University of Virginia Library

SEBASTIAN.

A SPANISH TALE.

I.

Thou land of love and loveliness, what dreams
Of pomp, and beauty, and old chivalry
Haunt the green borders of thy mighty streams,
Imperial Spain! Years and long ages fly,
Leaving the palace and the mountain tower
Buried beneath their purple bed of rose;
But still thy morn in dewy brightness glows,
Still falls thy eve the same enchanted hour;
The same pure splendour lightens from thy moon,
Rolling along that boundless upper flood,
Whose waves are clouds, her solemn-moving throne.
And prouder still, the heart is unsubdued
That made thee from the cuirass'd Roman wring
With naked hands his jewell'd coronal;
And tore the sceptre from the Moslem king,
Sending him, from Granada's ivory hall,
To make with fox and wolf his rocky lair,
And perish in the Alpuxarras bare.
Spain! thou hast had thy day of toils and woes,
And, for the sword, thy hand has felt the chain;
But, when the giant from his slumber rose,
The Frank was swept, like mist, from mount and plain.
Now to my tale, a tale of long past years,
Of pains, and joys, strong faith, and love's bewitching tears.

II.

'Twas night; but now on Turia's glassy wave
The eastern stars a fainter lustre gave,
A chaunt arose, 'twas from the convent-hill,
It linger'd, lapsed, and all again was still;
But, as the matins pass'd, the eastern gray
Wore vermeil tinges—'twas the dawning day.
A flag was floating on the convent tower,
And soon were busy hands in every bower,
Culling the lily and the eglantine,
In their first dews, to wreathe round stall and shrine;
And soon peal'd out, in rich and distant thunder,
The tolling of the convent's far famed bell,
Filling the air above, around, and under,
With the deep music of its mighty swell;
For on this high and holy day, at noon,
Princely Sidonia's daughter was to wear
The robe, that, like the shroud, when once put on,
Leaves the wild heart no more to hope or fear.

III.

'Tis noon, and plumes and scarlet banners gleam
Along the plain, a winding, glittering stream,
Reflected in the Turia's mirror blue;
And now it opens on the nearer view
A splendid cavalcade of youths and dames,
Medina, Arcos, Alvarez, high names
That by Pelagio on his mountains stood,
And never knew a shade of Moorish blood,
But on their plunging lances; deep their steel
Had mow'd the harvest of the Infidel.
Now slowly up the mountain's side they come,
With harmonies, that in the distance seem
Like the bee's music o'er the apple bloom,
Like the low murmurings of a morning dream;
And now the sound is clearer, yet as sweet
As when it flow'd around the mountain feet,
A rich, deep swell of flute and forest horn,
And now and then a stirring trumpet blast,
That bursts and dies away, like lightning borne
Into the bosom of the cloud and past.
The cavalcade has reached the convent height,
Where wait its slow ascent the peasant throng,
Struggling to see, for once in life, the sight
Whose story shall, through many an evening long,
Beguile them of the time, and make the pride
Of him who saw that day's devoted bride.

IV.

V. THE HYMN.

VI.

In the low echoes of the anthem's close
The murmurs of a distant chorus rose.
A portal open'd, in its shadow stood
A sable pomp, the hallow'd sisterhood,
They led a white-robed form, young, delicate,
Where life's delicious spring was opening yet:
Yet was she stately, and, as up the aisle
She moved, her proud, pale lip half wore a smile:
Her eye was firm, yet those who saw it near,
Saw on its lash the glistening of a tear.
All to Sidonia's sainted daughter bow'd,
And she returned it calmly, like one vow'd
To loftier things. But, once she paused; and press'd
With quick, strange force her slight hand to her breast,
And her wan cheek was redden'd with a glow
That spread its crimson to her forehead's snow;
As if the vestal felt the throes that wreak
Their stings upon young hearts about to break.
She struggled, sigh'd; her look of agony
Was soothed, and she was at Sidonia's knee.
Her father's tears of anguish on her fell;
His gentle heart abhorr'd the convent cell;
Even now he bade her pause. She look'd to heaven,
One long, wild pressure to his cheek was given,
Her pale lip quiver'd, could not say “farewell.”—
The bell gave one deep toll, it seem'd her knell;
She started, strove his strong embrace to sever,
Then rush'd within the gate—that shuts for ever.

VII.

The final, fatal rite was duly done,
The tress was shorn, the sable veil put on,
That shades like night the day of hope and youth;
The golden ring was given, the pledge of truth,
That, bound on earth, grows firmer by the grave.
And, down the mountain's side, that splendid wave
Of beauty and bright chivalry is rushing,
To where Sidonia's palace gates are flushing
In the red setting of the summer sun.
And there are high festivities begun,
And flags are streaming from the gilded towers,
And peasant girls are strewing bridal flowers,
And shouts and praises of the brave and fair,
Sebastian and Maria, fill the air.
Sidonia, on that day, was doom'd to part
With two he loved; the nearest to his heart
Had gone to pine her loveliness away
In the cold shadows of the convent day;
And ere upon the clouds that evening died,
Maria was to blush, Sebastian's bride.

VIII.

