past; the sun     Shines out, while now the red-cross streamers wave     High up the gently-surging bay. From all     Shouts, songs, and rapturous thanksgiving loud,     Burst forth: Another world, entranced they cry,     Another living world! Awe-struck and mute     The gazing natives stand, and drop their spears,     In homage to the gods!     So from the deep     They hail emerging; sight more awful far     Than ever yet the wondering voyager     Greeted; the prospect of a new-found world,     Now from the night of dark uncertainty     At once revealed in living light!         How beats     The heart! What thronging thoughts awake! Whence sprung     The roaming nations? From that ancient race     That peopled Asia, Noah's sons? How, then,     Passed they the long and lone expanse between     Of stormy ocean, from the elder earth     Cut off, and lost, for unknown ages, lost     In the vast deep? But whilst the awful view     Stands in thy sight revealed, Spirit, awake     To prouder energies! Even now, in thought,     I see thee opening bold Magellan's tract![6]     The straits are passed! Thou, as the seas expand,     Pausest a moment, when beneath thine eye     Blue, vast, and rocking, through its boundless rule,     The long Pacific stretches. Nor here cease     Thy search, but with De Quiros[7] to the South     Still urge thy way, if yet some continent     Stretch to its dusky pole, with nations spread,     Forests, and hills, and streams.         So be thy search     With ampler views rewarded, till, at length,     Lo, the round world is compassed! Then return     Back to the bosom of the tranquil Thames,     And hail Britannia's victor ship,[8] that now     From many a storm restored, winds its slow way     Silently up the current, and so finds,     Like to a time-worn pilgrim of the world,     Rest, in that haven where all tempests cease.