Narrative poems on the Female Character in the various relations of life. By Mary Russell Mitford ... Vol. I |
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| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
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| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
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| XLIX. |
| L. |
| II. |
| III. | CANTO III. |
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| III. |
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| X. |
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| XIV. |
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| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
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| III. |
 | Narrative poems on the Female Character |  |
135
CANTO III.
I.
Sweeter than earthly is the strain,From yonder convent ringing,
Of maidens, free from mortal stain,
Their Christian Pæans singing!
The notes, now ling'ring on the breeze,
Now sinking low, now swelling high,
The ear with soft enchantment seize,
And lap the soul in melody.
136
O'er pious hearts serenely stealing,
Those hallow'd strains inspire;
From maids, whose chaste and tranquil fate
To heaven is vow'd and dedicate,
Who, shaking off this changeful state,
To God alone awake the lyre;
Wild-floating like a seraph's call,
“Praise to the Highest! Praise ye all!”
II.
And wanderers well such sounds might deemIllusions of an heav'nly dream.
The convent rose not high and proud,
To show the superstitious crowd
137
Its lowly roof was hid by trees,
Cork, ilex, pine, which, in the breeze,
Wav'd o'er the shrine of piety.
A dreary plain was all around,
Far as the eye could reach,
And on the flat, unfertile ground,
Dwelt silence, seldom chas'd by sound
Of busy toil, or pleasant speech.
No herds were there; nor flocks, nor goats,
Nor summer birds, with merry notes;
The vulture, wild inhabitant,
With shrilly scream past lonely on;
Save when, with sad and boding tone,
The raven join'd his solemn chaunt.
138
III.
That vesper hymn, unmingled nowWith aught less calm and holy,
Two pilgrims heard, with pious vow,
And soothing melancholy.
They linger'd still upon the plain,
As if to catch the distant strain;
And, afar off, the silver hair,
The giant frame that brav'd the storm,
Contrasted with the fragile form,
So sad, so drooping, and so fair,
Bending like pensile willow branch,—
The hermit he, the maid was Blanch.
Pale, wan, from bed of sickness risen,
She gaz'd on her eternal prison:
139
The voice within that promis'd rest;
No ling'ring hope, with earthly chain,
Drew her to the stern world again.
If ever on her cheerless track
Too busy mem'ry forc'd her back;
If ever restless fancy drew
Her hours to come in shadowy view;
No sun-shine gilt her backward day,
No hope illum'd her onward way,
The past, the future, she would fly,
Her only selfish wish, to die!
A tear, a sigh, the wish reproves;
Friendship's the tear, the sigh was Love's.
140
IV.
At the low convent's gate she sank,“Father, I was forbid to thank,
But bless me, ere I enter here!
Thou know'st me all—” “O child most dear,
To me alone and angels clear,
I bless thee with a father's love!
A brighter and a purer sphere
Will shield the wandering dove.”
She rose with smile ineffable;
“Soon shall I be at rest!
But for my own dear Isabel,
Her fate alone disturbs my breast!
Promise me, if I live or die,
To all but one thy secresy:
141
O what to me is fickle fame!
Such triumphs I resign;
And with them, my most fatal name,
Thy Blanch no more, but Rosaline.”
V.
They enter'd—Dark-rob'd sisters stray'dThe cloister walks along;
And soon, to greet the stranger maid,
Came the fair courteous throng.
Ev'n she, the stately Prioress,
Bent from her pride of holiness,
The lovely votary to bless,
And hail the hermit sage:
142
Benignly gaz'd, and sweetly smil'd,
As she had been his only child,
The solace of his age.
But when her piteous tale he caught,
His brow was wrinkled o'er with thought,
His clear mild voice was chok'd with sighs,
And tears bedimm'd his searching eyes,
With love and pity fraught.
“Fear not for her!” Francisco said,
As turning from the weeping maid,
The hermit bent his way;
“Fear not for her! nor wealth, nor power,
Shall tear her from this hallow'd bower;
Nor torture keen, nor golden shower,
Shall force me to betray!”
143
Blanch, with mild spirit unsubdued,
Staid in that tranquil solitude.
VI.
And in that dark and gloomy cell,They lov'd the gentle novice well.
