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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
94
ZILLAH. [FRAGMENT OF A JEWISH TALE.]
INSCRIBED AS A MEMORIAL OF LONG AND FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP TO MY ESTEEMED TOWNSMAN, WILLIAM C. HAWLEY, ESQ.
[“A Saracen Captain sailing from a port in Spain captured a vessel having on board several Jews of distinction, among whom were a young man and his wife, a woman of exquisite beauty. Having received some insults from the Captain, she asked, ‘Shall those who are drowned in the sea revive at the Resurrection?’ She was answered in the words of the Psalmist: ‘The Lord said, I will bring again from the depths of the sea;’ and she immediately flung herself into the waters.”]—
Jus Regium Hebr.The din of conflict ceased;—on high
Dark clouds ascended from the main
As if to robe the vaulted sky
In mourning vesture for the slain
Who late with exultation heard
The soul-arousing signal word
Go up, when met the hostile ships,
In thunder from a thousand lips:
Who lately, prodigal of life,
Moved sharers in the gory strife,
While Havoc shook his wings of flame,
And Death, in terror shrouded, came.
No sheet, within its tarry fold,
Wraps mournfully their bodies cold;
Nor yew, nor solemn cypress throws
Sepulchral gloom where they repose.
For ever deaf to boatswain call
They sleep in Ocean's charnel-hall,
And monarch waters, in their might,
Above them roll with crowns of white.
No eye shed tributary tear
When darkly ended their career,
Nor were the brave “with dirges due”
Committed to the waters blue.
Far from the quiet hearths of home
The blood of sire and brother gave
95
That crested fearfully the wave.
War furled his wing:—the Infidel
His ocean conquest dearly bought,
For in the hour of trial well
The sons of Israel had fought.
The cry, “our hold a leak has sprung!”
In them, though shroud in tatters hung,
And reeling deck was strewn with dead,
Had woke no unresisting dread.
Despair, in that appalling hour,
Had nerved the feeble frame with power,
And, with the strength of manhood, strung
The untried sinews of the young.
When the tall mainmast, like some oak,
Uprooted by the whirlwind, fell,
In stern defiance through the smoke
Had rang their battle yell.
Admiring Athens deified
Such children in her day of might,
And Fame inscribed their names, allied
To daring, with a look of pride,
Upon her tablets bright:
And worthy would have been such sons
Of Judah, when her mighty ones,
With Maccabæus in the van,
Smote down the vaunting Syrian;
Or in that hour when Jew of old
Proud Rome with desperation met,
While, red with slaughter, Kedron roll'd
And charging shouts shook Olivet.
It is a melancholy sight
To see that bird of regal sway
Who holds, in dazzling realms of light,
Proud converse with the King of Day,
96
With ruffled plume and closing eye,
On common earth far, far below
His throne where Alpine blossoms grow:—
It is a melancholy sight
To mark the hungry raven hover,
When ended is the stormy fight,
Above the father, friend, or lover;
To see, unmindful of the rein,
The gallant steed, with nostril spread,
And gore-drops clinging to his mane,
In death extended on the plain
That echoed to his tread,
When hills sent back the charging cheer,
And sunlight shone on casque and spear:
But far more saddening to the view
To scan some ship bereft of sail,
Deserted by her hardy crew,
And drifting wildly with the gale.
One gazing on that floating wreck
Bethinks him sadly of the day
When hundreds stood upon the deck,
And winds made glad her way;—
When weeping on some distant shore
Stood faithful wife and sylph-like maid
To see the flying bark, that bore
Their loved ones, in the distance fade.
While that lone wreck with riven sides
Dismasted on the billow rides,
The trembling gazer asks the main
To tell her history in vain—
In fancy vieweth wan Despair
Cling wildly to the broken mast,
While wreaths of foam bedeck his hair,
And sweeps in terror by the blast.
97
A ruddy radiance to the wave,
While the stern voice of War from sleep
Awoke the monsters of the deep?
One floats with helm and cordage gone,
And deck in carnage deeply dyed,
Unguided through the sea whereon
She lately rode a thing of pride:
With spar of strength, and mast that vies
In grace the palm, the other flies,
And proudly on the water flings
The shadow of her mighty wings.
