Donna Florida :: :: University of Virginia Library

Donna Florida

Simms, William Gilmore (1806-1870)

CANTO I.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

CANTO I.

I.

I had been musing o'er an ancient story,
A legend of romance in sunny Spain,
That spoke of knights and dames, of love and glory,
Sweet phantoms we shall seldom see again:
There were proud, princely aspects, high and hoary,
Grey beards and pages, mingled in one strain,
Wove by that magic, which should never vanish,
And 'tis not in our heart of hearts to banish.

II.

It binds us yet we love it, and desire
No better company in bower and hall;
It calls up all the spirits we require,
And some it were far better not to call;
Dreams, and some very strange ones, full of fire,
Start up like Samuel's spectre to King Saul,
Without the spells of any witch from Endor,
Unless it be some young one, true and tender.

III.

And marvel not such legends please my spirit,
And make me love each ancient solitude;
Still seeking from its ruins grey to ferret,
The Genius loci proper to my mood;
A love of the mysterious I inherit,
From an old grand-dam who would often brood—
I, an apt listener—o'er the by-gone hours,
Brave knights, sweet nymphs, love and his favorite bow'rs.

IV.

Many a quaint story of an ancient season,
Warmed on her tongue and fasten'd on mine ear;
Some beyond scope of rhyme and more of reason,
But which I did not less delight to hear;—
To utter them again would be no treason,
And if to you such legends be but dear,
Sit down, and while the sweet South's breathing o'er us,
We'll bring the spirits of the past before us.

V.

And he who cannot cheer him by a fire,
Made up of the dry bones of ancient days,
Till, by the aid of fancy, from the pyre,
Starts forth some favorite spirit to his gaze,
Deserves to hear no music of the lyre,
To warm his fingers by no wizard blaze,
Nor from that spring the ancient minstrels talk of,
With one poor goblet of its waters walk off.

VI.

For the brute, grass and grain;—but for the spirit,
Comprising the true taste, and nobly taught,
The faculty to use that few inherit,—
High faculty of far-discerning thought;—
The Muse, who well perceives the mind of merit,
Hath evermore her lore and tribute brought,
And brings,—with soul erect, and spirit high,—
The beast may still enjoy his grunt and stye.

VII.

One half mankind are brutes,—the sub-division
Of the remaining moiety will make
The half of these but worthy our derision,
Creatures of cloth and clay, of stick and stake;
The rest may yield a few whose purer vision
Still teaches less to follow than forsake;
A passive, doubtful moral of man's being,
That only strengthens happily in fleeing.

VIII.

To you I sing, who, with a strong endeavor,
Would hold fit place among the sacred few;
Who, warm and watchful with that restless fever
Of spirit-stirring impulses, would view
The heart's true mysteries, denied those never,
Who with soul unrelaxing, high and true,
Would stride towards the goal, thro' toil and strife,
Where bloom the trees, alike, of light and life.

IX.

Some hundred years ago,—I am no stickler
For date and season, written and precise,
And so, about the month I'm not partic'lar,
There being no reason to be very nice;—
A Spanish maid—than whom no maid was fickler,
More difficult to please, and seldom twice—
Dwelt in her father's castle walls, the paragon,
Supreme for beauty 'mong the girls of Arragon.

X.

She was a peerless damsel, tall in stature,
Queen-like in gait, in manner arch and free;
Beauty had perch'd and smiled in every feature,
And every look of her eye was victory;—
Thus was she sent forth by the hand of nature,
The master-hand and master-work was she;
For many a month she was the reigning fashion,
And men and maids alike confessed their passion.

XI.

The latter sorrowed while the men were sighing;—
They saw but little beauty in her face;
And while the former spoke of heaven and dying,
They wished her dead and in a different place;
Some said she squinted, and if envious eyeing
Could make a pair of eyes look different ways,
Then were her's certain, 'neath their angry glances,
To have shot their rays zigzag, like warring lances.

XII.

But hate that's met by scorn works little evil,
It hurts no beauty, trenches not the skin,
Ne'er makes the temper sour or tongue uncivil,
And troubling nought without, moves nought within;
Our heroine, when they wished her at the devil,
Quietly answer'd with a pleasant grin,—
“'Twere shame with numerous lovers of my own,
To rob them of the only one they've known.”

