University of Virginia Library


1

HORÆ PIERIÆ,

OR POETRY ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.


3

PIA DELLA PIETRA.

1820.
Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;
Sienna mi fè, disfecemi Maremma.
Salsi colui, che'nnanellata pria
Disposanda m'avea con la sua gemma.
Dante, Purgat. 5. 133.

[_]

The four lines which are quoted from Dante, have furnished the ground-work of this tale. I believe that few of the particular circumstances of the real story have been transmitted to us. It is well known that Maremma is the maritime district of Italy subject to the malaria which is gradually extending into Rome itself.

Calm sea, whose beauteous waters gently lave
The shore of Italy with tideless wave,
How still and lovely on thine azure breast
The evening ray's unclouded splendors rest!
The purpled landscape blushes, like the bud
Of opening beauty, by thy glowing flood.
Unpruned here myrtles bloom; the orange there
Flings its rich fragrance on the tranquil air.
Fields of the luscious grape and golden lime!
Delightful valleys of a balmy clime!
Soft smiles your land! But why, mid scenes so fair,
Are man's heart-gladdening roofs so lone and rare?
Why bears the tremulous zephyr o'er the plain
No flute's clear sound, or woman's blither strain?

4

Mournful and mute, though Nature's peaceful glow
Seems to induce forgetfulness of wo!
Have busy cares, have vice and folly made
No habitation in the desert shade?
Have man's adventurous hands not yet displaced
The rank profusion of the fruitful waste,
Giving new voice and strains of other tone
To its rude echoes? On her solemn throne,
Wrapp'd in that loneliness, does nature hear
No voice, save the herd's lowing? or the deer
Rustling the coppice, and the nightbird's lay
From the thick jasmine's odoriferous spray?
Or the hoarse rush of waters, and the hoof
Of countless steeds, from human haunts aloof,
Spurning the virgin glebe, an untamed brood
That crop the flowery turf of solitude,
Where the bee murmurs, and the night-fly's light
Cheers with pure lamp the lovely brow of night?
There is a breath of fragrance on the gale,
A voice of warbling in the beauteous vale;
The wild luxuriance of its native wealth,
But not to man the breath of life or health.
There is a soothing freshness; but the breeze
Wafts the slow poison of unseen disease.
Death's angel lurks beneath your flowery screen,
Maremma's groves and mountains evergreen!
The charm of stillness, which those waters wear,
The beauteous light of that transparent air,
Are Death's deceitful vizor; the fell bait,
Which but to taste, to breathe, to view, is fate.
Faint traveller, wearied with the noontide's ray,
Who hailest with delight the close of day!

5

The cool refreshment of yon breezy plain,
The very charm that soothes thee, is thy bane!
Sure as the shaft that slayeth in the night,
The Pestilence glides onward, robed in light.
All-glorious Italy, o'er thy fair champaign
The smiling fiend extends her silent reign,
And desolation follows. Lo! she stands
On the proud Capitol, with noiseless hands
Showering the secret ruin on the dome
Of thy great temple, everlasting Rome!
Immortal city, beautiful and strong!
The queen of empire, and the boast of song!
Whose huge magnificence has still defied
Barbarian rage and Time's o'erwhelming tide!
Shall e'er thy dwellings, like Palmyra, stand
A lonely spectre in a desert land?
Shall the wolves howl in halls where Maro sung,
Shall forests darken, where thy trophies hung?
The deadly fiend creeps sure and unrestrain'd,
Where Power once fulmined, and where Wisdom reign'd,
Slowly exterminating wins her way,
And one wide wreck of glory marks her sway.
The sun, all-cloudless, threw his parting gleam
Over thy gulf, Livorno! With slant beam
His western rays in liquid radiance steep
The gilded landscape and the azure deep,
And shew, far streaming thro' the woodland's shade,
A mansion bosom'd in the leafy glade.
Nature had wreathed its walks with every sweet;
It look'd like Love's own temple, a retreat
Fitting fond thoughts; yet a neglected air
Of mournful loneliness it seem'd to bear;

6

Grief dwelt within, and beauty's loveliest flower
Bloom'd unregarded in that silent bower.
Two female shapes, in gloomy raiment clad,
From its gilt portals issued, mute and sad.
One, whose dark lashes veil'd her downcast eyes,
Shew'd the high port of noble destinies;
Her comrade wore the print of elder years,
And wistful gazed on her with boding fears.
The younger lady was of beauty rare,
A form that seem'd to float upon the air.
She had a lip of love, which but to kiss
Might have been deem'd extremity of bliss.
Her dark eyes were all tenderness; their ray
Spoke the fond memory of a happier day;
A charm of witching mildness in their light
Told how they would have sparkled with delight,
A gentle aptness for sweet mirth and joy
Which not Despair's cold touch could quite destroy.
The beam of love was not extinguish'd, though
Shrouded and quell'd by some o'erpowering wo.
Pallid the hue of her transparent skin
Shew'd Death was mining his fell path within,
Languid decay: a fix'd and burning flush,
Not melting like soft Beauty's healthful blush,
Mid the surrounding ivory, betray'd
The baneful fire which on her vitals prey'd,
The deep oppression of some mastering ill
Slowly destroying life, but sure to kill.
Silent, almost unconscious where they stray'd,
They seated them beneath a chestnut's shade:
Whose giant trunk once echoed to your praise,
Pan or Pomona, sang in Latin lays!

7

The strain of Romans, when the subject world
Saw their bright standards on each coast unfurl'd!
Majestic, strong, its stately ruin stood;
Still its scathed form o'er-brow'd the Tuscan flood;
And, like Rome's self, all-glorious in decay,
Stretch'd its broad arms with solitary sway.
Realm of past glory! still it seem'd to reign
In lonely pride o'er thy deserted plain!
The youthful mourner on that lovely scene,
The beautiful expanse of blue serene,
(As the sun sank beneath that splendid ocean,
Which glow'd all tranquil without shade or motion)
Gazed in dejection; drops of pearly dew
Swell'd in her lids, but did not struggle thro',
Nor stain'd her beauteous cheek, nor brought relief
Unto the pang of that consuming grief.
Her look was utter hopelessness; it told
Affections warm, but joys destroy'd and cold;
Total prostration of that anxious strife,
Which is the energy and zest of life,
That charm which vibrates, till all hopes are dead,
Even in the thrilling agony of dread.
There was not in its beam one tremulous ray;
It did not one weak thought or fear betray:
No faint expression in that visage pale
Mark'd one last wish within this worldly vale.
Long did her fond attendant kindly bend
Over the features of her silent friend;
She watch'd with look of love and pity blent
The face serene which on her bosom leant,
And seem'd in heart-felt contemplation lost
Of youthful visions so untimely cross'd.

8

Her joyless thoughts were roaming far away
To thy blithe streets, Sienna bright and gay;
To scenes of former happiness and pride
When the song waked to greet the envied bride;
Till a cold shiver stealing o'er her frame
Told of the evening's breath, which freshening came
From the far Apennine, whose chilly wind
To present cares recall'd her wandering mind.
There was a rustling of the aged trees,
A mournful sighing of that nightly breeze,
Which ever motionless and silent lay
Lull'd on earth's bosom by the spell of day.
Tighter upon her breast the shawl she drew,
And part around the mourner gently threw,
Then with kind warning sign'd her to beware
Of the cool night-dew and that baneful air.
The lovely sufferer spoke not; at the hest
She rose obedient to the fond request,
Not as if fearful of the nightly chills,
Or yielding any thought to present ills;
But calm, indifferent, careless of delay,
Because it was most easy to obey,
With an unconscious shudder as she went,
Homeward her melancholy steps she bent.
O strange reverse of every youthful joy!
All-powerful fates, which every bliss destroy!
Why moves that airy form so meek and slow,
A shape of loveliness enshrined in wo?
What doth she there? with beauty made to bless
Man's ardent wishes, not to know distress!
So lorn, so cast away, tho' born to win
All that the heart can give, and pure of sin!

9

Gay are thy fields, Sienna, gay the site
Of the rich mansions on thine airy height!
Health crowns thy fruitful vineyards, and the slope
Of thy green hills, where Joy with young-eyed Hope
Frames his blithe visions; the light dance is there,
The harp, the viol, and the willing fair;
The spirit of youth and love is in thy walls,
And hearts of gladness bound within thy halls.
Thy goodliest shapes were trimm'd in rich array,
When Della Pietra hail'd his bridal day:
Of all thy maids, that wreathed their flowing hair,
There was no form so graceful and so fair,
No face so glowing, as the timid bride
Crown'd in her hopes and blooming by his side.
No bridegroom with high bliss so proudly flush'd,
As he who kiss'd that cheek where beauty blush'd,
Those eyes with coy reluctance fondly bent
On him whose wishes woo'd her to consent.
Her bridemaids of that city were the flower,
Rich in youth's charms, and conscious of their power:
But which, though seeming kindly to rejoice,
Pined not at glorious Della Pietra's choice?
And is not Pia blessed of the blest,
Envied by beauty, and by pride carest!
Her lord, of Tuscany the strength and boast,
In council eloquent, in war a host!
Quick in conception, powerful in need,
Ardent and irresistible in deed!
Her spell has charm'd that spirit; she alone
Has won that soul, and made its strength her throne.
On him her hopes, her joys, her wishes rest;
Her very life is center'd in that breast.

10

Whate'er of kindness in his nature glows
Seems on her pure affection to repose;
And she has breathed into that heart of stone
A gentler pulse, a spirit like her own.
To soothe his thoughts, to mitigate the fire
Of aspirations strong and proud desire,
To draw him from their trouble to the calm
Of milder passions, the mind's quiet balm,
Was her heart's joy and glory; thus entwined,
Their thoughts were wedded, and their pleasures join'd;
And she on Della Pietra's bosom lay
As the sweet blossom of his happier day.
An orphan, long had she lost bliss deplored;
None shared her chaste affections; her high lord
(Like him of old who mourn'd Troy's boded fall)
Was to his partner father, brother, all.
Her parents, of Sienna's purest blood,
Sojourn'd ere while where Venice woos the flood,
And perish'd there untimely. One blithe boy
With his dear Pia shared each early joy,
Her brother, partner of each young delight,
With active form, and keen eyes black as night;
She had no friend, save him, who long before
In a frail barque had sail'd for Smyrna's shore,
And the hoarse waters whelm'd him; from that hour
Silent and lonely was her cheerless bow'r;
Till the black Plague assail'd her father's hall,
And, quite forlorn, she saw her parents fall.
Return'd to Tuscan halls in beauty's prime,
She mourn'd, a stranger in her native clime.
Sienna's mansions to her thoughts were strange,
For hard it seems for childhood to exchange

11

The home of hearts, which in dear union blend,
For the cold welcome of a distant friend.
Her years pass'd joyless, till love's thrilling beam
Stirr'd the bright fancies of a happier dream.
The bridal dawn'd auspicious, and she found
In blest reality youth's visions crown'd.
It chanced one eve, the merry wilds were ringing
With birds unto the sun their farewell singing;
All nature's face was beautiful and still,
Though clouds were gathering on each distant hill;
And Pia, joyous in that balmy hour,
Through the lone groves had sought her favorite bow'r.
Shrouded by sweets, a stranger blithe as May
There sate, reposing from his toilsome way.
She started; on her mind tumultuous rush'd
The memory of griefs long past and hush'd.
Her brother's image dawn'd upon her sight,
As she had often view'd it in the night,
When all life's scenes were mute, and on the thought
Came other forms by witching memory brought.
For there had e'en been moments, when her mind
Had cast the certainty of fate behind,
And she had gazed upon the crowded quay
Of Venice, striving his loved shape to see;
And oft upon the marge of Adria's flood
With burning thoughts and wistful eyes had stood,
Straining the sight in anguish, to descry
His gleaming sail upon the distant sky,
And stretch'd her look across the waters blue,
Till she had fancied the illusion true:
And now it flash'd upon her, like the blaze
Of morn on one just startled by its rays.

12

He rose before her like a waking dream;
Seven years the sun had cast its burning gleam
On his toil'd brow; enslaved by Mahound's clan,
His slender form had ripen'd into man.
She could not err; the features stamp'd by time
On her mind's tablet had defied the clime.
Her brother's soul was sparkling in his eye,
The frolic thoughts of their past infancy.
She knew him, felt him on her bosom prest,
With scarcely credulous emotion blest.
She had no voice; but link'd in that embrace
She lean'd her cheek against her brother's face;
Full with the memory of early days
Her heart was breathing thankfulness and praise.
Murmuring their transport, clasp'd in chaste delight,
And beaming joy as innocent as bright,
They had no sense for other sound or sight.
But Della Pietra mark'd the rising storm,
And wistful watch'd for Pia's cherish'd form:
The distant voice of thunder was abroad,
And big drops patter'd on the dusty road.
With kind solicitude of tenderest love,
And quickening step, he hurried through the grove.
Twice had he call'd; she heard not. Through the side
Of her loved bower in anxious haste he spied.
The thunder did not smite him, but his cheek
Turn'd ashy pale; he did not breathe, or speak;
But ghastly, stark, as if the levin-brand
Had blazing burst upon him, did he stand.
He saw, what ages could never undo,
What fiends in triumph could have scarce deem'd true!

13

He saw his Pia in the daring grasp
Of man! He choked; he had no breath to gasp.
By heaven! she kiss'd him, and her slender waist
With rapturous joy a stranger's arm embraced;
Another's pulse was throbbing on the breast
Of her by whom his whole of life was blest;
Those eyes, which were to him his only heaven,
Beam'd with new transport, ne'er to be forgiven:
And yet the rapture of that fatal kiss
Seem'd all too radiant for unholy bliss.
He stood, like one, that instant reft of hope,
On the precipitous and fiery slope
Of the rent earth, which had engulf'd the whole
Of his life's joy, the treasure of his soul.
It was an eye's glance, rapid as the gleam
Of the red thunderbolt—a thought—a dream—
A stroke of vengeance, swifter than the speed
Of agonized love in beauty's need.
He knew not (ne'er could tell) how the fell brand
Flaming and naked came into his hand;
But it was done; in a convulsive sob
The murder'd youth had breathed life's latest throb;
His heart's blood spouted on the thin white veil,
A brother's blood on Pia, as he fell.
She moved not, spoke not, did not understand
That bleeding brother or that naked brand;
But the world reel'd around her, as her lord
Stood like Fate's angel with his blood-stain'd sword.
She shrinks; she shudders; on that corse she falls,
(Like those sad victims in Pompeia's halls,
Fate-stricken in the hour of thoughtless youth)
The kiss of joy still trembling on her mouth.

14

The sword was raised to slay her, but the hand
Yet linger'd, though it held the vengeful brand.
What were his feelings? Was there whom to smite?
The powerless foe lay bleeding in his sight.
To curse? but her, whose loveliness to save
From breath of harm he would have hail'd his grave!
Her, whom to gaze on was his soul's delight!
Whom but to screen from the rude blast of night,
He would have hewn his flesh! yet there she lay
Deluged with murder, cold as lifeless clay,
And his fierce weapon was outstretch'd and bare
To hurl her unrepenting to despair.
The thoughts of hours and days and months and years,
The memory of hopes and bliss and fears,
Were crowded, hurried, in the rapid stream
Of that one instant's musing; a swift dream
Of mingled joys and anguish. That strong mind,
Which was but now to all but vengeance blind,
Is a wild field, wherein the varied thought
Is maddening into agony of doubt:
A shrine, where helpless beauty pleads for life,
Where fiends and dove-like mercy are at strife.
He could not, dared not slay her, as she lay
So pale, so beautiful; yet that delay
Was but the lingering of ruthless pride
Striving with love, and to stern deeds allied
He had sent one before the throne of heaven
Boiling in sin, unhousel'd, and unshriven:
A settled gloom o'erspread his mournful eye;
Murmuring he spoke, “she shall repent and die.”
Eight days unseen he fasted, nor renew'd
His stain'd apparel, by dread thoughts pursued.

15

Dark were those feelings, once so proud and hot;
Despair and loneliness became his lot,
And the deep frown of silence: ne'er again
Was his voice heard amid the buzz of men.
Revenge held fatal sway: but with that sun
His hopes had set, and his youth's race was run;
His days of bliss were number'd and foredone.
But lovely Pia from that bloody deed
They bore, where her lord's mandate had decreed;
Senseless they bore the death-devoted bride,
One faithful maiden weeping by her side.
When life revisited her pulse again,
A burning fever throbb'd in every vein.
The seat of reason swam; the mind was hot
With some strange sense of ill, but knew not what.
She shriek'd, as one whom outrage was pursuing,
Struggling with force, and striving against ruin.
She call'd with wildness on her brother's name,
Screaming for mercy, trembling her whole frame;
Then shrunk, and hush'd each sound, and veil'd her head,
As if for safety, in her fever'd bed.
Somewhile in that still guise she would abide
With deathlike silence, fearing to be spied;
Then creeping forth, as if with cautious dread,
Talk'd in strange tone, with who had long been dead;
And sobb'd and laugh'd alternately, or smiled
With frightful mirth, unnatural, and wild.
At length the pulse wax'd feebler; and the glare
Of her bright eyes had a less ghastly stare;
She held less converse with things long gone by,
With viewless forms of those she ne'er might spy;

16

And the sad dawn of reason slowly rose
On that long night of her distracted woes:
Exhausted nature sank in short repose.
That awful pause of phrensy seem'd to steep
Her burning temples in refreshing sleep.
She oped her lids: the beauteous eyes were mild;
The accent of her voice was nothing wild;
But all around the chamber with amaze
And wonder-breathing look she seem'd to gaze,
Seeking some form familiar to her view,
Which might of memory the web renew:
But nought that she had ever known or seen
Could the mind trace in that sequester'd scene,
Save one kind mourner faithful to the last,
The only link that could recall the past,
Her sad attendant; her, with anxious eye,
Of that strange place she question'd: the reply
Was meekly given with low half-stifled breath,
“Maremma;” but in that brief word was death.
Then dawn'd upon her mind the blackest morn
Of horror, that e'er burst on wretch forlorn;
The frightful vision of the past was there,
The dread futurity of black despair;
She saw, she understood, both what had past,
What was for ever gone, and what must last.
A brother murder'd in the hour of bliss,
His death-shriek mingling with a sister's kiss:
Her fame for ever blighted; and the curse
Of her loved lord e'en clinging to her hearse:
Herself cast off, a thing for every maid
To point with scorn's proud finger, and upbraid:

17

Her wrathful husband blasted by the guilt
Of blood so innocent, so madly spilt.
Absent she views (and shudders with affright)
Him raised by fancy at the dead of night.
Her terrors lend strange horror to his shape;
He seems a fiend, forbidding her escape,
And his stern countenance gigantic grown,
Livid, and cold, and stiffen'd into stone.
It was a vision, that might well renew
The burning shapes of phrensy to her view;
But the slow certainty of death behind,
Maremma's baneful prospect, soothed her mind.
Irrevocable vengeance was achieved;
Her doom was stamp'd, and could not be relieved:
There was no issue, but the narrow gate
That leads from wo to everlasting fate;
And through that darkness gleam'd a ray from heaven,
Where innocence might plead and be forgiven.
She knelt, and raised unto the God of life
A heart where feelings were no more at strife;
A heart so pure, that angels might have wept
To see how meekly every passion slept.
But there was one, a stern man, by her side,
Array'd in garb of holiness, who cried,
“Daughter of sin, thy worldly dreams are past;
“Wake to repentance, while life's mercies last.
“Thy cup of guilt is measured; and the bowl,
“Mantling with passion, has o'erwhelm'd thy soul.
“Kneel for no earthly blessing! let the mind,
“Chasten'd mid sin's foul revel, be resign'd!”
He ceased; a blush dyed deep her pallid cheek,
The last that ever tinged that visage meek;

18

But the high thoughts of innocence and pride
Swell'd for one moment, and her heart was tried:
Fluttering they pass'd, as Pia with a sigh,
Her hands on her breast folding, made reply.
“Father, it is not for a child of earth
“To plead before the God that gave her birth,
“As if chaste innocence from deadly sin
“Were real worth, or should give peace within:
“Helpless I bend before the throne of grace,
“And here, a weak frail being, bow my face.
“My prayer is not for happiness below:
“With hopeless heart I kiss the rod of wo.
“But by the burning blush upon my cheek,
“By my soul's anguish, and my bending meek,
“I am reproachless of that hateful guilt,
“For which my brother's stainless blood was spilt.
“I never named that brother; seven years dead,
“I thought the wild waves beat upon his head,
“And, heart-pain'd, spoke not of that vision dear,
“Whose slightest memory drew forth a tear.
“That was my wrong: perchance if he had heard
“I had a brother, he might not have err'd.
“I know there is in life no hope of good;
“My husband's judgment has been seal'd in blood.
“The limbs of him who died are in the tomb,
“Stript of life's semblance, moulder'd in their bloom.
“E'en were he living, there is no one near
“Save me, to whom his form was known and dear.
“'Tis not in human skill to wipe the stain
“Which, fix'd on Pia, must till death remain.
“I have no wish surviving, no desire,
“But to appease my God, and to expire.”

19

'Tis said that he was stern, that holy man,
And so he seem'd, when his harsh words began;
But there is that in innocence, which bids
Soft pity's dew suffuse the sternest lids.
His look grew mild; a strong emotion made
His voice one instant falter, as he said;
“Life's charms are fleeting, daughter; I believe
“Thy thoughts are chaste: nor is it thine to grieve.
“The flattering dreams of earthly joys are past,
“And in short suffering thy lot is cast.
“The storm has borne thee trembling to the view
“Of that blest haven, where all hopes are true.
“Thine heart has pass'd through pleasures, which allure
“By joy's frail path to sin, and thou art pure.
“The port of bliss is won; and shall the mind
“Reluctant stretch one longing look behind,
“Through shoals and billows to those flowery isles
“Whose treacherous sunshine flatters and beguiles?
“Repine not, gentle sufferer! but raise
“Thy thoughts to heaven with tenderness and praise!”
And Pia did not murmur; from that hour
Her bosom felt religion's healing power.
One boon she mildly ask'd, and on her cheek
The full tear trembled, and her voice was weak.
“'Tis not a proud desire to leave the name,
“Which I received, untouch'd by evil fame;
“Nor sickly yearning to be mourn'd when dead
“By the dear partner of my stainless bed,
“(Though haply that fond thought might be forgiven)
“That swells my fluttering breast: except in heaven
“We may not meet; and from the eye of love
“Immortal light will there all doubts remove.

20

“Be it not deem'd that the last boon I crave
“Savours of wishes on this side the grave!
“But O, when Pia's form is cold and still,
“When this heart's anguish shall no longer thrill,
“Bear one sad blessing from his hapless bride
“To my loved lord, and tell him how I died.
“That mournful tale may win him to repent,
“Mercy may dawn, and vengeance may relent!”
It was a wish so sacred and so pure,
That its attainment might have seem'd secure;
But the meek spirit trembled in her breast,
As if it were to some dread judge addrest.
The boon was granted; and one care remain'd
To trace the letter, with dim tears distain'd;
But, ere the wax was cold, in saintlike mood
Her soul was settled, and weak thoughts subdued.
The world was calm around her; in thy vale,
Maremma, there was neither mirth nor wail:
But e'en that fatal stillness had a charm
For one both dead to hope and to alarm
Disease prey'd slowly on her wasting frame;
The climate's poison mined it, and became
With the mind's suffering leagued; that tainted air
Would have defied man's skill and nicest care;
But she, without reluctancy or fear,
Imbibed the poison of the waning year.
Life faintly ebb'd; and e'en her friend inhaled
That languor, which o'er youth and health prevail'd;
For link'd in willing service to her doom
She trod the same slow journey to the tomb;
And scarce by love was strength enough supplied
To close the eyes of Pia when she died.

21

It was upon a still and breathless eve
Her spirit seem'd about to take its leave.
The church's rites were ended; and, resign'd,
She felt sweet comfort beaming on her mind,
All that religion can of peace bestow,
To calm the heart, and soothe the throb of wo.
The holy man had spoke his latest pray'r,
Foul spirits from the bed of death to scare;
And, like grief's image, that desponding maid
Was bent in pity o'er her dying head.
Her limbs wax'd cold, though sultry was the night,
And darkness dimly grew upon her sight.
She ask'd for light, the taper's cheering ray;
But 'twas her light within that did decay:
Four tapers gleam'd, and on her features wan
Their pallid blaze, as in a death-wake, shone.
With melancholy mien and smother'd breath
Mournful they watch'd the sure approach of death;
When dark, and dimly by that light reveal'd,
A stately form half enter'd, half conceal'd:
And Pia raised her look, and (as her eye
Turn'd on that shape majestic) with a cry
So piercing, that it seem'd to rend her heart,
Uprose erect with stiff and sudden start.
In that dread agony on her bosom prest
She held the mournful scroll, love's last request;
And fell, death-smitten in that fearful throe,
Pale, cold, and lifeless, on her couch of wo.
It was himself, that wretched man of blood;
Like a dumb spectre Della Pietra stood
At his wife's feet: the beautiful, the meek,
Lay lapt in death, no more to move or speak.

22

Came he with deadly views? The work was done,
The race of innocence was past and won.
Came he repentant, doubtful of his end?
Too fond for murder, and too proud to bend?
It matters little, whether thoughts he bore
Darkling with hate, or whether he forbore.
His face was muffled; and they could not spy
The feelings which there strove for mastery;
The scathed, the desolate, and ghastly look:
But they could see how fierce the passion shook
His limbs, (as if the fever's shivering fit
Convulsed them) and the strange wild gleam that lit
His fixt eye gazing on that lovely shape,
Whose spirit from his wrath had made escape.
The scroll was by her hand; with doubtful dread,
Trembling he tore its covering, and read.
“Fate is fulfill'd: thy Pia's soul is gone
“To yield account before its Maker's throne.
“Her life is past, a tale of sorrow told;
“The breast, that pillow'd once thine head, is cold.
“All, that blind anger will'd, has been achieved;
“Now, only now, may Pia be believed:
“Without suspicion the proud heart may hear
“The voice that whispers from the lowly bier.
“Loved husband, start not; let the beam of truth
“With mild conviction win thy soul to ruth!
“Let thy strong mind from passion's cloud be freed!
“Thy Pia lives not for herself to plead.
“But, by the cross of Him who meekly died
“To bear our sins and humble human pride!
“By that dread throne, unto whose radiant light
“Thy spirit soon must wing its trembling flight,

23

“At life's still close, when passion's storm is o'er!
“By the pure vows which to thy love I swore!
“It is a brother's blood that stains thy blade;
“Upon a guiltless wife thy curse is laid.
“Chaste, uncorrupted, innocent of aught
“That touch'd thine honour even by a thought,
“Thy Pia died; of all life's charms bereft,
“But the dear memory of the bliss she left.
“Her joys but bloom'd and flourish'd in thy sight:
“Absent, they mourn'd from very lack of light.
“But, O! loved husband, in the tenderest hour
“When our hearts throbb'd and fondest thoughts had power,
“Was e'er my love so free, my wish so wild,
“That thou shouldst deem me passion's lawless child?
“Could Pia's breast have woo'd man's rude approach?
“I write to bless thee,—and will not reproach.
“The scene of life is closed: and now thy heart
“Will yield me justice, and in love we part.
“We part, O grant it heav'n! to meet in joy,
“Where no false doubts confiding faith destroy.
“Lorn heart, despair not, nor for me repine!
“My pangs are past, and they were light to thine.
“But thou, though reft of bliss, thy course pursue,
“Through life's sad vale to faith and virtue true!
“Raise the deep anguish of thy struggling grief
“To heaven's blest mercy, and there find relief.
“One boon, one trembling prayer! before I close
“Grief's latest scroll, and sink in death's repose.
“O best beloved, the glory of thy bride,
“In life my hope, my blessing, and my pride!

24

“Whene'er strife wakes, and angry passions stir,
“Remember Pia! let the thoughts of her,
“Whom wrath, too hasty, to the tomb has sent,
“Win thy stern heart to mercy!—and relent!”

JULIA MONTALBAN.

[_]

The story upon which this Tale is founded is altered from that of Julia de Roubigny. The subject was taken from a general recollection of that interesting little volume, to which I have not had an opportunity of referring. Some important alterations have been intentionally made in the story, and perhaps others inadvertently, as I had no particular wish to adhere to it.

Sweet bird of night, that on the loneliest spray
Like an inthralled angel pour'st thy lay,
Earth has no strain to match thy plaintive notes,
Whose mournful tone upon the moonbeam floats.
Near thee, all other warbling of the grove
Seems heartless; thine the very soul of love.
Some secret tie thro' nature's spacious bounds
Unites the sweetest with the saddest sounds,
And gives to sorrowing loveliness a spell,
Which in its radiance mirth can ne'er excel.
Thee, first, and fairest of the nine I woo,
Majestic Muse, to sorrow ever true!
Thee oft entranced my fancy has descried,
Thy stately mien, thy step of graceful pride;

25

The shape of perfect mould, the glossy hair,
The forehead smooth, the neck of beauty rare;
The robe of jet that girds thy breast of snow,
Making the whitest bosom whiter glow;
The witching eloquence of thy dark eyes,
Where the love-lighted smile half-kindled dies;
And from thy coral lip the melting strain
That makes grief bliss, and lighter pleasures vain.
Long shall the mind's rapt eye enamour'd dwell
On thee, chaste Muse, and own thy powerful spell.
From thee my verse proceeds; O be it thine
To fill the fancy, and exalt the line!
Stamp thou thine own bright image on my page,
And it shall live beyond Time's latest age!
Wintry and bleak was the Sierra's brow,
And, Cordova, thy mountains capp'd with snow.
Deep sigh'd the gale; thro' swift-borne clouds, serene
The moonlight stream'd upon that lonely scene,
Silvering the glens beneath; while far and wide
Night's shadows flitted o'er the mountain's side.
Full on a cheerless chamber fell its ray,
Where, pale and almost spent, a matron lay.
Mournful her look; upon her bosom prest
Both hands were clasp'd; the breath scarce heaved her breast.
Fixt upon one, who neither moved nor spoke,
Her eyes seem'd heaven's last blessing to invoke.
One painful thought alone appear'd to stay
The parting soul, and crave some brief delay;
While he, her partner in each earthly care,
Sat chain'd to grief, and conquer'd by despair.
Behind stood one, whose mien some pity wore,
And, though unblest his office, still forebore,

26

By his sad prisoner, waiting for the close
Of life's last scene in that abode of woes.
E'en the hard hand of justice dared not strive
To break that tie which nature soon must rive.
Nor long the pause; her glass was nearly run,
Her limbs unnerved, her strength almost foredone.
'Tis said, strong wishes can in Death's despight
Arrest the spirit and deny his right;
But soon that spell must pass; the weak pulse ceased;
Without a groan her spirit was released.
Then rose the shriek of one, to whom the view
Of death and the heart's agony were new,
Her own young Julia; she who o'er her bed
Had watch'd desponding, and now saw her dead.
Each moment had foretold it: but that grief,
So sure and present, now was past belief.
Say ye, who early o'er a mother's grave
Have seen the plumed pomp of burial wave,
How oft your fancy unconstrain'd by wo
Has seem'd to hear her cherish'd accents flow!
View'd her loved couch, void room, or wonted chair,
And almost thought to see her image there!
Perchance that incredulity of grief
To desolation brings some faint relief,
Deludes the pang, and soothes the youthful heart
With the fond hope from which it will not part.
Sweet childhood, in the lap of kindness rear'd,
How are thy careless sports by love endear'd!
Thine is the love, that knows no timid blush,
The heedless brow, which changeful pleasures flush:
The gentle confidence, that fears no harm;
The breast, which gaily throbs without alarm!

27

O that so manhood could securely sail
On the smooth tide adown life's pleasant vale!
O that the dreams of childhood could remain,
When years steal on and reason grows with pain!
Joys cheerful as the spring had o'er the head
Of infant Julia their best influence shed.
There was a light of mirth in her blue eyes,
The liquid azure of her native skies;
Her cheek was radiant with the hue of joy,
Unmixt enchantment, hope without alloy.
Young Roderic, by her parent's bounty rear'd,
Her toils partook, and every sport endear'd;
Together did their opening minds explore
The sage's precepts, and the poet's lore:
So closely link'd in infantine delight,
They were but happy in each other's sight.
No tremulous thought (if such they knew) of care,
No bliss had one, the other did not share.
Time fled too swiftly, bearing in its flight
Those precious days of sunshine ever bright.
The sylphlike form grew ripe with woman's charms,
The bosom throbb'd with undefined alarms;
That eye of cloudless mirth now veil'd its gleam,
And bashful mildness shed a gentler beam.
The hour of parting came, and keenly proved
To each pain'd breast how tenderly it loved.
That love was mute; not e'en Rodrigo dared
Outpour the thought, which both in silence shared.
Call'd in youth's morning to a foreign clime,
He then first learnt that poverty was crime.
A noble orphan by Velasquez fed,
His lot seem'd cast to press a barren bed.

28

Till wealth, hard-earn'd by toilsome length of years,
Should raise him to a level with his peers.
Forth he must fare, where fortune's smiles invite,
While richer suitors woo his lost delight.
But though that pang had well nigh forced the blood
From his life's fountain, still it was withstood.
Love spoke in the flush'd cheek; it lit the eyes;
It pour'd the soul's strong passion in its sighs;
But, unrecorded by one daring word,
Its vows were breathed in silence, and unheard.
To Cuba's coast he went, and with him bore
A mind as ardent to that burning shore.
But Julia, from Valentia's beauteous vale,
With mournful eye beheld his gliding sail.
Her troubled bosom heaved; a busy thought
Rose in her heart, by treacherous fancy brought,
Which murmur'd painful doubts within her breast
Of cold unkindness or of love supprest.
In him had all emotion seem'd to sleep;
She long'd to fall upon his neck and weep;
There was reserve and pride in his adieu,
And something to her feelings strange and new;
And yet, before he bounded from the strand,
His quick convulsive grasp had press'd her hand;
And one last look seem'd rashly to confess
What the proud soul had labor'd to repress.
She gazed upon the flowers, whose laughing birth
Show'd as if bliss alone were upon earth,
The trees in stateliest beauty round her growing,
The sea so clear, the hills with sunshine glowing,
And the unclouded firmament on high,
The pure immeasurable depth of sky;

29

But the world seem'd untenanted and lone,
And she amidst that bliss the only one,
The lorn, the hopeless. He, whose breath had given
To earthly joys a sweet foretaste of heaven,
Was floating fast upon the perilous wave
To other climes, perchance a foreign grave;
And there was none beside to understand
The voice that whispers from sky, sea, and land,
The secret charm which from thebreeze's wing
Steals o'er the heart mid nature's blossoming.
Time pass'd, and yet arose no blither view;
Her eye its lustre, her cheek lost its hue.
Why was she sad? She knew not; this alone
Her bosom felt, that all its mirth was flown.
But soon with weightier blow substantial care
Made her of that grief's vanity aware.
Man little prizes what each day bestows,
While fancy builds a frightful pile of woes;
Till, reft of joys that were his daily food,
He learns by loss that what he held was good.
The wheels slow rolling thro' Valentia's walls
Bore her for ever from her native halls.
Law, like a harpy, with its ravenous train,
Had stripp'd her father of his rich domain,
Remote from splendor now, and doom'd to hide
His sorrows near the dark Sierra's side.
There yet one humble mansion own'd him lord,
But sorrow scowl'd upon his frugal board.
O sweet Contentment, what art thou, and where?
In what wild covert is thy tangled lair,
That man can never reach thee? Dost thou dwell
In the low cabin or the rocky cell,

30

Or lay thee stretch'd beneath some gilt alcove,
Where perfumes breathe and music whispers love?
Art thou the proud concomitant of wealth,
The prize of beauty, or the child of health?
Say, dost thou lavish in the peasant's cot
Thy cherub smiles to cheer his rugged lot,
And are the rich, the honor'd, and the gay,
In fruitless search for ever doom'd to stray?
Or, still to place and fortune unconfined,
Is thy sole harbour in the peaceful mind?
Those vales are fair, those hills are evergreen,
The careless rustic joys that lovely scene.
Why does Velasquez scorn his humble hall?
Why is the bread, that daily feeds him, gall?
Save that, regardless of what sweets remain,
His bosom turns unto the past with pain.
Two years dragg'd slowly on with heavy wing,
And Julia's fondness could no comfort bring.
Peevish and doubly jealous of respect,
He seem'd past hope, and all his pleasures wreck'd.
The wife, who with him trod the summer ways
Of fortune, soothed him in his wintry days,
Watch'd o'er his fretful mood with patient love,
Too sad to cheer, too gentle to reprove.
Grief was young Julia's portion, and she seem'd
As one who woo'd not pleasure, but had dream'd
Unutterable bliss, whose radiance spread
Peace in her soul, to worldly wishes dead:
But still her pensive smile might cast a shade
On Seville or Valentia's sprightliest maid;
And, as if born to deck some higher sphere,
She trod life's walk with little hope or fear.

31

For all her griefs were certain; in her sire
The mind's adversity had quell'd its fire;
Her mother, stricken by that helpless doom,
Look'd to the peaceful haven of the tomb;
And he had vanish'd as a morning dream,
Who held the dearest place in her esteem.
Herself, that lightsome child of infant mirth,
Seem'd now unfitted for the joys of earth;
Like those pure sylphs, that bend in mild distress
Over the couch of dying loveliness,
And, school'd in that unfriended house of wo,
Sat patience, like a glory, on her brow.
But other pangs drew nigh: fate had not shed
Its utmost malice on Velasquez' head.
E'en on that night of mourning, while his wife
Still press'd the fatal couch, just reft of life,
Stern justice dragg'd him from the house of gloom,
To linger cheerless in a living tomb;
And Julia shared his lot, content to dwell
A self-devoted victim in his cell.
With none but her, his sufferings to assuage,
Disease fell heavy on the brow of age.
His pallet was of straw, and Julia hung
O'er his uneasy sleep. Carelessly flung
On her white bosom, the dishevell'd hair
Made her more beauteous even in despair.
She sat entranced, while memory round her drew
Forms of the past in long and sad review.
In her heart graven with unerring truth
She traced each pastime of her earliest youth;
And, in that dungeon, free and unconfined
Valentia's charms came beaming on her mind:

32

Rodrigo's smile; the mutual joys and fears
Which had endear'd him in her infant years;
And then the clouded brow, the constrain'd look;
The pleading eye, when that last leave he took;
The hasty pressure of her yielded hand;
The barque, that bore him from his native land.
Next rose the grief, that reft her of her home,
Torn from the shades where once she loved to roam;
Her mother's failing strength, her kind caress
Foreboding thoughts which she would fain repress;
The paleness that betray'd life's dwindling flame,
The slow decay of that exhausted frame.
Then keener thoughts arose; the pang, that prey'd
Like poison on her heart, to none bewray'd;
The tale, which dagger-like had pierced her soul,
“Rodrigo wedded to a rich Creole.”
Faithless she fain would hold him, and forsworn;
Was not his image in her bosom worn?
Had she not scorn'd for him all wealth beside,
Montalban's rank, Montalban's honest pride?
But of reproach the comfort was denied;
How had he woo'd her? by what promise tied?
Her tears stole slow, and that heart-humbling thought
To its sad home her sickening memory brought.
Her eyes were fixt upon her father's face,
On which despair had stamp'd its fatal trace.
Its hue was alter'd, and approaching death
Was almost striving with his smother'd breath.
Her heart was well nigh bursting, as she saw
His grey hairs sunk upon that couch of straw.
Deep self-reproof assail'd her; and a pang,
That roused her, through the conscious bosom rang.

33

Her mother lay unburied, and her sire
In his damp prison ready to expire;
Yet she, his only solace, for the toy
Of fancy lavish'd on a reckless boy,
Had scorn'd the good, the glorious and the brave,
Whose name might honor, and whose wealth might save.
She had forbade Montalban, though her mind
Judged him the best and noblest of mankind.
How now recall him? how her wish unfold,
And seem to sell her loveliness for gold?
She look'd upon her father, and his fate
Seem'd past relief, and penitence too late.
She gazed, and even then steps hurrying broke
His unrefreshing sleep, and he awoke.
His debts were cancell'd; but the call in vain
Roused him to freedom, and he stirr'd with pain.
Then pale and half-upraised, with earnest look
Foreboding death, his Julia's hand he took.
“One friend alone,” he said, “of human kind
“Sought me when fallen, to my failings blind;
“And, proud himself, yet strove to be allied
“To me, who, wreck'd in fortune, still had pride.
“The secret bounty, which unbars my chains,
“Flows from that fountain, and the debt remains.
“One gift I have; one only can repay
“The heart-felt boon, and that vast debt outweigh.”
He ceased; she hardly felt the young blood rush
Suffusing o'er her face the kindled blush,
Or how each nerve was to the utmost bent,
While hastily she pour'd her rash consent,
Her thoughts were so exalted; and her voice
Declared the boon she granted was her choice.

34

'Twas all Velasquez' lingering soul required;
Smiling he blest their union, and expired.
Montalban's prime was past, and days of ruth
Had cast some painful cloud upon his youth,
Which left a sad impression; and his mind
Was high and gloomy, but his feelings kind.
Adversity, the bane of blither cheer,
To him had made Velasquez doubly dear;
And, scarce perceived, fair Julia's influence stole
With undisputed empire o'er his soul.
Fixt in so proud a bosom, from that hour
Love sway'd his passions with resistless power.
O thou stern god! imperious, fearful Love!
In thy deceitful cradle as a dove,
Thro' the wide universe thy strength is spread,
And nature quivers underneath thy tread!
Whether a child of darkness or of heaven,
To thee strange power on this our world is given.
Bright hope, and pure delight, and fatal bane,
And bliss, and guilt, are mingled in thy reign.
The steps are viewless as the lapse of time,
By which thou lead'st from ecstacy to crime.
Thy lip thou clothest with an angel's smile,
Bewraying every charm that can beguile,
And gently lurest the wretch thou wilt destroy
With such sweet rapture, that to fall is joy.
But, in thy passion roused, thou art of might
To make man's essence shrink before thy sight.
And the mild look, which late serenely shone,
May like a gorgon turn his heart to stone.
The sun-beams dawn'd upon their bridal bed;
There all her youthful phantasies lay dead;

35

For love is wayward as the mountain flower,
Which blooms spontaneous on its rocky bower,
Sheds dewy odors on the barren earth,
Where, fann'd by fitful gales, it had its birth,
And first, amid wild glens and woodlands green,
It blossom'd in its loneliness unseen;
But sickening pines beneath the hand of care,
And yields no sweets, but in its native air.
Languid her look, and grief was at her heart,
Yet had not sorrow shot its keenest dart.
A letter came; she paused; her eyes grew dim,
The characters uncertain seem'd to swim.
Rodrigo's hand, Rodrigo's heart was there:
Read on, thou wretched victim, and despair!
Deep blush'd her cheek, but next a pallid hue
Death's veriest semblance o'er her features threw.
For her unheard beyond the Atlantic main,
His faithful wishes had been breathed in vain!
For her, though hopeless, and to fate resign'd,
The proffer'd hand of wealth he had declined.
Now lavish fortune his firm truth repaid,
And a rich heritage his will obey'd.
Again elate he trod the Spanish shore;
He came to sue; he came to part no more;
And high in hope, in ignorance still blest,
Unveil'd the rapturous passion of his breast.
As her heart shrunk, she met Montalban's eye;
The blush return'd, and she suppress'd a sigh:
Then shuddering started, and in haste conceal'd
The dangerous scroll, too dear to be reveal'd.
Tears had full scope within her secret bower,
And love resistless re-usurp'd its power.

36

Life was her bitterest burthen; but she stood
In her uprightness firm and unsubdued.
She dared not see Rodrigo: with the thought
Of what she was, her feelings were distraught.
Then came another scroll; Rodrigo's ear
Had learnt her fate, had nothing left to fear.
How had he found her! to what fate consign'd!
Not in the grave; they might have there been join'd!
But spoil'd and fetter'd in a rival's bed,
More lost to love's embraces than the dead!
Few words to her the ill-omen'd scroll address'd,
Few, but with passion's burning touch impress'd.
By every joy which they had hoped or known,
She was adjured to meet him once alone.
From her she cast it shrinking and afraid,
Then bending meekly to her God she pray'd;
And sadly strengthen'd in her purpose rose,
Firm in her duty, calm amidst her woes.
There is a spirit in each gloomiest wild,
To love allied, lone fancy's shadowy child;
And he, who mourns beneath the oak's broad arms,
Hath strange society with nature's charms.
The tangled brake, the waters still and clear,
The rock's deep shade, are to his humor dear;
Far from wealth's canopy and burnish'd dome
The interminable forest seems his home;
E'en the hoarse voices of the wave and wind
Speak a known language to his troubled mind;
In every moss-grown trunk he hails a friend,
And nature's rudest forms some solace lend.
Julia was flush'd with fever; all her frame
Quivering and parch'd with an internal flame.

37

She loathed her chamber, and, opprest with heat,
At evening sought the garden's still retreat.
A trelliced bower invited her; within,
Stood the loved youth, whom now to love was sin.
Seeing, she started; how could she foreknow,
Such rash intrusion on her secret wo?
Had Roderic named that place, she would have made
No dangerous visit to its lonely shade.
She wish'd to fly, but trembling (as her feet
Denied their office) sank upon a seat.
She would have bade him leave her, but each word
Died on her lips unfinish'd and unheard.
She would have struggled with the hand that squeezed
Her hand, which it had passionately seized;
But powerless, witless, on his neck she fell
With such a burst of sorrow, as might tell
The agony which swell'd within her breast,
Too strong to yield, too big to be represt.
Montalban sought her at the fall of day;
The fatal scroll upon her pillow lay.
He saw, he read. A sudden film came o'er
His sight amazed; he judged not; he forbore.
With hasty voice he call'd, enquired her path,
And follow'd, more in wonder, than in wrath.
Just when broke forth her sorrow's whelming flood,
With startled horror by the seat he stood.
There Julia, clasp'd in young Rodrigo's arms,
Sobb'd on his bosom, heedless of her charms,
While the full soul seem'd pouring thro' his eyes,
And his delighted spirit drank her sighs.
Enough, enough! O too much had he seen!
O that impervious gloom had wrapp'd the scene!

38

Backward few steps he stagger'd, both hands clasp'd
Upon his forehead, and for breath he gasp'd.
Him they observed not, by one grief possest,
And in that throb of torment almost blest.
Rodrigo ask'd but that one short farewell,
That solace in despair, and he would dwell,
In wilds untrodden, of all joy forlorn,
And waste a life too blasted to be borne.
But Julia's heart was rived; she could not speak:
He press'd his burning face against her cheek,
And from that trance she started. One farewell,
One sad eternal parting! and the spell
Dropp'd from her eyes; stood sinful love unveil'd
In full deformity, and faith prevail'd;
As homeward like a panting dove she flew,
Scared from the peril of that last adieu.
Four things the wise man

Proverbs xxx. 18, 19.

knew not to declare,

The eagle's path athwart the fields of air;
The ship's deep furrow thro' the ocean's spray;
The serpent's winding on the rock; the way
Of man with woman. Into water clear
The jealous Indian rudely thrust his spear,
And, quick withdrawing, pointed how the wave
Subsided into stillness. The dark grave,
Which knows all secrets, can alone reclaim
The fatal doubt once cast on woman's fame.
Night's shade fell thick; the evening was far spent
Ere proud Montalban to her chamber went.
Slowly he enter'd, and with cautious glance
Cast his eye round, before he did advance;

39

Then placed a bowl of liquor by her side,
And thus severe address'd his sorrowing bride:
“The night advances, Julia: hast thou pray'd
“To Him whose eye can pierce the thickest shade.
“Who, robed in truth, is never slow to mark
“The hidden guilty secrets of the dark?”
“Yes, honor'd Albert, I have duly learn'd
“That prayer is sorrow's balm,” the wife return'd.
“The voice of God is awful, when the breast
“Of the weak sufferer is by guilt opprest;
“But mercy dawns upon the patient head,
“The peace of Him who for our failings bled.”
Her words some tender sympathy awoke,
But he repress'd it, and thus sternly spoke.
“If morning's dawn must glimmer on our bier,
“Say, canst thou meet the future without fear?
“Is thy soul chasten'd, and resign'd to go
“This night to everlasting bliss or wo?”
His accents falter'd; but unmoved he stood,
And, firm of heart, his beauteous victim view'd.
He wore the ghastly aspect of the dead,
But his lip quiver'd, and his eye was red;
And such dark feelings character'd his gaze,
That Julia shrunk with terror and amaze.
She paused; her eye fell doubtful on that bowl;
O'er all her frame a shuddering horror stole.
Then thus with downcast look; (she dared not raise
Her eye to meet again that fearful gaze:)
“Yes, Albert; I have made my peace with heaven,
“At whose pure shrine my secret thoughts are shriven.
“Whene'er fate calls, this humble soul obeys;
“The tear of sorrow asks no fond delays.

40

“With tremulous hope the lingering heart may cling
“To life's blest walks, illumed by pleasure's spring.
“Cold duty's path is not so blithely trod,
“Which leads the mournful spirit to its God.”
She spoke, half timid, and presaging ill
From his knit brow and look severely still.
The thought of death came o'er her; and the mind
Disown'd her words, more fearful than resign'd.
Love's secret influence heaved the conscious breast
With fluttering pulse, that would not be at rest.
Stern Albert mark'd the tremor of her brow,
And the cheek's fitful colour come and go.
His eye was big with anguish, as it stray'd
O'er all the charms, which her thin robe betray'd;
The perfect loveliness of that dear form
In its full spring of beauty ripe and warm;
And never had she look'd so wonderous fair,
So precious, so surpassing all compare,
In blither hours, when innocent delight
Flush'd her young cheek and sparkled in her sight,
As languid, in that careless garb array'd,
Half lit by the pale lamp, half hid in shade.
He would have given health, life, eternity,
The joys that fleet, the hopes that never die,
Once more in tenderest rapture to have press'd
That shape angelic to his troubled breast;
But pride forbade, and from each living charm
Drew fiercer hate, which love could not disarm.
Upon that form of beauty, now his bane,
Pollution seem'd to have impress'd a stain.
Awhile he paced the floor with heavy stride,
Then gazed once more upon his sorrowing bride;

41

And, parting with his hands the glossy hair
On the white forehead of the silent fair,
Look'd wistfully; then, bending sad and slow,
Fix'd one long kiss upon that brow of snow.
It seem'd as if love's spirit in his soul
Was battling with his passion's fierce control.
He sat before her; on one hand reclined
His face, which told the struggle of his mind;
The other held the bowl: she raised her head,
As, slow his hand extending, thus he said:
“Drink, Julia; pledge me in this cup of peace;
“Drink deep, and let thy tears of sorrow cease.”
Her eye was fixt and motionless; her cheek
Had lost its changeful hue; she did not speak.
Her nerves seem'd numb'd, and icy horror press'd,
Like a cold weight of lead, upon her breast.
“Drink, Julia;” spoke again that dreadful voice:
“Drink, Julia, deep; for thou hast now no choice.”
A fatal shiver seem'd to reach her soul,
And her hand trembled, as it touch'd the bowl;
But duty's call prevail'd o'er shapeless dread;
She look'd with silent terror, and obey'd.
I know not, whether it was fancy's power
Which smote each conscious sense in that dread hour,
Or whether, doom'd at mortal guilt to grieve,
Thus his good angel sadly took his leave;
But he half started, and in truth believed
That a deep lengthen'd sob was faintly heaved,
And some dark shuddering form behind him pass'd,
Which o'er her shape its fearful shadow cast.
Breathless he listen'd by his thoughts appall'd;
(The hour of mercy could not be recall'd.)

42

Then to his lips in turn the draught applied,
Which should in death unite him with his bride.
'Twas done; a long, and solemn pause ensued,
While Albert speechless his sad victim view'd.
There was not in her chamber sound or breath,
But all was hush'd and ominous of death;
The very lustre, which the dim light shed,
Was like a watchfire burning by the dead.
The darksome tapestry heaved not on the wall,
And like night's spectres stood its figures tall;
They seem'd in shadowy stillness to survey
The twain illumed by the lamp's pallid ray:
And Julia, half suspicious of her fate,
Mark'd the stern aspect of her ghastly mate.
At length with steady voice Montalban broke
That awful silence, and more mildly spoke.
“The hour of thy deceitfulness is past;
“Our lives are waning, and the die is cast.
“Let thy mind turn from frailty, and the heart
“Unveil its bitter secret, ere we part.
“But first, O Julia, once my hope and pride,
“By thine own voice let Albert's deeds be tried.
“Sad memories of earlier years may lend
“My brow a gloom which fondness should unbend:
“Perchance it wants the soft and winning grace,
“The smiling vermeil of a younger face;
“But in what chaste endearment couldst thou find
“Or love more warm, or kindness more refined?
“Have not my cares, with anxious pleasure fraught,
“Outsped thy wishes and forerun thy thought?
“Speak thou my sentence; this lorn heart appeals
“To thine own thoughts and what thy conscience feels.

43

“O in thy treason, Julia, madly prized
“Above all joys which ever love devised,
“Even in thy guilt so excellently fair,
“'Tis bliss to gaze on thee in this despair!
“Speak, thou frail angel! be in death forgiven!
“That sinful breast is Albert's only heaven!”
He stopp'd; for passion's overwhelming tide
Rose like a deluge, and bore down his pride;
Full swell'd the flood of agonizing grief,
And in deep sobs his suffering forced relief.
On either hand with strength he press'd his brow,
Torn by remorse his lips would not avow.
Julia rose quick and startled; she had heard
With strange amazement each appalling word.
Her mind misgave her, but she dared not think
That the sad peace of death was in that drink.
How could she dread from him that deed of hell,
Who, to her sorrow, had but loved too well!
Yet conscious thoughts awoke some secret fear;
The deep reproof fell painful on her ear:
For in her heart, tho' innocent of sin,
Vain wishes dwelt, and peace was not within.
“Forbear, my lord,” the trembling mourner cried,
“Forbear, nor deem thus harshly of thy bride!
“Thou wilt not kill me? I have chastely worn
“The bonds of duty, and am not forsworn.
“O Albert, thou didst take my hand alone,
“And all I had to yield thee is thine own!
“If, yet unmaster'd, some vain dreams arise,
“Forgive the tears, that trembling veil my eyes.
“The struggling soul shall every wish subdue;
“Thy mournful Julia to her vows is true.

44

“Believe me, Albert, though the suffering mind
“Pour some weak sighs, the spirit is resign'd.
“No thought lurks there, which needs to be forgiven;
“All that of life remains, to thee is given.”
“Short space, dissembler!” wrathful Albert cried;
“Think'st thou, that night thy guilty loves can hide?
“Rodrigo!—Traitress, does the color rise
“To those white cheeks, which thy calm speech belies?”
A sudden blush o'erran her ivory cheek,
As thus with trembling voice she strove to speak.
“Thou wrong'st me! e'en now, exiled from his land
“By hapless love, he seeks a foreign strand.”
“'Tis false,” said Albert, and his brow grew dark;
“The moonlight gleams upon him cold and stark.”
Uprose the wrathful husband; as he stood,
The lamp's ray shone upon the clotted blood
Staining his garment, and the baleful glow
Of such fierce passion lighten'd from his brow,
That Julia shriek'd, as if his vengeful arm
Had split before her eyes the life-blood warm
Of him her soul adored. A dizzy pain
More sharp than death shot keenly thro' her brain.
And “Hast thou kill'd him, Albert?” loud she scream'd,
Gazing where on that blood the radiance gleam'd.
“I thank thy jealous rage; thro' all my veins
“I feel thy fatal draught and death-like pains,
“The last fell gift of mercy to thy bride,
“First of thy love, now victim of thy pride.
“I do not curse thy phrensy! Canst thou bear
“Of thine own soul the weight and deep despair?
“Albert, I do not curse thee for the slain!
“Two hopeless spirits thou hast loosed from pain.”

45

She said, and sunk in anguish on the floor,
Her white hands wildly clasp'd, to rise no more;
And never did a child of earthly woes
Such loveliness in hour of death disclose.
Her eyes upon the fretted ceiling fix'd
A look of hope with such sharp suffering mixt,
That the pure soul seem'd striving thro' the sight
To find its God, and win its way to light.
Thy thoughts of joy, Montalban, all are past;
And this still hour of murder is thy last!
But canst thou gaze unmoved upon that form?
Those youthful limbs are beauteous yet, and warm;
The eyes, which sparkled once with free delight,
Speak yet the feeling soul, and still are bright;
But thy swift poison spreads thro' every vein,
That tender shape must writhe with inward pain;
Cold and unconscious shall that blushing face,
Which met thy love, lie sunk in death's embrace;
The unzoned breast, which heaves so smooth and white,
Shall be ere morning loathsome to the sight.
Gaze, gaze, thou rash despoiler, till thine eyes
Grow dim with grief, and thine heart burst with sighs!
For thou hast madly dash'd away in scorn
That matchless jewel which thou might'st have worn;
Look on that work of vengeance with despair,
And read the sentence of thy Maker there.
The morn dawn'd glorious upon vale and hill,
But Julia's chamber was all hush'd and still.
The noonday's sultry beam gilt spire and tower,
But no sound stirr'd within her peaceful bower.
Its casements close remain'd in quiet gloom;
Its dark alcove was silent as the tomb.
At length strange whispers ran, that voice or word

46

Was not return'd by Julia or her lord;
That one who pass'd the garden's private door
Had found a fair youth slain and stiff in gore:
And some within had listen'd with affright
Sounds like last agonies in dead of night:
The bodeful tale grew rife, and at late hour
With anxious fear they burst the nuptial bower.
There, all untenanted the bridal bed,
Upon the floor the twain were stiff and dead.
Loved Julia lay, upon her graceful arm
The cheek reclined, as if in life yet warm;
But cold death's livid hue upon her skin
Show'd what a piteous waste was wrought within.
Her features seem'd, tho' now in slumber deep,
After some painful struggle sunk to sleep.
The aspect of her lip serene and mild,
Perchance death's last convulsion, sadly smiled.
Montalban's strength appear'd more lately spent;
O'er her pale corse his lifeless form was bent,
And inward agony still seem'd to strain
His ghastly features, as if wrung by pain.
His bloody glove, yet clench'd, appear'd to hold
Her hand still press'd unto his visage cold,
As if, deep striving with his latest breath,
His lips convulsed had clung to it in death.
His throes were strong and fierce; and he that slew
That form of loveliness, had most to rue.
Her soul, to bliss awaken'd from despair,
In mild forgiveness pour'd its latest prayer;
It breathed no thought, which angels would deny;
A beam of glory lit her dying eye:
The patient spirit from its frail abode,
By faith upraised, stole gently to its God.

47

THE GUAHIBA.

[_]

The principal circumstances of this lamentable story, the particulars of the scenery, climate, and Indian superstitions, are taken from Humboldt's Personal Narrative. I fear that the facts which he has recorded concerning this barbarous trausaction, and the manner in which Indian children have been hunted by the orders of some of the South American missionaries, must be authentic; at the same time we should remember that he writes (as he himself states) with the feelings of a Calvinist, of course not very favourable to the establishments he visited; and as he tells us that any written attestation in favour of the monks which he might have left amongst them would have been considered as extorted from him under circumstances that made him dependant upon them, so he must allow us to believe that his depositions against them after his return may have been a little coloured by prejudice. With the exception of the modes occasionally employed for obtaining converts or neophytes, I apprehend that the government of the Spanish missions has been mild and patriarchal, though probably indolent and neglectful of stimulating the Indians sufficiently to industrious occupations. The exertions of the Jesuits were much more effective, and, since the dissolution of that distinguished brotherhood, civilization has undoubtedly retrograded in the South American wilderness. Although the particular transaction here recorded cannot be read without indignation, nothing can be farther from my intention than to excite any general odium against the Spanish missionaries, whose meritorious and patient endurance is not to be forgotten, while we lament the faults of their education. Of course it will be understood that the speech of the Guahiba expresses the sentiments natural to an Indian under such circumstances, not those of the writer.

O could I lie by Oroonoko's bank,
Where Uniana's solitary peak

“The left bank of the river (Oroonoko) is generally lower, but makes part of a plane which rises again west of Atures toward the Peak of Uniana, a pyramid nearly three thousand feet high, and placed on a wall of rock with steep slopes.”— Humboldt's Personal Narrative, vol. v. p. 43.


Shoots thousand fathom to the cloudless sky,
Dreaming myself in Paradise, embower'd

48

By some stupendous tree, whose outstretch'd arms
Seem in themselves a world, on either front

“Near Atures the old trees were decorated with beautiful orchideas, yellow bannisterias, blue-flowered bignonias, peperomias, arums and pothoses. A single trunk displays a greater variety of vegetable forms, than an extensive space of ground contains in our countries.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 49.

“On quitting the village of Turmero (near Caraccas) we discover a single tree, the famous zamang del Guayre, known throughout the province for the enormous extent of its branches, which form a hemispheric head five hundred and seventy-six feet in circumference. One side of the tree was entirely stripped of its foliage, owing to the drought; and on the other side there remained at once leaves and flowers. Tillandsias, lorantheæ, cactus, pitahayas, and other parasite plants, cover its branches and crack the bark. The inhabitants of these villages, but particularly the Indians, hold in veneration the zamang del Guayre, which the first conquerors found almost in the same state in which it now remains.”— Humb. P. N. vol iv. p. 116.


Displaying different seasons, bud or fruit,
Springtime or summer, and its glorious trunk
Wreathed and perfumed with odorous parasites
That clothe it like a meadow! while the sound
Of the far waters from Atures' fall
Comes on the breathless moonlight, stealing slow
Like some aërial strain! O could I view
The wonders of that realm! deep rayless chasms,
Where fire-plumed birds hold empire unapproach'd;

The cock of the rock, or rock manakin, with splendid orange-coloured plumage. “A considerable portion of the Oroonoko was dry, because the river had found an issue by subterraneous caverns. In these solitary haunts the rock manakin, with gilded plumage, (pipra rupicola,) one of the most beautiful birds of the tropics, builds its nest. The Raudalito of Carucari is caused by an accumulation of enormous blocks of granite. These blocks are piled together in such a manner as to form spacious caverns.”— Humb. P. N. vol. 5. p. 630.


Cleft rocks, ingulphing the all-powerful flood
In their fantastic caves; and numberless,
With arrowy boughs emerging from the foam
Amidst a cloud of spray, islets palm-crown'd,
Seeming to float in mist! still herbs, that slope
Their glossy leaves, with thousand living lamps

“An innumerable multitude of insects spread a reddish light on the ground.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 623.


Resplendent, from whose ray the light serene
Over the deafening water-chaos streams,
As from an angel's smile! There let me lull
Life's passions in delight, and thus reclined
Think peace on earth unbroken, and forget
That violence and guilt can scare the charm
Of such calm solitudes! Does nature view,
In all her wide extent of good and fair,
Scene liker Eden, than the flowery site
Of some mild mission in that stormless clime!
The plain's green carpet, and the leaf-built huts
Mantled with sweet lianas, in the shade
Of plantains spreading wide and graceful palms!
The light mimosa s air-spread canopy,
Which seems depictured on the azure vault

49

Glowing behind it! and beneath the gloom
Of some majestic Ceïba, that lifts

Bombax ceiba. Silk cotton tree. A tree of the first magnitude, with five-fingered leaves, somewhat resembling those of the horse-chesnut, and very large solitary white flowers.