The dolphin, in her dazzling track,
Comes up to “bare his golden back,”
And with the rustling of her shroud
The white surge blends its murmur loud.
With glance, expressive of command,
Her turbaned captain waves his hand,
And, courted by the whistling gale,
Streams haughtily the crescent pale.
Rich goods and bags of Jewish gold
Are lying in her darksome hold—
Ferocious is the chief, whose sway
The tenants of that ship obey;
On his forbidding brow and cheek
Deep scars his bloody trade bespeak.
With hasty stride and eye of fire
He walks the deck in proud attire;
A scarlet turban, fringed with gold,
Begirds his brow with silken fold—
Beneath his oriental vest
With jewels sparkling heaves a breast
Wherein compassion never dwelt,
That never thrill of terror felt.
One gazing on his swarthy face
The darkness of the soul would trace,
98
Would be petition to the main,
When tempest-sprites their wings unfold,
And revel on his bosom hold,
Than wild appeal to him for life
From lip of foeman in the strife”—
The crooked weapon at his side
His arms in many a fight hath tried,
And never more unsparing sword
Drank blood in grasp of ocean lord.
At times he cast his vengeful eye
Upon a group of captives nigh,
Replying to the word of fear,
And anguished cry with brutal jeer—
Surveying chain-encircled limb,
And gaping wound with visage grim,
Then murmuring with purpose dark—
“A pretty banquet for the shark!”
Or drowning with his crew in song
The wailing of the captive throng.
SONG.
We lead not the life of the slave,
We fear not the frown of a king;
But free as the foam-crested wave
We wander like birds on the wing
Our foemen, though valiant, despair
When our ebony hull is descried;
The streamers we give to the air,
In the purple of conquest are dyed.
We fear not the frown of a king;
But free as the foam-crested wave
We wander like birds on the wing
Our foemen, though valiant, despair
When our ebony hull is descried;
The streamers we give to the air,
In the purple of conquest are dyed.
We exult when the signal is made
To clear our broad deck for the strife!
We exult when the gleam of each blade
Is dim with the red tide of life.
We had rather have Ocean our grave
Than, Earth, in thy bosom repose!
For a shroud the white foam of the wave,
And sleep where the red coral grows. ...
To clear our broad deck for the strife!
We exult when the gleam of each blade
Is dim with the red tide of life.
99
Than, Earth, in thy bosom repose!
For a shroud the white foam of the wave,
And sleep where the red coral grows. ...
Amid the sad, desponding crowd
Yon matron mark of bearing proud—
Her regal spirit scorns to show
Submission to the Paynim foe;
No outward sign betrays the storm
That rages inwardly; her form
Is like the work of sculptor rare,
Or shape that haunts the poet's dream—
Inwoven with her sable hair
Gems of transparent lustre gleam,
The coral beads are dull in hue
Contrasted with her lip of dew;
Her robes with diamond lustre blaze,
But her dark eye has brighter rays—
Their lids, by tear unwet, proclaim
That courage nerves her fairy frame—
While gazing on the pirate chief,
Her looks are unallied to grief;
The face of Judith when she bent
To dye her snowy hand in gore
Above the victim in his tent,
A like expression wore.
While sullen clang of iron gyves
From manly cheek the color drives,
Her features, beautifully fair,
The flush of indignation wear.
While startling peals of corsair mirth
In other hearts to fear give birth,
With frown that would befit a queen
When murmurs rise from subject hands,
And lordly anger in her mien
The lovely Jewess stands
Strong in affection by the side
Of one whose glances seem to say,
“Yon waves that now so gently glide,
Ere long will clap their hands, my bride,
Above their unresisting prey!”
Yon matron mark of bearing proud—
Her regal spirit scorns to show
Submission to the Paynim foe;
No outward sign betrays the storm
That rages inwardly; her form
Is like the work of sculptor rare,
Or shape that haunts the poet's dream—
Inwoven with her sable hair
Gems of transparent lustre gleam,
The coral beads are dull in hue
Contrasted with her lip of dew;
Her robes with diamond lustre blaze,
But her dark eye has brighter rays—
Their lids, by tear unwet, proclaim
That courage nerves her fairy frame—
While gazing on the pirate chief,
Her looks are unallied to grief;
The face of Judith when she bent
To dye her snowy hand in gore
Above the victim in his tent,
A like expression wore.
