Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.
By The SleeperJohn Neal (1793–1876)
I
Of waters far below me. On the shore
A warrior-ship, with all her banners torn,
Her broad sails flying loose, lay overborne
By tumbling surges. She had swept the main,
Braved the loud thunder—stood the hurricane;
To be, when all her danger was o’erpast,
Upon her native shore, in wreck and ruin cast.
Struck—with his heart in flower;
Wreck’d—with his bright wings all outspread,
In his descent,
From that forbidden firmament,
O’er which he went,
Like some Archangel in his power:
Below my weary eyes;
While overhead there roll’d away
The everlasting skies:
Emerging from the distant blue,
Like spirits from the summer deep,—
Then, wheeling slowly, one by one,
All disappearing in the sun,
They left me—and I fell asleep:
And by, an armed angel flew,
With tresses all on fire, and wings of color’d flame:
And then the thunder broke
About me, and I woke—
And heard a voice above proclaim
The warrior-poet’s name!
The island bard! that came
Far from his home, to die
In martyrdom to Liberty:
Above me roll’d a Grecian sky;
Around me Grecian isles were spread,
O’erpeopled with great shadowy dead,
Assembled there to celebrate
Some awful rite:
Again the iron trump was blown
With overpowering might;
And lo! upon a rocky throne,
Appear’d a dead man that I knew;
His hair unbound, his forehead wet with dew,
And then the angel, standing o’er him, said
This incantation, with her wings outspread.
Bard of the ocean, wake!
The midnight skies
Of solid blue,
That roll away above thee, shed
O’er thy unshelter’d head
A most untimely dew!
Wake, Sleeper, wake!
Arise!
And from thy marble forehead shake
The shadow of the dead!
Arise! Arise!
Thou last of all the Giants! Tear
Thy silken robes away—
Shake off the wine-dew from thy hair—
The crush’d and faded roses there,
And let it play,
A glittering shadow on the air,—
Like the young Spartan’s when he set
His foot—and met
The Persian in array:
Stand up and take
Thy natural shape upon thee! bare
Thy bosom to the winds that blow—
Not over bowers,
Heavy with scented flowers—
But over drifted snow;
Not o’er the perfumed earth,
Sweltering in moonlight rain,
Where even the blossoms that have birth.
Breathe on the heavens a stain—
But o’er the rude,
Cold Grecian solitude:
Dark as Egyptian skies,
Where men may read their destinies!
Up! in thy golden panoply complete
Transfigured—all prepared to meet
The Moslem foe!
Untroubled by the sounds that fill
Thy agitated air!
Thy forehead set—
Thy bosom wet—
Still undisturbed!
Thy proud lip curb’d—
The death-dew on thy hair!
Thou man of power! to break
The thraldom of the nations—wake!
Arise!
The heathen are upon thee! Lo, they come
Without a flute, or bell, or drum,
Silent as death,
Holding their breath;
Appall’d—
Like them of old, that crept
On the shorn Samson, while he slept,
In their barbarian power afraid
Of one—a woman had betray’d!
Or, like the pirate-band that stole
The sleeping God of wine;
Each, as he came, through all his soul,
Thrilling with awe divine,—
An armed multitude, to take
A giant by surprise:
The awful sky
Is full of lamentation—all the air
With sweet, remote,
Low sounds, afloat—
And solemn trumpeting and prayer.
And lo!
The waters of the mountain lake
O’ershadow’d by the flowery wood,
Tremble and shake—
And change their hue
Of quiet blue,
As if they felt a spirit go
O’er their transparent solitude:
With one continual throe,—
The green earth is wet
With a fragrant sweat,
Like the fine small dew,
That filters through
Rich moss, by the foot subdued;
And the olive trees there
Their blossoms throw
On the motionless air,
Like a shower of snow,
Perpetually—
Trembling as if they felt the tread
Of the stout invisible dead—
The buried nations of all the earth—
All struggling upward into birth,
To subterranean melody:
Unarm’d with helm, or sword, or spear,
Or buckler, guard, or shield;
A band of giants! on they go,
Each—by himself—to meet the foe,
Alone in yonder field:
Three hundred Spartan shadows they
I know them by their flying hair,
Rejoicing as it floats away,
A lustre on the troubled air:
Behold! they gather round
The marble Sleeper, where he lies
Reposing on the scented ground,—
His head with dripping roses bound—
A shadow in his eyes:
With sorrow in each noble face,
The print of naked feet about the holy place:
Awake! awake!
Thou sleeping warrior-Bard! O break
Thy trance profound!
The Spartans are about thee—
They will not go without thee—
Awake!
They claim thee for the last
Of all that valiant race;
The Grecians of the past,—
To whom the battle and the chase,
The war-ship tumbling to the blast,
The stormy night,
The thunder and the fight,
Were pastime and repose?
Up, then, and take thy stand
Amid the shadowy band!
Outspread thy banner o’er them,
Go, as thou should’st, before them;
Hear thou their call,
Awake! and fall
Like the bright thunder on their foes!
Where’er thou art—
Strike down the infidel, and put
Thy mailed hand upon thy slumbering heart,
Or on the nearest altar, where,
Unstain’d with revel, blood, or wine,
Stands many an everlasting shrine,
Wrapp’d in perpetual cloud,
For ever echoing loud,
And sounding to the mountain air,
With voices wild, remote, and high,
Like fanes of ancient prophecy—
Built by the cherubim, of solid rock,
Into the broad blue heaven—to mock
The thunder and the Moslem shock—
The armies of the earth and sky!
Of steadfast eye,
And cold, intrepid brow,
Whose marble amplitude
Is frightful now,
There is thy place of worship—there!
And this the hour!
Go up, thou Sleeper! go with loosen’d hair;
Go up into the cloud, and then forbear
To join the awful interlude,
The wild and solemn harmony
Of that afflicted solitude,
Bard of the Ocean, if thou canst, in one eternal prayer!
What!
Still changing not,
Still motionless and pale,
And damp, and cold,
Unmoved by trumpet, prayer, or song,
The stirring gale,
Or noise of coming strife,
Or thunder near thee roll’d:
The nations that have known thee long
Unheeded marching by,
Where thou art lying;
The Spartan wise—the Spartan strong,
Scared women with their garments flying,
As if pursued
By some great multitude—
Young children all about thee crying,
And thou, alone,
Immoveable as if—thy blood were turn’d to stone!
Why! what art thou,
Man of the solid brow;
O what!
To alter not,
Nor change, nor stir thyself, nor wake,
Though all the nations try to break
Thy trance profound!
Nay, though they altogether take
The place of supplication round
The silent spot,
The cold extinguished ground,
Where thou art now,
Until
They overcast
Thy spirit, Sleeper, with a last
And most awakening spell—
A spell of power and sorcery
For all that dwell
Beneath the water or the sky
Or fill
The vaulted mystery,
That silent flies
For ever o’er our upturn’d eyes—
Showering the dew
Like a shower of light
From the beautiful blue
Of a beautiful night:
Up, then, awake!
Up from thy charmed slumber! break
Thy long and sorrowful trance!
Now! Now!
Advance!
Ye of the snowy brow,
Each in her overpowering splendor!
The young and great,
Superb and desolate,
The beautiful and tender!
Advance!
Ye shadows of his child and wife,
And thrill the sleeper into life!
Now heaven be thanked! he lies
Regardless of our cries.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Children of Greece, rejoice!
No change nor trouble shall come again
To the island-bard of the deep blue main;
Nor blight nor blast
To overcast
The brightness of his name;
Rejoice! Rejoice!
All ye that have loved the man, rejoice,
Throughout the world!
He cannot, now,
From the precipice brow
Of Glory’s hill be hurl’d?
And you, ye men of Greece,
For his heart is yours
While time endures—
A flame
That will burn eternally—
And sound that will never cease!
And ye that have loved him, where
There ’s freedom in the air,
O peace!
For his beautiful eyes,
Under Grecian skies,
Were shut by the hands of Grecian men
And the voice of his heart
Will never depart
Away from the land of the brave again:
O peace!
For he lifted his head,
With a sorrowful look,
When the spirit fled,
And the temple shook,
Forgetful of all that were nearest;
And he thought of his home
O’er the ocean foam;
And call’d upon them that were dearest;
The mother and the blue-eyed child,
Far, far away,
And all that in his morning smiled
When he was innocent as they—
O peace!
For his loving voice will haunt the place
Of their green repose,
Where’er they may lie interr’d,
Like his own sweet, unseen bird,
That pale and blighted rose:
But where the warriors of the household lie,
And they that dwelt in minstrelsy,
His voice will sound with a warlike tone,
Like the distant cry
Of trumpets when the wind is high:
O peace!
Peace to the ancient halls!
Peace to the darken’d walls!
And peace to the troubled family,
For never again shall one of them be
A moment on earth alone,
A spirit, wherever they go,
Shall go for ever before them;
A shelter from every foe,
A guardian hovering o’er them;
O peace!
For every trace
Of his glorious face
Shall be preserved in the sculptured stone!
Embalm’d by Greece,
And multiplied
On every side,
Instinct with immortality—
His rest for aye in the warrior-grave—
His heart in the tomb of the Grecian brave;
His marble head
Enthroned on high, to be
Like the best of her ancient dead,
A sculptured thought of liberty—
A boding forth of Poesy
To wake the youthful ages hence,—
The gifted of Omnipotence.