XIII.

With such philosophy she went her ways,
Still smiling at the coil she made around her;
Her wit and conquests both beyond her days,
Her beauty bright as when at first it found her;
Her very presence soon produced a blaze,
Confounding still the host that would confound her;
She heard the sighs of man and groans of woman,
With an indifference that was scarcely human.

XIV.

But to my story.—With a tradesman-dread,
Lest you should not appreciate my wares,
I'll dwell at large on each particular head,
Single the grains of wheat from out the tares,
Item by item, and before you spread
Her each perfection as it first appears;
Nor keep you longer from the coming story,
Than is essential to our inventory.

XV.

This is a needful duty in a tale,
To make the reader know both lord and lady;
In mine, to frame the heroine nought shall fail;—
Chaste as December, pleasant as a May-day,
Bright as a faggot, sparkling as ripe ale,
Her blood and beauty both in virgin hey-day,—
Her eyes, the polar lights in love's astrology,
Her head—but let us look into phrenology.—

XVI.

She had there all the bumps of each good quality,
And some that were but doubtful, too, might be
Among the better ones,—like the fatality
That blights the blessing. Gall and Spurzheim see,
Ascending high, the mount of ideality,
A Muse herself—few half so fine as she—
And other bumps, above, behind, the ear,
That speak of virtues,—neither here nor there.

XVII.

How shall I venture to describe her mouth,
That rosy bible on which Love has sworn;
Fresh as the zephyr from the sunny south,
Soft as the flowret bursting with the morn;
Two op'ning rose-leaves which, in emulous growth,
Warring for sole sway on the stem where born,
Disclose beneath them, in an amorous curl,
Two links of white and laughter-loving pearl.

XVIII.

And then the odor,—not the common sweet,
Ambrosia much abused,—or, still more base,
Arabian perfumes, such as taint the street,
When flowing damsels seek the public place;—
But spirit odors, such as gently greet
The soul at midnight, when the stars yield grace
To the broad blue, and the bewitching time
Wins all its perfume from some happier clime.

XIX.

Perfume, that with the breath of evening winds
Into the inner heart, and softens down
Each earth-asperity; and soothly binds
The angry spirit, animate to frown,
Into a patient gentleness, that finds
All nature meek around it, and, to crown
The soothing sway and influence, makes us deem
We feel those Eden blooms and airs of which we dream.

XX.

Her eye, her more than Asiatic eye,
Peering beneath her forehead like a star,
Bestowing a sweet glory on the sky,
Tho' gathering tempests hold a cloudy war;—
What may eclipse its splendor—what may vie—
As, sending its concentred glances far,
The raven fringe that girds it, smit with bright,
Glows like a sable cloud from its own flashing light.

XXI.

Hers was the beauty of rare symmetry,
Where tone still tempers feature. In her face,
Presiding, hover'd forms of harmony,
That took all harshness from that holy place;
Yet each was all perfection to the eye,
Spiritual, bright, instinct with maiden grace;
Eye spoke to eye, and lip, and cheek, and brow,
Harmonious, like some rivulet's rippling flow.

XXII.

Young was she—scarce sixteen—yet tall and bending
Graceful as any willow by the wave;
Glad was she, and a mirthfulness still blending
Even with her sadness, mirthfulness still gave;
Light-hearted, as if never once offending,
It did not seem as if she could be grave;
Certain, that song or psalm, or changing weather,
Ne'er made her dull for two whole hours together.

XXIII.

She had but one old relative, a sire,
A thick, short, gouty, drowsy, frowsy knight;
Whose only care, beside his kitchen fire,
Was how to boil his eggs and boil them right;
His omelet served, he had no more desire,
And slept, not waiting the approach of night;—
Not profitless his faith, as it appears,
In eating,—he had kept it sixty years.

XXIV.

He made no fuss about his daughter's beauty,—
Saw little of her suitors;—took no heed
Who came or went;—esteemed it not a duty
To ask about the income or the breed;—
But so they spared his fresh eggs, and his foot, he
Boiled one and nursed the other;—and thus freed
From all restraint and guidance but her own,
She was the happiest damsel ever known.

XXV.