While sullen clang of iron gyves
From manly cheek the color drives,
Her features, beautifully fair,
The flush of indignation wear.
While startling peals of corsair mirth
In other hearts to fear give birth,
With frown that would befit a queen
When murmurs rise from subject hands,
And lordly anger in her mien
The lovely Jewess stands
100
Of one whose glances seem to say,
“Yon waves that now so gently glide,
Ere long will clap their hands, my bride,
Above their unresisting prey!”
One month on fleeting wing hath flown
Since Zillah gave her heart to him
Whose soul was kindred to her own;
And fancied, in the future dim,
She saw beneath a cloudless sky
The sea of life untroubled lie,
While on its breast a graceful pair
Their barks to blissful ports were steering,
With features by the hand of care,
And touch of time, undimm'd appearing.
She thought not on her bridal day,
As mirth within her breast held sway,
That blight would ever mar the rose
Expanding in the light of love—
That waves of trouble soon would close
Her radiant dreams of bliss above—
While uttering the marriage vow
In accents passionately sweet,
The light of joy was on her brow,
And thrillingly her pulses beat.
No Sibyl of the future threw
Athwart her path one darkling shade,
Proclaiming that the rainbow hue
Of cherub Hope too soon would fade.
No warning voice rang in her ear,
“Thy horoscope is overcast—
The time of agony is near—
Thy dreams are fated not to last!”
While leaning fondly on her lord,
Whose ear drank in each honeyed word,
Unto her lips she little thought
The minister of ill would raise
His cup with deadly poison fraught,
In the glad spring-time of their days ...
Since Zillah gave her heart to him
Whose soul was kindred to her own;
And fancied, in the future dim,
She saw beneath a cloudless sky
The sea of life untroubled lie,
While on its breast a graceful pair
Their barks to blissful ports were steering,
With features by the hand of care,
And touch of time, undimm'd appearing.
She thought not on her bridal day,
As mirth within her breast held sway,
That blight would ever mar the rose
Expanding in the light of love—
That waves of trouble soon would close
Her radiant dreams of bliss above—
While uttering the marriage vow
In accents passionately sweet,
The light of joy was on her brow,
And thrillingly her pulses beat.
No Sibyl of the future threw
Athwart her path one darkling shade,
Proclaiming that the rainbow hue
Of cherub Hope too soon would fade.
No warning voice rang in her ear,
“Thy horoscope is overcast—
The time of agony is near—
Thy dreams are fated not to last!”
While leaning fondly on her lord,
Whose ear drank in each honeyed word,
101
The minister of ill would raise
His cup with deadly poison fraught,
In the glad spring-time of their days ...
Morn on the mighty deep! from rest
Light winds awake his billowy breast,
And sunlight, on the plumy snow
Of Ocean, flings a crimson glow.
Thy waters wide, majestic sea!
Roll onward with a voice of glee,
When dawning gilds with radiant glance
The beauty of thy broad expanse—
When blushing morn looks fondly down
On isles, green jewels in thy crown,
Whose shores are musical with birds
That feed upon thy scaly herds.
Strange shapes to hail the first bright streak
In throngs the upper waters seek
With plashing fin, in mimic strife,
As if they felt a newer life.
Light winds awake his billowy breast,
And sunlight, on the plumy snow
Of Ocean, flings a crimson glow.
Thy waters wide, majestic sea!
Roll onward with a voice of glee,
When dawning gilds with radiant glance
The beauty of thy broad expanse—
When blushing morn looks fondly down
On isles, green jewels in thy crown,
Whose shores are musical with birds
That feed upon thy scaly herds.
Strange shapes to hail the first bright streak
In throngs the upper waters seek
With plashing fin, in mimic strife,
As if they felt a newer life.
Morn on the waves! yon gallant bark
Whose hull is ominously dark,
Moves bird-like on the heaving waste,
As if to reach her port in haste.
The subject waters seem to say
That dash against her sides in spray,
“Proud Queen, submissively we feel
The touch of thy dividing keel!”
As if rejoicing that old Night
No longer veils the foamy seas,
Exultingly her wings of white
Are flapping in the breeze.