Not then, as in an after age,
The convent op'd, at parent's rage,
Some sad true love to sever;
To swell some proud boy's heritage,
Of her regardless ever,
Who, a resisting victim driven,
With vows extorted tempted Heaven.
O many a loathing votaress
Those saintly weeds hath worn,
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With stifled love, whose wild excess
Goads like a rankling thorn.
The tears, which once she strove to hide,
Burning impatience long hath dried,
And wishes most unholy:
O wretched one! her days depart,
In prayers that spring not from the heart,
Embitter'd temper, cherish'd smart,
Unlov'd, unloving melancholy.
VII.
None such, among those holy maids,Disgrac'd their calm religious shades.
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The world's wild strife and anguish'd groan;
The happy few, who early came,
And knew of misery but the name;
These loving, as they only love
Who never vice or treachery prove;
Those soften'd by remember'd woes,
All sooth'd the mourner to repose.
And still benignant smiles repaid
The efforts of each generous maid;
And ne'er did Blanch's grief intrude,
To sadden their calm solitude.
Francisco watch'd, from day to day,
The lovely novice fade away;
Her figure of proportion rare
Seem'd melting to its kindred air;
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Supplied the varying maiden blush;
Whilst from her eyes bright flashes broke,
And of the brighter spirit spoke:
But still, tho' pain and anguish tore,
In patience and in truth she bore.
VIII.
So months pass'd on with that poor maid,And every month her strength decay'd;
Yet still increasing peace she felt:
'Twas winter now; and oft she said,
“My soul, ere spring-flowers bloom and fade,
Will leave this narrow belt.”
147
Awoke her bosom's swell;
That hope an angel well might share—
Need I its tender aim declare!—
That care was Isabel.
The hope, the care, together wrought,
No mental skill could sunder;
And oft alone the maiden thought
On good Fernandez' tale of wonder:
Whilst still, in Fancy's visions seen,
Came the brave Moor and lovely queen.
IX.
One eve that, from the nuns retir'd,Her dreams the fam'd Alhambra fir'd,
Dreams its more famous lord inspir'd;
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“Haste, dearest sister, follow me!
A comely pilgrim, Rosaline,
Laden with gold and jewels fine,
Comes kneeling at our lady's shrine;
And with him bears his Moorish chains;
And, even now, he tells the pains,
He suffer'd, ere his blest release.
Haste, or the wondrous tale will cease!
And, sooth, on holy maiden's ear
Ne'er fell a tale more deft and clear.
X.
“Haste, dearest Rose!” Clare onward drew;Blanch, half unwilling, shrank from view.
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Of prison dark and clanking chain,
And Moorish damsel, heavenly fair,
Who turn'd those ponderous chains to air.
But scarce the crowded grate they sought,
Ere the first words the maiden caught
Fix'd her chill'd ear, entranc'd her thought,
('Twas of some captive dame he spoke,
Whose chamber o'er the garden hung,
Where he to toil and misery woke,
And listen'd as she sung:)
O had she tun'd her notes to pleasure,
That voice had marr'd the gayest measure!
It was a voice, whose every tone
Seem'd form'd for songs of woe alone;
It was a wild unvaried lay,
Monotonous from day to day;
150
But thus the tale of misery fell.
XI. Song of the Captive Lady.
“The boy went forth, at break of day,With his own Blanch;
The mother watch'd him at his play,
And strove to drive the wolf away:—
Savage was she who pierc'd his heart!
Will none the life-blood staunch?
The boy is dead!—Whose was the dart?
'Twas thine, my Blanch!
151
Where liest thou, Blanch?
In his fair cheeks, a noisome brood,
The death-worms cling and seek their food:
But where is she, whose fatal quiver
Destroy'd that lovely branch;
Deep in the bosom of the river,
Thou liest, my Blanch!”
XII.
More had he told: but from the crowdRose lamentations shrill and loud;
The sisters all, in kind distress,
Press round the wond'ring Prioress,
152
Their own dear Rosaline is laid;
Where is the holy Francis now?
He, who from herb and plant and bough,
Is skill'd to draw the healing balm;—
He comes, their clamorous grief to calm:
And the lov'd mourner breathes again,
Restor'd to life, to sense, to pain.
XIII.
Francisco linger'd by her side,And powerful charms the priest applied.
For when the nuns, at matin hour,
Sought the sweet maiden in her bower,
153
And spake her benedicite,
And press'd the hands of all.
They saw no more the novice fair,
Or confessor, at meal or prayer,
In chapel or in hall.
And much the pious, curious throng
Admir'd, and guess'd, and wonder'd long:
Till it was told, in solemn tone,
That she, the lovely drooping one,
Supported by the father sage,
Was gone on pious pilgrimage.
154
XIV.
So leave we now the convent cell,Of that most wretched dame to tell,
Who, in th' Alhambra tower,
Her tottering reason sang away,
Or seem'd with her dead boy to play,
Hugging the form she call'd his clay,
Thro' many a weary hour:
Unlearning every sense but care,
Lost to all feeling save despair.
One morn, at her accustom'd station,
The lovely maniac sung;
And rocking slow, in faint vibration,
Like a fond careful nurse she swung.
155
An alabaster vase she lapp'd,
And fancied it her son!
She shudder'd, as the marble cold
Struck to her heart thro' every fold,
But clasp'd it tighter in her hold,
Still chanting her sad death-like moan.
XV.
'Twas on a day of joy and feast,Early the holy rites began,
And Moors, from worldly cares releas'd,
To pious domes swift crowding ran.
The Caliph, at the mosque, had heard,
Unsooth'd, his Prophet's hallow'd word:
156
Adoring low the sacred green,
Almanzor only wore;
The caftan, gemm'd with many a star,
The turbant crescent, glittering far,
The diamond-hilted scymetar,
And emerald spurs, he bore.
His courser's housings, border'd round,
With golden foliage, trail'd the ground;
And the good steed, as proud to bear
His royal burthen, paw'd the air.
Whilst chiefs and viziers press'd along,
And plaudits hail'd the splendid throng.
157
XVI.
And that applause, unfeign'd and loud,'Twas the heart-tribute of the crowd,
Who, gazing on the stateliest train
That ever trod thy cities, Spain,
Mark'd not the gay procession's glare,
Saw but the parent monarch there.
Those plaudits once had sooth'd the heart,
Where rankled now woe's fest'ring smart;
The Caliph fled from every eye,
By change of place for ease to try;
Poor King, 'twas from himself he'd fly!
Ah! ye, who ease by change would prove,
From vexing thoughts,—first cease to love!
158
XVII.
Alone, within his garden bowers,He linger'd through the noontide hours;
But vainly there the seasons fling
Rich autumn's fruits, the bloom of spring,
And vainly there pellucid stream,
From many a marble fountain,
Waters, which sparkle in the beam,
And with ambrosial perfumes steam
O'er mossy bed and mimic mountain.
Vain is the fragrant orange grove;
And vain the myrtle bower of love;
Tho' black-ey'd nymphs glide thro' the trees,
Like gossamer upon the breeze;
159
Who saw that star of beauty fall,
In whose pure light he liv'd, he mov'd,
As saint ador'd, as woman lov'd!
XVIII.
Almanzor shunn'd the venal throng,Who pass'd with sylph-like steps along.
Pensive he rov'd, unwitting where,
Till wild notes floated in the air;
'Twas the poor queen's low plaintive song.
O through his breast what tides of woe,
That mournful voice could bid to flow!
Scarce breath'd and indistinct it fell;
But yet, enchanted by the spell,
160
The charm, which bids the full heart break,)
He flew to Isabel.
XIX.
There still she sate with arms enfoldedAround the vase—like statue, moulded
For some sepulchral urn, her form!
So fix'd, so pale, so like to death,
With half-clos'd eyes and viewless breath;
Can life that senseless mourner warm!
Cold shiverings on Almanzor crept,
Now in his veins his life-blood slept,
Now throbb'd within his heart of flame.
161
When first, in Murcia's princely tower,
In beauty's pride, in pomp of power,
He saw the lovely dame.
Before his eyes the vision bright
Too faithful memory bore;
Her dark hair glittering with the light
Of gems, that in her crown she wore;
Gems, by those jetty eyes outshone,
Which dimm'd the radiant diamond stone,
By their effulgent blaze!
