Chapter XXII: Part II (1)

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades,
Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades,
With all the thousand flowers that blow,
A waste of loveliness, below.
To him whose soul the world would fly,
For nature’s lonely majesty:
To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes,
To lover, lost in fairy dreams,
To hermit, whose prophetic thought
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught,
And, in the visions of his rest,
Held bright communion with the blest:
’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike
Silence and sound with awe can strike.
The deep Eolian murmur made
By sighing breeze and rustling shade,
And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh,
And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby:
Or the dead stillness of the bowers,
When dark the summer-tempest lowers;
When silent nature seems to wait
The gathering thunder’s voice of fate;
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare--
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat in breathless haste--
Young Ella--linger’d not to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear.
The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play,
The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay--
These charm not now; her sire she sought,
With trembling frame, with anxious thought,
And, starting if a forest deer
But moved the rustling branches near,
First felt that innocence may fear.

She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell,
Where the free sunbeam never fell;
’Twas twilight there at summer noon,
Deep night beneath the harvest moon,
And scarce might one bright star be seen
Gleaming the tangled boughs between;
For many a giant rock around
Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d,
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high,
Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky.
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave,
Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave,
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew,
Caught not from day one glowing hue.

’Twas said, some fearful deed untold
Had stain’d that scene in days of old;
Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown
A shade yet deeper than its own;
And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom,
Perchance above some victim’s tomb,
O’ergrown with ivy and with moss,
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross,
Which, haply, silent record bore
Of guilt and penitence of yore.

Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter’d pangs revealing,
Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair
Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear?
--Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought
To speak such agonies of thought!
Those deathlike features gave to view
A mortal’s pangs too deep and true!
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye,
As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh;
He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild,
Trembling he stood--before his child!
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung,
And to her father’s bosom clung.

“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried,
“Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride?
Hence, leave me--leave me to await,
In solitude, the storm of Fate;
Thou know’st not what my doom may be,
Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”

“My father! shall the joyous throng
Swell high for me the bridal song?
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread,
The festal garland bind my head,
And thou in grief, in peril, roam,
And make the wilderness thy home?
No! I am here with thee to share
All suffering mortal strength may bear;
And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree,
In life, in death, in chains, or free--
Well, well I feel, in thee secure;
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”

Then was there meaning in his look,
Which deep that trusting spirit shook;
So wildly did each glance express
The strife of shame and bitterness,--
As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence!
Is this the mien of Innocence?
This furrow’d brow, this restless eye--
Read thou this fearful tale, and fly!
Is it enough? or must I seek
For _words_, the tale of guilt to speak?
Then be it so--I will not doom
Thy youth to wither in its bloom;
I will not see thy tender frame
Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame.
No! though I teach thee to abhor
The sire so fondly loved before;
Though the dread effort rend my breast,
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest!
Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn
Away in horror and in scorn;
Thy looks, that still through all the past
Affection’s gentlest beams have cast,
As lightning on my heart will fall,
And I must mark and bear it all!
Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved,
Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!

“I linger--let me speed the tale
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail.
Why should I falter thus to tell
What heaven so long hath known too well?
Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d,
_There_ hath a brother’s blood appeal’d!
He died--’twas not where banners wave,
And war-steeds trample on the brave;
He died--it was in Holy Land--
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand;
He sleeps not with his sires at rest,
With trophied shield and knightly crest;
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes,
--But I can tell thee where he lies!
It was a wild and savage spot,
But once beheld--and ne’er forgot!
I see it now--that haunted scene
My spirit’s dwelling still hath been;
And he is there--I see him laid
Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade.
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh
Bears witness with its crimson dye!
I see th’ accusing glance he raised,
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed;
--Ne’er will that parting look forgive!
I still behold it--and I live!
I live! from hope, from mercy driven,
A mark for all the shafts of heaven!

“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won
My birth-right; and my child, my son,
Heir to high name, high fortune born,
Was doom’d to penury and scorn,
An alien midst his fathers’ halls,
An exile from his native walls.
Could I bear this? The rankling thought,
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought;
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile,
Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile,
And when his accents lisp’d my name,
They woke my inmost heart to flame!
I struggled--are there evil powers
That claim their own ascendant hours?
--Oh! what should thine unspotted soul
Or know or fear of _their_ control?
Why on the fearful conflict dwell?
Vainly I struggled, and I fell--
Cast down from every hope of bliss--
Too well thou know’st to what abyss!

“’Twas done!--that moment hurried by
To darken all eternity.
Years roll’d away, long evil years,
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears;
Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d
By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d.
For, long a captive in the lands
Where Arabs tread their burning sands,
The haunted midnight of the mind
Was round me while in chains I pined,
By all forgotten, save by one
Dread presence--which I could not shun.
--How oft, when o’er the silent waste
Nor path nor landmark might be traced,
When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray,
The Wanderers of the Desert lay,
And stars, as o’er an ocean shone,
Vigil I kept--but not alone!
That form, that image, from the dead,
Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread!
I’ve seen it in the fiery blast,
I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d;
Beside the Desert’s fount it stood,
Tinging the clear cold wave with blood;
And e’en when viewless, by the fear
Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near!
--_Was_ near!--I feel th’ unearthly thrill,
Its power is on my spirit still!
A mystic influence, undefined,
The spell, the shadow of my mind!

“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on;
One last farewell, and then begone!
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow,
And let me read thine aspect _now_!
No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed
Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed.
Slow came the day that broke my chain,
But I at length was free again;
And freedom brings a burst of joy,
E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy.
I thought upon my own fair towers,
My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers,
And in a father’s visions, press’d
Thee and thy brother to my breast.
--’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet
Recall the moment when we met?
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung,
Thy arms around me fondly clung;
Scarce aught than infant seraph less
Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness.
But he was gone--that son for whom
I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom;
He for whose sake alone were given
My peace on earth, my hope in heaven--
He met me not. A ruthless band,
Whose name with terror fill’d the land,
Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild
Had reft the father of his child.
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed,
Full on that cherish’d scion burst.
Unknown his fate.--No parent nigh,
My boy! my first-born! didst thou die?
Or did they spare thee for a life
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife?
Livest thou, unfriended, unallied,
A wanderer lost, without a guide?
Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom
Blest were the darkness of the tomb!

“Ella! ’tis done--my guilty heart
Before thee all unveil’d--depart!
Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly
From one so stain’d, so lost as I;
Yet peace to thine untainted breast,
E’en though it hate me!--be thou blest!
Farewell! thou shalt not linger here--
E’en now th’ avenger may be near:
Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare,
The dagger, may be ambush’d there;
One hour--and haply all is o’er,
And we must meet on earth no more.
No, nor beyond!--to those pure skies
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise;
Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot,
Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not!
Speak once! to soothe this broken heart,
Speak to me once! and then depart!”

But still--as if each pulse were dead,
Mute--as the power of speech were fled,
Pale--as if life-blood ceased to warm
The marble beauty of her form;
On the dark rock she lean’d her head,
That seem’d as there ’twere riveted,
And dropt the hands, till then which press’d
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast.
There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye,
And from her lip there breathed no sigh,
And on her brow no trace there dwelt
That told she suffer’d or she felt.
All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d,
Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d;
And long her sire, in wild dismay,
Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away.

But life return’d. O’er that cold frame
One deep convulsive shudder came;
And a faint light her eye relumed,
And sad resolve her mien assumed.
But there was horror in the gaze,
Which yet to his she dared not raise;
And her sad accents, wild and low,
As rising from a depth of woe,
At first with hurried trembling broke,
But gather’d firmness as she spoke.
--“I leave thee not--whate’er betide,
My footsteps shall not quit thy side;
Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill,
But yet thou art my father still!
And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed,
For some kind spirit, tenfold need,
To speak of heaven’s absolving love,
And waft desponding thought above.
Is there not power in mercy’s wave
The blood-stain from thy soul to lave?
Is there not balm to heal despair,
In tears, in penitence, in prayer?
My father! kneel at His pure shrine
Who died to expiate guilt like thine,
Weep--and my tears with thine shall blend,
Pray--while my prayers with thine ascend,
And, as our mingling sorrows rise,
Heaven will relent, though earth despise!”

“My child, my child! these bursting tears,
The first mine eyes have shed for years,
Though deepest conflicts they express,
Yet flow not all in bitterness!
Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart
From desolation’s slumber start;
Thy voice of pity and of love
Seems o’er its icy depths to move
E’en as a breeze of health, which brings
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings.
And there is mercy yet! I feel
Its influence o’er my spirit steal;
How welcome were each pang below,
If guilt might be atoned by woe!
Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven?
Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven?
Oh! if it yet avail to plead,
If judgment be not yet decreed,
Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry,
Till pardon shall be seal’d on high!
Yet, yet I shrink!--Will Mercy shed
Her dews upon this fallen head?
--Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free
Descend forgiveness, won by thee!”

They knelt--before the Cross, that sign
Of love eternal and divine;
That symbol, which so long hath stood
A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood,
Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved
By the warm tears of nations saved.
In one deep prayer their spirits blent,
The guilty and the innocent;
Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth,
Age, soil’d with every stain of earth,
Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry,
One sacrifice of agony.
--Oh! blest, though bitter be their source--
Though dark the fountain of remorse,
Blest are the tears which pour from thence,
Th’ atoning stream of penitence!
And let not pity check the tide
By which the heart is purified;
Let not vain comfort turn its course,
Or timid love repress its force!
Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand,
To bear luxuriance o’er the land;
Forbid the life-restoring rains
To fall on Afric’s burning plains;
Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer
The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode;
But check thou not one holy tear
Which Penitence devotes to God!

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er
Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there--
So rude, that scarce might human eye
Sustain their dread sublimity--
So awful, that the timid swain,
Nurtured amidst their dark domain,
Had peopled with unearthly forms
Their mists, their forests, and their storms,--
She, whose blue eye of laughing light
Once made each festal scene more bright;
Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest,
Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest,
By torrent wave and mountain brow,
Is wandering as an outcast now,
To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief
His shame, his terror, and his grief.

Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower,
That blooms in solitary grace,
And, faithful to its mouldering tower,
Waves in the banner’s place?
From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d,
Time wins his heritage at last;
The day of glory hath gone by,
With all its pomp and minstrelsy:
Yet still the flower of golden hues
There loves its fragrance to diffuse,
To fallen and forsaken things
With constancy unalter’d clings,
And, smiling o’er the wreck of state,
With beauty clothes the desolate.
--E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid,
In all her light of youth array’d,
Forsaking every joy below
To soothe a guilty parent’s woe,
And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime,
To the dark ruin made by crime.
Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes
Smile on a purer sacrifice;
Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine,
More nobly brighter hopes resign!
O’er her own pangs she brooded not,
Nor sank beneath her bitter lot;
No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth
Still rose more buoyantly from earth,
And drew from an eternal source
Its gentle, yet triumphant force:
Roused by affliction’s chastening might
To energies more calmly bright,
Like the wild harp of airy sigh,
Woke by the storm to harmony!
He that in mountain-holds hath sought
A refuge for unconquer’d thought,
A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child
Might rear her altars in the wild,
And fix her quenchless torch on high,
A beacon for Eternity;
Or they, whose martyr spirits wage
Proud war with Persecution’s rage,
And to the deserts bear the faith
That bids them smile on chains and death;
Well may _they_ draw, from all around,
Of grandeur clothed in form and sound,
From the deep power of earth and sky,
Wild nature’s might of majesty,
Strong energies, immortal fires,
High hopes, magnificent desires!

But dark, terrific, and austere,
To _him_ doth nature’s mien appear,
Who midst her wilds would seek repose
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes!
For him the wind hath music dread,
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead;
The forest’s whisper breathes a tone
Appalling, as from worlds unknown;
The mystic gloom of wood and cave
Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave;
In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart
A blaze that seems to search his heart;
The pure, eternal stars of night
Upbraid him with their silent light;
And the dread spirit, which pervades
And hallows earth’s most lonely shades,
In every scene, in every hour,
Surrounds him with chastising power--
With nameless fear his soul to thrill,
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still!

’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day,
And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way;
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound,
Foretold the tempest gathering round;
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread
With a tinge of wild and stormy red,
That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers
Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers.
But they, who far from cities fled,
And shrunk from the print of human tread,
Had reach’d a desert scene unknown,
So strangely wild, so deeply lone,
That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d
And undefined, their souls oppress’d.
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d,
Lay like the ruins of a world,
Left by an earthquake’s final throes
In deep and desolate repose--
Things of eternity whose forms
Bore record of ten thousand storms!
While, rearing its colossal crest
In sullen grandeur o’er the rest,
One, like a pillar, vast and rude,
Stood monarch of the solitude.
Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand
Th’ enduring monument was plann’d;
Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by,
Had shaped its rough immensity,
To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood,
A temple meet for rites of blood.
But they were gone, who might have told
That secret of the times of old;
And there, in silent scorn it frown’d,
O’er all its vast coevals round.
Darkly those giant masses lower’d,
Countless and motionless they tower’d;
No wild-flower o’er their summits hung,
No fountain from their caverns sprung;
Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear
Murmur’d a sound of waters near,
With music deep of lulling falls,
And louder gush, at intervals.
Unknown its source--nor spring nor stream
Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam,
But ceaseless, from its hidden caves,
Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199]
Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene,
One chosen spot of gentler mien
Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye
Of shelter from the tempest nigh.
Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore,
The sculptured saint that crown’d its door:
Less welcome now were monarch’s dome,
Than that low cell, some hermit’s home.
Thither the outcasts bent their way,
By the last lingering gleam of day;
When from a cavern’d rock, which cast
Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d,
A form, a warrior form of might,
As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight.
His port was lofty--yet the heart
Shrunk from him with recoiling start;
His mien was youthful--yet his face
Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace;
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought
Its traces on his brow had wrought
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye,
But calm and cold severity,
A spirit haughtily austere,
Stranger to pity as to fear.
It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil
O’er that dark brow and visage pale,
Leaving the searcher nought to guess,
All was so fix’d and passionless.

He spoke--and they who heard the tone
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown.
“I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers,
I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers,
I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown
Through scenes explored by me alone;
My search is closed--nor toils nor fears
Repel the servant of the Seers;
We meet--’tis vain to strive or fly:
Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!”

Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid
Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:--
“Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel!
Oh! thou art human, and canst feel!
Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove
The blessing of a parent’s love;
By thine own father’s hoary hair,
By her who gave thee being, spare!
Did they not, o’er thy infant years,
Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears!
Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers,
As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!”

But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d,
His brow its rigid calm maintain’d:
“Maiden! ’tis vain--my bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
The nurture of my infant years
Froze in my soul the source of tears;
’Tis not for me to pause or melt,
Or feel as happier hearts have felt.
Away! the hour of fate goes by:
Thy prayers are fruitless--he must die!”

“Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow
The father spoke--unshrinking now,
As if from heaven a martyr’s strength
Had settled on his soul at length:
“Kneel thou no more, my noble child,
Thou by no taint of guilt defiled;
Kneel not to man!--for mortal prayer,
Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare?
Since hope of earthly aid is flown,
Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone,
And know, to calm thy suffering heart,
My spirit is resign’d to part.
Trusting in Him who reads and knows
This guilty breast, with all its woes.
Rise! I would bless thee once again,
Be still, be firm--for all is vain!”

And she _was_ still. She heard him not--
Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot;
All thought, all memory pass’d away,
Silent and motionless she lay,
In a brief death, a blest suspense
Alike of agony and sense.
She saw not when the dagger gleam’d
In the last red light from the west that stream’d;
She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow
Came rushing to the mortal blow;
While, unresisting, sank her sire,
Yet gather’d firmness to expire,
Mingling a warrior’s courage high
With a penitent’s humility.
And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood,
And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood,
Still calm, as if his faithful hand
Had but obey’d some just command,
Some power whose stern, yet righteous will
He deem’d it virtue to fulfil,
And triumph’d, when the palm was won,
For duty’s task austerely done.

But a feeling dread and undefined,
A mystic presage of the mind,
With strange and sudden impulse ran
Chill through the heart of the dying man;
And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath,
And it seem’d as fear suspended death,
And nature from her terrors drew
Fresh energy and vigour new.

“Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years,
Froze in thy soul the source of tears:
The time will come, when thou, with me,
The judgment throne of God wilt see--
Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then,
By His blest love who died for men,
By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow,
Avenger! I adjure thee now!
To him who bleeds beneath thy steel,
Thy lineage and thy name reveal.
And haste thee! for his closing ear
Hath little more on earth to hear--
Haste! for the spirit, almost flown,
Is lingering for thy words alone.”

Then first a shade, resembling fear,
Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere;
A nameless awe his features cross’d,
Soon in their haughty coldness lost.

“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild,
And bid them tell thee of their child!
Ask the rude winds, and angry skies,
Whose tempests were his lullabies!
His chambers were the cave and wood,
His fosterers men of wrath and blood;
Outcasts alike of earth and heaven,
By wrongs to desperation driven!
Who, in their pupil, now could trace
The features of a nobler race?
Yet such was mine!--if one who cast
A look of anguish o’er the past,
Bore faithful record on the day
When penitent in death he lay.
But still deep shades my prospects veil;
He died--and told but half the tale.
With him it sleeps--I only know
Enough for stern and silent woe,
For vain ambition’s deep regret,
For hopes deceived, deceiving yet,
For dreams of pride, that vainly tell
How high a lot had suited well
The heir of some illustrious line,
Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!”

Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d
One pang, the keenest and the last,
Ere with his spirit fled the fears,
The sorrows, and the pangs of years;
And, while his gray hairs swept the dust,
Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just!
For thee that deed of guilt was done,
By thee avenged, my son! my son!”
--The day was closed--the moonbeam shed
Light on the living and the dead,
And as through rolling clouds it broke,
Young Ella from her trance awoke--
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know
E’en more than all an orphan’s woe.
Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene
With beauty clothe a sadder scene!
There, cold in death, the father slept--
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept!
Yes! _she_ might weep--but one stood nigh,
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne’er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose;
No more on earth beholding aught
Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid
_His_ deeper woe had scarce survey’d,
Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale
Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale!
He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word
In anguish breathed, in terror heard,
Reveal’d enough: all else were weak--
That sound a thousand pangs could speak.
He knelt beside that breathless clay,
Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay--
Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace,
Each line of that unconscious face;
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more
Those marble features to explore;
Then, starting, turning, as to shun
The image thus by Memory won,
A wild farewell to her he bade,
Who by the dead in silence pray’d;
And, frenzied by his bitter doom,
Fled thence--to find all earth a tomb!

Days pass’d away--and Rhine’s fair shore
In the light of summer smiled once more;
The vines were purpling on the hill,
And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still.
There came a bark up the noble stream,
With pennons that shed a golden gleam,
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song,
Gliding triumphantly along;
For warrior-forms were glittering there,
Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air;
And as the tones of oar and wave
Their measured cadence mingling gave,
’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose,
While many an echo swell’d the close:--

“From the fields where dead and dying
On their battle-bier are lying,
Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing,
Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing,
Trampling o’er the noble-hearted,
Ere the spirit yet be parted;
Where each breath of heaven is swaying
Knightly plumes and banners playing,
And the clarion’s music swelling
Calls the vulture from his dwelling;
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!
To his own fair woods, enclosing
Vales in sunny peace reposing,
Where his native stream is laving
Banks, with golden harvests waving,
And the summer light is sleeping
On the grape, through tendrils peeping;
To the halls where harps are ringing,
Bards the praise of warriors singing,
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly,
Joyous voices mingling sweetly;
Where the cheek of mirth is glowing,
And the wine-cup brightly flowing,
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!”

He came--he sought his Ella’s bowers,
He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers;
But voice and footstep thence had fled,
As from the dwellings of the dead,
And the sounds of human joy and woe
Gave place to the moan of the wave below.
The banner still the rampart crown’d,
But the tall rank grass waved thick around
Still hung the arms of a race gone by
In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry,
But they caught no more, at fall of night,
The wavering flash of the torch’s light,
And they sent their echoes forth no more
To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore,
For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone,
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone;
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still,
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill,
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan,
For life, and power, and beauty gone.

The warrior turn’d from that silent scene,
Where a voice of woe had welcome been;
And his heart was heavy with boding thought,
As the forest-paths alone he sought.
He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood
Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood;
Still, solemn, fair--it seem’d a spot
Where earthly care might be all forgot,
And sounds and dreams of heaven alone
To musing spirit might be known.

And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose
On the holy and profound repose.
Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast
Like a glorious anthem of the blest;
And fear and sorrow died away
Before the full majestic lay.
He enter’d the secluded fane,
Which sent forth that inspiring strain;
He gazed--the hallow’d pile’s array
Was that of some high festal day;
Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound,
Flowers of all scents were strew’d around;
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh,
Blest on the altar to smile and die;
And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath;
And still the peal of choral song
Swell’d the resounding aisles along;
Wakening, in its triumphant flow,
Deep echoes from the graves below.

