 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
339
THE BRIDE OF CHRIST.
I.
Dusk, and its drooping banners!—the near cryOf the sad whip-poor-will—and now the gleam
Of the sweet star of evening, where the sky
Still keeps soft flushes of the Day-God's beam—
And Thought that broods, still doubting of her theme,
Sadd'ning with mysteries which she can not clear!—
Shut up the ancient volume; for I dream
Of other realms—past seasons reappear,
Forms of the antique arise, and foreign tongues I hear.
II.
The hour and book have brought them. I have readTill the black letters faded from my sight;
And Thought and Memory, both by Fancy fed,
Have conjured up fresh visions of delight!
That star of dusk, so suddenly born bright,
Glows like some radiant vision of the Past;
Finds fitting language in that Bird of Night,
And quires of deeds and seasons, that still cast
Their gleams athwart our sky, as meteors o'er the vast.
III.
Not the rude aspects of our forest land,These growing shadows, and this foreign place;
A stately grandeur rises on each hand;
Great towers and columns, gathering in the space
Of a most gloomy beauty, twinn'd with grace;
Speaking a genius whose majestic thought
Declares the presence of superior race,
That, even in sport, with sword and sceptre wrought,
And, from a sovran will, its inspiration caught.
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IV.
Most perfect the illusion!—art with natureStriving, and with such earnestness of aim,
So fondly, as to simulate each feature,
And grow into another, yet the same!
No doubtful likeness—coldly true, and tame—
But life in every lineament!—Warm hues;
Rich, breathing flushes; strength, and grace of frame,
And glances, as when Passion's self imbues,
With speech, the quivering lips that else might speech refuse.
V.
The persons of the drama? Who shall paintThe guise magnificent—the grand array
Of gold and purple?—brilliance, that makes faint
The pomp of blazing altars, which o'er day
Cast dimness, and but mock the sun's display!
What jewels flame! What plumes float rich in air!
How gleams the glittering armor—and how gay;
The golden draperies flaunt from burnished spear,
And wave in blazon proud, when pours the trumpet's blare!
VI.
Princes and knights and nobles; stateliest dames,That sweep like swans of triumph through the crowd,
With necks gold-cinctured; bosoms bearing flames,
Shrined in pale jewels; but with eyes more proud
Of their soul-lifting lustre, which hath bow'd
The souls of mightiest sovereigns! Younger forms:
Maids yet unconscious, but with charms allowed;
At glance of which the heart to rapture warms,
And Love, grown wild to win, wakes Passion up to storms.
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VII.
A great cathedral minster, tall and grandWith starry-pointed spires that seek the skies;
Great gothic wings, outstretched on either hand,
With antique arches, on the sight arise,
And wake strange thoughts, and wildering memories!
Here knights and princes knelt in holiest awe,
While sacred priests, with grateful sacrifice,
Perform'd due rites, declared the inviolate law,
And call'd on God, himself, to bless the things he saw!
VIII.
Even as we gaze, the oaken doors unfoldFor solemn service; the harmonious strain
From glorious organ pipes is outward roll'd,
A thousand voices rise in deep refrain;
And far, the billowy thunders sweep the plain,
Swell upward to the heavens, and, echoing round,
Roll back in choral burdens, that, again,
Catch wings from rising breezes, whose rebound
Floods the far groves and hills, till all the rocks resound.
IX.
There is a solemn service to be done,Worthy such glorious prelude. Gorgeous rites,
Such as might challenge tribute from the sun,
Need fill the hungering soul with great delights;
Need glorious strain of sounds, and pomp of sights,
And all that may to memory consecrate
That sacrifice, where Passion yields all rights
To Love, and wedded to sublimer fate,
Renounces human joys, with all of human state.
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X.
And all confess'd the action that inspiredThe group, the scene; with feeling all confess'd:
Some hearts perchance were trembling; others fired
To ecstasy; and, swelling in each breast,
The emotions, mix'd, too full to be repress'd,
Rose, self-forgetful, into cheek and eye;
Sobs with the song declared the heart's unrest
In many; but the exultant strain swell'd high,
Shook the vast roof, and streamed, in incense, to the sky.
XI.
The enthusiasm of an elder time—The fiery zeal that harness'd thought in prayer;
The agony of penance felt for crime,
To God, if not the kindred world, laid bare;
The chastening rule of abstinence and care:
These, in this temple, found their world apart;
Here were the Passions school'd to calm and fear;
Here was the realm of refuge, soothing smart,
To lift the struggling soul, and ease the bruiséd heart.
XII.
