The Isle of Devils A Historical Tale, Funnded on an Anecdote in the Annals of Portugal. (From an unpublished Manuscript.) By M. G. Lewis |
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 | The Isle of Devils |  |
15
IX.
Days, weeks, months flew—time came with slow reliefBut still at length it came: no more her grief
Disturbs her brain; she knows “that grave was his;
And fully feels herself the wretch she is!
She rises—towards the Grotto's mouth she goes,
Nor dare the Fiend her wandering steps oppose.
She seeks that spot on which Rosalvo fell—
On which he died—she knows that spot too well.
But lo! no corse was there, all smooth and green,
A velvet turf o'er strown with flowers was seen,
And fenced with roses—“Oh whose pious care,
Hath decked his grave? Hear gracious heaven his prayer,
When most he needs”; While thus in doubt she stands,
She marks the Fiend's approach—his ebon hands
Sustained a gourd of flowers of various hue,
He poured them, kissed the turf, and straight withdrew.
Thither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,
Smoothed the green sod, and strewed it o'er and o'er;
Thither each morn came Irza: on those flowers
She wept, she prayed, she sang away the hours;
So mourns the nightingale in poplar spray,
Her callow brood by shepherds borne away;
Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat,
Fills the wide grove with warblings sad as sweet.
And still fresh cares succeed—she feels again
Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain;
Too sure while lost in maniac state she lay,
Her strength, her wits, her feeling all away.
Once more the Fiend had siezed th' unguarded hour,
Subdued her weakness, and abused his power.
Again Lucina came! that new born cry,
Shuddering again she heard; her fearful eye
Wandered awhile around, nor dared to stay,
“There—there he lies! my child!” with fresh essay,
Once more she turned; but when at length her sight,
Fixed on its face, her wonder, her delight,
Can ne'er by tongue be told, by fancy guessed,
Frantic she caught, she kissed, and lulled him on her breast
Oh! who can paint how Irza loved that child,
Grieved if he moaned, and smiled whene'er he smiled;
His dimpled arm soft on the rushes lay,
Thro' his fine skin the blood was seen to play:
That skin than down of swans more smooth and white,
Nor e're shone summer sky so blue and bright,
As shone the eyes of that same cherub-elf,
In small the model of her beauteous self.
The scant gold locks that gilt his ivory brow,
Were sun beams gleaming on a globe of snow;
And on his coral lips the red which stood,
Shamed the first rose whose milk was fond Adonis' blood.
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Never stole fairy yet, a lovelier child.
No sweeter Babe in nature's charms arrayed,
A mothers fears and throes at length o'erpaid;
Not when Lucina first in myrtle grove,
To Beauty's kiss, presented new born Love,
And while with wondering eyes the immortal boy,
Drank in new light and poured ecstatic joy,
He kissed and drained by turns her fragrant breast,
Till amorous ringdoves coo'd the God to rest.
Mothers may love as much, but never more,
Nor e'er did mother love so well before,
As Irza loved that child—her sable Lord
Marked well that love; and now to health restored.
He felt her child to home, would chain her feet;
Nor rolled the stone to close her lone retreat.
Still when he went, he with him bore away
That favourite babe—nor feared her steps would stray;
Armed with his club she now might safely rove,
Thro' verdant vale, or weep in lonely grove.
For soon the Dwarfs were used to bear her sight,
Knew that dread club, nor dared indulge their spite;
Tho' looks of rage they oft at distance cast,
And shrilly sqeaked and clamoured as she past;
Still by their flight, when near she came, was seen,
They paid allegiance and confessed their queen.
| The Isle of Devils | |