His soulless bride—the ladye of his love!
Lifting him up in all his wizard glee;
And he did wave, before the frantic sea,
His wasted arm.—“Adieu! adieu! adieu!
Thou sawest how we were; thou sawest, too,
Thou wert not so; for in the inmost shrine
Of my deep heart are thoughts that are not thine.
And thou art gone, fair mariner! in foam
And music-murmurs to thy blessed home—
Adieu! adieu! Thou sawest how that she
Sleeps in her holy beauty tranquilly:
And when the fair and floating vision breaks
From her pure brow, and Agathè awakes—
Till then, we meet not; so, adieu, adieu!”
Still on before the sullen tempest flew,
Fast as a meteor star, the lonely bark;
And Julio bent over to the dark,
The solitary sea, for close beside
Floated the stringed harp of one that died,
In that wild shipwreck, and he drew it home
With madness to his bosom; the white foam
Was o’er its strings; and on the streaming sail
He wiped them, running with his fingers pale,
Along the tuneless notes, that only gave
Seldom responses to his wandering stave!
O THE HARP.
Jewel! that lay before the heart
Of some romantic boy,
And startled music in her home,
Of mystery and joy!
The image of his love was there;
And, with her golden wings,
She swept their tone of sorrow from
Thy melancholy strings!
We drew thee, as an orphan one,
From waters that had cast
No music round thee, as they went
In their pale beauty past.
No music but the changeless sigh—
That murmur of their own,
That loves not blending in the thrill
Of thine aerial tone.
The girl that slumbers at our side
Will dream how they are bent,
That love her even as they love
Thy blessed instrument.
And music, like a flood, will break
Upon the fairy throne
Of her pure heart, all glowing, like
A morning star, alone!
Alone, but for the song of him
That waketh by her side,
And strikes thy chords of silver to
His fair and sea-borne bride.
Jewel! that hung before the heart
Of some romantic boy:
Like him, I sweep thee with a storm
Of music and of joy!
And Julio placed the trembling harp before
The ladye; till the minstrel winds came o’er
Its moisten’d strings, and tuned them with a sigh.
“I hear thee, how thy spirit goeth by,
In music and in love. Oh, Agathè!
Thou sleepest long, long, long; and they will say
That seek thee,—‘she is dead—she is no more!’
But thou art cold, and I will throw before
Thy chilly brow the pale and snowy sheet.”
And he did lift it from her marble feet,
The sea-wet shroud! and flung it silently
Over her brow—the brow of Agathè!
But, as a passion from the mooded mind,
The storm had died, and wearily the wind
Fell fast asleep at evening, like one
That hath been toiling in the fiery sun.
And the white sail dropt downward, as the wing
Of wounded sea-bird, feebly murmuring
Unto the mast—it was a deathly calm,
And holy stillness, like a shadow, swam
All over the wide sea, and the boat stood,
Like her of Sodom, in the solitude,
A snowy pillow, looking on the waste.
And there was nothing but the azure breast
Of ocean and the sky—the sea and sky.
And the lone bark; no clouds were floating by
Where the sun set, but his great seraph light,
Went down alone, in majesty and might;
And the stars came again, a silver troop,
Until, in shame, the coward shadows droop
Before the radiance of these holy gems,
That bear the images of diadems!
And Julio fancied of a form that rose
Before him from the desolate repose
Of the deep waters—a huge ghastly form,
As of one lightning-stricken in a storm;
And leprosy cadaverous was hung
Before his brow, and awful terror flung
Around him like a pall—a solemn shroud!—
A drapery of darkness and of cloud!
And agony was writhing on his lip,
Heart-rooted, awful agony and deep,
Of fevers, and of plagues, and burning blain,
And ague, and the palsy of the brain—
A weird and yellow spectre! and his eyes
Were orbless and unpupil’d, as the skies
Without the sun, or moon, or any star:
And he was like the wreck of what men are,—
A wasted skeleton, that held the crest
Of time, and bore his motto on his breast!
There came a group before of maladies,
And griefs, and Famine empty as a breeze,—
A double monster, with a gloating leer
Fix’d on his other half. They drew them near,
One after one, led onward by Despair,
That like the last of winter glimmer’d there,—
A dismal prologue to his brother Death,
Which was behind; and, with the horrid breath
Of his wide baneful nostrils, plied them on.
And often as they saw the skeleton
Grisly beside them, the wild phantasies
Grew mad and howl’d; the fever of disease
Became wild frenzy—very terrible!
And, for a hell of agony—a hell
Of rage, was there, that fed on misty things,
On dreams, ideas, and imaginings.
And some were raving on philosophy,
And some on love, and some on jealousy,
And some upon the moon, and these were they
That were the wildest; and anon alway
Julio knew them by a something dim
About their wasted features like to him!
But Death was by, like shell of pyramid
Among old obelisks, and his eyeless head
Shook o’er the wry ribs, where darkness lay
The image of a heart—she is away!
And Julio is watching, like Remorse,
Over the pale and solitary corse.
Shower soft light, ye stars, that shake the dew
From your eternal blossoms! and thou, too,
Moon! minded of thy power, tide-bearing queen!
That hast a slave and votary within
The great rock-fetter’d deep, and hearest cry
To thee the hungry surges, rushing by
Like a vast herd of wolves,—fall full and fair
On Julio as he sleepeth, even there,
Amid the suppliant bosom of the sea!—
Sleep! dost thou come, and on thy blessed knee
With hush and whisper lull the troubled brain
Of this death-lover?—still the eyes do strain
Their orbs on Agathè—those raven eyes!
All earnest on the ladye as she lies
In her white shroud. They see not, though they are
As if they saw; no splendour like a star
Is under their dark lashes: they are full
Of dream and slumber—melancholy, dull!
* * * * * *
A wide, wide sea! and on it rear and van
Amid the stars, the silent meteors ran
All that still night, and Julio with a cry
Woke up, and saw them flashing fiercely by.
* * * * * *
Full three times three, its awful veil of night
Hath Heaven hung before the blessed light;
And a fair breeze falls o’er the sleeping sea,
When Julio is watching Agathè!
By sun and darkness hath he bent him over—
A mad, moon-stricken, melancholy lover!
And hardly hath he tasted, night or day,
Of drink or food, because of Agathè!
He sitteth in a dull and dreary mood,
Like statue in a ruin’d solitude,
Bearing the brent of sunlight and of shade,
Over the marble of some colonnade.
The ladye, she hath lost the pearly hue
Upon her gorgeous brow, where tresses grew
Luxuriantly as thoughts of tenderness,
That once were floating in the pure recess
Of her bright soul. These are not as they were;
But are as weeds above a sepulchre,
Wild waving in the breeze: her eyes are now
Sunk deeply under the discolor’d brow,
That is of sickly yellow, and pale blue
Unnaturally blending. The same hue
Is on her cheek. It is the early breath
Of cold corruption, the ban-dog of death,
Falling upon her features. Let it be,
And gaze awhile on Julio, as he
Is gazing on the corse of Agathè!
In truth, he seemeth like no living one,
But is the image of a skeleton:
A fearful portrait from the artist tool
Of madness—terrible and wonderful!
There was no passion there—no feeling traced
Under those eyelids, where had run to waste
All that was wild, or beautiful, or bright;
A very cloud was cast upon their light,
That gave to them the heavy hue of lead;
And they were lorn, lustreless, and dead!
He sate like vulture from the mountains gray,
Unsated, that had flown full many a day
O’er distant land and sea, and was in pride
Alighted by the lonely ladye’s side.
He sat like winter o’er the wasted year—
Like melancholy winter, drawing near
To its own death. “Oh me! the worm at last
Will gorge upon me, and the autumn blast
Howl by!—Where?—where?—there is no worm to creep
Amid the waters of the lonely deep;
But I will take me Agathè upon
This sorrowful, sore bosom, and anon,
Down, down, through azure silence, we shall go,
Unepitaph’d, to cities far below;
Where the sea Triton, with his winding shell,
Shall sound our blessed welcome. We shall dwell
With many a mariner in his pearly home,
In bowers of amber weed and silver foam,
Amid the crimson corals; we shall be
Together, Agathè! fair Agathè!—
But thou art sickly, ladye—thou art sad;
And I am weary, ladye—I am mad!
They bring no food to feed us, and I feel
A frost upon my vitals, very chill,
Like winter breaking on the golden year
Of life. This bark shall be our floating bier,
And the dark waves our mourners; and the white,
Pure swarm of sunny sea birds, basking bright
On some fair isle, shall sorrowfully pour
Their wail of melancholy o’er and o’er,
At evening, on the waters of the sea,—
While, with its solemn burden, silently,
Floats forward our lone bark.—Oh, Agathè!
Methinks that I shall meet thee far away,
Within the awful centre of the earth,
Where, earliest, we had our holy birth,
In some huge cavern, arching wide below,
Upon whose airy pivot, years ago,
The world went round: ’tis infinitely deep,
But never dismal; for above it sleep,
And under it, blue waters, hung aloof,
And held below,—an amethystine roof,
A sapphire pavement; and the golden sun,
Afar, looks through alternately, like one
That watches round some treasure: often, too,
Through many a mile of ocean, sparkling through,
Are seen the stars and moon, all gloriously,
Bathing their angel brilliance in the sea!
“And there are shafted pillars, that beyond,
Are ranged before a rook of diamond,
Awfully heaving its eternal heights,
From base of silver strewn with chrysolites;
And over it are chasms of glory seen,
With crimson rubies clustering between,
On sward of emerald, with leaves of pearl,
And topazes hung brilliantly on beryl,
So Agathè!—but thou art sickly sad,
And tellest me, poor Julio is mad,—
Ay, mad!—was he not madder when he swore
A vow to Heaven? Was there no madness then,
That he should do—for why?—a holy string
Of penances? No penances will bring
The stricken conscience to the blessed light
Of peace.—Oh! I am lost, and there is night,
Despair, and darkness, darkness and despair,
And want, that hunts me to the lion-lair
Of wild perdition: and I hear them all—
All cursing me! The very sun-rays fall
In curses, and the shadow of the moon,
And the pale star-light, and the winds that tune
Their voices to the music of the sea,
And thou,—yes, thou! my gentle Agathè!—
All curse me!—oh! that I were never, never!
Or but a breathless fancy, that was ever
Adrift upon the wilderness of Time,
That knew no impulse, but was left sublime
To play at its own will!—that I were hush’d
At night by silver cataracts, that gush’d
Through flowers of fairy hue, and then to die
Away, with all before me passing by.
Like a fair vision I had lived to see,
And died to see no more!—it cannot be!
By this right hand! I feel it is not so,
And by the beating of a heart below,
That strangely feareth for eternity!”
He said, and gazing on the lonely sea,
Far off he saw, like an ascending cloud,
To westward, a bright island, lifted proud
Amid the struggling waters, and the light
Of the great sun was on its clifted height,
Scattering golden shadow, like a mirror;
But the gigantic billows sprung in terror
Upon its rock-built and eternal shore,
With silver foams, that fell in fury o’er
A thousand sunny breakers. Far above,
There stood a wild and solitary grove
Of aged pines, all leafless but their brows,
Where a green group of tempest-stricken boughs
Was waving now and then, and to and fro,
And the pale moss was clustering below.
Then Julio saw, and bent his head away
To the cold wasted corse of Agathè,
And sigh’d; but ever he would turn again
A gaze to that green island on the main.
The bark is drifting through the surf, beside
Its rocks of gray upon the coming tide;
And lightly is it stranded on the shore
Of purest silver shells, that lie before,
Glittering in the glory of the sun;
And Julio hath landed him, like one
That aileth of some wild and weary pest;
And Agathè is folded on his breast,
A faded flower! with all the vernal dews
From its bright blossom shaken, and the hues
Become as colorless as twilight air—
I marvel much, that she was ever fair!
(End of the second Chimera.)
* * * * *
DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA.
TAKE ME HOME.
BY DR. REYNELD COATES.
“And all for thee! vile yellow fiend!”
I was wandering in the streets of a populous city—thousands crowded the
thronged thoroughfares—jarring and jostling along,—each intent on his
own petty schemes. Here, a merchant rushed onward with a rapid step—for
it wanted but five minutes of three o’clock! If clouds had overspread
his countenance an hour before, they had given place to a determined
expression, that seemed to say, “safe till to-morrow, anyhow!” There, a
belle flaunted in costly attire, with a curl on her lip and pride in her
tread that spoke, more plainly than words, “conquest is my right! for my
beauty and wealth are alike undisputed, I have but to smile and win!”
At one moment, my eye was attracted by a young couple in the spring-tide
of their promise, associated by that magic feeling which comes over us
but once in a life-time. At the next, it rested on a pair of
unfortunates with locked arms but gloomy brows and half averted faces,
convinced, by twenty years of bitter experience, that _it is wise to
preserve appearances_, even when doing penance for that most common, but
most fatal indiscretion of youth—an ill-assorted marriage!