But as the train had clear'd the chestnut glade,
Again was heard the gallant horseman's vaunt,
Again the mimic tournament was play'd,
And cheering cries were heard, and ladies' taunt
Of knightly gallantry, and grace, and speed.
Stirr'd at the sight, out sprang Maria's steed,
All reins were loosed; her foot was like the wind;
Alone Sebastian follow'd close behind.
Still sate the noble lady saddle-fast:
The plain, the moat were, swift as lightning, past:
The buttress, bridge, were 'scaped by miracle:
At her pavilion's porch the lady fell.
The danger that had braced her lofty heart,
Was gone, but with it the high heart was gone;
In vain the husband's kiss, the leech's art;
Her spirit soar'd from that cold threshold stone.

IX.

Sebastian had not loved, but he could give
The tears of man to beauty's sudden doom.
He felt no cureless agony, though eve
Oft found him lingering by Maria's tomb.
A little month had given her to the world;
Till then a lingerer in the cloister's gloom,
To wed with bloom and birth her birth and bloom,
To live, be happy, and from life be hurl'd.
Sidonia, childless, bow'd his head to fate,
And shut himself in his Valencian hall;
His heart and hall alike were desolate.
His life was buried in the veil and pall.
Sebastian watch'd his misery, as a son
Beside a father's pillow, day by day,
Until he saw the first, keen sorrow done;
Then, to assuage his own, yet unheal'd, pang,
The gentle bridegroom to his saddle sprang,
And wander'd lonely through the land away.

X.

But those were stirring times; for England's lance
Was rushing fiery o'er the fields of Spain.
Before it waved the plume of vaunting France,
Waved, to be rent on mount, and stream, and plain.
Not for herself, fair Albion shook the steel,
That oft had blazed before the Catalan,
Making the squadrons of the Moormen reel;
It led th'Imperial Austrian's hopeless van.
But France was swept before it, as the tide
Before some lordly vessel's plunging prow,
Yet still, though scattered foaming from her side,
Filling her track, tumultuous, baffled, slow.
War raged: and where it rages, is wild woe;
And all its curse was heavy upon Spain;
Her heaven and earth were changed; the crystal well
Was now a grave, a sanguine pit of slain;
The hamlet was a waste, the vineyard dell
Was now the pining peasant's chilling lair;
Along the thymy slope, where gentle eyes
Oft watch'd the rising of the evening star,
Signal of love, and lover's melodies,
Now burst at eve the burning temple's glare;
But glorious England, thine was not the lance
That ever stain'd its brightness with a tear.
And when did haughty, headlong, heartless France
Pause o'er the prostrate in her wild career?
Sebastian saw the wreck; his father's vane
Had waved against the Frank in many a field;
The Austrian bird soon cover'd its red shield;
He called his serfs, a bold and crowded train,
Heard their first shout, and was himself again.

XI.

'T was evening as they reach'd the mountain's brow
That showed them Barcelona in the vale,
And long they paused to see that lovely show;
The sun low levelled on the city pale,
Montjuif's bright brow, the Frenchman's standard hung,
Shame of its battlements; the port's thick sail,
Like clouds upon its sea of sapphire flung,
The white tents scatter'd o'er the fields, like snow
That winter leaves upon the green of spring,
The English martial lines, that seem'd the flow
Of living streams, the verdure crimsoning.
The mighty sun sank down. The citadel
Sent from its battlements the evening peal.
Slow in its smoke the Bourbon banner fell:
From England's twilight camp the answering gun
Sent up its solemn roar, and ere 'twas done
A flourish of bold music, drum and horn,
Follow'd its white, fierce incense up the air.
But from the city other sounds were borne,
Cathedral chaunts, and bells that rang for prayer.

XII.

His troop lay stretch'd upon the mountain heath
Faint with the parching travel of the day.
'T was midnight, hill and vale were hush'd as death.
Anon, a rocket shot a yellow ray,
And died; another and another rose.
The drums beat out; no moment for repose.
A fiery circle ran round Montjuif's height;
The city was a blaze of lurid light.
Up sprang Sebastian, vaulted on his steed,
Spoke the few words that touch the man of Spain,
Then down the mountain rush'd with arrowy speed.
Clear as the morn, the flashings of th'assault
Show'd on the plain the red battalions squared,
The squadrons mounted, that the night's grim vault
Had hidden, till the blaze upon them glared
Like the grim entrails of a mighty mine.
From Montjuif thunder'd still the incessant din,
The shot from loop and bastion shower'd like hail;
Sebastian gave the spur, he pass'd the vale,
He found the English warriors on its brow,
In their close, iron line; with steady gaze
Eyeing the fire, that round them pour'd a glow
Fierce as a furnace, waiting but the word,
To spring upon the battlements;—none stirr'd,
No voice was heard;—at last the word was given;
A shout like thunder echoed England's name!
The Frenchman from the wall, like dust, was driven;
Then sank the clash, the thunder, and the flame.

XIII.

Proud Barcelona, on the sunny shore
That lines with silver Spain's resplendent sea,
What can for sport or splendour vie with thee?
But now, thy day of war and terror o'er,
Like sudden madness burst thy grateful glee.
Thy morning streets were fill'd with pageantry;
At eve thy Rambla rang with dance and song;
Night, midnight found the still unwearied throng
Wandering by seashore, or illumined shade,
Busy with mask, and feast, and serenade.
Sebastian saw its splendours with the eye
Of youth, and health, and recent victory.
But his high heart for nobler pleasures pined,
The joys of mind alone can fill the mind.
War still remain'd; Granada's walls defied
The bold ally that always leads the van;
And never lover long'd to meet his bride
More than he long'd to see the battle's dawn.

