GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. November, 1842 No. 5.
Contents
Fiction and Literature
The Spanish Student
De Pontis
Bainbridge
A Young Wife
The Reprimand
Hester Ormesby
Malina Gray
Speculation: or Dyspepsia Cured
Harry Cavendish
Review of New Books
Editor’s Table
Poetry, Music and Fashion
The Child’s Prayer
My Mother—A Dream
Song—“I Saw Her Once.”
Sonnet—The Unattained
The Pet Rabbit
The Life Voyage—A Ballad
Hymn for the Funeral of a Child
“L’Amour Sans Ailes.”
The Shepherd and the Brook
Write to Me, Love
Latest Fashions
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: NOVEMBER, 1842. No. 5.
* * * * *
THE SPANISH STUDENT.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.
Burns.
(Concluded from page 180.)
ACT THE THIRD.
Scene I.—_A cross-road through a woodland. In the back ground a
distant village spire. Evening. Victorian as a traveling
student; a guitar slung under his arm._
_Vic._ I will forget thee! All dear recollections
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,
Shall be torn out and scattered to the winds!
I will forget thee! but perhaps hereafter,
When thou shalt learn how heartless is the world,
A voice within thee will repeat my name,
And thou wilt say, “He was indeed my friend!”
(_Enter Hypolito, dressed like Victorian._)
_Hyp._ Still dreaming of the absent?
_Vic._ Aye, still dreaming.
Oh, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums,
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet,
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,
And a swift death, might make me deaf forever
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!
_Hyp._ Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more!
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health
To talk of dying.
_Vic._ Yet I fain would die!
To go through life, unloving and unloved;
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not
And cannot have; the effort to be strong;
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile and smile
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks:
All this the dead feel not—the dead alone!
I envy them because they are at rest!
Would I were with them!
_Hyp._ Thou wilt be soon.
_Vic._ It cannot be too soon. My happiest day
Will be that of my death. O, I am weary
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons,
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
A mockery and a jest; maddened—confused—
Not knowing friend from foe.
_Hyp._ Why seek to know?
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth!
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself!
Strive not to look beneath it.
_Vic._ O, too often,
Too often have I been deceived! The world
Has lost its bright illusions. One by one
The masks have gone; the lights burnt out; the music
Dropped into silence, and I stand alone
In the dark halls, and hear no sound of life
Save the monotonous beating of my heart!
Would that had ceased to beat!
_Hyp._ If thou couldst do it,
Wouldst thou lie down to sleep and wake no more?
_Vic._ Indeed would I: as quietly as a child:
As willingly as the tired artisan
Lays by his tools and stretches him to sleep.
_Hyp._ So would not I. Too many pleasant visions
Hover before me; phantoms of delight
Beckon me on, and wave their golden wings,
Making the Future radiant with their smiles.
_Vic._ Would it were so with me! For I behold
Nothing but shadows; and the Future stands
Before me like a wall of adamant
I cannot climb.
_Hyp._ And right above it gleams
A glorious star. Be patient—trust thy star.
(_Sound of a village bell in the distance._)
_Vic._ Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry!
A solemn sound that echoes far and wide
Over the red roofs of the cottages,
And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd,
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,
And all the crowd in village streets stand still,
And breathe a prayer unto the Blessed Virgin!
_Hyp._ Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence
The village lies.
_Vic._ This path will lead us to it,
Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail
Across the running sea, now green, now blue,
And like an idle mariner on the main
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [_Exeunt._