The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry And other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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| 1. | THE FIRST DAY. |
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 | The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry |  |
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THE FIRST DAY.
'Tis May again, another May,
Looking as if it meant to stay;
So many are its thousand flowers,
So glorious are its sunny hours,
So green its earth, so blue its sky,
As made for hope's eternity.
Looking as if it meant to stay;
So many are its thousand flowers,
So glorious are its sunny hours,
So green its earth, so blue its sky,
As made for hope's eternity.
By night with starlike tapers gleaming,
And music like an odour streaming;
By day with portals open flung,
While bugle note and trumpet rung;
Rose Isaure's towers: and gathered there,
Again, the gifted, young and fair
Have at Clemenza's summons met,
In contest for the Violet.
And music like an odour streaming;
By day with portals open flung,
While bugle note and trumpet rung;
Rose Isaure's towers: and gathered there,
Again, the gifted, young and fair
Have at Clemenza's summons met,
In contest for the Violet.
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Her heralds had been to distant lands
To call together the joyeuse bands,
And they had hasten'd. England had sent
Her harp across the blue element;
The Spaniard had come from the land of romance;
And the flower of her minstrels had gather'd in France,
From far and from near; it was strange to see
The bards of Erin and Italy
Mingle together with those that came
From the highland home they so loved to name.
To call together the joyeuse bands,
And they had hasten'd. England had sent
Her harp across the blue element;
The Spaniard had come from the land of romance;
And the flower of her minstrels had gather'd in France,
From far and from near; it was strange to see
The bards of Erin and Italy
Mingle together with those that came
From the highland home they so loved to name.
Hark to the sound of yon silver horn,
And the sweep of the harp to the distance borne;
'Tis the hour of meeting, and welcome now
To the gifted hand and the laurel'd brow.
Young knight, think not of hawk or hound;
Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around;
Warrior, regard not the sword at thy side;
Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride;
Let worldly coldness and care depart,
And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art.
And the sweep of the harp to the distance borne;
'Tis the hour of meeting, and welcome now
To the gifted hand and the laurel'd brow.
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Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around;
Warrior, regard not the sword at thy side;
Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride;
Let worldly coldness and care depart,
And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art.
'T was a spacious hall, and around it rose
Carved pillars as white as the snows;
Between, the purple tapestry swept,
Where work'd in myriad shades were kept
Memories of many an ancient tale,
And of many a blooming cheek now pale.
The dome above like a glory shone,
Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon,
While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort,
Where Iris' self held her minstrel court;
And beautiful was the coloured fall
Of the floating hues round the stately hall.
Carved pillars as white as the snows;
Between, the purple tapestry swept,
Where work'd in myriad shades were kept
Memories of many an ancient tale,
And of many a blooming cheek now pale.
The dome above like a glory shone,
Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon,
While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort,
Where Iris' self held her minstrel court;
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Of the floating hues round the stately hall.
In groups around mix'd the gay throng,
Knight, noble, lady, child of song.
At one end was upraised a throne,
On which the countess sat alone;
Not with droop'd eye and bow'd-down head,
And simple white veil round her spread,
As lean'd she o'er the lonely wave,
Dreaming of the dead minstrel's grave;
But purple robe and golden band
Bespoke the ladye of the land;
Rich gems upon her arm were placed,
And lit the zone around her waist;
But none were in her braided hair,
One only Violet was there,
The golden flower, which won all eyes,
Destined to be the minstrel prize.
Knight, noble, lady, child of song.
At one end was upraised a throne,
On which the countess sat alone;
Not with droop'd eye and bow'd-down head,
And simple white veil round her spread,
As lean'd she o'er the lonely wave,
Dreaming of the dead minstrel's grave;
But purple robe and golden band
Bespoke the ladye of the land;
Rich gems upon her arm were placed,
And lit the zone around her waist;
But none were in her braided hair,
One only Violet was there,
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Destined to be the minstrel prize.
They pass'd around the silver urn
Whose lot must fix the poet's turn;
To a young Provence bard it came,—
He drew, and drew Clemenza's name.
And forth at once young Vidal sprung,
His light lute o'er his shoulder flung,
Then paused,—for over cheek and brow,
Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow;
A low sound trembled from that lute,
His lip turn'd pale, his voice was mute;
He sent a hurried glance around
As if in search; at last he found
The eyes without whose light to him
The very heaven above was dim:
At once his hand awoke the chords,
At once his lip pour'd tuneful words,
And, gazing on his lady's smile,
Bade his soft notes arise the while.
Whose lot must fix the poet's turn;
To a young Provence bard it came,—
He drew, and drew Clemenza's name.
And forth at once young Vidal sprung,
His light lute o'er his shoulder flung,
Then paused,—for over cheek and brow,
Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow;
A low sound trembled from that lute,
His lip turn'd pale, his voice was mute;
He sent a hurried glance around
As if in search; at last he found
The eyes without whose light to him
The very heaven above was dim:
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At once his lip pour'd tuneful words,
And, gazing on his lady's smile,
Bade his soft notes arise the while.
THE BROKEN SPELL:
THE FIRST PROVENÇAL MINSTREL'S LAY.
A FAIRY TALE.
Where on earth is the truth that may vie
With woman's lone and long constancy?
Lovers there have been who have died
For the love that they made a warrior's pride;
And a lover once, when a world was the prize,
Threw away his chance for a lady's eyes:
But not his the love that changes not
Mid the trials and griefs of an ill-starr'd lot;
Not like the rainbow, that shines on high
Brighter and purer as darker the sky.
But woman's creed of suffering bears
All that the health and the spirit wears;
Absence but makes her love the more,
For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store;
And is not hers the heart alone
That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won?
Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale,
But tell they not both the same fond tale?
Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek,
To burn and die on the heart which they seek.
Alas! that so often the grave should be
The seal of woman's fidelity!
With woman's lone and long constancy?
Lovers there have been who have died
For the love that they made a warrior's pride;
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Threw away his chance for a lady's eyes:
But not his the love that changes not
Mid the trials and griefs of an ill-starr'd lot;
Not like the rainbow, that shines on high
Brighter and purer as darker the sky.
But woman's creed of suffering bears
All that the health and the spirit wears;
Absence but makes her love the more,
For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store;
And is not hers the heart alone
That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won?
Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale,
But tell they not both the same fond tale?
Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek,
To burn and die on the heart which they seek.
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The seal of woman's fidelity!
On the horizon is a star,
Its earliest, loveliest one by far;
A blush is yet upon the sky,
As if too beautiful to die,—
A last gleam of the setting sun,
Like hope when love has just begun;
That hour when the maiden's lute,
And minstrel's song, and lover's suit,
Seem as that their sweet spells had made
This mystery of light and shade.
Its earliest, loveliest one by far;
A blush is yet upon the sky,
As if too beautiful to die,—
A last gleam of the setting sun,
Like hope when love has just begun;
That hour when the maiden's lute,
And minstrel's song, and lover's suit,
Seem as that their sweet spells had made
This mystery of light and shade.
That last rich sigh is on the gale
Which tells when summer's day is over,
The sigh which closing flowers exhale
After the bee, their honey lover,
As to remind him in his flight
Of what will be next noon's delight.
Which tells when summer's day is over,
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After the bee, their honey lover,
As to remind him in his flight
Of what will be next noon's delight.
'T is a fair garden, almond trees
Throw silver gifts upon the breeze;
Lilies, each a white-robed bride,
With treasures of pure gold inside,
Like marble towers a king has made;—
And of its own sweet self afraid,
A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping,
Lovelier from its timid drooping:—
But in the midst is a rose stem,
The wind's beloved, the garden's gem.
No wonder that it blooms so well:
Thy tears have been on every leaf;
And, Mirzala, thy heart can tell
How lasting that which feeds on grief.
Throw silver gifts upon the breeze;
Lilies, each a white-robed bride,
With treasures of pure gold inside,
Like marble towers a king has made;—
And of its own sweet self afraid,
A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping,
Lovelier from its timid drooping:—
But in the midst is a rose stem,
The wind's beloved, the garden's gem.
No wonder that it blooms so well:
Thy tears have been on every leaf;
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How lasting that which feeds on grief.
'T was a branch of roses her lover gave
Amid her raven curls to wave,
When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow
Of the parting that sighs, “we meet to-morrow;”
Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed
Over the faithless or over the dead.
She has not seen his face since that night
When she watch'd his shadow by pale moonlight,
And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was left
To remind her of love and of hope bereft.
Amid her raven curls to wave,
When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow
Of the parting that sighs, “we meet to-morrow;”
Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed
Over the faithless or over the dead.
She has not seen his face since that night
When she watch'd his shadow by pale moonlight,
And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was left
To remind her of love and of hope bereft.
She was one summer evening laid
Beneath the tulip tree's green shade,
When from her favourite rose a cloud
Floated like those at break of day;—
She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud,
And there a radiant figure lay.
And in murmurs soft as those
Which sweep the sea at evening close,
Spoke the Spirit of the rose:—
“Mirzala, thy lover sleeps
While his mistress for him weeps.
He is bound by magic spell,
Of force which woman's love may quell;
I will guide thee to the hall
Where thy faith may break his thrall.
Think thou if thy heart can dare
All that thou must look on there.
Turn not thou for hope nor fear,
Till the marble hall appear.
There thou wilt thy lover see
Dead to life, and love, and thee.
Only truth so pure as thine
Could approach the charmed shrine.
Press thy lips to the cold stone,
He will wake,—the spell be done!
Hast thou courage like thy love?
Follow thou the snow-white dove.”
Beneath the tulip tree's green shade,
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Floated like those at break of day;—
She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud,
And there a radiant figure lay.
And in murmurs soft as those
Which sweep the sea at evening close,
Spoke the Spirit of the rose:—
“Mirzala, thy lover sleeps
While his mistress for him weeps.
He is bound by magic spell,
Of force which woman's love may quell;
I will guide thee to the hall
Where thy faith may break his thrall.
Think thou if thy heart can dare
All that thou must look on there.
Turn not thou for hope nor fear,
Till the marble hall appear.
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Dead to life, and love, and thee.
Only truth so pure as thine
Could approach the charmed shrine.
Press thy lips to the cold stone,
He will wake,—the spell be done!
Hast thou courage like thy love?
Follow thou the snow-white dove.”
And Mirzala rose up, and there
Was a fair dove on that rose tree,
With white wings glittering on the air,
Like foam upon a summer sea.
She follow'd it until she stood
By where a little boat lay moor'd
To the green willow, from the flood
But by a water flag secured.
She enter'd, and it cut the tide;
Odours and music fill'd the sail,
As if a rose and lute had sigh'd
A mingled breath upon the gale.
It was at first a lovely scene:
Leaves and branches wreathed a screen,
Sunbeams there might wander through;
Glimpses of a sky of blue,
Like the hopes that smile to cheer
The earthliness of sorrow here;
And like summer queens, beside,
Roses gazed upon the tide,
Each one longing to caress
Her own mirror'd loveliness;
And the purple orchis shone
Rich, as shines an Indian stone;
And the honeysuckle's flower
Crimson, as a sunset hour;
But too soon the blooms are past,—
When did ever beauty last?
And there came a dreary shade,
Of the yew and cypress made,
Moaning in the sullen breeze;
And at length not even these,
But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd,
Relics of a ruin'd world.
Wide, more wide, the river grew,
Blacker changed its dreary hue,
Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye
Only gazed on sea and sky—
Sea of death, and sky of night,
Where a storm had been like light.
Was a fair dove on that rose tree,
With white wings glittering on the air,
Like foam upon a summer sea.
She follow'd it until she stood
By where a little boat lay moor'd
To the green willow, from the flood
But by a water flag secured.
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Odours and music fill'd the sail,
As if a rose and lute had sigh'd
A mingled breath upon the gale.
It was at first a lovely scene:
Leaves and branches wreathed a screen,
Sunbeams there might wander through;
Glimpses of a sky of blue,
Like the hopes that smile to cheer
The earthliness of sorrow here;
And like summer queens, beside,
Roses gazed upon the tide,
Each one longing to caress
Her own mirror'd loveliness;
And the purple orchis shone
Rich, as shines an Indian stone;
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Crimson, as a sunset hour;
But too soon the blooms are past,—
When did ever beauty last?
And there came a dreary shade,
Of the yew and cypress made,
Moaning in the sullen breeze;
And at length not even these,
But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd,
Relics of a ruin'd world.
Wide, more wide, the river grew,
Blacker changed its dreary hue,
Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye
Only gazed on sea and sky—
Sea of death, and sky of night,
Where a storm had been like light.
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Mirzala was pale, yet still
Shrank she not for dread of ill.
She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore;
But little it recks to number o'er
The wearying days, and the heavy fears,
When hope could only smile through tears,
The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd,
Till she came to a castle's gate at last.
Shrank she not for dread of ill.
She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore;
But little it recks to number o'er
The wearying days, and the heavy fears,
When hope could only smile through tears,
The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd,
Till she came to a castle's gate at last.
'T was evening; but the glorious sky,
With its purple light and Tyrian dye,
Was contrast strange to the drear heath
Which bleak and desolate lay beneath.
Trees, but leafless all, stood there,
For the lightning flash had left them bare;
The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind
Of the Siroc had mark'd its red course; behind
The bright clouds shone on the river's face,
But the death-black waters had not a trace
Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd:
It seem'd as if a curse were laid
On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower,
And shut them out from the sunbeam's power;
And with the last ray which the sunbeam threw,
The dove flew up, and vanished too.
And Mirzala knew she had reach'd that hall
Where her lover lay sleeping in magic thrall;
And she sat her down by a blasted tree,
To watch for what her fate might be.
But at midnight the gates rolled apart with a sound
Like the groan sent forth from the yawning ground.
On she went with scarce light to show
That gulf and darkness were below,—
Light like the wan blue flames that wave
Their death torch o'er the murderer's grave;
And flickering shapes beset the way,
Watching in gloom to seize their prey,
More terrible, for that the eye
Wandered in dim uncertainty:
But Mirzala pressed fearless on,
Till every dreary shade was gone.
With its purple light and Tyrian dye,
Was contrast strange to the drear heath
Which bleak and desolate lay beneath.
Trees, but leafless all, stood there,
For the lightning flash had left them bare;
The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind
Of the Siroc had mark'd its red course; behind
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But the death-black waters had not a trace
Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd:
It seem'd as if a curse were laid
On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower,
And shut them out from the sunbeam's power;
And with the last ray which the sunbeam threw,
The dove flew up, and vanished too.
And Mirzala knew she had reach'd that hall
Where her lover lay sleeping in magic thrall;
And she sat her down by a blasted tree,
To watch for what her fate might be.
But at midnight the gates rolled apart with a sound
Like the groan sent forth from the yawning ground.
On she went with scarce light to show
That gulf and darkness were below,—
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Their death torch o'er the murderer's grave;
And flickering shapes beset the way,
Watching in gloom to seize their prey,
More terrible, for that the eye
Wandered in dim uncertainty:
But Mirzala pressed fearless on,
Till every dreary shade was gone.
At once bursting into day
There a radiant garden lay.
There were tall and stately trees
With green boughs, in canopies
For the rose beneath, that smiled
Like a young and favourite child;
With its purple wealth the vine,
Mixed with silver jessamine,
Stretch'd around from tree to tree,
Like a royal tapestry;
Sweet sounds floated on the air,
Lutes and voices mingled there,
And a thousand flowers blent
Into one delicious scent;
Singing birds, and azure skies,
Made a spot like Paradise.
Mirzala paused not to lave
Her pale forehead in the wave,
Though each fountain was as bright
As if form'd of dew and light.
Paused she not for the sweet song,
On the rich air borne along.
Fair forms throng'd around with flowers
Breathing of spring's earliest hours;
Others from their baskets roll'd
Fruits of ruby and of gold.
Vainly! nothing could delay,
Nothing win the maiden's stay.
And the magic scene again
Changed to a white marble fane
And as Mirzala drew near,
Saw she two bright forms appear.
The first wore gorgeous coronet,
With topaz, pearl, and sapphire set,
And a diamond zone embraced
The rich robe around her waist;
And as conscious of her power
In her great and royal dower,
With a smile that seem'd to say,
Only gold can clear thy way,
She her casket show'd, where shone
Precious ore and Indian stone.
“Oh! if gold could win his heart,
I would from the search depart;
All my offering must be
True and spotless constancy.”
Then to the other shape she turn'd,
Whose cheek with crimson blushes burn'd
But to think love could be sold
For a heartless gift of gold.
From her lily-braided hair
Took the spirit bud as fair
As if to summer suns unknown,
Gave it the maiden, and was gone.
There a radiant garden lay.