XIV.

The order came, to march. On that last eve
There was a banquet in Valverdé's halls,
The city's noblest name. The tapestried walls,
Shower'd light on all the loveliest of the land,
On slender, waving shapes, like flow'rets fann'd
Into new grace by every breeze that blows.
The night flew on, to dance, and lover's talk,
And the light wit that wins the ready smile.
But love's true spirit seeks the secret walk,
And many a pair by garden-bower, and rill,
Wander'd in dreams that one poor hour must sever,
Sweet pain, that balms the heart yet makes it bleed;
By morn the lover must be on his steed;
That parting look might be their last,—for ever!

XV.

Sebastian through the crowd of masquers stray'd,
Winging the wit that round the circle play'd;
Those summer lightnings, flashes of the mind,
That shine, but harm not; arrows rosy twined.
Until he reach'd the garden colonnade,
And drank the luxury of night and shade;
A mingled stream of echoes of the lute,
And the sweet, icy breath of flowers and fruit,
Lemon and grape, and, touch'd with that mild sky,
The pallid gold of the thick orangery.
Against a pillar lean'd his glowing cheek,
His mask was off, and never raptured Greek
Struck from the Parian stone a nobler form;
He look'd among that light and glittering swarm,—
A stranger, from a loftier region sprung;
His crimson Venice hat was backwards flung,
Loosing the raven ringlets round his brow:
And those who saw that cheek's delighted glow,
The smile that then his red lip loved to wear,
Had little thought that thirty years were there.
But there was in his large and brilliant eye
The depth, the fire of rich maturity:
Though in that soften'd hour of earth and heaven,
Th'unconscious glance that from its orb was given,
The melting, melancholy gaze above
Show'd that the heart within was made for love.

XVI.

He saw not that a group had gather'd nigh,
Gazing upon his silence silently.
He heard not, till upon his spirit came,
In a low sigh of agony, his name.
He started, saw a gentle fugitive,
Saw her at distance through the concourse strive,
Pursued, and lost her. But his eye no more
Could in its calmness to that blue heaven soar.
“Oh! but see the lip that breathed that sigh!
Breathed it for him? was't love, woe, mockery?
That young lip must be lovely; soul, high soul,
Was in the sigh that o'er its ruby stole.”
So had one breath disturb'd his spirit's stream,
And such the wanderings that make passion's dream.

XVII.

He roved the sumptuous halls with eager eye,
Met smiles, heard words of gentle gallantry,
Gave o'er the search, and smiled to feel the pain,
That smote him when he found the search in vain.
Then follow'd, listless, where the deeper crowd
Afar, to see some new-born wonder, flow'd,
Scarce hearing the gay levities that past
Through the gay throng, each lighter than the last:—
“Whence came the miracle? from pole or line?—
Some minstrel, freshly bronzed from Palestine,
Famish'd and fetter'd, till the Arab bark,
Flung out the dove, well fitted for its ark.—
Valverdé's taste! that fosters every mime;
The common prey of every son of rhyme.
A woman? Some soft Charlatan from Rome;
Some saint, that wears no veil to hide her bloom.”
On roll'd they, and Sebastian with the tide,
The echo of a distant harp their guide.

XVIII.

Before them rose a large and lofty tent,
Tissued with emblems of Spain's ancient wars;
Through the slight silk the myrtle breathed its scent,
And pour'd their beams the blue and midnight stars.
Raised, like an idol, on the slight ascent
Of a low, central tripod sat a Moor,
The young magician of those sounds: the floor,
The waving walls, were touch'd with tender gloom.
She was unveil'd, and yet the shawl of green,
That wreathed its thick pearl'd fringe her locks between,
Threw shadow, dim and deep, upon her bloom;
But slight the tinge the Afric sun had thrown
Upon her cheek, the eye dark diamond shone.
She sat beneath a lamp of figured gold,
That on her turban pour'd a dazzling flame.
Her minstrel tale of wonder but half told,
Her hand still floating o'er the harp's rich frame;
She gave one glance: her cheek seem'd flush'd with shame.
She cast upon the ground her startled eye,
And swept the harp,—a clash of discord came;
Her bosom through its caftan panted high;
But all her voice was one deep, painful sigh.
The gay assemblage, sympathizing, gazed
On her strange beauty and her sudden pain.
Their plaudits proud her sinking spirit raised,
She bow'd, and, blushing deep, renew'd the strain.
Again her hand, her voice seem'd wandering;—
She dried a tear, and gave her prison'd anguish wing.

XIX.

XX.

She droop'd upon the harp; still paused the crowd,
Witch'd by the thrilling sweetness of her song;
And tears had fall'n on many a bosom proud;
For music has the key of memory,
And thoughts and visions buried deep and long,
Come at the summons of its sweetness nigh!
The silence broke with one relieving sigh.
At length the loud applause awoke, but she,
Before whose feet the gems and gold were flung,
Still on the harp, dejected, fainting, hung.
Sebastian caught her sinking: he had heard
And seen what plunged his soul in reverie,
And now he held her dying! From her eye
A slow tear stole: her startled glance was rear'd
To his stoop'd brow. He felt a shudder run
Through her faint frame:—her gesture said, begone.
His sick heart sank! he left her to the care,
That press'd around with balm and essence rare,
Gave one wild glance, and fled, and was alone.

