Pelayo :: :: University of Virginia Library

He gently pushed her from between his knees. His
prayer was ended, and leaving her for the present to the
care of Heaven, he went forth on that visit to Adoniakim
his compatriot, which terminated, as we have already
seen, in the temporary confinement of the wicked Amri.
Little did he think that, at a season so perilous, the
foolishly fond old man would so far have suffered his
misplaced regard for the youth to have overcome his
wisdom, as to have exposed himself within the dungeon
which had been assigned for the safe keeping of his
son; still less did he anticipate the employment of so
successful an artifice as that which the cunning Amri
had practised upon his sire to beguile him within the
apartment. His own warnings to Adoniakim had been
strong and earnest—and he thought them sufficient. It
is true, he well knew how weak had been the father, but
he held him to have been weak only because he had
been so long deceived. But the mask had been taken
from his eyes—the baseness and dishonesty of the son
had been openly avowed, and Melchior did not dream
that it was possible for Adoniakim to be again beguiled
into his former weakness. He left him without fear of
any evil consequences; and, returning to Thyrza, made
his preparations for his own immediate departure from
Cordova. He was required to travel far and fast during
the two days which should intervene between that time
and the night appointed for the great meeting of the
conspirators at the Cave of Wamba. He was yet to
notify Abimelech, the young warrior who led the Jews,

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to gather his force along the neighbouring passes, and,
bringing with him a select body of his men to the meeting
at the cave, there provide himself for his entire array
with the arms which, for some time before, Melchior had
been studiously collecting in that place of retreat and
supposed safety. There were yet other duties requiring
his performance calling for despatch; and the time allowed
for his parting with his daughter was much too
brief for the love he bore her, and the sorrowing passion
at his heart. Ere he reached the solitary chamber
which was assigned her in the house of Samuel, he
heard her sad voice in song—a deep, wild lay, seemingly
the offspring of the moment-mood, and truly denoting
the fond and sacred hopelessness of her pure and gentle
spirit.

THE LAMENT OF THYRZA.
I.
And shall there be a song when I am sleeping?
And shall there be a voice when mine is dumb?
Ah, birds—ah, sisters! wherefore would ye sing?
Was not my song a music in the spring—
Was not my voice a bird's that bid ye come,
As if from sloping hills it saw ye leaping,
And gather'd gladness from each glancing wing?
II.
Have I not loved ye, sisters, with a spirit
That did not freeze to bid ye gather round?
Sweet birds—ye never dropp'd a silvery sound,
But my heart leap'd in ecstasy to hear it—
And can ye sing when I am in the ground?
III.
Alas, for me, since sorrow is undying,
And music is sweet sorrow—sad but sweet!
The birds shall lose no voice, though mine no longer
May fondly strive with theirs, for victory vying;
The bowers will not the less bestow retreat,
Nor streams deny to murmur at the feet
Of some sad sister, all denied like me;
While the big torrents, with an accent stronger,
Shall pour a rolling music like the sea.

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IV.
These shall not wail the voice that is departed—
God's blessed things shall know not I am lost—
The temple will not lose me from its choir—
And but one star shall pale its sacred fire,
And shroud itself within the world unborn.
Exiled and hopeless—lone and broken-hearted,
But with no murmur, one old gray-hair'd sire
Shall miss me ever from the crowded host,
And call my name, and hear his voice return
In echoes, and no answer shall be given,
Unless it come from heaven!
V.
Yet in my heart, undying, the sweet feeling
That taught a love of flowers and innocent song
Still spreads its thousand hands to grasp the throng
Each sunny hour of life is still revealing.
My soul shall live in them—my spirit waken
To every blessed bird-note in the trees—
To every murmur when the leaves are shaken
By the sad, sighing breeze.
I cannot lose the lovely hues that rise
In summer-setting skies—
These go not utterly with parting breath,
Oh no! it is not death.
VI.
It is not death—it is but a resuming
Of childhood's peace and infancy's first vision,
The calm of confidence, and the native clime;
Death is the shadow-born, sole child of Time,
Truth's foil, and hope's derision,
The pathway of the blind alone beglooming.
I fear him not, for in my soul I feel it—
Sweet whispers, born of thought, do still reveal it—
These birds shall yet be mine—these songs, these treasures
Of day and sunlight, and the passing pleasures
The night-breeze flings us, which has newly fann'd
Yemen's fresh gardens and the Happy Land.
VII.
Yet, are these hopes to me? oh, what the flowers,
The songs of birds that nestle on my heart,
What if they all depart?
I may not weep to lose them, nor the glory,
The freshness of the blossom-bidden hours
That came about me with such sainted story,
And made heaven-haunted homes of hoary bow'rs—

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I should not find sweet music in the bird,
The whispering hours, in solemn shadow heard,
The fairy, flowery throng,
Nor in the seats of haunt and hopeful song,
Though all with me transferr'd—
If, in that other home, I still abide,
A worshipper denied.
VIII.
My thought is of my childhood's thought no more—
In place of gentle birds and blooming flowers,
I dream of mighty things,
Such as Judea loved and look'd of yore!
An image of command and sceptred powers
Before my vision springs.
A voice is rising ever on mine ear,
A voice of majesty, of peerless sway,
Such as all men must honour and obey—
I see a proud array—
I hear the trumpet ringing, and the song
Of the young bird my childhood loved is lost
In the deep murmur of a marching host
And banner-counted throng.
IX.
Sisters! oh, sisters! these are not for me—
These people are not mine—these things I should not see.
Let the proud Gothic maid from the high tower
Look forth with glittering eye,
And hail, with happy voice, the mighty power
Of a great nation, clothed in majesty,
Marching with pomp of war, and many a cry
Of banner'd princes, on its enemy!
Oh! where should Judah's damsel find a place
Among that victor race!
X.
Yet, sisters, when he comes,
The victor in the fight,
Amid the clang of the barbaric drums,
And follow'd by a shout of far delight—
Be fond, and seek me then—
Bring some sweet flower that hath
Been trampled on his path,
And with a gentle song within mine ear
The pleasant tale declare
Of how he look'd among the crowd of men—
Sweet sisters, ye were bless'd
Thus hallowing my rest!