There were tall and stately trees
With green boughs, in canopies
For the rose beneath, that smiled
Like a young and favourite child;
With its purple wealth the vine,
Mixed with silver jessamine,
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Like a royal tapestry;
Sweet sounds floated on the air,
Lutes and voices mingled there,
And a thousand flowers blent
Into one delicious scent;
Singing birds, and azure skies,
Made a spot like Paradise.
Mirzala paused not to lave
Her pale forehead in the wave,
Though each fountain was as bright
As if form'd of dew and light.
Paused she not for the sweet song,
On the rich air borne along.
Fair forms throng'd around with flowers
Breathing of spring's earliest hours;
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Fruits of ruby and of gold.
Vainly! nothing could delay,
Nothing win the maiden's stay.
And the magic scene again
Changed to a white marble fane
And as Mirzala drew near,
Saw she two bright forms appear.
The first wore gorgeous coronet,
With topaz, pearl, and sapphire set,
And a diamond zone embraced
The rich robe around her waist;
And as conscious of her power
In her great and royal dower,
With a smile that seem'd to say,
Only gold can clear thy way,
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Precious ore and Indian stone.
“Oh! if gold could win his heart,
I would from the search depart;
All my offering must be
True and spotless constancy.”
Then to the other shape she turn'd,
Whose cheek with crimson blushes burn'd
But to think love could be sold
For a heartless gift of gold.
From her lily-braided hair
Took the spirit bud as fair
As if to summer suns unknown,
Gave it the maiden, and was gone.
Then Mirzala stood by a portal barr'd,
Where held the Lion King his guard;
But touch'd by that bud the lion grew tame,
And the chained portals asunder came.
It was darkness all in that magic room,
But a sweet light stream'd from the lily's bloom.
And Mirzala look'd on her lover's face,
And he woke at the touch of her soft embrace.
Joy, joy for the maiden, her task is done,—
The spell is broken, her lover is won.
The next who rose had that martial air,
Where held the Lion King his guard;
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And the chained portals asunder came.
It was darkness all in that magic room,
But a sweet light stream'd from the lily's bloom.
And Mirzala look'd on her lover's face,
And he woke at the touch of her soft embrace.
Joy, joy for the maiden, her task is done,—
The spell is broken, her lover is won.
Such as stately warrior wont to wear;
Haughty his step, and sun and toil
Had left on his cheek their darker soil,
And on his brow of pride was the scar,
The soldier's sign of glorious war;
And the notes came forth like the bearing bold
Of the knightly deeds which their numbers told.
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THE FALCON:
THE LAY OF THE NORMAN KNIGHT.
I hear a sound o'er hill and plain,
It doth not pass away.
Is it the valleys that ring forth
Their welcome to the day?
Or is it that the lofty woods,
Touch'd by the morn, rejoice?
No, 'tis another sound than these,—
It is the battle's voice.
I see the martial ranks, I see
Their banners floating there,
And plume and spear rise meteor like
Upon the reddening air.
One mark'd I most of all,—he was
Mine own familiar friend;
A blessing after him was all
My distant lip could send.
Curse on the feeble arm that hung
Then useless by my side!
I lay before my tent and watch'd
Onwards the warriors ride.
De Valence he was first of all,
Upon his foam-white steed;
Never knight curb'd more gallantly
A fiery courser's speed.
His silver armour shone like light,
In the young morning's ray;
And round his helm the snowy plume
Danced like the ocean spray.
Sudden a bird burst through the air,—
I knew his falcon's flight;
He perch'd beside his master's hand,—
Loud shouts rose at the sight.
For many there deem'd the brave bird
Augur'd a glorious day;
To my dark thoughts, his fond caress
Seem'd a farewell to say.
One moment and he spread his wings,
The bird was seen no more;
Like the sea waves, the armed ranks
Swept onwards as before.
The height whereon I lay look'd down
On a thick-wooded land,
And soon amid the forest shade
I lost the noble band.
The snow-white steed, the silver shield,
Amid the foliage shone;
But thicker closed the heavy boughs,
And even these were gone.
Yet still I heard the ringing steps
Of soldiers clad in mail,
And heard the stirring trumpet send
Defiance on the gale.
Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell
When foes meet hand to hand,—
The shout, the yell, the iron clang
Of meeting spear and brand.
I have stood when my own life-blood
Pour'd down like winter rain;
But rather would I shed its last
Than live that day again.
Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste
To seek me tidings sent;
And day was closing as I paced
Alone beside my tent;
When suddenly upon my hand
A bird sank down to rest,—
The falcon,—but its head was droop'd,
And soil'd and stain'd its breast.
A light glanced through the trees: I knew
His courser's snowy hide,—
But that was dash'd with blood; one bound,
And at my feet it died.
I rushed towards my sword,—alas,
My arm hung in its sling;
But, as to lead my venture,
The falcon spread its wing.
I met its large beseeching eye
Turn'd to mine, as in prayer;
I follow'd, such was its strange power,
Its circuit through the air.
It led me on,—before my path
The tangled branches yield;
It led me on till we had gain'd
The morning's battle field.
The fallen confused, and numberless!
“O grief! it is in vain,
My own beloved friend, to seek
For thee amid the slain.”
Yet paused the falcon, where heap'd dead
Spoke thickest of the fray;
There, compass'd by a hostile ring,
Its noble master lay.
None of his band were near, around
Were only foes o'erthrown;
It seem'd as desperate he rush'd,
And fought, and fell alone.
The helm, with its white plumes, was off;
The silver shield blood-stain'd;
But yet within the red right hand
The broken sword remain'd.
That night I watch'd beside, and kept
The hungry wolves away,
And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd
In blood of birds of prey.
The morning rose, another step
With mine was on the plain;
A hermit, who with pious aid
Sought where life might remain.
We made De Valence there a grave,
The spot which now he prest;
For shroud, he had his blood-stain'd mail,—
Such suits the soldier best.
A chestnut tree grew on the spot;
It was as if he sought,
From the press of surrounding foes,
Its shelter while he fought.
The grave was dug, a cross was raised,
The prayers were duly said,
While perch'd upon a low-hung bough
The bird moan'd overhead.
We laid the last sod on the grave,—
The falcon dropp'd like lead;
I placed it in my breast in vain,
Its gallant life was fled.
We bade the faithful creature share
Its master's place of rest;
I took two feathers from its wing,
They are my only crest.
Spring leaves were green upon the trees
What time De Valence fell;
Let autumn's yellow forests say
If I avenged him well.
And then I laid aside my sword,
And took my lute to thee,
And vow'd for my sworn brother's sake
I would a wanderer be.
Till for a year I had proclaim'd
In distant lands his fame,
And taught to many a foreign court
De Valence's brave name.
Never was heart more kind and true,
Never was hand more bold;
Never was there more loyal knight.—
Gentles, my tale is told.
It doth not pass away.
Is it the valleys that ring forth
Their welcome to the day?
Or is it that the lofty woods,
Touch'd by the morn, rejoice?
No, 'tis another sound than these,—
It is the battle's voice.
I see the martial ranks, I see
Their banners floating there,
And plume and spear rise meteor like
Upon the reddening air.
One mark'd I most of all,—he was
Mine own familiar friend;
41
My distant lip could send.
Curse on the feeble arm that hung
Then useless by my side!
I lay before my tent and watch'd
Onwards the warriors ride.
De Valence he was first of all,
Upon his foam-white steed;
Never knight curb'd more gallantly
A fiery courser's speed.
His silver armour shone like light,
In the young morning's ray;
And round his helm the snowy plume
Danced like the ocean spray.
Sudden a bird burst through the air,—
I knew his falcon's flight;
42
Loud shouts rose at the sight.
For many there deem'd the brave bird
Augur'd a glorious day;
To my dark thoughts, his fond caress
Seem'd a farewell to say.
One moment and he spread his wings,
The bird was seen no more;
Like the sea waves, the armed ranks
Swept onwards as before.
The height whereon I lay look'd down
On a thick-wooded land,
And soon amid the forest shade
I lost the noble band.
The snow-white steed, the silver shield,
Amid the foliage shone;
43
And even these were gone.
Yet still I heard the ringing steps
Of soldiers clad in mail,
And heard the stirring trumpet send
Defiance on the gale.
Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell
When foes meet hand to hand,—
The shout, the yell, the iron clang
Of meeting spear and brand.
I have stood when my own life-blood
Pour'd down like winter rain;
But rather would I shed its last
Than live that day again.
Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste
To seek me tidings sent;
44
Alone beside my tent;
When suddenly upon my hand
A bird sank down to rest,—
The falcon,—but its head was droop'd,
And soil'd and stain'd its breast.
A light glanced through the trees: I knew
His courser's snowy hide,—
But that was dash'd with blood; one bound,
And at my feet it died.
I rushed towards my sword,—alas,
My arm hung in its sling;
But, as to lead my venture,
The falcon spread its wing.
I met its large beseeching eye
Turn'd to mine, as in prayer;
45
Its circuit through the air.
It led me on,—before my path
The tangled branches yield;
It led me on till we had gain'd
The morning's battle field.
The fallen confused, and numberless!
“O grief! it is in vain,
My own beloved friend, to seek
For thee amid the slain.”
Yet paused the falcon, where heap'd dead
Spoke thickest of the fray;
There, compass'd by a hostile ring,
Its noble master lay.
None of his band were near, around
Were only foes o'erthrown;
46
And fought, and fell alone.
The helm, with its white plumes, was off;
The silver shield blood-stain'd;
But yet within the red right hand
The broken sword remain'd.
That night I watch'd beside, and kept
The hungry wolves away,
And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd
In blood of birds of prey.
The morning rose, another step
With mine was on the plain;
A hermit, who with pious aid
Sought where life might remain.
We made De Valence there a grave,
The spot which now he prest;
47
Such suits the soldier best.
A chestnut tree grew on the spot;
It was as if he sought,
From the press of surrounding foes,
Its shelter while he fought.
The grave was dug, a cross was raised,
The prayers were duly said,
While perch'd upon a low-hung bough
The bird moan'd overhead.
We laid the last sod on the grave,—
The falcon dropp'd like lead;
I placed it in my breast in vain,
Its gallant life was fled.
We bade the faithful creature share
Its master's place of rest;
48
They are my only crest.
Spring leaves were green upon the trees
What time De Valence fell;
Let autumn's yellow forests say
If I avenged him well.
And then I laid aside my sword,
And took my lute to thee,
And vow'd for my sworn brother's sake
I would a wanderer be.
Till for a year I had proclaim'd
In distant lands his fame,
And taught to many a foreign court
De Valence's brave name.
Never was heart more kind and true,
Never was hand more bold;
49
Gentles, my tale is told.
Strange contrast to each gorgeous vest,
His rough plaid crost upon his breast,
And looking worn, and wild, and rude,
As just from mountain solitude;
Though weary brow and drooping eye
Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky.
Heedless of all, with absent look,
The key of his clairshach he took;
But the first breath, oh! it was sweet,
As river gliding at your feet,
And leaving, as it murmurs by,
Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh.
His rough plaid crost upon his breast,
And looking worn, and wild, and rude,
As just from mountain solitude;
Though weary brow and drooping eye
Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky.
Heedless of all, with absent look,
The key of his clairshach he took;
But the first breath, oh! it was sweet,
As river gliding at your feet,
And leaving, as it murmurs by,
Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh.
50
THE DREAM:
This tale is founded on more modern tradition
than that of the distant age to which my minstrel belongs: the
vision, the prophecy, and untimely death of the youthful pair
are actual facts; and the present—Campbell, Esq. Laird
of Glensaddaell, Anglicè Melancholy Valley, is the very child
whose health and prosperity have realised the prediction of his
birth.
This tale is founded on more modern tradition than that of the distant age to which my minstrel belongs: the vision, the prophecy, and untimely death of the youthful pair are actual facts; and the present—Campbell, Esq. Laird of Glensaddaell, Anglicè Melancholy Valley, is the very child whose health and prosperity have realised the prediction of his birth.
THE LAY OF THE SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
There are no sounds in the wanderer's ear,
To breathe of the home that he holds so dear:
Your gales pass by on the breath of the rose,
The vines on your sunny hills repose;
And your river is clear as its silver tide
Had no task save to mirror the flowers beside.
Thou art fair, Provence, but not fair to me
As the land which my spirit is pining to see,
Where the pine rises darkly, the lord of the wood,
Or stands lone in the pass, where the warrior has stood;
Where the torrent is rushing like youth in its might,
And the cavern is black as the slumber of night;
Where the deer o'er the hills bound, as fleet and as free
As the shaft from the bow, as the wave of the sea;
Where the heather is sweet as the sleep that is found
By the hunter who makes it his bed on the ground;
Where the might of the chieftain goes down to his son,
In numbers as wild as the deeds that are done;
Where the harp has notes caught from the storm and the flood,
When foemen are gathering together in blood;
Yet has others that whisper the maiden, of love,
In tones that re-echo the linnet and dove;
Where the mountain ash guards us from elfin and fay;
Where the broom, spendthrift like, flings its gold wreath away;
And the harebell shines blue in the depth of the vale.
Oh! dear country of mine, of thee be my tale.
To breathe of the home that he holds so dear:
Your gales pass by on the breath of the rose,
The vines on your sunny hills repose;
And your river is clear as its silver tide
Had no task save to mirror the flowers beside.
Thou art fair, Provence, but not fair to me
As the land which my spirit is pining to see,
Where the pine rises darkly, the lord of the wood,
Or stands lone in the pass, where the warrior has stood;
Where the torrent is rushing like youth in its might,
And the cavern is black as the slumber of night;
51
As the shaft from the bow, as the wave of the sea;
Where the heather is sweet as the sleep that is found
By the hunter who makes it his bed on the ground;
Where the might of the chieftain goes down to his son,
In numbers as wild as the deeds that are done;
Where the harp has notes caught from the storm and the flood,
When foemen are gathering together in blood;
Yet has others that whisper the maiden, of love,
In tones that re-echo the linnet and dove;
Where the mountain ash guards us from elfin and fay;
Where the broom, spendthrift like, flings its gold wreath away;
And the harebell shines blue in the depth of the vale.
Oh! dear country of mine, of thee be my tale.
52
The lady awoke from the slumber of night,
But the vision had melted away from her sight.
She turn'd to her pillow for rest, but again
The same vision of fear became only more plain.
But the vision had melted away from her sight.
She turn'd to her pillow for rest, but again
The same vision of fear became only more plain.
She dream'd she stood on a fair hill side,
And their lands lay beneath in summer pride,
The sky was clear, and the earth was green,
Her heart grew light as she gazed on the scene.
Two fair oak trees most caught her eye,
The one looked proudly up to the sky,
The other bent meekly, as if to share
The shelter its proud boughs flung on the air.
There came no cloud on the face of day,
Yet even as she look'd they pass'd away,
Unmark'd as though they had never been,
Save a young green shoot that had sprung between.
And while she gazed on it, she could see
That sapling spring up to a noble tree.
Again she woke, and again she slept,
But the same dream still on her eyelids kept.
The morning came at last, but its light
Seem'd not to her as her mornings bright.
A sadness hung on her lip and brow,
She could not shake off, she shamed to avow.
And their lands lay beneath in summer pride,
The sky was clear, and the earth was green,
Her heart grew light as she gazed on the scene.
Two fair oak trees most caught her eye,
The one looked proudly up to the sky,
The other bent meekly, as if to share
The shelter its proud boughs flung on the air.
There came no cloud on the face of day,
Yet even as she look'd they pass'd away,
Unmark'd as though they had never been,
Save a young green shoot that had sprung between.
53
That sapling spring up to a noble tree.
Again she woke, and again she slept,
But the same dream still on her eyelids kept.
The morning came at last, but its light
Seem'd not to her as her mornings bright.
A sadness hung on her lip and brow,
She could not shake off, she shamed to avow.
While the hounds that chase the stag and roe
Were gathering in the court below,
She walk'd with her lord, and mark'd that on him
A somewhat of secret shadow lay dim;
And sought she the cause with that sweet art,
Which is the science of woman's fond heart,
That may not bear the loved one to brood
O'er aught of sorrow in solitude;
And with gentle arm in his entwined,
And witching cheek on his reclined,
The source of his gloom is to her made known,
'T is a dream,—she starts, for she hears her own.
But his cares, at least, to the summons yield
Of the baying hound and the cheerful field;
At the horn's glad peal, he downwards flung
From the terraced wall, and to stirrup sprung.
And the lady forgot her bodings too,
As his steed dash'd aside the morning dew,
So graceful he sate, while his flashing eye
Seem'd proud of his gallant mastery.
But the swell of the horn died away on the air,
And the hunter and hounds were no longer there;
Then Matilda turn'd to her loneliness,
With a cloud on her spirit she might not repress.
She took up her pencil, unconscious she drew
A heavy branch of the funeral yew;
She reach'd her lute and its song awoke,
But the string, as she touch'd it, wail'd and broke;
Then turn'd she the poet's gifted leaf,
But the tale was death, and the words were grief;
And still, with a power she might not quell,
The dream of the night o'er her hung like a spell.
