University of Virginia Library

JOSEPHA.

A BALLAD.

Josepha was a Spanish maid,
The daughter of a noble Don,
And never signor's eye was staid
A more enchanting form upon.
To call her graceful would be wrong,
She was the very soul of grace,
And minstrelsy's most ardent song,
Might vainly seek to paint her face.
Her lips where dwelt love's rosy smile,
Whence breath'd his soul-entrancing tone;
The cheek that glow'd and blanch'd the while
With living beauties all its own;
The clustering locks that sought to hide
The whiteness of her queen-like brow,
And with a wealth of jetty pride
Contrasted with her neck of snow;
And then the blue-vein'd drooping lid,
So richly fring'd, and loath to rise,
As if in jealousy it hid
The speaking radiance of her eyes.—
Within Don Manuel's sumptuous towers,
Protected by his rough dark wall,
She bloom'd amid her sister flowers,
The sweetest, loveliest, best of all.
Her ardent mind was deeply fraught
With all the romance of the age,
By burning lay of minstrel taught,
And chivalry's impassion'd page.
Yet, nineteen summers had matured
Her beauty, and enrich'd her mind,
And no gay gallant had secured
The heart that many sought to bind.
Her tender feelings seem'd to sleep
Like a young lion in her breast,
Awaiting love's warm touch, to leap
In fearful beauty, from their rest.
While many a haughty heart was lorn,
And many a proud dark eye ador'd,
None yet had dared to tempt her scorn,
Or brave her father's haughty word.
And thus she liv'd as free from art
As fairest roses in her bowers;
Her innocent and girlish heart
O'erflowing for her birds, and flowers.
No grief or passion e'er could touch
Her spirit bloom with frost, or flame,
And even her very faults were such,
As might be call'd by gentle name.
At length a Don of noble race,
Who boasted of ancestral fame,
But never thought worth while to trace
One noble deed, to grace his name;
Who wrote his history in wine,
With many a blot of darker hue;
While flattery dared not trace one line,
To speak him noble, good, or true,
Who yet was handsome as the day,
In robe of summer glory dress'd,
While deep dissimulation lay
In guise of virtue in his breast.
I said—at length—this haughty Don,
Array'd in all his princely state,
With all his mimic virtues on,
Appear'd before Don Manuel's gate.
Right boldly he preferr'd his suit,
And claim'd Josepha as his bride,
Her father answer'd, I am mute,
These claims my daughter must decide.
Josepha's inexperienc'd eye
Dwelt on his perfect form and mien,
His gay and sumptuous panoply,
Of princely garb, and jewel sheen;
And pride and admiration join'd
To aid him, in his ardent plea,
And in her unsuspecting mind
She deem'd him all that man should be.
And when one year had pass'd away,
And none could fault his deeds the while,
Don Carlos nam'd the nuptial day,
And she assented with a smile.
Then Leon sought his native towers,
Amid Castilia's scenery fair,
His sumptuous halls, and queenly bowers
For her reception to prepare.
Josepha lov'd her pleasant home,
And dearly priz'd her father's love,
Her mother—yonder stands a tomb,
And there are blissful realms above.
One day she walk'd to muse alone
Along the ocean's rocky shore,
Which echo'd with a spirit tone
The living flood's eternal roar;
The fervid smile of summer lay
On all earth's fair but fading things,
And bursts of silvery melody
Came floating from the lyres with wings.
Josepha sigh'd, she knew not why,
And turn'd to leave the lonely place,
When lo! a vision met her eye
Of most surpassing loveliness.
'Twas beauty's self, in beauty's dress,
A simple robe of purest white,
While every richly flowing tress
Gave back the sunbeams doubly bright.
Attracted as by magic spell
Josepha moved to where she stood,
Upon a rock with beetling swell
Projecting o'er the ocean flood.
The stranger rais'd her deep blue eyes
With fringes droop'd with many a tear,
Oh God, accept my thanks, she cries,
That Donna Josepha is here.
Fair lady—if thy gentle ear
Can listen to a stranger's grief,
Sit down awhile beside me here—
My tale of sorrow shall be brief.
