Verses of a life time :: :: University of Virginia Library

She comes, my Isadore, how large the claim,
The double claim, she lays upon my care
For her sweet self, and almost dearer still,
As her pure mother's dying gift of love!
How rich the rose is opening on her cheek!
Not the red rose's hue, but that soft dye
That slowly fades like morning clouds, which melt
In mottled softness on the whitening heav'n.
Her chestnut locks float in the sunshine free!
Her soft blue eyes, deep in their tenderness,
Reflect all beautiful and kindly things.
She would seem infantile, but that her brow
In lilied majesty uptowers, and tells
That lofty thought and chasten'd pride are there!

And must I break the calm of that young spirit?
Come o'er that peaceful lake with ruffling storms?

Wake up its billowy strife, and wreck perchance
The forms of hope that float above its depths?
[Isadore enters.
My child.—She knows what I would say, and reads
The thoughts which only yestermorn I breath'd
With sympathetic sighs and mournful tone
Into her startled ear.—List, Isadore.

ISADORE.
I may not listen, father. I have vow'd
On the high altar of a faithful heart
To be his bride, and I will keep the vow.

FATHER.
But thou didst vow to purity and truth,
At least its semblance, and thou wert deceiv'd.

ISADORE.

Deceiv'd, my father? Look upon his eyes
Where truth lies mirror'd; look upon his lips
That speak in wreathed smiles ingenuous,
And then thou canst not say I am deceiv'd.

Last eve, it was a calm and lovely one,
We stood upon this garden-mound, where flowers,
Sprang up like blessings 'neath our happy tread;

The moon look'd down with that still gentle eye
With which she greets young love;—courage I drew
From the pure beaming of her heavenly gaze,
And when my hand poor Julian took, I breathed
Our traitor fears—an angry flush, that spake
Of injur'd innocence, lit up his brow.
Unjust, ungenerous Isadore! he said,
Think'st thou the nectar-beverage of the gods
Could tempt me from thy love? No, Isadore;
Perchance I might, not knowing thee, have prized
A coarser joy—but now that thy young heart
In love's pulsation answers true to mine,
Now that thy lips, blushing and faltering,
Have seal'd thy vow, I never more can stray.

FATHER.
My Isadore, 'tis hard to break the wreath,
That buds and twines around a faithful heart.
But, dearest, love has blinded thee, nor canst
Thou see the incipient form of woe. His words,
Heartless to me, like oracles arrest
Thy listening ear; his eyes with revel glazed,
Seem but to thee bright orbs of hope and truth.
Arouse thyself, my child, awake, awake!
Thou'rt folding to thy heart a serpent's coil,

And thou wilt feel its sting; while I, alas,
Who took thee from thy dying mother's breast,
Her last sad gift, and nurs'd thy feeble frame;
Who watch'd thy gentle slumbers, and on whom
Thy first smile fell like dawning light from heaven,
When with the ray of young intelligence
It broke its infant chaos; I who saw
Thy little feet, and heard thy shout of joy,
When with a tottering step thou gain'dst my arms;
I, who perceiv'd thy rich and active mind
Ope to high culture; and to whom indeed
No longer child, thou hast become a friend,
Shall see thee chain'd for aye, (nay, I must speak,)
To one, who, caught by sensual, low desires,
Knows not the precious value of the pearl
Which melts within his coarse and turbid grasp.

ISADORE.
Father, 't is not that any girlish pride,
Low principle, or tendency to wrong
Enthrals me, that I cling to Julian thus:
I gave my heart to virtuous love—but if,
In any space of time thy will demands,
I find him aught that virtue shall condemn,
I pledge myself to cast him from my heart

As lightly as the vessel flings the spray
That gathers on its prow.—Think'st thou thy child,
Whom thou hast train'd with strong and upward hopes,
And clothed with faith as armor, and inspired
With trust that that high spark thou call'st her soul
Shall rise and mingle with th' eternal flame,
Will stoop to be the victim of unblest
Desires?—No, hear me, Heaven! and father, hear;
If it be true, (and O my God, if prayers
And groans, and tears, issuing in troubled strife
From out a bursting heart, are heard above,
It will not be,) if it indeed be true,
That Julian seeks the reveller's haunt, I vow
To thee, who, having fram'd the mind, dost claim
Its homage, that these lips shall proudly spurn
His cherish'd name. Spurn, did I say? Ah no;
For the close tendrils of a faithful love
Will cling around me still, but I will loose,
Gently and firmly from my fetter'd soul,
Their twining hold; yes, father—though I die.

Scene 2d

—the Garden Mound—Sunset.
ISADORE.
'T is done, and I am free—so is the oak
O'er which the storm with lightning wrath hath sped

And left a ghastly pile—so is the wave,
The cold and midnight wave, that tosses on
Beneath a stormy sky—so is the star
When clouds are drifting round its lonely path,
And other stars are gone! O, father, father,
Take me to your kind arms—they will not sear
Nor scorch me with the drunkard's burning touch,
Nor shall I hear thy unpolluted lips
Pour forth the babblings of a reeling brain.

[Throws herself into her father's arms.
FATHER.

Heroic child! thine was a high resolve,
And followed up in nobleness of soul!
I knew thou wouldst not compromise with sin,
Nor give soft names to foul intemperance.
She hears me not—my Isadore—look up;
Thy father's arms are round thee, and he knows
Thy deep, deep woe. Alas, poor stricken flower,
Thou wert not made for this unkindly storm!
Thy cheek is pale, beloved, pale with grief;
Distended on thy marble brow and lids
(Too sad for tears) arise the struggling veins,
And thou dost start as if some fearful task
Oppress'd thee still.

Almighty! thou who know'st
The anguish'd throes with which the youthful hand
Cuts its own hopes, look down upon my child,
Comfort and bless her in this bitter hour!

My prayer is heard; she rests, and to her lips
A smile, almost serene, has wing'd its way.

ISADORE
[in a low tone.]
Father, I've dream'd; and as my half-form'd thoughts
Came bruis'd and bleeding through my riven mind,
I seem'd to grope, where in the far gray depths
With waving robes, above a dark abyss,
I saw a shadowy form. It beckon'd me,
And eagerly I strove to reach its side,
Until I saw ‘Temptation’ on its brow
Inscribed. Then pray'd a voice, “Lead me not there!”
From my own heart it came distinct and calm.
Again I look'd, and there in golden hues,
While floated off the form in murky clouds,
Blazed the word Duty, and once more the voice
Stirr'd in my soften'd soul, “Those whom he loves
He chastens.”

Charleston, S. C. 1835.