Chapter XLIV: Part II (7)

But she that with the dark hair watch’d by the cold slumberer’s
side,
On _her_ wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;
Only her full impassion’d eyes as o’er that clay she bent,
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.

And as the swift thoughts cross’d her soul, like shadows of a cloud,
Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke aloud;
She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried,
“Thou yet wilt wake,
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one! for thy sake.

“They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be;
Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for _thee_?
They would have wrapp’d the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,
But I forbade--and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crown’d!

“With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,
And thy brow so proudly beautiful--who said that this was death?
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm’d and strong.

“I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like thee,
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of glee!
A frail and drooping form is mine--a cold unsmiling cheek--
Oh! I have but a woman’s heart wherewith _thy_ heart to seek.

“But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hear’st how I have
kept
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o’er thee pray’d and wept--
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights, and days have past--
Surely that humble patient love _must_ win back love at last!

“And thou wilt smile--my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all _but_ me erewhile!
No more in vain affection’s thirst my weary soul shall pine--
Oh! years of hope deferr’d were paid by one fond glance of thine!

“Thou’lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the
chase--
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o’er thy face!
Thou’lt reck no more though beauty’s gift mine aspect may not bless;
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness.

“But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice
In the sound to which it ever leap’d, the music of thy voice.
Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone.”

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour’d forth day by day,
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o’er every grace,
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher’s breast,
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind--
But a woman’s broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Woman!--a power to suffer and to love;
Therefore thou so canst pity.

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum
On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke--
“Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come”--
So the red warriors to their captive spoke.
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,
A youth, a fair-hair’d youth of England stood,
Like a king’s son; though from his cheek had flown
The mantling crimson of the island blood,
And his press’d lips look’d marble. Fiercely bright
And high around him blazed the fires of night,
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,
As the wind pass’d, and with a fitful glow
Lighting the victim’s face: but who could tell
Of what within his secret heart befell,
Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought
Of his far home then so intensely wrought,
That its full image, pictured to his eye
On the dark ground of mortal agony,
Rose clear as day!--and he might _see_ the band
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand,
Where the laburnums droop’d; or haply binding
The jasmine up the door’s low pillars winding;
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth,
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth,
Where sat their mother; and that mother’s face
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place
Where so it ever smiled! Perchance the prayer
Learn’d at her knee came back on his despair;
The blessing from her voice, the very tone
Of her “_Good-night_” might breathe from boyhood gone!
--He started and look’d up: thick cypress boughs,
Full of strange sound, waved o’er him, darkly red
In the broad stormy firelight; savage brows,
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o’erspread,
Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars
Look’d through the branches as through dungeon bars,
Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom--
Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom
That happy hall in England. Idle fear!
Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear
The secret of the forests? To the stake
They bound him; and that proud young soldier strove
His father’s spirit in his breast to wake,
Trusting to die in silence! He, the love
Of many hearts!--the fondly rear’d--the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see! And fetter’d there
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain’s hand.
He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity--
A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?
A girl--a young slight girl--a fawn-like child
Of green savannas and the leafy wild,
Springing unmark’d till then, as some lone flower,
Happy because the sunshine is its dower;
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed,
For _hers_ had mourn’d a playmate-brother dead.

She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And, by its passion’s deepening fervour sway’d,
Even to the stake she rush’d, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye,
And clear-toned voice, that said, “He shall not die!”
“He shall not die!”--the gloomy forest thrill’d
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were still’d,
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell.
They gazed: their dark souls bow’d before the maid,
She of the dancing step in wood and glade!
And, as her cheek flush’d through its olive hue,
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew,
Something o’ermaster’d them from that young mien--
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen;
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.

They loosed the bonds that held their captive’s breath;
From his pale lips they took the cup of death;
They quench’d the brand beneath the cypress tree:
“Away,” they cried, “young stranger, thou art free!”

COSTANZA.

Art thou then desolate?
Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me!
I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false?
Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me!
Why didst thou ever leave me? Know’st thou all
I would have borne, and call’d it joy to bear,
For thy sake? Know’st thou that thy voice hath power
To shake me with a thrill of happiness
By one kind tone?--to fill mine eyes with tears
Of yearning love? And thou--oh! thou didst throw
That crush’d affection back upon my heart
Yet come to me!--it died not.

