The bridal of Vaumond :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alone, at eve's approaching tide,
Where Loro's silver waters glide,
To mingle with the deep blue main,
Young Lodowick his way hath ta'en;
Dark shades were flitting o'er his brain,
And wounded pride and recent smart
Were burrowing in his inmost heart.
Nor yet discomfiture alone
Hath rear'd revenge's midnight throne;
For lynx-eyed jealousy had shot
Into his soul a blasting thought;
A fiend—who lifts with mocks, and mows
The film that heaven indulgent throws
O'er mortal sight, and gives to view
What wildest fancy ne'er b'liev'd true.

II.

Far o'er yon western hills the sun
Sees half his tireless journey done;
In seas of gold, along the verge
Of heaven, his waning glories merge;

While darker hues the eastern sky
Have shrouded with their purple die:

The eastern part of the horizon, for half an hour after sunset is of a fine deep purple; the western, brilliant yellow. Brydone.

Sleeping on ocean's tranquil breast,
Its chastely brilliant beauties rest;
So richly pure the tinge that dims
Earth's amethysts or ocean's gems,
That glows in these fair climes alone,
Ere night's dark mantle round is thrown.

III.

O'er glorious fields and blooming glade
Deep came the mountain's giant shade:
The peasant, as he wends along,
Awakes with glee his evening song,
While home, with all its mystic ties,
Came lovelier still upon his eyes.
The bird, that sought his sheltering spray,
Carol'd his last notes to the day;
And softer, sadder seems the tone,
Than when he greets the morn his own.

IV.

In yon blue sky there is no cloud—
That sky so pure, so deep—
Even Ætna's everlasting shroud
Seems for a while to sleep;
Where, girt with triple zone, she rose
And rear'd her diadem of snows,
In misty grandeur far below;
Pillar of heaven—in heaven her brow
She hides from mortal ken;
Her base on earth—her roots, O where!

The swain, with terror, tells that there
The damned souls their torments bear,
With roar and yell—and then
He tells his beads, and breathes a prayer
To her who lends her guardian care,
To kind St. Agatha,

“Santa Agatha, a virgin martyr, who, under Quintilian, and in the yeer of our salvation 152, suffered martyrdome for Christ.” Warcup's Italy, folio. For the miracles pretended to be wrought by the veil of this saint see Hill, Brydone, &c.

to speed
Him at his last and awful need!

V.

Unclouded, now the moon rides high;
Yon boundless plain spreads tranquilly—
Its billows sleep, its breast unstirr'd,
Save where the light oar's dash is heard,
Fires gleaming at each stroke;

“A worm of a phosphorent nature produces the nocturnal lightning of the sea, which runs along the heads and sides of vessels, when they seem to be in a blaze of fire. The keel water seems to be a fiery smoke.” Ferber's Mineralogical Tour in Italy.

A brilliant, shooting lustre glides
Along the boat's illumin'd sides,
Curls round the prow, and fires the sail,
And gleams upon the dusky veil
Of billowy, circling smoke;
Until the wandering eye doth trace
From Zahara's red wilderness,
Upon the wave, some wizard dire,
Careering in his bark of fire.
The eastern breeze, that scarce could wake
One ripple on that boundless lake,
With fitful pause and solemn, bore
The distant hymn the waters o'er;
Where the lone mariner his song
Did to the Virgin's ear prolong,
Or to Saint Rosalie,

This saint had probably made her disappearance at this time; but her bones were not found till 600 years afterward, when they were discovered on Mount Pelegrino. She was daughter to King William the Good, and left society at the age of 15, &c. She disappeared, A. D. 1159. Brydone.

As swift the tranquil wave along,
The bark skimm'd merrily.

VI.

While gaz'd the knight, a softer hue,
A mellower influence nature threw
Around his heart;—for who can look—
Ay, though each chord, to madness struck,
Returns its harshest, rudest tone—
Where dwells the wretch, so lost, so lone,
Who, at such tide, can gaze on earth,
Still, calm, and fair, as at her birth—
In yon unfathom'd heaven high
Hold converse with eternity,
That flings her shroud around the deep,
Where mystery seems enthron'd to sleep—
Who soars not from the cares of man,
Spurns not the poor and narrow span,
Between the tear, on natal bed,
That love and fond affection shed,
And that which, haply, to his grave,
One lonely, sorrowing mourner gave!
Mounts not the pure intelligence
To mingle with the eternal soul,
That doth all quickening life dispense,
Absorbs, pervades, ingulphs the whole!