Day pass'd, but her lord was still away;
Word came he was press'd to a festal array;—
'Twas a moment's thought,—around her was thrown
The muffling plaid, and she hasten'd alone
To the glen, where dwelt the awful maid
To whom the spirits of air had said
Unearthly words, and given a power
On the wind, and the stars, and the midnight hour.
She reach'd that glen; not till then she took
One moment's breath, or one moment's look.
When paused she in awe—'t was so lone, so still;
Silence was laid on the leaf and the rill,—
It was stillness as that of the tomb around,
The beat of her heart was the only sound.
On one side, bleak rocks the barrier made,
As the first great curse were upon them laid;
Drear and desolate, stern and bare,
Tempests and time had been ravaging there.
And there gather'd darkly the lowering sky,
As if fearing its own obscurity;
And spectre like, around the vale,
Pale larches flung their long arms on the gale,
Till the sward of the glen sloped abruptly away,
And a gloomy lake under the precipice lay.
Never was life or sound in its wave,—
An abyss like that of the depths of the grave.
On yet she went; till, sudden as thought,
By her stood the seer whom she wildly sought.
She had heard no step, seen no shadow glide,
Yet there the prophetess was by her side.
As the skilful in music tone their chords,
The lady had arm'd her with soothing words;
But she look'd on the face that fronted her there,
And her words and their substance melted in air.
Pale as the corpse on its deathbed reclining;
And hands through whose shadow the starbeam was shining,
As they waved from her forehead the raven cloud
Of hair that fell to her feet like a shroud;
And awful eyes,—never had earth
To their fearful wanderings given birth,
Their light and their haunting darkness came
From gazing on those it is sin to name.
She spoke, it was low, but it sank on the soul
With deadlier force than the thunder's roll;
Yet her voice was sweet, as to it were left
The all of human feeling not reft:
“I heard the words come on the midnight wind;
They pass'd, but their message is left behind;
I watch'd the course of a falling star,
And I heard the bode of its cry from afar;
I talk'd with the spirit of yonder lake;
I sorrow'd, and, lady, 't was for thy sake.
Part from thy face the sunny hair,
So young, and yet death is written there.
No one is standing beside thee now,
Yet mine eyes can see a noble brow,
I can see the flash of a clear dark eye,
And a stately hunter is passing by.
You will go to the tomb, but not alone,
For the doom of that hunter is as your own.
Hasten thee home, and kiss the cheek
Of thy young fair child, nor fear to break
The boy's sweet slumber of peace; for not
With his father's or thine is that orphan's lot.
As the sapling sprang up to a stately tree,
He will flourish; but not, thou fond mother, for thee.
Now away, for those who would blast thy sight
Are gathering fast on the clouds of night;
Away, while yet those small clear stars shine,
They 'll grow pale at the meeting of me and mine.”
Were gathering in the court below,
She walk'd with her lord, and mark'd that on him
A somewhat of secret shadow lay dim;
And sought she the cause with that sweet art,
Which is the science of woman's fond heart,
That may not bear the loved one to brood
O'er aught of sorrow in solitude;
54
And witching cheek on his reclined,
The source of his gloom is to her made known,
'T is a dream,—she starts, for she hears her own.
But his cares, at least, to the summons yield
Of the baying hound and the cheerful field;
At the horn's glad peal, he downwards flung
From the terraced wall, and to stirrup sprung.
And the lady forgot her bodings too,
As his steed dash'd aside the morning dew,
So graceful he sate, while his flashing eye
Seem'd proud of his gallant mastery.
But the swell of the horn died away on the air,
And the hunter and hounds were no longer there;
Then Matilda turn'd to her loneliness,
With a cloud on her spirit she might not repress.
55
A heavy branch of the funeral yew;
She reach'd her lute and its song awoke,
But the string, as she touch'd it, wail'd and broke;
Then turn'd she the poet's gifted leaf,
But the tale was death, and the words were grief;
And still, with a power she might not quell,
The dream of the night o'er her hung like a spell.
Day pass'd, but her lord was still away;
Word came he was press'd to a festal array;—
'Twas a moment's thought,—around her was thrown
The muffling plaid, and she hasten'd alone
To the glen, where dwelt the awful maid
To whom the spirits of air had said
Unearthly words, and given a power
On the wind, and the stars, and the midnight hour.
56
One moment's breath, or one moment's look.
When paused she in awe—'t was so lone, so still;
Silence was laid on the leaf and the rill,—
It was stillness as that of the tomb around,
The beat of her heart was the only sound.
On one side, bleak rocks the barrier made,
As the first great curse were upon them laid;
Drear and desolate, stern and bare,
Tempests and time had been ravaging there.
And there gather'd darkly the lowering sky,
As if fearing its own obscurity;
And spectre like, around the vale,
Pale larches flung their long arms on the gale,
Till the sward of the glen sloped abruptly away,
And a gloomy lake under the precipice lay.
57
An abyss like that of the depths of the grave.
On yet she went; till, sudden as thought,
By her stood the seer whom she wildly sought.
She had heard no step, seen no shadow glide,
Yet there the prophetess was by her side.
As the skilful in music tone their chords,
The lady had arm'd her with soothing words;
But she look'd on the face that fronted her there,
And her words and their substance melted in air.
Pale as the corpse on its deathbed reclining;
And hands through whose shadow the starbeam was shining,
As they waved from her forehead the raven cloud
Of hair that fell to her feet like a shroud;
And awful eyes,—never had earth
To their fearful wanderings given birth,
58
From gazing on those it is sin to name.
She spoke, it was low, but it sank on the soul
With deadlier force than the thunder's roll;
Yet her voice was sweet, as to it were left
The all of human feeling not reft:
“I heard the words come on the midnight wind;
They pass'd, but their message is left behind;
I watch'd the course of a falling star,
And I heard the bode of its cry from afar;
I talk'd with the spirit of yonder lake;
I sorrow'd, and, lady, 't was for thy sake.
Part from thy face the sunny hair,
So young, and yet death is written there.
No one is standing beside thee now,
Yet mine eyes can see a noble brow,
59
And a stately hunter is passing by.
You will go to the tomb, but not alone,
For the doom of that hunter is as your own.
Hasten thee home, and kiss the cheek
Of thy young fair child, nor fear to break
The boy's sweet slumber of peace; for not
With his father's or thine is that orphan's lot.
As the sapling sprang up to a stately tree,
He will flourish; but not, thou fond mother, for thee.
Now away, for those who would blast thy sight
Are gathering fast on the clouds of night;
Away, while yet those small clear stars shine,
They 'll grow pale at the meeting of me and mine.”
Alas, for the weird of the wizard maid!
Alas, for the truth of the words which she said!
Ah, true for aye will those bodings be
That tell of mortal misery!
I've seen my noble chieftain laid low,
And my harp o'er his grave wail'd its song of woe;
And again it wail'd for the gentle bride
Who with hastening love soon slept by his side.
He pass'd away in the early spring,
And she in the summer, whose sun could bring
Warmth and life, in its genial hour,
To all save the drooping human flower.
I left the land, I could not stay
Where the gallant, the lovely, had pass'd away;
Yet now my spirit is pining to greet
My youthful chief in his parent's seat.
I saw him once in a foreign land,
With plume on head, and with spear in hand;
And many a lady's eye was bent
On the stranger knight in the tournament;
He had his father's stately brow,
And the falcon eye that flash'd below;
But when he knelt as the victor down,
(Fair was the maiden who gave the crown,)
A few low words the young warrior said,
And his lip had his mother's smile and red.
He is dwelling now in his native glen,
And there my harp must waken again;
My last song shall be for him young, him brave,
Then away to die at my master's grave!
Led by a child whose sunny air,
Alas, for the truth of the words which she said!
60
That tell of mortal misery!
I've seen my noble chieftain laid low,
And my harp o'er his grave wail'd its song of woe;
And again it wail'd for the gentle bride
Who with hastening love soon slept by his side.
He pass'd away in the early spring,
And she in the summer, whose sun could bring
Warmth and life, in its genial hour,
To all save the drooping human flower.
I left the land, I could not stay
Where the gallant, the lovely, had pass'd away;
Yet now my spirit is pining to greet
My youthful chief in his parent's seat.
I saw him once in a foreign land,
With plume on head, and with spear in hand;
61
On the stranger knight in the tournament;
He had his father's stately brow,
And the falcon eye that flash'd below;
But when he knelt as the victor down,
(Fair was the maiden who gave the crown,)
A few low words the young warrior said,
And his lip had his mother's smile and red.
He is dwelling now in his native glen,
And there my harp must waken again;
My last song shall be for him young, him brave,
Then away to die at my master's grave!
And rosy cheek young Health might wear,
62
Fresh as the stream its freshness gave;
But gentle eyes, with softness fraught,
As if their tenderness they caught
From gazing on the pallid brow
Whose only light was from them now.
Beautiful it was to see
Such love in early infancy.
Far from the aged steps she led,
Long since the guiding light had fled;
And meek and sad the old man grew,
As nearer life's dark goal he drew;
All solace of such weary hour
Was that child's love, and his own power
O'er music's spirit, and the store
He treasured up of legend lore.
63
And took her place beside his feet,
Up gazing with fond fixed eye,
Lest sigh should pass unnoticed by.
A clear rich prelude forth he rang,
Brighten'd his look as thus he sang;
The colour lit his forehead pale,
As the master told his ancient tale.
THE CHILD OF THE SEA:
THE LAY OF THE SECOND PROVENÇAL BARD.
It was a summer evening; and the sea
Seem'd to rejoice in its tranquillity;
Rolling its gentle waters to the west,
Till the rich crimson blush'd upon their breast,
Uniting lovingly the wave and sky,
Like Hope content in its delight to die.
A young queen with her maidens sat and sung,
While ocean thousands of sweet echoes flung,
Delighting them to hear their voices blent
With music from the murmuring element.
Then cast they on the winds their radiant hair,
Then gather'd of the pink shells those most rare,
To gem their flying curls, that each might seem
A Nereid risen from the briny stream.
When sudden cried the queen, “Come, gaze with me
At what may yonder in the distance be.”
All gather'd round. A little speck was seen,
Like a mere shadow, on the billows green.
Nearer and nearer, more distinct it grew,
Till came a fragile vessel full in view;
As if at random flung to a chance gale,
Uncheck'd, unguided, flapp'd a silken sail;
And saw they all alone a lady there,
Her neck and arms to the rude sea-wind bare,
And her head bow'd as in its last despair.
It came no nearer, on the sea it lay;
The wind, exhausted, had died quite away.
They had a fairy boat, in which 't was sport
Amid the inland channels to resort;
Their fair hands raised the sail, and plied the oar,
And brought the lonely wanderer to their shore;
Then mark'd they how her scarlet mantle's fold
Was round a young, a lovely infant roll'd.
They brought the wearied stranger to their tent,
Flung o'er her face cool water, gifted scent,
And touch'd her lips with wine, though all too plain
That death was darkening in each frozen vein:
Eager she gazed where the queen stood beside,
Her hands stretch'd to her own fair boy, and died.
Seem'd to rejoice in its tranquillity;
Rolling its gentle waters to the west,
Till the rich crimson blush'd upon their breast,
64
Like Hope content in its delight to die.
A young queen with her maidens sat and sung,
While ocean thousands of sweet echoes flung,
Delighting them to hear their voices blent
With music from the murmuring element.
Then cast they on the winds their radiant hair,
Then gather'd of the pink shells those most rare,
To gem their flying curls, that each might seem
A Nereid risen from the briny stream.
When sudden cried the queen, “Come, gaze with me
At what may yonder in the distance be.”
All gather'd round. A little speck was seen,
Like a mere shadow, on the billows green.
Nearer and nearer, more distinct it grew,
Till came a fragile vessel full in view;
65
Uncheck'd, unguided, flapp'd a silken sail;
And saw they all alone a lady there,
Her neck and arms to the rude sea-wind bare,
And her head bow'd as in its last despair.
It came no nearer, on the sea it lay;
The wind, exhausted, had died quite away.
They had a fairy boat, in which 't was sport
Amid the inland channels to resort;
Their fair hands raised the sail, and plied the oar,
And brought the lonely wanderer to their shore;
Then mark'd they how her scarlet mantle's fold
Was round a young, a lovely infant roll'd.
They brought the wearied stranger to their tent,
Flung o'er her face cool water, gifted scent,
And touch'd her lips with wine, though all too plain
That death was darkening in each frozen vein:
66
Her hands stretch'd to her own fair boy, and died.
And thus the babe was left without a name,
Child of the Sea, without a kindred claim:
He never felt the want; that gentle queen
Nurtured his infancy, as though he had been
The brother of her own sweet Isabelle;
But as he grew she thought it need to tell
His history, and gave the cloak whose fold
Was heavy with rich work and broider'd gold;
And also gave his mother's carkanet,
With precious stones in regal order set.
In truth he was well worthy of her care;
None of the court might match his princely air,
And those who boasted of their bearing high
Quail'd at the flashing of his falcon eye.
Young as he was, none better ruled the speed
Or curb'd the mettle of the wayward steed,
None better knew the hunter's gentle craft,
None could wing from the bow a truer shaft;
And noble was his courtesy and bland,
Graceful his bearing in the saraband;
He knew the learned scroll the clerk displays,
And touch'd the lute to the fine poet's lays;
And many bright eyes would their glances fling
On the young victor in the tilters' ring.
Child of the Sea, without a kindred claim:
He never felt the want; that gentle queen
Nurtured his infancy, as though he had been
The brother of her own sweet Isabelle;
But as he grew she thought it need to tell
His history, and gave the cloak whose fold
Was heavy with rich work and broider'd gold;
And also gave his mother's carkanet,
With precious stones in regal order set.
In truth he was well worthy of her care;
None of the court might match his princely air,
And those who boasted of their bearing high
Quail'd at the flashing of his falcon eye.
67
Or curb'd the mettle of the wayward steed,
None better knew the hunter's gentle craft,
None could wing from the bow a truer shaft;
And noble was his courtesy and bland,
Graceful his bearing in the saraband;
He knew the learned scroll the clerk displays,
And touch'd the lute to the fine poet's lays;
And many bright eyes would their glances fling
On the young victor in the tilters' ring.
Young as he was, the seal was on his heart,
That burning impress which may not depart
Where it has once been set, Love's fiery seal:
But little need I dwell on what all feel;
Gay, grave, cold, proud, stern, high, say is there one
Whom at some time Love has not breathed upon?
And Eglamour turn'd to fair Isabelle,
As to his destiny's best oracle:
'Twas at midnight, beneath her bower, he sung
Those gentle words, with which love gifts the tongue.
That burning impress which may not depart
Where it has once been set, Love's fiery seal:
But little need I dwell on what all feel;
Gay, grave, cold, proud, stern, high, say is there one
Whom at some time Love has not breathed upon?
68
As to his destiny's best oracle:
'Twas at midnight, beneath her bower, he sung
Those gentle words, with which love gifts the tongue.
THE SONG.
Oh! give me but my gallant steed,My spurs and sword to serve at need,
The shield that has my father's crest,
Thy colours, lady, on my breast,
And I will forth to wild warfare,
And win thee, or will perish there.
I am unknown, of a lost line,
And thou, love, art the flow'r of thine.
I know thou art above me far,
Yet still thou art hope's leading star;
69
That every where may entrance find.
I saw thee, sure the fairest one
The morning light e'er look'd upon;
No wonder that my heart was moved,
'T were marvel if I had not loved.
Long, long held by a spell too dear,
Thy smile has kept thy loiterer here.
Almost it seem'd enough for me
Of Heav'n to only gaze on thee.
But love lights high and gallant thought,
A rich prize must be dearly bought.
Unworthy votary at thy shrine,
I scorn my falchion's idle shine;
To-morrow I will wend away
To dim it in the battle fray.
70
One look whereon may absence live,
One word upon my ear to dwell,
And, then, sweet lady mine, farewell.
Then softly open was a casement flung,
And a fair face from out the lattice hung;
The trace of heavy tears was on her cheek,
But dash'd aside, as though the heart were weak
In tenderness, yet it sought strength to show
An outward firmness, whate'er lurk'd below.
T was but a moment's struggle; and the pride
That nerves the softness of a hero's bride
Was on her lofty forehead, as she gave
A sunny curl beside his plume to wave.
“I have another gift which you must take,
And guard it, Eglamour, well for my sake:
It is a charmed ring, this emerald stone
Will be a sign, when thou art from me gone.
Mark if it changes; if a spot be seen
On the now spotless ground of lighted green,
Danger is round me; haste thou then to me,
Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.
There is a weight to-night upon my heart;
Ah! peace for me can be but where thou art.”