XXI.

Sebastian wander'd forth; the garden air
Rush'd on his cheek, nor cool'd the fever there;
He gasp'd for breath. A sparry fountain shot
Its waters in the moonlight: by its grot
He stood, as if the sounds his heart would lull;
His face, so sad, so pale, so beautiful,
Fix'd on the moon, that in her zenith height
Pour'd on his naked brow a flood of light:
Shrined, moveless, silent, in the splendid beam,
He look'd the marble Genius of the stream.
Silence around; but when the night wind sway'd,
Or some roused bird dash'd fluttering through the shade:
For those he had no ear; the starry vault,
The grove, the fount, but fed one whelming thought,
Time, fate, the earth, the glorious heaven above,
Breathed but one mighty dream, that dream was love.

XXII.

Sebastian had seen beauty, and his name
Had lighted many a lady's cheek with flame.
Rich, high-born, graceful, such may woo and win,
While courteous words conceal the chill within:
But, with the warrior burning in his blood,
He left the fair pursuers unpursued:
Bound to Sidonia's daughter from his birth,
Laugh'd at the little tyrant of the earth;
Could talk, as others talk, of hope and fear,
But never gave the god a sigh or tear.

XXIII.

But now the world was changed, the die was cast!
“How had he slept so long to wake at last?
What hid the feelings that now shook his soul?
Where was the cloud that gave the thunder-roll?
This, this was life; at last he walk'd in light,
The veil of years was rent before his sight.
'T was not her beauty, though the loveliest there
Was lifeless, soulless, featureless to her;
No, nor her melting voice, nor that slight hand
That her sweet harp with such swift beauty fann'd,
Like magic's silver sceptre, hovering
To wake enchantment from the untouch'd string.
Had he not seen that face before? But where?
He knew not; 't was like music to his ear,
Familiar, but forgotten; phrensy all!
She was a Moor; nay, could he now recall
The features that had madden'd him? Not one.
All was a flash of splendour, dazzling, gone;
A haze of matchless beauty on his eye,
A sense confused, a vision, witchery.
But she had scorn'd him; were not pain, hate, fear,
In her wild glances, when but he drew near?
Smiles for all else? The truth was now too late,
That hour had stamp'd his life; he saw his fate.
Yet—might not fondness, faith, her scorn remove?
And who could hate, where all the crime was love?”

XXIV.

Delicious fantasy! the thought was balm;
His heart, his eye in sudden rapture swam.
Nature was charm'd to him. He could have talk'd
With every star, that in its glory walk'd.
Hope had put life in all unliving things;
He hung above the fountain's rippling springs,
And heard them echo joy; the bud unbranch'd
That his light pressure on the streamlet launch'd,
Bounded in joy; his deep and burning sigh
Rose through the vine-leaves that gave sweet reply.
A sudden meteor sail'd across the heaven,
He hail'd its sign; to him, to him 't was given,
Omen of joy, bright promise of bright years.
“Let fear and folly have their ‘vale of tears.’
Let him be blest with that unequall'd one;
Whoe'er she was, she might, she must be won;
Life would roll on, one calm and blossom'd spring;
Or, if the tempest came, they would but cling
With arms and hearts the closer, till 't was o'er;
Life a long joy; and death, a pang, no more.”
Out burst in speech the lover's ecstasy.

XXV.

A sudden bugle pierced the morning sky.
He started from his dream. The yellow dawn
Wander'd along night's borders, like the fawn,
First venturing from its dappled mother's side;
A timid bound on darkness, swift withdrawn,
Then bolder tried again.—The starlight died;
And now the trumpet to the trumpet cried,
The waggon groan'd, the echoing lash was plied,
The gun roll'd ponderous through the rampart-arch.
The lover's world was o'er! He heard the march:
And shudder'd: but the tramp of crowding hoofs,
The soldier's laugh, the shouting from the roofs,
Where the roused city cluster'd thick as bees;
The rattling drum, the banners in the breeze,
All told the long-wish'd hour. But now 't was doom;
'T was come, it crush'd his heart; but it was come.

XXVI.

He rush'd impatient through the halls of state,
No tidings there; the halls were desolate.
Yet, while his foot was in the stirrup hung,
His word was “tidings of the minstrel Moor”;
His purse was to the bowing menials flung,
Yet “to his boons to come, its weight were poor:
Lived there the man who could but name her name?”
None knew it, where she went, nor whence she came.

XXVII.

Sebastian led the van. The trumpet's thrill
Found a responsive chord within him still;
And when he saw the martial pomp around,
And felt the gallant steed beneath him bound,
And drank at morn the spirit of the air,
He seem'd his comrades' proudest joy to share:
But when at night his weary limbs he threw
On the cool heath, beneath the sky of blue,
Back to the tent his sleepless fancy flew,
And felt the love, the rapture, the despair.

XXVIII.

Grenada's gate was storm'd, the cross of red
Fix'd on the Moorish wall, the Frenchman fled:
Sebastian bleeding to his tent was borne.
First in the charge, the fire, the escalade,
A ball had struck him; agonized and torn,
He saw his standard on the rampart soar,
Join'd in the shout, and sank, and saw no more.