When she was but fifteen her mother died,
And left her as you see her, young and fair;
Lovely as any pearl beneath the tide,
Down 'neath the Mexic waters, deep but clear;
Pure as a star that shines, of heaven the pride,
Fresh as a zephyr from the moon's own sphere;—
Her mother very like her was when young,
But dying—there's no need to have her sung.

XXVI.

She died, and she was buried, and thus ends
The lives of many thousands seen in one;
She had her hosts of enemies and friends,
With and without her own exertions won;
And she might well have said—“Time is and tends
To what it was before, till all is done;”
Her smiles were smiles and sunny ones,—her tears,
The soft'ning drops that fall when the young moon appears.

XXVII.

And you may write upon her single tomb,
The record that will suit the tombs of many;
“I was and am not!”—'Tis a fearful doom
To be denied the memory of any;
And yet how few survive the cumbrous gloom
Of one short season past—the puny penny,
Of all their fond ambition in the dust,
Where antiquarians find—perchance—its rust.

XXVIII.

It should be, but is not, the hope of all,—
Else man were better, nobler, than he is,—
To leave behind them that which must enthral
The homage of the future.—Even the hiss
Of a succeeding age, the rabble's bawl,
Seems dearer to the spirit's pride than this
Denial of all life—annihilation,
From each memorial in this fair creation.

XXIX.

Oh! let my epitaph in future years—
When I myself can never more be heard,
And there are none, perchance, whose gushing tears
Shall stir again as they too oft have stirr'd
The bosom which their memory yet endears,—
Be utter'd in the voicings of that bird,
That sings throughout the long eternity,—
“I was, I am, and must forever be!”

XXX.

Even as the mother, too, had died the maiden,
But that I bid her live, and plead her cause;
Should you have known her, had I not array'd in,
The garb of song, her beauties and her flaws,
Merely that life itself should be display'd in
Its proper colors to command applause,—
Less for the form to which I give preferment,
Than the immortal texture of the garment.

XXXI.

Makers of immortality and fame,
Creators of the life that never dies;
What from our people should our poets claim,
Who do so much to make the little rise;
We who can dignify the meanest name,
Make the base virtuous, and the simple wise?—
Alas! for all these deeds, as I'm a sinner,
In modern times we scarcely get a dinner.

XXXII.

One likes a friendly dinner, and would really
Honor a quiet board in green-pea season;
Perhaps would deign to sit down at it daily,
Or once a week at least, as more in reason;
Partaking of its pleasant dishes gaily,
Simply because we know they're meant to please one;—
With me some years ago this taste began,
I learn'd it from a thriving alderman.—

XXXIII.

He got his manners in that dog-day station,
By losing popularity and quiet;
He never won the people's approbation,
Tho' that's a matter common sense won't cry at;
They sometimes roused him into irritation,
Once knock'd him down when quelling of a riot;
And so he sigh'd at nought, when leaving office,
Save that in turtle he was yet a novice.

XXXIV.

But where am I?—Not at my heroine truly,—
But as some traveller who impels his goad
Into his horse's flanks and whips him duly,
Until he bounds on the forbidden road,
Knight-errant like, still bent on deeds unruly,
Glad of the features of an episode,
I drive on helter-skelter, rash and erring,
Heedless of laws as he, still stirring, spurring!

XXXV.

Our damsel waits—her charms demand attention,—
I left off at her eyes, and hardly gave 'em
Due share of that fierce glow which young lads mention,
As the first thing in beauty to enslave 'em.
Strange that so lovely, they should bring dissention,
Still making it most terrible to brave 'em:
In bane and beauty both, ah! adder-like,
No wonder they are still the first to strike!

XXXVI.

Such then was Leonora, when there came,
As who can doubt, a large and motley crowd
Of gallant lovers, smitten by the flame,
And at the altar which it kindled, bow'd;—
Knights of the highest station known to fame,
In valor peerless, and of lineage proud;
Young, old, fair, dark, a curious set of dandies,
But still admitted all as spanish grandees.

XXXVII.

Foremost among her suitors there was one
Than whom the nation had no braver choice;
In all the Moorish fights victorious known,
The king himself had spoke with favoring voice;
And Ponce de Leon was a name that shone,
And sounded, too, with no unheeded noise;
He had been in his youth a vigorous fellow,
But Time had touched him—he was rather mellow.

XXXVIII.