Who would not think, while in her course
Yon vessel spurns the billows hoarse,
And walks the deep, a thing of grace,
Swift as the charger in the race,
While welkin blue and gilded brine
Of coming ill disclose no sign,
That hearts with happiness replete
For such a vessel would be meet?
Ah, sunlight often robes the sky
When storms and death are lurking nigh—
Oft crouching in the thicket green
The panther marks his prey unseen;
The rose, within its inmost fold,
The dark, devouring worm may hide,
And grace may fashion in her mould
Things to impurity allied.
Mild autumn like a mourner grieves
For all things withering away,
While robes of loveliness she weaves
That vie in tint the close of day;
And dying beauty on her cheek
Too often wears deceptive glow,
When pulse is tremulously weak,
And hollow is the voice and low.
Whose hull is ominously dark,
Moves bird-like on the heaving waste,
As if to reach her port in haste.
The subject waters seem to say
That dash against her sides in spray,
“Proud Queen, submissively we feel
The touch of thy dividing keel!”
As if rejoicing that old Night
No longer veils the foamy seas,
Exultingly her wings of white
Are flapping in the breeze.
Who would not think, while in her course
Yon vessel spurns the billows hoarse,
And walks the deep, a thing of grace,
Swift as the charger in the race,
102
Of coming ill disclose no sign,
That hearts with happiness replete
For such a vessel would be meet?
Ah, sunlight often robes the sky
When storms and death are lurking nigh—
Oft crouching in the thicket green
The panther marks his prey unseen;
The rose, within its inmost fold,
The dark, devouring worm may hide,
And grace may fashion in her mould
Things to impurity allied.
Mild autumn like a mourner grieves
For all things withering away,
While robes of loveliness she weaves
That vie in tint the close of day;
And dying beauty on her cheek
Too often wears deceptive glow,
When pulse is tremulously weak,
And hollow is the voice and low.
Yon vessel, moving with the speed
Of falcon by the keeper freed,
When, startled by the tramp of feet,
The heron leaves his lone retreat,
Bears one upon her deck whose soul
Is dark, unlike his own bright clime,
And outlaws own his stern control
Who daily quaff at founts of crime.
Strong men, with hearts about to break,
And tender wives, with features wan,
Are gazing on her snowy wake
Empurpled by the smile of dawn
It is the bark that Zillah bears—
She stands amid yon captive crowd,
Her pallid countenance still wears
An aspect of endurance proud.
While others raise the cry of wail,
And clank in agony their chains,
The peerless subject of my tale
To give her sorrow voice, disdains
In the pale beauty of her face
Observant eye can changes trace,
While speakingly her glances show
The beautifying power of woe.
The spectral outlines of her frame
Grief's desolating touch proclaim—
Though hum of insect in the glade,
Or dash of wavelet, plumed with foam,
In better days her bosom made,
Of pleasant thoughts, the angel home—
In vain, in vain, the swelling sea,
And lulling winds that gently stir
The canvas with a voice of glee,
Awake their minstrelsy for her.
Ah, joys that once illumed her brow
No longer hold her heart in thrall,
The melodies of nature now
Upon her ear unheeded fall:
For one is missing from her side
Who was the idol of her soul,
In hoarse accord the waters wide
Above his mangled body roll.
Of falcon by the keeper freed,
When, startled by the tramp of feet,
The heron leaves his lone retreat,
Bears one upon her deck whose soul
Is dark, unlike his own bright clime,
And outlaws own his stern control
Who daily quaff at founts of crime.
Strong men, with hearts about to break,
And tender wives, with features wan,
Are gazing on her snowy wake
Empurpled by the smile of dawn
It is the bark that Zillah bears—
She stands amid yon captive crowd,
Her pallid countenance still wears
An aspect of endurance proud.
103
And clank in agony their chains,
The peerless subject of my tale
To give her sorrow voice, disdains
In the pale beauty of her face
Observant eye can changes trace,
While speakingly her glances show
The beautifying power of woe.
The spectral outlines of her frame
Grief's desolating touch proclaim—
Though hum of insect in the glade,
Or dash of wavelet, plumed with foam,
In better days her bosom made,
Of pleasant thoughts, the angel home—
In vain, in vain, the swelling sea,
And lulling winds that gently stir
The canvas with a voice of glee,
Awake their minstrelsy for her.
Ah, joys that once illumed her brow
No longer hold her heart in thrall,
The melodies of nature now
Upon her ear unheeded fall:
For one is missing from her side
Who was the idol of her soul,
In hoarse accord the waters wide
Above his mangled body roll.
When Night upon her starry throne
Held undisputed sway and lone,
And moonlight to the trembling wave
A soft but spectral radiance gave,
He seized with iron grasp his chain,
As if endued with giant strength,
And after many efforts vain,
While glowing madness fired his brain,
From bondage burst at length.
The cunning corsair heard the sound
Of strong link breaking, with a clang,
And stealing lightly, with a bound
Upon his frenzied victim sprang;
His right arm, used to felon-deed,
The corsair raised with ready skill—
One thrust of his stiletto freed
The crazed one from his load of ill.
The pleading look and wild appeal
Of Zillah could not stay the steel;
She saw him fall, and from his side
The red stream gush in bubbling tide,
Then fell herself, as if the blade
A sheath of her own breast had made,
While fearfully his spouting gore
The white robe purpled that she wore.
Her ear heard not the gurgling sound
Of hungry waters closing round,
As hastily the ruffian cast
His victim to the ocean vast,
Or marked the grim exulting smile
That lighted up his face the while:
Extended on the deck she lay
As if the war of life was over,
As if her soul had fled away,
To realms of never-ending day,
To join the spirit of her lover.
Held undisputed sway and lone,
And moonlight to the trembling wave
A soft but spectral radiance gave,
He seized with iron grasp his chain,
As if endued with giant strength,
And after many efforts vain,
While glowing madness fired his brain,
From bondage burst at length.
104
Of strong link breaking, with a clang,
And stealing lightly, with a bound
Upon his frenzied victim sprang;
His right arm, used to felon-deed,
The corsair raised with ready skill—
One thrust of his stiletto freed
The crazed one from his load of ill.
The pleading look and wild appeal
Of Zillah could not stay the steel;
She saw him fall, and from his side
The red stream gush in bubbling tide,
Then fell herself, as if the blade
A sheath of her own breast had made,
While fearfully his spouting gore
The white robe purpled that she wore.
Her ear heard not the gurgling sound
Of hungry waters closing round,
As hastily the ruffian cast
His victim to the ocean vast,
Or marked the grim exulting smile
That lighted up his face the while:
Extended on the deck she lay
As if the war of life was over,
As if her soul had fled away,
To realms of never-ending day,
To join the spirit of her lover.
She woke at last from her long swoon,
To hope that death would triumph soon,
And the mad pulses of her frame
With icy touch forever tame:
She woke with features ashy white,
And wildly gazed upon the plank
That deeply, freely in the night
The crimson of his veins had drank;
Then raising heavenward her eye
In still, expecting posture stood,
As if a troop from realms on high
Were coming down with battle-songs,
To wash out sternly in the blood
Of coward hearts her many wrongs:
No tear-drop came to her relief
In that wild, parching hour of grief:
The tender plant of love, she knew,
Would into verdure break no more—
The spot was arid where it grew
In green luxuriance before.
She knew henceforth her lot below
Would be to quaff the cup of pain—
On thing of earth she could not throw
The sunlight of her smile again—
The voice was still whose melting tone
Had vied in sweetness with her own—
The hiding wave had closed above
The only object of her love:
And Rispah, as strict watch she kept,
While cold, like forms of Parian stone,
Her sons on gory couches slept,
Felt not more desolate and lone.
To hope that death would triumph soon,
And the mad pulses of her frame
With icy touch forever tame:
She woke with features ashy white,
And wildly gazed upon the plank
That deeply, freely in the night
The crimson of his veins had drank;
105
In still, expecting posture stood,
As if a troop from realms on high
Were coming down with battle-songs,
To wash out sternly in the blood
Of coward hearts her many wrongs:
No tear-drop came to her relief
In that wild, parching hour of grief:
The tender plant of love, she knew,
Would into verdure break no more—
The spot was arid where it grew
In green luxuriance before.