She spoke no more, she felt her bosom swell,
How could her lip find utterance for farewell?
He took the curl, one kiss is on it press'd,
Then gave it to its sanctuary, his breast;
And doff'd his plumed helm, “Dear lady, now
Take the last offering of thy lover's vow;
And for thy beauty's honour, I will go
Bareheaded to the battle, weal or woe.
Never shall crested casque my temples grace
Until again I look on thy sweet face.”
A shriek burst from her—it was lost in air;
She call'd upon his name,—he was not there.
But leave we her, her solitude to keep,
To pray the Virgin's pity, wail and weep
O'er all the tender thoughts that have such power
Upon the constant heart in absent hour;
And go we forth with our young knight to see
What high adventure for his arms may be.
Onward he rode upon a barbed steed,
Milk-white as is the maiden's bridal weed,
Champing his silver bit. From throat to heel
Himself was clad in Milan's shining steel;
The surcoat that he wore was work'd with gold;
And from his shoulder fell the scarlet fold
Of a rich mantle lined with miniver,
His mother's once, all that he held from her,
Save the bright chain, with pearl and ruby strung,
Which rainbow like outside his hauberk hung;
His ashen lance lay ready in its rest;
His shield was poised beside him, and its crest
Was a young eaglet trying its first flight,
The motto, “I must seek to win my right;”
Two greyhounds ran beside; and mortal sight
Had never look'd upon more gallant knight.
Bareheaded so his features met the view
Touch'd by the tender morning's early hue:
And eyes like the wild merlin's when she springs
After long prison on her eager wings,
Fierce in their beauty, with that flashing glance
Which dazzles as it were a flying lance,
Giving the sternness of a warrior's air
To what had else seem'd face almost too fair:
And, as in mockery of the helm, behind,
Like plumes, his bright curls danced upon the wind;
Curls of that tint o'er which a sunbeam flings
A thousand colours on their auburn rings.
And a fair face from out the lattice hung;
The trace of heavy tears was on her cheek,
But dash'd aside, as though the heart were weak
In tenderness, yet it sought strength to show
An outward firmness, whate'er lurk'd below.
T was but a moment's struggle; and the pride
That nerves the softness of a hero's bride
Was on her lofty forehead, as she gave
A sunny curl beside his plume to wave.
“I have another gift which you must take,
And guard it, Eglamour, well for my sake:
71
Will be a sign, when thou art from me gone.
Mark if it changes; if a spot be seen
On the now spotless ground of lighted green,
Danger is round me; haste thou then to me,
Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.
There is a weight to-night upon my heart;
Ah! peace for me can be but where thou art.”
She spoke no more, she felt her bosom swell,
How could her lip find utterance for farewell?
He took the curl, one kiss is on it press'd,
Then gave it to its sanctuary, his breast;
And doff'd his plumed helm, “Dear lady, now
Take the last offering of thy lover's vow;
And for thy beauty's honour, I will go
Bareheaded to the battle, weal or woe.
72
Until again I look on thy sweet face.”
A shriek burst from her—it was lost in air;
She call'd upon his name,—he was not there.
But leave we her, her solitude to keep,
To pray the Virgin's pity, wail and weep
O'er all the tender thoughts that have such power
Upon the constant heart in absent hour;
And go we forth with our young knight to see
What high adventure for his arms may be.
Onward he rode upon a barbed steed,
Milk-white as is the maiden's bridal weed,
Champing his silver bit. From throat to heel
Himself was clad in Milan's shining steel;
The surcoat that he wore was work'd with gold;
And from his shoulder fell the scarlet fold
73
His mother's once, all that he held from her,
Save the bright chain, with pearl and ruby strung,
Which rainbow like outside his hauberk hung;
His ashen lance lay ready in its rest;
His shield was poised beside him, and its crest
Was a young eaglet trying its first flight,
The motto, “I must seek to win my right;”
Two greyhounds ran beside; and mortal sight
Had never look'd upon more gallant knight.
Bareheaded so his features met the view
Touch'd by the tender morning's early hue:
And eyes like the wild merlin's when she springs
After long prison on her eager wings,
Fierce in their beauty, with that flashing glance
Which dazzles as it were a flying lance,
74
To what had else seem'd face almost too fair:
And, as in mockery of the helm, behind,
Like plumes, his bright curls danced upon the wind;
Curls of that tint o'er which a sunbeam flings
A thousand colours on their auburn rings.
Two days he journey'd, till he reach'd a wood,
A very dwelling-place of solitude;
Where the leaves grew by myriads, and the boughs
Were fill'd with linnets, singing their sweet vows;
And dreaming, lover-like with open eye,
He envied the gay birds that they might fly
As with a thought from green tree to green tree,
And wing their way with their dear loves to be.
Even as he mused on this, he heard a cry,
A bitter shriek for mercy pleading high.
He rush'd and saw two combatants with one
Whose strength seemed in th' unequal battle done;
And praying, weeping, knelt a maiden near,
Whose piercing voice it was had reach'd his ear.
His lance flies, and one felon bites the ground;
The other turns, and turns for a death wound.
Their champion moved the rescued twain to greet,
Just one embrace, and they are at his feet.
And gazed Sir Eglamour on their strange dress,
But more on the fair dame's great loveliness;
For, saving one, to him still beauty's queen,
A face so radiant had he never seen.
Together, for the sun was high in June,
They sought a shelter from the sultry noon.
There was shade all around, but had one place
Somewhat more softness in its gentler grace;
There of fair moss a pleasant couch was made,
And a small fountain o'er the wild flowers play'd,
A natural lute, plaining amid the grove,
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love.
They told their history: the maiden came
From a far heathen land, of foreign name;
The Soldan's daughter, but she fled her state
To share a Christian lover's humbler fate:
That lover was from Italy, his hand
Had o'er a cunning art a strange command;
For he had curious colours, that could give
The human face, so like, it seem'd to live.
He had cross'd over land and over sea
To gaze on the fair Saracen; and she,
When seen, was like the visions that were brought
In unreal beauty on his sleeping thought.
And Love is like the lightning in its might,
Winging where least bethought its fiery flight,
Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard.
Love, passionate Love, hast thou not thy reward,
Despite of all the soil and stain that clings
When earth thou touchest with thy heavenly wings,
In rich return'd affection, which doth make
Light of all suffering, for its own dear sake?
Together they had fled by sea and land,
And the youth led her to Italia's strand,
Where he had a lone home in Arno's vale,
A fit nest for his lovely nightingale,
Till stopp'd by those fierce outlaws who had paid
Their life's base forfeit to the victor's blade.
A very dwelling-place of solitude;
Where the leaves grew by myriads, and the boughs
Were fill'd with linnets, singing their sweet vows;
And dreaming, lover-like with open eye,
He envied the gay birds that they might fly
As with a thought from green tree to green tree,
And wing their way with their dear loves to be.
75
A bitter shriek for mercy pleading high.
He rush'd and saw two combatants with one
Whose strength seemed in th' unequal battle done;
And praying, weeping, knelt a maiden near,
Whose piercing voice it was had reach'd his ear.
His lance flies, and one felon bites the ground;
The other turns, and turns for a death wound.
Their champion moved the rescued twain to greet,
Just one embrace, and they are at his feet.
And gazed Sir Eglamour on their strange dress,
But more on the fair dame's great loveliness;
For, saving one, to him still beauty's queen,
A face so radiant had he never seen.
Together, for the sun was high in June,
They sought a shelter from the sultry noon.
76
Somewhat more softness in its gentler grace;
There of fair moss a pleasant couch was made,
And a small fountain o'er the wild flowers play'd,
A natural lute, plaining amid the grove,
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love.
They told their history: the maiden came
From a far heathen land, of foreign name;
The Soldan's daughter, but she fled her state
To share a Christian lover's humbler fate:
That lover was from Italy, his hand
Had o'er a cunning art a strange command;
For he had curious colours, that could give
The human face, so like, it seem'd to live.
He had cross'd over land and over sea
To gaze on the fair Saracen; and she,
77
In unreal beauty on his sleeping thought.
And Love is like the lightning in its might,
Winging where least bethought its fiery flight,
Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard.
Love, passionate Love, hast thou not thy reward,
Despite of all the soil and stain that clings
When earth thou touchest with thy heavenly wings,
In rich return'd affection, which doth make
Light of all suffering, for its own dear sake?
Together they had fled by sea and land,
And the youth led her to Italia's strand,
Where he had a lone home in Arno's vale,
A fit nest for his lovely nightingale,
Till stopp'd by those fierce outlaws who had paid
Their life's base forfeit to the victor's blade.
78
Mused Eglamour, in silence, on the art
Which even to absence pleasure could impart;
Ever before the eyes the one loved face,
Aiding the memory with its present grace.
Beautiful art, in pity surely sent
To soothe the banish'd lover's discontent!
Then pray'd they too his history and name,
Wherefore and whence their gallant champion came?
And told he of his vow, and of the maid
For whose sake each high venture was essay'd.
With earnest tone the painter said his way
Beside the palace of the princess lay;
And pray'd of his deliverer that he might
Bear off his likeness to his lady's sight.
And soon saw Eglamour, with glad surprise,
The colours darken, and the features rise.
He gazed within the fountain, and the view
Was not more than the tablet's likeness true.
At length they parted, as those part, in pain,
Who rather wish than hope to meet again.
Which even to absence pleasure could impart;
Ever before the eyes the one loved face,
Aiding the memory with its present grace.
Beautiful art, in pity surely sent
To soothe the banish'd lover's discontent!
Then pray'd they too his history and name,
Wherefore and whence their gallant champion came?
And told he of his vow, and of the maid
For whose sake each high venture was essay'd.
With earnest tone the painter said his way
Beside the palace of the princess lay;
And pray'd of his deliverer that he might
Bear off his likeness to his lady's sight.
And soon saw Eglamour, with glad surprise,
The colours darken, and the features rise.
79
Was not more than the tablet's likeness true.
At length they parted, as those part, in pain,
Who rather wish than hope to meet again.
'T was night, but night which the imperial moon,
Regal in her full beauty, turn'd to noon,
But still the noon of midnight; though the ray
Was clear and bright, it was not that of day;
When Eglamour came to a gate: 't was roll'd
On its vast hinges back; his eyes behold
“He who counts his life but light,
Let him hunt my deer to-night.”
Needed no more, honour might be to win,
Eager our gallant spurr'd his courser in.
A noble park it was: the sweep of green
Seem'd like a sea touch'd with the silver sheen
Of moonlight, with the floating isles of shade
Lithe coppices of shrubs sweet-scented made;
'T was dotted with small pools, upon whose breast
The radiance seem'd to have a favourite rest,
So bright each crystal surface shone; and, round,
Lines of tall stately trees flung on the ground
Huge mass of shade, while others stood alone,
As if too mighty for companions grown.
And yielded Eglamour to the delight
Which ever must be born of such a night.
When, starting from his dream, he saw stand near,
Bright as the lake they drank from, the white deer.
Instant the leash was from his greyhounds flung,
They would not to the chase, but backwards hung;
To cheer them on he wound his bugle-horn;
And, ere the sound was in the distance borne
Away to silence, rang another strain,
And furious spurr'd a steed across the plain,
Huge like its giant rider. As he pass'd,
His shadow fell, as if a storm had cast
A sudden night around; grasp'd his right hand
A spear, to which our youth's was but a wand;
Black as his shadow on the darken'd field
Was horse and armour; and his gloomy shield
Was as a cloud passing before the stars.
Eglamour set his lance; scarcely it jars
The mail'd rings of the hauberk: down he bent
In time to shun the one his foeman sent;
Wasting its strength it reach'd the lake beside,
And like a fallen tree dash'd in the tide.
Their swords are out like lightning; one whose stroke
Is as the bolt that fells the forest oak,
The other with light arm and ready wound.
At length the black knight's steed rolls on the ground;
He rises like a tower. One desperate blow,
And the blood wells from Eglamour's fair brow;
His shield is dash'd in pieces: but just then,
Ere the recover'd blow was aim'd again,
He stakes his life upon a sudden thrust,
And his fierce foe is levell'd in the dust.
Gazed he in wonder on each giant limb,
Yet scarce he deem'd victory was won by him.
He went on bended knee: “Now, virgin queen,
Who hast my succour in this danger been,
Mother of God, these fair white deer shall be
Offer'd to-morrow at thy sanctuary.”
He sat down by a fountain near, and tame
These gentle hinds now at his beckon came;
He lean'd on the soft grassy bed and slept,
And when he waked found they their watch had kept.
Then sprang he on his steed. The sun was high,
Morning's last blush was fading from the sky
O'er a fair city; there with pious will
He turn'd, his vow'd thanksgiving to fulfil.
He enter'd victor; and around him drew
The multitude, who could not sate their view
Gazing upon him who the black knight slew,
And yet so young, so fair. Though somewhat now
His cheek had lost its custom'd summer glow,
With paleness from his wound, yet was not one
Could say his peer they e'er had look'd upon.
He found a stately church, and, bending there,
His spoil devoted,—pray'd his lover prayer;
When, rising from his knee, he saw a train
With cross and chaunt enter the holy fane,
Led by a man, though aged, of stately air,
With purple robe, though head and feet were bare.
He ask'd the cause, and he was told, the king
Thus sought some mercy on his suffering;
For that he had, in causeless jealousy,
Exposed his wife and child to the rude sea.
Hope thrill'd the bosom of our ocean knight,
Anxious he staid and watch'd the sacred rite;
He saw the old man kneel before the shrine
Where was the image of the Maid Divine.
He pray'd to her that Heaven, now reconciled,
Would pardon his great fault, and give his child
Back to his arms. With that the stranger set
Full in his view the cloak and carkanet.
One moment gazed the king upon his face;
The next, and they are lock'd in fast embrace,
While from their mutual eyes the warm tears run.—
The Virgin Mother hath restored his son.
Hasty thanksgivings, anxious words were said;
Joy for the living, sorrow for the dead,
Mingled together. Oh! for those sweet ties
By which blood links affection's sympathies;
Out on the heartless creed which nulls the claim
Upon the heart of kindred, birth, and name.
Together seek they now the regal hall
So long unknown to aught of festival;
Once fill'd with mourning, as now fill'd with joy,
While thousands gather round the princely boy.
Regal in her full beauty, turn'd to noon,
But still the noon of midnight; though the ray
Was clear and bright, it was not that of day;
When Eglamour came to a gate: 't was roll'd
On its vast hinges back; his eyes behold
“He who counts his life but light,
Let him hunt my deer to-night.”
Needed no more, honour might be to win,
Eager our gallant spurr'd his courser in.
A noble park it was: the sweep of green
Seem'd like a sea touch'd with the silver sheen
80
Lithe coppices of shrubs sweet-scented made;
'T was dotted with small pools, upon whose breast
The radiance seem'd to have a favourite rest,
So bright each crystal surface shone; and, round,
Lines of tall stately trees flung on the ground
Huge mass of shade, while others stood alone,
As if too mighty for companions grown.
And yielded Eglamour to the delight
Which ever must be born of such a night.
When, starting from his dream, he saw stand near,
Bright as the lake they drank from, the white deer.
Instant the leash was from his greyhounds flung,
They would not to the chase, but backwards hung;
To cheer them on he wound his bugle-horn;
And, ere the sound was in the distance borne
81
And furious spurr'd a steed across the plain,
Huge like its giant rider. As he pass'd,
His shadow fell, as if a storm had cast
A sudden night around; grasp'd his right hand
A spear, to which our youth's was but a wand;
Black as his shadow on the darken'd field
Was horse and armour; and his gloomy shield
Was as a cloud passing before the stars.
Eglamour set his lance; scarcely it jars
The mail'd rings of the hauberk: down he bent
In time to shun the one his foeman sent;
Wasting its strength it reach'd the lake beside,
And like a fallen tree dash'd in the tide.
Their swords are out like lightning; one whose stroke
Is as the bolt that fells the forest oak,
82
At length the black knight's steed rolls on the ground;
He rises like a tower. One desperate blow,
And the blood wells from Eglamour's fair brow;
His shield is dash'd in pieces: but just then,
Ere the recover'd blow was aim'd again,
He stakes his life upon a sudden thrust,
And his fierce foe is levell'd in the dust.
Gazed he in wonder on each giant limb,
Yet scarce he deem'd victory was won by him.
He went on bended knee: “Now, virgin queen,
Who hast my succour in this danger been,
Mother of God, these fair white deer shall be
Offer'd to-morrow at thy sanctuary.”
He sat down by a fountain near, and tame
These gentle hinds now at his beckon came;
83
And when he waked found they their watch had kept.
Then sprang he on his steed. The sun was high,
Morning's last blush was fading from the sky
O'er a fair city; there with pious will
He turn'd, his vow'd thanksgiving to fulfil.