They sat them down together there
Beneath the linden branches green,
And such another perfect pair
On sea-girt shore were never seen;
Josepha in her native pride,
Dark ey'd, and tall, and richly dress'd;
And that meek creature at her side,
With drooping mien, and simple vest.
And yet there lived a noble grace,
In that fair maiden's form and eye,
While thus, with artless earnestness,
She told her tale of agony.
I am a stranger, from the land
Of hills and vales. Where crown'd with snow
The eternal Alps look darkly grand
Upon the fruitful vales below.
I was a happy-hearted child
In my own home, in that sweet vale,
Where nature's loveliest things grew wild,
And calm, and music fill'd the gale.
But when my mother went to heaven,
My father's heart was stricken through,
His peace was lost, his spirit riven,
His home a grief spot in his view.
And so we sought this sunny shore,
But he is bent with grief and years;
Oh thou! whom pious hearts adore,
Support his age, and dry his tears!
She trembled like a tender leaf
Expos'd to stormy wind and rain;
Till weeping gave her heart relief
And she resum'd her tale again.
We dwell in yonder cottage white,
And there to soothe my father's wo
Has been my business, my delight,
The only joy I cared to know.
For now he fills an humble sphere
Far, far below his noble birth,
And strangers to his history here,
Nor feel his grief, nor know his worth.
At length a handsome stranger came
Of noble mien, in humble dress,
And when he urged a suitor's claim
My heart return'd his tenderness.
Love in my lonely heart had lain
A hidden, and untested well,
He ope'd the fount, and gladly then
It gush'd with overwhelming swell.
My life, my world, my very soul,
Lay whelm'd in that delicious flood,
And his dear image fill'd the whole
With visions of beatitude.
My father bless'd our mutual love,
His child was happy, and his heart
Had sent that only prayer above,
And now was ready to depart.
Last month, dear lady, we were wed.
Oh God! How brief my dream of bliss,
How like the blasting lightning sped,
The death-doom of my happiness.
Don Leon is the heartless man
Who won me in a low disguise—
This morn he pass'd me with his train,
And scorn'd me with his cruel eyes.
Thou know'st him. I have told my tale,
And this of thee I would require,
To seek our cottage in the vale
And comfort my forsaken sire.
She turn'd toward the cliff, and sigh'd,
My rest is where the billows swell!—
Josepha held her back, and cried,
Who bade thee seek for rest in hell?
Mad girl! Is this thy filial love?
Go first and take thy father's life,
And leave him not alone, to prove
A death with keener anguish rise.
I lov'd Don Leon, but my life,
My father's peace, my hopes of heaven,
Shall never in wild passion's strife
A sacrifice for him, be given.
No let us seek with humbled heart,
The wise and pitying Power above;
He will remove the venom'd dart,
And bless us with a holier love.
I will not be Don Leon's bride—
And thou—forbear thy purpose dire,
A happy issue may betide—
But keep thy sorrows from thy sire.
The stranger bless'd the timely check,
And reason now resumed her sway,
With arms around Josepha's neck,
She breathed her thanks, and turn'd away.
Josepha felt her bosom swell
With many a bitter pang of grief,
But woman's pride, with potent spell
Arose and came to her relief.
And then, her bosom had not known
The love that overwhelms the soul,
That clings to one—and one alone,
And baffles reason's strong control.
She laid a wild but generous plan,
Then told her father, Leon's guile:
And while he curs'd the treacherous man,
She sooth'd him with her girlish wile.
She told him all she meant to do—
He listen'd with approving heart,
And lent his aid, to carry through,
The strange device of woman's art.—
Don Leon came again in pride—
Josepha met him with a smile—
But all her love for him had died,
Her heart abhorr'd his serpent guile.
Yet gay and gallant was his mien,
And full of love his voice and eye;
While sadness on his brow was seen,
And oft he heav'd a restless sigh.
For Anna of the meek blue eyes
Had bound him with a magic spell;
And all his tender sympathies
Were in the cottage of the vale.
And there he stood at eventide,
'Twas desolate. His heart grew cold—
Anna! dear injur'd love! he cried,—
We are alone—the echoes told.