VII.

And now, with awful reverence, he stray'd
Where the pale moonbeam's trembling radiance play'd
On marble columns of the elder time,
And Dorian shafts its chroniclers sublime;
And storied capitals, that frown on high,
Scap'd from the wrack of ages long gone by:

Even so, when valour's dazzling sun hath set,
In solemn majesty endureth yet,
The fame of sages, warriors, now no more,
Lit by the moonlight beam of poesy and lore.
Kneel! for beneath thee heroes' ashes lie!
They bore the eagle o'er a crouching world—
His wings were clad with thunder, and his eye
The lightning of dominion round him hurl'd!
Move not their spirits in the uncertain shade?
Scan they not him whose footsteps hither err?
And lower they not on the unhallow'd tread
That wakes their country's silent sepulchre!

VIII.

So mus'd the chief, and fancy wild,
His thoughts, that rov'd from earth, beguil'd;
For, as he turn'd, full well he deem'd
Some vision of the heavens had gleam'd;—
Some child of light had left its sphere
Above, awhile to wander here.
Around that kneeling suppliant fair
A spheral light was thrown;
And form so frail our grosser air
Did never call its own.
Worlds, far beyond the circling skies,
Immortal grace have lent,
And that blue robe hath caught its dies
In purer firmament.
He knelt before the wondering knight,
And doff'd his plumes and bonnet light;
Then the dark curls, that scap'd their braid,
An earth-born female had betray'd—

But that, so bright they wanton'd wide,
So lovely, in the opal tide,
Sure they were glean'd from beams more fair
Than Berenice's fabled hair;
Beams of some distant sphere unnam'd,
And of immortal texture fram'd.
As up he cast a wistful glance
Upon the warrior's countenance,
Beauty undying, light divine,
All, all the seraph seem'd to shine.

IX.

So deem'd the knight: when silence broke
The fair boy first, as thus he spoke,
—With pleading eyes, that might impart
One human throb to demon's heart—
“A boon, Sir Knight, to beg I have,
An orphan boy thy grace would crave;
An orphan boy, whose parents kept
Their flocks in southern clime;
But since they with their fathers slept,
Oh! 'tis a weary time!

X.

“A knight had sworn their child to guard:
I serv'd him long; his heart was hard—
Cold—as yon mountain streamlet hoarse,
That numbs the life-drop in its course;
Yet all unfix'd it onward flows,
Nor winter's iron influence knows.

The river Acis, on the side of Ætna, is supposed to contract a greater degree of cold than ice, but never freezes. Brydone.

He, who had known that knight as well
As one, who dismal tales could tell—

Had deem'd, to adamant congealing,
That he would loose all life, all feeling:
But ah! in form how fair! deceiving,
Still as on he holds his way,
While some, who never prov'd him, b'lieving,
Fall, his scorn'd, hopeless prey!”

XI.

Emotions strong, a wavering glow
Shed o'er the gentle suppliant's brow;
He wip'd away a gushing tear,
As strove the knight to soothe his fear,
Then thus went on—“his house I fled,
O'er the wide world to roam;
No roof have I, to shield my head,
No dear and sacred home.
O pity one whose childhood fate
Hath frown'd on with remorseless hate;
And hide me from his face, whose wrath
Would close the scene of ills by death!
I cannot—dare not speak his name—
But it ranks high in martial fame;
And great is at your court his power
Who on poor Paulo's hopes doth lower.”

XII.

“Fair boy, in vain thou shalt not sue;—
Can'st thou be secret, cautious, true?
And wilt thou serve him who would die
To rescue thee?” “My fealty try—
In aught, that with indulgent eye,

The Power who sees us, could behold
This heart, by nature little bold,
Shall beat to answer thy behest;
Prove me, Sir Knight, my fealty test!”

XIII.

“Light is the task I give, fair youth,
And light the toil that proves thy truth;
For thou shalt serve a gentle maid,
Yon castle's towers shall shield thy head.
To serve her is no harsh command!
Bear thou the letter to her hand
That I will give, and fearlessly
To a safe home of refuge fly.”

XIV.

The knight and page have wound their way
Along the curvings of the bay;
Each with a heart too full to tell
The changing tides that ebb and swell.
To Regnier's

Duke of Anjou and titular King of Sicily. He was father of Margaret of Anjou. See Swinburne.

banquet bid, the one,
With love and hatred fraught, hath gone—
There shall he meet his lady's eye,
The polar star of destiny—
There shall he meet his rival's glance,
Keener, more deadly than his lance!