Such the fond promise, though the billowy strainRose in a choral triumph! But the stream
Of mellowing sunset, through the pictured pane
Stole sweetly soft, and soothing as the dream
Of the pure heart in childhood; a mild gleam
Like that of a blest peace, that, hovering o'er,
Calm'd every tumult; show'd the evening beam,
Delicious, shining down for sea and shore,
As teaching storm and strife Love's own subduing lore.
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XIII.
All sights and sounds declared for harmonies,Still nestling in the soul and free to grow,
With gentle nurture, into sympathies,
Blessing the fruitful heart with overflow,
Whose grateful incense up to heaven must go,
Winning new blessings, with new gifts of might;
Kindling fresh founts of feeling into glow,
And crowning, with new office of delight,
The power, that else abused, must only end in blight.
XIV.
Here, by Religion to due service won,Had Art achieved her mission, to unfold
Each great ideal beauty of the sun;
To make affections sweet, and virtue bold;
Enliven thought, and rescue from the cold
Those delicate sentiments, that quickly die
In growth of hungry instincts; which take hold,
Like fiends, when Passion wins the mastery,
And wolve, if left unleash'd, on every virtue high!
XV.
Here, Art had caught her grandeur from the hills,And from sky-vaulted forests; shapes of grace,
From grove and fountain; beauty from the rills
That music make in shady-haunted place—
While blossoms of sweet nurture crowd the space,
And innocent green of leaves, and shrubs of scent,
Delicious, languish in the wind's embrace;
And here, for spur of fancy, had she blent
Her wild and strange designs, compelling wonderment!
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XVI.
Mingling in curious harmonies, the grandGrew twinn'd with the grotesque: the pillars, wrought,
Were twining serpents, and were made to stand
Erect, and bear the rafters—that seemed brought—
A natural forest—Art rejecting nought
Of spreading umbrage; stems and branches bore
Their fruits; and gay vines wander'd off, untaught,
As seeking succor; giant birds hung o'er,
With wings outspread, and eyes great with miraculous lore.
XVII.
Shrine, rafters, columns, all—with strange device,Bore mystic meanings. Through fantastic pane
The sun stream'd broken—scarcely to suffice
For light, though with soft beauty on each fane
Conferring ritual virtues of great gain:
Like gleaming eyes of faery creep his rays,
As crested serpents, jewelled; and remain,
So many broken rivulets, that, in maze,
Capricious flow and fleet beneath the admiring gaze!
XVIII.
Such was the scene, so grand and beautiful,All robed for ceremonial: Rites begun—
Music, alternate with deep roll and lull,
And clouds of incense reddening with the sun,
While, reeking up beneath the rafters dun,
Making the air grow heavy with the sweet,
The sacred torches flamed: the altars won,
The white-robed priests the holy chaunts repeat,
While breathless hosts drew nigh with bared or sandall'd feet.
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XIX.
Apart, a crowd of modest virgins stood,Veil'd and white garmented, who, haply blessed
With wisest foresight—free from vulgar mood—
Had fled the mortal strife to cells of rest;
Seeking, from storm, escape in sacred nest!
There, with the orphan of obscurest home,
Stood one whose noble race wore ducal crest;
Yet all made happy in that sheltering dome,
Where peace broods, bless'd by prayer, and welcomes all who come.
XX.
And there were those whom Life had vex'd with wrong;Others with Love's denial; some who wept
O'er failing fortunes, suffering from the thong
Of Poverty; and some who might have slept
Long seasons with Remorse, and lately crept
To the white feet of Him who died to save:
Here all might find fit refuge, and be kept
By Holy Love in safety; as the grave,
Fast, yet permitting still the unsatisfied heart to crave.
XXI.
There were, who might have mourn'd when first they came,Driven hither by the unweeting arm of power;
Others to save some noble House from shame,
Or yield to better loved ones some fair dower!
And sure 'twere grievous fortune, that the flower,
Born for the zephyr's kiss, and heaven's free sky,
Should thus be torn from life in youth's fresh hour,
When all of earth is beauty to the eye,
And with devotion wrapt, while Love stands whispering nigh!
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XXII.
Yet time had wrought due healing for the heart,And prayer had soothed the spirit into peace;
The pang that follow'd the decree to part
From human joys—still promising increase—
Had taught the wildering Fancy soon to cease
The nurture of delusions, vague as vain,
That only vex; and, safe from man's caprice,
The eye forgot to weep, the soul complain,
And, in that sacred calm, all worldly loss was gain.
XXII
The storm that breaks upon the ambitious hills,The snows that chill the voluptuous valley's breast,
The summer sun, that from the flower distils
The tainted breath, all nature to infest;
These never here disturb the holy rest
Of lives that knew not pride—of hearts that beat
With no unbounded passion to be bless'd;
Even Power's red arm, restrained by Reverence meet,
Dared never threat the peace of this most Holy Seat!
XXIV.
Thus sped the prolific seasons, yet the sunBrought never change upon their calm domain;
Benignant rule, the submissive nature won;
The captive sigh'd not to go forth again;
The wounded spirit needed not complain:
Where had they found, in earth's unsheltered space,
So sure a home—so mild a realm and reign?
Sped the glad seasons in pacific chase,
Nor shook their blessings down upon a happier place.
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XXV.
Such is the scene, and in that ancient hall,To Heaven's high worship and pure rites devote,
The fair indwellers are assembled all,
To win one other sister to their lot:
A fair young girl, with cheek as yet unsmote
By the world's scourges, at the altar knelt;
And strange and nameless were the emotions wrote
On that young face!—Oh! had she never felt
One spell of mortal love, to make her purpose melt?
XXVI.
Never did lovelier being upon earthDescend from heaven; never did lovelier face,
Or form, from mortal mother spring to birth,
Clad in immortal charms; with such a grace
In glance and motion! In the sacred place—
The meek and beautiful, wedded—she appeared
A thing of heavenly birth, and holier race
Than any child of mortal parents rear'd—
A special birth of light, that heavenly graces heir'd.
XXVII.
Yet she bends trembling; from her pale white browThe matron shears the golden locks away:
Locks that had long before won many a vow—
In love's fond thought too precious for the prey
Even of Religion! Doth one pang find sway,
As she resigns the treasure cherished long?
Ah! see the tears in eyes so lately gay—
Tears, which she strives to check, misdeeming wrong,
Which force their way at last, for virgin will too strong
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XXVIII.
One stifled sob—one faint but passionate sigh—Breaks from her struggling soul: declaring still
How sad the parting—what the agony
Even of obedience to that better will,
Adverse to youthful impulses, that thrill
With the sweet memory of the world she flies!
One glance around her and the blue eyes fill:
'Tis the last look allow'd to those sweet eyes,
Of that bright beautiful world, to which, henceforth, she dies.
XXIX.
Oh! in that one quick tremulous look I seeThe passion that will never be denied;
There Love already wins idolatry,
And vainly would Religion frown and chide—
'Tis her religion; and grows deified,
Though to herself unconscious: in all hours
Is felt, and, as a sovereign, sways in pride,
Bears the fond fancy back to banish'd bowers,
Usurps the altar's rites, and rules with mightiest powers!
XXX.
Even while she bows before the Holy Shrine,Amid the sacred service; while the rite
Seeks Heaven, and woos the presence most divine,
To sanctify with blessing and with might,
Her eye and mind, forgetful of their sight,
Range far, to one sweet solitude, well known,
As scene of that delirious, first delight,
When in Love's dawn of being, grew to one,
Two hearts, that never thence went consciously alone!
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XXXI.
Suddenly stopt in that sweet wandering:Made terribly to know the truth, that, hence,
The loving fancy never must take wing,
The loving heart seek no more recompense,
In that most precious mutual confidence—
Two souls made one by love—Love making bliss,
Such as might serve—not wronging Innocence—
To make Heaven's own especial happiness,
To make a world, for Heaven, even of such a world as this!
XXXII.
Her soul grew chill'd as suddenly: then cameA pang, as of an arrow through the heart;
One sharp convulsion, followed by a scream,
And soul and body seem'd about to part:
Then, from her knees uprising with a start,
She flung her hands in air: her dazéd eyes
Glanced wildly round, as if they sought to dart
Through the great portals, seeking of the skies,
Succor from doom, that on her soul like horror lies!
XXXIII.
But the throng yields not; the great doors of oakAre fast: no wing, descending from above,
Stoops to embrace, and bear her from the yoke
Which tears her from the sweeter ties of Love!
No hope! no hope! The wing may never rove,
Again, in search of the denied delight:
Prayer now, and solitude, must well reprove
The passionate Fancy, erring, though so bright;
And the pale lily droops, crush'd, prostrate in its blight.
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XXXIV.
And o'er her head the awful veil is thrownThat shuts her in forever from the crowd!
The great aisles echo with a single moan!—
She hears it—she whose heart hath just been vow'd
Away from earth—to Heaven's sole service bow'd!
She stifles not the answering moan, which cries
For the Soul's liberty, in accents loud—
A wild, dread shriek!—but swift the anthems rise,
The organ rolls its waves, in billows, to the skies.
XXXV.
The mighty diapason sweeps awayThat wild heart outburst! A tumultuous thrill
Makes the great drooping banners outward sway;
And the vast crowd, as by a sovereign will,
Heaves with excited sympathies, that still
All doubts of the becoming sacrifice,
Where the poor heart, with pang that well might kill,
Yields up, for severance, all its mortal ties,
Dying to each dear hope, ere yet to life it dies!
XXXVI.
Yet, 'midst the billowy roll of that great rush,That music tempest—breaking on the ear,
Like some great mountain torrent, from the hush
Of mighty forest, suddenly waking fear
In the surprised senses, as they hear—
The echo of that agonizing shriek
Reverberates over all—not loud, but clear—
And woman faints; the powerful man feels weak,
And every heart grows chill, with awe that can not speak.
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XXXVII.
They question of that music, in their hearts;The pomp, the pride; the virtue in that rite,
In ministry of which the spirit parts,
As with the precious life and dear delight!
The sunshine sudden dims upon the sight;
The altar smokes dispersed, ascend no more:
Oh! these are omens that declare for blight!
Is it Religion thus that stabs the core—
Love, that from Life thus robs, the Love so dear before?
XXXVIII.
They dare not think—they must not feel—not braveThe impious questioning of the Law Divine!—
Yet still they hear that cry above the wave;
It broods, an awful Presence, o'er the shrine!
So the strong swimmer, struggling in the brine,
Sinks in despairing weakness—one dread cry,
As his soul yields, the conflict to resign,
Rises o'er raging sea, and stormy sky,
O'er all their wrath supreme, in its sharp agony!
XXXIX.
But the seas close above the drowning form,And the shriek's echo is dispersed in air;
The sorrows of the soul survive the storm,
And though the cry is hush'd of that despair,
The deadly desolation harbors there,
Still watching the heart's ruins, day and night:
And memory comes, with melancholy care,
Watering her withered shrubs, whose hapless blight
No longer mocks the sense, no more offends the sight.
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XL.
Perchance, in wisdom is the offering made;For earth is full of sorrow: he who dreams
With Fancy, is by Passion still betrayed;
Pangs lurk in realms of rapture; brightest gleams
Shoot from the serpent's eye; our noblest schemes,
Mock'd by denial, turn upon the heart,
And prey like vultures; things that boyhood deems
His blessings, nestle, with insidious art,
And linger but to sting, nor while they sting, depart!
XLI.
These are the hourly, world-wide histories!How wise, if by rejection from the first,
We baffle such close-swarming enemies,
And ere they wound us, see them at the worst;
Conceive each snare; behold each bubble burst;
Anticipate the venom in its core,
Ere yet its tortures make our lives accursed;
Deny the syren singing by the shore,
And from close-waxéd ears, shut out the treacherous lore!
XLII.
Secure in thoughts of holiness; in calmThat never feels the gales of passion blow;
In prayer—that from austerity plucks balm,
Superior, to the soul-relaxing flow
Of fancies, too capricious in their glow—
The refuge grows the home; and, at the last,
The heart, no longer vexed by mortal throe,
Learns, upward still, each yearning look to cast,
Fixes its hope on Heaven—the future, not the past!
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XLIII.
The love which is eternal, pure as sweet,Takes empire o'er the mortal—in the place
Of those wild joys, that, perilously fleet,
Were only joy's convulsions; leaving trace
Of sorrow after pleasure; soul and face
Equally speaking for the illusive bliss:
Unlike the rapture which hath birth in grace,
Compensative, for all we lose in this
Sad, weary world of toil, along life's precipice!
XLIV.
Yet may the virgin heart deplore awhileThe loss of virgin fancies. Earth is fair;
And there's a glory in love's mortal smile,
When first beheld, most exquisitely dear!—
The child-heart longs to pluck the fruit so rare;
To gather up its flowers; bind heart and brow
With blooms as yet unsunn'd—beyond compare—
And drink of nectarine dews, that seem to flow
From founts, that, even as they cool, make all the bosom glow.
XLV.
Ah! Love is but the mortal dream of Heaven—The earth's frail ideal of eternal love:
A faint and shadowy image, haply given
The better to beguile the soul above;
And happy she, whose loftier fancies move
To seek the substance ere the heart grows cold;
For the cool temple, fly the passionate grove;
The Bride of Christ—no man of mortal mould—
Made sure in bliss 'yond all that mortal song hath told.
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |