Agnes the Indian Captive. A Poem, in Four Cantos. With Other Poems. By the Rev. John Mitford |
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| II. |
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| IV. | CANTO IV. |
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 | Agnes |  |
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CANTO IV.
I.
So strolled along the woodland gladeThe hermit, and that gentle maid;
And now her mind, composed and calm,
Inhaled the evening's dewy balm;
Along the starry firmament
Her mild and pensive eye was bent;
And though her cheek was pale and white,
Like waters in the cold moonlight;
And though the tear-drop glitter'd there,
Yet still she wore a gentler air;
Resigned and meek, like those who dwell
Within their convent's quiet cell,
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Just stir, but not disturb the mind;
And life's strong lights and shadows seem
Soft as the visions of a dream,
Or scenes of fairy bliss that pass
Along the wizard's magic glass.
II.
And yet that maiden's mind I deemAdmitted but one only theme,
And friends and country far away
Remember'd now no more;
Nor him who sought her night and day
On many a distant shore.
Yet wonder not, of Isabel
That faithful maiden thought alone,
For who a sister's loss can tell
But who a sister's love has known?
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With kind affections round the mind;
The gentlest love that nature breathes
Its blessing to mankind.
Yet scorn not I the lover's fires,
The hallowed flame his torch inspires,
The rays that light up beauty's eyes,
The soft infection of her sighs;
The thousand nameless charms unseen
That float around their beauteous queen,
And guard with fond, unerring haste
The golden cestus of the waist;
Sweet are they all, and dear to me,
When the glad heart is firm and free:
But love in misery's bitter stream
Never his lip of laughter steeps;
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That gilds the urn where sorrow weeps.
III.
But you have seen when, day by day,The snow of winter fades away;
And lessening still when on its breast
The vernal gales their pinions rest;
And you have marked in evening sky
When the light shadows float on high;
And mild and pale the summer moon
Hangs like the feathery cloud of noon:
How each small spot of snowy hue
Melts in the dark expanse of blue.
And you have seen the primrose flower
Torn from its cool and pleasant shade;
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And hang its pallid leaves and fade.
And you have said, So fades away
The maid to hopeless love a prey;
And like the snow, the cloud, the flower,
Glides fast, though sad, life's passing hour;
And so was she, and such her fate
Who sate within the stranger's gate;
The bloom of youth was riveled quite,
The sun of hope had sunk in night,
And through her breast had passed the blow
That love and life at once laid low.
IV.
Long since each hope was gone, againThat she might tread her native plain;
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And crave a blessing on her head;
Might feel a father's fond caress,
And nurse his age in happiness;
Remained one hope to sooth the mind,
That Ferdinand her cell would find,
Awhile the flame of life it fed,
And that one hope was almost dead.
Yet still when night and darkness came,
Far off the watch-fire flung its flame,
And from the smouldering pile of oak
Rose through the day the pillar'd smoke.
“It might (would say the weeping maid)
Lure some poor wanderer to the shade;
War-wearied, broken, glad to fling
His weak limbs by the fountain spring:
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Stayed her faint words the gushing tear;
And ever did she seem to dread
To hear the very hopes she fed.
V.
Rolled still their flame by night and day,No wanderer blessed its friendly ray;
No wearied footstep sounded near,
No midnight shout alarmed the ear;
The mournful pair by day and night
Sate lonely at their watch-fire's light;
Nor sound they heard but of the blast,
That blew its howling horn and past;
Or pelican's wild shriek, who beat
His pennons thro' the midnight sleet;
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Of light the swarthy torches threw;
Dark lay the shapes along the ground
Of the gaunt beasts that prowl'd around;
And bursting through the moonless shade,
Like stars the falling meteors played.
VI.
Wild was the spot as thought could frame,The hill where rose their beacon-flame;
From rock to rock the torrents flung
Their sheets of foam, that downward swung
As they would wake from slumber deep
The echoes on the mountain steep.
Nor tilth, nor fallow there were seen,
But wilderness and wild woodgreen;
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Below its venerable head,
And gleaming through its ancient bower
Shone the tall mosque and ivied tower:
On whose high top, full gorged with prey,
Slept the dark vulture thro' the day.
