The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rien n'est beau que le vrai; le vrai seul est aimable:
Il doit regner partout, et même dans la fable.
De tout fiction l'adroit fausseté
Ne tend qu' à faire briller aux yeux la vérité.
Boileau.

PART THE FIRST.

Sad-swelling on the evening gale
That moan'd along the purple heath,
Was heard an infant's helpless wail,
By him that pensive walk'd beneath.

The shepherd turn'd in haste around;
And as he turn'd, a beauteous child,
Cradled in moss and wild flow'rs, found:
The little mourner faintly smil'd.

And as his charge the peasant eyed,
Through the brown hawthorn's blossom'd shade,
A burst that forc'd the boughs aside,
Some stranger's guilty flight betray'd.

Not far from thence, in peaceful state
Ubaldo's ancient castle rose;
Whose master's heart, and open gate,
Did ne'er on weeping wanderer close.

Thither the swain his treasure bore;
And as he told, in simple guise,
The mystic story o'er and o'er,
Fond tears bedew'd the baron's eyes.

Within his arms the babe he caught
(Sweet babe, by heaven at once supplied!);
And melting thus in tender thought,
The venerable chieftain cry'd:

“Fair offspring of a sire unknown,
Pure snowdrop of the barren waste,
Henceforth I mark thee as my own,
For ever in my garden placed.

“There, next to Angela, expand
In artless pride thy balmy bloom;
And foster'd by no sparing hand,
Shed o'er my age a soft perfume.”

Fly swift, ye years, on turtle-wing,
Nor let one cloud obscure the skies;
Fly swift o'er childhood's genial spring,
And let youth's ardent summer rise.

The years on turtle-wing are past,
Nor did one cloud the skies obscure;
Behold the fated pair, at last,
In youthful sympathy mature!

How often, Florizel, hast thou,
Ere Dawn withdrew her dappled shade,
Pluck'd from the mountain's thymy brow
A wreath to grace the blushing maid!

Or, when the am'rous marigold
Shut its broad breast with closing day,
How oft where moonlight, calm and cold,
Threw its wan lustre, wouldst thou stray!

Oft, where with silver foot unseen,
Soft-sliding from her pebbly bed,
Some naiad sleek through rushes green
Th' insinuative current led;

Didst thou her liquid lab'rinth trace,
That stole adown the fairy dale;
And pausing often in thy pace,
List to the blackbird's mellow tale.

But most by haunted copse's side,
Romantic hill, or arbor trim,
Where the vex'd rivulet seem'd to chide
The lilies nodding o'er its brim,

Thy flute was heard: hard by, enshrin'd
A poplar's trembling leaves among,
The night-bird, wailing to the wind,
Married her sweet note to thy song.

Thy song was Angela: and she
In sooth deserv'd the fairest meed;
For where a nobler theme could be,
To suit the stop of shepherd's reed?

Have you not seen the fragrant spot
Where clust'ring cowslips sweetly blow?
Such, ripe for love, and fancy-fraught,
Her swelling bosom's lucid snow.

Have you not seen the azure stream
Kiss'd sportive by the sunny ray?
So o'er her blue eye's bashful beam
The golden ringlets wildly play.

Blooms not a floret on the plain,
Breathes not a violet-scented breeze,
Could match her pure cheek's vermeil stain,
Could like her honey'd accents please.

And she was gentler still than fair:
Pity could move her feeling mind,
Soon as the filmy gossamer
Moves lightly to the dallying wind.

And merit never met her scorn,
And modest worth her soul approv'd,
And truth she priz'd though humbly born;—
No wonder Florizel she lov'd.

No titled birth had he to boast;
Son of the desert, Fortune's child.
Yet, not by frowning Fortune crost,
The muses on his cradle smil'd.

He joy'd to con the fabling page
Of prowess'd chiefs, and deeds sublime;
And e'en essay'd in infant age,
Fond task! to weave the wizard rhyme.

Whate'er romancer's magic skill
Of wonderful or wild bestow'd,
Since from Boiardo's fluent quill
The long-continued fiction flow'd,

He knew; and when some action brave
Inspir'd the legendary lay,
He sigh'd, and bless'd the laurell'd grave
That held the hero's happier clay.

The sunshine of the song alone
As yet its influence could impart,
And splendours from the poet thrown
Rear'd seeds of honour in his heart.

Nor e'er did he eschew the strain
By genius hung on beauty's hearse,
Which told the soft Provencal's pain
When Vaucluse echo'd to his verse.

'Mid shadows brown he lov'd to roam
Where Stillness held her lone retreat,
Where ne'er the hermit's distant home
Was visited by vagrant feet.

Him at his supper oft he found,
Of cates the ambient woods afford;
And press'd with awe the holy ground,
And joy'd to share the frugal board.

Wherever misery appear'd
A constant guest, the drop of woe
That wet the beggar's silver beard
He wip'd, and bade no more to flow.