He enter'd victor; and around him drew
The multitude, who could not sate their view
Gazing upon him who the black knight slew,
And yet so young, so fair. Though somewhat now
His cheek had lost its custom'd summer glow,
With paleness from his wound, yet was not one
Could say his peer they e'er had look'd upon.
He found a stately church, and, bending there,
His spoil devoted,—pray'd his lover prayer;
84
With cross and chaunt enter the holy fane,
Led by a man, though aged, of stately air,
With purple robe, though head and feet were bare.
He ask'd the cause, and he was told, the king
Thus sought some mercy on his suffering;
For that he had, in causeless jealousy,
Exposed his wife and child to the rude sea.
Hope thrill'd the bosom of our ocean knight,
Anxious he staid and watch'd the sacred rite;
He saw the old man kneel before the shrine
Where was the image of the Maid Divine.
He pray'd to her that Heaven, now reconciled,
Would pardon his great fault, and give his child
Back to his arms. With that the stranger set
Full in his view the cloak and carkanet.
85
The next, and they are lock'd in fast embrace,
While from their mutual eyes the warm tears run.—
The Virgin Mother hath restored his son.
Hasty thanksgivings, anxious words were said;
Joy for the living, sorrow for the dead,
Mingled together. Oh! for those sweet ties
By which blood links affection's sympathies;
Out on the heartless creed which nulls the claim
Upon the heart of kindred, birth, and name.
Together seek they now the regal hall
So long unknown to aught of festival;
Once fill'd with mourning, as now fill'd with joy,
While thousands gather round the princely boy.
Open'd the king his treasury, and gave
His bounty forth free as the boundless wave;
Feasting was spread, the dance, the masque, the song,
Whatever might to revelry belong:
Seem'd the young prince as if he had a charm,
Love to take prisoner, envy to disarm.
Yet e'en while floating thus on fortune's tide,
While each delight the past delight outvied,
Never omitted he at twilight hour,
When sleep and dew fall on the painted flower,
There for the night like bosom friends to dwell,
To kiss the ring of his sweet Isabelle.
He told his father, whose consent had seal'd
The gentle secret, half in fear reveal'd.
True love is timid, as it knew its worth,
And that such happiness is scarce for earth.
Waited he only for the princely band
With which he was to seek his foster-land,
When gazing on his treasured ring one night
He saw clouds gather on the emerald's light.
Like lightning he has flung him on the steed
His hasty spur then urged to fiery speed.
But leave we him to press his anxious way,
His band to follow with what haste they may;
And turn to the lorn princess who had kept,
With all a woman's truth, the faith she wept
Rather than spoke at parting. It was One
Whose love another faith had bade her shun,—
Ah! shame and sign of this our mortal state,
That ever gentle love can turn to hate,—
Had caused her all this misery. He brought
A charge that she with arts unholy wrought:
For he had seen his rival's picture press'd
To its soft home and altar on her breast;
And hitherto unknown in that far land
Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand.
His bounty forth free as the boundless wave;
86
Whatever might to revelry belong:
Seem'd the young prince as if he had a charm,
Love to take prisoner, envy to disarm.
Yet e'en while floating thus on fortune's tide,
While each delight the past delight outvied,
Never omitted he at twilight hour,
When sleep and dew fall on the painted flower,
There for the night like bosom friends to dwell,
To kiss the ring of his sweet Isabelle.
He told his father, whose consent had seal'd
The gentle secret, half in fear reveal'd.
True love is timid, as it knew its worth,
And that such happiness is scarce for earth.
Waited he only for the princely band
With which he was to seek his foster-land,
87
He saw clouds gather on the emerald's light.
Like lightning he has flung him on the steed
His hasty spur then urged to fiery speed.
But leave we him to press his anxious way,
His band to follow with what haste they may;
And turn to the lorn princess who had kept,
With all a woman's truth, the faith she wept
Rather than spoke at parting. It was One
Whose love another faith had bade her shun,—
Ah! shame and sign of this our mortal state,
That ever gentle love can turn to hate,—
Had caused her all this misery. He brought
A charge that she with arts unholy wrought:
For he had seen his rival's picture press'd
To its soft home and altar on her breast;
88
Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand.
It was a fearful charge, all hope was vain,
And she must die the fire's red death of pain,
Unless that she could find some gentle knight
Who would do battle for a maiden's right,
And win; but her accuser never yet
In field or tourney had an equal met.
And she must die the fire's red death of pain,
Unless that she could find some gentle knight
Who would do battle for a maiden's right,
And win; but her accuser never yet
In field or tourney had an equal met.
The fatal day is come, the pile is raised,
As eager for its victim fierce it blazed.
They led her forth: her brow and neck were bare,
Save for the silken veil of unbound hair;
So beautiful, few were there who could brook
To cast on her sweet face a second look.
There stood she, even as a statue stands,
With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands;
Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet,
How may they bear that scorching fire to meet!
On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one
Cold as the icicle on carved stone.
Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer
Unconsciously; as if prayers had been there,
And they moved now from custom. Triumphing,
Sir Amice rode around the weeping ring:
Once, twice, the trumpet challenges: all fear
To meet th' accuser's never erring spear.
Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye,
It cannot meet its last of agony.
As eager for its victim fierce it blazed.
They led her forth: her brow and neck were bare,
Save for the silken veil of unbound hair;
So beautiful, few were there who could brook
To cast on her sweet face a second look.
89
With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands;
Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet,
How may they bear that scorching fire to meet!
On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one
Cold as the icicle on carved stone.
Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer
Unconsciously; as if prayers had been there,
And they moved now from custom. Triumphing,
Sir Amice rode around the weeping ring:
Once, twice, the trumpet challenges: all fear
To meet th' accuser's never erring spear.
Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye,
It cannot meet its last of agony.
But, hark! there comes a distant rushing sound,
The crowd gives way before a courser's bound.
She turns her face; her scarce raised eyes behold
The unhelm'd head shine with its curls of gold.
Sir Amice knew his rival. What! so slight,
So young, would he dare cope with him in fight?
Their blades flash out, but only one is red;
Rolls on the ground the traitor's felon head,
The dust around with his life blood is dyed.
And Eglamour darts to his maiden's side.
Her lip is red, her eyes with tears are dim,
But she is safe, and she is saved by him.
The crowd gives way before a courser's bound.
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The unhelm'd head shine with its curls of gold.
Sir Amice knew his rival. What! so slight,
So young, would he dare cope with him in fight?
Their blades flash out, but only one is red;
Rolls on the ground the traitor's felon head,
The dust around with his life blood is dyed.
And Eglamour darts to his maiden's side.
Her lip is red, her eyes with tears are dim,
But she is safe, and she is saved by him.
My tale is told. May minstrel words express
The light at noon, or young love's happiness?
Enow, I trow, of that sweet dream can tell
Without my aiding. Gentles, fare ye well.
The light at noon, or young love's happiness?
Enow, I trow, of that sweet dream can tell
Without my aiding. Gentles, fare ye well.
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Of the bard advancing now;
Eyeballs with such wandering light
Like the meteors of the night,
As if they that fearful look
From their own dark mountains took,
Where the evil ones are found—
Gloomy haunt, and cursed ground;
Sank his voice to mutter'd breath,
The tale of sorrow, sin, and death.
THE RING:
THE GERMAN MEINNESINGER'S TALE.
Both were young, and both were fair:
She with her shower of golden hair
Falling like flowers, and her bright blue eye
Like the sparkling wave the oar dashes by;
And he with lip and brow as fine
As the statues his country has made divine.
She with her shower of golden hair
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Like the sparkling wave the oar dashes by;
And he with lip and brow as fine
As the statues his country has made divine.
And the pair at the holy altar are kneeling,
While the priest that bond of love is sealing,
When pleasures and sorrows are blent in one,
And Heaven blesses what earth has done.
They love, they are loved, that youth and maid,
Yet over them hangs a nameless shade;
They are contrasts each: the broider'd gold
And red gems shine on his mantle's fold;
While the young bride's simple russet dress,
Though well it suits with her loveliness,
Is not a bridal robe fit for the bride
Of one so begirt with pomp and pride:
And on his brow and on his cheek
Are signs that of wildest passions speak,
Of one whose fiery will is his law;
And his beauty, it strikes on the heart with awe:
And the maiden, hers is no smile to brook
In meekness the storm of an angry look;
For her forehead is proud, and her eyes' deep blue
Hath at times a spirit flashing through,
That speaks of feelings too fierce to dwell
In, woman, thy heart's sweet citadel.
While the priest that bond of love is sealing,
When pleasures and sorrows are blent in one,
And Heaven blesses what earth has done.
They love, they are loved, that youth and maid,
Yet over them hangs a nameless shade;
They are contrasts each: the broider'd gold
And red gems shine on his mantle's fold;
While the young bride's simple russet dress,
Though well it suits with her loveliness,
Is not a bridal robe fit for the bride
Of one so begirt with pomp and pride:
93
Are signs that of wildest passions speak,
Of one whose fiery will is his law;
And his beauty, it strikes on the heart with awe:
And the maiden, hers is no smile to brook
In meekness the storm of an angry look;
For her forehead is proud, and her eyes' deep blue
Hath at times a spirit flashing through,
That speaks of feelings too fierce to dwell
In, woman, thy heart's sweet citadel.
He placed on the golden nuptial band;
But the ring hath cut the maiden's hand,
And the blood dripp'd red on the altar stone,—
Never that stain from the floor hath gone.
Away he flung, with a curse, that ring,
And replaced it with one more glittering;
And Agatha smiled, as pleased to bear
Gems that a queen might be joyed to wear.
The priest urged that ring had been bless'd in vain,—
And the count and the maiden left the fane.
But the ring hath cut the maiden's hand,
And the blood dripp'd red on the altar stone,—
Never that stain from the floor hath gone.
Away he flung, with a curse, that ring,
And replaced it with one more glittering;
94
Gems that a queen might be joyed to wear.
The priest urged that ring had been bless'd in vain,—
And the count and the maiden left the fane.
Change and time take together their flight,
Agatha wanders alone by night.
Has change so soon over passion pass'd,
So soon has the veil from love been cast?
The day at the chase, and the night at the wine,
Vivaldi has left his young bride to pine,
To pine if she would: but not hers the eye
To droop in its weeping, the lip but to sigh;
There is rage in that eye, on that lip there is pride,
As it scorn'd the sorrow its scorn could not hide.
Agatha wanders alone by night.
Has change so soon over passion pass'd,
So soon has the veil from love been cast?
The day at the chase, and the night at the wine,
Vivaldi has left his young bride to pine,
To pine if she would: but not hers the eye
To droop in its weeping, the lip but to sigh;
There is rage in that eye, on that lip there is pride,
As it scorn'd the sorrow its scorn could not hide.
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Oh! frail are the many links that are
In the chain of affection's tender care,
And light at first: but, alas! few know
How much watching is ask'd to keep them so.
The will that yields, and the winning smile
That soothes till anger forgets the while;
Words whose music never yet caught
The discord of one angry thought;
And all those nameless cares that prove
Their heaviest labour work of love.
Ay, these are spells to keep the heart,
When passion's thousand dreams depart:
But none of this sweet witchcraft came
To fan the young count's waning flame.
Passionate as his own wild skies,
Rank and wealth seem'd light sacrifice
To his German maiden's lowly state;
Chose he as chooses the wood-dove his mate:
But when his paradise was won,
It was not what his fancy had fed upon.
In the chain of affection's tender care,
And light at first: but, alas! few know
How much watching is ask'd to keep them so.
The will that yields, and the winning smile
That soothes till anger forgets the while;
Words whose music never yet caught
The discord of one angry thought;
And all those nameless cares that prove
Their heaviest labour work of love.
Ay, these are spells to keep the heart,
When passion's thousand dreams depart:
But none of this sweet witchcraft came
To fan the young count's waning flame.
Passionate as his own wild skies,
Rank and wealth seem'd light sacrifice
96
Chose he as chooses the wood-dove his mate:
But when his paradise was won,
It was not what his fancy had fed upon.
Alas! when angry words begin
Their entrance on the lip to win;
When sullen eye and flushing cheek
Say more than bitterest tone could speak;
And look and word, than fire or steel,
Give wounds more deep,—time cannot heal;
And anger digs, with tauntings vain,
A gulf it may not pass again.
Their entrance on the lip to win;
When sullen eye and flushing cheek
Say more than bitterest tone could speak;
And look and word, than fire or steel,
Give wounds more deep,—time cannot heal;
And anger digs, with tauntings vain,
A gulf it may not pass again.
Her lord is gone to some hunter's rite,
Where the red wine-cup passes night;
What now hath Agatha at home?
And she has left it lone to roam.
Where the red wine-cup passes night;
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And she has left it lone to roam.
But evil thoughts are on her, now
Sweeps the dark shadow o'er her brow.
What doth she forth at such an hour,
When hath the fallen fiend his power?
Sweeps the dark shadow o'er her brow.
What doth she forth at such an hour,
When hath the fallen fiend his power?
On through the black pine forest she pass'd:
Drearily moan'd around her the blast;
Hot and heavy the thick boughs grew,
Till even with pain her breath she drew;
Flicker'd the moonlight over her path,
As the clouds had gather'd together in wrath,
Like the vague hopes whose false lures give birth
To one half the miseries haunting our earth.
Maiden, ah! where is thy way address'd?
Where is the red cross that hung on thy breast,
Safety and solace in danger and fear?
Both are around thee,—why is it not near?
Enter not thou yon cursed dell.
Thy rash step has enter'd. Lost maiden, farewell.
Drearily moan'd around her the blast;
Hot and heavy the thick boughs grew,
Till even with pain her breath she drew;
Flicker'd the moonlight over her path,
As the clouds had gather'd together in wrath,
Like the vague hopes whose false lures give birth
To one half the miseries haunting our earth.
98
Where is the red cross that hung on thy breast,
Safety and solace in danger and fear?
Both are around thee,—why is it not near?
Enter not thou yon cursed dell.
Thy rash step has enter'd. Lost maiden, farewell.
Closed the huge and shapeless crags around,
There was not of life a sight or sound;
The earth was parched, the trees were sear'd,
And blasted every branch appear'd;
At one end yawned a gloomy cave,
Black, as its mouth were that of the grave;
And dark, as if the waters of death
Were in its depths, rose a well beneath.
But the deadliest sight of that deadly place
Was to gaze on the human wanderer's face:
Pale it was, as if fell despair
Had written its worst of lessons there;
The features set like funeral stone,
All of good or kind from their meaning gone;
And the look of defiance to heaven cast,
As if feeling such look must be the last.
Down she knelt by the well, to say
What never prayer may wash away.
It was not a sound that pass'd along,
Nor aught that might to our earth belong.
And her words at once in their terror died,
For the spirit she call'd on stood by her side;
Not one of those fearful shapes that teem
On the midnight fears of the maniac's dream.
But better she could have brook'd to gaze
On the loathliest semblance the grave displays,
Than to meet that brow, whose beauty and power
Had somewhat yet of their earlier hour,
Deeper the present contrast to show;
But pride still struggled in vain with woe,
And in the wild light of the fiery eye
Was written hell's immortality.
He spoke:—“Now the vow of thy faith resign,
And in life or in death Vivaldi is thine.
Seal with thy blood.” She bared her arm,
And the life-stream flow'd for the godless charm.
One single drop on her ring was shed,
And the diamond shone as the ruby red.
“Sealed mine own, now this be the sign
That in life or in death Vivaldi is thine.”
There was not of life a sight or sound;
The earth was parched, the trees were sear'd,
And blasted every branch appear'd;
At one end yawned a gloomy cave,
Black, as its mouth were that of the grave;
And dark, as if the waters of death
Were in its depths, rose a well beneath.
But the deadliest sight of that deadly place
Was to gaze on the human wanderer's face:
99
Had written its worst of lessons there;
The features set like funeral stone,
All of good or kind from their meaning gone;
And the look of defiance to heaven cast,
As if feeling such look must be the last.
Down she knelt by the well, to say
What never prayer may wash away.
It was not a sound that pass'd along,
Nor aught that might to our earth belong.
And her words at once in their terror died,
For the spirit she call'd on stood by her side;
Not one of those fearful shapes that teem
On the midnight fears of the maniac's dream.
But better she could have brook'd to gaze
On the loathliest semblance the grave displays,
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Had somewhat yet of their earlier hour,
Deeper the present contrast to show;
But pride still struggled in vain with woe,
And in the wild light of the fiery eye
Was written hell's immortality.
He spoke:—“Now the vow of thy faith resign,
And in life or in death Vivaldi is thine.
Seal with thy blood.” She bared her arm,
And the life-stream flow'd for the godless charm.
One single drop on her ring was shed,
And the diamond shone as the ruby red.
“Sealed mine own, now this be the sign
That in life or in death Vivaldi is thine.”