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn,
Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn?
Why breathes the incense to the sky?
Why swells th’ exulting harmony?
--And see’st thou not yon form, so light
It seems half floating on the sight,
As if the whisper of a gale,
That did but wave its snowy veil,
Might bear it from the earth afar,
A lovely but receding star?
Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now
Receives that youthful vestal’s vow--
For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise,
A jubilee of sacrifice!
Mark yet a moment! from her brow
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow,
Ere yet a darker mantle hide
The charms to heaven thus sanctified:
Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam,
That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream.
A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul,
Poised between hope and fear’s control,
What slow, unmeasured hours went by,
Ere yet suspense grew certainty.
It came at length. Once more that face
Reveal’d to man its mournful grace;
A sunbeam on its features fell,
As if to bear the world’s farewell;
And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill:
’Twas she--though changed--’twas Ella still!
Though now her once-rejoicing mien
Was deeply, mournfully serene;
Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded,
And the young cheek beneath had faded,
Well, well he knew the form, which cast
Light on his soul through all the past!
’Twas with him on the battle-plain,
’Twas with him on the stormy main:
’Twas in his visions, when the shield
Pillow’d his head on tented field;
’Twas a bright beam that led him on
Where’er a triumph might be won--
In danger as in glory nigh,
An angel-guide to victory!

She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze
Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze.
Was it some vain illusion, wrought
By frenzy of impassion’d thought?
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power
To summon in her wandering hour?
No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d--
Too deeply loved, too late return’d!
--A fever’d blush, a sudden start,
Spoke the last weakness of her heart;
’Twas vanquish’d soon--the hectic red
A moment flush’d her check, and fled.
Once more serene--her steadfast eye
Look’d up as to Eternity;
Then gazed on Ulric with an air,
That said--the home of Love is _there_!

Yes! _there_ alone it smiled for him,
Whose eye before that look grew dim.
Not long ’twas his e’en _thus_ to view
The beauty of its calm adieu;
Soon o’er those features, brightly pale,
Was cast th’ impenetrable veil;
And, if one human sigh were given
By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven,
’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound
Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d,
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise
To tell the calm untroubled skies
That earth hath banish’d care and woe,
And man holds festivals below!

[199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:--“Des masses énormes de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”--_Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin._

[200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.

Call it not loneliness to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o’er;
For nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:--
A bird’s light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric’s awful waste--
Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever’d from earthly being’s trace,
Alone amidst eternal space!

’Tis noon--and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sunborn race,
Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare.
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o’er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
--Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high,
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown.
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side--
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press--they gaze dismay’d--
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201]

What meteor comes? A purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202]
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere.
Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom,
Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces--till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass’d,
Far bearing o’er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the Grave.

It came--’tis vanish’d--but hath left
The wanderers e’en of hope bereft;
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame.
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203]

But onward still!--yon distant spot
Of verdure can deceive you not;
Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d
Reflected as the waters gleam’d,
Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d,
Still rear their slender colonnade--
A landmark, guiding o’er the plain
The Caravan’s exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert’s emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent’s wave,
A gem embosom’d in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty’s image might convey!
Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.

Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in th’ acacia shade:
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise
Their aromatic breath diffuse;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o’er your heads.
Nature once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales:
And oh! to Afric’s child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose--
The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life’s best balm--Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed--the moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven
Serene magnificence have given--
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame
Shines forth eternally the same.
Blest be their beams, whose holy light
Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right,
And lead, as with a track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine!
--Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu!
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.

’Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild.
Darkly they rise--what eye hath view’d
The caverns of their solitude?
Away! within those awful cells
The savage lord of Afric dwells!
Heard ye his voice?--the lion’s roar
Swells as when billows break on shore.
Well may the camel shake with fear,
And the steed pant--his foe is near.
Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw
Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow;
Keep vigil--guard the bright array
Of flames that scare him from his prey;
Within their magic circle press,
O wanderers of the wilderness!
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze,
Tell the wild tales of elder days,--
Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells
On warrior deeds and wizard spells;
Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these,
Rising to vanish with the breeze;
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed
Their light where mortal may not tread;
And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls
Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls.
--With charms like these, of mystic power,
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.

Slowly that hour hath roll’d away,
And star by star withdraws its ray.
Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veil’d--with sanguine glare
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim.
’Tis death’s red banner streams on high--
Fly to the rocks for shelter!--fly!
Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies,
The pillars of the desert rise!
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling,
A giant-host, the heavens concealing,
They move, like mighty genii-forms,
Towering immense midst clouds and storms.
Who shall escape!--with awful force
The whirlwind bears them on their course;
They join, they rush resistless on--
The landmarks of the plain are gone;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning waste!
All whelm’d, all hush’d!--none left to bear
Sad record how they perish’d there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell--
The desert guards its mysteries well;
And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep,
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.

[201] The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water.

[202] See the description of the Simoom in Bruce’s Travels.

[203] The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers.

MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

[“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him:--“Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”--Plutarch.]

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high
With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes
Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown,
The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone;
Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes,
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near--dread offspring of the burning day!
Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.

There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:--
Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow;
Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told
Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d,
Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm.
--But slow his step--and where, not yet o’erthrown,
Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept--and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head,
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

“And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere;
“Shall son of Latium find a refuge _here_?
Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate,
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate!
Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave:
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!

“Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time--while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth!
Who shall awake the mighty?--will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
--Barbarians revel in their ancient halls,
And their lost children bend the subject knee,
Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.
Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal--thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth--whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course--thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach’d thee!--rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head.
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!

“Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!
Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies!
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood!
My children’s manès call--awake! prepare
The feast they claim!--exult in Rome’s despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;
Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”

The vision flies--a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe--before him stands
Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
--Silent the wanderer sat--but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A FRAGMENT.

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave,
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,
The wild wind slumbers in its cave,
And heaven is cloudless--earth is still!
The pile that crowns yon savage height
With battlements of Gothic might,
Rises in softer pomp array’d,
Its massy towers half lost in shade,
Half touch’d with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,
Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone,
O’er its rude strength and mien sublime,
A placid smile have thrown.
And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom:
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep;
But darting from its side,
How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line
Of radiance o’er the tide!
No sound is on the summer seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze
Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
That boat has reach’d the silent bay--
The dashing oar has ceased to play;
The breeze has murmur’d and has died
In forest shades, on ocean’s tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound;
And midnight spreads o’er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane
To break on nature’s sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar
High o’er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore--
For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres!
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,
Children of hallow’d peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,
To blow beneath the midnight moon,
The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!

Hark! did some note of plaintive swell
Melt on the stillness of the air?
Or was it fancy’s powerful spell
That woke such sweetness there?
For wild and distant it arose,
Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose,
When in lone wood, or mossy cave,
He dreams beside some fountain wave,
And fairy worlds delight the eyes
Wearied with life’s realities.

Was it illusion? Yet again
Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain,
Mellow, and sweet, and faint--
As if some spirit’s touch had given
The soul of sound to harp of heaven
To soothe a dying saint!
Is it the mermaid’s distant shell,
Warbling beneath the moonlit wave?
--Such witching tones might lure full well
The seaman to his grave!
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise,
Wild, soft, aërial melodies!
--Is it the song of woodland-fay
From sparry grot, or haunted bower?
Hark! floating on, the magic lay
Draws near yon ivied tower!
Now nearer still, the listening ear
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear;
And accents low, as if in fear,
Thus murmur, half suppress’d:--
“Awake! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,
The world is hush’d to rest!”
Then sinks the voice--the strain is o’er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.

Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks;
And, in that hour of silence deep,
While all around the dews of sleep
O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flush’d, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul
What struggling passions claim control!
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,
By turns have won th’ ascendency;
And as, all tremulously bright,
Streams o’er her face the beam of night,
What thousand mix’d emotions play
O’er that fair face, and melt away.
Like forms whose quick succession gleams
O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams;
Like the swift glancing lights that rise
Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies,
And traverse ocean o’er;
So in that full, impassion’d eye
The changeful meanings rise and die,
Just seen--and then no more!
But oh! too short that pause. Again
Thrills to her heart that witching strain:--
“Awake! the midnight moon is bright:
Awake! the moments wing their flight;
Haste! or they speed in vain!”----
O call of Love! thy potent spell
O’er that weak heart prevails too well;
The “still small voice” is heard no more
That pleaded duty’s cause before,
And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone,
And pride forgot, and reason flown!
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled,
Resumes its warmest, brightest red,
Her step its quick elastic tread,
Her eye its beaming smile!
Through lonely court and silent hall,
Flits her light shadow o’er the wall;
And still that low, harmonious call
Melts on her ear the while!
Though love’s quick ear alone could tell
The words its accents faintly swell:--
“Awake! while yet the lingering night
And stars and seas befriend our flight:
Oh! haste, while all is well!”----
The halls, the courts, the gates, are past,
She gains the moonlit beach at last.
Who waits to guide her trembling feet?
Who flies the fugitive to greet?
He, to her youthful heart endear’d
By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d,
Twined with each wish, with every thought
Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought,
Whose tints portray with flattering skill
What brighter worlds alone fulfil!
--Alas! that aught so fair should fly
Thy blighting wand, Reality!