And cheeks which sham'd her crimson throne;
And form which mock'd all praise;
And every beauty's sweet excess,
Enhanc'd by perfect happiness.
162
XX.
He thought on all the courtly train:That Monarch, of her charms more vain,
Than deeds of arms, or wide domain:
And on that boy, whose infant eye
Was lit by princely dignity:
And, Oh, a form more witching fair,
Pure as the moon's chaste beam, was there!
The fairy, glancing smiles around,
Whose slender foot scarce touch'd the ground,
Whose very form, upborne in air,
Seem'd floating like her nut-brown hair!—
That thought Almanzor could not bear,
He struck his clench'd hand on his brow,
He mus'd upon the dreadful now!
163
His limbs with anguish shiver;
When, suddenly, her mournful air
The maniac breath'd, in calm despair,
“Deep in the bosom of the river
Thou liest, my Blanch!”
XXI.
What is the sound, whose piercing callCan bid the hero's tear-drops fall?
'Tis the name which dwelleth in the heart,
Unbreath'd, unheard, unspoken;
'Tis the vision which, with sudden start,
All other thought hath broken;
'Tis the cherish'd pang which memory hoards,
Too sacred and too sad for words;
164
If another tongue should that thought proclaim,
In that pang should another sympathise,
It stirs the heart with electric flame,
And the burning tide o'erflows the eyes!
Almanzor wept, till his o'er-fraught breast
Seem'd of its grief unladen;
And turn'd again to its gloomy rest,
Like a widow'd dove to her lonely nest,
In the grave of his lovely maiden.
XXII.
When as he thought to leave the Queen,Brave Heli came, with wondering mien,
Almanzor's trusted friend was he;
And his dark eye's quick sparkling glee
165
Would please the gloomy Caliph well.
He told, that morn a stranger pair,
A priest, a page, their city sought;
Age silver'd o'er the old man's hair,
And his mild cheek was pale with thought:
But for the graceful page,—in truth,
That boy was the most lovely youth,
That ever, in the Christian land,
Gave goblet to a lady's hand!
And prostrate at the Alhambra gate,
Fatigued, and faint, and sad, they sate!
XXIII.
“Till, as I pass'd, the gentle boyHung to my robe with fearful joy
166
And the lone drooping Isabel:
And that fair boy upon his knee,
Almanzor's self implor'd to see;
And he a name, and token sent,
As pledges of his fair intent.
One beam of that mild-piercing glance,
Where the pure spirit seem'd to dance
In its own azure Heaven;
One tone of that soft, silver voice,
Whose sound might bid despair rejoice,
Sufficient pledge had given!
One only glance, one only tone,
Like those, my sovereign, have I known!”
167
XXIV.
Breathless from doubting hope, “What name?What pledge?” the trembling Monarch said:
Heli did not that word proclaim
Which lit Almanzor's glance of flame;
But in his hand a tress he laid,
Whose long curls wav'd, in many a fold,
And crisped maze of darker gold,
As if on Blanch's neck it stray'd.
And when brave Heli's eye he caught,
And his kind smile with pleasure fraught,
The King no other answer sought:
And darting on, light-footed joy
Soon bore them to the seeming boy.
168
XXV.
Low at her feet Almanzor knelt;His hand her trembling pressure felt;
He could not speak, he could but hang,
Enraptur'd, on her look;
And sighs that from his bosom sprang,
They prov'd that joy may have a pang,
As hard as grief's to brook.
Whilst modesty o'er Blanch's face,
Spread the bright tint, improv'd by toil,
And love relumin'd every grace
Which woe had tried to spoil.
Her timid glances sought the ground;
A nobler resting-place they found;
Almanzor's brow, with candor crown'd,
169
He press'd her fair hand to his lip,
All wet with tears, as swallows dip,
On glancing wing, and sport, and sip,
And revel o'er the stream.
XXVI.
Sweet pause of joy, how strong thy spell!Blanch broke the stillness; “Isabel!”
In faltering tones she said:
That word could love's soft raptures quell;
“Fear not, dear maid! all will be well;
She lives.—My Blanch, what miracle
The Sangonera river staid,
When thou, my all of life, wert there,
And my soul mourn'd thee in despair?
