Amid this gentlest dream-land of the wave, Arrested, stood the wondrous Corsican; As if one glimpse the better angel gave Of the bright garden-life vouschafed to man Ere blood defiled the world. He stood--that grand Sesostris of the North-- While paused the car to which were harness'd kings; And in the airs, that lovingly sigh'd forth The balms of Araby, his eagle-wings Their sullen thunder furl'd. III. And o'er the marble hush of those large brows, Dread with the awe of the Olympian nod, A giant laurel spread its breathless boughs, The prophet-tree of the dark Pythian god, Shadowing the doom of thrones! What, in such hour of rest and scene of joy, Stirs in the cells of that unfathom'd brain? Comes back one memory of the musing boy, Lone gazing o'er the yet unmeasured main, Whose waifs are human bones? IV. To those deep eyes doth one soft dream return? Soft with the bloom of youth's unrifled spring, When Hope first fills from founts divine the urn, And rapt Ambition, on the angel's wing, Floats first through golden air? Or doth that smile recall the midnight street, When thine own star the solemn ray denied, And to a stage-mime,[A] for obscure retreat From hungry Want, the destined Caesar sigh'd?-- Still Fate, as then, asks prayer. V. Under that prophet tree, thou standest now; Inscribe thy wish upon the mystic rind; Hath the warm human heart no tender vow Link'd with sweet household names?--no hope enshrined Where thoughts are priests of Peace. Or, if dire Hannibal thy model be, Dread lest, like him, thou bear the thunder _home_! Perchance ev'n now a Scipio dawns for thee, Thou doomest Carthage while thou smitest Rome-- Write, write "Let carnage cease!" VI. Whispers from heaven have strife itself inform'd;-- "Peace" was our dauntless Falkland's latest sigh, Navarre's frank Henry fed the forts he storm'd. Wild Xerxes wept the Hosts he doom'd to die! Ev'n War pays dues to Love! Note how harmoniously the art of Man Blends with the Beautiful of Nature! see How the true Laurel of the Delian Shelters the Grace!--Apollo's peaceful tree Blunts ev'n the bolt of Jove. VII. Write on the sacred bark such votive prayer, As the mild Power may grant in coming years, Some word to make thy memory gentle there;-- More than renown, kind thought for men endears A Hero to Mankind. Slow moved the mighty hand--a tremour shook The leaves, and hoarse winds groan'd along the wood; The Pythian tree the damning sentence took, And to the sun the battle-word of blood Glared from the gashing rind. VIII.