 | Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch |  |
128
COUNT JULIAN.
“And she was lost—and yet I breathed,—
But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.”
Byron.
But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.”
Byron.
I
The midnight lamps shone dim and low,“Rodrigue, le dernier des Rois Goths, souilla le trône par ses vices. Personne n' ignore l' histoire de la fille du Comte Julien, à qui Rodrigue, dit-on, fit violence. Ainsi les débauches des tyrans ont presque toujours été la cause ou le prétexte de leur ruine.” Florian, Précis historique sur les Maures.
In the old Castilian hall,
On the solemn couch of the shrouded dead—
On the sable plume and pall:
And mournfully a voice was heard,
To wail the Spirit's flight;
And pour its weight of sorrow forth
Upon the lonely night!
129
II
“My daughter—my own beauteous one—My flower of love—that grew
In brightness, like a forest-rose,
'Mid summer light and dew:
Thine eyes—thy deep, blue, laughing eyes—
Were like the rays of morn
First sparkling in the dewy east
O'er violets newly born!
III
Thy step—methinks I hear it now!—As light, and wild, and free,
As when thou cam'st a little one,
To climb thy father's knee:
Or graceful as a fawn, just roused,
Thou boundedst by my side;
My friend and my companion—
My blessing and my pride!
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IV
And was it but to see thee thusI watched the early trace
Of genius in thine ardent mind—
And beauty in thy face:
Was it for this,—'mid smiles and tears
I blessed thy natal day;
That thou might'st thus become, oh, shame!—
A hated Despot's prey!
V
The sun of many years hath setOn thy poor mother's grave;—
Oh! did her spirit hear thy voice—
Yet lack the power to save!—
Heard she thy frantic shriek for aid
Upon the midnight gloom;
And was it not a spell to rend—
To burst the marble tomb!
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VI
Look on me, Heaven!—whilst here I kneelBeside the young—the dead,
And cry for vengeance!—Be her death
A curse upon his head!
Ne'er may he know a quiet heart,
A calm and painless rest;
But be a father's agony
Like mountains on his breast!”
VII
There are warlike spears and sabres bright,And many a martial strain,—
For the forces of the Saracen
Are 'midst the hills of Spain!
And earth thrills 'neath the gathering tread,
Of thrice twelve thousand feet;
Where the rival armies pitch their tents,
By the stream of Guadalete.
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VIII
And Roderick—the King—rides there,On his triumphal car;
In robes of pearl and silver dight,
And glittering like a star:
Oh! for the sword that gleam'd of old,
In Alaric's mighty hand;
How had he blushed to view thy cheek,
Thou woman in command!
IX
'Twas not the lightning crossed the path—It was the flash of arms—
Hark to the onset cry!—what heart
But to the battle warms!—
Allah il Allah!—to the vault
The Moslem shouts ascend,—
And fast beneath the rushing steel
The quailing Spaniards bend!
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X
Allah il Allah!—Hark!—againThat fierce tremendous strain:
Yet through the storm one voice is heard,—
“Where art thou—King of Spain—
'Tis vain to flee—thou shalt be found,
Though at the festive board;
A father's curse is on thy path—
And vengeance on his sword!”
XI
And on he rode—and on he rode—A wild and desperate man—
Until his foamy charger stood
Where the Guadalquivir ran;
And there he still'd his bursting heart,
And bowed his weary head—
For deep within the waters lay
The King—the Monarch—dead!
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XII
Eight hundred years had swept away,And a thousand hearts had wept
The form in which Count Julian's oath
Of vengeance had been kept!
Eight hundred years had passed away,
Ere the homes of Spain were freed
From the evil and the woe which rose
From Roderick's guilty deed.
| Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch | |