James Clerk Maxwell: Verses about Steel Arms

Whither, whither, reckless Romans,
Are you rushing, sword in hand?
Has not yet the blood of brothers,
Fully stained the sea and land?

Not that raging conflagration
Should o’er fallen Carthage play;
Not that the unconquered Briton
Should descend the sacred way.

"Rome," exclaims the joyful Parthian,
"Ruin for herself prepares;
Wolves with wolves are never savage,
Lion lion never tears."

Is this fury? is it madness?
Speedy answer I demand;
Foolish, blinded, guilty Romans,
Silent, stupefied you stand. [590]

Thus ’tis fated, blood of brothers
Must atone for brothers’ guilt,
Since the blood of injured Remus
Romulus in anger spilt.

O had he first been swept away,
Through air by wild winds tossed,
Or sunk from Heaven's ethereal ray,
To Pluto's dreary coast.
Who trained the Grecians to the field,
Taught them the sword, the spear to wield,
And steeled the gentle mind!
Hence toil gives birth to toil again,
Hence carnage stains the ensanguined plain,
For he destroyed mankind.

Nor the brow with chaplets bound,
Breathing balmy odours round,
Nor the social glow of soul,
Kindling o’er the generous bowl,
Nor the dulcet strain that rings
Jocund from the sounding strings,
Nor endearing love’s delight,
Which with rapture fills the night,
Me will he permit to prove,
He, alas! hath murdered love.
But neglected here I lie,
Open to the inclement sky;
And my rough and matted hair
Drinks the dews of night's moist air,
Memorials sad of Troy.
Yet till now, when pale affright
Rolled her hideous form through night
Great in arms, thy shield to oppose,
Ajax at his rampire rose,
And my terror was no more.
Now the hero I deplore,
To the gloomy god consigned,
Now, what joy can touch the mind?
O that on the pine-clad brow,
Darkening o’er the sea below,
Where the cliffs of Sunium rise,
Rocky bulwarks to the skies,
I were placed—with sweet address
Sacred Athens would I bless,
And feel a social joy.

Of pearies and their origin I sing:
How at the first great Jove the lord of air
Impelled the planets round the central sun
Each circling within each, until at last
The winged Mercury moves in molten fire.
And which of you, ye heavenly deities,
That hear the endless music of the spheres,
Hast given to man the secret of the Top?
Say, was it thou, O Fun, that dost prefer,
Before all temples, liberty and play?
Yes, yes, ’twas only thou, thou from the first
Wast present when the Roman children came
To the smooth pavement, where with heavy lash
They chased the wooden plaything without end. [580]
But not to tell of these is now my task,
Nor yet of humming-tops, whose lengthened neck,
With packthread bound, and handle placed above,
Amuses little children. Not of these,
But of the pearie, chief of all his tribe,
Do I now sing. He with a sudden bound
From out his station in the player’s hand
Descends like Maia’s son, on one foot poised,
And utters gentle music circling round,
Till in the centre of the ring it sleeps.
When lo, as in the bright blue vault of heaven
A falcon, towering in his pride of place
Perceives from far a partridge on the wing,
And stoops to seize him, even so comes down
Another pearie, and as when the sword
Of faithful Abdiel struck the apostate’s crest
And "sent him reeling back ten paces huge,"
So reeled the former pearie, nor can stand
The latter’s iron peg, and more come down;
Innumerable hosts of pearies, armed
With dire destructive steel. The players shout;
It is the shout of battle; the loud cry
Of victors rushing to the spoil; the wail
Of ruined boys, their pearie split, and all,
All lost.
Thus wags this ever-changing world,
And we may morals from the pearie draw.

"Men may weill wyt, thouch nane thaim tell,
How angry for sorow, and how fell,
Is to tyne sic a Lord as he
To thaim that war off hys mengye.’

- Barbour's Bruce, B. XX. i. 507.


Where rich Seville's proud turrets rise
A foreign ship at anchor lies;
The pennons, floating in the air,
Proclaim that one of rank is there-—
The Douglas, with a gallant band
Of warriors, seeks the Holy Land.
But wherefore now the trumpet's bray,
The clang of arms and war’s array,
The atabal and martial drum?
The Moor—the infidel is come;
And there is Sultan Osmyn—see!
With all his Paynim chivalry;
And they have sworn to glut their steel
With the best blood of fair Castile.
"And do we here inactive stand?"
The Douglas cries; "Land! comrades, land!"
Then for the Christian camp he makes,
When thus Alphonso silence breaks:
"What news from Scotland do you bring;
And where is now your patriot king?"
"Alas! within this casket lies
The heart so valiant, good, and wise,
This to the Holy Land we bear,
For we have sworn to lay it there.
But let us forward to the fight,
And God protect the Christian right!"
To whom Alphonso—"Scottish lord,
That now for Spain cost draw that sword,
The terror of thy English foes,
When for her freedom Scotland rose;
With knights like thee and thy brave band
We’ll drive the Moslem from the land."
The Douglas thus his comrades cheers—
"Be brave! and as for him that fears,
Let the base coward turn and fly,
For we will gain the day, or die.
Now couch the trusty Scottish spear,
And think King Robert’s heart is here,
And boldly charge—already, see
The dogs of Moslems turn and flee."
At the first onset, with the slain
Those valiant warriors strew the plain;
But, hark! the Allah Hu! the foes
Rally, and hot the combat grows,
For here the Spaniards yield, and there
The Moors have slain the brave St. Clair.
Then, midst the thickest of his foes,
The precious casket Douglas throws—
"Pass on before us" hear him cry,
"For I will follow thee, or die."
He rushes on—but all in vain,
For thicker comes the arrowy rain;
And now, by multitudes opprest,
With many a wound upon his breast,
Where ’midst the slain the casket lies,
A noble death the Douglas dies.