His beard had something of a grizzly hue,
And sallow was his shrivell'd-up complexion;
His shoulders caught a stoop at fifty-two,
And his good form had lost its old erection;
But yet he fondly fancied he might do,
And could not see the folly of connexion,—
He in the cold November of the year,
With one who just had seen her May appear.

XXXIX.

He pressed his suit with little relaxation,
And watch'd the maiden's eye and watch'd her heart;
As if his duty were circumvallation
Of Moorish fortress, with a warrior's art,
Each day advanced him to a nearer station,
And from the eyes of the fortress sped no dart,
Or missive, which escaped the jealous sight
Of that most dull but persevering knight.

XL.

At length his batteries being all completed,
The question in his mind and tent discussed,
His blood aroused to the assault, and heated,
With highest hope and something of distrust,
Before the lady now behold him seated,
Firm as in knightly saddle ere the joust;
And thus, with accents sweetly strong, but tender,
He summon'd the fair fortress to surrender.

XLI.

He boasted of his deeds—told many a story,
Othello-like, of conflict and of blood;—
Deeds done by flood and field, and many a glory
Plucked from grim battle in his angriest mood;—
But not with like success.—His beard so hoary
Would ever on the anxious hour intrude;
And when he boasted in his loudest strain,
She said—“Ah, me! you can't do that again!”

XLII.

“You're old now, good Don Ponce; your brightest days
Have vanish'd in the wars;—ah! wo is me!—
I had been glad t' have known you when your bays
Were green, and youth was flush with victory;
For those I have heard speaking in your praise,
Tell me you were the comeliest youth to see,
And in the field and in the bower alike,
You always knew the proper time to strike!”

XLIII.

Women when women truly are much more
Than women only:—to the enthusiast lover,
They are inspiring night-gems, and their lore
Is of unearthly images that hover
Like living stars above a spell-bound shore,
Which high and blessed spirits still watch over;
Their smiles are beams of planets which have shone,
Glad'ning a realm from which all other lights have gone!

XLIV.

Wooing they conquer;—soothing, they have spells
To still the heart-ache; and tho' things of tears,
Something of rapture from their sorrow wells,
Consoling, in a world of many cares,
Even while they make them. There is something tells
How first they came from Eden,—which endears
Earth still to love. They give it light and bloom,
Hallow its altars, nor forsake its tomb.

XLV.

They are the blessed sunshine, and their smiles
Call up the flowers and song-birds of the heart;
Each murmur maddens, and each beam beguiles,
And vainly would we reason and depart;
They woo, and win, and bind us in their toils,
And though we see, we cannot scorn the art,
Which lures with so much winningness and power
To lonely grove, sweet shade and secret bower.

XLVI.

If their smiles brighten—if their glances glow
And glitter with the sunbeam,—then, as well,
Their influence, when their tears in anguish flow,
Gathers about the heart a potent spell,
It may not baffle. Thus, they teach to know,
How much of the Tempter was she when she fell,
Our common mother,—by whose wanton taste,
We lost that Eden she has yet replaced.

XLVII.

And well has she replaced it!—in the glory,
The balm, the brilliance, of the beaming eye;
Theme of the minstrel's song, the gossip's story,
Untold devotion, deathless sympathy;
Kindler of hope in hearts cold and heads hoary,
In spirits long tutor'd by the fates to sigh,—
How more than equal are her thousand powers
To bring back Paradise and all its flowers.

XLVIII.

And yet, at times, I soberly confess it,
The creature is most troublesome and sad;
She brings us many a joy, but seeks to dress it
In hues so gloomy, how can we be glad!
So wayward is her mood that none can guess it,
Or fix it to one feature, good or bad;
One moment grows she most abruptly willing,
The next—she slaps the chaps that think of billing!

XLVIX.

Now, why did Leonora to her lover,
The valiant Ponce de Leon, with an air
Of such malicious heartlessness discover,
She knew he was not what he would appear;
Flinging his hopeful speculations over,
Casting down his fortresses, with such a sneer,
And that same beard with which his nature fenced him,
Turning so sharply, wickedly, against him.

L.