Its silky cotton into middle air,
The Christian father, with his docile group
Of feather-cinctured Indians, just reclaim'd
From perilous wanderings to the Shepherd's flock!
There, by vast waters, which give back their banks
As from a mirror, of their limpid depth
Revealing to the eye each secret form,
Celestial truth is cherish'd, which imparts,
In that still wilderness, midst earthly joys,
Hope of a brighter Eden. Wo to man,
Who mars that glorious vision, giving scope
To lawless might, unto his perverse will
Likening his Maker's! and, for gentle lore
Breathed by the unadulterate voice of truth,
Yields force the reins, and makes his zeal the law
Oppressing nature, and hopes so to stand
Pure before God! O for a Seraph's might
To whelm the Mother's rock beneath the depth

Before we reach the confluence of the river Temi, a granitic hummock that rises on the western bank [of the Atabapo] near the mouth of the Guasacavi fixed our attention; it is called the rock of the Guahiba woman, or the Rock of the Mother, Piedra della Madre. If in these solitary scenes man scarcely leaves behind him any trace of his existence, it is doubly humiliating for a European to see perpetuated by the name of a rock, by one of those imperishable monuments of nature, the remembrance of the moral degradation of our species, the contrast between the virtue of a savage and the barbarism of civilized man In 1797, the missionary of San Fernando had led his Indians to the banks of the Rio Guaviare, on one of those hostile excursions, which are alike prohibited by religion and the Spanish laws. They found in an Indian hut, a Guahiba mother with three children, one or two of whom were still infants. They were occupied in preparing the flour of cassava. Resistance was impossible; the father was gone to fish and the mother tried in vain to flee with her children. Scarcely had she reached the savannah, when she was seized by the Indians of the mission, who go to hunt men, like the Whites and the Negroes in Africa. The mother and the children were bound, and dragged to the banks of the river. The monk, seated in his boat, waited the issue of an expedition, of which he partook not the danger. Had the mother made too violent a resistance, the Indians would have killed her, for every thing is permitted when they go to the conquest of souls (à la conquista espiritual), and it is children in particular they seek to capture, in order to treat them in the mission as poitos, or slaves of the Christians. The prisoners were carried to Fernando, in the hope that the mother would be unable to find her way back by land. Far from those children who had accompanied their father on the day in which she had been carried off, this unhappy woman showed signs of the deepest despair. She attempted to take back to her family the children who had been snatched away by the missionary; and fled with them repeatedly from the village of San Fernando, but the Indians never failed to seize her anew; and the missionary, after having caused her to be mercilessly beaten, took the cruel resolution of separating the mother from the two children who had been carried off with her. She was conveyed alone towards the missions of the Rio Negro, going up the Atabapo. Slightly bound, she was seated at the bow of the boat, ignorant of the fate that awaited her; but she judged by the direction of the sun, that she was removing farther and farther from her hut and native country. She succeeded in breaking her bonds, threw herself into the water, and swam to the left bank of the Atabapo. The current carried her to a shelf of rock which bears her name to this day. She landed and took shelter in the woods, but the President of the Missions ordered the Indians to row to the shore, and follow the traces of the Guahiba. In the evening she was brought back. Stretched upon the rock (la piedra de la Madre) a cruel punishment was inflicted on her with those straps of manatce leather, which serve for whips in that country, and with which the Aleades are always furnished. This unhappy woman, her hands tied behind her back with strong stalks of Mavacure, was then dragged to the mission of Javita. She was then thrown into one of the caravanseras that are called Casa del Rey. It was the rainy season, and the night was profoundly dark. Forests till then believed to be impenetrable separated the mission of Javita from that of San Fernando, which was twenty-five leagues distant in a straight line. No other path is known but that of the rivers; no man ever attempted to go by land from one village to another, were they only a few leagues apart. But such difficulties do not stop a mother who is separated from her children. Her children are at San Fernando de Atabapo; she must find them again, she must execute the project of delivering them from the hands of the Christians, of bringing them back to their father on the banks of the Guaviare. The Guahiba was carelessly guarded in the Caravansera. Her arms being wounded, the Indians of Javita had loosened her bonds, unknown to the Missionary and the Alcades. She succeeded by the help of her teeth in breaking them entirely; disappeared during the night; and at the fourth rising sun was seen at the mission of San Fernando, hovering around the hut where her children were confined. “What that woman performed,” added the missionary who gave us this sad narrative, “the most robust Indian would not have ventured to undertake.” She traversed the woods at a season when the sky is constantly covered with clouds and the sun during the whole day appears but for a few minutes. Did the course of the waters direct her way? The inundations of the rivers forced her to go far away from the main stream, through the midst of woods where the movement of the waters was almost imperceptible. How often must she have been stopped by the thorny lianas, that form a net-work around the trunks they entwine! How often must she have swam across the rivulets that run into the Atabapo! This unfortunate woman was asked how she had sustained herself during four days. She said, that, exhausted with fatigue, she could find no other nourishment than those great black ants called vachacos, which climb the trees in long bands, to suspend on them their resinous nests. We pressed the missionary to tell us, whether the Guahiba had peacefully enjoyed the happiness of remaining with her children; and if any repentance had followed this excess of cruelty. He would not satisfy our curiosity, but at our return from the Rio Negro we learnt that the Indian mother was not allowed time to cure her wounds, but was again separated from her children and sent to one of the missions of the Upper Oroonoko. Here she died, refusing all kind of nourishment, as the savages do in great calamities. Such is the remembrance annexed to this fatal rock, to the Piedra de la Madre.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 233.


Of Atabapo, and wipe out the blot
From Christian annals! the stain stamp'd in gore,
Love's purest drops! or rather let it stand,
As, on some awful heath, the accursed tree
Which beacons to posterity the spot
Where guilt once triumph'd! Will the plume-crown'd chiefs
Bow at the shrine of Christ, in whose great name,
Blasphemed by his disciples, deeds were wrought,
That, whisper'd, turn Religion's cherub cheek
To deathlike hue? The trees are in their prime
Which waved their green arms o'er the ruthless scene,
The rock of the Guahiba. It shall stand

50

A dark memorial till the wreck of worlds;
The opprobrious name shall to the granite cling,
While Pity hath a tear and Mercy shrinks
Back to her throne in heaven, as blood-stain'd zeal
With murder desecrates the font of Christ.
O thou vast continent, where nature seems
A wondrous giant on his cradle lull'd
By the hoarse lapse of torrents, in the shade
Of thine immeasurable woodlands, stretch'd
To the utmost Cordillera's snowy peaks,
Where noontide's hottest splendors dart in vain
From the meridian! In thy loneliest wilds
How great, how glorious is thy majesty!
Girded by torrents, San Fernando stands

“San Fernando de Atabapo is placed near the confluence of three great rivers, the Guaviare, the Atabapo, and the Oroonoko.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 200.

“The missionary of San Fernando has the title of President of the Missions of the Oroonoko.”— Ib. vol. v. p. 200.

“The President of the Mission gave us an animated account of his incursions on the river Guaviare. He related to us how much these journeys, undertaken ‘for the conquest of souls,’ are desired by the Indians of the mission. All, even women and old men, take part in them. On the vain pretext of recovering neophytes who have deserted the village, children above eight and ten years of age are carried off and distributed amongst the Indians as serfs.”— Ib. vol. v. p. 215.


Surveying from her walls the mingled swell
Of three huge waters, singly which outvie
Danau or Nile. There in fierce eddy blends
The turbid Guaviare's powerful stream

“The Rio Paragua [or Upper Oroonoko], that part of the Oroonoko which you go up to the east of the mouth of the Guaviare, has clearer, more transparent, and purer water than the part of the Oroonoko below San Fernando. The waters of the Guaviare, on the contrary, are white and turbid.’— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 221.


With stately Atabapo crown'd with palms;
And thee, renown'd of rivers, whose clear strength
Comes roaring from the East, foredoom'd to give
Thy name, great Oroonoko, to each flood
That rolls its thunder from the Western ridge,
Lofty Granada. Thence with proud excess
Shall thy broad deluge rush, wider than range
Of cannon shot, in a long line of foam
From Parima's dark buttress hurrying down,

“After a tranquil course of more than 160 leagues from the little Raudal of Guaharibos, east of Esmeralda, as far as the mountains of Sipapu, the river, augmented by the waters of the Jao, the Ventuari, the Atabapo, and the Guaviare, suddenly changes its primitive direction from east to west, and runs from south to north; and in crossing the land-strait (formed by the Cordilleras of the Andes of New Grenada and the Cordillera of Parima), in the plains of Meta, meets the advanced buttresses of the Cordillera of Parima. This obstacle is the cause of cataracts, &c.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 42.


Till, join'd by Meta and Apure's tide,
It flows, like one vast ocean, thro' the plain
Of Barcelona to the Mournful gulf

—Golfo Triste.


Right against Trinidad, that bars its mouth
Four hundred leagues aloof. There cultured scenes

51

Await thee, regal pomp, and busy cares,
And the mixt hum of commerce ever rings
Thro' burnt Cumana. Here, in wilds scarce trod,
An awful silence thro' thy forest reigns,
Save where the snowy bird of loneliness,

The carunculated chatterer.— Lathan's Synopsis, vol. ii. p. 98. plate 40. Cotinga blanc.—Brisson and Buffon.

“These birds inhabit Cayenne and Brazil, and are said to have a very loud voice, to be heard half-a-league off, which is composed of two syllables, in, an, uttered with a drawling kind of tone, though some have compared it to the sound of a bell. The Brazilian name is Guirapanga.”— Latham.

It is called Campanero, or bell-man, and delights in lonely parts of the forests.


The doleful Campanero, seems to toll
The dirge of solitude. In these rude wastes,
Tranquillest scenes, where Art has never rear'd
Her mimic shapes, stands most reveal'd the might
Of One benign, by whose prolific will
The plain is like a cultured garden gemm'd
With shrubs and flowers; who lifts the towering tree
Unto the sky serene, loaded with fruits
By his spontaneous bounty. Savage minds
Know this, and own their God in loveliness.
Guiana's Indian, underneath the palms,
Which o'er his thicket wave their feathery heads
E'en like a second forest in mid air,

“Clusters of palm-trees [of the species called el Cucurito], the leaves of which, curled like feathers, rise majestically at an angle of seventy degrees, are dispersed amidst trees with horizontal branches, and their bare trunks, like columns of 100 or 120 feet high, shoot up into the air, and appearing distinctly against the sky, resemble a forest planted upon another forest.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 46.


Sees God in all his works, and, thankful, bends
To one great source of life, whose genial power
For him bids plantain and cassava yield
Their sure increase, filling each swollen brook
With teeming wealth. No sounds, save sounds of peace,
Break on his solitude; the wailing winds

“When you have passed the latitude of three degrees north and approach the equator, you seldom have an opportunity of observing the sun and stars. It rains almost the whole year, and the sky is constantly cloudy. As the breeze is not felt in this immense forest of Guyana, and the refluent polar-currents do not reach it, the column of air that reposes in this wooden zone is not renewed by drier strata.”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 246.


Stir not, thro' that wide forest, in their birth
Spell-bound. The unseen Genius of the wild
From out its vast interminable depth
Seems to cry “Peace, peace!” Peace to nature's works,
And glory to their Maker! Ebb and flow
Of seasons come not here; the fiery sun,
Once robed in mist, sleeps in that quiet shroud,
As if he waited till the Archangel's trump

52

Should rend heaven's curtain. Spring, perpetual spring,
Wafts incense; high o'er the Guahiba's hut
Wave plumy heads surcharged with fruit, that shame

The fine pirijao palm bears fruit like peaches in flavour.— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 239.


Persia or Babylonian gardens. There,
Lord of the waste, he casts his palm-string net,

The nets of the Indians are made of the petioles of palm-leaves.—Humb.


Where, far removed from billowy ocean, sport
Huge dolphins, spouting in their noisy play

“On beating the bushes a shoal of fresh water dolphins four feet long surrounded our boat. These animals had concealed themselves beneath the branches of a fromager or bombax ceiba. They fled across the inundated forest, throwing out those spouts of compressed air and water which have given them in every language the name of blowers.”— Humb. vol. v. p. 240.


Water and foam, or lurking by the shade
Of other greens than wreath old Nereus' hair.
Infants and wife, secure beneath their hut,
Expect his coming, when at fall of day
He and his sturdy boys shall bear the spoil
Of those lone floods. Wo waits his next return;
Silence profound and desolation reign
Where welcome should resound. His frugal meal
Lies half prepared; and gaudy parrot-flowers
That sooth'd his fretful child, and leaves, and plumes,
Upon the sod confused. What force profane
Hath made the echoes of the forest mute?
Jaguar, or Boa, or the wily strength

The South American Tigers. “The jaguars, or tigers, come into the village of Atures and devour the pigs of the poor Indians.”— Humb. vol. v. p. 76.

The name of Boa for the largest snakes is universally known.


Of scale-arm'd crocodile hath ne'er approach'd
This tranquil dwelling; but at one fell swoop
Fanatic hands have made thee desolate!
The priest of San Fernando and his crew
Of red barbarians, in the faith baptized
Of Him who died to save, yet left not here
Peace but a sword! So works the ruthless zeal
Of man against his God, making that name
A curse amongst the heathens, which should breathe
Infinite bliss, unheard beatitude,
Bidding the wilds rejoice, thro' all their depth
Proclaiming social love, benevolent laws

53

That bind man to his fellows. Swiftly glides
Down Guaviaré's flood, freighted by force,
The holy reaver's barque. Maternal shrieks
Die on the distance, and the fruitless wail
Of those rapt infants. Past the limpid mouth
Of Atabapo mingling its dark wave,

“The waters of the Oroonoko are turbid and loaded with earthy matter; those of the Atabapo are pure, agreeable to the taste, without any trace of small, brownish by reflected, and of a pale yellow by transmitted light.”— Humb. vol. v. p. 227.

“What proves the extreme purity of the black waters is their limpidity; their transparency, and the clearness with which they reflect the images and colors of surrounding objects. The smallest fish are visible in them at the depth of twenty or thirty feet.” “Nothing can be compared with the beauty of the banks of the Atabapo.”— Ib. vol. v. p. 218.


They shoot amain, to where the Eastern stream
Winds round Fernando, in its gorgeous strength
Rushing from Cerro Duïda, whose front

“Opposite the point [of the Upper Oroonoko] where the bifurcation takes place, the granitic group of Duïda rises in an amphitheatre on the right bank of the river. This mountain, which the missionaries call a volcano, is nearly 8000 feet high. Perpendicular on the South and West, it has an aspect of solemn greatness: its summit is bare and stony; but wherever its less steep acclivities are covered with mould, vast forests appear suspended on its flanks. At the foot of Duïda is placed the mission of Esmeralda, a little hamlet with eighty inhabitants; surrounded by a lovely plain, bathed by rills of black but limpid water.”— Humb. vol. v. p. 502.

“A mineralogical error gave celebrity to Esmeralda. The granites of Cerro Duïda and Maraguaca contain in open veins fine rock crystals, some of them of great transparency, others colored by chlorite or blended with actinote, and they were taken for diamonds and emeralds.”— Ib. p. 506.


Gleams to the daybeam with smaragdine hue
Abrupt, and counterfeits the diamond's blaze.
Lorn mother, gaze on the unfathom'd whirl
Of those impetuous waters, and the trees
Which round thee rear their tall and barren trunks
Obscure and boundless! In that solitude
The flood, the desert, are thy prison walls,
Danger and Famine the stern sentinels!
Between thee and thy home two giant streams,
With all their tributary train, deny
Regress or hope. The Southern Cross scarce gleams

A conspicuous constellation in the southern hemisphere.


Thro' that unchanging veil, the eternal cloud
That wraps the horizon; from thy calm abode
Thou art divorced by more than human power,
Nature's impediments. Yet hope still lives,
The unconquerable throb, the inborn spring,
That swells a mother's heart. Dauntless she mark'd
The rite baptismal, to her tender brood
Suspected badge of thraldom. They the while
Unconscious mourn'd, by cruel force estranged
From their dear native liberty; so will'd
The Christian ravisher, misnamed of Him,
Who, robed in gentleness, forbade his own

54

Outrage or e'en resistance. In her soul
Determined courage reign'd; the firm resolve
To barter life for freedom, or reguide
The nestlings to her hut. Their toil-burnt sire,
Brothers, and fatherland, were all to her;
All else without them, nought; or, worse than nought,
Loath'd circumscription, tenfold servitude.
Night wrapp'd Fernando's fane; beneath their cots
Mantled with sweets umbrageous, slept secure
Christians, and neophytes by Christian rites
Regenerate, but heathen still in mind.
Not so the sad Guahiba; she forlorn
Watch'd each still hour, forecasting from those bonds
Thro' that untrodden wilderness escape
To her heart-cherish'd home. Beside her lay
The unfledged captives, from a father's love
Sever'd by zealous rapine; one, just skill'd
To lisp his name; one, conscious of her fate,
Joy of his hopes. “My child,” with cautious breath
She whisper'd, “night is mirksome, but these wilds
“Are not without their guide; well have I mark'd
“Each globe of fire that studs the firmament;
“And that huge orb, which from the east each morn
“Rolls its illumined bulk to those dark hills
“Whence comes the rain. Behold yon star; it gleams
“Behind thy father's dwelling, a sure lamp
“In trackless deserts. Better to confront,
“Exposed and lone, that shaggy savage form,

“It was among the cataracts that we began first to hear of the hairy man of the woods, called salvaje, that carries off women, constructs huts, and sometimes eats human flesh. The natives and missionaries have no doubt of the existence of this anthropomorphous monkey, which they singularly dread. Father Gili gravely relates the history of a lady in the town of Carlos (in Venezuela) who much praised the gentle character and attentions of the man of the woods. She lived several years with one in great domestic harmony, and only requested some hunters to take her back “because she was tired, she and her children (a little hairy also), of living far from the church and the sacraments.”—Humb. p. 81. “We will not admit, with a Spanish author, that the fable of the man of the woods was invented by the artifice of Indian women, who pretended to have been carried off, when they had been long absent from their husbands; we rather counsel travellers who shall visit the missions of the Oroonoko, to continue our researches on the salvaje or great devil of the woods; and examine whether it be some unknown species of bear, or some very rare monkey analogous to the simia chiropotes, or simia satanas, that can have given rise to such singular tales.”— Humb. vol. v. p. 84.

The absurdity of Humboldt's suggestion that the salvaje might be an unknown species of bear is too great to be passed over in silence. The accounts of this creature and its violence to women are exactly consistent with the habits of the ourang-outang, and it cannot reasonably be doubted that they are referable to some analogous species of monkey. He adds, “We were every where blamed, in the most cultivated class of society, for being the only persons to doubt the existence of the great anthropomorphous monkey of America.”— Ib. 82.


“Half-man, half-brute, wide-famed for cruel rape
“In woody solitudes, than bide the curse
“Of this our prison-mansion! Better wade
“Thro' flooded groves obscure, and stem the force

55

“Of Guaviaré in his turbid wrath,
“Tempting the scaly crocodile! Its waves
“Have seen thee, fearless infant, in thy sport,
“Their glittering dolphins chase, and wreathe thy brows
“With river-lilies: thy life link'd to mine
“Together shall we sink, or burst our chain
“Free as free-born. Dread nothing; thro' the waste
“A mother's strength shall aid thee, little charge!
“Father and brothers from thy native bank
“Shall cleave the well-known tide, breasting its foam
“To rescue us. Myself thro' swampy shades
“Will bear thy tender limbs, warding the harm
“Of thorn-arm'd brake, or the nut's ponderous fall,

The fall of the great nuts of the palm, called the juvia tree (bertholletia excelsa), which contain the triangular nuts known in England by the name of Para nuts, is mentioned by Humboldt as very dangerous to those who walk in the forests.


“Serpent or jaguar's fang.” Forth stretch'd her arms,
Smiling, the lovely maid, and press'd her cheek
Against a mother's bosom, hiding there
The fearful tear; and low she murmur'd, “Haste,
“Ere our fell guards awake.” Behind her back
The mother slung love's lesser burthen, hush'd
By kisses into silence; that sweet girl,
Strain'd with firm sinew to her heart, she bore
Into the darksome wilderness (what time
All nature robed in awful stillness lay)
Fearless of toil. Rise, floods, and trackless brakes,
And swamps not trodden by the step of man,
Alone she would o'erpass ye! Her fleet course
Would mock pursuit! But ah! those infant limbs
Dread the rough bindweed, with its thorny ropes
Barring their path. Famish'd they cry for food,
Which, on the tree's high spire, eludes the grasp,
Or shrink from the coil'd snake. Behind them swell
Nearer and nearer on the breathless air,

56

The voices of their ravishers. She speeds
Phrensied with love, till close beneath her feet
She sees majestic Atabapo glide,
Pellucid, deep, and strong. Loud and more loud
The Christians come. With living cordage, pluck'd
From the green stem, she lashes to her flanks
Her timid cherubs, kissing from their eyes
The starting tear; then fearlessly she glides
Into that crystal gulph, her grave, if not
Her path to freedom. Gurgling o'er them closed
The liquid volume. Soon she breasts the wave;
Her sinewy limbs triumphantly throw back
The glassy tide; amazed the Christians view.
Their barques are on the deep, and oars ply swift
To intercept her. On the adverse bank
Vast trees, that dip their interwoven arms
In the strong flood inhospitable, yield
No refuge, saving to the wily snake
That lurks for blood. Vain all her struggles, vain
Strength desperate, from that relentless crew
To make evasion; so the lavrock, close
Beside the umbrage of some tangled brake,
A tarsel's talons overtake in air
Swift gliding. Captive once again, and bound,
She loses all, save that undying spring
That ever wells within the guiltless mind,
All-radiant hope. Matron, thy foes prevail,
And hearts of stone have sever'd thee from thine,
Their tender limbs with other fetters chafed,
Than when, fast lash'd to thy parental side
By pious love, the precious freight was launch'd
On Atabapo's flood. In vain they shriek

57

Torn rudely from the hand, which unto them
Was life, protection, nourishment, and joy,
Before their dawn of knowledge, and shall be
Remember'd, above all things, unto death,
Sole image upon earth of that wise care,
Which is, and ever hath been, over all.
The piteous kiss of love, which takes in tears
Sweet compensation for all ills to come,
Is not for her: that agonizing pang
Of lingering disseverment, which draws
From grief enjoyment keener than delight,
The cruel have forbidden her. She sees
Her innocents borne down the rapid stream,
And speaks not; for her heart too well has learnt
That pity dwells not, where fanatic zeal
Has dried kind nature's issues. Untaught minds
Lean least upon the hope of social aid,
And crave no mercy from their fellow men,
But brave the rack, defying all those ills
Which must be borne. But one bright look she threw
To them amid their wailing, which dispensed
Unutterable hope, the flash of strength
That swells superior to all earthly wrongs
To cheer the sufferer; and high she waved
Her manacles above her streaming locks,
And pointed to the wilderness aloof,
Her husband's home, the cradle and the grave
Of all her father's line. The plunderer's boat
Shoots down the torrent to Fernando's keep.
She widow'd, childless, bound, must stem the flood
To lone Javita, where of her beloved

58

Nor sound, nor sight shall cheer her. Slow and still,
Laboring against the current's might, they pass
The tiger's rock, the rapid's foaming chain,

A granitic pass known by the name of Piedra del Tigre. “This solitary rock is only sixty fect high, yet it enjoys great celebrity in these countries. A little to the south of the mountains of Sipapu, we reach the southern extremity of the chain of cataracts, which I proposed to call the Chain of Parima. The whole of the land extending from the mountains of Parima toward the river of Amazons, which is traversed by the Atabapo, the Cassiquiare, and the Rio Negro, is an immense plain, partly covered with forests and partly with grasses. Small rocks rise here and there like castles.”— Humb. v. 227.

“After having passed the rapids of Guarinuma, the Indians showed us, in the middle of the forest, on our right, the ruins of the mission of Mendaxari which has been long abandoned. On the East bank, near the little rock of Kemaruma, in the midst of Indian plantations, a gigantic Bombax Ceiba attracted our attention. This enormous effort of vegetation surprised us the more, as we had till then seen on the banks of the Atabapo only small trees with slender trunks.” — Ib. v. 228.

“It was night when we arrived at the mission of San Balthasar. A Catalan missionary had planted a fine garden where the fig-tree of Europe was found in company with the persea, and the lemon tree with the mammee. The village was built with that regularity which in the North of Germany, and in protestant America, we find in the hamlets of the Moravian brethren.”— Ib. v. 230.

“The ground from the mouth of the Guaviare constantly displays the same geological constitution. It is a vast granitic plain, in which from league to league the rock pierces the soil and forms not hillocks, but small masses that resemble pillars or rained buildings.”— Ib. v. 242.


The cataract Guarinuma. On her view
Plains open vast and drear, part thickly clothed
With giant grasses, thro' whose bosom wind
Streams tributary, part by forest hid;
And ever and anon rise castled rocks
In ruin'd form, pillars and pyramids,
Quaint work of nature, mocking human art;
And oft-times on their summits towering stand
Yucca or palm. Next where the crumbling walls
Of Mendaxari, once the fane of Christ,
Frown o'er the waters, they suspend the oar,
Hymning a strain to its protecting saint;
Then striving fast by Kemarumo's crag
See culture smile, and pause beneath the boughs
Of that far-venerated tree, whose trunk
Enormous, born what time the deeps were staid,
O'erbrows the Indian gardens; next descry
The Christian hamlet, deck'd in beauteous guise,
Balthasar, where the fig and lemon vie
With Americ's treasures. Onward still they pass,
By toil undaunted. Thrice the sun had sloped
His ray thro' feathery trees that fringe the bank

“The river Atabapo displays every where a peculiar aspect. You see nothing of its real banks formed by flat lands, eight or ten feet high: they are concealed by a row of palms and small trees with slender trunks, the roots of which are bathed by the waters. There are many crocodiles from the point where you quit the Oroonoko to the mission of San Fernando, and their presence indicates, as we have said above, that this part of the river belongs to the Rio Guaviare and not to the Atabapo. In the real bed of the river above the mission of San Fernando there are no longer any crocodiles: we find some bavas, a great many fresh water dolphins, but no manatees. We also seek in vain on those banks the thick-nosed tapir, the araguates or great howling monkeys, the Zamuro or vultur aura, and the crested pheasant. Enormous water-snakes, in shape resembling the boa, are unfortunately too common, and are dangerous to the Indians who bathe. We saw them almost from the first day, swimming by the side of our canoe: they were at the most twelve or fourteen feet long.”— Humb. P. N. v. 225.

“Unaccustomed to those forests which are less inhabited by animals than those of the Oroonoko, we were almost surprised no longer to hear the howlings of the monkeys. The dolphins or toninas sported by the side of our boat.” — Ib. v. p 227.


Laving their slender trunks; aloft the clouds
Floated swift-borne; beneath, mute calmness reign'd,
And voiceless solitude. The monkey's howl
Came not from far; the screaming vulture's wing
Was not upon the air; and dark, yet clear,
The glassy depth reveal'd no living form;

59

The crocodile had shunn'd it, pleased to dwell
In turbid floods Alone around the barque,
Cleaving the surface with resplendent scales
Dolphins kept pace, or bounding by the prow,
Or in the silver wake. Her eye survey'd
Far hills and mountains in pale distance, oft
Measuring in thought the weary way between
Her and her husband Moonlight fell so soft
On the transparent volume, its pure stream
Scarce seem'd to flow: and those, who labouring pull'd
The frequent oar, to the blest Virgin raised
Their hallow'd chorus; the soul-melting notes
Seem'd to ascend unto the cope of heaven
By tranquil airs upborne. The slacken'd bonds
Dropp'd unperceived from the sad mother's limbs;
Hope fired her thoughts, as, gliding by, she mark'd
A stony buttress thro' the swampy fringe
Shelve down into the torrent. Heedless pass
That rock the Christians, which man never more
Shall pass unheeded. With impetuous plunge
Down the deep gulph she goes. They see her dive
Five fathom deep; and, near, the water-snake
Writhes his stupendous folds, fierce, yet amazed
To see his haunts invaded: but secure
She rises, floating down the rapid stream.
Till, whirl'd in the swift eddy, lost in foam,
She grasps the dangerous ledge; with wounded limbs
Then labours to its summit, and achieves
The river's lofty bank. Rabid pursuit
Rings on her steps. To holy strains succeed
The unhallow'd war-cry and the hunter's shout,
Fierce and discordant. Morning sweetly dawn'd,

60

Lighting the lonely plain. They found her, spent
By toil and bleeding wounds, bay'd by their dog
Beneath the thickest jungle; the loud voice
Of triumph echoed thro' that silent waste,
The death-whoop o'er their quarry. Her they led
Faint, hopeless, unresisting, to the rock;
That rock! late witness of her faith, and more
Than Roman valour! Every leaf was still
In the mute forest; on the umbrageous bank
There was no sound, save of the ceaseless flood
That foam'd against the granite, where her foot
First trod the stone; upon that rock they scourged
The wife, the mother, while her innocent blood
Fell drop by drop, reeking to Heaven, which saw
And yet withheld its thunder. Merciful God!
Those were e'en Christians! Those had press'd the cup
Of thy salvation! with their bloody rites
Mingling thy praise, and casting on thy name
The curse of their own hellish outrage! This,
(Weak, uninstructed, helpless!) had no guide
But thy wide book of nature, from each page
Breathing the voice of love; and yet she trod
The steps of our great Saviour, like a lamb
Led to the sacrifice, thro' pious love
For those her little ones. Will not her blood,
Spilt by thy hoary priests, rise against Spain
E'en to thy thunderous threshold? and the stain,
Fixt on that granite. like a furnace glow
Unexpiated in the day of wrath!
Once more chain'd down and bleeding, in that barque
She sees her hard oppressors plough their way,
Thro' Temi's winding and the auxiliar course

“Above the mouth of the Guasucavi we entered the Rio Temi.”— Humb. v. p. 238.

“We remained in the bed of the river till day, afraid of losing ourselves amongst the trees. At sun-rise we again entered the inundated forests, to avoid the force of the current. Arrived at the junction of the Temi with another river, the Tuamini, the waters of which are equally black, we followed the latter toward the south west. This direction led us to the mission of Javita, which is founded on the banks of the Tuamini.”— Ib. vol. v. p. 243.



61

Of Tuamini, to the Lusian bounds
Where stands remote Javita. There forlorn
She chews the bread of grief; but high resolve
Still nerves her heart with unextinguish'd hope.
O fell tormentors, think ye to have quell'd
That spring unquenchable of holy love
Which fires the mother, while her infant brood
Pines in captivity! Floods, torrents, wastes,
And fearfullest vicissitudes of clime,
Unheeded vanish from the thought of her,
Who seeks home, husband, children. Long she watch'd
Occasion meet for flight, thro' pathless tracts
Deem'd unimagineable. Foot of man
Girded in fittest season for such toil
Had ne'er traversed them. Weak, alone, uncheer'd,
She, while rains pour'd their deluge, and the brakes
Yielded no fruit, committed her frail strength
To God and to the desert. Night and day
Wading or swimming, torn by bristled cords
Which serpent-like around her wound their folds,
Defying toil and famine, still she press'd
To one dear gaol, her children's prison; fed
With loathsome insects, gather'd from the stem
Of barren trees, that knit their cumbrous arms.
Nor ceased the while that lesser plague, blood-fed
Zancudoes, and the countless winged tribes,

“After a few minutes repose, you feel yourself stung by Zancudoes, another species of gnat with very long legs. The Zancudo, the proboscis of which contains a sharp-pointed sucker, causes the most acute pain and a swelling that remains many weeks.”— Humb. P. N. p. 94.

“At fixed and invariable hours, in the same season and the same latitude, the air is peopled with new inhabitants; and in a zone where the barometer becomes a clock, where every thing proceeds with such admirable regularity, we might guess blindfold the hour of the day or night by the hum of the insects, and by their stings, the pain of which differs according to the nature of the poison that each insect deposits in the wound.”— Humb. P. N. p. 96.


Morning and eve and in noon's sultry hour
Successive, trumpeting their endless war:
And oft, when twilight's shadows were abroad,
High on some tortuous bough, with grin obscene,
She saw (or dream'd she saw) the man like form

62

Of hairy savage, the wild's dreaded fiend,
In whose rude haunts, tho' scaped from human wrong,
Worse rape might seize her, brutish violence.
Before, around, unbounded forests rose,
Waters and woods illimitably stretch'd;
But Nature's might was stronger in the breast
Of one lone woman, than in all her works
Gloriously array'd in that wide solitude.
She reach'd Fernando's threshold; and, at first
A vengeful spectre deem'd, found way unblench'd
To her own innocents. Both arms outspread
To clasp those forms, so loved, she sank foredone
In that last, fondest, cherishment. With speed
They tore her from her children, unappeased,
And steel'd by bigot zeal. From the sweet trance
Aroused to chains, serene her holy judge
She fronts, and thus with fearless majesty:
“I stand not here in judgment, haughty priest;
“Nature forbids. Against a mother's love,
“Against a wife's firm faith, there is no law,
“Not e'en to fellest nations gorged with flesh
“Of mangled captives. Whence should we adore
“Thy Deity, who mew'd like one infirm,

“The Indians of the Upper Oroonoko, the Atabapo, and Inirida, have no other worship than that of the powers of nature. They call the good principle Cachimana; it is the Manitou, or Great Spirit, that regulates the seasons and favours the harvests. There is an evil principle, Iolokiamo, less powerful, but more artful, and in particular more active. The Indians of the forest, when they visit occasionally the missions, conceive with difficulty the idea of a temple or an image.—‘These good people,’ said the missionary, ‘like only processions in the open air. When I last celebrated the patron-festival of my village, that of Antonio, the Indians of Inirida were present at the mass. ‘Your God,’ said they to me, ‘keeps himself shut up in a house as if he were old and infirm; ours is in the forest, in the fields, and on the mountains of Sipapo, whence the rains come.’”— Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 272.


“In that low fane, sends forth his ministers
“To deeds of pitiless rape? Our God bestows
“Harvest and summer fruits, chaining the winds
“Which never lash our groves. Ye bend the knee
“To the carved crucifix in temples wrought
“By human hands; ye lift the hymn of praise
“By torches' glare at noon day: but the God
“We serve, best honour'd by the glorious ray

63

“Of his great luminary, dwells not here
“Prison'd midst walls, frail work of mortal skill.
“We worship him abroad, under the vault
“Of his own heaven; yon star-paved firmament,
“The wilderness, the flood, the wreathed clouds
“That float from those far mountains robed in mist,
“The summits unapproach'd, untouch'd by time,
“Snow clad, are his; too vast to be confined
“He fills his works. Bow ye the trembling knee
“To your own idols and that murd'rous law
“Which bids you seize a mother's callow brood
“In hour of peace! The Carib doth not this,
“The man-devouring Cabre! Are ye slaves

The Cabres, or Caveres, celebrated for their long wars with the Caribs, are much addicted to anthropophagy. Humb. P. N. vol. v. p. 13.


“Unto the spirit of ill who wars with God,
“Iolokiamo, the worst foe to man?
“That, riving thus the hallow'd ties of life,
“Ye work his evil will, and mar the scheme
“Of Him beneficent, whose fostering care
“Amid these wilds is over all his works.
“If there be one great Being, who hears our prayer,
“When that sonorous trump (which but to view

“There are but a small number of these sacred trumpets. The most anciently celebrated is that upon a hill near the confluence of the Tomo and the Guainia. It is pretended that it is heard at once on the banks of the Tuamini and at the mission of San Miguel de Davipe, a distance of ten leagues.”

—“Women are not permitted to see this marvellous instrument, and are excluded from all ceremonies of this worship. If a woman have the misfortune to see this trumpet, she is put to death without mercy.”— Humb. P. N. p. 274.

“The trumpets are made of baked earth, and called Botutos.”— Ib. p. 232.


