With your lutes hanging hush’d upon the wall,
And silence round the aged man, bereft
Of each glad voice once answering to his call.
Alas, that lonely father! doom’d to pine
For sounds departed in his life’s decline;
And, midst the shadowing banners of his hall,
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame![293]
XXXIII.
And woe for you, midst looks and words of love,
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long!
How had I seen you in your beauty move,
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song!--
Yet sat, even then, what seem’d the crowd to shun,
Half-veil’d upon the pale clear brow of one,
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong--
Thoughts, such as wake to evening’s whispery sway,
Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay.
XXXIV.
And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.
Yet would she smile--and that, too, hath its smile--
Circled with joy which reach’d her not the while,
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war
With earthly things, but o’er their form and hue
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true.
XXXV.
But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might
Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul,
A treasure all undreamt of,--as the night
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll
Unheard by day. It seem’d as if her breast
Had hoarded energies, till then suppress’d
Almost with pain, and bursting from control,
And finding first that hour their pathway free:
Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be!
XXXVI.
For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn,
Was fled; and fire, like prophecy’s, had sprung
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn--
Pride--sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound
By these at times, even as with adamant round,
Kept so from breaking! Yet not _thus_ upborne
She moved, though some sustaining passion’s wave
Lifted her fervent soul--a sister for the brave!
XXXVII.
And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings
Round woman in such hours!--a mournful sight,
Though lovely!--an o’erflowing of the springs,
The full springs of affection, deep as bright!
And she, because her life is ever twined
With other lives, and by no stormy wind
May thence be shaken, and because the light
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye
Doth weep such passionate tears--therefore she thus can die.
XXXVIII.
Therefore didst _thou_, through that heart-shaking scene,
As through a triumph move; and cast aside
Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory’s mien,
O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide,
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth,
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth,
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified;
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the past,
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last.
XXXIX.
For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest,
Midst thy young spirit’s dreams, than that which grows
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast,
The shelter’d of one roof; and thus it rose
Twined in with life. How is it that the hours
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose,
And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft,
From the heart’s memory fade in this world’s breath so oft?
XL.
But thee that breath hath touch’d not; thee, nor him,
The true in all things found!--and thou wert blest
Even then, that no remember’d change could dim
The perfect image of affection, press’d
Like armour to thy bosom! Thou hadst kept
Watch by thy brother’s couch of pain, and wept,
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest
Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith
Unto thy soul; one light, one hope ye chose----one death.
XLI.
So didst thou pass on brightly!--but for her,
Next in that path, how may _her_ doom be spoken!
All Merciful! to think that such things were,
And _are_, and seen by men with hearts unbroken!
To think of that fair girl, whose path had been
So strew’d with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene!
And whose quick glance came ever as a token
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice
As a free bird’s in spring, that makes the woods rejoice!
XLII.
And she to die!--she loved the laughing earth
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers!
Was not her smile even as the sudden birth
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers?
Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear,
Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours
Flow’d from her lips, was to forget the sway
Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull decay!
XLIII.
Could this change be? The hour, the scene, where last
I saw that form, came floating o’er my mind:
A golden vintage-eve; the heats were pass’d,
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind,
Her father sat where gleam’d the first faint star
Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar,
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined,
In his calm face laugh’d up; some shepherd lay
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play.
XLIV.
And now--oh, God!--the bitter fear of death,
The sore amaze, the faint o’ershadowing dread,
Had grasp’d her!--panting in her quick-drawn breath,
And in her white lips quivering. Onward led,
She look’d up with her dim bewilder’d eyes,
And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies,
Far in their sultry southern azure spread,
Glowing with joy, but silent!--still they smiled,
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth’s poor trembling child.
XLV.
Alas! that earth had all too strong a hold,
Too fast, sweet Inez! on thy heart, whose bloom
Was given to early love, nor knew how cold
The hours which follow. There was one, with whom,
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried,
Thou mightst, perchance, unshrinkingly have died:
But he was far away; and with thy doom
Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear,
That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mortal fear!
XLVI.
No aid!--thou too didst pass!--and all had pass’d,
The fearful--and the desperate--and the strong!
Some like the bark that rushes with the blast,
Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along;
And some as men that have but one more field
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield,--
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng
Roll’d on, and bore me with their living tide,
Even as a bark wherein is left no power to guide.
XLVII.
Wave swept on wave. We reach’d a stately square,
Deck’d for the rites. An altar stood on high,
And gorgeous, in the midst: a place for prayer,
And praise, and offering. Could the earth supply
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall?
No fair young firstling of the flock to die,
As when before their God the patriarchs stood?--
Look down! man brings thee, heaven! his brother’s guiltless blood!
XLVIII.
Hear its voice, hear!--a cry goes up to thee,
From the stain’d sod; make thou thy judgment known
On him the shedder!--let his portion be
The fear that walks at midnight--give the moan
In the wind haunting him, a power to say,
“Where is thy brother?”--and the stars a ray
To search and shake his spirit, when alone
With the dread splendour of their burning eyes!
So shall earth own thy will--Mercy, not sacrifice!
XLIX.
Sounds of triumphant praise! the mass was sung--
Voices that die not might have pour’d such strains!
Through Salem’s towers might that proud chant have rung
When the Most High, on Syria’s palmy plains,
Had quell’d her foes!--so full it swept, a sea
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free!
--Oft when the wind, as through resounding fanes,
Hath fill’d the choral forests with its power,
Some deep tone brings me back the music of that hour.
L.
It died away;--the incense-cloud was driven
Before the breeze--the words of doom were said;
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven:
He faded mournfully, and dimly red,
Parting in clouds from those that look’d their last,
And sigh’d--“Farewell, thou sun!” Eve glow’d and pass’d;
Night--midnight and the moon--came forth and shed
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot--
Save one--a place of death--and there men slumber’d not.
LI.
’Twas not within the city--[294] but in sight
Of the snow-crown’d sierras, freely sweeping,
With many an eagle’s eyrie on the height,
And hunter’s cabin, by the torrent peeping
Far off: and vales between, and vineyards lay,
With sound and gleam of waters on their way,
And chestnut woods, that girt the happy sleeping
In many a peasant home!--the midnight sky
Brought softly that rich world round those who came to die.
LII.
The darkly glorious midnight sky of Spain,
Burning with stars! What had the torches’ glare
To do beneath that temple, and profane
Its holy radiance? By their wavering flare,
I saw beside the pyres--I see thee _now_,
O bright Theresa! with thy lifted brow,
And thy clasp’d hands, and dark eyes fill’d with prayer!
And thee, sad Inez! bowing thy fair head,
And mantling up thy face, all colourless with dread!
LIII.
And Alvar, Alvar!--I beheld thee too,
Pale, steadfast, kingly: till thy clear glance fell
On that young sister; then perturb’d it grew,
And all thy labouring bosom seem’d to swell
With painful tenderness. Why came I there,
That troubled image of my friend to bear
Thence, for my after-years?--a thing to dwell
In my heart’s core, and on the darkness rise,
Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes?
LIV.
Why came I?--oh! the heart’s deep mystery!--Why
In man’s last hour doth vain affection’s gaze
Fix itself down on struggling agony,
To the dimm’d eyeballs freezing as they glaze?
It might be--yet the power to will seem’d o’er--
That my soul yearn’d to hear his voice once more!
But mine was fetter’d!--mute in strong amaze,
I watch’d his features as the night-wind blew,
And torch-light or the moon’s pass’d o’er their marble hue.
LV.
The trampling of a steed! A tall white steed,
Rending his fiery way the crowds among--
A storm’s way through a forest--came at speed,
And a wild voice cried “Inez!” Swift she flung
The mantle from her face, and gazed around,
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound;
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung.
And dash’d off fiercely those who came to part,
And rush’d to that pale girl, and clasp’d her to his heart.
LVI.
And for a moment all around gave way
To that full burst of passion! On his breast,
Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay,
But blest--in misery’s very lap--yet blest!
O love, love, strong as death!--from such an hour
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power;
Holy and fervent love! had earth but rest
For thee and thine, this world were all too fair
How could we thence be wean’d to die without despair?
LVII.
But she--as falls a willow from the storm,
O’er its own river streaming--thus reclined
On the youth’s bosom hung her fragile form,
And clasping arms, so passionately twined
Around his neck--with such a trusting fold,
A full deep sense of safety in their hold,
As if naught earthly might th’ embrace unbind!
Alas! a child’s fond faith, believing still
Its mother’s breast beyond the lightning’s reach to kill?
LVIII.
Brief rest! upon the turning billow’s height
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain,
Floating between the savage gusts of night,
That sweep the seas to foam! Soon dark again
The hour--the scene; th’ intensely present rush’d
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gush’d
Like blood-drops from a victim--with swift rain
Bathing the bosom where she lean’d that hour,
As if her life would melt into th’ o’erswelling shower.
LIX.
But he whose arm sustain’d her!--oh, I knew
’Twas vain!--and yet he hoped--he fondly strove
Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo,
As life might yet be hers! A dream of love
Which could not look upon so fair a thing,
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like spring,
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move,
And deem that men indeed, in very truth,
_Could_ mean the sting of death for her soft flowering youth!
LX.
He woo’d her back to life. “Sweet Inez, live!
My blessed Inez!--visions have beguiled
Thy heart; abjure them! thou wert form’d to give
And to find joy; and hath not sunshine smiled
Around thee ever? Leave me not, mine own!
Or earth will grow too dark!--for thee alone,
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest! from a child,
And borne thine image with me o’er the sea,
Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak! Oh! yet live for me!”
LXI.
She look’d up wildly; there were anxious eyes
Waiting that look--sad eyes of troubled thought,
Alvar’s--Theresa’s! Did her childhood rise,
With all its pure and home-affections fraught,
In the brief glance? She clasp’d her hands--the strife
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life,
Within her woman’s breast so deeply wrought,
It seem’d as if a reed so slight and weak
_Must_, in the rending storm not quiver only--break!
LXII.
And thus it was. The young cheek flush’d and faded,
As the swift blood in currents came and went,
And hues of death the marble brow o’ershaded,
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent
Through its white fluttering lids. Then tremblings pass’d
O’er the frail form, that shook it as the blast
Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent
Its way to peace--the fearful way unknown.
Pale in love’s arms she lay--_she_!--what had loved was gone!
LXIII.
Joy for thee, trembler!--thou redeem’d one, joy!
Young dove set free!--earth, ashes, soulless clay,
Remain’d for baffled vengeance to destroy.
_Thy_ chain was riven! Nor hadst thou cast away
Thy hope in thy last hour!--though love was there
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer,
And life seem’d robed in beautiful array,
Too fair to leave!--but this might be forgiven,
Thou wert so richly crown’d with precious gifts of heaven!
LXIV.
But woe for him who felt the heart grow still,
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain
Breaking on his! Scarce could the mortal chill
Of the hush’d bosom, ne’er to heave again,
And all the silence curdling round the eye,
Bring home the stern belief that she could die--
That she indeed could die!--for, wild and vain
As hope might be, his soul _had_ hoped: ’twas o’er--
Slowly his failing arms dropp’d from the form they bore.
LXV.
They forced him from that spot. It might be well,
That the fierce reckless words by anguish wrung
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell,
Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung,
Were mark’d as guilt. There are who note these things
Against the smitten heart; its breaking strings
--On whose low thrills once gentle music hung--
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying,
And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange tones replying.
LXVI.
But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair!
Stood gazing on your parted sister’s dust;
I saw your features by the torch’s glare,
And they were brightening with a heavenward trust!
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay,
Melt from my Alvar’s glorious mien away;
And peace was there--the calmness of the just!
And, bending down the slumb’rer’s brow to kiss,
“Thy rest is won,” he said, “sweet sister! Praise for this!”
LXVII.
I started as from sleep;--yes!--he had spoken--
A breeze had troubled memory’s hidden source!
At once the torpor of my soul was broken--
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force.
There are soft breathings in the southern wind,
That so your ice-chains, O ye streams! unbind,
And free the foaming swiftness of your course!
I burst from those that held me back, and fell
Even on his neck, and cried--“Friend! brother! fare thee well!”
LXVIII.
Did _he_ not say “Farewell?” Alas! no breath
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the throng
Told that the mysteries in the face of death
Had from their eager sight been veil’d too long.
And we were parted as the surge might part
Those that would die together, true of heart.
_His_ hour was come--but in mine anguish strong,
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea,
Blindly I rush’d away from that which was to be.
LXIX.
Away--away I rush’d; but swift and high
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew,
Till the transparent darkness of the sky
Flush’d to a blood-red mantle in their hue;
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seem’d
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they stream’d,
With their wild splendour chasing me! I knew
The death-work was begun--I veil’d mine eyes,
Yet stopp’d in spell-bound fear to catch the victims’ cries.
LXX.
What heard I then?--a ringing shriek of pain,
Such as for ever haunts the tortured ear?
I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain
Piercing the flame, untremulous and clear!
The rich, triumphal tones!--I knew them well,
As they came floating with a breezy swell!
Man’s voice was there--a clarion-voice to cheer
In the mid-battle--ay, to turn the flying;
Woman’s--that might have sung of heaven beside the dying!
LXXI.
It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know
That its glad stream of melody could spring
Up from th’ unsounded gulfs of human woe!
Alvar! Theresa!--what is deep? what strong?
--God’s breath within the soul! It fill’d that song
From your victorious voices! But the glow
On the hot air and lurid skies increased:
Faint grew the sounds--more faint: I listen’d--they had ceased!
LXXII.
And thou indeed hadst perish’d, my soul’s friend!
I might form other ties--but thou alone
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend,
By other years o’er boyhood’s memory thrown!
Others might aid me onward: thou and I
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die,
Once flowering--never more! And thou wert gone!
Who could give back my youth, my spirit free,
Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me?
LXXIII.
And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave!
I could not weep--there gather’d round thy name
Too deep a passion. _Thou_ denied a grave!
_Thou_, with the blight flung on thy soldier’s fame!
Had I not known thy heart from childhood’s time?
Thy heart of hearts?--and couldst thou die for crime?
No! had all earth decreed that death of shame,
I would have set, against all earth’s decree,
Th’ inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee!
LXXIV.
There are swift hours in life--strong, rushing hours,
That do the work of tempests in their might!
They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers
Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light
Where it but startles--like a burst of day
For which th’ uprooting of an oak makes way;
They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight;
They touch with fire thought’s graven page, the roll
Stamp’d with past years--and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!
LXXV.
And this was of such hours! The sudden flow
Of my soul’s tide seem’d whelming me; the glare
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro,
Scorch’d up my heart with breathless thirst for air,
And solitude, and freedom. It had been
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene,
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear
On with them, wildly questioning the sky,
Fiercely the untroubled stars, of man’s dim destiny.
LXXVI.
I would have call’d, adjuring the dark cloud;
To the most ancient heavens I would have said--
“Speak to me! show me truth!”[295]--through night aloud
I would have cried to him, the newly dead,
“Come back! and show me truth!” My spirit seem’d
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem’d
With such pent storms of thought! Again I fled,
I fled, a refuge from man’s face to gain,
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely fane.
LXXVII.
A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast!
Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor
Shut in the grave; a shadow of the past,
A memory of the sainted steps that wore
Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem’d to brood
Like mist upon the stately solitude;
A halo of sad fame to mantle o’er
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men;
And all was hush’d as night in some deep Alpine glen.
LXXVIII.
More hush’d, far more!--for there the wind sweeps by,
Or the woods tremble to the streams’ loud play;
Here a strange echo made my very sigh
Seem for the place too much a sound of day!
Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, fading,
Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading.
And I stood still: prayer, chant had died away;
Yet past me floated a funereal breath
Of incense. I stood still--as before God and death.
LXXIX.
For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed![296]
Dust--imaged forms--with cross, and shield, and crest;
It seem’d as if your ashes would have started
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest!
Yet ne’er, perchance, did worshipper of yore
Bear to your thrilling presence what _I_ bore
Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast!
I could have pour’d out words, on that pale air,
To make your proud tombs ring. No, no! I could not _there_!
LXXX.
Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand years,
Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept;
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears
And kneeling votaries on their marble kept!
Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom
And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb!
And you, ye dead!--for in that faith ye slept,
Whose weight had grown a mountain’s on my heart,
Which could not _there_ be loosed. I turn’d me to depart.
LXXXI.
I turn’d: what glimmer’d faintly on my sight--
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow
Seen through dissolving haze? The moon, the night,
Had waned, and down pour’d in--gray, shadowy, slow,
Yet dayspring still! A solemn hue it caught,
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow;
And, soft and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone.
LXXXII.
_Thy_ form, thou Son of God!--a wrathful deep,
With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee spread,
And such a weight of night!--a night, when sleep
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled.
A bark show’d dim beyond Thee, with its mast
Bow’d, and its rent sail shivering to the blast;
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread,
Thou, as o’er glass, didst walk that stormy sea
Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for Thee.
LXXXIII.
So still thy white robes fell!--no breath of air
Within their long and slumb’rous folds had sway.
So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair
From thy clear brow flow’d droopingly away!
Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour!--dark
The gulfs, Deliverer! round the straining bark!
But Thou!--o’er all thine aspect and array
Was pour’d one stream of pale, broad, silvery light:
Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding night!
LXXXIV.
Aid for one sinking! Thy lone brightness gleam’d
On his wild face, just lifted o’er the wave,
With its worn, fearful, _human_ look, that seem’d
To cry, through surge and blast--“I perish--save!”
Not to the winds--not vainly! Thou wert nigh,
Thy hand was stretch’d to fainting agony,
Even in the portals of th’ unquiet grave!
O Thou that art the life! and yet didst bear
Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal prayer!
LXXXV.
But was it not a thing to rise on death,
With its remember’d light, that face of thine,
Redeemer! dimm’d by this world’s misty breath,
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine?
Oh! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye,
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty!
And the pale glory of the brow!--a shrine
Where power sat veil’d, yet shedding softly round
What told that _Thou_ couldst be but for a time uncrown’d!
LXXXVI.
And, more than all, the heaven of that sad smile!
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust!
Did not that look, that very look, erewhile
Pour its o’ershadow’d beauty on the dust?
Wert thou not such when earth’s dark cloud hung o’er Thee?--
Surely thou wert! My heart grew hush’d before Thee,
Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way:
What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, and pray?
LXXXVII.
Amidst the stillness rose my spirit’s cry,
Amidst the dead--“By that full cup of woe,
Press’d from the fruitage of mortality,
Saviour! for Thee--give light! that I may know
If by _thy_ will, in thine all-healing name,
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame,
And early death; and say, if this be so,
Where, then, is mercy? Whither shall we flee,
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on Thee?
LXXXVIII.
“But didst Thou not, the deep sea brightly treading,
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave?
And wert Thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shedding,
Beheld a weeper at a mortal’s grave?
And is this weight of anguish, which they bind
On life--this searing to the quick of mind,
That but to God its own free path would crave--
This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth,
_Thy_ will, indeed? Give light! that I may know the truth!
LXXXIX.
“For my sick soul is darken’d unto death,
With shadows from the suffering it hath seen;
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith
Sink from beneath me--whereon shall I lean?
Oh! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh
Of the dust’s anguish! if like man to die--
And earth round _him_ shuts heavily--hath been
Even to _Thee_ bitter, aid me! guide me! turn
My wild and wandering thoughts back from their starless bourne!”
XC.
And calm’d I rose: but how the while had risen
Morn’s orient sun, dissolving mist and shade!
Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or prison,
In the bright world such radiance might pervade?
It fill’d the fane, it mantled the pale form
Which rose before me through the pictured storm,
Even the gray tombs it kindled, and array’d
With life!--How hard to see thy race begun,
And think man wakes to grief, wakening to _thee_, O Sun!
XCI.
I sought my home again; and thou, my child,
There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine,
With eyes, whose lightning laughter[297] hath beguiled
A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine;
Thou in thy mother’s arms, a babe, didst meet
My coming with young smiles, which yet, though sweet,
Seem’d on my soul all mournfully to shine,
And ask a happier heritage for thee,
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see.
XCII.
Now sport, for thou art free! the bright birds chasing,
Whose wings waft star-like gleams from tree to tree;
Or with the fawn, thy swift wood-playmate, racing,
Sport on, my joyous child! for thou art free!
Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart,
And inly vow’d, for thee a better part
To choose; that so thy sunny bursts of glee
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen woe,
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on--as now they flow.
XCIII.