Farewell, Allemaigne, farewell to thy strand,
They are bound to another, a southern land.
As yet she is not to be own'd as his bride,
For feared Vivaldi his kinsmen's pride;
But safely their anchor at Venice is cast,
And the queen of the ocean is reached at last.
Long had Agatha wished to see
The sunny vineyards of Italy.
Little was here of what she had dream'd:
Funeral-like the gondolas seem'd;
While the dark waters, parting beneath the oar,
Were too like those she had seen before;
And the count, with his stern and haughty brow,
Seem'd the shadow of one ever present now.
They are bound to another, a southern land.
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For feared Vivaldi his kinsmen's pride;
But safely their anchor at Venice is cast,
And the queen of the ocean is reached at last.
Long had Agatha wished to see
The sunny vineyards of Italy.
Little was here of what she had dream'd:
Funeral-like the gondolas seem'd;
While the dark waters, parting beneath the oar,
Were too like those she had seen before;
And the count, with his stern and haughty brow,
Seem'd the shadow of one ever present now.
Dreary it is the path to trace,
Step by step, of sin's wild race.
Pass we on to a lovely night,
Shone the sea with silver moonlight;
Who would ever dream, but such time
Must be sacred from human crime?
I see two silent figures glide
Moodily by the radiant tide;
I see one fall,—in Agatha's breast
Vivaldi's dagger hath found a nest;
I hear a heavy plunge, the flood,
Oh! 't is crimson'd with human blood;
I see a meteor shining fair,
It is the sweep of golden hair;
Float the waters from the shore,
The waves roll on, I see no more.
Step by step, of sin's wild race.
Pass we on to a lovely night,
Shone the sea with silver moonlight;
102
Must be sacred from human crime?
I see two silent figures glide
Moodily by the radiant tide;
I see one fall,—in Agatha's breast
Vivaldi's dagger hath found a nest;
I hear a heavy plunge, the flood,
Oh! 't is crimson'd with human blood;
I see a meteor shining fair,
It is the sweep of golden hair;
Float the waters from the shore,
The waves roll on, I see no more.
Long years have pass'd,—Vivaldi's name
Is foremost in the lists of fame.
Are there, then, spirits that may steep
Conscience in such a charmed sleep?
No: haggard eye and forehead pale
Tell sadly of a different tale;
And some said, not his wealth or power
Could bribe them share his midnight hour.
Is foremost in the lists of fame.
Are there, then, spirits that may steep
Conscience in such a charmed sleep?
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Tell sadly of a different tale;
And some said, not his wealth or power
Could bribe them share his midnight hour.
'T is morn, and shout and trumpet's call
Proclaim that it is festival;
The doge Vivaldi weds to-day
The bride that owns his city's sway;
Banner and barge float o'er that bride,
The peerless Adriatic tide.
Proclaim that it is festival;
The doge Vivaldi weds to-day
The bride that owns his city's sway;
Banner and barge float o'er that bride,
The peerless Adriatic tide.
The galleys paused,—the ring he took.
Why starts the Doge with such wild look?
He bends again, his heart-streams creep;
A pale hand beckons from the deep;
All marvel that he doth not fling
To the sea bride the marriage ring.
He heard the murmur; none then scann'd,
Save his own eye, the spectral hand!
He drops the ring, then bends again
To snatch it from that hand in vain.
He follows what he could not save,
One false step sinks him in the wave!
All rush the victim to restore,
But never eye beheld him more.
Why starts the Doge with such wild look?
He bends again, his heart-streams creep;
A pale hand beckons from the deep;
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To the sea bride the marriage ring.
He heard the murmur; none then scann'd,
Save his own eye, the spectral hand!
He drops the ring, then bends again
To snatch it from that hand in vain.
He follows what he could not save,
One false step sinks him in the wave!
All rush the victim to restore,
But never eye beheld him more.
'T was strange, for there they found the ring.
Some said it was fit gift to bring,
And lay upon the Virgin's shrine,
Of human vanity a sign.
And there, as if by miracle,
One drop of blood beneath it fell;
And, pale as twilight's earliest dew,
Lost the bright ring its ruby hue.
There still may curious eye behold
The relic. But my tale is told.
“Now welcome, fair Marguerite, to thee,
Some said it was fit gift to bring,
And lay upon the Virgin's shrine,
Of human vanity a sign.
And there, as if by miracle,
One drop of blood beneath it fell;
105
Lost the bright ring its ruby hue.
There still may curious eye behold
The relic. But my tale is told.
Fair flower of Provence minstrelsy.”
Came a lovely lady in place,
Like the twilight star in her pensive grace.
White daisies were wreathed in the dark brown shade
Of her tresses, parted in simple braid:
Her long eyelash was the shadow of night,
And the eye beneath was the morning bright;
For its colour was that of the diamond dew
Which hath caught from the glancing light its hue:
106
Loveliest tints are not those which last;
Then again it redden'd, again was gone,
Like a rainbow and rose in unison:
Her smile was sad, as if nature meant
Those lips to live, in their own content;
But Fate pass'd o'er them her stern decree,
And taught them what suffering and sorrow might be:
And sang she in sweet but mournful tone,
As her heart had the misery it painted known.
THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS:
THE PROVENÇAL LADY'S LAY.
A summer isle, which seem'd to be
A very favourite with the sea,
With blue waves but as guardians set,
Wearing them like a coronet;
Once sacred to the smile-zoned Queen,
Whose reign upon the heart hath been,
And is so still. What need hath she
Of shrine to her divinity?
Each fair face is her visible shrine;
She hath been, she will be divine.
But, rose-lipp'd Venus, thy sweet power
Was unown'd in thy myrtle bower,
Thy marble temple was no more,
Thy worship gone from thine own shore,
What time my tale begins: yet still
Hadst thou left music in the rill,
As if 't had heard thy footstep fall,
And from that time grew musical;
Scent on the flower, as if thy hair
Had lost its own rich odour there;—
All, the green earth, the sunny clime,
Were relics of thy lovely time.
A very favourite with the sea,
107
Wearing them like a coronet;
Once sacred to the smile-zoned Queen,
Whose reign upon the heart hath been,
And is so still. What need hath she
Of shrine to her divinity?
Each fair face is her visible shrine;
She hath been, she will be divine.
But, rose-lipp'd Venus, thy sweet power
Was unown'd in thy myrtle bower,
Thy marble temple was no more,
Thy worship gone from thine own shore,
What time my tale begins: yet still
Hadst thou left music in the rill,
As if 't had heard thy footstep fall,
And from that time grew musical;
108
Had lost its own rich odour there;—
All, the green earth, the sunny clime,
Were relics of thy lovely time.
Fair Cyprus, dream-like 't was to land
Where myrtle groves stretch'd from thy strand,
And paid the freshness of the wave
With fragrance which they sighing gave.
But sunshine seen, but sunshine felt,
You reach'd the palace where she dwelt;
Cyprus's maiden queen, whose reign
Seem'd ancient days restored again,
When it was only beauty's smile
Claim'd fealty of Cytherea's isle.
Mid fair dames of her court, a star,
The loveliest of the group by far,
Irene stood. Was it in pride
Her regal gems were laid aside,
As if she scorn'd them all, content
To be her own best ornament?
Where myrtle groves stretch'd from thy strand,
And paid the freshness of the wave
With fragrance which they sighing gave.
But sunshine seen, but sunshine felt,
You reach'd the palace where she dwelt;
Cyprus's maiden queen, whose reign
Seem'd ancient days restored again,
When it was only beauty's smile
Claim'd fealty of Cytherea's isle.
Mid fair dames of her court, a star,
The loveliest of the group by far,
109
Her regal gems were laid aside,
As if she scorn'd them all, content
To be her own best ornament?
The terrace where they stood look'd down
On gathered crowds of her fair town;
'T was a gay scene: on the one side,
Gardens and groves stretch'd far and wide
In gay confusion, flower and tree
Cover'd the green earth to the sea,
One arm of which begirt the walls
Where rose Irene's marble halls.
Upon the terrace, with a band
Of the isle's loveliest at her hand,
Was the young queen. 'T was as again
The goddess claim'd her ancient reign,
So fair she was. At first you thought
'T was some divinity, that brought
Her beauty from her native skies;
You met once more those soft dark eyes,
You felt that though to them were given
The colour and the light of heaven,
Yet were they mortal, their deep blue
Was soften'd by a shadowy hue
Of melancholy, such as earth
Will fling upon her fairest birth—
Woman's foreknowledge of the woe
That waits upon her path below.
On gathered crowds of her fair town;
'T was a gay scene: on the one side,
Gardens and groves stretch'd far and wide
In gay confusion, flower and tree
Cover'd the green earth to the sea,
One arm of which begirt the walls
Where rose Irene's marble halls.
Upon the terrace, with a band
Of the isle's loveliest at her hand,
Was the young queen. 'T was as again
The goddess claim'd her ancient reign,
110
'T was some divinity, that brought
Her beauty from her native skies;
You met once more those soft dark eyes,
You felt that though to them were given
The colour and the light of heaven,
Yet were they mortal, their deep blue
Was soften'd by a shadowy hue
Of melancholy, such as earth
Will fling upon her fairest birth—
Woman's foreknowledge of the woe
That waits upon her path below.
Is it some festival to-day,
That hither comes the proud array,
Which gathers round the gazing crowd,
And rings the air with plaudits loud?
Sweep seven bold galleys to the land,
Spring from their decks a warrior band,
Dance their white plumes before the breeze
Like summer foam on summer seas,
Flashes the lance like meteor light,
Hauberk and helm are gleaming bright,
And spreads the banner its rich fold,
Where shines on purple, work'd in gold
A lion, which a maiden's hand
Holds by a silken rein's command.
Well mayst thou bend, fair queen, thy brow
To the brave warriors greeting now;
Well have they fought for thee and thine,
Sweet flower of thy royal line;
And well may they catch thy sweet eye,
And swear beneath its rule to die.
Yet, young Irene, on thy side
Is not all triumph's panting pride;
For, like clouds on a troubled sky,
Red and white shades alternate fly
Over thy face; now like the stone
Colour hath never breathed upon,
Now crimson'd with a sudden flush,
As if thy heart had dyed thy blush.
The rebel prince is passing near,—
Thy bearing droops in sudden fear;
He passes, and thine eye is dim
With anxious gazing after him,
And tears are darkening its blue,
Shining on the long lash like dew.
Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak,
That woman's heart should tinge her cheek!
'T is sad to change it for the strength
That heart and cheek must know at length.
Many a word of sneer and scorn
Must in their harshness have been borne,
Many a gentle feeling dead,
And all youth's sweet confiding fled,
Ere learn'd that task of shame and pride,
The tear to check, the blush to hide.
That hither comes the proud array,
Which gathers round the gazing crowd,
And rings the air with plaudits loud?
111
Spring from their decks a warrior band,
Dance their white plumes before the breeze
Like summer foam on summer seas,
Flashes the lance like meteor light,
Hauberk and helm are gleaming bright,
And spreads the banner its rich fold,
Where shines on purple, work'd in gold
A lion, which a maiden's hand
Holds by a silken rein's command.
Well mayst thou bend, fair queen, thy brow
To the brave warriors greeting now;
Well have they fought for thee and thine,
Sweet flower of thy royal line;
And well may they catch thy sweet eye,
And swear beneath its rule to die.
112
Is not all triumph's panting pride;
For, like clouds on a troubled sky,
Red and white shades alternate fly
Over thy face; now like the stone
Colour hath never breathed upon,
Now crimson'd with a sudden flush,
As if thy heart had dyed thy blush.
The rebel prince is passing near,—
Thy bearing droops in sudden fear;
He passes, and thine eye is dim
With anxious gazing after him,
And tears are darkening its blue,
Shining on the long lash like dew.
Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak,
That woman's heart should tinge her cheek!
113
That heart and cheek must know at length.
Many a word of sneer and scorn
Must in their harshness have been borne,
Many a gentle feeling dead,
And all youth's sweet confiding fled,
Ere learn'd that task of shame and pride,
The tear to check, the blush to hide.
'T is midnight, and a starry shower
Weeps its bright tears o'er leaf and flower;
Sweet, silent, beautiful, the night
Sufficing for her own delight.
But other lights than sky and star
From yonder casements gleam afar;
There odorous lamps of argentine
Shed that sweet ray, half shade half shine,
Soft as it were but beauty's smile
That lit her favourite bower the while.
Back from each open lattice flew
The curtains, like swoll'n waves of blue
Star-dropt with silver broidery rare;
And every motion seem'd to bear
A message from the grove beneath,—
Each message was a rose's breath.
A thousand flowers were round the room,
All with their gifts of scent and bloom;
And at the far end of the hall
Like music came a lulling fall
Of waters; at the midnight time
Play'd from the fount a liquid chime,
As 't were the honey-dews of sleep
'Lighting, each lid in rest to steep.
Leant on a silken couch, which caught
The airs with fragrant rose breath fraught,
Lay the young queen. As if oppress'd
With its rich weight, her purple vest
Was doff'd, as if with it were laid
Aside cares, pomp, and vain parade.
While, like a cloud in the moonlight,
Floated her graceful robe of white.
Just stirr'd enough the scented air
To lift the sunny wreaths of hair,
And bear the tresses from the ground,
Which the attendant maids unbound.
A cheerful meeting wont to be
That evening hour's tranquillity.
There with the young, the frank, the gay,
Irene would be glad as they,
Blithe prisoner 'scaping form and state,
Her nature warring with her fate.
Glad, but yet tender, gentle, meek,
Her fairy hand was all too weak
For regal sceptre; never meant
To rule more than the music sent
From a light lute, whose gentle tone
Was as an echo to her own.
Weeps its bright tears o'er leaf and flower;
Sweet, silent, beautiful, the night
Sufficing for her own delight.
But other lights than sky and star
From yonder casements gleam afar;
There odorous lamps of argentine
Shed that sweet ray, half shade half shine,
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That lit her favourite bower the while.
Back from each open lattice flew
The curtains, like swoll'n waves of blue
Star-dropt with silver broidery rare;
And every motion seem'd to bear
A message from the grove beneath,—
Each message was a rose's breath.
A thousand flowers were round the room,
All with their gifts of scent and bloom;
And at the far end of the hall
Like music came a lulling fall
Of waters; at the midnight time
Play'd from the fount a liquid chime,
As 't were the honey-dews of sleep
'Lighting, each lid in rest to steep.
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The airs with fragrant rose breath fraught,
Lay the young queen. As if oppress'd
With its rich weight, her purple vest
Was doff'd, as if with it were laid
Aside cares, pomp, and vain parade.
While, like a cloud in the moonlight,
Floated her graceful robe of white.
Just stirr'd enough the scented air
To lift the sunny wreaths of hair,
And bear the tresses from the ground,
Which the attendant maids unbound.
A cheerful meeting wont to be
That evening hour's tranquillity.
There with the young, the frank, the gay,
Irene would be glad as they,
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Her nature warring with her fate.
Glad, but yet tender, gentle, meek,
Her fairy hand was all too weak
For regal sceptre; never meant
To rule more than the music sent
From a light lute, whose gentle tone
Was as an echo to her own.
But bent and sadden'd is her gaze,
Her heart is gone to other days;
When summer buds around her hair
Were all the crown she had to wear,
And they were twined by him who now
Grasp'd fierce at that upon her brow;
Her playmate and her early friend.
And thus can young affection end!
And thus can proud ambition part
The kindliest ties around the heart!
And like the desert springs that dry
To dust beneath the parching sky,
All too soon waste the sweet revealing
Of youth's fresh flow of generous feeling.
Her heart is gone to other days;
When summer buds around her hair
Were all the crown she had to wear,
And they were twined by him who now
Grasp'd fierce at that upon her brow;
Her playmate and her early friend.
And thus can young affection end!
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The kindliest ties around the heart!
And like the desert springs that dry
To dust beneath the parching sky,
All too soon waste the sweet revealing
Of youth's fresh flow of generous feeling.
Morn came, but with it tidings came
Half timid joy, half crimson shame.
Oh! the rose is a tell-tale flower,
And watching looks were on the hour,
On the red blush, the drooping eye,
The queen wore as the prince pass'd by.
Policy read the thoughts within,
Ending where love could but begin.
Half timid joy, half crimson shame.
Oh! the rose is a tell-tale flower,
And watching looks were on the hour,
On the red blush, the drooping eye,
The queen wore as the prince pass'd by.
Policy read the thoughts within,
Ending where love could but begin.
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Why might not Tancred share her seat?
They lead the rebel to her feet.
Sage counsellor and noble peer
Spared maiden blush and maiden fear.
Yielding, yet tremulous the while,
Her sole reply one downcast smile;
While order'd they the moon that night
Should rise upon the nuptial rite.
Ill might the youthful maiden brook
To fix on his her timid look.
She only felt his lip had press'd
Her white hand, and hope told the rest.
Companion of her infancy,
Less than her friend how could he be?
She did not mark the haughty glare
Which even now his look could wear;
The lip of pride as if disdain'd
The fond heart which yet his remain'd;
As scorn'd the empire of the land
That must be shared with woman's hand.
They lead the rebel to her feet.
Sage counsellor and noble peer
Spared maiden blush and maiden fear.
Yielding, yet tremulous the while,
Her sole reply one downcast smile;
While order'd they the moon that night
Should rise upon the nuptial rite.
Ill might the youthful maiden brook
To fix on his her timid look.
She only felt his lip had press'd
Her white hand, and hope told the rest.
Companion of her infancy,
Less than her friend how could he be?
She did not mark the haughty glare
Which even now his look could wear;
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The fond heart which yet his remain'd;
As scorn'd the empire of the land
That must be shared with woman's hand.
The moon upon the bridal shone,
Treachery,—Prince Tancred—he is gone!
Confusion marr'd the fair array;
An armed band are on their way,
The rebel banner is display'd,
And thus is trusting faith repaid.
Irene flung her marriage veil
Aside, her cheek was deadly pale.
But, save that, nothing might declare
That love or grief were struggling there.
Wondering they gazed on their young queen,
So firm her step, so proud her mien.
Promptly the city was prepared,
Summon'd to arms the royal guard
Were bade their strength and bearing show
To awe, but not attack the foe
Till further orders. Last of all
She call'd her council to the hall.
She enter'd; it was strange to see
How soon such utter change could be.
Pale as if lip and cheek had grown
Sudden to monumental stone,
So fix'd, that, but the lighted eye
Show'd it had yet to close and die,
It was like the last sleep of death,
When hue, warmth, light, have pass'd with breath.
Hurriedly had been thrown aside
The silver robes that deck'd the bride;
A night-black garb around her swept:
Drear contrast! for her hair yet kept
Amid its wealth of sunny curls
The bridal snowy braid of pearls.
She paused not, though her breath seem'd given
But as the last to waft to heaven,
And on the vacant throne laid down
The dove-topp'd wand of rule and crown.
From many never pass'd away
That sweet voice to their dying day.
Treachery,—Prince Tancred—he is gone!
Confusion marr'd the fair array;
An armed band are on their way,
The rebel banner is display'd,
And thus is trusting faith repaid.
Irene flung her marriage veil
Aside, her cheek was deadly pale.
But, save that, nothing might declare
That love or grief were struggling there.
Wondering they gazed on their young queen,
So firm her step, so proud her mien.
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Summon'd to arms the royal guard
Were bade their strength and bearing show
To awe, but not attack the foe
Till further orders. Last of all
She call'd her council to the hall.
She enter'd; it was strange to see
How soon such utter change could be.
Pale as if lip and cheek had grown
Sudden to monumental stone,
So fix'd, that, but the lighted eye
Show'd it had yet to close and die,
It was like the last sleep of death,
When hue, warmth, light, have pass'd with breath.
Hurriedly had been thrown aside
The silver robes that deck'd the bride;
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Drear contrast! for her hair yet kept
Amid its wealth of sunny curls
The bridal snowy braid of pearls.
She paused not, though her breath seem'd given
But as the last to waft to heaven,
And on the vacant throne laid down
The dove-topp'd wand of rule and crown.
From many never pass'd away
That sweet voice to their dying day.
“My hand is all too weak to bear
A sceptre which the sword must share.
To my bold kinsman I resign
All sway and sovereignty of mine;
Bear him the sceptre of the land,
No longer fetter'd by that hand.”
Rose the red blush, her accents fell,
Scarce might they hear her low farewell.
A sceptre which the sword must share.
To my bold kinsman I resign
All sway and sovereignty of mine;
Bear him the sceptre of the land,
No longer fetter'd by that hand.”
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Scarce might they hear her low farewell.
When as she turn'd to leave the hall,
Rose kindly murmurs of recall;
The crown was hers, and many a brand
Now waited only her command.
One word, one look, on them she cast,
“Your queen's request, her first, her last.”
Rose kindly murmurs of recall;
The crown was hers, and many a brand
Now waited only her command.
One word, one look, on them she cast,
“Your queen's request, her first, her last.”
Silence as deep as in the grave,
To the new king his homage gave;
Arose no shout to greet his name,
To him no word of welcome came,
But pass'd he solemnly and sad
To palace halls no longer glad.
Nought was there or of shout or song,
That bear young monarch's praise along;
Many there were that bent the knee,
But many bent it silently.
To the new king his homage gave;
Arose no shout to greet his name,
To him no word of welcome came,
But pass'd he solemnly and sad
To palace halls no longer glad.
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That bear young monarch's praise along;
Many there were that bent the knee,
But many bent it silently.
They led him to a stately room,
Yet with somewhat of nameless gloom;
Flowers were there, but wither'd all;
Music, but with a dying fall;
Maidens, but each with veiled face.
Tancred gazed round, he knew the place;
'T was here his interview had been
With her its young and radiant queen.
There was her couch; was she there yet
He started back: the brow was set
In its last mould; that marble cheek,
Fair as if death were loth to break
Its spell of beauty; the fixed lid,
As if the daylight were forbid
To brighten the blue orbs that kept
Their azure even while they slept
All other sleeps, save this dark one.
And this the work that he had done.
Yet with somewhat of nameless gloom;
Flowers were there, but wither'd all;
Music, but with a dying fall;
Maidens, but each with veiled face.
Tancred gazed round, he knew the place;
'T was here his interview had been
With her its young and radiant queen.
There was her couch; was she there yet
He started back: the brow was set
In its last mould; that marble cheek,
Fair as if death were loth to break
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As if the daylight were forbid
To brighten the blue orbs that kept
Their azure even while they slept
All other sleeps, save this dark one.
And this the work that he had done.
And she was gone, the faithful,—fair,
In her first moment of life's care;
Gone in her bloom, as if the earth
Felt pity for its loveliest birth,
And took her like the gentle flower,
That falls before the earliest shower;
With heart too tender, and too weak,—
What had such heart to do but break?
In her first moment of life's care;
Gone in her bloom, as if the earth
Felt pity for its loveliest birth,
And took her like the gentle flower,
That falls before the earliest shower;
With heart too tender, and too weak,—
What had such heart to do but break?
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As rough the hand now over them flung;
Loud as a warning, omen-like, drear,
Sank the deep tones on each listener's ear.
'T was a Palmer, that seem'd from the Holy Land,
That now sway'd the harp with his stern right hand;
None around could discover his name,
Nor tell whence that pilgrim minstrel came.
THE PILGRIM'S TALE.
I have gone east, I have gone west,To seek for what I cannot find;
A heart at peace with its own thoughts,
A quiet and contented mind.
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Alike my search has been in vain;
The same lip mix'd the smile and sigh,
The same hour mingled joy and pain.
And first I sought mid sceptred kings;
Power was, so peace might be with them:
They cast a look of weariness
Upon the care-lined diadem.
I ask'd the soldier; and he spoke
Of a dear quiet home afar,
And whisper'd of the vanity,
The ruin, and the wrong of war.
I saw the merchant mid his wealth;
Peace surely would with plenty be:
But no! his thoughts were all abroad
With their frail ventures on the sea.
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In summer sweetness on the air;
But the poet's brow was worn and wan,—
I saw peace was not written there.
And then I number'd o'er the ills,
That wait upon our mortal scene;
No marvel peace was not with them,
The marvel were if it had been.
First, childhood comes with all to learn,
And, even more than all, to bear
Restraint, reproof, and punishment,
And pleasures seen but not to share.
Youth, like the Scripture's madman, next,
Scattering around the burning coal;
With hasty deeds and misused gifts,
That leave their ashes on the soul.
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With hopes destroy'd and feelings dead;
And worldly caution, worldly wants,
Coldness, and carelessness instead.
Then age at last, dark, sullen, drear,
The breaking of a worn-out wave;
Letting us know that life has been
But the rough passage to the grave.
Thus we go on; hopes change to fears
Like fairy gold that turns to clay,
And pleasure darkens into pain,
And time is measured by decay.
First our fresh feelings are our wealth,
They pass and leave a void behind;
Then comes ambition, with its wars,
That stir but to pollute the mind.
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To think on what to come may be;
We look back on the past, and trace
A thousand wrecks, a troubled sea.
I have been over many lands,
And each and all I found the same;
Hope in its borrow'd plumes, and care
Madden'd and mask'd in pleasure's name.
I have no tale of knightly deed:
Why should I tell of guilt and death,
Of plains deep dyed in human blood,
Of fame which lies in mortal breath.
I have no tale of lady love,
Begun and ended in a sigh,
The wilful folly nursed in smiles
Though born in bitterness to die.
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The same shall be my song to-day;
It tells the vanity of life,—
Apply its lesson as ye may.
THE EASTERN KING:
THE PILGRIM'S TALE.
He flung back the chaplet, he threw down the wine
“Young monarch, what sorrow or care can be thine?
There are gems in thy palace, each one like a star
That shines in the bosom of twilight afar;
Thy goblets are mantling in purple and light,
The maidens around thee like morning are bright,
Ten kingdoms bow down at the sound of thy name,
The lands of far countries have heard of thy fame,
The wealth of the earth, and the spoils of the seas,
Are thine; oh, young monarch, what ail'st thou, with these?”
“Young monarch, what sorrow or care can be thine?
There are gems in thy palace, each one like a star
That shines in the bosom of twilight afar;
Thy goblets are mantling in purple and light,
The maidens around thee like morning are bright,
Ten kingdoms bow down at the sound of thy name,
The lands of far countries have heard of thy fame,
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Are thine; oh, young monarch, what ail'st thou, with these?”
“I 'm weary, I'm weary. Oh! pleasure is pain
When its spell has been broken again and again.
I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold,
I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold,
I am weary of wealth—what makes it of me
But that which the basest and lowest might be?
I have drain'd the red wine-cup, and what found I there?
A beginning of madness, no ending of care!
I am weary of each, I am weary of all,
Listless my revel, and lonely my hall.
Breathe not the song, for its sweetness is flown;
Fling not these flowers at the foot of my throne;
Veil, maidens, veil your warm cheeks of the rose,
Ye are slaves of my sceptre, I reck not of those!”
When its spell has been broken again and again.
I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold,
I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold,
I am weary of wealth—what makes it of me
But that which the basest and lowest might be?
I have drain'd the red wine-cup, and what found I there?
A beginning of madness, no ending of care!
I am weary of each, I am weary of all,
Listless my revel, and lonely my hall.
Breathe not the song, for its sweetness is flown;
Fling not these flowers at the foot of my throne;
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Ye are slaves of my sceptre, I reck not of those!”
The monarch rose up with the reddening of morn,
He rose to the music of trumpet and horn;
His banner is spread to the sun and the wind,
In thousands the plain by his warriors is lined.
The foot ranks go first, their bows in their hand,
In multitudes gathering like waves on the strand;
Behind ride his horsemen, as onwards they come,
Each proud steed is covering his bridle with foam.
In the midst is the king: there is pride on his brow,
As he looks on the myriads that follow him now;
His eye and his sabre are flashing alike,
Woe, woe for the warrior that dares him to strike!
He rose to the music of trumpet and horn;
His banner is spread to the sun and the wind,
In thousands the plain by his warriors is lined.
The foot ranks go first, their bows in their hand,
In multitudes gathering like waves on the strand;
Behind ride his horsemen, as onwards they come,
Each proud steed is covering his bridle with foam.
In the midst is the king: there is pride on his brow,
As he looks on the myriads that follow him now;
His eye and his sabre are flashing alike,
Woe, woe for the warrior that dares him to strike!
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Thousands and thousands are strewn on the ground,
Ahmed comes back a conqueror, but what hath he found?
The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear,
And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter tear,
And the friend of his youth is left dead on the plain,
And the flower of his nobles return not again.
There are crowds that are filling the air with his name;
Do ye marvel the monarch is loathing his fame?
Ahmed comes back a conqueror, but what hath he found?
The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear,
And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter tear,
And the friend of his youth is left dead on the plain,
And the flower of his nobles return not again.
There are crowds that are filling the air with his name;
Do ye marvel the monarch is loathing his fame?
Again to the sunshine the banners are spread;
Again rings the earth with the warriors' tread;
And loud on the wings of the morning are borne
The voice of the trumpet, the blast of the horn;
And eager to gaze on the royal array,
The people in crowds gather forth on its way.
Who would deem they were gazing on death and on doom,
That yon purple and gold strew'd the way to the tomb?
The canopy glitters; oh, vainest deceit!
There the king's robe of state is his cold winding-sheet.
And he at whose beck waited life, waited death,
He hath not command on a poor moment's breath.
A whole people trembled when that he but frown'd,
And his smile was the summer of nations around.
Now who is there watches for smile or for frown:
For the head of another is girt with his crown;
And he lieth a heap of powerless clay,
Where the meanest earth-worm at his pleasure may prey.
Again rings the earth with the warriors' tread;
And loud on the wings of the morning are borne
The voice of the trumpet, the blast of the horn;
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The people in crowds gather forth on its way.
Who would deem they were gazing on death and on doom,
That yon purple and gold strew'd the way to the tomb?
The canopy glitters; oh, vainest deceit!
There the king's robe of state is his cold winding-sheet.
And he at whose beck waited life, waited death,
He hath not command on a poor moment's breath.
A whole people trembled when that he but frown'd,
And his smile was the summer of nations around.
Now who is there watches for smile or for frown:
For the head of another is girt with his crown;
And he lieth a heap of powerless clay,
Where the meanest earth-worm at his pleasure may prey.
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They bore the monarch on to his tomb,
Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom:
But on it was graven a lesson sublime,
A voice from the grave appealing to time;
Were not voice from the living or dead alike
On the heart in its foolish pride to strike.
Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom:
But on it was graven a lesson sublime,
A voice from the grave appealing to time;
Were not voice from the living or dead alike
On the heart in its foolish pride to strike.
“Millions bow'd down at the foot of my throne;
The strength of the north and the south were my own;
I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the sea;
Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be.
And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came,
Every wish that the will in its wildness could frame:
And yet, amid all that fell to my share,
How much was weariness, how much was care!
I numbered years of pain and distress,
And but fourteen days of happiness.
Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power,
Are more than the toys of a passing hour;
Earth's flowers bear the foul taint of earth,
Lassitude, sorrow, are theirs by their birth.
One only pleasure will last, to fulfill,
With some shadow of good, the Holy One's will.
The only steadfast hope to us given,
Is the one which looks in its trust to heaven.”
The strength of the north and the south were my own;
I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the sea;
Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be.
And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came,
Every wish that the will in its wildness could frame:
And yet, amid all that fell to my share,
How much was weariness, how much was care!
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And but fourteen days of happiness.
Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power,
Are more than the toys of a passing hour;
Earth's flowers bear the foul taint of earth,
Lassitude, sorrow, are theirs by their birth.
One only pleasure will last, to fulfill,
With some shadow of good, the Holy One's will.
The only steadfast hope to us given,
Is the one which looks in its trust to heaven.”
There was silence around the stately hall,
For that song laid the spell of its darkness o'er all;
Some thought of their hopes now low in the tomb;
Others of hopes that were but in their bloom,
And trembled to think how frail, if how fair,
Earth's pleasures in beauty and being are;
Others had thoughts they feared to name,
As that pilgrim could read each heart in its shame:
But word or sign gave he to none,
And away like a shadow in silence hath gone.
Rose the Countess, and left her throne,
Signal it was that the meeting was done,
And spoke her summons, and graceful led
To where the sumptuous board was spread.
For that song laid the spell of its darkness o'er all;
Some thought of their hopes now low in the tomb;
Others of hopes that were but in their bloom,
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Earth's pleasures in beauty and being are;
Others had thoughts they feared to name,
As that pilgrim could read each heart in its shame:
But word or sign gave he to none,
And away like a shadow in silence hath gone.
Rose the Countess, and left her throne,
Signal it was that the meeting was done,
And spoke her summons, and graceful led
To where the sumptuous board was spread.
Evening came, and found its hours
Vow'd to music, mirth, and flowers.
Wide ten gorgeous halls were flung,
Each with purple tapestry hung;
With wreaths, whose roses were as bright
As in the first morning light;
Mirrors like the glassy plain,
Where the beauty beam'd again;
Pictures whose Italian grace
Show'd inspiration's finest trace,
To whose winged moods were given
Moment's visionings of heaven;
And, more than all together fair,
Beauty's living soul was there.
Vow'd to music, mirth, and flowers.
Wide ten gorgeous halls were flung,
Each with purple tapestry hung;
With wreaths, whose roses were as bright
As in the first morning light;
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Where the beauty beam'd again;
Pictures whose Italian grace
Show'd inspiration's finest trace,
To whose winged moods were given
Moment's visionings of heaven;
And, more than all together fair,
Beauty's living soul was there.
