University of Virginia Library

III. PART THE THIRD.

I.

Farewell unto the valleys and the shores
Lashed by the sounding sea: awhile farewell
To every haunted fountain, lawny dell,
And piny wood thro' which the night wind roars—
And oh! sweet Love, soon must I say farewell
Even to thee, and Happiness—gay flowers
Ye are who shew yourselves in sunny hours,
But die away before your buds are blown.
Life's earliest relics, in its spring-time strewn
Like wither'd weeds before the steps of Fate.
Frail, fading offerings,—yet ere I sate
Myself with sorrow, in a pleasant rhyme
Would I speak somewhat of a gentler time.

II.

Oh! full of languishment, too deep to last,
The bridal hours in happy beauty passed,
(The feather footed hours!)—and hoary Time
Smoothed his pale brow, and with a look sublime,
From out the stream of joy a measure quaffed,
And young Love shook his rosy wings and laughed.
Dance and Arcadian tale and sylvan song,
Which to those moments did of right belong,
Went round and then returned: the morning Sun
Met brighter eyes than e'er he glanced upon,
And evening saw them still the same, and night
Looked from her star-lit throne, on stars more bright.
The morn was given to tale, the noon to ease
And musing beneath shade of branching trees;
The night to slumber; but at evening gray,
When the too fiery Sun had passed away,
Music was heard beneath the smiling moon,
Till midnight came, (it ever came too soon,)
And songs which lovers once were wont to sing
Of knight forlorn and lady triumphing;
And flowers that lie upon the breast of May,
Like gems, were plucked to fashion garlands gay,
And laurels green to deck the poet's head,
For then the bard was loved and honoured.
—Some lay beside a river lapsing clear,
And fancied Sylph or Naiad watching near,
While some of fabled Faun and Dryad told,
Or Fairy haunting well or fountain cold;
And ever and anon the fitful breeze
Came aiding those most gentle phantasies,
And died away, as voices by a lyre
(Touched by the trembling of its notes) expire.
—Around the lovers brows white roses hung,
And at their feet the wealth of spring was flung;
And they at times would sit apart and speak
Each to the other with a flushing cheek,
Or note the gentle look in maiden's eye,
Called up by lordly gallant whispering by.

III.

Fate was at hand—a snake amidst the flowers,
And looked and laughed upon the passing hours;
And envy and pale hate then exiled far
Foretold the setting of Love's brighter star.
—Oh! the deep sorrow of that weary day
When Marcian chanced, as he was wont, to stray
Scarce listening to the Tyber's gentle sound,
Yet winding as the mazy river wound.
At morn he left his home, and paced along,
Companion'd only by a heart-felt song,
That sprung like incense to the gates of Heaven.
By the gay fever of his spirit driven,
He travelled swiftly onwards; but his sight
Was buried in deep thought: the enchantments bright
That lie amongst the clouds he noticed not,
And all the promise of the year forgot.
The golden fruitage from its grove of green
Looked out unheeded, and no longer seen
The sky-bird mounted toward the morning Sun,
And shrilly told aloft of day begun.
How he was wakened from that dreaming mood,
Alas, must now be known.—In the broad day
Marking the clear blue river roll away,
In squalid weeds a savage creature stood.
It is—it cannot be—Oh! Death and night!
Hath he come peering from his watery home,
Mocking and withering every human sight?
Hath dark Orsini still a power to roam?—
Dæmon or ghost or living thing he stands,
Staring with sullen eyes upon the sands,
As tho' he brooded o'er some wrong, or strove
To wreck on happier hearts the slights of love,
Like one escaped from toil, but fit for strife—
The last and lingering ill—the blight of life.

IV.

Colonna, sad Colonna—he hath fled
Wildly unto his home; there Julia lay
Upon her pillow slumbering, calm and gay
As sleep may be.—“The waves, the waves” he said,
“The sick sea-waters yawn and yield their dead—
The dead? he is alive: Peril nor pain
Death nor the grave would keep him in its bed.
The black Orsini is returned,—again.”
“Marcian,” she utter'd faintly, and a gleam
Played 'round her mouth: it was a happy dream.
“Thou lovely thing whom nature made so fair,
Young treasure of creation—must despair
Sear thy transcendent beauty, because thou
Wrapped thy sweet arms about a maniac's brow?
Julia! she sleeps, she sleeps; a happy sleep.
Oh why did I draw her within the sweep—
I—of my fiery star? It comes. I see
The comet red, which Fate, mine enemy,
Hath placed about me like a circle sure;
I cannot fly, and yet, shall I endure?
Endure—I must, evil and hate—I must,
And Hell, until I wither into dust:
That may be soon.—She moves poor wench. My love!
Hearest thou I call upon thee? My pale dove?
Still on my bosom, still.” She woke: his eye
Rolled round and round, like one in misery,
Fearful to speak: But silence is not dumb,
And in his deep eloquent agony
She read strange fearful things. He whispered “Come—
We must be gone—” (“Be gone? dear Marcian!”)
“Aye, quickly, for alas, we have no home
Nor refuge here. On land Italian
We must not build our hearths, nor hope to dwell
In safety now, from youth to age—“tis well
Perhaps 'tis well,” she said—“And wilt thou go
On a long journey with me,—far away?
I may not tell thee now; but a dire foe
Has risen upon me. Wilt thou wander—say?”
(“All the world over I—”) “Oh! thou hast said
Comfort unto my soul,” he uttered.
“Whilst I may lay my head upon thy breast,
It matters not; my Heaven is there—my rest.
Let the red star shine on, for I am thine—
Thine while I am: In darkness and dismay,
Here, or in wildernesses far away,
In poverty forlorn, or love divine,
In prisons or in freedom—aye, in death.”
—He ceased, and straightway he was calm: his breath
Was in a moment stilled: one gentle sigh
Came from pale Julia, but he trembled not,
For she was his—the rest was all forgot.
—That night they left the land of Italy.

V.

There was a tempest brooding in the air
Far in the west. Above, the skies were fair,
And the sun seemed to go in glory down:
One small black cloud (one only) like a crown,
Touched his descending disk and rested there.
Slow then it came along, to the great wind
Rebellious, and (although it blew and blew,)
It came increasing, and across the blue
Spread its dark shape, and left the sun behind
—The day-light sank, and the winds wailed about
The barque wherein the luckless couple lay,
And from the distant cloud came scattering out
Rivers of fire: it seemed as though the day
Had burst from out the billows, far away.
No pilot had they their small boat to steer
Aside from rocks, no sea-worn mariner
Who knew each creek and bay and sheltering steep,
And all the many dangers of the deep.
They fled for life, (for happiness is life,)
And met the tempest in his hour of strife,
Abroad upon the waters: they were driven
Against him by the angry winds of heaven:
And all around the clouds, the air, the sea
Rose from unnatural dead tranquillity,
And came to battle with their legions: Hail
Shot shattering down, and thunders roared aloud,
And the wild lightning from his dripping shroud
Unbound his arrowy pinions blue and pale,
And darted thro' the heavens: Below, the gale
Sang like a dirge, and the white billows lashed
The boat, and then like ravenous lions dashed
Against the deep wave-hidden rocks, and told
Of ghastly perils as they backward rolled.

VI.

The lovers, driven along from hour to hour,
Were helpless, hopeless, in the ocean's power.
—The storm continued, and no voice was heard,
Save that of some poor solitary bird,
Which sought a shelter on the quivering mast,
But soon borne off by the tremendous blast
Sank in the waters screaming. The great sea
Bared like a grave its bosom silently;
Then sank and panted like an angry thing,
With its own strength at war: The vessel flew
Towards the land, and then the billows grew
Larger and white, and roared as triumphing,
Scattering afar and wide the heavy spray
That shone like loose snow as it passed away.
—At first the dolphin and the porpoise dark
Came rolling by them, and the hungry shark
Followed the boat, patient and eager-eyed,
And the gray curlew slanting dipped her side
And the hoarse gull his wing within the foam;
But some had sank, the rest had hurried home.
And there pale Julia and her husband, clasped
Each in the other's arms, sate viewing Death:
She for his sake at times in terror gasped,
But he to cheer her kept his steady breath,
Talking of hope, and smiled like morning—There
They sate together in their sweet despair:
At times upon his breast she laid her head,
And he upon her silent beauty fed,
Hushing her fears—and 'tween her and the storm
Drew his embroidered cloak to keep her warm:
She thanked him with a look upturned to his,
The which he answered with a gentle kiss
Pressed and prolonged to pain. Her lip was cold;
And all her love and terror mutely told.

VII.

VIII.

And now—whither are gone the lovers now?
Colonna, wearest thou anguish on thy brow,
And is the valour of the moment gone?
Fair Julia, thou art smiling now alone:
The hero and the husband weeps at last—
Alas, alas! and lo! he stands aghast,
Bankrupt in every hope, and silently gasps
Like one who maddens. Hark! the timbers part
And the sea-billows come, and still he clasps
His pale pale beauty, closer to his heart,
The ship has struck. One kiss—the last—Love's own.
—They plunge into the waters and are gone.
The vessel sinks,—'tis vanished, and the sea
Rolls boiling o'er the wreck triumphantly,
And shrieks are heard and cries, and then short groans,
Which the waves stifle quick, and doubtful tones
Like the faint moanings of the wind pass by,
And horrid gurgling sounds rise up and die,
And noises like the choaking of man's breath—
—But why prolong the tale—it is of death.

IX.

—Years came and fled. To many Time was fraught
With joy—to some imperfect pleasures brought:
But to the Prince Colonna gray and old
A dull unchanging tale he ever told.
The children of his winter years were gone—
They lay, 'twas told, amongst the waters,—dead:
In the bright spirit of their youth they fled,
And left him, in his pallid age,—alone.
He wet the dust with bitter tears, and bowed
Before his idols, and vast treasures vowed
To saint or virgin from his coffers bright;
And often fiercely at the deep midnight
Would he do torture for his sin, and drank
Unto the very dregs the cup of pain.
With steel and stripe he wrought, until he sank
Beneath the bloody penance:—'twas in vain.
Remorse, Remorse—(a famished creature bred
From Sin, and feasting on its father dead,)
Sprang like a withering snake upon his heart.
It wrapped him in its fiery folds around;
It stung, and withered, but it had no sound;
And tho' her prayed and wept would not depart.

X.

The palace of his fathers, once so gay,
Was mossed and green and crumbling to decay:
The pillars yellowed in the marble halls,
And thro' the ruined casements the wild rains
Rushed with destroying wrath, and shapeless stains
Ran o'er, disfiguring, all the painted walls.
Few servants tended on their antient lord,
And mirthful revel, banished from his board,
Sought refuge with the humble. Song or sound
Echoed no more within the gallery's bound,
But in a lonely tower a lamp at times
Was seen, and startling thro' the silent air
Flew shrieks, as from a wretch whom many crimes
Had seared, and driven to life's last hold,—Despair.
—Friends passed, by one, and one, and one, away:
His foes grew glad; his brother's children gay
Cast dice for his domain, while bending low
Before the papal chair one whispered how
Report had gone abroad of some dark crime
Done by the old man in his early time,
And hinted of his vast possessions, which
Divided, might the holy church enrich,
And his contented heirs. The mitred king
Disdained to parley with so poor a thing;
Yet questioned the great prince, whose answers cold
Confirmed the story which the slanderer told.
And so he lived, (a perished shape,) like one
Lost in a lovely world—alone, alone.

XI.

And hath thy fiery planet then not set
Colonna?—When the winds and thunder met
In tumult, and around in many shapes
Death hovered with his dart, Fate turned aside
The arrows, laughing o'er the waters wide,
Till the sea trembled. Ah! but who escapes—
Who can escape from Fate? It frowned, and hung,
Darker than Death itself, the foreheads o'er
Of that sad pair, and when the billows flung
Their limbs in scorn upon the foamy shore,
Uprose the veering wind, and the next wave
Scarce touched the ringlet of Colonna's hair,
Which, streaming black upon the strand, lay there
The image of his fortunes—Dark and wild,
Neglected, torn,—with an unquiet grave
Open beside him, there Colonna smiled,
Or so it seemed, in death, but in his grasp
Still held the lost and lifeless Julia.
There, tempest-stricken—in each others clasp,
Beautiful on the sea-beat shore they lay:
Around her body were his arms enwove,
Her head upon his bosom, close as love.

XII.

They died not. Housed within a fisher's cot
Life dawned on them, and pain was soon forgot.
Time flew, and health returned and quietness,
And still i' the world they found enough to bless.
Colonna plied him in the fisher's trade;
And Julia watched his evening sail,—afraid
If but a crested wave was on the deep,
And if she heard the ocean billows sweep
Loudly along the shore, she looked on high,
And prophesied of storm and tempest nigh.
—One eve, returning home with shout and song,
The fishers plied their tossing boat along,
And Marcian at the helm the rudder guided,
And looked upon the waters, which divided
Beside the barque, seeming to rise and die,
Like short hours in a deep eternity.
He saw a menial standing on the strand,
Who, turning from a chart within his hand,
Looked round to note the place—Again—It was—
He saw—Orsini's slave—Alas, Alas!
Oh! Love, fair Love! is there no wilderness
For thee to hide thee in thy dark distress?
No haven and no hope, sweetest of all,
For thee to celebrate thy festival?
A sad short world is this, and yet thou hast
No home where thou may'st dream 'till life be past.
Tumult and strife and storm, and wild dismay,
Envy and hate,—and thus we pass away;
And trample on the flowers that deck our road,
And goad ourselves, if others do not goad.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

My tale hath reached its end: yet still there dwells
A superstition in those piny dells,
Near to Laverna. Forms 'tis said, are seen
Beside the cave where once Colonna lay,
And shadows linger there at close of day,
And dusky shapes amongst the forests green
Pass off like vapours at the break of morn;
And sometimes a faint figure, (with a star
Crowning her forehead,) has been seen afar,
To haunt the cliff and hang her head forlorn:
And peasants still at the approach of night,
Even at distance, shun that starry light,
And dread ‘The Lady of the Mountains’ when
She rises radiant from her haunted glen.
The convent? still it stands: its pile is strong,
And well it echoes back the tempest's song;
And still the cave is there; but they, alone
Who made it famous,—they are passed and gone.