Thou hast a rich world round thee--mighty shades
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o’er thy head,
With the light melting through their high arcades
As through a pillar’d cloister’s;[298] but the dead
Sleep not beneath; nor doth the sunbeam pass
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass;
Yet thou, by fount and forest-murmur led
To worship, thou art blest! to thee is shown
Earth in her holy pomp, deck’d for her God alone.
[290] “I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical temperament,
expressing the kind of horror which he felt on beholding, on the banks
of the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, which had been in a manner
overpowered by an enormous wild-grape vine. The vine had clasped its
huge folds round the trunk, and from thence had wound about every
branch and twig, until the mighty tree had withered in its embrace. It
seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in the hideous coils of
the monster Python.”--_Bracebridge Hall._ Chapter on Forest-Trees.
[291] For a most interesting account of the Spanish Protestants, and
the heroic devotion with which they met the spirit of persecution in
the sixteenth century, see the _Quarterly Review_, No. 57, Art. “Quin’s
Visit to Spain.”
[292] “A priest named Gonzalez had, among other proselytes, gained
over two young females, his sisters, to the Protestant faith. All
three were confined in the dungeons of the Inquisition. The torture,
repeatedly applied, could not draw from them the least evidence against
their religious associates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a
recantation from the two sisters, since the constancy and learning of
Gonzalez precluded all hopes of a theological victory. Their answer,
if not exactly logical, is wonderfully simple and affecting:--‘We will
die in the faith of our brother: he is too wise to be wrong, and too
good to deceive us.’ The three stakes on which they died were near
each other. The priest had been gagged till the moment of lighting up
the wood. The few minutes that he was allowed to speak he employed in
comforting his sisters, with whom he sung the 109th Psalm, till the
flames smothered their voices.”--_Ibid._
[293] The names, not only of the immediate victims of the Inquisition
were devoted to infamy, but those of all their relations were branded
with the same indelible stain, which was likewise to descend as an
inheritance to their latest posterity.
[294] The piles erected for these executions were without the towns,
and the final scene of an Auto da Fe was sometimes, from the length of
the preceding ceremonies, delayed till midnight.
[295] For one of the most powerful and impressive pictures perhaps ever
drawn, of a young mind struggling against habit and superstition in its
first aspirations after truth, see the admirable _Letters from Spain by
Don Leucadio Doblado_.
[296] “You walk from end to end over a floor of tombstones, inlaid
in brass with the forms of the departed, mitres, and crosiers, and
spears, and shields, and helmets, all mingled together--all worn into
glass-like smoothness by the feet and the knees of long-departed
worshippers. Around, on every side, each in their separate chapel,
sleep undisturbed from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest
or the loftiest that of old came thither to worship--their images
and their dying prayers sculptured among the resting-places of their
remains.”--From a beautiful description of ancient Spanish Cathedrals,
in _Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk_.
[297] “El’ _lampeggiar_ de l’angelico riso.”--Petrarch.
[298] “Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep shades of
moss-grown forests, whose gloom and interlaced boughs first suggested
that Gothic architecture beneath whose pointed arches, where they had
studied and prayed, the parti-coloured windows shed a tinged light;
scenes which the gleams of sunshine, penetrating the deep foliage, and
flickering on the variegated turf below, might have recalled to their
memory.”--Webster’s Oration on the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in
New England.--See Hodgson’s _Letters from North America_, vol. ii. p.
305.
PART II.
Wie diese treue liebe seele
Von ihrem Glauben Voll,
Der ganz allein
Ihr selig machend ist, sich heilig quale,
Das sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten soll.--Faust.
I never shall smile more--but all my days
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes,
An everlasting hymn within my soul.--Wilson.
I.
Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water,
With yet a nearer swell! Fresh breeze, awake![299]
And river, darkening ne’er with hues of slaughter
Thy wave’s pure silvery green,--and shining lake,
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone!
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare,
Cheer’d by such tones, to look back on a dungeon’s air!
II.
O Indian hunter of the desert’s race!
That with the spear at times, or bended bow,
Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chase
Of the swift elk or blue hill’s flying roe;
Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest,
Beneath the cedars and the starlight sleepest,
Thou know’st not, wanderer--never may’st thou know!--
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth,
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons’ mirth.
III.
There, fetter’d down from day, to think the while
How bright in heaven the festal sun is glowing,
Making earth’s loneliest places, with his smile,
Flush like the rose; and how the streams are flowing
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass,
And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass;
And how the rich, dark summer trees are bowing
With their full foliage: this to know, and pine
Bound unto midnight’s heart, seems a stern lot--’twas mine!
IV.
Wherefore was this? Because my soul had drawn
Light from the Book whose words are graved in light!
There, at its well-head, had I found the dawn,
And day, and noon of freedom: but too bright
It shines on that which man to man hath given,
And call’d the truth--the very truth, from heaven!
And therefore seeks he in his brother’s sight
To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bind,
With his strong chains, to earth what is not earth’s--the mind!
V.
It is a weary and a bitter task
Back from the lip the burning word to keep,
And to shut out heaven’s air with falsehood’s mask,
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap
Indignant feelings--making e’en of thought
A buried treasure, which may but be sought
When shadows are abroad--and night--and sleep.
I might not brook it long--and thus was thrown
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone.
VI.
And I, a child of danger, whose delights
Were on dark hills and many-sounding seas--
I, that amidst the Cordillera heights
Had given Castilian banners to the breeze,
And the full circle of the rainbow seen
There, on the snows;[300] and in my country been
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees
To the Morena crags--how left I not
Life, or the soul’s life, quench’d on that sepulchral spot?
VII.
Because _Thou_ didst not leave me, O my God!
Thou wert with those that bore the truth of old
Into the deserts from th’ oppressor’s rod,
And made the caverns of the rock their fold;
And in the hidden chambers of the dead,
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed;
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold
The free heart’s communing with Thee,--and Thou
Wert in the midst, felt, own’d--the Strengthener then as now!
VIII.
Yet once I sank. Alas! man’s wavering mind!
Wherefore and whence the gusts that o’er it blow?
How they bear with them, floating uncombined,
The shadows of the past, that come and go,
As o’er the deep the old long-buried things
Which a storm’s working to the surface brings!
Is the reed shaken,--and must _we_ be so,
With every wind? So, Father! must we be,
Till we can fix undimm’d our steadfast eyes on Thee.
IX.
Once my soul died within me. What had thrown
That sickness o’er it? Even a passing thought
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o’ergrown,
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought!
Perchance the damp roof’s water-drops that fell
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell,
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught
Some tone from memory, of the music, welling
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky dwelling.
X.
But so my spirit’s fever’d longings wrought,
Wakening, it might be, to the faint, sad sound,
That from the darkness of the walls they brought
A loved scene round me, visibly around.[301]
Yes! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by hue,
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom, it grew,
That haunt of youth, hope, manhood!--till the bound
Of my shut cavern seem’d dissolved, and I
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky.
XI.
I look’d--and lo! the clear, broad river flowing
Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep,
The lone tower dark against a heaven all glowing,
Like seas of glass and fire!--I saw the sweep
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side,
And their still shadows in the gleaming tide,
And the red evening on its waves asleep;
And midst the scene--oh! more than all--there smiled
My child’s fair face, and hers, the mother of my child!
XII.
With their soft eyes of love and gladness raised
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood
Last by that river, and in silence gazed
On the rich world of sunset. But a flood
Of sudden tenderness my soul oppress’d;
And I rush’d forward, with a yearning breast,
To clasp--alas!--a vision! Wave and wood,
And gentle faces, lifted in the light
Of day’s last hectic blush, all melted from my sight.
XIII.
Then darkness!--oh! th’ unutterable gloom
That seem’d as narrowing round me, making less
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom,
That bright dream vanish’d from my loneliness!
It floated off, the beautiful! yet left
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft,
I lay down, sick with passion’s vain excess,
And pray’d to die. How oft would sorrow weep
Her weariness to death, if he might come like sleep!
XIV.
But I was roused--and how? It is no tale,
Even midst _thy_ shades, thou wilderness! to tell.
I would not have my boy’s young cheek made pale,
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befell
In that drear prison-house. His eye must grow
More dark with thought, more earnest his fair brow,
More high his heart in youthful strength must swell;
So shall it fitly burn when all is told:
Let childhood’s radiant mist the free child yet enfold.
XV.
It is enough that through such heavy hours
As wring us by our fellowship of clay,
I lived, and undegraded. We have powers
To snatch th’ oppressor’s bitter joy away!
Shall the wild Indian for his savage fame
Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth’s high name
Bear up her martyrs with all-conquering sway?
It is enough that torture may be vain:
I had seen Alvar die--the strife was won from Pain.
XVI.
And faint not, heart of man! Though years wane slow,
There have been those that from the deepest caves,
And cells of night, and fastnesses below
The stormy dashing of the ocean waves,
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have nursed
A quenchless hope, and watch’d their time, and burst
On the bright day, like wakeners from the graves!
I was of such at last!--unchain’d I trode
This green earth, taking back my freedom from my God!
XVII.
That was an hour to send its fadeless trace
Down life’s far-sweeping tide! A dim, wild night,
Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon’s face,
Yet how my heart leap’d in her blessed light!
The shepherd’s light--the sailor’s on the sea--
The hunter’s homeward from the mountains free,
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright
The thousand streams!--I could but gaze through tears.
Oh! what a sight is heaven, thus first beheld for years!
XVIII.
The rolling clouds!--they have the whole blue space
Above to sail in--all the dome of sky!
My soul shot with them in their breezy race
O’er star and gloom; but I had yet to fly,
As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot
And strange, I knew--the sunbeam knew it not,--
Wildest of all the savage glens that lie
In far sierras, hiding their deep springs,
And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles’ wings.
XIX.
Ay, and I met the storm there! I had gain’d
The covert’s heart with swift and stealthy tread:
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain’d
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head;
A moan--a hollow gust--and there I stood
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood,
And foaming water.--Thither might have fled
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore,
When Afric’s tambour shook the ringing western shore!
XX.
But through the black ravine the storm came swelling:
--Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast!
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling,
Like plumes upon the path of battle cast!
A rent oak thunder’d down beside my cave,
Booming it rush’d, as booms a deep sea wave;
A falcon soar’d; a startled wild-deer pass’d;
A far-off bell toll’d faintly through the roar.
How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds once more!
XXI.
