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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 156 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The wanderer's legacy; a collection of poems, on various subjects. Godwin, Catharine Grace, 1798-1845. by Catherine Grace Godwin. Printed for Samuel Maunder London 1829

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 Latin September 26, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections. THEWANDERER'S LEGACY.

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THEWANDERER'S LEGACY; A Collection of Poems,ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. By CATHARINE GRACE GODWIN, (LATE CATHARINE GRACE GARNETT,) AUTHOR OF "THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL," "A SPANISH TALE,""SAPPHO, A DRAMATIC SKETCH," &c. LONDON: PRINTED FOR SAMUEL MAUNDER, 10, NEWGATE STREET. MDCCCXXIX. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES, Stamford-street. DEDICATION. TOWILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ. MY DEAR SIR,

WHEN I requested permission to dedicate to you the following poems, I was actuated by the conviction, that the powerful attraction of your name would ensure to them that public attention which my own is inadequate to command; but now that you have kindly acceded to my wish, I begin to be alarmed, lest its very accomplishment may operate to my disadvantage, by exciting expectations in the reader which my humble efforts will fail to gratify. It is, however, too late to retract; and, under any circumstances, I shall have the consolation of publishing that I fully participate in the general admiration of your genius, and respect for your character; and that I have the honour to be

Your obliged and faithful servant, CATHARINE GRACE GODWIN. Burnside, November 1, 1828. CONTENTS. INVOCATION 3 Introduction to The Wanderer's Legacy 7 The Wanderer's Early Recollections 27 The Seal Hunters 103 The Monk of Camaldoli 141 The Hebrew Girl at the Auto da Fé 159 The Dying Crusader 171 Destiny 183 Evening on the shores of the Island of Procita 199 Petrarca's Tomb 207 Indian Scenery 211 The Pestilence in Rome 217 Ancient Cities 227 The Turkish Tombs 235 The Blind Minstrel 239 The Arabian Mare 243 The Lament of the Chevalier Bayard, when lying sick of a fever at Grenoble 249 The Estranged 255 Notes 269 THEWANDERER'S LEGACY. INVOCATION. BEAUTIFUL Spirit! that didst guard of eld The song-inspiring fount of Castalie— Thou, unto whom supremacy is given And sway o'er realms of boundless intellect: Light of the lonely, solace of the sage, Beneath whose influence e'en the dungeon smiles, And earth's worst desert fair as Eden blooms:— To whom are offered pure the unchain'd thoughts, Warm aspirations, and the rare first-fruits Born of young Genius, when her spring-tide teems With rich imaginings—To whom belongs The glorious harvest of maturer years— Enchantress! at whose magic touch the mines Where Mem'ry keeps her deathless stores, fling wide Their golden gates, and all their wealth disclose— Call, from the depths of ocean and of earth, And from the blue ethereal element, Enchantress Queen! call up thy mighty spells! If on some silver-crested wave thou float'st, List'ning the genii secrets murmured low Beneath the surges,—or if yet thou hold'st Thy moonlight vigils midst the laurel groves Girding the Delphian mount:—or if on wing All redolent of heaven's immortal breeze, And radiant as the Iris-hues, thou glidest Among the stars, winning new splendour thence, Or heavenward, earthward bent, my vows receive. Spirit! that deign'st to hover o'er my path, When in the twilight gleam of some deep dell Or Naiad-haunted spring, I wander forth To hold communion with the peering stars: Or on the voiceful shore I pause to view The round moon fling her bright reflection far Upon the crystal waves; or clambering thence Along the rock-goat's steep and dangerous way, Where toppling crags hang o'er the billowy main Their fortress rude, I mark the sun descend From his cloud-canopied Olympian throne, His regal brow all filleted with fire; Spirit presiding then—pervading all— Seen in the sunset—breath'd in all the airs That wanton through the summer-tinted groves; Felt in the balmy influence of those tears Wept by the heavens o'er Day's deserted fanes: Spirit of Poesie! on thee I call. Spirit! that late didst suffer me to bring My humble tribute to thy graceful shrine; There, in most fond idolatry to kneel, And on thy altars hang a votive wreath; Thou that smil'dst on me till I revell'd wild In thy bright realms, forgetful of the chain, Heavy and cold, still binding me to earth: Thou that didst tune my harp's obedient strings, Bidding me sing, howe'er unworthy I To wake the strain impassion'd and sublime, Of her who sleeps beneath th' Ionian wave, Whose life was Genius mastered by deep Love! Thou that didst fix her glory in the skies, To shine for aye a song-presiding star, And midst the tuneful Nine her name enroll'd A mortal Muse, transcendent as those nymphs Divine, that haunt the green Thessalian shades, Spirit of Poesie! on thee I call. THEWANDERER'S LEGACY. INTRODUCTION. I. THE sun was setting o'er the mountain range That guards thy glens, romantic Borrodale; O'er day's deep azure came a wondrous change Wherein all hues of splendour did prevail, From the rich ruby to the topaz pale; And one cloud floating on the eastern air, With golden prow and amethystine sail, Show'd like a ship of heaven bound onward, where Flamed the broad west beneath the sunset glare. II. Twilight fell o'er the deep autumnal woods, Veiling their tints in eve's mysterious gray, Twilight was on wild crags and mountain floods, Save where some torrent flung its silver spray Bright in the beam of the retiring day. The pastoral hamlet slept in calm repose, With cottage, byre, and farm-yards' neat array, And neighbouring kirk, whose vesper chime arose Soft on the breath of evening's quiet close. III. And other sounds were heard commingling sweet; Wild brook that tinkled down the mossy dell, Call of returning kine, or fitful bleat Of flocks that browsed on highland heath, and fell, Or bark of guardian dog who watch'd them well. Or nearer home, the red-breast's mellow note, Piping to eve his eloquent farewell; Or voice of infant mirth, while young hands float Down the clear stream their fairy acorn-boat. IV. Up the deep glen, oh gray-hair'd wanderer! stole Thy weary steps, and day's declining hour Shed its soft welcome through thy gladden'd soul Upon the threshold of thy natal bower. For thou, impell'd by some resistless power, Haunted by dreams of home on many a shore, Remembering e'en the scent of every flower, Stricken by home's strong malady at core, Thither return'dst at last, thy household gods t' adore. V. He was a toil-worn venerable man, In humble guise, although of travelled mien, With meditative brow and visage wan, In whose deep eye immortal thoughts were seen, Lights that betrayed the Poet's soul I ween; Homeward his feet had journeyed from the main, With scrip and staff and mantle's russet screen Most like to palmer he, from Syrian plain, Or pilgrim meek of nature's boundless fane. VI. He stood and gazed—"Once more, in life's decline, Home of my sires, retreat of infant years, Let me bow down before thine ancient shrine, Where still the spirit of the past appears. Youth's ardour worships—man's calm mood reveres— Experience of the world's delusive joy, A heart unstained by crimes, though not by tears. Bids us too late reject the base alloy, And turn in age to things that charmed the boy. VII. "We turn,—but oh! with what an alter'd sense Of that great book of human life, whose page, First opened, seems such glories to condense, It well may youth's idolatry engage,— Whose context makes us subtle, sad or sage. I have not broke, nor would I break the dream, Nor doth my heart yet feel the ice of age, But I have quaff'd of Truth's immortal stream, And learnt to view mankind other than they may seem. VIII. "Yet love I all that bear the human form, Their very errors serve some wise intent, As men behold in Nature's wildest storm The wondrous workings of each element. Nor doth a knowledge of the bad prevent Assurance of the good, whose ray divine Rewards research on truth sincerely bent, As in the bowels of the darksome mine The practis'd eye discerns the jewel line. IX. "Perchance the heart, by disappointment stung, May seek great Nature more, and Man the less, And as the hope recedes to which it clung, Will turn from his to her more pure caress, Rejoicing still in her sweet loneliness. Wearied with faction's cant and folly's chime, Will flee to her fair temples, and confess,— While all else fades before the scythe of Time, She stands unchang'd, immutably sublime. X. "Land of my sires! oh, with what chasten'd love My soul, unwarp'd, dispassionate and flee, Guided by some kind angel from above, Returns with filial gratitude to thee! Here would I wait my Maker's great decree— Walk these wild hills whereon my fathers trod, And, as the leaf beside the parent tree Lays its pale form, so nigh yon house of God Would I repose beneath the hallow'd sod. XI. "And well may life moor here her shatter'd bark, From hence she sail'd when youth was at the prow: The dove sought shelter in the sacred Ark, Scar'd by the perils she had view'd below. Within these glens the citron's golden glow Crests not the grove by southern breezes fann'd, Yet would I challenge earth's wide realms to show A spot that bears the stamp of Beauty's hand More deep than thine, my own, my native land! XII. "And thou art free—the gilded orient wave, Albeit perfum'd by India's spicy gales, Floats round the country of the crouching slave, Where rapine prowls and tyranny prevails. But here, in Albion's green and peaceful vales, Man with his fellow mortal proudly copes; No despot's will the peasant's home assails, Nor stalks th' oppressor o'er its pastoral slopes, Nor reaps the stranger's hand the harvest of his hopes XIII. "The British matron, as she lulls to rest, With some sweet ditty of her native isle, The fair and free-born infant at her breast, Fosters hope's germ in each observant smile. Nor may the blighting tongue of scorn revile The glorious thought within her breast elate: Nor doth chimera vain her reason 'guile— He, her brave boy, rear'd up to man's estate, May blend her name with all that's good and great. XIV. "Here, in the country of her darling's birth, For ever open stands the gate of Fame, Inviting e'en the lowliest child of worth There to record his self-ennobled name. And free to all burns Wisdom's sacred flame, Her heights alone inspired Genius gains; Here, each man's bearing boldly speaks his claim. Beats there a false heart on Britannia's plains, Would truck such rights for all the world contains? XV. "Yea, thou art free! this is the magic word— The glorious passport to thy children's hearts; This, this directs the hero's conquering sword, Nurtures the social and the graceful arts, And to the poet's lyre his soul imparts: Lightens the labour of the poor man's lot, Nerves him to bear affliction's keenest darts— Behold him sov'reign of his lowly cot, He breaks his evening bread, thanks God, and envies not. XVI. "Once more upon the mountains! let me gaze On the loved landscape bath'd in golden light, Whose azure air-tints melt in purple haze, Beneath the western heaven's calm chrysolite, The last pale hue that eve withholds from night. Around me rises, like a rampart wall, The rock-built citadels of Nature's might, Where Echo sits, and swells the watch-word's call, Banner'd by birch-tree screen and ivy's dusky pall. XVII. "What forms fantastic! tower and pyramid,— And helm of giant knight with plumed crest, Mine eye discerns the twilight groves amid; And darkles there the mount where erst her nest The eagle rear'd, the valley's dreaded guest. Dark rolls the Derwent's course these dales within, By many a rock and winding creek repress'd, Ere his glad waves the lake's broad outlet win, Widening to river smooth, from brawling mountain lynn. XVIII. "How oft have I, when summer's ardent sun Flamed on the mountains, sought thy waters cool, Thou hill-born stream! or when day's toil was done, Or playing truant from the neighbouring school, Spann'd, with triumphant step, thy deeper pool. Hours of delight! but fleeting as the tide My limbs o'er-arch'd—yet no tyrannic rule Was thine, sage Mentor of these wilds—thy pride Was still in ways of peace thy little flock to guide. XIX. "Hail happy home! by whose embowered door The yew-tree grows, an ancient chronicle; And stately still the sheltering sycamore, Whose murmuring boughs might many a record swell. And here e'en yet, within the shaded well The moss-grown bucket greets my gladdened eye; Methinks all things of past-times kindly tell,— Oh that my heart could cheat the years gone by, Here in thy haunts, old gray antiquity! XX. "I mark'd the taper down the vale afar Bright through thy casement pour its steady gleam; And hail'd its lustre as my natal star Up-ris'n to cheer me with its holy beam, The guiding seraph of my homeward dream. I saw the blue smoke wreath the heathy hill, The faggot's blaze reflected in the stream; And with this thought, defied the evening's chill, 'My father's hearth burns brightly for me still.' XXI. "My father's hearth! what may not years have wrought! I left a sister in her maiden bloom; A sire,—high Heaven! there's anguish in the thought, Perhaps stern death has laid them in the tomb!" "Old man, too surely hast thou guess'd their doom— Go, read their names upon the churchyard stone: But no—belike they're veil'd in evening gloom. Sire, sister, kindred, all alas! are gone, And thou art left, of all thy race—alone!'' XXII. Thus spake a stranger at his father's gate. The Wanderer bow'd his meek, time-silver'd head; 'Twere wild to wrestle 'gainst the hand of Fate— "Thy will be done, oh righteous Heaven!" he said, "Grief hath no spell to rouse the slumbering dead. And why deplore the spotless soul's release? Brief space before me hath their journey sped Towards that blest bourn where earthly sorrows cease, Whither, like theirs, my steps shall wend in peace. XXIII. "Yet had I hoped—alas, I vainly dreamed! Once more to greet them in their earthly home; To cheer their lone hearts that had haply deemed My corse the spoil of Ocean's billowy foam; To re-peruse with them the chequered tome Of my life's pilgrimage serenely here. O let me weep! grief doth not ill become My old gray hairs, nor will affection's tear Dim the pure sacredness of virtue's bier. XXIV. "Here let me linger out the sands of life— Seek me some low and lonely dwelling-place, Far from the shock of man's unholy strife, Where yet familiar features I may trace Of kindred blood once mingling with my race. Or if of consanguinity no bond Remains howe'er remote—in each kind face, Let me behold fraternal aspect fond, To which my yearning heart may lovingly respond." XXV. His prayer was granted,—up the winding glen The dalesman mark'd a Hermitage arise, A grot, unknown, save to his wondering ken, Though 'twas, in sooth, an earthly paradise, Growing up sweet beneath its owner's eyes; And daily 'twas his light and pleasing care To tend and watch the flowret's opening dyes; All plants that bloom in Albion's clime were there, And many a shrub of foreign splendour rare. XXVI. But most he lov'd the wilding flowers that grew Free on the hills. The heather's purple bloom— Daisy's meek crest, and harebell's tender blue, And the rich garland of the golden broom; Nor scorn'd he e'en the bracken's russet plume: Round him arose a natural forest's shade, Where mix'd wild rose and hawthorn's faint perfume; Where the rock-ash its coral wealth display'd, And birch and holly grew in oak and hazel glade. XXVII. Down the deep dingle pour'd a mountain brook, Whose limpid waves made music in their flow, Leaping from crags, whose rugged aspect took Semblance of infant Alps, and far below Their hues, in many a glassy pool, did show. There would the Hermit meditate at noon, When all the air was languor, or would go Thither at eve to hymn the virgin moon, Or with the waterfall his wizard harp t' attune, XXVIII. What holy breathings issued from the grot! 'Twas said a spirit held communion kind With him who dwelt there; for about the spot Floated such sounds of harmony refined, They might not flow from aught of mortal mind. Thou wert that spirit, soft Æolian lute! Thine—thine the voice, oh daughter of the wind, That thrill'd at eve, when all around was mute, Sweeter than Orphic lyre, or Pan's enchanted flute. XXIX. And well nigh might that peaceful hermit's voice Be deem'd as sweet, so soothingly it stole In blessed words that bade the just rejoice, Like organ-chaunt, that doth sublimely roll O'er the deep stillness of the listener's soul. He shunned not converse with the humbly good; Who look'd at eve, as to some sacred goal, Where that meek dwelling in its loneness stood, Calm in the shadow of the sheltering wood. XXX. And he had themes to stir the mind of youth, And Virtue's sterner precepts to enhance, Restricted alway to historic truth, Tales of high chivalry and proud joyance, With trumpet's swell, and clang of spear and lance; Or of those times remote in Albion's fame, Ere the haught Norman left the fields of France, Ere Dane usurped, or fair-hair'd Saxon came, Or Britons bow'd to Cæsar's conquering name. XXXI. When white-robed Druids, 'neath the stalwart oak, With pomp of power and sacrificial rite, Subdued a nation to their mystic yoke, In that worst thraldom, Superstition's might— When spake the voice of Prophecy at night In cavern'd rocks with horror deep imbued— When hymn'd the Bard the morning's glorious light, And Cambrian harps awoke the solitude, Sounding from ancient grove, or mountain-fastness rude. XXXII. Anon he would describe full many a scene His feet had traversed in their wanderings past; How man doth change with every clime his mien, In the bleak rigours of the Northern blast, Or where his lot on burning sands is cast: Red Indian, reared in Transatlantic wild, The free-born tenant of the forest vast; Or proud Europa's mind-enlightened child, Or Afric's dusky son, ungenerously reviled. XXXIII. 'Twould seem his travelled steps had lingered long Amid the beauties of thy classic shore, Fair Italy! fond mother of sweet song! Land of high deeds, shrine of immortal lore! Rich with traditions of the days of yore. And he had crossed the blue Ionian deep— Floated enraptured, with suspended oar, Where the crisp'd waves their moonlight vigil keep Round Athens' walls and Sunium's marble steep. XXXIV. But these were records lock'd in mem'ry's cell— Like Sybilline revealings, sacred kept, Or voice inspired of Delphic oracle, Ere Desolation in her temples wept, And the wild ivy o'er their altars crept— Such theme with rustic ear had suited ill— 'Twas as a chord within the sanctuary swept, When all is hush'd in midnight's solemn still, And the fair Huntress climbs the Delian hill. XXXV. So pass'd the quiet autumn of his age In such pursuits as whiled the hours away. From Wanderer grown to Anchorite and Sage; A moonlight eve closed manhood's chequer'd day— His mind yet ductile to the vivid play Of Fancy, though her gleamings were more brief. His was no mood to chide Death's long delay— He fell, as falls October's yellow leaf, Or as the ripe grain quits the golden sheaf. XXXVI. He died—and in the churchyard where repos'd His humble kin, a simple tomb was rear'd, Whereon his name, whose dust was there inclosed, Link'd with its scriptural epitaph, appeared— A name in every gazer's heart revered. When all was o'er, and those sad rites had ceased, One friend there was by genial soul endeared, Though known the last, yet not beloved the least, Who sought with sorrowing step the grot of the deceased. XXXVII. With what a solemn, what a chastened feeling Cross we the threshold of the newly dead! As if therein the spirit sat revealing The words its mortal accents might have said, Although we feel thence it for aye hath fled. The vacant hearth, the vestments lately worn, That fearful truth throughout the mansion spread; Books handled oft, light toils conjointly borne, Challenge affection's note, and make the scene forlorn. XXXVIII. The Hermit's tablets lay his lute beside, With many a herb his curious hand had brought Late from the mountains;—these the mourner eyed, But most the tablets his attention caught, To him inscribed in phrase with kindness fraught. He ponder'd o'er them till the evening gloom'd, Then homeward wended, busied with the thought That his recordings, whom they had entomb'd That day, should not be silently inhumed. XXXIX. 'Twas feelingly, albeit not wisely done— An act his riper years may not approve: Still the fond task on his affections won As with its scattered elements he strove, And thoughts and facts in union interwove. Some meed of praise his constancy may earn, If but regarded as a work of love. List then, nor oh! the Wanderer's tribute spurn, Which Memory pours in fulness from her urn. THEWANDERER'S EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past." SHAKSPEARE'S Sonnets. I WALK the vallies where my boyhood stray'd, I gaze upon the mountains whose proud heights First kindled up mine infant wonderment, And o'er the evening of my age there comes A dream of other days. As morning dews, Veil'd in the shadow of autumnal hours, Suspend unharm'd their lucid wreaths in air, Until the setting sun lights up the glades, Searching out all their stores, these visions keep Their spells unbroken in my early haunts, Greet me in each remembered nook, and steal In all their vernal freshness o'er my soul. By yonder stream a fair Enchantress sits, Weaving, like web of floating gossamer, Her silver toils in many a labyrinth fine; She strikes her harp, from whose rejoicing chords Burst forth the long-lock'd harmonies that charm'd Mine ear in youth—Her name is Memory. Seek not, O stranger!—whosoe'er thou art Mayst while away an hour of indolence O'er these plain records of my early youth— Seek not in them or courtly calendar, Or chronicle of deeds that might awake The trumpet of renown—none such are here; No lay have I of princely pageantry, Nor masquings fine, nor boast of favouring look Smiled on me by the great. No pulse of mine Hath e'er been stirr'd up to indignant strife, Or envious aping of a rival's pride. I am an humble nursling of these wilds, Wherein my father's sires have tended long Their peaceful flocks, and gathered in the wealth Of Autumn's teeming horn, unwitting all That, far beyond their mountain ramparts rude, There lay a world with glittering baits beset, Might lure them from their blest simplicity. I have no herald to proclaim my rights, And lineage proud, no scutcheon blazon'd o'er With symbols framed by law of chivalry; No helmet crest, whose plume hath flaunted high O'er distant plains of captive Palestine. These are not mine,—yet village crones recount Full many a worthy action of my race: How their brave spirits, tried in feudal war, Stood loyal as the hills that guard their homes. If ye would more, go seek their mouldering graves, And read on many an antique tablet there, Which time hath spared, and piety revered, That they were holy, innocent, and meek. May not the mind, whose purer element Springs from that great Ethereal Fount which flows In countless streams of vital intellect, Or pre-ordained, or chance directed, free From every law prescribed by human will, Alike to all, of high or low estate,— May not the mind, with ray instinct, condensed, And centred on itself, some fruits produce Not all unworthy the inquirer's note? Count not as valueless the moments given To meditation and the midnight lamp;— One virtuous feeling fathom'd to its source, Is as important in the scale of life As river track'd o'er Afric's burning sands, Or loftiest peak of Himalay attained. Yea, all are good, whatever tends to move Man's latent energies to high emprize; Or mental, or corporeal, all are good, Contributing to work the general weal; Blending as do the bright and varied dyes Of some fair tissue, each hue still distinct, Imbued with its own separate excellence, Contrasting, yet in pleasant unity, Forming conjoined an admirable whole. My youth hath been in quiet musings spent, My very childhood garb'd itself in thoughts That were of riper years. My whole life since Hath been a maze of marvel, and delight In all the gifts wherewith the hand divine Hath deck'd this mortal dwelling-place of man. I well remember me ere language flow'd In unison with the mind's eloquence, How my heart, labouring with its feelings deep, Seeking in words some utterance of its joy, Rejected alway with a vexed disdain The guise uncouth in which the precious ore Was issued from the mine; for harmony, Though unattained, was in my heart instinct: I felt her presence in the haunts I loved— She floated round me in the summer's gales; I saw her impress on the mountain peaks; The groves, the glades with her voice resonant, Whispered her accents to the murmuring brooks. The poetry of Nature then was felt, Albeit not yet distinctly understood. I only knew that my aspirings soar'd Far, far above this earth's corporeal things; That my conceptions were beyond the scope Of my untaught and wild philosophy. All, all was mystery,—mine own sense of being— The restless, the resistless tide of thought That roll'd for ever through my inmost soul, Was an enigma I could not resolve. My heart held dear the sympathies of home, Yet was my mind companionless—I went With my compeers about our daily toil, Join'd in their talk as courtesy requir'd, But hoarded up within my bosom's shrine The incommunicable charm that shed Its mystic influence o'er my lonely ways: Such had been deem'd the ravings of a mood Warp'd with strange phantasms—moon-stricken, distraught. Or be it shame, or pride, I have remarked, In my life's long sojourn among mankind, That they who nurse some fond conceit, which jars With things of every-day existence, guard Such in their breasts with jealousy innate. I held communion with the hush of night; Yea, with the spirit of those silent hours When all the earth is still'd in deep repose. The star-light heavens were as a wondrous book, Wherein I sought to solve the dream of life, And thrid the mazes of futurity. When came fair Spring forth from the icy caves Of Winter's conquer'd realm, I hail'd the print Of her green steps upon the hills, and view'd The virgin Queen of the revolving year With yet another sense of grateful love Than that which glads the dalesman's rustic mind, Who looks upon the firstlings of her flowers, And on the fields she renovates with life, But as the source of nutriment and gain. To me she came as a congenial soul, Arrayed in Nature's most attractive garb, To be the partner of my solitude; At once my worship, and the sanctuary where I might repose my overwrought delight. I revelled on in fantasies uncurb'd By sage logistic law; fram'd to myself A world that pleas'd me well; and, as a child Gazing through glass distain'd, beholds all things Steep'd in the gorgeous colouring of its dyes, Till his perverted vision will not brook The sober hues of truth, so I recoiled From all the dull realities of life. Yet, though I deemed great Nature in herself The all-sufficient idol of my love, Though my creations peopled all the groves, There was within my heart a dreary void, A want of that blest intercourse which wakes Man to a clearer knowledge of himself. Thoughts unreveal'd corrode the germ of thought: The mind concentred on itself may learn All, all within, but nought that lies without: The fire-flash bursts not from the flinty rock, Until the chisel's keener edge hath smote. The scholar, versed in that immortal lore With which the genius of succeeding times Hath so enriched posterity, may dwell E'en in the lap of solitude, and still Commune with all the sages of the earth; With minds, whose stamp, accordant with his own, Lends him new forces, and provides the key Wherewith his latent power shall be unlock'd: Or, no less genial to the cause of truth, With those who, differing in their pristine mould, Prompt him to weigh his favourite theories "Gainst the conclusions of opposing worth, And, if of riper years, most like imbued With a maturer sense, and clearer sight Into the bearings of the question moved: Thus reapeth he the harvest of the dead! Or may be liken'd to a traveller, Illumin'd by some lamp borne on before. But I!—no light of wisdom's sacred lamp Shed clearness on my path. From me the book Of lore was long withheld. At length, 'twas oped, The tide roll'd freely o'er my thirsting soul, The ban of ignorance was ta'en away, A veil was lifted from my darken'd eyes. No more th' unletter'd rustic of the hills, No more abandon'd to conjectures rude, I felt as if a hidden mine of gold Had been in that propitious hour disclosed. I had a rock whereon I now might build My tower of strength, yea, e'en those visions fond That still possessed the ardour of my youth. I nursed ambition wild as ever fired The breast of earth's most high inheritor: I dwelt amid the great of old, whose fame To me was as a potent talisman, A wonder-working charm, stirring my thoughts To like achievements, certain of the meed The all-discerning multitude accord With liberal voice to those who toil for them. Ye gods! full surely then I had not scann'd That darker page of life's recording book, That tells of worth reviled, and genius spurn'd. Yet were the wings of my aspirings shorn, E'en in that earliest flight towards fame's high mount. I looked within myself, and oh! how keen The aching sense of mine own nothingness! The meretricious plumes, wherewith my pride Had deck'd my new-born hopes of eminence, Fell to the earth; I stood in naked shame Abash'd before the worthies of past time. What should I offer at the public shrine Of knowledge that might cope with their rich gifts? Methought I had a drear ascent to climb Ere I attain'd the elevation proud From whence they first set out. Despondency Seized on my soul, and veil'd its dawning light. My gait was listless, and mine eyes look'd up As though they cared not to behold the day. I wandered o'er the mountains in such guise, It well might cheat my kindred with belief That I had grown distraught. In silent dells, Amidst these British Alps, where none may keep Their midnight vigils, save the venturous herd, I sate, and suffered wintry snows to beat On mine uncover'd brow, and listed pleased To the wild winds that howled discordant round My cold and sleepless couch; nor minded I To stir me from the loosen'd crag's descent, Which, had it smote me in its downward course, Had surely crushed my grief from out my heart. My life was valueless; I deem'd, because I could not gain the loftiest pinnacle, I needs must grovel alway in the dust. Base thought! unworthy of immortal mind. I marvel now that such should e'er possess Mine e'en a space, yet seems it not a mood Wholly inconsequent of the reverse My pride had late sustain'd. Extremes aye verge Each on the other, and from thence springs up The intermediate state of reason calm. Athwart my path a ray of sunlight fell. Imagination,—that in guise untrick'd By cunning arts of the world's fashioning, Had been the mistress of my constant love, E'en from those boyish days when first I woo'd With rustic boldness her capricious smiles Upon the summer hills,—came to me now, Decked in the gorgeous thoughts and stately rhymes Of England's gifted bards; to whose sweet songs My mind, affrighted at severer lore, Had haply then almost unwitting turn'd. A spell came o'er me when those tomes I oped; Mine own wild visions, all depicted clear, I recognised through every line dispread, Clad in the measure of harmonious verse, And flowing on in cadence musical, Adapted skilfully in frequent change, Yet with strict unity symphonious still, To each new-born emotion of the soul. These, for the first time, opening on my sense, Seem'd the soft language of a lovelier world. Nor knew I well to whom I would award (Of those illustrious stars of poesy Whose emanations bright relumed my mind) My fullest meed of all-admiring love. When spake from out the brown autumnal woods The solemn voice of the expiring year, Calling on man his spirit to attune To the calm cadence of her parting hymn; When the sere leaf by equinoctial gales Was wafted with a sound scarce audible To the lone harbour of some sheltering nook; When summer brooks, swollen by the latter rains, Did gush forth with a fuller melody; When all day long upon the mountain peaks The fleecy clouds in denser wreaths reposed, And all around, tinctur'd with graver hues, The sober livery of the season show'd; Then would my heart its deepest sense confess Of thy immortal verse, O bard inspired! Whose holy harpings waked the wondrous song Of Eden's fair, but sin-polluted bowers. The majesty of Nature, veiled in gloom, The melancholy light of her last smiles— All emblematic of departed joy, My mind with kindred pensiveness imbued. In the first blush of renovated bloom, Worn by awakening spring, when bees of flowers Grow amorous, and insect myriads sport All the long day on the elastic air; When birds pour forth their choral songs, and scarce Relax from their sweet toil through the brief hours Of night's diminish'd sway; when from the depths Of Heaven's clear azure, the young moon of May Through the green glades a glancing love-light sends, Undimm'd, save that some gauzy cloud may float Like sail of fairy bark athwart her track; When o'er the earth a great Enchanter rules, Joying in Nature's metamorphosis, The visible working of his viewless wand, That well in times of eld might be ascrib'd To power of Fay benign or Genius good— In that sweet time, the blythest of the year, The heart of man, attemper'd to glad thoughts, Feels all its pulses beat in unison With life's reviving call: then would my mind, Abandon'd to the passionate romance Of the soft season, yield its senses up To the illusions of the Poet's dream; Wander with fair Titania o'er the meads, And through the moon-lit forests resonant With laugh of mischief-loving elves; no maze, Howe'er fantastic, by thy spells conjur'd, Magician great of Avon's gentle shores! Fail'd to ensnare the homage of my heart— The humblest mite of all the grateful praise Admiring ages shall to thee accord For a rich banquet stored with rarest cates Which thy unrivall'd genius hath dispread. Nor let me here withhold thy due award, O! courtly Minstrel, whose kind Fairy Queen Led my entranced steps through many a bower And sylvan haunt so wondrously bedight, None but a poet's eye might image it; Nor could the splendid hues wherein all things Were steep'd thy fertile fancy did create, Have flow'd from aught but an inspired source. I love the graceful chivalry that hath garb'd Woman's fair form in attributes so bright, She may be placed in man's adoring mind, Upon a pedestal, his baser thoughts Dare not profane. Mine ear receives The stately measure of those antique rhymes With a most deep delight. Whenever I Do syllable in memory's trance thy verse, It seems to me as if a thousand lutes Of fairy sweetness, touch'd by hands unseen, With melody filled all the air around; Or that I heard some river lapse away In liquid music o'er Arcadian plains. Sweetest historian of the desert walls Of Auburn's pastoral hamlet! how my heart Replied to the sad music of thy strains! Yea, till its secret chords had well nigh broke, And my fast gushing tears obscur'd the page Whereon that tale of human grief was writ. So dearly are our sympathies allied With all that breathes of home. I cannot yet Recall the anguish, with which Fancy, prone, To blend fictitious things with things of life, Did picture to my mind those vales beloved Strew'd with the ruins of their humble farms, And the brave children of the soil sent forth To seek in foreign lands their nameless graves— I cannot think of this, I say, and keep The tranquil mien that well beseems my years. Turn we to happier themes. What say I! ah! Cheat'st thou again, old man, thy wither'd heart With fair illusions, which, though they did frame For thee, in thy young hours, a heaven of bliss Sweet as Elysium hymn'd in Grecian song, Transient as twilight of the tropic climes, Did leave thee as a wreck upon the tide Of Time's unlovely stream, to strand where'er The captious winds and waves of fate might will?— Yea, pass we to that period of my life When first the silvery tones of woman's love Responded to my vows. Have I not writ How my enthusiast nature long had drawn Its honied nurture from the wilding flowers Of my own fond conceits, since foster'd well By the creations of sweet poesy? Mine was the mood, aided by impulse warm Of young credulity, when aught that wears The female form, to man so justly dear, If rife with youth's fresh bloom, divine appears; And if the fair one be exalted too Above those un-ideal shapes that throng The ways of vulgar life, if phrase refined, A voice for music fram'd, soft blandishments, And beaming smiles are added thereunto, She in the sanctuary of the heart is placed, As though she were the sole existing thing Worthy man's worship; like a goddess shrin'd In the most sacred temple of the land; Invested too with all that excellence Born of the fullness of her votary's soul. Such the chimera loved by ardent youth; Such the fair idol of my early vows; Endow'd with all that visions of romance Could conjure up to make her still more fair. I deemed her brighter than those peerless flowers Of Spenser's song, Una and Amoret, Perfect in meekness, constancy, and love. And if an angel face had been the type Of a celestial mind, Eliza thou Hadst been the worthy heroine of my tale; For never Nature in her loudest mood Fashion'd a form of more enchanting grace. O! let me here describe her, as mine eyes Did first behold her, when in those sweet years Verging on womanhood, she came to dwell Like some rare plant, the growth of softer climes, In the seclusion of our northern wilds. Deep in the gorge of an adjacent glen, There stood an old dilapidated hall, Sheltered by woods, whose hoar antiquity Sigh'd to the winds a tale of other times: A song of those good days when the gray walls, Now crumbling into ruin, echo'd back The merry jest that, with the wine cup bright, Around the board as free did circulate, And often, too, had rung with welcome warm, Proffer'd to errant knight; or gallant speech To courtly dames address'd; or softest sounds Of minstrel harpings in the midnight bowers; And pomp and patronage that suited well With old baronial hospitality. Such were the times that ancient dwelling knew, Before Neglect had stamp'd her impress there, Or Desolation spread her weedy pall O'er the long alleys of the stately grounds; Mantling the chimneys that, like turrets, rose From the high, pointed roof, with ivy dark, And o'er the mullions of those heavy frames Shadowing the casements, like the brow of age Hanging a gray defence o'er faded eyes, Wrought tracery rude of many colour'd moss, And lichen that, as map methodical, Had shot its lines o'er every mouldering stone. There was about the mansion, and the woods, An air of gloom, and grandeur, and decay; Such was the home that pride, not charity, Will'd to the orphan child and widow'd dame Of one, who had in life own'd kindred blood Of no remote affinity with him Who held that manor-right and wide domain. 'Twas in the blooming infancy of May, Eliza Dudley and her mother came To dwell in that lone hall. Their slender means Admitted not of large establishment: One only menial spread their frugal board, Administer'd to their few wants, and bore The ruder portion of the household cares. They lived in that retirement, little sought By their compeers adjacent or afar. Small show was left to them of better days, When affluence had been theirs: a few fair toys, And tasteful ornaments; Eliza's harp, And the poor remnant of her father's books, Which once had formed a choice and costly store. Yet was there left to them one solace still, Which e'en adversity had not destroyed, Futile and vain, but precious in their sight, The silent consciousness of high descent. Let me recur to that remember'd hour When first I look'd upon Eliza's face. 'Twas at the close of a bright day of June, She and her mother sought our rural farm, Asking some boon, or some slight benefit My sire had power to grant; I wot not well Its nature now, but know 'twas not denied. They prais'd the beauty of the lonely grange; The neatness of the pastoral implements; The healthful bloom of my young sister's cheek: All they beheld found favour in their sight; Nor less admired they the enchanting scene, Comprising our paternal heritage, That smil'd on them from the embower'd porch. Receding there, the mellow landscape lay Girdled by mountains, whose proud heights appear'd, Some clad in mists aërial, blending soft With the horizon; some distinctly clear, Rising in masses glorious with the beams Of the rich sunset, while descending shades Already mark'd their scars with deeper blue. Calm in their cradling arms, like some fair child Foster'd by rugged nurse, the vale reposed: Pastures, whose verdure the profaning plough Had never furrow'd, o'er whose velvet turf The flocks that morning's labour had despoil'd Of their encumbering fleeces, roam'd at will: Broad fields, whose hedge-rows breath'd the faint perfume Of the still lingering May-flowers; where the corn Shot up the blade of promise paly-green: The brook, with its deep fringe of feathery birch, Upon whose margin kine did ruminate 'Midst the redundant herbage of the spring;— And nearer home, close to the moss-grown byre, O'er whose embrowned thatch the sycamore Shower'd the farina of its blossoms small, Lay the wide stack-yard, stored with golden grain. Within the porch the dainty milking-pail Stood brimming with the wealth but newly drain'd From the cow's yielding udder—tempting show For those who love such simple luxuries As skilful housewifery may furnish forth From the rich produce of the dairy farm. Well pleased with all the details of a life Known, until then, but in fictitious guise, The young Eliza failed not to inquire The cause and purport of whate'er she saw. And loth she was to note the last red flush That, through the casement darting, kindled up A thousand lights fantastic on the walls,— The lengthen'd shade of starry jessamine, Which, with the woodbine's curved and streaked horns, Like fairy-bugles, were depicted there. Reluctantly the graceful girl obeyed Her mother's summons, who, beside the gate, Already opened by my father's hand, Stood beckoning her away. Oh! then it was That I, returning from my evening walk, First saw the inmates of the ancient hall. With words confused, and countenance abash'd, I hail'd at first the stranger visitants; But soon delighted wonderment obtained The mastery over diffidence, and soon My eyes were rivetted on that sweet face, Insatiate drinking in the draught of love. Her slight veil wreath'd in folds above her brow, Admittance granting to the balmy air, Disclosed, and still attemper'd with its shade, The glowing charms beneath; for on her cheek, Invading e'en the vestal purity Of her white forehand, lay the roseate blush Called thither by that eve's unwonted toil. Her eyes were like the summer heavens, when sunn'd By morning beams; and from the shadowy fringe Of their deep lids glanced stealthy languishment. Her mouth!—Oh! there lurk'd all the witchery! The incommunicable loveliness That shed enchantment over all the rest. But why pourtray or lineaments or form? These may be cast in Nature's finest mould, And yet convey no picture to the mind Of beauty's nameless charm, that owns no law. Whate'er their form or hue, the features loved Speak to the heart a language of their own. Her stature was so small, she might be deem'd A shape of fairy lightness. From her brow, According to the fashion of the time, E'en drooping o'er the ivory of her neck, Her dark brown tresses fell in many a ring, Which, as they caught the golden hues of day, Borrow'd their brightness. Simple her attire, Yet all adjusted by the hand of taste. Perchance a more experienced eye had seen The wiles of art in that simplicity, And haply had detected in her mien, And in the silvery tones of her low voice, An overweening studiousness to please. But I, unread in female blandishments, Beheld in all the charm of native grace. Small distance lay between their lone abode, And our sequester'd grange; but evening shades Had fallen in dubious gloom athwart the road. They, used to tread the broad and crowded streets Of vice-polluted cities, knew not yet The sweet security of mountain glens; And deeming me fit guide in those wild paths, The elder lady courteously required That I should guard them on their homeward way. We journey'd on conversing. She had pass'd Her youth in brilliant circles, where the flash Of wit transcendant, wit elicited; And well she knew with skilful hand to spring The long laid mine of thought within my soul. Then felt I for the first time, since I hail'd The light of day, the blessedness supreme Of being by minds congenial understood; Who look'd upon the glorious scenes I loved With feelings like my own—to whom the voice Of Nature's music waking in the heart, Was not an unintelligible sound. They saw them not, but tears of rapture gush'd Forth from my eyes in that first blissful trance Of uncheck'd commune intellectual. My speech had not the phraseology Or flowing diction of scholastic lore, Nor had my mien the self-assured air That marks the man of wealth and high descent: Yet were they as remote from the uncouth And clownish coarseness of the churl's estate, From all that borders on vulgarity, As from the polish'd elegance of courts. Think not I write in egotistic pride, Or with the vain and frivolous desire Of figuring in this plain, unvarnish'd tale The hero of my proper history. I, heeding but consistency and truth, Speak of my poor attainments as the link Alone connecting one of my degree With those of more pretence. Alas! it was The treacherous prelude to approaching ill! That evening fixed my future destiny; I loved, but dared not trust myself with hope: But soon our growing intercourse inspired My heart with that. We were their humble friends, Though ne'er descending to obsequiousness. If benefits were granted and received, We were the donors alway. Their lone lot, Their fallen fortunes and deportment fair, Created in our breasts an interest warm, That best might be evinced by friendly deeds. Whatever we possess'd was proffer'd free; Nor seem'd they e'er reluctant to accept. My father's sterling sense and judgment clear Became the widow'd matron's oracle; Nor scorn'd Eliza to solicit oft My gentle sister's aid in household tasks, And in return as freely would impart Such slight accomplishments as might accord With Ellen's active usefulness at home. 'Twere bootless to recount the progress fond Of my young passion, or the thousand toils Love's subtle skill entwined around my heart, Until my mind, in sweet delirium steep'd, Was under fascination. Simplest phrase, Or act of hers, to my adoring thought Had a mysterious beauty of its own. All that she touch'd acquired a sanctity: The flowers, whereon her breath had lain, sigh'd forth A heavenlier odour: yea, I e'en have kiss'd The slender prints her fairy footsteps left! I well remember with what ravishment My soul was thrill'd, the first time that my ear Drank the delicious music of her voice; When in soft union with her breathing harp, She sang to me an ancient melody, Oft heard in Scotia's solitary glens. 'Tis ever sweet to list the gentle tones Of woman's voice, e'en when her simple strains Flow in untaught and unpretending song; But in Eliza, music's eloquence Was an inspired, all-excelling gift, The only one that Nature, who had been So prodigal in each external grace, Had lavished unreluctant on her mind,— Although to my idolatry it seem'd But one bright link in a resplendent chain. How swiftly sped the summer months away! And Winter, decking his stern brow with wreaths Of Love's young blossoms, melted into bloom Of soft-returning Spring,—for that one time, At least, in his career, crown'd with regrets, Which soon were lost in Summer's brighter joys. Bless'd by my sire's and with her mother's smiles, Our mutual fondness grew. The portion small, Saved from their fortune's wreck, had scarce sufficed To keep the pale-eyed spectre, Want, at bay. Far from the haunts of Fashion, where her charms Might all alliance suitable have won, The thoughtful matron saw her child's fair hopes Nipt in the bud; and, musing o'er the page Of dark futurity, her mind recoil'd From the drear prospect of Eliza's lot. It haply seem'd to her that one who loved Her daughter with such deep devotedness As I evinced, if raised from low degree, By some distinction recognised by men As current specie of gentility, Or pass-word through their proud patrician gates, Might then Eliza's worthy mate become. In brief, 'twas thus arranged, that I should seek The academic groves on Isis' banks, Whence, my ordeal past, and orders high Of holy priesthood ta'en, and to some glebe, By college grant or patron kind, preferr'd, I should return to these my native hills, Eliza's hand, my best reward, to claim. The time of my departure had arrived; I went with faltering heart to bid farewell To her I loved. Methought unwonted gloom Hung o'er the mansion, and the ancient woods, Though they in July's richness were bedight; And never to my eyes had all things there On which they linger'd look'd so beautiful, So touchingly, unutterably dear! The very breath the bursting flowers exhaled Seem'd to caress me with a sweet adieu. Eliza came not forth to welcome me; But this neglect its simple birth might owe To accident, or tenderer source attest; The pensiveness of parting, or the soft And all too deep emotions of a heart Trembling with virgin consciousness of love. Whate'er its cause, I felt her absence chill My mind as I approached; nor met I yet The stately matron in her evening walk 'Midst the parterres, now gay with summer bloom: And at Eliza's window soon my sight, Quicken'd by anxious fear, a signal caught That filled me with forebodings: I beheld, In that closed curtain, sickness' pallid sign. 'Twas all too true! the being I adored Lay on her couch in Fever's burning thrall. I prayed for entrance, as a wretch condemn'd Might supplicate a respite of his doom, But 'twas in vain: they told me all access To that contagious chamber was forbid; And that the lips, where the untasted bliss Of my Elysium dwelt, breath'd pestilence More baleful than the deadly Upas dew,— And drove me from the mansion in despair, With blenched looks that spake how great the risk, Its threshold barr'd from those without, still more How dubious was the fate of those within. My feelings, as I turn'd towards my home, Were such as language would but ill describe. Anguish beyond imagining was mine: My dreams of fame and happiness dissolved; All my fond hopes, whereon the morning sun Had smiled so bounteously, expired beneath The blight of this affliction unforeseen. I nursed one sole desire—it was to die! Struck to the core by that same malady That sapp'd the life of her I idolized. All plans, all projects were abandon'd then: The world had nothing that I coveted. Each day, each hour, a suppliant at the gate Of that infected mansion, I obtain'd Tidings that broke my heart. The sultry heats Prevailing then were adverse to the chance Of her recovery. Daily I endured The sentence stern of Death. They said each blast That came there, laden with the fiery breath Of those solstitial nights, new peril caused, And Fever's fierce malignity increased. 'Twas on the evening of the sixth drear day Of her disorder and of my despair, That I, unable to remain aloof, Roam'd round the sanctuary where my treasure lay, Like miser watching o'er his buried gold. That open casement, whose white drapery No temper'd breeze of eve refrigerant Lifted compliant with my fervent prayer, Was, till the shades of night came darkly down, The shrine of my devotion. Stirless still Its folds reposed, and dubious, till the moon Rose in the eastern heavens, and sailing forth Into the depths of Summer's cloudless blue, Shed o'er the dusky bowers her silver light; Then, like funereal emblem drooping o'er A maiden's corse, that curtain's jealous screen Gleam'd on my sight again; and from within A wan light glimmer'd, as from taper pale, Keeping its vigil by the couch of pain. I sat me on the earth, with burning brow Bared to the langour of the sultry air; My very sense of hearing had grown sick With listening long for some expected sound: But all was still, not e'en a tinkling brook Was heard in summer scantiness to flow. At length methought I heard a feeble moan Breathed in the room above me, but so faint, It died away ere yet half audible: Still it sufficed to stir my brooding mind To active energy. I started up From the low turf where I had sat supine, Resolved to gain the chamber where she lay, Whence my aroused attention caught again Sounds indistinct, that seem'd, to my alarm'd And boding spirit, like the gasp of death. The massive walls of that antique abode With ivy dark were trammell'd and enchased, The growth of years; and other clambering plants Of recent culture, clematis and rose, Now thickly clasp'd the time-worn structure round. The moonbeams, radiant with meridian light, Play'd in soft dalliance with the varnish'd leaves, That glow'd as with a silver shower beset. And, half reveal'd, all interlaced between, The ramous stems, like to a natural stair, In close succession, and gradation true, Had made their progress up the old grey walls, Till they Eliza's window had attain'd. The lover's heart is seldom an adept In rules didactic. Calculation cold Curbs not the primal impulse of his mind— Scarce is the thought imagined ere fulfill'd. My hand had grasp'd the casement's heavy frame Ere I reflected on the action bold. I fear'd not for myself: no shuddering dread Of that infected atmosphere deranged My steady purpose or relax'd my nerves; But apprehensions of my pure intent Strangely misconstrued, or of harsh rebuke— These were the phantoms that my mind appall'd. With soundless steps, and breath suppress'd to pain, I cross'd the hallow'd precincts of her bower: The taper from its sunken socket gave A fitful ray, o'ermaster'd by the beams Of the resplendent moon. I stood beside Eliza's couch—unspeakable delight! I gazed once more on all my heart adored; On that sweet form recumbent now, and weak Through virulent disease; but still to me The Iris of my hopes. I know not well If in those moments, bordering on the hour Of fever's acme, she had recognised My lineaments or voice. A rattling noise, Sad substitute for speech! within her throat, Was all she utter'd; but I understood By this, and by the motions of her hand, And by the parch'd heat of her sever'd lips, That she was pining for the cooling draught Station'd beyond her reach, and vainly thus Had striven to rouse the menial who, worn down With constant watching, slumber'd nigh the couch. She took the envied draught, administer'd By my most willing hand, and o'er her cheek And restless brow there stole a transient gleam, That seem'd to me the dear acknowledgment Of grateful love and renovated life. Oh! with what rapture, with what vigilance, I took my place the sufferer's couch beside; Tended her wants, and counted with mute breath. The quick pulsations of her slender wrist; Hung o'er her and inhaled her frequent sighs, To me more fragrant than the rose, though rife With fever and destruction; kiss'd the brim Whence she had drain'd the draught medicinal, As though ambrosial nectar there remain'd! My warning looks, and signals that enjoin'd Silence imperative, repress'd the screams That well nigh broke from the awaken'd nurse; And soon in compact silently arranged, We watch'd together o'er her through the night. The crisis had arrived—the anxious hour, That should determine her still doubtful fate. The thirst that had consumed her slack'd its force— Her pulse grew tranquillized beneath my touch— Her burning brow, suffused in gentle dews, No longer combated the influence Of Sleep, who, like a guardian seraph kind, For ever watchful to fulfil his trust, Came from his realms, attended by a train Of balmy zephyrs redolent with health, And fann'd the maiden's eyelids to repose. I have been bless'd in my existence oft With hours of high enjoyment; I have seen The full completion of some cherish'd hopes, Which I had nursed with reason's nutriment; But never knew I exstacy like that Which fill'd my soul, when, bending o'er her couch, I saw Eliza lock'd in Sleep's caress. The morning came to us begemm'd with showers: A genial freshness seem'd to emanate From nature's breast, so lately parch'd with drought. The sun was marching towards the zenith high, Ere the sweet sufferer from her slumber waked. She smiled upon us with the placid looks Of perfect recognition. Pale she lay, And weak and languid like a tender flower Bow'd down, though still unbroken, by the storm Whose bitterness hath pass'd. I heard, with joy Unutterable, the consoling words, Pronounced by lip of science—proudly heard!— That I had saved her by my timely zeal, Exerted in that moment critical. My own enraptured feelings, and still more The promise full of health's returning beam To her I loved, was my kind recompense. And soon I needed all the balm such thoughts Might yield me. My observant eye remark'd A strange reserve and haughty mien evinced, Even in that hour of general joy, by one I should have deem'd the last to scorn my care: Eliza's mother treated me as though I had committed some egregious wrong Inexpiable. No fit judge am I Of rules by strict decorous law prescribed. Perchance she censured justly, yet methinks Some trivial portion of her pride incensed She might have yielded, on the simple score Of certain good effected, and her wrath Have curb'd its virulence against an act Arising solely from affection pure. So argued not the dame; and she impress'd My mind with the conviction that her heart Was coldly callous, comprehending not The deep emotions of exalted love. Nay, e'en maternal fondness dwelt not there, Or, when the peril was so imminent, She had not left her daughter in the charge Of menial hands, indubitably proved Inadequate to such important trust. The boon preferr'd by me with earnestness, That I might yet a little space remain In their abode, if but to plant my steps Unwearying nigh the threshold of her bower, Was sternly and inflexibly denied. I could not choose but turn indignantly Away from those inhospitable walls; And, but for her dear sake, whose love I deem'd Purely, irrevocably, solely mine, I had for ever bade them an adieu. Where should I hie me? from the oft-trod path, That led from that lone mansion to the grange, I turn'd in sadness: never would I take Contagion to the bosom of my home. My mind was harass'd by the countless thoughts That, rapid as the shadows marching o'er The summits of the hills, successively Had chased each other thence; my spirits, too, Endured the langour ever consequent On o'er-excited powers. My burning brow Already knew the ominous approach Of that malignant malady, whose gripe My own betroth'd Eliza had repell'd. I felt the insidious poison creep apace, With progress horrible, throughout my veins, Where the blood curdled, and an icy chill Ran through each fibre of my shivering frame. My listless footsteps bore me to the wilds Of a dark tangled forest; where, on bank Of moss, I laid my limbs in apathy, Precursor of disease, resign'd to die. A dreamy trance is all my mind recalls Of the remainder of that dreadful day. Shapes thronging hideously where'er I turn'd, Changing in frightful metamorphosis, And in their vivid ideality Pressing upon me, till they seem'd to hold My bursting temples in their iron grasp. Th' expanding figure of a fiery globe, Aërial, and yet tangible, appear'd With pertinacity that marr'd the power Of my collapsing sight to shut it thence. One harrowing recollection haunted me, The sense of deep unkindness—all things seem'd To gibe and scoff at me, till the idea Prevail'd within me that I was, in truth, A stricken deer, abandon'd by the herd. Borne to my home by heaven-directed aid, Long in delirious fever did I rave, And long I lingered on the brink of death. Inquiring message daily from the Hall Was sent, with show of friendly interest ta'en In all I suffer'd; but my wounded mind Traced, in the courteous wording of the phrase, The shallow heartlessness it would disguise. Yet deem'd I my Eliza bore no part In aught that look'd like coldness or neglect; And with a beam of gratitude sincere, My wan cheek kindled when the tidings came, That she in convalescence had walk'd forth, For the first time, to taste the balmy air. I heard from every tongue that my beloved Wore in her aspect, now invigorate With health's returning bloom, unwonted charms. Her recent struggle with disease, 'twould seem, Had open'd to a beauty more mature. Meanwhile the malady from her imbibed Dealt ruthlessly with me. Awhile I strove With stubborn energy to master it; But, with the subtlety of poisonous drugs, That sap by slow degrees the vital powers, It crept into the stamina of life; Transforming me, in manhood's early prime, Into the image of unripe decay. The bounteous breath of heaven, that erst had been To me the sovereign balm of ev'ry ill, Seem'd now by influence malignant changed Into effluvia of mephitic plains. Listless and powerless, with a constant sense Of dreariness and woe, the day wore on, Unequall'd,—save by horror of the night. 'Twas strange, methought, that never to the Grange, Since the pale form of sickness hover'd there, Eliza Dudley nor her mother came! And stranger still the tidings, to my ear, That she, at some gay festival held nigh Our lonely valley, had shone forth in all The animated brilliancy of joy— The brightest star in that fair galaxy Of loveliness and youth. I will confess My heart was stung to anguish with the thought, Nor could the sophistry of partial love Acquit her of the wrong. I had not join'd The mirthful masquers at a festival While she lay writhing on her couch of pain! Too dearly had I proved how firm the link That bound my fate to her's. Yet strove I still To cheat with fond perverseness reason's voice; 'Twas but the error of her thoughtless age, That dream'd not of offence in some brief hours Snatch'd from the dull monotony of years; Nor seem'd the motive that had led her there Devious from Nature's, or from Duty's path; Nor could I marvel that a graceful girl, Redundant, too, with all the happiness Of conscious beauty, should delight to sun Her youthful charms in admiration's smile: Yea, I moreover cherish'd the conceit, That my Eliza, glittering in the pride Of decorated loveliness, had breath'd A sigh of tender sympathy for me. The tongue of rumour, ever prone to catch Intelligence ungentle, soon proclaim'd The Hall no longer the retired abode Of rural quiet—harbouring 'neath its roof A gay gallant, the frequent visitant, And favour'd candidate for that fair hand Plighted so late to me. I spurn'd the tale As a base calumny, e'en libellous Of human nature, how much more of her! And lull'd into security and hope By some cessation of th' unwelcome prate, And breaking from the trammels of disease By slow but certain efforts, soon my mind Regain'd a portion of its strength depress'd. Again I hail'd the open eye of day Beneath the glorious canopy of heaven; My feeble steps again retraced with joy Their wild haunts on the mountains; and again I felt the breezy air re-lume my cheek With somewhat of its wonted healthfulness. I well remember me I cull'd with care, And with a feeling of intense delight, As though I ne'er had known their hues before, The wild and hardy flowerets of the hills; And, with a fantasy, according well With the still feverish tenour of my mood, Grouping in quaint arrangement those whose buds Were opening freshly to the morning beams. I gather'd from the margin of the brook Its drooping osiers, framed a basket rude, And placed therein my unpretending spoils, Resolving thus to send the simple gift, The offering and the token of my love, To her whose absence was my only grief. For often I had heard Eliza say She loved the wild blooms of our mountain glens; Beholding alway in their lowly charms The emblem sweet of those secluded joys She hoped to share with me. They were return'd To me rejected, with a billet brief, Traced by Eliza's hand, around them twined. It were a worthless, and a bootless task, Here to record the words that scroll contain'd. Let this suffice,—she did require of me That never more in phrase of love my lips Should syllable, nor yet my pen inscribe With epithet of tenderness her name. In sooth 'twere best that further intercourse, Unless restricted to the trivial speech Of casual courtesy, should thenceforth cease. Nor might I deem this mandate the decree Of womanish caprice, to be revoked As waywardness relented; but 'twas the firm And changeless purpose of maternal will, With which in full obedience she concurr'd My frenzied act (thus did they designate My work of love) they never could forgive. I felt as though a thunderbolt were hurl'd At my devoted head. Saw I aright? Did my astounded senses comprehend The import of her words, which so belied All I had ere beheld in her, or deem'd Compatible with that angelic form? It could not be, or haply she was sway'd By some resentment misconceived, or wrote Beneath the influence deep of filial awe, Which quell'd, but quench'd not, passion's ardent flame. Oh! might I but behold her once again! Once more pour forth to her the eloquence Springing spontaneous then, of purest love, I thought she would retract the unjust decree That banish'd me for ever from her heart. Oh! fond fatuity of guileless youth! For ever credulous of good desired, With hopes as buoyant as the airs that float 'Round empyrean heights; or as the wing Of Eyas soaring from its rock-built nest. But, let the hand of disappointment fall, And eider down is not so soon depress'd! Arm'd with the consciousness of rectitude, Elate with hope, that its existence owed To my unchanged devotedness of heart, Once more I sought the mansion in the wood; Secure of pleading, with resistless force, My own cause, and the cause of injured truth. With what emotions, oh, with what a sense Of mingled joy and anguish, hail'd I now That interdicted dwelling, whence my steps Had been so long exiled! My languid limbs Still dragged the heavy fetters of disease; And my sick spirit, sensitive from pain, Yielded with feebleness, till then unknown, To each unequal effort of my frame. Corporeal weakness found within my breast A sympathy too true. The throbbing heart That quiver'd there, impeded oft the power Of respiration; and I gasp'd for breath Oft ere I reach'd my journeys destined goal, As if each lengthening sob would be my last. Unwonted sights, and sounds as dissonant, Assail'd me as that portal I approach'd. Where late the spirit of serene repose Stood guardian sentinel, there loiter'd now The liv'ried hirelings, insolent and proud, Who swell the train of lordly opulence. The kennell'd hound bayed recognition harsh Of an intruder's foot, for such belike All deem'd me there; while to my jealous mind All I beheld of innovation told. Admission, granted me with tardy grace, And intimation of untimely hour, Encroaching on their pre-concerted plans— It was permitted me once more to steal Into their presence like a criminal. Nor fail'd their menial to announce to me, With aptitude inherent in her class, (Who readily a vulgar impress take Of their superiors' faults,) that in the Hall A more exalted and more welcome guest Than he, whom now she usher'd, did sojourn. Moreover, eloquent on such high theme, Proceeded she, in detail, to describe The rank and bearing of their visitant. It needed not, to make me comprehend The difference wide between his lot and mine, Her recapitulation long—brief words Had summ'd up well his supereminence— Sir Edward Vernon came, with hawk and hound, And glittering equipage, and pompous mien, And all the specious attributes that make The great man of the multitude; whilst I, Dragged thither, with a faltering heart, my steps, In humble diffidence, of merits few; And with a blush upon my hectic cheek, Deep as the crimson consciousness of guilt. My soul doth sicken at the retrospect Of that last interview, and I would fain Pass it in silence o'er. They heap'd on me The hateful burden of their mean disdain: Yea, she whom I had so adored, for whom My scarce-redeemed life had well nigh paid The forfeiture, did hold me up to scorn; Made me the butt of irony, disguised Beneath the mask of praise extravagant— That vilest trick of fashion's insolence; And crush'd me with her cruel raillery, Till my stung heart writhed powerless in her grasp, Deprived of e'en the eloquence of wrong. Nor lavish'd she her malice in mere sport; There was a meaning in the ready flow Of her sarcastic wit. She labour'd thus, That all who heard her might behold in me, Not her discarded lover,—but the fool Who, buoy'd up solely by his own conceit, Would claim distinctions that became him ill: Thus veiling from her wealthier monitor's eyes The nature true of our past intercourse. My rustic garb was placed in contrast strong, That its deformity might more enhance The modish elegance of his attire. Methinks, I yet behold him as he stood, Meeting the anger of my flashing eye With the vulgarity of fashion's stare. He was a thing, to whom I would assign The lowest grade humanity affords. With sensibility that might be roused From its supineness, but by thwarting him In his desire inordinate, or haply Denying to his pride the fulsome dole Of flattery its insatiate cravings sought. A being, whose small stock of intellect Barely sufficed him for perverted ends— Yet plausible withal,—a wretch, from whom Mothers, who prized the unsullied purity Of youth's mistrustless innocence, had barr'd The insidious approach—from whom the husband, Holding her reputation dear whose trust Of love in him was rested, had done well To keep the treasure hid—for he was one Of those cold sensualists, who murder peace For the sole pleasure desolation yields. Yet had he merits that insured to him The homage warm of many votaries: Base qualities, that did preponderate Much in the scale wherein great Mammon weighs The excellence of men—for he had gold! Such is the portraiture of him for whom Eliza Dudley did renounce my love! Such was the man to whom a matron sage Confided her fair daughter's future weal! Leave we the reptile in his loathsome slough: I weary of the theme, although, belike, It will be deem'd some hatred, ling'ring still, Has moved me thus to paint him in despite. The time hath been when he who breath'd that name Abhorrent to my ear, had stirr'd my wrath Almost to madness, and had called forth groans And curses loud, and vehement, and deep: But now the day of bitterness is past, I do not write in anger, but disgust; And reason's calmer mood hath taught me since, That, in the ebullition of my spleen, I did him some slight wrong,—for, surely, he, The instrument and not the cause of ill, Had not, in justice, borne the obloquy. Enthusiast natures colour, with the hues Of their own brilliancy, the varied forms That throng the path of life, giving to all A character of aggravated truth; The show of virtue is exalted far Above the bounds of reason, and extoll'd With undue homage; while the first detection Of human frailty conjures up a shape Monstrous and hideous as chimera, seen In the dark ages of idolatry. E'en Folly, with his bauble and his bells, Stalks forth a giant, worthy the pursuit Of the mind's wild knight-errantry, and gains Distinction, meriting alone contempt.— Repaid with coldness, or with perfidy, Where young affection had concentred all Its pure devotion, ready with the zeal Of martyrdom in Love's own cause to die,— The disappointed feelings never seek, In their excess, the primal cause of pain. Time hath instructed me, with test severe; And I have reap'd at last the cold reward Of my life's long probation, in the gain Of sad experience, bought with many a groan, And thwarted project yielded in despair. And I have found, amidst the ruins dark Of blighted hopes, and confidence misplaced, One gem of price—Discrimination's art; And now I can look back with tranquil eye, Though with a mind humiliated much, On the infatuation of my youth. Yet, why lament the generosity That led me into error? since it was The error of a too exalted view Of Nature's excellence; a fervid sense Of that affinity, existing oft Between the outward impress and the soul. 'Twas not Eliza Dudley that I loved, But a fair thought embodied in her form. Thus, clothing in the Sculptor's glorious art Vice carnal and corrupt, the Greek forgot, In the perfections of ideal grace, The frailty of his god. A cold farewell Was all I proffer'd, or could then require: I never held communion with her more, Nor spake I of her perfidy to man; But, in the solitude of my own heart, Did brood upon the anguish of the wound. I could not brook the sympathy of friends Who deem'd me injur'd—Nay, with strange caprice, I e'en betook me to a warm defence Of her whose perjur'd fickleness I loath'd. Full soon the echoes of the rural glens, That had repeated oft our lays of love, Rang with the music of the bride bells. I hied me to the vale's remotest nook, There to evade the hateful scrutiny That might have singled me from out the throng Of more indifferent gazers on the show— Meet object for some trifler's raillery; For well I knew my aspect then had been The tablet of my heart. Remembrance comes, Clad in the vision of that frenzied hour, With poignancy I deem'd for aye subdued.— I stretch'd my form beside a mountain-stream That dash'd adown a rock precipitous; No grove umbrageous threw its shadow there, Nor grew the green moss on the margin wild— All was chaotic, sterile, and severe. Around the pool, whose cavern'd depths receiv'd The foaming waters, and whose stillness told A tale of treachery, high cliffs arose, Barren and black, and scarr'd by wintry snows, That ever in the spring-time, loos'd from thrall, Came pouring down with speed tumultuous. It was a place of gloom, the haunt of birds Ungenial to the valley's milder brood: A scene of ruin, whose stern genius there Had found a sanctuary fit; yet down the glen The eye beheld a pastoral landscape soft, Shining in contrast, beautifully strange.— Thus from the pinnacle of bleak Despair The shuddering wretch receding bliss beholds. Those unsunn'd waters, wherein I had lav'd My brow, assuag'd its burning agony; And soon my spirit re-assumed the power Of quelling the emotions of my heart; And I could sit, and tranquilly could gaze Upon the pageant in the distance far, And listen to the chorus of the bells, Pealing anew their gratulations sweet, Until I deem'd myself in truth resign'd To each decree of Fortune's waywardness. 'Twas but the mockery of fortitude— The phantom of content—whose substance found No shelter in my breast. The busy tongue Of village wonderment did loudly prate To me of all the splendour of the show— The gauds the bride had worn, the equipage That bore her home in triumph from the church— The brave demeanour of her chosen lord, And all the endless details that provoke The idle cravings of the curious ear. My sister turn'd from me her tearful eyes, Because she would not that they should divine The secret of my soul: I bless'd her then, And since have thought with reverence of that trait Of tenderest feeling in a village girl, That so surpass'd the courtier's specious arts. No more—no more the visions I had nurs'd Smil'd on me lovingly; no more—no more The young affections of my heart sprung up Fresher than morning dew. All—all was drear; The scenes around me, once with rapture view'd, Seem'd now the monuments of murder'd hope. My native valley was a wilderness— My life a weight of woe—the world a blank: Those projects fair, that recently appear'd The solid basis whereon I might build The structure of ambition laudable;— Those academic honours, late desir'd With love enthusiastic, now became Intolerable thoughts, still linking me Resistless to my blighted happiness— An union hideous, like bonds that chain The dying captive to the mouldering dead. Action interminate, and ceaseless change, This was my prayer, the only benison For which I wearied heaven. With many tears My sire accorded me the boon I ask'd, That I might seek beyond the ocean wave A brighter destiny. He could not blind His senses to the horror of my state, Though marvelling that I should thus indulge Immoderate grief for life's least cureless woe. He saw that I must perish, or depart: And pouring o'er my head the unction pure Of his last blessing, suffer'd me to go. Soon the gay bride departed from the scenes That shelter'd her in poverty obscure: Plung'd in the crowd that throng round Folly's shrine, Laugh'd with each joyless prodigal of mirth, And in the vortex of a heartless world, Engulph'd the feeble remnant that remain'd Of better feelings sedulously subdued. It hath betided me that, in the walk Of devious life, though opposite as are Antipodean realms, my steps have cross'd The path of her career. I have beheld Her tears flow fast at Belvidera's woes, Copious as are the fountains of the skies. Yet, if a shivering suppliant at her gate Implor'd of her, e'en in the sacred name Of pity, to relieve his deep distress, Those tears grew frigid as the ice-drops cold On Winter's crest. Fie on the show of grief! Weep o'er a fiction, yet behold unmov'd A fellow-being withering in the gripe Of penury! Oh! that insulted Truth Would rouse her from the lethargy wherein The magnitude of wrong hath plung'd her; and cry shame, Eternal shame on every false pretence! I have beheld her since on Tiber's banks, Amidst the host of idlers who profane The sanctity of venerable Rome, Crowding the ways whose very dust hath been Immortalized by deeds of olden time, The ashes of dead heroes. Trifling e'en Within the forum's precincts, and with jest Vapid and vain, that better had beseem'd Fashion's gay boudoir, or the throng'd saloon, Vexing the echoes of those mouldering walls That erst prolong'd the words of Cicero— Or, when the vital interests, not alone Of Rome and her proud factions, but of realms Trembling before the menace of her frown, Were canvass'd there with matchless eloquence, Peal'd the full chorus of contending tongues. In the gay carnival, when licence reigns, Sanction'd by power supreme,—and Folly, loosed From Reason's curb, in broad day riots forth, And mimics, with a wantonness profuse, Her own fantastic freaks, as if afraid Their measure still might lack—e'en there have I Beheld Eliza glide adown the tide Of life's vain glories; borne in sumptuous ease Along the Corso, while her liv'ried train, With arrogant assumption, scatter'd wide Rome's clamorous mendicants, and fix'd all eyes On that proud equipage that thunder'd by. I saw her too amidst the rival ranks Of Roman beauty in their theatres, Prankt out by Fashion's all-accomplish'd hand With every lure the senses that seduce, And every blandishment that art invents, To draw a veil o'er Time's insidious touch. I look'd for that sweet beaming of the soul— Nature's free gift, the charm I had so lov'd: Those dimples that play'd round the young mouth, And guardians seem'd of love's pure paradise. But where were they? and where, alas! was all That had inspir'd my deep idolatry? For ever fled!—and the eternal smile, Soulless and joyless, now that had usurp'd Like some base traitor those fair cherub thrones, What spake it, but of falseness to my heart? The practiced air of listless apathy— Or gaze unmeasured of cold haughtiness, That recks not of the pain it may inflict: The meretricious luxury of attire— The figure rife with its voluptuousness— The cheek, whose tint of art but ill supplied The healthful bloom effaced by languid days, And nights worn out in torch-light revelry— These all were hers; but in her mien matured, Whence had departed maiden bashfulness, The eye sought vainly for that temper'd beam Which best becomes a British matron's brow— Gracefully grave, still powerful to attract The chasten'd tribute of admiring love. A man of foreign aspect stood beside The couch where she reclin'd—in whose dark eyes, When bent on her, familiarity Blended with glances warm and amorous. And tended he each light caprice with zeal Exceeding far what courtesy requires. His assiduity had more beseem'd Suitor of one whose plighted troth had been Never on altar vow'd. I deem'd she had, Among the many vices of the land Wherein she sojourn'd, fallen into this, Its most insensate custom; and whilst he, Her wedded partner, hied him to the haunts Of infamy and ruin, there to waste A life degraded, and with equal wrong Repay her scorn and hatred—she repair'd, With her innamorato at her side, To the throng'd theatre, to listen strains Of luscious music, and contemplate scenes That once had crimson'd all her cheek with shame. Believe it, ye who have perused the page Recording my inexpiable guilt, Which had, they said, insulted modesty, And banish'd me for ever from her heart— Give credence if ye may: she came to gaze On a licentious pageant, that detail'd The frailty of the Carthaginian Queen! Not in the chaste and frigid portraiture Of Metastasio's verse; but in array Of pantomimic show, on stage whose lamps Emitted partial radiance, dubious gleams, That counterfeited well love's treacherous hour; Nor lack'd there tones accordant to the tale, Breathing the airs of that song-gifted clime. And swam before the sight young graceful forms, In movements speaking passion's eloquence More meltingly than language; attitudes Alternately exciting amorous thoughts, And those emotions which alone belong To the fond worshipper of Grecian art. Luxurious all,—beguiling every sense, And stamping on the o'er-excited brain An impress that calls blushes to the brow. My eyes oft stray'd from that voluptuous stage Seeking Eliza's face—once, only once, Did they meet her's—methought she shrunk from them— So deem'd I, or mine own instinctive shame Invested her with feelings long estranged From her polluted mind; and with a sigh, That not insulted love, nor yet the power Of reason, now dispassionate, could check, I turn'd from what I deem'd the spectacle Of her full degradation. Ne'er again— Since that night in the Roman theatre— Have I beheld her. Fate, that sunder'd us Far as rocks sever'd by the rolling sea— Foreign in heart as are the tribes in hue Dwelling upon its circumjacent shores— Did never in the diverse paths of life Our wandering steps again approximate; Nor ever hath the breath of rumour borne The sequel of her story to mine ear. My tale is told—my dream of by-gone time Dispell'd, as fades from summer's changeful sky The rainbow's bright and evanescent form; And I have laps'd again into the vale Of years that bear me on to time unknown. Stranger!—thou hast the history of my youth— Affording little to arrest thy note— A simple narrative of simplest truths. No incident illustrious or sublime Hath mark'd its course, undevious and obscure. Yet, unattractive as these details are To minds that hunger for excitement strong, Their high importance in my scale of life Remains to me unchanged. In them I trace The origin of all that since hath framed My destiny's not all unchequer'd page. On them my very wanderings may look back As to their primal cause. Had I been bless'd With consummation of my early hopes, My days had glided on in tranquil joys, The quiet pastor of some rural glebe. I had not trod the interminable wilds Of Transatlantic forests; nor beheld The Indian mothers nursing their dusk sons Beside Ontario's Lake; nor in his strength The great Niagara fling his sea of foam From rocks that echoed his tumultuous joy. Nor had I watch'd with awe and wonderment The sun at midnight lift his lurid crest O'er Arctic wastes of everlasting snow; Nor, roaming in his Orient heritage, Skimm'd the blue waves o'er which the Dorian flute In time of eld breathed richest harmony; Nor, journeying from those ruined temples, proud Rear'd midst the Deserts, where great Sol was hail'd The Deity of Palmyrean groves; Approach'd the Sacred City that beheld The first fair rising of that wondrous star, Whose holier radiance was predoom'd to quench (Though veil'd a space from Judah's guilty fanes) The flaming altars of idolatry. I had not gazed on these, nor had mine been A wanderer's lot, the which,—albeit some thorns Spring midst the roses that adorn his path, And all he culls in his long pilgrimage Is not Hyblæan honey, but like fruit Gathered upon the Dead Sea's shores accurst, Tempting, but full of bitterness within,— Hath its delights, yea more, its usefulness. He who brings home from many a distant clime True tidings of man's varying destiny,— Noting with eye observant contrasts strange, The causes, too, of their diversity, And how external influences combine To form him good or evil,—hath perform'd His portion of life's duty, and hath earn'd A worthy station midst his fellow men. THESEAL HUNTERS. THESEAL HUNTERS. PART I. LOUD howl'd the wind on Finland's shore; High rose the hoarse and sullen roar Of forests, whose continuous line Of gnarled oak and giant pine, Cloth'd mountain, valley, plain. Dark cliff; that beetled o'er the deep, Guarding the Ocean's spell-bound sleep, Rear'd up their dusk, mysterious forms, And look'd the Genii of the storms, Ruling the drear domain. And, bursting from its icy thrall, Down dash'd the cataract's thundering fall, Midst cavern'd rocks, whose depths are known But to the eddying waves alone, In their remotest bound. No gleam illumed the sunless air; Huge clouds, that sail'd stupendous there, Successively gaunt shadows threw On Ocean's cold and rigid blue; Deep twilight reign'd around. Further than human eye could reach, Came floating tow'rds that stormy beach Ice-shoals, and islets rude, Whose frost-built valleys image forth The gloomy horrors of the North In all their amplitude. Tall towering peaks, that wore the dyes Of those severe but glorious skies, Like infant Alps or Andes rose Serene though stern in their repose; Till from the ice of ages rent, By Ocean's unchained element, Chaotic on their course they're hurl'd, Like monsters of all earlier world. Bold is his spirit who defies Tempestuous seas and angry skies; Launch'd on the unfathomable wave, That yawns an ever-open grave, Who marks the billows bear him on, Leaving no trace where he has gone; The city of his refuge driven, The sport of every wind of Heaven; The tall mast like a sapling bent, The canvass into fragments rent; Upon the wild Atlantic tost, Or hurried towards a dangerous coast, 'Neath midnight's murky scowl; Or steering for the shores of Ind, Whose sultry breath flares on the wind, Hears the tornado howl! Still more intrepid he, who dares The Frozen Ocean's thousand snares, In all their bleak array. From coral reef or stretching bar The skilful pilot steers afar; While the white surf and deepening roar Betray the shelving rocky shore, And warn him thence away. But who may stem the awful force Of the huge iceberg's changeful course? Or shun the yawning gulf beneath, Lock'd in the jaws of instant death? Whose hideous spectre glimmers pale, Whose voice is heard in every gale; And to complete whose fearful train Lacks not the furious hurricane. And lightnings gleam as lucid there, Seen through that dense and gloomy air, As dissonant the thunders roll Round the dark circle of the Pole, As when their imprecations groan Within the tropics' burning zone. To household hearth and kindred true, Bidding a brief but kind adieu, And laden with the slight supplies Stored for their hardy enterprise, Down to the beach with fearless glee, That dream'd not of adversity, Two brave Seal-hunters came. Nursed by one mother's fostering care, And wont in infancy to share The sports that boyish hours engage, And scarcely differing in age, In hearts they were the same. Aspiring now to man's estate, Still shared they each the other's fate; The same rude pastime and hard toil, And its reward, the well-earned spoil; Of envious rancour no dark shade Their perfect friendship durst invade: As blend wild tones in concord true, Together they in union grew. Rear'd to that bold vocation, they Spent on the seas the live-long day, To every season's mood inured, Few might have borne what they endured: But they, 'twould seem, new strength attain'd From every peril they sustain'd; To them stern hardship only brought Vigour of nerve, and tone of thought; Thus grew they up in mind and form The meet companions of the storm. Forced from the cove's protecting side, Their small shallop danced o'er the tide: Rude was her form; her fragile stem, Now set with many a frosty gem, Though balanced with an equal freight, Scarce brook'd the billow's ponderous weight; Nor seem'd her simple structure meant To brave so fierce an element: Yet oft on Finland's stormy flood The tempest's wrath she had withstood; While many a prouder vessel there Sent forth the shriek of wild despair, And, powerless on the maddening main, Sunk, never more to rise again, That little bark rode safely on, Beneath some kind saint's benison, Gliding amidst the icy isles, Yet shunning all their treacherous wiles, Sedate, as though instinct she knew The dangerous calling of her crew. And often through the wintry nights Uncheer'd save by those wondrous lights That flush the northern hemisphere, Shewing the gloom around more drear, Canute and Angus Straelenhorn Their slight bark had securely borne. Now through the wide and whitening surge Their rapid way they onward urge: With nervous hand and steady eye Doth bold Canute the rudder ply; While Angus guiles the lingering time With legend strange, or Scaldic rhyme,— Some old tradition handed down From sire to son, till it hath grown Into an hallowed mystic thing Round youth's warm fancy prompt to cling, And to the faultering eye of age To glow like wisdom's sacred page; Gleams of the visionary past, Like wreck upon the waters cast, Which, floating down time's lapsing stream, Shew glimpses of life's changeful dream; Tales that to us, in later days, Who raise the hymn to Jesu's praise, Seem chronicles befitting well The conclave and dark reign of hell; Nor less would Christian dead abhor The gloomy paradise of Thor, Whose fiend-like revels were the meed Of those who died in Edda's creed, And shrieks and incantations rose, A pæan to the soul's repose. Young Angus, prone to ditties wild, E'en whilst a grandame-fondled child, He sat upon the sybil's knee, Listening her lays attentively. Thence, treasuring up her ancient lore, He now unlock'd the ample store: Of Elfish artisan he told, Who wrought the midnight-molten gold, Or framed the magic sword and shield, Which none but Celtic arm might wield. Of Lapland wizard, whose black skill For ever aim'd at human ill, Whose horrid rites, heard on the waste, Made wandering mortals pause aghast; Or of those monsters that abound Within the North Sea's caves profound, Whose soundless depth to man denies All knowledge of their mysteries; Or of the "Sable Rock of Death," That frowns the Arctic pole beneath, Where treacherous whirlpools boil and foam, And Night eternal rears her home. Nor with these marvels did he fail To blend full many a gallant tale Of those bold heroes of the North Who live in unforgotten worth, Whose deeds for aye the pride shall be Of Scandinavian chivalry. Yet in these records of the brave, Like phantom lights around a grave, Tradition's tongue had mixed with all Shades of the supernatural; And deep the young narrator felt The fearful theme on which he dwelt. The dreary world of waters took In every pause a wilder look, And from the cavern's dread abyss He heard the Demon-serpent hiss. Such was their talk, when lo! afar, Extending like a crystal bar, Canute's experienced sight descried An ice-shoal, borne upon the tide, On whose bleak breast their destined prey In unsuspecting slumber lay. Joy speeds their course, abundant spoil Will soon reward their day of toil; Few words of gratulation pass'd, Ere on its sterile banks they cast The grappling hook secure; Then, bounding on the islet rude, Sole breakers of its solitude, They deem their triumph sure. But nerve of steel, or heart elate, Cannot avert impending fate, And little strength of man avails When Nature's self her work assails. Pause, hand—be silent, harp of mine! The unequal minstrelsy resign, Or invocate some loftier power, To paint the perils of that hour; Language were vain, and numbers weak, The horror of their doom to speak! Ere they had time with cautious skill Their feeble foe to snare and kill, Behold! a hurricane burst forth In all the terrors of the North. Hark! through the darken'd vault of Heaven, A sound as if its gates were riven, And all its dread artillery hurl'd Relentless 'gainst a doomed world. A crash, as if contending hosts Thunder'd along the echoing coasts; While o'er the heaving ocean came, 'Mid sleet and hail, the lightning's flame, 'Till all the air was seen to glow Reflected in the sea below; And many a frozen spire, that hung O'er the blue wave from which it sprung, Sever'd from each congenial hold, Down on the maddening waters roll'd! The Hunters heard the awful sound, And mark'd the danger deepening round. They gazed, but, stupified at first, They did not feel or fear the worst, Or deem'd their bark their citadel, Would shield them whatsoe'er befel. But, turning where their refuge lay, They saw it riven and swept away; Rent from its moorings frail and slight, They saw with their despairing sight; And raised a wild despairing cry, But the tempest howl'd in mockery! They toss'd their frantic arms, as though They hoped to span the gulf below, Or sought to cast them in the flood, From that bleak strand on which they stood. But each device of art were vain Their ravish'd treasure to regain. Away, away, on the billows borne By eddying currents wrench'd and torn, The bark in its impetuous course Breasts the sea with feeble force, Till, meeting in its onward path, The floating iceberg's fatal wrath Those hopeless gazers, who the while Had watch'd it from their dreary isle, Beheld it lock'd the shoals among, And, with concussion loud and long, They saw them form one barrier line, Athwart the dark and distant brine. PART II. THE waves are lull'd, the tempest's roar Peals round that desert isle no more. The winds, that late like demon-kings Brought desolation on their wings, And stirr'd to wrath the sullen deep, Now, pillow'd on the waters, sleep; Orhoarsely chime upon the ear A dirge-like song in cadence drear— A sound that lets the boding mind Small solace in their slumber find. The moon is up, and clear and bright; She sails beneath the arch of night; But cold her ray, as clear, I ween, Congenial with that wintry scene On which she looks, and downward throws Her pale beam on the frozen snows; For all around, an outline bold, Rigid, and beautiful, and cold, Lay in sharp light, and inky gloom, Like mail-clad warrior on a tomb, Gigantic stretch'd in Gothic aisle, And tinted by the moon's wan smile. On the deep sea, and in the sky, The riot of the storm gone by Hath left its traces stern and rude: In fragments o'er the waters strew'd, Ice cliff and icy pinnacle Still of the recent turmoil tell, Startling with harsh, discordant sound By fits the drowsy echoes round. And still athwart the face of Heaven Electric vapours, swiftly driven, Image upon the midnight blue Huge masses of portentous hue: Flush'd with the moonlight's ghastly gleam, They look like phantoms of a dream, Or shades that haunt the battle-field When ceases clang of spear and shield, When twilight ends the dread affray, By drawing her dusk shroud o'er day. They glide along in spectral haste Clad in the terrors of the past. Upon that dreary isle the moon Looks tranquilly from night's high noon, Regardless of the dreadful fate Of those who there in silence sate; Of those who, scarce in manhood's prime, Had thought upon the hand of Time As sportive birds, in Spring's first bloom, Think of December's ice and gloom. Death, in the distance dimly shown, Seem'd but the shade of shape unknown; But now—strange, sad reverse! though yet Another day hath barely set, They see the dread perspective brought Close to the visual ray of thought. Hours, minutes, roll like ages by, Time verging on Eternity. They sate in silence, and no tear Betray'd external sign of fear; They sate, and gazed upon the wave, Which soon or late must be their grave. For if distraction's mood forbore To hurl them from that dismal shore; If lingering life held out until, Shrunk by the wintry ocean's chill, And wasted by the direst pang Of famine's fierce relentless fang, Life's last, worst anguish they endure, Still comes destruction's dart as sure. And e'en that fatal isle, whereon They now await their doom draw on, That last drear resting-place, will prove False as the wave it floats above: Lash'd by the waters day by day, 'Twill melt in ocean's tide away. Rear'd up to rugged destinies, Yea, almost cradled on the seas; Familiar grown with danger's face In all the perils of the chace; Their inborn courage never quail'd, Nor oft the prompt expedient fail'd; But all were vain! skill served not there, And courage madden'd to despair! For them not e'en experience threw Her light in retrospective view; And human foresight, vaunted high, Could only teach them they must die! No lighter doom could truth foretell, And withering hope had sigh'd farewell! The brave young Angus! oh how sad Thy heart, that lately was so glad! No more the gay and sportive boy, Now thoughts of age his mind employ; And, crown'd with spring-tide's vernal wreath, He fronts the rugged frown of death. How lovely look the hues of life, When all the heart with hope is rife! Ere disappointment's touch impair The bright illusions glowing there, And youth's enthusiastic mind, To dreams of perfect bliss resign'd, Nor fraud suspects, nor doubt sustains, Nor harbours fear of future pains; Nor, ere the cup of joy is quaff'd, Regards the danger of the draught; Nor deems, despite its ruby glow, What bitter dregs may lurk below. Time hath not yet, with pencil rude, Life's gorgeous colouring subdued, Nor truth's stern hand, severe or sage, Traced her dull records on the page; Nor hath the care-worn, weary breast Yet sigh'd for its eternal rest. Ah no! the journey must be run From early dawn to setting sun, And many a cloud must intervene, The soul and her fond hopes between, Ere on the tomb, and life's last close, She looks as to a sweet repose. Night would fall gloomily on day, But for mild evening's temper'd ray So fell the dire, unlook'd-for stroke On those young brothers—They awoke From the seductive dream of youth, To gaze on death in awful truth. Angus, whose fervid soul seem'd given To gild earth's gloom with hues of heaven, A spirit buoy'd upon the wings Of Fancy's rich imaginings, Angus was first to yield and melt, In the full tide of anguish felt. Rush'd on his mind such thoughts of home, And fair hopes blighted in their bloom, His heart no more its firmness kept, He lifted up his voice and wept. "And thus to die! and never more May we behold the distant shore, Where rears our home its sheltering walls, Dearer to us than princely halls, All humble though they be! Long shall thou mourn, oh grey-hair'd sire! But ne'er shalt know how we expire, By famine and despair assail'd, Till life's exhausted lamp hath fail'd, Here on the open sea. Strange—yet methinks 'twere some relief, Some mitigation of our grief, If far-off friends might one day hear True tidings of our lot severe, By wandering spirit told. But no, ungenerous thought, begone!— Unworthy of my father's son. Why hurl on them a heavier blow, Adding deep horror to their woe? Let them believe that in the wave We found with transient pang a grave Meet for seal-hunters bold. Ye winged visions, that preside O'er slumber's hour, for ever hide The secret of our doom! Cloud not a sister's dawning youth With knowledge of the dreadful truth, Nor bring a father's silver hair, Already thinn'd by age and care, In sorrow to the tomb. But we must die! on rock or plain Our steps may never stray again; Nor ere again our voices wake The echoes lone of mountain lake; Nor through the dark pine-forest trace Its tenants wild in ardent chace; Nor in their savage lair Rouse the black wolf and bear. No more at holy Christmas time May we delight in minstrel rhyme; Nor by the hearth's domestic blaze Join in the dancer's rapid maze; Nor list, beneath the summer sky, The Runna's pleasant melody. Yet will the yule-log burn as bright, As loud the jest, the laugh as light, As though we yet had been Partakers in the scene. Our doom is sealed—oh past the power Of man to save! Our dying hour Is written in the dreadful book, Where mortal eye may never look; Yet in yon blue heaven's mystic scroll Methinks I read the awful whole. Hark to the Wind-god's stormy breath, Chaunting aloft our dirge of death! The Ocean-spirit shrieks aloud, While the rude Ice-king weaves our shroud; All, all to wreak their deadly hate Protract the hours of certain fate. Strike, Heaven! be pulseless, coward heart— Why, why with life so loth to part! Methinks some impulse strange restrains, Even while distraction fires my veins, Holding me back with iron hand, As if fast rooted to the strand: A spell that works internally, As though I would, but durst not die!" He paused, and gazed upon Canute, Whose mental anguish still was mute, Save when upon his brother's face He look'd, and there beheld the grace Of his fair lineaments, and knew In them a father's semblance true. These words— "Alas, my brother!" burst From the deep silent grief lie nursed, Striving the while his tears to hide, With manhood's stern and stubborn pride. And thought, "How fain would I resign My life, dear youth, to ransom thine!" Yet was there in his cup of woe A bitter drop none else might know, O'ermastering oft his firmer mood, His all enduring fortitude; His bright-hair'd Gurda—his beloved— Oh! how that thought his spirit moved! How might her gentle nature bear Of its bereavement dark, to hear? Or how, with sickening heart await, Day after day uncertain fate, Haunting, like some pale ghost, the shore, Where his steps would be seen no more? How soon the glittering crown of joy Can Fortune's cold caprice destroy! Brief time hath roll'd ere he who now Beholds unveil'd Death's awful brow, Believed his promised hour of bliss Faithful as Gurda's parting kiss, When he that fatal enterprise Dared, blest by her approving eyes, And fondly swore, ere his return, A bride-gift meet for her to earn. What dreams of vanish'd happiness, Impassion'd word and kind caress, And hours that had been dearer still, But for that unexpected ill, The soft emotions that invite Young hearts to link in nuptial rite, All flash'd across his aching brain, Maddening past joy with present pain; As through the waves of some wild river; Gleam the rich spoils sunk there for ever! 'Twas all too much—he could not brook In desolation's page to look; But dash'd him on the frozen snow, In the strong agonies of woe. While yet to speechless grief resign'd, A fond clasp round his form was twin'd And a strain clear as music stole O'er the dark desert of his soul— 'Twas his young brother, who knelt there, His pale lips eloquent in prayer. "High Heaven!" 'twas thus with upturn'd eyes, Gazing on those star-lighted skies The youth invoked His powerful aid, Who cares for all that he hath made— "High Heaven! if e'er imperfect vow Of man hath reach'd thee, hear us now! If e'er the voice of human grief Hath called, not vainly, for relief— "If ever, in thy sight, the tear Of sad mortality was dear, Save us, who in the shadow lie Of this most dire extremity. "O'er the deep seas and frozen plains Day's dusky rival sternly reigns, And Death's and Night's commingling gloom Cloud our brief passage to the tomb. "To Thee, the darkness and the night Are as the broad meridian light; No shade obscures the ray intense Of thy divine intelligence. "The mighty ones of earth bow down Before the terror of thy frown; And when thy bolt of wrath is hurl'd, Its vengeance shakes a prostrate world. "Thou, throned beyond the tempest's birth, Behold'st afar the reeling earth, And riding forth upon the storm, Mak'st heaven confess Thy awful form: "And Thou art He, that on the day Of doom wilt be thy people's stay; Declaring, 'midst surrounding ill, Man's life to Thee is precious still. "Spare us—Eternal Father—spare! Oh! by our sire's time-silver'd hair,— By our young years, and his full age, Thy right-hand in our cause engage. "Or, if some unrepented sin Forbid that we Thy grace should win, One boon let life's last vow insure, Teach us, oh teach us to endure." PART III. How swiftly glide the hours away In the pavilions of the gay! The song, the dance, the flattering smile All strive the iron foe to guile: And men but note his rapid flight By some fair lamp's declining light; Or, by rose-garlands withering nigh, Perceive how fast the minutes fly; Or, if life's less tumultuous joy, With temper'd glow the mind employ, By some broad, lapsing river lying, Where summer gales are sweetly sighing, With lute, or book, or converse soft, Heard often, but ne'er heard too oft, Oh! how the cozen'd tyrant Time Smooths his stern brow, and looks sublime! 'Tis well—a thousand tongues might prate Of Time seduced by Pleasure's bait; But who shall paint the pang intense, The horror of prolong'd suspense? When the lone captive counts the round Of the dull hours by some faint sound, Which none but his well-practised ear In that remote sojourn could hear. Or when the heart-struck victim droops Despairing o'er his murder'd hopes, And marks in time's appointed glass How slow the ling'ring sand-grains pass, Then sighing bids with double pain The sluggish race commence again. The sixth day dawn'd upon the deep, And waked the brothers from their sleep For failing nature, e'er the close, Would snatch some moments of repose, From slumber's kind forgetfulness, That only soother of distress, Roused by a sense of present ill, They wish'd that they had slumber'd still; Gazed on the morn with haggard eye, Then gather'd up their strength to die. It seem'd to them whole years had pass'd Since they on that drear isle were cast; The sickly languor of decay Had worn each keener nerve away. Oh blest to them that weaken'd sense Of pain—'twould sooner free them thence! Full surely ere that day hath sped, They will be number'd with the dead. Lo! 'thwart that floating shoal, a rent Measures its now decreased extent, Deepening from crack to fissure wide, Through which upsprings the gurgling tide, And sounds like subterranean thunder Warn them that it must part asunder. But little recks alarm's increase,— The sooner will they be at peace. Fate hath not now one hoarded curse To make their earthly anguish worse. God! 'twas a strange and fearful sight To see them in the dawning light; Their gaunt limbs tottering with the weight Of their attenuated freight; The bloodless lip, the hollow cheek Where life scarce left one lingering streak; The eye as wild as if 'twere starting From its deep cave, and soul departing; The voice—a mother had not known Her son's in that sepulchral tone! Oh where is manhood's glory! where The blithe brow, and the golden hair!— Grief hath done Time's slow task, and shed The rime of age on each young head. In elf-locks start these tresses o'er The brow, where beauty wins no more; Daggled with blood their garments are; For, in the acme of despair, Hath famine with resistless throe Struck-deep the self-directed blow, And sought from out the wounded vein Unnatural nutriment to drain. Forbear the tale of human grief, Or let the summary be brief: Yet here might cold philosophy Indulge its all inquiring eye; Note in each gasp how much of life Yet lingers in th' unequal strife, And read in each distorted look How much mortality may brook. Clasp'd in each other's weak embrace, Each gazes on a brother's face, With one last hope, that so much love May live in brighter realms above; One only fear, and that to sever Ere the waves close on them for ever! O'er the broad ocean's heaving blue They look their last and wild adieu; Gaze on the sky, that all too bright Troubles their faint and faltering sight; Seek their wan lips, some words to find, Tokens of still-existing mind, Ere dark oblivion set her seal On all that they have felt, or feel. In Angus, mind's rekindling power Shone sudden forth in that dread hour. "Speak, youth! proclaim what wondrous thing Excites even now thy marvelling?"— "It is!" he cried, and gasp'd for breath,— Canute believed him struck by death; "It is! or do my senses fail?— It is—it is—a sail—a sail!" And pointed with his wasted hand Where seas to wider seas expand. Both gazing now, behold that sign, Hail'd by their hearts as help divine. "She moves—she comes—she nears us now— I see the waves dance round her prow; I see—Great God of heaven! if yet Anotherway her course should set!— 'Tis done—she tacks—she bears away, Let us be prompt, while yet we may; Raise, raise some signal of distress— What recks our shivering nakedness?— Rend from my loins each tatter'd fold, I may not heed the piercing cold." Thus Angus spoke, and soon in air A signal rude was waving there. Poised on a musket's utmost length, And hoisted by their mutual strength; 'Tis seen from off the vessel's deck, And on the waves a darksome speck That isle appears; and moving things— Belike they deemed them but the wings Of some sea-bird, who had her nest Upon the ice-cliff's topling crest; Still bear they down, and from the isle With aching sight are watch'd the while. "Our prayer is heard!" oh, too much joy— Its fulness threatens to destroy; And much they fear aid yet may come Too late to waft them living home. The ship draws nigh, they hail the sight, As though she were some vision bright; Nor e'er was princely galley seen With joy more rapturous, I ween, Than this wild rider of the storm, Cumbrous in strength, and rude in form. She nears the isle—with eager gaze The seamen crowd her narrow ways; More eager still each lusty arm To shield from all impending harm The wretched victims whom they drew On board, amid their loyal crew: For they had natures kind as rude When pity stirr'd their softer mood, And many a sternly gazing eye Brimm'd with the tear of sympathy. Enough—'twere bootless here to dwell On acts the mind may picture well; Nor would I paint, with pencil weak, The home-scene language could not speak: How upon each redeemed head Bleedings and tears a father shed; Or how a sister's ecstacies Twined her fond arms about their knees; Or how Canute's betrothed bride Strove on his breast the blush to hide, The blush of love, o'erpaying all He had endured in danger's thrall. Enough of this—succeeding years Have drown'd the memory of their tears; Save that their blameless lives have shown How they death's bitterness had known. THEMONK OF CAMALDONI. I. WILD CAMALDOLI!—to thy solemn shades Imagination clings, as if the sound Of the wind sighing through thy piny glades, Still whisper'd high romance. Thy summits, crown'd With convent spire and forest deepening round, Tell of the olden time. But in yon dell, Tho' the soft hymn still breaks the hush profound, The mighty spirit weaves no more her spell, Immortal names alone thy mouldering records swell. II. Still towers Laverna o'er the steep, and still The leafy pride of Vallombrosa falls, The Sacred Desert crests its chosen hill, And time hath spared the Abbey's antique walls: Where the broad sun streams thro' the ample halls, Gilding the fret-work of their arches high, Still the deep bell the monk to matins calls, And soar th' eternal Apennines, and lie Calm at their base thy plains, rich-storied Tuscany. III. There is a tale,—nor oft hath winter shed Fresh snows on those proud heights, nor autumn's gloom Sear'd the wild flowers that o'er the torrent's bed Droop in a pale decay their summer bloom, Since that tale was reality. The tomb Hath claim'd its destin'd prey. The grief that rush'd Too sternly through a heart that did inhume Its sorrow from all scan,—the tears that gush'd, The words that spoke alone in mortal throes, are hush'd. IV. 'Tis a trite simile, but not less true,— The little brook that onward to the main Rolls its unheeded course—the globe of dew, That on the lily's chalice leaves no stain, Is as the grief of thousands. Many a strain Of life-consuming anguish—many a groan That breaks the writhing heart, goes forth in vain; No voice responsive echoes back their tone, Man with illustrious woe holds sympathy alone. V. Wild Camaldoni! 'twas to thy repose Of shade monastic Giuliano turn'd; But peace was not for him, nor his the woes Thy sacredness might still. The thought that burn'd His mind to waste—the bitterness that churn'd The well of life to poison, these were not Things to be in scholastic lore unlearn'd; He hied him from the world to that lone spot, Not to forget his wrongs, but be himself forgot. VI. What was the world to him!—within the grave She slept, his young betroth'd, but not his bride; Though her heart, faithful to the plight it gave In the first gush of love, to all beside Was a seal'd mystery—She despair'd, and died! They gave the hand she gave not, nor withheld— Ill-fated victim of a father's pride! Brief space thy crush'd and bleeding heart rebell'd 'Gainst those detested bonds—it broke, and all was quell'd! VII. Oft in the rich light of the Tuscan eve Had Giuliano and Bianca mused, By the broad Arno when his waves receive The day's last blush, so tenderly infused Into their azure depths. There, all unused To the world's cold dissemblings, she would rest, With a sweet trust that might not be abused, Her glowing cheek on his affianced breast, And smile, in his protecting arms supremely blest. VIII. Their love had been the young heart's revelry, In the first bloom of life; and they had seen Their fondness hallow'd by th' approving eye, And voice parental; and their homes had been The altar of their vows. Full many a scene In those domestic halls bore witness meet, To the chaste intercourse that pass'd between The youth and maid, when with responsive beat Their pure souls mingled in communion sweet. IX. She was the music of his mind—the still Sweet vision of his dreams; and when his hand Traced the bold outline with a painter's skill, (For he was gifted in his native land With its high genius) his young love would stand In Grecian attitude, with lips apart, And dark hair filleted with silken band, The perfect model of the limner's art, The studio's peerless gem, the load-star of his heart. X. But wealth was proffer'd—need the rest be told? Young hopes were blighted for that sordid dust, And, contract vile!—a daughter's peace was sold, By low ambition to imperious lust. The powerless to the powerful:—but the trust Of the free spirit's soaring is not given To mortal tyranny, whose cankering rust But frets the hated fetters till they're riven, And the bright soul, left chainless, mounts to heaven. XI. Hope smiled no more on Giuliano's life; To his stung heart mankind became a throng, With whom communion were but ceaseless strife, And whom he deem'd all leagued to work him wrong. Awhile he struggled with that demon strong, And strove in bitterness of scorn to choke The serpent in its growth—'twas vain—ere long The gathering frenzy of his mind awoke, And rom its icy bounds the hoarded lava broke. XII. He raved—how fearfully distraction wrought In his warp'd brain, from whence the gentler brood Of Nature's nursing fled, and every thought, As if some monster had usurp'd his mood, Was fill'd with murder, with revenge and blood. He, in his hand the vision'd hilt would grasp, And glare with lurid eye on those who stood Gazing on him in grief—and from the clasp Of each restraining arm would burst with frantic gasp. XIII. Again, and o'er his madness came a gleam Of life's relinquish'd splendour. Gorgeous things Would float across his memory like a dream, And bridal songs struck from the golden strings Of the rejoicing lute. And on the wings Of his creative fancy came bright eyes, And fair forms grew from out the shadowy rings Of his distempered vision, breathing sighs Voluptuous as the Cyprian Queen's soft witcheries XIV. This could not last—the fierce volcano burns Itself to chaos. Soon its black array Tells of extinguish'd wrath—but when returns To that scorch'd mount the summer foliage gay? 'Twas thus with Giuliano, and away From his scathed mind the giant phantom pass'd, And dreariness came on. Night stole on day, And brought no change to him—or slow, or fast, His heavy hours roll'd on eternally o'ercast. XV. Brief was his speech,—he mused o'er bead and book With abstract air, and still at day's decline Betook him to the dell's sequester'd nook, Or fearless scaled the loftiest Apennine, Whose rugged peaks in ice hibernal shine, And listened to the wolf's wild howl—or call Of mountain eaglet—or would watch the pine Shake from its crest the snow-wreath like a pall, Or view the gelid stream leap from its wintry thrall. XVI. Where was the light of his young genius?—where The soul's high aspiration—the proud claim Of a mind panting to do battle there Amidst the mighty for the crown of fame? Fever of noble hearts! thy glorious flame Broke not on Giuliano's night—yet he Perchance might sigh o'er his departing name, And as he look'd on Adria's azure sea, Win from its waves some thoughts of immortality. XVII. At last he learn'd that she was dead—the bride Of proud Lanucci—and full many a tale Came of that stately pageant, how beside Her lord's ancestral dust, 'mid torch-light pale, And funeral chant, and sorrow's piercing wail, They placed her cold remains.—He did not weep— Tears for the silent dead, can they avail? But through his heart the grave-worm seem'd to creep; His anguish had for tears a hidden source too deep. XVIII. He shunn'd his wonted haunts—the wood's recess Lured him no longer with its sylvan spell; Nor sought he more the high rock's wilderness, But dwelt within the confines of his cell, Or watch'd the golden sunset as it fell Athwart the cloister's gloom. Well might they deem Who mark'd him, when the deep-toned evening bell Peal'd through those shadowy aisles, start from his dream, He woo'd from heaven's far realms some visionary beam. XIX. Again essay'd he his neglected art, Beneath his touch the sweet creation grew; His was the fervid genius of the heart, The magic of the memory ever true. The vernal lip breathed there—the tender hue Of the young cheek, with whose transparent white Carnation blended, and the vein shone through, Glancing with life—the rich and dewy light Of the deep azure eye, beam'd there divinely bright. XX. So meek, so pensive that angelic face, With brow upturn'd, and lips imbued with prayer, And so impress'd with a mysterious grace, 'Twas deem'd no mortal maid could be so fair. Nor marvel I that they who linger'd there, Watching the growth of that sweet shadowy thing, When o'er her forehead and encircling hair The twilight fell in many a saintly ring, Should, as before some holy shrine, stand worshipping. XXI. The fair work bloomed to life—nor evening dim, Nor midnight's waning lamp, could warn away The painter from his task. Unmark'd by him Were all but that dear semblance, where the ray Of his enlight'ning mind concentred lay. And with beseeching looks, that more than speak, He silenced those who fear'd his health's decay; For he had toil'd until the hectic streak Of fever's fatal flame had scorch'd his pallid cheek. XXII. At length 'twas finished. When the gray morn shone Through the dim cell, the last, the master-stroke Was given to that sweet face. His task was done. The light of mind o'er all the picture broke, And Giuliano from his trance awoke. He stood and gazed with aching eye, intent On his perfected work. No word he spoke, Nor breath escaped him; but he stood there bent Like some cold sculptured mourner o'er a monument. XXIII. A light laugh sounded from that distant room, A wild unwonted burst, that on the ear Fell, more resembling echoes from the tomb Than aught of mirth, and through the arches drear So strongly peal'd, that all grew mute with fear. —————It spoke his mind's relapse— XXIV. A wanderer came from Britain's sea-girt isle, To gaze on marble palaces and towers; To bask beneath th' Italian sunset's smile, And rove amidst those bright and golden bowers Where Dante's mind matured its mighty powers; Where Ariosto waked his magic lyre; Or tender Petrarch charm'd away the hours With those enchanting numbers that inspire Alternately deep thoughts, or kindle passion's fire. XXV. And he would stray 'mid those recesses wild, Where Vallombrosa and Laverna rise; For he beheld the mountains, as a child Looks on his mother, with adoring eyes. He left the fertile plains all steep'd in dyes Of the rich autumn, and the purple vine Bearing its clusters to the sparkling skies, And the fair halls, where fairer forms recline, To track the deep'ning glen, and mount the Apennine. XXVI. He came to Camaldoli, and did pray Of those good monks a guide to lead him on Up to the hills some furlongs of the way. A tall thin form, whose garb bespoke him one Of their kind order, though a lowlier son, Stood forth: they said he was the stranger's guide, And meek and harmless, though his mind was gone: And well he knew each path the forests hide, And none like him could scale the mountain's rugged side. XXVII. The stranger gazed upon that grief-struck form, And deem'd he saw in the averted eye The hapless wreck of some dark mental storm, The phantom of despair that hath pass'd by. He led him on secure, but silently, Through wood and dell; though courteously and kind The stranger spoke, his doubtful mood to try, 'Twas all in vain. Like sunlight to the blind, No genial ray of thought e'er reach'd his darken'd mind. XXVIII. Yet was there beauty in those lineaments, Which frenzy's havoc could not all displace; As through some noble ruin's fire-scathed rents, The grandeur of the past we still may trace. Mid the gray locks up rose the ample space Of the clear brow, and oft the wild eye shone With sudden flash athwart the pallid face, As if the glorious spirit that had flown Had, parting, left a light to mark her shatter'd throne. XXIX. They journey'd on. Emerging soon they stood In the dell's gorge. Bleak mountains tower'd above, And wild below lay dark ravine and wood, Where tumbling torrents with their echoes strove To drown the ceaseless murmurs of the grove. Fair Florence glitter'd in the plain beneath, Bright through the veil the dews of sunset wove. More near, and crown'd with many a mellow wreath, Church spire and cottage roof rose 'mid the ev'ning's breath. XXX. The stranger paused—he had a poet's soul, And painter's eye, and all he gazed on there A tide of inspiration seem'd to roll: The sigh of flowers perfumed the stirless air, And rose from far an organ-chanted prayer, Sweet, as if hovering spirits there unseen Swept their seraphic harps. He turn'd him where The maniac stood beneath the coppice screen, Gazing with eye intent o'er all that lovely scene. XXXI. His mood was changed; a smile relumed his cheek, Some thoughts seem'd spared from the chaotic waste Of his lost memory, vague perhaps and weak, But still to him fond visions of the past. He came, and ponder'd o'er the landscape traced By that young wanderer's pencil in the book Whose storied pages many a treasure graced. He watched his progress, with admiring look, And from his vest's wide folds a tatter'd scroll he took. XXXII. " 'Tis there!" he cried, "the palace and the bower!" And to the stranger's wondering sight display'd That scroll, the toil of many a tedious hour; Minutely accurate, with garden glade, And marble portico and colonnade, Where gush'd the fount, and where the myrtle spread A shelter meet for an Italian maid: Then press'd his hand to his bewilder'd head, As though unutter'd things from memory's grasp had fled. XXXIII. But some dark thought seem'd brooding in his brain, Perchance the fatal secret of his breast. " 'Tis vain," he cried, "she is not there, 'tis vain!" And hid again the scroll within his vest: Nor heeded he inquiring speech address'd By the young stranger, but he whisper'd low, "Betray me not—they would but gibe and jest, And call me brain-struck." Then relapsing, slow, In silence deep and drear, they climb'd the mountain's brow. XXXIV. The moon shone brightly o'er Laverna's steep Ere they had scaled the convent-crested hill; Each bubbling fountain from the rock did leap, A starry wreath descending to the rill: The stranger and his guide held onward still, Or paused to gaze upon the deepening blue Of that Italian sky, which seem'd to fill Heaven with its beauty. Eve to midnight grew, The hour of parting came, each bade his brief adieu. XXXV. He heard of him no more; but in the lot Of after life, when buffeting the gale Of adverse fate, his mind to that wild spot Would still recur, and dwell in Arno's vale. And oft the wanderer would recall the tale Of Giuliano's wrongs. And oft the gaze Of that poor maniac's eye, as up the dale He led him safe through many a tangled maze, Did haunt an old man's lone and melancholy days. THEHEBREW GIRL AT THE AUTO DA FÉ. THERE was a voice heard in thy streets at morn, Royal Madrid!—A voice of many bells Chiming melodiously from convent spire And proud cathedral tower. And, mingling deep With the loud hum of a vast city's life, A sound arose, like Ocean's vexed roar, Or torrent swoll'n by the autumnal rains Bursting away resistless in its force; A heavy and augmenting tramp of feet, The rushing of a multitude along: While from high lattice, and from balcony, An eager throng look'd forth. 'Twould seem the hour Of some great pageant, such as monarchs will In their profuse munificence, drew nigh. And it was so—but ne'er in heathen land, Where the unholy rout their orgies dark, With pæan wild, and revels most obscene Do celebrate—nor yet in ancient Rome, Where gladiatorial fights, and barbarous shows Rejoiced some victor's iron soul, and stirr'd To savage triumph the rude populace, Did man's ingenious cruelty devise A festival more bloody or accurst. And was it thine, oh, christian land of Spain! Thou that hast twined thine emblem olive oft With fame's immortal laurels—was it thine? Oh, if the blood of martyrs should steam up To Heaven, as did the blood of the first slain, Crying for retribution—Guilty Spain! Thou that hast slain thy thousands at the nod Of fierce-eyed bigotry, how might'st thou stand? Ev'n thy Sierras, towering in their strength, Like a reed shaken by the wind should quail; And thy vales, teeming with their fruitful stores, The olive, and the citron, and the vine, Shrink in the presence of the avenging God! The morn wore on—the iron tongue of time —Thrice awful on that day of doom and death— Peal'd through the crowded streets, proclaiming loud, Like a king's mandate, the appointed hour. Then rush'd they on, that gathering concourse all, Toward the great square, a wide arena, deck'd With bright pavilions, and with regal thrones, For that dark drama. On the morning air Swell'd the rich notes of silver trumpets clear, And horns, and all the instruments that make Music the voice of war. Men's avid ears Drank in rejoicefully the tide of sound, As each new burst of that grand harmony Roll'd on the other with distincter chime: And eager eyes were strain'd to hail more near The gilded banners, as they floated free O'er plumed casques, and glittering halberds, borne On by the royal guard. All eyes, I ween, Gazed anxious then, for these proclaim'd afar That majesty approach'd. And many a cap And silken kerchief gratulation waved. And dark-brow'd Donnas, who, like idols shrined For general homage, graced those galleries fair, From the deep shadow of their snowy veils Glanced stealthy looks of recognition kind Towards the gay gallants circling round the king. In sooth it was a gorgeous spectacle, That bright array of beauty, pomp, and power! Princes and pontiffs, in their robes of state, And all the ancient chivalry of Spain. But one sat there who 'midst those ranks august Look'd like a victim, though her youthful brow Wore Spain's rich diadem, and though her throne, Save his, the King's, exalted was most high. Elizabeth of Valois, thou wast she! Bride of a lord thy young heart could not love; The stern, the haughty Philip. In the bloom Of years that yet scarce verged on womanhood, Consign'd with all thy warm affections rife, The passive bond of some convention, framed By the cold, crafty policy of courts. And what a sight to meet a bride's fond eyes Was there preparing! Soon the silvery tones Of the rich music died in cadence wild; And other sounds were heard—the voice of wail— The struggling sob of the still hopeful heart— The shriek of mad despair!—and lo, a train That might be spectres, but that their strange guise And haggard looks of human agony Were horribly real, made their lonely way Ev'n midst the rush of thousands; for from them All men shrunk back as from pollution's stream, Dreading th' unholy touch. Nor less recoil'd, Though a deep reverence with their fear was mix'd, From those arch-demons who, arrayed in power Surpassing far authority of kings, And all that earth hath ever known of might Resistless and inscrutable, led on Their bands to fiery death. Still as it waved, That huge dusk banner, heavily to and fro, Unfolding to men's eyes th' insignia stamp'd On its broad wings, the terrible display Of pomp Inquisitorial, lips turn'd white, And strong souls sicken'd; for it seem'd the pall Funereal of whole nations. But amidst Th' emotions of that hour, alas, for thee, Angel of heaven!—sweet power of human love!— None wept the victims there. Onward they trod, The accurst of all, their journey to the tomb. And some there were might well have wrung the tears Of pity from men's eyes:—the young, the brave, The beautiful!—and female forms worn down With horrors of the dungeon and the rack, Until they look'd pale phantoms of the past, Shades from the realms of woe—and daylight met Distorted limbs, man's glorious form defaced Ev'n by his brother! Noble spirits, vex'd Until wild frenzy had usurp'd the mood Of all that was most bright. E'en malice wreak'd Her wanton insults on the cold remains Of poor mortality—the mouldering dead, Torn from the sanctuary of the silent grave, To feed—how futile persecution there!— A living pyre of human sacrifice. And some were seen there, in that dreadful hour, With brows as calm as though the gates of Heaven Already had been pass'd, and their feet trod Th' appointed paths of light. They came serene, With hymns of triumph jubilant and strong, With heads erect, and eyes that pitying gazed Upon the scoffing multitude, and look'd Where that huge pile in fire-scathed blackness stood, As to a throne of bliss. Thrice hallow'd these— Thrice hallow'd all who in the cause of Truth And for the mind's free charter have stood forth Champions undismay'd! Were I to paint That fearful picture with its details true In all their horrors, and the varying forms That mortal anguish in its acme took, The heart would sicken, and the pen would fail. But there came one amongst those ranks of death, A young and beauteous being, whose wild woe Spake with a voice that might not be unheard. Despair had lent her in that hour of doom Courage that mock'd at fear. Forward she rush'd, Despite the threat'ning words that call'd her back, In vex'd amaze, and kneel'd before the Queen. A thrill electric through the assembled host Ran simultaneous. All eyes gazed intent On that bright creature, whose resplendent charms Not e'en that garb of terror could disguise; And in her lineaments, the raven hair, The large eyes lustrously and wildly black, The brow that seem'd for proud tiara form'd, The blood of Judah's race abhorr'd beheld. Lowly she kneel'd, an orphan maid, condemn'd, For the deep guilt of clinging in the night Of her young spirit's loneness to a creed, Her ancient nation's ark of hope—to die! But life with its fond vision of fair things, The light of heaven, the summer's fragrant air, Th' illusions that lie joyous in the heart Until the blight of cold reality Withers their beauty, crowded then round thee, Oh young Naomi! and th' impassion'd voice Of Nature, pleading in her hour of need. Burst from thy lips. "Mercy! oh, gracious Queen! Mercy and pardon mild! Behold my youth— My term of years hath barely equall'd thine, Yet are they number'd; and the dire array Of death and sacrifice appals my sight, And in life's vigour, lo! the burning grave Yawns for my quivering flesh. I had a sire, The anointed of his tribe—honour'd he was Even by those who hate the Hebrew's name: And I was all to him, he all to me— Like a lone pillar towering o'er the wreck Of fallen grandeur, so my father stood, Gazing in grief on Israel's scattered race: I, the wild vine that round its mouldering shaft Clung in my weakness. Death beleaguering came (Oh now I bless thee, tyrant of the tomb! That spared him this dread passage to thy realms) And laid it prostrate. I dwelt on alone, Ev'n in that sanctuary where mine infant eyes First hail'd the light; and gathering thoughts came fast Into my wilder'd brain. But one there was, Yea, one there was, that like a star shone bright O'er my bereaved heart. Remembrance kept, As a sweet bond that to his spirit still Link'd filial love, that solemn promise given, Ere his pure soul departed to its rest, That I would hold with swerveless constancy Our nation's ancient faith. "This—this, oh Queen!— This is my crime!—Behold your flaming pyre, Whose black fount puffs forth to the paling heavens Destruction's fiery breath. E'en now my limbs, And these wrench'd sinews, sere, and wither up, And my soul sickens at Death's drear approach.— Save me—oh save—great Queen!" There was a hush, As when the thunder's stormy voice hath roll'd Itself to silence, and the awe-struck earth Breaks not the dread repose. The very soul Of stillness seem'd to breed o'er every breast, Waiting th' award of power. The young Queen wept, And turn'd her face from that beseeching form, Kneeling before her in fear's strong excess, To where the sceptred monster at her side Sat in his sternness. Philip's cruel eye Gave not a hope of mercy; and the Queen, Trembling beneath the lightning of his frown, Bade the doom'd one depart! THEDYING CRUSADER. 'TIS noon, and Syria's fiery sun His proud meridian throne hath won. No cloud obscures the saffron sky, Suffused with Heaven's own alchemy. Nor doth tall grove, or mountain chain, Break the dull level of the plain. Nor gushes fount, nor rolls the sea, Eternal, boundless, wild and free. Oh! vainly seek the pilgrim bands For water o'er the thirsty sands; Thrice blessed, if some brackish stream Glad their sick spirits with its gleam. But oftener shines, to cheat their sight, The Suhrab's strange unreal light. And if the breeze, whose welcome wing Such balm to happier climes doth bring, Wake there, its hot and blistering breath Seems pregnant with the blight of death. No song of Summer's brooding birds, Nor lowing of the upland herds, Floats on the gales; but gathering fast, Comes the wild sand-shower on the blast, And from its dense and stifling cloud, Weaves the gay pilgrim's burning shroud. Yet on that desert rude and drear Full many a lordly cavalier, Defying death's most awful frown, Hath won the chaplet of renown; On many a fair and bold emprize Hath gleam'd the sun of Syrian skies, When from their galleys, bounding free, The flower of Europe's chivalry, The steel-clad heroes of the North, Rush'd in faith's noble fervour forth. They live in many a stately rhyme, Though o'er their very tombs stern Time Hath thrown the mantle of decay, And swept them from the earth away. 'Twas a wild frenzy of the mind, Yet glorious; generous as 'twas blind— Pure gold seen sparkling through its dross. Nor did the soldier of the Cross Contend 'gainst Paynim foes alone: There came a darker, deadlier one, Disease, that like a serpent wound Its subtle coils the strongest round, Bearing resistless to the grave The young, the proud, the loved, the brave! 'Tis noon—within the Christian camp Resounds a war-steed's fiery stamp, Who, maddened by the sultry air, Chafes, neighs, and champs impatient there. Aweary of ignoble rest, His proud heart heaves his ample breast; For fleet of foot, and strong of limb, War's bold, free chase seems form'd for him. But where is now the guiding hand That urged his footsteps o'er the sand? And where the clear commanding voice That bade his gallant heart rejoice? In yonder tent a stately form Lies, like a cedar, which the storm, That sweeps the high Mount Lebanon, Hath reckless on the earth o'erthrown. His ghastly cheek, and sleepless eye, Proclaim full surely he must die. To die! how bitter is the thought When life's fine filament is wrought Of many a bright and golden hue, Entwined with Love's soft roses too: From kindred, home, and country far, The victim of disease, not war. Oh! the sweet music of that tide Which rolls his native woods beside! His parch'd lips languish for the draught, By many a peasant heedless quaff'd. And but to hail the meadows green, Once more before his eyes resign The boon of sight!—oh, never scene Of Elf-land did so sweetly shine As those fond visions that arise To haunt him with home's memories! When first strong fever shook his frame, His dreams were of relinquish'd fame. He roused him at the clarion call, And raved of Zion's sacred wall, Beleaguer'd by the Moslem bands; And wildly waved his burning hands, And would have donn'd his harness bright, And to the rescue and the fight Gone forth, in that stern frenzied mood, To cleanse his tarnish'd name in blood. But that soon pass'd, dull languor stole O'er the sick warrior's glorious soul. The nerveless hands relax their clasp, The lips that raved of battle—gasp— And one cool drop, to moisten them, Were worth thy towers, Jerusalem! 'Tis eve—and Syria's burning sun His fierce career hath nearly run: Lo! on the desert's kindling air Goes forth a cry—"To prayer—to prayer— "God is most mighty—Allah hu!" True homage, pour'd by hearts as true: And towards their sacred eastern shrine, Doth many a turban'd brow incline; While atabal and cymbalon Mark how th' eventful hours roll on. The steed, whose fleetness mocks the wind, And leaves pursuit amazed behind, Comes scouring, at decline of day, Along the desert's trackless way: And patiently with tinkling bell, The camel stands beside the well; With drooping lip, and placid eye, The emblem of docility. The hour of rest—the Ave hour— Falls solemnly on tent and tower, And bids the Christian hosts prepare To hymn their holy evening prayer. Low bends the warrior's mail-clad knee, He offers, Lord of Life! to thee A tribute jubilant and free; The rich outpourings of the heart But all too loth with pride to part. Who passes in the dubious light, Arrayed in scapulaire, and stole? A prelate's hand confers to-night The passport of a parting soul. Yea, to the dying warrior's tent He speeds, with prayer and sacrament. There is a hush—oh! still as death— Round that low couch, and not a breath Of heaven's pure ether cools the air That stagnates dense and drowsy there. Not e'en that silken pennoncelle The Syrian wind hath known so well, Unfolds to the beholder's view Its motto, "Loyauté passe tout;" But heavily, like funeral pall, Its proud heraldic honours fall. The sun hath sunk, but still one beam Of crimson light doth broadly stream On that young warrior's face, and shows The placid beauty of repose. The hour of fever's madness o'er, He feels life's rebel force no more; Yet—yet, one flickering spark remains— The soul hath not flung off her chains. But all that was most fearful sleeps, Only the mind soft vigil keeps. A long, yet all too brief farewell Of friends that in his heart do dwell, Of comrades true, and kind, and brave, Whose tears will sanctify his grave, His lips have ta'en—his soul is shriven, The priest hath made his peace with heaven. And now alone one faithful squire Beholds his lamp of life expire. E'en as a mother watching, wild With grief's excess, her dying child, Doth that long tried and trusted friend His master's couch of death attend. Oh! how those accents, faint and low, That from his tongue so feebly flow, Are treasured in that old man's heart, As though they were of life a part. How watches he his master's eye, In hopeless, speechless agony; And thinks with anguish all the while— When he returns to Albion's isle— How the dark fate of one so dear May meet the gray-hair'd Baron's ear. These visions rack his aching brain, Till, rescued from their fearful train, Once more his dying master's voice Makes his lone heart e'en then rejoice:— "Hubert—I need not say to thee, Thou soul of truth and loyalty! When words by dying lips are given, They should be sacred held as heaven. Soon will thy kind and faithful hand Lay my pale corse in Paynim land; Then, wend thee home, 'tis my behest, To our loved island of the west— Say to my sire and mother bright, I died as 'seems a Christian knight." He paused—the while, with faultering grasp, Unloos'd a bracelet's golden clasp; Then, with a look in which awoke A tide of love, again he spoke:— "Hie thee to Deva's princely tower, And seek the Lady Edith's bower; She will require no other sign Than that thou comest from Palestine. Oh, give her back her token true, This circlet of her raven hair, And one wild, passionate adieu, Breathed in Fitz-Alan's dying prayer. Tell her I do absolve her now From that so lately cherish'd vow: I would not have her weep for me, In heart and hand she shall be free— Yet, let her grudge me not one tear, Lying in death's dark shadow here;— Oh, Edith—Edith!" But the name Died on his lips, and dimly came O'er pulse and brain, and glaring eye, In all her icy apathy, Oblivion, tyrant of the tomb, And seal'd the brave Crusader's doom. Still sat the faithful Hubert there, The silent image of despair, When Syria's moon resplendent rose O'er the wild desert's deep repose. The lamp, unheeded, feebly shed Its light upon the stately dead; Until, to quench its failing flame, The moon's broad mellow radiance came. Refulgent, in that orient clime, Her beauty took a tone sublime: She seem'd, as up the vaulted sky She steer'd her lucid bark on high, A spirit borne on heavenly wings Away from earth and earthly things, Yet lingering, with a fond regret, O'er mortal grandeur that had set. No voice of winds, nor living sound Broke the drear stillness brooding round; Save when the fierce hyæna's howl Proclaim'd him on his midnight prowl: Or from the shores of that Dead Lake, At whose black wave no beast may slake His maddening thirst—a spot abhorr'd!— The Lion of the Desert roar'd. DESTINY. 'TIS said the destinies of men are ruled, E'en from the first dim dawning of young life, By some mysterious influence above— A Genius, good or evil; or, as some In their wild theories have declared, a star, Shining auspicious, or malignant, o'er The natal hour of man. Presume we not Too much, in our aspirings to be great, When thus we dream (poor earthworms as we are!) That Heaven's bright myriads, peopling boundless space— Worlds and their suns, the rallying point of worlds, Existing through all time, and doom'd, perchance, To fathom dread Eternity—that these Are link'd, howe'er obscurely or remote To the frail fortunes of ephemeral man! Leave we these vain pretensions to divine What passeth human knowledge; leave we, too, The mystery of mysteries, the birth of Time— The fountain of all Life—to be unseal'd By the great Power that holds it. Our own hearts, The wondrous structure of our sentient frames, The glories of this globe terrestrial, Whereof we are the short-lived denizens— These furnish forth a banquet that might feast Marvel unto satiety. Nathless, Things passing strange—events whose aspect wears Such tokens of mysterious agency, That we may not behold them and deny Th' existence of presiding destiny— Challenge our notice, springing in the path E'en of our soberest musings. I have heard, Yea more, encounter'd, in my wanderings past, One, whose brief span of being was involved In the dark meshes of controlless Fate— Nor seem'd he her sole victim: on his house, As though the ban of Heaven had lighted there For some inscrutable and fearful end, Her seal was set. Of seven fair, stately sons, Scions of an ancestral tree, whose shade Proudly eclipsed the valley's lowlier groves, And so had done for ages, he, whom here, In this short record, I shall Oswald call— He—stood in solitary grace, alone; In life's best prime, the sad inheritor Of all their wealth and honours. Dark and drear (So deem'd he, as his chariot roll'd adown, For the first time since his installed rights) Frown'd on its lord the mansion of his sires; And the high portal, as it oped for him Its massy grate, did image to his mind The huge jaws of a tomb, that greedy yawn'd To swallow a new victim. Thoughts like these Found too much nurture in those twilight halls Where menials throng'd, garb'd in their weeds of woe, And the proud hatchment o'er the arched door, And all around, even with its silence, told A tale of death. The memory of his youth— Of those glad years of boyhood, when he roam'd With his young brothers, in their frolic glee, Through that old mansion and its sheltering woods— Flash'd on his heart, like sunset's parting gleam Shed o'er a grave. There, on the tap'stried walls, Hung their dim portraits—moveless shapes, whose eyes Look'd down upon him, calm and spectral: They pointed, with their shadowy arms, the way To that cold home where he must greet them soon. There stood young Alfred, in his sylvan guise— The eldest born, the loving and beloved— His gold locks clustering round the fair contour Of his clear Saxon brow, with spear and bow, And bugle belted round his slender waist, And the leash'd greyhound crouching at his feet, A stripling hunter. Julian, as was meet, Rank'd next his brother—a young Paladin, Whose boyish fancy dwelt in tented fields, And in whose eye 'twould seem a hero's soul Already brighten'd. Thou, too, child of dreams! Romantic Edmund! with thy pensive brow, And smile, that told of the rich heaven of thought Radiant within thee; thou, whose early lays Were breathed amid the Druid groves, and woke To music the clear echoes of the hills— Thou, who hadst grown the poet of thy race— Thou, too, wast there. And Edric, frolic elf— The soul of joy and mischief; Richard, too, The fay-king's counterpart; and Edwy, meek And gentle as a moonbeam playing o'er The surface of a summer lake, or breeze Whose breath hath sigh'd but late its vesper hymn In the pure sanctuary of the lily's cell. Long Oswald gazed—their sole survivor now: The bright—the beauteous—the beloved, were gone! A chill, as though the grave-worm coil'd its lithe And clammy length about each slacken'd nerve, Crept through his frame, as solemnly he scann'd, Each in his turn, those well-remember'd forms, And thought upon their doom—so strangely woof'd Each in the same dark web of early death: As 'twere a chain, whose fragile texture, jarr'd By some electric power, shiver'd throughout. The years of manhood they had reach'd secure— Each his fifth lustre had attain'd, but all, Ere that mysterious cycle was o'erpass'd, Wither'd in the same blight.—A fearful mood, A nightmare of the mind—as though some fiend, Bred in the fabled cavern of Despair, Had griped them with his long, lank, filmy hands— Sudden came o'er their young and buoyant hearts, Stifling fair hope, and, with a haunting dread— A horror that mock'd wildly Reason's voice— A cureless, incommunicable woe— Hurried them to their graves. The ancient home Of their forefathers, e'en that fair domain Which its last lord then tenanted, had been The scene of their life's close. There seem'd to lurk A fascination in those old gray towers— A spell that lured the powerless victims on, Till, in the circle of their magic might, Ruin and death were sure. So Oswald deem'd: He felt the fatal influence of the spot— The ghosts of the departed seem'd to glide About the precincts, and with shrieks, whose tones Echoed of madness, summon'd him to fill His destined niche in the dark halls of Death. His term of years verg'd on that fateful brink Of Time's unfathom'd gulf, which had entomb'd His predecessors.—How might he escape Their general doom?—Dawn'd there a gleam of hope That he alone might break the fearful spell, And steer his bark of life through Death's deep waves— A mortal rescued from the Destinies? Say, should he seek that hope on foreign shores— In new scenes rend the chain of harrowing thoughts And home's sad memories? Had not Edric plough'd The dark-blue waves, a conqueror of their storms?— Elate in danger, joyous in the hour When Britain's bulwarks their defiance hurl'd, In murderous vollies, 'gainst opposing fleets; Safe 'midst the din of battle, ne'ertheless Fate reach'd him in still midnight, e'er the flush Of victory faded from his laurell'd brows. That malady of the mind fell drear and chill On his brave spirit, palsying all his powers, Blasting his triumph—he came home to die! The gentle Edwy, too, had wandered forth From his sad heritage, seeking the shores Of many a fair and song-renowned land; But, 'midst the Syrian roses, and the palms Of proud Judea, on the pilgrim fell That mood of madness. His meek spirit, framed Of earth's least earthly elements, awhile Strove with distraction, but the darkness grew, As clouds collect in sunshine, e'en more dark, As view'd in contrast; and at length he came, Like a pale phantom from the land of shades, Home, in that house of many deaths—to die! And there to linger—oh! it might not be— A wild hope flash'd through Oswald's gathering gloom, And he resolved, in its fierce strength, to quit For savage life the haunts of civ'lized man.— Yea, the primeval forests, where the hand Of Art had never, in its pride, profaned The loneliness of Nature's sanctuary— The deep lake of the Transatlantic wind— The rivers that, like seas of silver, leap'd From the snow-mountains, mocking in their might The scanty streams of this our older world; These, these henceforth must be his dwelling-place; And the red Indian, in his war-garb rude, Swerveless in truth, and deadly in revenge, Must be sole comrade of his wanderings free. He bade his native land a brief adieu; Flung off the forms of polish'd life, e'en doff'd Its long-worn vesture, and his limbs encased In guise uncouth—around his ankle clasp'd The rough-thong'd moccasin, while o'er his broad And manly breast the wolf-skin mantle hung In savage grandeur, wrought with many a bead Of wampum rare, and quill of porcupine. Equipp'd with bow of cedar, measuring well His tall and graceful stature, and with sheaf Of pointed arrows gleaming at his side, He stood amidst the bold free tribes that dwell By the great Huron Lake, in heart and mien Confess'd a friend and brother. Then rung out A peal of gratulation, wild and strong, From gray-hair'd chief, and warrior whose young fame That eve had floated new-born on the songs Of his proud kindred.—Deep, and clear, and long, Arose that pæan of the woods which hail'd His rude inauguration; and all night The blazing faggot pour'd a crimson flood Of splendour through the forest's green arcades; Where the huge pine-tree rear'd his giant head, And tall canes, quivering in the breezy air, Glanced like ten thousand spears. No more the name— The gentle name, of Oswald, that full oft, When syllabled in accents bland and sweet By his fond mother, had like music crept Into his inmost soul—no more that name Must greet, on that new stage of life, his ear; But some strange title, and therein his choice Was link'd with home's rich memories. The King-Bird, Whose proud wings hover'd o'er the 'scutcheon shield Of their heraldic honours, when his sires Fought 'gainst the Paynim hosts;—this, this he chose His emblem meet, since he with steadfast eye Had, like the eagle's, that confronts the sun, Defied the star of Fate. Well nigh the toils, And, more than these, the infinite disgusts Of that apprenticeship to savage life, Had vanquish'd his sick spirit; but the end Was too momentous to be thus resign'd At Nature's weak revoltings, and he gain'd, Hour after hour, a mastery more complete Over her secret springs. His sinews, braced To iron firmness, by continual proof Of all their latent powers, he grew, in limb, A bold compeer, in every feat of strength, Of those dusk heroes of the woods; could chase The white bear o'er the wastes of frozen snow; Swift as the wind pursue the antler'd deer, Snare the shy beaver in his wondrous home; And, with a fearless and intrepid arm, Steer down the rapid's course the slight canoe. And habit grew into a liking strange For that wild state of being—even its toils, Its hardships, and its hairbreadth 'scapes, became Sources of strong excitement. Nor return'd Ever, to mar his self-exilement there, One scowl of the dark demon that had driven Him to those haunts. His heart was light and free As wing of heaven's cloud-cleaving habitants; And the rich blood that bounded in his veins Glanced rubiate with life. Thus years roll'd on— The dread ordeal was o'erpass'd—the ban Of his existence, he believed, withdrawn; And the soul's yearnings for re-union sweet With all he loved, and with the glorious tide Of intellectual and congenial mind, Came o'er him, strong as ever babe's desire For its first nurture. Still there was a pang, In those brief partings by the Huron Lake; The kind companions of his exiled years, The tried, the trusted friends, in many an hour Of perilous emprize. He could not say With tearless eyes, "Eternally farewell!" And many a rude gift freighted his canoe, As down the stream to gain its destined goal (That white-wing'd ship of Albion) it sped on. Home-veering, laden, to the British fort Proudly the vessel plough'd the woodland wave, With all her gallant complement on board; Her murderous guns turn'd towards those beetling shores, Where lurk'd the hostile tribes, and whence full oft Shot, like swift meteors, 'thwart her path, canoes, Bristling with warriors, subtily stealing on To board the British ship. Calm in their wake Came Oswald, with his band of Huron friends, Still in his Indian garb, and thrice he waved His peaceful signal; but the harass'd crew Placed small reliance on a symbol, stain'd, But late, by Indian falsehood. Prompt and stern The word was given to fire! Then, booming o'er The gleaming waters, came destruction's shower Towards that mistrustless shallop. Fate would not Be cheated of her victim—Oswald fell! Loud rose the wail of death;—Oh, loud and drear! As those dusk Indians bent o'er his mute form, Their pale, their bleeding brother. Curses, deep Curses upon the white man's perfidy Peal'd from each furious tongue; and gestures wild Told that his death might not rest unavenged. Wrapp'd in its uncouth vesture, bore they then Back to their woods that cold and senseless clay, Whose spirit, to the unknown land of shades, The white man's heaven, was gone, they justly deem'd. And in those solitudes of nature's strength, Midst the gray-cairns of many a vanish'd race, Gladly had scoop'd his grave: but kindred blood Cried, piercingly, from Albion's distant isle, Claiming that scion of a blighted line; And the wide tomb where his fair brethren slept Yawn'd for its latest victim. O'er the deep, With 'scutcheon'd pall, and wan, funereal pomp, His corse was wafted to its last sojourn, The destined niche in the dark halls of Death! EVENINGON THESHORES OF THE ISLAND OF PROCITA. THE human heart doth treasure in its cell Some golden memories, that outlive the wreck Of many a glorious hope, once vital there, Ev'n as the source of being, shining o'er Life's desolate decline, like stars seen through The frightful rents of ruin. They are not Born of excitement's feverish hour,—nor come With sounds still echoing of the festive hall, But, like the honey of the bee, they flow From the rich stores of Nature. Who hath gazed, Italia! on the splendour of thy skies, When o'er their cloudless blue the evening sun Waves his broad banner; or, when solemn night Calls from her eastern shrines the virgin moon To light up, in the land where once she was Hail'd with triumphant hymns, the lonely fanes. Who hath gazed on thee, land of deathless song! Will ever turn to thee as to a fount Of inspiration flowing o'er his soul. I sat, at eve, upon the silent shore Of sea-born Procita. Beneath my feet Roll'd the dark-blue Tyrrhene; and around, Far as the eye could penetrate, amid The purple shadows of declining day, His old Etrurian boundaries arose, Crown'd with the glories of Virgilian song. O'er Pandaturia's island, that beheld In banishment, unsolaced and alone, A daughter of imperial Rome expire, The red sun's ample and expanding disk Linger'd, 'twould seem reluctant to depart. A fresh breeze stealing from the adjacent coast Stirr'd the light waves to music, and, anon, A sound of such wild harmonies awoke— Methought the sibyl of the cave yet breathed Her oracles divine. My spirit own'd The holy influence of the place and time. The memory of a deathless age, whose fame, A phantom now amid the things of earth, Still rules, unseen, the destinies of men, Fill'd me with worship. All the air around Seem'd vital with the genius of the past. Ev'n that Tyrrhene, whose calm surface, then, No vessel track'd, save the rude fisher's bark, Plying in his vocation round the isles, Had erst the fleet of Ilium proudly borne, When from their stately prows the Trojan bands Triumphantly the soft Ausonia hail'd. Transcendent bard! thy gifted lyre hath shed Enchantment o'er the country of thy birth; Thine own Elysium rises on my sight, Rich with the myrtle and the mantling vine. But splendid as are thine, some records link'd With these proud scenes around me, in my heart Wake deeper sympathies: a glorious chain Are here of names that might ennoble song. There, where Gaieta stretches her wide arms, Cradling the voiceful waters, Cicero died; And Scipio, fleeing from tempestuous Rome, In life's decline a tranquil refuge found. Nigh his retreat, amid the marshes drear That gird Minturnæ, by the will proscribed Of haughty Sylla, Marius lurk'd conceal'd; Till death itself turn'd awe-struck from his frown. Yon islet, glimmering through the dubious eve, Witness'd the tear that gemm'd fair Portia's cheek. When Brutus bade the Italian shores farewell. And thou, Misenus, rearest not thou thy crest, Still wrapt in gloom and silence, vesture meet For thy stern grandeur; thou that art a tomb, Heap'd on fallen genius; and, in latter days, By grief connubial consecrated, too; For there, Cornelia, faithful to the dead, Mourn'd for her murder'd lord. I sat and gazed Upon the monuments of greatness past, Until the golden west her bridal robe Exchanged for night's dim weeds of widowhood, And the wide east, o'er all the ethereal arch Pre-eminence resumed;—for mounting thence, Borne upward by her steeds invisible, Came star-crown'd Dian, in her silver car, Aspiring heaven's blue zenith to attain; And from her airy pathway pouring down A flood of temper'd, tranquillizing light. It was the Ave hour—the hour of rest— The spirit of repose pervaded earth. The drowsy beetle humm'd her homeward song, The clambering goat sought out the rock's recess, And birds took refuge in the trelliss'd vines. The fisher's bark came gliding to the beach, Leaving a silvery track upon the sea, Whose surface, then calm as an inland bay, Slept in the moonlight. 'Twas the hour of prayer: Amidst the silence of a slumbering world, Man, its inheritor, hymn'd his Creator. From the high citadel, whose castled rock O'erlooks the waters, notes of music came, Soft as aërial melodies, or strain Cathedral chanted, wafted from afar. So seem'd they in their earliest ascent, Low breathed and tremulous—then rising, clear, In measure audible, and voices chimed, Italian voices, rich as heaven's own choir, Singing, in sweet accord with that guitar, Hymns to the virgin. Soon along the coast Struck up responsive instruments, whose tones, Broken and blending with the murmuring sea, Floated mysteriously, as if from groves Elysian, that athwart the moonlit deep Threw their dim shadows, they did emanate. This was, indeed, devotion! whose pure shrine, Unstain'd by hollow prayer, or heartless rite, Nature had rear'd upon the lucid breast Of the deep sea, fann'd by a genial clime, Whose noon of night, unrivall'd o'er the earth, The triumph of creation might be hail'd! I listen'd till the last notes died away, And silence re-assumed her solemn reign, More solemn from that recent gush of song Filling the twilight air. My spirit borne Far from the realms of earth, upon the wings Of those departing harmonies, confess'd, In her full joy, affinity with heaven. PETRARCA'S TOMB. THERE is a spot midst the Euganean hills, Sequester'd from the busy scenes of life, Yet gifted with distinct celebrity, Even in a land whose glorious bosom bears Such shrines of pilgrim worship; haunted still By the soft spirit of the Tuscan muse Guarding her solemn sanctuary; for there, Wrapp'd in his laurell'd shade, Petrarca sleeps. Time, the despoiler, hath so slightly touch'd The sacred spot, that we his impress own But as a beam divine, imbuing all With deeper harmony. Even war, whose brand Hath scourged fair Italy, holding revered The hallow'd precincts of her poet's tomb, Hath not profaned its dust. Here come from far All who pay homage to immortal mind— Lovers, but most the votaries of song, Invoke the silent effigy, and twine Fame's deathless wreath the sculptured brows around. Romantic Arqua! where his tide of years Roll'd on in music, and in vernal dreams Of Love's untasted essence; thou art set, A meek flower in the chaplet of renown, Shedding, like violet odours pour'd unseen, Thy fragrance o'er the garland's statelier blooms. So graceful in the mountain's close embrace Rests thy Arcadian hamlet, it would seem The influence of thy bard's rare genius, felt Age after age with undiminish'd power, Had moulded thee to brighter loveliness. Screen'd by their natural rampart of high hills, Thy valleys offer to the peasant's hand An earlier vintage; and thy gardens glow With every sunny fruit that loves the breath. Of the sweet south. Deep in thy wild wood's shade, The calm clear waters of a lake, whose hue Rivals thy heavens, hold up to thy fresh charms An image of their beauty. In the dale's recess, From an acclivity, whose verdant mount Claims proud pre-eminence, the poet's home Rules, like the temple of some guardian saint, The humbler hamlet. Pilgrim, if thy soul Would drink the lymph of inspiration pure Even at the very fount, seek yonder height, Ascend its flowery path, and gaze adown The valley with its landscape stretching wide; Vineyard and orchard's mingling wealth behold, Pasture, and grove, and forest's tangled glade, Where the tall cypress, like a pyramid, Bears its dusk foliage, harmonizing well. With church-spire glittering through the air, And cities scatter'd o'er the Paduan plain; Till in the blue of distance they blend soft, Bound in the Adriatic's crystal zone. Sage was Petrarca's choice in peace to dwell, Far from the factions of a troublous age! Here, midst the mountains, soothing life's decline With the kind balm of undisturb'd repose; Identifying with the graceful forms Of Nature towering round him, his thoughts, ripe With their immortal glory. Oh that I, Awakening, as man's destiny decrees All shall awake, from hope's delusive dream, Could rest me in some lone vale's secret heart, Beauteous as this, where, like the Tuscan bard, My soul might give her tuneful griefs to fame! INDIAN SCENERY. IT was a wild shore, in whose bosom deep The sea lay tranquil as an infant's sleep, Lull'd in that bay's remote and lone recess, As by a nursing mother's sweet caress. The waveless waters knew no ruder gale Than that might tempt the lotus flower to sail. High rose the palm-tree on the brink, and threw Its graceful image o'er that mirror blue; Unfurl'd its fan-like leaves of tender green, Where, half reveal'd, the gold fruit glanced between. More distant, towering o'er the palm-grove, stood A tangled, wild, interminable wood; For such it seem'd, so dense and dun the shade Of the banyan's continous green arcade, Whose long earth-rooted boughs, and roofing high, Might well be deem'd the forest's sanctuary. For, lighted up by evening's transient smile, They look'd the cloisters of some gothic pile; Pillar, and arch, and fret-work rich, appear'd In Nature's mimickry of art uprear'd. The giant teak, the Indian forest's king, Grew there, in strength and beauty triumphing; And all trees that beneath the tropic sun To waste in wild redundancy had run; Age after age, nursed by that lavish clime, They stood like records of the olden time. Nor lack'd the forest habitants; it seem'd With Nature's myriads, and its great heart seem'd Instinct with life—from those ephemeral tribes, To whom proud man reluctantly ascribes The functions of existence, and of whom Morn hails the birth, and ere bedews the tomb, To the huge elephant, whose shadow cast Upon their realms as he sedately pass'd, Would seem a world's eclipse—all, all were found Roaming at will the forest haunts around. Such the broad zone of that unruffled bay; While, to the east, stupendous crags, that lay Chaotic on the shore, whose structure rude Seem'd form'd to brave the ocean's wildest mood, A frowning barrier rear'd—but even here Beauty had stamp'd her impress deep and clear. There sprung the tall cane from the yawning cleft; And there aquatic weeds the surge had left, About whose lithe and ruby-coloured stems The sea's bright incrustations hung like gems, There lurk'd the madrepore within the stone, And there the rock with rays metallic shone. The smooth sea, rippling on the golden sand, Like air-touch'd lutes made music wild and bland. And many a shell, whose wreathed depths disclose The tender tints of Syria's peerless rose, Lay like a fairy-galley on the beach, Secure from tempest rude, or billow's reach. The halcyon, skimming o'er the waters, knew Her own pure azure in their lucid hue; And oft in wantonness she stoop'd to break The glassy surface of that ocean-lake; And oft her painted plumage did she lave, Enamour'd of the halcyon of the wave. 'Tis past the hour of India's sultry noon— The sun will sink beyond the tropics soon; Like some dethroned king, whose doom hath pass'd O'er his own realms, will proudly look his last. Behold—e'en now a magic chain comes o'er The sylvan landscape and sequester'd shore; Hues, like the splendour of a topaz mine, Through all the groves and o'er the waters shine. The red sun rests a moment on the wave, Then dives as 'twere to ocean's darkest cave; But ere his regal crest is lost to sight, He pours his broadest flood of golden light. The vast earth feels it, and the deep sea knows The sudden blaze that gilds his green repose; No more his dim zone to the sky is link'd, Where many a distant sail now gleams distinct; Through the great forest's still and secret heart, The mighty monarch sends his fiercest dart. His slant rays lighting in th' umbrageous bowers The thousand lamps of oriental flowers; E'en the thick leaves in emerald lustre glow, And shed their radiance on the reeds below. No longer, shaded from the sultry glare, Sleeps the fell tiger in his forest lair; Roused from his slumber by that scorching ray, Sullen he stalks to deeper gloom away; Where lurks the jackall in the tangled brake, And scorpions hurtle with the glistering snake. In the vast lab'rinth's long and sinuous veins A quiet, clear, and temper'd glory reigns; A luxury of light, in tone subdued, Pour'd through that leafy roofing's amplitude. There the flamingo's scarlet plume is seen, Flaunting beneath th' arika's verdant screen; And sweeping stately through the tamarind glade, With jewell'd crest triumphantly display'd, The peacock to the sunset doth unfold His proud array of purple and of gold. Cloth'd in the rainbow's bright and blending dyes, The loxia in the changeful sun-beam flies; Or in the branches' quivering maze entwined, Pierces the wild acacia's spicy rind. But revel these alone?—doth not the ray Of eve illume a host as glad as they? Wings, like the splendour of the mineral world, Are seen in every ruby gleam unfurl'd; There lifts the butterfly its gorgeous sail, Wooing the zephyr; or the glittering mail Of some horn'd insect glances mid the leaves; And there his toils the subtle spider weaves. The shining lizard glides among the grass; The dread musquito quits the dank morass; And many a shrilly pipe is heard afar, In elfin mimicry of mightier war; While from the shores the trumpet-beetle's voice Calls on the insect myriads to rejoice. THEPESTILENCE IN ROME. QUEEN of the nations! venerable Rome! How oft hast thou, since that triumphant hour That hail'd thy birth, and to the wondering gaze Of ancient potentates thy star display'd, Flaming along the western hemisphere; How oft hast thou, still subject to the sway Of captious Fortune, changed thy destiny! Now, as the bride of thy victorious lords, Tiara-crown'd, and flush'd with consciousness Of power that found on earth no parallel; Now in the train of some barbarian king, Still glittering in thy marriage-robes, and rife With all thy charms, a powerless captive led. Again, with fickleness surpassing e'en Capricious Fate, hast thou bound on thy brows, Still humid with their willows, festal wreaths, And, like Assyrian concubine, attuned Thy lute to please a conquering despot's ear. But this endured not; grandeur that springs up From degradation soon doth pass away; And thou art left in lonely widowhood, A monument of all that was most high, Prostrate in ruin. Rome! when last my feet Wander'd along thy desolated ways, A sterner foe possess'd thee, ruling wide, With power that mock'd at man's supremacy, Making thy tombs his throne. Ay, Death was there— Death, and the pale-eyed demon of disease, His ruthless caterer. Through thy long streets Cries, and a sound of funeral psalmody, Struck the intruder's ear, the sole response To his inquiring wonder. All was gloom: The car of pleasure roll'd no more along The silent Corso: all the graceful arts That weave illusion o'er existence, seem'd Extinct, and but the dull routine of life, The humbling catalogue of human wants, And darker chronicle of human woes, Pervaded that great city. Still on high Flamed the bright sun through summer's blue, Uprose at morn, and crimson set at eve, Looking with its unshadow'd aspect down On man's calamity; and glorious still Tower'd that proud cupola in upper air, The noblest work of modern genius. Column, and arch, and stately colonnade, Glared in their solemn beauty through dim space Like beings of a loftier race, untouch'd By earth's cold doom. In rainbow light still gush'd The fountains from their marble vases free, Shedding around a purer atmosphere; And, verdant still, the obeliskal palm Threw its tall shadow o'er Mount Palatine,— Marking, unheeded through the sultry day, The progress slow of time. Alone seem'd ye, Dark waving cypresses! whose dusky screen Veil'd the lone cloister from the sights of life, To sympathize with Rome's death-stricken herd. Yet midst its horrors, like a ray benign, Religion dwelt there, wresting ev'n from Death His crown of triumph. What though her fair form The garb of superstition did invest? Still pour'd she balm upon the couch of pain, And Hope's fair blooms, beneath her hallow'd touch, Sprung, e'en amidst the graves. How solemn 'twas To hear, with swerveless regularity, The evening bell, pealing its holy chime Through those dispeopled streets; from convent spire And high cathedral dome resounding clear, Like a great spirit speaking from the realms Of desolation. Through the dim of night Still gleam'd the taper at the Virgin's shrine, Shedding its faint light o'er the silent ways, Untrodden, save by step of mendicant, Seeking his morsel at contagion's door; Or aged priest, who for the slight reward Wrung from the hand of credulous affluence, Pour'd o'er the threshold, yet unvisited By that insidious foe, unction and prayer. I saw a funeral train wind slow beneath The Coliseum's mouldering porticoes; The Miserere, chanted by the monks Who bore to its last home that pale cold clay, So late imbued with life, did sound amid Those walls that erst had echoed back the cries Of Rome's tumultuous concourse, drunk with joy. Shades from the realms of death seem'd those gaunt forms Robed in their ghastly vestments, convoy meet For one whose dwelling-place must thenceforth be Amidst the tombs. High in advance they rear'd The sacred symbol of a world redeem'd, Hung in funereal weeds, that heavily Flapp'd to and fro in that sirocco blast Whose wings brought pestilence. I saw them thread The arch of triumph, and proceed along The ancient ways, untroubled by the crowd Of idle gazers, who too oft impede These sad processions. But at length their course A moment was arrested. That high cross Borne on before, did link its dusky arms In garlands of the wild sweet eglantine That o'er the rents of ruin thickly grew, Faithful through time. The odorous wreaths awhile Offer'd resistance, and repell'd the thrust Of that dark ravisher, whilst their faint blooms In crimson showers begemm'd the silent bier. Then did mine eyes, long thwarted, first behold Its moveless occupant.—A tall fair girl, Pallid in death, but redolent with youth, Lay there serene, as though her dreamless sleep Morning would break. O'er her patrician brows— Whose polish'd beauty never Parian stone, By Grecian chisel smote, had rivall'd—hung Her dark redundant tresses, mingling here, And there escaping from the virgin veil That still did float around her faultless form. A tint, like that which on autumnal leaves Tells of decay, invaded the pure white Of her smooth cheek, cheating the transient gaze With hues of life; but from the lip collapsed, And those meek orbs, seal'd up in endless night, Imagination shrunk. Her marble hands, Clasp'd o'er the purple vest, unconscious shrined The wild rose in its bud. Oh sight of woe! The emblem flower, and that far sweeter bloom, Youth nipt in its first fragrance, borne alike To an untimely grave! I learn'd in brief The history of her days, too soon eclipsed. Daughter and heir of Ludovisi's line, The child of hope and promise, safe, so deem'd Her doating sire, in those ancestral halls From life's least harm; shy as the brooding dove, Gay as the bird that hymns the morning heavens, Impassion'd as the warbling nightingale, Fair Julia roved among the garden bowers Of that old Roman Palace, like a beam Of sunlight midst decay. But terror fell On every heart when that contagion crept With serpent subtlety into the veins Of the great city. None might bar his gates 'Gainst such a foe, and say "Approach not here." Eve heard the lover's lute resounding sweet, And morn beheld him on his fever'd couch, Death in his eye, and madness on his tongue. Away—away!—there was no hope save one, In flight. The purer atmosphere that breathed Around the Sibyls' ancient grot, or fann'd The peaceful waters of Albano's lake, Proffer'd a safe retreat; and 'twas resolved That Ludovisi and his child should go Where his fair mansion o'er its sylvan groves Tower'd in suburban beauty. Idlesse sway'd No more the menials in his princely courts: Quick steps were heard, and busy hands prepared All for departure, and the tender tones Of soft adieus were heard within the bowers; And tears stood glistening in sweet Julia's eyes; For he, her long betroth'd, for whom her heart Cherish'd its deep pure fountain of young love, Might not go forth with their departing train At early dawn—to-morrow!—phantom vague Of that which ne'er shall be. Man treasures up His world of hopes, his acme of despair, For moments hidden in the womb of Time, Or snatch'd away by Fate's resistless hand, For ever from his grasp. That very night Distemper kindled up in Julia's cheek Its ominous torch; and, ere another gloom'd, The grief-wrung father saw death's fatal seal Stamp'd in pale hues upon his daughter's brow. ANCIENT CITIES. "Her cities are a desolation, a dry land, and a wilderness; a land wherein no man dwelleth, neither doth any son of man pass thereby."— JEREMIAH, chap. li. ver. 43. I. A SPIRIT sits amid the ruin'd walls Of Earth's fallen temples, and continually On Man's doom'd race, Cassandra-like, she calls, Though her's is not the voice of prophecy, But a stern record of the days gone by; A chronicle of ruin dark and drear— A tale that ends in mutability; But, as deaf adders, who a sullen ear Turn to the charmer's voice, they will not hear. II. Still fret they on midst waves of toil and crime, Lay up their stores where moth and rust corrode, Then float like bubbles down the stream of Time, Till on Oblivion's shores their griefs displode.— Let him whose spirit earth's wild tumults goad, Whose hopes have vanish'd like a lost star's beam, Seek the lone haunts where grandeur once abode, Where cities through the desert air did gleam, And learn, that life itself is but a dream. III. There, leaning on some mouldering column's base, Whose brethren on the earth have long been laid, Where the wild rose in solitary grace Doth bloom, or ivy flings a pensive shade, A holier influence will his thoughts pervade— A power that mocks at mortal woe's control;— A truth will come, in changeless hues array'd; And peace, not of the world, will gently roll Its healing waters o'er his wounded soul. IV. For what his woes? the conflict of a day— A jar in Ocean's diapason deep. And what his doom? since empires pass away Like vapour from the hills, when the winds creep From out their caves, and o'er their summits sweep. Eternal Nature wheels her constant round, Day dawns, and Night her vigil dim doth keep O'er the gray cairn and green funereal mound, Where by-gone nations rest in sleep profound. V. Go search th' arena of that sterner age, Where, in his infancy of being, Man Traced his first records on tradition's page— That orient world, from whence the full tide ran Fruitful with life—where pomp and power began To dream themselves immortal, or aspired To lengthen out life's all too fleeting span By efforts of the mind; renown acquired; Or works of art, by Genius' self inspired. VI. Go seek, and thou shalt find some shapeless mass That vainly 'gainst decay's approach contends: Some dark enigma of the thing it was— Mammoth of Art's creation—o'er which bends; The man of ancient lore, and fondly lends Undying glory to its greatness gone; And in his zeal some truth with fiction blends; And ponders, 'wilder'd, o'er each crumbling stone, Rich in a language to his race unknown. VII. Tyre, Carthage, Ninus—thou, Persepolis, O'er whose destruction mystery hangs a cloud, In whose shorn splendour we discern but this,— Thou wert of eld a fane or palace proud, But Fame hath ceased to vaunt of thee aloud. Ye are in time's horizon seen to shine, Like islands hail'd through ocean's misty shroud; Mellow'd and mingling with the heaving brine, And lighted up by Glory's red decline. VIII. Queen of the deserts! fair Palmyra—thou From whose high altars to the morning skies (Whilst white-robed priests their reverent heads did bow) Rich incense and triumphant hymns did rise,— Prone in the dust, thy marble beauty lies— Thy regal brow hath lost its diadem; And through thy halls, in desolation, sighs The desert-winds—oh, Earth's once peerless gem! Chanting for thee a mournful requiem. IX. Now, in thy glorious Temple of the Sun The plundering Arab makes his midnight lair, Musing on deeds of outrage to be done; Or, shadow'd by some column's marble glare, Sends the swift arrow through the sounding air; Or, monarch of its loneness, scours the plain, Arm'd with his lance, and mounted on his mare; In hot pursuit the ostrich's spoil to gain, Dauntless he thunders by, and shouts amain. X. But midst the cities of the ancient world, None rivall'd thee, Chaldean Babylon! Ere the proud Persian 'gainst thy bulwarks hurl'd Destruction's mace, and through thy rivers won Treacherous access. Oh thou, whom Belus' son Builded in beauty by Euphrates' side, Where echoed sound of harp and tymbalon, And hearts ran o'er with joyance and with pride, As though there were in fate no counter-tide. XI. Thou, with thy hundred burnish'd brazen gates, That to the wealth of India open'd free— And vessels, laden with their precious freights, Incense, and gold, and balm of Araby— And palace-roofs, where groves waved pleasantly, And gardens, where thy queen-like daughters danced To chime of lute, where many a fruitful tree Red in the flush of thy rich sunlight glanced— And thy broad way, where fiery war-steeds pranced. XII. These were thy boast, but lo! a voice from heaven Decreed thy fall, and to the slayer's wrath And to the spoiler's havoc thou wast given: Now o'er thy grave not e'en the shepherd hath Made for his wandering flocks a rugged path. But from thy palaces the moping owl Doth shrilly hoot—and, as the Scripture saith, Within thy dwellings doleful things do howl, And round thy walls the wild beasts nightly prowl. XIII. Yea from the tablets of the living earth Dull Time hath swept ye, cities of the dead! Your matchless grandeur owed its giant birth To kings whose fame, like smoke, hath vanished. Yet is your dust, whereon we heedless tread, Fraught with a lesson. Yea, a Spirit dwells Where your proud fanes o'er sandy plains are spread; She to the winds her tale of ruin tells, And weaves with fingers wan her solemn spells. THETURKISH TOMBS. I STRAY'D amidst the Turkish tombs, That o'er a Grecian hill Reposed beneath the dusky plumes Of cypress, saddening still; From the deep umbrage of whose screen Mine eyes o'erlook'd a glowing scene Of rivers, winding far away To meet the flashing sea— Rich vale, and mountains' long array, Pine grove, and thymy lea; Where herded camels peaceful fed, And Tartar tents around were spread. And many an antique pillar there Beside the sacred mosque, And summer palace glittering fair, And garden-crown'd kiosk, Broke the green level of a plain Where Grecian armies erst had lain. Strange contrast! all that smiled around, Imbued with light and life, With that lone, dark, sepulchral mound, With death and mourning rife; Whose deep-drawn vistas gave to view The skies condensed to colder blue: The very atmosphere that clings About the humid earth, And floats upon its vapoury wings O'er graves that gave it birth, Hath odours of mortality, That breathe in every breeze's sigh. Dark-waving cypress! tree of Death! Funereal emblem meet— When man hath cropt thy spiral wreath, And levell'd at his feet Thy stately stem, no scion tree Springs up from root or branch of thee! O'er sepulchres of Christian dead The proud escutcheon waves; Pillar and arch there grandly shed Honour on marble graves; And sculptured effigy, or bust, Looks down serenely on their dust. But here, where Moslem pride is laid, No lordly banner floats— Nor towers cathedral's fretted shade— Nor bust the spot denotes; Fond woman's form is seen alone, Bent sorrowing o'er the turban'd stone. Yea, woman's love abides ev'n here! Remorseless is the creed That chains her life in bonds severe, And leaves her heart to bleed; Without a hope that e'en her love Shall live in brighter realms above. She haunts the spot where silent sleeps The monarch of her heart; In hopeless anguish sits and weeps, And, when her steps depart, Her veil'd and mystic figure seems Some shape beheld in slumber's dreams. Ye cities of the dead, that rise On Græcia's ruin'd shore, 'Midst you might man philosophise On glory seen no more; The silent tear affection gives Is the sole tribute that survives. THEBLIND MINSTREL. A SKETCH. HE swept the golden chords of his loved harp, Whose faithful tones gave out melodiously An echo of his soul. High heaved his heart— The life-blood quicken'd, and the pale brow flung Its elf-locks back to revel with the winds. The spirit of sweet sounds, a spell as strong As ever wrung the voice of prophecy From Eastern sage, or wizard of the North, Was on him then. He raised his sightless orbs To that fair heaven, whose luxury of light They ne'er had known; and as the rich, full tide Of music roll'd from the rebounding strings, A ray of mind, a bright intelligence— Though the eye flash'd not its live lightnings there— Play'd o'er his features, telling of deep joy Radiant within his breast. Oh! power divine Of harmony, that maketh light break forth E'en amidst darkness! light that owneth not Control of time or season, unobscured In dungeon glooms, or 'midst the silent hours Of night's dull noon. Music to him was life, And he was blest—that old, blind, wandering Bard; Bearing his world of light and loveliness In that companion harp, whose lays replied Congenial to each mood, or sad or gay, Through the earth's desert—Yea, this flowery earth, With all its rainbow hues and glorious shapes, To him was desert! Heaven's rich panoply Of crimson sunset, and the moon's clear lamp Of crystal, shining out o'er flood and fell— The golden Autumn, and the first faint blush Of the young bud kiss'd by the virgin Spring— The calm lake imaging the woods and skies— The deep-drawn vale, the mountain's azure crest— These were to him a chaos of dark things, Of whose mysterious being even his dreams Gave not the semblance. Nor might Memory's dim Phantasmagoria raise her spectral host; Nor restless Fancy, ever prone to garb Objects unknown in some familiar guise, Lend her illusions. Memory stored for him No look of Nature's silent majesty— No haunting gleam of her enchanting forms, Adored in youth. A sweet voice, that had sung To him in silvery accents, or the notes Of nightingales, or cadence of some tones, Borne fitfully upon the floating breeze Like angel hymns; the thunder, pealing loud Heaven's organ strains—the cataract's ceaseless roar, Whose awful aspect, as the sea's wild course, To him was unimaginable;—these— These, shrined within the sanctuary of his heart, These were his memories.—— THEARABIAN MARE. "The history of a horse is frequently the topic of general conversation. When I was at Jerusalem, the feats of one of these wonderful steeds made a great noise. The Bedouin to whom the animal, a mare, belonged, being pursued by the Governor's guards, rushed with her from the top of the hills that overlook Jericho. The mare scoured at full gallop down an almost perpendicular declivity without stumbling, and left the soldiers lost in admiration and astonishment. The poor creature how ever dropped down dead on entering Jericho; and the Bedouin, who would not quit her, was taken, weeping over the body of his companion. Ali Aga religiously shewed me, in the mountains near Jericho, the footsteps of the mare that died in the attempt to save her master." —Chateaubriand's Travels in Syria, &c. HARK! to the sound of the Atabal, To the notes of the winded horn, That on the breeze from Salem's wall Melodiously are borne. The cryer from the minarets Proclaims the hour of prayer; The sun's last splendour, ere he sets, Lights up the summits fair Of Sion and the Olive Mount, And gilds Siloe's silver fount; While on the sultry air, Where once the Red-cross banner bright Floated on evening's golden light, The Turkish pennons flare. Hark!—where the Royal minstrel's song Arose, the Arab sings; His rugged home is rear'd among The sepulchres of Kings. And where Judea's stately maids Danced to the timbrel sweet, The haughty Islamite invades With desolating feet. Down in thy vale, Jehosophat, Where kings in regal pomp have sat, A Moslem chief's barbarian camp Halts for the night's repose. Hark to the war-steed's fiery stamp! The patient camel's sober tramp— To Kedron's brook he goes. Lo! breaking from yon tented line, That bathed in sunset light doth shine, Who comes with thundering speed? Outstripping far the eagle's flight, Or the wild ostrich in her might,— An Arab and his steed. For life or death he comes—he comes— Hark to the loud alarum drums, Bismillah! he hath need! Escaping from Abdallah's wrath, He scours along the mountain path, And hears triumphant, on the wind, Pursuit and vengeance far behind. Onward, and yet more swift, as though She knew that life and liberty Hung on one wild and desperate throw, With nostril wide, and flashing eye, And flanks bestreak'd with foam and soil, And sinews strain'd to meet the toil; Like to an arrow on the gale, Shot up on plumed shaft to sail, Dauntless she rushes by; Till on Judea's hills, that frown O'er Jericho's dismantled town, Exultingly the matchless mare Inhales the vig'rous mountain-air, Spurns with impatient foot the sod That fleeter foot had never trod, And with a bold, adventurous leap, She dashes down the dangerous steep. Nor yet relaxeth she her pace, Nor yet yields up th' eventful race, Till straight before her rider's eyes The roofs of Jericho arise, And nearing that desired goal, Courage and hope relume his soul. But vainly now her steps essay To tread the street's familiar way; No more may fortitude obtain The triumph o'er fatigue and pain! Ah! little deem'd he as he tried To urge her on with voice of pride, That she, like evening's vanish'd sun, Her bright and glorious course had run; And had dilated, for his sake, Her faithful heart, that soon must break. No voice of pride could cheer her more: She fell, all deluged with the gore That from her quivering nostril stream'd; While her eye faint and fainter beam'd, Till, master'd by the power of death, The brave steed gasp'd her latest breath. Low kneels the miserable man, Regardless of the Pacha's ban: He but beholds the blood that swims Adown his mare's now stiffening limbs, Gazes upon her filmed eye, And lip convulsed with agony; And, reckless of the vengeful storm, Gathering round his devoted head, With streaming eyes and bended form, Laments o'er his companion dead. Oft as the pastoral Arab leads His camels to the well, Or fleet along the Desert speeds, This legend shall he tell: And long upon Judea's hills The Pilgrim's guide shall show, Amid the clear and sacred rills, Stamp'd on the rock below, The footsteps of the generous steed, Who died to serve her master's need. LAMENT OF THE CHEVALIER BAYARD,WHEN LYING SICK OF A FEVER AT GRENOBLE. (Written in Imitation of Ancient Poetry.) IN fair Grenoble's princely halls A gentle knight in durance lies: Holden he is in Fever's thrall, Most cruel of captivities; For, stretched on his couch of pain, He strives to break his bondes in vain. Full many a midnight orison Grenoble's dames breathe in their bowers— Full many a prayer and benison Rise in the proud cathedral towers; And at Our Ladye's shrine of grace Bows many a faire and saintly face. And all for his sweete sake resoundes The suppliant vow and mass-rite high, That heaven may heal him of his woundes— Their peerless flower of Chivalrie; And that again, in harnesse dighte, He may goe forth with strength and mighte. Lodged is he in bower of state, On couch with daintie lawne dispread; About him loyal squires doe waite, And velvet sheen is round his head, Through which the sickly taper streemes O'er his pale face, in crimson gleames. Harke, gentles! how he maketh moane, In his extremitie of griefe, Calling, with many a piteous groane, On Holy Jesu for reliefe; Himself he doth arraigne the while, As if he were some caitiff vile:— "Alack, my God! sith thou hast will'd That I so soon yield up my life, Why wouldst not thou that it was spill'd By foeman bold in mortal strife, When late, in Brescia's dread affraye, Faint with my bleeding woundes I laye. "Ne leeche's craft, ne nurse's care, Me in this doleful streighte can save; Would God I had been doomed to share The honours of a soldier's grave; E'en where the meanest taketh rest, With helm on head, and bucklered breast. "I, who such perils have escaped, With God's great mighte and favour armed, When death on all sides rounde me gaped, The while I stood unharmed; Looking upon the cruel sighte Of friends and comrades slaine in fighte. "Oh! that my life had been resigned Before Ravenna's hostile towers; Or sped, when Fate to dust consigned Thy gentle Prince, Nemours! Meseems I still the trump doe heare That hymn'd the hero on his bierre; "And still doe see towards Milan's dome The funeral traine pass on— With pompe that did such rite become, Scutcheon, and plume, and gonfalon, And thousands garbed in weedes of woe, Making a greate and solemne showe. "But I!—unlike my sires of old, Who burial found for heroes fit, Must ne'er again brave combat hold!— Soon on my tombe it shall be writ, That, in my bodie's weaknesse, I Did yield my manhood up and die. "Where art thou, man of false pretence! That did such goodlie things foretell Of me, who, with much lack of sense, In thy conceites delighted well: How readest thou now my natal starre, That showed me sped in noble warre? "Alack, most miserable mee! Brought to this pass by sickness dire; Here must I waite deathe's slowe decree, And like a girl expire— On silken bed, in chamber fine, Sobb forth this laggard soul of mine. "Nathless if thou, Almightie God! For my greate sins this penance will, Let me bow meekely to thy rod And thy awarde fulfill; In mercie mild my hopes repose, And patient bear my grievous woes. "But if from soe inglorious end My wasting life thou shalt redeeme, My froward ways I will amend, As well doth me beseeme; Mee humbler Christian shalt thou prove, Stedfast in loyaltie and love." THE ESTRANGED. Alas! they had been friends in youth, But whispering tongues will poison truth; And constancy dwells in realms above; And life is thorny, and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. COLERIDGE'S Christabel. THEY met in silence—years had roll'd away Since they had gazed each on the other's face, Or heard the tones of the remember'd voice That, parting, rose in wrath. Oh! words, too oft, Like those false Hebrews who an ill report Brought of the Land of Promise to their tribes, Belie the holier feelings of the heart Glowing with truth and love. This had they proved In the drear loneness of their sunder'd lives; And pondering on the trivial cause that marr'd The hopes of tried affection, their souls yearn'd To burst away from pride's cold, icy chain, And in the sanctuary of each other's arms Sob forth in tears "Beloved, I have sinn'd!" But that withheld them, and stern Fate conspired, And all the nameless accidents that come To cheat man of his happiness, throng'd fast Into their clouded path—and fancied wrongs, Conjured up rife, to medicine regret, Poison'd the wounds they had no power to heal. Life's charm has fled since that soft-beaming star Of their young fondness hath withdrawn its light. The world, that erst was fill'd with beauty, wound No more its fascinations round their hearts; And time's perspective, stored so late with bliss, Lay like a bleak horizon on the verge Of their dull wearing hours. Slight cause I ween (Oh is't not ever thus that worthless things Rob us of Paradise!) dissension roused Between Antonio and his bride betroth'd: Words that arose perchance in sportiveness, But misconceived, and angrily return'd, Grew into taunts of bitterness and scorn: And pride, that like an incubus doth haunt The cells of noble hearts, proclaim'd aloud Its majesty insulted. Thus the spark, Kindled in wantonness, burst into flames Fierce and destructive. From Costanza's home Antonio strode indignantly away, And vow'd, amidst the tempest of his wrath, Ne'er to behold Leoni's daughter more: And in the madness of that hour, resolved To quit for aye the country of his birth. Love had deceived him; Fame should thenceforth be His sovereign mistress. In the tumults wild Of foreign warfare, and the varying scenes Of other climes, the mem'ry of the past, Like the wan phantom of a dream, should fade. Alas! he knew not then, though 'twas reveal'd, How absence from the loved ones we have grieved Wears down the magnitude of their offence, And aggravates our own. 'Tis rumour'd still In that Italian city where they dwelt, That on the eve of his departure thence, A tall and stately figure, whose proud mien, Though shrouded in the trappings of disguise, Antonio's self-betray'd, was seen to glide Near the Leoni palace. Some too say, That all had yet been well, and he had stay'd To hear Costanza's penitential sighs, But for a page, who, charged with billet kind From that distracted lady to her love, Proved faithless to his trust. Thus Fate decreed That they should part in unforgiven wrong. Antonio sail'd for regions of the West— But how fared poor Costanza? For a space She could not think that he indeed was gone; Or deem'd he would in soften'd mood return: And sat within her sire's patrician halls, With anxious eye, and cheek, whose flush reveal'd The sickening hope within—and if a step Fell in the distance on the marble floor, Her watchful ear caught up the fleeting sound, And her pulse quicken'd. Or if, in the gloom Of gathering eve, or midst the moonlight bowers Of her fair garden, a faint shade was seen To flit across the pathway, she was sure That he drew nigh—'twas his appointed hour— He came repentant from his brief exile, To bring forgiveness, and to be forgiven. But days wore on, and months their measure full Accomplish'd, and the first long year of doubt, And hope, and penitence, was number'd. Then She felt full surely he had kept his vow, And would no more return. A chill despair Fell on her heart, and as its frightful growth Choked up each bloom of healthful nurture there— And grief sat brooding, like a midnight ghost, Over her sleepless brain—and wild remorse, Cherish'd in silence, ravish'd from her cheek Its rose of beauty, ev'n the more she sought To cheat the gazer's eye with show of mirth She ne'er must know again. Still bound she on Her jewell'd zone, and deck'd her tresses bright With pearl and ruby, and amongst the gay Appear'd the blithest—in the festive dance Her step was ever found; and though her form Was wasting to the shadow of itself, Her pale, proud lip, wreathed with its changeless smile, Confess'd to none the secret of her breast: And many deem'd the lord of her young love Forgotten, and with jeering laugh decried Woman's inconstancy;—and some rejoiced That her fair hand, which they had deem'd bestow'd, Was still a prize all might aspire to win: And noble suitors throng'd once more the halls Of the Leoni's palace—each intent To gain Costanza's love. Ah! little dream'd That crowd of flatterers how their homage vex'd The maiden's tortured mind. Awhile sustain'd By pride, that goaded her at least to seem Regardless of the past, she play'd a part Hostile to nature;—but it might not be— Her wounded spirit yielded to its grief, And on the couch of sickness she was fain To re-assume herself. Long o'er that couch A heart-wrung father watch'd what all believed His child's departing life. But heaven beheld The old man's anguish, and in mercy spared His age that heaviest woe. Costanza waked From a dark sojourn on the brink of death, Again to breath the balmy air of heaven. And she was calm—no wild emotion heaved Her heart to bursting—from her placid eye The strange light had departed, and the mien Of a sweet saint, still lingering for a space In this dim vale of sorrow, now was hers. 'Twould seem the world, and all its stirring thoughts, Save one still haunting memory, had no place In her unearthly mind. Her father spoke Vainly of grandeur and alliance high; And detail'd kindly to her tranquil ear The catalogue of wealth he would bequeath The daughter of his heart. A meek reply, Yet solemn ev'n in its humility, Announced her sole desire—no more would she, Amid the idle and deceitful joys Which the world offers to its votaries blind, Wear out her days, but in a cloister's peace Devote her scarce redeemed hours to God. Her prayer was granted; and full soon the train Of flatterers who had worshipp'd at her feet, Saw, with indifference that had power to fret E'en then her spirit with a transient pang, The black veil curtain her so vaunted charms, And heard unmoved her vestal lips pronounce The dread, the drear, the indissoluble vow, That sunder'd her for ever from mankind. But that soon pass'd; and like a changeful dream The pageant faded from her aching sight: The gay, the brilliant beings who had graced Her hour of sacrifice, departed all! And she was left amid conventual shades Th' espoused of Heaven. The dark cell was around— And o'er her beauty droop'd the mystic stole; And her slight form was wrapp'd in sombre weeds, That seem'd indeed the vesture of the dead. But in that living tomb where she had fix'd Her earthly lot, say, found Costanza peace? Alas! though richly in the sacred choir Her matchless voice arose, and at the shrine, Ere daylight through the deep-dyed oriel stream'd, She kneel'd in prayer, and 'neath the holy gloom Of those long cypress groves, she stray'd at eve, To meditate on heaven—her rebel thoughts Too often wander'd in the dangerous maze Of by-gone time; and vainly then she strove To call back their allegiance. The dull round Of her now doom'd existence added still Another link to grief's corroding chain. Her heart was with the absent—the unkind— Yet too much loved Antonio. Rumour told Of perils he had 'scaped, and scars he bore; And how he sought in recklessness of life War's fiercest ranks.—A dagger had not struck Deeper than that!—and tidings swiftly came At last of his return. Oh! how her soul Drank in that music—then the fearful truth Of "what avails it now!" crush'd with a weight Of ten-fold anguish the expanding joy. Antonio came. Once more his shadow crossed The threshold of the dwelling of his sires. Long years had pass'd since, in the fire of youth A voluntary exile, he had turn'd His haughty footsteps thence. The world's chill blight Of withering care was on his spirit now, And he came back ashamed: vex'd with the truth Of Fame's illusiveness, which he had proved— Stung to the soul by man's ingratitude, And bearing on his once triumphant brow The lines of harrowing thought. Few in his face The once proud heir of Alviano's line Had recognised then. But though years spent In war and travel, and still more the storms Of fiery passions, had so changed his mien, One feeling linger'd in his lonely heart, Strong as it burn'd in youth. His earliest love— His only true affection, there was shrined. How oft amidst the Indian woods at night, When myriad stars gleam'd on him from the depths Of heaven's clear azure, and the fire-fly lamps Lighted the air around his leafy tent With a soft radiance—whilst the ceaseless roar Of distant cataracts, or the ringing howl Of the fierce Jaguar, then ranging free Through the dark thicket near, disturb'd alone The stillness of the hour—how oft had he, Starting from slumber, called up midst the gloom, The form of her he lov'd:—now as the bride Of some detested rival, floating bright Through halls of splendour—now the tenant pale Of the oblivious grave—or sinking slow With mortal sickness to an early death Through his desertion. Oh the frenzied thoughts That peopled thick the hours of that suspense! But all was solved at last—the brief, sad tale That old Leoni told of his lorn hope Buried within the cloister, all reveal'd— And she was lost to him! not the cold tomb Had ravish'd her more sure; yet once again Would he behold her—once more to proclaim That time had cancell'd all. At evening's hour, Beneath the sanction of conventual walls, They met again, th' estranged of many years. They met in silence—language had no words To utter thoughts so deep, so full of woe. But on the thin hand of that pensive nun Antonio laid his own, and from her brow He gently raised the dark and shadowy veil, And traced the ravages of grief and time; And sought, how vainly! for the enthusiast flash Of that bright eye that had enthrall'd his mind; And tears came fast, and then the words that fail'd To speak the bitterness of that they felt; And full and free forgiveness, and a plight Of love unearthly, given in sorrow here, But to be held in Heaven. E'en while they sat In that too late reunion, lo! a bell Peal'd solemnly through those dim echoing halls, Calling the sisters to their wonted prayer: Antonio heard, and shudder'd at the sound, That on his heart smote as a parting knell; And, like a spirit from the realms of death, Constanza pass'd for ever from his gaze. My tale is ended—bootless 'twere to tell How young hopes blasted, and the heavy weight Of that prolonged suspense, had sapp'd the days Of poor Constanza. In a peaceful grave, Amid those very cypress-trees where erst She used to walk, and pine o'er mem'ries fond, She sleeps the sleep of death.—There, oft is seen A silent, pale, and melancholy monk, With clasp'd hands musing o'er a marble urn, That bears the name of her he loved in life. NOTES. NOTES. Note 1.—p. 111. "Or of those molesters that abound Within the North Sea's cave profound."

Olaus Magnus states, in his history of the Goths, that round the shores of the North Seas are many caverns of unfathomable depth, whence issue loud, terrifying, unaccountable noises; and that the monsters which are found in the waters are of the most horrible description, and excite the greatest fear in beholders.

 Note 2.—p. 111. "The Sable Rock of Death."

The Sable Rock of Death is a large black mountain, which Coxe says, is situated under the Arctic Pole, where there are four terrible whirlpools.

 Note 3.—p. 159. "The Hebrew Girl at the Auto-da-Fé."

The incident which forms the subject of this Poem will be found in Fox's Book of Martyrs.

 Note 4.—p. 171. "The Surhab's strange unreal light."

Surhab, or Water of the Desert, commonly known by the name of the Mirage.

 Note 5.—p. 200. "O'er Pandaturia's island, that beheld In banishment, unsolaced, and alone, A daughter of Imperial Rome expire."

Agrippina, daughter of M. Agrippa, and grand-daughter of Augustus. After the death of her husband Germanicus, she was banished by Tiberius to the island of Pandaturia, where she starved herself to death.

 Note 6.—p. 202. "Yon islet, glimmering through the dubious eve, Witness'd the tear that gemm'd fair Portia's cheek When Brutus bade th' Italian shores farewell."

Nisida, or Nisitra, a little island near to Pozzuolo, is said to have witnessed the adieus of Brutus and Portia.

 Note 7.—p. 202. "And thou, Misenus," &c. At pius Æneas ingenti mole sepulchrum Imponit, suaque arma viro, remumque, tubamque, Monte sub aërio; qui nune Misenus ab illo Dicitur, æternumqne tenet per sæcula nomen. Virg. Æneidos, lib. vi.

It was at Misenus that Cornelia, the widow of Pompey, passed the remainder of her days in mourning his loss.

 Note 8.—p. 204. "From the high citadel, whose castled rock O'erlooks the waters, notes of music came."

"After a little conversation, our young host took his guitar and accompanied his wife, while she sang the evening hymn in a sweet voice, and with great earnestness. Occasionally her husband and their little son joined in chorus; and while they sung, the eyes of all three were sometimes raised to heaven, and sometimes fixed on each other, with mixed expression of piety, affection, and gratitude. Shortly after, similar little concerts arose from the town below, and from different parts of the island (Procita), and continued at intervals for an hour or more, sometimes swelling upon the ear, and sometimes dying away in distance, and mingling with the murmurs of the sea."—EUSTACE'S Classical Tour.

Note 9.—p. 230. "Ninus."

The Nineveh of Scripture; called in profane history Ninus, after its founder.

 Note 10.—p. 232. "——Oh thou, whom Belus' son Builded in beauty by Euphrates' side.

Babylon, a son of Belus, who, as some suppose, founded the city which bears his name.

 Note 11.—p. 233. "Now o'er thy grave not e'en the shepherd hath Made for his wandering flocks a rugged path: But from thy palaces the moping owl Doth shrilly hoot."— …

Mr. Rich, in his excellent account of the remains of ancient Babylon, says when describing the Mŏŏcallibe (ruin), "Wild beasts, porcupines, owls, and bats, take up their abode in its cavities, and recesses." Sir R. K. Porter, in his second visit to the Birs Nimrod, thought that he perceived several dark objects moving along the summit of the hill. Thinking them Arabs, he took out his glass to inspect them more narrowly, when he discovered that they were three majestic lions walking upon the pyramid. The above accounts of both these travellers naturally suggest to the mind the exact fulfilment of the Scripture prophecies respecting Babylon. " It shall never be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation, neither shall the Arabian pitch tents there; neither shall the shepherds make their fold there, But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there." And again, "I will also make it a possession for the bittern, and pools of water." In various parts, Sir R. K. Porter remarked that the land was overflowed by the annual inundation of the Euphrates, which on retiring leaves the plain little better than a swamp, with large deposits of the waters left stagnant in the hollows between the ruins. Every spot of ground in sight was totally barren, this being the natural consequence of the decomposition of the Babylonian ruins. It would not therefore appear to the eye of the shepherd a desirable halting-place for his flocks.

 Note 12.—p. 253. "Where art thou, man of false pretence! That did such goodlie things foretell."

"While the said army was marching straight to Finale, the noble Duke of Nemours passed through a little town of the name of Carpi, with great part of the captains, especially all those whom he loved and trusted the most. He abode two days there, and was vastly well entertained by the lord of the town, who had the reputation of being a great master in the learning both of the Greeks and Romans. He was cousin- german to Giovanni Francesco Pio, Count of Mirandola, and hight himself Alberto Pio, Count of Carpi. He supped with the Duke of Nemours, and the French captains, on the evening of their arrival, and they had much discourse together; among other topics, of an astrologer, by some called a soothsayer, then in the town of Carpi; how wonderfully he spoke concerning things past, whereof he had never had any information; and what was more, how he foretold things to come. It certainly ought to be acknowledged by all true christians, that God alone can see into futurity; yet this astrologer of Carpi said so many things, and to so many different people, which afterwards proved true, that he turned the heads of a number. When the gentle Duke of Nemours heard him spoken of, being like most young people, fond of the marvellous, he entreated the count to send for him, which he did, and the man obeyed the summons immediately. He might be about sixty years of age, lean, and of a middling stature. The Duke of Nemours stretched out his hand to him, and asked him how he did. He answered with great propriety. Much conversation passed, and the duke inquired of him, among other things, if the Vice-roy of Naples and the Spaniards would stay to join battle, He said they would, and that, on his life, the engagement would fall out upon a Good Friday, or Easter Sunday, and would be a very bloody one. He was asked which side would gain the victory. He made reply in these very words. 'The French will keep the field, and the Spaniards will sustain the heaviest and most grievous loss they have experienced for these hundred years. But the French will gain little thereby, for they will lose a number of men, and much both of credit and substance; a thing greatly to be regretted.' He spake so as it was wonderful to hear. The Lord of La Palisse asked him if he should fall in the battle; he replied that he certainly would not, that he would live at least twelve years longer, but be slain in another engagement. The same he said to the Lord of Humbercourt, and he told Captain Richebourg that he would run great risk of being killed by lightning. In short, there were few of the company who did not put questions to him respecting their own concerns. The good knight, who was present, laughed at all this, and the gentle Duke of Nemours said to him, 'My Lord Bayard, my friend, I pray you interrogate our master a little as to what will become of you.' 'It is needless to inquire about that,' replied he, 'as I am perfectly sure I shall never come to any thing very great; however, since it is your pleasure, I will do so.' Then he said to the astrologer, 'My good master, pray tell me whether I shall ever become a mighty rich man.' He replied, 'you shall be rich in honour and virtue, as any captain of France that ever lived, but of the goods of fortune you shall possess few; them indeed you do not covet; and verily can I affirm that you will serve another king of France besides the one who now reigns, and whom you at present serve, and he will love and esteem you much; but en-vious persons will prevent his ever bestowing much wealth upon you, or advancing you to the honour you will have merited. Nevertheless, lay not the blame on him.' 'And shall I escape from this battle which you say is to prove such a bloody one?" 'Yea,' said he, 'but you will die within twelve years at farthest, and will be slain by artillery, otherwise you would never end your days in the field, as you are so beloved by those under your command, that they would sooner die than leave you in jeopardy! In short, it was as good as a comedy to hear the interrogations that were put to him by every one." —Life of the Chevalier Bayard, by the Loyal Servant.

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