XXIX.

One evening, as the sun was setting sweet,
Making its rays a coronet for the hill,
The Solsierra, at whose flowery feet
Twined like a golden fetter the Xenil,
And the birds sang, and the dissolving heat
Was fann'd by that light, balmy, fluttering breeze,
That shades the azure of Italian seas;
He left his chamber for the mountain bower,
His eyes' delight, and grief, through many an hour,
When sunk upon his couch, he saw it wave,
And thought between them lay his early grave.
But, thanks to nature, and his leech's art,
A peasant follower of the camp, his heart
Had found its firmer pulses, and his cheek
Wore, though still faintly, health's reviving streak.

XXX.

And oft, before he reach'd the summit height,
He paused, in silent, dazzled reverie;
For in the living world no lovelier sight
Of Summer's painted beauty meets the eye.
Above him, one bright blue infinity;
The land beneath him boundless as a sea;
Magnificent with all bright shapes and dyes,
Leagues of tomato, vineyards, orangeries,
And yellow pasture plains that seem'd to rise
And vanish in the far Nevada's blue.
And at his feet, like webs of silver dew,
Glistening and woven through the Huerta's bowers,
From many a Moorish fount the living rill.
And farther off, your brighter, broader streams
Smooth-gliding Vargo, rapid Monachil,
With serpent splendours in the sunset gleams,
Sweeping in pomp, by hills, and groves, and towers.

XXXI.

The mountain where he stood was famous ground,
For there the Caliph's crescent had been riven;
And still the Arab breathes a prayer profound
For the Alhambra's halls, his earthly heaven.
Sebastian rested on the low, red wall
That girds the palace, like the shatter'd pall
Flung round the bed of beauty's last decay.
His eyes upon th'enchanted landscape lay.
A voice, a whisper, trembled by his side,
Faded upon the breathless air, and died!
The sound return'd, and he stood listening
To tones that, mingling with a faint guitar,
Now floated round him, and now faded far,
As if a spirit shook them from its wing.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

Palace of beauty! where the Moorish Lord,
King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword,
Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze.
Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days,
When at thy morning gates the coursers stood,
The “thousand,” milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood,
In pearl and ruby harness'd for the King;
And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood
Of jewell'd Sheik and Emir, hastening,
Before the sky the dawning purple show'd,
Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling.
Lovely thy morn,—thy evening lovelier still,
When at the waking of the first blue star
That trembled on the Atalaya hill,
The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose,
Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war;
But summoning thy beauty from repose,
The shaded slumber of the burning noon.
Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone,
Shooting the sparkling column from the vase
Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze
Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry,
And the rich bordering beds of every bloom
That breathes to African or Indian sky,
Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone;
Then was the harping of the minstrels heard,
In the deep arbours, or the regal hall,
Hushing the tumult of the festival,
When the pale bard his kindling eyeball rear'd,
And told of eastern glories, silken hosts,
Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd:
Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts
Of the far western sea, the sons of blood,
The iron men of tournament and feud,
That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarm'd,
Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall;
Till the Red Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall.

XXXIV.

Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun,
That had no rival, and no second?—gone!
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd,
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim,
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim,
Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told.
Where is thy horn of battle? that but blown
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne;
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall;
Brought every charger barded from the stall,
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore;
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour
The living deluge on the fields of Spain.
Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain
Upon thy brow—the stain of guilt and gore,
Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous,—and 'tis o'er.
The spear and diadem are from thee gone;
Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne!

XXXV.

Sebastian wander'd on; he had no thought,
No eye for earthly glories; had that spot
Been Paradise, he would have wander'd on.
He trod the “Court of Lions,” where the rill
Strives through its sculptured bed to trickle still;
No living sound was there; he lean'd beside
The fountain where the Abencerrage died;
And struck, in listless anger, from its brim
The weeds that gather'd o'er it thick and dim.
A footfall touched his ear: a sudden shade
Twined swiftly through the distant colonnade!
He sprang, and follow'd, but his step was mazed
In the deep labyrinth of halls, emblazed
With fretted gold, and purple, and all dyes
Of plant or metal, and inscriptions wan,
Crowding the cupola, and floor, and frieze,
With spell and sculpture, tale and talisman.

XXXVI.

His search was hopeless, and he gave up hope;
And yet would linger there. He left the slope,
And wandered through the rose and tulip vale.
The Houri garden, where ev'n noon look'd pale,
But lovelier far; as woman, when she hears
The name that thrills her heart, and smiles through tears.
And now he stood within the central shrine,
The canopy of peach and nectarine;
The Harem bower; and though, in days gone by,
To look upon its treasures was to die,
Yet many a noble by the cypress wall
Linger'd to hear their twilight music's fall:
For, mingled with the perfumed air, would rise
The rich theorb's, the cittern's melodies,
And, in their pause, some song's soul-touching flow,
Telling that even within that bower was woe.

XXXVII.

All now was loneliness, and he return'd,
With weary steps; but as he glanced again
Along the portal, where the sunlight burn'd
On fairy Arabesque, and painted pane,
And, in the tangled woodbine's crimson train
Wreathing the turban'd marble, lay inurn'd
The last Sultana,—kneeling by the tomb
He saw a shape, 'twas hidden half in gloom;
He saw a cowl, a dazzling, upturn'd eye,
Touch'd with the hue of tear-drops scarcely dry;
He knew that face, 'twas pictured on his heart,
“But one, one word,—or form of earth or heaven,
His passion might be heard, must be forgiven.”
The vision was in prayer; he saw it start;
He swept aside the foliage, saw the bough,
That the light flyer bent, returning slow;
Saw where the sandal press'd the blossoms strown;
The rest was shadow, mystery;—it was flown.

XXXVIII.

There are some moments when the heart stands still;
As if the mighty touch that deigns to fill
Our sands had left them where they last ran down.
Sebastian wander'd through the forest brown,
And vineyard fields, that clothed the mountain's side,
Unconscious as the rill, his murmuring guide;
Till the last evening trumpet, through the grate,
Told him he stood before Granada's gate.
He reach'd his couch, its broider'd canopy
Could charm no slumber to his weary eye.

XXXIX.

He rose, and tried to read; the gorgeous book
Pleased for a moment, then his hold forsook:
He touch'd, with eager hand, his loved guitar,
'Twas tuneless now, his thoughts were straying far;
He sank upon his couch to wear away
A sick man's heavy hours till tardy day.
He spoke in fever. “Fabian, slumberer!
How can you linger? Must I perish here?”
Pain check'd his voice. An humble tone replied;
He raised his eye; the leech was at his side.
“Boy, this is misery;—to the grave to creep!
Oh, half my wealth but for one hour of sleep.
Here, try that pulse, these temple-throbs.—'Tis vain;—
The medicine's not on earth that lulls this pain.”
The wind breathed fresher through the lattice bower;
He ask'd a tale to linger out the hour.
The peasant-leech had none; “nor fay nor knight
Had ever glitter'd on his lowly sight.
Yet on his lord's guitar he might recall
Some song,—his humble skill the skill of all.”
On the light strings his fingers feebly move,
“Sing then,” Sebastian said, “but not of love.”
“My lord shall be obeyed,” the youth replied;
The tone was mingled with offended pride;—
“He scorns not more than I the idle strains
Where perfidy of perfidy complains;—
Woes of weak hearts, that never should be won;
Wrongs of deluders by themselves undone.—
Yet there is one, but scarcely song or tale,
A pageant, now upon my memory pale,
Yet brilliant once.” Sebastian murmur'd, “Sing.”
The peasant bow'd, and chaunted to the string.

XL. ZEPHYR AND THE ROSE-NYMPH .

XLI.

“Where was that pageant play'd?” Sebastian said,
And on the peasant fix'd his eager eye;
“Was 't in Valencia, twelve months since?” a sigh
Closed his quick tone. The peasant bow'd his head.
“Aye,” said the feverish questioner, “that sight
Is yet by many a heart remember'd well.
Who that had seen the festal of that night,
My marriage eve, could next day's woes foretell?
Maria, sweet, unwedded bride, farewell!”
He paused, then said, in faint soliloquy,
“Are there not days that Fate has kept in store,
At once its whole wild weight of grief to pour,
The bitter price of long and prosperous years?
Ruin'd Sidonia! from that hour of tears
Thy heart was heap'd with woe; the distant wave
Rolls over what was once thy noble son.
But she, his best beloved, his hallow'd one,
Whose life consoled him for the double grave;
Better she ne'er was born;—her hard heart gave
The deadliest blow;—he dies the death of shame.
She fled her convent, stain'd her noble name;
Fled, with a menial for her paramour;—
Bane of her house, beyond all earthly cure;—
Undone! in body and in soul undone!”
“Are there no tidings?” said the listener.—“None;
She lives in daring guilt, if yet she lives.”
“What of her sire?”—“He dies, and he forgives.”

XLII.

Sebastian from his couch arose. The moon
Reign'd in full radiance o'er the sky of June,
Far round the vassal stars withdrew their fires.
He lean'd his folded arms and high pale brow
Against the casement's side. The light below
Fell, snowlike, thick, on palace-roofs and spires:
“'Twas a vain world.” He cast his eye above,
And gave the musings way, that scarcely move
Th'unconscious lip: the breathings of the soul.
“How lovely dost thou in thy blue heaven roll,
Shadow of Him whom none can see, and live.
Yet what forbade thy mighty orb to give
His fiery splendours? on night's fearful hour
To lift the image of consuming power?
Sweet moon, that look of soft tranquillity
Was given in mercy to the sleepless eye;
To cheer the tossing brow on fever's bed;
To calm the midnight weeper o'er the dead;
To raise the houseless wretch that sees thy beam,
To thoughts of hours when life shall be no dream.

XLIII.

“Yet is earth's agony too strong for thee!
What terrors does the eye this moment see,
That sees like thine our world? What thousands groan
On fields of slaughter; on the dungeon stone;
Lost in the desert; struggling in the wave;
The wrong'd, the exiled,—all in one, the slave.
Aye! give me rack and flame before the den
Where desperate slavery howls for home again.
Are there no other tortures? Love, true love;
Pang, that the light think light, the wise reprove;
But the true anguish that disdains control;
The folly, fever, phrensy of the soul.
Yet, old Sidonia, art thou gazing now
Upon this comforter? or slumbering low
Where sorrow comes no more? Well hadst thou died,
Laid in the grave thy gentle child beside;
Before that second, deeper wound was given;
There, there the dagger to the heart was driven.
Talk I of suffering! All to thine is tame;
A father's sorrow for his daughter's shame.”

XLIV.

Sebastian paused, and turn'd. “Yet silent? Boy:
Thank Heaven, my blood was spared that base alloy;
Was it not well?” The youth replied, “'Twas well.
She was a wretch. She's dead.” His accent fell.
“What!—have you seen her?”—“Yes, on that proud night,
When every heart, but one, but her's, was light;—
'T was at the palace pageant; on the eve
Of my lord's mournful bridal. Oh forgive—
My careless hand no more shall touch that string.
She clung to life, as shipwreck'd wretches cling,
When the next wave must sweep them from the shore.
Her cheek was whiter than the veil she wore;
She mingled with the festive crowd unknown,
Tasting her desperate joy;—her die was thrown!”—
“The day before her vows! the world was dear;”
“She loved it not; she had high business there.”
“Know you her further story?” “Nothing—No.”
“You weep.” “'Tis childish, weak, but tears will flow.
She was the daughter of the lord I loved;
Sidonia's vassal, could I see unmoved
His loved one sink, beyond my baffled art,
Sink in the sickness of the broken heart?”
“What plunged her in the convent.” “Madness all;
The phrensied piety that's sure to fall.”
“Rash sufferer! but she quickly sought her cure;
She fled, and with—” “Oh, with no paramour.”
“A page was seen—” “No, as yon heaven is high,
She had no paramour! That page was—I.”

XLV.

Sebastian gazed: “Where roves th'unhappy one?”
“She roves no more; her earthly wandering's done.”
“Aye, the loose, outflung follower of some camp,
Blighted by burning noon, and nightly damp;
Her heart a ruin, and her cheek a flame;
Fever or famine closed her course of shame.
Such is the tale; deny it not; 't is proved.
If false, why shun the father that she loved?
Why break her convent vows? She chose her chain.”—
“No ear, save Heaven's, has heard her heart complain;
Oh, had you seen too late repentance heap
The ashes on her dying head!”—“You weep;
She might be pitied—must not be forgiven;
Compassion's human, pardon rests with Heaven;
There let her make her peace: her heart is stain'd;
The step is made that never was regain'd.”
“Yet, if you loved her—”—“Her! presumptuous boy,
Venture no more: love her!—At once destroy
All honour, live in open shame, or fly,
Scared,—wolf-like—from the glance of human eye!
This thwarts and troubles me!—no more of love.”—
He fix'd his look upon the mount above,
From whose bold forehead in the moonlight beam,
Th'Alhambra rose,—a silver diadem.
“Passion of passions, sovereign, sole, sublime!
Earth's only one that scorns to yield to time;
There is thy temple, and this heart of mine
Shall perish into dust upon thy shrine.
Fabian, this eve I've seen within those walls
A form, a mystery, that enchants, appals—
That has hung o'er me like a summer-cloud,
Till my heart burn'd, my feeble reason bow'd;
Made the day's thought, the vision of my bed;
Met me and shunn'd,—been in my grasp and fled,
Till I have dream'd it of the shapes that come
To train the thoughtless for the early tomb.
There Fabian wilt thou see thy master laid?”
The page replied not—his droop'd cheek was stay'd
Heavy upon his knee, as over-wept.—

XLVI.

The moon went down; the fresher breezes swept;
The flowers dropp'd dew; the stars grew white,—'t was dawn
Sebastian sank in slumber, worn and wan,
Till where he stood, the sun's increasing beam
Pour'd in, and broke the unrefreshing dream.
The room around was empty—where the page?—
“Where could he stray—so patient, gentle, sage?”
His chamber was deserted,—he was gone.
“Who saw the truant leave the palace?” None;
Or but a shepherd, who, as moonlight died,
Had seen a corpse along the Xenil glide.

XLVII.

The search was follow'd close and long, in vain.
The rest was faint suspicion, rude surmise,
Where each man brings his mite of prodigies,
And what to all is dark, all will explain.
Few love the favourite, and their hate found food
In his low voice, his tears, his solitude,
Condemn'd him to the grand explainer Time,
And long'd to know the sentence,—and the crime.
Their master felt his loss; but one deep thought
Made all else light; and, duly at each eve,
The pilgrim wander'd to the hallow'd spot,
Where he had seen the vision that would leave
His heart,—yet not until its veins were cold.
But never more did he that page behold.

XLVIII.

Then thoughts of old Sidonia struck his mind,
No child to bless him, none that he could bless,
Life, all but its last bitterness, resign'd.—
Lonely himself, he thought of loneliness,
And turn'd a moment from that mountain shrine,
To be a gentle son to his decline.

XLIX.

Sidonia's courts look'd mournful as when last
He saw them, but not lonely;—menials pass'd,
Frequent and hurrying, though in silence all,
And robed in sable. In the palace-hall
Was pomp as in its proudest days of old;
Yet many a black escutcheon lined the wall.
What wrought the change he knew not, but it told,
Though heavy on the heart had fall'n the blow,
That time or Heaven had check'd the cureless woe.
The old man met him with a smile, but pale,
And welcomed him, yet welcomed with a sigh;
“His daughter had return'd;—his prodigal;”
A sudden tear stood trembling in his eye,
And his lip quiver'd, and his hurried hand
Swept from his brow the drops of misery.
“She came in peace,—still pure,—but came to die.”
Sebastian tried to cheer,—himself unmann'd
To see in his enfeebled frame, how soon,
How surely, Time's slow work by grief is done;
And soothed, and led him gently, as if there
He saw a leaf of Autumn, thin and sere,
That the first breath might flutter from the tree.
“She came in purity—but came to die,”
Was all the old man's voice—still check'd by tears.
Sebastian led him beyond menial ears,
Calm'd him, and heard his brief and bitter tale.
“Floranthe, daughter of his heart and years,
Had come to him at last,—not false or frail,
But worn by pain, and clouded by some woe
That baffled hope;—her life was hovering now
Above the grave.—The sufferer seldom spoke,
Smiled never; hung for hours o'er lute or book,
Loved through the garden shades to stray unseen;
Was all, and more than all, that she had been,
Most gentle, tender, filial; but her eye
Bore in it Death's sure summons,—she must die.”

L.

'Twas an autumnal day, and now the eve
Walk'd on the western heaven, serene and slow.
His guest now left Sidonia; for his flow
Of tears was calm'd; and wander'd forth to leave
His own o'erwhelming sadness for a while.
He felt the balminess of evening's smile,
As from the marble terraces he gazed
O'er the smooth, velvet-verdure of the lawn,
Where the tamed pheasant in the sunlight blazed,
Spreading his eye-dropt pinions; and the fawn
And leveret sported round the ancient trees.
The breath of life was in the breathing breeze.
And he was tempted on through thickets deep,
Scatter'd with rills, and knots of forest flowers,
That to his wounded fancy made such bowers,
As he would have to shadow his lone grave.
He heard a low, soft voice,—a gentle step
On the dried leaves—the struggling sunlight gave
A single beam—that shew'd a female form,
Slight, sable-robed, and veil'd,—“Sidonia's child!
Her woes were sacred.”—And the acacias wild,
And the laburnum blossom's yellow swarm,
Soon gave the intruder shelter from her eye,
But kept him bound,—reluctantly, yet nigh.

LI.

The lady's heart seem'd weary, and she sank,
In sudden weakness, on a velvet bank,
That bore upon its gently rising green
The marble image of a Magdalen.
The victim clasp'd and kiss'd the statue's feet,
And swept their damps with long and raven hair,
Then on her rosary said a whisper'd prayer:
The weeping rite was done; and to the sky,
As if she communed with a spirit there,
She turn'd and spoke—the words came tremblingly;
“And costs it all this bitterness to die?
Oh, how I lived upon his look, his step,
His distant voice, his very garments' sweep:
Gazed on him from my secret shade, until
I felt my brain with growing phrensy thrill:
Then bore away his glance, his slightest word,
From that fond hour among my treasures stored;
My bitter food of thought for nights and days.—
The heart by death alone itself betrays,
And mine was wild and wretched, yet could hide,
Thank Heaven, the pang by which it all but died.
Maria, angel, from thy throne above
Bear witness of my homage to thy love;
Hating the cell, I plunged within the cell,
The boasted cure of those who love too well.
When thou wast borne to thy reward sublime,
And passion was no crime,—oh was 't a crime
To follow my soul's lord through toil and pain,
To face the sword, the pestilence, the chain,
To watch him day and night, as spirits move
Round those they love, mine was no earthly love?—
I made the vow: 't was kept. I lived to see
The price of vows forgotten, Heaven, to thee!
A nun, thy pledged, thy consecrated bride,
A perjured wanderer by a mortal's side!
I was repaid; I sought his eye in vain;
I heard,—the word is desperate,—his disdain.”

LII.

LIII.

Here ends the tale—she died? No; if the world
Is but a vanity at best, a toy,
That, as for each the mighty bauble's twirl'd,
Turns up the chance of sorrow or of joy;
This is its gilded side; the moments given
To love like this are moments lent from Heaven.
The rest I tell not, have no power to tell;
The old man's look, his burst of happiness,
When on his ransom'd daughter's neck he fell;
The blushing daughter's joyous, sweet distress,
The cheerful tumult of the household hall,
The crowding friends, the ceaseless festival:
Nor how that gentle pair would leave them all,
And wander through the garden, and the grove;
And ever, by some unresisted spell,
Find their steps turning to the evening dell:
While o'er them flew the hours with feathery feet;
For such are of the very life of love.
Nor how the lady told the dear deceit
Of the false Moor, and sang the madrigal,
That lured his step within th'Alhambra wall:
Nor how her spirit wither'd on the morn
That stamp'd Sidonia's daughter with his scorn:
Nor the proud lover's wonder that his eyes
Should not have known that shape through all disguise;
Although beneath her noble father's roof,
That shape by stern decorum kept aloof,
Perhaps had never met his hasty gaze.
So lived they in a sweet romantic maze.
Alone, amid the proud and festive throng,
Painless, unless o'erpowering joy were pain,
And oft Sebastian ask'd th'Alhambra song,
And won the wanderer's tale, again, again.

LIV.

But the young vestal's vows?—'Tis well the Pope
Is kind of heart, and fractures many a chain.
I fear, in England they could have no hope,
But dukes and ducats can do much in Spain:
So they were wedded, and life's smoothest tide
Bore on its breast the bridegroom and the bride.