She knew henceforth her lot below
Would be to quaff the cup of pain—
On thing of earth she could not throw
The sunlight of her smile again—
The voice was still whose melting tone
Had vied in sweetness with her own—
The hiding wave had closed above
The only object of her love:
And Rispah, as strict watch she kept,
While cold, like forms of Parian stone,
Her sons on gory couches slept,
Felt not more desolate and lone.
In many hearts the gloomy sway
Of sorrow lessens day by day,
Until the charms of life at last
Blot out remembrance of the past:
As winds may kiss the trampled flower,
And lift again its bruised leaf,
So Time, with his assuaging power,
May stay the wasting march of grief:
But hearts in other bosoms beat
Where anguish finds a lasting seat—
That heal not with the lapse of time:
Too delicately strung for earth,
Whose chords can never after chime
With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth.
Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight
Strove oft, but vainly, to forget
The horrors of that fatal night,
When her beloved star, whose light
Made bondage pleasant, set.
No murmur from the lip outbroke,
Though suddenly her cheek grew thin—
No quick, convulsive start bespoke
The desolating fire within.
Her dark eye rested on the wave
By day and in the hush of eve,
As if, ere long, the wet sea cave
Her buried one would leave,
And, drifting suddenly in view,
His murderer with dread subdue!
Ah, I have said the stately mien
Of Zillah would befit a queen,
That lawless crime would ill withstand
Her innate bearing of command.
Alas! regality of soul
Gives agony supreme control,
And prompts the wretched one to hide
Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze—
To nurse, in uncomplaining pride,
The scorpion that preys.
Of sorrow lessens day by day,
Until the charms of life at last
Blot out remembrance of the past:
As winds may kiss the trampled flower,
And lift again its bruised leaf,
So Time, with his assuaging power,
May stay the wasting march of grief:
But hearts in other bosoms beat
Where anguish finds a lasting seat—
That heal not with the lapse of time:
106
Whose chords can never after chime
With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth.
Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight
Strove oft, but vainly, to forget
The horrors of that fatal night,
When her beloved star, whose light
Made bondage pleasant, set.
No murmur from the lip outbroke,
Though suddenly her cheek grew thin—
No quick, convulsive start bespoke
The desolating fire within.
Her dark eye rested on the wave
By day and in the hush of eve,
As if, ere long, the wet sea cave
Her buried one would leave,
And, drifting suddenly in view,
His murderer with dread subdue!
Ah, I have said the stately mien
Of Zillah would befit a queen,
That lawless crime would ill withstand
Her innate bearing of command.
Alas! regality of soul
Gives agony supreme control,
And prompts the wretched one to hide
Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze—
To nurse, in uncomplaining pride,
The scorpion that preys.
One blessed evening when the light
Of starry hosts made ocean bright,
An aged Rabbi woke the lay
Of Judah in her mightier day—
Of olden time when gladsome strains
Ascended from her holy plains;
When every rock beneath her sky
Rang with the voice of prophecy—
When musical were grove and glade
With prayer by simple herdsmen made—
Ere fires of sacrifice grew pale
On blooming height, in flowery vale—
Then changing skilfully his strain,
While newer life each sinew strung,
And triumph in his breast held reign,
The glory of his fathers sung.
The music in its proudest swell
Cold on the ear of Zillah fell—
Bold notes, with patriot ardor fraught,
No change in her appearance wrought—
She tamely heard ancestral praise,
And fixed no kind approving gaze
Upon the Rabbi, as his lay
In trembling cadence died away.
Her love of olden time had fled,
Her heart was with the early dead.
Of starry hosts made ocean bright,
An aged Rabbi woke the lay
Of Judah in her mightier day—
Of olden time when gladsome strains
Ascended from her holy plains;
When every rock beneath her sky
Rang with the voice of prophecy—
107
With prayer by simple herdsmen made—
Ere fires of sacrifice grew pale
On blooming height, in flowery vale—
Then changing skilfully his strain,
While newer life each sinew strung,
And triumph in his breast held reign,
The glory of his fathers sung.
The music in its proudest swell
Cold on the ear of Zillah fell—
Bold notes, with patriot ardor fraught,
No change in her appearance wrought—
She tamely heard ancestral praise,
And fixed no kind approving gaze
Upon the Rabbi, as his lay
In trembling cadence died away.
Her love of olden time had fled,
Her heart was with the early dead.
