Poems (Mitford)/The Pen and the Sword

by Mary Russell Mitford

THE PEN AND THE SWORD.

ARGUMENT.

The following fragment is chiefly taken from a French translation of the 40th chapter of the Tahkemoni, a Hebrew work, supposed to have been written about the 13th century, by the Rabbi Jehuda Charizi, and in which that author attempts to imitate Hariri, one of the most celebrated Arabic poets of his time. I have so materially altered the structure of the poem, and changed, or totally omitted so many passages, that I can scarcely call these verses an imitation of the beautiful original, from which most of the images are derived. Yet even my imperfect translation may convey some idea of the fire and boldness of the Hebrew poet.

the PEN AND THE SWORD. INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.

And dar'st thou then with me compare,
Frail fleeting passenger of air!
Say, am not I my country's rock?
The lion in the battle's shock?
I pour impetuous from afar
The mighty torrent of the war,
Like Kissoun's waters, Phison's flood,
Spreads far the whelming tide of blood!
Forsaken parents well can tell
How fierce the raging currents swell;
Deserted lands the tide-mark form,
And nations perish in the storm.

 Bright is the forked lightning's stream!
As bright, as fatal too, my beam!
From me the bravest warriour flies,
Or pausing bleeds, and sinks, and dies.
And as the dews of Heav'n that fall
On vines that clothe the cottage wall,
Send life through ev'ry drooping cell,
The tendrils curl, the clusters swell;
So baths of blood my pow'rs restore,
My nourishment the hero's gore!
From me the lion's princely whelp
Expects and finds his only help;
Her prey from me the vulture seeks,
And pays me with her dismal shrieks;
And with the wild wolf's deepen'd howl,
Makes music for ray restless soul;
Fear not! whilst I exist ye ne'er
Shall pangs of thirst and hunger share;
Still be the warriour's flesh your food!
Still be your drink the hero's blood!

 And dar'st thou, frail and brittle reed!
Match thy weak word with my proud deed?
Can'st thou resist the eddying storm?
Will not the flames consume thy form?
And I, whom thou hast dar'd to brave,
My very touch would be thy grave.

 Yes, such thou art, the pen replied—
Yes, such is war's ensanguin'd tide!
Thine be the fame to latest times,
To shine supreme in blood and crimes.

 Oh! innocents untimely slain!
Oh! matrons kill'd in child-birth pain!
Babes from their mother's bosom borne!
Sons from their dying fathers torn!
Nations of orphans and of slaves!
Unpeopled earth and peopled graves!
Tis yours to tell what endless fame
This all-consuming sword may claim.

 And canst thou, fell destroyer, dare
My pure umblemish'd rights to share!
Learn thy contracted sphere to scan;
If strength were pow'r, then what were man?
The elephant had rul'd the world,
And monarchs from their thrones had hurl'd.
'Tis mind, 'tis reason's sov'reign sway,
That nations own, and states obey.

 And what art thou? and what am I?
The globe shall hear the proud reply.—
Me, science, wisdom, virtue claim,
And gain a never-ending fame.
Through me, the eloquence, that dies
Fast as the fleeting shadow flies,
To ages yet unborn shall show
The priest's pure zeal, the patriot's glow.
Through me the high behest ye share,
That bids frail man his fellow spare;
And still the heav'nly thunders roll
 "Commit no murder" on the soul!

Thou dwell'st among the mountain rocks,
Haunt of the chamois, and the fox,
Thou sleep'st upon the rugged bed,
Where foaming torrents erst have spread;
Thou roam'st along the blasted heath,
Or shades of plunder and of death,
Where murd'rers ply their dreadful trade,
And bathe in blood thy reeking blade.
Such is thy fate! and dar'st thou then
Compare thee with the blameless pen?
Scourge of the weak, but wisdom's slave,
Dar'st thou to threat an early grave?
My waving banners once unfurl'd,
Have launch'd thee o'er a conquer'd world;
My breath can bid the havoc cease,
And sheath thy gory blade in peace.