Nor did the knight disdain to heed
Those workings of a noble soul:
Nor bounteous act, nor social deed,
Did e'er his stinted store controul.

But by the charm of virtues rare,
Congenial virtues, closely won,
Scarce did the darling daughter share
More favour than th' adopted son.

PART THE SECOND.

On either side the loom of life
The fatal sisters take their seat:
Obnoxious these, for mischief rife;
Those friendly still, of aspect sweet.

While these the sable tissue weave,
And deeply stamp with many a tear,
Those for the human victim grieve,
And draw their threads of colour clear.

Unconscious of the equal flame
That Angela's chaste bosom fires,
To muse upon that matchless dame,
Lo, where sad Florizel retires!

Where the pale vapour idly flits
Athwart yon misty mountain grey,
The melancholy mourner sits,
And silent wastes the weary day.

No sound disturbs the dread serene;
No busy pinion cleaves the air;
Save when, the blast's still pause between,
Screams the wing'd herald of despair.

'Tis night's dead noon:—ye sprites benign
Whom innocence ne'er calls in vain,
Effulgent forms, in mercy shine,
In mercy to your favour'd swain.

I see him lift his manly arm:
His manly arm confin'd I see.
Has virtue then no secret charm?
Ah! virtue has no charm for thee.

A robber-band the youth surround:
They mock his wild unweapon'd force:
Furious they press him, strongly bound,
And darkling bend their mystic course.

And now the cavern's mouth they gain,
Beneath the mountain's horrid brow:
In haste they loose his clanking chain,
And meek obedience greets him now.

But who is he, of loftier port,—
Of loftier port, but look severe,—
Who lends the trembling youth support,
And scarce withholds the starting tear?

He waves the ruffians to retire;
And while along his haggard cheeks
Flashes a momentary fire,
In smother'd sighs the bandit speaks:

“By stealth, for many a year I've view'd
Thy tender age to manhood grow;
I've seen thee valiant, great and good,
O anguish! with my deadliest foe.

“That foe no longer shall be mine,
And thou the just revenge shall aid.
With filial force the bold design
Effect, and slight yon witching maid.

“Nay, stare not so. I cast thee forth:
I left thee mid the forest wild.
Noble in manners as in birth,
O Aribert! thou art my child.”

Who now can paint the light'ning-flush
That mantled o'er the father's face?
Or who the thousand pangs that rush
On the son's soul, distinctly trace?

Convuls'd with stupid woe he stands,
As marble cold, as marble pale;
While, wringing sore his palsied hands,
The robber thus renews his tale:

“Full many a withering blast has blown,
Dire-beating on my fenceless head,
Since, with misfortune savage grown,
To those accurs'd compeers I fled.

“Ubaldo's sire, by flase assign,
Fell guardian, held yon wide domain
In charge; which shortly shall be thine,
But ne'er return'd his charge again.

“Love was the fault; the purest love,
With firmest constancy combin'd:
O son! thy mother's worth approve:
Thy mother's wrongs shall steel thy mind.

“What though a village-virgin born,
The inmate of the humble vale?
Oft from the thicket's rudest thorn
The wild rose scents the passing gale.

“Ah early lost! Can I forget
Thy placid smile of feign'd repose;
Thy balmy kiss, attemp'ring sweet
The poison'd chalice of my woes?

“Can I forget that wint'ry night
When, harsher than the thunder's tone,
Sir Hugo sternly claim'd my right,
And call'd yon hated tow'rs his own?

“My Emma saw the rushing gloom,
That soon my ruin'd fortune prest;
Ah fairest flow'r of forest-bloom!
She saw, and faded on my breast.

“Mad with despair, this band I sought:
Yon moon has heard the solemn vow.
Let vengeance fire thy filial thought:
What was I once? what am I now?”

Here, as by speechless grief o'ercome,
A while he paus'd with icy glare,
Then fell; in mutual anguish dumb
Stood Aribert, with horrent hair.

Soon as relaps'd the vital tide,
The sire, still threat'ning to be true,
Conducted down the mountain's side
His son, and vanish'd from his view.

What was his terror, his surprise!
A father found! a father lost!
This one to save, the other dies,
And all his fairy passion crost.

“Not so—not so—he must not die,
The widow's succour, orphan's aid;
Nor shalt thou for a parent sigh,
Dear Angela, devoted maid.

“Not so—not so—thou must not moan
A lover faithless and ingrate;
There is a pow'r, when hope is gone,
All hope, can overrule our fate.

“Not so—not so—his guiltless hand
With murder never shall be dyed:
By strength unseen, a seraph-band
Shall turn the thirsty sword aside.”

Such were the agonies intense
That his distracted bosom rent,
As shuddering frore in every sense
He homeward to the castle went.