While marking her abstraction lone,
The old man said, with darkening brow,
And stern displeasure in his tone:—
“Unthinking one! forgettest thou
Jerusalem, the home of sire—
Of beauty the perfection, where
King David woke the sacred lyre,
And moved his tuneful lip in prayer?
Shall apathetic fetter bind
Thy native majesty of mind,
While the wrapt minstrel breathes with pride
One name to Israel allied?
Why gaze as if thy murder'd mate
Was near in disembodied state?
Why sorrow that his form of grace
Yon ocean folds in wet embrace?
From his shut eye the fitful ray
Of frenzied grief hath fled away;
No dreams of startling horror now
Contort the marble of his brow:
His manly heart is well at rest,
By throb of madness unoppress'd—
Full many fathoms low his head
Lies sweetly on a briny bed,
Nor taunt, nor execration deep
Disturbs the quiet of his sleep.
If word of mine was fraught with power
To animate the dead this hour,
I would not call thy lover up
From his calm resting in the main,
To curse existence, and the cup
Of horror deeply quaff again,
Unless to blanch, with spectral stare,
The visage of that man of guilt,
Who stole upon him unaware
Of danger, in his deep despair,
And plunged the dagger to its hilt!”
The growling voice of ruffian nigh
Outspoke ere Zillah could reply—
“That weapon mark! its crimson hue
Tells fearfully of him I slew—
Beware, old dotard, ere its blade
Familiar with thy heart be made!”
The old man started, and his look
Withdrawing from the mourner pale,
Saw, while the blood his cheek forsook,
The Corsair of my tale:
His features in the moony light
A smile of evil import wore;
The scar of some terrific fight
His turbaned forehead bore:
The stern expression of his face
At length to irony gave place;
And hellish satisfaction shone
On each dark lineament impress'd,
While thus in simulating tone
His captive he address'd:—
“Though passion fires that sunken eye,
The young in years and gray of hair,
United in the marriage-tie,
Will never make a loving pair.
Much rather would yon matron feel
The pressure of this hand of steel
Than round her fairy waist have thrown
An arm, all shrivell'd, like thine own!”
The old man said, with darkening brow,
And stern displeasure in his tone:—
“Unthinking one! forgettest thou
Jerusalem, the home of sire—
Of beauty the perfection, where
King David woke the sacred lyre,
And moved his tuneful lip in prayer?
Shall apathetic fetter bind
Thy native majesty of mind,
While the wrapt minstrel breathes with pride
One name to Israel allied?
Why gaze as if thy murder'd mate
Was near in disembodied state?
Why sorrow that his form of grace
Yon ocean folds in wet embrace?
From his shut eye the fitful ray
Of frenzied grief hath fled away;
108
Contort the marble of his brow:
His manly heart is well at rest,
By throb of madness unoppress'd—
Full many fathoms low his head
Lies sweetly on a briny bed,
Nor taunt, nor execration deep
Disturbs the quiet of his sleep.
If word of mine was fraught with power
To animate the dead this hour,
I would not call thy lover up
From his calm resting in the main,
To curse existence, and the cup
Of horror deeply quaff again,
Unless to blanch, with spectral stare,
The visage of that man of guilt,
Who stole upon him unaware
Of danger, in his deep despair,
And plunged the dagger to its hilt!”
The growling voice of ruffian nigh
Outspoke ere Zillah could reply—
“That weapon mark! its crimson hue
Tells fearfully of him I slew—
Beware, old dotard, ere its blade
Familiar with thy heart be made!”
The old man started, and his look
Withdrawing from the mourner pale,
Saw, while the blood his cheek forsook,
The Corsair of my tale:
His features in the moony light
A smile of evil import wore;
The scar of some terrific fight
His turbaned forehead bore:
The stern expression of his face
At length to irony gave place;
And hellish satisfaction shone
109
While thus in simulating tone
His captive he address'd:—
“Though passion fires that sunken eye,
The young in years and gray of hair,
United in the marriage-tie,
Will never make a loving pair.
Much rather would yon matron feel
The pressure of this hand of steel
Than round her fairy waist have thrown
An arm, all shrivell'd, like thine own!”