170
Thy lovely form from tyrants free,
To see thee here is bliss to me!
Receive the Christian's vows, my life,
My only love! My only wife!”
XXVII.
Blanch's contracted brow,—her sigh,Half-heav'd, then caught convulsively,—
Her chillness, her averted look,
Her hand that with faint tremor shook,
Told, in her breast no joy could dwell:
Again she murmur'd, “Isabel!”
The Caliph gaz'd upon her face,
Displeas'd her look of woe to trace;
171
The hollow cheek, the frequent sigh,
The struggling smile that vainly strove
To hide the mental agony;
Gone is the blush of modesty!
Drown'd is the glance of love!
XXVIII.
And anger from the Caliph's breast,Unfrequent inmate, goes!
“Queen Isabel! She is at rest:
Soon to thy heart shall she be press'd,
But thou must share, my gentle guest,
Refreshment and repose.
172
And by what strange and wondrous fate,
She to Granada came.
And how preserv'd to her, to me,
My lovely Blanch again I see,
That tale from thee I'll claim.
Heli, the aged priest attend,
As Blanch's, as thy sovereign's friend!”
XXIX.
He led her thro' a princely hall,With marble pav'd and gilded wall;
Thro' the wide court, where freshening streams
From the lion's fountain, caught the beams,
That now on the cool waters play'd,
Now lit the marble colonnade;
173
With pious scroll and bandeau bound,
And a hundred arches those columns crown'd:
On every side the palace spread,
In gorgeous state, its lofty head;
And up the stairs Almanzor led,
To a light and gay and brilliant room,
With gold and painting burnish'd o'er,
Where every gale gave fresh perfume,
And the rich fragrance sought the dome,
From the cool perforated floor.
XXX.
Beneath a velvet canopy,Almanzor plac'd the Princess fair;
174
And watch'd her with a parent's care,
And a fond lover's gallantry.
Then lying at his lady's feet,
Raising his head, her glance to meet,
The Caliph spake: “That fatal day,
When the poor boy's disastrous play
Swept Murcia's princely pride away,
That fatal morn, disguis'd I came;
Ah, need I say, my gentle dame,
Beneath what passion's sway?
All was confusion in the court;
Terror appear'd in every eye;
Ev'n the fix'd watch, with anxious port,
Seem'd doubtful if to stay or fly.
175
O deem not, Blanch, in heart, or thought,
Of doubt, or fear, I harbor'd aught,
I knew that mind too well!
But endless seem'd the dreary day,
I linger'd in the woods away,
Till at the close of twilight gray,
I met the frantic Isabel.
XXXI.
“Deep was her groan and wild her call;Her reason totter'd to its fall;
But yet enough I caught, to know
The cause of that dread overthrow:
The real cause! Blanch, only I
Could clear up that dark mystery.
176
The Moorish Caliph who believe?
To shield thy fame, vain were my strife;
My only aim, to save thy life.
For this, the Queen I captive led,
And Heli to the tyrant dread
My scroll of menace bore;—
‘To liberty fair Blanch restore!
Dare not to touch her sacred head!
The hour that spills her stainless gore,
Sees Isabella dead.
Nor till, unhurt and free, the maid
Reposes in Aledo's shade,
Shall Murcia's threats, or Murcia's power,
Force my fair captive from my tower!”
177
XXXII.
Blanch press'd his hand, with tremulous thrill,And momentary pause,
“'Twas then for this he dar'd not kill!
Yet terrible Alfonzo's skill
To work his dark revengeful will,
And yet evade the clause.
But Isabel?” “My loveliest maid,
The strong impression seem'd to fade,
Like fearful dreams at break of day:
Reason shone calmly in her eye,
And the mild tear and frequent sigh
Stole frenzy's tide away;
As pattering rain and moaning blast
Tell that the lightning's rage is past.
178
When tidings came that Murcia's flower,
Deep in the Sangonera's tide,
A self-slain victim, plung'd and died.
The tale struck to her heart, her brain,
And madness, with his fearful train
Of horrid visions, came again.
Poor guiltless sufferer! Only thou
Canst heal her wounded spirit now!”
XXXIII.
Then Blanch's tears of pity fell;“My friend, my gentle Isabel!
Was it for me?—” “Dear lady, nay!
Thy precious tears a moment stay;
How wert thou sav'd, sweet Princess, say?”
179
Tho' o'er each injury as quick
She pass'd, as snow-flakes falling thick,
Yet woke the Caliph's wrathful flame;
Till on each generous deed she hung,
And mercy, dropping from her tongue,
Like rain from heaven, the fire could tame.
XXXIV.
He blest the gentle Beatrice;He blest the hermit old;
But soon the lover's transports cease,
As thus the tale is told.
“Exhausted by the tempest's rage,
I lay in the calm hermitage;
180
I owe that still I live:
But, while each panting short-drawn breath
Suspended seem'd 'twixt life and death,
'Twas his in holiness and faith,
A better boon to give.
XXXV.
“I told him all; one only spotRemain'd for me: one only lot!
Almanzor, the most holy vow,
Enroll'd in heaven, divides us now!
Whilst wavering still and unprofess'd,
Thou wert my bosom's latest guest;
181
Lurks not beneath the novice' garb,
For thee to heaven ascends my prayer,
My only hope to meet thee there.
By a strange chance, in convent cell,
I heard the fate of Isabel:
I came the hero's soul to wake,
The guiltless captive's chains to break,
For Blanch's, for Almanzor's sake!”
XXXVI.
Weeping on his reluctant hands,Blanch bends her knee upon the ground;
Irresolute awhile he stands,
Then lifts her up with sudden bound,
182
Throbbing, as life and soul would part!
Emotion quell'd each broken word;
But eloquence had spoke unheard
In that wild jar of grief and love;
Ah, she who hop'd no more to prove
Such pangs, how much she err'd!
Words came at length.—“Beloved one,
And wilt thou leave me here alone,
In joyless pomp, in wretched show,
The prey of solitary woe?
None toil to cheer, or lighten care,
And my best comfort, calm despair?
Thou wilt not—canst not! Blanch, 'twas thine
To bid the mourner cease to pine;
The hungry feed; relieve the poor;
And open to th' oppress'd thy door;—
183
Come, and thy heart will keep thee here!”
XXXVII.
To a fair hall the Caliph led,Where, like the sky, at distance spread,
The ceiling rose above their head:
Inlaid with circle and with star,
Of gold and silver, brightly shining,
With color'd woods their beauty joining,
And distance every tint refining,
Like moonlight sea-view kenn'd afar.
He led her to a balcony
That jutted from the wall;
184
Almanzor sovereign call!”
XXXVIII.
Granada stretch'd beneath their feet,With palace, mosque, and cheerful street;
And dark-ey'd Moors were cluster'd there;
And veiled dames with graceful air;
Mirth rul'd the hour and toil was staid.
Th' Alhambra grove around them lay,
With lofty elm and cypress spray,
And oleander shade.
Remada's mountain hung above them,
With corn-fields sloping down the side,
And cots, where cherub children hide,
And Blanch's heart sprang forth to love them;
185
Woke in her breast the social thrill.
XXXIX.
“I talk not, Blanch, of thrones; for thereSit doubt and watchfulness and care.
But here is not one blessed spot
So fair, but thou couldst mend its lot!
Here is not one so curst, but thou
Couldst chase despair from every brow!
Canst thou such angel joys resign?
My love, my Blanch, be wholly mine!”
“Once might such joys have tempted me!
Now—Have I not relinquish'd thee!
Life has no more to give.
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The dedicated spouse of God,
In convent gloom I vow'd to live.
'Twill not be long! I feel it here!”
On her pure heart, her hand she prest;
The thought of her eternal rest,
Alone had power the maid to cheer!
“'Twill not be long! and wouldst thou have
My span of life fond passion's slave?
Oh, No! Caliph, my ear has caught
A tale with such deep horror fraught,
That it would daunt thy boldest thought,
Would agonise thy soul:
Who sav'd my life, the hermit, he,
Unhappy father! told it me:
It was a Moor that stole
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In freedom and in bliss to roam;—
Poor wretched one, her death-groan fell
Within a narrower home!
Happy, if her deserved fate
Her fouler crime might expiate!”
XL.
“Is't priestly vengeance that you dread?My power might shield your sacred head
From—” “Stop the torrent in its course,
Force back the Ebro to its source,
Then, shield th' apostate from remorse;
That is beyond thy power!
Almanzor, spare my feeble heart!
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Why waste we thus the hour?
I go,—'twould cheer me in my cell,
Once more to see my Isabel!”
XLI.
In war, Almanzor stood enroll'dThe boldest chief, where all were bold;
A hero's soul in hero's mould;
His arm the bravest fled:
But never was his courage prov'd
Till now that, for the maid he lov'd,
Himself he vanquished.
He saw her sinking at his side;
“One parting kiss of love!” he cried;
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In my vain passion deified,
Queen of my heart, my joy, my pride,
Thou diest a spotless virgin bride,
To live a saint in heaven!”
He clasp'd her to his throbbing heart,
“Bless thee, my best and dearest part,
Bless thee for ever!”
He fled: that look of woe suppress'd,
In the fair mourner's eye shall rest;
And from her ear, and from her breast,
No sound those words shall sever:
And yet, at first, as if unheard
That stifled groan, that last low word,
She sate with calm and tearless eye,
And bending form, and gentle sigh;
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With patient smile his voice to hear,
As if her lover still were near.
XLII.
As mists upon the mountain side,Cots, woods, and glittering streamlets hide,
Till the pure breeze and brilliant ray,
The morning vapors chase away,
And the bright landscape springs to day;
So from her trance, to fate resign'd,
Woke the fair maid's celestial mind.
Heli was there, the Caliph's friend,
The lovely mourner to attend,
And lead her to the captive Queen.
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Had shrunk the soul of modesty;
He gaz'd not on her blushing mien,
Her page's habit seem'd unseen,
Whilst, bent before the drooping maid,
The Moor his King's sad greetings paid.
XLIII.
“Lady, Almanzor bade me say,From Murcia, chafing at delay,
Count Merida, this very day,
For Isabel arrives:
Step, lady, on the balcony,
And thou th' advancing pomp mayst see,
Their pursuivants, their pageantry;—
Woe to that pageant! but for thee,
'T had cost ten thousand lives!
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Or from proud Murcia's king to bear
Defiance to the Caliph brave,
To Spain, on either side, despair!
But for thine aid, he might as soon
Have woo'd and won the cold chaste moon,
From her high throne, as Isabel.
To pluck the rainbow from the sky,
And fix its tints in painter's dye,
Were less impossible,
Than, or by threats, or force, to wrest
Aught from Almanzor's haughty breast!”
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XLIV.
“Will he not then?” “Yes! Murcia's kingTh' unheeded gauntlet now may fling;
The captive's doors wide open spring.
But not his threats the bolts undrew;
Nothing for him! but all for you!
Ah, lady, must you go?” One sigh
He caught, but in her lifted eye
Beam'd calm and saintly constancy.
She answer'd not: but wav'd her hand
And motion'd to the door;
Perchance she fear'd her self-command,
Perchance the kindly Moor.
“The Queen!” at length she faltering said,
And to the royal fair he led.
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XLV.
Silent they pass'd. Before the dame,Unmark'd, unseen, unheard, they came:
She lay upon a velvet couch,
Beneath a crimson canopy,
And drew her hand from Blanch's touch,
But open'd not her eye.
Till Blanch no longer could repress
The thrilling tone of fond distress:
In sounds no selfish grief could lend,
She cried, “and is it thou, my friend,
My cousin Isabel!
And do I press thee to my heart,
And does no throbbing feeling dart,
Of kindred love to tell!”
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XLVI.
Then forth the lovely maniac rush'd;Her eye was wild, her cheek was flush'd;
But on the maid that eye was fix'd,
With doubting hope and sadness mix'd.
She stood as one who, scarce awake,
At vision'd spectres seems to shake;
Quakes at each thought; starts at each sound;
Feels each accustom'd object round;
Bewilder'd shrinks from day's bright beam;
And trembling asks, was it a dream?
She dragg'd Blanch to the casement bright,
Held her at arm's length in the light,
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Till reason's dawn began to break:
And with one shrill, heart-piercing shriek,
She fell in Blanch's arms.
| Narrative poems on the Female Character | |