SEATED in a Moorish garden | |
| On the Sahel of Algiers, | |
| Wandering breezes brought the burden | |
| Of its history in past years. | |
| Lost amidst the mist of ages, | 5 |
| Its first chronicles arise; | |
| Yonder is the chain of Atlas, | |
| And the pagan paradise! | |
| |
| Past these shores the wise Phœnicians | |
| Coasted outwards towards the west, | 10 |
| Hoping there to find Atlantis, | |
| And the Islands of the Blest. | |
| Somewhere in these mystic valleys | |
| Grew the golden-fruited trees, | |
| Which the wandering son of Zeus | 15 |
| Stole from the Hesperides. | |
| |
| Many monsters, famed in story, | |
| Had their habitations here, | |
| Scaly coats and tresses hoary | |
| Struck adventurous souls with fear. | 20 |
| Not far off lived Polyphemus, | |
| Glaring with his single eye; | |
| Sailors wrecked upon these waters | |
| Only gained their brink to die. | |
| |
| But if ever, while carousing, | 25 |
| Rescued travellers told their feats,— | |
| How the elephants came browsing | |
| From the inner desert-heats, | |
| How the dragons and the griffins | |
| Likewise howled along the shore,— | 30 |
| Those who listened bade their footsteps | |
| Seek those dreadful realms no more! * * * * * | |
| When the veil of History rises, | |
| Carthage owns the glorious state, | |
| Planted with the Arts of Commerce, | 35 |
| And the men who made her great. | |
| Rivalled only by Etruria, | |
| She was mistress of the main; | |
| Still we have the solemn treaty, | |
| Drawn in brass betwixt them twain. | 40 |
| |
| One among her many daughters, | |
| Iol at her altars prayed; | |
| Merchants, storm-struck on the waters, | |
| Sought this harbor when afraid. | |
| All this coast of ancient Afric | 45 |
| Bore her sway and owned her name; | |
| To her western port of Iol | |
| Buyers flocked and sellers came. | |
| |
| Yearly swarming populations | |
| Poured through Carthage’ busy gates, | 50 |
| Bearing forth the seed of nations; | |
| And her ships bore living freights | |
| Costlier far than pearl or coral,— | |
| Hardy, brave, adventurous men! | |
| As our exiles cling to England, | 55 |
| Sons of Carthage loved her then. | |
| |
| They, when working mines in Cornwall, | |
| Gathering ivory near the Line, | |
| Pressing grapes from vines of Cadiz, | |
| Also thought her gods divine! | 60 |
| These blue peaks and golden valleys, | |
| Those white waves of northern foam, | |
| Also had their groups of eager, | |
| Loving hearts, who called her “home.” | |
| |
| But, “Delenda est Carthago!” | 65 |
| Was the threat proclaimed of yore,— | |
| Scarce a bird now flaps his pinion, | |
| White-winged vessels dance no more. | |
| Heaps of stone, o’ergrown with brambles, | |
| Mutely eloquent, attest, | 70 |
| Men who once called Carthage mother, | |
| Sleep forgotten on her breast. | |
| |
| Lo! a troop of white-robed Arabs, | |
| Passing in a silent file, | |
| Fix the eye which else would vainly | 75 |
| Range the plain from mile to mile. | |
| Not a dwelling known to Carthage! | |
| Not one temple on the hill! | |
| Empty lie the land-locked harbors, | |
| Margins bare, and waters still! | 80 |
| |
| Empty graves, through which the hyena | |
| Ranges, laughing at decay, | |
| Strike their dark and dangerous labyrinth | |
| Inward from the light of day. | |
| And such utter desolation | 85 |
| Triumphs here, it may be said, | |
| That of this forgotten nation | |
| Even the graves give up their dead! | |
| |
| On which summit was the Byrsa | |
| Scipio fought five days to gain? | 90 |
| Here is naught but what the footstep | |
| In five minutes might attain. | |
| Can it be that once a million | |
| People dwelt upon this plain! * * * * * | |
| Such is Carthage, lying eastward | 95 |
| Ten days’ journey from Algiers; | |
| On the grassy slopes of Iol | |
| Lie two thousand nameless years. | |
| Dead her sailors, sunk her vessels, | |
| Merchants seek her marts no more; | 100 |
| I have walked midst broken columns | |
| Strewed about her sounding shore, | |
| |
| And I have retraced the story, | |
| How across that bright blue sea, | |
| Clove the sharp prows, keen for glory, | 105 |
| Straight from distant Italy, | |
| Manned by warriors whose unbounded | |
| Thirst for conquest nerved them well; | |
| And the state by Dido founded | |
| Vainly struggled, sadly fell. | 110 |
| |
| Even as the walls of Veii | |
| Fell beneath a Latin wile, | |
| Carthage also lowered her sceptre | |
| From the Atlantic to the Nile. | |
| This was then called old Numidia, | 115 |
| Underneath the Roman sway;— | |
| Ere through centuries dark with bloodshed | |
| Rose the Crescent of the Dey. | |
| |
| Once these hills were crowned with villas, | |
| Ripe with harvest all these plains; | 120 |
| Scarce a trace of Roman splendor | |
| Or Athenian art remains. | |
| Little dreams the colon d’ Afrique, | |
| Roughly ploughing round his home, | |
| These ravines midst which he labors | 125 |
| Once were “granaries of Rome.” | |
| |
| From this harbor of Icosium | |
| Passed the many-oared trireme, | |
| Laden with colonial produce | |
| Bound for Ostia’s yellow stream. | 130 |
| Sacks of corn and oil of olives, | |
| Strings of dates and jars of wine, | |
| Such the tribute yearly rendered | |
| Hence unto Mount Palatine. | |
| |
| Now, across that waste of waters, | 135 |
| Sailless is the lonely sea, | |
| Not a vessel tracks the pathway, | |
| Rome, betwixt Algiers and thee! | |
| For the pulses of a people | |
| With their rulers rise and fall, | 140 |
| And Numidia gives her harvest | |
| To defray the tax of Gaul! * * * * * | |
| What is that red cloud ascending, | |
| Scarcely bigger than a hand, | |
| From where sea and sky are blending, | 145 |
| Till it hovers o’er the land? | |
| See! the mists are slowly dwining, | |
| We shall see its brightness soon! | |
| ’T is no cloud with silver lining, | |
| But the perfect crescent moon! | 150 |
| |
| ’T is the emblem of the Prophet | |
| Hanging in a violet sky, | |
| While amidst the cloudy olives | |
| Breaks the jackal’s evening cry. | |
| Just as if to help my story, | 155 |
| Signs and sounds came into play, | |
| Crescent of a fearful glory! | |
| War-cry of a beast of prey! | |
| |
| Dark and dreadful is the legend | |
| Of a thousand years of crime, | 160 |
| Since the writer of the Koran, | |
| Flying, marked the flight of Time. | |
| Since, from depths of far Arabia, | |
| Rolled the fierce, resistless throng, | |
| And the race was to the swift one, | 165 |
| And the battle to the strong. | |
| |
| As I sit within this garden, | |
| All the air is soft and sweet; | |
| Endless length of famous waters | |
| Roll to northward at my feet— | 170 |
| Waters where the pirate vessels, | |
| Year by year and hour by hour, | |
| Swept across a trembling ocean, | |
| Seeking what they might devour! | |
| |
| Still in sunlight lies the city, | 175 |
| Here and there a palm-tree waves | |
| Over Moorish mosque and rampart, | |
| Over nameless Christian graves. | |
| These fair clumps of winter roses | |
| Once drank dew of bitter tears; | 180 |
| Christian hearts grew sick with sunshine | |
| On the Sahel of Algiers! | |
| |
| Yet how gallant is the poem | |
| Of the triumph of the Cross! | |
| How the ranks of instant martyrs | 185 |
| In the front filled up the loss! | |
| How the slave died in the bagnio! | |
| The crusader at his post! | |
| And for each priest struck, another | |
| Served the altar and the Host! | 190 |
| |
| Hither came the good St. Vincent, | |
| Brought a captive o’er the sea, | |
| Slave unto a learned doctor | |
| For two weary years was he; | |
| Next he served the gentle lady, | 195 |
| Wife to an apostate lord; | |
| But, behold, his prayers were fruitful, | |
| And he brought them to accord! | |
| |
| In these prisons languished hundreds;— | |
| Oft the mystic sound of wails, | 200 |
| Wafted over leagues of ocean, | |
| Wept and murmured past Marseilles. | |
| In the chapels shook the tapers | |
| As the spirit-wind passed by, | |
| And the noblest swords in Europe | 205 |
| Leapt responsive to the cry. | |
| |
| When, at length, the Sails of Rescue | |
| Loomed upon the northern wave, | |
| All the voices of the martyrs | |
| Welcome breathed from this their grave. | 210 |
| Past the town, and round the mountains, | |
| See the stately fleet advance;— | |
| And the children of St. Louis | |
| Plant the fleurs-de-lis of France! * * * * * | |
| Seated in a Moorish garden | 215 |
| On the Sahel of Algiers, | |
| I can hear a tender burden, | |
| Like the music of the spheres. | |
| Not from any mortal voices | |
| Could that tender music come! | 220 |
| No! It is a strain familiar— | |
| ’T is the hymn we sing at home! | |
| |
| As it soars above the olives, | |
| Drops below the pine-clad hills, | |
| What a vast and tender memory | 225 |
| Mine imagination fills! | |
| From the grave where She lay buried, | |
| Fifteen hundred years are rolled, | |
| And the church of St. Augustine | |
| Steps regenerate as of old! | 230 |
| |
| Hippo lies a shapeless ruin, | |
| All her ramparts overthrown; | |
| Yet, wherever men are Christians, | |
| Her great Bishop’s name is known. | |
| Over Hippo blow the breezes, | 235 |
| Sighing from the great blue sea;— | |
| Yet of all our living preachers | |
| Who so powerful as he? | |
| |
| Once, upon a Sabbath morning, | |
| I at Bona heard the bells | 240 |
| In a chorus—as the water | |
| Sharply ebbs and softly swells. | |
| And to me it seemed the mountains | |
| Echoed back a sweet refrain, | |
| That the ruined church of Hippo | 245 |
| Harbored prayer and praise again! | |
| |
| When the bared, bowed head of Jerome | |
| Fell before the flashing sword;— | |
| When both Marcellin and Cyril | |
| To the last confessed the Lord; | 250 |
| When St. Felix fell at Carthage, | |
| Struck with clubs; and in the flames | |
| Saints Severian and Aquila | |
| (Married lovers) knit their names | |
| |
| In a more immortal linking, | 255 |
| As twin martyrs for the faith; | |
| When St. Marcian at Cherchell | |
| Faced the cruel teeth of death;— | |
| They did more than bear brave witness | |
| To the glorious hearts of old; | 260 |
| For they laid the strong foundation | |
| Of the universal Fold. | |
| |
| In that great stone ring at Cherchell | |
| Grass hath muffled all the ground; | |
| All the circling seats are empty, | 265 |
| Not a motion or a sound! | |
| Pause! O feet that here tread lightly! | |
| Hush! O voice discoursing here! | |
| Spirits of the just made perfect | |
| Doubtless often linger near! | 270 |
| |
| What if in that calm arena | |
| Where the sunbeams softly sleep, | |
| You, with many an aching bosom, | |
| Dared not cry and could not weep! | |
| What if Marcian wore the features— | 275 |
| Dear blue eyes and soft brown hair,— | |
| And you saw the savage creatures | |
| Leap infuriate from their lair? * * * * * | |
| Yet, O dreadful dream of Cherchell! | |
| That was what was undergone | 280 |
| In that circle where the fruit-trees | |
| Like a faint reflection shone. | |
| Now for every martyr noted | |
| In the list I read to-day, | |
| Is a tender special mention | 285 |
| When Algerian Christians pray. | |
| |
| Down the hill I see the belfry | |
| And the quaint old Moorish porch; | |
| Hark! the little bell is swinging, | |
| Calling willing feet to church. | 290 |
| Down the lane between the olives, | |
| Then across the wide white road; | |
| Stranger, if your heart is heavy, | |
| Take it to that hushed abode, | |
| |
| Where the lamp burns ever dimly | 295 |
| All throughout the sunny day, | |
| But shines clear upon the arches | |
| As the twilight fades away. | |
| You will find the weight drop from you,— | |
| Leave it there among the flowers, | 300 |
| Which beneath the Christian altar | |
| Mark the change of Christian hours. | |
| |
| Quaint old court of True Believer, | |
| All thy truth is overthrown! | |
| Servants of another Master | 305 |
| Now have claimed thee for their own; | |
| Built his altar, placed around it | |
| Irises and asphodels;— | |
| Where to-morrow some new glory | |
| Will unfold its buds and bells. | 310 |
| |
| Sitting in this golden stillness | |
| All my thoughts turn back to them | |
| Who in such an Eastern sunshine | |
| Worshipped at Jerusalem! | |
| Are they then a living presence, | 315 |
| After all these changing years? | |
| Hark, how many bells are ringing | |
| On the Sahel of Algiers! | |
| |