Through all the vale he sought in vain
That old man, with his daughter fair—
No information could he gain,
But that, one morn, they were not there.
Returning from his fruitless search,
His fever'd form he sadly flung
Along the now deserted porch,
Where Anna's favourite Jasmine clung.
And records of the days gone by
From gloomy archives of the past,
Came glaring on his mental eye,
Until his spirit stood aghast.
Oh, in those moments, what were all
His glittering hoards, and princely state?
Life's sweetest cup was chang'd to gall,
His heart was wholly desolate.
Alas! my cruel treachery
Has come to Anna's ears, he cried,
And she has fled incens'd away,
Or, hap'ly, broken-hearted died.
Oh, were she but of noble birth,
She should have been my honour'd bride,—
Ha! what a plague-spot on the earth,
Is this accurs'd ancestral pride!
But for Josepha's maiden fame,
And proud Don Manuel's fearful wrath,
I could forego my princely name,
And follow gentle Anna's path.—
The bridal morn rose clear, and bright,
With feudal pomp, and lordly state;
And glittering dame, and harness'd knight,
Came flocking to the castle gate.
And old Granada's royal bowers
Were vocal with the joyous peal,
That rock'd the old cathedral towers,
And made Alhambra's turrets reel.
And gladness reign'd by hall, and grove,
And every minstrel hailed the day,—
And song of joy, and tale of love,
On every zephyr's bosom lay.
The feast was spread in Manuel's halls,
And red wine flow'd profusely there;
And tourney list, and marshall'd balls,
Rejoiced the brave, the gay, the fair.
Don Leon's heart was sad the while,
And frequent came the tell-tale sigh;
Josepha mark'd with covert smile,
For well she guess'd the reason why.
His thoughts were with his mourning dove,
Where is she in her sorrow now?
His soul was yearning for her love,
Her silvery voice, and timid brow.
The chapel was a splendid sight—
The altar with its cloth of gold,
Border'd with gems of brilliant light,
And fringes dazzling to behold.
And there were rang'd, like radiant gems,
That sparkle round a royal crown,
Fair blushing maids, and stately dames,
And knights and dons of high renown.
Beside the altar Leon stood,
In dazzling garb, with haughty brow,
While on his cheek the burning blood
Betray'd the throbbing heart below.
At once the folding door flew wide,
And bridesmaids in their pure array,
Led in the veil'd and trembling bride
As simply habited as they.
With shrinking grace she trode the aisle,
The very queen of modesty,
And loudly herald's voice the while,
Proclaimed her name, and pedigree.
Anna! of Don Ordogno's race,
Old Leon's good and conquering king,
And proud Galicia's richest grace,
Arganta, famed for suffering.
From these in pure untarnish'd flow
On the maternal side she came,
Rudolphus' name Burgundians know,
And Bertha of immortal fame.
These were her father's ancestors;
Don Leon claims a royal bride!
A princely pedigree is her's
Without a stain, on either side.
Transfix'd, and mute Don Leon gaz'd—
With joy and wonder unexpress'd;
The bride advanc'd, her veil was rais'd,
He clasp'd his Anna to his breast.
And never to a happier pair
Was minister'd the holy rite,
And never blush'd a bride more fair,
And never smiled a prouder Knight.
Then to the feast, while round the halls,
The harpers harp'd, and poets sang,
Till gilded domes, and garnish'd walls,
With their redoubling echoes rang.
They swell'd the praise of Leon's line,
Of princely fathers, wise, and good;
And sung fair Anna half divine,
In virtue, charms, and noble blood.
Then wearied with the choral lays,
At once they chang'd the hymning strain,
And chanted forth Josepha's praise,
Till all the echoes woke again.
Then from the table Garcia rose,
A far-famed Don of Moorish blood,
Whose name was terror to his foes,
For oft he'd drawn life's crimson flood.
The Donna Josepha!—he cried,
The fairest, and the first in fame!—
I'll break a lance for her with pride;
Will any knight dispute my claim?
I take thy challenge, Pedro cried,
And name myself the Donna's knight,—
The lists of honour should decide
Our claim to such a beauty bright.
Then to the field, with trumpet's clang
And harness'd steed in prancing pride,
And gems that flash'd, and mail that rang,
Flock'd knight and lady, groom and bride.
Don Manuel, and his daughter bright
Were present in august array,
With bride and bridegroom on their right,
Beneath a splendid canopy.
The champions met, the stubborn steel
Awhile the clashing blows withstood;
A shock at length made Pedro reel,
Another—and he fell in blood.
Then swell'd the shout of triumph wide,
And heav'd to heaven Don Garcia's name,
And he demanded in his pride,
If no one else preferr'd a claim.
Josepha's cheek grew pale and cold,
As no one to the combat came,
For Garcia was a warrior bold,
With heart as rugged as his fame.
His swarthy brow bent rough and scarr'd,
O'er blood-shot eye, and sunken cheek,
And grizzled were his hair and beard,
With many an age-betraying streak.
His life had all been spent in war,
Where scenes of bloodshed, strife, and noise,
Are illy fitted to prepare
The heart for calm domestic joys.
Yet on the field alone he stood,
With flashing steel, and neighing steed,
And lip that seem'd athirst for blood—
Yet no one seem'd dispos'd to bleed.
But hark! the trump swelled loud and clear,
And now the heralds high proclaim,
A stranger asks to break a spear,
In honour of Josepha's name.
Let him advance! Don Garcia said—
And lo, a knight of graceful mien,
In light and shining armour clad
Advanc'd, th' admiring ranks between.
Graceful he bow'd, while snowy plumes
Danc'd lightly o'er his golden helm,—
Josepha's cheek its bloom resumes,
While hope and fear, her heart o'erwhelm.
Don Garcia sternly pois'd his lance,
And rein'd his strong and jetty steed;
The stranger carelessly advanc'd,
His barb seem'd only built for speed.
Now by the Mass, the gazers cried
He goes to death right gallantly!
And many a lovely donna sigh'd,
For his apparent destiny.
The signal given, his charger sprang
Like lightning on the scornful foe;
The spear points on the harness rang
And Garcia felt a well-aim'd blow.
Another charge—and Garcia's spear.
Snapp'd, 'gainst the foe's well-temper'd mail;
Then rose a loud exulting cheer,
But Garcia's spirit did not quail.
Another lance! His voice demands.
'Twas brought him, and another shock,
Shiver'd the weapon in his hands,
As if its point had met a rock;
And backward by the stranger's spear
The Knight was from his saddle flung,—
By heavens! This feat shall cost thee dear!
He cried, as from the earth he sprung.
He mounted. By the saints, he said,
It was thy weapon, not thy might—
Now meet me with the heavy blade,
I'll show thee play—my lady knight!
The stranger dropp'd his well-tried spear,
And drew a fine Damascus blade;
My heart was never touch'd by fear,
Nor my good sword disgrac'd—he said.
Saint Mary shield thee, gentle Knight,
Was breath'd from many a bosom fair,
As Garcia drew his weapon bright
And whirl'd it flashing through the air.
Thou'rt lost! full many a warrior said,
For worthless is that golden casque;
Garcia will find to cleave thy head
With his strong blade, a lightsome task.
The stranger stood with steady eye,
And caught, and parried every blow;
Until a thrust made dexterously
Pierc'd Garcia's scaly breast plate through.
Now yield thee, lest my wily blade
Should find a blood-spring in thy breast—
I yield to thee, Don Garcia said—
Vain boy! For thee to yield were best.
I would not hurt so good a knight
In tourney fray—the stranger said,
Then be our fray a serious fight—
We part not until blood be shed.
Well—as thou wilt, the stranger cried—
And in an instant the red gore
Leap'd to his hand, from Garcia's side,
Just where he gash'd the mail before.
There was a pause—while Garcia reel'd,
But when he fell, a deafening cry
Sprang up from the exulting field
And hailed the Prince of Chivalry—
With pensive air the victor stood
Where vanquish'd Garcia writhing lay,
While skill'd attendants stanch'd his blood,
And bore him from the field away.
Would knight or don dispute my claim?
Or wrest a boon, so dearly won?
He cried, and paus'd—No answer came,
And then a herald shouted.—None—
Then with a gay and gallant air
He pass'd to where Josepha stood,
Donna—he said—I sigh to wear
Some favour, by thy hand bestow'd,
Most worthy knight, Don Manuel cried
Thou'st prov'd thee first of mortal men,
Demand my daughter as thy bride,
Her dower will be thy favour then—
And could she honour such demand
With her whole precious heart, he said,
I would not clasp a maiden's hand
Whose heart was to another wed.
Then be thy glittering helm unbound,
And let thy visor be remov'd—
He threw them lightly to the ground,
Josepha look'd, Josepha lov'd.
My father, blushingly she said,
This peerless knight of faultless mien,
Your daughter would be proud to wed
If she were earth's most honour'd queen.
Now, noble knight, Don Manuel said,
Thy deeds have proved thee good of heart,
And since my child would be thy bride,
Pray tell us who—and whence thou art.
With noble grace he bent his head,
And majesty was in his glance—
I wear no blazon'd name, he said,
My castles are my sword and lance.—
And thou dost honour to the same,
And well they grace thy generous hand,
Outshining all heraldic fame,
Outweighing castles, gold, or land.
But, lovely maid, the stranger said,
Canst thou with these be satisfied?
Will love and honour stand instead
Of all thy present pomp and pride?
And wilt thou wed a wayward knight,
And follow where his fate may lead?
Dost thou not fear the chilling blight
That oft has been affection's meed?—
Sure none need fear for earthly ill,
To whom thy heart and hand are given,
And for protection higher still,
I look with humble trust, to Heaven.
Thy soul exceeds thy form, he cried—
Oh nobly would'st thou fill a throne,
The proudest nation might with pride
Behold its diadem thine own.—
Then gaily to the festal hall
Again Don Manuel led the way,
Where in the wassail, and the ball
The joyous evening pass'd away.
Don Leon and his lovely bride
Fill'd every eye and heart that night,
While Anna's father gaz'd with pride,
And wept with an old man's delight.
And Leon from that blessed day
Became a good and loyal knight,
Forsaking every evil way,
And making virtue his delight.
Meantime along a terrace walk,
With fragrant plants, and vines array'd,
Engross'd in soul-absorbing talk
Josepha and her champion stray'd.
Her jewel'd robes had given place
To unadorn'd and simple dress,
And beautiful in form and face,
She stood in her own loveliness.
His cumbrous mail was thrown aside,
His limbs were free, his head was bare;
Josepha mark'd with glance of pride
His bright blue eyes, and sunny hair.
He spoke of love—and all her soul
Assented with a sweet accord;
While new-born passion's sweet control
Subdued her heart to own its lord.
And while her timid bosom prov'd
A first true love triumphing there,
She felt how Anna's heart had lov'd,
And learn'd to pity her despair.
The morning, with its eye of light,
Beheld her at the altar stand,
To give a poor and nameless knight,
With woman's trust, her heart and hand.
But when the holy rite was o'er,
A stranger train, in rich array,
Appearing at the chapel door,
Toward the altar made its way.
Hail! Prince of Portugal, they cried,
Joy to your highness most serene!
And blessings on your peerless bride;
Long may she live, our worshipp'd Queen!
And while they bent the obsequious knee,
Josepha stood like one amaz'd;
Is this reality? said she,
Or am I in a dream? or craz'd?—
'Tis sober truth—the bridegroom said,
For Prince of Portugal I am;
Now greet thy guests, my royal bride,
To grace our nuptial day they came.
In my far home I heard thy fame,
For every lovely female grace,
And here in humble guise I came,
To hear thy voice, and see thy face.
And lo! not half thine excellence
Had been reported to mine ear,—
And I despatch'd a message hence,
To bid these nobles meet me here.
Then rang the shout through Manuel's hall
'Till his dark turrets reel'd with glee,
While voice, and harp, and organ, all
Peal'd forth the bridal melody.—
And she was worthy of a king,
Who, with a pious pitying breast,
Had once resign'd her bridal ring,
To make a rival maiden blest.