The Isle of Devils A Historical Tale, Funnded on an Anecdote in the Annals of Portugal. (From an unpublished Manuscript.) By M. G. Lewis |
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 | The Isle of Devils |  |
[I.]
Speed Halcyon, speed, and here construct thy nest,Brood o'er these waves, and charm the winds to rest;
No wave should dare to swell, no wind to roar,
Till lands yon morning maid on Lisbon's shore.
That maid, as Venus fair, and chaste as she,
When first to dazzl'd sky and wondering sea
The bursting conch, love's new-born Queen exposed,
The brightest pearl that ever shell enclosed.
While love's fantastic hand had joy'd to braid,
Her locks with shells and weeds, like some sea maid:
High seated at the stern was Irza seen,
And seem'd to rule the flood, as ocean's Queen.
Smooth sail'd the bark—the sun shone full and bright;
The glitt'ring billows danced along the light;
While Irza, free from fear, from sorrow free,
Bright as the sun, and buoyant as the sea,
Bade o'er the lute her flying fingers move,
And sang a Spanish lay of Moorish love.
[OMITTED]
Scarce moved the zephyr's wings, while breathed the song,
And waves in silence bore the bark along.
T'was Irza sang!—Rosalvo at her side,
Gazed on his Cherub love, his destined bride—
Felt at each look his soul in softness melt,
Nor wished to feel more bliss than then he felt.
'Gainst the high mast, intent on book and beads,
A Reverend Abbot leans, and prays, and reads;
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Marks how she looks, and watches what he says.
An idle task! The terms which breathed their love
Had served for prayer, and passed unblamed above.
He finds each tender phrase so free from harm—
So pure each thought, each look so chaste, though warm—
Still to his beads and book he turns again,
Pleased to have proved his guardian care so vain;
While oft a blush of shame his pale cheek wears,
To find his thoughts so much less pure than theirs.
Oh they were pure! pure as the sun whose ray
Loves on the shrines of Virgin Saints to play;
Pure as the falling snow, e're yet its shower
Bends with its weight its own pale fragile flower.
Not fourteen years were Irza's—(nay 'tis true)
Most maids, at twelve, knew more than Irza knew;
And scarce two more had spread with silken down
Her amorous cousin's cheek of glowing brown.
His tutor sage, (in fact, not show, a Saint)
Had kept his heart and mind secure from taint.
In liberal arts, in healthful manly sports—
In studies fits for councils, camps and courts—
His moments found their full and best employ,
Nor left one leisure hour for guilty joy.
Since her blue dove-like eyes, six springs had seen,
Immersed in cloistered shades had Irza been;
From duties done her sole delight deriven,
And her sole care to please the Queen of Heaven:
None e'er approached her—save the pure and good—
Her promised spouse—that monk who near them stood—
Her viceroy uncle, and some guardian nun
Were all she e'er had seen by moon or sun.
No amorous forms by wanton art designed,
Had e'er inflamed her blood, or stained her mind:
No hint in books, no coarse or doubtful phrase,
E'er bade her curious thoughts explore the maze;
Nor glowing dreams, by memory's pencil drawn,
Had e'er prophaned her sleep, and made her blush at morn.
With flowers she decked the virgin mother's shrine,
Nor guessed a wonder, made that name divine.
That very love which lent her looks such fire,
N'er raised one blameful thought or loose desire.
Like waves of gold, which in Alembics roll,
The flames she suffered, but refined her soul—
Made it more free from stain, more light from dross,
With brighter lustre, and with softer gloss.
That which she bore, a bridegroom well might claim.
A sister's love, and bear a brother's name;
And e'en when now her lips in playful bliss
Sealed on Rosalvo's eyes a roseate kiss,
Love's highest, dearest charm she meant to show,
Nor thought he more could ask, or she bestow.
| The Isle of Devils | |