University of Virginia Library

From where stupendous wrecks of ruin'd worlds,
No longer guided by Omnipotence
Through fields of light and glory, wander wild
In dim cold chaos, where the elements
Unyok'd and unrestrain'd, wage frantic war,
Each as it gains the mastery triumphing
With terrible rejoicing, showing forth
The fierceness of his strength; where horrid forms
Of all primeval monsters, and the shades
Of wicked demi-gods, and spirits fallen,
Like lurid meteors move amid the gloom,
Each agonizing in the deep despair
Of his own crush'd ambition, and lost hopes,
A Spirit came, who mission'd from above
Had err'd, and lost his way, by following
A shade, through the bright wilderness of worlds
Where system within system rolls along,
Wheels within wheels, each with its myriad eyes
Floating in glory round the throne of God;
From whence that Spirit went while earth was young,
Radiant with bliss and beauty, and sped on
Forgetful of his charge, until he sunk
In that abyss of wreck'd and worthless things
Which God has thrown away.
Amaz'd, he shrank
From all the strange cold horrors of the scene,
Where rough black masses, that were once fair worlds,
Reel'd through the dark and voiceless sea of space;
And fix'd white faces, and pale rigid forms,
Gleam'd from the surging waves, of flood, and fire,
Which winds, by God no longer held in check
Heav'd onward in their fury. Horribly
Glanc'd out the hideous phantoms, filling all
The Spirit with a shuddering agony,
A terror almost unendurable,
As restlessly he rov'd and sought in vain
The realms of light and order. When at length
Subdued and wearied, like an eagle toss'd
Amid the billows of a thunder cloud
He droop'd his wings despairingly, there fell
One glittering ray of mercy through the gloom,
One warm life-colour'd ray—and he sprang up
Rejoicing in its radiance into light,
The thrilling light and warmth and hue of life.
But not to his first bliss was he restor'd,
But sent a wanderer through the universe,
To follow shadows, and in weariness
To long for rest,—rest, even beneath the feet
Of the rejoicing angles.
This green Earth
Just then came sailing gloriously along
Waving her fragrant garlands in the light
And uttering as she mov'd a dreamy hymn
Of all sweet melodies, so that it seem'd
As if the atmosphere around her form
Was one soft sea of fragrance giving out
Delicious music from its moving waves.
Wild with delight he threw him on her breast,
And vow'd her fairer than his native heaven.
It was indeed a rich and lovely spot
That he alighted on. An orange grove,
All thickly sprinkled with the pearly stars
Of its luxuriant bloom. Sweet songs of birds
Gush'd from the breezy shade, and ruby wings
Flash'd mid'st the emerald foliage.
Then a strain
Of music, such as mingles with the soul
Awaking all sweet memories, all pure thoughts,
All high and deep emotions, floated past,
And seem'd a vocal zephyr worshipping
The purity of love. Heaven is not far!
The Wandering Spirit cried in ecstacy,
For, lo! a Spirit from its melodies
Is lingering near me. List—another strain
Richer and sweeter—and the Spirit rose
And sought the fountain of those harmonies,
Which he imagin'd came all fresh from Heaven.
He had forgotten how divinely pure
Heaven's tuneful spirits are. And now he stood
Before a gilded temple, which threw off
The dazzling sunbeams like a thousand shafts
Of glittering glory. Bosom'd deep it stood
In clustering rose-trees, and the fairest vines
Train'd o'er the portico their scented wreaths,
And bound the snowy columns; while within
A fountain of pure water threw its gems
Upon the blue-vein'd marble of the floor;
And o'er the delicate spice-breathing plants
That droop'd their pearly flowers, which seem'd so frail
That they might melt, and breathe themselves away
Upon the trembling air that bath'd the brow
And stir'd the dark locks of a maid, who lay
On crimson cushions, 'neath the azure folds
Of heavy silken curtains, sweeping low
With fringe of glittering gold, and rows of pearl.
That maid was slight, symmetrical and fair,
Not white like sculptur'd stone, but richly ting'd
With beauty, life, and health. The rose-hued gauze
That floated o'er the swelling loveliness
Of shoulders, neck, and bosom, only seem'd
To lend a modest blush to things too pure
And wholly beautiful to need a veil.
Her features all were perfect, and her face
A faultless temple of transparent pearl
Through which gleam'd out with warm and ardent light
The torch of every minister that came
To offer up his worship. In her eyes
So soft, so dark, so melting, liv'd a smile
Of maiden love, in its pure worshipping
Its perfect trust and truth. The spirit felt
That he had never touched a thing so fair
So worthy of his worship. From her lips
Breath'd melting music, filling all the air
With living melody.
Another sound—
A form approach'd the bower, a tall strong man
Of fierce expression, forehead high and clear
O'er which the ebon clusters of his hair
Lay in fine contrast, but his knitted brow
Bent like black clouds, above his lightning eyes,
That glanc'd with piercing splendour, and the lips
Were finely cut, expressing depth, and strength
Of purpose, and emotion. Such a one
He was, as woman of the melting heart
May love to adoration. For it seems
That love forever throws his richest light
And sweetest rose buds, over the stern heart
And haughty brow, where passions strong and fierce
Sit thron'd in dark dominion. Woman's soul
Seems ever to derive its highest bliss
From the proud ardent worshipping of one
Who never bow'd or sued to aught on earth
Except her worth and beauty. For she deems
That water pure and inexhaustible,
Which gushes from the flint rock; while the spring
Upon the green hill side, that bubbles up
Amongst sweet blossoms, in the time of dearth
Will fail, and leave the flowers it nurs'd, to die.
The Spirit shrank before that mortal form
And deem'd that some dark fiend had dared intrude
Thus on the presence of a deity.
Surely, he said, the gentle one will fly
From such a fearful presence. But she rose
At his approach; and with a cry of joy
Gave her white hand in greeting. Then it was
That Spirit witness'd first, and doubtingly,
The fond idolatry of human love,
The all-revealing worship of the eyes,
The smile that melts and mingles hearts in bliss,
The timid touch that thrills along the nerves,
And spreads a flush of beauty o'er the cheek
As if the altar fire upon the heart
Flash'd up, and fill'd the temple, beaming through
The half transparent walls, with crimson light.
Carlos—the maiden murmur'd o'er and o'er,
Luella—Dearest—was the fond reply.
And there was rapture in the low sweet tones
That came in fitful murmurs from red lips,
That trembled with emotion. Here is bliss
The Spirit said. The heaven I left has naught
More deep, and all-pervading.
It was night,
One of those sweet still nights that seem to shed
A peace upon the soul, subduing all
Its pains and passions into calm repose.
When moonlight calls young timid lovers forth
To weave fond fancies with its trembling beams,
And breathe soft messages to silvery clouds
That flit like angels 'tween the earth and heaven,
And hear responses in the balmy breath
Of winds, which with their pinions cool with dew
Linger amongst the rose buds, touch their lips
And catch the holy incense of their breath.
Long Carlos sat, conversing sigh for sigh
With this sweet soother, which would lovingly
Lift, like a playful sister, his damp curls
And bathe his throbbing temples and flush'd cheek,
With unction of rich balm, then sink away
With low and tender whisper, but to come
Again with richer offering. Carlos' soul
Grew faint and sorrowful in that soft night,
A heavy sadness press'd upon his mind,
As when the shadow of a hideous dream
Lies heavy on the morning. He arose
And wander'd musing through the orange grove
Which wav'd in dewy beauty like a flood
Of scented water, rich with pearly fleets
Of living blossoms, round Luella's bower.
His thoughts were with the maiden, and he dwelt
On all her fervent truth, and trusting love
All through the weary years, in which they knew
No comforter but hope—while sternly proud
His sire watch'd o'er the heir of his high name
And scorn'd the tree upon the last green bough
Of which, in lonely bloom, Luella hung.
And when he fled away, she knew not where,
Departing in his madness suddenly,
Without a farewell even unto her
To brave the sword, the ball, fatigue, and thirst,
Famine and death, amid the frantic scenes
Where madmen seek for glory—where the brave
Seek blessings, peace, and freedom; where he sought
Oblivion to the pangs that would not sleep;
The pangs of wounded pride, of hope deferr'd,
Of baffl'd passion, and of self reproach.
And when upon his casque the lurid light
That men call glory dwelt, he turned away
Disgusted, from the foul phosphoric light
That feeds on death, and torture, blood, and tears,
And sighs from withering hearts. So he came home
Way worn, and wounded, and in pilgrim guise
Hoping he knew not what. It was a night
Of fearful tempest, when he stood once more
Before his father's portal, and requir'd
The pilgrim stranger's boon, and then so chang'd
Was he, that servants who had dandled him
Upon their knees, no longer knew his face,
But told the stranger of young Carlos' flight
Or most mysterious death; and that their lord
Smil'd never from that day, but moan'd and sigh'd
And wander'd like one crazy, calling oft
On Carlos' name, in such a plaintive tone
Of broken-hearted sorrow, that the rocks
Which caught the echoes threw them back again
With voice of bitter weeping. For they said
The heart of their good lord was rich in love,
But that the rose of his affections died
While yet the dew of life's refulgent morn
Lay trembling in its bosom. From that hour
His spirit knew no joy, but in the child
Which with her dying blessing she bequeath'd
To his paternal love. The old men wept
As they rehears'd their grief, and Carlos' heart
Was full almost to bursting, as they told
How their good lord had died, with Carlos' name,
In mingled prayers and blessings, on his lips.
But not a word was said by these old men,
Of Carlos' lov'd Luella, and her name
His lips refus'd to utter, yet he stray'd
Still wrap'd in his disguise, to that dear grove
And met her weeping there—With timid glance
She scan'd his person, then with trembling joy
Sank on his bosom.
Days of full blown bliss
Had since been his; and now it but remain'd
To lead her to the altar. Musing thus
Upon Luella's sorrows, love, and truth,
And all his painful wanderings, and the peace,
The ecstatic peace now closing its soft wings
Around his quiet heart, he wanders on
To his Luella's bower. It is her voice
What does she here at midnight? who is he
Who sits familiarly beside her? Heavens!
She weeps—and with an earnest voice protests
Her fond and changeless love. Oh agony
Can this be possible? And yet he hears
That voice, the very music of his soul
Vowing the love away, which until then
He never once had doubted, which has been
His solace in all ills—a holy shield
From sin, and all temptation; the one pearl
Which he had deem'd the world and his own soul
A price too low for. Now all, all was past—
The mirror broken that reflected heaven,
And his heart rent asunder. With a groan
He knelt down at her feet, drew his keen blade
And pierc'd his breast, so that the warm blood sprang
And sprinkled her white bosom. One wild cry
She utter'd clasp'd her arms around his neck
And they sank down together
All aghast
The wandering spirit stood. He had assum'd
The form of Carlos, and with words of doubt.
Drawn from Luella those assurances
Which Carlos' ear had drank, he could have fled
Even to the chaotic gulf again
To 'scape the terrors of that scene of death.
Benelli! cried a Watcher from on high,
Thou vain and erring spirit! see what wo
One quilty thought of thine has brought to pass!
Now thou art doom'd to linger in this bower
And sooth that wretched maiden visible
To her alone, in that beloved form
In which thou didst deceive her. Come, and look
Upon the face of death, the child of sin,
And shudder lest it be thy fearful doom
To dwell with it forever.
The display
That pains the mourner's eye, the funeral pomp,
That strange absurdity of human pride
Which decks pale death in glittering panoply
And mocks corruption with a show of power
Had been enacted; and Luella sat
Cold, pale, and feeble, with neglected hair
And deep black garments, on the blood stain'd pave
Within her fatal bower. A shadow pass'd—
Wild expectation waken'd, wilder hope
Stir'd her soul's centre. More distinct it grew
Upon the moonlight. Carlos! Love! she cried
In tones of fearful rapture, Heaven be prais'd
My prayer is answer'd; angel witnesses
Have told thee all my truth, and thou art come
To say thou dost not doubt me. 'Twas a fiend
That taught thee to be jealous of a heart
Which was all full of thee. Speak to me love,
But once, and say thou know'st me purely true.
There came a voice of music on the night,
As if the air were living melody,
And every drop of dew a crystal bell
Rung by a vocal billow.

In lingering cadence on the balmy breeze
The music died, and with its melting tone
The spirit shadow faded. On her knees
Luella had been listening, and her face,
Late like a lily on a broken stem,
Grew radiant as the morning, while she pour'd
A rapturous thanksgiving. Round her stood
Her maids in wonder. They had only seen
The shadow of a cloud that cross'd the moon;
And whisper'd music of the dark green leaves
Conversing with the wind was all they heard;
And so they wept in pity and declar'd
Their broken-hearted lady lunatic.
In vain she told them Carlos had been there
With words of consolation. How could they
Believe so strange a story? so they pray'd
With many tears, and watch'd her night and day,
And every night sat with her in her bower,
And heard her sad communings with her love
Till their hearts melted, and their sobs grew loud,
And drown'd her gentle murmurs. Sad it was
To see her feeding thus upon her grief
And life from her young lips, and tainted cheek
Slow fading like the radiance of the west
Before night's pensive face. Her father's heart,
As her life wasted, wither'd. He had laid
A wife, and seven fair children in their graves,
And she alone was left, and he had hoped
Such fond and brilliant things as fathers hope
For fair and gentle daughters. Now he wept
Her swift decay, with agonizing pray'rs
That he might die with her, and thus escape
The desolation which an old man feels
Alone beside his hearth; whence all fair forms,
All gentle voices, and all loving hearts
Have gone forevermore.
Benelli, then,
Who furnish'd for celestial happiness,
Had envied the one bliss of human hearts,
Felt how like gall and wormwood to the taste
The cup that we have long'd to drain may prove.
Luella's soul was now pour'd out to him
In words of fervent love, while stern despair
Held all her pulses in a torturing check,
And thus her eye was dim, and pale her cheek,
Her brain oppress'd as by a weight of ice,
While in her breast the burning current lay
Like Ætna's bosom'd lava, drying up
The silver spring of being; and her words
Were sad, and incoherent, yet most sweet,
Like pensive wailings of a soft-ton'd harp
Broken, and hung upon a willow tree
Where the long weepers streaming on the wind
Sweep o'er the chords, and waken low strange tones
Which melt into the spirit, as the dew
Comes down into the blossom, filling it
With an oppressive sweetness till it droops,
And weeps delicious tears.
The moon had set,
The stars were dim, like sleepy watchers' eyes;
The winds, the waters, every thing was still,
So still that one might almost be forgiven
For deeming that the God of nature slept
Upon her placid breast. The last pale rose
Lay scatter'd, like a shiver'd diadem,
Within Luella's bower, and she was there,
Reclin'd upon her couch, wasted and weak
And white as alabaster. Round her knelt
Her weeping maidens, while with broken sighs
She murmur'd to her love—I feel, she said
At length, a drowsy faintness. All my frame
Grows chill and heavy—Carlos—this is death—
My bridal hour has come—Wait for me love—
I will go with thee soon.
Now shall I learn,
Benelli said, this mystery of life
In unity with clay. The last faint sigh
Was lingering on Luella's trembling lips,
The light was fading from her half clos'd eyes,
The faithful girls who bath'd her hands with tears,
Now shudder'd as they felt how cold they grew.
Then o'er her form Benelli first observ'd
An exhalation like a silvery mist,
Wreathing and gathering, as when the sun
Exhales light vapours from a mountain spring.
Condensing slowly, it at length rose up
In form and feature of the nerveless clay
From which it was releas'd; but that it stood
In pure etherial transparency,
And mournful in its beauty, as it seemed
To seek some kindred shade, or spirit guide
To lead it to its home. My beautiful!
Benelli cried, thou now art like to me
And thou art now mine own. With one wild cry
She fled at his approach, and meteor-like
Left but a shining track along the sky,
And vanish'd from his view.
Alone—alone—
Benelli stood, and felt the dreariness
Of utter desolation, hopeless—cold—
Almost without a wish. But he was free
To wander as he listed. So he pass'd
From zone to zone, through every varied clime
In search of rest, but naught on earth could still
The yearning of his nature. Human love
He had explor'd—its strength, its depth, its bliss,
Its anguish, and its end. Beauty's spell
Could thrall him never more, for he had seen
Its loveliest blossom die. In restless mood,
He mingled with the fitful autumn winds,
And joy'd to shake the sear leaves from the trees,
In some old pathless wood. To strip the bloom
From off the latest flower stalk in the glen,
To fright the timid fawn from his repast
By sudden rustling of the thicket near.
To chase the sweet lone warbler from the spray
With sound of rushing wings. To drive, with storms,
The flights of birds of passage, till their wings
Were wet, and weary in the aerial way.
To wreck the frail and beautiful of earth
And strew them in the dust. When winter came
He rode the tempest, shouted in the blast,
Piled up the drift, and dash'd the cutting sleet
In each wayfarer's face. Moan'd at the door
Of weary hearted watcher, till her blood
Grew curdly in its channels. Shook the sash
And shriek'd at midnight, till the love lorn maid
Believ'd her lost one's spirit sought to find
Admittance to her chamber, to unfold
The fearful mysteries of the unseen world.
But when the azure eye of the young spring
Beam'd on him with its tearful smile of love,
The gentle influence that was all abroad
Fell on him like the blessed summer rain
Upon the desert, melting even him
To pensive tenderness, so that he lov'd
To echo back the carol of the bird
By dell or wilderness. To swell the song
Of running waters.
'Twas an eventide
When spring's first buds were opening, that he met
Beside a mountain stream a pensive man,
Of whom he well might deem that all life's fire
Was centred in his eyes, so radiantly
They dwelt on earth and heaven; while lip, and cheek
Were white as Paros marble. Here is one,
He cried, with whom a spiritual creature may
Hold close communion. He has naught of earth
Except this half transparent veil of flesh
Which clogs the flight of the impetuous soul,
And dims the mental sight. So, day by day,
He wander'd with a man who idly sought
To wreath undying garlands of the flowers
That grow in death's domain. Who vainly sought
To find the living waters gushing free
Amid the sand hills of this desert world.
And it was joy unto him to converse
With such a wayward man; to fill his mind
With strange fantastic visions, and wild shapes
Of bright unreal fancies, such as men
Are prone to worship. Many a summer eve
At that entrancing hour which casts a spell
Of melting sweetness over soul and sense.
Of nature's children; when the green earth lies
So like a garland on the rosiest wave
Of heaven's pure sea of glory; where the soul
Seems blending with the holy atmosphere
Of beauty, fragrance, and rich melody,
That flows in blissful billows from high heaven
Through all infinity, that poet rov'd
With pallid cheek, wrap'd sense, and heavenward eye,
His bosom swelling with the single tide
Of feeling—deep strange feeling, drawing in
At each avenue of the raptur'd soul
Streams of Jehovah's glory, till his brain
Grew wild with ecstacy, and thrilling words
Hung trembling on his lips. Benelli then
Delighted to be near him, to sketch forth
Forms of immortal beauty, as they dwelt
Upon his memory, by the touch of earth,
And breath of error render'd dim and dark;
Or whisper to him half forgotten tales
Of heaven's incommunicable bliss;
Its all pervading and ecstatic love;
Its full fruition: with the consciousness
Of never ending durance. Oft he threw
The beauty of his form upon the mist
That floated down the valley; or look'd forth
With soul bewildering smile from fleecy clouds
That lay amid the ocean of the west,
When such a changing radiance of bright beams
Of every hue of glory centre there,
That we believe that heaven, with all its pomp,
Is hidden only by the emerald wall
Of our horizon—o'er the billowy heights
Of which gleam angels' wings, and crimson robes,
And harps, and coronets, of burnish'd gold—
Till as we gaze we almost seem to hear
The distant echo of seraphic song
Blent with the low sweet music of the wind.
And when the holy night had put aside
The glittering tissue of the veil of day,
Revealing the infinite depths, in which
Our universe performs its measur'd dance,
With myriads of bright creatures, keeping time
To choral singing of the morning stars
Around the throne of God,—'twas his delight
To point out angels, with their flashing wings,
Deep in the dark expanse, guiding the stars,
Or riding the fierce comets joyously
Up their eliptic arches, and away
Unto the verge of the chaotic gulf,
At thought of which he shuddered, while he drew
Dark visions of stupendous horror thence,
And wove them with the strange imaginings
Of that poor visionary poet's brain,
Who pour'd them forth in bursts of raptur'd song
On which the world hung spell bound with delight;
And Fame, and Honour twin'd their richest wreaths,
Decreed them his, and hung them up on high
To be admir'd, and envied, and adored,
Throughout all time; while he, to whom belong'd
The living laurel, dwelt in solitude,
Neglected, poor, and quite unknown by all.
And if a distant echo of his fame
Was borne to his low home, how vain and cold
It fell upon his spirit, like the dew
That autumn sheds upon the dying flowers.
What value had the world's applause to him
Who lack'd the “daily bread” for which each morn
He made his humble prayer?—The world knew well—
Taught by the inspiration of his song
That he was pouring his rich spirit out
From deep and fatal wounds within his heart.
Yet she rejoiced, and will'd him to sing on,
That she might drink his fragrance till she reel'd.
For he was to her like the precious tree
Which drops delicious incense from the wound
Of which 'tis sure to die. So he sung on,
And she ador'd his lay and let him starve.
Then rear'd a proud mausoleum to his name,
And wrote, in golden letters, on its front,
The last and saddest lay that agony
Wrung out from his crush'd heart, as with a smile
His rich and lofty spirit pass'd away.
Benelli hover'd by the low green mound
That humble weepers piled above his form,
And where the tresses of the willow tree
Dishevel'd, like a stricken woman's hair,
Were floating on the breeze, which ever more
Linger'd in that sweet spot, near which a brook
Sung its eternal song, with chorus sweet
Hymn'd by the congregation of glad birds
That cluster'd in the shade. And every day
His beautiful black spaniel, poor Fidelle,
Came to her master's grave, and laid her down
Above his breast, on which lay stiff and still
The hand that fed her, and with fond caress
Lay on her head, or smooth'd her velvet coat,
While big tears dropp'd upon her, as he said
In all this cold wide world, my poor Fidelle,
I have no friend but thee. Then she would moan,
And her large eyes grow wet with sympathy.
Then he would pity her, and smile and say,
I will not make thee sorrowful Fidelle,
Come let us go and play. Then she would leap,
And show her gladness in a thousand ways
As nature gave her utterance; and the man
Would half forget his sorrows in the joy
Of his dumb play-fellow, whose faithful love
Was sweeter and more precious to his heart,
Than all the promises of deathless fame
That came in babbling echoes to his ears.
And now that all her agonizing cries
Fail'd to arouse him, still she linger'd there,
With nature's unambiguous eloquence,
Beseeching every one who came that way
To give her back her master,—till at length
There came a lady of a pensive mien,
In dress as black and shining as Fidelle's,
And eyes almost as dark, although their light,
Half quench'd by sorrow, trembled on the view
Like purest diamond shining meekly up
Through salt sea-ripples. On her brow there lay
A meekness as of sorrow link'd with love,
To her it was a luxury to weep
O'er every thing that bore similitude
To her own broken visions. So she came
And knelt beside that grave, and pray'd, and wept,
With one arm round Fidelle, who nestled close
Unto her bosom, moaning piteously.
And when at length the lady rose to go
And said wilt thou go with me poor Fidelle,
The creature went, for very gratitude
That she wept o'er her master.
So it is,
Benelli said. The love which might have fed
His lamp of life with rapture, many a day,
Now when his ear is deaf, and clos'd his eye,
Pours out its soul in weeping o'er his tomb.
Alas for Genius! This is then the meed
That earth accords unto it,—broken hopes,
A life of penury, a death—of want,
And fearful struggles of a mighty mind,
Which wrestling with the angels for the gems
That glow upon their lyres, forgets that life
Is nurtur'd on the bosom of the earth;
Yet being link'd to nature feels her pangs
And blends her wailing with its highest notes.
While list'ning thousands bless the agony
That wrings his tuneful life out, drop by drop,
And clap their hands in raptures of delight
Because he moans so sweetly. Proving thus
The richest halo of poetic fame
A rainbow of the brightest hues of heaven
In glory living, on a shower of tears.
Thus mus'd Benelli o'er the sepulchre,
Dark'ning the willow shadows with the hue
Of his desponding thoughts. The trumpet's voice
Arous'd him from his grief, and he went forth
Where men were telling, with enthusiasm,
Of laurels to be won on battle-fields,
So glorious that the myriads of the earth
Go forth and jeopard life, for the delight
Of seeing such celestial chaplets bloom
One single moment, o'er a victor's brow.
I know, he said, there is a treasure hid
Amid the fading blossoms of this world,
Which satisfies the longings of the soul,
And fill its vast desires with floods of peace.
I'll go and seek it, where mankind contend
For Victory's starry crown.
From sea to sea
He wander'd, scanning eagerly the earth,
But mountain, plain, and vale were beautiful
With sweet white flowers of peace. No stains of blood
Mix'd its pollution with the laughing rill,
No foot print of the war-horse mark'd the sod
That lay so soft all bright, by field, and grove.
But scatter'd up and down, where'er he went,
Were august statues, and proud monuments,
Commemorative of the hero's fame.
At length he found him on an isle that lay
Upon the ocean, like an autumn leaf
Thrown on a world of waters, all alone.
There by an isolated monument,
He heard men say, that He who slept beneath
Won, wore, and lost, the richest diadem
That minion ever worship'd. Then they told
How like a startling meteor was his course,
With lurid lustre rising from the sea,
And passing on with fierce magnificence,
Washing his way with blood; while the earth shook
And men knelt down and worship'd, pouring forth
Loud prayers and pœans to the conqueror's name.
But woman's voice of agony was there,
Wild wailing o'er her immolated loves,
And desecrated home. At length he sunk
Beneath a “sea of flame.” And men look'd on
And wonder'd, when they saw the fallen star
Shorn of its halo—toss'd about by powers
That late stood trembling, smitten with its fear;
Until at length, on that lone ocean isle
Its light went out—forever. Sick at heart
Benelli sought the immortality
For which the buried of Saint Helena
Liv'd, spake, and acted. 'Twas a mournful scroll
Of mighty deeds, all blotted o'er with blood,
And blister'd in its proudest passages
With woman's heart-wrung tears; while every leaf
Of deathless laurel that enwreath'd his name,
Was dripping with the hot and bitter drops
By misery wrung from hearts whence he had torn
The loving and belov'd.
It is enough.
Oh I am sick of earth, Benelli said,
This beautiful bright earth, with bow'rs, and streams,
And flowers, and fruits, amid which it would seem
That Angels might be happy, yet where dwells
No perfect lasting bliss. Where death! death! death!
Is written every where. Have I not seen
The loveliest of its creatures fade, and die?
Have I not commun'd with a mighty mind,
A high pure spirit that stoop'd not to earth,
But hover'd ever on the verge of heaven,
Catching the echoes of celestial lyres,
And sending them like sweet familiar birds,
To fill with music every verdant spot
By cottage, hall, or palace? Yet he died—
Even in the day of manhood's prime, he died!
And here in this lone ocean isle is built
A tomb, to which ambition need but come
To prove his torch a death-light, and his crown
A wreath of funeral cypress, dew'd with tears.
Earth! earth! If it were mine to guide thy course
I'd hurl thee to thy fellows, in th' abyss
Of horrible confusion. There, vain hope
Comes never, to transform the evening clouds
Into a glorious miniature of heaven,
And bear the spirit on her downy wing
Up, up, toward it, till the bright hues fade,
And livid lightnings leap from the dark pile
And strike him back to earth to agonize
With disappointment, far more terrible
Than all the sullen torpor of despair.
So, recklessly he wander'd, scorning all
The cares, the hopes, the pleasures of mankind,
Till coming to a soft and quiet vale,
That lay so like the cradle of repose,
Amid the wooded mountains of the west,
He linger'd in its bosom. Cool and bright,
Beneath green willows lay the valley brook
Soft murmuring in its sleep; while blossom'd weeds
Dip'd their fair fingers in the limpid tide,
And threw the pure drops on the lingering breeze
That stole away the fragrance of their breath,
And mingled it with incense from the bloom
Of vines, that wreath the columns of a porch
Before a white-wash'd cottage, which repos'd
Beneath the shining foliage of dark oaks,
Which almost hid it from the eye of day.
There, bosom'd from the world, a lady dwelt
With one fair daughter, and the happy man
Who held that daughter's heart in nuptial bond.
Of gentle seeming was that lady's form,
And there was radiance in her eyes that shed
A sunlight o'er her pale and pensive face;
And there was music in her voice, which spoke
A woman's tender heart. Her hands were full
Of consolations, which she scatter'd free
To all the sick, the poor, the sorrowful.
Her days were pass'd in usefulness, and peace;
And evening always found her in her bower,
A sweet fair spot, beneath an aged oak
All wreath'd with mistletoe. Here, on her knees,
With lowly spirit, she pour'd forth her soul
In fervent aspiration. Angel forms
Were ever near her, with their balmy breath
To bless her, with the atmosphere of heaven;
And oft she gave thanksgiving unto God
For all the joy, the grief, the weal, the woe,
With which his loving hand had strewn her path.
Here, said Benelli, is true piety,
A gem which I had deem'd earth could not boast.
Till now I have but seen its counterfeit,
Consisting in a name, or formal dress.
But here within the oft afflicted heart
Of this meek lovely woman, it wells up
So sweet and pure, that angel ministers
May lave their shining pinions in the spring
And bear its dews to heaven. I will remain,
And learn of her, till I can offer up
That prayer, which rises to the eternal throne,
Than incense sweeter, richer than the hymns
Of raptur'd angels; even the humble voice
Wrung from the heart which feels, “Thy will be done.”

'Twas morn. The breeze was out upon the hills
Shaking the sleepy blossoms, and ripe buds
Till they awake, and offer'd unto heaven
Their treasur'd incense. Many bright wing'd birds
Like jewel'd bells amongst the airy boughs
Rung out, their joyous matins, and the light
That melted sweetly down into the vale
Seem'd mix'd of balm and music.
Mournfully
That morning enter'd through the dewy vines,
The windows of the cottage in the vale,
And dwelt upon the most heart rending scene
Of sorrow's drama. On a snow-white couch
Wrap'd in the pure habilaments of death
Was laid an infant. Like a form of wax
It was, so fair, even to transparency,
And beautifully moulded. But the lips
Were livid, and the eyes clos'd heavily,
In the eternal sleep. On that same couch
The mother languish'd like a broken flower
Which breathes the treasures of its perfumes out
At once, in dying sighs. Her soft brown hair
Lay o'er her pillow in dishevel'd curls,
And gave her high smooth forehead to the view
More pearly in its whiteness; while her cheeks
Wore each a flush, so like a wither'd rose.
The white vein'd lids lay heavy on her eyes,
So blue and deep, like fountains garner'd up
In marble basins, 'neath cerulean skies,
And on the soft dark lashes hung the last
Overflowing of their waters, for the ice
Of death was gathering o'er them. Painfully
Her bosom heav'd, and from her fading lips
Came low and fitful murmurings of prayer
And praise to her Redeemer. By her side
Stood her young loving husband, with his crush'd
And agonizing heart. Oh God! he groan'd,
I cannot—O I cannot let her go!
My own sweet wife! My loving, and belov'd,
We cannot part so soon. This bitter day—
How I have long'd for it, with trembling hope,
That I might see my child upon thy breast
And hear the dear name, father! It has come
And I am childless, widow'd, desolate.—
Oh speak not thus, dear love, the wife replied,
The Lord has done this. He does all things well.
I may not stay with thee, but thou may'st come
To be with me forever, in that world
Where death comes not, and none shall say farewell.
The widow'd mother of the dying one
Through all that painful scene, stood meekly by,
To bathe with cordial drops the quivering lips,
And with a perfum'd 'kerchief wipe away
The death dew from her forehead. Big bright tears.
Dropp'd slowly from her eyes, and from her lips
Came broken aspirations unto heaven.
Her last fond earthly hope lay broken there,
The tree which she had nurtur'd from the germ,
Which grew so fair and free, which she had deem'd
Would be a grateful shelter to her age,
Was cut down in its beauty. Yet she said
Thy will, Oh God, be done. Thy blessed will
Which takes my daughter from this world of pain
To everlasting rest.
They made a grave,
Beneath the oak tree, in the bower of pray'r;
And there, with solemn anthem unto Him
Who is the Resurrection and the Life.
They laid the wither'd blossom, and the bud,
And there at eve the childless widow knelt,
And still thanksgiving mingled with her prayer,
Thanksgiving that the treasure buried there
Had been to her a blessing, many years,
And that the gentle creature was not forced
To drink life's chalice to the bitter dregs,
But that the first keen draught of agony
Had proved the last. That she was now in Heaven,
Where through the mercy of the blessed One
She would be with her soon.
Months pass'd away,
And he who wept so agonizingly
Beside his dying wife, was comforted.
Aye—he had whisper'd to a second bride,
I never loved till now. The mother's heart
Was not of such material. No fair girl
Could lay a balm leaf on her memory,
And write her own name there. And yet she said
My blessed child needs not his yearning love—
And so she smil'd upon his happiness
And bless'd her second daughter, winning thus
The love, and gratitude of her young heart.

It was October, by the grass grown grave
The widow sat alone. The low voic'd brook
Seem'd purer underneath the deep blue arch
Of the autumnal heaven. A few sweet birds
Had made this shelter'd vale a resting place,
And from the shelter of the dark green oaks
Fill'd their sweet songs of passage. Fitful winds
Were sporting on the hillsides, shaking nuts
And acorns from the overladen trees;
And chasing to the valley bright ripe leaves,
As playful children chase the butterfly.
The nimble squirrel, and the timid mouse
Were gathering in their harvest; while the sun
Smil'd like a good man on the general joy.
The mourner view'd the scene with placid eye
And blessed the bounteous Ruler of the year,
For all his goodness. A few years at most
She said, and I shall drop from off life's tree
Like one of these ripe leaves. But I have hope
Thanks to the Merciful, a joyous hope,
Worth more to me than a whole universe
Though it were built of diamonds. None but Thou
Oh holy fount of goodness, none but Thou
Can'st satisfy the spirit. Though it rove
From star to star, and make the worlds its own,
It cannot rest, till it resigns itself
With all its treasures wholly unto thee.
No fear can reach it then, no cruel power
Wrest it from thy protection; no wild fear
Destroy its peace. It knows in whom it trusts
And therefore fears no evil. Blessed Lord!
Let me be thine, and all thy will be done.
Thy will be done! Oh God omnipotent,
Benelli said, Thy righteous will be done.
Here is the secret of all happiness.
This lone, weak woman carries in her breast
The germ my spirit-wisdom sought in vain,
Through all the ocean of space infinite,
Amid its radiant bands of sounding orbs,
And mighty angels passing to and fro,
Charg'd with the mandates of Omnipotence,
And doing all his pleasure joyfully.
But I was proud. I trusted mine own strength,
Preferring mine own will, and stubbornly
Wrestling against Jehovah. Oh how vain!
His word controls all powers. Spirits and men,
Will seek in vain for happiness or peace
Until they yield them, and find rest in him.

What waves of glory fill'd the valley then
With swelling, soul entrancing melody,
As if all heaven were passing, and its train
Of majesty and bliss had fallen there.
Then hovering round Benelli, beautiful
With that high joy, which perfect creatures feel
O'er humble penitence, shone radiant forms
Of ministering spirits. Bending low
He stood, in deep humility, and felt
Pure love, and rapture, all his being thrill.
Celestial splendour gathered round his form,
And rising in their light; amid the groups
Of glittering creatures, he returned to God.