Roused by the taunt of the Pirate Chief
From her drooping attitude of grief,
The sufferer stood with eye upcast,
As if her prayer had been heard at last,
And a message from Heaven was borne on the air
That seraphs would hasten on pinions of light,
And her soul, from the thrall of mortality, bear
To a realm never dim with the presence of night.
From her brow the sign of health had fled,
And the shrunken veins were there instead;
By robe invested was her frame
That well the white of her cheek became:
Inwoven with dark ringlets, shone
The dazzling blaze of a diamond stone
That her passionate lover gave away,
With a stolen kiss, on her bridal day.
O, that some sculptor
With chisel in hand,
While the warm glow of thought
By religion was fann'd,
Could the Jewess have seen
Looking sweetly to Heaven,
And her angel-like glance
To cold marble have given—
Or some exquisite painter,
In that mystic hour,
When Genius best governs
The pencil of power,
Could one fleeting moment
On Zillah have gazed,
With her wan lips apart,
And her dark eye upraised.
Has she heard from her Maker
The mandate—“Live on?”
I know not—her gaze
From the sky is withdrawn,
And imploringly rests
On the Rabbi, who stands
With his old limbs encircled
By prisoning bands:
She addresses him now—
“When the last trumpet calls,
And the sleepers of Earth
Leave the gloom of her halls,
Will the dead whose bones whiten
The floor of the deep,
Hear the life-giving summons,
And waken from sleep?”
While the mingling emotions
Of grief and surprise
In his mien are depicted,
The Rabbi replies:—
“Is the promise of God
Not familiar to thee?—
‘Again will I bring
From the depths of the sea!’
That Being whose arm
The mad waters divided,
And our fathers through haunts
Of the sea-monsters guided;
That Being whose terrible
Majesty gave
For a tomb to proud Egypt
The bed of the wave,
Will make, the Last Day,
His Omnipotent word
In the most secret place
Of yon Ocean be heard.”
He spake:—and the beautiful
Mourner appears
Like saint newly freed
From the sorrow of years—
One moment she lingers
With foot on the rail,
While around her the moon
Throws a loveliness pale—
The next, shrieking wildly,
“I come, murder'd lover!”
Leaves her perilous footing—
Wild waves roll above her!
From her drooping attitude of grief,
The sufferer stood with eye upcast,
As if her prayer had been heard at last,
And a message from Heaven was borne on the air
That seraphs would hasten on pinions of light,
And her soul, from the thrall of mortality, bear
To a realm never dim with the presence of night.
From her brow the sign of health had fled,
And the shrunken veins were there instead;
By robe invested was her frame
That well the white of her cheek became:
Inwoven with dark ringlets, shone
The dazzling blaze of a diamond stone
That her passionate lover gave away,
With a stolen kiss, on her bridal day.
O, that some sculptor
With chisel in hand,
While the warm glow of thought
By religion was fann'd,
Could the Jewess have seen
Looking sweetly to Heaven,
And her angel-like glance
To cold marble have given—
110
In that mystic hour,
When Genius best governs
The pencil of power,
Could one fleeting moment
On Zillah have gazed,
With her wan lips apart,
And her dark eye upraised.
Has she heard from her Maker
The mandate—“Live on?”
I know not—her gaze
From the sky is withdrawn,
And imploringly rests
On the Rabbi, who stands
With his old limbs encircled
By prisoning bands:
She addresses him now—
“When the last trumpet calls,
And the sleepers of Earth
Leave the gloom of her halls,
Will the dead whose bones whiten
The floor of the deep,
Hear the life-giving summons,
And waken from sleep?”
While the mingling emotions
Of grief and surprise
In his mien are depicted,
The Rabbi replies:—
“Is the promise of God
Not familiar to thee?—
‘Again will I bring
From the depths of the sea!’
That Being whose arm
The mad waters divided,
And our fathers through haunts
Of the sea-monsters guided;
111
Majesty gave
For a tomb to proud Egypt
The bed of the wave,
Will make, the Last Day,
His Omnipotent word
In the most secret place
Of yon Ocean be heard.”
He spake:—and the beautiful
Mourner appears
Like saint newly freed
From the sorrow of years—
One moment she lingers
With foot on the rail,
While around her the moon
Throws a loveliness pale—
The next, shrieking wildly,
“I come, murder'd lover!”
Leaves her perilous footing—
Wild waves roll above her!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |