The Spirit Of Discovery By Sea: Book The Third.

My heart has sighed in secret, when I thought     That the dark tide of time might one day close,     England, o'er thee, as long since it has closed     On Egypt and on Tyre: that ages hence,     From the Pacific's billowy loneliness,     Whose tract thy daring search revealed, some isle     Might rise in green-haired beauty eminent,     And like a goddess, glittering from the deep,     Hereafter sway the sceptre of domain     From pole to pole; and such as now thou art,     Perhaps NEW-HOLLAND be. For who shall say     What the OMNIPOTENT ETERNAL ONE,     That made the world, hath purposed! Thoughts like these,     Though visionary, rise; and sometimes move     A moment's sadness, when I think of thee,     My country, of thy greatness, and thy name,     Among the nations; and thy character,     Though some few spots be on thy flowing robe,     Of loveliest beauty: I have never passed     Through thy green hamlets on a summer's morn,     Nor heard thy sweet bells ring, nor seen the youths     And smiling maidens of thy villages,     Gay in their Sunday tire, but I have said,     With passing tenderness, Live, happy land,     Where the poor peasant feels his shed, though small,     An independence and a pride, that fill     His honest heart with joy, joy such as they     Who crowd the mart of men may never feel!     Such, England, is thy boast. When I have heard     The roar of ocean bursting 'round thy rocks,     Or seen a thousand thronging masts aspire,     Far as the eye could reach, from every port     Of every nation, streaming with their flags     O'er the still mirror of the conscious Thames,     Yes, I have felt a proud emotion swell     That I was British-born; that I had lived     A witness of thy glory, my most loved     And honoured country; and a silent prayer     Would rise to Heaven, that Fame and Peace, and Love     And Liberty, might walk thy vales, and sing     Their holy hymns, while thy brave arm repelled     Hostility, even as thy guardian cliffs     Repel the dash of that dread element     Which calls me, lingering on the banks of Thames,     On to my destined voyage, by the shores     Of Asia, and the wreck of cities old,     Ere yet we burst into the wilder deep     With Gama; or the huge Atlantic waste     With bold Columbus stem; or view the bounds     Of field-ice, stretching to the southern pole,     With thee, benevolent, lamented Cook!     Tyre be no more! said the ALMIGHTY voice:     But thou too, Monarch of the world,[173] whose arm     Rent the proud bulwarks of the golden queen     Of cities, throned upon her subject seas,     ART THOU TOO FALL'N?         The whole earth is at rest:     "They break forth into singing:" Lebanon     Waves all his hoary pines, and seems to say,     No feller now comes here; HELL from beneath     Is moved to meet thy coming; it stirs up     The DEAD for thee; the CHIEF ONES of the earth,     Tyre and the nations, they all speak and say,     Art thou become like us! Thy pomp brought down     E'en to the dust! The noise of viols ceased,     The worm spread under thee, the crawling worm     To cover thee! How art thou fall'n from heaven,     Son of the morning! In thy heart thou saidst,     I will ascend to Heaven; I will exalt     My throne above the stars of God! Die, die,     Blasphemer! As a carcase under foot,     Defiled and trodden, so be thou cast out!     And SHE, the great, the guilty Babel, SHE     Who smote the wasted cities, and the world     Made as a wilderness, SHE, in her turn,     Sinks to the gulf oblivious at the voice     Of HIM who sits in judgment on her crimes!     Who, o'er her palaces and buried towers,     Shall bid the owl hoot, and the bittern scream;     And on her pensile groves and pleasant shades     Pour the deep waters of forgetfulness.     On that same night, when with a cry she fell,     (Like her own mighty idol dashed to earth,)     There was a strange eclipse, and long laments     Were heard, and muttering thunders o'er the towers     Of the high palace where his wassail loud     Belshazzar kept, mocking the GOD OF HEAVEN,     And flushed with impious mirth; for BEL had left     With sullen shriek his golden shrine, and sat,     With many a gloomy apparition girt,     NISROCH and NEBO chief, in the dim sphere     Of mooned ASTORETH, whose orb now rolled     In darkness: They their earthly empire mourned;     Meantime the host of Cyrus through the night     Silent advanced more nigh; and at that hour,     In the torch-blazing hall of revelry,     The fingers of a shadowy hand distinct     Came forth, and unknown figures marked the wall,     Searing the eye-balls of the starting king:     Tyre is avenged; Babel is fall'n, is fall'n!     Bel and her gods are shattered!         PRINCE, to thee     Called by the voice of God to execute     His will on earth, and raised to Persia's throne,     CYRUS, all hearts pay homage. Touched with tints     Most clear by the historian's magic art,     Thy features wear a gentleness and grace     Unlike the stern cold aspect and the frown     Of the dark chiefs of yore, the gloomy clan     Of heroes, from humanity and love     Removed: To thee a brighter character     Belongs, high dignity, unbending truth,     Yet Nature; not that lordly apathy     Which confidence and human sympathy     Represses, but a soul that bids all hearts     Smiling approach. We almost burn in thought     To kiss the hand that loosed Panthea's chains,     And bless him with a parent's, husband's tear,     Who stood a guardian angel in distress     To the unfriended, and the beautiful,     Consigned a helpless slave. Thy portrait, touched     With tints of softest light, thus wins all hearts     To love thee; but severer policy,     Cyrus, pronounces otherwise: she hears     No stir of commerce on the sullen marge     Of waters that along thy empire's verge     Beat cheerless; no proud moles arise; no ships,     Freighted with Indian wealth, glide o'er the main     From cape to cape. But on the desert sands     Hurtles thy numerous host, seizing, in thought     Rapacious, the rich fields of Hindostan,     As the poor savage fells the blooming tree     To gain its tempting fruit; but woe the while!     For in the wilderness the noise is lost     Of all thy archers; they have ceased; the wind     Blows o'er them, and the voice of judgment cries:     So perish they who grasp with avarice     Another's blessed portion, and disdain     That interchange of mutual good, that crowns     The slow, sure toil of commerce.         It was thine,     Immortal son of Macedon! to hang     In the high fane of maritime renown     The fairest trophies of thy fame, and shine,     THEN only like a god, when thy great mind     Swayed in its master council the deep tide     Of things, predestining th' eventful roll     Of commerce, and uniting either world,     Europe and Asia, in thy vast design.     Twas when the victor, in his proud career,     O'er ravaged Hindostan, had now advanced     Beyond Hydaspes; on the flowery banks     Of Hyphasis, with banners thronged, his camp     Was spread. On high he bade the altars rise,     The awful records to succeeding years     Of his long march of glory, and to point     The spot where, like the thunder rolled away,     His army paused. Now shady eve came down;     The trumpet sounded to the setting sun,     That looked from his illumed pavilion, calm     Upon the scene of arms, as if, all still,     And lovely as his parting light, the world     Beneath him spread; nor clangours, nor deep groans,     Were heard, nor victory's shouts, nor sighs, nor shrieks,     Were ever wafted from a bleeding land,     After the havoc of a conqueror's sword.     So calm the sun declined; when from the woods,     That shone to his last beam, a Brahmin old     Came forth. His streaming beard shone in the ray,     That slanted o'er his feeble frame; his front     Was furrowed. To the sun's last light he cast     A look of sorrow, then in silence bowed     Before the conqueror of the world. At once     All, as in death, was still. The victor chief     Trembled, he knew not why; the trumpet ceased     Its clangor, and the crimson streamer waved     No more in folds insulting to the Lord     Of the reposing world. The pallid front     Of the meek man seemed for a moment calm,     Yet dark and thronging thoughts appeared to swell     His beating heart. He paused, and then abrupt:     Victor, avaunt! he cried,     Hence! and the banners of thy pride     Bear to the deep! Behold on high     Yon range of mountains mingled with the sky!         It is the place     Where the great Father of the human race     Rested, when all the world and all its sounds     Ceased; and the ocean that surrounds     The earth, leaped from its dark abode     Beneath the mountains, and enormous flowed,     The green earth deluging! List, soldier, list!     And dread His might no mortal may resist.     Great Bramah rested, hushed in sleep,     When Hayagraiva[174] came,     With mooned horns and eyes of flame,     And bore the holy Vedas[175] to the deep.     Far from the sun's rejoicing ray,     Beneath the huge abyss, the buried treasures lay.     Then foamed the billowy desert wide,     And all that breathed, they died,     Sunk in the rolling waters: such the crime     And violence of earth. But he above,     Great Vishnu, moved with pitying love,     Preserved the pious king, whose ark sublime     Floated, in safety borne:     For his stupendous horn,     Blazing like gold, and many a rood     Extended o'er the dismal flood,     The precious freight sustained, till on the crest     Of Himakeel,[176] yon mountain high,     That darkly mingles with the sky,     Where many a griffin roams, the hallowed ark found rest.     And Heaven decrees that here     Shall cease thy slaughtering spear:     Enough we bleed, enough we weep,     Hence, victor, to the deep!     Ev'n now along the tide     I see thy ships triumphant ride:     I see the world of trade emerge     From ocean's solitude! What fury fires     My breast! The flood, the flood retires,[177]     And owns its future sovereign! Urge     Thy destined way; what countless pennants stream!     (Or is it but the shadow of a dream?)     Ev'n now old Indus hails     Thy daring prows in long array,     That o'er the lone seas gliding,     Around the sea-gods riding,     Speed to Euphrates' shores their destined way.     Fill high the bowl of mirth!     From west to east the earth     Proclaims thee Lord; shall the blue main     Confine thy reign?     But tremble, tyrant; hark in many a ring,     With language dread     Above thy head,     The dark Assoors[178] thy death-song sing.     What mortal blow     Hath laid the king of nations low?     No hand: his own despair.     But shout, for the canvas shall swell to the air,     Thy ships explore     Unknown Persia's winding shore,     While the great dragon rolls his arms in vain.     And see, uprising from the level main,     A new and glorious city springs;     Hither speed thy woven wings,     That glance along the azure tide;     Asia and Europe own thy might;     The willing seas of either world unite:     Thy name shall consecrate the sands,     And glittering to the sky the mart of nations stands.     He spoke, and rushed into the thickest wood.     With flashing eyes the impatient monarch cried,     Yes, by the Lybian Ammon and the gods     Of Greece, thou bid'st me on, the self-same track     My spirit pointed; and, let death betide,     My name shall live in glory!         At his word     The pines descend; the thronging masts aspire;     The novel sails swell beauteous o'er the curves     Of INDUS; to the Moderators' song[179]     The oars keep time, while bold Nearchus guides     Aloft the gallies. On the foremost prow     The monarch from his golden goblet pours     A full libation to the gods, and calls     By name the mighty rivers, through whose course     He seeks the sea. To Lybian Ammon loud     The songs ascend; the trumpets bray; aloft     The streamers fly, whilst on the evening wave     Majestic to the main the fleet descends.