A little girl, upon the door-step of an elegant mansion, stood gazing
upon the passing crowd and the unbroken line of splendid equipages
hurrying by, glancing her eye occasionally upward at the tall trees that
shielded her from the sunshine, or the bright blue sky and fleecy vapor
which seemed to rest upon their summits. The breezes of May waved the
translucent ringlets athwart her snowy shoulders, while the leaves
danced and rustled mirthfully in the wind, and a little bird, upon a
neighboring bough, poured out its joyous song! The child threw back her
head and laughed long and merrily: yet there was nothing in view to
awaken laughter!
Guarded, and clad,—and nourished,—and incognisant of care,—the
bounding pulse of youth felt keenly in every fibre,—existence itself,
with her, became delight! and she laughed in the fulness of
irrepressible joy—_that the skies were bright and the leaves were
green!_—On the pavement beside her, a barefoot and ragged boy leaned
for support against a post. Famine and fatigue were legibly stampt upon
his sunken cheek and attenuated limbs. The sound of merriment awakened
him, and he turned his dull eye in wonder upon the beautiful object
before him!—But he comprehended it not!—joy was to him a stranger!
These, and a hundred other episodes in the selfish history of common
life claimed, in turn, my attention;—and each might have furnished
subject matter for a month of thought or a volume of moral deduction.
But there was one group so peculiarly striking that it still dwells upon
my memory with more than usual vividness of coloring.
In the most luxurious portion of the city, where palaces of marble and
granite rose on every hand, and the very air was redolent of the incense
of exotic flowers, a coach, dusty with travel, suddenly drew up before
one of the most conspicuous residences. The liveried footman instantly
threw open the door, and a delicate young girl, with a highly
intellectual, but care-worn and sorrowful expression of countenance,
began to descend the steps. But, before she could reach the pavement a
masculine arm was projected from the vehicle to arrest her progress, and
a voice, tremulous with age and grief, exclaimed, “No! no! not here! not
here!—Why will you not take me home!—I must go home!—I am old and
sick!—Do take me home at once!”
The attempt to draw the young lady back within the coach endangered her
foot-hold, and courtesy obliged me to spring to her assistance, lest she
should fall beneath the wheels. Adroitly lifting her from the carriage
while the footman hastened to ring the bell, I obtained a view of all
the parties interested in this little incident.
The half fainting girl, still leaning upon my arm, might have numbered
about fourteen summers, and within the coach were two other individuals,
in both of whom the same family traits were visible. One of these, a
woman about thirty-five years of age, was evidently the mother. She was
still beautiful, though strong traces of habitual thought and mental
suffering were perceptible upon her brow. The other was a man of noble
figure, probably advanced to seventy years, with locks of snowy
whiteness, but dressed with a degree of richness and precision, not
usually observed among the old. It was evident that he had been familiar
with the world—that wealth and luxury were no novelties to him. The
forms of society had been his study, if not the business of his life.
Yet, what a satire upon the vulgar misconceptions of the means of
happiness was the aspect of that face! The broad brow was furrowed with
deep lines of mental distress. The boldly chiselled nose was thinned,
rather by muscular contraction than by age. The model of the lip still
presented the curve of pride and habitual authority, contrasting most
painfully with the tremor of helpless suspicion and childish anxiety.
“Why will you not take me home?” he exclaimed again—and his eye
wandered restlessly from side to side, peering through the door and
windows of the coach, as if in search of some object once familiar—with
an expression of hopeless distress that it was difficult even to witness
with fortitude.
To one familiar with large hospitals, the scene was clearly
intelligible. Insanity from disappointed hope was mingled with the
fatuity of premature old age.
Propriety would have dictated my immediate retreat, after the necessary
care of the ladies in alighting; but perceiving that the united
persuasions of mother and daughter were likely to fail in inducing the
grandfather to quit the coach without too strongly inviting public
attention towards a private misfortune, I felt bound to inquire, “May I
not save you, madam! from some embarrassment by begging you to enter the
house? I will engage myself to place your father under the protection of
your roof, in a very few minutes, and without annoyance.” Nothing
insures such instantaneous confidence with the gentler sex as
self-dependence in a man, and grave, though courteous authority of
manner. The offer was accepted with a glance of mute thankfulness, and
handing the ladies to the door, I returned to the carriage.
“Come, my dear sir,” I said to the elderly gentleman, “allow me the
pleasure of assisting you to alight! your horses are a little restive.”
“No, sir!” he replied; “you are in league with them!—You lead me from
place to place, and every where you tell me I am at home!—Oh! I shall
never find it!—I wish to repose in my own house, and my own
garden!—_my mother’s house!_—and you bring me here and tell me _this_
is my house!—Do you think I have grown so weak and imbecile as not to
know the chamber where I was born?—the garden where I played when a
child?—No!—I will not go in!—They are kind to me here, but I am not
at home!—Do, take me home!—You seem to think that I cannot tell the
difference between this great palace, with its rich carpets and its
marble columns, and our own little cottage, with its arbor of
grape-vines and wild-creepers, where my mother used to nurse me to sleep
in the old carved rocking-chair!—Oh! take me home!”
Long habituated to the management of lunatics, I had learned to guide
the tangled reins of a disordered mind, and found but little difficulty
in persuading the old man to rest awhile in the parlor on the plea of
examining whether his granddaughter, to whom he was much attached, had
not received some injury by stumbling in her descent from the coach.
Seating him upon an ottoman, it was easy, by the same innocent deception
to withdraw to another apartment in company with the ladies: and there,
after tendering any further services which their affliction might render
desirable, I heard, with deep attention, the history of their woes.
Mr. A——, the old gentleman, was, as I had inferred, the father of the
elder and the grandsire of the younger lady. At an early age he came
into hereditary possession of a handsome capital, and a range of ample
stores near the centre of the commercial mart of ——.
His mother, who was esteemed rich in those early times (soon after the
revolutionary war) retained the family homestead in addition to her
dower; and, in this venerable mansion, distant about a mile from the
borders of the _then_ small, but flourishing city, her son continued to
reside; for he preferred the society of his remaining parent, and the
quietude of rural life in the intervals of business, to the gayer scenes
and more luxurious habits of the town. Thither, he soon conveyed a young
and beautiful wife; and there his happiest years were spent in the midst
of a family circle bound together by ties of the warmest
affection.—Even their dead were gathered around them:—for the white
monuments of their departed friends peered over the stone wall of the
family grave-yard, from the grove of funereal pines behind the garden.
But this peaceful life of domestic enjoyment was not destined to
continue. Within a few years subsequent to his marriage, there occurred
one of those sudden revolutions in trade which periodically sweep, with
the force of a deluge, over the commercial interests of our
country.—Mr. A—— was ruined!—He became dependent upon the resources
of his parent for the support of his wife; but pride would not permit
him to grant the urgent request of his mother that he would share that
support himself; and he fled his native country for a time, to woo the
breeze of Fortune beneath other stars.
After two long years of toil and danger among the furs of the
North-West, the hides of California, the _biche-le-mer_ and birds-nests
of the Eastern Archipelagoes, he arrived at the great entrepot of the
Celestial Empire with a cargo insuring him an ample competence, just in
time to receive intelligence of the death of his wife, leaving to his
charge an only child! She had been the star of his destiny!—That star
was set, and darkness enshrouded his soul!
Recovering from this terrible shock, he shunned the very idea of
returning to the scene of his former happiness. She for whom he had
braved the deep!—had toiled—had grappled with the sun of the
tropics,—the ice of the pole—had left him desolate!—the infant, whom
no parent welcomed to this world of trial, was a stranger to him!—one
whom he had never beheld! and the only remaining link which bound him to
his country was his affection for an aged mother.
But who is not aware that the noon of manhood—its mid-day strife and
bustle—are unfavorable to the glow of filial affection? Maternal
love,—the deepest—the purest—the least selfish of human
emotions!—knows no ebb—no diminution on this side the grave! Time,
which may sap or shatter every other sympathy, adds strength to this at
every revolution of its fatal glass!
Not so the attachment of the offspring!—Like a delicate flower which
sheds its fragrance freely on the morning or the evening air, but denies
all sweetness to the bold glance of noon, this feeling flourishes only
at the commencement and the close of our career. When, at length, in the
decline of our energies, both mind and body verge once more towards the
feebleness of infancy, how painfully the affections of earlier years
flow back upon us!—Then would we gladly repose our aching
temples—aching with the memory of many an unkind word or action—upon
the bosom from which we first drew sustenance! and we yearn after a
mother’s love with a longing that will not be repressed!
It is not surprising that Mr. A——, thus suddenly cut off by death from
her whose welfare had been the chief purpose of his life, should have
buried his gloom in the cares of business. Such is the usual resource of
those who bound their vision, as, alas! too many are prone to do! within
the narrow limits of this sublunary theatre of action! For thirty years
he pursued the search of wealth beneath the burning skies of India, with
singleness of purpose and untiring zeal.