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell
Through the stain’d window of her lonely cell,
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow,
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow,
While o’er her long hair’s flowing jet it threw
Bright waves of gold--the autumn forest’s hue--
Seem’d all a vision’s mist of glory, spread
By painting’s touch around some holy head,
Virgin’s or fairest martyr’s. In her eye
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky,
What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe,
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below
The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal
What life had taught that chasten’d heart to feel,
Might speak indeed of woman’s blighted years,
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears!
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone,
And of the gentle saint no more was known,
Than that she fled the world’s cold breath, and made
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade,
Filling its depths with soul, whene’er her hymn
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim,
And ancient solitude; where hidden streams
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams--
Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers,
All nature’s balms, wherewith her gliding tread
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed
Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal birth
He deem’d the pale fair form that held on earth
Communion but with grief.

Ere long, a cell,
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone
Gleam’d through the dark trees o’er a sparkling well;
And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone,
Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer.
And now ’twas prayer’s own hour. That voice again
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain,
That made the cypress quiver where it stood,
In day’s last crimson soaring from the wood
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set,
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met
The floating song. Strange sounds!--the trumpet’s peal,
Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel;
The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass
There had been combat; blood was on the grass,
Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying,
And the pine branches crash’d before the flying.

And all was changed within the still retreat,
Costanza’s home: there enter’d hurrying feet,
Dark looks of shame and sorrow--mail-clad men,
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen,
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword,
As there they laid their leader, and implored
The sweet saint’s prayers to heal him: then for flight,
Through the wide forest and the mantling night,
Sped breathlessly again. They pass’d; but he,
The stateliest of a host--alas! to see
What mother’s eyes have watch’d in rosy sleep,
Till joy, for very fulness, turn’d to weep,
Thus changed!--a fearful thing! His golden crest
Was shiver’d, and the bright scarf on his breast--
Some costly love-gift--rent: but what of these?
There were the clustering raven locks--the breeze,
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers,
Might scarcely lift them; steep’d in bloody showers,
So heavily upon the pallid clay
Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes’ dark ray,
Where was it? And the lips!--they gasp’d apart,
With their light curve, as from the chisel’s art,
Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue--
Was it not death’s?--that stillness--that cold dew
On the scarr’d forehead? No! his spirit broke
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay,
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken,
The haughty chief of thousands--the forsaken
Of all save one. _She_ fled not. Day by day--
Such hours are woman’s birthright--she, unknown,
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone;
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving
His brow with tears that mourn’d the strong man’s raving.
He felt them not, nor mark’d the light veil’d form
Still hovering nigh! yet sometimes, when that storm
Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low
As a young mother’s by the cradle singing,
Would soothe him with sweet _aves_, gently bringing
Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow
Ebb’d from his hollow cheek.

At last faint gleams
Of memory dawn’d upon the cloud of dreams;
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,
And gazing round him from his leafy bed,
He murmur’d forth, “Where am I? What soft strain
Pass’d like a breeze across my burning brain?
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone
Of life’s first music, and a thought of one--
Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride,
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side?
All lost!--and this is death!--I _cannot_ die
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye!
Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn?
My first, my holiest love!--her broken heart
Lies low, and I--unpardon’d I depart.”

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil
From her dark locks and features brightly pale,
And stood before him with a smile--oh! ne’er
Did aught that _smiled_ so much of sadness wear--
And said, “Cesario! look on me; I live
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive.
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust,
As should be heaven’s alone--and heaven is just!
I bless thee--be at peace!”

But o’er his frame
Too fast the strong tide rush’d--the sudden shame,
The joy, th’ amaze! He bow’d his head--it fell
On the wrong’d bosom which had loved so well;
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there--
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair.

MADELINE.

A DOMESTIC TALE.

“Who should it be?--Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?”--Joanna Baillie.

“My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight’s close,
And thy ‘Good-night’ at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France,
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile’s woe
From thy young heart be far! And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot,
God shall be with me. Now, farewell! farewell!
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother’s bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow’d there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye
That still sought mine: these moments are gone by--
Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell
The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!”

This was a mother’s parting with her child--
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled,
And woo’d her with a voice of love away
From childhood’s home: yet there, with fond delay,
She linger’d on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird through trellis’d rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother’s neck and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush’d o’er her soul, and many a vanish’d day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset’s golden sleep,
With a calm’d heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour’d forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean solitudes were pass’d,
And the bright land was reach’d, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furl’d
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Look’d on the home that promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace
The map of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears!
That home was darken’d soon: the summer breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas:
Death unto one, and anguish--how forlorn!
To her that, widow’d in her marriage morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom’s first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim,
As from the sun shut out on every side
By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill,
When with rich hopes o’erfraught, the young high heart
Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part
Which life will teach--to suffer and be still,
And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! _She_ had not learn’d
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn’d
In weariness from life. Then came th’ unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile’s breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps: until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams
In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow?
Something was there that, through the lingering night,
Outwatches patiently the taper’s light--
Something that faints not through the day’s distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness--
Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that power,
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence?--who can ask? The wild delirium pass’d,
And from her eyes the spirit look’d at last
Into her _mother’s_ face, and wakening knew
The brow’s calm grace, the hair’s dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old!--and had _she_ come,
Thus in life’s evening from her distant home,
To save her child? Even so--nor yet in vain;
In that young heart a light sprang up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem’d this fair world, though faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock’d her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
“Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?”
The lorn one cried, “and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore:
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more.”

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA’S TOMB.

[“This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance--not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the king brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother.”--Sherer’s _Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany_.]

“In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed.” Milman.

It stands where northern willows weep,
A temple fair and lone;
Soft shadows o’er its marble sweep
From cypress branches thrown;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel’st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptured woman’s form,
Lovely, in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm:
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle’s quiet flow,
The gentle yet majestic grace
Throned on the matron brow;
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
A kingly emblem--nor unmeet
To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;
She was a mother--in her love
How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow’d long be every leaf,
The record of her children’s grief!

She saw their birthright’s warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoil’d,
The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield’s bright blazon soil’d:
She met the tempest, meekly brave,
Then turn’d o’erwearied to the grave.

She slumber’d: but it came--it came,
Her land’s redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal flame
Sent on from tower to tower!
Fast through the realm a spirit moved--
’Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial pour’d
To sanctify th’ avenger’s sword.
And the crown’d eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain--
So was the triumph won!
But woe for earth, where sorrow’s tone
Still blends with victory’s!--She was gone!

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:--“This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616.”--See notes to the _Pleasures of Memory_.]

Mother and child! whose blending tears
Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years,
Was given one last embrace--
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power
Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought--
A still, small under tone,
That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled--of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone
Which marks your parting spot,
Who but a mother’s love hath known--
The _one_ love changing not?
Alas! and haply learn’d its worth
First with the sound of “Earth to earth!”

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou,
O’er whose bright honour’d head
Blessings and tears of holiest flow
E’en here were fondly shed--
Thou from the passion of thy grief,
In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For, oh! though painful be th’ excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature’s fount no bitterness
Of nature’s mingling dwells;
And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poison’d the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all--was all in this world o’er
With ties thus close and true?
It was! On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.

No other voice could pierce the maze
Where, deep within thy breast,
The sounds and dreams of other days
With memory lay at rest;
No other smile to thee could bring
A gladdening, like the breath of spring.

Yet, while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,
While on thy name, midst wood and hill,
The quiet sunshine sleeps,
And touches, in each graven line,
Of reverential thought a sign;

Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,
Think of the love embodied there
As of a vision fled?
A perish’d thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour?

Not so!--I will not bow me so
To thoughts that breathe despair!
A loftier faith we need below,
Life’s farewell words to bear.
Mother and child!--your tears are past--
Surely your hearts have met at last.

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.[352]

I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring odours breathed around,
And music, in the river wave,
Pass’d with a lulling sound.