Silent and calm the glassy lake
Spread its broad mirror in the brake;
And you might see beneath its stream
The rock with deepening shadow gleam,
As some huge beast was couching there
At watch within his watery lair;
And farther on from side to side
Stretched the long desart wild and wide;
Till towering in the hazy air
Rolled the volcano's fiery glare,
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In storm, and thunder cloud, and smoke.
VII.
Yet one hope more.—With staff in hand,As palmer from the Holy Land,
When morn its slanting beams had spread,
Like silver on the mountain head,
His path the ancient hermit took,
Where with long curve the forest-brook,
Thro' winding glen and flowery nook,
Flowed down to Jemna's strand;
And he (good angels be his guide)
May bring to his forsaken bride
Her own beloved Ferdinand!
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The fresh sun smote with yellow gleam;
And twice its westering wheels had driven
Like flakes of flame along the heaven;
Through the dark woods had twinkled far
All night the little Cresset-star
That lit the hermit's cell;
Her guiding lamp still Agnes fed,
And wakeful sate to catch the tread
Of footsteps down the dell.
VIII.
Oh, no! 'tis not the leaves that sweepIn drifts along the glade,
'Tis not the boughs that on the steep
The forest-winds have swayed;
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That howls and dies away;
For hark! again—it comes at last;
'Tis he!—his long, long journey past,
His solitary way.
'Tis he!—And does she fly to meet,
And kiss the aged wanderer's feet,
And press the sainted sod?
Ah, no!—she faints, she reels, and when
Her weak eye oped to life agen,
His cell alone the hermit trod.
She asked not;—but her steady eye
Seemed waiting the old man's reply;
She gaz'd on him, nor could he brook
To see that wild and withering look.
She spake not;—and he feared to tell
The tale his silence told too well.
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IX.
“Nay, I can bear it,” said the maid,“Can bear thy mournful tale to hear;
And why art thou to tell afraid,
When I shall listen without fear?
Thou found'st him not.—Nay, was it so?
Then I will search the battle-plain:
Or did'st thou find him lying low,
My warrior in his beauty slain,
All gashed and gored?”—“I found him not;
Nor lies he on the battle-field,
But on that foul accursed spot
Lies many a youth beside his shield.
And wild and loud the tempest there
Is moaning through their lifted hair,
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Defends the warrior's lonely grave.
X.
“Yon streamlet's shelving banks I paced,That through green wood, and wild, and waste,
Draws on its serpent train;
Then straight as falcon's flight I made
My onward path through sun and shade
The river bounds to gain.
Far on the lingering waters sped
Unseen beneath their woody bed;
From bank to bank the cedars hung,
(Athwart the stream their dark hair flung);
And many a golden orange-grove
Gleamed beauteous in the watery cove,
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Blossomed the little desart flower;
Till wider still the blue wave rolled,
And brighter stretched the sands of gold,
And o'er reed-bank and oozy shore
Screamed the wild Tern and Albicore.
By rock and rampart sped I on,
And heard far off the watchman call,
Nor stayed till Delhi's gates I won,
And crossed unseen the moated wall.
The warder's shout to me was nought,
And nought the trumpet's warring blast,
For only Ferdinand I sought,
And fearless through the war-camp past.
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XI.
“I asked of all.—‘'Tis he, I seek,The warrior with the golden cross;
Lives he so manly, yet so meek,
And know ye of his life or loss?
'Tis he so beautiful and bold,
He sate within your monarch's hall;
And he was loved of young and old,
And know ye of his fate or fall?’
In vain—not one his fate could tell,
They bade me seek him midst the dead
He lies perchance in yonder dell,
For there the raven long has fed.
A mournful sight.—For all around
The blood of warriors dyed the ground;
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My slippery pathway through the dead;
And though full many a day had passed
Since the glazed eyeball gazed its last;
And though full many a night had rolled,
And bleached them in the moonbeam cold;
Yet as along the deathly plain
I bent upon the heaps of slain,
In each low wind I seemed to hear
Strange dying sounds that smote my ear,
I shook, as still I seemed to grasp
The dying man's convulsive clasp;
Yet never found I there the grave
Of him, the beautiful and brave.”