And now, amid the dusky steam,
The modest morn peer'd o'er the hill;
And, promis'd by a golden gleam,
Larks hail'd the sun in carols shrill.

PART THE THIRD.

Loud howl'd the storm, no star appear'd,
The lab'ring moon was seen no more;
But oft, by fretful fits, was heard
The distant torrent's angry roar;

When, studious of his wayward doom,
The wondrous orphan took his way
(So chanc'd it) to the pictur'd room
That in the southern gall'ry lay.

Full many a grisly form he view'd
Of warrior who in battle died,
By painting clad in armour rude;
Quaint casque, or morion's crested pride.

But most one semblance caught his sight,
Completely mail'd, of martial air;
And much he eyed, with fond affright,
A chief so formidably fair.

When sudden, oped by secret springs,
Portentous from the living frame,
While hoarse the hollow casement rings,
Completely mail'd the robber came;

Robber no more: in silent wrath,
The fearful calm of smother'd ire,
He mutters, as he points the path:
“Rise, recreant, and pursue thy sire.”

Through the long gall'ry's winding maze,
Down the steep stairs before unknown,
He follows slow with dubious gaze,
While the dun archway seems to groan.

But what his horror, what his rage,
(His horror great, his rage not less,)
Led by Ubaldo's perjured page,
When o'er the bridge throng'd foemen press!

“And now is come the destin'd hour,
And now my solemn vow is clear,
And now not earth's collected pow'r
Shall dare dispute my birthright here.

“But still no dark assassin I,
In sleep to deal the murd'rous wound.
Small time will equal arms supply;
Th' alarum ring, the bugle sound.

“Thy mother's wrongs remember well:
Remember too thy plighted word:
Remember how thy father fell,
And from that father take the sword.”

And now the slumb'rers rush to fight;
To fight they rush, nor know the cause;
'Till old Ubaldo's sacred sight
Gives to each side a dreary pause.

But soon as with the adverse host
His Florizel the vet'ran spied,
In many a keen emotion lost,
“And thou, my son!” he feebly cried.

“Not thine, nor of so vile a race;
Not thine,” the robber-sire exclaim'd,
Then rais'd the vizor from his face,
Which fiery red with choler flam'd.

Like some aerial shape meanwhile,
Scar'd by th' unwonted din of arms,
Gleaming along the gloomy aisle,
Came Angela's dishevel'd charms.

Th' enamour'd youth at once discern'd
The silent censure of her frown;
Quick from the hostile party turn'd,
And threw his sword indignant down.

Then cried, as down his pallid cheek
Each other the big drops pursu'd:
“Nature herself shall fail to break
The bonds of love and gratitude.”

While thus he spoke, with stedfast stare
The baron mark'd the stranger-foe:
A moment first, entranc'd in pray'r;
The next, his tears began to flow.

“O part'ner of my early prime!
O deeply on my heart engrav'd!
Forgive, forgive, my father's crime:
It is, it is, thy son I sav'd.

“Sir Hugo, on the bed of death,
Stung by remorseful conscience sore,
Did but these lands to me bequeath,
To hold for thee or thine, in store.

“Long have I sought the rightful heir;
Long pray'd the pitying pow'rs divine
To lift from me that load of care;
But ne'er could hear of thee or thine.

“Mysterious heav'n! the gloom is past;
No more I'm torn, no more distrest;
Thy child a waif upon the waste,
That child I cherish'd in my breast.

“And he is valiant, he is good;
Of gentle carriage, generous heart;
Methinks he's mingled with my blood:
No, Aribert; we must not part.

“One only gem on earth I prize,
One gem which sure would deck a throne,
Aught else I spurn beneath the skies;
Belmont with Angela's thy own.”—

“And what for me at length remains?”—
“Ah! what,” rejoin'd the tortur'd sire,
“Can blanch a robber's hideous stains?
Water nor purifying fire.

“Can I pollute these hallow'd dews,
Fast-welling from th' eternal spring,
Round the repentant couch t' effuse
Which ministers of mercy bring?

“Yet nigh yon chapel's ivied wall,
Scoop me a solitary cell;
There, by the cataract's foaming fall,
In lonely penance will I dwell.

“There, as my orisons I breathe,
And drop with every bead a tear,
To smooth the dark decline of death
My Emma's image will appear.

“Shall I not view that angel-frame,
Dim gleaming on the brow of ev'n,
When the west glows with faded flame,
And tender twilight creeps o'er Heav'n?

“Or when the moon, her empress fair,
Sails slowly through a lambent cloud,
Shall I not view her bosom bare
Long whit'ning through its silver shroud?

“Oh! yes; and woo her sainted shade,
To plead the cause of erring love;
And fondly claim her partial aid,
To mediate for my sins above;

“And pour the grateful rapture wild
To Him who link'd in wedded joy
Sweet Angela the baron's child,
With Aribert the orphan-boy.”