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, 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 came,
  With mooned horns and eyes of flame,
  And bore the holy Vedas 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, 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,
  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 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
  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.