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XII.
Where one small spot of greensward lay,Close sheltered by the brake;
There shone a little inland bay,
That well had tempted faun or fay
Their pastime there to take;
And sing their jocund roundelay
Beneath the cypress of the lake.
For there the mountain wild bee flew,
And dipt his filmy wing in dew;
The blue liana floated there,
Its broider'd banners hung in air.
Along the quivering waters played
The dark Varinga's pensile shade,
And broad and cool the tamarind's head,
Its crown of tassel'd leaflets spread,
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In sun and shower the pine-grove gave;
Yet sad was all, and mournful there;
—The tawny leaf that in the air
Its dying odours flung;
And rent by autumn blasts, and bare,
Lay many a wither'd bough, that fair
Beneath the spring had hung.
XIII.
No joy had Agnes but to roveAt will within this darksome grove,
From morn to eve to wander free,
Her food the wild fruit from the tree,
Or gaze upon the lake's wide breast
When all its waters were at rest;
Till in the mirror broad and blue
Would fancy paint her scenes anew,
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The wild wood cot where once she strayed;
The forest grange, the ivied tower,
The hawthorn in her sheltering bower;
And peering o'er the forest tall,
The pinnetts on her castle wall;
And many a home-scene, such as brought
The pensive tear that followed thought.
So gleams to him whose fever'd blood
Boils hot amidst the tropic flood;
The long savannah spreading cool,
The sparry grot, the fresh'ning pool;
And flowery meads and valleys green
Amid the skiey mirhage seen;
And long woods trending far away,
And elmy grove and oaken spray;
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With giant step from vale to vale.
XIV.
And ever as she gazed, I ween,The tear adown her pale cheek fell;
And fixed and ghastly was her mien,
Like one who death itself had seen,
And hard, each falling tear between,
Would rise her bosom's swell.
For stronger still within the stream
She saw those watery visions gleam,
Unearthed forms that seemed to glide
Like fiends beneath the passing tide,
Then from her outstretch'd arms they flew,
And mocked her straining eyeball's view.
An old man there she saw, who tore
With frantic hand his tresses hear;
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Childless he passed and desolate;
And one who on the bed of death
Lay pale and gasp'd for life and breath,
Yet on her weak and faltering tongue,
Half heard the name of Agnes hung;
Then o'er the silent threshold last
A slow and sable hearsement past.
XV.
It fled away.—A female bandMoved gaily o'er the yellow strand,
With harp, and pipe, and minstrelsy;
And she was in that troop so fair,
With gem and garland on her hair,
As well a bride might be.
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To whom she plighted faith and truth;
And they within the blossomed bower,
In love sped fast the noontide hour.
What more has life than this to give?
When both possessing and possest,
We sleep upon our true love's breast,
It is indeed to live.
But, lo! along the bloody clay
In armour clad a warrior lay,
His helm and hauberk hewn away,
His gashed targe at his side;
She stooped; she kneeled upon the ground
To bathe his wide and gaping wound:
Oh! mercy, Heaven! herself she found
The dying warrior's bride.
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XVI.
It fled.—And o'er the troubled streamThe tempest swept along;
Yet, hark! her wild convulsive scream!
For still beneath the lightning's gleam
That ghastly vision hung.
And groans and dying shrieks were there,
And voices mocked her in the air,
And spectred shapes would flit around;
And when along the storm they fled,
Stretched cold and pale as are the dead,
She sank upon the ground.
XVII.
Yet not for ever could it last,This load of anguish and of pain;
Beneath time's gentle healing past
The fever of the brain.
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Was beaming on life's closing day,
Soft as the dewy lights of eve;
When past the storm, and once again
The sun-gleams o'er the yellow plain,
Their dying lustre leave.
No backward look did Agnes cast,
No sigh, no wish that mourned the past,
No tear that flowed for pleasures gone;
But mild and meek she kneeled to share
Duly the hermit's evening prayer,
Or in the wild and woodland glade,
Beneath the hallowed cross she paid
The orisons of morn.