“Were death to woman) thro' each leafy glade
“Ten leagues aloof sends forth the voice of praise,
“O tremble at his wrath! My little ones,
“If e'er, restored, ye reach your father's hut,
“Tell him I live but while the fervent hope
“Of freedom and reunion with my own
“Leaves life its worth. That lost, I welcome death.”
She ceased; and they the while wept infant tears,
That might have sway'd the sternest; arms outstretch'd
Pleaded for mercy to the throne of power,
And little hands, that struggled as if life

64

Were nothing worth without a mother's love,
Reluctant strove for freedom. Had the heart
Of him, who in that priestly conclave ruled,
Beat worthy of its Saviour, not in vain
Had been her proud appeal; but ruthless chains
Are thrown on her worn limbs. Again they waft
Her bound, up ceaseless waters, far away
To Esmeralda, by the sparkling foot
Of Cerro Duïda's huge precipice.
Restrain'd with iron there, in guarded cell
Confined, her eye dwells fixt upon the flood
Of Oroonoko hurrying to the walls
Where rest immured her children. Scorn'd, the food
Lies at her feet. She speaks not, sad and stern.
She had braved famine in the desert, now
She woos it. Death in most abhorred guise,
By frightful inanition, with its train
Of loathsome and disgusting sympathies,
Smiles to her fancy; Death, her comforter.
She views the stream, as who, in burning climes
Where reigns the calenture, misled by love
Of his dear native meadows and the green
Delicious landscape, dreams of leafy glades
Umbrageous, sparkling with fresh morning dew,
Midst the calm ocean fever-struck, and dies
In that sweet error, sinking in the wave
As on a couch of herbage. She, deceived,
Sees in that flood, as fancy fires her brain,
Her hut, her husband, her blithe boys, and those
Two ravish'd innocents, from prison freed
To share that last delight. Her hollow cheek,
Foreshowing death's approach, wears yet a mien

65

Of such ecstatic rapture, that her eye
Seems lit by saintlike bliss. Silent and still,
As life beat slow and faint, she look'd away
Her soul upon the waters, and it pass'd
In that illusive dream without a sigh.
Peace rest upon her ashes! May the God,
Who sent His Own to gather his stray'd flock
And light the path to heaven, forgive her what
She knew not! and, by his all-saving power,
Guide her to living streams, there to abide
With her beloved by mercy's hand upraised,
Where want, and sorrow, and force shall never come,
Nor voice of her oppressors! May the wilds
Where those foul deeds were wrought, erewhile resound
To purer hymns of praise, and social love
In that huge continent exalt to heaven
Christ's worthiest temple, deck'd with freedom's crown!

75

THE WANDERER OF JUTLAND.

    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  • Sweno.
  • Ubald.
  • Reynald.
  • Knights, Guests, Messengers, and Attendants.
  • Bertha.
  • Agnes.
  • The Wanderer.
Scene in JutlandSweno's Castle and its vicinity.
Time, about 30 hours.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—Sweno's Hall; a Banquet.
[Sweno, Ubald, Reynald, Bertha, Agnes, Knights, Ladies, and Attendants.]
Sweno.
Sit, lords, and be the draught of pleasure fill'd
E'en to the goblet's brink! We bid you welcome.
And thou, dear lady, whose hand lock'd in mine,
As on this day, twenty blithe years have witness'd,
We pledge thee in this brimming cup of love.

GUESTS,
(drinking.)
Health and long life to Sweno and his dame!

BERTHA.
Thanks, gentles, for this courtesy.


76

SWENO.
My Bertha,
Time has sped well with us. Our lovely hostess
Wears yet the hue of freshness unalloy'd,
While her ripe scion, our sweet Agnes, glows
With beauty's blush, like a new beam of morning.
We lack not aught, wherewith to tax the fates
As niggards of their gifts, being doubly blest
In our loved daughter and adopted son.
Ubald, thy prowess in each listed field
Speaks no mean lineage. As my child I greet thee.

UBALD.
If to revere you as man's noblest type,
To love you as my worthier self, to prize
The far-famed honours of your noble house
As things most dear, which from ill chance to shield,
I would encounter danger in such shapes
As human daring may but ill assay,
Be a son's duty, it is freely paid,
And Ubald still the debtor. Good my lord,
Your kindness makes me bankrupt of all thanks,
Save the poor service of a faithful arm
To ward your rights.

SWENO.
And we dare trust it, Ubald,
Though half our honors hung on the event.
To-morrow, sirs, it is our mind to hold
A gorgeous tournament, and, by my knighthood,
Who wins hath leave to be our daughter's suitor.
Good Reynald, is thy lance as keen and strong,
As when it tumbled the grim Saracen,
Horseman and horse, tilting in Palestine?

REYNALD.
Ay, noble Sweno; and a lovelier prize

77

Makes not the hand more sluggard in the charge.
I pledge my glove to win.

SWENO.
Take it, young Ubald,
And may all guardian saints to-morrow speed thee!
So in the tilt thou dost approve thee victor,
Loud proclamation shall our heralds make
To all who dare impugn thy long-lost birthright;
And, if none answer to that bold appeal,
Valiant we know thee, and shall hold thee noble.

UBALD.
Ay, marry will I. If he cast his gauntlet,
And this arm thrust him from his saddle-bow,
By heaven and good Saint Olaf, he shall eat it,
As that huge dragon, which he slew in Syria,
Would have gulp'd up the princess of . . . Plague on it!
I cannot scan the name of half those regions,
Whence he has scared the devil and his imps.

REYNALD,
(rising.)
Sweno, I was bred in war, and learnt the laws
Of knightly courtesy which arrest mine anger.
I know both what is due to host and guests;
Nor would I stain thy social board with blood
E'en of one chattering pie; else, taunting youth,
I well remember, how in Holy Land,
When a base renegade provoked my scorn
By some light speech, I slew the turban'd caitif
With his own rapier.

UBALD.
And made his bare skull
A bonnet for thy mistress.

SWENO.
Peace, peace, Ubald.
Let us have music. Friends, the merry Bacchus

78

Brims not your flowing cups with wonted glee.
Agnes, we tax thy sweet voice for a song.

Music. Agnes sings.
With a turf at her feet,
In her winding sheet,
Shall Elfrid lie where the wild winds howl;
But the deathless shame
Of her lost, lost, fame,
Shall weigh like a stone on the fair one's soul.
There's a curse above
Upon faithless love,
Can turn the morning's ray to dead midnight;
There's a secret voice,
When false lords rejoice,
Can change to dark anguish their soul's delight.
The curse shall cling
To the bridal ring
Of the faithless lord who left her to mourn;
An angel in the sky
Has graven it on high
On a scroll of fire that can ne'er be torn.
His bride is gay,
And his children play,
While Elfrid lies where the wild winds roar;
The fiend has set his mark
On their heads dark, dark,
And the spirit of vengeance is near his door.
(While she is singing, Sweno appears strangely agitated, and interrupts her when she has just uttered the word vengeance.)

79

SWENO.
'Tis a fiend's song. Where gat you that foul strain,
Crossing our mirth with such portentous sounds,
As if the deep could send the unshrouded dead
To scare us from our joys?

AGNES.
Father, it bodes not
Evil to us; a wild lay, long since learnt
From a wierd woman that craved alms: the notes
So sweetly rung in mine attentive ear,
Time has not robb'd me of their melody.

(Thunder and lightning, which had begun faintly while she was singing, becomes loud and bright, with noise of violent rain. The agitation of Sweno increases.)
SWENO
The heavens frown on this our festival.
'Tis passing strange, that sounds of such dire omen
Should break upon our wassail; quelling the pulse
Of high-born mirth; turning the cheek of joy
To very paleness. Daughter, thy sad notes
Breathe an infectious gloom, and our kind guests
Have miss'd the scope of that sweet mirth we wish'd them.
(Rising.)
The tempest waxes, and this ancient castle
Rocks with the blast. May the sun's kindlier beam
Smile on our pomp to-morrow. I crave your leave.
Health and light thoughts attend our welcome friends.

[Exeunt Sweno, Ubald, Bertha, Agnes and others. Manent Reynald and two other Knights.]
REYNALD.
Great heaven! is this the man, whose mighty name
Is blown to the four corners of Christ's empire,
Famed for stern valor, marshalling in war

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With proud array his feudatory swords
Like a half-king in Jutland! To be thus moved!

FIRST KNIGHT.
'Tis the distemper of his inward nature.
The subtle fluid of that flaming mischief
Which gives the thunder voice, steals to his heart
With secret sickness, curdling all the blood
Till his flesh creeps.

SECOND KNIGHT.
Ay; ever since that morn,
Which to his wedded couch gave noble Bertha.

FIRST KNIGHT.
'Twas a rough morn. The curse of that fair maid,
Who perish'd in the flood, hath ever since
Weigh'd like a stone on his distemper'd soul.

SECOND KNIGHT.
By heaven, methinks, when piping winds do blow,
Her form is manifest to his estranged eye,
As when she stood on the rock's slippery verge
That morn by Helen's chapel.

REYNALD.
Sirs, to me
Your words speak riddles.

SECOND KNIGHT.
Heard you ne'er the tale?
'Tis twenty years by-gone, as on this morn,
Since Sweno led, with pomp and bravery
Of princely cost, his bride unto the altar
In Helen's chapel, built on the beetling rock
Over the torrent, when Saint Mary's church
Lay under the Pope's ban, for a foul murder
Done in the very aisle while mass was singing.

REYNALD.
I have mark'd its site, a wild romantic spot;
And its high tower a goodly structure, now

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Half ruinous: 'tis said that evil spirits
Shriek oft at night within its lonesome walls.

SECOND KNIGHT.
'Tis like they may; it hath been long disused,
A darksome fabric now, and the bleak winds
Howl through its broken casements

FIRST KNIGHT.
But that morn
Of blazing tapers there was cost enough.

SECOND KNIGHT.
'Twas a gay pomp; but, as the nuptial train,
Advancing, near'd that huge o'er-shelving rock
Fast by the stream, the shrill winds mustering stirr'd
With such fierce outrage, that each flag was rent,
And the thick clouds seem'd big with lowering tempest.
When, as they 'gan ascend, a form above
Stood with dishevell'd hair, that stream'd upon
The blustering gale. It was the loveliest shape,
My eyes ere then or since have witness'd; pale
As the chaste moon, and sad as sorrow's statue:
But a wild fierceness lighten'd from her looks,
As, with one hand out-stretch'd, she gave her words
To the rude blast of heaven, I heard them not
With clear precision render's to mine ear,
But it was bruited, that on princely Sweno
And all his race she breathed a deadly curse,
Summoning them to the dread throne of Judgment.

REYNALD.
Whence and who was she?

SECOND KNIGHT.
It was never known;
She vanish'd like a wraith; but on a bough,
Which overhung the swoln stream's eddying foam,
Her mantle was found, drench'd by the angry flood;

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And 'tis past doubt, she perish'd in the waters,
Which roar'd that night, as they would burst their bed.

REYNALD.
How fared the bridal?

SECOND KNIGHT.
Sad as a death-wake.
The bridegroom rapt in care, like one distraught
By some dark agony; his lovely bride
Trembling and ashy pale: and all the while
The thunder raved with such rebounding roar,
That the roof quaked, and the blue lightning's blaze
Made every face like a gaunt spectre glare.

FIRST KNIGHT.
Ne'er has good Sweno, since that ominous morn,
Held the mind's peaceful tenor. When winds roar,
And the hoarse thunder makes the welkin tremble,
His heart seems touch'd as by some icy hand,
Shrivelling its core; and some deep cankering wound,
That preys within his soul, bleeds fresh and green.

REYNALD.
'Tis past belief, in one, whose actions swell
Fame's chronicle, far-told; filling the ear
Of expectation with amazing deeds;
Lending new lustre to renowned war.

FIRST KNIGHT.
There doth not breathe a more undaunted knight
Than this same Sweno, saving that touch of weakness,
Unless it be you flower of chivalry,
All conquering Ubald, fame and fortune's minion.

REYNALD.
Whence sprung that fiery youth, whose haughty eye
Lords o'er this court, as if created man
Was form'd for him, not he to yield man service;
So confident, and reckless?


83

SECOND KNIGHT.
Faith I know not.
The lady Bertha found him, a weak infant,
Cradled midst roses and all summer sweets
In that fair chamber, now young Agnes' bower,
Fast by the blooming garden. The strange elf,
Lapt in deep slumber, smiled, and waking stretch'd
Its little arms as if imploring kindness;
And she, just risen from a matron's throes,
To pitying love by that endearment moved,
Kiss'd its chill'd lips that ask'd the milk of nature,
And on her beauteous bosom bade it hush.
Protection first, then favour he obtain'd,
Waxing in years, and worth, and valor; proud
As if from kingly blood, hot as a lion,
And mastering all spirits by his strength,
The people's darling, and the bolt of battle.

FIRST KNIGHT.
Saving your prowess, I would pawn my sword
He wins to-morrow: for of Denmark's knights
There lives not one can stand this Ubald's onset.

REYNALD.
Is it thus? Yet shall he find one shaft too doughty,
Tried oft at Acre and at Ascalon,
Which hath beat down the brunt of Mahound's chieftains,
Though arm'd with spells of Paynim sorcery.

FIRST KNIGHT.
God speed you, sir! 'Twill be no mean encounter
Shall stoop his crest to-morrow.

SECOND KNIGHT.
Till then, Reynald,
Let us be joyous, and with some free cheer
Kill lagging time.

REYNALD.
E'en so; we have seen no spectres;

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And yet methinks all heaven's blasts are stirring,
And its rent bosom seems one sheet of flame.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A Grove in the Garden before the Castle, which is seen through the trees. The storm is abating.
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
Hist! hist! Wild striving elements, be still,
Ominous and still, as brooding mischief is!
When the fell draft of vengeance shall be quaff'd
E'en to its bloody dregs, then, then laugh out,
Thou damned spirit of the storm! Foul fiend,
Hast thou so many years of loneliness,
Whispering revenge, still borne me fellowship,
And now, when fate's retributory curse
Draws nigh to the achievement, canst thou not wait
For hellish joy, till the full spell be woven?
Hist! hist! and thou, bright sun, shine forth in glory,
Until the moment of appointed justice!
The day has been, when I could ill have bided
The pitiless tempest and that strife of nature;
But sold to fiends I dread not now their workings,
Lost in despair, and reft of every gift
That makes life joyous—Hark! 'Tis Sweno's voice!
The morn shall not dawn twice, ere thou be summon'd
To thy doom! life for life!—Away! away! [Exit.
(Enter from the Castle Sweno, Bertha.)


Sweno.
The bolts have spent their fire; yon lurid cloud
Still, and disburthen'd of its teeming wrath,
Hangs like a misty shroud on the horizon.
The air is calm; Bertha, I breathe more freely.


85

BERTHA.
Nay, good my lord, I needs must hold it strange
E'en to the natural temper of your soul,
That you, so far removed from taint of fear,
Instant in danger, firm in resolution,
Should start, thus from yourself estranged and wild,
At these rude flaws of nature, making such
Unkind divorce between your alter'd thoughts
And that sweet peace they owe you.

SWENO.
O loved Bertha,
There be some thoughts too deep for time to medicine,
Which on the seemliest and freshest cheek
Would stamp dread's livery, though the heart were steel.

BERTHA.
What thoughts? strange roamings of the troubled fancy,
Air-blown imagination's empty bubble!
For shame, my lord; this is the bodiless spectre
Of that poor maniac, whose ill-omen'd vision
Comes, like the shadow of a passing cloud,
O'er the bright mirror of your better judgment.
Fie on't, a dream.

SWENO.
Would that it were a dream,
That I could shake the wrathful spectre from me!
The curse of that dread hour will live for ever.
Call Agnes forth: I have a fearful thought,
Some secret evil overhangs my child.
Perchance her sight might soothe me.

BERTHA.
Be more cheerly;
Sweno, our guests attend us.

[Exit BERTHA.
SWENO.
(alone.)
Vengeful fate,
Dost thou indeed pursue me! Will not years
Atone for one offence! Last night methought

86

A voice as from my father's tomb cried, “Sweno,
“Thine hour is come! the curse is o'er thine house!”
To-day, as I approach'd the festive hall,
That flaming cherub seem'd to bar my passage,
Which in my life's most prosperous hours of pride,
A dreadful vision, oft has cross'd my path.

[Enter AGNES.]
SWENO,
(embracing her.)
Ever beloved, forefend thee, gracious heaven!
Thy father's heart is sad.

AGNES.
My honor'd sire,
This is the very breathing hour of bliss;
The storm is roll'd away, and merry birds
Do trick their plumes, and sing their cheerful welcome
To the mild beam of evening.

SWENO.
The heart of youth,
Is ever blithe and buoyant.

AGNES.
Good my father,
To-day my wayward strain offended you.
Shall I sing one, which oft has sooth'd your fancy
In the slow hours of sickness? Much you praised
Its melody, and somewhat the poor skill
That gave it voice.

SWENO.
No, not a song, my Agnes.
Music itself is out of tune to-day;
Thy gladsomest notes would fall upon my ear
E'en as a passing knell.

AGNES.
Yet is this day
Held festive in our annals, chief for me
And my loved father.

SWENO.
Beshrew me, noble maid,
If thou shalt lack the joys that well beseem
Thy spring of life. The heyday of my blood

87

Is chill'd by the mind's winter; nature wears not
That bland aspèct, which to the eye of youth
Shows all her forms in pleasant colors deck'd.
Thou shalt not miss delights or princely state,
While Sweno girds a sword.

AGNES.
I lack no joys
In thy kind presence: from thy brow to chase
The gloom, to sing to thee my playful ditties
Winning thy lips to smile, and in thine eyes
To read a father's blessing, these are joys
Enough for Agnes; nor of gayer sports
Is the voice hush'd in bounteous Sweno's palace.

[Enter UBALD.]
SWENO.
How fare our guests?

UBALD.
Sweno, we miss thy presence.
Upon my troth thou hast a royal guest!
That knight drinks deep, but yet his boastful speech
Shames his poor draught.

SWENO.
The noble Reynald, Ubald?

UBALD.
Ay, he from Palestine. O I could pluck the beard
Of such a vaunter! Pshaw! it moves my spleen
To see a comely knight and stout withal
First praise his wine, then praise himself more largely,
Still giving birth to some amazing tale
Between the cup and lip. Why, sir, this man
Kills you more sultans with each draught he quaffs
Than there be signs in the bright zodiac.—Arthur,
And he who slew the dragon, hight Saint George,
Were puny champions! Agnes, this proud gallant
Will purge all Heathendom, and place his bride
Upon the top-stone of Jerusalem.
A murrain on such talkers!


88

SWENO.
Thy blood, Ubald,
Knows no controul. Reynald stands well esteem'd,
And many a hard field has he fought beside
England's bold lion Richard.

UBALD.
Ay, so he has;
And mown the heads of Paynim sorcerers,
As boys slay poppies. So it stands recorded
Even on the faith of his own boastful speech.
Ubald must vail his crest to such high worth.

(taking off his helmet, and walking impatiently.)
SWENO.
Rein thy rash temper. Something bodes within me
That evil hangs over the house of Sweno;
Perchance from thy quick passion. O my daughter,
If this thy harebrain'd playmate should be victor,
Thou wilt have a wild bridegroom.

UBALD.
O good sir,
I am rejected, scorn'd! I have not taken
A soldan by the beard in Ascalon.

SWENO.
God speed thee, boy. Time was the riotous blood
So kindled in my veins; but now the frost
Of years steals o'er my pride. No son of mine
Shall reap my ample honors; when I fall,
My house is lonely. Ubald, it needs a prop,
And who shall take this guerdon from my hand
With her rich heritage, must stand approved
In feat of arms unrivall'd.

UBALD.
Princely Sweno,
Forgive the hasty and impatient spirit
Which boils within me. Whom have I on earth
But thee, my more than father? Witness heaven,

89

If Ubald harbours in his ardent soul
One wish, but to be worthy thee and thine!

SWENO.
And so perchance thou art. That lofy temper
Which gleams from out thy soul, shows some high birth-right,
Though unreveal'd.—Agnes, we tarry long.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

[SceneA Grove of Aneient Trees with a View of the Castle. A fine Evening after the Storm.]
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
The storm is hush'd; the turmoil'd elements slumber,
And the fierce gale, which rock'd those battlements,
Is lull'd and motionless. Meek Nature now,
Her fitful passion o'er, sleeps like an infant,
A playful smile bedewing its moist lips
As its eye sinks in stillness.—There is pleasure
In the calm aspect of the firmament
E'en when the mind is phrensied. The gaunt wretch,
Midst hideous shapes that haunt his fever'd couch,
Blesses the day-breeze, and the soothing light
That beams from the blue heaven. How sweet the breath
Of this mild evening? It steals over me
With thoughts that have been long foregone. O Nature,
Parent of our best joys, how have I scared thee!
Through what terrifie mazes has the fiend
Led my despairing steps! These aged trees
Spread their green honors to the sun that gilds them

90

In beauty yet unblighted, as when first
I trod their shade in youth: but vengeful thoughts
Have prey'd upon my vitals; they have gnaw'd
Like the foul worm in secret, till this form,
Once ripe with loveliness, has grown a curse,
A thing for wolves to bay, man's scorn and terror.
(Starting with a look of derangement.)
Hark, hark! It is my mother's shriek! I hear it;
I hear it now: the sob, the frantic laugh
Of my dead parent! They say the devil laughs,
When murder is doing. Mother! Mother! look up!
Know'st thou not me, thine own, thy blighted child?
'Twas thus when she was dying; she knew me not,
Her strange eye fixt upon the vacant air!
(Starling again.)
Hark to that shriek again?—Unquiet spirit,
Hush! hush!—Vengeance is dark and silent; slow,
But certain as the shaft of destiny.
Here, like death's messenger, I yield my being
To the achievement of that fearful vision,
Perpetual inmate of my burning thoughts,
By day my agony, the bitter dream
Of my distemper'd night.
[Enter AGNES and UBALD.]
See, where they come,
Two heedless fowls, into the net of fate?
Be still, weak heart! Hush. Hush.

(She withdraws, and conceals herself in the hollow trunk of an old tree.)
AGNES.
The evening star,
They say, is love's sweet harbinger. How its beam,
Ere yet the sun has ta'en his last farewell,
With every pleasant omen bids us welcome!

91

After her boisterous throes Nature smiles on us.
See, how each dewy flower is wreathed with pearls!
The sun all-radiant is with glory passing
To his bright chamber. Seems it not so, love?

UBALD.
O Agnes, all my thoughts are full of joy;
And the hot blood so tingles in my veins,
Methinks I could outstrip his lazy course,
Unto his orient palaces, and drag
Star-throned Dominion from her seat in heaven.

AGNES.
O rash in valour, as in love most wild!

UBALD.
Nay, Agnes, on my troth I love thee soother
Than the sick miser loves his hoarded pelf,
Than the fat burgher his wine-mantled cup,
Cowards their lives, sleek hypocrites their lies.
I' faith, sweet lass, thou think'st I love thee well.

AGNES.
Thou art a saucy knave to say me thus.

UBALD,
(playfully.)
Think'st thou, my Agnes, if love's hope were granted,
Hymen his torch just lighting, all joys ready
And fit appliances of blissful state,
The bridal deck'd, chambers with perfume breathing,
That my fond grasp would cling to this soft palm
(taking her hand)
As its best treasure?

AGNES.
Faith, it need not call
The tell-tale blushes to a virgin's cheek,
To cry thee, ay.

UBALD,
(laughing.)
Yet on my word I would not;
So I must creep inglorious to thy couch.

92

As the worm seeks its mate. My Agnes' husband
Must be enshrined in the full blaze of glory.
O I will place thee in such eminence,
That men shall bow, women miss their proud looks,
And all cry hail, as to the sun of nature!

AGNES.
Ah me! thou art a truant to true love.
'Twas ever thus; Agnes hath scarce a part
In the impetuous yearnings of thy fancy.
There is some charm, some ill-devised spell,
That binds me closer to thy wayward soul,
Else would I . . . .

(she hesitates).
UBALD,
(smiling).
What wouldst thou, Agnes?

AGNES.
(after a pause, leaning on him tenderly.)
Love thee ever!
And more for that untamed rebellious spirit,
Which oft in every day's revolving space
Thrills me with shapeless fears. O Ubald, Ubald,
Agnes hath being but in thy look's sunshine.
To be thine, thine, were bliss: of other union
The thought with icy chill upon my heart
Falls like death's warning.

UBALD.
Of another union!
God's mercy! is not Agnes mine? my prize?
My life, my better self? Have I not won thee, earn'd thee?
Thaken thee to my soul's core? my crown, my glory!

AGNES.
Would that to-morrow were past! The palm of strife
Hangs on a slippery chance. Thine arm is matchless,
But the weak flutter of a maiden's fear
Draws the blood curdling to the seat of life,

93

When in the balance hangs all hope of bliss,
And in one scale is death.

UBALD.
My blushing trembler,
What arm of man, in tourney or in war,
Has bow'd my crest? Who has withstood my dint?
And when this hand, worth mines of adamant,
Is the high guerdon of the bloodless tilt,
Will Ubald's arm be not itself to-morrow?

AGNES.
I should be fearless, for on thee my trust
Leans with true confidence; my bosom throbs
Responsive to hope's pulse, and still is joyous.

UBALD.
Speak ever thus! If valor could be lull'd,
There is a charm in thy Circean smile
Might steep it in perdition.

AGNES.
Dear Ubald,
I well remember, I was scant thirteen,
A wayward girl scarce witting what I loved,
When one bright morn, beneath the embowering grove
Deep in yon flowery garden, I was stretch'd.
My hair all loose, my wimple cast aside,
And my young fancy was upon the wing
Shaping fond wishes; when, as I mine eyes
Uplifted, by my side there stood a form
Such as I ne'er had seen. Her dress was strange,
And motley; her cheek wore a sallow hue,
But ardent through that dark complexion glow'd
A hectic flush: her look had such a spell
As passes human tongue to tell or liken,
The coiled serpent's spell, that charms its prey
By the eye's glance; nor could I my face withdraw

94

From the full speculation of that eye
That gazed upon me, sweet, but sadly wild;
A look, that seem'd to tell of other joys
Than were familiar to her present garb.
Her figure, though in guise terrific, show'd
Perfect concordance, well turn'd symmetry,
And the fine features of her tawny face
Seem'd beauty's ruin.

UBALD.
Certes a wierd woman;
Such figures sometimes cross our path in life,
Holding deep converse with our destinies,
Which for small price they oft reveal most strangely.

AGNES.
'Twas even so. Silent some while she stood,
Then, with a voice that lack'd not melody,
Pour'd a wild ditty, whose sweet-warbled notes
Still vibrate strangely on my captived ear.
Then gently on my hand she fix'd her touch,
While I lay witched by that harmony,
And with enquiring finger search'd my palm,
Which I half fearful yielded, half content;
And she would tell my fate, for such small coin
As my young means might tender.

UBALD.
Did thine ear
Receive her hidden lore?

AGNES.
O yes, my pulse
Throbb'd high and quick with expectation.
She said, my soul was weak, but apt for love,
And, if I lack'd not courage, I should wed
My soul's best treasure; but this threat subjoin'd,
If knight or prince should win my fated hand,
Who owed his state to ought save shining valor,

95

Frightful perdition would o'erwhelm my house
And his that wed me.

UBALD.
That strange tale is rife;
And I do well believe, sweet flower of Jutland,
Predicted ruin hath scared many a suitor,
Whose lordly crest and richly purfled trappings
Shrunk from the threat of fate.

AGNES.
Blest be that curse,
Which daunts the prowess of unwelcome rivals!

UBALD.
Nay, sweetest, would I had a thousand rivals,
And on each head a princely diadem,
So I might pluck bright honor from their crests,
And place it on my Agnes' brow of beauty!

AGNES.
Insatiable of glory! Will no thought
Of thy loved Agnes win thy soul to mildness?
O Ubald! if thine arm be blest to-morrow,
Our course is level; the fair gales of heaven
Will waft us to that fairy land of hope,
Which we have gazed on, as the mariner
After long peril of the boisterous seas.
But if mischance attend thee, here I vow,
By our best hopes, by all these maiden blushes,
No force shall yield this hand, thine own true hand,
To other lord: and well my soul assures me,
(Though mystery hangs o'er thy secret birth)
That Ubald came not of ignoble race.
Valor and love uphold thine arm to-morrow!
Till then, farewell.

[Exit AGNES.
UBALD
(thoughtfully.)
Of an ignoble race!
It cannot be! I feel within me that,

96

Which doth confirm me of proud origin. Else
Why throbs my breast with aspirations
Of such high nature? The steed bred for toil,
Though pamper'd in the stall of lordly knights,
Paws not the field, nor snuffs the air, and neighs,
As the swift Arab, when the din of war
Comes on his ears erect. Yet would I give
Wealth, power, all pomp of pleasure, and all hope
Save thee, loved Agnes, and this trusty sword,
To know my sire.

(He stands thoughtfully; THE WANDERER comes forth unobserved.)
WANDERER.
Minion of valor, hail!

UBALD.
Ha! a wierd wanderer of the lonely forest!
If knowledge dwells within that sallow breast,
She shall resolve my fate. — — Woman,—if woman,
Nor rather of such beings as in deserts
Have airy habitation!—canst thou call
To thy mind's eye the semblance of the past,
And things still seal'd in the deep womb of time,
Lifting the veil of mazy destiny?
Speak what I am, what I shall be hereafter.

WANDERER.
Ubald, strange fates hang o'er thee. Thou shalt win,
But winning lose, and in one day's short circle
Thou shalt drain all the cup of bliss and anguish.

UBALD.
Foul prophetess, unfold thy hidden meaning.

WANDERER.
Peace, peace, rash youth.

UBALD.
Wierd woman, name my sire!

WANDERER.
I may not now. There is a spirit nigh,

97

Which, if that name were breathed, would shriek aloud
With such dire adjuration of revenge,
That thy young heart would shrivel like a scroll
Wrapt in devouring flames.

UBALD.
Nay then, my sword-WANDERER.
O impotent and vain! think'st thou, that death
Has terrors, for who walks night's hideous round
Like a bann'd spirit, to life's joys and light
Than death itself more dead?

UBALD.
Fear'st not mine arm?

WANDERER.
As teeming tempest dreads the mutinous thunder;
As the sea trembles when its billows roar.

UBALD.
Terrific woman, I adjure thee, name him.

WANDERER.
Men deem thee valiant, Ubald. Thou didst climb,
A fearless stripling then, (myself did mark it,)
The giddy height to the crag's beetling brow,
And from its eyrie torest the unfledged eaglet.

UBALD.
'Tis true: where never human step had clomb
Upon the perilous edge, self-poised, I slew
The parent savage screaming in mid air
O'er the void chasm, and seized its callow young.

WANDERER.
Did that vain bauble fill thy soul? Below thee,
Strong in its beauty, lay this smiling province
And Sweno's stately dome. What were thy thoughts,
Proud boy, as firm upon the slippery ledge
Thy foot stood fix'd, and the keen eye survey'd
All the wide plain beneath it?


98

UBALD.
Thou hast touch'd
A string, to which this heart knows well to answer.
By heaven, I gazed from that rash eminence
With no mean pride. My eye stretch'd wide and far
O'er fields and wastes, hamlets and haunts of men,
E'en to the sea sail-studded; and methought
E'en then, some heritage as fair and princely
Should own me lord.

WANDERER.
And so perhaps 'tis written
In the closed page of fate. A bloody star
Glared o'er thy birth. Deeds must be done, ere thou
Lord o'er the right of thy proud ancestry,
Shall turn the pure sun red. Darest thou obey
The fearful call of thine high destinies?

UBALD.
To the world's verge, though bottomless and unseen.
Light thou the ominous beacon; let thine arm
Point o'er the field of death, and I will follow!

WANDERER.
Valiant!—'tis well: but fame delivers thee,
Though vain and choleric, yet weak withal,
And the frail slave of woman. Darest thou win
Thy way to vengeance, and re-assert thy name,
Though white arms stretch to hold thee, and loved eyes
Weep blood for pity?

UBALD.
What beseems a man,
That Ubald dares, though all Circassia's smiles
Were leagued to lure him.

WANDERER.
That which vengeance bids
Beseems a man, and thine own wrongs demand it.
Fate has no middle path. Dost thou love, Ubald?

UBALD.
Ask you me, prophetess?

WANDERER.
Death is in the kiss

99

Of those smooth lips thou wooest. Durst thou see
That beauteous form which thy weak fancy doats on,
The hair dishevell'd and the white breast bared,
Hang on thine arm for mercy, and yet, true
To the stern call of vengeance, strike thy poniard
E'en to her heart's blood, Ubald?

UBALD.
Curst of heaven!
From what abhorr'd spring flows thine hellish speech?

WANDERER.
It is hell speaks! It is the voice of judgment
From the deep throne of night! Hist! hist! I tell thee
The eagle soars which soon must swoop in blood!
The lordly eaglet from its eyrie cast
Must plume its wing and flesh in gore its talons!

UBALD.
Woman, thy reason swims; thy thoughts are wild.

WANDERER.
I am not strange; sometimes the dizzy mist
Hangs o'er my brain, and things, long past, seem present.
'Tis the mind's noontide now; the horizon gleams,
And that for which my eyeballs long have strain'd
Glares close within my grasp.

UBALD.
Away, wierd woman!
I hold not parley with hell's messengers.

WANDERER.
Thou canst not leave me, save it be my will;
A spell is on thee, Ubald! What fate bids,
Thine arm must execute. The hour is ripe,
The word is gone forth from the throne of judgment:
The spirit of the deep has spoken it.
Hark, Ubald, fear not! To thy bridal feast

100

Bid the wierd wanderer.—Do I read contempt
In thy keen eye? Ha! do these weeds offend thee?

UBALD.
Unearthly form, away!

WANDERER.
Impetuous youth!
When thine heart swells with hope, I shall be near thee!
Thou standest blind upon the fiery brink
Of that deep gulph, which it were death to plunge in;
But heaven shall succour and uphold thee, Ubald.
Go forth in pride! go fearless! strike and conquer!

UBALD.
Mysterious prophetess! thy words are awful.

WANDERER.
More shalt thou know hereafter:—this learn, Ubald,
There is a fearful record in the heavens;
Angels have written it; the dead bears witness.
Sweno's whole heritage, this envied province,
And that weak maid withal, were a poor barter
For just revenge.

[Exit WANDERER.]
UBALD,
(alone.)
Forbidden lore perchance
And sight of visions not for man design'd
Have crazed thee, beldame. Yet was I light before,
And thou hast thrown a load on me. Thy features
Have some strange power which thrills me. This rich province!
Why ay; if Sweno's daughter be my bride,
Who shall gainsay my claims?—Ha! spoke she true?
My name, my sire unknown; the rights, by nature
Stamp'd on this brow, abolish'd quite and lost;
No ancient crest this gorgeous helm adorning;
Shall slaves call Ubald upstart? The blood cries,
This must not be!—O, though unknown, revered!

101

Father! how longingly my thoughts have yearn'd
To know thy lineaments! If death has snatch'd thee
From this our nether world, look down on me!
For oft thy form has strode across my slumbers!
If treason has foredone thee, and robb'd thy son
Of his best heritage, thy spotless name,
O speak to me, in night's still gloom reveal'd,
Declare thy wrongs! Let Ubald fall, or wreak them!

[Enter Reynald.]
REYNALD.
Thou art wrapt in thought. Men speak thee keen and lightsome,
Not given to musing.

UBALD.
Each humour hath its hour.
There is a blithe hour for the lip of love;
The sparkling goblet, the bold clamour of battle
Have theirs: there is an hour for deeper thoughts,
When the soul soars alone beyond the clay
That cramps its nature. Be thou welcome, Reynald;
To-morrow must thine helmet bow before me;
This night let us be cheery.

REYNALD.
Thou art boastful,
Rash youth! Reynald is little wont to strive,
Save with his equals. His sword strikes down the lofty,
But spares the herd.

UBALD,
(laying his hand on his sword)
To me? to me this, Reynald?

REYNALD.
To whom it fits. Valor on lordly crests
Sits like a jewel in the diadem,
Giving and taking lustre. On the low
It shines unseemly, like love's rosy chaplet
On the bald front of age, and moves our pity.


102

UBALD,
(drawing his sword.)
Thou hast said that which must be rued in blood.

REYNALD.
Not for thy worth, but that good gift of knighthood
By princely Sweno's hand too largely lavish'd,
I will e'en joust with thee to-morrow, Ubald.
So thou shalt learn the weight of that tried arm
Which Pagans shrink from.

UBALD.
By heaven, thou liest, to say
'Twas largely lavish'd! Thou darest not for thy life
Brand me with lowly birth, though half my honors
Lie in abeyance, and, and are meekly worn,
Till it shall please high heaven to reveal
My birthright. The pure blood throbs here more warmly,
Caitif, than thine.

REYNALD.
That speech has seal'd thy doom;
Thou shalt not live to view to-morrow's tourney.

[They fight. Enters Sweno with his sword drawn.]
SWENO.
Forbear, Ubald, forbear! I charge thee, cease!
Kind sir, (to Reynald)
beseems it ill with such rude broils

To scare our festive joys. Put up, good Ubald.
I pray ye, sirs, on pain to lack our friendship,
Pursue this wrath no further. Let not hate
Lurk in these walls, to rear her deadly front
Amidst our mirth. Pray ye, be friends. Who shivers
One lance in wrath is banish'd from our tourney.

UBALD.
We shall have scope hereafter. Farewell, Reynald.

[Exit Ubald.

103

SWENO.
Reynald, we should this eve be light and gladsome,
But some unfriendly doom o'ertakes and thwarts us.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.

[The Tournament. A Pavilion in front of the Area in which are the Lists. If it is not convenient to give a Representation of the Fight, the Scene must be so arranged that the Actors may appear to look down upon the Area in the back of the Stage which is out of the sight of the audience. Sweno, Bertha, Agnes, and Attendants.]
SWENO.
The eye of day looks cheerly on our meeting,
And the bright bucklers of our helmed knights
Send back his courtesy in gleams of fire.

(flourish.)
BERTHA.
Who rides so proudly with yon cross of red?

SWENO.
'Tis doughty Reynald, and that black devise
Is the known emblem of illustrious Biorn.

(flourish.)
BERTHA.
Mark how they charge! how lance and buckler crash!
The red-cross wins: that sable crest is low.

AGNES.
O father, who is yonder giant champion,
Whose lance seems weightier than a weaver's beam,
He of the eagle-crest?

SWENO.
Harald of the Isles.

104

A readier knight hath never buckled steel!
And by my faith a noble wooer, Agnes.
I knew not of his presence. This day's prize
Hath drawn a sturdy suitor to the lists,
And our best gallants quail. By heavens, I miss
Their prompt alacrity: strong Harald rides
Round the void lists as victor, undefied,
And not a lance is couch'd.—See!
(Shout without.)
Ubald! Ubald!

SWENO.
See, how young Ubald dares him to the proof!
His lance is in the rest. (flourish.)
On, on they rush,

Like the swift whirlwind; they are lost in dust.
By heaven, 'tis proudly done! (Agnes screams faintly, looking forward with eagerness.)
Shout without.

An Ubald! Ubald!

SWENO.
Why that huge champion of the misty isles
Cumbers a rood of ground,—Right gallant Ubald!
O daughter, thou hast lost a princely bridegroom,
And his broad lands in Orkney. Much I marvel
Who may withstand that dint which unhorsed Harald.

BERTHA.
Lo, where the red-cross gleams!

SWENO.
High-crested Reynald!
If any strength can bide him, it is thine!

(flourish.)
BERTHA
What ails thee, child? Thy cheek is blanch'd with fear.
Remember, Agnes, of what blood thou comest.

SWENO.
Lightning is not more sudden than their charge.
Saint Mary! they bear them nobly, both unharm'd;
The area shakes beneath them. See! they wheel,

105

Like two big clouds careering in mid air.
They clash again. O what a shock was there!
The steeds are riderless upon their flanks,
Shiver'd each lance. The sword must win the day.

(The clash of swords is heard.)
BERTHA.
Now heaven defend thee, Ubald! thou hast need
Of all thy prowess.

AGNES.
O his foot hath slipt!
Eternal mercy, save him!

SWENO.
He is up,
He bears him like a lion in the fight.
His blows rain thick as hail.
Shout without.
Hurrah! hurrah!
Ubald, brave Ubald is the victor! Ubald.

(Agnes sinks half faint into the arms of Bertha.)
SWENO.
Our lion-cub has gain'd the day, and nobly.
Shout without.
Ubald! brave Ubald is the victor! Ubald!

[Flourish. Enter UBALD, and other KNIGHTS; UBALD with his drawn sword in his left hand, and the broken sword of Reynald in his right.]
UBALD.
A boon, a boon, sir! Bid thy seneschal
Cut heronshaw and peacock with this blade,
This boasted dragon-carver from Aleppo!

SWENO.
Ubald, we greet thee with a parent's joy,
The day is thine; but ere we make thee welcome
As our child's suitor, whose abashed cheek
Has changed fear's livery for a brighter color,
Loud proclamation must the trumpet make,

106

To all, whatever be their rank or station,
Sounding our summons; so they may unfold
The mystery of thy birth, which we deem noble.

[Enter REYNALD and others.]
UBALD.
Make proclamation for a leech, my sire!
The conqueror of the east, the sultan-slayer,
Has wrench'd his princely sinew. Faith 'tis well,
Else Ubald had been minced by this rare blade,
As trenchermen cleave larks. Say'st thou not, Reynald?

REYNALD.
False boy, thou didst take vantage of my mercy.
'Twas thy foot slipp'd; and, but I staid mine arm
In pity to thy youth, thou wert not here
To taunt me thus. Thou, when I thought thee shent,
Didst, tygerlike, spring on me unawares,
And that tried falchion snapp'd.

UBALD.
Aye, this strong weapon,
To which the skulls of infidels were paper,
Broke on the boy's arm. O 'twas foully play'd
To deal the blows too fast upon thee, Reynald!
I cry thee pardon. It behoved me stay
Till Reynald had ta'en breath. 'Twas most discourteous;
I should have waited on my bended knee
Thine own good time.

REYNALD.
This is no feud of words;
Thy way of mirth dishonoreth a name
Which brooks no stain. By all the shades of those
Who at life's cost have known me true and loyal,
I do defy thee, Ubald, unto death.
Earth is too narrow for thy spring of pride.

UBALD.
And the nine heavens, my spirit is so buoyant!

107

Yet deem not, Ubald from thy manly brow
Would pluck the wreath of reputation
By such light speech. I do embrace thy challenge;
But hark ye, Reynald, this morn to arms was given,
Love claims to-morrow.

SWENO.
Sirs, these feuds offend us.
Thou, Agnes, as befits thee, with you cuirass,
Palm of this trysting, gird victorious Ubald.
Nay, by my knighthood, had I bid thee give
Thyself, a worthier palm, thou couldst not change
The clear complexion of thy natural hue
To brighter vermeil. Agnes, on my troth
I think thou fain wouldst give thy blushing self,
The unsunn'd whiteness of this virgin hand,
A brighter guerdon.
(taking her hand, jestingly.)
Have a care, young trembler!
Perchance, at our citation, mailed Mars
May claim him to his heaven. Have a care, daughter!

(AGNES lifts up the golden cuirass to offer it to UBALD. At that moment the trumpet sounds again.Re-enters MESSENGER hurried.)
SWENO.
What tidings?

MESSENGER.
Noble Sweno, scarce the herald
Had proclamation made, giving loud breath
To the shrill trumpet's brass, when from the crowd
Stepp'd forth a wizzard shape in female guise,
Craving admittance to this lordly presence.

(Flourish. Enter WANDERER, preceded by a Herald.)
WANDERER.
Sweno, I come, obedient to thy hest,
Fate's secret to unravel, which disclosed,
Egress unharm'd I claim for me—and mine.


108

SWENO.
Granted.—What bear'st thou? From what fountain sprung
Did valiant Ubald draw the blood of life?

WANDERER.
From hell's own fount accursed! A fatal spell
Hung on the horned moon, the raven croak'd,
When he was born.—Ubald, behold thy mother!

UBALD.
Base witch, thou liest, to say thou art my mother.
'Tis a foul lie, and thou art wild to speak it!

WANDERER.
What my lips speak, shall my clear proofs avouch.

UBALD.
'Tis false. Produce them, base suborned proofs!

SWENO.
A jewell'd bracelet by his side was left.
Canst thou describe it, giving to the ear
Just apprehension of its form and color?
(To the Herald.)
Bring forth the casket, whose lock bears the rust
Of twenty years.

(He unlocks it.)
WANDERER.
The eyes have shrewder judgment
Of nice proportions in the workman's art,
Of shape and size, of color and quaint fashion,
Than the tongue's skill can render to the ear.
Behold its fellow.

She gives him a bracelet. He opens the casket, and takes out a bracelet, which he compares with it.)
SWENO.
On my faith 'tis strange.
Two sister orbs in the most proper face
Shine not with liker water than those gems;

109

Nor the long lashes cast more equal shade,
Than does the fretted gold wherein they lie,
Like living lights in the fringed eyelids chased.

UBALD.
O treason! O base thief, thou hast purloin'd it!

BERTHA.
'Tis like she hath; with sacrilegious hand
Rifling the vault, where lie entomb'd the bones
Of her who gave thee being.

UBALD.
'Tis like?—'tis certain!

SWENO.
Say, woman, in that helpless infant's cradle
What else was found, by no enquiring eye
Save mine and noble Bertha's ever question'd?

WANDERER.
A scroll, whereon these words, in thy mind's tablet
Long since deep graven.—Run not the couplets thus,
Though the last words be from that legend rent?
“The secret piece from this indenture torn
“Was sever'd at the hour this child was borne
“From its proud mother; when they reunite,
“The valiant son shall meet his mother's sight.”
And now I tender to thy judging eye,
Long saved, long cased in gold with precious care,
(taking it out of a small box)
The fragment of that scroll.—See, see!—it fits
The nice indentures of that wavy rent,
Which no art's skill could liken! See the words
Traced by one hand, quaint nature's character!
Comes that untainted scroll from the damp vault
Of charnel-houses? Am I not thy mother?


110

SWENO.
O past conjecture wondrous! Name his father.

WANDERER.
He has no father! Ask the wandering billows
Of the storm-beaten sea, who made their bosom
Team with the finny myriads! Ask the winds,
Who fill'd their darkling and invisible womb
With blight and pestilence! He has no father.

UBALD.
Dread being! mother not, but fiend, I name thee!
If true the accursed tale, thy child of want,
Safe cradled in the arms of joy and honor,
Why call'st thou now to misery and ruin?
Why dash to earth the wreath, thine art had woven?
Speak, foul witch, speak.

WANDERER.
Betray'd, out-cast, abandon'd,
Man's roof has not o'er-shelter'd me; the blast,
Not age, has blanch'd these elf-locks. I have known
Dire want and loneliest savage wanderings.
The fearfullest glens, the tangled precipice,
Have been my lair; the demon of the tempest
My comforter: to sights abhorr'd of men
And fellowship with every cavern's inmate
Use has made me familiar; the gaunt wolf,
The eagle, knows my coming and outgoing,
And in compassion to man's outcast yields
Share of his bloody banquet. Where I roam'd,
The nightdew was my balm, the baleful clouds
My canopy; and, by their sulphurous bolts
Illumed, my rocky threshold gleam'd with splendor
That did outshine the emblazon'd halls of kings.
Nor envied I man's palaces.—But such

111

Was not fit cradle for weak infancy.
The firm endurance of an injured soul
May smile mid nature's terrors, and even hail
The fiend that nurtures them; but helpless years
Lack milder mother's-milk.

SWENO.
What phrensy then,
Mysterious phantom, say, what hateful purpose
Now, in the prime and summer of its growth,
Strikes down that glorious scion, deck'd with honors,
From this exalted station, where thy fraud
Had safely planted it?

WANDERER.
Look upon me;
Proud mortal, mark this gaunt and abject being;
These skeleton-like limbs and sun-parch'd skin
Which once had bloom and beauty!—See me now
The haggard child of want, and scorn, and wo!
Whose hope is but despair! The very dogs
Howl after me, as if the mouldering grave
Had cast me from its foul abhorred womb
Polluting with my breath the face of heaven.
Sunk as I am, perchance amid the blaze
Of yon gilt banners, girded with the pomp
Of gorgeous chivalry, some bosom shrinks
From inward horror, to whose nightly visions
My lot were paradise. I would not change
These tatter'd garments for your bravery.—
Ubald, awake! If I have dash'd from thee
This cup of joy, drugg'd deep with smiling mischief;
If all the friends of thy proud-budding youth
Drop off from thee, as from the wither'd tree
The worms that fed on it; if glory's course
Rejects thee, offspring of despair and want;

112

Know, thou hast friends among the wrecks of nature.
O there is joy amid the crashing storm,
When the rack scuds before the rushing winds,
And all is ruin! Where the sea-mew screams
Mid desert caves may be thy nuptial bower;
The howling wolves shall yield thee minstrelsy.
Ha! ha! ha!

(She laughs hideously.)
SWENO,
(rising.)
Out of my sight, accursed of heaven! away!

WANDERER.
(Withdrawing slowly, with a look and action of threatening and savage contempt.)
The curse of heaven will be soon fulfill'd.

[Exit.
SWENO.
Brave champions, this our joy is turn'd to sadness.
Ubald, we still uphold thee; and thy deeds
Shall win thee rank and reverence and honors:
But such alliance suits not with our bearing;
And we perforce must name, of those whose rank
May make them bold to be our daughter's suitors,
Reynald, though vanquish'd, victor.—Welcome, Reynald!
Child of my heart, come with me.

AGNES.
Ubald! Ubald!

(Exeunt all but UBALD, who remains alone in deep thought. The Scene falls in front representing a Woodland outside the Lists. UBALD enters slow and thoughtful, and leans on the point of his sword. He starts suddenly into a defensire attitude.)
UBALD.
Avaunt! spectre of hell, avaunt!—Stay, Ubald!
Thy brain is madden'd; thy stunn'd senses reel.
(Starting again.)
Who dared to call this wretched being Ubald?

113

There was a time, I well remember me,
When that name sounded in the lists of fame,
Valor's first minion: 'twas a gallant name,
And he who bore it, vail'd his crest to none,
And men would doff their caps, and cry “Live Ubald!”
'Tis past—it was a dream—I am not Ubald!
All, all's unsound! the very earth we tread on
A counterfeit! a faithless sod, that mantles
The bubbling of a bottomless abyss.
Nature itself is false.—There is no Ubald!
He, who usurp'd that name's a slave, an upstart!
A liar, a pitiful, a base-born slave!
(A pause.)
I have heard tell, that, when the unchaste moon
Peeps with her broad eye glaring from above,
Men's thoughts are phrensied: I do well believe,
That we are drawn like puppets by her power
Through fate's invisible and airy maze,
Even as the tides of ocean ebb or swell
At her strong bidding. Life's a mockery,
And we, that tread this motley earth, are fools,
And madmen. Else, amid the battle's hurley
Why has this arm oft turn'd the flood of war,
Outvying opposition, till the cry
Of victory through all the welkin rang,
Filling the trump of glory? if that name,
Once bright like Lucifer, and like him lost,
Falls as a star from heaven!—O Agnes, Agnes,
What demon from my hand has dash'd the chalice,
Which thou hadst crown'd with bliss!—Ha! if thy faith
Forswear me now,—baseborn—despised—rejected.
I will not, dare not, think it.—Joy of my soul,
I still have trust in thee!


114

(He remains wrapt in thought, THE WANDERER enters unperceived.)
WANDERER,
(aside.)
My son!—alas,
In that brief word how many thoughts lie blended!
O long divorced, estranged, from this lone heart,
And yet my son!—I thought my soul was steel'd
Against all fond impression, trebly arm'd
With the keen temper of the merciless blade!
And yet how painfully the name of son
Falls on this wither'd heart!—O Ubald, Ubald,
The cherub peace is waking in my soul,
Which has not caroll'd there since thou wert born!
(Aloud.)
My son! UBALD,
(seizing her vehemently.)
Call me not son!—O Satan's mate!
By what foul spell hast thou atchieved my ruin?
What traitor has suborn'd thee? Make thy treason
As manifest as day, or I will tear
Thy shrivell'd flesh, and cast it to the wolves.
Hast thou not told a tale of damning falsehood?

WANDERER.
If I be Satan's mate, thy fury speaks thee
Child of my womb.
(He lets go his hold.)
'Tis meet that I, fate's tool,
Should be accurst of mine own issue. Smite me,
Fierce Ubald! Bury in eternal night
The secret of thy birth! Slay her, who bore thee!

UBALD.
O terrible of women, I will kneel
Even in prostration meekly to the hem
Of thy rent garment, so thou wilt reveal
The name of him whose stamp I bear.

WANDERER.
'Twould need

115

A raven's note to name him. Rather ask
That fearful word, which, but once breathed aloud,
Would have dissolved the fabric of this world
And all the gorgeous firmament above us,
Letting hell loose from its eternal chain.

UBALD.
And though the sky should reel, the rock-staid sea
With the foundations of the crazy earth
Quake to their base, I would demand it.

WANDERER.
Ubald,
There stands between thee and thy burning wishes
A wide gulph fixt, which to o'erleap were death.
By all heaven's flaming lights thou art my child!—
Wilt thou avenge me, Ubald?—The event
Hangs on my word, whether to uphold or plunge thee
Deep, deep, into that fiery gulph of ruin.

UBALD.
My heart yearns painfully to know my father.

WANDERER.
Thou shalt learn nothing, till I am revenged!
Rave, thou hot youth! Strike rashly, strike thy mother!
Or kneel, and, Ubald, swear to slay the man
Who made thee fatherless! I tell thee, son,
If that thou hast an ear, a heart, a soul,
That cry for vengeance, which appals me nightly,
Must have been heard by thee. Swear, Ubald, swear!

UBALD.
There needs no oath to spur me to that goal,
No, nor blind curse! By heaven, show me the man,
That made an orphan of ill-fated Ubald,
And I will drag him to such strict account,
No second sun shall dawn on him and me.


116

WANDERER.
Swear it!

UBALD.
By all heaven's gifts I swear it!—Name him.

WANDERER.
Sweno! proud Sweno made thee fatherless!
Haste, Ubald! slay him!—Wilt thou not avenge me?

UBALD.
The spirit of Satan dwells in thy foul lips!
Thou darest not say it!

WANDERER.
Wilt thou not avenge me?

UBALD,
(with great emotion.)
Say, who! and when, and where! how fell my father?

WANDERER.
Nay, not a word, till that dread debt be paid:
Then shall my speech reveal no humble rights.
Ubald, thine oath! Vengeance on haughty Sweno!

UBALD.
Mysterious Being, thy words fall like drops
Of poison, blistering whate'er they touch.
My soul is horror-struck. Shall Ubald slay
One sire, kind substitute for nature's tie,
At thy strange bidding, unreveal'd the tale
Of his lost birthright, and unknown his father?

WANDERER
Wilt thou not slay him?

UBALD.
By the living light,
I will not touch his hoary brow with harm,
For all that thou and thy fell crew can tempt with!

WANDERER.
O say not thus—'twere better for thee, Ubald,
To riot in the blood of innocents,
To earn the mark of Cain, than bear the doom
Which must o'erwhelm thee if thou brave this bidding.
Stay! the ground quakes beneath thee!


117

UBALD.
Let it gape:
I will not hurt the head of honor'd Sweno.

WANDERER.
Beware; his lot is seal'd; and thine hangs trembling
In the eternal scale; whether to reap
Thy glorious heritage, or wear a curse,
Which but to whisper would make the horrent hair
Bristle thy youthful brows. Wilt thou kill Sweno?

SWENO.
Not, though the firm earth yawn'd, and from its depth
Fate own'd thy ministry.

WANDERER.
O fiends of vengeance,
Sear up my milk of nature! Dry the source
Of pity's womanish tears, or let them fall
Like water on the hissing furnace cast,
Giving new strength to all-devouring flame!
Devoted Ubald, be fate's will atchieved,
Though it must shiver thee! If vengeance move not,
Love shall perforce arouse thee! Shall that Reynald
To-morrow, triumphing in thy disgrace,
Lead Agnes to the altar! Shall Ubald gape,
And cry, “Long live the bride! Health and ripe joys
“Attend their wedded couch!” Go, crave their alms,
And beg some base coin from the lusty bridegroom!

UBALD.
The voice of fiends is in thee. O thy words
Have rush'd like molten fire upon my soul!
Thou canst not say that she will wed with Reynald.

WANDERER.
Will!—nay, she must.—Is not the faith of Sweno
To Reynald pledged? or is that haughty chief
In love a laggard? Know this, by thine abasement

118

To-morrow Agnes is his bride, unless
She be to-night thine, Ubald.

UBALD.
Ha! how say'st thou?

WANDERER.
This night or never must Agnes be thy wife.

UBALD.
To-night?—They say the devil sometimes speaks true.

WANDERER.
(Giving him a key.)
Take this, love's talisman. The wierd scorn'd Wanderer
May crown thy wishes yet: its powerful spell
Shall yield thee entrance to young Agnes' bower,
When earth is wrapt in gloom.

UBALD.
Woman of might,
Give to thy meaning words. If love prevail,
Where and how wedded shall mine Agnes be
At that still season?

WANDERER.
In Helen's ruin'd chapel.
When first the moon upon your secret flight
Throws her slant beam, beneath the porch a priest
Shall wait thy bidding.—Speed! arouse her love!
Triumph o'er maidish dread! or the next sun
Must dawn on Reynald's bliss.

UBALD.
On Reynald's death,
Or shall see Agnes mine.

WANDERER.
Under that chapel
A secret cell is hewn; that obscure vault
Shall be thy bridal chamber.—Fear'st thou, Ubald?
Splendor it lacks, and soft luxurious ease,
To cheer a dainty fair one; but its stillness
Is fitting such a stealth. This night or never!
Ubald, time flies.

UBALD.
Befriend me, powerful Love!

119

My thoughts are all amazed and unarray'd,
I walk as in a mist; be this night, Agnes,
Our first fond entrance into weal or wo!

[Exit, UBALD.]
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
He's gone; he's gone.—Be still, thou coward heart!
I know not whether I am dead or waking.
The world seems dark around me, and such deeds
Are doing, that the sun must shrink for ever.
Methought I heard the voice of one, who drowning
Cried, “Mother, save me! help me, ere I sink!”
And then methought two spirits strongly strove
To drag me diversely; one pure as light,
The beam of radiant mercy on its brow;
The other foul and loathsome, fierce as death,
Mocking the agony of convulsive sobs,
And its fell strength prevail'd. O powers of evil,
There be some hallow'd moments, when this soul
Can wrestle with your might, and dove-like peace
Seems like a lovely vision, seen far off!
Now all is dark: the Spirit of revenge
Knocks, Sweno, at thy gate. Thy knell is rung.

[Exit.

Scene III.

—Sweno's Hall.
[SWENO, REYNALD and others.]
SWENO
We do admit thy claims, but some short space
Crave ere the accomplishment. A troublous star
Lowers o'er our house: we lack the pulse of joy
For bridal revels.—I fear my child had framed
Some hopes which must prove vain; but Sweno's daughter
Will know what fits her station.

[Enter Attendant.]
ATTENDANT.
Ubald craves
Admittance.

SWENO.
By your leave.


120

(Reynald and others fall back to the further end of the stage.)
SWENO,
(alone.)
Wo to who rears
The tyger's young! and yet I love thee, Ubald.
[Enters Ubald.]
Be welcome, Ubald! Sweno's hall is open
To all his knights; to none, than thee, more freely.

UBALD.
There was a time, nor is it long by-gone—
An hour or two perchance—when Sweno's hall
Was open to his son—his foster'd son,
Who, from life's earliest dawn to manhood, knew
No other sire;—nor now.—Dost thou disclaim me?

SWENO.
Would that thou wert my son! Brave youth, this heart
Would leap to see my crest and gallant bearings
With all the honors that my house has earn'd
Worn by mine issue. 'Tis the curse of fate
A stranger shall gird Sweno's sword, a stranger
Lord o'er this princely fief, when I depart,
The last male of my race. I would give half
My wealth thou wert my son.

UBALD.
It hath pleased God
To shroud the fountain of my birth, perchance
For some unpurged offence. And yet methinks,
If there be one upon this lower earth
To whom it stands reveal'd, that should be Sweno.

SWENO.
Ha! how say'st thou?

UBALD.
I say, it should be Sweno.
Why didst thou rear me as thy child, if baseborn?
The lion brings not to his tawny mate
The jackall's cub. O Sweno, I adjure thee
By the one hope I harbour this side heaven,

121

Unveil my secret birth.

SWENO.
Am I a prophet,
Ubald? Hath not this morn too much reveal'd
Of thy sad story?

UBALD.
Nothing! I stand alone,
Sever'd from every tie, but such as bind me
To thee and thine. My birth is wrapt in gloom
Thick as the inaccessible cloud, which hides
The shrine upon the peak of Caucasus.

SWENO.
Ubald, when first I saw thee, thou wert smiling,
A helpless infant, upon Bertha's bosom.
The fearless smile craved pity. From that hour
(For we esteem'd thee sprung of gentle stock)
Thou hast lack'd nothing, which a parent's fondness
Could lavish on the heir of all his fortunes.
Like a king's issue hast thou been upbrought
With every princely gift; and last, not lightest,
The boon of knighthood.

UBALD.
Sir, that debt is written
Here with indelible characters, and claims
The service of this arm till death.

SWENO.
O Ubald,
I have e'en loved thee like an anxious father;
And thou hast fill'd that void in my affections
Which nature left, denying me a son.
Now haply it behooves me cast thee from me
Adown the vale of life, seeing (though late)
That thou hast clomb unto this lofty nest
From such a lowly and disgracious forlune.
But still I love thee, and will uphold thy knighthood

122

At no mean cost; but higher hopes are wreck'd
By thy base origin.

UBALD.
O thou dost not, canst not,
Believe it, Sweno!—It is false as hell;
The tongue that did avouch it is accurst.

SWENO.
Ubald, intemperate wrath does ill become
Thy present station. Be of humbler strain!
We are to blame, who have uprear'd thy youth
In boisterous license. Think, what now befits thee.

UBALD.
It fits me, sir, to guard with jealous honor
The rights you gave me; nor will I renounce
Of those one smallest title, while I gird
This sword of knighthood, which departs not from me,
Save in the grasp of death. Were my race abject,
As the blood cries within me it is noble,
I have earn'd that, in perilous fields of fame,
Which doth outshine the best and loftiest birthdom,
A soldier's rank. Upon thy pledged word
I claim my prize, the hand of Agnes.—Start not,
'Tis truth; there lives not in this realm of Jutland
Who can deny my right.

SWENO.
I—Sweno—tell thee,
I, I, would plunge this sword, my father's weapon,
Like he of Rome, into my daughter's bosom,
Abolishing with her each joy of age,
Ere she should soil by such a foul alliance
The blood of my fore-elders.

UBALD.
It is false;
It were no stain to wed with Ubald. Hark ye,

123

Sir—fearless I assert—mark well my words—
Thou canst not, durst not, Sweno, for thine honor,
Uphold that wizzard's tale.

SWENO.
Nay, by my sword,
Her proofs admit not doubt or question.

UBALD.
O monstrous! By that self-same speech convicted
Thou wert a murderer. Ay, start now, and learn
What 'tis to have the jewel of thy life
Hang on a traitor's proof!

SWENO.
Boy, thou art frantic.

UBALD.
By heaven, I am calm; I speak the things I know,
And I embrace with juster apprehension
Their form and bearings, than thou dost. Take me with thee,
I do not charge on thee that damning guilt;
Here I discard the thought, as loathsome treason
Gender'd in hell. But, if her speech were true,
Thine hate has robb'd me of a princely father.
She speaks; not I. Her voice cries loud for vengeance.
Thou canst not heap her tale upon my head,
And not take home to thine that charge of murder.

SWENO.
What ho!
(Reynald, &c. come forward.)
Sirs, we are bearded in our hall;
The whelp, which we have nurtured, turns upon us
With rabid fang. Thus from our love we cast him!
Base-born, away! we brook not thy rash words.

UBALD,
(drawing his sword.)
Say'st thou? And yet I have no sire but thee.
No other tongue had scorn'd me thus, and lived!

124

No other eye upon my fallen fortunes
Had glared, as thine does now! I will not harm thee.
Thou, Reynald, thou whose bold pretensions
Assail my rights, stand forth. Let heaven decide
Which be the better and the nobler champion.
Thou didst erewhile defy me unto death.

REYNALD.
I did; and thy bold arm eschew'd the cartel
Even in the shelter of a woman's bower.
That arm perhaps is abject as thy birth.

UBALD,
(fighting.)
Thus—thus—we shall be quickly weigh'd.

SWENO,
(interposing.)
Stand back!
I do forbid the challenge. Lay hands on him. (The Knights interpose with drawn swords.)

We have been far too mild; but Sweno's presence
Shall not be braved. Our will is thus determined;
To-morrow, Reynald, thou shalt wed our daughter.
But if thou wieldest sword or lance before,
We cast thee from our love. (To UBALD.)

Thou, sir, begone.
We would not willingly let thee down the wind;
But thou, unruly tarsel, quitt'st thy perch
To strike too high a quarry. Lead him forth.

UBALD
Which is the vassal will lay hands on Ubald?—
I quit thee, Sweno.—Thou hast done me wrong,
Which haply should wipe out the memory
Of all I owe thee:—but it is not so.
Thou, haughty Reynald, mark me. It were safer
To take the fleshless and abhorred death

125

To be thy mate, than lay the hand of power
Upon mine Agnes.

[Exit.
REYNALD.
Faith, thou bear'st thee nobly;
And I could prize thee rather in its ebb,
Than brook the rash flow of thy better fortune.

SWENO.
We do desire the Lady Agnes' presence.
[Exit Attendant.
Reynald, I am much moved. This headstrong youth
Has part in my affections, and my daughter
Regards his worth too highly: if she bewail him,
We must be brief, and use authority,
Though it sound harsh. (Enters AGNES.)
(SWENO, embracing her.)

My child!

AGNES.
My gracious sire!

SWENO.
Thou art pale, and yet, believe me, child, I love thee
As my best hope on earth.—Said I my best?
My only hope!

AGNES.
Ever my own kind father!

SWENO.
I have no son. A son is to his father
A mirror, in the which his aged eyes
May read their image; ay, a magic mirror,
Which doth give back himself, his form and likeness,
Even in the pride and semblance of his youth!—
Thou would'st speak, but the inarticulate sound
Dies on thy lips.

AGNES.
Sir—Something I would say,
But it might savor of presumptuous wishes
To think a worthless maiden could reflect
Ought of her father's virtues, in whom the mould

126

Of nature's noblest pattern is most perfect:
Yet gazing on them, living in the shine
Of all thy glories, something my thoughts must borrow
From thine high attributes; and store it here,
As the pale ineffectual orb of night
Drinks the sun's lustre.

SWENO.
I do esteem thee, Agnes,
Worthy thy blood; one in whom gentle pleasance
With loftier thoughts is wedded! born to grace
Thy noble lord and rear his princely issue
To wear our dignities.

AGNES.
Sir?

SWENO.
We lack an heir
To bear them worthily. Behold the Knight
Whose unmatch'd prowess we have this day chosen,
To uphold our race. Thou art a bride to-morrow.

AGNES.
Say not unmatch'd—O, sir, you are too hasty. (Kneeling.)

Pray you, recall that speech! 'Twas but yestre'en
You said, my lord must stand in arms unrivall'd;
I do take sanctuary on those thy words,
The altar of thy truth.

SWENO.
And so he does.

AGNES.
O father, I address me to your justice!
I will not plead, as other maids are used,
The dreamings of the fancy. I adjure thee
By thine own blood which throbs within this heart,
Do not that wrong! for Ubald is the victor.
And if that strange tale (false perchance) have thrown
A shade upon his fortunes, and ta'en from him
The sunshine of thy favor, let me bide

127

E'en as I am, thine own, thy loving handmaid!
Or if that be too blessed, and his fall
Must marr my joys and cast me forth from thee,
O let me in some barren cloister chew
The bread of solitude, but do not curse me
With such worse thraldom!

SWENO.
Daughter, thou offendest.
Thou sinn'st against thy name. I bid thee purge
The avenues of thy thoughts, and from that bosom
Pluck the foul image which is nurtured there
With all its baseness. Gods! shall Sweno's child
Stoop to a beggar's wooing?—Leave my cloak.

AGNES.
Say not to-morrow, father!

SWENO.
Loose me! rise!
The valiant Reynald has my word. Receive him,
As fits thee, courteously.
(Going, while she stretches her arms to follow him.)
I bid thee stay.

[Exit SWENO, &c. Manent AGNES, REYNALD.]
AGNES.
My father!—He has left me.—Now, good angels,
Arm me with strength. I will embrace my shroud
Ere I prove faithless.

REYNALD.
This hand, midst war's alarums,
Has purchased honor in the hazardous field
At my life's hourly venture; but the frown
Of lovely woman I am ill wont to strive with.

AGNES.
There is no strife between us, sir.—What mean you?
I wear my temper evenly, as fits
The daughter of a prince; if thou hast cause
Of strife, declare it.


128

REYNALD.
No cause, fair Agnes,
Saving such war, as oft-times is the herald
Of gentle love. Permit . . .

(He offers to take her hand.)
AGNES.
Touch me not, sir!
I may not brook thy freedom.

REYNALD.
On my knee . . .

AGNES.
Go to, go to; I take no fallen champion,
No knight whose sword is broken. I commend you
Unto that Syrian princess whom you rescued!
You soar too high.

REYNALD.
Ha! Dost thou scorn me, lady?

AGNES.
Hast thou ne'er heard, how they of heathendom
Stood back in awe, before the livid corse
Which to their gods was consecrate by lightning?
E'en such am I; amid the joys of youth
Struck by the angry bolt of heaven, and will
Henceforth hold fellowship with nothing earthly.
I do embrace the altar, and will rather
Wear out my years in solitary penance
Than wed with thee.

[Exit.
REYNALD.
'Tis strange; this baseborn churl
Spreads an infectious rashness. Scornful maid,
This may be rued; for thou perforce art mine
In all thy flood of beauty, and must bend.
This splendid heritage outweighs thy love.

[Exit.

129

ACT IV.

Scene I.

THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
That thou dost love the maid suits well my purpose;
It is the helm which guides thee to that port
Where vengeance calls; but think not thou shalt take
That viper to thy bed, the child of Sweno!
Lost as I am, and stamp'd by nature's curse,
Thou art my son; and sooner would I wring
The life blood from this heart, than see thee batten
On that abhorred couch. Once have I stood
Between thee and that leap, when fate seem'd fixt,
And thou already in thine ardent hopes
Forejoyd'st her charms. Once more I will arrest thee,
Ere Agnes be thy wife; or, if thou wedd'st,
Thou shalt embrace a corse.—This is fate's seal,
(Producing a phial.)
Love's antidote. This philtre from thine hand
Shall lull her maidish fears in that sound sleep
Which knows no waking.

[Enter UBALD.]
UBALD.
Woman, still thou meet'st me
At each turn like my evil destiny.
What wilt thou?

WANDERER.
Aid thee.

UBALD.
I would be alone.
The blood is stirr'd within me, and thy sight
Offends my thoughts.

WANDERER.
Hast thou seen Agnes?

UBALD.
Seen her!
In the broad face of day I have required her,

130

My prize, my right. Great gods! I have been scorn'd,
Trampled by Sweno's pride.

WANDERER.
'Tis well.—The curse
Will soon o'ertake him. Thou seek Agnes' chamber;
The shades of evening thicken, and the sounds
Of clamorous revelry are sunk in silence;
It is the hour of love.

UBALD.
Speak not of love;
I feel a strange and preternatural awe
Thrill through me in thy presence. Leave me, woman.

WANDERER.
Yet will I aid thee, Ubald. Take this phial,
A potent philter, brew'd with secret spells
When the moon's face was full: in man 'twould breed
Aversion, fear, or death; but, given to woman,
Its powerful charm will so enthrall her will
Led by its strong invisible influence,
That she must bend to him who ministers.
Give this, and she is won.

UBALD,
(taking it.)
I have e'en heard
That such things are, and of portentous might.
Thou rosy draught, in which the loves sit smiling,
No sea-tost mariner ere hail'd the land
With its fresh dawn of verdure, no sick mourner
The beam of health, with such heart-stirring joy
As the scorn'd lover, vex'd with hopeless wishes,
Would bless thy perfidy! O most subtle thief,
Canst thou with witching and seductive skill
From the closed issues of the pitiless mind
Draw sweet accordance, moulding the stern thoughts
Even to the form and quality of fondness?


131

WANDERER.
The virtue is in the proof. Present that philtre,
And thou shalt find the gently kindled heart
Turn quick and tremulously to thy bidding,
As doth the magnet to its proper pole.

UBALD.
These toys are for the humble;—such as crawl,
Content to owe their summer-growth of fortune
To paltry plotting and mean artifice.
Woman, I scorn thy gifts.
(He dashes it on the ground.)
When Ubald takes
The kiss of love, or unbought wreath of honor
By a wizzard's trick, fall from him, gracious Heaven!
To others thy curst wares! my hopes need no
Unhallow'd aid.

WANDERER.
Mad boy, thou art undone!
The fruit, when thou hast press'd its precious savor,
Shall turn to bane: the venemous rind cling to thee,
Loathsome, destroying life. Still take my counsel,
Ere fate shall close her adamantine gate
Thro' which there is no return.

UBALD.
I will not, sorceress.
Thine indirect and artful policy
Suits not my bearing.—Come, thou holy parent,
First source of love, with unadulterate speech
Inform my tongue, and show the guileless spell
Of thine own eloquence, resistless Nature!—
Bid thy priest wait me under Helen's porch.
Thus far I use thee

[Exit.
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
O fell Destiny, With what prevailing and tremendous power
Thou goad'st me to the goal! Thy tread is like

132

The rush of many waters, indistinct
But dreadful, coming louder on the ear
And big with ruin. I am borne on by fate
And that relentless never-ceasing voice
Which swells within me to the utterance,
My mother's cry. It is here, here, here, rising
(She touches her forehead.)
As the low murmur from the hollow earth
Which bodes the hurricane.—See there! See there!
She stands; she beckons—See! she glares upon me,
As in the frantic moments of her death.
There was none near in that agony,
But the lost wretch who drew perdition on her.
Away, away, this is no time for thought.

[Exit.

Scene II.

The Garden before the Door of Agnes' Chamber. Dusk.
UBALD.
Once more, loved shades, I tread your fragrant lawn,
Scene of my earliest joys! not, as before,
Elate and joyous; but, like night's marauder,
I steal unto the plunder of those joys
Day will not yield me. I am ill used to deeds
That shun the light; my firm nerve quakes and trembles,
Which never blench'd before. Strange thoughts assail me.
With what a plain and level course till now
My barque has steer'd through this world's stormy ocean,
Breasting its turbulent wave as if in triumph!
Now is my course obscured, and tempest-tost
I roam amid the billows. In thee, Agnes,

133

Life's only sunshine dwells: joy, fame, and glory,
Are but the rays of one revolving circle,
In which thy cherish'd form is fixt and center'd.
No voice.—The sounds of mirth have ceased within,
And no lights flit along those arched casements.
Now to love's work! Be still, thou murky air,
And shroud with thy soft veil the theft I purpose!
(Holding out the key and unlocking the door.)
O thou quaint minister to daring love,
Do thy kind secret office, and unlock
This shrine of chastity!—Hush!—Agnes! Agnes!
'Tis Ubald's voice that steals upon thy slumber.

AGNES,
(coming out fearfully.)
What means my Ubald? At this hour! alone!
How couldst thou break the privacy of my chamber?
I dare not speak with thee.

UBALD.
Nay, nay, Agnes,
Time yields no season now for doubt or scruples.
I would not trench, no not by one small atom,
Upon that reverence my love should yield thee;
But, while we speak, e'en now wing'd moments fly,
To wrest thee from mine arms for ever. Agnes,
I have not built my love upon the sand?
Thy faith will not fall from me?

AGNES.
Sooner, Ubald,
This timid heart would brave the oppressor's sword,
Than fall from thee; but steal not like a thief
Upon the night; I dare not greet thee freely,
My life, my lord.

UBALD.
If Ubald is thy life,
Thou must be his, and this night, lovely trembler.


134

AGNES.
O Ubald thou art wild to say to-night.

UBALD.
I am not wild: and yet I am wild, Agnes,
To think that life's whole joy is on the cast
Of this swift hour. AGNES. This hour!

UBALD.
Thou darest not bide
Till the morn break, and with insulting joy
Reynald shall come to tear thee to the altar!

AGNES.
O never, Ubald! by our loves I swear
Sooner to die, than wrong thee!

UBALD.
Oaths are vain.
Hands even now are plying, chaplets woven,
To deck thee for to-morrow's sacrifice;
Sweno has vow'd it. Agnes, thou art mine
This night, or blood must stream upon thy bridal.

AGNES.
Merciful heaven! what dost thou meditate?
O Ubald, smite not in thy wrath!

UBALD.
'Tis thou,
Thy cold delay, which goads me to such phrensy.
Say, dearest, thou wilt be my bride to-night.
The priest awaits; thy Ubald kneels to thee.

AGNES.
Ubald, thou wrong'st the chaster thoughts of duty,
Which dare not yield what the weak heart would grant.
I must not hear thee; but the trembling soul
Bleeds to say nay. I may not fly my father.

UBALD.
Then bide, O false one, and be Reynald's victim!—

135

And yet thou darest not wed him!—Agnes, Agnes,
Thou couldst not yield this hand, thine Ubald's treasure,
And look upon the sun, that lit thy treason.

AGNES.
Indeed I durst not.

UBALD.
Agnes, this hand is pledged
To me and to my fortunes; it was given
In the fair prime and sunshine of our loves,
Which must abide through every change of season,
Not worn as summer garments, to be cast
When ruder hours assail us. Here I hold it
Before the face of heaven, and those pure orbs
Which heard the pledge. I will not loose this hand,
Till at the altar vows assure thee mine,
Though it were parricide to hold it, Agnes.
Thy sire will come! Despair hath wrought me mad.
(Kneeling, and clasping her hand passionately.)
Say thou wilt be my bride! Have mercy, Agnes;
Blood will be spilt ere morn, if thou deniest me.

AGNES.
O Ubald, I am riven by love and duty.
Would that I durst!

UBALD.
O yield thee to my faith!
To say me nay, is to say nay for ever.
Agnes, to-night or never we must wed.

AGNES.
O Ubald, do not tempt me to a deed,
Which shall embitter all our after-joys.
Heaven will not smile on disobedient vows.
My sire will curse us. Spare me, beloved Ubald!
I have not strength to strive against thy wrath.

UBALD.
The priest attends us, love. The solemn rites,

136

That make thee mine, shall steep thy thoughts in peace.

AGNES.
Dear Ubald, peace can never crown the guilty.
I am too weak, too deeply pledged in love,
To hold that proud demeanor, which I owe
To my own name and to my noble father.
But do not cozen me with empty hopes!
Guilt may have some brief pleasures, great, tho' anxious;
But peace dwells only in the path of duty.
Make me not, Ubald, what thyself will scorn,
An outcast child!

UBALD.
Would Ubald cause thee sorrow?
In infant years, whene'er thy heart was sad,
And I had been but one day absent, thou
Wouldst rush into mine arms and there pour forth
Thy gentle sorrows, and they straight would vanish.
And wouldst thou place a bottomless gulph between us?
Thou wilt not tear thee from me? Night is waning;
Come, best beloved!

AGNES,
(yielding.)
I am too weak.
(Stopping again.)
Hark, Ubald!
There is an angry whisper of the air,
The shivering trees do rustle with each other.
O tempt me not to ruin, loved, loved Ubald!
Let me once see my sire, and press his knees
With burning tears, that he may spare his child!

UBALD.
Agnes, the word of knighthood duly given
Is law to Sweno. There is now no hope
Save in our instant union. Footsteps move
Through yon dark corridor. Come friend or foe,
Ubald will not resign thee but in death.

137

Yield, love; despair and death are in delay.

AGNES.
(She leans upon him with a burst of tears.)
Ubald, I yield me; but my bosom shrinks
With ominous terrors.

UBALD.
Fear not! Come, dear bride.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

Before the Porch of Helen's Chapel. Night.
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
Stay, moon, thy rising! When thy conscious eye
Shall pierce the curtain'd east, fate's bolt must fall,
Blurring thy beams with blood. O I am faint,
And gladly would I lay this fever'd head
On the cold ground, and lull my thoughts in death.
The memories of years rise ghastly round me,
And the soul sickens with the sad review
Of all my wanderings. At such an hour
(I mind it now, although the mist hangs often
O'er my benighted mind) those treacherous joys,
That trembled in it like a beam from heaven,
Stole to my heart, foreshowing bliss and rapture;
But, tasted, turn'd heaven to hell, and made this earth
A howling wilderness. O lost delight!
Time was, that I was fair, and blithe, and lovely:
My heart expanded to the God of Nature,
And every morning, in my humble bower
Of woodbine and wild sweets, I pour'd my strain,
Sweet orisons of praise, to him who bless'd me.
Visions of innocence, where are ye fled?

138

My brain is like a furnace, and the fiend
Goads me to ruin; yet I dare not waver
Now, on the dizzy gulph of that toss'd ocean
Upon whose brink I stand. But this my cup
Of vengeance will I drink, and then, lost mother,
Thy spirit shall have peace! Blind chaos, come!
O Ubald, O my son! thou art the shaft
Twenty long winters in fate's quiver stored,
And whetted by revenge. I must be brief;
I have upheld thee once; again the pit
Yawns close beneath thy feet and I have digg'd it.
The hour draws nigh. Yet have I one strong spell
To ward thy ruin, and thou perforce shalt venge me.

Exit. (Enter UBALD and AGNES.)
AGNES.
Stay, best beloved! I heard a voice, dear Ubald;
This place is awful. Let me yet return.

UBALD.
Mine Agnes, cheer thy heart: this loneliness
Is fitting tender thoughts.

AGNES.
Too strongly loved!
My father's curse will blast me. I shall hang
Even as a wither'd wreath upon thy neck,
And thy quick temper will upbraid my sadness.
Perchance thy love, my only prop, will leave me.
Wilt thou not hate my tears?

UBALD.
In mirth or sorrow,
Ever my own! I will make tears my drink,
Ambrosial sighs my food. The very gods
Shall envy me. Our harbinger of bliss
Peers through her misty shroud.
(The moon rises.)
So radiant love,

139

Smiling through tears, shall light mine Agnes' brow.

AGNES,
(clinging close to UBALD.)
Ubald, who comes?

[enter Monk.]
UBALD.
A friend! our trustiest friend,
Whose blessing, gentle maid, shall seal our union.
Welcome, kind father! These still rocks are lonely;
No eye shall break upon our privacy,
Save yon pure orb, our hymeneal lamp,
That smiles upon us. Though our modest bridal
Must shun the glare of pompous blazonry,
We make thee almoner of this our largesse.
'Tis fit that gifts should crown the church's rites,
And charity draw down a blessing on them.

(Giving him a purse.)
MONK.
'Tis fitting, noble youth: and Father Francis
Hath a right trusty hand, and knows full well
Where to apply this cordial; what souls need
The cheering comfort of thine alms, and where
'Twere cast away, like jewels unto swine.
(aside.)
By our mass, a goodly gift, and well bestow'd!

UBALD.
We are the debtors to your kindness, Father,
And shall not stint our gifts. Bear'st thou the key
Of this lone chapel, through whose color'd pane
The moonlight gleams on the neglected altar,
And chides us for delay?

MONK.
When doth the woodman
Forget his ax, or the true knight his falchion?
And think'st thou Father Francis doth not bear
The weapons of his ministry? This key
Unfolds the portal of that massive arch
Into the shrine; this, at love's witching mandate,

140

Shall ope the cell beneath it, where is strewn
The bridal couch.

AGNES.
Ubald, I am dismay'd;
The very rocks and chapel frown on us:
The shrine of God looks awful in this gloom,
And my heart's pulse is chill'd. Thou wilt not guide me
Into the bowels of that ruinous den,
Where fiends perchance abide?

MONK
In truth, fair lady,
Rife is the rumor that these cells are held
By restless spirits, far from human tread;
But trust me they are jovial souls that haunt them.
I have known somewhat of their pranks myself.
But fear not, lady; spectres come not nigh
This glen to-night, for I have exorcised it.
Nor flesh, nor spirit walks within these doors
Without my leave. Come, lady, to the chapel.

UBALD.
Lean on me, loveliest burthen! Let this arm
Be now, as ever, the sole prop of Agnes.
Thou wilt not fear while Ubald is beside thee.

AGNES.
Forgive me, Ubald, that each breath appalls me:
My fluttering heart beats quick with guilty terror;
I dread this very darkness which befriends us,
The fiful breathing air, and these lone walls,
Lest the mute stones should find a voice to curse me.

[The Monk, who has unlocked the chapel door, pushes it open, after some delay and exertion, with a hoarse grating noise.]
AGNES
shrieks, and draws back.
O Ubald, let us turn! Nature forewarns us;

141

As cautiously we cross'd the forest glen,
Beneath each rustling leaf a tongue seem'd lurking;
And now from out these walls, this ruin'd shrine,
Night's ominous bird will scream and flap his wing
Over our bridal. Turn we, dearest Ubald!
My father will relent.

UBALD.
Gods! am I mock'd?
Shall Ubald be the jest of every slave?
E'en at the altar's groundsill yield my right,
And see insulting Reynald swoop my bride
In his curst talons? Sooner Chaos come!
By heaven, it is not well, it is not well,
To stir my blood thus, Agnes!

AGNES.
Be not angry!
Let not thy wrath destroy me quite with anguish!
What prop, what hope hath Agnes, but thy kindness?
Beloved, forgive my weakness: I am thine;
But, O! what harbour hath the guilty child,
If thou too chide her?

UBALD.
It is tempting fate
To dally thus with time. Pursuit may reach us.
By all the honours I have earn'd and proudly,
I turn not living hence, till thou art mine!

MONK.
I like not this mine office. If the maiden
Decline the church's rite, I take my leave.

UBALD,
(stepping before him.)
Not so, Sir Priest; stay yet! it were not safe
To rouse the wrath of Ubald. Agnes, Agnes,
Assure this Father of thy free consent!
The sacred gate stands open.
(Taking her hand: she leans upon him.)

142

Thus, beloved!
Lean thus upon my neck, O thus for ever!

AGNES.
I have not strength to tell my Ubald nay.

[She enters the Chapel, supported by Ubald, and followed by the Monk.]

ACT V.

Scene I.

Night. Before Sweno's Window. The Wanderer alone enters cautiously.
SWENO'S voice within.
Bertha!
WANDERER.
His voice! his voice! O tones once dear,
With what dread tremor fall ye on my heart!
O that the space of unrecorded time,
Which has crept slowly, withering hope and life,
Could be annihilate; and days, long sunk
In its devouring gulph, rise fresh and fair!
O Sweno, Sweno, that my soul was chaste
Thy conscience knows; that I was mild and gentle
The cursed triumph of thy fraud bears witness;
That I am hideous now as hell's own inmates,
Blotted from honor's book, disgraced, abandon'd,
That is thy work, thy foul and damning deed.
A stranger sits upon my rightful seat,
The bright throne of my hopes; and here I wander,
Given to the pitying tempests, cast in hate
Forth from my lawful bed, to be the scorn
Of things that howl; while thou, adulterous lord,

143

Smilest o'er my wreck. The hour of wrath is come,
The plague is o'er thine house. O heavy sleep,
Weigh down the brow of Sweno! seal his lids
In silence, whose next sleep is in the grave!
Sweno, Sweno, I summon thee to death!

[Exit.

Scene II.

Sweno's Chamber. Sweno. Bertha.
BERTHA.
The evening is far spent, and drowsy night
Spreads her still mantle o'er the face of nature.
Sweno, thy mind needs rest.

SWENO.
O gentle Bertha,
The limbs may lack refreshment, but the mind
Hath no sweet pause, while shapeless dread hangs o'er it,
E'en in the lap of sleep. That strange weird woman
Has cast a withering spell upon my soul,
And her last words ring dreadful in mine ear.
O Bertha! I am sick at heart, and cheerless;
The memory of the past preys keen and darkling
On my deep-burthen'd soul. The curse of her,
Who bann'd us, still pursues me.

BERTHA.
What means my lord?
Have not his firm asseverations made
His Bertha certain, that her wondrous form,
Beauteous in madness, was unknown to Sweno?

SWENO.
And be that added to the bitter sum;
Bertha, my speech deceived thee. Not unknown

144

Her voice, like fate's last summons, smote my soul.
Still when the tempests rave, and sheeted lightning
Sets the pale vision of her form before me,
That sound appalls my fancy; from above
Retributory vengeance frowns on Sweno.

BERTHA.
Be my lord's thoughts less gloomy! Twenty years
The sun hath smiled on us, and all things prosper'd,
As if kind fortune's course outsped thy wishes.

SWENO.
Ay, my loved wife: but heaven's deep wrath delay'd
O'erwhelms with tenfold vengeance

BERTHA.
Nay, good Sweno,
Heaven has still joys in store to cheer the evening
Of thy bright glories: thou unbend thy sorrows,
Disclose the bitter secret of thy thoughts,
And let my love assuage them.

SWENO.
Gentle Bertha!
From my youth up I have been proud and fearless.
Bitter must be the pangs which now can wring
Self-accusation from the mouth of Sweno;
But it shall be. Pride wrought the deed that stains
The fair field of my conscience, which yet knows
No other blot: and that dark pride shall stoop
Even to confession of my inward horrors.
I will be henceforth humble, very humble.

BERTHA.
Speak, and be yet my proud and glorious husband!
The evil now abjured, whate'er it be,
Humiliates not.

SWENO.
Was she not fair?

BERTHA.
O yes;

145

I well remember on the raving blast,
When her locks stream'd (her beauteous form between us
And the fire-flashing storm) I could almost
Have bow'd and worshipp'd: but the ban, that flow'd
From her ill-ominous lips in phrensy, spoke her
A maniac or a fiendlike spirit, and say'st thou
Not then unknown?

SWENO.
O Bertha! she was known
Even to the inmost chamber of my heart.
There was a time, if she had ask'd of Sweno
Wealth, fortune, station, character, whate'er
Makes man amongst his fellows vain or glorious,
I had all given and freely; so enshrined
Was her bright image in my soul: e'en now
My fancy views her innocent and lovely,
The temple of pure joys, as first I saw her
Staunching my wounds, while I lay faint and bleeding.

BERTHA.
What wounds? when, where inflicted? say, kind Sweno.

SWENO,
'Twas dusk; alone I journey'd through the forest,
Where the trees leaning from the ruinous steep
Spread their rude canopy o'er a mountain brook,
Then dry and stony. Crossing the ravine,
A bow-shot slew my steed; loud rose the shout
Of rushing men unmerciful. I staid
My back against a rock and kept at bay
The yelling ruffians, when a hand unseen
From the crag's summit smote me, and I fell
Senseless and seeming dead into the hollow.

BERTHA.
Ah me! and none to help?


146

SWENO.
Yes, there was one,
A shape like heaven's pure spirits, to whom I owe
Life rescued from that deep and bloody trance.

BERTHA.
How came she in that glen?

SWENO.
A cottage mantled
With flowery sweets, on the lone forest's border,
Gave birth and nature to her loveliness.
Widow'd, forlorn, though sprung of gentle blood,
Her mother had no joy, no hope, but her;
Yet in that rich indeed. Passing the glen
At earliest dawn to seek their scanty herd,
She found me thus.

BERTHA.
And saved thee! That poor maniac,
Sweno, thy life's preserver! Is it thus?

SWENO.
I tell thee, Bertha, if the slave, that fell'd me,
Had thrust his weapon to the seat of life,
I had died then reproachless, nor thus stoop'd
To strew the ashes of too late repentance
O'er my devoted head. From that long trance
I woke, as by an angel's touch redeem'd.
I had seen nothing on this goodly earth
Like her who stood beside me. Her bright hue,
Her shape, her charms, were in the spring of youth,
With every full-form'd loveliness new-blown;
Of such superior and exalted grace
As woo'd the sense to worship: her dark eyes
Shone with no earthly lustre, proud, yet bashful;
And their glance seem'd to say, “Love me, for I
“Am worth the loving, and can well repay
“With the best bliss of life.”


147

BERTHA.
But thy keen wounds,
How were they staunch'd?

SWENO.
There, where I carried phrensy,
Disgrace, and death! By beauty nursed I wax'd
In health and vigor, while the mind's deadlier fever
Waxed hot within. But Elfrid's soul was haughty,
And, when to lawless passion I gave voice,
The flush of indignation crimson'd o'er
Those beauteous cheeks, where love sate still supreme;
And those dark eyes, which seem'd his throne and altar,
Became a killing plague. Stung with desire,
Maddening, I swore, if she would bless my love,
That she should share my name, rank, wealth, and honors.
My oaths prevail'd. O Bertha! I did call
The living God to witness with such strong
And terrible denouncement, that my soul
Shrinks now from the remembrance. I invoked
A curse on me and mine to everlasting,
If I should fail.

BERTHA.
Immortal justice, spare us!

SWENO.
Heaven bears record, how I adored and wrong'd her;
How in brief space those vows, joy-seal'd, were broken.
Health strung my limbs; the prize from thy fair hand
'Mid Christendom's best knights in tourney won
Waked loftier thoughts. Pride scorn'd the lowly gem
Which it had robb'd of lustre. Yet once more
I saw her, mournful, and presaging death,
In her lone bower. I spoke not what I purposed,
But her pale features an expression wore
So sad, and yet so stedfast, that her look
Pierced to my inmost soul, which shrunk beneath it.

148

Her words were few; but from a harp, o'er which
Oft I had hung in rapture, her white hand
Waked a most wild and dissonant harmony;
And then a song broke forth, which on my soul
Has sear'd its words in fire; ne'er heard since then,
Till from my Agnes the remember'd notes
Stole on my nerves, like the cold ague's fit.

BERTHA.
Nor seen again? until our nuptial hour,
When the flood whelm'd her.

SWENO.
Never. That direful music
Was her last parting; nor did I hear reproach,
Save on the morning of her piteous fate
That ominous threat which burst over our bridal:
But here indelible her image dwells,
And shapeless fears appall me.

BERTHA.
Let the balm
Of Bertha's tried affection soothe thy thoughts.

SWENO.
Go, Bertha, to thy couch: myself will follow,
Short space to penitent devotion given.

BERTHA.
Tarry not, my loved lord.

[Exit Bertha.
SWENO,
alone.(He sits down.)
I know not why,
Or what vain terrors undefined oppress me.
There is no living thing can daunt my strength;
But visions of the past rise thick before me,
And his own secret thoughts quell Sweno's pride.
O sleep, sweet sleep, when will thy balmy wing
Lap me in still forgetfulness, without
Thy fearful train of soul-appalling fancies?
Steal, gentle soother, o'er my troubled spirits!

[After a pause, the door opens slowly, and The Wanderer enters cautiously.]

149

WANDERER.
Sweno, awake! Hie thee to Agnes' chamber!
Search the maid's bower! The dainty bird is gone,
The virgin honors of thy house are blasted.
Sweno, arise! or sit thou unrevenged,
Till foul dishonor stare thee in the face
Plain as the sun! Ubald has stolen thine Agnes.
The vaulted chamber under Helen's chapel
Is witness to their loves. There seek, there find them!
Up, Sweno, rise! 'tis Elfrid bids thee wake!

[Exit.
SWENO.
Are my thoughts crazed, or stood that form before me?
Art thou a phantom from the oozy deep,
Breaking night's stillness with unhallow'd voice,
Or shape of flesh and blood, that warn'st me thus?
The WANDERER, alias ELFRID, without, singing.
The fiend has set his mark
On their heads, dark, dark,
And the spirit of vengeance is near his door.

SWENO.
The voice, the voice, the very tones of Elfrid!
Dread judgment, hang'st thou o'er my fated house?
Not on my child, great God of mercies, not
On my poor Agnes!—Bertha, Bertha, sleeps she
In the sweet rest of innocence unharm'd?
My child, my Agnes, hear me! Bertha! Bertha!

[Exit.

150

Scene III.

[Moonlight. Before the door of the Cavern under Helen's Chapel, which is seen above, and a projecting point of rock still higher. The River on one side appearing to wind close behind the projecting rock. The Monk is seen descending a rocky staircase from the Chapel, followed by Ubald and Agnes. The Monk unlocks the door of the Cavern.]
MONK.
Fear nothing, lady, though the bridal couch
Seem lonesome. Evil spirits have no power
Over the chaste. Dread no worse warlock here,
Than him whose mastering spell subdues thy beauty
E'en to his wish and will. Sweet dreams of love
And waking joys attend ye!

[Exit.
AGNES.
O, loved Ubald,
What have we done! where has thy passion led me!
My maiden couch untenanted; my mother,
My sire renounced! Will not the curse of heaven
Burst on the rash and disobedient child?

UBALD.
Think not so gloomily! This night was cull'd
From the pure calendar of hallow'd hours
To be our bliss.

AGNES.
Ubald, a solemn blessing
Upon my virgin forehead has just stamp'd
The name of wife. It was my only wish,
And this fond heart, though timid, should be joyous.
Why does fear chill my thoughts? Why hangs a mist
Of vague and shapeless terrors on my soul?
Are they of guilty disobedience born,
Or omens of deep warning? Cheer me, love,
For my strength fails.


151

UBALD.
No breath of harm shall near thee;
Bid thine eyes beam with joy! Come, gentle Agnes!

AGNES.
Nay, Ubald, stay, and breathe this pleasant air.
See, how the moon rides glorious in yon sky!
From infant years I loved that silver light,
And the unvaried music of the waters,
That glimmer with its beam. Pleasant and calm
Under this rock falls sweetly on the ear
The murmur of the river. Sit we here;
That cave is terrible.

UBALD.
Light of my being,
It grieves thine Ubald's tongue to say thee nay.
Thy flight may be perceived, and hasty wrath
Pour its arm'd scouts around. In that retirement
Secure we rest; and vague pursuit may fret
And spend its breathless speed, but never reach us.

AGNES,
(unwillingly yielding.)
That cloister's vault is dismal as a tomb.

[Exeunt.
(The door closes after them grating heavily. After a short pause, enters The Wanderer Elfrid, cautiously.)
ELFRID.
Ye beetling rocks, and thou, lone chapel, once
Witness of Elfrid's wrongs, behold her triumph!
Haste, Sweno, to thy doom! The chapel closed—
All hush'd—all silent—save this heart, which throbs
As it would burst the impediments of life.
O dreadful!—O my son! Thy reckless passion
Has overleap'd my speed and marr'd thee. Ubald,
Where art thou? Pray this earth to cover thee,
Ere thy rash guilt be blazon'd to the sun!
[A shriek is heard within the cavern.]

152

Hark to that shriek of fear! O vengeful phantoms,
One moment yet be still!—Come, Sweno, Sweno!
I am belated; in my own toils caught,
And wrapp'd in terrors. Sweno! dullard, haste!

(She ascends the stairs, and passes behind the Chapel. After a pause, enter from the cell hastily Agnes, Ubald.)
AGNES.
Night is terrific in that hideous cavern.

UBALD.
Nay, gentle Agnes. These are vain illusions,
The coy fears of a maiden. Hath not Ubald
Power, strength, and will, to shield thee from all danger?

AGNES.
Bear with me, Ubald; 'tis not lack of love,
That scares me from thy couch. The icy hand
Of horror is upon me. I dare not rest
In that tremendous gloom.

UBALD.
Wayward enchantress,
Night hath no darkness where my Agnes is!
Thyself art light, and joy, and loveliness.
Cheer thee, sweet trembler; on thy coral lips
The breath of love is stirring. Thy chaste bosom
Is the dear shrine of bliss. Appease thy fears.

AGNES.
O Ubald! as I near'd that frightful couch,
Lifting its veil with slow and timid hand,
I saw, though in thick darkness, plain and lit
By its own ghastliness, a grinning fiend,
And, shrieking, back I fell. Methought I lay
Wrapt in my shroud and coffin, while around
Glared thousand hideous phantoms as in triumph,
The least too horrible for human gaze.

153

I tremble, Ubald, and am thrill'd with dread;
For love's dear sake forbear me.

SWENO,
(without)
Ubald! ho!

AGNES.
My father! shield me, Ubald, from his wrath!

[Enter SWENO with his sword drawn. AGNES shrinks back towards the rock.]
SWENO.
Traitor, my daughter!—O my Agnes here!
(To UBALD.)
Glorious requital of parental cares!
Heap, heap dishonor on the house that rear'd thee,
But hope not, caitiff, to escape the sword
Of an avenging father. Die, ungrateful!
Perish, base-born seducer!

UBALD,
(parrying his blows without returning them.)
Peace, peace, Sweno!
Put up thy sword; Ubald would not offend
One hair of thine for all the wealth of worlds.
Sire of my Agnes, Ubald kneels to thee.

[He drops on one knee.]
SWENO.
Kneel not for life! Die, coward, faithless Ubald!

UBALD,
(rising.)
Thy fury is unmanly. O beware,
Stir not the fiend, which lurking in my heart
Cries vengeance on thine head!—Hold! hold!

ELFRID,
(on the rock above)
Thine oath!
Thine oath! Slay him who made thee fatherless!

UBALD.
Tempt me no further, Sweno, on thy life!
I know not if that wizard tongue speaks true,
Which cries that Sweno made me fatherless.
My thoughts grow perilous; there is that within me

154

Which swells to think that I have lost a father,
And lost by thee. Stand off, or bid good angels guard thee!

SWENO.
Die, traitor, die! This for my ravish'd daughter,
This for foul breach of hospitable faith.

(UBALD parries his blows,)
AGNES.
O father, hold!

BERTHA,
(without.)
This way, this way! the din
Of swords is loud.

AGNES.
Hold, husband, father, hold!

ELFRID,
(above.)
Thine oath, thine oath! Think, Ubald, on thy sire!

UBALD.
The spirit of my parent calls for vengeance;
Perish, fond thoughts!

(UBALD at last fights with SWENO. Enter BERTHA, REYNALD, Knights, and Attendants with torches. AGNES at the same moment rushes forward to part UBALD and SWENO, and receives the point of SWENO'S sword in her breast. She shrinks back, and hangs with both hands on UBALD'S shoulder; at the same time UBALD'S sword strikes down SWENO.)
AGNES.
O I am sorely hurt!

(UBALD supports AGNES. BERTHA kneels by SWENO, and is engrossed with attendance on him.)
UBALD.
Lean on me, thus!—Ah me, 'tis thy blood, Agnes.

BERTHA.
O Sweno, Sweno, thy life's fount is gushing.
Thy blood wells fast away; I cannot staunch it.

ELFRID,
(above.)
Sweno, look up! It is thy son, thy son!
Elfrid's accursed issue sends thy soul

155

Burning to Hell! It is thy son has made
That hateful offspring of thy faithless nuptials
As lost, as sunk in infamy, as curst,
As she whose tongue upbraids thee! Agnes, Agnes,
Despair and perish!—Ubald is thy brother!

UBALD.
O horrible, horrible! Witch, fury, demon!
There is a lying spirit in thy mouth;
Thou durst not thus have outraged nature's mercies.

ELFRID.
Mercy for who shows mercy! Blood for blood!
Ubald, yon fate-struck caitiff was thy sire,
Who cast thee fatherless on this wide world;
Who murder'd Elfrid's fame, and peace, and reason,
And made me what I am, Hell's slave and victim.
My mother's frantic spirit stands beside him,
Smiling in agony, and calls me hence!
Am I not now avenged? Now, now laugh out,
Fiends of dismay! Mix earth, and air, and sea!
Unbind the angels which have power to slay
When the sixth trump has sounded! Hell is loose,
And nothing can the fiends of vengeance brew
Feller than this!—O for a whirlwind's blast,
To cover with unfathomable night
The deeds which I have wrought!—My brain is fire.
Welcome, despair, and death, and phrensy, welcome!
Eternal ruin yawns! I come! I come!

(She springs from the rock into the torrent beneath.)
REYNALD.
Tremendous wreck of reason! O most dreadful!

AGNES,
(in a low voice to UBALD.)
Cast me not from thee! I am gone, and quickly,

156

Where they nor wed, nor are in marriage given.
Dying I yet may clasp thine hand. Kind Ubald,
One parting kiss, but pure as angel's greeting!
O hold me up, fast, fast! I swim! I sink!
'Tis sweet to die upon thy bosom, Ubald.

(She dies.)
UBALD,
(in a low voice.)
Speak! gentle Agnes, say thou art not gone!
O still, still, breathless, silent as the grave!

SWENO,
(whose eyes had continued riveted on the spot where ELFRID stood, and unconscious of what was passing.)
Eternal justice, upon me alone,
Not on mine issue, let thy terrors fall!
My life is ebbing fast. Thine hand, loved Bertha!
O Agnes, O my child, my child, where art thou?
Thy voice was ever music to my soul;
Say he is not thy husband! lift the weight
Of that deep anguish, which appals me dying!

(BERTHA, who had been kneeling by SWENO without attending to AGNES, shrieks suddenly on perceiving that she is dead.)
BERTHA.
Ah me! she is gone for ever! Sweno, Sweno,
She rush'd between thee and hot Ubald's sword,
To stay the hasty temper of such wrath,
And thine own hand has slain her.

SWENO.
O my child,
If thou wert wedded to that bed of incest,
Thy death is the sweet sleep of innocence,
And life had been a curse! My gentle Agnes,
Fatally hast thou rued one perilous act
Of disobedience to thy guilty sire,
And thou art gone before me !— I am sick

157

With terrors keener than the pang of death.
Beloved, ill-fated Bertha, thou hast found
In me, who should have been thy stay and glory,
The rock whereon thy hopes have all made wreck.
Ubald, I charge thee, live! though scathed and blasted
By heaven's dread bolt.

UBALD,
(starting from his silent contemplation of the dead AGNES.)
Who bids that wretch, that once
Was Ubald, live? His fount of life is dried!
My Agnes was the life, the light, of Ubald.
(After a convulsive agony of grief, and a pause.)
They say she was my sister, and thou father;
And both are slain—my father by my sword;
And that weird demon was indeed my mother!
O world, what art thou, but a hell of horrors?
And who bids Ubald live?

(The Knights lay hands upon UBALD to prevent his injuring himself.)
UBALD,
(casting them with violence from him.)
Unhand me, sirs;
My wrath is dangerous.
(After a pause he throws down his sword.)
Yes, I will live.
Ubald will never shrink from fate.— (He kneels.)
O father,

Curse me not dying! At the tomb of Christ
Through blood of infidels my sword shall hew
Its way to pardon; the bare stone my couch,
The spring my drink, and the hair-shirt my clothing.
No joy, or pride, or hope shall come near Ubald;
But strict achievement of dire penance cleanse
My desolate soul from parricidal guilt,
And for my bones win peace.


158

SWENO.
I curse thee not.
Thou art my heir—A solemn contract. . . . I
Destroyed it—I . . . I . . . Farewell—Ubald—Bertha.

(He dies.)
BERTHA.
O bitter fate! O cheerless! in one day
Stript of all joy, more lonesome than the dead!
(To UBALD.)
Monster, this curse shall cling to thee; thy guilt,
Redder than scarlet, shall incarnadine
The banners of the just, and bar them from
The temple of their Saviour; and the tomb,
Whose indiscriminate yearning swallows all,
Shall cast thy marrowless unquiet bones
Forth from its maw: no mass or requiem
Shall win for thy gaunt skeleton a place
In the still church's bosom, till the lapse
Of hundred winters shall have hush'd the wail
Of thy remorseful spirit, and earn'd for thee
That rest which death denies the parricide!
(Rising.)
Yet one word, ere we part for ever, Ubald!
Sleeps that fair victim undefiled in death?

UBALD.
The dew of blushing morn has never bathed
A bud of innocence more pure and stainless.

BERTHA.
Swear it! by all the wreck which thou hast wrought,
By all thy hopes of mercy, Ubald, swear it!

UBALD.
God's lightning rive this head already blasted,
If ought my love has dared, which should have call'd
One blush to the pure cheek of virgin meekness!


159

BERTHA.
Heaven's mercies hover o'er thy head, mine Agnes!
(throwing herself down with her cheek on AGNES.)
Here let me lie, and breathe my last beside thee!

REYNALD.
Ubald, we have been foes, but in this ruin,
As all our hopes, so be our angers buried.
Here let us close as friends. Unto Christ's banner
With thee I vow my strength. Thou, stately offspring
Of the most-noble house, soar eagle-like
Aloft, and let the gale, which rived thine eyrie,
But waft thee nearer to thy native heaven.


167

TIME.

[_]

Written for a bazaar, for the benefit of Wibsey Low-moor Church, near Bradford, June 5, 1838.

Who art thou? that with stern and iron tread
Chafest the mountains, and their lofty sides
Indented furrowest with deep-worn glens!
Light gleam'd upon thy birth, divided first
From the dense womb of night, wherein it lay
Unprofitably darkling. At thy touch
The waters of the slumberous deep awoke;
Above and underneath outspread, they saw
The firmament put forth its thousand eyes,
And earth spring fresh from the imbroiled mass,
Clothing her glorious flanks with herb and flower
After their kind, which like a mantle veil'd
Her bosom teeming life. The unreach'd peaks,
Ice-clad, and capt with never-changing frost,
From the smooth plain beneath, under thy tread,
Shot upward to the welkin, undescried
By eye of man; while yet the clouds withheld
Their liquid treasure, and a genial mist
Went up and water'd the whole face of ground.
Life sprung beneath thy foot; the lustful Hours,
Spring's genial step, and Summer's garish pride,
Autumn, and Winter with his crown of snow,
Are of thy following. The things that are,
The things which have been, or await the spell

168

Of strange futurity, arise and fall,
Like atoms from the changeful surface stirr'd
Beneath thy giant stride. Morn, noon, and night,
(Whether of nature's course that wheels its round
As at the first, or mortal life, which hath
Its dawn, its midday, and its eve that sinks
In the still shade of death) come forth and pass,
As thou evokest them with that stern voice
Which none may hear, but all things must obey
Spell-bound, and to resist thee powerless.
Joy, Mirth, and Hope, and young ecstatic Love,
Blossom beneath thy footsteps; gorgeous Pride,
And crimson-zoned Ambition, and the glare
Which Glory throws around the transient crown
Of vain Dominion, stud thy viewless path,
Like fireflies on the dewy lap of eve
Adorn'd with brief effulgency; but on
Thou glidest thro' the infinite, and Death
Who holds all power upon the things of earth,
With him who follows in the darksome train,
Hateful Corruption, thy own issue, seems
To wait upon thy will. The shapes of life,
Which hail'd thee in thine infant down, ere man
Trod this strange world, have from its dwellings pass'd,
And other forms behold thee, striding on
With unresisted and almighty strength
Unto thy distant goal. Primeval hills,
That threw their flame from earth's deep fount to heaven,
Have sunk to stillness at thy touch; the sea
In majesty unchangeable array'd
Hath shrunk into itself, by thee scared back
From its original limits. But, first-born

169

Unconquer'd and unstaid, still travelling
From thine own cradle to the end of things
Material! in the body, which now frames
This short-lived witness to thy glory, lives
That which shall e'en survive thee; that, which knows
That thou art not for ever, and that all
Which thou surveyest in thine ample course
Unmeasured and immeasurable, is not
Worthy weak man's regard. For thou, e'en thou,
Who seem'st as young and glorious, as when first
Breathing ambrosial odors thou didst spring
From the creative word, thou, wonderous one,
Shalt be o'ercome by the destroyer Death,
And all the things, which are and have been thine,
Be swallow'd in immense eternity.

CROYLAND ABBEY.

1801.
O venerable pile! whose shatter'd form
From abject Croyland's melancholy site,
Looks proudly o'er this wide-extended plain,
Much of thine ancient grandeur and high name
Old annals tell; much of fierce elfin shapes,
And fiery forms, amid thy lonely fens
Strange sojourners, who never dared invade
Thy hallow'd precincts, but around them lurk'd
To harm the holy pilgrim wandering nigh.
So monks have fabled; now forlorn thou seest
No mitred feasts, no pride of papal rites;

170

The domes are fallen, where Ingulphus dwelt,
Where pomp and learning reign'd. Thy sounding tower
Calls but the simple cottager to pray,
Neglected now, yet not by me unbless'd;
For here, unknown, beneath a humble roof,
Oft have I changed the tumult of the town
For healthy exercise, of studious toil
Forgetful, and the busy cares that lie
Thick scatter'd on the restless path of life.
O holy solitude! thy charming cup
Too deeply quaff'd, unfits the social mind
For useful intercourse; but sometimes woo'd,
And there best woo'd, where nature's verdant garb
Encircles thee, thou dost correct our thoughts,
Soften the rude asperity of pride,
Wake each pure feeling, and exalt the heart
Nearer its God! On thee, benignant power,
Wherever fate shall guide, amid the storms,
Which, rending the firm base of Europe, shake
My trembling country, with devoted love
(Whether on rushy moor by joyous sport
Urged onwards, or upon some shady bank
Stretch'd in delicious rest, with ardent mind
Weaving bright fancies,) sometimes will I call,
Still cherish'd, still chaste partner of my thoughts!

171

WRITTEN IN SOMERSETSHIRE.

1801.
O how I love the woody steeps to climb,
Which overhang thy solitary stream,
Clear-flowing Barle! or tread the broken stones,
Round which thy never-ceasing waters foam,
And ever and anon rough-tumbling roar
Beneath the oaken shade. Hail, beauteous hills!
On whose steep sides the cooing ring-dove sits,
Or diving thro' the deep expanse of air
Flaps his delighted wings, and towers again;
And thou, romantic spot, where close beneath
Mountsey's proud brow and Anstey's stately moor
Danesbrook and Barle their noisy streams unite!
Upon your sides abrupt the pausing eye
Dwells charmed, as it views each sparkling spring
Shine thro' the gloomy woods, and trickle down.
Delightful dales! your peaceful course along
Joyous I stray, nor heedless, nor unmoved,
With other thoughts, than in the circle gay.
O innocence! O peace! your simple forms,
Fair images on nature's lap impress'd,
More sweetly shew, than all the trick of art,
Or gorgeous splendour of barbaric pomp.
Had I but liberty, and power to roam
Unshackled by refinement, free from care,
Midst Americ's lakes, or Australasian wilds,

172

Then would I sing of many a savage race,
Who dwell in forests wild and boundless woods;
Of many a spirit, by their fancy form'd,
Who stir the whirlpool, or the tempest guide,
Invisible; and that enormous bird,
Which, (as Chepewyans tell) ere earth there was,
O'er the wide waste of trackless ocean ranged,
With eyes, that lightning glanced, and thunderous wings;
At whose enchanting touch from torpor roused
The vast earth started from its oozy bed,
And all the goodly shapes, which nature wears,
From the deep bosom of the water rose.
Such tales, tho' wild, by many a tribe believed,
Suit well the fictions of sweet poesy:
Delightful fictions of the roving mind,
And so delightful only, as they bear
The simple stamp of nature; worthless else,
Or only valued by distemper'd minds,
Which, pamper'd by the vicious hand of art,
Know not to prize the unpolluted shapes
Of beauty, loveliest, when least adorn'd.
Me other thoughts and other cares detain
Bound to my native land; whose Muses dwell
In Cam's soft breast, or Eton's fostering arms,
Whom to majestic Thames fair Isis bore,
Pledge of their married loves. O parent dear,
From whom I drew the milk of classic lore,
And early learn'd to tune the willing lyre
To other strains than meet the savage ear!
What meeter service can thy Muses find,

173

(While Irreligion holds her proud career,
Shaking the thrones of kings and bulwarks old
Of social rule) than chuse some sacred theme,
And from the hallow'd springs of Palestine
Draw numbers chaste and clear; or, if the source
Of those delightful streams be whilom dried
By Milton's holy thirst, attune the lyre
To sing their country's greater poorer days,
And tell, how generous Temple's equal mind
Attemper'd Chatham's pride; while Europe saw
The kindred patriots wield the bolt of war
Invincible, and spread thro' Britain's sons
The virtues, which inform'd their mighty souls?
Nor bootless to such task the love I bear
To those Aonian shades, where Lucan cull'd
Fresh garlands to adorn the historic page.
Proud youth, whose liberal song was loved of old,
E'en in that vicious age, when haughty Rome
Gasp'd at the foot of a licentious lord!
While Cato's name shall fill the listening ear,
And Freedom's voice be cherish'd, still shall live
Thy manly thoughts, and from the glowing mind
Draw praise, above thy verse, which bears the taint
Of that polluted time! For not to all,
Not to the bards of falling Rome was given
To sound that vocal shell, whence Milton drew
Numbers sonorous, fraught with science deep;
Such as majestic Greece had wondering heard,
Nor Freedom's proudest sons disdain'd to own.
Nymphs of Permessus! ye, who chastely guard
The bowers of poesy, and guide the streams
Of witching music; pardon, if uncall'd

174

I tread with foot adventurous the bank
Of pale Pirene, or the flowery marge
Of fabled Helicon! O holy bards,
Whose spirits hovering yet endear the vales
Of Tempe evergreen, and leafy shades
Of wood-crown'd Academus; or the grot,
Where Dorian Arethuse first heard the strains
Of rural minstrelsy! your voices pure
Still sound in fancy's ear, and oft by night
Breathe from aërial lyres the liquid notes
And high-toned melody of sacred song.
Such charm is yet in your primeval haunts
By that still gloom, in which the enraptured mind
Contemplates the stupendous vault of heaven,
And feels the limitary thought expand
With thousand vast conceptions, undefined,
And stretching far amid the maze of worlds
Beyond the azure deep. At the calm hour
Of silent midnight, when the tranquil moon
Glides slowly o'er the spangled brow of heaven,
Some sacred charm of melancholy strains
Steals soft (or seems to steal) upon the breeze,
Quiring from each bright orb to fancy's ear.
Oft have I listen'd to the sighing gale,
That heaves the rustling boughs, and, gazing round
With pleasing horror on the peaceful gloom,
Thought, that, while nature slept in still repose,
Some viewless spirit hover'd on the breeze,
Revisiting the scenes of former joy,
To muse on one, it loved, and breathe around
O'er each lone vale, green bank, or mossy stream,
The sweet enchantment of immortal sounds.

175

Nor seldom, when the heart is sad, the soul
To such illusions wild its spirit lends;
For sorrow is to harmony allied
By some mysterious tie: the saddest bird
Sings sweetest, and its soul-delighting plaint
Bears melody, which not the blithesome lark
Caroling can ever reach; the maid forlorn,
Love-crazed, and blighted in the bud of youth,
Will lay her by the secret gurgling stream,
That slowly winds beneath some spreading shade,
Where mournful fancies dwell, and all the day
Warble the sorrowfullest ditties sweet;
Nor would she change her melancholy lay,
And pillow strew'd with many a mystic flower,
For pomp, or wealth, or pleasure's joyous dream.
The mournful music of her sorrow spreads
A strange infectious charm: the very winds,
That kiss her lovely form, more softly blow;
And, as they curl around her virgin limbs,
Waving with innocent breath her tresses loose,
Seem fearful, lest their fond and sportive touch
Should scare her gentle grief. For zephyrs have
Their modulations mild, which sweetly lull
The melancholy soul: there's not a breeze,
That fans the purple year, and spreads around
Thousand soft odours from its gentle breath,
But leaves some sad remembrance, as it goes,
Some painful memory of past delights,
Pleasing, tho' painful. To the feeling heart
All nature breathes harmonious. Are there not
In the sweet gales, that wake the dewy morn,
In the soft night-breeze, and the murmuring stream,

176

Ay, even in the thunderous hurricane,
Sounds exquisite, which touch some consonant nerve,
And thrill the ear? There is a mystery
In every form, in every varied sound:
For art doth but arrest the fleeting shapes
And combinations of sweet harmony;
And they, who read aright fair nature's book,
Will find a charm in every desert spot
To solace life. O sacred harmony,
Sweet gift of heaven to soothe the troubled soul,
And sweeter still to sing the giver's praise;
In every age by every worship call'd,
Christian, or Heathen, to adorn the pomp
Of holy festival! And fitly so.
His pagan priests their mystic anthems raise
In Eastern climes to his immortal name,
Mightiest, and first, and best, by all adored,
Gaudma, or Codom and Somona call'd,
Or Foe, or Boodh, one great eternal God;
Who, when the world was made, one giant foot
On stony Meeaday, on Ceylon one,
Firm fixed, did bestride the peopled earth,
Viewing his fair creation. To such strains
Holiest, enchanted nature seems to bend
In solemn acquiescence; all, that breathes,
That moves, that lives, and feels the genial sun,
Is held by witchery of sacred song
Listening its maker's praise; sweet tribute paid
To the Omnipotent, and then best paid,
When virtuous sorrow holds each meaner thought

177

In calm subjection. Such persuasion is
E'en in idolatrous strains, raised by the voice
Of zealous priests to the creative Power,
Whose word hath hung the infinite of heaven
With countless worlds and vast; whose anger sends
Destruction forth amongst his guilty sons,
Tempest, and war, and famine's blighting scath,
And wither'd shapes of pestilential death
In yellow autumn, when the hollow winds
Howl sickly, loaded with the wrath of heaven.
 

See Mackenzie's voyage in North America.

See Syme's Embassy to Ava.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND THOMAS BRIGSTOCK.

1804.
Dear lost companion of my earliest joys!
If lingering yet thy spirit haunt the fields,
Where blithesome once we stray'd, and young in care,
Thou see'st me still unchanged; this mindful heart
From all the pomp and turmoil of the world
Still faithful turns to thee; and oft retires,
In the dark covert of some aged grove,
Solitary, to muse with sad regret,
What time the nightingale in shady brake
(Where the low hazel or the tangled thorn
Veils her from vulgar eye) with querulous note
Warbles her love. And soothing is her lay
To one, who mindful of departed joy
Grieves placid, at the shadowy fall of eve

178

Marking the ruddy light that fades away,
And the still moonbeam steal with chaster hue
Over the leafy glades. Oft from the crowd
Withdrawing thoughtful, when the setting sun
Skirted the western clouds with varied light,
Unseen we gazed upon the goodly forms
Of smiling nature! Sometimes, when the year
Put forth its budding charms, we loved to mark
The pale anemone, that softly rear'd
Its modest head beneath the leafless brake,
Herald of coming spring. Then as we saw
The year roll slowly on, breathing new sweets,
And opening to our view the fresh delight
Of shade and pasture, bloom and luscious fruit,
Led by delusive rapture oft we stretch'd
Our anxious thoughts into the viewless maze
Of that wide world, through which our journey lay
Doubtful and distant; now with sorrow dark,
Now gilded with bright hopes and fancy gay.
But ever, as I mark'd the secret hand
Of baneful sickness, slow and unrestrain'd,
Prey on thine alter'd form, (which late had glow'd
With beauty and with strength above thy peers)
A bodeful tear would rush into mine eyes;
And a wild thought would beat against my heart,
That life's eventful journey must be trod
Without that loved companion, whom my soul
Had chosen in the guileless hour of youth;
Who should with me have stretch'd the towering wing
E'en to Ambition's height; and should (if ere
Propitious Fortune smiled) have shared the meed
Of that fair fame, we panted to deserve.

179

Thy lamp soon wasted; it had burnt too bright,
And sunder'd the frail tenement of life,
That shrouded its pure beams. O! thou art gone;
Thy grave has long been strewn; and those, who erst
Sported with thee in youth or turn'd the page
Of infant learning, have well nigh forgot
That once thou wert, and did'st in all excel.
But never from this breast, this mindful soul,
Shall pass thine image, which is graven there
With friendship's first impression; nor the thought
Of those delightful days, when life was new,
And we together cull'd its budding sweets
Careless of coming wo. But ne'er for thee
Pale sorrow spread her melancholy board;
Thou ne'er didst taste of grief. The tender down
Of manhood scarce had tinged thy blooming cheek,
When the cold hand of all-consuming Death
Nipp'd thy fair promise. Thou didst never learn
The treachery of joy, the loss of friends,
The pangs of hapless love: thy glowing heart
Imagined days of rapture, fondly dream'd
Of more than mortal charms; nor ever waked
To wipe fell sorrow's tear. For few are they,
Whose earliest fancy crowns their days with joy;
But oft through wo, and anguish, and despair,
Man wanders to the port of tranquil bliss.
Thou didst not hear the deadly cry of France,
Which, like the crash of an upbreaking world,
Appall'd all Europe, from the utmost bound
Of Finisterre to Moscow's forests hoar,
And shook old Ocean's reign; thou didst not see
The impious Fiend of democratic war

180

Let loose its havoc, tearing from their base
The monuments of power, the massive seats
Of ancient empire and religious sway;
Thou didst not mark from every mangled realm
The pang of horror vibrate to the heart
Of thy dear country; else the piteous groan
Of sullied Freedom and dismember'd states
Had rung e'en to thy soul. For thou wast kind
In nature, and thy breast would throb to hear
Of high achievements, and the valor old
Of chiefs recorded in historic page,
Who by fair deeds and honorable strife
Upheld our England's fame. Therefore I deem,
Though torn untimely from our fond embrace,
Thee blest above thy peers; whose sleep of death
(Ere fate had dealt one night of restless wo)
Stole unperceived on thy delighted youth.

ODE TO DESPAIR.
[_]

Irregular.

O thou, the fiend to Death allied,
Who sit'st by weeping Sorrow's side,
And bid'st unreal shapes arise
Of monsterous port and giant size,
Despair! thy gorgon eye
Can numb the heart with stern controul,
And bind in ice the palsied soul.

181

Where'er beneath some whistling shed
Thy sullen form is laid,
Scaring from orphan breasts the balm of sleep;
Or listening to the hollow sigh
Of her, whose infants watch and weep,
While on her flank with slow consuming pangs
The gnawing tooth of famine hangs.
Or cast upon some trackless shore,
'Gainst which the barren billows roar,
Thou turn'st thy leaden eyes in vain
Across the immeasurable main;
And thro' the hoarsely murmuring spray
Hear'st the sad sea-shriek die away:
While thro' the howling storm in awful pride
The baleful spirits of the thunder ride.
Oft by the taper's mournful ray,
In arched vaults but dimly seen,
Where cloister'd virgins vainly pray,
Thou lovest to mark the solemn scene;
And haunt the gloomy cell,
Where pale Regret and hopeless Memory dwell,
And weeping Love; and by his side
Unsated Lust and lingering Pride,
Who left the world, they loved so well;
And Shame, that shuns the day.
But fiercest on the blood-stain'd ground,
Where crush'd Ambition stares around,
And kindred Vice of coward soul,
That hugs the knife with downcast eye,

182

But dreads the blow, she dares not fly:
There sits thy dark terrific form
With swollen balls, that wildly roll,
And points the slowly gathering storm
Big with the threats of fate.
Around thy hideous phantoms wait;
And chiefly he, the giant pow'r,
Whom lustful Sin to Murder bore,
Fell Suicide, that stalks behind
With ghastly smile and baneful breath,
When hope has left the guilty mind,
Sounding the dirge of death.

THE KISS;

A RIDDLE.

1799.
Daughter of Gentleness, and pledge of Love,
With viewless step and fragrant breath I rove;
From cheek to cheek, from lip to lip, I stray;
And the fine nerves my thrilling touch obey.
Born at the blissful call of young Desire,
I live one moment, and the next expire.
Though warm to touch, though lovely as the day,
No eye can trace me, and no hand delay.
Scared from Revenge, and Hatred's lowering eye,
From Anger's fierce antipathy, I fly;
But with the tender solace of a friend
O'er pale Affliction's couch I fondly bend,
Or with the sweetness of a mother's smile

183

Of half its pangs the youthful heart beguile;
And, when fell Passion from the soul retires,
The cherub Peace my sacred seal requires.
But thou, chaste nymph, who seek'st my hidden name,
Know, that my breath can stir a fatal flame!
By that moist lip, warm cheek, and sparkling eye,
By all the charms, which on that bosom lie,
Though Love invite and Beauty call, beware!
Nor trust the tempting poison, that I bear!

STANZAS.

1799.
From all the sweets, that scent the vernal air,
All, that on nature's gaudy lap repose,
This humble flower the modest virgin chose,
Pure, as herself, and delicately fair.
Sweet emblem of the maiden most admired,
Thee earliest of the year, some stream along,
Where the lone blackbird trills his mellow song,
My strains shall cherish, by thy sight inspired!
As I behold thee, fancy views her face,
Where all the loveliest charms of nature vie;
The bashful look that shuns the adoring eye;
The untaught elegance, and simple grace;
Still I behold that rosy smiling mouth;
Those eyes with feeling exquisitely bright,
With tender thoughts and innocent delight;
That bosom glowing with the light of youth.

184

Thrice happy flower! on nature's simple bed,
Where no refinement taints the breath of spring,
Thou lovest the genial South-wind's gentle wing,
And peaceful airs bedew thy modest head.
There, shelter'd from the sun and vernal hail,
The fresh stream nursed thee and the willow's shade;
Now softly on that fairest bosom laid
No cares molest thee, and no fears assail.
O! could the troubled mind such calmness prove
In social confidence securely bless'd,
The smile of joy would lull each care to rest,
And bind us to the tranquil breast of love.

ON THE DEATH OF THE HON. MISS RYDER, AFTER A SHORT ILLNESS.

1801.
If manners mild with mirth combined,
If truth adorns a female mind,
And fond domestic love,
Sweet maid, adieu! the farewell tear,
Which friendship pays thine early bier,
Shall every saint approve.
For not the brightest fairest rays,
Which beauty's slippery form displays,
So reason can enthrall,
As the chaste heart, devoid of pride,
The smile to gentle joys allied,
When harmless pleasures call.

185

Thy name amidst the circle gay,
Who in life's idle sunshine play,
Shall soon be heard no more;
But those, who loved thy gentle form,
Whose hearts can prize each social charm,
Will long thy loss deplore.
Friendship, when many a winter's blast
Shall o'er thy mouldering tomb have pass'd,
Will still thine image view;
Still will the mind, which draws to light
Each fleeting scene of past delight,
The tender thought renew.
Sweet maid, farewell! thy smiling face
The mournful friend no more shall trace
Amidst the moving crowd;
But oft the bitter hour recall,
Which saw thee in life's springtime fall,
And wrapp'd thy fatal shroud.

[Ruthless Cupid, wouldst thou bind]

“Διδακτον μηδεν, αλλ' εν τη φυσει
Το σωφρονειν ειληχεν.”
Eurip. Hippol.

1800.
Ruthless Cupid, wouldst thou bind
Fast and firm my roving mind,
Search, and find a lovely maid,
Fair, as nature e'er display'd!
Let her unambitious be;
Frank, but free from levity;
Guarded so by modest look,
That her thoughts e'en dread rebuke:

186

What she saith unstudied, best;
Simple, sweet, by nature bless'd.
Let her bosom softly swelling
Heave at mournful story's telling.
Let her sometimes (thus most fair)
Gentle melancholy wear;
Let her sometimes, free from guile,
Chase it by the sweetest smile,
That did ever beauty give
To the loveliest forms that live.
Give her features not so fair,
As are called regular;
But which might expression lend
Lovelier to the fairest friend:
Sparkling eyes, whose modest fire
Somewhat beams of fond desire:
Tresses soft, that simply flow
O'er a neck of purest snow.
Let her teeth be shining white;
Let her mouth be small and bright,
Of such hue, that freshest rose
By comparison would lose.
Let her feet, a tiny pair,
Figure light and airy bear;
And, like visions of the bless'd,
Scarce have touch'd the soil, they press'd.
Search the world, great God of love,
Search the fairest crowds that move;
Find her such, and add to this,
Meeting wishes, meeting bliss;
Find her such, and thou shalt be
Mine adored Deity.

187

WRITTEN IN 1805.

Fairest! if by night or day,
Ne'er in wish from thee to stray,
Nor in hours of lonely leisure
Ever woo a sweeter pleasure,
Than to bid the anxious thought
Dwell on thee, with rapture fraught;
If to deem the breath of youth,
Perfumed by thy fragrant mouth,
Fresher, than the gale, which blows
O'er the dew-besprinkled rose;
If to hold, that who might rest
Pillow'd on that gentle breast,
Were more than Eastern monarchs blest;
If to worship thee, and swear
None are sweet or good or fair,
That each graceful shape is rude,
Near thy perfect image view'd;
If to deem thy cheerful smile
Rich with charms that might beguile
E'en the latest pang of death,
Be the surest pledge of faith:
Think not, that, when doom'd to part
From that treasure of my heart,
These fond thoughts can cease to cherish
Hours of bliss, that quickly perish;
Or, when billows swell between,

188

Meet with joy another scene!
For to me nor tuneful measure,
Social jest or dearer pleasure,
Joyous seem, when far from thee;
In whose nature sweet and free
All the gentlest virtues vie,
Beauty, mirth, and modesty.
When I miss thy lovely form,
Beauty loses every charm;
Friendship lacks its dearest tie,
Music all its melody.
Still, where'er thy footsteps stray,
Secret vows will win their way;
Ardent wishes born of youth,
Nursed by faith and constant truth;
And, across the bounding sea,
Wing their anxious flight to thee.

189

ODE FOR THE WAR ARISING OUT OF THE PEACE OF AMIENS.

1804.
[_]

The metre of this ode is Tuscan, not strictly Petrarchesque; for I have neglected the punctuation between the piedi, and have made the last line in the first correspond with the first line in the second, which Petrarca never did, when they consisted, as in these stanzas, of three lines each. I have scrupulously observed the punctuation between the piedi and sirima, and the law, most sacred to Italians, which forbids the occurrence of a similar rhyme in two stanzas of the same ode; but I have in two instances admitted the same word differently inflected, to which their strictest critics would object. The conclusion of the ode (which the Italians call ripresa or comiato) corresponds in form (as was customary) with the sirima or last part of the stanzas.

O Freedom, (if the unpolluted bays,
Which British hands entwine
Around thine honor'd brows, have charms to please
In thy distemper'd years) undaunted seize
War's trumpet from the shrine
Of thine high temple, which our sires did raise!
In these degenerate days
Thou needs must sound a strain most fierce and loud,
Ere the distemper'd sleep of sloth be broken,
And Europe's sufferings wroken;

190

For Truth and Honor rest beneath their shroud,
And Peace hath like a treacherous seamaid sung
To lure her listeners with pernicious tongue.
But as who, dreaming from his feverish side
In hour of troubled rest
His spouse torn shrieking by the savage arm
Of ruffian outrage, starts in wild alarm;
And to his throbbing breast
With wondering rapture clasps the sleeping bride:
So Britain's goodly pride,
(Which lay awhile oppress'd in horrid trance,
Deeming the breath of freeborn honor stifled,
And all her glories rifled
Beneath the culminating star of France)
Started to arms amain, when late she heard
Thy warning, for her fame too long deferr'd.
Disarm'd hath Europe bow'd; on every shore,
Where late the battle roar'd
Tumultuous, Force hath rung sweet Freedom's knell,
And Death and silent Desolation dwell:
But Britain's stubborn sword
Still guards the honors, which our fathers wore.
So when with wild uproar
The banded winds some woody steep assail,
The deep sound murmurs, the whole mountain quakes;
Brama toda a montanha, o som murmura;
Rompemse as folhas, ferve a serra erguida.

Camoens


The crashing timber breaks,
And the rent fragments load the rushing gale:
The scathed oak groans beneath the thunderous shock,
But still unbent o'ershades its native rock.

191

O God of battles! if thine hallow'd will
Ordain, that Britain fall,
And her proud towers be humbled in the dust:
Thy will is law to us, thy laws are just!
Vinca, se cosi vuoi, Vinca lo Scita.—
I voler tuoi Legge son ferme a noi.

Filicaja


When thy dread heralds call,
Her sons undaunted will their fates fulfil!
But, if thy right-hand still
Uphold us, sooner shall yon vaulted sky
Be rent, and winds upheave this solid earth,
Than England's ancient worth
Beneath a proud assailant vanquish'd lie!
That honest valor, which hath made her great,
Unharm'd shall save her mid the wrecks of fate.
Thou, whose immortal reign is stretch'd above
The everlasting stars;
Whose wrath in tempest sends Thy spirits forth;
Whose fiery lances hurtling in the North
Forbode disasterous wars,
When kings conflicting to destruction move;
Thou, whose all-kindling love
More wonderous, fills each breast with holy awe;
Who givest the night its phantoms, scattering dread,
To bend the guilty head
With horror, and enforce Thy glorious law:
Thou, Lord, shalt hold before us in the fight
Thy shield of virtue and Thy sword of right!
Nor ever do the tempests rage in vain,
When fatal whirlwinds speed

192

To do Thy bidding! Thou art our right-hand,
Our glory and salvation! Thy command
—Tu eres diestra Salud y gloria nuestra.

Herrera


Has oft in Britain's need
Roused the blown waves to guard her ancient reign!
Witness the stormy main
Laden with wrecks of that huge armament,
Which erst the arch-fiend in wrath from proud Castile,
To light the funeral pile
Of pure Religion with Hell's torches sent:
Thou spakest in anger; at the sound the waves
Shook, and Hell trembled in its deepest caves.
—Al suon la terra
Si scosse, e ne muggir l'ime caverne.

Ghedino

Not chance, I deem, on Christ's all-hallow'd day
Blew that tremendous blast,
Which waking, as the foe with impious boast
Pour'd forth his navy, unto Ireland's coast
Wing'd with thy vengeance pass'd
Curling the billows o'er the watery way.
Thine arm with strange dismay,
Thy terror scatter'd them! The shaft of Heaven
Smites not more swiftly, or the burning death
From Simoom's fiery breath,
Than dread assail'd them by Thy tempest driven;
As wrapt in smoke the doubtful lights of war
—Envuelta en humo la dudosa lumbre.

Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola


Flash'd horrible, and battle roar'd afar.
While Freedom watches, never foe shall slake
His rage in Britain's shame

193

Victorious; never hath her Genius quail'd,
When whole she met the tempest that assail'd,
And mindful of her fame
Roused all her sons, and bade her might awake.
But thou, sweet Freedom, take
That charmed trump to thy resistless hands,
Whose strain can well inspire with living force
The pale and breathless corse;
And ever and anon her slothful bands
Stir with a lengthen'd peal, whose warlike thunder
Of fatal sleep may rend the bonds asunder.
Go boldly forth, my song,
Though rear'd in peaceful shades; and (if the foe
Ask, why the virgin Muse war's clarion sound)
On unpolluted ground
Say thou wert born, where bloodless rivers flow;
But add,—The guardian sword, ere Britain yield,
Her matrons and her tenderest maids shall wield.
 

“E' una delle regole di Dante, che la concordanza di due rime vicine, la qual è laudevolissima nella chiusa, si dee schivar ne piedi.” Tasso, la Cavaletta. If I had retained the punctuation between the piedi, I should have adhered to this rule.

The storm, which dispersed the French armament near Bantry bay, began to blow on Christmas eve.

The burning wind of Abyssinia.


194

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF THE BAVARIAN GENERAL TILLY,

WHO WAS KILLED IN 1632, BY A WOUND RECEIVED IN CONTESTING THE PASSAGE OF THE LECH WITH OUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.

1804.
Tilly, thine hopes are fallen! by the stream
Of rapid Lech victorious cannons roar
With Swedish vengeance; on the adverse shore
Fraught with thy death the vollied lightnings gleam!
Yet nor those hardy veterans, who seem
To mock all hinde
rance; nor those mouths, which pour
The thundering voice of war with fierce uproar;
Nor e'en Gustavus mars thy glorious dream.
But she, who met thee with her ghastly train
Of murder'd babes, (a pale and vengeful ghost)
Sad Magdeburg, in Leipsic's dubious fight;
And with her Heaven's red arm, which o'er the plain
Spread strange dismay: then terror seized thine host,
Then sank thy star in everlasting night.
 

The Lech was swollen, and deemed impassable.

The first great victory gained in Germany by Gustavus Adolphus was over the army commanded by Tilly, near Leipsic, where he had retired from the ruins of Magdeburg, after burning the town and massacring its inhabitants, to the number of 25 or 30,000 souls. Tilly's army, at first successful, was seized by a sudden panick. Schiller observes, in his history of the 30 years war, that after the horrible destruction of Magdeburg, the good fortune, which Tilly had before invariably enjoyed, forsook him altogether.


195

SONNET TO A YOUNG BRIDE.
[_]

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PELLEGRINI SALANDRI. Poesie scelte dell' abate P. Salandri, 1783, p. 247.

O thou art more than lovely, more than fair!
Hold faith unshaken to thy soul's delight!
Preserve thy spotless beauty chaste and bright,
And keep thine innocence with jealous care!
Each whisper of the soft insidious air,
That breathes from frailer lips, may quench the light
Of that pure flame, which thro' the ravish'd sight
Stole to thine heart, and still is nourish'd there.
Unsullied from the Alps' cold bosom rose
The fountain, in whose stream the God of day
With amorous joy reflects his sparkling fires:
If wandering from its bed the water flows
To kiss each leaf or floweret on the way,
The clear stream lessens slowly, and expires.

SONNET.

On the Death of Garcilaso de la Vega, slain in battle, as had been also his father, Garcilaso, the celebrated Poet.
[_]

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE FIGUEROA Ramon's Edit. 1785, p. 8.

O beauteous scyon from the stateliest tree,
That e'er in fertile mead or forest grew!
With freshest bloom adorn'd and vigor new,

196

Glorious in form, and first in dignity!
The same fell tempest, which by heaven's decree
Around thy parent stock resistless blew,
And far from Tajo its firm trunk o'erthrew,
In foreign clime has stripp'd the leaves from thee!
And the same pitying hand has from the spot
Of cheerless ruin raised ye to rejoice,
Where fruit immortal decks the wither'd stem!
I will not, like the vulgar, mourn your lot;
But, with pure incense and exulting voice,
Praise your high worth, and consecrate your fame.

SONNET.
[_]

FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA. Ramon's Edition, 1786, vol. i. p. 183.

Parent of good! since all thy laws are just,
Say, why permits thy judging providence
Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence,
And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust?
Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust,
That proudly wars against Omnipotence?
Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence
Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust?
Amid the din of pleasure Virtue sighs,
While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head
With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls.”
Thus I;—when bright before my wondering eyes
A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said:
“Blind moralist, is earth the sphere of souls?”

197

PROPHECY OF THE TAJO.
[_]

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRAY LUIS DE LEON. Ramon's Edition, 1790, p. 14.

In consequence of the rape of his daughter Caba by King Rodrigo, Count D. Julian is said to have invited the Moorish army, which overthrew the empire of the Goths in Spain. 1805.

Unseen, and lull'd in Caba's arms,
Rodrigo lay, where Tajo flows,
Clasping the virgin's rifled charms;
From his deep bed the river rose,
And thus bespoke him, prophet of his woes.
“Foul ravisher, in evil day
Thou joy'st beneath a luckless star!
E'en now, I hear the rising fray,
The clash of steel, the shock of war,
The voice of tumult rolling from afar!
What grief succeeds thy blissful hour!
That maid shall prove her country's bane,
Who clasps thee now in secret bow'r;
Born to o'erthrow the Gothic reign,
And draw a scourge from heaven on bleeding Spain.
War's secret spark and fatal brand,
Heedless of guilt, thine arms embrace;
Destruction to thy native land;
Despair, and shame, and sure disgrace,
To thy true vassals and thy royal race:
To all, who break the fertile soil
Of Constantina, or the plain

198

Where Ebro views their peaceful toil;
Who Lusitania's rights maintain,
Or sad Hispania's wide-extended reign.
E'en now aloud the injured sire,
(Whose thoughts for instant vengeance glow,)
Reckless of fame, with savage ire
From Cadiz calls the barbarous foe!
Their arms uplifted aim the deadly blow!
Hark! how the trumpet on the coast,
Rending the sky, with dreadful bray
Summons to war the Moorish host
Beneath their banners bright and gay,
Which, flaunting on the breeze, light-streaming play!
Lo, the fierce Arab smites the wind,
Waving his spear, and shouts to war!
Instant the thronging troops are join'd;
The swarthy nations swarm from far,
With many a prancing steed and rattling car.
Their countless squadrons hide the ground;
The sea is lost beneath their sails;
Confused and various grows the sound,
And the high vault of Heaven assails;
The thickening dust the day with darkness veils.
Already floating bold and free
Their navy stems the foaming tide;
Their vigorous arms upturn the sea,
Plying the oar with gallant pride,
And cleaving fast the wave their vessels glide.
With wind in poop, and prosperous gales,
Great Æolus in godlike state
Exulting fills the strutting sails;
And through the famed Herculean strait

199

Proud Neptune guides the iron-beaked fleet.
But ah! the sweet and fatal dream
Of pleasure still thy soul enthralls:
Thou dost not mark the weapons gleam;
Thou dost not rush, where battle calls;
Thou dost not see fair Cadiz' captive walls;
Haste! buckle on thine arms with speed!
Fly! climb the mountain! reach the field!
Force with the spur thy foaming steed!
Bare the keen blade, and grasp the shield,
And with unceasing rage the falchion wield!
O what of labor, what of wo,
Hangs o'er the chiefs, in armour bright
That clothe their breasts, to meet the foe?
O'er those for standing combat dight!
O'er horse and horseman laboring in the fight!
And thou, pure Bœtis, big with slain,
With foreign and with native blood,
What helmets through the frighted plain,
What chiefs, that late in battle stood,
Thy waves shall roll unto the neighbouring flood!
Five days unmoved on either side
The God of war the fight maintains,
With equal hopes, and equal pride:
The sixth condemns thy hapless swains,
O my dear country, to barbarian chains!

200

ODE ON THE DEATH OF DON SEBASTIAN, KING OF PORTUGAL,

Who was destroyed with his whole army, on the banks of the River Luco, in Africa,
[_]

FROM THE SPANISH OF FERNANDO DE HERRERA Ramon's Edition, 1786, vol. p. 104.

With sorrowing voice begin the strain,
With fearful breath and sounds of wo,
Sad prelude to the mournful lay
For Lusitania's fallen sway,
Spurn'd by the faithless foe!
And let the tale of horror sound
From Lybian Atlas and the burning plain
E'en to the Red Sea's distant bound;
And where, beyond that foaming tide,
The vanquish'd East, with blushing pride,
And all her nations fierce and brave
Have seen the Christian banners wave!
O Libya, through thy deserts wide,
With many a steed, and chariot boldly driven,
Thou saw'st Sebastian's warriors sweep the shore?
On rush'd they, fierce in martial pow'r,
Nor raised their thoughts to Heaven.
Self-confident and flush'd with pride,
(Their boastful heart on plunder bent,)
Triumphant o'er the hostile land

201

In gorgeous trim the stiff-neck'd people went.
But the Lord open'd his upholding hand,
And left them; down the abyss with strange uproar,
Horseman and horse amain and crashing chariots pour.
Loaded with wrath and terror came
The day, the cruel day,
Which gave the widow'd realm to shame,
To solitude and deep dismay.
Dark lower'd the heavens; in garb of wo
The sun astonish'd ceased to glow:
Jehovah visited the guilty land,
And pass'd in anger with his red right-hand
Humbling her pride; he made the force
Of weak barbarians steady in its course;
He made their bosoms firm and bold,
And bade them spurn at baneful gold,
Their ruthless way through yielding legions mow,
Fulfil his vengeful word, and trample on the foe.
O'er thy fair limbs, so long by valor saved,
Sad Lusitania, child of wo!
O'er all that rich and gallant show,
With impious hate the heathen's fearless arm
His flaming falchion waved!
His fury marr'd thine ancient fame,
And scatter'd o'er thy squadrons wild alarm,
Fell slaughter, and eternal shame!
A tide of blood o'er-flow'd the plain;
Like mountains stood the heaps of slain:
Alike on that ill-fated day
War's headlong torrent swept away

202

The trembling voice of fear, the coward breath,
And the high soul of valor, proud in death.
Are those the warriors once renown'd?
For deeds of glory justly crown'd;
Whose thunder shook the world,
Whene'er their banners were unfurl'd;
Who many a barbarous tribe subdued,
And many an empire stretching wide and far;
Who sack'd each state, that proudly stood;
Whose arms lay'd waste in savage war
What realms lie circled by the Indian tide.
Where now their ancient pride?
Where is that courage, once in fight secure?
How in one moment is the boast
Of that heroic valor lost!
Without the holy rites of sepulture,
Far from their homes and native land
Fallen, O fallen on the desert sand!
Once were they like the cedar fair
Of mighty Lebanon, whose glorious head
With leaves and boughs immeasurably spread.
The rains of Heaven bade it grow
Stately and loftiest on the mountain's brow;
And still its branches rose to view
In form and beauty ever new.
High nestled on its top the fowls of air,
And many a mountain beast
Beneath its ample boughs increased,
And man found shelter in its goodly shade.

203

With beauteous limbs, unrivall'd did it rise,
Lord of the mountain, towering to the skies.
Its verdant head presumptuously grew,
Trusting to wonderous bulk alone,
And vain of its excelling height:
But from the root its trunk the Lord o'erthrew,
To barbarous despite
And foreign hate a hopeless prey.
Now by the mountain torrent strewn
Its leafless honors naked lie;
And far aloof the frighted wanderers fly,
Whom once it shielded from the burning day:
In the sad ruin of its branches bare
Beasts of the forest dwell, and screaming birds of air.
Thou, hateful Libya, on whose arid sand
Proud Lusitania's glory fell,
And all her boast of wide command,
Let not thine heart with triumph swell!
Though to thy timid hand by angry Heaven
A praiseless victory was given!
For (when the voice of grief shall call
The sons of Spain to venge her fall)
Torn by the lance thy vitals shall repay
The fatal outrage of that bitter day,
And Luco's flood impurpled by the slain
Its mournful tribute roll affrighted to the main.

204

THE MORNING SONG.
[_]

FROM THE GERMAN BY GESNER.

Hail, orient Sun, auspicious light!
Hail, new-born orb of day!
Lo, from behind the wood-crown'd height
Breaks forth thy glittering ray.
Behold it sparkle in the stream,
And on the dew-drop shine!
O may sweet Joy's enlivening beam
Mix his pure rays with thine!
The Zephyrs now with frolic wing
Their rosy beds forsake;
And, shedding round the sweets of spring,
Their drowsy comrades wake.
Soft Sleep and all his airy forms
Fly from the dawning day:
Like little loves O may their swarms
On Chloe's bosom play!
Ye Zephyr's, haste; from every flow'r
The sweetest perfumes take;
And bear them hence to Chloe's bow'r;
For soon the maid must wake!
And hovering round her fragrant bed
In breezes call my fair;
Go, frolic round her graceful head,
And scent her golden hair!

205

Then gently whisper in her ear,
That, ere day lit the skies,
By the soft murmuring fountain here
I breathed her name in sighs.

THE WATERFALL.
[_]

FROM THE GERMAN BY GESNER

Is this the vale, whose shadowy wood
Breathed o'er my bosom strange delight?
Is this the rock, whose sparkling flood
Plunged lightly from the wood-crown'd height?
Lo! where the foaming stream from high
Dash'd on its mossy couch below,
A frozen column meets my eye,
Suspended from the beetling brow.
How bare, how naked, frowns the glade!
Where late in thick o'er-arching bow'rs
Soft zephyrs thro' the foliage stray'd,
And gently waved the scented flow'rs;
Where late the glancing sunbeams play'd
On the bright waves and mossy bed;
Or gleam'd along the checker'd shade,
Which leafless now o'erhangs my head.
Soon, soon, sweet spring will warm the sky,
And deck the groves with livelier hue;
Awake each floweret's sparkling eye,
And melt the frost with genial dew.

206

O then receive me in your shade,
Ye rocks, that crown the valleys deep,
Ye woods, that deck this watery glade,
And wave beneath the rocky steep!
No cares shall here my bosom pain;
No fearful thoughts my heart alarm;
From hill, from grove, and flowery plain,
Shall sweetly steal a soothing charm.
And wherefore envy those that shine,
And bask in fortune's transient beam?
While with my flask of jovial wine
I lay me by the rippling stream;
While sweet success may crown my lays
Amid these cool delicious bow'rs;
And future ages learn to praise
The pastime of my harmless hours.

THE FIRST OLYMPIC ODE OF PINDAR.

1834.

Strophe 1.

Water is best, but like to fire,
That flashes in the night, is gold,
Excelling amid wealth,
That makes man great and bold.
If to tell of noble prizes,
Heart, thou dost desire,
Other star of day more genial
Look not to espy,
Than the glorious sun resplendent
In the desert sky!
Nor shall we a prouder struggle

207

Than Olympia's trial sing,
(Whence the hymn of many voices
By the counsel of the brave
Swells to resound of Saturn's son,)
Arrived at the sumptuous heaven-blest hearth
Of Hiero munificent;

Antistrophe 1.

The sceptre of just law who sways
In Sicily far-famed for sheep,
The prime of every good
Rejoicing there to reap;
And the pleasant flower of music
Crowns his blissful days,
Gladsome as around his table
Oft our harpings swell.
From the nail on high suspended
Take the Dorian shell,
If the thought of holy Pisa,
Bend the mind to sweetest cares,
And the gallant Pherenicus
Earn'd our praises, when he sprang
Over the course with glorious speed,
Unlash'd by the margin of Alpheus, and bore
His master to the victory;

Epode 1.

The Syracusian king
In matchless steeds abounding.
His glory shines beside
The sturdy-peopled seat

208

Of Lydian Pelops, who was loved
By mighty Neptune earth-surrounding;
When Clotho from the cauldron bright
Him raised again to life and light,
With ivory shoulder graced.
Things wonderful have been whilere;
But oft the mind of man
To fable leans a willing ear,
And varied with fallacious tales,
Falsehood o'er sober truth prevails.

Strophe 2.

Pleasing and lovely to mankind,
Are all things made by witching grace;
Faith to the false it lends,
And honor to the base.
But, though fable now surround us,
Future days will bring
Unto truth a surer witness.
It beseems us here
Well to speak of Gods above us;
So less cause of fear.
Son of Tantalus, as others
Tell, I sing not touching thee.
With their food of bright ambrosia
When thy father in return
Call'd to loved Sipylus the Gods,
And gave them a righteous regale, he who sways
The trident seized thee forcibly;

209

Antistrophe 2.

And, swiftly with his golden mares,
Smit by the mighty power of love
He wafted thee aloft
Unto the house of Jove.
Whither for like service carried
To the Thunderer's hall
Ganymedes came thereafter.
But when rumour none
Those, who sought thee, brought thy mother
Of her vanish'd son,
Grudging neighbors spoke invidious
Secret words of evil fame,
That o'er water fiercely boiling
By the fervent strength of flame,
Piecemeal they hew'd thee with the sword,
Dissever'd thy joints, and the flesh of thy limbs
Devouring feasted daintily.

Epode 2.

Be it not mine to call
The blessed Gods voracious!
I stand aloof; ill words
Are oft by ill repaid.
But, if who hold Olympus high
Were ever to a mortal gracious,
That man was Tantalus: yet, great
Howe'er, he kept not his estate;
But, satiated thro' pride,
He earn'd a punishment so dread,
As man ne'er rued before.
A huge stone Jove hung o'er his head,

210

Which ever to throw down and shun
He strives, and happiness hath none.

Strophe 3.

Helpless he wears this load of life
In labors, whence he cannot flee,
And a fourth toil endures
Thus added unto three.
For that nectar and ambrosia,
Food which maketh Gods
Deathless, he for earthly messmates
Stole. If man infers
Sinning secretly the Gods
To deceive, he errs.
Thereupon the Everlasting
Angry, from their blest abode,
To the short-lived race of mortals
Sent again his youthful son.
When in the opening bloom of life
The black down of manhood had cover'd his chin,
He thought to wed him gallantly;

Antistrophe 3.

From Pisa's lord his maid renown'd
Hippodamia to obtain.
Alone at dead of night
Beside the hoary main
The deep-sounding trident-holder
He invoked; straitway
At his feet the God appearing
Stood; he him address'd.

211

“If the gifts of Venus merit
“Favor from thy breast,
“Neptune, thou the brazen falchion
“Of Œnomaus o'erthrow!
“And forthwith to Elis waft me
“On the swiftest wheels that be!
“Quickly approach me to renown,
“For ten men and three he has slain, and delays
“To yield his child's virginity!

Epode 3.

“Weak minds in danger find
“No way to be victorious;
“But, to whom death is sure,
“In darkness why should man
“Sit nursing unrenown'd old age,
“Shareless of all things great and glorious!
“To me at least this peril lies
“At hand, a joyful hope and prize;
“Thou grant an issue fair!”
He spoke, and not in vain the spring
Of words by him was touch'd;
The God array'd him; on the wing
Steeds indefatigable bear
His golden chariot thro' the air.

Strophe 4.

Quelling the prowess of the sire
He took the bride to his embrace,
And chieftains six begat
A brave and gallant race.
Now, with honor sacrificial
Placed beside the bank
Of bright Alpheus gliding by him,

212

Tenant of the grave
He hath here an altar, worshipp'd
By the great and brave.
Far and wide the glory glitters
Of the famed Olympic games,
On the course where Pelops conquer'd,
Where the swift of foot are tried,
And the hard toil of vigorous strength.
The conqueror joys thro' the rest of his days
The prize in sweet serenity,

Antistrophe 4.

A blest reward of honors won.
The good, which every day is nigh,
Is the best gift that man
Inherits from on high.
Me behoves with strain Æolian
Thee revered to crown,
By equestrian laws abiding;
And I deem no guest
Or more skill'd in valiant labors,
Or of power possest,
(Now at least of men surviving)
Can by music be adorn'd,
In the various folds enveloped
Of heart-stirring minstrelsy.
Over thy cares God favoring thee
Presides, and, unless he forsake thee, I hope
A strain still sweeter, Hiero,

213

Epode 4.

To find, the way of words
Exploring near steep Cronius,
Hereafter praising thee
On fleetest chariot borne.
The muse for me with vigor frames
Her strongest dart symphonious;
To others other gifts are given,
But kings are lifted nearest heaven,
Therefore no further spy!
The lofty path of life be thine
With port sublime to tread!
And, mix'd with conquerors, be mine,
For science most renown'd, to stand
Conspicuous on all Grecian land!
 

Pisa, where the Olympic games were held, was sacred to Jupiter.

The Horse of Hiere.

When his limbs were taken out of the cauldron and put together again, the real shoulder was missing, which the Gods were supposed to have eaten. The ivory was a substitute.

Pelops.

Cup-bearer to Jupiter.

Standing, hungering, and thirsting: or the three toils of Tityus, Sisyphus, and Ixion. The first interpretation is preferable.

Where he conquered Œnomaus.

Hiero.

SECOND OLYMPIC ODE OF PINDAR.

1834.

Strophe 1.

Hymns that rule the lyre symphonious,
To what Power divine,
To what hero, to what lord,
Shall the stream of song be pour'd?
Pisa is the land of Jove;
Hercules, for battle gain'd,
The Olympiad first ordain'd;
Now in the four-yoked car victorious
Theron demands the strain of praise,

214

Righteous prop of Agrigentum,
Sprung from sires of high renown,
Flower and bulwark of his town.

Antistrophe 1.

Laboring long beside the river
They at last uprear'd
Holy walls, and were the eye
Of illustrious Sicily.
Years of prosperous fate ensued,
Bringing grace and wealth to crown
Native worth and old renown.
Jove, Rhea's son, who hold'st Olympus,
And, soothed with song, the glorious games
By the ford of Alpheus lovest,
Shield their fatherland benign,
And for ever guard their line!

Epode 1.

The things which are atchieved and wrought,
Whether they have been just or not,
Time, the sire of all,
Cannot render now undone;
But of evils overpast
With milder fate oblivion comes at last;
And, when goodly joys arise,
Calamity beat down
Shrinks back again and dies;

Strophe 2.

While the lot from God proceeding
Honor'd wealth bestows.

215

Well my words beseem the fate
Of the maids, in high estate
Throned, from loins of Cadmus sprung;
Much they bore, but grief subdued
Sinks before superior good.
Amongst the Gods with long locks flowing
Lives thunder-smitten Semele;
Love she hath from Pallas ever,
Much from mighty Jove hath won,
And his ivy-bearing son.

Antistrophe 2.

Story saith, in deeps abiding,
With the sea-born maids
Of old Nereus, Ino hath
Changeless years untouch'd by death.
Mortals never can foreknow
When the hour of death is doom'd,
And the thread of life consumed;
Nor when the day, serenely beaming,
Child of the sun, for them shall cease,
With prosperity unbroken.
Streams, that changeful ebb and flow,
Come to man with joy and wo.

Epode 2.

Thus destiny, which made the fate
Of thy forefathers blithe and great,
Showering on their house
Wealth and honor from the Gods,
Evil brought upon their race,
Which should in time to joy again give place;

216

Since the son ill-fated slew
Laïus, and made the voice
From ancient Pytho true.

Strophe 3.

Him the keen-eyed Fury viewing
With domestic strife
Smote his martial progeny
By each other doom'd to die.
Famed in games of youth and war,
After Polynices slain,
Did his honor'd son remain,
Thersander, to thine house, Adrastus,
A scyon of auxiliar strength
From that root, Ænesidamus,
Sprung, thy son should not in vain
Ask for song and lyric strain,

Antistrophe 3.

Who victorious at Olympia
Hath received the prize.
Isthmus too and Pytho's game
Saw him to his brother's fame
Link'd; the Graces, favouring both,
Twelve times round the holy course
Led their fourfold strength of horse.
The honor won in trials glorious
Looses the heart from gloomy thoughts;
Wealth, adorn'd with noble virtues,

217

Searching duties with it bears,
Opportunities, and cares,

Epode 3.

A star to man exceeding bright,
Shining with true and splendid light.
He, who hath it, knows
What to all hereafter comes.
Dying, evil men straightway
Reap punishment; crimes, here beneath Jove's sway
Done, are judged by one below,
Whom hateful need constrains
To speak the doom of wo.

Strophe 4.

But alike by night for ever,
And alike by day,
Righteous men with sunlight blest
Have a life of tranquil rest;
Nor the earth with strength of hands
Harass, nor the ocean's flood,
Laboring for scanty food.
Those, who in faithful vows delighted,
Now with the honor'd Gods enjoy
Tearless years untouch'd by sorrow;
The foresworn have lengthen'd toil,
From which mortal eyes recoil.

Antistrophe 4.

They who have the strength, unsullied
On each side the grave,
Thrice, the spirit to restrain
Pure from all unrighteous stain,

218

Unto Saturn's far abode
Shall atchieve Jove's arduous way.
Soft airs, born of ocean's spray,
There round the blessed isles are breathing,
And golden blossoms gleam; some deck
Beauteous trees, and some the water
Nourishes; blithe hands entwine
Flowery chains and wreaths that shine;

Epode 4.

As Rhadamanth's unerring word
Hath doom'd, who sits by Saturn, lord
Of great Rhea, throned
High above all powers that be.
Amid those removed from care
Cadmus and Peleus dwell in glory there.
Thither joyful Thetis brought
Her son, (when moved by prayer
Jove granted what she sought,)

Strophe 5.

Who o'erthrew undaunted Hector,
Pillar stout of Troy,
Cycnus slew, and Æthiop born
From the womb of rosy Morn.
Still beneath mine elbow stored
Many a fleet arrow lies
In the quiver, to the wise
Plain sounding; but unto the many
Interpretation they require.
Wise are those, with Nature's learning
Largely gifted; but the taught,
With imperfect jargon fraught,

219

Antistrophe 5.

Like obstreperous daws, clamor
Round Jove's bird divine.
Aim the bow with skilful eye!
Mind, bestir thee! whom shall I
With benignant spirit reach,
Speeding the famed arrow's flight?
Agrigentum, I will smite
Thy city, with an oath confirming,
What I with heart sincere avouch,
Thou, an hundred years enduring,
Hast not borne a heart more kind,
Liberal hand, and friendly mind,

Epode 5.

Than Theron's; but his well-earn'd praise
Did hostile insolence upraise,
Men unjust, insane,
Wishing o'er the good he wrought
By false speech to throw a veil,
And add ill deeds to many an evil tale.
None can count the ocean's sand,
None tell the joys diffused
O'er others by his hand.
 

Argigentum.

Ancestor of Theron.

Semele and Ino were daughters of Cadmus.

Œdipus, through whom, by the line of Polynices and Thersander, Theron was descended from Cadmus.

Adrastus was the father of Thersander's mother.

Father of Theron.

Xenocrates.

Until after the third metempsychosis or change of body.

Memnon.

Agrigentum had then been founded an hundred years.

Alluding to the revolt of Capys and Hippocrates.