And with the arrowy lightnings!--for they flash’d,
Smiting the branches in their fitful play,
And brightly shivering where the torrents dash’d
Up, even to crag and eagle’s nest, their spray!
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife,
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life,
And all the mountain-voices on their way,--
Was it not joy? ’Twas joy in rushing might,
After those years that wove but one long dead of night!
XXII.
There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon,
And lit me to my home of youth again,
Through the dim chestnut shade, where oft at noon,
By the fount’s flashing burst, my head had lain
In gentle sleep. But now I pass’d as one
That may not pause where wood-streams whispering run,
Or light sprays tremble to a bird’s wild strain;
Because th’ avenger’s voice is in the wind,
The foe’s quick, rustling step close on the leaves behind.
XXIII.
My home of youth! Oh! if indeed to part
With the soul’s loved ones be a mournful thing,
When we go forth in buoyancy of heart,
And bearing all the glories of our spring
For life to breathe on,--is it less to meet,
When these are faded?--who shall call it sweet?
Even though love’s mingling tears may haply bring
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers
Teach us how much is lost of all that once was ours!
XXIV.
Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow,
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky,
Nor the fair flower-scents,[302] as they come and go
In the soft air, like music wandering by;
--Oh! not by these, th’ unfailing, are we taught
How time and sorrow on our frames have wrought;
But by the sadden’d eye, the darken’d brow
Of kindred aspect, and the long dim gaze,
Which tells us _we_ are changed--how changed from other days!
XXV.
Before my father, in my place of birth,
I stood an alien. On the very floor
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth,
The love that rear’d me knew my face no more!
There hung the antique armour, helm and crest,
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast;
There droop’d the banner, with the marks it bore
Of Paynim spears; and I, the worn in frame
And heart, what there was I?--another and the same!
XXVI.
Then bounded in a boy, with clear, dark eye--
How should _he_ know his father? When we parted,
From the soft cloud which mantles infancy,
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted
Its first looks round. Him follow’d one, the bride
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried!
Her glance met mine--I could not speak--she started
With a bewilder’d gaze--until there came
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her name.
XXVII.
She knew me then! I murmur’d “_Leonor!_”
And her heart answer’d! Oh! the voice is known
First from all else, and swiftest to restore
Love’s buried images, with one low tone
That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is faded,
And the brow heavily with thought o’ershaded,
And all the brightness from the aspect gone!
--Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled,
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe and dread.
XXVIII.
For there we might not rest. Alas! to leave
Those native towers, and know that they must fall
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve
When the weeds cluster’d on the lonely wall!
We were the last--my boy and I--the last
Of a long line which brightly thence had pass’d!
My father bless’d me as I left his hall--
With his deep tones and sweet, though full of years,
He bless’d me there, and bathed my child’s young head with tears.
XXIX.
I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down,
And cast the darkness of my branded name
(For so _he_ deem’d it) on the clear renown,
My own ancestral heritage of fame.
And yet he bless’d me! Father! if the dust
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit’s trust
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame
Dim the bright day no more; and thou wilt know
That not through guilt thy son thus bow’d thine age with woe!
XXX.
And thou, my Leonor! that unrepining,
If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me,
When stars, the stars that earliest rise, are shining,
How their soft glance unseals each thought of thee!
For on our flight they smiled; their dewy rays,
Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze
Back to the home we never more might see.
So pass’d we on, like earth’s first exiles, turning
Fond looks where hung the sword above their Eden burning.
XXXI.
It was a woe to say, “Farewell, my Spain!
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell!”
--I could have died upon the battle-plain
For thee, my country! but I might not dwell
In thy sweet vales, at peace. The voice of song
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along;
The citron’s glow is caught from shade and dell:
But what are these? upon thy flowery sod
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out to God!
XXXII.
O’er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep!
Strange heart of man! that e’en midst woe swells high,
When through the foam he sees his proud bark sweep,
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky!
Yes! it swells high, whate’er he leaves behind,
His spirit rises with the rising wind;
For, wedded to the far futurity,
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main
Seems rushing, like his hope, some happier shore to gain.
XXXIII.
Not thus is woman. Closely _her_ still heart
Doth twine itself with e’en each lifeless thing
Which, long remember’d, seem’d to bear its part
In her calm joys. For ever would she cling,
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth
Where she hath loved, and given her children birth,
And heard their first sweet voices. There may spring
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf,
But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell grief.
XXXIV.
I look’d on Leonor,--and if there seem’d
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise
In the faint smiles that o’er her features gleam’d,
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes,
Misty with tender gloom, I call’d it naught
But the fond exile’s pang, a lingering thought
Of her own vale, with all its melodies
And living light of streams. Her soul would rest
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gorgeous West!
XXXV.
Oh, could we live in visions! could we hold
Delusion faster, longer, to our breast,
When it shuts from us, with its mantle’s fold,
That which we see not, and are therefore blest!
But they, our loved and loving--they to whom
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom,
_Their_ looks and accents, unto ours address’d,
Have been a language of familiar tone
Too long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and unknown.
XXXVI.
I told my heart, ’twas but the exile’s woe
Which press’d on that sweet bosom; I deceived
My heart but half: a whisper, faint and low,
Haunting it ever, and at times believed,
Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem
Like those that dream, and _know_ the while they dream--
Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved
And troubled, while bright phantoms round them play,
By a dim sense that all will float and fade away!
XXXVII.
Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo’d the breeze
To speed me onward with the wings of morn.
Oh! far amidst the solitary seas,
Which were not made for man, what man hath borne,
Answering their moan with his!--what _thou_ didst bear,
My lost and loveliest! while that secret care
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn
By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last,
Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast!
XXXVIII.
For unto thee, as through all change, reveal’d
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield,
To fence my burning bosom, of disguise;
By the still hope sustain’d, ere long to win
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within
My thoughts unfetter’d to their source might rise,
Like songs and scents of morn. But thou didst look
Through all my soul, and thine e’en unto fainting shook.
XXXIX.
Fallen, fallen, I seem’d--yet, oh! not less beloved,
Though from thy love was pluck’d the early pride,
And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved,
And sear’d with shame! Though each young flower had died,
There was the root,--strong, living, not the less
That all it yielded now was bitterness;
Yet still such love as quits not misery’s side,
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace,
Nor turns away from death’s its pale heroic face.
XL.
Yes! thou hadst follow’d me through fear and flight!
Thou wouldst have follow’d had my pathway led
E’en to the scaffold; had the flashing light
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with dread,
Thou, midst the hush of thousands, wouldst have been
With thy clasp’d hands beside me kneeling seen,
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head--
The shame!--oh! making beautiful to view
The might of human love--fair thing! so bravely true!
XLI.
There was thine agony--to love so well
Where fear made love life’s chastener. Heretofore,
Whate’er of earth’s disquiet round thee fell,
Thy soul, o’erpassing its dim bounds, could soar
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak
Most of the skies when grief most touch’d thy cheek.
Now, that far brightness faded, never more
Could thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy heart,
Since at heaven’s gate it seem’d that thou and I must part.
XLII.
Alas! and life hath moments when a glance--
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirr’d)--
A flush--a fading of the cheek, perchance--
A word--less, less--the _cadence_ of a word,
Lets in our gaze the mind’s dim veil beneath,
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with death!
Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard
Broke on my soul. I knew that in thy sight
I stood, howe’er beloved, a recreant from the light.
XLIII.
Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along,--
Oh! the deep soul it breathed!--the love, the woe,
The fervour, pour’d in that full gush of song,
As it went floating through the fiery glow
Of the rich sunset!--bringing thoughts of Spain,
With all their vesper voices, o’er the main,
Which seem’d responsive in its murmuring flow.
“_Ave sanctissima!_”--how oft that lay
Hath melted from my heart the martyr strength away!
Ave, sanctissima!
’Tis nightfall on the sea;
Ora pro nobis!
Our souls rise to thee!
Watch us, while shadows lie
O’er the dim waters spread;
Hear the heart’s lonely sigh--
_Thine_ too hath bled!
Thou that hast look’d on death,
Aid us when death is near!
Whisper of heaven to faith;
Sweet Mother, hear!
Ora pro nobis!
The wave must rock our sleep,
Ora, Mater, ora!
Thou star of the deep!
XLIV.
“_Ora pro nobis, Mater!_”--What a spell
Was in those notes, with day’s last glory dying
On the flush’d waters--seem’d they not to swell
From the far dust wherein my sires were lying
With crucifix and sword? Oh! yet how clear
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear!
“_Ora_”--with all the purple waves replying,
All my youth’s visions rising in the strain--
And I had thought it much to bear the rack and chain!
XLV.
Torture! the sorrow of affections eye,
Fixing its meekness on the spirit’s core,
Deeper, and teaching more of agony,
May pierce than many swords!--and this I bore
With a mute pang. Since I had vainly striven
From its free springs to pour the truth of heaven
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor!
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share:
Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in prayer!
XLVI.
_We_ could not pray together midst the deep,
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay,
Through days of splendour, nights too bright for sleep,
Soft, solemn, holy! We were on our way
Unto the mighty Cordillera land,
With men whom tales of that world’s golden strand
Had lured to leave their vines. Oh! who shall say
What thoughts rose in us, when the tropic sky
Touch’d all its molten seas with sunset’s alchemy!
XLVII.
Thoughts no more mingled! Then came night--th’ intense
Dark blue--the burning stars! I saw _thee_ shine
Once more, in thy serene magnificence,
O Southern Cross![303] as when thy radiant sign
First drew my gaze of youth. No, not as then;
I had been stricken by the darts of men
Since those fresh days; and now thy light divine
Look’d on mine anguish, while within me strove
The still small voice against the might of suffering love.
XLVIII.
But thou, the clear, the glorious! thou wert pouring
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave,
While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring,
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave!
Alas! I watch’d her dark religious glance,
As it still sought thee through the heaven’s expanse,
Bright Cross! and knew not that I watch’d what gave
But passing lustre--shrouded soon to be--
A soft light found no more--no more on earth or sea!
XLIX.
I knew not all--yet something of unrest
Sat on my heart. Wake, ocean-wind! I said;
Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest,
Where, through rich clouds of foliage o’er her head,
Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by,
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread!
But the calm bound us midst the glassy main:
Ne’er was her step to bend earth’s living flowers again.
L.
Yes! as if heaven upon the waves were sleeping,
Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay,
All moveless, through their blue transparence keeping
The shadows of our sails, from day to day;
While she----oh! strongest is the strong heart’s woe--
And yet I live! I feel the sunshine’s glow--
And I am he that look’d, and saw decay
Steal o’er the fair of earth, th’ adored too much!--
It is a fearful thing to love what death may touch.
LI.
A fearful thing that love and death may dwell
In the same world! She faded on--and I,
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell
My trusting soul that she _could_ fade to die!
Yet, ere she parted, I had mark’d a change;
But it breathed hope--’twas beautiful, though strange:
Something of gladness in the melody
Of her low voice, and in her words a flight
Of airy thought--alas! too perilously bright!
LII.
And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild,
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze
Of some all-wondering and awakening child,
That first the glories of the earth surveys.
How could it thus deceive me? She had worn
Around her, like the dewy mists of morn,
A pensive tenderness through happiest days;
And a soft world of dreams had seem’d to lie
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye.
LIII.
And I could hope in that strange fire!--she died,
She died, with all its lustre on her mien!
The day was melting from the waters wide,
And through its long bright hours her thoughts had been,
It seem’d, with restless and unwonted yearning,
To Spain’s blue skies and dark sierras turning;
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene,
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron’s breath:
Oh! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death!
LIV.
And from her lips the mountain-songs of old,
In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung;
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold,
The “_Rio verde_,”[304] on her soul that hung,
And thence flow’d forth. But now the sun was low,
And watching by my side its last red glow,
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung
Her own soft “_Ora, Mater!_” and the sound
Was e’en like love’s farewell--so mournfully profound.
LV.
The boy had dropp’d to slumber at our feet;
“And I have lull’d him to his smiling rest
Once more!” she said. I raised him--it was sweet,
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm, which bless’d
His look that hour: for now her voice grew weak,
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek,
With her white lips, a long, long kiss she press’d,
Yet light, to wake him not. Then sank her head
Against my bursting heart. What did I clasp?--The dead!
LVI.
I call’d! To call what answers not our cries--
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard--
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs,
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirr’d;
And in the quench’d eye’s fixedness to gaze,
All vainly searching for the parted rays--
This is what waits us! Dead!--with that chill word
To link our bosom-names! For this we pour
Our souls upon the dust--nor tremble to adore!
LVII.
But the true parting came! I look’d my last
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face:
How could I think the lovely spirit pass’d
Which there had left so tenderly its trace?
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow--
No! not like sleep to look upon art thou,
Death, Death! She lay, a thing for earth’s embrace,
To cover with spring-wreaths. For earth’s?--the wave
That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above her grave!
LVIII.
On the mid-seas a knell!--for man was there,
Anguish and love--the mourner with his dead!
A long, low-rolling knell--a voice of prayer--
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread--
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high,
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky,
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red:
Were these things round me? Such o’er memory sweep
Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of the deep.
LIX.
Then the broad, lonely sunrise!--and the plash
Into the sounding waves![305] Around her head
They parted, with a glancing moment’s flash,
Then shut--and all was still. And now thy bed
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor!
Once fairest of young brides!--and never more,
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed
Above thy rest! No mark the proud seas keep,
To show where he that wept may pause again to weep!
LX.
So the depths took thee! Oh! the sullen sense
Of desolation in that hour compress’d!
Dust going down, a speck, amidst th’ immense
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast
The trace a weed might leave there! Dust!--the thing
Which to the heart was as a living spring
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possess’d,
Thus sinking! Love, joy, fear, all crush’d to this--
And the wide heaven so far--so fathomless th’ abyss!
LXI.
Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low,
What shall wake thence the dead? Blest, blest, are they
That earth to earth entrust, for they may know
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer’s clay
Shall rise at last; and bid the young flowers bloom
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb;
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray!
But thou, what cave hath dimly chamber’d _thee_?
Vain dreams!--oh! art thou not where there is no more sea?[306]
LXII.
The wind rose free and singing: when for ever,
O’er that sole spot of all the watery plain,
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to strain
Then rose the reckless wind! Before our prow
The white foam flash’d--ay, joyously, and thou
Wert left with all the solitary main
Around thee--and thy beauty in my heart,
And thy meek, sorrowing love--oh! where could _that_ depart?
LXIII.
I will not speak of woe; I may not tell--
Friend tells not such to friends--the thoughts which rent
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell
Across the billows to thy grave was sent,
Thou, there most lonely! He that sits above,
In his calm glory, will forgive the love
His creatures bear each other, even if blent
With a vain worship; for its close is dim
Ever with grief which leads the wrung soul back to Him!
LXIV.
And with a milder pang if now I bear
To think of thee in thy forsaken rest,
If from my heart be lifted the despair,
The sharp remorse with healing influence press’d,
If the soft eyes that visit me in sleep
Look not reproach, though still they seem to weep;
It is that He my sacrifice hath bless’d,
And fill’d my bosom, through its inmost cell,
With a deep chastening sense that all at last is well.
LXV.
Yes! thou art now----Oh! wherefore doth the thought
Of the wave dashing o’er thy long bright hair,
The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought,
The sand thy pillow--thou that wert so fair!
Come o’er me still! Earth, earth!--it is the hold
Earth ever keeps on that of earthly mould!
But thou art breathing now in purer air,
I well believe, and freed from all of error,
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life with terror.
LXVI.
And if the love, which here was passing light,
Went with what died not--oh! that _this_ we knew,
But this!--that through the silence of the night,
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true,
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose,
We are yet aught of what we were to those
We call the dead! Their passionate adieu,
Was it but breath, to perish? Holier trust
Be mine!--thy love _is_ there, but purified from dust!
LXVII.
A thing all heavenly!--clear’d from that which hung
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind!
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils flung
A chain so darkly with its growth entwined.
This is my hope!--though when the sunset fades,
When forests rock the midnight on their shades,
When tones of wail are in the rising wind,
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh;
For the strong hours _will_ sway this frail mortality!
LXVIII.
We have been wand’rers since those days of woe,
Thy boy and I! As wild birds tend their young,
So have I tended him--my bounding roe!
The high Peruvian solitudes among;
And o’er the Andes’ torrents borne his form,
Where our frail bridge had quiver’d midst the storm.[307]
But there the war-notes of my country rung,
And, smitten deep of heaven and man, I fled
To hide in shades unpierced a mark’d and weary head.
LXIX.
But he went on in gladness--that fair child!
Save when at times his bright eye seem’d to dream,
And his young lips, which then no longer smiled,
Ask’d of his mother! That was but a gleam
Of memory, fleeting fast; and then his play
Through the wide Llanos[308] cheer’d again our way,
And by the mighty Oronoco stream,[309]
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn,
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music borne:
LXX.
So like a spirit’s voice! a harping tone,
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear--
Such as might reach us from a world unknown,
Troubling man’s heart with thrills of joy and fear!
’Twas sweet!--yet those deep southern shades oppress’d
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest
On melancholy waves:[310] I sigh’d to hear
Once more earth’s breezy sounds, her foliage fann’d,
And turn’d to seek the wilds of the red hunter’s land.
LXXI.
And we have won a bower of refuge now,
In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose
Hath cool’d, like dew, the fever of my brow,
And whose green oaks and cedars round me close
As temple walls and pillars, that exclude
Earth’s haunted dreams from their free solitude;
All, save the image and the thought of those
Before us gone--our loved of early years,
Gone where affection’s cup hath lost the taste of tears.
LXXII.
I see a star--eve’s first-born!--in whose train
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The arrowy spire
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane,
Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire;
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake,
Till every string of nature’s solemn lyre
Is touch’d to answer; its most secret tone
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own.
LXXIII.
And hark! another murmur on the air,
Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades!--
That is the cataract’s, which the breezes bear,
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed
Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead:
But _they_ are far! The low sun here pervades
Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold,--
LXXIV.
Gorgeous, yet full of gloom! In such an hour,
The vesper-melody of dying bells
Wanders through Spain, from each gray convent’s tower
O’er shining rivers pour’d and olive dells,
By every peasant heard, and muleteer,
And hamlet, round my home: and I am here,
Living again through all my life’s farewells,
In these vast woods, where farewell ne’er was spoken,
And sole I lift to heaven a sad heart--yet unbroken!
LXXV.
In such an hour are told the hermit’s beads;
With the white sail the seaman’s hymn floats by:
Peace be with all! whate’er their varying creeds,
With all that send up holy thoughts on high!
Come to me, boy! By Guadalquiver’s vines,
By every stream of Spain, as day declines,
Man’s prayers are mingled in the rosy sky.
We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child!
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild.
LXXVI.
At eve? Oh, through all hours! From dark dreams oft
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might
Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft,
And low, my loved one! on the breast of night.
I look forth on the stars--the shadowy sleep
Of forests--and the lake whose gloomy deep
Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies’ light:
A lonely world!--even fearful to man’s thought,
But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought.
[299] The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in an
interesting work of Mrs Grant’s. “On the opposite side the view
was bounded by steep hills, covered with lofty pines, from which a
waterfall descended, which not only gave animation to the sylvan scene,
but was the best barometer imaginable; foretelling by its varied and
intelligible sounds every approaching change, not only of the weather
but of the wind.”--_Memoirs of an American Lady_, vol. i. p. 143.
[300] The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst the Andes, are
described by Ulloa.
[301] Many striking instances of the vividness with which the mind,
when strongly excited, has been known to renovate past impressions,
and embody them into visible imagery, are noticed and accounted for in
Dr Hibbert’s _Philosophy of Apparitions_. The following illustrative
passage is quoted in the same work, from the writings of the late Dr
Ferriar:--“I remember that, about the age of fourteen, it was a source
of great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing any interesting
object in the course of the day, such as a romantic ruin, a fine seat,
or a review of a body of troops, as soon as evening came on, if I had
occasion to go into a dark room, the whole scene was brought before my
eyes with a brilliancy equal to what it had possessed in daylight, and
remained visible for several minutes. I have no doubt that dismal and
frightful images have been thus presented to young persons after scenes
of domestic affliction or public horror.”
The following passage from the _Alcazar of Seville_, a tale or
historical sketch, by the author of _Doblado’s Letters_, affords a
further illustration of this subject. “When, descending fast into the
vale of years, I strongly fix my mind’s eye on those narrow, shady,
silent streets, where I breathed the scented air which came rustling
through the surrounding groves; where the footsteps re-echoed from the
clean watered porches of the houses, and where every object spoke of
quiet and contentment;... the objects around me begin to fade into a
mere delusion, and not only the thoughts, but the external sensations,
which I then experienced, revive with a reality that almost makes me
shudder--it has so much the character of a trance or vision.”
[302] “For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the aire
(where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick) than in the hand,
therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be
the flowers and plants which doe best perfume the aire.”--Lord Bacon’s
_Essay on Gardens_.
[303] “The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross was
warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the
solitude of the seas, we hail a star as a friend from whom we have
long been separated. Among the Portuguese and the Spaniards, peculiar
motives seem to increase this feeling; a religious sentiment attaches
them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the
faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World....
It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons,
the Cross of the South is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that
advances very regularly near four minutes a-day, and no other group
of stars exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so easily
made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim, in the savannahs of
Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, ‘Midnight
is past--the Cross begins to bend!’ How often these words reminded us
of that affecting scene where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source
of the river of Lataniers, conversed together for the last time; and
where the old man, at the sight of the Southern Cross, warns them that
it is time to separate!”--De Humboldt’s _Travels_.
[304] “Rio verde! rio verde!” the popular Spanish romance, known to the
English reader in Percy’s translation:--
“Gentle river! gentle river!
Lo, thy streams are stain’d with gore;
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow’d shore,” etc.
[305] De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young Asturian at sea,
mentions the entreaty of the officiating priest, that the body, which
had been brought upon deck during the night, might not be committed
to the waves until after sunrise, in order to pay it the last rites
according to the usage of the Romish Church.
[306] “And there was no more sea.”--_Revelation_, xxi. 1.
[307] The bridges over many deep chasms amongst the Andes are
pendulous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoctial plants. Their
tremulous motion is thus alluded to in one of the stanzas of _Gertrude
of Wyoming_:--
“Anon some wilder portraiture he draws,
Of nature’s savage glories he would speak;
The loneliness of earth, that overawes,
Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique,
The lama-driver on Peruvia’s peak
Nor voice nor living motion marks around,
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,
Or wild-cane arch, high flung o’er gulf profound,
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.”
[308] Llanos, or savannahs, the great plains in South America.
[309] De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the Oronoco.
Travellers have heard from time to time subterraneous sounds proceed
from them at sunrise, resembling those of an organ. He believes in the
existence of this mysterious music, although not fortunate enough to
have heard it himself; and thinks that it may be produced by currents
of air issuing through the crevices.
[310] The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to the
extreme stillness of the air in the equatorial regions of the New
World, and particularly on the thickly wooded shores of the Oronoco.
“In this neighbourhood,” he says, “no breath of wind ever agitates the
foliage.”
CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON “THE FOREST SANCTUARY.”
[“In the autumn of 1824 she began the poem which, in point of finish
and consecutiveness, if not in popularity, may be considered her
principal work, and which she herself inclined to look upon as her
best. ‘I am at present,’ she wrote to one always interested in her
literary occupations, ‘engaged upon a poem of some length, the idea of
which was suggested to me by some passages in your friend Mr Blanco
White’s delightful writings.[311] It relates to the sufferings of a
Spanish Protestant, in the time of Philip the Second, and is supposed
to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who escapes to America. I am
very much interested in my subject, and hope to complete the poem in
the course of the winter.’ The progress of this work was watched with
great interest in her domestic circle, and its touching descriptions
would often extract a tribute of tears from the fireside auditors.
When completed, a family consultation was held as to its name. Various
titles were proposed and rejected, till that of ‘The Forest Sanctuary’
was suggested by her brother, and finally decided upon. Though
finished early in 1825, the poem was not published till the following
year, when it was brought out in conjunction with the ‘Lays of Many
Lands,’ and a collection of miscellaneous pieces.”--_Memoir_, p. 81.
“Mrs Hemans may be considered as the representative of a new school
of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her poetry discovers
characteristics of the highest kind, which belong almost exclusively
to that of latter times, and have been the result of the gradual
advancement, and especially the moral progress of mankind. It is
only when man, under the influence of true religion, feels himself
connected with whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers
are fully developed. The poetry of an immortal being must be of a
different character from that of an earthly being. But, in recurring
to the classic poets of antiquity, we find that in their conceptions
the element of religious faith was wanting. Their mythology was to
them no object of sober belief; and, had it been so, was adapted
not to produce but to annihilate devotion. They had no thought of
regarding the universe as created, animated, and ruled by God’s
all-powerful and omniscient goodness.”--Professor Norton in _Christian
Examiner_.
“We will now say a few words of ‘The Forest Sanctuary;’ but it so
abounds with beauty, is so highly finished, and animated by so
generous a spirit of moral heroism, that we can do no justice to our
views of it in the narrow space which our limits allow us. A Spanish
Protestant flies from persecution at home to religious liberty in
America. He has imbibed the spirit of our own fathers, and his mental
struggles are described in verses, with which the descendants of
the pilgrims must know how to sympathise. We dare not enter on an
analysis. From one scene at sea, in the second part, we will make a
few extracts. The exile is attended by his wife and child, but his
wife remains true to the faith of her fathers.
“‘Ora pro nobis, Mater!’ what a spell
Was in those notes,” etc.
“But we must cease making extracts, for we could not transfer all that
is beautiful in the poem without transferring the whole.”--_North
American Review_, April 1827.
“Mrs Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not altogether, the
best of her works. She would sometimes say, that in proportion to
the praise which had been bestowed upon other of her less carefully
meditated and shorter compositions, she thought it had hardly met with
its fair share of success: for it was the first continuous effort in
which she dared to write from the fulness of her own heart--to listen
to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. The subject was
suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado,
and was wrought upon by her with that eagerness and fervour which
almost command corresponding results. I have heard Mrs Hemans say,
that the greater part of this poem was written in no more picturesque
a retreat than a laundry, to which, as being detached from the house,
she resorted for undisturbed quiet and leisure. When she read it,
while in progress, to her mother and sister, they were surprised to
tears at the increased power displayed in it. She was not prone to
speak with self-contentment of her own works, but, perhaps, _the one_
favourite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea-burial in the
second canto,--
‘----She lay a thing for earth’s embrace,’ etc.
“The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition--the Auto da
Fè, the dungeon, the flight, or in its delineation of the mental
conflicts of its hero--or in its forest pictures of the free West,
which offer such a delicious repose to the mind, is full of happy
thoughts and turns of expression. Four lines of peculiar delicacy and
beauty recur to me as I write, too strongly to be passed by. They are
from a character of one of the martyr sisters.
‘And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.’
“But the entire episode of ‘Queen-like Teresa--radiant Inez,’ is
wrought up with a nerve and an impulse which men of renown have failed
to reach. The death of the latter, if, perhaps, it be a little too
romantic for the stern realities of the scene, is so beautifully
told, that it cannot be read without strong feeling, nor carelessly
remembered. And most beautiful, too, are the sudden outbursts of
thankfulness--of the quick happy consciousness of liberty with which
the narrator of this ghastly sacrifice interrupts the tale, to
reassure himself, ‘Sport on, my happy child! for thou art free.’ The
character of the convert’s wife, Leonor, devotedly clinging to his
fortunes, without a reproach or a murmur, while her heart trembles
before him as though she were in the presence of a lost spirit, is one
of those in which Mrs Hemans’ individual mode of thought and manner of
expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, she was hardly
wrong in her own estimate of this poem; and, on recently turning to
it, I have been surprised to find how well it bears the tests and
trials with which it is only either fit or rational to examine works
of the highest order of mind.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_,
p. 126-7.
“If taste and elegance be titles to enduring fame, we might venture
securely to promise that rich boon to the author before us, who adds
to those great merits a tenderness and loftiness of feeling, and an
ethereal purity of sentiment, which could only emanate from the soul
of a woman. She must beware of becoming too voluminous, and must not
venture again on any thing so long as ‘The Forest Sanctuary.’ But
if the next generation inherits our taste for short poems, we are
persuaded it will not readily allow her to be forgotten. For we do not
hesitate to say that she is, beyond all comparison, the most touching
and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our literature has
yet to boast of.”--Lord Jeffrey, in _Edinburgh Review_, October 1829.]
[311] “Letters from Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado.”
LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
[The following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each is
intended to be commemorative of some national recollection, popular
custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Harder’s “_Stimmen
der Völker in Liedern_;” the execution is, however, different, as the
poems in his collection are chiefly translations.]
MOORISH BRIDAL-SONG.
[“It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies unmarried is
clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and the bridal-song is sung
over her remains before they are borne from her home.”--_Narrative of
a Ten Years’ Residence in Tripoli, by the Sister-in-law of Mr Tully._]
The citron-groves their fruit and flowers were strewing
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh
Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing
With music through their shadowy bowers went by;
Music and voices, from the marble halls
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.
A song of joy, a bridal-song came swelling
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown’d maids;
And thus it flow’d:--yet something in the lay
Belong’d to sadness, as it died away.
“The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling
To leave the chamber of her infant years;
Kind voices from a distant home are calling;
She comes like day-spring--she hath done with tears;
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers,
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!--
Pour the rich odours round!
“We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing;
Love still goes with her from her place of birth;
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing,
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth!
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years;
Her sisters weep--but she hath done with tears!--
Now may the timbrel sound!”
Know’st thou for _whom_ they sang the bridal numbers?--
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more!
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers,
Nor Love’s own sigh, to rose-tints might restore!
Her graceful ringlets o’er a bier were spread.
Weep for the young, the beautiful,--the dead!
THE BIRD’S RELEASE.
[The Indians of Bengal and of the coast of Malabar bring cages filled
with birds to the graves of their friends, over which they set the
birds at liberty. This custom is alluded to in the description of
Virginia’s funeral.--See _Paul and Virginia_.]
Go forth! for she is gone!
With the golden light of her wavy hair,
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air;
She hath left her dwelling lone!
Her voice hath pass’d away!
It hath pass’d away like a summer breeze,
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas,
Where we may not trace its way.
Go forth, and like her be free!
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye,
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky,
And what is our grief to thee?
Is it aught e’en to her we mourn?
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed?
Doth she rest with the flowers o’er her gentle head,
Or float, on the light wind borne?
We know not--but she is gone!
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song,
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;
She hath left her dwelling lone!
When the waves at sunset shine,
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more,
In the scented woods of our glowing shore;
But we shall not know ’tis thine!
Even so with the loved one flown!
Her smile in the starlight may wander by,
Her breath may be near in the wind’s low sigh,
Around us--but all unknown.
Go forth! we have loosed thy chain!
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers
Which the bright day rears in our Eastern bowers;
But thou wilt not be lured again.
Even thus may the summer pour
All fragrant things on the land’s green breast,
And the glorious earth like a bride be dress’d,
But it wins _her_ back no more!
THE SWORD OF THE TOMB.
A NORTHERN LEGEND.
[The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in _Starkother_, a
tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The sepulchral fire here
alluded to, and supposed to guard the ashes of deceased heroes, is
frequently mentioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to
the departed spirit were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists
to be the consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre.--See
Ochlenschlager’s _Plays_.]
“Voice of the gifted elder time!
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme!
Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes;
Voice of the buried past!
Voice of the grave! ’tis the mighty hour
When night with her stars and dreams hath power,
And my step hath been soundless on the snows,
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose
On the billow and the blast.”
Then the torrents of the North
And the forest pines were still,
While a hollow chant came forth
From the dark sepulchral hill.
“There shines no sun midst the hidden dead,
But where the day looks not the brave may tread;
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour’d,
But the warrior may come to the silent board
In the shadow of the night.
There is laid a sword in thy father’s tomb,
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman’s doom;
But soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!”
Then died the solemn lay,
As a trumpet’s music dies,
By the night-wind borne away
Through the wild and stormy skies.
The fir-trees rock’d to the wailing blast,
As on through the forest the warrior pass’d--
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old--
The dark place of visions and legends, told
By the fires of Northern pine.
The fir-trees rock’d, and the frozen ground
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound;
And it seem’d that the depths of those awful shades,
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,
Gave warning, with voice and sign.
But the wind strange magic knows,
To call wild shape and tone
From the gray wood’s tossing boughs,
When Night is on her throne.
The pines closed o’er him with deeper gloom,
As he took the path to the monarch’s tomb:
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light;
But his road through dimness lay!
He pass’d, in the heart of that ancient wood,
The dark shrine stain’d with the victim’s blood;
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
Arose on his midnight way.
Then first a moment’s chill
Went shuddering through his breast,
And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.
But he cross’d at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look’d on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam’d from the urn of his warrior-sire
With a strange and solemn light.
Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again--
“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep;
For the viewless have fearful might!”
But the gleaming sword and shield
Of many a battle-day
Hung o’er that urn, reveal’d
By the tomb-fire’s waveless ray;
With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound,
They hung o’er the dust of the far-renown’d,
Whom the bright Valkyriur’s warning voice
Had call’d to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear--
“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep;
For the viewless have fearful might!”
And many a Saga’s rhyme,
And legend of the grave,
That shadowy scene and time
Call’d back, to daunt the brave.
But he raised his arm--and the flame grew dim,
And the sword in its light seem’d to wave and swim,
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well--
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shiver’d in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quench’d the fire,
And the scatter’d dust of his warlike sire
Was strewn on the champion’s head.
One moment--and all was still
In the slumberer’s ancient hall,
When the rock had ceased to thrill
With the mighty weapon’s fall.
The stars were just fading one by one,
The clouds were just tinged by the early sun,
When there stream’d through the cavern a torch’s flame,
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came
To seek him in the tomb.
Stretch’d on his shield, like the steel-girt slain,
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there;
But he wildly woke when the torch’s glare
Burst on him through the gloom.
“The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth with me!
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?”
“I have put out the holy sepulchral fire,
I have scatter’d the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o’er the restless deep!
In the mantle of death he was here with me now--
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell
With an icy ray and a withering spell--
Oh! chill is the house of sleep!”
“The morning wind blows free,
And the reddening sun shines clear;
Come forth, come forth with me!
It is dark and fearful here!”
“He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown!
But gone from his head is the kingly crown--
The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand--
They have chased him far from the glorious land
Where the feast of the gods is spread!
He must go forth alone on his phantom steed,
He must ride o’er the grave-hills with stormy speed!
His place is no longer at Odin’s board,
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword;
But the slayer shall avenge the dead!”
That sword its fame had won
By the fall of many a crest;
But its fiercest work was done
In the tomb, on Sigurd’s breast!
VALKYRIUR SONG.
[The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were supposed
to single out the warriors who were to die in battle, and be received
into the halls of Odin.
When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies were
honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold and silver,
war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else he held most
dear, were placed with him on the pile. His dependants and friends
frequently made it a point of honour to die with their leader, in
order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin.
And, lastly, his wife was generally consumed with him on the same
pile.--See Mallet’s _Northern Antiquities_, Herbert’s _Helga_, &c.]
“Tremblingly flash’d th’ inconstant meteor-light,
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth;
Save that all signs of human joy or grief,
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem’d
On the fix’d brightness of each dazzling cheek
Strange and unnatural.” Milman.
The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep
Of a vision-haunted night,
And he look’d from his bark o’er the gloomy deep,
And counted the streaks of light;
For the red sun’s earliest ray
Was to rouse his bands that day
To the stormy joy of fight!
But the dreams of rest were still on earth,
And the silent stars on high,
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth
Midst the quiet of the sky;
And along the twilight bay,
In their sleep the hamlets lay,
For they knew not the Norse were nigh!
The Sea-king look’d o’er the brooding wave,
He turn’d to the dusky shore,
And there seem’d, through the arch of a tide-worn cave,
A gleam, as of snow, to pour;
And forth, in watery light,
Moved phantoms, dimly white,
Which the garb of woman bore.
Slowly they moved to the billow-side;
And the forms, as they grew more clear,
Seem’d each on a tall pale steed to ride,
And a shadowy crest to rear,
And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
And to point a gleaming spear.
Then a stillness on his spirit fell,
Before th’ unearthly train,
For he knew Valhalla’s daughters well--
The Choosers of the slain!
And a sudden rising breeze
Bore, across the moaning seas,
To his ear their thrilling strain.
“There are songs in Odin’s Hall
For the brave ere night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray?
He must bring a wrathful day!
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner!--Sea-king!--_thee_ we call!--
There is joy in Odin’s Hall.
“At the feast, and in the song,
Thou shalt be remember’d long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
’Tis enough,--the war-gods call,--
There is mead in Odin’s Hall!
“Regner! tell thy fair-hair’d bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,--
There is room in Odin’s Hall!
“Lo! the mighty sun looks forth--
Arm! thou leader of the North!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly--
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows no fear,
Sea-king! nobly thou shalt fall!--
There is joy in Odin’s Hall!”
There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread,
And the phantom-forms of the tide-worn cave
With the mists of morning fled;
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand
Lay cold on a pile of dead!
THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.
A SWISS TRADITION.
[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep
in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three
Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet
slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken
and regain the liberties of the land.--See _Quarterly Review_, No. 44.
The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is
a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest
Cantons, here called the Forest-Sea.]
Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines that o’er it wave
With freshness fill the air:
For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array’d,
By their native Forest-Sea
On a rocky couch are laid.
The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore
In the name of liberty!
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep
Till their country’s hour of need.
They start not at the hunter’s call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer’s cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent’s fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by;
And the Alpine herdsman’s lay,
To a Switzer’s heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn’s peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau’s cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles’ lonely sky;
When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier’s mute repose;
When Uri’s beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet’s light--
_Then_ from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell’s proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung![312]
They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link’d the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli’s moonlight shore;
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer’d with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr’d,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day
When Winkelried, on Sempach’s plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crownèd casques,[313] o’erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!
For the Kühreihen’s[314] notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom’s holy ground
Untrampled must remain;
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger’s hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!
[312] The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler
is marked by a chapel, and called the _Tellensprung_.
[313] Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in
Simond’s _Switzerland_.
[314] The Kühreihen--the celebrated _Ranz des Vaches_.
SWISS SONG,
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.
[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the
anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling
in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear
thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who
shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in
procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes,
where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.--See Planta’s
_History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land
Where Freedom’s voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,--
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle-dell!
If yet, the wilds among,
Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung,
And home our steps may turn,--
Home!--home!--if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish’d here!
Look on the white Alps round!
Up to their shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,
The sound of battle, rose!
Their caves prolong’d the trumpet’s blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass’d!
They saw the princely crest,
They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,
Borne down and trampled here!
They saw--and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!
Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire’s lance and shield!
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet, along their steeps,
Our children’s fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!
If, by the wood-fire’s blaze,
When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd race.
Who made the hearth a holy place!
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath-bell
Comes o’er them with a gladdening sound,
Think on the battle-dell!
For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!
THE MESSENGER BIRD.
[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird
that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger
which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it
brings them news from the other world.--See Picart’s _Ceremonies and
Religious Customs_.]
Thou art come from the spirits’ land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits’ land:
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!
We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore;
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there--and they weep no more!
And we know they have quench’d their fever’s thirst
From the fountain of youth ere now,[315]
For _there_ must the stream in its freshness burst
Which none may find below!
And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours:
Though they sat with us by the night-fire’s blaze,
And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers’ days,
Which are told to others now!
But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call--and they answer not again:
Do they love--do they love us yet?
Doth the warrior think of his brother _there_,
And the father of his child?
And the chief of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?
We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?[316]
[315] An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in
the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain,
believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo
Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed
in its waters.--See Robertson’s _History of America_.
[316] ANSWER TO “THE MESSENGER BIRD.”
BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.
Yes! I came from the spirits’ land, From the land that is bright and
fair; I came with a voice from the shadowy band, To tell that they love
you there.
To say, if a wish or a vain regret Could live in Elysian bowers,
’Twould be for the friends they can ne’er forget, The beloved of their
youthful hours.
To whisper the dear deserted band, Who smiled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land Are the friends they have
loved so dear.
’Tis true, in the silent night you call, And they answer you not again;
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all-- Sound only was made for
pain.
That their land is bright and they weep no more, I have warbled from
hill to hill; But my plaintive strain should have told before, That
they love, oh! they love you still.
They bid me say that unfading flowers You’ll find in the path they
trode; And a welcome true to their deathless bowers, Pronounced by the
voice of God. 1827.
THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.
[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi
who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this
is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only
gone on a journey, and, being in constant expectation of their return,
look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.--Picart’s
_Ceremonies and Religious Customs_.
“J’ai passé moi-même,” says Chateaubriand in his _Souvenirs
d’Amérique_, “chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la
vue d’un voyageur, parce qu’il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la
Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-tems _en voyage_.”]
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance;
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee.
But there came a voice from a distant shore--
He was call’d--he is found midst his tribe no more
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still--he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him--we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step--but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the maid of the mournful song--
Mournful, though sweet,--she hath left us long:
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him--she pass’d alone.
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head:
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest--yet she comes not back!
We look’d for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step--but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the chief, who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here:
We look’d for the hunter, whose bride’s lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look’d for the first-born, whose mother’s cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!--
Where are they? Thou’rt seeking some distant coast:
Oh ask of them, stranger!--send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step--but the step was thine!
THE ISLE OF FOUNTS;
AN INDIAN TRADITION.
[“The river St Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which
lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near
three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in
the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands
or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present generation of
the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth.
They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women
are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial
paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in
pursuit of game; but that in their endeavours to approach it, they
were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land,
still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly
before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved,
at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return; which, after
a number of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their
adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with
an irresistible desire to invade and make a conquest of so charming a
country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never
having been able again to find that enchanting spot.”--Bertram’s
_Travels through North and South Carolina, &c._
The additional circumstances in the “Isle of Founts” are merely
imaginary.]
Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O’er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile--
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
Lull but the mighty serpent-king,[317]
Midst the gray rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar’s deadly spring,--
Thy step that lake’s green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is pass’d,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!
Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow’s flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!
And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e’en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed’s hollow cell.
Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies
To which the ancient rocks gave birth?[318]
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o’er the waves.
The emerald waves!--they take their hue
And image from that sun-bright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,--
Before thee, hadst thou morning’s speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!
Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!
But woe for him who sees them burst
With their bright spray-showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams
The gush of those untasted streams!
Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parch’d with the fever’s agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
E’en thus our hunters came of yore
Back from their long and weary quest;--
Had they not seen th’ untrodden shore?
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!
They lay beside our glittering rills
With visions in their darken’d eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly:
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
They bent no more the forest bow,
They arm’d not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o’er them dim and slow--
They left us for the spirits’ land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
Son of the stranger! if at eve
Silence be midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile--
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
[317] The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains,
overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy
rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of rattlesnakes, whom
they denominate the “bright old inhabitants.” They represent them as
snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing
to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their
eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling
brightness.--See _Notes to_ Leyden’s _Scenes of Infancy_.
[318] The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South
American missionaries _Laxas de Musica_, and alluded to in a former
note.
THE BENDED BOW.
[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by
sending messengers in different directions through the land, each
bearing a _bended bow_; and that peace was in like manner announced
by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.--See the _Cambrian
Antiquities_.]
There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
“Heard you not the battle-horn?--
Reaper! leave thy golden corn:
Leave it for the birds of heaven--
Swords must flash and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed--
Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.”
And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Hunter! leave the mountain-chase,
Take the falchion from its place;
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey;
Let the deer ungall’d sweep by--
Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh.”
And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Chieftain! quit the joyous feast--
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall--
Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.”
And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Prince! thy father’s deeds are told
In the bower and in the hold,
Where the goatherd’s lay is sung,
Where the minstrel’s harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea--
Give our bards a tale of thee!”
And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Mother! stay thou not thy boy,
He must learn the battle’s joy:
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer:
Maiden! bid thy lover part:
Britain calls the strong in heart!”
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on;
And the bards made song for a battle won.
HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.
[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son,
Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy,
he was never seen to smile.]
The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll’d on;
And what was England’s glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived--for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death to those who mourn?
He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass’d the young and fair,
In pleasure’s reckless train;
But seas dash’d o’er his son’s bright hair--
He never smiled again!
He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney’s victor crown’d
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep--
He never smiled again!
Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour’d,
And strangers took the kinsman’s place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven’s bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years--
_He_ never smiled again!
CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.
[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of
Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur-de-Lion, who, on
beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly
reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the
means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.]
Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o’er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath;
And light, as noon’s broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.
On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm’d at times by the censer’s breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply furrow’d trace
Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that sceptred mortal’s race
Had surely closed in woe!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests round him that slept
Sang mass for the parted soul:
And solemn were the strains they pour’d
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush’d awhile,
As, by the torch’s flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp’d hands o’er it raised;
For his father lay before him low--
It was Cœur-de-Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast;
But there’s more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress’d!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,--
Men held their breath in awe;
For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he reck’d not that they saw.
He look’d upon the dead--
And sorrow seem’d to lie,
A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop’d--and kiss’d the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;
Till bursting words--yet all too weak--
Gave his soul’s passion way.
“O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again:
I weep--behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!--
Were but this work undone,
I would give England’s crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
“Speak to me! Mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr’d!
Hear me, but hear me!--father, chief,
My king! I _must_ be heard!
Hush’d, hush’d--how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?----Woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
“Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
_I_ bore thee down, high heart! at last:
No longer couldst thou strive.
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say--‘forgive!’
“Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e’er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart:
Oh! ever the renown’d and loved
Thou wert--and _there_ thou art!
“Thou that my boyhood’s guide
Didst take fond joy to be!--
The times I’ve sported at thy side,
And climb’d thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,--
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”
THE VASSAL’S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.
[“Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange,
but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly
believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a
lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several
days.”--Camden’s _Britannia_.]
Yes! I have seen the ancient oak
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell’d by the woodman’s stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.
I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might;
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew!
’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep
For the forest’s pride o’erthrown--
An old man’s tears lie far too deep
To be pour’d for this alone;
But by that sign too well I know
That a youthful head must soon be low!
A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye;
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set--
Oh! could _my_ life redeem him yet!
He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem’d like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine.
With a stag’s fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life--but he must die!
He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water’s side,
’Tis known that ne’er a proud tree fell
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he--there’s laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice--yet he must die!
I’ve borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!--yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast!
The noble boy!--how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!
It seem’d like youth to see _him_ young,
A flower in his father’s land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.
Say not ’tis vain! I tell thee, some
Are warn’d by a meteor’s light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go! And he too, he!--
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!
THE WILD HUNTSMAN.
[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild
Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with
his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air
to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted,
that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke
of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.]
Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour,
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by
Through the dark unquiet sky!
The stag sprang up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!
The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!
From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle’s festive board,
And a sudden pause came o’er the swell
Of the harp’s triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger’s[319] thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.
The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d,
And the hermit dropp’d his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.
The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky;
But the mother looks on her son to-day
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair!
The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie--
For the Huntsman hath gone by!
[319] Minnesinger, _love-singer_--the wandering minstrels of Germany
were so called in the middle ages.
BRANDENBURG HARVEST-SONG.[320]
FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.
The corn in golden light
Waves o’er the plain;
The sickle’s gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.
Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!--
Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o’er the day!
Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eyes blue,--
Now o’er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!
On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour:
We know its cause too well--
_She is no more_!
[320] For the year of the Queen of Prussia’s death.
THE SHADE OF THESEUS.
AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.
Know ye not when our dead
From sleep to battle sprung?--
When the Persian charger’s tread
On their covering greensward rung;
When the trampling march of foes
Had crush’d our vines and flowers,
When jewel’d crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers;
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
There was one, a leader crown’d,
And arm’d for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle’s front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood,
Though their path was through his breast.
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
His sword was seen to flash
Where the boldest deeds were done;
But it smote without a clash--
The stroke was heard by none!
His voice was not of those
That swell’d the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush’d like snows--
’Twas the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.
Where is the summer with her golden sun?--
That festal glory hath not pass’d from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
--Far in my own bright land?
Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?--the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?--
The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves?
--Far in my own bright land!
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes?
--Far in my own bright land!
Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
--Far in my own bright land!
Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad’s footsteps, and the minstrel’s dreams?--
Oh, that my life were as a southern flower’s!--
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!
GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.
[“Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses
proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia--comme qui dirait,
Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre
le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles,
en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les
yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel
et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu’elle ressent
de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes
chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de
vêtemens, s’habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale,
avec cette différence, qu’elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux
épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent
dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du
mort, et leur douleur s’exhale de nouveau, et comme la première
fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées
succèdent bientôt des lamentations d’une autre espèce: ce sont les
_Myriologues_. Ordinairement c’est la plus proche parente qui prononce
le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les
simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés
par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et
toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d’un lieu à un autre, mais
qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de
poésie.”--_Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par_ C. Fauriel.]
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung:--
“Ianthis! dost thou sleep? Thou sleep’st--but this is not the rest,
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow’d on my breast:
I lull’d thee not to _this_ repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As, in thy glowing childhood’s time, by twilight I have done.
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?
“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave.
Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,--‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,--
And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay!
“Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that _this_ would be!
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;--
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing
red.--
Why doth a mother live to say--My first-born and my dead!
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won:
Speak _thou_, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!”
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:--
“Ianthis! look’st thou not on _me_? Can love indeed be fled?
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had follow’d thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved;
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side!--
It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!
“But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board?
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine?
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart
Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring! And couldst thou thus depart?
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?--
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!
“Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was
spread;
But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins
flew--
Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu?
What now can breathe of gladness more,--what scene, what hour,
what tone?
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou
art gone!
Even _that_ must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved:
Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:--
“Ianthis! brother of my soul!--oh! where are now the days
That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays?
When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source,
And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless
course!--
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,
But see thy bounding step no more--my brother and my friend!
“I come with flowers--for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou _here_?
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier.
Thou shouldst be crown’d with victory’s crown--but oh! more meet
_they_ seem,
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream--
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low.
Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine’s glow--
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send:
Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!--my brother and my friend!”
GREEK PARTING SONG.
[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his “Chansons
Populaires de la Grèce Moderne,” and accompanied by some very
interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or
songs of expatriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the
modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding
farewell to their country and friends.]
A Youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall’d,
And brightest kept, of love;--a mountain-home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines,
And sounding waters, first in childhood’s heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half-unconscious prayer;--a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left! Yet many leave
Far more--the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call’d out the soul’s bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection’s tones. _He_ left not these.
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother’s love! A bitterer grief
Was his--to part _unloved_!--of her unloved
That should have breathed upon his heart like spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!
Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot; and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach’d--a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue still upper heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.