And well that man of holy life
To her would paint our mortal strife,
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And cares that gnaw the heart, and sin
That taints the secret man within,
And blasts him ere he dies.
XVIII.
“But happy thou to whom is givenSo soon the heritage of heaven,
From this bad world so soon to fly:”
And then with clasped hand he prayed
That God would guide the blessed maid
In sickness and in misery.
“And thou shalt meet in that far land
Thine own beloved Ferdinand,
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For when thou art no longer near,
How would he bear to linger here,
This world a prison dark and drear,
Of punishment and pain!
He will be there.—Nay, do not weep,—
For life is but a darkened sleep,
We travellers thro' a lonesome dell;
And thou, ere many a day, shall press,
Once more in health and happiness,
Thy poor, forsaken Isabel.
—“And thou”—“No, not,” he cried, “for me
Is it such blessed sight to see,
For long my penance here must be
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Yet blest to think, that far above
Thou bendest down one look of love
On him who dwells below.”
XIX.
“A seraph thou!—and she who died,Faint and forsaken by thy side,
Her branch of palm shall bear.”
—He turned; but stretched upon the clay,
Lifeless and pale the maiden lay,
And one who still her cold cheek prest,
And clasped her fainting to his breast,
In warrior weeds was there.
“Awake! my poor, forsaken one!”
He cried, “our days of grief are done,
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Awake! long lost, and found at last,
My Agnes! for our days are past
Of penance and of pain.
'Tis Ferdinand who calls.—Thine own,
Who lives, who breathes for thee alone,
Loved above all that earth can give;
Awake, my best beloved! my bride!
My heart's first hope! my joy, my pride,
Awake for me, and live!
Oh! turn thee once again to me,
And thou, oh God! a shelter be
To shadow this poor myrtle tree!”
XX.
The voice of love, it cannot saveThe dying from their doom;
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With living light illume;
Nor love himself, a spirit brave,
Pass fearless thro' the tomb.
But he has power to stay the breath
One moment from its flight;
Ere yet the uplifted arm of death
Descends to grasp its right.
And once again, on Agnes ear,
Came that known voice so loved and dear,
So loved, and lost so long;
It came with healing and with hope,
Her languid eyelids seemed to ope,
Her heart to beat its pulses strong.
It came in life's departing hour,
—A sunbeam on the blasted flower;
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It came—but oh! to save no more.
And yet that voice to her did seem
As she had heard it in a dream;
That form as shadowy shapes that fly
In visions o'er the musing eye.
For faint she was, and weak, and worn,
By sickness and by sorrow torn;
And she had learned long since to part
With hopes that lean upon the heart,
So fondly as their stay;
Nor dared she now to think that Heaven
Had so much of its mercy given
To gild her dying day.
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XXI.
“I would have seen you ere I died,My gentle Ferdinand,” she cried;
“And morn and even I did pray,
That hence I might not pass away
Unseen, unblest by thee.
'Twas heard:—no wish remained behind,
But oh! how merciful and kind
I own Heaven is to me!
Yet something I would speak: when I
Beneath my grave of turf shall lie,
This aged man, who even now
For me bends down his sorrowing brow,
You will not leave him, Ferdinand,
To tears and toil a prey;
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Child of his age, at his right hand,
When I am far away.
A father he has been to me;
To me a mother's love has shown;
What I have been, so thou shalt be,
And his few grey hairs quietly
Shall to the grave go down.”
XXII.
She paused.—“Yet somewhat have I moreTo say.—When to your native shore
You shall return, though late;
By all our love, by all to thee
I am, by all I hoped to be,
Forget not those who now for me
Are weeping old and desolate.
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But yet of our poor Isabel
Some little portion hide;
And say in peace she breathed her last,
And that her painful sufferings past,
She blessed them ere she died.”
And now his hand that hers had clasped
She gently to her bosom drew;
“This last sad pledge of love”—she gasped
For breath awhile—“to give to you
Remains—'tis all I can bestow.”
And closer now his hand she prest;
—“This one cold kiss!”—and on his breast
She sank, a wreath of snow.
| Agnes | |