All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seem’d to run
Through the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough
That fringed the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad--but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.

And mournful grew my heart for thee!
Thou in whose woman’s mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song, was shrined.

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world’s vernal dawn.

Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have loved so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring--
And thou wert pass’d away.

But then, e’en then, a nobler thought
O’er my vain sadness came;
Th’ immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look’d ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.

The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see’st thou, then, where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?

Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gavest; but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours--
_There_ love and death must part.

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep?

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?--
Now peace the woman’s heart hath found,
And joy the poet’s eye.

[352] “Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of _Psyche_. Her grave is one of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.”--_Tales by the O’Hara Family._

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

“Where’s the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?” Marmion.

The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman’s voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood’s tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear’d
To guard each hallow’d wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child’s glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

“I have dreamt thou wert
A captive in thy hopelessness; afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream
Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air.” L. E. L.

The champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far;
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam’d to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse king’s board;
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d;
The hearth was heap’d with the pine-boughs high,
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.

The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme
Their songs of the sword and the olden time;
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,
Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung.

But the swell was gone from the quivering string,
They had summon’d a softer voice to sing;
And a captive girl, at the warriors’ call,
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.

Lonely she stood,--in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies;
And the drooping fringe of their lashes low
Half-veil’d a depth of unfathom’d woe.

Stately she stood--though her fragile frame
Seem’d struck with the blight of some inward flame,
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.

And a deep flush pass’d, like a crimson haze,
O’er her marble cheek by the pine-fire’s blaze--
No soft hue caught from the south wind’s breath,
But a token of fever at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crown’d for her bridal-day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land--
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow--
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low;
But it swell’d into deeper power ere long,
As the breeze that swept o’er her soul grew strong.

“They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee!
Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful-sounding sea?
Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul? In silence let me die,
In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure,
deep sapphire sky:
How should thy lyre give _here_ its wealth of buried sweetness
forth--
Its tones of summer’s breathings born, to the wild winds of the
north?

“Yet thus it shall be once, once more! My spirit shall awake,
And through the mists of death shine out, my country, for thy sake!
That I may make _thee_ known, with all the beauty and the light,
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter’s yearning sight!
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,
Thy soul flow o’er my lips again--yet once, my Sicily!

“There are blue heavens--far hence, far hence! but,
oh! their glorious blue!
Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth’s deep hue!
It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home,
And arching o’er my vintage hills, they hang their cloudless dome;
And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore,
And steeping happy hearts in joy--that now is mine no more.

“And there are haunts in that green land--oh! who may dream or tell
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell!
By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,
And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves;
The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,
And the violets gleam like amethysts from the dewy moss beneath.

“And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and
day--
Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away;
They wander through the olive woods, and o’er the shining seas--
They mingle with the orange scents that load the sleepy breeze;
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there,--it were a bliss to die,
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

“_I_ may not thus depart--farewell! Yet no, my country! no!
Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!
My fleeting spirit shall o’ersweep the mountains and the main,
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again.
Its passion deepens--it prevails!--I break my chain--I come
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest--in thy sweet air, my home!”

And her pale arms dropp’d the ringing lyre--
There came a mist o’er her eye’s wild fire--
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll’d.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall--
A silence fell o’er the warriors’ hall;
She had pour’d out her soul with her song’s last tone:
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

[“Ivan le Terrible, étant déjà devenu vieux, assiégait Novgorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demandèrent s’il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l’assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne pût l’appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d’une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au désespoir, devint indifférent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils.”--_Dix Années d’Exil, par_ Madame de Stael.]

“Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss
Ihn wieder haben! ...
... Trostlose allmacht,
Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung
Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!” Schiller.

He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war;
He had cast his jewell’d sabre,
That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead--
His fair and first-born son.
With a robe of ermine for its bed
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed
Through the rich tent made way;
And a sad and solemn beauty
On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watch’d,
In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last, of woe and fear,
From his full bosom broke--
A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke!
The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burden’d with agony.

“There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath;
I call thee, and thou dost not speak--
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done--
For the honour of thy father’s name,
Look up, look up, my son!

“Well might I know death’s hue and mien--
But on _thine_ aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen
Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,
And bravest there of all--
How could I think a warrior’s frame
Thus like a flower should fall?

“I will not bear that still cold look--
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!

“Didst thou not know I loved thee well?
Thou didst not! and art gone,
In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart
That seem’d to thee so stern.

“Thou wert the first, the first, fair child
That in mine arms I press’d:
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled
Like summer on my breast!
I rear’d thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee--dead!

“Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs! in my first-born’s grave!
And leave me!--I have conquer’d,
I have slain: my work is done!
Whom have I slain? Ye answer not--
_Thou_ too art mute, my son!”

And thus his wild lament was pour’d
Through the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sigh’d;
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank--
Humbly the conqueror died.

CAROLAN’S PROPHECY.

[“It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father’s house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter’s perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,’ said he emphatically, ‘she will not survive twelve months.’ The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard.”--_Percy Anecdotes_.]

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o’er thine eye
The lights and shadows come and go too fast;
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate
For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song!
’Tis well thou shouldst depart.

A sound of music, from amidst the hills, Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset’s light Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, And the wind’s whisper in the mountain ash, Whose clusters droop’d above. His head was bow’d, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood Waiting around, in silent earnestness, Th’ unchaining of his soul, the gush of song-- Many and graceful forms!--yet one alone Seem’d present to his dream; and she, indeed, With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, E’en painfully!--a creature to behold With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth Too dim without its brightness! Did such fear O’ershadow in that hour the gifted one, By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dash’d with grief-- As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o’ermaster’d him; but yielding then To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters o’er the harp he pour’d The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang--

“Voice of the grave!
I hear thy thrilling call;
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave,
In the sere leaf’s trembling fall!
In the shiver of the tree,
I hear thee, O thou voice!
And I would thy warning were but for me,
That my spirit might rejoice.

“But thou art sent
For the sad earth’s young and fair,
For the graceful heads that have not bent
To the wintry hand of care!
They hear the wind’s low sigh,
And the river sweeping free,
And the green reeds murmuring heavily,
And the woods--but they hear not thee!

“Long have I striven
With my deep-foreboding soul,
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll.
There’s a young brow smiling near,
With a bridal white-rose wreath--
Unto _me_ it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touch’d solemnly by death!

“Fair art thou, Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the dim woods tuneful round--
But soon it must be still!

“Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie--
Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow
That my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes wild and low
Its ringing tones have died.

“Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily’s leaves,
A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees
Through nature’s awful heart--
But bright things go with the summer breeze,
And thou too must depart!

“Yet, shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,
Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,
And the chill of this world’s breath--
Go--all undimm’d in thy glory, go!
Young and crown’d bride of death!

“Take hence to heaven
Thy holy thoughts and bright,
And soaring hopes, that were not given
For the touch of mortal blight!
Might we follow in thy track,
This parting should not be!
But the spring shall give us violets back,
And every flower but thee!”

There was a burst of tears around the bard:
All wept but one--and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before. So Morna heard
The minstrel’s prophecy.
And spring return’d,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again--
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,
A young sweet spirit gone.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

FROM THE “PORTRAIT GALLERY,” AN UNFINISHED POEM.

If there be but one spot on thy name,
One eye thou fear’st to meet, one human voice
Whose tones thou shrink’st from--Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head--and die!

Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair,
(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,)
Half braided, half o’er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A child’s light hand is roving
Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady’s eye, methinks, hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother’s; on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
These may be dreams--but how shall woman tell
Of woman’s shame, and not with tears? She fell!
That mother left that child!--went hurrying by
Its cradle--haply not without a sigh,
Haply one moment o’er its rest serene
She hung. But no! it could not thus have been,
For _she went on!_--forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour’d thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife.
He reck’d no more of glory: grief and shame
Crush’d out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o’er his halls
Crept year by year: the minstrel pass’d their walls;
The warder’s horn hung mute. Meantime the child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother’s tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check’d on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger’d; flush’d her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
E’en to the spring’s glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a _young_ blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;--
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair--for she indeed was fair;
Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light--
_Hers_ were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child’s--and oh! the brow above
So pale and pure! so form’d for holy love
To gaze upon in silence! But she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where’er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that call’d on heaven
To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn
With alms before her castle-gate she stood,
Midst peasant groups: when, breathless and o’erworn,
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid,
With her sweet voice and proffer’d hand of aid,
Turn’d to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers--a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart’s urn; and with her white lips press’d
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow’s deep flush, sobb’d out--“O undefiled!
I am thy mother--spurn me not, my child!”

Isaure had pray’d for that lost mother; wept
O’er her stain’d memory, while the happy slept
In the hush’d midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture’s smile of other days,
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh’d her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter’d guise,
Awhile o’erpower’d her? From the weeper’s touch
She shrank--’twas but a moment--yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while o’er her castle’s threshold stone,
Those long fair tresses--_they_ still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more--
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll’d,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o’er her--call’d her: ’twas too late--
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard--
How didst thou fall, O bright-hair’d Ermengarde!

THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.

“O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.”
As You Like It.

Fallen was the house of Giafar; and its name,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tigris’ wave. Stern Haroun’s wrath,
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away,
Had so pass’d sentence: but man’s chainless heart
Hides that within its depths which never yet
Th’ oppressor’s thought could reach.

’Twas desolate
Where Giafar’s halls, beneath the burning sun,
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased;
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales
Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice
Was there--the fountain’s; through those Eastern courts,
Over the broken marble and the grass,
Its low clear music shedding mournfully.

And still another voice! An aged man,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate
On a white column’s fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill,
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory’s fulness o’er its gloom,
Like waters in the waste; and calling up,
By song or high recital of their deeds,
Bright solemn shadows of its vanish’d race
To people their own halls: with these alone,
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
Rear’d in this lordly dwelling, and was now
The ivy of its ruins, unto which
His fading life seem’d bound. Day roll’d on day,
And from that scene the loneliness was fled;
For crowds around the gray-hair’d chronicler
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze
Wanders through forest branches, and is met
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lament,
As through their stricken souls it pass’d, awoke
One echoing murmur. But this might not be
Under a despot’s rule, and, summon’d thence,
The dreamer stood before the Caliph’s throne:
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale,
And with his white lips rigidly compress’d;
Till, in submissive tones, he ask’d to speak
Once more, ere thrust from earth’s fair sunshine forth.
Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye,
And he was changed!--and thus, in rapid words,
Th’ o’ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way:--

“And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave,
With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave?
What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land?
I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band!

“My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes that in your halls was
nursed--
That follow’d you to many a fight, where flash’d your sabres first--
That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart:--
Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?

“It shall not be! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still,
With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill;
The wind’s free flight shall bear it on as wandering seeds are sown,
And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep and thrilling tone.

“For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves
expires,
And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its
fires;
It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword,
It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings pour’d.

“The founts, the many gushing founts which to the wild ye gave,
Of you, my chiefs! shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave;
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim’s
way,
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day.

“The very walls your bounty rear’d for the stranger’s homeless head,
Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead!
Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern
rung,
And the serpent in your palaces lie coil’d amidst its young.

“It is enough! Mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees--
I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and to the breeze!
I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair,
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs! are there.”

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
O’er Haroun’s eyes had gather’d, and a thought--
Oh! many a sudden and remorseful thought--
Of his youth’s once-loved friends, the martyr’d race,
O’erflow’d his softening heart. “Live! live!” he cried,
“Thou faithful unto death! Live on, and still
Speak of thy lords--they _were_ a princely band!”

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.[353]

“Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life’s early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a veil o’er the spirit’s young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.”
Moore.

I made a mountain brook my guide
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander’d on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.

It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance,
To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance.

A dim and deeply bosom’d grove
Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest bee.

The darkness of the chestnut-bough
There on the waters lay,
The bright stream reverently below
Check’d its exulting play;

And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen
On through the breathing solitude
Of that rich leafy scene.