Plague, say I, on a thoughtless wench like this!—
The old knight quickly started from his seat,
When that his dream of unsubstantial bliss
Had thus been cruelly broken. To his feet
He sprang! He taller grew—with fiercer phiz
That glared with love and fury strangely meet;—
Then spoke, quite rabid at the rash allusion
To that which almost always breeds confusion.

LI.

His words were never many, and his blood,
Just then, were readier far at deed than word;
Had any warrior thus provoked his mood,
His answer had been spoken by the sword;
Nothing had interposed to stay the flood
Meet for his full appeasement;—he had poured,
Unstopped, the fullest vials of his wrath,
Till he had swept each foeman from his path.

LII.

But, 'twas a lady and a lovely one,—
One too, whom still he tenderly adored;
And so he used his tongue, and left alone,
Though fumbling still, the handle of his sword;—
His words were broken, yet they still ran on,
In most amusing floods of fury pour'd;
And now he raved in anger, now he pray'd,
Reproach'd in bitter word, and next implor'd the maid.

LIII.

“Oh, Leonora, is it thus you speak?
My beard is gray, you say, my head is white,
And I am old, and all my joints are weak!—
You had not thought so, had you been a knight!
I am not fit to press a lady's cheek,
To be her champion and assert her right;—
To win the prize of beauty at her beckon;—
Sancta Marie!—I'm abler than you reckon.

LIV.

“My limbs are strong although my beard is gray,
Nor have I lost the action of the court;
Even now, not backward in the wild melée,
Methinks my sword should make its good report
As in the battles of my youthful day;
Nor should I lack the graces of the sport;
And, in the measured dance at evening set,
I still could play my part with the young damsels yet.

LV.

“I old, and gray, and weak!—oh! Leonora,
How greatly you mistake me! Hear me speak;
Behold my tread; your eye may not explore a
Single feature you could fancy weak;
What, Ponce de Leon, who shrunk not before a
Whole troup of Moorish knights, who sought to wreak
Their vengeance on the little band he led,
But finding it uncomfortable, fled!—

LVI.

“Have I not fought in many hundred battles,
And who has ever seen me turn in flight?
Mine is the music when the armour rattles,
And on the vega meets each rival knight;
Thus Lope, the poet, who so sweetly prattles
Of all brave deeds of gallantry and might,
Has set my feats to verse, and nightly brings them
To Donna Clara's palace, where he sings them.

LVII.

“I old!—Was ever such a strange idea!—
I weak i' the joints!—ah! what is it, I pray,
Makes you, sweet lady, entertain so free a
Notion of one who never yet gave way?
Behold me as I walk:—you shall not see a
Finer or surer step i' the summer's day:—
I do not want to force your good opinion,
But a more proper man's not in the whole dominion.

LVIII.

“My height's the proper height—nor large, nor low—
My shoulders not too broad for honor knightly;
My form not overlaid with flesh, and so
Not liable to grossness most unsightly;—
Yet are my limbs not spare—my tread not slow—
My gait and carriage proper taste deems rightly;
And for my beard and hair, sweet Leonora,
They speak of wisdom in your true adorer.”

LVIX.

Thus argufied, or sought to argufy,
With action meet and air of deep anxiety,
Our worthy knight, who, taught to fight or die,
And only know of toil its strange variety,
Love had not tutor'd in his lessons sly;—
Of war, Don Ponce had feasted to satiety,
And years, that put him out of the pale of fashion,
Were yet the very impulse to his passion.

LX.

But in this field his ardor all was wasted;
A most provoking calm the maid maintained,
And this, the first rebuke the knight had tasted,
The only strife in which he was disdained,
Roused all his youthful ire. His speech and face did
Equally show how deeply he was pained;—
Exhausted only, he at length gave over,
The labor, for a season, of the lover.

LXI.

Yet did he not forbear his first desire;
He changed the siege into a close blockade;
With spies forever set who could not tire,
He kept close watch on tower and palisade;
At times he still maintained a running fire,
Sent her warm sonnets, and with serenade
And song, from many a poet in his way-lay,
Shot the estilo culto at her daily.

LXII.

But patience tired at last of vain pursuit;—
He sickened of a labor so excessive,
His love began to yawn;—his minstrels mute,
Uttered their strains in accents unimpressive;
From all his labors he beheld no fruit,
His passion grew at last to be digressive,
And cooling one day to his sober senses,
The knight drew off to calculate expenses.