Follow'd by those who pleasaunce took
In converse light and curious look,
The Countess led where leaf and flower
Made one small hall an Eastern bower.
The blush acacia seem'd to keep
Watch o'er the rose's purple sleep;
And tulips, like the wine-cups stored
Round a monarch's festal board;
And the roof above, as art
Vied with nature's loveliest part,
Was so curiously inlaid,
That there another garden play'd.
No lamps amid the foliage hung,
But silver smiles the moonbeams flung;
And radiance from each distant room
Lighted the flowers' and ladies' bloom.
A harp was there. The haunt was one,
Where, many a summer noon, alone,
Clemenza lent time music's wings;
And, dreaming o'er the mournful strings,
Learn'd other lessons than those taught
By pride, and wealth, and worldly thought.
Said the band round that it were shame,
Such hour should pass unhymn'd away;
And many a fair lip smiled its claim,
As echo sweet to minstrel lay.
Pray'd they the countess that her hand
Should first assume the harp's command.
She paused, then said that she would wake
One, for that nameless poet's sake;
One song snatch'd from oblivion's wave,
Like the lone lily on his grave.
In converse light and curious look,
The Countess led where leaf and flower
Made one small hall an Eastern bower.
The blush acacia seem'd to keep
Watch o'er the rose's purple sleep;
And tulips, like the wine-cups stored
Round a monarch's festal board;
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Vied with nature's loveliest part,
Was so curiously inlaid,
That there another garden play'd.
No lamps amid the foliage hung,
But silver smiles the moonbeams flung;
And radiance from each distant room
Lighted the flowers' and ladies' bloom.
A harp was there. The haunt was one,
Where, many a summer noon, alone,
Clemenza lent time music's wings;
And, dreaming o'er the mournful strings,
Learn'd other lessons than those taught
By pride, and wealth, and worldly thought.
Said the band round that it were shame,
Such hour should pass unhymn'd away;
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As echo sweet to minstrel lay.
Pray'd they the countess that her hand
Should first assume the harp's command.
She paused, then said that she would wake
One, for that nameless poet's sake;
One song snatch'd from oblivion's wave,
Like the lone lily on his grave.
SONG.
My heart is like the failing hearthNow by my side,
One by one its bursts of flame
Have burnt and died.
There are none to watch the sinking blaze,
And none to care,
Or if it kindle into strength,
Or waste in air.
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Of summer flowers;
They 've spent their store of fragrant health
On sunny hours,
Which reck'd them not, which heeded not
When they were dead;
Other flowers, unwarn'd by them,
Will spring instead.
And my own heart is as the lute
I now am waking;
Wound to too fine and high a pitch
They both are breaking.
And of their song what memory
Will stay behind?
An echo, like a passing thought,
Upon the wind.
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Lute, are for thee:
And such my lot; neglect, the grave,
These are for me.
“Now take the harp, Eulalia mine,
For thy sad song;” and at the sign
Came forth a maiden. She was fair
And young; yet thus can spring-time wear
The traces of far other hour
Than should be on such gentle flower.
Her eyes were downcast, as to keep
Their secret, for they shamed to weep;
Her cheek was pale, but that was lost,
So often the bright blushes cross'd;
And seem'd her mouth so sweet the while,
As if its nature were to smile;
Her very birthright hope,—but earth
Keeps not the promise of its birth.
'T was whisper'd that young maiden's breast
Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest;
Love had been there,—in that is said
All that of doom the heart can dread.
Oh! born of Beauty, in those isles
Which far mid Grecian seas arise,
They call'd thy mother queen of smiles,
But, Love, they only gave thee sighs.
She woke the harp: at first her touch
Seem'd as it sought some lighter strain;
But the heart breathes itself, and such
As suffer deep seek mirth in vain.
For thy sad song;” and at the sign
Came forth a maiden. She was fair
And young; yet thus can spring-time wear
The traces of far other hour
Than should be on such gentle flower.
Her eyes were downcast, as to keep
Their secret, for they shamed to weep;
Her cheek was pale, but that was lost,
So often the bright blushes cross'd;
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As if its nature were to smile;
Her very birthright hope,—but earth
Keeps not the promise of its birth.
'T was whisper'd that young maiden's breast
Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest;
Love had been there,—in that is said
All that of doom the heart can dread.
Oh! born of Beauty, in those isles
Which far mid Grecian seas arise,
They call'd thy mother queen of smiles,
But, Love, they only gave thee sighs.
She woke the harp: at first her touch
Seem'd as it sought some lighter strain;
But the heart breathes itself, and such
As suffer deep seek mirth in vain.
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SONG.
Farewell, farewell, I 'll dream no more,'T is misery to be dreaming;
Farewell, farewell, and I will be
At least like thee in seeming.
I will go forth to the green vale,
Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling,
Where the leaves and the birds together sing,
And the woodland fount is welling.
Not there, not there, too much of bloom
Has spring flung o'er each blossom;
The tranquil place too much contrasts
The unrest of my bosom.
I will go to the lighted halls,
Where midnight passes fleetest;
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Of saddest and of sweetest.
I 'll turn me to the gifted page
Where the bard his soul is flinging;
Too well it echoes mine own heart,
Breaking e'en while singing.
I must have rest; oh! heart of mine,
When wilt thou lose thy sorrow?
Never, till in the quiet grave;
Would I slept there to-morrow!
Rose-bud mouth, sunny brow,
Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now
Beside the harp. Careless she hung
Over the chords; her bright hair flung
A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she,
“All too sad are your songs for me;
Let me try if the strings will breathe
For minstrel of the aspen wreath.”
Lightly the answering prelude fell,
Thus sang the Lady Isabelle.
Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now
Beside the harp. Careless she hung
Over the chords; her bright hair flung
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“All too sad are your songs for me;
Let me try if the strings will breathe
For minstrel of the aspen wreath.”
Lightly the answering prelude fell,
Thus sang the Lady Isabelle.
SONG.
Where do purple bubbles swim,But upon the goblet's brim?
Drink not deep, howe'er it glow,
Sparkles never lie below.
Beautiful the light that flows
From the rich leaves of the rose;
Keep it,—then ask, where hath fled
Summer's gift of morning red?
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Heaven, too, lends her angels wings.
What can charms to pleasure give,
Such as being fugitive?
Thus with love: oh! never try
Further than a blush or sigh;
Blush gone with the clouds that share it,
Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it.
His half sad, half reproachful sigh:
His Isabelle! and could she be
Votaress of inconstancy?
As if repentant of her words,
Blushing she bent her o'er the chords;
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As thus, with bow'd down head, she sung.
SONG.
I have belied my woman's heart,
In my false song's deceiving words;
How could I say love would depart,
As pass the lightsongs of spring birds?
Vain, vain love would be
Froth upon a summer sea.
In my false song's deceiving words;
How could I say love would depart,
As pass the lightsongs of spring birds?
Vain, vain love would be
Froth upon a summer sea.
No, love was made to soothe and share
The ills that wait our mortal birth;
No, love was made to teach us where
One trace of Eden haunts our earth.
Born amid the hours of spring,
Soothing autumn's perishing.
Timid as the tale of woe,
Tender as the wood dove's sigh,
Lovely as the flowers below,
Changeless as the stars on high,
Made all chance and change to prove,
And this is a woman's love.
The ills that wait our mortal birth;
No, love was made to teach us where
One trace of Eden haunts our earth.
Born amid the hours of spring,
Soothing autumn's perishing.
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Tender as the wood dove's sigh,
Lovely as the flowers below,
Changeless as the stars on high,
Made all chance and change to prove,
And this is a woman's love.
“Well changed, fair lady,” laughing said
A girl beside, whose chestnut hair
Was wreathed with the wild vine leaves spread,
As if that she some wood nymph were;
And darker were her brow and cheek,
And richer in their crimson break,
Than those of the fair ring beside.
In sooth, Lolotte had often tried
The influence of the wind and sun,
That loved the cheek they dwelt upon
Too well, to leave it without trace
They had known such sweet dwelling-place.
And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won
The radiance which the summer sun
Brought to her valleys lone and wild,
Where she had dwelt. And now half child,
Half woman, in the gay excess
Of all youth's morning happiness,
She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers,
As fresh and as sweet as the forest bowers
Where the gladness had pass'd of her earliest hours.
“Now hearken thee, Lady Isabelle,
See if aright I read thy spell,
And the rule of thy charmed sway, to keep
Watch over Love's enchanted sleep.”
A girl beside, whose chestnut hair
Was wreathed with the wild vine leaves spread,
As if that she some wood nymph were;
And darker were her brow and cheek,
And richer in their crimson break,
Than those of the fair ring beside.
In sooth, Lolotte had often tried
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That loved the cheek they dwelt upon
Too well, to leave it without trace
They had known such sweet dwelling-place.
And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won
The radiance which the summer sun
Brought to her valleys lone and wild,
Where she had dwelt. And now half child,
Half woman, in the gay excess
Of all youth's morning happiness,
She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers,
As fresh and as sweet as the forest bowers
Where the gladness had pass'd of her earliest hours.
“Now hearken thee, Lady Isabelle,
See if aright I read thy spell,
And the rule of thy charmed sway, to keep
Watch over Love's enchanted sleep.”
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SONG.
Where, oh! where 's the chain to fling,One that will bind Cupid's wing,
One that will have longer power
Than the April sun or shower?
Form it not of Eastern gold,
All too weighty it to hold;
Form it neither all of bloom,
Never does Love find a tomb
Sudden, soon, as when he meets
Death amid unchanging sweets:
But if you would fling a chain,
And not fling it all in vain,
Like a fairy form a spell
Of all that is changeable,
Take the purple tints that deck,
Meteor-like, the peacock's neck;
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On the rainbow's colour'd way;
Never let a hope appear
Without its companion fear;
Only smile to sigh, and then
Change into a smile again;
Be to-day as sad, as pale,
As minstrel with his lovelorn tale;
But to-morrow gay as all
Life had been one festival.
If a woman would secure
All that makes her reign endure,
And, alas! her reign must be
Ever most in phantasy,
Never let an envious eye
Gaze upon the heart too nigh;
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Quite aside, as all were known
Of delight and tenderness,
In the spirit's last recess;
And, one spell all spells above,
Never let her own her love.
But from the harp a darker song
Is sweeping like the winds along—
The night gale, at that dreamy hour
When spirit and when storm have power;—
Yet sadly sweet: and can this be,
Amenaïde, the wreck of thee?
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift,
Too much thy native heaven has left
Its nature in thee, for thy light
To be content with earthly home:
It hath another, and its sight
Will too much to that other roam,—
And heavenly light and earthly clay
But ill bear with alternate sway;—
Till jarring elements create
The evil which they sought to shun,
And deeper feel their mortal state,
In struggling for a higher one.
There is no rest for the proud mind;
Conscious of its high powers confined,
Vain dreams mid its best hopes arise;
It is itself its sacrifice.
Ah! sad it is, to see the deck
Dismasted, of some noble wreck;
And sad to see the marble stone
Defaced, and with grey moss o'ergrown;
And sad to see the broken lute
For ever to its music mute!
But what is lute, or fallen tower,
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour,
To awe and mystery combined
In their worst shape—the ruin'd mind?
To her was trusted that fine power
Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour;
The human heart gave up its keys
To her, who ruled its sympathies
In song whose influence was brought
From what first in herself had wrought
Too passionate; her least emotion
Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean.
Kind, tender, but too sensitive,
None seem'd her equal love to bear;
Affection's ties small joys could give,
Tried but by what she hoped they were.
Too much on all her feelings threw
The colouring of their own hue;
Too much her ardent spirit dream'd
Things would be such as she had deem'd.
She trusted love, albeit her heart
Was ill made for love's happiness;
She ask'd too much, another's part
Was cold beside her own excess.
She sought for praise; her share of fame,
It went beyond her wildest claim:
But ill could her proud spirit bear
All that befalls the laurel's share;—
Oh, well they gave the laurel tree
A minstrel's coronal to be!
Immortal as its changeless hue,
The deadly poison circles through,
Its venom makes its life; ah! still
Earth's lasting growths are those of ill;—
And mined was the foundation stone,
The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown.
Aimless and dark, the wandering mind
Yet had a beauty left behind;
A touch, a tone, a shade, the more
To tell of what had pass'd before.
She woke the harp, and backward flung
The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung
O'er her pale brow and radiant eyes,
Wild as the light of midnight skies,
When the red meteor rides the cloud,
Telling the storm has burst its shroud:
A passionate hue was on her cheek;
Untranquil colours, such as break
With crimson light the northern sky:
Yet on her wan lip seem'd to lie
A faint sweet smile, as if not yet
It could its early charm forget.
She sang, oh! well the heart might own
The magic of so dear a tone.
Is sweeping like the winds along—
The night gale, at that dreamy hour
When spirit and when storm have power;—
Yet sadly sweet: and can this be,
Amenaïde, the wreck of thee?
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift,
Too much thy native heaven has left
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To be content with earthly home:
It hath another, and its sight
Will too much to that other roam,—
And heavenly light and earthly clay
But ill bear with alternate sway;—
Till jarring elements create
The evil which they sought to shun,
And deeper feel their mortal state,
In struggling for a higher one.
There is no rest for the proud mind;
Conscious of its high powers confined,
Vain dreams mid its best hopes arise;
It is itself its sacrifice.
Ah! sad it is, to see the deck
Dismasted, of some noble wreck;
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Defaced, and with grey moss o'ergrown;
And sad to see the broken lute
For ever to its music mute!
But what is lute, or fallen tower,
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour,
To awe and mystery combined
In their worst shape—the ruin'd mind?
To her was trusted that fine power
Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour;
The human heart gave up its keys
To her, who ruled its sympathies
In song whose influence was brought
From what first in herself had wrought
Too passionate; her least emotion
Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean.
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None seem'd her equal love to bear;
Affection's ties small joys could give,
Tried but by what she hoped they were.
Too much on all her feelings threw
The colouring of their own hue;
Too much her ardent spirit dream'd
Things would be such as she had deem'd.
She trusted love, albeit her heart
Was ill made for love's happiness;
She ask'd too much, another's part
Was cold beside her own excess.
She sought for praise; her share of fame,
It went beyond her wildest claim:
But ill could her proud spirit bear
All that befalls the laurel's share;—
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A minstrel's coronal to be!
Immortal as its changeless hue,
The deadly poison circles through,
Its venom makes its life; ah! still
Earth's lasting growths are those of ill;—
And mined was the foundation stone,
The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown.
Aimless and dark, the wandering mind
Yet had a beauty left behind;
A touch, a tone, a shade, the more
To tell of what had pass'd before.
She woke the harp, and backward flung
The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung
O'er her pale brow and radiant eyes,
Wild as the light of midnight skies,
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Telling the storm has burst its shroud:
A passionate hue was on her cheek;
Untranquil colours, such as break
With crimson light the northern sky:
Yet on her wan lip seem'd to lie
A faint sweet smile, as if not yet
It could its early charm forget.
She sang, oh! well the heart might own
The magic of so dear a tone.
SONG.
I know my heart is as a graveWhere the cypress watch is keeping
Over hopes and over thoughts
In their dark silence sleeping.
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Was a goal whence proud steeds started,
Though now it be a ruin'd shrine
Whose glory is departed.
For my spirit hath left her earthly home
And found a nobler dwelling,
Where the music of light is that of life,
And the starry harps are swelling.
Yet ever at the midnight hour
That spirit within me burneth,
And joy comes back on his fairy wings,
And glory to me returneth.
But a shade pass'd over the maiden's face;
Some darker image her thoughts retrace;
And so sadly the tones from the harp-strings swept,
'T was as for very pity they wept.
Some darker image her thoughts retrace;
And so sadly the tones from the harp-strings swept,
'T was as for very pity they wept.
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A faded flower, a broken gem,
Are emblems mine:
The flower hath lost its loveliness
With its sun-shine;
The ruby stone no more is set
On lady's brow,
Its beauty of unsullied light
Is wanting now.
Like me, no thought of former worth
From doom will save;
They will be flung to earth and air,
I to the grave.
Are emblems mine:
The flower hath lost its loveliness
With its sun-shine;
The ruby stone no more is set
On lady's brow,
Its beauty of unsullied light
Is wanting now.
Like me, no thought of former worth
From doom will save;
They will be flung to earth and air,
I to the grave.
The lorn one with her song has pass'd,
'T was meet such song should be the last.
'T was meet such song should be the last.
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And roses, with thy poppies bring.
Sweet and soft be thy rest to-night;
That, at the call of Morning's light,
May crimson cheeks and radiant eyes,
Lovely as her own, arise.
END OF THE FIRST DAY.
| The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry | |