Chapter XXXVIII: Part II (1)

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.”